13.3

‘I’m on my way to take Craven down,’ Solomon blurted as the cutthroat’s blade nicked his skin and sent a single bead of blood rolling down his neck.

Solomon tried to explode to his feet, but was held down by dozens of strong hands.

Davey struggled to his feet, but one of the men decked him with a wild swing that made his jaw jump in its socket.

Still, he tried to get back up, though a couple of the nearest bikers waded in with booted feet, dulling his senses and making the world revolve seemingly at random.

As Solomon fought to rise, his teeth clamped down on a finger of one of the hands that held him in place.

There was a sickly crunch and the finger’s owner fell back, blood spurting into the air.

Papa Grim smiled.

A couple more bikers grabbed Solomon.

Papa Grim’s tattooed skull face stared down at King Solomon, like the reaper himself was watching him.

‘What did you just say?’

‘I can get to him,’ Solomon said. ‘If you just let me walk out of here. What do you say?’

*

Papa Grim beamed and moved the razor back a few inches. The sun caught it and shone in Solomon’s eye. From Davey’s perspective it looked as though the king had a halo.

Davey fought to get to his feet, but the bikers were still kicking him, though the intensity of their attack had diminished.

‘The trucks,’ Solomon said cryptically. ‘Me and Davey are going to use the trucks.’

Davey looked to the king, who met his eye for the slightest fraction of a second. He gave the merest hint of a wink, his eye wrinkling ever so slightly.

Davey got it. He was playing Papa Grim.

Papa Grim furrowed his brow, making the skull tattoo do the same. The effect was unnerving in the extreme.

‘Iiiinteresting. I never thought of it from that perspective.’ He scoffed laughter. ‘You always did think outside the box, Solomon.’

Solomon’s shoulders were still tensed, he still looked ready to throw down, but he was held firmly in place.

‘I’m still gonna have to take your face for my jacket though,’ Papa Grim leered, stroking one of the faces – which were all crudely sewn together with thick black thread – on his jacket.

Solomon didn’t look as worried as Davey felt, but Davey knew that the King’s poker face was second to none.

If Papa Grim gave the word here, they were dead.

‘How do I know you’re not full of shit?’ Papa Grim said, moving the razor down the side of Solomon’s throat, cutting off some of the hairs there.

They gently fluttered to the ground like leaves caught in the breeze.

‘You don’t, but I was always straight with you in the past,’ Solomon said. ‘And I know that you want to see that prick dead as much as I do.’

‘More,’ Papa Grim said, now moving the razor down his own arm, drawing a little blood that ran down to trickle from his fingers.

He eyed Solomon warily, like a hawk watching a mouse. He stared into the King’s eye. Solomon stared right back, his back ramrod straight. There was no backing down going on here.

‘If I wanted you dead I would’ve taken half of the Freelands south of here and made it a reality,’ Solomon said.

Papa Grim thought about it for a second. Saw that Solomon’s eye declared this to be true.

He nodded, now running the razor along his own lower lip with a thoughtful expression on his face.

‘You make a fair point.’

‘I had no idea you were living up here. I thought you were still far off to the south where our paths had previously crossed. If I had known you were here I would never have set foot in these woods.’

‘Times were growing harder still down there.’

‘I no longer bear any ill will towards you.’

Papa Grim scowled. ‘It is I who should bear you ill will.’

Solomon shrugged. Cocked his head to one side.

‘Respect is earned, not given.’ Solomon said. ‘And you lost my respect a long time ago. When you chose to believe her over me.’

Papa Grim laughed. His body was tensed now.

Everyone around seemed to tense too.

‘And do you respect me now, King?’

Solomon stared him right in the eye.

The world seemed to hang on his next words.

*

‘I won’t bullshit ya. No. I don’t. But if you let me walk out of here so I can settle my shit with Craven I might start to.’

Papa Grim sniffed at this. He looked pissed, but it was hard to tell with his tattoo.

He nodded, pecking his head back and forth like a chicken.

‘I appreciate your honesty. In fairness that was never an issue between us.’

Solomon shrugged.

‘You gonna get that fucking razor out of my face then?’ Solomon said.

Papa Grim moved the cutthroat in again, staring Solomon in the face as the blade touched the side of his throat.

He saw no fear there.

If I’m to die then I’m to die, Solomon had said. But I’ve yet to feel Death’s icy hand on my shoulder.

Solomon just stared up at him, as if daring him to do it.

Papa Grim let out a low menacing chuckle and moved the blade away.

‘No, you’ve got me curious now. You need to tell me more about these trucks.’

‘I will.’

‘And I want to come too. I want to slit his fat fucking throat myself.’

Solomon shook his head. ‘We travel alone.’

‘Then I will end this right now.’ The blade was once more by Solomon’s pounding jugular.

‘Alright, alright.’

Papa Grim reached down and grabbed Solomon’s hand. He pulled the King up to his feet.

‘Once we cut Craven’s heart out of his chest I will take your face off. Then your debt to me will be paid.’

‘Thank you.’

‘I catch the reek of horseshit on your breath and I take the boy’s face too, y’understand me?’

Solomon nodded.

Davey felt glacial blood race through his veins at the thought of that cutthroat slicing through the skin of his face.

‘Now, you know the rules as well as I do, Solomon. This cutthroat here is like a samurai’s blade. Once unsheathed it has to taste blood. Or should I say it has to save face…’

His words trailed off ominously as he looked around the assembled crowd.

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‘You there,’ he said, pointing to the guard who’d been so abusive to Solomon on the way in. ‘C’mere a minute.’

The guard looked reluctant. He’d seen this show before.

‘Y’wouldn’t be disobeying Papa Grim, now would ya, boy?’

The man thought about it. Raised his rifle.

The shot went wild, blasting a hole in the guttering of the wooden shack above Papa Grim.

Papa Grim didn’t need to say anything.

Gunshots took out both of the man’s knees and he fell on his back, legs rendered useless by the high-calibre rounds. Blood sluiced around him in the dirt.

The gun was wrestled from his hands and half a dozen hard punches rained down on him.

‘Stop stop,’ Papa Grim bellowed. ‘You’ll mark his face.’

The punches stopped, but the man was almost out now anyway, head lolling drunkenly to the side, blood-flecked spittle oozing from the sides of his mouth.

Papa Grim knelt on his chest.

The crowd pinned the man’s limbs.

‘Hold him steady. I don’t want to ruin the skin,’ Papa Grim breathed, his voice and body trembling with anticipation.

The man was shouting incoherently, but Papa Grim grabbed him by the chin and slowly lowered the blade to the edge of his face.

Papa Grim lined up his first cut.

Stopped, readjusted.

Lined up again.

Readjusted.

‘This may hurt a little,’ he smiled kindly at his bleary-eyed subject.

Then the screaming and bleeding began.

*

When his cutthroat had done its work, Papa Grim proudly held up the man’s severed face. He’d cut it in a couple of places, due to the subject’s wriggling. He was not happy, pouting like a child with a doll broken by a reckless sibling.

The man had paid.

Once his face had been taken – Papa Grim always took the faces, but the rest was fair game – the others had set upon him with their blades and removed the rest of his skin while he was still alive.

Only when the last sliver of bloody flesh had been removed did Papa Grim press his blade in harder and finally put the poor sod out of his misery.

As he held up the severed face – it dangled limply around his wrist like steamed wallpaper – he made eye contact with Solomon and gave him a subtle nod.

Solomon mirrored the gesture.

‘I trust you have no objection to me eating him, Papa?’ Solomon beamed.

Papa Grim glared at him.

‘First time for everything.’ Solomon’s grin grew even wider.

The jab seemed to get to Papa Grim, making his face stiffen, wrinkle and fold. His hand instinctively strayed towards his inside pocket where the cutthroat had been concealed. It took a real force of will for him to pull his hand away from it.

‘The sooner we get Craven the better,’ Papa Grim scowled.

*

Davey threw his arms around Solomon. ‘Thank the Gods you’re ok,’ he said.

‘Ah he’s all mouth that one, Davey lad.’

‘What the hell did you do to him to make him that mad?’ Davey said when he and Solomon were a safe distance from the crowd of bikers.

‘Water under the bridge, Davey lad.’ Solomon stared wistfully off into the distance. Again Davey got the impression that there was a lot he didn’t know about the King. That there was a lot he didn’t want to know about the King. ‘I’ve lived many lives. Not all of them I’m proud of.’

Davey accepted his embarrassment and left him to his secrets.

They were given water and some food, which made Davey strangely nostalgic for the Freelands in the days before he’d known what it was he was eating. Still, food was food, no matter where it had come from.

‘He’s delicious,’ Solomon said, smiling. ‘Almost as nice as Nancy,’ he muttered to himself.

He saw Papa Grim off in the distance, the dead biker’s freshly severed face stitched to his jacket with thick black thread.

It was horrifically distorted, the screams that had been on his lips the whole time seemingly trapped within the twisted atrocity that was now his death mask.

‘Excuse me a minute,’ Solomon said.

He weaved his way through the crowd, barging his shoulder into those that blocked him and knocking them out of the way.

Until he reached Papa Grim.

‘Thank you for your hospitality,’ he said, grabbing Papa Grim’s hand in a vicelike grip.

He felt the other man’s bones grinding together beneath his fingers.

A few of the men around them – and one younger girl, Davey noticed – raised their guns, their fingers jumping through the trigger guards, waiting for the slightest excuse to claim the scalp of the infamous King Solomon.

He slowly let go, letting Papa Grim feel his strength.

They locked eyes.

Davey was reminded of two stags locking horns.

‘It’s no problem,’ Papa Grim said.

‘And thanks for not slitting my throat back there.’

Papa Grim lidded his eyes for a second. ‘As much as I longed to it would’ve been a mistake.’

‘I appreciate it. And for old time’s sake, it will be nice to finish things between us.’

Papa Grim nodded. ‘This will only finish when one of us is beneath the dirt, you must understand that?’

Solomon smiled grimly. ‘I had hoped to avoid that, to let things go back to how they were.’

Papa Grim fidgeted with a ring on the third finger of his left hand. ‘Things will never go back to the way they were.’

Solomon nodded slowly. ‘I’m sorry to hear that. I once considered you family.’

Papa Grim smiled sadly. ‘Those days are long behind us. Those ties long severed. We will be conspirators at best. Then we will go back to being enemies.’

‘If that’s how it has to be then that’s how it will be.’

Solomon clapped him on the back and turned away.

He led Davey back to the shack they’d been given.

*

Davey and Solomon had slept for most of the afternoon and early evening, in spite of the hardness of the stained mattresses in the room they occupied.

Two of the bikers watched over them, aiming shotguns at them the whole while.

Davey rubbed sleep from his eyes and looked over at Solomon.

‘So why does Papa Grim hate you so much?’

*

Solomon let out a sigh as deep and regretful as Davey had heard.

He bowed his head slightly, as though the weight of the memories was pulling his forehead to the ground.

He took a deep breath, gulped and looked up at Davey.

Then he began…