Crake reached the mansion and went skirting along its fac¸ade, sticking close to the building. As he reached the main door, a Shacklemore came running out of it onto the drive, a young man with slick black hair. He looked about, saw Crake, and then raised his pistol and fired twice. Crake covered his face instinctively as a stone vase smashed to pieces next to him.
‘Stop firing, you moron! Do I look like a bloody peasant? I’m on your side!’
He didn’t know where that peremptory tone of command came from. Perhaps his surroundings had brought out his aristocratic side. But the Shacklemore stopped shooting.
Crake glared at him. ‘Where’s my father?’
‘In there,’ said the Shacklemore, tipping his head. ‘He won’t move himself. I’m going for the landing pad. If you’ve got half a brain you’ll come with me.’
‘I’ll get him out,’ said Crake. ‘You hold those aircraft. Remember who’s paying you.’
There was a shrieking noise from across the grounds. They both looked out over the lawns and saw the gates being torn off their hinges. Their attackers were using chains and a tractor to pull them down. The villagers came swarming in, and the last of the Shacklemore resistance broke.
‘No pockets in a shroud, my friend,’ the young man said. ‘You’d best be quick.’
He sprinted off, and Crake went up the porch steps into the foyer. He knew exactly where his father would be. He hurried through the mansion to the study, and pushed open the door.
The fire had reduced to glowing embers. It had been burning all night. His father stood by the window with a glass of brandy in his hand, looking out. The decanter was on a silver platter on a side table, mostly empty.
‘Father,’ he said.
‘Grayther,’ he replied.
‘Father, we have to go.’
‘I don’t think so.’
‘They’ll kill you.’
‘Damned if I’ll run.’ His hand trembled on his glass. ‘Damned.’
Crake came into the room. Even now, the study inspired respect and awe in him. His father’s own sanctum, sacred and forbidden.
‘Condred is awake,’ he said. ‘You did the right thing calling on me. The Awakeners caused the coma.’
Rogibald sipped his brandy.
‘But you knew that, didn’t you?’ Crake said.
‘It takes daemons to fight daemons,’ said Rogibald. He motioned to the window. ‘And here is my reward.’ He turned his head and stared at Crake levelly. ‘At least I have my son back. That’s all I wanted.’
It was a pointed singular, pitched to wound. But Crake was no longer the man that had fled this place three years ago. His father’s barbs were blunt now.
He walked over to stand next to Rogibald. Beyond the window, the gunfire continued. A pair of Shacklemores ran past. Here inside the study, he felt strangely insulated from it all. He wondered if that was how his father had always felt when he looked out on the world.
‘Don’t throw your life away, Father.’
Rogibald didn’t reply.
‘Look at me,’ said Crake, and his father did so. Crake gave him a smile. He felt the cold suck of the daemon as it sapped the energy from him, saw his father’s gaze move to the gold tooth. Crake hadn’t slept, and using the tooth so much had weakened him, but he felt strong enough for this.
‘Live to fight another day, Father. Do it for your son. The one you do care about.’
Rogibald watched his reflection in the tooth, then slowly raised his gaze to meet Crake’s. . and dashed the brandy in his eyes. Crake recoiled, spluttering. Rogibald regarded him with naked hatred.
‘Get out!’ he cried. ‘You’re no part of me! You’re no son of mine! You were weak from the start and now you’re fouled. Run! Save your own life, coward! I’ll fall with my house, and Condred will have all that’s left, but you? You’ll have nothing. You’ve brought ruin upon us!’
Crake retreated before the barrage. He’d never heard his father speak that way. It shocked him and shamed him, but it hardened his heart as well. What did he care for a man who’d never cared for him? What accusation could he face that he hadn’t already accused himself of? He’d done his duty; he’d tried his best. That was more than he owed this man.
He drew himself up and mustered as much dignity as he could with brandy dripping down his face. ‘Goodbye, Father,’ he said.
Rogibald turned back to the window without a word. Crake opened the door and left. It seemed a weak way to bid farewell for ever, but then, they’d never had much to say to one another.
He heard smashing glass as he hurried back through the house, and quickened his step to a run. He’d wasted too long on Rogibald already. It was time to look after himself.
Coward, his father had called him. Well, if he’d learned one thing from his captain, it was this: cowardice was always the last insult thrown by the brave, just before they got shot in the face.
Damn you, Father. Die if you want. I’m done with you.
He reached the foyer, headed purposefully for the door, and stumbled to a halt. Through the panes of leaded glass on either side, he saw men running up the drive towards the mansion. Men with guns and clubs, faces distorted with hate.
Already they were at the door. Seized with the fear of their vengeance, he ran in the opposite direction, up the wide staircase of polished wood. They burst in behind him, a shouting horde. Someone yelled when they saw him. Crake fled upward, and a dozen men followed. The rest scattered throughout the mansion, smashing and destroying anything they could lay their hands on.
He sprinted wildly down a corridor, not knowing where he was going, desperate only to escape from the pain and death promised by his pursuers. And yet even through his terror there was a cold sense of inevitability, a closing-in all around him. The ground floor was occupied; the landing pad was cut off. How was he going to get out now?
One villager, particularly fleet of foot, sprang up the stairs and came thumping down the corridor after him. He was skinny and blond, a chair-leg club in his hand, his teeth gritted and his face red, drunk on the blind hatred of the mob and the sense of togetherness it brought. Crake heard him coming and knew he couldn’t outpace him. Instead he planted his feet, pulled out his revolver and aimed it square at his pursuer.
The villager skidded to a halt, blanching as he realised his predicament. Crake didn’t even think of mercy; he was too frightened. He fired, three times at short range.
They stood looking at each other in disbelief. Then the man turned and scrambled back the other way.
Crake looked at his gun as if there was something wrong with it. But no, it was just his aim. I should give up firearms altogether.
Three more men came rushing up the corridor, shoving the fleeing man aside. Crake didn’t dare gamble that the threat of a gun would keep them back. He turned tail and ran.
He pulled open a door and darted inside, slamming it behind him. A narrow stairwell led up and down: the servants’ stairs. He hesitated: perhaps he should descend to the ground floor? Could he get out that way? But instinct wouldn’t let him. It drove him away from danger, without regard for sense or logic. So he went up instead.
The door burst open below him, and there was a shout. He fired two shots down the stairs, the revolver deafening in the stairwell. The third time the hammer fell on an empty chamber. They pulled their heads in, but it wouldn’t keep them back for long. He reached the top of the stairs and came out on the upper floor of the mansion.
He shut the door behind him. If only he had his thralled skeleton key, he could have locked it, kept them back for a few more precious moments. But the Shacklemores took it when they captured him, and it was gone now.
He fled down the corridor. Voices ahead of him. They’re coming up the main stairs. He skidded to a halt, heart banging against his ribs. There were too many to escape. He was outnumbered and trapped. Nothing he could do would prevent the end. He’d die at the hands of a filthy lynch mob, beaten to death in a flurry of blows, bones snapping as they stamped on him, teeth kicked in, a blinding jumble of agony to see him out of the world.