Cuckoo Song

Chapter 39. A SHEEP IN WOLF’S CLOTHING

‘The girls were in the tea room with Miss Parish,’ Mr Grace continued. ‘We are not likely to get a statement from her any time soon, of course.’ He sighed. ‘I still think she might have been an innocent dupe in all of this. I did try to reason with her when we first met, but she wouldn’t listen.’

Trista’s heart gave a flip-flop of anxiety. What did he mean, Violet would not be giving a statement any time soon? Please let him mean that she’s being stubborn, or just unconscious! Don’t let her be dead! She had been so sure that the snow meant Violet was alive. Now she felt the chill of doubt.

‘But everybody says the children left again,’ remarked a girl by the fire, rubbing her hands frenetically over the dull embers of the brazier. ‘In a yellow car.’ With a shock Trista realized that it was Dot from the cottage. Dot of the eggshells.

‘Yes. Yes, they do.’ Mr Grace pensively pushed more lengths of wood into the fire. ‘Over and over again. In exactly the same words.’ The firelight made his face look narrower and more haunted, a collage of sharp edges. ‘There is something odd about this place. Have you noticed that?’

‘Yes. It’s covered in snow. In September.’ The third figure at the brazier was a middle-aged man Trista had never seen before. He had shaky hands, thick eyebrows and a moustache that made him look like a colonel. ‘Is that what you mean?’

‘No,’ answered Mr Grace, ‘though I dare say the snow is their doing as well. No, the snow seems to be falling all over Ellchester. But here, right here, there is a feeling…’ He trailed off.

‘People here make my thumbs prick,’ muttered Dot.

‘Well put, Dot.’ The tailor gave her a smile softened by avuncular affection. ‘We are all feeling uneasy for a reason. There are Besiders in the Old Docks, I would lay money on it – and we have probably spoken to some in the last hour.’

‘Well, if you think the story of the yellow car is bunkum, then what—’ The moustached man came to a halt abruptly, seeing Mr Grace raise one hand in warning.

‘Charles,’ the tailor said evenly, ‘it would seem we have guests.’

Trista stiffened, ready to grab Pen’s hand and run. However, she soon realized that Mr Grace’s gaze was not trained their way. Instead he was peering down the street towards two figures who were hobbling with a stilted but relentless gait towards the light of the fire.

Both individuals wore the strange grey-brown feather-coats, and peeping out beneath them Trista glimpsed a plum-coloured hem and brown ribbon garters. It was the Besider couple they had met on the jetty.

‘May we join you?’ asked the woman, as she advanced into the halo of the brazier. ‘Your fire has such a gentle light.’ Her wet-looking gaze flickered disapprovingly towards the yellow aura of the gas lamps.

There was the briefest hesitation and exchange of glances among the huddled threesome before Mr Grace hurried forward.

‘Of course – let me find you something to sit on.’ He hastened around a corner and returned with a pair of crates which he set down as seats for the newly arrived ‘guests’. Trista was uncomfortably reminded of the way he had played gracious host to her, during her visit to his shop.

There was a growing knot of tension in Trista’s stomach. It was like watching a perilous scene in a play, and desperately wanting to call out a warning. At this moment, though, she was not sure whom she wanted to warn.

Charles, the colonel-like man, passed a flask of brandy to everyone around the fire except Dot (who seemed a little disappointed). Everybody remarked on how peculiar the weather was.

‘So what brings you out into the snow?’ Mr Grace asked the couple after a pause.

‘We have just arrived in this town,’ answered the Besider man serenely. ‘We are waiting to be shown to our new home. The snow does not trouble us.’

‘Really?’ Mr Grace’s smile was perfectly charming. ‘Then welcome to Ellchester! Are you and your wife travelling alone?’

‘No,’ answered the woman in the plum dress. ‘We have… many…’ She trailed off, and locked gaze with her companion for several seconds in silent communion. ‘Friends,’ she hazarded at last. ‘Many… friends.’

At this revelation, Dot shot her human companions an alarmed glance. Charles paused in refastening the lid of his flask.

‘Well, at least you are better dressed for the weather than we are, with those warm-looking coats,’ remarked Mr Grace.

The Besiders’ oyster-like eyes glistened uneasily in the firelight.

‘You… noticed them?’ enquired the Besider man, in a tone that suggested that this was surprising and unwelcome news. ‘Yes. They are useful to us.’ He leaned forward, and there was a new intensity and suspicion in his wet gaze. ‘And what brings the three of you out into this bitter night without such warm coats?’

Mr Grace hesitated only briefly, as if choosing a card at whist.

‘We are looking for a couple of children. Two little girls—’

‘They got into a yellow car,’ declared the Besider woman promptly, without waiting for him to finish.

‘And it drove away,’ finished her consort.

There was a long, uncomfortable pause.

‘You cannot even see your city now, can you?’ said the Besider man at last. It was true. The whirl of fat, feathery flakes hid anything more than twenty yards away. He pushed a stick into the fire, stirring the embers so that they cracked and sent sparks in a panicky dance. ‘The snow has a thousand, thousand fingers. Imagine them pulling apart your city, piece by tiny piece. Imagine that this little street is all that is left. Adrift. In darkness.’ He smiled, as though paying somebody a compliment.

‘In the old days folk would have told stories,’ remarked his companion. ‘By the fire. To hold back the dark. But the dark always finds its way into the stories, does it not? The stories worth hearing, at least. The true lies.’

‘Everybody has dragged a tale to this fire,’ continued her male friend. ‘I can hear them whispering.’

Charles cleared his throat, perhaps in an attempt to relieve the tension. ‘I’ve never been good at story-telling – not even when it comes to telling jokes at my club.’

‘Every person can recount their own story, even if they can tell no other,’ said the male Besider. His clammy gaze slithered to Dot’s face. ‘What is your story, little fox cub?’

Dot swallowed nervously. Her laugh was forced and breathless.

‘Me? Oh, you don’t want to hear about me!’

‘But I do,’ insisted the man in garters. ‘I want your story. Give it to me.’

With the last words, his expression changed to one of urgency and hunger. His eagerness tore through his false human facade like a fang through silk. In that instant, the tension of the scene snapped, like an overwrought violin string.

Eyes wide with panic, Dot recoiled a step from the gartered stranger, and Charles pushed forward, taking up a hostile stance in front of her. Both Besiders leaped uncannily to their feet, like two string puppets pulled up from a slump.

At the same time there was a faint silken shunk, like a sword being pulled from its sheath. It was not a sword that Mr Grace had drawn from beneath his coat, however, but a long, wicked pair of blackened scissors. Trista’s stomach tingled as she recognized them from the dressmakers’.

At the sight of the scissors, both Besiders sprang backwards a step, making yowling noises like cats. The man flung out one hand as if sowing seeds, and the snowflakes around him started to fizz and frenzy with new purpose, diving for the faces of the humans. His female companion gave a soundless wail that made Trista’s eardrums tingle and throb. Charles clutched at his ears and fell to his knees.

One arm shielding his eyes, Mr Grace lunged forward, aiming the iron points at the face of the Besider man. The latter ducked and retreated, only to find the wall against his back. The tailor lunged forward once again, this time halting so that the points of the scissors were just resting on the man’s chest. His captive gave a shriek like tortured chalk and froze against the wall, quivering.

‘Tell that she-creature to stop singing!’ demanded Mr Grace. ‘Now!’

There was a short pause, and then the Besider woman closed her mouth and the terrible silent noise ended. She stood trembling like a flag in a breeze, her eyes fixed on the black metal of the scissors. Snow settled on her cheeks without melting.

Charles remained on his knees, dabbing at his ear with a handkerchief.

‘It’s your turn to tell tales, I think,’ continued Mr Grace, regarding his prisoner without sympathy. ‘To begin with, how many of your friends are in the docks area tonight?’

The man opened his mouth, but only terrified gargling noises emerged.

‘Two score,’ answered his female companion.

‘And what purpose do these coats serve?’ asked the tailor.

‘We were all ordered to wear them.’ The female Besider seemed to be hypnotized by the scissors. ‘They baffle the eye and mind. They let the wearer pass without remark.’

‘And this home to which you are to be taken? Where is it?’

‘We do not know.’

A small, swift jab of the scissors poked two holes in her consort’s coat, as easily as needles through cobweb. The man gave a howl of pain and terror.

‘We do not know!’ protested the Besider woman again, twisting her fingers so fiercely it seemed they might snap. ‘They told us we had to wait until now because… because the haven was not ready. But that is all we know! That is all!’

Mr Grace considered for a moment, then gave a small sigh.

‘I believe you,’ he said simply. Then, with all his strength, he drove the scissors into the Besider man’s chest.

Concealed in her doorway Trista gasped, feeling as if all the air had been sucked out of her. Beside her, Pen gave a muffled yelp, then stood with both hands over her own mouth as if she could still hold the sound in.

There was no blood. The Besider man split like a cloud before the moon, and light spilled out, wet light that screamed as it came. His mouth opened wide and ghostly ribbons spiralled out into the air, chittering forgotten tales. As they pulled away from him and vanished, he seemed to unravel, twitching. Soon there was nothing left but a grey-brown coat slumping to the cobbles.

The female Besider gave another of her soundless shrieks and flung herself wildly upon Charles. Her momentum bowled him over on to the brazier, where his coat caught fire and he flailed helplessly under her weight. Then Mr Grace thrust the scissors into her back. There was a leaping of silver flame, one last inaudible cry that seemed to shake the frame of the world, and she too was gone. Charles tumbled off the brazier, and Dot helped bat out the flames in his clothes.

Trista squeezed Pen’s shoulder. The smaller girl still had her mouth covered, and was panting with shock.

Mr Grace paused and looked up, staring out in the direction of the hidden girls. Perhaps he had heard Pen’s yelp.

We could run. But then he would definitely hear us. And he could follow our tracks.

I don’t want to fight you, Mr Grace, but if I have to I will. I will. I won’t let you hurt Pen.

The tailor frowned a little, then turned his back on the shadows and hurried to Charles’s side. He winced as he examined the older man’s injuries.

‘Charles, old chap, you’re going to need a doctor,’ he said gently. ‘Dot – will you go with him? I don’t think the poor fellow can stand by himself.’

‘What about you?’ asked Dot, her face alight with concern.

Mr Grace stooped and picked up one of the Besiders’ coats. It trembled and fluttered in his hand like a captive bird.

‘Forty Besiders have just arrived in Ellchester,’ he said grimly, ‘and it’s clear that they are setting up a stronghold in this city. I have to find out where it is, Dot. If we don’t locate it and destroy it, who knows how many more of the creatures will turn up here next week, or the week after?’

‘What are you planning to do?’ Dot helped Charles to his feet. Her face was a picture of anxiety, admiration and trust. Just for a fleeting moment, Trista’s mind seesawed, and she could almost see Mr Grace and the world as Dot saw them. The next instant Trista was back to her own perspective with a thud.

Mr Grace slowly slipped on the coat. It brindled a couple of times, then settled. Occasionally it spasmed a little, its colour turning patchy like scuffed velvet.

‘You heard the creature, Dot. Some guides will be here soon, to lead forty newcomers to the Besider stronghold. Let’s hope they do not know the new arrivals by sight… and will simply be looking out for strangers in eye-baffling magical coats.’