Kitabı oku: «The Sign of One»

To Martin

who shares my DNA

and my dreams

CONTENTS

Cover

Title Page

Copyright

Dedication

PART ONE PEACE FAIR

1 GIRL WITH DARK GREEN EYES

2 HIGH SLAYER

3 UNWRAPPING

4 THE ROAD BACK

5 AWAKENING

6 NEVER SAY THAT WORD

7 A BAD DECISION

8 I SAY SOME TERRIBLE THINGS

PART TWO ON THE RUN

9 WAITING

10 CAPTURED

11 IN THE SLAYER WARPLANE

12 HATCH CLOSED AND LOCKED

13 CUTTING LOOSE

14 CRASH

15 HEALING AND DEALING

16 MAKING TRACKS

17 CROSSING OVER

18 GOING HOBO

19 OLD FRIENDS

20 LEAP OF FAITH

21 DEBT PAID, TRADE MADE

22 HAGGLETOWN

23 PICKING UP THE PIECES

24 SANCTUARY

25 MAN BEHIND THE GRILLE

26 ANSWERMAN

27 TRUTH

28 CONSEQUENCES

29 DECISIONS

30 CHANGE OF PLAN

PART THREE ENDGAME

31 TRADE

32 IN THE PALACE

33 THE FACILITY

34 A TWIST OF FATE

35 ONE LAST EFFORT

36 A GAME CALLED SCREAM

37 PAYBACK

38 A FINAL RECKONING

39 WIND STILL BLOWS

Acknowledgements

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PART ONE

1
GIRL WITH DARK GREEN EYES

The Cutting was yesterday. We missed it. Soon as we hit the trail out of our valley, I knew we would. I’ve seen dirtworms slither faster than some of our lot walk. Three boggin’ days it’s taken us to get to Deep Six. On my own I could hike it in one, but that was never going to happen. Out here in the Barrenlands, you go mob-handed and in dayshine or you don’t go at all. Our wildlife’s too nasty and there’s always the chance of running into Reapers. It’s a curse, missing the Cutting, but at least we’ve made it to the Peace Fair in time for tomorrow’s Unwrapping.

‘C’mon, Kyle,’ Nash says to me. ‘You done yet?’

Our men have cleared off to do some catch-up drinking, the women and the girls to check out the merchants’ stalls. Nash and me, we’ve been left behind with the wagons, stuck with setting up camp and finding fodder for our fourhorns. Now we’re supposed to sit tight and look after everything. Don’t think so.

I hammer the last guy rope in. ‘All done.’

We head towards the roars of delight from the nearby fairground. I feel sick with excitement and sweat pours off me. See, this is my first Fair.

‘I’m going to tell them,’ says Nash.

He’s only a year older than me, but he’s been to loads of Fairs already. We both know I could be flogged for not attending sooner. Once you’re ten, the Saviour’s law says you must go, at least once every three years.

‘Give us a break, Nash.’

He sniggers. He’s such a gommer.

It’s Rona’s fault. She won’t say why, but she never attends the Fair. She gets away with it because she’s the only healer in Freshwater. Which is fine, I guess, and none of my business. Except every year she comes up with some excuse why I can’t go neither. Last year, I kicked up. Told her I was going, no matter what. Next thing I know, I’m flat on my back with swamp pox, the only dose in the three valleys. Rona denies it, course she does, but I swear she gave it to me deliberate. And you can die easy from the swamp pox. It’s a miracle I wasn’t scarred for life.

Well, she might be my mother, but I’m sixteen now.

At the gate, we hand over credits and flash our ID tags. I worry the gate man will figure out mine is fake, but this is the Barrenlands – he couldn’t care less.

Nash keeps his poisonous little mouth shut, for once.

We hurry through a dark tunnel to emerge blinking back into evenshine, halfway up some stone-built terraces, which curve round to form an immense arena. The size of the crowd rips the breath out of my lungs – I’d no idea there were this many people on Wrath, let alone in the Barrenlands. Stalls and show tents stand out like brightly painted islands in a boiling sea of bodies. It’s fierce loud. A madhouse of hoots and rough laughter and merchants yelling their wares.

‘Are those the idents in the cages?’ I ask.

‘What do you think?’ says Nash.

At the far side of the fairground is a stage, loads of cages stacked like crates around the back of it. Even from here I can see each cage has two child prisoners inside. So it’s true. We get to gawp at them between Cutting and Unwrapping. They can’t mess with their wounds without someone seeing.

Nash dives into the crowd. I follow him to a food stall.

Surprise, I end up paying for both of us. A credit buys a beer each and steaming bogbuck steaks wrapped in purple leaf. While I wolf the meat, I stare at the faces around me. Most are thick-fingered grubbers like us, but I see plenty of hunter and scavenger folk too. The locals are easy to spot, their pale miner faces scrunched up against the sun. Nearly as many women wander around as men, many with straw still plaited into their hair, to celebrate the recent harvest.

‘You don’t eat the leaf, you donk,’ says Nash.

‘Oh,’ I say. It was chewy.

I watch him as he takes a long pull from his beaker. His eyes water, but he doesn’t drop dead or anything, so I sip mine. It’s fierce strong beer and tastes foul, but he’s watching me back. I smack my lips and pretend to like it.

‘Rona’d kill me if she saw me drinking this.’

‘Rona ain’t here.’

After I finish it, I feel floaty. Can’t stop smiling, even at strangers. It’s like the hoots and yells and laughter get louder too. The crowd’s excitement is more catching than swamp pox. My heart starts pounding.

Why was Rona so worried about me coming here?

We bump into some girls from our valley then – Vijay, Mary and her little sister, Cassie. They tag along, which is no hardship. After a while, we end up near the stage and its wall of cages. Nash and the girls push on to watch jugglers, but I see two pale faces peering from the nearest cage and hang back.

Hairs stand up on the nape of my neck.

Both these girls have exactly the same long red hair, the same blue eyes, the same lips pulled down at the corners. One face two times. Twin sisters. Despite the muggy air, I shiver. I bet even their own mother couldn’t tell them apart.

Identical. But one is a monster.

I make the Sign of One. Our sign against evil.

‘Oh, come on,’ says Nash, back at my elbow. ‘Don’t go all pious on us.’

Mary and Vijay snigger, safe behind him.

I shake my head, feeling stupid. The cage looks solid enough and is covered in wire mesh. Both girls have iron leg shackles. They’re going nowhere.

And the thing is, neither looks evil to me, only scared.

‘Never seen idents before,’ I say. ‘That’s all.’

‘Not even baby ones?’ says Mary. ‘Doesn’t Rona heal them?’

I shrug. ‘She does, but always goes on her own. To spare the families.’

Even back in Freshwater, so tiny compared to this great big mining town, we have five families now cursed with ident babies. Rona’s helped deliver all of them, but won’t do the marking. Says chopping fingers off infants is no job for a healer. Sometimes I’ve heard these babies crying as I passed by, but I’ve never seen any of them. The shame is so great and guys like Nash would throw stones, so the unfortunate families raise them inside, behind bolted doors. Four long years of despair and misery before Slayers take them away to the ident camps.

What must it be like to be their parents? Just cruel.

And yet where would we be without the Saviour’s law to protect us?

‘Hey, see the bandages?’ says Nash, pointing.

Further along, two ident boys stand in their cage, gripping the bars. I see their forearms, bandaged from the Cutting. I see too that both bear the telltale mark of the ident, the little finger hacked from their left hand. Sick but clever that. Word is, back in the early days of the Saviour’s law, desperate parents would hide their ident offspring by splitting them up. No way to hide a missing finger though.

I look back at the redheads, but they see me staring.

Although I’ve paid good money to be here, I have to look away. Okay, so I know these girls are freaks, but it still feels wrong to gawp. Just does.

‘C’mon,’ says Nash, making to head off, ‘I’ll show you something better.’

‘Wait,’ I say. ‘Those girls.’

Nash stops and stares, obviously not bothered in the slightest that they can see him looking. ‘Yeah. Cute, but not my type. What about them?’

‘Which do you think is the evil one?’

Nash frowns at me, like I’m some kind of drooling idiot.

‘Well, my money’s on the redhead. Oh wait – they’re both redheads!’ He slaps his forehead, and this sends Vijay and Mary into fits of laughter. ‘Look, we’ll find out tomorrow at the Unwrapping. Now are you coming or what?’

I let him drag me away.

But the look on those girls’ faces, it dents my mood.

Don’t get me wrong, I’m still buzzing, but I’m not so dazzled now by everything I see. Maybe that’s why I start noticing faces in the crowd that aren’t red and shiny with having a good time. I nudge Mary and point out one such woman. She’s got a little boy by the hand. To look at her long, grey face, you’d think she was at a funeral, not a fair. Her brat looks fed up to the back teeth too.

‘You can’t please some people,’ I say.

Mary winces, surprising me. ‘The Saviour giveth, the Saviour taketh away,’ she says, quoting Freshwater’s preacher, old Fod. ‘Even idents have families.’

Cassie catches up and grabs my hand. She’s shaking.

‘Hey, what’s up?’ I ask her.

‘I’m glad there’s only one of me,’ she whispers.

‘You wait till you see this thing,’ says Nash, with a weird laugh.

‘Is it scary?’ squeaks Cassie, her brown eyes wide.

Nash leads us out of the crowd, towards an alcove set deep into the stone wall of the arena. As we get closer, I see wrist-thick iron bars sealing this space off and turning it into another cage. A torn canvas awning flaps above it, filling the alcove with scuttling shadows. Off to one side, a sun-scorched old man sits cross-legged on a mat, watching us. Sharp-eyed kids are hanging about.

‘Is it some wild animal?’ I ask Nash.

‘Wait and see.’

One brat is slow clearing out of our way. Nash shoves her aside. I expect screeching and swearing, but the girl hardly notices. She just keeps staring at the cage, her grubby face a muddle of fright and teeth-bared anticipation.

Weird. All I can see is a heap of rags and bones.

Until the rags and bones move.

The rags are rags, but those bones still have skin on them. As my eyes adjust, I see a mottled hand clutching the rags around a filthy wasted body.

A skull-like head slowly lifts to regard us.

‘Oh – my – Saviour!’ I make the Sign of One again.

I’ve never seen a real-live twist before and my guts tie themselves into cold knots. Idents I expected to see, wanted to see. But this monster with twisted blood – this I’m not ready for. I take several steps back despite myself.

Cassie pulls free, turns and runs. Don’t blame her.

Nash sneers, but I’m not fooled. He can act tough, but he’s eyeing those bars same as me, gauging their strength. He’s scared too. Who wouldn’t be?

The bane of Wrath, a devil in human form.

Those iron bars are the only reason we still have throats.

I force myself forward. A breeze shifts the awning and shadows scatter. I see the mad hatred in the creature’s bloodshot eyes as it watches me. I’m so close now its stink shoves up my nose. The twist’s skin is covered in muck and a rash of angry red scars, its waist-length hair filthy and matted. I thought I was a bit skinny, but this thing’s nothing but skin and bone. Male or female? Impossible to say. It hisses at me like a rock viper and shows me its teeth, all filed to sharp points.

Nash elbows me, scaring the crap out of me. ‘They always have one here.’

I nod, not trusting myself to speak.

Behave – or the twist will come in the night and get you!

It’s what grumpy old folk like to growl at naughty little children to scare them. Seeing this disgusting monster is like having my worst nightmares made flesh. It’s horrible to think one of those redhead ident girls will end up like this.

But that’s why we have the Cutting and Unwrapping.

‘You scared, boy?’ asks the twist’s keeper, the old bloke.

‘Not me,’ I say, grimacing.

‘Y’ought to be.’ He cackles, pulls a leather cosh from his belt and rasps it along the cage.

The twist lets out this blood-curdling scream, bounds to its feet and hurls itself at him. Its skeletal arm shoots out between the bars, bony fingers clawing for the man’s throat. Only just in time, he steps back out of range.

It happens so fast – inhumanly fast.

Behind me, I hear children’s delighted shrieks.

‘See what I mean?’ says the man. He spits into the dust at my feet, then looks at me, unblinking and seemingly uncaring, as the twist thrashes to reach him. ‘Some folks, they don’t believe in evil; they gotta see for themselves.’

Mary tugs my sleeve. ‘You got a credit?’

The man elbows her out of the way. His breath stinks as bad as the twist. ‘A credit and you can make it dance.’

‘Do what?’ I say.

‘Just pay the man,’ says Nash, shoving me.

They’re all sneering at me now, so I toss the man a credit.

He makes a big show of biting the coin, then fetches this long pole with an insulated grip at one end. A thick cable snakes away from it through the dirt, towards an ancient power pack. On the grip is a crude trigger.

‘Done this before?’

I’ve no idea what he’s on about and shake my head.

The twist sees the pole; it howls and flings itself to the back of the alcove. The man presses the trigger and I hear an electric whine. Casually, he touches the pole’s tip against one of the bars. BANG! There’s a blinding flash. Showers of yellow sparks make us all duck and I smell the familiar hot stench of arc welding.

The iron bar glows red where the tip touched it.

Oh my Saviour. The twist’s skin, all those wounds. I know why now.

‘Have fun,’ says the man, handing me the pole. ‘You got one minute. And don’t get too close. If the twist tags you, that’s your problem not mine.’

I think I’m going to puke, but Nash’s face is a mask, stretched taut with anticipation. He licks his lips and pushes me forward.

‘You heard him – make it dance.’

‘I don’t want to,’ I moan. ‘Somebody else do it.’

This is sick. In my head I see Rona’s I told you so face.

‘You big, soft gom,’ growls Nash. ‘The thing’s not human. Doesn’t matter how bad you burn it, it’ll be okay tomorrow. These monsters heal so fast.’

Not human. But it was once, wasn’t it?

I stare in horror at the twist as it grovels and whimpers at the back of its cage. Okay, so maybe it is a monster now, like they keep telling us. What do I know? I’m a nobody from the arse end of the Barrens. But it sounds human.

‘Come on,’ says Vijay. ‘Don’t be a wimp.’

I look at Mary, but her lip curls.

‘Stop wetting yourself. Get stuck in!’ shouts Nash.

The old man wants the business too. He thrusts his face real close.

‘Y’ain’t no stinking twist-lover, are ya?’

Faces in the crowd are staring now. My skin crawls, but what can I do? Nothing. I know – we all know – what happens to twist-lovers, those fools who preach the heresy that twists aren’t evil, just another human species. They end up hanging from trees, their eyes pecked out. I grit my teeth, step up to the bars.

Only for my legs to be kicked out from under me.

The ground leaps up and smashes into my back. For several seconds all I can do is lie there groaning, struggling to catch my breath. Too late I remember the pole I’m holding is a weapon, before a booted foot grinds that hand into the soil. I look up to see my attacker standing over me – a little guy with white dreads, shabby leather overalls, eyes hidden by mirrored sunglasses. In each lens, I see my shocked face, gob open, gasping for air. Two me’s, like I’m an ident too.

He pushes the shades up into his dreads and he . . . is a girl.

A girl with death in her dark green eyes.

‘So you like torturing twists, do you?’ she hisses.

‘Drop dead,’ I say, wheezing.

Big mistake. I see now what she’s pointing at me – a snub-nosed flamer, a weapon so lethal it’s banned even on dump worlds.

She leans down and presses the flamer’s barrel into my forehead.

‘Wrong answer.’

The gun’s a blur, so I focus on the girl’s face. Pale, tough-looking, about my age. Black thumb-thick bars painted across her cheekbones. Teardrop tattoo dripping from her left eye. Those long, greasy dreads, bleached white.

And she looks mad as hell.

‘No, wait!’ I say. ‘I –’

A bald guy in matching leathers and face paint hauls the girl off me. He’s massive, double ugly and looks even meaner than she is. I like him already.

‘What the hell are you doing, Sky?’

He wrenches the flamer from the girl’s hand and shoves her away. She glares at him like she’ll argue, but settles for making a gun shape with her hand and pretend-shooting me.

She stalks off then, limping badly.

Baldy waves her flamer at us. ‘Anybody see what happened?’

Nobody wants to die so nobody answers.

The man grunts with obvious satisfaction. ‘Good. You keep it that way.’

He pockets the gun and follows the girl towards the exit. Our stunned silence is broken by a slow, leathery slapping sound. The twist is sitting up at the back of its cage now and it’s clapping.

Slowly, miserably, I pick myself up.

‘Wow, Kyle,’ says Nash, poking me with his finger. ‘You just got your head kicked in by some gimp windjammer girl.’

‘That right?’ I say.

He opens his mouth to make another smart-arse comment.

I don’t give him the chance.

All my life I’ve been scared of thugs like Nash, but it’s like I’m suddenly possessed by rage. Or maybe it’s shame. I snap his head back with a punch. He staggers and goes down. When he gets back up, he’s clutching his mouth and cursing me, blood dribbling thick and red between his fingers.

‘You so had that coming, Nash,’ I say.

2
HIGH SLAYER

It’s not like I want to go, after everything that happened. I volunteer to look after our campsite. But Clayton, who’s as close to a leader as we’ve got, and no fool, says I go to the Unwrapping and Nash stays as punishment for fighting. So here I am the next day, wedged inside the arena again, ten rows or so back from the stage. We’ve been here for hours already. Today’s another hot one, and I see storm clouds gathering out west on the horizon. The mood is serious now. Apart from a few stalls selling spiced meat snacks, the merchants are gone. The bars are all closed too.

Clayton says we’re here to witness, not be entertained. He’s warned us to be on our best behaviour.

I’m standing with the Reeve family, including a squirming Cassie. Since I took the girl’s hand yesterday, she’s attached herself to me like one of those nasty little suckerfish you get in our lakes. On the stage, men are covering an altar with crimson cloth. Suspended over the cages at the back, a massive vid-screen made from loads of little screens shows our glorious leader, the Saviour himself.

He stares down at us, magnified a thousand times.

Me, I’ve only seen him on faded posters before, where he looks old and severe. Here on the screen though I see he’s still barrel-chested, strong and vigorous for a man his age. A mane of thick grey hair falls over his broad shoulders and he’s got a mouthful of the whitest teeth I’ve ever seen. We get to see a lot of them too, with him smiling as he does his famous ‘reaching out to the people’ pose that Rona hates so much. Like he’s a father figure, not the dictator she’s always saying he is.

It’d be confusing if I could be bothered thinking about it.

I stop watching him and look out instead for that scowling girl with the white dreads and the flamer. In this crowd it’d be easy for her to sneak up behind me and slide a knife between my ribs without anyone seeing.

Turns out Nash was right. The leathers and those marks on the girl’s face means she’s windjammer crew. Me, I’ve never seen a windjammer, but like all kids, I know about these ridge-running glider transports. Cobbled together from the scrapped orbit-to-surface dropships that dumped us here back in the day, they’re crude enough flying machines, but as hi-tech as it gets here. Worlds like Wrath are where whoever runs the galaxy disposes of criminals, and that’s a locked-down, marooned and forgotten kind of deal. We’re left to fend for ourselves.

So folk say anyway, but what do I know?

I’ve wanted to be a windjammer pilot since forever.

Down on sleep after a bad night, I yawn. Whenever I closed my eyes, I kept seeing that flamer. But that wasn’t the worst thing – I wish I’d had the guts to tell Nash and that old man to drop dead. I should never have picked up that pole thing. Okay, so the twist looked nasty, but – and I know this is heresy – wouldn’t being tortured and tormented, day in, day out, turn anyone into a monster?

A trumpet sounds. At least, I think it’s a trumpet. We don’t go in much for music in the Barrenlands – it’s nice, but you can’t eat it.

‘What’s happenin’?’ squeals Cassie.

People file on to the stage. I can tell straight off they’re important because they’re sleek and fat and wear rich-looking clothes. You have to be a big deal on Wrath to be fat. One by one they waddle along and crush their seats.

‘They look down, we look up,’ somebody hisses.

The crowd starts muttering now.

I’m twisted round, trying to hear what’s being said, when I hear gasps. I look back and have a gasp sucked out of me too. A raven-haired young woman stalks across the stage, swaying her hips, a long brown cloak draped over her shoulders. Under this she wears a fancy black-leather uniform, trimmed with shimmering nightrunner fur, cut tight and clinging to show off her figure. She stops at the altar, turns and faces us. Even from here I see her fingers clenching and unclenching. She reminds me of a spider – all long, spindly arms and legs, waiting to pounce. Trumpets blast, then fade away. Cassie kicks me in the shin.

‘All right!’ I hoist her on to my shoulders.

The people behind us moan, but I ignore them. Cassie’s thrilled. I’m not – she stinks. She also thinks it’s okay to hold on to my ears.

‘Who’s the tall skinny woman?’

‘A High Slayer.’

I’m pretty sure, seeing how much gilt she’s got on her uniform.

The only Slayers I’ve seen before are those who come for our idents, when it’s time to cart them off to the camps. Everybody always turns out to watch because, let’s face it, nothing else happens in Freshwater. Rona says they’re stone-cold killers, the Saviour’s special forces from the war. They’ve got some other fancy names too, like Preservers of Human Purity, but I like Slayer better.

‘What’s her name?’ Cassie asks me.

‘How should I know?’

‘Commandant Morana,’ whispers Mary, Cassie’s sister. ‘High Slayer for the Barrenlands.’

‘Nasty piece of work,’ adds Mary’s mother, quiet-like, out of the side of her mouth. ‘Eats babies for breakfast.’

I shudder, and try to imagine what babies might taste like. Disgusting, if Cassie is anything to go by.

The Saviour fades away and the big screen zooms in on the woman’s face. She is beautiful, but there’s a harshness stamped into her features no creams or powders can hide. Her eyes stare back at us, so cold and bleak I shiver, even though I’m hot. And when she starts talking, her voice is impossibly loud. Her words crash around the arena, like thunder echoes around our hills. I’m gobsmacked, until I see the microphone clipped to her collar and the speakers up on poles.

‘Good afternoon, citizens of the Barrenlands,’ she booms. ‘Welcome to Deep Six on this, the last day of this year’s Peace Fair. It is . . . gratifying to see how many of you have chosen to make the difficult journey here.’

I can’t help sniffing. Chosen? Okay, so I chose, but it’s the law.

‘I would like to begin,’ she continues, ‘by asking you all to show your appreciation for our hosts, the loyal and industrious mining community of Deep Six, who once again have made this year’s Fair such a success.’

The bigdeals haul themselves up from their chairs and the crowd starts clapping. Hardly deafening though – nobody will be going home with blisters on their hands. And this lack of enthusiasm isn’t lost on Morana. Magnified on the screen above her, she stiffens and her scowling face lifts to look behind us. Uh-oh. Turns out that she isn’t the only Slayer in Deep Six today. When I look, I see loads more have spread out behind us around the rear wall of the arena. Some are only carrying non-lethal shockers, but most are armed with pulse rifles.

The clapping gets louder – some creeps even cheer.

Deep Six’s Elder, a red-faced woman with a whiny voice, makes a speech. She thanks the High Slayer, then bangs on for boring ages about new productivity records for the iron-ore mines. It’s worse than studying maths, so I’m glad when she eventually sits down and Morana returns to the centre of the stage.

The crowd, which had started muttering again, quiets.

‘We are gathered here today,’ Morana announces, ‘to celebrate thirty years of the Saviour’s peace. A peace which has allowed us to rebuild our shattered world and raise new generations of pureblood singleton children. A peace which sees us looking forward from our dark past towards an ever brighter future.’

She pauses. The speakers blast out the first verse of ‘All Hail the Saviour’.

We chant it back, like good little citizens.

What follows is a history lesson from her that makes me sigh. I mean, as if I haven’t had this drummed into my head a thousand times already by our preacher, Fod, back in Freshwater. Anyway, Morana reminds us how the outbreak of ident births was first considered a blessing as we struggled to survive in those early days after being dumped here and needed all the strong hands we could get, to clear the fields and labour in them. Then the realisation that only one twin was pureblood human, the other a less-than-human twist. And yet still we tolerated them. Only for our generosity to be rewarded by the Twist War, when the twists showed their true monster faces by rising up against us purebloods and almost wiping us out, being faster and stronger and entirely without pity. How we purebloods survived only because one man among us would not be beaten: the glorious leader we are now pleased to call our Saviour, who saved us from our doom.

Yeah, yeah. I’ve heard it all before.

The whole time she’s talking, the screen shows grainy footage from the war. Seen that before too. Women and children torn limb from limb by half-naked soldiers, who look human, but aren’t. Slayers leading regular troops in devastating counterattacks. It looks staged to me. Why was somebody filming it instead of blasting away with a pulse rifle? But like I said before, what do I know?

Cassie buries her face in my hair. ‘It’s horrible.’

The crowd starts getting twitchy and excited now. Most people will have been to Fairs before. They will know what’s coming after the speeches.

‘Yet today is not only a celebration,’ Morana says, at last. ‘Today serves another, far more important purpose. We are gathered here . . . for the Unwrapping.’

‘Un-wrapping! ’ roars the crowd.

The screen cuts to Morana’s half-smile, half-sneer.

‘For we must never relax our guard against the bane of Wrath.’

‘The bane of Wrath! ’

She glares at us and I, like everyone else, stick my believer face on.

‘There are some who claim not to believe in the curse.’ Her voice becomes menacing now, a stern mother explaining something for the very last time to a witless child. ‘To those doubters I say – BEHOLD THE BANE OF WRATH!’

There’s a disturbance at the rear of the stage, where a gap in the stacked cages forms a tunnel. Using long chains attached to a collar around its neck, four muscular guards drag out the twist we saw yesterday. They fasten the chains to anchors in the stage floor then step back, panting and sweating.

And the crowd goes mental.

‘The bane of Wrath! The bane of Wrath! ’

The stark-naked twist raves and claws at its collar. It is a monster, I do see that now. Even so, I can hardly watch – it’s too cruel. But the effect it has on the crowd is as shocking. It’s like I blink and suddenly I’m drowning in a sea of contorted red faces, eyes bulging, mouths gaping as they bay for the twist’s blood.