‘What are you doing here?’ she demanded.
Hector saw her eyes flick to and take in the crumbs around his mouth, her thin face twisting into a scowl. He took exception to her tone and bristled. Who was she to question him, the grandson of her Mayor? ‘I’ve been sent here by Grandpa.’ He brushed off the crumbs.
‘Why?’ She looked scared now. That was more like it.
‘Public meeting tonight. Six o’clock in the church. Be sure and tell your mistress.’ He took care to stress the last word and gave a meaningful nod towards the buckets she was carrying. ‘I guess you’ll be too busy wiping bums and emptying out slops.’
‘A meeting? Why’s there a meeting?’ Agnes put down the buckets and wiped her hands on the grubby apron she was wearing, wringing the rough fabric nervously.
‘What’s it to you? Where is she anyway?’
‘What?’
Why was this pasty girl panicking? Hectic spots of colour appeared in her otherwise pale cheeks. ‘Dor-cas.’ He enunciated the syllables v-e-r-y s-l-o-w-l-y as if she was a bit stupid. She probably was, who else would do the sort of work she did?
‘Oh! Dorcas! That’s fine. She’s out, taking care of some business, you know.’
He didn’t know. Frankly he didn’t care. He weighed up his chances of getting through the door and going upstairs, decided it wasn’t worth the bother and turned away. Just to make the point of how important he was, he grabbed another brownie on his way out.
His mission accomplished, Hector relaxed and sauntered on foot down the drive, steering his bike with one hand. The second brownie was tasting good, and it and the third in his pocket meant he didn’t need to rush home to eat his tea before the meeting, which would be in – he checked his cheap wind-up watch, a present from Fred – three hours. What to do between now and then? Rather than go back to the village, and either school or chores, he decided to take a bit of time to reacquaint himself with the woods that lay between the fat farm and the lane. There was a gate a few dozen yards further on, well out of sight of the house. Leaving his bike hidden in the hedge that flanked it, he climbed over.
Local legend had it that the house and grounds had been a private estate back in the dark ages of two centuries ago, and remained so until the last big world war, when all the men of the area had gone off to fight and the government had commandeered the house. There had been no one to tend the laurel hedges and they had grown wild. After the war, the house had been left to decay, the gardens to become more overgrown. The owners had already moved to what used to be the United States, now the Federated States of America and the smaller and more bullish breakaway Real USA that exported to his grandfather and, by extension, Devon. This was almost as much about world affairs as Hector Jr knew, and he was allowed to know more than the other kids in his class, because he could listen in on his grandfather’s conversations, whereas they had to listen to their stupid peasant parents talk about … well, whatever it was stupid peasants talked about.
The place had lain empty for a few decades, the woodland becoming ever-more twisted and dark as laurel grew, blew over, rerooted and grew again. An incomer family had bought it and restored the house towards the end of the previous century, but they left after Devolution.
‘Those that blow in, blow out again,’ was the way Hector Sr had put it one night, as he drank imported bourbon with Bob and Fred, and his grandson kept quiet hoping to be ignored so he could score a rare late night. Junior understood that Senior was referring to the sorts of people who lived in a place while it suited them, and then left when things got tough and it came time to do the work of making a place fit for decent folk to live in. People who couldn’t stick, who didn’t have roots in a place like he, Hector Spight Sr had.
Which meant that, when the idea first came up of having a fat farm, where biofuel could be harvested from idle berks who were no use otherwise, the empty and crumbling house had been the perfect location. No one knew who owned it anymore, but who cared? It was big enough and it was empty. Work parties had set about repairing windows and parts of the roof, Dorcas had been installed as a sort of Matron and his grandparents had moved into one of the wings with his mother.
The woods had been left largely undisturbed aside from some harvesting for the farm’s boiler. The sorts of hand tools available couldn’t handle the density of laurel, and locals were wary of burning it because of the cyanide it contained, and besides there were abundant other woodlands at the time. His grandfather had confided he had a secret special project, and the acres of laurel wilderness would yet serve a purpose, but in the meantime they had been left to run wild, so that now, ahead of him, he saw a dark tangle of black limbs through which no sun could shine. It was quiet in there. Small birds shunned the woods, finding no food to tempt them in. Rooks roosted in the top branches of some of the surviving trees, that stood tall enough to find light. He could hear them bickering and grawking above his head.
A small part of the wood had been cleared and reclaimed for growing produce for the farm, but there was no one tending the beds of straggly and beaten-down vegetables. Hector had the place to himself. He crawled and climbed his way across and along and under and over sinuous laurel trunks – smearing himself with green slime – to a stream. Walking down the stream was easier than climbing, so he followed this path of least resistance until he thought he was nearing the road and remembered he would have to make his way back to fetch his bike. He couldn’t leave it there, even hidden as it was; someone might steal it. After all, that was how it had come into his possession.
If he cut across to his left, he would come out of the woods and on to a path that led up past the vegetable plots and back to the gate. It meant some wiggling through mud to get under tangles too complicated to climb over, and within a few minutes he was soaked through. As he crawled out and collapsed in a comparatively clear area, a familiar but unexpected smell drifted past his nose. He sniffed the air.
He could smell weed. He was sure of it.
Who on earth would be smoking grass out here?
He knew the smell well, having appropriated the stash of an older kid he had heard bragging about smoking it, who had in turn stolen it from his dad’s store of home grown. Threatening the older kid that he’d tell his grandfather where he’d found it – the Mayor had very strict views on drugs that didn’t come in imported bottles with pharmaceutical company stickers on them – Hector had spent a few weeks experimenting with different ways of smoking. Tobacco had been hard to come by so he had tried various herbs and implements, before deciding that he didn’t actually like it very much, because it made him feel out of control, and worse, giggly.
The wind was southwesterly and the laurel limbs he would need to traverse were numerous. The safest bet was to retreat and work round to the west. Some tortuous minutes later he found himself close to the lane and turned left to flank the edge of the woods and work in that way. The smell had gone, but he didn’t hurry, relying on years of experience of hunting game with his grandfather. Moving as quietly as he could, tucking and turning to avoid getting snagged, he found himself on the edge of a small clearing. Forced to stop, he took the opportunity to catch his breath, coming fast from the excitement of the hunt.
There was the smell again. Much stronger. Keeping as still as he could, he widened his gaze without moving his head. A brief flash of movement. Someone was squatting on the other side of the clearing, above the road, looking down into it. A hand went up to the face, and a moment later a puff of smoke appeared and drifted across to him.
When the face turned in profile he didn’t recognise the boy, who wasn’t much older than him. He had short hair, unlike most of the villagers, for whom keeping scissors sharp was a chore, and was dressed in dark clothes with lots of pockets, looking like one of the militia, but without the breastpatch of Devon colours. Now he was stubbing out and throwing away the butt of the joint he’d been smoking and getting up from his crouch. Hector froze in position, but the boy didn’t see him
or even look in his direction as he crossed the clearing to a clump of bushes, parted them, and disappeared.
*
The church was full when Mayor and Mrs Spight arrived with Fred, Bob having been sent ahead to make sure the heating had been turned on – a necessity even in summer as the eighteenth-century granite church was always numbingly cold – so the villagers would be reminded who looked after their creature comforts. Spight thought it as well to do so before he had to tell them of the delay to their allocations of tea, coffee, crisps, fizzy drinks, chocolate and other goods considered essential to a modern and meaningful life.
He had timed his departure from his house, just around the corner from the church, to be sure they arrived ten minutes late and he wouldn’t have to wait for everyone to take their seats. His grandson had tried to disrupt his strict timetable with some story, bursting into the kitchen as he was having his tea, collapsing into a chair unbidden and panting hard across the table, which quite put the Mayor off his meat pie. He’d snapped at the boy, telling him to have a wash and change his filthy clothes, and come and talk to him later, when he’d calmed down. Junior had slunk off, glowering, but that was to be expected when he was so poorly disciplined by his parents. Spight knew he needed to spend more time with the boy before he became irredeemable, starting as soon as this crisis was over.
As he swept through the throng standing at the back of the nave, heading for the ornately carved pulpit in the chancel, the general hubbub of voices dropped off. Sunshine poured through the elaborate stained-glass windows, bathing his face as he marched towards the front and glinting off the gold of his Mayoral chain. By the time he got to the foot of the pulpit his congregation were silent, except for some small children, too young to be left at home in the care of siblings, who were quickly shushed. He didn’t notice Mrs Spight choose not to sit in the seat reserved for her in the front pew and stay instead at the back, close to the door.
The vicar was waiting for him in front of an elaborately carved and gilded Gothic screen that stood before the apse, his face registering disapproval at the appropriation of his house of worship for a meeting about worldly affairs. Accordingly, he was not wearing vestments but his other uniform of sensible cardigan over sweater and misshapen trousers. But he couldn’t refuse the use of the church, knowing his position to be precarious. The Church of England had no official standing within Devon. Already suffering from declining attendances and looking to be on the point of extinction at the time of Devolution, the vicar’s posting had been controversial. He had come into the county as a missionary, eschewing more exotic locations for the damned souls of Britain’s most apostate district, and his reception had been lukewarm. The Reverend knew that without the Mayor’s support, the church roof would never have been fixed after slates were stolen for use elsewhere, and his sermons would have continued to be delivered to a dwindling number of aging faithful before becoming completely moribund as they died out.
A devout believer in the power of religion to enforce social cohesion – and in the subliminal authority imparted by perceived favour with the Reverend, and by extension, God – Spight was a regular church goer, and anyone wanting his favour was expected to attend services throughout the year. As a result, the vicar had enjoyed record attendances in recent years, and was kept busy with weddings, christenings and burials across the parish.
Spight climbed the pulpit steps, conscious that he would be backed by the light of God pouring through stained glass as he spoke, the thought putting a smile on his face as he turned and regarded the expectant faces raised to his. Such sheep. Somewhat shabby, careworn sheep after a long day of labour. It was a good thing they had him to shepherd them; the Good Lord alone knew what would happen if they didn’t.
No reason had been given for the meeting and the air was thick with curiosity. Spight looked at his notes, already in place thanks to Bob, and removed them, tucking them into the inside pocket of his suit jacket. Time to improvise.
He took a moment to gather his thoughts, nodding to key supporters assembled in the pews, including Dorcas, passing over Mrs Prendaghast who was off to one side and looking grim, smiling at a mother with a baby in her arms. When he received a nod from one of his men, Dug, dressed smartly in militia uniform, to convey that the tape recorders were cued and ready to go, the Mayor conjured an expression of sorrow.
‘Friends.’ Was that a titter at the back? He fought back a scowl and made a mental note to check with Fred, standing by the doors, to see who had had the temerity to snigger. Concentrating on the effect he was trying to create, he didn’t see his wife slip out of a side door, or Bob follow her a few minutes later. ’Friends and neighbours, I’ve called you here today to let you know that our enemies have struck.’ Murmuring broke out. ‘A cowardly act of sabotage has temporarily delayed our scheduled delivery.’ A rumbling of disquiet. ‘But this will not be tolerated or allowed to undermine our right to determine how we live, or stop us winning the war. Our way of life, our very existence, has been under threat for years from those who would do us harm. From those who see us as a threat to their corrupt and decadent lives. Those who would chain us with their laws and rules, their ideologies, their jealousy of what we have achieved here.’ A quiet swell of agreement.
‘That you, decent hard-working men and women, toiling in our fields and factories to provide for your families – you who just want to raise your fine children and live law abiding, respectable lives filled with plenty – that you should be deprived and forced to suffer because of the actions of foreign, radical extremists, makes me mad. It’s bad, it’s wrong, and I won’t rest until I, as your Mayor and, yes, I hope, your friend,’ a meaningful glance in the direction of the titterer, ‘can bring your hard-earned goods here, and hand them out to you personally. We shall prevail, and the saboteurs, our enemies, will be made to regret their actions. Let’s keep Devon great!’
There were smatterings of applause, led by Fred and Dorcas, which built slowly as people realised he was done, and was now watching closely to see who was laggardly with their support. He made a cutting gesture to Dug, signalling that recording should stop before the swell of clapping died down. Pews wobbled and squeaked as people started to get up and leave, murmuring among themselves. He suspected they weren’t convinced, but as long as he got their junk to them in the next couple of days no one would dare criticise him openly and his position would be safe.
He needed to begin negotiations for the delivery of the cargo immediately, and in person. No one else could be trusted to handle it effectively and who knew how long it would take. Gloria would have to pack his bag as soon as they got home, while he made arrangements for getting to Dartmouth. Which was when he noticed that his wife wasn’t there. Typical! Lazy cow, she’d probably gone home as soon as she could so she could sit on that fat arse and read the American fashion and lifestyle magazines he imported for her at vast expense.
Dorcas was standing by the door when he got there, after clasping hands and slapping backs all the way down the aisle. His face was aching from smiling. They left the church together and he steered her to stand by one of the headstones in the graveyard.
The westering sun was still out and the heat was blistering, raising instant beads of sweat on his face. He dabbed fastidiously at his forehead with a handkerchief, before placing it back in the top pocket of his suit jacket.
‘I’m going to need all the fuel you’ve got in store,’ he said without greeting. ‘I’m heading down the river, and back, and then there’ll be the transfer.’
‘That shouldn’t be a problem, we’ve done a fair bit of extracting and rendering in the last few days, getting everything ready.’
‘Good, I’ll send Fred back with you to collect the jerry cans, and I’ll need you to do another harvest as soon as possible.’
Dorcas frowned. ‘That might be a problem. Maybe a volunteer drive …?’
He looked at the stream of people leaving the church. ’Not enough meat on that lot.’ He g
rabbed the flesh of her upper arm and gave it a hard pinch through her cardigan. She winced. ‘You, on the other hand …’
‘You can’t be serious,’ she said, shocked.
‘Why not? We all need to do our bit in desperate times.’
‘Desperate, are we?’ Her eyes were flinty and her tone sarcastic. ‘I thought this was just a temporary setback.’
Careful. He shouldn’t have pushed it and vented his frustration on her. He could rely on Dorcas only so far. If she sensed weakness she’d be like a shark smelling blood in the water; she still hadn’t forgiven him for ending their affair and moving out of his suite of rooms at the fat farm, ostensibly to provide a home for Flora and the newborn Junior but really to keep his image as a devout family man intact.
She had been furious, pointing out that most of his best ideas had come with the help of her research in the library, born out of their shared interest in Hitler and Nazi Germany. It was she who had first had the idea of extracting fat for biodiesel, and – though she didn’t know it – she had also given him the inspiration for his special project.
He took a deep breath.
‘It is temporary. But it’s going to take a lot of fuel to get me to that ship and then to bring everything back upriver in small loads. If we can’t get that from your lot, it’s got to come from somewhere.’
‘Well, I might just have a little stash. Put away for this sort of emergency.’
‘How very cunning of you Dorcas.’ He’d suspected as much but seethed inwardly to hear confirmation.
‘I might be persuaded to free some up, for a consideration.’
‘It isn’t yours to bargain with! It belongs to the village!’
‘It came from my allocation! I’ve been keeping some back and making do. Walking. Skimping on heating – that lot aren’t going to miss it if the thermostat’s set a degree or two lower, all the blubber on ’em!’
That had to be a lie. Dorcas wouldn’t walk anywhere willingly, and the farm was heated with timber from the grounds. But he couldn’t call her on it. His teeth were almost grinding as he gritted out, ‘What do you have in mind?’
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