Blackthorn

by Terry Tyler

  I sigh, and reach in my pocket for my notebook to check on my list, only to find that it's not there.

  I've left it on the windowsill by the door.

  My stomach churns as I walk back. I'm scared that I won't be able to trust myself; that if I see Wolf when I walk through the door I might make my feelings known, even if not in words.

  The guards wave me through. This time, the door is unlocked.

  I find my notebook, and have just put it into my breast pocket when I notice something.

  The door off to the right is open, just slightly. About half an inch. My guess is that, caught off-guard as he was by my unscheduled appearance, the apparently urgent need to get rid of me, and the early arrival of his guests, Wolf neglected to go back and lock it.

  Where are they? Where has he taken Ryder and the logger?

  I peep into the reception lounge on the left; it is empty. I open the door that leads to a short passage, ending in the meeting room. I hear a burst of laughter. So that's where they are. I wonder what their meeting is about, and I can't help wondering what is so funny. Are they laughing at me? I tell myself that whatever they're doing here is not my business, but I'm baffled. What could this person, who has only lived in Blackthorn for just over a year and was the most vocal of Light-sceptics, possibly have to say to interest the governor?

  I feel excluded.

  I shut my eyes. I always feel excluded, but more and more, these days.

  I glance over the hall.

  That door.

  Open.

  I shouldn't.

  I know I shouldn't.

  But the library is down there. I just want to look, that's all, then I'll leave.

  I stand, facing the door, and all those petty grievances swirl around in my mind. I know, however, that I am allowing them to do so, because I feel the need to justify what I am about to do.

  Because I never do things like this.

  I shut my eyes.

  My unfairly heavy workload.

  My concern about Fisher's treatment of the jail block inmates, brushed off.

  The unmerited elevation of Violet Lincoln.

  The suicide of that poor girl who some say was brutalised by Slovis, yet there has been no investigation.

  What are you still doing here, Hemsley? Go on, bugger off, will you?

  Aside from us being master and servant, I had flattered myself that he and I were friends, too. Evidently not.

  Heart thumping, I walk towards the door that is usually locked.

  I cross the threshold.

  Is a sin against my governor a sin against the Light?

  Forgive me.

  The first door leads to Wolf's private living room. I try the handle.

  It's locked.

  I walk slowly down the corridor, touching the walls. There are no windows; the light is dim, in contrast to the beautiful day outside. There are switches that would turn on a light, but I think to use them would be unwise.

  My path turns off to the right, and I am faced with another, single door, which I expect is the study. This, too, is locked. Next, I come face to face with double doors. The library.

  Parks told me it has a spiral staircase leading to a mezzanine, where there are armchairs, including one that reclines, with a footstool. Imagine that; selecting the finest works available from the old world, then sitting back in the greatest of comfort to read. I would need nothing more.

  Parks has been inside the library, but I have not.

  I walk towards the doors.

  Locked.

  My frustration reaches new levels. I so badly want to see inside that room. For one insane moment, I contemplate finding an instrument with which I might force entrance.

  Stop.

  The corridor, now no more than a narrow passage, turns off to the left, a sharp angle; here, the light grows dimmer still.

  And then I hear it.

  A cry. A human voice.

  I stop, and strain to listen.

  Someone is calling for help.

  I creep closer, unsure of exactly where the voice is coming from, but it sounds as though it's below where I stand.

  My heart thunders in my chest.

  Is it true?

  Is there a cellar?

  I didn't want to know―

  I'm good at that. Dismissing that which I find unpleasant.

  The passage bends once more to the left, and I come face to face with a little alcove, in which there is a door, of rough, dark wood.

  It is open.

  Did Wolf hurry from this door not half an hour ago, when I announced my arrival?

  I push.

  Deep, cold, stone steps lead downwards; I wonder if this was part of an old world house. During the Fall, the oldest part of what became Blackthorn was known as UK North, a rural area flattened for the great rebuild that was never completed because it was halted by the second wave of the virus, but traces of the old world remain; Moor House, for instance.

  No matter, now. For these stairs do indeed lead to a cellar, from which a light glows.

  "Hello?" The volume of my whisper terrifies me. I am scared, too, of what I will find.

  Who I will find.

  A voice. "Who's there?"

  I tiptoe down those steps, slowly, carefully, in dread.

  It is oddly warm down here; I had expected it to be cold.

  There is nothing much to see, at first glance. Just some old chests.

  The voice calls out from the back of the room, asking who I am. A male voice, frightened.

  A familiar voice.

  I brace myself to look round.

  Sitting in a barred cell is Jay Field.

  One lamp sends a yellow, eerie light across the floor.

  He kneels at the bars. He wears only undershorts; his foot is chained to one side of the cell, and one arm is also chained up. Bloody smears cover his face.

  He tries to stand as I come close.

  "Help me," he says. "Get me out of here."

  A tear runs down his cheek; one eye is swollen. I reach out to turn his head to the light, and he moans in pain. The bruise on the eye is turning mauve; he must have been here, in this state, for at least a day.

  When I find my voice, I am hoarse. "Who did this to you?"

  "Fisher and Munroe. At the jail block. Then him. The governor."

  His words are as a kick in the stomach; my torso actually recoils, an echo of the physical pain that this hapless boy has suffered.

  Then him. The governor.

  "You're sure?"

  "Course I'm fucking sure." His voice is so faint, his vocal chords spent.

  "Just those three?"

  "Mostly the governor. Last night." The effort of standing becomes too much for him, and he sinks down, clutching a bar with his free hand.

  "Was he down here just now? Half an hour ago?"

  "Yeah."

  "What-what did he do?"

  "Nothing. He just stood where you are now, and stared at me. Freaky, like."

  "How long have you been here?"

  "Dunno. Couple of days."

  I touch his shoulder, hoping to be of some comfort, then recoil, once more; he smells of urine and sweat. "Can you―can you tell me what has been done to you?" I am reluctant to hear, but I must. I don't know what I will do with the information, but I need to know. "You needn't give me too graphic an illustration―"

  "You can see, can't you? I've been beaten, kicked to fuck―"

  I shut my eyes for a moment and swallow, hard. "I meant the things that may leave no immediate mark―"

  He collapses back onto the floor. "If you mean did he get his dick out, no, he didn't. That ain't his kick."

  I crouch down so that I'm on his level; I can hardly hear him.

  "He just wanted to hurt me. Like, till I begged for mercy. He wanted to break me." He curls up, arms around his bruised stomach, and begins to cry. "Well, I'm fucking broken. Get me out of here."

  "I'll try―"

  "Just do i
t!" His voice is a hoarse, painful rasp. "You're a lieutenant, aren't you? Get the fucking key!"

  Yes, I'm a lieutenant. And my duty is to Wolf North and the Light, but in this moment I know only one thing: my duty is to the people of Blackthorn, first.

  I can't shut my eyes any more. I can't pretend not to hear the whispers.

  I can't look the other way, not for one more second.

  "I will." I reach out and touch his arm, through the bars. "Take heart. I'll be back."

  I go to stand, and he reaches his free arm out to me.

  "Promise? Promise you'll come back? Don't leave me here, I think he might kill me next time―"

  I take his hand, and hold it, tightly. "I promise."

  I lurch towards the stairs, scarcely able to move. My limbs feel like jelly. What do I do? If I go to find Wolf and insist he gets poor Jay to the hospital, immediately, I fear that will be the end of me. And Jay.

  I face it. The truth I have always known, deep down. In Blackthorn, people disappear.

  "Go!" he croaks, and I do, because I must give him hope, though I don't know what to do. I haul myself back up the steps and close the cellar door behind me, then head down that dark passage, but when I open the door to the entrance hall of my governor's house, I get a shock.

  Clearly having just walked through the front door are Lieutenant Parks and Jet Lewis.

  The latter grins at me, head on one side, hands in pockets. "What you been up to, lieutenant?"

  Parks says, "You know that side of the house is out of bounds unless you have an invitation?"

  I straighten my shoulders. "What are you going to do? Put me in a jail cell?"

  My reply surprises both of us; I am never confrontational. He stares at me, wary indeed. Lieutenant Will Parks, loyal servant, the most favoured of us all―and at once I know why he is granted privileges not allowed to me. He closes his eyes. He continues to look the other way; the governor's man, no matter what.

  "What were you doing?" Parks asks.

  I don't know what to say, so I say nothing. I imagine my face must give away my distress though, because he asks me again, more urgently this time.

  Jet Lewis places a hand on my shoulder. I flinch; aside from the smell of alcohol and stale tobacco that follows him around, his very presence is repellent to me.

  "Let's cut the crap." His open mouth displays yellowed teeth. "You've been down the cellar, haven't you?"

  I have no experience of situations such as these. I am about to insist that no, I just wanted to look at the library, but I can hear the words even as I fail to say them, and I'm afraid they wouldn't convince a halfwit.

  "I'll take that as a yes, then," Jet says. "You was having a little nosy-nose that led you to the cellar. That thieving little cunt down there has given you the old sob story, and you've fallen for it. That about right?"

  I say nothing. I don't want to incriminate myself.

  "Well, hear this. He's a criminal, out of control. Tried to stick Fisher with a shiv, that's why he's here. Can't have that caper going on in the jail block. An' he didn't come quietly. Kicked one guard in the nuts; didn't even have the grapes to take his punishment like a man. And he called Parks here―that's Lieutenant Parks, what devotes his life to the good of this city― he called him a―" He turns. "What did he call you, Parksy?"

  Parks raises an eyebrow. "A limp-dicked sheep fucker, as I recall."

  Jet Lewis throws back his head in laughter. "See what I mean? I tell you, anything that snivelling little fuck gets, he deserves."

  I pull away from him. "We live in the Light. Ryder Swift preaches conflict resolution by discussion and understanding, not brutality."

  He laughs once more. "Try telling that to the guard with the swollen nuts! Anyway, never mind all that baloney. Some fuckers don't deserve no understanding, and little puff-drawers down below is one of them." He pats me on the back. "You be on your way, Hemsley, me ol' mate. Best if you forget what you just seen."

  I step away. "I want that boy taken to the hospital."

  Lewis moves closer to me, his face inches from mine; he's somewhat shorter than me, and as I look down I can see the pitted black pores on his nose, smell his rancid breath. "We'll patch him up, don't you worry." He picks up a bag, next to him on the floor. "That's what I'm here for―brought me first aid kit with me! Saves awkward questions at the hospital. You be on your way; go give the shackers hell up and down the south wall, or whatever it is you do all day, then get yerself off home. That would be the best course of action."

  "That'd be my advice, too," says Parks.

  I hear the threat in their words, and know I must exercise great caution, lest I end up in no shape to help poor Jay.

  Without another word, I walk out of Wolf North's house.

  As I do so, I feel I have stepped from Despair into the Light.

  I am shaking. My stomach churns, my head swims, my thoughts a jumble.

  Undecided how to proceed, I go to the church, and pray for guidance. I am at sea in uncharted waters, with no beacon from the shore to guide me safely into port. Only the Light can show me what to do.

  I feel calmer once I have talked to him, sure that the best way forward will present itself to me. On my return to Thorn Lodge, the gate guard gives me a message: Byron Lewis has been looking for me with regard to Jay Field, who he fears may be missing from the jail block.

  One thing I am sure about; I will tell neither him nor dear Evie anything at all, until I have secured Jay's release.

  Chapter 30

  Jet Lewis

  "Hemsley won't be a problem," Lieutenant Parks assures him, as they descend the cellar steps.

  Too bloody right he won't. Jet Lewis knows many ways to guarantee a person's silence, none of which he need outline to Parks.

  As they approach the cell, the boy wails, and shrinks back in fear.

  "Lieutenant Hemsley―where's Lieutenant Hemsley―?"

  "Don't you be worrying about him." Jet unlocks the cell door. The wretch is shaking like a leaf. Blood everywhere. Jeez, the stink―going to take a bit of cleaning up, this one.

  He's seen it all before. The governor's handiwork. Each to his own, and all that, but he's never known anyone who got off on sadism like Wolf North does. Nowt to do with sex, neither. Jet knows this, 'cause years of cleaning up after people's fun and games have made him something of an expert. This is a whole different ball game from the victims of brutes like Slovis―and one of Wolf's lads, he got chatty. Lucas Short. Wouldn't shut up; wanted to tell his story. Said he even offered his self to North, to make him stop. But North didn't want that. He wanted him to submit. To beg for his life.

  "He kept saying, 'I can end your life, you know that, don't you?' But my dad taught me to fight. Stick up for myself, give as good as I get. But it got so's I couldn't take no more, and then he said, 'beg for your life, that's all you've got to do'. So I did, and he stopped. Just like that. Wish I hadn't been so fucking brave; shouldn't have listened to my dad, should I?"

  Kid actually laughed. Thought he was home free.

  He was, in a way.

  Now, Jet Lewis puts his finger under Jay Field's chin, lifting it into the light. "You beg for your life, did you, sonny?"

  "Not at first―he told me to, but I wouldn't, I said, I ain't begging, and I stood my ground, but in the end, yeah, I did, I―"

  The lad looks relieved. Like Lucas Short, and all them others. Don't get it, none of them.

  And this one's been seen by Hemsley. That soft git'll keep quiet, though. He ain't stupid. Soon, though, Jet will make sure of his silence. No need to tell the governor till after.

  As he unlocks the chains from the boy's wrist and ankle, Jet Lewis wonders about Wolf North. Weird, weird bloke. Always was, even as a lad. And he don't look a well man these days. P'raps this is what all the religious shit is about. Still, who the fuck cares? Jet doesn't, 'cause he's got the one job in the whole of Blackthorn that makes him indispensable.

  Jay Field rubs his sore
wrist and ankle, and gives Jet a tentative smile.

  "Thanks. Am I going back to the jail block now? I promise I won't say nothing about what happened to me down here. I just want to forget it."

  "I get that, kid. We know you won't, don't you worry."

  With a silent grace that belies his age and bulk, he crouches down and cradles the boy's head to his chest, stroking his hair; a gesture of comfort. Jay relaxes―and, in one smooth movement, Jet Lewis lifts his other hand and draws a knife across his neck.

  It's the best way. More mess than strangling or suffocation, but more humane.

  Jay Field falls to the floor of the jail cell, his eyes showing one last flash of confusion, of fear and pain, before the life within them is extinguished forever.

  Parks lounges at the doorway to the cell, arms folded; he has been here many times before. "And another one bites the dust. Let's get this shit show on the road, then."

  Jet wrinkles up his nose, and laughs. "Shit show's about right. Honks summink chronic in here, don't it?"

  Chapter 31

  Lieutenant August Hemsley

  I have a plan.

  After a night of prayer and contemplation, the Light has clarified my thoughts.

  I accept that I alone must take charge of the situation.

  I considered other courses of action: should I confront Wolf, tell him that I will tell no one what I found in the cellar as long as he releases Jay into Evie's care, immediately? Should I talk to Ryder? Or to Sarah Thomas, perhaps; she is a sensible woman, and not without compassion.

  I did not understand, until dawn broke, that I was doing what I always do: I was kidding myself. My only option is to shoulder the responsibility, and set the boy free. Today. Whatever the consequences to myself, even if I have to flee Blackthorn for my own safety―for Jet Lewis's veiled threats were not lost on me―I must summon the courage.

  This morning, I pray to the Light once more. I thank him for guiding me down the right path, and ask him to walk with me as I embark on this mission.

  Today is Sunday. Wolf will attend the early gathering in the church, at nine-thirty, avoiding the crush of later, busier sessions. The Light willing, this morning will not be one of particularly poor health that might necessitate his staying at home.