‘Thanks,’ said a truly grateful Kevin, after downing five straight cups of what felt like life itself.
‘Look, John Smith,’ Kevin had, of course, given them a false name. ‘You’re not going to make it to Drayton – it’s fifty miles away, rough going too. That,’ he nodded at the broken blade in Meatyard’s chest, ‘comes out now or we loan you a spade and you can start digging.’
‘What’s a spade?’
‘An implement,’ said Trevor Lugavoy, ‘that can be used for digging holes several feet deep and six foot long.’
‘You can do it?’ said a doubtful Kevin. ‘Take this out without killing me?’
‘Pretty far gone, boy – I’d say seventy/thirty.’
‘For?’
‘Against.’
This let out of Kevin what little air was left.
‘D’you think there’d be a proper surgeon in Drayton?’
‘You aren’t going to get to Drayton. And even if you did, which you won’t, he’ll be the local barber. And he’ll want paying. And some questions will be asked. Have you got any money? Have you got any answers?’
By now the Two Trevors were beginning to feel their patience wane in the face of Kevin’s lack of gratitude.
‘My generous friend here is as good as you’ll get within two hundred miles. You’re lucky to have him. And you don’t have much choice. If you want to stay out of heaven, I’d do some grovelling.’
The mention of heaven concentrated Kevin’s mind and he made a good fist of apologizing to the now miffed Trevor Lugavoy. After which, Lugavoy got on with it. In fact, he could have earned a fair living as a surgeon. Moved to become skilled for practical reasons, he also took pride in his ability and had paid for tuition from Redeemer surgeons considered by all to be the best, not that this was saying much. He had paid a high price for the medical pliers with which he grasped the little that was left of the blade sticking out of Meatyard’s chest. It was out in a moment, accompanied only by a hideous scream of agony.
Worse was to come, as it was clear from the two pieces missing from the blade that there was more to do.
‘Don’t move or I won’t answer for the consequences.’
Meatyard was skilled at handing out pain, but he could take it, too.
‘Well done,’ said Trevor Lugavoy, who was, after five minutes digging about in the wound that must have felt like five days, reassured that there was nothing left behind. ‘That’s what kills you,’ he said to the traumatized Meatyard. He cleaned the wound with several gallons of water and began to pour a mixture of honey and lavender, calendula and powdered myrrh. Kovtun, seeing he was about to use the ointment, pulled Lugavoy to one side and pointed out that it was expensive and they might very well need it themselves. Lugavoy agreed in principle but pointed out that all their efforts would be for nothing if the wound got infected – which it would.
‘I take pride in my work. What can I say? Besides, he showed a good deal of courage. I’d have screamed louder. He deserves a bit of generosity.’ So that was that. They decided to stay and watch over him in the night; next morning they left him with some rations (not much, at Kovtun’s insistence) and were on their way. Though just before they left, a thought occurred to Kovtun.
‘You heard of the Priory?’ he said to Kevin.
Fortunately for Meatyard his expression of alarm could easily be turned into one of pain. ‘No, sorry,’ said the ungrateful boy and at that the Two Trevors were gone. Two minutes later Lugavoy was back. He dropped a large block covered in waxed paper, an impulsive addition to the rations they’d already left him.
‘Make sure,’ he said to Kevin, ‘you eat a quarter of this a day. It’s good stuff food-wise though it tastes like dog-shit. The Redeemers call it Dead Men’s Feet. There’s an address inside. If you live, go there and they’ll give you work. Tell them Trevor Lugavoy sent you – and nothing else, y’hear?’
If you’d asked Trevor Lugavoy whether virtue was rewarded he would have been both surprised and amused, not because he was a cynic (he regarded himself as having been through all that) but rather that experience had led him not to see the world as a place of balance. On this occasion, however, while returning to ensure that Kevin Meatyard had enough nourishing food to give him the best chance of survival, his kindness was rewarded: he noticed that he was being watched from a hill about three hundred yards away. As he turned back to join Trevor Kovtun he was pretty sure he knew who it was. He caught up with Kovtun rather quicker than he expected to – Kovtun had dismounted and was on all fours with his belt undone, putting two fingers down his throat trying to make himself sick. After a few more unpleasant sounding tries, he succeeded. There was blood in his vomit.
‘Any better?’
‘A bit.’
‘We’re being followed.’
‘Damn, buggery, bollocks and bullshit,’ said Cadbury as he sat down half a mile from the Two Trevors. ‘They know we’re following them.’ Cadbury looked at the girl who had been waiting for him at the bottom of the hill while he was spying on Trevor Lugavoy. Behind her, set apart, were a dozen disagreeable-looking men.
‘You let them spot you,’ said the girl. She was a stringy-looking thing, but it was the kind of string that you could rely on to take a hard strain, with an odd face – had you seen it in a painting you would have called it underdrawn. It seemed to have something missing, a nose or a pair of lips, except that they were all there.
‘You think you can do any better, be my guest.’
‘It’s your job, not mine.’
‘When it comes to tracking people as good as those two you can’t get too close and you can’t get too far away. It’s just bad luck.’
‘I don’t believe in luck.’
‘That’s because you’re a kiddywink and don’t know your arse from your elbow.’
‘You’ll see what I know. An intelligent heart acquires knowledge, and the ear of the wise seeks it.’
‘Will I? How hair-raising.’
But for all his mockery he found the girl’s presence decidedly creepy, not least because she was always quoting from some religious tract that had, apparently, an opinion on everything. But she spoke these proverbs and sayings an odd way, so that you couldn’t make out what she was driving at exactly. Was she trying to make him uneasy? He had good reason to be jumpy.
Three days earlier, Kitty the Hare had called him in to discuss what was to be done about the Two Trevors and their search for Cale, in the light of the certainty that there was only one thing the Two Trevors did with anyone they were looking for once they found them.
‘Do you know who’s paying them?’ Cadbury had asked.
‘The Redeemers, probably,’ Kitty cooed. ‘Spying things out is not really in their gift. Fanatics find it hard to blend in, as the disgracefully illegal but entirely justified hanging ordered by Zog so clearly established. But it could be the Laconics.’ It was a matter of policy as well as amusement to Kitty never to give a completely unambiguous answer. ‘They’ll struggle to recover from the injury he did to their numbers. Neither could you rule out Solomon Solomon’s family. He has a talent for antagonizing people.’
‘You could say the same about us.’
‘Indeed you could, Cadbury.’
‘You don’t think he’s too much trouble?’
‘Oh, indeed I do,’ replied Kitty. ‘But that’s the way it is with the young. It’s a question of possibilities. His capacity for ruin needs shaping and I’d very much rather be behind him than in front of him. But there may easily come a time when that will not be the case. You might want to keep that in mind.’
The door opened and Kitty’s steward entered with a tray.