Angel

by Jon Grahame

  ‘What did you do? Before?’

  ‘I was in PR in Dublin. Married and moved to Manchester. Still in PR. Different city, same game. Became a widow, hustled, survived and ended up here.’

  ‘No problems on the way?’

  ‘Several. But as I said, I survived.’

  His look invited further explanation but she didn’t provide any. ‘And you ended up here.’

  ‘Luck of the Irish.’

  ‘Then we’ll give you a go.’

  ‘Happy days,’ she said.

  Keira O’Dowd proved to be an extremely able recruit and the force formed itself into regular teams, that matched an experienced member with a newcomer. Jenny was naturally with Tanya, and fifteen-year-old James was teamed with Kev. Reaper and Sandra took turns at partnering Anna the Yank and Keira.

  They were all proficient, they had suffered past experiences that had left them tougher than before, and they were committed to each other and the community. Of course, four of them still had to face a bullet in anger, but Reaper thought they would cope admirably.

  Chapter 7

  ANNA AND KEIRA EVENTUALLY TEAMED UP. They were similar ages and shared the same sense of humour. While Anna was blatant about looking for male companionship – and not necessarily of a lasting nature, Keira was prepared to wait until the right man came along.

  ‘And what if Sir Galahad doesn’t show up?’ Yank asked.

  ‘There are alternatives about which a good Catholic girl does not speak.’

  ‘You’ve got a Rampant Rabbit?’

  ‘Shut up, Yank! Your libido is dragging on the floor.’

  ‘The Rabbit bit doesn’t bother me. The Catholic bit does. Are you still religious?’

  ‘Only when I’m on my own in the dark. Anyway, I have insurance. I did the first Fridays.’

  ‘The what?’

  ‘You go to mass on the first Friday for nine months. It guarantees you get a chance to repent before you rattle off the mortal coil. It’s like a VIP pass into Heaven.’

  ‘You went to mass on the first Friday of every month for nine months? What were you? A Nun?’

  ‘I was nine. I hadn’t discovered sin or a Rampant Rabbit. Still, it got me noticed in the right quarters. Me and God?’ She intertwined two fingers. ‘We’re like that.’

  ‘I don’t believe in religion,’ Yank said. ‘But if I’m wrong and you’re right, put a good word in for me when Peter blows his horn.’

  ‘There you go, talking dirty again. Anyway, it’s Gabriel, not Peter. But don’t worry, I’ll leave the stage door on the latch for you.’

  ‘This guy Gabriel? Is he a good looking dude?’

  ‘Hair like a surfer. Looks like an angel.’

  ‘Sounds cool.’

  ‘Of course, he has to be at least 2,000 years old.’

  ‘I don’t mind older men. Experience counts.’

  ‘You tried it with Reaper?’

  ‘I got knocked back.’

  ‘Are you surprised?’

  ‘Nope. But I had to try.’

  They travelled down the coast from Bridlington, visiting those in villages within Haven’s sphere of interest and with whom it traded and to whom it offered protection. It was a trip one of the teams made once a week. Some of the hamlets only had three or four people, determined to go it alone. Skipsea had a larger group, farming the rich lands to the north of the picturesque village. A couple of weeks before, they had been augmented by two men and three women who had arrived from the south. It had boosted the population to thirty-five.

  ‘Tell me,’ Keira said. ‘Do we time our visit for Auntie Dora’s baking day, or does she time her baking for us?’

  ‘Who cares? She makes great scones.’

  They stopped at Butternab Farm on the edge of the village, placing their carbines in the boot and locking the vehicle. People had been working in the fields they passed but something was not quite right. Normality seemed to have been nudged out of place.

  ‘Michael?’ Yank called, as they walked across the farmyard to the back door. ‘Dora?’

  There was no smell of baking as they reached the open door.

  Yank put her head inside and stepped back as the large shape of a man emerged from the shadows. He stood in the doorway, a big man but overweight, in moleskin trousers, check shirt that was open at the neck, and a yellow waistcoat. He carried a double-barrelled shotgun, broken open for safety, in the crook of his arm.

  ‘Good morning, ladies,’ he said. ‘Nice of you to call. Pity everybody’s out working.’

  Yank recognised him as the leader of the newcomers.

  ‘Boris, isn’t it?’

  ‘Boris Walker.’

  He was well spoken; a public school accent that she didn’t think was assumed. His fellow travellers had looked to him for instructions.

  ‘Where’s Michael?’

  ‘Out. He’ll be sorry to have missed you. Do you have time for a cup of tea?’ He leaned back inside to shout. ‘Dora? Tea for the two ladies.’

  Keira said, ‘I’ll go help,’ and tried to pass Walker, but he didn’t move.

  ‘I’m sure she doesn’t need help. Probably resent it. You know how old folk can be so sensitive. Sit down.’ He indicated the garden table and bench in the yard. ‘Enjoy the sunshine.’

  ‘I’ll take a walk,’ said Keira, not wanting to exacerbate a situation that might only be in her imagination, although her glance at Anna told her that Yank’s instincts were similar.

  Keira went round to the front of the house. In the fields on the other side of the road, she saw two figures. She waved and one of the men acknowledged her but then turned away. She was hot in the Kevlar vest and rubbed the back of her neck, feeling the sweat there. Never mind tea, a cold drink was what she wanted. But where was Michael? She turned abruptly and saw someone who had been watching her duck back behind a bedroom curtain.

  As she walked back towards the farm, she took the Glock from its holster and worked the slide to put a bullet in the chamber. She depressed the trigger one click to remove the safety and replaced it in the holster.

  Yank had not accepted the invitation to sit in the sun and was standing with legs slightly apart, hands on the buckle of her belt, like a gunslinger waiting to be called out. Boris Walker was talking.

  ‘So it need not concern you in the slightest,’ he said.

  ‘What shouldn’t concern us?’ Keira said.

  Yank said, ‘Mr Walker was explaining that now he is farm manager everything will operate so much more smoothly.’

  ‘It operated fine before,’ said Keira.

  ‘Efficiency, time and motion,’ said Walker, as if about to embark on a lecture.

  ‘Time and motion that doesn’t apply to you?’ she said. ‘Where’s Michael?’

  Walker stepped into the yard to allow Dora, a small lady in her late sixties, to move past him carrying a tray on which were tea pot and cups but no scones. She put it on the table in the yard without looking up and began to head back for the kitchen.

  ‘Dora?’ said Anna, but the old lady kept walking.

  Keira stepped in her way, causing her to stop.

  ‘Is everything all right, Dora?’

  Dora looked up, fear obvious in her eyes, and a bruise on the side of her face.

  ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘Everything’s fine.’

  Yank took a pace forward, her hand moving to the butt of her gun, and Walker sensed the meeting was not going to plan. He snapped the shotgun closed, but before he could level it Keira took her Glock from its holster in one swift movement and pointed it at his head.

  ‘Put the shotgun on the floor, Mr Walker,’ she said.

  He snorted in disbelief that she might actually pull the trigger.

  ‘Now don’t
be an idjit, Mr Walker,’ she said, in a quiet voice. ‘Put the gun down.’

  When he still hesitated, she raised the barrel an inch over his head, and fired. The blast seared his ear and she lowered the gun to point at his head again

  ‘Jesus Christ,’ he said, crouched and laid the shotgun on the floor.

  Yank picked it up and put it on the table.

  ‘That should bring them running from the fields,’ she said.

  Walker blustered.’ What right have you got coming here and throwing your weight around?’

  ‘You know, that’s exactly what I was going to ask you,’ said Yank.

  Without taking her eyes off Walker, Keira said, ‘Dora, where’s Michael?’

  ‘He’s inside. They have him inside.’

  ‘They?’ said Anna.

  ‘Mr Walker’s foreman.’

  Yank said, ‘Does he have a gun?’

  ‘Yes. He has a gun.’

  ‘Too right, I have a gun.’

  The voice came from behind Keira. It was edgy with tension. This was the man who had probably been watching her from the bedroom window. Yank was staring past her, at him, but had made no move to draw her weapon.

  ‘He’s got an Uzi,’ said Yank, in a voice that was a lot calmer than Keira felt.

  Walker grinned and made as if to walk into the yard.

  ‘Stay!’ said Keira, as if ordering a dog.

  ‘Your position is hopeless, woman. He has a gun pointing at your back.’

  ‘I’m Irish. I’m used to hopeless. The thing is, if he pulls the trigger, it won’t just be me he kills, it will be you, as well.’

  ‘You said this was going to be easy,’ said the man, his voice now whining as well as edgy.

  ‘It would have been if they hadn’t been so bloody nosey,’ said Walker. And he snarled at Keira, ‘Why can’t you leave people alone? We weren’t doing you any harm?’

  ‘You hurt Dora,’ Keira said. ‘I like Dora. I like Dora’s scones. It upsets me when I don’t get my scone.’

  She was talking partly from bravado and partly to provide a distraction so that Yank might try something.

  Yank said, ‘Why don’t we all sit down and talk about it? We’ve got the tea, we’ve got the sunshine …’

  ‘Why don’t we put the show on right here,’ said Keira, lapsing into Judy Garland nonsense, but Yank laughed and Keira chuckled and, as if the humour made it all right, she stepped around the front of Walker, pushing Dora with her, until she was on his other side. Now she was holding the Glock in two hands and he was between her and a thin young man with an Uzi, whom she vaguely remembered from two weeks before.

  ‘Dora, where are the three women who came with Mr Walker?’

  ‘They’re working. They’re all right. They were being bullied, and probably worse, before they got here.’

  ‘I hate bullies,’ said Yank. She turned, ignoring the Uzi, and walked to the other side of the yard and looked over the wall. ‘You were right. That shot has got them running.’ She turned to the thin man. ‘What’s your name, by the way? I’m Yank.’

  ‘Redford.’

  ‘Not Robert?’ she said, and put her head on one side to take a better look. ‘Nah. You’re too tall and too thin. I’ll call you Slim.’

  ‘This is getting us nowhere,’ said Walker. ‘You’re right. We should sit down and talk it over.’

  Without warning, he walked to the garden table. Keira let him go, her gun now pointing at the man with the Uzi. She felt this was leading to an inevitable conclusion and somewhere in the back of her mind was glad that she had completed the first Fridays.

  ‘Yank?’ she said.

  As Walker reached for the shotgun on the table, she heard Yank slide the chamber of her Glock and the first click that removed the safety.

  ‘Dora,’ Keira said, in a soft voice. ‘Go and keep the others away while we talk.’

  The elderly lady left the yard and she heard her shouting, ‘Stop, stop!’ Walker was now cradling the shotgun. In her periphery vision, she could see his finger was on the trigger although the gun was not pointing at anyone.

  ‘This is all very silly,’ said Yank.

  ‘All I wanted was a scone,’ said Keira. And then, in a harder voice, ‘Put the fucking gun down, Slim. My arm is getting tired.’

  Walker’s arm twitched as he began to move the shotgun, which might have meant nothing. It might have meant his arm was tired, too, and he was moving the weapon into a more comfortable position. But at the same moment, came a very clear memory of the basic training instructions drilled into her by Reaper and Sandra. Don’t hesitate. She didn’t, and neither did Yank. Both girls fired almost simultaneously.

  The thin man with the Uzi screamed as he went backwards, the gun shaking in his dying grip and throwing a burst of 9mm bullets up the side of the farmhouse, bringing brick chippings down in a shower.

  Keira still pointed the Glock even though her target was on his back, arms wide, the gun still in his grip but its magazine now empty. She didn’t know how many times she had fired and her ears were ringing. She was aware that Walker had moved backwards, then sideways across the yard, as if concentrating on the steps of a dance no one else could hear, before collapsing in a heap. Before he had started his solitary gavotte, he had discharged both barrels of the shotgun. Anna?

  ‘Yank?’ she shouted, turning.

  Yank was standing across the yard, the Glock still gripped in both hands, still pointing across the table at Boris Walker.

  Keira’s cry broke the trance and the two girls stared at each other.

  ‘Okay?’ said Yank.

  ‘Okay,’ confirmed Keira.

  Yank let out a huge breath, as if she had been holding it in for an hour, and put the Glock in its holster.

  ‘Shootout at Butternab Farm,’ she said. ‘Not at all like the movies.’

  She turned away, leant against the farmyard wall and was sick on the cobbles.

  Keira kept her gun at the ready and checked the bodies. Another instruction from training: make sure. The thin man, Redford, had three bullets in his body and one in his head. Had she fired more? She wouldn’t know until she checked the magazine. Still on her guard, she moved on to Walker, the bully who thought he had found himself a comfortable roost to rule. Another four hits. She didn’t look too closely at the headshot. Now she put the Glock away and crossed the yard to Anna, who had recovered enough to stare over the wall.

  Ten or twelve farm workers had stopped in their tracks at Dora’s shouts. They stared towards the farm, consternation etched in their faces.

  ‘It’s all over!’ shouted Keira.

  The people began to smile and move again, towards the farmhouse.

  ‘Happy days,’ said Keira.

  They had tea – but no scones. Michael, the middle-aged farmer the others all looked to with affection and for leadership, had been beaten, threatened and locked in a bedroom in the farmhouse. He would soon recover, he said. The rest of the small community showed their gratitude. The three women, who had arrived with Walker and Redford two weeks before, were even more relieved. No one mourned the passing of the two men.

  Eventually, the two girls took their leave and drove on towards Hornsea, which was the furthest south they would travel, but Keira stopped the car after two miles. She got out, put both hands on the side of the vehicle and took several deep breaths. Yank joined her at the side of the empty road.

  ‘I thought you were the cool one?’ she said.

  ‘I’m good at impressions.’ Another deep breath before she stood upright. ‘Shit,’ she said.

  They looked at each other, laughed and went into each other’s arms and held each other tight. Friends, comrades, survivors and glad to be alive.

  The committee met to decide an anniversary
date. The Rev Nick invited Reaper and Sandra to attend. The anniversary they wanted to fix was the date when the SARS virus reached that critical point the previous year from whence the world was doomed. There were several opinions as to which date might be appropriate.

  First reports of the outbreak of the virus in China had come in February. The final official broadcast by a surviving member of Her Majesty’s Government had been in the middle of May. Reaper remembered it well. He had watched it on a TV in the deserted bar of a hotel. He had heard the voice and thought it was another human being, then found the TV and realised the broadcast was being repeated on a loop. The official was a minor politician he had only vaguely heard of; apparently the only one left, or the only one with the bottle to face a camera and tell the nation that the virulent form of SARS that was sweeping the world was a virus aberration, a modern plague, to which only a small percentage had a natural immunity.

  ‘Make your peace with your god and remain in the safety of your homes as we truly face the apocalypse,’ he had said. ‘God bless. And good luck.’

  Good luck? Reaper had made his own luck. And he didn’t understand the need to commemorate the disaster, like Christmas, every year. The discussion was desultory; others sensed his apathy to the proposal. Pete Mack said, ‘Wouldn’t it be better to celebrate the new beginning?’

  ‘What do you mean?’ said Nick.

  ‘The date we came here. The date we founded Haven.’

  ‘Of course,’ said Judith. ‘Far more appropriate.’

  ‘When was it?’ said Reaper.

  Nick looked at a diary and said, ‘20th May.’

  ‘Haven Day,’ said Sandra.

  At first, no one noticed when Ronnie Ronaldo went missing. Their chief scavenger had a habit of making solo runs on his Yamaha off-road motorcycle that might keep him away for up to two days. He never went armed and would quietly discover new sources of goods and equipment, then return to take Pete Mack back with the proper transport. Pete reported his concerns to Reaper on the fourth day.

  ‘He has a low profile habit,’ said Pete. ‘He’s stayed below radar all his life so this may be nothing more than him taking an extra couple of days off. Lying low, because he can. It’s in his personality.’