“You can’t. There was another one that went that way.” She crept over to the back window and searched the alleyway running behind the house. It looked empty, but she couldn’t see further than a couple of houses in either direction. “Why was that gunnerman after you?”
Ryan unfolded the roll of papers he was carrying and handed the top sheet to Alia. It showed a picture of the Premier with his trousers down, squatting over Straybeck. She gasped and turned to Ryan, one hand over her mouth. The reaction made him smile and in spite of herself she realised that she liked that. He had a warm smile.
“Why have you got those?”
“It’s just a picture,” he said.
She looked back at the poster and a nervous laugh burst out. It was a fairly accurate reflection of her life over the past year. A bump sounded from somewhere overhead, followed by a soft moaning. Ryan frowned up at the ceiling.
“What’s that?”
“Nothing. Just the neighbours I think.” Alia turned back to the window to hide the blush creeping up her face. “Are you from a factory?”
“No.”
“Have you ever worked in one?”
“Briefly. Why?”
“Where do you work?”
“You ask a lot of questions,” Ryan said with a bemused smile. Alia shrugged. “What about you?” he said. “Where do you work?”
“I’m still at school.”
“Straybeck Central?”
“Kind of.”
“Kind of?”
But before she could explain, three loud knocks rattled the front door. They both froze and Ryan crept into the hallway, his face drained white. Through the frosted panel the outline of a gunnerman was clearly visible. The knocking sounded again, louder and longer this time.
“Shit,” Ryan jumped backwards, colliding with Alia in the doorway to the kitchen.
“That way,” she hissed, snatching the key for the back door from the counter. “Just a minute.” she called in as calm a voice as she could muster.
Ryan took the key from her, unlocked the door and tugged it open. He ducked beneath the washing line, scanned the alleyway in both directions and then was gone. Alia closed the door and leant her back against the old wood, heart racing. A moment later she was pushed across the floor as Ryan reappeared in the doorway.
“Hi. Sorry.”
“What are you doing?”
“Can I see you again?”
She couldn’t believe he’d come back to ask her that. “Are you insane?” The knocking came again, even louder and Ryan made no attempt to move. “Okay. Yes. I’ll see you again.”
He grinned and then bolted out of sight.
Chapter 8
When he saw the gunnermen chasing his brother, John scrambled out from his hiding place and went after them. He’d barely reached the end of Foundry Lane before he lost sight though. He kept running, guessing at their route, but soon grew tired.
The streets were deserted and John glanced nervously in all directions. Up ahead, he saw the huge Straybeck library. It was boarded up at every window, but he could see that the bottom of the door had been kicked through. As he stepped closer he heard the clatter of wood and shrank against a wall. One of the gunnermen emerged through the broken doorway, crouching low and shuffling into the sunlight. Then he set of at a jog towards the Slum District.
John took another look at the broken doorway and listened for signs of life. Had Ryan gone in there to hide? He walked slowly up the stone steps and knelt before the splintered frame.
“Ryan?” he hissed. “Ryan? It’s me.”
There was no reply so he ducked beneath the remains of the door and into a musty darkness. He waited and listened.
“Ryan?”
He found himself in a narrow entrance hall where timbers from the roof had fallen to the ground, partially blocking the passageway. John crept between the broken beams and pushed open a second set of wooden doors, slipping into the central atrium. He stared up through an enormous circular staircase that had left a column of empty space the full height of the library. It reached up to a domed ceiling that was topped with a stained-glass window. As the light passed down, it diffused into a wide shaft of colours that fell upon John’s face, painting him in soft reds and blues. He crossed the atrium and climbed the circular staircase
“Ryan?” he said as loud as he dared. Somewhere overhead, a bird started at the noise and flapped across the stairwell until it found a perch nearby. The hairs on his neck were tingling but he continued to climb until he reached a large stone archway. It was the first-floor balcony that ran in a long, lazy circle, finally emerging from a second archway behind him. A plaque on the stone wall read: History. Politics.
John crept slowly onto the balcony and peered through the doorway of each room he passed. Inside were huge bookcases lying on their sides, surrounded by charred piles of books. The stone walls were soot-stained and where the fire had burned hottest, the roof was missing to reveal blackened timbers.
John didn’t dare go inside and had soon completed a full circuit of the balcony before finding the staircase to the second floor. As the steps levelled out, he rubbed the grime away from the wall plaque.
Fiction.
The books up here were dusty and neglected, but otherwise untouched by the fire. John stole between the shelves, running his fingers along the old leather spines. A soft light drifted into the chamber allowing him to squint at the titles. John thought back to his own house and how they’d never owned any books. He toured the shelves, choosing the most amazing titles and carrying them under one arm.
As he came to the final book case, he noticed a small stone archway sunk into the back of the room. John twisted the black metal handle until the latch clunked. He pushed forwards and the door creaked open
As his eyes grew accustomed to the gloom, he saw that the walls were lined from floor to ceiling with shelves. Each one was stacked full of newspapers and journals, all piled neatly together. Cobwebs covered the papers, and he wiped them away with both hands. Years of dust and dead insects stuck to his fingers.
John had only ever known one newspaper, The Straybeck Times. The names on the shelves left him confused though. The Truth, The Chronicle and a small pamphlet called Workers Union Paper.
He hefted down a stack of Straybeck Times’ that were dated from years before he was born. The headlines were incredible. Tales of plots and arrests, kidnaps and murders. They talked about political parties that fought against the old King. A man named Willem who threw himself under the royal carriage. John recognised one name in amongst the muddle, The Workers Party. That was Premier Talis’s party.
The papers mentioned it often, but they told the story differently. John struggled through the text but didn’t recognise any of his heroes from school. They kept calling the Premier General Talis and said he was leading a group of rebel fighters. They called him a traitor to the crown and said that he was wanted for treason.
When he hefted down another stack of papers, the tone of writing was different. A large headline said “Victory” and the picture below showed Premier Talis, still young, still strong, sitting on an enormous tank in the city square.
John sifted through three more stacks of the paper. He read the headlines and scanned some of the articles before casting them across the floor. Eventually, he took hold of the final copy, dated over thirty years ago. John took a breath and smudged the butt of his hand across the front page. Through the gloom of the windowless room a stark black headline yelled up from the carpet.
Assassination of Premier stopped by gunnermen.
John guzzled the text below, wanting to know the whole story before he had read it. Snapshots flickered up at him, “One gunnerman in hospital…shot in the chest…arrests made… Alistair Argyle, David Farren, Robbert…”
He froze, then read the name again.
Robbert Calloway.
John’s stomach dropped and he closed his eyes while the name Robbert Calloway coursed through
his head. Why had his dad tried to kill the Premier?
Chapter 9
Robb sat at the kitchen table clenching his fists. When it was cold like today, it was the only way to stop his knuckles aching. There was a noise behind him and he turned to see John standing in the doorway holding a small parcel in one hand.
“What’s the matter?”
John passed it over and he found himself holding a tightly folded sheet of newspaper. He opened it slowly, already guessing it was about him. Another reminder of a past he could never escape.
Assassination of Premier stopped by gunnermen.
They were only words, but his chest swelled and hardened like armour. He gazed into John’s unblinking eyes.
“Was it you?” John whispered.
Robb sank back against the table top, still holding the piece of paper. He thought about lying, or not answering at all, but he had done that with Ryan for seventeen years. He didn’t have the strength to endure the hatred of both his boys.
Robb slipped quickly through the streets of Karasard. The capital city was quiet tonight and he stayed instinctively close to the shadows. The fake ID in his jacket pocket was an expensive one, so the prospect of meeting a gunnerman patrol was not the reason he was so nervous. Right now, he was more concerned about the woman who’d been following him for three streets. It was only three streets, so it could be nothing. Or everything.
In a few days they were attacking the palace. In a few days they would be heroes.
At the end of the road, Robb paused as if unsure of his direction. He glanced at the reflection from the windows opposite and saw the woman break stride too. That was all the confirmation he needed. Calmly he turned left into Tower Street before sprinting flat out for a hundred yards and turning back onto the estate. He ran down a series of alleyways that eventually brought him back out on Tower Street, but half a mile further down.
If the woman had just been out for a walk, then he’d given himself a bit of exercise and a longer route back. If she was an agent though, then Robb hoped she was chasing shadows through the estate. It was not unheard of for gunnermen to make random follows, but this was the second time in a month. He set off in the opposite direction. Robb knew that he should have just gone home. Even so, he slipped the static checkpoint and found a looping route that took him back to the safe-house.
When he checked his watch it was almost nine. Robb picked up his pace, knowing that Alistair and Farren would be waiting. Soon enough, he arrived at a deserted street where every window and door were either boarded up or kicked in. At a house no different from any other, Robb ducked into the rear yard and moved quickly out of sight.
Instead of a back door, the safe-house had a wooden board fastened over the opening. Robb reached below the chipboard and pulled it towards him. It had been hinged at the middle and the lower half swung up just enough to let Robb pass under and out of sight.
He crawled through to the kitchen and saw a man silhouetted in the doorway of the front room. His face was covered by a black scarf and he stared at Robb wide-eyed. Slowly, he tugged the material down and shook his head.
“Robb,” he sighed. “Ya bastard.”
Alistair lowered the gun clenched in his right hand while Robb grinned at him through the gloom.
“Sorry, did I make you jump?”
“Jump? I nearly shite myself. Were you followed?” he said quickly.
Robb thought about not telling him. Alistair would only talk to the Colonel and that would mean yet another delay. They were so close now.
“Maybe,” he said. “I’m not certain.”
“That’s two now.” Alistair rubbed one palm across the back of his neck, no doubt trying to decide what the Colonel would do. “We’ll have to clear out.”
“Oh come on,” Robb said impatiently. As he moved through the kitchen, the smell of chemicals almost made him gag. There was an old cloth on the cooker and he held it over his nose. “I left her on the Tower Estate,” he said with a muffled voice. “There’s no way she could have tracked me here.”
The staircase rose steeply at his side, dividing the front room from the kitchen. At the top of the stairs Robb heard a bang as Farren threw open the bedroom door and stepped into view. He was wearing a face mask and goggles like a scientist. On his hands he had heavy duty gloves which he tore off while erupting into a violent fit of coughing. When it subsided, he pulled the mask down and slid the goggles up onto his forehead.
“I need a break,” Farren croaked, launching the gloves downstairs. “Alright mate,” he added, noticing Robb for the first time. Robb gave him a nod and picked the gloves up with one hand, the other still holding the rag over his nose.
“Robb was followed,” Alistair said suddenly.
“What?” Farren jogged downstairs to join them in the kitchen. “When?”
Robb glared at Alistair. “I think I was followed. I’m not certain.”
“What happened?”
“Some woman,” he said, leading them into the front room where the fumes weren’t so bad. Although the windows were boarded here, a faint light crept in around the edge of the boards. There was an old decorator’s lantern burning away merrily and Alistair had obviously been studying the plans of the palace while Robb was away.
“I saw her when I passed the first checkpoint,” he continued. “Then I lost her at the tower estate.”
Farren broke into more coughing and brought up a gob of phlegm. His face soured and he ran over to the back door. Crouching by the wooden board he pushed open the lower half so that he could spit into the yard.
“That’s better,” he said, lowering it gently. “Have you told the Colonel?”
“He’s out,” Alistair said. “Not sure where. But we can’t wait. Let’s get this place broken down.”
“Whoa, whoa, whoa, whoa,” Farren said, his hands in the air. “We’ve spent the past week mixing that stuff up there.”
“And it might have been a random follow,” Robb said, turning to Farren for support.
“Yeah,” his friend agreed. “He doesn’t even know for certain that he was followed. Do you Robb?”
Robb shook his head, even though it wasn’t true.
“Come on,” Farren continued. “At least wait until the Colonel gets back. Let him decide.”
Alistair was cautious by nature. He planned and prepared where Farren jumped in. Even so, with a reluctant nod, he agreed to hold off until Colonel Stephens returned.
“Who’s up next then?” Farren said with that cocky grin of his. He held up the goggles and face mask.
Alistair leant over his plans of the Premier’s palace, tracing his finger across the lines as though deep in thought. No one liked mixing chemicals and Robb reluctantly took the goggles and mask from Farren.
“One hour,” he said before heading for the stairs.
“Before you go,” Farren said. He rummaged through some clothing in one corner of the room and produced a black and green gunnerman’s uniform. It looked just like the real thing.
“Where’d you steal that from?” Robb said.
“Made it with my own fair hands,” Farren said.
“You mean we made it,” Alistair added, leaning up from the plans. “And there are still two more to make.”
Farren rolled his eyes. “Okay, okay.” Then to Robb, “but what do you think?”
He felt the fabric between finger and thumb and gave Farren a nod of approval. “It’ll do the job.” Which it would, because once they had blown up half the wall, who would stop three gunnermen running through the Premier’s palace?
Farren re-folded the uniform and placed it in the corner. With an exaggerated sigh Robb pulled on the goggles and headed for the stairs. They were mixing the chemicals in the front bedroom and the fumes were overpowering. It wouldn’t have been so bad if they could just open a window, but the colonel said it was too risky. If a gunnerman or a neighbour were to smell the chemicals, then they would all be straight to The Cathedral.
&n
bsp; “Good luck,” Farren laughed. It quickly turned into another fit of coughing and he raced past Robb towards the back door. He pushed back the wooden board and hawked into the back yard. Suddenly there was a quiet fizz and, without warning, a chunk of plaster jumped away from the wall behind him. Farren dropped to his backside, letting the board swing into place with a bang. He turned to Robb, wide-eyed.
“What?”
“Move!” That was Alistair striding through to the kitchen, gun in hand.
A moment later Farren was on his feet and bundling Robb towards the lounge.
An almighty crash shook the house and the wooden boards splintered away from the back door, covering the kitchen in debris. Alistair fired three quick shots, but a volley of gunfire came back at him. The bullets caught him in the chest and shoulder, throwing him off his feet and against the wall.
At the same instant, a tremendous impact sounded from the front door and Robb watched in horror as it buffeted forwards, the flimsy boards about to give way.
“Come on,” Farren shouted and together they raced up the narrow staircase.
A shout from the kitchen rang through the house. “Dogs loose.”
Savage growls sounded up as the first dog sprinted inside. The snarls quickly mixed with Alistair’s screams. A second hound skidded into view, its claws scratching for grip on the wooden flooring. It scented Robb and Farren at the top step and barrelled up the stairs towards them.
Farren broke right and slammed the bathroom door shut while Robb went for the mixing room. As he shut the door, the dog’s massive head squeezed through the gap. It snapped at his legs, but its body was thick with muscle and couldn’t fit through. Robb shouldered his weight to the door and felt the dog’s neck crush against the frame. It shrieked in pain and withdrew to set up a furious barking outside.
He ran across the bedroom and kicked at the window board. Three sharp blows made the wood crack and he was able to tear it from the wall by hand. The dog was still clawing at the wood and then a gunnerman’s voice called out.
“Koba. Get ‘ere. Koba.”
Robb leaned through the window and looked down to the pavement twenty feet below him. The height jolted his stomach and he stepped back, cursing quietly. Behind him there were more footsteps and angry shouting. As the door banged open he ducked his head to the sound of gunshots. When the first gunnerman stepped inside, Robb leapt into clean, cold air.
Straybeck Rising: Calloway Blood: Book one (Calloway Blood 1) Page 5