Watershed (18 page)

‘She'll be in later to feed you and then Tate will help you exercise. You've been stationary for too long, Jem. It's time to get you up and moving again.'

‘How long?' I asked.

‘Since you were knocked out? Ten days or so.'

Shit. A third of my time gone and I'd achieved nothing. At this rate I'd soon be dead, regardless. I kept quiet and stared straight ahead. Eventually I heard him sigh, and when he spoke his voice wasn't quite as hearty as I remembered.

‘I'm not here to hurt you again. I just want to talk, explain a little about why you're here. Are you ready for that? No more games. No more pain. You can ask me anything you want and I'll answer you.'

Rolling my head on the pillow, I looked at him. ‘Why?'

‘Why did I hurt you? Or why are you here?'

‘Both. In that order.'

‘Very well,' he said. ‘I'm sorry I had to go to such lengths, but I needed to make sure that you are what I hoped you'd be.'

‘Which is?'

He gave a sad smile. ‘Someone who's very good at doing something he hates.'

I laughed then, but stopped when it hurt. I was sick of hurting. ‘You're wrong. I love my job. Especially when it means I get to kill arseholes like you.'

It was a pointless threat, and Ballard didn't seem too worried.

‘No, Jem. A man who enjoys killing doesn't make sure every shot is clean, or that his victims don't suffer. And he doesn't confess to feeling dead himself.'

‘So that was your point? To make me confess? I would've said anything to get you to stop.'

He shook his head. ‘I don't think so. I've seen your body. You carry more than just those marks.' When I said nothing,
he continued. ‘So it was probably a good thing you were already half dead, otherwise I would've had to do worse. And believe me when I say I wouldn't have hesitated. But I wouldn't have taken any pleasure from it either.'

‘Yeah, you're a real saint, Ballard.'

He tapped his fingertips together, watching me. ‘I'd like to ask you something now, if I may?' When I narrowed my eyes, and tensed, he shook his head. ‘I told you, no more games.'

‘Well in that case, fire away,' I said, and saw him smile. There was nothing like a joke between a man and his tormentor to relieve a bit of the tension.

‘What did you make of all those Guards you saw in the hills? Alex said they were heading this way.'

I remembered her concern, remembered thinking it strange; of course, now I knew why she'd been so anxious to avoid them. ‘Are you asking me because you already know, or because you don't?'

‘I'm asking because I want your opinion. As a Watchman. Why do you think they were there? So many in one place?'

I thought about it, and about what he'd said back in that room when we had being playing games, about me not being where I should have. But as long as the games were done there was no reason not to talk it out, and maybe I'd learn a thing or two myself.

‘You already know I'd been ordered to take the east road. I didn't. My guess is that order was to make sure I didn't see what I saw.'

He shook his head. ‘The chances of you crossing paths with those Guards was almost non-existent.'

‘Except we did, didn't we? And you're right; the odds were real low. So what if we only saw some of them? What if there were a shitload more that we didn't see?' When he frowned suddenly, I smiled; the last thing he'd want were hundreds of Guards pouring into the area. ‘Looks like I might not be the only one in trouble, Ballard.'

‘Except they haven't arrived at the settlement. And no one else has seen them.'

‘Then your guess is as good as mine. Here's a thought: maybe they've found their own place to hole up in.'

He looked puzzled by the suggestion. ‘Did you happen to get a good look at them? See their insignia?'

‘Yeah, my eyes are good, Ballard, but they're not that fucking good. And last time I checked, that sister of yours had a pair of her own, so why don't you ask her?'

‘I did. And now I'm asking you.'

I sighed, and shifted on the cot, trying to get comfortable. He'd been there no time, and was already irritating me. ‘You know what? I really don't give a shit why those Guards were there, or where they are now. The less I have to do with any Guards – you included – the better.'

He nodded slowly, but didn't take the hint. ‘Very well, let's move onto something else then. Something a little more personal. Alex told me your story about the Guard you saw when you were young –'

‘Alex needs to keep her fucking mouth shut.'

He ignored that. ‘He was the Guard you ended up killing, wasn't he? The one who ensured your induction into the Watch?'

I shrugged. ‘As far as I'm concerned, one Guard's the same as the next. You should know that.'

‘Not exactly. But if it was the same Guard, then let's call it an act of vengeance. Or punishment. We could even say it was a good thing, maybe the only good thing you've ever done. But
these
?' He ran his hand over my chest, making me squirm. ‘These aren't good, Jem.'

‘That's your opinion, Ballard. And you can shove it.'

He pursed his lips and frowned again. I seemed to be making him frown a lot. ‘Why is it that people like that Guard, and others – even your own commander – are allowed to inflict so much pain and suffering, while everyone else is so easily disposed of?'

‘Yeah. Coz what you and Alex did didn't hurt at all,' I pointed out.

‘We only did what we had to. Unlike others.'

‘Who says the rest of us aren't doing what we have to? I don't make the rules, arsehole. I just follow them.'

‘Which brings me to your other question,' he said. ‘Why you're here. You like to follow rules, don't you, Jem? In fact, you rely on them. That's how you justify what you do, because when you're made to question it, you can shrug and say you were just following orders. Am I right?'

I scowled then. His words sounded a lot like what I'd told Alex. Was there no end to her blabbing?

But Ballard wasn't finished. ‘What if I was to offer you a position here, with us? Give you new orders to follow?'

I stared at him for a minute, bewildered. Any orders I followed came from the Tower. And from Garrick. Not from some shithead Guard in some tin-pot outpost.

‘Well, this should be interesting,' I said. But I shouldn't have.

His face darkened, and his voice deepened with disdain. ‘How many times have you supplied Garrick with one of his little playthings, Jem? It's one for every assignment, right? Except after your first – he didn't make you do it then, did he? Maybe even he thought you'd done enough. But since then you've dragged twenty-three girls back to the compound for him to abuse at his leisure. Twenty-three, Jem. Every one of them innocent. And it's not just girls he likes, is it? D'you bring him boys too? Following your orders like a good Watchman?'

I turned my head to face the wall, but he leaned over and pulled it around again, much like his sister had done the day before, but vicious.

‘No! You don't get to dismiss this. You don't get to turn away. And you sure as hell don't get to say you were just following orders. Because that's the sort of order that should never be followed. Ever!'

I met his stare, but only for a moment before dropping my gaze. Disgusted, he pushed me away and wiped his hand on his trousers.

‘You make me sick, you and your filthy orders. You call yourself a man? You're no man, Jem. You've got a long way to go before you can call yourself that.'

‘Fuck off, Ballard. You have no idea what you're talking about. We don't get to choose. We're thrown into the Watch and we do what we can to survive. Until we can't any more. That's it, end of story.'

‘We all get to choose, Jem. You chose to remain when you could've left. To be fair though, most people do that. Take the easy way. Keep their heads down and follow orders, choosing the path of least resistance. It's much harder to fight back, and say no. But sometimes that's the only choice that matters.'

‘And what happens to the idiots who do that? Oh, that's right, the rest of us get to kill them off. Shit, it's no wonder everyone chooses the path of least resistance. It's a fucked-up world, Ballard, and it's never gunna change.'

‘It is a fucked-up world. But you're wrong if you think it can't change. It will. It already has.' He stood and paced the tiny room.
Step, step, step, turn, step, step, step, turn
. Going nowhere and annoying me. ‘Alex said you didn't leave the Watch when you had the chance because you had nothing better to do. Isn't that what you told her?'

‘She forgot to mention the important bit. That I'm good at it.'

‘What if I offered you that something better? If you were given the chance to make the right choice, would you take it?'

‘Not if it means having to listen to your shit every day,' I told him, meaning it.

‘I'm not looking to change you. I doubt that's even possible. I just want to redirect you.' He stopped pacing and faced me. ‘We're going to bring down the Tower. And we want you to help us. Time to redeem every one of those marks, Jem.'

This time when I laughed, I didn't mind the pain so much. ‘If I had a drop of water for every Diss who's said they're gunna bring down the Tower, I reckon I'd have my own Sea by now.'

‘But none of them have used a Watchman before, have they? As I explained, we don't want you to stop doing what you do. We just want you to do it to people who actually deserve it. Like that Guard.'

Unsure I'd heard him right, it took me a couple of seconds to regroup. ‘You fucking hypocrite. Telling me what a menace I am, how I'm so fucked-up and unworthy. But not so much that you can't use me to suit your own ends, right? What're you doing, Ballard? Setting up your own army?'

‘In a way, yes. But it's not just me. This movement is bigger than you think. Much, much bigger. And it's been building for a long time. I'm offering you a chance to join us.'

I stared, not quite believing his stupidity. ‘Join you? Why the fuck would I want to do that?'

He leaned down, his face too close to mine. ‘Because there's the small matter of those twenty-three girls you gave to Garrick. And then there's that other matter too, Jem. The one that's not so small. The one you don't like to think about. Your first assignment, that left you feeling dead inside. Are you ready to talk about that now,
Jeremiah
? D'you want me to listen while you tell me why you did it?'

‘No,' I muttered, shrinking back into the cot, suddenly cold.
Never.

Again I turned my face to the wall, and this time he let me be. The door opened, and his voice needled me: ‘Think about what I've said. I'll be back tomorrow and we'll talk some more.'

I waited for the shot of the bolt before I tried to cry, and couldn't.

The Book of Covenants (Orig.)

 

The Common Law

… that every man, woman and child, knowing again neither hunger nor thirst, shall be free to claim sanctuary without fear of prejudice, persecution, religious indoctrination or factional strife.

Queuing outside the shed, a group at a time so production wasn't halted completely, they sweltered under the sun. Glancing up, Sarah guessed it was mid-morning; quartersun, they called it now, though she supposed a more accurate record was still being kept by those in charge. As they kept everything else.

It was payday and Sarah clutched her plate and her skins, queuing with the rest of the women for the water she'd earned. And, oh, how she'd earned it! The tight wrappings on her fingers might protect from cuts and blisters, but each felt swollen and bruised; the daily gathering and rolling of flax, goat, camel hair and other threads into a manageable string that could be spun on wheels and woven into cloth was taking its toll. Today though, those bandages were as black as the rest of her hands, the skin dyed as effectively as the squares of new material she'd had to soak in tubs of inky water before squeezing them out and hanging them to dry. Tomorrow they'd be cut and sewn, the three red-corded fastenings attached, before being checked for any mistakes, packed into carriers and taken to the tower. Glancing at the guards ahead, she wondered whether their dark cloaks had been her work or someone else's. Not that it mattered, and not that they would care. The cords weren't always red; sometimes they sewed green, or yellow, or blue, or what passed for white, a different colour for each settlement, and each regiment, though Sarah had no knowledge of which was used where; except for the odd trip to the shore with Jeremiah and Daniel, she hadn't left the Citadel since arriving; all she knew was red.

The queue moved fairly quickly. After all, the cross-checking of numbers against days worked and the filling of skins with water
wasn't exactly an onerous task. In a few days, Daniel would himself queue to collect his weekly wage and, once he started working properly, so would Jeremiah, falling into line like the rest. A few of the women carried babies in slings, or held the hands of restless toddlers; once, Sarah had done the same, taking her grandson to work with her, sitting him at her feet upon a cushiony mess of old cotton and old wool and old polyester. But now he collected his own half-vat and waited for the chance to earn more.

Only two ahead of her now – old Mary, and the girl, Holly – and Sarah could hear the splash and trickle of the water; the sound never failed to excite her and her mouth dried suddenly, longing for the new wet. Her foot stung; the hole in her old sandal had split further and sand had got in, rubbing the sweaty skin; she didn't need to inspect it to know it was raw and blistered. Later at the market, she'd look for another pair of sandals, or even boots, something a little sturdier; the thought gave her strength to shuffle forwards, halting again when Holly held out her arm and showed her plate to the guards. Her entitlement was poured into one skin, then another jug of water was scooped up ready to fill the second.

Wait! said the first guard, checking the list he'd been given. Only two cups more for this one.

No, four! Holly retorted. It should be four. Four for a day. She knew her rights.

The guard consulted the list again. A full day? When was that? he asked.

That confused Holly momentarily; she probably couldn't count past four, a sufficient number for bartering, but no use for anything else.

Sarah spoke for her: five days ago. She was here all day. I saw her. So did everyone else.

You her supervisor? the Guard asked. When Sarah shook her head, he said: Then stay the fuck out of it.

Holly pleaded, her tone wheedling. Her daughter was sick, that's why she'd been absent, but she needed the water. Please?

Shit, let her take it, said the second guard. He was young and thin and clearly new to the job. Had he not been, he never would have spoken up.

The first turned to him: If it said two cups, she'd get two cups. The lists had to match.

They had plenty, and how would they even know? the second replied. How indeed? thought Sarah. How did the tower know all that it did? And of course there was plenty in that cart, more than enough to help Holly, more than enough to spare for all of them.

I don't know how they know, they just fuckin' know, said the first guard. Then, glaring at Holly, he said: You wanna argue, go see your supervisor. Reckon a pretty little thing like you should be able to work somethin' out. Otherwise, it's two cups or it's nothing. Take your pick.

The girl finally nodded, and the young guard exchanged jug for cup and measured out the water. Once, twice, before returning the skin with a small shrug, as though apologising. He'd learn.

Later, finding Holly at one of the looms, Sarah quickly knelt and emptied half of one of her own skins into the girl's; Holly's protests became thanks, then offers to repay, but Sarah waved them off and limped back to the tubs. A sore foot wasn't as important as a sick child; she could wait another week or two for new shoes. Nor was she worried about Daniel's reaction when she returned with less water than expected. He would have done exactly the same thing.

She watched Jeremiah turn the device in his hand and press the small button at its base before smoothing the scratched glass face. Once her fingers had danced across that glass; now they knotted threads upon a wooden loom.

It was one of those phone things, wasn't it? he said. Mitch had one the same.

Yes, Sarah said, and already she knew the gift was a mistake. Of course he knew what it was. There were hundreds of them to be found, in the market place, hanging from doors, around people's necks, trinkets and spoils of the world that was, and many of them more fun than this now-not-smart phone with its flat, featureless façade. The popular ones, she knew, had flip covers and keypads that could be seen and pressed. But she'd kept hers for a reason, perhaps for this very reason. Because this was a special phone, she told Jeremiah. Not like the one Mitch had. Not like any phone anyone else had. This one had pictures inside it. Pictures of your mother, she said, when she'd been a baby, just born.

Jeremiah looked surprised by that, and she watched him puzzle over the device, turning it around, gripping its thin sides, trying to pry them apart. She smiled. No, not like that. He couldn't see the pictures. Not now. Not yet. But perhaps one day, if they ever worked out how to make electricity again, then he could turn the phone on and see them. It was unlikely, she knew; the battery's life would've long expired and it would now be rotting inside its plastic, solder-lined coffin. But it was a dream she'd clung to for years and – though Jeremiah's surprise had already dulled to disappointment – one she wasn't ready to relinquish. She showed him the charger with its plug. Keep them together and keep them safe, she said. They were his now and he had to look after them. He nodded glumly, not thrilled with this new responsibility for such a useless thing. Could she blame him? When she added that there was something else too, a letter she'd written, a sort-of birthday letter, her smile was falsely bright. It wasn't really his birthday. They'd lost track of the years, but she and Daniel had decided that it was as good a day as any to celebrate, and perhaps he was turning ten. Or eleven. Either was better than not at all.

There'd been no question. As soon as Jeremiah was old enough they'd begun to teach him to read and to write, using the two tattered picture books Daniel found stuffed inside a collapsed wall and had smuggled home. But the boy was clever and eager, much quicker to learn than his mother had been, and he'd soon outgrown them. Without any more books, they'd made do, writing out lists of words and phrases for their grandson, with all their meanings. It had been a slow process at first, as they adjusted to using quills and the sticky squid ink, scratching the letters onto anything they could find. Sometimes they dipped the small paintbrushes that Sarah had bought at the markets into a thin paste of mud, or ash and seawater, and daubed the walls of their small room like mad scientists, scribbling literary equations before the water dried and the dirt fell away; other times they would sit outside and write directly to the earth.

The adjustment hadn't been one-sided though, and there were times when Jeremiah too had struggled;
the cat sat on the mat
resulted in a long talk about pets and animals he'd never seen;
it never rains but it pours
had confused him horribly, and they'd spent a whole day walking to the shore and back so that he might better understand. But as his knowledge had grown, so had his ennui. Desperate for new material, not wanting him to give up, so certain that even in this new fourth world there were skills that would set men apart, Sarah had hit upon the letters.

If he liked it she'd write more, she told him. He unfolded the page and began to read her words. When he'd finished and glanced up, his smile was warm, as his mother's had always been.

Yes? Sarah asked him; Yes, he said, and hugged her. Thanks, Gam.

Then he stuffed the letter into a pocket and went out to join his friends. But he left the useless phone with its useless charger lying on the table. Glancing at Daniel and seeing his shrug, Sarah was forced to admit, grudgingly because she hated the idea, that perhaps he'd been right after all; perhaps a knife would've been better.