Crunching over the glass, Sam steps into the shop, watching the girl’s crouched reflection in the mirror, and walks to the chiller. Bottles of water and cans of fizzy pop face him. He can hear the girl’s breathing, the scuff of her shoes against the tiles as he reaches for the coke bottle-shaped handle of the chiller and pulls. The smell of pastries and bread that fills the shop makes him heady and his stomach growls again. His mouth waters. How long has it been since he last ate?
“Do you want water or a Coke?” he asks as he pulls the bottle from the fridge. Silence. Feet scuffle. “Listen, I’m thirsty and I guess you must be too. If I get you a drink will you pass me one of those cakes?” he asks. He can see the girl crouching, her figure reflected in the mirror. She doesn’t move. “A cherry Bakewell would be good,” he continues. She can’t be more than fourteen. It was tough enough for him to cope with the terror that had gripped the town, how she must feel he can’t imagine. As she rises, their eyes meet across the counter’s glass top.
He smiles. “Could you pass me one, please?”
She turns and reaches for a circular tart sitting at the front of a double row of six. The tart behind slips forwards as she removes it from the slanted shelf.
“This one?” she asks tentatively.
“Yep,” he replies and takes it from her hand. “Now, did you want water,” he holds up the bottle, “or Coke?”
“Water please.”
Sam passes the bottle of water to her with a surprised smile. He would have put his money on the Coke.
“Fizzy stuff makes my stomach hurt,” she says by way of explanation.
“Yeah, me too,” he agrees replacing the can and taking another bottle of water. His stomach growls as he takes a slug from the bottle. The girl eyes him with suspicion as she takes a sip.
“So,” he begins, “what are you doing here?”
She looks to the smashed door. “Same as you. Eating. Drinking.”
He nods.
“There’s nothing at home,” she explains, defensive but apologetic. “We’ve nothing to cook with and I’m sick of cold beans.”
Sam laughs. “I’m with you on that one.”
“There’s nowhere open. How’re we supposed to get food if the shops are closed? And anyway, Mum’s got no cash because the banks are closed so even if the shops were open we’d still starve.”
“They’ll be open again soon. Don’t you worry,” Sam soothes although he’s not convinced that is the truth.
“By mum reckons it’ll be days or even weeks before things are back to normal. My brother Caleb said it’s the apocalypse.”
Sam laughs. “Don’t be daft. It’s just the power grid that’s been knocked out. You’ll see—give it a few days and it’ll all be back to normal.”
She shrugs. He can tell she doesn’t believe him.
“Listen,” he continues. “I’ll do a deal with you.”
“What?”
“Well,” he says looking at the rows of cakes and pastries. “If you help me bag this lot up, then I’ll make sure you get enough to take home to your mum.”
She smiles. “I’ve got two brothers and a sister too.”
“I’ll make sure there’s enough for you all. OK?”
“What about the butcher? What’ll he say?”
“Don’t worry about that. I’ll square it with Mr Henson.”
She looks at the broken glass with apprehension. “You won’t tell him I did it, will you?”
“Perhaps you can do that yourself,” a voice booms as a dark shadow fills the doorway. “Just what the bloody hell is going on here?”
“George!” Sam replies as he turns to the giant. “Just the man I was looking for.”
“Oh, aye? A likely story.”
Sam stares up at George. A man in his early sixties, he was known to have a ferocious temper. In his hand is an air rifle.
“Get out of my shop,” he growls as he steps through the doorway.
“George, I-”
“I’ll count to three. One …”
Sam steps towards the door. “Come on,” he says to the girl. She steps with him, clutching the bag, bottle of water still tight in her hand.
“And leave that here,” George demands gesturing to the canvas bag of eggs and pastries.
“But we’ve got nothing to eat!” the girl responds and clutches it to her side.
“Put it on the floor and leave,” George repeats.
Sam watches as a new determination settles across the girl’s face. “No.”
George looks at her in surprise—he was a man used to getting his own way. “You heard me,” he tries again. “Put the bag down and leave.”
“Make me,” she challenges.
How much more coercion did she want? The man was pointing a rifle at her face! “Perhaps we’d better do as he says.”
“No,” she returns. “There’s more food here than he can eat.”
“It’s not for stealing,” he growls.
“Better I take it than it goes rotten just sat here,” she counters.
“George, perhaps on this occasion-”
“What? I should let her steal from me should I, Fireman Sam?”
Sam groans. It always came to that when they wanted to belittle him. “There’s no need for that, Henson.”
George has the good grace to look a little sheepish though he doesn’t apologise. “This is my shop. You’re breaking and entering. I’m within my rights to protect my property,” he raises his rifle a little higher and pulls it into his shoulder.
Sam has to take control. “George, put the gun down. We can sort this out in a civilised way.”
“Nothing civilised about robbing a man and ruining his business.”
“Get things into perspective-”
“She’s looting.”
“She’s trying to feed her family. Her mum and brothers are waiting back home starving.”
“I’ve got a sister too.”
“Sure. And a sister.”
“Mum’s not got any money for food.”
“That’s not my problem,” George sighs. “Protecting my property is. Do you think I haven’t got a family to feed?”
“I know you do,” Sam replies with an image of George’s overweight wife and corpulent, fully grown children in mind. “Listen. We’re all in the same situation. We’re all starving and perhaps doing things we wouldn’t normally be doing.”
The girl nods. “I’ve never stolen before.”
George huffs.
“George, put the gun down,” Sam repeats recognising a crack in his hard exterior. “If that trigger slips …”
“It’s not going to slip,” he replies. “I know what I’m doing. I’ve been clay pigeon shooting for over thirty years.”
“I know. I’ve seen your trophies,” Sam placates, “but that’s a girl you’re pointing the gun at, not a clay pigeon.”
The gun lowers. The girl clutches the bag and steps to the side towards the door. George raises his gun once more.
“She can leave, but she has to put the bag down.”
“No!”
Sam sighs. “Come on!” he says with exasperation. The smell of Cornish pasties and Bakewell tarts was messing with his head. He had to eat soon. He reaches into his pocket, pulls out a crumpled five-pound note, and slams it on the counter. “There. All paid for. Keep the change. You’re welcome.”
“Right,” George says lowering the gun.
“Thank you,” the girl says and walks towards the door.
“Just hold on,” George blurts. “What about my door. That’ll cost to repair.”
“Fine. I’ll pay for it to be repaired. Just put the gun down.”
George nods, cracks the gun open, and holds it over the crook of his arm. The gold-coloured tops of two cartridges visible, he’d meant business, and although ‘disarmed’ the man is no less demanding. “What about my door? Anyone can get in here now.”
Sam looks at the open space. George was right. Anyone could j
ust walk in and take whatever they wanted.
“I know this isn’t what you want to hear, but a repaired door isn’t going to stop anyone coming in here. Do you know what I think you should do?”
“No.”
“Clear the shelves and open the shutters. People won’t be interested in breaking into an empty shop.”
“And do what with all the food? It’ll not keep. Most of it should be binned now—health and safety.”
“Sod that! There’s nothing wrong with this food—sure the chicken can go in the bin, but the cakes and stuff—they’ll be good for a few more days.” George nods in agreement. “Why don’t you help the community then? I know you do charity work.”
“True. How?”
“Well … take what you need and donate the rest. There are more than ten thousand people living in this town George.”
“I know that.”
“Well, there haven’t been any food deliveries for the past days, the supermarkets are locked or have been looted and most people don’t have a good supply of food at home. The freezers are all defrosting and the food is rotting and can’t be cooked anyway. We can help those that are most in need. I’ve already had a few families come and ask for help.”
“It’s true,” the girl continues. “We’ve nothing at home apart from a few tins in the cupboard.”
“What do you say?”
George stares at the girl then turns to Sam. “If you help me patch up my door then you can bag up the rest of the food—once I’ve taken what I want.”
“Thank you.”
“There’s meat too,” George continues. “We had a delivery just before the blackout. It’s a bloody disaster. This damned power outage will bankrupt me. We were barely holding on as it is.”
“Insurance?”
“Huh. They always figure a way of not paying out.”
“How much meat?” Sam asks as a plan begins to form.
“I’ve got eight pigs and two sides of beef hanging in the storeroom plus umpteen pounds of sausages, bacon, and ham. Thousands of pounds worth of meat that’s just going to waste.
“It’s in a cold room, right?”
“Yes.”
“So, it’ll still be fresh.”
“Won’t be for long.”
“But it is, right now.”
“Right now, it’s still edible, yes.”
“So-”
“So what?” George asks with a scowl. “You’re going to ask me for it, aren’t you,” he says gruffly.
“Well-”
“What! Give you all my meat?”
“You said yourself it was just rotting away.”
“Well-”
“There’s no point. You can’t cook it anyway.”
“Not with a gas or electric cooker, but you could barbecue it,” Sam says with a smile.
“You’ll need a bloody big barbecue.”
“There’s plenty of big barbecues outside the butchers and restaurants around town come Bike Night. If we ask-”
“We?”
“That’s right, George, ‘we’. Who else is going to butcher it all. I can’t even carve a chicken properly.”
“Huh.”
“It’s times like these that we need to come together as a community, George.”
Another huff.
“In years to come, you’ll be remembered. You’ll be the man who fed the town when it was starving.”
“Well … but who’s going to pay for it all. I’m not a charity, Sam.”
“Insurance.”
“Well … we fix the door first.”
“Deal,” Sam says and reaches for George’s hand. The giant stares at him for a moment then takes his hand and shakes it.
“I’ll get Blake to come into work. That’s a lot of meat to butcher.”
Chapter 21
Bill pulls the car to the kerb as they reach the town’s old Police Station, Sam’s new headquarters according to Martha who they’d just passed on the way through the town. He’d worried for her safety for a moment as the crowds outside the supermarket had surged forward but she seemed to have the situation under control and he’d noted a number of Sam’s Protectors standing at the shop’s entrance as she handed out bags of food.
As Uri kicks open the damaged car door and then slams it shut, four men square their shoulders and stand alert at the entrance to the station. Through the station’s stone-mullioned window Sam sits, head bent, pen in hand.
“We’re here to see Sam,” Bill says as the men close ranks.
“Wait here,” demands a broad-chested man with a sandy beard and tattoos spreading up his neck.
“I’ll go, Fairweather,” Hazzer interrupts, obviously pulling rank. The sandy-bearded man’s face hardens but he steps back, allowing Bill and Uri to follow.
As they walk down the stone slabs to the arched entrance, Sam notices their arrival and, as Hazzer knocks on the door, he calls ‘enter’.
Standing before the blocked fireplace, arms held behind his back, he stands to greet them. A camping bed sits beneath the window with a pillow topped by a neatly folded sleeping bag at one end. The breeze from the open window cools the sunny room. With his combed hair and fresh clothes Sam looks much more in control than on their first meeting but the strain of holding himself together is there nevertheless. Perhaps others wouldn’t notice, but Bill is more attuned to the battle raging inside the man. A crisp white service shirt and black trousers complete Sam’s uniform.
“Bill, Uri,” he nods in greeting as he steps out from behind the desk.
“Sam.”
“How did it go at the hospital?”
“Good,” Bill says with a smile. “Clarissa’s back home-”
“Home?”
“Yes.”
“Already?”
“Yep. I can’t believe it either. The doctor fixed her lung at the hospital and sent her home.”
“At the hospital is chaos,” Uri explains.
“Chaos?”
“They’re doing their best but running the place on generators with a skeleton staff. The best place for her is at home. Stella and Clare are doing a great job of nursing her.”
“And Michael?”
“The doctor checked him out too. Gave him new dressings and instructions on how to care for the burns.”
Sam cringes. “How bad is it?”
“Pretty crispy down his shins—third degree, but not infected.”
“Good. Can you tell him I’ll be round to see him when I get a chance, please?”
“Sure,” Bill says with curiosity. “But I didn’t know you knew him.”
“We were at school together. Best mates until-” he stops. “He’s a friend.”
“Right.”
“What brings you here?” Sam asks obviously relieved to change the conversation.
“We need some information.”
“Oh?”
“Corroboration really.”
“And how can I help?”
“Well … we need to talk to your prisoners.”
“Right. Why?”
“We’re going after the man who’s organising the attacks.”
Sam raises his brows in surprise. “You know who he is?”
“Yes, and we’ve got an address, but we don’t want to waste our time. If we can just have a quick chat with one of the men in the cells we can perhaps corroborate the address.”
“We talk to them now,” Uri says shifting the rucksack on his shoulder. “We travel in one hour.”
Metal clinks and Sam shifts his attention to the bag. “A quick chat?”
“Well … a persuasive chat.”
“Hmm. Persuasive?”
“Persuasive,” Bill repeats.
“But not … criminal.”
Uri shifts the bag again. “Like Bill said, ‘persuasive’.”
Sam stares directly into Bill’s eyes. “A quick, persuasive chat,” he repeats with meaning.
“Yep,” Bill agrees.
“I mean
it, Bill. I don’t want a mess to clear up afterwards.”
“Uri’s a professional, Sam.”
“A professional?” Sam questions.
“Yes, and there won’t be any mess.”
“I am quick worker. Clean.”
Sam stares at Uri then his eyes flit from the bag and back to Bill. “They’re in the cells. Follow me.”
Bill follows Sam through the building to the bank of cells at the back. From the corridor each cell has a large door and only a small, sliding metal door allowing observation of the inmates. Sam pulls the metal slider open and peers inside.
“There, take your pick.”
Bill stoops to look inside. Six men stand or sit on the concrete floors. A small window lets in light and Bill is pleased to see the thick iron bars. From the depth of the windows its obvious that the walls are thick and the cell secure. He watches the men with interest as they realise he’s looking in and observes their reactions. He has to choose the right one.
Keys jangle in Sam’s hand. “Which one?”
“The big one shouting abuse at me,” he replies staring at a man with a long cut down his cheek.
“Sounds like they’re all shouting.”
“Yeah, but the loudest one with the scratch on his cheek.”
Sam stares back inside. “You sure, he’s the biggest, angriest-looking one in there.”
“He is, and when we’ve finished with him he can go back in and tell the others all about it. That should settle them down for you.”
“Is the quiet ones you watch,” Uri says with confidence. “They are more dangerous.”
“Oh.” Sam looks back through the hatch. “Right. There’s a room you can use at the end of the corridor.”
“Is there table in room?” Uri shrugs off the backpack. The noise of metal clinking against metal is muffled but obvious.
“Yes,” Sam replies with a tentative look at the bag as Uri passes it to Bill and unlocks the door. “You,” he says pointing at the largest man in the cell.
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