The Dark Between the Trees, page 23
Alice Christopher sat next to Captain Alexander Davies’s right-hand man, and when the light from her torch died she did not wind it up again. She sat in the darkness and let the tears roll down her face, so he would not see. This ought to have been a triumph. She had spent so long looking for answers.
“How did you become a soldier?” she asked.
There was silence next to her, but he was still there. “It hardly makes a difference now, does it? Feels like a very long time ago, or maybe it happened to someone else and they only told me about it.”
“That makes sense.”
“It was nice to have that light for a while. A strange light, though. I still have a bit of candle left, if you have a way to light it.”
She thought about trying to explain the concept of a dynamo to him, of an electric torch. Of three and a half centuries of enlightenment. But her head hurt. “I like the dark for now,” she said. “Have you been here a very long time?”
“A week. Or longer. I’m not hungry, which is strange.”
“Nor me,” she said.
There was a faint rumbling, like an earthquake or a landslide a mile away, or something vast shifting. Harper said, “It does that sometimes.”
“Have you investigated?”
“In the dark? No. I’ve not really wanted to move, if I’m honest.”
“My light, it runs on clockwork. Sort of. I can light it again. We could explore together.”
“You want to get closer to whatever made that noise? If it’s the Corrigal, I don’t want to go near it.”
“I don’t think the Corrigal comes this far down, anyway. I don’t think it has the nerve.”
A quiet, wet sniff. Alice wasn’t the only one who was crying.
He said, “I can’t tell you what you want to know. I can’t tell you what happened to him. I’m the only one left!” It echoed off the walls of the cavern.
“There were five of us,” said Alice. “We came looking for your company, or what was left of it. I wanted to know what had happened, where you’d gone. I didn’t actually think I’d find out. The others turned back.”
“You said the Corrigal took one?”
A pause. “I don’t know. It’s like you say, I was right there beside her, and I don’t know what happened to her. Then the others turned back.” Saying it now, her anger seemed strangely absent. “I have to try to understand. To make it worth it.”
“You’ll not find Davies here.”
“What was he like?”
Harper said, “Braver than me. A good man. The sort you might say was too soft for a leader, but I saw him shoot a man in the head in these very woods to stop him being the death of the rest of us.”
“Who was it?”
He didn’t answer but spat onto the ground. “Son of a devil and no better than he ought to be. I’m not one to speak ill of dead comrades, but some of them deserve what they got. And we’ll all die in this place. Or maybe we’ll sit against this wall forever.” A pause again. “I followed him in here, because he’s the kind of man you follow into places. Or he was for me. We left three others outside. You didn’t see them, did you?”
“It was very dark out there. The middle of the night. But no, I didn’t see them. Who did you leave?”
“Byrne. Stiles. Cadwell.” He sounded like he was struggling to recall their names. “Stiles was right about this place. We should never have come. Especially… if people came looking for us.”
Alice said, “The wood lures us all in somehow. If you’re meant to be here, it’s where you go. If it’s not one reason it’s another.”
“If it’s not a shortcut then you’re being shot at.”
“Right.”
From far off in the distance came the sound again of rumbling.
“Giants,” said Harper offhand, although Alice hadn’t asked. “Giants from the time of King Arthur, or else it’s the end of the world.”
“More likely that,” said Alice. “I’m so tired.”
“I’m not going anywhere,” he said. “I’d offer to keep watch but I don’t suppose there’s much point.”
“I suppose not.”
“I’m glad it’s not just me,” he said. “I’m glad I’m not alone.” In the darkness, Alice felt him reach out for her. She took his hand, and it was warm, the first warm thing she’d felt in who knew how long.
“So am I,” she said, and meant it. The ground was hard, and seemed to be littered with gravel, but she lay down on it anyway, and put her head onto the lumpy pocket of her rucksack. She was so tired, so heavy. She did not turn the torch back on. In front of her eyes, the darkness bloomed into psychedelic, acidic colours. She closed them, and listened instead to the steady breathing of the soldier next to her.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
Nomansland, Again
The sun rises, in an insipid sort of way, over the place called Moresby Forest. There are other forests around the United Kingdom, many of them of similar size to Moresby, some of them equally old and haunted by as many stories. A few of them even have barbed wire fences around the edges of them, and capital-lettered warnings to would-be ramblers to KEEP OUT—although ordinarily those have more to do with army practice ranges than the signs at Moresby do.
The mist hangs low, so that even from a hundred or so yards away the chain link fence is obscured in thick greyness. Behind it, and further into the trees, the mist seems to grow darker in the thin light of early morning. It gives the place an eerie feel—which, again, is not uncommon for thick forest in the early hours of the day. There are birds in Moresby, which are audible even if they aren’t specifically visible. And at some points—and this probably does set it apart from other fenced-off bits of British woodland—there are gaps under the fence, as if some animal or another had tunnelled its way in, or out.
If you listen very closely, you can hear from the boundary the hum of a far-off motorway. Not so much yet, but in an hour or two it will be rush hour.
In a section of the boundary that faces to the north-east, over a wide, plain stretch of English countryside, there is movement from behind the fence. It looks, to begin with, unnatural: limping awkwardly and slowly, a shade of turquoise blue that is out of place in that green and grey landscape. Then, through the mists that obscured the fence, the shape forms itself into something unmistakably human, and the turquoise becomes recognisable as a plastic anorak, and the woman—for it is a woman—flings herself at the chicken wire of the fence. She bounces off it and falls to the ground, as she must have known she would do, and the metallic clang reverberates in all directions.
Nuria Martins—freezing, sleep deprived, frizzed hair plastered to her face—has found the edge of the woods. She has found—could it possibly be true?—the way out.
But of course there is no immediate way for her to get to it, being on the wrong side of the fence. She has had plenty of time to think since the events of the previous day, and she is more sure than ever that this side is the wrong one—she has dragged herself to this point by thinking of this fence, and of being on the other side of it. No more the unfinished thesis, the history department, the stories of men long since dead. If the last eighteen hours have taught Nuria anything, it is only that she can never look at any of it again. Even if she does manage to find the gate. Her priorities are irrevocably changed. Getting out of here is getting out of all of it.
Having found that the fence is both impassable, and too high for her in her weakened state to climb, she sits on the damp ground and hugs her arms about herself. She is extremely hungry. In one of the pockets of her rucksack is a cereal bar—apparently the last one she has, or at least the last that is accessible without opening and unpacking the whole bag. She finishes it in three bites and feels a little better. It’s okay: if she follows the fence round to the south, eventually she will come across the gate, and she can get out that way. It’s going to be okay.
In the end, the desperation to get out of that place overcomes her exhaustion and the pain in her blistered feet, and she sets off again, holding out her left hand to the fence like it is her lifeline, and perhaps she is even right that it is the only thing that could prevent her from getting lost inside this place.
She has walked a long way over the last few days, however, and has come a long way from the south side that bordered onto Sibbert Hill, where she and four other women entered the forest, so long ago.
After two hours, the sun is properly up, although it is hidden behind the thick cloud that seems to be the only weather here. She rests for half an hour and then forces herself to get back up again. After another hour, she rests again. One hour on, half an hour off, gritting her teeth, now long past crying. Another hour on, half an hour off. Every time she tries to think beyond the next hour, it is a lead weight in her stomach, making it harder and harder to keep moving. The middle of the day approaches, and the fence finally just about begins to curve around to the south. It feels like the bars of a cage: she is out in the open air, can feel the wind on her face, rolling off the nearby hilltops, but at the same time she is still trapped, and somehow suffocating.
An hour on, half an hour off. She sees stars in front of her eyes. If there had been much more in her stomach, she might have thrown it right back up. But there is Sibbert Hill in the distance now, tantalisingly close.
Then there it is—the gate, and beyond it the Land Rover. Kim’s Land Rover. No Kim or Sue—and the thought is suddenly overwhelming again, and Nuria cries dry, unselfconscious sobs.
She is hobbling. It takes several minutes after having seen the gate before she is close enough to get to it. It is the same as it was three days ago, padlocked shut, and with the ladder lying a little way away. That blessed ladder. Nuria ought to rest and get her strength up before attempting to position it against the fence, to climb up with her whole rucksack and—what, jump down the other side? By the looks of things it is the only way—but she isn’t inclined to wait. She has to be out of here as quickly as possible. So she gathers up the final dregs of her strength and approaches the ladder.
Her heartbeat is in her throat as she limps towards the Land Rover. It is nearing the middle of the afternoon now. On some level it seems impossible that she should have managed to get out of that place at all; on another level, impossible that she should have while the others have not. Ahead, to the south, Sibbert Hill rises up. In days gone by, it would have made an excellent spot for an ambush.
On the front passenger seat of the Land Rover, through the window, she can see a washed-out mug, with the words “Dignity at Work” printed on the side.
Nuria Martins fishes in the pockets of her anorak, and her hand closes around the tiny, ancient coin they found at the site of the burnt-out shack. It should not be real. Now she is out of that place, the coin should have melted into thin air. How dare it still be here when Kim, Sue, Helly, even Alice are not?
She tries the handle of the car door, but it won’t open. It’s locked. Of course it’s locked. And Kim had the keys.
Nuria Martins curls up on the ground, with her arms clutched over her head, and weeps.
THE END
Acknowledgements
Thank you to the early readers who met this book in various stages of undress, took it seriously, and gave me advice: Kyna, Helena, Emily, Corbin, Sian, Struan, and the folks at NSTB who held my hand through the nerve-wracking bits. Mike gave me the benefit of his re-enacting experience and historical knowledge, much of which I gratefully took on board and some of which I ignored because “it’s cooler this way”. All remaining errors historical and horticultural are mine alone, which definitely include a few extreme liberties with a firearm – what can I say except that Alice Christopher would probably mark me down for them.
My agent, Anne Perry, saw the potential in this book in about five seconds flat, and has been its greatest advocate ever since. It has been my biggest stroke of luck to have her on my side and I am grateful for her hard work, impeccable judgement, and unstoppable good cheer.
I also owe many thanks to the folks at Rebellion, who have been collectively and individually excellent: my editor, Michael Rowley, very much with me here in the middle of the Venn diagram of interests that is this book; editorial assistant Amy Borsuk, who fielded my nit-pickiest questions with great patience; PR/marketing master Jess Gofton; the copy-editor/typesetter/proof-reader dream team of Paul Simpson, Gemma Sheldrake, and Bridette Ledgerwood; Dominic Forbes who designed that incredible cover(s), and all the rest who pitched in to turn this story from a lot of weird, soggy shouting in my possession to something actually pretty cool (albeit still with the rain and yelling) in yours.
I have a very cavalier attitude to research: I’ll do plenty, but only if I can tell myself it’s just for fun. Thanks in particular to Martyn Bennett, Charles Carlton, Diane Purkiss, C. V. Wedgewood, and the administrators of the BCW Project for making this so easy to do. Thank you also to Edinburgh University library for allowing me, Not a Student Any More, to take textbooks home to read in my pyjamas, and to Martin for the shedload of tomes which plugged the gap when a pandemic happened and library visits were suddenly off the cards.
My family – Barnetts and Aucklands both – have been supportive of my writing for a very long time, even (some might say especially) when I couldn’t tell where it was going. Gravy sat on my feet during every round of edits and exuded calm, because he is a cat.
And Ned was there too, all along: patient, encouraging, enthusiastic. Everything I could wish for, really. Thanks, Ned.
HOPE HAS A PRICE
Nick Prasad has always enjoyed a quiet life in the shadow of his best friend, child prodigy and technological genius Joanna ‘Johnny’ Chambers. But all that is about to end.
When Johnny invents a clean reactor that could eliminate fossil fuels and change the world, she awakens primal, evil Ancient Ones set on subjugating humanity.
From the oldest library in the world to the ruins of Nineveh, hunted at every turn, they will need to trust each other completely to survive…
“Gasp-out-loud astonishing”
Charlie Jane Anders
“A wonderful adventure”
Chuck Wendig
“A galloping global adventure”
Brooke Bolander
“A perfect balance of thriller, horror and humour”
Adrian Tchaikovsky
www.solarisbooks.com
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Don’t trust the Liar.
Do not cross the King.
Never, ever go in the River.
In Red Valley, California, you follow the rules if you want to stay alive. But they won’t be enough to protect Sadie now that she’s become the Liar, the keeper of the town’s many secrets. Friendships are hard-won here, and it isn’t safe to make enemies.
And though the Liar has power—power to remake the world, with just a little blood—what Sadie really needs is answers: Why is the town’s sheriff after her? What does the King want from her? And what is the real purpose of the Liar of Red Valley?
“You will never enjoy being lied to this much.”
John Hornor Jacobs
www.solarisbooks.com
Google Play is a trademark of Google Inc.
Cadenza is the City of Words, a city run by poets, its skyline dominated by the steepled towers of its libraries, its heart beating to the stamp and thrum of the printing presses in the Printing Quarter.
Carlo Mazzoni, a young wordsmith, arrives at the city gates intent on making his name as the bells ring out with the news of the death of the city’s poetleader. Instead, he finds himself embroiled with the intrigues of a city in turmoil, the looming prospect of war with their rival Venice ever-present. A war that threatens not only to destroy Cadenza but remove it from history altogether…
“The zest and wit that Beckerlegge infuses into his fantastical Decameron is marvelous”
Locus
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Fiona Barnett, The Dark Between the Trees
