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It was eight forty-seven and the streetlights on the Strand had just come on, illuminating the ridged facade of St Clement Danes Church in the distance. John Watson was on his way back to the little flat over the coffee shop where he had been living ever since his return from Afghanistan. It was a warm night, but quiet on account of the rain.
John had his left hand in his pocket, the collar of his jacket turned up. From his right wrist, chafing against the skin, dangled his doggy bag from the Chinese restaurant he couldn’t afford but frequented anyway. After his sheltered life in the army, being poor felt reckless. He liked having the choice to make bad decisions that influenced only him and his life.
He liked walking home, despite the weather. He drew closer to the little RAF church, pointing upwards from its little island in the middle of the road. Per Ardua ad Astra – Through Hardship to the Stars.
His own regiment’s motto, that of the Northumberland Fusiliers, was less evocative - Quo Fata Vocant, or Whither the Fates Call. At least the Air Force had a set destination. Ground soldiers were wanderers, pulled across the land by a disembodied voice – mostly that of a faraway government official, delivered by a satellite telephone and passed on through croaking radios and shouting superiors.
Here in London nobody called John anywhere. He could choose to go wherever he liked, provided he could pay for transport. His flat was nothing but a temporary shelter. He could move where he chose, and right now he chose to walk the length of the Strand, slowly getting wet, the food carton banging against his cane with every other step.
As he passed the church, something caught his eye. Movement, the flutter of a shadow, coming from behind the statue of Lord Downing. John stopped in his tracks, the army instinct momentarily taking over.
The old Chief Marshall stood motionless, gloves clutched tight in his right hand. A fat pigeon waddled out from behind the plinth. Why had the bird startled him? Why had he been surprised by its presence in the centre of London? John shook his head, mocking himself. The pigeon cooed, its head bobbing up and down to make up for its difficulty in perceiving depth. It too was a wanderer, though perhaps a little less aware.
There was a soft heaving sound before the bells of St Clement Danes began to ring in the whole hour.
The dull clanging was soothing, blending in with the sounds of the city to create the familiar backdrop of London, the hustle that had drawn John in, slowly but surely. Perhaps there was something to be said for the pull of fate after all; the shouted commands replaced by the more seductive lull of city sound. Oranges and lemons, say the bells of St Clement’s...
John was about to walk on when there was a second flutter of movement, this time behind the statue of Sir Arthur Harris. There was no pigeon this time and John had the uncomfortable feeling of being watched.
He looked up at the windows of the upscale apartment building that loomed behind him, checking for threats; for an audience. He was surprised to find every single window dark. A drop of rain found its way beneath his collar and rolled down the back of his neck, making him shiver.
Then, without warning, the drizzle broke into a violent pouring rain.
An icy wind blew down the street, piercing through his jacket with terrifying ease. John dove against the wall of the apartment building but found no relief from the rain. A pale light shone in the portico of the little church across the street and without further thought John rushed towards it, hobbling across the cobbled square. By the time he reached the haven he was soaking wet.
The portico was little more than a broom cupboard in size, a little hall between two sets of doors. The outer doors, which had stood open, were of a glossy black; the inner doors were dark unpolished wood. A metal wire cage surrounded the pendant lamp above his head.
John leaned against the wall, leaving wet patches on the stone. He had hurt his leg during his sprint.
The rain obscured his view of the square, like static in a television image. The metal men stood their silent guard, like John stood his. He fancied again he could see movement behind the Air Chief Marshall’s back – no. There was no one there. His mind was playing tricks on him, aided by the blur of the rain. It didn’t help that the bulb in the square’s only streetlight had broken.
A little sliver of light shone out from under the inner doors of the portico. John pushed against the wood with his cane. The heavy door moved, reluctantly at first, but with more ease as it swung further in. The lights in the RAF chapel were on. John hesitated a moment, dawdling in the portico, then accepted the invitation.
The centre aisle of the church was wide, made of light stone, surrounded by dark wooden pews and walls. The dark wood stopped abruptly several metres up, forming a short balcony, with white pillars rising up into a domed ceiling. Light scattered from the golden chandeliers, bouncing off the filigree corners of the pews below. Clearly no expense had been spared in outfitting the little chapel.
John let the door fall shut behind him as he made his way across the aisle.
It felt strange, being surrounded by other people’s honorary plaques, to walk on alien squadron and unit emblems set into the floor. John crossed himself, more out of habit than genuine faith, and let his eyes pass over the golden eagles that lined the nearest wall. They cast looming shadows that seemed to dance in the flicker of the candlelight. A drop of rainwater fell from his eyebrow, snaking its way down his face. His footsteps sounded large in the church, sonorous, like they belonged to someone twice his size. It was only when he reached the centre of the aisle that he realised all lights in the church were electric.
He turned on his heels. The shadows of the eagles still flickered and when John passed his hands behind them, it felt like moving through a magnetic field. Had the church been struck by lightning? Was it actually charged?
There came a sound from the back of the church. “Hello?” called John. “Is anyone there? Hello?” There came no answer. “Right. Sorry for disturbing you,” he said, projecting his voice towards the place he thought he’d heard the sound, having no visual clues to go on. “I’ll just leave, yeah?”
He made for the door, only to find it had closed behind him. It must have been drawn shut by the wind and fallen into the lock. He turned to try and find another exit before freezing, startled, his gaze fixed on the side wall.
A looming shadow was projected on it, far more solid than it should have been, with no trace of the thing that was casting it. John’s own shadow was below him, a soft round blur cast by dozens of tiny lights coming from the ceiling – not sharp and angular like the one on the wall, which could only be caused by a strong singular light right behind the subject. And for the shadow to be where it was, the subject would have had to be standing within John’s line of sight.
“Listen,” John said, “I don’t know what’s going on here but it’s not very funny.” His grip on his cane tightened, the knuckles white, ready for attack. “I apologise for entering unannounced, and I understand if you’d rather I left – which I will do, right now, if you’ll let me pass.”
The shadow remained where it was, stubbornly silent. It was almost like a stain – except it breathed. Roughly human in shape, the shadow’s shoulders heaved ever so slightly, its chest expanding at regular intervals.
“Look, I don’t know what you’re trying to achieve here” - John was still talking to the shadow, unable to find the person who was casting it – “but it won’t work. I am armed. I am a trained soldier and I’m” ---
All the lights in the church went out. It was freezing cold, like a wind had blown straight through the walls. The shadow was still there, on the wall, now crouched into a predatory position, as if ready to leap up and strike. John staggered back, tripped over his cane and fell flat on his back. His breath was ragged, coming in short, shallow puffs as he scrambled onto his elbows. His eyes darted around the dark room, widening in terror as the eagles’ dark shadows disengaged themselves from their golden counterparts and began to creep up the wall and then, one by one, came loose and flew.
The flock of shadows came towards him in a terrifying swoop. John scrambled backward, his cane lost in the struggle. A scream escaped his lips and he covered his head with his arms. The first bird made impact, a scarp but incorporeal beak pecking at his flesh. John tried to swat it away, but more birds followed, tearing at and through his flesh as he tried to twist away. Then the breath was knocked from his lungs as something rose up through him, disregarding his presence as it passed through where he huddled. A ringing filled his ears like thick silence and the pecking stopped, the shadow beaks forced back from his flesh. John caught a glimpse of something, the disembodied shadow, angular and defined, driving away the shadow birds – then darkness spread from the shadow’s back and engulfed him.
The shadow stood between John and the eagles like a shield, filling the church with its own magnificent wings. The birds fluttered feebly against it, unable to pass. The plastic bag strained against John’s wrist and he tore it off, breaking the thin handles. Was it safe to leave? Could he get up?
Slowly, steadily, he pushed himself into a standing position. Shoulders hunched, head low, he crept towards the back of the church, his eyes fixed on the shadows. There were side aisles to either side of the altar, a plain door at the end of the left. John backed towards it, his eyes on the shadows, and tried the handle. The door opened soundlessly and the moment he was through John locked it behind him. A short hall, a kitchen and a backdoor on a hatch. Thank God.
Outside, the air was crisp, the rain still falling, but John did not care. He allowed himself a moment’s pause to draw a shaky breath, then set off on a run and did not stop until he reached the end of Fleet Street.
There was a knock on the door, a single ringing rap. On the landing stood a young man, dark-haired and pale-skinned, with strangely angular features. A scarf was tied around his neck. In his hand he held a metal cane.
“I believe this is yours.”
The man stepped across the threshold without invitation, thrusting the cane at John as he passed.
“Certainly very modest,” he said, after casting a quick glance around the flat. “Hardly place to stretch your legs. If you’ve nothing better on I suggest you come look at a place with me. It’s on Baker Street – interested?”