They’d done it! They’d actually turned the ship away. Stage One was complete.
*
Will could see the flares come into life, throwing the silhouettes of the breakwater’s lighthouse and fortress into sharp shadow. He could only imagine the exchange taking place between the occupants of the tiny boats and the cargo ship that could turn them all to kindling if it chose. The fire on the dockside couldn’t have helped. But at least the worst damage to himself was some singed hair – he knew that because he could smell it – and scorched hands.
The drunk he had rescued was still out cold. The best Will could do for him was turn him over on his side so he wouldn’t choke if he threw up, and cover him with his jacket, heavy with the night’s rain. There was no sign of the boys who had set fire to the shack, and no one had come to investigate, but he had withdrawn into shadows by the fence, in case that changed and he had to leg it.
Nothing that had happened had been his fault, he knew that, but he still felt responsible for the disastrous fire. Thinking he’d completely screwed everything up was agonising, as he waited for some sign of how things were going for the rest of the team. After some few minutes that dragged by like aeons, the flares were extinguished abruptly and the horizon went suddenly dark. Did that mean they had succeeded, or that the ship had ploughed into the dinghies and sunk them all? He wouldn’t know until he went to the rendezvous point. If no one turned up he’d be left with the knowledge that he’d caused the deaths of everyone in his unit, ruined the mission, and had no way of getting home. And where would home be? There would be no point in going back to the bunker. He could rejoin his parents in Cornwall, but would they want him when they heard what he’d done?
It would be a while before he knew either way, but there was no point hanging around at Millbay any longer, he might as well head for the pier. To get there he would have to climb back through the hole he had made in the chain-link fence and scuttle down Soap Street, a waterfront once bustling with industry and now full of half-built houses that had achieved dereliction before they’d even been finished.
The wind coming in off the sea was picking up and cut through Will’s jumper. Once he moved away from the fire he would really feel the cold. He could do with his jacket and looked over at it longingly. Could he live with himself if he took it from a helpless old man? A sudden gust that tried to blow him off his feet told him he could try. After all, the old guy had the flames to keep him warm, and they wouldn’t die down for a while yet. Of course, the poor sod would be in deep shit if the lads came back, but Will told himself they must be long gone.
He crouched down and took hold of a sleeve. The old man stirred and rolled onto his back, pinning the jacket beneath him. Will grabbed hold of it with both hands and pulled. Bloodshot eyes opened and stared blearily up at the sky. The old man looked confused. Will supposed he had every right to be – he’d gone to sleep in a shed and woken up out of doors, with a stranger looming over him, lit by fire.
‘What … what’s happening? What you doing?’ The drunk’s voice was high and quavering.
‘I’m, uh, just taking my jacket.’ Will grabbed the sleeve draped over the man’s stomach and pulled.
‘No, it’s mine!’ The sleeve was snatched out of Will’s hands. For an old drunk, he was surprisingly strong.
‘Er, no, it’s mine. I put it over you after …’ Will gestured vaguely towards the blaze. ‘I pulled you out. Remember?’
The old man sat up and turned towards the source of heat and light. He turned back. Will wasn’t expecting a rush of gratitude but the fury that distorted the man’s features was startling.
‘You set fire to my home!’ Rage deserted him and tears leaked down the filthy, lined cheeks.
‘No! That wasn’t me. They said you’d puked on their shoes, three young guys. They ran away.’
‘My home!’ He started to sob, rocking back and forth.
Will didn’t know what to do. He wanted his jacket but he could sacrifice that. He needed to leave, but how could he walk away from a defenceless old man, grieving for the roof that had protected him and his few possessions, now going up in roiling black smoke?
‘Look, I’ve got to go. You can keep my jacket.’
The old man ignored him. Until Will stood up; then he began to wail louder and rock harder.
Shit! ‘Look, you can come with me.’ If he was still alive, the Major would kill him, but what else could Will do? ‘Come on, get up.’ The old man flinched when the boy stooped over him, cowering into himself. Will grabbed him under the armpits, leaning in to the stench of unwashed body and piss-stained clothes that enveloped him, strong enough to cut through the acrid smell of burning. Heaving him upright, he slung the old man’s arm over his shoulder, tipping him off balance as Will was several inches taller. The jacket was slipping to the ground. Will grabbed it and threw it around both of them like a cape.
‘Right, now, we got to go.’
‘My things …’
The rucksack was lying where Will had dropped it. Bending awkwardly, he grabbed it. The old man snatched it away from him and hugged it to his chest, crooning softly.
Sighing, Will exerted gentle pressure and hobbled round to turn the two of them towards the fence. They lurched towards it in a zombie shuffle.
Progress towards the pier was slow. Will had to help his companion through the hole in the fence, bending him like a doll, desnagging him from the bits of wire that caught in his clothing. Every couple of minutes Will was asked where they were going, what was going on, who was he? After the first few times he responded with grunts, which didn’t seem to bother the old man, who started up the same round of questions and lapsed eventually into an incoherent mumble.
Some of the ruined houses they inched past seemed to be inhabited. Lights flickered in windows and Will could hear voices. Shrill, drunken laughter erupted as they passed one house less dilapidated than others. That the old man had chosen to sleep alone in a shed when there were houses and companionship available here told Will he didn’t want to hang around to meet the neighbours. Exerting slightly more pressure, he hurried them along, keeping to shadows wherever possible.
Hulks of sunken boats protruded out of the water, still tethered to the two concrete jetties set at right angles to the harbour wall. A long low warehouse ran along the length of the first one they came to. For a moment Will thought he could hear a child’s crying coming from inside but put it down to gulls wheeling overhead, their white plumage tinged pink. It was not a reflection of the blaze; looking to the eastern horizon saw that dawn was beginning to break. It was time to get out of sight.
Behind the warehouse, a ramp led down to the water and rotting pontoons with slightly more serviceable boats moored to them. Some of these were used by fishers, smugglers or drug runners. Will chose the first pontoon, canted at a steep angle by the dropping tide. The old man seemed fearful and held back, but Will persisted, keen to get out of sight, and hustled him down it, making encouraging noises, until eventually letting go and snarling in frustration, ‘Right, stay here then. I’m off.’ The old man clung to him fearfully and cried and Will felt ashamed. ‘Come on then, it’s not much further.’
The two of them staggered down sideways, stepping with difficulty over missing planks. The pontoon at the bottom ran along the harbour wall towards the jetty at the end and a row of empty berths; the rendezvous point. When they reached the first of these Will slumped down on to the rotten boards, completely spent. All he could do now was wait.
*
Two of the flotilla had returned to Cornwall, crossing the perilous straits of the Hamoaze to reach the Rame peninsula and Saltash. The remaining boats headed back to Plymouth, cutting their engines and rowing the last few hundred metres in silence. By the time they reached the pontoons the Major was exhausted, but at least the exercise had kept him warm. Sitting still for so long, waiting for the ship, had chilled him to the bone.
There had been no time to celebrate out on the
water, and they couldn’t afford to do so now, but he allowed himself a small smile as he considered the success of the night, tempered by concern for Will, and the urgent need to get back to their vehicles. The sun would soon be fully over the horizon and people would be about.
The nose of the boat bumped up against the dock and he stood, the bowline in his hand and stiffness in every limb, trying to summon the energy to jump out and tie up.
‘Here Major, pass that to me.’ Will appeared out of shadows cast by the dock and leaned over from the pontoon, hand extended.
‘Will! We thought something terrible had happened when we saw the fire.’ The Major passed him the line and Will looped it around a cleat, pulling the boat in tight.
‘I’m so sorry, there was nothing I could do to stop it …’
‘Stroke of genius boy, just what we needed to get the Captain to change course. Mrs Mason improvised on it. Genius.’
‘Oh, well …’ Relief washed over Will’s face. He offered a hand to the Major, who clasped it in his own so Will could haul him up onto the pontoon, where he stood bowed with weariness. Mrs Mason allowed herself to be helped up too. Younger crew had already tied up and disembarked and stood by in silent clusters. Dick, the closest, smacked Will in the arm to signal pleasure that he was still alive.
The pontoon swayed underfoot, and now the Major felt seasick. He’d been fine on the water. ‘Right, well done everyone. Mission accomplished, and now it’s time to get out of here. Back to the vehicles. Dick, you lead. The rest of you, keep an eye out for locals but do not engage unless it looks like they’re going to interfere, or get on to radios or phones. It’s going to be clear what we’ve been up to soon enough, but it would be good to get out of here first.’
Dick led his team along the pontoon towards the harbour wall, where it turned a sharp left. Will, the Major and Mrs Mason took up the rear. Will fell in next to the Major.
‘Er, Major ...’ He kept his voice low.
‘Yes Will.’
‘I had a bit of a problem.’
‘Yes, look forward to hearing your report when we’re back in the truck.’
‘I mean, there’s someone …’
They were reaching the turn. A sharp wailing erupted, causing consternation at the front.
‘What the hell?’ The Major picked up his pace so he was at the head of the procession, taking care not to push anyone into the oily waters as he passed. Someone was cowering in the corner of the dock, arms over his head. The Major reached down and yanked one elbow. The filthy, lined face of an old man emerged from between hunched shoulders.
‘Please!’ Will reached across and offered his hand to the wailing man, who grasped it. The Major didn’t know whether to be more astonished by that or the sudden appearance of a stranger in their midst.
‘Major.’ Will’s tone was pleading. ‘He’s harmless. He was in the shack that burned down – it was set alight by lads trying to kill him. I pulled him out and then he wouldn’t stay on his own. He’s scared they’ll come after him again. We can’t leave him here!’
This was all they needed. But clouds were rolling in threatening rain, he was cold and he needed a bed, even if it was only a cot with one thin blanket. Every moment he delayed took them closer to the threat of reprisals from locals loyal to Spight.
‘Bugger it. OK, he can come with us, but he’s your responsibility and he won’t be able to stay long, it’s too risky. We’ll sort something out later.’ The Major watched with distaste as, helped by Will, the old man stood, swaying more than the pontoon warranted. The sour smell of cheap booze and unwashed skin reached him. ’When he’s sober.’
ever-more twisted and dark
It didn’t stop with Cataluña and Devon. Before the actual and metaphorical walls went up around the county we were hearing of other nation states breaking up, the most notable and bloodiest being the USA.
Details are hazy, because not much was reported by mainstream media (considered too incendiary, probably. By then all national governments were living in terror of us revolting peasants and we got our news from social media, which wasn’t a reliable or neutral source of information, but most of us felt that way about governments and mainstream media by then), but as far as I can piece together now, with a faltering memory, it was shortly after Trump declared himself President for Life, and the ensuing riots, that the worst ever wildfires struck. The Paris Agreement and global trade wars had meant restricted markets for the coal mines Trump had reopened, so he could prance around in a hard hat and fulfil an election promise that meant ecological Armageddon. Coal mountains lay in huge, unsaleable piles all over the heartland of the country, and ignited during an extended drought.
The piles burned for weeks, fouling the air with black plumes of toxic smoke that killed thousands too poor or old to get out fast enough. Many of those that did escape had terrible respiratory damage and didn’t have private medical insurance or access to restricted public health provision. They died too. Overall, tens of thousands of US citizens were killed by the fires and their aftermath. It was horrifying to watch, until the videos were pulled offline as unrest mounted.
As the ashes and tempers cooled, while Trump was whooping it up at one of his golf courses, an interim cross-House alliance took over the White House, with the support of much but by no means all, of the population. Those who didn’t agree resumed rioting and Washington became a war zone, the NRA arming anyone who could pay for a gun. Trump was offered refuge in New Jersey and fled there with his family. The US fell apart as Trump-supporting states seceded in disgust and rallied behind the orange one, now such an old man it is reasonable to suppose he was suffering from dementia, as well as narcissism and delusions of grandeur.
The good that came out of it was the final demise of the fossil economy, at least for most of the world. Big corporates bucked but really it was their death throes. The economy tanked, but at least this time it was the rich feeling it. The rest of us, who’d been fucked over by the politics of austerity for so long, didn’t notice it so much. We really were ‘all in it together’ at last. I was working crappy cafe jobs, having given up my teaching degree as the costs of tuition spiralled. The money was terrible, but demand was reliable and living costs low, as I was back home in Bodingleigh, living with my parents and my wife. Then Devon decided to devolve, and everything went down the pan.
My wife and I had no money and nowhere to go so we stayed, and I stayed after she and my parents died in the flu pandemic of 2027. Thousands died that year, as they had in the years before. Medical supplies were non-existent, and the antibiotics dropped in humanitarian relief efforts by our neighbours turned out to be useless against the new superbugs. Since then we have become dependent on expensive imported drugs, or on hedgewitches and their ancient lore; but hedgewitches are persecuted by Spight as ungodly, and transactions with them must be carried out in secret.
I stayed on in my parents’ house until it fell down a decade or so later. By then I had been asked to take over teaching at the village school, and Spight offered me the schoolhouse. I was too desperate for a dry roof to say no.
I think he thought I ceased to be a lesbian once my wife had died. In his mind, I was no longer a corrupting influcence and so was safe to be around children again.
As far as I know now, with the limited access to world news that I have (mainly snatched moments of gossip with Gloria or Flora, who are, of course, much better informed), the Trump dynasty is still doing its best to screw everyone over in the name of liberty, aka free markets for its goods and services, with Trump Jr’s grandson in charge of a loose federation of states calling itself the Real USA, governed – if you can call it that – from New Jersey and spreading south and west like a tumour. The remainder of the country has joined with the rest of the world in trying to decarbonise its economy, cleaning up and cooling down our planet’s air and oceans. I believe much of the UK is trying to do the same, but here in little ol' Devon we are holding to the old ways.
This is what I would like to be teaching in modern history. But no, I have to regurgitate a Spight-approved syllabus about the British Empire, the so-called Enlightenment, Industrial Revolution and WWII, as if any of that can be taught without the context of what it led to: the carving up of poor countries for exploitation by the rich, environmental degradation, a dangerously warming planet and the resulting, repugnant saga of resource wars and displaced peoples that fed grotesque acts of xenophobia and genocide.
From the memoirs of Mrs Prendaghast
*
Mayor Spight’s grand house stood in the heart of Bodingleigh. Once the local Lodge, there had been some raised eyebrows when he comandeered it after his departure from the fat farm, where he had lived with his family from the inception of fat tithing until the birth of his grandson. But as most of the local Freemasons had died out, and Spight was Grand Master of those that remained, there was no real opposition. Three storeys of granite, it dominated the small square in which it sat and cast long shadows on sunny days. Devon flags flew during daylight hours, fluttering from flagpoles that jutted out above the ground floor windows. Successive storms had left these ragged and Spight was awaiting the arrival of bolts of cloth to have new ones made up.
News of the successful blockade reached the house and Mayor Spight later than it might have done, there having been a period of ‘You do it’, ‘No, you do it,’ among his subordinates as reports started to come in from Plymouth. It was the task of the luckless Bob to wake him and deliver the information that he would have to wait somewhat longer for his cloth and the rest of the ship's cargo.
‘Why wasn’t I informed immediately?’ he snarled, furious at being woken and further enraged when he learned the reason.
To See the Light Return Page 6