The Outlaws Scarlett and Browne

by Jonathan Stroud

“Put your hands over your ears,” she said. “Three, two, one…”

  Three sharp cracks, a triple heat flash; the bird’s plumage rippled, the floor of the cellar shook beneath their feet. A little plaster fell from the ceiling, and twists of smoke rose from the safe. Walking back, Scarlett took her jimmy from her belt, spun it in the air, caught it, prized at the black and smoking holes on the safe door, and watched it thump neatly to the ground. She took off the cloth bag on her shoulders, pulled it open and ready. This was always the best part of the operation: like opening a birthday present, probably. She bent, looked in: the usual leather boxes, stacked with banknotes and Wessex trading vouchers, a bag of random jewelry, and, even better, three small bars of gold.

  Good. The Brothers would be satisfied. It was a respectable haul.

  Scarlett poured the lot into her bag, left the empty boxes, and set off for the door. She found Albert sitting on the floor by the bird. He was stroking the magnificent curving beak, feeling the granular smoothness of the yellow-brown keratin. The bird was in a sorry state. Half its breast feathers had fallen out; the down beneath was ragged and teeming with lice. The eyes stared dumbly upward, the pupils dilating and reducing with the movement of the torch beam.

  Albert patted the soft plumage. “What have they done to you?” he said.

  Scarlett stepped past him briskly. The whole operation had taken slightly longer than she’d expected. Still fast, still not bad, but she wanted to be afloat and away from Lechlade before the night was much older.

  “Come on, Albert,” she said. “I’ve got the money. This is done.”

  He half rose, then hesitated. “Can we take off the manacles, Scarlett? It’s so cruel. Can we free it, please?”

  She was about to refuse, about to laugh at his ridiculous sentimentality—then bit the impulse down. After all, why not? There was something wrong about seeing the bird’s magnificence reduced to this. She turned, knelt down, and with a single twist of her jimmy broke the shackle on the bird’s great scaly leg so it was free of the weighted chain. Then she dragged over a chair and wedged the door wide open. “Just a little something to welcome Frank and Clive in the morning,” she said. “The bird ought to have woken up by then.”

  “Thank you,” Albert said. He patted the bird a final time.

  They climbed the stairs, returned to the lobby floor. Scarlett locked the basement door and watched Albert return the keys to their hiding place. Yeah, of the whole operation, that was what had shaken her most. Seeing him find the keys. That was the proof, right there—proof of his abilities. If you had the power to do that, just stand beside someone and scour the inner secrets of their mind…what might you be able to accomplish, properly directed?

  Surely you could do anything.

  Of course, Albert was so unworldly, he didn’t realize what he’d got. Scarlett frowned as she stood there in the dark. It was almost a shame they would soon be parting ways….

  But for now, they had to complete the job neatly, so no one would know anything till morning. That meant getting Albert out first. They crossed to the window by which he’d entered. Scarlett opened the shutters. The road seemed clear. She pulled over a chair and helped Albert gain the sill.

  He hovered there uncertainly. “I’m not good with heights, you know.”

  “Yeah. I do know. My gods, do I know. Well, either you can jump and land on your feet or I’ll push you out and you land on your head. What’s it to be?”

  “Oh, all right, then.” With a flump and a squeak he was gone; a moment later, he was vertical and grinning, and dusting himself off industriously. “Hey, I did it. I did it!”

  “Fantastic. A three-foot drop. A new world record. Now do what we agreed and head back to the river gate. Find the bags and wait. Don’t go to the old man until I come. We don’t want anyone to notice us leaving Lechlade.”

  “Right. Secret, silent, and unseen—that’s me!”

  “Good.” She had her hand on the shutter; she was ready to be gone. His big eyes stared up at her. All at once, she imagined what she’d be thinking if their positions were reversed. “Don’t worry,” she said. “I won’t run out on you. I’ll come to the gate, and I’ll bring enough money for the boat.”

  He smiled at her. “Oh, I’m not worried. I know.”

  Yeah, he knew. Despite herself, Scarlett again felt the crawling sensation up her spine.

  She closed the shutters on him, shut the window. Now, when the militia came by again, all would be as before. She returned the chair to its place, shouldered her bag, and headed swiftly back upstairs to the attic room by which she’d entered. The moon was up; the circle of glass she had removed from the pane lay on the floor, shining in its light. Without hesitation, she slipped out onto the sill, turned, and began to descend, using the same protruding stones she had used on the way up. A floor or so farther down she edged to the left, toward an opportunity she had noticed on the climb. Below the rear of the bank was a steep-roofed outbuilding, a coal house or similar. The stones above it were smooth, so it had been useless on the way in; as a place to drop down to, it was perfect. She edged closer, her plimsolls slipping on the stonework; finally, she stopped and let them dangle, hung there looking down.

  In such moments—private, perilous, at risk of disaster—Scarlett drew nearer to true contentment than at any other time. She became a thing of movement, of instinct, a sum of smooth responses, the master of each new threat and challenge. It was the simplicity she liked. Break into the building. Steal the money. Get out alive. Everything else in her existence fell away: the anger that roiled inside her, the gnawing sadness she would not name, the guilt that hung heavy around her neck. She’d dropped them by the river gate, along with her rucksack and her cuss-box and her prayer mat, and was temporarily set free. She felt almost weightless, existing solely in the present, and while that present lasted, she knew only a fierce joy.

  She relaxed, let herself drop outward into the night. She fell twelve feet onto the black pitched roof, slid across the tiles and so out over the edge and down to the alley floor. She landed soundlessly, knee joints flexing, muscles compensating to absorb the shock. The gold bars in the bag thumped against her; she’d have a bruise from that. Otherwise she was fine. She flitted up the alley to the corner of the high street. On the opposite side of the road, she saw lanterns shining in the trees. No one was around. Away she went, over the street and into the park with the cloth bag bouncing on her shoulder, the bank left far behind.

  Her heart rate slowed, returned to normal. Scarlett glanced at her watch. Twenty-six minutes for the whole operation. Gone without a hitch. She allowed herself a little smile.

  Two men stepped from nowhere, out of shadows into lantern light. One raised a pistol; the other swiped his arm sideways with full force, punching Scarlett off the path, over the grass, to collide headlong with a bench beyond. The impact almost stunned her; nevertheless, she turned, head spinning, stars sparking in front of her eyes, took her knife from her belt, and flicked it back precisely along her line of approach. Anticipating the move, the man had already jinked to the side, so the knife cut close past his left armpit and stuck quivering in a tree beyond. He raised a gun, trained it on her heart. Scarlett immediately stopped dead and lifted her hands. The way he’d dodged the knife told her all she needed to know.

  * * *

  —

  It’s fair to say neither man radiated cozy benevolence. Both were very large. The one who had struck Scarlett was tall and bull-like, with an enormous torso and upper arms the width of her waist. His features were blunt and brutish, as if drawn at speed by an untalented child. Beneath his black fedora, his hair hung greasily about the neck. He wore a sober black suit, black shirt, and black tie, an outfit that somehow only emphasized his height and girth.

  His companion was shorter, but immensely broad, with a swollen midriff pressing urgently against his zipped
black leather jacket. His legs were almost triangular, tapering with indecent haste to two small black boots. His light blond hair was worn slicked back; his face had the softness and delicacy of a boulder. Both men stood with their pistols trained on Scarlett. She remained motionless. They’d chosen their positions deliberately, taking care to keep on opposite sides of her. She might have shot one, but the other would have plugged her, easy, before she could spin around.

  The tall man adjusted his hat, which had been dislodged by the strenuousness of his blow. A ring glinted on a finger in the moonlight. He made a slight motion with the muzzle of his pistol. “Take your revolver out of your belt, Miss Cardew. Do it slowly. Now throw it on the grass with a nice, easy motion. Don’t startle us. No sudden movements. Lee here’s as skittish as a Cornish pony, and his gun’s been known to kick.” He watched as Scarlett complied. “There now,” he said. “That’s better. Don’t you think so, Lee?”

  “Yep,” said Lee. His eyes blinked at her lazily. Of the two, Scarlett could see he was the more dangerous. His gun hand was the steadier, and he was less in love with his own voice.

  She glared at them both. “This a robbery? If so, you’re wasting your time. I don’t have anything worth taking.”

  “No?” That made the tall man chuckle. He had unusual teeth, the top incisors far apart and splayed outward like an upturned V. “Well now,” he said, “that surprises me. And there was me thinking we saw you jumping out of a bank with a bag of stolen cash on your back, not two minutes ago. Isn’t that so, Lee?”

  “Yep,” Lee said.

  Scarlett shrugged. “Your eyesight must be going. I’m on my evening constitutional, and I’ve not been jumping out of anywhere. Though I’ve a mind to jump along now to the militia station and report your vicious assault.” She glanced aside at the taller man. “There’s a dentist in the high street too, supposing you’re looking for one of them.”

  “Ooh, naughty,” the man said. “No, what we’re looking for is Miss Alice Cardew, otherwise known as Jane Oakley, among other aliases. A killer. A bank robber. A freelance outlaw. You going to fess up?”

  “No.”

  “Show me what’s in that bag.”

  “I’m showing you nothing,” Scarlett said, “leastways not without knowing who you are. By my reckoning you’ve got two names for me. I’ve got none for you.”

  The tall man bowed his head. “Very right and proper. My name is Pope. Samuel Pope. Lee and I work for the Brothers of the Hand here in Lechlade. We organize distribution of black-market goods, arrange collection of payments, little matters of trade…But that’s not all we do. We have other work, other skills. Don’t we, Lee?”

  “Yep,” Lee said. The muzzle of his gun remained quite still.

  Scarlett frowned. “I don’t understand. You’re from the Brothers?”

  “Certainly. She’s a sharp one, this—don’t you think so, Lee?”

  “Like a razor.”

  Scarlett glanced at Lee. “Three words? You going to take a lie-down after that speech? Listen, this is a mistake. I’ve got the money I owe. I’m on my way to see Ives right now.”

  Pope’s teeth flashed whitely as he smiled. “Yeah? You expect us to take your word on that? Ives told us to keep our eyes on you. He thinks you’re planning on skipping town.”

  “Not till I’ve paid up,” Scarlett said. “That’s the deal. I’ve got the money, with twenty-four hours still on the clock. So everything’s OK. Put the guns down and we can go along to the Toad together.”

  “No need,” Pope said. “Just give me the bag. And do it slow.”

  “And then what?” Scarlett asked. “What happens then?”

  Neither man answered. Lee’s gun was like a hawk hovering mid-sky, like it had been nailed in position. There was cool intention there. Scarlett’s mouth was papery; she felt weightless, her muscles weak as water.

  “We can go along to the Toad,” she said again. “Ives wants the money, doesn’t he?”

  “He wants the money,” Pope agreed. “Thing is, he also wants you dead.” His smile faded. “Which is why we’re going to shoot you now.”

  Scarlett hadn’t needed to be told. She was already balanced on the balls of her feet, trying to watch both men at once, trying to guess which way to move. Maybe she could roll and spin, pass between the two bullets as they cut their instantaneous X across the air, reach her gun, down them both before they got a bead on her…

  More likely she’d be on her back, eyes darkening, her lifeblood draining out.

  She drove the image from her mind.

  “I call that treachery,” she said. “Do the Brothers have no honor?”

  “What we got,” Pope said, “is common sense. You’re dangerous and unpredictable, Miss Cardew. You hurt our business before, and you surely will again if we let you live. Which is why we end it here.”

  Scarlett could see the logic of it. She licked her dry lips. “You boys let me go, we could always split the money.”

  “Ah, now you offend me! A piece of girl trash drifted in from the Wilds, thinking to bribe two gentlemen of Lechlade! Please! I’d sooner hang your skin on the frame beside the river.”

  “It was only an idea.”

  “And not a very good one. Well, it was nice talking,” Pope said, “but I believe we have reached the conversation’s terminus.” The muzzle of his gun shifted. Scarlett flinched—

  A low voice spoke from the darkness. “Not so hasty there. Hold hard a moment, chums.”

  The men’s fingers were bent close about their triggers. If either tightened his grip by so much as a notch on a gnat’s belt, the gun would fire and Scarlett would spin round and die with earth in her mouth. Pope turned his head slightly. “Who calls? Who are you, please? What do you want?”

  There was a furtive rustling close by. “Just a friendly gent with an interest in the matter,” the voice said.

  “Who speaks from the bushes at night and says they have an interest in the affairs of honest folk?” Pope cried. “It is a ridiculous notion. In fact, it affronts me. Retreat in silence! Be off with you!”

  “No, no, come and join us!” Scarlett called. “You are welcome, whoever you are! In fact, bring anyone else who might be passing!”

  Pope frowned. “This is an undesirable event. Lee, keep your eyes on the girl.”

  A person emerged from the confines of the nearby rhododendron bushes. He was a short, stocky, middle-aged man, dark-skinned, with cropped black hair. He wore a brown bowler hat, a brown suit with a yellow tie, a long gray overcoat that hung open loosely enough for him to access his gun belt. A pair of circular rimless glasses was perched on his small snub nose. His polished boots shone in the lamplight. His clothes were all neat lines, sharp angles, crisp-cut edges; he had something of the look of a Mentor at the Lechlade Faith House, like he wanted to chat you through his portfolio of religions. But his movements were crisp and purposeful too, and in some indefinable way Scarlett knew he was not a Lechlader at all. She was instantly wary of him.

  It wasn’t the time to dwell on it. He had prevented her being shot like a dog, and that counted in his favor. She remained poised where she was and waited.

  The newcomer drew clear of the bushes and arranged himself on the path, opposite Scarlett and midway between the two Brothers. He flicked one side of his coat back revealing an ivory gun hilt, stuck a thumb in his waistband, became still.

  There was a silence.

  “Don’t let me interrupt the flow, chums,” the man said in his soft, deep voice. “Remind me where you’d got to.”

  “They were just about to kill me,” Scarlett said.

  “That’s right,” Pope said. “Because she’s an outlaw. A robber.” His stance had subtly changed; Scarlett could see the tension in him. His eyes flickered from Scarlett to the newcomer. “It’s one hundred percent permissible. No need for cas
ual bystander concern.”

  The stocky man smiled faintly. Light glinted on the surface of his glasses; his eyes could not be seen. “You mustn’t kill this girl,” he said.

  “At last!” Scarlett cried. “Someone talking sense!”

  Pope scowled. “You just keep your opinion to yourself, mister. This girl’s left a long trail of busted safes, dead men, and weeping bank managers behind her, like cowpats dropped behind a herd. Don’t be mistaken by her youthful shininess: she’s as blackhearted and desperate a character as ever entered Lechlade and is not worth crying over. But damn it, I don’t have to spell things out for a skulking bush ferret like you. What’s your concern in this?”

  “My name is Shilling.” A sparkle of cufflinks; the man made a slight adjustment to his neat round spectacles. “I have an interest in this girl too. But I need her alive.”

  Scarlett nodded decisively. “Good.”

  “For now.”

  “Oh.”

  “You working for the banks?” Pope asked. “I guess there’s a reward out for her.”

  “There may well be,” the stocky man said. “But I’m not working for the banks.”

  “You a detective of some kind?”

  “Not that either.”

  Pope hesitated, processing the information. “In that case, perhaps you’ll fade back into the shrubbery with all good courtesy and let us get on with our lawful business.”

  A slight breeze twitched the corners of Mr. Shilling’s coat. His hand remained hooked at his gun belt. “Are you religious, gentlemen?” he asked. “You believe in good and evil?”

  There was a silence. Pope was frowning in puzzlement. For the first time, Lee’s eyes flicked sideways, away from Scarlett and back again. Scarlett breathed out slowly. No, he was not a Lechlader. Not a militiaman, not a detective. Not working for the banks. Her first instinct had been right. He was a Faith House man. An operative. And that meant he was fast.

  She got ready to move.

  “I see the concept of good and evil’s maybe a little hard for you two beauties,” Mr. Shilling said. “That doesn’t surprise me. I know criminals when I see them. If I had time, I’d run you both down to the militia station quick smart, get you tucked up in the cages. But I’m after something worse than you. Something wicked and ungodly. This girl knows where it is. She’s brought corrosion to your town.”