by Ann Kelley
A peregrine falcon mewed, and fell like a bullet. Its killer beak stabbed a kit – a young rabbit whose last moments had been carefree, belly full, teeth emerald with succulent grass. A trail of gulls sailed westward across the narrow peninsula. They headed up and over the top of a craggy hill, where nothing grew on blackened scrubby earth and there was the acrid smell of stale fire. The young dog’s nose twitched. He ran after imaginary rabbits.
They came at last to a hillside where Sid recognised the valley of densely planted trees below. Boulders shoved up elbows from the ground and Sid thought of his days working with the Repops, clearing stones. He wondered again if Buzz was better now or had he been reduced because he was no longer of any use?
‘You going to find your sister, then?’
‘Yeah, reckon.’
‘You’ll have to slip in when the women aren’t looking, or they’ll have your guts for garters.’
‘What’s garters?’
‘Forget,’ Gaz said, grinning.
He rang a bell at the gate. It was made of hollow bamboo slices hung up close together, so that when you pulled a string they clanged like a bell.
Sid hid behind a tree trunk with the dog, praying that he wouldn’t bark. Gaz rang the bell again, longer this time. They waited. A small plump woman appeared, a deep red birthmark on one side of her face like a full-blown rose. Sid remembered her: her initial brusqueness and then her kindness and generosity. She had given him wonderful food. His mouth watered at the memory. She had called him ‘Son’. Gaz was talking to her and showing her the contents of the sack. He beckoned and Sid came out from his hiding place.
‘Hello, you again?’ she said, not unkindly. ‘Come to see your little sister?’ She showed the palm of her hand to Izzi, who sniffed then licked it, wagging his tail.
‘Yes, please.’
‘Wait here then, both of you.’ She went away, carrying the sack of seafood.
Izzi could smell chickens and rabbits and other delicious scents close by. He whined excitedly. Gaz and Sid smelled biscuits and bread and scones baking.
The woman reappeared about ten minutes later, by which time the dog was dribbling and man and boy were almost beside themselves with anticipation, Gaz of fresh cooked meat and green stuff, and Sid because he was desperate to see Lo; a longing for his own flesh and blood.
He didn’t recognise her immediately. She had filled out, for a start, and her hair was cut short and fluffy. Also, she was smiling, and he had only remembered her scared look, a frowning little face trying to be brave.
‘Sid, Sid, is it really you?’
She sounded so grown-up.
She leaped into his arms and he tried not to let her see his tears.
‘Is he your dog? What’s he called? I have a real rabbit called Wabbit.’
‘Izzi, he’s called Izzi.’ The dog licked the little girl’s hand and wagged his tail. She hugged him.
‘He’s lovverly. Where’d you find him?’
‘We’ll leave you to chat for a few minutes, shall we?’ The woman led Gaz away into the trees.
‘I’m sure they’ve got lots to say to each other,’ she said, as Gaz put his arm around the woman’s shoulder and she put her arm around his hips.
‘My name’s Pink, isn’t it lovverly?’
Sid grinned. ‘Pink?’ He lifted his little sister up and twirled her around, like he used to do when they were at home with their parents. In the garden with the swing. ‘Miss me, Lo? Pink?’
She gave him a soggy kiss on the cheek and laughed. ‘We got reading later.’
‘Reading, eh? What are you reading?’
‘Dunno, books. They got books here. Why don’t you stay, Sid?’
‘Wouldn’t you like to come with me?’
‘Where?’
‘To live on the beach.’
She frowned. ‘I like it here, Sid. Can’t you stay?’
‘Nah, not allowed, am I?’
‘But I want you to meet my fwends.’ She had slipped back to baby talk. ‘Please, Sid.’
‘Is there a girl with daisies in her hair? Long dark hair?’
‘She’s not a girl. She’s my teacher.’
‘What’s her name, then?’
‘Hazel.’
‘Hazel.’ He tasted the unusual name. Like the nuts, he thought. Like the tree. Hazel. He felt a slipping in his stomach, a surge of excitement. He had her name now. He could hear the distant laughter of women. Drawing his sister into the shade of a tree he asked, ‘Are you happy here, is she kind to you?’
‘Everybody’s kind here.’
The man and woman reappeared from the bushes.
‘Best be off, boy. Eh? You coming?’
‘Lo, are you sure you want to stay here? Don’t you want to be with me?’
‘I want to stay here,’ she said firmly. ‘You can visit me when you like.’
‘Okay, Gaz, I’m coming. I’ll be back to visit you when I can, Lo.’ He kissed the little face. ‘Be good, be safe.’ He stroked her hair. Remembering the coloured glass, he gave it to her.
‘Give a few little bits to Hazel, from me, eh? Tell her thanks for looking after you.’
Gaz kissed the woman’s rose-coloured cheek and slapped her on the backside.
‘Ooh, you devil, get on with you,’ she said, laughing. She hitched Lo up onto her broad hip. The little girl clung, wrapping her legs around the woman, and waved happily to her brother. A breeze sang in the trees.
Man, boy and dog set off again up the hill, the sun to their left. Swallows strafed the meadow, skimming the grass. Sid took the sack from Gaz, who was coughing badly and couldn’t catch his breath. He was coughing a lot lately, Sid thought.
‘Orright, Gaz?’
‘Spot of hay fever, is all.’ Gaz spat a jet of phlegm. ‘Give me some cloth to make you a decent pair of shorts, she has. Honey, chicken, tatties, greens. Live like lords, we will.’
Sid was quiet on the journey back, carrying the sack most of the way. He wished he had been able to catch a glimpse of the girl – Hazel. Hazel – her name had a ‘z’ in it. Like Izzi, and Gaz, like Penzance where his grandmother lived. All the significant names in his life had ‘z’ in them. Marazion where Lo was kidnapped. Zennor where they slept in the church with the mermaid carved on the seat, and the woman had fed them. Brunel’s first name could have been spelt with a ‘z’ instead of an ‘s’, he thought. And he realised that he had stopped worrying about Lo. The nagging ache of anxiety had dissipated, had blown away on the wind. She was obviously settled and well-cared for with the New-Earthers. He would give up the idea of trying to find their grandmother.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
LO SUCKED HER THUMB and thought of what else she liked. She raised her arm.
‘Hazel, how do you spell Angels?’
The children had sheets of rough grey paper and sticks of charcoal. They sat in a half circle around their youthful teacher, who hummed quietly to herself and twirled a lock of soft brown hair around her fingers. Chickens crept pecking at the dry earth between the feet of the children. The donkey brayed loudly in the distance, a terrible, peace-destroying sound, which was half hilarious, half terrifying. As if it was made by an alien creature. What was it trying to convey? Hunger, disappointment, boredom, a warning, or simply a need to be heard and acknowledged? Sid wondered what is must be like to be a donkey.
He had hidden himself on the fork of a tree, above where the children had lessons. There was a canvas awning strung between branches to keep rain and bees away from the children, and he couldn’t see much, but he could see Hazel. Happiness filled his heart.
Gaz had taken Izzi out in the boat. The dog had become adept at herding fish towards his nets and the man was delighted with him. Sid had ostensibly gone to gather furze for their cooking fire, and he took the opportunity to go back to Freedom Farm, drawn there by the need to see, not only his little sister, but the girl with dark hair – Hazel.
‘Hazel, I want a wee-wee,’ said Lo, putting up her
arm.
‘Go on then, be quick.’ Hazel clapped her hands and Lo ran off towards the latrines.
The girl’s head was crowned with a circlet of daisies, as before. He could almost smell her faint flowery scent, or so he imagined. Her soft voice rose and fell and he leaned against the tree trunk listening in pleasure to her sudden laughter.
The bees buzzed around him in and out of the ivy flowers, adding to their golden burden of pollen. (On his way here he had seen old-fashioned straw skeps – beehives hidden under a hedge, the occupants dancing and droning above and around). But the buzzing became louder and he thought maybe a helicopter was coming. He looked up but all he could see were the creamy flowers and leathery leaves, the dark boughs and trunk of the lime tree. He heard the hum of bees in his ears, the humming of the girl. Then the louder, harsher note of motorbikes revving through the trees, and the frightened shouts of women. The children looked to Hazel, who was frozen for a moment, her mouth open in a silent scream.
‘Run! Run! The hole, the hole!’ The children disappeared like mice, faster than thought. Sid shifted slightly so he was jammed up against the tree trunk, his heart beating fast. The awning hid most of the action from him, and he couldn’t see where they had gone.
Mal was first on the scene. He rode through the narrow entrance into the nut grove and right to the centre of the camp. Women ran in every direction, as did chickens and ducks. The piglet ran out of the open gate and up the hill as fast as his short legs could carry him, squealing loudly. From out of a shed came a small girl, blonde, fluffy-haired, singing loudly to herself. He removed his helmet. She stood for a moment and stared at him.
‘Angel!’ she whispered. He replaced his helmet, pulled down the visor, revved the motorbike towards her, snatched her up with one arm and drove into the trees.
Sid heard shots, screams, the whistle and crack of gunfire and saw the flash of flame from a gun. Rooks flapped out of the tall trees, complaining loudly, and fled in a black cloud away from the mayhem. The donkey bolted, splattering excreta in a zigzag trail behind her. Chickens flapped and squawked in distress. Nineteen motorbikes screeched to a halt in a circle under the lime tree.
‘Okay, got ’em all, I think. Finish the donkey off – effin’ racket – and take the rest of the livestock – we’ll have a right feast later. Goat curry, yeah? Hog roast? It was a Reducer with horns on his helmet and the name Dreg in metal studs on the back of his leather jacket. ‘There you are, mate. Missed all the fun, as usual.’
The biker he spoke to had a bee buzzing around his face. He removed his helmet and revealed the tattoo of an angel on his bald head. Waving his arms about, he looked up and saw Sid’s terrified face.
‘Come on Dreg,’ the latecomer said. ‘Let’s get out of here. Bleddy bees everywhere.’
‘Fire the vans and tents first,’ Dreg ordered. They started up their motorbikes and raced off.
Sid felt sick. By not giving him away the Reducer had saved his life. But what about Lo and the other children? Hazel? Had they all been killed?
He became aware of the smell of smoke, the crackle of fire. He slid down from the tree, and ran first to one shack, then another. The yurt was an inferno, the tents burnt to the ground. A pall of smoke hung like a sea-fret in the trees.
‘Lo, Lo! he yelled. No answer. His throat felt tight, his mouth dry. He was shaking, coughing.
He crept slowly through the camp looking for signs of life, frightened that he would find someone injured and be unable to help. They lay where they had been working – a woman slumped over a wheelbarrow, the body of another on a smouldering cooking fire. He tried not to look. He tried to hold his breath so he did not have to smell burning flesh, but it was useless, his throat and nostrils were full of the stench. He called out again, ‘Lo, Lo, are you there? Where are you?’ He counted eight dead women and three older girls – not Hazel – but could see no little children. What was it that Hazel had said? The hole, the hole! What hole? He looked inside the only shack still standing. Gaz’s friend looked peacefully asleep at a table, where she had been shelling peas. Scattered peas were all around her on the floor, a neat bullet hole in the middle of her forehead.
He staggered out and vomited. He went next to a wrecked caravan where he had seen Hazel washing her hair that time – it seemed years ago. The blackened door swung on a hinge. There was no one inside. But then he heard something shift, a creak, a whispering under his feet. He grabbed at a trap door and wrenched it up. And there they were – Hazel, eyes wide with fear, and hidden behind her, the little girls, sobbing, terrified.
He lifted them out. The children, their faces black from smoke, had wet themselves in fear. They clung to the legs of the older girl, whimpering.
‘Where’s Lo?’ He didn’t recognise his own voice – a harsh croak like a sick crow.
‘Lo? Do you mean Pink? Are you Sid? She’s told me about you.’
‘Where is she?’ He spoke quietly, trying to control his trembling voice.
‘She went to the latrine. I don’t know.’ Hazel was trying not to break down.
‘Show me.’ He grabbed her arm and thrust her forward, and the children moved with her as if they were glued to her limbs.
Hazel screamed, ‘Don’t look, don’t look,’ to the children, as they passed smouldering and bloody corpses. The little girls shove their faces into her legs, and clung to her.
There was no body at the burnt-out latrines.
‘Lo, Lo, where are you?’ Sid yelled. He heard a sob and saw her high on the horizontal branch of a tree, almost invisible in the deep shadows.
‘Hold on Lo.’ He climbed up and hauled her down with difficulty as in her fear and shock she hung on and wouldn’t let go.
‘How did you get up there?’ he asked her, holding her tight.
‘The angel put me there. He told me to stay and I’d be safe.’
Hazel sobbed and laughed and patted Lo’s head.
‘The angel?’
‘You wemember the angel, Sid?’
‘Yes, I remember the angel.’
He said to Hazel, ‘Come on, I’ll take you somewhere safe.’
‘What shall I do? The children! Is there no one else alive…? My mother?’ She sobbed and pulled at her hair. The daisy crown was no more.
‘Come or stay, it’s up to you, but they might be back.’
‘I must find her.’
They ran through the camp, until Hazel fell on the body of one of the women. It was Moth. She sobbed and kissed the dead woman’s cheek. The little ones were silent now with shock.
‘We must bury the dead,’ she said.
‘No, the Reducers might come back.’
He waited while they quickly gathered together some treasures – blankets, dolls, books. Lo couldn’t find the rabbits and all the girls were heartbroken about the dead donkey. The rest of the livestock had gone. A robin sang somewhere, and a breeze shifted the branches, sending the scent of apples to mix confusingly with the acrid and sickening smell of fire and death.
‘We’re going to the seaside,’ Sid said, lifting Lo onto his back and the taking the tearful little girls by their hands.
‘The seaside!’ whispered Lo.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
GAZ CAUGHT A big pollock, the first in weeks. It would make a good fish stew with a few sea-leeks and onions thrown in, sea-carrot and sea-kale. He really should think of growing his own vegetables above the beach, but not doing so gave him a good excuse to visit the women, his woman, Rose. He sailed back to the shore, the dog swimming by the side of the boat. But when he got to the shore, instead of shaking himself and rolling in the sand, Izzi ran off barking.
‘Must be the boy coming home,’ he said to himself, and an unexpected pang of grief hit him. His nine-year-old son, Mathew – his and Rose’s boy – had died in the cow flu seven years ago. Rose had joined the Freedom Women’s Camp in the aftermath of her grief, and coincidentally, when the Population Control Program began.
‘Wher
e are you taking us?’ Hazel asked.
‘Somewhere where you’ll be safe.’
‘Nowhere’s safe,’ she cried, as two helicopters roared towards them and Sid dragged his brood into a thick patch of gorse. They hid until there was the almost silence of sea-moor – distant surf, wind, the rasp of a stonechat’s call, somewhere close a grasshopper chirping.
Bleeding and sore-footed, they stumbled through gorse saplings and heather, pale with shock and fear. Hazel held the hands of Sand and Lo; Sweetpea, who had scraped her knee and was crying louder than the others, now rode on Sid’s shoulders. Between them they carried what they had managed to rescue of Freedom Farm.
As they reached the hamlet above the beach Izzi came racing to him, wagging his tail furiously and barking in greeting.
‘Does he bite? asked Hazel, gathering Sand and Lo to her.
‘He won’t hurt you.’ And the children wrapped their small arms around the dog’s woolly neck and smiled through their tears, except Sweetpea, who was wary of the bouncy dog and remained on Sid’s shoulders.
‘He’s all wet,’ said Sand, rubbing her hands on her shorts.
‘He’s a water dog,’ said Sid. ‘You’ll see.’
They had been seen by two of the hamlet’s inhabitants, who had first heard the dog barking and then children’s voices. It was a sound they hadn’t heard for a long time. They stood together, holding hands, staring into the distance, holding back tears. Other cottage people tweaked their curtains.
The bedraggled, exhausted, band of refugees came at last to the little cove and saw smoke from the cooking fire. Gulls hung over the sullen sea, yelling at each other.
‘Is it the seaside?’ Sweetpea, a curly-haired four-year-old with a constantly runny nose turned her watery eyes to Hazel.
‘It is, Sweetpea, it is.’