Clothes. She needed clothes. And shoes. Her own had been taken when she arrived, and even if she still had them they would no longer fit her. She had grown upwards as well as sideways over the last five years. She knew Dorcas kept a wardrobe of assorted garments and footwear on this corridor, for the rare occasions she took her livestock out of the farm to village events such as Christmas concerts or fêtes. That hadn’t happened for at least a couple of years, since the drive for more and more fuel had become the new norm. But presumably the clothes were still there.
The first time she tried to have a look, pretending she needed to go to the toilet again, Agnes whisked out of a room at the end of the corridor and Primrose had to turn away quickly and pretend she was just on her way into the bathroom. She waited a good ten minutes before going back out, but Agnes was still there, dusting the staircase, and Primrose returned to her room frustrated. She waited another hour, then groaned, clutched her stomach and moaned that she had to go back to the loo. Alise looked at her with indifference and continued crunching her way through a bag of imported crisps, her reward for passing her weight gain target the day before. The rest of her booty – chocolate and a tin of biscuits – lay scattered over her blanket.
This time the corridor was empty. The wardrobe was past the bathroom, set back in an alcove. After checking there was still no one about, Primrose opened one of its two doors and was rewarded by the sight of coats and shoes. She grabbed a coat at random and a pair of shoes that looked like they should fit. The other door revealed shelves of folded clothes and a rail of dresses. Wanting loose garments that wouldn’t aggravate her wounds, she grabbed a dress and what looked like a jumper. Too scared to take the time to look to see what else was there, or to check for fit, she closed both doors.
Now what? She couldn’t take them back to the room while Alise was there and awake. The bathroom had a cupboard for storing the threadbare towels and sheets for this landing, and she headed there as fast as she could limp, burrowing in to the back, stashing the clothes where they would stay hidden until the next bed change, which shouldn’t be for another few days unless everyone became incontinent at once. Heart beating wildly with elation, she closed the door and turned to find Agnes, come to retrieve the bucket.
‘What are you doing in there?’ Agnes was only a couple of years older than her, but she was looking at Primrose as if she had true seniority, rather than a job skivvying for Dorcas and carrying shit around. Primrose felt a blush rise up her neck and, in that moment, she hated the other girl.
‘I was looking for sanitary towels, I think I’m about to come on,’ Primrose improvised, amazed at her own ready response. She clutched at her belly to back up her story and winced as the pressure bore down on the punctures from the liposuction.
‘We don’t keep them in there, Dorcas has a store cupboard upstairs. And you don’t go getting your own, you know we bring them to you.’
‘I know, I’m sorry, I just didn’t want to make a mess for you to have to clear up.’ Primrose smiled ingratiatingly and started towards the door behind Agnes, stooped over and holding her belly.
‘Surprised you can feel anything with all that medicine,’ Agnes huffed, but she made way for Primrose and picked up the bucket. ‘I’ll bring you some pads in a minute, and a hot water bottle. Just got to deal with this.’ Her nose wrinkled, and Primrose felt ashamed of the pulse of hatred she had felt a moment ago. Agnes was just as trapped as she was.
*
A cold wind was blowing in off the waters of Plymouth Sound. Clouds were clearing to reveal a new moon coming up in the eastern sky. Will’s mum, a keen believer in astrology, would have seen it as auspicious at the beginning of their mission, and approved. Thinking of her, and his dad and his sisters, Will felt a moment of longing that made his heart clench. It had been months since he had seen or spoken to his family. Alone in the darkness, hoping his part in the events of the night would not be necessary, he felt afraid, scared he’d mess things up and let everyone down, even more scared of what would happen to him if he got caught. He tried to control his breathing, as he had been taught, to calm himself and focus on the present moment. It helped a bit.
Which was when he became aware he was hungry. All he had was a bag of last year’s walnuts and a flask of water to see him through. In the end, there had been so many questions the night before there hadn’t even been time for more than a couple of the home-made biscuits Mrs Mason had brought with her. Which she was now, presumably, eating with the Major while they waited for the boat. The hours between had been a rush of small missions, carrying information and equipment to other teams, with little time for more than a sandwich.
In the truck, before he and the others headed for their boats, the Major had roused his team by reminding them that Spight’s grip was strong, but heavily dependent on three things. Inertia, and his control of goods coming in from outside Devon’s borders accounted for two of them. The destruction of the road and rail bridges at Saltash, the mining of the A30 and A39, checkpoints at all minor roads crossing the borders and control of its ports and harbours, meant that very little came in that he didn’t then disburse through an efficient system of bribes and cronyism. And – which was even more damaging according to the briefing seminars Will had fidgeted through – he controlled the types of goods imported, setting up trade deals with regressive fiefdoms such as the Real USA’s New Jersey, Ohio and Florida, as well as Poland, China and Saudi Arabia; choosing fossil fuels, junk food and substandard electronics built without guarantees or safeguards and thus needing frequent replacing. Crap that fulfilled an immediate want but no actual need.
With global demand for gimmicky rubbish at an historic low – as more socially developed states put the cooling of the planet above individual whims – these retrograde states were totally dependent on each other for trade.
The third thing Spight exploited was energy. With no access to cheap fuel, he had a monopoly on all energy supplies within the county. In the first few years after Devolution, thousands of trees and hedgerows had been cut down by people desperate to heat their homes during savage winters and cook their food year-round. Once he became Mayor, Spight had taken control of public woodlands and set up licensed groups to manage them (taking a share of the licence money), to ensure trees were planted as well as harvested: fast-growing varieties such as willow, hazel and sycamore. He befriended or threatened those with private woods, persuading them to allow similar groups on their land, in exchange for some of his imported goods. Everyone was entitled to a share, but allocations were controlled by patronage and favour, and anyone found with more than their allocation was at risk from a judicial system administering penalties that began with public shunning and escalated rapidly to summary execution.
Their Stage One mission tonight was to attack the first two things propping up Spight’s regime. By intercepting the scheduled delivery, due in from New Jersey, they would hit Spight where he kept his feelings – in his pocket – and show him up as fallible. Once this had been achieved, Stage Two – drawing him out – would follow on naturally. From there, the Major promised them, it was but a short step to Stage Three.
Will’s part in all this was simple. As one of the youngest and least experienced of the team, he was to stay out of harm’s way, and report back to Mal via walkie-talkie from his observation post, in shadows at the water’s edge of the deep-water dock in Plymouth. If anyone came to disrupt the blockade he was to alert first Mal and then the Major, but to stay out of any violence that might ensue. He was secretly relieved by this. He was nervous enough without the fear of being obliged to get into a physical fight. Two years of fight training and six months of active deployment had not obliged him to hurt anyone, and the thought of doing so filled him with nausea.
The usual docking procedure was for incoming vessels to anchor inside the breakwater and wait for daylight, before unloading onto smaller boats that would come inshore to dock. It was unlikely any workers would arrive the night before
a scheduled delivery run, but they couldn’t be certain, and so the Major had detailed Will as lookout.
He was hidden from casual observers by a small wooden shack that had survived the developers, back in the day when Plymouth was undergoing its first makeover since the 1960s. At the turn of the millennium, Mrs P had told them in a history lesson – shortly before she was banned from teaching them modern history – there had been an attempt to boost the national economy by building new houses and roads, paid for by the taxpayer and making the owners of construction companies very rich, something she called corporate welfare.
When the global economy crashed in the early 2020s – as the reality of climate change bit and efforts were finally made to cut carbon emissions, as fossil-fuel giants fought back, countries disintegrated, and Devon devolved – everyone who had bought second homes in the city upped and left, along with thousands of university students who had been the source of much of the city’s employment. There were few jobs for those that remained; more people left. Plymouth was a ghost of its former self, with rows of vacant houses and empty high-rise blocks of flats, and a bleak city centre of boarded up and burned out shops.
The docks, halfway through the process of becoming luxury waterside flats when the crash happened, still serviced some smaller cargo ships. The larger vessels were kept out by a harbour slowly filling up with silt. National government used to keep the harbour dredged to accommodate naval aircraft carriers and Trident submarines, but now the Kingdom was no longer United, there was no regional money to pick up the slack and Plymouth’s imports by sea were under threat. Will wondered if Spight had a plan for when the cargo boats could no longer dock.
But that wasn’t an issue tonight. The cargo ship coming at Spight’s behest would be meeting their flotilla, out beyond the breakwater. The Major, Mrs Mason, Tom, Dick and Harriet, and a host of resistance activists from across Devon and Cornwall, were waiting in small boats, using up precious fuel, preparing to turn back the cargo vessel by whatever means necessary. Of course, it could all go horribly wrong. It was a cold night to be rammed and thrown into the sea. In the dark. Chopped up by propellers. Shot at. Drowned. Will shivered and his stomach churned. At least he was no longer hungry.
*
Two miles out to sea, the Major was unknowingly echoing Will’s concerns for the safety of himself and the others, who remained invisible even when the slim crescent of the moon emerged from behind cloud to cast light upon the swell. There was a strict embargo on showing lights until their target was in sight. Bobbing around in a small fibreglass day sailing boat with Mrs Mason, as the moon disappeared, and absolute blackness settled all around him, they could have been on their own in the middle of the ocean, if it weren’t for the sound of waves breaking on the boulders of the breakwater, and the occasional light on the horizon behind them.
If only .... The Major drew his thoughts back from that particular cliff edge and turned them in the direction of their mission. Which should be starting … he began to check his watch and realised he couldn’t see it in the dark. And couldn’t show a light. Which meant he couldn’t smoke his pipe. He held it loosely in one hand anyway.
Never mind, he thought, it couldn’t be long now.
It felt like an age before lights appeared off their starboard bow, still way off in the distance as a ship rounded Rame Head. From its running lights, it was headed straight for them. Time to gear up.
He could hear a gentle snoring. Mrs M had fallen asleep. He nudged her and she snorted awake. ‘Boat’s on its way in,’ he whispered.
‘Why are we whispering, who’s going to hear us?’ Mrs M whispered back.
‘There could be a lookout at the breakwater, sound carries.’
He could sense an eyebrow being raised, but she kept her opinion to herself.
‘Papa Bear to Baby Bears, Papa Bear to Baby Bears, hold position and get ready for the approaching bowl, over,’ the Major rasped into his walkie-talkie. Mrs M had chosen the call signs, designating herself Goldilocks. Her reasoning, that no one accidentally coming across their wavelength would take them seriously.
‘Baby One to Papa Bear, received and understood, standing by, over,’ came through the walkie-talkie. Tom and his team were in position.
‘Baby Two to Papa Bear, received and understood, standing by, over.’ So were Dick and his team.
‘Baby Three to Papa Bear, received and understood, standing by, over.’ This came through so close he heard Harriet’s voice in stereo, both through the radio and from his left, nearby.
‘Papa Bear to Baby Three, we’re too bunched up, get yourself over to port. No engines, you’ll need to row. Over.’
He could hear Harriet and her team cursing as they hunted in the bottom of their boat for their oars. A clatter of wood as the oars were slotted into rowlocks and then silence. He gave them a couple of minutes, then ‘Papa Bear to Baby Three, give your position, over.’
‘No idea Papa Bear, but we can’t hear you any more. Er … Baby Three. Over.’
‘Roger that.’ It would have to do.
The lights of the oncoming boat were coming closer. The Major reckoned they had another five minutes until it would be upon them. Mrs Mason nudged his shoulder and passed him her hipflask and a piece of flapjack. While he sipped whisky and ate, he heard her going over their weapons, dry-firing to check the mechanisms were in good working order, before loading them with the few bullets they had. Guns were still fairly easy to come by. Ammunition was harder to find.
her moonstruck moment
It had surely been hours. After sitting still for so long in intermittent rain and the chill wind coming in off the water he was freezing, despite his heavy wool jacket. At least the rain was passing over and clouds were clearing. The moon had crossed the midpoint of the sky and was heading for the western horizon. Will yawned and checked his watch by flashing his torch briefly. If Mrs Mason’s information was correct, there was still about half an hour to go before the boat reached her and the Major. So, more waiting.
Hopefully he wouldn’t have to be here much longer, or he might start glowing in the dark, irradiated by the abandoned Trident nuclear submarine facility at Devonport, two miles away from where he was sitting. Stories of what decades of accidents and inadequate storage of materials had done to the local population were legion all across the county. Will reckoned they were rubbish, but still, it made him uncomfortable to be there.
He slumped back against the shack. And heard a scuffing sound, nearby.
He tensed, listening hard.
It came again.
Will held his breath. Should he take a look around the corner of the building, and risk being seen, or wait for whatever it was to come around that corner, and definitely be seen? Whichever it was, he needed to get up. Getting to his feet as quietly as he could, he waited, nerves thrumming with tension.
It was too big to be an animal, unless it was a human-sized animal. A someone, or some thing, from Devonport …
The scuffing separated itself out into shuffling footsteps. Then came a scraping noise, a bang, and silence. A thud and, a few moments later, snoring reverberated through the wood he was leaning against. Shaking off his fear of Devonport, Will surmised he had heard someone coming home to sleep in the shack. Homelessness was endemic in the city. Most of the empty streets of houses had shutters screwed onto the doors and windows as property speculators bought them up and waited for the financial tide to turn. Some were squatted and many of those were crack houses offering the most basic and squalid shelter to addicts. These were controlled by gangs, who protected their own patches under their overlord Spight with a brutal regime of violence and intimidation.
From the resonance of the snores, Will decided he was safe enough. It didn’t sound like the sleeper was going to be waking any time soon. He rested his back against the wall and yawned.
Other sounds roused him from a light doze.
These were simpler to decode. Sniggering, whispering, a harsh laugh. The s
ounds of young men out to do damage.
‘Stupid fucker’s left the door open, that’s gonna make it easier.’
‘Listen to ’im snore – like a pig!’
‘Who’s gorra light?’
The voices were young, male and drunk, their accents a mix of broad Devon and a hard, urban patois peculiar to Plymouth.
There were three of them. Will had done well in fight training, but he knew he was outmatched. What on earth was he supposed to do now? The significance of what was being said wasn’t really sinking in as he started to back away towards the chain link fence that delineated the dock. Surely the Major would understand if he carried out the rest of his mission from somewhere safer, with a reasonably clear view of the harbour.
There was the sound of flint being struck. A whoosh as something ignited.
‘There you go, stinking dickwad!’
‘Serve you right, pukin’ all over me trainers.’
A whump as flames caught hold.
‘F-u-c-k, look at it go!’ The dirty, cobwebbed window in the wall Will had been leaning against was aglow with flickering light. High-pitched giggling, on the verge of hysteria, told him the lads were still there.
No no no no no. What was he supposed to do now?
‘Shit, is that paint cans?’
‘What? Where?’
‘Back wall. We gotta go, they gonna blow the fuck out the place!’
Sounds of running feet and hoots of laughter.
To See the Light Return Page 4