Waywalkers: Number 1 in Series Read Free Page A

to Sebastian Teufel; the other two were Sam Linnfer’s.

    From inside his wardrobe he took out a travel bag, fully packed. He always kept it ready lest one day, leaving in haste, he forgot something whose importance meant life or death. He also lifted out a box, from the very bottom of the wardrobe, containing Ordnance Survey maps and a
London A to Z
. The street guide he opened at the end of its index, where a neat hand had written the heading, ‘Portals – Hell’. Below were a series of names. Hyde Park. Camden Market. The Embankment. Mare Street. A further three entries under ‘Portals – Heaven’ were in the same hand.

    Sam was reluctant to use any of these; as a method of travel the Waywalks that lay beyond were exhausting and often inaccurate. If he could reach a destination instead by Intercity, he’d do it however appalling the price. But it was always good to know where the serious escape routes lay.

    Next he made a phone call.

    ‘Hi, it’s Sam.’ It wasn’t his usual name when talking to this person, but he knew it would be recognised. He also knew that if he started saying, ‘Hello, it’s Luc’ his troubles could only get worse. There might well be a tap on his phone, especially if he was a suspect
. And even if the police don’t listen in, others may try.
Sam didn’t trust his own story to hold.

    ‘Sam? As in —’

    ‘Adam, thank God it’s you!’ he exclaimed, forestalling the other’s words.

    Adam cut short what he’d been about to say, on recognising his own alternative name. Also Sam had pointedly exclaimed ‘Thank God’, when on principle he abhorred saying any such thing. Clumsily Adam grabbed at these hints. ‘Oh. Yes. Hi, Sam…’

    There was no right way Sam could give news like his.

    ‘Freya?
Dead?
How?’

    ‘I can’t talk. Can I see you in the King’s Head, usual time tomorrow? Bring your wits.’

    For all that Adam might want to say, ‘Oh sorry, how are you for the day after?’, he didn’t dare. When Sam Linnfer asked if you could meet up, that’s what you did. It was a matter of respect and rank. If he said ‘bring your wits’ it made the situation doubly bad.

    And the question that besieged both of them.
Who would want to kill Freya? She hadn’t an enemy in the world, in any world
. A silly thought. Of course she had an enemy – she was, after all, dead.

    But Sam knew as he rang off that by tomorrow, while losing all pursuers, Adam could be trusted to have discovered everything he could concerning Freya’s death. And Adam had eyes everywhere, so the rumour went.
Always rumours. And how proud some people would be to realise that the most fantastical ones were right.

    He went into the kitchen and dug around behind a large biscuit tin full of stale flapjacks foisted on him by a friend who fancied herself an excellent cook and who he hadn’t the heart to enlighten. It was cooks like that, he reflected, who made you wish for a handy dog under the table. He pulled out a fat address book from behind the tin and flicked through it. Some addresses were in English, but most were in an archaic script that would have multiplied the rumours at the university many times over. When in Europe he claimed it was a form of Hindi; when in Asia, he pretended it was written in Scandinavian runes.

    But language aside, it was simply an address book. Finding the entry for Freya Oldstock, he scribbled it on the palm of his hand. He didn’t want to be caught with the book in his possession – too many names in it would rather stay private.

    That done, he consulted his map for the area, marked at strategic points in two colours. Blue for Heaven, red for Hell. He ran his finger round the village of Holcombe, knowing he didn’t have to look far. Freya would almost certainly have had her home near a Portal. It was in the blood of everyone in his family. You were either as far away from a Portal as possible and damn quick on your feet when you needed one, or you lived close