“He's tough,” she said. “He can shrug off cuts like that when people need him.”
Another man at the far end of the rectangle looked up from the ground. He was old and haggard and had a beard dusted with grey. He'd said very little since leaving the camp of the cannibals but now he grunted an odd noise at them which got their attention.
“He is the Medved,” he mumbled in a broken accent.
“What did you say?” asked Sarah but the man shook his head and laid down on the ground, turning his back on the others and remained silent.
Confused, she rose to her feet and looked into the shadows where Alan continued to work. He'd sawn the next log up himself and was carrying armfuls of wood back towards the fire. He placed them at her feet, smiled and turned to go back.
“Wait,” she called. They walked together into the woods while she tried to find the words to say. Finding none, she took up the saw and continued cutting. The rest of their night passed them in silence as together they fed the fire, keeping the frightened group of survivors alive.
In the morning she walked on feeling tired and weary and every bit as hungry as the survivors of the cannibal camp did. She'd given out all of their rations under Alan's instruction and though it hadn't really made an impact on their starvation it was better than facing the shame of eating it in front of their gaunt faces.
They reached the slaver caravans by mid-afternoon. Moll, perhaps the only one of the group with energy left enough to run, sprinted ahead and began sniffing around the rusting shells as they caught her up. The day had started with a thick hood of grey scuddy clouds but which now gave way to a sky that was clear and crisp, chilling them to the core even in the sunlight.
“I'll hitch up the horses and you help them in,” said Sarah. The harnesses had been cut when the slavers had fled and she had to improvise using pieces of leather from her pack and from the trailers they wouldn't use. Then, leading the Shire horse in a semi-circle, she pulled the rusty heap of metal round into the road, facing the direction they were going to take. The survivors climbed inside, cramming themselves together as much for the warmth as for the space.
He climbed up into the seat and took hold of the reins while she got back into Ziggy's saddle, glad to be off her sore feet once again.
“Ready?” he asked. She nodded and, setting his NSU rifle on his lap, set off towards Abbingdon.
CHAPTER TEN
It was late in the afternoon when they arrived outside the gates just as a cart of grain was coming the other way, off to Pine Lodge. They pulled over to avoid colliding with each other and as the rider in the seat thanked them, Sarah called out to him.
“Can you deliver a message to Sidney at the pub?” she asked. The man nodded and drew his horses to a halt. Quickly finding paper and a pencil, she wrote a few lines and folded it in half, passing it to the man. Then he drove on, letting them pass by with a wave of his hand.
“Was that for your father?” asked Alan.
“He'll be worried. I told him we were still on the trail but that we were okay.”
The guards opened the gates wide and looked puzzled as they rode into the settlement, dragging the rusty heap behind them. When they saw that there were people inside, they began to talk amongst themselves in hushed whispers.
“Someone needs to fetch Harry right away,” she called out to them. One of the younger guards volunteered and ran off towards the shipping containers. They didn't have to wait long. He came just as they were helping the survivors out of the back of the wagon and he hurried over to meet them with a distraught look upon his face.
“Sarah,” he cried. “What on earth is this? Who are these people?”
“We found them prisoners in a camp of cannibals. They're scared and starving. Can you take care of them?”
“I... I don't understand,” he stuttered. “Yes, of course. I'll see that-”
“Harry? Is that you?” One of the older women came tottering up to the man, reaching out with her dirty, bloodstained hands to touch his face.
“Aunty Sue?” he cried. “You're supposed to be at Scarborough with the others!”
“We never made it. They ambushed us. Bill, your uncle, he's...”
“Oh dear god!”
They hugged and Sarah turned away, trying not to lose focus on Gail who, unlike this woman, was lost out there with the people who'd sell her to cannibals to suffer the same fate. Alan helped the last of them out of the carriage who just so happened to be the old man who'd spoken so mysteriously from his place around the fire, calling him the Medved. As he put his bruised feet onto the trampled dirt, he turned and clasped Alan's hands, muttering to him in a language she didn't understand but one which rolled off his tongue as he replied. They spoke for a few minutes until finally Alan broke away and wished him well before returning to her.
“What was that about?” she asked him.
“He's Russian,” he replied. “There must have been more of them than I thought.”
“What did he say and why does he call you the Medved?” Alan laughed.
“He thanked us, that's all. Let's go and get some food for the journey; we're going to need it.”
“Do you know something I don't?” she asked.
“Nikolai says he heard them talking.”
“Who?”
“The slavers. He says they were taking her to Calderbank to exchange her.”
“For what?”
“Apparently, on their way to Hooper's they were ambushed near the ruins and one of their party was captured and dragged off. They want her back.”
“So they kidnapped Gail to pay for her?”
“It looks like it.”
Leaning on the side the wagon, Sarah took deep breaths to try and calm her rage. If the horrific scenes at the cannibal camp hadn't been bad enough, this shocking truth threatened to tip her over the edge. How had life become so cheap? Real human lives were being passed back and forth like pieces of silver over a store counter. She could see Gail and her sweet face there in front of her, smiling as she handed her those morning treats. Right there and then she wished she was like him so she could take her revenge on those Slavers like some angry, avenging spirit.
“That girl wouldn't hurt a fly,” she said as she wiped her eyes. “Who knows what they've done to her? Who knows what state she'll be in when we find her.”
Alan said nothing. He absently ran his hands through Moll's fur as she brushed up against his leg and watched as Harry began ordering the guards to lead the survivors towards the pub. Sarah suddenly thought of the old man in the pub and the love he'd lost.
“I judged you,” she said, looking at him. “For what you did. I'm sorry.”
“Thank you,” he replied. “I understand.”
“I know. That's why I wanted you to know that even though I did, I don't feel that way now. I'm starting to get it.”
“Are you?”
“Yes,” she said, sitting down. “It's the only answer, isn't it? That's the only way to keep people safe. Kill before they kill you, that's it. That's the new law.”
“For now. Yes. I can't see any other way.”
“The cannibals were eating those people. They made a choice to do that. We stopped them.”
“We did.”
“This world really is in a bad place right now, isn't it? Was it like this before?”
He looked around as if maybe someone had written the answer on the corrugated sheeting or the rusty trailer. When he didn't seem to find it he went and joined her at the back of the wagon and sat down next to her. She could smell his earthy scent, that musk of a man who's lived a life out of doors and it wasn't unpleasant. In fact, she enjoyed it and when his arm touched hers she felt a thrill run down her spine.
“It had its own way of hurting you,” he said. “Maybe you didn't go around killing each other but there was certainly some real selling of people to be found.”
“How do you mean?”
“I mean there was slavery and murder
, just like now, but it was far more subtle, far less obvious. People were trapped by money, forced to work because without it they couldn't survive. There were the rich and the poor, those that had and those that hadn't. People craved power and control whilst others suffered for it.”
“Sounds like a nice place,” she laughed.
“Sometimes I think that maybe this wasn't such a bad thing after all.”
“What, the disaster?”
“Maybe. Maybe not. You wrong someone here and you fight to the death, you get a shot at it, fair and simple. Back then you'd have been ground into the dust and it wouldn't have been an even contest. Maybe all this was overdue, a way of resetting the balance. I don't know.”
They sat in silence as the last of the survivors disappeared around a corner, leaving them alone. The guards had closed the gates now and there was a soft, muffled kind of town noise that floated in the air just beyond their comprehension.
“I don't pretend to have all the answers,” he continued. “Plenty of people thought this was some kind of end to mankind, some kind of judgment that we all deserved. Maybe there's some truth in that. I'm no Priest and I've met a few since leaving Longsteel, but what I do understand is that we've got a second chance here; we've got a chance to put right the things we got wrong the first time around and maybe that's the key to change, the one thing we need to really nail in order to move forward, to get better, to thrive. We need to accept that we make mistakes and that we have the ability not to make them again. Does that sound reasonable? I feel like I'm rambling here.”
“It makes plenty of sense,” she replied, putting her hand on his. “More than you know.”
“I may not be a Priest but I give a good sermon, don't you think?”
She laughed then and without thinking about it she rested her head on his shoulder and for a moment she thought she could feel him flinch under her touch just like he'd done when she'd searched his body for wounds before. Was this man so broken, she wondered, that even a woman's touch hurt him?
“When we find Gail,” she said after a pause. “We'll kill them, right? All of them?”
He turned and looked directly at her.
“We'll kill the ones involved. Yes. Every last one of them. There's no other way.”
When they were satisfied that the poor survivors of the cannibal camp had at least a bed for the night, they left Abbingdon and resumed their pursuit of the Slavers. The night came quickly though and with it another attempt by the weather to murder them quietly in their sleep. The two travellers were ready this time and the fire they made burned well, casting a warm, orange glow around the woods where their bedrolls had been laid out and where they chose to surrender to the darkness in order to continue their chase in the morning.
Out of gratitude, Harry had asked around the settlement, gathering as much information about Calderbank as he could. Some had had dealings with him, others had fallen victim to his crimes but all were suddenly very willing to see justice done, even if it was at the hands of the stranger and his odd companion. In the end, Sarah and Alan had got a pretty good idea where on the fells he might be encamped and they'd wasted little time in heading that way, speeding out of the settlement without so much as another word.
Riding well into the evening, they'd pitched their camp and built up a strong fire with the expectation of a hard, cold night. Even the horses now wore rugs on loan from the stables and were tethered near to the fire. They'd been well fed before leaving and they'd gone through the bag of hay they'd brought with them already. They were both hardy animals and Sarah had little fear that they'd suffer during the night. On the other hand, she looked into the flames and was glad of the extra blankets she'd bought for herself and she pulled one up around her head to smother a shiver that had been brewing for some time at the back of her spine.
“I think my feet are gone,” she said. “I can't feel them anymore.”
“You're riding a horse,” he replied. “You don't need them.”
“Can it get much colder?”
“Yes. It can always get colder.”
The flames crackled and spat and raged at the moon far above their heads, twisting and writhing their strange dance. The cast-iron kettle hanging above it began to hiss steam and Alan lifted it off and poured water into the waiting cups. He passed one to her and she cradled it in her hands.
“I should be in bed with a cup of tea and a book,” she said. “Not out here in the wilds with a stranger and his stick-loving companion.”
“I noticed you hadn't thrown one tonight. Are you worried she'll bring it back?” he chuckled.
“At least I'd be warm.”
“Be my guest.”
She called the dog to her and wrapped an arm around her neck, urging her to lie down next to her. When she flopped onto her belly, Sarah hugged her hot fur and sighed.
“At least she's warm,” she said.
“Don't expect her to share it with you,” said Alan. “She's not stupid.”
With that the hound got up and sat closer to the fire, running the risk of getting a little too hot.
“One of these days you'll leave that master of yours and realise that I'm the best thing that's ever happened to you!” she called after her. “You'll see.”
Alan laughed and threw another log from the pile at his feet onto the fire. It kicked up sparks and sent them in all directions, giving them the appearance of fireflies in the dark midnight world.
“Are we still sharing pain?” he asked.
“Yeah. Why do you ask?”
“I was wondering when you were going to get around to explaining why you live alone with your father.”
“Why do you think that's painful?” she asked.
“Because you've never mentioned her.”
“Who?”
“The little girl who drew the picture on your mantelpiece.”
Sarah looked at him but he was staring into the fire. In truth she'd forgotten that the picture was there; it was as much a part of the house as the paint on the walls and the creaking third step. Only its absence would ever bring it to the front of her mind where it was most painful to be. Suddenly there it was, in her mind’s eye, looking back at her from that place you put the worst of all your experiences.
“I don't want to talk about it,” she said.
“Okay.”
“I know I said I'd share it and stuff but I...” She trailed off into silence, feeling pathetic for not realising what her promise would mean. How had she forgotten? “Not right now, anyway.”
“Okay,' he said again.
The fire consumed their attention at that point as sleep seemed far away from both of them. She began to wish she'd brought a book with her, anything to help her pass the time but it was no use; she'd left them all at home and the one she'd been reading was still next to her favourite chair.
“There was this crazy little man once,” said Alan. “I met him just before I met your Papa at this dusty old cinema on a retail park in early spring one year. He was sat there in screen seven in just his underpants and a seventeenth century Spanish helmet, the kind the conquistadors used to wear. Anyway, Moll and I were just passing when we heard him let out this enormous whoop and wail that made us stop and look inside to see if someone was hurt. Between us and him was this barricade he'd built out of old trolleys and boxes from the other shops and it took some effort to break it down.
“We finally managed to get inside and follow the noise to screen seven where our crazy little man was watching a film that only he could see. He was drinking from an empty plastic cup and pretending to eat nachos from an empty tray.”
“You clearly have a knack for finding the odd ones, don't you?” she said.
“I guess so. Anyway, I sat down next to him and tried to get his attention but he kept shushing me for talking through the film.”
“What film?”
“I don't know,” he replied. “I couldn't see it and the fabric of the big screen was torn to shreds anywa
y. After a full hour and a half he began clapping and then he got up to leave.”
“And?”
“And what?”
“What happened?”
“He left.”
“Like that?”
“Just like that. He went outside and set off south. I never saw him again.”
“What was the point of telling me that?” she cried. “I thought you were going somewhere with that story.”
“Why? The guy was crazy, what could he possibly have to teach me?”
“I don't know! Why did you tell me?”
“Because you said you'd share in my pain so there you are. The crazy bastard never told me how it ended. I sat there for an hour and a half and for what? He wouldn't tell me.”
“You're right, that is painful. I'm not sure I want to share your pain anymore.”
“I understand,” he laughed. “It happens all the time.”
“What does?”
“These odd little slices of insanity, these moments where the rules of the world are suspended for a few brief minutes and you find yourself smiling from ear to ear, wondering what the hell just happened. They make life a little more bearable.”
“How did that guy make life better?” she asked.
“Look at it for a second. Why screen seven? Why wasn't he wearing clothes? Where did he get the helmet from and why that one out of all the others he probably came across? What was he seeing when he looked at that screen? Questions, Sarah. Great, unanswered questions that no one on this planet will ever get the answer to. Ever. I feel privileged to be one of the only human beings to ask that man how the film ended. It was an honour.”
Sarah looked at him and couldn't believe what she was hearing until she saw that he was wiping away a stray tear from his eye with the corner of his blanket. Had the naked conquistador made such an impact on him? Or was it what the man had told him without using words; that reality had broken him and he could no longer face it anymore. Instead he dove headfirst into a fiction where he was a Spanish soldier in cinema screen seven watching possibly the greatest film of all time and he wanted to enjoy it alone.
Beyond Hope (Tales from the Brink Book 3) Page 10
