by David Towsey
But that agent was her father.
She felt dizzy. She tried to keep breathing, to not black out again.
He got up and came over to her.
‘I know it’s hard to understand.’
She stared at the broken skin and exposed bone. Her father was there, beneath it all.
‘This wasn’t supposed to happen,’ he said. ‘They were supposed to do the right thing. But they didn’t. I just wanted to say goodbye, that’s all.’
She snapped to.
‘What?’ she said.
‘I came back to say goodbye.’
‘No. No, you said you would come back to me.’
‘But, Mary, I’m … this,’ he said, spreading his arms. ‘I ruined everything. But I promised I would keep you safe.’
Her eyes and nose were streaming. She coughed and spluttered.
He hugged her, but she fought. There was a workers’ nest swarming inside her. But one worker buzzed louder than all others: want.
She wanted her father.
2 : 8
Sarah prepared some breakfast. She fried eggs over the fire, cut and buttered four slices of bread, and put out two plates. She got as far as putting out the cutlery before she stopped. She stared at Mary’s plate. At the empty stool.
The back door was open and swung on its hinges in the breeze. She hugged herself. She had tried to close it, but the frame was a mess. The shop door was flat on the floor. The wind ran right through the building, like her daughter used to after school. She ate an egg without tasting it.
‘Sarah?’
Law-Man Bellis knocked and came into the kitchen. He seemed taller today. And younger. His skin still had the ghost of wrinkles, but it had colour. It was whole. She wanted to touch his face; to chase away her finger’s memory of Thomas’s paper-skin. He sat down opposite her.
‘How are you?’ he said.
‘Have some breakfast, Bellis. I made too much.’
He looked at the extra plate.
‘I’ve got some boys working on the shop door. They’re good boys; they’ll do it right.’
‘You didn’t need to do that,’ she said. But if he hadn’t, how would she have put the door back? She didn’t have any tools. Then she remembered the shelves of hammers, nails, and more things she barely knew the name of. Selling something was different from being able to use it. Bellis had tools. They were strapped around his waist in a thick leather belt. He probably bought them here.
‘I’ll get to work on that,’ he said, motioning to the back door. ‘But first, why don’t you tell me what happened.’
On her plate, half an egg oozed its yellow insides. It spread at the pace of seasons, slowly engulfing crumbs. She watched it as she spoke.
‘A man broke into my house last night.’
‘Did you recognise him?’
‘It was so dark.’
‘Sarah, was it Thomas?’ he said.
She had to lie. Since Thomas took Mary down the stairs and out of the house, Sarah had been preparing for this moment. She imagined it would be difficult; she had to be convincing for Mary’s sake. The voice shouting ‘spawn of Satan’ haunted her. Someone knew. It was her word against theirs.
But it was easy. She wasn’t lying; she told the truth. ‘I don’t know who it was.’
‘Did he hurt you?’
She shook her head. ‘He took Mary. He took my daughter.’
‘We heard a gunshot.’
‘I missed,’ she said. ‘He pushed me to the floor. He grabbed Mary. I couldn’t stop him.’ She started to cry. The tears weren’t fake; Mary was gone. She might not see her again.
‘Was this upstairs?’
She nodded. ‘My bedroom.’
‘Can I take a look? Maybe I can fix the damage.’ Bellis got up. He was heavy on the stairs. She followed the sound of him on the floorboards. He took a few steps and then stopped for a while. He did this many times. When he came back, Sarah’s egg yolk had grown a skin.
‘Can’t see where the shot went,’ he said.
‘I don’t remember.’
‘That’s okay. At least there’s no mess. Not like what I did here.’ He went over to the back door. She watched him work. She had nothing else to do. No one would come to the shop today. News of last night would spread like a sickness – sour faces and shaking heads and more than enough tutting. One or two people might be concerned for her. They would wait a respectful time before popping in. Those who did would be interrogated for more details. How was she doing? Was her hair a mess? Had she washed the dishes? Did she cry?
Bellis cleared away the splintered wood. He was smoothing a kink in the door frame. She didn’t know why, but she liked the look of it; the curving break in the straight line.
‘I’m sorry,’ Bellis said. ‘I’m sorry I missed him.’
*
Mary’s face was buried in his chest. His shirt scratched against her skin. It was nice, as though she was scrubbing off her doubts and worries. Mary could smell burnt wool but nothing else. She’d thought Walkin’ would smell terrible. She had found a dead red-wink once; guessed someone shot it. The smell was rancid and she gagged. But her father had no scent, like he wasn’t really there.
He was stroking her hair. Her mother only ever brushed it; but before bed time he would stroke her hair and she would fall asleep.
His hand felt uneven. Hair caught in it, like knots in a comb. She ignored the pain.
‘You eat your fill. Then we have to get moving,’ he said.
She drew away. She forced herself to look at his face. All of it. She would have to accept that was how her father looked now. Patches of normal, patches of dead. He wasn’t all that frightening, now she knew what to expect.
He turned his head. From this side it was as if nothing had happened. He was a little pale, as if he’d been bedridden from one church service to the next. It was the same flat nose. The same wide chin. He still had the scar near his ear. She didn’t know how he got it and he’d probably not tell her, even now.
The fire had almost gone out when they sat down. Her father prodded the embers and handed her the makeshift spit. He had skinned a young under-mutton, gutted it, and taken off the head and paws. She didn’t want to know how.
‘Our Father, who art in—’ Mary glanced at her father. She always prayed before eating, but she felt silly, as if she’d just said the wrong thing in front of her parents’ dinner guests.
He shrugged. She skipped the prayer. The meat was stringy and tough, but she tore into it nonetheless. Her stomach continued to rumble. Juices ran down her chin and she wiped them off with the back of her hand. Manners didn’t seem to matter either. He was watching her eat. With a mouth half full, she said:
‘Want some?’
‘No, darlin’. I don’t eat.’
‘You don’t eat? What, nothing?’
‘Nothing,’ he said.
She took another bite and chewed.
‘That’s sad,’ she said eventually.
‘You know, it probably is. That smells pretty good.’
She carried on eating, though he wasn’t watching now. The breeze picked up, sending smoke right at her. She coughed and moved to the other side of the fire. The wind changed and the smoke followed her.
‘Blood and bones!’
She winced, expecting to be told off.
Instead, her father laughed. It was a dry sound – like the shuffling of hay stalks.
‘I haven’t heard that one in a long while. Don’t worry, I won’t tell your mother.’
She smiled.
Sitting in the shade, the muddy sand cool through her dress, she finished the meat. Bits were still between the bones, but she didn’t like getting her face right in there. It was silly, she’d eaten the animal anyway, but that’s how it was. There were things you didn’t do. And that was your choice.
‘Done?’ Thomas said, holding out his hand. She gave the spit to him. Standing up, he walked to the river’s edge and tossed the remains into t
he water. The carcass bobbed downstream a little, and then disappeared.
He sat beside her. The fire had gone out and no longer smoked.
‘Does it hurt, your face?’ she said.
‘No. Nothing does.’
‘Can I?’
He nodded.
She stood in front of him. Slowly she ghosted her fingers along his cheekbone. It was like stone. She touched the dark red area below, a little curtain of meat. It was hard, not like the under-mutton. Lines ran down it and she thought of the bark of a tree. His skin was like paper, the edges almost sharp.
His teeth were black with soot. He gave her a nip, making her jump.
She giggled and touched her own cheek. It felt nothing like his. Everything was softer, wetter. Even his teeth were dried out.
‘What was it like, dying?’ she said quietly.
He looked away. She was beginning to think he hadn’t heard her, when he said:
‘There was a lot of pain, but not for long. The man who got me did the job right; made a mess of me. Then, nothing. I can’t remember anything that happened after.’
‘And what about … when you …’
Again he took his time before answering.
‘It was like waking up from a nap in the afternoon. When you’re not sure where you are, what part of the day it is, even who you are. But worse.’
‘Can I see where he got you?’
‘Don’t tell your mother,’ he said. He lifted the bottom of his shirt.
The hole was small, a black circle that went deep. She could see through it. The skin around it was puffy, an angry red. He was right; inside was a mess. Colours all mixed together: purples, reds, yellows, greens and whites. It was like a field full of different flowers.
‘The man had a knife strapped onto his gun. They call it a bayonet. He put it in and twisted it right round.’
‘Who was he?’ she said.
‘I don’t know, darlin’. Just another soldier on the other side.’ He pulled down his shirt.
*
The morning was everything he had come back for. He couldn’t stop looking at her, watching her every move. He wanted to memorise it all: how she tossed her hair from her face; how her brow wrinkled when she concentrated; and her smile. He had been forced to leave a girl; he’d come back to a young woman.
He could not believe how smart she was. He grinned like a fool with pride. She talked about school, working in the shop, the people she saw and spoke to. She had a good eye for detail and a way of understanding folk. He could see Sarah’s hand in that. Mary certainly didn’t get it from a country boy like him.
‘Have you met people like you?’
‘Yes, I’ve met other Walkin’. Not many.’
‘Really?’ She was excited by the idea. He could see why – it was Barkley’s fault. The Walkin’ had been called evil, the devil’s minions. To a child they seemed exciting and mysterious. As a boy he had felt it too. The truth, or his take on it, wasn’t so interesting.
‘The two I met seemed normal enough. They talked about the place they live. There’s lots of people like me. They have the space to do whatever they want.’
‘Do they draw?’
‘I think so.’
‘And they’re allowed to draw? Do they write words too?’
‘I don’t know if anyone tells them not to; it’s not like Barkley. As I understand it, they have a lot of time to fill,’ he said.
‘I want to see them.’
He tried to explain that really he knew nothing about Black Mountain. It might be dull for a child. There might not be any food there. He assumed that she’d be the only living person, but he didn’t know for certain. He didn’t even know if she’d be allowed to go inside – if there was an inside. He said it might take a week or a month or a year to get there, over desert and mountains. There would be long climbs; sheer drops; paths so thin a billy-beard would wince; and no water for miles around. The more he talked, the worse it sounded to him. What was he doing?
‘I don’t care,’ she said. ‘I ran away each night to find you.’
She was right. And he did owe her. He owed her something he had plenty of: time. She wasn’t the only one who deserved this time together.
Mary was about to say something, but was stopped by the sound of whistling. They both heard it. The hymn of St Anne. Someone was checking the traps and that someone was whistling.
‘Caleb Williams,’ Mary said.
‘We need to hide.’
‘Why? Caleb’s a nice man.’
‘Your ma said they would follow us. They want to hurt you because of what I am. What you might become. That’s what they did to Jared and Simon Peekman.’ He grabbed her arm and pulled her away from the water.
‘Caleb won’t burn me,’ she said, but she let him drag her off the bank and into some scrub.
‘Yes, he would.’
Caleb would think he was doing the right thing. Saving the girl’s soul. Caleb was out here looking for Mary. Maybe the whole town was. Already they were hiding as if hunted.
2 : 9
Nathaniel was the last to arrive at Elder Richards’ office. He hitched Buster and went quickly into the building. Veronica Klimp was sitting at her desk. When he entered, she looked up from her copy of the Good Book. She looked tired. No doubt the Elder had woken her late last night and kept her working through the day. If he was awake, so was she. He took off his hat and smiled what he hoped was a sympathetic smile.
‘The Elder says you’re late.’
‘Not everyone lives on Main,’ Nathaniel said.
‘They’re in his chambers.’
‘Don’t get up,’ he said. ‘I know the way.’
He hurried along the corridor. He was tracking mud onto the Elder’s carpets. Served Richards right for making him rush into town. But as he stood in front of the chamber door, he realised it was Veronica who would have to clean up his mess. He knocked and went in.
‘… and it was no ordinary man! It was Satan’s spawn.’
‘Yes, Luke,’ the Elder said. He was sitting behind his large, dark wood desk. In front of him were the Pastor and Luke Morris. Law-Man Bellis stood a little way off, leaning against the wall. He clearly wasn’t happy despite appearing at ease; he was whittling away at his fingernails with a six-inch blade. The chamber was warm – a brazier holding coals sat in the corner. More carpet filled the sizeable room. Chairs were arranged in front of the desk. A basin and a standing mirror were the only furniture to suggest this was a private room. It wasn’t private today. The two holy men turned when Nathaniel came in.
‘What’s going on?’ Nathaniel said.
Luke launched into his story. The young man looked awful. His cheeks were hollow. The hands he gestured with were almost skeletal. The gist of it was someone had taken Mary McDermott in the night. Nathaniel sat down heavily in one of the Elder’s big leather chairs. Luke was making some pretty extravagant claims about who that ‘someone’ was.
‘… and the evil that rolled off this creature—’
‘Thank you, Luke,’ the Elder said. ‘Now, if you would leave us?’
Luke looked to the Pastor who nodded just a fraction. Richards didn’t like that, but managed to sit on his anger. The young acolyte left the room muttering.
‘I say again, what’s going on?’
The Pastor turned to Nathaniel. ‘My acolyte has been in self-imposed exile, a pious enterprise to cleanse the soul. He has fasted. He hasn’t slept. But someone did take Mary McDermott from her home last night. There was a gunshot. This we know as fact.’
‘But no demon took her,’ Bellis said. ‘I saw him.’
‘Luke isn’t lying. He saw the events as a holy man might.’
‘A demon with the face of Thomas McDermott?’
‘I think it’s fairly clear that Thomas returned to Barkley in the same manner as Jared Peekman. As a Walkin’,’ the Pastor said.
The men grew quiet. Nathaniel remembered that day clearly: the pyre, Jared, and
his son. He was sure the rest of them were remembering too.
‘Just what are you suggesting?’ he said.
‘We send a party to find them. We have a duty to their eternal souls.’ The Pastor looked at every one of them in turn. ‘If Thomas did indeed take Mary, and he is indeed a Walkin’, then both have to burn on a pyre.’
‘I don’t kill children,’ Bellis growled.
‘Wait, wait here a moment. What happened to Sarah?’
‘She’s fine,’ Richards said. ‘Upset and shaken, but fine. But she says it wasn’t Thomas.’
‘Is she sure?’
‘Either way. We must get back the girl,’ the Pastor said. ‘If her father is a creature of Satan, then our course is clear.’
‘It isn’t so clear to me,’ Bellis said.
The Pastor rushed over to him. ‘Is your faith so lacking? Do you doubt the Lord? Our founder and saviour, J. S. Barkley? Where, Bellis? Tell me where does your heresy lie?’
Bellis didn’t flinch under the gaze of the Pastor. He pointedly put away his knife. Nathaniel could not have been so calm were it him.
‘I don’t—’
‘You won’t have to,’ the Pastor snapped. ‘Luke will. You will need him to perform the rites. And you, Gravekeeper, will be needed too.’
Nathaniel floundered. What did this have to do with him? He tended gravestones. The Elder came to his rescue before he managed a word. ‘Now see here, Pastor, none of this is decided.’
‘This is a matter for the church. Two souls are at risk. We need to act quickly. Bellis, Luke and Nathaniel must ride out at once. Every hour Mary and Thomas are farther away.’
‘If it is Thomas,’ the Elder reminded them.
‘Why do I need to go?’ Nathaniel said.
‘On this, I agree with the Pastor,’ Richards said. ‘Jared Peekman was the first Walkin’ we’ve ever dealt with; until now our ways have always stopped that from happening. Jared was … difficult. People are asking questions. We can’t have it happen again, not in the town.’