The Hurst Chronicles (Book 1): Hurst

by Robin Crumby

  Jack signed off and looked back towards the island. Dark clouds were blowing in from the southwest. He could see light rain falling underneath. The dull ache in his shoulder intensified as the painkillers began to wear off. His heart sank as he remembered the loss of Terra. It was as if he’d locked that memory away and stumbled across it again unexpectedly. Sam was right. She was a resourceful woman. She would do whatever it took to stay alive. He had to believe that and trust to luck.

  Chapter fifty-six

  Terra woke after a restless night and immediately felt a shooting pain down her side from sleeping on a hard bed in the cold, damp room. It took a few moments to get her bearings as memories from the last few days came slowly back into focus. The trip to Osborne House, the dinner, Peterson and Armstrong’s speech, the sense of renewed hope for the future. Then Briggs had taken that all away. Kidnapped, imprisoned, forsaken. Alone again. She was a survivor though, wasn’t she? She’d survived worse than this.

  Her surroundings were relatively spartan, bare stone walls cold to the touch. A simple chair and table nestled under a bare timber-framed window, which looked down over the ruins of a castle. In the foreground were a small chapel and courtyard, ornamental gardens and high stone walls covered in moss and lichen.

  She had been brought here under cover of darkness, hooded for most of the journey, disoriented. She was unsure where exactly on the island she was. Her best guess was that this was Carisbrooke Castle as she could think of no other site of this scale or grandeur. It also fitted the bill based on what she knew of Briggs and his men. They had been incarcerated in Parkhurst prison, no more than a couple of miles away.

  She stretched out her arms, ran through a few warm-up exercises and yoga positions to stimulate her circulation and stop the shivering. It took a few painful minutes to eliminate the stiffness she felt in her lower back and arms. Staring out the window, a light drizzle flecked the windows from rain clouds blowing in from the sea.

  She heard footsteps in the corridor and the rattle of keys as the door swung inwards and one of Briggs’s most trusted men stood waiting to take her downstairs for another audience with the man himself. Her escort was a curious looking individual. The facial tattoos that decorated one side of his head reminded her of a Maori warrior. His beard and sideburns were in need of a good trim, with only a small tuft of hair at the scalp. The rest of his head was shaved smooth. Nevertheless, despite his radical appearance, he seemed cordial enough.

  Terra had been pleasantly surprised by Briggs’s behaviour towards her so far. He had been kind and attentive, asking her repeatedly what she needed to make her stay comfortable. His men had returned several hours later after an exhaustive search of Newport. They brought clothes that were comfortable though two sizes too big, together with expensive toiletries the like of which she had not seen in years. He had been insistent that she wore a particular dress, the yellow one, knee length, classic style with the floral pattern. The autumnal yellow of the dress set off her red hair in the sunlight. Apparently the dress reminded him of a special someone he had known long ago and seemed to put him in a good mood.

  Her escort knocked but didn’t wait to be invited in. Briggs was in the middle of an angry exchange with another prisoner whose hands were bound behind his back. She recognised the man from Osborne House but didn’t know his name. He was in his mid to late fifties with a full head of white blond hair. A large cut had been patched up above his left eye, a purple bruise darkening underneath. She exchanged a pained look of sympathy before he was led away. He tried to say something to her, pulling back against the rope binding his wrist but was quickly pulled away. As the door slammed shut behind him, she heard him shout “Don’t tell them anything.”

  Briggs’s expression softened as soon as he spotted Terra. He threw his arms wide, beaming a smile. “Good morning Terra. How fares our Queen of Hurst this rainy day?”

  “Well, thank you,” responded Terra awkwardly, maintaining her distance. The great hall made her think of Hurst, though the castle was clearly much older judging by the roof and brickwork. It reminded her in so many ways of the historic places she had visited as a child. The Tower of London, Hampton Court, Windsor Castle. The musty smell, the damp and cold, but also the sense of awe and wonder at standing somewhere so rich in history. It was almost as if she could sense the ghosts of kings, queens and noblemen who had graced these royal surroundings. There was a very real aura of history and drama that impregnated every stone, every brick. One could not help but feel a little bit inadequate and unworthy standing there amongst these magnificent surroundings. The incongruity of Briggs and his men’s occupation of the castle was not lost on Terra.

  “Come and sit and have some breakfast with me. Hatch, bring us something to eat.” He studied Terra, trying to anticipate what would make her happy. “Bring us some coffee and I think cereal and fruit today, am I right?”

  “Thank you,” responded Terra, taking her seat modestly, opposite Briggs, who couldn’t take his eyes off her and looked her up and down, enjoying the shape of the dress and the way its cut accentuated her curves. He watched, absorbed by her every move as she helped herself to an apple, which she carefully cut into slices and ate one by one. When she had finished, he asked for the plates to be cleared before restarting his inquisition. There was no artifice, no subterfuge, no threat, albeit implied, to his questions, and she willingly complied, answering his every request with a directness that he found refreshing.

  “Now, why don’t we go back to where we left off last night? You were telling me all about Jack and Zed. Where are my notes?” He rummaged in a pile of papers in front of him and pulled out a sheet of lined paper. The handwriting looked childlike, accompanied by doodles and scribbles in the margins.

  “So I’ve got here that your friend Zed likes to carry around a double-headed axe. Who does he think he is? Spartacus? Bit cumbersome isn’t it?” He turned towards his henchmen who were standing nearby and laughed bawdily. Turning back to Terra, without a hint of irony, he went on: “I prefer a butcher’s knife myself. More up close and personal.” He crudely gestured a slice across his neck to demonstrate how he liked to use it, prompting another laugh from his men.

  “I look forward to meeting him. Sounds like my kind of guy. I might put his head on a spike outside my castle as a reminder to any other jumped-up wide-boy who thinks they can mess with me.”

  “But Briggs.” She paused a little embarrassed. “Can I call you Briggs?” He nodded and encouraged her to continue. “As I assured you yesterday, the people of Hurst had nothing to do with the attack on your convoy. They’re pacifists mostly. They spend their time fishing and growing vegetables, not fighting. They’re not looking for trouble.”

  “Bullshit. Anyone who’s in league with the Americans is no pacifist. The missile or bomb that killed my men may have been American, but you can be sure that someone from Hurst helped pull the trigger. They’ll get what’s coming to them.”

  She leaned forward, her eyebrow raised playfully. She looked composed in Briggs’s company, demure, playing along. She knew from last night that Briggs had a weakness for her. She suspected he was more than a little bit susceptible to her charms. She intended to use every advantage that gave her, without crossing the line. The bruise on her left cheek ached when she moved her jaw, a reminder that you could push him only so far. Briggs had expressed his regret immediately and the man who struck her had not been seen again. She remained unintimidated by the threat of further violence, though not oblivious to the danger. She was deliberately provocative, working hard to retain his attention. She wasn’t sure how much Briggs had heard of the plan for Camp Wight, but it wouldn’t hurt to test the extent of his knowledge and spread a little disinformation at the same time to downplay Hurst and create a degree of separation.

  “I can assure you the Americans want little to do with Hurst. It’s an outpost, nothing more. They have no appreciation of history. No real understanding of local politics. Like a bull in a c
hina shop, they’re, well, just doing what Americans do best. Throwing their weight around, sticking their noses in to other people’s business. Trying to do the right thing, but in the process, treading on a lot of toes.”

  “OK Terra. If you’re so bleeding clever, what would your counsel be?” asked Briggs in a moment of indulgence.

  She smiled and Briggs looked at her suspiciously, his head tilted to the side as if he was torn between wanting to believe her and beating her to a pulp. She was under no illusion that the moment she ceased to please and beguile him, she would find herself thrown from the castle walls in to the pit below. Careful Terra, she told herself. Be very careful.

  She leaned forward and fixed him with her most winning smile. “If the Americans want to set up camp here, let them.” She shrugged and look over his shoulder. “Wait until they’ve ferried over their supplies and stores, got everything set up. Bide your time. What harm can it do? If you risk an all-out war with them, you’ll lose. Remember the war on terror? Remember what happened to every army that invaded Afghanistan or Iraq or Syria and tried to fight the Taliban, ISIS or Al Qaeda in a conventional way? They all failed. You could do worse than learn from those lessons. Your men need to become invisible, like shadows. Go underground, become fifth columnists, fill every position of power. Bide your time. Your guys should become sleepers waiting for the right moment to strike, when the allies are at their most vulnerable.” She leaned back again, her smile gone. “Anyway, that’s what I would do.”

  “Interesting. You and I think alike. Terra, you might just make a name for yourself round here. I need a good adviser, someone I can trust. I’m just not sure I can trust you Terra. For a start you’re a woman. Never trust a woman. That’s what my mum used to say, God bless her. Every woman I’ve ever known has lied or cheated on me.”

  He stood up and leaned across the table, over the fruit bowl that had been placed between them. He picked up a ripe peach and sunk his teeth deep into its flesh, biting down to the stone and ripping his mouth away, allowing juice to dribble down his chin. He wiped the liquid away with his sleeve and grinned lasciviously towards Terra.

  “Of course, if you could prove to me that I could trust you, that would be different. But right now, my head is full of questions about you Terra. Questions, questions. You’re going to have to earn my trust. Do we understand each other?”

  Terra swallowed involuntarily, her mouth and throat suddenly dry. She knew exactly what he meant. She was beginning to ask herself what she was going to have to do to keep Hurst safe and keep her enemies close. She had started down a very dangerous path and it was already too late to turn back without consequences. The only way was forward, deeper and deeper into the maze, and one wrong turn could just prove terminal.

  Chapter fifty-seven

  It was late on the second day after the attack on Hurst when the helicopter was released from its more pressing duties ferrying personnel. Osborne House had been set up as a temporary command center for the newly formed Camp Wight, under the protection of a detachment of marines led by Sergeant Jones.

  Peterson had re-established communication with the Royal Navy and now had a permanent liaison officer based in Portsmouth to foster improved relations between the two allies. As a gesture towards reciprocity, Captain Armstrong had installed one of his trusted deputies on board the USS Chester to act as local guide and pilot to orient the Americans around the Solent waters.

  Peterson and the helicopter crew collected Riley from the grassy area next to the lighthouse, where she had been waiting for some time, scanning the skies. Once she was safely on board and the crewmen had helped secure the straps of the jump seat next to the sliding door, they set off in search of Stella at the Chewton Glen hotel.

  The helicopter flew low over the trees and houses of Milford, hugging the water’s edge, heading towards Christchurch. Riley braced herself by the open door, thrilled by the sensation of speed, wind blowing in her hair, straining against her seatbelt to see below the aircraft. Her long brown hair flicked in her eyes and face and she held back a handful of fringe with her free hand. With her other hand, she gripping the handle nearest her tightly. They passed over a golf course, where grass grew long and verdant on deserted fairways and greens. Turning inland over Barton-on-sea, they traversed roads and roundabouts clogged with stationary traffic.

  She gestured to Peterson to slow down and the nose pitched upwards as they lost speed, coming into a hover above the main road and front gate to the hotel fifty meters below them. Riley leaned out as far as the seatbelt straps would allow. The truck blocking the front entrance was gone. Something was wrong.

  She pointed towards the main block and cluster of buildings a few hundreds meters away and Peterson relayed the message to the pilot. They continued onwards following the path of the driveway that curved left and then right past trees and the first of several planted fields and vegetable patches. The fire damage to the roof of the hotel was worse than she had first imagined. It seemed to extend along half the length of one of the buildings. They lost height and gently touched down on the side lawn, a swimming pool visible just beyond some bushes, looked like it had been drained and was being used for storage.

  Riley was fully expecting a crowd to rush out to welcome them, Stella and Sister Mel at its head, waving towards them. No one came. The place seemed deserted. Where was everyone?

  They waited for the twin engines to power down. Two marines set up defensive positions covering the front and rear of the aircraft, before the airmen allowed Riley and Peterson to climb out on to the soft grass. The first marine ran to the corner of the building and took up a kneeling position scanning to their right. Once he signalled all clear, the rest of the group ran towards the main entrance, staying low.

  They were a dozen paces from the entrance when Peterson held out his arm to block Riley from going any further. She looked up at him puzzled, following the line of his outstretched finger. It took her a couple of seconds to see what he was pointing out. Riley clasped her hand to her mouth to stop herself screaming. To the right of the doorway, someone had spray-painted a large red skull and cross bones, warning others not to enter.

  Riley gripped Peterson’s arm, trying to keep a lid on a mounting sense of panic.

  “Peterson. It’s not possible. We were here not two days ago. There was no sickness. There must be some mistake. Everything was fine. I don’t get it.”

  “No-one goes inside without their bio-hazard suits on, am I clear? Pavlowski, break out the suits and breathing gear.”

  Riley had never worn an airtight suit before. They were standard issue in green PVC material with an oversize clear Perspex front panel that restricted the wearer’s field of vision to the sides. The suit she was handed was several sizes too big for her and went over all of her clothes, zipping up and sealing tight from behind. The head section and breathing gear took a while to get used to. The suits were claustrophobic and she found the Perspex viewing panel had a minor magnifying effect, like reading glasses, distorting the world outside. Corporal Pavlowski helped tape her sleeves closed and turned her air on before attending to his own.

  When the group of four was ready and had checked each other’s equipment and seals, Peterson split them into two-man teams and they proceeded inside. Riley could hear her own breathing as she moved and stayed tight behind Pavlowski. In his gloved right hand he carried a pistol just in case they met any resistance. She tapped him on the shoulder and pointed down the corridor towards the main living area. In the lobby there were suitcases, plastic sacks and equipment stacked near the door. There was rubbish strewn across the carpet as if people had left in a hurry. There was no sign of Stella, or anyone else for that matter.

  Peterson took his team up the main stairs as Riley searched the ground floor of the building. Riley knew the layout of the hotel, so directed Pavlowski, as they went from room to room, through the kitchen, canteen and living room. Everywhere they went told the same story. The place looked like it had b
een ransacked. The contents of desks rifled and drawers left hanging, books missing from shelves, papers strewn across surfaces. Had they been attacked, she wondered? There were no obvious signs of a fire fight, no bullet holes, no bodies. What had happened here?

  They heard a loud banging on the ceiling from the floor above and Pavlowski grabbed Riley and gestured for her to follow. The suits were bulky and cumbersome. She found it difficult to run any faster than a slow shuffle without the head section bouncing awkwardly and the seams securing them to the main body threatening to tear open.

  When they reached the top of the stairs they found Peterson and the other crewman. His body was braced against the fire door, closed as if something was trying to break out from the inside.

  The suit muffled Peterson’s voice. “We’ve found something.”

  Riley’s eyes were darting left and right, waiting impatiently for him to continue.

  “What is it? What did you find?” she implored.

  “You need to prepare yourself Riley. I’m sorry but there are many casualties. We’re going to need to limit our time inside. Find out what you can, but don’t hang around. The suits are airtight, but we’re not taking any chances. We’re looking for the girl. We’re not here to help the injured. Are we clear?”