Snow had gathered more easily here on the cold stonework of the slumbering building. Ryan pushed the heavy wooden door inwards and tensed as the swollen wood scraped over the flagstones. Moving inside he groped in the darkness with one hand until it rested on the back of the first wooden pew.
“Brynne,” he hissed. “It’s me.”
Overhead a bird fluttered free of its rafter and sought sanctuary deeper in the church. Ryan crept forwards, waiting for his eyes to readjust to the near total darkness. From behind him came a scuffle of quick feet and then a hand clamped around Ryan’s neck, throwing him down onto the bench. He struggled against the grip, but it was useless and Ryan felt the pressure on his windpipe grow.
“You’ve some nerve Calloway,” a voice growled above him.
“Brynne,” Ryan gasped. “Stop. Please.”
The old man kept him pinned though.
“I let you into my house. Take care of you. Drag you away from that traitor of a father and for what? So you can sell me out, just like he did.”
Just as Ryan saw white spots dancing in the edge of his vision, the old man’s grip loosened and he was able to slide out, clutching at his throat and gasping for breath.
“Why did you do it?” His voice was barely audible.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about Brynne. Honestly I don’t.”
The old man didn’t respond straightaway, but instead rose slowly from the bench. The wood cracked and echoed like a gunshot through the empty chapel.
“Follow me.”
They walked in silence towards the chancery and Ryan knew instantly that something was wrong. The tapestry that usually concealed the secret doorway was now lying in tatters on the stone floor.
“You first,” Brynne said, standing aside.
Ryan paused at the top of the stone staircase, his heart hammering in his chest. He had never before felt afraid of the old man. Not really. Not even when he had shot Caylin for being a traitor. Yet with each step he took, he imagined the cold muzzle of a gun appearing at the base of his skull.He reached the bottom step and fumbled for the gas lamp that was already burning on its lowest light. Ryan twisted the collar valve and light flooded the cellar, revealing the source of Brynne’s anger. His quarters had been ransacked and all his belongings destroyed. The newspaper clippings, the rows of books and the stacks of film reels were either shredded or strewn across the floor. His bed, desk and bookshelves were upended and smashed and the room was barely recognisable as the home it had once been.
“Gunnermen came Ryan. Here. To the chapel.”
“Brynne, they came for me too.”
“Don’t give me that. You think I don’t know what’s going on here? I’ve got an informant in the gunnermen comms station. They tell me if any of my lads are stopped or arrested. Wednesday night your card was scanned on the trains out of Straybeck, but you never got off at the other end. Then Thursday you’re scanned again but on the outskirts this time. You disappear for a day and then your house gets raided and then a few hours later the gunnermen are kicking through my door too.”
“You think I informed on you?”
“Didn’t you?”
Ryan was shocked at the question. “Of course I didn’t. Why would I?”
“I’ve known all sorts of people broken by the gunnermen. People just like you.”
“I was never even arrested though.”
Brynne said nothing as he slowly sifted through the debris. Suddenly his eyes lit upon a bottle of whisky, somehow unbroken amongst the wreckage. He un-stoppered the cork and took three long gulps.
“You saw the undercover gunnerman the other day, didn’t you? Before I sent you away.”
Ryan nodded.
“How did you know? Was it the car?”
“The earpiece.”
“Smart lad.” He took another mouthful of whisky and then offered the bottle to Ryan. “Do you think I’m with them? Is that why you did it? You think I’m playing both sides?”
“Of course I don’t.”
“He was one of my sources Ryan. A young lad I recruited eight years ago from the Slum District. He tells me what’s happening in Karasard and then passes my orders to the other cells I have there.”
“Brynne, you’ve got to believe me. I haven’t told them anything. Whoever sent the gunnermen to my house must be the ones that sent them after you.”
Brynne gave a frustrated sigh and reached towards the back of his waist band. In one awful moment Ryan watched him produce a pistol and rest it against his leg.
“I want to believe you,” he said quietly. “God knows I do. But I’ve been here before. Many, many times and it never ends well.”
“Brynne,” he swallowed hard, trying to work some saliva back into his mouth. “Please don’t do this. I never told them anything. They never even asked me anything. On the train the other day they thought I was sleeping rough. That’s why they checked my card.”
He pointed at the purple bruises on his face.
“They threw me off the train while it was moving and I had to walk back to Straybeck. That was why they scanned me at the outskirts.”
Ryan paused, trying to slow his breathing. He looked for some sign that Brynne believed him, but the old man’s face was as unreadable as ever.
“I even came here. I was looking for you and…” Ryan frantically recalled details. “I ate some of your food, over here,” he pointed to the far end of the cellar. “And then I borrowed some money. From the bowl.”
He fished inside one pocket and brought out some irons that he had brought from his bedroom earlier that day. “You can have them back.”
Still Brynne remained motionless, the gun never wavering. Ryan nervously stacked the coins into a neat pile on one of the shelves. “What did you tell the gunnermen at your house Ryan?”
“Nothing,” he shouted. “I swear. There was only one gunnerman and one sevener. They’d already finished searching when I got there. He tried to arrest me but…” Ryan felt it would only make things worse to mention his Dad. “The sevener was with him and he said the arrest wasn’t legal as they’d found nothing.”
“So they never took you in?”
“No. I went back into the house, got some clothes and some money for you and then I went to Alia’s. I had no idea they were coming for you too. I’d have warned you if I’d known.”
Brynne tapped one finger against the barrel of the gun, contemplating all he had heard.
“I want to believe you,” he said eventually. “I really do. But you’ve been so different lately. You hardly come round anymore and when you do, you’re always questioning, always going against what I ask.”
“I don’t mean to be like that. I just…” Ryan chose his next words carefully. “I can’t shake this feeling that I should be doing more. Doing something meaningful that makes people sit up and take notice.”
Brynne took his time mulling over the words and eventually flicked his head in the direction of the staircase. “Go on.”
Ryan hesitated, not wanting to show his back to the older man. Brynne saw the delay for what it was and tucked the gun out of sight with a long sigh.
“I could never shoot you Ryan,” and there was real sadness in his eyes when he strode past. He paused at the bottom step as though he had more to say, but then shook it off and moved out of sight. Ryan followed in a daze and climbed towards the main chapel. When they reached the top of the staircase though, instead of turning into the chancery, Brynne hooked his fingers into a groove at the corner of the wall. With a practised movement he felt up and down the slender gap that ran from floor to ceiling. On closer inspection, Ryan saw that the bricks of one wall had not been laid square with the other.
There followed a sharp click and to his amazement the entire wall slid forwards at an angle. Ryan saw that it was hinged like a door from the opposite corner and the supposedly ancient bricks were in fact just a replica less than two inches thick. It was too dark to see past the opening, but such uns
poiled blackness suggested a large room within.
“What is this place?”
“It’s the old priests’ quarters,” Brynne said, stepping inside. “Apparently the gunnermen aren’t as good as they think when it comes to searching buildings.”
He lit a match and Ryan heard the hiss of a gas lamp followed by a low whoosh as the flame took hold. He felt a flutter of nerves when the orange glow finally pushed back the shadows. On each wall, photographs had been fastened showing dozens of stern young faces. Alongside each one was a small newspaper clipping that had been preserved in glass. He scanned across the first few.
Simon Carter – arrested and executed for sedition.
Lawrence Ranil – executed for refusing allegiance to His Greatness, Premier Talis.
Nicholas Trevallin – executed for promoting sedition in the city of Karasard.
Ryan flicked from one face to the next, seeing both the photo and then the reflection of himself within the frame. Smoke from the dead match drifted in the air and then Brynne moved alongside him bringing the light towards their faces.
“I hadn’t planned on showing you this yet,” the old man said. “But I think it’s something you need to see.”
“Who are they?”
“They’re my boys.” Brynne said. “Each one of them brave beyond measure.” He crossed the room and stared at three photos that seemed newer than the rest. “These were the latest. You saw the procession on Saintsday, right?”
Ryan’s mind flicked back to those sombre young men and women who were paraded around the fire before being led to a quiet death.
“Three of those poor souls were in my group. These three men here.”
The old man’s voice was hollow, his eyes dead. He pulled a table from the side wall and placed it in the centre of the room. There were two candles on top and he struck another match to light them. Lying between the candles was a leather-bound book, its surface decorated with ornate metal. He beckoned Ryan over to him and opened the book to reveal a ledger of names.
“A book of Martyrs,” he said. The names had dates that went back years.
“You mean all of these,” Ryan looped his hand in the air to indicate the photos. “You knew them all? They’re all dead?”
“Each one of them was murdered for their beliefs. Either caught by the gunnermen or sentenced to death by Talis for refusing the oath.” The oath of allegiance was publicly sworn by every citizen when they turned eighteen.
The old man took a pen from the table and began writing below the final entry. The words flowed in a smooth copperplate style that seemed impossible from those thick and callused hands. He wrote three names, one after another, while Ryan waited at his shoulder.
“There are so many,” he said.
“They made the ultimate sacrifice. Like I told you, brave beyond measure.”
The room suddenly felt very oppressive and Ryan wanted nothing more than to get out of there. Out of respect though, he stayed and searched the photos in silence. Eventually, Brynne blew out the candle on the desk and put a hand on his shoulder. They walked back into the chancery and Ryan waited for the old man to secure the room behind its false wall. Once it was done, the old man took a seat on the front pew and motioned for Ryan to join him.
“I know the path you’re walking and I know it’s a lonely one. But it has to be that way. Don’t you see that?”
“I don’t,” Ryan said, at last finding his voice. “I don’t see why I can’t meet the other people like me. We could have meetings, help each other plan, do protests, do….something.”
Brynne lit a cigarette and the match pooled red and orange around his face. “Did I ever tell you what it was like when I first started this?” Although it was a question, he spoke as if Ryan wasn’t even there. “It was all so different then. Grittier. More real somehow. There were four of us in the group, until I asked your father to join us.”
Ryan was stunned. “My father?”
“We’d been working on the plan for months. I thought I’d taken every precaution, but I guess I wasn’t as thorough back then as I am now. The night the gunnermen came I was late to the safe-house. I’d been followed across town by an agent and forced to double back to dodge the checkpoints. You know what it’s like. By the time I reached them, it was all over and my friends were dead.” Brynne’s eyes suddenly hardened. “Except your father.”
Ryan felt sick. “How did he do it?”
“The details? I don’t know. It might not even have been him that tipped them off to begin with,” he said. “It could have been me who missed something. All I know is that he was the only one left alive. A month after that, at least a dozen other activists were dead across Carlsgard and Kilvaren.”
“How did you escape?”
“I got out of Karasard and spent the next six years bedding down in the gutters of Willensbrough and Priest. He half smiled again and flicked his eyes over the chapel. “I’ve really gone places since then.” There was no humour in his voice.
“My whole life was torn away and scattered to the winds. Until that happens Ryan, you can’t even try to understand how I felt. I hope you never will.”
Everything was silent and Ryan felt as empty as the church around them. Brynne had slopped thirty years of guilt onto his shoulders.
“I don’t blame you for what happened Ryan,” he said. “But that’s why I keep you all at arm’s length from each other. If any one person is caught, the rest of the group survives. You understand now?”
Ryan understood all too well and he was ashamed of the reason.
“Anyway,” Brynne said, “we’re out of time.”
“You’re throwing me out?”
“No way, today you’re with me. You wanted to see more? Well that’s what you’re going to get.”
“I can’t. I have to get back.”
“Your plans just changed. Today you’re helping me in Karasard.”
“Karasard?”
He nodded. “At the town square. You know what that means, right?”
“I think so.”
“Then let’s get moving.”
Brynne reached beneath the bench and pulled out two identical canvass satchels. He passed one to Ryan and looped the other across his shoulder. It had a surprising weight to it and Ryan gave him a questioning look.
“Just something we’ll need later. Come on.”
He turned out the light and led Ryan onto the dark, Straybeck streets.
Chapter 42
It was three-thirty in the morning. Robb was awake and alone sitting at the kitchen table. Eliza had been called into the hospital and John had gone to bed hours ago. The boy had been heartbroken when he saw what the gunnermen did to his room. Almost as much as when he’d seen the bruises on his dad’s face.
Robb had cleared the debris from the bedroom floor and made up a mattress in the space. When he finally turned off the bedroom light, John was still sobbing quietly.
Robb’s head began to nod and he jolted awake. Part of him was still waiting fearfully for the gunnermen to return, while the other part was hoping it would be Ryan. He massaged the bridge of his nose and with a groan of effort pushed out of his chair and limped into the hallway. His knees cracked angrily and the bones in his left shin felt as though they were working against one another. He paused at the bottom step and slowly bent each leg at the knee so that the joints ground together like broken rocks. After an initial surge of pain, it gave him some relief and Robb turned to the mirror that was hanging on the opposite wall. A large bruise had swallowed his right eye socket and Eliza had stuck a piece of gauze over the split. He prodded at it gently and felt the skin tighten as he moved his mouth up and down.
With a deep breath, he unfastened the buttons on his shirt allowing it fall open. Immediately his eyes were drawn to the angry, red scars that coloured his chest and neck. For the first time in years, Robb studied his disfigured reflection, tracing his fingers over the bulging lines and melted skin. He closed his eyes and re
membered the damp grey walls of The Cathedral. How they chained him to the archways in the upper cells and laughed at his screams.
Robb was swinging by the wrists from a thick knotted rope. As he swayed backwards, his body passed through the open archway and into the darkness above Lake Stretten. These brief moments were like a sweet wine. Then his pendulum swung back inside and Robb’s body was driven against a glowing metal rod. Ashgate, the gaoler, was holding it between them like a swordsman. Robb had watched them turn that metal poker through the fire and now they were doing the same to him.
He tried to wriggle free of his ropes, praying that he would fall from the archway and smash his skull on the ground a hundred feet below. He flip-flopped like a speared fish while Ashgate smiled at the screams and tears. He waited patiently for Robb to wear himself out.
“Are you ready yet?” he asked gently. “Will you do it?”
Robb snivelled and choked on a mixture of phlegm and blood. He knew that Ashgate enjoyed these vague questions and so he was resolved not to engage. Punishment for an unsatisfactory answer was always swift and brutal.
“Come on Robb,” Ashgate continued in a voice like honey. “Think about why you’re still here. Why would I be keeping you alive? Why would I still bother hurting you like this?”
Robb swayed back and forth, his head thick with pain. Blood trickled down the front of his mutilated chest and collected on the floor in the grooves between the large stone slabs.
“Why do you think you’re here?” Ashgate returned the poker to the glowing coals and showed his empty hands in a placating manner. He gave an inviting smile and in spite of himself, Robb found he was compelled to give an answer. “To punish me?”
“Partly,” he nodded. “It’s partly that.” He was standing to one side but swayed in time with Robb so that he could keep eye-contact. “Look at that face,” he said like a proud parent. “Not a mark on it.”
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