After the Snow

by Crockett, S. D.

  And the telling screaming and spitting.

  The doors fling open. A rush of faces.

  The room fill with men in long coats and hard gloves and guns and the smell of cold leather. The gentle flames from the fire lick up the chimney but dark shadows fall across the doorway. The wind still rush in my head. The river inside me rage in the melt.

  “There! It’s him.”

  The strange-smelling men shout and stomp in their boots. Tables fall. Glass smash to the ground. They got Callum. Pull him back from the window.

  Dorothy leap at them screeching. They grab her arm and push her aside as they fall on Callum. Dragging him by his legs. Smash his head with the gun. Someone got me down on the floor. Everything in that dark room broken and altered like a whirlwind ripping the trees from the ground.

  And in the eye of the storm, a figure stride across the wreckage. Soldiers parting. He drag Dorothy up by the hair. Twisting it in his big hand. Lifting her up on her delicate feet. Callum just groaning on the floor. Just see the glint of the big man’s shining boots. The broad muscles on his back tense under his coat.

  “You think this is a way to repay us?”

  “No! Please!”

  Big man yank Dorothy’s head back. She grab at his hands.

  He pull back his hand. Raise it high.

  “You want to talk? Whore! You want to talk now?”

  The back of his hand smash across her face. Blood come gushing out her nose. She sag down under him.

  “How long? Huh? I knew you were rotten inside. I’ll get every last drop of rottenness you’ve got up in that pretty head of yours. We have plenty of time for that.”

  He pull her up again. Pull her face up close to his. “Come come, you aren’t looking your best, my dear.” He wipe the blood off her lip with his thumb. Hold his hand against her face.

  “You’re getting older, Dorothy. An old settlement whore. With no guts.”

  Pthth! The spit land on his cheek.

  Slowly he wipe the spittle away with his hand. “I thought you’d be reasonable, Dorothy.” He hit her again. The force of it crack on her jaw. Break a moan from deep inside her body.

  Dorothy sink to the floor like a crumpled rag. A rough hand push me down. The soldiers hoist her up by the arms. Tie her. Roll her onto the ground.

  “Get some fucking light in here!”

  Someone rip the curtain from the window.

  The man with shiny leather boots and blood on his hand turn around then.

  He turn around in the cold gray light falling over the upturned table by the window. The light catch the broken glass on the carpet, the toecaps of his boots. It glint on the shiny buttons of his long coat. Right up to his face. Clean shaven now but still the same square chin. Scar above his left eye. He push a strand of hair off his forehead. His middle finger a stub at the knuckle. He look down at me. Those cold blue eyes got a look of surprise seeing me there.

  The wind raging in my head can only whisper a memory, whisper it low. “I’ll tell you a secret, Willo. Men are bad and all their ideas too.”

  Mei-Li standing quiet in the doorway. Her face a blank page.

  Patrick. Patrick. Patrick. Patrick.

  33

  It’s dark. So dark I can’t see. But I sense the walls close around me. The sound of my breath on the floor. The rope tied so tight about my wrists I can’t feel my hands. The floor hard against my head. Hard and cold and smell bad.

  A grille in the wall clang open. A rectangle of light on the wall. A shadow behind it.

  Light come on then. Flip on like a shot. Blind me for a second. I hear bolts snapping open.

  Across the bare stained floor I see the polished leather of his boots in the doorway.

  He step inside.

  “Willo,” he say as if he been sad to see me somehow. “Oh, Willo.”

  Slowly Patrick take off his gloves, hand them to the guard at the door. The door swings shut. The grille scraping back.

  We been alone.

  He drop down onto his haunches. His boots creak. I see the seam of his trousers tight inside his thigh.

  “Hello, Willo.”

  But he aint my friend no more.

  “It’s a big wide world out here isn’t it?”

  “I thought you been our friend. I thought you—”

  “I listened to enough moralizing up on that freezing mountain for half a year, boy. I don’t want to listen to it anymore. But you’re right. I’m not really your friend”—his eyes stare down cold—“but I like you, Willo. I like people who see things as they are.”

  “What you done with Dorothy? What you done with her? She aint done nothing wrong.”

  “The person here asking questions is me. You better learn that quick if you want to make this easy.” He stand up. Look about the dank walls of the cell. “But for the moment I fi nd I still like you, Willo. Remember.” He stand up. Wave a hand down at me. “Just for the moment.”

  “You aint who you say you are—you’re just a lowdown rat like Geraint.”

  “Geraint?” he laugh. “What have you got against poor old Geraint now? At least he knows which side his bread is buttered. But you don’t like him fiddling with your sister? That it? Don’t like him playing around with Alice? Rolling her in the hay like a goat. At least he was good enough to take the girl and her brat.”

  He crouch down again, look close into my face. “At least she had the sense to breed with someone who could take her away from that freezing sty you lived in. You should be pleased for her. Proud of her. Geraint saved her life.”

  “What do you mean?”

  He reach down and grab the back of my coat. He pull me up off the ground, my arms tight behind me. “The best thing she ever did—getting on heat and letting old Geraint stick it in her behind the barn.”

  “Don’t talk about her like that. You aint been there. You—”

  “But I know where she is now, Willo. Safe with Geraint and the brat on a convoy to the promised land. To China, Willo. Somewhere the sun might shine one day. I told you—that old farmer saved her life.”

  “You’re lying!”

  “I’m not. And I know where your dad is too and Magda and those screeching brats and all the rest of them.”

  “Where? Where you take them?”

  “First things first.” He get up. Bash on the door. Shout to the guard, “Get me a chair!”

  Patrick take the chair in one hand, swing it into the room. Bang it down hard on the floor. I see a chain hanging down from the ceiling then. Big rusty chain with a hook on the end. Stomach come up in my throat. Patrick drag me up. Patrick who been sleeping in my dad’s house all winter haul me up onto the chair. Lift my arms behind me and over the back. I scream out—but his rough hands aint listening.

  “Where have you been hiding, Willo? Who have you been with? We’ve got Callum Gourty and that whore. But who else is there, Willo? Who’s been feeding you all this winter?”

  “I aint telling you nothing!”

  “If I was you, I’d have curled up on the mountain and had a good long sleep in the snow.”

  “You aint caught me cos I hid up on the hill!”

  “Has it occurred to you that I might have known where you were? I told you, Willo—I like you. I’d rather you had died up there in the snow. But I guess you’ve got a bit of your father in you. And you’ve got to be meddling in things you don’t understand. Is that it?”

  “I aint telling you.”

  Patrick kick the chair over with the sole of his boot. My face fall smack onto the floor. All I can see are his boots again. And the pain throbbing hard through my skull. Helpless as a stoat in a trap.

  “Don’t fuck with me, straggler brat! You’re going to tell me, so don’t fuck with me!” I see him turn. Just the back of his boots. And the pain and the fear fluttering about inside me so bad I want to be sick but there aint no way out—nowhere to hide. I close my eyes. Cos I don’t want to tell him about that old man Jacob and his wife. Or Mary. Not Mary.<
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  “I had hopes for you, Willo. I hoped this was going to be easy. But I’m beginning to lose patience. Who have you been with? Give me the names!”

  “I aint been with no one. No one—”

  His foot press down on my cheek. Big, rough, damp-smelling leather sole grinding my face into the floor.

  “I promise … aint … been with … no one.”

  He lift his foot up. A low sigh come from his head high up above me. And he kick me hard in the guts. The blow stop my breath. Pain shoot around my head like it’s gonna burst out of me somewhere but don’t, and I can’t breathe. I been trying but the breath won’t come. I’m gonna die on this floor. Then I suck it in. The air fill my lungs and the vomit spew out hot on the floor.

  But he aint finished.

  “Don’t. Fucking. Lie to me!” He kick me in the guts again. My legs jerk up with the pain. I call out for Magda then cos it been the only word gonna come. But aint no Magda here. Aint no mothering in this room. And I wonder if Patrick got a mother. What she gonna say if she see him now. I hear myself moaning and blubbing and puking on the floor. Look up at his face. Same face. Same Patrick I seen stitching up his pouch all careful. Same Patrick chopping logs with my dad. Same Patrick leaning over his bowl of yewd at the kitchen table.

  “Something to say, Willo?”

  “Why?” It croak out of me. And I wait for the blow.

  “Why what? Why are you here? Why do I want to know? Lot of why’s, Willo.”

  “We aint done nothing wrong.”

  A mean laugh snort out his snout then. He grab the chair, hoist it up with me on it. The vomit smelling bad on my chest. Pain dancing all about like a storm.

  Patrick lean against the wall. From the pocket of his coat he take a packet of baccy. Roll a smoke up slow. “I longed for some decent tobacco up there on the mountain, Willo. But I had patience. Reckon I used up all my patience. And every time I fi nd some troublemaker, I fi nd that book. You know the one. In Search of an Ark. They’ve all got that book—”

  He strike a match.

  “Have you ever felt a good hot sun on your back, Willo? So hot it makes you want to take your shirt off. Swim in the sea. Ever felt that?” He draw on the smoke. “No. I didn’t think so. It’s a powerful thing the sun. I’ve been to Africa. I’ve seen the desert covered in shining solar panels. Hundreds and thousands stretching out as far as the eye can see. So hot you can’t bear it almost. And all of them soaking up that beautiful sun and turning it into energy. Amazing thing, Willo. A solar farm is a wonder of modern technology. And what were we doing?” He drag on the last of the smoke and throw it down onto the floor, grind it with his boot.

  “What were we doing while the Chinese bought up that good hot desert? Putting up wind farms and sorting our fucking rubbish. That’s what we were doing. And fighting for the last few drops of oil.” He point down at me. “That’s what we were doing. And I’m not going to choose the runt of the litter to be my guard dog, why has everyone got a problem with the East? I don’t. But everyone who does has got that book. Looking over their shoulders to the West. We’ve got to look East, Willo—”

  He get down low, grab my face. I can feel his fingers digging into my cheeks. He’s close to me. I can smell the stale smoke on his breath he’s so close. “East. The future. That’s where I’m going to when I’ve worked my ticket. Land of the rising sun, Willo. So you’re going to tell me who’s been feeding you and I’ll find that book there too. And then I’ll find the next link in the pathetic chain of your so-called Resistance. What do you all think this is? The fucking second world war! Think the Americans are going to come and rescue you this time?”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about. I aint been with … no one. Just … getting by … on my own.”

  His head drop. The hand grabbing my face relax for a second.

  “You fool, Willo. Same as your father.”

  “What have you done with him? With Magda? The twins?”

  Patrick’s fingers tighten again, dig painfully into my face. “Want to know something about your father? Want to know what he told me?”

  I got to look at him then.

  “He told me how disappointed he was in having a simpleton like you for a son. How he couldn’t love you.”

  “You’re lying. You don’t know my father!”

  “I do, Willo. I know him very well. Better than you think. You know who your father is?”

  “Robin Blake. Robin Blake is my father.”

  He laugh. “Your father was the great John Blovyn. Do you hear? Your father wasn’t Robin Blake. And he didn’t love you.”

  The wind howl around my ears. Spinning and blowing and beating at me.

  “Did you hear that?” Patrick shout. “John Blovyn. He wrote every word in that book. That’s your father. He lied to you, Willo. Hiding up on the mountain all this time. He didn’t even tell you. He wrote that book that I find in every rat’s nest I go to. But he didn’t tell you, Willo. Because he didn’t care about you. Do you know how long it took me to find him? How many long nights like this? Long nights in these freezing cells. Squeezing out names. And then I spend half a year eating his gritty oat yewd that stuck in my guts like lead. Half a year sleeping on a lumpy straw-filled mattress. Half a year I had to feel wool scratching at my back. Half a year I had to spend listening to him moralizing at me with his crackpot ideas. About change and human fucking nature. And he told me nothing. Nearly drove me mad, Willo. Nearly drove me mad.

  “But you. You never answered his stupid questions. ‘No, Willo, guns are bad.’ ‘No, Willo, reading’s good.’ ‘Put the scraper down and listen to me, Willo.’ You just put your stupid dog skull on and hove off to the hills. I envied you then. Because I had to listen to him night and day.”

  MY FATHER IS NOT ROBIN BLAKE

  MY FATHER IS JOHN BLOVYN

  “He aint done nothing wrong. What you done with him? With Magda—the others?”

  It choke out of me cos the black hole of his words been growing like a storm inside. I can feel the tears spring hot behind my eyes like burning pain. And there aint nowhere to hide from it. Everything fall away and I’m nothing. Just like that stone sinking in the lake. Gonna be better if he just kill me.

  My head fall forward. And then Patrick hit me again. I don’t know why. The full force of him. Back of his hand smash across my jaw. So hard it throw me to the floor.

  I can taste the blood now. The blood and the vomit and the pain. And I know this just been the beginning.

  “Your father was foolish til the end, Willo. Shall I tell you about the end, Willo?”

  I aint doing nothing but moaning on the floor in a pool of my own blood and vomit and fear.

  “Maybe you’re telling me the truth. You never were very clever. Just a simple boy. I can see why he was so very disappointed in you. You. Son of the great John Blovyn. Running about the hills like a wild dog. And he never told me. Never told me which islands. Never told me who it was they were in contact with. Nothing. He was the same in here. Even with the others dead in front of him. Even when he was screaming out to God, Willo. They all find God in the end.”

  I see Patrick through my swollen eye. He go to the door—bash on it. Then turn.

  “I told you once, Willo, that I’m not the sort of man who’s going to die for an idea. It sickens me. They used to burn men. Torture and burn them for the ideas in their heads. Nothing’s changed. I never understand why men are prepared to die for the shapeless thoughts in their heads. And your father was one of those men. So maybe. Maybe he decided to tell you nothing. His wolf boy simpleton son. Who he could never love.”

  “He never said that—” I shout it out then to stop the voices pounding in my head. And Patrick weaving and slipping like a snake inside my mind. “He never said that!”

  “Oh, Willo. I already know more than you think. Dorothy was very forthcoming. So I don’t need you to talk. But I need you all the same. And Bek-Murzin gave me plenty of names.”

>   “She didn’t. You’re lying.”

  “You really don’t understand people, do you? That whore was as easy as peeling a rotten apple. A pretty skin for certain. But underneath it all, a squirming mass of flesh and maggots.”

  “You’re lying!”

  “I remember, Willo, how you wanted a gun. How it made you feel to hold one. And you’re right. A gun is just the thing for shooting dogs.”

  He stoop down and drag me up off the floor. I aint got nothing left in me. Nothing to say. No fight in my body.

  My father is John Blovyn.

  Thoughts crashing about in my head like waves.

  Patrick push me out of the cell into a dim corridor. Single light hanging from the ceiling. Metal doors either side. I wonder if there been people in those dark rooms. People like me.

  A guard open the door—faceless man underneath his hard boots.

  The bolts pull back. It’s a cell like mine. Same bare stained floor. Dark patches on the concrete. The stain of human blood. Of tears and vomit and pain. Same dim light. Same smell of fear and sweat and cruelty.

  And everything inside me die when I see her. Aint got nothing more to empty from my guts. All that been left is the blood in my veins. Pumping through my heart. Quivering still in my flesh.

  Her head slumped forward on her chest. Her hair hanging down in dark sheets over her face. That face that had all the softness and beauty and delicate womanness in it black and blue now. Her lips swollen. Her cheeks bruised. Blood smeared across her broken mouth and vomit staining her remaining clothing. Pale feet dangling above that awful floor. Hands high behind her. Hanging from the chain.

  I fall down on my knees. I aint got nothing left. No fiber to hold myself up.

  But Patrick pull me up.

  “Look at her. Just a piece of settlement scum. Like I said. Underneath that pretty skin is the squirming flesh. She told me everything in the end, Willo.”

  Dorothy moan. And she raise her broken face.

  “Now, Willo. You see the world as it is,” he say.

  Through the swollen slits of her eyes Dorothy look at me.