The Vagrant. Peter Newman
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man eyes it as one might a bomb or a snake. There is hesitation, then he grasps it, fingers trembling in the Vagrant’s grip. Between the man’s injuries and the Vagrant’s burdens it is an awkward manoeuvre but eventually the man is upright and leaning heavily on the goat, who is pragmatic about her newest indignity.
‘Thank you, stranger … I need … patching up before I’m much use to … anyone. Would you help me over to Lil’s? It’s just … over there.’ He points to a crumbling building, blasted out from a single stone monolith. Incomplete lights display their half-memory of the structure’s original name.
The Vagrant nods and begins their journey towards it.
After only a few steps the man gasps, ‘Have to stop … a moment, catch … my breath.’
They wait, silence playing with their nerves.
Catching his breath eventually, the man speaks. ‘I think I’d be a goner if you hadn’t showed when you did. Look, I haven’t had … much cause to talk … for a while. I know I don’t look like much but … there was a time, before things … well, before, when I was known to be something of a talker, if you know what I mean.’ He coughs, wiping blood and spittle on the back of his hand. ‘Anyway, back when names meant a damn, people called me Ventris. What’s your name, stranger?’
The Vagrant hauls open the badly fitting door, buckled metal scraping against stone to briefly obscure the inside of the building by a curtain of dust. One by one the group enters, a bizarre procession of Vagrant, injured and goat.
Within the room is a plastic tent, age turning the once-white fabric a mottled cream, a small island of clean. There is evidence that many battles against the encroaching filth have taken place. Beyond the small scrubbed circle are tables and benches lining the periphery of the room, separated by pillars of chipped stone. Between the tent and the entrance stands a woman and in her hands sits a gun. It too is remarkably clean …
‘That’s far enough.’ The woman’s voice still clings to a little youth. It left her face long ago.
The Vagrant steps aside, allowing the wounded man to struggle into view. Even the short journey has paled him, his cheeks ghostly under the bruises.
‘Go easy, Lil,’ the man wheezes. ‘He’s just … helping an old man.’
‘Ventris, is that you under there? Suns, you’re a mess!’ Shooting the men an imperious look she does not wait for an answer. ‘Well don’t just stand there bleeding in my doorway. Get yourselves over here, and shut the door. I don’t want anyone else thinking it’s okay to wander in any time of day!’
Her orders are met without protest and a minute later Ventris is laid inside the tent and the Vagrant sits by the wall. They have been warned to touch nothing.
The tent only gives the illusion of privacy and voices drift through, secrets carried on the backs of whispers.
‘So what happened this time?’
‘I got careless.’
‘You’ve always been careless, it’s a wonder you survived this long. Tell me something I don’t know.’
‘Two of the workers attacked me, caught me by surprise. Bastards left me out for the worms.’
‘Hold still. I think they’ve cracked a rib. Which ones? No, let me guess, one of the bunch that came from the north, Kell or one of his … I thought so. Now what aren’t you telling me? Come on, Ventris, don’t make me do something you’d regret.’
‘I stashed a little pasha, sneaked it out. Guess I didn’t sneak it well enough.’
There is the sound of an ear being flicked and a grunt of discomfort.
‘You bloody fool! You’re lucky it was Kell that saw you and not one of the Overseer’s crew or I’d need more than a few threads to put you back together.’
‘I wasn’t that careless, none of them saw.’ Another flick is heard. ‘Ow, easy, Lil!’
‘And if they notice something was taken, what then? I’ve a good mind to unstitch this and roll you outside for the scavs.’
‘You’re a good friend, Lil. Not many like you left.’
‘Don’t push your luck. This is the last time, you hear me? Any more stupidity and I’ll shoot you myself and take what’s left for trade.’
Unnoticed, the goat picks up a glove from the table and starts to chew.
‘So,’ she continues, voice not low enough, ‘who’s the guy that dragged your sorry carcass to my door?’
‘Damned if I know. He’s not one for conversation. Hasn’t said a word to me, just popped up out of nowhere and brought me here. Maybe he’s one of the half-breeds? I’ve heard stories that some of the unlucky ones don’t get regular tongues.’
‘He doesn’t look like a half-breed to me.’ There is the clink of something metallic being placed on a tray. ‘I don’t know what he does look like and that worries me. Don’t think there’s much room for a trader who can’t shout. He’s no slave either.’
‘Well he’s got some means.’
‘Not that you’d know by his clothes.’
The man’s chuckle is cut off by a hiss. ‘Damned ribs!’
‘And did you notice the way he moved? He’s trying to hide something. I don’t know if he’s deformed or armed but I know that man’s trouble.’
‘Not like you to care what’s under a man’s coat, Lil.’
‘I’ve seen under your coat enough times, Ventris. Nothing much to care about there!’
For a while there are only the quiet rustlings of needle against skin. Shadows pass the murky windows and flies buzz industrious at the door. Now an irregular snoring issues from inside the tent, and soon a woman and her gun follow.
‘Okay, stranger, what’s your angle?’
The Vagrant looks up, amber eyes tired.
‘Let’s be clear. Ventris hasn’t got anything to give you, besides stories and advice and they’re worth less than the air behind them. So if you’re waiting for a reward you might as well leave.’
The Vagrant waves the idea away.
‘So who are you and what do you want?’ Her gaze is relentless, the gun’s barrel unwavering. ‘Well, you don’t look dumb to me. You don’t look shy either, so how about you stop playing games and give me some answers?’
The Vagrant takes a breath. His jaw works, but the air from his lips is empty. He looks away, eyes pressed shut. There is silence. The woman closes the space between them, laying a hand on his shoulder.
‘I’m sorry, I didn’t …’ she begins but is cut off as she finally gets a response, a soft cry coming from his armpit. ‘What the …?’
His shoulders drop a fraction as he lets his arm fall. She opens the coat and the baby gurgles happily, its feet now free to wriggle. With a jerk she throws the gun to the floor.
Chewing and snoring and gurgling blend in the stillness. The woman lifts the baby to her face, caught between grief and some thought now lost.
A few days pass in unlikely peace. The world outside is cruel, but within the bubble of Lil’s place an illusion of sanity holds sway.
Sunslight points through cracks in the doorframe, painting the dust red. Tiny fingers reach for sparkling dirt. They might as well reach for the stars themselves.
The Vagrant sweeps the floor methodically. His shoulders hang low, robbed of their usual