The mixture of river water and sweat coating his skin was attracting horseflies and midges by the dozen. By the time he reached an open area where he could dress he was covered in stings and bites, slapping ferociously at the air and swearing loudly, not caring who might hear. Dressing helped, but a rallying cry must have gone out, because the air above him was thick with swarming insects. His head and neck were still exposed and vulnerable; he broke off a piece of bracken and, waving it manically over his head to swat the bugs away, ran up the hill away from the river. The heavy humidity under the trees made him sweat, and the insect numbers grew.
An hour of hard slogging uphill got him to the road and almost to the fat farm boundary, where he paused for breath and to consider his strategy. He had no way of knowing if the farm was now in enemy hands and had to proceed as if it was. With that in mind he found a break in the bank above the lane and climbed up, rather than approaching openly from the drive. By now he could barely feel the new bites through the torment of those already received, and ignored them.
Dorcas was emerging from the front door as he approached the main building. One of her skinny little helpers was following her out and receiving a tirade of instructions as the Matron climbed into the battered car parked on the drive and started the engine. Mrs Harrow was in the front passenger seat. Perhaps they were doing a runner while they could. Fred stayed in the shadows cast by the hedge. No need to let them know he was there. He was relieved to see Dorcas leave; he knew she wouldn’t let him take her prisoner away without a fight, or at least a delay.
The car drove away, belching smoke, and the front door was closed. Once they were out of sight, Fred came out from the cover of the hedge and hurried around the side of the house to the kitchen door. The skinny helper and another girl were inside, preparing food for the evening meal. They looked at him warily. He ignored them and walked on through to the corridor that led to the larder.
The larder was empty, only a rank stench and damp stains on the stone floor showing the prisoner had been held there. Fred stormed back to the kitchen.
‘Where is he?’ he shouted at the girls, who cowered and said nothing. One of them pointed up at the ceiling. ‘Upstairs?’ he barked at her. She nodded mutely. He turned towards the door and ran for the front hall.
*
They were almost in sight of the main building, which lay on the other side of the hedge. A car had driven away from the house as they made their way through the woods, which were almost as dim in daylight as during their previous night-time visit. They couldn’t see more than glimpses and had no way of knowing who was driving it but, as the Major said, it had to be to their advantage that there were now fewer people at the farm. He said this as he checked the chamber of the revolver he had been given in Littlemarsh, to see how many bullets it contained.
‘One,’ he said glumly. ‘Hope we don’t need more.’
‘Hope we don’t need it at all,’ Will replied. The resistance only used guns as a last resort. He had only ever fired one on the range, in training, and hoped he wouldn’t have to now. The thought of shooting anyone made him queasy, but if it helped Mal, he would.
There was no way to avoid exposure as they emerged from the woods. No one was in sight, or visible in any of the windows facing them, as they made for the open kitchen door. The place was silent, only the clamour of rooks overhead disturbing the quiet.
‘Do we have a plan?’ Will whispered.
‘Wave the gun around if we have to, collect Mal, get out of here and call Merryn.’
‘What if he’s still really sick?’ What if he’s dead? Will wanted to say, but the words stuck in his throat.
‘Then we find somewhere safe and protect him until help comes. We’re not alone in this, Will.’ The Major clapped him on the shoulder before he disappeared through the doorway. But Will felt very alone as he followed him inside.
Two young girls were in the kitchen, rolling pastry and chopping vegetables. They looked at the two intruders in fright. One of them made a small shrieking noise when she saw the gun.
‘Are you looking for Fred?’ the other one whispered.
Fred? Oh shit.
If the Major was thrown, he didn’t show it.
‘Yes,’ he barked, as if he was still in the militia. ‘Where is he?’
As the girl began to speak, the door to the corridor was shoved open and Fred came through, staggering under the weight of Mal, unconscious in his arms. Mal looked ghastly, his skin grey and shiny with sweat, the white t-shirt he was wearing soaked with blood. Fred didn’t look much better, his face red with effort, and covered in blotchy insect bites, the toll of carrying Mal evident from his harsh breathing and a stream of vicious swearing, muttered under his breath as he lurched through the door.
*
The crowd had grown until it filled Longmarsh’s town square and spilled out onto the ancient and ramshackle high street that ran down to the river. Several hundred people, including most of Spight’s key supporters from Bodingleigh, stood in tight clumps speculating as to why they had been summoned. Many carried shopping bags, hoping that this was where their cargo was to be delivered.
Those from the villages had endured a long and muddy walk if they hadn’t secured transport by donkey, horse or bicycle. A privileged few from Bodingleigh had arrived in a small fleet of cars; these were mostly the older women Merryn had heard referred to as Knockers, who looked annoyed and impatient and insisted on chairs at the front of the crowd, close to the steps he intended using as a stage. One had accosted him earlier, demanding to see her prisoners, her face looking like it had been ironed, it was so smooth. Flora had intervened, leading her back to her seat and telling her that all would be revealed shortly. He prayed she was right.
It was starting to get dark when his phone rang. A noisy generator that stank of human fat was running to power amplifiers that had been put in front of the steps up to the Civic Hall; he had to cover one ear as he received word that they were all systems go. As Merryn ended the call Flora checked her watch and looked at him expectantly. All they needed now was their speaker.
‘It’s time?’ she asked.
‘Yes, time for you to get up there.’
‘Me? I’m a covert operative.’
‘But most of these people know you,’ he pointed out. ‘They know you as a Spight. If you tell them they won’t like it, but they’ll believe it. And then I’ll do my thing. Meantime, I’ll have your father brought out so people can see him.’
Flora nodded, swallowing hard before she climbed the steps. Below the top flight was a broad landing, where a microphone stand had been placed. Flora took hold of the mic and the whine of feedback snared everyone’s attention. Faces turned in concert, like sunflowers, and the buzz of whispered conversations died away. Merryn signalled to an activist that it was time to let Mayor Spight out of the car and bring him to where he could have a good view of the proceedings.
The Mayor’s daughter cleared her throat and said, ‘Thank you for coming.’ Her voice wavered and Merryn willed her on. She took a deep breath, and when she spoke again her voice had steadied. ‘I have something important to tell you. Something you won’t like hearing, about the way we’ve been living and who has been paying the price.’ She shaded her eyes and looked out over the crowd. ‘I’m going to need some help with this. Primrose, are you there?’ A young woman pushed through the crowd, not making eye contact with anyone, her posture slightly hunched. One of the older women seated at the front gasped; the young woman cringed away from her but continued up the steps.
While she did so, the Mayor was brought to a reserved chair at the front, escorted by two large men who flanked him when he sat down. Those who saw him murmured among themselves, but they were too intrigued by what his daughter had to tell them to pay him more attention than that.
All except the older woman who had recognised Primrose, now switching her attention between the two, unease gripping her features. She leaned across to the woman sitting
next to her and whispered. A wave of agitation passed along the row of Knockers.
*
When he saw Will and the Major, Fred stopped in his tracks and gave an incoherent cry of rage, Mal’s head lolling against his chest. The Major said nothing, but brought the gun up until it was aiming at Fred, above Mal.
‘Put him down.’
The two girls were looking from Fred to the Major, eyes wide with fright. Will gestured behind him to the back door and they took the hint, fleeing out of the kitchen. Something began to burn on the range cooker.
‘You won’t shoot.’ Fred’s voice was contemptuous. He held Mal higher in his arms, making it harder for the Major to shoot without hitting him. The Major lowered his aim and shot Fred in the foot.
The sound of the shot was deafening in the confined space. Will flinched and his ears rang.
Fred screamed and lurched sideways, dropping Mal who fell like a stone, landing hard on the scuffed boards of the kitchen floor. Fred hopped on one leg, clutching at his foot.
‘It’s over, Fred.’ The Major’s voice – seeming to come from a distance – was almost kindly. He was still aiming the gun as if it weren’t now empty. Fred cowered a moment then, with obvious effort, drew himself upright, his weight on his uninjured leg. The insect bites now stood out in scarlet welts, in stark contrast to a face gone white with pain and shock.
‘Go on then, kill me, you coward,’ he gritted out between clenched teeth, fists squeezing closed and knuckles whitening as he braced himself.
*
Primrose gazed out at a sea of faces, their expressions varying from curious to wary to hostile. She saw Dorcas and Mrs Harrow and the terror she was feeling, as she opened her mouth to speak in public for the first time in her life, spiked. The Mayor might be there, but she didn’t know him; his presence was a vaguer threat than that of the two women.
Five years in virtual seclusion, with only the Matron and other staff and inmates to talk to had not prepared her for this. But then she recalled the events of the last few days, how she had escaped and helped those children, and stood a little straighter.
Mrs Prendaghast gave her a wave, from where she stood to one side, and Primrose found the courage to start talking.
‘You probably don’t recognise me. My name is Primrose.’ The mic gave a whine of feedback and she stepped back in shock. Flora smiled at her encouragingly and she stepped forward again. ‘Until a couple of days ago I lived at the fat farm, and I was there for five years, since my parents tithed me. I did what I was told – I ate what I was given and I got fat, and then I was farmed so that you – or more likely the Mayor – could drive, or turn on a generator for a few hours. Then I’d be fed so I’d get fat again. When I was out in the village, which hasn’t happened for a long time, you weren’t grateful, you treated me like shit.’
People were looking at each other. What was going on? This wasn’t what they were expecting to hear. Some of them looked restless, like they were thinking of leaving. A few, at the front, did get up and leave. She watched as, one by one, the Knockers left their seats and crept away.
‘You despise fat people,’ she went on. ‘Maybe it’s because times are hard, and we get all the extra food, and you’re jealous. But I read while I was in the farm. It was just about all I was allowed to do besides eat. I read magazines from before, and people hated fat people back then too. They thought we were lazy and greedy, so they made fun of us and made us feel ashamed. Maybe then people had more choice over what they ate, I don’t know. I never did. So I ran away after the last harvest, which left me like this.’ She gestured self-consciously at her new, shapely form. ‘I found friends and one of them told me I had been made how I am now, so I’d fetch a good price in New Jersey. I was going to be sent there as a breeder, or a whore, so you could keep having your imported fizzy drinks and cheap clothes, and the Mayor could keep his hold over you.’
Her audience was definitely becoming restive. Those closest to the front were looking to the Mayor for corroboration or denial, but he was keeping his head down and could have been asleep for all the notice he was taking. Primrose looked at Flora and nodded; it was time to hand back to her.
‘I know you have no reason to trust me. Maybe you should listen to Flora Spight instead, to hear what else was going on in your name.’
*
It was almost full dark. One spotlight was angled over the front of the crowd. Flora’s voice was still reaching across the square, but she herself had disappeared into the shadows as she said, ‘How many here can say honestly they didn’t know what was going on? Didn’t know that we – and I include myself in this, because I couldn’t bring myself to look too hard either – were selling our own for material gain?’ People were looking around at each other to assess how widely spread Spight’s secret network had gone, though many of his closest confederates had already left, soon after Flora began corroborating what Primrose had told them about selling breeders, and telling them that a dozen children bound for the Real USA had been rescued that morning.
Dozens of hands went up. Their fingers shone white in the glare of the lamp. ’How many didn’t suspect a thing? Who here thought that a new washing machine for a few sacks of spuds was just a really good deal?’ A few hands went down. After a moment’s hesitation, a few more. ‘How many would like us to go away, or prefer not to know what I’ve just told you?’ Nervous laughter and a few hands went back up.
’Maybe that’s because I haven’t got to the good part yet.’ Flora took a deep breath. Now came the tricky bit. ‘You see, I haven’t just come to tell you about people trafficking, or to make you feel bad. I’ve come to tell you we have friends here who have been working hard for many years to bring power back into our lives, and to put it in our hands.’ People were looking at each other, some looking hopeful, most just confused. Flora beckoned to Merryn, now standing to one side of the crowd, and he climbed up to stand beside her.
‘I’m Merryn,’ he said. ‘I’m what you would call an insurrectionist.’ He waited for the cries of shock to die down, and resumed, ‘And I’m here to put the lights back on.’
He nodded to a woman standing quietly at the back of the crowd. She slipped away, and Merryn said a prayer.
For a long, anticlimactic moment, nothing happened. Wind could be heard in the trees, over the sound of hundreds of people talking and arguing among themselves. Merryn had a moment of panic. What if the whole plan was rubbish and they had failed? Many of the faces staring at them remained implacably hostile. People who had lived at the heart of Spight’s dark empire for so long, and benefited from it, and didn’t care to know what they were being told. It was going to take more than words to persuade them, if anything ever would.
As he thought this, the town’s streetlights stuttered into life, washing across the heads of the crowd and casting their faces into shadow. Above him, the lights of the Civic Hall came on. The sound system he had plugged in blasted music through the speakers that had been amplifying the PA, making some in the crowd scream with shock. Everything in the abandoned buildings in the town, that had been left on when the power was cut, came on, and the lights dipped as chittering mechanical noises sounded from buildings all around the square. Merryn panicked that the power from the batteries – most of which had only had a day of charge from the solar fields – wouldn’t be sufficient; if even one connection failed that would be it, back to darkness. They would be mobbed, over-run and end up on a freighter, shackled to a plough or force-fed in a fat farm. But the power held.
*
‘I don’t want to kill you, Fred,’ the Major said sadly.
Mal stirred at Fred's feet, groaning. Will made a move towards him but the Major held him back, not wanting to give Fred another hostage.
‘You shot me! Why should I believe you?’ Fred’s voice was tight with pain.
‘Because you’re still alive?’
‘Ha! You know the chances of me surviving being shot in the foot? About as good as your fr
iend’s, from his infection, and look at him.’
‘The infection you’re responsible for. You tortured him!’ Mal had been coherent enough to tell the others that much, back in the boatshed, while they waited to be taken to Dartmouth.
‘This is a war, Major. You forgotten that?’
‘It’s your war. We’re offering everyone the chance to end it and achieve peace. You know Spight is done. I can get you medical attention here within the hour. You might even keep the foot.’
‘And then what? Live to watch you take everything that’s rightfully mine? My wife, my son, my future?’
‘None of it was ever yours Fred. Flora is her own woman, she was never any more yours than she was mine. You despise my – our– son, by all accounts. If you’d loved him, you couldn’t lose him. And no one has a guaranteed future. You never know, you might like the way things turn out. Things are better outside Devon. It’s only here that you’re stuck in some feudal timewarp. Well, here and a handful of other places.’
The Major was concentrating on what he was saying, trying to reach the man across years of bitterness and jealousy. Without his being aware of it, the gun barrel was dipping, pointing more towards the floor than at Fred. When the other man lunged, throwing himself across the space between them, the Major brought the gun back up, but Fred had hold of it, twisting and managing to wrench it free. He threw himself out of reach, turned the gun, aimed and fired. Nothing happened except a dry click.
Screaming in fury as he realised he had been conned, Fred threw himself forward again, using the gun as a club and aiming for the Major’s head. The Major blocked him with one arm, punched him in the face with the other and followed it up with a kick to Fred’s good leg. He connected just above the knee and Fred went down, screaming with pain, but managing to throw himself towards Mal.
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