Thy Fearful Symmetry (21 page)

Clive opened his eyes, and saw that a thick fog had fallen. The world was hazy and grey, and he understood that something was wrong with his eyes. It was like trying to see through a thin film of milk.

“Hey,” a male voice said. “Were his eyes open a minute ago?”

“I don't know,” a woman answered. “I don't think...”

Clive turned his head slightly to find the source of the voice, a young student wearing flowing black, with too much dark eyeliner and a bulging midriff on display that would be better concealed. That small movement, which took more effort than it should have because his neck was so stiff, sparked a disproportionate response.
 

The woman screamed, high and shrill, her hands going to her face, and her skinny goth boyfriend dragged her back, out of harm's way. The curious mixture of drunken bohemians around them followed suit, the loose circle of fleeing vultures expanding outwards like the ripples of a stone landing in water.

Clive knew why. They were running because they had seen a blue-light angel punch into his chest, seize his heart, and rip it free. They were running because the laws of existence said that he should not have opened his eyes after that.

Clive pushed himself to a sitting position, watching the people run, seeing the foggy blurs of their faces as they looked back for confirmation of what they had seen. Loose things shifted against each other in his chest, bits of bone sloshing around in congealing fluids, grinding against one another.
 

There was no pain, he realised, as he raised himself to his hands and knees. Touching his finger to his chest, he found the wet, open wound in the centre, where he had lost his heart.

No loss
, he corrected himself, a grin twitching over his face. Clive's heart had not worked properly for days. The boy he had put in hospital, whose name he could not even remember, would not agree that Clive had a good heart. Heather, who he was supposed to love, would not have thought so either - certainly not while he was tracing the knife through her skin, as though he could surgically remove the information he had needed.

It was no loss, to be relieved of something that had gone bad. In return, the blue-light angel had given him something precious. Clive was among the first of those chosen for life everlasting on the Day of Judgement. Why did he need a heart, when he was going to live forever anyway?

Crawling to the kerb, agile as a sack of sand, Clive began to cry, his shoulders heaving, but the only noise that he could make was a low, animal moaning. Still grinning, not sure whether he was crying with joy or misery, he heaved himself clumsily on to the pavement, where his hand came down on something warm, slick, and rubbery. Even in the shadow of the car parked beside him, with the world a milky blur, he knew what it was he was holding.

His own pulped heart.

Clive curled around the cooling organ, stroking it clumsily, ignoring the shouts and fights springing up as new people started to fill this end of Byres Road. If he had the option of putting his heart back into his chest, he did not know whether he would. It was broken, useless. It made him do bad things. The angel had pruned it from him, like dead wood. It was a magnanimous gift, a blessing, and his to pass on to others.

Clive fought his way to his feet, his limbs iron heavy and unresponsive. Barely able to step forward, he watched a world working at twice the speed he could manage, and wondered how he was going to get anybody to slow down and let him explain what he had to offer. Moaning, feeling his tongue at the bottom of his mouth and barely able to make it twitch, he dragged his right foot forward, letting his weight swing on to it. Repeating the effort with his left leg, he groaned when his foot caught on the kerb, sending him splashing face first into a puddle of slush. The icy water reflected the burning sky, and Clive wondered what would happen to him if he failed in this task.

It would not happen. He would pass the gift on. Dragging his arms beneath him, pushing himself up to his knees, Clive found his feet again. If he had to re-educate himself on how to walk, so be it. Envisaging muscles and ligaments contracting and relaxing, unsure whether his leg was responding to his imaginings, he took a clumsy step forwards. With the same care, he took another, and then a third, and then he had momentum and realised his next problem was going to be stopping without falling.

Byres Road was full of people again, each waiting to receive a present. Like a drunken Santa Claus, Clive lurched towards them, arms wide for balance, and waited to see who would run into him first.

Calum pushed his way along Byres Road as best he could manage, swept more by the screaming tide of humanity than his own willpower. Earlier, the streets had been boisterous and chaotic. Now, as alcohol and fear gripped those around him, the city felt a heartbeat away from a full riot. Glass littered the pavement and road from shattered shop windows, reflecting a thousand mirror images of the fires that were finally taking hold along the street. The drops of flame raining down with the snow were no hotter than earlier, but the longer they fell, the more chance there was of property igniting. Calum suspected the fires were being offered succour by some less safety conscious Glaswegians, who had doused certain shop fronts and vehicles with petrol or lighter fluid, then stood back to watch them go up in flames. Now, buildings burned.

Finally approaching the crossroads that took him toward the church, Calum received an elbow in the eye from a tall, gangly student shoving by, and dropped to his knees. He hurriedly picked his hands off the ground, to save his fingers from being crushed by those pushing past. Nobody stopped to help him up. The milk of human kindness was not flowing tonight.

Somehow, he found his feet again, ignoring the shouts and curses of those behind him. Bone tired, he staggered on, head down, bouncing off people hurrying to get nowhere, snow and fire whipping at his head in the wind, burning and chilling him.

A fire engine was trying to turn the corner, sirens blasting and light flashing, but the crowd had no interest in seeing it reach its destination. Calum wondered why the driver was being so persistent. There were fires everywhere. They could stop where they were, and attend to at least three blazes within the reach of their hoses.

He squeezed past three women lacquered with make-up and wearing only bra tops with jeans, and found himself on the home straight. Five hundred yards further up the road, he saw the lights of St Cottier's, glittering multi-coloured through the stained glass windows. Calum put his head down, and watched his feet to make sure he didn't fall.

His head was spinning, and his jaw hung open with the numbing effort of walking. It felt like he was one huge bruise, sliced neatly across in too many places, bleeding out. Why had Ambrose not taken the box earlier? That way, Calum could have rested in the comparative safety of the Gilroy's flat. Why did he have to make another tortured journey himself?

That question led to a host of others. How had Ambrose known where he was, and that he needed help? How had the demon managed to leave the church without being spotted by the Higher Powers? He had been lucky at the night club. What had compelled him to risk everything a second time?

Most of all, why did the demon care enough to try? It couldn't be the box, surely? Was it the girl?
 

Minna Gilroy had been white with shock when Calum found her hiding under her bed. She hadn't asked about her father, and Calum was glad. No experience he had would have been preparation enough to confirm the girl's fears. It had been to Calum's huge relief that the woman, Minna's mother, was alive. Apart from a broken nose, she was fine. While she recovered, Calum had dragged her husband's body into the main bedroom, trying to forget that his burden used to be human, so she didn't have to stumble across it. She had watched the man being stabbed in the head. He had wanted to apologise for not getting there in time, but she had shushed him, her eyes telling him that she couldn't talk about it, and then attended to her daughter. Calum sneaked away as they held one another. Mere days ago, he might have lingered, offered what comfort he could. Even that day, he might have stayed, but through his pain and exhaustion he was driven by simple, easy to remember ideas.

Get the box to Ambrose, was chief among them. He hoped the contents were worth it.

Away from Byres Road, the street was less frenetic. Groups of people milled across the road, some staring upwards, raised hands shielding their eyes from the fire, others talking animatedly to one another. Three young men in tracksuits and Burberry caps stood around a car that had crashed into a concrete lamppost, and were energetically setting about it with baseball bats and crowbars. Calum hoped there was nobody inside the vehicle, and gave the incident a wide berth, his feet falling into unconscious rhythm with the percussion of crushed metal.

A woman ran out of a flat three doors in front of him in tears, and stopped abruptly, swaying on the road. She looked around herself, as though wondering where she was, then calmly turned and walked back inside, closing the door carefully behind her.

Alarms and sirens of all tones sang across the city. Calum could hear burglar and car alarms, ambulances, fire engines, police vehicles. Somewhere up above, he heard helicopters, and wondered if it was the police, an air ambulance, or a news crew. Whichever it was, it didn't have the skies to itself. Calum could hear others, in the distance.

Glasgow was going slowly mad, he realised, and the God he had loved mere days ago either did not care, or actually revelled in it.
 

Calum began to shake, and could not tell if it was from shock, pain, or cold. Lowering himself to the kerb, he sat there, a hundred yards from the church where he had once preached, staring blankly about him at a world he no longer recognised. Cold tears sluiced over the soot and blood on his cheeks.

CHAPTER NINETEEN

Clive staggered through the gate of the Botanic Gardens, his body a lead weight, his mind moving so fast it couldn't linger on anything long enough to question it.

He had no heart, but he had known that when he tortured Heather, and Ambrose must have known that when he had thrown him aside, and the cold angel had made it real, and his limbs were leaden and heavy, and he had no heart just a big hole in his chest, and he had once been a teacher trying to give the gift of knowledge, and now he had a different gift to give because he would never die, and this was a good thing, but it horrified him, and he had to give it to as many people as he could, and blood didn't flow out of his chest like it should, and talking was hard because his jaw wouldn't move properly, and he couldn't make people understand why he was ripping out their beating hearts and casting them aside.

Clive had failed to find Ambrose, but he could do this, he could give the gift, even when they screamed, struggled, and ran. When Clive caught them, they gibbered, scratching at him, emptying their bowels. They didn't understand, at first.
 

When the blue angel had given Clive the gift, he had punched through his ribs. Clive was not strong enough to do that, so he had found another way. The dead people always got up afterwards, so he knew he was doing it right. They didn't need their hearts, because it was Judgement Day, and everlasting life was theirs.

The only problem was that he couldn't move very fast, and they always ran. On the crowded streets, they had scattered in fear, so he had come to the Botanic Gardens, the West End's second largest park. The gates locking it at night dangled on their hinges, and even through the misty haze of his vision, he saw the silhouettes of hundreds milling about within.
 

Unlike the burgeoning riot on the street, the park was an oasis of quiet and awe. The fire and snow swept peacefully down, only the rising wind spoiling a picture perfect scene of tranquillity. Ahead of him, people sat on benches and stared upwards, or lay back on the cultivated lawns and held each other, or knelt in prayer to their favoured saints and deities.

Clive approached them, trying not to list too much. It was reassuring, knowing that the poor light meant nobody could see the hole in his chest. That would alarm them, and what he had to offer was too beautiful to mar with fear.
 

An elderly lady at the edge of the gently milling crowd watched him approach, a mad smile on her face. She would be the first one there to receive his gift, the better to reassure her that age need not wither her further.

That thought brought another, from a different life.
Age shall not wither her, nor custom stale her infinite variety.

Another life, another time, another purpose. The lady gave him a strained smile beneath her floral headscarf, peering more closely at him through her bifocals. “You've been through the wars tonight, haven't you dear? You've come to the right place. It's peaceful here.”

I have a hole in my chest, and my heart is gone, and I'm alive in a body that's dead, and I don't understand anything about the world anymore, and why won't you RUN
, a small, sane part of his mind tried to say. His mouth ignored the background noise, and instead tried to tell the lady that she didn't have to be afraid.

What came out was a long, low groan, punctuated by flat consonants from his deadweight tongue.

“I didn't catch that, dear,” said the woman, squinting hard. Her eyes were a lovely, faded blue, that made parts of Clive happy, and other parts sad.

Then he swung an arm around her neck, pulling her into an embrace. She shrieked, dropping her plastic shopping bag, and Clive saw dozens of tins of cat food roll free. Never mind, she could feed the animal later.

Unless she was like the others.

Of the few Clive had gifted, none possessed the sense they had in life. Clive trusted that he was special, that receiving the gift from an angel had sped the process of accepting his new state. The others would catch up soon. In the meantime, they were happy to spread the gift further, just as he had shown them. Clive knew that from somewhere, Heather was looking down on him, as he finally made her proud.