“Yes, but Murray-”
“I’m not afraid of Murray!”
“How can you say that when he shot Kyle?”
“He missed, didn’t he?”
“Kind of—but he could have killed you both.”
“But he didn’t and what choice do we have. I’ve been thinking about it—the houses on Burgate—we haven’t checked them out. There’s probably stuff left in there.”
“Finn! That’s where Saskia lives isn’t it?”
“And?”
“She’s a total psycho—they’re already on our tails-”
“Well, she won’t expect me to break into her own house now would she? They’ve emptied every house around here and stored all the food in that warehouse by the look of it. What option do we have except to try to get some for ourselves?”
“No, but-”
“We’ll starve otherwise.”
“We should start trying to live off the land,” Lina adds.
“How? I don’t know the first thing about growing plants and it’s the middle of winter.
“We need to learn Finn. We need to learn how to grow our own food and catch our own meat.”
“Hah!”
“No, listen. I’m not joking. How’re we going to survive? Even if Saskia and Murray didn’t have all the food stockpiled it would run out one day—our one day is here!” she says opening the cupboard and jabbing her finger at the solitary tin of fish.
“Yes,” Finn agrees her head bowing. “Our one day is here.”
“Finn!” Kyle calls from the living room.
“Yep?” she calls back.
“I’m cold!”
“Coming,” she returns raising her eyebrows at Lina. “A typical man—one scratch on his leg and he’s incapable of pulling the blankets up over himself.”
Lina laughs in return. “My mum always said it was like having another baby in the house when Dad got sick.”
“You go,” Finn adds. “I think he’d like that.”
“Sure,” she replies with a quiet voice and her cheeks tinge with pink as she turns to leave the room.
Finn walks to the hallway and reaches for her boots then grabs her hat and gloves from the table. They’re still damp from yesterday and she throws them back down. She has to get heat in this place from somewhere. Without a chimney they couldn’t light a fire and without electricity the small fire in the living room didn’t work. Perhaps it was time to find somewhere new to live—somewhere they could hide from Murray and Saskia, somewhere with a garden for growing food and a fireplace for burning whatever they could find to keep warm.
“I’m going out,” she calls to the others.
“Don’t be long!” Lina replies.
The anxiety in her voice tugs at Finn. “Don’t worry. I’ll be fine and I’ll come back with something eat,” she calls back as she reaches for the door handle. “I’ll make sure you’re safe and warm,” she says to herself as she takes the first step down stairs to the shop floor.
Chapter 15
Dan leans the spade against the wall and stamps his boots on the concrete step, knocking off the snow before he steps back into the house. His breath billows white as he steps up into the kitchen and he rubs his hands to rid them of the chill. He can feel the tingle of pain in their tips and holds them to his mouth, blowing warm air as they begin to throb. The house is silent.
“Monica” he calls, stepping through to the hallway.
“Here,” she responds, her voice low, deadened with emotion.
“I’ve finished,” he says and watches as the pain flits across her eyes and she turns away. He grasps for words, something to placate her, but everything he thinks of seems trite. What can you say to a woman who’s lost her child? Sorry for your loss? Time will heal your pain? Ugh! He decides to remain silent and instead follows her to the bottom of the stairs. She reaches down and grasps a large pair of corduroy slippers. He clenches his jaw and takes a deep breath to ease the tension as he watches her fingers slip past the tiny pair sitting next to them.
“Here,” she says passing the large slippers to him. “Put them on. Your boots are covered in snow and your feet will be cold without them.”
“Sorry!” he says looking down at the still frozen snow trailed across the wooden flooring.
She nods and turns then walks through to the living room. Warm air filters through the cold and wafts across his face, a small pleasure in this godforsaken world. Changing his boots for the slippers – dead man’s shoes! – he follows her, closes the door and sits close to the log burner. She sits quiet, staring into the orange flames behind the glass.
“Monica,” he says gently looking across to her as she sits crumpled in the over-large cushions of the sofa. She doesn’t move or acknowledge him, but instead stares into the fire. He rises, walks across the room and sits next to her. He recognises her pain and the darkness inside. Her lips are blushed rose against the pale, freckled skin. She turns to him as he slips his arm over her shoulder, her green eyes lock on his then she leans and rests her head on his chest. He pulls her to him, tightening his arm around her, and they sit in silence, taking comfort from each other, as the sun lowers and the orange of the fire casts its warm glow in the darkening room.
The curtains are open as Deacon unzips his jeans, sits on the bed and pulls them off. Laying them over the chair next to the dressing table he turns to look at the stars, unhindered by light outside, the sky is clearer than he has ever seen it, the light pollution caused by the billions of people on the planet gone—switched off in a matter of weeks. He turns back and pulls off the jumper then t-shirts he’s layered to keep him warm. A fire crackles in the grate, warming his front as he undresses but the cold at his back makes him shiver. Clothes laid out on the chair next to the dressing table, he slips between the covers and lays with his hands behind his head and watches and listens. Kit knocks about in the room across the landing, clean pyjamas handed to him by Saskia already exchanged for the grubby jeans and sweat-laden tops. She’s still downstairs and he listens as she locks the doors, treads up the stairs and goes into the bathroom. Water trickles, a bowl being filled perhaps, and then shuffling. The bathroom door opens, closes, the bedroom door opens, closes and the house quiets.
As he drifts to sleep a dog howls. He grabs a pillow and places it over his head, muffling the sound of barking and falls again into darkness, the bed finally warmed with the heat of his body, seduced by the warmth of the fire. The house is silent as he drifts then allows the darkness to take him.
A pressure on his belly wakes him and he opens his eyes to the grey light of early morning, the moon sits high and clear in the winter sky. The pressure is on his back too and he lies still as a hand slips down below his naval. He clenches his jaw, angry at the betrayal of his body, the yearnings he feels in his crotch. The hand slips lower, strokes at him there, and the ache begins to consume him. No! He grasps the hand and pulls it away.
“Deacon,” Saskia murmurs. “I need you,” she says pulling her hand from his grasp. Sliding herself over his hip she rolls him to his back and sits astride, her warmth enveloping his growing hardness. “And,” she says pushing out her breasts then leaning over him, “I can tell that you want me,” she smiles as she rocks her hips backwards and forwards. He groans, barely able to stand the ache rising in him. It’s been so long! He scans her body, the high, full breasts, the waist that tapers to a taut belly, the hips full, arse rounded, the dark fuzz neatly trimmed between her legs, the pink …. He groans again as he hardens and looks at her face. No! He pushes his hand against her shoulder and she falls to the side as he releases himself and gets out of bed standing naked before her, his body desperate to slip inside her warmth, his heart screaming no.
“What the!”
“No, Saskia. I don’t want this,” he says grabbing for his boxers.
“Hah!” she says, her voice sharp. “That’s not true. I can see that it’s not,” she says gesturing to his crotch.
“I have n
eeds—same as any other man—but I have morals too.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
He remains silent, not wanting the nasty scene he knows will come if he’s honest.
“We’re both alone in this world.” She walks towards him, taking his lower arm in her hand. “We can give each other comfort. Can’t we?” she says pulling his hand towards her breast.
“Not like this, no,” he says looking down at her.
Her eyes narrow. “I’m not good enough for you? Eh?”
“That’s right,” he says.
“What!” she spits, her mask slipping.
“You’re not. I’ve watched you yesterday and you’re a nasty piece of work. From what I can tell, you’ve taken everything you can and hoarded it for yourself and now, because a few kids are hungry and want some of what you’ve got, you’re willing to kill them.”
“Hah! You telling me that you wouldn’t do the same. Huh? If you found the food you wouldn’t want to share it either. You’re just the same as the rest—coming after what I’ve got. Well,” she says pointing her finger at him. “I’ll tell you this—you can get out of my house.”
“Gladly,” he retorts, pulling on his jeans. “But I’ll tell you this,” he retaliates, his anger flaring, “the food that is in that warehouse—it’s for all of us—not just you and your merry men.”
“Now, just you listen-”
“No! You listen, Saskia,” he says rounding on her, using his height to dominate her. “I’m a fair man and when I see a bully ready to do real harm to people just because they’re hungry-”
“If you think-”
“I’ll be watching you, Saskia, and if you so much as touch a hair on their heads!”
“You’ll what?” she spits.
“I’ll come and take everything you’ve got,” he says stepping forward, leaning over her and scowling down.
Her eyes narrow, but she shows no sign of submission. “Pah! You’re as pathetic as all the rest,” she says taking a step back and reaching for the door’s handle. “That warehouse and everything in it is mine. Got it? Now,” she says holding the door open, unabashed by her nakedness, “take your brat and get out of my house, before I get my brother to come sort you.”
She stands with hand grasped around the door handle and holds his gaze. Deacon, coat and jumpers a bundle in his arms, passes her, brushing against her breasts as he steps out onto the landing. He knocks on the bedroom door where Kit lies sleeping and walks through without waiting for a reply.
“And hurry up!” she spits as she follows him out then slams the door of her own bedroom behind her.
“Kit,” Deacon whispers in the grey light, and leans over the boy, rocking his shoulder gently.
He murmurs and turns to face Deacon, a frown across his brow.
“What is it? Where?”
“It’s OK. But we’ve got to leave.”
“Warm. I’m dreaming, let me go sleep,” he says turning away again.
“No, Kit!” he says shaking his shoulder again. “C’mon, wake up. Saskia wants us out.”
“Huh!” he exclaims, awake at the mention of her voice. He sits up and rubs at his eye then looks to the window. “It’s morning?”
“Yes,” Deacon replies. “Time we were going.”
“Sure,” he replies pushing back the duvet. He shivers as he reaches for his clothes. “What’s going on then?” he asks as he pulls on his socks.
“Saskia!” Deacon says with a laugh thinking back to her shocked face as he bucked her off his hips. “She doesn’t like being told no.”
“Oh?” Kit replies in confusion. “You didn’t fancy her then?”
“What? Hah! No, I did not.”
“I just knew.”
“What did you know?”
“That she’d make the move on you.”
“Hah!” Deacon returns with a chuckle. “Just me that didn’t then.”
“Oh, come on!” Kit replies laughing as he pulls up his jeans and reaches for the first of his t-shirts. “Like you didn’t think about it.”
“True! But … hell, no! I wouldn’t touch that piece if it was the la-”
Bang! Bang! Bang!
“You two better be out of my house by the time I come out of this bathroom,” Saskia shouts through the door. Deacon listens as she stamps across the landing then slams the bathroom door.
“C’mon lad. Get a move on and let’s leave the lady in peace,” he snorts at his own joke then grabs Kit’s coat and watches as he ties his laces.
“Lady!” he laughs and takes his coat from Deacon. “I’m ready.”
Chapter 16
Finn looks up, her fingers cold as she re-ties the laces of her boot, alerted by the sound of shouting and a door banging. A woman’s voice. Saskia? She stays crouched and moves to the edge of the path, shifting to the front of the car and waits. Ahead, the snow reflects the light of the moon in the thin grey of morning. She thought coming out this early would be safe—Saskia and Murray tucked up safely in bed and any other survivors she didn’t know about too. As she crouches, two figures walk away from the house, up the path and onto the street. A man, a very large man, and a boy. They stop for a moment, talk in low tones that aren’t clear enough for her to hear, then turn and walk towards her. She shuffles back as their footsteps approach and then turns on her hands and knees and scrambles to the other side of the car, hoping the shadows will hide her. They tramp past through the snow and then walk past, oblivious to her. She sighs letting the tension release from her shoulders then looks up to the house—Saskia’s house. She’d found it then. Tomorrow she’d be back to take some of her stuff—it was the only way. None of the other houses had anything left. Saskia and Murray had cleared them all out. She turns, checks up and down the street, runs across and through the strip of woodland that separates the streets, then makes the journey into town and back to Finn and Kyle.
Saskia digs her nails into the wood of the sill as she watches Deacon and Kit tread through the snow and disappear into the grey morning. The flush of humiliation stains her cheek and she grinds her teeth as she remembers the look of disgust on his face as she’d sat astride him then pushed her away. He’d pay, but the girl would pay first—never mind his threats. Her eyes narrow as she watches the girl disappear too. She’d watched as she’d stood looking down the road at the men then crossed the road and disappeared into the trees. Murray and Sergei had better deal with them today. That little rat wasn’t out there in the dark and cold of morning for no reason. She was watching her house. Of that she was sure.
“Deacon,” Kit says as his boots tread deep into the snow.
“Yeah,” he replies as they tramp towards the road that will take them away from the town and back to the hide. He stuffs his hands further into his pockets, the cold nipping at his fingers.
“I don’t want to go back to the hide. It’s so flippin’ cold.”
Deacon stops and looks at the boy, takes in the sharpness of his cheekbones, fat lost over the past months. “The pub?”
Kit nods in reply and smiles. “The pub.”
They turn in unison, cross the road and walk towards the town’s centre.
“What’ll we do about Saskia and her merry men?” he asks with a laugh, though his voice is tight.
“We’ll make the pub a stronghold,” Deacon replies. We can board up the front. The back is good—high walls, barbed wire, a gate that locks.
“Good,” Kit replies, relief strong in his voice. “And a fire!”
“And a fire.”
“And beds!”
“Hah! Yes, and beds.”
“We can make it a real home,” he continues, his pace quickening.
Deacon increases his step to keep up. “Steady on, lad. The pub’ll still be there.”
“Sure, I know—it’s just—I feel homeless, and sleeping in that bed, even if it was in that witch’s house, well … it was nice.”
Deacon plants his hand on the boy’s shoulder. “
I know what you mean, lad. We’ll make it a home. The best we can in the circumstances.” He lets his arm drop and trudges onwards, his thighs aching as the road steepens. Glancing up he recognises the street and the sign hanging outside. It hangs still in the air and the long-dead king grins down at them.
The chill breaks through the dying warmth of the fire as Dan’s eyes open. The cold seeps to the back of his neck where the blanket, pulled from the side of the sofa and over them both by Monica, has fallen away. She lays curled to him - ‘spooning’ Cassie always called it - her soft hair brushes against his chin, a warm flush across her sleeping cheek. Movement catches his eye and he looks out through the window to the bird, a robin, standing on the sill, its feet hidden by the snow.
Monica stirs and pushes against him. A familiar ache, one he thought had been lost, strokes at him. He closes his eyes, tries to ignore it, and leans back into the cushions of the sofa and away from the warmth of her body—tries to think of Cassie instead. She shifts, pushing herself against him and he looks down at her, notices the delicate softness of the pale honey of her skin, the amber of her perfectly, naturally arched brows, and the deep auburn of her hair. She’s beautiful!
The ache grows and so does the old yearning for possession. He grits his teeth, pushing down at his feelings, and then she moves. He closes his eyes, feigns sleep as she turns to face him. A hand brushes against his cheek and smooths the skin of his temple. If he opens his eyes he’ll see her looking at him. A finger brushes against his lips. He catches his breath as a wave of desire spreads from his groin. He can’t! She shifts again, pressing herself against him and he opens his eyes. Her green eyes search his then she tips her chin to him. The shock of her touch, the gentle warmth of her lips on his is intoxicating, and he slips his arm over her back. She presses at his mouth, more insistent now, and he returns the passion, sliding his hand over her arse and pulling at her hips until they meet the growing ache. She groans, slides her leg over his thigh and her hand beneath his jumper. All effort at restraint gone he takes her, losing himself in her warmth, blocking his grief with each frantic thrust.
The Outcast's Journey Page 7
