The Hipgrave-thing raced towards Sophie, a black cloud sweeping across an unblemished sky. Mallory didn't stall, didn't think; he was moving instantly, sword unsheathed, blue glow on snow, driving forwards. The tearing-silk sound destroyed the dawn stillness. It was more thing now than Hipgrave: insect arms becoming slashing swords becoming a cloud of snapping mouths becoming something that made his stomach heave; his mind just wouldn't fix on one shape.
He found energy where he thought he had none; the distance between them shortened rapidly. But it was not enough. He saw in frozen instants: Sophie looking up; a true shadow falling over her; her arm rising in feeble protection; her mouth opening, an exclamation or a scream, he wasn't sure; the Hipgrave-thing smashing down.
And as quickly as it had been there, it was gone, moving out across the compound to new territories, a storm, nothing more, a force of nature that came from beyond nature. And Mallory ran, and dropped to his knees beside her, but it was too late. Clearly, too late. A pool of blood flooded out, staining the snow in a widening arc. Her eyes were wide and fixed. She was already gone.
In that instant, he reached the extremes of human feeling; the acuity of the sensation almost destroyed him. One thought flickered briefly across the tempest: what was the point? Why did humanity exist at all?
'When you pass through this door, everything changes.'
Mallory sprinted through the foot-deep snow, clutching the box to his chest. Sophie heard the sound of his boots and turned. He gave a curt wave — no point in being too out of character — and held up the box to signify his success. But the smile wasn't there as he had hoped.
'He's gone, Mallory.'
He followed her gaze down to Miller's still form. The face was as white as the surrounding snow, the cheeks and eye sockets so hollow that it didn't look like Miller at all. In a rush, Mallory remembered dragging Miller into the car as the monkey-creatures attacked them on the approach to Salisbury; recalled searching for him on Salisbury Plain when it would have been easier to leave him to die. The Chinese believed if you saved somebody's life you were responsible for it from then on; and he had saved Miller twice, but the third time, when Miller had really needed it, had pleaded with him from the pits of his soul, Mallory had given up on his responsibility. Mallory might as well have killed him himself.
What was the point…
'When you pass through this door, everything changes.'
Mallory sprinted through the foot-deep snow, clutching the box to his chest. Sophie heard the sound of his boots and turned. The smile was there, as he had hoped. He gave a curt wave — no point in being too out of character — and held up the box to signify his success.
The Hipgrave-thing raced towards Sophie, but Mallory had already dodged out of its path when the shadow fell across him. He was close enough to swing his sword; even such a powerful blade was not strong enough to kill the shifting creature, but it hurt it badly. There was a screech that made his ears hurt, and it turned on him. He saw movement and darkness and a glimpse of the man he had once known, and then it fell on him. Its first attack sliced deep into his shoulder blade, but after that burst of pain the rest became a wash of nothing. He saw the sky, pink and purple, dark at the extremes, and he saw Sophie, her face so beautiful, so torn with emotion, and then he fell backwards into the white, and further backwards into the dark, finally warm, finally rested…
The Caretaker was standing beside him. 'He waits,' he said, pointing to a solitary figure standing dark against the thick snow. The emotion carried with the hooded figure that had haunted him for so long was no longer threatening but so potently desolate that it ignited a deep dread in Mallory. He wanted to run anywhere so he didn't have to face that thing and what it represented.
'You know it?' the Caretaker said.
'I know it.' Mallory's voice broke.
'There is no more running,' the Caretaker said. 'Go to it.'
His legs felt like stone, but somehow he found himself walking towards it; he knew with a sickening fatalism that there was no escape from something like that.
The figure stood, unmoving, arms at its sides, its features lost in the thick shadows of the hood. Mallory approached it as if walking to the gallows, unaware of the movement of his legs, the sound of the crunching snow, the cold wind against his face.
He stopped in front of it. A shiver that was not from the cold ran through him. He was in a daze, lost to the sucking shadows that covered its face; but his subconscious knew exactly what he had to do. Trembling, he slowly brought his hands up to grip the hood. Then he pushed it back.
It was his face, a true face, an inner face, ashen, with black, black eyes that looked at him as if it was pleading with him to put it out of its misery. But it was not him, just a spirit of place that had taken on a sense of him; an echo; a reminder. He couldn't outrun it, couldn't ever leave it behind.
Hot tears burned paths down Mallory's cheeks. Here it was, then.
Over to his right there was a sound like thunder and the stone door with the carved surround stood there incongruously in the snow with no walls to support it. Lightning danced around its edges; the thunder rolled out from it repeatedly.
One more door to pass through.
It was dark and he had a gun. He hated guns, but really, he had no choice. The barrel bit into his temple. How do you do these things? he thought. No one ever tells you, so you go with the movie version. What's to stop you ending up like one of those freaks they used to feature in the Sunday Sport, with half their face missing, not able to talk, but with their brain as active as ever. Wouldn't that be hell? But what did he care about hell? It didn't exist. No hell, no heaven, nowhere better and you couldn't get much worse, no chance to put things right, no going back, and now no going forwards.
But Sylvie would get the money and Jemas would get everything he needed to do Stevens. That was the best he could do, and it didn't come anywhere near to wiping out the debt of what he had done. But it was the best he could do, and he had no choice. He pulled the trigger.
The burst of fire was like the breath of a Fabulous Beast in the dark, filled with purifying flame. It imprinted on his mind and there it was, high over the city, high over London, destroying the Tower of London, destroying all the corruption and the filth and everything that was bad about this life. And you know, he thought, it looks like a better world.
'Take my hand.'
The Caretaker gripped Mallory's wrists tightly; all around was darkness. 'You have a choice,' he intoned gravely.
Mallory didn't have to think. 'I want Sophie… I want a chance to put things right… to be who I could be. I want a better world.' The Caretaker nodded slowly. 'Very well.'
He breathed a lung-full of cold air as if it was the first breath he had ever taken. Every sense was heightened: the snow so bright it was almost blinding, the dazzling colours in the dawn sky, the smell of woodsmoke on the wind; and the crunch of snow behind him, like explosions drawing nearer. He whirled, sword singing as it leaped from the sheath; the blue glow from the blade gave him comfort, helped to focus his mind.
The Hipgrave-thing swept across the lawns from the cathedral like fury, like rage and hate and bitterness. Mallory saw eyes and teeth and wings and claws. He swung the sword with the full force of his strength, felt the vibrations slam into his shoulders as the weapon smashed into the monstrous force. The blade bit deep but didn't slow the thing's progress.
It powered into Mallory, sent him flying head over heels. He skidded in the snow, rolled and came up on his feet, winded and dazed but still ready.
This time he side-stepped and struck at the same time. A chunk of something flew through the air and landed in the snow, sizzling.
Teeth-rattling sounds were coming off the Hipgrave-thing, screeches that flew off the register and deep bass rumbles, each one triggering a specific emotion — fear and horror and despair. Mallory fought them down, hacked again.
With each strike, the thing became even more furious, its reactions faster, its strength greater; it was obvious to Mallory that he couldn't beat it, couldn't even hold it back for much longer.
On the next sweep, it was impossible to get out of the way. He felt a rib snap; pain flared up one side. He flew backwards, crashed to the ground, lost consciousness.
