There, barely visible in the very middle of the bridge, was a man leaning on one of the railings, looking in the opposite direction.
What was he doing there at this time of night?
Sylas stopped – this felt wrong. He thought of turning and running back through the estate to the other bridge, but retracing his steps would be dangerous. He considered waiting to see if the man moved away, but by then the dog might be upon him.
There was no option: he must cross the Hailing Bridge, and do it now.
He gathered his courage and slowly climbed the steps to the span of the bridge.
As he reached the top, the man became more visible. He wore a loose, torn black coat and seemed unusually tall and muscular.
Sylas was uneasy, but he kept on walking. The chime of the bell was waning now and he could hear the sound of rushing water beneath him, the black surface sending up distorted reflections of the distant streetlamps on the other side of town. As he passed out of the light, he walked close to one of the railings and tilted his head to see the man’s face, but it was covered by a large hood.
He controlled his nerves and strode on. Soon he was walking past the stranger. One, two steps beyond. He braced himself to run.
“Hello, Sylas.”
He froze, heart racing.
“A curious place to meet – don’t you think?” It was a deep, accented voice.
Sylas eyed the far end of the bridge – he would have no chance of reaching it if the man gave chase.
“I— I don’t know you... do I?”
“The middle of a river, I mean,” said the man. “It’s neither here nor there.”
Sylas turned and saw that he hadn’t moved, but was still staring out over the river.
The stranger sucked in a deep breath. “What did the Greeks say about rivers? A border between worlds, was it? Or was it something about fate… I can’t remember. Your world, not mine.”
Sylas started to back away. “I don’t… I don’t know,” he stammered, “but I have to…”
“And where do you think you’re off to?” said the stranger sharply, stirring for the first time and standing to his full, towering height. He peered down from the shadows of his hood. “I’m afraid you won’t get very far without my help.”
“But who are you?” asked Sylas, still poised to run.
The man seemed to consider this for a moment.
“Call me Espen,” he said. He lifted his hands to his hood and pulled it back.
Sylas took a step back. The stranger’s youthful features were terribly disfigured. His burnished mahogany skin was riven by a cruel tear that ran from just below his hairline, over the bridge of his nose and cheek to his neck, where it disappeared under the folds of his coat. The wound was still red and inflamed and he winced slightly as he attempted a smile.
“Take this as the mark of a friend,” he said, waving his hand towards his face. “I’ve already met the abomination that chases you.”
Sylas was suddenly struck by the stranger’s voice. He had heard it before. It was the voice from the back of the Shop of Things.
Mr Zhi’s assistant!
His panic began to subside. “Are you... do you know Mr Zhi?”
The stranger smiled briefly. “Yes.”
Sylas felt a wave of relief. He glanced in the direction of the estate. “So you know what that thing is? The thing that’s chasing me?”
“Answers breed questions, Sylas,” said Espen, “and we’re already out of time. I don’t wish to meet that thing twice in one day. We must go.”
“Where?”
The man was looking back towards Gabblety Row. “You know where,” he replied in a vacant voice, still looking away. “To the bell.”
“Can you hear—”
Suddenly a mournful howl rose from somewhere on the housing estate, in precisely the direction Espen had been looking. The soulless baying hung in the air, echoing from walls, trees and rooftops. The lights of the estate began to flare into life.
“It’s already close,” said Espen. “How fast can you run?”
“Pretty fast,” said Sylas. He knew he was quick – it was the one compliment his uncle ever paid him. “Follow me.”
He turned and sprinted to the end of the bridge, leaping down the steps in threes, disappearing in a trice.
A smile passed over Espen’s face as he set out in pursuit.
As they ran across the town square, the walls and windows about them echoed their steps and Sylas glanced nervously in all directions. But as quickly as they had entered the square they left it behind, charging into another darkened lane. They ran along overgrown alleys and behind shops, down lanes, over walls and into parks. They charged through a skate park, under a railway bridge and across a builders’ yard, never once pausing for breath. The bell chimed several more times as they ran, battering Sylas’s ears, urging them on, challenging them to run faster.
Finally they found themselves in a small street bordered on both sides by the low, huddling houses of factory workers. Sweating and panting, they came to the end, where a great chimney stack loomed above them.
Espen slowed to a walk and called ahead: “Stop! Let’s rest for a moment.”
Sylas slapped his feet down on the tarmac and leaned his weight on his knees while he caught his breath.
“See!” he panted with a grin. “Pretty fast!”
Espen raised an eyebrow.
“I don’t know why you’re doing this,” said Sylas, “but thank you.”
“Maybe someday you’ll return the favour,” said Espen with a brief smile, but then the levity left his face. “Your shoulders bear us all, Sylas.” The stranger spoke under his breath, almost as though he didn’t want to be heard.
Sylas frowned quizzically and there was an awkward silence.
Espen shook his head as if annoyed with himself. “Give me the book,” he said, holding out his hand.
Sylas instinctively took a step backwards, surprised to hear the stranger speak of it.
“The Samarok?”
Espen nodded and turned his palm up expectantly.
