Watershed

by Jane Abbott

  ‘But you don’t? You don’t agree with Ballard’s ideals?’ I almost sympathised with him. I’d had to put up with Ballard for a few weeks; Fletcher had probably suffered years of it.

  He smiled then, showing brown, broken teeth. ‘Ideals? It was a good thing he disappeared when he did, coz all of us were jack of him. After Cade left for the Citadel, Ballard was a marked man.’

  Cade had come from the Hills? So Alex would have travelled to the Citadel with him, and then back again to Ballard. She’s here to help her brother. But why?

  ‘Cade, he’s a commander now, isn’t he? Heard he’s married.’ I dangled the line, seeing if he’d nibble. None of the Guards had appeared to recognise Alex.

  ‘Wouldn’t know. Didn’t have much to do with him. He was one of them Godder freaks. Kept it quiet though. And he was close with Ballard and Tate and some of the others. Word is his father’s high up somewhere, so we couldn’t touch him.’

  ‘Who’s we?’

  He looked at me, puzzled. ‘All of us. The Guard.’

  ‘The Guard. A couple of hundred of you? Hardly seems like Ballard was worth worrying about.’

  ‘Yeah? Shows what you know, arsehole. Last year there was this fire, in one of the outhouses they’d set up for the newcomers? Ballard and Tate and Amon and some of their cronies tried organising a rescue party, to get the people out. But Fitz, he laughed and said we should let ’em burn, be less of ’em of deal with. He was right too, but Ballard had him and the rest sent down to the Citadel and we ain’t seen ’em since. Ballard was a fucking do-gooder. He should never have joined the Guard.’

  ‘Or maybe,’ I suggested, ‘the Guard shouldn’t have been set up in the first place. Ever think of that?’

  He smirked. ‘Whatever. But we’re here now and we ain’t goin’ nowhere. And arseholes like Ballard can bleat all they like. It’s like you Watchmen. You think you’re so fuckin’ up there, but you’re just the same as us, doing exactly what we do. What if you had someone like Ballard breathing down your neck every fuckin’ minute, telling you what you should and shouldn’t do, what’s right and what’s wrong? You think you’d make any of your kills then?’

  No kills. No marks. No pain.

  No servitude.

  No Garrick.

  I am Jeremiah and I am a Watchman.

  ‘Nope, I don’t reckon I would,’ I said, and shot him in the left eye, the bolt splintering the thin bone behind and burrowing so deep it disappeared. His head rocked back and he shuddered. Not bothering to finish him off first, I used Alex’s knife to open up the back of his neck and retrieve his tag.

  ‘Thanks, Fletcher. You’ve been real helpful,’ I muttered, before stabbing up into his neck, twisting the knife hard to make sure. Then, wiping the blade and the tag and my fingers, I left that room for what I hoped would be last time.

  I am Jeremiah and I am nothing.

  I lay on the cot, hands tucked under my head, and stared at the ceiling. New cot – bigger, sturdier, more comfortable – in a new room. Mine for the next few days, until I set out to return to the Citadel to be what I wasn’t any more.

  Ballard hadn’t made a song and dance about my decision. He hadn’t even seemed pleased by how quickly I’d come to it. He’d let me be and, with no sign of Alex, it was Tate who’d showed me to my room, the weapons and my pack already laid out on the bed, waiting for me, kept aside in the hope I’d join them. It was Tate who’d showed me where to wash, and where to eat. But I wasn’t hungry and once I’d returned to my quarters and he’d left, no one else bothered me. Ballard had taken Alex’s knife, and I’d removed the bow. It was stowed in the cupboard with the other weapons, and I was content to leave them all there, out of sight.

  I’d hung on to Fletcher’s tag, though I wasn’t sure why. I’d kept my promise, but in the end that wasn’t why I’d killed the prick. Nor had I done it for Ballard, at least not for the reasons he might’ve hoped. The tag lay on the table by my bed, next to the pitcher of water, and every now and then I’d roll my head to look at it before staring up again at the ceiling.

  I missed daylight. I missed the scorching heat of the sun, the dry wind, the dust, and the sand. I missed the greyness, the barrenness, the waterless landscape. I missed the sharp, cold, still of night, the stars and the moon. I missed the noise of the Citadel, its narrow crowded streets circling the Tower, its thick walls boxing in the heat and the smell, its people and all their misery. I missed all the things I’d never missed before, all the things I never thought I would. Underground, there was none of it, just darkness and sameness and staleness, partitioned and tunnelled, wormholes that wound and backtracked and narrowed to banks of earth. Used to be people were buried in the ground after they died, not before.

  At first I didn’t register the knocking on my door. Before there’d been no need for it because I’d always been locked in, rather than anyone being locked out. But, hollow and remote, the insistent drumming of bone on wood finally made itself heard and I sat up, debating what to do, hoping it might stop and whoever it was would leave. But they didn’t and the knocking continued.

  Shit! Crossing the room, I lifted the latch and yanked the door wide, expecting Tate or Ballard, but it was just Alex, smiling at me like an idiot.

  ‘What?’ I barked, and her smile died.

  ‘Can I come in?’ she asked, all polite now I was a free man.

  ‘It’s never stopped you before,’ I said, turning away.

  Closing the door behind her, she took a few steps towards me, faltering when she drew close, looking around, trying to find a reason to be there, to justify her intrusion. But she’d get no help from me.

  ‘I told Connor,’ she said at last and tried smiling again, as though expecting I might share her pleasure.

  ‘You shouldn’t have done that. You had no right.’ Ballard had said Connor would never know and I’d accepted this decision; I understood his reasons and was almost thankful. But now Alex had gone and fucked it up.

  ‘I thought he deserved to know, Jem. You did a good thing, and it’ll help him.’

  A good thing? Maybe, but that wasn’t why I’d done it. I hadn’t done it to be good or feel good or even to help Connor. And I sure as hell hadn’t done it to make Alex feel all warm and happy.

  ‘How’s it gunna help?’ I demanded. ‘You think he’s gunna grow new hands overnight?’

  She frowned, her brow creasing into soft furrows. Then it smoothed again. ‘I’m sorry. I just came to tell you. And to thank you for helping me.’

  I blew out a sigh, and rubbed my face. ‘Is this how it’s going to be? You come in here and thank me every time I kill someone? First Marin, and now those Guards? Don’t ever thank me for killing, Alex. Not again. Never again.’

  She drew herself up, unafraid. In the time I’d known her, Alex had been angry, uptight, sympathetic, detached, and sorrowful. For the briefest time, she’d even been passionate. But not once had she ever been afraid of me.

  ‘Ballard said you’d be like this,’ she said, soft and sad.

  ‘Yeah, well, you should’ve listened to him,’ I replied, hard and bitter.

  ‘I thought you’d be relieved, Jem. You’re part of something now.’

  ‘I was part of something before, Alex,’ I said. ‘But now? Now I don’t know what I am.’

  I am Jeremiah and I am nothing.

  She reached out and took my hand. ‘Your hand. On my hand. Remember?’ A quick twist and she slipped her fingers through mine, palm to palm. ‘You didn’t stop me, Jem. And you didn’t force me. You just guided, holding my hand, showing me what to do. Remember?’

  I watched her knead my knuckles, press her skin to mine. Her thumb stroked as her voice stroked, gentle and soft and soothing.

  ‘Your hand was strong, and it gave me strength,’ she said. ‘That’s what you are, Jem. You’re strong. A Watchman. And today you watched over me.’

  ‘You have plenty of people to watch over you, Alex. You don’t need me for that,’ I said, w
ondering what the hell she was playing at this time, desperate for her not to stop.

  Pushing her palm and her arm to mine, she stepped nearer. ‘Ballard wasn’t in that room, Jem. Neither was Tate. Or Cade,’ she said, and I frowned at his name. ‘Or anyone else. Just you, helping me.’

  She was so close. I could see the blood pulsing in her neck, the tic of skin above her breasts, could feel the quickening of her breath, could smell her warmth. She turned her hand, bringing mine to her mouth, sucking on my skin, and I felt her teeth and her tongue. And my own blood heated and thickened, beating at my temples, in my chest, in my groin.

  ‘Why?’ I sighed, almost growling the word.

  ‘Because tonight it’s my turn to help you.’ Not coy, not seductive, no tricks. Not like the last time.

  With her free hand, she undid her trousers, pushing them down, pulling her boots through, standing on the pool of material like some kind of Sea nymph. Her legs were fine and lean, well-muscled and pale, and I fixed my gaze between them, on the dark curls hiding what I knew was there, remembering the feel of her, longing to touch her again, hearing my breathing, harsh and sharp.

  Lowering both our hands, she guided me to her, unlacing her fingers, leaving mine to find their way and gently part the folds of skin to stroke her. Her breath caught, then quickened while she held my arm, urgent and urging, so I teased again, and felt her give.

  ‘Your shirt,’ I said, and watched her pull on the strings before parting it. And while I coaxed her with one hand, I tugged at the band that bound her breasts, exposing them, finally seeing what before I’d only felt, what I’d only been able to imagine. But I didn’t touch them.

  Instead, I twisted my fingers up into her, rubbing her with the heel of my hand so she gasped and stiffened – ‘No, Alex, look at me’ – and when I saw her eyes dark with desire, I knew this time she’d let me finish.

  She widened her stance, just enough, and I fucked her again with my fingers, curling them inside, bringing her on, hearing her moan her pleasure. And again, quick and sharp, shifting her with the force. But suddenly it wasn’t enough. It would never be enough. Pushing her to the wall, opening my trousers and freeing myself, I lifted and spread her wide, finding her and thrusting in, then again, deeper, groaning when I felt her stretch around me, so wet and slick and welcoming. Just as I’d dreamed she would be. Her hands clutched my shoulders, her thighs gripped my hips, and I fucked her in slow, hard strokes, driving further and further into her, nailing her to wood, seeing her face, hearing her soft cries, smelling her sex, increasing the pace until she tightened and tensed and shuddered. And not slowing or relenting, giving no respite, I plundered her to find my own release. But it was a long time coming.

  Because I was Jeremiah and she made me strong.

  Excerpt ~ Letter #10

  I suppose the oddest thing is that we’ve become so dependent on that which terrifies us the most.

  It was Sarah’s favourite time of the day. Daniel was home, Jeremiah too, and the three sat together around the little table. The setting sun had cast the ragged cloth – the fifth piece Daniel had nailed across the hole in the wall – a red so deep and rich the room looked as warm as it felt, as though lit by flames. They’d eaten and were still hungry, but none of them complained. Daniel had made a rough chessboard, and was teaching Jeremiah how to play; as always, the boy was quick to learn. It’s all about strategy, Daniel told him, then grumbled when he lost another piece.

  Whippin’ your arse! Jeremiah mocked his grandfather. His voice had already broken, and his laugh was deep.

  Don’t swear, Sarah reminded, the reprimand automatic but not scolding, because it wasn’t such a sin compared to others and she didn’t want to annoy him. Their evenings together had become a rare treat, Jeremiah preferring the company of younger people, boys as well as girls. Sarah never asked and Jeremiah didn’t tell, but she knew. Sometimes, when he returned from wherever he’d been, she could smell them on him. Daniel had talked to him about girls, instructing him in first-world behaviour, teaching him what no longer seemed to matter. It was his job, not Sarah’s, and she hoped Jeremiah had listened. But she had no need to speak of such things; she could write them instead, as she was doing now, filling every part of the grey page with small lettering, though not as neatly as she would have liked – the paper was rough, the ink never easy to use, and the light low. Another letter. Sometimes they took her only a few days to write, other times she’d spend weeks on them, as she was with this one, choosing every word with care. More words for her boy. Sarah knew he liked them, and she found pleasure in the writing.

  Daniel set the board again and Jeremiah leaned back in his chair. His hair – Sarah longed to cut it – was matted and tangled and bound back off his face. It was a handsome face, she thought with a grandmother’s prejudice. Changed from boyhood, though still not fully defined, it had become less like his mother’s and, in the right light, his eyes would sometimes glint with flecks of gold, becoming soft and warm. It was hard to believe he was only fourteen or so, that he was no longer a boy. Most days he worked with Daniel’s crew, though he hadn’t completely surrendered his job at the school. What little water he earned teaching they let him spend on himself, and already he had a second, smaller knife. Sarah wished he’d bought a new shirt instead, but had managed to hold her tongue.

  Mitch left yesterday for the catchers, Jeremiah said suddenly. There was a long pause, and Sarah and Daniel waited for the announcement they’d dreaded: I’m thinking of signing up.

  Sarah stopped writing, and Daniel’s hand hovered mid-air before placing the piece he held onto the board. Hard work, was all he said, before coughing, dry and rasping – he seemed to be coughing more lately – but Jeremiah wasn’t daunted. It was good pay, he insisted. Two vats a week. Nothing else paid that well.

  If he lasted long enough to collect it, Sarah thought. They’d all heard the stories: the full crews who set out, and the half who never returned. Fetching water fetched a high price. But it didn’t deter the young men, most of them boys, from signing on – too easily persuaded by wily recruiters who wandered the streets promising adventure and hawking death.

  He didn’t like the sea, she reminded him.

  Jeremiah shrugged. He’d get used to it. How bad could it be? Then, seeing her distress, he muttered that it’d been just an idea, nothing definite. There was another pause. Or maybe he’d join one of the salvage crews.

  But that was no better, and Sarah saw Daniel’s quick frown. They’d talk later. Sighing, pushing away from the table, Jeremiah rose and came around behind Sarah, bending a little to read the letter she was trying to finish, one arm circling to hug her. Clearly intended to distract, she relished it anyway.

  What was she writing this time? he asked.

  A story, she replied. An old myth, about a girl who’d agreed to be sacrificed just so an army of men could sail off to war. Did Daniel remember? she asked, looking across the table. About Iphigenia and the Trojan War? He shook his head, and coughed again; no – he gave her a warm smile – she’d always been the one for the old stories.

  Looking up at Jeremiah, Sarah patted the hand that pressed her shoulder. You’ll like this one, she told him. He leaned down and she breathed in his sweat and his dirt, the dust that coated him as it coated all of them. Breathed it in and closed her eyes, holding his smell like a memory.

  Don’t worry, Gam, she heard him whisper. Whatever I do, you’ll be the first to know.

  And that was the best she could hope for.

  11

  A woman’s scent is mysterious. Sometimes fresh, sometimes stale, other times warm and soft and natural, comforting with a kind of milkiness that stirs childhood memories. But the smell of a woman who’s been fucked is unmistakeable: fermented cream, sweet and sharp and salty and sour. A smell you can taste and touch, that keeps you wanting more. My room reeked like a whorehouse; reeked of the two of us. Three times Alex had made to leave and three times I’d pulled her back, not read
y to let her go, and still unsatisfied. Then, when I was spent at last, she’d slipped away.

  Tate had fetched me soon after, giving me no time to get clean, and the memory of her still coated me; my body, my hair, my lips, my tongue. I wondered if the other men in the room could smell her too, smell her redolent sex that I wore like a second skin, that seemed to fill the air, thickening it with each passing minute. But if Ballard caught even a whiff of his sister, he gave no sign. Then again, he didn’t fuck women.

  Clutching his little wooden pointer, he tapped it incessantly against the maps and charts that papered the wall, making me long to grab it out of his hand and break it over his head. Tap, tap, tap, and his droning voice, unrelenting and irritating as hell. My dick and balls were tender, my mind fuzzed and craving sleep, and all I wanted to do was rest my head and tell Ballard to shove his grand plan up his arse.

  We’d been there for hours, the ten of us, seated around a large table strewn with reports and, of course, more maps. His war council, Ballard had called us, his voice tinged with pride. Every now and then he’d get up and do some more tapping and the other men would take note and nod diligently, murmuring their agreement. Occasionally a question was asked, and Ballard would answer it, long-winded and wasting words, or have Tate read from one of the reports for the benefit of those who couldn’t. But mostly it was just him talking and me wishing he’d shut the fuck up.

  He talked names and numbers, areas and routes, arms and ammunition, schedules, sabotage and diversions, most of which meant nothing to me and none of which would count for shit unless I managed to do the one thing I’d been brought in to do: survive Garrick long enough to kill him. But in the time we’d been there, Ballard hadn’t even mentioned my role and I’d lost interest.

  The other men hadn’t exactly greeted my presence with joy. Ballard had introduced me, and after some long, untrusting glares, I was pretty much ignored. I’d already forgotten half their names. Tate sat beside Ballard, and between us was the man Fletcher had mentioned, Amon, bearded and grey and stiffly upright. Like Ballard and Tate, the braids fastening his cloak were green: a Hills Guard. Across the table, on the other side of Ballard, was Micah, about my age and with a mean look, mostly directed at me. Next to him was an older man whose name I couldn’t remember, and then Grady, black-skinned and dressed simply, with the dirty, wide-knuckled hands of a farmer. The only other one I could recall was Quinn, memorable not just because he wore the blue insignia of the Port, but because he was shiny bald and as round as Ballard was square.