The Legend (18 page)

 

chapter 27

I
n the morning, as expected, my ankle is perfectly healed. I dress quickly, determined to make a trip into town to visit Alex before our council meeting this afternoon. I have taken Aidan's words to heart and will not bring it up with Alex again, but I need to see him – to make sure that he is as “fine” as Aidan claims he will be. As I exit the gates of the Academy, Reed catches up to me.

“You going to visit Alex?” he asks, falling into step beside me.

“Yeah.” I cannot stifle the sigh that escapes my lips.

“You're worried about him.” It is a statement, not a question, and there is no point denying it – Reed overheard my entire conversation with Aidan yesterday.

“I just didn't realise how badly this was affecting him. He always seemed so resilient.”

Reed says nothing, and I turn to see him chewing his bottom lip.

“What?” I ask bluntly. I know him well enough to know that look. He has something to say but is wondering whether he should.

“I . . . well, I did a bit of research yesterday.”

“Research?”

“Yeah, research. I asked around, gathered some information I thought you should know.”

“And?”

“Fiona – she's got a daughter called Emily. She's seven years old.” I come to a standstill, staring at him in utter bewilderment.

“I'm not following,” I state plainly.

“Fiona hasn't seen Emily since she was exiled.” I wonder if perhaps he is trying to tell me to be grateful for the fact that Alex is here, when suddenly he continues in a rush.

“Abby – Fiona's second-in-command – has twin brothers who are only thirteen. Her mother died a few years back and she has taken care of them ever since. Gareth has a son, Declan – he's two – and Franco's daughter is not even six months old. Peter's daughter had her prom last weekend, but Peter obviously couldn't make it . . .” He trails off when I clap my hand over my mouth as comprehension dawns. I am stunned and humbled by what he has done.

“Enough.” I press my lips together tightly, my jaw aching with the effort of trying to suppress the flood of emotion washing over me. In so many ways, Reed knows me better than anyone else.

“My point,” he drawls, “is that there are twenty-seven children who believe that they will never see their parents again. Twenty-seven kids, just like Alex, who need your help, who need you to bring their parents home. I know that Alex is infinitely more important to you than anyone else – hell, he's important to me too – but I thought you might like to know that while he is angry with you right now, it is a small price to pay for the joy you will bring so many other young souls. And Alex will forgive you,” he adds, his eyes earnest and sincere.

“Thank you,” I murmur, trying to inject all my gratitude and the depth of my emotion into that insignificant expression.

“It's my pleasure,” he smiles, and I know he understands how much this means to me. Feeling buoyed by his revelations, I continue on towards the town with a renewed spring in my step.

“So, is that what you were doing yesterday when you should have been apologising for breaking my ankle?” I ask coyly.

“Yep. I figured your heart hurt worse than your foot, and flowers were too clichéd, so I thought I'd bring you something better. How'd I do?”

“You did good.” I squeeze his hand. “So . . . did you follow me just to tell me all this, or are you going into town to visit anyone in particular?” I pose the obvious question.

“I'm going to see Brooke,” he admits.

“You still haven't told her?”

“Nah. I don't think it's a good idea, at least until after . . .”

I get why he is hesitant to tell her. He doesn't want her to know the truth until he is sure he will be around for a long time, and we will only be sure of that when NUSA is defeated.

“How's your foot, by the way?” he changes the subject.

“Fine.”

“I don't know . . . it looked pretty bad yesterday,” he drawls. “I think Aidan has a point. You're a delicate little thing. You might want to take it easy on yourself and those tiny little bones.”

I punch him playfully on the arm.

“At least I'm not operating on tortoise time like you,” I tease, breaking into a run. Reed takes up the challenge and pounds after me, his sneakers making almost no noise in the dirt. I push myself harder and the distance between us increases. There's no way he can catch me, although it certainly doesn't stop him from trying. As I enter the town, I skid to a stop and lean casually up against one of the buildings. He screeches to a halt beside me only seconds later, but I still make a point of examining my nails.

“What took you so long?”

He rolls his eyes. “Hilarious.”

Despite the early hour, there is already activity in the streets. Reed moves comfortably through the community, greeting people along the way.

“Hi, Reed,” a sexy, grubby looking woman calls as we pass, her eyes making a meal of him.

“Hey, Tricia,” he waves.

“Friend of yours?” It is intended as a light barb, but even I can hear the underlying jealousy in my voice and he turns to face me with a smug, self-satisfied smirk.

“Does it bother you?”

“A little,” I admit. “And this being your home town I guess I have a whole legion of your admirers to contend with.”

As if to prove my point a cluster of women smile as he walks by. I deliberately avert my eyes and focus on the ground in front of me.

“C'mon, I want to show you something.” He takes my arm and leads me down a small alleyway.

“Where are we going?”

“You'll see. It won't take long,” he adds, sensing my desire to see Alex.

About halfway down the alley we stop outside a dilapidated building with a rusted sign hanging over the door. Reed climbs the few ramshackle steps and opens the door, gesturing me inside. Curious, I duck under his arm and step into what must once have been a joinery shop. An old man is bent over a small table which he is sanding down. When Reed lets the door close behind us, he glances up, peering at us over the object he is restoring.

“Reed,” he greets fondly, getting to his feet and dusting his hands off on his apron. “Nice to see you, son.”

“Uncle Norman,” Reed pulls me forward, “this is Rebecca.”

My dad's cousin takes both my hands, his kind bloodshot eyes surprisingly alert.

“You look just like your mama,” he smiles, “but you have your daddy's eyes.”

“It's nice to meet you, finally,” I reply. I have met Norman's wife Cathy, who has been helping Adam integrate the Deranged into the Gainesville community, but not her husband.

“I wanted to show Rebecca the storeroom,” Reed gets to the purpose of our visit and Norman nods.

“You know where it is. Mind you don't touch anything in the kitchen; Cathy's been organising again.”

Reed nods and I follow him through the makeshift workshop and a moth-eaten curtain into the most cluttered kitchen I have ever seen. Mountains of produce and foodstuffs adorn every available counter, and the floor is piled high with blankets and used clothing. Boxes are stacked almost to the ceiling against the opposite wall, partially obscuring the bay window.

“Reed!” Cathy's low melodious voice calls as we reach the foot of the stairs. She hurries down to meet us and hugs Reed fondly before patting my cheek. “You here to help me take this stuff over to the hall?” she hints.

“I'll give you a hand if you can wait a few minutes.”

“No need.” She waves him away. “Just bring a load over when you can. You two take care, now,” she adds as she hastens into the kitchen.

“Adam's last supply run must have been successful,” I remark drily, watching as the older woman hoists a basket off the old scrubbed table, but Reed isn't listening.

“It's down here,” he opens a door opposite the stairs, pulling a kerosene lantern off a hook on the wall and lighting it.

I follow him down the musty stairwell and into the basement. Surprisingly, when we get to the bottom I notice that the room is much lighter than I anticipated, the sun's light filtering through two small street-facing windows. I didn't notice them when we first arrived, but they must be near the door we used when we entered the house.

“What are we doing down here?” I ask, intrigued.

In answer, Reed bends down between the windows and pulls a large tool-trolley from underneath the wall-to-wall shelving. It emits an unearthly screech as the metal scrapes across the concrete floor.

“Sorry,” he winces. He crosses the room and bends down, feeling underneath the old drier and withdrawing a small silver key which he uses to unlock the tool trolley.

I don't know what I expected, but it certainly wasn't that he would pull out a handgun. I take a seat on the bench nearby as he hands me the gun. The metal is cold and unfriendly in my hand. As I turn it over to examine the wooden handle, he pulls out another gun – a small, black, marginally friendlier looking weapon.

“This is known as a pocket pistol,” he grins, holding it up to show me. It is an apt name for it, given its size. “That one's a revolver,” he indicates the gun in my hand. “See the cylinder?” I nod.

“Do these all belong to Norman?” I ask, peering over his shoulder. The open drawer is filled with firearms.

“A couple of them were his. Others he's collected, or people in town have surrendered them to him. They know he likes to collect them, and his furniture restorations are highly coveted.”

“You mean to tell me they hand over guns in exchange for sanding a table?”

“They hand over empty guns,” he corrects. “Most of these are useless – no ammunition.”

In the chaos and looting that followed World War Three, people turned to their weapons to secure their homes, their food, their lives. Some used weapons as a means to take resources from others. It wasn't long before people ran out of ammunition, and what guns remained in the Rebeldom became worthless. Within the New United States itself all guns and ammunition were destroyed.

“So . . . these are all useless?” I ask, handing back the revolver.

“Most of them. Some still have one or two rounds – like this little baby,” he waves the pocket pistol and I duck instinctively. “The safety's on, see?” He shows me the small lever. “It can't fire.”

“That gun is older than you are,” I reply. “Forgive me if I don't entirely trust that it won't malfunction.”

“Norman's a collector, so he keeps them in pristine condition, regardless of the lack of ammo.”

I take the small pistol from him, testing its weight in my hands.

“It feels strange,” I murmur. “Such an insignificant thing that can cause so much damage.”

“You should know better than anyone that dynamite comes in small packages,” he counters. “You're the most dangerous of us all, and yet . . .”

“If you say the word ‘tiny' I'm going to kick your ass.”

“Promises, promises.”

Laden with blankets, clothing, and boxes filled with food, we say goodbye to Norman and emerge back onto the street. Reed can barely see where he is going over the stack of boxes he is carrying but he makes his way confidently over to the school hall that is serving as a shelter and distribution centre. Reed lived in this town most of his life – he could probably get around it blindfolded.

At the shelter we find Adam, Sofia and members of the Ordinary handing out parcels. Sofia eyes our arrival with mild curiosity. No doubt she is hoping that Reed and I are getting back together, leaving Aidan a free agent. Spotting my mother's sister Jessie across the room, I dump the clothes and blankets on a diminishing pile in the corner and make my way over to her.

“Hi, Aunt Jessie.” I hug her, averting my head to avoid the alcohol fumes.

“I see you finally woke up.” Her voice is gravelly and her eyes are bloodshot.

“I did,” I smile.

“Yet you didn't feel any need to come and visit?” she counters, wobbling slightly. I try to help her into a nearby chair but she waves me away.

“I'm not an invalid,” she snaps.

“How have you been?” I ask politely.

“Fair to shit.”

“Right. Anything I can do?”

“Yes, actually, there is. You can tell
that
lot,” she jerks her thumbs in the direction of Cathy and Adam, “that I don't need minding. I'm not a child.”

I press my lips together to keep from smiling. Jessie is such a lush she is a hazard to herself a
nd requires constant watching. She's a dear old thing, despite her cantankerous nature, so rather than fight her on it we simply make sure she is taken care of. I will
never forget that Jessie raised me after my mother's death. Having no children of her own she was not naturally maternal, but she did the best she could. She and Jonathan had provided us with a family and cared for Aidan and me until the day I left home. I have always suspected that Jessie had feelings for Jonathan, feelings she had never acted upon. In turn, I believe that Jonathan loved my mother Cara. Jessie had never validated this, but she certainly started drinking far more heavily after Jonathan's death. Everyone finds their own way to cope, I guess.

“Ungrateful old bat,” Reed drawls as I rejoin him. “I had to give her a fireman's lift home the other night, she was completely out of it. When I finally got her into bed, she thanked me by slapping my face and accusing me of trying to fondle her ‘lady' bits.” He shudders involuntarily.

“Jessie was a Vegas showgirl,” I remark drily. “She could probably teach you a trick or two.” I chuckle at the look of horror on his face and then I recall what he has just said.

“What were you doing here last week?”