by Glenn Cooper
“Why?”
“It’s in the Bible, in’it? In the bit what Luke wrote. Our mum used to read it to us, not that it did any good. Luke says to some bastard that ’e’s not going to ’eaven, ’e’s going to be cast down. Well that’s where we are. ’Bout as far down as you can get.”
“Okay, Dirk. You say you’re dead. When did you die?”
“1790. Month of June. Last thing I seen was a meadow full of poppies near the gallows. ’Twas a lovely sunny day, worse kind of day to leave. Would’ve rather ’twere raining.”
“You’re saying you were hanged?”
“I was. Duck too, standing right next to me in the gallows. The waiting for it was ’ard but the ’anging part weren’t so bad. I’m falling through the air then I’m ’ere. No pain I can recall at all. Just like that it was.”
“All right, I’ll humor you. Why were you hanged?”
“Me and Duck drubbed the baker. Didn’t mean to kill ’im, just take ’is purse, but I reckon we crashed ’is skull a mite hard. They took us to dumbo and ’anged us the very next day.”
“You don’t look like someone whose neck was snapped or a guy who’s over two hundred years old.”
“That’s the thing. Only good bit ’bout Down, I s’pose. You come ’ere whole. If you was all broked up when you died you’re not broke up when you arrive. Mind you, you can get plenty smashed up when you’re ’ere, I can tell you that. And you don’t age none. You stay the way you came. Forever like.”
John always prided himself in telling truth from lies. He’d done plenty of prisoner interrogations in Afghanistan and he’d been good at reading people even through the veil of cultural differences. Men were men. He could usually tell by their eyes if they were lying. Dirk looked straight enough. But before he could ask the next question he heard a rumbling outside. Horses were approaching, clopping fast through the mud. They suddenly pulled up outside Dirk’s house, neighing and snorting.
A man shouted, “Any new ones? Come on, bring ’em out. I’ve got a nice full purse.”
“Quiet,” Dirk whispered to John. “Not a peep.”
“You in there Dirk? Duck? You wouldn’t have another special one, would you?”
“Tell me why I shouldn’t sell them your arse,” Dirk whispered.
“Did you sell them a woman named Emily?”
“Why wouldn’t I? Silver’s ’ard to come by.”
John rose up, towering over him, his fists balled in rage.
“I’ll call out to ’em,” Dirk said, pushing his chair back.
“If you do that you’re never going to see your brother again. Is that what you want?”
Dirk shook his head. “’Es all I got.”
“Then listen to me. I know where he is. I’m the only one who can bring him back. You help me and I’ll help you.”
There was a heavy pounding on the door.
“Get yourself under the bed,” Dirk whispered. “Quick like or you’re done for.” Dirk raised his voice and called through the door. “’Ang on. Be right there.”
As John squeezed himself under one of the beds he whispered, “Is he the one you sold her to?”
“Yes, ’urry it.”
“Do you know where she is?”
“No.”
“Ask him. Find out.”
Dirk swung the door open. A robust, bearded soldier with a sword on his belt scowled at the young man.
“What took you so long?”
“I was wankin’ off.”
“Can’t get a woman?”
“Not many in these parts, are there, captain?”
“Surprised you’re not having it off with your brother then. Or a goat.”
The soldier roughly pushed Dirk aside and entered, squinting into the dark recesses.
“Where’s your brother, then?”
“Not ’ere. Speaking of women, ’ow’d you get on with the special one?”
“You got paid. It’s none of your affair beyond that.” The soldier picked up one of the mugs. “Anyone else here?”
“That’s Duck’s.”
“Left without finishing his beer?”
“We had a fight. I gave ’im a good ’un and ’e stormed off.”
“That so?”
“It’s wot ’appened.”
The soldier began looking around suspiciously. From under the bed John could see dirty knee-high boots thudding on creaking boards. The boots stopped moving beside the bed and John heard sniffing.
“What’s that?” the soldier asked.
Dirk replied, “I don’t smell nothing.”
“I do.”
Suddenly the bed was lifted all the way onto its side and John was staring up at a heavy-set man in a belted, leather tunic.
The soldier furiously drew his sword and shouted, “You! Get up!”
John slowly got to his feet. He seemed to surprise the soldier with his height. The man sniffed again.
“Another live one! I’ve been here for nigh on five hundred years and never saw a single one. Now I’ve seen two. What’s your name?”
“John Camp. What’s yours?”
“You can bloody well call me your lord and master.”
He menaced John with his sword. “Come along.”
“Will you take me to the same place you took the woman?” John asked.
“Different buyer, I expect, for the likes of you.”
“Tell me where she is.”
“Rules here are simple. You do as you’re told and you don’t get to ask questions.”
“Then it looks like I’m not going with you.”
“’E’ll run you through,” Dirk warned.
John confused the soldier with a broad smile then lunged with astonishing speed, swatting the man’s sword hand away with his forearm and simultaneously landing a hard, sharp punch to the man’s flat nose. The blow produced a spray of blood and the soldier instinctively raised his free hand to his face. John grabbed his thick wrist, bent it back and wrested the sword away. Once he had the weapon he planted himself and delivered a wheelhouse kick to the chin. The soldier was staggered but he was a tough one, still able to draw a dagger from his belt. With eyes raging he got close enough for John to smell his putrid breath. But John had a good purchase on the sword and the man suddenly groaned and went limp, impaled navel-high on the sharp blade.
The other soldiers, hearing the commotion through the thin walls, were already piling into the house. Though there were four of them they were disadvantaged by the darkness. John had only a second to test the weight of the sword in his right hand. He’d never wielded one in combat but he’d been trained to the hilt in knife fighting. The sword was short, broad, and heavy with a sharp point and a double edge. With a battle yell he launched himself at the first soldier to pass through the door and heard the clang of sword on sword. His escape blocked, Dirk yelped and slithered under the second bed. Accustomed to the darkness, John’s more accurate thrusts forced the advancing soldier back against his comrades. Pinned against his own men, John was able to tie up the soldier’s sword arm and kick him high in the chest. He toppled backwards taking down the man behind him but his place was immediately taken by another who seemed quicker with his weapon.
The clanging of steel rang in John’s ears until one of his own thrusts felt different from the others. The point of the blade crunched through the man’s sternum, collapsing him to his knees where he clutched his chest. Two other soldiers took up the engagement, cursing and slashing. When one of them deflected John’s sword, the other used his pommel to strike John in the forehead. The sharp thud sent him reeling back a few steps. He tried to shake off the pain and dizziness but he had little time. The two soldiers advanced as one, raising their swords high to deliver killing blows. In desperation, John gripped his sword with two hands and swept it in a great arc, catching both their throats with the same strike, releasing geysers of hot blood.
Boom!
It was the unmistakable sound of a large-caliber round going of
f and for an instant the room was incandescently bright.
The last soldier was standing at the door behind the four men John had felled, a smoking pistol in his hand. John felt a searing pain in his left arm. The soldier was a young man, not much older than Dirk and he looked scared. His next bullet, fired unobstructed from only three feet away, would be center mass. John would die in this place and Emily would be trapped.
He waited a long second. Then two.
Then he was hit, not by a bullet but by a revelation. There wasn’t going to be a second shot, not from this gun.
It was a flintlock pistol, something out of a museum.
The soldier dropped the gun and started drawing his sword but John sprang forward and caught him in the belly, hard enough to ram his blade clean through.
John pulled the sword out and when the young man crumpled, John rested his hands on his knees in exhaustion, his chest heaving. He’d killed men before, but not like this. This was brutal and primitive, unlike his usual surgical kills at a distance through a scope.
The muddy floorboards were slicked with blood. Dirk emerged from under the bed and let out a low whistle.
“Never seen sword play so nice. Good on you. You a soldier then, John?”
Through panting breaths he answered, “Used to be.”
“It’ll come in right ’andy ’ere.”
Dirk gingerly stepped over the bodies and peeked out the door. There were no more soldiers, only riderless horses hitched to a post.
“That’s the lot of ’em.”
Dirk lit one of his scarce candles from a glowing log as John laid his sword on the table and peeled off his jacket and shirt to inspect his arm. There was a shallow, bloody crease in his deltoid muscle that he washed with beer. Cutting off the sleeve of his shirt with the sword blade, he tightly wrapped his arm and tied it off, then quickly donned his jacket over his undershirt.
He reached for the flintlock pistol then frisked the gunman and found two pouches, one with a full horn of powder and one with lead balls and wadding. He knew how to handle the weapon. There wasn’t a firearm John hadn’t mastered and that included black-powder guns.
“I had a gun. It didn’t make it through,” John said as he poured powder down the barrel, dropped in a lead ball and wadding and pressed hard with the tamping rod. He finished the job by inspecting the flint and priming the pan.
“Metal don’t come over,” Dirk said, “Just flesh and bone and cloth. Come on. We’ll take their best ’orses. I’ll take you to a man who can ’elp you find your lady friend. Then you’ll ’elp me find Duck, right?”
“I keep my promises.”
John took the candle from Dirk to search the other soldiers for anything that might prove useful.
He started to squat beside the pile of bodies but suddenly caught himself and jerked his body straight.
“Christ Almighty!”
All of the men were still showing signs of life despite unsurvivable blood loss. The men with chest and abdominal wounds were slowly writhing. The men with slashed throats were opening and closing their mouths, their lips smacking impotently.
“They should be dead. These were all fatal wounds,” John said, his voice cracking.
Dirk cackled at that.
“No one dies here, didn’t you know? That’s the thing ’bout Down, John Camp. There’s no way out.”
6
One of the MI5 agents was yelling, “Take him, take him down!” but Trevor called them all off. Another agent demanded that the lab personnel evacuate, prompting a rapid but controlled rush to the exits.
The young man stood at the spot where John had been a moment before, his hands empty with no visible weapons. The gangly, dirty kid was shaking like a cold, wet mutt and Trevor immediately sensed that it would be best to go easy. He holstered his gun.
“What’s your name, mate?”
The kid stared in panic at the men encircling him, pointing pistols at his chest.
“Don’t be scared. We’re not going to hurt you. My name’s Trevor. What’s yours?”
“Duck.”
“Duck?”
“Yeah.”
“That’s a good name, mate. Yeah, I like it. So Duck, before we go somewhere nice and have a chat, I’m going to just pat you down, ever so gently, to make sure you don’t have anything on you that could hurt us. Okay?”
“Wot’s pat me down mean?”
“Touch your clothes. To see if you’ve got a weapon.”
“Me brother ’as a knife, but I don’t.”
“I hear you. Can I check anyway?”
Duck swallowed and nodded. Trevor slowly approached and ran his hands over his smelly shirt and dirty trousers. Duck’s shoes were caked in wet mud. Trevor had him slip his bare feet out of them to check inside. He flinched at the smell.
“Okay, it’s all good,” he declared. “How old are you, Duck?”
“That’s an ’ard question.”
“Really? If I had to guess I’d say you were eighteen, nineteen. Maybe twenty.”
“Oh, in those kinds of years. I’m nineteen.”
“What other kind of years are there?”
Henry Quint had remained in the control room and when he called out, Duck looked up at him in alarm.
“Ask him where he’s come from, for God’s sake!”
“Who’s ’e?” Duck asked. “The lord of this shire?”
“Yeah, in a way,” Trevor said. He turned to Quint and said, “We’ll get to all that, Dr. Quint. Why don’t you let me do this my way, all right?”
Quint mumbled something and showed his anxiety by clicking his pen furiously.
“I think we can all put away our weapons,” Trevor told the agents. “Duck’s going to be a good, cooperative chap, aren’t you, Duck?”
“Where am I?” Duck asked.
“This is Dartford. In England.”
“Don’t look like Dartford.”
“You know it?”
“’Course I do. I’m from there, an’t I?”
“Okay, Duck. I reckon we’ve got a lot to talk about. Let’s go someplace nice and quiet, maybe get you some fresh clothes and a good wash. Are you hungry? Thirsty?”
“Got any beer ’ere?”
Trevor smiled. “I think we can manage to find you a beer.”
“Where is he?” Quint asked.
It was midafternoon. Trevor was punch drunk. It had been the strangest of days.
“He’s having a kip. We’ve got him tucked away in one of the security-guard overnight suites.”
“Is it secure?”
The other man in Quint’s office answered with the elocution of a public school boy. Ben Wellington was the lead security agent at MI5 and he’d been shadowing Trevor all day. He was one of the agency’s pedigreed breeds with a pocketful of Eton and Oxford credentials, the kind of man destined for high office within the security services. He was crisply turned out in a bespoke suit and silk tie with freshly cut hair. “We’ve installed locks on the outside of the door and have three agents on duty outside. In addition we have installed monitored video cameras in the bedroom and the loo.”
“He’s not going anywhere,” Trevor said. “And quite frankly I don’t think he wants out. He’s happy as a monkey with a peanut machine.”
“Tell me what you’ve found out,” Quint said.
“I rather think you should look at the recorded interview,” Ben said. “It’s the kind of thing that’s best appreciated first-hand. I’m going to recommend that we play it in its entirety to the principals on the eighteen-hundred hours videocon.”
Quint nodded his agreement.
“You got a seat belt?” Trevor asked.
“Why is that?”
“’Cause you’re going to fall off your chair.”
Trevor located the file on the security department server and started playing the interview on Quint’s screen. As he always did, Quint began taking notes in one of his hardbound diaries but he soon let the pen slip from his finge
rs and simply stared. In the video Duck was seated at the head of a table flanked by Trevor and Ben, dressed in a loose-fitting orange jumpsuit, the smallest female size used by the engineers. During the forty-minute interview he fidgeted and scratched and kept asking for more chocolate biscuits and cola, which he wolfed down voraciously.
Ten minutes into the recording, Quint had them pause it.
“Do you believe any of this?” he asked.
Ben showed a palm in futility. “It’s going to be impossible to independently authenticate. With Brandon Woodbourne we had police and other records to verify that he died in 1949 and forensic data to prove it was the same man. This lad says he died circa 1790. We’re unlikely to find any contemporaneous accounts of Duck’s claimed execution but the research group at HQ tells me there were some three-dozen broadsheets in London and the provinces in the eighteenth century. I’ve got someone over at the British Library looking into it.”
“Well, it all seems ridiculous on the face of it. By the way, what kind of name is Duck anyway?”
“I asked him that while we were giving the boy a shower,” Trevor said. “He didn’t know how to operate the plumbing and he was scared of it. Should have seen him when he saw the toilet flush. Anyway, never saw so much dirt come off a human body. He said it was the name his parents gave him because he waddled like a duck. He says he’s got an older brother named Dirk. Just an aside and something you’ll not get from the video, even after a good scrubbing he still had a very distinct body odor.”
Quint asked him to elaborate.
“It’s like decaying flesh. Like a body that’s had a day or three of decomposition.”
“Not at all pleasant,” Ben said. “I’ve got an agency doctor and nurse on the way here. Later this afternoon we’ll run a battery of tests.”
“All right, let’s keep going with the video,” Quint said.
When it was over Quint stood and poured a coffee from his sideboard.
“Do you agree we ought to show this to the principals?” Ben asked.
“I do,” Quint said, taking his seat again. “Seeing is believing, I suppose, though as a scientist this seriously stretches my belief system.”
“He came from somewhere,” Trevor said. “Brandon Woodbourne came from somewhere. And according to Duck’s statement, Dr. Loughty wound up, very much alive at that somewhere. We have to assume that John is there too.”