Lightning Child

by Hakok, R. A.

  There’s the dull groan of a door being opened somewhere behind me, followed by the quick, shuffling footsteps of someone hefting a load. I look over my shoulder, just as a long streak of a man with a narrow bloodhound face enters, struggling under the weight of a large metal pot. The table creaks as he sets it down at Finch’s elbow. His mouth puckers into a frown as he sees me.

  ‘I didn’t know we was having guests.’

  Finch offers me an apologetic smile. You can’t get the help. He leans forward, as if sharing a secret.

  ‘You will have to forgive Mr. Blatch, Gabriel. He is quite the genius in the kitchen, but he harbors an intense dislike for surprises. He will cluck like an old hen if I propose the slightest change to our dinner plans.’ He turns to the cook. ‘Now, Mr. Blatch, we must remember our manners.’

  Blatch mutters something and then lifts the lid off the pot. Steam rises up, quickly disappearing into the darkness above. It smells of something that might once have been meat, but is now so diluted as to defy the identifying.

  Finch leans forward and inhales theatrically.

  ‘Why, it smells simply divine. Mr. Blatch, you may serve.’

  Empty bowls make their way up the table. Blatch slops a ladle of piping hot liquid into each and then passes it back down. It’s pretty cold in here; whatever it is he’s serving won’t hold its heat long. But nevertheless everybody waits patiently. When the last bowl has been placed in front of Finch Goldie steps from the shadows, fusses with a napkin for his lap, then scurries off again. The warden raises his spoon.

  ‘Bon appetit, gentlemen.’

  I’m not sure what that means, but the men seem to take it as a sign they can finally chow down. They bow their heads, each concentrating on his bowl with uncommon intensity. From somewhere behind me there’s the chug of a starter; a motor sputters complainingly, then settles to a lump idle. And for a second I think of The Greenbrier, and how the lights had come on in the chandeliers at a similar sound. I look around at the stone walls, the iron landings, the barred cells behind. This place could hardly be more different.

  A scratching sound brings me back. It’s followed by the popcorn-crackle of an old record and from off in the darkness the thin, reedy strains of music drift out from a rattling speaker. It’s a woman singing, in a language I don’t understand. To hear music is a strange thing, and for a few seconds I just sit there and listen.

  Goldie returns from the last of his errands and takes a seat a little further down the table. He leans forward, lowering his head to the soup, and starts slurping at it with a determination that’s impressive to behold. Drops spill from his lips, running down his chin. He runs a grubby sleeve across his mouth, returns it to the table. The warden looks down the table at him and sighs.

  ‘Mr. Goldie.’

  Goldie looks up.

  ‘Yes boss?’

  ‘No uncooked joints on the table, if you please.’

  Goldie withdraws his arms from the table. His chin drops to his chest and he tucks his offending elbows into his lap.

  ‘Sorry, boss.’

  He returns his attention to the broth, his fervor only slightly diminished by the reprimand.

  Finch picks up his own spoon, but then he just holds it over the bowl and turns to me, as if waiting for me to go first. Tell the truth the broth doesn’t look that appetizing, but I remember what he said about manners, so I try some. If Blatch was aiming for equal parts watery and greasy he’s nailed it. There’s little chunks of something gray that might once have been meat floating in it, too, but without the can they came out of it’s hard to tell what it might be. It does have a certain flavor, though. I look up from the bowl and Finch is still staring at me. I hadn’t really noticed it before, but his eyes are the palest of blue, and for the briefest instant it’s almost as if they burn a little brighter. He holds my gaze a moment then leans forward to sip his soup. When he’s done he dabs at his lips with the napkin.

  ‘Another triumph, Mr. Blatch, I do declare.’

  I point my spoon in the general direction of the music.

  ‘You have power?’

  ‘Well, after a fashion.’ He smiles down the table at the small man who was sat behind the booth in the holding pen. ‘Mr. Culver was able to work his magic on a couple of old diesel generators we found in one of the sheds; he has an aptitude for that sort of thing. Fuel is hard to come by, of course, so we must be frugal. But music is so good for the digestion, don’t you think?’

  I have a better vocabulary than any of the Juvies, except maybe Mags, but sometimes the warden uses words and I don’t know what they mean, except maybe from how he uses them. I think I can guess frugal from the context but I make a mental note to look it up, next time I’m in the vicinity of a dictionary.

  ‘Can’t say that I know.’

  Finch looks at me for a moment, like he’s considering this, then goes back to his bowl. I take another mouthful of the broth. Maybe it’s just because I’m hungry, but the taste’s kinda growing on me.

  ‘So, Gabriel, what is it that brings you our way?’

  I keep my eyes down for a moment. I knew sooner or later this question was coming, but my heart quickens a little nevertheless. I dip the spoon in the bowl and swirl the greasy liquid around, trying to sound as unconcerned about my answer as possible.

  ‘Oh, I was just passing through. I noticed Mr. Goldie and Mr. Macintyre’s prints and thought I’d follow them, see where they were headed.’ I look up from my bowl, adlibbing a little to make it seem natural. ‘I wouldn’t normally have done that; I mostly make it my business to stay out of the way of others. But I haven’t had a square meal in weeks and I was getting a little desperate.’

  The warden’s spoon is on its way back into his broth, but now it stops, and when he looks up at me his expression has darkened unpleasantly. I wonder if I’ve taken it too far. There’s not much left of the rations we set out from Mount Weather with, but I haven’t had to skip a meal yet, and compared to most of the wraiths sitting around the table I must look like I’ve been living high on the hog. Finch fixes me with those piercing blue eyes and for a moment it’s as if I can’t quite catch my breath. I want to look away, but somehow I think that would be a bad idea. Off in the shadows the woman’s still singing, but otherwise it seems like the room’s suddenly gone very quiet. The warden starts tapping his spoon against the rim of the bowl, slow, methodical, but in a way that’s completely out of kilter with the music. The sound it makes seems as loud and deliberate as a hammer pounding an anvil.

  ‘You were lucky you ran into us. City’s not a place to be, least not after dark.’

  Finch stops his tapping. His gaze stays on me a moment longer, then shifts down the table to Mac. At first I’m just relieved for the interruption, but as his words sink in I realize that’s where Mags and the others are right now; she won’t have got them clear of it before nightfall. I keep my eyes on my broth, trying not to let the concern show in my voice.

  ‘What…what do you mean by that?’

  Mac’s spoon hovers over his bowl, but he doesn’t look up. In the end it’s the warden who answers for him.

  ‘Oh, don’t mind Mr. MacIntyre, Gabriel. He has the constitution of an old woman.’

  Across the table Goldie giggles and then goes back to slurping his soup. I want to dismiss the tall convict’s warning, but there’s something about it that sticks with me. I remember the feeling I’d had, as we had made our way through the parking lot of the hospital, that we were being watched. I stare at Mac, but now he won’t meet my gaze.

  ‘Have you seen something, Mr. MacIntyre?’

  For a long while he doesn’t respond, then eventually he just shakes his head.

  ‘No.’

  Finch leans forward in his seat. The smile has returned.

  ‘You really shouldn’t worry, Gabriel. You’re perfectly safe with us, all the way out here in the willy-wags.’

  *

  THE THIN CLINK AND SCRAPE OF CUTLERY continues as al
l around me the prisoners concentrate on extracting the last of the broth from their bowls. Then one by one my dinner companions get up from their chairs, gather their utensils and shuffle off into the shadows, returning to their cells. Further down the table Goldie cuts a glance in the warden’s direction then lifts his to his lips, tilting his head back for the dregs. I look down at my own bowl, surprised to see it’s almost empty. I guess dinner was just the soup, then. I scoop out the last of it and set the spoon down. I could definitely eat more, but there’s been no mention of seconds and seeing as I’m freeloading anyway I say it was the best I’ve tasted and I couldn’t fit another mouthful. Finch seems happy with that. He dabs at his lips with his napkin and smiles.

  ‘It is kind of you to say, Gabriel. Now, I would love to stay and chat but unfortunately I have an errand to run.’ He smiles, as if a pleasant thought has just occurred to him. ‘But if you’d care to join me I can offer you a tour of our humble facility.’

  I have nothing else planned for the evening so I say that would be nice. Tully gets to his feet and pulls the chair back for his boss while Knox fetches his cane. Hicks’ pistol is still sitting on the table in front of me, next to Weasel’s blade. I glance at them uncertainly. Finch follows my gaze then flutters a hand in their direction.

  ‘Oh, by all means bring those with you.’

  He accepts the cane Knox proffers, leaning his weight on it to stand. When he’s got his balance he limps off. Tully lifts a candle from the table and lumbers after him. Knox glares at me as I reach for the gun and knife, but the warden was clear, so I shove both into my pocket and hurry after him.

  We leave the main hall and enter a long, dark corridor. Iron-braced doors punctuate the stone at seemingly random intervals. Most are shut, but some hang ajar. I look inside as we pass. Behind one, rows of industrial-sized washing machines and tumble dryers, sitting gape-mouthed in the darkness. Another opens to what might once have been a pantry, but the shelves that line the walls now are dusty, bare.

  Finch’s heels and cane click-clack ahead of us, the sounds echoing along the passageway. The air grows thick with the smells of grease and smoke. We arrive at the kitchens, where I guess Blatch must cook up his masterpieces. The warden stops outside and sends Tully in to retrieve something while we wait. The candle he carries casts unreliable shadows, but I can make out things as he passes. Rows of steel countertops, stretching back into darkness. An assortment of pots and pans, their surfaces blackened from years of use, stacked precariously underneath. A collection of knives, saws, cleavers, the candlelight briefly playing over the honed steel. And for an instant in the far corner something long and gray, hanging from an old hook. I peer into the darkness, but Tully has already moved on with the candle and whatever it might be is lost again to shadow.

  Finch shifts his weight on the cane.

  ‘So tell me Gabriel, what is it you like to do with your free time?’

  He says it like taking in a show, or visiting a museum or learning to play the piano might all be perfectly acceptable responses, so at first I’m not sure what to say. There hasn’t been much in the way of free time since we quit Mount Weather, but there was enough of it over the winter for me to remember what having a spare hour feels like. I take a moment to sift through the possibilities. It doesn’t take me long to settle on the answer I reckon is least likely to get me into trouble.

  ‘Mostly I like to read.’

  Finch looks up and once again I find myself caught in that piercing gaze. He continues to stare at me, as though measuring my age against the truth in that statement. One finger hovers over the head of his cane, as though he means to start that tapping thing again. But then the smile broadens.

  ‘Well said, well said. There is nothing like a good book, is there?’ He holds a hand up. ‘Why, the library is right on our way. You must let me show it to you.’ He raps the cane once on the stone floor, as though it’s decided, then inclines his head in the direction of the kitchens, raising his voice a fraction. ‘If Mr. Tully ever sees fit to return to us, that is.’

  Moments later Tully emerges from the shadows carrying a battered looking metal flask, a length of fraying cord looped around the handle, and we set off down the corridor again. At the end there’s a turn and a half-flight of stairs. I wait while Finch hobbles up them and then I follow his click-clacking footfalls down an even narrower passageway that ends in a small wooden door. He stops in front of it and reaches into his suit pocket, pulling out a key chain on which there must be a dozen keys. He selects one and inserts it deftly into the lock; the cylinders turn with a soft snick that suggests they have been oiled recently. He returns the keys to his pocket and opens the door, ushering me in with exaggerated courtliness.

  I step through. It takes a moment for my eyes to adjust, but when they do I find myself in a square, high-ceilinged room. Two slender windows punctuate one wall, their grimed glass recessed behind thick iron bars. In daylight I’m guessing they would give views out onto the prison yard, but my gaze doesn’t linger there; something else has caught my attention. The walls that remain are lined with shelves that stretch from floor to ceiling. Each is crammed, two and sometimes three deep, with books. Hundreds of them, maybe even thousands, more than I’ve seen in one place since the Last Day.

  From out in the hall I hear the warden telling Tully and Knox to wait, and then the sound of the door being closed, but I just continue to stare. At some point I become aware that Finch is watching me. I turn to face him, my mouth still open.

  ‘How…how did you get so many?’

  The warden leans on the cane, his other hand holding a candle he’s taken from one of the guards. He smiles at the question, but not like earlier. Now it’s as if his whole face shines with it, as though he’s inordinately pleased with himself.

  ‘Well, it wasn’t all my doing, of course. The prison had a library before I was assigned here, although that was such a shabby collection as to be hardly worth the mention. Autoshop manuals; back copies of The Reader’s Digest.’ He waves the memory away, as though it causes him displeasure. ‘I set to work immediately, of course. You wouldn’t believe the letters I wrote, Gabriel. Senators, Congressmen, none were spared. But my pleas fell on deaf ears. Society is rarely at its most enlightened when it comes to the treatment of the incarcerated, and more books just wasn’t where our representatives felt the public’s hard-earned tax dollars needed to be spent. I cultivated a circle of more forward-thinking correspondents, and from time to time there would be a bequest from a private collection. There was the occasional donation from a public library. But this,’ he raises the cane, an expansive gesture encompassing the room and everything in it, ‘only really started to take shape later, ironically when things started to go wrong on the outside.’

  I look at him for an explanation.

  ‘It’s the men you see.’ He smiles again, as though embarrassed by this revelation. ‘They were grateful when I took it upon myself to release them, and they know how much I enjoy something new to read. So when they go outside, searching for supplies, they keep their eyes open.’

  My eyes continue to roam the shelves, now and then lighting on a familiar volume. When at last I’m done my gaze shifts to one of the corners. There’s a chair there, sitting back in the shadows. I had ignored it in favor of the books at first, but now I see it’s no ordinary piece of furniture. Heavy, wooden, almost like a throne. The legs, arms, back are all made of stout timber, worn smooth with time. A large metal cap hangs from a hinged bracket above, a rubber cable wide as a hosepipe feeding into the top. Thick leather cuffs with heavy buckles circle the arms; more straps extend from round the back.

  The warden follows my gaze.

  ‘Ah, I see you’ve found Old Sparky.’

  He hobbles up to it, setting the candle down on one of the arms. The guttering flame illuminates a spring-loaded clamp, bolted to one of the legs. The gate’s open; inside I can see thick nubs of metal, bound together with rubber. Another cable runs from the
base of it, snaking away across the dusty floor.

  ‘It is a rather disagreeable piece of furniture, isn’t it? It occurred to me to have it moved, but it turns out it is rather comfortable.’ He turns and looks at me and for a second the smile twists, becoming slightly predatory. ‘Would you like to try the hot seat?’

  I stare at him for a moment. The chair doesn’t look like it works, but all the same I can’t think of anything I’d like less.

  Finch shakes his head.

  ‘No, of course not. Forgive me. How macabre.’

  The part of my brain responsible for these things adds macabre to the list of words I need to look up. The warden lifts his cane, pointing it around the room.

  ‘You said you liked to read, Gabriel. Tell me, do you have a favorite? You never know; I might just have it.’

  I examine the shelves again, considering his question. There are so many to choose from. But then a spine I recognize catches my eye. It’s the book about the English rabbits; the one Mags had, that first day we met, in Sacred Heart. Finch follows my gaze.

  ‘Ah, Watership Down.’ He hobbles over and slips it from its place. ‘An intriguing choice.’ He holds it up for a moment, turning it over in his hands. It’s the very same edition, the one with the rabbit Mom thought was Hazel but I know to be General Woundwort, hunched in silhouette on the cover. Its ears are folded back, its teeth bared.

  The warden leans forward.

  ‘How the world looks at the bottom of the food chain. From the ass-end of the totem pole, so to speak. It really is quite a frightening read, isn’t it?

  It’s been a long time since I read it, but I know the story well: Fiver’s visions, of fields covered with blood; Bigwig caught in the snare, the wire slicing into his neck as he had struggled against it; the Owsla, the warren’s secret police, and how they had ripped Blackavar’s ears to shreds as punishment for trying to escape.