Angel

by Jon Grahame

  ‘Brian, put the stove on,’ Maisie said, and the young man disappeared into the caravan. ‘Please, sit down,’ she said.

  Sandra had a quiet word with Keira, who went back to the vehicles to stand watch.

  Maisie watched her go with a perplexed look.

  ‘You can never be too careful,’ Sandra said.

  ‘Of course,’ said Maisie.

  They sat round a plastic garden table beneath the green parasol.

  ‘Where are you from?’ Maisie said. ‘Passing through? You’re not local, are you? I’ve met the locals and you’re not them. You’re much too …’ she looked them up and down, searching for the right words ‘… uniformed. Are you official? From the Government? Have we still got a Government? I heard there was one down near Windsor. Place called Relegation.’ She frowned. ‘Something like that. But I’m not sure if someone told me or if it’s a story I read before the plague.’

  Maisie shook her head and said, ‘I’m sorry about going on so. We only get a few visitors so I tend to talk a lot. I talk a lot anyway. I talk so much to Brian he quite often goes to sit with the pigs. But I still talk. To myself, quite often. I find I’m a good listener and my mother always told me that a good listener will never be short of friends.’ She stopped again and looked round. ‘I’m doing it again, aren’t I. I’m sorry.’

  Her eyes watered as if she were on the verge of crying but she took a deep breath and, when she spoke again, it was much slower and more controlled.

  ‘There’s probably a condition to explain why I talk so much. Probably a whole ology to explain it. Probably plague-ology.’ Her smile became gentle instead of manic. ‘I was a lecturer at Grantham College. Hospitality and Catering. I loved it. I had no family, just the college. I live in the village. After it happened, I went back to the college a few times, but it got dangerous. I met Brian on my way back. He looked lost, poor lamb. I don’t know whether he could talk before, but he doesn’t now. Not a word.’ She shrugged. ‘I suppose I’ve got used to talking for both of us.’ Her smile gained strength after her confessional. ‘Anyway. Tell me about you.’

  Sandra started to tell her about their community and, partway through, Brian came out carrying a tray with five mugs of tea, a jug of milk and bowl of sugar, which he put on the table. He smiled when they thanked him and he took a cup of tea to Keira before going back to the caravan. Sandra completed telling the story of Haven, and Maisie seemed cheered that normality had returned to parts of the country. She also seemed puzzled.

  ‘Haven? I’ve heard of that, somewhere. Or was it Heaven?’ She waved a hand to dismiss her confusion.

  ‘How about you, Maisie?’ Reaper said. ‘When did you open your café?’

  She laughed.

  ‘Yes, I know. Café. It’s a bit of madness from a mad old woman in a mad old world.’ She smiled. ‘Or is that mad new world?’ She sipped her tea. ‘Three others in the village lived through the plague. Susan was in her twenties. Lived with a chap. She lost him, of course. Arnold is sixty-four and Shirley is fifty-two. We got together afterwards. Never mind the tragedy of what had happened, we were all disappointed about who was left. Susan packed her bags and drove off, don’t know where. She didn’t say. Which left Arnold and Shirley and me, and I never did like old people.’ She grinned. ‘Being old myself. So I politely said I preferred to be on my own and they went off to live together at the other end of the village. I mean, we help each other, but we don’t socialise. Anyway, I found Brian, so it was all right.

  ‘We have pigs and hens and cows and Arnold’s a farmer and he has animals as well. Then there’s the fishing – we have specialist lakes here, you know. And Brian’s good with the beasts so we were getting by all right, but we needed a little extra. You know, for the soul. Hence,’ she held out her hands, ‘the cafe. We open it three days a week. A little madness but we have met other people. Not quite like you, but other people. It was quite awful – at the beginning, you know – but it had settled down by the time we opened this. We’ve had visits from people from Grantham. Nice people. But they don’t seem very organised. We do a bit of trading. They bring us tins, we give them eggs. Then there are the travellers as well, some going north, some south. They’re as surprised as you were to find us, but they usually stop and have a cup of tea and a chat.’

  She shook her head sadly.

  ‘I don’t know what they’re looking for, these travellers, but they haven’t found it yet, and you would think they would have found it by now, wouldn’t you? I mean, you found it. Brian and me found it. The folk in Grantham have sort of found it. Even Arnold and Shirley have, and you would never have put them together in a month of Sundays, but it seems to have worked. Amazing how things do, when there’s no alternative. But some people just keep on looking. I mean, what’s wrong with here? People used to visit. There’s a caravan park over the hedge. Anyway, I’ll just go and see how Brian is getting on.’

  A welcome silence descended in her wake.

  They were served lamb stew that had been cooked on a Calor gas stove in the caravan. Maisie said she made a pan of it on the days they opened and, if no one came, they ate it themselves over the following days. The bread that came with it was a day old but had been warmed to make it crisp on the outside and soft in the middle. Sandra ate hers quickly, then went to relieve Keira.

  ‘This really is good,’ said Reaper, as they finished.

  ‘You were just hungry,’ Maisie said, but obviously pleased by the praise.

  The girls confirmed the food was delicious and Maisie Day glowed. Brian sat in a chair at the next table – he had declined an invitation to join them – and was happy to simply be in their presence.

  They finished with more tea and Reaper gently prompted Maisie, and they listened as she talked about the area and the tales that travellers had told of where they had been. She had heard of a large group from a city – ‘Sheffield, Wakefield, Chesterfield, something field,’ she said – who were heading for Skegness. The lady was another intelligence asset, although she was a bit vague, and he felt a brief pang of guilt at classifying her in this way, rather than as the friendly eccentric that she was, but on second thoughts, she would probably have been flattered and called herself 007.

  People on the A1, whether travelling north or south, had all seemed to be escaping or abandoning towns or urban areas that, with the passing of time, were becoming derelict and deadly. There were still the inevitable gangs on the prowl, mostly in inner city areas, alongside and sometimes preying on, communities that were trying to make a new start. He didn’t ask specific questions. He listened with particular interest to the stories from the south, but she had nothing further to add about the place called Redemption.

  As they were preparing to leave, Yank said, ‘Maisie, that was great. We must give you something.’

  ‘You have, dear. Conversation. And from an American, too. You don’t get many of those to the pound these days. I hope you’ll come again.’

  ‘We will,’ Reaper said. ‘Every week.’

  Yank and Keira walked back to their car and Maisie Day pointed at Reaper and said, ‘Now I remember. Reaper and the Angel. That was some story. Or did I see it on television?’

  Reaper and Sandra got into their car and the two vehicles resumed the journey north.

  An odd couple on the M1 and the madness of a cafe on the A1 in post-apocalyptic Britain? The more Reaper thought about it, the more sensible the idea became.

  Chapter 11

  DUGGLEBY WAS A SMALL HAMLET SOUTH OF MALDON on the way to York. Not on a direct route to the city, but hidden among low fertile lands along country lanes off the beaten track. Farmer Jim Rowley had gathered a dozen travellers and survivors who felt secure with its isolation and who were glad to have an experienced man to guide them in their new life of agriculture. They were making excellent progress and were glad to be linked to the Hav
en federation.

  As Cynthia, an eighteen-year-old escapee from Leeds, told Jenny and Tanya, who called there once a fortnight as part of their duties, ‘It’s nice to be private, but it’s nice to belong.’

  Rowley was a bluff man in his forties. Jenny said he had impaired imagination, which had helped him adjust so swiftly to what had happened. In compensation, he was blessed with an extremely practical mind. Rowley’s farming techniques could be used as a template for groups starting out on their own. They were planning on sending him small groups who could provide labour whilst getting training on the land.

  They never received a warm welcome from Rowley but that was his manner. On this occasion, they sensed something was wrong as soon as they parked in the farmyard. Marje, the elderly lady who ran the kitchen, raised her eyebrows and said, ‘Thank God, you’ve come.’

  ‘What’s wrong, Marje?’ said Jenny. ‘Where’s Rowley?’

  ‘He’ll be here. He’ll have seen you coming. He’s been waiting for you these last five days.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘In the barn. You’ll see. Poor lamb.’

  The two girls went to the barn, unsure what they might find. Inside, a young man in his early twenties was sitting on the floor in the corner. He was haggard, dishevelled and could have done with a wash. He looked at them anxiously and got to his feet and they saw his wrists were tied and that a length of chain, secured around the rope with a padlock, was attached to an iron ring set in the wall behind him.

  His eyes took in their uniform and weapons and recognition flared, as if he had been told to expect them.

  ‘I didn’t do it,’ he said.

  ‘You didn’t do what?’ said Jenny.

  ‘What they said I did.’

  ‘And what was that?’ she prompted.

  ‘It wasn’t rape. It was consensual.’

  Both girls took a good look at him. The chain hung from his wrists and went between his legs before it reached the ring in the wall. It rattled when he moved. He was average height and build, ordinary verging on good-looking, Jenny thought, if the mouth had been a bit fuller and the chin a bit stronger. Long dark hair, brown eyes that darted from one to the other, trying to read their conclusions, a shy nervous smile to win their compassion. He didn’t realise that he was looking at girls who had been victims themselves. Compassion could be in short supply.

  They heard Jim Rowley’s quad bike arrive in the yard outside and left the captive to go and talk to the farmer. They exchanged greetings and went back into the farm kitchen. Marje served them with mugs of tea and made herself scarce.

  ‘Tell us what happened, Jim?’ Jenny said.

  ‘The lad’s been with us seven months. Name of Bobby Simpson. Arrived alone but mucked in with everybody else. Kept his head down and did his share of work. Not the best worker, but he did enough. I got the impression he was waiting for the summer and he’d move on. It would have been best if he had. He’d tried it on with Cynthia but she wasn’t interested. There’s a chap she’s seen at Malton who’s taken her fancy. Besides, Simpson is not the wooing kind, if you know what I mean. Not one for romance or small talk. A bit direct.

  ‘Anyway, five days ago he tried to move on, very suddenly. He came back from the fields early and grabbed his stuff. There was just me and Marje here. You know me, I don’t try to keep folk if they don’t want to stay but he was behaving funny and his decision was a bit spur of the moment. Late afternoon after a day’s work. Why not wait till morning? Then we heard someone shouting from the orchard at the bottom of the ten-acre. That was it. He grabbed my quad bike and tried to get away across the fields. But a quad bike is not as easy to use as it looks. He took a banking, rolled it and came off. The lads brought him back.’

  ‘Why had he run?’ asked Tanya.

  ‘Cath Grainger. He raped her in the orchard. Cath is forty, a very nice lady. She was a spinster.’ He looked at his boots and his ruddy face reddened a little more. ‘I suspect she was also a virgin. She was not exactly worldly wise.’

  Jenny said, ‘He denies it. Says it was consensual.’

  ‘Course he does. But I saw Cath.’

  ‘Can we see her?’

  ‘I suppose you’ll need to, although she’s not got over it yet.’

  ‘It will take time,’ said Tanya.

  ‘Aye. I reckon a lot of time.’

  ‘Where is she?’

  ‘Upstairs. Marje is with her. She knows you’re here and that you’ll want to talk to her.’

  Jenny said, ‘You want us to take care of it?’

  ‘Aye. That’s what you do, isn’t it? You’re the police, aren’t you?’

  ‘I suppose we are.’ Jenny glanced at Tanya. ‘Shall I go?’

  Tanya nodded her agreement. The two of them might be threatening. Besides, any victim wanted to confess to as few people as possible. Rowley pointed the way and Jenny found the room on the first floor: a bedroom with a pleasant view of fields and flat countryside. Cath sat in an easy chair by the window. Marje sat on the edge of the bed and looked anxiously at Jenny.

  ‘Can you give us a minute or two, Marje?’ she asked.

  The elderly woman nodded and left the room. ‘Just call,’ she said, as she closed the door.

  Jenny took her place on the edge of the bed.

  Cath was a slim woman with mousey coloured hair tied up in a bun. Her face was thin and her nose too large but it was a pleasant face. A kind face. She looked anxious and her bottom lip trembled. She wore a loose dress that was draped well below her knees. Her lower legs were brown from working in the sun and she wore white plimsolls on her feet.

  ‘Hello, Cath. I’m Jenny.’

  She offered her hand and the older woman took it. They didn’t shake, simply held hands.

  ‘What will happen to the boy?’ she said, in a low rushed voice. ‘I don’t want him to be hurt. It was probably my fault.’ Her voice caught. ‘I probably led him on.’

  Jenny held Cath’s dry hand in both of hers.

  ‘I can’t believe that you led him on, Cath. How did you do that?’

  ‘I was wearing shorts. I always did.’ She looked into her lap as if ashamed at her wantonness. ‘A floppy hat to protect my face but I liked the sun on my legs.’ She blushed. ‘It was probably my fault.’

  ‘How well did you know Bobby Simpson? Were you friends?’

  ‘Not really friends. I knew him like I know everybody on the farm.’ She raised her eyes and her gaze was earnest. ‘They are nice people. They really are. Mr Rowley can seem a bit severe but he’s a good man at heart. Marje is a dear, and the others are good people.’

  ‘Do you have a particular friend?’

  ‘Not a particular friend. I like Sally, because we are about the same age, but she’s not a particular friend.’ She firmed her jaw; she was determined to tell the truth. ‘I didn’t have particular friends before. Just people I knew. Mainly at the church. I looked after my mother, you see. Afterwards, I came here with some people from the church. They went on but I stayed. I like it here. It’s peaceful. It’s like a family.’

  Jenny guessed that Cath had never known a real family. ‘Before the virus, did you have a job?’

  ‘I was a primary school teacher.’ She smiled. ‘For five years. It was a happy time. But then mother became ill and I had to stay at home to look after her.’

  ‘Boyfriend?’

  Cath smiled indulgently at Jenny as if she’d asked such a silly question.

  ‘I never had time for a boyfriend, dear.’

  ‘What about Bobby Simpson? Was he a boyfriend?’

  ‘Oh no. He was nothing like that. We hardly ever spoke. The person he was interested in was Cynthia. Everyone knew that. But Cynthia wasn’t interested in him. She told him so in no uncertain terms. Mr Rowley doesn’t like bad language
but Cynthia used some that day in the orchard. I was nearby when she told him off. They didn’t know I was there. I heard her slap his face.’ She dipped her head again, her cheeks colouring. ‘Perhaps I should have slapped his face. Perhaps that would have made him see I didn’t want to.’

  ‘Want to what, Cath?’

  ‘Have … sex,’ she whispered.

  ‘How did it happen?’

  ‘I was in the orchard. I like the orchard. I was lying down in the shade, reading a book. Bobby sat next to me. He didn’t say anything. Just sat there. But he looked at my legs.’ She shook her head. ‘I shouldn’t have been wearing shorts.’ Jenny squeezed her hand. ‘Then he lay down and started to touch me. I didn’t know what to do. I just froze. I suppose he thought that meant I didn’t mind, but I did. I just didn’t know what to do. Perhaps if I’d slapped his face? Then I suppose it went too far for a slap. I struggled but, well, I suppose if men get to a certain point, they can’t help themselves.’

  ‘Cath.’ Jenny’s voice was low and confidential. ‘Did Bobby have sex with you?’

  The woman cried and nodded.

  ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘He did things.’

  Jenny hesitated but it had to be asked.

  ‘Did he penetrate you?’ she whispered.

  ‘Yes,’ came the reply, very small and very soft like a cry of despair lost on the wind.

  Jenny knelt on the floor and put her arms around the older woman and they held each other and Cath cried. At last, she took a deep breath and composed herself.

  ‘Don’t hurt Bobby,’ she said, into Jenny’s shoulder. ‘It was my fault.’

  Jenny sat back on the bed but they still held hands and looked out of the window.

  ‘It’s very beautiful here,’ Jenny said.

  ‘Yes, it is.’

  ‘I know you probably won’t want to leave but, if you did, you could come to Haven. We need a schoolteacher.’

  ‘You do?’

  ‘Fresh start. Mind you, some of those children can be very demanding. It would be a challenge.’