by RR Haywood
As the sound of the others recedes, so the sand school goes quiet. The six look to each other. Four men. Two women. Each named. Each identified. Each highlighted for the acts they did.
‘Go,’ Howie says to Marcy.
‘Let me,’ she says, pulling her pistol from the holster. The six gibber and beg, they plead and cry. Marcy doesn’t want to do it. She doesn’t want to be here but she’s killed before. She’s taken life. There is sin marking her soul and for that she will keep Howie’s clean.
‘You will leave,’ Howie says with a cold finality. She holsters and walks to the door and through to the café with a glance through the window to see Howie drawing his pistol as the six cry out in fear.
Paula turns to see Marcy coming out and stopping to squint from the bright sun. The rest stop and look round. A second of silence that stretches forever. One shot rings out followed by five quick and precise and in that they all know Howie fired once and Dave the rest.
Tears stream down cheeks. Lips tremble. Cookey wipes his eyes and wishes they were back in the fort. Charlie at his side grim faced. Blowers and Maddox staring down at the ground. Clarence’s great head bowed with a big hand on the back of his neck. Paula puts a hand on his shoulder knowing this is true torture for his pure morals.
Howie comes out. His face dark and unreadable. A mask. Someone they don’t know but he is the man who leads them. Dave behind him. Devoid as ever.
‘Get them away from here, Charlie, take what you need. Everyone else drink…it’s hot…’
‘Yes, Sir,’ Charlie says, moving off.
‘Sir,’ Blowers says.
Clarence stands straight, his rifle brought over the crook of his elbows, ‘yes, Sir,’ he says deep and respectful.
Paula locks eyes on Howie. Unsure of what to say but knowing she could never have done what he just did. In the end she does as the others and nods as she walks on, ‘yes, Sir.’
Eighteen
Tension can be broken with jokes. A bad atmosphere can be lifted with a silly comment and a facial expression pulled in the right way. A mood can be changed.
Not this mood though. This mood is different. It is pensive, strained and even Cookey stays silent.
It didn’t take long for the people to go. They couldn’t get away fast enough. Some were immensely thankful to Paula, the lads, Roy and Clarence. Others were clearly shell-shocked, traumatised and rendered silent by everything that had happened. Some glanced at Howie and Dave with looks of fear. Howie stayed quiet too. He took a smoke from Nick and stood away. Darker and more brooding than ever.
Charlie got what she needed for Jess. A new saddle, reins, spares of everything, stirrups, bags of feed, and nets for hanging straw. The others helped carry and load.
Now they sit once more in the hot Saxon, knees to knees, shoulders to shoulders. Rifles between legs. Bags, axes and hand-weapons stashed wherever they will fit.
‘New saddle looks good, Charlie,’ Nick says, breaking the silence in the Saxon.
‘Yes,’ she says quickly, smiling down the Saxon at him, ‘much better now. Far less painful on my posterior.’
‘Wish I was a saddle,’ Cookey quips, earning a few grateful smiles as Maddox tuts softly and looks up.
‘Loads of different ones,’ Nick says, ‘Saddles I mean…in that shop.’
‘There are, yes,’ Charlie says. ‘Some for jumping, riding, hacking…hunting then of course for dressage and yes, there are literally hundreds of different things that go on a horse.’
‘Oh,’ Nick says, nodding with interest as Marcy worries. She wants to say something and her connection with Howie is such that from all of them, she can say something. Except the feel of the air stops her. After Howie came out it was like he had changed. He wasn’t her Howie. He was Mr Howie. The man in charge that was suddenly unapproachable with a distance between him and everyone else. She looks over at the strands of dark curly hair plastered to his scalp from the sweat they all suffer, and that doesn’t help things either. The fucking heat. The incessant relentless pressure bearing down that makes the air that feel thick, hot and full of moisture. It has to break soon. Another storm will come. Maybe that’s a good thing. Like cleansing.
‘Do the right thing.’ Maddox mutters as though talking to himself but clear enough for everyone to hear. Blowers glares at him, wanting more than ever to drag the twat out and smash his face in.
‘S’hot,’ Maddox says with wince, shifting in his seat. Tops cling to bodies. Heat builds in crevices. Feet are too hot in boots and socks. Hands feel greasy, hair the same. Like they’ll never be clean again. ‘You got everything you needed then, Charlie?’ Maddox asks.
‘I did, thank you,’ Charlie says, knowing she has to reply but sensing, the same as everyone else, that something else is at play.
‘That’s good,’ Maddox says casually, even adding a thoughtful nod. ‘And we got those people away,’ he adds, still nodding. ‘That’s good too.’
Blowers clenches his jaw. Nick stares down and across at Marcy’s knee as she looks to Maddox then past him to Charlie and Blinky.
‘Hey Mo,’ Maddox says with a sudden smile, that easy smile too, his nice one, his charming relaxed smile that catches Mo off guard for a second. The lad turns in response to a voice he knows so well. ‘Remember that girl?’ Maddox asks then tuts, ‘what was her name? Oh yes, Carla…remember her?’
Mo’s face darkens. His eyes grow hard. His whole body stiffens as Dave watches him closely.
‘That was a mess,’ Maddox says, lifting his eyebrows as though reminiscing. ‘You tell everyone what happened with her?’
‘Do not talk to Mohammed,’ Dave says dully.
‘Fair enough,’ Maddox says with his hands splayed open. ‘Sorry, I forgot,’ he turns to look at Charlie, then at Blinky. ‘So this girl Carla right…’
‘Stop,’ Mo says.
‘Nah it’s funny,’ Maddox says with charm dripping from his voice. ‘This girl Clara fancied Mo like mad. Like really fancied him…this was about a year ago…’
They shouldn’t listen. They can all see Mo is uncomfortable but Maddox, despite only being nineteen years old, is a master at this. He can adapt when he needs to, he can put people at ease.
‘So she is in love,’ Maddox says with a chuckle. ‘Completely infatuated with Mo Mo. She was like fourteen or something? A couple of years younger than Mo anyway. Mo’s nice to her, he’s a good kid and doesn’t flirt with her or anything but then Mo never struggled with girls,’ he adds with a smile. ‘So this Clara. She wants to be everywhere Mo is, at the park, at the places we hang out…and it get worse. She gets obsessed with him. The girl doesn’t leave him alone…’
Mo goes to say something but the look from Dave instantly reminds him of the path he chose. Composure is gained with cold control that centres the youth as he releases the anger and turns to look out the open back doors.
‘So Clara really loses it but she can’t be with Mo Mo because she’s too young but she can’t handle that rejection. She’s pretty, get’s loads of attention from boys but Mo doesn’t want to know. She’s thinking what the fuck?’ Maddox even mimics a female voice, high-pitched and chavvy that makes Blinky smile as he continues. ‘She tries everything to get his attention and in the end Mo starts avoiding her… so what does she do?’ Maddox looks round with a smile that fades. ‘She says he raped her…’
Mo stares out the back doors as Clarence stiffens in the front seat next to Howie. His huge hands balling into fists. That awful tension mounts. The mood so thick you could scoop it out.
‘Mo didn’t do that,’ Maddox says quickly, holding his hands out to hold their attention. ‘Anyone who knows Mo knows he would never do that…but she said it…she told her mate who believed her…whole estate went into meltdown. Gangs out looking for Mo…filth got involved but anyway, she retracted and it was all sorted before any damage was done…’
Silence again as Maddox sits back without a flicker of expression at the point he just scored.
<
br /> ‘Point is, people lie,’ Maddox says, blunt and hard as he rams that point home. ‘What’s that thing?’ he looks round as though expecting an answer. ‘That soldiers thing? The Geneva Code?’
‘Stop,’ Blowers says through gritted teeth.
‘You gonna break my fingers if I don’t?’
Maddox scores twice. Two nil with deft motion and perfect delivery. Every single one of them knows that to shout him down or threaten him is exactly what he wants. He’s itching for it. Waiting for it. Wanting it.
‘Brave man after the fact,’ Clarence’s voice rolls down the Saxon, full of depth and bass. The big man stares forward. His whole body still and poised.
Two one.
Maddox in the lead and he concedes the score with a shrug as though he’s not bothered. Not bothered at all.
The front seat groans as Clarence twists round. His huge right arm stretching over the back of the seats to aid his movement. His enormous shoulders hindering his own motion. ‘You think they lied?’ he asks, looking at Maddox. ‘Why didn’t you say something?’
‘I’m just a grunt. Not my place…’
‘Then it’s not your place now,’ Clarence says the second Maddox replies. ‘So shut up…’
Two all but it was a dirty goal and they all know it.
The silence comes back. A silence filled with the noise of the big tyres on the road. The chassis vibrating. The air rushing past outside. The engine from the front. The noise of Roy’s engine behind them heard through the open doors. Noise everywhere but silent it remains with a lack of conversation. A day of days and it isn’t over yet. Another town lies ahead.
‘Hydrate,’ Dave says.
They hydrate. They drink water and Lucozade. They drink water until their bellies slosh but knowing that water will soon leak from pores and leave them gasping with thirst. Skin becomes sore and irritated from constant wiping and chafing. Hair stays slick to heads. The day becomes merciless, unforgiving and just long. It’s made worse by the memory of the night before and the fort as they saw it yesterday. Of the food they ate, of the people smiling and being nice. At being in the back garden laughing and joking. At feeling clean.
‘Mr Howie, Reginald here. Take the next junction off the motorway. That leads to a large roundabout. Stay on the main road ahead. It feeds into the town centre. The sports shop we need is on our way in…I believe it is on a side street full of specialist stores on our right side.’
‘Yep, thanks.’
Howie’s curt voice transmits through the speakers into Roy’s van. Reginald stares at the radio with his mind processing those hundreds of strands of thoughts. Paula told him what happened when she got back in. Reginald was shocked but did not show it. Instead, he asked questions to understand precisely what happened. Who said what? Who did what? How many people were there? What did they look like? What did the place look like? What did Howie say? What did Maddox say? Did anyone try and stop Mr Howie? Paula and Roy answered the questions, both of them familiar with Reginald and his need for the minutia of details.
‘I bet the atmosphere in there is awful,’ Paula mutters from the front.
Reginald raises questions in his mind while countering with answers that bring more questions. Two things stand out. No, three things. The first is Charlie breaking the finger. The second is the summary execution. The third, and the most worrying, is that Maddox will use those things to undermine the group from within. Mr Howie will not release Maddox. Maddox is here against his will so it is in Maddox’s interests to be such a proverbial pain in the side the others want him gone. He lifts the radio back to his mouth and thinks as he hovers his thumb over the button. A second passes. Another goes spinning by to become part of the history of humanity. A decision made. This group must retain unity. Above all else they must be unified.
‘Reginald here chaps,’ a ripple in the Saxon from the unexpected transmission and the tone of Reginald’s voice so carefully toned. ‘How is everyone?’ Reginald asks the radio, his mind running clear. ‘Now if I may, I would like to offer my opinion one what you may now be thinking was an act of assault and the summary execution of six people. One could be mistaken to assume the actions you took were beyond that of acceptance in normal society…I say, would you like me to pause here so Charlie can translate?’
Humourless smiles in the Saxon as Charlie blushes lightly and rolls her eyes.
‘Reginald said we might think we did something everyone else would say was wrong. Is that correct. Reginald?’
‘Indeed, Charlie. Societies are bound by consequences of actions. From simply dropping litter to committing acts of murder. Our societies told us what was acceptable and what was not and we sought to punish those who broke our laws. But one must keep in mind that law and order are gone. Society as we knew it no longer exists. As I understand it, those people used their physical size to control others and in a very short space of time they were committing morally abhorrent crimes. That was a choice. Those people chose to do those actions. Frank and his associates chose to commit very serious and grave offences against others, rape, torture, starvation and forced servitude and they would only ever have been stopped when someone more powerful stopped him. In this case it was first Charlie who stood up to him by showing a woman is not merely a sexual object to be leered at, and then by Blowers, Maddox and Roy taking control and of course then the actions by Mr Howie. Indeed, it was the only appropriate course of action to take. It was necessary and proportionate to the situation. Thirteen people will now know someone stopped a very bad thing happening. Those thirteen will tell other people and in a way that brings back consequences to actions. It tells others there are good people who will step in and stop tyrants. I dislike trite clichés, you know I do, but I am proud of Charlie for what she did and I am equally proud for the actions of the others …so come on now. Lift those heads eh? You’ve none of you done a thing wrong…Reginald out.’
Three two. Reginald wins.
*
‘What the hell,’ Heather says, staring at the radio as she sits with a map spread open on her lap and Paco holding the list up for her to read. ‘Did you hear that?’
Paco doesn’t say if he heard it. He holds the list Heather told him to hold and watches her closely.
‘Jesus,’ Heather mutters. ‘It’s like every half hour with that lot,’ she mutters then sips from her bottle of Lucozade.
‘Zade…’
‘Huh? Oh you want some?’
‘Zade,’ Paco says.
‘It is nice isn’t it? I’ll hold that…have some of mine…what now?’ she looks up at the flotilla of vehicles heading towards her. A liveried van advertising Big Frank’s Equestrian Centre in the lead that slows on seeing the Toyota with the two front doors open.
The van slows to a crawl. An older woman staring out through the windscreen. Sarah sits next to her, looking across to Heather staring at them and a big man guzzling from a bottle of Lucozade, his head slowly tilting back as he necks the lot with big gulps.
The van stops. Heather stares up. The women stare down.
‘Zade…’
‘You’ve got one…Hi,’ Heather says. ‘I heard on the radio…’
‘Eh?’ the woman asks, showing immediate concern at the sight of the assault rifle on the back seat.
‘Zade…’
‘You’ve got one…Mr Howie?’ Heather asks.
‘I’m not Mr Howie,’ the woman says. ‘We just met him.’
‘Zade…’
‘Paco, you’ve got one…have you finished it? You greedy sod. Hang on I’ll get another one in a minute,’ she rolls her eyes and looks up at the women in the van. ‘No I meant I heard on our radio…I’m with Mr Howie…’ Heather says, holding her radio up to show them. ‘They said thirteen of you got away?’
‘Oh,’ the woman says, clearly relieved. ‘Er yeah…they said to head for the fort?’
‘Yep, Fort Spitbank. You know where it is?’
‘We do…’
‘Zade.
’
‘In a minute, Paco.’
‘Er, we’ll be off then.’
‘Yep, okay. Er…safe drive?’ Heather suggests, unsure on how you end a conversation with people that have apparently been held in forced servitude in a horse place.
‘Zade…’
‘Is that Paco Maguire?’ the woman asks, about to drive off but holding still for another second.
‘No,’ Heather says.
‘Oh.’
‘Yes it is,’ Heather says, unsure of why she lied and now realising she looks really stupid for contradicting herself.
‘Oh…er…bye then,’ the woman pulls away.
‘Zade…’
Nineteen
They come to a stop at the edge of the town. The High Street stretches away before them. Long and straight for hundreds of metres. A wide road with broad pavements on both sides and the sleek fronted tinted plate glass offices give the impression of affluence and wealth. Wrought iron benches. Trees in bloom with raised flowerbeds set in brick built ornamental cubes dotted along the road.
This town had money. A direct train line into London placed it firmly on the commuter belt, which attracted wealthy city folk who demanded decent services, designer shops and boutique stores. A blend of urbanised rurality where the city meets the country.
Now it looks foreboding with windows like eyes that stare down and doors that hang open like mouths ready to spew the infected at them.
‘On foot from here,’ Howie says, staring through the windscreen to the buildings ahead. ‘Marcy, you drive the Saxon. Charlie on Jess…’ he pauses to press the button on his radio. ‘Paula, we’re on foot from here. You drive Roy’s van…’
So it begins. The venturing into another town seemingly empty and devoid of life. A place that holds the things they need but a place that holds the greatest threats too. Reginald activates his screen to get the camera feeds running, tutting at the horsebox blocking half the view. Marcy clambers over the seats to take Howie’s vacated seat as everyone else jumps down and moves out.