Garth nodded. “Ned’s spoken to me, too. And he made himself very clear. A threat, really, but I don’t much care for threats—and I very much care for you. Ned says he wants you; well so do I, and I’m not about to lose interest!” There, he’d said it! Or had he said too much? “But…as yet I’m a nobody, and he’s got years on me. Also, he’s my boss, and—”
“Do you really want me, Garth?” Again, in mid-sentence, she cut him off. “I mean really? I know you’re young—younger than me, even—but you’re a lot more than just a boy. Oh, I’ve seen the man in you, Garth Slattery! You’ve been a scav, too; you go out protecting the convoy; and anyway, what’s a year or so when I’m little more than a girl myself? Time is passing, Garth, and who knows how much we have left? You say you want me, but maybe you think you aren’t ready? Well, I think you are—or rather, we are. So what if I tell Ned I’m not interested in him?”
Then, before Garth could answer, she laughed however uncertainly. And pressing closer, shivering (but not from any chill, he fancied), she repositioned her cushion and finally, stretching out, said: “There. So after all is said and done, here’s me doing the persuading, the arranging!”
Garth’s throat was dry, his voice husky, when he said, “You know, I think I’ve probably dreamed about this; well, something like this, and can’t help thinking I may be dreaming still! And Layla, I do think—in fact I know—that I’m quite ready. As for Ned Singer: you don’t have to tell him anything. I’ll speak to him myself, for myself.”
Lying back, he moved over more yet on his mattress; Layla’s lithe body followed his, pressing even closer. He turned on his side in order to face her, and she turned her back to him, snuggling closer yet! Clothed and in every respect decent, seemly—except possibly in their thoughts and desires—they nevertheless fitted together like lovers, which Garth was now sure they would be. And his arm went around her almost of its own accord.
“Let’s say no more,” he said then. And with a shrug: “If we talk any longer I’m sure to get my words all tangled!”
“No, not you,” Layla replied, shaking her head and sighing. “Actually, I think we’ve chosen our words rather well!”
Following which the pair very quickly fell asleep. And all around them in the cool gloom and the shadows of the car park’s lower level, some fifty others of the refugees settled to their much needed rest. Among those sprawling nearby, several couples had witnessed Layla’s arrival, seen how she remained and nodded their understanding and approval; especially the women, smiling and making small, whispered comments to their partners.
But keeping well back, unseen in the deepest shadows, there lurked a certain cold, calculating figure—a physically unattractive, scar-faced man called Arthur Robeson—who had like-wise kept a discreet distance while following Layla Morgan from the moment she’d climbed down from the trundle. And Robeson was one of Ned Singer’s small coterie of cronies.
Now, seeing Garth and Layla lying there together, still and warm in the faint, filtered light of day, Robeson smiled sardonically. Then, his mission completed, he moved silently away…
Garth Slattery dreamed, and for the first time in as long as he could remember his dreams were sweet. He dreamed of a land that was green and pure, with knee-deep grasses in meadows that went on forever, and a clear water river running through where glittering fishes leaped and sported. He dreamed that he lay there, with Layla of course, mostly hidden in the deep grasses of the meadow. All warm, bathed and glowing, Layla slept in his arms.
And he dreamed that his father, Zach, stood atop a hillock in the near-distance, smiling, waving, and leaning easily on a gleaming metal crutch that reflected flashes of clean, healthy sunlight. There was no rubble or blackened earth anywhere visible: only the roofs of little houses, half-hidden in the trees on gently sloping hillsides, with blue smoke rising from their brick chimney stacks. And on the far side of the river, penned behind fences in pastures of their own, several livestock species grazed contentedly.
In other words Garth dreamed of paradise. But in the waking world of the convoy’s folk, as time passed, things were rapidly becoming far less than peaceful…
And almost two hours later, suddenly Garth’s dreams were shattered! He started awake to sounds of guttural shouting—cries of anger, outrage, and pain! It was Layla who was hurting; Layla’s fingers grasping his arm, only to be wrenched away; Layla Morgan, dragged bodily from him!
At first Garth knew only confusion. Torn from sleep in the dusky gloom, and shivering from the shock of his abrupt awakening, he lurched to his feet near-naked. But as the fog lifted from his mind, suddenly everything was as clear as crystal. Ned Singer stood there: legs apart, a half-empty bottle in one hand and Layla in the other. Holding the girl by the upper left arm, he shook her so hard, so viciously that she skittered and skipped to avoid falling…which finally she did, twirling to her knees on the rough concrete floor!
“Oh, you slut! You little slut!” Singer yelled at her, his speech slurred with drink. “Didn’t I warn you about this horny pup of a Slattery? Seduced you, has he? You stupid young slut! Or maybe it was you seduced him, eh!?” With which he drew back a booted foot to kick her. By which time Garth was fully awake—and raging!
Drunk, staggering, thrown off balance as Layla avoided his kick—and surprised by Garth’s attack: its speed and ferocity, and the raw fury written in the youth’s expression—Singer saw him coming almost too late. And it was no mere “pup’s” paw that struck him but a fist as hard as rock, hurled with Garth’s entire body weight behind it! If Singer hadn’t turned his shoulder into that blow—if it had smashed into his throat and crushed his windpipe, it might well have killed him outright; or, if it had landed on his astonished, fallen jaw, it would certainly have broken it in pieces—but Singer’s shoulder was unfeeling muscle and bone and he was simply driven back, his bottle shattering where he was brought to a halt with his back flat against the wall. Then:
“What? What?” he roared, recovering his balance. “Why, you dirty hound! You take my chosen woman and…and what?—rape her, did you? Oh, I can see it all now! And still not satisfied with your filthy actions, now you offer violence to me, Layla’s intended? Well understand this, you horny Slattery dog: we clan folk know exactly how to deal with such as you!”
Singer’s great gun hung from its sling around his neck and under his arm. Releasing Layla, who until then had been dragged bodily along with him, he groped for the stock and pistol grip. And with his face a livid, twisted mask of murderous hatred, he swung the weapon up and forward—
—At which a trio of figures arrived on the scene, emerging as by magic out of the shadows. The last of them, Zach Slattery, came cursing, hobbling on his crutch; but the first of them, Big Jon Lamon, suffered no such physical disadvantage. Putting himself between Garth and the bully, the clan’s leader thrust Singer’s gun aside and, with a speed and efficiency that belied his bulk, sliced through its leather sling with a razor sharp machete! At which the full weight of the weapon, falling unexpectedly on Singer’s grimy, sweating hands, caused it to slip through his fingers and crash to the floor.
Disarmed and staggering, Singer glowered and snarled at the four men facing him: Big Jon, Zach, and head tech Andrew Fielding; but mainly at Garth who, restrained by the efforts of both his father and the tech, nevertheless continued to rage. And: