Norman sighed. “I can’t sit in there. Not with him.”
“Charlie?”
Norman nodded.
Alex clicked his tongue and stared into the fire for a while, motionless. “You've come to ask me something?” he said eventually.
Norman paused for a moment, unsure of how to proceed. He thought of asking why anybody would ever attack them, why Jason—and those he claimed to represent—would want them gone, or why Lucian, a man he had thought he’d known as well as Alexander himself, was on the verge of strangling a wounded slave boy.
But the look in Alexander’s eye—distracted, distant—made him hesitate. Perhaps this wasn’t the time. He suspected that if he asked now, he might do more harm than good.
Judging by how Lucian had reacted when he’d asked—Our past isn’t all roses, Norman—maybe it wasn’t a good idea to start pulling skeletons out of cupboards. Right now, he wasn’t sure he’d like what he might find.
He began to speak slowly, glancing at the door as he did so. “I'm worried about Lucian.”
Alex didn’t respond for a while, his eyes still on the fire. He raised a hand to his chin, rubbing at the stubble on his neck absentmindedly—Norman was surprised to see the two-day growth. Alexander had been clean-shaven every day in living memory. “I have every confidence in him,” he said after a long silence.
Norman splayed his arms. “I’d like to say that I do too, but after what I just saw, I can’t say that I do.”
A bizarre twinkle scintillated in the deep-blue halo around Alexander’s pupils. “He was always the first to jump, always the first to respond, always the first to lash out…never thinking before doing. But it was never vicious, it was never…cruel.”
Norman averted his eyes. “I’m not sure where you’re going with this.”
Alex rubbed his temple. “For all his ill temperaments, his intentions are what make Lucian who he is. For all of the years that I’ve known him, he’s never done anything to harm any friend of his.”
“Maybe not,” Norman said, leaning forwards. “But if he continues like this, he’s going to get us in trouble. He’s going to kill that boy anytime now.”
Alexander nodded. “Yes,” he said. “I suppose.”
Norman flailed. “What? That’s it?”
“He’s gone too far for us to restrain him through reason.”
“Maybe we could restrain him physically? Knock him out or lock him up until this blows over?”
Alexander gave him an odd look. “I doubt that will help. Anyway, I’m almost certain that this situation will not simply blow over anytime soon. Having him around is vital for morale.”
Norman looked over towards the door again, his voice dropping to a whisper. “If he gets worse…,” he said. “If he gets out of control, what do we do?”
Alexander sighed. “I don’t know,” he said. “I suppose we’ll have to simply hope that he doesn’t. We can’t afford for him to. With the hunger, the attacks, this news of the radio, and the funeral, the city needs him. Needs us all.”
Norman swallowed.
The funeral. It was now only two hours away. Already, the ruckus of returning field hands had given way to respectful silence outside.
If they could get through the burial without incident, a weight would be lifted from their shoulders. Perhaps things would step down a gear.
But could Lucian wait that long?
XI
Alexander threw yet another feather at Lucian's feet. “What in God’s name is wrong with you?” he spat.
Lucian had once again retreated to his post upon the crest of the hill above the city. He barely moved as Alex set to pacing around him, his features unmoving. After a while he leant forwards and picked up the feather, turning it over. His face grew even grimmer. “Where did you get this?” he murmured.
“My doorstep, again,” Alex said. He fiddled with the book in his hands—green and battered, adorned by an intricate golden title. “And this, too.”
He hadn’t seen it for years. Not since…
But there it had been, lying atop the feather, upon his doorstep. Waiting for him, looking just as it had when he’d first picked it from his bedroom clutter all those years ago.
Yet Norman apparently hadn’t seen it when he’d left. That meant that it must have been placed there only moments before he’d found it.
He shivered.
Lucian was quiet for a while. The wind whistled around them. When he spoke, his voice was low and broken. “Why is He doing this?”
Alex swallowed. “I don’t know.”
“Just to torture us? See us dance?”
“I don’t know.”
“Remind us of what we’ve done?”
“I don’t know.”
“What do we do about it?”
“I don’t know!”
Norman had left for home minutes before Alexander had raced for the hillside, but he was still visible in the city below, ambling down the street. Alex watched until he had passed out of sight before rounding on Lucian. “You’re getting out of control,” he said. “You could ruin everything.”
“Ruin what?”
“Everything. All of it. People need somebody to look up to.”
“Like you?”
“Like you. People look to you. You have to control yourself.”
Lucian looked up sharply. His eyes were grave. “You don’t want them to look to me, you want them to look to Norman.”
Alex frowned. “It’s his job to lead them. Maybe not now, or tomorrow, but someday.”
“You made it his job.”
Alex bent closer, dropping his voice. “He just came to me, worried about you, fretting over you harassing that boy!” he hissed. “He’s got enough to worry about without you making it worse for him. If he starts doubting what we’re doing then everything we’ve ever done, all we’ve sacrificed—it’ll all have been for nothing.”
Lucian snarled, “That boy never wanted any of this.”
Alex stopped. “What?”
“Oh, come on: you've forced this on him since he was a child. Just like you did the first time.”
“I’ve never forced him to do anything.”
“You force everybody to do everything. You’ve already destroyed one life, and now you’re doing it all over again with Norman,” Lucian yelled, rising to his feet. “Even now, here you are, grilling me like it’s the Inquisition!”
“I just want to know what’s gotten into you.”
Lucian waved the feather before Alexander’s eyes. “This is what’s gotten into me.” He pointed to the book. “And that! This has nothing to do with starvation or survival. This is all happening because of what we’ve done.”
Alex said nothing.
“We have to tell them.”
Alex felt his jaw tighten. “We’re not telling them anything.”
“They have a right to know.”
“If anybody finds out then they’ll leave, and we’ll be back to where we started. We’ll lose society, civilisation, everything. If they go then they’ll just become more of what’s already out there.”
“I can’t do this anymore. I can’t keep lying.”
A silence swept over them, interrupted only by the howl of the wind and the rustle of distant leaf litter.
“We have to,” Alex said finally. “It’s our destiny.”
XII
The soil was dark and the grass a dappled blue under the overcast evening sky. Stray rays of light streamed from the distant streetlights. A light wind ran through the graveyard, rustling the trouser cuffs of those gathered amongst the thousands of weathered headstones.
Behind the five dozen mourners lay the remains of the uninhabited parts of the city, its crumbling walls made only greyer by the sombre procession. Two dark slabs of rock had been carved into an approximation of the surrounding ancient stones, courtesy of Robert’s hard labour.
Upon the first was carved ‘Rayford Hubble—Loved Son and Husband—2004-2048’, befo
re which crouched Ray’s wife and father, who both bawled without reserve. Several others wept with them, while many more stood close by, tight-lipped, heads bowed.
The other stone simply read ‘Friend’, a title decided on after much deliberation, marking the grave of the old Irishman.
Norman stood at the rear of the congregation, leaning on his cane at the summit of a slight rise. From his position, he could see over the heads of the others.
Norman hadn’t known Ray well—had only talked to him on a few occasions, and known his family even less—but the heaving shoulders of his prostrate father made his gut shrivel.
He started when a sniffle sounded beside him. He looked down into Allison’s tear-stained face and felt a distant flutter stir in his gut, one of many he’d felt when close to her lately. He laid a hand on her shoulder, and she gripped it, giving a strained smile.
Alexander stood with Agatha, Sarah and Robert a short distance away, silent and bowed. Agatha appeared to be muttering a silent prayer. Opposite them, on the other side of the congregation, stood Richard and John. Lucian stood behind them, his face pallid and tense. His hands were bunched into tight fists, such that the knuckles had been stretched until pure white. The crevasse between his brows had furrowed into a perfect V shape, and his eyes almost seemed to be shaking in their sockets.
Norman kept his head angled towards the graves, but kept watch in his peripheral vision. Lucian’s face seemed to grow redder by the second, his jaw drawing closer and closer to his skull, until Norman was sure he must have been crushing his own teeth.
He sighed, focusing on the graves.
Alexander had stepped forwards, standing between the two gravestones, facing the crowd. He began a slow and careful speech, monotonous but sincere. Yet he seemed distracted, glancing frequently towards a small flock of pigeons perched atop a few nearby gravestones.
Ray’s wife continued to sob, and many eyes traced the wilted lawn. Norman managed to discern a few words of the speech, each of which hinted at a fond farewell to both men. Half-listening, he swept a look around at them all once more.
He jerked. Lucian was gone. Sudden panic reared up as he looked wildly about, scouring the surrounding area.
But Lucian was no longer a member of the crowd. He’d simply vanished. Nobody else seemed to have registered movement. The crowd’s unanimous attention was being devoted to Alex.
He cursed, turning full circle, scanning the distant buildings, looking for a silhouette, but nearby grass swayed gently, giving no indication of having been disturbed.
He grunted when he eventually spotted him trudging his way along a narrow gravel path, running along the edge of a group of crumbling cottages. He was moving fast, low, light on his feet. A definite sense of purpose hung about him.
Norman felt a deep and genuine fear spread in his bowels. He backed away from Allie one inch at a time, rubbing his chest, feigning a spell of pain. She didn’t appear to notice his muttered complaints.
As soon as he had slipped away, he strode after Lucian.
The pain was almost unbearable. Within moments his chest was heaving and his legs screaming. Lucian was at least a hundred metres ahead of him, and continued to accelerate away. Norman was powerless to stop him. Tears were forming in the corners of his eyes as he tried desperately to keep pace, and razor-sharp bursts of air lashed against his lungs.
The funeral was behind him now, and Alex’s voice was nothing but a dim echo. Norman tried to call out, but Lucian had by now cleared the farthest of the outlying buildings. He’d hoped that there would have been somebody else around to signal to, but the streets were empty. Everybody was either at the funeral or had retreated inside to sleep off the day’s work.
Ahead, Lucian disappeared from sight, entering the clinic.
Norman was by now seeing spots. The pain in his chest was so severe that he’d half-forgotten why he was moving in the first place. He was nearing the cottages, but a thick span of mud lay directly underfoot, adhering to the tip of his cane and further hindering his progress.
Lucian had been out of sight for over a minute before he could clear the field and make his way onto tarmac. He began to dread reaching the clinic, afraid of what he might find. He fought a bout of nausea, both the sound of his heavy breathing and the roar of the blood in his ears turning his stomach. He stopped in his tracks when Lucian stepped back into the street.
He stood stiffly, his mouth stretched into a tight line.
“What have you done?” Norman wheezed, his heart racing.
Lucian didn’t respond, nor did he even acknowledge Norman’s presence. He about-faced, and the dark nose of an ancient service revolver glinted in the light.
Norman took a step back as a scream of fury rang out from within the clinic. “What do you think you’re doing?” Heather roared.
Lucian waved the revolver. “Stay where you are,” he called in reply. Then his voice changed and became quieter, addressing someone closer, “Get out here.”
There was a shuffling, coupled with a shuddering moan. Several seconds passed before a figure appeared in the doorway, stooped and snivelling. Charlie stepped into the light, dragging his broken leg. Most of his smaller wounds were still inflamed beneath Heather’s stitching. Tears ran down his face as he stepped forwards, his hands clasped before him. “Please,” he whimpered. “Please don’t. I’ll do anything, I swear.”
Lucian didn’t respond, instead only waving the revolver, signalling for him to keep moving.
At first Charlie froze, his eyes wild and his mouth drawn into a gape of silent terror. So focused was he on Lucian that he’d entirely missed Norman. “Please,” he said. “You said you would help me.”
Lucian shook his head. “I promised you nothing.”
Charlie uttered a high-pitched, childlike cry as he stumbled out into the street, his chest heaving. Norman could see his eyes darting in their sockets as he hyperventilated. “I haven’t done anything,” he whispered.
Lucian put the barrel of the revolver to the back of his head, pushing him farther into the street. “You think that matters?” he said, a grimace appearing on his lips. “You think you can just sign up with whoever takes your fancy? That you can kill one of us and not pay the price?”
Charlie whimpered. “I didn’t mean any harm. I just wanted to find my dad.”
Lucian frog-marched Charlie away from the clinic. With the revolver coupling them together, an odd, slow dance played out in the street as they advanced. Charlie was dragging himself forwards, having adopted a pathetic, hopping gait.
Norman gave chase as fast as his broken body would allow, but to what end he was unsure. Lucian was armed, and on the brink of murder; any attempt at negotiation could very well provoke the act all the sooner. He could only follow and look on, aghast.
Lucian led the boy off Main Street and any semblance of safety, into the quiet parts of the city. Charlie’s pleas became ever more desperate, until his mouth worked fruitlessly and only strangled groans worked their way past his lips.
The buildings became more dilapidated with each passing second. Walls of untouched white stone soon became splashed with ancient graffiti.
The trio waddled forth until they reached a place devoid of all activity. Weeds grew thick here, bursting through the tarmac, reaching for the light. The wind was dead, blocked by tall buildings and a narrow street. Every shuffle and footfall was amplified in the unstable silence, intermittently interrupted by Charlie’s shuddering cries.
Lucian prodded Charlie’s neck. “Stop.”
With visible reluctance, Charlie complied. He no longer spoke. His arms had fallen to his sides, his hands bunched into sweaty fists.
Norman paused a short distance behind them, his mind racing. The notion of rushing Lucian in his weakened state was absurd, and yet it remained in his mind’s eye, plaguing him. He was helpless to do a single thing.
“Get down on your knees.”
Charlie drew himself up to his full height, for
a brief moment topping Lucian’s stature. “I will not,” he said. His voice wavered, but was laced with defiance.
Lucian pushed the revolver hard against the base of his skull, forcing a groan of pain from his lips. “I said,” he spat, “kneel.”
Charlie appeared to burst, or break—Norman couldn’t tell which. His arms took flight as he fell onto one knee, moving awkwardly around his broken limb, yelling in a broken squeal, “You’re going to kill me? Shoot me right here like an animal?”
Lucian raised his thumb to the revolver’s hammer, pulling it back with sinister sluggishness. He was panting, and his hand was shaking. “That’s right.”
Charlie gave a burst of laughter, full-throated and hysterical. “Just like you did to my dad? You’re a murderer. Spineless. What have I done that you haven’t? All I’ve done is what I’ve needed to do to survive. Can you say the same?”
Lucian fumed, and with a swipe of his arm struck him across the back of the head. The wound drew blood and sent Charlie sprawling, but he surged back to his knelt position with shocking resilience.
“You’re one of them,” Lucian said. “You killed Ray. That defenceless old man. Attacked my friend and left him half-dead. Innocent people. Good people. Why do you deserve to live?”
Charlie growled, a deep and hateful sound. “And you?” he said. “You hunted down and slaughtered two men. You gave them no quarter.”
“At the camp? It was self-defence. They would have killed Norman and Richard.”
Charlie turned his head fractionally. “Would they?” he said, his voice lower, almost inquisitive.
Lucian recoiled for a moment, and the revolver dropped somewhat. His hands shook so much that he required the strength of both to keep the barrel steady. “You can’t live,” he said, his eyes wild. “You’re one of them.”
Norman remained completely still. His eyes darted between them, as though the scene was a deadly tennis match.
“I just wanted to find him,” Charlie said, his arms dropping to his sides. His body seemed to deflate, as though he’d now accepted impending doom.
Ruin (The Ruin Saga Book 1) Page 27