The Firehills Read Online Free PDF

room once more, he
turned casually until he could watch out of the corner of his eye.
    “Morning, Mr. Macmillan,” chirped Mrs. P. The man
replied, too softly for Sam to hear. He was hunch shouldered, his black suit
rumpled up in folds behind his neck, and his jet-black hair was parted severely
down the middle. He had plastered it down onto his scalp with some kind of hair
oil, but two strands—one from either side—
    curled free onto his forehead. They made Sam think of
horns. He was smiling to himself at this thought when he realized that Mr.
Macmillan was staring back, glittering eyes like pebbles of jet beneath bushy
eyebrows. Turning slightly pink, Sam looked away.
    Charly chose that point to elbow him in the ribs, making
him jump and gasp for breath. “Come on,” she urged, “eat up. We’ve got places to go.”
    Sam noticed that she had opted for cereal and gazed down
at his plate, where a barely cooked egg quivered in a sea of fat. He chased the
food around for a few minutes and breathed a sigh of relief when Megan leaned
forward and said softly, “It’s OK. Leave it. I’ll make excuses.”
    With a smile, Sam stood and followed Charly. Megan called
after them, “Let’s meet for lunch. How about fish and chips?”
    With the memory of his abandoned breakfast fresh in his
mind, Sam nodded vigorously.
    “OK,” agreed Charly. “What about the Mermaid? One
o’clock?”
    “We’ll see you there,” replied Megan. “Don’t get
into any trouble.”
    Sam and Charly looked at each other, shrugged, and hurried
out into the spring sunshine.

    ‡

    In a dead-end alleyway behind a row of shops, at the foot
of a line of green plastic dumpsters, a single sheet of newspaper flopped and
fluttered like an injured bird, though the day was still. It made a last lazy
circle in the air and then, as if at the end of its strength, slumped to the
ground. It came to rest against the toe of a black leather motorcycle boot. The
rays of the morning sun glinted on a row of chrome buckles as the wearer of the
boot kicked the newspaper away and strode out of the alley into the bustle of
the street beyond. From all over the town they came in silence, stepping out of
alleys and doorways into the waking world. With pierced ears and dyed hair,
leather and studs, the ancient host of the Sidhe took to the streets and caused
no stir. To the tourists and townsfolk, they were one more thread in the
tapestry of Hastings: bikers and Goths, morris dancers and New Age travelers.
All the world seemed to converge on the town on May Bank Holiday. Old ladies
sniffed and tutted at the piercings and peroxide and returned to their bingo games.

    ‡

    Charly and Sam clattered down the front steps of the
Aphrodite Guest House and along a narrow path through the wild garden. A
creaking iron gate opened out into a lane that led down steeply between two
rows of tall houses. The blue sky was dotted with the white wings of seagulls.
Their shrieking filled the air. Watching them, a frown crossed Sam’s face,
and he stopped for a moment.
    “Are you OK?” asked Charly, looking back in concern.
    “Hmmm? Oh, yeah. Fine,” replied Sam. “Come on, show
me the sights.”
    They passed the parish church of Saint Clement’s, squat
and sturdy, its tiny graveyard long since full. A neat fence held back a tide
of buildings, red brick or black and white timbered, that peered down on the
ancient gravestones. Turning a corner, they emerged into High Street, quiet
despite its name. The business of the town had moved away, down to the gift
shops and arcades of the seafront, leaving behind bric-a-brac shops and
restaurants. Charly dragged Sam to a shop that sold crystals and fossils,
jabbering away and pointing out her favorite specimens in the window. After a
while, it dawned on her that she was doing all the talking, and she stopped.
    Fixing him with a steady look she had learned from her
mother, Charly asked, “What is it?”
    “Uh?” Sam snapped out of his