Ryan’s stomach heaved and he dragged his eyes away. He ran from the room, taking the stairs in twos and threes. He saw John in the hallway, white-faced and frozen to the spot. He shouldered past and slammed the door behind him.
Chapter 4
As his heart slowed and his breathing grew steady, Ryan stared at the surrounding houses. There were faces in the windows but he didn’t care. He tilted his chin and glared back until they looked away. He tried to light a cigarette but his hands were trembling and he shoved them back in his pockets before hawking a mouthful of spit onto the road. He only had one place he could go now and set off at a run for the Worker District.
He had wanted to visit Brynne ever since the gunnermen chased him at the park, but the old man had made his thoughts crystal clear about that. If ever he was compromised, he should wait at least three days before making contact. Standard gunnermen procedure was to keep a seventy-two hour surveillance on every snatch target. After that time, you were either in the clear or The Cathedral. As he walked, Ryan counted the days off on his fingers. It had been five days since he’d tried to buy the ID card. Even for Brynne that should be enough.
At the first checkpoint he showed his card. The gunnerman wasn’t much older than Ryan and had craters in his cheeks from acne scars. He snatched it from Ryan’s hand and scanned it into the machine. No restrictions blipped up on screen but the gunnerman wasn’t satisfied. He glared at the photograph and thumbed at the side of the card, looking for a join.
It was genuine though and, when he couldn’t prove otherwise, he passed it back. As Ryan tried to grab it, the gunnerman tossed it to the floor and walked back into booth laughing.
Beyond the checkpoint Ryan found himself walking the narrow streets, surrounded by terraced slum-houses where rubbish piled up in the alleyways. He cupped his hands and blew a stream of hot air through them before taking a left onto Carragon Road.
This stretch of town was always eerily silent. On one side it had a long, high wall that ran the length of the street. On the other side stood a row of buildings that had been ruined by gunfire. The brickwork fronts were pockmarked by bullet holes and Ryan ran his fingers in and out of the ridges. There was one building that had completely crumbled leaving only a skeleton frame of jagged masonry. As always, Ryan felt his eyes drawn to the whitewashed wall opposite.
Brynne had once shown him a picture of this exact spot from over thirty years ago. He remembered holding the faded, black and white image in his hands, the hairs on his forearms standing on end as he stared at a mound of corpses. That same day, Brynne had taken him to Carragon Road and stood him at that very spot. Even now it was possible to see the faint outline of a word that was written beneath the whitewash.
JUSTICE?
On the path ahead, a small chunk of brick had dropped from one house. Ryan kicked it across the road and watched it rebound against the wall with a satisfying thud. He turned his thoughts back to the argument with his father, replaying it again and again. When the image of his ruined chest and melted skin came to mind, Ryan squeezed his eyes shut and forced it away.
Years ago, he used to stick up for his dad. He would fight other kids when they called him the son of a traitor. If his dad asked why his clothes were ripped, or his lip bloodied, he would make up some other reason, desperate to spare him the hurt.
That was before Brynne had told him the truth though.
When he turned off Carragon Road, he moved quickly through a maze of back alleyways until he found himself outside an abandoned chapel. It looked derelict from the outside, but so did everywhere else round there. He gave one last check to make sure that no one was following before pushing open the door.
Ryan waited for the gloom to clear from his eyes and took a few cautious steps into the chapel. The wooden door, swollen with age, scraped over the sandstone floor with a groan. Even something as mundane as that sounded exciting here. Brynne was everything his dad would never be. A living legend, leading a secret life in the heart of the Worker District.
Inside the chapel it was even more ramshackle. The few remaining pews showed scorch marks from an old fire and had now begun to rot with damp. Although the vaulted archways were still intact, the roof they supported was collapsing so that rain and sunshine fell through to the chamber below. Whatever fire and time had left, the looters had taken.
Ryan made his way towards the chancel at the back of the church. His nerves were still jangled from the argument and it was a relief when he saw Brynne appear in the side archway behind the altar. As always, the old man’s presence was reassuring. He had a strong face, broad shoulders and a temperament like deep water. Instead of the usual relaxed smile though, right now it looked like he had seen a ghost. It lasted barely a moment though until he was smiling.
“Ryan, my boy,” he offered his hand. “I’d expected you days ago. You gave me a start.”
They shook hands. “I’ve been staying away,” he said. “There were gunnermen.”
Brynne glanced at the back of the church as though he expected them to burst in.
“Come on,” he said. “Let’s talk downstairs.”
The old man turned towards a moth-eaten tapestry at the back of the altar. He drew it to one side revealing a staircase that led down into the tombs below the main chapel. That was where Brynne had made his home.
At the bottom of the steps there was a gas lamp flickering and blowing in the drafts. The small flame shifted silhouettes across the cellar wall and as usual Ryan scanned the clippings and pictures that were fastened to the stones. They told the true history of Straybeck over the past thirty-five years. One of greed and oppression by Premier Talis and his gunnermen since the Liberation Wars. It was illegal to even read these articles, but anyone found with a collection like this would live a short and painful life inside The Cathedral.
“So?” Brynne asked, sitting on the chair and gesturing for Ryan to take a seat opposite. “What happened?”
“I went to the park like you said and the forger was there in the trees. But as soon as we started to talk, the gunnermen turned up. They had dogs”
Brynne leaned back in the chair, his face suddenly shadowed. “Were you followed?” His voice was low, the hint of an accusation showing.
“No, I swear I wasn’t. It must have been him they were watching because the gunnermen were already waiting when I got there.”
“How many?”
“Three. I think. And maybe two dogs. One of them shot at me while I was running away, but I climbed the park wall and hid in the Worker District.”
“And Caylin? The forger?”
“I think they took him.”
A sudden scraping cut through the quiet.
“What was that?” Ryan said, spinning round in search of the noise. There was a recessed archway at the back of the cellar, but it was in darkness and the door looked old and unused.
When Ryan turned back, a cold, angry expression had settled over Brynne’s face.
“Did you actually see him snatched?”
“Well no, not exactly. He was running and the dogs were right behind him. But he might have got away. I guess.”
“No. No he didn’t,” Brynne said. Beside his chair there was a narrow gap in the wall and the old man reached inside. He drew out a pistol, all the while staring at Ryan. “Caylin couldn’t have got away. He was always book smart, but he couldn’t escape a snatch team. Not in a hundred years.”
Ryan’s heart was racing and his stomach clenched tight. His eyes flicked back and forth between Brynne and the pistol he was resting on his lap.
“I need you to understand this,” the old man said. “The test of a true revolutionary is in making hard choices, regardless of personal feelings.”
“What’s happening?” Ryan’s voice was barely a whisper.
Brynne raised the gun and moved forwards while Ryan shrank further into his chair. In a few quick strides though, Brynne had swept past him and was poised in the archway at the end of the roo
m. The old wooden door was studded with thick iron bolts, but Brynne wrenched it open in one quick movement.
There was a sudden cry of alarm and through the gloom, Ryan made out the shape of a mattress and some blankets heaped untidily on the floor. There was a man there too, scrambling to his feet and shielding his eyes from the sudden burst of light.
It was the forger, although Ryan barely recognised him. He was barefoot, wearing dirty dishevelled clothes, with his hair was sticking out at all angles. Even his mannerisms seemed wild, like a caged animal, hunched over and frightened by the light. As soon as his eyes adjusted, they fixed on Ryan.
“Here?” he shouted. “You brought him here?”
The forger rounded on Brynne, not realising for a few moments that there was a gun levelled at him. “What’s this?”
“You should have stayed away Caylin. You shouldn’t have brought this to my doorstep.”
“What?” the forger spluttered, a look of incomprehension on his face. Then his eyes cleared as though he had suddenly grasped the answer to a problem. “You,” he said to Brynne. “You…”
A deafening impact burst through the vault as the bullet ripped into Caylin’s chest and dropped him back to the mattress. Ryan cried out in shock, pushing away from the terrible scene. As the echo of gunfire faded, Brynne knelt beside the forger, listening to him breathe ragged gulps of air and cough out gobbets of blood.
“Sorry old friend,” Brynne whispered.
Caylin looked up with hatred in his eyes and scraped for his final breaths.
Ryan didn’t know whether he should stay or run. His eyes strayed to the crumpled body once more and his stomach lurched. He doubled up and puked onto the stone floor. Brynne rose and half-closed the heavy wooden door so that only a pair of legs showed through the gap.
“Why did you do that?” Ryan groaned, wiping strings of saliva from his mouth.
Brynne returned to his seat and hid the gun back within the wall. He reached onto the shelf beside him and took hold of a whisky bottle. There were two small tumblers beside it and he took them down, blowing the dust from them before pouring a generous measure of whisky into each. He offered one to Ryan who took it and sank numbly into the chair opposite.
“He came to me three nights ago,” Brynne said quietly. “He reckoned that the gunnermen had taken you but he’d managed to escape. Told me this great sob story about how he’d slept rough for two nights before coming to me for shelter. And like a fool I believed him.”
“But what if,” Ryan stopped, feeling his stomach fall again. “What if it was the truth? What if he did get away?”
Brynne shook his head. “You think he outran a snatch squad? Him? You said it yourself Ryan, the hounds were right behind him.”
“But what if I was wrong? What if I missed something?”
“It wasn’t just that. His story didn’t add up. He couldn’t tell me anything about where he’d been the past two days. Two days Ryan. Doesn’t that seem odd to you? Because if I worked at The Cathedral, I reckon two days would be plenty of time to break a guy like Caylin.”
“You think he was working for them? For the gunnermen?”
“I think part of me knew it as soon as he turned up at the door. I just didn’t want it to be true.” Brynne leaned forwards, his expression more intense than Ryan had ever seen. “This is the reality of what we do. These are the sacrifices we have to make.”
Ryan took a sip of whisky, the burning liquid almost making him gag a second time. He searched Brynne’s eyes, waiting for something that could take away the awful emptiness he felt.
“I’m sorry,” the old man said, his face softening. “I’ve tried so hard to shield you from this side of it all.”
“How can you do it?” Ryan said, his voice rough and quiet. He forced himself to look away from the forger’s body at the end of the room. Brynne took a sip of his own drink, nursing the liquid round his gums.
“The first time I killed a man I was two years older than you. I was crying when I did it, if you can believe that.” He gave an empty laugh. “I’ve no idea how many people I’ve killed since. But it gets easier. It gets…normal.”
The silence dragged out between them.
“I fought with my dad today,” Ryan said eventually. It almost made him laugh just saying the words aloud. “He found the pamphlet you gave me. Tried to make me tell him who I got it from.” He chanced a look at Brynne, but the old man’s expression was unreadable.
“He pinned me up against the wall. Then showed me all the…” Ryan pointed a hand over his own chest, “scars and stuff. You know.”
Brynne nodded.
“It was the worst thing I’ve ever seen…until now.”
“He’s concerned for you,” Brynne said. “He’s always given in to the Government. So when he sees you full of fight and fire, it scares him.”
“I’m not like him. I won’t swear allegiance.” In ten months it would be his eighteenth birthday. Like everyone else they’d expect him to take the oath.
“You know, it’s no small thing to face The Cathedral,” Brynne said.
“I’m not going to change my mind.”
There seemed very little worth saying after that and when Ryan stood to leave, he gave no explanation. At the bottom of the steps, he paused, half-turning towards Brynne.
“I didn’t tell him. Where I got the pamphlet from.”
“I know.”
Ryan nodded and climbed back to the streets of Straybeck.
Chapter 5
Alia Turner walked through the schoolyard alone. Overhead, the skyline was as grey and gloomy as her mood. Three girls were whispering at the main doors and as she drew closer, laughter erupted from the group and they ran inside. A year ago they had been her friends. A year ago things had been very different.
“Miss Turner?” It was Mr Kinley, the head-teacher. He walked across the yard and the wind flipped his tie over one shoulder. “Alia?” She had been going back into school, but Mr Kinley beckoned her out onto the yard again. “I need to talk to you. About…things,” he said.
Her stomach sank. Since she started at Straybeck Academy, she had only spoken to Mr Kinley twice. The first time was last year, when he had looked at her with big sad eyes, made bigger and sadder by his thick glasses. He told her how sorry he was.
“Your Father and I were friends. He was a good man. But don’t worry, at least your future here is secure.”
The first time was last year. The second was today.
“There’s been an error with the admissions this term,” Mr Kinley said. “I know that when we spoke about your place last year, we came to an understanding. I told you that it was my intention to keep you at the school as long as a place existed for you.”
Alia nodded through the lie.
“Unfortunately, a place has been promised to a student this term despite our classes being full. The parents of this child are very important to us. Very important. I’m sure you understand the situation this puts me in?”
“I’m sorry, I don’t understand, Sir.” She refused to make this easy for him.
Mr Kinley cleared his throat. “What I’m trying to say is that it would be impossible for me to turn this child away. Especially when we have a non-fee paying student in the school. The Governors simply wouldn’t allow it. I’m very sorry, but I can’t keep your place open any longer.”
“What about my exams, Sir?”
Mr Kinley handed her a piece of paper. “Ah. Now. That is the good news. You see, I’ve pulled a few strings with a friend of mine at Straybeck Central.”
Alia’s eyes closed and she made an involuntary groan.
“I know what you’re thinking,” Mr Kinley said quickly. “But the school has improved dramatically over the past few years and there really is no reason why a hard-working student can’t graduate with above average grades. The qualifications will no longer exempt you from the factories of course, but there’s no reason why you wouldn’t be assigned to low level mana
gement or even a secretarial position after graduation.”
She took the slip of paper from him and unfolded it to see the crest of Straybeck Central. Beneath the crest was a lesson timetable for the next term. “What about here? What about my coursework? My books?”
Mr Kinley shifted his stance uneasily. He stared at the school gates behind her. “We’ll post them on,” he said. “I’m sorry, but there really is no point in dragging this out any longer.”
Without another word, he turned his back on her and Alia walked out through the main gate. The old security guard smiled at her from his kiosk. She passed her ID card beneath the glass, but he shook his head and slid it back to her.
“Couldn’t forget a face like yours,” he said. It was the same joke he used most days, but she managed a weak smile and set off through Old Straybeck and towards the Slum District.
The next morning, despite having no school, Alia still woke at first light. The house was silent and she opened her eyes to the familiar ache of hunger. It was a cold morning and as she plodded downstairs, her breath frosted the air. Her mum was sitting in the lounge, shivering as she listened to the radio.
“What are you doing down here?”
With dull, swollen eyes her mother turned to the voice, but showed no recognition. Her hair was unwashed and un-brushed, like she hadn’t slept in a week.
“Have you been to bed yet?” Alia said, not expecting an answer. She stooped to kiss her mum and wrapped a blanket around her. With a sigh she picked up a small bottle of anti-depressants, noting that it was empty.
Alia went through to the kitchen and boiled the kettle. It was an old battered thing left behind by the previous occupants. She remembered the gleaming kitchen at her old house, kept spotless by a cook and two scullery maids. It was all gone now of course. Auctioned off to settle her father’s impossible debt.
Alia opened the fridge and the stench of rotten food made her jolt backwards. There was nothing edible and she shut the door, resting her head on the cold metal. She waited there for several minutes feeling drained and empty. Eventually, the kettle set up a shrill whistle, demanding her attention and Alia steadied herself for the day ahead.
Straybeck Rising: Calloway Blood: Book one (Calloway Blood 1) Page 3