to have a good effect. His face softened and his lips began to quiver.
“It’s ’ell. That’s what it is.”
John shook his head. “First impressions: it does seems like a shithole, but you’re not answering my question. Where are we?”
“I told you, didn’t I? It’s ’ell.”
John felt his anger rising. He wanted to reach across the table and grab the kid by his neck but he held back.
“I’m giving you one more chance and then I’m going to start breaking your fingers.”
Dirk shrugged off the threat. “It’s a common reaction—you got a name?”
“John. John Camp.”
“I’m Dirk. It’s a common ’nough reaction, John Camp. Fowks get ’ere, they say it can’t be true. They’re alive one instant and then they’re dead and then they’re ’ere. They’re lookin’ about for the angels and the pearly gates and the like but there’s none of that. You do bad ’nough things and ’ere’s where you end up. ’Ell, ’ades, there’s different names I s’pose. Me and Duck, lots of others, we call it Down.”
“Why?”
“It’s in the Bible, in’it? In the bit what Luke wrote. Our mum used to read it to us, not that it did any good. Luke says to some bastard that ’e’s not going to ’eaven, ’e’s going to be cast down. Well that’s where we are. ’Bout as far down as you can get.”
“Okay, Dirk. You say you’re dead. When did you die?”
“1790. Month of June. Last thing I seen was a meadow full of poppies near the gallows. ’Twas a lovely sunny day, worse kind of day to leave. Would’ve rather ’twere raining.”
“You’re saying you were hanged?”
“I was. Duck too, standing right next to me in the gallows. The waiting for it was ’ard but the ’anging part weren’t so bad. I’m falling through the air then I’m ’ere. No pain I can recall at all. Just like that it was.”
“All right, I’ll humor you. Why were you hanged?”
“Me and Duck drubbed the baker. Didn’t mean to kill ’im, just take ’is purse, but I reckon we crashed ’is skull a mite hard. They took us to dumbo and ’anged us the very next day.”
“You don’t look like someone whose neck was snapped or a guy who’s over two hundred years old.”
“That’s the thing. Only good bit ’bout Down, I s’pose. You come ’ere whole. If you was all broked up when you died you’re not broke up when you arrive. Mind you, you can get plenty smashed up when you’re ’ere, I can tell you that. And you don’t age none. You stay the way you came. Forever like.”
John always prided himself in telling truth from lies. He’d done plenty of prisoner interrogations in Afghanistan and he’d been good at reading people even through the veil of cultural differences. Men were men. He could usually tell by their eyes if they were lying. Dirk looked straight enough. But before he could ask the next question he heard a rumbling outside. Horses were approaching, clopping fast through the mud. They suddenly pulled up outside Dirk’s house, neighing and snorting.
A man shouted, “Any new ones? Come on, bring ’em out. I’ve got a nice full purse.”
“Quiet,” Dirk whispered to John. “Not a peep.”
“You in there Dirk? Duck? You wouldn’t have another special one, would you?”
“Tell me why I shouldn’t sell them your arse,” Dirk whispered.
“Did you sell them a woman named Emily?”
“Why wouldn’t I? Silver’s ’ard to come by.”
John rose up, towering over him, his fists balled in rage.
“I’ll call out to ’em,” Dirk said, pushing his chair back.
“If you do that you’re never going to see your brother again. Is that what you want?”
Dirk shook his head. “’Es all I got.”
“Then listen to me. I know where he is. I’m the only one who can bring him back. You help me and I’ll help you.”
There was a heavy pounding on the door.
“Get yourself under the bed,” Dirk whispered. “Quick like or you’re done for.” Dirk raised his voice and
“It’s ’ell. That’s what it is.”
John shook his head. “First impressions: it does seems like a shithole, but you’re not answering my question. Where are we?”
“I told you, didn’t I? It’s ’ell.”
John felt his anger rising. He wanted to reach across the table and grab the kid by his neck but he held back.
“I’m giving you one more chance and then I’m going to start breaking your fingers.”
Dirk shrugged off the threat. “It’s a common reaction—you got a name?”
“John. John Camp.”
“I’m Dirk. It’s a common ’nough reaction, John Camp. Fowks get ’ere, they say it can’t be true. They’re alive one instant and then they’re dead and then they’re ’ere. They’re lookin’ about for the angels and the pearly gates and the like but there’s none of that. You do bad ’nough things and ’ere’s where you end up. ’Ell, ’ades, there’s different names I s’pose. Me and Duck, lots of others, we call it Down.”
“Why?”
“It’s in the Bible, in’it? In the bit what Luke wrote. Our mum used to read it to us, not that it did any good. Luke says to some bastard that ’e’s not going to ’eaven, ’e’s going to be cast down. Well that’s where we are. ’Bout as far down as you can get.”
“Okay, Dirk. You say you’re dead. When did you die?”
“1790. Month of June. Last thing I seen was a meadow full of poppies near the gallows. ’Twas a lovely sunny day, worse kind of day to leave. Would’ve rather ’twere raining.”
“You’re saying you were hanged?”
“I was. Duck too, standing right next to me in the gallows. The waiting for it was ’ard but the ’anging part weren’t so bad. I’m falling through the air then I’m ’ere. No pain I can recall at all. Just like that it was.”
“All right, I’ll humor you. Why were you hanged?”
“Me and Duck drubbed the baker. Didn’t mean to kill ’im, just take ’is purse, but I reckon we crashed ’is skull a mite hard. They took us to dumbo and ’anged us the very next day.”
“You don’t look like someone whose neck was snapped or a guy who’s over two hundred years old.”
“That’s the thing. Only good bit ’bout Down, I s’pose. You come ’ere whole. If you was all broked up when you died you’re not broke up when you arrive. Mind you, you can get plenty smashed up when you’re ’ere, I can tell you that. And you don’t age none. You stay the way you came. Forever like.”
John always prided himself in telling truth from lies. He’d done plenty of prisoner interrogations in Afghanistan and he’d been good at reading people even through the veil of cultural differences. Men were men. He could usually tell by their eyes if they were lying. Dirk looked straight enough. But before he could ask the next question he heard a rumbling outside. Horses were approaching, clopping fast through the mud. They suddenly pulled up outside Dirk’s house, neighing and snorting.
A man shouted, “Any new ones? Come on, bring ’em out. I’ve got a nice full purse.”
“Quiet,” Dirk whispered to John. “Not a peep.”
“You in there Dirk? Duck? You wouldn’t have another special one, would you?”
“Tell me why I shouldn’t sell them your arse,” Dirk whispered.
“Did you sell them a woman named Emily?”
“Why wouldn’t I? Silver’s ’ard to come by.”
John rose up, towering over him, his fists balled in rage.
“I’ll call out to ’em,” Dirk said, pushing his chair back.
“If you do that you’re never going to see your brother again. Is that what you want?”
Dirk shook his head. “’Es all I got.”
“Then listen to me. I know where he is. I’m the only one who can bring him back. You help me and I’ll help you.”
There was a heavy pounding on the door.
“Get yourself under the bed,” Dirk whispered. “Quick like or you’re done for.” Dirk raised his voice and
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