Lindisfarne (Project Renova Book 2)

by Terry Tyler

  Marcus looks as though he's going to have a heart attack. "I'm sorry, I absolutely cannot allow that."

  "Jax, sit down. Now." No way is my son going to be the cause of us being turned down. Marcus and quarantine apart, we need this. "If Marcus says no, you'll respect that. We're the newcomers, remember?"

  He mumbles, "Sorry," and sits down.

  "What about this biker gang?" Kara asks.

  The pink cheeks turn the colour of beetroot juice; I don't think it's just because he has his back to the wood burner. "They arrived just before us."

  "So, what, are you friendly?"

  Despite the welcome, he doesn't seem comfortable about answering many of our questions. "They live as they wish, in the Monks Head hotel. I met with their leader when we first came here, and we agreed on boundaries. Basically, they have the priory side of the island, and we have the castle." He chuckles. "And never the twain shall meet!"

  Rowan frowns. "And they received the vaccine? They can't all be immune, surely?"

  Marcus wrinkles his nose in disapproval. "I believe they 'acquired' what they needed from a unit in Newcastle." Yes, he puts inverted commas around the word 'acquired' with his fingers.

  "I think we should give this a go," Vicky says, out of the blue. I smile at her, and take her hand; we weren't going to advertise our relationship until we settled in, but what the hell?

  "Me too." As long as she's happy, so am I.

  Phil cuts to the chase. "Can you tell us a bit more about how the community works? The rules? None of us are afraid of hard work, and we understand the benefits of belonging to a larger group, but—"

  "We haven't come through all this to kowtow to rules for rules' sake, all over again," Ozzy finishes. "I mean, even before the deadly bats, I marched to the beat of my own drum, you know?"

  Got it in one, Oz.

  Marcus chortles. "I completely understand. We have no rules apart from treating your fellow man as you wish to be treated." He taps his nose. "Not always as easy as it sounds! We keep all supplies at the St Aidan, which you passed on your way here, though we do need someone to streamline this; it's a trifle haphazard that the moment."

  "I can do that," Rowan says. "Domestic organisation is my forte." She smiles at Vicky. "Vicky and I make a good team, don't we, V?"

  Marcus claps. "Excellent, excellent! We try to utilise the individual's talents; we have a rota for lookouts, for supply runs on the mainland, for wood collection, and I'm currently recruiting for the agricultural detail. Fishing, too, eventually. Bearing in mind that seven of our number are minors, you can see that we do actually need an injection of capable manpower."

  We talk more, firing questions at him, and I observe. We're going to stay, though back in the old world I'd have crossed the road to avoid someone like Marcus, and I imagine most of us feel the same. I don't trust him. This place can't be as smooth-running as he makes out, it just can't be. Life is hard, and I don't believe that forty-odd assorted people have come together to live in perfect harmony. Some of them will have suffered terrible losses, will be depressed, or unable to cope with how things are now. But I agree, nod and smile, because that's what I do.

  Vicky's quiet, and I know why. The idea to come here came from Dex the Ex, who abandoned her to live with his pregnant bit-on-the-side. From what I've heard of this Dex, I can't imagine him tugging his forelock to some slimy orienteering greaseball, but Vicky needs to know. She won't ask, because she's scared of the answer.

  I'm not.

  I wait until Marcus stops to draw breath after the next part of his pitch, an effusive account about the success of the kids' education programme.

  "Marcus, there are some friends we lost touch with when the phones went off—"

  "Don't we all have those, eh?"

  "Yes, but these three—we think they might be here. There's, er, Dex Northam, and a woman called Naomi, another man called Jeff—"

  He claps his hands and grins his cheesy grin. "My goodness me, what a small world this has become! No one called Jeff here, I'm afraid, but Dex and Naomi—indeed, we have two residents answering to those very monikers, living down by the harbour. Charming couple! Did you know she's pregnant? Such a brave lady, to give life to a child who will know only this new world. I can send someone to fetch Dex right now, if you like."

  "No!" Kara puts her hand out; he looks alarmed. "We'll settle in first—go down and surprise them later."

  I daren't look at Vicky. I can only imagine how she must feel; for months she convinced herself that Dex was somehow unable to reach her, but then she found out the truth: he'd left her to be with this Naomi. Bloody awful.

  But good for me.

  I felt a spark with her straight away, and over time it became more than just fancying her, but I held back, not only because she was holding a torch for the man that everyone else knew was long gone, but because of our living situation.

  You can't start a 'thing' with someone in a shared house until you're sure.

  I've made that mistake before. After Jax's mother died and he was with his grandmother for a couple of years while I sorted myself out, I lived with a bunch of friends, in London, and I had a fancy for one of the girls. Chrissie. We had a few weeks together, nothing serious, and it ran its course, for me. Trouble was that it didn't for her. She'd get drunk and appear naked at my bedroom door in the middle of the night, then she made out like I was the biggest bastard who ever lived, just because I didn't want to sleep with her any more. In the end, the girls of the house ganged up and asked me to leave. It was a shame; I liked it there. I learned by my mistake. Even if the spectre of Dex hadn't been looming from the bedroom ceiling, I wouldn't have gone further than flirtation with Vicky just in case I changed my mind. Or in case she did. But then it all came together: my feelings for her stepped up a notch, she found out about Dex's imminent fatherhood, and we decided to come here, to this island.

  If it goes wrong, Lindisfarne is big enough for us to go our separate ways. I don't think it will, though. I've got a great feeling about us. I haven't felt like this about anyone in years.

  Marcus goes off to give us time to talk, and we decide within five minutes that we're staying.

  We couldn't have carried on living in that house, in a little bubble with no contact with the outside world and a finite amount of supplies. But it's going to be hard adjusting to a new situation. I just wish I didn't have to go into this stupid quarantine.

  Day Three in Bat Shit Villa. That's Jax's name for it. It's a holiday bungalow on the road as you come into the village. Before the virus I'm sure it was great, but in January, post civilisation collapse, it's grim. The island is beautiful, but in the house it's the same old, same old. It's freezing, I'm bored, and in the evenings I drink too much so I can cope with several hours of wall-to-wall Ozzy. He's a good bloke, I consider him a mate, but he doesn't half spout some rubbish; in the other house, with nine of us, the effect was diluted. We three go for long walks round the sand dune side of the island, then go back to an open fire, warmed up tinned food and our Scrabble tournament. Ozzy makes up words, which irritates the hell out of me, and then I get irritated with myself; how pathetic to be annoyed by something like that, when we're lucky to be alive. Hey, it's only five days, and at least we all like the same music. Ozzy wants us to sneak out to Bikerville at night to see if we can get some weed, but I don't want to do anything that might get us chucked off. Yet.

  Marcus says there are about ten members of the Hadrian Motorcycle Club. It's clear that his warning about boundaries and 'never the twain shall meet' is because he's scared shitless of them, but I've a feeling Ozzy will soon get the two bands integrating.

  I miss Vicky. Painfully so. They're moving into these two houses with a view of the castle—I'm in one with Jax, Oz and Scott—and Vick said the next five days would be long ones. We kissed in front of everyone when I left. Then more when I pulled her out of their view, which only served to double my current frustration. But it's not just that. She's one
of that tiny handful of women I actually want to be with, as opposed to those you're glad to say goodbye to in the morning. Too many since Sarah died. Jax's mum. A few while she was alive, too, but I'm trying to come to terms with that. I'll know I have when I'm ready to stop taking the happy pills, but that's not happening yet. Before we came here I scavenged enough to last me two years or so: no, I'm not ready. I tried, back in Eyam, but the demons got too bad.

  I haven't talked to anyone about Sarah. I tell myself she'd have died anyway; the chances of us both being naturally immune are microscopic.

  Vicky admires how willingly I embrace the new world, but much of my enthusiasm is simply because you get to leave your baggage behind. I don't talk about Sarah because the whole point of leaving baggage behind is just that. Vicky's is Dex, though she's not quite able to see him as history, yet. I will help her. We never got the chance to talk about him being here before we were whisked off to Bat Shit Villa by some Marcus-alike chump called Richard, but it's only another two days. I wonder if she's seen him yet. Although the inhabited part of the island is all within walking distance, it would still be possible not to see someone from one week to the next.

  I want to help her deal with it. I want to make her so happy she won't care about some bozo who didn't appreciate her.

  I'm ready to be in love again. I love that bit when you've coasted the hump of doubt, and you know you both feel the same. Best feeling in the world.

  Still Day Three. Jax and I are walking back over the dunes, mid-afternoon, when we hear the familiar vroom of a bike, a sound that always lifts my spirits. John told me that when the bikers travel off the island, they sound their horns as they cross the causeway on the way back, so whoever is on watch can shift a car to let them through, sharpish. I get the impression that the entire community is more than a little wary of them.

  Today, I stand and watch; whoever is approaching fails to announce their return.

  "D'you think it's a stranger?" my son asks.

  I see John move forward.

  "Maybe." I pick up the pace, my eye fixed on the Harley as it nears the barrier (nice, a 2017 Fat Bob); it's slowed down to a stop, and the rider takes his helmet off. As I get closer, I can see why; he looks more menacing without it. "They might need some backup."

  "Cool." Jax hurries after me. We plod down the soggy dunes, but hang back; I don't want John to think I'm barging in.

  He looks nervous as he faces the rider. "Good afternoon! Can I ask what your business is?"

  The stranger gives the bike a rev. "None of yours. D'you want to shift them cars and let me through?" He glances over at me then looks away, disinterested.

  "Are you looking for a place to stay?" John asks. "Would you like to meet with Marcus, the head of our community?"

  "No. I'm waiting for you to shift them cars."

  "I'm afraid I can't do that, until you tell me your business here."

  "You don't own the fucking island, do you?"

  "No, but—"

  "Well, out the way, then."

  John glances from side to side. "We have women and children here. I'm aware we have no legal right to refuse, but we ask that visitors to our community respect our desire to keep them safe."

  "I don't care what fucking legal rights you have or haven't got."

  "I'm just asking you to respect—"

  "There's a bike club here, right?"

  The other two guards look shit scared; pair of pussies, they might as well be holding fishing rods instead of guns. I move up to stand beside John.

  "There is, yes," I say. "Is it them you want to see?"

  I have his attention. He has a shiny, bald head, a long, dark, pointed beard, tattoos on his neck, and the blackest eyes. His shoulders look like he's padded his leather out with breeze blocks.

  He stares at me for a while, then laughs, and jerks his head back towards the mainland. "You've taken the wrong turning, mate. Whitesnake fan club is back that way."

  Jax giggles.

  "Heath is a resident of this community," John says. "No one wants any trouble."

  "Aye, well, the longer you make me wait, the more likely I am to start some."

  "All we're asking is that you say who you've come to see," says John. "It's a perfectly reasonable request." Respect to him; he's standing his ground. He's clutching his gun with both hands, white-knuckled, like it's a lifeline.

  The new arrival gives a big sigh. "The Kaiser lives here, right?"

  The Kaiser? The hell sort of name is that?

  I sense John's relief. "Yes—why didn't you mention him straight away?" He points over to the far end of the island. "Are you a friend?"

  "Where is he?"

  "The Kaiser and his group are at the Monk's Head hotel or in the Pilgrim and Staff pub, by the church and priory. Follow the road signs, you can't miss it."

  He revs up the bike. "You've not seen me. You got that?"

  John looks mystified. "Eh?"

  "I said, you've not seen me."

  "No—no, sure, of course, that's fine, I won't breathe a word—"

  The other two useless idiots are already moving the vehicles; our new guest puts his helmet back on and roars off down the road without another word.

  We watch until he's out of sight, and then John says, "Sod it, I've just remembered."

  "What?"

  "Kaiser left the other day. Him and his girlfriend." He looks over at the useless idiots. "Paul, he told you where he was going, didn't he?"

  "What, left as in gone for good?" I can still hear the Harley.

  Paul comes over. "They've gone to Wales, to look for his sister. Bette told me. Said they might be gone a while."

  "Oh well." John shrugs. "Bit of luck, he'll find out and go away again."

  "So," I say, "tell me why's he called the Kaiser."

  The three of them laugh. "He wears a German helmet," says John. "Though whether he wears the helmet because he's called the Kaiser, or vice versa, I can't say."

  Well, that was the excitement for the afternoon. We take our leave and wander back to Bat Shit Villa, to take our pick of tinned ravioli or packet noodles for dinner, with a side of slightly stale crisps. It's getting old. As is not having enough to do, and sleeping alone in a freezing house.

  This world will seem like a different place once Vicky and I are together. I've waited, she's waited, it's time. I go to sleep thinking about being curled up around her in bed. And the rest. When Jax was out of the room tonight, Ozzy said, "Nice result with Vicky, bro'. Can't believe you're getting laid before me!"

  Not yet, but I will be. I so will be.

  Chapter Three

  Wedge

  He wears his crash helmet only because he doesn't want them to recognise him from far off, see him coming; it's good, these days, not having to wear one, though mostly he does anyway, because it's so damn cold.

  He finds the hotel and pub that the dickhead told him about. So tempting to zoom straight in and raise hell, but that would be a mistake. He needs to take his time. Feel the place out.

  In the old days he'd have discussed his battle strategy with his brothers, but the bastards left him behind.

  Welcome to Holy Island, the sign said.

  And here I am. Here the fuck I am.

  The late afternoon sun peeps out from behind a grey cloud, briefly, showing off the island in all its wintry beauty. Better than being in the city. He can see why Bette wanted to come here. The faithless, impatient bitch. Few people walking around. Averting their eyes. Stupid scared fucks. He'd like to give 'em something to worry about, but now isn't the time.

  He rides slowly, weighing up his surroundings. Castle high on a rock, boats on a shingle-covered beach, wooden jetty. The harbour, it says. Not much of one. The priory. He remembers now. Hasn't been here for years.

  Gotta keep his mind on the mission. Mustn't charge in like a daft shite, all guns blazing.

  Wedge jumps off his bike and wheels it into a shed down past the boats. Stinks of rotten fish, bu
t he can deal with that. Gotta keep his shit safe.

  He secures the door with a padlock, and walks on, up a slope towards the priory, through a gate and across a path through a waterlogged field. No one around. Sun's disappeared again. Yeah, yeah, that's where they all are. Candlelight through the windows. Bikes outside the hotel and pub. He counts; eight. Most of 'em are here, then. Must all think he died inside that fever-infested rat-hole of a prison.

  Not one of them bothered to find out. Not one of them.

  Fuck, he's cold. He walks across a square round the back of the pub, down a little lane, past a few poncey cottages with window boxes full of dead plants. Comes out onto a green, houses set at the edge, looking out to sea. No one around. Plenty of 'em going begging, by the looks of it. No need to sleep in them sheds, then. Seal Cottage. That'll do. Little wooden bench outside. Yeah, that's the one. Can't see it from the pub or the hotel.

  He walks back the way he came, leans against railings surrounding some memorial to dead guys, and surveys the back of the hotel and pub. Bette and Kaiser could be sitting in that pub right now. Fucking Kaiser. Real name Dave Hodgson. He can just picture what it's like inside. Fire going in the grate. Candles and lanterns, cosy as fuck. The albino bastard with his arm around his woman. Drinking all that free beer, rum and whisky, maybe having a game of pool, clarting about with his mates. His mates. Jez, Bill, Cleary, Parks and whoever else is with them. Mac and Ash. Mick, Zoot, Stu and Wyatt, most likely. His club.

  The back door of the pub opens and a figure lurches out, crashing into a stack of empty barrels waiting for a drayman who will never arrive. Wedge squints; fuck, his eyesight's not what it was. Twat standing there taking a piss against the wall looks all too familiar, though. Ha! Yeah, he'd know that greasy-haired shitbag anywhere. Fucking Cleary. So he's inside, cosying up with Hodgson, is he?

  "Oi! Cleary!"

  Little fuck actually bothers to shake before he tucks himself back in and turns round, peering about like a mole burrowing into the daylight, like he can't work out where the voice is coming from.