Tom handed over his bank card. The manager slid it into the payment device, then stopped. It seemed only fair to offer them a discount. That this was the first time in his life he had offered money off did not strike him as odd until later.
"Now," he said, "let's see what we can do. That tent retails at four hundred and fifty, but it's not very good."
He walked over to the shop floor, picked up the tent and returned it to the shelf. He moved further back into the shop, returning with a large green bag.
"This is what I use," he said. "It's not a famous brand, but it's well made, light, weatherproof, and easy to assemble."
The manager rubbed his chin for a moment.
"One seventy seems about right. How does that sound?"
It sounded good. By the time the manager had done the same for all their purchases, he had reduced a one thousand, nine hundred and eighty-nine-pound bill to seven hundred.
Kate, Shannon and Tom picked up the gear and, with the manager's help, loaded it into the car.
"Do you need any maps?" he said, then answered his own question. "Yes, of course. Hang on."
He returned with an Ordnance Survey map, opened and folded to the right page. Tom told him where they were going and the manager used a yellow highlighter to outline a route across the hills.
"This should see you there by tea time. Great to meet you all. Good luck."
He watched the car drive away, then opened his laptop. He would need to order new stock. The storeroom would have to be cleared to make space for it. There would be more teenagers coming, and they'd need equipment. It was going to be a busy afternoon.
After dinner that evening, when his wife had gone over the day's incomings and outgoings, he was flummoxed by her angry tone.
"Why, Jonathon? Why on earth did you let them take all that equipment at trade price? And why have you ordered that gear? The season's all but over. What the hell were you thinking?"
He couldn't give her the real reason. She wouldn't understand. He knew the young people in his shop that day were only the first. He had to be ready to help the rest. And he'd given them the discount because, during the time they'd been in his shop, he'd felt decades of weariness, worry, and cynicism lift from his shoulders like someone helping him out of a rain-sodden overcoat. He'd stood at the back door of the shop after they'd left, a cup of tea in his hands, looking at the Long Mynd rising behind the town, a few hikers visible in the heather, and he'd been at peace. The world was beautiful. How could he have forgotten something so simple and so obvious?
Now, as he looked at his wife, arms folded, lips tightly shut, an echo of that feeling returned to him. He jumped out of his seat, pulled her out of hers and whirled her around like a girl, before pulling her close and kissing her on the mouth, over and over. She resisted at first, then kissed him back, giggling in shocked pleasure.
"Jonathon Henry Nicholas Parker," she gasped, between kisses, "are you on drugs?"
Tom, Kate and Shannon left the car in the town, swapped their trainers for walking boots and their ripped jeans and hoodies for more practical walking clothes. They did this in a carpark. Five or six cars slowed down as they passed the three teenagers stripping down to their underwear without a shred of modesty or embarrassment.
They distributed the camping equipment between three rucksacks, shouldered them and walked through the town towards the hills. They crossed a cattle grid onto a narrow road. Above them, gliders dipped their wings into the thermals and circled up into the wispy clouds.
They looked much like the other walkers they encountered, most of whom volunteered a greeting as they passed.
Near the summit of the Long Mynd, the ground levelled off. Tom's legs already ached, although they had many more miles to walk. He knew he would feel the effects over the next couple of days. They paused for half an hour to watch the gliders take off, pulled by a winch across the rough, tufted grass before rising as if on invisible rails. They passed around bottles of water and ate a few dried dates and figs. Then the three walkers moved on, following a path that led, after a short climb, to the highest point of the hill. For the first time, they could see their destination.
Tom felt a thrill of fear and excitement pass through him. Although it was still seven miles away, he knew he was looking at the hill from his dream. As they set off towards it, the name from the map came into his mind. Not just the name of the range of hills they were heading towards—the Stiperstones—but the specific landmark he'd seen in his dream.
The Devil's Chair.
9
It took Jerry a while—he was pretty stoned by that time—but after five miles heading north on the M5, he noticed something strange about the surrounding traffic.
The M5 was always busy—it was the only major road out of the southwest towards Bristol, London, or the north—and a large proportion of the vehicles were commercial. Articulated lorries, rigid seven-and-a-half-tonners, and every size of van plied their trade along the southwest artery. Seven-year-old white long wheelbase Transits such as Jerry's were a common sight. Just... not this common.
Ahead of him on the motorway, he counted twelve vans similar to his own. He looked to his right. There was a white Transit in the middle lane. He checked his mirrors. Five, no, six more behind him. Jerry reached into the glove-box and took out one of his emergency pre-rolled joints.
He had been mistaken. The other vans weren't similar, they were identical. He'd had an argument with a bollard two months ago in a Newquay car park, leaving a dent and a scrape above the near-side rear wheel arch.
Every van he could see had the same dent and scratch. Every one. Jerry thought about not lighting the joint for a second, then shook his head and did it anyway. He accelerated to seventy-eight miles an hour. The van could go faster, but would shake so violently that the joint would fall out of his mouth. There was a burn on his leg to prove it. Jerry looked at the number plate of the first van he got close to. Just like his, it was covered in mud, obscuring the letters and numbers.
He slowed and allowed three more white Transits to overtake. Each number plate was unreadable.
At every junction, Jerry watched one or two of the vans leave the motorway and, as he passed the slip road, another one or two join. He thought again about his cargo. If someone was going to all this trouble and expense to protect what he was transporting, they must be smoking something a hell of a lot stronger than the weed fat Barry had sold him.
Bardock looked up from the Globlet.
"Long wheelbase Ford Transit, white, heading west," she said, and handed the device to Gregg. "We only have this image from the Typhoon, so we cannot assume the van is heading for the M5, although that's likely. It may have stopped somewhere and offloaded its contents. We don't even know yet that it's carrying the payload we're looking for."
Gregg had been there five minutes earlier when the explosive experts presented their initial verbal report. A gas explosion had occurred inside the blast-proof building in the middle of the empty warehouse. The blast was powerful enough to blow the door off the structure, sending it across the carpark and into a tree. Anyone inside the cabin would have been killed, but there was no evidence to suggest a death had occurred. No bones, no ash. Nothing. Gregg was bemused.
"Sir, Bardock? What payload? If the titans weren't inside when it exploded, where are they? Are you saying they all got into the van voluntarily?"
Bardock reminded Gregg of his duties under the Official Secrets Act, then briefed him on the encrypted report on her Globlet.
Gregg took a moment to process the update. "So we could be looking for containers? Something that can transport liquid?"
Bardock was impressed by how quickly Gregg adapted to new information. He'd just learned that the superbeings they were looking for returned to a slime-like dormant state when their bodies died. Instead of expressing incredulity, or asking questions, he had focussed on what was important.
"Correct," she said. "It's possible that the van is local. G
et your team on the phones and into the nearest villages and towns. Give them the description of the vehicle and locate any white vans that match it. Tell the drivers to report to their local police station. Contact the Highways Agency and the Transport Police. We want Highways monitoring their cameras and passing on the details of every van that matches the description to the traffic police. They need to pull over and check every white van within the radius we give them."
She turned away and started to walk around the perimeter of the warehouse. She called back over her shoulder.
"Do it now. The longer that van's out there, the bigger the area we have to check. It's likely that the van will be empty, but it's best to be thorough."
She walked away. Gregg stared for a moment, processing her last comment, then jogged towards his waiting officers.
Bardock walked anti-clockwise around the exterior of the warehouse. She took her time, pausing after every step to check for footprints.
Her earpiece buzzed, and she swore, then stopped walking.
"Mr President?"
"No. Jameson, MI5 Assistant Director. The president has requested that I liaise with you. What do you have?"
"We have details of a white van that left the warehouse after the explosion. We are trying to identify the vehicle and its driver as quickly as possible."
Jameson waited, but Bardock said nothing more.
"Look, Bardock, we've worked together before. I know you don't like to speculate, but please, be honest with me. Do you think we'll find the van?"
"The van? Yes, we'll find it."
"What is it you're not telling me?"
"It's too easy," she said. "Whoever planned this has money and enough intelligence to cover their tracks. They rented the warehouse under a false name, transferring money from a bank account which no longer exists. They bought a blast-proof cabin and had it installed. They knew how to destroy the bodies of the titans and—most telling of all—they are working with The Deterrent. We're supposed to believe they loaded the titans into the back of a white van and sent them on their way?"
Jameson consulted the three screens in the situation room. One of them was flashing up reports from the traffic police and CCTV operators watching the M5.
"Maybe so," he said. "The latest reports suggest the M5 has more white vans over one thirty-mile stretch than has ever been seen before. Every few minutes, a few of them leave the motorway and more get on. All the number plates are obscured. We will close the motorway at junction twenty-four and block the exits and entrances at twenty-five and twenty-six. That'll give us a twenty-mile stretch of stationary traffic. We'll be able to check every white van matching the description."
"And what about the ones who've left the motorway?"
"We'll find all of them, eventually."
Bardock fell silent again. Jameson cracked first. "What?" he said. "Still not convinced?"
"No," she said, walking to the rear of the warehouse. The smell of the sea was unmistakable as she rounded the corner of the building. “It's too obvious. I'll know more when I finish examining the site."
Jameson had worked with Bardock long enough to recognise a dismissal when he heard one. There weren't many people the Assistant Director of MI5 would allow to treat him this way, but Bardock was a special case. His wasn’t the only career boosted by shutting up and listening whenever Fiona Bardock spoke.
"I'll leave you to it," he said. "Report back with your findings."
Bardock didn't reply, just clicked off the comms and looked at the back door of the warehouse. Padlocked. Big, old and rusting, as if it hadn't been opened for years.
She took a pace back and looked around the door. Clumps of weeds, long grass, and nettles had grown against the back of the building, filling the area between the warehouse and the trees behind. The grass was bent back in places, the nettles snapped. Someone had passed this way. She walked back and inspected the padlock more closely. The fact that it was old and rusty meant nothing. It could have been brought here and placed on the door that morning. If so, it was a simple, subtle, piece of misdirection. She closed her eyes and pictured the door from inside of the warehouse. There was no need to go back and look - she could review her mental images.
She opened her eyes and nodded to herself with satisfaction. There had been a slight scrape in the dust by the door - an arc suggesting it had been opened.
She turned her back on the warehouse and followed the trail through the trees towards the sea.
10
The Old Man reached a main road at dawn on the third day after leaving his cave. When he emerged from the trees and stepped onto the edge of the dusty highway, he stopped and stared.
Things had changed over the centuries.
No longer were the roads the province of people, donkeys, and horses. The noisy, foul-smelling carriages that passed him now were faster, and there were many more of them. They moved slowly compared to the speeds he could reach, but they could cross distances much more quickly than the transport he remembered.
The Old Man had not survived as long as he had without mastering the crafts of observation and mimicry. When he found a location where the bigger vehicles stopped temporarily, he retreated from the roadside, sat cross-legged in the shade of a tree and, eyes half-shut in an attitude of meditation, watched the comings and goings for many hours.
Some vehicles had two wheels, some four. The largest had six, eight, ten, or twelve. Many featured glass apertures along each side. These last stopped regularly at the side of the road, disgorging people from inside their white, blue or yellow shells. Others, waiting, swapped places with those who disembarked. Money changed hands. The Old Man observed that the front of these gaudy metal carriages carried names of places, some of which he recognised. One he knew to be a city although its name had changed a little. He would learn more if he went there.
As the day became darker towards evening, the Old Man joined the line of people. Vehicles with New Delhi painted on their noses appeared regularly.
As he approached the group, he relied on centuries of instinct to single out the right candidate. A middle-aged man, his suit worn and patched, a battered briefcase by his side. The Old Man stopped, placed both hands together and bowed.
"I am hungry," he said.
The man smiled at the young monk in front of him. "Follow me, brother, and we will see what can be done."
He led the Old Man to a roadside stall and bought him chapatis and daal, with lassi to wash it down. The Old Man thanked him.
"You are waiting for the bus?" said the man in the suit. The Old Man admitted it. "And where is Buddha sending you?"
"New Delhi," said the Old Man. "But I have no money."
The man shook his head. "My father always told me it was lucky to meet a monk. He said if we helped a monk, our generosity would be repaid many times over. If I give you my last rupees, will I be repaid many times over?"
The Old Man didn't respond other than bowing again. The traveller put a wad of crumpled notes into his hands. "Think of me when you achieve enlightenment, eh?"
The bus—as they called the metal vehicles—reeked of body odour, food, and strange acrid substances he could not identify. As night fell, his fellow passengers slept, but the Old Man watched the scenery flash by, and when he caught sight of his destination, he thought at first that he was dreaming.
A haze hung over the city. Like a fog, but not a fog, it wavered and shimmered, making the Old Man distrust his eyes. The city that flickered behind the haze was vast, a dense canopy of buildings, squashed together shoulder to shoulder, jostling for room. Some buildings were taller than any he had ever seen. Nothing familiar, all was strange, frenetic and busy. As the bus passed the city limits and all signs of the natural world disappeared, the stench and noise of hundreds of similar vehicles packed around them was an assault on the Old Man's senses.
He looked around him in something close to panic, but the other passengers remained unperturbed. Most were awake now, eating, drin
king, and talking, as if nothing untoward were occurring. To them, all of... this... was normal. Unremarkable. The Old Man deepened his breathing, ignoring the foul taste in his nostrils and mouth. He waited for calm to come as he experienced a wave of disgust at the people packed into this metal tube, and all of those who lived in the hellhole around them. He fought an urge to destroy, to rip apart this bus, to scream his rage at the pits they had dug to plant their foul structures; no doubt burning the grass, cutting down the trees, and driving away the animals and birds. When they weren't squatting in their buildings, they were pumping out clouds of choking smoke to travel from one place to another, adding more fumes to the stench of dust, sweat and shit.
He breathed and closed his eyes.
When the Old Man opened his eyes again, the driver of the bus was pushing his shoulder.
"Kashmiri Gate," he said. "Last stop."
The Old Man left the bus. When he saw that he was surrounded by other buses and more people than he had ever seen in one place, he held his breath and walked towards daylight and open space. Anyone in his path was thrust aside before he reached them. He left consternation, anger, and pain in his wake as people picked themselves up from the floor and looked around for the source of the aggression. No one believed it could have been the young monk who strode among them, head and shoulders above everyone else.
After an hour of walking, turning down one street then another, his head lowered, the Old Man heard birdsong and stopped in his tracks. Across the street a sign announced a 'park.' Behind it was a glorious green area with trees, grass, and water.
Changing course, he walked out into the road. Although oblivious to the screech of brakes, the shouted warnings, and the blaring of horns as motorists avoided hitting him, he had no choice but to acknowledge the pickup truck that speared him at thirty-six miles per hour, throwing him into the tailgate of a lorry.
The Last Of The First (Halfhero Book 3) Page 5