Page 114 of The Man Made of Smoke

He turns and reverses his course. It’s just so hard now though. He keeps trying to gather his strength, but there’s so little of it left. For however long now, he has been chained up here, exposed to the elements, without food of any kind. Aspinall left him water, at least, but in a metal dog bowl on the ground, and for the first couple of days John was damned if he was going to lower himself to drinking from that. But eventually the thirst had become too painful, the weakness in his body too profound, and so finally he had succumbed. As he had knelt there in the dust, lapping from the bowl like an animal, he had imagined Aspinall watching from somewhere in the tree line. Laughing at his humiliation.

Perhaps even taking a photograph.

But if so, he hadn’t made himself known. Until tonight, in fact, John has been alone. Time has begun to lose meaning. During the hottestparts of the days, he has maneuvered around the post like the minute hand of a clock, trying to catch the thin sliver of shadow it offered. At night, he has lain shivering in the cold, feeling his sunburned skin shining in the dark.

And the rest of the time, he has pushed the post.

Back and forth. Over and over.

There was a period of time—yesterday?—when he had given up. He had put his efforts on hold in the midday sun, and then simply not started again when it cooled. It had felt so easy just to sit there instead. Tostop. Because the post was implacable. You did your best, he had reasoned, but there came a point when the blows were too hard to pick yourself up from. A moment when you had to accept that you were beaten and there was no use going on.

He had closed his eyes.

No, a voice told him.Keep going.

Give a good account of yourself.

And he had opened his eyes again. It was strange, because the voice hadn’t sounded like the more familiar one he talked to himself with. It had seemed to come from somewhere away to one side, and it had been so clear that it was almost a surprise to see that he was still alone.

But he had picked himself up again. And he had—

Keep going.

He leans back into the post now, pushing as hard as he can, putting as much of the little strength that remains of his frail body into it. He senses movement again. A little more than last time? He crouches down, resting for a few seconds, then stands up and heads dutifully, robotically back around the post.

Leans into it.

And pushes.

Because there’s no time for him to rest now.

Aspinall returned a couple of hours earlier, and he was not alone when he did. John watched—his mind repeatingno, no, no—as Aspinall dragged Sarah across the clearing toward one of the pens. He pulleddesperately against the chain again, and attempted to shout her name, but his throat was too dry and he couldn’t make a sound.

A short while later, the silence in the clearing had been interrupted by a sudden humming noise, and then the darkness broken by a series of bright lights blooming into life across the compound. The rows of pens had been transformed into a cat’s cradle of wood and dirt and shadow.

And then Aspinall had left.

But he’ll be back soon. John is sure of that.

He tries to call out again now.

“Sarah. Can you hear me?”

His voice is raspy, barely. But it must carry a little, because a few seconds later he hears a muffled cry in response.

She is alive, at least.

“It’s going to be okay,” he tries his best to say. “I promise.”

Then he moves around to the other side of the post. He’s so weak now though. And angry with himself too. What he wouldn’t give to have that handful of lost hours from yesterday back now. They might turn out to have made all the difference, and that’s a horrible thought. That after being a failure all his life, he has carried on being one to the very end.

It’s another spur. He leans into the post. Plants his feet against the ground. Pushes as hard as he can.

Come on, old man, he tells himself.

Keep going.

Thirty-Four

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