End of the End

by Paul Kane, Simon Guerrier

  He said nothing, looking everywhere but at Mary.

  “I wish April had bitten you somewhere else now,” she said.

  Told you, said David in her head.

  “It... it isn’t—” Sophie began, but was cut off by Mary raising her finger. Nevertheless, she persisted. “We... we weren’t doing anything. Nothing happened. It was just a bit of fun. A game.”

  “You,” Mary said, aiming that finger at Chillcott like it was one of her Peacekeeper pistols, part of her wishing it was. “Out of my sight.”

  Chillcott nodded, skirting round Mary and giving her a wide berth. Sophie made to leave as well, but Mary barred her way. “A game?”

  “No, I mean—”

  “A roll in the hay, Sophie? Classy. You’re a walking bloody cliché.”

  You tell her, Moo-Moo!

  “Look, you don’t know how it’s been. With Mark the way he is, the way he...” There were tears in Sophie’s eyes now. “He doesn’t trust me.”

  Mary couldn’t believe what she was hearing. “Trust you? I can’t imagine why!”

  “This... it’s the first time we... Nothing happened, I swear. It’s just, well, Mark’s never around, and... I needed someone to talk to and...”

  And if you believe that, you’ll believe anything.

  Mary couldn’t help herself. Suddenly she’d delivered a hard slap to Sophie’s face, rocking the girl’s head sideways and leaving white imprints on the skin.

  Nice one, sis!

  “I can’t believe we let you into this family. Can’t believe we loved you, took care of you. You don’t deserve Mark.”

  Mary turned her back on the girl. She felt a hand on her arm, attempting to pull her back. “P-Please,” Sophie burbled through the tears, “please don’t tell Mark. Please, I can’t be on my own again.” Mary didn’t know whether she meant single—which would inevitably happen when Mark found out—or cut off from the people here at the castle, back where she started out, aged fifteen, when Mark had found her; but then, Mary didn’t really care anymore. Sophie’s first thought was for herself, rather than what this would do to her devoted husband—and that said a lot about how she’d changed. Or maybe she’d had this in her all along, but none of them had seen it?

  “Let go of me,” Mary said and the hand was promptly removed. It didn’t stop Sophie from following Mary out of the stables, though, blubbering all the way. What did stop her, stopped them both, was the sight of a hooded Mark on horseback arriving home. He trotted his brown and white steed up towards them, then dismounted.

  He didn’t ask what was going on, didn’t want to know why his wife was crying, why she was following his mother out of the stables in such a state. He just pulled down his hood to reveal eyes that had also shed tears.

  Then he walked up to them, looked over at Sophie and said: “Pack your things and get out.”

  She stared at him, then at Mary, bewildered. Nobody had told him anything; how could he possibly know? Mary had that answer: “You knew he’d gone out, but you didn’t know where, did you? He’s been to Sherwood, Sophie. He’s been at Sherwood.”

  Mary didn’t have to explain any more than that. The girl knew, though probably didn’t fully understand—who of them did, including Robert?—the power of that place. The visions, the knowledge it provided.

  Mark had been asking for the Forest’s guidance since his father had allowed him to go on trips with him there, and it still gave it. He’d seen something there, at any rate, and hadn’t needed her to tell him about Sophie.

  “Mark, no. Let’s talk about this. I—”

  “I said: go!” Mark bellowed, loud enough to draw looks from Rangers up near the castle itself.

  Sophie opened her mouth once, twice, then closed it again. “Fine,” she said, turning and striding off to do as he’d asked. To remove all traces of herself from the room they shared.

  Mary gaped at her son. She wanted to say she was sorry, that everything would be okay. But she knew that it wouldn’t be. And she heard her brother’s voice again, one last time:

  Nothing will ever be the same again now, Moo-Moo, he told her. It was only what she knew already.

  So, she did the one thing she could do. She opened her arms and let Mark collapse into them, feeling each wracking sob with him.

  Trying, but failing, to lessen the hurt and pain he was feeling.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  THE OUTPOST WAS surrounded.

  Those inside looked out, made increasingly anxious by the mounting numbers. They’d soon be cut off, if they weren’t already. It was only a small place, which probably made the crowds seem that much larger. Or maybe there really were that many outside, crowding in.

  Either way, it was bad news.

  Captain Jane Francis bit her lip as she looked out of the window of what had once been Matlock’s police station, now requisitioned as a Ranger outpost. The people had been gathering since early that morning, at first one or two, then over a dozen, then suddenly hordes of them. More, surely, than could ever live in this small community just down the road from Ashover.

  Jane knew why, of course. They’d heard the chatter over the radio, news of that incident in Bartertown spreading like... well, like wildfire. She didn’t know all the ins and outs of what had happened yet, but folks were up in arms about the heavy-handedness of the Rangers. There had been injuries, fatalities, and damage to property, she did know that. All she could think was that an incident had gotten out of hand, but none of the Rangers under her command would ever have acted like that unless they’d felt seriously threatened. In fact, up until now, she’d prided herself in the relationship they’d developed with this community—that they’d gone to great lengths to foster—especially since her posting here the previous October.

  Now they were marching on the Ranger HQ with placards that had slogans painted on them like BULLIES OUT and NO TO STRONG-ARM TACTICS and DON’T LET THE BASTARDS GRIND YOU UNDERFOOT. Some of them were chanting too, like hooligans at one of the old football matches she used to have to watch; her late husband had been so rabid about the game. Maybe some of them had had relatives in that town, maybe they were just bored. In any event, by midday, Jane knew she needed to do something. There were only a handful of Rangers stationed out here, and they were massively outnumbered if things got out of hand again. They’d radioed the town of Chesterfield for backup, but it seemed they were experiencing their own problems with protestors.

  Just what had gotten into these people?

  It was time to find out; to talk to them, at least. “Are you sure you want to do this, boss?” asked her Lieutenant, a bearded guy called Kelvin Tuttle. “Looks a bit hairy out there.”

  “What choice do we have? Someone’s got to try and calm things down,” she’d told him.

  Jane tentatively opened the front door of the stationhouse, stepping out and holding her hands up to show she wasn’t armed, looking down the steps at the crowd. “Could I have your attention, please!” she said, raising her voice. In the time before, Jane had been a gym instructor, used to raising her voice and dealing with awkward clients; this was no different, she thought to herself. They just needed a firm hand, someone who’d defuse the situation. The noise died down a little. “Thank you, I appreciate it,” said Jane. “Now, I know why you’re here and—”

  “Piss off back inside your sty, pig!” someone shouted. Jane scanned the crowd but couldn’t identify the speaker. There were quite a few people she didn’t recognise, actually, mixed in amongst a smattering of villagers who—it had to be said—were starting to look quite uncomfortable.

  “There’s no need for that. I’m sure we can straighten out any—”

  There was a shattering sound, a glass bottle smashing against the doorframe just inches away from her head. Jane flinched, recoiling. “Hey!” she said, “who threw that?” Jesus, she sounded like she was dealing with school kids. What did she actually have to threaten them with? Their cells didn’t have enough room for all these people here.r />
  Another smash, quite a distance from her, along the side of the building. Jane turned and looked, saw that where the bottle had exploded this time, there were flames. A Molotov cocktail.

  Bloody hell, this is Matlock, for Heaven’s sake! This kind of stuff just doesn’t happen here, thought Jane. It hadn’t even before the A-B Virus. But it was happening, and she needed to get back inside quick.

  She retreated, backing through the doorway again and slamming it closed. “So what now?” asked Kelvin, concern etched on his face.

  Jane wished to God she knew.

  SO WHAT NOW?

  Dale wished he knew what to say, but just couldn’t find the words.

  Hadn’t been able to since he’d heard the news yesterday. He certainly hadn’t said what he’d been on his way to find Mark to tell him, about him and Sian. About the baby. He couldn’t do that to the poor guy, not after all the crap with Sophie. Dale still felt bad sometimes about what had happened back when he’d first come to the castle, about the way he’d been with Sophie—basically just messing with her, like he had done with a lot of girls up to that point. Seeing it as a challenge, enjoying the way she’d responded to his chat, the way they always did. Not thinking—not caring—about the effect it was having on Mark, especially as the couple hadn’t even got together properly by then.

  They’d all come through that little misunderstanding though, and if anything it had made them firmer friends... in the end. Could all have gone very differently, however. He could have ended up like Chillcott, having his arse handed to him by Mark—not that he would have been able to take Dale back then, as young and inexperienced as he was. Who knows, Dale might just have let him out of guilt—although Dale hadn’t really felt regret in those days, either. But now, placing himself in Mark’s shoes, imaging Sian with someone else... It put things in a slightly different light. He’d probably have pounded the guy into the dirt, too. Would probably have been grateful later that someone had stopped him, mind.

  As Dale had done, when Mark had caught up with the Ranger that had been messing with Sophie. It had certainly been no training exercise, no game this time. Chillcott had raised his hands, almost in surrender, backing off and trying to get out of Mark’s way. But Mark was having none of it. He’d pushed the Ranger, got in his face until Chillcott had retaliated. Then Mark had gone to town on him.

  It was the first time Dale had really seen Mark fight like this, like he meant it. In the past, he’d always felt like the lad had been holding something back. But not on this occasion. Chillcott had been fighting for his life, blocking blows, managing to get a lucky punch or two in. But Dale could see it in Mark’s eyes as he finally kicked out the man’s legs from under him, then straddled him, raining blows down on his head...

  He’d been ready to kill him.

  Dale had dragged Mark off just in time, and for a moment there he wasn’t sure whether his friend was going to start in on him too. As it was, he’d wrestled himself out of Dale’s grip and made to return to the stricken Ranger, to finish the job. It had taken Dale and two other Rangers to restrain Mark.

  “Clean him up,” Dale had ordered, nodding to Chillcott. “Then get him away from here—for his own safety.” Sophie had already gone by this point, hadn’t even said goodbye to Dale or Sian. Why she’d done what she’d done, Dale didn’t have a clue. He’d thought Mark and Sophie were tight as could be. Had never picked up on anything like that on her part.

  Once Mark had calmed down a little, Dale had taken him back to the castle, assuring Mary he was in safe hands. That he’d look after Mark. And, though Dale hadn’t known what to say, he’d known exactly what to do and what this called for. Single malt, lots of it.

  They sat and drank in silence for a while, in one of the private rooms of the castle, furnished with easy chairs. Then Dale had listened as Mark talked, drunkenly slurring, pouring everything out, as more whiskey was poured into his glass. About how it felt like someone had stabbed him in the heart. No, not stabbed: had shot an arrow—a flaming hot arrow—into his chest. Dale had murmured “I know” and “Yeah, that’s right” every now and again, silently thanking his lucky stars that he had Sian—and now the little one on the way. They’d fallen asleep sometime in the early hours of the morning, Dale knowing that Mary would have filled in his wife and told her not to worry if he didn’t make it to bed that night.

  When Dale woke around noon the next day, bleary-eyed and more than a little hung-over, he’d realised that actually it hadn’t been such a great idea after all. Not because he felt like seven different kinds of shit (he very rarely drank these days, and never to excess like this) but because if an attempt had been made on the people they cared about last night, two of the best fighters in the whole place would have been pretty much useless. Pissed as farts and wallowing in self-pity.

  There was also no sign of Mark.

  Frantic, Dale roused himself, slapping his own face, trying to clear his head. He stood, feeling dizzy and more than a little sick. But he ran from the room, calling Mark’s name as he made his way through the castle.

  Passing a window, he saw the armoured jeep just inside the side gates of the castle. And there was Mark, standing and talking to two men in NRI uniforms.

  As Dale made his way downstairs, he was joined by Mary. “What’s going on?” he asked her, but she didn’t know. What she did know was that Robert hadn’t been in touch in well over a day, that they hadn’t been able to raise him and nobody over in Italy seemed to know where he was.

  “I haven’t said anything to April yet,” she warned Dale. And as they walked out into the sunlight, they were both hoping that the NRI hadn’t brought bad news about the man who’d brought them all together so long ago.

  From the grave look on Mark’s face, they feared the worst. It wasn’t until they reached him that they discovered the real problem, though.

  “Sergeant Allen,” said the first soldier, saluting to Dale and Mary on their approach, “and this is Private Potter. As we were just saying, the situation down south is turning grim. There’s rioting on the streets of London, and it’s growing ever closer to the palace.” This was where King Jack was based most of the time. When they asked what had started this, the men quickly filled them in about what had happened at Bartertown, about the fight between the townspeople and the Rangers.

  “We’re getting calls from various Ranger outposts and main stations around the country, reporting volatile protests,” Mark added, having seemingly bounced back a lot quicker than Dale from the previous night’s session. He appeared more together, at least, which was good, thought Dale. The situation had seemingly focussed him. “I’ll bet anything that the Defiants are helping to stir up this unrest.”

  “His Majesty is requesting assistance from the Rangers,” Potter chimed in.

  “How much assistance are we talking here?” asked Dale.

  “Anything you can spare basically, in the interests of both the safety of the United Kingdom and our future alliance.”

  Dale wasn’t sure, but the last bit sounded very much like a veiled threat: if you’re not there for us now, we won’t be there for you in the future.

  “And the advice that’s being given is the use of extreme force to quell the threat,” said Mark.

  “Fight fire with fire, if you like,” stated Potter.

  “The advice?” asked Mary. “Whose advice?”

  “It comes from the very top, ma’am.” Allen pronounced it marm. Mary didn’t bother asking what it was the top of, probably because she knew she wouldn’t get an answer.

  “We can’t afford for all this to escalate,” Potter pressed, “or everything we’ve worked so hard to build together could start to unravel.”

  Mark nodded. “You can count on our support.”

  “Mark, wait a second,” said Mary.

  “And the word’ll be put across the wire about how to handle any mobs,” he added.

  “Mark, are you sure about this, mate?” asked Dale. “Maybe
we should wait till we can get a hold of Robert and—”

  “Dad—Robert left me in charge,” said Mark, voice rising.

  “I’m not questioning that,” Dale replied, shaking his head. “I just think we need to take a bit of time to think about—”

  “What’s to think about? Our people are in trouble, they’re getting hurt. And the King needs our help.”

  “It’s not as simple as—” Mary began, but Mark held up his hand to silence her. She stepped back, mouth open. Dale couldn’t believe what he’d just seen. This really wasn’t Mark; or not Mark in his right mind, at any rate.

  “Listen—”

  “It’s done, Dale! Sergeant, I’ll make arrangements for the support you need.”

  Allen nodded. “Thank you sir, you won’t regret this.”

  He will, you know, thought Dale to himself as Mary stormed off, arms folded across her chest. And probably sooner rather than later.

  But what would happen now was anyone’s guess.

  CAPTAIN JANE FRANCIS had been agonising over what to do, when the decision had been taken out of her hands. Things were growing worse by the minute out there, with more Molotovs being thrown at the building and railings, spreading fire across their line of vision, rocks and bricks being thrown at windows already weakened by time and vandalism. She was loathe to retaliate—they were meant to be a peacekeeping force after all—and when the use of extreme measures had come down the wire she hadn’t exactly felt comfortable about that. But it had made the decision to fight back a little easier.

  Maybe they’d back off with a few warning shots, Jane reasoned. So she’d given the order to shoot a couple of arrows across their bows from the upstairs windows. All that seemed to do was antagonise them, whip up those who seemed intent on a scrap into a veritable frenzy. More projectiles were hurled, and—though she couldn’t be sure—it even sounded like a gun was fired at the station.