by Tom Fletcher
The lies came easily now. Ever since Alan had slipped greasily from inside that snail’s shell, not far from Market Top, he’d felt like a new man, reborn from a snail mother. The touch of sunlight and moonlight worked like medicine: he’d slimed from out of hell into a fresh, light heaven. He just wished that Spider had had the opportunity to return to the sight of the sky as well.
Tromo nodded. ‘What if I up my demands again?’
Alan took the cigarette from his mouth and jabbed it straight into Tromo’s throat. There was a sizzle, a scream, a smell of burning, and then Alan had his hands around Tromo’s neck, his thumbs pushing into the hollow beneath his Adam’s apple. He could feel his lips drawn right back around his bared teeth. He could feel his heart shaking his ribs. ‘Listen to me, you fucking creep,’ he spat. ‘I want to kill you. My friends advised me to kill you. I could kill you, right here, right now. I’m desperate enough, and angry enough. Yeah, there’d be consequences, but even if I didn’t survive, you’d take no pleasure in it, because you’d be dead, and so you wouldn’t know. Just don’t fucking push me.’
A rain of crossbow bolts thudded into the ground all around them, raising clouds of ash. Alan barely even noticed, so intent was he on Tromo’s hated face. ‘You didn’t come alone, then?’ he sneered.
Tromo didn’t answer the question. ‘Even if you did survive, Billy wouldn’t and neither would Marion.’ Tromo’s voice was cracked and wavering, and tears of pain rolled down his cheeks.
Alan maintained the pressure on Tromo’s neck for a moment, and then threw him to the ground and spun away, cursing. ‘Fuck this,’ he said. ‘Fuck you. Bring my boy out here right now.’
Tromo crawled back towards the Pyramid, his red cloak twisted and filthy, and then got to his feet. ‘Hold fire,’ he shouted, holding one arm up. ‘Hold fire.’ He stumbled into the Pyramid’s cavernous antechamber.
‘Nice big porch to keep yer muddy boots in! Or is it just for hostages? Come on, Tromo! Let’s get this over with!’
No response. Alan’s stomach spasmed and a cold sweat sprang from his skin. Was he gone? He couldn’t have gone. He couldn’t have gone. Gone to kill his son, his wife …
Tromo returned, holding a chain in one hand. On the other end of it was a small figure in a brown cloak, hood up, wrists cuffed.
‘Here,’ Tromo said. He pulled down the hood. ‘Your son.’
‘Billy,’ Alan said, his voice catching. His son stood there in the dusk, cheeks wet and red. His lower lip was out and trembling. ‘Billy,’ he said again. He ran towards his son and threw his arms around him. He could feel Billy trying to pull away but he didn’t let go. ‘Billy, I’m so sorry,’ he said. ‘I’m sorry. Are you okay? I’m sorry. Is your mum okay? Have they hurt you?’ He was crying too. His son’s hair still smelled the same as it used to: fresh bread, warm milk. He remembered his own childhood. He remembered feeling safe. ‘I want you to feel safe,’ he said, into Billy’s ear.
Billy was sobbing, struggling, trying to get away. ‘What have you done, Dad?’ he said. ‘What did you do?’
‘They’re using us,’ Alan said. ‘It’s what they’ve always done, it’s what they’ll always do.’
‘No!’ Billy said, ‘It’s you! You did this!’
Alan gazed into his son’s furious little face. There was no doubt in him. His eyes were hard: those eyes that once had lit up at his presence, that had been full of such love.
Alan couldn’t think of anything to say. He was falling through the bottom of the world.
He wanted a drink. He imagined whisky shimmering in the bottom of a glazed clay cup. He closed his eyes. He was shaking.
‘Very well then,’ Tromo said suddenly. Alan was almost grateful. ‘Enough.’ He yanked on the chain and Billy fell onto his knees, and then his front. Tromo pulled him through the ash, away from Alan. ‘You’ve seen him. You know he’s alive. I’ve delivered. Now it’s your turn.’
‘Can I spend some time with him?
Tromo considered for a moment. ‘After the exchange.’
Alan needed to get Billy and Marion out of the Pyramid. Tromo had been right about that. But this wasn’t the time or place. If they killed Tromo now, they could take Billy, but not Marion … But no, they couldn’t, because Tromo had backup with him and they would all be dead within seconds. And Billy maybe wouldn’t even want to come. Given freedom from his captor, he might just run back into the Pyramid. His little face … Alan felt like he had a knife in his gut. They’d give Tromo the mushrooms. He didn’t want to provoke the bastard any further. They’d give him the mushrooms and buy themselves another month. With another month they could plan a rescue mission. They wouldn’t have to trek all the way to Dok this time; this time they could devote themselves to preparing properly for the exchange. They wouldn’t be all beat-up and pathetic. Well, not beat-up, anyway. Although … although there was still the Daunt problem to solve.
Maybe they would be just as beat-up next month after all. And what would happen to Billy if Alan got killed?
Alan turned to face Archway Gardens, standing solid and black against the darkening red night. ‘Come on, Eyes,’ he shouted. ‘Billy’s here. He’s alive. It’s time.’
A faint reply: ‘Aye, right.’
Alan’s mind was racing, but it was going nowhere. It couldn’t settle on anything, spinning like the wheels on the motorcycle after Spider had tipped it over. Get Billy and Marion out. Don’t let Tromo take Billy back inside. Give Tromo the mushrooms. Don’t give Tromo the mushrooms. Demand Billy in exchange. But then what about Marion? And Tromo wouldn’t agree anyway. Don’t get shot. Don’t get everybody killed. Don’t fuck up again. Billy’s eyes. Billy’s angry, hate-filled eyes. A motorcycle on its side, wheels spinning. Green darkness. Red light. The scent of whisky. The burn of it.
Tromo watched approvingly as Eyes made his slow way through the wastes of Modest Mills, sweeping in front of him with his stick, changing direction when he encountered the low walls of a ruin. His balance had improved a lot since the Pilgrims had healed him at Dok, but his movements were still uncertain.
They’d give Tromo the Benedictions, and they’d keep giving Tromo the Benedictions, and Alan would see Billy as often as possible, and he’d try to make things better between them. He couldn’t take Billy from the Pyramid against his will. He couldn’t separate the boy from his mother. Not when Billy loved his mother and hated his father. Tromo wouldn’t hurt Billy, not if he wanted his mushrooms – and he did want them. In fact, when Alan thought about it, he wasn’t the only desperate one here. An Arbitrator wouldn’t go to such lengths – risking expulsion from the Pyramid – just for the kind of spirit journey the mushrooms enabled. No, Tromo was far more likely to hurt Billy and Marion if Alan tried anything stupid, or tried to trick him. Considering how co-operative the swine was being even after Alan had attacked him, he obviously wasn’t confident that he was holding all the cards. Even if Alan wasn’t holding many cards himself.
Alan tried to catch Billy’s eyes, but the boy had raised his hood again. Tromo had positioned himself between Alan and Billy and had the chain wrapped around his fist. The Arbitrator’s throat was blotched red from Alan’s throttling and the cigarette burn.
‘Where are you?’ Eyes said. ‘Speak up.’
‘Here,’ Alan said. ‘We’re here.’
Eyes shuffled forwards, his stick arcing across in front of him. A large leather pouch hung from his belt. He had one hand on it. ‘Pyramid boy,’ Eyes said, unable to keep the contempt from his voice. ‘Let me give this to you. Then we’re done, yes?’
‘For now,’ Tromo said. ‘For this month.’
Eyes unhooked the pouch from his belt and held it out. ‘Take it from me,’ he said, ‘damn you. Take it – I can’t see where your hands are at. Just take it.’ He leaned on the stick. His hands were trembling badly.
Tromo reached out and took the pouch. ‘I’m sure you understand if I’m a little cautious,’ he said. Then he raised his voice. ‘Arbitra
tors! Aim!’
Eyes spat into the ash.
‘Should anything untoward happen as a consequence of me opening this bag, both of you and the boy here will immediately receive several bolts through the head. Do you understand?’
Alan looked at Billy, who was kneeling, utterly motionless, his face hidden by the deep hood. Then he looked at Eyes. ‘It’s clean,’ he said. ‘It’s safe. We’re not that foolish.’
Alan had checked the bag himself, and double-checked it, in case any venomous insects had crept in, or any toxic worms had emerged from the fungus. He didn’t want to get the blame for any of the natural dangers that the Discard could manifest.
Tromo looked at Alan.
‘It’s fucking fine, all right?’
‘Very well,’ Tromo said. He tugged open the pouch and reached inside. He withdrew a small parcel wrapped in waxed parchment and bound with string. He cut the string with his dagger and unfolded the paper. His face split into a broad smile as he surveyed its contents.
The mushrooms had retained their green colour even though they were now completely dry. They looked like peas with long white shoots growing out of them. They were densely packed, and they fragmented as the little parcel loosened. ‘Yes,’ Tromo said, ‘oh, yes. Very good. Very good indeed. You did well, Alan. I’ve heard rumours, though … Is it true that the Mushroom Queen herself is on your tail?’
Alan said nothing.
‘You’re in trouble – I hope my supply is secure? Regardless of whether you yourself survive or not?’
Alan couldn’t speak. Tromo was right: it was something to consider. He’d have to arrange something.
Tromo refastened the package and felt around inside the bag.
‘Just one of these parcels?’
‘Yes. That’s the same as the vial I originally promised you.’ They’d apportioned all of the Benedictions that they’d collected; this wasn’t all of them, not by a long shot.
‘Very good,’ Tromo said again. ‘Very good.’
Suddenly Alan could breathe more easily. Some of the dreadful tension was lifting. He knelt down next to Billy and gave him a hug. Eyes made his way over to them and put a hand on Billy’s head. ‘Malcolm’s son’s son,’ he said. ‘It’s an honour to meet you, lad. I know your father’s a little touched but he’s a good man. Don’t hold his principles against him. It’s good to have principles, even if living by them does make things tough from time to time.’
Billy drew back his hood and looked at his father. His big eyes were red-rimmed and wet. He looked up at Eyes.
Eyes shook his arm and a knife fell from his sleeve and into his hand. With unerring precision, Eyes pressed the knife through the sole of one of Billy’s sandals into his foot. Billy jolted with pain and screamed.
The knife was gone so quickly Alan wasn’t even sure he’d seen it, but Billy was crying again. Alan held the boy against his chest. ‘What did you do, Eyes?’ he yelled. ‘What did you do, you big fucking bastard?’
‘What’s going on?’ Tromo said, distracted from his haul. ‘What’s happened?’
‘By Green,’ Eyes said, ‘Alan, I’m so sorry – I’m sorry, Billy. These damned eyes … I just got the lad here with me walking stick. Where did I get him? It wasn’t deep, was it? Is he okay?’
Alan stared at Eyes. He didn’t understand the lie.
‘I want to go,’ Billy said, through his tears. ‘I want to go home.’
Tromo helped the boy up. ‘Very well.’ He turned to Alan. ‘See you next month, Wild Alan.’
‘Wait,’ Alan said.
‘What?’
Alan didn’t know what to say. Would telling the truth endanger Billy? He didn’t even know what Eyes had done.
‘What?’ Tromo asked again.
Alan was frozen.
‘We’re done,’ Tromo said. ‘Come on, boy.’ He pulled on the chain and Billy hobbled after the Arbitrator, back to the Pyramid entranceway. Alan heard movement from the slope above the structure as Tromo’s backup lowered their weapons.
‘Wait!’ Alan shouted, but neither Tromo nor Billy responded. ‘Wait!’
29
WHO DO YOU HATE?
Alan watched his son and the Arbitrator vanish into the Pyramid. His head was full of roaring. He blinked and blinked again. He slowly brought himself to face Eyes.
‘What did you do?’ he whispered.
Eyes let his stick fall to the floor and then untied his blindfold. His eyes were still crusty and sore-looking, but the black veins that had run through the whites had retreated and his vision looked clear.
‘You can see,’ Alan whispered.
‘Aye. Them Pilgrims really sorted me out good and proper. I couldn’t see straight away, like, but it came back to me after a few days.’
‘So what did you do?’
‘I stuck to my principles, lad. I’m sorry, I truly am, but after everything – after everything they’ve done to us, after all those days being carried around by you lot, feeling the rot spread from the wounds they gave me, learning what they’re doing down in Dok, releasing all that crap out into the Discard – I couldn’t let this opportunity pass.’ Eyes grimaced. ‘Those mushrooms weren’t all we brought back from Dok. I picked up something else.’ He shook the concealed dagger back down into his hand and held it up. ‘See this? The black ichor on the blade is Idle Hands.’ He nodded towards the Pyramid. ‘It’ll devour those fuckers like you get through Dog Moon.’
Alan said nothing.
‘You’re not the only one with grievances, lad. Not the only one on a quest. This isn’t all about you and your family. There’s history to consider here. There’s justice. Righteousness.’
‘Billy? Marion?’
‘And you don’t act like you care all that much about them anyway, with your drinking and your bed-hopping. You didn’t appreciate them when you were in there, did you? You didn’t ever try to make it work! Besides – how many Billys and Marions did they kill in Modest Mills? How many are they still killing and twisting out here, with their … corruption?’
‘So it’s worth it, then? It’s worth the lives of my son and my wife to get your revenge?’ Alan spat. ‘To get your own back?’
Eyes pursed his lips. ‘These scumbags,’ he growled, advancing with the diseased knife in his hand, ‘they dragged me through the burning streets and into their halls, through their corridors, through their tunnels of black stone, and they tied me to a wet wall, and they kicked me, they cut me, they squeezed me, they broke me. They put creatures in my ears. They stamped on my dick. They carved their names into my chest. They fed me poisons that set fire to my insides and gave me nightmares the like of which I cannot describe. They tore off my eyelids and pissed in my face. You know, my torturing – that was a – a – what do they call it? A Station? It’s a job they have people doing all the time. What other poor bastards have they got in there, eh? They had torturers on fucking shifts, coming in and speaking all this nonsense, like prayer, it was, and they’d be dressed in a particular way, and they’d be consulting all these huge old books, and then they’d lay into me.’
‘It doesn’t mean—’
‘And we know why, don’t we?’ Eyes yelled, pushing his face right into Alan’s. ‘You and me, we know why! Or have you forgotten, eh? Is it just one of those things you don’t think about?’
‘I haven’t forgotten, Eyes. Not ever.’
‘It was right here, wasn’t it? We were right here when they took me! And they were going to kill you, but I stopped them. I saved your life back then and they took me, but it was you they should have taken, wasn’t it? It was you.’
*
The morning of the Modest Mills massacre, Malcolm had sent Alan down to the market with some bugs to buy lemons to go with the chicken he was preparing for Violet’s birthday meal. Violet – Alan’s mother – was working in one of the mills in the middle of the village and so he took a roundabout route to the fruit stalls, circling the village, rather than going through it. It was a s
unny day and there was a pleasant breeze. Back then Modest Mills had been surrounded by trees and the slope down into the rest of the Discard had been heavily wooded. In the woods lurked weird statues and old ruins, if you went looking – but you weren’t supposed to go looking. Alan’s parents always told him not to go looking, but he still went.
Further out, the slope dropped away steeply and the trees gave way to densely packed buildings with tumbledown walls, rickety bridges and scary black windows. Very few of the Modest Mills children ever went beyond that point; it was a lonely wilderness, in which odd-looking people could sometimes be seen, staring back at you. And they all knew the stories about the children who went out to explore the Discard and never came home.
So Alan ran through the trees, walking along fallen trunks, swinging from low branches and clambering across mossy rocks. The buildings of Modest Mills were visible on his right, and he could hear the sounds of the market – the loud voices of traders, the shouting of other children, the lowing and clucking of livestock and poultry, the strains of the bard. He kept checking that the bugs were still in his pocket.
His mother loved lemon chicken, but lemons were expensive. The meal would be a surprise treat, and he was excited to be a part of something that would make her happy. She had not been very happy recently. Neither had his father. When Alan asked them what the matter was, they had alluded, vaguely, to money trouble. ‘Damn Pyramidders,’ his dad had muttered, ‘putting the squeeze on.’
Alan hadn’t really understood.
He was about to cut back into the village streets when he heard a voice.
‘Child.’
He froze. He became aware of a figure standing amongst the trees of the slope. She hadn’t been immediately obvious because of her pale outfit and the way it blended with the sun-dappled woodland. She was tall, wearing what looked like a white sheet that covered her whole body – all but her little round head, from which tufty white hair grew. Her skin was badly sunburned, and she had big blue rings around her eyes. She wore a large cage on her back, which was full of small boxes and bundles and bags. It looked too heavy for her. Small white birds fluttered around her.