Paradise - Chapter 11: 1 Kings (13581) [DRAFT2]

 

Chapter 11: 1 Kings (13581)

Christmas and then New Year passed quietly on the farm. They were snowed in at the end of December, but by the end of the first week of January the sun was out and melting much of it. Piles of dirty snow still clogged up the farmyard, but most of the fields were uncovered and the slaves were sent out, up the hills to the north to mend the fence that kept the sheep out of the forest.

It was hard physical work as all the rotten old fence posts had to be first pulled out, then the hole deepened with a long metal pole called a pinch. Melissa was in charge of the pinch and carried it around on her shoulder like an amazon warrior carrying a spear. When it came time to work the hole, she brought it down into the ground with a earth-rumbling thump. After that, Helen and Tina would take turns with the sledgehammer on the new fence post to drive it into the hole. Melissa always took over for the last five or six hits. After that the wire was applied, spun out from a wooden spindle and attached to the posts by metal pegs with a clawhammer. It was slow going, they would do not much more than a hundred feet in one day and after lunch they got even slower as their muscles got tired. All three of them were dressed in warm waterproof leggings and coats, with scarves, gloves and woolly hats. There was occasional drizzle, but they were well protected and would stay out even in heavy rain, only sheltering under the trees in a downpour.

As they worked, they talked.

‘Was it just up there that you saw them?’ asked Tina, pointing to the hilltops above the forest. The trees were Forestry Commission pine trees, a crop that would now probably never be harvested.

‘Yes,’ confirmed Helen. ‘You go through the woods, then there is a path to the top. From there you can see the windmills. After the windmills is the desert and that’s where I saw them.’

They were speculating about the Fire Foxes, the tribe of lunatics that was said to live in the desert beyond the hills. This had been one of the topics they had discussed for much of the day. Melissa had heard rumours though that it was not the Foxes this time, but Evermarch troops returning from their campaign in the north.

‘Was it an army Land Rover you saw?’ asked Melissa. ‘Maybe it army.’

‘I don’t know, maybe,’ admitted Helen. ‘They weren’t dressed like army though. More sort of Laurence of Arabia. They’d just come out of the desert.’

‘The army are back though,’ put in Tina. ‘I heard Ruth and her brother talking about it.’

‘What would they be doing looking over our valley though?’ wondered Helen. ‘Think about it. They were looking us over. They looked down the valley with binoculars and left. If that was our army then why would they be scouting their own land?’

Neither of the other two could provide an answer to that. This wasn’t the first time Helen had thought it all over. She got a bit of news from Ruth and a bit more from her occasional phone calls with Ray, but the truth was that no one knew what was going on, everyone was guessing, and actual facts were hard to get hold of out of all the wild speculation. The men she had seen in the desert could have been anyone, but there had been no word of Fire Foxes since then and a lot of chatter about the army. She felt she was right. Why would their own army stop at the Zone Line and look the valley over? Look it over for what? Most likely it was just random desert dwellers, she generally came back to thinking that after her worried analysis had run its course. She just wished there were better protected on the farm.

When Helen tuned back into the conversation, it had moved on to their lives before the reditus. Helen, the most talkative of the three had long since told the others all there was to know about her. Her marriage to Ray Lorric, and how it eventually crumbled for what now felt like ridiculously petty reasons. Her affair with Gary Vincent and their emigration to Australia where they had run a backpacker’s hostel for eight years. And finally, how they had been there right up to the day when her bit of Australia had suddenly ended up where Norway had once been.

Helen already knew much of Tina’s story too. The young woman had told them about her life in what was known as the backdam, a word that mean “out in the sticks” in Guyanese. She was from a village called Paradise, and that was all there was to it for her. She had been too poor to go to school, had been raised by an aunt who had six children of her own and had had an upbringing that sounded so harsh and neglectful that being sold into slavery probably hadn’t been much of a shock.

This just left Melissa, but when questioned, like now as she hammered in a fence post with mighty blows of the sledgehammer, she only said, ‘well, I’m a grown woman, I was married. But I don’t think about me old life now. I been slave since de start. They took me one month after de reditus. Been in camps ever since. Forgot me old life. Not important now.’

Helen dared not pry any further than that as she didn’t want to hurt her friend’s feelings. Melissa had put all memories of her old life out of her mind as a coping mechanism, but for Helen it was the opposite. She was nourished by her memories. From her comfortable childhood, and the warm memories of her parents and younger brother. From her dull and unsatisfying marriage to Ray, that somehow seemed like a vision of marital bliss now. The tiny house with only one bedroom that they rattled around in and the living room with a kitchen adjoining it that was no bigger than a cupboard. That blasted piano too, that she had bought on a whim and that had she had never learned to play, taking up half the room and that had become such a bone of contention between her and Ray that it was the basis of all the bad feeling that ultimately led to their divorce. It all seemed so stupid now and looking back she realised how unreasonable she had been. She had expecting Ray to provide her with everything, not just financially, but emotionally too. They had been so young. She had been so young. She had wanted Ray to be more like a father to her than a partner. Even so, all the fights early on, she enjoyed the memories of the good times. They had enjoyed life back then, going out with their collection of oddball friends to pubs and nightclubs, or the theatre, or whatever else took their fancy. After that all came to its end, she met Gary. He had been handsome and excitingly new. Running off to Australia had been an adventure, but after a year she had come to realise that under the good looks and well-maintained body he was a useless twat. So, she had largely ignored him for most of their relationship and lived her own life, finally coming to realise that she didn’t need a man in her life to be happy. Since becoming a slave Helen felt she was beginning to realise something else about her life. It was hard to put into words, but it was could perhaps be expressed as insipidly prosaic as “don’t sweat the small stuff”. Even the worst of times in her previously life were infinitely superior to the life of a slave. She hoped if she ever got back to something resembling the life of a free woman, she would cherish every moment of it. She probably wouldn’t, said part of her mind, but she didn’t care about what her inner voice of criticism said much these days. Slaves didn’t lose any sleep worrying about how they felt about something that may or may not happen. Slaves, she told herself, that wanted to survive better realise that self-recrimination was an indulgence that could not be afforded. You woke, you ate, you worked, you slept. You got through it a day at a time. As Helen watched the winter sun creep behind the hills, she smiled to herself. If only she was good at taking her own advice. Being sold into slavery had not made her strong, it had made her worse. Her neurosis was all that was left of her.

It was getting dark now, so they put the tools under cover and started to walk back to the farm. Some light snow was falling, muting the light from the house windows. The rolling hills, the road down the valley, it was like a scene from a Christmas card.

‘You know something?’ said Helen. ‘I always felt guilt. All through my life. I always felt guilty because I did so badly at school and disappointed my parents. I felt guilty when I left Ray and I felt guilty when I fell out of love with Gary.’

Tina was listening intently. Helen’s life was like tales from another land to her. She didn’t understand half of it, but to her ears it reminded her of the TV shows her aunt used to watch about the lives of the rich and famous.

‘But now, all that guilt has gone. The world has gone to total and utter rat shit, but the good thing about it is that none of this is my fault. It’s not my fault and there is nothing I can do about it.’ Helen was trying to convince herself as much as anyone else, but it struck a court with Melissa who uttered, ‘there are worse places to be.’

Helen obviously realised she was better off on the Shielings when compared to Develde, with plenty to eat and her own room, but she was not about to start waxing lyrical on how good they had it. She’d be dammed if she would be grateful to anyone, even Ruth, while she was a slave.

‘We’ll go soft here,’ said Helen pessimistically.

Melissa laughed at that remark and however it was meant, Helen thought she heard contempt in it. She had a sudden vision of life back on Develde Farm, which sent a shiver through her body. Melissa was fine now, almost a friend, but there had been a time when she had not been so friendly. For months on the farm, in order to survive Helen had become little better than Melissa’s servant, a slave to a slave. Helen had always been soft was probably what Melissa was thinking. It had been much worse for the displaced people that ended up on the farms around Goldengreens, especially the white ones. If you didn’t seek the protection of one of the locals you tended to end up in a bad way. She had had to learn quickly. She remembered how naive she had been when she had first arrived there after about a month of being moved around by the church. It had seemed so unfair, sure she had done some bad things in her life, and even then, she was aware that all her excuses were getting old. She had been adopted, she had been abused in her youth. Yadda-yadda. I just seemed so irrelevant now. Even before the reditus, Gary had started throwing it back in her face when they argued. ‘Your over forty now!’ he’d shout at her. ‘Get over the things that happened thirty years ago!’ She didn’t though and it was all so bound up in her sense of identity that she hadn’t been sure if she ever would. Sometimes she would try, but it never worked, and at first, she would accept the way she was, offer the same excuses again, but after the excuses came the guilt and self-recrimination and the whole cycle would begin again. All her relationships had ended the same way, with the men in her life giving up on trying to “fix” her and throwing up their hands. The sensible ones left her early on while the duller ones held on sullenly as the years went by and everything slowly turned to poison. The reditus had changed all that. No one cared about her excuses any longer, no one cared about what a mess she was.

She remembered lying awake at night in her bunk, unable to closer her eyes due to being terrified of being murdered in her sleep, thinking I’m in hell. It was a reasonable assumption given what had just happened to the world. God was back, and she was being punished. She’d lie there and think – what did I do that was so wrong? Have I treated people badly? So, I’ve broken some promises, but who hasn’t? Surely, surely though, I don’t deserve this?

All that was done with after just the first three months at Develde. She went beyond self-pity. The horrors of the beatings and the burnings hardened her up and she had thrown away every last drop of self-respect by becoming an obedient slave to not only the muta but to the other slaves too. She had to cope with the cold reality of the situation and deal with it. It was either that or die. And some of the other women had died because of their failure to given in, to bend. And it had mainly been the westerners, mainly the white ones. Like it was all a dreadful mistake and could they please speak to the manager. Luckily for me, Helen often thought, I had very little self-respect to give up in the first place.

Even after a short time of relative comfort though, she could feel her old self coming back. She was even arguing with Ray again, even after – in his own cack-handed sort of way – he had saved her. That was what she had meant, and Melissa laughing at her had reminded her what their relationship had been like back at Develde. Melissa had been quite happy to hit Helen if she thought she had a need to and had done on many occasions. As time went on Helen had learned how to avoid being cuffed by the larger woman, predicting her moods and desires, making sure she had no reason to be angry at her. Perhaps Helen had been thinking that things were different now, but hearing that laugh made her sure that if they ended up back ad Develde or somewhere like it, then Melissa would go back to the way she had been, a woman who would give Helen a black eye if she felt she had a need to.

 

The following morning Helen went to feed the farm dogs. With the shepherd and his family gone, someone had to do it, so this was one of the jobs that she had taken on to be entirely hers. She loved animals, dogs especially, and kept dogs, cats, and the occasional horse all through her life. Even in Australia, the hostel had become a home to various strays that she had taken in and generally treated better than the human guests.

She liked to visit the dogs in their barn and would bring them treats from the dinner table. She would pet them and stroke their ears, while telling them stories. She was even interested in learning about the past history of the dog barn from Ruth.

Over the years had been home to dozens of Border Collie sheep dogs, but its current occupants consisted of Fly, a six-year-old bitch, Dirty Dave, who was only a year old and barely trained and Sweep, a friendly and hard-working dog, but a bit long in the tooth. There was Jed the Peg, who was not caged up in the barn, having the run of the entire farm and slept underneath an old hay baler. He would have been shot, deemed to be useless, had Owen been on the farm.

Fly was Helen’s favourite, she was a friendly and intelligent dog, the best sheep dog out of all of the dogs and the most eager to please. Dave had been bought as a pup by Owen, who had planned to train the dog himself. It had not gone well and as a result the dog was a wild neurotic mess, who – Helen had been told – tend to charge straight at the sheep whatever the command given, sending the flock into disarray. Fly was the only proper sheep dog on the farm now, since a dog called Jimmie had died a year before the reditus.

Jed the Peg had just turned up one day. The nearest farm was four miles away and Ruth knew all their dogs, so the origin of Jed was a bit of a mystery. He had three legs, but the missing one had been removed some time ago by a vet. Helen admired the dog for his boundless energy and friendly nature. He was playful and was happy to tease and play tricks on Helen and the other slaves, following them out on their jobs, disappearing and then sneaking up on them to then yelp or bark behind their backs, hoping to startle them. If he did, he would always say sorry by wagging his tail and coming to lick their hands. Helen thought that anyone that wasn’t keen on dogs would perhaps find Jed’s behaviour annoying, but Melissa and Tina both loved him, more than any other being on the farm, for his cleverness and spirit. The only dogs they had ever dealt with had been small yappy backdam mongrels, that – through no fault of their own Helen was sure – were aggressive and angry beasts who did not like humans anywhere near them unless they were bringing food.

Helen was finishing up, putting down some fresh straw in the byre. Tina had finished her jobs and was sat on a bale of hay with Jed’s head on her lap.

‘I never know a dog could be so smart,’ said Tina. ‘He look like – he know every word I say. I swear he does.’

‘Oh yes,’ said Helen. ‘Border collies are very clever. You have to keep them entertained or they get bored and restless. There is no beast happier than a working border collie.’

‘How you loose dat leg of yours?’ asked Tina, addressing the dog. ‘What happen to you Jed? Jed de Peg?’ Tina laughed, her high-pitched musical laugh. Jed nuzzled and licked her hand.

‘He know he name! You see that, Helen? He know I’m talking ‘bout him. You need a bath Mr Jed, you smell like a wet dog. Do you want to have a bath?’

Helen smiled to herself as she forked hay out a wheelbarrow onto the floor of Dave’s pen. He was the only dog that was kept caged up at all times when not working due to his nature.

‘There you are Dave,’ she said to the dozing hound as she finished off the hay. She knew not to go near him in his cage. He was friendly enough, but unpredictable. He’d never bitten her, and she doubted he ever would, but he had bared his teeth to her once or twice.

‘You used to sleep with your dogs?’ asked Tina as she pretended to flick Jed’s ears and he pretended to snap at her.

‘Oh yes. It was best in the winter because they kept you warm. Ray wasn’t a fan of it, but I never cared. We usually had at least one dog and two cats on the bed with us.’

‘Me uncle used to sleep with a chicken,’ pronounced Tina. Helen looked up from her work, but apparently that was all Tina had to say on that.

‘I think I’m done anyway,’ mused Helen. ‘We can head back. Best leave Jed here. He’s not an indoor dog.’

‘I never knew there was a difference,’ admitted Tina. She jumped down from the bales, landing with a squidge in the mud. They then tromped across the yard in their wellies. Helen admired the other two for how well they had adapted to life on a Scottish farm in winter. But then, she supposed, they were well fed and provided with warm clothes. There was very little danger of being burned at the stake or beaten to death in your sleep as well, which would account for their personalities becoming more natural.

As they approached the farmhouse the sound of an idling tractor could be heard.

‘It’s that boy again,’ growled Helen under her breath.

As they rounded the corner into the yard, they did indeed see a boy, a young man really, standing on the first step of the tractor’s cabin ladder, leaning down talking to Melissa who was stood in a long muddy overcoat with a shovel in her hand.

As soon as the young man saw them though he got into his cab, shut the door, and trundled his tractor out of the yard, forcing the two women to step aside to let it pass.

‘What was he after?’ asked Helen as she got closer to Melissa.

‘He just talking ‘bout himself,’ said Melissa.

Helen screwed up her face but wasn’t sure what to say about whatever it was that was going on. ‘We all done? Tea time?’

 

A few days later, the roads were clear enough for traffic and Ray skidded and slid his way up to the Shealings in his battered old Civic. Helen had seen it come up the road-end from out on the farm and followed it into the yard. Ray, still dressed like a tasselled idiot, got out of the car, shut the door, and watched as she trudged through the muddy field, climbed a gate and then crossed the yard. He looked tired, she thought, as she walked up to him.

‘You’d better come in. Take your boots off at the door.’

Ray did as he was bid and followed Helen into the main room where Tina was making tea. Melissa was sat up the back of the room, reading a copy of Horse and Hounds from a stack next to a table lamp.

Once the tea was made, Ray and Helen talked. Helen warmed her hands on her mug.

‘Well, what’s the latest?’ she asked.

‘It not great news. From what I’ve learned, your two friends here, and many like them, were sold to the church in Goldengreens with very dubious paperwork. There may be some grounds for emancipation on that, but right now the church in Evermarch is not doing anything about it. For you though, Ray sold you perfectly legally. The church paperwork is all in order. I suppose I could try and buy you, but the Temple very rarely sell slaves. I could maybe get you transferred back and then put in a request for a slave and have you assigned to me.’

‘Fuck off, Ray!’

‘Yeah, I wouldn’t want that either, I assure you. Besides. You are better off here. Evermarch has gone nuts again since the army came back. They are imposing martial law. They’ve killed a lot of the muta.’

‘That doesn’t sound like a bad thing.’

‘Not just them. There is blood on the streets again. Just after the reditus, the city went bananas. It was anarchy for months. Hundreds of people died. It calmed down when the church formed all the hot heads into an army and sent them north on a crusade. Now they are back though and it’s all kicking off again. Believe me, you don’t want to go there.’

‘Well FINE. I’ll give Evermarch a wide berth. There must be other places I can go.’

‘Nowhere I know for a freed slave.’

‘Then here then! Why not? Free us and we’ll stay here.’

‘You don’t need emancipation papers to be free up here. It would be easier to just pack your bags and walk out the door,’ gestured Ray. ‘All three of you. Make a fresh start in Galloway.’

‘The fencibles will catch us and we’d end up in the concentration camp at Mossdale.’

Helen knew all about Mossdale, as every opportunity she got, she earwigged on conversations and gave Ruth the third degree whenever she got back from the village or had talked to a family member.

‘What’s a fucking fencible?’

‘Local militia. You must see them as you drive up, guarding the villages.’

‘I thought they were out hunting rabbits.’

‘Prick,’ snapped Helen, very much not in the mood for humour.

Ray waved her insult away with a gesture then said, ‘Ok then, what about this, your pals stand out, but you don’t. Just leave. Go to a village and pretend you’re a refugee from Evermarch or Strake. No one would care even if they thought you might be a runaway.’

‘That’s just like you! Do you think I’m as selfish as you are? And racist! Haven’t you been listening? Everyone not from here are being herded into camps. I’ve definitely had enough of camps.’

‘I’m just saying,’ grumbled Ray, turning his empty mug round and round.

‘Don’t you have a direct line to God? Get on the phone then! What’s the use of being able to talk to the big man unless you use it?’

‘It doesn’t work like that.’

‘How then?’ she asked with genuine curiosity.

‘Mostly we gather information from people that have had God speak to them. Then send it on to the church. Well, I say “we”, there is a team of people do that and I supervise them. When I put in my monthly report I, well… I have an online meeting with God, but mainly He talks, and I listen.’

‘Utter bullshit!’

‘I don’t care if you believe me.’

‘A Zoom call with God? Fuck off,’ Helen laughed and then sighed. ‘Well tell him to help me out. Sort out all of slavery.’

‘Turns out God is quite a fan of slavery.’

She scowled at him, which prompted him to say ‘I know you’re angry. You’re angry with me. But what can I do? I’m middle management at best.’

‘…’sake’, snarled Helen.

‘Look, I got you out of Goldengreens, and I can maybe get you freed. But not right now. Thorman is the only person who can sign that sort of paperwork and well… he’s a bit preoccupied. And I’m sorry about this, but also, he doesn’t like freeing slaves, he thinks leftovers and post-reditus DPs are safer being church property. Otherwise, they get scooped up by the muta or criminal gangs.’

Ray paused, as if trying to decide to tell her more. She stayed silent, hoping that he would slip up and reveal something he hadn’t meant to.

‘Well,’ he said finally. ‘I don’t want to complicate the issue, but after I let Bishop Thomas know the first time, you know, when Samuel was sent to get you… Well, it spiralled out of control. Some daft twat involved the army, and they rounded up all the slaves in the Goldengreens area and now Angster Stadium is full of them. Look, don’t be mad at me or think I’ve got some sort of messiah complex – God knows there is enough of that around - all I’m saying is let’s not act in haste. You’re doing fine here. You’re better off here. The world’s just not safe right now.’

Helen, who had been holding her head in her hands, slammed them down on the table.

‘You think you need to tell me that? So that’s it? Slavery for the end of my days?’

‘Just for now. Think of it more like a job you can’t leave.’ Helen snorted. Ray went on ‘ok, sorry a bad way of putting it. Look on the bright side or something. For a slave you’ve landed on your feet. And you love the outdoors, and you love animals. This is the sort of life we talked about having when we were married. And Ruth looks after you. There are people starving down on the Delta, who…’

‘Spare me the starving kids in Africa schtick.’

Ray threw his hands up, evidently deciding there was nothing more he could say that would make it any better. They sat in silence for a while. Tina had gone to her room and the only sound in the living room was the crackling of the wood in the fire.

Eventually he spoke again. ‘I give up. I should have remembered there is no talking to you. I don’t know what else to say. Life was baffling enough for me even before the reditus. I spent years of my life trying to figure out how to make you happy. I could never work out what I was doing wrong. And when you left me, honestly it was a blessing. I was broken hearted, but I felt like a great weight had been lifted from my shoulders. Life has never made any sense to me. I was still leading the bachelor life when it all changed. I still hadn’t figured out what I was meant to be doing. And now look at us. You don’t think I can help you, and you are most likely right. I can barely help myself. I don’t know what I’m doing, I just kept my head down during the purges and as one by one the people above me got purged, or fled, or died of a Splinter virus I moved up the management chain to where I am now. Do you think any of this makes any more sense to me than it does to you?’

‘Forget it, Ray. I remember what I was like. It wasn’t your fault. If feels like another life anyway.’

‘Yeah, I guess your life had a bigger upheaval than mine,’ Ray paused. He seemed to chew something over then went on. ‘Just three days ago there was a dead body at the end of my street. It was there days before it was taken away. I’ve started sleeping with a loaded gun under my pillow again. Everything is in chaos again since the army got back. I’ll do what I can do, that’s all I can say. You’ll just have to wait until things calm down.’

Helen was exhausted from talking too. She was frustrated with Ray, but there was nothing to be gained from shouting at him. It didn’t even make her feel any better.

‘Well just fuck off then Ray. Don’t bother, I’ll sort it out myself. Just fuck off.’

She pointed at the door.

He grumbled and muttered as he put his coat and boots back on but didn’t even have the energy to slam the door as he left. She watched through the window as the Civic span its wheels on the ice as he turned the car around and drove back out of the farmyard and onto the track.

 

Helen was still fuming the day after his visit, so-much-so that Ruth didn’t come to give them any work to do in the morning. So, Helen spent the day indoors, splitting her time watching out her bedroom window as the melting snow fell off the tree branches, or making and drinking tea in the bothie living room.

She was watching out of the window above the kitchen sink when that boy turned up in his tractor again. Melissa had been out at the woodshed and came into the yard to see what was going on. Helen tutted as she watched the lad talk to her, gesturing and smiling, all the while never getting down from his tractor cab, as if wanting to remain at a higher level.

‘She’s twenty years older than him,’ muttered Helen although she had to admit Melissa looked younger. The Guyanese woman may have been massively proportioned but her skin was still smooth and unwrinkled. Helen continued to watch from the window, resisting the urge to go out there and interrupt whatever it was that was going on. In the end it was Naomi, who came out to the front door of her cottage, a barber jacket on over her dressing gown that but a stop to his advances.

‘You here for the trailer, Daniel?’ called the old woman over the noise of the idling tractor.

The young man looked up. ‘Yes nana! Just going to get it now.’

‘Well, be on with you. I’m sure that slave has got work to do.’

Daniel winked at Melissa and turned back into the tractor’s cab then gunned the engine, churning up the muddy snow as he trundled over to the rear of the cow shed. Melissa kept her eyes on the ground as she walked past the cottage back to the woodshed. Naomi watched until she was out of sight then went back indoors.

 

In the evening Helen went into the main house to talk to Ruth. She got straight to the subject of Melissa’s suitor.

‘Is that appropriate, do you think?’ she asked. ‘She can hardly say no if he makes advances.’

‘Oh, I don’t think it will come to that, and I’ll back her to the hilt if he does anything unwanted.’

‘It’s not right, what does he even want with her anyway? She’s a good deal older than him.’

Ruth was sat at the kitchen table. She had been reading a book when Helen had come in. ‘I don’t know,’ she admitted. ‘He’s my nephew, but from Owen’s side of the family. They moved up here after the reditus and are working one of the old Meldrew holdings. They send Danny up to borrow farm equipment. His mum is nice enough. If he gets out of hand, I’ll have a word with her.’

It wasn’t just Melissa that Helen was worried about. This boy Daniel could be in danger too. Melissa was all demure sweetness and submission around him because she was a slave and she knew what was good for her, but two years of being constantly around violence and death had tempered her into being utterly ruthless. Helen had once seen Melissa break another woman’s arm with her bare hands and was in no doubt she was capable of worse.

Helen said no more on the subject and started to zip up her coat for the trip across the yard.

‘Any interesting news from Evermarch?’ asked Ruth. Helen knew she was probing a little about Ray and his efforts to emancipate her.

‘Nothing good,’ she replied. ‘And nothing you’ve probably not heard already. The army are stirring things up. Mostly on the Delta.’

‘I wonder if all of the army is back or just some of it…’ said Ruth quietly. As Helen shut the door behind her, she realised that the old lady must have been thinking about her husband.

 

***

Acolyte Acton had gone down to the cells officially to attend to some of the tasks set him by Father Boniface, but really, he was there to gloat at Shadwell. He was getting bamboozled by the Welshman’s quick with though and as Acton stood in the doorway, trying to find something to say that would break through Shadwell’s strange fatalistic optimism, he was starting to realise that Shadwell was far smarter than him. He had no choice but to fall back on threats of violence.

‘They’ve got you down for crucifixion you know!’ he cried. ‘I’ve seen the order. Any day now.’

‘This is what Bishop Thomas wants, is it?’

‘Yes,’ lied Acton.

‘So be it. Didn’t fancy the whole thumbs and toes thing to be honest. And if that is what Bishop Thomas thinks is best, then who am I to gainsay him?’ Shadwell considered for a moment. ‘And if I’m punished for my sins before I go, I suppose that me all paid up and it’s off to heaven with me, is it? Better to get it over and done with here, eh? Rather than have to account for it at the pearly gates.’

‘No wait,’ stuttered Acton. ‘Crucifixion is a horrible death!’

‘Oh, I don’t know, could be worse.’

‘What?’

‘Well, you could be stabbed.’

Acton was lost for words, not realising that Shadwell, with his deadpan delivery was quoting Monty Python, but still knowing he was being mocked in some way.

Shadwell waited a beat, but when Acton failed to deliver the follow up, he was hoping for, he ended the quote with, ‘at least I’ll be out in the open air.’

Acton was in a bad mood for the rest of the day after that. He had wanted to revel in Shadwell’s impending demise, but instead had come away with the feeling that the idiotic Welshman had been laughing at him the whole time. He walked home after finishing at the temple for the day, by the usual route and he smiled to himself as he passed the canal where he had drowned that old homeless man.

This remembered happiness nourished him for as long as it took him to walk the rest of the way home. He liked to look out over the city before entering his house and over to where the Temple could be seen, lit up on the distant skyline, but even this small pleasure was denied him when he saw the front door was open.

It was a small, detached bungalow, taken by the church from a heretic the year before and had been Action’s home ever since. He shared the place with his slave Abishag, a ruddy-faced old bag formerly of Glasgow and now a church slave of the lowest sort.

As he entered and shut the door, he picked up the thin stick he used for beating her from the hatstand in the hall.

‘Abishag!’ he shouted ‘Abishag! Where are you? Are you sleeping? Why is the front door open? Where is my dinner?’

He heard noises from upstairs and then the rotund figure of his slave thundered down the stairs and rushed into the kitchen. She was wearing a dressing down and her unkempt hair suggested she had just woken up. He raised the cane and followed her down the hallway.

Abishag went to the freezer and started pulling food out of it at random.

‘What are you doing you old witch?’ he cried and poked her with the stick. He dared not beat her properly – not after last time.

‘Aye aye,’ she screeched back. ‘I’m getting yer dinner!’

He snapped the cane off the back of her bare legs. ‘Why was the front door open, you old bitch? Has your husband been here again?’

‘Fuck off with that stick, will you?’ she yelled. ‘No he fuckin’ hasnae. What do I want with that old cunt anyway?’

‘What your language!’ he cried and hit her across the back. Most of the blow was absorbed by the thick pink dressing gown. ‘Watch your mouth when you address me! I don’t want that man anywhere near this house!’

‘Neither do I!’ she yelped and moved out of range of his cane. She then warded him off with a frozen pizza.

‘My dinner is supposed to be ready for me when I get in! You lazy old biddy. Stop going to sleep while I’m out.’

‘I’m an old lady!’ she whined. ‘I was up all night with the gripe. I’ve got to sleep some time. Just fuck off will ye?’

He raised his cane again, but she backed off into the corner and held the pizza up like a shield. Acton realised that this was going nowhere and would just end up like the last time he tried to beat some sense into her. She was short, fat, grey haired and rosy cheeked, somebody’s favourite granny probably, but from some God-forsaken part of former Glasgow. All the stubborn stupidity associated with that breed, baked into her for nearly seventy years.

He stormed out of the kitchen and sat down in the living room, muttering over his should, ‘just make my bloody dinner.’

He picked up the TV remote control but did not switch it on.

When he had first moved into this house the church had issued him a slave from the Delta. In Acton’s opinion these people made better slaves, but the one that he had received had done nothing but weep all the time. She’d hardly done any housework and would rarely answer any question put to her, even when reinforced with a lash of the cane. In the end he had grown frustrated with her and had literally thrown her in the bin. In a fit of rage, he’d picked her up and chucked her in the wheelie bin in the street outside. Later as he’d sat fuming, he had expected her to come scratching at the door, but she hadn’t, and a few days later she was found dead, having either been run over or, perhaps more likely, thrown herself under a truck.

He always seemed to get the rubbish slaves. They were always too lazy, or too sullen, too old, too young, too useless. The priests got the good slaves while the acolytes got any old rubbish. He’d gotten a reputation for going through a lot of them so by the time they issued him Abishag it had dawned on him that if he got rid of this one, they probably wouldn’t give him another. It had been the same with that old car they had given him, which was why he walked to work now.

Abishag was awful though, the worst of the whole lot. She was so stupid that she just did not understand that she was a slave. Acton was sure she thought of herself as an unwanted houseguest. She had no idea what was going on, with the reditus, the Splintering, with anything at all. He imagined she hadn’t had much idea about anything even before everything changed. Her and that moronic husband of hers – who was still skulking around in Evermarch somewhere – had sat in their council house doing nothing except waiting for the next benefit check so they could get drunk for three days straight. People like that, who had survived the purges and everything else, had to be taken in as church slaves because someone had to look after them. The benefits system had collapsed, and famine stalked the streets. The church had dusted off the Covenant Code and rounded up as many wastrels as they could catch and took them into slavery. People like Abishag and her husband would have been all for it – anything to avoid any personal responsibility. How Action despised them.

She was rude, she was a bad cook, he couldn’t leave any alcohol in the house, and she constantly answered back. He’d only just got her and already he wanted rid of her. At the first sign of trouble, he had tried to administer a corrective beating, but after the third or fourth stroke she’d yanked the cane off him and hit him back. After that he used it more as a symbol of authority than an implement of punishment. If he was a priest, he could order some guards to come round and give her the hiding of her life. He smiled at that thought. Getting ordained was always an option for acolytes, but it was rarely done in Evermarch. If he did get ordained, then the next step up would be to become a deacon. And then from there, work his way up to joining proper priesthood. Father James, they would call him, Father James Acton. Never Father Jim. And he’d have the pick of the slaves then, he would make sure of that.

If Archbishop Sinclair became a Judge though, that would really mix things up. Bishop Thorman would surely be out, along with all his cronies, and other men would rise. Acton could rise with them. He sensed a kindred spirit in Sinclair, someone who saw ruthlessness as strength and who would mask any and all cruelty behind God’s supposed will. Acton was of the opinion there needed to be more of that sort of thing – ruthless cruelty – until the stubborn, bloody-minded people of Evermarch got the message. The message that men like Sinclair and Acton were in charge now, and things were going to be taken seriously from here on in. No more lip service. No more turning up at the Temple with a turtle under each arm and a smirk on your face. No more turning a blind eye to the drinking and fornicating in Evermarch and the criminal gangs in the lawless areas of the Delta.

Acton smiled at these thoughts. A priest, why not? And then when Sinclair saw how dedicated Acton was, then Bishop of Evermarch? That surely was God’s plan for him. And why not help that plan on a little? That shoogly peg that Thorman was on could probably be made a little more shooglier. It wouldn’t be too hard to engineer something. What was it that made Sinclair keep Thorman around after all? Initially it had been because Thorman did what he was told, but Thorman had become a bit more independent recently. Sinclair had been furious about Angster and now there was the army here. There were a lot of opportunities for Thorman to put a food wrong and if Sinclair was a Judge then… Quick to anger, impulsive Sinclair, would have nothing at all holding him back from visiting instant and fatal justice on Thorman.

 

The people of Evermarch did not come to the Temple unless they had to. Maybe they had a police-issued fine to pay, a penance issued to them by the Committee, an offering that had to be made or some other business that had to be dealt with by the church. The Temple performed many functions and was kept busy enough, but they did not get many jealousy offerings. A man had to be pretty annoyed at his wife to want to put her through that particular ordeal – namely, the drinking of the bitter waters.

Due to its rarity, there was no one specific assigned to this type of offering, so anyone that happened to be on hand would oversee it.

It was another cold January morning when Mr McAdam hauled his wife up the Temple steps and into Merric College to request a jealousy offering. No priests were available, so when the word went round, Acton jumped at the chance and after arranging cover in the Burning Rooms headed up to the main entrance to collect the McAdams.

Mr McAdam was a large ugly man with more neck tattoos than teeth. His wife was a middle-aged overweight woman who smelled of cigarette smoke and vodka. She was still wearing her pyjamas under her coat. A more disgraceful pair of Evermarchers Acton could not have hoped to find.

‘Cow’s being seeing that cunt Hamish behind my back again, Your Grace,’ explained McAdam to Acton as they went down to the offering room. Two Temple guards followed them down and waited outside the door.

‘You don’t address me as “Your Grace”,’ corrected Acton. ‘You call me Mr Acton, or Brother Acton if you prefer. In here. Sit over there.’

They had descended into a windowless room that contained a row of chairs, and a table with several containers on it of various shapes and sizes. At the back wall were two sinks and a shower cubical.

Acton walked to the table then turned and smiled at the couple.

‘You have nothing to fear, Mrs McAdam, if you have done nothing wrong and perform the ritual exactly as instructed. All you must do to prove your innocence is drink the bitter waters and hold it in your stomach. If you are sick then you are guilty, do you understand?’

Mrs McAdam nodded and scowled at her husband.

Acton turned back to the table and took an earthenware bowl and placed it before him. He then took a bottle of holy water and poured half of it into the bowl, carefully replacing the stopper in the bottle once he was done. Next, he picked up a jar and opened the lid. Inside was dust from the floor of the tabernacle, a toxic mix of ash, dried blood, ground up bonemeal and bits of rotten meat from the drains and scuppers from the burning room floor. He took a spoon and ladled a generous amount into the water. The amount of dust was at the discretion of the person performing the ritual. The more forgiving would put in only a half-spoonful, while others put in more.

The foul smell of it hitting the water caught in his nose, causing him to gag and turn his head.

‘Please cover your head,’ he instructed Mrs McAdam. He waited while she sulkily pulled the hood of her dressing gown up. Satisfied, he turned his back on her again and with a smile put in four more spoonfuls, then began to mix the contents of the bowl into a thin grey sludge.

He straightened his face and then with the bowl carried in both hands approached them.

‘You must drink all of this now,’ he said to Mrs McAdam. She took the bowl and looked at is suspiciously.

‘Aw oh et?’ she asked.

‘All of it indeed, woman,’ confirmed Acton. ‘And all in one go please.’

She snarled a profanity at her husband then put the bowl to her lips. She then took a breath and gulped the whole lot down in one go.

‘Fuck ye!’ she gasped in triumph and handed back the bowl, before hiccupping and belching. She very nearly brought the whole lot back up again, but somehow managed to force it back down. ‘Aw Jesus,’ she groaned.

‘Aye, see how you like that yah cow. What happens now Brother?’

‘And when he hath made her to drink the water, Mr MacAdam,’ quoted Acton. ‘Then it shall come to pass, that if she be defiled, and have done trespass against her husband, that the water that causeth the curse shall enter into her, and become bitter, and her belly shall swell, and her thigh shall rot and the woman shall be a curse among her people.’

‘She’s already a curse among her people; I can tell you that. How long does this take?’

‘It takes as long as it takes,’ said Acton as he went to the sink to wash out the bowl. He wrinkled his nose at the smell of it. The mixture of water and dust was a disgusting gunk, that if Mrs MacAdam somehow managed to hold down would give her a horrible dose of food poisoning.

‘And if she’s sick, then what?’

‘She is punished.’

‘How?’

Acton sighed. ‘Did you not read the form you filled in? She’ll be stoned to death or hung in her cell depending on the weather. If she was a special case, she’d be crucified.’

‘Oh aye, right.’ The reality of the situation was beginning to dawn on MacAdam. His wife was too busy with trying not to be sick to listen to what was being said. ‘She’s nae a special case?’

‘Where is your form?’ Acton waited until MacAdam had fished out some papers from his coat pocket. He then turned over two pages and pointed at the paper. ‘Section 12, See? She’s not formerly of a heretical religion. She’s doesn’t have a criminal record. She’s not homosexual. There is…’

Acton stopped when Mrs MacAdam appeared to be sick into her mouth, before determinedly swallowing it all back down again.

‘Nearly,’ said her husband.

They waited for a while. Mrs MacAdam sat down and gripped her stomach.

‘Well, she held it down, eh? We can leave?’ asked MacAdam. ‘I mean, she looks rough, but she must be innocent.’

‘Oh, I think we’ll give it a bit longer.’

Mrs MacAdam continued to get greener and greener but was determined to hold down the bitter waters. Acton knew though, that they were more likely to vomit once it had made its way properly down into their digestive systems. He looked at his watch, then decided to help things along a little.

He opened the door and gave instructions to one of the guards. The guard left and they waited.

‘Just one last ordeal and its all over Mrs MacAdam,’ said Acton.

She just groaned and hunched over. Mr MacAdam patted her on the back.

‘I want to take it back,’ said MacAdam, looking up. ‘She’s suffered enough. That’s plenty.’

‘Too late for that, once the form is signed off, the process follows through to completion… ah, here we are now.’

The guard had returned, with a bowl of rotten offal from the burning rooms.

Acton took the bowl, then came up behind Mrs MacAdam and quickly stuck it right under her nose. Her head shot back, she stood up then hunched over and vomited onto the floor. ‘In the sink if you please!’ demanded Acton and she dutifully rushed over to the sinks and finished voiding herself, leaning over the nearest one, holding onto it like a drowning victim holding onto a life raft.

‘That was cheating,’ said MacAdam sullenly. ‘I think she was innocent after all.’

‘You are not the judge of that sir,’ said Acton. He waved at the guards who were lingering at the door. ‘Take her away.’

Acton was happy once more. It felt so good to be doing God’s work.

 

***

Thorman had gone back to Angster and was now spending most of his time there. It was late at night, but he was expecting company. He had moved his office into one of the executive boxes so he could get a view of the stadium. He stood overlooking the field as light snow drifted down over the tents. Guards patrolled the lanes between the campfires, and around the stands. There was not much space left now that there were so many people here, but it was well past midnight now and the stadium slept.

The days after Thorman had returned from the Botanicals, trouble had started brewing at Angster Stadium again and he had had to go there to take charge. The trouble had started with the army throwing out “non-economic” slaves, just dumping them out onto the streets and a sort of unofficial support network had grown up in the Delta that was sending them north where they knew the church would take them in.

Then more came from the north. Refugees and stray slaves, moved on by the valley villages who were already overwhelmed, arrived in the city every day. They then trickled through the streets, moved on by the locals. ‘Go to Angster, you will find food and shelter there,’ they were told. It seemed that the more he did to help them, the more that came. Once again, the stadium was a beacon for everyone that had nowhere else to go. No one had organised it, it was like the flow of water downhill, they just knew, or were told when they arrived, that the only place for them was Angster.

It meant that he now had nearly a thousand children too young to work, eight hundred old people too frail to do much of anything and twelve hundred invalids to take care of. The nay-sayers in the Evermarch Council could call it a breeding ground for Splinter viruses if they liked, but Thorman was sure these human castoffs were better off at Angster, where they could be fed and kept warm - up to a point. The breaking point would be when the money and goodwill of the people of Evermarch ran out and starvation hit the camp.

Where else could they go? This was history repeating itself, was the worry that ate away at him, and this had been why he had closed the stadium in the first place. Not only did it have a lot of bad memories from when public executions had been more common – it was also a magnet for suffering.

Any of his people that went north brought back stories of even larger groups of slaves that had been left by the army up and down the old Scottish glens. The local were gathering them into what sounded worryingly like concentration camps.

And then, when he came to think of, where had the army stashed all the slaves that they thought were worth keeping? From what he had heard, some were in the Delta now, in a camp maybe as far down the coast as Fort Wellington. And what then? That was the wrong direction for Strake. Would they be marched west through the splinters of the Gobi Desert and Ukraine? Taken by train to the slave markets in Ashton-Under-Lyne and sold all across the Divided Kingdom?

Thorman didn’t know and all he could do was cope with the problems right in front of him, which was why he preferred staying at the stadium. As a small benefit, it also got him away from the Temple and all the backbiting and treachery that went on there.

He’d noticed over the last few weeks that generally all the useful priests had come to the stadium to help out, while all the worthless ones had stayed at the Temple where it was warm, and you didn’t get bothered by the needy. No, Thorman corrected himself, most of the priests were good men really, but they had no idea of how to cope with large numbers of unoccupied slaves, civil unrest and a simmering war on the streets between the army and the Committee.

As he surveyed the sea of misery he had collected in this place, Thorman felt more worthless than ever. What use did he think he was being to anyone? There was Bacon skulking in the Delta and there was nothing he could do about it. The civil authorities in Evermarch were quaking in their boots, watching impotently from the other side of the Zone line as the army occupied Georgetown and the towns further down the coast.

Useless as he felt, he knew he couldn’t leave Angster yet. If he did, people would die. What little power he had he could use here, to bring in food, shelter, and medical supplies. He had his office in the executive box, his desk, and his three old rotary dial phones from which he ran the whole enterprise. He had three priests, five acolytes and thirty guards which had been enough to begin with, but with more slaves and refugees arriving every day they were becoming in danger of being overwhelmed.

He was waiting for Major Harper. This was not the major’s first visit to Evermarch since Thorman had talked to him in the Botanical Gardens, and like the last time he would come unannounced at some point in the night. It was three in the morning when he eventually turned up. Thorman had nodded off in his chair, but when the young man was shown in, the bishop boiled a kettle and made them coffee. Harper looked as handsome and unruffled as ever. He sat in one of the armchairs in the shadows away from the window, calm and collected, as if he was here to swap idle gossip.

‘Bacon is strengthening his grip on the Delta,’ he said reaching for a biscuit. ‘Gathering the other officers and making them swear loyalty oaths to him. Putting down any regional resistance with force.’

‘I’ve noticed more of your mean on the Transition Zone line as well. What’s to be made of that?’

‘Just keeping the chaps busy. We may be setting up another base or two in the city, but nothing to get overly worried about.’

‘I’m not overly worried, but Elder Ritchie is. I get an earful of it every time I go home to my wife.’

‘Well, they do keep on getting in the way,’ observed Major Harper dryly. ‘We’ve only killed a couple of them in the city. And a few handfuls in Prospect. If they would just take the hint and bugger off whenever the army shows up, then they’d be all the happier for it.’

Thorman liked Harper a lot, but he was not so naive to think that underneath the major’s easy charm there was a very intelligent mind at work.

‘Things were just beginning to settle down. We’d just about come to an agreement with the Committee. Then the army showed up again.’

‘You never wanted to see us again? You cut me deeply, Your Grace. This is why I am here, to act as a liaison. To make sure we don’t step on each other toes.’

Thoran stood and looked out of the window. ‘It’s not that I’m unhappy to see the army again but look at what you’ve brought back with you. If you want to help, get me more tents and medical supplies.’

‘I’ll see what I can do, Your Grace. Like before it will be off the books though. Mum’s the word.’

Harper joined him at the window. A lone guard in the stands opposite shone his torch in front of him as he patrolled along the top rows of seats where people slept in makeshift shelters.

‘Bless you my son, but don’t put yourself at risk.’ Thorman said this not only because he did not want his illicit army supplies to dry up, but because he also cared for the young man’s wellbeing.

‘Oh, don’t worry, my head is safe for the time being.’

‘Even so.’

‘That sort of thing used to bother me once, Your Grace, but I’ve long since reconciled myself to my own death. No one can survive in this army without a certain sense of fatality. I’ve done what I’ve had to do, to survive, and I make myself indispensable to Bacon. Any qualms, any lingering sense of honour, or - I don’t know - duty, everything they drummed into us at Sandhurst has long since departed me. I cower and tremble before Bacon like a whipped dog, along with all the others that have abandoned pride, abandoned decency, in the hope that my survival may do some good. That I am currently better alive than dead. Or so I tell myself.’

‘These are bleak thoughts,’ observed Thorman who was no stranger to thoughts like this himself.

‘I’m numb to it now, Your Grace. Do not worry yourself on my account. Bacon doesn’t trust Intelligence, but he can’t do without it either. I’m safe enough for now.’

The talked, in a friendly manner, drinking coffee and making plans until Randy Jack came into the room to fetch Major Harper back to the Delta. The lad saw Thorman and stepped forward, but then hesitated. Thorman was blank for a minute, then realised the young man had just held back his impulse to approach the bishop for a hug. Thorman smiled and held out his arms. Randy came and gripped him around the chest and rested his head on Thorman’s shoulder. It was so long a hug that eventually Harper had to say, ‘that’s enough Sergeant. You can unhand His Grace now.’

Randy stepped back. ‘Yes sir.’

‘Sorry, he hugs everyone,’ apologised Harper.

‘Don’t worry, Major. I’ve known Randy since he was, sixteen is it, Randy?’

‘Something like that, Your Grace,’ smiled Sergeant Jack sheepishly, then turning to Major Harper he said, ‘we had better head back sir, before it gets light on the Delta.’

 

Thorman slept a few hours in the morning, then word came to him that Sinclair was on his way to Evermarch, so he summoned a car and went back to the Temple. He slept all the way, his head hanging down onto his chest as he was driven sedately back into the city.

Archbishop Sinclair was at prayer when Thorman arrived, so he waited in the residence. One of the old lazy Temple-bound priests, Father Spicer, was in the living room, having in all likelihood nothing better to do.

‘Did you see the archbishop? Did he give any indication as to why he is here?’ Thorman asked.

The old man shrugged. ‘No. Seemed in an odd mood. Not his usual jovial self.’ Thorman noted the sarcasm of the last comment.

Not entirely sure what he should do, Thorman positioned an acolyte outside the chapel with instructions to come tell him when Sinclair was finished. Thorman met him in the corridor. Sinclair scowled and said, ‘let’s go to the roof,’ as he tapped out a cigarette and lighter from a crumpled packet.

Back on his usual perch up on Grayfriars Church tower, Sinclair blew out some smoke and with a sideways glance at Thorman he asked, ‘how do you feel Thomas?’

Thorman wondered if it was a trick question. He wondered how close he was to joining Shadwell in a cell.

‘Nothing you want to share with me? Nothing important happen recently?’

‘Nothing springs to mind, Your Excellency.’

Sinclair took a few more puffs of his cigarette, each time seeming to start to say something then stopping. Eventually he cleared his throat.

‘Well Thomas. Well. Well, word has come down from above. A little meeting with Him and the archbishops of the Divided Kingdom. We were given the names of who is to be the Judge for our region.’

‘Oh,’ said Thorman through a forced smile. ‘May I offer my most heartfelt congratulations, Your Excellency.’

‘It’s not me.’

Thorman leaned back, lost for words for a moment. ‘But then who? Archbishop Flag?’

Sinclair looked Thorman up and down, grunted and flicked his cigarette butt out over the parapet where it was whipped away by the wind.

The archbishop then straightened himself up. ‘It’s you Thomas. You are to be the Judge for the Divided Kingdom.’

Thorman was dumbstruck. He felt adrenaline start to course through his body. His heart was suddenly pounding.

‘Do you feel different Thomas?’ asked Sinclair with open curiosity.

‘It’s a lot to take in,’ he manged to gasp. ‘What do I do?’

Sinclair curled his lips and spoke with obvious frustration. ‘Well, since I thought it was fucking going to be me, I did a bit of research on it. Basically, you judge. You make judgements, sure in the knowledge that whatever you decide has been guided by God’s hand and everyone must accept them. The process is being formalised in Strake. I’ll email it to you.’

‘Right, thanks,’ muttered Thorman. ‘I don’t understand. God told you this, Himself?’

‘Fuck’s sake Thomas, yes! A pillar of cloud, a blinding light, the full monty. And I’m surprised He hasn’t had anything to say to you. You should pray on this Thomas. Pray for guidance.’

‘Yes, of course.’

‘Yeah well,’ said Sinclair pulling out his cigarette packet, ‘I wanted to be the one to tell you. To see the look on your face if nothing else. I’m going to have one more fag and then retire to my rooms.’

‘Yes, of course, Your Excellency.’

‘Another thing, Thomas. You may want to check who is actually running this place while you are away being a bleeding heart at Angster. Looks to me like the acolytes are getting above themselves. You need some younger priests in the mix, not all these Craggy Island rejects you’ve surrounded yourself with.’

‘Yes, I’ll do that.’

Sinclair grunted and looked up at Thorman once more, his round face and pitted skin made even redder by the winter wind. ‘Why you I wonder? Well, we’ll see…’

Thorman at that moment did not doubt that Sinclair was thinking of the best way to rid himself of this troublesome bishop. He took a step back from the parapet. Sinclair looked down at his feet and then headed for the door. ‘We’ll see. I’ll be leaving first thing in the morning.’

 

Thorman went and hid in his office for an hour to let himself recover from the shock. The implications were immense, weren’t they? He didn’t know. At the very least it meant Sinclair wasn’t a Judge, which was definitely a good thing. Was Thorman safe now? Was his life no longer in constant danger? He hadn’t heard anything from God about it, but then, he had never heard anything from God, ever. What did that mean? Thorman took the sleave he was chewing from his mouth and gripped it in his other hand, feeling its dampness seep through his fingers.

His mind racing, he remembered the last bit of advice he had received from Sinclair. He felt agitated, his legs twitching and jumping, perhaps the walking would do him some good. With that in mind he did a tour of the Temple to see how it had been running since he had been away. It was all about as chaotic and ill-organised has he might have expected, but his biggest shock came when he passed along a corridor that overlooked the courtyard at the back of the college grounds known colloquially as the “drying yards”.

He then sought out Father Boniface who was supposedly in charge of the cells and other underground areas.

He found the old man sitting in his private quarters smoking a pipe and reading a trashy looking romantic novel. He dusted the pipe ash from his robes as he stood to greet the bishop.

‘Your Grace!’ he exclaimed. ‘You’re back!’

‘Yes, Stephen, I am. And I need to ask you about the people in the drying yard.’

‘The cells and slave pens were filling up since New Year, Your Grace. We were running out of places to put them all. What was I supposed to do?’

‘You were supposed to keep me informed, Stephen.’

‘Never used to be a problem, Your Grace. When the cells were full before we just emptied them.’

‘Things have changed since then,’ explained Thorman patiently. ‘And you always need to get me to sign off on any… movements. Don’t do anything else until I’ve reviewed the logs.’

‘Of course, Your Grace!’ snapped back Father Boniface, who was all too happy to get out of some rather depressing paperwork.

Back in his office once more, he thought about going down to the yards, but he found he could not take one step towards the stairs that lead to its entrance. Those steps, the last steps anyone coming up from the cells would ever take. He imagined being one of them, coming up from the cells, then back down the ten stone steps to the yard. The unimpressive fire exit door opening, and the sun right in your eyes (in his imagination it was always a cold, but sunny, winter’s day), making you blink and shield your eyes as one of the guards pushed you forwards…

He was stuffing his sleeve into his mouth again. And him a Judge now. He felt like he was going insane. Nothing made any sense.

An acolyte brought in the handwritten cell logs and he looked over the entries for the last couple of weeks.

‘Jesus,’ he muttered as he read. Sixteen executions since he’d been gone. Including a failed Jealousy Offering. Carried out by, and authorised by, an acolyte acting on his own authority. Mrs Evie McAdam of Trimcapel, body released back to husband for burial. He needed to have a word with Brother Acton. And find another job for Father Boniface outside of the Temple, maybe even outside of the city entirely. See how the old fool like that.

He turned over the page and the latest entry only had one name on it. He read the name, leapt up from his chair and called loudly for the guards.

 

Nathan was back on shift after being off for two days. There was no system of ranks within the Temple Guard. Nathan didn’t know why. This meant that when he was off the rota, he usually went to the guard’s tea shack and played games on his phone or chatted to anyone else that happened to be there. Today the only other guard in the shack was a newbie even younger than Randy. Nathan had already seen him smoking a joint at the back gate (on his first day!) and so was not all impressed and was making no effort to talk to him.

Bunn opened the door and stood in the doorway, letting the warmth that had been generated by the gas heater bleed out into the cold corridor. There was nothing written down anywhere that Nathan had to take orders from Bunn, but he was much older and a former policeman. When Bunn asked Nathan to do something, he usually just did it without any backchat. He would occasionally forget to do the things he was tasked with doing, so Bunn or whoever would have to find him and shout a reminder. This was genuine forgetfulness though not out of laziness, as he found that just doing what he was told was easier than arguing and besides his mother had taught him to be a nice boy.

‘There you are,’ said Bunn. ‘On that fucking phone as usual. I’ve got escort duty today, be a good old chap and go down to the Drying Yard and bring in the washing.’

‘Aww…’

‘Shut up, oh and take Kim with you,’ said Bunn, pointing at the new guy.

‘Why me?’

‘Why not you?’ asked Bunn who then left without shutting the door. Nathan extended one of his very long legs from where he was sitting on a ratty old armchair and pushed it shut.

Kim looked up from the old newspaper he had been flicking through. ‘We have to bring in washing? That’s a job for slaves innit?’

‘It’s code. It means haul down the crucified bodies from the crosses. Slaves are meant to do it, but they won’t unless a couple of guards are there to supervise.’

Kim stood up, apparently eager to see some corpses. Nathan sighed, put his phone away, grabbed his submachinegun from the coffee table and shouldered it.

First, they went down to the Posticum and picked up two slaves. These were property of the Temple, mostly elderly men and women that were of no use anywhere else and unlikely to ever be redistributed. As they took the steps up to the Yard one of them stumbled and Kim clubbed her in the back with the butt of his gun.

‘Hey, don’t do that!’ said Nathan, pushing Kim to one side. ‘Don’t hit the slaves.’

He then leaned down to pick up the old lady. ‘Sorry Mrs Jaffery. He’s new.’ He then turned to Kim. ‘Listen, don’t hit anyone, ok?’

‘Why not?’

‘Because I’m telling you not to,’ said Nathan with more than a hint of a threat in his voice.

Nathan hated the Yard. He didn’t talk to anyone at home about this part of his job. He was ashamed of it, but what could he do? The door at the top of the stairs was opened and bright sun hit his eyes. The harsh light reflecting off the concrete seemed to magnify it. Although the walls of the yard were tall if felt like there was never any shade in this place. It somehow made it worse. In Nathan’s mind it made it worse anyway when he thought of the poor people that ended up here.

There were three crosses up, but only two were occupied. His looked at the nearest. A very old, and very dead man, still wearing his black overcoat, was crumpled on his cross like a desiccated crow. Nathan didn’t recognise him, so he walked further into the yard and glanced up at the next cross. He saw a thick set man slumped with his head down, his shirt covered in dried blood, his arms and legs purple and swollen. Nathan edged closer to see if he was still breathing, when the man raised his head and smiled weakly.

‘Hello there, boyo,’ whispered Shadwell through cracked lips.

‘Jonesy!’ cried Nathan. ‘Oh no!’

‘Don’t worry boyo, it won’t be long now. I can feel myself going.’

Nathan beckoned over the slaves and shouted, ‘help me get him down!’

 

Thorman was summoned to the archbishop’s residential rooms in the morning. These chambers were the finest Merric College had to offer, set up like a pleasant three-roomed hotel apartment.

Sinclair was in his dressing gown and slippers frying eggs in the kitchen, smoking a cigarette out of the side of his mouth.

‘You’ve still no ash trays in here,’ he commented, gesturing at the coffee cup he had filled with butts.

‘All the residences are non-smoking.’

‘Yeah?’ asked Sinclair, blowing out a cloud of smoke as he pushed his eggs about in the pan. ‘It’s clean in here at least, not like in Vindal. And warm too.’

‘Did you sleep well?’ enquired Thorman.

‘Like a baby. So, Thomas. You are a Judge now. Fair enough, but listen, I’m still the Archbishop and Judge or not, you promised me a proper temple.’

‘Of course, Your Excellency.’

Sinclair tapped his cigarette packet on the table. ‘And just to make sure you keep your promise and since I’m sure you’ll be very busy being a Judge I’ve decided to send over some contractors to help you.’

‘That would be very kind of you.’

‘Wouldn’t it just?’ smirked Sinclair.

There was a rather pregnant silence which Thorman broke by saying, ‘a firm of builders from Strake is it?’

‘No!’ scoffed the archbishop. ‘Cherubs. And you can make sure they get everything they need.’

As Sinclair went over some more of the details, Thorman began to get nervous. Cherubs? In Evermarch? That would not be good news. He had seen them once or twice in Strake and they had been terrifying. He shuddered to think what sort of commotion they would cause in his city.

He was still in a state of bemusement long after Sinclair had gone home to Strake in the back of his armoured four-by-four. He’d grumbled about the increase in army checkpoints before he left, but evidently, he still preferred to be chauffeured around in a car than take the train.

That evening Thorman had to go home, to lie in his own bed and sleep on the events of the last twenty-four hours. His wife had caught wind of the archbishop’s visit, so she would not let him sleep until she had got everything out of him. He slumped down into his favourite chair to eat a sandwich with a can of lager. As he chewed and drank, he told her of his conversations with Sinclair and revealed that it was he, her husband Thomas Thorman, that had been chosen by Him to be the Judge of the Divided Kingdom.

‘This is wonderful news!’ she exclaimed, literally dancing around the living room in joy.

‘Is it?’

‘What are you talking about? Of course it is! You’ll have power over all of them now, you can do anything!’

‘That’s what I’m afraid of. Sit down, will you? You’re creating a draft.’

‘We need to plan this all out, Thomas! Wait until Elder Richie finds out about this!’

Thorman took another bite out of his sandwich and watched as his wife went into the hall and dialled a number on the land line. That will keep her busy for an hour or two, he thought as he finished his dinner and went upstairs for a bath. He could hear Erica’s shrill excited voice as she concocted her schemes with that tosspot Richie.

After his bath he went downstairs for a glass of water. His wife was off the phone now and working on her laptop in the kitchen. She’d be up to something, he could be sure of that, but at this moment he didn’t want to know.

‘And another thing,’ he said as he filled his glass at the sink. ‘Sinclair is sending some cherubs over.’

‘Oh, that will be nice,’ she said distractedly as she typed.

‘I don’t think so.’

‘Why not? Little babies with wings. What’s the problem?’

‘Have you even read…? I mean, that’s cupid, not… Oh, never mind. You should refresh your memory, Erica. Read Ezekiel again.’

She was distracted too much by whatever she was typing so he left it at that and went to bed. It took him a while to get to sleep, which did not surprise him. He worried at his nails and pulled stray hairs out of his cheeks. He wondered how far his power went. Could he defy the archbishop? Could he make things better in Evermarch? Could he even use his new powers to stop some of the excesses carried out by Sinclair in Strake? That city was ruled by fascism in all but name. Could he help everyone in the Divided Kingdom? In the whole world? He realised he didn’t even know how many other Judges there were, and how he would even contact them if he did know.

Eventually, in the small hours of the morning he came to a decision. There was only one thing for it, he needed to talk directly to God. He picked up the landline handset by his bed and called Ray Lorric.