“How’s it looking?” asked Jude.
“Queue nearly gone. Few men outside the old pub. Once they go through, they should lock the gates and that’ll be it,” replied Roger.
“Shit.”
“Shit, indeed, laddie. He’s not coming. Look, I thought you’d lost your mind trusting him in the first place.”
“I still trust him. He’ll be here,” replied Jude.
Roger allowed the binoculars to fall from his eyes. They dangled from his sinewy neck and threatened to drag him to the floor under their weight. He pushed himself up from his knees and stretched. Some old creaky joint cracked, and he hobbled towards Jude and slapped him on the shoulder.
“It’s over. If you see him, tell him I want the rest of my money. Not my damned fault he didn’t show.”
Jude hadn’t heard him. He stared at the cages across the way. Too far to make out the features on her face, he could still see her silhouette, pacing back and forth on death row.
“Laddie?”
“Reference me in,” said Jude.
Roger laughed a gummy laugh, which turned into a wheeze it was so full of humour, until it ended in a whistle of air through a gap in his few teeth.
“I mean it. Reference me in. Everyone I care about is dead or gone. There’s only her now.”
“Shit, yer still a boy, laddie. There’s a life ahead of yer, and there’s fucking loads of women, even in this shithole city.” He stepped back into the room and reversed a rotten old chair. He sat down cross-legged and rested his spindly arms on the back rest.
Jude eyeballed him. He thought about defending his love for Zuri, explaining that no one else could compare. But he didn’t need to. He knew, and Roger wouldn’t understand. “Reference me in. If you do, I'll get you the rest of the money. I know where he keeps it.”
“He’ll kill you before you get it to me.”
“He won’t.”
“I’m supposed to trust you?” asked Roger, sparking a cigarette.
“Have you ever done anything for anyone without being paid?” Jude asked.
“Nay, and I ain’t about to start.”
“Have you ever been in love, Roger?”
“Aye, laddie. There was this whore, before The Panic. I loved her. I’d see her every Saturday night, and she’d not charge me a penny. I’d stop and spend the money somewhere else on the way home. Two for the price of one.”
Jude stared at him, bewildered. “Take me to the gate. Reference me in and go home. That’s all I ask, Roger. You’ve got to walk past the gate to get home anyway, and he paid you a small fortune in advance.”
“Ah, fuck!” Roger snapped.
“So you’ll do it?”
“I want the rest of the money.”
“I’ll get it, I swear!”
“Fine. Deal,” said Roger as he dashed his cigarette to the sodden carpet. He sprung from his chair and spat in his palm. Clasping hands with Jude, he continued, “We’ve got work to do.”
Roger set about Jude immediately. He removed the bow from his back and untied the leather straps holding the quiver on his leg. The hunting knife was next, sliding the sheath off his belt. He laid out one of the blankets and hastily wrapped all of Jude’s weapons inside, along with the machine pistol and shotgun he carried.
“No weapons. Only what they provide. We’ll stash it at the bottom of the stairwell.”
Stolen novel; please report.
“That bow means more to me than anything.”
Roger nodded and then began frantically scanning the room. The carpet looked rank, black water pooling on top of it. There was rubble in the corner, dusty and black with ash from some old explosion. He scooped up the water and rubbed it into Jude’s coat. It was stale, foul water, and the stench of filth lingered. He dragged Jude across to the rubble and stuck his fingers into the ash. He began painting bags under his eyes and dirtying his face, working the scum under his nails and between his fingers.
“Only Crocheads allowed to compete. I wasn’t worried about the killer. He blends in. You look like a choirboy. Too clean. They’ll see you a mile off, laddie.”
Jude looked down at himself. Roger was right. The stay in the cottage had been kind to him. He had bathed every day, eaten well. His clothes were clean from Ansell’s wardrobe and cut to size.
“Here, put out your hand.” Roger sliced his palm, and he snapped his hand back from the blade’s sting. “Get blood over your scalp, so it dries in – and your stubble.”
He continued searching, and Jude saw him in the next room at a window. He was running his fingers in the cracks in the old frame between the plastic and the dirty rubber seals. When he came back, his hands were black as tar. He took Jude by the neck and rubbed hard, dispelling the filth into his skin. He worked it down under his collar, and then Jude allowed blood to drip out of his palm and over the dirt. At a glance, it could pass for the early onset of dying skin before it turned to black scales.
“Not bad, laddie. Not bad. Can you ride a Trial bike?”
On the street, they hobbled towards the main gate. In a hushed voice, Roger instructed him on how to act. Eyes down, subservient, scared but hungry. Roger had been to the Trials before many times. He explained to Jude how to win, as he’d seen it done.
"There’ll be at least twenty contenders, but less than five bikes. Ye need to get to a bike early and keep it moving. Don’t keep still. Let them whittle each other down, the ones on foot. They’ll bludgeon each other to death. The weapons'll be strewn around the arena. Ye need to leave the weapons and go for the bike instead. The bike can be a weapon, and it can be yer defence. Only stop for a pistol, as there’s only a few, and they’ll not be obvious." Jude listened intently, but he was nervous. His mouth was dry, and when he tried to speak, there was a faint croak. He became aware he was picking the skin at the side of his nail in his pocket.
“Hunch over a bit, laddie. Yer too straight. Remember, yer a Crochead.”
He sank his shoulders forward and limped to a stop at the gates of Arnero’s Shanty. Two of her men stood guard, big men with keen eyes and angry mouths. Stale moonshine and cigarette smoke lingered near them. To the left of the gate, a Crochead, drenched in blood, groaned and reached a palm out towards them.
Jude kept his head low and his eyes lower. He picked and picked the skin at his nail until it throbbed.
One of the doormen stepped forward, and his head reminded Jude of a cue ball. It was lit with a warm tinge, reflecting from the flaming torches lining the way through the gates. His deep-set eyes lacked lashes and sat under bald brows.
“A minute later and you wouldn’t be getting in.”
“Damned rebels. Riots everywhere. Got barricades up in The Gardens. Fucking disgrace. Can’t have one day in this damn city without trouble,” Roger replied.
The guard laughed, “Jolly as always I see, Roger.”
“Pah!” Roger spat with a toothy grin.
“Two to watch the Trials, is it?”
“Not tonight, Chewie. I need to get back, but I have a contender for you.”
Jude looked up tentatively. Chewie looked curious. He began scanning, looking at his clothes, his shoes, and his skin.
“Got room for one more. Who are you?”
“He’s from – ”
“Not you. You,” he dismissed Roger and pointed his pistol at Jude. “You speak.”
A test. His voice low and guttural, as close to a growl as he could muster and his best impression of Ansell, he replied, “Need…Croc…I can fight, good fighter.”
“Who serves your Croc?”
“I’m from…Gardens…Marcus serves us. Marcus serves the Croc in The Gardens.”
Chewie hawked and spat. “Marcus the snake! He was due back here hours ago. He’s missing. Have you seen him?”
“No. Not seen him…need Croc. He hasn't served it, so...here to win…will die for Croc.”
Chewie looked at Roger and then at Jude. “Fair enough. He can enter. But you’re coming in, too, Roger. Arnero wants to see you after the Trials. There’s a runner on his way to your shop right now to bring you in.”
Jude side-eyed Roger. He was pale. The colour drained from his grubby pockmarked face, and his moustache drooped down over his frown. “What have I done? She’s not happy with the quality of my work?”
“Relax, old man. Mighty Mick’s was burnt to the ground by the City Guard. The whole Station Market is gone. So I’d expect she'll ask you to cover his work now he’s closed shop.”
“The Guard killed Mick?” asked Roger.
“No, they just torched the Market. There was a huge riot. They couldn’t get a handle on it, so they torched it. Mick was furious. He lost everything.”
“Idiot!” The colour seemed to have returned to Roger’s face, along with the sparkle in his glassy eyes. Money to be made, that’s all he was hearing. “Ok, well, I’m here now. Lead on.”
Chewie nodded at Roger and took a final look at Jude. He thrust his pistol into his belt and turned, gesturing for them to follow with a wave of his hand. “Ok, gladiator. Follow me.”