‘I’m fine. I have someone here who needs to talk to you.’ Mrs Prendaghast handed the phone to Will. He looked nervous as he took it and held it away from his face so they could all hear both sides of the conversation.
‘Mrs M? I mean, Mrs Mason, it’s me, Will.’
‘Will? What’s happened? I thought you and the Major were on your way back with news for us. We’re waiting on you before we pull out.’
‘Well, here’s the thing …’ Will gave a brief sketch of events since the Major had last rung the safe house, told her what he had overheard in the village square, and what they had been told about people-selling by Jeremiah. When he finished there was a long pause. When she spoke again, Mrs Mason sounded odd, her voice tight.
‘Will, thank you, and well done for getting this information to us – it explains a lot. I need to share everything, so we can decide what to do. Please stay where you are and wait for instructions.’ He opened his mouth to reply but the line was buzzing. The call was over. Will passed the phone to Mrs P, who handed it straight back.
‘No, you hang on to it. It’s you she wants to talk to. In the meantime,’ she looked around the room, ‘let’s try and make ourselves comfortable, shall we?’
They made a nest with a pile of blackout material found in a corner of the first room they had entered. Mrs Prendaghast preferred to stay in the chair, wrapped in a swathe of dusty black cloth, saying she wouldn’t be able to get up again if she lay on the floor, but she insisted the other two lie down and try to get some sleep. Lying next to Will in the dark, Primrose’s heartbeat speeded up and sleep felt impossible. The teacher seemed to have dropped off despite being seated; the girl could hear faint snores coming from that corner of the room.
Her mind was filled with new information and ideas, thoughts about what might have happened to her if she hadn’t escaped. She couldn’t get comfortable and kept turning over, trying to be quiet so she wouldn’t wake Will. When he spoke, she jumped in shock.
‘Can’t you sleep?’
‘No, there’s too much to think about.’
He laughed and said, ‘Ain’t that the truth!’
She liked his laugh. It had deepened in the last few years. The thought of that change, and other changes that had happened to both of them, made her feel hot and she pushed the blackout curtain away, her hand coming in contact with his again. She snatched it back.
‘Sorry,’ she mumbled, feeling foolish.
‘Don’t be.’ His hand found hers and held it. Their fingers entwined, and his thumb stroked her palm.
All of her seemed to throb.
There was no way she would be able to sleep now.
the lightless pit of despair that yawned
The prisoners had been taken to a damp and leaky boatshed on the quayside of the river in Longmarsh. The journey had been conducted in silence, with only a sobbed apology from Irma, barely heard over the sound of the Land Rover’s engine. The Major, next to her, patted her hand and told her it wasn’t her fault. She had swiftly broken contact, and he cursed Spight for destroying her trust in him. So what if he wasn’t really a former army officer? He had years of experience in the field; if they went in for rank in the resistance, he’d probably be a General by now. But it was true he had deserted the militia. Cowing the local populace under the guise of keeping them secure had not suited his temperament in the way it had others, such as Fred and the then Captain Spight.
Two of the men who had abducted them sat on the bench seat in front, next to Bob, who drove. The seven prisoners sat on uncushioned metal seats flanking both sides of the vehicle, with two more of Spight’s men to one side and one squatting between their knees in the middle, all of them bouncing up and down painfully as they were driven at speed over uneven ground. Spight was being driven directly behind them in his old Audi, which had maintained a tight tail. Even if he could have managed to get past their guards and jump from the back, the Major thought, Spight would just have had his driver run over him. There was no love lost between the two men. Besides, he was responsible for his team, he couldn’t abandon them.
Once at the quay, they were taken out singly from the Land Rover, at gunpoint, and pushed into the shed, where they milled about in the dark, tripping over what turned out to be old fishing nets. They were all frisked on the way in. The Major lost his satellite phone and torch, and the knife he kept on his belt. Now he sat against a wall and tried to keep from falling into the lightless pit of despair that yawned before him.
Three guards had been left outside. He could hear them talking in low voices, smell cigarette smoke that wafted in through gaps in the aged wooden walls and awoke his tobacco cravings. It had resumed raining an hour or so after their arrival, and it was then they discovered the shed leaked. All of them had found somewhere reasonably dry to sit by now and waited there in silence for whatever came next. No one had a plan.
Mal was close by; his laboured breathing was audible. When the Major asked him how he was, the boy swore at him.
The only one who seemed unconcerned was Jeremiah, who was sleeping off the booze. He had managed to grab the flask and drain its contents in one swallow, before it was taken away. Currently, his head lolled on the Major’s shoulder, whisky-stinking snores vibrating through the wood they leaned against.
The Major was pleased Will had got free, he just hoped he had managed to find somewhere safe to hole up and didn’t have any crazy ideas about coming to rescue them all. Once they were missed at the safe house, which he reckoned would be when they were at least a couple of hours late for their dawn rendezvous – so, say, about seven a.m. – Mrs Mason and the others would know something was wrong. What they could do about it was another matter. They would have no way of knowing what had happened, or where he and the others were. He could only hope they would proceed with Stage Two. If he’d messed that up with his insistence on returning to Bodingleigh he would never forgive himself. He didn’t think Mrs Mason would forgive him either, particularly when she found out about Devon’s slave trade.
He estimated the time to be about midnight. He should get some sleep while he could, or he wouldn’t be fit to take advantage of any other lapses by their guards, like Bob falling over himself. How incredibly fortuitous that had been. Pushing Jeremiah upright – the old man didn’t wake but the pitch of his snoring moved up an octave – he took off his scarf and folded it into a pillow, before lying down with his coat wrapped around himself tightly to keep out the cold, and willing himself to sleep.
Waking some unknown time later he lay still for a moment. He could hear men’s voices and laughter outside, and the sound of vehicle doors slamming. He drew himself up to a sitting position and wondered if it was time for them to be moved on to Dartmouth. Surely it wasn’t dawn yet. It was too dark to see if anyone else was awake, but he could feel an edge of tension in the air.
The door they had been pushed through was unlocked, unbolted and opened, creating a paler square in the blackness. A torch beam was shone inside the shed, its brightness painful to eyes accustomed to the dark.
‘Right, you lot, in you go. No rushing now.’ Mocking laughter greeted this witticism. He knew that voice. Fred. Had Spight told him he, the Major, was here? That could get ugly fast.
People started filing in, hunched over as if terrified or in pain. The Major counted twenty but there could have been more; it was difficult to see.
‘Make yourselves comfortable, we’ll be back to collect you for the commencement of your cruise in approximately four hours, so I’d make the most of it, I was you. And thank fuck I ain’t!’ More laughter. That Fred, such a card. He seemed to be feeling pleased with himself. But he didn’t seem to be aware of the Major’s presence yet, and some of the tension left his body as he settled in to wait.
*
Fred was, indeed, feeling pleased with himself. He had filled his quota before the call came through from Spight that he had an additional seven bodies available for shipping, though some of them might not be su
itable for market. They would run inventory in the morning, weeding out the less desirable.
‘What will we do with those?’ he had asked.
‘I’m sure we can find a use for them. Everyone has their aptitude. I should think they’ll find themselves so grateful not to be going as part of the shipment, they’ll be willing enough to comply. We might have trouble with one or two, but I foresee no lasting difficulties.’ Spight had rung off then, leaving Fred to coordinate the transport of all those taken from Plymouth. That, and the journey itself, had taken some time, so it was very late, or very early, when they arrived at the quayside. It was hardly worth going home to catch a few hours of sleep, so he bedded down in the back of his Transit van, sending the rest of his crew off to fend for themselves.
Adrenaline was still pumping around his system and he found it difficult to go to sleep. Instead he lay and calculated how long he might have to wait before it could legitimately be said Spight was too old to be holding all the reins. Surely only another year or two. The man was still fit, but everyone was vulnerable to accidents, and no one was immune from illness. The Mayor had better recourse to treatment than most, but he was still human. Fred should start building alliances now. Discreetly of course. A couple of hours were spent scheming before exhaustion pushed ambition aside and claimed him for a restless sleep full of dreams of chasing, but never quite reaching, a quarry he could not see.
Spight had decreed that his men should be ready for action at dawn. Fred had delegated Dug to make sure everyone was up, and to put in an order for flasks of tea and bacon sandwiches from the Knockers. As dawn broke, Dug bellowed at them all to shake a leg. The door to Fred’s van slid open, screeching loudly, and he sat up, yawning. Dug handed him a mug of tepid tea and he gulped it down. The temperature and humidity had risen with the sun. Even with a breeze whipping up the surface of the river and rustling the limp leaves of trees on both banks, it was going to be an unpleasantly hot voyage to Dartmouth. The smell of the bacon sandwich Dug was offering was making Fred feel a bit sick as he contemplated the hours ahead.
When he emerged from the van he could see Spight supervising the flotilla they would be using for transport of the cargo, moored further downriver overnight and now making its way to the quayside on the last of the incoming tide. They would load up as it turned slack, then float down as it ebbed, using engines to supplement their speed, but only if it looked like they weren’t going to get to their destination in time for the agreed rendezvous. The last few days had almost sucked the last of their fuel reserves dry; thankfully, some fossil-based oil was part of the new deal Spight had negotiated with Dwight, or they might not get all their supplies back from the coast. If that happened, Spight would probably make them all get out and carry it back on their heads like some goddamn safari.
He could hear more vehicles approaching, and saw a small convoy coming over the bridge. That would be Dorcas, with offerings from the county’s fat farms. Now therewas someone he needed to keep sweet if he was ever going to take his rightful place ...
‘Why have you brought me here?’ Stood on the side of the quay wrapped in a blanket, with bare, scabbed legs, her feet pushed into well-worn slippers, the girl sounded sleepy, confused and pissed off, but not scared. She was neither as young nor as pretty as he’d been led to believe by Dorcas’s description of her. But she’d do.
‘Primrose, you are about to embark on a great adventure.’ Fred threw his arms wide in the direction of the river, as if offering her the world.
‘Why you calling me Primrose? I’m Alise.’
Fred turned to Dorcas, who wouldn’t meet his eye.
‘I thought you said you were sending some young maid called Primrose?’
‘I couldn’t, she’s not very …’
‘She done a bunk,’ finished Alise, oblivious to the spasm of rage that flickered across the older woman’s face. Or was it fear? This could do him some good.
‘Really, and how come we don’t know anything about this?’ Putting stress on the we, making a point of his closeness to Spight. ‘Of course, seeing as you and me work so close, I wouldn’t want to see you in the shit with my father-in-law. I know any lapse in security won’t happen again. I could cover for you, this one time.’
Dorcas looked at him suspiciously but forced a smile and nodded. ‘I would be grateful.’
‘Of course, we’ll need your cooperation too, young lady,’ Fred said to Alise, with an attempt at a charming smile. ‘There’s no harm in forgetting your real name for one day, is there? Soon as you’re safely on the boat, it won’t matter if it turns out you’re … Alice? That’s a pretty name.’
She pouted. ‘Alise,’ she said and turned to Dorcas. ‘I can smell bacon sarnies. I’m starved.’
The Matron scowled, but Fred said immediately, ’Of course, let me get you one of those. And tea?’
‘I want ketchup, and three sugars.’
‘Coming right up.’
He fetched the sandwich and the tea, dipping into his own prized stash of ketchup and sugar sachets from the glove compartment of the van. Alise took the sandwich and stuffed it into her mouth, ketchup oozing down her chin. Her eyes screwed up with pleasure. She seemed oblivious to the hostile stares being sent her way by the other fat farm inmates standing close by in ill-fitting clothes
Fred nodded to them and said to Dorcas, ‘It’d be a good idea to get this lot fed and watered too, or we’ll never get them on the boats.’
She nodded understanding and called to Agnes, busy talking to one of the skivvies from a Torquay farm. ‘Here, you two, get this lot fed.’
Still eating as they went, Alise and the others were loaded onto the first two boats to be brought to the quayside, ten in each, with two members of crew to ‘help’ in case any of them decided they didn’t fancy a cruise and a new life abroad. So far there had been no trouble; they were used to doing what they were told in the expectation their needs would be met in exchange. The Knockers sent them off with boxes of biscuits and flapjacks, that were already being consumed. Heaven help them if their new bodies got too out of shape before they docked in New Jersey.
Additional cargo was being moved from storage in Plymouth, Kingsbridge and Salcombe, to rendezvous with them in Dartmouth. Now loaded, the first two boats cast off and floated a little way downstream, anchoring before the bend in the river to await the rest of the flotilla. Spight was taking no chances that their primary cargo might be spooked by the loading of prisoners and rebels onto the remaining four boats. Fred was practically rubbing his hands with delight when these prisoners were eventually led out of the shed, blinking as they emerged into bright daylight.
There didn’t seem any need for the heavily armed presence that greeted them as they came out to stand in a dejected group on the quayside. One of them was so old and doddery Fred was surprised he had been considered fit for sale, and as he thought this Spight had the man removed from the pack and shoved to one side, where he stood swaying on his feet, only the militia man gripping his arm keeping him upright.
‘I’ve given this some thought, Jeremiah, and there’s no market for the likes of you – even your organs are worthless,’ the Mayor said, to sniggering from a couple of his men. Fred looked again at the old man, and now he remembered him. The crust of dirt and accumulation of years had made their old colleague almost unrecognisable. Well, well, what was he doing with this bunch of renegades?
‘I could let you go,’ Spight continued, ‘but that would hardly send out the message people need to hear. People need to know there are penalties for treason.’
Jeremiah laughed. ‘Treason?’ he snorted, ‘You think you’re royalty or summat? You’re just a puffed-up, evil old git.’ Much louder laughter greeted this remark.
Spight looked furious, his usually pale face flushing all the way over the dome of his balding head. Fred caught himself just in time, keeping his own face straight.
Jeremiah smirked, hawked and spat at the Mayor, the gob of phlegm hitting th
e midpoint of Spight’s immaculate suit. The hawking set him off coughing and he doubled over, his face turning purple behind the dirt. When the coughing trailed off he was hauled upright again, his chin shining with spit and streaks of blood.
Spight drew a handkerchief from his pocket and dabbed at the shiny mucus, his voice tight with suppressed rage as he grated out, ‘You appear to be unwell Jeremiah. I think I should put you out of your misery, you traitorous shit. Give me your weapon.’ Fred barely saw the gun being snatched from one of his men before the Mayor had fired it and Jeremiah sagged against the man holding him. Blood from the crater in the back of his head, blown out by the point-blank shot, spattered in a wide arc, smears of fluid and brain matter blotching the wooden boards of the shed. The bloodied guard looked at the body sagging against him and almost thrust it away. Jeremiah fell to the cracked concrete and lay still, his head twisted to the side, eyes wide and staring. The hole in his forehead leaked a little.
Echoes of the gunshot rolled downstream. Birds flew from the trees and fled squawking. Fred could see heads craning on the boats moored in the river. Even he was shocked by his father-in-law’s actions. He had never seen the man lose control before.
As if he could tell what Fred was thinking, Spight drew himself to his fullest height and smoothed his expression into a neutral mask as he handed the gun back.
‘That,’ he said, ‘was a lesson in what happens to those who betray me.’ Did it mean anything that his eyes swept across Fred’s face before moving on to the rest of his men?
Fred didn’t have time to think about it, as the Mayor started shouting orders to get the boats boarded, they were running out of tide.
Defeat was written in the slumped shoulders and downcast eyes of those that remained. Fred could see the boy he had tortured in their midst, looking pale and sick. He felt a twinge of something and squashed it ruthlessly. There was no room for softness in his world. If he weren’t hard and ungiving, he’d never survive to fill Spight’s shoes and make the decades of self-sacrifice worthwhile.
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