Watershed (21 page)

The next time I saw Tate he was carrying a noose.

‘Sick of me already?' I asked, feeling the first stirrings of alarm.

He neither nodded nor shook his head. ‘You have to walk now, without the hobbles. This is a precaution. If you try anything, I'll strangle you. Do you understand?'

Yeah, I understood. I kind of wished I hadn't thanked him the day before.

He fitted the noose around my neck, pulling it tight enough so it pressed my throat, then passed the rest of the rope down my back, winding it around my waist to close the cloak as well as give him a handle of sorts. Only when he was done did he bend to unlock the chains on my ankles and I almost groaned with relief, lifting each leg high, bending my knees and hearing the crack of the joints. But my wrists remained bound. Prodding my back with one hand, holding the rope with the other, he guided me out the door.

‘Where are we going?' I asked him, not expecting an answer.

‘Ballard wants to see you,' he rumbled.

‘Well, when the master calls –' The thick rope pulled tight, choking off the rest. I kept quiet after that, my lesson learned.

We walked and walked, and I realised why the hobbles had been removed. The maze of tunnels and shafts seemed endless, even more extensive than the Watch compound, and I wondered at the work that had gone into rebuilding them. Ballard hadn't been lying after all. Dim lamps smoked from beams, vaguely lighting our way, and we passed other passageways and countless doors, all of them closed. I tried to enjoy the sensation of being able to walk unfettered for the first time, tried to ignore the dismay that grew with every step, as the extent of Ballard's operation finally began to sink in. This was why he'd summoned me, rather than visiting me in my room. He was ready to show me what I could become a part of, if I wished.

After a dozen turns, only half of which I could remember, Tate pulled me to a stop outside a large door.

‘You're here to observe,' he said. ‘Don't speak unless you're addressed directly. Later, Ballard will answer any questions you have.'

He jerked on the rope, I twisted my head to lessen the pressure, and he opened the door and shoved me into a brightly lit cave. Blinking away the darkness of the tunnels, I stood there for a minute to take in the sights.

Every wall was lined with cots or mats, all of them full. More were scattered in the middle space, between thick posts that held up the timber-lined ceiling. Narrow, disorderly paths ran between the rows, and along them scurried a few harried men and women carrying pans and trays, sidestepping each other with practised ease. There was a momentary hush once our presence was noticed, a few looking up from their work to frown before dismissing us. Across the room Ballard was talking to a woman and when she turned I recognised Alex. Theirs were the only familiar faces and, apart from those tending to the sick and the wounded, pretty much the only ones not contorted in pain. A low hum of groans and moans vibrated the air, and there was a smell I knew so well filling my nostrils, thick and sickly pungent. Death.

Sometimes death has no smell, seizing the body before it can register or react. Other times it takes on the odour of fear, of cold sweat, the rush of piss or the involuntary release of shit. But this was different. This was a blanket of rot, a sweet decay of flesh and the metallic ooze of blood, smothering and suffocating. This was a trumpet call heralding death's approach, demanding surrender, and I gulped it in, tasting it without relish. It was too familiar.

Ballard nodded in our direction and Tate nudged me forwards, jerking me to a stop at each cot so I got an eyeful of every wound. Jagged holes, torn flesh, severed limbs, shattered bones, faces once whole that now were broken. Sunken eyes, splintered teeth, matted hair on battered heads, all of them telling the same tale. Some of the wounds were old; others were new, bright with fresh blood that soaked thin bandages. Those who were conscious would watch mutely as we approached and stared and passed on again without a word. Some held out hands, limp and feeble entreaties, but neither Tate nor I had anything to offer. It was a room of pain, and my own of a week earlier paled in comparison. As we passed the slain, the able-bodied carers eyed me carefully, no doubt knowing who and what I was, their distrust and fear obvious, their disapproval evident. Not even the rope around my neck or the ties on my wrists lessened their concern. But they had nothing to fear from me. Not that day.

Eventually we found our way to Alex, following a meandering path that might've been picked at random, but probably hadn't; Ballard had moved on, and was sitting in the corner of the room next to a cot obscured by a partially drawn curtain. She looked up as we neared. She was perched on the very edge of a narrow bed, though there was plenty of room left by the small boy who lay there. Both his wrists were heavily bandaged, the hands gone, and Alex was feeding him, spoonful by spoonful, as she'd once fed me. She stopped when we did, and nodded at Tate.

‘How's he doing?' Tate asked her, the first words he'd uttered since entering the room.

She gave a ghost of a smile. ‘Better. Getting his appetite back at least, aren't you, Connor?'

The boy didn't reply, but kept staring at me. Big eyes, round and darkly fringed by lashes better suited to a girl: wide eyes that were curious, despite his pain. He studied me, taking in the thick cloak and the bare legs, the ropes and the bruises, while I stared at his arms and his stick body; it was hard to know who felt more uncomfortable.

‘Are you the Watchman everyone's talking about?' he asked, his voice as reedy as the rest of him.

I turned my head to look at Tate, and he gave a nod. Alex watched me warily.

‘I am,' I said.

‘Did you come here to kill everyone?' he asked and, without thinking, I stepped forwards to reassure him. But he shrank back and Tate hauled on the rope, cutting into my throat and making me gasp.

‘Let him go,' Alex said, then to Connor: ‘Don't be afraid. He can't hurt you.'

I glared at Tate until he released his hold, and crouched down beside the cot, looking at the boy. He was just a kid, probably not even ten, and I pitied him for the miserable years to come. A life without hands was no life, the best he could hope for was that it'd be short.

‘How'd you lose your hands?' I asked him.

He scowled. ‘A Guard chopped them off. Said I stole some meat.'

‘And did you?'

He raised his head, defiant. ‘Course. I was hungry.'

I felt sick with anger. Severing a hand for theft was common practice, but removing both was barbarous. And Alex had dared to ask me why I hated the Guard. I looked at the stumps, then at
his thin face. His pain was evident, but there was courage there too, that indomitable trait of the very young; there in the eyes that didn't look away, and the pointed chin that lifted; there in the small jaw, which clenched, and in the bony shoulders, which had squared. If he'd had hands, he'd have balled those too.

‘I'm not here to kill you, Connor,' I said. ‘But if I ever get out of here, I'll kill that Guard for you. Does that sound fair?'

He gave a slow nod but didn't smile. ‘You promise?'

Alex wasn't smiling either. In fact, she looked furious, but I didn't care. There were some things a woman could never hope to understand, and this was one of them.

‘I promise,' I told him.

Connor raised a stump and pointed it at me. ‘Do they really mark you when you kill people? Can I see?'

But too many eyes were watching us, none of them friendly, and I hesitated, torn between acknowledging what I was and hiding from it.

‘Maybe another time, Connor,' Alex said, giving both of us a reprieve. ‘Let's keep eating, okay?'

He opened his mouth like a little seabird and she spooned more gruel into it, but his gaze never left me as I rose and Tate pulled me to the next bed, and then the next. No one else spoke or asked me any questions, and at last we reached the corner where Ballard sat holding the hand of something that'd once been human.

It was impossible to tell how she might've looked before. Her lower jaw hung loose and most of her teeth were broken. Fetid air hissed between torn and swollen lips as she laboured to breathe. Tate pulled the curtain right across, shielding us all from prying eyes, and when Ballard looked up I could see the strain on his face, the weariness and grief. Releasing his hold on me again, Tate rested a large hand on Ballard's shoulder.

‘Any change?' he asked and Ballard shook his head.

‘I can't believe she's lasted this long,' he said.

They both just stared at the woman, saying nothing, Ballard rubbing her hand with his thumb, Tate kneading his friend's shoulder.

‘What happened to her?' I asked, and Tate swivelled his head, frowning, almost as though he'd forgotten I was there.

‘Show him,' Ballard said, standing up and crossing his arms, agitated and needing to pace, but finding no room.

Tate grasped the sheet covering her and slowly peeled it away, revealing the horror beneath.

The woman was naked. Her arms had been slashed, angry red cuts that gaped and wept and hadn't been stitched together. Her breasts were mangled mounds of flesh, torn and bitten. Where her body hadn't been opened up, it'd been pulverised, blotched purple and red with contusions and the spidery threads of infection. Her legs were spread slightly; putrid pus and thick black blood seeped from the swollen flesh between them. Staring, I felt sick. Not even Garrick would've made such a mess.

‘Cover her up,' I said, and watched Tate draw up the blanket again before glancing at Ballard. ‘She's dying.'

‘Yes,' he replied, ‘but not quickly enough.'

‘You have to help her.'

‘We've tried, Jem, but there's nothing we can do.'

‘No. Help her die. End it.'

Ballard's face tightened. ‘That's not what we do here.'

‘What you do?' I hissed. ‘All you're doing is prolonging her agony. And for what? More of your saintly shit?'

Ballard gazed down at the woman, watched the slow rise and fall of her bloodied chest, listened to every breath. He shook his head. ‘I can't.'

I moved around the bed, Ballard stretched across to push me back, but Tate grabbed his arm. ‘He's right. Let him do it. He's the only one who can.'

No, Tate. I'm the only who will.

I glared at Ballard. ‘For fuck's sake, she's suffered enough.'

He sighed, but it took another few minutes for him to nod. Leaning down, he whispered something I couldn't hear and pressed his mouth to her forehead. She moaned once, the smallest of whimpers, and he twisted away. But not before I saw the sheen of tears.

‘Bring him to me when it's done,' he told Tate, and pushing past the curtain he left us with the woman who refused to die. I breathed through my mouth; the smell of her was sickening.

‘You sure?' Tate asked.

‘Aren't you?' I held out my hands, and with a heavy sigh he reached over to untie the rope so I could do my thing. The only thing I was any good at.

‘You wanna hold her for me?' I asked, but he simply touched two fingers to his mouth then pressed them to her forehead and straightened. I was on my own, as I'd always been.

Sliding one arm beneath her shoulders, I lifted her up from the bed, propping her while I slid in behind and quietly hushed her murmurs. Then, avoiding her broken jaw, I reverse gripped her head with both hands, my right arm across her forehead, my fingers slipping gently into her matted hair to find a hold. There were no more moans and I was glad of her limpness. It'd make it easier.

‘Sleep now,' I said, before wrenching her head around hard and hearing the sharp crack of her neck. Done fast, and quickly over. Painless too, though really, who knew for sure?

I let her rest in my arms for a minute before pulling free and standing while Tate tugged the sheet over her face, his own grave and shuttered. Whoever she'd been, she was gone now, finally at peace. The rest I could deal with.

We didn't speak. I held out my hands again and Tate retied them, a little looser this time, and when he pulled the curtain I found myself facing Alex. Glancing at the bed behind us, her eyes
already wet, she pressed a hand to her mouth and stepped aside to let us pass. Halfway to the door, I turned. She was kneeling beside the cot, her cheek resting on the dead woman's still body while her own heaved with grief.

‘Who was she?' I asked Ballard.

We were sitting in his quarters this time, and they were a hell of a lot better than mine. Tate had left us to return to Alex, but Ballard didn't seem worried about being left alone with me, paid no attention to my unbound feet or the loose ropes on my wrists. There were a dozen items to hand I could've used to kill him, but the truth was I was tired and dispirited after everything I'd seen that morning. Killing Ballard would get me nowhere, and I had no doubt it wouldn't end the uprising. Despite myself, there was a grudging respect for him building inside me. I recognised the feeling; it was the same one I had for Taggart. But I wasn't sure I liked it.