Watershed (34 page)

Hopefully, I'd only need the one. Plus a quarter-vat was cheap, his training worth three times that. I nodded, and he disappeared into the back room to fetch the ammo.

‘Lock that door,' he said. ‘If you wanna keep this to yourself, we don't need any interruptions.'

We moved to the range and he set up the target in front of a cushioned wall. Then he pulled on a woollen cap and stuffed wads of material up underneath against each ear.

‘What about me?' I asked, but he shook his head.

‘Get used to the noise. Now, show me what you know.'

Except I knew nothing, only what I'd seen others do a few times, years ago in training. As a rule we stuck to what we were best at and we didn't compare notes. Guns weren't plentiful. Before Jackson I'd only ever faced off against a couple of Disses who'd used them, and I hadn't had a whole lot of time to study their technique before killing them. So I stood as I imagined anyone would, but again Taggart shook his head, almost laughing.

‘Shit, Jem. It ain't fuckin' archery,' he said, and then fired off instructions while I did my best to keep up. ‘Face the target front on. Two hands, left supporting right. You ain't good enough for one, and this gun has some kick. It's a single action, so you need to cock it between each shot. Right thumb left side, but light so you can reach the hammer. Finger on the guard until
you're ready to fire. Keep your right elbow locked. That barrel's long, longer than most, and you ain't used to it. See the sight at the end? Focus on that, both eyes. Now, when you're ready.'

I squeezed off the first shot but I wasn't prepared for the kick, and the bullet buried itself somewhere it shouldn't have. The noise was deafening in the closed room and my ears buzzed. A lot fucking harder than I'd thought. No wonder I didn't like guns. And Taggart wasn't too impressed either.

‘Shit effort,' he said. ‘You didn't focus on the sight like I told you. And you need to ease the trigger, not jerk at it. Think of your bows and do it again.'

I breathed evenly, cocking the hammer first before bringing the gun up. The mechanics were much the same as I was used to, but the gun was heavier and it felt unbalanced protruding from my hand instead of strapped to my forearm. Having to focus on the sight threw me too, and the next shot went high again.

‘Son of a bitch,' I growled, already sick of it.

‘Won't say I told you so,' Taggart said anyway. ‘Do it again, only this time lower the sight a bit, just under the target. Breathe in, squeeze the trigger real gentle, and breathe out when you fire. Ready?'

I nodded and closed my eyes for a minute, imagining Garrick in front of me. Opening them, I cocked the hammer again, and sighted just below his heart. I didn't hit it, but at least I managed to find the target, and if it had been Garrick he'd be sporting a bullet in his left shoulder. But it still wasn't good enough. And Taggart didn't think so either.

‘Again. Remember the breathing.'

I pulled back the hammer again, aimed, exhaled, and squeezed off the next shot. No thunderous noise, just a single dull click.

‘And bang, you're dead.' Taggart held a finger to my head. ‘Real stupid, lad. You gotta keep count of your ammo. That's the sort of mistake that'll get you killed.'

‘Shit.' I'd forgotten to reload. So focused on hitting a make-believe Garrick I'd not given any thought to the ammunition, and Taggart was right – outside the armoury I'd be as good as dead. I was beginning to regret my decision, but now we'd started Taggart wasn't going to let me give up so easily.

‘Reload it and we'll try again,' he said, and watched while I fumbled with the cylinder, feeding the cartridges one by one into the loading gate, like he showed me. ‘It's fixed, which is stronger, but there ain't no quick way to do it when you're not used to it. Just take your time and keep it steady. Kick those shells away too, so you don't trip on 'em. Okay, let's do it again.'

The next shot was better, the one after that almost finding the centre of the target. Then he made me step right back to the wall to fire the final four, only the last two clipping the bullseye. And that was it. A half-hour down and nine bullets gone. Darts could be reused – the ones I could retrieve anyway – but once a cartridge was spent, it was history. Damned waste. Plus I was almost deaf.

He took out a couple of tools and cleaned the weapon, showing me the basics, before reloading it himself with another six and handing it across.

‘Keep it out of sight, and out of the dust. Once you've got past that first shot, you'll be fine. But, Jem? Only use it if you got no other choice.'

I gave him the water and tucked the gun into the back of my belt, pulling my shirt down over it. ‘Thanks, old man. I owe you one.'

He waved it off. ‘You use any of those wooden darts I gave you?'

I grinned. ‘Yeah. Kinda came in handy.'

He gave me a sharp glance but didn't ask for details, busying himself behind his counter and stowing away the tools. I watched him and wondered about what Ballard had said, about Taggart once being in charge of the Watch; I wondered if things might've been better under his command, how different my life would've
been with him calling the shots. He knew more about killing than anyone else, but he wasn't cruel with it like Garrick, and with the right people he could be patient, sometimes almost kind. And then I stopped wondering, because he wasn't in charge and there was no point wishing he were. But I had to ask all the same.

‘Met a man in the Hills,' I said. ‘Told me you used to run the Watch. Before Garrick. That true?'

‘Which man?' was all he asked. Question for question.

‘Some old Guard. Retired. Can't remember his name.' I liked Taggart, but not that much.
Trust no one.

He wiped down the counter top and threw the cloth underneath. ‘That was a long time ago, Jem. I'm happy enough with things the way they are. Garrick too.'

‘Yeah,' I said. But with a shitload of luck, not for much longer.

‘Go on, get outta here,' he said, suddenly surly. ‘Got things to do.'

The mess hall was almost full, more Watchmen than I'd ever seen before in one place. Garrick hadn't been lying when he'd said everything had gone quiet. And again I questioned Ballard's decision, because having them all there, at a time when I needed them gone, just added to the pressure. Then again, maybe that was the plan, to wipe them all out at once and get rid of the Watch for good. Kill nineteen killers. Unless they killed me first. No, I remembered, eighteen; coz Reed was gone too.

It was a strange meal. Close to twenty men crowded the room, pushing for space on narrow benches, but hardly a word was spoken. Just the sound of spoons scraping plates, the chewing of food, the slurping of water, the occasional loud belch. United in a common cause but distanced by cruelty, we ate and we drank and we minded our own business, a few times sneaking a glance,
assessing and judging, but passing no comment. I struggled to eat, the food indeed like boot leather, sticking to my throat so I had to wash down every mouthful. And as I ate, feeling the tight pull of the stitches and the ache in my thigh, I thought about Garrick. After eight years of trying not to think about him, now it seemed he was all I thought about. Him, and Alex.

I'd handed over the report, confident it was accurate – as much as six pages of lies could be. I'd pretty much stuck to what Ballard had written, changing just a few of the details, adding a much-needed explanation for the scars made by the darts, and embellishing my final recommendations. But despite his earlier warning, Garrick had done nothing more than flick through it before tossing it onto a stack of others.

‘Get much sleep?' he asked, both pointed and unnecessary. He would've already known the answer.

‘Eventually.'

‘Yeah,' he grunted, rubbing his crotch, making a good show of it and making me sick. ‘Know what you mean.'

I couldn't help it. It was instinctive; the slight turn of my head, sliding my gaze right to see into his quarters, through the half-open door to the bed where I knew Alex lay, probably chained, definitely in pain.

‘What the fuck're you looking at?' Garrick barked, and I snapped back to attention.

It was already exhausting, this game we were playing – me not knowing, him always a step ahead, teasing me with some comment or a sudden question, like he already knew everything and was waiting for me to fail. I wasn't cut out for this. It was nothing like my job, where I was in control and knew how things would play out. It was nothing like my grandfather's favourite old stories about spies, the ones he used to tell me when I was a boy. This was real and fucking frightening, and after just one day of it, I knew in my gut I'd never be able to go the distance.

I shifted to take the weight off my leg, and again he missed nothing.

‘You seen to that yet?' he asked, then snorted when I shook my head. ‘Come here and show me.'

I edged around the desk to where he lounged in his chair, not wanting what was coming, but in no position to argue. Pulling at my ties, I dropped my trousers and unwound the bandage. He whistled low when he saw the wound.

‘Really took a chunk out,' he said, almost appreciatively, before standing. ‘Take a load off, and I'll stitch it.'

‘It's fine. I can do it myself.' The idea of Garrick sticking me with a needle while I sat with my dick out held absolutely no appeal.

‘Sit the fuck down. That's an order.'

He opened a small cupboard and pulled out a box. Not the one with his little knife and the black powder, but another, bigger one. He poured something onto a square of cloth and the sharp, bitter smell of spirit pricked my nose. Kneeling, he pressed the cloth into the wound.

‘Fuck!' I cried, because it stung and burned, worse than my piss had done, and he clamped a hand on my leg to keep me steady, and grinned up at me.

‘Kills, don't it? Rots your guts too. But it has its uses.'

Watchmen didn't drink spirit. Couldn't afford to have it mess with our heads, or slow our reactions. Another one of Garrick's rules. But you didn't miss what you didn't know, or if you did you soon forgot about it, and none of us cared too much, relying on other ways to get our kicks and relieve our guilt.

He swabbed the wound again, really soaking it, and I gritted my teeth, trying not to groan. I watched him thread the needle. It was short but thick, like one of my darts, and curved at one end; I couldn't imagine how he was going to be able to push it through the muscle, but I knew he'd have fun trying. Pinching the edges of the wound to close up the flesh, he hooked the barb deep and
drew the thread through tight, jerking it a little before digging in again for the next stitch, taking his time. And while he sewed my leg together, he tore my head apart.

‘You know, Jem, I've always liked you,' he said, ruining any hope I'd had that he'd work quietly, like he did when he marked us. ‘Could always rely on you to do the right thing, felt like I could trust you. I guess it's coz we're so much alike.' He yanked the thread hard, and I gasped.

People like you and Garrick
, Ballard's voice teased, and I wanted to deny it, to tell Garrick I was nothing like him, and never would be. But this wasn't the time for any kind of stupid heroics. He tugged on the gut again, pulling the muscle and joining the skin; no seamstress, but he knew what he was doing. And he knew how to make it hurt. The needle dug again, and so did his words.

‘Something's going down, Jem. I can feel it in my fucking bones. And when it does, I wanna know I can count on you. Can I do that? Can I rely on you?'

I nodded, not trusting my voice not to give me away. Jackson had been right. Garrick did suspect, not just something, but someone. Maybe me, but not yet, not for sure, because otherwise he'd be doing a whole lot more than just sticking me with a needle. And I had to trust to that; that he was just fishing. Fishing and digging, trying to get inside.

‘Speak up, Jem.' He tugged again, and pinched the flesh tighter.

‘Oh
fuck!
Yes! You can count on me.'

He looked up then, leaving the needle in my leg, mid-stitch. ‘You wouldn't be lying to me, would you? Coz you know how I feel about liars, Jem. You know what I'll do.'

‘Yeah, I know,' I muttered.
Just finish the job. Fucking finish it and let me out of here!

He pulled the needle through and tugged again. ‘I've been thinking about us – you and me,' he said. ‘You ever think about us, Jem?'

Not if I can help it.

‘I've been thinking about that first hurdle you had to get over,' he continued. ‘Well, let's face it, I'm gunna have to take some of the credit. You remember that one? For a moment there I thought you'd never do it, thought I was gunna have to take you out, and I would have been really pissed at that, coz I put a lot of time and effort into you. A hell of a lot. You think I'd take the trouble to flog just anyone the number of times I flogged you? That's hard work, that is. Broke one of my best rods on your back. Remember that?' He sat back on his haunches, smiling at the memory. ‘I'll admit that job was a hard one, damned hard, but when you came through I was all like, fuck yeah! Coz you proved you had it in you. Proved me right. And it made all that effort worthwhile, Jem. Made you what you are now.'