by Paul Kane
Mary screwed up her face. “You’re delusional. I’m nothing like you!”
The Widow threw her head back and laughed. “Am I? Or perhaps I’m the only sane person left in this world. I see things as they are, or as they should be.”
“Doubtful.”
“Suit yerself. Anyway, where was I? Oh, aye, patience. Yer waited for Robert. I don’t blame yer, he’s very special.”
Mary felt herself bristling. “You leave him alone,” she warned the Widow.
“Or what?”
“I won’t be responsible for what happens,” was all Mary could think of. That earned another cackle from the Widow.
“It’s a bit late anyway,” the Widow said from behind her. Mary spun around. “See, while yer been waiting again, I’ve been getting’ t’know him better. Much better. I had to be sure. Certain it was really him.” The Widow produced what looked like a playing card, its back facing Mary, and stared at it. “Quite a man, isn’t he?”
Mary took a step towards the Widow, drawing back her fist at the same time. There was the clack of machine-guns being cocked, the guards raising their weapons. But the Widow held up her hand for them to lower their guns.
“Give it yer best shot,” the Widow said, grinning.
Mary didn’t need to be told twice. She swung her punch, but hit nothing: the space the Widow had occupied only a moment before was now empty. Mary felt someone tapping her on her shoulder and spun back round, lashing out as soon as she saw the Widow again. For a second time she struck nothing, and the Widow was now to the side of her. Mary saved her strength. The woman was too fast for her.
“Finished? Now, can we talk sensibly? Woman tae woman?” The Widow stood in front of Mary. “As I was sayin’, that’s quite a man yer have there. Or should I say, had. I’ve been waitin’ a long time fer someone like him. Someone wi’ his strength and power, who will live on forever.” Mary frowned at that remark, but let it pass. “Someone wi’ the sight, like me.”
Now she did feel the need to speak. “What are you talking about? What sight?”
The Widow chuckled. “Yer really don’t know him at all. How can yer call yerself his woman, when he keeps so much hidden? When yer choose not to see the blindingly obvious?”
Mary was sick of these mind games. She wanted to know what the Widow was up to. What she wanted with Robert.
“I have special plans for him,” the Widow informed her, again seemingly reading her thoughts. “A long time ago I was promised something, Mary. Ma king. Ma Emperor. Thought I’d found him once, too.” There was a real sadness to the Widow’s voice, and Mary almost felt a little sorry for her. The feeling only lasted a moment, however, when she remembered what the Widow was after. “What I want is you, Hooded Man.”
“And even when I began to see Robert,” the Widow continued, “feel his presence, I still didnae dare hope, Mary. But bein’ in the same room as him; now that was different. No denying it then. Our... connection.”
Mary laughed. “You and Robert? In your dreams.”
“Actually, in his. He’s seen me, just as I’ve seen him. He sees a lot of things before they happen. Just like I do.”
What was she saying, that Robert was some kind of psychic? All of this was completely ludicrous. “He wouldn’t look at you twice. What we share you couldn’t possibly understand.”
The Widow shook her head. “It’s the bond Robert and I share that you cannae understand. You and he were never fated to be together, Mary. That’s why when the Frenchman’s daughter came along –”
“You shut your filthy mouth.”
“That’s why he was tempted, if only for a wee while. Yer can’t possibly make him happy, don’t yer see? Not really. Yer might have some ability, but yer deny it. Don’t believe in it. I, on the other hand, embrace it. And Robert can see that.”
“I’m not having this conversation with you. You’re a lying cow.”
“Dinnae take my word for it. Robert...”
The Widow beckoned, and Mary saw who had been standing at the back of the room in the darkness. It had been his breathing she’d been able to hear; the man she loved more than life itself. He’d been watching, listening to everything, and never said a thing.
Robert moved forward slowly. His hood was down, and he regarded Mary strangely, like he wasn’t really registering her presence. “Tell her,” the Widow said. “Tell yer ‘wife’ how you really feel.”
He hesitated for a second, then said: “I’m sorry, Mary. What she’s said is true. We shouldn’t be together. My place is here.”
“Robert...” She turned to the Widow. “You fucking witch, what have you done to him?”
“Nothing. Except talked to him, explained things. Got him to see reason. See the link between us and how much stronger we are together than apart. We were never supposed to be enemies.”
“I take it back, you’re not delusional – you’re barking mad. Robert, sweetheart...” Mary came forward, but Robert took a step back.
“Please, Mary, don’t make this harder than it already is,” he told her. “There are things I’ve never shared with you, that I didn’t think you’d understand. But now I’ve found someone who does. She’s promised to help me get back what I’ve lost.”
Mary shook her head. “Lost? I don’t understand.”
“His focus. His dreams. His link to forces beyond ours, Mary. A link he’ll get back through me. Now, Robert, don’t yer have something tae do? We cannae go ahead with our preparations until it’s done.”
“Preparations?” None of this was making any sense to Mary, and it made even less when Robert reached out and grabbed her left hand. She tried to pull away, but he held on tightly. “Robert, no, you’re hurting me.” Mary looked into his eyes, but there was no response. This wasn’t the man she’d first met at the farm when she’d saved his life, wasn’t the man who’d saved her from De Falaise or spent the night with her for the first time after the summer fête a year later, or made those vows in front of Reverend Tate to love and cherish her for the rest of his life. This was someone else, a warped image of her husband created by the Widow. And he was taking back the ring he’d placed on her finger that special day, tugging and pulling so hard she thought he might snap her finger off just to get at it. Mary beat on his chest, but he didn’t let go. “Stop it. I said: STOP IT!” She pushed him away, but as she did so the ring came loose and Mary fell back onto the floor.
Robert returned to the Widow, satisfied now that he had what he wanted. He smiled, and it was the same kind of messed-up grin the Widow had plastered all over her face. Feral. As much as Mary hated to admit it, right now they did make the perfect couple. Then, as Mary lay on the floor, Robert took the Widow’s left hand and slid the ring onto a finger.
“Not exactly legal, or recognised by the eyes of yer God,” the Widow told Mary. “But then I never really cared for the law, or for Him.” She held up the hand with the ring on. “He’s mine now, and I’m his.” She pulled Robert close, crushing her lips against his.
Mary let out a howl and scrambled to her feet. Before she could get anywhere near them, though, she felt the hands of the guards restraining her.
The Widow broke off the kiss long enough to say, “Take the woman back to her cell.” The guards began manhandling Mary towards the door. She lashed out, raking one man’s face with her nails, but it didn’t get her anywhere.
“I’ll kill you!”
“This was all preordained,” the Widow called after her. “If yer don’t believe either of us, ask yer brother. The dead have knowledge that we don’t, so ask him.”
As Mary was escorted out of the room, the last thing she saw was the Widow all over Robert. She screamed as she was dragged back down the corridor, louder than any of the Rangers had done while they were being tortured.
Ask David? Ask the dead? She didn’t need to. Because as she’d fallen backwards onto the floor she’d seen the strange symbol painted on Robert’s wrist, snaking up his arm. Talked to him and re
asoned with him, her arse! The Widow had done something to Robert. But that fact didn’t make it any easier to take. What Mary had waited so long for – Robert’s affections – the Widow had managed to secure in hours. And she couldn’t get the image of them together out of her mind.
She hadn’t asked for it, but David chose that moment to speak up. When she was thrown back into her cell, tears flowing from her eyes, he said in a quiet, serious voice:
I’m really sorry, Moo-Moo. But she was telling the truth. She’s not controlling him, he’s doing all this of his own accord.
“Shut up!”
This was all meant to be, it had to happen this way.
“Shut up! Shut up! Shut up!” she repeated, convinced she was finally going crazy. But she could also hear the Widow’s voice:
“The dead have knowledge that we don’t. They know things and, if we’re only willing tae listen, they’ll tell us.”
SOMETIMES HE COULD hear what the dead were saying.
One person, at any rate. And not directly, but through the people closest to him. It didn’t matter what he did, what he’d achieved, he’d always be compared to someone who’d died long before this fucking virus had come along; killed by something else entirely, though still tied to the blood. His brother’s problem had been with his white blood cells. That’s what had done for him, and yet in a way he got to live on forever in the memories of his mother, grandmother and father. His father especially. He’d been the one who’d doted on Gareth, to the point where it might have seemed to the outside world that the man had no other child. The golden son, who’d shone so brightly he’d burned out – leaving the patriarch of the family with no alternative but to grudgingly acknowledge his younger offspring.
A younger offspring who now catered for the man’s every need, even though he didn’t get so much as a “thanks.”
“I don’t know why I still bother,” he said to his father, who was practically bedridden – or who preferred to stay in bed anyway, being waited on hand and foot.
“You bother because you’re a good lad. A good son. You always have been.” This was his Mam talking, lowering her romance novel – one of many he had to constantly supply her with. She was next to his father’s bed, keeping him company, although it was becoming increasingly obvious that her husband couldn’t stand the sight of her these days. The Dragon’s Nan wasn’t far away; sat in the corner with her knitting, clacking away.
How long had it been since any of them had been outside? He couldn’t remember. Must have been back during the early days, when he’d got them safely away from all the fighting, the rioting, the burning houses. Got them somewhere safe so he could look after them. Even when they’d moved to the stadium, they’d been transported in the back of an armoured truck. Only his dad had complained, as the Dragon’s most trusted aides had hefted him into the lift, taking him to the floor where a home away from home had been constructed. “Mind what you’re doing,” his father had shouted at the men, still not grateful that he was being looked after, taken to a place of safety.
His Mam and Nan had been more appreciative, settling well into the routine – “Ooh, look, isn’t this nice. At least we can get a decent cup of tea.” They hadn’t really gone out of the house much even before the Cull, whereas his Dad had at least been able to escape down the pub or to the rugby. The Dragon had thought – mistakenly – that his father might approve of the new venue. “When things calm down a bit, I’ll arrange for you to watch some matches,” he’d told him. Still stupidly trying to gain his approval, even though the Dragon had shown who was really in charge a long time ago. His Dad had looked at him like he was filth.
Like he wasn’t Gareth.
But he still visited them as often as he could, given his hectic schedule. He’d fitted in this quick call after meeting with Tanek, who represented some of the Dragon’s associates. “Associates?” his Nan had said. “Your grandfather fought a war against their kind, you know.” Her knitting needles were going like the clappers. “Nazis.”
“That was a long time ago,” the Dragon’s mother had said, standing up for her son. “I’m sure our boy knows what he’s doing, and what he’s getting himself involved in. Don’t you?”
His father had huffed at that one.
“You got something to say?” the Dragon asked point blank; he was done pussyfooting around.
“Only that you’d never have seen our Gareth –”
“Fuck him!”
“Now dear, there’s no call for –”
“No Mam, fuck Gareth. He’s not here, I am! I’m the one who looks after you, clothes you, feeds you. Without me where would you be, eh?” He was aware he was breathing hard, his pulse pounding in his ears. “Of course I know what I’m doing! Anyway, they’re not really Nazis,” he said, turning on his Nan.
She said nothing, just continued to knit.
“They’re a means to an end. Once we have enough weapons and vehicles, we can push them out of the picture altogether.”
“And they’re just going to let you, are they?” his Dad said.
“They won’t have any choice.”
“Listen to him. They’re supplying you with stuff and you’re talking about taking them on and beating them. They could wipe you out like that, lad.” His father snapped his fingers.
The Dragon growled. “We could take them. Just like we did with Hood’s men.”
“That’s going to come back and bite you on the arse, as well.”
“How so?”
“They won’t be best pleased when they see what you did to their headquarters.”
“That was the whole idea. That’s why I released one of them. When Hood sees what I’ve done, he’ll think twice about moving against me.”
“You’re underestimating him.”
His mother nodded. “He does sound like a very rough customer to me.”
The Dragon sighed.
His Dad continued: “Remember all those stories about what he did. That man pretending to be the Sheriff of Nottingham, the Russian fella? He’s someone who’s not frightened easily.”
“And what would you know about military strategy?”
“Please, can we stop arguing?” his mother pleaded. “I hate it when you two don’t get along.”
Ignoring his wife, the Dragon’s father pressed on, “What do I know? Only what I learnt on the rugby pitch, boy.”
“Hmmm, you mean the way no-one would tackle a larger opponent, someone who seems stronger, you mean? Someone filled with enough confidence to make people think twice? That’s exactly what I’m banking on.”
“I think you’re out of your tiny mind,” his father stated, finally.
“Oh, you do, do you? Well –”
A knock on the door interrupted the dispute and they all looked at each other. Then the Dragon remembered he’d asked for lunch to be brought down. “Enter!”
The woman who came in didn’t meet his eye as she wheeled in a trolley carrying a silver soup tureen, bowls and fresh bread on plates. The Dragon gestured for her to serve each of his relatives with the soup. The servant was actually not doing such a bad job. He remembered seeing her for the first time, when the men brought her before him as part of a recent haul. She’d been a little too old for his tastes compared with some of the others – that silver-blonde hair a turn off. By no means bad looking, but she reminded him a little too much of some of the teachers back at school. But he’d decided she was ideal to run about after his family, as some of the younger girls just weren’t cut out for that kind of thing. It transpired she’d worked in a nursing home back before the fall of mankind, so he’d set her to work washing his father daily, changing the sheets on his bed. As much as his Mam wanted to help, she was getting on a bit herself and it was too much for her. Besides, why have servants and do the work yourself?
Meghan, wasn’t it? Yes, that was the woman’s name. He watched as she set the soup down first beside his Nan, then his Mam, who both thanked her – they didn’t get the
whole concept of personal slaves – and then on the table beside his father. The older man said nothing, but struggled to sit himself up.
“What are you waiting for?” the Dragon said to Meghan. “Bring a tray across and put it over his knees.”
The Dragon’s mother nodded, smiling. He knew what she was thinking: See? A good boy to his Dad after all.
As Meghan set up the tray, her hands were shaking a little. But it was as she served his Dad’s soup that she spilled it on the bed, catching his leg with the hot liquid. The man cried out and Meghan stepped back, hand to her mouth. “I-I’m sorry, I –”
“You stupid bitch!” shouted the Dragon. “Look what you’ve done!”
She grabbed a cloth and started mopping up the soup.
“Now dear, it was only an accident,” said the Dragon’s mother, trying to keep the peace.
“I’ll have you killed!” the Dragon screamed, and Meghan burst into tears.
“There’s no need for that,” his Nan told him. She’d never really liked his father. “The lady’s been doing a good job.”
And the more the Dragon thought about it, the more the idea of his Dad getting a little burned did appeal. A lesson for arguing with him. Perhaps he had overreacted, annoyed that his father had personally witnessed one of his staff cock up. But there was no actual harm done, save for a bit of scalding maybe. His Nan was right: this woman had done a good job up to now.
But the Dragon couldn’t be seen to be too soft. “Get out,” he told Meghan. “Wait in the hall, while I think about suitable disciplinary action.”
She left, still in tears, closing the door behind her. The Dragon’s father was glaring at him.
“What will you do to her?” his mother asked.
“I haven’t decided yet. She’ll be punished.”
“Like you do to all those other women,” his father hissed. “The ones you think we don’t know about.”
“Ryn!” snapped the Dragon’s mother.
The Dragon ignored them both, and called for the guards to come and wheel him out. It always made him feel uncomfortable, the things they knew. How they knew was anyone’s guess; quizzing the guards, quizzing the slaves who saw to them? The Dragon dismissed all this from his mind, as his guards brought him out into the corridor. There was Meghan, as he’d instructed. She was still sobbing. And something about that, the mixture of her tears and her resemblance to some of his old teachers, made him wonder if he’d been too hasty in relegating her to simple menial chores. He’d discipline her, yes, as he had never had the chance to do to those teachers who put him down when he was young.
