Wanted (Flick Carter Book 1) (12 page)

The town crier stood, as the mayor climbed onto the stage, wearing his chain of office. ‘Hear Ye! Hear Ye! Hear Ye!’ he bellowed, loud enough that he could probably be heard back in the town, and ringing his bell. ‘Hearken all manner of persons here present; be silent and attend his worship George Griffin, Mayor of Faringdon. God save the King!’

The mayor came forward and held up his hands. He looked around the crowd and smiled a steely smile.
 

‘Ladies and gentlemen,’ he shouted, ‘it gives me great pleasure to crown this year’s Queen of the May, Rosie Carter.’

He took a small silver tiara and placed it on Rosie’s head. Then he took a large silver coin and held it up for the crowd.

‘The King’s shilling,’ he called, ‘to pay the queen!’ He handed it to Rosie, who took it, smiling.

The crier rang his bell again. ‘Hear Ye! Hear Ye! All persons here present stand and pay homage to the Queen of the May!’

The crowd stood and clapped, and Rosie stood and waved back, with a big grin on her face.

‘Speech!’ The voice came from the back of the crowd.

Rosie, dwarfed by the big men on the stage, held her hands up and waited for quiet. ‘Mister Mayor, ladies and gentlemen,’ she shouted, her voice strong and confident, ‘I am honoured and pleased to be crowned this year’s May Queen. Thank you all for coming, and enjoy the festivities!’

Flick wandered through the woods, looking at the various stalls and sideshows. The stalls had been set back from the edge of the clearing, leaving more space for the main events.

She’d watched the maypole dancing, clapped and cheered as Rosie was crowned, clapped after each dance when the ribbons were all untangled, laughed when one of the dancers had messed up and the maypole turned into a tangled mess that took several minutes to straighten out. Now the dancing was over, she browsed the stalls, waiting for the next event.

‘Go on Miss, three balls for a quid!’
 

Flick laughed. ‘Sure they’re not glued down, Pete?’
 

Pete was a tall thin man, with white hair and a small white moustache. He wore a red and white striped apron. He normally ran the butcher’s shop, and he was often a customer for any of the hunting kills that Flick couldn’t use at the inn. And she in turn was often a customer for meat she couldn’t easily hunt. Today he was running the coconut shy. Idly she wondered why they were still called coconuts–nobody had seen a real coconut in living memory, possibly as far back as The Collapse, more than a hundred years ago. These were carved from wood and painted, like giant coloured wooden eggs.

‘Half a pound of sausages if you knock three off. And they’re not stuck down!’ Pete said, pouting.

‘Okay, go on then,’ Flick said, and handed over a coin.
 

She picked up the three wooden balls, about the size of a cricket ball, and sized up the coconuts arranged on spiked poles at the back of the stall. She squared off and threw the first ball. It glanced off the coconut, which wobbled momentarily before falling off its stand.
One down
. The second ball hit its target square on with a clunk, and sent the coconut flying.
Two down
.

‘Last ball,’ she said, blowing on it and rubbing it just as if she were a spin bowler. Rosie stood watching as Flick let fly and it clipped the top of the coconut. It wobbled, but it didn’t drop.
Damn!

‘Oh bad luck!’

Flick turned to Rosie, ‘He sticks them down, I’m sure of it!’ she said.

‘Do not!’ came from the back of the stall. ‘See!’ Pete poked the coconut with his finger and it fell off its perch.

‘All right Pete, I’ll believe you. But they must be magnetic or something,’ said Flick. They laughed. They had this same conversation every year, it had become a ritual.

She turned back to Rosie. ‘I see you’ve lost your crown already.’

‘Yeah, I had to give it back,’ she said, pouting. They started to wander through the trees towards another stand.

‘Anyway I wouldn’t want to keep anything the mayor had touched. That man gives me the creeps’

‘You and me both, Ro,’ Flick replied, ‘but keep your voice down: walls have ears!’

‘Or trees.’

‘Walls have trees?’

‘No. Trees have ears!’

Flick glanced up. Above their heads there was a large metal sculpture of a bird painted black, perched on one of the branches, its giant wings outstretched. It had glass beads for eyes.

‘I swear I think they’re watching me,’ said Rosie.

‘I think they move around too,’ Flick said. ‘There’s supposed to be twenty-four–you know, like in the rhyme–in the woods and up the tower, but I’ve never found them all.

They wandered past a few more stalls until they found themselves back at the clearing. The crowd was smaller now than it had been earlier, so Flick could easily see the Morris dancers going through their paces. They clapped as the dance came to an end.

While the dancers were chatting and getting ready for the next set, the fool came cavorting up. He was looking for somebody, doing a passable mime act, pointing at people and gesturing towards the middle of the clearing. So far there had been no takers.

Rosie nudged Flick in the ribs. ‘Go on, Flick, why don’t you? It’ll be fun. And who knows–you might meet the man of your dreams!’

‘Nightmares, more like!’ quipped Flick, ‘anyway, with my luck it’ll be a pig farmer from Swinford!’

Rosie poked her again. ‘Go on, or are you chicken?’ She flapped her arms and made chicken noises.

‘Okay,’ sighed Flick, and waved at the fool, who did a quick jig as if all his Christmases had come at once. He rushed over to her, and pulled her into the clearing, cavorting as they went.

‘Now, whatever happens, don’t move!’ he whispered in her ear before skipping back towards the crowd, in search of another victim.

The dancers now formed into a ring with Flick at the centre. She couldn’t help notice they each held two wooden batons, one in each hand. Before long the fool forced his way into the ring, with another victim in tow. It was a lad. Flick looked him over. Not the usual Sunday best, he was wearing dark woollen trousers and a white linen shirt, over which he wore a supple light brown leather waistcoat. He had a straggly beard and a big grin. Flick had a sudden flash of recognition.

Shea!

Then the music started, and the dancers started circling, their arms held out.

Flick regained her composure briefly, then exploded. ‘Where the hell have you been?’ she whispered furiously.

It was a mixture of anger and relief. Anger that he’d disappeared, anger that he hadn’t got in touch to tell her he was okay, anger that he’d just appeared here out of the blue, and relief that he was still alive and that he’d come back and found her. But anger won on aggregate. She realised her fists were clenched.

Clunk! Eight wooden staves met above their heads, bringing her back to reality. The Morris men moved back out again. Shea stood there with a look of astonishment on his face.

‘I had to go. Hide,’ Shea said.

The fool interrupted and pushed them apart just before two Morris men skipped between them with a clashing of sticks. Flick stood watching with daggers in her eyes.

Then the fool pushed them together again, just in time to avoid being hit by two pairs of sticks, one in front and one behind.

‘Kingsmen,’ Shea whispered as loudly as he could in Flick’s ear. ‘If they catch me, they’ll kill me.’

Yes, she knew that: so what was he doing in plain sight in the middle of the May Festival? She shuddered, remembering the execution in the town square only the day before.

‘They found your stuff,’ Flick said. ‘Adam was crowing about it for a week.’

‘Who’s Adam?’

‘My brother. Today’s his Choosing. Wants to join the Watch.’

The fool cavorted in again and pushed them to a different position. Two different pairs of dancers clashed sticks.

‘I missed you!’ Shea shouted.

‘Good,’ Flick shouted back. ‘I looked for you.’

Shea grinned. ‘I’m here now.’

Flick frowned. ‘Why?’

‘Why did I run?’

‘No, why are you here?’

‘To see you.’

The dancers weaved around them, pushing them apart. When they finally were pushed back together again, Flick continued.

‘I don’t want to see you.’ She did. She knew she did, but that didn’t mean he could just walk back into her life and everything would be all right.

‘But I thought…’

‘What? That I was a silly little girl out in the woods that you could take advantage of?’

‘No, of course not.’

‘Then what?’ This was the crucial question. The music rose to a climax, the fool whirled them around, and sticks clashed.

‘Come with me.’

What?

The music stopped, and the fool grabbed them, one on each hand, and bowed. Flick and Shea took the hint and bowed too, turning in different directions to face different parts of the audience. Released, Flick made quickly for the anonymity of the trees, followed by Shea. The dancers huddled together, setting up their next number.

Rosie was waiting in the shelter of the trees, and before Flick could demand further explanation from Shea, asked, ‘Hey Flick, who’s your friend?’

‘Good question,’ Flick said, glowering. ‘I thought I knew. Go on Shea, tell her who you are.’

‘I’m a traveller,’ supplied Shea, quickly.
 

‘Rosie is my little sister,’ said Flick. ‘And my whole life. I couldn’t leave her for anything. Or anyone.’ Her eyes were daggers.

If Rosie spotted the subtext, she showed no sign. ‘You can call me Ro.’

‘What do you ladies say to some of this pig roast?’ Shea asked. They had reached a stall where a large pig was being turned on a spit over a fire. Great slices of pork had been carved off it, and the aroma wafting in the not quite still air was mouth-watering. Smoke from the fire drifted up lazily into the canopy of the trees, where it hung around as if reluctant to leave.

Rosie’s eyes lit up. ‘Can we? Please?’

Flick smiled. ‘Of course we can.’ She handed over some coins, and got back several large pork slices wrapped in bread, which she handed out.

‘Ro, why don’t you go and see what Adam and Dad are getting up to? Shea and I have things to discuss.’ Flick glanced across at Shea, who nodded.

Rosie winked. ‘And you don’t want me playing gooseberry, eh? Okay, see you later.’ She skipped off back through the trees.

Flick and Shea went out into the field beyond the trees and sat on the grass, looking down the hill towards the town.

‘See, there’s no way I can go anywhere with you. You’ve seen what I have here; Rosie and Dad, even Adam. I can’t, I won’t give that up. Not for you, not for anyone.’

Shea sighed. ‘You can’t fault a guy for trying.’

‘So why is everyone after you?’

‘It’s… complicated,’ Shea said.

Flick raised her eyebrows and stopped eating.

‘What’s that supposed to mean?’ she asked.

‘I really can’t say any more than that.’

‘Look… I helped you.’

‘And I’m very grateful,’ Shea interrupted, trying to cut her off.

Flick glared at him and continued, ‘I taught you stuff… trapping…’
I nearly kissed you
. ‘…Brought you food…’
want to kiss you
…
 

‘Look, seriously, cards on the table. Am I in trouble with the law because of you?’

Shea was silent.

‘Right. So what sort of trouble am I in?’ Flick’s words were icily calm.

‘Look, no. It’s not like that,’ stammered Shea. ‘You’re not in trouble with the law, at least not on my account. It’s just that… well… that wreckage you found me with… it’s a flying machine, and the Kingsmen want to get hold of it, and me and anyone I’ve been in contact with.’

Flick looked at him askance. Then she laughed so hard she fell over backwards.

‘You cannot be serious! This is what it’s all about? A
flying machine?
’

Shea nodded. ‘Keep your voice down,’ he hissed.

‘I’m sorry, but
really
, a flying machine? That’s something out of the Dark Times! Big metal tubes full of people, miles up in the sky. No one can make that kind of thing any more.’

‘Maybe not the big metal tubes, but smaller ones, yes they can.
We
can–the Scavs,’ Shea hissed. ‘That’s why they want me so badly. And why you should come with me… If they find out you’ve helped me, you’ll be in danger too.’

‘But haven’t they already got it? The wreck I mean. Adam saw the Watch drag it into town.’

She jumped up without warning, causing Shea to fall back in alarm. ‘The Choosing! It must be about to start. It’s Adam’s big day and I’ll be in
real
trouble if I miss it! Come on!’

She pulled Shea to his feet and ran back to the clearing.

ADAM STOOD NERVOUSLY with the other fifteen year olds in front of the maypole. His plan to get the radio to that Kingsman had failed, backfired in the most stupidly annoying way. He’d been pushing through the crowd at the hanging, looking for a Kingsman–any Kingsman–to give it to in the hope that they’d pass it on. One of the mayor’s thugs had stopped him and demanded to know what he was hiding. His hands had been in his coat pocket, protecting the device, and Adam supposed, in hindsight, that’d he’d looked just a bit too suspicious. There had been nowhere to run; nowhere to hide the device, so he’d been forced to hand it over. Adam was fortunate that the thug didn’t seem to know what the thing was, or he’d have been hauled off before the mayor too. Instead, he’d just been given a clip round the ear and told to sod off.

The six fifteen year olds–Ned Elliott, Carolyn Grace (the butcher’s girl), Del, Ron, Colin and Adam–had been herded into the clearing and right now, nothing seemed to be happening.

The mayor climbed onto the stage along with Captain Phillip Marley, the Commander of the Watch, and two black-clad Kingsmen officers. He waved the crowd to silence. ‘Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to the hundred-and-second annual Choosing,’ he intoned. ‘Each year our best and brightest are chosen to study the sciences and enter law enforcement, to protect what we have from those that would destroy or take it from us.’