Watershed (28 page)

‘You must kill Garrick before getting rid of the sentries and opening the gates,' Ballard told me, tapping yet another map.
‘We're estimating five days before news of the Catchers reaches the Tower. When it does, that'll be your signal and you'll need to act fast. Everyone will be in place and depending on you. Once Garrick is dead, use his key to open up the Tower stairwell. Both gates, top and bottom. We'll take it from there.'

He made it sound so easy; one Watchman against twenty – three times that if I counted the raws. Just a single Watchman to do what none had done before. But I didn't give it a whole lot of attention because all I could think was, five days. Five days and five nights of doing fuck-all while Garrick abused Alex before he sent her on to be abused by others. I nodded.

‘Think you can manage that, Watchman?' Micah asked, and I glanced across at him.

‘Maybe,' I said. ‘Or maybe I'll forget all about the gates and you can fuck yourself out in the cold.'

‘See?' Micah demanded of the room. ‘This is why we can't trust him!'

‘Quiet,' ordered Ballard. ‘Jem will do what he needs to, no more, no less. He knows what's riding on this.'

Yeah, I knew all right. He and Tate and I knew exactly who was depending on me.

Ballard looked at me. ‘Once all the gates are open, you'll report to Thatcher and help secure the compound.'

‘Whatever.' But I wouldn't be doing that. I knew it, and I was pretty sure he did too.

‘Whatever?' Micah repeated. ‘Why don't you show some respect, Watchman?'

But already I'd had enough. ‘Hey, Micah, how's your sister doing?'

The room exploded, Micah throwing himself across the table before being hauled back by the men either side of him. Reports and maps spilled to the floor, jugs of water toppled, wetting everything else, and I jumped up, ready to smash his face. A huge
arm snaked across my throat, another pinned my arms, and I was pulled off my feet. Tate. I kicked out, thrashing, and the other men were shouting too, voices raised in anger and alarm. Micah yelled, clawing to get at me, and Ballard smashed the table with his fists.

‘Enough!' he shouted. But it took a few more calls before any of us paid heed.

‘Settle, Jem,' Tate growled in my ear. I struggled some more, but his arm tightened and I gasped for air. Micah snarled and spat, and we both glared at each other. One of the men holding him muttered something and, after a minute, Micah nodded, before his captors released him and pushed him back into his chair. But Tate kept a tight hold on me.

‘You will apologise,' Ballard said to me.

For what? I wondered. For what I'd said or for what I'd done three years ago? Maybe both. ‘Fuck you.' Tate's arm squeezed.

‘Apologise,' Ballard demanded, a little louder.

I looked at Micah, expecting triumph, but his eyes were wet, his shoulders slumped. Pain and sorrow, the real marks of my work, just as visible as the ones on my chest; marks I never got to see, and had never stopped to consider.

‘Sorry,' I mumbled at last. But as everyone relaxed and sighed, sure the moment was over, I turned back to Ballard, eyeballing him, aiming as true as one of my darts, my voice bitter. ‘I'm real fucking sorry about your sister.'

He froze, and his mouth tightened. ‘Get him out of here,' he told Tate, and I was pushed from the room, glad to go.

They left me alone after that, and I remained in my quarters, curled in a corner on the floor, away from the bed where Alex had lain, far from the chair she'd sat on, the table she'd bent over, the wall where we'd first fucked, away from everything that reminded me of her, smelled of her, remained of her, and wrapped in my cloak, lying on dirt and stone, I spent my last night beneath the Hills dodging dreams.

Excerpt ~ Letter #9

 

You'll meet many people in your life. Some will be good, some bad; some will be for you and some against. To learn which they are, face them all with clear eyes and an open mind. But save your heart for the ones who will treasure it.

Sarah wiped her face and neck, though it did her little good. The hour was late and while the wind was beginning to drop, the sun continued to follow its own stubborn agenda, clubbing her with its heat. The fire in the pit wasn't helping either, but she didn't dare add to the discomfort inside by cooking over the small hearth. It was really only possible to light it on the coldest of nights, and only a dust storm – wild enough to drive everyone indoors for days at a time – might necessitate its use at other times. But no such emergency had been forthcoming, the usual brown afternoon dragging into a red-hot evening and slowing any relief from that day's annoyances.

These were the times when she wondered why they were above the ground at all. Why not dig below, live in the cooler confines of the earth, away from the sun and out of danger? When she'd mentioned this to Daniel, he explained what he himself had been told: that the land wouldn't allow it, not with the tools they had, the thick layers of granite and basalt beneath the softer sand prohibiting any kind of underground city. But she hadn't been satisfied with that explanation. Because, thinking back to their arrival, hadn't they come through a long dark tunnel before climbing into the Citadel? Daniel had smiled at that. It'd probably always been there, he said. Left over from the town before. And they'd need many, many more if they were to contain everyone. Besides, he pointed out, there was no way down there now. Not since they'd built the tower over it. Now, bending over the pot, stirring so the stewing meat wouldn't stick and burn, she felt again her growing resentment for the tower, for the guards, for the walls that enclosed them, for the suffocating safety that was proving anything but.

Of course, she wasn't alone at the pits. Neighbours shoved and pushed, small children played beneath tired feet; others, returning from their day's labours, stopped to greet or talk. She fielded questions about Daniel with the usual bright smile – yes, he was on the mend; yes, she and Jeremiah were managing just fine, thank you for asking – careful not to let her concern show, fearful that it might give cause for someone to let slip the gravity of his illness, that he'd be taken from them and sent to the Pickers. No one deserved that fate, and Daniel wasn't contagious. But he was dying. Even Sarah knew it, though she told herself daily that he wasn't, that he'd soon rally and begin to display again the same strength that had saved her so many times before. Nightly, she watched him worsen. Even now she was anxious to go inside and check on him, but she didn't dare leave the pot or the fire. Friendly interest, any offers to help, had been extended without real intent, and she knew if she turned her back for even a minute she'd return to find her wood gone – probably the pot too – and someone else already bent over the fire she'd made. Not that she begrudged people their opportunism; it was just the way of things now. She willed Jeremiah to hurry, then felt a rush of guilt. This was hard enough for him.

Finally seeing him round the corner, she watched his slow approach, wishing for the millionth time that things might've turned out differently, for him, for Daniel, and for her too. For everyone.

He gave a quick nod to acknowledge her greeting and said: It's done.

I'm sorry, she replied. Perhaps later, after it – she stopped, breathed deeply, started again: Perhaps then he could return. But even she heard the lie, because there'd be no returning to the school now. No signing up to the catchers either, or to any of the salvage crews.

Jeremiah shook his head and said: No. Drummond's fed up. It'll close now.

There'd been plenty of these little schools scattered throughout the districts, but one by one they'd closed their doors, the self-styled teachers either too greedy, charging cups for insubstantial knowledge, or too dispirited by the increasing lack of interest; in a place where every effort was spent working to survive, learning to read or write or count held little appeal. But old Drummond had always refused to bow to any pressure or apathy, and though he could ill-afford to employ another (particularly for a handful of pupils who each gave only a cup a week), Sarah had long suspected he'd taken on Jeremiah as much for his company as for his ability. Now, without even that, it was hardly surprising that he'd finally succumbed.

I'm sorry, she said again.

I know, Jeremiah replied.

Had anyone enquired about Daniel at work? she asked, making sure. No, was his curt reply. Because that too was the way of things: Jeremiah had already filled the vacancy left by his grandfather, and as long as the work was done what did it matter who did it?

What's that? She pointed to the rough scrap of paper he held. Glancing at it, he shrugged before handing it to her. Sarah read the thick letters, splotched and smudged: THANKYEW FER TEETCIN MEE.

Smiling, she gave it back. Something to treasure, she told him.

Yeah, he replied. Then, giving a quick sigh, he nodded to the door behind her. I'll stay, he said. You go check on him if you want.

She smiled again, and reached up to pat his cheek; he was already taller than she. She wouldn't be long, she told him. Mind he kept stirring.

But she paused at the door, looking back to marvel at the man her young grandson had so quickly become. He was crouched in front of the pit, already doing as she'd asked; as she watched, he crushed the piece of paper with his free hand and tossed it into the flames.

I laid out everything on the cot, seeking comfort in ritual. Two crossbows. Forty-seven darts, plus the wooden ones Taggart had given me, still wrapped in their oilskin; the longbow, with its five arrows stored safely inside the staff; the knives in their holster; my leggings, the rope, extra clothes, the gourd and bladders, the pot and its cylinder; possessions so meagre, yet so necessary. No food or water; they'd be supplied. I checked everything, once, twice, and then again, every movement mechanical. When I left, it'd be for the first and last time, never to return. This wasn't my place. But nor was the compound any more.

I removed a handful of the metal darts from the bundle. It was unlikely anyone would check but I couldn't take the risk, and if I was supposed to have killed twenty-three Disses then I couldn't return without having lost some ammunition. That was the sort of mistake that could cost my life. But the wooden ones Taggart had given me I put to one side, ready to tuck into my leggings. Just in case.

Reloading the bows, I left them on the table along with the leggings and cloak and the rope, and began packing everything else. We were to leave at dusk and the day stretched ahead,
interminable and doubt-filled. Hanging the key to my cupboard at the compound around my neck, I wondered, when I was dead, what would happen to my grandmother's letters? Would anyone read them before throwing them away? Learn from them, as I hadn't? I'd never before felt so defeated and so unsure. And never had I felt so afraid. We walked with death, played with it, ate and slept with it, but I'd never before feared it. We're born alone, we die alone, and we do what we can in between. But now I had something to lose and I couldn't afford to die. Not yet. Garrick had to go first.

Picking up the report Ballard had given me, I began reading about my own supposed exploits since my arrival at the settlement. ‘Read and memorise it, so you can rewrite it when you return. They'll expect a full accounting,' he'd said.

And I marvelled at his resourcefulness. The report was almost exactly as I would've written it, heavy on details of surveillance and information gathered, light on the actual killings. Some names given, others left blank, the Tower able to match tag numbers anyway. Summaries of problems encountered had been added for authenticity, a couple of warnings about possible future unrest, particulars of Guards who'd helped or hindered, it was all there, and no one reading it would ever think it was fabricated. I hoped.

‘Go away,' I yelled, when a heavy fist pounded the door.

‘Jem,' Tate's deep voice echoed. ‘Open up. There's someone here to see you.'

Alex. And suddenly I yearned to see her too, to hear her explanation and have her tell me it was all a mistake, that Ballard had been wrong; to hold her and have her soothe us both. But then the moment passed. Because it wasn't a mistake, and no explanation would suffice.

‘Piss off!' I turned back to the report.

There was a scraping and a click; unbelieving, I watched the latch lift and the door open. So much for privacy.

‘I'm not in the mood, Tate,' I warned, when his bulk filled the doorway. He walked into the room carrying a tray and placed it on the table, pushing aside the weapons and clothing.

‘You need to eat,' he said.

‘Not hungry.'
So fuck off and leave me alone.

‘Eat.' He returned to the door, motioning for Alex to enter. But it wasn't Alex. Connor edged past him, short-armed and nervous.

‘I'll be back to collect everything later,' Tate said.

‘Don't leave him here,' I said, but Tate closed the door. ‘Tate? Tate!
Fuck
!'

Shuffling his feet, Connor was also staring at the door, probably wishing he was on the other side. But it was too late now. He was dressed, and I wondered who'd done that because he'd not have been able to do it himself. He looked stronger than when I'd last seen him, his face a little fuller, his eyes seeming even bigger than before.

‘What d'you want?' I asked, tossing the report onto the cot and standing.

‘Tate said you're leaving tonight.' His small voice was unsure, like he didn't quite trust the news.

‘Yep,' I said. ‘Got things to do.'

‘Tate said you have to kill a bad man. You're helping them and you're gunna kill a bad man. Like you killed the Guard.'

‘
Tate said
,' I mimicked. ‘Well, Tate's right. Because that's what I do, Connor. I kill people.'

That's all I do.

Edging closer to the table but keeping his arms at his sides, he stared down at the bows. ‘Will you shoot him, like you did that Guard?'

Alex clearly hadn't spared the details when she'd told him, and I sank onto the cot again, defeated. ‘I don't know. That's not important.'

I thought he deserved to know
. But what had that achieved, except to bring him here to bug me? I could see he was longing to touch the bows, drawn to them, fascinated like any boy would be. And I felt a stab of pity for him, because he'd never get the chance to use a bow, or a gun, or grasp a knife. He'd never be able to tie his shirt or his trousers, or pull on boots, or jack himself off. He'd never slide his fingers inside a woman, or cup her breasts. I sighed. I'd spoken truly to Alex; Fletcher might be dead, but Connor still had no hands.

‘Will you come back after you've killed him?' he asked.

I shook my head. ‘No, Connor. I won't come back.'

‘Where will you go?'

‘I don't know.'
To haunt dreams.

‘But Alex will come back, won't she? And Tate too?' he insisted. His small world was disappearing and he wasn't happy. But if he was seeking reassurance he'd come to the wrong place.

‘No, Connor. None of us will.' I watched his face crumple. ‘But you'll be fine. Someone else will take care of you and you'll soon forget about us.'

‘No, I won't,' he cried. ‘I won't ever forget you.'

He rushed at me then, and instinctively I cupped my hands over my groin. But he just threw his bandaged arms around my neck and hugged me, burrowing his face into my shoulder, his whole body shuddering with the force of his grief. I stared down at his mop of dirty hair.
Damn you, Tate
.

Sighing, I curled my arms around his bones, squeezing him gently. ‘You'll be okay,' I muttered. ‘Everything will be okay.'

‘Promise?' he sobbed into my shoulder, and I stilled before letting go and pulling his arms from around my neck. Grasping his shoulders I ducked to see his face.

‘No, Connor,' I said, wincing at his tears. ‘I can't promise that. No more promises, all right?'

‘Why not?' he demanded, snivelling, pouting.

I reached over to the side table and, picking up the tag that'd lain there for three days, I held it up.

‘This was my last promise. I won't be around to keep any more.' I tucked the tag into his pocket while he watched. But he didn't thank me.

‘You're mad at me, aren't you? That's why you're leaving,' he said.

‘Mad at you?' I asked, surprised. ‘Why would I be mad at you?'

‘Coz I kicked you. Hurt you. Said I hated you,' he snivelled. ‘But I don't hate you, Jem. Please don't go.'

I squeezed his shoulders and gave him a gentle shake. ‘Connor, I'm not mad about that. I never was. This is just something I have to do and it's got nothing to do with you.'

‘Are you going to die?' he asked.

Yes.
‘Maybe,' I replied. ‘But that's okay. I'm done being a Watchman.'

‘Please don't die. Please?' More tears, like he was made of water.

I summoned a smile, for my sake as much as his. ‘I'll try. Now, how about I show you how those bows work?' I was desperate to move on, to distract him and stop the soft ache that was tugging at my chest and undoing me.

But he shook his head and, lifting a bandaged arm, touched it lightly to my face. ‘Is that why you're sad?' he asked. ‘Coz you don't wanna die?'

‘I'm not sad, Connor,' I told him. ‘Just angry, I guess. And tired. I gotta lot on my mind and I'm not getting much sleep.'

‘Are you having bad dreams? I used to have those all the time. Before you killed the Guard.'

You did a good thing.

Shut up, Alex.

‘Yeah, sometimes,' I admitted. ‘But they're just dreams, and dreams can't hurt you, right?'

‘Is that why you're gunna kill the bad man? So you can stop the dreams?' I'd forgotten his endless questions.

‘Yeah, Connor. That's why.' But not even killing Garrick would do that.

He wiped his face on his arm, wetting the bandage. ‘I'm scared, Jem.'

You and me both, kid.
‘Why? No need to be scared.'

‘Tate said they've found someone for me to live with. Said she's kind and she'll tell me stories and stuff. But I don't wanna. I wanna go with you and Tate and Alex,' he wailed, his face screwed up with anguish.

I looked down at his bandaged arms, useless without hands. ‘Sorry, kid, but you can't. Where we're going it's much scarier. That woman sounds real nice. Tate and Ballard would never send you to someone who wasn't nice. She'll take care of you and keep you safe. And hey, maybe she'll even teach you to read, like me.'

‘You could teach me,' he insisted, stubbornly.

I shook my head. ‘No, Connor. I'm not much of a teacher.'

He stared at me for a long time, then hiccupped, blew out a sigh and fell against me again. His scrawny body felt good in my arms, and I held him tight.

‘I'm gunna miss you, Jem,' he sobbed, and I closed my eyes.

‘Yeah, I know. I'll miss you too, kid.' And that was no lie.

Never had I been so glad to get above ground. And never had I so longed to crawl back beneath the earth and hide. The wind was already dropping and I stood just outside the mine entrance, inhaling the dry breath of the world. A few stars and a thick wedge of moon hung in the darkening eastern sky while, to the west, the sunken sun lit up the airborne dust, rendering it the colour of blood. I'd never been one for omens or portents of evil, never understood how people could believe the world cared enough to warn us of what lay ahead. But that first sight of the western horizon, red and glowering, chilled me.

The ground around the entrance was well-trodden, an obvious narrow trail winding south towards the settlement. But the shaft itself was disguised, hidden behind tree trunks and boulders, and at first glance the trail appeared to continue past and turn west before petering to nothing. I wondered, had I not been captured, if I'd been free to carry out my assignment, whether I would've found it eventually. Because, no matter what Ballard believed, all secrets are at risk of being uncovered. And he wasn't the only one with time and patience.

He and Tate had stopped a few metres away, and were talking in low voices. Beside them, Alex watched me, her face shadowed, her eyes nothing more than black hollows. But I felt her gaze, returning it until she shifted and ducked her head. I knew they were waiting for me to take the lead.

‘Which route will you follow?' Ballard had asked me earlier, when we'd grouped in his quarters, burdened with packs and dressed for the journey. He and Tate wore uniforms, but older and dirtier, torn in places and made to look as though they'd indeed been imprisoned. Alex looked much the same as she had before, thick and shapeless. Amon was there too, receiving last-minute instructions, and there was an air of solemnity and expectancy, as though they all imagined they were on the cusp of something momentous and worthwhile, until my presence ushered in a reality check.

I returned Ballard's question with a puzzled frown.

‘If you were returning to the Citadel as you would from any assignment, which route?' he asked again. ‘Remember, this has to look as authentic as possible.'

I didn't need to think about it. ‘I'd head south and west, keep clear of the road until I was in sight of the Citadel. The north terrain's too hard, with two rescued Guards and –' I broke off, jerking my head at Alex, unsure just how much Amon knew. But Ballard understood and nodded.

To Amon, he said, ‘Get a message to Cade to meet us on the east road in seven nights' time –'

‘Six,' I cut in. When he frowned, I added, ‘You said you wanted authenticity. I've never returned late from an assignment.' Six nights would be pushing it, but dragging it out served no purpose either.

‘Six nights then,' he conceded. Turning to Amon, he grasped the other man's hand. ‘Make sure the others are ready to move out. They have to be there when Jem opens those gates.'

Amon nodded gravely. ‘Take care. I'll wait for good news.'

And be prepared for bad, I thought. Coz it didn't pay not to hedge your bets. Amon clasped Tate's arm too, and hugged Alex. But for me it was a simple, ‘Don't fail us, Watchman.' And then he was gone.