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THE ROYAL LONDON HOSPITAL EMERGENCY DEPARTMENT, LONDON, ENGLAND
“We should be hitting the road,” said Phantom Ghoul.
Nobody granted him a reply. All that broke the silence was the distant voice of a nurse in the corridor, then the low drone of a car outside.
“I said, we should be hitting the—”
“I’ll hit you,” someone muttered. With their masks still on and the ringing in his ears, Perpetua could not tell who had spoken; not that he could do much in the way of discipline, anyway.
“I’m just concerned about the schedule.”
“Soundchecks the audience a couple times and he thinks he’s tour manager.” Swiss Ghoul, perhaps, speaking to Mountain Ghoul, who shrugged with folded arms.
Cirrus Ghoul, on Perpetua’s left, cut in. “That’s not for any of us to be concerned about. Certainly not right now.”
He’s coping, Perpetua mused. He’s focusing on anything else. Ghouls, it seemed, were not immune to the welcoming embrace of distraction. His theory was proven right when Phantom turned in his bright blue plastic chair, its legs squeaking on the floor, and started to read the pamphlets and posters adorned on an over-full pinboard. All Perpetua could make out from this distance was the bold titles of each one, with stock image patients smiling underneath.
BE A HERO; GIVE BLOOD. Aged 65 and over? MMR: the facts. Travel Healthy! CATCH IT, BIN IT, KILL IT. Hands, face, space. Erectile dysfunction?
QUIT SMOKING, a prominent one read. After tonight, Perpetua thought, he might be looking to start.
He couldn’t get the sounds of it out of his mind. The midnight hush of A&E was overlaid by the remembered soundtrack of two hours ago, when they’d first stepped offstage. A high whine, a panicked whimper, clattering on the metal stairs as the Ghoul dropped to all fours, curling in on himself with his back to the wall, his oh-so-human frame vanishing into something animal. A saucepan-lid clang when he tore the mask off and dropped it on the step. The first snarl bubbling up in his throat, growing until it was stronger than the buzz of the crowd outside; a plea, and a warning.
Perpetua hadn’t heeded it.
He took a slow breath, trying to focus on the here and now. The group made for a peculiar sight; not a single Ghoul had agreed to stay on the bus so all seven of them were here, smooth chrome masks and rhinestone bones catching the buzzing fluorescent lights of the waiting room. Unlike the eighth of their pack, they all kept up the ruse as best they could. Just a band, he'd explained to the startled receptionist. No time to change, you know. He didn't bother to lie about why everyone, including himself, kept the masks on.
He was no better than the Ghouls in regard to being a spectacle. He still wore his purple sequined jacket, grateful for it in the April chill despite the tears in one sleeve. He'd placed a careful hand on his hip to hold down the left-hand side— FUCK YOU was the last thing the hospital staff needed to be told tonight.
All his earlier confidence had vanished, like a supply of it had been used up. He’d hoped to be alone by the time this happened, lingering in the shower whilst black paint swirled down the drain, sprayed-down hair coming unstuck. Left to marinate instead in the post-show getup, his eyes felt tacky and sweat prickled under his silk shirt; his mouth was dry and his throat stung. Sore throat? read another pamphlet in his line of sight—well, yes, he thought, but not for the reasons the bright green text warned. He just hadn’t had time to drink his soothing tea.
All these little discomforts could not distract from the throbbing in his arm. He’d tied a bandage around it from the venue’s nearest first-aid kit, but that didn’t do much in the way of relief. All he'd meant to do was save his ruined shirt from becoming more of a bloodied mess, but by the stickiness he felt with every shift of the fabric, undressing might still prove to be an ordeal.
He'd gotten too close. Spurred on by his worry and the awareness that he was Papa, he'd crossed to where the Ghoul crouched on the stairs, holding out his hands as if he approached a wild dog. Which, for all intents and purposes, this creature might have been.
The Ghoul had trembled and whined, curled into a position that would protect his foot, trying to hold it aloft. Perpetua had caught a glimpse of drool on his lips and teeth, spat out by another snarl, just before those bright eyes locked into his—
“It's alright,” Perpetua had said, uselessly. “You're safe.”
He'd stepped closer, ignoring those who called his title from behind him, and so too ignoring the growls from this Ghoul that he now considered a friend.
“You've hurt yourself, hm?” He'd asked as he crouched to eye-level, still holding out his left hand. “Let me see?”
His hand never made contact.
Dewdrop Ghoul had struck, launching forward faster than Perpetua could react, wet teeth meeting sequined leather and cutting through as though it was nothing. Perpetua had cried out, tugging his arm away just as he felt the sting of the puncture, and those Ghoul teeth were dragged through his skin when he tripped backwards, scrambling to get away—
He still didn't know who'd approached with the needle.
One moment, he was tugging in vain to free his arm from Dewdrop's jaws, and the next, he was released with a squeal and an animal-like scream. The needle was stuck and the plunger pushed down before either one could realise what was happening. Perpetua had fallen back and Dewdrop toppled with him, his frantic limbs gone weak, his cries gurgling in his throat—Ghoul sedation worked fast.
This, he'd later been told, was the only way to take a Ghoul to hospital.
“Saw it happen,” a crew member had claimed with surprising calm. Some kind of Ghoul wrangler, trained on the biggest and least domesticated that the Ministry basements had to offer. “Spooked by the pyro, jumped away, landed at a nasty angle. We've been ready to step in since Year Zero. By the looks of things, its reaction could have been worse.”
Perpetua, still quivering like a fake dollar in the breeze of a leaf blower, hadn't known what to say to that.
He was jolted from his reminiscing by something brushing the top of his head. He looked to his right—Rain Ghoul had picked a piece of confetti out of his hair.
“Thanks,” he said, and Rain handed the confetti to him without a word.
He pinched the fragile bit of paper between the finger and thumb of his left hand. He squeezed, feeling it crinkle under the leather of his gloves, and a sharp sting ran up his forearm. He did it again, his muscles screaming, the wound hot and wet under the bandage. He held his breath, desperate not to make a noise that would give him away; the last thing he wanted was more of their concern. Perpetua had never been comfortable with that kind of attention, and compared to the severity of what happened to his Ghoul, he felt it too dramatic to worry about. ‘Tis but a scratch, he’d joked to anyone who tried to fuss over him—his tone light, his intent serious. He’d insisted on being left alone, and good Ghouls obeyed their Papa. Or so he’d been told.
A shudder ran through him. He loosened his grip on the confetti and looked up, his pulse in his throat.
From across the room, Swiss Ghoul’s eyes were locked on him.
Perpetua went still—he’d met Swiss’ gaze and could not drop it now. Slowly, trying to make it look casual, he slid the confetti into his pocket.
A door swinging open snapped both of them out of the trance; Perpetua’s heart leapt. It was just a doctor, the trusted contact they’d been told to find, walking into the waiting room—he was known to the Ministry, so despite the tail and horns and blue-grey skin of his patient, he’d got right down to work. Perpetua sat up straight, cleared his throat, and tried to ready himself for a conversation.
The doctor’s words were quick and practical. He debriefed the X-ray with such efficiency that Perpetua struggled to keep up. All he could do was parrot back the key words, his heart pounding all over again, dizzy with the shock of it.
“Broken?” He'd repeated, his voice high. Then, when the doctor got there—“Two? ”
THE HEADQUARTERS OF THE CLERGY, LINCOPIA, OTROGOTHIA
“Two!?” said Frater Imperator.
Cumulus Ghoul put her hand over the transmitter of the corded landline. “Don’t panic,” she told him, then put it to her mouth again. “Yep, that’s—that was him.” She furrowed her eyebrows as she listened, Cirrus Ghoul’s voice fragmented and tinny from the other end, relaying information the doctor told her in real time through a beat-up Blackberry.
Copia stood behind the sofa, white-knuckling the back of it. His chest heaved, the rubies on his jacket catching the light. Cumulus could hear his foot tapping on the floor—patience had never been a strong point.
“And the doctor says he could—?” She asked, then sighed after confirmation. “I mean. I’m no expert. I—no, no. I know. Not our place. Whatever. He—alright. Let me tell him, love.”
She dropped the phone from her ear and took a deep breath, ignoring the buzzing of Copia’s impatience. He was almost bouncing on his feet, his lips pressed tight like he had to manually stop himself from pestering her for more. This is why Cumulus had taken the call. She hadn’t expected near-secretary tasks when she’d stayed behind, but needs must.
Turning to Copia, she said, “He’ll be able to play.”
Copia paused. “Fuck that.” He relinquished his grip on the sofa and started to pace, his gloved hands clenching and unclenching. “Is this what matters? That’s what—what they want? Cancel it. Cancel the whole thing.”
“Frater…”
“Nope. No, no. How would V like it? If he breaks two bones and we—or, me, I say go on, off you pop, up on the stage with you? Na-ah. It is not happening.”
Cumulus rested her masked head in her hand. “I don’t want it for him either. But I don’t think we have a say.”
“Then what’s all this?” Copia gestured to the office they stood in, then to himself. “What is all he point of Frater Imperator if I do not—uh—” he gestured again, too worked up to articulate himself. “We cancel. And he… he comes here. Give him back to me. Give me back my Ghoul.”
For all Cumulus’ exasperation, she understood. Her belly had ached since she’d heard the news. She’d wished to join them again countless times since the tour began, and that desire peaked now. She might comfort and coddle this outburst on another day, but her own nerves made her blunt.
“Nothing is going to be cancelled. Why don’t you have a seat?”
He was so easily guided, even now. Copia stomped his way round the sofa and dropped into the middle of it, slouched and shaky. He started worrying his hands in his lap, staring at his legs whilst Cumulus lifted the phone back up.
“Hey. Uh—yeah. Took it well. He—oh. No, no. That’s alright. Call me back later? Thanks. Tell him hi from me, when he wakes up. And that he’s a massive dolt. From me, too.”
As she put the phone on the stand, she heard clicking keys; Copia had shuffled to the edge of the sofa and was typing with concentration. Cumulus stepped over to him and peered at the screen; he wasn’t quick enough to close the window. She had plenty of time to clock the bright orange of easyJet.
She sighed, sitting down next to him, a weariness coming over her that had nothing to do with the time. They were two hours ahead of London but nervous energy had carried her through. The same seemed true for Copia, who was jiggling his leg and staring at his knees again.
“You’re needed here,” she said. “He’s got everyone else looking after him.”
Copia turned his head away, breathing hard as he composed himself. He muttered something that sounded like fat lot of good. Cumulus put a hand on his back, rubbing circles with her thumb, the contact as necessary for her as it was for him.
“If he cannot keep my Ghouls safe,” Copia said, facing forward again. “I don’t trust him to carry on.”
“I wouldn’t say it was Papa’s fault.”
Copia flinched under her hand. He wasn’t used to hearing that title when it wasn’t addressed at him.
“I—no. Still. I don’t know.”
“Forget Papa,” she suggested. “He’s got the rest of us. I’d say we’re pretty good at taking care of each other.”
Her words were weighted; in his silence, Copia would be remembering what she meant. The list of collective injuries and illnesses would keep them there all day if they discussed it. Not one of them, Copia included, had ever sorted those out alone.
“Wouldn’t you?”
Still staring down, Copia cleared his throat. There was a moment of silence before he nodded. His fight had bled out of him so fast—it was like this every time.
Cumulus patted his back in response. “I’m going to phone back,” she said, standing up from the sofa with a deep breath. “It’s been long enough. Sit tight.”
Copia was silent whilst she dialled the number of the pack’s Blackberry. She leaned against the table and listened to the ringing, glancing back at the sofa, where Copia was sitting forward again with his hands back on the keyboard.
“If you’re typing Birmingham right now…”
He dropped his hands to his knees. Cumulus sighed.
The phone rang out; she placed it back on the stand and tried to quell the worry in her gut. They’d get a call when the time was right. A couple of broken bones were tame, she supposed, compared to what else she’d found her mind going to when she’d first been left behind.
To her surprise, Copia seemed to snap out of his trance. He slapped his hands down on the sofa beside him, announcing his intent to do something, and stood. “Be right back. I have to grab… thingy.”
“Before you go—” she cut in.
He paused, headed for the door, his features alight with frantic energy that he shouldn’t have in the early hours of the morning.
This one bit of news had slipped her mind before, but Copia should be told of everything. “I forgot to say. He bit Papa.”
Copia grimaced. For all his animosity towards Perpetua, he didn’t seem amused. “Somebody should tell him to get some, uh. Antibiotics.”
She tilted her head to one side, questioning.
“You are creatures, my dear,” he said as he shuffled out of the room. “Damn creatures.”
THE O2 ARENA, GREENWICH, LONDON, ENGLAND
Papa Perpetua bid Haze goodnight, kissing the forehead of her mask that shone under the floodlights. She gave him a heartfelt squeeze like she always did, and he just had time to return it before she jogged off after the others. Perpetua tried to convince himself that it was good she was settling in nicely. If she was spending more time with the Ghouls and less with him—well. It was only natural.
He turned and made his way towards his own bus, a trip he’d longed for during the events of tonight, but felt lonely now he was making it. Much as he appreciated a whole bus to himself, he often wondered if he’d find it easier living in close quarters with those he was trying to befriend. He should be with them tonight, at least, supporting his Ghouls like a Papa should, though he wouldn’t know where to start with that for the life of him. Last time he’d tried, he’d only made things worse.
And Dewdrop Ghoul had the attention of the whole pack; he had no need of somebody who’d scared him. Who’d worsened his panic with idiocy. His foot set and dressed, the sedative wearing off, he’d been carried to the bus amongst their tight, protective group, wrapped up in stolen hospital bedding. They’d made a run from A&E as soon as he was deemed fit to be taken, the whole group desperate to be out of a public place before morning.
Cirrus Ghoul had approached him as they left, putting a kind hand on his good arm, speaking low. She’d suggested he go back and offered to come with him if he needed it. Her glances over to Dewdrop’s sleeping form implied that she’d rather not stay, but Perpetua appreciated the offer all the same. He’d refused, saying he was too tired to deal with that now—he’d get his antibiotics the next day, he promised, if those were really necessary.
“Frater said so,” she’d told him, and he hadn’t known how to reply.
The bite on his arm now throbbed with relentless intensity. Nothing distracted him from it, now he was crossing the tarmac of the bus park alone, and he went to cradle his arm without thinking. The touch made him flinch; this time, he let out a quiet groan. There was nobody around to hear him.
On the bus, he sat on the edge of his bed and looked something up. He’d need to talk to a doctor in this country, the internet told him, to be given antibiotics. Prescription-only, by the sounds of it. But who had the time for that? The next show was in—
Perpetua stopped himself. He locked the screen, and when he stood, he avoided looking at the clock on the wall. If he counted the hours left then he wouldn’t sleep at all.
He washed himself as best he could, leaving the bandage on the wound, wiping around it with a damp cloth to take off the worst of the blood. He’d deal with it properly in the morning. His eyes were stinging now, his limbs heavy, and he’d begun to feel like this was all a waking dream. Into it came unbidden flashes of memory; desperate, panicked footsteps, a Ghoul’s unmasked screech, strings of saliva from a hot mouth, red and purple and grey. Shrouded eyes boring into him, every pair all too aware of his mistake—the one that said, with glaring certainty, I am not one of you.
He abandoned his folded pyjamas. Clambered into bed on unsteady legs, naked against the sheets. Cradled his arm against his chest that was still sticky with sweat.
If he wasn’t tired as a dog, he’d allow himself a cry.
LINCOPIA POST OFFICE, OTROGOTHIA
The postal clerk looked down at the long, thin package she’d been handed, frowning when she re-read the address. She looked up at the man in front of her; he’d been at the door twenty minutes before they opened, and a smattering of snowflakes was now melting into his hair. She knew him, like she knew every patron of this remote, mountain branch, but it had been a while since she’d seen him here. Last she’d heard, he was Papa, but the makeup around his eyes had gone back to how it was when she first landed the job. Black sockets; an incomplete skull. But she wasn’t one to judge.
“Prague seems to be the earliest I can get it to,” he was saying, fidgeting on the balls of his feet as he leaned on the desk, watching her handle the package. “I Googled.”
Bemused, the clerk put it down on the desk again. That lot up at the Ministry had never made much sense.
“The earliest?” she repeated, peeling the plastic backing off a customs sticker.
“Earliest stop,” he said. “On the, ah. The Ske- uh. Tour.”
She read the name of the recipient whilst positioning the sticker—she’d come across many oddities from their organisation, but this was the first she’d heard of someone with the surname Ghoul.
“I see. Well, if you’ve double-checked…” She stuck the form down, smoothing it onto brown paper, and picked up a pen. “Estimated value?”
“Uh. I don’t know. I have had this thing… Six? Seven years? I—I did not even buy it.” He waved a hand. “Costume department.”
The clerk sighed, leaving the box blank. “Right. Can you tell me what it is?”
“Oh.” He shuffled his feet. “It’s a cane.”