The Burning Man

‘Go away,’ she said.

‘We need to talk.’ His voice was calm, yet insistent.

‘No, we don’t. If you’re not away from here in ten seconds, I’m going to turn on the ignition and drive over you.’

The sound of a lorry door opening echoed across the quiet car park. The Asian man glanced in its direction, his voice and body language becoming a touch more urgent.

‘My name is Shavi,’ he said. ‘I am a Brother of Dragons-’

‘I’m not interested in your little cult.’

‘You are a Sister of Dragons. We share a heritage-’

‘Six, seven, eight …’

‘Forgive me,’ Shavi said.

Shattering the window with a tyre iron, he yanked open the door. Caitlin yelled and leaned on the horn. Barely one short blast echoed across the car park before Caitlin went woozy from the fumes from a small wooden box that Shavi had thrust under her nose.

‘Just herbs,’ he whispered. ‘Do not worry.’

Dreamily, she saw herself being hauled out of the car as if she was watching a stranger. Shavi carried her effortlessly away from the bright lights to the dark of the moorland that pressed up hard against the service station. Behind them, Caitlin was vaguely aware of movement; rescuers responding to her cries, she thought obliquely.

She was aware of the stars and the moon, the lush smell of vegetation, but she couldn’t muster either fear for herself or any desire to fight back.

It was only when they lay behind a scrubby bush on cool grass with the lights of the service station a distant glow that she began to think coherently once more. Her attacker, she realised, didn’t seem violent; in fact, there was a benign, gentle air about him. Yet she struggled as soon as she was able.

He placed a hand firmly over her mouth and said quietly, ‘Hush. Look.’

Responding to something in his tone, she peered past the bush towards the car park. Shadows shifted across the moorland. People searching for her? Shavi released his grip on her mouth, and it was that action which convinced her to trust him.

‘What is it?’ she hissed. Some quality of the quickly moving silhouettes did not appear right.

‘Keep watching,’ he said. ‘But if they come too close, be prepared to move quickly into the wilderness. If they see us, we will not be able to outpace them.’

His words unnerved her. What’s out there? she thought.

Before she could voice the question, a shape loomed up on the other side of the bush and she almost cried out. It had approached from a different direction, moving quickly. Shavi pressed her down, holding her still. His heart thundered against her back. Their chance of escape gone, they could only hope against discovery.

Caitlin could smell a foul farmyard odour. Breathing like the scraping of rusty iron echoed loudly. Whatever was on the other side of the bush had stopped. It sniffed the air.

Its bestial qualities increased her heartbeat another step, and she became afraid that her body would betray her with some random muscle spasm. Yet she had to see. Twisting her head slowly, she looked through the branches of the bush.

There was not a hint of humanity in the brutish thing that waited beyond. Eyes gleamed with a yellowish light in a face that combined the qualities of hog and gorilla. The body was thick-set and powerfully muscled. From its posture, Caitlin couldn’t be sure whether it moved on two legs or all four. She noticed it was clothed, and with a second, chill glance realised the nature of those clothes: flayed human skin, scalps and internal organs had been stitched together in some sickening amalgam of uniform and war trophy. An eyeless face stared back at her blankly from the side of the creature’s head.

It waited for a full thirty seconds that felt like as many minutes and then moved off rapidly, keeping low.

When she was sure it was gone, Caitlin asked shakily, ‘What was that?’

Shavi searched the moorland until he was satisfied they were safe. ‘A Redcap,’ he said. ‘They are the shock troops of the Enemy.’ He returned his attention to Caitlin and a look of sympathy crossed his face. ‘I am so sorry. The world is not the way you believe it to be.’

3

London sleeps, London dreams. Hyde Park is quiet. The tourists will not return until the fumes and the roar of constant traffic fill Lancaster Gate. Moonlight catches the still pools in the Italian Gardens. The statue of Peter Pan watches over the boundary between the magical and the real, conjuring dreams of stolen children and other worlds.

Hunter brought his knife away from the gaping throat and stepped back to avoid the arterial flow. Another job well done, more peaceful sleep for the country. On the surface his flamboyant, piratical appearance — long black hair tied back with a black ribbon, single gold earring, devilish goatee — belied the nature of the work he did; underneath, it illuminated it perfectly: a new age cut-throat.

Dragging the body into the cover of the trees, he meticulously wiped his blade on his target’s jacket. He needed to sleep; his weariness had built up brick by brick over the relentless weeks and months, in Bosnia and Fallujah, Tehran and Pristina, and a score of other places that all merged into one. Only the faces remained distinct. Superficially they were similar, glassy-eyed and bloodless, but he could never forget the telling details: a frozen, accusing stare; the faint impression of contempt or betrayal on the lips. Every one the same, every one different.

‘Nice job.’ A woman’s voice, laced with sarcasm.

Hunter started; no one ever crept up on him unawares. His shock was quickly brought under control, the knife palmed, ready for use. He didn’t speak. Instead, he rapidly scanned his surroundings and was surprised once more that he couldn’t locate the intruder.

‘What are you? Some kind of psycho? Existence chose well this time.’ A pause. ‘Actually, situation normal.’

Now he had a lock on her position. He shifted his body weight, ready.

The woman recognised his subtle movement. ‘If you’re thinking of using that knife on me, it won’t do any good. I’ve had worse things than that stuck in me.’ Her tone highlighted the double entendre.

The branches of an overgrown bush parted and the woman stepped brazenly out. She had white-blonde hair and an expression that fell somewhere between challenging and seductive. Her smile suggested that Hunter’s coldly efficient brutality had not scared her in the slightest.

Hunter weighed his options. He couldn’t leave any witnesses behind. His superiors in Vauxhall would instantly shift him into the box marked ‘Liability’, with all the repercussions that entailed. Nor was he prepared to hurt an ‘innocent’ (and the one thing that kept him going was that none of his victims were ‘innocent’).

He lunged quickly, hoping to find a way to resolve his dilemma once he had her in a position where she couldn’t raise the alarm. As he shifted his weight, he found his ankles mysteriously constricted and he pitched forward to the ground. Long grass was inexplicably wrapped tightly around his feet.

‘That’s how I like my men,’ the woman mocked. ‘On their knees before me.’ She tapped his arm lightly with her motorcycle boot, then skipped out of the way when he lunged for her again. ‘So, did you see what I did there?’ She nodded towards his feet.

‘You did that?’

‘Yes, I’m a beautiful wood nymph.’

‘You have a very high opinion of yourself.’

‘I like to call it realistic.’ She sat cross-legged just out of reach.

Hunter began to saw through the strong, fibrous grass with his knife. ‘You should start running now,’ he said.

‘I never run. Besides, I can do much worse than that. You know how painful it is when you get a thorn stuck