Beyond Hope (Tales from the Brink Book 3)

by Martyn J. Pass

  “That's what he said. I was there when he passed away but he always had a fondness for those days at the shopping centre when you used to play in the corridors behind the store fronts.”

  “That's right.”

  “Well, after we separated I went back there and led the survivors to the airfield at the Lizard, one of those hastily-built ones just after the disaster. I spent a number of years there but I'll spare you the details. A lot of people died, a lot of good people, but some survived long enough to make a contribution.”

  “I'm glad to hear it.”

  Alan looked down at his cup and Sarah could see that behind those glistening blue eyes there was a strange kind of age to him, like a man who'd seen too much in his time. It didn't convince her that he was telling the truth though; how could he be? Her arms, folded tightly in front of her, said the same thing.

  “How old are you then?” she asked. He looked up and shrugged.

  “I lost track,” he said in almost a whisper. The crackling fire before which the dog was laid out almost drowned the answer. “I was in my thirties during the disaster. After that... Maybe sixty, maybe seventy years have passed since then. There aren't any calendars to go off anymore.”

  Sarah couldn't help it; the snigger escaped her lips and she shook her head. Alan didn't seem startled by her response, in fact, he seemed ready for it.

  “That makes you over-”

  “A hundred, I know,” he said without any kind of scorn. “It may be more; I really don't know.”

  “And you expect me to believe that? My Papa too?”

  “No, I don't. It doesn't really matter either way. The facts speak louder than the logic does.”

  He sipped his coffee and Sarah found herself staring at him, startled by his attitude and his lack of willingness to defend his lie. It was almost as if he knew the stupidity of what he'd said and recognised it as a shame he'd been forced to pedal wherever he went. The most worrying thing of all was that it gave his tale an air of truth, one which bothered her.

  “So you were alive before all this happened?” she asked.

  “Yes.”

  “You survived it all? The radiation? The Scavengers? All of it?”

  “Yes.”

  “And now you're what? Here to rescue people from slavery?”

  “That's what I promised his parents I'd do,” he replied, indicating the boy who was fast asleep in the spare bedroom. “So that's what I've done.”

  “Can you prove any of this?”

  “Sarah, please, it's him, I know it is,” said her Papa.

  “How can it be?” she snapped. “How is that even possible?”

  Alan finished his drink and stood up, towering over the table. He avoided looking at her directly. Was it a sign of his guilt?

  “I understand, I really do,” he said, putting on his coat even as her father continued to protest. “Thanks for the coffee.”

  “Please Sarah,” said David. “Why can't you just trust me? It's him, I'm telling you!”

  Sarah said nothing. She felt both angry and saddened by how easily fooled her own Papa was and how quick to trust the stranger he'd been. She looked away. The man gathered his things, said a few words to her father and, calling the dog to his side, went out through the front door, closing it gently behind him.

  When her father returned, he glared at her from before the hearth.

  “Why were you so rude to him?” he growled. “He's just saved the lives of dozens of innocent people. The least you could do was be polite.”

  “Polite?” she cried. “He's a liar, Papa! How can he be over a hundred years old? That's impossible, why can't you see it?”

  “I see perfectly, Sarah! I see the man I met years ago, the man who saved my father and me from death and who I used to listen to fireside stories with. I see the very same man he was back then, not a grey hair, not a wrinkle more than all those years ago. I believe what I see with my own eyes and if he says that's the truth then I believe it.”

  “Then you're-”

  “I'm what? Go on - say it!”

  Sarah recoiled from the heat of the argument and felt hot, bitter tears rolling down her cheeks. She gathered the sleeve of her jumper in one hand and wiped them away. Then, without any more words, she put her arms around him and sighed.

  “I'm sorry, Papa,” she whispered. “I didn't mean to...”

  “I know my girl, I know how crazy this sounds, but in this world, with the artifacts we've come across, is it so hard to believe that he might just be telling the truth? You'd quickly believe we once flew around like birds in metal boxes, why not this?”

  She let go of him and looked at the crackling fire in the hearth, watched the flames lick and spit their way into the air and shrugged.

  “Maybe,” she muttered, sniffing away her sorrow. “Maybe.”

  She found him in the stable, saddling the great Shire horse and rubbing its neck with a gentleness that was at odds with his size. Moll was busy sniffing one of the empty stalls and she came out to see who was there.

  “I'm sorry,” she said, hugging herself against the cold. “I didn't mean to be so rude.”

  “I understand.”

  “You do, don't you?” she said. “You've faced the same thing before.” He nodded. “You must see how crazy it sounds.”

  “Don't worry - I do. But the truth is the truth and there's not a lot that me or Moll can do about it.”

  “She's the same then? Like you?”

  “We found each other there; she was given the same medicine.”

  “And you two have wandered the country ever since?”

  “Yeah,” he said, smiling at the thought. “We have.”

  He led his horse out into the light of a crisp afternoon and she followed him, watching him climb the box to mount the beast and adjust his coat. Then he turned and looked at her.

  “On your father's back is a scar about the size of an apple and shaped like a sickle,” he said. “Have you ever seen it before?”

  “No,” she replied.

  “Has anyone ever heard of it before?”

  “No.”

  “I gave it to him. I tore a piece of shrapnel out of his back when we were running north and got caught in the ruins of Leeds City. We'd underestimated the delay on the explosives. He was the only one to be hurt. I read Robinson Crusoe to him while he recovered.”

  And with that he kicked the horse's flanks and cantered forward, heading for the gate with Moll beside him. He never looked back, never turned to see her one last time. He just rode onwards until he was out of her sight all together.

  Back in the house her father was standing at the doorway to the spare room, staring at Tyler's sleeping form in the light that came through the chinks in the curtains. She felt a pang of guilt as he stood there, maybe seeing herself when she was that small. He put a hand on his shoulder and he smiled.

  “I remember you being that peaceful once,” he said. “It all seems so long ago now.”

  “That's because it was.”

  “You grew up too fast, became this no-nonsense woman all of a sudden. I pictured you in pretty dresses, playing with dolls and breaking other boys hearts.”

  “That's not quite me, is it?” she laughed.

  “No, it certainly isn't. This is better. My Sarah is ready for the world, ready to take it on. I couldn't have asked for more.”

  She kissed the top of his head and commanded herself not to cry; she'd done enough of that already these last few days and she wondered how much more she'd have to do. When she saw the boy and tried to imagine his ordeal, she realised that the worst was yet to come.

  Later, after a long nap in her favourite reading chair by the fire, she woke and saw that it was around evening time and that the light was beginning to fade. The book she'd been lost in slid off her chest and into her lap, disturbing the folded slip of paper she'd been using to mark her page. It fell to the floor and as she bent over to pick it up, she glanced into the kitchen and saw her Pa
pa leaning over one of the vegetable racks. His shirt had ridden up, revealing a strip of pale skin and there, as clearly as if it'd been marked there in ink, was the sickle-shaped scar about the size of an apple.

  CHAPTER SIX

  When she reached the lonely pub it was almost fully dark but Charlie was still working in the light of several lamps hanging inside the stable. The cool breeze coming in from the east cut through her layers and reminded her of a ghost story she'd once heard about that pub and a headless horseman and a lonely little girl.

  Shaking off the morbid thought, she led Ziggy towards the warm glow of Charlie's little cabin and coughed to get the lad's attention.

  “Sarah!” he cried when she surprised him. “What brings you out at this hour?”

  “A nightcap and an apology I have to deliver. Keep an eye on Ziggy for me.”

  “Will do,” he said, taking the reins. “I'll give him a brush and some hard feed, he'll like that.”

  “Stop spoiling him,” she laughed. “I'll never get him to take me home otherwise.”

  Inside she found the place busy, almost packed wall to wall with people drinking and eating and smoking pipes and all talking about the same thing - the events at Hooper's market. The noise sounded more like geese than men and it was difficult to press through the tight knots of chatting folk. She managed it though, reaching the bar and asking Sidney if Alan was in while he passed her another clay mug.

  “Of course, he has a room upstairs,” he replied. “That's him, over there in the corner.”

  Sarah turned and looked, seeing that between Hooper's crowd and another, a table was tucked into a corner where Alan sat with his long legs stretched out before him and Moll laid down underneath. He was reading a paperback and taking long pulls from a mug which made him wipe the froth from his beard with the back of his hand. He hadn't noticed her, or if he did he wasn't letting on.

  “Give us two more mugs,” she said before heading over.

  “You're brave,” said Sidney.

  “Why's that?”

  “He looks like the dangerous sort to me and after his demonstration at the market I'll be very happy when he's moved on.”

  “Really?” she said. “That's not like you. Most people meet your approval one way or another.” Sidney shook his head with defiance.

  “Not this one. Nor that beast of his. There's something odd about him and I can't quite put my finger on it. He's trouble. Bad news if you ask me.”

  “We'll see. Either way, we'll be having those mugs of ale when you're ready.”

  “Aye. I'll send someone over.”

  She weaved between the crowds and made it to his table. He hadn't taken his eyes of the book.

  “You were right,” she said. He looked up at her.

  “Exactly where I said it was?” he asked. She nodded. He indicated the seat opposite him and she took it, setting her mug down on the table top. A lone candle burned in a saucer at the far end and once he'd replaced his bookmark, he set the novel down next to it.

  “No one could have known about that scar,” she explained. “Papa never took his shirt off in public, not even in the summer heat. He was very aware of his body and how ugly he thought it looked. I'm forced to believe that maybe you're telling the truth.”

  “Thank you,” he replied.

  “I'm not letting you off the hook just yet though.”

  “Why's that?”

  “Because now I think you definitely owe me that horse in the spring.”

  He broke out in a fit of laughter and she couldn't help but laugh too. He had a nice, warm face and she knew that it couldn't belong to a liar or a con-artist. There was a real pain behind those blue eyes and she could almost see the fear in there, dreading the thought that someday no one would believe him, that no one would trust him in spite of himself.

  “How's Tyler?” he asked.

  “He's okay. I don't think there'll be any lasting harm done. He was eating eggs with my father when I left. He seemed happier.”

  “I've written a letter to his parents, telling them he's been recovered. They'll be relieved to read it.”

  “I can't imagine what they must have been going through,” she said. “All this time in the hands of that scum. Who are they and where did they come from?”

  “That's a tricky story. Most everyday people I meet feel that the worst has passed now,” he said, sitting back further in his chair. “That things are back on track, that we'll be flying in space soon and posting our first comments on the new social media. But if there's one thing I know it's that the world is going to get a whole lot worse before it gets better. The Slavers you met are a part of that.”

  “Strangely enough,” she replied, pausing as the mugs of foaming ale arrived. “I felt the same thing after you left, that maybe there was more to come. I don't know why.”

  “Tell me about Calderbank's men,” he asked.

  “Not much to tell. They say he's a murderer who escaped hanging a few years ago and took to the fells. He hides in the forests and has managed to build a family up there, even grab a few followers on his travels.”

  “And he attacks people?”

  “He hits anyone he thinks might have some kind of value; me for example. He'd love to get his hands on the mail between Pine Lodge and Abbingdon. He managed it once, too, learning when and where a corn shipment was being carted. He stole it all.”

  “And as far as you know, he's had no dealings with the Slavers?”

  Sarah shrugged and took a long draft from her mug. It was especially cold on her lips and she wished there'd been some of the old mulled wine that used to be on sale the previous year.

  “He might if he thinks there's some money in it. Otherwise I reckon he'd have just left them alone and not thought them worth the hassle.”

  “I see,” he replied and lapsed into silence. Sarah stole a glance under the table and saw Moll with her head resting on her paws, her eyes partly closed but still observing.

  “That's a hell of a dog,” she said. “I've never seen one that big before.”

  “I don't think it's natural,” he replied. “You breed horses; I think you'll recognise that something's been done to her.”

  “I do. I noticed the muscle structure of her back legs the other day, not quite like a Collie or an Alsatian, more... I don't know. Something that isn't a dog, but I don't know how that would be possible. I read something once; some science text book a trader gave me in exchange for a piece of hide. DNA?”

  “You're well-read. You know a lot about the times before the disaster.”

  “My father taught me to read from as early as I can remember,” she explained. “My mother was gone and with trying to run the stables and raise me I think he saw it as a way of keeping me occupied. It worked. I read everything I could find and when I could ride out on my own I hunted down anything new, anything found in the ruins, anything a passing trader would give me.”

  “There's nothing wrong with that,” he replied. She felt her cheeks warm a little with embarrassment. Why was she being so honest with this stranger? He seemed to make her relax more than the beer did, made her feel that she was the only person in the room. It unnerved her and thrilled her at the same time.

  “I think it's become an obsession,” she laughed. “Back at the farm we have this room that's wall-to-wall with books and-”

  “You have a library?”

  “Yes, of sorts.”

  “Wow,” he said, grinning. “I'd like to see that, I really would. Maybe tomorrow?”

  “On one condition,” she said, seeing the light flare up in his eyes, one she recognised straight away from her own passion for books. It was like a beacon, calling others to the inky pages where lay the real doors to other worlds.

  “What's that?”

  “You show me the ones you have in your bags.”

  He chuckled to himself and drank off the last of his beer. It was like he was looking through her, trying to see if he could trust her with this secret on
ly he knew. When he spoke again, it was more subdued, more mystical.

  “You don't miss anything, do you?”

  “Nope.”

  “Okay,” he said. “You have a deal.”

  Alan signaled to a passing barmaid and asked for a bottle of spirits with two cups. Then, getting up from his chair, he walked around the back of the bar and up the stairs. A few moments later he came down with an oilcloth bundle tied with leather strips. He set them down on the table, looked around the room and undid the knots.

  “You're right,” he said as the bottle arrived. “They're books I guess.”

  “But?”

  Sarah watched with a child-like excitement as he revealed four beautifully bound volumes. They wore smooth leather jackets, delicately stitched at the seams and worked with a craftsman’s hands. The paper had been cut to size well, but not as accurately as the ones she had at home and she knew there and then that these were the first post-disaster books she'd ever seen.

  “Oh my,” she gasped as she took the first one he offered her. “They're...”

  “Beautiful, aren't they?” he said, smiling. “I was on the southern coast some twenty years ago when I came across a rumour of a man living in an old abandoned lighthouse. He was known all over that area as 'The Binder' and he had this tiny little boy who would run errands for him. I knew there and then that I had to meet him and so I asked the lad to introduce me. The boy was fearless, I can tell you that, and he flatly refused to entertain my request. I knew the Binder was a recluse, I knew he'd never left that lighthouse since as long as anyone could remember so the boy was the only chance I had.

  “One day I was tracking in the woods, still thinking of some kind of way to trick the boy into letting me see him when the most beautiful deer I've ever seen crossed my path. I swear it turned and looked at me with those enormous eyes and froze me to the spot. I had my bow ready with an arrow notched and I could have killed it right there and then.”

  “But?” she said.

  “I let it go. Its hide would have been a gift to the Binder, more than likely granted me an audience with him in a heartbeat.”

  “But you wouldn't murder the deer for the sake of meeting a man who bound books. I get it,” she said. “So you never got a chance to meet him then?”