Page 1 of Go Now
PROLOGUE
And the Lord God made man from the dust of the ground, and breathed into his nostrils the breath of life.And man became a living being.
As he finished the verse, he took a deep breath and plunged his hands into the clay. He had a sudden image appear unbidden in his mind: of reaching into the earth and pulling out its beating heart.A sacrifice.A god renewed, reborn.
The smell down by the riverbank was… elemental.River water, weeds, wet clay: it wasn’t hard to imagine God creating man out of just this mix.
He pulled out a perfect double-fistful.Rivulets of wet clay oozing between his fingers. He moved over so that everything that dripped or dropped would be captured in the bright yellow plastic bucket. The image had to be crafted from all that could be scooped out in his two hands.No more, no less. He dropped the clay in the bucket, where it landed with a satisfying plop, added two handfuls of water, and sealed the lid tight.It wasn't easy to find a bucket with a tight-fitting lid.He'd searched the whole state.
Searched and found.Like The Man had found him.Schooled him.This gift of yours comes from God.The Lord giveth, and the Lord taketh away.But you wouldn’t want Him to take it away now, would you?
Beyond the rock shaped like an old lady’s face, under the tree that was curved like a hook.To the spot where the creek forked in three.Nobody ever came this far from the path.But if they did, it was no problem.He had the lanyard round his neck, a photograph of his face.He was allowed here.Not like before, where there were places you were allowed.And places you were… unallowed.Was that a word?
Anyway, not like before, when there'd been so many rules.Like: you couldn't be in the Art Room when there wasn't any art lessons going on.And: nobody is allowed behind the nurses' station desk.Except nurses.(And the nurse's boyfriend, that one time) The TV room was a privilege, not a right.
But he didn't have to live like that anymore.He had a job.Two jobs, or three if you counted The Man. The Man said, sure, it counts.You're doing God's work, but it's still work.Still a job.
He stopped and put the bucket down. The day wasn’t warm, his task far from exerting, but he was in a sweat. It was that dadblasted lithium, 400 milligrams a day, twice a day. Made him put on weight. He’d stopped taking it now the work had started up, just like The Man told him to, but even so, his thoughts sometimes still felt like wading through a river of glue.Mixed everything up.The poison will take time to leave your blood.
He wiped his hands on his blue workman’s trousers and continued to walk. Rehearsing each step he’d take when he got back home. Flatten, knead, flatten, knead, flatten, knead.Leave to cure.Then make.In the image of God created He them. Hard to believe there'd been a time when there was no making.When he hadn't known clay, and he hadn't known kneading, nor pinching with his thumbs, nor pressing, when to cut and where to flatten.When he hadn't known The Man, just trouble, jail cells, hits, and kicks.
Hard to believe he could lose it.That it could be taken away, like when they took away your privileges.But worse.He thought of it as a kind of wilderness, where your soul would go mad, and you screamed, but nobody heard.Imagine losing the only thing that mattered, that meant something.He shivered at the thought, hot as he was.
That wasn’t going to happen, though.Do the Lord's bidding, and it won't happen.
Back at the car park, he stowed the bucket in the trunk, then washed his hands carefully, standing on the grass verge: three pours of water for each hand, drying them on the towel he kept in the glove compartment.Waved to one of the men he worked with.
My coll-eeg.He said the word a few times over.He didn’t get stuck on words so much anymore, but some of them, they just sounded plain wrong.They made him smile.Then people would ask why he was smiling.The Man said he should do it less.Don’t draw attention to yourself.Slip on by.
Then, as he’d known it would, the phone buzzed.When he thought about The Man, The Man often buzzed.But he was often thinking about The Man, anyway.
Ready?
He imagined The Man saying it in that soft, Southern voice of his.He typedYfor yes.Sent it.
Nothing happened.
Another buzz from the phone.
You know what you have to do.
CHAPTER ONE
‘I’ve just sent you a photograph,’ Kate murmured into her phone. ‘He followed me into Captain Jack’s, but I lost him. I’m keeping a watch on the door.’
‘What does Captain Jack’s sell?’asked Marcus, her partner.
‘Guess.’
‘Clam chowder?’
‘Not even close.’
FBI agent Kate Valentine was standing in a Maine shopping mall, outside a business called The Ice Cream Factory, not because she wanted any ice cream, but because the windows gave her a perfect view into the shop opposite. The Ice Cream Factory – average age of customer, 12 - sold a dazzling variety of frozen dairy produce, against a Wonka-esque backdrop of steampunk factory equipment, stripey waistcoats and day-glo syrups.
She was far less certain about Captain Jack's: from what she could tell, it sold leisurewear to men who were most comfortable in a suit and tie.They were mostly accompanied by a wife or a girlfriend, who had long since passed the limits of her own endurance. Kate truly felt for those women, bravely trying to stay civil and upbeat, while their life partners agonized over a pair of navy deck shoes. But she also felt for the men. Imagine waking up one day and realising that this-this combination of elasticated stonewash, nautical stripes, and workman shirts–was your new uniform. That you'd never be cool again, if you ever were.
Her Dad had escaped it, she realised.Murdered in his early forties, he lived on in Kate’s memory— everyone’s memory— as a youthful, debonair figure, fond of scarves and hats and other little touches of personal style. He’d loved clothes, everyone’s clothes, and far from having to bully her husband into a shopping trip, her mom had genuinely treasured his eye and his opinion.
