by Seth Rain
‘Do something!’
‘Okay. You need to go. Keep going – don’t wait for me.’
Noah shook his head and, one hand on the bandages covering his chest, walked to an opening in the hedgerow. He eased down the bank to the path beside the canal. The three Watchers were on the other side of the canal.
‘Wait,’ Freya whispered loudly, but he was already too far away.
Noah stood by the canal, staring over at the three Watchers. He coughed.
The three Watchers stopped and turned. ‘Hey,’ one of them said.
‘Noah?’ another said.
Noah and the three Watchers looked at each other, then at the canal. Three metres of water lay between them. The Watchers started running back the way they’d walked. Noah climbed back up to the path on the other side of the trees and signalled for Freya to run.
‘They’ll use that,’ Freya shouted back, pointing to the bridge up ahead.
Then Noah stumbled and fell. Freya helped him stand and led him away from the canal, through an alleyway and onto a village street. She checked left and right. At the end of the street was an old man walking a dog. The man stared back at her. She spotted a church across the road. She jogged across and tried the door. ‘It’s open,’ she said. ‘Either we keep running or we hide in here.’
‘Hide,’ Noah said, coughing. Fresh blood had appeared on his chest.
Freya checked along the street, then back the way they’d come. She pointed to the door and led the way into the empty church. Their footsteps echoed. She hid between two rows of pews and Noah followed her, doing all he could to disguise his heavy breathing.
‘Did they see which way we went?’ Freya asked.
Noah shook his head, his face pale, his jaw clenched in pain.
They stared at the door they’d used. It stood tall and still.
On the wall beside the doors was a poster that read: ‘He is coming. Are you ready?’
Freya faced the front of the church. A huge cross hung from the ceiling. Behind it the stained-glass windows were shades of emerald and dark rose.
‘I don’t think they saw us come in here,’ Freya said.
The door creaked open.
‘Shut the door,’ the shortest of the three Watchers said. ‘They’re in here.’
Twenty-Seven
The smog creeping across the Black Country meant Scott and Isaiah had to be wary of every turn, ready for any sign of movement. It was both a hindrance and a blessing. They might easily walk into those they wanted to avoid; but at the same time, it would be difficult for any of Gabriel’s Watchers or the clans to spot them making their way through the estate. They kept to the lanes and saw little movement in the houses they passed. For a time they walked along an alley between gardens. Scott and Isaiah grew even more alert at this point, knowing if they were discovered, there would be scarce chance of escape.
The smog lifted a little as they navigated the streets and lanes in search of the pub.
‘How much further?’ Scott asked.
‘Not far.’ Isaiah pointed to the next bend in the road. ‘Along here. We need to go down to the canal.’
Scott stiffened but didn’t slow down.
When they reached the end of the road, Isaiah motioned for them to slow down. He led the way, stood against a house and peered around the corner. Scott stood behind him and checked the way they’d come. He could see no further than a few metres in each direction.
‘We’ll be in the open for a hundred metres or so,’ Isaiah said, ‘until we can get down to the canal.’ He looked at Scott. ‘You ready?’
Scott nodded.
Isaiah set off, crouching, and Scott followed, mirroring him. There were no houses and, as Isaiah had pointed out, no cover. They ran across the wide road and jumped over metal railings onto a large island in the centre of a junction. The trees and shrubs on the island gave them some shelter, but the gravel beneath their feet was noisy. Isaiah’s pace quickened in response and Scott followed his lead, their feet crunching. Finally, they leapt off the island and back onto the road on the other side.
‘Hurry,’ Isaiah said, bursting into a sprint.
Scott followed.
Isaiah ran straight for an opening in a row of trees and vanished through them. Scott glanced behind to check no one had seen them and backed into the gap in the trees.
‘Here,’ Isaiah said. ‘Down here.’
The smell of the canal was too familiar. He slipped down the bank towards Isaiah’s voice and came to a stop next to him.
‘Wait,’ Isaiah said. ‘Can you hear someone?’
Scott tried to listen but it was no good; his own heavy breathing, combined with the blood thudding in his ears, meant he couldn’t hear a thing outside his own body. He peered through the smog but only saw slow-moving grey swirls of cloud. Scott was motionless except for his chest heaving. A rat – huge and silky-black – darted from the undergrowth beside them, trotted along the towpath and slipped into the canal.
Isaiah pointed up and to the right. ‘Over there. The pub’s not far,’ he whispered.
Scott gathered himself and nodded.
Isaiah pointed to the left. ‘We’d be going the opposite way, but there’s a bridge. We need to use it to get to the other side.’
Scott peered through the smog towards the bridge. ‘Can’t see it.’
‘I’m pretty sure it’s there,’ said Isaiah.
‘Pretty sure?’
Isaiah grabbed Scott’s arm and pulled him onto the towpath, forcing him into a run.
‘There it is,’ Isaiah said, motioning for Scott to follow him.
‘Wait!’ Scott said, stopping with a skid on the dirt towpath. There was movement ahead and in the trees beside them.
Scott spun on the towpath as figures emerged from the smog. He held out his hands. ‘Stop!’
There were loud noises – shouting, grunts, and the thudding of fists against bodies. A splash. Arms around Scott’s torso. He freed himself and threw a punch as something was forced over his head. Dark. A thud against his stomach; air spat from his chest and lungs. More arms around his body. He stumbled and fell, the side of his head crashing against the hard ground. More shouting – Black Country accents.
Twenty-Eight
Whatever was covering his head was snatched away.
‘Where’s Isaiah?’ Scott asked, squinting beneath the yellow light.
‘The Watcher?’ someone asked. ‘He went for a swim.’
There was laughter. Scott tried to stand but was pushed back to the floor.
‘What’re you doing with a Watcher?’
‘He’s not like the others,’ Scott said.
‘He’s not, eh? Well, he sure looks the same as the rest of ’em.’
Scott scanned the building. It was a huge brick warehouse with steel rafters running along the width. It had a high roof, parts of it open to the sky.
One of the men stooped over Scott, who squinted, putting a hand to his brow to block the light.
‘So, who are ya?’ The man’s shoulders and arms bulged through his black T-shirt. Tattoos ran from beneath the material down both arms.
Scott thought about lying but the man’s expression made him think he already knew.
‘Scott.’
The man sniffed and wiped the white stubble on his chin, making a rasping noise. ‘And tell me, Scott. What’s with your date?’ The man reached for Scott’s hand and turned it over.
‘What do you mean?’
‘Why am I, and my colleagues here, seeing this date all over the place?’
Scott waited. He had no idea.
‘Hey, Frankie,’ the man shouted.
‘What?’ someone shouted back.
‘You seen this date before? Twenty-second of April?’
‘The twenty-second of April? Yes, Jack. It’s all over.’
Jack flexed his back and stroked his chin. ‘Same here,’ he said, and held out his own hand to show Scott his own tattooed hand: 13.06.
&
nbsp; Scott frowned and looked from the tattoo to Jack and back again. ‘You’re Chosen?’
‘In a way.’ Jack helped Scott stand then pointed to the other men. Some of them held up their left palm and showed Scott a tattooed date.
‘I don’t understand,’ Scott said. ‘Why do … you can’t all be Chosen?’
‘I think our mate needs a drink,’ Jack said. ‘Get the man some whisky. And none of Gregory’s shit either. The real stuff.’ He took an e-cigarette from his pocket, pressed a button and inhaled, then exhaled a pink cloud. ‘We choose our own dates.’ Again he held up his hand. ‘Fuck the Watchers. Fuck the government. And definitely fuck the AI. We pick ’em.’
Scott took a step back. He recognised the man’s voice, the strong Black Country accent. It was him – the man from Gregory’s narrowboat. The man who had thrown Scott into the canal.
‘You,’ Scott said. ‘It’s you.’
Jack frowned, confused.
Scott stopped, realising Jack had no idea what had been in those crates.
‘Have we met before, kid?’
‘Where’s Isaiah?’ Scott asked, scanning the building for a way out.
‘Hold on, hold on…’ Jack held up both hands.
‘You killed Gregory!’
‘How do you know Gregory?’
Scott rubbed his eyes with two knuckles and squinted.
Jack stroked his chin. ‘Gregory was a crook.’
‘He was a good man,’ Scott said.
‘A good man? Do me a favour.’ Jack rolled his shoulders and flexed his arms. He brushed the top of his shaved head and shook it, as if ready to enter a boxing ring. ‘I’ve owed Gregory that for some time. Was only business. He’d have done the same.’
‘Business?’
Jack laid a hand on his shoulder. Scott shrugged it away and pushed past him. The other men walked towards him and Scott stopped.
‘It’s okay,’ Jack said to the other men. His expression was softer, his demeanour less threatening. ‘Your friend: the Watcher. He’s fine. For now.’
‘Where is he?’ Scott asked.
One of the men handed Jack two glasses of whisky. Jack sipped from his glass and offered the other to Scott. ‘Have a drink. You need one, kid. The Watcher – really, he’s fine.’
Scott took the glass, all the time watching the men surrounding him. Each one of them had a beard or stubble and wore a black donkey jacket and boots. Most of them puffed on e-cigarettes, which generated a layer of smoke that hovered inside the vast empty building.
Scott downed the whisky. ‘What’s going to happen?’
‘Do you know who we are?’
Scott placed the glass on a rickety table against the brick wall. The whisky was the stuff he was used to, and already he felt the chemicals working through his spine, his chest and arms. ‘One of the clans?’
The man nodded. ‘We are the clans. And the Black Country is ours.’
Scott saw one of the men lean towards another man and whisper something.
‘So what I want to know,’ Jack said, ‘is what you’re doing here, in Tipton, with a Watcher. And why are we seeing your date all over the place?’
Jack finished his own whisky and threw the empty glass to one of the other men, who caught it.
‘You tell me,’ Scott said. ‘You cut the date into Gregory’s chest.’
Jack took his time to check closely, each man stood near him. He scratched his beard. ‘No, kid. Wasn’t us. Don’t know what you’re talking about.’
Scott attempted to work out if he was lying. But everything about Jack’s expression told Scott he was telling the truth.
‘You didn’t do that?’ Scott asked.
‘We killed him,’ Jack said, without remorse, ‘for what he did. Gregory knew it was coming. But that’s as far as it went.’
‘So,’ Jack said, ‘what’s with your date?’
Scott shook his head. ‘I don’t know.’
Jack raised an eyebrow and waited, before taking another long pull on his e-cigarette. ‘For what it’s worth, I believe you, kid. But it doesn’t explain what you’re doing here – in Tipton. With a Watcher.’
Again Scott considered lying, but knew it was the wrong play. ‘I’m here to find Mathew.’
Jack tilted his head. ‘Mathew, huh?’
‘He’s here,’ Scott said, ‘in the Black Country.’
Jack flinched, giving himself away; Scott guessed he didn’t know.
‘That so?’ Jack said.
‘You didn’t know?’
Jack grimaced and again stroked the stubble on his chin. ‘I hear rumours.’
The room was cold. Scott wrapped his arms across his chest.
‘And what do you want with Mathew?’ Jack asked. ‘Is the Watcher taking you to him?’
‘Isaiah’s not like the rest of them. He wants to know the truth.’
‘The truth?’ Jack said, laughing. ‘I love that! After everything, you still trust one of them?’
‘He thinks my date’s wrong.’
Jack’s face changed. ‘Wrong?’ He paused, then laughed harder.
‘He’s not the only one who thinks so,’ Scott said. He felt foolish saying it. ‘And there could be others.’
‘You’re deluded, kid. You’re not the first to think his date’s wrong. And you won’t be the last.’
On the other side of the warehouse a door opened, a man entered, and the door closed.
‘What are we doing here, anyway?’ Scott asked. ‘Tell me where Isaiah is.’
‘Sorry, kid.’ Jack held up a hand and shook his head to stop laughing. ‘I’m sorry. But your date – it’s not wrong. The dates are never wrong. The AI has it all figured out.’
Scott clenched his fists. He was about to speak when the doors burst open. Three men barrelled in, wearing the same black jackets. One man was pushed to the ground; shaking, he tried to get his feet before falling again. His hair and clothes were soaking wet.
‘Your friend,’ Jack said, motioning for Scott to go to him.
Scott went over to Isaiah. ‘My leg,’ Isaiah said, pointing to his left ankle. ‘I think it’s broken.’
‘We’ll get it fixed,’ Scott said.
‘That might be the least of my worries,’ Isaiah said, looking at the men surrounding them.
Each wore a tired expression of self-pity and defiance, but also expectation, as though they thought Scott was there for a reason, or was there because they’d wanted him there all along.
Twenty-Nine
Jack’s men went over to Isaiah and helped him stand. Isaiah’s face was twisted in pain.
‘He needs help,’ Scott said. ‘Needs a surgical-machine.’
‘He’s a Watcher,’ Jack said. ‘He wants you dead. He wants the lot of us dead.’
‘It’s not like that,’ Scott protested.
Jack, with a shrug, told Scott to follow him and the men with Isaiah. ‘It’s what they do,’ Jack said. ‘They’ll tell you anything. But when it comes to it, they want one thing. The same thing they all want – Mathew, Gabriel, the lot of them – they want everyone on the planet dead.’
Scott kept his eyes on Isaiah. He didn’t know what to think.
‘If you really believed,’ Jack said, ‘that you was going to Heaven. I mean, really fuckin’ believed, like, why wouldn’t you want everyone dead? Makes sense when you see it their way.’
‘Isaiah is more interested in finding out the truth,’ Scott said. ‘And if that means the dates are wrong, then so be it.’
Jack waved away Scott’s words. ‘Don’t believe it, kid.’
‘I’ve seen what he’s done,’ Scott said. ‘He shot Gabriel. To save me.’
Jack nodded and pursed his lips. ‘Yeah – I heard as much. Didn’t know whether to believe it.’
The men helping Isaiah pushed open a curtain and led the way into a room. Inside were more men wearing black jackets, working a machine that sat on a trestle-table.
‘What’s that?’ Scott asked. Isaiah wa
s slumped in a chair. He appeared unconscious, his head and body flopping forward. One of the men stopped him falling off the chair while the other arranged a wide strap around his chest, fastening him to the chair. Scott tried to reach him.
‘Wait, wait,’ Jack said, pulling Scott back.
Scott shoved away his hands and leapt towards Isaiah. Two men grabbed his arms and pushed him back towards Jack.
‘Let him go!’ Scott said. ‘What are you doing to him?’
‘Do you know what that machine does?’ Jack asked.
Scott pushed at the men holding on to his arms until they let him go. ‘No,’ he said.
‘Let me check your date,’ Jack said.
The air inside the room was warmer than in the rest of the warehouse. It felt different. Jack took Scott’s hand again. This time, Scott saw it as a test, a way of challenging Jack, so he let him hold it, all the time staring at him. Slowly, Jack’s eyes shifted to the tattoo on Scott’s hand.
‘Old school,’ Jack said. ‘You seen it, boys?’ He held up Scott’s hand to the rest of them. ‘Beautiful.’
Jack released his grip but Scott didn’t move.
‘Is that a tattoo-machine?’ Scott asked.
Jack walked over to Isaiah, slumped in the chair next to the machine.
‘You know,’ Jack said, placing a hand on the table, ‘I had a mate…’ He looked around the room. ‘We had a mate who was Chosen. He was given a date. Like you.’ He pointed at Scott, then took a glass from one of the men. One of the men filled it with whisky. Scott glanced around the room and waited for Jack to continue.
‘Our mate,’ Jack said, after taking a drink, ‘was a good man. William. Everyone thought so. Ask anybody and they’d say the same thing. He was a good man. The best of ’em. Anyway, he was Chosen, and his date was the second of September. And he died on the second of September.’ Jack finished the whisky and placed his glass on the table beside the tattoo-machine, but didn’t let it go. He remained motionless, staring at his hand covering the glass tumbler. Scott noticed two of the men glance at one another.
‘The second of September,’ Jack said. ‘We made it through five years. Each year we helped him get through it. And there was no way any of those fuckin’ Watchers was gonna get close to him. No chance. We had him protected, you know?’ He pointed to the men in the warehouse. ‘There was no chance of them getting him that way.’ His face reddened. The anger Jack felt towards the Watchers was there in every small move Jack made. ‘He’s the same,’ Jack said, pointing at Isaiah. ‘And don’t think any different. They’re all the same, kid.’