by J G Alva
Toby shook his head more vigorously.
“No, we didn’t…it wasn’t…there was never anything that was…”
“God, I think I’m going to be sick,” Aimee said, covering her mouth with a hand; she felt queasy.
Sutton continued, “if he is in love with you, and believes he has to save you from this corrupt technological society, then he won’t stop. He can’t. He’ll just keep sending people after us.”
“But…but if I talk to him, if I tell him that it’s not like that…”
“I think it’s gone past that point now. He’s committed…even if you aren’t.”
“He needs to be committed,” Aimee said. And then added unnecessarily, “to an institution.”
Toby hung his head.
“What do we do?” Aimee pleaded with Sutton. “There must be something.”
“Well…” Sutton had a look in his eye. “There is something. But it will be fight not flight. Can you two handle that?”
He looked between them.
Toby was staring at Sutton as if he couldn’t quite be sure he was real.
“We’ll go with your judgement,” Aimee said, taking Toby’s hand reassuringly. “This is your area of expertise, after all.”
“Hm.”
“What are you going to do?”
Sutton smoothed the tablecloth with both hands and said, “I’m going to call somebody.” He smiled. “A young man with a computer. It’s technology they’re afraid of, after all…and this young man is something of a wizard. In effect, he’s everything they’re afraid of…and he might very well be the key to stopping them.”
◆◆◆
CHAPTER 13
There really wasn’t anything in West Kennett.
Bob had made the hour long journey without much hope, but now that he was here, he had no hope at all.
It wasn’t even a hamlet; it was more like a collection of farmhouses clustered together over a square mile. About forty miles east of Bristol on the M4 (and maybe another ten going south from Swindon), it was situated in a long open plane of cultivated fields separated by hedgerows, some old stone cottages, and solitary lines of trees. The place where the Cult had been staying was nothing but a muddy plot of abandoned land behind a copse of skeletal oaks. The only evidence anyone had been in residence were the dim impressions of tyre tracks in the mud, softened by a rain that had come in the night.
He pulled the car off the main road in the entranceway to the field and got out. The day was going to be a sunny one, but it was cool. Almost, but not quite, cold. Somewhere off to his right he could hear a tractor roaring through some work. In the line of trees, birds tweeted the latest bird gossip. Beyond that, there was silence.
Bob walked the area.
He had left the station on the premise that he needed to talk to Phillips, who would be heading the assault team, if and when they decided to finally move on the Cult. The New Place – as everyone was calling it, even though its official title was the Bristol Central Police Station – was on the other side of the centre, down near the water; although it wasn’t far away as the crow flies, it was across the busiest part of a modern British city. He could be gone for at least a couple of hours and nobody would be surprised.
He wasn’t sure what he had expected to find. The tattered remnants of a travel itinerary would have been nice, he supposed, but more wishful thinking than any kind of genuine hope. Anyway. It was silly to come all this way and not be thorough, but after only twenty minutes he felt tired and winded…and even a little foolish. There was a deceptively subtle descent into this field, which made the way back tougher than it should be, and he was in no one’s idea of good shape. He’d given up smoking, but everything else was worse: microwave meals and sweet things, he couldn’t stop putting them away.
Oh, and beer.
He drank a lot of beer.
Someone had been here – what little grass there was had been trampled to death – but he already knew that. There were a couple of rectangles where green survived…sheltered by the larger of the vehicles, he guessed.
For a moment he was concerned that he had stumbled over a bee’s nest, but pushing through the hedge that marked the edge of the field, he could see that that was not the case: in a messy pile were various offcuts of meat: large animal haunches, some picked clean, others discarded untouched. Some hadn’t even been skinned.
It was as if there had been a massive barbecue…but most of the food had been thrown away.
The flies were busy fussing over what was left.
Bob couldn’t understand it. Were these the spoils from a hunt? There were no wild animals in these fields, and everything else was farmed. He supposed the Cult might have picked off an animal or two, which the farmers wouldn’t notice. But they didn’t need to do that. Despite the ragtag condition of the group and its vehicles, they had access to an impressive collection of money. Those who joined gave some money, and Clive guarded it judiciously.
Strange.
Bob turned around and started back to his car.
He began sweating almost immediately, and halfway across the field he had to stop to catch his breath. He leaned back, his hands on his hips, and looked out over the landscape…and that was when he caught sight of the West Kennet Barrow. Or at least the main façade, a long line of standing stones that marked the entrance to this ancient tomb. They were impressive, even from this distance: the largest one was twice the height of a man. Of course, it begged the immediate question: how did they lift it? With no machines, how could ancient man have manipulated such a large hunk of rock?
From what he could remember, the West Kennet Barrow was one of the largest chambered long barrows in the country. When he and Rachel had still been together, they had visited sites like this. Rachel liked to walk in the open countryside, and he liked the idea of an ancient and almost lawless Britain…a striking revelation for a police officer, but he was fascinated nonetheless. But they’d never made it to this particular site. It was apparently used for a thousand years from 3000BC onwards, before being filled in. It was hard to imagine what the world had been like back then. Primitive people trying to survive in a country – in a world – where everything was out to do them in…but at sites like these, it became a little easier.
He debated visiting it now…but he was tired, and the thought of seeing it without Rachel made him too sad. So he picked up his feet and went back to the car, feeling like he had accomplished nothing more than torturing his already overwrought system with useless exercise.
◆◆◆
Sutton was tired…but he had to keep going.
“Dot, I’ve got a favour to ask. Well. Another favour…”
“Sutton, please. If I can help, you know I will. I don’t get much excitement at my age. With you around, there’s always something going on.”
“I wish we didn’t have to involve you-“
“Oh, tush. You and your friends, you need help. I’m happy to help.”
“In that case…I need to borrow your car.”
“It’s yours. Here’s the keys. You might have trouble starting it; it hasn’t been used in a while.”
“It’s only for a short while-“
“Sutton. Be quiet. I’d give it to you, if you asked.”
“Dot, please. You don’t owe me anything.”
“Sutton, you know that I do. What you did for my husband…well, a car is nothing. If that’s all you need.”
“Yes. It is. Thank you. You know…Roger was a lucky man.”
“Hm. Not in the end…but while he was alive, he was. And at least he was smart enough to appreciate it. That’s the best we can hope for in this life: that if we’re happy, we don’t take it for granted. Now, you go. I’ll keep an eye on your friends while you’re gone. Go on. Go. Do what you have to do. But…be careful. I know what you’re like. You have a way of getting yourself in trouble.”
◆◆◆
The Cottage Inn was a nice pub, but Fin didn’t want to be
there.
He hated pubs. He wasn’t much of a social butterfly, and he couldn’t drink, and people got weird when they’d had too much alcohol…so he didn’t like pubs. Still, he sat on a wooden bench in front of the pub with his glass of coke and looked at the harbour. It almost looked like something on the Riviera in the clear hard sunlight.
“Meet me at the Cottage Inn,” Sutton had said. “I need to pop home and pick up some things-“
“Then I’ll meet you at your place-“
“No, it’s not safe. This thing I’m involved with at the moment…Just meet me at the pub, Fin. Okay?”
“Sure. Fine. Whatever. Did I tell you I’m going out with this girl?”
A pause.
“What? Really?”
“Yes. And she’s not actually bad looking.”
Sutton gave a soft laugh.
“That’s great. We’ll talk more about it when I come meet you.”
“You know I’m passing up on a date right now.”
“It’s too early in the day for romance…”
“She can’t get enough of me.”
“Well. I appreciate the sacrifice to your frenetic love life. See you in an hour.”
So he’d taken a shower and then gotten the bus. It had been a long walk from the bus stop in the centre to the pub, which was more a converted brick river cottage than an actual drinking establishment. Fin took a seat outside not because it was pleasant to sit in the sun, but because it was the furthest place within the establishment’s boundaries away from any other patrons. He looked at his watch: Sutton was late. Fin thought about getting his laptop out and going on line, but he didn’t trust public Wi-Fi systems, so he left the laptop inside its bag.
He didn’t really pay attention to the first fire engine as it roared past on the road on the other side of the pub, but he did to the second one. He turned around in his seat just in time to see the red flashing lights speed down the road away from him.
It was then that he saw the large plume of smoke rising above the harbourside buildings, issuing almost exactly from the spot where Sutton’s apartment was located…at least according to Fin’s calculations.
He left the pub without bothering to finish his coke.
He walked at a distinctly brisk pace towards the tower of smoke. He took Cumberland Road. He passed small groups of people who had stopped and were pointing; they annoyed him; it was like dodging stilted traffic…not that he drove, or had ever driven. His laptop bag banged against his hip as he walked; that annoyed him too; he hadn’t expected to be running anywhere, which was pretty much what he was doing. He couldn’t even call Sutton, he thought irately. It was probably nothing to do with him anyway. Probably a coincidence. Probably someone’s boat was on fire. Stupid boat owners. Who could afford a boat in this economic climate anyway?
But when he turned in to the entranceway to the Baltic Wharf Estate, he wasn’t really surprised to see that it was indeed Sutton’s apartment that had ignited. Two fire engines were parked at angles to the building, their ladders extended, firemen at their tips tackling the blaze. Further out, a semi-circle of residents had gathered to watch and point.
Smoke on the water, Fin thought, before the terror overcame him.
Sutton couldn’t be dead.
He just couldn’t be.
Fin went in to the Baltic Wharf Estate to find out.
◆◆◆
CHAPTER 14
Bellafont sat completely motionless on one of the side settees in the dinette area, like a bird of prey on a perch. He appeared lucid for the first time in three days, with no tremors or twitches. The skin of his face looked dirty and raw, as if he had been scratching at his beard fretfully. He was staring out of the window. The blinds were drawn, but the slats were open; the interior of the vehicle was dim, but you could still see out. Clive assumed Bellafont was looking at the stones – across the road, they could clearly be seen, odd shapes like rock trolls ill at ease, or on guard duty – and perhaps thinking of that long ago time: the first war, when this place had been part of a city.
He spoke then, making Clive jump.
“What have you found out about him?”
His voice was soft, almost dreamy.
“Nothing,” Clive admitted, ashamed in that moment. “There was nothing in his flat. No contact list, telephone book, letters from friends. Not even any photographs.”
“Nothing?”
“There’s the safe…but we can’t get it open. We’ll keep trying…”
“You have nothing.”
Clive shook his head, but he couldn’t refute it, not really.
“Paintings. Portraits. But nothing else. I left Jeb and Dook there. To see who came, when the light of the ruination reached them.”
“Good. What of the abode itself?”
“Too lavish for a man who paints portraits for a living. And yet, at the same time…frugal.”
“Hm. A contradiction.”
Bellafont was silent. He looked down at his hands, marvelling at them as if they were new.
“He contributed at the Purge?” He asked.
“Yes. He gave over £30,000.”
“And this society’s value of his abode?”
“Quarter of a million,” Clive said. “Maybe even a half a million.”
Bellafont turned to him then. He had a large open smile on his face.
“So we know something then,” he said.
Clive was confused.
“We do?”
“We do. We know that he has more secrets than most. And why would a man keep so many secrets, do you think?”
“I don’t…I don’t know.”
Bellafont nodded, and returned to staring out of the window.
But he spoke then, in his soft dreamy voice.
“Fear. Or shame. Or both even.”
“But what is he afraid of?”
Bellafont closed his eyes, as if meditating.
“What we are all afraid of: the world. Of joining it. Or being rejected by it. The world takes. It very rarely gives.”
“It took his mother when he was very young. She died in a boating accident.”
Bellafont frowned.
“He told you this at the Purge?”
“Yes.”
“What about the Repeating Dream? Did he tell you that?”
The Repeating Dream was something Clive broached at the Purge: what dream did you have – and continued to have – over and over again? The answers were usually very illuminating.
You can’t hide from your own subconscious.
“Yes,” Clive said. “He told me that he was in charge of a maze. A stone one, thousands of years old: the walls were crumbling, plant roots split the floors, climbing ivy crawled over the stonework. He said there was something valuable at the centre of the maze that he had to keep safe. He didn’t know what it was, only that it was unique, irreplaceable. But people kept coming for it. People who were mindless, rotting, half-dead, no better than animals. He usually woke when he was overwhelmed by these creatures.”
Bellafont smiled again.
“He’s a Protector,” he said, turning those blind-like eyes on Clive. “Which means he’ll never give up the boy. Ever.”
“What shall we do next?”
Bellafont was silent.
Then:
“Send in Tamarrand.”
Clive nodded, and opened the motorhome door.
Tamarrand waited patiently outside. He was slim, tall, twenty one years old, with messy blonde hair and a thin gold goatee. His dark shirt was now as ripped as his jeans were. The side of his face was puffy and swollen, and the beginnings of a bruise was showing on the bridge of his nose and under his eyes. It made him look artificially tired.
“Come in, Tamarrand,” Clive said.
Hesitantly, the boy entered the motorhome. Clive shut the door behind him.
In the dim interior, the boy blinked compulsively until he could see.
Bellafont rose to his feet.
The boy immediately looked at the floor. Ashamed, Clive thought; he knew the feeling well. They were none of them worthy of Bellafont’s graces.
“Bellafont,” the boy whispered.
He started to cry.
“Hush, Tamarrand. Hush. No tears for deeds unfinished; only resolution to finish them by other means. Priatt brought upon you these wounds of the flesh?”
Bellafont indicated the swellings and cuts on Tamarrand’s face.
“Yes,” the boy said.
“You are fast, Tamarrand.”
“He was faster, Bellafont. He’s…”
“Yes?”
Tamarrand ventured to look Bellafont in the eye then.
“He’s the Coosjak,” he said, as if what he was saying was blasphemy.
Perhaps it was.
Clive’s skin bristled with alarm. The Coosjak? No, he couldn’t be…he was just a man.
“Why do you say that, Tamarrand?” Bellafont asked.
The boy shook his head but said, “he can’t be killed.”
“Can he not?”
“The knife would not pierce his flesh.”
“You tried?”
“Yes. He…he knows where we are. Without even seeing us. I was careful, I was quiet, I moved fast…but he was already there.”
Bellafont was silent for a long time, staring at the boy’s bowed head.
Then he placed his hand upon it.
“Go outside, Tamarrand. Rest. Take in the stones, and remember how Fahl almost gave up…but continued with conviction to victory.”
The boy nodded, then left the motorhome hurriedly.
“He can’t be the Coosjak,” Clive blurted out.
Bellafont seemed unaffected.
He returned to his seat in the dinette area.
“He can’t be,” Clive insisted.
Bellafont took a deep breath.
“He might be.”
Clive felt as if someone had stolen his breath away.
“How…how can you believe that? If you believe that-“
“If you decide not to believe something, it can make it more real,” Bellafont said. “Your conscious disregard gives it power.” If his words were wise, then they were lost on Clive, because he didn’t understand what he was saying. “Remember, the Coosjak was just a man once. Nothing more, nothing less.”