‘After the war in our part of the world, there were many such people, many who exploited the pain of others,’ said Hoon. ‘It’s one of the reasons we left.’
‘What kind of religion does the preacher teach?’ asked Nixie.
Over the last few weeks, Kel had discovered that Nixie was a sincere follower of her nature-based faith called Gaia’s People. It was all about harmony so she was probably hoping to find common ground with other spiritual people. He could tell her not to waste her breath. Conmen flourished in every crisis throughout history. Even when they grew big enough to attract media scrutiny, it was amazing how their flock stuck by them despite the evidence of corruption. There was a couple in Sheffield just last year who convinced a congregation of thousands to part with their savings. Even after a newspaper investigation had showed that the donations had gone to fix up their mansion rather than to the poor as they promised, they had barely lost anyone from their base. People got to the point that they only heard things that reinforced their views. There was still people who claimed climate change was all in the mind, even as the waters swallowed up Miami, New Orleans, half the Pacific Islands and most of Bangladesh, to name but a few of the major losses.
‘Oh, he gives them the usual line: he’s the chosen one. If they do what he says, they’ll be OK in the coming apocalypse,’ said Hoon.
‘I thought the apocalypse was already here, just unfolding very slowly,’ said Kel. ‘He needs to check his calendar.’
Hoon gave a harsh laugh. ‘Yeah, we went past that point in Busan a decade ago.’
They waited in the shelter of a bus stop on the edge of town until the shops opened so they weren’t so conspicuous as outsiders. A bus pulled up but when they refused to board, the driver spat at their feet with a rough curse on all No-Homers.
‘Charming,’ said Nixie as the bus accelerated away.
When they arrived on foot, the market place was busy even though the winter crops on offer were unexciting fare. Markets had been one of the joys of going to France on holiday, Kel’s father had once told him. Every little out-of-the-way place had their jewel of homegrown produce and colourful imports. Gone were the days when you could get all things in all seasons—unless you could afford to spend your carbon ration and pay the extra price like the very rich. Kel remembered how spoiled he’d been in Ade’s household. He’d rarely questioned his luck to be able to eat so well. This market seemed especially dusty and tired though. The people were dressed in muted shades, grey and blue dominant. Many had a strange symbol on their lapel or worn as a necklace: a claw.
‘Is that new?’ Kel asked Hoon. ‘The claw thing?’
‘Rashid didn’t mention it but then he was busy running after they turned on him. They screamed something about a hunt with Rashid and family as the prey—including the little kids. They didn’t stick around to find out what that meant.’
‘That’s sick. And he sent us back?’
‘Told you: Weird City. It might have just been one day of madness but something tells me it’s no better now. Let’s split up,’ suggested Hoon. ‘Bitna and I will scout around and see if we can find out what’s happening and if they run a food bank. If I don’t speak French they’ll talk in front of us as they assume we don’t understand. We’re all students, OK? On an exchange programme, if anyone asks. They don’t like No-Homers. Are you going ahead with this busking idea?’
Kel nodded. ‘It worked for me in London.’ He’d rehearsed some numbers with Nixie. She had a great voice even if her playing wasn’t yet up to public performance standard. ‘Everyone likes music, don’t they?’
‘I think we are about to test your theory,’ said Nixie.
They set up by the fountain in the centre of the square. Their first audience was a row of pigeons. Kel put the open guitar case in front of them and scattered in some coins. The birds hurried forward then retreated when they saw it wasn’t food.
‘No one likes to be the first,’ he explained to Nixie.
They began with some classics. It was hard to gauge what people would know in a remote place like this but most people on the planet recognized Elvis and the Beatles, Queen and Adele, Springsteen, Jo Remo and T-Park. Nothing. They could have been singing in a vacuum for all the response they garnered from the shoppers. A few looks came their way but then the locals carried on as normal, just cutting a wider path around the fountain so they didn’t have to get anywhere near the guitar case. It began to get spooky. Normally by now, he would have a few kids and a couple of music fans pausing to listen, even if they were too skint to make a donation.
‘Is it me?’ asked Nixie. She tugged at the strings of her hoodie that she wore beneath her winter coat. ‘Am I bad at this?’
She was actually doing very well. ‘No, it’s not you, Nixie.’ His skin markings prickled, warning him of a danger he sensed but couldn’t see. Between numbers, he rubbed his sleeve, hoping they would settle. The last thing he needed in a town of fanatics was to burst out in peril glory. He zipped up his jacket so not even the V at the top of his neck was exposed.
‘Maybe they think pop music is bad. What about something more traditional?’ suggested Nixie. ‘A spiritual maybe?’
‘How do we know which songs they approve and which will turn them into a stone-throwing mob?’
‘We don’t. But we aren’t getting any richer and I’m hungry.’
That was a powerful argument. He ran through the words of the ones he knew, trying to find the least dangerous one to attempt. ‘“Swing Low, Sweet Chariot”? That’s still sung at rugby matches and the French like rugby. Hopefully it bridges the secular and profane thing. Do you know it?’
‘Sure. I know the chorus. You’ll have to take the lead on the verse.’
They exchanged a ‘here goes nothing’ shrug and started on the song.
It was like the change from bees merrily collecting nectar to turning into a killer swarm. The stallholders and shoppers put down what they were doing and made for the buskers. Kel lifted his hands off the strings, Nixie broke off her song mid-line. Wrong choice.
‘Sorry, sorry, we didn’t mean to offend,’ he said in French. ‘How about “You ain’t nothing but a hound dog?”, classic Elvis?’
‘How dare you sing such blasphemy in our town?’ asked a woman shrilly. Her hands still covered the ears of the young boy beside her.
‘I didn’t know that you thought of it that way. It’s just an old song.’
‘The old ways brought us to this. The mayor says we need new ways to have any hope of surviving.’
The others murmured their agreement.
‘We let you sing here while you stayed away from any mention of the old beliefs,’ said a man, ‘but you’ve overstepped.’
Kel scooped up the money he’d put in the guitar case and replaced the instrument. They’d struck out on this pitch. ‘Again I apologize. We were just trying to earn a living. We’ll move on.’
‘Not without his permission you won’t.’ The man grabbed Kel’s arm.
He pulled free. ‘Whose permission?’
‘Our mayor, François.’
Kel had no desire to meet the preacher who had crushed this town beneath his fanatical boot. ‘I’m sure he’s too busy to see us. We’ll just walk on. You won’t see us again.’
‘You will come with us, or we will make you.’
Kel caught sight of Hoon and Bitna at the edge of the crowd. He shook his head. There was nothing they could do for him and Nixie at the moment that wouldn’t end up with them also being hauled off to see the mayor.
‘OK, OK, we’ll come. Don’t blame us if he’s annoyed at you for wasting his time.’ How bad could it be? A French mayor was hardly high on the scale of powerful bad guys. Not exactly a James Bond villain with a secret lair and a button to press that could destroy the world.
Two gendarmes came through the crowd and took over escort duty. Kel offered Nixie his hand. They didn’t want to get split up. He gave hers a comforting squeeze, which she returned.
‘It was just a few lines of a song,’ she whispered. ‘We’ll be fine.’
Kel had been around leaders enough to know that this wasn’t about the song; it was about showing who had control of public spaces. ‘We may have to run.’ He had experience of being in a tight place, like when he escaped along the Thames with Meri. At least this time, it wouldn’t be his family shooting at them.
‘Don’t worry, Kel. I can look after myself.’ Nixie might look fragile but she’d survived months on her own in a band of No-Homers. He shouldn’t underestimate her. She didn’t need looking after.
They were taken to the castle. That was inevitable, thought Kel. It was the only building up to the mayor’s delusions of grandeur. The interior showed signs of recently being redecorated in the style of a wannabe Sun King: too much gold leaf, always a bad sign when it became the prevailing taste of a monarch, president or even a mayor. After being made to wait outside François’ office—and surely it was significant that he didn’t think he needed to use a last name?—they were led into his august presence.
Kel had been expecting gaudy and he got it. In spades. François lounged on a silk upholstered sofa in candy stripes, two grey-coated huskies with blue eyes at his feet, Mozart playing on a sound system in the background. He was a large man with crooked nose, dressed in a style suited to someone much younger as his paunch hung over his tight trousers. Black chest hairs poked through the neck of his half-buttoned shirt, arms still muscled. He looked part pirate and part retired boxer on the verge of letting himself go. An ogre but not the friendly Shrek sort.
Kel bit his cheek. Now was not the time to snort or mock. Concentrate on the huskies, he told himself. They’re pretty cool.
‘You’ve been causing trouble in my town. Who are you?’ François asked in a gruff tone that could be summed up as a mixture of whisky and gravel.
‘We apologize, Mr Mayor,’ said Nixie. ‘We were busking and one of our songs offended the people at the market. It was an innocent mistake.’
‘There’s no such thing as an innocent mistake.’ François fondled the head of the nearest husky. ‘Names?’
Nixie glanced at Kel. Neither of them wanted to be tagged in a foreign nation. That just brought trouble with immigration.
‘I don’t want to have to ask again.’ He sounded bored already.
‘I’m Nixie Eriksen, he’s Kel Brown.’
Not bad for names invented on the fly, thought Kel.
‘Papers?’
Kel couldn’t let Nixie do all the heavy lifting. ‘We don’t have them on us. We left them in the car that dropped us here,’ said Kel.
‘Car?’
‘We’re students, studying French culture, on an educational tour.’
‘Where’s your college?’
Kel’s mind blanked. Next time, have a proper cover story. ‘The Sorbonne.’
Nixie’s eyes widened. Maybe he had set their educational level a little high? The Sorbonne was the most prestigious university in France.
‘I’m to believe the Sorbonne sent you out here, to my little region?’
‘We’re taking a paper in modern beliefs. We heard that this town has an interesting story to tell.’
François snapped his fingers to his secretary. ‘Paul, check the list of undesirables.’
Kel hadn’t noticed the young man hovering by the gold drapes. High forehead and sparse blond hair, he looked like he could do with a boost of vitamin D. He held a tablet computer and began scanning through photos. As he did so, the door at the far end of the room opened and two women came in, stopping short in the middle of their conversation when they saw a meeting was in progress.
‘Sorry, sorry!’ one said breathlessly. ‘We didn’t know you were busy.’
‘Never too busy to see my favourite girls,’ crooned François, patting the sofa. Both wore short-sleeved blue dresses and had henna claw marks up their arms and across what could be seen of their chests. Kel looked back at François. Surely not?
‘The girl’s been here before,’ said Paul, turning the screen to show Nixie caught on CCTV camera in a pharmacy. ‘She’s a No-Homer.’
‘The boy?’
‘Still checking. Nothing yet.’
‘You won’t find anything. I’ve not been here before,’ said Kel.
The women sat either side of François as if this was their rightful place.
‘Nothing on the boy,’ announced Paul. ‘He’s clear.’
‘But unlikely to be a student, wouldn’t you say? Where are you from? Is that an English accent I can hear?’ François brushed the henna marks on the bare upper arm of the woman on his right.
There seemed no point denying. ‘Yes.’
‘Then why are you in my town? The British still manage to support their own IDPs don't they?’
‘Yes.’
‘Are you on the run?’
Yes. ‘No! I’m just travelling—for my education. Like I said.’
‘Then you’ll have a professor at the Sorbonne who can vouch for you?’ François held out his mobile. ‘Go on, ring them.’
Kel knew his ruse was well and truly dead. ‘I’m not at the Sorbonne.’ What would this guy believe. ‘The truth is…I stowed away on a ship and got put ashore when discovered.’
‘Why were you on board?’
‘To see the world.’
‘Don’t lie to me. I can smell a lie.’
Highly unlikely but Kel had to come up with a reasonable excuse, something shameful François would believe he was trying to hide. ‘I’m avoiding eco-service.’
‘A shirker? We don’t like them here, do we, Paul?’ François removed his arms from his companions’ shoulders and cracked his knuckles.
‘Indeed not, sir.’ Paul perked up at this sign of menace.
‘All young people in France have to serve two years. The youngsters from this town put in an extra year voluntarily to honour me. The government in Paris likes that. They leave us alone.’
Kel wasn’t sure what the correct response was so he stayed quiet.
‘Both of you have broken our bylaws. But you are also at a useful age and young enough to change your parasitical ways. You have a choice: you can be hunted or collected.’
‘What does that mean?’ asked Nixie, shivering.
‘What does that mean, sir,’ hissed Paul.
‘Sir,’ amended Nixie.
François gave her a toe-curling smile. He stood up, arms hanging loose like a gorilla. ‘I have a special place for pretty young ladies on my personal staff, like Gabrielle and Aimée here.’ The women gave Nixie identical unfriendly glares. ‘That’s if I take to you.’ He gave her an appraising look that made Kel want to punch him. ‘Or we chase you down, possibly let you go after discouraging you to return. Sometimes, though, accidents happen and you won’t walk away.’ He shrugged, making the typical Gallic gesture look sinister. ‘I’ll give you time to think about it. I have another meeting to attend. Put them in the cells.’
Kel didn’t resist as he and Nixie were led to the lockups below the castle. There were too many guards between them and the door to be sure of getting away. The cells were in a semibasement with windows high on the wall. They were furnished with a wooden bench, a jug of water and basin, and a bucket for emergencies. A helpful sign in English and French on the walls, put there for the tourists who once used to visit the castle, informed them that these were the original dungeons, place of suffering and incarceration. He hoped they weren’t going to be in here too long. He and Nixie had only a few weeks to establish a friendship; being thrown together in close quarters like this with no privacy was a test of any relationship. He’d learnt that Nixie was a reserved person and didn’t give her trust easily.
‘You OK, Nixie?’ Kel asked after their escort returned to the upper floors.
‘Yes.’ She rattled the bars on the door. It was too much to hope that they had been left unlocked when they’d just seen the gendarmes use an ancient-looking key. ‘That man makes my fl
esh creep. Did I understand him right? Being on his personal staff isn’t about taking memos or making coffee?’
‘No, you’re right: he’s a pervert and a fake.’
She muttered a Danish swear word. ‘We’re in trouble, aren’t we? Why would anyone let him do this?’ Nixie sat on the bench and leaned back against the brick wall.
‘I guess he must have some pretty persuasive tricks up his sleeve.’
Was he right? Kel wondered. When he saw the women with marks on their arms like a Perilous he wondered if he had stumbled upon a renegade, one who used his markings to persuade the people of his special powers? If that was the case, did François know that he was part of a race of people or had he grown up outside Perilous society and assumed his natural markings made him something better, something different? He could genuinely believe his own rubbish, which would make it harder to persuade him otherwise.
The day passed tediously. Nixie stretched out on the bench and managed to sleep with Kel’s back resting against the edge to stop her rolling off. He didn’t dare close his eyes despite the jaw-cracking yawns. The daylight coming through the high windows dimmed and an electric light flicked on. It stayed lit for several hours then clicked off suddenly for no apparent reason—probably end of office hours in François’ service. Kel’s thoughts turned, as they so often did, to Meri. What was she doing? He hoped she was enjoying her new kingdom and much more comfortable quarters than he was right now. A month had passed so maybe she had had time to forgive him for leaving her so abruptly. He pinned his hopes on the fact that she was one of the most forgiving people he knew. He hadn’t felt like he had a choice, but it must look all wrong to her and he wouldn’t blame her if she had lost some of her faith in him.
He took deep breaths to get through the panic that followed when he thought of her giving up on him. Get to civilization, find a public computer, and contact Sadie: that was his plan. He couldn’t do that roving the countryside, or locked in a cell.
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