by Terry Tyler
As Evie and I become more confident, Byron has stopped shoving us into hedges every time he hears footsteps, with the result that twice this week we have had to defend ourselves, but in both cases the assault was but half-hearted; when the assailants were on the ground, made temporarily immobile by the holds Byron has taught us, they admitted the attack was a form of defence, and were pleased to be sent on their way.
We feel sure, now, that we can deal with anything we come across.
The last day of October arrives, and we have just eaten; the fine, bright day draws to a close, but the cold of the night is already upon us, and soon we will retreat into the remains of the old house we chose for sleep this evening. It still has four walls and most of its roof, and there are items within that Evie has arranged into a form of beds for us all.
It is damp and musty, but others must have used it fairly recently, because it has been swept out and contains no rubbish, dead rodents or rotting matter.
I like to think our ears are as alert as ever, but perhaps they have been lulled into a false sense of security by the fire and our full stomachs, because when the attack comes we don't hear a thing.
Perhaps we had just forgotten, for a moment, to listen.
Byron reaches over to take the last of the rabbit, a sudden movement, and it is this that saves his life; an arrow zooms past his shoulder.
We jump up, reaching for our weapons, eyes darting back and forth, and suddenly they're upon us, from round the side of the house.
Two men, a woman, and a teenage boy.
Automatically we spread out, taking steps back, assessing our situation in a split second.
Only one man has a bow, and the quiver on his back is empty.
His last arrow, and it missed.
Byron says, "You―I gave you food―"
He leaps at Byron, hurling him to the ground, but a second later he falls limp.
As Byron pushes him off I see the man's neck, covered in blood.
Instant death.
For one second the three stand as still as statues, aghast, and then the young boy utters what can only be described as a war cry, charging at Evie with an axe, as the woman, her face filled with rage and pain, propels herself at Byron―which leaves me as the target for the other man.
He has a knife.
So do I.
We dance around each other, lashing out, and I know, as the gaping maw of his black-toothed mouth grins at me, that he is a fighter far more skilled than I.
He has the look of one who has been on the road for many months, whereas I am but a novice, for all my newly found confidence.
He leaps forward, jabbing at me; I grab the wrist above the hand that holds the knife, but in doing so I drop my own knife, rendering myself unable to attack―he slips on the damp grass and I'm on top of him but I lose my grip on his arm in the fall, and his knife is once more in play. Its point pierces my skin through my clothes, and I sense warm blood running down my cheek, but my brain registers no pain, only the need to kill this man before he kills me.
We tussle, over and over, a mass of limbs, my hand searching, desperately, for my own knife―I find it, but no sooner have I done so than he kicks it from my hand.
With all my might I lunge for the wrist that holds his instrument of death, but he grabs me around the neck, holding me tight to his stinking body, and I am sure that this is it, that my life is over. I look up at the sky and pray to something, I don't know what, then from somewhere I find a last residue of strength. I elbow him in the gut and he collapses, for despite his skill, his body is frail and skinny. I feel a blessed release, and roll over; as I do so I hear a scream.
I look up, and see Byron's feet on either side of his head.
His knife is sticking out of the man's forehead.
I fall back onto the grass.
Evie runs up.
"Are you alright? Gus! Are you alright?"
I look past her. The woman lies on the ground, dead, and the boy's axe is buried firmly in his skull.
My goodness.
Evie is shaking. "I kicked him in the nuts and took it off him," she says. Her face is white; she stares at the boy. "I killed him. I didn't want to kill him."
"Him or you," says Byron. "No choice."
They both look at me.
"You okay, mate?" Byron inspects the wound on my head, in the half light. "That doesn't look too deep. He get you anywhere else?"
I pull myself up. My leg is bleeding, too, but I don't think he hit an artery, or I wouldn't be standing.
Then suddenly I'm not.
It's not my leg. It's my stomach. No. My side. Or my back. I don't know.
I fall down once more, and this time all the energy drains from me.
I'm aware of Evie's face. Her worried eyes.
She looks scared.
I can feel my clothes being pulled up. My jumper. Shirt.
"Fucking hell." Byron's voice is a whisper.
He's ripping off his own clothes now. He's tearing his shirt to bits, shouting at Evie to roll me onto my side so he can look at the wounds properly. I feel her damp hands on my skin, hear Byron shouting for water, feel its coolness on me, then warmth as material is wound around me, tight, and Byron turning me onto my back and telling Evie to keep the pressure on, and she's pressing something thick and comforting on my side.
I look up and see his face. The face of my friend.
"Sorry," I say. "Sorry I messed this up."
"Bullshit," he says, and he smiles at me.
I clutch his arm and try to say, 'thank you', but I don't know if the words come out.
"Nothing to thank me for, mate. Now, you're going to stay here with Evie, and I'm going to run like hell back to the houses we passed this afternoon and get help, okay? All you've got to do is hang the fuck on until I get back."
And then he's gone, and Evie is looking at me, pressing on my side, and she's crying.
She says, stay awake, Gus, we love you, you're our friend, we're a team, we've been through all this together and we're not going to lose you now.
I try to smile back at her, but it's hard.
We've moved to the woods.
I look at Evie, and I manage a smile, and then the sun comes out and it's daytime, a beautiful summer afternoon, and the sun is so warm.
I feel better; I sit up. I was right, I'm in the woods.
The happy woods.
I hear Evie.
Stay with me, Gus, stay with me, Byron won't be long.
I can see her face but it's fading, and I want to tell her that it's okay, because my mother's here. I can see her, just over there, with my sister Holly. And a man, in the background; I don't recognise him but I know it's my father. They're all waving to me.
Evie says, no, Gus, no, don't go―
But it's okay, and I try to tell her but the words won't come out. I try to tell her that it's okay, that it's not the Clearing or a black hole in the earth, it's more than that, it's the place where you were happy, with people you love, forever and ever.
It's better now, Evie. It's better now.
I want her to know, so she doesn't have to worry about me, or herself, because when it's her time she's going to be with Jay and her little sister. I want to thank her and tell her I love her, her and Byron, but it's too late, because she's already gone.
My mother and Holly walk towards me, holding out their arms to me
And I get up, and I run to them, smiling and laughing more than I ever have in my whole life.
Chapter 41
Blackthorn
A few weeks earlier
All over Blackthorn, the people press hand to heart. 'Live in the Light,' they say, to those they meet; then they press their palms together, and say, 'Remember Ryder.'
The devastated wife of Lieutenant Parks asks Sarah Thomas why everyone weeps for Ryder, but not for her husband.
"Will was special to us," Sarah replies, "but Ryder was special to everyone."
All mourn Ryder; t
hey weep and pray for him.
They talk to him, in his church; shortly after his death, many began to address their prayers to Ryder himself, rather than the Light.
A likeness of him has been painted and hung in the church, with a roped barrier around it. His followers stand in front of the portrait, hand to heart. Because one or two of them were seen climbing over the rope to touch the face of the man with the intense blue eyes, long, golden hair and neatly trimmed beard, it is now guarded, night and day, and Star has asked the chief carpenter to erect a cabinet for it, with a glass front.
The most devout say that they are no longer afraid of death, because in the Clearing they will be with Ryder once more. After two attempted suicides occurred, Star called a meeting in the church to remind everyone that the taking of one's own life is the ultimate sin against the Light.
Fisher has been promoted to lieutenant, to take the place of Hemsley. He supervises the western half of the south wall, as Hemsley did. This area contains the cabin once lived in by Ryder, which now has a fence around it, and three guards. The interior is preserved as it was on Ryder's last day within; Fisher has instructed the guards to charge a fee of two chips for anyone who wants to enter.
There is a constant queue outside. Some queue there almost every day.
His followers emerge from his cabin with glowing faces, some in tears. They could feel Ryder in the room, they declare. Ryder is still with them, in spirit.
A shacker called Thora claims to have seen him sitting at his table, a ghostly but comforting form.
Fisher sees this as a welcome development; perhaps he can charge more than two chips for the prospect of actually seeing the man himself.
Wolf North sits in the roof garden on the top of Thorn Lodge, reached via an iron staircase at the side of the building.
Wolf likes it up here. It is where his great-grandfather, Phoenix North, met his death. The founder and governor of Blackthorn, a recluse who didn't have a clue and ended life an unhappy man, his city taken from him by his son, Thorn, and Byron Lewis II and III.
Wolf likes to visit the place where his great-grandfather died, because it reminds him that even the most intelligent and fortunate can make an utter fuck-up of their lives, if they don't stay in control.
Up here he sits, to contemplate the future of his city.
The ruined city he has put back together again.
This morning, though, his mind is elsewhere.
He is wondering where Hemsley is.
Hemsley, Byron Lewis V, and a shacker called Evie Woods.
Patrols were sent out in all directions, but even the tracker dogs turned up nothing. Wolf assumed the trio would be making straight for Lindisfarne, as Hemsley would not be physically or mentally equipped for life on the road; surely he would want to find a secure settlement as soon as possible. But they are not on Lindisfarne, and his scouts who went south, west and east have returned empty-handed. No outliers have responded affirmatively to the sketches of three Blackthornians: a pretty girl with waist-length chestnut braids, a strong-looking young man with shoulder-length black locks, and the other one, a mild, sandy-haired chap with round shoulders and a slight paunch, who fades away in a crowd.
Byron Lewis was seen on a clothes stall at the market on the morning of the dinner party; here he bought a large pile of clothes in assorted sizes. South Gate guards reported that, at six a.m. that day, he went out on patrol, alone. He was not on the rota to do so; Wolf imagines this was when the deadly mushrooms were picked. Doctor Khalid inspected the remains of the pie and confirmed the presence of the always-fatal death cap.
Byron Lewis picked the mushrooms and gave them to Hemsley, who took them to Evie to make the pie.
Poison, traditionally the female choice of murder weapon. Wolf chuckles to himself. Hemsley always was something of an old woman.
Poor old Hemsley. Wolf wouldn't have thought he had it in him; he considers him with a new respect. Byron Lewis and the shacker girl's motives are easy to fathom―the girl's revenge for the death of her friend, the gallant lover helping her get the job done―but Hemsley's is a puzzle. Maybe he feared his time was running out, after his discovery of Jay Field. Indeed, Jet Lewis had talked about the wisdom of keeping him alive.
"The quiet ones can be the worst, and you never know when these self-righteous fuckers might decide to speak up. Best to leave no loose ends."
They should have acted sooner, but no matter; as it happens, everything has worked out just fine.
Wolf would love to say that he heard warning bells as soon as Angelo placed the pie on the table, but that would be a lie; he didn't even find out until later that it was a gift from Hemsley. No, he'd simply been suffering from heartburn all day, and the thought of that rich, creamy sauce made his digestive system recoil. He'd only eaten a little of the filling from the quiche―couldn't fancy pastry at all―and, for the main course, filled up on vegetables. Even wine seemed too acidic, that night; he drank just one glass, and picked at his pudding. Only the mint tea he requested made him feel any better, after which he managed a good few glasses of brandy.
Ryder and Parks tucked in with gusto throughout, leaving just under a third of the pie. Thus, had it not been for Wolf's heartburn, his chef would still be alive.
A great shame; his new chef is more than adequate by most people's standards, but not a patch on Angelo.
Wolf did not suspect a thing until he was woken by groans from Ryder's bedroom next door. They filtered into his brain as part of his dream, which suddenly turned a lot more erotic, but moments later, with eyes open, he realised that the groans did not derive from any form of pleasure.
He sat bolt upright, and was further disturbed by some sort of commotion from the front of the house. Shouting. Wailing.
He flew out to find Angelo soiling his beautiful tiled floor with shit and puke. The spare bedroom revealed Ryder in a similar state. Doctor Khalid was summoned, one of his staff sent round to Parks's house.
By dawn, Ryder Swift was fading. As Wolf sat by the bed of the man who'd helped him save Blackthorn, a shiver ran through him. That someone so vibrant, so blessed by nature, could die simply from eating the wrong sort of mushrooms, was more than a little daunting. Wolf decided then and there to employ a food taster.
Ryder's last words were a plea not to let him die, as tears ran down his face and foul matter seeped out of his arse. Wolf didn't like to see him like that. A man like Ryder should have shown strength and beauty even in death. He gasped his final breath at nine o'clock that evening, Angelo two hours later. Parks was the last to go; he spent a further day in agony, before Death took him.
Doctor Khalid assured Wolf there was nothing he could do. Only if they had realised their error and vomited the pie straight away, might they have stood a chance.
The guards on duty on North Gate the previous night needed little encouragement to give up the names of an oddly-matched trio who left the city with small packs on their backs and a curious, vinegary odour in their wake.
The people of the city were told, immediately, who was responsible for this heinous crime, but the rumour mill worked its magic anyway, as Tara the cleaner repeated her story about Lieutenant Hemsley turning up with a mysterious box for the governor, to anyone who wanted to listen.
The woman who ran the bakery filled in the rest of the details.
Parks and Angelo's deaths were all but overlooked while the people of the city rose in uproar over the murder of their beloved Ryder Swift. Volunteers queued at Haystack's office for permission to go out and bring his killers back to face justice, but the last thing Wolf wanted was an uncontrolled rabble storming the countryside. By the time the scouting parties returned, Wolf knew that he'd lost them. They could be anywhere.
The family of the shacker girl refused to believe that their daughter was guilty of murder. She'd written them a note stating only that she was leaving with her lover, Byron Lewis, because she did not accept the Light.
They suffered taunts w
henever they left their shack, until Star held a meeting in the church to remind the people that both Ryder and the Light would condemn this behaviour―no one could prove that Evie knew what she was cooking, or indeed that Lewis had picked the death cap mushrooms. Dawn confirmed only that she'd been given the ingredients for the pie by Lieutenant Hemsley; in fact, Evie had appeared only pleased and surprised to be asked to perform such a task.
Hemsley was the only one against whom the evidence was solid.
The venom towards Evie and Byron Lewis melted away. The girl was popular, from a family respected in Shackers' End, and Byron was not the sort of man to get people's backs up; he was a nice guy, people said. A bit of a loner.
No, Evie and Byron were not murderers.
Lieutenant August Hemsley was the name on everyone's lips.
Mild-mannered Hemsley: the most hated man in the north of England.
Wolf hears footsteps behind him, and the sort of cough designed to attract attention; he waits for a moment before turning to face his guard, just to keep him on his toes; should he cough again, or try an alternative method?
He hears anxious shuffling, and takes pity on him. "Yes, Danny?"
"Sir, I just thought you ought to know. It's time for the church gathering."
"Ah, good. Let's get it done, then." He stands, springing to his feet as might any fit, healthy man of nearly forty. He follows Danny Foster across the roof to the staircase, climbs down, and, like Danny, jumps lightly to the ground when he reaches the last few rungs.
Wolf stands at Ryder Swift's lectern, and smiles. This morning, his audience consists only of skilled workers from the blocks, and those from the East End. His days of appearing to the shackers are over, the work almost done; his words will spread to the lower echelons of their own accord. The only representatives from Shackers' End are Star and her husband, for Star has a place in this final charade.
At the left-hand side, at the front, are the Wives of the Light; six of them are already pregnant. Behind them sit the proud fathers.
