Getting her out proved disturbingly easy. Nicholas gave the cabbie a fifty and asked him to wait in the hospital carriageway, then he hurried inside. He simply took hold of one of several wheelchairs sitting idle in the corridors, and went to Laine’s ward. He loitered out front until the duty nurse stepped from sight, then wheeled the chair to Laine’s bedside.
Her face, normally light olive, was pale. Her eyes were closed and her breaths were shallow and slow. Nicholas went to the trolley at the far wall and hunted through its plastic drawers for adhesive tape, then withdrew the drip in Laine’s arm. He was about to bandage over the pinhole the needle left, but was arrested by the large, ruby red drop that swelled out of the wound. A sphere: round and perfect and thick. A certainty appeared in his mind, whole and clear. He knew what to do.
He lifted Laine gently and slid her gown over her shoulders and down her chest, exposing her breastbone, stopping just above her small breasts. He dipped his fingertip into the large drop of blood on her arm and drew on the skin of her sternum a vertical line with a half-diamond attached. He looked at it critically, then used the little bit of blood remaining to tidy up the lines, making them equally thick. Satisfied, he tidied her gown and put the sticking plaster over the puncture on her bruised forearm.
She was surprisingly light. He placed her in the chair, put her feet on the rests, wrapped a blanket around her torso and wheeled her out. The cab was still waiting. It had taken less than ten minutes to kidnap an unconscious woman from a busy ward of a public hospital. Something for the resume, he thought glumly, and asked the cabbie to take them to Lambeth Street, Tallong.
Night.
Spiders were busy spinning webs between pepper trees and devil’s apples.
Overhead, rain was brewing. A few scout drops fell on the shingled roof of the old cottage and rolled down to the edge to perch precariously above a rambling herb garden: rich thickets of hops, chickweed, lovage, tonka beans, high john, marigold and coltsfoot.
Inside the cottage, a naked man lay on his back near a flickering fire. Miles Kindste’s eyes were open and daft, staring at nothing. His breath eased in and out in a slow, opiated rhythm. His erection was thick. Blood oozed from a neat, deep cut in the webbed flesh between the big toe of his right foot and its neighbour. His eyes couldn’t see or his mind couldn’t register that a spider the size of a possum sat on a blanket in the corner of the dark room.
A figure stepped out of the cottage, stooped but spry. She wrapped a scarf around her head against the cold rain, and started along the flagstone path through the herb garden. Though the clouds were snuffing the last light from the night sky, were anyone close enough they’d see that her expression was as hard as flint.
The path she took meandered through stands of hawthorn and blackberry towards a ring of trees: twenty-four weeping lilly pilly planted in a wide circle, tall and beautiful. Carved low in the trunk of each was a different arcane symbol. The old woman stepped off the flagstones and around the outside of the circular grove till she found the tree she sought. She stroked its trunk with tenderness. Then she reached to her belt and, with a whisper, unsheathed a sharp stiletto. She cut a finger-thick branch off the tree, then stepped into the circle.
The ring was some ten metres wide. Its surface was sandy dirt kept meticulously clear of weeds. Within the ring were many things, but four were significant: three were posts forming a triangle; the fourth was in the triangle’s centre. It was a low column, thigh high and the same wide, made of vertically set branches held fast by woven twigs. On this basket-like pillar sat a sphere, or a globe, or a cage. It, too, was made of woven branches and twigs, but also of bone. It was bound tightly with vines and tough stems and hair.
In the cage was a thin girl. Even Mr and Mrs Gerlic would have had trouble recognising their elder daughter; Miriam’s eyes were red and puffed from terrified crying. Her naked skin was alive with welts: a thousand spider bites. Her arms and legs were tied fast to the ribs of the globe, strung by wrist and ankle. When she saw the old woman approach, a pitiful stream of urine trickled from between her legs. Her throat was raw from hours of fruitless screaming, and only a ragged sigh came out.
‘Time to go,’ the old woman said cheerfully.
She caressed the little ladder rising to the odd cage with the branch, then ascended, softly speaking old, old words. She held her sparkling knife to the blind eyes of the trees, and reached down to the girl.