“He’s a gonner,” the Protector says as he peers over the edge. “Karma’s a bitch.” The man wasn’t wrong. “There’s been more than two hundred suicides here since they built the bridge and only five people have survived so odds are he’s as dead as a dodo. Not a good way to go, but quick. He would have hit the water as though it was tarmac and if the fall didn’t kill him then he’s likely to drown. The currents down there are lethal.”
Jessie cringes at the thought but the man was right. She’d seen the videos of the terrorists pushing people off tower blocks in the Middle East. They had no compunction in torturing and killing people, even seemed to relish it, they certainly went out of their way to broadcast their atrocities. Why should she feel bad for one of them falling to his death? She hadn’t forced him over the side. She’d even tried to help. No. Every action has a reaction and he’d gotten his reward for his hatred.
“It’s one less of the bastards to try and kill us.”
“Too right,” she replies. “C’mon. Sam needs us to help round up the others.”
“Shame we can’t send them all over the side,” he laughs.
“That’s what makes us different. We don’t do shit like that.”
He grunts. She sympathises with his desire to finish off the men that were trying to slaughter them, the men that wanted to destroy their freedom and bring England to its knees, but she wouldn’t be party to that kind of retribution. Self-defence was one thing. Seeking revenge another. It would be murder and she’d be the one standing trial if it came to light—not something she wanted to be known for.
Chapter 10
Bill slams the door shut and pushes the latch down as the last of the terrorists is loaded into the truck. He has no qualms about locking them inside; they had air to breath—they’d survive until somewhere more suitable could be found.
Counting the four that had been killed on the bridge, the one struck by lightning, and the one that had fallen to his death there had been twelve terrorists, twelve seething monsters wanting to cause Bill and his countrymen grotesque pain and suffering. He leans into the truck’s door and grips the handle, pressing the metal into his fingers, and pushes down the urge to fling open the doors and spatter the inside of the truck with bullets. It’s what they’d do. Yes, but you’re not like them and it’s not what we do. He takes a breath, relieves the tension, stands back and bangs on the door. Angry shouts erupt inside as the engine starts and the lorry begins its slow journey, reversing along the bridge to the slip road and back into town. Bill had advised against taking them back there, but Sam had disagreed. He wished that he’d been firmer but he didn’t have time to deal with it, his priority now was to get back to the cottage and Clarissa.
“Check for the dead,” Sam calls out as he pulls at the charred body and lines it up with another. A bolt pokes out of its chest.
“Jessie,” Bill calls. “Some of your hardware here.”
“Coming,” she shouts back.
“You know,” Bill says as he looks down at the contorted face of the electrocuted terrorist. “If he’d stayed on the car’s roof he would have been alright.”
“How so?” Ken asks as he drags another body into place.
“Well, the rubber would have earthed the electricity.”
“Serves him right then,” adds Ken.
“What’re you going to do with them?” Bill asks as Sam reaches into the man’s jacket and pulls out a wallet.
Sam is silent for a moment as he flips open the folded leather. “We should take them to the hospital’s morgue.” He closes the wallet and hands it to Martha.
“Not a chance!” Hazzer states. “I’m not wasting my diesel.”
Sam seems to ignore him as he checks the pockets of another jacket. Retrieving a wallet, he passes it to Martha then turns to address the gathered men. “What about you?” he asks Paolo. “Will you take them back to town?”
He shakes his head. “No.”
“No one?” he asks looking round. All avoid eye contact.
“They’re not coming back into town.”
“We should chuck ‘em over the side,” Hazzer suggests.
“Why not,” Ken shrugs. “It’ll save us a lot of hassle.”
“I can think of a good few reasons why not,” Sam returns.
“If you take them back to town what do you think’s going to happen?” Hazzer continues. “We’ve no electricity so no way of keeping them cold. They’ll start to stink the place up in a day or two. Do you really want five rotting corpses on your hands?”
“Of course not, but there are procedures-”
“Sod procedures, Sam,” Hazzer blurts. “This is a state of emergency. Procedures can take a hike.”
“And there’s no way you’re burying them in our soil.”
“We could burn them,” Hazzer offers.
“That still means dragging them out of here. It’ll take hours and I’m already done in.”
“Over the side then. It’s quick and easy. The tide’ll take them out to sea.”
“It’s the cleanest way Sam,” Bill adds.
Sam looks back down at the men’s bodies. Blood pools on the tarmac.
“We should bring the others up here too,” Ken suggests.
“We can’t kill them!”
“No. I mean the ones on Whitecross Street. They’re all still in the road.”
“Dogs and foxes will have had ‘em by now,” Hazzer says.
“And crows,” Ken adds.
“Yeah, and the crows,” Hazzer agrees.
“Alright, alright! We’ll put them over the side and let nature take its course.”
The group of Protectors murmur their agreement.
“Who’s going to say a prayer?” Sheila asks.
“Now you are taking the piss!” Hazzer blurts.
“No. It’s the decent thing to do,” she insists.
“I’ll leave that to you, Sheila,” Sam replies. “It sticks in my craw to go that far.”
Sam reaches down to pull at a body. “Help then! They’re not going to jump off themselves.”
Jessie steps next to Bill as the last body is dropped over the side. “Bill, we need-”
“Yes, I know. We need to get back.”
A sigh of relief. “Thanks. I haven’t been able to think about her—not until we’d sorted out these pricks, but the road should be clear-”
“At this end at least.”
“We’re headed east to the coast. There are no fires there.”
Being nearly one hundred feet higher than the surrounding land would give clear views during the day but at night, and without streetlights to mark out the towns and cities, all is dark to the east. Across the bridge in the city, and to the south, fires burn but in the direction of the hospital it’s clear.
“We’ll be able to take her straight to the hospital—nice and smooth,” Bill says with renewed confidence. “First though I need to talk to Sam. The terrorist cell that’s setting fire to the city could easily find their way here, may even come to investigate if they’ve got communications working and this lot have tipped them off, or they realise they’re missing. The other carriageway needs blocking.”
“Right, well I’ll see you back at the house then. I’ll make sure mum is ready to leave,” Jessie says as she pulls her helmet back on and kickstarts the bike.
Ten minutes later, Sam has agreed to organise the blockade of the southbound carriageway, the truckers have agreed to leave their vehicles in place, and a Watch has been organised to patrol the bridge. Hesitant to leave the lorries in-situ there was no way they were about to leave them unattended. Bill walks back to the car with a weary step as Uri pulls open the driver’s door.
“Hey! I’m driving.” Uri ignores his protest and instead slips into the driver’s seat. “Hey, Uri!” he calls again. Staring in confusion, he watches as Uri, huge inside the car, tries to move from the driver’s side to the passenger’s. “Use the door!” Bill shouts. Uri’s head disappears into the p
assenger footwell, one knee on the seat the other pointing out of the door. He pulls back, hits his head on the roof, grunts and extracts himself from the car.
Bill suppresses a laugh. “What’s up?”
Uri strides past him with another grunt. “You look,” he commands as he walks round the front of the car and stabs a finger at its side. “That!” The doors and front wheel trim are a mess of battered metal.
“Oh, shit!” Bill exclaims. A vintage Ford Escort, full concourse with re-conditioned engine, and they’d trashed it. Will it even start up now? “Bloody Hell!” He grips the handle and pulls. The door creaks, opens an inch, then sticks. “You’ll just have to sit in the back, Uri. Unless you want to slide over the passenger seat.”
“Niet.”
Bill laughs. “You may get stuck.”
“Da.”
Bill snorts with laughter. Seeing Uri head first in the footwell, his huge body trapped against the car’s roof again, would make his day.
“I sit in backseat.”
“Da, Uri. Da.”
Chapter 11
Back at the cottage Clarissa’s eyes flutter open as Bill walks back through the living room door. Her skin is sallow in the yellow light of the fire. The room is muggy, warmed by the fire crackling in the hearth. It casts an orange glow across the patterned rug as rain spatters at the windows.
“She’s sleeping,” Clare says as he crouches beside her chair. “She’s been asleep since you left.”
“Can you wake her? He can barely stand to look at the pain etched across her face. “The car’s ready.”
“Is Michael ready?”
“Yep, he’s in the car—just waiting for Clarissa now.”
Clare rouses Clarissa with a gentle voice and Jessie reaches down to help her stand.
“Ready, Mum?”
Clarissa nods, sucks air through her teeth as she stands but doesn’t complain. The next minutes are tense as she takes tentative steps out of the house and makes her way to the car. Bill’s heart beats a rapid tattoo against his chest as he walks beside her. They’ve cleared the way, the danger is at least reigned in, and now it’s time to get her the help she desperately needs—before it’s too late. His mind totally focused, his determination absolute, he starts the car.
With Clarissa eased into the car, Michael in the seat next to her, Clare on the other side, and Uri in the passenger seat, Bill drives slowly out of the driveway and onto the road. He allows himself a sigh of relief. The petrol tank is full and Clarissa is safe in the back and Jessie is following behind.
With each bump Clarissa makes a small groan. By the time he’s reached the outskirts of town he must have said ‘sorry!’ at least ten times. Once they were on the main roads the ride would be smoother—he hoped.
At the town’s threshold a bank of cars stops their progress and as they approach the barricade, lights fill the space. One of the lorries has been placed behind the cars—another line of defence. Sam obviously wasn’t taking the chance of anyone getting through without permission. Bill rolls to a stop and waits. Nothing happens.
“Why they wait?” Uri asks.
Jessie pulls up alongside and gestures for him to roll down the window.
“You want me to go?”
“Sure. It doesn’t look as if they’re coming here anytime soon.”
Jessie dismounts and removes her helmet as a flashlight falls on her. Bill winces as she rubs at her temple. Poor kid must be in pain. The bruise at her hairline was even darker now and there was still blood clotted through her hair—getting that helmet on and off must be painful and her arm – he winces at the thoughts of her arm – that must be sore, even if Clare had done an amazingly neat job of sewing the wound.
As she stands in the pool of light, a figure appears from between the parked cars. Flashlight in hand, he stops to talk to Jessie then makes his way to the car. Light fills the interior and Bill squints as it shines in his face.
At the barricade, five men step out, all armed with various implements. A face, pale and taut, appears from behind the torchlight. The man knocks on the window.
“What business are you on?” the man asks officiously as Bill winds down the window.
“I’ve got two people that need hospital treatment.”
He trains the flashlight over Bill’s shoulder and scans the back seat. Uri grunts as the light shines in his face. Bill grits his teeth. Every second they waste is one lost for Clarissa.
“Open the boot please, sir.”
“Just hold on! We’ve got some seriously ill people in the back. Sam-”
“Sam! Ah, yes! Sorry, mate. I should have realised. We’ve heard about the bridge.”
“No need to apologise. You’re doing the right thing. The terrorists are sneaky bastards.”
The man nods and Bill releases the brake. The man pats the car again. “Like you said, sir, the terrorists are sneaky bastards, so open the boot.”
It takes another five minutes before the guard pats the roof of the car and calls to the men at the entrance to let them through. Bill sighs with relief, throws the man a tight smile - he was doing what he had to and Bill wasn’t about to argue the point - and shifts the car into gear. At this rate it would be dawn before they got to the hospital. Clarissa groans. Bill presses down on the accelerator, moving the car forward, gently picking up speed.
The town is quiet and dark as they drive through the marketplace with only the car’s headlights casting light across the road, and the stench of burning fuel clings to the air. As he drives past the petrol station a lorry is stopped at the side of the road.
“The prisoners,” Uri states.
“Yes,” replies Bill. “I hope Sam knows what he’s doing. If those men get free it’ll be a bloodbath around here.”
“Da. I would have finished them all.” He makes a snapping sound with his tongue as he breaks an imaginary neck and Bill grimaces.
“Da, Uri. Perhaps you should have.”
Chapter 12
Guy has finally drifted off to sleep, his head resting against the back of the sofa. Drool leaks from his open mouth. As the first light of morning begins to seep through the open window Joshua glares at the man. His head lolls then he twitches, snorts, and sits up with a start staring around the room with hooded eyelids. He locks eyes with Joshua. They narrow and then close. Overly long dark lashes, almost as long as his mum’s fake ones, rest on the dark skin of his cheek. The skin is mottled with dark pockmarks, almost black at their centre. His beard is cut short and neat, and his hair, even at this hour, seems almost recently brushed with a natural quiff at the front. He looks similar to Ansar’s dad although he didn’t have the pockmarks. Joshua struggles with the comparison. Ansar’s dad was cool. He was a nice bloke, nicer than his own useless twat of a dad, but this man, who looked so much like Ansar’s dad, was a real pig. An evil pig holding a knife at his friend’s throat, holding them hostage, and eating all their food even though they had barely any left.
Slumped in the large chair across the room, his mother looks small, almost like a kid with her hair cut boyishly short. For the first time he notices the lighter roots. How come he’d not noticed the grey before? And the lines around her eyes, how long had they been there? She’d sat next to him, a protective arm around her son until the man had ordered him to sit on the other chair. Joshua had to get rid of him before he had a chance to kill them like he said he would. The man snorts in a deeper sleep. Now was his chance.
Joshua rises from the sofa and takes a soft and tentative step to the middle of the room. If he can just get to the kitchen he could arm himself. He takes another step, heart hammering in his chest. The kitchen drawer was full of knives his mother wouldn’t let him touch—they weren’t as big as his knife, but if he could stab him before he woke up … Joshua takes another soft step across the carpet. The man snorts and murmurs in his sleep. Joshua freezes. He waits. Sally sits up, one ear cocked as she watches him step across the room. Useless dog! What was the point of having
one if they didn’t protect you. Soft old girl! He raises a finger to his lips in a silent hush to the dog and she lays her head back down on her paws, watching his progress through to the kitchen.
Pulling the kitchen door towards him he steps through to the cold tiles with a sigh of relief. He’s made it!
The soft tac, tac of his shoes is the only sound as he walks across to the kitchen drawers and pulls one open. In the living room the terrorist snorts. In the drawer is an array of kitchen implements and among them a long-handled knife with a thinly tapering blade at least six inches long—the one his mother keeps sharp for carving the meat of their Sunday roast. He reaches in and knocks his hand against the top of the drawer as a scream fills the air. Guy!
Grabbing the knife with an aching hand, Joshua runs back into the living room. Guy is face down on the carpet, the terrorist forcing him to the floor with his knee in his back.
“I told you not to move!” he seethes as he glares at Joshua. Guy grunts as the terrorists moves his knees to the boy’s shoulders. He grunts again, his breath laboured. He screams as the man pulls at his right arm and forces it out to lay across the carpet. “Now see what happens when you don’t listen,” he spits as he raises his knife.
“No!” Joshua shouts as the man splays Guy’s fingers out on the floor, his intention obvious.
“No!” his mother screams. “Stop! … Just Stop!”
Joshua determines to jump on the man and kick the knife out of his hand but, before he has a chance to move, the knife arcs through the air and slices down onto Guy’s thumb. A guttural scream muffles against the carpet. And a dread cold washes over Joshua. Bile threatens to surge up his throat.
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