Day Boy

  Trent Jamieson is the author of the Death Works trilogy, the first volume of which was shortlisted in both the Aurealis and Ditmar awards, and of the steampunk fantasy duology The Nightbound Land. He lives in Brisbane.

  textpublishing.com.au

  The Text Publishing Company

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  22 William Street

  Melbourne Victoria 3000

  Australia

  Copyright © 2015 Trent Jamieson

  The moral right of Trent Jamieson to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted.

  All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright above, no part of this publication shall be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise), without the prior permission of both the copyright owner and the publisher of this book.

  First published in 2015 by The Text Publishing Company

  Cover and page design by Imogen Stubbs

  Typeset in Granjon 12.5 pt by J & M Typesetting

  National Library of Australia Cataloguing-in-Publication entry

  Creator: Jamieson, Trent, author.

  Title: Day boy / by Trent Jamieson.

  ISBN: 9781922182838 (paperback)

  9781925095746 (ebook)

  Subjects: Vampires—Fiction.

  Paranormal fiction.

  Dewey Number: A823.4

  This project has been assisted by the Commonwealth Government through the Australia Council, its arts funding and advisory body.

  For Sophie Hamley, who pulled this story from me word by word, sentence by sentence, paragraph by paragraph, and chapter by chapter.

  This is your book.

  I learned to be a man from a monster.

  You need to know that if you’re to

  understand anything that follows.

  I am, I believe, a good man; so was he—

  but the monster was always there.

  I learned to be a man from a monster;

  there’s no escaping that.

  But the God honest truth is that I miss him.

  CONTENTS

  PART ONE: IMPERATIVES

  CHAPTER 1

  CHAPTER 2

  CHAPTER 3

  CHAPTER 4

  CHAPTER 5

  CHAPTER 6

  CHAPTER 7

  CHAPTER 8

  CHAPTER 9

  CHAPTER 10

  CHAPTER 11

  CHAPTER 12

  CHAPTER 13

  PART TWO: COUNTRY MICE

  CHAPTER 14

  CHAPTER 15

  CHAPTER 16

  CHAPTER 17

  CHAPTER 18

  CHAPTER 19

  CHAPTER 20

  CHAPTER 21

  CHAPTER 22

  CHAPTER 23

  CHAPTER 24

  CHAPTER 25

  CHAPTER 26

  PART THREE: A GUNSHOT, AIMED AT BIRTH

  CHAPTER 27

  CHAPTER 28

  CHAPTER 29

  CHAPTER 30

  CHAPTER 31

  CHAPTER 32

  CHAPTER 33

  CHAPTER 34

  CHAPTER 35

  CHAPTER 36

  CHAPTER 37

  CHAPTER 38

  CHAPTER 39

  CHAPTER 40

  CHAPTER 41

  CHAPTER 42

  CHAPTER 43

  CHAPTER 44

  CHAPTER 45

  CHAPTER 46

  CHAPTER 47

  CHAPTER 48

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  PART ONE

  IMPERATIVES

  You will not wound another.

  You will wield no weapons unless so sanctioned.

  You will not harm our servants.

  You will not bar your doors or windows.

  You will not hide.

  We will visit and you will welcome us in.

  The night is not yours.

  Our ways must not be walked.

  Do not dissemble.

  You will be found out.

  Do not try to run.

  We will catch you.

  CHAPTER 1

  EVERY STORY SHOULD start with a fight. Fists bunched, all knuckles, blood in the mouth and laughter.

  Every story should start with a hand clenched around a bit of chalk, making the circle and the seven upon a front door. A door that can’t be locked on any account.

  The Sun, I draw it in chalk. I draw it simply (a circle the size of my palm, the seven lines that radiate from it) in the style of the Day Boys. Big enough that there’s no mistaking it. That Sun means my Master is coming to see you: coming for his measure of blood. Your door will open, and he will enter, talk awhile, if the mood takes him, and then he will drink.

  In truth, for Midfield, and the rest of the towns east and west that cleave to the city’s rule, a single line scratched across the door would be enough. No one but a Day Boy would dare to make the chalk mark.

  It’s a courtesy, nothing more, but courtesies hold weight in this town.

  I’m just finished with my circle and seven when I spy George, done from his day at Saul’s Butchery. He gives me a wave. He’s a big bloke, three times my size at least. The grin he gives me is lit with weariness, the steps up to his verandah creak under him.

  ‘That time again?’ He drops onto the bench on his verandah; it too creaks beneath his weight. He rests his hands by his sides, neat and particular like a lot of big men. I can smell the day’s work on him, sweat and honey. He tends a hive in the hills when he has time. There’s a mark on his cheek from a sting.

  Folk are always surprised when their turn comes round; I guess time surprises us all. Even if it’s only twice a month. The beats of the day pass by unnoticed until they hit you.

  ‘Yes. He’ll be here tonight.’ I slip the chalk back into my pocket.

  George wipes his hands on his pants. ‘You thirsty?’

  It’s a hot day, but I won’t be drinking, not here. I get a prickle, a little premonition of hard words from Dain. I can’t hide my desire, though, or the thinking better of it. Dain says I’m an open book, and Master Dain knows all about books.

  George lifts his hat, his hair thin beneath. Scratches his scalp. ‘It’s all right boy, I won’t hold you. When I was your age the day was a million directions, all of them herding me, all of them saying, this way, come here! Days like this, long as they are, they’re even worse. Go and get yourself in trouble.’

  That’s George, good old George. I don’t give him time to rethink the sentiment.

  But I’m barely a block away, sucking back on a smoke that I’ve rolled pretty swell, when Twitcher calls out to me. ‘Mark!’ First I mistake him for a crow, caw, caw, cawing. Then he’s caught me up.

  ‘Mark, Dougie’s after you.’

  Trouble. Always got its sights on me. Better Dougie than a Hunter’s what I always say. But Hunters never come into
a town like ours really, they wouldn’t dare. The monsters they stalk are in the south and north, remnants of that last war.

  ‘Dougie.’ I puff myself up. ‘After me, is he?’

  Twitch rolls his eyes; he just wants this done. This heat brings out every kind of impatience. ‘Says you know where to go.’

  ‘Not the cave then?’

  ‘Not that kind of meeting.’

  I cast a glance back to George’s place but he’s gone inside. Should have taken him up on that drink. I have another drag of my smoke, flick it to the ground all casual.

  If Dougie’s got a fight in mind, which he has, he’ll be waiting by the field on the edge of town. No idea what I’ve done this time but we Day Boys take our insults and challenges seriously. I grin at Twitcher. ‘Will you be joining me?’

  Twitch gives me a flat look, not a twinkle to be seen. He kicks at a stone. ‘I better,’ he says.

  ‘What’d I do?’

  Twitch shrugs. That passes for conversation in these situations. He walks close to me, like he’s frightened I’ll run away. Run away where? Day Boys don’t run. I crack my knuckles, lope a bit, swing those knuckles low and parallel to the cracked earth. Try to get a laugh out of Twitch.

  The boy’s as grave as blood; chills my guts a little. So I straighten up, and we walk all funereal, him and me, in silence, kicking our boots in the dirt. I stop to piss, but then I can’t, feel it draw up in me. What a misery! All that discomfort and not a drop of release. Twitch finds a bit of humour in that.

  ‘Should I fight you first?’ I say.

  He shakes his head, quick, lifts his hands high. ‘Might wanna keep your strength.’

  ‘True that.’

  And we’re both smiling, despite what’s coming. And that’s how it is when we turn the last bend in the road, heat and dust rising from everything ahead and behind.

  Dougie’s waiting for me on the beginnings of the dirt road that heads out of town. Nothing more than a trail now, barely that, but it leads out and out to the elsewhere of Hunters and the monsters they stalk, out beyond the calm of the towns that run along the line to the city. North and south are the Bad Lands, and here is just before they start.

  Right where Dougie and the other boys are. Standing on the edge of safety. He’s curling his fingers closed, then opening them, giving a nail a bit of a chew, his stovepipe hat pulled low over his face so I can’t see his eyes. I try not to squint. I turn my head, spit on the ground.

  He whistles a little tune then stops, pretends startlement.

  ‘You took your time.’ His voice is soft, and polite like a fillet knife.

  ‘Such a beautiful afternoon.’ I smile in the dusty heat, my belly cold, and swing a fist into his face.

  You get the first punch in. Sometimes you might not get another.

  CHAPTER 2

  DAIN SAYS WE fight to breathe. We fight to be born and forever after we’re all rage at the brevity of the world and its multitudes of cruelties. I’m not sure about that. But we fight. And we Day Boys fight like we’re men angry and sanguine. Little soldiers marking doors with chalk, sketching the seven-pointed Sun upon the wood. Working and walking, all strut and talk—until we fight. And then the talk doesn’t matter anymore.

  My punch catches him in the mouth. The force of it runs up my arm; his teeth clack together. And he stumbles backwards, hat flying. But he recovers almost at once. I stand there a moment to see what I have done, shaking my sore hand. Dougie blinks a slow blink and touches his lip a little hesitant, but only I’m close enough to read that. He studies the blood on his fingers. Then he rolls his shoulders.

  I start swinging again, but he’s ready. I’ve had my shot and he’s coming at me. And I’m not fast enough for those fists. Not the first hit or the second or the one after.

  All I can do is grin and take it. Day Boys don’t run.

  I don’t know what Dougie’s problem was before but he’s mad as a snake now. I shouldn’t be showing my teeth like I am. But the bastard looks like an idiot when he swings his heavy fists: knuckles gritty with chalk. He shouldn’t look so dumb because those knuckles offer a hell of a lot of hurt. But then again pain can be funny. And you gotta laugh, don’t you?

  There’s nothing worse than the dog that’s not the top but wants to be, and that grin of mine makes him swing harder. I spit blood in his face, and he snarls at me, offended: a beaten boy should just take it.

  I’m on my rear, and the Sun’s beating down almost as hard as Dougie, and blood’s flowing, nose, split lip, grazed cheek, and every time I try and get up, Dougie pushes me back onto that hard-packed earth. And I sit up again: blinking out sweat and dust and the cruel Sun.

  I take myself a glance past the prick.

  There’s his stovepipe hat, skew-whiff in the dirt. An affectation, Dain calls it. Well, I belted that affectation right off his skull.

  Past that sad old hat it seems like half the town’s youth are watching. Two circles, orbits Dain would say, and it’s always what Dain says, he’s the one that sees how the town works. Two circles like they’re two worlds, and they are. A circle of Day Boys. And in a wider circle the other lads of Midfield—keeping back, all big eyes and gentle bones, and I don’t blame them. To be such a boy, possessed of such timidity, scared of the dark, scared of what might be coming, rising with the night and creeping through the window.

  I know what’s coming. Oh, I know! All us Day Boys do. And it doesn’t creep.

  There’s a few girls there too, but I don’t see Anne. I don’t see Grove, either. Interesting. Chief Day Boy, and he isn’t here to see my beating.

  There’s another orbit further out. So far we can’t see it, beyond the dry woods, circling where the cold children are in their ditches and drains long forgotten. There’s always things circling.

  I blink. And I blink.

  ‘Are you done?’ Dougie says, his lip fat because I got in that good hit myself—just the one. But I’ll take my delights where I can, and that swelling mouth of his is a joy to see; a radiant hurt that I’ve made, me and my raw stinging fists. He lifts me by my shirtfront, the cotton tearing, and growls straight in my face: all hot foul breath. ‘You done?’

  I’d not done anything, far as I can tell. I spit another gob of blood in his face, and he thumps me again, twice, and then drops me so I can’t help but fall. I’m seeing constellations, and I’m hitting that dirt hard with my spine, and laughing. True. I still can’t stop laughing.

  He takes another swing, and I kick him in the shin.

  ‘Stupid little shit,’ Dougie hisses, and I kick out at him again. He’s ready for it, gives me a good boot back and it knocks the wind from me.

  I scramble away best I can, trying to draw breath, and Dougie picks up a bit of wood, solid bit of wood, two-by-four. I close my eyes, raise my hands, wait for it to come.

  It doesn’t.

  I crack those lids a bit. There’s Grove. My mate Grove, standing over Dougie. There’s a hardness to Grove’s eyes that you don’t often see with him, a look of disgust. No, disappointment. He holds the two-by-four in one hand: an accusation. Taps it hard into his palm with a satisfying sort of a slap.


  ‘Enough,’ Grove says. He’s got a good foot of height over Dougie, and he isn’t tired from thrashing me.

  I thought I’d seen Dougie mad, but I hadn’t seen anything. He’s back on his feet, snarling and spitting (not a drop of blood in that spit, even with his fat lip). Grove pushes him back down. Easy. Like he could do it all day, and Dougie lands hard, and winded. He stays there. Pinned beneath Grove’s glaring eyes.

  ‘Enough,’ Grove says, and Dougie nods.

  Grove’s my best mate. If we’re allowed such things, which we shouldn’t be since his Master, Egan, and mine rarely see eye to eye. He offers me his hand, and I take it. Trust is the only thank you I can give him. He yanks me to my feet and it hurts a bit but I don’t show it. Grove’s still got a good grip on that two-by-four with his other hand.

  He waves it in Dougie’s direction. ‘Stay down, Dougie.’ Dougie seems to think about it, but not for long. He does as he’s told. I can see it’s killing him and I try not to smile, I really do, but I can’t help it.

  ‘Stay down,’ I say.

  Grove frowns at me, pushes me in front of him. ‘Get walking, Mark.’

  ‘You weak little boy,’ Dougie shouts. ‘Like your Master. Hating what you are. Come back and fight me fair.’

  ‘Keep walking,’ Grove says, looking capable with that two-by-four in his hands, looking like he knows what to do, because Grove always does, even if it’s the wrong thing. He’s slowing his stride for me like he does. I always feel like I’m playing catch-up with Grove.

  His slowing burns me a little. How can kindness be an insult? Grove’s like that, though. That’s what gets him into trouble, because there’s all sorts of ways trouble will find you. And kindness is one of them.

  ‘Thank you,’ I say. I have to say something.

  ‘You’d do the same for me, Mark.’

  No, I wouldn’t. We both know that, but I nod all the same. Hell, maybe I would.