Chapter 2
Night time in Straybeck. John had been in bed an hour when the first gunshots sounded. He crept down the ladder and sat by the window to watch flashing red lights split the Worker District. The faint wail of a gunnerman siren reached him through the glass.
“John?” His dad was silhouetted at the door. “Go back to bed. It’s not safe.”
John let the curtains fall into place and padded across the room. “What are they shooting at?”
“Nothing. It’s just fireworks.”
He pulled the duvet to his chin while his dad stretched the cracks from the curtains.
“Night,” John whispered. He waited for a hand on his head or a comforting word. There was neither and his dad shut the room into darkness.
He was woken some time later by a muffled thud at the other side of the room. John shot upright and saw someone shadowed at the end of his bed. The figure was standing on a chair and reaching into the loft hatch. John gave a quiet whimper and the figure spun around dropping a small booklet onto the floor.
“Go to sleep.”
John recognised his brother’s voice and watched as he balanced back on the chair and hid the booklet in the roof space.
“What time is it?” he whispered.
“Late.” Ryan threw himself onto the lower bunk and kicked off his shoes. Within seconds, his breathing levelled out and John knew his brother was asleep.
The next day, he dressed quietly and came downstairs to sit with his dad. The radio was playing in the kitchen and the newsreader was describing a training exercise in the Worker District. He said that shots had been fired, but it was just the gunnermen testing their night-time defences.
John took a bite from his crust of bread and chewed it thoughtfully. “You told me it was fireworks.”
“I was wrong.” His dad left the table and limped into the hallway where he tugged on his coat.
“Where are you going?”
“To buy a paper.”
“Can I come?”
Without waiting for an answer John jumped up from the table and grabbed his own coat. His dad sighed, but held the door for him. It was cold outside and John pulled his sleeves over both hands. When the first checkpoint came into view, he stepped close to his dad.
“I’ve got my card,” he whispered. “For the paper.”
“Good lad.”
“Will they search you?”
“They always do.”
Robb’s legs were particularly bad this morning, but he kept his pace brisk, refusing to let John see how much they bothered him. There were two checkpoints between their house and the Trade District, one at each railway station. Years ago, Robb would never have taken the train for a journey like this, but even short trips were becoming harder. There was no way he could walk the forty minutes across town and back.
He let John pass through the first checkpoint ahead of him, hoping that his son wouldn’t see the list of previous convictions that were going to flash up on screen. Robb knew he couldn’t hide his past forever. John was twelve and more curious that was good for him, but he hoped for one more year before his youngest boy looked at him the way Ryan did.
As it went, the gunnerman on duty recognised him and waved Robb through without scanning. It was a minor offence - for both of them - but Robb reasoned that he was safe enough. An old offender like him wasn’t their priority anymore.
The train took almost half an hour to reach the centre of Straybeck and the gunnermen at Municipal Station were not so lenient. When they scanned his ID and the warning markers flashed up on screen, two gunnermen gripped Robb by the arms and shoved him against the station wall.
“Take it easy,” Robb said calmly. “That’s my son watching.”
The response was a gloved palm that pinned his face against the bricks. Once they had searched him though, they relaxed a little and sent Robb through to the Trade District.
John walked solemnly ahead, saying nothing about the checkpoint and eventually waited for him on the high kerb of Market Street. They stood a while watching the wagons make their deliveries until an army truck rolled past, lurching from side to side on the uneven cobbles. The driver gave them a hard stare and Robb lowered his eyes as he took John by the hand. “Come on. Let’s go.”
The nearest buyall store was a couple of blocks away. They moved through the busy streets, cutting between bakery lines and pushing through the thin crowds. There were gunnermen on every street and as he walked, Robb tap-tapped at his front pocket feeling for the reassuring shape of his ID card.
“Do you want me to buy the paper?” John whispered. “So you don’t have to scan?”
Robb gave him a sideways glance and then nodded. “But if they ask who it’s for?”
“It’s for me. And I won’t pass it on to anyone else.”
“Good lad.”
While John queued up, Robb waited outside the buyall. Not wanting to raise suspicions by standing idle though, he walked a short distance up the street and browsed the butcher’s window. It was important to appear busy in Straybeck. Anyone standing idle risked being singled out by the gunnermen. All they needed was an excuse.
As Robb glanced over the collection of meats in the shop window, he wondered exactly when they had accepted fear as part of their lives. Straybeck hadn’t always been like this. He hadn’t always been like this.
Thirty-three years ago, Robb had been a swaggering young man of eighteen. Back then he was living in the capital city of Karasard and he remembered walking through the Royal Gardens with Eliza. Of course, it wasn’t actually called the Royal Gardens by then. Almost six years had passed since The Liberation War when Talis overthrew the King. Any trace of the royal family had been stripped away; their statues torn down and melted for munitions.
Robb and Eliza hadn’t been seeing each other for long. Even so, he knew that he loved her and recalled with wonder the thrill he had felt with each touch. That day when he wrapped his arm around her shoulder, she tilted her head and they shared a long slow kiss. Robb had grinned like a buffoon, carrying his happiness too freely, never suspecting it would run out.
Eliza had laced her fingers through his, a simple act, but one that in a few months’ time, she would never allow again. They settled on a bench and stared down at what had once been the king’s palace. It was now the party headquarters.
“I liked it better before,” Robb said.
Eliza glanced nervously around her. “Robb,” she whispered.
“What? It’s not illegal to talk about the past.” Which it wasn’t, but it wasn’t a good idea either.
During The Liberation War, the palace had been bombed into submission. As a boy, Robb watched it burn through the worst night of shelling the city had ever seen. Premier Talis built his party headquarters above the foundations. It glared over Karasard; all concrete and hard lines. An unspoken threat. Robb remembered how gunnermen had patrolled the gardens back then and one walked purposefully towards them. The sky was bright and from the bench Robb squinted up at him.
“What are you up to?”
“Nothing,” Robb said.
“What are you doing here?”
“Just enjoying the day. Is there a problem?”
The gunnerman scanned the park, still not making eye-contact. “Maybe,” he said. “Why did you point at the Party Headquarters?”
“We didn’t.”
“Yes you did.”
The eighteen-year-old Robb knew nothing of pain or suffering. Maybe that was why his first reaction was anger instead of fear. “Listen, we’re just sitting on a bench, enjoying the weather. If we pointed, it was probably to say how ugly the thing is.” He stood up and took hold of Eliza’s hand. “Come on, let’s go.”
“I’ve not finished yet.”
“Well we have,” Robb said as he shouldered past the gunnerman’s outstretched arm, pulling Eliza with him.
“Oi,” the gunnerman called, striding forwards.
Robb remembered that he had
been ready to fight the gunnerman, if it had come to that. He and Eliza walked quickly to the gates and out into Karasard. For some reason, the gunnermen didn’t pursue them and now it was just a memory. The truth was though, that day in the gardens had been the last time he ever back-talked a gunnerman. The thought of doing it now made his insides run cold.
He shook his head and moved away from the butcher’s window, making his way down Market Street and towards the buyall. John appeared soon after, proudly showing him the newspaper.
“Keep a tight hold of it,” Robb said automatically.
He knew that spies patrolled the markets watching for anyone that passed on restricted items. Halfway up the road, they saw a patrol car and Robb instinctively kept his eyes to the ground while his fingers tap-tapped on the ID card in his front pocket. All they needed was an excuse. When the car had passed by, he gave a sad shake of his head, mourning the loss of the man he had once been.
When they returned from town, John gave the paper to his dad and went into the kitchen. All morning his mind had run back to the image of his brother searching through the loft hatch last night. John guessed that he had something hidden there but couldn’t risk looking while Ryan was still in the house.
His mum was sitting at the table with her head resting on one hand. She looked tired and sad, but that wasn’t unusual.
“Where’s Ryan?”
“He went out,” she didn’t look at him and her voice was flat.
“Where did he go?”
She gave a small shrug and he guessed that it was the only answer he was going to receive. Filled with excitement, John bounded upstairs and cautiously pushed open his bedroom door. A cool breeze hit him from an open window and a faint trace of smoke hung in the air. Ryan’s blankets were heaped up at the end of his bunk, but that was the only trace that he even lived in that room.
As John pulled the window shut, he noticed an old woman looking at him from the house opposite. He smiled at her, but she glared back, hard-faced. Against his better judgement, John drew the curtains and hoped that she wasn’t an informer. His dad said that people were always informing on their neighbours. He said that all they needed was an excuse.
The room dipped into darkness and John pulled the chair out from beneath the desk. He reached up on tiptoes and pushed at the wooden loft hatch. It slid to one side and John pushed his hand through the gap, feeling around in the roof space. He didn’t exactly know what he was looking for, but when his fingers felt paper, he pulled a magazine into view. It sent a shower of grit into the room that left him blinking dust. He stepped down from the chair and perched on the edge of the lower bunk.
John thumbed through the magazine and with each page his stomach clenched tighter. Thick black text jumped out at him, broken by pictures of a war-torn city. Some showed the gunnermen beating workers and others showed piles of bodies rotting in the street. One of the captions read:
Troops murder protesters in Karasard
John shut the magazine, afraid to read on.
“John?” His dad pushed open the door and then stared in horror at the closed curtains.
“What are you doing?” he limped across the room and yanked them open. “You’ve got to think, John.” That was when he caught sight of the magazine and held out one hand. John looked at the outstretched fingers, glimpsing the burned and discoloured skin at the edge of his shirt sleeve.
“It’s not mine,” John said. “It’s Ryan’s”
His dad’s face drained of colour as he scanned the front cover. He leant forwards and spoke with icy threat. “You never saw this.”
John nodded.
“Get downstairs.”
As he ran from the room, he heard the creak of Ryan’s chair, followed by a shallow grunt of effort. He knew his dad was searching inside the loft space and just prayed that Ryan would forgive him.
Chapter 3
At the end of the road Ryan dropped the stub of his cigarette to the pavement and ground it flat with one foot. As usual, he grew angry when his house came into sight. He had accepted that his dad was a spineless traitor, but he hated that people would think he was like that too. As far as Ryan was concerned, they shared a roof and a second name. That was all.
He approached the front door and predicted a fight with his dad about breaking curfew. Ryan had practised his response.
I’m seventeen years old. I can come home when I fucking want.
But his dad wasn’t in the kitchen or in the lounge. In fact, he could only find John who was waiting on the sofa with a guilty expression on his face.
“What’s up with you?”
“Nothing.”
An odd pang of sadness twisted his stomach.
We must forsake family and friends for they will be used against us.
Ryan knew that his brother was the only one anchoring him here. The only person he really cared for anymore. But he also knew that he no longer had the luxury of those feelings. Brynne had made it clear that he needed to shut his family out if he was to keep them safe.
In spite of himself though, he gave his little brother a smile and shoved him gently on the arm. John rocked back and forth like a pendulum, finally coming to rest on Ryan who grabbed him in a playful headlock.
“Ryan.” Their mum came to the doorway while they were both grinning. For a moment - just for a moment - it felt like the old days.
“Dad wants to speak to you, love.”
He locked his smile back inside. “Why?”
“I don’t know.” It was a lie. Her eyes flicked to the carpet because she could never look him in the face when she lied. “He’s waiting in your room. He’s been there all morning.”
She retreated to the kitchen and Ryan took a deep breath before heading for the stairs. At the bottom step, a small voice called him back.
“Ryan?” It was John. “I found a magazine. In the roof.”
Ryan sprinted upstairs, two at a time. The bedroom door was open and his father was sitting on the lower bunk. At the sound of footsteps he twisted round, his jaw clenched tight. Ryan felt a flutter in his stomach but pushed it aside.
“What are you doing in my room?”
“Don’t start,” he said, rising slowly from the chair. “You’re in enough trouble as it is.”
“Why? What have I done?”
“What about bringing a…” he paused, biting back his temper, “a pamphlet. An anti-government pamphlet into my house.” He took a long deep breath, his fists slowly clenching and unclenching.
“You shouldn’t have gone through my things.”
“I wish I’d done it sooner. I wish I’d been the one to find it. But it was your brother. Your twelve-year old brother.” His dad’s temper flared again. “What do you think would have happened if he’d shown it to his friends? What if he’d taken it to school?”
“Well he didn’t, did he?” Ryan pushed past and sat at the desk. “And, I’m giving it back later anyway. So you don’t have to worry.”
“You’re kidding, right?” His dad scoffed. “You think you’re getting it back?”
“I need it,” Ryan said, the pitch of his own voice rising. “I’ve promised.”
“Well you can just un-promise. Or better yet, tell me who gave it to you and let me deal with them.”
“I bet you’d love that,” Ryan sneered. There was no way he’d let his dad inform on Brynne. Never. “Where’s the pamphlet?” he demanded.
“I burned it,” his dad said with a shrug.
“You what?”
“I burned it.”
Ryan was furious. He had promised Brynne he’d look after it. He’d never trust him now.
“Why do you have to be such a…” he struggled for the words, “such a fucking sell-out?”
His dad’s eyes narrowed and he spoke with a voice that was low and full of threat. “I’m trying very hard to stay calm now, Ryan. More than you’ll ever know. But keep pushing me and you’ll not like what you find.”
Ryan gave a sh
ort laugh. “Doesn’t matter,” he said. “I can get another. You can’t watch me all the time.”
“Can’t you see what you’re doing to this family?” his dad said, rubbing one hand over his scalp. “To your mother? To John? Do you ever think of anyone but yourself?”
“A revolutionary must forsake his family and friends or they will be used against him,” Ryan quoted proudly.
“A revolutionary? Do you have any idea how ridiculous you sound?”
“I’m ridiculous?” Ryan fired back, refusing to be cowed. “Take a look at yourself, you cripple.” That hit the mark. His dad thrust one hand into Ryan’s chest, knocking him backwards.
“What is wrong with you? Who’s filling your head with all this?”
“Don’t touch me.” Ryan shoved back, putting his whole body behind it. Both of them shouting now.
“Who is it? Who’s twisted you up like this?”
“No one.”
“Who gave you the pamphlet?”
“No one.”
“Who gave it to you?”
When he refused to answer, his dad stepped closer, less than a hands width between their faces. Ryan’s next words were out before he’d even thought them.
“Fuck you.”
Ryan felt two large hands grab him round the neck and slam him against the wall. As he struggled against the grip, he felt his dad’s leg buckle beneath their combined weight. Quickly Ryan kicked out at the weakened knee, sending them sprawling to the floor. His dad struggled up, breathing hard and Ryan braced himself for the punch he felt sure was coming. Instead his dad tore at the buttons of his own shirt, his voice raw with emotion.
“Is this what you want?”
The open shirt revealed a mass of disfigured flesh. His stomach was lumped and stitched like old clothes, criss-crossed with angry red scars. Large burns had healed into shiny patches of soft tissue and the flesh across the left side of his chest was sagged and melted like candle wax.
Straybeck Rising: Calloway Blood: Book one (Calloway Blood 1) Page 2
