My eyelids grew heavy. The long hours dragged and I struggled to remain awake, pinching my arm every so often. I rubbed away the stiffness of my head and neck, and kept my gaze on him at the bottom of my tree. Moving my hands to my chest, the heat and tightness had dissipated and I was healing; adapting.
When I had first heard of the gangs forming after the east fell, I was told not to worry, that this was part of the change, it had to change, and people would adapt to the new governments, the new regimes: that’s what ‘they’ said. Those wanting to survive became susceptible to the new laws and ideals put forward by radicals and zealots, the violent and the politicians. I viewed it as desperation, but I was as bad as the others, I kept my head low and my thoughts private. We all did. That was how we adapted, and this was now the price we paid.
Chapter Thirty-One
He woke before the sun rose. I didn’t realise he was conscious until he pushed back his hood and stood up. I froze, my hand still tying my ponytail and my legs dangling down. If he did look up then all he would have to do was wait. He didn’t though; he leant against the tree with one hand and relieved himself. Looking down, the start of grey licked the sides of his dark hair. His hands were just as I remembered. I imagined those calloused fingers touching me, but now, seeing his fingers splayed against the bark, the faint scars were accentuated by the early morning light and his skin appeared paper thin.
His eye was swollen shut. Purple and black bruising ballooned across the socket and crept along his nose. My heart fluttered as I pictured Rich and his fury. I was grateful he had stopped, that I hadn’t been robbed of my revenge.
He removed his jacket and tee shirt. His shoulders and chest made me shiver. His back and the planes of his muscles moved as he soaked a flannel and cleaned himself with small circular motions. As he removed his trousers, the new red and purple scar on his right thigh grinned at me, like a mutilated smile, angry and thick like rope against the pale white skin. He turned slightly and the dark line of hair to his groin made me heave. He adjusted himself and I looked away. I waited until he started to walk before looking again.
I hid in the bushes, undid my jeans and ate the cold beans, throwing over half the tin away and then snatched a handful of sea buckthorn berries, nibbling on them to freshen my mouth. Refastening my bag, I winced as it rubbed my hips, the stinging sharp and deep. I hesitated before running my hands to the small of my back and massaging the tightened muscles. His brand was cold, flattening my palms. I pressed and moved my hands along the scar and traced the outline before stumbling and vomiting up the beans and berries. The lumps, bitter and caustic, blocking my throat and making me gag. I wished I hadn’t touched it, especially now when I needed to focus: instead I pictured the knife in his hand and the heat of the blade slicing into me.
Wiping my mouth, I concentrated on the ground, on the hazy and clouded images swimming in front of me. This needed to end. It had to. I followed him, skipping through the undergrowth to catch up. I kept my distance, watching the way he walked, his gait was uneven and the weight unequally distributed. He was still heading through the centre of the forest where the land sloped downwards towards the grave. He paused and surveyed the route ahead.
Glancing down, I watched as he sat again and thumbed through a collection of papers. Squinting, I realised they were photographs: my photographs. Rage filled me. They’re mine, you bastard. My memories, my life; not yours.
I let him walk away and then took a wide arc to the right, speeding up and overtaking him. It was drier here, both the ground and the air. Sunlight cascaded down through the trees and sharpened the edges of every nook and crevice. The crisp crack of leaves dulled away; looking down, a track of woodchip and gravel twisted into the distance where the trees dispersed. I reached the next clearing and walked the perimeter. To the right, ragged patchwork fields: yellow, red, brown and green. I removed my bag and drank in the view. It looked so normal that for a moment I pretended that none of this had happened, but then the heat from my scar burning through the dark cloth of my top angered me. I needed a distraction and through the trees in the far distance inland, the tall spire of a barely visible church pointed upwards like a needle poised to pierce the sky. Throughout all the bombings it remained unscathed and perfect. Something constructed with such determination and pride in a time of death, suffering and sickness had survived the attacks and yet almost everything else around it was in tatters. I didn’t need to believe in divinity to appreciate the architecture and simplicity of a time gone by, when people fought to better themselves and their surroundings. They had created beauty from brutality.
It wasn’t far now. I was ready. Yesterday, I wasn’t, nor the day before, but now the heavy weight of conviction grounded me and filled me so completely that there was no room for fear or failure.
Rolling the strap of my bag between my hands, I glanced down. Nothing yet. It was so very quiet. The wind had dropped and the trees were still.
Checking my compass I recounted my path from the town and closed my eyes. As I worked out my speed and distance a shadow crossed my back, cooling me. Opening my eyes I looked down and his reflection greeted me in the dull metal. I forced myself to remain loose and relaxed. The metal obscured his features, but I didn’t doubt he was smiling again.
He was soundless as he approached. A true predator. His hand reached out towards me and, breathing in deeply, I clenched my fists and twisted to the left, kicking out and connecting with the tender flesh he’d massaged the night before. Stumbling back, he cried out a broken and vulnerable howl. I kicked again and he fell to his knees before falling on his side, gripping his leg. I scrambled to my feet and kicked again but he grabbed my ankle and pulled. I fell hard and pain shot through my hip. His other hand grasped at my jeans, bunching the denim and clawing at my skin. I continued to kick and using my arms I dragged my body away from him, kicking constantly and connecting with every grab he made.
On my knees I reached to the small of my back and pulled out my weapon – Glen’s weapon – and seizing the grip, pointed the barrel at him. He froze and those dark eyes locked onto the gun. His hands lowered and I watched as his right slowly reached down to his waist.
“No.”
He looked up at me and his hands rose, palms facing out. I couldn’t help but smile at the small red scar by his left temple and swollen eye. I hadn’t seen it before. It was my brand on him. Leaning forward I unclipped his gun and shoved it into the back of my jeans. I could smell him again, but I didn’t let my reaction show and instead stepped back and signalled for him to get up. I’d waited so long for this moment, played this scenario through so many times in my mind.
This was it, I had what I wanted, my baby, my hope, and my reason for living was safe. A liberating split second of understanding and clarity; I was nothing like him, my hope needed protection, needed my love. What I offered my baby was pure. I was no longer just Kate, but before I could squeeze the trigger, before I could end everything, he spoke.
“Anna, don’t. I love you.”
Love? What did he know of love? I stepped back, my mind a cloud of confusion. So close, I just had to squeeze the trigger.
“Anna.”
Anna, again. Anna, what was it with Anna? She submitted, she cowed, and she was weak. Blood rushed and covered my face, my vision was obscured.
“You know nothing of love. Nothing.”
“I never gave up. I travelled from the north down. I was so sure you’d go north, I had to find you, you wanted to start a life with me, I wanted you. Do you know how much I missed you? The pain I went through? I—”
“Pain?” I cut him off, a year’s worth of agony streaming through me. “You know nothing. I hate you. I hate everything about you.”
“No, you don’t.” He was on his knees now, his hands still by his temples. I glanced at the empty holster at his side and the patch on his trousers by his pocket. “You don’t hate me, Anna, not all of me. I can make you happy, I can please you, you know I can. W
e both made mistakes, but it doesn’t have to be like that this time.”
“You hurt me.” I did hate him. It was a loathing I couldn’t control, no matter how hard I tried. Hating him seemed so inadequate though. I couldn’t put into words what I felt, what he made me feel. Mistakes?
“I kept you safe, you would have been caught. I waited. I waited until you were ready. You wanted love, needed love, and did I not give you that? Think of him, our baby.” So soft, always so gentle and persuasive. Lies, all of it lies.
“My baby. He’s nothing to do with you.”
“He’s my son too. He needs his father.” His voice cracked with emotion and I swallowed hard. There was still time to stop. I didn’t have to do this. I could negotiate with him. Maybe show him that I was strong and that I didn’t want or need him.
“I don’t want you. I don’t want you near me or him all the time. I’m not weak.”
He nodded. “Whatever you want, Anna. You can work in the library if you want and stay with the Stentons. It’s all possible. I can tell the others to stop watching you. Just think about it.”
He was talking too much. He never spoke to me like this. He wouldn’t really give me freedom… would he? I widened my stance and kept the gun trained on him.
“I enjoy teaching again, Anna. I don’t want to go back to that life in the Unlands. I’m tired of it. I want a new life, to earn your trust and love. I want to start over. We all have blood on our hands, but it doesn’t have to always be that way here. We can move on. We can change. I can change. For you. For him. Just give me a chance, please.”
“A chance? You’ve had plenty of chances.”
“Don’t I deserve the chance of happiness?” he asked.
No, you don’t. “What of Ben?” I asked, keeping the gun on him and pushing the searing pain in my shoulder to the back of my mind. “He deserved happiness. What did you do to him?”
“Anna…” he shook his head, pleadingly. “Don’t.”
“What did you do to him?” My voice almost a scream. “Tell me.”
“I needed to find you, understand that, please Anna.” He was slow, his voice pleading. “I traded with Olly. His men to search for word of you and I would deliver a message to Ben and Ella.” He paused for the smallest moment. “Olly found them and wanted their treachery to be a deterrent to others.” He stopped and swallowed. “Don’t make me, Anna. Please.”
“Finish, you fuck.” I hissed.
He closed his eyes. “I found them not far from the town. I shot them both and Olly arranged for them to be strung up so they could be seen.”
Tears ran down my face, I shook my head as though trying to wipe away the memory.
“He was a child.” I finally said.
“Don’t you think I regret things, Anna? I live with the deaths I’ve caused every day. Every day I see their faces. When I wake, when I teach, when I sleep. They’re with me, always.”
“Good. You fucking deserve it.” I shifted my weight slightly.
“Anna, please. I want to change. I hoped to show you that. I didn’t claim you when I arrived, I left you alone, didn’t I? I wanted to show you I could be a good man, that I could provide for you and our son. I love you.”
Love. He used that word so freely, but his words wormed into me, cloying at my resolution like the parasite he was.
“What if I don’t ever want you?”
Pain crossed his face and he shook his head. “I’ll make you happy. You know I can. I know you.”
I didn’t hide the contempt then. “You fucking know nothing about me, you’re a piece of shit.”
“I do, Anna, I do.” He was pleading now and I didn’t know who he was trying to convince. “You love roses, yellow roses. You hate peaches. You love walking on the beach before the sun rises. You—”
“You don’t know me. Those are small details, they don’t make a person.” I took pleasure in the next statement. “You don’t even know my real name.”
Confusion replaced pain, followed by a cloud of realisation and anger. He started to lower his hands, then moving like lightning he lunged. Taken off guard the gun was knocked aside as I fell. I only just managed to keep hold of it when I hit the ground hard as he pounced, his steel grip on my wrists.
Fight. I could do it this time. I wasn’t that woman from the Unlands anymore. I curled around and bit his arm, sinking my teeth into the flesh, tasting the sweat and the smell of him. He squeezed tighter and I clamped my teeth down, drawing blood and feeling it fill my mouth. Fuck that’s good! I was elated, and the look of pain on his face thrilled me. He let go of my wrist and tried to grab my throat but, using the gun, I hit the side of his head again and with a hiss of frustration he released my other wrist and I kicked and squirmed my way free, his weight attempting to anchor me to the ground. Twisting onto my knees he grabbed my ankle as I stood and the gun flew out of my hand, bouncing along the earth like a pebble on a lake. I kicked again, tripping as I did, but I was lighter and his grasp was gone. I left my bag, there was no time, and ran back into the woods with him following close behind. The rabbit and the hunter again.
“Anna, stop, Anna!”
He called to me but I ran, my feet pounding, pushing into the mud. As I crashed into the trees the thin branches from the plants and bushes whipped my skin, stinging my neck and face and bringing unwanted tears to my eyes. I couldn’t stop, wouldn’t stop. I was nearly there.
Eventually I did: my lungs screamed for air and my back ached. I grabbed the closest branch of an oak tree and swung, hitting my side and scraping my hip on the bark, but I fumbled for a foothold and heaved my weight up. Sitting high above the ground I slowed my heart rate and watched. He had my gun in his hand and he moved quickly through the greenery, searching for me. He looked up then and everything slowed. I stared at him, and he stared back at me. The dark circles under his eyes and the sharp lines of his cheekbones showed me the stark truth of his vulnerability. I didn’t wait, didn’t give him time to pause or realise, I jumped and landed on him, pushing my knee into his chest and grabbing the gun. He wrapped his other arm around my waist as I turned and tried to get up. My back pressed against his chest, my arm was over the top of my head, contorted and jarred. His breath on my neck, he dragged me to my feet. I didn’t let go of the gun, couldn’t let go. It was my lifeline, my hope. His rough hand was on the soft and still tender skin of my stomach. I stamped repeatedly, trying to make contact with his feet.
Strong, he was impossibly strong, he was huge. I’d forgotten, no, I’d blocked out the sheer size of him. My arm burnt now, a knot of pain growing larger and larger as we struggled. Seconds dragged, neither of us spoke or did more than grunt. He forced us forward and slammed me into the trunk of a tree, crushing me further against him, melting and sculpting to his body. He spoke but I couldn’t make out the words. The gun was trapped: I was trapped. Shaking, all I could see was the scaling bark of the tree in breathtaking detail, each layer and colour intensified. The weight of him, the shape of his body against my brand, the eternal reminder of him cooled my blood. And then I heard him.
“Stop.” He pressed harder and I groaned in pain. “Why do you always fight? Our baby needs us, come back. Just stop.” He struggled to speak as I thrashed and squirmed.
I nearly did stop, a trickle of surrender escaped: he can live, I can go back with clean hands, and this empty space inside would fill in time, we can move forward. My baby, I could be with my baby, just the two of us, I could show everyone what this man really is, what he did.
“Come back, I’ll protect you both. We can raise him together. Teach him, just us. A family.”
I screwed my eyes shut and breathed in, folding into myself, creating a few centimetres of space. Enough, it must be enough. Not us, me, he needs me, never you. It came to me then: his hands on me, the unwanted and cruel response he invoked from my body and his smile at my tears of shame. Hot. The blood boiled again. I wrenched my arm down with all the force I could muster, fast, hard, his grip
slipped and his nails caught on the skin of my hand, drawing blood to the surface.
Just me. Just the gun. There was a coldness of the metal against my stomach through the tee shirt. I jerked my head back and connected with his face. The already tender scalp was now a lake of red hot agony. He stumbled. I turned and fired. The explosion echoed through the forest and the birds scattered. One shot through the air, rippling and resonating. Then there was nothing. I stared as he fell back, holding his side and looking at me in pain and confusion. I had seen this in my dreams, of course I had. As I stood there with the gun it was inevitable.
Those black eyes bled to brown and his face relaxed, the hard lines disappearing. His right hand, the fingers that he splayed on my skin so often now covered his own, but they were red, a thick dark and almost velvet red. I thought of the murdered boy from the field, of Ella, and of Ben.
“Anna.”
I squeezed again, firing into his chest this time and I watched as the blood trickled free of him. I watched him long after the blood stopped flowing and his body stopped moving. His skin, white and waxy, seemed stretched too tightly over his skull.
I’d failed. It was unequivocal and final. The greatest trial and though I had not walked the line of least resistance. I had lost and I was now no better than those I shied away from. But I had saved my baby. He would never be scared of my captor the way I was. Never have to experience what I had.
How long had I stood here? It was day, but the copper hues of the sky were spreading and darkening the light. I dropped the gun and burst into tears. Unexpected, treacherous tears. He didn’t deserve them, nor my sorrow, or my pity. Not after what he had done. But I cried anyway. For what I had done, for what had become of us, for what we had made of the land, for what the Unlands had made of us, for everything that would never be.
Anna Page 29