Peter Newman - The Vagrant

Harper Voyager

An imprint of HarperCollins Publishers

1 London Bridge Street

London, SE1 9GF

www.harpervoyagerbooks.co.uk

First published in Great Britain by Harper Voyager 2015

Copyright © Peter Newman 2015

Cover layout design © HarperCollins Publishers Ltd 2015

Jacket illustration © Jaime Jones

Peter Newman asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

A catalogue copy of this book is available from the British Library.

This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.

Source ISBN: 9780007593071

Ebook Edition © April 2015 ISBN: 9780008182687

Version: 2017-01-17

To Em,

for lighting the way

Contents

Cover

Title Page

Copyright

Dedication

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Eight Years Ago

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Eight Years Ago

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Eight Years Ago

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Eight Years Ago

Chapter Fourteen

Eight Years Ago

Chapter Fifteen

Eight Years Ago

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Seven Years Ago

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Seven Years Ago

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Three Years Ago

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Four

Chapter Twenty-Five

Three Years Ago

Chapter Twenty-Six

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Three Years Ago

Chapter Twenty-Eight

One Year Ago

Chapter Twenty-Nine

Chapter Thirty

One Year Ago

Chapter Thirty-One

Chapter Thirty-Two

Chapter Thirty-Three

Acknowledgments

Read an extract of The Malice

About the Author

About the Publisher

Starlight gives way to bolder neon. Signs muscle in on all sides, brightly welcoming each arrival to New Horizon.

The Vagrant does not notice; his gaze fixes on the ground ahead.

People litter the streets like living waste, their eyes as hollow as their laughter. Voices beg and hands grasp, needy, aggressive.

The Vagrant does not notice and walks on, clasping his coat tightly at the neck.

Excited shouts draw a crowd ahead. A mixture of half-bloods and pimps, dealers and spectators gather in force. Platforms rise up in the street, unsteady on legs of salvaged metal. Wire cages sit on top. Within, shivering forms squat, waiting to be sold. For some of the assembled, the flesh auction provides new slaves, for others, fresh meat.

Unnoticed in the commotion, the Vagrant travels on.

The centre of New Horizon is dominated by a vast scrap yard dubbed ‘The Iron Mountain’, a legacy from the war. At its heart is the gutted corpse of a fallen sky-ship; its cargo of tanks and fighters has spilled out in the crash, forming a skirt of scattered metal at the mountain’s base.

Always opportunistic, the inhabitants of New Horizon have tunnelled out its insides to create living spaces and shops, selling on the sky-ship’s treasures. Scavenged lamps hang, colouring the shadows.

One tunnel is illuminated by a glowing hoop, off-white and erratic. In the pale light, the low ceiling is the colour of curdled milk.

Awkwardly, the Vagrant enters, bending his legs and bowing his head, his back held straight.

Corrugated shelves line the walls, packed with bottles, tins and tubes. The owner of the rusting cave hunches on the floor, cleaning a syringe with a ragged cloth. He appraises the Vagrant with a bloodshot eye.

‘A new customer?’

The Vagrant nods.

Syringe and cloth are swiftly tucked away and yellowing fingers rub together. ‘Ah, welcome, welcome. I am Doctor Zero. I take it you’ve heard of me?’