A Mother's Unreason

by Andy Graham

  The small woman who had always been behind the altar, Stella thought. That was the president?

  The VP’s eyes crackled like the fire from the Famulus’s stun baton. “Were you spying on me for her?”

  “Yes.” The Famulus’s head dropped. “She promised to leave this place alone in return for information.”

  “So this is how you try and help the common person, by spying on them?”

  “They didn’t know. It didn’t affect what they got out of this place. If I hadn’t allowed it, they wouldn’t have had anything. Better an experience, no matter how tainted, than none at all.”

  The VP snorted. “And once more a fundamentalist sees only sense in nonsense. I wouldn’t trade the thrills of one misplaced orgasm for a lifetime of paternity payments, or the scabs and sores from a venereal disease, for example.”

  “Better something than nothing,” the Famulus repeated faintly.

  “Hold onto that idea, it may help you over the next few years.” The VP motioned to the legionnaires. “When you go to work tomorrow, your real job at the police station — I assume that’s how you managed to get hold of the scissors and cut-throat razor, by the way?”

  She whimpered.

  “When you go to the police station, present yourself to the desk-sergeant. He’ll then arrest you for the murder of the young women.”

  The Famulus scrubbed a tear off her cheek. “You’re going to let me go?”

  “I’ll give you one last night of freedom. But you will present yourself to the desk-sergeant and he will detain you until this gentleman” — the VP indicated Brennan, whose face was paler than the Famulus’s — “has time to see you. I’d love to see this played out now but we have a lot to do tonight, don’t we, Dr Swann?” He patted Stella’s hand. Stella recoiled. “Captain Brennan has a few questions.” The VP reached over for the razor, holding it up to examine the blade. “He likes questions.”

  The Famulus dabbed at an eye. “What’s to stop me from running?”

  The legionnaires grabbed her. She lurched backwards. One pinned the woman’s arms to the table. She squealed. Brennan placed a metal box on the back of her hands.

  “No, what are you doing?”

  “Hold still, woman.”

  A faint red glow spilled out from under the box. The Famulus’s eyes went wide. Her fingertips shook. Smoke and the smell of burning flesh seeped out from under the metal. The Famulus threw her head back and screamed.

  When Stella opened her eyes again, the legionnaires had stepped back from the table. Steaming red lines in the shape of matching triangles glowed in the flesh of the back of the woman’s hands.

  “You could run but you’re easier to find now. It’s an idea I heard about the other day,” the VP mentioned chattily. “The original notion was to use tattoos. I think branding is more appropriate for you, no? After all, ink isn’t one of your elements but fire is.”

  Sweat was pouring off the woman’s brow. She held her hands, rigid and swelling, up in front of her face.

  “You bastard!” she screamed. “You’ll never see me. You—”

  The words were cut off as the legionnaires grabbed her again. One yanked her hair back. The other forced her jaw open. A vial of green liquid was emptied down the struggling woman’s throat. She tried to spit it out. Her mouth was forced closed, nose pinched by black-gloved fingers. Her face turned crimson. Her heels scrabbled on the floor. After what seemed like a lifetime, the Famulus swallowed. She collapsed onto the floor. Thin silver lines of spittle trailing from her mouth.

  “Like I said, you could run but then you won’t get the antidote.”

  The VP tossed a collection of photos across the table. Stella watched, her hands over her mouth, as the VP pointed.

  “The sickness starts with a few scabs.” He tapped a picture. “Then the dizziness and blurred vision starts. Your eyeballs go next, they rot in a matter of hours; the stench and the headache is blinding, apparently.” He sniggered. “All puns deliberate. Then your organs start to haemorrhage, the blood leaks from every hole you have. Here, look.” He shoved one of the pictures under the Famulus’s face. She blanched. “Just like this one. Unless, of course, you come in for the antidote. In which case you’ll be fine. Right as rain, or drizzle. ‘Water washes, water quenches, water cleans and cures. Drizzle is water.’ Remember that? You’ll be as right as drizzle doesn’t sound quite so good, does it? It’s a simple choice: death or justice.”

  The Famulus was shaking, eyes wild. “You’re evil. You’re all the same, all you politicians.”

  The VP laughed, low and malicious. “I resent that comment. It’s so boring, so predictable. We are not all the same. No group of people can be reduced to a pithy categorisation. Laudanum is devious. Hamilton was pathetic. De Lette was bad and I” — his eyes flashed — “I am so much worse than all of them.” He stood, looming over the Famulus, his voice not more than a hiss. “And now I’ve got your attention, remember this. People like you are scrabbling to get onto the bottom rung of society because that’s where you deserve to be. That’s where you belong. It’s nothing to do with anyone else. Society is a meritocracy for a reason, to keep people like you down. The whole idea of everyone in society being inherently equal is the most unequal idea I know. People like you see the community as something to be milked or plucked like muse berries. Society owes you nothing. You give, you get; don’t give, don’t get. Simple. No amount of special clubs for the poor and dispossessed will change that. Now, get out.” He swept the photos off the table. “You can take these with you if you want.”

  The Famulus lurched to her feet. Flecks of red stained her scalp under the thin hair. She stumbled towards the steps to the street, tripping over the bedraggled cloak dragging on the floor behind her.

  “Before you enjoy your last night of freedom, there’s one more thing,” the VP called.

  She paused, cradling her burned hands to her chest.

  “Lena, the pretty woman with the pox scars, who you killed. You remember her?”

  She nodded mutely.

  The VP pointed to the legionnaire with the furrow in his forehead. Beads of sweat were on Brennan’s brow as he stared at the VP. “Lena was Captain Brennan’s little sister. She used to call him Jamie, they were quite close. I believe she wanted to be a dancer. Jamie” — Brennan flinched — “didn’t know Lena was pregnant but I think the captain would have enjoyed playing with his nephew or niece. I’m sure you two can have a good chat about that tomorrow.”

  The Famulus howled her way up the stairs. Disappearing into the streets of Tye where they shot dogs.

  The VP dusted off his hands. “I think that went admirably, don’t you, Dr Swann?”

  “Pregnant?” Captain Brennan’s voice made the hairs on Stella’s neck stand on end. “Pregnant by who?”

  “Some ex-squaddie. That fellow Tino Martinez, I think. The one-legged, half-faced mop boy from the Kickshaw. I don’t really care.”

  “Lena was my sister.”

  The VP stared at Brennan, brow furrowed, irritation in his voice. “You going to kill Martinez for sleeping with her? Hardly seems worth the effort. Save the rage for the Famulus.”

  “But, sir.”

  “Is there a problem, captain?”

  “No, sir.” With a visible effort, Brennan saluted.

  “Now, Stella.” The VP’s tone lightened immediately. “I believe you had something you wanted to talk to me about?” The VP guided her over to the red leather chairs.

  “You poisoned her?” she stammered.

  A smirk touched his lips. “I’m tired of her parlour tricks and mind games. Time to switch the tables.”

  “It wasn’t poison?”

  “Just coloured water, Dr Swann. I thought green was the most nasty looking. What colour would you have chosen?”

  “You’re evil.”

  “No, Dr Swann, evil would have been poisoning her.” He gave her a double-pat on the hand. “It would be interesting to track her reactions over
the next twenty-four hours. Every normal ache and pain will be psychological torture. It’ll be even more interesting to see how she reacts when she finds out there was no poison and so no need to come in for the antidote. Surely, you as a researcher with an interest in pain, placebos and nocebos can appreciate that?” He knocked back a shot. “Mind you” — he poured them both a drink — “once Brennan gets done avenging his baby sister, the Famulus will be begging for the real version of that poison.”

  Brennan was staring into the distance, his jaw rigid.

  The VP held out two glasses. “Cheers?”

  The second legionnaire appeared by their side, his finger pressing a small receiver to his ear. “Sir, we have a situation.”

  44

  An Old Man’s Eyes

  Ray sprawled onto the floor. A baton whistled over his head, clattering into the wall. He launched himself into the legs in front of him. The Unsung staggered, swung the baton down. It glanced off Ray’s shoulder. He spun onto his back, clasped his hands around the man’s heel and wrenched it in a vicious circle. The legionnaire’s knee twisted. Popped. He collapsed. Ray slammed the heels of both hands across his opponent’s ears. The legionnaire’s head lolled back onto the floor, a thin clear fluid leaking from one ear.

  “On your feet!” A voice yelled.

  Ray scooped up the fallen baton, pivoting to face the new threat: another Unsung legionnaire, his rifle aimed at Ray. Odd shapes floated in dust-covered specimen jars in the background.

  “Drop it.” A strident edge crept into the man’s voice.

  “Or what? They want me alive.”

  The man’s finger curled around the trigger. A bead of sweat tracked down one temple. “I said—”

  Ray hurled himself to one side. Two shots rang out in rapid succession. Something yanked at the side pocket of his trousers. He rolled to his feet and blinked away the dust.

  The legionnaire was crumpled on the floor. Blood oozed out of a precise hole in the back of his head. The front part of his face was missing, a jagged black-and-red mess in its place.

  “You took your time,” Ray said to the figure limping up the hallway.

  “Struggling with this rifle,” Stann replied. “I never liked night sights. Besides, I wanted to give you a chance.”

  “I wasn’t sure you were going to make the shot,” he said, poking his finger through the new hole in his trousers.

  “I’ve heard that before from another Franklin. Never you mind me, I had field experience when your mother was still pissing her pants at night.”

  “Your hand doesn’t throw your aim off?” Ray gestured to the remains of Stann’s left hand.

  “You don’t shoot with your hands. You shoot with your eyes and your experience, you should know that. And if they were good enough to save your other grandad in the farce he caused in Castle Brecan, they’re good enough for you.”

  As one, they limped over to the glass jars. Ray wiped off a thick swathe of dust. The fleshy pink thing inside was distorted by the curve of the glass and the liquid. The proportions were all wrong, like the deformed mirrors in the travelling fun fairs.

  “What is that?” Stann asked. His finger traced the long tail that wrapped round the stumpy legs.

  “Could be a rat or a human? Both?”

  “And this?”

  The face under the cobwebs covering the next shape was a human baby, an indistinguishable mess of curves that friends of new parents were expected to coo and gurgle over. Except this baby had four extra limbs dangling from its belly, like udders. Specimen jars of all shapes stretched into the darkness. They sat on long wooden shelves that were bowed in the middle and laddered up to the high ceiling. The sound of the two men’s breathing was ragged in Ray’s ears.

  “When we get these friends of yours...” Stann said.

  “We come back and burn this place,” Ray finished. He pulled out the flares from his backpack and together they hid them behind the glass jars.

  The end of the room split into three exits. The high-arched tunnels beyond were made of alternating strips of brick and plain stone. Narrow walkways ran along either side, braced by waist-high railings. An oily, brackish stream slid along a channel low beneath those railings. It disappeared through a slime covered grid into a culvert under the room the two men stood in.

  “Which way?” Stain asked.

  Ray fished out the tracking device.

  “You ever think you were supposed to find that thing so they’d know exactly where you were heading?”

  A hologram sprang into the air above the black box, revolving slowly. The red arrow flashed all ways at once.

  “Useless piece of crap,” Stann muttered.

  Ray pocketed it and pointed to the middle of the three tunnels. “Follow the footprints. Tracking someone here’s no different to what you taught me in the woods.”

  Stann fixed his eyes on Ray. “You got more Taille blood in you than I thought. Maybe the world’s not going to end.”

  Ray walked. Stann limped. The tunnel split. They went left

  (“It’s always left,” the voice whispered.)

  past a rusting metal winch. The cable clipped to it disappeared into the thick water.

  “The subterranean river boats,” Stann explained. His voice was underpinned by the quiet whispering of the water. “I heard of them being trialled when I was a rookie. The transport company developing the project cut too many corners, though, and couldn’t keep the sewage out of the river water. Someone coined the term ‘sewer boats’, and the project was dropped soon after. The squaddies had a different name for these boats — shitmarines was the nicest.” He leant against the wall, clutching the thigh of his half-leg.

  “You OK?” Ray whispered.

  “You think I’d tell you if I weren’t?”

  “If we get separated, do you remember where the extraction point is?”

  “The Stone Bridge. I’m not a rookie, Ray. Now get a shift on, you’re slowing me down.”

  They pushed on down the tunnel. The murmuring sound of the water lapping at the chain and boat was mixed with other sounds now. The indistinct chatter of people. They crept down the corridor, Ray clutching the revolver Nascimento had left them, Stann the rifle.

  Just before the next junction, they came to a bridge, it was covered in graffiti: arrows, daggers, a one-eyed skull and initials ‘VL hearts RF’. A hazy triangle of light spilled out from the entrance opposite. They edged over the narrow bridge, feet kicking puffs of dust and stones into the water. Attached to the winch beneath the bridge was a high-sided sewer boat. This shitmarine was covered in a green tarp.

  The two men flanked the entrance, their poses an exact mirror image of each other; a before and after montage of one man’s military service. Low voices rumbled from the room, distorted by the tunnels, the words slurred into each other.

  “Serious! A whole submarine just disappeared,” one said. “I wouldn’t’ve believed it meself ‘cept I seen where it used t’ be.”

  “That means nothing. Just ’cos it’s not there, doesn’t mean it was stolen. Look.” A pause. “Here’s my hand.” Another pause. “Now you can’t see my hand. Ta daaa! Here it is again. No one stole it.”

  “Funny, man. They teach all you Rivermen jokes? They ain’t gonna get that sub back, though. Them wet-nukes c’n stay underwater f’years. Never find the fucker.”

  “‘Course they’ll find it, they just need another sub.”

  “Until that gets nicked. Gotta admire the size o’ the balls o’ the fella who came up with that scam. Bet they’s nuclear balls and they fall out o’ his underwear all the time ‘cos they’s so big.” There was a snigger. “Get it? Nuclear? Fall out?”

  The silence was painful.

  The owner of the voice swore. “I gotta go, you new boys are no fun.”

  Footsteps. Then, “Dick.”

  “On my mark,” Ray mouthed.

  Stann’s sniper’s eyes shone like diamonds. This was a side of the bitter old man of Tear
that Ray wished the villagers could see. Not the sweat-stink Stann brought to the Hallowtide fires, not the games of profanity-bingo the kids played (to see who could get Stann to shout the worst insult at them). This was the man who was a bullet away from becoming a legend. This was Stann as he had been before a terrorist bomb had taken half his leg and hand, and the Ailan Army had spat him from their ranks. This was Stann Taille at his best: one of the silver-haired soldiers from the story of Greenfields, the men who made history their own. Pride and hope swelling in Ray’s chest, the two men burst through the exit.

  Ray, revolver raised, scanned the room, noting and filing the details of the new environment. An octagonal chamber. Dull-lighting. A huge hole squatting in the centre of the space. Circular cells stamped into each wall, walls surrounded by narrow walkways. No railings. Two bridges formed a cross in the centre of the hole. At the centre of the cross was a control panel, thick clunky levers and dials clustered around a central brass paddle-switch. A stocky legionnaire stood next to the control panel, his back to Ray.

  “Hands in the air. Step away from the switch,” Ray shouted.

  Stann was on one knee. His gunsight sweeping the corners.

  The legionnaire turned, his feet grinding in the dust. He was squat and powerful, with a dark, closely cropped widow’s peak. Ray’s heart jumped. “Step away from the switch, Baris,” Ray yelled. “I don’t want to shoot you.”

  “Don’t then,” Orr replied with a shrug. He placed his hand on the monster lever in the centre of the control panel. “Seth couldn’t hold you? The man’s a liability.”

  “Move, Orr.”

  “You came for Stella Swann’s family, didn’t you?”

  “Move. You’re outnumbered. If I don’t shoot, he will.” Ray nodded towards Stann. “He owes you one.”

  Orr rubbed the bruise under his left eye. “You should’ve left well alone and run.” Orr threw the switch. Light blazed from the eight cells. Ray threw his arm over his face, staggering backwards as if he had been shoved. He heard clanking, the sound of struggling and a woman swearing.