by Jane Abbott
But I didn’t want to be made to answer that. ‘I have to see her. Make her understand –’
‘No, Jem.’ Tate’s huge hand closed over my wrist. ‘You’re the one who needs to understand. Alex is angry. And she’s tired. She’s tired of seeing women and children abused. She’s tired of waiting for things to change. Ballard’s right. Every day, Alex becomes less than she was. I’ve known her for years and sometimes I can hardly recognise her. Women are different. They feel things we can’t, they take every hurt, absorb it into themselves. Sometimes it makes them stronger, other times it just kills them slowly, like a disease. Alex has had enough, and this is her way of fighting back. The only way she can.’
I’m not doing this for Marin. I’m doing it for me. The words of a woman who wouldn’t be denied.
‘And which is she, Tate? Is she strong or is she dying inside?’ I hoped it was the second, because then she might care less about what was to come.
‘Both,’ he said.
‘I’ve been one step behind the whole time, haven’t I?’ I asked, bitterly, staring down at the table because facing him was too hard. ‘The journey here, Ballard’s fucked-up games, helping Alex kill those Guards. Last night. All of it leading to this.’
He clamped a hand on my shoulder. ‘The first part, perhaps. But last night was her choice also. I don’t know why she came to you, but if she gave herself it was because she wanted to.’
‘Like she’s giving herself to Garrick?’ I couldn’t help the question.
‘Is that what you believe?’
I sighed. ‘No.’ She’d done it to help me. Though I hadn’t understood why at the time.
‘Then don’t let it go to waste, Jem. Ballard isn’t happy about what she did, but she’s not his to control. And she’s not yours either. Take what you need from last night but remember, Alex belongs to no one but herself.’
‘You’re wrong, Tate.’ Shaking free from his grasp, I stood and stared down at his grave face. ‘Soon she’ll belong to Garrick. He’s gunna break her, and there’s fuck all we can do to stop him.’
I enter the room, treading carefully around the boards I know will creak under my weight, following a path not walked in almost eight years. It’s as I remember, the suffocating quiet begging to be broken, silvery dust motes stirred by my breath, simple furnishings, a table and three chairs, the long bench with its bucket, the hearth and the cooking pot, a patched hemp rug on the floor. Everything inside me the same too: fear, dread, self-loathing. Despair. Ahead, a single window shaded against the heat and, silhouetted, a frail figure. But not the one I’d thought to find.
My grandfather turns, his gaunt face alight with joy. Jeremiah! Then his gaze slips down, following the line of my body, his happiness falling away to sorrow – Oh, my boy! What have they done to you? – my shirt gone, my chest bare, both of us watching with horror as my skin splits and darkens, not a hundred marks, but thousands, opening me up, red and black, slicing and splicing and I hear him scream with each cut – the deaths of innocents, Ballard’s voice, but he isn’t there, only Garrick behind me, grinning and brandishing a long, curved knife and I’m caught between – Will you kill me now, Watchman? Alex asks, her hands bound and bleeding, her shirt torn, breasts bared, her smile so sad – No, you won’t – but I’m there, my hands cupping her face, and I twist them even as I kiss her, hearing the crack of bones, feeling her slump in my arms, her cold mouth on mine, and I cry her name – Alex! Alex! – but it’s Marin’s head I cradle and when I drop her to the floor she opens dead thank you eyes and Garrick’s knife is tickling, creeping over my shoulder and down my chest, dipping into every cut, seeking, seeking, no longer a blade but a bleached bony finger stripped of flesh, and I turn to smile at my grandmother finally beside me, I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry, but she shakes her head, whispering, Twenty-three, the magic number, enough for any man – and beckons to the shadows, drawing them out from the walls, and they stretch broken arms to enfold me, whispering as one:
Welcome home, Jeremiah, we’ve been waiting for you.
Dreams are nothing more than playing fields for the dead, where a man’s sins return to kick around a big ball of guilt. I’d managed to keep that field empty for almost eight years, walling it off and sealing it tight. But now it’d opened up, was overrun, and my dead were playing up a storm. I slept when I could, waking to my own screams with wet eyes and heaving chest, washed in sweat, shivering and afraid, and wondering, when I was done and dead, whose dreams I’d haunt.
The second meeting didn’t go well, longer and more tedious than the first, and my mood so foul that even Ballard’s men, who barely knew me, understood enough to leave me alone. Except Micah, because there’s always one prick who spoils it for everyone else.
He spent most of his time glaring at me, working his jaw and grinding his teeth every time Ballard asked me a question about the compound, the gates, the sentries, the tunnels, about Garrick and what I knew of the other Watchmen. He snorted and sighed and shifted on his chair and, for the most part, I ignored him. Until he opened his mouth.
‘You must kill Garrick before getting rid of the sentries and opening the gates,’ Ballard told me, tapping yet another map. ‘We’re estimating five days before news of the Catchers reaches the Tower. When it does, that’ll be your signal and you’ll need to act fast. Everyone will be in place and depending on you. Once Garrick is dead, use his key to open up the Tower stairwell. Both gates, top and bottom. We’ll take it from there.’
He made it sound so easy; one Watchman against twenty – three times that if I counted the raws. Just a single Watchman to do what none had done before. But I didn’t give it a whole lot of attention because all I could think was, five days. Five days and five nights of doing fuck-all while Garrick abused Alex before he sent her on to be abused by others. I nodded.
‘Think you can manage that, Watchman?’ Micah asked, and I glanced across at him.
‘Maybe,’ I said. ‘Or maybe I’ll forget all about the gates and you can fuck yourself out in the cold.’
‘See?’ Micah demanded of the room. ‘This is why we can’t trust him!’
‘Quiet,’ ordered Ballard. ‘Jem will do what he needs to, no more, no less. He knows what’s riding on this.’
Yeah, I knew all right. He and Tate and I knew exactly who was depending on me.
Ballard looked at me. ‘Once all the gates are open, you’ll report to Thatcher and help secure the compound.’
‘Whatever.’ But I wouldn’t be doing that. I knew it, and I was pretty sure he did too.
‘Whatever?’ Micah repeated. ‘Why don’t you show some respect, Watchman?’
But already I’d had enough. ‘Hey, Micah, how’s your sister doing?’
The room exploded, Micah throwing himself across the table before being hauled back by the men either side of him. Reports and maps spilled to the floor, jugs of water toppled, wetting everything else, and I jumped up, ready to smash his face. A huge arm snaked across my throat, another pinned my arms, and I was pulled off my feet. Tate. I kicked out, thrashing, and the other men were shouting too, voices raised in anger and alarm. Micah yelled, clawing to get at me, and Ballard smashed the table with his fists.
‘Enough!’ he shouted. But it took a few more calls before any of us paid heed.
‘Settle, Jem,’ Tate growled in my ear. I struggled some more, but his arm tightened and I gasped for air. Micah snarled and spat, and we both glared at each other. One of the men holding him muttered something and, after a minute, Micah nodded, before his captors released him and pushed him back into his chair. But Tate kept a tight hold on me.
‘You will apologise,’ Ballard said to me.
For what? I wondered. For what I’d said or for what I’d done three years ago? Maybe both. ‘Fuck you.’ Tate’s arm squeezed.
‘Apologise,’ Ballard demanded, a little louder.
I looked at Micah, expecting triumph, but his eyes were wet, his shoulders slumped. Pain and sorrow, t
he real marks of my work, just as visible as the ones on my chest; marks I never got to see, and had never stopped to consider.
‘Sorry,’ I mumbled at last. But as everyone relaxed and sighed, sure the moment was over, I turned back to Ballard, eyeballing him, aiming as true as one of my darts, my voice bitter. ‘I’m real fucking sorry about your sister.’
He froze, and his mouth tightened. ‘Get him out of here,’ he told Tate, and I was pushed from the room, glad to go.
They left me alone after that, and I remained in my quarters, curled in a corner on the floor, away from the bed where Alex had lain, far from the chair she’d sat on, the table she’d bent over, the wall where we’d first fucked, away from everything that reminded me of her, smelled of her, remained of her, and wrapped in my cloak, lying on dirt and stone, I spent my last night beneath the Hills dodging dreams.
Excerpt ~ Letter #9
You’ll meet many people in your life. Some will be good, some bad; some will be for you and some against. To learn which they are, face them all with clear eyes and an open mind. But save your heart for the ones who will treasure it.
Sarah wiped her face and neck, though it did her little good. The hour was late and while the wind was beginning to drop, the sun continued to follow its own stubborn agenda, clubbing her with its heat. The fire in the pit wasn’t helping either, but she didn’t dare add to the discomfort inside by cooking over the small hearth. It was really only possible to light it on the coldest of nights, and only a dust storm – wild enough to drive everyone indoors for days at a time – might necessitate its use at other times. But no such emergency had been forthcoming, the usual brown afternoon dragging into a red-hot evening and slowing any relief from that day’s annoyances.
These were the times when she wondered why they were above the ground at all. Why not dig below, live in the cooler confines of the earth, away from the sun and out of danger? When she’d mentioned this to Daniel, he explained what he himself had been told: that the land wouldn’t allow it, not with the tools they had, the thick layers of granite and basalt beneath the softer sand prohibiting any kind of underground city. But she hadn’t been satisfied with that explanation. Because, thinking back to their arrival, hadn’t they come through a long dark tunnel before climbing into the Citadel? Daniel had smiled at that. It’d probably always been there, he said. Left over from the town before. And they’d need many, many more if they were to contain everyone. Besides, he pointed out, there was no way down there now. Not since they’d built the tower over it. Now, bending over the pot, stirring so the stewing meat wouldn’t stick and burn, she felt again her growing resentment for the tower, for the guards, for the walls that enclosed them, for the suffocating safety that was proving anything but.
Of course, she wasn’t alone at the pits. Neighbours shoved and pushed, small children played beneath tired feet; others, returning from their day’s labours, stopped to greet or talk. She fielded questions about Daniel with the usual bright smile – yes, he was on the mend; yes, she and Jeremiah were managing just fine, thank you for asking – careful not to let her concern show, fearful that it might give cause for someone to let slip the gravity of his illness, that he’d be taken from them and sent to the Pickers. No one deserved that fate, and Daniel wasn’t contagious. But he was dying. Even Sarah knew it, though she told herself daily that he wasn’t, that he’d soon rally and begin to display again the same strength that had saved her so many times before. Nightly, she watched him worsen. Even now she was anxious to go inside and check on him, but she didn’t dare leave the pot or the fire. Friendly interest, any offers to help, had been extended without real intent, and she knew if she turned her back for even a minute she’d return to find her wood gone – probably the pot too – and someone else already bent over the fire she’d made. Not that she begrudged people their opportunism; it was just the way of things now. She willed Jeremiah to hurry, then felt a rush of guilt. This was hard enough for him.
Finally seeing him round the corner, she watched his slow approach, wishing for the millionth time that things might’ve turned out differently, for him, for Daniel, and for her too. For everyone.
He gave a quick nod to acknowledge her greeting and said: It’s done.
I’m sorry, she replied. Perhaps later, after it – she stopped, breathed deeply, started again: Perhaps then he could return. But even she heard the lie, because there’d be no returning to the school now. No signing up to the catchers either, or to any of the salvage crews.
Jeremiah shook his head and said: No. Drummond’s fed up. It’ll close now.
There’d been plenty of these little schools scattered throughout the districts, but one by one they’d closed their doors, the self-styled teachers either too greedy, charging cups for insubstantial knowledge, or too dispirited by the increasing lack of interest; in a place where every effort was spent working to survive, learning to read or write or count held little appeal. But old Drummond had always refused to bow to any pressure or apathy, and though he could ill-afford to employ another (particularly for a handful of pupils who each gave only a cup a week), Sarah had long suspected he’d taken on Jeremiah as much for his company as for his ability. Now, without even that, it was hardly surprising that he’d finally succumbed.
I’m sorry, she said again.
I know, Jeremiah replied.
Had anyone enquired about Daniel at work? she asked, making sure. No, was his curt reply. Because that too was the way of things: Jeremiah had already filled the vacancy left by his grandfather, and as long as the work was done what did it matter who did it?
What’s that? She pointed to the rough scrap of paper he held. Glancing at it, he shrugged before handing it to her. Sarah read the thick letters, splotched and smudged: THANKYEW FER TEETCIN MEE.
Smiling, she gave it back. Something to treasure, she told him.
Yeah, he replied. Then, giving a quick sigh, he nodded to the door behind her. I’ll stay, he said. You go check on him if you want.
She smiled again, and reached up to pat his cheek; he was already taller than she. She wouldn’t be long, she told him. Mind he kept stirring.
But she paused at the door, looking back to marvel at the man her young grandson had so quickly become. He was crouched in front of the pit, already doing as she’d asked; as she watched, he crushed the piece of paper with his free hand and tossed it into the flames.
12
I laid out everything on the cot, seeking comfort in ritual. Two crossbows. Forty-seven darts, plus the wooden ones Taggart had given me, still wrapped in their oilskin; the longbow, with its five arrows stored safely inside the staff; the knives in their holster; my leggings, the rope, extra clothes, the gourd and bladders, the pot and its cylinder; possessions so meagre, yet so necessary. No food or water; they’d be supplied. I checked everything, once, twice, and then again, every movement mechanical. When I left, it’d be for the first and last time, never to return. This wasn’t my place. But nor was the compound any more.
I removed a handful of the metal darts from the bundle. It was unlikely anyone would check but I couldn’t take the risk, and if I was supposed to have killed twenty-three Disses then I couldn’t return without having lost some ammunition. That was the sort of mistake that could cost my life. But the wooden ones Taggart had given me I put to one side, ready to tuck into my leggings. Just in case.
Reloading the bows, I left them on the table along with the leggings and cloak and the rope, and began packing everything else. We were to leave at dusk and the day stretched ahead, interminable and doubt-filled. Hanging the key to my cupboard at the compound around my neck, I wondered, when I was dead, what would happen to my grandmother’s letters? Would anyone read them before throwing them away? Learn from them, as I hadn’t? I’d never before felt so defeated and so unsure. And never had I felt so afraid. We walked with death, played with it, ate and slept with it, but I’d never before feared it. We’re born alone, we die alone, and we do what we can i
n between. But now I had something to lose and I couldn’t afford to die. Not yet. Garrick had to go first.
Picking up the report Ballard had given me, I began reading about my own supposed exploits since my arrival at the settlement. ‘Read and memorise it, so you can rewrite it when you return. They’ll expect a full accounting,’ he’d said.
And I marvelled at his resourcefulness. The report was almost exactly as I would’ve written it, heavy on details of surveillance and information gathered, light on the actual killings. Some names given, others left blank, the Tower able to match tag numbers anyway. Summaries of problems encountered had been added for authenticity, a couple of warnings about possible future unrest, particulars of Guards who’d helped or hindered, it was all there, and no one reading it would ever think it was fabricated. I hoped.
‘Go away,’ I yelled, when a heavy fist pounded the door.
‘Jem,’ Tate’s deep voice echoed. ‘Open up. There’s someone here to see you.’
Alex. And suddenly I yearned to see her too, to hear her explanation and have her tell me it was all a mistake, that Ballard had been wrong; to hold her and have her soothe us both. But then the moment passed. Because it wasn’t a mistake, and no explanation would suffice.
‘Piss off!’ I turned back to the report.
There was a scraping and a click; unbelieving, I watched the latch lift and the door open. So much for privacy.
‘I’m not in the mood, Tate,’ I warned, when his bulk filled the doorway. He walked into the room carrying a tray and placed it on the table, pushing aside the weapons and clothing.
‘You need to eat,’ he said.
‘Not hungry.’ So fuck off and leave me alone.
‘Eat.’ He returned to the door, motioning for Alex to enter. But it wasn’t Alex. Connor edged past him, short-armed and nervous.
‘I’ll be back to collect everything later,’ Tate said.
