Son of Heaven

by Wingrove, David

  ‘But so do you.’

  ‘You think?’

  ‘Yeah… but that’s okay.’ She squeezed him again, gave him another small, soft kiss.

  He chuckled. ‘Stop it… I’ve got to get this cart back…’

  ‘Then get going. I’ll ’elp you.’

  He turned and began to push the cart again, feeling at once her presence there to his right, helping him.

  ‘Meg?’

  ‘Yes, my love?’

  ‘D’you think your dad’s all right?’

  She was silent a moment. ‘I don’t know. I was lookin’ at Mum, earlier on, before Dad got back. It’s just… I dunno… somethin’ in her face. She’s seemed so sad these last few weeks.’

  Peter took a long breath. ‘If I tell you something… will you promise not to say anything?’

  They had slowed almost to a standstill.

  ‘Maybe. Depends what it is.’

  ‘No, seriously. You’ve got to promise me.’

  ‘Okay. I promise.’

  ‘The other day, when you three went into Corfe and I stayed behind… I was in the garden and I heard something, and when I went over, I could see your mum standing at the sink…’

  ‘Yeah?’

  ‘And she was crying.’

  They had stopped, there in the darkness.

  ‘Cryin’?’

  ‘Sobbing her heart out.’

  He heard her sigh, sensed rather than saw her turn away.

  ‘Meg? What is it?’

  ‘I think somethin’s wrong. A few weeks back – remember? – when Dad was away for a couple of days...’

  ‘Seeing his cousin, over in Lulworth…’

  ‘Yeah…’ Only she didn’t mean yeah.

  ‘You mean, he wasn’t?’

  ‘I don’t know.’ Meg took his hands. She was trembling now. ‘It’s just… ’e’s not been well. Not for a long while. He keeps up a front, but… well, I’ve seen it. Seen ’ow tired he gets.’

  ‘So you think he might have gone to see someone?’

  ‘I don’t know. Only looking at him just now…’

  ‘He’s just tired, that’s all. The journey… the stress of it… it can’t have been easy.’

  ‘No… no, I guess not.’

  ‘And if there was something wrong, well… he’d have told us, wouldn’t he? Dad would certainly have known. You know what those two are like. They’re like brothers. They don’t keep anything from each other.’

  Jake was waiting for them near the church, his torch held high, as Peter and Megan emerged from the blackness of the lane.

  ‘Are you ready?’

  Peter looked to Meg, then looked back at his father and nodded.

  ‘Good. Then let’s go and sort this out.’

  The New Inn was just across the way. They went down the little alleyway at the side and out onto the patio. There, on the far side of the long, descending lawn, partway down the slope, was the outhouse. Normally Waite kept various bits and pieces there, fold-up chairs and empty barrels, crates of glasses and the like. For the moment, however, it was being used as a cell.

  ‘Jake…’ Waite said, coming across, his two sons shadowing him. ‘Peter…’

  All three, like Jake, were armed.

  Peter bowed his head. Jake was about to say something, but Peter got in first.

  ‘I’m sorry, Mister Waite. Last night… I didn’t mean to be disrespectful…’

  Waite blinked, then slowly began to smile. ‘S’okay, boy. But we gotta sort this. Can’t afford to let it drag.’

  ‘No, sir.’

  Jake looked to his son, proud of him at that moment. ‘Well?’ he said, turning his attention to Waite. ‘What’ve you found?’

  They went across, following the stout little man, who produced a key to the padlock and handed it to his son, then stood back a bit, gun raised, as he unlocked it.

  As the door swung open they were struck by the stench of urine and faeces.

  Jake grimaced. ‘Christ!’

  In the light of the torch he could see two of them huddled in the far corner, off to his left. They had been stripped to their underwear, their ankles and wrists bound with electrician’s tape. They looked bruised and beaten, and fearful. But they were much better off than their fellow. He lay unmoving on the straw to Jake’s right. From the look of him he was dead.

  ‘I thought—’

  Jake stopped, choking off his words, not wanting to get off on the wrong foot. He didn’t want to be arguing with Waite right from the start. For once he ignored the fact that Waite had done nothing to help the man – that he’d just left him there to die. Maybe he’d have died anyway. Only it spoke volumes of Waite’s attitude. He just wanted to kill the men and have done with it.

  He turned and looked at Waite, noting, as he did, the way Waite looked past him at the prisoners; the set look of hatred on his face.

  ‘Will!’ At Waite’s shout, his younger son stepped forward and handed Jake what looked like a lady’s make-up bag.

  ‘What’s this?’

  Waite gestured with his head towards one of the cowering figures. ‘It was on that one… S-s-stammerin’ S-s-stan. ’Is little goody bag. Things he stole…’

  Handing the torch to Waite’s boy, Jake unzipped the small velvet bag and looked inside. There were jewels and coins and…

  Jake looked up sharply, looked to the one Waite had indicated, then back at Waite. His whole countenance had changed.

  ‘Give me half an hour.’

  ‘Jake?’

  He thrust the bag into Waite’s hands, then turned to Peter.

  ‘Peter… get your gun… and spare ammunition. Then meet me by the well.’

  As Peter and Boy ran off, Jake checked his gun, then looked to Waite again.

  ‘What is it?’ Waite asked. ‘He taken some’at of yours there, Jake?’

  ‘Not mine,’ Jake answered, but he said no more, just set off, down the slope and through the gate in the fence, heading for the well.

  Jake ran across the empty space before the cottage, keeping low. At the back door he paused, then, lifting his head, took a quick glance inside.

  He looked back, to where Peter waited in the shadows with Boy, and gave him the signal. At once both boy and dog raced across, scuttling round the side of the building.

  Jake heard the faint click as Peter took off the safety.

  East Orchard was silent. Not a light shone anywhere. The cottage itself was enveloped in darkness, the moonlight on its ancient tiled roof revealing the only part of it to jut out above the surrounding vegetation.

  Jake took a long breath, steeling himself, then pulled the door open and went through, into the darkness of the kitchen. There he stopped, alert to the least noise, letting his pulse slow.

  He remembered sitting here, only a few days before, as Old Ma Brogan made him tea and chatted with him. Then this had seemed a fine place to spend an hour or two, but now the darkness seemed ominous.

  He walked across. It was dark and he had to feel his way; even so, there was no sign that anything was wrong. Nothing was broken, nothing spilled. Everything was as it had been.

  In the hallway, nothing. Only silence and the stale, musty smell of things.

  The living room was empty. So too the back room.

  Upstairs he paused, sniffing the air.

  If there’d been strangers here, they were here no more. The very silence of the house confirmed it. But they had been here. He was certain of it.

  He found her in her bedroom, laying beneath the sheets. At first he thought she was asleep. He couldn’t hear her sleeping, but then he’d heard that old people slept very lightly.

  Scrabbling in the bedside table he found a box of matches and lit the candle. In its burgeoning light he turned and saw at once.

  ‘Oh… Margaret…’

  They had slit her throat from ear to ear. Blood caked the pillow under her head.

  He leaned across and closed her sightless eyes, then bent close to gently k
iss her brow.

  Outside Boy barked.

  Jake went to the window and called down. ‘Peter! I’ll be right down.’

  He would come back in the morning and see to her. Until then…

  Jake stood, weary suddenly, all of the belief he’d had in the goodness of men drained from him. They didn’t have to do this. They could have taken what they wanted and let her be. Only no.

  He stood. He would leave the candle. Let it burn down.

  Let it all burn down.

  Maybe it was a good thing. Maybe she’d be spared what was to come. Who knew? Only he did know. He knew that this was evil. This nothing of an act.

  Outside Peter was waiting. ‘Well?’

  Jake shook his head.

  Boy barked again, as if he sensed something was wrong. Peter quietened him, but he too seemed agitated now.

  ‘What are you going to do?’

  But Jake was done with words. He set off, half running now, seeing in his mind what had to be done. Peter ran after him, for once struggling to catch up.

  As Jake came out onto the lawn of the New Inn once again, Waite took a step towards him. He was smiling, but, seeing the look on Jake’s face, the smile became a frown.

  ‘What’s up?’

  Jake pushed past him, pushed his son aside. For a moment he stood there in the doorway, looking in, then, throwing his gun down, he drew his hunting knife from his boot and, crossing the room in an instant, bent down and dragged the younger man – the stammerer – to his feet.

  ‘Who did it?’ he demanded. ‘Which of you two sick fuckers did it?’

  ‘I d-d… I d-d…’

  Jake’s voice was unforgiving. ‘You d-d what?’

  ‘Dad?’

  Peter was standing in the doorway now, tears streaming down his face.

  Jake turned, his face like stone. ‘Don’t dad me. You didn’t see what this bastard did!’

  ‘I d-d…’

  Jake turned and, bringing up his arm, drew the knife quickly, crisply, across the man’s throat, then let him fall. Seeing that, the other began to jabber fearfully. But Jake seemed inured to it. Kneeling close, he took the bloodied knife and wiped it on the man’s shirt.

  ‘Thieving we might have let you get away with, but murder…’

  Jake stood. For a moment he studied his handiwork. Saw how the one he’d cut struggled for each breath now, his bound hands scrabbling at his throat, trying vainly to stem the ebbing tide of blood. A strangled, gurgling noise coming from him.

  ‘Charlie…’

  Waite was standing in the doorway next to Peter. ‘Yeah?’

  ‘He’s all yours.’

  Jake was standing there, out on the lawn, holding Peter to him, when the shot rang out. A moment later Waite emerged. He came across.

  ‘What was it?’ he asked.

  Jake turned to him. ‘That bag… it was hers. I didn’t realize that at first. I must have seen it, sitting on the side, a hundred times. But what I did recognize was her earrings. Lovely silver earrings shaped like leaves. She always wore them.’

  Waite looked to Peter. ‘Well? Was I right or was I right? Scum they were! Nasty little cut-throats!’

  Peter looked suitably chastened. ‘You were right, Mister Waite.’

  ‘Good…’ He reached out and ruffled Peter’s hair. ‘We’ll make a proper citizen of you yet, my lad!’

  But Jake wasn’t so sure. Even so, he looked to Waite and nodded. ‘I’ll tell Tom it’s dealt with. You’ll see to the burials, yeah?’

  Waite nodded. His whole tone was softer now that things were settled. ‘Yeah… leave it with me.’

  ‘Good. Then we’ll see you later.’

  ‘Later?’

  ‘Yeah. There’s stuff we need to talk about.’

  But Waite clearly had heard nothing about what had happened back in Dorchester. He’d been too busy dealing with the prisoners.

  ‘Stuff?’

  ‘We need to call a council of war,’ Jake said. ‘Decide what we’re going to do.’

  ‘Things are that bad, huh?’

  ‘That bad.’ And, with a final nod, he took Peter’s arm and walked away, the thought of what he’d just done burning in his head, like the after-image of some awful, searing light.

  ‘Peter? Are you okay?’

  Peter looked up. It was Beth, Meg’s elder sister. She had left the others and come across to where he sat alone at one of the big trestle tables at the back of the New Inn.

  He liked Beth. Or rather, admired her. She was the rebel in the family, the one who never did what you thought she would. At seventeen she ought to have been married by now, maybe even had kids, but she wasn’t having any of that. She wanted a different life. She didn’t want to be an unpaid drudge, tied to some dishwater-dull farmer. Only what were the options?

  ‘I’m fine.’

  She sat, facing him, leaning in towards him and making a face. ‘Well, you could have fooled me, cuz. You’ve been sittin’ there with a face like a wet weekend.’

  ‘Have I?’ He almost laughed. Only he kept seeing it in his memory, and every time he did it cast the same dark shadow over things.

  That his own dad should have been capable of such an act.

  At the other table the other kids were chatting and laughing, sipping at glasses of the home-made lemonade that was Ma Waite’s specialty. Meg was among them, and from time to time she would glance at him, but she wouldn’t come across. Not after what he’d said.

  ‘You two havin’ a tiff?’ Beth asked, seeing where his eyes had gone.

  He looked back at her. ‘Yeah.’

  ‘I didn’t think you two ever argued.’

  ‘We don’t. Only today’s different.’

  ‘Yeah?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘All that stuff that’s been happening, you mean?’

  He nodded. He had heard it from his dad only an hour back. Had seen how worried it made him, like this was it.

  ‘Is that what they’re talkin’ about now in there?’

  Peter nodded. ‘Yeah, but it won’t be any use, though.’

  ‘How d’you mean?’

  ‘I mean… if it is the Chinese…’

  She laughed. ‘You really think…?’ But she could see he was serious.

  ‘Dad saw them. He saw the dragons on the craft. And then there’s the photograph…’

  ‘What photograph?’

  There was this friend of Dad’s, at market… he showed Dad a photograph. A polaroid. Only there haven’t been polaroids about since before the Collapse… they’re self-developing, see, and the chemicals that allow it to develop… Well, Dad thought about it and he couldn’t see how it could have survived, how it would have worked after all these years. So he had another look at it, and there, in the top corner on the back of the print, were four tiny Chinese characters… chops, you call them.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘Don’t you see? The guy who had the camera must have got it off them… off the Chinese, that is. Bought it, maybe, or stole it…’

  ‘And what were the Chinese doin’ with it?’

  Peter shrugged. ‘That’s not the point. The point is that if he did, then they must be here.’

  ‘The Chinese?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  Beth considered that a moment, then looked at him again. ‘What if it was made by the Chinese, but someone else brought it into this country? Some trader… that’s possible, isn’t it?’

  ‘Only…’

  ‘…you like your dad’s version better… yeah?’

  Peter smiled. In some ways Beth was much better suited to him than Meg. Meg would just have accepted what he’d said.

  ‘I’m not saying categorically that they are here, just that if they are…’

  ‘Then we’re all fucked…’

  ‘Beth!’ But he was grinning now. ‘What would your mother say?’

  ‘She’d say I was a big girl now…’

  Peter looked up, past Beth’s shoulder. Meg was coming
across.

  ‘What’re you two talking about?’

  Beth turned to face her little sister, exaggerating her country accent as she did. ‘We wuz tarkin’ Aparcollips. ’Bout ’em Chinese fellas comin’ ’ere ta Purbeck…’

  Peter giggled. The way she said it did make it seem rather funny. But Meg didn’t find it funny. She hated being teased.

  ‘You gonna come join us?’

  He looked down. Truth was, he didn’t want to. Not right then. He’d been enjoying Beth’s company. But he could see how much it had cost Meg to come across; how she’d had to swallow her pride.

  ‘Thanks,’ he said, looking to Beth as he stood.

  ‘You’re welcum, vine zur…’ Beth answered him, getting up and curtseying, like she was a milkmaid.

  He went round, took Meg’s arm. ‘I’m sorry…’ She looked up into his face. ‘Are you?’

  ‘Yeah… let’s have a nice evening, eh? Let’s worry about tomorrow when it comes.’

  Geoff Horsfield sat back, pointing the stem of his pipe at Harry Miller, who sat just across from him.

  ‘That’s all very well, ’Arry, only there’s far too few of us and we’ve no bloody time in which to do it!’

  The bar of the New Inn was packed, every table filled to overflowing. Everyone had turned up, it seemed, brought there by the news of the strange craft the men had seen at market.

  ‘Besides,’ Geoff went on, taking a match from his pocket and beginning to dig at the bowl, ‘if we want to set up proper defences then why don’t we use what we’ve got? I mean… we’ve a perfectly good castle out there…’

  ‘It’s a bloody ruin,’ John Lovegrove chipped in.

  ‘Bits of it. We could fill the gaps…’

  But Jake had heard enough. They had been talking around the subject for the best part of an hour now, and he was beginning to lose patience. He stood, raising his arms, calling the meeting to order.

  ‘Ladies… gentlemen… please… let’s address the real problem. What if they are here? Shouldn’t we be asking ourselves a few questions? Like… what do they want? And how is it going to affect us, here in Purbeck?’

  ‘Why don’t you go and ask ’em?’ Ted Gifford said, making everyone laugh.

  Jake shook his head. ‘I think you’re all missing the point. That craft, if it is Chinese, speaks of a highly advanced civilization. Christ… we didn’t have anything like that before the Collapse!’