And Caitlin thought, 'If this wasn't happening to me, I would be there by now, protecting him, doing my job, saving Liam.'
She leaped over a fallen tree, almost fell, tried to aim the arrow, but her hands looked as if they were made of water and felt as if they were made of light. And she fell, rose up, and looked at the world as if though the bottom of a bottle. She couldn't see the figure, but she could see Carlton, see him smiling, his expression changing. And she thought, 'No, he's the important one. Everything depends on him. He can't-' And she saw the flash of the blade, and the blood, and Carlton falling, reaching out to her. And she thought, 'I could have saved him. I should have saved him. Just like Liam…' The figure jumped over the boy's twitching body and was away, and she couldn't tell if it was man or woman, young or old, but she knew the truth in her gut, and she couldn't understand why. 'I could have saved him.' Her last chance for salvation was gone. And then there was only the world rushing away, and her screams, and the terrible, terrible night falling in all around.
Chapter Eleven
'Does such a thing as 'the fatal flaw', that showy dark crack running down the middle of a life, exist outside literature? I used to think it didn't. Now I think it does.'
Eight lanes of dirty Tarmac stretched out before her, now camouflaged by tufts of yellow grass bursting through cracks, and nettles and thistles and wind-blown rubbish. Caitlin stood against the central reservation, watching the road sweep down between high walls, other roads crossing overhead so that it felt as if she was looking into a tunnel. And beyond were the towers and office blocks against a slate-grey sky slowly turning towards night.
Not so long ago, the Aston Expressway would have thundered with traffic making its way to and from the M6, and the air would have been filled with the cacophony of the city, engines, voices, music, one never-ending drone. Now there was nothing but bird-song and the wind against the concrete. A fox roamed across the lanes, searching for prey. Rabbits quickly ran back to their burrows beneath Spaghetti Junction. Birmingham had been reborn into the new age.
Caitlin would have recognised the city, but Caitlin was shivering in the heart of the Ice-Field, thrown free of her shelter and the others, alone, dispirited, barely surviving. Caitlin's body knew very little at all. She chose a direction at random and trudged blankly down the Expressway into the heart of the city. Darkness clung tightly to the high buildings that lined New Street, but further ahead on the pedestrian precinct a bonfire blazed. The light drew Caitlin like a moth, the thick, acrid smoke obscuring the sickening stink that hung heavily in the air.
On her journey through Colmore Circus she hadn't seen a soul, but now men flitted from shadowed doorways, scarves tied across their faces. They were young, carried knives openly, communicating with high-pitched calls and guttural growls resembling nothing more than the rats that she had seen swarming along the gutters of the business district in sickening numbers.
She stood staring into the bonfire, the heat bringing a bloom to her face, hypnotised by the flickering flames as they consumed the ripped-out fittings of a clothes shop. A young girl barely more than nine, also with a scarf across her face, hurried up and warmed her hands briefly before flashing a murderous glance at Caitlin and disappearing back into the dark.
'Hey.'
Caitlin didn't hear the voice, though it was directed at her.
'Hey!' More urgent this time. A man in his late-twenties with short black hair and eyes that were just as dark emerged from an alley, glancing up and down the street nervously. A red silk scarf was tied across his mouth. 'You. You shouldn't be here.'
'Thackeray, you twat! Leave her alone. They'll be here in a minute.' The other voice came from further down the alley.
Thackeray paused, unsure, then cursed under his breath and hurried up to Caitlin. He gripped her arm and she looked at him blankly. 'What's wrong with you? Don't you know-' The blank look in her eyes brought him up sharp. He waved one hand in front of her face, then snapped his fingers twice.
'Thackeray!' ''She's fucked in the head.'
'Well, leave her, then! Christ, at a time like this you're trying to pick up women.'
Thackeray looked deep into Caitlin's face, searching the beauty of her big eyes, taking in the shape of her lips and her cheek bones and her nose, but it was something much deeper and more indefinable that stirred him. He pulled on her arm. 'Come on.'
Caitlin stared back, blinked once, twice, lazily, saw nothing.
From the piazza at the end of New Street near the town hall came the dim sound of motorbikes, roaring like mythic beasts. Thackeray cursed again. 'Come on!' He dragged Caitlin sharply towards the alley and after a few feet she began to walk of her own volition.
Just as they stepped out of sight, ten bikes rolled up to the perimeter of orange light cast by the bonfire. The riders wore leathers sprayed with a white cross dissecting a red circle and they carried an array of weaponry: shotguns, handguns, souped-up air rifles, even a crossbow. They moved slowly, searching all around like predatory animals. Occasionally they'd shine a torch into a doorway, but as they neared the bonfire they came to a halt before what had once been a shop and was now clearly some kind of squat. Dirty curtains were draped over the picture windows to provide some privacy, but they were thin enough to reveal the flickering of candles within.
The lead rider got off his bike and marched up to the door. He had long greasy hair and a thick beard, while his huge belly, the result of too much daytime drinking, was barely contained by the fading 'Altamont Heaven' T- shirt.
He hammered on the door with a meaty fist. 'Plague warden. Open up.' The candles inside were blown out, but no one came to answer. 'If you don't open the door,' he roared, 'we'll just burn the place down. You know we will.' Rapid scuttling echoed from inside. The door was flung open by a frail-looking man in his late fifties with a bushy moustache and florid wind-licked cheeks. 'What's wrong?' he asked in a shaky local accent. 'We had information one of your family had the black spots,' the plague warden said. The man blanched. 'No. Not here.' 'Get 'em out, then.' 'What?' 'Get 'em out here!' the warden shouted. The man quaked. The warden checked a small, dirty notebook. 'Five of you. You, the missus, her sister, mum, daughter.' The man started to stutter, but was silenced as the warden waved a shotgun near his face. Broken- shouldered, the man went back inside and emerged a few seconds later with three others. 'Where's the old lady?' the warden bellowed. 'Are you fucking around with me?' 'No, no!' The man held up his hands to try to fend off the shotgun, which cracked him on the jaw. 'Get her!' After a moment, the man led out his mother, a lady in her seventies with wild white hair. She bore the black marks of the plague on her skin. 'You idiot,' the warden said. 'You know the rules. First sign — very first fucking sign — you hand 'em over so we can deal with 'em.' 'We were just going to look after her at home,' the man said weakly. 'She's me mam…' The warden raised his gun and shot the old lady in the face. Blood and bone sprayed over the man, who was frozen in shock. 'Now look,' the warden said. 'You're contaminated.' He nodded to his men, and before the family could flee they were all taken out in a volley of shots. One of the riders at the back came forward; he was wearing big biker gloves and a contamination mask.
'There's a drop-off point round the way,' he said, muffled.
'Nah, stick 'em back inside,' the warden replied. 'It'll be a warning.'
The one with the mask dragged the bodies back into the family home, shut the door and then took out two cans of spray paint before proceeding to mark the door with the circle and cross.
'Shit. There goes another load,' Thackeray whispered to himself. He looked at Caitlin. 'You don't know how much you have to thank me.'
