by Terry Tyler
"You'll be able to see it," he says. "One of my lads found some old bricks nearby, and made some of them into the letter 'I' on top of it. Soft sod he is."
I take one last look at him, then stand up and walk off. The rain begins to fall.
Pansy comes out with me to find the grave; no, she is not supposed to leave Blackthorn without permission, but I don't care; I tell her I'll take the flak if there is any. I don't care about the fucking rules of Blackthorn any more.
We're on foot because I want to walk Indra's final journey. We have with us some apples and cherries, not for sustenance, but for their pips and stones; I've brought tools, too.
The rain is intermittent, enough to make us uncomfortably wet and our boots clogged with mud, but I don't give a shit, and if Pansy minds, she doesn't complain. The place where Indra is buried is a sorry spot, in front of the ruins of a place where, I imagine, the old-worlders went to earn the money to fund their easy, pampered lives.
Idly, I wonder who they were, those folk of a hundred and sixteen years ago who spent their days here, until they died of bat fever. I wonder what they did. I've read about old world jobs but I don't understand what some of them were for. In the library there are a few diaries of the early Fall survivors, and often they mention what they and their friends used to do. I know the terms―IT consultant, life coach, telemarketer, podcaster―and I've found out what some of them meant, but it all sounds a bit futile. I suppose if you don't have to worry about getting enough to eat and defending your home, you need to make up other stuff to do.
So we're here, in this overgrown wilderness, patches of green interspersed with rubble and pools of stagnant, dirty water, strewn with the usual rubbish left by people passing through: faded rags, rusted metal, bones, faeces, the remains of fires. My uncle could not have chosen a worse spot.
I want to dig up the grave just so I can look at Indra's face again. Say goodbye to her properly. I don't, but only because it would freak Pansy out.
We clear the immediate area, then bury our pips and stones. One day, I hope, there will be apple and cherry trees here. Indra's orchard, amongst the desolation. I like the thought of that.
Pansy says a few very sweet words, but I have none. I can't help thinking I should take the body away and bury her alongside her brother, in Mulgrave, because she would have been better off dying back then, with him, for all the good I did her.
I hate Ryder Swift for teaching his self-righteous bullshit and making her think she didn't deserve to be happy. I hate Wolf North for using naïve girls to keep his psycho mates happy, and I hate Slovis, Ogg and Fisher for the unspeakable way they treated her. I'm full of hate today, not least of all for myself.
Between the six of us, we crushed her soul.
I say goodbye to Pansy as we walk through North Gate, and I don't feel like being shut inside my flat with nothing to distract me from my thoughts, so I wander through the woods and across the spirit field. The rain has stopped and the clouds are clearing, bringing a freshness to the air, at last. In the distance lies the House of Angels, and I find myself walking towards it, simply because I have nowhere to be or go. As I get closer, I see a couple of horses tethered outside; I hear voices, then some figures emerge. I would recognise the shape of that man anywhere. Slovis. He lumbers onto his horse; a moment later a girl runs out, calling to him.
She has dark hair; at first I think it's Mary, the pregnant wife, but it's not, and Tansy is blonde, so I know it's not her.
He bends to kiss her, then reaches further down to grab her arse; she squeals. I hear their laughter.
When I was saying goodbye to his dead wife, he was getting it on with her replacement.
I wonder if he gave Indra a second's thought. I doubt it.
I know my anger towards him is an extension of the anger I have for myself, though it's all too easy to think, 'oh yes, if I'd known what would happen I'd have done such-and-such'. We do what suits us at the time, and insight into the possible consequences would not necessarily make us choose differently. I didn't let Indra live with me because I didn't love her; to be truthful, I'm not even sure that I liked her very much.
Logic tells me I had no obligation towards her, but it doesn't make me feel any better.
Why am I still here? Why don't I just leave?
Because it's easy to fancy yourself as something of a lone wolf when you've been surrounded by friends, family and associates all your life. I crave solitude and quiet for its contrast with the noisy hubbub of Blackthorn, but if it was my only option, it might not be so appealing.
Then there's Evie. With all that's gone on over the past week, I've put her on a shelf in my mind to think about later.
Yeah, I need to think some more. Rationally. Decisions based on emotion can come back to kick you in the nuts.
I'm twenty-six years old, and I know fuck all, really.
A bright morning, and I'm not due on the wall until later. I wander down to the market; after the rain and wind, summer is back. Today I'm going to think about Indra, because otherwise she'll be forgotten. There is nobody to miss her. Pansy came with me to the grave only out of respect, and she told me that, for all Indra's claims of great friendship, the 'sister wives' said they found her 'difficult'.
That's what this family thing is for, isn't it? So that when you die, there are people who remember your life, and talk about you. Otherwise, it's like you never existed.
I'm thinking about this as I mooch along, vaguely wondering if I'll ever do the wife and kids thing, when I hear someone shout my name.
I know that voice. Not one I expect to hear around these parts.
I look up, and I smile.
It's Evie.
She's running towards me, all scruffy boots, tatty shorts, and long, slim legs.
My heart lifts; no, I'm not ready to leave. Not just yet.
Chapter 26
Lieutenant August Hemsley
Byron Lewis brings the shacker Evie to see me.
I'm relaxing at home, taking a little reading time, when they arrive unannounced.
A rap on my front door always lifts my mood; it means I am needed. Inevitably the knock is accompanied by a problem of some sort, often one that has no immediate solution, but I would rather face any difficulty than never be called upon. That someone faced a problem and thought, 'ah, Lieutenant Hemsley might be just the person to help' is far preferable to being overlooked.
When I open the door I am pleased to see them; I like Evie, from what I have seen of her. She has a charmingly sunny nature and cares for her family and friends, which I respect, whatever her views on our beloved Light. Byron, I am not so sure of, but I believe he is a man of integrity, which is illustrated today by his very presence: he cares enough about Evie's troubles to seek my help on her behalf.
She is worried about her friend, recently incarcerated.
Ah yes. Jay Field from Stinky Bottom. Awaiting his panel; his sentence will be passed tomorrow, for stealing, but this is no petty pilfering. He has systematically robbed the market stalls for some weeks, and runs a business by which he makes money from the spoils.
A patron of Clem's bar, where he conducts this business, traded the information for monetary gain.
Jay Field will not be let off lightly.
"I can't do much," I tell Evie. "Seven of us assess the case, suggest possible durations of sentence, and Lieutenant Parks has the casting vote, if we are not all in agreement; I expect him to be locked up for several months."
"Yeah, I get that. That's not why I'm here." I feel she is about to expand on this when her attention is distracted by her surroundings. She moves over to my shelves, pausing to study my books and the artefacts I have on display. This pleases me; I am proud of my apartment, and visitors are rare. She utters a few expletives to express her approval, then asks me what it's like to live in 'a posh gaff like this'.
I smile. "I'm very happy here, and yes, I know how lucky I am."
She approaches the door to a small
hall that leads to my bathroom and bedroom, easing it open with a long-fingered, slightly grubby hand, as though she is scared of what might pop out from behind it. "You got one of them flushing toilets?"
"I have." I feel my smile broaden.
"And taps?"
"Yes. In the kitchen and the bathroom."
"Wow."
Byron glances at me, then at her. "Evie―we've come to see about Jay."
"Yeah―I know." The look she gives him is laced with an affectionate familiarity that is a joy to see but stabs at my heart; I wish I had someone to look at me like that.
She turns back to me, my taps and toilet forgotten. "I just wondered if, you know, when he's been sentenced and locked up, if I can see him. His mate Cal was told no way, but Jay, he'll be worrying about his dad, who ain't got a job―he'll get evicted without Jay's wages, and―well, it's Jay I'm thinking of. Like, his safety. 'Cause―"
She breaks off and looks down, grinding the toe of her dirty boot into my carpet, which I am sure will leave a mark, but I'm surprised to find that I don't mind.
"Because what?"
She looks straight into my eyes. "Well, he's gay, isn't he?"
Her delivery is aggressive, but I know this is born only of fear for her friend.
"Why do you think that puts him at risk?" It does, because Fisher and his men can be, shall we say, overly authoritative towards certain groups, amongst them the homosexual and those of African origin, but I don't want to add to her fears.
A red blush stains her cheeks. "Just things I've heard. About other people like him, and what they might do to him."
Ah. She has heard the whispers about our governor that still emanate from the rumour mill, but she dare not be specific. She is wise to be careful. I will not entertain malicious gossip about Wolf North. Besides, it is my educated belief that homosexual predators do not necessarily target those of their own persuasion. Aside from the fact that I do not, of course, consider Wolf a predator. Any activities he might have pursued in the past surely occurred between consenting adults. The rest, I am sure, is fabrication.
I find that I don't want to lie to her; to do so would insult her intelligence.
"It's a jail block, Evie, which means I can't guarantee anything. Please do remember, though, that all those involved in our correctional procedures have accepted the Light, and the Light abhors violence, which should safeguard him to some extent. I'm afraid level three prisoners are not allowed visitors under any but the most exceptional circumstances, but I could tell him you've been to see me, if you like, and keep an eye on him, generally."
She relaxes visibly. "You'd do that?"
"I would." I dig into my pocket, and pull out a crown and a few chips. "And you could give this to his father. For food."
"Wow, thanks!" She shoves them into her pocket, and grins. "I'll buy the food, else he'll spend it on drink."
I tap my nose. "A good plan."
Byron says, "If it's not too much of a liberty to ask, could you take him an extra book or two?"
"Of course. My practice is to visit every new prisoner as they begin their sentence; I'll take him some tomorrow, and I promise I will deliver more, on a regular basis; reading is to be encouraged, after all."
"Thanks ever so much!" Evie's delight shows on her face, which pleases me even more than her admiration of my apartment. "So when I see you patrolling the wall, I can come and ask you how he is, without you telling me to eff off back to the bakery and get on with my work?"
I laugh, and the laughter feels good. "Of course you can."
After they have left, I find that the smile remains on my face. I don't know exactly why I feel moved to help this girl's friend, specifically, but I do. I know that I am trying to atone for the harm I did Micah by helping young men in unfortunate circumstances―I worked that out a long time ago―but it's more than that.
As I browse my bookshelves, pushing back the books that she pulled out, I understand. She and Byron have involved me in their lives. By helping them I will form a connection to them, one of goodwill and friendship.
I am no longer alone.
The sentence agreed upon is six months; I tried for less, but was outvoted by the others. It's a long time to sit in a dank, dirty cell. Freezing in winter, and most of his sentence will be endured during the colder months.
The boy is in the main block when I visit, the morning after the panel; I take a look at the slate by the locked door.
Jay Field, 22
Level: 3
Start: 23/8/40
Release: 23/2/41
He looks cheerful enough. I touch my hand to my chest, and our palms meet between the bars.
"Live in the Light," I say.
"Live in the Light," he replies. "Six months; could've been worse!"
A smiling, pleasant-looking boy. He has bruises on his face. As he walks, hunched over, from the mattress at the back of his cell, one arm curls around his stomach.
"I'm worried sick about my dad, though," he says, "'cause if I'm in here I can't pay the rent, and he'll get evicted. I'm paid up for the next two weeks, but after that―"
I think quickly. "Perhaps I could have a word with Clem. She might let him sleep in her outhouse." I hesitate, then in one moment I decide that if I am going to help these people, I must make a proper job of it. It is only right and proper, if I claim to live in the Light. "Especially if I offer her a little financial incentive."
His eyes open wide. "You'd do that?"
"I don't have a family to support; I can afford it." I dip into the bag I have brought with me. "Byron asked me to bring you some books―I thought you might like these." I hold out three novels from my modest personal collection. Oh, that I had access to the North library, so I could select such tomes to take us both away from the problems of this world, for many a month. However, he looks pleased with the adventure stories I've selected: a tale of fighter pilots, a false accusation of murder, and one of my favourites: Treasure Island.
"Whoa―thanks!" He examines them, forgetting for a moment to nurse his hurt stomach. "It's brilliant when the library cart comes round, but Lynch only lets you have one book a week, and if you ask for more he gets cocky about it. I mean, it wouldn't hurt him to let you have two, would it? I reckon he just enjoys saying no."
"I'll bring you more," I say, in a low voice; Munroe is watching us, and I don't want any perceived favouritism to result in Jay's persecution. "And I've seen your friend, Evie; she will look in on your father."
"Oh, awesome―can she come see me?"
I shake my head. "Level three prisoners are not allowed visitors, as I am sure you realise. But I have promised Evie that I will keep her informed."
"You've been brilliant, ta! And thanks ever so much for the books." He looks at them again, then grins up at me. "Best thing is, when Lynch comes round with the library cart, saying 'sorry, you can only have one book', I can tell him to shove it up his arse!"
I feel the conversation is in danger of becoming too familiar, so I merely nod, and, with a final reminder that he should ask the Light for forgiveness for his crimes, I take my leave.
Walking away, I consider what he said about the library cart. I have wondered, many times, what would happen if I simply asked to visit Wolf's private library. I imagine he might agree, if I were to catch him in the right mood, but it is something I will never do now, because my resentment over the lack of invitation has become as strong as my desire for it.
Should I actually be invited, now, I wonder if my reaction might be the same as Jay's planned reply to Lynch.
Not in so many words, of course.
Chapter 27
Evie
I'm so bloody pissed off that I can't go and see Jay. I saw Lieutenant Hemsley this morning and he says that Jay is 'in good spirits', and he's taken him some books.
I'm not really worried about his dad―I couldn't give a stuff if Brook got booted out of South Gate tomorrow―but I had to make out I was so that Hemsley would be mo
re sympathetic. I spent his money on some food and took it round, though, even though I nearly thought 'fuck it', and kept it for myself. But I didn't, in case the Light is watching me. Joke. But you never know.
Not that I feel much like making jokes at the moment. Jay's going to be in that cell all winter, and it's like being in the stables; the block is open at both ends. He's going to freeze. A couple of people died two winters ago, when it was seriously cold. I'll have to plead with Hems to take him extra blankets.
Byron was so cool, taking me to see him, but I know part of the reason why. He fancies me. I fancy him, too, but I'm not so stupid as to think that a guard would ever want a shacker for owt but a shag. I've got my head screwed on, not like that Indra. She should've known what would happen with Slovis. I heard he beat her up and forced her to have sex with his mates. She told his other wife, Mary, about it, but Mary said she was lying to get attention 'cause she wasn't pregnant, and that Slovis is a changed man 'cause he's accepted the Light.
People are saying all sorts about why she topped herself, but as usual you don't know what's true and what's not. Thora said he made her have sex with his horse, but she would.
Ryder has a special speech for us this Sunday, to remind us that spreading 'malicious gossip' goes against the teaching of the Light. Course it does. Owt that's fun, the Light don't like. All you're allowed to do is smile nicely and work for the glory of Blackthorn.
All the same, though, I join the line of people accepting the Light, 'cause I don't want to be chucked out. I might have risked it, but Mum was worried for me.
She said, "You might want to leave here one day, see a bit of the world, but it should be on your own terms, not because you've been evicted, in disgrace."
I went to see Ryder to ask if he could check on Jay, too, and he said that he'll see him when he does his weekly round of the jail block, but he can't do more than that.