Ruin (The Ruin Saga Book 1) (39 page)

Norman sat with a sigh, back in Alexander’s study. A strange medley of sensations was at war within him: exhaustion, burgeoning guilt, and a distant throbbing emanating from his extremities.

The fire still roared in the grate. Warmth permeated the darkened room, and a gentle wind whispered at the windows.

He looked down at the faded green book that Alex had laid in his hands, taking note of the title’s delicate golden lettering. “Alice in Wonderland?” he said.

Alex smiled, thin-lipped. He looked more drawn than Norman had ever seen him. Speaking at the funeral must have taken its toll. “Give it a try,” he said. “You might like it.”

“Why are you giving me this?”

Alex looked still more distant. “Tradition.”

Norman frowned, but let it pass, resting the book in his lap.

“The boy is gone, then?” Alexander’s slouched position made his figure hard to distinguish in the flickering light, his face hard to read.

“Yes. He just let him leave.”

A light smile wandered over Alexander’s features. “Where’s Lucian now?”

“Guard duty, with Robert.”

Alex nodded, and said no more for some time. When he finally spoke, he sounded no more present. “How’s your chest?”

“It hurts.”

“Heather told me to watch you for any strange behaviour. I thought I’d just come right out and ask.”

“Ask if I’m seeing pink elephants?”

Alex glanced at him. “Are you?”

Norman smiled, but felt it grow tight on his face as the memory of his dream flashed before his eyes yet again—

The storm. The city. The yelling faces. The leering stranger.

Each time he remembered it, the details seemed that much clearer, that much more forceful.

And yet, it had been just a dream. Hadn’t it?

It was probably nothing. Yet, despite himself, he cleared his throat and caught Alexander’s gaze. For a moment he merely sat and listened to the crackling in the grate, and then he spoke. “When I was out, I had a dream…only I don’t think it was a dream. I think that I was remembering something. From before you took me in.”

Alex’s silhouette was deathly still amidst the shadows. He said nothing, just waited for Norman to continue.

“I remembered a storm. It was raining hard. Everything was flooded. It was a city—I think London. I was lying on the ground. You and Lucian were leaning over me, yelling… I’d hurt my head. I’d hurt my head badly.” He paused and shivered as the image in his mind’s eye sharpened once more, so much so that he could almost taste something awful, something stagnant. He thought of mentioning the marble-faced, leering figure—

“Remember, Norman. Remember. You were all there. You all watched it happen.”

—but, perhaps because Alexander had mentioned watching him for strange behaviour, he thought better of it. Instead, he grunted to fill the brief silence that followed. “Is that why I can’t remember?” he said. “Was that the night of the accident?”

Alex stared at him for over a minute. Something stirred behind his eyes. “That was the night that your parents died,” he said. “And yes, it was also the night of the accident, and the night that I first told you about…”

“About my destiny?”

Alex nodded.

Norman waited, but he said no more. He itched to know the rest—to pry further into this mystery—but Alexander’s expression, along with the fresh memory of Lucian’s blood-curdling near miss, made him think twice.

He was tired of the questions, of the secrets, of not knowing. But perhaps this was something best saved for another night.

Norman shook his head. “Why me?” he muttered. “I’ve always wondered. Of all of these people, any of a hundred of them would have been a better choice. Why did you choose me?”

Alex looked away into the flames. “Because some men have—” He paused, and drew a deep sigh. Then he shook his head. “I didn’t choose anything. It was always going to be you.” He cleared his throat and shifted, as though uncomfortable, and fell silent.

After that, the night took hold in earnest. The din of Ray’s wake, which spanned the breadth of the city, fizzled and petered out. While the city grew peaceful and the sleepy rhythm of the night set in, Norman rubbed his chest and broke the silence. “What’s the news on the council summit?”

Alexander grunted. “It’s going ahead as planned. I’m very interested to hear about this radio signal. But now that this…trouble has come up, we’ll be able to address everyone. Warn them.”

“Of what?”

“Of what’s coming.”

“You think the others are going to be targeted as well?”

Alex didn’t need to reply. A glance was enough.

They turned back to the fire, enjoying each other’s company as New Canterbury slept. The shadow that had hung over them all for so long now seemed punctured by the faintest glimmer of hope.

“When do we leave?” Norman said.

Don coughed. His breath wheezed deep in his throat and he shivered without pause beneath the bedcovers despite the thick, greasy sweat coating his chest and brow. Through bloated eyes he could barely make out Billy’s form, sitting upon a wooden chair beside the bed.

The cabin had become their new home. Dilapidated and ancient, it had appeared to be little more than a shack from outside. But there were beds, a small living space, and even a miniature kitchen. More than he could have hoped for.

In truth, he’d been utterly defeated before finding it. Now, there was a chance.

“You mustn’t cry,” he said.

A small candle burned in a dish on the bedside table, casting a meek light upon Billy’s tearstained face.

“I’m scared,” she whispered, wrapping her arms tighter around her knees.

“You mustn’t be. You have to be strong.”

Billy whimpered, hiding her head.

“Stop crying!” Don coughed, and lay back, groaning.

Billy hiccoughed, and her sobs died under his tenuous glare.

“I’m sorry,” said Don. “We’ll be alright.”

She nodded.

“You don’t believe me?”

“You’re sick, Daddy.” She grumbled for a moment, lowering her head towards her knees, until her eyes peeked just above her arms.

“I know. But I’ll get better. Everything will be fine.”

“Alright.”

“You’re still worried.”

“It’s dark outside.”

Don sat up, glancing at the grimed window. It was almost opaque, but still he could tell it was pitch-black outside. “You’ve never been afraid of the dark before,” he said.

“Now I know they’re out there. The Bad Men.”

“They’re not here right now.”

Billy’s gaze remained trained on the window. “How do you know?”

“I just know. Trust me.”

She nodded, and began to rock once more upon the chair. Its joints creaked even louder.

Don sighed, turning to their bag at the foot of the bed. Dragging it towards him, he pulled it open and rummaged inside. Billy’s head lifted as he produced a torch from its depths, thin and stunted.

He’d been saving it for an emergency. Once the candles burned down, it would be their last stopgap before having to rub sticks together. Their supply of lighters and matches had long since run dry.

He clicked the power switch, and a harsh beam of white light lanced across the room, pooling against the far wall. Once satisfied that it wouldn’t falter, he handed it to Billy and sat back, gasping from the exertion. He had the sudden urge to sleep. “There you go,” he said between ragged breaths. “Now you’ll know if they’re near.”

Billy took it with extreme care, unravelling her limbs and staring with wonder at the magic of the black bottle. Waving it to and fro, she smiled—a true smile, one he hadn’t seen in a long time.

“How did they get all of this light in here?” she breathed.

Don laughed, holding his ribs. “That’s not how it works.”

“Then how does it work?”

He coughed, sinking lower into the pillows’ folds. “I’ll tell you another time, I promise. Now get some sleep.”

He needed to rest. His eyes pulsed with a steady, dull pain, the lids heavy. They rolled to a close, and he immediately began to drift.

A bump jerked him awake some time later. After opening his eyes once more—a task that required extreme effort—he saw that Billy had moved across the room and climbed onto a stool to shine the torch through the window.

She turned to him, smiling. “Magic.”

Don laughed, and then began to drift once more. “That’s right,” he said. “Magic.”

Birdsong filled the summer air, accompanied by the trickling of the Stour. Dragonflies flitted across open water, racing parallel to the glassy surface. The sky was bright, the morning fresh, and the mist of dawn was evaporating to be replaced by a pleasant golden glow. There was no cloud cover other than a distant spattering of cirrus, many miles away.

The riverside was alive. Milling droves hauled luggage along the bank, loading it into a small fleet of rowboats. Almost half the city had gathered to help load supplies, and to bid farewell to family and friends. The air was thick with excitement, saturating every crevice.

On the far shore, a convoy of horses, wagons and other supplies was being assembled. The ant-like figures of two dozen men and women scurried without pause, moving between animals and boxes.

The earth had been turned. The fields sown. No more attacks had come.

In the fortnight since Ray’s funeral, without the presence of the unwelcome prisoner hanging in the air like a foul stink, things had improved. The first signs of life were returning to the forests. The grass on the hills was growing green again. Tensions had lessened just enough to allow the radio signal to have become the subject of conversation once more. Rumours were spreading, whispers filled every street corner, and debate at the dinner table was rife.

For many, the reality of it had finally struck home: they might not be alone.

Somewhere out there, there might be others, others for whom the candle of civilisation still burned. Just maybe, after all this time, they might be saved.

Norman watched, sitting on a decrepit bench a small distance from the main body of activity. His cane was propped beside him, a painful reminder that, after two weeks, he was only just beginning to feel better. Since his visit from Jason he’d started to feel trapped, imprisoned behind a broken body.

Yet, despite his frustration, he
was
recovering, and his strength was returning.

Heather crouched beside him, checking his collarbone and chest, where the pain was greatest. “You’re sure it hasn’t gotten any better?” she said, frowning as she massaged his shoulder.

He shook his head, wincing, then hesitated. “Slowly,” he said.

“How bad?”

Norman looked at her, trying to keep a straight face. “I can’t think,” he said. “It feels like I have glass under my skin.”

She nodded absently. “You should be mending by now. You might just need longer to recover. There’s no way to be sure how bad the injury was.”

“You’re sure that I’m okay to go?”

She wobbled her head. “As long as you don’t walk too much, you should be alright. Make sure you take a few deep breaths every hour, or you’ll get pneumonia.” She paused for emphasis. “If you get any worse, get help from somebody. I still don’t know if you’re punctured internally.”

“I’d feel a lot better if you were coming along,” he said.

She laughed and touched him on the shoulder. “I wouldn’t mind going either, but with so many people in and out of the clinic, the city would go crazy.” She sighed, brushing her prematurely greying hair from her face. “People are acting…odd.”

“This is new for all of us,” Norman said, struggling to his feet.

She nodded, standing with him for a time, watching the proceedings.

Not long after, Sarah appeared, walking hand in hand with Robert. Her face was more alive than Norman had ever seen it, its soft curves strikingly feminine, bearing a smile so intense it outshone the sun.

Robert, meanwhile, looked beside himself. A goofy, childish grin appeared out of place upon his enormous head.

A gaggle of children surrounded them, giggling as they jumped to and fro, their shoes clattering on the cobbles. They chattered for a moment, and some of the older boys attempted to strike up conversation with Robert, their heads turned skywards in search of his face.