October Skies (37 page)

 

Julian was still playing the news through his head as he let himself in through the glass doors of the small industrial unit that was Soup Kitchen’s office.

Sean dead?

He’d seen on the local news last night that a man had been stabbed to death whilst walking his dog on Wimbledon Common and, like every other viewer at home, he had sighed at yet another sign of the times; this was the result of allowing Britain’s troubled and tormented souls to wander the streets at will with no one supervising their care and medication.

Then this morning he’d emailed Sean at his work address for an update on how things were proceeding, only to get a response from a harried colleague that Sean was the unfortunate man who had been attacked.

Miranda came in for only a few hours every other day. Today wasn’t one of them, which was just as well. He wasn’t ready for a cheerful good morning and some bright and breezy banter. He flipped on the dim overhead lights of their front office, filled up the coffee maker and put it on, then booted up his PC as he waited.

His mind raced with conflicting threads of thought.

On the one hand he was surprised at how shaken he was. Sean and he went back quite a few years, and the poor bastard was leaving behind his wife and a little girl. Sean had been an all-round good egg, and now, out of the blue, he was gone.

Shit like that always seemed to happen so quickly - death just sneaked in and changed lives in the blink of an eye. He made a mental note to order a wreath, and write a few words to Sean’s wife before he headed to Heathrow tomorrow.

What is wrong with this evil fucking world?

He reluctantly pushed his mind onto other matters and felt like a mercenary bastard for doing so.

There was now no fast-tracked contract with the BBC being steered through the decision process. With Sean dead, the deal was dead too. Even if whoever replaced him finally got round to dealing with the in-tray and liked the sound of the project, it would probably be far too late to be of any use to Julian and Rose. Money was running out and they’d both need to go scare up some other work to keep the business going. He was halfway through a mental stocktake of clients they could tap for some quick tide-me-over work when another, unwelcome thought fluttered into his mind and settled like a crow on a telegraph pole.

You told Sean about the find and now he’s dead.

He shook his head. ‘Oh, come on.’

And was there not a click on your phone?

The coffee maker burbled and steamed that it was ready and he poured himself a cup, black.

. . . and someone was in your flat, weren’t they?

‘Oh for fuck’s sake, Julian,’ he muttered, ‘now really isn’t the right time to start becoming a paranoid twat.’

His old office PC finally finished choking on Vista and connected to the internet to pick up his mail. Thirty-three spams chased each other into his in-box, one after the other, most promising to turn him into a sexual leviathan. But there was one email that attracted his attention.

He clicked on it.

Julian sat back and sipped his coffee. Now that was something he really hadn’t been expecting. The web page he’d stumbled on at the beginning of the week had looked like a dead site, something put up by someone long ago and forgotten about. Perhaps it would be something of a consolation if he could tie in a meeting with this Zuckerman whilst returning to pack things up. It might help fill a hole in the research. To Julian’s chagrin, he’d been unable to come up with anything at all on Preston. The man’s background was a gap they’d need to fill whether they made a documentary or a drama, especially if, as Dr Griffith had suggested, they were looking at a psychotic cult leader who had led his people to their deaths.

He hastily typed a response.

 

It has been snowing constantly for three or four days now. Several feet of it has covered the old trampled snow. The gutted ribcages of the oxen now lie mercifully beneath a thick carpet. The remaining untouched carcasses were hauled away by Preston’s people at some point during the last few days. As we shivered in our shelters listening to the buffeting wind, they must have all been out there working in conspiratorial silence to drag them to their end of the clearing.

There were those in our group who suggested we march across, en masse, to reclaim a fair share of the meat. But Keats was not amongst them. He advised caution.

I must say I agree. They number more than a hundred; thirty or more of them, men able to wield a weapon of some sort. We, however, including our new guests, the Paiute, number less than a dozen who could fight. We still have packing oats to eat, and the Indians have managed to bring in small amounts of foraged food: hares, a few birds, some root bulbs that are barely palatable after being boiled interminably. It is hardly enough. Without the meat, I believe we will eventually starve.

 

Ben looked at the ominous words he had just scribbled on the page. The diluted ink was a pale blue and hard to read against the page by the flickering light of the small fire inside. Broken Wing placed another small branch thick with fir needles on, and almost immediately the fire crackled and roared to life, the smoke sucked effectively up through the hole at the top by the wind gusting outside.

Three Hawks shared the warmth with them, there being just enough squat room for the four of them.

Keats worked his knife on the inside of his pipe’s bowl, scraping away a residue that was building up and blocking the stem. Ben could tell he was doing his best to catch one word in ten as Broken Wing and Three Hawks talked fluently in Ute, but by the frustrated frown on his face, was failing miserably.

‘Grey hair trapper called Keeet,’ answered Broken Wing.

‘You travel with him?’

‘Yes. Two seasons.’

‘Why?’

‘White-faces pay dollars.’

Three Hawks nodded. He knew dollars were much better to trade with than beaver pelts. ‘Grey hair is friend?’

Broken Wing regarded Keats silently for a while. ‘Yes.’

Three Hawks studied the old man, his eyes drawn to his bushy salt and pepper beard, and then to Ben, his chin framed by a dark blonde fuzz of hair.

‘Why do white-faces grow tails on their mouths?’

Broken Wing shrugged. ‘The Great Chief gave them only to white men.’

‘Ah, I think I know why.’ Three Hawks raised his finger. ‘So they can tickle their bossy wives.’

Broken Wing looked at him, confused, then Three Hawks stuck his tongue out and waggled it. Both Indians dissolved with laughter.

‘What’s so funny?’ asked Ben, roused from his writing by their snorting.

Keats shook his head. ‘Some dumb-ass Indian joke,’ he muttered grumpily.

He watched them both rocking on their haunches, their dark faces split with carefree schoolyard grins. There was an assurance about them he envied, a cool fatalism in the way they squared up to face death that he wished he could emulate.

They don’t fear it.

That was something Keats had told him - that they didn’t have a concept of death. To them it was a journey, just a transition to another place. In their minds, it was a much better place. Ben supposed that kind of belief could make any man brave.

‘I’ve not seen a single one of the others for a while now,’ said Ben. Snow had been coming down heavily since the Paiute had arrived, a heavy blizzard that had reduced visibility through the thick, silent curtains of flakes, to a distance of yards.

Keats nodded. ‘I can see their fires at night. They’re still there, all right.’

‘It’s been three days since we’ve had any kind of contact with them.’

The guide nodded solemnly. ‘That ain’t so good.’

‘What do you think is going on over there?’

‘Hell if I know.’

‘Maybe Preston’s writing his new faith, his new bible?’

‘Sonofabitch is as mad as a mongoose.’

Ben nodded. That much was for sure.

‘That kinda crazy ain’t what you need out in the wilds.’

‘Keats?’

The guide looked up from cleaning his pipe.

‘What are we going to do? The food we have won’t last us until spring.’

‘We sit tight for now, Lambert. Whatever killed ’em folk gonna come back an’ do it again, I reckon.’ He smiled. ‘An’ if it’s happy killin’ them, not us, I ain’t complainin’.’

Broken Wing translated for Three Hawks. The Paiute said something and Broken Wing nodded.

‘What’s that he said?’ asked Ben.

‘Three Hawks sssay . . . white-face devil came with others. Will kill others.’

As the fire settled to embers, Three Hawks left to rejoin the Paiute, no doubt to exchange bemused observations on the white-faces. Broken Wing and Keats wrapped themselves tightly in blankets and hides and were soon asleep, Keats with his thick and irritating nasal rumble, Broken Wing soft and even like a woman.

Ben lay awake, troubled by what the Indian had said.

Whether a devil or, as Keats said, craziness, he knew somehow that Preston was going to bring death to this clearing. And he realised with certainty that there was perhaps only one way it might be prevented. If he wasn’t already too late, that was.

 

Ben stepped out into the gusting night, immediately blinking back soft, clotted flakes of snow blown across the ground and into his face. He could hear the clatter and whack of something loose amongst their shelters being bullied by the wind, and the muted roar of trees around the clearing sounding very much like a restless sea as they swayed in unison.

He could see virtually nothing, just the next few yards in front of his feet, which disappeared through the new snow, down to the older, compacted and ice-hard layer below. Ben oriented himself and headed for the far side, stooped low and leaning into the freezing blasts, tears welling in his eyes and freezing on his cheeks. He decided to give the oxen’s graveyard a wide berth, wary of tangling his feet amidst the ribcages and creating a commotion that might be heard above the restless weather.