by Andrew Tudor
“Ah well,” Hart said smiling sadly. “I’ve learned a lot about human gullibility since then, including my own, and especially in the last few years.”
Rowlands gave him a quizzical look, was about to say something but then thought better of it. Instead, he drummed his fingers on the desk and stared past Hart at the wall behind him. Finally, when the silence became uncomfortable, he turned his attention to Hart once more.
“All right, what do you think we should do?” he asked.
“I think you should disperse. When I travelled down here from Nottingham I found a lot of empty houses and I’m sure there are many more now. Scatter your people in all directions and leave this place deserted. Then, when the PeePees have pushed on west you could return here if you wanted. Even if they leave behind a holding force, I doubt that it will be very big. They’ll want maximum numbers when they reach the more populous areas.” Hart paused, thinking, then continued. “Mind you, I don’t know what chance you’d have in the long run. A lot will depend on whether they succeed in their campaign.”
Rowlands looked sceptical. “I don’t like it,” he said. “I don’t think we’d ever get all our people back together again.”
“Would that be any great loss?” Hart asked. “It’s not exactly a homogenous committed group of communards that you’ve got now.” Conscious that Rowlands had a great deal of his ego invested in the ERA community, he added solicitously, “Maybe you could start again somewhere safer with more carefully chosen members?”
“Somewhere safer!” Rowlands laughed, though without humour. “Where would that be? I chose Whipsnade because it was such a promising location and I thought we could defend it. I’m not inclined to give it up just because of those religious maniacs.”
Recognising that their discussion was going nowhere, Hart stood up. “It’s up to you, of course. You know my views. Now I’m going for a walk in the park.”
Rowlands nodded. “When will you leave?” he asked, clearly now resigned to the inevitable.
“In a day or two. I’m going to go south so I need to talk to those guys who are hoping to form a republican cell in the Homeland. I want to know what route they’re going to take so I don’t get tangled up with them.”
He might have added, though he did not, that he also needed to acquire certain equipment from their growing arsenal. Instead, he said simply, “I’ll see you before I go,” and left Rowlands sitting disconsolately at his desk.
The park was a pleasant enough place in the evening sunshine and he could easily understand Rowlands’ desire to stay. He would be inclined to do so himself were it not for the imminent arrival of the PeePees and, more important, the fact that he now felt that he had something specific to accomplish. He wandered down to the yaks’ favoured grazing area and sat on his bench. The usual beast – his yak, as he thought of her – left the others to their feeding and lumbered over to visit him. She was now so tame that she all but pushed him over, lowering her head to be scratched and grunting contentedly.
“I’m afraid I’ll be leaving soon, old girl,” he murmured. “I hope you weather the storm that’s coming.”
With one final pat on her bony skull, Hart continued across the parkland until he reached a nondescript building with large double doors at the front and a smaller entrance to the side. He knocked firmly on the side door and, after a pause, it opened a little way and a man peered out.
“Well then, it’s the important Mr Hart,” he said, backing away to allow Hart to enter. “This is a rare treat.”
“Don’t take the piss, Geordie,” Hart said with a grin. “I might take offence.”
“Aye, that’ll be the day, Jonathan. What can I do for you?”
They were standing in a large open area, once some kind of repair shop for the zoo, with workbenches around the perimeter and a variety of more substantial pieces of machinery scattered here and there. Several of the benches held weapons in various states of disassembly, while the surface on which Geordie had been working boasted a number of obscure electronic devices to which Hart could not even give a name. He picked up a small plastic box with two buttons on its surface and wires trailing from its rear. Turning it over in his hands he eyed it suspiciously.
“I’m going to need one of those explosive belts that you’ve been working on, Geordie, but with some minor adjustments.”
Geordie took the box out of his hands. “Careful with that,” he said. “You never know what it might do.” He replaced it gently on the bench. “Minor adjustments, eh. What kind of minor adjustments?”
“You make them with a timer for detonation, don’t you?” Hart enquired.
“Yes, and a tidy piece of work it is too.”
“What I’d like,” Hart continued, “is that, but with the addition of a dead man’s switch.”
“And what would that be for?” Geordie asked.
“Emergencies,” Hart replied. “If I’m going to get captured it will allow me to take a lot of them with me. Not that I intend to get caught, but it’s a fail-safe just in case.”
The engineer gave him a hard look. “That’s a bit of a desperate measure,” he said.
“Desperate times, Geordie, desperate times. But can you do it?”
“Aye, it’s easy enough.” Geordie picked up another of the small devices that littered the bench, this one looking rather like a fat pen with a button on its top. “This is the sort of thing,” he said, showing it to Hart. “It connects into the existing detonator. Once you enable it you have to keep holding this button down. Let it go, boom!”
“That’s exactly what I need,” Hart said, taking the device and examining it. “Could you set up a belt with this for me?”
“OK. If that’s what you want. I’ll fix it so you can power it down if you change your mind.” He eyed Hart suspiciously. “You’re sure about this? It’s a dangerous bit of kit to carry around.”
“Yes, I’m certain.” Hart smiled at him. “It’s only a backup in case of emergency.”
“A backup – I see.” Geordie sounded sceptical. “All right then. Come by around midday tomorrow and I’ll have it for you. But don’t you go blowing yourself up.”
Agreeing to return the next day, Hart left the workshop and walked back to his chalet. Retrieving the letter and map that he had found in Lionel’s house, he sat at his table and examined them again. Then he took down a much larger map from a shelf and spread it across the table. He knew from Lionel’s documents the extent of the PeePee army’s proposed front. What he didn’t know was how far they might stray south of that front and what towns and cities were to be major targets. He presumed that they would want to steer clear of any entanglement with Homeland troops after their humiliation at Loughton. Hence his intention to move south himself and wait for them to pass by to his north. But how near dare he go to the Homeland border?
After much consideration he settled on heading for the area around Kings Langley which lay only just outside the Homeland. The PeePees would surely remain north of the small satellite towns like Hemel Hempstead and St Albans so he would be well placed to check on their progress. As to their principal goals, he could only speculate. Once they had moved on he planned to follow them in the hope that their intentions might become clearer, allowing him to decide only then on his best strategy. Satisfied at last that he had done what he could, Hart retired to bed and to a restless sleep constantly interrupted by bad dreams.
The next day he collected his modified explosive belt from Geordie, who warned him once again about its dangers, and then retrieved an automatic weapon, ammunition, and dried instant food supplies from one of his special caches. He carefully packed all this into his rucksack, adding his silenced pistol as well as the PeePee pendant and the Guardian robe that he had taken from Lionel’s house. Then, bearing the last of his bottle of whisky, he sought out Rowlands in the early evening.
“I’m going to
leave first thing tomorrow. Got some glasses?” he asked, laying the bottle on Rowlands’ table and adding with a wry smile, “We can drink to the future.”
Rowlands fetched two glasses and, after pouring the contents of the almost empty bottle into them, he took one and held it up to the light, eying the small quantity of golden spirit that it held. “That’s probably about as much future as there’ll be,” he observed.
“Mmmmn,” Hart nodded. “Perhaps so – tomorrow’s the day the PeePees are scheduled to start their advance. Here’s to it all going wrong.” He raised his glass, clinked it against his friend’s, and savoured the whisky.
They continued chatting for a while, mostly about the past since the present and the future had so little to recommend them. At last Hart stood up and embraced Rowlands.
“I’m sorry things have worked out this way, Jerry. I’m glad I came across you again after all these years. Maybe I’ll find you after the PeePee crisis is over. Please hide somewhere. They’ll be coming.”
Rowlands nodded. “Perhaps I will. I’ll decide with the others tomorrow. You take care of yourself.”
After yet another restless night, at first light Hart arose, looked around the chalet for the last time trying to recall only its few happy memories, then strode unobserved out of the zoo’s main entrance and disappeared down the road to the south.
In the heat of early evening four indistinct figures, two adults and two children, struggled up the steep forest path which led from Parque Lage onto the granite outcrop of the Corcovado. They emerged from the trees to discover that they were not alone. The viewing platform beneath the massive Cristo Redentor was crowded with others also seeking refuge from the chaos of the city below. The view of Rio de Janeiro from here was justly famed, a panorama running from the beaches in the south to the sprawl of streets and buildings and people, so many people, to the east and to the north. But it was not that familiar spectacle that had drawn these stunned observers. It was instead the radiance of the many fires that were raging throughout the city.
The destruction wrought by a series of flu epidemics had finally pushed Rio over the precipice of social disorder on which it had teetered for so many years. Vigilante groups, aided by an always violent police force no longer paid nor commanded, had set about destroying the favelas whose largely innocent residents they blamed for Rio’s troubles, while the gangs who had so often controlled the favelas fought back and fought each other. Just as the poor had once spread their impromptu housing up Rio’s forested hillsides, so now fire followed in their footsteps. Everywhere there was burning. The hushed group on the Corcovado clung together, at a loss to comprehend the scene of destruction that lay spread out before them, hoping and praying that Christ the Redeemer, beneath whose statue they sheltered, its arms outstretched in welcome, would indeed bring them redemption.
10
Irene was not much enjoying the experience of bouncing around in the back of a small, poorly sprung lorry, surrounded by sacks of root vegetables. At either side of the half-open rear sat two armed guards, apparently immune to the constant lurching as they watched the countryside go by. Lucy had managed to bury herself in among the sacks with only her head and shoulders visible, a position which held her small frame stable while the vehicle gave the impression of wilfully seeking out potholes. Julie and Irene, however, were too big for that solution and so were grimly hanging on to the rope handles provided for the purpose. Between impacts they were managing a sort of conversation.
“How far are we going in this boneshaker?” Irene asked.
“Only as far as Gloucester Docks,” Julie replied. “After that it’s a barge down the canal to Sharpness and then the River Severn. That should be a lot more comfortable. Con said that this road is in a really bad way because nobody does any maintenance any more. But they daren’t go too slow because of the risk of hijackers.”
“So this is the trip that he’s been doing regularly,” Irene said. “No wonder he’s willing to sail to Scotland with us.”
Julie laughed. “It’s not just that. He’s fed up with the whole set-up between his father and that shit Malvern. This stuff,” – she gestured at the sacks around them – “this is food that’s grown in the Malvern area but is sold on for a profit when it could be used to feed hungry folk back there. His father gets a cut but Malvern takes the lion’s share. Con thinks that Malvern will dispense with their services pretty soon – he needed their help at the beginning but it would be easy enough for him to take over the whole operation now, including their Bristol trading end.”
“He who sups with the devil…” Irene observed drily. “Get involved with somebody like Malvern and pretty soon you’re not much better yourself.”
Julie frowned. “I know. I’ve been saying that to Con ever since we met up again. But he takes a survival-of-the-fittest line. Just do what you have to do, he says. Let the weak go to the wall.”
“That’s a harsh doctrine. I’d have thought that in the long run it’s co-operation that will allow people to survive the Zeno crisis, not a war of all against all.” Irene eyed the armed guards. “Still, I suppose I’m grateful to have those two here right now.”
Unnoticed by the two women as they talked, the road surface had improved and now they could see out the back of the vehicle that they were no longer in countryside. One of the guards turned to them.
“Nearly there,” he said. “The worst is over.”
Which proved to be correct. The subsequent trip on a laden barge was comfortable and uneventful, although the machine guns mounted fore and aft were a constant reminder that this was anything but an idyllic waterborne holiday. At Avonmouth they transferred yet again, this time to a small boat which ferried them out to where The Cormorant awaited its passengers.
Irene had no idea what to expect, so when they arrived she was pleasantly surprised. Apart from looking remarkably picturesque silhouetted against the low sun, the boat proved to have extensive facilities. Given a tour by Marie, who was clearly very proud of her maritime home, Irene was taken aback to see how much could be packed into such a small space.
“She’s a forty-footer,” Marie explained. “Built back in the twentieth century in Scotland so we’ll be taking her home. Of course, she’s been refitted more than once since then. My dad bought her because he thought rich men should own yachts, but he was never really interested. And anyway she’s not a yacht in the way that people think of them – those big luxury boats or the slim-line ones that they see racing. She’s a motorsailer, very sturdy and dependable. We’ll be safe aboard her.”
Irene was shown the saloon, the two cabins, the galley, the shower, and what she was to learn to call the head. She was duly impressed.
“What’s the wood?” she asked, eyeing the polished surrounds of the saloon. “It’s a gorgeous colour.”
“It’s mahogany. Lovely, isn’t it?” Marie smiled at Irene, obviously pleased to have someone who appreciated her treasure. “For sleeping arrangements, Stuart and me are in the aft cabin. We can put Con, Julie and Lucy in the fore cabin, and you can have one of the settee berths in the saloon. I originally thought of putting Lucy in here,” she added apologetically, “but then I realised that she’ll probably have to go to bed before the rest of us.”
“Oh no, I’ll be fine,” Irene insisted. “I’d sleep on deck if I had to, just to get to Scotland and find my daughter and granddaughter.”
Marie laughed. “No need for that. I think it might be a bit chilly and damp up there. How old’s your granddaughter?”
“She’ll be nine soon. About a year older than Lucy.”
“That one’s a live wire, isn’t she?” Marie said, nodding upwards towards the deck from whence giggles and the patter of feet could be heard. “That’ll be Stuart playing some game with her. He’s good with kids. We thought about having one but with the world in the state it’s in, well, it hardly seems responsible.”
“Maybe,” Marie replied with a shrug. “Anyway, we’ve got to get there first. Let’s sort out an evening meal and then you can tell me exactly where we need to go. As usual, my little brother was rather vague.”
Once they had eaten and an overtired Lucy had been persuaded into her bunk, Marie lifted a large tablet out of its mounts by the wheel and carried it over to the dining table.
“Just let me get the charts up,” she said to Irene, “and you can show me where we’re going.”
Irene pointed at the tablet. “Does that thing connect to the public network then?”
“It used to,” Marie replied, “but that stopped working a while ago. The charts and information logs are all held locally so we’re OK without the connection.” She waved towards the helm where there were other screens and dials mounted. “The GPS systems are still functioning and we’ve got all sorts of radio. We’ll be able to navigate without the network. Now Irene, here’s the Scotland chart. Where should I zoom in to?”
Irene indicated the west coast north of Glasgow and then, as Marie zoomed the map, leaned over and swiped it towards Oban. “The nearest we can get to Duncan’s house by water is to sail up Loch Etive. If we can get ashore here…” she pointed to a spot on the now much enlarged map “… then we can walk over the pass at the head of Glen Noe. It’ll be about eight miles or so. I did it with Robin once when we spent a holiday at Duncan’s. Do you think that’s possible?”
Marie looked at the map for some time, zooming in and out and then consulting various other navigational sources.
“Yes, it looks OK,” she said at last. “We’ll need to get under a road bridge at Connel and some HT cables further on at Bonawe, so we’ll have to lower the mast for both even if there’s no longer any power in the cables. The information here is quite old and rising sea levels may have had an impact on the clearance since then. But with the mast down we’ll be fine anyway. And there’s a tidal race to deal with at the bridge: the Falls of Lora.”