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Chapter Seven

OCTOBER 2095

Josiah

“That little shit!” Reed raged when Josiah returned to the viewing room. “I can’t believe he tried to turn it back on you like that. He has no idea who he’s dealing with!”

“Actually, I think it’s all too clear that he does,” Josiah said dryly.

“Do you want me to go in there now and charge him?”

“No. I don’t think we have enough evidence to present a watertight case, and I’m by no means convinced he did it,” Josiah replied, handing Dacre’s holopad back to Reed.

“Oh, come on! He’s as guilty as they come. You had him spot on in there – he’s a manipulative liar who thought he could talk his way out of this and into his freedom!”

“Perhaps, but it’s all circumstantial so far. I want Dacre’s credit records, the solicitor who drew up and witnessed the will, and a full transcript and audio recording of the trial that led to Lytton’s sentence of servitude. Get to work, Reed; you’ve got a busy night ahead.”

“Yes, sir. I’ll call Sarah and let her know I won’t be home tonight.” Reed gave a resigned sigh. “What do you want me to do with him?” he asked, gesturing through the window to Alexander.

“Put him in a detention suite. He can think about it overnight; let’s see if he’s got any more to say tomorrow. ”

“He won’t. I’ve seen his kind before.”

“His kind?”

“Psychopath. No conscience. He didn’t even flinch when you threw all that stuff from his past at him. He’ll get more sleep than I will tonight.”

“Hmm. I’ve met psychopaths before; I don’t think he’s one.”

“Then what is he?”

Josiah glanced through the window, still feeling uneasy about how Alexander had seemed like a completely different person a few moments earlier.

“I have no idea, and I think that’s precisely the way he wants it. The question is – why?” Josiah walked briskly towards the door. “Right, I’m going home. I need some quiet time to go through all the data you’ve gathered so far – call me if you find anything urgent.”

He was almost at the door when Reed spoke again. “Sir, what he said about Peter… I’m sorry.”

His jaw tightening, he turned back. “It’s fine. I’m not made of glass, Reed. I don’t break because someone mentions my dead husband.”

“Yeah, I know.” Reed’s face twisted into something halfway between a grin and a grimace. “Just… you don’t talk about it, so we’re never sure, and… well, for him to say that, today of all days…”

Josiah frowned. “What do you think I do on this day every year? Sob into my tea? Say prayers over Peter’s ashes?”

Reed looked profoundly uncomfortable. “Uh… well, I’m not entirely sure, to be honest. All I know is you always book the day off and tell the boss you’re not to be disturbed. It’s the only day when you’re off duty – I mean, you even work Christmas Day.”

“I wash his car,” Josiah said quietly.

“What?”

“That’s what I do on this day every year; I wash that stupid car Peter loved so much. I polish her until she shines, because I know he’d never forgive me if I let her rust away in the garage.”

“Oh. Right. Okay. I mean, not that I’ve been wondering or anything…”

“Yes, you have – you and half of Inquisitus. You’ve probably opened a book on it – does Raine spend the day gorging on chocolates, working on cold cases, or hanging out on IS-hate holosites?”

Reed raised his hands in surrender. “Damn it, sir – I can never tell when you’re taking the piss.”

Josiah grinned. “Good!” He turned to go again, then glanced back. “You had money on the chocolates, didn’t you?”

“Yeah – and you just lost me a week’s pay.” Reed grinned. “Look, sir, this was my half-arsed attempt at asking if you’re okay.”

“I know, and I’m fine. Really. I’ll see you in the morning.”

“Yes, sir,” Reed replied, looking relieved the conversation was over. He wasn’t the only one.

Josiah dropped by Esther’s office to tell her he was going home. She barely glanced up – she trusted him to get the job done and knew he came and went at all hours to suit his investigation.

There were still a few reporters waiting outside when he left, but he ignored their questions and zoomed away without a second glance.

He played the recording of the trial that had led to Alexander’s sentence of servitude on his journey home. It made for interesting listening but provided no clues – although Alexander’s idiotic barrister said several things that made him either wince or chuckle, which perhaps shed some light on Alexander’s refusal to accept a lawyer now.

When Alexander took the stand, Josiah had to ask the duck to play his testimony twice, because he could hardly believe he was hearing the same man. Alexander sounded dazed and withdrawn, completely at odds with the sharp man Josiah had met today.

He mulled over the way Alexander had challenged him in the interview room. Was there really more to this than the obvious cliché of a disaffected IS manipulating his houder into changing his will, then killing him to gain his freedom? Or did he just want there to be more? It might have interrupted his annual car-polishing ritual, but he couldn’t deny that he was getting a buzz from this investigation, and didn’t want it to have such an anti-climactic ending.

After parking the duck in his garage, he paused for a moment beside the shining red Jaguar that had been Peter’s most prized possession. It was as if his late husband had just stepped into the kitchen to get a beer and would be back again at any moment. Josiah closed his eyes and inhaled the scent of car polish, remembering the day they first met.

It was March 17th, 2082, and he was standing outside his new commanding officer’s tent in the makeshift supply camp at Reims. He smoothed down his jacket, straightened his shoulders, and then entered.

“Sergeant Raine reporting for duty, sir,” he announced.

A somewhat shabby-looking man in his late thirties looked up from where he was sitting on an old crate in front of a battered picnic table and placed a finger over his mouth.

“Shh – she’s sleeping.”

“Um… who is, sir?” Josiah asked. People had warned him that Captain Peter Hunt was an eccentric.

“This little lady.” Captain Hunt pointed at his jacket, which contained a suspicious bulge. “Want to take a look, Sergeant?”

“Uh… yes, sir?”

“Come here, then, but be quiet,” Hunt said softly.

Josiah did as he was told, and Hunt drew aside his jacket to reveal… a small black puppy. The creature was tiny – probably no more than a week or two old – and she was making little whimpering sounds in her sleep.

“Poor baby – her mother and the rest of the litter were killed by one of the trucks in the convoy yesterday. I couldn’t leave her there, could I, Sergeant?”

“Uh, I don’t know, sir. Are we allowed to keep pets?”

“Probably not.” Hunt grinned. “But she’s a baby – she wouldn’t survive if we left her, and as it’s our fault she’s all alone in the world, we have a responsibility to her, don’t we?”

“I suppose so, sir,” Josiah replied doubtfully.

“She can travel with us once we get going again. Nobody needs to know.” Hunt winked. His big, dirty hands were infinitely gentle as he stroked the puppy’s head. “One of the supply trucks broke down this morning, so I fixed it,” Hunt explained, noticing Josiah looking at his grimy hands.

“Is that your job, sir?”

“Whatever gets the task done is my job.” Hunt shrugged. “It’s a bit different in the Peacekeepers than in the regular army, Sergeant. We’re away from base most of the time, out on the road by ourselves, and we have to make it up as we go along. Do you understand what we’re doing out here?”

“We’re on a humanitarian mission, escorting the food and medicine trucks, sir.”

“That’s right. Sounds easier than it is. There’s no government in most of these places, and no law and order – only rival gangs trying to steal our food and medical supplies – scavengers, who hunt in packs. There are people who will die without our help, so we have to protect our convoy at all costs. Understand?”

“Yes, sir.”

“The scavs usually don’t have guns, but they can still do a lot of damage. Ambushes are the worst problem; my last sergeant was killed in an ambush, so I hope you know this is dangerous work.”

“I do, sir.”

Hunt grunted. “Some people think the Peacekeeping Corps is an easy berth, so if that’s why you applied, you should know – it isn’t.”

“That’s not why I applied,” Josiah said stiffly.

“Good. Don’t lose your sense of proportion, though,” Hunt warned. “Don’t start seeing ghosts and firing at nothing. Remember, the scavs just want to survive, too, even if they are on the side of the warlords. We use force as a last resort.”

“Yes, sir.”

“You’re a little young to be a sergeant, aren’t you?” Hunt gave him a searching look.

“I’m twenty-five, sir.”

“The average age of a sergeant used to be thirty-four.” Hunt shook his head. “They’re sending me children these days. How did you get promoted so quickly? Either you’re exceptionally good, or…”

“Dead men’s shoes, sir,” Josiah said quietly. “Although I like to think I’m pretty good, too.” He gave a cheeky grin and then could have kicked himself. Was he flirting with his commanding officer? Christ.

Captain Hunt’s eyes sparkled. He was an ordinary-looking man with wavy dark hair, brown eyes, and a rumpled, lived-in face, but he had an easy-going charisma that rendered him instantly attractive.

“I understand you’ve spent the past six months recovering from some pretty severe injuries. Are you okay now?”

“Yes, sir.”

“And you requested this posting?”

“Yes, sir. I wanted a fresh start.”

“Are you an indentured servant?” Hunt asked, gazing at him keenly. “I don’t see a tag.”

“No, sir, I’m not an IS,” he replied stiffly.

“Good.”

“Do you have a problem working with indies, sir?”

“Yes, I do.” Hunt grimaced. “It’s bloody dangerous out here, Sergeant, and nobody should be asked to risk their life because the army owns them. Indies make for lazy, unhappy soldiers, and I don’t bloody well blame them. I prefer people who’ve chosen this life because they want to be in the army. Is there a problem?” he asked, noticing Josiah’s confused expression.

“No, just… I’ve never heard anyone talk like that, sir.”

Hunt laughed. “You’ll get used to me. All I want is a sergeant I can trust – and I believe you’re that.”

Josiah gave a beaming smile. He suspected that everyone who met Captain Hunt wanted him to like them, and he was no exception.

There was a noise outside the tent, and Hunt looked up. “Shit, the top brass is coming. Here – hide the pup.”

Pulling the dozing puppy out of his jacket, Hunt deposited her in Josiah’s hands. She made a squeaking sound, and he held her at arm’s length, wondering where the hell he was supposed to hide her in the empty tent.

Hunt grabbed his nanopad and strode to the front of the tent to greet his visitor. Josiah looked around frantically – he didn’t want to screw up the first task his new captain had given him. He had a sudden stroke of genius, and put the puppy on his head and covered her with his cap just as Colonel Brownlee walked in.

“Sir – I’ve got my report on the scavenger activity we encountered on our way here,” Hunt said, moving forward to greet his commanding officer. The two men spent an agonising couple of minutes chatting, while Josiah stood there, praying the puppy didn’t move, or squeak, or fall off his head. Luckily, the colonel didn’t pay him any attention, and Hunt was doing a good job of blocking him from view. Finally, the colonel left, and Hunt turned back to him.

“Bloody hell – that was close!” he exclaimed, looking energised by their little deception. “Where is she?”

“Right here.” Josiah removed his cap to reveal the puppy, who seemed to have fallen asleep. Hunt looked at her, and then at him, and then burst out laughing.

“I like a man who can think on his feet – you and I are going to get along very well, Sergeant Raine.” He reached out a long, gangly arm and plucked the puppy off Josiah’s head. “Now, as a reward, you can name her.”

“How about Hattie, sir?” he suggested. “She seemed to like sitting on my head just now.”

Hunt laughed. “I love it. Hattie it is, then. We won’t be stationed here for long – once we get out on the road again, I’ll be in sole charge of the convoy, and Hattie here won’t have to be hidden.”

“She can be our mission mascot, sir.”

“I like that idea. Good thinking.” Hunt shot him a smile that made Josiah’s stomach flip, then he reached out and touched his arm, sending a spark of electricity straight to his belly. “Sergeant Raine – please be careful in your new job. I’d appreciate it if you didn’t get yourself killed – I rather like you.”

Josiah glanced around the dark garage, feeling suddenly alone. Peter had always been such a vibrant force in his life, and the world felt cold and colourless without him.

He plonked himself down on the sofa in the living room and worked for a few more hours, going through the data file Reed had supplied, but found his mind wandering. He was unsettled by today’s date, by the case, and by Alexander Lytton – and there was only one place to go to deal with that.

The shabby gym down the road was open twenty-four hours a day. Winston, the night manager, looked up, saw him, and shot off a mock salute.

“Hey, Sergeant.” Winston grinned toothlessly. A wiry, dark-skinned man in his sixties, he had a squashed nose and a piece of titanium on one side of his head where his skull should have been. They’d bonded one night over a sparring session and shared memories of the army.

“Corporal.” Josiah fired back a casual salute in return.

“Haven’t seen you for a bit,” Winston said, handing Josiah a locker card.

“Been busy,” he replied, avoiding the other man’s gaze as he took the card; they both knew why he was here. Josiah worked out on an ancient treadmill for a few minutes, warming up, and then did some abdominal crunches in deference to his waistline.

Winston wandered over and leaned on one of the exercise bikes beside him.

“You’re not fooling anyone, Sergeant,” he said, taking a long puff on his cigar.

“I could arrest you for that,” Josiah said, jerking his head at the cigar.

“Nah, I reckon you don’t get out of bed for nothin’ less than murder.” Winston blew a plume of smoke in Josiah’s direction. “But you ain’t here to work out on the ’chines and do sit-ups, man. Not at this time of night.”

“That so?” Josiah reached for his towel.

“Yup. You only come in at this time of night when you’re in the zone, and you only want one thing when you’re here.”

“You think I want to fight?” Josiah stood up, towering over Winston.

“Yup.” Winston gave him a sly smile.

He sighed. “You could be right. You got any action going on tonight? ”

“Proper fight – bare knuckles – no rules?” Winston asked, with a gleam in his eye. It was illegal, but nobody cared about what happened after midnight in a rundown gym next to a lost zone.

“Yeah. Anything doing?”

“I think I could arrange somethin’. There’s a kid sparring next door who looks like he’d be up for it.”

“Fair fight, Winston,” Josiah warned. “I don’t want to…”

“Hurt anyone?” Winston grinned at him. “Ain’t that kinda the point, Sergeant? You do wanna hurt someone. You wanna hurt someone bad, but dontcha worry – this kid’s Quarterlands scum, and they love fightin’.” He shot Josiah a knowing wink, then turned to go, chuckling to himself.

Josiah watched him go, hating himself. Every time he did this he felt terrible about it afterwards, but he needed it tonight.

Winston returned, beckoning him into the back room. A tall, dark-haired kid in his late teens was standing there, next to the boxing ring, taking off his gloves. He was fit and handsome, in a skinny, sharp-boned way.

A couple of other men were pounding away at punching bags, and there were a few more in the corner hanging out, smoking cigars.

The punching bag often gave Josiah the release he craved, but he knew he was beyond that this evening. Only real flesh and blood would do.

“This here is Fred.” Winston jerked his head at the kid.

“Fred? Really?” Josiah snorted.

“Tonight he is.” Winston smirked. “Fred – this here is the sergeant. He’s a vicious bastard when he gets going, so don’t expect any mercy. Sergeant – Fred here wants to go into prizefighting, and he thought I’d help him get onto the circuit. I told him he wasn’t good enough, and I reckon a few rounds with you will make him see I’m right.”

“You sure about this, Fred?” Josiah asked quietly.

Fred looked him up and down dismissively. “Oh, I think I’ll be okay, Granddad,” he sneered. “You take care of yourself.”

“Fine.” Giving a tight smile, Josiah stepped into the ring.

“No rules,” Winston said as Fred joined him. “Kicking, biting, hitting below the belt – all that’s fine. Only thing you do is stop when I say so. That’s all. If you don’t, I’ll take a stick to ya ’til you do.” He gave them both a pleasant smile. “Okay, lads – go for it.”

Josiah didn’t even hesitate. Storming forward, he swung a punch. Fred didn’t duck in time, and the blow connected with his cheek. He regrouped and came back, but Josiah was in the zone, as Winston had said, and he easily parried the blows.

The sensation of real fighting – no gloves and no rules – lent the edge of danger he needed. He could hear his breathing from a distance, could feel the pain as Fred landed a blow on his jaw, and then the satisfaction of landing one of his own on Fred’s chin.

Feet danced, arms punched, bodies sweated and panted, and Josiah lost himself in it. The events of the day churned in his head, unconnected to him and who he was right now. Esther’s call this morning swirled into his mind, accompanied by feelings of both relief and guilt. He pushed them away. Then he was looking at a holopic of a beautiful, naked man, while a corpse lay sprawled on the floor, bright red blood staining the cream carpet.

Another image took its place, unwanted and unexpected: Peter’s body, covered in blood, lying in the front seat of his stupid car.

Suddenly, Josiah was furious. For the first year after Peter’s death, that image had been his constant companion, seared into his mind, replaying over and over again. He’d worked hard to remove it, replacing it with images of Peter from before that night, vibrant and alive. Why had it come back now?

He went in for the kill, needing to lose himself in the steady thump of fist on flesh, crunch after satisfying crunch. He heard sobs and someone yelling at him, but he didn’t care. He was in the zone.

“STOP!” The word was bellowed in his ear, penetrating the haze. He came to and found Fred cowering on the floor, one eye closed, his arms covering his head in surrender.

Josiah took a few moments to get himself under control, breathing hard. The fight had helped – the heat in his blood had been let out, and he could feel his head clearing.

“Thank you, Fred,” he said politely, walking over to the edge of the ring .

“Y’know, sex would be easier than this, Sergeant,” Winston called after him. “You should go an’ find yerself a rent boy to shag next time.”

Josiah turned, slowly. “This wasn’t about sex.”

“Yer sure?” Winston winked.

Josiah turned away again, his heart pounding, then walked stiffly to the locker room. He was too old for this; it wasn’t healthy. He should find a less dangerous hobby. He told himself it kept him sharp, and that in his line of work he needed to be in good shape to fight the bad guys. But that wasn’t why he did it, and he knew it.

He took a shower, letting the hot water pound on his shoulders and wash away the blood on his jaw. He hurt, but he felt better. The fight had punctured the tension that had been building all day.

Wrapping a towel around his waist, he returned to the locker room to find Fred getting changed, with one closed eye and a badly bruised face.

“I’m sorry,” Josiah said softly. “Today was a bad day for me, and I took it out on you.”

“S’okay.” Fred shrugged. “I should thank you, really. Winston was right – I’d be eaten alive on the prizefighting circuit. I was stupid to think I could make it.”

“He told me you’re from the Quarterlands. Do you need money?” Josiah glanced at Fred’s tatty clothing.

“Doesn’t everyone?” Fred sighed. “I was hoping to get noticed by some rich guy with his own fighting stable and be given his indie tag. Then I could do the circuit. But you showed me I don’t stand a hope in hell.”

“That’s a good thing,” Josiah said grimly. “Most of those fighters end up taking the Quarterlands splash sooner or later.”

Although prizefighting was illegal, that didn’t stop there being a well-organised underground ring where wealthy houders pitted their tough young indies against each other. The fights were brutal and only the best survived, the bodies of the losers being tossed into the water at the end of the evening with weights attached, never to be seen again. The so-called ‘Quarterlands splash’ had been the sad end for many a hungry young man like Fred .

“I had a best friend, growing up,” he said hesitantly, unused to sharing intimate details of his life with a stranger. “We both took up prizefighting as freelancers in our teens. He didn’t survive the ring – he was only sixteen when they threw his body into the water. Only the best make it.”

“Like you?” Fred asked.

Josiah shrugged. “Maybe I could have made it, but not as a freelancer; sooner or later I’d have had to sign with a houder to get anywhere – and I wasn’t prepared to do that. Losing Jason made me realise it’s a fool’s game, so I gave it up. There must be other ways out for you.”

Fred shrugged. “I met with an IS recruiter yesterday, and there ain’t much going right now, ’cept construction. Sign-up fee was crap, and the end fee was almost as shite. It weren’t enough to get my mum and kid brothers outta the Quarterlands, so I’d end up right back there after my five years were up.”

“That’s tough.” The best and brightest kids from the Quarterlands might be able to land a good IS contract with reasonable fees, but most ended up doing dangerous and unpleasant jobs for a risible amount of money.

“I heard the army has a deal on for new indies; Winston says I should take it,” Fred sighed. “Take their ID tag and let ’em send me wherever the hell they want.”

“No.” Josiah put his hands on Fred’s shoulders. “Don’t do that,” he said firmly. “Army indies get all the worst jobs and most of them don’t live long enough to claim their completion fee.”

“You sound like my dad, when he was alive, but I can’t keep my mum and brothers safe an’ fed with the little jobs I can get.” Fred looked up at him, his good eye gleaming wetly.

“Can’t you join the army as a free man?”

Fred laughed. “They don’t take nobody on free in the army these days, ’cept officers.”

“That’s a shame.” Shortly before Jason’s death, he’d been spotted in the ring by a friendly army sergeant who’d taken him under his wing. Even back then, it wasn’t easy to enter the army as anything other than an indie, but the sergeant had pulled a few strings for him. He’d never regretted it .

“I do other stuff,” Fred murmured. His fingers went to Josiah’s towel. “You’re fit. You know, for an old guy.” He gave a cheeky grin as his hand disappeared under the towel.

“No.” Josiah blocked him immediately, almost as a reflex. He didn’t want this stranger touching him. He didn’t want anyone touching him like this except Peter. He turned away and got dressed quickly. Fred stood watching, perplexed.

“Why not? A quick blowjob – nobody’s watching. You got a wife at home or somethin’?”

“No.” Josiah pulled on his jacket.

“A husband, then?” Fred grinned cheekily. “I reckon that’s it.”

“No husband,” Josiah said, and it still hurt, even after all this time.

“Winston’s right,” Fred told him. “You should shag someone, or you’ll go nuts. Fightin’s fun, but fuckin’s better.”

“Not for me. Look, join the army if you want, Fred, but try and get in as a free man, not an IS. You’re worth more than that.”

“As a free man? You gotta be kidding me,” Fred said, rolling his eyes. “Hardly anyone gets into the army ’cept as an indie these days, ’specially if they’re Quarrie scum like me. Ain’t just the army, neither – nobody wants you to do an honest day’s work for ’em unless they can put a chip under your skin and a tag on you.”

“Look, I hope it works out for you, whatever you decide to do.” Josiah took a cash card from his wallet. “Here.” He handed it to Fred, who took it, looking puzzled.

“But I didn’t do nothin’ for ya,” Fred protested.

Josiah touched Fred’s injured face gently. “Yes, you did,” he said softly.