The Artisans

by J G Alva

  He didn’t turn.

  “Aimee.”

  “Are you…okay?”

  “Your boss is an asshole.”

  “Well…”

  He turned then, a question in his eyes.

  “It’s no real surprise to me,” she said eventually, with a wry cock of an eyebrow.

  He nodded, and turned back to the window.

  “I’m sorry, if that helps?” She offered.

  “Okay.”

  “Sutton?”

  “Yes.”

  “Are you okay?”

  He sighed then, and turned to her.

  “I’m very tired,” he said.

  “You look tired.”

  “Well then. There you go.”

  “You did it,” she said. “Got Toby back, I mean. I knew you could.”

  But Sutton was shaking his head.

  “It’s not that simple.”

  “Why not?”

  “Well…” He paused. “For one thing, they know my name.”

  “Why did you give them that?”

  “I had to. We were running out of time. A…friend, was going to make up a false identity for me, but in the end there just wasn’t enough time to do so. And it was probably for the best that he didn’t, because during the Purge I wouldn’t have been able to maintain a false identity. It would have been too much for me.” He hesitated. “Plus, the truth has a special flavour. It was always going to give us a better chance of success if I went in as myself.”

  “But riskier,” she pointed out.

  “Well. The plan was to cause enough of a distraction at the end that they wouldn’t know that I was the one responsible for extracting Toby. But once I heard he was going in for the Passing Ceremony, then I knew I couldn’t wait. I had to get him out.”

  They were both silent a moment.

  “They made you cut your hair,” she said, running her hand through what remained of it. “Your lovely hair.”

  Sutton closed his eyes briefly as she continued to play with his hair…and then his hand shot out and took hold of her wrist.

  His eyes were flat and almost blank in that moment, and for the briefest second, she felt fear.

  What had happened to him out there, amongst those crazy people?

  “They didn’t,” he said. “I did. I cut it.”

  “What? Why?”

  He was examining her hand, his own rough, calloused fingers tracing the lines of it: like an anthropologist looking at a new species.

  “To fit in,” he said.

  “Okay.” She swallowed. His touch was making her hand tingle. “Was it…tough?”

  Sutton nodded, but he seemed distracted by her hand.

  “I’ve always loved your hands,” he said.

  “Really?” She was surprised. This was new.

  “They’re perfect hands,” he said. “Which is surprising.”

  “Oh?”

  “Because of what you do you with them: netball; tennis; badminton; squash; free weights.”

  “Well, I-“

  “Shovelling shit for that egomaniac.”

  She closed her mouth with a snap.

  “Not just for him,” he added. “For anyone willing to pay. For anyone who you think is smarter than you.”

  Where was this coming from?

  Sutton had never spoken to her like this before. He was a hippy, she was a corporate robot; it was a joke between them, but there was also a grain of truth to it. By rights, they shouldn’t have been friends…and the fact that they never spoke like this was probably the reason they had been able to remain so.

  “Are you listening to me, Aimee Louise Graham?”

  “I’m listening…but I’m not exactly sure what I’m hearing. Or who I’m talking to.” She looked closer. “Or what they did to you in that cult.”

  Sutton looked away then, releasing her hand.

  “They didn’t do anything,” he said, turning back to the window.

  “They did something.”

  “No.”

  “I mean, there’s a bit of an emotional pendulum swing going on here…”

  “Aimee,” Sutton said. His eyes looked haunted. “These last three weeks have been the most peaceful of my life.”

  Before she could respond, they both heard vehicles coming down the long drive toward the house.

  “They’re coming,” Sutton said.

  “Oh God.”

  She felt cold terror encase her neck.

  “Come on. We have to leave. Now.”

  ◆◆◆

  CHAPTER 4

  Dr Ruminatra had pushed the gurney up to the back of the Viano MPV People Carrier.

  “We need to wait for the police,” the doctor protested once more.

  “By the time they get here it will be too late,” Sutton said.

  “Did you see how many there were?” Greg asked.

  “Two cars. Get Toby in the back. Aimee, you’re driving.”

  Aimee nodded.

  “Greg?” She asked, offering her hand.

  “Here.”

  Greg produced the keys and dropped them into her palm.

  She went around to the driver’s side door while Sutton got into the back and pulled the seats down.

  There was a crash suddenly, of glass breaking, from somewhere inside the house.

  They all stopped and turned toward the sound.

  “They can’t get away with this,” Greg said, more surprised than outraged, Aimee thought.

  “They are getting away with it,” Sutton pointed out. “Help Dr Ruminatra lift Toby into the back.”

  Aimee got in and started the car.

  Her skin was crawling with not-quite panic.

  She watched the kitchen door as the men engaged in their task. The car shook, and there was some effortful grunting.

  Come on, she thought.

  Come on, come on, come on –

  “We’re in,” the doctor said. “Here, hold the IV. Up. Up. Higher.”

  “Dad?” Toby said, his voice weak.

  “Toby,” Greg said. “I’m here.”

  “Where’s Mum?”

  Greg cleared his throat. Aimee saw his pained expression in the mirror.

  Toby’s Mum had been dead for four years.

  “We’re going to see her now,” Greg said reassuringly.

  “I want my skateboard,” Toby said, and then his voice dissolved into muttering…before he gave a soft snore.

  Greg said, “oh God, is he…?”

  Dr Ruminatra said, “this is okay, this is normal. A little disorientation, nothing more…He’ll be fine.”

  Aimee turned back to the kitchen door.

  Nothing yet, but –

  “Are you in?” Sutton asked, and Greg replied in the affirmative.

  He shut the door, and then got in beside her.

  “Let’s go,” he said.

  She dragged her attention away from the kitchen door.

  “Greg,” she said. “Where’s the garage door remote?”

  “Above the mirror,” he said, and she looked up and found the button. “Careful driving. We’re not exactly stable back here.”

  She pressed the button. There was a short moment where nothing happened, and then a hollow clunk followed by the sound of an electric motor whirring…and then the garage door began to roll up with a metallic clattering.

  She put the car in gear.

  “You sure you don’t want to drive?” She asked Sutton, but he shook his head.

  “No. I want you to drive. At the moment, you’re the steadiest one out of all of us. But be ready. I think this is…going to get a little hairy.”

  A harsh white glare filled her vision as the garage door lifted. At first, she wasn’t sure what it could be, but then she realised that it must be headlights. Had the visitors parked in such a way as to block their exit? If so, then they were done before they had begun. Yes, this was a big vehicle, but it wasn’t exactly a bulldozer; it would crumple like a tin can if she had to go through tw
o vehicles.

  When the garage door was only halfway up, somebody ducked underneath it and stole into the garage.

  They were so quick Aimee only caught an impression of a moving figure; no details at all, not even the sex of the intruder.

  Somebody was shouting from somewhere behind their vehicle. It was indiscernible, like the cry of a wild animal.

  “Fuck, go,” Sutton said, and flinched back against her as something hit the passenger side window, instantly turning it into an opaque spider web of cracks.

  “Sutton?” She said, a quiver in her voice.

  “Go, go!” Sutton shouted. “Just go!”

  “But the door-“

  “Go!”

  Aimee put her foot down on the accelerator.

  The engine roared, and they lurched forward convulsively. The garage door was only three quarters of the way up, and when they passed under it, there was a crang! sound as the roof of the car connected with it, and a high and obscene whine of scratching metal that made Aimee’s ears hurt.

  Greg shouted, “Jesus Christ!”

  Dr Ruminatra called out urgently, “they’re behind us! They’re coming!”

  Outside, Aimee was relieved to see that only one of the vehicles was parked facing the garage, and that it was not blocking it, that there was room to go around…but with the speed and the size of the driveway, it turned out to be a tighter fit than she had estimated. But it was fine, they were going to make it, she just might have to put some tyre tracks over Greg’s pristine lawn in order to do so.

  Something glanced off the windscreen then, making her flinch, cry out and lose her grip on the steering wheel. A crack as big as a dinner plate filled her vision suddenly. She was almost blind.

  She immediately reclaimed the wheel, but the vehicle had veered left, and she was only just in time to prevent them from ploughing headlong into the other car. She had to bend down close to the dashboard to see past the crack in the window. She swerved to the right, away from the house, the two vehicles moving closer, closer, closer…and there was an almighty crash as she clipped the front of the other vehicle and then was past it. Sparks shot up into the night and they were all rocked in their seats momentarily…

  Then she realised they were going too far the other way.

  There was a lawn, then on the far side of that a large rockery; they were heading toward it.

  “Fuck, fuck, fuck,” someone was muttering, and Aimee was shocked to realise that it was her.

  She turned the car the other way, felt the back end slide on the grass momentarily before it regained purchase, and then the car began to straighten out.

  Then they were moving past the rockery – safe – and onto the driveway, heading out.

  “Look out!” The doctor shouted, and something hit the back window with a loud crack. But it held.

  At this point, the drive was a long straight road that lasted for a quarter of a mile…so Aimee put her foot down. She couldn’t see anybody following in the mirror, although the crack in the back window distorted her view.

  Sutton had wound down his own damaged window and was looking in the side mirror.

  “They’re getting in their cars,” he said. “But we can lose them. If you keep your speed up.”

  She nodded, but then asked, “where am I going?”

  They were approaching the gates.

  Greg said, “Alfred’s place.”

  “What – in Clifton?”

  “No. In Mark. You need to get on to the A38. Head south.”

  At the gates, Aimee turned left, skidding slightly as the wheels met the concrete. Long Ashton was only a small village in the middle of nowhere, and the next ten miles would all be on winding country roads in the dark, twisting back and forth on themselves like snakes.

  “How’s Toby?” She asked.

  Greg took a deep calming breath.

  “He seems to be okay.”

  She looked over at Sutton. He was struggling to wind up the cracked and deformed passenger window.

  “Did you see that?” He asked, indicating the crack in the windscreen in front of her.

  “What?”

  “It was an arrow.”

  “An arrow?”

  He nodded.

  “They fired an arrow at you.”

  She stared at the cracked windscreen in disbelief.

  “What are these guys, fucking cavemen?”

  Sutton gave her a small, tired smile.

  “Sort of.”

  ◆◆◆

  It was early evening when Clive Goddard finally made it to the caravan.

  They called it a caravan, but in no universe could the vehicle Bellafont used as a home be considered a caravan. It was a motorhome, easily forty foot long, with a dinette area and side settees directly behind the driver and passenger seats, a compact neatly organised kitchen area behind that, and at the back of the vehicle a bedroom, with a small en-suite bathroom, a mirrored wardrobe, and a large double bed.

  It had been second hand when they bought it, almost three years ago now, and still in good condition…but now it was starting to show its age: stuffing was bursting out of the side settee cushions; the panelling on most of the storage compartments was peeling off; the carpet was dark with dirt and age.

  Bellafont was in one of his Expression Fugues.

  As soon as Clive stepped up into the main cabin, he recognised it…he need only look at the apparatus lined up on the kitchen sink to have it confirmed. Scum filled beakers, the hotplate, and the half empty bottle of rum were the tools he used. He called it his Elixir. A hermit living on the Isle of Wight had shown him how to make it during his “wilderness years”, when he had wandered the length and breadth of England, searching for his calling. The Brides had another name for it, which always made them giggle: Fuck Froth. It made everyone extremely suggestible…and very eager to enter into sexual congress. Clive sometimes wondered why Bellafont had never let him drink it…but such thoughts were a betrayal of the man’s wisdom. He knew what he was doing.

  Bellafont was aroused now, Clive could see, although he immediately averted his eyes. The man himself seemed unaware; his head was cocked, as if he was listening to secret voices. Who knew; with his gifts, maybe he was. In an Expression Fugue, Bellafont could remain like this for hours: trapped in some reminiscence, he would be as fixed as stone, and may not move at all until it had passed, some hours hence.

  Clive pondered, and was about to get up when Bellafont spoke.

  “There’s a dividing line,” he said.

  Clive started. He hadn’t realised Bellafont was even aware of his presence.

  “That place where the dark and the light should jostle for position,” Bellafont continued. “It’s natural that the light should chase the dark; it’s the way of all creation. Where such elemental concepts are forced to reverse…that is when the stanchions of morality are tested. And this is what we face: confusion…because the dark will not retreat.”

  “Yes, Bellafont.”

  The Expression Fugues always fascinated Clive…but at the same time they made him nervous. Bellafont was liable to be more irrational than usual. And his moods were hard to anticipate.

  “It’s in us,” Bellafont said, his voice hushed. “Inside. Smothering our voices.”

  “I know.”

  “The dark should be in abeyance. By rights, it should be at the edge of our vision, not obscuring it.”

  “Yes, Bell-“

  “Chase back the dark!” Bellafont shouted enthusiastically, bringing one closed fist down on the kitchen sink. Beakers and bottles went flying. His grey, almost white, eyes were shining with an inner fire.

  Clive looked away.

  “Toby’s gone,” he said.

  Bellafont took a long slow breath, straightening up to his full height. His head almost met the roof of the motorhome.

  “How?” Bellafont asked.

  “He had help.”

  “Priatt?”

  How did he know these things?


  “Yes. I’m sorry.”

  “No!” Bellafont shouted once more; roared might have been more accurate. “You do not apologise to me! You apologise to no one!”

  “I know, I-“

  “We are all free, my good friend. When will you learn this?”

  Bellafont approached Clive, and then cupped his cheeks and forced him to meet his gaze. His expression was benevolent, fond almost, the intensity of his eyes dampened in that moment.

  “I will not apologise,” Clive said.

  “No.”

  “Not to anyone.”

  Bellafont smiled widely then, showing all his teeth: most of them were black or brown.

  “We need to move,” he said, releasing Clive and turning away from him suddenly.

  Another erratic shift…Clive felt caught out, unprepared.

  “I’ll tell the others,” he said, mentally scrambling to come to attention.

  Bellafont stopped at the door to his bedroom, his back to Clive. He turned his head slightly, and spoke over his shoulder.

  “First, I must speak to them.”

  “What is it?” Clive asked, excited and curious despite himself. When Bellafont spoke to the group, it was always an occasion.

  “The Soldiers must find Toby.”

  “I think I know where he is.”

  Bellafont turned to face him.

  He stared at Clive for a full minute, his expression curiously blank, before he smiled once more.

  “Good. Send three, and only three.”

  “Yes.”

  “Do you know why he must be returned to us?”

  “Because he is the one,” Clive said, as if by rote.

  “Because he is the one,” Bellafont said, and then started shaking. Clive had seen this before as well, but Bellafont never explained what it meant, or even remarked on it after it happened. As far as he was concerned, it didn’t exist.

  It would usually only last for a minute, and this time was no different.

  Bellafont calmed himself, and then dropped his head on to his chest, breathing heavily, as if in meditation.

  He spoke then, his voice abnormally deep.

  “Priatt,” he said. “Find him out. He sees. Do you understand me? He sees.”

  “What-“

  “Find him out!” Bellafont stormed, and swept his hand over the remaining items on the kitchen counter. They shot across the interior of the motorhome, landing at Clive’s feet. “Contact everyone. Brethren and heathens alike. Every friend, every discourse, use them all. Every light that dares to shine in the dark. In one hour, I will ask them all to reach. To reach and grasp. In one hour.”