Truth Sister

by Phil Gilvin

  ‘You swear?’ Jack squeaked.

  ‘I shouldn’t have to, Jack Pike,’ said Clara, her voice breaking. ‘I shouldn’t have to.’ She threw herself down and began to cry too. ‘I only want to go home,’ she whispered.

  They wept, sitting in the dirt while night settled on the river.

  It was some minutes before either of them could stir. Jack spoke first, sniffing between words. ‘After you went, we had to leave Tesley. He’d broke his ankle. He said to go on without him. We got down to Abingdon, and that’s when Ma realised about your badge. Thought we’d better clear off fast, and Tesley had mentioned a boatyard.’ He jerked his head in the direction of the river. ‘We nicked the only one big enough. But when we started downstream, there was Repsegs. Looked like they’d been waiting for us.’

  ‘I swear I never told anyone, Jack.’

  He gave an especially loud sniff. ‘We turned back – got a bit of a start on them – but the engine was no good.’ He began to cry again, and at the same time the rain returned, thick and heavy.

  Clara stood up. ‘Come on,’ she said. ‘Let’s get inside.’

  The storm rose, and thunderclouds rolled close by. They wedged the doors shut, but the roof leaked, and soon a little river ran down the middle of the shed. They each found a corner that seemed drier than the rest, and tried to imagine themselves warm. The lightning flashed under the doors and through the gaps in the boards, and the shed grumbled in the wind. Clara lay with her eyes wide open, not daring to let herself sleep, jumping at every roll of thunder. In the lulls, when the wind lapsed and the thunder was drawing breath, she could hear Jack crying. Part of her wanted to go and comfort him; but knives make long memories.

  Then, as she resigned herself to a wakeful night, she heard Jack, his voice unnaturally high: ‘I’m sorry,’ he said.

  ‘It’s all right,’ she heard herself say.

  Dawn came, the silence only broken by the thud of drips on the shed roof and the cry of a coot on the river. Clara was looking out over the water, chewing her lip and hugging herself, when Jack emerged, red-eyed.

  ‘It’s cold,’ he said.

  ‘The sun’s hardly up,’ said Clara. ‘The days are getting shorter.’

  Jack stooped and splashed water over his face, inspiring Clara to do the same. She shivered as the drops ran down her neck.

  ‘What you going to do now?’ said Jack.

  ‘I want to find my parents,’ said Clara. ‘I’ll go back to London.’

  ‘Your parents? Didn’t they get arrested?’

  Clara sighed. ‘Yes, they did.’

  ‘They’re done for, then.’

  ‘I still want to find out.’

  ‘You’re mad. You say the Repsegs are after you, and you’re going to go looking for your parents? It’ll it be like giving yourself up.’

  Clara shrugged. ‘London’s a place I know. I can hide better. And there, at least I stand a chance of finding out what happened to them. Anyway – what about you? What are you going to do?’

  Jack’s jaw clenched. ‘Dunno,’ he muttered.

  ‘Look,’ said Clara. ‘Last night, I was watching. Some of the Scrapers got to the bank. They ran that way, over the fields.’ She nodded across the river. ‘The Repsegs went after them, but the mist was thick, and it was nearly dark. Some of them might have got away.’

  ‘You reckon?’ said Jack, but he shook his head.

  ‘If they did get away, where would they go?’

  ‘London, I guess. Catwall was always on about that.’ He turned his head away.

  ‘Then, let’s go together,’ said Clara. ‘To London.’

  ‘What,’ said Jack, ‘you want to go with me, after I tried to knife yer?’

  ‘You were scared, and angry,’ said Clara, swallowing. She stepped up and, making a conscious effort, put a hand on his shoulder. ‘I need a bit of company, Jack. I need a friend.’

  Blinking, Jack turned to face the river. After a minute he sniffed and said, ‘Best to avoid Abingdon, then. There’s a loop in the river here – we can cut across. That way.’ He pointed straight ahead, across the fields.

  ‘Jack,’ said Clara, ‘there’ll be bodies.’

  The old boat in the shed was badly holed, but they reasoned that it didn’t have to get them far. There was an oar, and although the footwell began to fill with water as soon as they climbed in, Jack managed to steer them to the far side before the boat disappeared under them. Yet the current was swift, and they’d drifted nearly a quarter of a mile downstream by the time they splashed up onto the bank.

  They struck eastwards, as far as they could judge. The sun had begun to burn the mist off, and soon they’d be in open view. They hurried as best they could, but the ploughed soil was damp and crumbly, so that their feet slithered and the stiff stubble raked their ankles. Clara didn’t say so, but she began to think that the Scrapers could all be dead after all, if they’d got stuck in this mire.

  And she was right about the bodies. Soon they found a woman – Jack said her name was Zoey – lying on her back, with eyes open to the sky. Flies were already investigating the corpse’s lips. A few yards beyond they came upon another, then another – then Clara gave a cry. A girl lay face-down, her long red hair splayed around her head and her flowery dress dragged in the mud. A dark brown stain made a perfect circle in the centre of her back.

  Gently, Clara turned her over. There was a trickle of dried blood at the corner of the mouth. The eyes were closed. ‘Matty!’ Clara whispered. ‘Oh, Matty.’ With tears in her eyes she smoothed the hair back from the forehead and wiped the blood away. Then, with a cry of rage, she dug her hands into the yielding soil, pulling up clods and casting them aside.

  ‘What are you doing?’ gasped Jack.

  ‘I’ve – got – to – bury her,’ panted Clara, digging her hands again and again into the soil. ‘Got to.’

  ‘We can’t bury ’em all,’ said Jack, horrified. ‘We’ve got to get away.’

  ‘Just her,’ said Clara. ‘Just her. She was so – so innocent.’

  ‘You’ve got no spade,’ said Jack.

  But Clara resumed her digging, until her hands and arms, her knees, even her face, were thick with dirt. The stones had cut her palms, and her legs were a mass of scratches. Jack had slipped away, but she didn’t care. She dug.

  ‘I hate them,’ she growled, as she plucked out an especially large clod and chucked it to one side. ‘I hate them all.’

  ‘Who?’ Jack had returned. In his hand was a clutch of wild flowers: daisies, buttercups and forget-me-nots.

  ‘Repsegs. The Republic,’ snarled Clara, even though something inside her still felt like this was blasphemy.

  The grave was shallow, but by now Clara’s grief was spent, and the morning was wearing on. They laid Matty with her hands clasped on her chest, holding some of the flowers; then gently, they covered her over with the soil. When they had finished, Jack scattered the remaining flowers over the mound.

  He insisted that Clara go back to the river and clean her cuts. As they were both filthy, they jumped in together, holding on to the bank to stop themselves being swept downstream. They emerged a uniform dull brown, and trudged back across the field. At the far edge, under a hawthorn, they found Catwall, who – it seemed to Clara – looked more peaceful than she ever had in life. Next to her lay the box that Clara had seen her clutching.

  ‘It’s the coffer,’ said Jack. ‘She was like the banker, wasn’t she?’

  Clara only said, ‘Poor Catwall! I hope it was quick. She’ll never see the revolution now.’

  ‘We should take it,’ said Jack.

  ‘What?’

  ‘The money. We might need it.’

  But when they picked it up, they found the box empty. ‘Bloody Repsegs!’ said Jack.

  ‘Hmm,’ said Clara, examining the box. ‘I don’t know. Repsegs don’t normally bother with robbery. They just enjoy killing people, that’s all they want to do. And, if they’d wanted to take the money, w
hy waste time opening the box, when they could just go off with it? Look – it hasn’t been forced. Someone knew where to find the key–’

  ‘She always kept it round her neck,’ said Jack. He opened Catwall’s collar. ‘Look, it’s gone.’

  ‘And someone wanted to travel light.’

  ‘Scrapers?’ said Jack, his eyes brightening. ‘There’s lots of – I mean, they’re not all lying in that field.’

  ‘Some of the bodies did go downstream,’ said Clara. ‘But you’re right – I think at least one of them got away. Then they must have come back later, for the money.’

  ‘The Don!’ said Jack, excitedly. ‘Or Ma!’

  ‘Come on,’ said Clara, looking back across the field. ‘Let’s make sure we get away too.’

  They found a road and followed it until they came to Clifton, where their still-grubby and wild appearance attracted stares from the women they met in the street. It was broad daylight, and the chances of stealing any food were non-existent. Besides, their hunger meant they no longer had the strength to run. They decided to continue across country. By a mile further on, though, Jack was stumbling. ‘I could do with something to eat,’ he muttered.

  The heat of the afternoon increased, the sun beating on their heads. The muddy road stank, their dirty clothes stank, their sweaty bodies stank. Huge flies tracked their halting progress while brambles bit at their legs and feet. At length Jack, finding a grassy bank, flung himself down. ‘I can’t go on,’ he moaned. ‘Honest, I can’t.’

  They sat on the bank for longer than Clara would have liked; but Jack had closed his eyes and seemed to be asleep. She thought how pale he looked. In the end, as the shadows began to lengthen, she reached out and touched his arm. He jumped up with a start and was promptly sick, crouching down on all fours as his body shook and the sweat was squeezed out of him. Then, when he tried to stand, his knees buckled and Clara had to support him.

  ‘You’re ill,’ she told him.

  Jack wiped the back of a hand across his mouth. ‘You’d better go on,’ he croaked.

  ‘Don’t be stupid,’ said Clara, and threw his arm across her shoulders.

  An hour later, with Jack now on Clara’s back, they came to the edge of some open land that rose away to a clump of trees on their right. They couldn’t see the river, but they could hear the cackle of waterfowl nearby. In the west, the clouds were gathering again.

  ‘Nearly there,’ gasped Clara. ‘I’ll have to put you down for a bit.’ She crouched down, and Jack slithered off.

  ‘I’ll be all right,’ he said.

  Clara chewed her lip. He wouldn’t be all right. They could get something to drink without much trouble, even if it had to be from the river; but they’d need something to eat soon. Jack had to keep his strength up. Being on the run, with nowhere to go, wasn’t a great time to be ill.

  ‘Here, can you smell something?’ said Jack.

  Clara sniffed. ‘Smoke! Yes, look – over there, above the trees. There’s houses, Jack. Maybe there’s food. Let’s get closer.’

  She helped him up, and together they made their way down a side-lane, free of weeds and obviously well-used, to a clearing. A small cottage, steep-roofed in red tiles, stood in its own half-acre of ground. Around it ran a low stone wall; inside the wall was a garden with olive bushes and vines, runner beans on canes, and vegetables in neat rectangular beds. From the far side of the building itself rose a thin plume of wood-smoke.

  ‘Wait here,’ said Clara, helping Jack down onto the grass. ‘I’m going to grab whatever I can find.’

  ‘You sure there’s no-one around? I mean, it’s still daylight,’ said Jack.

  ‘You need food,’ said Clara. ‘And so do I.’ With that she turned and ran, stooping, aiming for a point where bushes overhung the wall. Peering out from their cover, she saw there were definitely carrots in that bed. Some of those grapes might be ripe, too. The beds and borders were almost weedless, and bees roamed between the flowers. Somebody had been hard at work in this garden. It was a shame to have to steal from it, Clara told herself; but there was nothing for it. With a last look back at Jack, she scrambled over the wall and made for the carrot-bed.

  Even as her feet landed on the soft soil, she registered a quiet, tik-tik sound from behind the bushes. At first she thought it must be a bird, but birds had never sounded quite so metallic. She’d reached the first bed and was stooping to grab some carrot-leaves, when she realised that the noise was actually quite like that of hoeing.

  ‘Hello there,’ said a voice.

  It was a high voice, but there was no surprise in it. The speaker might have been greeting an acquaintance on a morning stroll, and Clara almost expected a remark about the weather. She turned.

  What she saw was a tall figure holding a hoe. The aged, saggy face was soft and hairless; the back was stooped. The boots and leggings were stained with soil, and the brown tunic was baggy and patched.

  ‘Can I help you?’ Again, the matter-of-fact tone, as if this sort of thing happened every day. ‘You look hungry. Would you like something to eat?’

  Clara swallowed. ‘Why would you want to help us?’

  ‘Us?’ said the woman.

  Clara winced. She hadn’t intended to say anything about Jack. ‘Oh, yes – my friend is over there. There’s nobody else.’

  ‘Why don’t you ask her to come over?’

  ‘It’s a boy. And you haven’t answered my question.’

  ‘Oh!’ The woman chuckled. ‘You want to know why I should help you? Well, you could say it’s my job. But if you don’t mind my saying so, you do look famished. I suggest you eat first and ask questions later. And I have got a nice vegetable stew …’

  Clara ran back to Jack. As she helped him to his feet, she whispered: ‘It’s a bit weird – says she helps people for a living – but she’s offering us stew.’

  ‘Blimey,’ said Jack as they passed through the gate. ‘Grows enough stuff, don’t she?’

  The woman was stowing the hoe away as they reached the porch, Jack still dragging his feet. ‘Goodness me,’ she said when she saw him, ‘is he all right? Let me help you. Here, bring him inside. I’ll just go and wash my hands.’

  They passed into a small hallway. On the left was a room that obviously served not only as the woman’s bedroom, but as her study and kitchen too. A pot bubbled on the old iron stove that stood in one corner, and a delicious oniony smell filled the air. There was a low bed, a couch and a battered desk with papers and a couple of pencils. As Jack staggered in and flopped gratefully on to the couch, Clara peered into the room on the other side of the passageway. She drew her breath in sharply.

  ‘Jack,’ she hissed, following him into the living room. ‘There are odd things in that room. I think I’ve seen them before, in books. There’s a cross on the wall–’

  Jack, who had been curled on the couch, sat up. ‘Woah. You reckon she’s one of them religionists? D’you think she might do – y’know – them rituals on us? Brainwash us, like?’

  ‘I’ve thought of that. Just don’t listen to what she says, okay? We’ll get some food out of her, then go. There’s two of us, anyhow, and she’s old.’ She looked at him. ‘You’re shivering. Look, here’s a blanket.’

  She was covering Jack up when the woman came back into the room, with a pair of spectacles now perched on her nose. ‘That’s it,’ she said. ‘Make him comfortable. Now. Stew.’ She shambled over to the stove, took three wooden bowls off a rack, and ladled a brown fluid into each. Then placing a small bench before Jack and Clara, she set the bowls down and fetched spoons.

  Clara was staring at the bowls. ‘Are you a priest?’ she said.

  The woman placed the spoons carefully by the bowls then eyed Clara over the top of her glasses. ‘Whether I am or not,’ she said, drawing up a chair, ‘this is a good stew. Even if I say so myself.’ And she began to eat.

  Clara only hesitated for a moment, then began spooning the food into her mouth as fast as she could swallow it. S
he was pleased to see Jack, still wrapped in the blanket, doing the same. The stew was plain: a few onions, carrots and potatoes. But its taste didn’t matter. They ate in silence for a while, until the woman put down the bowl and wiped her mouth with the back of her hand.

  ‘There,’ she said with a sigh, ‘that was good. Now, Ms – I’m sorry, may I know your name?’

  Clara shook her head.

  The woman smiled. ‘Ah. Well, no matter. My name’s Rita. Rita Fernandez. Yes, I am a priest. The last one hereabouts, since they took Mariella a couple of years ago.’

  Jack finished his stew and curled up again. Clara reached over and adjusted the blanket to cover his feet. Meanwhile the priest fetched some ale (‘It’s quite weak – won’t go to your heads,’) and sat down again.

  ‘So,’ said the priest, ‘it seems you don’t want to tell me about yourselves.’

  ‘Tell us about you, first,’ said Clara.

  The priest nodded. ‘Very well. I’ll tell you what I do. I grow vegetables, and I pray. Once a week I sell my vegetables at the market. And I help my neighbours – you must’ve seen the houses close by. I can mend things, and I can do a bit of doctoring. Like you, folk don’t really trust me. But when there’s no-one else to turn to, when one of their children is sick and they can’t afford HealthCo, they let me in through the back door. Some of them used to come and pray with me, but they’re too afraid now.’

  ‘Afraid of you?’ said Clara.

  The priest chuckled. ‘Can you imagine anything less frightening? No, it’s retribution they’re afraid of.’

  Ah, thought Clara. Here we go: heaven and hell, sin and punishment.

  ‘From the Repsegs,’ went on the priest. ‘These days, anyone who practises mumbo-jumbo – as the authorities will have it – is not welcome. In fact, they send out squads to hunt us down. They’ll come for me one day. And if my neighbours were found to have helped me, they’d be in trouble. And the same goes for you, if you associate with me. Although you’re welcome to stay here as long as you like, I suggest you get away soon. But I think that will have to be tomorrow,’ she added, nodding at Jack, who gave a loud snore.