Down: Trilogy Box Set

by Glenn Cooper

  “Yeah, I’m a woman, all right,” she said, picking herself up.

  The few remaining soldiers saw the tide had turned and rode off, heading back toward London, the taunts of Bess’s men in their ears.

  “Lose any of ours?” she asked Ardmore.

  “Don’t think so.”

  That was when it grew quiet enough to hear the screaming coming from inside a wagon.

  “The boys,” she said.

  Unsure which wagon it had come from she ran to one, Ardmore to the other. Ardmore opened the flap and saw that Angus and the others were huddled together but fine. Bess saw four terrified, weeping faces and one white, immobile one. There was blood on the wagon floor.

  Craig Rotenberg was slumped over with a gaping hole in his chest.

  “He’s dead!” Kevin shrieked. “He’s dead!”

  Bess climbed in and inspected his body.

  “You’re the first live souls I’ve seen in two hundred years and he’s the first dead one,” she said. “Day of miracles.”

  Despite the frantic protests of the boys Bess refused to bury Craig’s body. They didn’t have a shovel, she explained. They needed to make haste to shelter in Southampton by nightfall. The roads at night were filthy with rovers. And besides, what did it matter?

  “Because it’s the decent thing to do!” Angus insisted.

  “I’ve no time for such nonsense as decency,” Bess said. “If you want to cover him up with branches, I’ll give you small time. Then we’re off.”

  “What if we don’t want to go with you?” Angus asked.

  “You’ve no choice. You’ll all be like your friend by this time tomorrow if you don’t.”

  “Where are you going?”

  “We’re Devon folk,” she said.

  All the boys but Harry participated in the hasty ritual of dragging Craig into the bushes and covering him with foliage. Harry had more of Craig’s blood on him than any of the rest. He sat beside the wagon, mute and shaking.

  “Should we say something?” Boris asked, adding the last few branches.

  “You mean a prayer?” Glynn said.

  “Yeah, a prayer,” Boris said.

  “He’s Jewish,” Nigel said.

  “They pray too,” Stuart said.

  “He was always quiet in chapel,” Nigel said.

  “What else could he do?” Boris said. “Babble in Jewish?”

  “You’re so ignorant,” Stuart said. “It’s called Hebrew.”

  “We’ll have to make do in English,” Angus said. Bess was calling for them to hurry along so Angus lowered his head and said, “Here goes: I’ve got no idea how it is we wound up in the soup but here we are. Craig was a pretty good kid who didn’t deserve to get killed. Let’s hope he’s with his Jewish God now and that he’s at peace and that’s basically all I’ve got to say.”

  “You know what? You suck at praying,” Glynn said.

  The boys would not get back into the blood-filled wagon and also refused to be split into two groups so Bess allowed them to climb into her wagon, the largest in the train. Bess took her place on a bale of wool and the boys sat cross-legged on the planks. Angus felt something sharp poking him in the back. He was pressed against a wooden box secured with an iron lock and when he shoved it to give him more room he heard clinking.

  “Mind my strong box,” Bess said.

  “Is there money in there?” Angus asked.

  “Aye, it’s the coin we earned in London,” she said.

  “Earned doing what?” Glynn asked.

  “Trading wool. We’re sheepherders. They pay the best in London so that’s where we take our wares though the journey’s treacherous.”

  “Back in the woods,” Angus said, “we found a man who was badly hurt. He said we were in Hell.”

  “He told you the truth,” Bess said, removing the hat that had been robbing them of a good look at her face. She was middle-aged, not so different in age than most of their mothers, and perhaps she would have passed for attractive if her skin weren’t so weathered and dirty.

  “I don’t believe in Hell,” Kevin said. “My parents are atheists.”

  “I didn’t know that,” Boris said.

  “I never said,” Kevin said. “I didn’t want any stick.”

  “What’s an atheist?” Bess asked.

  “They don’t believe in God,” Kevin answered.

  She chuckled. “In my day, someone who made that opinion known would’ve been burned at the stake.”

  “When was that?” Angus asked. “Your day, I mean.”

  “I died as the seventeen hundreds were coming to a close,” she said.

  “That’s impossible. I don’t believe you,” Danny said, fiercely.

  “Well you’d better believe me, Chinaman,” she said.

  “That’s politically incorrect,” Andrew said. “He’s Chinese.”

  Bess shook her head. “I have no idea what you just said. But the lot of you need a lesson in what’s what, quick-like. Listen up because I’ll only be explaining it one time.”

  They did listen in rapt silence as she told them about her life. She had been a Devon woman, married to a sheep farmer. They had thirteen children. A pestilence wiped out their flock, her children went hungry, and her husband killed himself in shame. In desperation she set out one night to steal sheep from the property of a local nobleman to repopulate her flock. Unfortunately a young shepherd nabbed her in the act and began to shout for help. She had her husband’s pistol in her belt and fearful of what would happen to her children without her, she shot the lad and fled. She was caught and she was hanged. The next instant she was in Hell. She never saw her children again.

  Bess talked without a trace of sadness or sentimentality. She was too much of an old Heller. She followed her own tale with a similarly cold, bare-bones description of Hell’s grim reality and natural laws. It didn’t seem her intent was to scare the boys but that was the effect. When she was done not one of them spoke. She let them be. The wagon bumped along and lacking a suspension their bones were jostled.

  After a long while she asked, “After all I’ve told you, not one of you has a single question?”

  Kevin raised his hand as if he were still in a classroom. “Why do you smell bad?”

  Angus barked at him to shut up but Bess said it was a fair enough question. “I’d long forgotten ’bout the smell. Pig farmers can’t smell the pigs, you know. I reckon it’s because we’re like dead meat whereas you lads are nice and fresh. Any other questions? No? Well, let me ask you one. How do you suppose a bunch of live ’uns made the crossing to these parts?”

  The boys all looked toward Harry. He sniffed his nose dry and by the upward tilt of his chin, showed he was proud to be the nominated spokesman. “Do you know what the universe is?” he asked her.

  “Not a clue.”

  “It’s everything we know,” Harry said. “It’s the Earth, the moon, the stars.”

  “I see,” she said, though it didn’t seem she did.

  “Well, a lot of really clever people, physicists, they’re called, think there’s more than one universe, a lot more. Maybe there’s an infinite number of them. Some of them may be only a tiny bit different from the universe we know, like everything’s exactly the same except that in another one, I’m a brilliant football player.”

  “Fat chance,” Boris snorted.

  “Yeah, not likely,” Harry said. “Anyway, here’s what I think. I think that this place you’re calling Hell is one of those different universes, one where you go to if you’ve done something really bad in your life. Maybe there’s one called Heaven where good people go. Ordinarily, there’s no way someone live can pass between these universes. For some reason I can’t explain we passed through something called a wormhole which is a passageway between our universe and yours.”

  “That so?” Bess said.

  Harry shrugged. “It’s what I think anyway.”

  “You’re a clever one, ain’t you?” she said.

 
; Harry smiled and without a touch of modesty nodded his agreement.

  “Can you go back to your land or are you stuck here?” she asked.

  The question made Harry tear up again. “I don’t know,” he said. “I’m not that clever.”

  9

  Group Captain Mark Twyford, the station commander of RAF Northolt in Ruislip was unable to contain his displeasure. An urgent call from the Joint Forces Command at Northwood Headquarters had pulled him from a twice-delayed holiday with his family. He returned to find an American drinking coffee in his office.

  “Captain,” John said, rising from a sofa, “I’m John Camp. Your secretary was nice enough to show me in and take care of me.”

  Twyford was in civilian clothes. “I was up in Norfolk with my wife and children,” he said.

  “They’re canceling leave up and down the line,” John said.

  “I was told we had a VIP arriving but I wasn’t told there’d be someone in my office. Who are you?”

  “I’m the head of security at the Dartford supercollider. Ex-US diplomatic security, ex-Green Beret.”

  “Is this about the incidents in and around London?”

  “Yes it is.”

  Twyford lit a cigarette and sat at his desk. “There’s been some wild speculation in the media. What’s the real story?”

  “I’m not authorized to speak on the matter. My understanding is that you’ll be getting some kind of official communication from the MOD. It hasn’t been announced yet but the prime minister’s going to be making an address later today. Northolt’s the closest RAF base to London so I’m sure you’ll be busy soon.”

  “I’m not best pleased to be getting my intel from an American civilian.”

  “No one’s going to be best pleased for a while, captain. Now if you’d be good enough to check on the arrival time of the C-21A Learjet I’m expecting, I’d appreciate it.”

  John was on the tarmac when the small USAF jet pulled off the taxiway. The RAF ground crew placed wheel chocks and the door opened. The co-pilot climbed down and headed straight for John.

  “Are you John Camp?”

  “Yeah. Where’s my brother?”

  “You’re going to have to help him down.”

  “Why’s that?”

  “He’s shit-faced, sir.”

  John shook his head. Some things never changed. “I didn’t know you offered a full beverage service.”

  “Seems he brought his own. Bourbon, I believe.”

  Kyle was slumped in his seat, half-awake and mumbling.

  “Hey,” John said. “Welcome to London. Let’s get out of here.”

  Kyle was five years younger than John but looked older. He had the kind of crinkled, patchy complexion you got from decades of smoking and drinking. He pointed at John as if surprised he was there and tried to rise but he was still belted in. John unbuckled him and helped him to his feet. Kyle was also a big man, a couple of inches taller than him with a mountain-man beard, but while John was in top shape, Kyle was not. His gut filled his flannel shirt and protruded over his belt and moving down the aisle, John saw his limp was more pronounced than he remembered.

  He put his arm around Kyle’s waist. “Watch the stairs. I got you.”

  “I don’t need any help,” Kyle said. Sticking his head out he inhaled the warm morning air. “This London?”

  “It is.”

  “Long flight.”

  “Let’s get you to a coffee pot, all right?”

  “You sure I don’t need a passport? I thought everybody needed a passport.”

  “They’ve made an exception.”

  Kyle clumsily managed the steps.

  “Jack Daniels?” John asked.

  “Wild Turkey. Hundred and one proof. The extra one makes all the difference. Why?”

  “Why what?”

  “Why’d they make an exception?”

  “I’ve got a hotel lined up. You’ll have a shower, a quart of coffee, some bacon and eggs, and then I’ll tell you why.”

  Mrs. Jones had held nothing back from her breakfast fare. Trevor could hardly get up from the table after gorging himself on salt cod, johnnycakes, fried plantains, and pepper sauce.

  “There’s more,” she said, poking her head in from the kitchen.

  “I’m stuffed, mum,” he said.

  “But look how thin you’ve got,” she complained.

  “Leave him alone,” his father said. “He’s fine.” The man had baggy eyelids and a face lined with worry. He’d barely touched his own food.

  They’d come to Brixton Hill in the Jamaican diaspora in the nineteen forties. This had been Trevor’s grandfather’s house before it was his father’s. As an only child it would be his one day if he chose to keep it. The absolute familiarity of the place was a balm to Trevor’s troubled soul. He had his own flat in Dartford, close to the MAAC, but as soon as he delivered Arabel and the kids to Edinburgh, he returned to London on an MI5 jet and drove to Brixton instead. He owed his parents a visit.

  He was used to worrying them and they were used to being worried. There were the tours of duty in Afghanistan and the nights on street patrol as a police officer. He’d always had some way of reassuring and calming them down and he’d been good at keeping them in the loop by phone and email. But this past month had been different. He’d only said he was going away and wouldn’t be able to communicate. He had told them it was classified and they had no choice but to accept that stoically. When he appeared at the door the previous afternoon, gaunt and grimy, his mother cried in happiness and in alarm, drew him a bath and started cooking.

  The TV was on in the corner, the volume turned low. The BBC was reporting on the ongoing security situation at Leatherhead. A reporter on the outskirts of the town was saying that a no-fly zone had been imposed overnight there and at Sevenoaks, Upminster, and Dartford. Police and government sources were still not providing substantive information but Downing Street had just put out a statement that the prime minister would address the nation at noon and then proceed to the House of Commons to appear before Parliament.

  “They’re saying it’s something to do with your MAAC,” his father finally said.

  “Are they?” Trevor replied.

  “You probably can’t say,” his father said.

  “I wish I could. Can I use your phone?” Trevor asked. “My mobile’s at my flat.”

  “You don’t have to ask,” his father said.

  “It’s a number in Scotland.”

  “You can call the moon if you like,” his mother said. “Who’s in Scotland?”

  “A woman.”

  “Does the woman have a name?” she asked.

  “Arabel.”

  “Where’d you meet her?”

  “Her sister works at the lab.”

  “No more questions, mother,” his father said. “Let the boy call his lady.”

  Arabel’s father answered the phone at his Edinburgh house and passed it to his daughter. Trevor could hear Sam and Bess playing in the background.

  “They sound like they’re doing all right,” he told her.

  “They’re children. They bounce back.”

  “You bouncing?”

  “Not exactly.” She sounded tired.

  “Know what you mean,” he said.

  “How about you?” she asked. “Did you sleep?”

  “Like a log. My mum’s spoiling me like she always does. It helps. How’s Emily? I haven’t talked to her today. You?”

  “She rang earlier. She’s back at it already, Skyping with scientists in Europe and the States. I don’t know how she does it.”

  “Force of nature. I’m missing you, you know.”

  “I know,” she said. “I wish you weren’t going back.”

  “Did Emily tell you?”

  “Yeah.”

  “I was calling to tell you myself.”

  “Do you have to go?”

  “Don’t have to. Need to. We’ve got a shitstorm in London. John and Emily are going
to try and sort it out so I’m going too.”

  “Is there nothing I can say to change your mind?”

  “You can say you love me. I’d like to hear that but it won’t change my mind.”

  “I love you.”

  Ben unlocked the door of his mews house in Kensington and paused in the hall. He had the sense he was a stranger. In the past two months he had slept there no more than half the time and those nights had been fraught with marital extremes of temperature—coolness at best, hot anger at worst. At first his wife had suspected an affair but when he’d convinced her it was only the pressure of a very big case, somehow that made it more hurtful. Surely, his wife had argued, if his job was threatening to destroy their family then it was incumbent on him to seek reassignment or to walk away. With his family and political connections she argued he could land a good job in the city, but Ben would not engage in a discussion. The one thing she had not done was ask about the case. As an intelligence officer’s wife, she was too well-programmed to ask. And what would he have told her if he’d decided to be truthful? That I have become the nation’s Heller catcher? That I find them and send them back to Hell? That would have gone down well.

  He heard the triplets playing upstairs. The TV was on in the den and that’s where he found her having her morning coffee.

  “Hello,” he said.

  She hardly looked up. “Here for a change of clothes?”

  “Something like that. I want you to take the girls to my parent’s house in the country.”

  “Why?”

  “You’re watching the news. I don’t think it’s safe in London.”

  She came to a quick boil. “Yes I’m watching the news and they’re not saying anything! Is this your bloody huge case, Ben? Well is it?”

  He put his bag down. “Yes.”

  “Why aren’t they saying what it is? Is it terrorism? Is it the zombie apocalypse? Why aren’t they saying anything?”

  “The PM will be speaking at noon.”

  “So my husband, my knight in shining armor, can’t tell me what’s happening a few hours in advance.”

  “You know I can’t. After his speech the traffic will be awful. I’d like you to get a head start out of town.”