by Chris Ward
The barge’s cabin was immaculately decked out in a 1950s style. Black and white prints of long dead actors and actresses hung from the walls. An old, brightly coloured tea set stood on a rack above the fridge, the ancient, spider web-cracked china cups rattling as they moved through the water. A gas hob balanced a wrought iron kettle. Tucked into one corner, behind the bed, was a jukebox, the like of which Marta had only seen once before, in a junkyard. She was desperate to ask him if it worked.
Rather than be alarmed at their presence, John Reeder had seemed reluctantly excited, like an old explorer pulled out of retirement for one last mission.
‘Uncle told me to head to Falmouth,’ Switch said. ‘He said there was a way there we could get across to France. Didn’t say how, but said we’d get further instructions later.’
‘Where’s Falmouth?’ Owen said.
‘Cornwall,’ Paul told him. ‘Don’t they teach you anything in school?’
‘Ah, you know it’s all censored. Where’s Cornwall?’
‘Cornwall is the south-western tip of England,’ Reeder said. ‘It’s famous for its beautiful beaches, a type of pie called a pasty and was once popular among tourists. Main industries were tin, china clay, fishing and farming. Main recreational pursuits were surfing, moorland walking, and a rather odd style of wrestling, in which the defeated party would be thrown square on his back. These days, of course, most of it is empty.’
‘Empty?’ Owen said.
Reeder pouted and frowned. ‘How would you say? The government closed it.’ He looked around at the others. They were all staring at him. ‘About halfway across, after the moorland ends, they built a fence. Made everybody who lived behind it leave.’
‘Why?’
Reeder spread his hands. ‘Why do they do anything? They have their reasons. Luckily, if we’re heading for Falmouth, we won’t have to go that far, and we won’t need to find out.’
‘We?’ Owen said.
Reeder raised another eyebrow. ‘What kind of a hostage would I be if I didn’t accompany my captors to their final destination?’
While the others were floundering for a reply, he climbed up from the bed and walked over to the miniature kitchen, ducking his head to avoid the low ceiling. With five people in the cabin it must seem a lot smaller than usual, Marta thought.
‘Now, we’ve got a few hours before we arrive, and you all look a little hungry. Would you like anything to eat?’
‘Hell, yeah.’
‘Thanks.’
‘What do you have?’
John Reeder looked at Marta. ‘Fish, my dear, and a few pilfered vegetables from the GFA. My diet doesn’t vary much. I’m a simple man as you can see.’
Later, sitting up on deck while the small boat whirred along the canal, tall trees rising up on either side of them, Reeder told Marta about his life on the canal.
Downstairs, Paul, Owen and Switch were playing a game of Monopoly on an old board Reeder had pulled out of a cupboard. It was welcome respite from all the violence and death, but Marta for one couldn’t concentrate and preferred to be up on the deck, watching the countryside pass by. She’d seen little enough of it in her life, and despite the threat of the Huntsmen out there somewhere, it helped to calm her.
‘It’s an uneasy world we live in,’ Reeder said, sitting on a stool, one hand on the boat’s wheel, occasionally shifting it slightly from side to side. ‘The government tried to compartmentalize everything, but those of us that didn’t fit into any particular vein just got skipped over. No one cared about a young man living on a riverboat. How old are you, Marta?’
‘Twenty-one.’
Reeder nodded, not looking at her. ‘You’ve seen a lot, I suppose.’
She shrugged. ‘Until recently life was just usual, you know? I saw car crashes, riots, whatever. It was all just life. I did what I had to do to survive and it was hard, but I was used to it.’
They had told Reeder a shortened version of their story. They had no choice but to trust him, and he seemed genuinely willing to help.
‘You know,’ he said, ‘Your legend stretches far. Even I’ve heard mention of it.’
‘Really?’
‘Many people talk about the wraiths of the underground.’
She raised an eyebrow. ‘Is that what they say?’
‘They say that the souls of the dead reside down there in the dark, screaming their pain at the living who dare enter the tunnels.’ He smiled. ‘Stories get around you know. Even though most people can’t travel anymore, stories still move. They blow from place to place, like the wind.’
‘I’m surprised.’
‘Why do you do it? Why do you “tube ride”?’
The way he said it, as if it was the strangest thing in the world, made her smile. She shrugged again. It was difficult to explain. ‘Why do people do anything?’ she said. ‘Because it’s fun.’
‘But it’s so dangerous.’
‘Yes, it is.’
‘Have people died?’
‘That I know of, five. Maybe there were others, practicing alone. I don’t know.’
‘That’s a lot of death to see. Why didn’t you stop?’
Marta looked around them as the canal bank eased past. A willow tree hung over the water, its nearest branches scraping the side of the boat. So peaceful, she thought.
‘Many did. At one point there were over twenty of us. Seeing someone die, though, it changes things. It sorts out who values life the most. Because the people who value life don’t do it.’
‘Don’t you value your life?’
Suddenly Marta felt close to tears. Having someone say it reminded her how worthless she was, how worthless the country had made her. ‘My parents are dead. My brother disappeared years ago. I had nothing else to do. I just . . . carry on.’
‘How did you get into it?’
‘My brother, Leo, he was the first.’
‘The first Tube Rider?’
‘Yes.’
‘How?’
Marta brushed the hair out of her face and fresh tears out of her eyes, and smiled. ‘It’s kind of dumb, really. He was drunk or stoned, or something. He wandered into the station by mistake. At least this is the story he tells – told.’ Her bottom lip trembled. ‘A train came just as he tripped and stumbled towards the track. Had it come a second earlier it would have crushed him. As it was, it should have killed him, but it didn’t. His coat got caught on something, a hook, a loose piece of metal paneling, maybe. It literally picked him up and pulled him along. He managed to free himself a moment before the train went into the tunnel. He broke several ribs and one arm, but otherwise he was fine. And afterwards . . .’
‘What?’
She shook her head. ‘It was like he was a different person. He was enlightened or obsessed, one of the two. All he talked about was the trains. He even got himself a job working in a rail yard just so he could study the trains and find out if there was a way to replicate what had happened. He got a friend to help him design and build the first clawboard. Then he went down into the tunnels and learned. He started off on the slower freight trains, practicing until he’d perfected the technique. And then he started to invite people.’
‘Sounds exciting.’
Marta smiled again. ‘Yeah. I didn’t get into it at first because I was the kid sister, you know? He wanted to protect me, so he kept it a secret. With his train obsession I just thought he was some anorak nerd. Then one day I saw him when I was riding the train home. It scared the shit out of me, and I thought it was a premonition of his death or something. I told him and he owned up. He took me along a few days later and I ended up as hooked on it as he was.’
She shook her head, wistful memories coming back to her. ‘Tube riding, it’s like nothing you can imagine. It hurts, you know, when you hook, and the train jerks you away. But it’s a good pain, like when you have sore muscles after a workout, and you can’t stop touching them. And then, when you’re riding, for a few seconds your mind just empties as t
hough the train’s moving so fast you just leave it behind. Then after you brace with your legs you can see the people inside the train through the windows. Sometimes they look back at you, and it’s like looking into a book. You feel like you know everything about them. It’s just . . . magical.’
Reeder patted her shoulder. ‘Marta, dear. I would love to give it a try.’
‘It’s way too dangerous.’
‘For an old man, you mean?’
‘John, that’s not what I –’
Reeder laughed. ‘You’re probably, right. I’m too old to be hanging off the side of trains. Barges are far more to my pace.’
They were quiet for a few minutes. Marta watched as fish jumped out of the water, and birds called from the trees. For a while she leaned over the side of the boat and let one hand trail in the water. Finally, she said, ‘Thank you for helping us.’
‘Never underestimate the kindness of strangers,’ Reeder said with a wide smile. ‘Not everyone has become what the government drove them to. Most people, especially out in the GFAs, are just trying to get on with their lives the best way they can.’
‘They’re the lucky ones.’
‘You could say that. There might not be the violence, but they miss out on certain things too. They can’t travel outside of their particular area. The government pulled up most of the roads, just to make it a hassle to get around. If they are inclined to drive thirty miles on the gravel and dirt tracks for whatever reason, they eventually come up against concrete road blocks. There are no soldiers anywhere, but there doesn’t need to be. It’s such an inconvenience to go anywhere other than where the government wants them to that they don’t bother.’
‘I’d still like to live out in the country,’ Marta said. ‘It’s just so peaceful. The air’s so fresh.’
‘Yeah, it has that going for it. I don’t miss the cities.’
‘How do you survive out here? Where do you get your food from?’
Reeder shrugged. ‘This way and that way. People know me in some of the villages. I do farm work, laboring sometimes. Odd jobs. In some villages I’m known for the baskets I weave from the canal reeds. Hence the name. John the Reeder.’
‘Is that not your real name?’
Reeder smiled. ‘I’m known by different names in different parts. It’s safer that way. I forget just which name preceded the others.’
Marta could understand. ‘You don’t look the sort to do odd jobs,’ she said.
Reeder grinned. ‘Just because a man likes to look the part in his own castle, doesn’t mean he won’t get his hands dirty when necessary. Like you say, the world’s changed.’
The sound of a door opening came from behind them. They both turned to see Switch coming up out of the cabin on to the deck. He looked around at the trees, his bad eye flickering. When he saw them sitting in the little driving space at the back of the boat, he walked over, looking a little uncertain as the boat rocked along. Reeder was following a course close to the outer bank as the canal arced gradually right towards open farmland. Switch looked afraid that they would crash at any moment, and Marta found it comical after all the dangerous things she’d seen him do.
‘We nearly there yet?’ he said, ashen faced. Marta grinned.
‘Boats don’t move as quickly as trains,’ Reeder said. ‘We’re going about fifteen miles an hour. We have several hours before we make it to Exeter.’
‘Oh.’
‘You look unwell.’
‘Yeah, not feeling so great, eh. Must be all the excitement.’
‘Sea sick?’
Switch looked embarrassed. ‘Nah, man. Of course not.’
Reeder smiled. ‘It’s a lot easier when you’re driving. You want to try?’ He pointed at the little wheel and the drive stick beside it.
‘Ah, no,’ he said. ‘Looks way too difficult.’ But even as he spoke, he climbed down beside Reeder and pulled up another stool. ‘What does this do?’ he said, pointing at a black button.
Marta patted him on the shoulder and stood up. ‘Enjoy, boys,’ she said. ‘I’m going to use some of those hours to try and sleep, if that’s okay with both of you. Call me if anything happens.’
Switch ignored her. ‘So this button makes the fucker start?’
‘That’s the ignition, yes.’
Marta smiled as she climbed over the top of the protruding cabin towards the little door at the front of the boat. The canal was leaving woodland behind and weaving out across open farmland. She saw tractors and trailers standing idle in one or two fields, but no people. Suddenly an image of the Huntsmen flashed into her mind, and her smile faded.
They were out there somewhere, still chasing them. She felt safe for now, with the barrier of the water between them, but sooner or later she would see those horrifying half-human faces again, she was sure of it. How many times could they keep escaping?
As she climbed down into the cabin, where Owen was demanding an extortionate rent payment from Paul, she wondered how long they had left, before the chase finally came to an end.
Chapter Forty-Three
Family Values
Clayton looked down at Vincent’s body as the men zipped it into a body bag, getting one last view of the slash wound across the younger man’s neck. He was torn between the urge to smile at the death of a disliked colleague or to grimace at the loss of an important prisoner. Instead, he just cocked his head and pouted a little, waiting for the results from Jakob, who was hauling a Huntsman along on the end of a leash.
‘Two scents,’ Jakob said at last. ‘A boy and a girl.’
Clayton nodded. That matched the footprints they had found, heading back down into the railway tunnels. ‘The Tube Riders?’
‘Definitely the girl. The dog is straining at the bit. The boy, I don’t know. The dog doesn’t seem concerned by it. It doesn’t make any sense. Who else could it be?’
Clayton nodded again and pulled a radio out of his pocket. He had set the receiver to silent when they came across the dead agents, and now the display told him someone had been trying to reach him. He punched in a frequency.
‘About time,’ came a familiar voice. ‘Where the fuck have you been?’
He sighed. ‘Dreggo. I hope you have news for me, because I have some for you.’
‘What?’
‘I’ll ask the questions. What happened out there?’
‘We lost another Huntsman. Both Meud and Jacul are dead.’
‘I don’t care about the Huntsmen, they’re expendable.’
There was a momentary silence on the other end.
‘Dreggo?’
Her voice came back sharp and strained. ‘One of the Tube Riders is dead.’
Clayton’s heart jumped. Finally. ‘Which one?’
‘The boy. We found his body in a shallow grave not far from the perimeter wall. What do you want me to do with it?’
Clayton rubbed his chin. ‘Leave it. You didn’t see the girl?’
‘She escaped. Some kid from the GFA helped her. He could still be with her.’
Clayton sighed again. Well, at least one was down. ‘Did you find the memory card?’
‘No.’
‘Search the body again.’
‘Why?’
‘Just do as I say, Dreggo.’
There was another silence, followed by: ‘You said you had news. What is it?’
‘Never mind. Just get here now.’
Her reply practically made the radio burn in his hands. ‘Fuck you and every one of the polished turds in your organisation.’ The line went dead. Clayton felt a momentary clamminess on his hands, but as his fingers closed over the little device in his pocket the fear went away. He still had control. She wasn’t about to get it back. But still . . .
He pushed the thought out of his head. With Dreggo back around at least they had someone who had better control of the Huntsmen. The damn things were constantly on the verge of causing chaos. Part of him wished the Department of Civil Affairs had done the work alone, b
ut he knew the kids would have escaped. The cities were a mess; there were a million places they could hide, and a million people to hide them.
A scent, however, couldn’t disappear so easily.
The phone in his other pocket buzzed.
‘Yes?’
‘Leland? I trust operations are going well?’
‘Like clockwork, of course. You have information for me?’ He recognised the other voice as a man named Robert Wade, one of his intelligence experts from the London branch of the DCA. Wade was a rare man who could be depended on.
‘I have information for you,’ Wade told him.
‘Yes?’
‘Of what help it might be I don’t know, but we’ve followed up your leads and we’ve uncovered the identities of some of these Tube Riders.’
‘Really. Do you have anything interesting?’ Clayton was feeling thoroughly pissed off, and he found it difficult to keep the cynicism out of his tone. All he had to do was catch a group of street kids and he seemed to be starting a whole goddamn war. Already, far too many people had died.
‘Maybe. One of the girls, Jessica Woods, her, um, now deceased father, Martin Woods, was a lower member of the government. Paul and Owen Morton live in a flat in central London which they actually own. The other two, the boy and the one whom you said had a bad eye, we can’t find anything on them. Perhaps they were runaways. However, you might want to look at the details for one Marta Banks.’
Clayton rolled his eyes. ‘Will I, really?’
‘Yes, Leland, I think you will. Get to a computer and take a look at the documents I send you. Something rather unexpected has come up.’
#
Dreggo and Lyen reached the station an hour later. The Huntsman hadn’t said much during the journey, but Dreggo was feeling more attached to the creatures the longer she spent with them. Looking into the still-human eyes, seeing the wild intelligence that still burned there, she could ignore the doglike snout and the raw scar tissue where the two parts of its face had been surgically fused together. They were human still, just like her, all of them caught in a government net that offered only death as a way out.