Black Feathers

43

Sheriff Skelton and Sheriff Pike arrived at the Monmouth Ward substation mid-morning, with a handful of their own men. They commandeered the profile room and pinned maps, photos and charts to the walls. When Skelton was ready, Pike summoned the local Wardsmen to join them.

Skelton made a presentation using his laptop, relying for much of his talk on enlargements of the physical “evidence” the Ward had gathered over the previous three or four years. He showed photos of their objective at many stages of his life from birth to present – all collected from Hamblaen House. He predicted, based on artists’ sketches, how the boy might look with longer, shorter or different-coloured hair – they fully expected him to hide now.

Skelton also displayed the better-known images of the Crowman from several scrapbooks of collected eschatological predictions and displayed transcripts taken from hundreds of identified prophets from the past ten years. Skelton exhibited excerpts of poetry and prose on screen, reading it out in his disdainful feminine tones, now flat with restrained rage. He showed artistic impressions, drawings and paintings by people of all ages from toddler to centenarian. Again and again, Skelton reiterated one point: the boy must not find the Crowman. They must never be united. The prophecies varied in many ways, enough to make a single cohesive story almost impossible to pick out, but one thing was agreed upon by every author. When the boy came into contact with the Crowman, the end of civilisation – already in motion – would begin in earnest. Eighty per cent of the world’s population would be erased in a matter of months. Infrastructure would be destroyed, power would cease to flow, water would run dry in every tap, gas lines would be severed, roads would be impassable, crops would fail, rivers would find new courses, the earth would split, the rain would fall and fall, disease would rise in every city, the air would be poisoned and humanity would cry out as one for mercy.

The boy had to be found. The Crowman had to be stopped.

This, Skelton reminded his London crew (and the rural Wardsmen he trusted as far as he could see from his blind left socket) was the purpose of the Ward first and foremost. Yes, they served the global economy. Yes, they served the New World Order. Yes, they believed in harnessing the Earth for the gain of men, and the conquering of men for the gain of the Ward. But if they couldn’t find Gordon Black and bring him in, if they couldn’t root out the Crowman and end him before he ended the world, then there would be no point in serving and nothing left to serve. The Crowman was here, in England, and that made England the final arena. There would be some assistance from the Ward in other nations who could spare it, but this was now an English fight. It was up to every Wardsman in the country to put this mission before anything else, to lay down their lives if that was what it took. Otherwise, all possibility of power would be rested from their grasp forever because the world and all its bounties would be no more.

They were opposing the suicide of the planet. They needed to master the world, chain it, mine it, own it and its peoples. Only then would their task be fulfilled. Only then, Archibald Skelton told the assemblage of men in the profile room, would he take a day off.

After showing Ordnance Survey maps and aerial photographs of the area around the Blacks’ smallholding and telling his men not only where but how he wanted them to search the terrain, he dismissed them all but for Pike.

“We need to take a trip downstairs,” he said to the skull-faced automaton that was Mordaunt Pike, the most reliable and relentless Wardsman he’d ever worked with.

Hard on the outside, thought Skelton. Soft on the inside. And mine. All mine.

The cell system below the Monmouth substation was extensive but by no means the largest Skelton had seen. Many in London were four or even five times the size. There were mass holding cells for those just passing through and single cells for longer-term collectees. There were enough well-equipped interview rooms that twenty individuals could be processed simultaneously. An incinerator ran day and night to accommodate waste.

Skelton still hoped keeping the Blacks under lock and key might be enough of a lure to bring the lost little boy in. Gordon was no street kid and he was used to the love and attention of his kin. A boy alone in the countryside or in the town with the nights drawing in: how long would his nerve hold? How long before he ran back to Mummy? Long before he reached the four cells where the Blacks were held, Skelton had formed a plan. He would keep them all alive for a little while longer.

Pike walked a little behind him, almost like a dog at heel, disciplined, dangerous and loyal. Skelton grinned to himself but the movement in his facial muscles caused him to wince in pain. He couldn’t think of his robbed left eye without hate squirting into his veins from some deep poison gland he hadn’t known he possessed. God, but he would make the boy suffer when he got hold of him.

Skelton and Pike stood on the gravel outside the Black residence and waited for the final search to be completed. This time the ten Wardsmen inside the house were leaving nothing untouched. They arrived with hammers and crowbars. Doors were torn off their hinges. Walls were stripped of their paper in search of hidden stores. The attic was scoured and so was the basement. Floorboards were lifted. Carpets ripped up. Everything of value was removed.

Skelton listened with satisfaction at the sound of breaking wood and glass. All the while he worried the edges of his bandage, trying to get at the itch beneath it. As the day passed, his finger had wormed under the tape, and his nail could now agitate the crusty black stitches at the outer edge of his left eye. The itch never quite went away, and his fingernail explored deeper all the time.

Pike watched without expression, but twice during the day when food was offered, he turned it down and Skelton gleefully devoured the taller man’s portion, not noticing the grey pallor of Pike’s sunken cheeks. Nor did Skelton notice the watery gruel of pus on his cheek until a drop pattered to his lapel, causing him to fumble for his hanky and mop his face and coat. Even this didn’t prevent his finger from seeking to explore the maddening pruritis where his eye had been.

“Shame about Angela Black,” Skelton mused. “We could have used her.”

Pike shrugged.

“She wouldn’t have lasted long on the road anyway,” he said.

“I suppose not. Frustrating, though, Pike, because she’d have made a difference. Didn’t take much to turn her. She must have hated her brother, eh?”

Pike said nothing.

“And then she dies. Without her, luring him in will be that much harder.”

“We can use the other one,” said Pike in monotone.

“I don’t know. Judith Black will take some persuading, I think.”

“So let’s persuade her.”

Pike’s eyes caught Skelton’s and momentarily flickered with dead light. Skelton’s heart raced to see it. He was about to ask Pike about his proposed methods when Knowles, one of the Monmouth Wardsmen, trotted up to them.

“There’s no sign of the boy. Doesn’t look like he’s been back. We found some more hoarded items behind a panel in the attic – food, water and ammunition for the shotgun. There was cash under the floorboards in the study. Other than that, nothing.”

“Remove everything of value,” said Skelton. “Then take all their animals into the house.”

The Wardsmen worked with less enthusiasm to bring the hens, geese, goats and pig indoors, even though the animals were tame and didn’t particularly resist. None of the men were able to avoid muddying or fouling their otherwise pristine grey raincoats. Skelton grinned at their muttered oaths. Even Pike’s teeth peeped, a brief flash of tainted ivory, from behind his flat lips for a moment. When Skelton moved off towards the rear of the property, Pike followed, his limp unimproved. As they made their way between the apple trees towards the green door in the garden wall, Knowles caught up to them.

“What now, Sheriff Skelton?”

“Burn it. But don’t hang around watching the fire like a bunch of kids. I want you to recommence the search immediately. Exactly as I’ve outlined. Understood?”

Knowles frowned.

“Shouldn’t the animals be redistributed?” he asked.

Skelton leaned close, causing Knowles to recoil.

“The sooner the people starve, the sooner they’ll do as they’re told.”

“Yes, Sheriff.”

“Pike and I will retrace the boy’s last footsteps before he disappeared. I want to see if he’s left anything behind.”

“The bridleway?” asked Knowles.

“Correct.”

“But we’ve already checked that very thoroughly, Sheriff.”

“I want to see it for myself.”

Knowles appeared to be about to add something before deciding against it. What he actually said was:

“If you need any assistance out there, Sheriff, I’ll send whoever’s nearest.”

“We’ll be just fine, thank you, Knowles.” Skelton watched Knowles nod, about-face and hurry back to Hamblaen House. “I don’t like that man.”

Pike shrugged and forced open the green door. This time the hinges of the garden entrance gave up and the door fell out of its rotting frame. Pike let it drop to the ground and Skelton stepped through. Rags of black smoke began to rise from the house and, for a moment, he watched as the flames lanced up below twisting smoke-devils. Skelton turned away and waddled towards the bridleway as the first squeals and bleats of panic escaped the house. After a few paces, he glanced back to check on Pike. The grim cast of his partner’s face was like a sculpture.

The tunnel mouth came into view around a bend, marking the end of the bridleway.

Skelton reached it first and began to check the area. He stopped and stood straight when he heard Pike’s uneven gait over the rough, weed-infested ground. The man approached with his good leg taking a decent-sized, straight step, but he had to lift his wounded leg by raising his hip and swinging it forwards. Regardless of this encumbrance, Pike moved like a thing programmed. He was focussed and inexorable and it was beautiful to watch him, advancing as though he was wrought of pistons and gears and unyielding, lifeless materials. The man was terrifying. Never had a human been so much like an engine. Pike was his tool, his machine, fuelled by duty, loyalty and the desire to inflict pain. Pike would always do exactly as he was told. Skelton’s heart beat a little faster.

When Pike arrived, there was a tiny slick of sweat at his hairline. He looked a little nauseous but said nothing.

“So, this is where he ran to?” asked Skelton.

He watched Pike’s brain replaying the events.

“He came up this path but he was ahead of me, making ground. I lost sight of him.”

“Do you know how far he came? Did he make it to the tunnel?”

“I can’t say.”

Skelton nodded to himself, lips clamped tight. They’d come close and they’d missed a very good opportunity. If anyone else had allowed the same thing to happen, Skelton would have made sure they were disciplined. But the ferocity of the boy’s attack had taken them both by surprise. The fourteen year-old, and a puny one at that, had shown real fight. Still, they were forewarned now; Gordon Black would never surprise them again, nor would they ever be under-prepared for an encounter with him.

Skelton glanced around and noticed how a space near the tunnel’s mouth had been cleared of rocks. Looking closer, he found entry marks in the ground.

“He must have slept here,” he said, pointing. “Far enough away that he’d be out of sight but near enough to easily return.”

Pike saw the marks too.

“What did he do with his tent?” he asked.

Skelton looked around.

“What would you have done?”

Pike gestured with his chin into the darkness of the tunnel.

“Quite right. There’s nowhere else except the ditch under the hedges. But why risk getting wet gear when you’ve a perfectly dry place right beside you?”

“Then why didn’t he pitch tent in the tunnel? Safer. Drier. Out of the elements.”

“Fear, Pike. Fear of the dark. He camped here and returned to the house, leaving his gear stashed inside the tunnel. He had to come this way in order to pick up his stuff.”

Pike shook his head.

“Why lead us straight to it? Wouldn’t he have hidden somewhere else until we’d gone and then come back?”

Skelton could see the logic, but what difference did it make?

“He still had to come back here at some point, whether we were here or not. Right?”

“Right.”

“So when he came back what did he do?”

“He went into the tunnel to fetch his gear,” said Pike.

“Let’s take a look.”

The tunnel’s opening gaped like a monstrous throat, and Skelton hesitated, experiencing a moment of unease as he crossed its threshold. Chained in the flooded dungeon of his subconscious, a paralysing fear of the dark writhed like a vast eel. He’d done much to overcome his weaknesses over the years, to forget them – Ward training had eradicated almost all of them – but something about the silent, observant life in darkness still disturbed him. Mastering himself, lest Pike notice his nervousness, he strode into the blackness.

Only a few paces in, he stopped. The light of day plainly showed recent disturbance to the ground.

“What do you make of that, Pike?”

The giant moved in closer, his limp eliciting pride and protectiveness in Skelton – and something else he wasn’t ready to name. From his lofty vantage Pike surveyed the earth beneath their feet.

“There was a disturbance here. Not a fight. More of a struggle.” Pike’s eyes roved the shadowy tunnel mouth; he switched on his torch. “This is the print of a size ten, standard-issue Ward brogue. Over here, the prints of smaller hiking boots.” After a few more seconds he made eye contact with Skelton then looked away. He retreated towards the light. “The boy was here. He went up against one of ours. Neither was seriously hurt.”

Skelton moved after him, glad to leave the sucking darkness behind.

“Wait, Pike. What else?”

“That’s it.”

“But if neither was injured, what happened?”

Pike’s words were a flat hiss of escaping pressure.

“Someone let him go.”

“Not one of our men,” said Skelton.

“Couldn’t be,” said Pike.

“One of the Monmouth crew, then.”

Pike’s silence said it all. Skelton knew his partner believed in the Ward. It was his life. The very purpose of his existence. Even to utter an accusation toward another within its ranks was to commit some small betrayal of the whole. The Ward existed in every nation of the world, and their remit was to protect the world from the coming age of darkness at any and all costs. Now that the prophecies showed England to be the land from which the darkness would spread, the mission had fallen to Skelton and Pike. The responsibility rested squarely on their shoulders. Pike, Skelton knew, carried that burden in a very special way – it was like a power source. The idea that one among them might have made a mistake was shame enough. To think that they had a traitor in their number was far worse. Pike took it personally. Everything was personal with Pike.

“And I think I’ve an idea who it might be,” said Skelton.

Pike ignored this.

“We need to search the tunnel.”

Skelton cleared his throat.

“You and I can’t do it,” he said. “We don’t have the equipment.”

Skelton reached into his pocket and withdrew his grey mobile. One bar of reception winked in and out of existence. He dialled Knowles but the call failed three times. Instinctively, he looked into the sky. There was nothing to see, of course. He threw the phone into the hedge.

“What are you doing?” asked Pike.

“Accepting the facts,” said Skelton. “Haven’t had a signal anywhere we’ve been for a week. Christ knows what we’ll use from now on. Bloody carrier pigeons or something.”

He walked away. Pike followed, the sound of his footsteps determined but broken.

“Where are we going?” he asked.

“To fetch some high-power torches and a few more men,” said Skelton.

Pike grunted behind him and stopped. Skelton turned back.

“What is it?” He asked.

“Make sure Knowles is one of them,” said Pike.