The drop was long and he landed badly. Both his legs cracked, forcing a scream from his throat. He rolled onto his back with one hand hovering at his left leg, not daring to touch it. He took a deep breath and tried to limp away. As his leg took the weight though, his shin buckled at a sickening angle and Robb dropped to the concrete screaming.
A solitary gunshot fired above him and the pavement dusted by his face. He rolled over and saw a gunnerman grinning down the barrel of his rifle. Another one joined him and Robb closed his eyes to their laughter. With a massive effort he tried to crawl away, barely making a few feet through the splintered wood that had fallen with him. He rolled over, staring at a narrow path that ran between the houses opposite.
“No,” he screamed. “Go. Just go.”
“We’re not going anywhere you dumb bastard.”
A gunnerman had been waiting on the street for any runners. Robb turned to see a boot stamp down on his face.
When he regained consciousness, he was on the shores of Lake Stretten. Pain thumped across his head and his vision was swimming. His clothes were soaked with sweat and felt cold against his skin. Robb shivered, sending a spasm of pain through his legs.
He realised he was caged in the back of a military van. The outer door was open, but the inner one was still locked. Through its steel mesh he could see the gunnermen smoking and sharing stories. Behind them was the water and beyond that - dark and oppressive - The Cathedral. One of the gunnermen gave a quiet laugh and flicked his cigarette into the lake. It was the one who had tried to drag him from the pavement by his ankles. Robb had felt the bones click apart just before he passed out.
“Here we go,” the gunnerman said, nodding at the lake. Robb followed his gaze and saw the boatman of Lake Stretten gliding through the darkness.
“Move,” the second one said, opening the cage door.
“I can’t.”
The one from the safe-house stepped forwards. “Stupid bastard jumped from a first-floor window.”
The gunnermen waited for him to shuffle to the edge of the van. When they grew bored, they took an arm each and carried him to the small boat. The water was black and still and Robb tumbled to the bottom of the boat. The gunnermen clambered in after him and stood with a hand on their rifles and their feet apart.
The boatman – a thick-shouldered man in ragged clothes – was standing at the prow, watching without interest. He too was a prisoner here and wore heavy iron bracelets on each ankle with a rusted chain curled between them. Reaching below the side of the boat, he pulled a thick rope from the water that was slick and dripping with algae. He gave a grunt of effort, hefted on the chain and then sent the little boat lurching across the water.
“Careful,” one gunnerman growled as he fought for balance.
The boatman muttered something that may have been an apology. Robb rolled sideways and bit down on his wrist. Flashes of pain lanced through both legs which were crooked and swollen to a grotesque size. His knuckles drained white as he bit down on the scream in his throat. The boatman drew them ever closer to The Cathedral.
“Take off my boots,” Robb hissed, his words forced between gritted teeth. “Please.”
“Best thing you can do is leave ‘em on. Stops the swelling.”
The boat shunted to a stop and the gunnermen lifted him from deck with a hand under each armpit. As they jumped to shore, Robb banged his legs against the shale slope and almost lost consciousness again. Somehow though, he made it to the steps of The Cathedral.
There were two gibbets protruding from the wall on either side of the main doorway. Each one held a coffin-shaped cage in which Robb could see the rotting corpse of some unfortunate prisoner. As one slowly twisted at the end of its chain, he saw that the man’s face had been pecked and eaten by birds.
The gunnermen left him lying on the steps while one approached the main door and knocked loudly. Almost immediately a metal hatch slid open and he exchanged some words with the face on the other side. The hatch slammed shut and then they were left waiting for several minutes until the door creaked inwards on rusty hinges. In spite of the pain, Robb propped himself on one elbow so he could see what was coming. It was a small and unassuming man who emerged from the gloom, wearing glasses and a suit. Even so, the gunnermen appeared nervous as they gathered him up and dragged him towards the doorway.
“Why are you carrying him?”
“His legs are broke,” the first gunnerman said.
“Jumped out a window,” the other added.
“Really?” The man stepped forwards and smiled at Robb. He placed one hand on his shoulder like they were old friends. Robb saw the smile, saw the slight raise of an eyebrow, but completely missed the knee that thumped into his shattered leg.
Thirty-three years later, he and John were standing silently in the rear yard. The whole story hung between them. From the shores of Lake Stretten right into the bowels of The Cathedral. Robb reflected how those days had shaped the rest of his life. How the choices in his past had imprisoned him more than any prison cell.
“I shouldn’t have told you,” he said eventually.
John looked up and gave a solemn shrug.
“It was selfish of me,” Robb said. “I’m sorry.”
He stretched out his hand but then withdrew it, afraid his son would shrink away. John swallowed and there were tears in his eyes.
“I just don’t get it. The Premier’s good, so why would you want to kill him? And the gunnermen protect us, so why were they horrible to you? And The Cathedral is for the worst people in Karasard, but…but you’re my Dad.”
Robb smiled sadly. “It was a long time ago. Things were different then.”
“Why didn’t you tell Premier Talis? He would have stopped that man hurting you. He stands against cruelty and injustice.”
Robb winced at the party line but didn’t correct his son. “Sometimes real life doesn’t work out the way they say it will at school.”
John nodded slowly as if he understood. “They must have kept you a secret. The Premier can’t know everything.”
Robb laughed but without any humour. He was tired of seeing his family so sad. “That’s probably it.”
“Does Ryan know?”
“No.”
“You should tell him.”
A fine rain fell around them and Robb stepped gingerly towards the back door, always wary on the slippery wet stones. John took hold of his arm as they walked. Instinctively, he wanted to push him away, insulted by the offer of help. With an effort he fought back the sting of pride and allowed his son to help. At the very least he owed him that.
“It’s Saintsday next week,” Robb said, once inside. “How would you like to go to the parade this year?”
John beamed. “All of us? Ryan too?”
“Yes. If he’ll come.”
As if on cue, the front door thrust open and footsteps stomped through the hallway.
“Ryan!” John called like he hadn’t seen him in a week. He ran towards his big brother, but reading the scowl on his face, stopped short of hugging him.
“What?”
“Nothing,” John said. “Just glad to see you.”
Ryan’s expression was as suspicious as ever. “Whatever. I’m going upstairs.”
When he was halfway up John called out again. “Dad says he’ll take us to the Saintsday Parade this year. There’s a bonfire and fireworks and a band.”
“I’m busy.”
John followed him up the stairs. “Oh come on, it’ll be brilliant. Don’t you remember the last time we went?”
Robb continued to eavesdrop from the hallway and found himself smiling. It had been eight years since they last went to Saintsday and he doubted John could even remember it.
“I’m not going anywhere with him.”
That knocked the smile from Robb’s face. Even so, he intervened for John’s sake and went to the bottom step. “What do you say Ryan? It might not be so bad. I know John would like it.” He tried to
adopt an air of good humour despite the undisguised anger on Ryan’s face.
“Pleeeeeease,” John said. His hands were locked together as if in prayer. Ryan glared at them both and then went into his room, slamming the door behind him. Even so, John came downstairs smiling.
“He didn’t say no.”
Chapter 10
It was the day before Saintsday. John knew he should have been giddy with excitement, but he couldn’t shift the weight of fear in his stomach. Only a few days ago he had watched his brother flee from the gunnermen. He had hoped Ryan would be too scared to try anything again. Yet here they were - back in the Worker District - moving quickly though the same checkpoints. Ryan in front, unaware. John trailing behind, watching for both of them.
He waited for his brother to turn the corner of the street before showing his own card to the gunnerman. No Convictions flashed up on screen and the computer chirped to say he had clearance to pass through. Making sure he remained hidden, John closed the gap between them and followed Ryan towards the factories. At the last moment though, they turned away from Foundry Lane and skirted around the enormous smoke stacks and chimneys. John gave a slow exhale of breath. At least they weren’t going back there again.
Without exactly realising how, John found himself back in the Trade District where his dad bought his paper. As the streets grew busier, John was able to reel in the distance between them. When they were separated by only a few house lengths, Ryan suddenly turned a corner forcing John to scurry after him.
Cautiously, he peeped around the edge of the building, but instead of seeing his brother, found himself on a long and empty road. Lining the pavements on either side were crumbling terraced houses, sandwiched between a series of derelict workshops. These had once been Straybeck’s cottage industries. Small businesses that were owned by individual families and run from their homes. When Talis built the factories though, the time, attention and detail shown by the family businesses were no longer profitable and they quickly went out of business.
If Ryan had gone inside one of these buildings, John couldn’t see a way to find him. He wandered down the street a short way, searching the pavements in both directions. That was when he noticed the rusted archway that was spanning a wide break between the buildings. The metal in the arch had been wrought into lettering which read Manufacturing Station. John had never heard of it before, but as he drew nearer he saw the opening in the ground that he guessed led down to an underground platform. He never knew that Straybeck had an underground.
John understood how Ryan had disappeared so quickly now. He peered nervously down the steep flight of steps but the curve of the roof prevented him having any view of the station below. After a moment’s hesitation John made his choice and began the slow descent into the tunnels beneath Straybeck.
He guessed that the tiled walls and decorative mosaics would at one time have looked as grand as those on the overland. These ones were covered in thick layers of dirt and dust though. Even so, John recognised the familiar outline of Premier Talis in many of the images.
At the bottom step he found himself in a short tunnel that formed a T-shape with the train track running across its path. Most of the lights were out and John moved cautiously through the darkness. Where the tunnel opened out he peered around the edge of the wall, first left and then right. There was one light buzzing and flickering in the roof and it washed the tunnel in a yellow glow.
John froze when he caught sight of the two figures hunched at the far end of the platform. One of them was Ryan, but the other was a much older man that he had never seen before. He was maybe fifty years old, and although he was in shadow, John could tell that he was powerfully built, with a broad chest and shoulders.
His brother moved over to a bench and fished out a bag from underneath. As he looked inside, the old man went to the very back of the platform where it met the tunnel. John gasped as he suddenly dropped down onto the track and disappeared from view. Then, unbelievably Ryan followed him.
John waited for what seemed like an age before he crept down the platform after them. There was no sound from the track in either direction and the air inside was heavy and stale. Cautiously he moved closer to the bench where Ryan had been talking but then the sound of scuffed footstep echoed up the tunnel towards him. John bolted for the safety of his earlier hiding place in the entrance tunnel, just in time to see the old man climbing back onto the platform.
He was alone.
John’s stomach clenched tight. What had he done with Ryan?
There was no time for him to worry though as the old man was striding forwards, closing the gap between them. John sprinted back up the passageway, abandoning any pretence of concealment. If he didn’t go now, there was no way he would make it back to the surface.
He wasn’t sure if he’d made it up without being seen, but there was no shouting and no footsteps in pursuit. With a sudden thrill he left the stifled atmosphere of the underground behind and was once again breathing the cold Straybeck air.
John waited out of sight in a small alleyway until he saw the old man appear on the street. With barely a glance around, he set off towards the main road, directly past John’s hiding place. The man seemed oblivious to the world around him and moved with his head down and hands stuffed into his pockets.
John counted to twenty and then – just to make sure – counted again. That gave the old man plenty of time to disappear. He’d probably be halfway to the checkpoint by now. As he crept out of his hiding place though, John was dragged across the pavement and pinned to the wall.
His head snapped against the bricks and for a moment he sank to the ground as everything blurred around him. The attacker momentarily loosened his grip and John tried to scramble out of reach as he gathered his senses. It was useless though. The same big hands hauled him to his feet and pinned him against the wall a second time. When John stopped struggling he found himself face to face with the old man from the tunnels.
“Okay lad,” he said, in a low voice. “What’re you up to?” John had expected him to shout but somehow the control in his voice was even more frightening.
“I’m just…nothing.”
“Don’t lie to me,” his voice flared. “You were in the station just now, weren’t you?”
“I wasn’t.”
One hand moved to John’s throat and slowly tightened.
“I know Ryan,” John gasped. The man said nothing, his hand locked firm. “I go to school with him. I’m one of his friends.” John’s eyes flicked frantically around him searching for a way to escape.
“Are you alone?” the man said quietly. John didn’t know which answer was safest. “You know,” he continued, “children in Straybeck disappear all the time.”
A tuneless whistling drifted towards them from the end of the street. John twisted his head to the sound and his heart soared when a sevener appeared. He summoned all the breath in his lungs knowing that this would be his one chance to escape.
“Help me.”
The old man snarled, losing all composure and gripping John’s neck so hard that he thought the bones would crack.
“If you follow me again,” he hissed, “I’ll kill you.”
“Oi.”
That was the sevener, his deep voice thundering ahead of him. The old man released John and was away with startling speed up the street. The long legs of the sevener swept past John as he lay gasping for air on the pavement. It was maybe a minute before he reappeared and judging by the scowl on his face, he hadn’t found the older man.
“Right son, what just happened?”
The sevener peered down and John could feel his bottom lip pulling as tears brimmed in his eyes. He wanted to answer but knew his voice would crack.
“Who was that?” the sevener asked.
His dad had always said that you could trust the seveners and John desperately wanted to tell someone what had happened. He couldn’t think what to say though without landing Ryan into trouble. All he mana
ged was a sad shrug of his shoulders. The sevener sighed, all sternness dropping from his face as he knelt beside him and removed his hat.
“Come on, what happened?” John shrugged again. “Why was he hurting you?”
John looked down, searching the floor by his feet. “Don’t know.”
“Are you in a street gang?”
“No.” He said it with such indignation that it made the sevener smiled.
“No. I don’t reckon you are.” He stood up and replaced his hat. “What’s your name?”
“John.”
“John what?”
“Calloway.”
“Okay John Calloway, I’m Constable Rutledge.” They shook hands with mock formality and the sevener’s palm wrapped fully around John’s hand and wrist. “Shall we get you home?”
John felt helpless. He needed to check that Ryan was alright but could see no way to do it without alerting the sevener. He swallowed down the rising sense of panic that threatened to overwhelm him. The only choice he had was to hope that Ryan’s luck would stay with him a little while longer.
Chapter 11
Ryan had his back to the wall in the crypt beneath Brynne’s Chapel. He was waiting for the gunnermen to close in, his whole body shaking with cold and fear. Up at street level he could hear the patrol cars, their sirens rising and falling as they circled the streets.
You’ve been trained for this he berated himself, making an attempt to stand. His body was sluggish though as if he had been drugged. The best he could do was slide his back up the lumpy stone wall and wait for his focus to return.
Ryan looked down and was surprised to see a gun in his hand. He tried to grip it, but his arm was tingling and all the strength had gone. That was when he saw blood falling from his fingertips and rebounding against the stone floor. Ryan reached inside his jacket and found that his shirt was soaked through and the material clung to his skin. The realisation that he’d been shot sapped his remaining strength and he slipped back to the floor.
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