Page 55 of The Man Made of Smoke

Despite his fear, James knows better than to disobey.

“Yes, sir.”

And when he opens his eyes, the man is already gone. James listens to the heavy sound of his footfalls moving away down the corridor, then scrabbles quickly off the mattress and through the doorway. The man’s enormous frame fills the hallway ahead. He leads James past the closed doors up here, then downstairs, then through the stale, smoky air of the front room.

And then outside.

Something about the quality of the light in the trees tells James that it’s nearly dawn, and he blinks a little as he follows the man down the wooden steps from the house’s rickety porch. The camper van is parked at an angle in front of him. Beyond the vehicle, the rest of the farm stretches away, still draped for now in the night’s receding shadows.

The farm.

James always thinks of it as that, even though it’s really a compound, somewhere deep in the woods, with tight webs of barbed wire strung between the trees. There are wire cages in which the man keeps chickens, and a row of wooden pens where emaciated animals are tied to posts. The air stinks of petrol from the generator that’s constantlyputt-puttingaway close to the tree line. A farm though. It’s easier to think of it as that than some of the other things he might call it.

Prison.

The place he’s going to die.

The man walks around the side of the camper van, striding confidently over the dry ground, his boots raising misty puffs of dust. He’s holding the knife loosely down by his side. And he doesn’t look back—because even though he’s leading James to his death right now, he also knows he’ll follow. And James does, of course. Because what choice does he have? There’s nowhere to hide here. No chance of escape. No use in shouting for help.

Because nobody is coming to save him.

He remembers his first few days here at the farm. Back then, he had tried to convince himself it was a nightmare that he would wake up from soon. When he accepted it was real, he still thought it was going to end.Because the police would be looking for him, wouldn’t they? He remembered the shows he and his mother used to watch on their little television: the ones in which the detective never gave up hope, and the victim was always rescued in time. Away from the farm, the whole world knew that James was gone, and so everyone would be searching for him. His father might never have replied to the letter James wrote, but his mother wouldn’t forget about him. She wasn’t going to rest until she found him and brought him back home where he belonged.

You and me against the world, James.

But then the days passed.

And then the weeks.

Andnobodycame for him.

During that period, there were times when the man left the farm. On each occasion, James had watched the old camper van disappearing down the trail between the trees, waited until the sound of its engine had faded, and thenscreamedwith all the strength he could muster. Calling out for his parents. Shouting for someone—anyone—to come and save him. But his calls disappeared into the trees, and his voice failed him, and there was only ever the insistentputt-puttingof the generator in reply.

And each time, it was only the man who returned.

Nobody sees.

And nobody cares.

He follows the man across the farm now. Past the lines of wooden pens, where the animals stand motionless inside. Toward the empty pen all the way down at the end. The one closest to the woods, which used to be where he slept. Its gate is open. Perhaps the man has decided to move him back out here? Perhaps that’s all that’s happening? Except he knows it isn’t. Because the man is turning the knife around in his hand, and there’s a sense of purpose to him: a kind of dark energy buzzing around him like flies.

There’s a dirty old shovel leaning against the post in the center.

James falters. Even with his back to him, the man seems to register it.

“Get in there,” he says. “Pick up the shovel.”

James walks past him slowly, and then into the pen. He takes hold of the shovel. He can barely lift it. The wooden handle is old and soft, but the metal blade at the bottom is heavy. It’s caked with mud and rust.

“Start digging,” the man says.

James stares down at the surface of the ground.

And he wants to cry. He doesn’t need to be told what he’s digging here. It’s his own grave. But the thing that sickens him the most is how ashamed he is. Because he feels so weak, and the earth here is hard and solid. His shoulders begin to hitch a little as he tries to keep the tears in. How worthless he is. Everyone has forgotten him. All that’s left is the man, and all the man wants is this one final thing from him, and he can’t even manage to do that right.

“Start digging,” the man repeats.

James gathers himself together. He plants the tip of the shovel against the earth as best he can. Looks at the metal edge at the top of the blade. And then he stamps down on it with the arch of his bare foot as hard as he can.

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