The Exiled by William Meikle Page B

couldn’t believe it—wouldn’t believe it.
    “Who would do such a thing?”
    “People from here that want to get to the other side and stay there for a while—people that want access to power. Masons.”
    “I don’t understand.”
    “Neither did I, at first. But the Swan is the gatekeeper—the Dweller on the Threshold if you like. Anyone who wants to be able to move between this world and the other at will has to pay for the privilege. The current going rate is children from this side.”
    The old man said it in such a matter-of-fact manner that he might have been talking about the price of a loaf of bread.
    “Why?” Alan asked. “Why kids?”
    Ferguson turned coarse and belligerent as the drink took hold of him, as if a switch had been flicked inside his head. The semblance of culture disappeared in an instant, and the deranged inner drunk surfaced into view.
    “How the fuck should I know?”
    I need to get answers fast before he gets too pissed.
    “Okay—another question. What exactly is this other side?”
    Ferguson swigged Scotch straight from the bottle. The whisky level dropped fast, and so did the old man’s manners.
    “Fairie, the astral plane, Shangri-La—fucking Brigadoon for all I care. Why are you asking all these questions?”
    “I told you—I’ve been there, on the other side.”
    “I will bet you didn’t pay the gatekeeper though, did you? So what do you want now?”
    Ferguson polished off the Scotch in one more gulp and dropped the empty bottle at the side of his chair.
    “I want to know how to get there,” Alan said.
    “If you want to know the time, ask a policeman,” Ferguson sang. It seemed their little question-and-answer session was over.
    Alan made one more try.
    “You said there was a ritual—to get to the other place?”
    “It only works for seconds,” Ferguson said, carefully trying to enunciate his words. “Then the Cobbe sends you straight back here if you don’t have the payment. But you know that—you have done the ritual for yourself.”
    The old man slurred most of the last few words, and was near to unconsciousness.
    Alan shook his head.
    “It happened by accident…”
    “Accident my arse. The only other way through is to get invited. And the only people that can do that are the fucking Society. I can see through you now, you know? You’re a fucking Mason, aren’t you?” Ferguson tried to stand, failed, and fell back in the chair. He could still shout though. “I will not have a fucking Mason in my house. Get out. Get out.”
    Alan knew when he was beaten. He got up and headed for the door. Ferguson threw the empty whisky bottle at him. It smashed against the wall near his head. The old man bent to get another missile, fell off the chair and rolled among the discarded magazines, still shouting at the top of his voice. The shouts followed Alan out into the street.
    “Fucking funny handshaking fucking Masonic fucker. Don’t come back.”

 
     
     
    13
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
    Grainger tried not to laugh too hard as Alan told the story of his visit to Dundas Street. The younger man related it completely deadpan, which only made it all the funnier. The laughter brought more pain to his shoulder so he tried to dial it back a bit, but when Alan got to the dénouement and Ferguson’s parting words, he couldn’t help himself. He roared, even through the pain.
    Alan turned and looked at him.
    “At least somebody’s feeling better.”
    They were in Alan’s car, heading up the scenic road through Glen Devon, making for Crieff, then the old library at Innerpeffray. Grainger had only been released from hospital that morning but he knew there was no way he could just go home and sit on a sofa all day. And given that Ferguson was unlikely to divulge the ritual, it seemed like it might be a plan to search it out for themselves. It was a good day for a drive and as it was a weekday the traffic was light—they had the road to themselves. In their younger