Children's Crusade ac-9

by Scott Andrews

  "We do it by joining them.

  "We do it by fighting for ourselves.

  "We do it by going to war.

  "We've spent all this time looking for allies to help us, and now we've found some. But they need our help instead.

  "So tomorrow, instead of running all the drills we've rehearsed a thousand times, I say we get kitted up, arm ourselves, and take the fight to the enemy. We go to London, we meet up with John and this resistance army in Hammersmith, and we shut these motherfucking nutjobs down and bring those kids here, to safety, where they belong.

  "Who's with me?"

  Tariq stood, mouth gaping open in astonishment, as the whole room rose as one and began cheering. Green stepped down from the podium and walked across to him.

  "They're all yours," he said with a smile.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Caroline rubbed the sleep from her eyes and sat up.

  "What?" she mumbled.

  "There's a man," said the young boy who had just shaken her awake.

  "What kind of man?" she asked, reaching for her jumper.

  "Soldier," said the boy.

  Caroline was instantly awake. She pulled the jumper over her head, grabbed her jeans and got to her feet.

  "Where?"

  "He was at the market just now."

  "Just now? What time is it?"

  "I dunno," shrugged the boy. "Sun's up."

  "You know the rules about going to the market on your own," she scolded.

  "Didn't go on my own," he pouted. "Went with Jimmy and Emma."

  "Who are how old?" she asked, rhetorically. But the boy had stuck out his lower lip and refused to make eye contact.

  Caroline shook her head wearily, wondering when she ended up a mother.

  "Okay," she said. "So this soldier, why come tell me?"

  The boy sulked a little bit more then finally muttered, petulantly: "He was asking about us."

  "Did anyone tell him anything?"

  The boy shook his head.

  Caroline reached down and began secreting her arsenal of knives about her person, then she grabbed her shotgun and ran for the door.

  The man was not very subtle.

  It was not uncommon to see people dressed in combat gear, especially these days. But something about the way he wore it told you that it was more than just an affectation. This man was a soldier born and bred; his bearing and body language proclaimed it like a loudhailer. It was something about the way he looked at things. You could see him scanning the environment, calculating routes of ingress and egress, assessing the potential threat of everyone who passed his eye line, turning his body every now and then to make sure his awareness was 360 degrees. He was armed, too, with a machine gun strapped across his chest; his hand was always on it, ready for action.

  This man was alert and dangerous.

  And looking for her.

  She thanked Tom, the potato seller, for allowing her to shelter under his awning as she observed the man, then stepped out into the open square.

  The man clocked her instantly, as she'd expected he would. She stood there and deliberately met his gaze, then nodded right, indicating a side street down which she then walked. He followed her a moment later.

  They met in the quiet street, surrounded by burned out cars and looted shops. She had the shotgun raised and ready to fire as he stepped into view.

  "Hands down," Caroline said.

  He let go of his gun and let his hands fall to his side. Caroline considered shooting him there and then. Even talking to this man was a risk, but after a long moment she decided to let him speak.

  "Who are you and why are you looking for me?" she asked.

  "My name's John. I heard there was an army of kids here, fighting the snatchers. Is that you?"

  He had a Midlands accent, and something about his tone of voice made Caroline feel that perhaps he wasn't the villain she'd been expecting.

  "Maybe. Maybe not."

  "I'll take that as a yes. Good. I have news for you. And an offer."

  "I'm listening."

  "At dawn tomorrow you are going to be attacked by the church. They know where you are and they've decided to finish you off."

  "How the fuck do you know that?"

  "My friends and I captured a bunch of them two days ago. One of them was very talkative."

  Caroline digested this information for a moment, then asked: "Offer?"

  "I want to help."

  "How?"

  "I've got a lot of experience of fighting in urban environments. I can help you, teach you how to give them a very memorable welcome."

  "My mum always warned me to be careful of things that seem to good to be true," said Caroline. "Why would you do this?"

  He shrugged. "Because it's the right thing to do."

  Caroline snorted derisively.

  "I represent a place, a safe place," said the man, undeterred. "A school actually, where a bunch of us look after kids."

  Caroline sneered. "Right," she said. "And that doesn't sound at all creepy." She stared hard at this man, trying to work out if he was telling the truth. Despite her sarcasm, she was surprised to find that her initial instinct was to trust him.

  "This school have a name?" she asked.

  "St Mark's."

  Caroline suddenly felt sick. First Matron and now this guy? This was too much of a coincidence. Matron had gone looking for Spider only yesterday. They must have captured her and tortured her until she told them where Caroline and her kids were hiding.

  This guy, Caroline realised, was a church infiltrator.

  And she knew how to deal with infiltrators.

  "You don't say," said Caroline. "And you run this school, do you?"

  "Me and some others."

  "What's the name of your Matron?" she asked.

  He narrowed his eyes, curious at this unexpected question. "Jane," he said eventually. "Jane Crowther."

  "And you are?"

  "I told you, I'm John."

  "John Keegan?"

  The man's face betrayed his surprise and he nodded. Caroline walked forward, 'til the barrel of her shotgun was less than an inch from the soldier's chest.

  "Where is she?" she asked.

  "What?"

  "Where are you holding her?"

  "I'm sorry, I don't…"

  "Guys!"

  Ten teenaged boys stepped out of doorways and from behind cars, carrying their weapons in plain sight, encircling Caroline and the man.

  "Take the gun off," she barked.

  "Listen, lets rewind a bit, I don't think we…"

  "Take. It. OFF!"

  He did so, letting it clatter to the tarmac from where it was retrieved by one of the boys, who gripped it excitedly. Caroline saw the realisation flash across the man's face — that he had miscalculated, was outnumbered and surrounded. She followed his eyes as they darted left and right, assessing which of the boys he should go for and which route of escape he should take back to the market. She saw his posture change ever so slightly as he prepared to make a move.

  So she stepped forward and brought her knee up hard into the man's bollocks, doubling him over with a whoosh of escaping breath. 'Let's see you make a run for it now,' she thought smugly.

  "Jane left here yesterday, heading straight for you bastards," she said.

  "No, wait…"

  "She told you where we were, didn't she? Jesus, I don't know what you did to her to make her give us up, but I know her. She'd have to be half dead before she told you anything that would lead you to me."

  "You've got it wrong…" the man gasped through his pain.

  A tall boy stepped forward and cracked the man hard across the head with a truncheon. He crumpled to the ground.

  "Don't answer her back, fuckhead," the boy shouted.

  "Luke," said Caroline, addressing the boy. "Get back to the others, tell them to pack up and move out. We're not waiting, we're going now."

  The boy nodded and ran off down the street.
>
  Caroline knelt down beside the man.

  "What was the plan, eh?" she asked. "Infiltrate us, let us think you'd help us fight the church and then lead us into a trap? Box us up and ship us out, problem solved?"

  The man looked up at her. "I'm telling you the truth, I just want to help," he said, his voice rough with pain. "How do you know Jane? When was she here?"

  "I know her, you bastard, because she's my friend. And she tricked you. That's the best bit. She may have led you right to us, but she fucked you up at the same time."

  "I don't…"

  "John Keegan's dead, motherfucker. She told me herself." Caroline laughed, but there was no real humour in it. "She told you to pretend to be a dead man because she knew it would tip us off. So you lose, asshole. She was too clever for you."

  "No, wait, I see what's happened here…"

  Caroline stood up, levelled the shotgun at the man's head, and blew his brains all over the street even as he tried desperately to cling to the cover story she'd so easily seen through.

  "Back home, now," she ordered, and the boys took off down the street.

  Caroline stayed for a moment, looking at the corpse of the man who'd tried to win her trust. She had a moment's doubt. What if…?

  But she shook her head. No.

  "Joke's on you, churchman" she said, and then she ran after her friends.

  John Keegan's body lay in the street until nightfall, when the foxes and the dogs fought over it.

  The foxes won, and dragged it hungrily away.

  Chapter Fourteen

  "I always thought you kind of fancied me, Kate," says Cooper, after swilling down the last mouthful of turkey with a swig of Chablis. It's the first thing he's said since I entered the room, escorted by two guards, and sat down to dinner.

  The spread was impressive and smelt incredible. I considered refusing to eat, sitting there with my arms folded, defiant. But that would have been self defeating. I practically lick the plate clean, despite the nausea that his proximity provokes.

  I consider correcting him, telling him I'm Jane now. But I pause for a moment as it occurs to me that the distinction is no longer so clear cut. Not now, not with this man sitting across the table from me.

  "I did," I reply. "But I always had really, really crappy taste in men."

  "Had?" he asks, amused.

  "I've had better luck since the world ended."

  "So I gather."

  "Excuse me?"

  "I heard on the grapevine that you hooked up with my old mate Sanders." He leans back in his chair, smug at my surprise.

  "Oh yes, I've been keeping tabs on you, Kate. Or, rather, my friends have."

  "The Americans."

  He nods. "I couldn't believe it when your alias cropped up. I tried to tell Blythe that he'd got the wrong end of the stick, but he didn't buy it. He was so convinced you were some kind of spook."

  I have a fork. If I launch myself at him, I've got a better than even chance of getting it through his eyeball. But he knows that I won't. The reason I can't kill him now is the same reason I couldn't shoot him in the Commons. I need answers. Unfortunately, I don't know how to begin asking the questions.

  I can't tell whether he's changed in the last eight years, or whether the version of him I met before The Cull was a carefully constructed act. Is this the real man? He's not that different. Speech patterns and body language are the same. The smile, the eyes, the good natured air of vague sarcasm — it's all exactly the same.

  "You have so many questions for me, don't you?" he asks.

  I nod.

  "Then hit me. I'll fill you in." He dabs his lips with a napkin and pushes his chair back from the table, stretching his legs out and linking his fingers behind the back of his head. The midday sun is streaming through the lead latticed windows along the riverside wall of what used to be the Speaker's Cottage. It casts his face into sharp relief.

  I try to form my first question, but I come up blank.

  "Let me get you started," he says, smiling, for all the world the image of the genial, helpful friend. "Spider is dead. He died that very day."

  The same day I did.

  "How?"

  "I garrotted him."

  "Why?"

  "He had outlived his usefulness."

  I shake my head. "No, sorry. You have to go farther back."

  "The clues are all there. You work it out. The point is that the man who killed your brother is dead."

  "But you let me think he was still alive."

  "Yes, I did. Listen, your role in leading me to his base of operations in Manchester was invaluable. I'd been trying to get a bead on that place for months. Little bastard wouldn't tell me where it was. That was the problem, really. He'd decided not to trust me any more. Thought he could go it alone, run the business without my help and protection. Or, most importantly, without paying me my cut."

  "So you taught him a lesson."

  "Just so. The idea was that he would kill you himself. I planted that really obvious bug in the phone, assuming he'd find it and shoot you. How was I to know he'd go and kill your brother instead? That was a shock, I can tell you, to find out you were alive. I couldn't just kill you, not after that. It would have aroused too much suspicion. So I managed to wangle you into witness protection."

  "And of course my absence protected you, not me."

  "Exactly."

  "You must have needed someone else on the payroll, someone at Hereford."

  "Natch."

  "And another bug besides the one in the phone."

  "In your shoe, set to become active after a couple of hours so that it would avoid detection."

  I nod, dotting Is and crossing Ts in my head. "So you ran Spider's operation, he was just a front?"

  "Uh-huh."

  "And now…?"

  "Now I don't need a psychopathic Serbian mass murderer as my mouthpiece. There's nobody to stop me running my business just the way I want. I use his name though. It had kudos in certain circles. Even after The Cull, there were people who knew the name. It made things easier."

  My mind works furiously, piecing it all together.

  Cooper must have met Spider when he was in Serbia with the SAS during the Balkan conflict. Spider was probably already running some kind of organised crime ring, maybe even a trafficking route. Cooper offers him a way into the British market and they go into business together. Then he leaves the army and joins the police, managing eventually to get himself assigned to the case, making sure no-one gets close to his operation. This all works nicely until one day Spider gets cocky and tries to shut him out and run a Manchester 'branch' all on his own. He must be watching Cooper, making sure he isn't followed. That must be a very complicated game of cat and mouse. No matter what Cooper tries, Spider outwits him.

  Cooper needs a way in that Spider won't see coming. And then I turn up, eager little lamb, and lead him straight there. Cooper uses a few of his mates from the SAS to storm the warehouse. At least one of them must have been on the take.

  (Sanders? No. I dismiss the thought. Couldn't have been.)

  God knows how he spun that one, but he must have had some way to get his bosses to swallow it. He shuts the warehouse down and then hides me away in St Mark's where I can't be any threat to anyone.

  Cooper sits opposite me, studying my face as I process everything he's told me.

  "You're wondering who you can take revenge on now, aren't you, Kate?" he asks. "Spider's dead, and even though I duped you, I was not directly responsible for James' death."

  "Indirectly, though. You planted the fucking bug."

  He shrugs. "Kate, he was dead the moment he caught Spider's eye and you know it. The bug was an excuse on a particular day. If it hadn't been that, it would have been something else."

  He's right. I do know it.

  I consider the man sitting before me and I'm confused. Spider was obviously a monster. Everything about him screamed danger — the way he looked at you, the way he moved, th
e way he spoke. He was a predator, a shark, a psychopath.

  But Cooper is different. Kate never had a moment's unease about him. He was jovial and pleasant but inspired confidence. And he still has an easy capability about him. He doesn't seem unhinged or mad, scary or dangerous at all. He seems like a bloke. Just an ordinary bloke.

  He thinks of people as goods to be traded, commodities whose profit potential can be realised — but his manner gives no hint of the pitiless void at the heart of him.

  "I spent so long fantasising about what I'd do to that man, if I ever had the opportunity," I say.

  "I bet you did. But I'm not him."

  "No, you're not. You're the man who used me, set me up to be killed and then condemned me to a life ruled by a lie."

  "Mea culpa."

  "You're also the man who trafficked vulnerable girls into hell."

  "That too."

  "Why?"

  He shrugs. "Because I can," he says, a parody of abashed modesty, like a cocksure young man admitting to sleeping with a friend's girlfriend; he knows it was wrong but he actually also thinks it was kind of cool.

  "But surely you must have realised it was wrong?" The words feel foolish and naive, but I want an answer.

  "The world was built on slavery, Kate. How do you think this country got built? Or America? Or Rome or the pyramids or anything lasting? What I did, what I do, is perfectly natural. The slave masters of the past were pillars of the community, members of guilds and lodges, knighted and rich, the toasts of the town. Why shouldn't I be?"

  I look at this man I once invited into my bed, and I feel sick to my stomach. Spider may have been a monster, but he wasn't the worst of it. Not by a long shot.

  "I never took advantage. It's important you realise that," he continues. "I busted countless drug dealers in my time. They all had one thing in common — they were users too. The ones who didn't get caught, the smart ones, stayed clean. It was the same with me."

  "So that makes it all right then?" I am on the verge of shouting. I take a deep breath.

  "I trafficked them into the country, I set them up, sourced the clients and took the money," he says, for some reason intent on justifying himself to me. "But never, not once, did I ever take advantage of one of them. That would have left me vulnerable, you see? There was no room for emotional attachments on the job.