The Hurst Chronicles (Book 1): Hurst

by Robin Crumby

  “As you all know, theft is a very serious offence and one that must carry the most severe penalty. I want the whole place searched, the camp, the dormitories. Leave no stone unturned till these items are found and the culprit apprehended.”

  “Can I ask why I was not consulted first, Terra?” asked Liz indignantly. “Last time I checked the kitchen and stores were my responsibility.”

  “I have my reasons,” countered Terra. “This isn’t the first time food has gone missing is it?”

  Liz blushed, her eyes narrowed at this veiled slur, but she knew better than to take the bait, taking a moment to compose herself. “And what do you intend to do with them when you find them, Terra?” asked Liz.

  Terra considered the question for a second. She glanced quizzically at Nathan, who confirmed with a nod and answered: “The rules are clear. The punishment for theft is banishment. There can be no excuse.”

  Liz looked back at Greta and then Nathan. “I agree, but Terra, banishment means almost certain death for the perpetrator. Should the council not be granted the opportunity to vote on the appropriate action to take once the party responsible is discovered?” Terra stared back unfazed by this challenge to her authority. With her head tilted to one side waiting for a response, Liz reminded Terra momentarily of her old Labrador Bella. How she missed Bella. She had been with the vet for an overnight stay when Terra got caught up in the mass exodus from the cities coming back from a visit to Basingstoke. She spent three hours stuck in a line of traffic that crawled to a halt and then never moved again. Forced to abandon her Fiat 500, she walked the remaining five miles back into town. She wondered what had become of Bella. Maybe she was still at the vet’s, in the same kennel, scratching at the door, whining to be let out. Best not to think about it, lock it away with all the other unpleasant memories from that time.

  Liz went on undeterred by Terra’s vacant expression. “There is a precedent after all.”

  All eyes turned to Liz waiting for her to continue. “Remember when Robbie refused to surrender his weapon? You know, the guy from Bournemouth who hit Tommy with the piece of driftwood, needed nine stitches. What did Jack do? He didn’t banish him, he put Robbie in the cooler for three days, calmed him down, taught him a lesson good and proper, he did. It was all handled with a handshake and an apology. So why do you think theft warrants banishment Terra?”

  Nathan cleared his throat and spoke up. “It’s the code, that’s why. The code exists for this very purpose. It is written. It is known and public. All those who choose to stay within these walls and accept the sanctuary and security this community offers, agree to abide by the code. There can be no order without the code. Abiding by the code is the price people must pay to live within these walls. Surely you must understand that?”

  A man with wavy auburn hair roared with laughter and banged his coffee mug on the table three times with some theatricality. All heads turned towards him, waiting for him to give his opinion. Cedric, or Scottie as he was affectionately known, ran a hand through a mane of wiry locks and stared back at them each in turn. After a life on the stage, he was a consummate performer, intent of grabbing the limelight. He had been silent to this point, studying the others and listening absent-mindedly with a smile spreading across his face. He shook his head. “Your petty bureaucracy is laughable. People out there are dying by the hundreds of thousands. Law and order have failed. Gangs roam the towns raping and murdering while we sit here arguing about some stolen biscuits. Don’t talk to me about rules.”

  He was an educated Scot with a soft lilting accent from Edinburgh or thereabouts. A trained thespian, he had cut his teeth in Scotland’s smallest and pokiest theatres, treading the boards to a handful of spectators before getting his big break, signed to play Macduff in a Royal Shakespeare Company production of Macbeth in a nationwide tour that finished in Southampton. He fell madly in love with a local girl who worked in the foyer at the Mayflower Theatre and never left.

  “Scottie,” interrupted Terra, “we have survived this far because of the code. Without law, there is chaos. The code is what binds us together. Without it there is anarchy. Is that what you prefer?”

  “Of course not Terra. But we are a civilized society, are we not? Context must be considered before sentence is passed. Should the matter not come before the council when all the facts known? Whoever said that the code was absolute? It should be a guide, to be interpreted, with flexibility if needed. If extenuating circumstances exist, then some degree of leniency is called for. Do you not agree?”

  “Punishment is due. We must make an example of whoever person or persons did this. The council demands it.” Nathan’s intransigence provoked another melodramatic outburst from Scottie, throwing his hands up in despair. He pushed his chair back, sliding a few centimetres across the stone floor and stood up. He began pacing the room in frustration, clicking his fingers and smoothing back the tangled hair at his temples.

  “This will not play well with the people Terra. Justice must be seen to be done. I put it to the vote that once the culprit is discovered, a court is assembled and a fair verdict reached by a jury of peers and equals.”

  Terra considered the request, glanced at Nathan and the others sitting round the table. “Very well. Those in favour of a trial put your hands up?” Three hands went up swiftly followed by Scottie’s own hand standing behind them. Terra counted them silently just to be one hundred per cent certain, mouthing the numbers. “Motioned carried.” She shrugged. “So be it. Greta? Let’s find the individual or individuals responsible and quickly please.”

  Chapter Sixteen

  Simon walked back to the jetty to get the last of the cardboard boxes stacked on the roof of the boat’s small cabin. Keeping one trainer planted on the wide wooden slats of the pontoon, he raised his leg awkwardly as if he were practicing tai chi, but without the grace or balance, tottering ungainly as he straddled the guardrail. The boat lurched towards him with the addition of his weight and he was catapulted forward making a grab for the box.

  Toby stood silently with his back to his father, hands thrust deep in the pockets of his blue shorts. He was watching red mullet swim lazily around the polystyrene float of the jetty. The mullet sucked greedily at the seaweed that clung to the boat’s rudder. The brass propeller glinted invitingly reflecting the beams of sunlight that danced in the flowing tide, a few feet below the surface. Lady Lucy III was stencilled in large green letters on the stern of the thirty-two foot Contessa yacht, her home port of ‘Falmouth’ written underneath in italics. Chipped and weather-worn there was also an incongruous graphic of a bath-time duck, barely recognizable, faded as it was by sun and seawater, smiling bashfully waddling through a cartoon puddle.

  The main halyard that stretched from the top of the mast tapped out a light rhythm in the morning breeze. Small waves lapped against Lady Lucy’s hull, sending ripples radiating outwards. Toby watched as a long tail of seaweed tethered to the jetty float swam back and forth in the tidal flow. From the engine outlet, a thin slick of oil spawned multi-coloured shapes and patterns on the surface of the water. A large bubble span, skating against the tide in the breeze.

  Simon heaved the box containing the last of their tinned food, rice and pasta over the guardrail. Stepping back down on to the jetty, Lady Lucy rolled back into equilibrium behind him, its fenders and warps groaning their farewell. “Come on Toby,” he called over his shoulder. Toby lifted his head, looked out across the salt marshes towards Keyhaven, kicked a small pebble into the water and ran after his Dad. He fell into step, part supporting the weight of the box. Toby looked up wide-eyed, searching out his father’s smile.

  They walked over a small wooden slatted bridge that spanned what would have been the original moat of the castle, now bone dry and no more than a grassy ditch. Above the rounded arch gateway was a large royal crest painted red with the monarch’s coat of arms and V.R. 1873 in gold letters underneath. Toby paused to wonder what the initials stood for before skipping after his fat
her. An old fashioned lantern in black gunmetal swung over the entrance. Toby tiptoed precariously along the narrow gauge railway tracks that ran straight through the tunnel and into the courtyard beyond. They passed the guardhouse on the right hand side. The guardhouse had been converted into a gift shop where visitors to Hurst had bought their entrance tickets, when the castle had been a tourist attraction. Many came seeking out what remained of one of Henry VIII’s original castles before being extended and fortified under successive generations.

  Tommy was waiting for them just inside and waved them over. He helpfully took the box from Simon and wedging the loose tins under his chin, asked them both to follow him. They took the last of the supplies from Lady Lucy through to the storeroom where Liz and one of her team examined each item and noted them in their inventory. Once written down, they sorted the tins and pasta onto one of the long trestle tables that was stacked high with supplies.

  “Horse chestnuts?” said Tommy picking up one of the more exotic looking tins and reading the English translation on what looked like a Thai label. “Been a while since we had foreign food eh Liz? Can’t say I’m a fan, always gives me the runs.”

  “Don’t listen to him,” said Liz snatching the tin from Tommy and nudging him out the way with her shoulder. “What would you know eh? No taste, you lot. You wouldn’t know haute cuisine if it bit you on the nose.”

  “Give me a nice piece of haddock any day of the week. A whole ocean of fish right on our doorstep. But we eat what we’re given, ain’t that right Liz?”

  “Just you remember it,” she responded defiantly, wagging her finger and turning over the next tin in her short stubby fingers. “Baby carrots,” she called out to Heather, one of the teenagers who helped her in the kitchen, who stood pen poised over the inventoried list.

  Simon and Toby watched this exchange in mild amusement, looking round the makeshift kitchen. It was basic but functional. During the war, Hurst had been manned by a small garrison responsible for keeping watch over the western entrance to the Solent. They had guarded against attacks by German U-boats or fast moving motor torpedo launches. There remained a reasonable level of comfort with washrooms, toilets, and a theatre where the soldiers used to put on performances.

  “Come on, I’ll show you the rest.” He waved Simon and Toby towards the door.

  Liz called out after them: “Thanks for the Thai goodies. I’ll have a think what I can make with chestnuts. Perhaps we’ll have a curry then tonight, Heather.”

  Tommy groaned and walked away before Liz could swipe at him with her apron. He gave them a guided tour of Hurst, pointing out where everything was. The canteen, the library, and the small shared room where they could sleep tonight. He introduced them to various people as they went.

  They stopped at the theatre and Tommy explained all about their resident thespian, affecting a Scottish accent with a pronounced lisp. Scottie had wasted no time in scheduling a number of one-man shows. His performances ranged from recitals of Shakespearean soliloquies, sonnets and other longer passages he performed from memory. He was somewhat of a Hurst treasure, greeted with a mixture of mild amusement from the young and muted rapture from the more senior members of the group. Although Tommy thought he was a bit of a nob. He was a bit too effeminate for his liking, the butt of many a joke, but no one liked a laugh as much as Scottie. He had a thick skin and shrugged off Tommy’s crude attempts to provoke him.

  “They’re just auditioning for parts in Treasure Island if you’re interested in having a go. You’d make a great Jim Hawkins, Toby. I want to be a pirate but they won’t let me have a speaking part.”

  Simon ruffled Toby’s hair who looked suitably embarrassed at the unwanted attention.

  “Of course, the script is a little improvised as he’s adapted it from the original book. Riley found him a copy. You should have seen the look in his eyes when he was presented with this dusty old book. Clutched it to his chest like it was treasure itself. To think a book could have that kind of effect on a grown man,” mocked Tommy, shaking his head.

  They continued the tour of the rest of the castle before arriving at their sleeping quarters.

  “Right here we are.” He gestured towards two mattresses that lay in the corner on the floor. The mattresses looked a bit tired, moth-eaten and torn, but they would be dry and safe. They would sleep well tonight, Simon was sure of it, stroking Toby’s hair. Tommy clapped his hands and made his excuses to leave before remembering something. “Oh, I’ll help you bring the rest of your gear in from the boat and then we can put her on the river mooring for tonight. Looks like there’s a storm coming,” he said peering out of the window at a large dark cloud heading their way.

  “Thanks Tommy. Really appreciate it. We’re going to be very happy here, aren’t we Toby?” Toby smiled weakly at Tommy, but didn’t look too convinced.

  Chapter Seventeen

  As the council members shuffled out of the room, still deep in conversation, Terra rested her hand lightly on Nathan’s shoulder standing behind him as he finished up the notes from the meeting. She sat down opposite him and sighed, exhaling forcefully enough that he looked up eyebrows raised, but she invited him to finish. The room was silent other than the sound of the ink pen scratching on the yellow pad and Nathan’s shallow, efficient breaths as he concentrated on the task at hand. Terra noticed his tongue peeping out furtively between his lips. She was troubled by the question of the missing food and curious about Liz’s reaction. She didn’t trust her, but it seemed unlikely that she was implicated in any way. Sloppy and careless maybe, but she wasn’t dishonest. It took a liar to spot another. Liz didn’t have the brains or the imagination for it. She wasn’t a match for Terra. Riley on the other hand and that Zed. She didn’t trust them as far as she could throw them, but she had someone watching them and reporting back, though they had no clue.

  Outside, the early evening rain had eased and grey clouds were being chased away, replaced by clearer skies and the faint streak of a rainbow in the dying light of the setting sun.

  He collected the papers and headed downstairs, pulling the heavy oak door closed behind them with a metallic clank as the locking mechanism engaged. They slowly descended the uneven stone steps, treading carefully to avoid where deep grooves and marks worn over hundreds of years, where heavy objects had been dragged down to the courtyard below. Two children raced up the stairs past them, the first nearly knocked Nathan over. The second one feinted left then right before squirming past, head down. Nathan grabbed the lopsided pile of papers before they could slip from his grasp. Terra stopped and watched the children go with a wry smile on her face, shaking her head.

  They froze suddenly mid-step and both looked up at the sky.

  Echoing off the walls came a familiar rhythmic hum that made both of them stare at each other. It was a sound they had not heard for many months. A helicopter. But that seemed totally incongruous, implausible even after all this time. It couldn’t be.

  They hurried outside to the courtyard and stared up in to the sky. Looking in every direction, they tried to place the sound that echoed off the old brickwork and stone.

  The metallic throbbing grew louder and louder as the black shape of a helicopter hove into view. Terra got a fleeting glimpse only as it swept over the castle and banked round making several passes, perhaps scanning for movement and a place to land below.

  Dozens of people dropped whatever they were doing and headed out of the main gate, some still holding tools and whatever they had been doing. In a few short seconds, the whole of Hurst had emptied out on to the flat grassy area outside the main walls and stood staring up into the dying light. A young girl was pointing up in to the evening sky, following the movement of the helicopter with her finger. Its red navigation lights started blinking on and off as it circled the castle at about one hundred feet.

  Terra didn’t recognise the make of helicopter at first. It was long and angular, stealthy and graceful at the same time. Bit like a Lynx. But definitely n
ot like the more portly Sea Kings she had grown used to seeing on rare occasions shuttling in and out of the Royal Navy base at Portsmouth. It was shark like, powerful and menacing. She had never seen one like this in real life, but had watched enough war movies and the like to know that this must be a Blackhawk or something very similar, which meant only one thing: it had to be American.

  Nathan shouted something at Terra, but she didn’t catch it cupping her hand to her ear. He paced over and shouted directly into her ear: “We shouldn’t take any chances. Break out the weapons, I want everyone armed just in case.”