Milton, smiled back. “Truthfully? Now? I don’t know,” he said. “He’s probably planning on boarding a ship.”
“A ship to where?”
“Japan?” he suggested. “Europe? Hell, your guess is as good as mine.”
“Not without this,” Scalise said coldly. She picked up the Peace Dollar from the console edge, holding it upright so that he could see. “I don’t think he would be going anywhere without this.”
“No,” Milton said, “you don’t.”
“Don’t what?”
“Think.”
Scalise laughed. Brave to the last. Admirable, but no less fatal in the long term, once she had what she needed of course. She curled her face. “Oh, but I do think, Mr. Grady. And let me tell you exactly what I think…”
She pulled the other chair toward her spinning it and taking a seat directly in front of him.
Milton looked intrigued. Deliberately so. “Please do, Senator. Because, truthfully, I’m enthralled.”
Scalise ground her teeth. “I think that our Mr. Strauss asked you specifically to come here tonight. And I think he sent you here to retrieve this for him.” She waved the dollar in the air again, gently. “I also think that once you had retrieved it for him, the two of you were to meet so that you could hand it over.” She leaned forward so that their faces were just two uncomfortable feet apart. “And the last thing I think, Mr. Grady, is that it is time for you to tell me exactly where and when you are due to meet him. Because I would very much like to have a little chat with him.”
Milton curled his bottom lip. He knew what was happening if he told her everything she wanted to know. He also knew what would happen if he didn’t. The fact of the matter was, they were one and the same thing. They had wanted Strauss dead and now it was his turn, so he really wasn’t pinning much hope on getting out of this alive. Not any more. “I think too,” he said, speaking deliberately slowly. “And what I think… is that you should go home and pleasure yourself with a garden implement. Anything will do. A rake? A trowel? A fork?” He leaned forward a little. “Just don’t pick a hoe, though. The irony would be palpable.” He smiled. Game over.
Scalise had spent longer in politics than this little shit had been alive, and she’d heard worse. Far worse. Still… she half turned toward one of the guards. “Could somebody please remind Mr. Grady here that it does not pay to be rude to me.”
One of the guards walked forward, lowered his rifle and, in one swift movement, shot Milton at close range in his left foot without even thinking it through. The tile below his foot shattered, blood splattered instantly from his shoe and he screamed in abject pain, his whole body creasing. Scalise just looked at him and smiled. Over time, the screams abated until, after a minute or so of Scalise just watching and tilting her head as though intrigued, he was simply left wincing. His breathing was very fast, deep and rasping through teeth clenched tight, his face was bright red and he was sweating. He gripped both hands into tight fists over and over, repeatedly tensing his whole body in the vain hope that it would somehow ease the pain. It didn’t.
“I will ask again,” Scalise said eventually. “Where are you and Strauss set to meet? And please don’t be rude.”
“I… don’t know… where… he is,” Milton said, his face scrunched tight and his mouth quivering.
“Do you think I’m an idiot, Mr. Grady?” Scalise asked, dipping her head and looking into swollen, reddened eyes.
He looked up to the atomic clock on the wall, it’s accuracy controlled by 10,000 ytterbium atoms cooled internally to 10 millikelvin: 2:35am. He took a deep breath, or sighed. It was hard to tell. Either way, he could already see where tonight was going. Downhill, fast. And not just for him, for all of them, Scalise included. It was small consolation.
His body shuddering he smiled again, almost maniacally this time. “If.. I… answer that… honestly… you’re… you’re gonna… shoot my… my other foot… Aren’t you?” He laughed gently, then winced again.
Scalise threw him a look, but then - suddenly - flinched very slightly, as though she had just felt something. She placed the dollar back on the edge of the console and then, leaning back in her chair and deliberately placing distance between the two of them, reached into her inside breast pocket to retrieve her phone. It had clearly just vibrated. Looking at the screen she could see the tiled floor straight through, now spattered with Milton’s blood, but on the screen itself was a simple notification. The word she did not like was the sender I.D.: ‘Unknown’. She narrowed her eyes suspiciously and swiped. A text-only message appeared on the screen, visible only to her. Instantly it became clear from the look on her face that this was not good news. From behind, the guards could not see her face but Milton, even through the pain, clearly could. She narrowed her eyes as if thinking something through and then she too looked up at the clock. Then she looked back to Milton, suspiciously.
A few moments later, she smiled. Whatever answer she had just been searching for, it was clear that she had just found it.
She stood up and turned to the guards. “I need to step out of the room to make a call,” she said. “If he moves a muscle or breathes in a way you find unpleasant, shoot the other foot. Do not move until I come back in. Understood?”
Both guards, still visored and holding their weapons firm but low, nodded.
She looked to Milton and narrowed her eyes one more time, as though somehow weighing him up, but said nothing. Something in his face made her think that he was disappointed that she was leaving. Which might actually mean that this was for real, because it might actually mean that he knew. She swiftly turned to the door and, keying in the code, stepped out into the long corridor beyond. Her footsteps were heard for just a few brief moments before the door closed behind her.
She seemed to be hurrying.
FIFTY
Friday, July 21, 1645.
Manningtree, Essex, England.
The square at Manningtree was heaving under the weight of crowds and a much darker rain by the time I returned, dragging the ragged and writhing girl in my wake. Her feet slipped and slid in the squeezing mud, with only the strength of my arm keeping her from splashing face first into the slops. There was no air of carnival here, as there had been in Colchester, no stalls selling wares nor musicians plying their tunes. Just a crowd; an angry, seething mob bubbling in a cauldron of sweat and loathing. Almost everyone had taken the day off to attend, some caught in the sheer event of it all but many, unwarranted, feeling that tomorrow was now going to be a much brighter day simply because of today. Men, women and children alike jostled, shoved and growled against the shower, each pushing as hard as they could to get within spitting distance of the gallows or the wretches that would soon adorn them.
The girl’s head was low and her legs weak. In the minds of the gathered, that was no doubt a result of her futile attempt at escape. In truth, most were too busy enjoying the dark relief of baying and jeering to really pay much heed to what it was they might actually be baying and jeering at.
Most, but not all...
Somehow, I had somehow managed to time my arrival perfectly, six minutes to midday. It had, however, been a close call...
I had expected, perhaps a little optimistically, to reach the clearing and find Rachael standing calm, sedate and smiling; the old Rachael back in my world. The old Rachael, however, was still nowhere to be seen and this new version - the one which flickered in and out like a fading candle - had been standing firm at the edge of the clearing, her face an ashen mask, shaking like a leaf and frozen to the spot. Through quivering eyes she stared hard at her dark nemesis, still chained to Old Knobbley like the vicious dog she was.
Prudence, by contrast, was most definitely back to her old self. She might have been harbouring a bad head or held some questionable vision, but the ground mushrooms had clearly become bored of poetically rewriting her emotions some time ago and she was now violently wrenching at her chains, as predicted, and struggling in vain to break
free.
I had two things to do, and they had needed to be done right away and done quickly.
First, I drugged Prudence one more time but, tricky as that had been, it had by no means been the most horrible thing. Of course, her mouth spat venom like welding sparks as I removed the gag, though she had done a good job of partially removing it herself, and she further spat out far more of the mead than I managed to force in. Eventually, however, she was drifting again, slurring her way into some twisted oblivion her ’shroomed-up psyche was conjuring on her behalf. All the while Rachael just stood transfixed, staring as though watching through a window from another world. I wanted this to be over, all of it; and to be with her right at that very moment, holding her close, but time had been pressing and, for now, time was pretty much the only loaded weapon I had.
No, the horrible thing, the thing that had burned away at my inherent sense of decency for quite some time now, was that the two women needed to swap clothes and that was going to be hard to do without getting them completely naked first. Undergarments were rarely afforded, needed or worn by the poor. Getting Rachael to remove her filthy rags, certainly in her current frame of mind, was something I took no pleasure in doing whatsoever. It took all the care, patience, understanding and soft words I could muster to get the job done. Getting Prudence undressed, however, had involved releasing the chains, and had worried me no end as she was known to be quite the actress. Eventually, and primarily by agreeing with her that she would indeed be replacing her current dress with ‘the blue one’ (whatever that meant) I had somehow managed to, well, pull it off.
I had no desire to chain Rachael, as I had done with Prudence, and so I had needed to trust that when I told her to stay put, she would. Whether she would or not was very much up in the air, but it was by far the better of two evils and I had decided to take the chance. 6000 miles and 400 years from home I had searched and I had found her. If she was gone by the time I returned, I would find her again. I would make damn sure of it.
Fearing that I would miss the midday deadline because of both girls’ understandable reluctance to undress, and further fearing what wave of shit might head this way if I did, I had positively dragged the ‘shrooming Prudence a little over a mile into town. How much mead she had actually ingested this time around was impossible to calculate, but her eyes flickered between open and closed as she staggered and pretty much every word out of her mouth made a lot less sense than usual. No mean feat. So, with the clock ticking, I took the gamble that she had swallowed enough to keep her in another place until her ladder was kicked and dragged her roughly her into the swarm.
One of the women from the village, so old that she was barely able to walk, still managed to shove through with remarkable vigour and handed me a crown of thorns, to further torment the girl. I accepted it graciously and placed it delicately over Prudence’s head. Unfortunately, it had been constructed too large and it immediately fell to dangle in amongst the dirt around her neck. The woman, part-quoting the dark words of Genesis 3:18, spat the words: “Cursed is the ground because of you. It will produce thorns and thistles for you, and you will eat the herb of the field.” Then she skulked backward, disappearing back into the crowd like a wolf sneaking back into the sanctuary of shadow.
I, meanwhile, swiftly manacled Prudence’s legs and positioned her with the three other wretched women at the back of the square in readiness for the “The Roade of Golgotha.” The two Annes said nothing, each scouring the crowd as though it was they who were here to judge the mob today, whilst Ellen Clarke kicked out a gentle prayer punctuated by deep, breathless sobs.
“The Roade...” was the name long given to the final shove through the jostling crowd to the hanging pole. During this free-for-all the crowd would spit, jab, prod and poke with reeds to their heart’s content. To many gathered it was symbolic of Christ’s own final push through the crowd toward the crucifix and the torment he had subsequently endured; their way of ensuring that the agents of darkness got payback.
A few moments after I had positioned Prudence, Ravven and Atkins - the only two official guards here today - looked up and received a swift, affirming nod from Porter, standing at the far end of their walk. With the merest glance to each other, they began to shove the women forward through the rain, pushing and hitting them with reeds if they slowed. Every member of the crowd looked angry and fearsome until the accused came within spitting distance of them and then they parted like oil around water, retreating as though scared half to death. Then, using the well-titled distance offered to them, many did what they had come so close to do... they began to spit.
For the first few metres, Prudence seemed so far out of it she might well have been in another town, her head lolling awkwardly as hit after hit, prod after prod and wad after deliberately thickened wad of spittle caught her full in the face. But, as I watched her intently from the rear, I suddenly saw her head begin to lift, just slightly, about half-way along. I had hoped that she would not rouse until it was all over; until it was too late, but it seemed that such a vain hope might have only one way to cling on against the driving rain; in vain. Slowly but surely, she seemed to start looking up and around, confused and scared. Realisation was setting in, I reasoned, and I cursed hard under my breath.
It did not matter how much I had re-coloured her hair or smeared her face, or how much rain fell, for it would take more than a quarter hour’s worth to wash it clean; all that mattered now was that if she got so much as one word out of that evil bitch mouth of hers it would all be over.
I looked to Porter, standing around ten feet to the side of the makeshift gallows, and saw nothing in his face. Not yet. Even as the women were hauled close, Prudence’s feet still scraping, there was nothing.
I thought of Rachael, alone, scared and hopefully still in the forest and I wanted to leave right then, but I could not. If I went to her now then I would undoubtedly escape with her, but we would not get far. The truth would be out fast and horses would be launched faster still, coming after us like cannonballs. Any second chance for Prudence was a second chance gone for Rachael and myself.
Prudence had to die today, and he had to see it.
The nooses were secured and all faces suddenly changed as though getting into character. Ellen Clarke closed her eyes and either gave up or gave herself up, it was hard to tell. As the rain started to bucket down in earnest, Anne West seethed through clenched teeth, scouring the crowd and cursing them all whilst Anne Leech began to spit and scream loud and vile obscenities as though possessed, her body writhing. Despite the downpour, it roused the crowd, their arms raising in defiance at what they saw as confirmation that they would indeed be watching a bad apple fall from a gallowed tree today.
Prudence... began to look up...
She scoured the crowd, her rain-sodden and matted hair, sticky bubbling mouth and dark eyes making her look every inch the witch, of sorts, that I knew her to be. It seemed as though she was seeking someone, or something, and her eyes darted faster than her weakened face could manage. I held my breath, but it was not fully stolen until a few moments later when, whatever it was, she found it.
Her eyes widened and her head raised just a fraction more in recognition. I followed her line of sight, through the heads and arms of the still-jostling crowd, and found her quarry as isolated as she did. Standing aloft on a barrel below the overhang of the The Ale House, a no-doubt-complimentary tankard held firm in hand - Hopkins.
Looking back to Prudence I could see her gathering herself together, finding all that she was and moulding it back into shape. Her legs straightened slightly against the wood, her shoulders raised and her chest filled. She looked as though she was making ready to scream for all she was worth - even if in my eyes that wasn’t actually that much. It did not need to be much, I figured. It just needed to be enough. Enough to fuck this whole thing up.
The problem for Prudence was that she was the last to arrive. The last to reach the gallows. The last to receive the noose.
That placed the unknown hangman (who everyone knew to be Bill Warde from Brantham anyway - he had dropped more gaffes than witches over the years) right next to Prudence at the time of reckoning. It made her first. I felt as though the air had been stolen around me and time, that same time that I wanted to race with abandon toward the stroke of midday, had decided through lack of oxygen to stand still and take a rest. With no clock in the village I was left, like many of the others, to look to Porter - his head lowered beside the gallows as he glanced nonchalantly at his Pomander watch.
As Prudence got ready to launch the demons within her and fire them in sound toward her erstwhile cohort, I looked all around. Frantically. Worried. From Prudence to Hopkins then to Porter. Then back to Prudence. As I looked back to Porter for a second time, the old man suddenly looked up, nodded without emotion and Warde, desperate to find his own way toward The Ale House, landed a firm, hard kick. The ladder did not even try to put up any resistance. Instead it just cracked and buckled, sending the young girl on the first part of her journey under the soil, the noose tightening and tiny missiles of blood spitting from her thorn-slit throat.
I closed my eyes and took the breath too long denied me.
Within ten seconds, all four ladders were laid in the puddles and filth and all four women were a lot closer to them, jolting as though struck by lightning (save for Anne West, whose elderly neck had clearly taken very little persuasion to snap clean). The crowd, silent for the act, roared again. The creaking of the ropes against the aged and hastily assembled wooden frame was swiftly drowned in an excitement for death that made me sick to my stomach. There were innocent women killed here today, I mused. Three of them.
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