Blood & Baltazar

by Liam Inscoe-Jones

  Through the cold haze another shape emerged, thicker than any of the trees and, as more was revealed, Rosin realised far shorter too. The silhouette moved, casting an arm out from the shadow before flicking it sharply forward. The cautious Detector watched casually as he walked, digging his numb fingers deep into the fabric of his pockets. He winced as the leaves shuffled beneath his heel and, alerted to the sound, the figure suddenly leapt backwards. It dropped whatever it was holding and turned sharply around to face him, leaning forward to decipher the hidden features of Rosin’s tired face.

  The Detector breathed a sigh of relief as he waded through the veil of mist and found he was stood before an impatient Josiah Hartt, his hands on his hips like a mother prepared for a lecture. “And where the hell have you been?” Josiah asked, face twisted into mock annoyance, not that Rosin could tell.

  They shook each other’s hands.

  “God above, what happened to you?” He asked, eyes trailing over the man’s raw and contorted face. He had a red ribbon tied around his arm, and the second in the pair wrapped around his leg.

  “Oh just a bit of electro-therapy,” Josiah muttered. “I’ve heard it’s good for the skin”

  “I think you need a little more done.” Rosin exclaimed. “Look at your face!”

  “You can hardly talk! You might want to take some drastic action of you own. Although I wouldn’t recommend the old chisel and hack saw route,” Hartt retorted, leaving the comment hanging as he leant in and whispered lightly. “What took you so long?” He asked. “It’s like a tinder box down there and the sparks are flying. I don’t know quite what they’re planning yet, they don’t trust me enough, but if I don’t get out of there soon…”

  “Then you shouldn’t have gone in there alone!” Ash snapped, attempting still to retain his hushed tone. “Chief Detector Fraun would have been happy to help; he could at least have put someone else down there with you…”

  “What, the whole force of the Detectors?” Josiah snorted. “A man with an arthritic hip and a handful of incompetence: no thanks, I think I’ll take my chances alone down there with the megalomaniacs and the psychopaths.”

  “And what have they done to you?” Rosin quizzed, indicating towards the wound seeping blood at the base of his neck. It looked like he’d been shot.

  “Nothing much,” Josiah squirmed, “Just welcoming me with open arms it seems. A complementary gift, as it happens they do a nice line in tattoos on the side. Shame about the pattern mind, but beggars can’t be choosers.”

  Rosin shuffled quietly, looking down at the damp floor around him, a mist like steam bitter against his pink skin. He spotted a rod on the ground, a string attached to the end trailing through the undergrowth and down into the swirling black depths of the stream. “Were you fishing?” He enquired.

  “Yes, yes I was.” Hartt nodded ashamedly. “And I volunteered! Anything to get away from that damned bunker. Me – fishing! What went wrong?”

  “Josiah…” Rosin Ash began, awkward niceties put aside as he refused to restlessly wait any longer. “What have they being saying down there? The notes they buried in the ground said they’ll be two more bodies, so there’s still one man left before they try to take down the Patriarch, the other attacks were in the space of a couple of days…”

  “And this one will be the same. Things are moving, I love it; it’s electrifying!” Josiah grinned, rattling off a frenzied dialogue, “They were saying earlier, about it being time, their leader asked another man to prepare something. And they said a name too. Thomas something, Thomas Taser…”

  “God, I know him.” Rosin realised slowly. “Bit weedy, bit creepy, he was on the radio only a few hours ago: talking about a Ball the Patriarchs throwing, some scheme they’ve cooked up to impress the electorate no doubt. Taser’s probably behind it, he’s some sort of executive advisor to Baltazar I think.”

  “Of course he is, that’s why they’re targeting him; second down from top gun…” Josiah Hartt beamed at the Detector, eyes alight. “Then you have to find him now, all this attention he’s drawing to himself, that’s exactly when they’d strike.”

  “I don’t believe it;” Rosin looked at him with amazement. “You’re actually getting off on all of this, even now, even when you’re hiding down there in that horrible place...”

  Josiah was about to reply when he paused abruptly, twirling on his heels, pupils wide with panic. He froze just a second, letting the silence hover. “Christ…” He revealed at last. “I think someone’s coming.”

  Rosin leant across, his heart racing, looking for an approaching figure in the shadows. He could see nothing, yet every creak of the forest suddenly began to sound like a footstep. “Really?” He trembled unsurely. “I can’t see anyone…”

  “No, of course you can’t, there’s no one there.” Hartt sighed. “I was getting a little tired of the conversation: I was hoping you’d get scared and run off.” He groaned and grabbed Rosin, turning him around and pushing him firmly away. “Now go on Detector, time is of the essence, I don’t know how they’ll get him but there’s a trap primed somewhere and Thomas Taser will be heading right for it.” He watched with a disguised heavy heart as the man began to disappear. “Thanks for coming Rosin!” He called after him, clinging on to the final moments of being once again Josiah Hartt. “Oh and Detector…” He added keenly, just in time. “…How’s Lylith?”

  Rosin replied when he was only a voice in the mist. “She’s good Josiah, she’s safe. And she’ll be waiting when you get back.” Hartt enjoyed the last comforting thoughts, and he opened with a smile the palm of his hand.

  Where Rosin had shook it as he arrived he’d left in Josiah’s clutches a tiny jar, the size of a salt shaker but plenty enough to secure its deadly contents. He felt overcome with a new wave of optimism and, as he tucked the container safely in his pocket, he listened carefully as the patter of footsteps was slowly masked by the wind. Josiah Hartt was left, once more, alone.

  Thomas Taser pulled the door shut and jerked his heavy coat off his shoulders. A wave of heat hit him as he trounced across the carpet, melting snowflakes falling from his damp, sodden hair. He shivered sharply, a new heat tingling as the cold began to subside and the water on his skin began to fizzle away. Thomas’ body ached from tiredness, nothing new, just a daily exhaustion that he could finally indulge, and so he didn’t attempt to pick the coat from the floor, but just slumped across the room, sighing with relief as he placed himself in his favourite wingback chair.

  The Advisor’s home was always warm, with two open fires crackling as the embers burnt, its golden roar shining off the regal, emerald wallpapers, shutting the rest of the world away in the cosiest of bubbles. He awkwardly removed his suit and as the material fell he began to feel he could be himself at last, dropping the routine he embraced to impress his superiors and yawned like an old cat in his chair. He lifted a glass of gin from a small table to the left of him, propping up by an open paged book and still half full from where he’d dosed off prematurely the night before. He sipped at the bitter drink and replaced it on the table, taking in his hands instead the hard backed book. He caressed the leather varnishing, glancing briefly at the grandiose title, ‘A Christmas Carol’, and turning his eyes to the tiny print once more. He smiled as he slid further into the chair, stretching out his tiresome ache and loosing himself in the mysterious tale from long ago, its words still both enchanting and enthralling even to this day.

  Thomas was snatched from the Victorian world as the doorbell rang, its chime echoing through the thick oak beams. He stood with a groan, folding his thin body from the seat and slumping across to the doorway. He opened the panel with a cold gush of wind, a thin splattering of rain dampening his trembling brow. The space before him was empty; the ringer long departed and left in his place just a parcel perched on the doorstep.

  Taser picked it up and examined it. The perfect example of a Christmas present - the size of a shoebox wrapped in candy pink paper, tied tog
ether with an emerald bow. He grinned; the lonely man feeling appreciated at last, tinted with the excitement of an unopened present. He looked at the clock behind him as he shut the door. Eleven o’ Clock. Close enough surely, he thought. He placed the box in the middle of the floor and began to untie the bow.

  Rosin Ash raced up the hillside, feet churning up fresh mud as his boots buried themselves in the moss. His breath was heavy, a mist bellowing from his lips with every new exhalation. His heart raced, eyes fixed only on his target. He saw in the darkness a little house built into the hillside, an idyllic country cottage constructed from stacked grey rocks and topped with a piping chimney. The lights inside glowed brightly and he knew the home was occupied. He dived towards it, hoping and praying that, for Thomas Taser’s sake, he’d reach the door in time.

  Then, with a crack deafening like thunder, he knew he wouldn’t.

  In the first instant the house bulged at the seams: wooden planks snapping in half, bricks falling out of place; like a balloon full to bursting with water. Then, with a scream, churning flames flooded the spaces in-between. The bricks and panels splintered in two, the house lost its shape as with a beastly roar it exploded around him. Rosin watched as, like comets, streaks of flames scored across the empty black sky, the heat burning against his numb skin. The fire stopped, the flames flickered out and with the snow the ashes fell.

  The Final Movements

  J

  osiah Hartt slid down the tunnel, worn soles of his boots like socks on a polished floor. He fell head first into the doorway, almost letting loose of the vegetables bundled in his arms as the wood burst open and he tumbled into the near silent room beyond. The same dim light coloured the pale walls and chairs no matter what the hour, and so even though he’d just stumbled in from a new nighttime he felt somewhat timeless.

  Hartt composed himself with a subtle tug at his waistcoat and continued to dump his harvest down on the table. A bunch of cauliflowers rolled from his arms; half a dozen or so mould like balls of dirty ivory nursed by four withered green arms rolled across the table, wonkily tumbling over their lumps and ridges.

  One dropped off the end of the farthest panel and straight into Josephine’s lap. She sat there quietly, annoyed at the disturbance as she took hold of the vegetable and slammed it into the woodwork. “Cauliflowers?” She snarled in disgust. “Seriously, are we meant to eat these?”

  Josiah walked round the table with a smile; he had thought she wouldn’t like them. “We hardly have a choice, there was nothing in the river and quite frankly my fishing rod turned into an icicle.” He lied. “But what I did find was a nice farm a few miles down the valley. Lovely little place, closed up for Christmas I think but the man there was still very friendly. He even waved at me as I was taking them. With a pointy stick.”

  Josephine tutted. “There’s no way we can eat them - Edgar’s got allergies. His eyes get all raw and puffed up, he even has these special eye drops which, trust me, aren’t easy to get hold of when you’re living in a cave. So no, I think we’ll be going hungry tonight thanks to you Oscar.”

  “He’s hardly the figure of Machismo is he?” Josiah muttered, pulling out a chair opposite Josephine.

  “Like I said, we’re not soldiers.” She retorted, still refusing to look at him or even turn her head. “Besides, you’re hardly the toughest of men yourself, let’s be honest. You squealed like a pig when I put that rod against your skin…”

  He ignored her comment and glanced at the unlocked door, remaining stubbornly shut while Edgar Mulligan rattled around inside. “He’s always in there.” He noted. “What’s he doing?”

  “Meditating.” Josephine said. “He tends to make a habit of it.”

  “Meditating?” Josiah snorted. “Is that wise? I should think his karma’s already way out of kilter.”

  “What, Justice for an Injustice? Isn’t that exactly what karma is?” Josephine snapped, repeating the mantra like she was convincing herself. Realising he’d angered her, Josiah attempted to quietly sit in the seat, but found himself screeching as a bolt of pain shot from the wound on his neck. She glanced at it briefly, then looked at him with sympathy before realising her lapse and darting her pupils quickly away. “How is it?” She asked with false disinterest.

  “It’s sore, it’s bleeding.” He smiled mockingly. “I didn’t know you cared?”

  “Did it hurt?” She asked abruptly.

  “Yes.”

  She sniffed. “Good.” He looked at her with a smile, which when she looked back at him she couldn’t help but return.

  “What are you doing here Josephine?” Josiah asked gently, his gruff voice suddenly disappearing as he watched her sigh.

  She looked back at him awkwardly. “Elisa and George were preparing the package for Thomas Taser and with Edgar locking himself away in his office... I’m just waiting for my tea.”

  “You know what I mean.” Hartt sternly repeated. “Why are you here? You’re what, twenty five years old – these are supposed to be your defining years, when you make your life yet you’re stuck with vengeful middle aged folk, living in a hovel, buried in the dirt.”

  “There are good people down here.”

  “You think these are good people? They’re not good people, they’re bad and rotten and stinking ones, twisted with revenge and spite. You want that too, you want that anger in you?”

  “Of course I do. Edgar and George and Elisa - they make me feel it; they give me strength, and hope.” Her hard eyes softened. “I haven’t felt hope for such a long time now.”

  Josiah sighed, watching the woman’s hard shell crumble only to reveal something even more damaged beneath. “You can’t have these people as role models Josephine – people like Elisa Smith can’t set you an example, not when you’re young and impressionable as you are now.”

  “Elisa has taught me plenty about morality, about justice…”

  “Morality? Her? All I see is anger, and spite.”

  “Then you don’t know her at all. She has more right than any to be angry, after what she’s been through, after the life she lived because of that evil man…”

  “You know why she did it? You know why she’s betraying the Detectors, why she came down here with you?”

  “Of course I do. Alone down here with just our thoughts and each other: she’s told me her story, more than once. That’s when I realise Cedric Baltazar must die.”

  Hartt leant slightly forward. “Then tell me her story. Make me realise.”

  Josephine straightened herself in her seat. “Okay. Elisa was brought up on a farm, down by Dulgodon I think, a village in the Western valleys anyway. She had this little friend called Alice. Proper girly girls, you know – pink dresses and ribbons in their hair, knew each other since they were kids. Alice and Elisa, everyone said they were like sisters, separated at birth, best friends for life they were. Of course they’d fall in love. Sisters? They were so much closer than that.

  Eventually they realised that too. When they were both fifteen they kissed in the marketplace, picking up an apple she’d dropped under the stall. But two girls together, that was stupid – that was blasphemy. Catholic, loyal people - working hard each day with stout Christian values and a love for each other.

  Twice a week they’d sneak out to the old cattle shed. That was how they made it work. Alice had a wireless and they’d perch it on a hay bale, listen to show tunes and make love through the night. Then before anyone else was up they’d sneak back into their separate beds and be ready for work in the morning. Eventually the secrecy became too much – they had to be together, always, no matter what.

  They planned to run, to hide in the mountains or something – I don’t know what they were thinking. Alice’s dad found her when she was packing. Took her round to her best friend’s house and found Elisa doing the same. It wasn’t a long leap of the imagination. He knew she’d been leaving every night, thought it was to see boys. But she wasn’t seeing boys. She was seeing her.

 
Their parents agreed to separate them. Elisa moved to Stonemoore and Alice was shipped off to Ashton village, a year before war began. When Alice’s father was sent to fight she was put to work in a little factory by the river, making straps for Revolutionist arms bags. Cedric Baltazar came along and gave the order to blow her to bits in the night. Elisa was still in Stonemoore then, she heard the explosion, still remembers how it shook the earth, how the flame’s in the lanterns went out. Thought it was just thunder then.

  That was what inspired her to join the force, in search of justice she couldn’t find anywhere else, because she couldn’t have justice for the one thing she needed to. In her first year working the field she met a man called Edgar Mulligan, arrested on a minor vandalism charge, and he made her realise that she could.”

  Josiah paused. There was no answer to that.

  “My mother was killed the same way, on the same day. Edgar showed me exactly how I feel and joining these people is the only way to stop it. These are supposed to be the best days of my life? I’ve spent more years now without mom than I ever spent with her - what part of that makes my life now any better?”

  “None of it Josephine, none of it does. And Elisa, I can see why, I can see why after years of love and devotion being ripped away like by one man her desire for revenge would drive her insane but it needs to be stopped. Because that’s what it is, insanity. Not cackling at the moon, howling in the wind insanity but insanity none the less because she can’t see who she is anymore. Its dynamite they’re using to kill Thomas Taser isn’t it? That’s not like a blade – that’s not controllable, it’s dangerous, it’s massive – not intended for one man but hundreds. And then what? Just like you who mourn the losses of that night at Ashton town they’ll be those mourning people that died with the Patriarch. A new Alice, a new mother just like your own driving people insane with revenge but now by your hands, looking for your blood. You must see how far you’re lost.”