by Chris Ward
An unusual sound came from beneath the hood. At first Tommy thought it was laughter, but it sounded more like sobbing. With a sudden jerk, the figure’s hands appeared, gripping the edge of the reception desk. Tommy flinched at the sight of overlong fingernails at the end of digits that were more claws than fingers. The tips dug into a surface made of plastic and left score marks as the figure dragged them away.
‘I’ll go to see if he’s free,’ came that same hiss again. ‘Wait.’
The figure retreated out through the door. Tommy had an urge to run, but he resisted, instead taking a couple of steps closer to the door in case it became necessary to make a hasty exit.
The strange figure was gone a few minutes before abruptly appearing again, seemingly stooped even lower than before. ‘The master will see you,’ he said, in a way that might have been comical were it not so sinister. Tommy hesitated a moment before nodding, allowing the creature to lead him through a side door into the warehouse space.
Where once there had been production lines filled with hissing, shunting machinery, now there was nothing but silent lines of machines slowly collecting dust. Tommy looked around, peering down a gloomy side aisle towards where Carmichael-Jones had kept his research laboratories. While much of the factory floor had been automated, there had always been lab coat-clad scientists wandering about, hugging clipboards, tapping on handheld computers.
Now … nothing.
‘My apologies if the lack of light hurts your eyes, sire, but I’m afraid the opposite is true of mine. And mine being singular, it works best not to question it. Is it not true that with all of science’s advances, we are yet to create from scratch a working human eye?’
Tommy made a couple of turns before ascertaining from where the voice came. At last he realised the man stood above him, not on a walkway, but in a metal brace hung from the ceiling by wires. Against the gloom of the factory’s tall roof it was hard to make out any features of the man’s face, but he wore a top hat and a dinner suit with pleated lapels. Something gleamed on his face, attached to a length of string fixed to his belt: a monocle.
‘I wanted to stop by to see what was going on,’ Tommy said, struggling to contain a growing unease. ‘I used to work closely with Mr. Carmichael-Jones. In many respects we were … partners.’
‘Ah, yes, you would be the infamous Tommy “the Chisel” Crown, wouldn’t you, sire? Something of a local legend or a local thug, depending on who you ask. And I, for what it’s worth, keep my keen ears to the ground. They haven’t yet betrayed me the way my eyes have. Or should I say … eye?’
The man—if that was what he was; Tommy wasn’t sure—began to laugh. In other circumstances Tommy would already be thinking about whether to break this person’s arms or his legs, but all he wanted to get was get back outside.
‘It appears you have changed the course of Mr. Carmichael-Jones’s business model since your acquisition.’
‘Out with the old, in with the new, isn’t that what they say?’
‘I’m not—’
‘I’m just a travelling man, sire. Passing through. This little abode will serve me for now, but who knows which way tomorrow’s winds may blow? I may be gone by the spring, or I might one day be sitting on your grave, depending on how long we have to wait. I’d suggest, based on your country’s recent decisions, that it may not be so long, but that could be true of any of us, could it not?’
‘Sir, uh, Mr., ah, Crow?’
‘Kurou,’ the man said. ‘A slight lengthening of the first syllable, although I’ll forgive you for your assumption. I’m afraid these days I keep things simpler on the surface than I might once have done.’
Tommy was tiring of the man’s rambling. ‘I thought we might have a proper discussion as to how we can help each other,’ he said. ‘But if not, I have work to do.’
He turned towards the door, but the little robed figure stepped in his way. One clawed hand snaked out and turned a key in the lock. Tommy reached for his jacket, but a shriek from overhead made him pause. He looked up to see Kurou gliding towards him, the wires contracting and expanding on remote-operated pulleys set back into the factory walls.
‘I’m afraid our discussion is just beginning,’ Kurou said. ‘I think you asked what I was doing here?’ He began to laugh again, then spread his hands. ‘I believe Carmichael-Jones had a contract with the government to create machines for defense, is that not correct?’
‘So I believe,’ Tommy said.
‘Well, I intend to honour that contract,’ Kurou said. ‘I’m something of an inventor, don’t you know?’
His harness system whizzed, turning him around. He faced back up the long aisle, put a finger into his mouth, and whistled. A door opened and something stepped out, a tall figure, much taller than a man, but wearing a brown monk’s habit and hood. It walked into the aisle’s centre then stopped. In one slow movement it made a ninety-degree turn to face up the aisle towards where Tommy stood.
‘I have been creating works of breathtaking beauty since before you were born,’ Kurou said from overhead. ‘Yet this, this masterpiece, is perhaps my greatest achievement. Divan, show yourself.’
The figure’s hands lifted to pull back its hood. Tommy gasped as the snout of a dog appeared, then the eyes of a man. Glittering wires, electrodes, and flicking LED lights gleaned from the crown of its head.
‘I call it a Huntsman,’ Kurou said, his voice soaked with pride. ‘And I think it might be time for a test run. Laurette, enter your harness, please. It’s best to be on the safe side, isn’t it?’
Tommy glanced back. The figure called Laurette had climbed into a brace hanging in the dark by the door and with a whirr of machinery it lifted him up above Tommy’s head. Panic rising in his throat, Tommy looked back at the creature facing him.
Its lips drew back in a snarl.
‘I’d get moving,’ Kurou said. ‘I keep him just the wrong side of hungry. If you can keep away from him for an hour, we can do business. If not … well, at least someone will eat well tonight.’
With a growl the creature lurched into a run, its arms held rigid at its sides like some kind of mannequin. Tommy stood rooted by terror for long, wasted moments, before some internal mechanism of survival cajoled him to turn and break for the nearest production lines, running for his life while a laughing maniac swooped and spun through the air overhead.
9
Suzanne
Suzanne was sure the guards had only put them together to repeatedly break them apart. Three days in a row she had been dragged out of Patrick’s arms and taken down to an interview room. She had watched a wall camera be covered with a black cloth then was raped by two DCA men.
The first time, aware of what was about to happen, she had smiled sweetly and offered complete compliance. The idiots had believed her, and the first man had lost his two front teeth to her heel as a result. After they had added a few fresh bruises to her face, they had then tied her down. The first man had repeated, ‘This is for Seth,’ over and over as he fucked her, as though thinking about his colleague instead of the girl beneath him. At least the other, drooling and grinning like a happy dog, had seemed to enjoy himself. Suzanne had studied his face as he grunted and groaned, memorising every detail for when she could find him again and cut out his eyes.
The second night, they had gone straight for the restraints even though she had still fought them, but by the third night it had become a ritual she wanted over as quickly as possible.
Each time the guards dragged her back to the cell she had found Patrick pacing and banging on the bars as if it were somehow his fault, howling like a rabid dog as though that might help. Such a show of emotion might have impressed other prisoners in adjacent cells, but it was entirely wasted on Suzanne. She might be young, but she was no child; she knew how he felt. He didn’t need to say a single word.
The third night, as he had the other two, he ran forward to take her in his arms as she staggered back inside the cell.
&nbs
p; ‘How bad did they hurt you?’
No one had dared put their dick in her mouth after what had happened to Seth Winters, but her groin was aching as though someone had hit it with a hammer. Her face still smarted from a couple of wake-up slaps, but the bruises from the first night were already beginning to fade.
‘I’ll live.’
‘I’ll kill them.’
Suzanne gave a groggy shake of her head. ‘No, you won’t, because I’ll kill them first.’
‘They can’t get away with this. This shouldn’t be allowed.’
Suzanne just shrugged. She walked to the hard fold-down bed at the back of the cell and slumped down. ‘They can do whatever they want,’ she said.
‘You fucking bastards!’ Patrick shouted, banging on the bars of the cell.
‘Shut up and come here,’ Suzanne said.
He came and sat down beside her. ‘We’re at their mercy,’ he said. ‘Neither of us should even be in here. We didn’t do anything wrong.’
‘Conspiracy to commit treason,’ Suzanne said, and then spat on the floor before even considering what Patrick might think about it. ‘Covers a lot of grey area. My dad’s disappeared, and you know me. That’s it. That’s what they’ve got us in here for.’
The hours ticked by. They both slept for a bit, then paced the cell, then sat and brooded. A silent guard came with a tray of food: dry potatoes and stodgy, cold stew. He wouldn’t speak when they asked for an update on their status. They ate the food in silence, and half an hour late the same guard returned and took their tray.
From time to time, other prisoners were brought in or taken away. Farther up the corridor, doors banged open and crashed shut. They heard scuffles, angry shouting, the occasional thud as someone was dealt a heavy blow. Sitting together on the bed, each time they heard a beating begin they hugged each other for comfort, thankful that for now, it wasn’t either of them.
Suzanne was dozing, Patrick sitting beside her, when footsteps stopped outside their cell. Suzanne opened her eyes as someone was pushed through the door.
A chubby boy no older than sixteen looked at them through fearful eyes.
‘I didn’t do it,’ he said.
Patrick glanced at Suzanne. She lifted an eyebrow. The shock of the last few days had taken its toll, but now she recognised the boy.
‘Jack,’ she said. ‘Jack Bakewell? You were in our school, right?’
‘Suzannah?’
‘Just Suzanne. Yeah, that’s right. What happened to you?’
Jack shrugged. He looked on the verge of tears. ‘I got caught in the forest after dark. I wasn’t doing nothing, just having a look around. Didn’t realise I was supposed to be at a work appointment. Got pulled in, accused of conspiracy against the government.’
‘Bullshit.’ Suzanne scowled. ‘Made up terms from a bunch of made up people.’
‘Who is this kid?’ Patrick said.
‘His dad’s Bob Bakewell. The butcher on Leven Street. Didn’t you ever go up there?’
Patrick rolled his eyes. ‘Oh, you mean to the posh part of town? With my mother? Unless they were selling homebrew under the counter then it would be a no.’
‘Bakewell’s Butcher is the last place selling beef in town,’ Suzanne said. ‘My dad never cared how much they hiked the price. He loved the stuff.’
‘Mr. Carmichael-Jones practically kept us in business,’ Jack said.
‘Couldn’t keep you out of here, though, could he?’ Patrick said. He stalked over to the bars and gave them an optimistic shake.
‘He probably doesn’t know I’m in here. I’ve spent the last three days being interrogated.’ Jack lifted a hand and rubbed a bruise on his cheek, then pouted, a tear rolling down the side of his face. ‘I didn’t think they’d ever stop. Even after I did … I did … what they asked.’
‘Fucking scumbags!’ Suzanne shouted, aiming her venom at the corridor beyond the bars. Then, as Jack looked shocked, she added, ‘Don’t they have any fucking shame?’
‘It doesnn’t matter,’ Jack said. ‘We’ll be out of here soon.’
‘What do you mean?’ Patrick said.
‘All of us. Well, all eight of us under twenty that are currently in here. We’re getting let out tomorrow.’
‘What do you mean, “let out”?’
‘That’s what they told me.’
‘And you believe them?’
Jack looked down. ‘I don’t know what to believe. But it’s something, isn’t it?’
Suzanne sighed. ‘It’s better than nothing, I suppose.’
All three fell silent. Jack sat down on the floor by the bars, his face puckered as though he were making every effort not to cry. Patrick paced up and down. Figuring no one else was going to use it and that she was the most beat-up of the three, Suzanne lay down on the fold-down bed.
The silent guard came again with food. Farther up the corridor someone got given a vicious beating and was left sobbing in his cell. Suzanne waited. The lights dimmed to indicate it was night. Half an hour later the main door at the cell corridor’s entrance opened, and the footsteps of two men echoed on the tiles.
They were back.
Suzanne brushed her torn prison uniform down, wondering if they might at least let her take a shower when they were done. It would be a small comfort, but it was something. As their footsteps came closer, she stood up.
Patrick had been sitting on the floor beside a dozing Jack, but now he stood, his fists clenched. ‘I’ll fight them,’ he said. ‘They’re not taking you again. They can’t get away with this.’
The two DCA agents, wearing gloves over what were likely bruised knuckles, peered into the cell. The taller and older of the two, the one whose teeth she had kicked out, grinned, revealing shiny new dentures. The other, seemingly Seth’s friend, looked angry.
‘Time for an interview, Ms. Carmichael-Jones,’ he said.
‘Go fuck yourself.’
‘Oh, I won’t need to.’
Patrick moved in front of them. ‘You touch her again and I’ll kill you.’
‘Are you threatening a DCA agent, little boy?’
The tall one grinned. There came the hiss of electricity and Patrick slumped to the floor, curled up into a ball, his mouth open in an expression of shock. The tall one put the taser back into his pocket.
‘Come along now, Ms. Carmichael-Jones. Don’t make this difficult.’
Resistance would only get them all hurt. If Suzanne waited until they reached the interview room, she would at least keep the beating for herself.
‘I’m coming,’ she said, walking to the bars and holding out her hands for the cuffs.
The tall one grinned and unclipped a pair of cuffs from his belt. The angry one reached through the bars to grab her arms. Suzanne closed her eyes, wishing she could summon the fight to resist, but she was so, so tired of their fists.
‘Wait.’
Suzanne opened her eyes. Jack had sat up and was looking up at the two DCA men. Blinking, he climbed to his feet.
‘Stay the fuck there or I’ll fry your chubby ass, you fat little cocksucker.’
Jack just frowned as though such insults were new to him. ‘Don’t you know we’re getting out tomorrow?’
‘What?’
‘The detectives who brought me here said so.’
Suzanne tried not to scoff at Jack’s childlike use of the word “detectives”. As far as she was concerned, the DCA couldn’t have detected their own tiny dicks, but she stayed quiet, wondering what would happen. Patrick was still twitching on the floor, his mouth moving now as he gasped for breath.
‘Oh, that’s right,’ the angry one said. ‘You are, aren’t you?’
‘Yes,’ Jack said. ‘And you know who my dad is, don’t you?’
‘Unless he’s Maxim Cale, it makes no difference to us,’ the tall one said.
Jack gave an awkward smile. Suzanne could tell just from his posture how hard this was for him. She felt an uncanny respect growing for the young boy standi
ng up to these two bullying men.
‘He’s the butcher on Leven Street. You know that Ms. Wynne comes there for her meat?’
The two men exchanged a glance. ‘The commissioner?’ the tall one said to the other, as though he ought to know.
‘That’s her,’ Jack said. ‘And my father does her favours. He keeps all the best meat back. Do you know hard it is to get beef now? How much it costs?’ He clutched his hands together and leaned forward. ‘Have you ever even tasted it?’
‘Of course we fucking have,’ the angry one said. ‘I think you ought to shut your mouth before I come in there and shut it for you.’
Jack smiled. Suzanne noticed how his hands were shaking so badly he was clutching them hard enough to make his knuckles white.
‘You want beef on the cheap? I can get it for you. All I have to do is tell you what to say.’
‘You’re out of your mind.’
Jack smiled again. ‘Am I? If I’m treated well, my father will be happy. He’ll look after you.’
The tall one was showing no interest in Suzanne now. He clipped the cuffs back on his belt and turned to Jack.
‘Wife and kids would really appreciate it,’ he said.
‘Leave us alone and I’ll tell you.’
The angry one gave Suzanne a longing glance, then turned back to Jack and nodded. ‘I think we’ve got all the information we need for now,’ he said. ‘Except for a couple of words from you.’
Jack leaned forward, dropping his voice. ‘Say this to my dad,’ he said. ‘Make sure every word is correct or he won’t believe you heard it from me. Every word. Are you listening now? Ready? “I … want … to … eat … dick”.’
The two DCA agents frowned. ‘Are you fucking kidding me?’ the tall one said.
‘It’s a password,’ Jack said. ‘Say it to my dad and he’ll know what it means.’
The angry one stepped forward. ‘Come here,’ he said.
Jack stepped closer to the bars. The angry one reached in and pulled Jack forward, pressing his face against the bars. ‘If you’re lying to me, I’ll cut your own dick off and feed it to you,’ he growled.