Free The North Water by Ian McGuire Page A

found the house, and the route to it appears safe enough.
    â€œDid you sight the treasure?” O’Dowd asks him.
    â€œHe says it is buried in the courtyard inside the house. He showed me where and I started him digging.”
    They follow Price through a complication of narrow alleyways, then out onto a wider street where the shops have been ransacked and the houses are shuttered and silent. There is no one else about, but Sumner is sure these buildings must contain people nonetheless—terrified families crouching in the tepid darkness, jihadis and ghazis licking their wounds, making quiet preparation. They hear noises of carousing from nearby and, from farther off, the sound of cannon fire. The sun is beginning to set, but the heat is steady and unforgiving. They cross the road, picking their way amongst the smoking piles of bones, rags, and broken furniture, then walk another hundred yards until Price halts in front of an open doorway and nods.
    The courtyard is small and square, the whitewashed walls are smeared and grubby, and there are patches of exposed mud brick where the plasterwork has failed. Each wall has two archways let into it, and above the archways runs a ragged wooden balcony. Hamid is squatting down at the center. He has moved one of the flagstones and is scraping away at the loose dirt beneath it.
    â€œHelp me please,” he says. “We must be quick now.”
    Price kneels down next to him and begins to dig with his hands.
    â€œI see a box,” he says, after a moment. “Look, there.”
    The others gather round. Price and Hamid tug the box out of the earth, and O’Dowd smashes it open with his rifle butt. The box contains four or five gray canvas sacks.
    Wilkie picks up one, looks inside it, and begins to laugh. “Jesus Christ,” he says.
    â€œIs it treasure?” Price asks.
    Wilkie shows the sack to O’Dowd and O’Dowd smiles, then laughs and slaps Wilkie on the back.
    Price pulls the other three sacks out of the box and opens them. Two are filled with coins, and the third contains an assortment of bracelets, rings, and jewels.
    â€œOh, fuck me,” Price whispers softly to himself.
    â€œLet me see those darlings,” Wilkie says. Price passes him the smallest bag and Wilkie tips its contents out onto the dusty flagstones. On their knees now, the three assistant surgeons gather round the glistering pile like schoolboys at a game of marbles.
    â€œWe prize out all the stones and melt down the gold,” O’Dowd says. “Keep it simple.”
    â€œWe must go back now,” Hamid says again. “For my son.”
    Still gripped by the treasure, they ignore him completely. Sumner leans forwards and picks out one of the rings.
    â€œWhat are these stones?” he says. “Are they diamonds?” He turns to Hamid. “Are these diamonds?” he asks, showing him the ring. “Is this real?”
    Hamid doesn’t answer.
    â€œHe’s thinking of that boy,” O’Dowd says.
    â€œThe boy’s dead,” Wilkie says, not looking up. “The boy was always fucking dead.”
    Sumner looks at Hamid, who still doesn’t speak. His eyes are wide with fear.
    â€œWhat is it?” Sumner asks.
    He shakes his head as if the answer is much too complicated, as if the time for explanations has gone and they are occupying, whether they realize it or not, a darker and more consequential phase.
    â€œWe go now,” he says. “Please.”
    Hamid takes Price by the sleeve and tries to tug him streetwards. Price snatches his arm away and pulls back a fist.
    â€œWatch yourself now,” he says.
    Hamid stands back and raises both his arms above his head, palms facing forwards—it is a gesture of silent refusal but also, Sumner realizes, of surrender. But surrender to whom?
    There is the crack of a musket from the balcony above them, and the back of Price’s head explodes in a brief carnation of