Blacklands

He yanked Steven to his feet and half pushed, half dragged him back up the mound, wincing and cursing at the newly opened pain in his arm. Halfway up, Steven started to sob. He wished he didn’t know about Arnold Avery. Knowing was worse than not knowing. Knowing what he’d done to the others. Knowing that he’d do that to him too. It didn’t even seem possible—what Avery had done—but he’d read it in the papers so it must be true. He was about to find out. The thought drew fresh tears of fear.

“Shut up,” said Avery. “And get down.”

Steven just stood, arms slack, head down, hitching with sobs.

“I said get down.” Avery shook him again and pointed at the patch of white heather where he’d been sitting, back when Steven had still had a choice; still had a chance of escape.

“Down?” Steven sounded confused. He was confused; the word “down” seemed just a noise to him. It did not compute.

“Down. On your knees.”

Steven nodded stupidly but did not get down.

Avery leaned forward and put his lips close to Steven’s ear, making him shudder.

“Get down or I’ll make you.”

“Okay.” But he still didn’t move. Couldn’t. Wouldn’t. Shouldn’t. Standing up was better. Getting down was worse. The lower he got, the less chance he had. He’d prefer to stay standing. These thoughts were simple and definite in Steven’s head. Once he got down, he felt sure he’d never get up again.

“Down, I said!”

“Okay.” He stopped sobbing on a soft burp that brought tomato-flavored bile to his throat.

But he still didn’t move. Maybe if he just kept agreeing to get down but didn’t actually do it, Avery would get bored with asking.

Avery did get bored with asking. Steven only heard a small grunt of warning before the spade swung into the backs of his knees, making him roll into a ball, clutching at his legs in agony.

“You little shit!” Avery clutched and grimaced at his own arm—wet with fresh blood.

Then once more Avery pulled him up by the scruff, positioning him carefully on his knees.

“Now stay there. Understand?”

Steven nodded and swayed but stayed where he was. He could feel a little trickle down his back and thought it must be sweat or blood where the spade had hit him when he tried to run. No sooner had he thought about sweat than he felt his face go tingly as sweat broke out on him. He swayed again; he wanted to lie down in the heather where it was cool and he wouldn’t feel so dizzy. But kneeling was bad and lying down would be lower and therefore even worse. He had to try to hang on, although quite what he was hanging on for, he was afraid to examine too closely. He had to hang on, and he had to try to make Avery move as slowly as possible towards killing him. Not because he thought he could avoid it entirely, but because delaying his own death seemed the sensible thing to do.

His own death.

He was going to die. He had nothing left to lose, not even his life; it was a foregone conclusion. The thought brought with it a kind of perverse freedom.

“Did you kill my uncle Billy?”

“What do you think?”

Steven looked up at Avery in surprise. He hadn’t expected to be asked his opinion.

“I think you did.”

“You want to know how?”

Steven didn’t. He felt sick at the thought of knowing how. But it was another delay.

“Yes.”

Avery stood in front of him now and touched his hair with one hand, almost gently.

“He’d just come out of the shop. I asked him for directions. I had a map …”

He stopped and Steven looked up and saw the gleam of fond memory in Avery’s eyes.

“I had a map. I asked him to show me on the map. And he leaned in the window and I … just … grabbed him—”

Steven cried out as Avery’s hand tightened around a chunk of his hair.

“It was so easy. So fucking easy. And he was so scared. I had to hit him straight away to stop him screaming. You should’ve seen his face when I did! Like he’d never got a good smack before! It was very funny.”

He grinned at Steven, then looked away across the moor of his memory again.

“I played with him, you know? I played with all of them first. Before I killed them. Just like I’m going to play with you.”

Steven twisted as the grip on his hair tightened again. He bit back his whimper of pain; he didn’t want Avery to remember he was here, kneeling before him; the longer he was remembering Uncle Billy and the others, the longer he, Steven, would stay alive. But it was hard. The pain in his head was more than discomfort and he was still shaking and nauseous. But he had to do it. He had to stay still and quiet and keep hoping for a way out. There was only one alternative and Steven didn’t want it. Didn’t want to find out what it was like to be “played with” and tortured and killed while he cried for his mummy. Just that thought made tears roll easily from his eyes again. Not crying with shame or fear; this time he really was crying for his mummy; but quietly—so as not to distract Avery.

“He wanted it. You know that? Your uncle Billy was a fucking little slut just like you. I could tell.”