Smugglers. Christ, that’s it. No wonder Warner’s so cocky. The wily bastard is stealing to keep Southwold running the way he wants it, and he’s obviously building up a decent and well-connected support structure, too. So the next question is, where’s he getting it all from? This all looks surprisingly well organized, and whoever he’s stealing from must have enough stuff in storage not to notice the occasional truckload disappearing. There’s only one person who’s likely to control enough around here to be in that position, and that’s Hinchcliffe. By the looks of things, though, these aren’t opportunistic raids. Everything I saw just now looked carefully planned, so that means Warner had help. He must have people on the inside. Maybe Neil Casey wasn’t killed? Perhaps he’d been working for Warner all along? Fuck me, this is getting complicated. I feel a strange sense of relief that I’ve actually found something to go back to Hinchcliffe with. It means I should be able to get out of here before long.
The road outside is completely empty now. I leave the house the way I came, slipping back through the hole in the fence, then going down the side of the adjacent house and out onto the other street.
“So where d’you think that bunch came from?” a voice asks suddenly from somewhere behind me. I spin around anxiously. I go to grab my knife but clumsily drop it. The owner of the voice switches on a flashlight and shines it at me. Shit. I try to rush him, but he steps out of the way, then angles the light directly into my face, blinding me. “Don’t panic,” he says, “I don’t want any trouble.”
The man shines the light back at himself for a second, and it reflects off his thick glasses. I recognize him immediately. It’s the guy from the working party this afternoon, the one with the bad hair who was watching me so closely in the house. Is he onto me? What am I supposed to do now, kill him? I pick up my knife just in case.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“The delivery,” he says. “I heard it, so you must have seen it. Same thing happens every few days around this time.”
“I saw nothing,” I tell him.
“So why are you here?”
“I was just looking for somewhere to sleep,” I lie.
“Bullshit. I’ve been watching you. You’ve walked past more than two dozen empty buildings.”
“You’ve been watching me? Why?”
“Because I want to talk to you. Look, can we go somewhere less public…?”
“The middle of the street’s fine. Anyway, why would you need to talk to me? Are you some kind of stalker?”
He ignores my jibe.
“It’s Rufus, isn’t it?”
“Yes,” I answer after a brief but noticeable delay.
“So what do you think?”
“About what?”
“About what they’re doing here? About the truck you just saw? About the way Warner’s trying to get these people organized?”
“Did he send you to find me?”
“Not at all. I’m just trying to work out what’s happening here, same as you are. So I’ll ask you again, what do you think?”
“I think I’m bloody tired after working all day and I really don’t care about Warner or any mysterious trucks,” I answer. “I’m grateful for the food, and now I just want to find somewhere I can crash for the night like I told you. I took a wrong turn, and that’s why I’m here. I’m really not interested in anything else.”
“I don’t buy that.”
“I don’t care.”
It’s clear this guy is just some deluded little idiot. Maybe he gets a kick out of causing trouble—some kind of masochist looking for a beating, perhaps? Whoever he is and whatever he wants, I’m not getting involved. Things are complicated enough already. I try to sidestep him and head back toward the center of town, but he stands his ground and blocks my way through.
“I’m sorry,” he says, “but I don’t get it. You’ve just seen a truck full of supplies being unloaded, and you’re telling me you don’t want to know where it came from?”
“I’m not telling you anything.”
“Why are you really here?”
“What’s it to you?”
“I know you’re lying to me, Rufus,” he says. “I can read you like a book. My name’s Peter Sutton, and I want answers, same as you.”
12
MY MIND’S RACING, AND I do all I can not to show it. Who is this person? I need to be damn careful here and keep up my act. If he’s working for Warner, then I could be in real trouble. Likewise, if he’s discovered I’m here spying for Hinchcliffe, there’s every chance I won’t get out of Southwold alive. I need to find out which it is.
“So talk.”
He looks around anxiously, despite the fact he already knows the street’s clear, then speaks.
“I don’t think we’re seeing the full picture here.”
“Tell me something I don’t know.”
“We’re only seeing what Warner wants us to see.”
“Isn’t that usually the way with leaders?”
“Yes, but this is different.”
“How?”
“Can’t quite put my finger on it yet, but those trucks are the key. If we knew where they were coming from then things might start making sense.”
“Nothing’s made sense for the best part of the last twelve months. Anyway, why are you so interested in Warner? As long as he provides food, does it matter where it comes from?”
“Yes, but—”
“You make it sound like you think he has an ulterior motive.”
“Maybe he does. Someone’s supporting him, that much is obvious.”
What’s equally obvious is that Peter Sutton doesn’t seem to have any information. He sounds as unsure about what’s happening here as I am. I start to walk back toward town. I’m tired, and I’m desperate not to screw up my “mission” by saying something I’ll regret or getting caught talking out on the street so close to Warner’s food and weapons cache. I need to find somewhere quiet where I can report back to Hinchcliffe, then get some rest in case I end up working another full day tomorrow.
“I should go…”
“Just wait. Just give me a few more minutes.”
“Why?”
“Because I need your help.”
“You need my help?”
Now alarm bells are beginning to sound.
“Just stop and listen to me, Rufus. I’m like you.”
“The only thing we have in common is that we’re both still alive.”
He stands in front of me, blocking my way past.
“I know what you can do,” he says. “I know you can hold the Hate.”
For a second I’m floored, although I try not to show it. I push past him and keep moving. How the hell did he know that? Someone must have told him—although I don’t know who, because no one here knows anything about me. Maybe he came here from Lowestoft too? Oh fuck—is that sick bastard Hinchcliffe playing mind games?
“You know nothing about me.”
“Yes I do,” he says. “I know what you can do because I’m the same. I can hold it too—”
Do I believe him? Does it even matter any more? The Unchanged are extinct, so holding the Hate has become as irrelevant a skill as being able to speak Russian. I’m gripping my knife tightly and psyching myself up to use it if Sutton doesn’t leave. Could I kill him? He might not look like much, but I don’t know what he’s capable of, and it’s all about aggression levels now, not size. The screwiest are often the most unpredictable. I’ve seen people half his height kill others twice their weight. Nope, whatever trouble he’s got himself into, I’m not getting involved. I’ve already got enough on my plate—correction, I’ve got nothing on my plate—and that’s how I intend keeping it. I’m about to tell him as much when he starts talking again.