End of the End

by Paul Kane, Simon Guerrier

  “We’re taking them and that’s that,” Darryl had said, gathering up the books from Clive’s room.

  “No!” Clive spat back. “I won’t let you!”

  “You... you don’t have any say in it, young man!” Clive got off his bed and stood in Darryl’s way. They locked eyes and for a moment he thought his ‘father’ was actually going to back down. Then Darryl grabbed him by the arms and started to shift him sideways. Clive wasn’t physically his match yet, but lashed out anyway—landing a kick on the shin-bone. Darryl yelped in pain, striking Clive across the cheek with the back of his hand before he could stop himself. “Y-You asked for that,” he said to the boy, who glared up at him. “When I think what I went through to protect you when you were little...” He shook his head, then Darryl continued to collect the books, dumping them in a bag—not caring if he damaged them—took them and locked Clive’s bedroom door behind him.

  Clive wanted to cry, but wouldn’t let himself. That was a sign of weakness, and true leaders didn’t show weakness. Instead, he got up and started to trash his room, toppling over his wardrobe, picking up another chair—this time swinging it to crack the mirror on his wall—and upturning his bed. When he was finished, he stood in the middle of the room, breathing in and out quickly. Strangely, surveying the destruction he’d caused made him feel much better.

  They must have heard the noise, but nobody came to see what was going on. Not then, at any rate.

  A little while later, Clive heard the lock on his door being turned. A squat man walked—no, limped—in, looking left and right, then found the boy on the floor, knees pulled up, arms wrapped around them.

  The older man tutted a few times. “It’s all a bit of mess, isn’t it.” It wasn’t a question, and it was unclear whether he was referring to the room or the situation. They were connected anyway, as were Clive and the Reverend Tate. “So, what have you got to say for yourself this time?”

  The boy shrugged again, just like he had in the headmistress’ office.

  “We both know you can do better than that,” said Tate, picking up the chair and sitting down on it, resting his hands on the stick. To look at him, you wouldn’t think he’d been one of the Rangers’ best fighters in the past. But then, Clive wouldn’t like to get on the wrong side of him even now. He had a respect for this man, could sense the strength in him—which Tate said came from a higher power. So, Clive answered:

  “I got angry. Darryl took my books away.” He didn’t mention the slap, as it had been in retaliation for his own kick, and Tate would know all about that.

  “Your father, you mean?”

  Clive dismissed this with a sniff. “He’s not my father, and Karen’s not my mother.”

  “They’ve looked after you since... All these years, Clive. They’ve loved you as if you were their own little boy.” Tate gave him a warm smile. Clive couldn’t remember ever seeing the man get mad at anything. Upset, maybe, uncomfortable, perhaps—but never actually mad, like he’d just been with his guardians. “They’re good people.”

  “Like my real parents were? That didn’t stop them from getting killed,” Clive grumbled.

  “Is that what you’re scared of, that the same thing will happen again?” asked Tate.

  Clive frowned, considering this for a moment or two. How would he feel if Karen and Darryl weren’t around anymore? He’d miss being fed, having his washing done for him. But would he miss them? Nobody had ever asked him that before, and he was mildly troubled that the thought didn’t scare him in the slightest, especially right now after the book thing. After Darryl’s back-hander. Still, he nodded anyway.

  “That’s not going to happen,” Tate said.

  “You don’t know that. Nobody knows what’s going to happen.”

  Tate conceded this with a tip of the head. “Tell me about what happened at school,” said the holy man, thinking he was changing the subject, but he really wasn’t. That was connected, as well. Everything was.

  “He got what was coming to him,” said Clive.

  “The Brooks boy? How so? What could he possibly have done to deserve being hit with a chair?” asked Tate, his voice patient and even.

  Clive just looked at him. “He called my father a coward—again—and my mother a whore.”

  The Reverend’s eye twitched. So, it wasn’t just Clive who was stung by those remarks then. And little wonder—Tate had actually known his parents, Clive and Gwen. Loved them both, as you could see when he spoke of them—which he didn’t often do, because it brought back such painful memories. The problem with that was Clive didn’t really feel like he knew them at all: he could only recall vague memories of his mother, and his father had been killed before he was even born. “I see,” said Tate eventually.

  “Was he?” Clive asked.

  “Hmm?”

  “My father. Was he a coward?”

  Tate blinked, as if he couldn’t believe he was being asked such a question. “Clive Maitland founded this community, pulled all the original inhabitants together,” said the Reverend.

  “Yes, I know he did that,” answered Clive; it was one of the few things he did know for certain. “But I asked if you thought he was a coward.”

  “He was one of the most courageous men I’ve ever had the good fortune to know. When the bad men came, the Sheriff’s men, he refused to fight them.”

  “And that’s what got him killed?”

  Tate shook his head. “He refused to fight them, at first. But when they wanted to take your mother, he tried to stop them.”

  “That’s when he got shot,” said Clive. “And he didn’t have any weapons to fight back with?”

  Tate frowned, rubbed his chin. “Your father didn’t believe in them, nor in violence to solve problems.” He surveyed the damage in the room one more time.

  “So,” said Clive, his mind ticking over, “he wasn’t prepared for the men when they came.” Like Tate’s line about the mess, it wasn’t a question.

  “No, it wasn’t like that, he—”

  “My father died because he didn’t want to fight. Not until it was too late, and then he was shot and killed.”

  The Reverend held up a hand. “You’re twisting things, that wasn’t... His place is in Heaven now. He knows eternal life.”

  “Is what they said about my mother true?” asked Clive suddenly, veering the conversation off in another direction again.

  “Of course not!” There was a note, just a note of anger in that reply.

  “What happened after my dad died? Did those men take my mother? What happened to her?” asked Clive.

  Tate hung his head, refusing to answer.

  Clive got to his feet. “I have a right to know!”

  Tate looked up at him, fixing the boy with a withering stare. “All you need to know is that your mother was strong. She was a fighter, her experiences made her that way. She fortified this place, prepared—as you call it—for the bad things to come. She still died; Gwen was still killed. But she saved your life in the process, Clive. That’s the important thing.”

  Clive’s eyes narrowed to slits. “You think she brought the badness on herself, don’t you?”

  Tate said nothing.

  “If my father’s in Heaven, then where is my mother?” Clive asked him.

  “She’s... She’s with your father. The Lord forgives all trespasses.” Tate was positively squirming in his seat now.

  “What trespasses?” Clive demanded, storming over to the Reverend.

  The man stood, and Clive saw then why he really shouldn’t get on the wrong side of his ‘uncle.’ “That’s enough!” Tate roared. Clive stopped in his tracks, shrinking back in fear.

  When Tate saw this, his face returned to normal, and he held out his free hand to place it on Clive’s shoulder. The boy pulled back even further.

  “I think you should go now,” Clive told him, attempting to keep his voice steady.

  “Clive, I’m—”

  “I said I think you should leave.”


  Tate nodded. “Perhaps you’re right. I will call again soon.” And with that, Tate left the room without saying another word.

  Clive heard the lock being turned again, and backed up to the wall, slumping down it. It was only now that he cried.

  Cried so hard he thought he might never stop.

  HE DIDN’T EVEN realise he’d fallen asleep.

  He’d shed so many tears, he dropped off. Hadn’t even bothered to right his bed, had just fallen asleep right there on the carpet. He dreamed he was in Nottingham Castle—he’d visited occasionally with Tate. And he wasn’t so much walking through its corridors as drifting through them; until he came to a heavy oak door, which thankfully opened on his approach. Clive found himself in a large room, much larger than the ones he’d seen there, and much higher. This was more like something that would have been around in the past, like something out of one of his history books. It was ornate, with pillars and carvings, exquisite paintings on the walls and maroon drapes that hung from arched windows. Diamond chandeliers descended gracefully from the ceiling, sparkling and twinkling.

  The carpet in front of him matched the curtains, and stretched the length of the room, to a throne at the far end. Even at this distance, he could see it was made from gold, and probably priceless. Clive began drifting towards it, and the closer he came, the more he could make out the figures there. One seated, one standing just off to the left.

  It was the standing figure who caught his attention first, and held it. Because the man was huge, but built with it. His skin was olive-coloured, and his sneer sent shivers down Clive’s ethereal spine.

  Wrenching his gaze away, Clive concentrated on the seated figure now. The one wearing a crown. He was a much smaller man wearing sunglasses, and when he smiled his teeth were yellow and crooked. Both men were dressed in military attire, though while the tall guy’s clothes were functional—meant for combat—this one’s were for show; more regal, Clive mused, complete with rows of medals.

  Both also had wounds at their chests, where their hearts would be.

  The smaller man beckoned Clive nearer with a white-gloved hand. When he spoke, it was with a French accent. “Ah, let me look at you! What a fine young man you have grown up to be, non?”

  Clive didn’t know what to say, so he shrugged.

  “Do not keep doing that,” the man ordered. “It is not the mark of a decisive person. And you are a decisive person, whether you realise it or not.”

  “Who... Who are you?” asked Clive, finding his voice at last.

  “Do you not know?” The man looked up at his giant companion, then back towards Clive. “Has my legend not endured?”

  “Legend?” Clive queried.

  “I bet you have heard of that bastard Hood, though, have you not?”

  Clive gave a slight nod of the head. Of course he had: the Hooded Man, Robert Stokes, was leader of the Rangers. He commanded the kind of respect and authority Clive aspired to one day.

  “Typical. Do you not realise he stole it all from me? The power, the glory? It was all rightfully mine. Then he came along.” The man made a fist and slammed it down on the arm of the golden throne, which shook. “Came along and butchered my people, slaughtered me. Merde!”

  “You!” Clive blurted out suddenly. “You, you’re—”

  “De Falaise, at your service,” said the man with a bow of his top half.

  “The Sheriff,” whispered Clive.

  “I was,” said the man, pouting. “Until someone stuck an arrow in my chest. Oh, forgive me, where are my manners? This is my right hand man and torturer extraordinaire, Tanek.”

  The giant said nothing by way of a greeting, just continued to sneer.

  “He is much friendlier once you get to know him,” said De Falaise with a chuckle. Then he leaned forward, pulling down the sunglasses a little and looking over the rims. “Now, to business.”

  Clive had no idea what was going on here. Why was he dreaming about the Sheriff? Unless it was because of all that talk about... He jabbed a finger at the man. “You killed my parents!”

  De Falaise touched a hand to his bloodied chest. “Moi? Non.”

  “You did,” Clive insisted.

  “If you are talking about your namesake, then that was nothing but an unfortunate accident. One of my people being a little overzealous, I am afraid, and I can only apologise for that. As for your mother, I would not have hurt her for the world. I... I loved her. I cherished her. Tanek here will tell you that.”

  “You...” Clive couldn’t believe what he was hearing.

  “She lived with me at the castle. Did you not know? Ah, I see there are some gaps in your knowledge. Please allow me to fill them. Your mother was due to be my bride, you see. We would have had the classic fairy tale life together, non?”

  “You... you and my mother?”

  “Ask your friend, the holy man”—De Falaise’s face screwed up—“if you must. He will confirm that I was with your mother. That I, not Clive Maitland, am your father.”

  “My—” Clive let out a loud laugh. “You? I don’t think so. You... you were evil.”

  “My son, remember what you have read in your books. History is written—rewritten, in fact—by the victors, is it not?” De Falaise eased forward even more on the throne. “And I am not around, not able to defend myself against such heinous accusations.”

  Your dad might not even beyour dad.

  “But—”

  “If your mother had been allowed to stay with me, as she’d wished, then your life would have been very different right now. You would have been heir to my kingdom. Together, who knows what we might have accomplished!”

  Clive thought about this for a moment, then shook his head. None of it was real, it was just a dream—brought on by talk of his parents, the loss of his history books. His longing for greatness someday. But not like this, he wouldn’t have wanted this.

  Would he?

  “It is much to take in, n’est-ce pas? Yet I swear to you I speak only the truth.” He clicked his fingers. “I can prove it. Being dead offers you a certain... clarity. The past, the present, the future.” De Falaise wafted his hand like he was batting away a bothersome insect. “There are no boundaries. And I can see what your future might be. There is still a chance for you to gain your birthright, my son—with a little help from a few friends of mine.”

  “I—I don’t understand,” said Clive.

  “Of course not. Not yet. But you will. Someone is going visit you, Clive—oh, how that name sticks in my throat!” He coughed loudly for emphasis. “Your name is De Falaise! No matter... Someone will come to you, someone who also loved your mother, in his own way, and has been keeping an eye on you. Do not be alarmed at the sight of him. He will have the answers. Answers to all of your questions. And he is someone who can offer you the assistance you require to get where you need to be. So that one day you can reclaim what should have been yours in the first place. Only then will you be able to avenge Tanek, myself and your sister.”

  “My—” Clive began, but there was a tapping at one of the windows. He looked over, and as soon as he did so he started to drift towards it. Another tap, louder this time. Clive looked back at the Sheriff and the throne, at Tanek, but they were gone, the dream itself breaking up around him. He pressed his hands against the glass of the window, but that too was melting, becoming like smoke.

  He fell through, into nothingness. Clive attempted to fly, or glide, as he had done before in the dream, but just kept plummeting. Down and down, into darkness.

  Until—

  HE JERKED AWAKE, almost banging his head on the back of the wall he was leaning against. It was dark, but only because it had clouded over outside and the day was wearing on.

  Clive shook himself, took slow, deep breaths to calm down. “Just a dream,” he whispered. “Only a dream.”

  Then the tapping came again. A single tap, on the glass of his bedroom window. Clive rose, started to walk across the room. Another tap,
which made him jump this time.

  He hesitated at the window itself, jumping one final time when a tiny stone struck it. Keeping to one side, Clive peered down the side of the house.

  There was a figure below, standing on the grass. At first Clive thought it was the Hooded Man himself, a carry over, a hallucination caused by the dream. But this man was real. And while it was true he had a hood, it was part of some kind of robe he was wearing (which was the same colour as the curtains and carpet from the dream).

  Then he looked up and Clive let out a gasp. The man’s face was just a skull.

  Someone will come... Do not be alarmed at the sight of him... He also loved your mother, in his own way.

  But this person wasn’t even human, surely? What the fuck was going on?He should call for Darryl and Karen, let them know there was a monster outside, before it got in.

  Then Clive noticed the person’s hands. These weren’t skeletal at all, they had flesh on them: they were real hands. Just the face, then, that was—

  No, wait. It was paint. Either that or some kind of weird tattoo. Why would anyone do that to themselves?

  He was still scared, how could he not be? But if the guy had meant him harm, why would he have alerted Clive to his presence? It just didn’t make any sense.

  The skull-faced man smiled, and it was the strangest thing Clive had ever seen. Yet somehow he found it comforting. The man placed a finger to his lips, urging Clive to stay quiet.

  To his surprise, Clive was now standing fully in front of the window. And when the man crooked that same finger, beckoning Clive to climb down and join him, the boy was equally surprised to find himself opening the catch. It wasn’t hypnosis—not that Clive would know if it was—it just felt like the right thing to do.

  And, in his head, Clive heard the voice of De Falaise again: He will have the answers.

  Answers to all your questions.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  IT WAS A town like so many others he’d seen grow and develop over the years since the Cull.