She looked sad. It couldn’t be easy being the daughter of the bad guy, even, or maybe especially, if you were the good guy. Will remembered what the Major had told him about there being no bad guys, but he had trouble believing it.
The Major squeezed Mrs M’s shoulder and changed the subject, saying, ’It’s time to get going. If you two want a ride home, you’d better come with us. We aren’t done yet.’
Primrose looked up. ‘Aren’t we?’ she asked wearily.
Will sympathised, but a rising tide of excitement buoyed him up as he asked, ‘Stage Three?’
‘Stage Three. Don’t worry, you can sleep on the boat.’
‘How is Mal doing?’ he asked, as he offered a hand to Primrose to help her up. He kept hold of it as they headed towards to the street.
‘That’s another reason to get a move on. He isn’t here. Spight sent him back to the village, and if we don’t get a move on he’ll be executed or used as a hostage. And I’m sorry Will, but I’ve worse news about Jeremiah.’
The Major described what had happened on the Longmarsh quayside. Poor Jeremiah. Will felt sick at the thought of the helpless old man being shot down, his body left like so much rubbish.
They had to make sure something similar didn’t happen to Mal. Will speeded up his pace as they headed down the hill and soon he was once more dragging Primrose along behind him.
The baby snatcher – head bandaged and walking but still groggy – was loaded onto the first boat, along with Spight and Fred. The other consignments coming from Plymouth, Salcombe and Kingsbridge had been headed off, the human cargo released and given shelter while Stage Three was completed. The militia were to be kept under restraint in the warehouse holding the New Jersey cargo, until the will of the people had been heard.
The skipper and his crew were allowed to leave, and warned they faced a hostile reception if they returned. The skipper shrugged, and said there were other British ports, ready and willing to trade for cash.
‘Don’t be so sure,’ the Major told him. ‘Word’ll be getting out and you might find yourself less welcome than you think. We’re sending people all over the country, telling everyone what’s been going on here.’
Alise and the others were invited to join the flotilla for a ride back to Longmarsh but told they could do what they liked. They all elected to return. Alise seemed to sum up their feelings when she nodded towards Spight and said, ‘I want to see that bastard get what’s coming to him.’ And she added, with a slight frown, ‘’Sides, where else am I gonna go now?’
Bob was the only other of Spight’s men to accompany the resistance, getting in the first boat but taking care to stay out of the way, particularly of Spight. The Mayor himself – whatever else he was, he was still the elected leader of the county – chose to sit on a hard bench at the front. Will thought it interesting that Fred did not join him, but went to the other end and sat above the engine. Fred’s face was stony; his hands were bound in front of him but he was otherwise unshackled. He ignored his wife, who gave him a wide berth as she and the Major brought the children on board with the woman from the baby farm, who refused to be parted from them.
The toddlers were fascinated by the boat and the passage of water in its wake, and ran through and around the legs of the adults, shrieking. Primrose stayed close to them. So much for sleep, but she looked happy as she chased them and they squealed with pleasure. Will sat himself down out of the wind and closed his eyes. The movement of the boat lulled him and soon he was snoring peacefully.
*
Cold rage was a familiar state but could not describe his feelings now. Murderous fury was inadequate, but it came closer. Spight watched his enemies wandering around the boat – and the brats running – without a care, while his own mind was in turmoil and his feelings seethed. How had this happened? How could he have been betrayed so completely?
Refilled with diesel liberated from the skipper’s cargo, the engines were run all the way upriver – such wastefulness, did they not know how hard he had worked to get that fuel? – and with that, and the rising tide running in their favour, it took just over an hour for the fleet to arrive in Longmarsh. While the boats were being tied up, Flora came and sat next to him. Spight thought he might actually have a stroke. He could not speak for the rage-fuelled bile choking his throat.
‘Hello, Daddy,’ she said.
He was wrong. He could speak, enough to say, ’You’re no daughter of mine.’
‘Sadly, I am. I checked with Mummy.’ Her tone was light but her words bitter.
‘Neither of us will ever be able to forgive you.’
‘Oh, I think Mummy might – who do you think has been helping me all these years? Covering for me. Looking after Junior when I was away so much.’
Spight looked at his daughter in shock. This betrayal by those he held dear – even if he ignored them most of the time, hardly ever thought about them, and shouted at them when they came to him with inane concerns – had hit him hard. All that he did, he did for them, didn’t they realise that?
His daughter seemed to sense his feelings. Her face softened as she said, ‘We did this for you, Daddy.’
How dare she throw his own thoughts back at him as justification for stabbing him in the back? And not just her, but his wife too. There was only Fred and Junior left. And Bob. Where was Bob?
‘It’s his fault, isn’t it?’ He pointed at the Major, busy supervising the transfer of babies off the boat to God knew where. Some socialist love shack commune where they’d be raised like God-benighted hippies of the previous century.
Flora looked annoyed again. ‘It’s nothing to do with him.’
‘I knew he’d be back to cause trouble sooner or later. After leaving you in the lurch.’
‘There was no lurch Daddy, I made my own choices and I chose to stay. For my own reasons. So that this could happen.’ She gestured up at the people milling on the quayside, clearly trying to hear what was being said.
Spight drew his spine erect and stood up, looming over her. ‘Raising his spawn under my roof? I should have made you have an abortion. Or drowned him at birth!’
‘Hector!’ Flora looked aghast, staring beyond him.
‘Grandad?’ Spight turned to see his grandson standing behind him, looking between the two of them with a look of horror and confusion on his face.
*
Junior had fallen asleep on the journey downriver. When he awoke it was from a familiar nightmare, the sound of his own screaming loud in his ears: Dad! Noooooo! For a terrifying moment he thought he had actually yelled aloud, but all was quiet, no one coming to investigate. The sounds of the engine and water moving past the boat were gone, and he could hear voices nearby. They must have arrived. When he pushed back a corner of the tarpaulin and peeked out, the prisoners were standing on deck, guarded by men he recognised from the local troop of militia. He wiped away the tears that had leaked from his eyes.
There was no sign of his father, but he stayed undercover anyway, sure he would get in trouble if he was caught hiding. Hours must have passed; he was stiff, thirsty and hungry. All he had to eat was a couple of scavenged biscuits in the pocket of his coat, which made him thirstier but stopped the ache in his belly. It was while he was licking the crumbs from his fingers that the ruckus started, with a bellow of, ‘NOW!’
From where he was lying under the tarpaulin he couldn’t tell what was going on or hear much beyond a general rabble of raised voices, but he could tell it was a big deal by the reaction of the people on the boat. His grandfather’s men were twitchy, craning to see, gripping weapons harder. He could see the lines of tension in the prisoners’ bodies. Loud footsteps sounded on metal. Someone was coming down a ramp from the quay. The prisoners were delighted, shouting greetings. Their jailers were spooked, backing away from the side of the boat and flourishing bats, knives, cudgels and guns he suspected would be unloaded.
A militia man rushed past him to the stern and started to untie the line attaching t
he boat to the wall. Another, backing away, was tripped by an ankle extended into his path. As he went down, prisoners swarmed him. A young woman emerged from the scrum with a cudgel and threw it, hard, at the man untying the line, and he went down, narrowly avoiding landing on Junior, who huddled, terrified, as terrorists jumped aboard and attacked his grandfather’s men. Within moments the balance of power had shifted, and he was no longer hiding in expectation of a beating from his dad but in fear of his life.
What passed next was a chaotic whirl. The ongoing battles on the water culminated in a shouted conversation – between a barely clothed and then nearly naked girl on a boat, a middle-aged insurgent on a pontoon and a boy on the dock – that made no sense. His world, like the boat some time later, had become unmoored. When the unconscious body of the man lying next to him was removed, Junior remained as still as possible so they wouldn’t discover him.
When next he dared to peek out, he saw his grandfather; unharmed, unshackled, but under guard, in the front of the boat. His mother – his mother – was walking around freely. What was she doing here? His father was sitting close by, head lowered, staring at the deck, not quite within reach if Junior were to stretch an arm out from under the tarp. Children had arrived from somewhere and were running around the boat, being chased by a girl who looked like a skinnier version of the fat girl he enjoyed baiting at the farm.
The noise of the engine was too loud for him to hear anything of what was being said, and it was a confusing hour or so that followed, in which he pondered what the near-naked girl had said, so disturbed he barely thought about her body at all.
She had been told everyone on the boat was being sold, along with a load of other people. Slavery was bad. His grandfather said so. It was why he worked so hard to do what he did, so his people would have choices, and wouldn’t become slaves to repressive laws, like most of the rest of the world. In which case, what Junior had heard could not be true. The insurgent must have been lying. It was the only thing that made sense.
Silence. The engines had stopped and that brought immediate concern for his own safety, and that of his family. Maybe now he could do something to help his grandfather. He watched as his mother walked over to where the old man was sitting and they started talking. He couldn’t hear the words, but his grandfather was obviously furious. His father was pulled to his feet and led ashore, then a bunch of babies were being handed over. This end of the boat was now empty, with no one nearby or looking in his direction; he could pretend he’d just climbed onboard. Hector Jr pushed the tarpaulin aside and stood up, stiff from all the hours of lying concealed, wobbling as the boat moved about on its mooring.
As he approached, his grandfather was saying something about it all being the fault of the man handing over the babies. Junior turned to look at him, curious. It was the insurgent who had been talking to the girl in the nightgown earlier. Mum was denying it. Nothing they were saying made sense. Until he heard his grandfather – the man he feared, respected and loved more than any other – say he should have drowned him, Junior, at birth, and his world came crashing down.
*
Once the flotilla arrived at the Longmarsh quay and the babies and children had been taken to a nearby safe house, where they could be looked after by volunteers, the Major contacted Merryn to ask how Stage Three was coming along, and to tell him about Mal. Flora was looking upset, which was understandable considering she had been talking with her father and there was no way that had gone well, but she took out her own phone to ask her mother to activate the Door Knockers, telling people from the village to come down the hill to a public meeting in Longmarsh that evening, and to organise transport.
While she was distracted, he had her father, husband and son taken off the boat. None of them were speaking to each other, the two men looking furious and Junior shocked. This was not the time to introduce himself as the boy’s actual father. The very thought of that conversation made his hands sweat. It had been a long time since he had allowed himself to think that he had a son. The wound of losing Flora when she decided to stay with her father, then discovering she had given birth to his child, was still open. The times they had worked together since Hector Jr had been born had hardly been conducive to discussing their relationship, or any potential role he might have as a parent, only serving to tear the scab and remind him he still hadn’t healed.
Several SCREW activists surrounded him as he took the three of them to the boatshed where he and the others had spent the night. Fred was pushed inside and the door locked, and the Major could not suppress a small stirring of satisfaction as he turned the key, removed from Fred’s pocket, in the lock.
Jeremiah’s body had already been taken away, but the stains of his blood and brain matter were barely dry on the concrete outside the shed. The Major paused a moment in sorrow, while Spight was put in a car, and three muscular agents detailed to keep him in it until he could be driven up to the Civic Square. Hector Junior regarded him with hostile eyes.
‘What are you going to do with me?’ he asked.
‘Nothing. Your mother needs to talk to you. I know today must have been very confusing, but she can explain everything.’ He wasn’t in the habit of talking to children, only cadets. He was using his officer voice and it didn’t seem to be going down well with Junior – a suspicion confirmed when the boy turned on his heel and fled away from the quayside. The Major shouted at him to stop but the boy kept running. Shit! What was he going to tell Flora?
When Flora arrived, clutching her phone, she was too worried to ask him where their son was.
‘Mum didn’t answer. I called Mrs Harrow – she said Mrs Prendaghast is being held at the school. Someone found her at the gatehouse, talking on a phone she shouldn’t have had. Harrow’s got a mob keeping her under guard. She’s very pleased with herself. She’s expecting Dad to have her hanged when he gets back, along with Mal. I asked about Mum and she got really cagey – I think they might be holding her, too, but Mrs Harrow doesn’t want me to know.’ Flora’s voice was wobbling.
A further complication, and with Stage Three so close to completion. Mal already needed rescuing. Now Mrs Prendaghast and Flora’s mother too. The three of them from two different locations. All the Major wanted was to lie down somewhere, preferably with this woman he loved, and sleep for a month or two.
‘Does Mrs Harrow know about you? Does she know about any of this?’ He gestured around them, at the ex-prisoners and fat farm residents gathered on the quayside.
‘I don’t think so, or she wouldn’t have told me anything. I don’t think even her grapevine is good enough to get word back that fast.’
‘Well, that’s something.’
‘What do we do? It won’t take long for news to spread, and then we don’t know what will happen to them.’ Her hands were clenching and twisting, wringing the phone. He took hold of them gently and removed it from her grasp.
‘I’ll go. I’ll take Will and that young Primrose. You wait here for Merryn, he’s on his way to take care of things at this end.’ He squeezed her arm. ‘And don’t worry.’
‘Very funny. And where’s Hector got to?’
*
Junior had only run as far as would take him out of sight of the terrorist, then stopped and hid in a bush, waiting for the pounding of feet. Silence. No one was following him, he was safe.
What could he do? Something weird was going on, he didn’t understand what was happening to his family, or what his grandfather had meant when he’d said that hateful thing, but he had to do something. His grandfather was beyond his reach, there was nothing he could do under the eyes of the three guards, but maybe he could help his dad. Junior climbed out of the bush and started walking back towards the boatshed. The terrorist was standing some way off, talking to his mother. The way they stood, close together, made him grind his teeth until his jaw ached.
An armed guard was posted outside the door on the quayside, and besides he was no good with locks. Junior drew back before he
was seen and moved towards the rear of the shed, examining the planks that made up the walls. Many of them looked old enough to be rotten. Maybe he could find a way in.
One of the corners at the back of the shed had a gap between the boards large enough for him to get a foot into. He pushed the toe of his shoe in and wiggled it around. Soft wood broke off and made the hole slightly bigger. He kneeled down and started pulling at the rotten wood with both hands; before long the hole was large enough for him to consider putting his head and shoulders through it and calling for Fred.
A hand shot out and wrapped itself around his ankle.
‘Who is it?’ It was Fred’s voice, sounding angry but also shot through with fear. It must be dark in that shed.
‘Dad, it’s me, Hector.’
‘Dad? I ain’t your dad.’ The hand pushed his foot away and disappeared. ‘You want to talk to him, he’s the fuckwad that put me in here.’
Hector staggered backwards, turned and fled. Behind him, he heard Fred shouting. He kept running.
as if the lights were magic
It was the Major, Will, Primrose and Bob who left for Bodingleigh; when Bob overheard them saying Gloria was in trouble he insisted on going with them, producing keys to Spight’s Land Rover. They drove as fast as they could all the way, not caring if they were seen as they bounced and shuddered up the hill. The Land Rover was left parked on the lane below the vacant gallows and they went the rest of the way on foot.
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