Bedlam. Derek Landy

over the sink in the Ladies, doing her make-up, because that was practically the only room in the whole of Coldheart Prison where the light was good enough, and Abyssinia was in there with her, the two of them just spending time together, not bothering to talk, just two Sheilas hanging out, enjoying the silence, alone with their thoughts, and then Abyssinia said, “I don’t know if I do.”

      Razzia stopped applying her mascara, and frowned. Had Abyssinia been speaking this whole time? Had Razzia been answering? Was this another one of those conversations she forgot she was having halfway through?

      Strewth, as her dear old dad used to say. Her dear old dad used to say a lot of things, though. Her dear old dad could talk the hind legs off a kangaroo.

      Was that a saying? Was that a popular phrase, back in Australia? She couldn’t remember. Her past got so hazy sometimes. She wasn’t even sure if she had a dear old dad, at least one that she’d known. She had a vague image of a nasty man, quick with his fists, but she didn’t like that image, so it went away, and was replaced by Alf Stewart, the cranky but lovable old guy from Home and Away, the greatest television show ever made. Yep, a much better dad to have, she reckoned. Maybe. She hadn’t seen that show in years. Did they still make it?

      Oh, bloody hell. Abyssinia was still talking. Now Razzia had completely lost track of what was going on. The only thing she knew for sure was that her mascara wasn’t all done, so she went back to applying it.

      Knowing Abyssinia, she was probably talking about her long-lost-now-recently-recovered son, Caisson. She was always talking about him. Razzia got it. She totally understood. Caisson was family, after all. Nothing more important than family.

      And it was nice seeing Abyssinia so happy. Those first few weeks, when Caisson didn’t do a whole lot more than have bad dreams while sedated, were the happiest she’d ever seen Abyssinia. She was so proud of her son for sticking it out, for surviving all that pain.

      It had reinvigorated her, too, having her son around. Suddenly her attention was back on the plan, because the plan secured Caisson’s legacy. That focus had slipped a little, but now it was back on track. In less than two weeks, it would all kick off.

      Razzia couldn’t wait. She hadn’t killed anyone in ages.

      But, now that Caisson was up and about, it had quickly become clear to anyone paying attention that he was a weird one.

      That wasn’t easy for Razzia to admit. She’d always seen herself as the weird one in Abyssinia’s little group of misfits, so to voluntarily hand over the title to a newcomer – even if he was the long-lost son of the boss – just felt wrong.

      But there was no denying it: Caisson was an oddball.

      She couldn’t blame him, of course. He’d been tortured pretty much non-stop for ninety years. That would lead anyone to hop on an imaginary plane and take a sojourn from reality. His flesh was scarred, his silver hair – so like his mother’s – grew only in clumps from a damaged scalp, and his eyes always seemed to be focused on something not quite in front of him, and not quite in the distance.

      The fact was, though, he could have been a lot worse. According to Caisson, this was all down to his jailer, Serafina. She knew that if he retreated deep enough into his mind there wouldn’t be much point in torturing his body. So, every few weeks Caisson would be given the chance to recover, to get strong … and then it would happen all over again.

      The whole thing was just so delightfully sadistic. Razzia hoped one day to meet Serafina. She’d been hitched to that Mevolent fella from ages ago, the one who’d caused all that bother with the war and all. Razzia reckoned she could learn a thing or two from someone like that.

      Abyssinia sighed. “What do you think?”

      Razzia blinked at her in the mirror. Abyssinia clearly wasn’t asking about her hair, because it was the same as it always was – long and silver. The red bodysuit, maybe? Abyssinia’s recently regrown body was still pretty new, and the suit did a lot to keep it maintained, but she’d been wearing variations of it for months and so Razzia didn’t think she had chosen now to ask how she looked.

      Must be Caisson again.

      “Well,” Razzia said, “the real question here, Abyssinia, is what do you think?”

      Abyssinia exhaled. “I think we press ahead.”

      “Yeah,” said Razzia. “Me too.”

      “This is what we’ve been working towards, and I shouldn’t let new developments derail us from our goals. I’ve been promising you a new world for years, and I’m not going to abandon you, not when the end is finally in sight.”

      “Good to hear.”

      “But I just don’t know what to do about the Darkly thing.”

      Razzia did her best to look concerned. She did this by pursing her lips and frowning at the ground. She didn’t see what the problem was. The Darkly Prophecy foretold a battle between the King of the Darklands and the Chosen One, Auger Darkly, when the boy was seventeen years old. That was still something like two years away. Plenty of time to kill the Darkly kid before he could kill Caisson. It all seemed simple enough to Razzia.

      Abyssinia, like most people, had a tendency to overthink things.

      “Prophecies are dodgy,” Razzia said, applying a bit of Redrum lipstick. “If a prophecy foretells what happens in the future, if nothing changes from this point onwards, then all you have to do to avert that prophecy is not do what you otherwise would have done. Bam. On the other hand, how can you be certain that what you don’t do is in fact what leads to the prophecy being fulfilled? Fair dinkum, it’s a complicated business, but, like most complicated businesses, it’s also deceptively simple.”

      Abyssinia frowned. “I don’t think that’s entirely true, though.”

      “What do I know?” Razzia asked, shrugging. With the back of her hand, she smudged the lipstick to one side, then down to her chin. Perfect. “I’m nuts.”

      

      Valkyrie let herself into her parents’ house, went straight to the kitchen and found her mother reading at the table.

      “Oh, good God!” Melissa Edgley said, jerking upright.

      Valkyrie laughed. “Sorry. Thought you’d heard me.”

      Melissa got up, hugged her. “You don’t make a sound when you walk. I suppose that’s all your ninja training.”

      “I don’t have ninja training.”

      “Sorry,” her mum said. “Your secret ninja training.”

      Valkyrie grinned, and eyed the notebook on the table. “What are you reading that has you so engrossed?”

      “This,” said Melissa, “is your great-grandfather’s diary. One of several, in fact. Your dad found them in the attic, packed away with a load of junk.”

      “Ah, diaries,” said Valkyrie. “The selfies of days gone by. What are they like?”

      “They’re beautiful, actually. Beautiful handwriting and beautiful writing.”

      “So that’s where Gordon got his talent from.”

      “Well, he didn’t lick it off a stone.” Melissa hesitated, then looked up. “Your dad’s in the other room. He’s, uh … not in the best of moods.”

      “What’s wrong?”

      Melissa waved the diary. “He’s flicked through a few of these. Your great-granddad was a firm believer in the legend that the Edgleys are descended from the Ancient Ones.”

      “The