Fancy was striking out, nose in the air and the water foaming along her neck. Michael slid out of the saddle and clung to her mane, the freezing liquid threatening him with hyperventilation. He swore foully between his chattering teeth, deciding that Cat had deserted him and had led him here to drown.
But there she was on the bank with his things lashed about her, making a dive into the turmoil of the river.
'Cat!'
And she was here, clinging to the saddle with her hair plastered over her face like seaweed. He shouted over the rush of the river and the wind.
'Where did you go? Why did you run ahead?'
She pointed to the western bank. Blinking the water out of his eyes, he saw the Horseman there among the trees, the paling sky silhouetting his head, watching them.
'Holy God!'
Then they were past, the current carrying them onwards, into the dark depths of the bridge and through to another world.
TEN
HE LAY FOR a moment watching the patterns the car headlights made on the ceiling, listening to the hubbub of engines and people's voices, even at this late hour; the sounds of the city.
He was alone in the bed. Decent of her to go before morning made things awkward—as long as his wallet hadn't gone with her.
It had not. He padded naked across the tiny room and peered out between slits in the blinds, one hand fumbling on the dresser for his cigarettes, The room was hot, and he could feel the prickle of sweat in his armpits; but if he opened the windows the buzz of traffic would become a roar and the fumes would sweeten the stale air. Better to boil. Even now these night noises could keep him awake, creaks on the landing bringing him bolt upright in bed.
The dream again. That was what had woken him.
He lit a cigarette and sucked in the blue smoke gratefully. His fingers were trembling and he dropped ash on the floor. After all this time it was the same. How many years?
He scraped a hand through his hair. Still a bit drunk, his mouth dry-and sour. Briefly he wished his head were not so hard. It was an expensive business, this alcoholic lark, and Christ knew he could barely afford to keep it up. He had a vague idea his health was going, too. That cough in the mornings, the shortness of breath that had taken him of late when climbing stairs or lurching into an unaccustomed jog. Perhaps it was the city. He breathed it in day and night, absorbed the stuff of concrete and smog so that he felt his blood thick with it, sluggish in the arteries. He thought sometimes that if he were to leave, to go back to trees and grass and the growing things, he would cough it up and be eighteen again. Now there was a fancy.
But there were shadows under the branches of trees, he remembered, and back there only the moon lit up the night. 'The Wolfs Sun', Cat had called it. He turned away from the window and flopped back on the bed, wishing now that stupid girl had stayed to see him through the dark hours, to hold him and talk empty-headed rubbish until the dawn.
Not fair, though, to think she would have robbed him. She had been sweet enough, young and a little credulous. It was the dark eyes that had reeled him in along the bar, conjuring his neck hairs upright. Another mistaken identity. He would file it with the rest. He was a sucker for a certain look, a slant of eyebrow, a shade of hair. It had become a habit.
What had her name been?
No matter. The other name was too strong in his head. That face, the grin. Cheshire Cat, and his trip through Wonderland.
She was gone. He had left her behind, watched her shape grow smaller and smaller as he drifted away. To his own place. She had led him through a strange country, a terrible place that had almost killed them both, hence the dream. That awful dream, taking him back to his childhood and another land. Christ, he hated the dark, the open spaces. Only in the bright chaos of the city did he feel safer, even now. But it was strange—and disquietening—to find the memories returning so clear and fast. He was remembering things he had thought long forgotten or blocked away. Odd.
There was grief there, also. He had never been sure what exactly about his past had marked him so, had set him this road to tread in all the following years. Perhaps it was the simple, impossible disorientation of it all. To live a life twice, to grow old a second time. He smiled sourly. The mind of a man in the body of a boy. Maybe.
Or maybe it had been the things he had seen and done. The killing. Or maybe it had just been a memory of Cat. And there her face was once more.
He sucked on the cigarette again. Years spent forgetting, denying it had ever happened (and God knows it might well have been a dream), but there was no getting away from the nightmare. Brother Nennian's face before he died. The horror of that day.
You cannot strike deals with memory, he thought. It holds all the cards. There are no bargains made.
He scanned his watch. Nearly three. Dawn in less than two hours, and work to go to in the morning. Terrific.