The Sword of Feimhin by Frank P. Ryan Read Free Book Online Page B

ear. Placing a protective arm around Nan’s shoulders, Mark ushered her into a narrow channel at the back of a dilapidated theatre. They hurried through to emerge into an alley that skirted a block of run-down buildings, and were confronted by a young woman standing in a doorway. Her carroty red hair was awry, her voice thick as treacle.
    â€˜Excuse me, sir – live shows!’
    Mark could see the signs over the doorway. REVUE BAR. WORLD CENTRE OF EROTIC ENTERTAINMENT. In the reflection of a window he caught sight of their pursuer again, the blond with the tattoo.
    They were standing before a sign that read MADAME JO-JO’S.
    They turned away and squeezed through a hole in a breeze-block wall to enter a cul-de-sac. The tattoo-head squeezed in after them, abandoning all pretence of concealment. They were forced to risk running through a doorless entrance, and then to face the obstacle race of the derelict building beyond, emerging into a yard that must once have been the loading area for a small factory. It had evolved into a junk market. Edging through it, Mark saw the refuse of butchering: lumps of bone flecked with bloodied scraps of meat; entrails laid out over the rough planks like prime cuts. A voice was shouting out prices: ‘three a pahnd!’ or ‘five a pahnd!’
    Mark ushered Nan in front of him.
    There was a glimpse of movement at the corner of his eye. Mark spun around and spotted the feral girl. She had stopped, as if pretending to look over the contents of a particular stall. She turned to look at him directly. He sensed it again – the invitation to follow her. Then she took off. Feeling an overwhelming urge to catch her, Mark grabbed Nan’s arm and they half-staggered on through the filth and the averted faces.
    Within thirty yards his heart leaped as he caught sight of her again. The pale skin and ragged mop of hair were unmistakable. God alone knew what she had been through out there. She was peering back over her shoulder at him. How curiously intelligent she seemed, in contradiction to her apparent age. She was tall, maybe five foot nine or ten, slim and willowy, as if she might bend about corners, and her movements were lithe, the grace of a cat. But her face, her eyes, were startlingly young, shy and evasive.
    She allowed them to catch up with her, as if she too were frightened by the surrounding tramps. She muttered, ‘I saw the thing in her head – and in yours too.’
    Mark caught her arm. ‘Who are you?’
    She screamed. His contact with her really frightened the girl, causing her to tear her arm away from him.
    â€˜Hey, I’m sorry.’ Mark spread his arms. ‘I didn’t mean to frighten you.’
    Nan did her best to calm the girl. ‘We don’t mean you any harm. We sensed that you wanted us to follow you.’
    She looked from Mark to Nan with a stubborn intensity. ‘Why do I hear you talk to me inside my head?’
    Nan smiled, attempting to reassure her. ‘What’s your name?’
    â€˜Penny.’ She was so unusual Mark didn’t know what to make of her. ‘Quickly – wannabe Skulls are hunting you. I heard you asking about the church – I’ll show you.’
    Mark glanced at Nan:
wannabe Skulls?
    â€˜You know where it is? The Church of the English Martyrs?’
    â€˜Come – quickly!’
    She led them through a derelict workshop and into a square of abandoned buildings. Gaunt faces followed their progress. Discarded glue tubes, vials, syringes and needles littered the ground. The tramps here were younger than elsewhere, and were gathering about them. They bore little resemblance to the homeless of old who huddled under the bridges in their beds of newspaper. Those had maintained some kind of fellow human empathy. These looked vicious.
    It was a mistake to hang about, but when Mark tried to push his way through the shuffling crowd he felt a sharp kick at his ankle. He caught a