David Moody - Them or Us

He’s not going anywhere.

The knocking has moved now. Persistent little shit. Now he’s banging on the living room window. I screw my eyes shut and stifle a cough, doing all I can to swallow it down so the noise doesn’t give me away. Jesus, I feel bad. My guts are more sensitive than ever, and my head’s about to explode. There’s a welcome moment of silence; then the noise changes again. That’s the side door this time. He’s shaking the handle, rattling the chains I used to secure it after the vagrant woman broke in. Maybe it’s another one of those useless underclass fuckers, trying to get in and steal from me. Bastards.

Got to move.

I reluctantly get up from my chair and immediately lurch over to the right, reeling from the aftereffects of the booze. Feeling faint, I stoop down and grab a heavy wrench I keep by the front door for dealing with unwelcome visitors like this. I’ve just about managed to stand upright again when another coughing fit hits me hard. Whoever’s outside must know I’m here now, and they’re still not going anywhere. When the coughing subsides for a second I angrily yank the front door open and run along the side of the house, wrench held high, ready to attack or defend myself. A combination of sudden surprise and the ice-cold temperature outside immediately sobers me up and stops me in my tracks. Standing in front of me is Peter Sutton, the bastard who stalked me around Southwold.

“How in hell’s name did you find me?”

He walks toward me, and, hands raised, I lift the wrench again and block his way. Fucker’s not going anywhere.

“I guessed you had some connection with those fighters who turned up in Southwold yesterday morning.”

“They were nothing to do with me.”

“I didn’t say they were. But you turned up, then they did. It seemed a pretty safe bet that it was more than just coincidence.”

“So what’s this? Revenge?”

“No, nothing like that.”

“That still doesn’t explain how you found me.”

“I just went into town and asked for Rufus.”

“But I’m not—”

“I know who you are now, Danny McCoyne. Here’s a tip for you: If you’re going to use a false name, never use the name of someone who actually exists. I asked for Rufus at the barricades and ended up being introduced to your friend. He seems like a decent enough guy, but you might want to have a word with him about his loose tongue. I described you to him, and he says, ‘Ah … you’re looking for Danny McCoyne.’ So here I am, Danny, and here you are, too.”

“Rufus told you where I was just like that?”

“Pretty much,” he answers. “He didn’t need to say a lot. He told me about this place and he said you were the only one here. I just started knocking on windows and doors until I found you. Wasn’t that hard, really.”

“How come? There are hundreds of houses—”

“I know, and I’ve been here for fucking ages. However, yours is the only house with a fresh puddle of vomit on the drive. I thought there was a good chance you might have something to do with it.”

Sutton’s breath billows in clouds around his face. We’re both shaking with cold. There’s been a heavy frost overnight, and everything glistens with ice, white-blue in the first light of dawn.

“Okay,” I say, still shivering but still not letting him in, “you found me. Now what do you want?”

“Can we talk inside?”

“Why?”

“Because I’m fucking cold and this is fucking important.”

He’s insistent if nothing else, but the fact he won’t talk outside the house just increases my unease. Either what he’s got to say is genuinely important or he’s trying to trick me.

“It’s out here or nothing.”

He thinks for a minute, shaking with cold. My hand starts to feel like it’s freezing to the wrench.

“Remember that truck? The one you said you didn’t see?”

“What about it?”

“Want to know where it came from?”

“Not really.”

“That’s what I figured, but I’m sure your boss will.”

“My boss?”

“Whoever sent you to Southwold. Hinchcliffe, is it? Come on, Danny, stop playing games. Let’s talk. This is important.”

I need a piss, and the bitter cold out here is making it worse. Oh, what the hell … he’s obviously no fighter. One step out of line and I’ll finish him off with a smack on the head with the wrench. That’ll solve all our problems. Against my better judgment, I decide to let him in.

“You’ve got five minutes,” I warn him.

“Thank you,” he says, scurrying past me to get into the warmth. I gesture for him to go through to the living room, making sure he gets another eyeful of the wrench as I use it to point the way.

“Try anything and I’ll kill you.”

“I won’t, I swear. I don’t want any trouble.”

I follow him into the house, watching his every move. “Okay then, talk.”

He paces the room, taking his time and choosing his words carefully.

“I guess your boss assumed those supplies came from him. Did he find out who was supplying Warner?”

“Hinchcliffe’s not the investigative type. So do you know?”

“Not yet, but I need to find out.”

“Why?”

“Look, you’re the only other person like me I’ve found in months,” he says, teeth still chattering, “the only person I think I can trust.”

“You’re not making any sense. For fuck’s sake, Sutton, stop beating around the bush and just tell me.”

He pauses ominously.

“Those supplies you saw weren’t from Lowestoft.”

“Where, then?”

“Come with me and I’ll show you.”

21

SUTTON HAS A CAR with a quarter tank of fuel, which he says he took from the aftermath of the fighting in Southwold. He told me he got out of the center of the town as soon as he heard the first of Hinchcliffe’s fighters arrive, then hid on the outskirts until they’d cleared out again. If that’s true then he’s been a damn sight more alert than I have recently. He drove up to within a couple of streets of the house this morning, and in my alcoholic daze I didn’t hear a bloody thing. He could have been anyone.

This car was once a fairly decent and spacious high-end model, but, like most everything else, it’s seen better days. It’s full of trash, and the upholstery is slashed and torn. Outside it’s snowing, but it’s not quite cold enough to settle.

No matter how smooth the ride might once have been, today the surface of the road we’re traveling over is rough and uneven. Sutton drives straight over a pothole that’s full of water and deeper than expected. He doesn’t even bother to try to steer around it, and the sudden lurching downward movement makes the liquid in my stomach swirl and wash around again. I swallow down bile and try to concentrate on the music he’s playing. He tells me it helps calm his nerves, but it’s doing nothing for mine. The fact he still listens to music like me is a good sign, I guess, but this morning the uncomfortably loud noise just makes me feel even more unwell.

“It must be because of the smoke from the bombs,” he says suddenly. He’s talked nervously for most of the journey without saying anything of any substance. I still don’t fully know why I’m here, but I keep telling myself it was worth agreeing because there’s the slightest chance he’ll show me something worth seeing before I leave Lowestoft forever. Another place like Southwold, or John Warner’s mysterious benefactor perhaps? Fact is, I need a way out.

“What’s because of the smoke?”

“The drop in temperature. All the snow and ice.”

“It’s the middle of winter.”

“I know, but it’s not usually this bad, is it?”

“There are fewer people around than this time last year, fewer cars and no factories, hospitals, or schools. No emissions or exhausts. Think of all the fumes that aren’t being belched up into the atmosphere anymore.”