Tenth Man

by Tamara Sheehan

Chapter 8

The name was like a slap in the face. Saul jerked back, his breath, in short, sharp gasps, echoed back to him. How many people know?

“Do I know you?” He heard his voice shaking.

“Maybe not, but I know you. Nick Solomon.” Toven licked his lips, tasting the name like some incubus sucking nourishment from it. “You had a beard then. Why did you say your name was Saul?”

Saul’s mouth opened but no sound came out.

The shrouded figure inched toward him, movement made the piled coats sway. “You were the wizard involved with the warehouse bombings, weren’t you? The one the police never caught. Your father was killed in the plant. I remember hearing about the accident.”

Saul reeled at the strangeness of the moment, the surreality of discussing something so long a secret with a man he’d only just met. He stared helplessly at Toven, mouth slack, while the man went on:

“They caught eight, and sent them to Gurdina. Everyone was saying, everyone thought there were nine. They were wrong, all of them. There were ten, there was another one. What was his name?”

Toven crouched, hands sliding over the ground, slick with filth, with water, with mould. He rubbed his hands on his face. “You two escaped together.”

At last Saul’s voice crackled through. “How do you know this?”

Toven grinned ironically. “After all, I was your inside man. Toven Audel, Eduard’s son.”

Saul nodded dumbly.

“Listen, Nick.” The strange gregariousness vanished as quickly as it had come. Toven turned sideways and leaned close to Saul like a conspirator. “You can’t get away from him on the surface. I tried. I tried. Even in Shier, but I couldn’t get away from him. Now here... here. He never comes here.” He took Saul’s elbow, pulling him aimlessly.

“See, you could live here. You’ll have to live here, too, which I what you’ll probably have to do because you can’t have it. I won’t give it to you. But you could hide down here. There’s lots of space and I don’t mind.”

Saul’s mind seemed unable to catch up. He shut out the invitation, grappled with the words before.

The images he’d read in Toven’s mind seemed to fit the story, but the man was living in a sewer. Had he heard the story of how Toven ran from his father’s house, formulated the images to go along with it? Was he so deep in a bout of schizophrenia or alcohol that he believed what he’d made up? It could not be true.

Saul’s hands had become fists. Energy crackled between his fist and his thigh. He couldn’t reconcile likelihood and reality. If Toven was mad, or drunk, how did he know so much about Saul?

“Toven Audel has been missing for years,” Saul began softly, “people say he’s probably dead. A half-dozen bombs went off at the plant that day. People say he died in the bombing.”

“Half a dozen? There were nine. I planted nine.” The words seemed to annoy him. “I helped place those bombs, I was damn sure to get out of the way.”

There were nine bombs, one didn’t blow. Someone helped us place the bombs but I never knew who. Saul wanted to laugh out loud, but the absurdity had become too much. He turned away from Toven, fighting to collect himself. The cool, sensible part of his brain seemed to have vanished, all that was left was his gaping incomprehension. He could not think, his ears rang. Energy produced by his tension traveled up and down his body like lightning.

“Nick?” Toven’s voice behind him was suddenly small and afraid.

Saul turned to face the other man, wretched in his cocoon of clothing, his rat-like cringing. Disgust and pity pulled his gut. “Yes?”

Toven had grasped his hands together in front of him, like a child on school picture day. “Did I make you angry? Did I frighten you again?”

His mouth was dry, his tongue felt swollen. He shook his head rather than speak. Held up a hand to ask for a moment to himself.

Toven’s breath was a shiver of noise. The glee in his face was gone, replaced by tightness in his pointed jaw, his shoulders bunched up under the coat. Furtive and cowering and belligerent all at once.

“Don’t be angry.” The words hovered between order and plea.

“I’m not angry.” He swallowed and shook his head. “I just didn’t expect this and I don’t really know...” He hesitated. “Have you... thought of going back up to the surface?”

Toven looked at him sharply. “It’s not safe up there. The whole world knows Eduard Audel and fears him. You can’t go back there, Nick.”

He let that pass. “Call me Saul, I’m used to it.” He said slowly, gathering speed as he went. “Listen. Before, you didn’t have anywhere to go, but I have a place, an apartment that’s not that far away from here. Audel’s already been there so he probably won’t come back to it for a while, you know? You’d be safe there.”

Saul went on before Toven could give serious thought to what he said. “You could come up there with me. I could help you out and you could help me. We fought on the same side before.”

Toven looked around him, his shoulder’s stooped so that the greasy hood fell forward and concealed his face again. “Up... to the surface?”

“I’ve got friends who can help us. You don’t want to live here forever do you? I’ve got...” he flailed for something to say that would make Toven agree, that would make him follow Saul out. “I’ve got...” Food? Shelter?

Saul’s eyes settled on Howie’s backpack. “The tenth man, the one who got me out, he’s a friend. He helped me get in here. All these maps and the pack and the gear belongs to him. He’d help us. He’s all ready helped me.”

In the obfuscating darkness, Saul could see Toven’s hunched form quivering like a rat.

“Up to the surface.” His voice shook as if with cold.

For an instant Saul wondered if he’d made the right choice, if his pity and his hope were misplaced. He doubted Toven was stable enough, sane enough to bring up, wondered if he shouldn’t just knock him down and take the ring to Audel.

“What time is it?” Toven asked him.

“About one.”

“Morning or night?”

“Night.”

Toven licked his lips. “Okay.” He said, his voice quivering as much as his body. “Okay.”

Proceed to chapter 9...