“Just some pepper then. I can put it on the griddle over the fire. Bring it in then.”
“All of it?” Aron interrupts.
“What do you mean all of it?” Tina asks swinging round to face Aron with a frown.
“Well ... we got a bit more than-”
“A bit more! We did good Tina. We got a whole trolley full.”
“A trolley full? Let me see.”
Walking behind Tina to the shed his chest swells with pride. She’d sent him to the shops to get some meat and he’d brought the shop to her.
She opens the door and stares at the laden trolley in silence.
“What we can’t eat we’ll sell.”
“What we can’t eat! Where the hell did you get this lot from?”
Jake thinks back to the butcher’s shop and George Henson now locked into his own cold store. “The supermarket. We raided their cold store.”
“And just where the very hell did you get that from?” She stabs at Henson’s rifle standing propped in the corner.
Jake nudges Aron in the ribs. “I told you to make sure that was put away,” he hisses.
“I did. I put it up in the corner. It’s safe.”
Jake grits his teeth, irked by the stupidity of the man. Now he’d have to come clean and tell her the whole grisly story about the theft and she’d start wittering about how he’d get locked back up and she’d be on the outside having to wait—again!
“Nobody saw us, love,” he says by way of explanation. “There’s no CCTV, so no evidence, and we had helmets on so the bloke-.”
“The bloke!”
He groans. “We’re going to sell it,” he says deflecting the conversation.
“It’ll rot in here.” She turns to him with a scowl.
He hates to see the crease between her brows. He’s in for it now; a hard time and the cold shoulder for a good few hours—days, probably.
“It’s already hot this morning and it’ll only get hotter.”
“We meant well, Tina,” Aron adds.
She sighs and shakes her head, her lips pursed, and Jake sinks with the familiar sense of failure.
“If you’re going to sell it you’d best get on with it,” she insists swatting at one of the flies that has already begun to buzz around the open shed door.
Jake stares from his wife’s hardened face to the trolley.
“Well go on then!” she chides. “Pull it out. Let’s see what you’ve got. I can salt some of it.”
Ten minutes later Tina has filled several containers with meat for themselves and is busying herself lighting a fire in the back garden as Jake stands at the first doorstep scanning the surrounding houses, mentally organising his route through the estate, and noting any unwelcome interest, a habit he’s found hard to drop though he hasn’t been involved in any criminal activity for the past two years. Tina had insisted on moving to the town after his last stint in prison. She wanted a different kind of life and expecting the coppers to turn up each day and raid the house was not something she was prepared to do. A pang of guilt waves over him as he knocks at the door again, but this, he debates with an imaginary Tina in his head, is different. This is a matter of life and death. They were in crisis and he wasn’t about to let her starve. They needed the money to buy food and he was, in fact, doing everyone on the estate a favour; otherwise the meat would be kept for the likes of George Henson and the other fat, rich buggers in the town.
Tap! Tap! Tap!
The door swings open and a girl, not more than nine years old, and still dressed in nightclothes, opens the door. She looks at Jake then Aron with a frown. “Yeah?” she asks nonchalantly.
“Get your dad, love.”
“Dad!” she calls whilst simultaneously closing the door and turning away. Another call of ‘dad’ muffles as she wanders back through the house and they wait for the thudding footsteps of Jack ‘Mad Dog’ Docherty. Jake takes a step away from the door’s threshold as the figure of Mad Dog approaches through the tinted glass. At six-foot seven and with a reputation as a fighter, he’d earned his nickname from the stunts he’d pulled on his motorbike as a teenager along with his propensity to lose himself to a tearing, violent, and terrifying rage when in a fight. Bloody noses and broken bones were the least of your worries if you got on his wrong side.
The door swings open and the hardened face of Mad Dog stares down at Jake. He doesn’t speak and it’s a moment before Jake realises he’ll have to initiate the conversation.
“Morning Jack.” He takes a quick look around at the surrounding houses. Mad Dog follows his gaze and scans the area, instantly alert to the fact that Jack isn’t on legitimate business.
“Get round to the side door,” he growls.
“Sure, sorry mate.” Jake steps over the grass as the door clicks shut.
At the side door Mad Dog waits but doesn’t invite them inside. “What you got?” he asks gesturing to the long gym bags slung across their shoulder. “Not tea-towels and pegs by your shifty looks.”
Jake drops his bag to the floor ignoring the slight on his wife’s heritage. “Sirloin and T-bone steaks. Pork and lamb chops. Best Lincolnshire sausages,” he says unzipping the bag.
Suddenly interested, Mad Dog peers down into the bag. “Ain’t that a sight for sore eyes. How much?”
“Ten pounds a steak,” Jake attempts.
“Not a chance. Keep it real.”
“Five then.”
“I don’t think so. I’ll give you a quid a piece.” He reaches into his back pocket and pulls out a twenty-pound note.
Jake zips the bag back up and turns to leave. He was expecting to make thousands on this haul, not hundreds.
“Just wait a minute.”
Triumph slides across Jake’s cheeks but he damps it down as he turns back to the huge man in the doorway then swallows it to the pit of his belly as he recognises the dangerous glint in Mad Dog’s eyes.
“What do you think you’re playing at, offering me food then taking it away?” His voice rises with menace as his frown deepens. “My wife and kids are starving in there.”
Before Jack has time to react, Mad Dog tears the gym bag from his hands and disappears into his house.
“What the!” Aron shouts.
“Shut up!” Jake hisses. His palms burn from the ripping of nylon handles against soft skin unused to work.
“He took the bag. Get it back.”
“It’s Mad Dog,” Jake whispers. “You don’t mess with him. Let’s just go.”
The door opens as Jake turns to leave and the bag slides along the dusty concrete path to stop at his heels.
“Let’s go.” Jake picks up the bag. It isn’t empty but a good portion of the meat has gone and the familiar sense of failure envelops him.
“If I catch you at my door again ...”
CHAPTER EIGHT
Sam turns back to the Police Station as the car taking George to the hospital moves away from the kerb. A small crowd still lingers outside and as Sam pushes through he enters the door to a chant of, ‘Hang the bastards!”
He closes the door with a sigh of relief then twists the slatted shutters of his office windows to block out the sight of the crowd. He slumps into his chair, closing his eyes as his heart beats a rapid tattoo that fills his chest.
As the chanting subsides Martha enters with a soft knock. “Sam, do you think it’s time we made our way to the park?”
He groans inwardly.
“I’ve just seen a couple of groups walk past.”
His guts twist.
“One lot had a wheelbarrow full of barbecue coals so I think the message got out.”
A small wave of relief washes over him. Anxiety about the barbecue had bitten at him since the morning’s conversation with Bill and snapped at him since the discovery that there was even less meat to distribute thanks to some thieving little shite.
The chanting fades as Sam forces himself to rise from the seat and when he steps out of the door the small mob of over-excited and angry me
n and women has disappeared. A lone protestor sits slumped against the low wall, his head lolling against his shoulder. Sam kicks at one of the numerous beer cans littered on the path. It clatters and clinks then rolls to a stop at the man’s feet but doesn’t wake him from his sleep.
“They’re drunk.” Sam kicks at another can as he strides across the road.
“There’s no water; it’s all people have got to drink.”
He sighs, welcoming the relief the deep breath brings. “You’re supposed to get drunk at a barbecue, not before it.” He clasps Martha’s hand and takes comfort from its firmness.
Outside George’s shop, supermarket trolleys are lined up in an orderly fashion, a guard stationed beside each one. Sam steps into the shop to check on progress.
“I don’t believe it was one of us who stole the meat,” Chugger states as Sam drops the last of the sausages into a bag.
“I’ll be carrying out an investigation later this afternoon.”
“Yeah, but it wasn’t one of us.” Chugger grabs a bag of meat from the butcher’s block and strides to the door.
Sam can think of nothing until the afternoon’s event is over and, unwilling to discuss the matter, he repeats his intention of carrying out the investigation later and joins the group of Protectors to walk up to the park. The sight of three trolleys full of meat, along with the bags that he and Martha carry, is reassuring. There were three other butchers in the town that had agreed to hand over their stock and one supermarket. A small truck had been found to collect that stock. If each one of those had this much meat then perhaps there would be enough to go around.
As they make their way to the park, the roads fill with a steady trickle of people and, as he reaches the park’s entrance, he’s relieved to see that instructions are being followed; the imposing wrought iron gates have been closed, shutting off the large entrance so that only the smaller pedestrian gate can be used. The trickle of people is forming an orderly queue and passing through the gate without issue. A child bounces a ball, catches it and throws it back to his father. Smiling, the man returns it.
Once inside, a smile breaks across Sam’s face. Six large barbecues are lined up across the grass, access to each one demarcated by a roped walkway. Ten smaller barbecues are grouped and ringed off by rope with definite entry and exit points marked by signs written in large and unmistakable black marker. Smoke rises as the coals burn. Protectors stand at each barbecue and at the entrance to each station.
“It’s all very organised, Sam,” Martha declares.
Sam scans the area noticing that his instructions have been followed but the arrangement of the barbecues and the clearly marked entrance and exit points are an addition to his efforts. A familiar figure steps out from the trees on the far side of the park. Bill. With a rifle slung over his shoulder, combat-style fatigues, black T-shirt and backpack, he looks every inch the soldier. As he strides across the grass, the lithe figure of the girl who’d explained about purifying the water steps out from the far side, and next to her is a man Sam hasn’t seen before but, from his gait, close cropped hair, and defined muscles, there’s no mistaking his training. Each one walks with a purpose, alert to their surroundings, and each one is armed. He searches among the trees for the blond giant, sure that he will make an appearance at any moment.
“We’ve posted guards along the perimeter and at each entrance to the park,” Bill explains as he reaches Sam.
“Is the gun necessary?” Sam gestures to the automatic rifle slung across Bill’s torso.
“It is. The people will be reassured and intimidated.”
“Intimidated? It’s supposed to be a fun afternoon.”
“It will be.” Bill pats the stock of the rifle. “Don’t underestimate what hunger can do to people. You’ve got a half-starved horde on its way.”
Sam casts a glance at the groups dotted over the grass. Families with young children sit on chequered picnic blankets, an older couple sit in deck chairs facing the area marked out for the band, a middle-aged mother and father stand patiently with lookalike teenagers towering above them, and a younger couple sit up against the thick trunk of the towering elm, the man’s arm lovingly resting across the woman’s shoulder as she leans against him. It was hardly a horde.
“Well-”
A shout rises from the main entrance and the tension headache across the back of Sam’s head tightens as the noise is followed by a scream laced with anger. He turns to the gates in unison with Bill.
“I’ll go.”
ALTHOUGH THE PEOPLE swarming through the gates appeared innocuous enough: mothers, fathers, children, young men and women, Bill was on high alert. That was the problem. They were now swarming and, looking more closely through the groups of overweight, middle-aged men and women, and young families pushing toddlers in their prams, the tension in their body language was obvious. One or two shared a joke, but many were tight-faced, frowning across the carpark and the grass beyond as they moved towards the barbecues.
A young woman, dressed in jeans with midriff bare beneath the rise of small breasts, pushes through the gateway, stepping over the wheel of a buggy, jostling the woman in front. Bill catches the look of anger that rides across the shoved woman’s face. Her jowls wobble as she turns to the middle-aged and paunchy man at her side. Bill doesn’t need to hear their words to understand their exchange; the look of spite and irritation that crosses their brows is enough. Stepping forward, Bill stands in plain view, rifle across his chest; let them see him, armed and in control. The flabby woman looks taken aback as their eyes meet and quickly shifts her gaze. A young boy tugs at his mother’s hand and points to Bill. Following his pointing finger, she catches Bill’s eyes, stares at the gun, then puts a protective arm around her son’s shoulder, hugging him to her. Bill attempts a half-smile to put the boy at ease.
Checking across the area, Bill notes the numerous stewards; the bright yellow of their high visibility vests pops against the backdrop of trees, grass and milling groups of people. Further afield, Sam’s Protectors walk along the park’s boundary; at least three, all armed, stand guard at the smaller gated entrance as people stream down the path towards the park’s centre, an area that had seemed large only an hour ago, but which was now closing in on Bill.
Smoke rises from the lit barbecues and, at the first waft of seared steak, Bill’s mouth begins to water. The people around him surge and shouting breaks out at the gate.
“Watch it!”
“Let me through!”
Grunts, yells, and expletives follow as the gate becomes blocked by another surge from the waiting crowd on the other side.
“Steady!” Bill steps forward, heartbeat rising.
The crowd that has already passed through picks up pace and moves towards the smoking fires, but at the gate a large woman jolts against the stone wall as an older man pushes past her. As he twists to get by, another man attempts to squeeze through the gap and the older man is forced against the woman’s soft flesh. White beard resting on her head, his belly crushes against her ribs. She screams as her face scratches against the rough stone. The younger man, his face contorted with effort as his back slides over the gate’s metal doorjamb, shouts in anger. Disgruntled voices rise to a cacophony as the three bodies block the entrance. Beyond the gates the street is filled with people as far as Bill can see. The crowd surges yet again as people push from the back, urged on by the mouth-watering aroma of sausages, beef, pork and lamb sizzling above hot, smoking coals.
The younger man finally squeezes through and Bill watches with breath caught in his chest as the larger, older man jerks forward. If he falls, he could be trampled. The man stumbles, his fingers scrape against the stone path but he rights himself and staggers forward almost at a run. The woman’s cheek releases from the scraping stone and she too stumbles away from the entrance and makes her way to the barbecues.
“Order!” Bill shouts as the crowd surges and the narrow gate fills once more.
“Open the large
gate.” Alex’s breath comes hard. “I saw the crush.” He gestures to the gate. “I think we should open the gate.”
A woman screams as she’s knocked against the metal of the smaller gate’s frame.
“Hell!” Bill strides to the larger gate. Alex is right; these people weren’t prepared to wait in an orderly fashion. What had Uri said about the zeitgeist of the nation? It certainly didn’t seem to be what it was. Why can’t they just wait patiently? He slides the huge bolts across the top and then the bottom of the iron gate whilst Alex lifts the steel rod that holds the gate in place from its hole in the road. The crowd swarms, filling the space between the gates and the road.
Pressing up against the bars, hands grasp metal as Bill holds the gate in place. “Ready?”
Alex nods. “Ready.”
The gates creak as they swing open. Bill pushes back against the crowd, forcing a slow opening of the gate. The pressure is immense and shouts rise from the crush. He pulls the gate back to its full extent.
“Walk to the barbecues and form an orderly queue,” he shouts as a wave of people swarms past. “Slowly. Stay calm. Walk please.”
A youth barges through to the front, forcing a young woman against the gate’s metal frame and Bill grabs his collar yanking him to the side next to him. “Wait your turn,” he growls into the man’s staring eyes. Defiance meets his insistence as the younger man tugs at Bill’s grip.
“Gerroff!”
“I said wait your turn.” Bill releases him with a shove and the man stumbles up the light incline and disappears once more into the crowd.
The gates open, tension dissipates, the crowd filters through and thins as it spreads into the park. A young boy, ball in hand, smiles up at Bill as he passes. Classical music fills the air and Bill hopes that at some point the orchestra will play something a little more upbeat than Wagner.
“Not quite what you’d expect on a sunny summer afternoon,” Alex quips.
“No, but perhaps a wise choice.”
“Wise?”
“Yeah. It’s slow and steady. Might help calm this lot down.”
Blackout & Burn: A Complete EMP Thriller Series Page 61