Scarlett finished; the old man nodded, spat over his shoulder into the river, and spoke. “If by ‘islands in the London Lagoon’ you mean the Great Ruins, I can provide passage there. But not for a low price. The Thames forms the frontier between Mercia and Wessex. It is a desolate wilderness, infested with bandits, blood-otters, and wolves. There are reports of the Tainted too: they are getting closer to civilization with every passing year, and they have been known to ambush undefended boats and eat the passengers. Plus there are whirlpools and irradiated regions where anyone who dives into the water finds their skin peeling off. They look up and see it floating above them like a great pink lily pad with legs.” He broke off to sniff and take a sip from his hip flask. “And that’s before we get to the perils of the lagoon. In short, anyone stupid enough to travel the river takes their life into their hands. But if they’ve got the cash, that’s their lookout. Which bonehead wants to do it, anyway?”
Albert cleared his throat. “Me.”
The old man blinked in surprise. “I assumed you were two slaves, making a request for your master or mistress uptown. In that case, my dear sir, it’s a voyage that does you credit. A fascinating view of our broken lands. We will pass many ruins of historical interest, stretching back to times before the Cataclysm and the Great Dying. I can get you there in five relaxing days. It’ll cost you five hundred pounds and not a penny less. A nighttime start is extra. And I’ll need twenty-four hours to get Clara ready.”
Scarlett stared at the little child. “Why so long? Can’t you just plonk her in the boat?”
The old man gave a snort of derision. “That is Ettie, my granddaughter. Clara is my vessel, moored yonder. The fastest and most reliable ship on the river. My pride and joy.”
He gestured vaguely behind him; Albert looked and saw a rank of motorboats glinting resplendently in the sun. “I would be pleased to sail in Clara,” he said. “Thank you.”
“In that case, I shall get ready for our voyage.”
Arrangements were made, though Scarlett was somewhat skeptical of the old man. “He looks at death’s door,” she said as they left the wharf. “I’ve seen skeletons in better condition. I wouldn’t be surprised if one of his legs drops off and he uses it to steer with, but if you’re happy, that’s fine by me.”
So the days passed, and plans for the raid were finalized. On the afternoon of the third day, they settled their bill at Heart of England and left the inn. As darkness fell, Scarlett’s bags were left in bushes near the river gate. They made their way by chosen backstreets to the park and across to the alley beside the bank. At midnight, the operation began. Albert took a position by the wall.
* * *
—
A harsh metallic noise at his ear made him gasp. He jumped, almost dropping the parcel, nearly banging his backpack on the stones. The metal shutters squealed aside, revealing an open window, unknown depths, and Scarlett’s face hovering like an irritated ghost within.
“How can you possibly be startled?” she hissed. “You knew I was going to open this window. That was the whole plan. It was about as predictable as anything in life can be.” She glanced up and down the empty street. “Come on. If you haven’t already died of a heart attack, see if you can coordinate your limbs long enough to get inside.”
She grasped his hand and pulled him up. In Albert’s opinion, the process went smoothly enough, apart from one stumble on the window ledge. As he fell back, Scarlett grabbed the scruff of his jumper—he hung there a moment, arms flapping frantically, then pitched forward and landed on Scarlett instead. She was softer than anticipated; a second later, she had pushed him away. He stood beside her in the darkness, panting, sweating, clutching the parcel of meat.
The smell in the bank was of furniture polish and ink. It reminded Albert of Dr. Calloway’s office, of its varied punishments and humiliations, and it set his heart racing. Scarlett was busy closing the shutters. She had a black torch in her hand.
“You look a mess,” she whispered. “Like something dredged up in a net.”
“Well, it’s my first time breaking and entering. I’m just nervous, that’s all.”
“All you’ve done is climb in a window! What will you do when we get to the beast?”
He swallowed. “I was hoping to leave the beast bit to you.”
“Yeah?” She tossed him the torch and took the meat. “First do what you came for. Find me the basement keys.”
Brushing wet hair out of his eyes, Albert shone the light around him. They were inside the bank lobby, beyond the security barriers. It was a paneled room; the marble floor was milky white with red striations. There were clerks’ desks, filing cabinets, teacups, and coat stands. Doors and arches led to further rooms. On one side was the locked door to the basement: massive, ornate, a slab of oak and iron.
Albert drifted forward, letting the torch beam glide over the furniture and play against the walls and corners. He could visualize the place where the basement keys were kept, as relayed by the pictures in the old woman’s mind. The way she’d seen it, it was a hidden compartment in one of the paneled walls, just above the corner of some large, dark cabinet or bureau. If he went slowly, it shouldn’t be hard to track down.
“I thought you said you knew where it was?” Scarlett was watching; she hadn’t moved.
“I’ve got an image, that’s all. I don’t know its exact location.” The hiding place would be out of sight of the public areas—that was logical. He passed through a doorway into a back room. More desks—yes, and walls of paneled wood…. He was getting warm. It was really no different from the way he’d gradually scoped the warders’ minds back at Stonemoor, figured the layout of the prison grounds, pieced together the route that would get him to the outside world with minimum confrontation. Simpler, too. He wouldn’t have to kill anybody.
“I didn’t realize there’d be a delay,” Scarlett said. She’d followed him; he could hear the impatience in her voice. Like almost everything that didn’t involve climbing drainpipes and jumping over alleyways, waiting made her irritable. “What are you doing?” she said. “Why are you sitting in that chair?”
“I’ll need to see the wall from the correct angle. The way the old woman saw it….” He got up abruptly. “Yes, that works. I think I’ve found it.”
It wasn’t quite the picture in his head—maybe he’d sat at the wrong desk—but the carved edge of the bookcase was the same. The wall behind was paneled; when he pressed the panel just above the case, a catch sprang open. A set of two keys hung on a peg inside the wall.
Smilingly, he offered them to Scarlett. “There.”
At first her expression didn’t alter, but he could feel the aftershock of his display of talent working its way through her. Her mind was whirling, processing what she’d seen. All at once she grinned, and he grinned back. “Well,” she said. “There is a use for you. Good work. As your reward, you can have the raw meat back again.” That was all she said. She took the keys and the torch and carried them to the door on the far wall.
Here she hesitated, studying the lock, studying the keys. Now it was Albert’s turn to wait.
He frowned. “Why don’t you just try them?”
“Because sometimes, Albert, there are fake keys and explosive charges. Put the wrong one in, turn it the wrong way, the thing blows up in your face…. Do you want a go?”
“Er, no.”
“This one looks as good as any. We’ll see.”
She inserted a key. She twisted her wrist decisively. There was a single, fateful crack. Albert flinched.
Nothing else happened.
Scarlett pulled open the door.
Beyond was a low, curved ceiling and a flight of stairs heading down into the dark. A faint odor hung on the air, a stench of pent-up wildness. Scarlett’s torch showed the steps fading into shadows. Absolute silence.
Albert made a polite gesture. “After you.”
“How kind.” Scarlett held the torch so it illuminated the steps, tightened the straps on the cloth bag on her back, and set off slowly, deliberately, placing her shoes with care. Albert followed, pattering at her heels.
He spoke softly. “Aren’t you going to get out your gun?”
“There won’t be anything yet. Clerks come down here, don’t they? The creature’s got to be secured somehow.”
Albert did not quite share her confidence, but they proceeded safely to where the steps changed direction. The scent on the air was stronger now: a rich, sour animal smell, heavy with despair and rage.
“The lady had never been down here,” Albert whispered. “It was beyond her security level, or else she was too frightened to go. I got no picture from her, anyway. But she knew there was something down here.”
“Sure,” Scarlett said. “Something.”
The staircase ended. They came out in a small plastered room, empty save for a door reinforced with metal housing. It had a grim and practical look. The fastidious elegance of the bank lobby was a world away.
Albert stared at the door without joy. “Think this one’s safe to go through too?”
“Nope. Not at all.” Scarlett shone her torch at a paper sheet stuck to the wall; it had rows of scrawled signatures, and a pen beside it, hanging from a string. “A rota,” she said. “Look: ‘Feeding and Boxing’ has been carried out by Frank early this morning, while Clive’s had the job of ‘Unboxing’ this evening. Lucky Clive. Know what that means? Whatever’s behind here has been let out of its cage, left unfed, and is now waiting for us to come in.”
“What do you think it is?”
“Could be anything.”
He glanced at her. “You think it’s a wolf.”
“Don’t do that. Let’s see what tries to eat us, shall we? I hope you’ve still got the meat.”
Albert had. He watched as Scarlett selected the second key from the ring. Once again, her thoughts were small, tight, and precise; once again, her actions echoed them, with just the slightest delay. She unlocked the door with extreme care but did not open it. No sound came from inside the basement room. Scarlett took her gun, spun the chamber, checking the cartridges, put it back in her belt. She beckoned. Albert handed over the greaseproof packet. Scarlett tore it open to reveal a great heap of minced liver. This she held in her good hand.
“Wonder if Clive has done his job properly,” she said softly. “Open the door.”
It was not Albert’s favorite moment of the evening, reaching over and raising the latch. The door was hinged inward; when he pushed, it swung open with almost too much ease.
Blackness. Shadows in a deep, dark room.
At that moment, Scarlett’s torch flickered and went off. She cursed, tapped the casing. The beam came on again. It sent a thin, frail light straight forward, illuminating a squat black bank safe standing at the opposite wall.
Albert wrinkled his nose. The bitter scent was strong now, carried on warm, stale air.
Nothing visible. Nothing between them and the safe.
He waited, watching Scarlett. She stood there, holding the meat and listening.
Silence? No, not quite. The faintest clacking, as of claws on stone.
She swung the torch slowly to the left. Three shapeless white forms rose out of the darkness, making Albert jump. The beam jerked; even Scarlett’s hand was a little unsteady.
“Old chairs,” she murmured, “furniture under sheets…Great Jehovah’s uncle, could they make it any more eerie?”
She moved the torch beam back past the safe, over to the right. And now, away in the far corner, something else leaped woozily into focus: a wooden crate of unexpected size, its hinged door open, entrails of straw spilling out across the flagstones.
Albert exhaled slowly. “Ooh…”
“Finally.” Scarlett hefted the meat. “Now all we need—”
With a fearful scream, a black shape lunged from the shadows, great knife-blade claws slicing at her head.
It wasn’t what Scarlett was expecting. Albert had been right: she’d guessed a juvenile wolf. Wolves were the top choice for banks, particularly in Mercia and the west, but the burghers of Lechlade had gone for something more exotic, and it caught her by surprise. She jumped back through the arch, dropping the torch, as a great weight collided with the doorframe. Beside her, Albert yelped and toppled out of view. Claws skittered on stonework, sending up sparks. Chains clattered. There was another hideous screech. Scarlett resisted the temptation to fire the gun. Gauging her moment, she dived forward, scooped up the rolling torch, and ducked back out again, just as a huge curved head slashed down.
With shaking hands, she caught it in her torch beam as it wheeled back into the basement room: a giant flightless bird, tall as she was, with a powerfully muscled head at the end of a long, S-shaped neck. Its legs were scaled and strong, its plumage green-gold, its great eyes mad and staring. The light enraged it; the bird threw itself again toward the door, its chain whipping like a snake across the floor. A bolt-cutter beak, long as her forearm, opened wide…. Scarlett put the torch between her teeth, readied the meat, and tossed it through the doorway, high and far across the room. The bird wheeled round to follow it. Two snaps of the beak, the offal was gone. It turned to look again for Scarlett, but she slammed the door, turning the key on the other side.
She felt the force as it struck against the wood.
Breathing hard between her teeth, she swung the torch around. Where was Albert? Lying on his back by the steps, with his legs waving in the air. It was typical of him.
“Get up,” she snapped. “You’re not hurt. Don’t pretend you are.”
There was a lot of flailing. It was like watching a beetle trying to right itself. Finally, he stood beside her, flinching and blinking as the thuds continued against the door.
His eyes stared at her beneath his ragged fringe. “What was that?”
“Horn-beak. You never seen one?”
“No.”
“Get them mostly in northern England. Big flocks up there.”
He digested this. “Think it can break through the door?”
“No. Anyway, it’s on a chain. Just got to wait.”
He nodded. “How many sleeping pills did you put in?”
“Twenty. Thought it was a nice round number. How many would put you to sleep?”
“One made me drowsy. Two knocked me out.”
“Twenty should work, then.”
“Yes.” He stared at the door. “What if it doesn’t?”
“We shoot it.”
“Oh,” Albert said. There was a pause. “Poor bird.”
“Yeah. Otherwise we don’t get the money, Albert, and you don’t get to London.”
“It just seems a shame, killing it,” he said. “Just seems a shame, that’s all.”
Scarlett looked at her watch. The impacts on the door had ceased. A series of fainter thuds, suggesting random collisions, indicated that the pills she had taken from the Faith House agent’s briefcase were doing their work.
“What is it with you and getting to the lagoon?” she said. “I keep telling you there’s nothing there.”
He didn’t answer; they stood quiet in the darkness. Scarlett was just about to speak again when Albert stirred. “There was a boy,” he said abruptly. “A boy they brought to Stonemoor. He had a quiff of white hair and shining eyes, and a leather jacket that crackled when he moved. He was older than me. They put him in the cell opposite mine, while they were testing him, finding out what he could do. He told me about the Free Isles out in the lagoon.”
“And how the hell did he hear about them? From some other madman?”
“He’d come from there. He’d left them, he said. It was a mistake, which he regretted. He was trying to get ba
ck, traveling across England—but then Dr. Calloway caught him. I never found out his name. He was trying to get back. He said anyone was welcome there—if you were special, if you weren’t, it didn’t matter. I was wearing the band. He said I wouldn’t need one in the Free Isles. There was no one to judge you, no one to lock you up.” His voice was so soft, she could scarcely hear him. “That sounded good to me….”
From the room beyond came a particularly loud impact. It was followed by silence. Scarlett held up her hand. She listened at the door, heard nothing.
“They got talents like you on these islands?” she asked.
“I think so. Maybe.”
“What happened to the kid?”
There was a pause. “Oh,” Albert said, “he died.”
Still no sound from the inner room. Scarlett took hold of the handle, pushed the door open cautiously—and almost bumped it into the head of the giant bird, which lay outstretched like a broken puppet on the safe-room floor. One great glazed eye stared upward; a faint hissing came from the nostril high on the scimitar beak. Scarlett stepped over the twitching neck, crossed swiftly to the safe. As she’d thought from her first glance, it was a Lewes Durable, made far away on the other side of Wessex. That meant it was robust and tough to move, but nothing a small piece of gelignite wouldn’t fix.
“Albert,” she said. “Take the torch. Give me the bag.”
He did so; as she prepped the explosive, pushing it beside the locks and hinges, he remained staring down at the unconscious bird. She couldn’t blame him. It was a sight. It was said that great flocks of horn-beaks roamed the Northumbrian hills, preying on sheep and villagers. Scarlett had never traveled that far, never been north of Mercia. One day she would go, though its towns weren’t famed for riches. But those flocks would be worth seeing.
She struck a match against her shoe, lit the fuses, and strolled across to stand by Albert.
The Outlaws Scarlett and Browne Page 14