"There used ter be one Cadaris," said Vicky, as she studied the map she had crudely drawn with a pencil (graphite only, no wood) and a sheet of what looked like papyrus. "It all got populated by the English speakin' folks that came through the Elysian Fields. Word is they all gelled together for a while, even. Then some folks started ter get rich and some folks started ter get poor. Bit inevitable, really, like that…what do you call it? Social…"
"Social Darwinism?" Fring offered, as he and Moriarty sat on the other side of the bar. He had learned growing up in poverty-stricken Chile that the best way to get information was to tip a tavern keeper.
"Aye, that's the one. The folks with the drive did all they could to get rich here. Some of it was above board, like manufacturin'. Some of it weren't. Either way, when our society first got together and when the cities got formed, the rich folk lived in the middle of the rest of us. But the problem was, people were comin' through the Fields in droves. The poor didn't mind a bit, the more's the merrier, but the rich got nervous. Thing is, the people that came through didn't die from old age, not the end of their lifespan, but young. You take ten people who died young, and I'd say that at least six out o' ten of 'em died violently. They might o' been involved in a gang or some sort of corruption. Sometimes, they were just a rabid dog and needed to be fuckin' put down, ya know what mean?" She looked suddenly grim. "The rich blokes figured that there was a good chance that a lot of people what came from the Fields would be gangsters, outlaws, hooligans, etc. That was a threat and they decided to get around it by breaking off from the common herd. They moved west and formed West Cadaris."
She pointed to an area on the map. The map depicted an island, roughly in the shape of a peanut, and from the rough dimensions Vicky had given, the size of Madagascar. There were large dots for big cities and smaller dots (and pencil strokes) for smaller settlements. A tiny dot had been identified as Pangaw by Vicky's fingernail.
The point she was pointing two was the thinner gap between the 'western peanut' and the 'eastern peanut'. The western side was smaller. In this thinner strip she had drawn several triangles which Moriarty took to be a depiction of mountains. There was a gap between the mountains.
"Here's the border between East and West Cadaris," said Vicky, pointing to the gap between the drawn mountains. "The West Cadarians, as they called themselves, made this part the border. There's the mountains, and an open bit of land in between them. The open bit o' land is a rigidly-patrolled border, and the mountains defend themselves."
"So, the rich people moved to West Cadaris and erected a fence to keep undesirables out," said Moriarty. "Was it only them on the other side? That's no way to run a society, when there's only rich people and no one to actually run things on the day-to-day."
"Very astute, pet," said Vicky, winking at him. "West Cadaris has visas. If you have a marketable skill yuz can get past the border. Probably make a wee fortune while you're at it." She pointed to a big circle on the other side of the mountains. "That's Pinnacle. That's the city's name, but also a good way o' describin' it. It's a huge city filled with glitterin' skyscrapers. You can see the skyline from the other side of the border. Most East Cadarian lads can't get past the border on account of they ain't got nothing to offer in terms of skill, but the ones that can demonstrate they 'ad a skilled career in their past life get in. No one commits any crime or nothing that side of the border, cause if they do, they get frogmarched back to East Cadaris."
"That's West Cadaris," said Fring, circling an area on the map. "What's East Cadaris like?"
"It varies," she replied, and pointed to a big dot which was south east of them. "That's Nuevo. Spanish word for new. We take words from all languages cause we get so many nationalities that come from the Fields. It's a huge city, bigger than Pinnacle, but much different. It's got massive tower blocks and industrial parts. It looks like somethin' Stalin would have built for the most part. Some parts are nice, but they're a minority. It's the type of place where if you're walking around alone, like, yuz carry a gun. The Hessians on our road are kids compared to some of the gangs you get in Nuevo."
"Where do the nationalities go?" asked Fring. "Clearly the majority of people here speak English. Is there another part of Cadaris where non-English speakers congregate?"
"Some are in Cadaris," she replied, and pointed to a smaller dot in West Cadaris. "This city 'ere, about two hundred CM south of Pinnacle, is called the Mandarin city. It's got a proper name, but it's in Mandarin, so it's just a symbol to us. Only Mandarin Chinese is spoken there. Funny thing is, only a few of 'em are actually Chinese. It's mostly for business people on account of Mandarin is the second business language after English." She smiled. "Some non-English speakers settle in Cadaris. There are loads more like the Amponsahs. But other nationalities settle in other countries. You get a couple of people who start a colony then everyone else who comes from the Fields just joins them."
"How do they do that?" asked Moriarty. "How do they know where to go?"
Vicky pointed to a spot west. "On this bit of the highway is one of the most wonderful things you've ever seen. It's a billboard that someone built, just like from the old world. At first it had advertising on it, but people soon saw to that. People from all over the world write on this billboard. They give directions in peoples' native language telling em where they can find their own people. They draw maps and give coordinates. We reckon almost every language in the world has been written on this huge billboard. It's…I'm not gonna lie pets, it brings tears to my eyes seeing it. It's beautiful. Really demonstrates the power of the human spirit. You get good luck messages and proverbs. I can't read any of 'em, mind, but other people I've seen the billboard with have."
She seemed lost in her own thoughts for a moment, then recovered, pointing to another dot in East Cadaris. "Apart from Nuevo, the biggest settlement in East Cadaris is Praxis. It's a huge manufacturing plant where they make pretty much everything. They ship to the cities in both countries and the East Cadarian main mint is there."
"What about governance?" asked Fring. "Do both countries have Presidents? Monarchs?"
"West Cadaris has a President," Vicky replied. "But I wouldn't hold your breath about runnin' for the post. You have to be a Class One landowner to run, which means rich. And if you're on a visa from East Cadaris, you have to have had it for at least ten years. It's corrupt as anything."
"Sounds positively Georgian," Moriarty mused. "Bet they have rotten boroughs and all."
"East Cadaris has a Lord Protector," Vicky said. "The guy who invented the office was a big civil war fan and he got it from Cromwell. He's only got minor power." She pointed to another dot in the southern part of the eastern map. "This is Founder's Hill. It's a fortified town where the Lord Protector is based. The nicest place in East Cadaris by far, but it's only for politicos. The Lord Protectors have always run this place like a fiefdom, but it's the only place where they really have power. Everywhere else East has its own governor and their obedience to the Lord Protector is only a formality."
"How is he selected?" asked Fring.
"Or she," said Vicky. "Never mind the 'Lord' bit, like, it's a gender neutral title. I couldn't even tell you who the Lord Protector is right now on account of we don't get a lotta news down here. I know the guy is quite new but that's all I know. Not really important information, ter be honest."
"You've been extremely helpful Vicky," said Fring, kindly. "Do you have anything else to tell us that could be of use?"
"Aye. Stay off the highways at night, pets," she said. "The Hessians are the only ones you need to worry about here but there are gangs and mafia-type people all over East Cadari who will rob the clothes off your fucking back. Speaking of which," and she pointed to Moriarty's bloodstained suit, "you'll want to buy some clothes here. Old Martin Cassidy runs a tailor shop on the other side of town. You can get clothes relatively cheap there."
"I think you've earned this," said Moriarty, and he passed her another handful of notes.
"You're good lads," she said. "I wish yers all the best of luck."
Moriarty and Fring smiled and looked at each other, and a mutual thought passed between them. She wouldn't, they thought, if she had the faintest clue what we were going to get up to here.
They stayed in the pub that night, taking out two of the rooms on the upper floor. While the rooms were small and cramped, they were much more than the men had expected. Pangaw, Vicky explained, did not have running water, because they were too far from any rivers and no plumbers had opted to stay with them. But the pub staff had helpfully drawn water from the town well, heated it and put it in a wooden bucket. Moriarty gave himself a basic wash then collapsed into bed. After the day he had had, sleep was a godsend.
His phenomenal mind had not fully come to terms with this new world, and as he drifted off to sleep he wondered one last time whether this was a dying dream that would end with him waking up, lying in a pool of his own blood on the roof of St Barts as his nemesis stood over him. That would be a particularly cruel dream, but he was fully prepared awake to this. When he did awake, still in the Red Lion's bed, he knew that meant that this world was real.
Because Pangaw was a small town, Cassidy's tailor shop was only a short walk away. It was less a tailor shop that one might expect in London and more like a discount clothing store that one might find in the American Midwest. Like every other building it was made of wood, though a cracked pane of glass served as a shop window. The man himself was a rough, pleasant old-timer with a wise, wrinkled face and a thick, pointed moustache. He was from New England, and spoke in a thick 'downeast' Maine accent that made him remind Moriarty of Jud Crandall from Pet Semetary.
"It ain't fancy, all my stock," he said. "Not as fancy as the clothes you boys is wearin', but then again, none of it's covered in blood either. I get most of my trade from new folks from the Fields. The clothes they arrive in is always in blood, or somethin' e, qually unpleasant."
Moriarty smiled and nodded. The man's entire stock seemed to be composed of cotton shirts, linen trousers and the rattan cowboy hats that their victim was wearing. In terms of shoes, everything seemed to either be cowboy boots or the type of flimsy trainers one would buy at Primark. Moriarty bought a shoddily-stitched black shirt with grey chinos and black trainers, whereas Fring opted for a white shirt, dark chinos and cowboy boots, and they dressed in Cassidy's backroom. On earth, they would have looked irregular, but in East Cadaris, they blended in like chameleons.
"If you head to the cities you can find someone who can wash that blood off," said Cassidy to Moriarty. Turning to Fring, he said, "And someone to stich that shirt if you want."
They carried their earth clothes with them as they left the shop and strolled aimlessly to the car. It was a beautiful, warm morning, and the sun beat down on the village streets. Vicky had informed him last night that, due to the bizarre rotation of this alien earth around the sun, the seasons were twice as long.
"Hey, John," said Fring, as they reached the car park. "Could you do me a favour and put the clothes in the trunk?"
"No probs," he said in response, and Fring threw a bundle of clothes at him. He caught the bundle effortlessly, and used the Allan key to open the boot.
The stench hit him hard, so much that the urge to vomit was immediate. His eyes watered and his stomach seized up. The morning sun had heated the car right up, and their victim's body had boiled. It was a truly gruesome image. The colour had drained out of the man, and the spot on his head where the damage had occurred was bleeding and discoloured. The worst part was his eyes; they had forgotten to close his eyes when they lifted him into the boot, and they now hung open, blank, dry and accusatory. Moriarty had seen (and made) a lot of dead bodies, but he had not had the dubious pleasure of seeing one that had been fried this way.
"Walter! Walt! Come quick!" he screamed, putting on as much of a performance as he could. He turned around to the villagers in their vicinity and screamed: "Get help! There's a body in the trunk! GET HELP!"
A man and woman who were in the car park screamed and ran. Two old men ran over to inspect the body and there were cries of shock and alarm from the dozen or so people in the area. Moriarty dropped to his knees and vomited near the car. It was an act; he had a strong enough nerve to shrug off such a sight but the vomit was a good way to make him look as shocked as everyone else. When he was done throwing up he sat there with his head in his hands, rocking back and forth on the ground in panic. Fring was openly crying, a fantastically lifelike act that Moriarty never would have thought possible from his expressionless companion.
"Someone GET HELP!" Moriarty screamed again, standing up. "There's a body in our boot!"
"Better step away from that, mate," said a gruff male voice behind him. The speaker had a thick South African accent. Moriarty spun around and found himself face to face with the source of the voice. He was a tall, well-built man in his forties or fifties, wearing a black overcoat and aviator sunglasses. He had blonde hair and a thick beard, and his face was deeply tanned. His face bore two scars, one above his right eyebrow and the other on his left cheek.
"There's…there's a body in our boot," said Moriarty again, weakly, as if in disbelief. He had told Fring that acting was no problem for him, and he had not been lying.
"I can see that," the South African said. "You can't do nothing for him now. I'll have the boys handle this from here on out." He extended a large, callused hand. "Name's Van Kreike. I'm the sheriff of this village."
"John Holmes," said Moriarty, as if in a daze.
"Why don't you come round the office?" said Van Kreike. "We can go through all the facts there. I don't want to linger around here any more than you do."
The sheriff led Fring and Moriarty away from the car, gesturing for them to follow him. For an awful moment, Moriarty thought he might be under arrest. They walked for about a minute through the streets, keeping up the terrified act and not saying anything. The whole of Pangaw, it seemed, were running in the direction of the car park. Eventually they came to a large redbrick building near the town wall. It had saloon doors like the Red Lion and a circled five-point star (like a sheriff's badge in a western) was painted in red on a wooden sign. The letters PPD were written below. Moriarty guessed that they stood for Pangaw Police Department.
The department was empty apart from a single man who greeted them as they came in. He wore black chinos and a dark bullet proof vest with nothing under it, like a tanktop. It wasn't kevlar, but some other, seemingly flimsier, material. It had a star painted on it in red, just like the sign outside. The rest of the office was decorated slightly better than the Red Lion; there were desks made of stronger stuff than in the Red Lion, and the wall had posters, flyers and bulletin boards.
"Everyone down the car park, Jay?" Van Kreike asked.
"Yep," the man responded. "You want a coffee, boss?"
"Nah, these fellas might though?" the sheriff replied, gesturing to them. Moriarty breathed a sigh of relief; this meant they weren't under arrest.
"I'll take one, thanks," he said. Fring declined.
Van Kreike guided them to an office in the far corner of the room. It was decorated reasonably well; the desk was mahogany or a similar quality wood, and there were books and magazines on the shelf next to it. The sheriff bade them to sit down and Jay brought coffee. It was quite bitter, and nothing Starbucks would be comfortable serving. The glass was chipped. Nonetheless, Moriarty found himself glad there was coffee in East Cadaris.
"I didn't catch your name, by the way," said Van Kreike, turning to Fring. He extended a hand.
"I'm Walter Salamanca," said Fring, and shook it.
"Pleased to meet you. I'm Van Kreike, the sheriff in this town. Why don't you tell me what happened?"
Fring told the man the same story he'd told Vicky, making sure there were no inconsistencies in case the two spoke. Van Kreike nodded, taking notes on a similar all-graphite pencil as he went along. Moriarty simply sat back, nodding and letting his partner spin the tale.
"They've become a real problem, those fucking Hessians," said Van Kreike. Pointing to his scars, he said, "They gave me both of these in a skirmish a bit further up the highway. They've become more and more violent as they've gone along."
"What a poor man," said Moriarty. "They must be savages. I hate to ask, but is this going to be an issue for us? I swear, we had no idea there was a body in the boot!"
"I can tell," said Van Kreike, with a compassionate air. "Nah, I know you're nothing to do with this. You wouldn't have opened the car boot yourselves if you knew there was a body there!"
You're incredibly stupid, sheriff, Moriarty thought, and fought back the smirk that had reached his lips.
"To be honest though, you will have to stay around. Not for you, but for the car. We need to take a long look at the body before we cut him out of the car. Don't worry though, we have a high-powered hose here, and once we've made our investigations we'll spray your boot to oblivion. There won't be a trace of corpse."
"I appreciate that, sheriff," said Fring.
Moriarty suddenly felt panicked. "Do you think you'll be able to prove it was the Hessians based on inspecting the boot?" he asked, trying to sound nonchalant.
Van Kreike chuckled. "Even if we had any sort of forensic technology on us, it wouldn't mean anything because we don't know who the Hessians are. All we'll be doing is looking for clues to identify their patterns."
Moriarty breathed a sigh of relief. "Good luck."
"Thanks," said Van Kreike, standing up and shaking both of their hands again. "We'll have your car back to you in a day or so's time. In the meantime, relax. Take in the sights. Go back to Red Lion and have some more of Vicky's famous booze."
Moriarty's mouth dropped open. "You saw us last night?"
"I see everyone in my town, mister," Van Kreike said with a wink. "It's my business."
Fring and Moriarty looked at each other. The wink had said more than any words could have. This man, with his unkempt beard and his simple manner, was anything but stupid. There was something in him, a spark that denoted a fierce intelligence hiding under the surface of a bumpkin hick sheriff. He wasn't on to them, exactly; he had on some levels bought their innocent traveller story. But this was not a man who could be fooled for long.
They would have to watch themselves, and their new friend, very closely.