Blacklands

Chapter 41

THERE WERE VOICES AND SUDDENLY STEVEN COULD BREATHE. IT wasn’t dramatic; there were no gasps, just a ragged little whining sound as he started living again instead of dying. He stared up into the streaky pink sky, wondering what had happened to Avery. He thought vaguely of getting up and running again but his head felt like lead and there was a great weight across his legs, pressing him into the moor.

If Avery appeared and tried to kill him again, there was nothing he could do to stop it, he was that weak. He didn’t even care really.

The cardigan still wound around his neck was warm and comforting now and he felt tired and floaty.

There were still voices. Close, but not that close. Not right over him. They were men’s urgent voices—the kinds of voices people used in TV cop shows when something worrying had happened. Steven didn’t bother working out what they were saying, but he did wonder why they weren’t saying it over him. Maybe they thought he was dead. He wouldn’t blame them—he’d thought he was dead. Maybe he was dead, although he didn’t think he’d feel the prickly wet gorse under the small of his back if he was. Steven let his mind drift away from the question of his death. It was tiring.

“Steven.”

That was more like it.

Steven flickered his eyes to the right and found his mother bent over him in her old blue bathrobe.

Mum, he wanted to say, but couldn’t—just felt his lips open briefly as he tried silently. She was holding his right hand, which made Steven feel five years old again. Having his hand held like Davey. He almost smiled at the thought. Then didn’t bother. Tired. Too tired to bother. Maybe he’d sleep a bit.

But under the voices he became aware of a ticking whirr in his left ear. He made an effort and turned his head minutely and frowned. Right next to his face, an all-terrain wheel spun lazily against the sky, something dripping from it that was not water.

It was so out of context that he had to know more. Slow with pain and effort, he turned his head farther to the left and found himself looking at a maroon slipper with a stout ankle in it.

It was his nan, lying in the heather beside him—her trolley between them.

Lettie stroked his face, but all the voices were over Nan. All the activity was over Nan. Some men from the village were with her, one murmuring softly into her face and pressing his lips to hers like a public lover, another pumping at her chest with his arms straight, a third tucking his jumper around her legs.

The fourth—Lewis’s dad—just stood, staring sightlessly, his expression blank and his freckles oddly dark against the sickly white of his face.

A little way behind them all, almost hidden by the thick fog, was Lewis.

But his friend’s eyes didn’t meet his. Instead they flickered between Steven’s legs and his father’s face, wide with horror—and a jolt of panic made Steven jerk his head up to make sure his legs were still there.

They were. But in the two seconds that Steven could keep his head raised, he took a mental snapshot that would stay with him forever, however much he tried to erase it…

Avery lay on his back across Steven’s legs, his hands curled into loose fists beside his head. And what used to be his face.

Now it was just a face-shaped clot of blood and hair and splintered bone. Only the eyes gave a clue as to its previous form—dull green half-slits like those of a dead cat.

Steven’s head lolled back in the heather as he felt his childhood drop away behind him, winking out in the darkness of the past, and he burned with the tears of suddenly being a grown-up. He knew now what was dripping off the all-terrain wheel, and why the freckles on the face of Lewis’s dad looked so dark.

Steven watched the bloody sky pass bumpily overhead as the paramedics carried him off the moor.

He wanted to know how his nan was but speaking was beyond him. All he knew was that somehow she’d come up the track with his rescuers and that something had happened to her there because of it.

Because of him.

The thought brought red tears to his eyes and everything went kaleidoscopic.

He’d thought that him dying was as bad as this day could get, but he’d been wrong. Something had happened to his nan.

Because of him. Because of his plan. Because of his trap. Because of his good letters. On the box it said it was a fillit. Because he’d been a boy. Not a man, who would have done everything differently; everything better.

They were loaded into the same ambulance. His mother’s hand squeezed his and she said she’d see him in a mo, and she was gone.

Inside, Steven could only see that his nan had an oxygen mask on, but so did he, so it meant nothing. Gave him no real clues.

Nan, he said with his lips, but sound was still unable to squeeze through his swollen throat.

Nan.

It was hard to see through the blood in his eyes so he didn’t bother trying. He closed them and slipped away once more, still feeling sick because of the tomato sandwiches Avery had fed him.