Read Online Noir by Jacqueline Garlick - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Jacqueline Garlick
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performance.
“Do you see any sign of them?” I ask C.L., reining Clementine back, her mask wheezing, low on air. I bring her around low enough to see the earth, but far enough up in the air to still be camouflaged by cloud cover. “Any sign of the train at all?”
C.L. squints. “No, mum,” he huffs, sounding worried. “I was sure they’d be here by now.”
“Don’t worry,” I say, taking another swing over the city’s edge. “I’m sure they’ll show.” I ask Clementine for another turn. She gallantly obeys, winging off over the edge of the forest so we can check deeper into the woods. Her mask blows a gasket.
“We’ve got no choice!” I shout. “We’re going down!”
“There!” C.L. spots something through a seam in the clouds. He jumps in his seat, nearly falling out of it, pointing. “Over there! The campfire. Set us down over there!”
I squint, spotting what he’s excited about through the dashes of the cloud cover, but I’m not sure we can make it. “Over there, girl.” I point, leaning out and peeling open the end of Clementine’s mask. “Can you make it there?”
At the edge of the woods, next to the clearing, about three hundred metres away, sit the colourful cars of the freak train wound in a linked semicircle, like an illuminated rainbow, around the skirt of a glowing campfire.
Clementine sees it and pushes toward it, losing altitude, her breath coming out in frothy gasps. She snorts as we swoop down through the waning darkness. Morning is nearly upon us. We’ve flown all night. We land with a clattering thud about twenty metres from the scene.
Snores filter up into the sky from between cage bars. Next to the fire, the top-hat-wearing, full-girthed ringmaster sleeps. He has no idea what’s about to happen. None of them do.
Neither do I, really.
C.L. slips down from the saddle into the mud with a clank. My boots make a soft thunk as well. Clementine snorts, and C.L. clamps a hand down over her muzzle, like she’s the only one making noise.
“So what now?” I whisper, tucking in behind the cover of trees, leaving Clementine to root for grass.
C.L. follows, digging a length of rope and a hood out of her saddlebag before abandoning her.
“We attack ’im from behind,” he whispers softly. “That way, when ’e’s found ’ooded and bound and roped to a tree, ’e won’t be able to report who did it to ’im.”
“So that’s the plan, then, we’re going tie him up?”
“Unless you ’ave another.” C.L. frowns.
“No. No, tying him up will be fine, I guess.” I turn and bite my fingers.
“What’s the matter?” C.L. whispers.
“It’s just that . . .” I turn. “What if he’s not found? What if we leave him here and he gets eaten by the criminals?”
“’Ow is that a problem?”
“Where you’re coming from I suppose it’s not, but for me.” I twist my fingers. “I don’t know whether I’ll be able to sleep.”
“Are yuh suggestin’ we bring ’im with us?”
“Would that be possible?”
“No!” he snaps. He charges away across the open ground toward the train cars, hood and rope tossed over his shoulder.
“All right, all right”—I scramble after him, taking in breath—“what do you want me to do?”
He spins. “Keep an eye out while I ’og-tie the bastard,” he says between his teeth. “No offense.”
“None taken.” I bolt forward, catching up to him again. “Then what?”
“Then—”
His sentence is cut short by the cock of a gun, the barrel pressed to the nape of his neck.
“Then I’ll shoot you both and leave you for criminal brekkie,” the ringmaster says. “Just as you’d planned for me.”
I swallow and turn my head slowly. The ringmaster’s eyes fall hard on me from over the top of the gun. They are small and cold and slitted. Filled with such meanness, their presence stings my soul. Thick-hooded brows shroud them. His forehead carries several scars. Telltale signs he’s not immune to being
“Do you see any sign of them?” I ask C.L., reining Clementine back, her mask wheezing, low on air. I bring her around low enough to see the earth, but far enough up in the air to still be camouflaged by cloud cover. “Any sign of the train at all?”
C.L. squints. “No, mum,” he huffs, sounding worried. “I was sure they’d be here by now.”
“Don’t worry,” I say, taking another swing over the city’s edge. “I’m sure they’ll show.” I ask Clementine for another turn. She gallantly obeys, winging off over the edge of the forest so we can check deeper into the woods. Her mask blows a gasket.
“We’ve got no choice!” I shout. “We’re going down!”
“There!” C.L. spots something through a seam in the clouds. He jumps in his seat, nearly falling out of it, pointing. “Over there! The campfire. Set us down over there!”
I squint, spotting what he’s excited about through the dashes of the cloud cover, but I’m not sure we can make it. “Over there, girl.” I point, leaning out and peeling open the end of Clementine’s mask. “Can you make it there?”
At the edge of the woods, next to the clearing, about three hundred metres away, sit the colourful cars of the freak train wound in a linked semicircle, like an illuminated rainbow, around the skirt of a glowing campfire.
Clementine sees it and pushes toward it, losing altitude, her breath coming out in frothy gasps. She snorts as we swoop down through the waning darkness. Morning is nearly upon us. We’ve flown all night. We land with a clattering thud about twenty metres from the scene.
Snores filter up into the sky from between cage bars. Next to the fire, the top-hat-wearing, full-girthed ringmaster sleeps. He has no idea what’s about to happen. None of them do.
Neither do I, really.
C.L. slips down from the saddle into the mud with a clank. My boots make a soft thunk as well. Clementine snorts, and C.L. clamps a hand down over her muzzle, like she’s the only one making noise.
“So what now?” I whisper, tucking in behind the cover of trees, leaving Clementine to root for grass.
C.L. follows, digging a length of rope and a hood out of her saddlebag before abandoning her.
“We attack ’im from behind,” he whispers softly. “That way, when ’e’s found ’ooded and bound and roped to a tree, ’e won’t be able to report who did it to ’im.”
“So that’s the plan, then, we’re going tie him up?”
“Unless you ’ave another.” C.L. frowns.
“No. No, tying him up will be fine, I guess.” I turn and bite my fingers.
“What’s the matter?” C.L. whispers.
“It’s just that . . .” I turn. “What if he’s not found? What if we leave him here and he gets eaten by the criminals?”
“’Ow is that a problem?”
“Where you’re coming from I suppose it’s not, but for me.” I twist my fingers. “I don’t know whether I’ll be able to sleep.”
“Are yuh suggestin’ we bring ’im with us?”
“Would that be possible?”
“No!” he snaps. He charges away across the open ground toward the train cars, hood and rope tossed over his shoulder.
“All right, all right”—I scramble after him, taking in breath—“what do you want me to do?”
He spins. “Keep an eye out while I ’og-tie the bastard,” he says between his teeth. “No offense.”
“None taken.” I bolt forward, catching up to him again. “Then what?”
“Then—”
His sentence is cut short by the cock of a gun, the barrel pressed to the nape of his neck.
“Then I’ll shoot you both and leave you for criminal brekkie,” the ringmaster says. “Just as you’d planned for me.”
I swallow and turn my head slowly. The ringmaster’s eyes fall hard on me from over the top of the gun. They are small and cold and slitted. Filled with such meanness, their presence stings my soul. Thick-hooded brows shroud them. His forehead carries several scars. Telltale signs he’s not immune to being
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