by Jo Zebedee
One of the soldiers jerked his head at the cabin and John went in, dropping onto one of the benches that ran along the side. Through the rain-drizzled window, the prison was a dark shadow in the gloom, bigger than he’d expected – when he’d looked Rathlin up on Jimmy’s ed-programme it had seemed little more than a rock.
He’d done more than just look at the island, he’d memorised it. After all, who knew when the doors might be left open…? He’d traced the hills and inlets, the rocks and landscape. It was bleaker than he’d imagined. And boring; its only claim to fame was some Scottish king who’d stayed in a cave and watched a spider spinning its web before going back to beat the shite out of the English. Christ, you’d think kings would have better things to do than watch spiders.
The boat rocked in its berth. A mix of diesel and brine, familiar from the last time he’d been on a ferry, turned his stomach, and he told himself it wasn’t possible to feel sick until the boat cast off. It wasn’t.
The boat cast off. Carter sat on the bench opposite, beside Taz, who lay, seemingly asleep, arms crossed over his chest, one leg on the floor for balance. Sammy crouched in the crook of his arm, just as dormant, making John smile; he bet a stranger would be able to pick out whose bot was whose, like dogs and their masters. He’d have to tell Taz that, it’d get a laugh.
The ship dipped, taking his stomach with it, and he had no hope of swallowing the bile this time. He stumbled to his feet. “Carter! Can I go up on deck?”
He must have looked as bad as he felt, because Carter gestured at the two soldiers flanking the cabin door. “It’s okay, I’ll go with him.”
The cop struggled to push the metal door open against the wind. John slammed against it, his hand over his mouth, and dashed up the shallow stairs. The horizon moved with the rolling sea. The boat sank into a trough, slamming him into low railings.
“John!” shouted Carter. “Watch yourself!”
He grasped the rain-slick railing, his hands slipping and threatening to spill him, but Carter grabbed his collar and tugged him back. He pulled free, leaned over the churning sea, and threw up. There were carrots in it, he noticed; why did boak always have carrots in it? He dry-retched a couple of times, until the sickness eased and he moved onto one of the benches either side of the engine room.
Carter sat beside him, his own face blending against the white paint. “Feeling better?”
“Yeah.” The prison rose from the sea, black as the basalt rocks along the Belfast coast. “We’re nearly there.”
“At least the crossing’s short; it’s about the only thing going for it.” Carter stood. “If you’re feeling better we should go back down.”
John clasped his hands together. Would he ever find out what had happened to Josey, or if Stuart and Sophie were okay? Or would he be left to get old and die in a cell on his own?
“Carter – would you be our liaison officer?” he asked, surprising himself. “We were told we could have one.”
The cop stared at Inish Carraig, his silence giving John his answer, and he hated himself for caring.
“I can’t,” he said at last. “I’m sorry.”
“Sure, I understand.” The words were spat. “It’s just that you said you’d help, and I thought maybe you meant it. But it doesn’t matter.”
Carter looked as if he’d been slapped. “John, I’m sorry. I didn’t want things to end up like this.”
“So you keep saying. Look, could you send me word about the kids sometimes? Let me know if Josey turns up?”
The officer ran his hands through his hair. “Okay, I’ll do that. But I can’t come to visit – I don’t even know where I’ll be based after this.” He gave John a half-smile. “But look, the prison mightn’t be so bad.”
Fucking liar. John went back into the small cabin and sat beside Taz, ignoring Carter when he stopped in front of him. Fuck him. John would find a way out of this mess himself. There had to be something he could do. He blinked at that thought; he’d been sure his hope had gone, but it was just squashed and tiny and tired. And useless, damn it. He wasn’t getting out of this mess, not ever.
***
Josey rubbed her arms. She had no idea how long it was until morning, but she needed to get warm, and find some food. The darkness stretched, unbroken in each direction, and she had no idea which way to go.
She couldn’t stay here and freeze. She started walking, parallel to the road. The ground crackled as the frosted mud broke. It would be easier to walk along the road, but she daren’t; Gary might find her. She probably shouldn’t even be following it.
She angled across the field, feeling very exposed, and followed the hedgerow on the other side. Her feet sank at every step, not just on the crusted surface now, but ankle-deep. At the end of the field a stile sparkled in the frost, and she tried to speed up.
At last she reached it, but when she climbed the steps freezing air gusted past her. She couldn’t go on, not in this cold, not without knowing where to go.
Keep going.... Whatever I do, keep going.
She climbed down and crossed the next field, stumbling more than walking. Still, there was only dark night and cold, and she found herself falling.
***
A hand touched Josey and she scrunched away from it, whimpering. He’d found her.
“Give me your coat…” Something warm was laid over her. “Foundered, she is…”
Her sneakers were taken off and someone rubbed her feet; they were so cold it was sore. She tried to tell them, but her jaw was clenched.
“Did she say something?”
“Maybe. Keep going, she needs warmed.”
She shivered, not able to stop. “Sore…”
“She says it’s hurting.”
A hand touched her forehead, warm against her. “We’ll have to carry her to the house.”
Josey opened her eyes to a slit, and saw green grass and a blue sky at a crazy angle. She took in a face, worried, just above her. It wasn’t Gary, or any of McDowell’s gang. A yelp of relief escaped her.
“Shhhh, you’re okay. Close your eyes, we’ll get you warm.” A hand pushed her hair back, soothing her. Her mum used to do that. She drifted back to her old house in Belfast and went into her room where her mum had the Plain White T’s on the player, singing about Delilah and New York City. Josey tried to sing along, but she was too tired. Her eyes closed….
In the air, floating...
hands holding her, stopping her from falling,
letting her fly....
She jerked, tried to sit. “McDow–”
“You’re all right.”
Someone carried her, their loping gait lulling her, so that she was taken back to the depths. A door banged and there was another voice, this one a woman’s.
“For the love of God!”
She didn’t know the voice. No, hold on, Mrs Graeme from school talked like that. Why was she at Mrs Graeme’s?
“Oh Jaysus, she’s freezing. Get her up into your room, Sean. Paddy, heat a water bottle…”
Carried…
thump, thump, thump, jaw loosening...
Soft. A bed; covers; so warm.
“Shhhh, love, go to sleep.” Such a soft voice. She hoped it was Mrs Graeme, then she’d be safe. “It’s all right, pet, I’ll be here. You’re all right now, love.”
“Get a doctor?” A man’s voice.
“Where from?” The woman again. “By the time we get down to town and bring him back, she’ll either be dead or better. No, we’ll have to do our best… heat another bottle; the child needs warmed.”
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Carter led the way along the short pier and stopped just outside the force field surrounding Inish Carraig, keeping a healthy distance. He frowned at its low hum – it melded into his mind, making him grit his teeth – and looked up at the prison. It wasn’t just that the installation was made from the strange metal he was growing to hate more every day, it was that it was so cut off.
A buzz sounded
and one section of the force field melted, the air turning from cloudy to clear. The cloudiness was, apparently, a safeguard so no one walked into it and sued the GC. Carter almost laughed; unless the cormorants could sue for broken beaks, he couldn't see much danger.
He stepped through, and the governor was waiting to greet them. It ambled forwards, its heavy body picking its way over the rocks. Its golden eyes fixed on Carter. As it neared, Carter could hear the alien’s panting and the odd growl; Catherine was right, they were creepy. Creepier than the Zelo; at least they walked on two feet.
The Barath’na stopped in front of him, and here it had the edge over the Zelo: its smell was the heavy aroma of wet fur, familiar and not unpleasant. It extended a paw, Earth-fashion – they were a lot more diplomatic about things than the Zelo had been – and the paw was surprisingly elegant, as long as Carter’s hands, the claws like fingers. They shook hands. Carter activated his translator unit, feeling it buzz against his throat. It was painless, but not pleasant. “Governor Distryn?”
“Inspector Carter.”
The governor looked at John and Taz, both of whom seemed small beside the Barath’na. Taz's head was tilted back, taking in the high walls. He swallowed and his bobbing throat made him look every inch his age. John, on the other hand, stood straight and alert, as if he might bolt. Carefully, Carter moved nearer to him; he’d been the one who’d taken the decision not to cuff the lads, and he would look like a bloody idiot if he’d been wrong.
“Which is which?” asked the governor.
Carter fought not to smile. He was sure from what he knew of Distryn – or at least, what he’d checked before he’d come here – the Barath’na already knew.
“This one is Dray.” John nodded, curtly, and Carter pointed at Taz. “That’s Delaney. He needs regular medical reviews; whatever happened the night of the virus left him in a catatonic state for several days and the doctors want him checked periodically.”
“They’ll receive the attention they need,” said the governor. The translated voice was flat, but the growls underlying the words sounded amused. The hair on the back of Carter’s neck stood up, and he tried to tell himself it was Catherine’s distaste for the aliens rubbing off.
John’s eyes, steady as ever, met his and the lad shook his head. At his feet his bot hunched, its lights flashing slowly, like it was uncertain.
“They need to be kept safe from the other prisoners,” Carter said.
“We have been apprised of the security situation,” said the governor. Its eyes, like a wolf’s, were impossible to read. “To confirm: no visitor allocation, no medical conditions beyond Delaney’s, no additional notes.” It smiled in a toothy fashion, and took a set of papers from its belt. “I need you to sign the handover document.”
Carter took it, and glanced back at John, who was scanning the walls. Apart from the wind and waves, there was no noise. Carter looked up at the building. Fourteen hundred. That was the number of prisoners incarcerated to date. Carter strained his ears. There had to be some sort of noise; you couldn’t have that many people and there be nothing. The screech of a seabird overhead made him jump, but otherwise it was silent.
“It’s creepy,” he heard Taz say. John mumbled something in return, too low for Carter to make out.
Carter clicked the pen and paused. Bizarrely, the image of Nugent flashed into his head. Two nights ago, he’d dreamt his former captain was still alive and had come to ask Carter why he’d left him behind. His head had been canted to the side, one hand covering the hideous wound in his stomach, and his voice had rasped its accusation...
Carter rubbed his hand across his chin. He bent down, holding the paper against his thigh, and added his name. Twice. He gave it back, and the governor read over it. The alien looked up.
“The visitor allocation has been changed.”
“That’s right,” said Carter, and John glanced at him, sharply. “I’m their court-approved liaison – I just hadn’t activated it yet. I’ll be coming to see them on their allocated days. First Sunday in every month, isn’t that right?” Carter raised his voice a little, making sure it carried. “So this Sunday is the first one.”
The governor dropped back onto all fours. Even like that, it came close to Carter’s chest height. John and Taz passed him and he stepped back. They followed the alien, and he wanted to reach out to them. A poem came to mind, one he’d learned at school about an officer who’d led his men, whom he thought of as his sons, to die. He took a deep breath, and clenched his fists. Stop it. He wasn’t sending them to their death, no matter how much it felt like he was. He wasn’t.
***
The sound of the boat backfiring as it started made John jump. Carter was leaving. He stopped for a moment and watched the boat pull out of the harbour.
“Holy shit.” Taz’s words were sharp, filled not with fear, but disbelief. “John…”
John turned. Barath’na had appeared from the prison and were running across the rocks to them. No, not running; swarming. From everywhere, in groups of at least a dozen, low to the rock, their grey fur making them blend in, so that it was like the rock itself was shifting. They came silently, closer and closer, some up to the height of his waist, some smaller, up to his knees. At the back, a pack of larger aliens, easily the height of his chest, herded the others.
The governor gave a low snarl. Its fur flattened against its spine, revealing a hunched back. Broad muscles ran the length of its body, knotted and strong. Its tail swished from side to side, thick and sinuous, like a rat’s. The swarms drew nearer, encircling John and Taz, so they crushed together. Taz trembled. The first group came close, their eyes glowing in the low afternoon light, their teeth sharp and deadly, their claws clicking on the rocks, coming closer all the time. They herded John and Taz forwards.
They reached the prison. Huge doors opened onto an entrance hall. As they went in, the cold air was replaced by a different chill, this one sterile and unwelcoming. They walked forwards together, their bots on either side, the whisper of moving bodies growing in the darkness, the soft clicks of claws echoing. The door closed with a bang.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
The hall stretched like a cavern, its metal walls unbroken by any windows. The ceiling, easily twenty feet above John, was black, too, and the lights studded across it didn’t make much impact. He shivered and pulled his jacket around him. Taz tensed beside him.
“We’ll be all right,” John said, and his words echoed slightly. “They’re not allowed to hurt us.”
“You reckon?” Taz took a step forwards. “It’s like a dungeon.”
John nodded and counted his steps, trying to keep calm. Forty-three, each accompanied by the whispering bodies. The governor kept pace, its golden eyes knowing, its belly low to the ground. All pretence at being friendly had gone.
See what we really are, its eyes said, know what we can do, how many we are, how we move as one. John swallowed panic. He wouldn’t be taking those forty-three steps again, no matter what Carter said, or the aliens would have behaved as they had with Carter, not this massing entity that seemed one and not many. The darkness loomed around him, sinister in its starkness.
They stopped at a line of six clear cubicles. Taz was led into the nearest one. John tried to follow, but Barath’na prevented him. He had to watch, helpless, as the door to the cubicle swung closed, stopping Sammy from entering after Taz.
“Your bot will be returned once security is complete,” the governor said in its translated voice.
Security? John looked around the room, saw a couple of cameras and nothing else. He assumed in the main prison there would be more; Carter hadn’t stopped going on about how high-tech it was, after all.
“Come.” A Barath’na’s claws encircled his wrist, propelling him forward. He tried to pull out of the grip, but it tightened, twisting his skin so he sucked in a yell. The edge of the claw was sharp enough to make him wince; it could slice if it wanted to. A noise came from Taz’s cubicle, loud, like
an alarm.
“What’s going on?” John demanded, trying to free his arm, but he was pushed into the cubicle beside Taz’s. The door closed behind him, muffling the alarm a little. “What is this place?!” His breathing was loud in the enclosed space, rattling with fear. Three of the walls were clear, the other the alien dark grey metal, and he pressed against the glass, trying to see Taz’s cubicle, but couldn’t.
The order appeared to come from the cubicle itself, not through any speakers. John crossed his arms; the alien bastards could fuck off and die.
A whine screeched through the cubicle and he yelled, bringing his hands to his ears. It got worse, making his head thump and eyes water.
“Stop!” he yelled. His ears were going to burst. Spikes of pain hit his face, making him close his eyes. They got quicker and stronger, each a separate agony. He spun, trying to escape, but they followed him, coming from each side of the cubicle. They hit his hands when he brought them over his face. “Jesus! Stop!”
His t-shirt: that’s what they’d said. Quickly. He let his jacket drop and trailed the t-shirt over his head. The needles and noise stopped. He fell against the side of the cubicle, drinking in the silence. The governor passed the glass opposite. It met his gaze, eyes sparkling with what looked like amusement. John balled his t-shirt up and threw it on the floor, glaring back. Bastard.
A shriek filled the air, one he knew. Taz. He snatched at the door of his cubicle, tugging, but it didn’t give. The scream stopped, bitten off. The silence was worse.
“Taz?” he called. There was no answer except a droning noise behind him. He turned to see a clamp unfolding from the metal wall.
“What the fuck?!” The clamp grabbed his right arm, just above the elbow, tight, encircling. Sweat broke across his forehead. Another scream sounded from Taz, a pain-filled cry he knew from the night on the Cave Hill.