by Andy Monk
He should say something to them, but he was a man of violence not comfort and so he left them as Dorry rode into the camp with their horses. Dismounting in one fluid jump her eyes took in the corpses and the prisoners littered about the grass in the thin starlight.
She nodded and hurried over to the naked girl on the blanket. He followed a pace behind.
The girl was young, around the same age as Dorry, her dark hair long and feral about her face, dried blood crusted around her nose. They’d put leg irons on her to stop her running away, but otherwise she was unbound. Dorry took off her jacket and wrapped it around the girl’s shoulders before sitting beside her. The girl’s eyes flicked between the two of them, lingering on him. He pulled off the black sash he wore and threw it aside.
“It’s ok…” Dorry whispered, “…you’re safe now. It’s over.”
It was a long way from being over, but the girl let Dorry put her arm around her and she resisted for only a second or two before allowing herself to be held.
“I know…” Dorry said, stroking the girl’s hair as tears consumed them both, “…I know…”
He turned towards the other prisoners, feeling like a voyeur to their shared grief.
They were all face down in the grass, hands behind their backs and cruelly hog-tied to their ankles. The nearest woman had turned her head towards him, craning her neck to see what was happening. Hope and fear flickered across both her face and her soul.
“I’m here to help,” he said, before sliding the knife from his belt and crouching over her. Despite his words her fear flared above her hope at the sight of the blade.
He cut through the rope connecting her wrists to her ankles then freed her hands. She grimaced and rolled onto her back, she was older than the first girl, in her early twenties, but from the look on her face and the images that flashed into his head as he’d briefly touched her it was she’d suffered the same fate.
There was nothing he could do but free the others, another woman and a girl of maybe twelve. The final prisoner, he was surprised to find, was a young man who didn’t move when he sliced through the bindings.
“They beat him bad when he tried to stop them…” the first woman he’d released explained, her eyes flicked over to where Dorry was still comforting the girl on the blanket, “…y’know…”
She tore off the last of the ropes from her ankles before hurling them away. Gingerly climbing to her feet she hobbled over to him, her face stretched in pain as the blood returned to her limbs.
“Brave guy,” he said, before rolling the young man onto his back.
He was unconscious and his face was so badly bruised and caked in dried blood that he didn’t immediately recognise Sye Hallows.
The Widow
She went to Corner Park.
Whenever she needed to think she usually found herself in some place sipping whiskey until either the answers came or she stopped caring a damn about what had been bothering her in the first place. She decided this time it was best to head for a place where there would be no booze to be had. She didn’t think there was an answer, but this time she needed to give a damn about it regardless.
She sat on one of the benches and let the slight breeze, as warm and gentle as a lover’s breath, caress her skin. She still had the Mayor’s pink parasol and was grateful for its shade in the blistering heat, she didn’t think keeping it qualified as selling her soul and he had been quite insistent she have it. Still, she’d burn it when she got home all the same.
It was too frilly and girly for her, but that was the least of her worries.
A baby. Of my own…
She didn’t know why she believed the Mayor, whatever the hell he was he was a manipulative, evil bastard, but, strangely, she did believe him.
Somethings were too outrageous to be lies.
Guy Furnedge.
How typical. She’d always had a vague notion the world didn’t fit together quite right, like it was a dresser built by a drunken carpenter; none of the drawers slid home smoothly, the shelves weren’t level and anything of value you put into it was liable to disappear down some unseen crack or hole.
She could see for miles up here, endless horizons seemingly stretching halfway to the edge of the world. And the only man as far as her eye could see who could give her the baby she’d always yearned for was Guy fucking Furnedge.
Jesus wept…
She should have laughed in the Mayor’s face when he’d told her. Or spat in it. Instead, she’d stood there gawping at him as the wheels spun and spun in her head to no evident purpose.
The Mayor had given a little shrug, “I don’t expect you to believe me. I suspect you’d doubt anything I say, but, I assure you, it is true.”
“Horseshit,” she’d replied.
She’d always been a great believer in the idiom, when all else fails start cussing.
“Why do you think I went to all that trouble to get you to marry him?”
“Like killing his wife? Like killing Tom?”
“Tom fell off his horse. It was an accident.”
“And Lorna?”
“She was a very sick woman.”
“That ain’t exactly a no…”
“She was a very sick woman.”
“So you killed two people over some mad-assed idea that Guy’s the only man in town who could get me pregnant? Jesus, you’re even more fucked up than I thought you were.”
“You know Molly, I’d hoped maybe honesty and reason might work with you…”
“Even if I believed this crap, why would it even matter to you if I get pregnant or not?”
“This town needs children Molly. The world is dying, there aren’t enough children being born. Civilization has stagnated and is collapsing inwards because, since The Reaping, each generation is smaller than the preceding one. I can change that. By ensuring the most suitable people are paired with each other. Romantic? No. Effective? Yes. Haven’t you noticed there are more children here? You and Tom travelled before you rolled into my little town. You saw the wider world. You know that’s true.”
She’d looked away then, because that, at least, was true. There were more children here. She’d noticed almost immediately. It had given her hope she might finally catch with child, that the town was blessed somehow.
And if the Mayor’s explanation for the town’s fertility was right… then maybe some of the other things he’d said were also true.
“How can you know?” she’d demanded, “That Guy would…”
“There are ways. Tests to confirm the probability. In the end, like many things Molly, it all comes down to the numbers.”
“And you’ve done these tests?”
The Mayor nodded.
“And I didn’t fucking notice?”
The Mayor chuckled.
She’d stared at him. Part of her wanted to question him more about what he was, about the black candy, about what Amos had seen at the Dark Carnival. About Tom and why he’d bought the shit he had. So many questions, but the only thing that kept coming into her mind was the thought of a baby. Her baby. The one thing she’d wanted more than anything in the world. The only damn thing if truth be told.
Her heart’s desire.
The Mayor had looked at her for a while, perhaps seeing the confusion on her face.
“You’re safe here,” he’d said again, “you and Amelia both. You don’t have to trust me, or like me or understand me. The things you know about me probably terrify you. None of that matters. You are safe. You are special. No harm will come to you.”
“Why am I special?”
He’d reached out and rested his hand against her face. His touch was too cool and too smooth.
“Just trust me Molly, just trust me.”
He’d spun on his heels and strolled back toward the Residence leaving her mind spinning.
As he disappeared through the front door she noticed a figure in a first-floor window. A dark-haired woman with a striking face. Giselle.
&n
bsp; “Yeah,” she’d muttered, “like fuck I’m going to trust you.
*
She felt alone.
It wasn’t an unusual feeling for her. She’d felt alone most of her life. She’d felt alone while her father abused her, she’d felt alone when she’d run away from him, she’d felt alone as she’d drifted from town to town regardless of whether she was with some man or not. She’d felt alone in the saloons as she got drunk and let strange men persuade her they were different, she’d felt alone in darkened rooms stinking of dried sweat and hopelessness as she’d discovered they never were. Even with Tom, who had loved her and cared for her (in his own dumb-assed way) she had felt alone.
But she wasn’t sure she’d ever felt this alone.
She’d let Amos into her life – and she was starting to suspect into her heart as well – and now he’d run away when she’d needed him most. Leaving her to the care of a monster.
She closed her eyes and let the parasol drop so the sun could warm her face.
It was madness, of course. Even if Guy could give her a child, she couldn’t, she simply couldn’t…
Could she?
What sacrifices could you make for your dreams?
She raised the parasol and opened her eyes again.
That was too much. She could not tie herself to a man she detested in the hope he might give her a child. All on the word of a monster who manipulated people, played with their minds and their lives for his own purposes, which she didn’t for a moment consider were motivated by any desire to save humanity. Not to mention a monster who’d sat and watched his chums suck the life from a young woman.
If only Amos were here.
Strange that the company of a man who said so little, a man tortured by his past and broken by the cruelty of men, had made her feel, for just a little while, that she wasn’t alone.
She still had Amelia of course, but she feared before long she too would be taken from her and she’d be completely alone again.
Where are you Amos?
She climbed to her feet. She needed to pick up Amelia before the girl drove the Sheriff mad.
Out to the east there was a smear of smoke climbing into the sky, but she turned away without giving it much thought. It was just a blaze out on one of the farms, or a summer grass fire.
It was nothing important…
The Deputy
He woke feeling refreshed and invigorated.
Finally, he felt good again. It was going to be his last day in Hawker’s Drift, his last day as a lawman. And he was going to kill a lot of people.
That was enough to put a smile on most men’s faces, surely?
He checked his own reflection as he dressed. There was no flicker of anything much on the man in the mirror’s face. Given all he’d endured that was an achievement in itself.
Smith’s poison had left him heavy-limbed and leaden-headed for days. He’d claimed to be suffering a chill and hadn’t ventured out of his room. Mrs Thurlsten had taken a message to the Sheriff, though it didn’t sound like the old fool was much concerned about him missing work. His landlady had brought meals to his room, which he’d picked at. He’d not been himself at all and hadn’t even enjoyed beating the bitch, letting her scurry off after a couple of half-hearted slaps.
The longer he’d lain and sweated in his darkened room the more he’d felt the tug of the road and remembered the dark pleasures to be found in his old mistress’ embrace.
Then the Mayor had come to see him.
At first, he’d assumed the visit was to demonstrate some degree of concern about his health, but, mercifully, his boss hadn’t even been aware he’d been sick. He hated being made a fuss of, he hated being noticed, in fact he hated almost everything about being around people. Save the special times when he could take off his mask, of course. Then he liked being about people just fine and dandy…
The relief he’d taken at the Mayor’s disinterest in his well-being had vanished when he’d revealed the purpose of his unexpected social call.
“I think it’s time to leave Kate Godbold be…”
“It is?”
The Mayor’s words were enough to distract him from the faint throbbing behind his eyes that, by then, had been all that remained of Smith’s nigger juju.
The Mayor had sighed, “She annoyed me, but my pique has passed. It’s time to move on. Forget about the past, just like Kate will.”
He’d no idea what the Mayor was prattling about, other than calling time on his fun like he was some snotty-nosed kid who had to come in for his supper and stop playing in the yard.
He’d nodded his understanding in his usual unresponsive manner, but inside he’d seethed. He didn’t want no supper! He was having fun! If the old nigger and his juju couldn’t keep Blane from his fun, why should the Mayor?
“I do appreciate the work you do for me Deputy,” the Mayor had said, replacing his hat, “and I will be sending more your way. No need to worry about that.”
“Happy to be of assistance,” he’d said, seeing him to the door and resisting the urge to add the Mayor to his body count. He wasn’t stupid.
“You know Deputy, that’s one of the things I like about you,” the Mayor had grinned in the doorway, “you always give excellent customer service!”
Once the door had swung shut and the Mayor’s boots were creaking on the stairs, his face started twitching, little spasms quaking the usually becalmed flesh. By the time the front door closed, the mask had split completely into a twisting mass of rage and he’d fallen to his knees like a gut-punched drunk.
He’d stayed there for a good ten minutes bringing himself back under control, watching the drool fall from his gaping mouth to pool on the worn floorboards and drip through the gaps between them.
Once he’d finally composed himself again, he’d straightened up and brushed himself down before confirming in the mirror that, outwardly at least, he had everything under control.
…excellent customer service!
His cheek twitched in the mirror. His nostrils flared. He felt his fingers trying to curl. He wanted to kill. He needed to kill. And that was when he’d finally decided to quit Hawker’s Drift.
But not without demonstrating his own unique customer service first.
*
He went downstairs at precisely seven o’clock, just like any other morning.
Mrs Thurlsten was putting his breakfast onto the table as he stepped into the kitchen. There was perfectly crisp bacon, eggs slightly undercooked just how he liked them, grits, some coarse bread still warm from the oven and a pot of strong black coffee to wash it down. He’d trained the bitch to get everything right and she knew what happened if the day didn’t start how he wanted it to.
He ate slow, like he did most things. Mrs Thurlsten stood quietly to one side, eyes lowered to the floor like he’d taught her. She didn’t chatter so much these days. She knew he liked things quiet and peaceful.
When he’d cleaned the plate and finished the last of his coffee, he threw his napkin on the plate and stood up.
“Will there been anything else, Deputy?” she asked. He could hear the quaver in her voice. Scared of what he might do to her and equally scared he would do nothing at all. He revolted and attracted her in equal measures.
“No, Mrs Thurlsten, there won’t be anything else…”
He strangled her slowly, releasing the pressure several times just as her eyes started to roll into unconsciousness, so he could savour her fear and pain. She thrashed and kicked when realisation dawned that this time he was playing the game to its conclusion, but she didn’t have a lot of strength in her. He loved the knowing that came into her eyes and he felt himself harden and his face slacken as the joy of it coursed through him.
Finally, he squeezed as hard as he could until there was a wonderful wet popping noise in her throat and she went deliciously limp in his arms.
He shivered. She was beautiful at last.
Once he’d wrung every drop of delight from
her death, and his mask had settled back into place, he dropped the garbage on the floor.
Retrieving the napkin, he dabbed beads of sweat from his forehead. He poured himself a final cup of coffee and savoured both it and the dark joy rushing through him as he stared down into Liza Thurlsten’s sightless eyes.
“Fair’s fair, you do make a fine cup of coffee…”
A sniggering little laugh squirmed out of his lips as he put the coffee mug down. No time to stand around enjoying himself. As everyone always said, there was no rest for the wicked.
He put the breakfast things on a tray along with a hefty kitchen knife and went upstairs to the Thurlstens’ bedroom. George was as blissfully unaware of his wife’s death as he was about most things in the universe that didn’t live in a beer bottle. The wet snores changed in neither pitch nor volume as he entered the room, placed the tray on the floor and picked up the kitchen knife.
Even when he pulled open the curtains to let in enough light for him to enjoy the coming show dear old George kept on snoring.
He stirred a fraction when the sheet was pulled back revealing he was the kind of uncivilised man who slept naked, but before he woke Blane rolled him onto his back and clamped a hand over his mouth.
Then his eyes snapped open so quick they almost flew clean out of his head.
It seemed a knife in the chest woke up George real fine.
He thrashed about for a bit, eyes a bulging, but his struggles were even feebler than his wife’s. He hadn’t put the knife directly through his heart, didn’t want him dying too quick and easy after all. Where was the fun in that? However, his struggles soon subsided to nothing and the light faded from George’s eyes for the last time. Though, frankly, there never been too much in the way of light in George’s eyes to start with.
After inspecting himself in the mirror to ensure George hadn’t inconsiderately spurted blood all over his shirt – which would have been a real pain with his wife too busy being dead to scrub it clean for him - he went downstairs and washed his hands. There hadn’t been a great deal of blood, he’d aimed for the lung rather than the heart and what blood there was had been coughed up into his hand.