The Border Reiver

by Nick Christofides

  An hour later, Stuart skidded to a stop outside Amber’s ruined home. She felt numb in the silence of the night and with the muscle memory of the vibrations from the bike. She pulled her stiff legs off the bike and stretched out, looking into the darkness at the black lump which was her home. Stuart put his arm around her, preparing for tears. But the young woman brushed his arm away, taking a few paces towards the charred ruin, and took a few seconds to absorb it in the night’s sky. She then turned to Stuart, the breeze blew her auburn curls across her face and she swept them aside with a decisive hand. The moonlight broke the cloud for a moment, her pale complexion glowed in the white light and her young eyes had that sudden steel about them.

  “Let’s take the bike up the hill- we can hide it in the woods. I know where he will be.”

  The quad climbed the steep incline with ease and Amber directed Stuart without a word, she wasn’t going to compete with the snarl of the engine. As they approached the gate into the wood, Amber jumped off the quad and ran over to the gate which she knew so well. As her hand came to rest on the on the sodden moss covered wood, she could feel the damp foliage filling her nostrils with the smell of the cold night. A voice came calm, almost a whisper on the wind,

  “What are you doing back here, girl?”

  Shocked, Amber jumped back from the gate and squinted into the gloom. There, only five paces in front of her, the huge shadowy figure appeared - her father was standing in the middle of the path. She ran to the gate and pulled the rope loop over the post, freeing the old five bar which she flung back-handed, it swung quickly open and she embraced her father.

  * * * * *

  It was overwhelming love he felt for his daughter. He hugged her tight and long. He found he couldn’t speak because he was fighting back tears and he couldn’t let go of her because she would see the state he was in. Stuart was standing close and rested his hand on his friend’s back; Nat finally released his daughter and turned to his old friend. The two men hugged, Nat stood back, his hands still on his friend’s arms.

  “I thought you were going to keep her in Scotland?”

  “She is your daughter, pal, you know she would have come on her own…”

  “Aye, she’s stubborn. It’s good to see you both,” he said with a rare smile and slap on Stuart’s shoulder. It was true, their arrival was easing the loneliness and that eased the pressure he felt. His problems were being halved.

  They spoke little as their feet whispered through the dewy ferns and mosses of the woodland floor. Nat was still shaken from the attack hours before. He had taken the three bodies and dumped them again outside Hexham in the darkness of the evening. They were professionals: they carried nothing except their weapons and empty mobile phones.

  The early hours brought the cold, cold air. It was on their nostrils like pure oxygen, fresh and invigorating. The night was unmoving and silent, there was about an hour before the sun began its ascent. Nat led them to the little valley where he had buried Esme and made his rough camp.

  As they ventured down the steep side of the ravine, the moonlight lit the waters of the stream and the smooth round boulders. The grass and trees seemed to absorb the silvery light and appeared as thick black shadows. Amber went immediately to her mother’s grave and kneeling beside it she placed a laboured hand on the cold stone.

  “Tell me what happened?” She said without raising her head or looking at her father, her voice just drifting across the night.

  Nat felt his throat constrict and his eyes well up. His heart raced and his stomach churned. He felt his shoulders begin to heave, but he controlled his emotions and fought back the tears, no good would come of showing weakness in their situation. He began picking up kindling to make a fire as he cleared his throat,

  “When I got back to the house, I found her dead - she had been shot in the head and she wouldn’t have known anything about it, Amber.”

  He knew that his tone was probably not the most convincing and that he hadn’t made eye contact with Amber, busying himself with the fire. But then he was pretty sure it didn’t matter. Amber didn’t reply, she quietly pulled her knees up to her chin and pulled her jumper down over her legs. She sat quiet, resting her arms on her knees and watched as the morning light began to wash over the valley. Stuart joined Nat at the fire.

  “So, tell me what it’s like, how much fighting?”

  “It seems to be escalating daily but, to be honest, beyond my stupidity I haven't been at too much risk. They seem to be a mixture of thugs and kids with a sprinkling of people who know what they're doing. I think there is a lot of resistance. I hear gunshots in the day but mostly at night, so I can’t see that I’m the only one fighting.”

  He didn't elaborate further, he didn't mention the professionals who almost killed him or the mystery of his protector. He hadn't worked that out for himself yet.

  “When did you last sleep in a bed?” asked Stuart.

  “A couple of days ago at Claire’s...”

  Stuart’s interest sparked up at the mention of Claire, Nat leaned his shoulder across towards Stuart:

  “...They shot me and she patched me up, she's fine - don’t worry, keeping her head down.”

  “We have to get her with us, make sure she stays safe,” Stuart said, his eyes embroiled in the dancing flames of the catching fire, the orange glow washing over his untamed features.

  “We’ll get her - after I finish with the bastards that killed Esme - and then we make a break for Scotland until all this sorts itself out.”

  “It might not be so easy for you now, Nat. You are the face of the resistance after what you did, and when everything is said and done what you did will be seen as an atrocity, a war crime.”

  “Yeah well, I never wanted to be famous… I’ll drift back into obscurity long before this misery is over.”

  “You never know how this will pan out; there is resistance to the regime in Cornwall, Wales and all across the north of England.”

  “Is that what the news said?”

  “Aye, that’s what it said,” Stuart mumbled with a degree of hopeless resignation in persevering. Both men chuckled into the fire as Amber crept over and nestled herself between the two hulking figures. Nat added a pot of water to the flames; as they watched the orange wisps lick the pan, the water began to steam. Nat put his arm around his daughter as the grey-blue light of morning overcame the dark of night.

  “It’s good to see you, my lamb,” he whispered.

  * * * * *

  As they sat in the little valley, sipping hot coffee in the fresh morning, half a mile away a ghostly figure floated silently across the farmyard and into the barns. He felt his way across the dark space, the smell of dust and petrol thick within his nose. He didn’t stop to look at what might be in the barn; he was looking for a safe place. He found it in the ladder leading up to the hay loft. He climbed the rickety old wood which creaked wildly under every step and he positioned himself on the edge of the platform with his legs dangling. He perched because he was unsure about the floorboards, he couldn’t risk them being rotten and him crashing through and injuring himself so he stuck to the much thicker joist which made the frame of the mezzanine.

  He removed the light weight sniper’s rifle from across his back and placed it on his left, he took the silenced revolver from the holster under his arm and gently put it next to his right hand. He carefully adjusted the weapons so that both barrels were exactly parallel with his thighs; he couldn’t help himself, over the years the detail became everything to him.

  It was at these moments of calm that he could reflect on his forty-eight years, twenty-five of which had been spent in solitude, in the shadows behind enemy lines mostly. His history was remarkable even in military circles; in fact, if there were no dusty old battered file holding a full account of his service history somewhere in the military records office, his life would be unbelievable. He had a skill for evading death or detection, a lust for solitude and a detachment which meant he carried on
where most would break.

  He had the same eyes as his brother, but where Baines had puffed and rounded a little due to the comforts of middle age and position, the ghost had wizened. He was no bad man, but he was focussed on his task. His eyes betrayed that determination by offering no emotion, no deviation from the plan, which often in practice resulted in no mercy. Right then he pulled the phone from its case on his chest and dialled the only number he ever dialled. The call was answered immediately.

  “Things have changed, Tom,” Baines spoke urgently; he had not used the agent’s first name in years.

  “Tell me,” said the spectre sitting in the darkness in Nat’s barn, his voice no more than a whisper.

  “I am having some problems here - I have been usurped, but he can't risk kicking me out. I am the revolution, he needs me.”

  “What about the Establishment, the international community?”

  “No and no, I'm adrift.”

  “You’re in the shit, Ben. Can I stop babysitting this farmer now?”

  “No, he is possibly a good distraction for us.”

  “Who’s ‘us’?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “You said ‘for us’?”

  “Right, I contacted Trevor Eastman.”

  “Ok well, he will support you while you’re useful.” There was a pause and then he continued,

  “What now? No, let me have a guess, they want you to carry on as you were, the puppet leader, mole to the very system you sought to change: the irony of power!”

  “That will never happen; you know how I love to be written off!”

  “What do you want me to do?” whispered the shadow sitting in the hay loft. “I’m on this hillbilly, I saved his life today - hope that’s OK? But I thought there was no point in you sending me up here if I was just to watch him being target practice for a couple of regime mercenaries. He’s been joined by another man and a young woman; from their body language I think it’s his daughter. One thing's for sure though, Ben, this guy is no Bin Laden; everything he's done so far he has done it alone, with his own bare hands. He is a cold hard bastard, but he’s no terrorist mastermind and he’s definitely not beaten; he’s sitting up there in the woods living his life.”

  “Just stay on him please, you did good, don’t let them kill him. I think he may turn out to be the thorn in the NSO’s side or the catalyst to begin a greater escalation in resistance to Start’s new regime.”

  “I’ll do my best.”

  “Ok, Tom, and look, I'll see you when this sorts out, yes?”

  Baines was answered by the dial tone - the shadowy figure perched in a barn in the Northumbrian wilderness had hung up long before Baines finished his sentence. The barn was silent bar a few boards which rattled in the soft breeze. It was a cool breeze that softened the smell of the farmyard to a sweet, pleasant aroma. He ripped open a packet of oat biscuits, peeled back the lid on a small tin of pate and he ate.

  * * * * *

  Lucas Start reclined in a large leather armchair positioned next to the ornate Victorian fireplace in his office. He had just taken a huge bite of a fat pastrami and gherkin sandwich. The mustard pickle seeped from the corners of his mouth. He could only really enjoy it if he stuffed so much in his mouth that he nearly choked on it. He listened to the animated South African voice through the mobile phone that he held to his ear with his free hand.

  “I need heavier weapons and some people who can handle themselves and the weapons! I mean this is ridiculous, Lucas - it’s like the Wild West up here. I’ve got insurgents picking us off at every step. They have infiltrated my teams. They seem to know what we are up to all the time. Then I’ve got that psycho up on the hill who is becoming a cult hero. I can’t even get close to him because my teams don’t have the first idea of military procedures! This is making a mockery of your security machine, Mr Start. It’s weakening your position and I am losing men to the rebels whilst listening to stories of this marvel living in the hills!”

  “Don’t worry, Rudi,” replied Start, swallowing his sandwich and licking his lips, “as always, I’ve got this. I’ll have weapons aplenty to you within days, including armoured vehicles and light artillery - more than enough to crush your problems.”

  “What about men? I need people with military experience to keep the idiots I have at the moment in line. Dedication does not mean you know your arse from your elbow, you know?”

  “Ok, ok, look, we have thousands of men in full military training at the moment, I will see to it you are sent the first trained to crush any rebels in the north. Patience, Rudi. The North East will be your little honey pot, but you have to keep the locals in check long enough for us to get the troops to you.”

  “No problem, if I know they’re coming we’ll hold out, I mean Newcastle to Middlesborough we’re all sewn up…the beauty of deprivation! All the old industry has fired up again and employing the masses, you’ll be reliant on my little patch.”

  “It won’t be your patch unless you contain the resistance…that reminds me - I have a small job for you in the interim: find that fucking reporter from last night’s report on our farmer and nullify his future comment.”

  “Fine, I’ll go to it, I know the one.”

  Start hung up, looked at his sandwich and stuffed another mouthful to capacity and picked up the paper that lay on the coffee table in front of him. It was a report on the capability of the country for ninety percent self-sufficiency; he read it with excitement. The fact he had just ordered a man’s death was history. To Start, it was history similar to that which he created when he ate his sandwich.

  TEN

  Rory Jones had hardly stepped over the threshold as the damp smell of his rather decrepit cottage hit him. He stood in the cramped yet open plan hallway. As one arm slipped out of his damp mac, he stopped at the mirror in the hallway and looked at himself. A broad grin spread across his face and the pride oozed out of him. He made guns with his fingers and pretended to shoot with a ‘piow, piow’ then he chuckled to himself, shaking his chubby head, cringing slightly at his own actions.

  He looked around the pokey cottage with its dusty sides, broken gas fire and ancient radiators. He thought to himself that this was the first time in his career as a journalist that his life was taking a turning point for the better. His report on the Northumbrian rebel was receiving acclaim from his peers and his bosses wanted more. For the first time, he was the lead reporter on a story and this was a big story. It was unusual for a journalist from an editorial backwater to get to sink his teeth into such a big story.

  He stepped away from the front door and the main part of the house, across the galley kitchen towards the door leading into the garage where he kept a large fridge. He hopped up the three steps to get something to eat - successful or not, he still had to eat. As he opened the door, the reassuring jangle of edible goods wobbling rang in his ears and the glow of the fridge light washed over his face. His hand moved towards ham when he heard the click of the lock on the front door. A pleasant surprise, he thought to himself, as he heard quiet footsteps pad into the sitting room. He had only given his girlfriend keys a couple of days previously and now she was surprising him at lunchtime. He suddenly felt like one of those guys he wished he had been when he was younger: successful, popular, paired off with a pretty girl, dare he say it…‘cool.'

  Instead of calling out, he wanted to savour this experience: she knew he was coming home; he had only spoken to her half an hour or so earlier. Maybe, just maybe, she was heading up to the bedroom and he wasn’t going to spoil her plans. So he crept to the doorway of the garage and standing at the top of the three cold stone steps he peeked around the door frame. He glimpsed the figure moving slowly, quietly creeping into the sitting room through the door on the other side of the kitchen.

  Rory pulled his head back into the garage, his brain locking into an alternative reality. His heart had stopped momentarily, then started again at an alarming rate; he was shaking and he could not control h
is hands and shoulders juddering. The person in his house was not his pretty girlfriend. The person in his house was a man, dressed in black, and he was carrying a gun.

  He searched the garage for an escape route. The garage door was blocked by shelving; he had only ever used the space for storage. There was a man-hole cover, no windows and the big fridge; he was not going to hide in there. His thoughts were muddled, too many for his brain to digest. He couldn’t move, the front door was already closer to him than the man moving further into the house but his muscles wouldn’t react to the synapses his brain was releasing. It was as though his feet were set in concrete. The man looking for him had a gun anyway: he could not outrun a bullet. He began to cry; silently. the tears rolled down his cheeks as he stood with his back to the wall, ears pricked to hear every creak and squeak from the old cottage.

  He picked up the heaviest thing that he could find within arm’s reach. So he stood waiting to club the intruder over the head with a pitchfork as he came up the stairs. He was to the right of the door, feet apart, the gardening tool in both hands pointing at the open doorway, like a soldier in the trenches waiting to run an enemy through with his bayonet.

  The seconds felt like minutes, minutes like hours. He could hear hushed creeks and faint bumps as the stranger worked his way through the house systematically. Every so often the house fell silent for what seemed too long and he thought the man had left. But then the ghostly rumours would reverberate through the building once again and his throat would constrict. His eyes felt as though they were about to pop out of their sockets and his ears had taken on a life of their own seemingly twitching independently of each other to pick up every noise. His senses were reacting to the paralysing fear.

  Rory followed the man in his mind through the rooms in his house. He pictured the intruder moving up the stairs, impossible to do it silently but he made next to no sound, probably stepping to the very edges of the boards to minimise the give. Then there was an eerie silence as the man must have gone to the far end of the house, Rory’s bedroom. This was farthest from the garage and Rory watched the dust drift across the open doorway and he tried to block out the tick of his grandfather’s clock. It annoyed him at the best of times, but this was something else.