‘You stupid bitch,’ I hissed. And just to show her what I thought about her crappy soup, I chucked the bowl over my shoulder.
Melanie didn’t say a word. She followed the bowl through the air with her eyes and then hobbled her way rapidly over to where it crashed into pieces against one of the walls. She lifted one of the pieces of crockery to her lips and sucked the remains of the soup still sitting in its curve. With her fingers, she scraped up the few little lumps she could find out of the dirt and ate them. She got to her knees, dipped the hem of her skirt in the puddle of liquid that was rapidly running away down the cracks, dabbing at it like some mad housewife cleaning up. Then she put the wet material to her lips and sucked the goodness out of it.
It went very quiet. There was my breath, coming in short angry gasps; there was the hiss of her sucking at her skirt hem.
‘What have you been eating?’ I asked her.
‘There’s not much at the moment,’ she answered.
‘What about that thick soup?’
‘All gone, boy, all gone. I ad stores. Stored up things. All gone, boy. I done me best.’
And, I hadn’t realised up till then, but I’d never seen her eat. I walked up and took her arm. Under thick, thick layers of rag, wrapped round and round and round, she was so thin, so thin. All her fatness was made of cloth, as the poor the world over do it, to keep out the cold they feel so keenly.
I started to think at last… at last I started to think! The way she’d come down the stairs to the basement and sat panting for ten minutes before she could even speak. Had she always been like that? The pinched look on her face. She never complained, never said a thing to me. I thought, what sort of greed was it that always put itself last? I shook her by the arm. There was nothing on her. ‘You silly old woman,’ I said, and I burst into tears.
41
In a clearing, in a wood, in a tower, in a wheelchair, in chains, a girl sat staring out of the window. She was fifteen years old and her heart was frozen as hard as a vegetable in the icy ground.
Outside a cold wind flung ice at the windows and blackened the leaves, but it was snug and warm behind the double glazing. A thin disco beat pulsed in the background, music from an earlier age. The air conditioning hummed, the furniture settled into the carpet. Signy’s prison was back again to its former opulence. Having killed everything she knew and loved, Conor was now wooing back his young wife.
Another girl, only about a year or so younger, knelt at the wheelchair, weeping. Cherry was ageing at a cat’s speed; her puberty was rapid. In another few months, she’d be older than her mistress.
‘He’s dead,’ said Signy coldly, as if she cared nothing for the other child.
‘No! I saved him. I saw the old woman-pig… I said!’ begged Cherry. She was desperate about her beloved mistress.
Signy shook her head. ‘You’d have heard something by now, or Conor would’ve. It’s been months.’
‘Odin gave him the knife!’
‘Conor has it now.’
‘You have to give him time to recover. I saw him escape!’
‘Then where is he?’
‘I’ll find him, you’ll see. The old woman-pig moved away. She’s hidden him but I’ll find her again. I won’t let you down – no, no! I keep telling you, a man is worth a fortune over there – they make good slaves, they learn quickly. People don’t just kill men; they have more sense than that.’
‘He’s dead. And so am I.’
‘He’s in hiding! The halfmen are retreating back out to the freelands. Conor is slaughtering them by the thousand! Your brother can’t just get up and walk about. He has to recover, he has to get well, his wounds have to heal…’
Cherry trailed off. Every time Signy opened her mouth, her head jerked. She was terrified that her mistress would live up to her threat and kill herself.
Signy sighed slightly. ‘You could keep me alive forever with this story if I let you.’
‘How would it be if you killed yourself and it turns out he’s still alive – what then?’ Signy shook her head, but her eyes filled with tears. ‘He wouldn’t want you to carry on like this,’ said Cherry, rubbing her arm along Signy’s leg, as if her limb were a cat. ‘Conor wants you back.’
‘He’s mad!’
‘Yes, yes, mad! But he loves you.’
‘Love,’ said Signy. Yes, Conor loved her. But why? Had he something to gain from it? Maybe for him it was the final defeat of his old enemy – to make Val’s daughter fall in love with him after all he had done.
‘What does he know about love?’ she said wonderingly.
Cherry settled herself at her mistress’s feet. A flicker of fur showed on her face. ‘Sleep with him and you can slit his throat. Use him. Pretend to forgive him and wait for the time to take your revenge.’
‘I can’t, Cherry. I don’t have the strength. I just want to die.’ Signy gave way to the tears that were always behind her eyes.
Cherry’s head jerked back up. ‘Don’t say that,’ she mewed.
‘I haven’t got the strength,’ whispered Signy. ‘It takes me all my strength just to stay alive. I can’t fight him, Cherry. He’s destroyed me.’
‘All you have to do is live,’ pleaded Cherry.
Signy shook her head. ‘Find me Siggy, Cherry, and I’ll live forever if I have to. If you don’t, I swear I’ll be dead by the spring, if I have to hold my breath to do it.’
Cherry began suddenly weeping and holding on to Signy’s crippled legs. ‘But I love you, I love you, I love you so much…’ Cherry clutched tight and wept bitterly.
Signy looked down at her coldly. ‘Find me Siggy, and you can stay with me forever.’ A little tired smile stalled on her face. She bent down to touch Cherry just as she changed into a cat. Her ringers stroked the fur, felt the quiver of excitement as the little animal rubbed her head against her fingers. Cherry was full of life, but it seemed to Signy as if her own touch was dead.
Cherry twisted, turned and ran out of the room. A second later a little brown bird took off in a whirr of wings from the window sill and headed north, to the slums of the halfman lands, to the market place, to no-one’s land – anywhere Cherry could pursue her search for the lost brother.
Behind her, Signy stared at her hands and felt the great width and breadth of the darkness inside her. Every morning was an emptiness that seemed to stretch on forever without shape – black, black, black. She would have put an end to it ages ago but for the lingering, and dwindling hope that her twin Siggy might still be alive. Cherry was her only hope of finding out.
‘Not much longer now,’ she promised herself. She was looking forward so much to the day when she could put herself out of all this.
When the old gods returned to the new world, they brought things with them. Rumours: there were giants again in the frozen north, weren’t there…? It was probably true. Nowadays not all monsters were brewed. Trolls, dwarfs, imps and even dragons – as if there weren’t already enough monsters in a land ruled by Conor.
And what did these gods want? The man with the broad-brimmed hat and one eye had been seen more than once, often in the thick of battle. A god, or god-like, certainly; but whose god? There were others too – figures who appeared in the ploughed fields or on the riverbanks, gods who appeared among machinery or in the weaponry. All of them demanded their own particular sacrifice.
Among them was a certain red-headed god whose appearance always made things turn out unexpectedly. Crookedly. Loki, the trickster, the sly one, the riddler, shape-changer.
A witch had been found living on Conor’s Estate some years previously. It was clear she was a witch, even though she was beautiful and young. The rumour was that when they cornered her she turned into a bird and tried to fly away out of a window, but the window was already shut and the girl was taken. She would have been found guilty anyway. She had slit pupils, a line of fur down her spine and a tail. Anyone with halfman blood inside the Wall, let alone the Estate, was found guilty as a matter
of course.
She was tried and found guilty and executed by fire a few days later. Her screams were said to resemble those of a cat. She struggled and begged and promised, but when it became clear that all her arts could not save her, she yelled through the fire and named a certain house in a certain road, where in an alcove in a collapsed wall they would find her young.
The people went and found there two young baby boys, tabbies, with retractable finger nails. They were taken away and destroyed. No one noticed, hiding in the corner, trembling with youth, a small tortoiseshell kitten with green eyes and white whiskers.
Cherry had only the vaguest idea of what had happened to her in between the time her brothers had been taken away and the time she found herself looked after by the dog people in the halfman lands. She remembered only that when she was very, very hungry indeed, a man with long, flaming red hair opened his mouth and swallowed her up, whole. She remembered some time later being vomited up at the feet of a startled group of dogmen, one of whom had later given her to Signy.
She had seen the red-headed man on other occasions. Once in a dream, although she knew it was for real. He took from a leather pouch at his side three shapes.
‘For you, daughter,’ he said. ‘Remember.’ And he dropped them onto her one after the other; a bird, a nut, and a girl.
Cherry’s search had carried her far and wide, as far as a child, a cat or a small brown bird could look, from the towers of central London, now occupied by Conor’s troops, to those other great towers in the freelands, in the new city of Ragnor. But the shape-changer did not expect to find Siggy in any of these places. He could not have gone far with those injuries. If he had made it to the wealthy rulers of the halfmen, Cherry would certainly have heard about it; they knew of her. How could they forget the day when Loki made a gift of a kitten to one of them? No. The chances were that he was still hiding out with the old pig-woman she had seen find him in no-one’s land. The question was – where? She might still be in no-one’s land, or in the halfman slums, or she might have passed under the Wall and be keeping him in the human slums. Either that or, as Signy believed, he had already died.
Two or three times a week, Cherry went shopping in the markets. It was no unusual sight to see girls of fourteen and younger out for the family shopping. Sneaking in and out of the tower, which would have been all but impossible for a person – or even a cat – was easy for her. Money was a problem, but Cherry was gifted with a degree of foresight, aided by her natural cunning. While Signy was on the roof of the water tower contemplating suicide, Cherry had been taking precautions. She had broken up pieces of her mistress’s jewellery and hidden them away, behind the light fittings, behind the skirting boards. Every now and then she dug out a little diamond, or snapped the gold band off a bracelet. It was enough for the bribes she needed.
Out here was a world of contrasts. Pigs guzzled rubbish in the streets and were nudged to one side by fine, wide cars, painted in bright colours. Goats nibbled at the remains of trees in suburban gardens; men in expensive suits, women dressed for cocktail parties, stepped in between the puddles, surrounded by armed bodyguards. Gangs of children, out to beg, mug or steal, searched the darker corners for rubbish, or for anyone foolish enough to be alone. The entrance to an expensive shop, selling jewellery, exotic foodstuffs or drugs or drinks or high fashion clothes, might be choked by the stink of a gutter full of raw sewage, blown on a gust of wind from just around the corner. Huddles of starving children shivered in corners and waited to die.
Today Cherry was searching in Leytonstone market. It was close enough to the Wall to attract a good few halfmen, and so all of life came here at some time or another. You could buy guns, wool, tools, pigs, radios, anything necessary or unnecessary to a life in the city. Cherry argued and bartered with the stallholders, abused their fruit, took a bite from an apple and said, no. She made jokes, friends and enemies, but above all she collected gossip. She didn’t care if she irritated or gave pleasure so long as people talked to her. Half the market knew the girl with the strange eyes, who had money to spend and who loved to hang around the stalls sharing gossip. Cherry had a great deal of gossip to tell, and a great deal was told back to her. If anyone knew anything about a man with a broken face and hands, this was the place to find out about it.
As she was easing her way through a long row of narrow stalls later that day, Cherry was almost bowled over by a whacking big man steaming round from behind his butcher’s stall onto the street. He grabbed hold of a rubbishy-looking old woman by the shoulder and shook her. She was as much pig as she was woman, maybe more, and starved half to death. She was just skin and bone under those rags. Cherry could hear the breath rattling in her lungs as he shook her. She must have been driven under the Wall to search for food, as many halfmen were now that Conor’s wars cut off supplies.
‘You thievin’ old bag…’ The man rummaged rudely about in her rags and dragged out a sheet of pork ribs. He shoved the old woman back so hard she would have fallen if the street hadn’t been so packed.
‘I don’t want to see you about here one more time!’ bellowed the trader. Cherry, who was standing with her back to the butcher’s stall, watched the old woman stagger off into the crowds. Yes, yes, yes! That was the one. Thinner, much thinner. But the same one, she was sure of it.
The stallholder ran back round to serve a customer, his eyes bulging as he realised that in trying to recover his pork ribs, he’d left the stall unattended.
‘Just plain greedy, some people,’ said Cherry quietly to him as he pushed past.
‘Light-fingered old bitch… She’s lucky I let her off. She’d have ’er hand chopped off if I shopped her for that. Old sow. Half pig herself if you ask me.’
Cherry hurried off into the crowd after the old woman. She found her not far off, leaning up against a wall, panting. The stallholder had given her a rough shaking. For someone in her condition it was as good as a beating.
‘Now, then…’ Cherry took her firmly by the shoulder, so she couldn’t run off and looked into her eyes. The old woman avoided her look at first, until she saw the tell-tale slits. Then she looked up. ‘If you have to be a thief, you’d better be a good one,’ said Cherry. She slid her hand into her pocket and slipped out a short loin of pork, with a nice, fat kidney cuddled up against the bone. ‘But you did a good job distracting him,’ she complimented her. She grinned and put the meat into the old woman’s hand.
The pig woman stared at her. Her hand closed tightly over the greasy meat and she tucked it out of sight before Cherry had a chance to change her mind.
‘Present from King Val,’ whispered Cherry. She dropped a few coppers into her hand and smiled at her.
‘Now,’ she said. ‘Where do you live, my dear, hmm? And how is Siggy Volson getting on?’
Melanie stared blankly back. ‘Oo?’
‘You heard.’
Melanie sighed and bowed her head. How on earth had the news got out, all the way into the city? See now – someone else after her man!
‘You betta come along o me, then, m’dear,’ she whispered. She glanced about her and set off, limping and pushing her way in between the crowd, with Cherry at her heels.
Cherry was delighted with herself. How pleased Signy would be! She couldn’t wait to question the old sow. Better get out of the crowds first, though. She walked along close to Melanie’s heels, smiling and purring to herself. It was in the bag!
Cherry was young and fit and well fed, and Melanie was old, weak and thin. But the old sow was more cunning than she looked. The chops were a dream come true, the pennies were a good thing too, but no number of chops and no amount of pennies were going to see her handing over her man!
She limped heavily, staggering from time to time into passers-by. Cherry watched her with concern. She was on her last legs! What sort of state would Siggy be in, looked after by the likes of her? They jiggled their way along for a couple of hundred metres, until at last the poor thing seemed to be overcome.
She leaned against the wall panting in terror and exhaustion, her big amber eyes fluttering pitifully at her captor.
‘Tchow! What now?’ complained Cherry. But the old woman just waved her hand and shook her head, unable to speak.
‘Do you want a drink?’ demanded Cherry, noticing that they’d stopped by a stall selling apple juice. The old girl nodded, she was obviously starved half to death. Cherry took a couple of steps to the stall, put her hand in her pocket for the money. She ordered a drink, turned round to look at the old woman and she was gone.
Desperately Cherry ran to and fro up and down the street – she couldn’t have gone more than a few yards – but Melanie had disappeared. It was infuriating. Who’d have thought that old thing could be so quick? It was another ten minutes before she noticed the drain cover right next to where Melanie had stood. She slid it off and slipped underneath, and there sure enough was the scent trail. The old sow had popped down under in a second and slid the lid back on, all in the time it took Cherry to take a few steps to the stall and to order the drink.
Cherry chirruped in admiration. Not as daft as she looked! She followed the trail as far as she could, but it was very smelly down there and the drains soon split into two and then three and then four, and there was no discovering which one Melanie had used. The quarry was lost. Cherry hadn’t even found out if Siggy was alive or dead.
42
siggy
There were a few flakes of snow, just the odd one or two. They floated silently down the flue and sat there, refusing to melt.
Winter.
Everyone up and down the country would be looking out for thick rags to wrap their babies in, stuffing paper in the cracks and gaps around their houses and shelters, getting nervous at the first sign of a cough or a sneeze. King Winter, the killer. I was brought up to be a gangman, a fighter, but here’s an enemy you can’t see or hear or threaten or shoot. When you’re badly fed and you’ve got no heating, that cough can kill you in a few weeks. I was as helpless in front of the cold as I had been before the Pig. The winter was on me, at me, in me. He was wearing me down. I was sleepy all the time. I seemed to be moving through a thick mist.
Bloodtide Page 17
