Many of them seemed to have learned about sewing skins together to make hats and jerkins. A few wore fingerless gloves, some of leather, others knitted from untreated wool. They must have been living outside for a good while because, although they weren’t outwardly dirty, Gordon could smell their bodies even from this remove.
What they all had in common, man or woman, was their shaved heads. This suggested not that they held some common ideal, but that they were suffering with lice. The spread of lice happened easily in closeknit communities – not necessarily through unhygienic practices but through people sharing beds and being in close physical contact with each other. It meant this could be a loose family group; the beginnings of a tribe.
He would have acknowledged this with a smile if it hadn’t been for one detail. There were no children. He’d come across several groups like this in his travels – Brooke and her father had been the first of many he’d spent time with. There had been plenty of others too wild or too strange to keep company with, but children had featured in every family setting. Perhaps this group had been childless before the Black Dawn and that was the common ground that had kept them together. Whatever the case, there was nothing about them that frightened him. They could walk into this camp and announce themselves as harmless passers-through.
He stepped back, ready to turn and retrace his steps. At the same instant, two of the group standing around the fire pit moved away, giving him a better view of the blackened spit and what lay beyond. Hunks of meat rotated and smoked over the scorching coals as a man turned the handle of the spit. The meat was ragged and pale but the portions dangling nearest the fire were charred black. Blue-grey smoke rose from the huge skewer.
Forming the backdrop to this and rippled by rising heat was the place where they butchered and prepared their meat. Two carcasses hung from grimy ropes slung over an A-frame of newly cut logs. One was whole. The other, partial, was divided into cuts. The skin was ash pale and had been hanging for some time. Now that he could see the raw meat, he could smell it too. Fatty and a little high, the scent of it reminded him of meat left too long on the butcher’s counter on a hot day. At every cleaving and division, at every exposed joint, the flesh was grey. Of the partial carcass, all that remained was one handless arm, hooked at the wrist, half a ribcage and a footless calf snagged through the ankle. They swung and turned gently to a breeze Gordon couldn’t feel. Perhaps it was the heat from the fire that pushed them back and forth, spun them lazily first this way and then that.
The complete carcass had undergone only the preliminaries of the process. The skin was pale but very hairy. Its genitalia were missing and its abdomen had been opened neatly from pubis to sternum. This cavity was empty. The cheeks and eyes were also gone; delicacies were always the first cuts. He’d been a big man and a fit one too by the look of him. Whether these were his friends who had turned against him in hunger or whether he and his, likely female, counterpart had been hunted he couldn’t guess. None of the people in the camp looked undernourished so perhaps it was not necessity that drove them to this. Perhaps it was simply choice. Itinerant humans were far easier to hunt than wild animals and their meat yield was greater. Not only that, their bodies were made up of the exact nutrients other humans required.
Gordon’s anger was tempered only by his responsibility. He moved away, as much the shadow as he’d been before. Only when he was out of sight did he turn his back on the clearing and make faster progress back to Denise. As he crept, he unclasped his knife.
Denise had not moved. She was still crouching beside a tree, hugging it for support though it looked like she took comfort from the contact too. Her eyes were wide and unblinking. As soon as she saw him she began to beckon with quick flicks of her hand. She looked from side to side as he approached, close to panic.
When he reached her she lunged upwards to meet him, almost knocking him over.
“Thank God,” she said. “Thank fucking God you’re back.”
“What happened?”
“A group of men came past. They had a… girl. She was tied up with rope and they were carrying her between them on a pole like an animal. She was bucking and trying to scream but they’d gagged her too. Gordon, she couldn’t have been more than ten years old. She was terrified.”
Gordon closed his eye for a moment.
“We have to leave,” he said. “Now. As fast as you can run.”
“I can’t run. I’m exhausted and my feet are in agony. And what about the little girl?”
“She’s got no chance and neither will we if we don’t move. There’s too many of them.”
“You have to do something. I can’t even think about what they’re going to do to her.”
Gordon wasn’t about to reveal the full inventory. He took hold of her hand.
“Listen, Denise. This has happened to me more times than I can count. It’s already too late for the girl you saw. If it had been just me and I’d seen her, I’d be doing something about it. But if I see to her, I’m going to lose you. If you want to stay alive, we must go.” She didn’t move. “Right now, Denise.”
She shook her head, scattering her tears.
“I’m not going to lose another child.”
“She isn’t…”
What? He asked himself. What exactly wasn’t she? Wasn’t every child their responsibility in a world like this? Now that he had left childhood behind, wasn’t it his place to protect it for others?
He saw the anguish in Denise’s eyes. She hadn’t stopped being a mother just because her own child was dead.
“Alright,” he said. “Which direction did they come from?”
“Across the fields.”
“You’re certain? Not from the canal?”
“From the fields. I saw them.”
“OK. Take the pack and get back to the towpath. Go as far along as you can and hide – somewhere you can still see this wood.” He pointed back the way they’d come. “A little bit farther than the bridge should do it.”
“I’ll come with you. I can help.”
“No, Denise. You can’t see this and you need to stay safe. Wait for me and I’ll find you. I promise. If I don’t, it’s because I’m not coming. OK?”
“Shit.”
“Do you understand what I’m telling you?”
“Yes.”
Denise couldn’t fathom him. In some ways he was still a little boy. In others he was more a man than any she’d known. She thought, perhaps, she really might be able to love him if they were together long enough, but she doubted they had much time left.
The boy who was a man turned and moved away, his black coat melding with the trunks of the trees.
“Gordon.”
He didn’t look back but Denise thought she heard him whisper:
“What?”
“Kiss me.” she said.
Perhaps he hadn’t heard. He kept moving, silent and fluid, until the wood claimed him. Despite the pain in her feet Denise found she was able to run very fast.
31
The trees darkened around him.
Out of sight but somewhere nearby a coven of startled rooks took flight from the trees, their wingtips slapping the branches as they hoisted for the sky. Their cawing was like knowing laughter in the twilight. Gordon felt them, circling high overhead, far above the tops of the trees, watching as the humans below made their awful mischief. Their strength descended to him, though, filling him with raw black power and rage. His own coat of feathers seemed to sing with the voices of crows, the rattle of magpies, the chawk of jackdaws, the chuckle of ravens. The short blade at his hand was just another feather, sharp and silvery.
By the time he reached the camp he was a trembling silhouette, a man-shaped pool of darkness. Four other men had joined the group now and meat was being passed around. They ate it with their hands, burning their lips and fingers as they tore into the roasted flesh.
The girl lay in the dirt near the fire, bound in rope at her ankles, knees, wrists and elb
ows. She was gagged with a filthy remnant of corduroy, also held in place with rope. They’d dropped her within sight of the fire and the butcher’s workplace and her eyes flicked, wide and unblinking, from horror to horror and thence to the faces of her captors. Tears made dirty rivers on her cheeks. He wasn’t sure if she reminded him of Jude or Flora. Perhaps she represented all that was precious and innocent and full of the future. Perhaps he was just looking for a way to deepen his rage.
These men and women who, perhaps only two or three years ago, had jobs and families, went to work in the mornings, slept in beds at night in centrally heated houses, made love to their spouses in the safe, private warmth of those beds, drank wine and ate food and chatted to their friends and wept at the passing of their loved ones; these people who had so recently been human were now not fit to be considered animals.
Their voices and laughter came to him in snatches:
“–don’t have to kill her yet, do we?”
“–so sweet I could eat her before I eat her.”
“–meat we’ve got will keep us going for a few more days.”
“–keep her alive for a while? Pass her round, eh?”
Gordon pressed the knife flat to his wrist and stepped out of the trees. Only the little girl saw him at first. He winked at her. He walked among them, tall and calm, his manner so assured they didn’t notice him for several moments. He took the time to turn to the girl and raise his eyebrows in mock surprise that he’d got so far without detection.
Then one of the bald men said:
“Who the fuck are you?”
“I’m the law of the land.”
He slipped his arm around the nearest head and opened its neck with his knife. The woman, trying to seal the wound with both hands, stumbled away and fell face first into the fire pit. Her blood boiled and smoked. She didn’t get up. The closest man tried to run when Gordon’s eyes fell upon him. Before he could even turn, Gordon lashed out backhanded, cutting his throat so profoundly both his trachea and oesophagus were severed along with his arteries. The man collapsed to his knees, lungs and stomach filling with his own blood. Gordon stepped back to avoid the spray.
Around the camp, skinheads were finally pulling out their weapons but none of them advanced, the shock of their losses plain on their faces. Gordon walked up to the nearest of them, a huge man who would have been even heavier in the days of plentiful food. The man flexed his knees ready to counter or avoid a slash. It didn’t come. Gordon stood in front of him, arms folded, casual. The man, apparently unarmed, backed away to a safe distance. On all sides the skinheads had either found something to fight with or taken cover.
Gordon waited. He glanced at the girl. She lay abandoned near the fire pit. He caught a movement on the far side of the fire, saw a shimmering and heard something spin through the air. He stepped to one side. The meat cleaver hit the ground where he’d entered the clearing, kicking up black dirt before coming to rest. The burly, unarmed skinhead ran to retrieve it and advanced on Gordon.
“Get around the back of him,” he shouted to the others.
The stunned skinheads began to pull together, some circling around the far side of the fire, others coming straight for Gordon. The burly man lunged while Gordon was assessing the advance. His cleaver came down from on high in a heavy butcher’s stroke. Gordon’s left hand stopped the descending wrist mid-swipe, leaving the man unguarded. Gordon moved in, his blade hand flashing momentarily in front of the man’s eyes. The cleaver fell from his hand. Uncomprehending, he stared at his empty hand and the fallen weapon. A moment later, blood began to course from his upper arm, just below his armpit. When he clamped his left hand to the gushing wound, Gordon turned to face the others.
Once again, his eyes flicked to the girl. This time one of them saw the glance and Gordon knew his weakness had been revealed. He and the skinhead who’d caught his look lunged for the girl at the same time. The skinhead was closer. As the skinhead grabbed the girl’s feet, Gordon struck out with his boot catching the man right on the chin with his toecap. The skinhead flopped to the ground beside the girl, unconscious and quivering; a deep snoring vibrated in his throat. Gordon knelt beside the girl and picked her up in his left arm. Bound like this, she was a dead weight. He only had time to cut her elbow and wrist restraints before two more of the skinheads, spotting his moment of distraction, came at him together empty handed.
He spun at the attackers, both women, knife hand arcing out as he stepped directly between them and the girl. The blade caught the upper arm of the first woman, parting stained fabric like tissue, slicing toward bone and exiting below her collarbone. Much of the momentum of the strike was gone but the sweep continued, opening the second woman’s right breast and tearing through her nipple. Of the two, she was the one to squeal loudest. The damage was enough to discourage them for a few moments but four more skinheads pushed through to take their place. Three wielded machetes, the fourth a hatchet.
Gordon had enough time to glance at the girl again. Unconcerned about her gag, she was working the knots which held her knees and ankles. He could see how easy it would be to slip the bonds free but in her frantic desperation to release herself, the girl was merely pulling them tighter. Her breath rasped fierce at her nostrils, forcing mucus out and sucking it back in again so fast Gordon thought she must be close to suffocation.
Movement drew his attention to a new attacker – the man with the small axe. Mid-arc, the hatchet cut through the air near his neck. He shrank from the blow and the blade whispered across the feathers of his jacket. There was no time to use his knife but Gordon stepped into wake of the blow, trapping the hatchet against the man’s body as it reached the nadir of its swing. He smashed the point of his left elbow into the hatchet man’s exposed throat and felt the cartilage collapse under the strike. He let the man drop at his side to asphyxiate in the dirt.
As the weapon fell from the man’s hand, Gordon grabbed it in his left hand. Backhanded, he let the hatchet fly as though he was throwing a Frisbee. It was a poor throw, coming as it did from his weaker side. Rather than sinking blade first into a neck or head, the flat, heavy back edge of the hatchet caught one of the three as yet unharmed skinheads on the ear. The sharp-cornered lump of steel cut through the ear and scalp, making solid contact with the man’s skull near the mastoid bone. It wasn’t enough to rob him of consciousness but it put him out of the fight.
The rest of them stood their ground, unwilling to tangle with a man who’d more than halved their numbers. Then he saw them grin at something behind him and he turned, wishing he’d held on to the hatchet. At least then he’d still have had something he could throw. The girl had managed to release her knees but the skinhead he’d kicked in the chin had regained consciousness and crawled on top her. He had her pinned down. Even as Gordon watched, the skinhead retrieved a small penknife from his pocket and hauled the girl to her feet. He made himself small behind her and put the blade to the girl’s throat.
“This what you came for, birdman? Eh? Is it?”
The skinhead sawed at the girl’s neck opening her unprotected skin. Blood flowed freely but it wasn’t the death stroke. Not yet. Her captor leaned down and licked the wound, coming away red-chinned. Now the girl’s wide eyes were squeezed shut. Her entire body shook and Gordon could see a dark stain spreading at her groin.
He stepped toward them.
“Oi! One more step and she’s meat.”
Gordon raised his blood-tainted blade and held it high. He showed it to those who still stood ready to attack, turning it like a talisman or an object of mesmerism.
He moved another step closer to the girl.
“What are you going to do after you’ve cut her throat?” he addressed the question to all of them. “Have you thought about that? Do you think I’m going to walk away? And do you know,” he asked, letting his eyes meet every gaze in the group, “do you have any idea how many lives I’ve already ended? What makes you think I’m going to leave a single one of you al
ive?”
He took another steady step. The skinhead tightened up ready to snap.
“No closer, man. I mean it.”
The hand that held the penknife was shaking now, gradually sinking deeper into the flesh of the girl’s throat.
“Let her go,” said Gordon. “I’ll have to tend that wound of hers. It’ll give you a head start. That’s the best offer I can make.”
Each of those still standing looked around, took in the carnage wrought by the single interloper. They looked at each other. There were still six of them. Together they could run, get away. Survive a little longer. But if they killed the girl they would have to face this tall, dark man right now.
“Shit, Malc. Let her go,” said the man with the head wound. He had his hand pressed to his ear but blood had already soaked one half of his jacket.
The women agreed.
“Do what he says, Malcolm. Let’s get out of here while we still can.”
“What? Leave because of this bloke? This feathery fucking queer?”
The rest of them backed away.
“Fine, you stay if you want,” said the one with the blood-soaked jacket.
“You fucking cowards. We’re meant to work together. That was the agreement. Not fucking disappear when things get difficult. That was the whole point.”
Without his support group, Malcolm was out of options. He let go of the girl and backed away. The girl slid slack-bodied to the ground and lay there pale and limp. The wound in her neck flowed freely but she hadn’t lost enough blood to make her faint. The stress and shock of her ordeal had caused it. When Malcolm was far enough away, Gordon knelt beside the girl. The skinheads were grabbing items they felt they couldn’t live without and running out of the camp.
Gordon inspected the cut in the girl’s neck. The blood flow had stopped. He checked her pulse at the wrist. There was no movement beneath her skin. He listened to her chest. No breath. No heartbeat. He prayed for the Black Light, willed it to his fingertips.
The Book of the Crowman Page 20
