THE CLEARING
THE
CLEARING
Shalini
Boland
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Copyright © Shalini Boland 2013
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This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
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All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any form or by any means without the prior permission of the author.
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For Neil, Mani and the boys
with love x
Preface
*
They’re coming for me. I won’t be able to outrun them. Better if I stop now and let them take me. But something urges me on. The black night presses down and I can hardly see. My lungs burn in my chest and my breath comes in shallow gasps.
I shiver and sweat in my thin cotton dress. It billows out around me as I run, the grass damp and cold under my bare feet. The whispering in my ears grows louder until it becomes a soft humming chant. Then I realise I’m muttering and singing to myself - a fear-induced mumbling that I can't seem to stop. My eyes water in the cold night air, mixing with tears of terror which dry in tight tracks along my cheeks.
I shouldn’t do it, but I turn to look and make out their faint outlines behind me. The shape of them fills my mind with a deeper panic that’s almost paralysing. But I will myself on and soon I reach the tree line where low branches claw out, desperate to trip me. Somehow I stay upright, keep going, evade their mossy grip.
My pursuers are gaining on me from all sides. Their quiet, effortless chase deafens me with its silence. They accept the inevitability of my capture, just as I know that I will not escape.
The forest grows more dense and tangled until I stumble onto a narrow track. Time is running out. There is a strangled gurgling of running water to my left. The stream is widening, the ground becoming boggy with sucking mud. Within seconds, too soon, I find myself in a large grassy clearing. A small herd of wild ponies are startled awake by my sudden arrival. They snort, whinny and trot away into the forest. Retreating.
Take me with you
, I silently plead. But they disappear and the clearing lies empty, except for me. A cloud moves to reveal a quarter moon. The stream bubbles its toil and trouble and the branches creak and moan.
They are coming. . .
They are here.
I have let myself be herded like a helpless lamb. Somehow I know this is where they wanted me to be captured.
From out of the trees, the dark hooded figures silently glide toward me; not running, but taking their time. I’m rooted to the spot, surrounded. I gaze up at the racing clouds as they smother the briefly hopeful moon again. And everything goes black.
Chapter One
Riley
*
This was no trip to the seaside. No time to take in the scenery or smell the salt tang in the air. The blue sky and warm October sun meant nothing to any of us. We were here to trade. And trading was a serious business.
Cutter’s Quay was a narrow strip of broken concrete by the ocean. Pa said it used to be a place for holiday makers, with brightly coloured beach huts and ice cream kiosks. But the beach huts were long gone, ripped down and burned for fuel. Now it was jammed with vehicles and makeshift stalls which seemed to stretch on forever. Traders bartered out of wooden rowing boats and trucks tied together with bits of string. There were crafters and farmers, dealers and pirates. You could get anything you wanted if you knew who to ask.
If you had items to trade, this was the place to come, but you better be armed and you better hold your nerve or you’d come away empty handed. You might not come away at all.
Today I was here with Pa, my Kalashnikov on full display, slung over my body. I loved this place even though it also terrified the living daylights out of me. It made me feel alive. The first few times I’d come, I’d stuck to Pa’s side like a barnacle on a boat. But now I felt confident enough to make trades of my own. And Pa trusted me enough to let me get on with it.
Today, my task was to barter for salt and my usual supplier wasn’t here so I’d been directed to a man named Milton Hardy, a well-known local character who was doing quite well for himself.
He worked out of the back of a horse-drawn wagon and had set up behind a group of fishermen. The stink of fish was overpowering and I held my breath as I sidled past.
I knew Milton by sight, but had never dealt with him before. He leant against the back of his wagon, sucking down the dog-end of a roll-up.
‘Hi, are you Milton?’ I called out.
He beckoned me over with a leer and tossed his roll-up onto the ground. I sighed and approached him, wary of walking into such an out-of-the-way spot. My hand shifted automatically to my weapon and I left it there, finger millimetres from the trigger.
Milton wore a suit, frayed at the hems and shiny at the knees. His hair had been combed back into a greasy quiff and half his teeth were missing, which made me wish he would stop smiling.
‘Who are you then?’ he grinned. ‘Haven’t seen you round here before. Never forget a pretty face.’
‘I’m Riley,’ I replied. ‘I was told you trade salt.’
‘Among other things,’ he said. ‘Best human-grade rock salt in Britain,’ he said. ‘Best prices too.’ He undid the neck of a large blue polythene sack and scooped up a handful, holding it out for me to see.
I took a step forward and pinched some of the crystals between my thumb and forefinger. I tentatively licked them.
‘Okay,’ I said. ‘How much of this have you got?’
‘As much as you need.’
‘I’ll take it all.’
He laughed. ‘Might be a bit rich for you, sweetheart. You don’t know what I want for it yet.’
I waited.
‘I’ve got thirty two bags of premium-grade salt. They’re going for five hundred silver bits each, but I can let you have the lot for fifteen thousand.’
I turned and walked away.
‘Told you they was too rich for ya,’’ he called after me. I ignored him and carried on walking. ‘Hey! Come back,’ he cried. ‘We’ve only just got going. I can do you a good deal. Maybe you can have it for twelve.’
I stopped and turned around. ‘I’ll give you a thousand.’
‘What? For thirty two bags? That’s less than I paid for it.’
‘We all know you didn’t pay a bean for it, Milton. So I’ll give you a thousand, take it or leave it.’
The smile left his face. ‘Come back at the end of the day. If I haven’t sold it, you can have it for five thousand.’
‘I won’t be here at the end of the day,’ I said. ‘My offer’s a one-time deal. A thousand now or I find someone else to do business with.’
Milton scowled. ‘Fine.’
‘Sorry? Is that a yes?’
He nodded.
I did a silent victory dance in my head and headed back towards him, drawing out my knife with my left hand. His smile vanished.
‘What you doing?’ he asked.
‘Checking the merchandise.’ I gave him my best smile as I stuck the knife into the bottom of the sack.
Milton immediately went to reach inside his jacket, but with my right hand I jammed the nose of my machine gun into his gut, making him raise his hands skyward.
‘Hmm, funny,’ I said. ‘Why’s there no salt running out of the bottom of the bag, Milton?’
I sliced into the sack some more and out dropped a chunk of wood shavings and a stream of dirty gravel.
‘Nice,’ I said, pocketing the knife. ‘Deal’s off.’
‘Can’t blame a man for trying,’ he said. ‘I got the good stuff in the wagon.’
I stepped back, still aiming the Kalashnikov at his skinny body.
‘Wait here,’ he said, his hands still raised. He turned and crawled under the tarp in the back of his wagon and dragged out another sack. This bag was clear and I could see the salt through the plastic. He sliced through the top and held it out for me to try.
We finally did the deal and he rode his wagon over to Pa’s AV. He looked from the AV to me and back to the AV again.
‘You’re Johnny Culpepper’s daughter?’
I nodded.
‘Oh. Sorry for all that stuff back there. I never would’ve tried to . . .’
‘What?’ I cut him off. ‘You never would’ve tried to rip me off if you knew I had a father who could squish you?’
‘Basically, yeah,’ he replied with a sheepish grin. I watched and counted as he loaded the sacks of salt into the boot.
‘Hello, Milton.’ Pa appeared round the side of the AV, carrying a couple of crates on his shoulder. ‘I see you’ve met my daughter.’
‘Yeah, chip off the old block, JC.’
‘Can we go now, Pa?’ I said. ‘I’m supposed to be meeting Luc at one.’
‘Did you get my salt?’
‘Yeah. Milton here did me a good deal.’
‘Barely enough to feed my kids, Johnny.’
‘You haven’t got any kids, Milton.’
Pa dumped his crates on the back seat and we climbed into the AV.
‘And?’ Pa said.
‘I got thirty two sacks for a thousand.’
‘Nice work,’ Pa said, starting up the engine. ‘Now let’s get out of here.’
As Pa drove, I stared out the window at the scrubland scrolling past, butterflies building in my stomach. The adrenalin from this morning’s deal had faded and now I was facing an even more nerve-wracking situation: I was meeting Luc Donovan for a picnic lunch.