Watershed (36 page)

‘How much?'

‘Well now,' he said, rubbing his fingers together, his voice a nasal whine. ‘That all depends, Jem. What d'you intend to do with her? Are you the boring type, or –'

‘Shut it, Cobb. Just tell me the price.'

He shot me a mean look. ‘It's two cups for every hour.' Then he touched his nose gingerly. ‘But for you, I'm going to make it four. You work it out.'

I didn't hesitate; I was used to such prices. ‘Done. I'll let you know when. Now get me a bowl and cloth and piss off.'

I cleaned up the girl as best I could, patient each time she shrank away from my touch, but there was nothing to be done about her nose, and I hoped Cobb's was hurting twice as much. When I'd finished, I secured her as he'd told me to, locking the padded collar around her neck, not too tight. It was ingenious really – if you were into that sort of thing, and needed your whore tethered – the chain retracting through a hole in the wall, pulling out when needed, arms and legs left free. Garrick thought of everything.

‘I'm gunna go now,' I told her. ‘No one should bother you for the next couple of days.' After that, who knew what would happen? She didn't look at me, or thank me. Why should she? I was a Watchman, as bad as the one who'd captured her. She had nothing to be grateful for. But I left her the blanket.

Closing and bolting the door behind me, I made my way back to the entrance, still checking for Alex and almost careering into another Watchman emerging from one of the cubicles. Startled, he gave a quick glare before turning on his heel and hurrying down the passage. Just a glimpse before a later flash of recognition that came too slow for me to react, sealing my uncertainty.

It couldn't have been him, I thought. Could it? Nah, it couldn't have been. Coz outside our dreams, it's not possible to see the dead.

Excerpt ~ Letter #23

 

I've realised, too late, the danger of sharing secrets. If ever you find yourself put in a position of trust, Jeremiah (if you're appointed the guardian of another's doings, or feelings, or thoughts), you must never betray them. No one has the right to give away what wasn't theirs in the first place.

Sarah didn't know his name. When she'd asked, he shook his head. No names, he told her, and she couldn't help but be amused. If not his real name, then perhaps a false one, she teased. Again, he shook his head. False names were as bad as false smiles, he replied. She could call him Tee.

A little puzzled, she'd laughed and followed his lead, treating it as the game she supposed it to be. The times she wondered about it were always later, after he'd left, and though she'd remind herself to ask the next time she saw him, she never seemed to find the opportunity. They'd discuss other things and the subject of his insistent anonymity would be forgotten again. And really, what did it matter if she didn't know his name? Except he knew hers.

They didn't sit beneath the wall any more. After Daniel's death, remembering the man's tale and desperate for answers – seeking some kind of shared camaraderie or, at the very least, a new companionship – she'd returned to the place where she'd first seen him, again and again, until one day her search was rewarded; he sat in the same position as before, and looked exactly as she remembered. But he wasn't alone; a young man, thin and dirty, sat with him, nodding as Tee spoke. Watching the two of them, Sarah remembered again her own meeting with him, wondered at the man's power to attract those in need, and she'd turned away, leaving them to it.

A few weeks later, it was the same thing: this time a woman crouched beside him listening to his tale. Sarah waited until she'd left before making her way over to him and when he saw her, Tee had smiled in recognition, maybe not as broadly as Sarah had
hoped, but a little tired and grey. After the third time, she'd invited him home. It was strange to see him at her table, taking Daniel's chair but not taking his place. How could he? The two men shared few traits. Tee was terser and more reticent, less trusting and less gracious. She wasn't sure why she felt comforted by his presence. Perhaps it was his immutability; perhaps it was simply his interest. And he was interested, in her and in Jeremiah, in their continued welfare. When she finally confessed what her grandson had done, Tee's flinty eyes had gleamed but he uttered no judgement.

What was she afraid of? he asked her, but she didn't know. Then, when he waited, giving her time, suddenly she did. She was afraid she didn't know Jeremiah any more; that now he'd taken a life he could never go back. She was scared he might not want to, she said.

Daniel had suffered terribly, Tee reassured with words she'd already told herself countless times. So many died that way, he said. The dust would get them all in the end.

Except it hadn't, had it? Sarah replied. It wasn't the dust that had killed Daniel; Jeremiah did that.

Was she religious? Tee asked, not quite dismissively. Did she fear for her grandson's soul?

No, Sarah was quick to reply. She feared for his life.

Tee gave her a long look. Give the boy time, he said. He was young and he'd be struggling to deal with what he'd done.

But Jeremiah wasn't young. Not inside, where it counted. He didn't seem to need her any more. He was distancing himself, but he wasn't struggling. Not yet. He was just searching. The struggle would begin when he found what he needed. But she didn't say any of that to Tee. Instead she nodded and offered him more water and some dried bread with a scrape of cheese, and they talked of other things, of general unhappiness, and of unrest.

Tee visited most weeks and always when Jeremiah wasn't there, arriving in the morning just after he'd left for work, or departing in the evening just before he returned. He never stayed long; enough to share some water and ask after the two of them; occasionally he'd mention the dissidents, just hints, nothing that would give anyone away. Ever anonymous.

One afternoon he pushed back his chair and stood, thanking her as he always did. The shadows were high and the room was darkening. Though Sarah knew he preferred not to wander the Citadel at night, she urged him to stay longer. Jeremiah would return soon, perhaps they could eat together? I'd like him to meet you, she said. He shook his head. Disappointed, she managed a smile. Next time, then.

Yes, said Tee. He was sure he'd meet Jeremiah when the time was right.

A long time ago, before the Earth had shed its skin and everything went to shit, they used to have these places called zoos where they'd keep animals, all kinds, all of them caged and fed and watered. And people would pay to walk around and look at them, admire them, staring in while the animals stared out, man and beast separated by wire and steel and the vagaries of evolution. My grandmother had explained the reason, said that it was to preserve species, to stop them dying out. But in the end it had been a waste of time. No rain and a rising Sea had seen to that.

She said she always used to go straight to the lions, these huge creatures with gold fur and shaggy manes, muscled and fanged and sharp-clawed. They'd prowl up and down the cage, wearing out a path, growling and grunting, bored and restless, impatient for food. She'd said it was thrilling to see so much power so contained. I'd listened to her, but I could never see what she'd seen, or understand what she'd felt. Until now.

The mess hall was busy again, bodies filling the room, carrying in the stink of unwashed skin and old sweat. But they brought in something else too, that restlessness, an impatience to break free and begin the hunt again. These men were caged, bored and restless
just like my grandmother's lions, and their menace was unmistakeable. Difference was, I was in that cage right alongside them. And there was nothing thrilling about it.

Taking up a position in a corner, I wasted a day watching and waiting. I couldn't shake the image of that face; one I barely remembered yet had thought never to see again. It would've been so easy to dismiss it, to think the light had played tricks, that my paranoia and weariness were taking their toll. That would've been the sensible thing to do, the calm, rational response. Except I wasn't calm, and rational thinking was impossible.

I studied every face that came and went. Some I could put names to, others I didn't know, all of them bearing that same edginess, and none of them the one I wanted to see. But not seeing him there didn't mean I hadn't seen him downstairs. I'd made it this far because I'd learned to trust my gut. And right now my gut was churning.

Taggart came in once, but apart from nodding in my direction, didn't approach or speak to me. I sat there for hours, waiting and watching, playing with the congealed food on my plate, pushing it around, not hungry, until I was forced to concede defeat and return to my quarters.

But Garrick was right. There'd be no rest for the wicked.

‘Where the fuck've you been?' he demanded when I walked in, and I stared at him lounging on my cot.

‘Mess hall,' I said after a beat, kicking the door closed. No reason to lie about it.

‘All fucking day? Can't have been the food.'

‘What are you doing here?'

He stood up, filling the small room. ‘What's wrong, Jem? Not happy to see me?'

Not in the slightest. It wasn't unusual for Garrick to show up in our quarters, checking and meddling and keeping us on edge. But he hadn't bothered me for a long time, and now he was here, in my face.

Reading my thoughts, he pointed to the cupboard. ‘Open it. Haven't made an inspection in here for a while. Can't have the others thinking I'm favouring you now, can I?'

Remembering Jackson's accusations, I was tempted to tell him he was too late for that. But I took the key from around my neck and unlocked the door, standing aside to give him access. He seemed almost surprised by my obedience and stalked over to rifle through the contents, tossing every item out onto the floor. He checked each one, ejected every dart from its casing, pulled out the knives and felt inside the sheathes, upended my pack and rummaged through it, fishing out ropes and ties, more knives, the pot, the gourd and flasks, peering into each one.

I watched him, saw his rising anger, felt the telltale prickling on my scalp. This was no routine inspection.

‘What're you looking for?' I asked, keeping my voice light, like this was his problem and nothing for me to worry about.

‘I'll know when I see it,' he growled, feeling inside the cupboard for anything he might have missed. ‘Where's that box you had?'

‘Reckon that's my business,' I said, and wished I hadn't.

He backhanded me across the face, his knuckles knocking bone, and shoved his forearm to my throat, digging in with his elbow and pushing me to the wall.

‘You watch your fuckin' mouth! You hear me?'

I gagged but he didn't ease off, instead holding up a piece of paper and waving it in my face. ‘What's this, Jem? Huh? What the fuck is this?'

Even if I'd been able to, I didn't need to read it to know what it said. After all, I'd written it myself, careless and angry and knowing he'd see it eventually. He pushed harder, and feeling my windpipe bowing under the pressure I tried tucking my chin down. But he grabbed my hair, scrunching the page to my ear, and pulled me hard onto his arm.

‘Fuck the rules. Is that what you think, Jem?
Fuck the rules?
Coz if it is, you tell me now and we'll sort it out. My way.' Then, releasing his grip and the paper, he eased back just enough to give me room to reply. But it took a while.

‘No,' I wheezed. ‘I just –'

‘Just fuckin' nothing. You pull shit like that again and I'll skin you alive. You got that?'

I nodded as best I could, and with a final shove he stepped back, leaving me to bend over and clutch my throat, coughing and gasping for air.

‘Now. I'm gunna ask you again. What'd you do with that box?' he said.

I coughed again to find my voice. ‘Got rid of it. A while back. Didn't have any use for it any more.' And gagging again, hands on my knees, I stared at the ground with wet eyes, seeing the balled-up page, evidence of my stupidity.

There was a long silence, and finally he said, ‘There. How hard was that?'

Still heaving, I shook my head and watched his boots retreat across the room, heard his fury as he tossed the mattress, tearing the sheets from it, lifting the cot, searching the underside. He did the same to the table and the chair, venting, cursing his frustration, and I stayed where I was, out of his way, bent over and swallowing to relieve the discomfort in my throat.

Then he returned. Grabbing another fistful of hair, he hauled me up to eye level. ‘Clean up this shithole.'

When he'd gone I sank to my knees, unsure whether or not I was relieved to still be barely breathing. Crawling over to the cupboard, I felt underneath for the strap and pulled the box free. I don't know what sixth sense had prompted me to hide it, but when I opened it and saw the letters and the gun still safe inside, I was glad I'd listened. Garrick had never bothered with it on previous inspections, but then he'd never been so angry or so determined.
Tucking it back in place, I sat up and surveyed the mess. He'd been thorough, even pouring the water out of the jug, and that pissed me off more than anything because it was such a waste.

I stared at the piece of paper, still lying where he'd dropped it; I toed it with my boot, rolling it towards me. Three little words scrawled in anger downstairs had almost cost me my life. And Alex hers.

Fuck the rules.

I peeled it open and reread them, seeing the sentry's bewilderment, feeling again that surge of rage. Three words that stood out from the rest, the names and numbers, all neatly penned, orderly and obedient, not fucking the rules. And I wondered at Garrick's power, that he could control so many hardened men with double-edged promises and dire threats. Ballard had understood it. But maybe this was the only way such men could be controlled and kept in line. Give with one hand and take back with both.

Well, fuck Garrick.

Still rubbing my throat, I studied the list, torturing myself by wondering which of them had chosen Alex. Which of them had already used her body because Garrick had told them they could? How many of them? Who had been cruel and had any been gentle? I scanned the names, trying to picture her with the ones I knew, but trying not to also. And halfway down the page, I stopped trying.

There it was. And I cursed that I hadn't noticed it the first time, when I'd faced off with the sentry at the entrance, before I'd written those words. Cursed that I hadn't thought to recheck when I'd left, after I'd seen him in the passageway.
Reed. EH2M5283
. Just five lines up from where I'd left my stupid message. I leaned back against the cupboard, not relieved that I'd been right, but terrified because I hadn't been wrong.

‘Oh, fuck me.'

‘Back so soon?' Cobb said, then smirked when I dumped the bladders on the counter. ‘That's a lot of water, Jem. You making up for lost time?'

‘Sixteen cups. Four hours. That's the deal.' But I didn't need four hours. Four minutes was all it'd take to confirm what I suspected. The rest was just to buy Alex some time out from the rest of the Watch; pretty much everything I had, and all I could afford.

He studied me, taking in the bruises and the split skin where Garrick's knuckles had punished. ‘I see you've had a taste of your own medicine. I do hope it hurts.'

‘Not so much. But nice to know you care.'

Scowling, he pulled out his own cup and a jug. ‘You don't mind if I don't trust you? Wouldn't want Garrick thinking you'd short-changed him.'

He proceeded to measure out the water, sniffing every cup before pouring it into the jug, making sure it wasn't tainted. When he'd finished, he handed back the bladders, and shrugged. ‘I'm betting neither of you will last the distance, but it's your call. Room twenty-three.'

That number again, like a wraith, materialising to tease and taunt before vanishing.

‘Something wrong?' he asked, peering at me with his colourless eyes. Between them, his thin nose had swollen, the bridge broken. My fist hadn't improved his voice any, and his thick nasal twang irritated.

‘Nope.' And it was true, because twenty-three wasn't the magic number any more. Now it was twenty-four.

Cobb nodded at my cloak. ‘You hiding anything you shouldn't under there?'

‘You wanna find out?' I challenged.

I could see he was tempted, before he shook his head. I was kind of disappointed; I would have been happy to take another shot at him. Instead, I took the couple of gut casings he handed me,
rolled sheaths knotted tight at one end. Every whorehouse supplied them, and you were stupid if you refused; there were no quick-fix remedies for disease, and a pregnant whore was no use to anyone. I wouldn't need them, but I couldn't very well say no. Pretence was everything.

Cobb gestured to the wall behind him. ‘Can I tempt you with any toys? Just to help you get started? Extra cost, of course.'

I shook my head. ‘Happy with what I've got,' I told him.

‘Of course,' he laughed. ‘I imagine you're more the missionary type.'

‘You been fantasising about me, Cobb?'

‘Time's a wasting, Watchman,' he snapped. ‘Four hours, starting now.' I watched him push a nail into a tall, thick stick of tallow and light the wick. Whether or not he'd positioned it accurately didn't matter; when that nail dropped there was no doubt he'd come beating on the door. ‘And have a care, Jem. She's a wild one.'

Good, I thought. I hope she's given them hell.

I stopped outside the door, seeing the little digits nailed to it and, pulling the bolt, I pressed my head to the cool wood, almost reluctant to enter, dreading what I might find, knowing none of it would be good. Less than four days since my return to the compound and what I was doing could jeopardise everything. I wasn't supposed to see Alex, wasn't supposed to acknowledge her in any way, or care what was happening to her. That's what we'd all agreed. Those were the rules. But only Alex could tell me what I needed to know, and time was running out, so fuck the rules. Again.

Taking a deep breath, I pushed open the door, caught out by the darkness inside. There was a faint shuffle to my right, but before I could even turn, the chain lashed me high on the chest, the end of it catching my jaw, before being whipped away again. I staggered to one side, so stunned I had no time to prepare or call out, grunting when the links wrapped around my neck, the end pulling tight.
Grabbing at it to stop choking, I lurched backwards, crushing her to the wall. Then again, slamming her so hard she cried out, releasing her hold, and I spun away, yanking on the chain and pulling her into me. But she wasn't giving up, struggling and wriggling, kicking and flailing for all she was worth. Not just wild, but feral.

‘Alex, stop it! Stop. It's me. Jem.' But the words didn't register and she sank her teeth into my arm. ‘Shit! Fuck! Alex, calm down. It's me.'

I lifted her up, pinning her arms with mine, ignoring her curses and hisses while her feet kicked the air. Just held her there, and waited for her fury to subside. One of her feet caught the door, banging it shut, engulfing us in darkness and there was nothing except the sinewy feel of her, and my voice, so much calmer than I felt.