“You alright?” said a familiar voice.
“Doctor Hardy?” Zed clutched his side, grimacing at the sharp pain from several suspected cracked ribs. He squinted at the doctor, trying to make out his features in the darkness, not quite trusting his eyes, unsteady on his feet. Zed leaned heavily on the doctor’s arm. There was a distinctive chemical smell from his lab coat. An undertone of disinfectant or bleach.
“Since when did you carry a weapon?” asked Zed, shaking his head.
“I don’t normally come this way,” he deflected, but Zed insisted on an answer, staring at the weapon. “They issued all personnel transporting vaccine with sidearms. One of the team got mugged. Here, within the compound,” he protested in disbelief.
“I must have missed that particular meeting.”
“You can’t be surprised. You’re not exactly going out of your way to make friends here. You’ve been critical of everyone and everything.”
“I’m just doing my job. I don’t want to be here any longer than I have to be.”
“No-one faults your determination. I just question the way you go about your work. If it wasn’t for the colonel protecting you, well…” His voice trailed off.
Zed tried to remember their last proper conversation about anything other than the vaccine. Perhaps the colonel was right. The doctor was beginning to let his guard down.
“It’s times like this I miss being at Hurst, surrounded by people I can trust.”
“I know how you feel. This is the longest I’ve been away from Porton in nearly ten years. Still, it’s not that bad. I rather thought we’d be safe here with all these soldiers to protect us.”
Hardy supported Zed to the end of the alleyway where he propped him against the lamp post. A hospital sign directed visitors to the radiotherapy department. “Thank you,” acknowledged Zed.
“Whatever for?”
“For coming along when you did.”
The sound of heavy boots echoed along the alleyway behind them. A flashlight shone in their faces. Two uniformed figures emerged from the darkness, weapons aimed at their chests. Zed and Hardy raised their arms in alarm.
“Identify yourselves?” barked one of the guards.
“Doctor Hardy,” he responded with authority, “this man has been attacked. Take him to the emergency room.”
“Really, I’m fine.” He coughed, wincing in pain.
“Still, you should get those ribs looked at.”
“Did you see which way they went?” asked the guard.
“No, but there were three of them.”
“We’ll need you to describe them.”
“Maybe later. Perhaps you can escort us to our destination?” suggested the doctor.
Zed remembered the satchel he threw onto the roof of the building. “Wait, I need to go back. My briefcase.”
“Come back for it in the morning. No one’ll find it.”
“I can’t just leave it there. Those documents are classified. If they fell into the wrong hands.”
Hardy noted the look of desperation. “I’ll do it,” he said, grabbing the flashlight. He doubled back and spent a couple of minutes moving a metal dustbin, clambering on top to search for the bag.
Zed felt unsteady on his feet again. He doubled over in a fit of coughing.
“I wouldn’t recommend using these shortcuts after dark, sir.”
Hardy reemerged from the shadows, clutching the satchel. “Here you go. Perhaps next time someone threatens you, just give them what they want, will you?”
“You’re going to need stitches,” said a uniformed paramedic, inspecting the wound. She unfolded a canvas surgical kit containing scalpels, scissors, gauze and needles and set about patching up Zed’s face, staunching the blood flow from the cut above his eyebrow where he must have hit his head on the concrete. The skin was split, exposing tissue beneath.
The paramedic made him take off his shirt to swab two other cuts and bruises with some antiseptic.
“Come back in the morning and we’ll x-ray those ribs, check nothing’s broken.”
“Thank you,” said Zed, wincing as she wrapped a bandage round his chest.
“Radiology opens at nine, next door to A&E.”
Doctor Hardy waited in the corridor, watching Zed put his shirt on through the open doorway. Zed turned his back, feeling suddenly self-conscious.
“Any idea who they were?”
“They were after the briefcase.”
“Or they were trying to frighten you? Maybe teach you a lesson. If I hadn’t happened along when I did, who knows what they would have done to you.”
Zed considered the timing of Hardy’s intervention. It was a common enough shortcut. He wondered how long the briefcase had been out of his sight. Hardy had been alone with the documents for a couple of minutes. Long enough to scan the folder, remove something perhaps. As soon as he got the chance, he would check everything was where it should be.
Chapter 10
Terra took another swig from the water bottle, puffing from the morning’s exertion. The sun had crept above the tree line sending shafts of light dancing all around them, reflecting off the wet leaves carpeting the forest floor. Glistening water droplets were everywhere she looked. Her knee-length leather walking boots were already soaked, her socks rubbing painfully at the heel.
She remained a respectful distance behind Briggs, Connor and their guide, a local man named Terry. Their hunting party walked in silence, deeper and deeper into the dense woodland, some two miles from where they parked the cars just north of Brockenhurst. Planting her feet in muddy foot holes, Terra tried her hardest to make as little noise as possible.
Zed’s estranged son, Connor, had been so excited about his first trip out with the men. He had spent the last few days practising at every available opportunity with his .22 air rifle in the target range at Walhampton School. Terra watched him with a mother’s pride, knocking down one tin can after another. She had to admit, Briggs was right. Looking after the ten-year-old boy, rescued from the death camps, gave her a renewed purpose, a role absent for so long in her life. She had never believed she had a single maternal bone in her body and yet she felt so protective about Connor, catalysed by Briggs’s unconventional approach to education, promoting life experience above time spent in any classroom. Having someone else to care for was rapidly becoming a full-time job. Perhaps she was broody after all.
Two hundred metres to their right she could just make out Copper and Victor on a parallel path, half hidden in the undergrowth. Each man carried a hunting rifle, alert to any opportunity to kill. Whilst the others blended into their surroundings, Victor looked plainly ridiculous in a short-billed hunting cap, red flaps draped over his ears. The collar of his camouflaged jacket zipped up under his chin.
Her momentary loss of focus caused a twig to snap underfoot. Briggs span around, eyes flashing. She tilted her head, mouthing an apology. She waited a moment as the others moved off, scanning the trees around her.
The local guide Briggs addressed as ‘ghillie’ took the lead, walking a few paces in front, his greying hair slicked back at the temple. He wore a distinctive Barbour jacket, olive green with brown elbow patches. Tiny holes and scuffs from a lifetime surrounded by brambles and thorns riddled its sleeves and back.
Without warning, the guide’s hand shot up. Terra paused mid-step, fighting for balance, wondering what he might have seen. Something large. Perhaps a deer. He sank into a kneeling position, taking the hunting rifle from his shoulder, cradling the weapon in his lap, instructing the others to keep as low as possible, out of sight, all except Connor who crept forward.
The ghillie pointed across a small stream towards a hawthorn bush where the lowest branches of three ancient oaks extended like a giant’s arms. Terra struggled to identify the target, until a slight movement betrayed the creature. She studied the fallow deer through Zeiss binoculars. A young female, speckled brown and white with an elegant neck and intelligent eyes.
The
ghillie handed Connor the rifle, resting the barrel against a fallen branch. The boy’s hand trembled against the stock, his breaths settling into a rhythm, as instructed. He flicked off the safety and slowly let out his breath.
The deer’s head came up as if sensing danger, ears twitching, angling towards a distant sound, sniffing at the breeze as it chewed on a mouthful of grass, unaware of their presence.
The shot punctured the silence. Terra lost sight of the deer. The ghillie rose to his feet, lowering the binoculars.
“Good shot, Master Connor,” he congratulated in a local burr. “A hit to the chest.”
Connor handed back the rifle and clenched his fist in triumph. Briggs strode up and ruffled the boy’s hair with fatherly pride. “See? I said you were a natural.”
Terra caught up with them just in time to see the deer’s final moments. Despite the trauma to the rib cage and catastrophic blood loss, the doe was still alive. Its back legs fought for leverage but did nothing more than smear blood around in a small circle in the dirt before collapsing again. The ghillie reloaded the rifle, poised for the kill shot, but Briggs intervened. “Let the boy do it,” he said, drawing the blade of a long-handled hunting knife from its scabbard.
“Briggs, he’s just a boy,” challenged Terra. She had always hated seeing animals suffer.
“The sooner he learns the better,” he insisted. “By the time I was his age, I’d killed dozens of rabbits.” Briggs encouraged Connor forward with a gentle nudge.
The boy stood over the wounded animal. He shook his head, letting the blade drop from his hand and bury its point in the soft earth. He buried his head in Terra’s bosom, enveloped by her protective embrace. Briggs retrieved the knife and grabbed the deer’s head in both hands.
The doe struggled against his grip, eyes wide in terror. He stroked the animal’s cheek, whispering as his other hand slid the blade beneath its throat. With a sharp movement, he sliced through the windpipe, holding tight as the deer fought to free itself, spraying a fine red mist until Briggs’ face was slick with blood. When the doe finally lay still, Briggs levered himself upright, wiping blood with a handkerchief from a trouser pocket. Only the whites of his eyes were visible.
“You see, Connor? Anyone can kill an animal with a gun. It takes guts to get up close.”
He reached out and tried to wipe blood on Terra’s face but she recoiled in mock horror. Inside, her heart was racing. There was something primaeval about Briggs that excited her, here in this ancient forest, witness to generations of hunting.
“When they know it’s their last breath, that’s when you feel true power. When you watch their eyes go cold.” Briggs grinned, grabbing hold of the boy and daubing his cheeks with blood from the kill. Connor flinched but Briggs held his arm tight, forcing him to look down on his prey.
“It’s the same when you take a man’s life. They’ll promise you anything, beg you to let them live. That’s when you find out who someone really is.”
“Briggs, please,” begged Terra, noticing the boy’s discomfort.
“He’s a man now.” The boy grinned sheepishly as Briggs ruffled his hair. “You like venison, Connor? When we get back, I’ll show you how to skin and gut her,” he said, turning the animal’s head and exposing its teeth in a garish grin. Connor nodded, finally mastering his emotions, wiping tears from his eyes. His fingers came away slick with blood.
Briggs turned to one of the men standing nearby. “John, take the boy back to the car, can you? Terra, now it’s your turn. We can’t let Connor get all the glory.”
The ghillie hitched his rifle over a shoulder and called forward two men to carry the carcass. Another remained on guard, scanning the trees around them for any threat. Terra waited until the others were out of earshot.
“He’s so lucky to have a role model like you,” she doted, as they continued on into the forest. “Did you never want kids?”
“My lifestyle wasn’t exactly conducive to fatherhood.” Terra assumed he meant being locked up in Parkhurst Prison for all those years.
“Still, everyone wants a son and heir.”
“Not me. I always wanted a girl.”
“Why?”
“Because girls get all the advantages. Do better at school, get better jobs.”
Terra didn’t take the bait, recognising Briggs’s blatant attempt to provoke her. It was a familiar refrain.
“Look at beta boys like Connor. They barely know what’s expected of them. Boys can’t win any more.”
Terra had learned the hard way that contradicting Briggs normally resulted in a slap or a punch. Bite her tongue or face the consequences. “I wonder what Nana would have said.” Nana was the term of affection he used for his grandmother. “She grew up after the war. Back when women didn’t have rights, couldn’t vote, own property, couldn’t even get an education. Still it didn’t stop her.”
“I suppose she would have been thrilled at how far women have come,” ventured Terra. “Women astronauts, serving on the front line, running marathons.”
“How would you know what she thought?” he snarled, spinning around to face her. “And in all that time, you know what’s changed for boys?” He paused, as if half-expecting Terra to answer. “Nothing.”
Briggs spat something on the ground and looked up at the swaying trees above their heads.
“I suppose it depends how you see things,” added Terra.
He shot her a filthy glance. “Parkhurst was full of them. Lads from broken homes. Absent fathers. Broken promises. Drug users, gang members, alcoholics, serial offenders. Boys who felt forgotten or left behind. Boys like Connor deserve a better start in life.”
“Why are you so fixated with that boy? We could start our own family, Briggs,” whispered Terra, stroking his cheek.
He pushed her hand away. “And have you getting all fat?” he replied without humour. He reconsidered her question. “First time I saw that boy, I knew. He reminded me of me. Just needs someone to teach him about the real world. How to find his place, not spend his life apologising.”
“What’s Connor’s father going to say when he finds out?”
“No one’s forcing him to stay. Anyway no one’s going to tell his dad, are they?”
“Zed will find out, eventually.”
“Not if we change the boy’s name.”
“Why does what you want always come at the expense of someone else?”
“Because someone always has to lose.”
There was a loud snap to their right. Briggs pushed Terra behind a tree, diving to his right into the undergrowth, scanning in the direction of the sound. He swung the rifle around and brought the telescopic sight to bear. Terra dropped to her knees, peering around the base of the trunk, following the line of sight out towards where the footpath divided. Two dark shapes were just visible through the undergrowth, the barrel of a weapon pointed in their direction. For one horrifying second, her heart skipped a beat, expecting the shot.
Victor rose tentatively to his feet, his hand raised high, the other gripped his rifle. Copper stood up next to him, head tilted, a broadening smile. Briggs hadn’t moved and kept his gun trained on Copper.
“Briggs,” whispered Terra. He ignored her, switching his aim to Victor, making a point. Victor swallowed nervously, inching behind Copper’s shoulder. Finally, Briggs lowered his barrel and hitched the rifle over the shoulder, striding towards the pair.
“You shouldn’t sneak up on people.”
There was an awkward silence between them, broken by Terra. “Connor shot a deer. A young female,” she said brightly.
“We know. We heard the shot. Frightened away the one we were tracking.”
“I told you to keep your distance,” rebuked Briggs.
“First kill, eh? I still remember mine,” boasted Victor.
“You wouldn’t know the right end of a rifle if it hit you on the head,” laughed Briggs as he set off deeper into the forest.
Chapter 11
Riley was
fast asleep in her small partitioned room on the first floor of the Tudor castle keep. Ever since Will resealed the windows, the noise had abated from the swirling winds that funnelled between the battlements and the thick walls of the twelve-sided tower. What finally woke her was an urgent banging on the door. She pulled back the blankets and levered herself up on one elbow. Sam squinted into the semi-darkness.
“What time it?”
“Six thirty. Carter needs you for something.” His tone was playful, as if he suspected there was some secret romance between them.
“This better be good. Don’t they ever sleep up at the Battery?” She shook her head and wiped sleep from her eyes. Sam handed her the walkie talkie and left her in peace. “Go ahead, Carter.” She yawned into her sleeve.
“Sorry, did I wake you?”
“What do you think? We’re civilians over here, remember.”
“I forgot. I have the men up at 05:30. Quick swim around the buoy before breakfast. Character building stuff. Best start to the day money can buy.”
“You’re preaching to the converted. We swim in Hawker’s Lake at high tide most days. In the estuary behind the spit. Stunning first thing in the morning.”
“Now I’m sorry I never got a chance to join you. See what life’s like on the other side.” His words had a colourful, dreamy quality she didn’t recognise. “Can’t deny I’ll miss the morning swims in Freshwater Bay.”
“Why? Are you going somewhere?”
“My orders came through. We’re pulling out soon. Half the men are being recalled to St Mary’s. The rest are coming with me to Fawley Refinery, to protect the fuel depot.”
“How come?”
“We’ve done our three month rotation. There’s an engineering team arriving here later today. Apparently, they’re planning to renovate the place, modernise the defences, extend the accommodation for fifty more men. Why they want to invest so much time and energy here at the arse end of nowhere, protecting the Solent from non-existent threats, I have no idea.”
“There are worse places to get stuck. The Battery’s not so bad. Best views on the island.”
The Hurst Chronicles | Book 4 | Harbinger Page 7