by Chris Ward
‘Oh, don’t be so despondent. I’m sure things will work out. A penny for your thoughts?’
A low growl came from under the hood.
‘You brought me something, didn’t you?’
An arm poked out from the cloak, caked in bandages that stank of blood and oil. It slid forward a black plastic container.
Kurou leaned down and picked up the box, turning it over in long, bony hands, talons more than fingers. He picked off the lid, immediately recoiling at the putrid smell that gusted up from inside.
‘Dead,’ growled the hooded figure.
Kurou stared at the cluster of naked bodies, each little more than the length of his little finger. Even in the dim twilight, he was able to see the tortured expressions on their newborn faces, as though their brief time in the world had been filled with torment.
‘And the mother?’
The hooded figure didn’t move. ‘Dead.’
Kurou scowled. He thrust the container back into the hooded figure’s hands. Then, with a sudden frustrated growl he kicked out, knocking the container out of the figure’s hands. As the contents spread across the floor, Kurou turned away, leaning on the cathedral tower’s balustrade, his heart beating, his face flushed. From behind came the sound of his servant gathering up the spilled contents of the box and replacing the lid.
‘It is no matter,’ Kurou said, mostly to himself. ‘There will be more chances yet. There will always be more chances.’
As he glared at the town below, filling with an urge to hate and destroy, he sensed the hooded man still standing behind him.
‘Laurette. What is it?’
A rustle of paper. Kurou turned. An arm reached out from the folds of the cloak, clutching a handful of papers, partly scrunched.
‘Oh, Laurette, how many times have I told you not to open my mail?’ Kurou grinned, snatching the papers out of the servant’s hand. ‘What do we have here?’
‘Deeds.’
At first Kurou thought he had misunderstood. Then he nodded. ‘Have we really? So soon?’
He angled the papers up to the light of the rising moon so that he might see them better. His single eye scanned quickly, taking in the pages of complicated text in a few seconds.
‘You brought a pen? There’s no point wasting time now, is there?’
Laurette’s other hand lifted, holding out a blue biro. Kurou scowled—it ought to be black—but the servant was almost mindless. He wasn’t to know.
With a flourish, he signed his current assumed name at the bottom of the last sheet, next to the signature of the current owner of the property being transferred into his charge, a Mr. Stanley Carmichael-Jones, esq.
‘Delightful,’ Kurou said, handing the papers back. ‘Be sure these are delivered promptly and correctly to the correct city office. If you fail, I’ll take your other eye. Then we’ll see how well we’ll get by with just that nose of yours, won’t we?’
Laurette gave a jerky half-bow and retreated to the door. As he reached it, he paused and muttered, ‘Thank you.’
Kurou nodded, and his twisted, deformed face split into a wide grin. ‘You’re very welcome … sire.’
5
Patrick
‘I heard about your brother,’ Tommy said, lighting up a cigar and taking a long draw. ‘Still no news? That’s not why you’re here, is it? He’s an annoying little shit, but I would never hurt my own blood. You know that, don’t you?’
Patrick nodded. ‘That’s not why I’m here.’
‘Then what?
‘The Department of Civil Affairs has arrested Suzanne. I went over to see her and found them there. She’s being held somewhere in town, no doubt. I need to get her out.’
‘So?’
‘I need your help.’
Tommy leaned back in the armchair and took another drag on the cigar. ‘You sure you don’t want one of these? My treat. You should smoke one while you still can. The pricks in London are planning to close the borders to all foreign trade. Did you hear what I just said? They’re blaming the war over in Eastern Europe, but that will be over soon enough.’
‘I have to get Suzanne out. Then we’ll run. I don’t care where. This country sucks. Maybe we’ll go to France or get over to Ireland somehow.’
‘Wow, ambition. What a life to lead. Forget her. She’s as good as dead.’
‘I can’t. If you won’t help me I’ll go in there myself.’
Tommy coughed, unable to help himself. ‘You? Come on, Patrick. Don’t be ridiculous. You’d get gunned down before you got within fifty yards of the front door. I’ll say it again. Forget her.’
Patrick shook his head. ‘Come on, Uncle. I know how much you hate them.’
‘Not enough to start a war I can’t win.’
Patrick looked down at his hands. ‘I’ll do anything. You name it.’
Tommy sucked on the cigar, then leaned forward. He blew smoke into Patrick’s face, then put the cigar down on a plate. The scar down one side of his face blazed red. Patrick forced himself to hold his uncle’s gaze, when all he wanted to do was run.
‘Anything?’
‘Yes.’
‘That’s a big promise to make. You know what I’d do it for?’
‘What?’
Tommy’s smile sent a shiver down Patrick’s back. Even at her most sober, his mother had begged him to stay away. His uncle was a man who had adapted to Britain’s changes better than most … with all that entailed.
‘Pretty little thing, Suzanne, isn’t she?’
Patrick nodded. ‘She’s beautiful.’ He would go even beyond that, but his uncle’s eyes said he already knew.
‘I bet you’ve had some good times with that piece, haven’t you?’ Tommy leaned back, making Patrick flinch. ‘You know something, Patrick? If you ask an old pirate to help recover a treasure, you can’t expect him not to want a share of the spoils, can you?’
Patrick gave a slow nod. ‘No, you can’t.’
‘So, what I want to know is if you’re truly willing to do anything to get her out.’
‘I told you. Anything.’
‘I’ll get her out, but I want her.’
‘You—’
‘Just one night. Then you can have her back.’ Tommy grinned. ‘If there’s anything left.’
Tommy’s cheeks burned. The thought of letting Tommy put his hands all over Suzanne sent shivers of disgust through him. Drunk, his mother had often rambled about her brother’s activities, where his money came from. One story was that he ran most of the brothels in Bristol, and that he personally “road-tested” each new girl to ensure a standard of quality for his customers.
‘I said anything,’ Patrick said, looking at the floor.
Tommy chuckled as he stood up. He patted Patrick on the shoulder. ‘Good lad. Now, give me a few days. I need to make some plans.’ He walked to the door and held it open for Patrick.
‘Thank you, Uncle,’ Patrick muttered as he walked out.
‘Glad to be of help,’ Tommy said.
The door closed. Patrick looked up at the night sky with tears in his eyes. He clenched a fist over the handrail and tried to recall Suzanne’s face, but all he could see was his ugly, grinning uncle.
His mother had passed out on the couch. Patrick fetched a blanket from upstairs and draped it over her. Snoring like a crashed motorbike, she didn’t even flinch as he turned out the light, picked up the empty glass from the floor at her feet and tossed it into the half-full sink in the kitchen.
No way could he sit at home and brood, and he didn’t think he would sleep even if he tried. How could he, if Suzanne was still locked up? What might be happening to her?
In the fridge he found a plastic bottle of the homebrewed liquor Race had got for their mother. The stuff stank like methane when he pulled off the top, as though someone had taken a shit in it. Patrick wrinkled his nose then took a long swallow.
It burned on the way down and he threw it straight back up into the sink. The second swallow sta
yed down, though, and by the third he was flying.
Thirty minutes later, he lurched out of the front door, unsure what he’d been doing since he came home, but with a heart filled with frustration that needed an outlet.
‘I lose her,’ he muttered as he stumbled up the street. ‘Either I lose her to Tommy, or I lose her to the DCA. Either way, we’re both fucked.’
The irony of his words made him burst into laughter that quickly degenerated into choking sobs. In a house he was passing, lights came on behind the curtains, so he picked up his pace until he reached the junction at the end of the street.
With the curfew in place, the streets—sleepy even before—were deserted. The liquor had made him bold, but there was nothing around on which to take out his frustration, and the nearest DCA headquarters was a five-mile walk.
He spotted the first patrolling night watchman at the end of the next street. A gun slung across his shoulder, rather than keeping a lookout, the man was instead peering into the screen of a banned smartphone, no doubt forcefully taken during an inspection.
No chance. The man wouldn’t even see him.
Patrick climbed over a fence and fumbled about in a flowerbed until his fingers closed over a lump of rock used to hold down a little identifying sign with a picture of a rose on its front. He hefted it in his hands; heavy but not too heavy, it should put the man down with a single accurate blow. Then Patrick could steal his gun and finish him off.
A masterplan.
Cutting through front gardens, Patrick tried not to make too much noise as he crept up on the night watchman, now standing back against a lamppost on Patrick’s side of the street, still leering into his phone. As Patrick got within a few metres, the sound of scampering feet made him turn.
A hunched figure wearing a robe was hurrying up the street. Bare feet were visible beneath a pseudo-monk’s habit, and overlong toenails clacked on the tarmac. A hood hid the figure’s face, and arms clutched tightly around something held in its midriff made it hard to define whether it was a man or woman.
The night watchman, still peering into his phone, didn’t spot the newcomer until the figure was almost past him. Then, stuffing his phone quickly into his pocket, he swung his gun up and shouted, ‘Halt!’
Patrick dropped down behind a stand of bushes as the figure paused. The night watchman stepped onto the street, even as the groans and gasps of the porn he had been watching continued, muffled from his pocket.
‘Stop right there,’ the night watchman said, pointing his gun at the figure’s head, immediately marking himself as an amateur tough. Even Patrick knew that aiming at an opponent’s stomach gave you a better chance of hitting your target.
A low growl came from under the hood.
‘Where the fuck do you think you’re going? Don’t you know what time it is, dickhead? You’re jail-bound unless you can pay the on-the-spot fine.’
Patrick tensed, wanting to help the figure about to get screwed for a bribe. He lifted the rock, taking aim.
‘Get your money out, bitch.’
The night watchman took a step forward. Patrick, with a wild grin, loosed the rock.
It went nowhere near the night watchman, bouncing harmlessly away across the road, but in the moment the startled man turned and fired off a shot, the figure attacked.
Claws sprang from the robes and raked the man’s face. Blood sprayed. One hand reached up, twisting the night watchman around, jerking his neck back. He let out a single cut-off cry, then fell dead on the street.
The figure stood over the body for a few seconds, then retrieved the box it had been carrying from where it had fallen in the street. Hands gave it a little shake and then turned it over. A growl came from under the hood.
Patrick stared, too terrified to move. In the moment the figure had attacked, the hood had billowed up, and a streetlight illuminated the face beneath.
The figure looked up and down the street as it crouched near the night watchman’s body, it gave another little growl. Its head swung around, and the blackness beneath the hood looked in Patrick’s direction. Even behind the screen of bushes in the shadows, the intensity of that hidden gaze told Patrick he was marked.
Then the creature jumped up and ran, quickly accelerating until it was a blur of movement, far faster than any human had the ability to run.
Patrick became acutely aware that he had pissed himself, and his hands were shaking so badly he had to put them into his pockets to hold them still.
He hadn’t recognised the dripping teeth or the dog’s snout, but the human eyes behind it had been as familiar as any.
‘Race?’ he whispered, voice trembling. ‘Was that you?’
6
Patrick
The sirens woke Patrick out of a drunken stupor. At first, as he hauled himself out of bed, he struggled to recall what had happened last night. Then, as he staggered to the bathroom where he threw up in the sink, it slowly came back in patches.
He had sold Suzanne to Uncle Tommy in exchange for her freedom. Then, while stumbling around drunkenly in the pursuit of some trouble to relieve his anger, he had witnessed the death of a local night watchman, by a doglike creature with his brother’s eyes.
‘Damn, how fucking drunk was I?’ he muttered, splashing water into his eyes.
Downstairs, his mother was making tea in the kitchen. He thought about telling her about Race, but he hardly believed it himself, and before he could even get a word out, she began to berate him for drinking her stash. Apparently he had come home and thrown whatever was left down the drain.
‘You’ll thank me for it one day,’ he muttered, heading for the front door with a barrage of insults at his back.
A couple of streets away he found a cluster of DCA and local police vehicles blocking off the road around where the nightwatchmen had died. A small crowd had gathered by a ticker-tape line, but the policemen standing guard were refusing to answer any questions.
Afraid someone might have seen him wandering around, Patrick headed on past, but by the next street corner, a second crowd had gathered around someone who was talking quite animatedly out of earshot of the DCA.
‘Man, he was ripped open,’ the speaker was saying. ‘I was waiting for the dog to finish taking a shit, and I looked up, and there he was, dragged behind the bushes. Whoever did him in tried to hide him after, but they did a crap job.’
Johnny Lewis. The bassist in Race’s band.
Patrick felt a sudden hot flush. He must have dragged the body into the bushes. How long had that taken? And the way he felt this morning, it was unlikely he had been subtle. Someone must have seen him.
‘Gonna start a war,’ Johnny was saying. ‘No way they’re gonna let someone get away with that. And guess who suffers? All of us. I tell ya, if it gets out who did that before they catch the arsehole, there’ll be a lynching.’
‘Pricks had it coming,’ an older man on the edge of the circle shouted. ‘Curfews, guards on the streets … whatever happened to freedom?’
‘We fucked it by not behaving ourselves,’ said someone else.
‘You young idiot. You don’t know what it was like.’
The tensions of the group had changed from casual interest into latent violence. Patrick started walking away, but a shout from behind made him stop in his tracks.
‘Hey, Pat! Race shown up yet?’
Patrick turned. Johnny had spotted him. Several others had turned too.
Feeling as guilty as if he had ripped up the night watchman himself, Patrick shrugged. ‘Not yet. Let me know if you hear anything.’
‘Hey, I heard about Suzanne. That sucks, man. Sounds like hanging with you is a pretty raw deal these days.’
A couple of other guys from the group who know Patrick chuckled. The rest just looked bemused.
‘Well, I’d better get looking,’ Patrick said.
Not wanting to go home, he headed for town, relieved to leave Johnny’s group behind. Before he got even close to the cluster of shops around
the cathedral, the wanted posters started to appear, stuck to telephone poles and lamp posts, walls and fences. More each day, and it concerned Patrick how many he recognised. There was a distant uncle on there, wanted for inciting mob violence, another old school friend for suspected sabotage.
And there, on a corner post just before the turn into the cathedral avenue, a picture of his brother.
RACE DEVAN
Of 14 WESTWARE ROAD, WELLS
WANTED FOR QUESTIONING
ON CHARGES OF FAILURE TO APPEAR
AT APPOINTED WORK OPERATIONS
CALL: --------
Patrick sighed. His mother would die. She might already be dead, if one of her brown-noser friends had spotted it and gone around to inform her of the news.
Before he could talk himself out of it, Patrick ripped what he could of the poster down. Paste kept parts of it stuck it to the pole, and what remained was a streaky memory of a human face: one eye, part of a chin, a corner of ear. Patrick tore away the address and charges beneath, then screwed the paper into a ball and tossed it over the fence into the yard behind a hairdressers.
Perhaps the hangover had removed his sense of self-preservation, or perhaps his suffering had brought a sudden brainwave, but Patrick marched down the street to a police station in the shadow of the cathedral.
An officer sat behind a desk, wearing the grim expression of contempt that appeared to be a prerequisite for DCA enrollment.
‘I have an enquiry,’ Patrick said.
The man sat up. ‘You have a case number?’
‘No. A name. Roger Devan. Is there any news?’
The officer pulled a file out of a drawer and flicked through a few pages. When he found what he wanted, he tapped the page and then looked up. ‘No,’ he said. ‘Still missing. No leads. It’s looking like he fled town. It goes national in one week. Who are you?’
‘His brother.’
The officer leaned forward. ‘Are you now?’