84K by Claire North

Author:Claire North
Language: eng
Format: epub, azw3
Publisher: Orbit
Published: 2018-05-22T04:00:00+00:00

Chapter 49

Following country lanes for a while, until he turned north and found the River Stour.

Long reeds tipped with black ends and sharp spines, slow-running waters through boggy marsh, midges, an apple orchard, a town where they sold hog roast and methane.

An empty village where the pub sign swung gently in the breeze.

Not tracking the river as much as he’d thought, the wetness of the land pushed him through little villages and around enclaves where sometimes the screamers screamed and the rich locked up their cars.

A tiny town, no name, no gate, where two people sat in their front garden, naked, and watched Theo go by. Another woman, naked, stood behind a living-room window, hands on hips, and in the full resplendence of an autumn sun shimmering cold across her bare, goosebumped flesh, glared at the walking man as he passed by.

Soon they’d have a party, soon there’d be another night for flesh and seeing what new flavours could be best licked off another man’s skin and it would be …

… but for now the sun was still up, so they waited for the evening and Theo walked.

He wasn’t sure if he would find the place he was looking for.

Doubted very much if the man he needed was still there, but still, sometimes you had to put everything on a wager.

He turned off the path where it met a slightly larger country lane, followed it down to the river’s edge, paused to wash his face again, dribble icy water down the back of his neck, listen to the swaying of the red-leafed trees, smell the mould behind the church.

Crossed a fat, belching A road, a railway line where the trains had stopped.

Walked up a hill to the valley’s edge, to a village of two houses and a corrugated-iron farm. There were gates on either end of the road, in and out of town. The gates were built in two parts, the outers heavy black metal, the inners swirling iron, reclaimed from a manor house, the date of construction still visible amid the roses blooming and songbirds soaring in metal, lovingly restored.

He knocked on an outer gate, and a panel swung back instantly, a man glaring through the peephole.

“Yes?”

“I’m looking for Mr. Pritchard.”

“He’s not here.”

“But he lives here.”

“No.”

A little sigh, a shifting of bruised, aching bones, flat, blistered feet. “I’m looking for Mr. Pritchard, it’s very important.”

The peephole slammed shut.

Theo knocked again.

The peephole didn’t open.

He called out, voice bouncing back at him from the high metal gate, “Tell Mr. Pritchard that I’m Mike’s boy. My name is Theo. Tell him I’m going to destroy the country, the government and the Company.”

No answer.

He slunk down, back against the concrete blast wall that encircled the little cluster of thatch-roofed houses, and waited.

Slept a while.

Woke hungry.

Slept a little bit more.

Stirred with the crunching of boots, the play of light against his eyelids, bright against the thick dark of cold autumn night bitten with the taste of winter.

A man in a green waxed coat, dark

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