It sounded like he’d have all he needed from Plymouth within another hour or two, stored securely near the river in Longmarsh and ready for transport to Dartmouth on the morning tide. His existing stock would be transported by road in the morning. He had called in all his most trusted people. Some of them were bringing additional boats but a goodly number were tied up in securing the perimeter of the fat farm. His resources were stretched too thin and that irked him.
Bob came in carrying two plates piled high with food. As Spight took one, the walkie-talkie crackled into life, vibrating against the desk.
‘Number Five to Number One, Number Five to Number One, over.’
Spight pushed the plate to one side and snatched up the radio. Number Five was deep in the woods, between him and the bunker. A tingle of excitement ran up his spine.
‘Number One to Number Five, receiving. Over.’
‘We’ve two insurgents come past us, headed for you. Both male. Over.’
Spight pulled a map towards him and found the spot Number Five should be radioing from. He traced an imaginary line from there to the house and worked out the distance. They should be here any moment now.
‘Roger that, Five. Stay there and await my command. Out.’
The walkie-talkie buzzed again. ‘Number Three to Number One, Number Three to Number One, over.’
Number Three should be down by the entrance to the drive. ‘Number One to Number Three, receiving. Over.’
‘Six insurgents moved past us, proceeding up the side of the drive, staying under cover. What you want us to do? Over.’
‘Stay there, await my command. Out.’
That made at least eight insurgents on their way to the house. It was quite possible more had slipped through unseen. He’d have them any minute now. He made sure the door to the corridor was open so he could hear what was happening in the hallway. The larder was two doors down and he defied anyone to get in and out unheard.
‘What do we do now?’ asked Bob.
‘First, put out the light.’
Bob blew out the candles on the desk, so the room was in darkness.
‘Now, we wait.’
*
Far above, the last of the day’s storm-dimmed light was losing a battle to penetrate the woodland canopy, which swayed and bent before violent gusts of wind. A branch snapped off and sent a litter of leaves swirling as it crashed to the ground nearby. The pressure of powerful gusts was painful against Will’s ears as he staggered through the wood in the dark, hands out to cushion himself in case he tripped over an invisible root or fallen branch. Deafened by the wind’s roar, he could barely hear the Major, who was shouting in Will’s ear that they needed to head further east in order to find the path that bordered the drive.
Will was questioning the wisdom of the Major’s plan. Which didn’t seem to be so much a plan as a headlong rush into potential disaster. There were eight of them involved in the rescue attempt, all that the Major had managed to pull together in the two hours since their return. They had met in the old, disused barn to the north of the fat farm, where the Major told them he and Will would be taking care of releasing Mal; the others were to remain outside the house and act as lookouts, or backup if needed.
Looking at their pale faces, illuminated by flashlight, Will had not rated their potential as reinforcements very highly. Irma and Greg were extremely young, Simon middle-aged and overweight, and all three of them were sweating with nerves. Two other men, who arrived late and didn’t get an introduction, appeared more capable, but even they seemed unnerved to be venturing to the heart of Spight’s empire. And then there was Jeremiah, who was still with them. He had refused to be left in the barn, or to go with the team of anonymous strangers when their paths diverged. Will could hear the old man behind him, blundering into bushes and cursing.
The Major had forbidden them to use torches, so all they had to see by was the last of the twilight filtering through the dense canopy that swayed overhead. Soon that would be gone. The driveway to their right gave them a rough guide to the direction in which they needed to go, but their progress was painfully slow as they made their way towards the house, pausing in the comparative shelter of an overgrown hedge once they got there.
Here they left the old man, as well as Irma, Greg and Simon. Jeremiah cursed them, but the Major was adamant he could not go with them into the house. Eventually, promised more whisky after they came back with Mal, he sat down on the sodden ground and promptly went to sleep sitting up. Will took off his scarf and wrapped it around Jeremiah’s scrawny neck. He was hot from the climb and sweating so much from nerves he didn’t need it, and Jeremiah might. The Major patted him on the back approvingly.
‘Right then, lad, let’s go get Mal away from these bastards, shall we?’
What had happened to ‘These people are not our enemy?’ Will wondered. Maybe that ceased to be the case when those people resorted to torture.
The Major led him around the east wing of the house, keeping within the tree line until they were forced out into the open to reach the kitchen at the rear. Several windows on the first floor were lit, but only two on the ground floor, and both of those were over in the west wing and nowhere near the kitchen. Will’s heart was hammering in his ears, knowing he had to follow. He felt sick as the Major stepped out into the open, crossed the yard and opened the kitchen door. The Major acted as if he had every right to be there, and Will tried to emulate him, standing up straight and holding his shoulders back, when all he wanted to do was cringe and hide his face from the crescent moon, briefly visible between speeding clouds.
The kitchen was dark and deserted and the din of the storm dropped away as they stepped inside. Switching on a torch and shading it with his hand to keep the beam from betraying their presence to anyone who might be passing the uncurtained window, the Major strode across to a door on the far side, and through it into a corridor. He seemed to know exactly where he was going as he turned right, Will trotting along behind him, aware he was leaving soggy footprints. They walked along a threadbare carpet runner over scuffed and squeaky floorboards and stopped at the first door on the left. The Major tried the handle. It was locked. He passed the torch to Will and indicated with a nod of his head that he wanted the beam shone onto the lock. Will did his best to keep it steady.
The Major rummaged in an inside pocket of his jacket and brought out a pair of long, thin tools. Kneeling so the lock was at eye level, he inserted them and fiddled about. Will was impressed. Clearly his own training was incomplete. After a few moments, there was a click that seemed loud in the silence of the building, and it struck Will that the house was eerily quiet for a place that housed at least a couple of dozen people.
The door opened onto a small, dark and windowless room about two metres square. Torchlight showed shelves lining three walls. It smelled of vinegar and the contents of a bucket with a lid in one corner, that had been used as a toilet. A long shape shrouded in a blanket lay across the floor. It didn’t move as they entered and Will wondered if they were too late. His mouth was dry as the Major knelt down and reached out with one hand to touch the blanket. The body beneath flinched. The Major grabbed a handful of the wool and tugged, and Mal’s battered face was revealed. He curled into a foetal position, wrapping his arms over his head, not looking at them.
‘Mal, hey, it’s us,’ the Major whispered, patting the boy’s arm. ‘We’ve come to get you out of here.’
Mal’s eyes flickered open. He stared at them blankly for a moment, then his face crumpled and he started to sob. The Major pulled him up into a rough hug, then started pulling at the blanket to free Mal’s legs so he could stand.
‘Come on, we have to get out of here before someone comes to check on you. Can you walk?’
Mal sniffed hard and nodded. His eyes met Will’s and he tried to smile. Will smiled back around the lump in this throat. Between them, he and the Major managed to get Mal on his feet and his arms around their shoulders so they could take his
weight. Will put his head out of the door to check the corridor was still deserted. Once they were out of the larder he pulled the door closed quietly, and they hobbled as fast as they could for the kitchen.
The full force of the storm lashed them as they went back out by the back door. Will switched off the torch and they headed for the shadows of the trees, where they retrieved Jeremiah and the others and had a short and silent argument over whether Jeremiah should be allowed a pull on the flask, which the old man lost. From there they headed deeper into the woods, and once properly out of sight of the house the Major pulled out his radio and quietly called their backup team to meet them at the barn. He also allowed Will to switch the torch back on; it was too difficult to make good time through slippery mud and overgrowth in the dark, with two of them still supporting Mal. Now their objective had been achieved they were more concerned with getting Mal to safety than in stealth, and the sound and violence of the storm was enough to cover the noise of their progress and, hopefully, keep people indoors.
The other team was already back in the comparative shelter of the barn when they got there, and they set Simon as the first sentry before hastening inside. Greg and Irma lit a few lanterns and a Primus stove, after covering the windows with old sacking to keep them blacked out. There was an air of jubilation as everyone greeted Mal, slapping him on the arm and ruffling his hair until he pushed them away with a weak laugh and fell into a chair. Will collapsed into another beside him and breathed deeply, feeling the tension still thrumming through his body.
Once Jeremiah had been handed Mrs Mason’s flask, now almost empty, the Major brought out his satellite phone and rang the safe house to let them know Mal had been retrieved; Will detected a note of smugness in his voice as he promised the three, sorry, four of them would be back there by dawn, with some brand-new intel courtesy of the old man.
Will half listened, letting his thoughts wander, and before long he began to doze. The door slamming open woke him, and he stared at a group of militia framed in the doorway, most of them holding weapons, ranging from cricket bats to axes to guns. At their front was Simon, who was pushed forward and fell to the floor. Behind him, Mayor Spight, holding a furled umbrella and a pistol, stepped into the room. One of his minions took the umbrella.
‘Well, well, well, thank you for making this so easy.’
Behind Will, Jeremiah squeaked with dismay and dropped the flask. The Mayor looked him over dismissively, then did a double take.
‘Well indeed! I do believe I see old Jeremiah lurking behind all that dirt and stink. What are you doing, throwing your lot in with these losers? Oh, yeah, you’re an even bigger loser. Well, guess what? You’re all winners now – you’ve won tickets to the Real USA.’ He looked at Irma and Greg, then Will, and nodded approvingly. ‘Nice … some young blood. I’m sure you’ll be made very welcome.’
When he spotted the Major on the other side of the room, he began to laugh. Will thought he sounded a bit unhinged, and he saw a couple of Spight’s men look at each other behind their leader’s back as though they agreed.
‘You! Well, who would have thought I’d have the pleasure. I wondered if it was you trying to make life difficult for me. What’s the matter? Run out of agitators and having to do your own dirty work? I see you still need a gang of kids around you for a bit of hero worship.’
He turned to Will and the others. ‘Do you think he’s a hero? Do you think he’s a proper military man, chest full of ribbons?’
They didn’t do medals in the resistance, but Will nodded defiantly anyway, wanting to wipe the smug smirk of the Mayor’s face.
Spight sneered at him, ‘He’s a joke – a joke in very bad taste. He’s no Major. He’s a puffed-up trombonist, in a band called The Militia. Calls himself the Major, but he ducked his duty as a sergeant in the real militia, ran away like a coward and was courtmartialled in his absence for desertion. That’s your Major!’ Spight was red in the face from the fury of his denunciation; spittle hung from his lower lip.
Will looked to the Major for a denial, but his idol merely shrugged and looked regretful, avoiding looking him in the eye.
Spight resumed his tirade, turning his back on the shocked faces of Will and the others and addressing their leader. ‘Or did you come back for her? It won’t do you any good you know, she’s long-since forgotten about you, but I’ll be sure to send your regards if you like. In the meantime …’ He made a sudden lunge for Irma, who was closest to him, grabbing and twisting her arm so it was pulled into a painful angle behind her back. Irma’s face screwed up with pain but she made no sound. Spight nodded at one of his subordinates, who came forward and took up the grip, pulling her away from her comrades.
‘Now, I want you all to behave yourselves, or I promise you things will get very unpleasant for this young woman. Your friend there can confirm I follow through on my promises. So, you will come with me, you will climb into the vehicle we have waiting, and you will not try to escape.’
How could they have been so stupid? Poor Mal, returned to the clutches of his tormentors. How could he, Will, have idolised the Major – Paul – so completely? The man was just a … a musician. Will could not stop berating himself as they were led along a deer track through the storm-lashed woods to a gate onto the lane. In just a few minutes they had emerged, and there was the vehicle Spight had spoken of, parked so that it was heading in the direction of Longmarsh; an ancient Land Rover with its engine running, belching out foul-smelling smoke, rain slanting through the beams of its headlights. He recognised the man behind the wheel as the Mayor’s chief flunkey, Bob. He looked as agitated as Will felt.
Bob jumped out and moved towards the back of the Land Rover, where they were all huddled together. As he passed Will, who was standing at the edge of the group, he hissed out of the side of his mouth, ‘Go to the teacher.’
What? Before the word had time to leave his mouth, Bob had tripped and crashed into the man holding Irma by the arm, who had to let go to stop himself falling over. In the confusion Will found himself unguarded. Seizing the chance, before giving himself time to fear that he might be shot, he turned on his heel and fled down the road towards the village. Shouts and a roar of rage from Spight followed him around the bend. Shots were fired and a tree splintered just to his right.
As soon as he was out of sight of the Land Rover he sprinted as fast as he could down the lane to a dip, and an old stone drain that emptied out into a culvert beside the road. Squeezing himself inside, he lay half-submerged in the freezing stream, heart hammering. Feet passed him and pounded on to the next bend, where the road straightened out. There they faltered and stopped. He could hear them conferring, shouting over the wind, then two sets of footsteps making their way back up the hill.
‘We lost him,’ one of them shouted as they turned the corner. ‘He just disappeared.’
‘Fuckwits! How could he just disappear? Flat-footed cocksuckers!’ Spight was screeching with rage. A pause, and he continued in a calmer voice that Will could barely hear, saying, ‘At least we still have the rest, even if a couple of them are past it. Bob, get on to the Door Knockers to spread the word to watch out for the boy. You lot, get in the fucking truck or I’ll beat you senseless. And if you fall over yourself again Bob, you won’t get a cruise to the US because I’ll fucking kill you.’
There were scuffling sounds and a low cry of pain that sounded like it came from Mal. Will was torn. Should he try to free the others, or should he do what Bob had told him and go find the teacher? He must mean Mrs Prendaghast, who used to live in the cottage next to the school. What on earth use could an old woman like her be to him?
The sound of the engine grew louder as it was put in gear and started driving away. Well that made his decision easier, but he cursed himself for not taking them all on single-handed, even though he knew the Major would bawl him out if he got himself captured again. The Major ... What a joke! He couldn’t begin to ponder that betrayal of trust.
He would go to
the village. The old woman might not be much help, but it was somewhere to go; presumably Bob had meant she would take him in and give him shelter. Lying in the frigid water, with every friend he had being taken off to imprisonment and slavery, that seemed good enough to Will. He pulled himself out of the culvert and crouched, dripping, by the side of the road for a moment until he was sure no one had been left behind to look for him. The storm was easing but a cold wind knifed through his soaked clothing. He needed to get somewhere dry.
It had been years since he had been into Bodingleigh but not much had changed. Some of the out-lying buildings looked more dilapidated; roofs fallen in and windows broken, their hard edges softened by growths of moss that appeared black in the fitful moonlight appearing between scudding clouds.
Checking his watch, he saw there was still a quarter of an hour to go until curfew, but the streets were already deserted, and most of the windows of the houses he passed were dark, until he neared the pub. Someone was playing a piano, which needed tuning but still provided a melody for raised voices to follow. They were singing a standard from the last century, something about a Wonderwall, with much wailing at the end of the chorus. The pub was close by the school and he was forced to cross the open square in front of it, lit by one streetlight, the corners yawning with shadows.
Remembering how the Major – Paul – had made himself look as if he belonged where he didn’t, Will forced himself to stand erect and walk without hurrying, as if he had every right to be there. And didn’t he? He and his ancestors had been born here after all, and that was what counted in Devon. Striding out of the shadows and into the square, he was half-way across when the door of the pub opened, and two men dressed in uniform spilled out of the door, staggering down the steps.
They were still singing, serenading each other and roaring with laughter. Will recognised them from the mug shots in the bunker. Low-level Spight flunkies, cronies of Fred’s. He forced himself to continue at the same casual pace. The men staggered to the railings at the edge of the square next to the church and opened up their trousers to pee into the churchyard. The sound of two urine streams hitting a gravestone was loud in the quiet that descended as the song ended.
To See the Light Return Page 15