“When I found out what I could do,” he explains, “I tried to stop fighting, tried to pull away from the war. But there was nowhere to go, and I got tangled up in things I couldn’t get out of. When I learned how to hold the Hate, I started to look at things differently again, started to question what I’d been told and why things were happening. All they wanted me to do was hunt and kill and…”
“Wait, who is ‘they’?” I ask cautiously.
“Simon Penkridge, Selena, Chris Ankin…”
Two of the three names mean nothing to me. I try not to react, but it’s impossible when he mentions Chris Ankin.
“Ankin?”
“I never saw him, but the others said they were working for him. They were sending people into refugee camps to kill like bloody suicide bombers.”
“You refused?”
“You don’t say no to people like that. I went along with it for a time, then managed to get lost in the crowds and got away from them.”
“Wise move,” I’m forced to admit, reflecting for a second on my own experiences. The things he says add some weight to his story, but the fact remains, why should I care? All of that is history now, and I need to focus on today. Does this guy know anything that might be useful to Hinchcliffe? Against my better judgment I decide to ask. “So what’s your connection with this place?”
“Just passing through, same as you.”
“About these trucks. You’ve been watching them for a while?”
“I’ve seen them coming and going, but I don’t know anything about them.”
“So you don’t know where this stuff’s coming in from?”
“No idea, but I’m trying to find out. Fact is, I need all the food I can get my hands on right now, so I’ll take whatever’s going.”
“You don’t look like a big eater.”
“I’m not. Look, where are you heading?”
“How many times do I have to tell you? To find somewhere to crash for the night.”
“I know a place. Come with me, there’s something I want to show you.”
Now alarm bells are really beginning to sound. This guy doesn’t know anything. He’s completely out of his tree. What the hell could he possibly want to show me?
“No thanks. I think you’ve got the wrong man.”
“No I haven’t,” he insists, walking alongside me again. “You’re the only one who can help. I can’t do this on my own anymore.”
“Do what exactly?”
“Not here,” he says, looking around nervously. There’s a small crowd up ahead gathered around the area the food was distributed from earlier. This guy’s a liability and the best way of getting rid of him, I decide, is to get deeper into the crowd, then give him the slip. I’ll keep him talking for a few seconds longer so he doesn’t suspect I’m about to do a disappearing act.
“We’re not the only ones who can hold the Hate, Sutton. I’ve met plenty of others.”
“Yeah? Where are they now?”
“Dead,” I’m forced to admit, remembering the misguided, kamikaze freedom fighters I managed to get myself mixed up with.
“Exactly. See, I knew you’d say that. You’re the first person like me I’ve come across since the bombs.”
“I’m not like you. Stop saying that. I’m not like anyone.”
“Yes you are. I knew it as soon as I saw you out in the field earlier. The questions you were asking just confirmed it. You’re no scavenger. That’s not why you’re here.”
Shit, is he onto me? Has my cover been blown?
“So how could you tell? I didn’t sense that you were any different. For all I know you could be lying to me, feeding me bullshit so you can—”
“No bullshit, I swear. You didn’t see that we’re the same because you weren’t looking for it. It’s not about what you do, it’s what you don’t do that really gives you away.”
“What?”
“I don’t know what really brought you here to Southwold today, but I’m damn sure it wasn’t the promise of a meal and a bed. You didn’t pick up on me because you were preoccupied thinking about something else. It was obvious—the way you asked so many questions to different people, the way you avoided eye contact. We’re not like the rest of them…”
Just keep the conversation going for a few more seconds, I tell myself. I’m close to the edge of the crowd now.
“I ask questions because I don’t want to fuck up. I’ve been on the road for weeks, and this is the best place I’ve found in a long time.”
“You’ve no more been on the road than I have. I know you’re lying, Rufus, but I understand. You don’t need to. We all have things we need to keep hidden. I’m on your side.”
“On my side? You don’t know what you’re talking about. Who said anything about taking sides?”
“It’s all about taking sides now.”
“Is that right?”
“Okay, then, tell me the name of the last place you passed through before this one. How long were you there for? And the place before that…?”
I don’t bother answering. This guy’s a fucking crank. Probably had one too many bangs on the head on the battlefield and now he’s finally lost it. No matter. Not my problem. We’ve reached the crowd, and when Jill, the woman from the working party earlier, appears in front of me, I take the opportunity to use her as a distraction.
“Jill,” I say, grabbing hold of her arm and pulling her closer. “This guy wants to talk to you.”
I push her and Peter Sutton together, and before either of them can react I shove my way through the rest of the bodies and slip away into the darkness.
13
I SPENT ANOTHER HALF hour walking the streets in the late-evening subzero gloom, checking buildings and looking for somewhere where I could report back to Hinchcliffe and then sleep. I eventually found an upstairs room in an empty bank, and from there I looked down onto the square below through a window covered with strong iron bars like a prison cell. From my position up high I could see the entire square down below. By then the place was virtually deserted, just a couple of people left standing guard, warming their hands over a fire burning in a metal trash can near the hotel, and nothing else happened for as long as I watched. A while ago my curiosity was overtaken by my exhaustion. I tried to read my book for a while and forget where I was, but I was too tired. I lay back on the hard floor, made a pillow from a pile of papers and spare clothes from my backpack, covered myself with my coat, then closed my eyes and tried to get a little rest before reporting back to Lowestoft.
That little rest turned itself into a lot of sleep. I’ve been completely out of it for hours, and I sit up quickly when I realize it’s late and I still haven’t called in. Hinchcliffe’s going to be fucking furious. I grab the radio from my bag.
“Hinchcliffe, it’s me,” I whisper, keeping my voice low. I cringe and fumble for the volume control when a sudden burst of loud static deafens me and fills the entire building.
“Jesus Christ, Danny,” his distorted but distinctive voice immediately answers back. “Where the hell have you been? I was starting to think they’d done you in. Either that or you’d defected.”
Defected? Is he serious or just trying to be funny? His voice sounds slurred, like he’s been drinking. He probably has.
“Nothing like that,” I tell him, wiping the sleep from my eyes and trying to sound more awake and alert than I actually am. “I was just biding my time. Wanted to find out as much as I could before I got back to you.”
“And…?” he asks.
I hesitate. “And I don’t know what’s going on here. Warner’s got these people well and truly on his side. He makes it look like all he’s trying to do is organize them according to his rules and to get them to—”