“I said I'm fine.” But then Morwenna was wrapping her arms around his waist and resting her head against his shoulder.
“It's because we killed the boy, isn't it? Because it goes against everything that Jacob taught us.”
Heath lowered his head and whispered, “Children are innocent. It’s adults who poison the world.”
“Even so, you had no choice.”
“Didn't I?” He tried to pull away from her, but Morwenna held fast.
“That boy was at an age where he’d already been poisoned. He would never have joined us; not after watching his father... But the girl is young enough to be saved. And she’s strong. But do we have time to try? We’re only a week away.”
A gust of wind blew up from the sea, making Heath shiver.
“We didn't even try with him,” he said. “Jacob would have, don’t you think? I wonder if he would be disappointed in us?”
“What Jacob thinks doesn’t matter anymore. He isn’t here. And even if he was, he would have done exactly the same. That boy would have fought us. He would have put everything that we stand for at risk. If you want to blame someone for his death, blame his selfish father. What kind of father allows his children to die just to save himself?”
It seemed that in the minute they'd been talking, the last of the daylight had abandoned the sky. Stars glittered. The breeze grew stronger, the sea louder. A few miles down the coast, where the land curved sharply to the right, a lighthouse beam sliced through the darkness. Heath watched it, anger igniting in the pit of his stomach as he pictured the town that lay beyond, tucked away inside a cove. He snuffed it out. There would be time for anger. For retribution. But this was not it.
“Anyway,” Morwenna said, reaching up to stroke his cheek. “I came to find you because there's a problem with Luke. Alison says he won’t eat and now he’s stopped talking.”
Heath turned his back on the horizon and stared at the two-metre chain-link fence and the shadowy buildings that huddled together beyond. “Where are they now?”
“Getting ready for bed.” Morwenna slipped her hand into his and squeezed. “There’s no room for weakness, Heath. Only the strong can bring in the New Dawn.”
“Only the strong can bring salvation.” It was Jacob’s mantra.
Heath stared at Morwenna in the darkness and saw her eyes reflecting the burgeoning moonlight. Together they walked away from the cliff, ducking down to prevent their clothes from snagging as they climbed through a hole in the fence. Following a cement path, they made their way between rows of long, single-storey bunkers with curved roofs, until they came to the last one on the left. Entering the building, they were immediately plunged into shadows. Morwenna let go of Heath's hand and fumbled in her pocket. A spark of light flashed between them as she held up a cigarette lighter and reached towards a shelf of LED lanterns. Winding one up, she handed it to Heath, then lit another for herself.
“You go on,” she said. “I’ll check on the girl.”
She kissed him, then turned to leave. Heath held on to her.
“Are we ready for what’s coming, Morwenna? For what needs to be done? All these children, they’re counting on me to save them. But I can’t do that without your help.”
Stepping closer, Morwenna kissed him again, longer this time. “You don’t have to worry about me. I know what needs to be done. And I have an idea that will guarantee our crossing.”
“What is it?”
She smiled in the lantern light. “Not now. Later.”
Then she was gone, darting along the corridor, glancing over her shoulder. Heath drew in a deep breath, felt the ache dragging at his chest again, then pushed open the second door on the right. It was a large room with bunk beds lining both sides. Lanterns sat on upturned boxes, casting a warm glow over a gaggle of children of varying ages, who should have all been clambering over each other and making a din. But they were silent now, listless and sullen. They’d been like that since Jacob had vanished, and nothing Heath had tried so far had been able to bring back their light.
Alison was stooped over the furthest bunk, tucking a young girl into bed. Noticing Heath, she kissed the girl on the cheek, then went over to join him.
“What’s the problem?” he asked.
In the lantern light, Alison’s thin frame was pale and gaunt, lank hair draping past her shoulders. She was a year or two older than Heath and Morwenna, but unlike them, Alison had always been sensitive in nature and better suited to taking care of the younger children rather than fighting on the front-line.
“It’s Luke,” she whispered.
Glancing over Alison's shoulder, Heath spied a young boy sitting on a lower bunk bed with his knees pulled up to his chin and his large, hollow eyes staring blankly at the wall.
“Morwenna said he isn’t eating.”
“Not for three days now. This morning, I had to practically force water down his throat. He’s stopped talking, too. It's like he's given up.”
“Alison, I’m cold!” one of the children complained behind her. “I need more blankets.”
“There aren't any, so you'll just have to snuggle,” she said, before turning back to Heath. “It's not normal for a boy Luke’s age to behave like this. It’s been months since he joined us. He should be used to this life by now.”
Heath’s eyes were still fixed on the boy. He remembered taking him from his home. Remembered encouraging Cal to knock the boy’s father unconscious while the child watched from the stairs. Cal. He didn't want to think about him. Didn't want that name poisoning his mind like a cancer. If it hadn't been for Cal’s betrayal, or Jacob's foolish, unwavering belief in him, they would still be at Burnt House Farm and not living like urchins off the land, without electricity or warmth, or enough food.
“That boy needs to toughen up,” Heath said through clenched teeth. “This world is Hell and the New Dawn is at hand. He can’t cross over if he’s weak. He needs to learn that. Fast.”
Alison shook her head. “He’s too young to understand. All he knows is that he was taken away from his family and his father was killed.”
“Punished,” Heath corrected. Lantern light flickered in his dark eyes. “He was a rapist of children and he got what he deserved. We saved that boy. He should be grateful.”
Alison’s gaze dropped to the floor. “Even so, whatever's going on with him, it’s nothing good. If he doesn't eat, he’ll get sick. If he gets sick, he’ll need a doctor.”
“Then make him eat.”
“It’s not that easy. He doesn’t want to be here, Heath. It’s like he’s broken.” She glanced over her shoulder at the boy, who was far too thin and far too still for a child of his age. “What if we took him somewhere? We could drop him off at a hospital then disappear.”
Heath glared at her. “So that he can tell everyone where we are? Tell everyone our names and what we look like? Have you lost your fucking mind?”
Alison stared at the ground again. “I don't think he would do that. I don't think he’s well enough to –”
“Thinking and doing are two different things.” Heath glared at the boy. He should have learned by now to follow the rules; that in this world, children like him were exploited and abused, then discarded, their bodies dumped in gutters. “We can't take him to a hospital. We can't take him anywhere without the risk of him exposing us. Then all the work that we've done – all the work Jacob has led us to do – will be for nothing.”
“Then what do we do?” Fear had crept into Alison’s voice. “We just let him starve to death? Let him lose his mind? Jacob would never agree to that. Jacob says children are sacred and we must do everything to protect them.”
“Jacob abandoned us. I'm in charge now. And if that boy doesn't eat,” he shoved a finger in Luke’s direction, “if he can't follow the rules, then he's not one of us. And if he's not one of us, it means he’s against us. Child or no child.” He leaned in closer, feeling his breath bounce off Alison’s skin. “The New Dawn is almost here. Are you
with us or against us?”
He felt her muscles inching away from him. Sensed fear dripping from every pore. Good, he thought. Know your place.
“Of course I’m with you,” Alison whispered. Behind her, Luke was still sitting on the bed, staring emptily into space, slowly disappearing into the shadows. The other children were sitting up, silently watching the adults. “I’ll take care of it. I’ll make him eat.”
“See that you do,” Heath said. “Or I’ll take care of it myself.”
He left the room, ignoring one of the children who called out goodnight to him. Shutting the door with one hand and holding up the lantern with the other, he stood in the corridor and stared into the darkness.
Would Jacob have said the same thing? Would he have been so heartless? Or would Jacob have sat with the boy and spoken gently to him? Nurtured and cared for him until he felt safe and sound? Until he felt like he belonged.
The dull ache in his chest pulled at him. Jacob was gone. The world was cold and cruel. Nurture and kindness were not weapons he could use. They let the world rip you to shreds and swallow you until there was nothing left. No, in a violent world, cruelty was the only means of survival.
Heath stared into the shadows. Then froze. He felt eyes watching him from the darkness. Spinning around, he held up the lantern. A middle-aged woman with a shock of red hair and a pale, haunted face stood beside a row of lockers, staring at him.
“What are you doing, Cynthia?” Heath said, feeling the ache in his chest start to burn.
The woman watched him. For a second, hate lit up her eyes. Then she glanced away, staring at her feet.
“Nothing,” she whispered. “I was just coming to say goodnight to the children.”
“Well, don’t keep them long. There’s work to do in the morning.”
They stood in silence, shadows circling them. Then Cynthia said, “I heard there’s a new girl.”
“Nothing for you to worry about.”
“But I hear she’s in a cell. Shouldn’t she be with the other children?”
Heath stared at her, eyes straining in the half-light. Fucking Cynthia. Always questioning him. Thinking she knew better because she was an adult. Thinking she had authority because Jacob had stuck his dick in her. Like she’d been the only one.
“Say goodnight to the children or leave them be,” he spat.
He turned his back on her and continued down the corridor. Cynthia’s voice made him freeze.
“Jacob would have put her with the others. He would have let their joy be her welcome and comfort.”
Heath got going again. He could still feel the woman’s disapproving eyes burning into his neck long after he'd entered his room and slipped into Morwenna’s arms. He could still feel them as the two of them rutted on the bed, then collapsed in a tangled heap. And when he eventually fell asleep, he dreamed of Cynthia’s eyes searing through his flesh to reveal a scared little boy curled up like a foetus inside.
Heath would show her what it meant to be strong and powerful. He would show the world what a mighty leader looked like. And when the New Dawn came – and it was just days away now – he would lead all his children into the light.
6
COVE HOLIDAY PARK SAT at the very top of Porth an Jowl and boasted stunning, panoramic views of the ocean to the west and rolling green fields to the east. The site itself was made up of rows of static white caravans that looked like leftovers from a trailer park rather than the luxurious accommodation advertised in promotional brochures. But they were comfortable and clean enough if space and privacy weren’t priorities.
Nat stalked between a row of caravans, a mop and bucket in her hands and a curled sneer on her lips. It was nine a.m. on Saturday morning and she was feeling irritable as hell. She’d been awake much of the night, thoughts churning her mind. The sleep she did get had been plagued by nightmares.
The Dawn Children were back.
But now, instead of trying to find them, she was stuck here cleaning caravans.
With school still in session, most of the holidaymakers were either childless or older, their children all grown up. It was a small mercy, Nat supposed, as she glared at a white-haired couple who were heading out for the day. In a few weeks’ time the park would be a deafening cacophony of tears and arguments and whining, with snotty kids running around her.
Heaving her shoulders, she made her way to the nearest caravan, set the bucket down, and hammered on the door. A moment later, the door opened, revealing a middle-aged man with thinning hair and a paunch. His congenial expression soured as he saw a girl with a freshly shaved scalp, black skinny jeans and a heavy-metal t-shirt, glaring at him.
“You want your room cleaned?” she barked.
“Um...” the man said, struggling to find his voice.
Nat huffed. Shifted her weight from one side to the other. “A yes or no would be helpful.”
The man swallowed. Shook his head.
“Right answer.” Nat stalked away, heading to the next caravan. Why did weekend jobs always suck? There was never anything cool like an artist’s assistant. Even a job serving popcorn at a cinema would have been better than cleaning up other people’s crap. As she stopped outside the next caravan, she heard Rose’s sing-song voice in her mind: Beggars can’t be choosers!
“Sure. Whatever, Rose.” Blowing out a frustrated breath, she raised her hand to hammer on the caravan door.
“Natalie! Is that you? Where’s your apron?”
A large, sweaty man in his early fifties was marching towards her. Dennis Penpol, son of local gossip Dottie Penpol. Proprietor of Cove Holiday Park and current pain in Nat’s ass.
She watched him approach, unable to hide her disdain as he huffed and puffed, meaty arms swinging at his sides, his beady eyes fixed on her like she was something he’d just stepped in. Coming to a halt, he thrust his hands on his hips.
“Well? Where is it? It’s not like I haven’t told you a hundred times already,” he said, his voice thick and raspy.
Nat shrugged. “It’s in the wash.”
“You were given two aprons. Don’t you have the mental capacity to work out that you wash one, wear one? It’s not rocket science, is it?” Dennis shook his head. Nat’s grip on the bucket handle grew tighter. “And while we’re on the subject of dress code, you can’t be cleaning caravans dressed like you’re about to sacrifice a baby on a full moon. Some nice blue jeans and a blouse will do, not this heavy metal chic, or whatever you youngsters call it these days. Get yourself over to the office right now and grab a spare apron from one of the lockers. At least that’ll cover up whatever the hell that is.”
He jabbed a stubby finger at Nat’s chest. She stared down at the image on her t-shirt – a zombie with both hands held up, rotten middle fingers folded over to make horn signs – then back up at Dennis. Personally, she found his face more offensive. She resisted the urge to punch it. The only reason Nat had a job right now was because Rose had talked Dottie Penpol into persuading Dennis to employ her. No one else in the cove would give her a job; not even the idiots at The Shack beach bar, with most citing that Nat’s appearance would intimidate the tourists, while others thought her social skills weren’t exactly conducive to great customer service.
If she were to smack Dennis Penpol square in the face right now, Rose would never forgive her. Besides, as much as Nat hated every minute of working at the caravan park, it put money in her pocket, and that meant she could contribute to the household bills.
“Are you even listening to me, Natalie?” Dennis said, his red face growing a shade deeper.
Nat grunted. “Loud and clear.”
“Good. Perhaps Rose has managed to drum some sense into you, after all. You’re very lucky to have her, you know. Otherwise you’d have gone off the rails a long time ago.”
Nat clenched her jaw. Perhaps she could get away with a quick slap of an open palm to the bridge of his nose.
“Tomorrow, you’ll wear more sensible clothing,” Dennis
said. “Or I’ll have to reconsider your employment.”
Or perhaps a karate chop to the throat.
Nat grunted again, then strode past him, mop and bucket swinging violently in her hands. She heard him mutter something behind her, but she continued on, knowing that if she stopped right now not only would she be out of a job, but up on a murder charge. Stalking past more caravans, she reached the office; a one-storey portable cabin that had seen better days. She threw open the door, stomped inside, dropped the bucket and mop to the ground, then stood for a minute, quietly seething.
“Fucking prick. Stupid asshole.”
People like Dennis Penpol had given Nat a hard time her whole life. Did he really think he was going to break her with a few harsh words? She cast an eye around the cramped room. Penpol’s desk sat in one corner, a mess of paperwork and dirty cups covering its surface. An old, yellowed nude calendar hung on the wall, a topless woman with big hair staring provocatively at Nat. Miss April 2008. Probably the last time Dennis got laid. Wrinkling her nose, Nat crossed the room and pulled open one of three lockers. A row of identical aprons hung inside. She pulled one out, sneering as she examined the pink and lilac floral print.
Freeing the apron from the hanger and swearing under her breath, Nat pulled it over her head. A mirror hung on the wall and she stared at her reflection in horror. At least no one she cared about would see her in such nauseating garb. Not that there were many people she cared about. Her face burning, Nat stooped to pick up the mop and bucket. She froze, noticing the cup of coffee on the edge of the desk. She pressed her hand against the porcelain. Still warm. Smiling, she glanced over at the door, then leaned down and hawked a stringy globule of spit into the coffee.
“Choke on it, you dick.”
There were more people outside now, heading for the shower block or out for the day. Nat ignored them all, keeping her eyes fixed on the ground ahead, feeling the weight of the apron around her neck, even though it weighed barely anything at all.
As she drew closer to her section of caravans, she saw a flash of blonde out the corner of her eye and heard someone laugh.
The Devil's Gate Page 5