by Paul Kane
She turned back to the prisoner. Could she see the faintest glimmer of fear in his eyes? Gwen bent and whispered in his ear: "One way or another, you're talking to me." She raised the pistol, pressing it against his head. "You just have to decide how you want to do this."
"All right," said the man. Gwen was a bit shocked to hear his voice. He had a distinct German accent. So, she thought, at last I know something about you. About the people out there. "I will tell you this. The men out there will find a way into your little village, one way or the other." He laughed. "It is for you to decide how you want to do this."
Gwen struck him on the cheek with the butt of the pistol. "Who are you people, what do you want?"
He spat out more blood and a tooth, which landed on the carpet not far from her feet. Gwen waited for the answer to her query. "That is very simple. We want your son." He smiled again, a chilling sight. It was Gwen who felt a rush of fear now.
"And I can assure you, we are not going to leave without him."
Chapter Ten
She knew the Rangers were being interrogated, and tortured. Mary could hear the screams throughout the building, throughout the Vaults. What she didn't know was whether one of them was Robert.
Another scream, and Mary - shut away in one of the cells of the French Prisons - curled up on the hard wooden bed, putting her fists to her ears. The thought of Robert undergoing such a horrible ordeal at the hands of someone like Tanek was too much to bear. A mental image of her husband on the rack flashed through her mind; his limbs stretched, the veins at his neck standing proud.
"No! Stop this! Stop it!"
Mary didn't know if anyone could hear her, but nobody came. Another thought crossed her mind. What if it was the Widow herself who was doing the torturing? Was she standing by as Robert's ruined body was whipped or cut to ribbons, enjoying the pain he was going through?
It might not even be Robert, said David. She'd been wondering when he would crop up, the voice of her long dead brother, killed by the disease that had liberated her, granting her freedom from the farm where she'd lived as a virtual recluse. The disease that had brought her Robert, the Hooded Man.
And what if it wasn't Robert - did it make things any better to know that it might be Azhar being tortured, or Annie Reid, or any of the Rangers they'd come here with? Soldiers, but also friends. She'd laughed with these people, danced alongside them at the summer fête and winter festivals, treated their wounds and their illnesses, been a mother figure to some. At least it wasn't Mark in there, she thought: the boy... the man now, who she'd adopted. Who she and Robert had adopted.
I was just trying to look on the positive side, Moo-Moo, said David, using that damned contraction of her name - Mary Louise. She wasn't in real trouble yet, because he wasn't calling her by her full name. No, it's not you who's in trouble at the moment, he observed as another scream reverberated throughout the prison.
"Look, that really isn't helping," she told him, and not for the first time she tried willing David away. Mary knew deep down it had to be her own subconscious talking to her, but why did it always have to mimic David?
I keep trying to tell you, it's me, Moo-Moo. Honest. How can I prove it?
"Get me out of here. If it's really you and you're really a ghost, then open up that prison door and get me the hell out. Do something useful for a change."
She regretted the words as soon as she'd said them. Ridiculous, really, because if it was her unconscious mind talking then the only feelings she could hurt were her own. Nevertheless David had helped her plenty of times in the past, rousing her when she was knocked out or half dead..
But that wouldn't be good enough this time. She was already wide awake. How was she supposed to sleep knowing those screams could belong to-
Mary chastised herself; she was going round in circles. "David, if you're really real, and you love me, get that fucking door open."
Language, Moo-Moo.
"Are you going to do it, or aren't you?"
It doesn't work like that. There are rules.
"David!" she insisted, her tone hardening. Was it her imagination or did she hear him sigh?
"David, please." Mary couldn't believe she was begging her own id to do something she knew was impossible. But she scrunched up her eyes and prayed anyway.
Mary opened them in surprise when she heard the sound of bolts being drawn back.
"Yes! Thanks so much, David I-"
The door opened and there were two of the Widow's men, dressed in that same black and tartan uniform she'd first seen during the raid on that convoy. Her heart sank.
"Yeah, thanks a bunch," she said quietly to herself. David didn't answer. But then what did she expect him to do? He was no more likely to open that door and let Mary out than he was to appear in front of her covered in a sheet and rattling chains.
The men came inside, guns trained on her - otherwise she would have made a break for it. As it was, she struggled with them, not making it easy for them to drag her from the cell and take her wherever she was going. Probably on her way to be tortured like the other Rangers.
They pulled her back up and along corridors she'd been hauled down after they'd been captured, turning her around several times until she didn't know where she was - the sound of screaming still in her ears. Then they opened a final door and shoved her inside, where she landed awkwardly on the floor.
It was dark in this room, lit only by a few candles. Mary got up off her knees, looking over her shoulder to see that the men hadn't gone anywhere. They were covering the doorway to prevent her escape. Was this all part of the torture?
She heard breathing, coming from the other end of the room. "If you're going to do something to me, you'd better get on with it," she snarled. "I'm not a patient woman."
"Now, we both know that isnae true," said a voice she knew, even though she'd only heard it the once.
The Widow appeared in front of her, in a black corset and skin-tight trousers. "Yer can be very patient when it suits."
"What would you know about it?" snapped Mary.
The Widow smiled her feral smile, which somehow complimented her face. The backcombed hair she sported accentuated her untamed nature. "More than yer'd think. For example, I know yer waited patiently on that farm, waiting with yer Dad and brother. Waiting in more ways than one. But fer what? I dinnae think you could even tell me."
Mary rose slowly. How could she possibly know that? Must have got it from some of the Rangers. But how many knew that much about her past? Only Robert, and even he didn't know all of it.
"Then yer waited for him to come, The Hooded Man. Waited for him tae get over his dead wife and child. Even now yer still worry that he loved them more than he does you, or Mark."
No, couldn't be Robert. He'd never talk about private stuff like that with this trollop. It wasn't his way. God, Mary had enough trouble getting him to open up, getting past that macho bullshit he used as a shield. But there were ways to get information out of people; just look at what she'd done to the Widow's men to get them to talk. What if the Widow had drugged him somehow?
David, whoever, wherever you really are, she said to herself, I could really use your help right about now.
"Aye, call on David," said the Widow, circling Mary. "I talk to the dead as well, y'know. They're inside me, all of ma former partners, deceased husbands. They can give yer power, Mary. They have knowledge that we don't. Well, most of us. They know things and, if we're only willing tae listen, they'll tell us. So in that way I suppose we're not that dissimilar, you and I."
Mary screwed up her face. "You're delusional. I'm nothing like you!"
The Widow threw her head back and laughed. "Am I? Or perhaps I'm the only sane person left in this world. I see things as they are, or as they should be."
"Doubtful."
"Suit yerself. Anyway, where was I? Oh aye, patience. Yer waited for Robert. I don't blame yer, he's very special."
Mary felt herself bristling. "You leave him
alone," she warned the Widow.
"Or what?"
"I won't be responsible for what happens," was all Mary could think of. That earned another cackle from the Widow.
"It's a bit late anyway," the Widow said from behind her. Mary spun around. "See, while yer been waiting again, I've been getting' t'know him better. Much better. I had to be sure. Certain it was really him." The Widow produced what looked like a playing card, its back facing Mary, and stared at it. "Quite a man, isn't he?"
Mary took a step towards the Widow, drawing back her fist at the same time. There was the clack of machine-guns being primed, the guards raising their weapons. But the Widow held up her hand for them to lower their guns.
"Give it yer best shot," the Widow said, grinning.
Mary didn't need to be told twice. She swung her punch, but hit nothing: the space the Widow had occupied only seconds before was now empty. Mary felt someone tapping her on her shoulder and spun back round, lashing out as soon as she saw the Widow again. For a second time she struck nothing, and the Widow was now to the side of her. Mary saved her strength, knowing that even if she tried again to punch the woman, she was too fast for her.
"Finished? Now, can we talk sensibly? Woman tae woman?" The Widow stood in front of Mary. "As I was sayin', that's quite a man yer have there. Or should I say, had. I've been waitin' a long time fer someone like him. Someone wi' his strength and power, who will live on forever." Mary frowned at that remark, but let it pass. "Someone wi' the sight, like me."
Now she did feel the need to speak. "What are you talking about? What sight?"
The Widow chuckled. "Yer really don't know him at all. How can yer call yerself his woman, when he keeps so much hidden? When yer choose not to see the blindingly obvious?"
Mary was sick of these mind games. She wanted to know what the Widow was up to. What she wanted with Robert.
"I have special plans for him," the Widow informed her, again seemingly reading her thoughts. "A long time ago I was promised something, Mary. Ma king. Ma Emperor. Thought I'd found him once, too." There was a real sadness to the Widow's voice, and Mary almost felt a little sorry for her. The feeling only lasted a split second, however, when she remembered what the Widow was after. "What I want is you, Hooded Man."
"And even when I began to 'see' Robert," the Widow continued, "feel his presence, I still didnae dare hope, Mary. But bein' in the same room as him; now that was different. No denying it then. Our... connection."
Mary laughed. "You and Robert? In your dreams."
"Actually, in his. He's seen me, just as I've seen him. He sees a lot of things before they happen. Just like I do."
What was she saying, that Robert was some kind of psychic? All of this was completely ludicrous. "He wouldn't look at you twice. What we share you couldn't possibly understand."
The Widow shook her head. "It's the bond Robert and I share that you cannae understand. You and he were never fated to be together, Mary. That's why when the Frenchman's daughter came along-"
"You shut your filthy mouth."
"That's why he was tempted, if only for a wee while. Yer can't possibly make him happy, don't yer see? Not really. Yer might have some ability, but yer deny it. Don't believe in it. I, on the other hand, embrace it. And Robert can see that."
"I'm not having this conversation with you. You're a lying cow."
"Dinnae take my word for it. Robert..."
The Widow beckoned, and, to Mary's surprise, she saw who had been standing at the back of the room in the darkness. It had been his breathing she'd been able to hear; the man she loved more than life itself. He'd been watching, listening to everything, and never said a thing.
Robert moved forward slowly. His hood was down, and he regarded Mary strangely, like he was seeing her but not really registering her presence. "Tell her," the Widow said. "Tell yer 'wife' how you really feel."
He hesitated for a second, then said: "I'm sorry, Mary. What she's said is true. We shouldn't be together. My place is here."
"Robert..." She turned to the Widow. "You fucking witch, what have you done to him?"
"Nothing. Except talked to him, explained things. Got him to see reason. See the link between us and how much stronger we are together than apart. We were never supposed to be enemies."
"I take it back, you're not delusional - you're barking mad. Robert, sweetheart..." Mary came forward, but Robert took a step back.
"Please, Mary, don't make this harder than it already is," he told her. "There are things I've never shared with you, that I didn't think you'd understand. But now I've found someone who does. She's promised to help me get back what I've lost."
Mary shook her head. "Lost? I don't understand."
"His focus. His dreams. His link to forces beyond ours, Mary. A link he'll get back through me. Now, Robert, don't yer have something tae do? We cannae go ahead with our preparations until it's done."
"Preparations?" None of this was making any sense to Mary, and it made even less when Robert reached out and grabbed her left hand. She tried to pull away, but he held on tightly. "Robert, no, you're hurting me." Mary looked into his eyes, but there was no response. This wasn't the man she'd first met at the farm when she'd saved his life, wasn't the man who'd saved her from De Falaise or spent the night with her for the first time after the summer fête a year later, or made those vows in front of Reverend Tate to love and cherish her for the rest of his life. This was someone else, a warped image of her husband created by the Widow. And he was taking back the ring he'd placed on her finger that special day, tugging and pulling so hard she thought he might snap her finger off just to get at it. Mary beat on his chest, but he didn't let go. "Stop it. I said: STOP IT!" She pushed him away, but as she did so the ring came loose and Mary fell back onto the floor.
Robert returned to the Widow, satisfied now that he had what he wanted. He smiled, and it was the same kind of messed-up grin the Widow had plastered all over her face. Feral. As much as Mary hated to admit it, right now they did make the perfect couple. Then, as Mary lay on the floor, Robert took the Widow's left hand and slid the ring onto a finger.
"Not exactly legal, or recognised by the eyes of yer God," the Widow told Mary. "But then I never really cared for the law, or for Him." She held up the hand with the ring on. "He's mine now, and I'm his." She pulled Robert close, crushing her lips against his.
Mary let out a howl and scrambled to her feet. Before she could get anywhere near them, though, she felt the hands of the guards restraining her.
The Widow broke off the kiss long enough to say, "Take the woman back to her cell," and the guards began manhandling Mary towards the door. She lashed out, raking one man's face with her nails, but it didn't get her anywhere.
"I'll kill you!"
"This was all preordained," the Widow called after her. "If yer don't believe either of us, ask yer brother. The dead have knowledge that we don't, so ask him."
As Mary was escorted out of the room, the last thing she saw was the Widow all over Robert. She screamed as she was dragged back down the corridor, louder than any of the Rangers had done while they were being tortured.
Ask David? Ask the dead? She didn't need to. Because as she'd fallen backwards onto the floor she'd seen the strange symbol painted on Robert's wrist, snaking up his arm. Talked to him and reasoned with him, her arse! The Widow had done something to Robert. But that fact didn't make it any easier to take. What Mary had waited so long for - Robert's affections - the Widow had managed to secure in hours. And she couldn't get the image of the Widow and Robert out of her mind.
In spite of the fact she hadn't asked for it, David chose that moment to speak up. When she was thrown back into her cell, tears flowing from her eyes, he said in a quiet, serious voice:
I'm really sorry Moo-Moo. But she was telling the truth. She's not controlling him, he's doing all this of his own accord.
"Shut up!"
This was all meant to be, it had to happen this way.
&n
bsp; "Shut up! Shut up! Shut up!" she repeated, convinced she was finally going crazy. But in addition to her brother she could also hear the Widow's voice:
The dead have knowledge that we don't. They know things and, if we're only willing tae listen, they'll tell us.
Sometimes he could hear what the dead were saying.
One person at any rate. And not directly, but through the people closest to him. It didn't matter what he did, what he'd achieved, he'd always be compared to someone who'd died long before this fucking virus had come along; killed by something else entirely, though still related to the blood. His brother's problem had not been the wrong type, though, it had been an abnormal amount of white blood cells. That's what had done for him, and yet in a way he got to live on forever in the memories of his mother, grandmother and father. His father especially. He'd been the one who'd doted on Gareth, to the point where it might have seemed to the outside world that the man had no other child. The golden son, who'd shone so brightly he'd burnt out - leaving the patriarch of the family with no alternative but to grudgingly acknowledge his younger offspring.
A younger offspring who now catered for the man's every need, even though he didn't get so much as a "thanks".
"I don't know why I still bother," he said to his father, who was practically bedridden - or who preferred to stay in bed anyway, being waited on hand and foot.
"You bother because you're a good lad. A good son. You always have been." This was his Mam talking, lowering her romance novel - one of many he had to constantly supply her with. She was next to his father's bed, keeping him company, although it was becoming increasingly obvious that her husband couldn't stand the sight of her these days. The Dragon's Nan wasn't far away; sat in the corner with her knitting, clacking away.