Саймон Морден - The White City

The Wolfman retreated before him, grunting with effort. His long knife was narrow and wholly unsuitable protection against the cleaving machete. Yet neither could he get anywhere near Dalip: every feint, every stab, was either knocked aside with finger-numbing force or avoided with a lithe twist of his body.

‘Help. Help me,’ he said to his colleague. His knife snapped halfway up the blade, the pointed end spinning away.

The man saw Mary’s slow shake of her head and started to back away.

Dalip brought the heavy edge down, cut through the meat and tendons on the back of the Wolfman’s hand. The rest of the knife dropped to the ground, and the Wolfman reeled.

Now he was alone, deserted by everyone he’d counted on. He snarled one last time and went for the knife hilt, sticking up out of the sand. And Dalip cracked his skull like a coconut. Death was instantaneous, but it still took a few moments for his fur-clad body to stop moving. The beach began to darken around him.

The machete was still wedged tight. Dalip put his bare foot on the Wolfman’s unprotesting neck and worked it free.

‘That,’ he said, ‘was no more than justice.’

Mary brought her hands up to her face and dragged her fingers down from her forehead to her chin. ‘Do we let the others go?’

They watched their heels running back up the beach towards the dunes.

‘We could spend days hunting them down. It’s not worth it. Without him, they’re scattered. And we need to stay here, to get the next boat.’

She swallowed hard. ‘I’m sorry.’

‘It’s not your fault.’

Looking out to sea, Crows was nowhere to be seen, though he had to be somewhere in the swell between the shore and the horizon.

‘I’m going after him,’ she said.

‘We’re all going after him.’

‘No. Now.’ And with that, she changed, no longer caring about what Dalip might or might not see. She called once, a piercing, high-pitched shriek, and then she was off, streaking over the beach, passing over the upturned faces of Mama and Dalip, over Elena’s bowed head and Luiza’s sightless eyes. She worked her wings to gain both speed and height, and then headed determinedly out over the breaking waves.

She had no idea what she was going to do or say when she found him.

He left the comforting to Mama. He didn’t know what he could say that would alleviate Elena’s grief, so he said nothing. That felt wrong, too, and he knew that he couldn’t hide from that for ever. In fact, the longer he left it, the worse it would be. But he couldn’t do it now. He took himself aside and stared at Mary’s tail feathers until they merged with the clouded sky.

He would need to dig a grave. Two graves. Not next to each other. He had nothing to dig with but his hands, so he thought somewhere in the dunes would be best. Make them too deep, and the sides would collapse, burying him as well. What he’d end up with would be two shallow scrapes which, in time, would do nothing to deter scavengers. Perhaps the animals wouldn’t put in an appearance until after another boat had grown and the four of them were off the beach for good.

Four left. Grace gone God only knew where, Stanislav obliterated by lightning, Luiza pointlessly killed by the Wolfman. Who he, in turn, had killed.

Stanislav◦– his death had been an act of mercy, and even though Dalip had baited the trap, Down itself had pulled the trigger. The Wolfman◦– Daniel, he had a name after all◦– was a different matter. When they’d fought, it had seemed so straightforward. It was only after he’d won that Dalip started to gather his doubts about him. Had killing him been necessary?

His grandfather would have said yes. But this was the man who’d lied about his age and run away to war. He’d been fierce and proud and fearless, even in old age when Dalip had known him best. In the end, he’d been barely able to stand, but he’d still shake his fist at the television and shout obscure Punjabi curses at besuited politicians. He’d do the same to Dalip’s mother, but only after she’d left the room.

Protecting others was one of the reasons Sikhs carried a kirpan. And he’d failed to save the person he needed to. But there were all the unknown others the Wolfman would have gone on to kill, but now wouldn’t. Perhaps that was a good enough reason. There were no authorities for either of them to answer to. Yes, he was judge, jury and executioner all rolled into one, but the Wolfman was guilty, condemned by his own hand and words.

The gurus said it was right to draw the sword when all other means had failed. This is what they’d meant, even if he’d never quite understood that before.

He deliberately looked back at the scene off to his left. Elena keening over her cousin, head buried in Mama’s substantial chest and her frame rising and falling with her sobs, Luiza’s body now discarded on the sand like the driftwood they collected, and the Wolfman lying a little way off, spread-eagled and still.

This was all Crows’ doing. His fault◦– he’d planned it, set it in motion, and had simply shrugged his bony shoulders at the havoc he’d left in his long-vanished wake. For certain, he was more charming, more superficially decent, than the Wolfman. But underneath, he was far more dangerous, more lethal than even Bell, and she’d been cold, callous and cruel, entirely devoid of empathy and utterly self-centred.

Crows was, without doubt, the worst person he’d ever come across. He’d destroyed everything they’d salvaged from the wreckage of Bell’s castle. And for that, he would face the only kind of justice that could be delivered on Down. Dalip doubted whether Mary would do what was necessary: she liked Crows, and she was conflicted. So for the sake of everyone here, and yet to come, it would be Dalip Singh who rid this world of him.

Trying to untangle his decision from his own burning sense of betrayal and his terrible need for revenge was futile. If that was all there was, then he might have given himself a stern talking-to. But no, his cause was right, and the crime enormous. There was the evidence: two dead bodies, one of a friend, the other an enemy, and Crows’ baleful influence shrouded both.

There was nothing left to see on the horizon. Mary would come back when she’d said what she needed to say, done what she needed to do. Part of him wanted her to sink Crows’ boat and destroy the maps. But if they were the key to unlock Down, then keeping the collection intact was more important than Crows’ temporary wealth. It would also make it sweeter to take them back, afterwards.

He got up, machete in hand, and slogged up the dune to take the view from the top. There was no one in sight, even though he knew there were at least three men relatively close by. Down had a habit of just swallowing people up in its landscape: they could be miles away, or just over the next ridge.

‘I’ll be just over here,’ he called to Mama. ‘Shout if… you know. If.’

Mama nodded. She turned herself to try and shield Elena from the bodies, to lead her away, but it didn’t work. She patted Elena on the back and let her cry.

It left Dalip wishing for all the alternatives. If Down was a time machine, then maybe, just maybe, there was a way around this.

He slid down the face of the dune, then walked along the slack to where the boat had been birthed. There was a hollow in the sand, and a track, broken by wide, collapsing footprints, where the keel had been dragged out towards the sea.

There would be fewer of them on the beach, waiting for the next boat to fruit. It might be smaller, and it might take more time to grow. Assuming it did. If nothing happened, they’d have to leave.

He climbed the next dune inland and took stock again. Below him was a long marshy area, green with thin weeds and scummy algae. He was half-minded to toss the Wolfman’s remains in there, despite his faith tradition of cremation. The Wolfman didn’t deserve the correct observances. All the same, Dalip knew he was going to do his best anyway. No one was going to applaud him for the choices he made. They might even criticise him for them. It didn’t matter. He was the one who was responsible for what he did, and he wanted to be able to live with his decisions.