Catherine Jinks TheRoad (25 page)

He had to get back to the house. Clean himself. Pick out a change of clothes. The plan was there – all laid out – and it would protect him, as long as he completed each step faithfully before proceeding to the next. Logic and organisation would see him through this, like a charm against the forces of chaos ranged against him, but not if he faltered. Not if he let his enemy set the agenda.

He thought he heard a sound coming from the hole – a soft scraping sound – and he leaned forward, eyes narrowed. He knew that the kid was in there. He could feel it; the air was practically singing with tension, and the hole was the source of that tension. But if Nathan
was
in there, he was playing possum. The way he used to back at the house, when he hid in the garage or the laundry basket like a fucking
cockroach
. He wasn’t a kid, he was a little brown cockroach.

Grace had probably taught him to hide. She knew all the boong tricks, and would have passed them on for sure. A kid like that, with her blood in him – who knew what he was capable of? Lying low. Burrowing into the landscape. That was the way they worked it. Watching. Waiting. Black shadows, weaving their spells in the dark.

Not any more, though. She wouldn’t be fucking up his life any more. The curse was lifted.

At last he got sick of waiting. He couldn’t risk hanging around any longer. He had to get out before something bad happened – before the dark forces of her will regrouped, somehow. She was dead now, but he still didn’t trust her. He was half-afraid that he had failed to destroy her poisonous spirit, despite all his efforts. What if he had simply released it into the air, or into the soil? Suppose it managed to strike back at him in the usual way, by turning the world against him?

It might happen yet, if he didn’t stay with the program. His plan, his program, was all he had. He had fashioned himself a defence against her witchery using measurements and machines and timetables and all the other products of civilisation with which mankind had harnessed the natural laws of the universe. And he had won. For all her secret knowledge, she had been fooled and defeated.

Reaching for his boots, he dragged first one on, then the other, jerking at the laces as if he wanted them to snap. His hands were bony and long-fingered, crawling with knotted muscle, splattered with dried blood. There was blood under his fingernails.

With a groan of relief he finally stood up, stretching and flexing, wrinkling his nose as the first faint whiff of meat reached him. It wasn’t too bad yet, but it would be. In this sun, Mullet would start to rot without delay. His guts would ooze and his belly would blow and the maggots would crawl up his arse.

Mullet’s master found some satisfaction in contemplating this prospect, which was all that Mullet deserved. Hot rage suddenly erupted inside him like a haemorrhage – like lava oozing, thick and sulphurous, out of a crusted fault-line into his blood. He stamped hard on Mullet’s head, four or five times, feeling the small bones splinter. Then he whirled around, squatted, and poked the barrel of his gun into the mouth of the hole.

‘Say good night, ya little fuck!’ he spat. When he pulled the trigger, the hole exploded.

There was a flash, a roar, a spray of dust. The man laughed and reloaded, pulling at the bolt, allowing the next bullet to spring into the chamber. As he pushed the bolt back into place, he thought he heard something – a faint squeak? Maybe.

But his ears were still ringing.

He fired again, and again. He fired until his magazine was empty, because he had more ammo. Lots more. He even had another gun – a fuck-awful old thing that he had lifted off the old man. Looked like a piece of rubbish, but it
did
work, as long as you weren’t a half-blind geriatric. He had to laugh, when he thought of that doddering idiot. Carrying his ammo in his pocket like a packet of mints. Shuffling along in his slippers.

A sitting duck.

The man rose, breathing heavily. He glanced around, but saw only empty land; the crows had gone. There were no suspicious clouds of dust anywhere nearby. He was calm again now – serene in fact – because he had finished the job. The job was done, at last. Though a long time coming, it had been worth the wait – worth the endless, tormenting, suffocating wait. And if he felt a bit weak, a bit muddled, well... that was all right. That was to be expected. It was like reaching the end of a marathon – like coming up for air after a long, hard swim. Of course you were left feeling dizzy.

He wished he could have taken a photograph, but he wasn’t stupid, no matter what everyone said. He knew better than to hang onto any fucking souvenirs. That wasn’t part of his plan. He’d have to get rid of his gun, in fact, and keep that heap-of-junk .22. He was willing to bet that no one knew anything about the .22, now that the old man was dead. It was the sort of thing that farmers found under their shearing sheds and stuck in their laundry cupboards. Fucking
ancient
. His own gun wasn’t registered to him, so that was all right. It had been stolen by a mate of his. Sold to him for drinking money.

See? He knew what he was doing. He had everything under control. Everything was under control now – everything. Even that slag, that cunt, that fucking – fucking – that black
bitch
with her evil eye. He had put out that eye. He had smashed it into pulp.

The very thought of her almost made him retch. His hands shook as he fumbled in his pocket for more ammo. But then he happened to look down, and see the glistening thread that was slowly, slowly trickling out of the hole.

It looked almost black, but it wasn’t. It was a dark, doomed red.

Satisfied, the man turned on his heel. He began to march towards the house, whistling for his dog before he remembered, and laughed a shaky, high-pitched laugh, and slapped his forehead.

Some of the flies followed him. Most remained with the dog, and some – a few – began to explore the hole, drawn by the promise of butchery.