by Adam Roberts
Davy craned his head round, looking over his shoulder. Jojo was guiding her horse to the right, out of the way. Two horsemen on white horses were in pursuit, a couple of hundred yards behind them. The sky split open and a chunk of thunderous noise dropped in one great mass onto Davy’s head—he was so startled and scared that he shouted out, and flinched, and his ears sang a high pure note. Abigail had discharged her weapon. He watched the smoke from the shot hang in the air as they galloped away. Both pursuing riders were still after them. Davy wanted to say, “Could you warn me next time before you shoot,” but his ears were muggy and he couldn’t be sure if he was talking or not. And then the gun went off again, and the sound clamped hard onto his skull again and he just shut his eyes.
The noise in his ears was now a woo-woo up-tone, down-tone sort of wave. He opened his eyes to see only one rider chasing them and saw that Jojo was aiming a crossbow. Abigail still had her gun. He felt, rather than heard, the click of Abigail squeezing her trigger a third time—a misfire, duff bullet, something wrong.
She turned to face front again, took up the reins and urged the horse on.
They rode over turf dotted with shallow frozen puddles, which threw up icy shards like shrapnel when the horses’ hooves hammered into them. A hedge loomed up, shaking up and down like an earthquake, and then they were silent, mid-air, the horse’s legs stretched out front and back—flying.
The impact when they landed on the far side was enough to compress his spine, and almost shake him from the saddle.
The next thing he knew they were in amongst trees, and the horses were walking, breathing heavily. Jojo was near. They were going uphill.
“Did we lose them?” Davy asked.
Abigail’s answer: “Sh!”
They continued their upward walk, and at some point another horse came plodding quietly alongside: two women in the saddle, May up front and another behind whose name Davy had not yet learned. The tree trunks looked as black as leather, and there were a great many dark green ferns on the ground and around their bases, the pattern of their fractal leaves as intricate as any embroidery. The white sky flickered amongst the black branches overhead. The hooves of the horses made soft swishing noises as they trailed through the heaps of old leaves. Higher up there were more firs, like flaky teepees. The further they went, the more Davy became aware of a relaxing in the general mood of the small group.
“Well,” said Abigail, to nobody in particular. “That was exciting.”
“You can parcel all the excitement in the world into one bundle,” grumbled Jojo, “and stuff it up your snake-eye.”
“I will register a formal complaint,” said Amber. “When we get back to Wycombe. Formal!”
Finally they came out on the top of this shoulder of a hill, and, looking back, were rewarded with an impressive vista of flat and intermittently flooded land stretching away north-west. Here there was a house, and the three horses and six human beings stopped there. Davy assumed it was an agreed-upon rendezvous, and that they would wait for the others to join them.
The house was in pretty decent repair, although there was obviously no glass left in any of the windows, and the roof was variously holed. The rooms inside were weedy, with ivy growing on the inside as well as the outside walls, and there was a smell of fox shit and general natural pungency inside. Jojo and May and the third woman—Mahvesh was her name, Davy discovered, by eavesdropping on their conversation—took positions by the northward facing windows with guns. Abigail brushed old leaves from an old leather armchair and sat down. “I think I pulled my shoulder,” she said. “Twisted round and firing—it’s not a good stance.”
“Did you hit anything?” asked Jojo, from the window.
“I’m not sure.”
“Yeah.”
“I think I did.”
“Yeah.”
“This rope,” said Amber, in a shrill voice, “is rubbing my neck. And I can’t feel my hands—actually that’s medically really dangerous, and tantamount to abuse you know. It’s like torture? Yeah? If Wycombe stands for anything it stands for being better than such things. Do you really want to plonk me down in front of Henry with my hands all necrosed from being starved of oxygenated blood?”
“G. Susan Christ,” muttered Jojo.
“My dear,” said Abigail. “I genuinely think Henry will be less concerned about the state of your hands, and more concerned about the damage you’ve done to us all.”
“I was doing the right thing,” said Amber. “Always do the right thing. I thought that’s what Wycombe stood for in the first place.”
“The first thing Wycombe stands for,” said Abigail, “is keeping us all safe.” But she untied Amber’s wrists, and Amber herself unspooled the rope from her neck.
Chapter Twelve
THEY WAITED IN the house for an hour or more. Davy lost track of time. Mahvesh lit a fire in the corner of the room and boiled up water for some tea, which everybody drank. There was a little to eat, also shared: some cheese that was halfway to becoming yellow plastic, a third of a strip of beef jerky each and what was left of the damp waybread. It wasn’t much. But then May went off to relieve herself, and came back with the news that one of the rooms at the rear was almost entirely overgrown with mushrooms; so the women picked a great many, peeled them and fried them in their own mushroom juice over Mahvesh’s fire.
Then there was a flurry of not-quite-panic as May announced that somebody was approaching the house. Everyone rushed to the windows and picked up their weapons, but it was Steph on a horse. She came in and hungrily devoured what was left of the mushrooms, and drank very deep of the water.
“What about the others?”
“They may have gone otherwise,” said Steph. “I didn’t see anybody shot, so if they’re not here it may be because they couldn’t find a way through.”
“Which raises the question,” put in Jojo, “how long do we wait? Two hours’ ride and we’d be inside the cordon. I’d feel a lot safer then.”
“Oh the cordon’s about to get a whole lot wider, you mark my words,” said Amber, unprompted, with a voice halfway between a preacher and a whiny teen. “But at what cost, eh? That’s what I ask you.”
They all ignored her.
“Give them a half hour, yet,” said Abigail. “And then we should probably push on for home.”
“Good to be back on the high land,” said Mahvesh.
“We’re not safe yet,” said Abigail.
Steph was given a mug of tea, and she found a space where she could sit, with her back to the wall. For a long time she simply sat, cradling the mug. Then she said, nodding in the direction of Davy, “I hope he’s worth it.” Then she drank.
“Near as I can piece all the elements together,” said Abigail, gesturing at Amber, “she’s the one who kicked over the first domino.”
“You won’t ethics-shame me,” said Amber, in a high-pitched voice.
“She’s awfully chippy,” said Steph, “for someone who basically got her own sister killed.”
There was an instantaneous, catastrophic silence in the room. Steph looked about herself, and then locked eyes with Abigail. “Christ, Abi, doesn’t she know?”
“We were going to wait until we were safe back in Wycombe before we told her,” said Abigail.
It was very cold, cold enough even inside to make their breath visible, but Davy could have sworn that the temperature dropped palpably. Nobody said anything for a while.
“What’s that about my sister?” asked Amber. Her voice had lost all its confidence, all its high-pitched swagger.
“Kid, I’m sorry,” said Steph, hiding her face in her unbandaged hand. “My mouth runs away with me sometimes. I’m sorry.”
“What,” Amber repeated, “about my sister?”
“She went after you,” said Abigail. “We tried to stop her. Hardman found her, and he—”
There was a long pause. Davy could hear the scrapy sound of rooks giving voice to their rookish chatter outside. A sl
urp as Steph drank a little more of her tea.
Davy breathed in quietly and breathed out again.
The rooks fell quiet.
“Why did he kill her?” Amber asked, in a small voice.
“He’d been hired to retrieve—well, this lad here. Davy. It should have been a simple matter. But he was always a devious old fuck, Hardman, and he’d got a sixth sense that something was up. He got—look, I don’t know how. Nobody knows how. But he got some inkling that the boy was a key to unlock something. He figured Beryl knew what. Which she did, by the way. And he’d heard some story of a Wycombite going upriver on a particular boat. So he—look, I don’t want to go into details.”
“Dear god,” said Amber.
“He killed her,” said Abigail. “I’m sorry.”
“And I killed him,” said Steph. “And I’m not sorry.”
“Jesus,” said Amber, her voice hoarse. “But what will Mum say?”
“I think she knows, love,” said Mahvesh.
“It’s a bad business,” said Abigail. “All round, a bad business, and no question. But we’ll get you home, and bring the boy in, just as Henry asked us to. So we’ll salvage something from this situation.”
“Was Hardman working for Father John?” Amber asked.
Abigail blinked. “What? I don’t think so. I think he was working for himself. Like he always was.”
“He must have had a buyer in view,” said Amber. She really no longer sounded like a child. “For whatever it was he figured this—boy—would unlock.”
“Can I just say,” Davy put in, “I haven’t the first foggiest clue about any of this. I’m just a regular boy. I’m not any kind of key. I really don’t think I could unlock… well, anything.”
“Speak friend and enter,” said Jojo, standing by the window. “And what’s the Elvish for shut-the-fuck-up?”
“I don’t think he knew what was, as it were, behind the door. I mean,” said Abigail, “Henry has her plans, sure, but she wouldn’t have told him. I assume Hardman just thought: I bet it’s valuable, and I bet I can jump in before Wycombe and half-inch it. After that—maybe he was going to go to Father John. But if I had to bet I’d say he was planning on selling it to Guz.”
“Guz?” Amber’s voice had sunk to barely a whisper.
“I wouldn’t have pegged them. They’re based a long way away, on the south-west coastline somewhere. But they sent a force up along the North Wessex Downs couple of years ago, and they’re still there. And the thing about Guz is that they’re much more a high-tech sort of organisation than Father John. John is many men, and brute force. Rumour has it that Guz have a whole fleet of warships and submarines and who-knows-what. Nuclear missiles and everything. So if I were Hardman, I’d be thinking about selling to them.”
“If you were Hardman,” said Steph, sternly, “I’d have to kill you all over again, so it’s good you’re not.” The she added, talking to nobody in particular, “That bastard.”
“I’m sorry,” Davy told Amber. She looked at him with blank eyes, and said nothing, and then looked straight ahead.
A sombre silence took possession of the room for ten minutes or so. Finally Abigail sighed, and said, “We can’t wait here forever. The others know the way back to Wycombe.”
“Let’s go,” agreed Mahvesh.
Everybody got to their feet and started gathering up bits and pieces. Davy thought back to his time with Daniel, and wondered if the old man was still alive. A vivid vision of Daniel’s wrinkled old face flashed upon Davy’s inner eye. He had the sudden profound realisation that if he allowed himself to be taken to Wycombe he would never see home again.
The women were chatting as they got themselves ready. “So nobody knows,” Jojo was asking, “what the deal is with shit-pants boy?”
“Henry wants him.”
“Because he’s the new messiah? The new mess-his-pants hire? Why?”
“Ask her yourself when you see her. I don’t know.”
“It just feels contrary,” said Jojo. “Don’t you reckon, May? Personally escorting this male in through our gates.”
“A bit off,” was May’s opinion.
“I assume Henry’s reasons are legit. Unless you’re challenging the whole basis of the authority on which our community stands?”
“Fuck off,” was Jojo’s reply.
“And anyway: he won’t be with us for long. Soon as he turns thirteen, Henry will boot him out.”
“Or chop his coconut head off,” mumbled Jojo, “if she’s any sense.”
“I’m already thirteen,” said Davy.
“Come on Amber,” said Mahvesh, coaxing the stunned girl into a standing position. “It’s hard. We all know. We’ve all been where you are now, lass. Each in our various ways. We know the numbness, and then the hurt. Let’s all get home and then you can grieve.”
“I am,” said Davy, again, “thirteen.”
“What?” asked Jojo.
“I’m thirteen.”
Abigail turned to face him. “You’re twelve.”
“Well, OK. Whatever you say. I’m not though.”
“Oh I had this bloody conversation with him at Benson,” complained Steph.
“I’m thirteen,” said Davy. “That’s just a fact.”
“Well this-changes-the-complexion-of-things-some-fucking-what,” said Jojo.
“Hold your horses, Jo,” said Abigail. “It’s just a number.”
“He’s thirteen, he’s a man,” said Jojo. “Our rules, Abi. Our rules.”
“Henry specifically asked for him. Henry needs him—the future of the whole community depends on him.”
“You know what, Abigail? I genuinely and honestly can’t see how that can be. Look at him!” She swung an arm in the general direction of Davy. “He’s nothing.”
“Thank you very much,” Davy said.
“I would say he’s only a boy,” sparked Jojo, “but it turns out he’s not even a fucking boy. He’s a man. I’m not going against one of the fundamental rules of our community and personally escorting a man under our battlements. Capiche?”
May said, “She has a point, Abi. Him being thirteen does change things.”
“He doesn’t look thirteen,” Abigail said.
“And yet he is thirteen,” snapped Jojo. “Funny how that works, sometimes, ain’t it?”
“It’s just a number.”
“It’s our rule! It’s what defines us! Once you start chipping away at that then where will we be?”
“So then we’re at an impasse, aren’t we, comrades?” said Abigail, in a voice that suggested she was losing her temper. “Because Henry gave me very specific instructions to bring this lad in. Are you saying you won’t help me do that?”
May walked over to stand behind Jojo. The latter said, “Not only am I saying I won’t help, Abi, I’m saying I will do everything in my power to prevent you violating one of our fundamental rules by smuggling a full-grown adult male into Wycombe.”
“Is that how you all feel?” Abigail demanded.
“She does have a point,” said May.
“Jesus Abi,” said Steph. “The cat’s out of the bag now, though, isn’t it? Maybe we could have smuggled him in as a kid, if nobody knew his age. He is kind of runty and small—”
“I’m,” said Davy, “right here, you know.”
“—but now everyone knows, it’s not a grey area any more, is it? Rules are rules.”
“Mahvesh?”
Mahvesh shrugged. “Me? I tend to think we ought to allow men in, anyway. Some men. The good-looking and kind-hearted ones.”
“Oh don’t start with that,” complained Jojo. “Not again.”
“Not trying to pick a fight,” said Mahvesh, holding up both hands. “It’s a matter we all should discuss, is all I mean. It’s a medium-term thing for the future of the community to talk about, maybe. But for now? Well,” and she laughed a self-conscious little laugh and waved a hand in Davy’s direction, “I can’t speak to how kind-hearted he
is, but nobody would classify this one as good-looking.”
“Might I once again take a moment to remind you all,” said Davy, “that I’m right here?”
“You’re really not making my life easy,” said Abigail, rubbing her eyes with her wrists. “OK, we need to get going now. We can go to Fingest, I guess, and send word up to Handy Cross that we’ve brought the boy. Henry can come to us, I suppose.”
“Or I could just go home?” Davy suggested. “Just slip away, westward? That way I wouldn’t be a bother.”
“Whatever it is that Henry thinks you can do,” said Jojo, “better be sky-scraping amazing. You better be able to move heavy objects with your mind, or generate electricity out of your fingers just by standing in a bucket, or something.”
“If you don’t all start being nicer to me,” said Davy, “I’ll use my one magic power on you all. Which is to make you all grow—” He was going to say penises, but in the middle of the statement he suddenly had a crisis of uncertainty as to whether the plural of penis was indeed penises, or whether it wasn’t something fancy like peni, and that they’d all mock him for not knowing this. Then, having stopped, he reflected back on what he was saying, in this room of full-grown women, and blushed.
“Grow what?” prompted Jojo.
“Consciences,” Davy concluded, lamely.
For some reason, this was the prompt for Amber to burst into tears.
Chapter Thirteen
THEY CONSOLED AMBER as best they could, and gathered all their stuff together. Then they went outside into the pale afternoon light and mounted their horses. Abigail took one last look north, across the lowland landscape. There didn’t seem to be anything going on. A few streams of smoke were visible from homes at the foot of the hills. Wood produces a thinner and more spectral smoke than coal, and homesteads visible in the middle-distance were probably burning fires in their grates, even if nothing was visible from their chimneys.
A kite flew, its long wings angled as it turned, like a mighty uptick in the sky. Circling out its imaginary arena below it, the space within which everything was prey.
