‘Doesn’t your mum have a vicar or two to help us out?’ It sounded so simple, so logical.
I’m going to have to talk very fast, and I’ll try to sound confident, but the man I need to convince peddles bullshit by the steaming ton, so he knows it when he hears it. We plunge deep into the bracken, where the just-turning leaves filter the light gold. My tongue feels like a lead slug in my mouth. I’m desperately trying to work out what it is I’m going to say.
‘A graveyard,’ Beth said flatly as Fil closed the gate behind them. Weeds had grown everywhere, making the railings more a hedge than anything. ‘Seriously? A graveyard?’
‘What’s wrong?’ he said, tunnelling through the foliage. The growl of the traffic on the main road became muffled.
‘Oh, nothing – having seen what you’ve got crawling around radio-masts and lampposts, I can’t bloody wait to see what you manage to pull out of a graveyard. If it’s just ghosts and zombies I’m going to be sorely disappointed, Fil.’
She was still in a temper after the spiders, and her feet were starting ache. They’d taken the long route from Crystal Palace to Stoke Newington to avoid the cranes that rearedbeside the main road in Dalston. Fil wouldn’t go near them. Beth had never noticed them before and wondered idly when they’d appeared. They were sprouting like malign winter trees across the skyline.
She still hadn’t seen Fil eat. In fact, she was starting to think he didn’t. She’d ducked into a shop with a revolving sign and ordered food off a revolving spit – and now she was sheepishly readying herself for a revolving stomach. She’d offered to buy him a kebab too, but he’d politely declined. Last night, under the tower, his skin had been covered in oily sweat, but just walking barefoot over the tarmac seemed to revive him, as if he was drawing sustenance from the exhaust-heavy air. It suddenly struck Beth that the grey colour on his skin wasn’t dirt, it was him – and it was growing deeper the stronger he got. He’s feeding off the city , she thought, like a plant, living off the sun. She groped for a term and came up with Urbosynthesis.
The undergrowth gave way to a clearing filled with gravestones where life-sized statues stood sentinel. Granite monks stood side by side with scholars in stone togas. The Virgin Mary bent over her baby. Two marble angels wrapped their wings around one another as they kissed, and a statue of a blindfolded woman held a sword above a grave with the inscription: John Archibald, justice. Hanged 1860.
There were almost as many statues as headstones, arranged in a rough circle. A stone monk stood at the heart of the crowd, his heavy granite cowl shading his eyes. He held one finger in the air and his lips were carved slightlyopen, as though the sculptor had captured him telling a joke – a dirty one, judging by the lascivious twist to his mouth.
‘Well.’ Fil gave a resigned sigh. ‘We’re here.’
‘Where’s here ?’ Beth asked. ‘Apart from the set for a bad vampire movie?’
‘The garden of my mother’s temple.’ A wry smile flickered across his lips. ‘Say hello, Beth.’
‘To who?’
‘To your ghosts.’
‘What are you saying, Filius – that we’re dead to you? I’m hurt.’
Beth started. The voice was, well, gravelly – and it had come from the stone monk.
Fil bit his lip sheepishly and said, ‘Petris – I didn’t recognise you.’ He looked at the statue. ‘Have you lost weight?’
‘Indeed.’ The voice coming from the statue sounded parched. The monk’s stone lips didn’t move. ‘Off the face. Little vandals.’
‘Oh, a chisel job? I— I like it, very sleek. It makes you look …’ He tailed off, looking awkward.
‘Yes?’
‘Um …’
The statue’s sigh was like tumbling shale. ‘Clearly, tact wasn’t one of the lessons I actually managed, by some Herculean effort, to hammer through your skull. Who’s the young lady?’
The statue hadn’t
I’m going to have to talk very fast, and I’ll try to sound confident, but the man I need to convince peddles bullshit by the steaming ton, so he knows it when he hears it. We plunge deep into the bracken, where the just-turning leaves filter the light gold. My tongue feels like a lead slug in my mouth. I’m desperately trying to work out what it is I’m going to say.
‘A graveyard,’ Beth said flatly as Fil closed the gate behind them. Weeds had grown everywhere, making the railings more a hedge than anything. ‘Seriously? A graveyard?’
‘What’s wrong?’ he said, tunnelling through the foliage. The growl of the traffic on the main road became muffled.
‘Oh, nothing – having seen what you’ve got crawling around radio-masts and lampposts, I can’t bloody wait to see what you manage to pull out of a graveyard. If it’s just ghosts and zombies I’m going to be sorely disappointed, Fil.’
She was still in a temper after the spiders, and her feet were starting ache. They’d taken the long route from Crystal Palace to Stoke Newington to avoid the cranes that rearedbeside the main road in Dalston. Fil wouldn’t go near them. Beth had never noticed them before and wondered idly when they’d appeared. They were sprouting like malign winter trees across the skyline.
She still hadn’t seen Fil eat. In fact, she was starting to think he didn’t. She’d ducked into a shop with a revolving sign and ordered food off a revolving spit – and now she was sheepishly readying herself for a revolving stomach. She’d offered to buy him a kebab too, but he’d politely declined. Last night, under the tower, his skin had been covered in oily sweat, but just walking barefoot over the tarmac seemed to revive him, as if he was drawing sustenance from the exhaust-heavy air. It suddenly struck Beth that the grey colour on his skin wasn’t dirt, it was him – and it was growing deeper the stronger he got. He’s feeding off the city , she thought, like a plant, living off the sun. She groped for a term and came up with Urbosynthesis.
The undergrowth gave way to a clearing filled with gravestones where life-sized statues stood sentinel. Granite monks stood side by side with scholars in stone togas. The Virgin Mary bent over her baby. Two marble angels wrapped their wings around one another as they kissed, and a statue of a blindfolded woman held a sword above a grave with the inscription: John Archibald, justice. Hanged 1860.
There were almost as many statues as headstones, arranged in a rough circle. A stone monk stood at the heart of the crowd, his heavy granite cowl shading his eyes. He held one finger in the air and his lips were carved slightlyopen, as though the sculptor had captured him telling a joke – a dirty one, judging by the lascivious twist to his mouth.
‘Well.’ Fil gave a resigned sigh. ‘We’re here.’
‘Where’s here ?’ Beth asked. ‘Apart from the set for a bad vampire movie?’
‘The garden of my mother’s temple.’ A wry smile flickered across his lips. ‘Say hello, Beth.’
‘To who?’
‘To your ghosts.’
‘What are you saying, Filius – that we’re dead to you? I’m hurt.’
Beth started. The voice was, well, gravelly – and it had come from the stone monk.
Fil bit his lip sheepishly and said, ‘Petris – I didn’t recognise you.’ He looked at the statue. ‘Have you lost weight?’
‘Indeed.’ The voice coming from the statue sounded parched. The monk’s stone lips didn’t move. ‘Off the face. Little vandals.’
‘Oh, a chisel job? I— I like it, very sleek. It makes you look …’ He tailed off, looking awkward.
‘Yes?’
‘Um …’
The statue’s sigh was like tumbling shale. ‘Clearly, tact wasn’t one of the lessons I actually managed, by some Herculean effort, to hammer through your skull. Who’s the young lady?’
The statue hadn’t
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