‘I’ll show you the way around the cliffs if you want. You youngsters don’t know what you have to lose.’ Dawson sucked at his uneven teeth. ‘It’s different for us.’
She’d never heard it put like that before. ‘If I get to be as old as you then, welclass="underline" it’ll be a fucking miracle. Just remember us to Mama, right?’
Dawson nodded, and went out to report to the others in his group.
‘Is that the best we’re going to get?’ she asked.
‘We can’t insist people throw themselves at danger, just so we can have an easier ride.’
‘Why the fuck not? We’re doing it for them.’
‘No we’re not. We’re doing it for people we don’t know, in the hope that they carry on living entirely oblivious of the disaster that’s waiting for them in twenty-twelve. This isn’t the pictures, Mary. What’s done is done: right now we’re just trying to stop Down from wiping out every single London ever.’
‘What if we can fix everything? There’s got to be a way of fixing this, right? Maybe whatever’s in that building will tell us the answer.’
Dalip looked pityingly at her, even though she knew it meant his family. He moved a lever on the side of the rifle and handed the weapon to her. ‘Take it. We’ll go through the basics in a minute. At least with a rifle, it’s difficult to shoot yourself with it.’
She took it from him. It was heavy, the combination of smooth dark wood and dull grey metal. There were clips, front and back, for a carry strap, but the strap itself had long gone. She kept her hand clear of the trigger.
‘Remember they might have guns too,’ she said.
‘If they’re shooting at you, then you’re doing your job properly. If they’re shooting at me, then I can’t get into the round building.’
‘And if they hit me,’ she countered, ‘they’ll start looking for you.’
‘I’m teaching you how to fire a rifle, not dodge bullets.’ He jerked his head at the door. ‘Out. I’m getting changed.’
She pulled the door to behind her and sat on the doorstep, rifle across her knees. For the first time in ages, she wanted a cigarette.
30
Dalip was now more likely to be mistaken for a comic-book ninja than someone escaping from Guantanamo Bay. He’d found a pair of loose black trousers and a dark blue shirt◦– both were slightly too large for him, but he’d tied them up the best he could so they didn’t flap or catch.
She’d suggested a mask, like a superhero, or a highwayman. He’d said that the last thing he needed was something that would make him see less well, and besides, he was instantly recognisable being the only man on Down wearing a patka. If there’d been a piece of cloth of sufficient length in the ferryman’s hut, he would have fashioned himself a turban.
He had found a comb, a long-handled wooden one with dagger-like teeth, and a bracelet. It might not have been steel, but silver. He put it on under his shirt anyway, and the comb he dug into his hair under the patka. He would, most likely, die trying to break back into the White City. At least he would die a Sikh.
He’d given Mary ten minutes with the rifle, telling her about the safety, about working the bolt, about bringing the stock right up hard against her right shoulder before she pulled the trigger. He warned her that it was going to be the loudest, most startling noise she’d ever heard up close, but no matter what, she had to be ready for that.
She had five bullets. That meant he didn’t need to explain about reloading the magazine, or adjusting for windage or range. Just how to look through the sights, squeeze, and not break anything.
Then Dawson had led her off, away from the hut, up into the woods in the lengthening shadow of the plateau, while the other two pirates headed downstream to the ship. He was alone, and if he was honest, he preferred it that way.
In the hour before the sun set, he went through all his doubts and fears, deliberately visiting each one.
His family’s almost certain death; the irrevocable destruction of his home; the near certainty of failure of his forthcoming task; his unworthiness before both man and God: it, in the final analysis, didn’t change anything.
The secret of Down had been revealed to him, and it didn’t matter whether that was by accident or design. He had vowed to do his duty to friend and stranger alike. If the faith of his ancestors was only so many stories, then he’d still struggle and die as if they were true. And if they were true, perhaps he’d reached his apotheosis and would merge back into the divine, as a drop of water joins the vast ocean.
He was calm, preternaturally so. Whatever happened next was the will of God.
It grew cold in the shadow, and he started to walk up and down to keep his muscles warm. The sky darkened and streaks of cloud high above him turned orange, then pink. It was almost time. The gorge was already in darkness, and soon the valley beyond would follow.
He swung the machete a few times to limber up his arm, and he walked to Crows’ barricade. One last look at the deep blue sky and glowing clouds told him what he knew already. He climbed carefully over the stones and branches blocking the path, and strode out the short distance to the start of the gorge proper.
He swapped the machete from right to left, and trailed his fingers over the rock. They would be his guide through. He took one deep breath, and started forward.
He kept his elbow bent and his fingertips dragging. As long as he didn’t lose contact, he wasn’t in danger of wandering close to the edge. Having passed that way once in the light, and once in the dark, it didn’t hold any terrors. He knew how far it was, and where it turned.
When he’d gone about half the distance, he stopped, and listened. The water thundered below, and he expected that the noise would block out everything else. But the gorge was an echo chamber, amplifying all sounds, not just natural ones. Could he hear some speech mixed in with the sonorous river? He thought he might.
Slowly, then. He was still in utter darkness, while the valley was fractionally lighter. If there were guards posted, then he’d count their silhouettes long before they could see him.
He edged along, and caught sight of the final part of the gorge, the edge of the rock face just before it opened out. He crouched down and listened again.
Definitely voices. He could possibly handle two, if he was swift and merciless, taking one down before they could react and leaving him the other at better than average odds. Three, he wasn’t so sure about. It would only take one of them to shout a warning, and the chase would be on.
He needed to check. He stayed pressed up against the cliff wall and stepped silently until he could see the end of the gorge completely. There were three blank shadows standing there. They weren’t even watching the path, but each other, and at least one of them had his back completely to the gorge.
He’d have to get past them somehow. Perhaps he could take three of them on: kill the first one with a single blow, then attack one of the others while they were both reeling.
The shot, when it came, cracked the still air with shocking clarity. The men on guard jerked and cringed as if they’d been hit themselves. As the echo built and died away, he could hear a distant shout, thin but distinct.
‘Come on then, you fuckers.’
Four bullets left.
The guards talked to each other in low, urgent voices, and then one of them ran off down the path.
As a plan, it wasn’t subtle. It was, however, inexplicably working.
Dalip gave it a few seconds. Neither of the guards were looking in his direction now, but instead staring and pointing across the valley at the top of the steep steps, presumably where Mary stood in full view.