He wondered if the guard was going to snap his ID right in front of him. It was an offence to do it, but who would believe Ryan? If he did, there was no way he could find his way back to Straybeck without the gunnermen picking him up at a checkpoint. If he didn’t have his card then they would arrest him. “Please,” he said quietly. “I just want to get home.”
And right then, he really meant it.
“Follow me,” the guard said curtly.
Ryan closed his eyes as a sort of despair settled over him. Then he found a small kernel of resentment and drew strength from the anger. Steeling himself for whatever was coming, he left the toilet and moved out onto the platform. Instead of heading for the station house though, the guard moved in the opposite direction. He was a stout figure and carried himself with an almost military bearing, like a drill sergeant on the parade ground.
Ryan followed at a slow limp, the pain in his side making it hard to breathe. They moved towards the train tracks and the grass slope where Ryan had woken earlier. The very last building on the platform was a small stone hut, slightly removed from the rest of the structures.
Outside were dozens of rusted railway sleepers stacked at waist height in a lattice shape. When he first went past, Ryan had presumed it was just an old storage. He couldn’t understand why the guard was waiting for him there with the door wide open. He had no wish to go in, but the only other choice was to leave on foot without his ID. Which was no option at all.
“What’s inside?”
The guard put one finger to his lips and then unexpectedly handed the ID back. Ryan clutched it tightly and considered making off on foot. After a moment’s hesitation though he went through the door to find that the room within was furnished like a break room. There were two beaten-up armchairs with bulging foam cushions and between them was an old packing crate that was being utilised as a table. On top of it was a metal dish brimming with cigarette butts and a tea-stained mug.
The old guard settled himself on one of the chairs and gestured for Ryan to do likewise. Reluctantly he sat down and an uncomfortable silence hung between them.
“If you could ask me any question right now, what would it be?”
Ryan stared at him. There were so many to choose from, but very few he was prepared to say aloud to the man before him. He settled on a safe option.
“What do you want?”
The guard shook his head. “Wrong question lad. You see I could tell you any number of things. One of them may even be the truth. But it’s not what you need to know. What you really need to know is whether or not you can trust me.”
“And can I?”
“Well here’s the thing. I could tell you yes, but what else am I going to say?”
“So I can’t win either way.”
“Now you’re getting it,” the guard grinned.
“Can I keep my card?”
“With my compliments. Although I really can’t let you back on the trains.”
“I wasn’t doing anything wrong though.”
“Doesn’t matter. If those two jumped up pricks see you riding the trains today, they’ll leave you with more than a few knocks and scrapes. They made that very clear.”
“Knocks and scrapes? They threw me off a moving train!”
“They didn’t shoot you though, did they?”
The old guard lifted a small metal flask that was standing beside his chair. As he unscrewed the top, a twist of steam escaped and condensation dripped from the underside of the lid. The guard poured a cup of copper-coloured tea and passed it to Ryan. Hesitantly he took it and sniffed over the top of the liquid.
The guard laughed. “It’s tea lad, not poison.”
As if to emphasise the point he poured a second mug and blew across the top before taking a long sip. Ryan realised how parched his throat was and took a gulp of the tea, closing his eyes as the heat ran down to his stomach. That momentary feeling of comfort jolted him to alertness and he snapped open his eyes expecting to find the guard advancing towards him. There he was though, unmoved and waiting straight-backed in the chair.
“Why have you brought me here?” Ryan placed the cup onto the wooden box that lay between them. “Why are you talking to me?”
The guard sighed. “I’ve brought you here because it’s the only place in this station that I know for certain isn’t watched. Not that I think they’d be particularly interested in listening to an old man like me. But if they are, I’d rather not be recorded talking to someone like you.” He took another sip of tea. “No offence.”
“Oh, none taken.”
“And as for helping you? Well I guess I just remember a time when giving someone a hot drink and a place to sit for a while wasn’t looked on as a crime.”
Ryan doubted that anyone had so simple a motive for doing something nice. In his experience people were always running another angle. Greed. Revenge. Sometimes loyalty. But never kindness. Not anymore.
“I’m Gerren,” the guard said.
“You already know my name,” Ryan said churlishly. If the tone bothered him though, Gerren didn’t show it.
“I certainly do. Ryan Calloway. Seventeen years old. From Straybeck.” The guard smiled to himself. “I remember being seventeen years old. I bet you can’t imagine that looking at me now.”
Ryan shrugged. He couldn’t imagine that Gerren was ever anything but this hulking man with a walrus moustache.
“Go on, guess how old I am.”
He gave the guard an appraising stare, but it was like trying to guess the age of a sevener. Gerren had brawny shoulders and a powerful chest. Bigger even than Brynne, who he had always thought so strong. It was in the face though where the years were showing. The skin around his eyes was weathered and the jowls of his neck sagged over the starched white collar of his shirt. Ryan knew that his dad was fifty-one and guessed that Gerren must be a least ten years older than that.
“Sixty?” he said. “Sixty-five?”
“I’ll be seventy-eight next month.”
Ryan was astounded. People rarely lived that long in Karasard. And if they did, they were so worn down by years of labouring that they grew into hunch-backed old skeletons. He had certainly never seen anyone like the man sitting opposite.
“I used to be a gunnerman,” Gerren said. “Three years as a cadet, then forty-one in the City Garrison. Until they pastured me out.”
“Forty-one years?”
“That’s right. I’ve fought in wars against the Gabblers, the Aftlanders, even the bloody exiles west of Willensbrough.” His face took on thoughtful expression as he warmed to the conversation. “Do you know, I was the strongest man in the garrison. Maybe even the city. Gerren the Giant, they called me.” He smiled, raising his huge right hand and curling the fingers into a fist. “I fought bare-knuckle with a sevener once.”
Ryan wasn’t sure which was more shocking. The sudden outpouring of memories from a complete stranger, or the fact that it was a gunnerman who was doing it. In spite of himself, he leaned forwards in his seat wanting more. Gerren lapsed into silence though, lost in his own thoughts.
“Did you win?” Ryan eventually prompted.
“What?”
“The fight? With the sevener?”
The guard’s eyes cleared and he laughed.
“Against a sevener? Not likely. I tell you something though, he never knocked me down. Not once.”
They finished the first cup of tea and talked their way through most of a second. Habit made Ryan deflect any questions that were too personal, but Gerren didn’t seem to notice. In fact he seemed more than happy to fill any gaps with reminisces from his own past. Ryan was happy just to be somewhere warm and comfortable. Eventually though, Gerren rose and drew a small silver fob watch from his pocket and squinted down his nose at the dial.“Trains due in,” he said. “Time for me to go.”
“Me too, I guess.”
Gerren gave him a pointed look.
“I know, I know. Don’t worry. I won’t try and
get on the train.”
“You know someone in Straybeck who can patch you up?”
Ryan was surprised that his first thought fell upon Alia. Again he wondered if she would let him stay at her house for the night, but couldn’t imagine having the courage to ask her. He wondered about Brynne and then dismissed it when he recalled how he had been sent away from the chapel.
“I’ll find someone,” he said to Gerren and then walked stiff-legged to the door. Each step sent a burst of pain through his ribs and when he touched the side of his head, the lump was as tender as ever.
Gerren left first, scanning the platform before waving Ryan out to join him. He pointed down the line to where a train was approaching at a steady pull.
“Follow the tracks,” he said quickly. “But don’t let the drivers see or they’ll report you. It’ll take a few hours, but you’ll reach Straybeck.”
Ryan held out his hand and the big man shook it. “I’ll keep an eye out for you,” he said. “If you’re passing this way again. Take care.”
He didn’t have a watch, but the afternoon had soon passed its peak and begun a slow descent by the time he reached the outskirts of Straybeck. His feet were blistered and his whole body ached without let up. Ryan had lost count of the times he’d had to leave the tracks while the trains rumbled by in either direction. Mostly they were commuter links ferrying workers between Straybeck and Karasard. Sometimes though, one of the immense quarry train thundered by, carrying ore and rock from the hill foundries at Insel. When he saw these, Ryan threw himself into the long grass and covered his ears as a quarter mile of freight shook the ground beneath him.
Eventually Ryan limped away from the tracks and found he could make better progress on the road. After another hour of walking he had reached the housing developments on the edge of Straybeck and was confronted by one of the fixed checkpoints that encircled the city.
The road had been blocked across the middle leaving a gap barely wide enough for a gunnerman truck to pass though. Thick black railings and razor-wire created a formidable barrier and beyond that was a metal shack the size of a railway carriage. As Ryan approached, he saw movement behind the large grimy window of the shack. A gunnerman stepped out, blocking the gateway to Straybeck and staring at Ryan as if he’d appeared from another world.
Ryan could only guess what he looked like, covered in the knocks, blood and bruises that came from being thrown out of a moving train. The gunnerman pointed at the swelling on the side of his head, which felt like it had expanded to cover most of his eye now.
“What happened to you?”
“Picked a fight with the wrong person.”
“I can see that,” he said unsympathetically. “One of my lot do that?”
“No.”
“How’d you get it then?”
“I was at the Brazier’s last night. Someone didn’t like my face I guess.”
The Brazier’s was a notorious pub at this side of town. The gunnermen seemed at least partly satisfied by the answer.
“Card.”
Ryan handed it over and the gunnerman walked it to the scanner in his booth.
“Are you wanted?”
“No.”
The scan confirmed it, but the gunnerman waited at the screen.
“Says you live on the other side of town. Why are you here?”
Ryan had already thought about his answer to this and knew it could get him in a lot of trouble. He’d already learned the hard way how dangerous it was to be homeless in Straybeck.
“I used to live there,” he said. “My dad kicked me out yesterday.”
“What for?”
“Said I owed him money,” Ryan continued the lie. “I’m staying with a friend over here now.”
“Where?”
Ryan paused for a moment. He thought back to some of the streets around Brynne’s chapel.
“Overton Way.” It was a long meandering road lined with clumps of terraced houses. It seemed sufficiently anonymous to prevent further questions.
“Which number?”
“I don’t know. It’s got a brown door.”
“What’s your friend called?”
“Jacob.”
“Jacob what?”
“Don’t know. I’ve only known him a few days.”
The gunnerman sighed irritably. “You’re full of shit.”
“Honestly, it’s the truth. It’s about halfway up.”
But the gunnerman raised his hand, over-talking Ryan’s garbled explanation.
“You’re full of shit and we both know you are. But quite honestly, I can’t be bothered getting to the bottom of whatever it is you’ve done. Just piss off and don’t come back this way.”
“I won’t,” Ryan said quickly, retrieving his ID card on his way through the gate.
He suddenly felt drained of whatever energy had sustained him this far. His head was pounding and his legs could barely carry him down the street. Ryan realised that the only thing he’d eaten or drunk in over a day was Gerren’s cup of tea. He wanted to see Alia, but guessed it would be at least another hour of walking and he knew he couldn’t make it that far.
His only option was to go to the chapel and hope that Brynne was alone. The old man wouldn’t turn him away again. Not if he saw the state he was in. With the decision now made, Ryan pushed on, clinging to the thought that he would soon have somewhere to rest.
The high arched windows of the chapel were reflecting the last of the afternoon sun as Ryan approached. The road was deserted and he limped wearily to the front door. He leant his shoulders to the dark, oak door and it slid reluctantly over the flagstones. As usual, the inside of the chapel was dark and empty. Ryan moved up to the chancery and swept aside the tapestry that hid the secret staircase.
“Brynne?”
No answer.
“Brynne? It’s me.”
He allowed the thick material to fall back into place behind him and then lurched down the steps like a drunk. The dark and cold was soothing, but his mouth was parched and head still pulsed with pain.
“Brynne?” he hissed again, coughing as he did so.
Even with one hand tracing a path down the cool stone wall, Ryan missed his footing on the bottom step and stumbled into the cellar where he smacked his shoulder against the wall. He slid his hand along the lumpy stones and found a gas lamp and box of matches. Once lit, it brought a severe brightness to the empty living quarters.
Ryan searched through the cupboards where Brynne stored his meagre supplies and found some hard-baked bread and a wrap of cured meats. He set about devouring them immediately. There was a half-full bottle of wine there too and Ryan took a long slow drink from it. He had never tasted anything so sweet as that meal and once he was gorged, he slumped to the floor and slowly picked through the remaining scraps. For once he even ignored the dark black stain at the back of the cellar that disappeared into the secret room.
As he rested and the pain in his body eased, Ryan allowed his mind to drift. Every so often though a sharp drip drip cut through his thoughts and pulled him back to the present. Lazily he turned his eyes across the cellar. The gas lamp suddenly flared and Ryan felt the hairs on his arms stand up and his skin prickle. A terrible fear seized him and the dripping grew louder, like fingers drumming on a table top.
The light flared again and this time a rush of gas blew through the filament and exploded the glass casing into hundreds of tiny shards. They flew across the cellar showering Ryan’s face with sharp little needles. He yelled out but sat frozen in the darkness while his heart thumped.
The drip was a steady rhythm now, falling from above like rain and splashing off the stone floor. Ryan was pelted by the heavy droplets and fumbled through his pockets for a lighter. He thumbed the wheel until it struck against the flint. The small flame lit the cellar in a shaky half-light and as Ryan lifted it higher, a drop of liquid bounced off his knuckles.
Blood.
Slowly, Ryan tilted his head up to the source and w
ith a cry of horror he saw a figure swinging from the ceiling like meat in a butcher’s shop. It was the forger, Caylin, still alive and staring with one bright blue eye and one empty socket. A twist of black smoke breathed from the hole and he pointed his bony finger at Ryan accusingly.
He awoke with a scream, sweat-soaked and shivering on the cold floor of the cellar. The door to the chamber where Brynne had killed Caylin was still firmly closed and nothing else had changed. Even so, Ryan knew he couldn’t settle there now. He found his feet and moved warily to the stairs. He was about to extinguish the lamp when he saw the metal dish in which Brynne collected his loose coins. Ryan swiped the handful of coppers and irons, just enough to feed him for a day or so, until he could get more from home. His old home. With a final glance at the back of the cellar, Ryan limped up the steps and away.
It was dusky dark on the streets, but full night had not yet arrived. The further he walked from the chapel, the better he felt and it wasn’t long before he had found his way to the Slum District of Straybeck. A cloudless sky had opened up overhead and a sharp wind whipped through Ryan’s thin clothes, making the temperature bite even more cruelly.
He took a meandering route so that he could reach Alia’s by only passing two checkpoints. At the first, he was asked about his injuries, but spared the interrogation he’d received at the outskirts. The next checkpoint was even easier, and he simply told the gunnerman that he was going to meet his girlfriend.
It felt strange to call her that, especially when the first time was to a gunnerman. Ryan mused over his past meetings with Alia. Was she his girlfriend? They hadn’t even kissed yet. They probably would have if it hadn’t been for the argument on Saintsday. The next time they had met was when she’d told him about her dad dying and how they were evicted from Old Straybeck. Kissing had felt like the last thing on their minds that day.
What about now? He was homeless, beaten up and wearing yesterday’s torn and dirty clothes. He had a half-empty belly and a handful of coins to his name. Hardly a catch. At the end of her front yard, Ryan wrinkled his nose against the smell of the metal skip but still gave it a tap for good luck. A light was flickering in the upstairs window and Ryan guessed Alia was using candles so she didn’t have to pay for the fuel. He gave three sharp raps on the door and waited.
Straybeck Rising: Calloway Blood: Book one (Calloway Blood 1) Page 20