Jamie gives him a slow and measured nod, squeezing Chloe's hand as they step through the door.
“So what is this place?”
“This is the Gardens, Jamie,” says Mark. “This was my response to the King's changes.”
“You built a prison?” asks Chloe, staring at the workbenches.
“Not a prison,” he says. “A commune. A safe haven – think of it like a monastery without the monks. This was a place that people could come for the same safety that voluntary prison stays granted them.”
“But without the prison part,” she whispers, and breaks into a smile. “Is that what the workbenches are for?”
Mark nods and leads them further into the room. With one finger he traces a line in the dust on one bench, sighing.
“For training our residents in hands-on skills. You know: woodworking, joinery, mechanics and so on.”
Mark crosses past the workbenches to a shelf lined with amateur, lop-sided mug trees and small wooden boats coated in clumpy varnish. He picks one up and stares at it for a long time before turning back to them.
“The idea,” he said, “came from those start-up companies that use prison labour – you know, pay them minimum wage and train them, and after a few years you have a well trained and dedicated workforce who are ready to reintegrate into society. They work sometimes,” he puts the boat down, “not all the time, but sometimes. That was the idea behind the Gardens project.”
“I don't even need to ask what happened,” says Jamie, leaning back on one of the benches and twirling the handle of a mounted vice. “I know the answer already.”
The two men look at each other across the room, and simultaneously they say:
“The King.”
Mark nods.
“When he caught wind of it, things started going badly for me.” He pulls over a red plastic chair, the kind you get in schools and community centres, and collapses into it. “Surprise bills, extortionate utilities, vandalism and break-ins. All of them worse than the last, until my residents didn't want to stay here any longer. Some of them left, taking expensive equipment with them to sell on elsewhere. I had poured all of my money into this: the King took it all and let me piss it against a wall.”
In complete silence, Mark picks up a wooden mallet from the tool rack by the bench and launches it against the far wall. Chloe flinches and throws herself into Jamie. It cracks and bounces off the concrete. The snap of the impact echoes around the room.
“I was just beginning to make a profit,” says Mark, shaking his head and leaning back in the chair. “More importantly, I was making a difference; the King couldn't stand that.”
“You had to shut it down?” asks Jamie, his voice laced with careful sympathy.
Mark smiles despite himself.
“No,” he says. “I wound the project down to save money, but I never completely stopped it. I minimised what costs I could and tried to find a job. Of course, nobody would take me on: the King again, I suspect, black-balling me. I finally settled for a life as a cleaner and funnelled most of my money into keeping this place under my name until I could scrape the money together for a second go.”
“You kept this all going on a cleaner's wage?”
“My mum helped me out a bit. I never told her how bad things had gotten: she thinks I work in some accounting firm or something, and I use the little money she can spare me to feed myself.” He stops staring into space and gets up, kicking the chair away. “Come on, I'll show you the rest.”
“You don't have to if you don't want to,” says Chloe, standing up and scrunching her ration-bag closed like a nervous schoolgirl. “If this is making you upset or something, then - ?”
“No,” says Mark, opening the door and nodding for them to follow him. “I need to see this. I need to remember what he did to me; why I'm doing this.”
“Doing what?”
“Going after the bastard.”
Neither of them reminds him that they've lost their only lead. Neither of them has the heart.
Mark opens a door further down and they find themselves in a room as musty as a tomb, motes of dust dancing beneath a flickering bulb that illuminates the columns of book cases.
“A library?” asks Chloe as she strolls through the door, her ration-bag clutched to her chest.
“The books in here could technically put you through most entry-level college courses. We've got plumbing, computing, business, languages, maths, history – just about everything. I based it off of a high-school curriculum. There's some decent fiction too.”
Jamie folds his arms and stares around at the room, four desks with seats and cannibalised computers in the middle like a religious plinth. The computers are missing keyboards, two of them are without screens, and they are the pasty pale colours of a nineteen-ninety-eight fax machine.
“These work?” asks Jamie, laying a hand on the only complete computer there.
“Nah,” says Mark. “I think people stole the important parts from the inside of the cases. Motherboards, power supplies, so on. All gone. They weren't worth much, anyway: they were donated by schools that were getting rid of them.”
“That's the streets for you, Mark,” says Jamie, crossing to the bookshelf and looking at some of the titles. “When you spend every day thinking of where your next meal is coming from, you learn to take advantage of any kindness.”
He looks across at Chloe, who looks over her shoulder at him. They share a knowing look.
“You two went through this stuff first-hand, right?” asks Mark.
“Two years,” says Chloe, taking a hardback book about making wooden jewellery from the shelves and flicking it open. She talks as though she is somewhere else, lost in a memory and narrating it to them. “We spent two years on the streets with nothing but the clothes on our backs and each other.”
She leans against the shelves and flicks through the book, an inward smile radiating across her face as she runs her eyes over the pages.
“That's when he comes for you,” says Jamie. “When you're vulnerable. When you're low.”
“The King,” says Mark. “What did he offer you?”
“A life,” says Jamie. “He gave us a flat, an income, paid our bills for us: on the condition that I work for him.”
“What did you do?”
“I'm very, very good at a narrow range of things” Jamie clears his throat. “Like repossessing cars.”
“You're a thief?”
“He's not a thief,” says Chloe, looking up from her book. “Not any more. He quit – that's what got us into this bloody mess.” She looks at Jamie and her eyes soften, the hardness leaving them. “The King just likes to control people. He didn't even need most of those cars.”
“He upped the quota over time,” says Jamie. “One a month, then two, then four. The last time, it was eight. That was when I tried to quit. In return, they took Chloe.”
Mark looks between them, and the shock fades from his face as he realises that this is exactly how the King works.
“When I found you in his offices,” says Mark. “You were -”
“I was getting her back,” he nods. “What did he do to you?”
“He drove me into poverty,” says Mark, shaking his head. “With no money, he could control me. You're either dependent on him to keep what you love, or he makes you dependent on him.”
“Exactly,” says Jamie, “and the minute you seem as though you can make it on your own: game over. You disappear.”
Mark, for the first time since walking into this museum of his past failures, smiles.
“Not us,” he says.
“No,” says Jamie, raising an eyebrow. “I don't know what the hell happened to us, but we might be the only people who've ever stood up to him like this. No wonder he wouldn't let you help people, Mark – you were undermining his advantage over them. If people aren't desperate, he can't control them.”
“Well, we've hurt his operation already,” says Mark. “I don't know how, but
we'll get him.”
“If it is one man, that is,” says Chloe. “It might be a syndicate. It might be a conspiracy – we don't even know how far up this goes.”
The group fall silent, and the hush of the Gardens steals what sound it can from them, snatching the noise away like a thief.
“The King will figure out who I am, if he hasn't already,” says Mark, seeming smaller all of a sudden. “I don't fear him, not any more – but I do fear for my mother. The King is our priority.”
“My main priority is her,” says Jamie with care, pointing at Chloe. “If I thought she was safer alone than she was with me, I'd leave her here.”
“I'm coming with you,” says Chloe, putting the book down and folding her arms. “One way or another.”
“If we don't take this guy out,” says Mark, “then you'll never be safe as long as you live. The King wouldn't let somebody spit in his face and walk away.”
They are all silenced by the creaking of a heavy wooden door reverberating through the halls – they stare at each other, frozen in that moment.
“Was that -” Chloe starts, and Jamie holds up a hand to silence her.
“I think,” whispers Mark, “that the Trespasser has found us.”
“The guy in black?” asks Jamie.
Mark nods.
“What if they got to him?” asks Chloe. “Maybe he's been followed.”
“I'll go out and check,” says Mark. “Wait here.”
Chloe and Jamie stand there in the silence, hearing Mark's soft footsteps disappear out into the hallway and pad on the stairs.
The sounds of military boots seem so out of place in the tranquil Gardens. They give a very particular echo – the kind, Chloe thinks, that you only ever get in huge buildings like cathedrals. Everything echoes so many times that the faint echoing of the past becomes the ambient sound, bouncing around for centuries. If you listen closely, you can hear the place being built. The Gardens give her that feeling, of time folded up like a cloth and left to gather dust.
As the door creaks open, Jamie moves in front of her without thinking. Mark enters, and behind him comes a dark-armoured soldier, who stops with his hands raised. Jamie looks long and hard into those dark circled eyes behind the mask.
“I surrender,” comes the gruff voice of the Trespasser.
“We should take his guns,” says Jamie.
“Jamie, enough,” says Mark, standing face to face with the Trespasser. “He knows that bullets aren't an option with us two.”
“I'm not worried about us two,” says Jamie, making a point of looking at Chloe.
The Trespasser speaks, his low but booming voice cutting through their exchange.
“I've put my life on the line twice for you guys already. I didn't go through the trouble of getting my rank terminated just to shoot you,” he says. “I think you owe me a full explanation now. What is this place? Exactly who is the King?”
“I guess we'd better start at the beginning,” says Mark. “Let's go up to the dormitories. I'll explain everything.”
Mark gestures for the Trespasser to exit first, and he walks in front of them like a prisoner of war with his head bowed. Rubbing the tiredness from his eyes, Mark leads them up the stairs.
As they walk, the Trespasser reaches onto the back of his belt and grasps his last resort, a compact two-barrelled slug gun that will punch a hole through an armoured vehicle. His finger moves past the trigger and finds the gun's safety, which he clicks back on.
Safe.
Episode 10
Mother's Calling
Jamie wakes up to the sound of clanging bells, crashing through the peace within his head. Restless dreams shatter in the light as he jerks upwards, crushing Chloe's hand in his panicked grip. Lying on his chest, Chloe is flung upright with him.
The clanging bells have silenced the dormitories; Jamie's breath is held like an animal sensing a hunter's presence. Again the screaming bells explode, and Jamie realises what is causing them.
The phone hanging on the wall is ringing: a loud, brash shriek that would scatter storm clouds. He can't help but flinch with every burst of noise.
On the bed opposite him sit two statues: frozen men that were once Mark and the Trespasser. They haven't moved since Jamie's eyes opened – only now, as he watches, do Mark's eyes darken, and he turns to scowl at the barking phone. It rings again and Jamie notices Mark's knuckles clench white. Still clad in dusty grey business trousers and nothing else, Mark stands and moves for the phone.
The Trespasser stands in synchrony and holds out a hand, stopping him.
“Mark, don't -”
“Only two people could have this number,” Mark tells him as he rests a trembling hand on the phone. “My mother, and -”
“The King,” Chloe finishes for him, the word dropping into their stomachs like curdled poison.
“Let me answer,” says the Trespasser. “From what you've told me, this man works through fear. He doesn't have anything to use against me. He doesn't even know who I am.”
“This is my problem,” says Mark, and lifts the phone to his ear.
His eyes glaze over as his ears fill with static.
The sound of heavy breathing comes through the phone. Mark tries to say something but his throat is dry, and a rasp is all that emerges. He takes a breath and rubs his neck, and tries again:
“Hello?”
His voice is small. Nervous. A world away, Jamie thinks, from the altruistic strongman who had carried him and his love over the rooftops. There's strength in his bruised body, but none in his voice. Chloe moves closer to Jamie, their bodies rigid.
When the words finally come, they are distorted by rushes of static and a pitch so low it sounds like the rumblings of an earthquake.
“Hello Mark. We've been looking for you.”
There is no inquiry; the voice knows exactly who it is speaking to.
“Yeah,” Mark manages, dropping his gaze to the floor.
“You've been busy.”
Mark says nothing. He makes a trembling mumble of agreement.
“We need to talk, Mark.”
“I wo-” Mark stutters as his voice breaks, wincing at his own weakness. He takes a deep breath and composes himself. “I won't talk to an imposter. I want the man in charge.”
“I'll make the demands, Mark. We will send a van to your current location. The men inside the van will blindfold you and bring you to an undisclosed location within the city.”
“What makes you think I'll come quietly.”
“Any resistance, and we kill your mother.”
Jamie can see the colour drain from Mark's face. His eyes are somewhere else. The Trespasser is shaking his head, moving to take the phone from Mark – the janitor, his face blank, raises a hand and keeps the soldier at bay.
“I want to talk to her.”
“You should know not to negotiate from a position of weakness, Mark.”
“How do I know she's alive?”
The voice is silent, and then the rhythm of the breathing changes to panicked gasping. Wherever they are, there's a distinct echo crackling through the static.
A woman's voice comes through the phone.
“Mark?”
Her voice is frail – trembling, afraid.
“Mum?”
Chloe notices the change in the janitor's voice; childlike affection, a tone of voice used for one person and one person only.
“They haven't hurt me Mark, but listen: don't come here, son, don't worry about me -”
A loud crack cuts off the sentence, and the dull rumbling of the voice returns to Mark's ear. He has clenched his teeth, his face set in stone.
“She's fine,” the voice comes back, darker and lower now.
“If you hurt her, I swear to -”
“Cut the heroic bullshit, Mark. My men will come for you in thirty minutes. Be ready, sitting on the Garden's steps. Any tricks or heroics, we take her eyes.”
The phone clicks and the warm static o
f a regular phone line returns like ocean surf, washing the taint out of Mark's ears. He drops the phone without bothering to place it back in its cradle, and leans against the wall.
“What did he say?” asks the Trespasser. “Be precise.”
“Men are coming for me,” Mark tells the floor. “The King's men. They'll be here in half an hour.”
“How did they know that we're here?” asks Chloe.
“They've probably been phoning every hour or something,” says Jamie. “They know who Mark is, they know he'd come here if he had to hide.”
“If we know that these men are coming,” says the Trespasser, “then it should be easy to get the drop on them. There's three of us -”
“Four,” Chloe interjects.
“There's four of us,” he continues, “and you guys have – whatever it is you can do.”
“We can't fight,” says Mark. “Any deviation from his orders and he blinds my mother. Fight them? He'll kill her.”
“No he won't,” says the Trespasser. “You've just spent half an hour telling me that this guy thrives on controlling people. As long as your mother is alive, he controls you. What we have is a hostage situation, Mark: you never kill the hostage.”
“He wants to control you,” says Chloe, nodding in agreement, “above all else.”
“No wonder,” Jamie is staring at Mark, his hand grasping his chin. “Imagine what he could do if he had a bullet proof, impossibly strong man under his thumb. A man who could leap over buildings.”
“I have to let them take me in. I don't see an alternative.” Mark slides down the wall until he folds on to the floor, his back against the cold concrete. “I can't do anything to risk my mother's well-being. I just can't. Jamie, you,” his eyes seem to be begging, “you understand, right?”
Jamie nods, holding Chloe's hand.
“I'd do the same.”
“I -” Mark starts to talk, and then just rests his head against the wall. “What do I do? What the hell do we do?”
He is looking up at the Trespasser, who has stood up and removed his face mask and helmet, revealing a face cratered like the moon as he runs a hand over his dark, short hair. One half of his skin is so pale it shines, emphasising the dark bags under his eyes and the sharpness of his cheekbones. The other half of his face is covered with deep, jagged scars, as though an explosion had hit it. He rubs the sweat that has formed in the crevices where the face-mask fits on, a faint red outline on his face.
Kingdom: The Complete Series Page 11