Watershed

by Jane Abbott

  There’s no mistaking a whorehouse. Whether underground or in the Citadel or any of the settlements, they were all the same. Maybe they always had been, even in those oh-so-civilised times before the Last Rains, before we finally admitted what we were and reverted to kind. Of course, Garrick was more straightforward than most, and he’d dubbed his little enterprise the fuckshop. But it wasn’t much different from any of the others. Same sights, same sounds, and that same smell of the used and the spent. No matter which way you slice it, there’s nothing pretty about sex. Not when it’s on display and for sale. It might feel good, but it ain’t pretty.

  ‘Jem, isn’t it? Garrick said you’d be down.’ Cobb’s voice was as pale as he was, soft and sibilant and skin-crawling. He walked around the girl, taking in the battered face and the bitten neck, the pink trickle trailing to her feet, and shook his head. ‘I do wish he wouldn’t be so rough. It makes my job so difficult.’

  ‘Yeah, you’re making me fucking cry. Now, where do you want her?’

  ‘Oh no, Jem.’ He smiled, all pretence gone. ‘I’ll deal with her. You run along, and take this with you.’ He tore the blanket from the girl and held it out to me.

  So I punched him, smack in the face, and I don’t know which of us was more surprised.

  ‘I’m going to report you for that,’ he snarled, holding his nose, trying to stop the blood. I clenched my hand a few times, getting the sting out.

  ‘Yeah, you do that. Garrick said to tell you to rest her for two days. But I think I’m gunna tell him you had your hand up her before my back was even turned. How d’you think he’ll like that?’

  His eyes narrowed. ‘He knows I’d never do that.’

  ‘Really? Your word against his best Watchman?’ I said, with more confidence than I felt, because even if I was right and Cobb had his filthy fingers in every hole, of the two of us I was the more expendable. I just hoped he didn’t know it too.

  ‘Garrick trusts me,’ whined Cobb.

  ‘Garrick doesn’t trust anyone,’ I told him. ‘Let’s say you’re right, and he doesn’t believe me. But he won’t forget, and one day he’s gunna start thinking about it, and it’ll gnaw away at him, get him wondering if maybe young Jem might’ve been right after all. Maybe Cobb is fiddling the books, as well as everything else down here. So he’ll start checking up on you, paying you unexpected visits, waiting to catch you out. And he will catch you out, arsehole. He catches everyone out, eventually. Is that what you want?’

  He scowled but said nothing, and I draped the blanket back over the bemused girl. I felt even more sorry for her then, because I hadn’t helped her situation; she’d be the one to cop his fury.

  ‘Now, show me where,’ I repeated, and he turned to lead me down the narrow passageway. We passed a few Watchmen, sweaty after their exertions; one nodded to me; another eyed the girl, a small grin playing on his face. If he’d licked his lips, his thoughts couldn’t have been more obvious.

  Small rooms, some with doors flung wide, ran either side, but the ones left open weren’t empty. On each cot, tethered and naked, sat a girl or boy, man or woman, sometimes two or three together, slack-jawed and dull-eyed, untouched by the sun, all of them slaves waiting for the next round of abuse. I checked every one, pausing at each opening, not caring that Cobb saw, but there was no sign of Alex. Which could only mean one thing, and short of banging on every closed door and interrupting whatever was going on, there was no way of knowing which room she occupied. I tried not to think about what was happening behind those doors, tried not to hear the sounds, tried not to wonder which Watchman was in there; who had already used Alex and who was still waiting to. I tried real, real hard.

  Cobb stopped at the last door, and I guided the girl into the cubicle, pausing to grab his arm.

  ‘Garrick would’ve sent a woman down here, last night or this morning. Not too tall, short hair, greenish eyes. Where is she?’

  He held up a hand. ‘Just the essentials, Watchman. Big tits or small?’

  I raised my fist again and he shrank back. ‘Okay, okay. I know who you mean. She’s kind of occupied at the moment.’ He made a crude gesture with his hands, driving his point home.

  ‘Where?’ I asked again, with more menace.

  But he shook his head. ‘Nuh-uh. You want her? You pay, like all the rest.’ He smiled again. ‘And you do want her, don’t you?’

  ‘How much?’

  ‘Well now,’ he said, rubbing his fingers together, his voice a nasal whine. ‘That all depends, Jem. What d’you intend to do with her? Are you the boring type, or –’

  ‘Shut it, Cobb. Just tell me the price.’

  He shot me a mean look. ‘It’s two cups for every hour.’ Then he touched his nose gingerly. ‘But for you, I’m going to make it four. You work it out.’

  I didn’t hesitate; I was used to such prices. ‘Done. I’ll let you know when. Now get me a bowl and cloth and piss off.’

  I cleaned up the girl as best I could, patient each time she shrank away from my touch, but there was nothing to be done about her nose, and I hoped Cobb’s was hurting twice as much. When I’d finished, I secured her as he’d told me to, locking the padded collar around her neck, not too tight. It was ingenious really – if you were into that sort of thing, and needed your whore tethered – the chain retracting through a hole in the wall, pulling out when needed, arms and legs left free. Garrick thought of everything.

  ‘I’m gunna go now,’ I told her. ‘No one should bother you for the next couple of days.’ After that, who knew what would happen? She didn’t look at me, or thank me. Why should she? I was a Watchman, as bad as the one who’d captured her. She had nothing to be grateful for. But I left her the blanket.

  Closing and bolting the door behind me, I made my way back to the entrance, still checking for Alex and almost careering into another Watchman emerging from one of the cubicles. Startled, he gave a quick glare before turning on his heel and hurrying down the passage. Just a glimpse before a later flash of recognition that came too slow for me to react, sealing my uncertainty.

  It couldn’t have been him, I thought. Could it? Nah, it couldn’t have been. Coz outside our dreams, it’s not possible to see the dead.

  Excerpt ~ Letter #23

  I’ve realised, too late, the danger of sharing secrets. If ever you find yourself put in a position of trust, Jeremiah (if you’re appointed the guardian of another’s doings, or feelings, or thoughts), you must never betray them. No one has the right to give away what wasn’t theirs in the first place.

  Sarah didn’t know his name. When she’d asked, he shook his head. No names, he told her, and she couldn’t help but be amused. If not his real name, then perhaps a false one, she teased. Again, he shook his head. False names were as bad as false smiles, he replied. She could call him Tee.

  A little puzzled, she’d laughed and followed his lead, treating it as the game she supposed it to be. The times she wondered about it were always later, after he’d left, and though she’d remind herself to ask the next time she saw him, she never seemed to find the opportunity. They’d discuss other things and the subject of his insistent anonymity would be forgotten again. And really, what did it matter if she didn’t know his name? Except he knew hers.

  They didn’t sit beneath the wall any more. After Daniel’s death, remembering the man’s tale and desperate for answers – seeking some kind of shared camaraderie or, at the very least, a new companionship – she’d returned to the place where she’d first seen him, again and again, until one day her search was rewarded; he sat in the same position as before, and looked exactly as she remembered. But he wasn’t alone; a young man, thin and dirty, sat with him, nodding as Tee spoke. Watching the two of them, Sarah remembered again her own meeting with him, wondered at the man’s power to attract those in need, and she’d turned away, leaving them to it.

  A few weeks later, it was the same thing: this time a woman crouched beside him listening to his tale. Sarah waited until she’d left
before making her way over to him and when he saw her, Tee had smiled in recognition, maybe not as broadly as Sarah had hoped, but a little tired and grey. After the third time, she’d invited him home. It was strange to see him at her table, taking Daniel’s chair but not taking his place. How could he? The two men shared few traits. Tee was terser and more reticent, less trusting and less gracious. She wasn’t sure why she felt comforted by his presence. Perhaps it was his immutability; perhaps it was simply his interest. And he was interested, in her and in Jeremiah, in their continued welfare. When she finally confessed what her grandson had done, Tee’s flinty eyes had gleamed but he uttered no judgement.

  What was she afraid of? he asked her, but she didn’t know. Then, when he waited, giving her time, suddenly she did. She was afraid she didn’t know Jeremiah any more; that now he’d taken a life he could never go back. She was scared he might not want to, she said.

  Daniel had suffered terribly, Tee reassured with words she’d already told herself countless times. So many died that way, he said. The dust would get them all in the end.

  Except it hadn’t, had it? Sarah replied. It wasn’t the dust that had killed Daniel; Jeremiah did that.

  Was she religious? Tee asked, not quite dismissively. Did she fear for her grandson’s soul?

  No, Sarah was quick to reply. She feared for his life.

  Tee gave her a long look. Give the boy time, he said. He was young and he’d be struggling to deal with what he’d done.

  But Jeremiah wasn’t young. Not inside, where it counted. He didn’t seem to need her any more. He was distancing himself, but he wasn’t struggling. Not yet. He was just searching. The struggle would begin when he found what he needed. But she didn’t say any of that to Tee. Instead she nodded and offered him more water and some dried bread with a scrape of cheese, and they talked of other things, of general unhappiness, and of unrest.

  Tee visited most weeks and always when Jeremiah wasn’t there, arriving in the morning just after he’d left for work, or departing in the evening just before he returned. He never stayed long; enough to share some water and ask after the two of them; occasionally he’d mention the dissidents, just hints, nothing that would give anyone away. Ever anonymous.

  One afternoon he pushed back his chair and stood, thanking her as he always did. The shadows were high and the room was darkening. Though Sarah knew he preferred not to wander the Citadel at night, she urged him to stay longer. Jeremiah would return soon, perhaps they could eat together? I’d like him to meet you, she said. He shook his head. Disappointed, she managed a smile. Next time, then.

  Yes, said Tee. He was sure he’d meet Jeremiah when the time was right.

  15

  A long time ago, before the Earth had shed its skin and everything went to shit, they used to have these places called zoos where they’d keep animals, all kinds, all of them caged and fed and watered. And people would pay to walk around and look at them, admire them, staring in while the animals stared out, man and beast separated by wire and steel and the vagaries of evolution. My grandmother had explained the reason, said that it was to preserve species, to stop them dying out. But in the end it had been a waste of time. No rain and a rising Sea had seen to that.

  She said she always used to go straight to the lions, these huge creatures with gold fur and shaggy manes, muscled and fanged and sharp-clawed. They’d prowl up and down the cage, wearing out a path, growling and grunting, bored and restless, impatient for food. She’d said it was thrilling to see so much power so contained. I’d listened to her, but I could never see what she’d seen, or understand what she’d felt. Until now.

  The mess hall was busy again, bodies filling the room, carrying in the stink of unwashed skin and old sweat. But they brought in something else too, that restlessness, an impatience to break free and begin the hunt again. These men were caged, bored and restless just like my grandmother’s lions, and their menace was unmistakeable. Difference was, I was in that cage right alongside them. And there was nothing thrilling about it.

  Taking up a position in a corner, I wasted a day watching and waiting. I couldn’t shake the image of that face; one I barely remembered yet had thought never to see again. It would’ve been so easy to dismiss it, to think the light had played tricks, that my paranoia and weariness were taking their toll. That would’ve been the sensible thing to do, the calm, rational response. Except I wasn’t calm, and rational thinking was impossible.

  I studied every face that came and went. Some I could put names to, others I didn’t know, all of them bearing that same edginess, and none of them the one I wanted to see. But not seeing him there didn’t mean I hadn’t seen him downstairs. I’d made it this far because I’d learned to trust my gut. And right now my gut was churning.

  Taggart came in once, but apart from nodding in my direction, didn’t approach or speak to me. I sat there for hours, waiting and watching, playing with the congealed food on my plate, pushing it around, not hungry, until I was forced to concede defeat and return to my quarters.

  But Garrick was right. There’d be no rest for the wicked.

  ‘Where the fuck’ve you been?’ he demanded when I walked in, and I stared at him lounging on my cot.

  ‘Mess hall,’ I said after a beat, kicking the door closed. No reason to lie about it.

  ‘All fucking day? Can’t have been the food.’

  ‘What are you doing here?’

  He stood up, filling the small room. ‘What’s wrong, Jem? Not happy to see me?’

  Not in the slightest. It wasn’t unusual for Garrick to show up in our quarters, checking and meddling and keeping us on edge. But he hadn’t bothered me for a long time, and now he was here, in my face.

  Reading my thoughts, he pointed to the cupboard. ‘Open it. Haven’t made an inspection in here for a while. Can’t have the others thinking I’m favouring you now, can I?’

  Remembering Jackson’s accusations, I was tempted to tell him he was too late for that. But I took the key from around my neck and unlocked the door, standing aside to give him access. He seemed almost surprised by my obedience and stalked over to rifle through the contents, tossing every item out onto the floor. He checked each one, ejected every dart from its casing, pulled out the knives and felt inside the sheathes, upended my pack and rummaged through it, fishing out ropes and ties, more knives, the pot, the gourd and flasks, peering into each one.

  I watched him, saw his rising anger, felt the telltale prickling on my scalp. This was no routine inspection.

  ‘What’re you looking for?’ I asked, keeping my voice light, like this was his problem and nothing for me to worry about.

  ‘I’ll know when I see it,’ he growled, feeling inside the cupboard for anything he might have missed. ‘Where’s that box you had?’

  ‘Reckon that’s my business,’ I said, and wished I hadn’t.

  He backhanded me across the face, his knuckles knocking bone, and shoved his forearm to my throat, digging in with his elbow and pushing me to the wall.

  ‘You watch your fuckin’ mouth! You hear me?’

  I gagged but he didn’t ease off, instead holding up a piece of paper and waving it in my face. ‘What’s this, Jem? Huh? What the fuck is this?’

  Even if I’d been able to, I didn’t need to read it to know what it said. After all, I’d written it myself, careless and angry and knowing he’d see it eventually. He pushed harder, and feeling my windpipe bowing under the pressure I tried tucking my chin down. But he grabbed my hair, scrunching the page to my ear, and pulled me hard onto his arm.

  ‘Fuck the rules. Is that what you think, Jem? Fuck the rules? Coz if it is, you tell me now and we’ll sort it out. My way.’ Then, releasing his grip and the paper, he eased back just enough to give me room to reply. But it took a while.

  ‘No,’ I wheezed. ‘I just –’

  ‘Just fuckin’ nothing. You pull shit like that again and I’ll skin you alive. You got that?’

  I nodded as best I could, an
d with a final shove he stepped back, leaving me to bend over and clutch my throat, coughing and gasping for air.

  ‘Now. I’m gunna ask you again. What’d you do with that box?’ he said.

  I coughed again to find my voice. ‘Got rid of it. A while back. Didn’t have any use for it any more.’ And gagging again, hands on my knees, I stared at the ground with wet eyes, seeing the balled-up page, evidence of my stupidity.

  There was a long silence, and finally he said, ‘There. How hard was that?’

  Still heaving, I shook my head and watched his boots retreat across the room, heard his fury as he tossed the mattress, tearing the sheets from it, lifting the cot, searching the underside. He did the same to the table and the chair, venting, cursing his frustration, and I stayed where I was, out of his way, bent over and swallowing to relieve the discomfort in my throat.

  Then he returned. Grabbing another fistful of hair, he hauled me up to eye level. ‘Clean up this shithole.’

  When he’d gone I sank to my knees, unsure whether or not I was relieved to still be barely breathing. Crawling over to the cupboard, I felt underneath for the strap and pulled the box free. I don’t know what sixth sense had prompted me to hide it, but when I opened it and saw the letters and the gun still safe inside, I was glad I’d listened. Garrick had never bothered with it on previous inspections, but then he’d never been so angry or so determined. Tucking it back in place, I sat up and surveyed the mess. He’d been thorough, even pouring the water out of the jug, and that pissed me off more than anything because it was such a waste.

  I stared at the piece of paper, still lying where he’d dropped it; I toed it with my boot, rolling it towards me. Three little words scrawled in anger downstairs had almost cost me my life. And Alex hers.

  Fuck the rules.

  I peeled it open and reread them, seeing the sentry’s bewilderment, feeling again that surge of rage. Three words that stood out from the rest, the names and numbers, all neatly penned, orderly and obedient, not fucking the rules. And I wondered at Garrick’s power, that he could control so many hardened men with double-edged promises and dire threats. Ballard had understood it. But maybe this was the only way such men could be controlled and kept in line. Give with one hand and take back with both.