Lets Drink To The Dead by Simon Bestwick Page B

started up the ramp. Myfanwy crept after him.
    Heavy, naked trees overhung the platform; there was an empty shell of a waiting room and a squat low cottage-like building whose roof had fallen in. Moonlight lapped along the concrete.
    “What now?” Bronisław whispered.
    Myfanwy bit her lip. What indeed? She could think of nothing, except to wait – wait for something that might never come. It all felt foolish, suddenly. “I–”
    Bronisław raised a hand. “Wait. Listen.” She did. And she heard what Bronisław must have: the soft, muffled weeping of children. Where–
    Bronisław turned, pointing across the platform towards the waiting-room. “There,” he said, and walked over.
    Myfanwy hurried after him and they reached the shelter together, both saw its contents at the same time. A little fair-haired girl no older than nine or ten years of age, and a black boy of about twelve, both bound hand and foot and gagged. They were sparsely clad in T-shirts and shorts and plimsolls: God knew how long they’d been left out here in this, like sacks of rubbish for collection. Already they were shaking with cold. As Bronisław loomed over them, the girl let out a muffled, frightened cry.
    “I won’t hurt you.” Bronisław broke open the shotgun again and laid it aside.
    “We’ve come to save you,” Myfanwy said. “We need to get them back to the car.”
    “Yes.” Bronisław unfolded a knife, at which the girl squealed in fright through the gag.
    “It’s alright,” soothed Myfanwy, crouching close by and gripping her small, frozen hand. “It’s alright, he’s just cutting you free.” Bron freed the girl’s feet first, then the hands. The child fumbled the gag out of her mouth and fell sobbing into Myfanwy’s arms. Bronisław set to work on the boy’s bonds next. The boy scrambled to his feet and pressed back against the waiting-room wall, looking from face to face, fists raised. He was quite tall, his hair in a rumpled Afro, an attempt at cultivating a moustache on his upper lip. He had one foot forward, one foot back; Myfanwy guessed he boxed. His teeth were clenched.
    “What’s your name, love?” Myfanwy asked him.
    His eyes darted from her face to Bronisław’s. “Wesley.”
    “I’m Myfanwy. That’s Bron. We came to help you.”
    Wesley let out a long breath, lowered his fists. He was shaking.
    “Everything’s going to be alright now,” Myfanwy said. “We’ll get you to our car and then we’ll go to the police.” Which police, though? Not the ones in Kempforth, that was for certain. And there was the matter of how they’d explain all this. But that could wait. She loathed Ash Fell at the best of times, and this was far from that. “And what’s your name, sweetheart?”
    “Tammy,” said the girl.
    “Alright, now, children. You’ve all been very brave, you just need to be brave a little bit longer. You’re safe now.”
    “Are they?” said a thin, cold voice.
    Bronisław spun, snatched up the shotgun and threw it to his shoulder, aiming down the platform. Tammy screamed and gripped Myfanwy tight around the neck; Wesley raised clenched fists.
    A small, hunched figure in a knee-length black coat was advancing along the platform. The moonlight limned him, glinting off his bald head. The black leather of his coat and gloves shone like an insect’s carapace; his round spectacle lenses caught the light and shone, pale and ghostly, as he came forward, patent-leather heels clicking on the concrete. He carried a briefcase at his side.
    “I beg to differ,” said the man. “I say they belong to me. I say they’re mine, bought and paid for.” He put the briefcase on the ground and spread his arms. There was a soft purring sound as the seams of his gloves began to give way, then a ripping sound as the leather split, and then the gloves fell away and his long, thin fingers were uncoiling to their full length. Each must have had a dozen joints, and each tapered to a needle-sharp point; fully