by M. T Hill
Having peered at the body for a time, Perrin rubs the skin around his optics.
‘Do you get many visitors here?’
Greenley glances to Martha, then back to the officer. ‘The odd one, certainly,’ he says. ‘The odd vagrant, banished or self-exiled individual, nothing more. Normally it’s local people who’ve had affairs and been caught out. The occasional traveller who’s fallen foul of the law. We took one of those in, actually – Rolly, he’s upstairs. People tend to stay, work with us a while, and drift on. I suppose people imagine allotments as a good balm for guilt. Time to reflect, atone, make peace with the earth. Which is all true. But it rains here. The hills… it does rain. You might say it takes a certain sort of person to stay.’
‘Mmm,’ Perrin says thoughtfully. He turns back to the old man’s body. ‘This is a textbook gunshot wound. Directly through the soft palate. A ricochet, out through the top. Did you look in the car? The roof liner?’
‘We have the gun,’ Greenley says. ‘I didn’t want it lying around, so I bagged it up.’
‘Brilliant,’ the constable continues, nodding. ‘See, look here. Residue on his lips. Signed and sealed, if you ask me. Perhaps we can ask the injured friend to tell us some more.’
‘If he’s on speaking terms,’ Greenley says.
‘Mmm,’ the officer says again, leaning over the body. He’s taken out a foamy-looking mitt, which he places over one hand. Then he does something to the dead man’s head. A flash, then another, and the officer looks away. A sound like radio chatter, very distant and minute. Martha realises it’s coming from inside the officer’s face.
‘Results’ll take a minute,’ the officer says, blinking as though he’s dazed. He seems amused that Greenley and Martha are staring.
‘Results?’ Greenley says.
‘ID check. I’m prodding the database.’
‘What database?’ Martha asks.
‘Cloud.’
‘You told me you were offline.’
‘No, I meant—’
Greenley shushes her.
‘Bing,’ the officer says. ‘All right then… Here we have one Benjamin Warkin. Full taxpayer, good chunk of savings in crypto, statins for high blood pressure. Bog-standard. Wife, two grown-up kids, three grandkids, full set. Pretty spotless.’
‘Then what happened to him?’ Martha says.
‘How do you mean?’ the officer replies. ‘That bomb goes off, doesn’t it? Should imagine he tries to get out of there before the wolves close in.’
‘I meant, why is he dead?’
‘Well, he didn’t fall over and bang his head on a bullet, did he?’
A pause.
‘And that’s it? No investigation?’
‘Martha!’ Greenley snaps.
The officer waves towards Greenley. ‘Obviously we’ll get the coroner on it – eventually. But to my mind, this isn’t a crime, and given the scale of what’s gone on in Birmingham – the amount of people who’ve rocked up in these parts – our priorities have shifted.’
Martha blinks at him. ‘You don’t think it’s suspicious that a bloke with a family turns up at random with a gun on his knee and a hole in his face?’
Greenley can only shake his head.
‘No easy answers,’ Perrin says. ‘Not often. Certainly not so clean-cut as this, any road. I don’t see his full history without the live link. Aggravating factors. Can’t have been too happy, can he? Sometimes a family isn’t quite enough. Sometimes you just lose it.’
‘And you don’t suspect any of us? You think it’s fine we bunged him in a freezer?’
‘That’s enough now,’ Greenley says.
‘No cause to suspect you,’ the police officer continues. He points upwards. ‘I checked the sky-eyes. Nothing amiss with the account. Everything as Mr Greenley described over the phone this morning. Plus, you’ve done us a favour. Every hospital round here is chock-a-block with inpatients who couldn’t score beds further south. And that’s before you get to the morgues, which are still filling with half-thawed bodies. Last night our commander requisitioned a wholesaler’s warehouse, just for their freezer space. They’re putting bodies in refrigerated trucks and setting them to run laps of the M60 until their batteries go.’
Martha shakes her head. Her eyes are hot. The casual confirmation that people really did die in Birmingham; that even the city’s already-dead were displaced by the attack. As she’d watched the scene like a pervert in Manchester city centre, families were being devastated in the darkness.
‘So what about the other one?’ she says.
‘Your man upstairs?’
Martha nods.
‘He’s next on the itinerary. Mr Greenley, can you cope with keeping our man Benjamin for now?’
‘I… yes,’ Greenley says.
‘Shouldn’t need more than, say, a month… Central records say we don’t have notes on his file, or alerts, so it’s not like anyone’s looking for him just now. Unless you’re running this freezer off a generator, and need the fuel.’
‘Bio,’ Greenley says, patting the freezer lid. The dead man’s lips are parted as though he’s adrift in sleep. ‘We’ve got plenty of waste to burn through.’
Martha clutches her belly, an old soap opera scene stuffing her throat: Benjamin’s family, a life in Birmingham. The most normal night, all these years beyond the bedtime routine, telling stories with all the voices; he and his wife watching shows from the sofa, recounting the day; eating too many biscuits they promise they won’t add to their next shop yet always seem to, because these small pleasures are the guts and glue of their relationship. They go to bed and hold hands until one of them gets too clammy, and the house falls silent but for the productive tinkle of preening gadgets. Then without warning the night collapses. A suffocating pall falls over the house. Awake in the dark, panicked, because nothing works – none of the torches, nothing. An ancient cigarette lighter holds out, enough to find socks and shoes and dressing gowns. And even though Benjamin and his wife get out, make good progress through the city with others from their street, they’re suddenly caught in a stampede, and they’re too old to run, and just as quickly as Benjamin can take his wife’s hand, count her fingers in the swelling crowd, he’s losing her. His grip loosens, she slips from reach. He gets lucky and free of the crowd, unaware that the softness under his feet is other people. He turns to see his lost wife screaming in the mass, too slow, then silenced and falling. And he walks and walks and walks to the city outskirts, to where the lights are still working. Here he finds the injured man, and together they requisition a vehicle, or steal it, or hack it, override it, and set course for the north via the A- and B-roads out of the city. But his wife is back there, buried, and the pain is intolerable, and the pistol – where did this even come from? – is an instant release.
What other reason might there be for this man to be dead?
Greenley closes the freezer lid. The suck-slam makes Martha jump.
8
The injured man is sitting up when Perrin enters Sharon’s shed. Martha, ordered to stay outside by a visibly irritated Greenley, loiters at the window. The shutters inside the shed are partially closed, but the timber is rotting, so she can see everything through the gaps in the joinery. The injured man’s eyes are red and heavy. The drip is still attached to his arm. His legs are covered. His facial scars are a shade less raw.
Sharon stands in the far corner, picking her nails.
‘Hello, sir,’ the officer says. The injured man doesn’t acknowledge him. His eyes are fixed dead ahead.
‘I’m Geraint, a police officer. You’ve been in an accident. You’re in a town called Dillock, and you’re safe. I’d like to ask you a few questions, see how you’re feeling.’
The injured man goes on staring.
Perrin comes to the edge of the man’s bed. One hand close to resting on the injured man’s chest. ‘Sir,’ Perrin says, ‘I want to help you.’
This time the man moves his head fractionally. His eyes
settle on the officer’s face.
‘Hi,’ Perrin says, leaning away. ‘You were lucky, you know. Is there much pain?’
The man rubs his jaw, and Sharon shakes her head angrily. ‘Not a peep,’ she says. ‘I’ve had bloody nothing off him, all morning. And now you waltz in here…’
Perrin frowns at her. ‘Base vitals seem okay,’ he says. Then, to the injured man, ‘You don’t know where to start, do you? We can go from the top, or the bottom, or the middle.’
The injured man keeps his lips tight. To Martha, there’s a certain poise. Like a cornered animal, calculating.
‘Or how about we take a better look at you?’
Greenley’s voice, then. Not protesting, just something about ethics and consent. As he speaks, Sharon looks away.
Perrin ignores Greenley. He takes the injured man by each wrist and holds up the man’s fingers, moving them left and right in front of his eyes. The man doesn’t resist. Next, Perrin leans directly into the man’s face, and the man doesn’t react to that, either. Perrin places a wire on the injured man’s chest and jacks the other end into the port under his eye. Lastly, Perrin rounds the bed and carefully regards the injured man in profile, then dead on.
Perrin presses a finger to his temple, head cocked. ‘Shit,’ he says.
For the first time, there’s a flicker of lucidity in the injured man’s face. A hint of what might be a grin, gone as quickly as Martha notices it, but there regardless. She digs her nails into her arms.
‘What’s the matter?’ Greenley asks the officer.
Perrin doesn’t answer.
‘Come on, what is it?’ Sharon urges.
‘Nothing,’ Perrin says quietly, scowling at the injured man. And they watch as Perrin reruns his scans and checks. Even more deliberate this time.
‘He’s been scrubbed,’ Perrin announces at last. ‘Nothing on file. No name. No medical notes. No data. Like he doesn’t exist.’
Martha swallows.
Too neat.
‘Scrubbed,’ Greenley repeats. ‘As in, he’s anonymous? How is that possible?’
‘Hacks?’ Perrin suggests. ‘I don’t know. I’ve never seen it before. Please excuse me one moment.’
Perrin leaves the shed. Martha crushes herself up against the shed, but the officer goes round the other way.
He’s gone to look at the car, she realises.
Then Perrin is back in the shed, and his breath is shorter, his expression fierce.
‘The car’s not registered to you, is it?’ he asks the injured man. ‘Its account holder is a woman called Angelika Semolt. Do you know that name?’
Nothing. Perrin kneels by the makeshift bed and touches the man’s elbow. ‘Were you in Birmingham? Who was the man you travelled with? Who was Benjamin?’
This time the injured man’s eyes widen. Martha bites her lip. A box of hot air surrounds her, stilling the birds and the sweep of the trees hemming the allotments. It’s starting to rain again.
‘I want to help you,’ Perrin says.
The injured man turns his head. His mouth hangs open like he’s about to say something.
‘Am I there?’ the man asks.
Perrin gets to his feet. ‘Sorry?’
‘Where is this?’ the injured man says.
‘A town called Dillock,’ Perrin says. ‘This… I suppose it’s a commune.’
‘Co-op,’ Greenley adds.
‘A co-op,’ Perrin says. ‘Yes.’
‘Dillock,’ the injured man repeats. ‘Is she here?’
‘Who?’
‘Unggg—’
‘Who?’ Greenley asks.
‘Who?’ Martha whispers.
The man startles, eyes frantically searching the room. ‘She can see us all,’ he says. ‘She will know! She will know.’ He coughs thickly. His mouth goes slack on one side. ‘The witch,’ he slurs. Then, with more effort, ‘Brace.’
‘Brace?’ Perrin says. ‘Tell us. Who can see us?’
‘No.’ The man says. ‘Stop her now—’
‘Stop her?’ Perrin urges. ‘Stop Brace—’
Perrin steps away as the injured man’s arms lock in spasm. He arches his back, a scream cut in half as he bites down on his tongue. A ruby of blood swells in the corner of his mouth.
‘Christ almighty,’ Greenley says.
And with almost perfect timing, Rolly blunders through the shed door.
‘Fucking hell!’ he shouts, hands on his knees and heaving for breath. ‘The maddest thing – the maddest thing. This massive fox just chased me through the forest…’ he stops. ‘Eh? What’s up with you all? Why’s it so moody in here? Someone else gone and copped it, or what?’
At the window, Martha stifles a giggle. Nerves, yes. But also relief. The tension has finally broken. The rain feels good on her face.
* * *
Later, when Perrin has left, the allotmenteers gather by the greenhouses for another of Greenley’s impromptu meetings.
Martha sits behind Rolly and Sharon. ‘I swear it’s withdrawal,’ Sharon is whispering to Rolly behind her hand, just loud enough to overhear. ‘He’s in withdrawal,’ she continues. ‘One time I did house calls for a fella who’d come off the booze, and he fitted like that. His insides were totally gone. Docs said if he wasn’t careful he might end up shitting through his mouth. Telling you, Rolls: that guy is in withdrawal.’
Martha keeps her hands squeezed between her knees. Rain crinkling on the greenhouse glass. Greenley at the front, his face red and shiny.
‘I realise this is twice in two days,’ Greenley says softly. ‘Before I start, though, I just wanted to address Martha’s shed. I’ve seen to it that there’ll be a new unit arriving this weekend. Rolly’s agreed to build it, so you only need to pick a new patch.’ He looks at Sharon, smiles sadly, then back to Martha. ‘Tonight you can have our van.’
Martha nods.
‘On top of that,’ Greenley says. ‘I wanted to confirm that I’ve been in touch with a camp near Birmingham. They’ll be delighted to receive our patronage; they’ve seen an almost total exodus from the civic centre, and our donation will go a long way.
‘Thirdly, Police Constable Perrin is arranging for the retrieval of the damaged car, in part for forensics. It’s been a taxing day, and we all have questions, but I want us to try and keep things running smoothly. Which is why our unexpected guest will be staying to recuperate for another few days. Call it on-site after-care. Agnes has agreed to provide some evening respite, and will keep an eye on his dressings. And we should be proud, you know. We should take something from what we did.’
‘What about the body in the freezer?’ Martha asks.
Rolly and Sharon share a strange, lingering look, then turn to face her.
‘A coroner will be over when the time is right,’ Greenley says, reddening. ‘In the meantime, we have to forge ahead as normal. We’ll have to make our provisions—’
‘And what about bedsores?’ Martha interrupts. They had been the worst marker of her mum’s deterioration. Pus-filled and clustering. Her mum would cry when the nurses washed her, and Martha never knew whether it was through pain or pride.
‘As I’ve just told you, Agnes will relieve us as and when,’ Greenley says. ‘Right now, our mystery man isn’t in a position to care about how comfortable he is. He had nothing before. Here he has a bed, Sharon’s soup… Martha?’
‘What?’
‘Did we lose you there?’
Martha shakes her head – but he had. A flash of sheet lightning over the moors, and in the glare of it, what might have been something moving around Sharon’s shed. A low, thick tail. Head and torso too large and long to belong to a cat.
‘Stay with it,’ Greenley says.
Martha smiles thinly, barely listening. Thinking of the injured man’s scars, the colour of his new leg, and of old Benjamin’s frosted body down in the freezer. Thinking so hard she’s barely there at all.
9
Next morning, Martha wakes up late, sweaty in
the sleeping bag, one of Greenley’s army surplus cast-offs.
There’s a strange scorched smell in the air and a light frost on the inside of the campervan windows. She turns on the gas hobs for heat and sits on the bunk, sipping part-frozen milk from the bottle. Window blinds up, hazy light, clouds of peach and lemon. Right above the allotments, an enormous jet contrail has split the sky in two. It ends in a siege of darker clouds somewhere above the moorlands behind the allotments. The rain has passed. The trammelled mud gleams and sparkles.
Nine o’clock. Then half past. Martha absent with a brew, peering uphill through the campervan’s net curtains. A normal morning: Rolly up and tending to his bike, and Sharon out on her rounds, wisps of greying hair escaping her hood as she bobs between the growing lines. For some reason, Sharon keeps hesitating near one of the hands, and soon enough she’s called Rolly over from his bike. Martha watches them stand silently for a few minutes. Little puffs of smoke emerging from Rolly as he works through a joint. Something about their interaction appears odd to Martha, especially given how they usually are – bickering, or bollocking each other, or vigorously debating something daft from their old lives. Then Rolly’s up close and inspecting the hand himself, and when he comes around it, Martha notices his thick brows are knitted into a frown you’d see from space. To her surprise, he points down towards the campervan.
Martha pulls one of Greenley’s tweed jackets around her and slips into her boots. Rolly and Sharon watch her coming up the hill.
‘Morning,’ Martha says.
Rolly lets on with a nod. Sharon simply toes the base of the hand.
‘What’s up with it?’ Martha asks. The hand is visibly out of lock mode, and some of its panels are strangely oily. The manipulator’s blades are exposed and covered with a powdery black substance.
‘That look right to you, Marth?’ Sharon says.
Martha touches the manipulator blades, expecting soot or dust to come away on her fingers. To her surprise, the texture of the staining is smooth, and none of it rubs off. She sniffs her fingers – faint sulphur. ‘Motors burn out, or something?’