“Was there popped corn there?” she asked. “I read once that that's what you ate at those places.”
“Popcorn, hotdogs, frozen drinks. You'd sit down and someone in front of you would have a bowl of hot nachos with cheese sauce and stink the entire room out. Crunch crunch crunch, all through the film.”
“I guess I'm not missing out then,” she said.
“Not really. Just before the disaster most of the films were crap; remakes of good movies that didn't need to be remade. I remember sitting next to that guy thinking 'gee, I'm kind of glad I can't see another remake anymore'. I felt a little guilty at that but I guess it was the truth at the time.”
“And now?”
“Now?” he said. “I'd kill to see the film that guy saw. Just once.”
In the morning Sarah woke with a start. Her face was numb from the cold and the fire was out. Alan was up already and moving around, packing up his bedroll and blankets and when he saw she was awake he came over with a mug of coffee.
“I made it before the fire went out,” he said.
“Thanks.”
It was still quite hot and she sipped it as she tried to work the feeling back into her body. He didn't even look bothered by the cold and she marveled at how he seemed so at home in the woods, working away as Moll followed behind him, sometimes rubbing up against his legs to ask for attention. He'd talk to her, whispering things to the animal and she'd wag her tail back and forth, gazing up at him with all the natural affection of her species. She felt something, a sense of an emotion long buried under her grief that was trying to find its way to the surface. She wanted that feeling back but she didn't know how that was possible anymore.
“Are you okay?” he asked. Suddenly he was there in front of her, gazing into her eyes with concern.
“Sorry,” she replied. “I was trying to wake up.”
“Well, I'm ready when you are. I reckon we've got a long ride ahead of us. If what we know about Calderbank is right then he's buried deep in the fells and it isn't the easiest path to follow.”
“Yeah,” she nodded. “I've been up there a couple of times, back when it was safer and there wasn't the risk of being attacked. Calderbank has got most of the wild lands in his grip and people are just too scared to challenge him.”
“We aren't,” he said, grinning. “So let's go.”
They set off at a good pace. She knew they had to cross the lake and the only place to do that for miles around was the bridge at Rivinstone. It was a sorry looking thing, all charred black stone and rotting timber, built after the disaster and fought over on numerous occasions. She'd crossed it once long ago, heading up into the fells to deliver a horse bought and paid for before it was even born. There'd been a man in a house on his own, a young man whose father had left him wealth. He'd wanted the horse to ride away on, to go south and maybe cross over to France through the tunnel. After the sale she'd never seen him again.
“You're quiet,” said Alan over his shoulder as they ambled along a grassy field clipped short by wild cattle. “Are you okay?”
“Yes,” she replied. “Just thinking.”
“Anything in particular.”
“No.”
They rode on. The sky was overcast and promised rain later. It looked dirty, like it needed a good wash. Sarah reached into one of her bags and rummaged around for a bottle. When she found it she unscrewed the cap and took a mouthful from the neck. It burned all the way down.
“Here,” she offered. Alan slowed the horse and drew up alongside her and, taking the bottle, drank some and winced.
“The Hearth?” he asked.
“No, Sidney brewed it last year. Some kind of spirit.”
“Yeah, thinners I bet.”
“What?”
“Never mind.”
He rode beside her for a while then, watching Moll run back and forth, sniffing and digging in the dirt as she went. He said nothing but she knew he was building up to something, like a pot ready to boil, showing a few bubbles under the lid.
“Say it,” she sighed after a while.
“Say what?”
“That I shouldn't be drinking so early.”
“Why do I care?” he asked.
“It's written all over your face.”
“Is it?”
“Yes.”
The Shire horse snorted and trotted sideways before he pulled it back on course. When they settled into an even pace again he looked at her and frowned. She felt her cheeks warming again. Why did he have this effect on her? He wasn't even that attractive.
She drank another gulp and tried not to shudder but it came on anyway. She didn't care; she'd eaten nothing and the alcohol was doing its job. She felt better already.
“Did you know that the lake was once half that size and split into two reservoirs?” he asked.
“No, I didn't.”
“The bridge is built where the old road used to be and I guess they must have used the same foundations to build this one. There was once a pub here, on the corner. I don't think I ever went in it though.”
She nodded and looked away, staring off into the distance. Suddenly she didn't want to hear it. She didn't want to hear any more about the time before this one when there weren’t cannibals and kidnappers and murderers. She took another swig from the bottle and this time there wasn't a shudder. This time she felt nothing but warmth and the numbing of the pain in her heart.
On they went, sailing across an endless sea of high green grass and overgrown brambles until the lake appeared in front of them from within a valley, saturated by the burst banks and the fallen walls of the reservoir. The bridge was below them, at the end of a winding path trampled by many people since it'd first been built.
Alan stopped at the top of the road and climbed off his horse, tethering it to an old metal gate post before looking in his pack for some meat, cheese and bread.
“Maybe it's time for breakfast,” he said.
Sarah looked around the valley first, summoning up the strength to get down from Ziggy without giving in to the light head she felt. When she finally managed it, she joined him in eating a little something to try and soak up the potent drink in her stomach. She had some cold bacon and a chunk of the crispy bread, feeding some to Moll at the same time.
“Beyond the bridge I expect someone will notice us,” she said. “Some of Calderbank's men will no doubt be passing this way.”
“Aye,” he replied. “I'm counting on it. If we can grab one, maybe he'll talk.”
“And if he doesn't?”
“He will.”
She shook her head.
“Is that your only plan?” she said. “Violence?”
He turned and looked at her.
“It was your plan not so long ago. You asked me if we were going to kill them.”
“I wasn't being serious,” she said. “I'm sure they'll be open to reason.”
“Really?”
“We can't just go around killing our way through the world, can we? I mean, where does it stop?”
“Maybe you should go home,” he said. “If you're not comfortable-”
“Comfortable? I'm fine with killing people, I think I've demonstrated that enough, haven't I? I'm just saying that I don't think Plan A should always be butcher first, ask questions later, that's all.”
“I'm not suggesting it is.”
“It feels like it.”
Alan let out a sigh and looked away from her. She felt a sudden surge of anger spring up out of nowhere and she laughed. It was a bitter, mirthless cackle.
“Go on, Alan,” she said. “Fuck off and leave. That's what you want to do, isn't it? To get back to whatever it was you were doing before you felt the need to stick your nose into our business. You've got what you came for, just take him and go. The world will manage without the great Alan Harding helping it out.”
He said nothing and it infuriated her.
“Go on!” she cried. “Get on your horse and piss off.”
&
nbsp; Even in the rage that exploded inside her she could still see his face, still see straight through those eyes and into his broken, fractured heart. She felt every bit as hurt as he was by what she was saying. In thrusting her sharp words into him, she bled herself.
He looked at her and for a split second she thought that he was going to say something. Then, giving his head an almost imperceptible shake, he climbed back onto the horse and wheeled it around to return the way they'd come. As he sped away, Moll sat there, looking up at her. Then she was gone, sprinting after her master until both of them vanished behind the hills and she was left alone.
“I'm sorry Gail,” she mumbled to herself, finishing off the last of the bottle. “I've let you down again.”
She climbed back on Ziggy and cantered forward, down the side of the valley towards the bridge. The path was steep and the Cleveland Bay hesitated in places, struggling over a broken down wall that had given up holding on to its foundations. When she reached the narrow structure she paused, looked around and took out the rifle, climbing down and leading the horse across on foot. There were loud creaks and groans as they crossed and in places the wooden planking had given way, revealing the icy-blue waters between the tall stone pillars.
When they reached the other side, Sarah could see that the path took her directly into the dark, shady woodland at the bottom of the other side of the valley. It was the perfect place to be ambushed by Calderbank's men yet there was no other way around.
“I can do this,” she whispered to herself, feeling a fog settle on her mind. Images of Meggy tried to push themselves to the front of her thoughts but she swatted them away with a flick of the reins.
Calderbank's men had seen her cross the bridge and were already waiting. She didn't even have a chance to put up a fight. They yanked the reins out of her hands the moment she entered the woods and they dragged her out of the saddle, hurling her to the floor so hard that the breath was knocked out of her. Wheezing and gasping for air, she clawed the ground but they were soon on her, landing kick after kick into her sides until she went limp. Panting and bleeding from her nose with one eye swollen shut, Sarah finally felt that she was getting what she deserved and it felt good. Redemption. Absolution. Death.
And the beautiful face of her sleeping daughter was standing there, watching it happen.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
When she eventually came round it wasn't to white clouds and floating angels but to a stench of animal dung and darkness. With consciousness came agony. Her sides felt like they were burning and when she tried to roll away from the flames she realised they were inside her, biting at her bones and searing off her flesh. Her one good eye tried to look around but the tears made everything blurry and indistinct. There was an opening high above her in the ceiling that let in a little light and that was all she could see.
“Hello?” she croaked through her parched mouth. She felt her lips cracking and she realised then how thirsty she really was. “Is anyone there?”
“Be quiet,” snapped a voice from outside. A curtain parted and light exploded into the small chamber, blinding her and making fresh tears pour from her eyes.
“I need a-”
A foot was launched through the opening and it struck her thigh, making her yelp in pain. Someone laughed and she tried to scurry away into a corner but the fire in her sides was too hot and too hungry to let her. Instead she went as still as she could be, sobbing with each fresh pulse of agony in her body. A mix of emotions poured itself over her heart. Shame. Fear. Sorrow. Guilt. They soaked her insides and battled for her attention until the curtains opened again and someone reached in to drag her out into the light.
She closed her eye as she was carried along. The daylight burned her and the voices coming from all around her tormented her. She thought of Alan. She remembered Moll. She wept again until she was dropped unceremoniously in another room, bigger this time and filled with the echoes of her crying.
“Well isn't this a surprise?” said a voice somewhere in front of her. She didn't move. “You lot are like lambs, lost in the hills. You always find your way to me though, don't you?”
A name floated to the front of her swampy brain. Calderbank.
“Put her in the chair, will you?” he said.
They grabbed her under her arms and she screamed as the pain flared up in her sides. She was thrown into a backed wooden seat that had armrests to keep her upright. If they hadn't been there she knew she'd have rolled off onto the floor.
“Is that better?” he asked. Sarah said nothing. She couldn't do much else. “No mail for me today? No juicy letters or packages? I'm disappointed.” He turned to one of his men. “Was there anything in her bags?”
“No, not a thing.”
“Pity. That makes you pretty useless to me, little girl.”
“Where...” she managed to say. He leaned closer in his chair and laughed.
“Say again?”
“Gail... Where is...?”
“Oh she's enjoying our little camp as much as you are. Don't worry though - you'll both get the special treatment. You killed some of my people the other day so I guess we owe you, don't we?”
He stood up and gestured for her to be taken away. In the mist she saw his small frame blocking the light from a window behind him, high up in an arched stone opening. A church? Once more rough hands grabbed her and this time she bit down hard on her lip, drawing blood as the pain ripped her open from within. Darkness came and before she'd reached her cell she passed into blessed sleep.
“So this is your plan?” said a voice somewhere far off in the shadowy corners of her mind. “I thought maybe you'd have taken a less direct approach.”
She opened her one good eye and looked up. The opening was dark now; night had come and with it the cold which blew through the curtains and froze her to the floor. She felt something close to a shiver but between the cold and the pain she didn't really know much else. Not until something hot was pressed against her face, sniffing and snuffling and she knew it was Moll. She raised a hand and touched her fur feeling her warmth beneath her fingertips. She'd never been so happy to see an animal before and for a moment she didn't believe she was real.
“I'm sorry,” said Alan, sitting next to her. “I shouldn't have left you.”
Her hand moved away from the dog and found his in the darkness. He gripped it tightly and began to help her up into a sitting position. The agony was beyond anything she'd ever known before and she collapsed into his arms, weeping silently into his coat.
“Do you want to go home, Sarah?”
“Yes,” she managed to say.
“I have to go out there first,” he whispered close to her ear where her hair had matted with blood. “Moll will protect you while I'm gone.”
He began to get up from the floor but she clung to him, not wanting to let him go again. Moll padded towards her and licked her face, pushing her furry head against hers until she relented and lay against the wall, holding on to her instead. Then he was gone into the night.
As she cuddled the hound, she heard the cries from the camp as he avenged her. There was gunfire and shouts, screams of the dying and the sound of bones breaking, of blades cutting flesh and sinew until the crescendo of the man's fury was met by the rattle of machine gun fire. There were commands being barked, orders to surround him, to overwhelm his unnatural revulsion to death with sheer numbers but it didn't work. It would never work against anger like that. Something exploded far away, a dull thud that shook the ground and the weapon was silenced. The shouts died away, replaced by weeping and wailing and even these eventually met with a sudden end.
The camp fell silent. Only the wind in the trees, upsetting the last of the dry, brittle leaves of autumn made a sound. It was as if the world were holding a moment of respect for the dead because there were so many that night.
The curtain parted and there he stood, silhouetted by the icy moonlight coming into the cell from behind him. The blade was in his hand and it s
till dripped with fresh blood, inky black in the darkness. He wrapped her up in an enormous animal fur and gathered her in his arms, lifting her off the cold floor and carrying her into the night. The cold air struck her and she looked around, wishing she hadn't.
“Gail...?” she managed to croak.
“Safe,” he said. “Calderbank had her.”
“Is he...?”
“Dead. They're all dead now, Sarah. Every last one of them.”
CHAPTER TWELVE
The next time she woke it was to a beautiful, sunlit room filled with warmth and colour and the softly crackling fire in the hearth muttering homely thoughts to her. Both of her eyes opened this time and she looked around, seeing all the familiar things of her bedroom, all clean and fresh to her as if seeing them for the first time. She'd never been so happy to be home before and she began to wonder if the last few days had been one long, horrible nightmare. When she tried to sit up she realised it wasn't and her stiff, bruised body reminded her of that.
“Good morning,” said Alan, rising from his chair with a mug of tea in his hand. “You've been asleep a long time.”
He helped her up, propping her back with soft downy pillows and with loving gentleness he put the cup into her hands.
“It's still a little hot, be careful.”
She licked her dry lips and blew it before taking a sip. It tasted like ambrosia, hand-delivered by gods wearing leather loin cloths. Her sides ached as she took in deep breaths and when she attempted to turn and look at Alan they sung out their familiar song of agony.
“Gail is with her family,” he said. “She's going to be okay.”
She nodded, drank some more and stared at Moll who was sat in front of the fire. She couldn't look directly at him, not yet. He seemed to sense this because he sat back in his chair and folded his hands in front of him, saying nothing more while she finished her drink.
When the cup was empty she reached over to put it on the bedside table but he was there in a moment, taking it from her. She tried to smile, to offer him something in the way of recognition for all he'd done, but she couldn't find it. Why, she didn't know. Maybe she'd never know. His wonderful warm eyes fell on her and as he sat there, looking at her, she felt the full weight of her guilt and it burned her over and over again.
Beyond Hope (Tales from the Brink Book 3) Page 11