The Factory Trilogy 01 - Gleam (26 page)

‘They’re slow, but steady, and the main thing is that
they can go straight up. there’ll be no messing about with stairs – or even having to
find
the stairs. And we won’t be up on the shells. We’ll be inside them. Nobody’s going to see us – or look for us – there.’

‘I—What?’

‘It’s not going to be a very pleasant journey,’ he admitted.

‘You’re not fucking kidding.’ Eyes pinched the bridge of his nose and then let out a huge sob. ‘Green damn it,’ he said, ‘Green
damn
it all. Poor Spider.’

Alan didn’t know what to say. He pulled Eyes into a hug. After a moment he said, ‘We have to go. The Pilgrims will want retribution.’

Eyes wiped his cheeks. ‘Are you crying, lad? I can’t hear any tears.’

‘No, not yet. But I will, Eyes. You can trust me on that.’ He walked over to a snail and patted its shell. Its horns retracted. ‘We’ll have to grab the reins and pull them up inside with us.’

‘I’m not listening any more.’

‘We crawl inside the shell from behind. That way they can’t bite us.’

‘There’s room in there, is there?’

‘I don’t know for sure. I imagine it’ll be a bit of a squash.’

‘What are we going to eat?’

‘What do you think?’

‘I think if we’re going to spend the next few days
together inside a snail shell I’m going to go and have a quick dump. And I suggest you do, too.’

‘Very well,’ Alan said. ‘You go over there, and I’ll go this way. But look—’ Alan pulled a much smaller snail from the wall in order to examine it. ‘You
can
lift the back up,’ he said, ‘but not the front. It looks like – oh.’ The shell broke beneath his thumb with a crunch. ‘Whoops.’ He picked pieces of shell away from the snail’s flesh. ‘It looks like under the shell is where they keep their organs and stuff.’ He flicked the remains away and wiped his fingers on his robe. ‘But you never know. There might be a nice comfy air pocket or something in the big ones.’

But as they found after emptying their bowels, there wasn’t.

*

The next three days were, Alan was certain, the most physically uncomfortable and disgusting of their lives. They’d chosen the largest snail and found themselves stuck between the ridged shell that was pressing into their backs and a soft, wet, slimy bag of guts pressing into their faces. It smelled bad, and if they weren’t careful, it leaked into their mouths. They were in pitch black darkness. They had to urinate where they lay, but thankfully fear helped both to suppress bowel movements. There was no space to move their heads, no space to recoil, even. It took them hours to work their hands – and wineskins – up into a position they could sip from, and once they’d
done so, they kept them there, even though the resulting cramps were like nothing Alan had ever known. He knew Eyes had experienced far worse, but perhaps that meant that all of this was even more painful for him. Occasionally one or other couldn’t hold in a whimper.

Their presence on the snail’s back had been enough to galvanise it into movement. Alan’s plan had been to use the reins to guide the snail onto the vertical axis and then keep it there – he thought they’d be able to tell when they were heading directly upwards, and he was right. But that was when their ride got really bad, when gravity pulled the snail’s insides down on top of them and they suffered a curious and thoroughly unpleasant combination of intense claustrophobia and dizzying exposure, because there wasn’t much between them and the ground below, which was getting further and further away.

Alan occupied himself by trying to work out where on the topside they’d emerge – ideally he wanted to be able to scoot around the Oversight, not traverse the top of it, which would be an unnecessarily long journey, given their current mode of transport.

But before that they’d have to pass through Glasstown, and that would be very difficult to navigate. He’d made small holes in the shell before they’d forced themselves inside, not just for ventilation, but so he could see a bit. Every now and again he tilted his head backwards and stuck it through the hole to get an idea of where they were and which way they were going. The hole was
masked by a flap of leather that had rested between the shell and the saddle, but he’d removed the saddle so that it didn’t block his view, just leaving the leather pad buckled on. He’d also strapped Snapper on to the side, amongst the baskets and boxes.

They got hungry, but never hungry enough to start taking bites out of the raw snail offal that was all that was available. They eked out their water and wine. They didn’t speak. Sometimes they heard noises from outside the shell: running water, the cries of strange birds, animal sounds – grunting, snuffling, yelping – and the distant howling of scavengers. Once, they heard music that sounded like it was coming from an amplifier, but there was no other indication of human presence and Alan didn’t dare stick his head out to look. The greatest threat to them both was somebody attacking the snail for food, but this was one of Daunt’s, covered with her symbols, and he didn’t think anybody would dare.

Generally, nobody in the Discard was stupid enough to anger the Mushroom Queen.

Alan closed his eyes. But he couldn’t sleep.

The light coming from outside was orange and softened by a cloud of dust hanging in the sky. The sun was at the skyline, burning crimson. Satis and Corval were just two hazy glowing discs. The vast Discard architecture was red-lit and looked like the bloody ruins of some gigantic broken creature.

‘You bring Billy out,’ Alan said, ‘and my man over there will come up with the goods.’

Tromo’s head turned to face the shadows to which Alan had gestured. This was in the direction of Archway Gardens: the huge, rusting metal frames webbed with vines and beans, with orchards planted along the top. Archway Gardens had once kept Modest Mills fed and watered; it had been farmed by Modest Millers and protected by the community. Since the massacre, control of the strings, nets and topside beds had passed to a gang who were good at growing, but kept putting the prices
up. No wonder, if they were Daunt’s people. Maggie sometimes spoke about moving in to take control, but she hadn’t yet, as far as Alan knew. It was a good job, too: a running war between the Safe Houses and the Mushroom Queen would not be good for anybody.

He’d have to get a message to Maggie.

So the road between what had once been Modest Mills and Archway Gardens was now a grey and desolate affair: a long, flat avenue descending down the blasted hillside into shadow, smothered in sticky ash. Grand white columns lined either side, for this had not just been the road to Modest Mills, but the road to the Pyramid’s now defunct main entrance, where Alan and Tromo now stood. The columns rose from the darkness into the red light. They were all broken and jagged at the top.

Tromo looked down the road into the shadows between the columns, where Eyes, standing with a stick, his blindfold on, was just visible.

Then he looked back at Alan. ‘Why haven’t you come alone?’

‘Because then you could just kill me.’

‘We could just kill both of you anyway.’

‘There are more than two of us. Anything goes wrong, our companions will take the mushrooms from my blind friend over there and disappear back into the Discard.’

‘The goods, then,’ Tromo said, flatly. ‘You mean the mushrooms, I presume, and not an arrow in the neck.’

‘Look at him,’ Alan said. ‘He’s wearing a blindfold. That’s why he’s the one carrying. He’s not a threat. He’s not going to shoot you.’

Tromo inhaled, held his breath, sighed.

‘Take off that mask,’ Alan said. ‘Let me see your face. If this is going to be the beginning of a new professional relationship, we may as well try to trust each other.’ He lit a cigarette. ‘No, not trust each other – that’s too much. But you wearing a mask and me not, well, it’s not fair.’

Tromo undid the strap beneath his chin and removed his helmet. The metal of his armour was tarnished and the fine chain of the mask was missing a few links. His expression was as blank as the mask had been.

‘So,’ Alan said, breathing out smoke, ‘come on then. Where is he? Where’s Billy? Show me that he’s safe.’ He was tapping his foot and kept running a hand along Snapper’s strap, as if to reassure himself that the guitar was still there. Above the Discard flocks of birds turned and wheeled in the bloody sky. The Pyramid loomed above, so close and big that Alan could not see all of it. It was the night made solid. ‘Show me that he’s safe and you can have your damn mushrooms and I can get the fuck out of here.’

‘You’re not thinking of abducting him, are you?’ Tromo asked with a smirk. ‘Because, obviously, if you took him with you, you wouldn’t have to worry about keeping the supply going. It must be quite an appealing course of action.’

‘Well,
obviously
,’ Alan said with a roll of his eyes, ‘but I
know you’re not stupid, and I know you would have prepared for that eventuality, and besides,’ – he smiled – ‘now we’ve got a supply route set up, you are not our only customer. So this operation could become quite a nice little earner for me out here in the Discard, if I keep it going. Delivering to you each month will not be a problem.’

The lies came easily now. Ever since Alan had slipped greasily from inside that snail’s shell, not far from Market Top, he’d felt like a new man, reborn from a snail mother. The touch of sunlight and moonlight worked like medicine: he’d slimed from out of hell into a fresh, light heaven. He just wished that Spider had had the opportunity to return to the sight of the sky as well.

Tromo nodded. ‘What if I up my demands again?’

Alan took the cigarette from his mouth and jabbed it straight into Tromo’s throat. There was a sizzle, a scream, a smell of burning, and then Alan had his hands around Tromo’s neck, his thumbs pushing into the hollow beneath his Adam’s apple. He could feel his lips drawn right back around his bared teeth. He could feel his heart shaking his ribs. ‘Listen to me, you fucking creep,’ he spat. ‘I want to kill you. My friends advised me to kill you. I could kill you, right here, right now. I’m desperate enough, and angry enough. Yeah, there’d be consequences, but even if I didn’t survive, you’d take no pleasure in it, because you’d be dead, and so you wouldn’t know. Just don’t fucking push me.’

A rain of crossbow bolts thudded into the ground all around them, raising clouds of ash. Alan barely even noticed, so intent was he on Tromo’s hated face. ‘You didn’t come alone, then?’ he sneered.

Tromo didn’t answer the question. ‘Even if you did survive, Billy wouldn’t and neither would Marion.’ Tromo’s voice was cracked and wavering, and tears of pain rolled down his cheeks.

Alan maintained the pressure on Tromo’s neck for a moment, and then threw him to the ground and spun away, cursing. ‘Fuck this,’ he said. ‘Fuck you. Bring my boy out here right now.’

Tromo crawled back towards the Pyramid, his red cloak twisted and filthy, and then got to his feet. ‘Hold fire,’ he shouted, holding one arm up. ‘Hold fire.’ He stumbled into the Pyramid’s cavernous antechamber.

‘Nice big porch to keep yer muddy boots in! Or is it just for hostages? Come on, Tromo! Let’s get this over with!’

No response. Alan’s stomach spasmed and a cold sweat sprang from his skin. Was he gone? He couldn’t have gone. He couldn’t have gone. Gone to kill his son, his wife …

Tromo returned, holding a chain in one hand. On the other end of it was a small figure in a brown cloak, hood up, wrists cuffed.

‘Here,’ Tromo said. He pulled down the hood. ‘Your son.’

‘Billy,’ Alan said, his voice catching. His son stood
there in the dusk, cheeks wet and red. His lower lip was out and trembling. ‘Billy,’ he said again. He ran towards his son and threw his arms around him. He could feel Billy trying to pull away but he didn’t let go. ‘Billy, I’m so sorry,’ he said. ‘I’m sorry. Are you okay? I’m sorry. Is your mum okay? Have they hurt you?’ He was crying too. His son’s hair still smelled the same as it used to: fresh bread, warm milk. He remembered his own childhood. He remembered feeling safe. ‘I want you to feel safe,’ he said, into Billy’s ear.

Billy was sobbing, struggling, trying to get away. ‘What have you
done
, Dad?’ he said. ‘What did you do?’

‘They’re using us,’ Alan said. ‘It’s what they’ve always done, it’s what they’ll always do.’

‘No!’ Billy said, ‘It’s
you
!
You
did this!’

Alan gazed into his son’s furious little face. There was no doubt in him. His eyes were hard: those eyes that once had lit up at his presence, that had been full of such love.

Alan couldn’t think of anything to say. He was falling through the bottom of the world.

He wanted a drink. He imagined whisky shimmering in the bottom of a glazed clay cup. He closed his eyes. He was shaking.

‘Very well then,’ Tromo said suddenly. Alan was almost grateful. ‘Enough.’ He yanked on the chain and Billy fell onto his knees, and then his front. Tromo pulled him through the ash, away from Alan. ‘You’ve seen him. You know he’s alive. I’ve delivered. Now it’s your turn.’

‘Can I spend some time with him?

Tromo considered for a moment. ‘After the exchange.’

Alan needed to get Billy and Marion out of the Pyramid. Tromo had been right about that. But this wasn’t the time or place. If they killed Tromo now, they could take Billy, but not Marion … But no, they couldn’t, because Tromo had backup with him and they would all be dead within seconds. And Billy maybe wouldn’t even want to come. Given freedom from his captor, he might just run back into the Pyramid.
His little face …
Alan felt like he had a knife in his gut. They’d give Tromo the mushrooms. He didn’t want to provoke the bastard any further. They’d give him the mushrooms and buy themselves another month. With another month they could plan a rescue mission. They wouldn’t have to trek all the way to Dok this time; this time they could devote themselves to preparing properly for the exchange. They wouldn’t be all beat-up and pathetic. Well, not beat-up, anyway. Although … although there was still the Daunt problem to solve.

Maybe they would be just as beat-up next month after all. And what would happen to Billy if Alan got killed?

Alan turned to face Archway Gardens, standing solid and black against the darkening red night. ‘Come on, Eyes,’ he shouted. ‘Billy’s here. He’s alive. It’s time.’

A faint reply: ‘Aye, right.’

Alan’s mind was racing, but it was going nowhere. It couldn’t settle on anything, spinning like the wheels on
the motorcycle after Spider had tipped it over. Get Billy and Marion out. Don’t let Tromo take Billy back inside. Give Tromo the mushrooms. Don’t give Tromo the mushrooms. Demand Billy in exchange. But then what about Marion? And Tromo wouldn’t agree anyway. Don’t get shot. Don’t get everybody killed. Don’t fuck up again. Billy’s eyes. Billy’s angry, hate-filled eyes. A motorcycle on its side, wheels spinning. Green darkness. Red light. The scent of whisky. The burn of it.

Tromo watched approvingly as Eyes made his slow way through the wastes of Modest Mills, sweeping in front of him with his stick, changing direction when he encountered the low walls of a ruin. His balance had improved a lot since the Pilgrims had healed him at Dok, but his movements were still uncertain.

They’d give Tromo the Benedictions, and they’d keep giving Tromo the Benedictions, and Alan would see Billy as often as possible, and he’d try to make things better between them. He couldn’t take Billy from the Pyramid against his will. He couldn’t separate the boy from his mother. Not when Billy loved his mother and hated his father. Tromo wouldn’t hurt Billy, not if he wanted his mushrooms – and he
did
want them. In fact, when Alan thought about it, he wasn’t the only desperate one here. An Arbitrator wouldn’t go to such lengths – risking expulsion from the Pyramid – just for the kind of spirit journey the mushrooms enabled. No, Tromo was far more likely to hurt Billy and Marion if Alan tried
anything stupid, or tried to trick him. Considering how co-operative the swine was being even after Alan had attacked him, he obviously wasn’t confident that he was holding all the cards. Even if Alan wasn’t holding many cards himself.

Alan tried to catch Billy’s eyes, but the boy had raised his hood again. Tromo had positioned himself between Alan and Billy and had the chain wrapped around his fist. The Arbitrator’s throat was blotched red from Alan’s throttling and the cigarette burn.

‘Where are you?’ Eyes said. ‘Speak up.’

‘Here,’ Alan said. ‘We’re here.’

Eyes shuffled forwards, his stick arcing across in front of him. A large leather pouch hung from his belt. He had one hand on it. ‘Pyramid boy,’ Eyes said, unable to keep the contempt from his voice. ‘Let me give this to you. Then we’re done, yes?’

‘For now,’ Tromo said. ‘For this month.’

Eyes unhooked the pouch from his belt and held it out. ‘Take it from me,’ he said, ‘damn you. Take it – I can’t see where your hands are at. Just take it.’ He leaned on the stick. His hands were trembling badly.

Tromo reached out and took the pouch. ‘I’m sure you understand if I’m a little cautious,’ he said. Then he raised his voice. ‘Arbitrators! Aim!’

Eyes spat into the ash.

‘Should anything untoward happen as a consequence of me opening this bag, both of you and the boy here will
immediately receive several bolts through the head. Do you understand?’

Alan looked at Billy, who was kneeling, utterly motionless, his face hidden by the deep hood. Then he looked at Eyes. ‘It’s clean,’ he said. ‘It’s safe. We’re not that foolish.’

Alan had checked the bag himself, and double-checked it, in case any venomous insects had crept in, or any toxic worms had emerged from the fungus. He didn’t want to get the blame for any of the natural dangers that the Discard could manifest.

Tromo looked at Alan.

‘It’s fucking fine, all right?’

‘Very well,’ Tromo said. He tugged open the pouch and reached inside. He withdrew a small parcel wrapped in waxed parchment and bound with string. He cut the string with his dagger and unfolded the paper. His face split into a broad smile as he surveyed its contents.

The mushrooms had retained their green colour even though they were now completely dry. They looked like peas with long white shoots growing out of them. They were densely packed, and they fragmented as the little parcel loosened. ‘Yes,’ Tromo said, ‘oh, yes. Very good. Very good indeed. You did well, Alan. I’ve heard rumours, though … Is it true that the Mushroom Queen herself is on your tail?’

Alan said nothing.

‘You’re in
trouble
– I hope my supply is secure? Regardless of whether you yourself survive or not?’

Alan couldn’t speak. Tromo was right: it was something to consider. He’d have to arrange something.

Tromo refastened the package and felt around inside the bag.

‘Just one of these parcels?’

‘Yes. That’s the same as the vial I originally promised you.’ They’d apportioned all of the Benedictions that they’d collected; this wasn’t all of them, not by a long shot.

‘Very good,’ Tromo said again. ‘Very good.’

Suddenly Alan could breathe more easily. Some of the dreadful tension was lifting. He knelt down next to Billy and gave him a hug. Eyes made his way over to them and put a hand on Billy’s head. ‘Malcolm’s son’s son,’ he said. ‘It’s an honour to meet you, lad. I know your father’s a little touched but he’s a good man. Don’t hold his principles against him. It’s good to have principles, even if living by them does make things tough from time to time.’