The Outlaws Scarlett and Browne Page 10

  The woman stirred. “Yes. It is Primrose Park, the heart of the town. It is here that we have the Festival of Welcome, to celebrate all healthy children born that year. Also the Electricity Fair in autumn, when the generator is cleaned and garlanded with flowers.”

  Albert sighed. What joy to belong to a safe, walled town! “How long have you been in Lechlade?” he asked.

  “Sixty-six years and counting,” the lady said. “And you?”

  “About twenty minutes.”

  The lady made a sad clucking noise with her tongue. “Just as I thought. But don’t worry, I’m not one of those folk who hate strangers, however odd their habits or their accent. I’ve even got time for the Welsh. My family has resided here fifteen generations, as proved by the books of record at the Faith House, and thus we are allowed to wear the blue Lechlade ribbon in our hats on festive days. Yes, I know a fair bit about the town. From this bench you can see the domes and spires of the Faith House itself, where a dozen religions are on offer. The Mentors are very friendly. Which faith do you personally espouse?”

  Remembering Scarlett’s warnings, Albert was noncommittal. “I am not too sure.”

  “Well, if you are a Pluralist, you can enjoy the rituals in any combination. I like a bit of Buddhism myself, a little pinch of Islam. Now, just over there is the Lechlade Municipal Bank, where all our wealth is stored. I worked there myself as a teller for many years.”

  “I have a friend who is interested in banks,” Albert said. “It looks a fine one. And very secure. There was a man with a gun standing outside, I noticed.”

  The old woman chuckled. “Hank is mostly there for show. We have other defenses.”

  Albert’s eyes were full moons of casual fascination. “Really? What are those?”

  “Oh, heavens! I’m not at liberty to say.”

  “Of course not.” And now Albert did pay attention to her thoughts, which were briefly quite distinctive.

  The old lady moved on to other subjects; she expounded at length on the virtues of Lechlade and its community, which made Albert’s heart swell with longing. Sitting there in the sunlight, he felt sorrow at the lonely road he knew he must travel. “How fortunate you are to live in such a peaceful town,” he said.

  “Peaceful it is for the most part,” agreed the lady. “Course, from time to time outlaws and bandits break in to carry out their wicked acts. But it is no great matter.” She nodded toward a leafy corner of the park. “When we catch them, we take them there.”

  Albert looked. “What, that pretty mound with all the flowers on the sides?”

  “Yes. That’s Execution Hill. It’s where we burn them.”

  “Oh.” His face fell. “I thought it was a bandstand.”

  “It’s been a while since we used it.” The lady pressed her lips together. “It’s always such a jolly show. Strip the villains bare, we do, and whip them soundly, then tie them to iron tumbrels and roll them right into the middle of the flames.” She nodded to herself. “It bloody well beats the cricket, I tell you. Still, I mustn’t complain. Our watchtowers are high, our sentinels vigilant, and life is quiet and placid here at Lechlade. Where are you staying?”

  “I don’t yet know.”

  “You have two options, the Toad or Heart of England. The Toad has better beer, but most of the town slavers drink there, and they are always on the lookout for puny friendless youths who won’t put up much of a fight. Mark my words, you will go to sleep in a feather bed and wake up in a cage on Fetters Lane. Heart of England is run by Dave Minting, who is friendly, personable, and serves good food. True, he also employs two urchins to clamber between the ceiling joists at night and rob his guests of their valuables. But his rates are low, and that’s worth bearing in mind.”

  Albert rubbed his chin. “Neither inn seems especially desirable.”

  “Well, don’t kip out in the street, whatever you do. The militia will find you and put you in the cages. And don’t try begging, either. Or loitering. Or spitting on the sidewalk, except in the designated troughs.”

  “There seem quite a lot of ways to get put inside the cages here.”

  “That’s how it has to be. This is a place of order and must remain so.” The old lady gathered herself up in stages. “Well, it’s been lovely chatting. I must be getting home for tea. Stay safe.” With that, she shuffled away.

  She had been a nice woman, but all her talk of punishment and cages had soured Albert’s mood. A dull panic flared inside him, a feeling of entrapment. The town was no sanctuary. It was as if he were back at Stonemoor again. For the first time since he’d escaped the bus, the old agitation returned, the stirrings of the Fear. For a while he sat in silence, watching the shadows lengthen across the lawns of the park. The heat of the day faded; he began to feel cold. No, he had to keep moving. Leave the town, leave Scarlett McCain, make his way quickly onward. Escape before his enemies caught up with him. Perhaps if he found another bus…

  He returned to the high street and wandered along it, head lowered, arms swinging stiffly at his sides. The crowds were as busy as before, and now their proximity began to erode his defenses. Their thoughts were too loud, too raucous; he could feel their personalities brush against him as he threaded his way along the sidewalk. The touch made him jerk and twitch, as if he’d been prodded physically as he passed. He had that old clammy, crawling feeling deep inside, his heart beating faster, the sweat breaking out on the palms of his hands…Ah, no, that wasn’t good. He tried to calm himself. He thought of Scarlett again.

  A shadow loomed beside him. It was sudden, vast, and swollen. A smell of flowery aftershave dropped over him like a net. Albert jumped back in fright, his breathing short, his eyes bulging. He pressed against the window of a shop as a fat gentleman in a tweed suit waddled past, a small white hunting hound following on a leash.

  No, it was OK. It was OK…. He didn’t know the man. But my goodness, Old Michael had had precisely the same sort of shape, the same round shoulders, that same awful too-sweet odor. For a moment there it was as if his old jailer had pieced himself together, come after him like a vengeful ghost….

  All at once, Albert knew he had to leave the high street. There were too many people, and he didn’t have much time. He was too upset; the Fear was growing inside him. It was getting strong—soon, if he wasn’t careful, it would break out. He put his head down, weaved forward. Almost instantly he saw a side turning and ducked into it at a run.

  The narrow street he found himself in was very much quieter, which was an immediate relief. There was nobody around. After a hundred yards, it opened onto a wider space. He slowed and stopped, letting his heart rate lessen, lessen….

  The tumult in his head faded. The Fear retreated. He’d put a stop to it for now. Good.

  He was in a gray, walled yard. The buildings alongside showed their backs to it; it was cool and shadowed in the early-evening light. Weeds poked through cracks in the concrete; dark puddles lay like liver spots on an old man’s skin. Albert did not remember evidence of rain elsewhere in Lechlade; it seemed this concrete had recently been sluiced. There was a smell of tobacco smoke, beer, and water. Several long benches had been stacked against the brick wall that blocked exit from the yard; on the adjoining side, a steel cage sat atop a stepped platform. It was man height, very long and narrow, and mostly covered by a black tarpaulin.

  There was no obvious way out ahead of him, and Albert did not much like the atmosphere of the yard, so he reluctantly turned to retrace his steps. As he did so, he noticed a large canvas tent nestling unobtrusively in the shade of the wall beside the platform. It was made of khaki cloth, with a wide awning and an open front. Somewhat to his surprise, there was a rug laid on the ground beneath it, giving it a sense of semipermanence. It also contained a desk, a lantern, several wooden chairs, a cashbox, a storage rack—and three persons.

  A thin, pale-skinne
d woman sat working behind the desk. She wore a yellow bowler hat, black shirt, and checked tweed jacket. She was inspecting a pile of papers, her brow furrowed and shoulders hunched high like the wings of a feeding bird. As Albert watched, she took a puff from a cigar that lay on a tin plate beside her.

  Standing at her back—one drinking from a coffee mug, one fiddling with some ropes and chains hanging over the wooden rack—were two men.

  The man sipping from the mug saw Albert first. He nudged the woman, who looked up and gave a dismissive wave. “Too late, love. Last sale was yesterday. Next one, you gotta wait a week.”

  Remembering Scarlett’s edict, Albert hesitated before speaking. “Pardon me. I was looking for the bus stop.”

  “Not this way, honey. That’s on Cheap Street, by the land gates. This is Fetters Lane.”

  “Thank you. Goodbye.” Albert made to go.

  “Do you know the way to Cheap Street?” the woman called. She had taken the chance to study Albert more closely. “If you’re new in town, we could give you directions, maybe.”

  Albert did not have a great desire to remain, but it was a kind offer, and it would probably have been rude to walk away, so he approached the tent. The daylight was fading, and the lantern on the desk was still turned low, so it was only when he was quite close that he realized just how big the two men standing with the woman were. They were muscular and heavyset, with gold earrings that glinted dully in the dusk. One was light-skinned, the other dark; they wore leather coats of green and black, with buckles on the cuffs. There was a watchfulness about them—the woman too; he glimpsed their thoughts mingling with the cigar smoke in the canvas eaves at the top of the tent.

  “I suppose it must be somewhere off the high street,” he said as he reached the desk. “Is it just along a bit farther, maybe?” His voice trailed off. They were thinking about money, like so many people seemed to. Curious thing about it, they were looking at him and thinking of cash. “Look, I don’t want to bother you. I can see you’re busy.”

  “Grateful for the distraction. I’m just totting up last night’s figures, which let me tell you ain’t so good.” The woman had graying hair but a smooth and ageless face. “We can show you the way, honey. It’s no big deal. What’s your name?”

  “Albert.” He remembered too late that Scarlett had given a fake name to the guard. “Albert…Johnson.”

  “Johnson?” She sounded puzzled. “You’re surely not a Lechlade kid, then, Albert.”

  “As a matter of fact, I’m not.”

  “No. We don’t have any Johnsons here. Well, it’s nice to meet you, anyhow. I’m Carrie.”

  “Hello, Carrie.”

  “So, where’re you from, then?”

  “Out west.” Up in the smoke, on the fringe of his vision, he could sense her thoughts quickening. He didn’t glance at them; he knew it was polite to look at the person, not the thoughts, and she was fixing him right in the eye.

  “Got a family here?” the woman said. “Friends?”

  “No.” He looked back along the lane toward the high street, where the sun still shone and people walked. “Actually, I do have a friend with me. We’re just passing through.”

  “Is that right? How old are you?”

  “I’m not actually sure.”

  The woman sat back in her chair, took the cigar from the tin plate where it lay smoldering, and drew in a breath of smoke. She opened her mouth, let it flow out again, a bulb of grayness billowing between her lips, watching Albert the while. “You’re a wanderer, then, honey,” she said. “No fixed abode.”

  He shrugged. Scarlett would be cross if she saw this. He wasn’t intending to keep having conversations. Trouble was, these townspeople would keep asking you questions. “Did you say you could direct me to the bus stop?” he said. “I should probably get on….”

  “Where’s this friend of yours, then?” the woman, Carrie, asked; she seemed not to have heard him. “He a good-looking boy too?”

  “I don’t see no one,” one of the men said.

  “I’m meeting her later.” Albert used the man’s interjection as an excuse to swing his eyes away from Carrie’s, up toward the images in the smoke. The thoughts of the three people flitted dimly, like fish in river shallows, splinters of shadow flexing in the depths….

  And the thoughts were ugly. Albert saw crying children and iron bars; memories of harsh words and actions, dark places, violent deeds…

  All at once, he sensed the presence of other thoughts, faint and broken, coming from the cage beyond.

  Albert looked back at Carrie. “It’s been nice talking to you,” he said indistinctly. “I’d better go now.”

  He stepped away; his legs felt stiff and weak, as if made of balsa wood. The people in the tent remained staring at him, motionless as three idols in a forest; only their eyes moved, keeping pace with him.

  Albert walked across the yard. The high street seemed a good deal farther off than he remembered. There were still people on it, but not as many as before.

  Behind him, he heard a clink of chains.

  Now he began to run. He went with the arms of his jumper swinging, his trainers slapping hard on concrete.

  Something struck his legs above the ankles, wound round them, drew them tight together. He fell awkwardly, crying out as his shoulder struck against the ground. His head hit too. Light blazed bright across his eyes.

  When it faded, the Fear had awoken in his head.

  He rolled over, trying to sit up and remove the weighted cords tangled about his legs. The two men had left the tent and were crossing the yard after him. They didn’t hurry. They were ambling easily; one of them finished his coffee and set the mug on the desk before he came. They walked with a clatter and a jingle, and Albert saw that they carried metal batons in their hands, and in their belts were cuffs and lengths of chain.

  Albert wanted to talk to them, try to reason with them before it was too late. But the Fear was too strong. The knock to the head had set it going, and now it was pulsing, swelling, growing ever stronger and more shrill, while the slavers strolled toward him and his fingers worked desperately at the mess of cords. It was no good—he couldn’t loosen them. And all the time the pressure inside was building up and building up, so his whole body shook with it, and he couldn’t do anything with his fingers at all. And then one of the men raised his baton casually, and he knew from his thoughts he was going to strike him, and finally the pressure in his head swelled so much, it couldn’t be contained any longer. The Fear burst out, as he had known it would, and Albert’s hopes of moderation and restraint were drowned out altogether.

  First thing Scarlett did, once they’d fixed her up, was pay a visit to the Toad inn, a low-slung, slate-roofed building on Cheap Street, close to the land gates. In the beer lounge, golden sunlight slanted through grimy windowpanes and pooled beneath the scratched black tables. The landlord polished glasses behind the bar. He was of ambiguous nature. His mauve cardigan and big round spectacles conveyed an essentially harmless personality; his stubbled white hair, scarred chin, and muscular shoulders suggested otherwise. Scarlett wasted no time in small talk. From a pocket of her coat she took a squared metal token stamped with the image of a four-fingered hand, the little finger bitten off at the base.

  She set it on the counter with a click. “Been a while since I was here,” she said. “Who do I need to talk to?”

  The man surveyed the token for a moment. Without speaking, he picked out a bottle of beer, opened it, set it before Scarlett, and pointed at a nearby empty table. Then he left the room.

  Scarlett took a chair with the wall at her back, so that she had a clear view in all directions. She adjusted her coat so that her gun was exposed and obvious. She had no cartridges in it, but the Brothers weren’t to know that, and they did know her reputation.

  While she waited, she inspected
her bandaged hand. It looked the business now, in its snow-white layers of gauze and padding. She could move the fingers freely; the palm was still sore, but it was a clean and healing pain. The doctors had been just in time. It had been a mess when they got to it: black, throbbing, swollen like a bullfrog. She’d been lucky none of her tendons had been cut by the knife. A half inch either side, they said, she’d have lost the use of her fingers. As it was, they just sterilized it, sewed it up, took her cash, and let her go.

  While she’d been sitting there, chewing gum, watching them work the needle and thread, Scarlett had done a spot of thinking. Her head was clearer now. The way she figured it, she had two main problems, and both needed sorting before she left Lechlade.

  The first was the bank money, the second was Albert Browne.

  Albert…. So far, he’d managed to avoid telling her who and what he was. And he was something, of that she had no doubt. She thought back to the explosion in the ruined cottage, the way the pursuers had so cautiously approached the steaming rubble. You didn’t do this with a normal boy, and you didn’t chase him so far across the Wilds either. Clearly he was important to someone, and that made him valuable—a possibility worth exploring. In any case, Albert owed her big-time now, and the primary thing he owed her was the truth. She’d find that out, soon as she got back to him.

  Before this, however, there was the issue of the Cheltenham bank money to fix. Which is why she was at the Toad, waiting. She glared across the empty bar, took a sip of beer, set the bottle down.

  As she did so, a man entered through a curtained recess at the back of the room.

  Quite what the Brothers’ representative in Lechlade might look like Scarlett hadn’t bothered to guess. They came in all shapes and sizes; this one was a slim, narrow-shouldered young man in a dark blue pinstriped suit. He had neat brown hair, worn long at the neck. His face was so aggressively unmemorable that its very normality paradoxically unsettled the observer. He moved smoothly, without noise; approaching the table, he nodded at Scarlett, took a chair, and sat with a flourish, adjusting the cuffs on either wrist. He smelled of violets and cinnamon.