by Alan Early
‘’Oo are you?’ he growled at him. ‘Wot’re you doin’ there?’
‘Nothing,’ Arthur started. ‘I–’
‘D’you escape from one of d’camps?’
‘Camps? What camps?’
‘Shurrup, you!’ His face turned beetroot red. ‘I’ll ask d’questions here. Wot’s your name then, one-eye?’
‘Cyclops, maybe,’ guffawed one of the others gleefully. The raiders had all now removed their helmets and were staring at Arthur.
‘Actually,’ said a third in a matter-of-fact tone, ‘losin’ an eye isn’t a laughin’ matter. A few years ago, I got in a brawl wiv dis bloke. ’E was my bruvver, come to think of it. And in d’heat of d’brawl, I popped ’is eye out wiv my thumb. It just came right out, so it did, made a sound like squeezing some of that bubble-wrap stuff. Anyway, after that, ’e ’ad terrible balance. ’E kept fallin’ over and bumpin’ into things and ’e looked like a right plonker … actually, now that I think of it, it is kinda funny!’
This set most of them off laughing. The scar-lipped one whipped around to growl at them and they promptly shut up. He faced Arthur again.
‘Now,’ he said. ‘Wot’s your name?’
‘Ar–’ He stopped. He suddenly had second thoughts about revealing his real name to some of Loki’s wolves. ‘Will,’ he said. ‘My name’s Will.’
‘Will,’ grunted Scar-lip. ‘Didja hear that, boys? He says his name’s Will!’ He broke out in heavy belly laughs, as did the others. ‘Wot sort of a pansy-arsed name is Will? Very la-di-da! All right, boyo, you’re coming wiv us.’
The others revved up their motors and slashed through the water towards him. Arthur didn’t have time to try to escape, but even if he had, he doubted that he’d have been able to outrun the jet skis. The first raider to reach him grabbed him by the scruff of his neck, picking him straight up into the air and plopping him down on the seat behind him. One of the others took his backpack out of the sandpit-boat and put it into a trunk attached to his jet ski.
‘Hold onto my waist tight,’ warned Arthur’s captor, before adding with a sneer, ‘we wouldn’t want you to drown.’ He jammed his helmet back on his head and, with a roaring rev of the engines, they all zipped off, away from the burnt-out house. Arthur had one last look at the receding estate before it was gone.
Darkness started to fall as the jet skis raced through the dead city. The streetlights didn’t come on as usual, so when it was almost too gloomy to see where they were going the raiders switched on high-beams. The lights cut through the blackness directly ahead of them but didn’t reveal much on either side. No longer able to pick out familiar landmarks, Arthur soon lost track of the direction they were going in. The raider didn’t say a word as they rode, although, even if he had, Arthur would have had trouble hearing him through the helmet and with the rush of air in his ears.
Eventually, they slowed down. The sun had long since set but the night air was still warm and clammy; not as bad as it had been during the day but still unnaturally hot for Ireland. Arthur looked at the sky above. The clouds were still shifting, sparking green in places, but without the sun to illuminate them they were a darker shade of ivy now. The moon was a blurred crescent through the clouds. Arthur peered past his captor at their new location. They were in front of an enormously high and long wall. The jet skis moved through a gap in the wall, past a ‘Deliveries Entrance’ sign and into a huge concrete structure. A steel landing platform stood at just the right level for the raiders to disembark. Concrete steps rose high into the darkness, punctuated along the stairwell with bright worklights. Several more raiders were milling around, going up and down the stairs or boarding their own jet skis and riding out.
Arthur’s raider pulled the jet ski right up to the landing platform along with all the others, shut off the engine and stepped onto the metal dock. He yanked Arthur off the small vessel and shoved him towards the steps. With his captor right behind him and the raider who’d taken his bag in front of him, Arthur started up the staircase. He kept his eye fixed on the backpack, praying that no one would think to open it and discover his hammer inside. Voices and laughter bounced off the concrete the whole way up and Arthur had a sense that a lot more raiders were about than he had yet seen. Every so often they came to a landing with a door leading off to some other part of the structure. Wolf raiders poured in and out of these doors but he never got a good glimpse of the rooms beyond apart from a sense of harsh lighting and a cacophony of loud talking and clattering. The raider carrying his bag went through one of the doors on what Arthur counted as being the fourth floor. This room was darker than all the others they’d passed and much quieter. Arthur’s captor pushed him towards an emergency door next to it, but Arthur just had time to see the other man come back out of the dim room without his belongings and head back down the steps.
The raider still with Arthur kicked the emergency door open, letting in the stifling night air with a whoosh.
‘Down you go,’ he ordered. When the boy didn’t move, he gave him a harsh nudge forward. Arthur gasped when he saw where he was.
Croke Park was the largest sporting stadium in Dublin and the fourth largest in Europe. It was situated in the very heart of the city, less than a mile from O’Connell Street. Three tiers of seating circled the green pitch on three sides, while the fourth side was closed in with a smaller stand. High-powered floodlights beamed down from the edge of the roof, highlighting everything in glaring whiteness. Blue-plastic arena seating filled the stands entirely and some raiders were scattered about the seats. A few were lounging back and relaxing; others were chatting or sipping beers. Some had even transformed into wolves and were chasing each other through the aisles of blue, playfully nipping at each other’s tails.
‘I said down you go!’ the raider grunted once more, giving Arthur another sharp shove.
The view of the pitch was what had stopped Arthur in his tracks. It should have been under the flood like the ground outside the stadium, but this wasn’t the case. Instead the playing field was full of people wearing dirty, mud-smeared rags. Some of them shuffled to and fro but most were just hunched or lying on the ground. The grass itself was gone, trampled into a sticky, muddy mess.
Steps led down the tier to the pitch, between rows of plastic seats. Before the raider could give him any more helpful encouragement, Arthur slowly started down, taking the steps one at a time because his legs felt suddenly unstable. As he went, some of the people below turned his way, giving him cursory glances, then looked away once more. A group of wolf raiders who were huddled in some nearby seats, watching the crowds, jeered him. They swore at him, calling him names and cackling loudly. One of them even threw an empty beer can at him. It clattered by his feet as he passed.
As he stepped onto the pitch, his foot slid out from underneath him on the slippery muck and he landed with a thud on his back. Suddenly–
–Yggdrasill, the tree of life, is being hammered by the rains of Asgard. Lightning strikes it, splitting a thick branch in two. And–
Arthur blinked and found himself back in Croke Park. What was that, he wondered, still lying on the ground. He had managed to avoid hitting his head off the last concrete step, but the fall had hurt nonetheless. He lay still for a minute, stubbornly trying to block out the sounds of the laughing raiders in the stand. Then, just as he was about to get up, something tugged at his feet. He looked down the length of his body to see a grubby-cheeked boy aged about five pulling off his shoes. Before Arthur could stop him, he was off, weaving at a sprint through the mob and taking Arthur’s favourite pair of Converse with him.
‘Hey!’ Arthur shouted after him. ‘Get back here! They’re –’ He struggled to his feet, sliding even more now, and started to run after the boy, but the thief was lost in the crowds before he had taken more than a few steps. He sighed and looked down at his feet. His socks were already covered in mud and soaked through. Seeing no other choice, Arthur looked up and moved deeper into the huddled mass.
The things Arthur saw as he moved among the people on the pitch shocked and frightened him. The level of human despair he felt pouring from them was stifling and, much like a balloon, the tension threatened to burst at any minute. Judging by the raggedy, stained state of them, most appeared to be wearing the clothes they’d arrived in and Arthur guessed that they’d been here for weeks, if not months. The clothes were universally loose, as if the wearers hadn’t had a decent meal for a long time. Their hair was greasy and their skin unwashed. Heavy bags hung under their tired-looking eyes and their ashen faces were drawn and ill-looking. They turned to him with want in their eyes, as if hoping that he might have some spare food or relief to offer them, but knowing that he wouldn’t.
Many of the people were asleep already, especially the elderly captives. They lay on the ground itself, with only thin and uncomfortable layers of clothing or plastic bags between them and the slick mud. There was no cover from the night sky, no tents or huts to keep them dry when it rained. Arthur wondered what would happen whenever it did rain, as Croke Park didn’t have a roof over the pitch. He was actually amazed that people could sleep at all with the bright floodlights glaring down, but he figured they must have gotten used to them by now. The stench throughout was pungent; even more so when he passed a line of Portaloos that clearly hadn’t been emptied in days. Most people kept their voices to a low mumble, whispering together in small groups. Only the babies didn’t seem to understand this protocol and cried loudly and wilfully. At one stage, Arthur heard angry shouting and turned towards the sound to see a pair of middle-aged men (both in dirty shirts and ties) fist-fighting over which of them owned a much-stained blazer. Eventually, one of the men knocked out the other with a fierce blow and triumphantly claimed the jacket.
As he continued to explore the camp, a numbness surged through him. He felt disconnected from the world, as if he was viewing himself on a cinema screen – just a character in a movie. A horror movie. He wondered if Joe was here somewhere, or the Barry family. He didn’t know which fate would be worse: to have been killed in the house explosion or to end up at this camp. And what about the Lavenders? He hoped that in this world Ellie and Ex might be safe with their parents in some other country, away from the horror all around him. Although there was no way to be certain that the terrible things that had happened were restricted to Ireland.
Arthur wandered around for hours, feeling more lost and more lonely than he ever had in his life. The night didn’t get any colder. More and more people fell asleep, but he couldn’t. Not yet. He knew he wouldn’t be able to drift off in this dreadful and strange environment. So he kept on walking, picking his way around the people back and forth across the pitch, just to keep moving. Anything to pass the time.
At one stage he remembered the hammer – and how it had come to him every time he was in mortal danger. He held his open palm in the direction of the door he’d come through, hoping to see the weapon crash through and soar straight into his grasp. But it didn’t. He supposed he wasn’t in mortal danger right now. Not really. He wasn’t about to die. This place – whatever it was – was a place of slow, torturous death.
Arthur passed a small grouping by one of the pitch’s goalposts. Between twenty and thirty people were laid out on the ground, lying on torn pieces of plastic sheeting in order to keep dry, arranged in a three-rowed grid system. Most of them were asleep but some were awake, gazing up at the sky or at him as he walked past. The majority had eyes full of sadness but, as hard as those were to bear, Arthur preferred them to the second group, whose eyes were totally devoid of emotion. Those eyes told him that their owners had given up. A handful of people were moving through the lines of those lying down, bending to talk to them, checking their temperature with the backs of their hands, tending to their every need. It’s a makeshift hospital, he realised as one woman on the ground hacked a throaty cough. They’ve made a hospital for the sickest people. Right here, under the goalposts.
‘Hello, pet,’ said a plump woman in her sixties. Despite her size, the skin was loose on her frame, evidence of just how unhealthy she was. She was holding the bottom half of a plastic bottle that had been cut in two, filled with water, and a small rag. This woman, Arthur realised, must be one of the nurses. She was the first person who had spoken to him since he’d got there. ‘Can I help you at all?’ she asked.
Arthur shook his head. He couldn’t find the words to speak to her; he just didn’t know what to say.
The nurse nodded slowly. ‘OK, then. If you need anything, if you feel ill at all, just come on back. My name’s Ann. If I’m not here, someone else will be.’
‘Thanks,’ he uttered, not knowing what else to say. The woman read his confused expression.
‘You’re new here, aren’t you, pet?’
He nodded silently.
‘Thought so. You can always tell. Who took your shoes?’
‘Some kid.’
‘Hmm. Be careful of your clothes, now, pet. They’re currency around this place.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Some of the guards will trade extra rations for items of clothing. And then they’ll just rip up the clothes in front of your eyes.’
‘Why would they do that?’
‘Humiliation, I suppose. I’m guessing you weren’t in one of the other camps either, were you, pet?’
‘I was hiding … in my old home …’
‘Oh. Well, one other piece of advice for you: don’t cross the Wolfsguard. Some of them have terrible tempers.’
‘The Wolfsguard?’
Nurse Ann pointed at the men in the stands. ‘Those terrible men are the Wolfsguard, pet. They’re Loki’s police force. You’ve heard of Loki, right?’
‘Yes … yes … I’ve heard of him. There must be a way out of here, though.’
‘If there was, don’t you think we’d all be gone? Although, I suppose it is difficult for a few hundred weak prisoners to just sneak out. No,’ she added with finality, ‘we’re stuck here, I’m afraid.’
Lost for words, he started to move on again, but the woman reached out and took him by the arm.
‘Hold on a second, pet,’ she said. ‘Wait there.’ She hurried off, returning a few moments later. She held a ragged piece of plastic sheeting out to him. ‘You’ll need this to sleep on. I’d give you some shoes if I had any spare but I don’t.’
‘Thank you.’ He took the sheet and turned to go once more. ‘But I don’t think I’ll be able to sleep.’
‘Oh,’ Ann said knowingly, turning back to her charges, ‘you’d be surprised, pet.’
Chapter Ten
The nurse had been right. Arthur was surprised the next morning when he found that he had managed to catch a few hours’ sleep.
After the nurse had given him the sheeting, he’d wandered the muddy field for another while, gazing with ever-growing apprehension at the terrible sights around him. Eventually most of the camp grew quiet and all he had to look at was thousands of sleeping prisoners. He felt like an intruder – stepping over a snorer here, past a cuddling couple there. It was as if he was invading their privacy – although he supposed that no one had any real privacy in a place like this. It had been taken from them, along with their freedom. The only things they still had were their lives. That said, Arthur realised hopelessly while looking back in the direction of the makeshift hospital, it probably wasn’t long before they started to lose those too.
His legs were soon aching from all the walking. He found an empty spot on the ground by the edge of the pitch. Only a handful of sleepers had chosen the perimeter to make their bed for the night and he quickly saw why. Most of the moisture and water had seeped to the declined verge around the camp and it was a soggier mess here than anywhere else. He didn’t relish the thought of lying there, but since the rest of the pitch was tightly packed body-to-body, and since the Wolfsguard were on patrol keeping humans out of the tiered seating, he didn’t have any other option.
Arthur laid the plasti
c sheeting over the ground. Brown water bubbled up through a couple of rips in the material but, aside from that, it seemed to be doing a fairly good job. He sat down on it, making more droplets of the coffee-coloured ooze drizzle through, then leaned his head back against an advertisement board that separated the pitch from the stand and thought of Ash, Joe and everyone else. He was still thinking of them when he woke up.
Somebody bumped into him, knocking him out of his dream-ravaged sleep. Although the sky was as gloomy and green as it had been the previous day, he still had to squint against the brightness, waiting for his eye to adjust. When it did, he took in the scene around him.
Nearly everyone was moving forward, heading towards the opposite corner to the hospital. They all wore determined, fixed gazes, staring straight ahead of them. What was most disconcerting was that almost no one spoke as they walked.
He pushed himself to his feet. His legs, he found, were still shaky, but not as weak as they had been the previous night. He picked up his sheeting (he thought of it as his now, he noticed with worry), shook off any excess clumps of sludge, folded it and stuffed it into his pocket.
‘Excuse me,’ he said to a passing man, who he guessed was in his early forties. ‘Can you tell me where everyone’s going?’
‘Not been here long, have you?’ replied the man, noting the relative cleanliness of Arthur’s garb. ‘It’s breakfast-time. The Wolfsguard are never what you’d call generous, so you should make a move if you want to eat today.’
Arthur began to thank him for the advice but the man was already moving away, surging forward to get a good spot. He looked around, hoping to see a familiar face – even the plump woman from the hospital. Seeing no one he knew, he joined the breakfast throng.
