The Outlaws Scarlett and Browne Page 7

  Albert strained against the straps that bound his wrists and ankles. “No. I can’t move them.”

  “Do you have the mask on?”

  “Yes.” It had been she who had placed it on his face. Adjusting the mask was always the last thing, after tying him to the chair and fixing the wires to his thighs and forehead. He could smell her perfume lingering on the cloth.

  “And can you see anything?”

  “I see nothing.” Just a soft blackness pressing against his eyes and nose.

  “You remember the table in front of you?”

  “Yes, Dr. Calloway.”

  “What was on it?”

  “A corked green bottle. A flower in a jar of water. Two candles, one of them lit. A dish of rice. A pot of stones. A brown bird in a cage.”

  “Good.” This was the only part of the preliminaries where his answer varied, and even here the range of possible options was not large. Sometimes there was a mouse in the cage, occasionally a rat. The flower was unusual; he had been given it only twenty or thirty times. More often the jar simply contained water, right up to its rim. There were always two candles, always seven items on the table—this never altered. What did change was the distance of the table from the chair where he sat. Sometimes it almost touched his knees. Sometimes it was far off across the tiled room. Today it was roughly midway, which meant it wasn’t the range they were testing but the degree of stimulus. He felt the soft touch of the wires trailing down the sides of his head. Sweat gathered under his arms. It was going to be a bad one.

  “Are you well today, Albert?” Dr. Calloway asked.

  “I’m well.”

  “Are you upset or worried about anything?”

  “No.”

  “Do you have anything on your mind? What are you thinking of right now?”

  “I’m thinking of you.”

  It was always his answer. And always she ignored it, the tone of her voice not varying, neither hurrying nor slowing, just moving on to the next question.

  “I want you to empty your mind, Albert. Empty your mind of everything and focus on the objects on the table. Can you visualize them?”

  “Yes.”

  “Pick one. Whichever is clearest to you.”

  “OK.” He chose, randomly, the flower in the jar of water. Not because it was clearer than the rest; perhaps because it was harder than the others, or more unusual. Really, he didn’t care. He never chose the caged animal, seldom the bottle with the cork. No doubt this was part of the experiment, building up a psychological portrait of him. He wondered if in all these years they’d discovered anything useful.

  “Have you chosen?”

  “I have.”

  A faint click came, as it always did. Albert had long puzzled over that click, thinking perhaps it was the electric circuit powering up, or some safety catch being taken off. Lately he had guessed it had something to do with the lights in the room being altered. Mind you, after the tests, when she took the mask off and resuscitated him with water, the room always looked the same.

  “Very well. Albert, I would like you to focus on the object now.”

  That was always how it began: no fanfare, no buildup, and no clue how long he would be given before she applied pain. It was part of the challenge, of course—overcoming the uncertainty and fear. It might be five minutes before she switched the current on and it might be thirty seconds. Sometimes he could do something in that time, and sometimes he couldn’t. It never stopped her turning the dial.

  Albert closed his eyes beneath the mask and projected his will at the faint impression of the flower that he could see hovering white and ghostly in the blackness. He visualized easily enough the bent stalk, the five fringed petals, the hard lines of the surrounding jar; what was difficult was to summon the energy to do anything. He felt listless that day, bored by the monotony of the routine. What he wanted was to get out into the grounds, talk with the kid with the quiff again.

  Dr. Calloway was silent. She rarely said anything more until the end of the test. But he could hear a faint rasping, which he knew was caused by the serrated beak of the bird as it tried to saw its way through the bars of its cage. An irritating noise, but better than the half-human chatter of the rat they’d brought in once. That rat, a pink, hairless specimen they’d found out in the marshes, had sounded for all the world as if it was trying to speak. Albert couldn’t concentrate thanks to the awful distorted mewling it had made. That day he’d done nothing, no matter how much they’d hurt him.

  And now—oh no, surely not yet—Albert felt the prickle starting in his temples, knew her pale fingers were on the dial, getting the current going. No, it was too soon. Was she not going to give him any proper time?

  “Please,” he said. “I’m not ready.”

  Thing was, to get anywhere, he had to focus. Shut out the hateful prickling that spread like running spiders across his skin. Shut out the sound of the bird, shut out the smell of the woman’s perfume, the touch of the wires, the sweat running down inside the mask…

  Shut out the thought of the kid with the quiff—and what he’d told him.

  That was easier said than done.

  He pressed his teeth together, tried to regain control. But the image of the flower dispersed like trails of ink in water. He saw instead a green island, far away. Panic rose like bile inside him. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I can’t do it. Not today. Please, could we try again later, when—”

  The shock, sickeningly familiar, was stronger than usual. It must have been a full half dial. If it had gone on any longer, Albert thought he would have broken through the straps. He subsided in the chair, body shaking, mind blank, tears fizzing from his eyes. Faintly he heard the dispassionate scratching of the pen.

  “Why are you doing this?” he whispered. She didn’t answer. Which was small wonder; he could scarcely understand his own question. There was too much blood in his mouth—he had bitten into his tongue.

  “Please concentrate, Albert,” the calm voice said. “We have a lot to get through this morning.”

  A lot to get through. His eyes were open, his face wet beneath the cloth. “Yes,” he said. “I’m so sorry. I’ll do my best, Dr. Calloway. I’ll do my best for you now.”

  Beyond the Wolds, the landscape flattened and the forests petered out. The river coiled south through a region of scrubby wetlands that stretched green and brown to the horizon. The sun shone; a thousand pools sparkled amongst the threshing reeds. Ranks of willow trees bent over the water like women washing their tangled hair.

  A large tree branch turned in the center of the current, a thin speck in the vastness. Two figures lay sprawled upon it. They had not moved for a long time. Far above, carrion birds drew patient circles between the clouds.

  Scarlett had not meant to sleep. But the sun’s warmth and the silence and the lulling of the water had enfolded her and taken her far off to a dreamless place. She awoke suddenly to brightness and to pain; and also with a distinct sensation of something walking up her back.

  She opened an eye, to discover a large purple-black crow sitting on her shoulder. It stared thoughtfully out across the water, like a grizzled riverboat captain watching for signs of ambush. As she looked, it ruffled its feathers and gave her earlobe a speculative nip. Scarlett jerked her head, cried out. The crow flew off. The branch bobbed crazily midstream.

  The light was too bright; she closed her eye once more. For a moment she was elsewhere, falling from the cliff again, her coat rising stiff on either side like outstretched wings….

  She saw the rest in fragments. She had hit the water with a crack like a spine breaking; fizzed down through cold darkness; hung suspended in the depths before kicking upward into air. There had been blood on the surface, her own blood. The bag was too heavy on her back. She’d begun to sink again….

  A hand had grasped hold of
her—it was the boy’s. He’d been clinging to a floating branch, straining to pull her toward him. Her rucksack snagged on something. A kick, a tug—the side of the bag tore free. Then—somehow—she was aboard the branch, gasping, bleeding.

  Up on high, she remembered, noise and outcry, gunshots and commotion. Looking back toward the cliff, she’d glimpsed figures on it, gazing down at them; one of these, Scarlett thought, was a woman. The sun flared; they disappeared around a bend in the gorge. Then there was nothing but pines and crags, the soft rushing of the water. The river had carried them away….

  Full consciousness returned to Scarlett. She opened both eyes and took stock of her condition.

  It wasn’t as positive as she would have liked. Her left hand was black, curved stiff as a claw. Blood fused it to the branch; her palm was a throbbing wad of agony. The arm itself was locked tight around a protruding spur of wood. Without this, she would probably have slipped into the river and drowned. As it was, she was half on and half off, one of her legs partially submerged. She had no feeling in this leg; presumably it was simply numb.

  All her body ached; she longed to change position, but any movement threatened to rotate the branch and cast her off. Worse than all of that, she had an excellent view of the happily dozing Albert, who seemed to be curled in a position of the utmost comfort. He was bone dry, with his legs drawn up and his hands cupped under his head like a sleeping infant. A faint smile played upon his lips; his breathing was sweet and easy. A breeze shifted the fronds of his black hair.

  “Wake up!” Scarlett’s mouth was dry and crusted, and she could anyway scarcely speak for rage. The sound that came out was little more than a throaty gargle, and the boy did not stir. A volley of growling curses achieved no better result. At last, balancing precariously, she reached out her good fist, swiped at Albert’s head, and thumped it hard.

  “Sorry, Dr. Calloway, sorry!” He woke with a start, eyes wide and staring, and wrestled himself furiously into a sitting position. The branch rolled and tipped, and Scarlett subsided farther into the water.

  For a few seconds, Albert stared out at nothing, his body trembling. Slowly, he relaxed.

  “Hello, Scarlett,” he said. “Sorry—I didn’t know where I was…. For a moment, I thought…I thought I was in trouble. But it’s good. All good…. We’re fine.”

  Scarlett stared up at him, waist-deep in water, clutching at the branch with gory fingers. “What’s that?” she croaked. “You say we’re fine?”

  “Yes! Two friends together, two comrades at large in the world!” He ran a hand through his hair. “Ah, it is a fair and beautiful river. What a joy to hear its happy gurgles, to see the sunlight shimmer upon it as if it were made of liquid gold…. This is a better life by far than in the forest. Do you think we could float like this all the way to London and the sea?”

  He was out of reach now, and Scarlett couldn’t hit him again. She did her best to smile. “Help me out of the water,” she said sweetly. “Help me out and I’ll tell you.”

  He looked at her. “Help you up here? I’m not sure there’s room.”

  “There is room, and something in the depths of the river is nibbling at my boots. It might be a giant pike. Help me out, Albert, please.”

  “You speak with eerie calm, but your face promises violence. I feel a little frightened.”

  “Oh, don’t be like that. It must be the extreme foreshortening that makes my expression distort that way.” She stretched out her good hand. “Come on, friend, pull me up.”

  Still he hesitated. “I’m not sure….”

  “Just one quick tug, that’s all.”

  “Well…”

  With some reluctance, he reached out. Scarlett snatched at his hand and with a mighty yank pulled him into the water. A squeal, a splash; he was submerged. Scarlett made a concerted effort to clamber up one-handed onto the branch in his place, but it rotated and pitched, lacking a counterbalance in Albert’s weight, and she plunged back in. Albert’s head reemerged alongside her, soused and squalling in panic; his thin arms grappled at her desperately, further hindering her efforts. She kicked out at him. For some seconds, there was a frenzy of slaps and splashes and shouted curses; when these ceased, both Albert and Scarlett clung to the branch, dangling dismally side by side.

  Albert wore an expression of damp reproach. “That was unkind of you. You knew I couldn’t swim.”

  “Shut up. Just shut up. I don’t care.”

  “Now we shall both drown.” He sighed. “And I so wanted to reach London.”

  Scarlett tried and failed to blow wet hair out of her face. “London doesn’t exist. You would only drown there as well. In any case, we can easily reach the bank. At the next bend, use what few muscles you have in your legs and help me kick. We can steer the branch into the reeds. Not yet—wait till we’re close. I’ll tell you when.”

  Silence fell; there was nothing but sunlight and the gentle lapping of the water. Scarlett could not see beyond the branch; she craned her head sideways, trying to gauge the bend of the river and the distance to the bank. Sunshine played on the surface; time slowed. She thought of the great fish that haunted the larger rivers. Even now, one might be rising silently through the water toward her trailing feet…. She thrust the idea aside. Into her mind instead came memories of the chase down the forest slope and the last moments before the fall from the cliff. The gunfight amongst the trees, the young man with the knife…They were fractured images, almost as slippery as the side of the branch. She could get no purchase on them. They flitted past her like the tattered remnants of a dream.

  Except for one thing.

  What makes you think we’re after you?

  Scarlett’s teeth clamped tight. She had no trouble hanging on to that little memory. She glared with hot eyes across the water. Next to her, she could hear Albert Browne humming under his breath.

  The river turned sharply to the east. Ahead, a band of reeds rose like the wall of a stockade. Scarlett gazed at them. She had no idea how far they had come. The sun was high—they had drifted for several hours while they slept and were certainly nowhere near Stow, where grim, impatient men waited for her to pay off her debts.

  First things first. Get off the river. The branch yawed as the river changed direction. The reeds suddenly loomed close.

  “Now!” she cried. “Kick!”

  The current ran them near to the bank, but it was moving fast, carrying them ever onward as they kicked and splashed, turning the surface to foam. Distance was hard to gauge so low in the water; they seemed to make no progress at all. Albert was soon worn out and hung beside her, gasping, while Scarlett continued kicking in a white heat of desperation. Her energies ran low, her head began to spin—and all at once she looked up and saw the looming shadow of a broken bridge, set amongst willow trees. Its concrete spurs projected high above the stream, the rusted metal tips spreading like the fingers of giant hands.

  And there below, almost upon them: the thicket of reeds. She felt her foot glance against something soft but firm. The bank was suddenly very close. Scarlett gave a final kick. The branch struck a submerged ledge of mud and stopped abruptly, so both Scarlett and Albert had their grips dislodged. They wallowed, coughing, struggling to gain firm footing. It wasn’t easy: the river was shallow, but the ooze below was deep. Slowly, with much ungainly floundering, they reached a mudbank beyond the reeds and limped ashore.

  Scarlett flopped forward onto her knees and shrugged her rucksack off her back. At once, she took a quick inventory of her equipment. To her relief, her gun was still in its holster, though it was soaking and would need to dry. She had no cartridges left. She had lost her knife on the cliff top. One of her water bottles had two neat holes in it, where a bullet had entered and exited. The tube and the metal briefcase were unharmed. At first glance, the rucksack itself seemed in one piece too; a second glance revealed a great
tear along a side pocket, where it had snagged on a rock or branch immediately after her fall. Scarlett’s blood ran cold. She urgently inspected the hole, only to discover that the string bag containing the money from the Cheltenham bank job had been dislodged and washed away.

  Scarlett gave a hollow groan of fury. She would have sworn as well but didn’t have the energy. Her hand was a mess, her body soaked; she felt shivery and light-headed. With some difficulty, she located her first-aid kit in another pocket, sealed in its plastic pouch. Opening it with her teeth, she pulled out the antiseptic spray and squirted it onto her wound, gritting her teeth at the stinging pain.

  She tossed the bottle aside and stood up straight, newly bleeding from one hand.

  The sun shone brightly through the reeds and willows. Up on the struts of the bridge, a raucous host of red-legged storks preened and fluttered like a troupe of acrobats in their feathered black-and-white cloaks. The toppled concrete supports were iced with droppings and crowned with nests of bones and sticks. Scarlett disregarded the birds. In her experience, storks only attacked those about to die.

  Speaking of which…

  Not far away, Albert Browne lay like a stranded jellyfish on the mud, all sodden jumper, crumpled trousers, and flaccid, outstretched limbs. He was on his back, staring up at the blue sky, his face as placid and unconcerned as ever. Watching the clouds, maybe, or counting the circling birds of prey. Like everything was peachy. Like no one’s money had been lost. Like there was nothing needing explanation, nothing important that needed to be discussed.

  Scarlett strode over and prodded him, not gently, with a boot.

  “Get up.”

  “Already? But, Scarlett, I have only just collapsed. I have conducted great exertions just now, helping waft us both to shore.”

  “You did bugger all. The log kicked harder than you. Get up. I’m not talking with you lying down there.”