Dead of Light by Chaz Brenchley Page A

even through my exile-of-choice.
    â€œWell, then? What were your own conclusions?”
    That Marty had died in pain, largely; that he’d been attacked by something his bull strength and his rough-riding spirit couldn’t begin to fight. I’d not thought about it beyond that, too busy with my own reactions to look for ultimate causes. But as Allan said, one dispassionate glance and it was obvious, it was inescapable.
    â€œTalent,” I said. “Whoever did that to him had talent.” Unusual talent, to be sure, and more refined than anything I’d seen before, but talent none the less.
    â€œYes. And you know what that means, Benedict Macallan?”
    â€œYeah.” I was a good boy, me, or I had been once. I knew my catechism. “It means we’ve been wrong all these years. It means we’re not alone after all, we’re not the only ones...”
    And more than that, it meant whoever else was out there had come looking for us; and they weren’t friendly, and we didn’t have the first idea who they were...

Six: Driving to Despair
    It was them and us, as ever: only that them had suddenly become us again, or seemed so. Particularly when I got back to Laura, and found Jamie chatting up my girl.
    Felt like coming home, that did. Felt like I’d never been away. All the fruits to the victor and the sweets to the strong, that was in the family catechism also, always had been; and I’d never been strong, rarely victorious.
    Already wasn’t either, with Laura. Folly even to think of her in those terms, as my girl , the one thing she indisputably was not. And it seemed nothing but normal to discover Jamie standing too close to her, concentrating too much, giving her more attention than he ought on such a day, in such a place as this. Likewise nothing but normal to see how she allowed it to happen, where with any other near-stranger she’d be backing off, powering down fast, shutting him altogether out.
    â€œBen.” It was Jamie who noticed me first. He smiled and took an easy pace away from her, making room for me; but that was nothing to do with ceding territory, or acknowledging a prior claim. It was an expression of power and utterly Macallan, a message to Laura only: Look , he was saying, I’m interested, but not that interested. I write the definitions here, I set the parameters. Your choice, to accept that or reject it; but either way, it’s the last and only decision to fall to you.
    And there was a twitch of disappointment to her face as he took that step back, as he gave her space to breathe in; and I’d seen this so often before, and I knew what happened after, and I couldn’t bear it. Not for her, not for Laura...
    o0o
    â€œYou can’t go,” I said, on the bus going home. “Not with him, not a Macallan. For God’s sake, Laura,” trying to set some parameters myself, trying to exercise a little power on my own behalf and hers, “you couldn’t be so stupid. You mustn’t. I’ve told you what they’re like, I’ve told you and told you...”
    â€œI’m curious,” she said, “that’s all. What’s wrong with that? You’ve been talking about them all this time, of course I’m curious to see them for myself. Who wouldn’t be?”
    Almost anyone else in this town wouldn’t be , I thought, they’ve all got more sense, they’re all scared shitless. Seeing Macallans for themselves, in the flesh, is the very last thing they’re curious to do, and quite right too. But I couldn’t say that aloud, she’d only look on it as a challenge.
    â€œI don’t talk about them,” I protested weakly. “Except to warn people, I mean. I never talk about them...”
    â€œYou just think you don’t. You’re obsessed, Ben. You’re on about it all the time, how they run this town, how they’re behind everything that happens. Even when