Crashing noises, like bears blundering across a wilderness, broke through the pounding of blood in his ears. That would be Fred and his mates making a mess of the search. Hunkering down, Hector settled himself to watch the show.
Fred came into view and crossed a patch of moonlight illuminating a clearing, sweeping at a thicket of brambles with a stick.
Clanging. Wonder of wonders the dumb fuck had found the door! Shouting to his mates, his father started pulling at the undergrowth, cursing as thorns tore his hands. Two of his militia sidekicks burst into the clearing to help him, and between them the door was uncovered in a matter of minutes. Fred grabbed the handle, turned it and pushed. Nothing happened. He tried pulling. Nothing.
‘OK, plan B.’ Fred took something off his belt. Hector knew this was a highly personalised multi-tool kit that contained – among pointy and stabby objects suitable for threatening and causing pain to uncooperative people – pliers and a screwdriver. Telling one of his companions to hold his torch so he could see, Fred began working on the door.
This could take a while. Hector eased himself to the ground and stifled a yawn, tired from all the running around he had been doing. The ground under him was covered in shallow roots, one of which was poking him in the bum. He sidled a bit to the right, found a patch cushioned in ivy and leaned back against the bole of a tree.
Five minutes later Fred had unscrewed one hinge of three. There was a distinct air of anticlimax, compounded by the fact clouds now obscured the moon and Hector could only see what progress was being made intermittently, by the light of the torch, when it wasn’t blocked by his father’s body. He was getting bored. Also, a little worried that, unlikely as it seemed, there would be nothing of interest behind the door and his dad would give him shit for wasting his time. He’d have to rush home to be sure of getting there before Fred did, and sneak into the house. Being here was feeling more and more like a bad idea, and maybe an example of the poor impulse control his mother was always banging on about.
A rustling in the undergrowth beside him. Hector pushed himself away on his hands and heels and then scrabbled around on the ground to find a weapon in case it turned out to be a rat. He was scared of rats.
The moon broke free of clouds and illuminated a pale hand protruding from the ground; like something from one of the old horror DVDs he watched on the laptop his grandfather had given him. Hector squeaked and waved the stick in front of him before the significance of what he was seeing broke through his fright. The hand was pushing up a hinging lid. Another hand joined it. Now a head and shoulders appeared.
He recognised the boy he had seen earlier that day, who was wide-eyed and panting hard, as if he was scared. Knowing that made Hector’s own fear recede.
Hector withdrew into shadows and waited for the whole of the boy’s body to emerge and then, aiming just below the knees now level with his face, drew his arms back and swiped at them with the stick as hard as he could. Even sitting down, he managed to put enough force into the blow to send the boy flying sideways, hitting the ground hard. There was a whoof as air left the stranger’s lungs, and he lay winded and unmoving.
Hector bellowed, ’DAD!’
*
Fred was brought up short by the sound of Junior shouting for him. What the hell was the little shit doing here, when he’d been given a direct order to go to bed?
‘DAD, HELP!’
Hector’s voice was coming from a dense net of shadows across the clearing. Fred grabbed the torch and ran, to see Junior crouched against the roots of a towering oak, holding a stick in front of him like he had been fending off an attack. Close by, a stranger was lying on his back on the ground, and beside him was a hatchway. An escape route! Clearly the foreigner – Fred didn’t recognise him, he had to have come from outside the village at least – had become aware of their attempts to break into his hideaway and had been trying to run away. Now why would he do that if he wasn’t up to no good?
The foreigner rolled over and started scrambling to his knees, obviously trying to escape. Fred hit him with the torch where he thought his head should be – the beam sweeping wildly across Hector’s face, a crazed tangle of tree limbs and white, outstretched hands – and heard a satisfying craack as he connected with bone. The torch winked out as the glass and the bulb broke. Dug and Biff appeared.
‘Whoa,’ said Dug. ‘We got someone?’
‘Looks that way. And who’s the we? Took you long enough.’
‘What’s Junior doing here?’ Biff wanted to know.
So did Fred, but now was not the time to go into that.
‘I was worried Dad,’ Hector told them, eyes wide in the bullshit way he pulled when he was lying but thought he could get away with it. ‘Who knows what these people are up to? I wanted to be sure you’d be OK.’
Biff had another question. ’How’d he get over ’ere?’
‘Tunnel. Looks like we don’t need to dick around with the door. My torch’s bust, give me yours.’
‘Ain’t got one.’
‘I’ve got one Dad.’ Hector rummaged in his jacket pocket and pulled out an expensive torch Fred recognised as one he thought he’d lost months ago. He’d got an earful from Spight about carelessness and waste at the time, something else to discuss with his son later. For now, he just grabbed it and switched it on.
By its light they could see that the body collapsed at their feet was that of a boy of about sixteen, unknown to any of them and still out cold. He was dressed in the insurrectionist uniform Junior had described and had a hand-held radio in the side pocket of his trousers, but no weapons beyond a pocket knife. Fred removed the walkie-talkie and knife and put them in his own pocket.
What to do with him? If they took him back to the village it would be like saying they were waiting for Spight’s return. Besides, where to put him? Fred came to a decision, and the outline of a plan. But before that, he wanted to see what was at the end of the tunnel.
‘Biff, you stay here with Junior and the prisoner. I’m going down. Dug, you come with me in case there’s more of 'em.’
‘What do I do if he wakes up? Or they come out that door? You didn’t say to come armed, I got nothin'.’
Fred brought out an ancient pair of handcuffs from another pocket, turned the stranger over to snap them closed on his wrists and left him lying face down. He knew those cuffs would come in handy some day; it was worth having carried them around for the last three years, and the price he’d paid.
‘There, that should keep him in line if he wakes up. If any more come running, yell.’ He grinned mirthlessly at Biff. ‘But I reckon he’s the only one here. Now you,’ and he pointed the torch in Junior’s direction, ‘stay put or I’ll beat you bloody when I find you.’
Hector Jr’s Adam’s apple bobbed as he swallowed and nodded.
A ladder led down into darkness. Stepping onto it with the torch held between his teeth, Fred saw it was old, and pitted with rust that flaked away under his hands. So, this tunnel had been here a while. How come he had never heard about it? He was born and bred in the village. It offended him that something existed within the parish boundary about which he knew nothing.
At the bottom, about ten feet down, he found a tunnel with a dirt floor leading away behind him. It was a tight fit to turn around, and as he was shuffling his feet Dug started his descent, sifting rust into his hair and almost kicking him in the face.
‘Oy, wait!’ he shouted. The feet paused. Fred stooped. He was six foot two and the tunnel barely five foot eight, so he had to walk with his neck severely cocked. ‘Right, come on then,’ he called back to Dug as he started down the tunnel. The torch held in front of him showed him the tunnel was about fifteen feet long and ended at an open door, dim light spilling out to pool on the rough ground. Excitement mounted as he neared it; there was a chance he’d be bursting in on a whole gang and there’d be more violence. He tightened his grip on the torch in his left hand, and brought out his multitool, extracting the sharpest knife
from its nest and holding it in front of him in his right.
When he got to the door he waited for Dug to catch up, not moving until he felt the man’s breath on his neck, then pulled the door open to its widest extent and leapt inside, knife hand extended.
He was in a room of about twenty feet by fifteen and seven feet high, full of clutter and a rank stench but otherwise empty. A sturdy wooden door with a lock was to his right, and another to his left. The door to the left was unlocked and led to another, shorter, tunnel, and a big steel door that looked like the inside of the door he’d been trying to unlock. The door to the right was locked.
A table in the centre of the room was covered in maps held down by half full mugs. The top one was of Plymouth and its harbour.
‘This proves they hijacked the shipment!’ Dug was a master at stating the bleeding obvious. ‘Spight’s gonna give us a medal for finding this lot.’
Fred doubted Spight would give him credit for finding anything if he could help it. He pulled the Plymouth map aside. Underneath were maps of Longmarsh, Bodingleigh and other villages in the parish, with mysterious red symbols on them. Something was seriously afoot.
‘Dug, go check the prisoner for keys. We need to get in that locked room.’
A search of the prisoner’s pockets produced no keys, but did rouse him to incoherent protests and a bout of vomiting. Dug reported this back. Reluctantly, Fred conceded it was time to do something about him. He rolled up the maps and tucked them under his arm before he and Dug returned to the surface, where Dug was instructed to stay and watch to see if anyone returned. If they did, he was to do nothing but wait for Fred to return. Junior was to accompany Fred and Biff back to the Land Rover with the prisoner, keeping his mouth shut.
Between them, Biff and Fred hoisted up the now semi-conscious prisoner and half-dragged, half-carried him through the woods to the driveway, where they had stashed the Land Rover. After throwing him into the back seat and telling Biff to get in and keep him from getting out, Fred climbed behind the wheel and started the engine. Junior pulled himself up onto the passenger seat and Fred threw the roll of maps into his lap.
Instead of turning around, Fred carried on up the drive towards the fat farm.
Biff was confused. ’Eh? Aren’t we going back to the village?’
‘Nope.’
There were no lights in any of the windows when they drew up outside the farm. Fred checked his watch and saw it was after midnight. Too bad. He cut the engine and climbed out, telling the others to stay put.
The front door was locked. The knocker, a large iron ring, made an almighty boom when he dropped it against the plate. He knocked again, and again, and again, until eventually the door was opened by Dorcas wrapped in a tartan dressing gown. Behind her, lights were appearing in the hallway as members of staff crept down the stairs with candles to see what was going on.
‘What the hell … Fred? What are you doing back here? Do you know what time it is?’
‘Do you know you have a secret hideout in the grounds, and it’s the HQ for some secret army that’s plotting to steal our shipments and God knows what else?’
‘What? Are you mad? What are you talking about?’
He grabbed her by the arm and dragged her down the steps to the back door of the Land Rover. ‘There, see him? He’s one of them and we just arrested him in your back garden.’ At a nod from Fred, Biff dragged the boy into a sitting position. He was now awake, but still groggy, staring at them with eyes wide with terror. Fred released Dorcas, who stepped back, rubbing her arm and looking shocked. Fred opened the back door and grabbed his prisoner instead, pulling him out.
‘Dorcas, look after my son, there’s things about to happen he’s still too young to see. Biff, go get Dr Harrow.’
darkness was complete
The first part of their journey downriver was made more or less in silence. Spight occasionally received a call or text on his satellite phone and replied tersely to it. Bob rowed, taking rests when his arms grew too tired. Eventually Spight took pity on him and allowed him to start the engine. Everything was taking too long. He wanted to be in Dartmouth well before dawn, when the skipper was threatening to leave, having found potential markets for his cargo in Dorset. Customers who could pay cash, which was in short supply in Devon.
Besides themselves, there was no other traffic on the river. Intermittent moonlight showed dark woods massed on either bank and silvered the tree tops before falling to the water to light their spreading wake. The river twisted its sinuous way through loops and wide turns, passing ancient estate houses now crumbling into decay. A small Gothic boathouse with turrets jutted into the water, half submerged but with a candle burning in a top window. An owl swept past them on silent wings. Spight appreciated nothing of this.
He was counting off landmarks. The rotting hulk of an old plague ship, used as a smallpox hospital ward, burned out and abandoned. A village that had lost half its houses to rising waters and another that climbed up the steep hills as the river narrowed. Both appeared deserted and he approved; it meant the residents were observing the curfew, and not wasting resources by burning candles. He’d instituted the curfew as an energy-saving measure, citing the need to snuff the candles illuminating streetlights to conserve scant resources, and the dangers that people, particularly teenagers and women, might face wandering the streets after dark. It kept people indoors and under control and to his mind that could only be a good thing.
At last the outskirts of Dartmouth began to spread across the hills to either side. Again, most houses were dark. As they reached the town centre, Bob cut the engine and steered for the harbour wall, the skiff drifting in to bump against a protective shield of old tyres next to the stone steps. The height of the tide meant they were almost level with the top of the quay and it was easy to climb back on to dry land.
The cargo ship was moored out in deeper water, Spight had been informed during one phone call. The skipper had come in on a tender and was stopping overnight at his usual hotel next to the harbour. With Bob at his elbow, Spight crossed the square and tried the hotel door, the ancient Tudor building bulging out above him. It was locked, so he banged on it until someone came to open up, then pushed his way inside.
The interior appeared opulent in lighting kept deliberately dim, to hide its deficiencies as well as make the patrons and whores more attractive. This late, most activity had retired upstairs, but the ground-floor bar was still lit by a few lamps. The sleepy-looking man who had let them in returned to his station behind it and asked if they wanted a drink. Spight ordered a coffee, and on an afterthought, another one for Bob. To hell with the extravagance, he needed them both to be sharp.
‘Over here.’ The voice came from a chair in the shadows beside the fire, which had burned down to a glowing heap of embers. Spight told Bob to bring the drinks, crossed the room and drew up another chair. Sitting, he extended his hands to the glow. The trip on the river had left him chilled to the bone even if it was summer.
The skipper leaned forward in his chair. He was big. Not just well-covered, but tall, large-featured. The hand he extended for Spight to shake was huge, crushing his in its grip, and shockingly warm against his own chilled flesh. This was not the first time they had done business, but that didn’t mean he trusted the man an inch, and coming in to negotiations in such a weak position made Spight twitchy and irritable. He had had plenty of time to think about how to approach things and looking at the man now he decided the best way to proceed was to go on the attack. Dwight came from a society that despised weakness. Millions had died during the Trump years, both at home and as a result of his callous indifference to calamities abroad, and people much like Dwight had watched it happen, with dispassion and a belief that their own survival depended on not heeding the suffering of others.
Bob brought their drinks over and was dismissed back to the bar.
‘What the hell were you doing, being made a fool of by bloody insurgents?’ Spight took a leisurely
sip of his coffee. It was too hot and burned his mouth. He didn’t let it show as he said, ‘All you had to do was run them over and anchor for the night, we’d have the cargo unloaded by now and you’d be on your way back to New Jersey.’
Dwight’s lip curled. It was not a smile. He was drinking whisky, the bottle on a small table by his side. He topped up his glass but didn’t offer any to Spight. The ‘real’ American took a sip before replying. ‘What the hell were you doing letting them float about your harbour?’ he growled, in a voice like boots on gravel. ‘I’m not part of your war, I just bring the cargo. And I take it where I’ll get the best return. I don’t give a fuck about your dumbass little internal disputes. And I don’t kill people for you unless you pay me. Clean up your own mess.’
He had a point. Time to change tack. ’I can top any offer you’ve had from Dorset. We can unload here, and you don’t have to spend any more time or fuel.’
‘I’m listening.’
‘I can up my offer of livestock from fifty units to seventy-five, on top of our other cargo.’ He had no idea how he would do it, but he had to have his shipment.
‘That’s pretty sweet, but where am I going to put another twenty-five? I haven’t time to make the arrangements to keep 'em healthy.’
‘Keep them on deck if you have to.’
‘Now that’s hardly humane. 'Sides, they needs to be in good shape when we get there or they’re no good to me.’ Dwight sat back in his chair and took a long swallow from his glass. ‘But I see you’re desperate.’ As he put down the tumbler his manner became businesslike. ‘OK, I’ll take 'em, but they got to be fatties so they got some surplus to burn, and they gotta be young. No more offloading oldies on me.’
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