Watershed (31 page)

‘I need you here. With me,' I told her.

‘But –'

‘No, Alex. With me.' And trapping her between my legs, one arm circling tight, I finally slept.

She was awake when I opened my eyes, and I resisted the urge to nuzzle into her neck. The sun was high – I blinked against the glare – and the wind strong, whistling past us and lifting the dust. Across the clearing, Tate had thrown his arm over Ballard, sheltering him with his bulk as they huddled beneath their cloaks. It was the first time I'd seen any real display of affection between the two; back when Tate had comforted his friend by Marin's bedside, I'd thought it nothing more than it had appeared. But I was guessing their relationship was a long one, any feelings – love or trust, or whatever it was that people shared between them – deep-rooted, like my grandparents' had been. I'd not experienced anything like that myself, so I couldn't envy it. But I did wonder about it sometimes.

Feeling me stir, Alex turned between my legs and faced me. She looked more rested than before.

‘How do you feel?' she asked, and I stretched out my leg. It was cramped and sore, but it'd bear my weight, which was all I needed.

‘I'll live,' I said, and taking her hands, I rubbed the wrists gently. They were less swollen, but her thumbs were dark and bruised. ‘You?'

‘Same,' she said, and sank back down, her cheek against my chest. Lifting a hand, I stroked her hair, wondering how to tell her, whether I should even bother. In the end, I opted for honesty.

‘Alex, I have to tie you up again. I'm sorry, but I can't be sure Garrick hasn't got others out there. He –'

‘I know. I understand.' She slipped one arm around my waist and we sat there in silence for a while, until she looked up at me, smiling. ‘Your heart is strong. Like you.'

‘Yeah?' I smiled too. ‘What's it say?'

‘That I can trust you. Rely on you. That you'll keep me safe.'

I sighed then, and rubbed my eyes. ‘I won't be able to do that, Alex. Not if you go through with this. I won't be there. And I can't protect you from him. Why can't you understand that?'

‘But you will be with me.' She touched her head. ‘Up here.' Then tapped her breast. ‘And in here.'

‘And Cade?' I sneered. ‘Where's he gunna be?'

‘He'll be there too, Jem. And Ballard. Tate. I'll carry all of you with me.'

‘You sure you've got room enough?' I muttered.

‘I'm sure,' she said.

I heard her sadness and when she turned and pressed her lips to my throat, I felt it too, a sudden surge of it, deep in my stomach, like a wave of vomit that bubbled and burned, so I had to swallow hard to keep it down. Pulling her close, I kissed her head, rocking her gently, not minding the added heat from her body. And as I rocked, I hummed my song softly, for the first time in years, still sure of the melody and finally ready to share it. It's strange how easily some things come back. Like they'd never even left.

She tilted her head and I saw she was smiling again. ‘I like that. It's a happy tune.'

Happy? Maybe once, a long time ago.

‘Do you know any others?' she asked.

‘Just that one.'
My song.

‘Are there words?'

‘No,' I lied. ‘I don't remember any words.'

Burrowing into me, she sighed and said, ‘Connor would like it.'

My chest tightened as I recalled the boy's grief, the fierce grip of his arms, the wet of his tears, and I said, ‘He came to see me. Before we left. Asked if we'd be coming back.' I stroked her hair again. ‘I told him no.'

She nodded, understanding, accepting the truth of it. ‘Did you mean what you said to him that time in the infirmary, about being able to forget pain?'

‘Pain, yes,' I told her. But not cruelty. That was something that stayed, scoring way too deep ever to be erased.

‘What will Garrick do, Jem?'

‘Don't ask me that.' But when she looked up, patient yet demanding, I said, ‘I don't know. It depends.'

‘On what?'

‘On his mood. He likes it when they scream. But don't fight him. You'll only make it worse.' Except I couldn't imagine Alex not fighting back. I couldn't see her just giving in and giving up.

‘But he won't kill me,' she said, as though suddenly needing assurance.

Heard he killed the last one.

‘No. He won't kill you,' I said and pushed her forwards, sitting her up to face me. ‘But he'll do other things, Alex. Things you can't begin to imagine. I've seen what he does, and – shit, please don't do this. There are other ways.'

She stared at me for a long time, before sighing. ‘Jem, don't complicate this. When you took all those other girls back to Garrick, did you ever stop to think about what was going to happen to them? Who might miss them? Who loved them? Who'd mourn
them? This is no different.
I'm
no different. Just because you know me – just because we spent that night together – it doesn't mean I shouldn't do this. If anything, it means I should. Don't make it harder for me. Please.'

‘That was then, Alex,' I snapped. ‘So don't put this shit on me. Not this. I can't do it.'

‘Yes, you can,' she said. ‘You've been doing it for eight years.'

‘Not this,' I said. When she stroked my cheek, I didn't know whether to kiss her hand or smash it away.

‘What happens, happens,' she said. ‘That's what you told me. I have to do this, but I can't do it alone. I can't do it unless I know you're with me. Be with me, Jem. Please?'

I didn't reply because Tate was right; I didn't understand. Instead I turned my face into her hand and took her thumb between my teeth, sucking it into my mouth, sliding my tongue around it, relishing the dirt and the grit, and washing away the bruised hurt. Her breathing quickened as she watched, and I moved onto her fingers, tasting each one, feeling their fineness, biting gently on her bones. This was something I had with her that Garrick would never find: desire. I kissed her neck, her jaw, her mouth, ran my tongue over her dry cracked lips, licking each corner where the gag had rubbed the skin. And I cupped her face, pressing my mouth to hers, savouring the taste of her, heard her soft moan, felt its vibration. Then, just as suddenly, I ended it, tugging her head down onto my shoulder, settling her there and holding her to me.

‘I can't be with you, Alex,' I whispered. ‘But when it's over, and Garrick's dead, I swear I'll come and find you.'

Excerpt ~ Letter #16

 

A long time ago, when I was younger than you are now, my aunt and uncle divorced. (That was something people did when they didn't want to be married any more, and it was very common.) I was sad when it happened, and confused too, because they'd always seemed so happy. It wasn't until later that I learned my uncle had found someone else who made him even happier, and I remember asking my mother if that's why my aunt hated him so much. My mother told me that it wasn't about hate; it was about losing trust. I've been thinking about that a lot lately, and I wonder now if the two aren't the same thing.

The man wasn't at all as Sarah had imagined. He didn't appear crazy, or wild, or even angry. He wasn't frothing at the mouth and preaching anarchy. He looked just like any other man, she thought: old before his time. He sat propped against the wall, cup in hand, but he wasn't begging. So she gave, pouring a little water for him, all she could spare. He thanked her, and asked her name.

She was heading home and didn't want to stop – Daniel would be waiting for her – but there was something about the man that compelled her. A patience. Others were passing, but none of them stopped or offered to share their water. Perhaps they didn't see what she had. But his question was harmless enough. And wasn't there too little civility these days? So she told him.

And was she like the Sarah of old, blessed with a child in her dotage? he asked, his small smile taking any sting from the words. The question alarmed her, and she looked around to see if anyone had overheard. The man smiled again, more broadly, and said: You don't have to believe to remember the stories.

No, she thought. After all, there were plenty she herself remembered. So she returned his smile and replied that no, she wasn't like the Sarah of old. She had a grandson instead, and he was almost grown.

The man said: I'd call that a blessing. And Sarah nodded. A blessing, yes.

Would she sit, the man asked her, while he told her a different story?

No, not begging for water but begging for company, and she glanced around again, this time looking for an excuse to leave
but finding none. Jeremiah would be home soon too; perhaps she could afford a little time. So, with a little difficulty, her joints stiff and her back sore, she settled herself beside him.

As he spoke his tale of woe and loss, she watched the shadows grow long on the ground and remembered her own hope when she and Daniel had first arrived at the Citadel, and the grief they'd left behind: Anna and Heather, Violet, Tommo, Seb and Banjo, even Jon. She thought of Rachel who'd departed, of Daniel who was soon to, and of her grandson, and she wondered the same thing that everyone wonders when momentarily presented with their own mortality: was this really all there was?

She returned home, a little dazed, a little sad, and told Daniel she'd met her first dissident, but he was nothing like the tower had warned. As they were lying in bed – her head could no longer rest in the hollow of his shoulder where it had always felt most comfortable, the weight too much for him now – and she listened to his rattled breathing and his rich cough, she whispered: Have you ever heard of the Watch?

She pressed the cloth to Daniel's face, cooling it with water that was already warm. His skin was loose, the flesh melted away so quickly; his grey hair had whitened and thinned to tufts, his eyes seemed bigger, protruding from the deepened sockets, and the coughing that wracked his body was worse, bringing up thick, brown mucous and blood. Yet all she could do was sit by his side and mop his brow: a helpless character from an old tale.

They didn't talk much. They'd already said all there was to say, and Sarah knew he worried about leaving them. She knew that hurt him more than the coughing, more than the pain, and each time she saw his concern cloud his face, she'd hurry to reassure him that she and Jeremiah would be all right, that they'd manage somehow. But she was just as scared as he was, and angry too,
because she'd always imagined Daniel would be there, by her side until the end. Her end though, not his.

Jeremiah had stopped going out at night. He stayed with her, with both of them, sitting at the table and watching his grandmother mop, taking her place when she was tired, though he too was tired, working a man's job for long hours before returning home to watch his grandfather die.

It was past end of day when he opened the door and entered the room. Exhausted and dirty as he was, he nevertheless armed himself with a smile, for her sake. She watched as he shed his vest and the belt with its knives, before kneeling beside her. How was he? he asked; they didn't ask Daniel any more. The same, she replied. But that wasn't true. Daniel was worse, and perhaps the next day he'd pass. Or next week. Jeremiah pulled him up a little to ease his gurgling; Daniel coughed, a weak attempt, long and wet. He was sinking into his own sea.

Had Jeremiah collected his water? Sarah remembered to ask. He shook his head; he'd do it tomorrow. Don't forget, she said, a little too sharply, annoyed because the barrel was low. He didn't reply, but took the cloth from her and dipped it into the bowl, wringing it out with his dirty hands. Why didn't she go out for a bit? he suggested. She'd been there all day; he could stay with Daniel now.

Sarah hesitated, because this was her place, by Daniel's side. But Jeremiah was right: she'd barely left the room and she longed for air that wasn't stale. Already regretting her earlier rebuke, she smiled and thanked the stars that he was there to help her, that he was a good boy, a loving boy; that he was his mother's son.

Yes, she said, before reciting the instructions: Keep his head up, keep him cool; there are clean cloths beside the bed, and broth in the pot if you can get him to take any. Just go, he told her with a smile. Squeezing his hand quickly, she kissed his cheek and felt the hair there: a little soft, a little coarse, another reminder that he was no longer a boy. And she leaned over to kiss Daniel too,
just a peck because his face didn't feel right with all its angles and its bones and its no-flesh, and the smell of him was too strong, almost pushing her away.

But outside it was no better, because she took the smell with her – the smell and the memories and all her sadness and her anger. Pacing the streets of the Citadel she'd refused to forsake, she wondered, had they left its filth and its tumult, had they perhaps moved to a settlement as Rachel and Cutler had done, whether Daniel would be dying as he was now. She circled the dark-stoned tower, wary of shadows and strangers and guards, and found her way to the wall, but the dissident she'd met weeks ago, with his proffered cup and his rage contained, was no longer there.

Go back. Go home.
Not a voice in her head, but a feeling, the shiver of her heart, and Sarah returned the way she had come, retracing her steps along the street and through the little alleys, twisting left and then right, and left again, to find her place.
Go. Quickly.

When she opened the door, she was slow to sense what had changed. Then she heard it. No rattling or gurgling, none of the noise she'd come to know and hate and appreciate. All was silent and everyone was still: Daniel, his head lolled to one side and, beside him, Jeremiah, who stared with eyes that weren't warm any more but which told her, darkly, what he had done.

But Daniel hadn't been a bird with a broken wing, Sarah thought with sudden fear. And, too late, she realised her mistake – Jeremiah wasn't just his mother's son; he was his father's too.