Will was torn. He wanted to carry on backing away, he didn’t want to run into the burning shack and pull out an unconscious drunk. Any minute now he would get word from the Major and he couldn’t afford to be distracted.
But if he didn’t, someone was going to die.
But he could die if the shed blew up in his face.
But he had a duty; he’d sworn to follow the ethics of the resistance, co-opted from the international Permaculture movement. Earth care, people care, future care. If this wasn’t people care, what was?
The peeling paint on the back wall of the shack began to blister.
Swearing loudly, Will ran around to the front, where roiling black smoke was pouring out of the open door. Pulling off his hat and holding it over his nose, he switched on his torch and ran inside, keeping low to avoid the worst of the smoke. The fire had taken hold in a pile of old overalls and cloths to one side of the shed and was spreading fast. Casting the beam of his torch around the interior, he could see the tins of paint, but no sign of the drunk.
A hacking cough over to his right. Will crouched, peered into the beam of the torch, and spotted an old man lying on another pile of rags and overalls on the other side to the fire.
Stuffing the hat in his pocket and holding his breath, Will darted further in, grabbed the old man under the arms and heaved him off his bed of rags. An explosion of sparks as the blazing pile tipped, and now the flames were creeping closer to the paint tins and the temperature in the shed was rising rapidly. The old man struggled as he started coming back to consciousness and, startled, Will dropped him on the cement floor, where he flailed around. His eyes opened and he wailed in fear as he saw the flames and clambered to his feet. Instead of running to the door and safety, he rushed back towards his bed.
‘Nooo!’ Will darted after him and grabbed him by the shoulder, pulling him back. The air in the shack was foul with smoke and he was spluttering and choking as he shouted, over the ever-increasing roar and hiss of the fire, ‘We’ve got to get out of here!’
The old drunk swung back around and rummaged among the rags. Pulling out a rucksack, he started trying to put it on, weaving on his feet.
Shit! Will dived across and took the man out at the knees, sending them both sprawling, then grabbed the fabric of his coat, and pulled with every ounce of strength he could summon. The old man clutched his rucksack to his chest but at least he didn’t resist as Will inched him across the floor towards the door and safety.
The cool, damp night air that met them outside soothed Will’s scorched face but made him cough as it met the smoke in his lungs. He managed to haul the drunk’s dead weight another twenty yards before he collapsed onto his knees, hacking and choking. The old man seemed to have lapsed into unconsciousness again, but when Will forced himself to his feet to drag him further away, expecting the shack to explode at any moment, he fought back, slurring and shouting curses and insults that were too garbled to be coherent. Eventually Will gave up and dropped him, wiping the greasy feel of the coat onto his trousers and stumbling another dozen yards before collapsing onto his back and gasping for breath.
The shack was burning brightly, illuminating the whole of the dock. So much for the Major’s instruction to remain invisible. He grabbed the walkie-talkie out of his pocket, but he must have damaged it when he took down the old man; nothing happened when he pressed the button.
Now what should he do?
Flaming paint cans shot skyward like comets, trailing fire, as the shack exploded.
*
Alise was snoring heavily. The rest of the house was quiet. It was time.
Primrose pulled back the bedclothes and swung her legs out of bed, wincing and suppressing a gasp of pain. The poppy juice had worn off and she fumbled for the glass she had stashed behind the curtain, giving in to the urge to numb herself. The liquid was bitter but she choked it down and put the glass back on the sill.
The corridor and landing were empty and dark, all the candles burned out. Even though she could claim a need to go to the bathroom she couldn’t stop herself from scuttling furtively down the corridor. Once there and with the door wedged closed by a hand towel – there was no lock as Dorcas didn’t trust her charges not to hurt themselves either deliberately or accidentally – she carefully removed the stacks of linens from the cupboard and found the clothes she had stashed. It was too risky to get dressed in the bathroom, in case someone came in or spotted her before she got downstairs, so she bundled the clothes under her nightgown and held them in place over her stomach. Now she looked big again; unless someone got close enough to realise who she was, and knew she had just been harvested, she would look like just another inmate.
There were sounds coming from the kitchen as she crept down the stairs, and light showed under the door. It was perversely reassuring, like a mouse knowing the cat was elsewhere. As she took each step, she was concentrating so hard on being quiet and avoiding the known creaks, she barely registered that the trip down the stairs was far less difficult than last time.
The door was bolted again. After drawing back the bolt – her heart stuttering with fright in case someone came out of the kitchen – she ducked into the downstairs cloakroom and brought the clothes out from under her gown. Shivering from fright more than cold, she pulled on the dress and found that it was far too big, and an ugly shade of brown. The jumper was hand knitted and also too big, hanging halfway down her thighs. Its bottle green clashed horribly with the brown. But they were clothes. The first clothes she had worn in years. The leather shoes were a tight fit, but she managed to loosen the laces to give her toes a bit more room. And the coat was wool and long enough to keep most of her legs covered. And it was black, which would be helpful if she had to hide.
The nightdress she left hanging on a peg among a rack of staff overalls.
The hallway remained silent and empty when she let herself out of the cloakroom. Nothing stirred as she pulled open the heavy front door and felt the cool night wind try to snatch it from her hand. Clinging on to the handle, horrifyingly aware of how weak she was, she stepped outside and pulled it shut behind her. There was a thud and a snick as it closed and the catch caught. She froze, ear pressed to the door to see if anyone was coming to investigate. Nothing.
Shaking, summoning her courage, she pushed herself away from the door and staggered down the stone steps. In contrast to her last escape attempt, there was a sliver of moon over the treetops, though dark rainclouds were massing to the west, and the cool westerly wind made her glad to have brought a coat. Buttoning it and holding it tight around herself, Primrose set off down the drive. The sound of stones crunching under her feet alarmed roosting rooks and pigeons into noisy flight, but no one came to investigate and she hastened on.
Weak though she was from inactivity, she was able to walk much faster now she wasn’t carrying so much weight. The clothes itched, the shoes were rubbing against her bare feet, but her knees and hips were no longer screaming; if she hadn’t had half an ear out for a car engine revving behind her she might even have found herself enjoying her mad, staggering dash towards the village. Maybe it was the poppy juice that was causing a bubble of exhilaration to form in her chest and turning the night sounds that had terrified her last time into a quiet chorus urging her on, but for a moment she felt invincible, like the heroine in some old book, escaping from the castle.
It took her half as long to reach the spot where Dorcas had found her last time, and she barely noticed its significance as she sped on her way. The final uphill slope to Gibbet Cross slowed her considerably, as did the sight of the gallows, the rotting wooden structure in the centre of a grass bank to the north of the crossroads showing black against the night sky. Excitement cooled and congealed into dread.
The last hanging – that she knew about anyway – had been when she was about six years old. She had been forbidden to attend, a fact for which she was grateful now, but she remembered feeling cheated at the time. The corpse had been left dangli
ng from the gibbet as a warning, rotting until the head parted from its body and the remains were removed, to be thrown into a hole in the ground outside the churchyard wall. Before that happened, she and some friends had sneaked away after school one day and seen the corpse swaying in the wind, face bloated, purple, crow-pecked. Her friend had dared her to touch it. She had refused and been called a coward. Stung, she brushed the dangling trouserleg, and screamed when the wind pushed it and its stink towards her. Shrieking, they had run back to the village and their chores.
Primrose hadn’t known why the man had been hanged. She had asked her dad and he said something about rustling, but making noise seemed such a small crime for such a big punishment.
The gibbet was empty now but still she didn’t look fully at it, hurrying past before turning left and away, feeling its presence at her back and imagining the ghosts of its victims dragging themselves along behind her, her spine crawling with a shiver of horror until she turned a bend and the sensation faded.
From there the going got easier; more effort had been made to keep the approach to the village level underfoot, and the gradient was less steep. As she reached the first, tumbledown cottages, hidden behind hedges to her right, she forced herself to slow down so she would be able to hear anyone else out past curfew and find somewhere to hide. Besides, she was starting to pant from exertion, and her legs were feeling wobbly. A sudden fit of faintness forced her to pause a moment, and skeins of colour danced across her vision. Following them with her gaze, she looked up and became mesmerised by the moon’s lambent glow, its bright sickle shape like a curved door into a better, brighter world.
A light drizzle began to fall and clouds stole across the moon. Primrose shivered as cold wet drops pattered onto her upraised face, remembering where she was and what she was supposed to be doing. Even though it was darker without moonlight, colours danced in her vision. She forced herself to ignore them, and to think about the business of finding somewhere to hide before dawn, preferably under cover, preferably the schoolteacher’s cottage. She started walking again, grateful no one had come across her during her moonstruck moment. With the collar of her coat up she was confident she was now all but hidden in the dark, though her bandaged legs glowed pale below the hem.
The village was laid out like an asymmetric ladder. The road she was on would fork about a hundred yards down, with narrow alleys connecting the two tines. The school and Mrs Prendaghast’s cottage were located on the second of these, in the heart of the small settlement. Forcing down nerves, Primrose walked as slowly as she could stand, choosing the left-hand lane that would take her down past the pub and the church. At this time of night, she thought this would be safer than going past people’s homes, where someone might be wakeful and happen to look out of a window.
A clattering broke the silence and she froze. Eyes glinted at her from shadows by a fallen-down cottage. Before she could summon the wit to flee, something growled at her and slunk further into the dark. A dog. There were several feral packs that kept to the outskirts of villages and foraged at night. Thankfully it had been alone, or it might have taken her on.
Aside from the dog there was no one around, and no lights in any of the windows she passed. The pub was closed up tight, and the church next door loomed over the churchyard and village green. Heart in her mouth, wheezing and shaking now with exhaustion, Primrose crept down the lane that led to the school. Tucked round to the side of that was the cottage Mrs Prendaghast was permitted to live in. It, too, was dark. She didn’t want to knock in case a neighbour heard, so she pushed at the door and tried the old-fashioned latch. The door was unbolted. Bless Mrs Prendaghast and her trusting heart.
Primrose pushed the door wide and slipped in. It was colder inside than out, but at least the wind was no longer whipping at her. Shutting the door quietly, she stood with her back to it while her eyes adjusted. She was in the small kitchen, with a table in front of her, an unlit range against the far wall and two closed doors across the other side of the room, one of which she knew would lead up to the bedroom and bathroom, though she had never been up there on her few visits as a child.
Over to her left was an old armchair and she headed for that, sinking down gratefully, before jumping up with a stifled yelp as she sat on a bag of crochet hooks, knitting needles and wool. Moving the bag onto the floor, she settled herself into the lumpy seat, pulling a throw slung over the back across her knees and slipping off the uncomfortable shoes so she could draw her feet up under her. She would wait here a minute while she warmed up and her breathing steadied, then go upstairs to wake the teacher.
Closing her eyes, the fear and tension of the last few days slowly ebbed. A poppy-induced warmth suffused her limbs, making them relaxed and heavy. Five minutes after leaning back against the cushions, despite the throbbing of her feet, she was fast asleep.
*
The sudden flare of light on the Plymouth dockside did not bode well for their mission. Mrs Mason and the Major twisted round and watched the glow brightening the horizon and throwing the shadow of the breakwater lighthouse across choppy waves.
‘Shit, what now?’ The cargo ship was half a mile away and closing fast. The Major grabbed the radio. ‘Papa Bear to Porridge, what the hell’s happening over there? Over.’
Nothing but static.
‘Papa Bear to Porridge, you OK? Over?’ The explosion, when it came, could be felt even two miles away. The flash of light showed them the rest of their flotilla, spread out across the mouth of the breakwater, before it faded to leave them blinded by negative afterimages, and the shockwave of the rolling BRROOOOM knocked them flat in the bottom of the boat. The Major’s hand banged against the gunwale of the boat and his pipe fell free from his hand, splashing soundlessly into the water.
‘Shit, Will, what the hell is going on back there?’ The Major was blinking furiously, trying to restore his night vision.
‘We can’t worry about that now, there’s nothing we can do for him from here, and we’re about to go live.’ Mrs Mason’s voice was firm and the Major was grateful she and her common sense were there with him. ‘Now, reassure the team, I expect they’re freaked out too.’
Right. He took a breath. ‘Papa Bear to Baby Bears, Papa Bear to Baby Bears, it’s time. Get your flares ready, start your engines, we’ll sort out Porridge when we’ve secured the Bowl. Over and out.’
A chorus of ‘Rogers’ came back. The Major retrieved the flare gun from his duffel bag. Mrs Mason got ready with the loudhailer, before starting the ancient Mercury outboard engine and putting it in reverse so they could keep pace with the ship. Their guns sat between them on the bench.
Adrenaline was making his hands shake. He was fumbling with the flare. If he wasn’t careful he’d light it, drop it and set fire to the boat. And if he took too long, the ship wouldn’t have time to slow down or change course, and they risked being mown down and drowned, or minced. Mrs Mason seemed to know how he was feeling. He felt her hand grasp his sleeve and give his arm a reassuring squeeze.
‘Come on Major, you’ve got this.’
‘Yes, right.’ He shook himself, looked at the freighter’s position and calculated. He pushed the button on the radio. ‘It’s time,’ he shouted, ‘over.’ Bracing himself to keep steady in the boat, he popped off the cap, took a breath and pulled the string. A pause, a few sparks, then a bright gash of red light erupted, forcing him to turn his head away. Instinct screamed at him to drop the flare, but he held on tight, raised his hand and waved it slowly above his head. To left and right, other flares blazed into life and the heaving seas reflected them back in glittering and shimmering fractals of light.
‘AHOY! YOU MUST TURN BACK!’ Mrs Mason bellowed beside him, her voice amplified by a battery-powered megaphone, deafening him. ‘THERE'S BEEN AN INCIDENT AT THE DOCK, IT ISN'T SAFE FOR YOU TO STAY HERE.’ Nice improvising.
The vessel was now looming above them, with no obvious signs of life on the illuminated bridge, or of it slowing down. Maybe
they’d left it too late, maybe they wouldn’t be able to keep up with the ship’s speed and were about to be hit and the boat smashed. They were all wearing life jackets, but that wouldn’t help them much against hypothermia or whirling propellers.
‘AHOY,’ Mrs Mason shouted, ‘ACKNOWLEDGE AND CHANGE COURSE.’
‘What’s going on? Why's the dock on fire?’ The twang of an American accent as a deep male voice boomed down from the ship’s Tannoy.
‘THERE’S BEEN A LEAK OF HAZARDOUS MATERIAL AT DEVONPORT DOCKYARD. WE’RE EXPECTING MORE FIRES AND WE’RE EVACUATING ALL RESIDENTS AND WORKERS. IT’S TOO DANGEROUS FOR YOU TO COME FURTHER INSHORE. WE CAN’T RISK IT, OR YOUR CARGO.’ You go, girl. Everyone knew about the shonky state of the old nuclear facility. It was miles away from Millbay, but even if the skipper had enough local knowledge to be aware that, who would want to take the risk?
‘We just crossed the fucken Atlantic, where you suggest we go?’
‘NOT MY PROBLEM, SIR.’
‘What you doin' out here 'stead of raising us on the radio?’
‘ALL COMMUNICATIONS ARE DOWN, SIR, BECAUSE OF THE FIRE. NOW PLEASE, CHANGE COURSE.’
A long pause, then, ‘Acknowledged, we’ll anchor up outside Dartmouth. Tell your boss we’ll be in touch 'bout his cargo.’
‘ROGER THAT, SIR.’
The flares were beginning to sputter and diminish. They were also getting incredibly hot. The one in the Major’s hand was starting to burn through his glove and he could hear curses of pain coming from the other boats. Changing hands just spread the pain. ‘Shit!’ He had to put it out before it did him some serious harm, or he dropped it in the dinghy and put a hole in it. Plunging his hand in the sea he doused the flare, dumped it beside him in the boat and sat back, panting as if he’d been running hard. To left and right, his troops were following his lead, and the fitful lights stuttered out.
He was elated. Though it was now pitch black, and despite the bright images dancing in negative before his eyes, he could see from the position of the running lights that the looming prow of the ship was turning ponderously to starboard and eastward.
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