Year's Best Scifi 3 Part 32

"Good day," Maskell said, not meaning it, and left.There was a moment of silence.

"That's the second time you've taken it on yourself to act for me," Susan said, angrily. "Have I asked your help?"

Lytton smiled. His hard look faded and he seemed almost mischievous.

"I beg pardon, Goodwife."

"Don't do it again, Lytton."

By the next day, Lytton was well enough to walk. But he couldn't ride: if he tried to grip the Norton's left handlebar, it was as if a redhot poker were pressed to his bicep. They were stuck with him.

"You can do odd jobs for your keep," Susan allowed. "Allie will show you how."

"Can he come feed the chickens?" Allie asked, excited despite herself. "I can get the eggs."

"That'll be a start."

Susan walked across to the stone sheds where the cows spent the night, to do the milking. Allie took Lytton by the hand and led him round to the chicken coop.

"Maskell keeps his chickens in a gurt prison," Allie told him. "Clips their beaks with pliers, packs them in alive like sardines. If one dies,'t'others eat her. They'm cannibal chickens..."

They turned round the corner.

The chicken coop was silent. Tears p.r.i.c.ked the backs of Allie's eyes. Lumps of feathery matter lay in the scarlet-stained straw.

Her first thought was that a fox had got in.

Lytton lifted up a flap of chicken wire. It had been cut cleanly.

The coop was a lean-to, a chickenwire frame built against the house. On the stone wall was daubed a sign in blood, an upside-down tricorn fork in a circle.

"Travelers," Allie spat.

There was a big Gypsy Site at Glas...o...b..ry. Since the War, Travelers were supposed to stay on the sites, living off the dole. But they were called Travelers because they didn't like to keep to one place. They were always escaping from sites and raiding farms and villages.

Lytton shook his head.

"Hippies are hungry. They'd never have killed and left the chickens. And smashed the eggs."

The eggs had been gathered and carefully stamped on.

"Some hippies be veggie."

The blood was still fresh. Allie didn't see how this could have been done while they were asleep. The killers must have struck fast, or the chickens would havesquawked.

"Where's your vegetable garden?" Lytton asked.

Allie's heart pounded like a fist.

She showed him the path to the garden, which was separated from the orchard by a thick hedge. Beanpoles had been wrenched from the earth and used to batter and gouge the rest of the crops. Cabbages were squashed, young carrots pulped by boot heels, marrows exploded. The greenhouse was a skeleton, every pane of gla.s.s broken, tomato plants strewn and flattened inside. Even the tiny herb patch Allie had been given for herself was dug up and scattered.

Allie sobbed. Liquid squirted from her eyes and nose. Hundreds of hours of work destroyed.

There was a twist of cloth on the frame of the greenhouse. Lytton examined it: a tie-dyed poncho, dotted with emblem badges of marijuana leaves, multi-colored swirls and cartoon cats.

"Hippies," Allie yelled. "f.u.c.kin' hippies."

Susan appeared at the gate. She swayed, almost in a swoon, and held the gate to stay standing.

"Hippies didn't do this," Lytton said.

He lifted a broken tomato plant from the paved area by the greenhouse door and pointed at a splashed yellow stain.

"Allie, where've you seen something like this recently?"

It came to her.

"Terry Gilpin. When he spat at thic letter."

"He has better aim with his mouth than his gun," Lytton commented, wincing.

"Thankfully."

Lytton stood by his Norton, lifting his gauntlets out of the pannier.

"Are you leaving?" Allie asked.

"No," Lytton said, taking his gunbelt, "I'm going down to the pub."

He settled the guns on his hips and fastened the buckle. The belt seemed to give him strength, to make him stand straighter.

Susan, still shocked, didn't protest.

"Are you'm going to shoot Squire Maskell?" Allie asked.

That snapped Susan out of it. She took Allie and shook her by the shoulders, keening wordlessly.

"I'm just going to have a lunchtime drink."

Allie hugged Susan fiercely. They were on the point of losing everything, but gave each other the last of their strength. There was something Maskell couldn't touch.Lytton strolled towards the front gate.

Allie pulled away from Susan. For a moment, Susan wouldn't let her go. Then, without words, she gave her blessing. Allie knew she was to look after Lytton.

He was halfway down the street, pa.s.sing the bus shelter, disused since the service was cut, when Allie caught up with him. At the fork in the road where the village oak stood was The Valiant Soldier.

They walked on.

"I hope you do shoot him," she said.

"I just want to find out why he's so obsessed with Gosmore Farm, Allie. Men like Maskell always have reasons. That's why they're pathetic. You should only be afraid of men without reasons."

Lytton pushed open the door, and stepped into the public bar. This early, there were few drinkers. Danny Keogh sat in his usual seat, wooden leg unslung on the floor beside him. Teddy Gilpin was swearing at the Trivial Pursuit machine, and his brother was nursing a half of scrumpy and a packet of crisps, ogling the Tiller Girl in UI.

Behind the bar, Janet Speke admired her piled-up hair in the long mirror. She saw Lytton and displayed immediate interest, squirming tightly in an odd way Allie almost understood.

Terry's mouth sagged open, giving an unprepossessing view of streaky-bacon-flavor mulch. The Triv machine fell silent, and Teddy's hands twitched away from the b.u.t.tons to his gun-handle. Allie enjoyed the moment, knowing everyone in the pub was knotted inside, wondering what the stranger- her friend, she realized-would do next. Gary Chilcot, a weaselly little Maskell hand, slipped away, into the back bar where the Squire usually drank.

"How d'ye do, Goodman," said Janet, stretching thin red lips around dazzling teeth in a fox smile. "What can I do you for?"

"Bells. And Tizer for Allie here."

"She'm underage."

"Maskell won't mind. We're old friends."

Janet fetched the whisky and the soft drink. Lytton looked at the exposed nape of her neck, where wisps of hair escaped, and caught the barmaid smiling in the mirror, eyes fixed on his even though he was standing behind her.

Lytton sipped his whisky, registering the sting in his eyes.

Janet went to the jukebox and put on Portishead. She walked back to the bar, almost dancing, hips in exaggerated motion. Music insinuated into the s.p.a.ces between them all, blotting out their silent messages.

The door opened and Reeve Draper came in, out of breath. He had obviously been summoned."I've been meaning to call again on Goodwife Ames," he said to Lytton, not mentioning that when last he had seen Lytton the newcomer was on the ground with a bullethole in his shoulder put there by the Reeve's Constable. "Tony Jago, the Traveler Chieftain, has escaped from Glas...o...b..ry with a band of sheep-s.h.a.ggin', drug-takin' gyppos. We'm expecting raids on farms. Susan should watch out for them. Bad lot, gyppos. No respect for property. They'm so stoned on dope they'm don't know what they'm doin'."

Lytton took a marijuana leaf badge from his pocket. One of the emblems pinned to the poncho left in the ravaged garden. He tossed it into Terry Gilpin's scrumpy.

"Oops, sorry," he said.

This time, Terry went for his gun and fumbled. Lytton kicked the stool from under him. Terry sprawled, choking on crisps, on the floor. With a boot-toe, Lytton pinned Terry's wrist. He nodded to Allie, and she took the gun away. Terry swore, brow dotted with ciderstinking sweat bullets.

Allie had held guns before, but not since Susan took her in. She had forgotten how heavy they were. The barrel drooped even though she held the gun two-handed, and accidentally happened to point at Terry's gut.

"If I made a complaint against this man, I don't suppose much would happen."

Draper said nothing. His face was as red as strawberry jam.

"I thought not."

Terry squirmed. Teddy gawped down at his brother.

Lytton took out his gun, pointed it at Teddy, said "pop," and put it back in its holster, all in one movement, between one heartbeat and the next. Teddy goggled, hand hovering inches away from his own gun.

"That was a fair fight," Lytton said. "Do you want to try it again?"

He let Terry go. Rubbing his reddened wrist, the Maskell man scurried away and stood up.

"If'n you gents got an argument, take it outside," Janet said. "I've got regulars who don't take to ruckus."

Lytton strolled across the room, toward the back bar. He pushed a door with frosted gla.s.s panels, and disclosed a small room with heavily-upholstered settees, horse-bra.s.ses on beams and faded hunt scenes on the wallpaper.

The Squire sat at a table with papers and maps spread out on it. A man Allie didn't know, who wore a collar and tie, sat with him. Erskine was there too, listening to Gary Chilcot, who had been talking since he left the bar.

The Squire was too annoyed to fake congeniality.

"We'd like privacy, if you please."

Lytton looked over the table. There was a large-scale survey map of the area, with red lines dotted across it. The corners were held down by ashtrays and emptygla.s.ses. The Squire had been ill.u.s.trating some point by tapping the map, and his well-dressed guest was frozen in mid-nod.

Lytton, stepping back from the back bar, let the door swing closed in the face of Erskine, who was rushing out. A panel cracked and the Constable went down on his knees.

Allie felt excitement in her water.

Terry charged but Lytton stepped aside and lifted the Maskell man by the seat of his britches, heaving him up over the bar and barreling him into the long mirror.

Gla.s.s shattered.

Janet Speke, incandescent with proprietary fury, brought out a shotgun, which Lytton pinned, to the bar with his arm.

"My apologies, Goodwife. He'll make up the damage."

There was nothing in the barmaid's pale blue eyes but hate. Impulsively, Lytton craned across and kissed her full on the lips. Hot angry spots appeared on her cheeks as he let her go. He detached her from the shotgun.

"You should be careful with these things," he said. "They're apt to discharge inconveniently if mishandled."

He fired both barrels at a framed photograph of Alder's victorious skittles team of '66. The noise was an astounding crash. Lytton broke the gun and dropped it.

Erskine, nose b.l.o.o.d.y in his handkerchief, came out of the back bar with his Webley out and c.o.c.ked.

This time, it was different. Lytton was armed.

Despite the hurt in his left shoulder, Lytton drew both his pistols in an instant and, at close range, shot off Erskine's ears. The Constable stood, appalled, blood pouring from fleshy nubs that would no longer hold his helmet up.

Erskine's shot went wild.

Lytton took cool aim and told the Constable to drop his Webley.

Erskine saw sense. The revolver clumped on the floor.

In an instant, Lytton bolstered his pistols. The music came back, filling the quiet that followed the crashes and shots. Terry moaned in a heap behind the bar. Janet kicked him out. Erskine looked for his ears.

Lytton took another sip of Bells.

"Very fine," he commented.

Janet, lipstick smeared, touched her hair, deprived of her mirror, not knowing where free strands hung.

Lytton slipped a copper-colored ten shilling note onto the bar.

"A round of drinks, I think," he said.