The Dead Horizon Read online

  Scott led the way through the bar, looking for Noah.

  ‘He doesn’t drink,’ Freya said. ‘Why would he be here?’

  Scott didn’t say anything. His eyes shifted from one corner of the bar to another.

  ‘There,’ Freya said, letting go of Scott’s hand and heading for a large figure sitting at the far end of the bar.

  When Freya called, Noah swivelled around on his stool. It was fleeting, but he smiled. Freya wrapped her arms around him.

  ‘You’re here,’ she said, letting him go.

  Scott nodded at Noah. ‘Good to see you.’

  ‘Don’t get too gushy,’ Noah said, turning back to the bar and his drink.

  He was drunk – and wasn’t wearing his Watchers coat.

  ‘How are you?’ Freya asked, laying the palm of her hand on his back.

  ‘I’m doing great,’ Noah said, his eyes on the whisky in his glass. ‘Just great.’

  Freya glanced at Scott, concerned.

  Scott shrugged.

  ‘You hear what happened to Isaiah?’ Noah asked. ‘What Mathew did to him?’

  ‘Yes,’ Scott said.

  Freya let her hand drop from Noah’s back.

  ‘He did it for you,’ Noah said, talking to Scott without acknowledging him.

  ‘He was a good man,’ Freya said.

  ‘He loved you,’ Noah said to Freya.

  Freya’s face reddened. Scott couldn’t help feeling jealous – even now, after everything.

  ‘And it was all for nothing,’ Noah said, slurring his words.

  Scott recognised anger and disappointment in Noah’s face. He was pensive, his movements slow but direct. Scott couldn’t escape the feeling of guilt, of responsibility for what had happened to Isaiah. It was clear that Noah blamed him too.

  Freya stood next to Noah at the bar to encourage him to look at her.

  ‘We need your help,’ she said.

  Noah snorted, a wry smile shifting across his face. ‘When have I heard that before?’

  Freya glanced at Scott, but he knew it was not his place to ask.

  ‘I can’t leave her there with Mathew,’ Freya said, raising her voice. ‘We asked Juliet to help us stop Mathew. Now he has her locked away, it’s up to us to get her out of there. We can’t do it without you.’

  Noah waved his hand. ‘I’m done with all that.’

  Freya looked shocked, hurt. But Scott already knew what Noah would say.

  ‘Done with it?’ Freya asked. ‘What do you mean?’

  Noah slammed his glass on the bar. ‘I’m done with Watchers, with the Chosen, with God.’

  Freya covered her mouth.

  ‘Noah,’ Scott said, edging closer. ‘We need your help.’

  Noah spun around, his brow furrowed, his eyes dark with anger. ‘Don’t!’ he snapped at Scott. ‘Isaiah did everything to help you and you couldn’t do it.’

  Scott took a step back. ‘I wanted to,’ he said, remembering the moment he’d pulled the trigger. There was the aeroplane overhead, the fountain splashing behind him. He had been ready to do it. He had pulled the trigger.

  No bullet.

  ‘I tried.’

  Noah’s face softened a little, his anger subsiding. ‘What about all the times we had to convince you? All the time we lost babysitting you.’

  ‘I didn’t ask for any of it.’

  Noah threw his hands in the air. ‘Here we go. Scott, the victim.’

  ‘Let’s go,’ Scott said, reaching for Freya. ‘He’s drunk. There’s no point.’

  ‘Go on,’ Noah said, waving him away. ‘Run away. It’s what you do best.’

  Scott’s mind raced with things to say, but the moment passed. He waited for Freya.

  ‘Please, Noah,’ she said. ‘We asked Juliet for help. It’s our fault she’s there. That Mathew has her.’

  Noah finished his drink and signalled to the barman for another.

  Freya ran fingers through her hair; Scott knew it was a sign she wasn’t getting her way. ‘Noah,’ she said. ‘You’re a good man. I know you can help us get her out of there. But I don’t have time to wait around here convincing you. Can we just jump straight to you agreeing to help?’

  The barman placed a drink on the bar and looked questioningly at Freya.

  ‘Scott wants the same as me,’ she said. ‘He wants to help Juliet.’

  ‘I don’t care what he wants,’ Noah said.

  ‘Then do it for me,’ Freya said. ‘For Juliet.’

  Noah didn’t move.

  ‘Let’s go,’ Scott said.

  Freya glanced at Scott, her expression hard. ‘Wait.’ She turned to Noah again. ‘We have a self-driver – off the grid. It can take us to London, where Juliet’s being kept. We have a contact – one of Mathew’s Watchers. Samuel. When Gabriel shot Scott, Samuel was the one who helped me get him to a surgical-machine. He can help us.’

  Noah sniffed and shrugged. Freya took a step towards Scott.

  ‘We’ll be outside the art gallery at noon tomorrow,’ she said to Noah. ‘If you have any fight left, be there.’

  Scott stared at Noah’s back. Everything Noah had said was true.

  Freya led the way out of the bar and into the smog-filled air of Birmingham.

  Five

  Scott left through the back door of the pharmacy and headed round to the village high street. Dawn took her time, wheezing now and then, but she seemed to be on the mend. He wanted to ask her about the baby, but everything she did, her every expression, told him now was not the time to ask.

  ‘What’s that?’ Dawn pointed to a plume of smoke rising above a cottage roof.

  The high street was empty. Whoever it was, he knew they were burning bodies.

  ‘Stay close,’ he said.

  Scott dropped a bag of medicine and EpiPens into the 4x4 before leading the way around the cottage towards the centre of the village and the smoke.

  Turning a corner, the sound of roaring flames greeted them. In the centre of the square was a fire, smoke billowing straight up.

  Scott waited at the edge of the square, motioning for Dawn to stay close, searching for whoever was burning the bodies.

  Dawn pointed. ‘Look.’

  A dog, a black-and-white spaniel, appeared nearby and stood alert, its tail wagging. Scott walked towards it, and it lowered its head and sniffed the air.

  ‘It’s okay, boy,’ Scott said.

  The dog sat, his head tilted, listening to Scott’s voice.

  ‘Joe!’ a voice called.

  The dog spun around and bolted towards an old man who approached them from behind the fire, through the smoke. Even though he walked slightly hunched over and with a limp, he appeared to be a powerful man. ‘Hey!’ he shouted. ‘Who are you?’

  Scott glanced back at Dawn, who had moved further behind him.

  The dog followed the old man.

  Scott narrowed his eyes against the smoke and heat, and saw he was carrying a rifle.

  ‘Please,’ Scott said, holding up his hands. ‘We’re not dangerous.’

  ‘Who are you?’ the old man bellowed again.

  ‘Scott. I’m Scott. This is Dawn. We came here for the pharmacy.’

  The old man slowed and relaxed his grip on the rifle. The dog overtook him and sat a few feet away.

  ‘What do you need from the pharmacy?’ the old man asked, his rifle pointing at the ground.

  Scott looked to Dawn. ‘She had an allergic reaction. I had to find an EpiPen.’

  The old man appeared to relax. ‘You can’t be too careful,’ he said. ‘I’ve not seen anyone for some time. A while back there were young men going about, looking for trouble. Where you from?’

  ‘I’ve been living here in the Lake District since it happened,’ Scott said. ‘The girl has been with me a couple of weeks. Lake Buttermere.’

  The old man’s expression softened.

  The dog edged closer to Dawn, who offered her hand for him to sniff.

  ‘He won’t hurt you, gal,
’ the old man said. ‘Joe’s a friendly sort. Not that it’ll do him any good.’

  The dog wagged his tail at the mention of his name.

  Scott looked at the fire.

  ‘There’s still a fair few left,’ the old man said. He glanced at Dawn and lowered his voice. ‘I try to do two or three houses a day. It’s not right leaving them like that, is it? I hope someone’d do the same for me.’

  Scott shifted uncomfortably and nodded.

  Joe loped towards the far end of the village square, where Scott could see something moving in the hedgerows.

  ‘Rats,’ the old man said. ‘Some big ’uns now. And they’re bold critters too. That’s why I need to get this done.’ He pointed to the fire.

  ‘Dawn?’ Scott called after her, but the roaring of the fire and Joe’s barking drowned out his voice.

  ‘She’ll be fine. Joe’s all sound and fury – he won’t go near ’em.’

  ‘How long have you been here?’ Scott asked. ‘In the village?’

  ‘A few months.’ The old man shifted and held his back, as if in discomfort. ‘We were only passing through, but I couldn’t leave them all like this. The bodies.’

  The fire roared.

  The old man took a wad of papers from his coat pocket. ‘I take photos from the houses when I can. I don’t know what I’ll do with them all. Just doesn’t seem right laying them out and setting fire to them without doing something to remember them. I find out their names from their things and write them down on the back of these photographs. See?’

  Scott took the photographs. Men, women, children – all smiling, all happy. He handed them back.

  ‘Mick,’ the old man said, offering his hand. ‘Does she know her date?’

  Scott shook his head.

  ‘But you know it?’ Mick asked.

  He nodded. ‘I wish I didn’t.’

  ‘Figured,’ Mick said. ‘No need to tell me. I don’t need to know. I can tell it’s not far away, the way you are with her.’ He scratched his head. ‘That damn computer and its dates.’ He pointed to the fire. ‘And now look what it’s led to.’

  ‘Do you know yours?’ Scott asked.

  The old man stared across at Dawn and Joe, his expression not changing. ‘No. And I don’t intend on finding out. Not until … well … you know. Until it’s too late.’

  Dawn walked towards them, followed by Joe. She breathed heavily, reminding Scott of the allergic reaction attack she’d had.

  ‘Take it easy,’ he said.

  The paleness of Dawn’s face from earlier had been replaced with a much healthier flush.

  ‘I’m done for today,’ Mick said. ‘You want feeding?’

  Scott was about to decline the offer when Dawn spoke for him.

  ‘Yes please,’ she said, bending over to stroke the dog.

  ‘Sure,’ Scott said.

  They walked across the village square, past the fire and out onto the lane at the other side. Mick pointed to a pub. ‘Red Lion,’ he said. ‘Thought it was good a place as any to call home.’

  Scott smiled. ‘Why not?’

  The old man led the way into the building. He’d arranged it as if it was open for business. A fire burned in the hearth at the centre of the pub, the tables were set out ready for opening time, and the bar itself was decked with spirits and glasses ready to use.

  ‘I always fancied running a pub,’ Mick said. ‘Fancy a pint?’

  ‘It all works?’

  ‘Sure it works. I just need to turn on the generator in the cellar and we’re away.’

  Joe galloped in and jumped up onto the bench running opposite the bar, where he sat down with a humph, resting his head on the edge of the chair. Dawn followed and sat beside him, her arms on the table.

  ‘You want a drink, little ’un?’ Mick asked.

  ‘Thank you,’ Dawn said.

  ‘Got just the thing for you,’ Mick said, hobbling round to an opening in the bar.

  Scott sat opposite Dawn and Joe.

  ‘You can stay here the night,’ Mick shouted over. ‘Have rooms upstairs you can use. Would be good to have someone else around for a day or two.’

  ‘We should get back,’ Scott said.

  ‘What for?’ Dawn asked. ‘Can’t we stay?’ She stroked Joe.

  Scott thought of a few reasons why but couldn’t think of one convincing enough. ‘Sure,’ he said to Mick. ‘Thanks.’

  ‘Great,’ Mick said, disappearing up the stairs. ‘I’ll make sure it’s all set up for you.’

  Dawn, her eyes on Joe, stroked the dog’s head over and over. ‘You said I wouldn’t die,’ she said.

  Scott was still getting used to Dawn speaking to him. ‘What?’

  ‘Earlier,’ she went on, still not looking at him. ‘When I was having the attack, you said I wouldn’t die. That it wasn’t my time.’

  ‘I was right,’ he said.

  ‘But how did you know? You sounded like you knew.’ Her eyes turned on him, round and dark, expectant. ‘You know my date, don’t you?’

  Scott looked over to the bar, not knowing what to say.

  ‘Tell me,’ Dawn said. ‘Please.’

  ‘I don’t know it,’ Scott said.

  She bowed her head; she knew he was lying. ‘She’s not coming back, is she?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Mum. She’s not coming back.’

  Scott couldn’t tell her another lie. He shook his head.

  She turned to Joe and stroked his head. Joe’s eyes closed each time she stroked him, his tail thumping against the bench.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ Scott said. ‘She made me promise.’

  ‘I don’t want to die before it’s born,’ she said. ‘Not now.’

  Scott thought of words to use but none were good enough. He had to say something. ‘I’m going to take you to someone I know. She’ll help us with the baby. And she can help with your date.’

  Six

  The following morning, Scott followed Mick into a house on the other side of the village.

  Mick stopped in the hallway to look at a collection of photographs hanging on the wall. Scott followed. They both focused on one photograph, black-and-white, years old, of a young couple on their wedding day. Their faces – young, excited – smiled back at them. After a moment’s consideration, Mick took it from the wall, removed the back of the frame and carefully took out the photograph. Resting the frame on the floor, he threaded the photograph into the inside pocket of his coat.

  ‘We need their names,’ Mick said, motioning for Scott to follow him into the living room.

  The furnishings and decorations were old-fashioned, with tired wallpaper and paintwork. There were two chairs, each discoloured and misshapen, in which the couple had sat night after night. Despite its outdated appearance, the living room was tidy and cared for. A layer of dust covered everything, and in the shards of morning light coming through the front window, dust motes hung in the air.

  Mick had found a collection of envelopes and was reading them.

  ‘Derek and Jane Martins,’ he said. He took the photograph from his pocket and wrote the names on the back.

  Scott recognised resignation in Mick’s demeanour; now came the business of retrieving the bodies.

  Mick pointed to the ceiling and motioned for Scott to grab the stretcher and follow him.

  The stairs creaked beneath Scott’s feet. Upstairs the air was warmer. Mick stood in the doorway to the bedroom.

  Scott saw that the room was dark. He didn’t look inside the room, only at Mick, who put a hand to his forehead. Shaking his head, he stepped into the room.

  Scott heard the curtains being opened with a metallic rattle. He placed a hand on the door jamb, leaned the stretcher against the wall and looked inside the room. They were on the bed, naked, holding one another. Mick pushed open the windows and gasped as the fresh air billowed the curtains into the room.

  ‘Another Adam and Eve,’ Mick said. He reached into his pocket and took out two pairs of rubber gloves
, handing one pair to Scott.

  The couple must have been in their eighties. The man was almost twice the size of the woman, who was like a child next to his bulk, her arm resting across the man’s chest, her head in the V of his arm and shoulder. They faced one another, as though he was kissing the top of her head. Mick stood over them. The thought came to Scott that maybe they should set fire to them there, in their bed, in their bedroom, in their home.

  ‘Do you believe it all?’ Mick asked, peering down at the bodies. ‘That He came for them?’

  Scott looked from Mick to the bodies, then back at him. ‘No.’

  ‘Me neither. I want to. Really I do. But it wouldn’t happen like this, would it? This is our doing.’ Sighing, Mick reached for the stretcher and laid it on the floor next to the bed. ‘There’s no easy way of getting this done,’ he said. ‘But I reckon they’d thank us if they could.’

  Mick was gentle but exact in moving the woman from the man. ‘Him first,’ he said, nodding towards the old man’s feet.

  Scott pulled on his gloves and reached for the man’s ankles.

  ‘That won’t work,’ Mick said. ‘You’re going to have to get under his legs.’

  Scott was used to moving bodies, but on his own. It was a struggle, but they got the man off the bed and strapped to the stretcher. They took their time getting him down the stairs and onto the cart on the street. The woman was far easier to move. Before long, Mick was closing the house door and pulling the cart towards the village square.

  Mick had already arranged old pieces of timber for the base of the pyre. He doused it in petrol.

  ‘How many have you done like this?’ Scott asked.

  Mick unstrapped the old man from the cart. ‘I’ve got a list of names back at the pub. Hundred, maybe.’

  The rows of houses in the village surrounded the central square. Scott imagined the people in their homes, sleeping, waking, living their lives.

  ‘And how many more are there?’ he asked.

  Mick worked busily, readying the pyre. ‘Who knows?’ he shrugged. ‘But what else am I going to do? I’ve got all the time in the world.’ He smiled wryly. ‘You’re one of the 144,000, huh?’

  Taken aback, Scott stared at his date and nodded.