The sound of flapping made him jump and press against the wall, heart somewhere in his throat. A ripped poster opposite caught in the wind, and he relaxed. Nothing but the usual promises of food-drops, hospitals, reopened schools….
A lot of shite. His old school was a dent in the ground, the only upside of the invasion. The hospital, shut down in the war, hadn’t reopened. There were rumours—good rumours, too, from different sources—that the cops and army were working with the aliens now, and things were about to get better. His mouth pulled into a sneer. He’d believe it when he saw it. The Earth-Committee leaders, pulled from the governments that had made it through the invasion, might have time to drag their feet: they weren’t starving their arses off in the ruins of Belfast. It didn’t matter a damn to him that working with the Galactic Council meant liaising with the Zelo, or the never-seen Barath’na, it just mattered that someone, somewhere, turned up with some food. And a roof, that’d be good.
“ ‘Supporting Earth to a better future’,” he muttered, straightening. “There was nothing wrong with it before the bastards invaded.”
He hugged the wall until he reached the end of the back lane, and darted across to a wider alley, the first of a series. The authorities could say what they liked about the war being over. He was taking no chances until someone proved it.
A hand slapped down on his shoulder. “Got you!”
John reached for his knife, but stopped at a laugh. He croaked, “Taz, you bastard.”
“McDowell wants us,” said Taz, his voice hushed. His jacket was denim, not nearly thick enough. He hunched into it, so the only parts visible were his nose and dark eyes. His clothes were clean and well patched, though, proof of having a mum who took care of such things. John swallowed a sharp wrench of jealousy. He was nearly sixteen, he shouldn’t be yearning after his mum. He put his hands in his pockets and slouched. “Why?”
“He says he has a job, and we’ll get food if we do it.”
“Christ, for that I’d take on a Zelotyr patrol single-handed.”
“Yeah, right.”
They stopped where the alley opened onto a courtyard, once part of the council’s sports-ground where he’d tried out for the first team. Da had stood on the touchline, screaming for John to get the ball over the line. His celebrations when the try had been allowed had almost got him thrown out for incitement. Now, the courtyard was weed-strewn and garbage-clad, and his da six months dead.
“Get back.” Taz grabbed him, and they pressed against the wall as a platoon of soldiers crossed. Human, not Zelo—the lack of stench told him that. Not that it made any difference. They’d still lift him and Taz for curfew violation.
The platoon left the courtyard, and John ran across, through a hole in the fencing, and down the final alley skirting the playing field. Taz, quick and wiry, soon passed him. They reached the rubbled remains of the peace wall. John smiled as he stepped through the gap; it was easier getting across the city now the Zelo had trashed it. He relaxed as they entered his old estate and passed the gable end mural. Its slogan, We’ll fight for Ulster, had been replaced with the promise to do the same for Earth since he’d last been here.
“Let’s hope it’s only McDowell,” said Taz as they reached McDowell’s familiar terraced house.
“Oh, Junior will be here. His da isn’t taking a piss these days without him in attendance.”
“Just keep your distance if he is,” said Taz. “Don’t rise to him—that’s what he wants.”
“Okay.” Taz was right, but John hated Gary McDowell knowing his business. The latch turned, and he put his shoulders back. If the cost of a meal was toadying up to Gary, so be it. He’d kick a few walls on the way home to feel better.
“All right, lads. You took your time.” It wasn’t Gary, but Demos, one of his cronies.
“Patrol,” muttered John, eyeing Demos’ fat belly hanging over his trousers. He’d no problem getting food, evidently. His own stomach clenched, but he stood straight and waited while Demos made a show of checking were they to come in, all the time holding a pistol by his side. After a few moments, they were led into a room off the hall, where a group of men were gathered close to a fire. The men turned, their eyes more dangerous than any soldier’s.
“You wanted us,” said John, keeping his voice steady.
“Aye.” McDowell stood, his tall, rangy frame dwarfing John. A scar, running from his left eye to his ear, stood out against his skin. His badge of honour, he called it, given to him by a Zelotyr he’d fought with an iron bar and balls of solid rock. The sort of balls that earned so much street respect John’s hands shook, and he had to stick them in his pockets to hide it.
“John Dray and Taz Delaney, I’ll make a deal with you,” said McDowell.
John swallowed and hoped his voice held. “Go on, then.”
McDowell didn’t answer, and John made sure to stand straight. He focused on McDowell’s leather jacket—it may be battered, but it was thick and warm. On his wrist, a designer watch could be seen.
The silence stretched until Taz drew in a loud breath, making John want to thump him and tell him how to face someone like McDowelclass="underline" by embracing whatever he issued and coming back for more, knowing you’d either grow or die from it, until you were strong enough to protect your own. He glanced at Taz, decided his friend was in danger of passing out, and said, “All right, what can we do for you?”
“Good lad, right to the heart of it. When you’ve got a bit of flesh around your scrawn, you’ll go far.”
John fought the urge to smile. It wasn’t the first time McDowell had hinted he might take him on. He looked at McDowell’s boots—new, thick soles, real leather—and down at his own trainers, their uppers parting from the sole. His mouth went wet and spiky with desire, but he didn’t say anything. Stay cool, like it’s just another job…
McDowell reached into his jacket, and John held his breath. Weapons? He’d done his first delivery across town about three weeks ago, and had been terrified: not just for himself, but for Josey and the kids if he got lifted. The payment for it had been a coat for Sophie, though.
McDowell brought out a tin box, just small enough to fit into his inside pocket. He held it up, displaying it. “You can take yourselves to the top of the Cave Hill and open this,” he said. “Give it a shake, make sure you empty out what’s in it. If you do, and come back to me, I’ll see you get some food.” His eyes narrowed, and he nodded at John. “Maybe some fresh fruit for wee Sophie and Stuart?”
The boys exchanged glances. That was it? John took the box and stuck it in his pocket.
McDowell went back to where he had been sitting, popped a beer and nodded to the door. “Best get going, boys.”
They backed out and headed up the street, onto the bottom of the Cave Hill. They followed the path up the hill, and the stench from the sewage farms hit John, even worse this high up. He pulled his scarf off and tied it so it covered his nose.
Taz gave a short laugh. “You look like a twat.”
John felt himself go red, and pushed the scarf back round his neck. They kept going, the hill getting steeper now they were away from the streets. They climbed in near silence, taking their time to pick their way over the rocks in the dark, until they reached McArt’s fort and sat for a minute, getting their breath back. From here the city looked tiny.
“What d’you reckon is in it?” asked Taz.