The Mariner (38 page)

“Leave now. Go up onto the moors and wait there. I will send four men to meet you, that’s all you’re getting for this search of yours. Not because I think there’s anything to this bullshit about islands and wasps, but because I want this Pope dead. And once he
is
dead, I don’t want to ever see you again, got that?”

The Mariner didn’t nod. There was no need to.

“Now go. Because I don’t think I can control myself any longer.”

With a juddering gasp, the Mariner turned to look at Grace’s body. He wanted to apologise, to offer to carry her pain, but Harris was having none of it.

“Don’t look at her, you sick fuck! Get out! Now!”

Harris backed up, keeping the shotgun raised. The Mariner walked into the hallway, heading for the stairs, but McConnell’s voice stopped him first.

“I failed her, Arthur.”

“My name isn’t Arthur. She called me that, and she’s dead.”

Besides, Arthur was the good one. What was the other’s name? Traill? Yes, that sounds more like me.

“I thought there was good inside you.”

“You were wrong. And I told you what I was from the very beginning.”

“You’re a monster.”

“Yes.” It felt so terrible to acknowledge the truth. “I never pretended to be anything but.”

The Mariner walked down the stairs, eager to be out into fresh air, eager to be away from those that hated him, eager to put distance between him and that corpse, the mess that he had caused.

McConnell shouted from above, his voice gaining anger where once there’d only been shock. “I’ll kill you! I’ll find you, and I’ll kill you!”

Let him go Heidi. Let him go and have at me. Let’s put an end to it all now.

But another part of him was glad she was holding the reverend back. It sounded like he meant the threat, and the Mariner didn’t want to die. Not with the Pope so close.

Pain bit flesh and guilt whipped mind, the Mariner stumbled out into the grey morning, once again alone. He looked up, between the tightly packed buildings, towards the ascent. And beyond that, the moors.

It was time to find the Pope.

Carefully Harris selected the four he would send after the Mariner, putting them under the charge of Barnett, a man he could trust.

“Have you heard what happened?”

“Yes sir,” Barnett seemed just as shocked as everyone else. “The sick fucker!”

“You’re going to have to put that aside for now, I want you to catch up with him and help find this Anomenemy.”

Barnett wrinkled up his nose in disgust and Harris waved his hand to halt any protest.

“I know, I know! I don’t like it either. But I think this man might be some sort of Anomenemy himself, and he’s going to lead you to this Pope character, and we can’t miss the opportunity to take out two with one stone.”

“Sir?”

“We’re going to return to the Beagle. Heidi and McConnell are too distracted to continue. Best we stream-line the mission, just you four and he. I’ll send a ship back for you, it’ll be here when you return.”

“How long will it take?”

Harris shrugged. However long it took.

“And you want us to kill the Anomenemy?”

“Yes.”

“And what about the pervert?”

“Once you’ve got the Pope, kill him too.”

Barnett shook his head sadly. “It’s a fucked up world, isn’t it boss?”

“Yes,” Harris agreed. “Yes it is.”

37
HIS HOLINESS

[T
HE
M
ARINER] WAS BACK ABOARD
the Neptune, except the ship was no longer made of wood and metal, but neatly folded paper. Great strips of the stuff with enormous printed writing, as if a giant had gotten bored of his book and did some origami. Yet it was still his ship and he had a duty to man it. Except the paper hadn’t been treated! The pages needed a coat of wax to glide through the water, and without it they were becoming soaked and limp, losing definition. The Neptune was sinking.

He rushed to and fro about the Neptune, replacing the failing hull with fresh strips, applying them like rolls of wall-paper. And yet as soon as one strip was applied, another would fail, water seeping through, their demise promising death in the cold depths.

Only leaping from the top deck into the sea would save him, he had to get clear of the ship before it sank, otherwise he’d be dragged down below by the vacuum. But he was afraid to show his face above, for there was an awful droning sound reverberating through to his ears. The Wasp had found him.

“I don’t want to drown!” he screamed at the top of his lungs. “I’m not ready to die!”

“No! No it isn’t! The Wasp is here! It has come for me!”

And yet the Wasp wouldn’t have a chance to take him, because the walls were all soaked and closing in. The room was shrinking, the ceiling fat with moisture and leaking. Already the doorway above was sealed. There was no escape.

The wet paper closed over, his hands crushed by his side, immovable, his mouth blocked by the parchment, stifling all screams. And although the paper had looked wet and cold as it approached, now it was against his mouth it felt dry and soft, less like paper, more like pillow.

He was suffocating, trying to breathe, yet nothing could be forced through the barrier.

This was it, the last few moments of life.

Is that all?

Yes, the Wasp took everything else.

The Mariner awoke, desperately struggling to breathe, though in the waking world no barrier blocked his throat and air flooded inside, hurting his traumatised lungs with their sudden burst. He sat up, coughing and heart racing.

Barnett was watching him with the same mix of disgust and resentment that had painted his face for the past week. The rest of his crew, three others, were asleep around the small makeshift fire.

“Problems sleeping?” he said, making no attempt to disguise the sneer. The Mariner didn’t respond; he merely laid back down and stared into the darkness above. “I’d have problems too if I were you,” Barnett continued regardless. “I don’t think I’d ever sleep again.” There was some truth in that. He had always had trouble sleeping, often waking gasping and choking, but it was getting worse, more frequent. His past was catching up.

Barnett and his three other guards had joined with the Mariner just after he’d finished the long climb to the plateau, leaving the port behind, a tiny twinkling village in an otherwise grey landscape.

Once at the top, the view shocked him to his core. The moor was a vast land of dense scrub extending as far as he could see. It rose and fell in gentle hills, like solid waves. It felt like a horrible mockery of the ocean, one where the water tore at your legs with every step, resisting rather than sliding aside.

Armed and grumbling. Barnett and his men had caught up. The Mariner wasn’t surprised to find they were the ones who’d always seemed closest to Harris rather than Heidi. She wouldn’t spare her finest. Not for the likes of him.

At first they looked about the great expanse, unsure of what direction to take. The land was enormous, dizzyingly so, how could they possibly find a single man out here? But then they noticed other figures ascending to the moors. It seemed as day began to break, the inns were emptying their patrons, and they all had the same goal in mind.

At least a hundred souls began to gather at the top of the path, readying backpacks stocked with supplies; folks of all ages, some gangs, others rough family groups. All keeping to themselves in small packs, yet staying near the main herd like fearful grazers.

And after what seemed like an hour or so, as the sun poked its head above the horizon, the crowd turned as one and began to strike out in a single direction. There was no head of the clan to give commands, and the Mariner knew better than to enquire how they’d come by the knowledge, so instead he and his four watchers kept their heads low and followed.

Of all that long journey, only one thing managed to distract him from the remorse that filled his heart. As the sunlight reached the heather, the dull grey plants that covered the plains suddenly lit up a bright purple. The crowd gazed, open mouthed at the beauty that reached to the horizon. Wonderment died away soon though, as a cold wind reminded them of the reality of their predicament, and although the heather looked soft, in reality it proved a tough and spiteful plant.

Days came and went. The crowd plodded along, stopping during nightfall and huddling around a sporadic scattering of fires. Now it was the seventh morning he’d awoken, lungs painful, stomach screaming for alcohol and limbs shaking. Still, he welcomed the pain. It was less than he deserved.

Barnett, seeing his taunts were having little effect on the Mariner, gave up and settled himself. Soon he was surrounded by light snores, and although he tried to sleep, the dream lingered in his mind. Fear of choking kept him awake as the hours passed.

Eventually, as grey tinted the sky, a call went up from the other side of the camp.

“Gradelding! Gradelding!”

One of the families had been attacked and a child taken. There was no sign of the beast (whatever it was), just a small patch of torn clothing soaked in blood. He didn’t ask the family about the incident, their glares told him to mind his own business.

From that moment on, the packs clung ever closer together, fires were built higher and no-one slept with their backs to the darkness. The Mariner overheard one of his guards asking Barnett how the land could go on so far, but Barnett merely shrugged, silencing him. It was a smart move, they needed to pretend they were one of these people, whoever they were.

“You should turn back, I don’t know how long this is going to continue for,” he told Barnett in the days that followed. The large man looked like he was actually considering it too, his face transforming for a rare moment to hope rather than loathing, until he finally shook his head. “No, we’ve got a job to do. You ain’t going nowhere without us.”

There were no other Gradelding attacks in the forthcoming days, though another predator seemed to be stalking them. Hunger. The five had run out of food. Barnett had supposed he’d beg another gang for supplies, but the Mariner put an end to that. If they appeared anything but prepared, it would look suspicious. Barnett reluctantly agreed, silently cursing the Mariner and promising himself that he would rob the whole gang of crazies once this madness was resolved.

And then, one night, the routine changed. Night fell but still no-one stopped. The herd kept moving, lighting torches to guide them across the marsh and scrub.

“We must be almost there,” the Mariner observed, unable to hide his excitement despite the heavy exhaustion.

They were climbing a hill, rising up into darkness, yet near the summit, the air took on an orange hue. Fires illuminated the sky; there were others, confirmed as chatter rose above the wind, not loud enough to pick out words, but the tone was one of exhilaration, a crowd ready for a show. A drum beat from the shadows, slow as a heart.

“A bit fucking Wickerman-ish isn’t it?”

The Mariner paid no attention to Barnett. He was beyond such frivolities; he would soon have the truth.

The hill rounded off onto a plateau, upon which a large crowd gathered, several hundred strong. It seemed their herd was one of many, all drawn across the moors to this central point. A strange spicy smell was in the air, incense burnt to honour the coming of their holy figure.

“So whatd’ya say? Shoot the fucker as soon as he shows himself?”

The Mariner gave Barnett a punishing look. “We hear what he has to say first. His words are important.”

They waited, anxious for something to happen, yet unwilling to call for it to do so. The Mariner felt his breath growing shallow. It was almost time, he could sense it.

And suddenly the drum began beating louder and the crowd fell into a hushed silence. The Mariner craned his neck, trying to see a cause for the reverence, yet couldn’t spot one, though he
could
hear a faint squeaking, becoming more prominent as time passed. As the sound increased, the crowd began to part, and into the firelight wheeled a cross, eight-feet tall and affixed to a cart. It was pushed by four robed followers, with a fifth leading the way, a great book clasped in his hands.