The Artisans

by J G Alva

  “That’s because there is no other way to put it. Go upstairs with Toby.”

  Toby stood in the doorway, interested despite himself.

  “I just attacked a man with a poker,” she said. “I killed a man with an arrow. I think I can handle this.”

  “That’s not what this is about.”

  She checked him.

  “Then what’s it about?”

  Sutton sighed.

  “I don’t want you to see me do this.”

  She stared at him, and then turned to look at Darren. Sutton had secured his hands and feet to one of the kitchen chairs. He was still unconscious, but his breathing was fine. Sutton had been impressed by the size of the lump on the back of his head; Aimee hadn’t held anything back.

  “I know what you do for a living-“

  “No. You think you do. But you’ve not seen it. I’d like to keep it that way.”

  “Why? What’s the difference between knowing what you do and seeing it?”

  Sutton shook his head. She didn’t understand. But he was simply too tired to argue with her.

  He turned to Toby.

  “Go upstairs. Okay? Don’t come down until I tell you to.”

  Toby nodded, and then left the room.

  “Fin?”

  Fin looked up from the sofa by the window. He had Darren’s mobile in his hand.

  “I’m not really that good with phones,” he said. “I know some guys but…”

  “No. That will take too long. I’ll do it the old fashioned way.”

  ◆◆◆

  Aimee watched Sutton pour the cold water down the back of Darren Board’s neck.

  He came awake with a gasp, his back arching. He couldn’t move much, because of the rope, and that became all too evident to him in those first few moments of wakefulness. He looked down stupidly at his hands…as if he couldn’t work out what was going on. He tested his bonds; they remained steadfast. His attention momentarily fixed on the IV trailing out of the inside of his wrist. His eyes followed it to a makeshift stand beside the chair. Dot stood near it, displaying the ghosts of proprietary pride: she had been a nurse a long time ago, but she still remembered some things.

  “Detective Constable Darren Board,” Sutton said, circling the chair to stand in front of him.

  Groggily, Darren looked up.

  He squinted at Sutton. He looked to be in pain. Headache, Aimee thought. From the blows with the poker.

  She had hit him hard.

  “Wha…?” Darren croaked. He squeezed his eyes shut.

  Sutton rapped the kitchen table with his knuckles.

  Darren opened his eyes at the sound.

  “On your right, you will see a lovely little impromptu IV drip going into the veins in your arm,” Sutton explained. “In the bag is vodka.”

  “No,” Darren moaned, more aware in that moment. He struggled harder against his restraints. “Get it off me, get it…”

  Sutton slapped him. There must have been some force behind it, because the sound was loud. Darren’s head whipped to the side from the blow.

  He made a strange sound, like he was choking.

  “Don’t worry,” Sutton said. “We have an experienced nurse on site. She’ll regulate how much goes into your bloodstream, so you won’t get poisoned.”

  Darren brought his head around to look at Sutton. A large red mark marred one cheek.

  “What…what are you doing?”

  The strength was coming back into his voice.

  “How long has it been since you had a drink?” Sutton asked mildly.

  Darren stared at him. Defiance flashed in his eyes.

  “I’m a police officer,” he said.

  “Three years?”

  “I’m a police officer,” he repeated. “You’re unlawfully holding an officer of the law against his will. You can get six months imprisonment just for-“

  “Three years,” Sutton said, talking over him. “Was that before or after you joined the Church of the New Artisans?”

  Darren stopped talking.

  He started at Sutton, trying to work him out.

  “You came looking for the boy,” Sutton said.

  Darren shook his head. He coughed. There was some colour in his cheeks.

  The alcohol was beginning to affect him, Aimee thought.

  “You’re the one who spoke to Pat,” Darren said. “Sutton. Sutton Mills.”

  “How do you feel?” Sutton asked, leaning close to look into his eyes. “Do you feel good?”

  Slowly, the younger man licked his lips.

  “No,” he said, but his voice lacked conviction.

  “You never stop wanting to drink,” Sutton said. “Or so I’ve heard.”

  “I stopped,” Darren said, and there was a wavering note of pride in his voice. “Three years sober.”

  “Not after tonight.”

  “Doesn’t…doesn’t count.”

  “Did you start drinking because your brother died?”

  “Fuck you,” Darren said. His cheeks were now a bright, vivid red. He strained against the ropes, angry. “Don’t talk about my brother.”

  “Fair enough. You drunk yet?”

  The anger leaked out of Darren’s eyes. He hung his head.

  “No.”

  “You sure?”

  “Not drunk.”

  “Did the Cult help you stop drinking?”

  “Fuck you.”

  “Everybody needs a crutch.”

  “Not…not me.”

  “What’s the passcode to your phone?”

  Darren’s head came up. Now his eyes appeared unfocused, murky.

  “What?”

  “Your passcode.”

  “Why?”

  “I want to talk to Bellafont.”

  Slowly, Darren shook his head.

  “He won’t come and meet you,” he said. “He’s too paranoid.”

  “He will if I tell him he can have the boy.”

  Aimee felt the hackles rise on the back of her neck. She was sure Sutton was play acting, to get what he needed out of Darren…but his tone was so believable, that she felt herself doubting him.

  Darren frowned. His head had begun swaying slightly from side to side.

  “You’re giving him the boy?”

  Sutton shrugged.

  “Why not?”

  Unbelievably, Darren laughed.

  “You’re worse than me,” he said, after the laughter had petered out.

  “Oh?”

  Darren groaned. He muttered something under his breath.

  “What was that?” Sutton asked, cocking his head toward Darren.

  “I said, fine, call him.”

  “Passcode?”

  “One five nine five.”

  Sutton turned to look at Fin, as did Aimee.

  Fin said brightly, “I’m in. What’s Bellafont’s number?”

  Sutton turned back to Darren.

  Darren shook his head, as if to clear it.

  “It’s under Poppy,” he said. He was starting to slur his words.

  “Poppy?” Sutton said. “Why Poppy?”

  Darren gave them a sloppy grin.

  “Why not?”

  “Call it,” Sutton said to Fin, his eyes on Darren.

  “You sure?” Fin was holding up the phone.

  “Yes. Do it.”

  ◆◆◆

  When the phone call was over, everyone looked a little shell shocked.

  Even though Aimee had known what Sutton was going to propose to Bellafont, actually hearing it play out over the phone had made it all suddenly real. There was the same kind of glassy sheen in Fin’s eyes, when she looked at him. This was dangerous, and the only one who didn’t seem to realise it was Sutton.

  She turned to him and started, “if we-“

  Sutton punched Darren in the face.

  It was so sudden, and so shocking, that for a moment Aimee was frozen.

  Darren rocked in the chair, crying out.

  Blood splas
hed over Dot, who flinched and made an involuntary noise.

  Sutton punched Darren again.

  This time Darren cried out, a high warbling child-like yell.

  Aimee rushed forward.

  “Jesus Christ, Sutton, stop!”

  Fin said, “oh my fuck…”

  Sutton’s arms were flailing at Darren, hitting his head from either side, one punch, two, three, four, and Darren’s face was so covered in blood in such a short space of time that he looked like he had been in a road accident.

  Aimee got hold of Sutton’s arms around the biceps and used all her might to pull him away from the policeman.

  For a moment, there was no give – it was like she was tackling a bear – but then she braced a foot against the door to the stairs and heaved with all her might.

  Sutton stumbled back, out of range, a fist swinging around to hit Darren again but missing him by mere inches.

  Sutton turned on her, an animal gone wild, no recognition in his face, just a roaring terrible rage, unlike anything she had seen in anyone before.

  It terrified her.

  Automatically, she put her hands up to defend herself.

  “Sutton, Sutton, Sutton, Jesus, stop it, stop it, stop it,” she cried out, talking so fast the words almost blended together.

  Something came into his eyes then, some recognition, and he lowered his fists.

  “I’m done,” he said. He was breathing heavily. “I’m done.”

  Sutton walked past her, passed Dot, and then went into a kitchen cupboard to get a glass and pour himself a drink of water.

  Aimee looked at Darren Board.

  His nose was broken. The flesh around one eye was swelling up. His lips were like boxer’s lips, swollen to twice the size, and split in half a dozen places. There was blood coming from his nose, his mouth, his cheeks, his hairline. His own mother might not have recognised him.

  Darren was making a strange sound, like a fidgeting baby, his head lolling to one side.

  ◆◆◆

  CHAPTER 21

  After the phone call was done, there was silence for a moment in the motorhome.

  Bellafont stared at Clive, but he wasn’t really seeing him. Still, Clive fidgeted nervously. The phone was in his hand, and he put it out of sight in his pocket; Bellafont didn’t like to see it, even if he appreciated the necessity for such a device, and the irony: using the Ravenan’s technology to destroy them.

  Plus, things stopped working around Bellafont. Devices mysteriously shorted out. Phones mysteriously died.

  It was as if his very presence was a threat to the machines.

  Bellafont’s eyes flickered then, like a lizard’s.

  “He won’t give up the boy,” he said.

  “No,” Clive agreed. “It’s a trap.”

  Bellafont didn’t seem convinced however.

  “It’s all happening as it did before,” he pointed out. “The time is right.”

  “You think this is it?” Clive said nervously. “The War?”

  Slowly, Bellafont nodded.

  He looked tired and, almost as if to illustrate it, he leaned on the kitchen sink, as if the weariness was overwhelming him.

  “But it’s a trap,” Clive insisted.

  “The Coosjak was tricky,” Bellafont reminded him.

  “If he is the Coosjak.” He still didn’t want to believe it. If he was the Coosjak, he might very well accomplish what he had failed to accomplish the last time.

  Bellafont nodded again.

  He turned to stare at his open palm, as if to divine some sacred knowledge from it. Clive could see the dirt tracked into the lines of his hand, as if someone had filled in the important bits with pen.

  “The Bear,” Clive said, suddenly inspired. “The Bear can be your messenger.”

  Bellafont fixed those strange eyes on Clive.

  “Yes,” he said. He straightened, revitalised. “Yes. The Bear. Send for him.”

  Clive rose from his seat.

  “And get the others ready,” Bellafont added.

  “All of them?”

  “All of them,” Bellafont confirmed. “Tell them, the War is here. Tell them that tonight, everyone is a Soldier.”

  ◆◆◆

  Sutton was a long time in the kitchen, staring at nothing, drinking his water.

  But when he came back, he was the old Sutton once again.

  Fin couldn’t help but feel a little trepidation. The man had lost his shit, after all.

  “Are you ready for this?” Sutton asked.

  Fin tried to swallow, but his throat was as dry as the Sahara.

  “Not really,” he said eventually. “I keep telling you, I’m not good at shit like this.”

  “It’s fine. Just stay in the underpass.”

  “But they have to see me?”

  “Just a glimpse. To draw them out.”

  “I don’t look anything like him-“

  “But the hair and the heights about the same. And from a distance, that’s all they can see. It’ll be enough.” He turned to the others. “In one hour this will all be over and done with. Okay?”

  Aimee stepped forward. Tentatively, she said, “I know why you didn’t want me to see what you do.”

  She indicated Darren, still tied to the chair. His moaning had tapered off, and now he was sleeping, but noisily, coughing on the blood in his throat and his injuries, but sleeping through it nonetheless, the vodka doing its job.

  “Oh?” Sutton looked wary.

  “You can’t kill him, Sutton,” she said. “Bellafont, I mean. It’s wrong.”

  Sutton shook his head.

  “There’s no other way to stop him.”

  “The police-“

  “They can’t help. Not with this. You know that.”

  Aimee stared at him. She bit her lip, unhappy.

  “He’s right,” Toby said from the door to the stairs, surprising them all. “Nothing else will stop him. He’s not delusional…or not just delusional. He totally believes in everything he’s doing. And worse: he thinks he’s helping everyone – the human race – by doing it.”

  “But why does it have to be you?” She asked Sutton.

  “It won’t be-“

  “You know what I mean.”

  Sutton looked around at all of them then, and on each face was the same expression: a deep unease. As if they were all being pulled down a difficult road, one which they did not want to tread.

  Perhaps it was the feeling you get when your morality is under threat, Fin thought.

  “If not me, then who?” Sutton challenged her.

  Nobody had an answer for him.

  But of course there wasn’t, because they didn’t know anybody else who could do what Sutton was going to be doing.

  He turned to Fin.

  “Ready?”

  Fin nodded. In truth, he thought he might shit himself.

  “Then let’s go.”

  ◆◆◆

  “This is his car,” Pat said, straightening up after checking the interior.

  Pointe looked around, scanning the buildings; Pat did the same. The line of five storey Georgian houses were mostly dark in their journey down the gentle slope of the hill. At this hour, the streets were deserted, although Pat saw a car turn off the roundabout toward the village at the end of the road. Other than that, there was silence.

  Why was his car here? Pat could only assume that Darren had done what he himself had done: tracked him to his last location using his car’s GPS. The betrayal still stung. It made his back throb in counterpoint to it.

  Four other police officers joined them, parking on the one way street around the corner. They were all Pointe’s men; Pat knew Mathew Thomas and James Wilkinson, but he didn’t know the other two.

  “What do you want to do?” Pat asked.

  Pointe gestured toward the houses.

  “Start knocking on doors.” He turned to the men. “Teams of two people. I want you to go door to door. Find out if anybody saw anyth
ing. We’re looking for DC Darren Board. But if located, do not approach. Am I understood?”

  The men nodded, one unit, focused, intent.

  “Go,” Pointe directed, and they went, crossing the road in the dark, somehow disturbing figures in the early hours of the morning, in their dark clothes, moving with clandestine purpose.

  “What are we going to do?” Pat asked.

  “We’ll check the rural part of this area. You said you met this guy up by the Observatory? Maybe Darren followed you up there.” The detective gestured to the sloping patches of grass behind Pat.

  Pat turned.

  This part of Clifton had no streetlights. Concrete pathways cut through the greenery, winding between the trees like veins on the back of your hand.

  Pointe pulled a torch from his pocket, and then switched it on. The light flickered, and Pointe tapped it a couple of times against his palm; the light settled into a strong dependable beam.

  “Shall we?”

  They walked side by side. Orange light from streetlights on the other side of this natural area poked holes in the shadows, but it was diffuse; most of the light came from the bridge. Trees scattered the light, moving in a light breeze and making strange patterns on the ground. They couldn’t hope to cover all the ground, not between just the two of them, and Pat wasn’t really sure what Pointe was looking for out here. Another body? The thought made Pat cold.

  Had Darren seen him talking to Sutton Mills?

  Had he followed Sutton back to where he was holding the boy?

  Pat didn’t think so. He felt momentarily thankful for Sutton’s paranoia; it had probably saved the boy’s life.

  They pushed through a screen of bushes into another open area, surrounded on two sides by winding concrete paths. At the top of the hill was a silhouette of a tower: the Observatory. It was strange, to be back here so soon, under such different circumstances. Although…were things really that different? The place was absolutely silent. Pointe flashed his torch over the ground at their feet, but all Pat could make out was the indistinct shapes of fallen leaves and discarded drinking cartons. He should have brought his glasses with him. There was nothing wrong with his long distance vision…but his eyes could do with a bit of a tune up when it came to reading. For a moment he couldn’t remember where his glasses were. Then he did: the glove box of his car.