With and Without, Within and Without

by Euan McAllen

  ‘Save it?’ he asked. ‘From the Maze?’

  ‘From itself.’

  Her performance reminded him of his younger self, before he joined the establishment, became part of the system, and was corrupted by its rights, responsibilities, and power. He had been worn out by his never-ending efforts to ensure that nothing ever truly changed. Time for a shake-up, he decided. Let those bastards squirm. Let her have her church. It was his vote – he had few left – and he wanted to enjoy it.

  Sinead clapped and almost jumped for joy. She was in Heaven. The servant was called to lead her out before she could thank the Senior Elder properly. It all happened so fast that she never got the chance to make another request: that The Village ban on the monk Fargo be lifted.

  Fargo would be delighted, she thought. But she would never get to tell him for, as he followed in her footsteps towards the house, a hand grabbed him by the forehead from behind, and the sharp blade of a sword rested on his neck, daring him to make the smallest move. The cold steel sent a shiver down Fargo’s spine. Another man’s breath went down the back of his neck.

  ‘So it’s you, Fargo,’ hissed Mutz. ‘Found you at last. Pleased to see me?’

  ‘Who are you?’

  ‘You don’t know me? You should. Mutz, now Captain Mutz of the New Army, and as such it is probably my duty to slit your throat right now as an enemy of the prince. Come to kill him, have you?’

  ‘No, no, definitely not. I didn’t know he was here, I swear. Those days are behind me. I’m a new man.’

  Fargo began to choke on his words as he blubbered and blurted out his explanation for being in The Village.

  ‘You’re here with that crazy girl they’re all talking about?’

  ‘Yes. Sinead. She saved me, saved my soul, nursed me back to health. She’s here, so I’m here, to protect her. I love her. She loves me.’

  Saving souls again, thought Mutz. Before you start destroying them again. Mutz relaxed his sword a little for he had no intention of killing the mad monk – not without an explicit order – he just wanted to scare him witless, make him shit his pants. The new smell suggested that he had succeeded. He would hold Fargo prisoner until the prince returned. Let the prince decide what to do with his enemy.

  Mutz forced marched his catch back to his room, sat him down, tied him up, gagged him, then sat down himself, exhausted but satisfied that he had done his job. The satisfaction did not last, for it immediately dawned on him that he could not possibly keep the man – a possibly demented man who might crack at any moment – locked up in his rented room. I am supposed to be keeping a low profile, Mutz told himself. This is not doing that. Then he thought of the oaf Giles and jumped up in haste, to go bang on the door of her ladyship, the thorn in his side.

  Lady Agnes opened her door in a foul mood, for she had been woken up, she said. (She was lying: she just wanted a chance to belittle the man who never took her seriously, never accepted her position of power over him.) Mutz didn’t give a damn, and said so, which wound her up even more, to the point that she wanted to punch him in the chest. Ignoring her remonstrations, he explained the situation and what she had to do. Lady Agnes nearly fainted. The devil was in the next room! Her captain had to lower her gently on to the bed and try and be nice to her, respectful even – something he hated doing.

  ‘Look, I know this is difficult, but we need his help. There is nobody else. We need your farmer friend to hold him for us. I can’t keep him here. Just until the prince is back. Tell him I’ll pay him, pay him well.’

  ‘You tell him! He’s not my friend!’

  Mutz looked at her like she was a badly behaved child: too boastful, still too insecure, and never willing to cooperate.

  ‘Very well, have it your way. Take me to him now.’

  ‘Now?’

  ‘Yes, woman, now. This can’t wait.’

  ‘Don’t you talk to me like that Mutz! You may be his captain, but I’m his mistress!’

  Mutz waved her away. He really had no time for this. Lady Agnes rolled her eyes at her suddenly very unattractive captain and did her best to play the part of the prima donna.

  ‘Mozak will get to hear of this!’

  ‘I’m sure he will, but in the meantime, we have to deal with this. We are not in our land, but The Village, and village people could easily become our enemies. We have to make the most of any friends we have – and Giles is your friend, isn’t he? He likes you, doesn’t he?’

  ‘Yes.’ It was a climbdown.

  ‘So take me to him. It’s dark. I’ll get a lantern.’

  She watched Mutz leave the room, hoping that he would not return, but he did, with a lantern. There was no way out, and, still protesting, Lady Agnes led Mutz out of The Village; holding on to his arm; trying to slow him down; both hating it and loving it every step of the way as they stumbled on through the encroaching dark. A little, risk-free adventure was good for her soul. Elsewhere, alone in her room, feeling deserted, betrayed, Sinead sat stiff, her muscles tense; refusing to cry; determined to carry on the fight. Alone again. But then loneliness was something she knew well: she knew how to fight it.

  Farmer Giles was both surprised and pleased to see her, then surprised and fearful to see her soldier bodyguard. Had he said something wrong? Had he been too forward? He clenched his fists, afraid a fight was coming. He listened perplexedly as Lady Agnes ran away with her words, and Mutz had to shut her up and make his pitch. Giles was wary but not shocked. He saw a good money-making opportunity, and he could set the rate. They had no choice. He had them over a turnstile. And would be doing The Village a favour by holding a maniac, a man who was planning to overthrow order with chaos and confusion. The Elders would thank him for his efforts, his sacrifice. Mutz interrupted his runaway thoughts.

  ‘Is that a yes then?’

  ‘Yes. Bring him tomorrow, first light. This has to stay secret.’

  ‘Understood.’

  ‘And Lady Agnes.’

  ‘Yes, what?’

  ‘You can trust me on this. You can always trust me.’

  ‘Can I? Thank you.’ She was not impressed. ‘Come on Mutz let’s go. I’m tired.’

  Next morning, at the crack of dawn, Mutz – who had not slept a wink – led Fargo, now a subdued, broken shell of a man, through the sleeping village, and down the lane which led to the house of Farmer Giles, where the man was waiting for them.

  Giles looked the prisoner over, like he was an addition to the herd, before leading him on into another small building where a spare cell was waiting for him. The other cell held his bear. Mutz could not bear to look at the beast for he looked sad, emaciated, stripped of his dignity and worth. In return, the bear gave Mutz a look that said ‘please get me out of here’. After locking him in Giles gave Fargo a look that said ‘any trouble and you’ll end up like him’. Both Fargo and Mutz got the message. Fargo still had his God to cling to. God went everywhere he went. The bear had nothing. Nature was nowhere to be seen, smelt, heard, tasted, or touched. Nature had deserted him.

  Esmeralda was not told of this development. Lady Agnes was adamant: the shock might damage her. Doc, on the other hand, was told and ordered to attend to the hostage as and when required. Mutz did not want his prisoner dying on him. That would not go down well with his boss.

  ***

  When Sinead discovered Fargo gone the previous night, she was only half-surprised. Now, the next day, with no sign of him, she was not surprised and what love she had for him (artificial as its roots were) evaporated, without regret, to be replaced by the anger of betrayal. He could go – let the old man get his sex elsewhere – just as long as God remained by her side. She was alone again, but she knew how to survive alone. God had prepared her for that. She refused to think about him anymore. She found it as easy to discard him as it was to adopt him. It had been the same with h
er pet rabbit. If he did come back, crawl back, she would kick him, slap him, spit in his face, but grudgingly take him in for she could use him, as she had used him.

  Sinead had been authorised to build a new church on the land known as ‘Landfill’. Logic told her she could not build a church by herself. A church needed a congregation. She would have to start recruiting. She decided to erect a tent on her site – no time to waste.

  She found the landfill site at the northern end of The Village. It was a large, high mound of earth, like a giant pimple, caked in weeds of all descriptions and sizes, along with a scattering of broken bricks and large stones. She clambered up to its top and looked around. The ground felt odd, slightly unstable. It shifted too easily. But it was high ground, so that was an advantage. She would have the highest church in The Village. She made her way back down and began to wander, as she wondered where she might find a tent to purchase.

  Ricardo saw his sister crouching by the duck pond; her precious cargo, the man Fargo, nowhere in sight. She had her eye on one particular duck – the quiet one, the one detached from the others – like she wanted to rescue it or roast it. He approached and greeted her. She looked pleased to see him. They talked, whereupon she revealed that she was alone again, the lone warrior.

  ‘Men can never be trusted. They always let you down,’ she said bitterly.

  ‘Move in with me. I have a spare room. It’s yours,’ he said. ‘Family should stick together.’

  Sinead stood up, looked him straight in the eye and declined. She was not looking for charity: she wanted to hand it out. She took her leave and walked away from the edge of the water and the ducks that had shown no interest in her. She had a church to build. She stopped suddenly and turned around. She hated having to ask for help.

  ‘I need a tent, a large tent, to hold lots of people. Can you help?’

  ‘To rent or buy?’

  ‘Buy, I think.’ Building a church out of stone would take a long time, she thought.

  ‘I know a man who does such things. He supplies The Village Fete.’

  ‘Can you take me to him?’

  ‘Yes, of course.’

  ‘Now?’

  ‘Yes, now.’

  ‘Let’s go then.’

  She waved her brother on like he was a dog. She had no time to waste.

  ***

  Grimble, leader of the Skunks, was on the prowl, looking for trouble; in any form, as trouble always proved interesting, and provided a meal for his spirit. Sometimes he provoked it, then ran off, avoiding it. Sometimes, he jumped right in and got stuck in, until he won or became unstuck. Just about everything in his life was boring, or a betrayal. He carried no heavy thoughts: his emotional baggage he kept tied up with string in a box. He was driven by basic instincts: to run, run fast; to jump, jump high; to climb, towards the sky, out of reach; to fight, for the fun of it, or to release the fury inside his head; to flee, as the last resort; to do his head in before it did him in; to urinate over the shit of life; to dominate so as to not be dominated. He didn’t give a shit what anyone thought – at least that was what he tried to tell himself.

  Grimble had his gang: the Skunks. It was the one thing he was proud of. He had given them their name. He had improved their lives. He was the one who kept the Skinned Heads at a safe distance. Their leader did not show him respect but he backed off more than he did come on strong. Their leader was more words than action. Grimble was more action than words.

  He enjoyed hitting rather than thinking. Thinking too much might take him to places where he could not cope. Not wishing to self-harm, he preferred to harm others. Someone had to pay for his hurt and it wasn’t going to be him. He pretended to himself that he had everything he needed to get from one moment (usually dull) to the next (also dull). He didn’t have the nerve to think anything else. He did not see the good in people because he made a point of not looking for it. Goodness was a weakness, he had concluded. Goodness might crack him open. Having friends was another weakness he had decided. Therefore the members of his gang could not be his friends. But sex was worth having. Sex made him strong. Getting it was always a long hard-fought battle though, and often tiresome. Why didn’t girls just shut up and get on with it?

  Stopping to rest at the landfill, and the mound of earth which hid the rubble from The Village people, Grimble looked up through the smoke that clouded his mind to see a girl on top. It was that crazy girl, the bewitching girl; the girl with a thousand thoughts in her head, and all the words to let them out. She was rummaging around, looking busy but getting nowhere. She stepped around carefully, kicking away a brick here and there, or other flotsam which floated on the sea of hidden rubbish. She looked disappointed one moment, determined the next. Grimble didn’t know it but his inner self – a stranger to his outer self – recognised something in her: the same something he had in him. And they were both trying to keep it under control. He smoked his way out of it. What did she do? Pray?

  He shook off his new thoughts – too many at once – and stumbled on up, determined to speak to the crazy bitch finally – ‘bitch’ being a term of affection in his book. She was a new game in town, and he wanted to play: if not play, then fight. The crazy bitch looked like she was worth the fight, and he liked a good fight. Around her, the pieces of a tent were laid out. She looked lost. She looked like an easy victory.

  Without saying hello, he offered to help, swaying a little as he mumbled, afraid he might scare her. But she wasn’t scared. In fact, it was almost as if she had been expecting him. Here was a total contrast to her timid, housetrained brothers. He looked like the kind of boy who went looking for trouble, which she didn’t mind as she regarded herself as trouble. She smiled and thanked him and watched as he sorted out the pieces and gathered his thoughts. He had a good feeling: he did not repel her; he did not intimidate her. He wanted to snog her. He wanted to smack her. He wanted her to smack him. But first this fucking tent.

  ‘I can put this up, but it won’t stay up unless we weight it down.’

  ‘How do we do that?’

  ‘Stones. Lots of them. I’ll get the lads to bring some up later.’

  ‘Lads?’

  ‘My gang of lads.’

  She thanked him again.

  ‘Why here? Why put a tent up here? On top of this shit?’ He had to ask.

  ‘It’s going to be my new church.’

  ‘Your new church?’

  ‘Yes, I have permission to build one here – but for now, it’s just a tent. Enough to stake my claim make my intentions clear, start recruiting.’

  This girl’s got balls, he thought.

  Finally, he came out with it. ‘I’ve seen you around, outside the church.’

  ‘I know,’ she confessed.

  That recognition cheered him up no end. Most of the time, he was invisible: only when he was with his gang did he get noticed.

  Grimble got stuck into the job, as did Sinead under his direction; never smiling, just concentrating, which he liked. Too much smiling was what cretins did – like The Village Idiot.

  She interrupted the work at one point. ‘I have to ask you.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘What is that smell? It’s all around us. It’s almost toxic, like a dead animal left to rot.’

  ‘It comes from below. It’s all the crap they threw down the hole.’

  The Landfill Site was a testament to everything that had been thrown away, which could not be repaired, or washed away, or dug back into the soil. It had started life as a big hole in the ground until it filled up and had to be covered over with slabs of stone, and earth. It was not the first – but it was the first to be remembered for it was the largest to date – and it would not be the last. Elsewhere, another hole had been dug and that too was slowly filling with all the crap produced by The Village people. The one thing it didn’t
actually contain was crap, as in human or animal waste, for that was recycled back into the land. Rumours abounded that the Landfill contained the bodies of villagers who had caught the plague or had been hanged, or who were in some way undeserving of a proper burial; even the bodies of babies and small children. Grimble hoped that one day, as a final act of rebellion, the next one would contain his.

  And when the tent was up, and business was done, Grimble stood back, arms crossed.

  ‘All yours.’

  Sinead corrected him. ‘Not just mine. It can be yours too.’

  That strange comment he chose to ignore.

  ‘Anything else I can help you with?’

  ‘Not right now, but I’m sure I’ll think of something. I always need help.’

  On that note, Grimble gave his usual defiant look of self-imposed independence and stumbled off.

  ‘I’ll see you around.’

  Sinead nodded, preferring not to wave.

  ***

  Grimble kept his promise to Sinead, his crazy bitch, and his gang secured the tent. They piled up the stones on all sides: even laying a firm path up to the entrance and leaving it fortified so that nothing could blow it away. Secretly, his gang thought Grimble had gone bonkers. Afterward, he persuaded her to come to see his home, his room, his escape. Sinead accepted the invitation, knowing it would hurt if she refused. She would be the first girl to get to see his home, for he was ashamed of it.

  What Grimble called his home – for want of a better word – was a shambles, like his mother. The place was dirty, disorganised. It smelt of lives lived in a haphazard never-ending commotion of failure. Sinead took it all in through clenched nostrils and clenched teeth. It was the opposite of that she had left behind. Her home had had order – the imposed kind – and cleanliness – the paranoid kind – and a system – the only kind. This place was the total opposite, and in some ways strangely electrifying. A thought entered her head: did opposites attract? She did not pass judgement. He needs help, she decided. He needs to be saved, from himself. My task. My challenge. Another burden for me to bear.