The Sacrifice (32 page)

Towards where?
The road ran roughly
north to south, which meant that if they went right, and kept on going, they’d
eventually reach the centre of town.

Now he was being ridiculous. Putting his own
thoughts and fears into St George’s head. They could go anywhere.

He waited, scanning the faces of the horde
with his binoculars. The weak sunlight was burning their skin, ripening the spots,
painting red-raw streaks across their cheeks. They didn’t seem to care any more,
though. Something was more important to them than the pain; something was driving them
on.

They had a purpose.

At last St George started walking. Right.
South. Directly past the block of flats where Shadowman was hiding. He felt like one of
those dictators, surveying his troops. They didn’t exactly march, they were too
far gone for that, but there was a definite sense of order about them.

It took a long while for them all to pass.
At the back were the stragglers, the weaker ones, the older ones, the most diseased.
Bluetooth was with them, in his dirty blue suit. He had a small group of fitter
strangers with him, almost as if he was herding the weaklings along.

Just like a medieval army on the march, with
oxen ready to be slaughtered when they were needed to feed the troops.

At last all that was left were the sentinels
in the road, still standing there. Waiting. Shadowman packed up his gear and went down
the stairs. Moved cautiously out into the road.

Froze.

There was a stranger coming from the north,
limping along all by himself.

Shadowman ducked down out of sight. Realized
he recognized the lone walker; it was Stumpy, towing a cloud of flies in his wake. He
walked right past Shadowman, who let him go.

Once he was sure it was OK to move he came out
from behind the wall and crossed over the road to the tyre centre, curious to see how
The Fear had left it. The stink as he got close was appalling; a huge number of diseased
adults had been in there for two days. He covered his mouth and nose with his cloak and
crept in.

He wished he had squashed his curiosity.
There were bones everywhere – animal bones, children’s bones, adult bones – all
mixed in with human waste, clothing, hair, vile bits and pieces.

A movement.

They hadn’t all left.

A twisted little stranger with bent arms and
legs, his shirt front coated in drool, was crawling about, picking over the remains for
something to eat. He had big watery eyes and a few strands of long lank hair stuck to
his face.

He smiled at Shadowman. A warm, welcoming
smile.

All the frustration, pain, rage and fear of
the last twenty-four hours welled up inside Shadowman. He walked over to the father and
smashed his skull in with his machete.

‘I’m not one of you,’ he
said.

And then he heard the rumble of engines.

‘So you’re the bogeyman, are
you? The Green Man. Green bogeyman. Mister Wormwood. The toad in the hole. I can hear
you moving there in the dark. I’ve sharp ears and a sharper blade. I seen you,
before my flames died down, licking your lips. You want your dinner, don’t you?
But you try and come for me and I’ll cut you and burn you and make you cry. Is
that understood?’

‘I wasn’t doing anything. I was
just –’

‘I know what you were doing.
Don’t play me for a fool. Sit back down and listen, cos you and me, Mister Green,
we’ve got some talking to do. A lot to catch up on. I’ve got some questions
to ask you, Old Wormwood.’

‘I’ve got questions too, little
hairy kid. I’ve been too long down here. Don’t know what’s going on in
the world. I hear them sometimes up there, chattering. Louder and louder lately. I try
to say hello, but they’re too stupid. It’s like talking to the bugs back in
the big green.’

‘Well, that’s why you
don’t want to eat me just yet, do you? I ain’t stupid. I ain’t a bug.
I can answer your questions. Let’s talk first, yeah? Before dinner. You and
me?’

‘Mm. I
do
have some
questions. I surely
do
.’

‘Fair’s fair and all that,
bogeyman. Here’s how it works. You ask one question, I ask one question. Play it
straight
and I’ll play straight by you. Way I see it, Mad Matt
and his microlights, they ain’t been playing straight with you. They keep you
locked up here.’

‘It’s not fair. You’re
right. It’s really not fair. I’m an important person, a VIP. I was king of
the jungle. Something like that.’

‘You think you’re king of the
Kop, Wormhole, so how come you’re buried underground like the worm you took your
moniker from? You’re the underground man. You’re dead and buried, sunshine.
Except there ain’t no sunshine any more. Just dust and darkness. And The Kid
can’t believe that’s what you want, Colonel Bogey. He thinks you want to
walk in the sunshine.’

‘Not the sunshine. No, not that. The
sunshine hurts. Brings on the itch.’

‘And when you itch, you got to
scratch. Scratchy and itchy, that’s you. The big itch. The jolly green
giant.’

‘You’re confusing me.’

‘I’m confusing
myself.’

‘I hate them. They say they worship
me, but they keep me down here like, like a, like a … ’

‘Like a bad smell. A toerag. A dirty
secret. Mrs Rochester. The mad one in the family.’

‘It’s not right, Kid, I should
be shown some respect.’

‘You should, Wormy, you really
should.’

‘It’s like this, though.
I’ve sort of forgotten who I am.’

‘You’re flotsam and jetsam,
squire. You’re on the seabed, sleeping with the fishes. Blind to
everything.’

‘I don’t understand a word
you’re saying.’

‘The feeling, as my granddad used to
say, is mutual. We’re both experts at spouting gibberish, which means we spikka da
same lingo, you and me, and neither of us can
follow the threads.
Ain’t that a laugh? We’ve got to iron some things out.’

‘I’m so, so hungry, Kid.
I’ve got to eat. You smell so good. I want to hear the news,
but … ’

‘Sit still.’

‘Sorry.’

‘When you’re sitting down again,
you can ask away, Wormy.’

‘I’m sitting now.’

‘Good. So what do you want to
know?’

‘What’s going on? Tell me
what’s going on. It’s so long since I’ve seen a newspaper.’

‘Same as it ever was. Dog eat dog. The
cycle of boom and bust.’

‘I could eat a dog, but I’d
rather eat you. They bring me dogs sometimes. Tough they are. Perhaps you could sit
here? With me. You sound so crunchable.’

‘We’ve got to get to the bottom
of this, Wormy. You want to eat me? Well, I’m just a scrap, a gristly morsel, one
bite and I’m gone. Poof. Gone with the wind. You will fart me out and sneeze and
you will be emptier than you were before.’

‘I need to eat. I need to eat
you.’

‘I’m a scrap. All they feed you
is scraps. You don’t want scraps, you’re the king underground. The fishing
king, fishing for herring and trout, but only catching boots and old bicycles. And
shrimps. Which is all I am. Just a shrimp. My very good friend, Sam-i-am, he reckons
I’m the smallest of the small. I reckon he’s the smallest. Who knows the
answer? Thing is, though, we’re the bottom of the heap, the tiniest, we are
plankton.’

‘Plankton? That makes me the
whale.’

‘And I am Jonah. Soon to be inside you.
Or are we Pinocchio and Gepetto, the two of us, in our boat in the belly of the whale?
This cellar with its ribs and arches. Could be a whale, d’you think?’

‘You’re confusing me again. I
can’t keep up.’

‘Just go with it, Wormy.’

‘Tell me what’s going on. You
said we would take turns. Asking questions.’

‘I did, I did. But it’s my turn
now. I ask one, you ask one. You’ve had yours.’

‘Have I? What was my
question?’

‘That’s cheating, Wormy,
that’s another question.’

‘Sorry. What’s your question
then, Kid?’

‘I’ve a riddle for you. What
sleeps in a hole and wakes up in hole and spends its day in a hole?’

‘I don’t know. A
worm?’

‘Prezackly. A worm. Mister worm king
himself, emperor worm. Wormwood. That’s you. You are naught but a worm in a
hole.’

‘You’re bamboozling
me.’

‘We’re just a couple of old
bamboozlers, bamboozling each other in the dark. Now it’s your turn. Next
question, worm.’

‘All right. I’ve a riddle for
you as well. And if you don’t answer it I get to eat you.’

‘That doesn’t seem exactly
fair.’

‘The world isn’t fair. Have you
not noticed? This is my house. My house, my rules. I’m holding all the cards. I
could crush you like one of the bugs that used to be my friends.’

‘All right, baldy, keep your hair on.
Riddle-me-ree.’

‘He-he-he …  Who am
I?’

‘Easy, you are the Green Man, the
bogeyman, Wormwood, old Wormy, old snotter, crusty snotrag, the jolly green giant,
Colonel Bogey, the goblin king in his mountain hall, the Cyclops in his cave, the
underground man, emperor worm, Alberich the dwarf, watching over his hoard of
gold.’

‘No, who am I really?’

‘The troll under the
bridge.’

‘What?’

‘Three billy goats came over your
bridge, remember? And you were skulking down under there, up to your arse cheeks in cold
water. Warty old troll. And the first billy goat gruff, he was the littlest, he comes
trip-trap-trotting over. And what does he say to you?’

‘I know this story.’

‘Ah, now we’re getting
somewhere.’

‘I used to tell it to my boys at
night.’

‘You had kids, Wormy? Pray tell. I am
all ears, like an elephant. I never forget. Tell me once, tell me twice, tell me three
times. Then take it to the bridge.’

‘Stop. Stop your babble for a minute.
I want to remember … My three boys.’

‘Tell me about it, wormhole, tell me
about your three billy goats gruff, the big one, the middle one and the little one. Your
three sweet boys.’

‘At night, yes, it’s clear to me
now, I remember, I would go to my boys’ bedrooms. Three boys. You’re right.
There were three boys. I won’t tell you about the other one. That one came out all
wrong. But the boys … I read them stories, and each one grew up and I lost
them. I lost them way back there.’

‘Keep going.’

‘Except the youngest. He was still my
boy when … when … ’

‘Don’t think on the bad bits,
when the sickness came, remember back when they were all three boys.’

‘Yes. Yes, I will. It’s a good
memory. You see, at night, I’d read them stories. The oldest first. I’d read
him stories at night until he got too old for it … 
Each Peach Pear
Plum
,
Peepo!
,
Paddington Bear
 … and then he grew
up, didn’t want me to read to him any more, so there was the next one and the same
thing happened. He grew up too. Not the youngest, though. He was always young. Always
will be, because I got sick and the world turned upside down,
and … ’

‘Don’t go there, Dad. Remember
the story you were telling. The three billy goats gruff.’

‘Yes. They went trip-trap-trip-trap
over the bridge.’

‘Tell it to me now, Wormy. I’m
still a younger. I could be your boy. I still want to hear the stories.’

‘There was a troll,’ said
Wormwood, his voice sounding like it was coming from far away and long ago. ‘There
was a troll who lived under a bridge and there were three goats. They lived on a
hillside and they’d eaten all their grass. On the other side of the river was
another hill, full of rich, sweet grass … ’ Wormwood sobbed.

‘Don’t stop, Dad. I like to hear
the old stories.’

‘Are you really my boy?’

‘Yes. Right now. Here in the dark.
I’m your boy. Go back there, Wormy, back to when all was quiet and still. The
world was fine. You told stories to your boys at night. And it was goodnight, boys,
goodnight, John-Boy, goodnight, moon.’

‘OK. Yes … Yes. Well, the
smallest of the goats, he
couldn’t stand it any longer. He went
trip-trap-trotting across the bridge to get to the fresh green grass on the other side
and the troll came out, the ugly old troll, and he said, “Who dares cross my
bridge?” And the little goat he said, “Don’t eat me, my
brother’s bigger than me, there’s more meat on him. You eat him and let me
go … ” I can’t go on.’

‘My granddad used to tell me that
story. He loved the old stories.
Cinderella
,
Rumpelstiltskin
,
Rapunzel
,
Hansel and Gretel
,
Jack and the Beanstalk,
The Twelve Dancing Princesses
. Do you remember them, old troll?’

‘I remember them all, son. I remember
there used to be a time before, when it wasn’t all darkness and disease. When I
could sit like this with my boys by their beds at night and tell them stories. How did I
end up here?’

‘Beats me with a stick, Wormy. But
here you are. And here I am. Now you’ve got a choice, Green Man, you can tell me
some bedtime stories or you can eat me. You can be a dad or you can be a troll. The
choice is yours.’

‘I don’t know what I am. I
thought I knew. I can’t think straight because of them up there; they’re all
shouting at me, trying to get my attention. There’s another memory, you see? Of
the big green.’

‘Tell me about the big
green.’

‘I remember a forest, a jungle with
trees as tall as skyscrapers. And I was very small, just a germ really. I lived there
for a million years, I think. Until I escaped, jumping like a flea from bug to beast.
Except I don’t think that was me. How could it be? How could I be two people? One
inside the other like those dolls. How could I have lived in the jungle with the bees
and the fleas and the bats, and also have been that man who read stories to his boys at
night?
That’s why I asked you the riddle, son. Who am I? I need
to know.’

‘You’re the man who read those
stories.’