Jude groaned. His mouth was a dust bowl, lips cracked. He tried to speak, but he mustered only the faintest croak. His eyes, half-closed, were sore and scratchy, and his head pounded relentlessly. He tried to reach for the itching stab in his forehead but found his hands locked in place. Sharp jabs of discomfort followed each slight movement of his limbs.
He shifted his head left and right slowly, each movement accompanied by pain. He recoiled. His heart raced. It thumped so loud he could hear it in his head. His wrists and ankles were bound. He narrowed his eyes. Thick motorcycle chains lashed to the head and footboards of a simple cot bed bound him. He tried to take a deep breath, but his throat rasped and spluttered in protest.
The room was a dim square, a single metal door padlocked from the inside. A large black sheet hung from the high ceiling, concealing another room. Small beams of light peeped through tiny holes in the cloth, like stars in a night sky. There must be a window out there, he thought as he heard ferocious rain hammering on glass. A red glow flickered from a small camp stove atop a folding metal table in the corner. The smell of cooked pigeon wafted through the air. It was smokey and rich, causing his tongue to cloy and his stomach to lurch.
“Where am I?” he whispered, his throat stinging in protest. He hacked and coughed and tried again. “Is anyone there? Where am I?” Clearer this time, but the daggers in his throat stabbed him harder.
It was hot. Not the pleasant hot, like the kind in Trevor’s Kitchen, but hot as in close and stuffy and damp. A small white radiator whirred by the far wall, pulsing out waves of heat. Hanging on hooks behind it were several thick woollen blankets of varying shades of grey and black. A strange contraption was next to the radiator – a series of thin metal bars on a frame. Off each bar hung a piece of clothing dripping water to the floor.
To the right of the wet clothes, a mirror covered in steam was mounted on the wall above a makeshift sink. Droplets of water rolled down tentatively, trying not to be the first to fall. Two metal drums of water stood next to the sink, one of which was smaller and stood upon a crude metal scaffold. Under the scaffold was a second camp stove, the firelight tickling the drum and sending steam from the water whispering into the air.
A wooden table with a single chair held the centre of the room, two bowls sat on top. Next to his cot bed prison, a tall grey locker stood. He could only see the middle and bottom shelves. The highest of the two had a crudely sawn-off shotgun resting on it ominously, the barrels pointing at his head. On the bottom shelf of the locker, sat a leather harness, with stakes sheathed in ringed holsters at the sides. Two hooks at the back of the locker held a nasty black hatchet in place, dried blood congealed on the blade.
His heart pounded. It pounded so hard he forgot about the violent pulsing in his head. The shotgun, the stakes, the hatchet, the body hanging in the sky above The Gardens. Everything flashed back to him. His panic spiked. The brutal killer had him in chains. The room was a kaleidoscope.
Trevor and Lisa.
His stomach dropped. He ripped his head to the side and vomited on the wooden floorboards. He sobbed until he drifted unconscious.
Jude opened his eyes. He hadn’t been out long. He couldn't have been. The smell of cooked pigeon still lingered in the hot air. He felt sick to his stomach. Heartbroken. He had woken from a nightmare, only to realise the nightmare was his reality.
“Be calm, boy,” a low voice spoke. A cold voice. A tingle teased his neck and tickled his spine. Jude jolted forwards, the searing pain of the chains chewing on his wrists forcing him back down.
“I said be calm. You’ve no cause for fear. If you comply.”
The black sheet of stars brushed aside as the man stepped into the room. He was tall and lean, his movements balanced and deliberate. Like a wolf, thought Jude as he eyed the man. His dark hair, flecked with silver, hung at his shoulders. His beard, thick but not overly long, matched his hair, and a drooping moustache concealed part of his tight grimace. His eyes were bright, cold, and bloodshot red. Seen once and never forgotten. He wore no clothes other than a dirty pair of thick cargo trousers. His torso seemed impossibly sculpted, adorned with a raft of scars and, most notably, what looked like a bullet wound in the centre of his chest.
“You killed her!” Lisa's face flashed before Jude's eyes, and he watched her slide onto the knife once more. He remembered now – he was seconds away from killing Marcus when the man had clattered him, sending his arrow into the night.
“Keep your voice down or lose your tongue!”
He sat on the edge of the bed and leaned in close. Jude could feel the heat of his breath. Strong moonshine and smoke. Stale sweat and dried blood. He radiated fear.
“Just kill me. I’ve got nothing to live for. Thanks to you,” he croaked.
“Engage your brain, boy. Think. Your last arrow would have killed Marcus, of that there is little doubt. But what then? I assume the dead man in the mud was the husband. I saw her anguish as he died.”
Jude wretched. He moved to vomit. Only blood trickled out. He scrunched his eyes. If he had hands, he’d cover his ears.
“You’d have saved her at the expense of yourself. But she was already dead,” the man continued. He wiped the blood from Jude’s mouth with his bare hand and cleaned it on his trouser leg. “You’d have her watch you ripped apart by the pack of Crochead bastards. Two bodies for her to bury. What for her then? Either grief or the City Guard would have finished her. That would be my best guess.”
Jude’s anger subsided. The man was right. He closed his eyes, his brain whirring. “So you’re a hero stepping in to save me, is that it?”
The man scoffed. Jude continued playing events round and round in his head until he finally spoke. “Except you’re wrong. I’d have shot Marcus a second time and saved her. You’d have killed the four addicts just as you did, and Lisa and I would both be alive!”
“You are partly right with that, boy. But it’s more complicated. Had you killed Marcus, I wouldn’t have killed the Crocheads. I’d have left you to them.”
“Oh yeah, cheers…”
The man ignored the sarcasm and continued as he lit a hand-rolled cigarette. Curious, Jude thought, for he’d not seen one in years.
“I needed Marcus alive, so I saved him. Temporarily. He will die soon enough, and his death will be slow and indescribably painful.”
“That offers me no peace of mind,” replied Jude.
“I don’t exist to safeguard your peace of mind, boy.”
“This is bigger than you or your friends. The woman could be alive now, without her man, without her home, guards and Crocheads hunting her whilst she’s traumatised by grief. But she isn’t. She no longer exists. Or perhaps she’s with the big man somewhere, dancing in the clouds. Whatever it is you believe, make peace and move on.”
Jude sighed. He’d delivered them with contempt, but the man’s words rang true. There was nothing left for Lisa. He didn’t know what he believed anymore, but she was at rest, and she wouldn’t have to endure the pain he was feeling. She wouldn’t have to live on without Trevor, and that was enough.
“I’m going to kill Marcus,” said Jude.
“I thought you might say that, boy.”
Jude felt his heart hurt. Boy… He heard Trevor’s booming voice in his head. He dropped his chin to his chest, and for a moment, he thought he might cry.
“Stop calling me ‘boy.’ My name is Jude.”
“As you wish, Jude. Now, if you’re ready to be calm, I'll unbind you. That in the bowls on the table is wood pigeon, far superior to the flying rats you’re accustomed to. Let's say you have a seat there, and we decide what's next over a hot scran?”
“Fine. What do I call you?”
“You don’t call me anything,” said the man as he released Jude from the chains.
“Fine. I’ll call you 'boy.'”
The man’s face flashed. For a split second, Jude thought he would strike him, but he closed his eyes and breathed deeply. Then he finished unbinding the chains and stepped back, allowing Jude to swing his legs off the side of the bed. The man handed him a large glass of cold water, which he had retrieved from the larger of the two barrels across the room. Jude guzzled desperately, the daggers in his throat blissfully cooled and his cracked lips returning to life.
“You can call me Ansell,” he said as he pulled on an oversized black top, which concealed his athletic frame. He tied his hair into a tight bun on the back of his head, and suddenly, he appeared almost human.
The two sat at the table, Jude on the chair and Ansell on the edge of the bed, and they dove into what was the best meal Jude had eaten since before The Panic – wood pigeon in a thick brown gravy with boiled potatoes and carrots. There was even salt on the table. Jude’s eyes almost watered with the first mouthful, the flavours so intense and complex.
“Why is this so good?” he asked with a mouthful of bird.
“So much you don’t know and you concern yourself with my cooking skills,” Ansell replied.
“I’ve been eating rats and rations for over five years, so yes, I am concerned with the food,” said Jude, chasing a potato around his bowl.
“If you must know, my food comes from outside the city, and I will say no more for now.”
“No one has been outside the city in years,” Jude scoffed through a mouthful of carrot, gravy pouring down his chin and plopping back into the bowl. “Well, no one except the guards on the supply convoys.”
Ansell ignored him and placed his knife and fork down in his empty bowl, then slid it to the centre of the table. He lit another cigarette. The tip crackled and flickered as he pulled drags.
“Why am I here?” asked Jude. “You don’t strike me as the friendly type, no offence.”
“I don’t seem friendly. Yet here you sit, your head stitched back together, your thirst quenched, and your belly fat with my food,” Ansell replied, and he’d said it only half in jest.
Jude finished his last mouthful, and copying Ansell, he placed down his cutlery and slid his bowl to the centre of the table. He stood from his chair and walked across the room to the mirror. His head was stitched, though it looked nasty and would be leaving a jagged scar. His eyes looked sore, red and purple and swollen half-shut. The bridge of his nose was doubled in size.
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“Thank you, Ansell,” he said with meaning. Ansell nodded.
“In response to your other question of why you are here, you answered that yourself earlier when you said you were going to kill Marcus. I understand why you want to kill him, and I believe that you could do it. Marcus has some information that I need, and until I have it, he must live. So you are a prisoner of sorts, although I hope we can come to an agreement that makes your time with me as comfortable as possible.”
“If you were so concerned I’d kill him, why didn’t you leave me to the City Guard?” Jude asked.
“I didn’t have long to consider my options. You might have escaped in the chaos. I had three thoughts: let you go, take you away, or kill you. Now, you’ve got a set of bollocks on you for a runt, I saw that. So I had you at good odds to get away.”
“So it was take me or kill me then?”
He nodded and docked his cigarette in his bowl. “I nearly finished you off, but I don’t like killing civvies if I don’t have to.”
“Lucky me,” scoffed Jude. “What’s a civvy?”
Ansell flashed half a smile and shot him a puzzled look. “I forget how far we’ve come from the old world. I only kill Crocheads, dealers, runners. Not…normal people, know what I mean?”
“I guess.”
Ansell pondered for a moment before he spoke. “I’m…sorry…for your loss.” He winced at the words as they formed, as though it caused him physical pain to show some empathy.
Jude bowed his head. “How did Trevor die?”
Ansell was quiet. His demeanour had been getting warmer during the meal, and although still utterly terrifying, Jude found himself feeling calmer in his presence. However, the question seemed to have placed a thundercloud over his head.
“Truth be told, he died badly. Marcus set him up. I don’t know why, but he antagonised the big man, spat in his face. The City Guard turned up right on cue. The timing was impeccable, no coincidence. They pulled the moonshine out of the crawl space, and Brunner gave a parcel to Marcus. Payment for the tipoff, I'd wager. As to why the Captain of the City Guard attended a low-level code violation, I've no clue.”
Jude sat quietly, sipping on another glass of water he’d fetched from the barrel by the sink.
“They dragged the woman out. Captain Brunner kicked and beat her. The big man grabbed at his leg, probably a plea to stop. Then Brunner executed him as he lay in the mud.”
Jude’s jaw ached. He’d been grinding his teeth, and he could taste blood in his mouth again. “You watched all of this and did nothing? Do you have no compassion at all?”
Ansell glared at Jude, his brow furrowed, and his eyes flashed angry. “If I involved myself in every injustice within this cesspool of a city, I'd never sleep.”
Jude didn’t answer. He couldn’t comprehend being in the same situation Ansell had been in and doing nothing to help. He sensed, however, that pressing the point too hard might anger him further than he dared.
“You mentioned an agreement, one that makes my stay here more comfortable?”
Ansell stood up from his chair and crossed the room to the sink, which he filled with hot water from the steaming barrel with a plastic jug. He splashed water across his face, washing gravy from his beard, then he turned back to Jude, a thoughtful look on his face.
“We both want Marcus dead, but I need my information first. So I can’t risk letting you go free, or he’s likely to catch an arrow. Your archery is impeccable. To hit a man in the shoulder at that distance in rain and wind, with a split skull and blood in the eyes…truly impressive.”
“I was aiming for his head,” replied Jude humourlessly.
Ansell stared at him curiously. “How about you stay with me of your own accord until such time I’m ready for him to die? Then you can finish him, and we’ll go our separate ways.”
Jude pondered the suggestion, although he was aware he didn’t have a choice. He was getting the sense that disagreement was likely to see him lashed back to the bed or impaled on a rail stake.
“After Marcus, I’ll kill that bastard Brunner. Captain of the Guard or not.”
“I thought you might say that, too. What you do after Marcus is dead is your own business.”
Jude dropped back into thought. He could feel Ansell’s eyes examining his face, as though he was reading his mind. “Seems fair enough. I’ve seen your…work, so I’d imagine Marcus will be dead and I’ll be free in a day or two?”
“Not quite. Marcus is alert to his danger now. I doubt he’ll come out into the open alone for some time. I work in the shadows, stalking and watching. Unless my hand’s forced, I only strike when I can do so unseen. I need to bide my time and wait for complacency.”
“How long?” asked Jude, his eyes narrowing.
“A few weeks, maybe more.”
“Ok, then. I agree,'' replied Jude. “Not like I’ve got anywhere else to go. You’ll have no trouble with me whilst I wait. The living conditions are better than I'm used to, so I’m happy, provided that wasn’t the last wood pigeon,” he grinned. For a split second, Jude thought Ansell might smile.
“We can’t stay here. We’ll be leaving the city. You’ve been sleeping for two days, and in that time, I’ve been out. The whole City Guard is looking for you.”
“Me?” Jude exclaimed. “What have I done? You killed everyone, not me!”
“You did shoot Marcus.”
“Yeah, but he didn’t die.”
“Ok, maybe the Guard is looking for us both. But they won’t find me. I'm a ghost. A grey man. I could be anyone in this city. I don’t exist. You, on the other hand, are a young man with golden hair and a scarred forehead, carrying a bow and arrows. Added to that, I imagine every Crochead in The Gardens knows who you are.”
Jude opened his mouth to protest but closed it just as quickly. Ansell was right.
“That’s not all,” Ansell continued. “There are others hunting you, led by a big man with dreadlocks. All armed. They’re in every slum, squat, and shanty from here to Sackville Pile, asking after a golden-haired young archer and a girl with bronze skin and amber eyes.”
“Zuri!” he gasped. The fight with the addicts, the argument, it all came rushing back. He left her to go home by herself after dark, and he didn’t even know if she was safe. Dawson would want his head.
“I have to go. Now!” pleaded Jude.
“You haven’t listened to a word I’ve said, have you?”
“You don’t understand, my…friend,” he said with hesitation. They were more than friends, yes, but he didn’t know what exactly they were, especially not now. “That night it all happened. Before I got back to the kitchen, we were out together, and I let her go home alone after dark. He’ll have promised Winston the rest of my arse!”
“I‘ve no idea who Winston is or why he wants your arse, but you aren't hearing me. You can’t go out there. Besides, I've already told you, you’re not free until I’m done with Marcus.”
“I love her,” Jude mumbled, looking Ansell in his eyes.
“Love means nothing to me,” he snarled as he looked away.
“Have you ever loved anyone, Ansell, or did you embark on your trail of murder and butchery immediately after you departed the womb?” He stood from his seat, fists clenched.
“Enough!” Ansell slammed his hand on the table, teeth bared under his beard. Then he exhaled the tension, like he had done earlier. “Who are the men, and why do they seek you?”
“The men are Dawson’s, and they seek me because I was out after dark with Zuri, Dawson’s daughter. We argued and…I left her to go home by herself.”
Ansell nodded, a curious look on his face. “You’re in love with Dawson’s daughter? As in Dawson, the Shanty Lord – his daughter?”
“Yes.”
“Does she care for you?”
“Yes. Well, maybe not anymore. I don’t know.”
“Well, it would appear Zuri has informed her father of your abandonment, and he deems it betrayal enough to hunt you down.” He picked up a pair of black military boots and pulled them on over thick woollen socks. “You will stay here whilst I attend to an important matter. Then we’ll decamp the city for a while. When it is safe and Marcus is open for an attack, we’ll return.”
“It’s not safe outside the city, surely you know that? Why do you think they guard the perimeter? Roadmen? Cannibals? You must have heard the stories?”
“I’m aware of the stories, and unlike most, I know for sure they are true. The outlands are fraught with terror, but open your eyes. The perimeter guards are there to keep you in your prison just as much as they are to keep cannibals out.”
Jude grumbled and scratched his chin. “I still don’t think we should go out there. Lisa said the Roadmen pour burning tar on people.”
“I know how to navigate the outlands safely, and that’s what we’ll be doing. It’s wild out there, but you can relax.”
“Fine,” Jude sulked. “Why do we have to leave the city though? Can we not just stay here?”
“I need to leave anyway. My food stores here are low, and my tools need replenishing. I have somewhere else, somewhere quiet and more comfortable, to pass the time. Besides that, too long in the city is bad for my mood.”
“Well, that’s reason enough for me. I’ve seen what tends to happen when you’re in a bad mood,” replied Jude, the impaled body which had hung over The Gardens fresh in his mind.
Ignoring Jude’s comment, Ansell continued, “A few things you should know before I leave. You are in the clock tower of Town Hall.”
He stepped towards the black sheet and yanked it open, securing it to the wall with a small tie. Bright light bathed the room, flooding in through the open doorway. Jude stepped through cautiously into a second room. Astounded, he looked up at the face of an enormous clock, brilliant white light beaming through from outside. It was mesmerising, the light dancing, the shadows of the clock hands and numbers jittering around on the walls. He had never seen anything like it.
“It’s amazing,” he exclaimed.
“It’s certainly a sight to behold the first time you see it,” Ansell agreed. “It doesn’t work anymore. If you can tell time, you’ll see the hands are both stuck at twenty-five to seven.”
“I can tell the time,” Jude scowled. “I was eight-ish when The Panic started.”
Ansell didn’t acknowledge the response as he stepped past Jude into the bright room. It was long and narrow, and the clockface occupied the whole wall on one side, floor to ceiling. There was a second bed at the end of the room below a square window, which looked out over the city's jagged skyline. A thin table rested against the other wall, home to an array of household items – cutlery, toiletries, pens, and paper. On a small bedside table lay empty bottles and an ashtray brimming with dead ends.
Jude took the room in for a few moments until a disconcerting thought struck him. “I don’t understand. We’re in the Town Hall clock tower, which means one of the biggest squat camps in the city is in the main hall below us.”
“Correct,” replied Ansell, understanding Jude’s confusion. “They don’t know I’m here, which is why you need to keep your voice low.” Ansell sat down on his bed. “At the beginning, before the hall was a squat, I took these rooms, sabotaging the way up as I did. The narrow staircase to come up here was old and wooden, and I sawed the beams and collapsed it. Then I padlocked the doors. I’m cut off from them up here. To get out, I have a makeshift route down on the outside of the tower.”
Jude laughed with disbelief. “Down below, there are hundreds of addicts terrified of you, telling horror stories about you. And all the while, you’re sleeping and eating wood pigeons above their heads.”
“Yes,” Ansell replied, without a hint of humour.
“Right, fair enough,” said Jude, rolling his eyes. “What else?”
“There are hair clippers on the table. I’d suggest a change of appearance. Help yourself to new clothes. A green denim jacket is bang on top.”
“You’re about three sizes bigger than me!” laughed Jude.
Ansell glared at him. “I’ve been out and got you new things. They’re on the top shelf of the locker.”
“Thanks,” replied Jude. “Is that all?”
“There’s an empty bucket in the corner next door. Make sure you wash your hands afterwards,” he said, pushing past Jude back into the first room.
He took a thick leather belt from the locker and fastened it about his waist. It was now devoid of rail stakes, dropping the hatchet through the looped sheath instead. He placed two shells into his shotgun and thrust it into the holster strapped to his thigh. Stepping over to the drying rack, he squeezed his fingers on the back of a black-hooded top, and satisfied it was dry, he pulled it on. He then took a thick shirt and buttoned it over the top. He picked up the leather harness from the locker and strapped it about his chest, sliding his last stake into the holster at his side.
“Your bow is under the bed. I’m going to collect you some arrows whilst I’m out. We’ll need them where we’re going,” he said, throwing a thick grey-hooded jacket over the top, which he left open. He placed a weathered baseball cap on his head and raised the hood. Finally, he selected a pair of black fingerless gloves, which he tugged on hastily.
“Where are you going?” asked Jude.
“My business is my own.”
He secured a thick black snood over his face, leaving only his eyes exposed. Then he slung a rough-looking rucksack onto his back and crossed the room to the radiator. He pulled a dirty heavy woollen blanket from the wall, which he wrapped about his shoulders. Suddenly, he looked rough and inconspicuous; his body language changed and his stance dropped into a hunch. He looked just like any beggar or vagrant Jude had seen about the city.
“I’ll be back after dark, which is when we leave. Be ready.”
Jude watched as Ansell opened the padlock and exited the room abruptly. He heard the lock going back on the other side. With a weary sigh, he lay back on the cot bed and closed his eyes.