Faerie Lord

Nineteen

Henry breathed a sigh of relief. It was a mistake. (It was a really stupid mistake, made by a really stupid nurse.) He looked across the room to where Mr Fogarty lay asleep on the bed, looking just the way he had when Henry left him. Somebody had taken that horrid tube out of his back, which probably meant he didn’t need it any more, which was more good news.

‘He’s just sleeping,’ Henry told Blue.

‘Henry…’ Blue said.

‘No, really,’ Henry told her. ‘He always sleeps like that. On his back. I mean, he was sleeping like that when I left him. It’s just that you can’t see his breathing. Lots of people would make the same mistake: he breathes very shallowly when he’s sleeping.’

‘Henry…’ Blue said again.

‘No, really,’ Henry repeated with a little smile. ‘Look, I’ll show you.’ He strode across the room. ‘Mr Fogarty,’ he said brightly. ‘Wake up, Mr Fogarty.’ The old boy would be cross about losing his beauty sleep, but at least that was better than this nonsense about his being dead. It had everybody running around like headless chickens.

Mr Fogarty did not move.

‘Henry…’ Blue said.

Henry reached down and shook Mr Fogarty’s shoulder. The old man’s head rolled loosely to one side and his eyes remained closed. Blue appeared beside Henry and gripped his arm. ‘He’s dead, Henry,’ she said gently.

Henry turned to look at her, his eyes desolate. ‘He can’t be dead. I was talking to him just a few minutes ago.’ He turned back and seized Mr Fogarty’s wrist, feeling for a pulse. There was none.

Blue said, ‘I think we should leave him now, Henry. The priests will look after him from here.’

Henry stared at her. ‘Priests?’

‘They cast a spell to open his mouth.’

‘Why would they want to do that?’

‘To release his soul.’ Blue tugged his arm. ‘Come on, Henry. We should leave them to do their work.’

Although he hadn’t seen them enter, the room was filled with wizards in their ceremonial robes. Some had Trinian servants carrying rosaries, thuribles and other religious equipment.

‘He’s not from your world,’ Henry said. He couldn’t think straight, but somehow it felt wrong that Mr Fogarty should have his mouth opened by a spell. Surely he should be in a proper coffin, ready to be buried in a proper grave? It occurred to Henry he didn’t know Mr Fogarty’s religion, or if he even had one. But people who were dead should go to the nearest Church of England, where the vicar would conduct a service and say nice things about them -

He was a bank robber, but everybody loved him, said an imaginary vicar inside Henry’s head.

– and then when everybody had paid their respects, they were carried to the churchyard and…

Henry discovered there were tears streaming down his face even though he didn’t feel all that sad. He didn’t feel anything really, except perhaps numb.

‘He wanted our funeral rites,’ Blue said. ‘We discussed it days ago.’

That was before I came, Henry thought inconsequentially. That was before I even knew.

The room was swimming behind a veil of tears, so he allowed Blue to lead him out into the corridor and down the Palace stairs.