Down: Pinhole (9 page)

“If I knew I wouldn’t ask, would I, sunny Jim?”

Des was shaking all over now. “You don’t know what a mobile phone is. You don’t know how to operate the tele. You’ve never seen it in color. You call radio the wireless. Yet you’re a young enough man. What are you, some kind of a Rip Van Winkle?”

“He was in a fairy tale. I wasn’t in no fairy tale. I was in fucking Hell.”

“I’m sure you’ve had a rough time of it, but please don’t hurt my wife and I. We haven’t done a thing to harm you and we won’t.”

Woodbourne sniffed at the aroma of bacon and eggs wafting from the kitchen. “You haven’t done a bit of listening. I was in Hell. Do you know what happened on the eighth day of April in 1949?”

“I’ve no idea.”

“I was taken at dawn to the yard of HMS Dartford Prison. They built a gallows there, just for me. I can still smell the sawdust. There was a young, pimply minister there with a Bible but I told him to sod off. After that, the rest of it happened so fast I hardly had a chance to think on it. This bloke put a hood over my head and a thick noose round my neck and pulled the lever. I dropped. It was like flying but it didn’t last long, I’ll tell you that.”

“Are you telling me you were put to death in 1949?”

“That’s exactly what I’m saying. And next thing I knew I was smack in the middle of Hell, most miserable place you can ever imagine. Thought I’d be like the rest of ’em, there forever and a day, but not long ago I was walking down a road, up to me ankles in mud and all of a sudden I’m back on the right side of things. Sixty-five years later. I still can’t believe none of it.”

“You’re mad,” Des said, shaking his head.

Woodbourne laughed loudly at that, stopping Adele in her tracks as she entered with a plate of food.

“Let me tell you something,” Woodbourne said. “If I could trade what I’ve gone through for madness I’d do so in a tick of the clock.”

John had ridden horses before but he was hardly expert. The saddle of his brown mare was thin with a high pommel and low cantle, and iron stirrups strapped too high for his long legs. The mare was placid and allowed him to dismount and adjust the stirrup leathers.

“Can you manage?” Dirk asked, comfortably astride his own black horse.

“We’ll just have to see. I’d do better with a western saddle. Or better yet, a car.”

“The new ‘uns are always on about what they ‘ad and we don’t. Advice I give ‘em is don’t be nattering about all manner of fancy things what’s not ’ere. We’re lucky we don’t ’ave to walk.”

They started down the muddy road at a slow trot, John’s still-bloody sword bouncing against his thigh in a scabbard scavenged from one of his victims. The flintlock pistol was too large and heavy for his pocket so he put it in a cloth saddle bag along with the pouches of powder horn and shot. He talked to his horse in a soothing voice and patted her neck, asking her not to do anything crazy, and with a flick of the bridle, she smoothly accelerated to keep pace with Dirk. His shoulder wound throbbed with every set of hoof beats, his head ached, but he clenched his jaw and dealt with it.

The small village quickly gave way to untamed land. Under a lifeless sky, they made their way through a vast expanse of tall grass and bulrushes, forging their own path. John pulled astride of Dirk.

“What do you call this place?”

“Dartford.”

“Same as we call it.”

“No point in calling it something else, is there?”

“What’ll happen to the soldiers?”

“Village fowk. They’ve already dealt with ’em, I expect. Probably use the ’orses for meat, one at a time to keep it fresh. Maybe they’ll keep one for plowing.”

“What do you mean the soldiers will be dealt with?”

“You’ll find that out soon enough.”

“Where are you taking me?”

“Greenwich.”

“Is the geography here similar to Earth?”

“What’s geography?”

“The position of rivers, hills, mountains.”

“I only know ’ere to London. It’s the same as I remember from me live days.”

“Who’s the man we’re going to see?”

“Like I told you, someone who can ’elp find your lady.”

“What’s his name?”

“You’re full of questions, know that?”

“Believe me, I’m just getting started.”

“Solomon Wisdom.”

John snorted a laugh. “A real wise guy, eh?”

Dirk nodded solemnly. “’E’s plenty wise, ’e is. And rich too.”

In a short while, the river he’d seen from the house came into clear view. It was broad with a mighty current. As far as John was able to see, the banks were unpopulated but in the distance to the east—if the compass coordinates were the same—there was a single-masted sailing boat heading away from them.

“The Thames?” John asked.

Dirk nodded. “We’ll follow it to Greenwich. It’s not the shortest way but it’s the safest. There’s a filthy lot in Bexley, we’ll be missing.”

Across the river John saw a row of evenly spaced poles, resembling telephone poles, which stretched as far as he could see to the east and west.

“What are those?” he asked, pointing.

“I’ve no idea,” Dirk said. “They weren’t always there, but they are now. Let’s get up to a gallop, all right? If we want to keep our ’eads fixed upon our necks we’ll want to get to Greenwich by nightfall.”

“Why’s that?”

“Worst sorts roam the night.”

They rode for about an hour in silence, the horses pounding the grassy verge, throwing up clods of turf, until Dirk pulled up and dismounted.

“There’s no telling when they was last watered.”

At the bank, the horses drank thirstily. John watched a hawk tighten its circle and drop like a stone into the bulrushes then emerge with something in its talons.

“How about them?” John asked.

“Who?”

“The animals. Do they die?”

“They’re the lucky ones. They’ve a way out of ’ere.”

“What a place,” John said.

Dirk grunted his agreement, plucked a handful of grass and offered it to his horse. When the beast took to it aggressively, John fed his mare fistfuls too then went to the river, scooped up some water and sniffed at it. “Safe to drink?”

Dirk smirked.

“Probably a stupid question,” John said. He sipped at it. It seemed fine so he drank his fill then pointed at the sky. “Is this a typical day?”

“Typical how?”

“The weather.”

“Depends on the season, I’d say. Sometimes it’s boiling hot, sometimes it’s bitter cold. It’s in the middle right now which is better I s’pose.”

“Same as Earth.”

“No, not the same. You never get the sun ’ere. There’s always a gloom. At first you miss the yellow sunshine. Then you forget what it was like.”

“Without the sun how do you keep the time?”

“There’s no need to do so, far as I can see. It gets dark then it gets light. What more d’you need?”

In seven days from the moment he arrived, MAAC was going to fire up again. He needed better time-keeping than night turning to day.

“Do you have clocks? Or watches?”

“I know what they are but I never seen them ’ere. Come on, let’s get along.”

They rode on. In time John saw a few more fields that looked freshly tilled for planting. It was spring on Earth and appeared to be spring here too. Yet as John gazed upon the land it struck him that spring back home was a hopeful time, full of promise. Promise seemed in short supply here.

There was chimney smoke along the river and a group of small rowing boats plying the dark waters. Dirk slowed his horse.

“That’s Thamesmead ahead,” Dirk said. “There’s no easy way of missing it out without going way around. It’s a reasonable size town but we’ll ride straight through, keeping our ’eads down. If there’s trouble, at least you can fight, can’t you, John Camp?”

“What about my clothes? I stick out.”

“That’s not our problem. Fowks arrive nowadays wearing costumes much like yours. The problem’s your smell.”

“What about it?”

“You don’t smell like us. It’s different, like nice, fresh meat. She was like that too.”

“A few days without a bath should fix me.”

“We’ll see ’bout that.”

“Was she scared?” John asked.

“The lady?”

“Her name is Emily.”

“Ladies are scarce ’ere, so I ’aven’t seen many of ’em when they first come. So I’d say your Emily was scared, ’course she was, but she seemed like a tough one, more like a man in that regard. She put up a holy fight when the sweepers picked ’er up, I’ll tell you that. Bloodied a nose or two.”

“I’ll bet she did.”

On the outskirts of Thamesmead they overtook an old man on a mule-drawn cart heading into the town with a load of sewn marsh grasses. The cart driver turned his head in alarm at the sound of their approaching horses then glowered as they passed.

The town was bifurcated by a rutted dirt road. On the river side the dwellings were tiny mud huts with reed roofs, many with small, rough boats pulled up onto the land next to heaps of nets. There was a powerful odor of rotting fish. The buildings on the land side were more substantial, the smallest of which were much like the thatched cottages in Dartford, the largest, two-story unpainted timber-framed structures with cracking plaster. Hens pecked about some of the houses and there were a few tethered goats. Behind some of the dwellings were horse barns with bony beasts peeking out, looking less well fed than the soldier’s horses. Most of the shutters were closed. A man emerged from one of the thatched cottages, caught sight of the riders, and retreated inside like a startled mouse. There was a loud clanging coming from an open-fronted hut. A blacksmith, a man with big glistening arms was beating down on an anvil. He stopped his hammering at mid-stroke to stare as they passed.

“I don’t see a church,” John said to Dirk. “All towns have churches.”

“No need for those ’ere,” Dirk snorted.

Rising over the village was a mound of earthenworks, some twenty yards high, with a flattened top. Perched on the mound was a fortress of sorts, a squat stone building which would have resembled a Norman tower had it been taller. It was almost as if the builders had run out of stone. The truncated tower had a few slotted windows overlooking the river and a large wooden door.

“Don’t gaze on it,” Dirk warned. “We don’t want to be meeting the underlord.”

“Hard-ass, is he?”

“What’s an ass?”

“You know, bum, buttocks.”

“Well, I’ve never had occasion to touch his blind cheeks, so I couldn’t say if it were ’ard or soft, but I don’t believe you’d wish to share a bubber of belch with the likes of ’im.”

“Dirk, you and I are going to need a translator.” After a while John asked, “Is Solomon Wisdom some kind of a lord?”

“’Ardly. Wisdom’s a merchant.”

“Oh yeah? What’s his merchandise?”

Dirk cackled. “Poor bastards what winds up ’ere, of course.”

As they made their way through the village that repellent aroma John had smelled in Dartford overcame him once again.

“What is that? Sewers?”

Dirk sniffed at the air as if he hadn’t noticed. “Partly open ditches, I s’pose, but we’re near to their rotting rooms, I expect.”

“What are they?”

“Nasty places I don’t care to speak of. You ask our Master Wisdom if it pleases you.”

Suddenly a group of filthy men poured from another open-fronted structure, a market stall of sorts with a barrel of beer on a table, and hastened to block their way. A few of them circled behind the horses to prevent an escape.

Dirk pulled his reins and said, “We’re buggered. Cheese it, John Camp. Let me do the tittle-tattle.”

John controlled his jittery horse and focused on the alpha male, a young, shirtless fellow at the front of the pack wielding a large club. Judging by the patches of dried blood on his scalp he had recently shaved his head. His pasty-white chest was full of decidedly modern tattoos. Gang ink, by the looks of it.

The young man pointed his club at the riders and said truculently, “Who the fuck are yous two?”

“’Ere, kindly let us pass, friend,” Dirk said. “We’ve got urgent crown business.”

“You’re no friend a mine, mate. Off your fucking horses.”

A panicky Dirk began to comply but John told him to keep to his saddle.

The young man frowned at John and said, “What’s your problem, sunshine? Hard a hearing?”

An older fellow in the group thrust his finger at John and said, “Can’t you smell ’im, Reggie, he ain’t one of us?”

Reggie answered the man, “You’ll have to excuse me, you dozy bastard. I haven’t been in this fucking place long enough to tell the difference between the various aromas of shite. But I’ll tell you what I see. I see two cunts on soldier’s horses they likely pinched, coming down
my
fucking street in
my
fucking town.” He waved his club at Dirk and John and said, “Now get the fuck down before I club you down.”

John shocked them all by smiling and saying evenly, “How’re you doing today, Reggie? Enjoying your pint?”

Reggie looked confused. “What’s a bloody Yank doing in my town?”

“That’s funny, I thought the town belonged to the guy in that castle up there.”

“Fuck him,” Reggie said. “On this street, I’m the boss man.”

A few men murmured their support.

“How long’ve you been here, Reggie?” John asked, “Recent arrival?”

Reggie began moving his club in a tight little circle as he crept closer to John’s horse. “1997, mate.”

“Real badass, I’m guessing. That tat on your chest, The Firm—that your gang?”

He kept coming. “You know it, Yankee-doodle cunt. Thamesmead’s finest.”

“This Thamesmead’s a bit different from yours. Liking it so far?”

“It was a concrete shithole before, it’s a wooden shithole now. Consider this the end of our chinwag, arse-wipe. I’m taking your horses, I’m taking your sword, I’m taking what’s in your bloody bag.”

“This bag?” John said, unwrapping it from the pommel and reaching his hand inside.

Reggie charged, his club raised above his head, and when John pulled the trigger inside, for a second, everyone, man and beast, seemed to freeze.

Before the deafening report of the pistol had fully dissipated, Reggie’s tattooed chest turned red. He clutched at it and crumpled to his knees, as surprised as he’d probably looked the moment he landed in Hell.