‘He’s got a knife,’ my poxy friend shouted. ‘Watch out, the coward’s got a knife.’
They crowded me, hissing and spitting. I abandoned the fire and retraced my steps, pondering the likelihood of escaping back through the fence. Their hands reached out, trying to touch me, to grab me. I didn’t get what they wanted or understand what they hoped to achieve, except to gross me out.
I lost it and smacked my school chum. My fist made a sickening damp slap as it collided with his face, the puss filled sores breaking and smearing across my knuckles. His frail body spun away from me, groaning and wheezing as he fell to the ground. Another leprous being took his place, with another twenty plus behind him and rocks, lots of rocks.
I pushed, shoving against the tide, but they bounced back, always stepping forward. I panicked and lashed out with fists and knife. Still they chanted and the children laughed.
‘For fuck’s sake,’ I shouted. ‘What do you bastards care?’
‘Stop!’
The voice broke the night.
And stop they did.
Like someone had cut the power.
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Weismann knows the true Path
They fell back, their hands dropped at their sides and their heads bowed as they melted away. The children scampered back to their mischief and left me standing amid a quarry of rocks. A short fellow, no taller than a child, stepped forward. He wore a gray cloak with snow-white hair hanging well below his waist. In his hand he held a long crooked stick that reached a good foot above his head. A wizard-type hat sat atop his head, its pointed top crumpled and wilting. Creases scarred his dark face and bushy white eyebrows shrouded the glint in his blue eyes.
His deep voice continued to echo.
Harry bounded out from behind him. ‘You all right, Ben? You pissing off the locals?’
‘Where you been, you little shit? I was about to be stoned to death and eaten by the living dead.’ I turned to illustrate my point to find the compound empty. ‘Who’s the old boy?’
‘Weismann.’
‘Weismann the wise,’ I said. ‘Weismann the wizard. Wise man the black.’
‘Weismann is cool. We don’t take the piss out of the Weismann,’ he said. ‘Weismann, as I told you, has your girlfriend’s address. And what’s wrong with black?’
I shrugged and smiled. Weismann looked so small. ‘Nothing wrong with black, just don’t see a lot of black out here, eh? But there’s a problem with you thinking I’m looking for my girlfriend. She’s an ex-girlfriend. Don’t be telling your mother I’ve been chasing my girlfriend.’
Harry smiled and nodded as I stepped forward, my hand held out to the old man. He rubbed his hands over the flame and muttered to himself. ‘Mr. Weismann,’ I said. ‘Good of you to see me.’
He cocked his head to the side. ‘What you say?’ His voice croaked and creaked.
‘He’s a bit deaf,’ Harry said. ‘You got to shout.’
‘Hello!’ I shouted with my hands to my mouth and leaning close to his ear.
He jerked back and shook his head before turning his back on me. ‘Thinks I’m old and deaf,’ he muttered. ‘Bloody cheeky no-good young ‘uns.’
‘Yeah, he hates that,’ Harry laughed.
‘Good one, Harry.’
Harry shrugged and smiled. ‘I’m in charge ‘ere. Well Weismann is, but I’m next in charge and you don’t want me leaving you out here. They don’t like you too much.’
Harry set off after the little man. He turned to look at me. ‘You comin’? Weismann wants to talk to you, like. He’s interested in the bag.’
‘Him too?’ My shoulders slumped. ‘What’s he want to know about the bag? I haven’t got the bloody thing.’
‘He’s just interested, like. Why you’ve got it and why loads of blokes want it. You know, he just wants to talk to you. Jeez chill. Anyways, we need to go. Weismann’s waiting.’
‘Good. I’m happy to leave the sad fucks to their tragic piece of earth. It wasn’t as if I’d come to steal any of it. I mean I’m now a coward and a loser, a thief and a murderer and wanted by the authorities with a dedicated phone number to call. Oh and the children. Oh yeah, they’ve labeled me with the missing children. I forgot about the bloody children.’
Harry stood watching me and kicking at the ground. ‘So are you coming like?’
Weismann glided toward the back of the compound, disappearing behind a ragged hessian curtain hanging from a rusty, corrugated roof. With Harry bumping me forward, I ducked through the opening without touching the filthy limp cloth. I found myself in a large circular room. Logs crackled and burnt in an open grate, puffing clouds of smoke toward a hole in the middle of the roof. On top of the fire, a large clay pot emitted smells inspiring drool to form and droop. Lamps hung from wooden posts offering a jittery light. Large colorful cushions lined the floor. Tapestries covered the walls depicting gruesome battles against mythical creatures. Behind Weismann, a large cream tapestry, stretching from ceiling to floor, depicted a three-headed female in stick form. Around the walls, in pots on the floor, smoldering incense offered a colorful hue to the smoke-lined ceiling. A square of slate sat before Weismann, with a pentagram etched into the stone, a knife and a goblet sat in the center.
Weismann instructed us to sit and offered us bowls from the clay pot on the fire. My bones don’t bend so well, but once comfortable I rejoiced in the offering matching everything the aroma promised. Large chunks of tender meat swum in an aromatic spicy broth with a slight kick. I emptied the bowl and wiped it clean with a thick piece of bread.
‘Damn, that was good,’ I said. I wiped my face with my sleeve, hoping for seconds. ‘Good grub, eh,’ I said, nudging Harry.
Weismann nodded and held his palms together as if in prayer.
‘Let’s be thankful.’ He bowed his head.
Outside a dog howled and a gruff voice called for silence. The wind played with the iron roof, but inside Weismann adopted a reverential state, soft words muttered with a soft lilt as his head swayed with the rhythm.
I looked at Harry and pointed at the pot with my spoon.
He looked horrified and shook his head.
Weismann’s eyes remained shut.
I leant forward toward the pot adjusting my seating for comfort, my neck stretching forward and my bowl reaching for the pot. Weismann’s stick swept from nowhere and rapped hard on my wrist. I dropped my spoon and sat back, alarmed by Weismann’s speed and strength. I sensed Harry laughing beside me and didn’t dare look at the boy in case I hurt him.
Weismann ceased his musings on the goodness life provided and sat back, took a deep breath and stretched his back. He smiled, stood and stretched high, the staff brushing the ceiling.
‘So what have you got for me, Ben?’ I shook my head, confused by his statement. ‘To say thank you.’
The iron roof tapped and a cat offered a high-pitched meow. ‘Nothing. Sorry. I didn’t realize I had to pay. Seriously, I haven’t got any money. But I am ever so grateful for the grub. It was damn good, eh?’
‘Everyone has something. Harry and the Punksters are regular contributors. What have you got?’
I didn’t want to give him my money. If I stood a chance of a second helping I might offer the phone, but he’d taken my bowl and stacked it at the back of his hut.
Harry pulled at my coat sleeve, whispering into my ear. ‘Tell him about the bag and all that.’
I shook my head, straightening my stiffening back. ‘Not a lot to tell, to be honest.’ Harry watched Weismann with childish respect. Harry wanted me to please the old boy. ‘Marvin passed the bag onto me. His father passed it onto him and I was supposed to give it to his mother. His mother don’t want it.’
Weismann raised his bushy white brows and showed me the sparkle in his blue eyes.
‘Why doesn’t she want it?’
‘She’s not so well. She suggested I keep it.’
‘Not well?’ Harry said. ‘She’s Scarlet Scum Red.’
‘Do you know what’s in the bag?’ Weismann asked.
Cats rowed outside the hut and a dog growled in protest. The wind rattled hard at the roof, the metal tapping a loud rhythm.
‘Not a clue,’ I said, watching the smoke swirling above us. ‘I’m guessing money, but only because so many people are fighting over the damn bag. Has to be money, don’t you think? Even the vicar wants a piece of the booty.’
‘But you have the bag? It’s somewhere safe, yes?’
He wanted me to have it and I needed his help. ‘Yeah, the bag’s safe as houses.’
Jesus what did I care what this man thought, but I couldn’t stop lying about the damn bag. Why couldn’t I say I’d lost the bag and get back to living my crappy life at Blacky’s?
He stared at me without blinking. I found it difficult to maintain my gaze. ‘Harry says you got an address for Marvin’s widow.’
‘Yes,’ he said. ‘Wynona will place you on the right path.’
‘Good,’ I said. ‘Who’s Wynona and where am I going to find her?’
‘She’s waiting outside. But back to the bag, young man. Do you understand the importance of the bag?’
‘Yeah, I get it. It’s stuffed with money and lots of money, eh? And a load of accounts and books, which are important to the Black Hats.’
‘That bag, young man, is the collection of Cecil’s work in the Cooper family business. You might know them as the Black Hats. Once he was old enough, he did the books for his father, a bad man from the East End and he’s carried it on for close on forty years. That bag is a history of what the Coopers do and who they do it to. But times are tough everywhere. The criminals are fighting for a lessening pot of evil and the Top Hats are pushing the Black Hats out of the East End. Cooper cannot have the books on the open market because that would be the end for the Black Hats if the Top Hats gained access to the books. Those books are worth a lot of money.’
‘That’s why the bag is important to Cooper and to us. Having control of the accounts leads to ultimate control of the East End and that is crucial to the Projects here and the Sewer Rats fighting the Man in the East End. Funds are short. We’re all struggling to survive, so the bag is a prize worth fighting for. In Cooper’s case the bag is worth killing for.’
‘Okay, I get it. The bag’s important.’ I stretched my back and looked toward the hessian doorway. The wind puffed the coarse material inward. ‘So no money, then?’
‘Oh the bag should be crammed with money. Cecil skimmed the books for decades.’
‘Why?’ I asked. ‘It was a family business.’
‘Cooper, when their father died, decided he wanted to take over the family business as he didn’t think Cecil capable of leading the cartel. And because Cooper is an evil man and brothers fall out.’
Weismann dropped his gaze and slapped his stick into the dirt. ‘Time to get you on your way. You do understand the bag is cursed. Cecil, Marvin and Marvin’s mother have expired because of the bag. Should you wish to give the bag up, I know of folk who could use the bag for good.’
‘It’s a tatty canvas bag with books and cash and not a holy relic.’ I stood with Harry, giving my arse a hard slap to remove the dust from my trousers. ‘But you would be the folk who want to do good with the bag. I get it.’
‘Us. The Camps. The Projects. The good guys, Ben,’ he said. ‘If you need someone to keep the bag, then our village here is a safe haven.’
I couldn’t see it myself. The Camps housed a load of disease-ridden cripples desperate for shekels to purchase the rocket fuel they drank. ‘I don’t have it on me at present, of course. I’m hoping the lady I’m off to see now will explain the provenance of the bag.’
‘You know, Weismann forks out for all of this, like.’
‘All of what?’
‘The Camps and the food is paid for by Weismann. We help out, don’t we?’ The man smiled and nodded. ‘I mean, you might think we’re a bunch of toe rags terrorizing folk with our thieving, but what we steal is given to Weismann to keep this place going.’
‘Okay.’
‘So that’s why he’s interested. He’s not wanting the money, like, for himself.’ Harry pulled a small wedge of money from his pocket and one phone he’d taken from the men at the police station. He offered them to Weismann. Small stick-like fingers, bent with age, reached out to the money. He flicked through the notes then squirreled the wedge inside his cloak. He turned his head to the side, a quizzical glance at the phone Harry held. ‘It’s a good phone,’ Harry said. ‘They sell real well.’
‘Well done, young man.’
‘See how it works, Ben? We work for the Camps, which means we get to eat and somewhere to sleep. Life’s good here.’
‘Oh yeah,’ I said. ‘Life is a right old party in this shithole. Jesus, Harry, the living dead are the only folk partying.’
‘No. The Camps is home away from home for me and we feel safe because no one gives us grief.’
Weismann stumbled forward and Harry jumped to catch his arm. Incense swirled and Weismann coughed and retched while Harry helped him back to his cushion. He grabbed the jug of water and poured a glass and held it to his lips.
‘He’s burnt the place down before, like,’ Harry said. ‘It’s coz he’s real old.’
Harry pushed through a set of rugs and sheets, holding them back for me to exit Weismann’s abode. The old boy still coughed, his body bent double, his hair hanging forward and his crumpled hat fallen to the floor. ‘Don’t worry about him. We need to go.’
Once I pushed past the rugs, I found myself on a cobbled laneway lined by shrubs and trees. Two hurricane lamps sat on the back entrance to Weismann’s and illuminated a clean tidy pathway dominated by a funereal silence.
Weismann pulled back the covers, using his gnarled stick as a crutch. He pointed into the dark. ‘Wynona waits for you by the lamppost. She needs to get this young tyke home, but she will point you in the right direction.’
He placed his hand on my chest, his frozen fingers patting my shirt, my heart shivering at his touch. He nodded and pulled me toward him forcing me to stoop toward his head.
‘Good luck, young man. Give me a thought when you decide what to do with the bag.’
Icy fingers reached forward and stroked my face. The large bushy eyebrows lifted to show his glittering orbs and I found myself entranced and at peace. He stepped back and bowed.
‘Many more people will die if wisdom isn’t employed with the ultimate fate of the bag. Follow your path, but remember me at its end.’
He pushed a gun against my chest and nodded as I accepted the weapon. ‘Reason is good, argument rocks, but a gun keeps life real.’
And with a flourish of his gray robes, he vanished back inside his hut.
Chapter Thirty
A light shines on the path
For a period we walked the track in total darkness. The dense forest crowded the narrow path, its overbearing presence dulling our footsteps. The wind, chill to touch, brushed through the dense foliage and froze on our clothing. In the blackness Harry and I searched for each other, bumping and touching, desperate to keep in contact.
‘Did he give you the Beretta?’ Harry asked.
‘He gave me a gun. I don’t know what type.’
‘It’ll be the Beretta 34. It’s a good gun so long as you’re standing close.’
‘Right. Good to know. You got any idea where we are?’ My voice whispered, but sounded loud in the quiet. ‘I’ve lived in Ostere all of my twenty years and I don’t ever remember this forest. And where are the streetlights? Fair do’s the Man has turned most of ‘em off, but I can’t remember the last time I walked Ostere without streetlights showing me the darkness ahead. And I haven’t heard a car or folk rowing and when is the last time you walked the streets and not had a dog barking and howling? Dogs are everywhere.’
As I waited for his reply a twinkle of light appeared up ahead. ‘Oh good, that be the lamp your Weismann talked about,’ I said.<
br />
‘You scared of the dark?’ Harry said. ‘I still sleep with the passage light on. The wardrobe has to be shut, like.’
‘Yeah, I prefer the light.’
‘So that’s why we have to have the bathroom light on at night when you stay over. Mum doesn’t get that.’
‘No, that’s nothing to do with fear. I’m not a child, but staying in a strange house can become a right old panic if you can’t find the toilet.’
A large flake of snow stuck to my forehead and a shiver rattled my bones. I wrapped my coat tight and plunged my hands deeper inside the pockets. Small flickers of firelight could be seen through the trees, the aroma of coal smoke traveled with the icy wind wafting against our faces.
‘Mum’s going to be pissed,’ Harry said.
‘I’ve never seen your mother drunk. Not once.’
‘No, pissed with me. She gets the right hump, like, when I don’t touch base. I was supposed to be back a bloody age ago.’
‘So call in.’
‘Mum don’t have a phone, but expects me home well before the dinner plate hits the table and she don’t want to hear why coz mum don’t like why. I’m supposed to be where she says I’m to be, like. Man, she’s going to be pissed.’
‘Can’t help you there. Best guess tells me you shouldn’t tell her about the fire at the jail or the coppers chasing us. And I’m guessing she doesn’t want you seeing a dead body, but that wasn’t our fault. Perhaps you could say Mrs. Cooper wanted to talk because learning of her son’s murder left her sad.
‘She isn’t going to be too happy with me either, mate.’
‘Can I come with you?’
‘No. Linda and I got stuff to talk about, eh?’
‘Yeah, but I don’t mind sitting outside, like. You know. I don’t have to hear all the stuff you and her got to talk about and all that.’
‘Listen, I think Linda’s gone feral. She isn’t the girl I grew up with and I knew her from when we was little. She’s bad news and I don’t know how she will react when I’m standing at her front door. I can’t be trusting what she’s going to do next. And she’s got a mate everyone keeps telling me is real bad news. You met him in the pub. He’s army, a squaddie, suffering some sort of war syndrome from shooting at too many natives, they’re saying.’
No More Heroes-#1 Dystopian Thriller Heroes Series Page 20