A hand tugs at his sleeve as Haydock peers into the barrow. “He looks half dead already,” he states with a grimace.
“Well, he may be,” Sam replies. The hand tugs at his sleeve again. “And that might be the merciful thing for him.” He looks down to the boy at his side before continuing. “A cocktail of bleach and glyphosate could destroy his body.”
“Sam.”
“Yes, Joshua.”
“Am I in trouble?”
“Well-”
“Joshua did it to save us,” Bridget interrupts as she steps next to her son. “That man would have killed us otherwise, I know he would.”
“Am I? In trouble.”
“No, Joshua. You’re not in trouble,” Sam replies. “Your Mum’s right. You did the right thing,” he says in an attempt to put the boy’s mind at ease. He can’t imagine what he went through during the night.
“So, I’m not going to prison?”
“No, lad. It was self-defence. You did what you had to do.” The boy’s shoulders sag as he looks to his mother with a smile.
“There, you see? You did the right thing,” his mother soothes. “Sam knows it and so does everybody else. Thank you, Sam. He was getting worried that the police would arrest him.”
“You don’t need to worry. You’re a hero-”
“String the bastard up!” A voice interrupts. A disgruntled murmur rises from the crowd as a figure pushes its way through. “If you lot aren’t up to the job, then I’ll do it.” The voice, loud and strong is laced with rage. Sidney Fairweather—the local hothead, a bully that Sam had had trouble with since primary school. Knowing about the tragedy that overwhelmed Sidney when he was a kid helped Sam tolerate him – losing his mother to a drug overdose when he was ten can’t have helped assuage the meanness inside him, and then there was his unfortunate habit - but the man was an out and out twat all the same. Age hadn’t mellowed him. Time hadn’t matured him.
“We’re not stringing anyone up,” Sam retaliates. “This man needs medical attention.”
“Medical attention, my arse. I’ll string him up myself. Bugger that! I’ll hang, draw and quarter him,” he states with a twist of hate across his face as he strides forward and scowls down at the writhing body in the wheelbarrow. Malice glitters in his eyes. He snorts, sucks mucus from his throat, then spits. A gob of green and slimy phlegm lands on the man’s cheeks. The terrorist doesn’t flinch, doesn’t register the insult, or the warm mess on his skin. Perhaps it was too late for medical attention?
A car’s engine thrums in the distance and the crowd turns to the noise with a collective anxiety.
“The barricades are manned,” Sam calls out. “My men are armed.” Let Sidney, and Councillor Haydock for that matter, realise just who is in control here. The crowd eases and Sam turns his attention back to Sidney ‘Shitter’ Fairweather.
“Shit- Sidney. We are not going to hang this man.”
Sidney growls and glowers at Sam. He hadn’t meant to call him by his nickname, it had just come out. Everyone in town, at least every one of his peers, still called Sidney Fairweather ‘Shitter Fairweather’ on account of his unfortunate habit of crapping his pants at school. The small and muggy classroom would make the offending stench even more unbearable and at one point the teachers had insisted Sidney wear nappies. Sure, it had only been for the first few years, but the name had stuck like shit on a stick.
“Says who?” Shitter asks taking a step forward. A group of men break free of the crowd and stand behind him, a solid and muscular wall of righteous anger.
Show no fear. “I do,” Sam replies.
Sidney takes another step forward, leers at Sam and grasps the handle of the wheelbarrow. The henchmen follow suit and cluster behind Sidney. Sam grits his teeth and takes hold of the other handle. The terrorist groans and more spittle laced with blood froths to his lips. The noise of the engine grows louder and a car appears at the bottom of the road then heads in their direction. Distracted for a moment, Sidney shoves his massive shoulder into Sam’s chest and yanks the handle of the wheelbarrow from his hand.
“Go home, Sam,” Shitter sneers as he wheels the barrow away. “Let the big boys deal with the bogey man.” The terrorist’s hand dangles over the side and bumps as it skims the tarmac.
“Hey!” Sam shouts.
Shitter ignores him and trundles the man over the zebra crossing and down the hill. The gathered crowd remains silent as Sam stares round at them for support. Feet shuffle and eyes avoid his questioning stare. Councillor Haydock looks smug.
“Am I the only one who thinks this is wrong?”
“He’ll go to prison when the coppers find out,” Martha says.
“Exactly,” Sam replies taken aback by the edge of anxiety in her voice.
“They’ll do him for culpable homicide if that man dies in that barrow,” she states. “They’ll say he killed him by ‘wicked recklessness’.
“You’ve been watching too much Taggart, Martha,” Bridget says. “Culpable homicide is a Scottish term of law. It’s manslaughter here.”
“Oh. Thanks, Bridget,” she replies. “Well tell him then, Sam. Tell him they’ll do him for manslaughter,” she urges staring after Sidney.
“Sidney!” Sam shouts after the shrinking back of the man. “If he dies … they’ll send you down for manslaughter.”
Sidney stops and turns. “They can’t do me for manslaughter if I hang him. That’d be murder.”
“Come back here, Sidney Fairweather!” Martha shouts.
Sam frowns and shakes his head. The man wasn’t thinking straight and Martha was becoming far too overexcited. A wave of jealousy rides over him. Surely, Martha and Shitter Fairweather … no, she wouldn’t. He stares down at her.
“Stop him, Sam!”
For crying out loud! “Sidney, you arsehole. Bring him back here.”
“Sam, you’ve got to stop him.”
“I’m trying.”
“Go after him.”
“But … he’s six foot seven, built like a brick shithouse, and surrounded by a gang of thugs. And why are you so interested anyhow?”
“I … My grandson won’t have a daddy if he gets done for it.”
He frowns at Martha in surprise as relief waves over him. “Your grandson?”
“Yes, you know, Heath.”
“I know you’ve got a grandson, Martha, I just didn’t know Shitter Fairweather was the dad. You kept that one quiet.”
She looks sheepish. “Well, wouldn’t you?” she says in a low voice. “He’s a good dad though, Sam.”
Sam stares down the road with fresh eyes. The gang of henchmen at his side Sidney strides down the hill with the barrow. Sam has to stop him. He picks up his pace then pounds towards the group. The word ‘rope’ floats in the air just as he launches himself at Sidney’s broad back. Sidney staggers forward then stops and straightens. His strength is impressive, but Sam clings on, tightening his arm around Sidney’s neck. Sidney stands firm. “Get off my back,” he growls. Sam had expected a fuss, to be thrown to the floor and punched, not this calm resistance. The barrow clanks to the floor as Sidney releases the handles and grasps Sam’s forearm. Oh hell! What had he done? There was no way Sam could win a fight against him. He’d been huge and overbearing in the playground; he was huge and overbearing as a man. Steel fingers dig down into the muscle of Sam’s arm. The skin, still tender, screams its discomfort. His grip around Sidney’s neck slackens and he drops to the ground.
“What the hell you at, Fireman Sam? Geroff!” Sidney growls as he turns and pushes Sam back.
Sam rubs at his arm, taut and twisted, the skin burns beneath his jacket’s sleeve, but he’s not ready to give up yet. “Listen, Sidney,” he says staring into the green of his harsh eyes. “If you kill this man then you’ll be the one punished for it. They’ll send you down—maybe even give you a life sentence. The way the judicial system works here seems to be that if you’re white you get banged up, if you’re an extremist preaching hate, spitt
ing on babies, or preying on young English girls, then they let you off.”
“They’re all so afraid of being called racists they just appease the bastards,” Sidney agrees with a snarl.
“Do you really want your life ruined for this piece of shit?” he asks gesturing to the man in the barrow.
Sidney stares down and scowls back at Sam. Anger and rage leaks from him. “No,” he admits. “But I want to see him hang. I want all of them to hang. They’re fekkin’ monsters.”
Sam nods. There was no denying it. “Yeah, you’re right. But are they worth trading your life for? Banged up—what you going to do? Huh? If you want things to change you need to be free to fight against them. Am I wrong?”
“No,” he admits. “I don’t reckon he’ll make it to a hospital anyway, so all of this is a waste of time.”
“You’re probably right. You’ve got a kid haven’t you, Sidney?”
“Yeah,” his face breaks into a smile. “Heath.”
“Do you want him growing up without his daddy? Knowing that he’s banged up for murder?”
“No.”
“Then don’t risk going to prison for this piece of shit.”
Silence.
“Take him then,” Sidney says with a bite as all determination leaves him. He kicks at the wheelbarrow. It wobbles but doesn’t tip and Sam steps forward and takes the handle.
Chapter 18
Bill watches as Jessie and Clare help Clarissa up the cottage stairs. When he’d taken Clarissa to the hospital he hadn’t expected to be back so soon, hadn’t imagined she wouldn’t stay on a ward being cared for by doctors and nurses, but the hospital was in crisis. There was a drastic shortage of staff, no porters, no cleaners, no cooks, very few nurses and only a handful of doctors. The only staff there were people who lived locally, had got trapped without transport, or made heroic efforts to be there and keep the place running. One doctor had managed to get a couple of old motors running again and there was a pool of staff coming and going, rotating shifts. They were syphoning petrol out of the cars stuck in the hospital carpark by jimmying petrol caps open with crow bars. Their efforts were impressive, but there would be hell to pay once everything was up and running again. Although, as the doctor had said, there was no evidence, no CCTV or mobiles to capture the ‘offence’. Those were the kind of people the world needed—true heroes who pushed for the extra mile.
Water glugs from the barrel in the kitchen, mugs sit neatly lined up on the counter, and Stella fills the kettle as Bill walks through. Her eyes are still red from crying.
“You alright, Stella?” he asks as he pulls up a chair. More than weary, he needs a rest. He may look a bit like Thor, though he couldn’t see it, but he certainly didn’t have the super hero’s boundless energy. He’s knackered, needs fuel in his belly, a cup of tea, and by the whiff coming from his armpits, a bloody good wash. He’d sort that as soon as he’d had a brew. Stella remains silent though she nods as she puts the kettle on the hob, her head bowed.
“She’ll be alright, y’know, your Mum.”
Stella nods silently and sniffs.
“She will,” Bill continues. He hated to see her cry. “The doctor said she needs to rest and just take paracetamol for the pain. She’s bruised and sore but she was lucky—the tree softened the … fall.”
“But her lung!”
“Well, the doctor said it was punctured, but not by her ribs. They’re fine—just bruised. The doctor re-inflated-” Stella grimaces. “Sorry!” He tries again. “The doctor fixed her. She just has to breath deeply to make sure she doesn’t get pneumonia.”
“Are you sure?” Stella sighs as her body relaxes and she spoons tealeaves into the pot. The spoon tinkles against the teapot as her hand trembles.
“Yes, that’s what the doctor said. We just have to make sure she takes deep breaths. The lung should heal in a few days. You and Clare—you can help look after her.
“She should be in hospital though.”
“I thought so too, but if you could see the state the hospital’s in, you wouldn’t think that. It’s all but shut down. The doctor was confident that she could come home. She’s better off here—with you.”
Stella nods and sits down.
“He’s right, Stella.” Jessie walks through to the kitchen. “The hospital was … chaotic. I wouldn’t want to leave mum there. She’s safer here.”
“She is,” Bill agrees and reaches for a piece of dried fruit. “Jessie, have you got anything other than dried fruit and nuts to eat. I’m starving—really starving.”
“I’ve got tinned food too: tuna, Irish Stew, soup …”
“I love a stew—not sure on tinned, but I’ll give it a go. Got any fresh meat? I could kill for a decent steak?
“No—all out of sirloin!” she replies with a wry laugh. “Fancy taking down a cow with my bow? We could have it butchered ready for tea?”
“Don’t joke. It may just come to that.”
“We can try for some rabbit later, or venison.”
“I’m not eating deer,” Stella blurts. “They’re so beautiful. I just couldn’t bring myself to eat one.
“You would if you were hungry enough.”
“You’ve had it before,” Jessie returns casting her sister an amused glance.
“No, I haven’t. When?”
“Last summer. Mum bought those venison steaks and we had them on the barbecue.”
Stella grimaces. “I didn’t.” She shakes her head in denial as she turns back to the hob as the kettle boils.
“You did. And you said they were delicious.”
“Anyway, ladies,” Bill interrupts as his stomach growls. “I am absolutely bloody starving. So, what do we have to eat?”
“Irish Stew—of the tinned variety,” Jessie returns leaning back in the chair as Stella pours boiling water into the teapot and places it at the centre of the table.
“I’ll sort out some lunch, shall I?” Stella asks.
“Please.”
Bill spends the next minutes chattering. Stella and Jessie both groan at his terrible jokes and the tension in the kitchen eases. As Bill finishes his second cup of tea, and Stella stirs the stew cooking on the hob, Jessie catches his eye and nods in the direction of the door. He understands. She wants to talk—in private.
“Just popping out to get some fresh air, Stella. Give me a call when it’s ready,” he says as his chair scrapes back, “and I’ll sample the delights of your cooking.”
“It’s delicious,” she laughs. “Not!”
Within a couple of minutes, Jessie joins Bill in the garden, catching up with him as he takes a look inside one of the brick sheds at the side of the house. It’s filled with old tools. An ancient workbench, heavy and oil-stained lines one side. Thick paint covers the walls, peeling with age and damp to reveal the brickwork beneath.
“Proper old work shed, this,” he says as Jessie stands beside him.
“It is. I love the outbuildings here more than the house. It was like this when we bought it. Hasn’t been touched in years.”
“I can tell,” he replies brushing off the cobwebs. “These tools could come in handy. That scythe is rusty but I bet if it was sharpened it could do some damage.”
“Damage? It’s for cutting hay.”
“Sure, but it could be used as a weapon.”
“It’s virtually an antique.”
“Yes, but the blade-”
“It’s part of our heritage.”
“Sure, but if you sharpen it it’d take someone’s head off.”
Jessie sighs beside him. “I don’t want these tools used as weapons. They’re for using here—if the shit hits the fan.”
“And it hasn’t already?”
“Well, yes, but I’ll need these to help sustain us—to work the land and keep everything running.”
“Do you think it’ll come to that?”
“No. I imagine by next week this will all be over. They’ll figure out how to get the power back on and then
everything will go back to normal.”
“Normal! Really?”
“Eventually. Sure, at first it will take time, but once the power’s back on then the whole system will just reboot.”
“It’ll be a painful reboot. There’ll be a lot of people out of a job, and companies going bust.”
“Perhaps it’s the kick up the arse people need. After this then maybe they’ll realise just how reliant we are on technology and electricity and start adjusting.”
“Is that what you want?”
“It is. I’m going to make sure this place runs off-grid and we grow as much as we can from the land.”
“That’s impossible, Jessie.”
“Why?”
“Because you’ve got your career to think of and so does your mum … and Stella. Who’s going to be here to run it?”
Silence.
“Well … It’s saved us this time,” she replies defensively.
“It has,” Bill agrees. “But having it as anything other than a bolt-hole is perhaps something that’s out of reach right now.”
“I know,” she relents. “But one day …”
“Yes, one day. I’m impressed that your family had the foresight to buy the place and that you kitted it out the way you did though. I bet we’re the only place with hot running water for a hundred miles.”
She laughs. “Thanks. It was my dad … he always said we should be prepared. It was his dream for us to live off-grid and go back to a simpler life.”
“You’re lucky then. Most people aren’t so aware. I wasn’t. But after this …” He stops. After this what? He has no money, no way of buying land. He’d be lucky if he could get a one-bedroom flat above a fish and chip shop. “After this I’ll be looking for a place of my own.”
“And go off-grid?”
Fat chance! “Well, I’ll look into it. One thing is for sure though, I’ll be better prepared for the next time the shit hits the fan.”
“That’s what I wanted to talk to you about?”
“The next time?”
“Kind of. I want to make sure there isn’t a next time—not this type of next time.”
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