The Journey of Kyle Gibbs Box Set

by Wayne Marinovich

  A knock at the door made her look up.

  ‘Deputy Minster Anderson?’

  ‘Yes,’ she replied.

  ‘I’m Tom Scott, Warlord of London,’ a tall, handsome man of Jamaican descent said. Christina was surprised at his youthful appearance as he stood in the doorway. Taking into account his Warlord title, his faded jeans tucked into green wellington boots and clean blue work shirt, made him look normal compared to all the GGC ministers she was used too.

  ‘Please come in Tom and do call me Christina.’

  ‘Thank you, Christina.’

  ‘Lord Butler has asked me to come and introduce myself as I believe you’re taking a trip out of town?’ he said.

  ‘Yes, I have to go to Fishguard to resolve a hostage situation on one of the prison ships, and as I’m sure you can tell by my accent, I’m not from this country. I have no idea how I am going to get to Wales,’ she said.

  ‘That’s where I come in. Leave all the details to me, Christina. When do you need to be there?’

  ‘I’ve already packed my bags and am keen to leave as soon as we can.’

  ‘Ah… I didn’t realise it was that urgent. I’ll need a couple of hours to get the men and the train ready. It is dark now, and I wouldn’t advise heading out until dawn,’ he said.

  ‘Okay, Tom, we can leave tomorrow morning.’

  ‘I’ll have the escort here at nine a.m.’

  ‘I see the tide will be in our favour at about six o’clock or is that too early for you?’ she said.

  He broke into a big smile. ‘Six a.m. it is. Have a good night sleep tonight because it will be an interesting journey.’

  ‘I look forward to it.’

  Chapter 10

  Canary Wharf, London, England, UK - 2028

  A steady stream of black smoke rose from the two small, white funnels positioned down the middle of the deck. In large black lettering, across the front of the river barge’s wheelhouse, The Queen Rose was emblazoned against cream paintwork. The large eighty-foot hull was painted black with wooden strip-decking, and gold painted railings, running down the length of the port and starboard walkways.

  The audible thump of the barge’s coal-driven engines failed to block out the rushing sound of the wind as it passed through the metal rigging. Christina was standing in front of the barge’s wheelhouse, taking in the early morning sunshine.

  She looked back down the deck as Tom Scott approached. ‘Enjoying the scenery?’

  ‘I cannot imagine how people survive in all of this, this river looks so dangerous when the tidal surge is coming in,’ she said, as the barge moved between the collapsed arches of a washed away bridge.

  ‘It’s an incredibly dangerous place to sail at any time of the day. Large whirlpools and eddies can trap and sink small craft, and many people die each week. It’s only these old girls who can safely navigate the river,’ Tom said.

  ‘It’s years since I was on a boat this big,’ Christina said.

  Tom leant against the wheelhouse and folded his strong muscular arms. He smiled at her with the warm smile she was beginning to like. ‘Being the Warlord of London does come with its perks.’

  ‘I am sure it does. So has the Thames flooded all the way to Wales then?’ she joked.

  Tom smiled. ‘No, why? You that keen to spend time with me?’

  Christina laughed and looked away. She felt a glow as the sun warmed her cold body. Staying in the confines of the GGC compound had its safety perks, but it was a cold and soulless place to live. Outside the safety of the guarded enclosure, the world seemed warmer and far more alive. She wondered if it was this new element of risk she felt which contributed to her excitement.

  ‘I bet London has changed a lot for you?’ she asked, turning back towards him.

  Tom Scott studied her intently, and then looked out over the flooded city. The briny floodwater that washed through London had driven most of the Floodlanders up to higher ground, which in most cases meant living in tall buildings with dangerous sky-bridges as a method of traversing the flooded areas. He looked at a tall block of flats, grimy, dirty, with countless windows missing, and saw people slowly stirring and waking up. A few children came out onto their cluttered balconies and waved at them as they motored passed.

  ‘It has changed beyond all recognition, Christina. When the tide is in, the city has a strangely serene feel to it, with all the water flooding between the buildings. Like Venice, only on a much larger scale. However, when the tide goes out, and the devastation of the London we all knew becomes visible, it can be soul-destroying to some.’

  ‘What has happened to all the Londoners?’ she asked.

  ‘The sea rise happened over the course of ten months, which allowed most of the population of London to migrate to higher areas or away from the floodplains. Those hardy few who remain behind, work around the tidal surges risking their lives to scavenge and make a living by selling or trading what they find.’

  ‘I have seen them digging around in the muck between tide surges, and it looks extremely dangerous,’ she said.

  ‘The tide is a serious threat to them, but so are the gangs. As the warlord, I try and protect civilians from the gangs, but it is difficult to cover the vast New London area,’ Tom said. ‘And more and more people are moving back to London from the countryside, as the news travels that people can make a living in the city again.’

  ‘A bloody hard way to make a living. What are they scavenging for?’ she said.

  ‘Mostly, remnants of the old way of life, things that remind them of what their lives used to be like, things they can barter with one another, and even valuable objects that they can sell or trade with us and the GGC.’

  The Queen Rose glided through the murky water, underneath the old Waterloo Bridge, then through a destroyed Westminster Bridge as the tide continued surging in. Just as they drifted past the Parliament buildings and the old Westminster station, the skipper turned the grand old lady of the river around until she faced into the tide. Masterfully, he let her drift up to the derelict Houses of Parliament. The water level had risen about a metre over the old Thames Embankment, and fifteen minutes later they were safely moored up against the Parliament building itself.

  ‘Why are we stopping, Tom?’ Christina asked.

  ‘We have to moor here until the water is deep enough for us to turn north-west.’

  ‘North-west? But the river doesn’t go north.’

  ‘The floodwater does. It gives us a chance to sail the old girl where busses and cars once drove around. In the meantime, we can have breakfast. We have an hour-long wait, and I have sandwiches that my staff made up for us.’

  They ate quietly and played cards while the crew went about cleaning on the deck. Time flew by in the warmth of the sun and Christina barely noticed when the crew threw off the mooring lines and set off again, turning onto Birdcage Walk, then winding their way up onto Constitution Hill.

  ‘Oh my God, this is so surreal,’ Christina said. ‘Who would have guessed that someday I would be passing St James’s Park, and a flooded and crumbling Buckingham Palace, in a boat?’

  ‘I guess surreal is one way of putting it.’

  A mile later, as they traversed the flooded expanse of Hyde Park, the grey-haired skipper stuck his head out of the small wheelhouse window.

  ‘Warlord, we are close to bottoming out here. I suggest we moor up against that large dead oak tree.’

  ‘Thank you, Captain. Ask the men to drop the rowing boats, please.’

  ‘Aye, sir.’

  Christina walked to the railing and touched the bark of the ancient oak tree. ‘So we are going to row all the way to Paddington Station?’

  ‘Most of the way. It gets too shallow nearer the station, so my men will meet us at that point and escort us in. Hard to believe that we just went over the old Serpentine Pond,’ he said.

  Christina swallowed hard. ‘Thanks for showing me your London, Tom. She must have quite a sight in her day.’

 
; • • •

  Christina looked up at the huge ornate metal arches spanning the roof of the train station. She forced her mouth closed because she was sure she looked like a gawking tourist. The curved perspex roof panels above them allowed plenty of light onto the old platforms, where once thousands of people had made journeys like this every day. Now empty and desolate rail tracks stood, expectant of ghostly trains.

  ‘The exterior of the station is so bland. You would never guess that this grand station was hidden amounts the buildings,’ she said.

  ‘I know. It’s one of my favourite places in London. There are three hundred men stationed in the surrounding buildings, guarding this place for me because it is such a vital portal for my business out of the west.’

  The group passed through the once busy walkways and platforms, to reach an old black steam engine, which had blue and yellow passenger carriages linked up to it. They boarded, and the train shuddered as it started to move out of the station, steam filling the cavernous structure. Gaining speed, they made their way out of London towards Swansea.

  Many of the old fabric seats had been vandalised, others had been removed, and old couches had been brought in and placed around the carriage for comfort. Soon she was fast asleep on a couch, with the gentle swaying of the carriage soothing her dreams of America.

  With a violent jolt and the screeching of the train’s brakes, Christina was torn from her dream and thrown off the couch. She sat on the floor, dazed for a while before jumping up to look out of the window.

  The shock of seeing green valleys and lush fields took her breath away. Living in the distressing grey of the Floodzone had dulled her senses, which were now enlivened. This must be Wales, she thought.

  The door opened, and Tom Scott walked in, a large smile on his face. ‘I see Sleeping Beauty is awake.’

  ‘How long have I been asleep?’ she asked.

  ‘Couple of hours,’ he replied. ‘We have had to stop here as the track ahead washed away a few years ago.’

  ‘Are we close to Fishguard?’ she asked.

  ‘We are near a place called Manorowen. I radioed ahead to Fishguard, and the GGC Prison Service is sending men to meet us. You, Private Smith and I will go ahead by horse and cart, and the rest of the men will go on foot and join up with us later,’ he said.

  A little while later, the blue wooden cart bumped and slipped on the dirt road as it made its way up the path to the top of the hill. Christina noticed that there were people tending the farmlands along the valley walls.

  Tom Scott caught her gaze. ‘They’re most probably farm labourers working for the local warlord.’

  ‘So, he owns all this land, does he?’ she asked, pointing to the expansive valley before her.

  ‘Yup… It was probably allocated to him, by the GGC. These people will work for him and cultivate the land with vegetables and fruit, in return for food, shelter and protection for them and their immediate families. He will then trade the balance of the produce with the warlords in other local rural areas or will supply the GGC itself in London.’

  ‘It’s like a feudal system. Do you have farms and people like this working for you?’ she asked, turning to face Tom.

  ‘We can talk about that another time. We need to get moving as it will be dark in a few hours and I don’t want to be stuck here.’

  Christina was about to ask another question when the London warlord looked away. She frowned and then sat back in silence, squashed between two of his men, seated on the cart bench. They wound their way off the back roads and onto the worn-out tarred road that led down into the port of Fishguard.

  The horseshoe-shaped port, with its long harbour wall that extended out into the swollen sea, had suffered heavily at the hand of the sea-level rise. Wet sea sand had been washed up onto the main roads leading down to the seafront. Metal roofs from old buildings were barely visible above the low tide, and the small antlike figures of scavengers with wheelbarrows and horse-drawn carts caught her eye.

  They stopped outside a large Victorian house, and the men helped her down from the old trailer. Tom was standing nearby, at the house’s iron gate, talking to a GGC officer.

  ‘Christina, this is Captain Rees of the GGC Army, based here to support the prison services, amongst other things,’ Tom said and turned to the dark-haired young man in the GGC fatigues, who saluted.

  ‘Hello, Captain,’ she said. ‘Can you apprise me of the situation on the prison ship?’

  ‘Yes, Deputy Minister. We last had radio contact with the hostage-takers about two days ago, and there is currently no contact with the men on the bridge. We have armed men and snipers stationed all along the coast watching all seven of our prison ships, so they cannot escape. The Icarus hoisted anchor early yesterday morning and has come around from Cardigan Bay into the Fishguard Harbour where she has now dropped anchor. We can head down to have a look if you like,’ the captain said.

  ‘’Perhaps it would be best if we do that first thing in the morning,’ Christina said, glancing at Tom.

  ‘I agree.’

  • • •

  ‘Fishguard to Icarus, come in, please. Fishguard to Icarus, this is the prison service headquarters, over.’

  Captain Rees swivelled in his chair, away from the bank of blinking radio equipment. They had set up all the equipment in the old lounge of the house. Five GGC soldiers were working at small desks in front of a large bay window.

  ‘Been like this for a while now. Not even sure that their radio is turned on.’

  ‘Let me try,’ Christina said, holding out her hand.

  Captain Rees got up out of his chair and handed over the headset to her. ‘Click that button there to speak,’ he said.

  Christina placed the headset on and sat in front of the old radio. ‘Fishguard to Icarus, come in please,’ she said. She waited for a few seconds, static creeping out of the radio. ‘Fishguard to Icarus, come in, please. This is Deputy Minister Anderson, for Kyle Gibbs, over.’

  • • •

  Kyle Gibbs was lying on a bunk in the crew’s quarters, reading an old newspaper. Smithy popped his head around the corner and knocked on the metal door frame.

  ‘Boss, there is a deputy minister trying to make contact with us on the radio,’ he said.

  ‘A deputy minister?’ he replied sitting up.

  ‘Yes sir, a lovely sounding woman, named Anderson,’ Smithy said, smiling. ‘With an American accent.’

  ‘Okay. Thanks, Smithy, I am on my way up. Get Killey, will you?’ Gibbs said.

  A few minutes later he walked onto the bridge and sat down in the captain’s chair that was in the centre of the bridge. He picked up the radio handset and tapped it against his mouth for a few seconds. ‘Fishguard, Fishguard, this is Icarus, Gibbs speaking, over,’ he said.

  ‘Mr Gibbs, this is Deputy Minister Anderson. Over,’ the softer tones of a female voice came over the radio.

  ‘Is the holding of prison officials only worthy of a lowly deputy minister?’ Gibbs asked.

  ‘The relevant minister is out of the country at the moment, so I have been authorised to negotiate on his behalf,’ the woman said.

  The mild irritation in her voice made Gibbs smile.

  ‘Please state your demands so that we can get this process moving forward,’ she said.

  ‘Deputy Minister, seeing that you and I will be negotiating with each other for the foreseeable future, why not dispense with the formalities? You know my first name, what is yours?’

  There was a pause.

  ‘Christina Anderson.’

  ‘Christina, we have only two demands. Firstly, we want an agreement to relocate all the prisoners to prisons closer to their families. Secondly, I want Fraser Byrne, Malcolm Kilfoyle and myself to receive a full pardon for the crimes that we were wrongly convicted of. By that I mean, an unconditionally release. Signed by all and sundry at the GGC.’

  ‘Kyle, both those demands will take a bit of organising on our part. I need time to get things mo
ving.’

  ‘You can call me Gibbs like everyone else.’

  ‘Okay, Gibbs.’

  ‘We want to do this face-to-face so will head out to the point of the old harbour wall, which is visible at low tide at about fifteen hundred hours. We’ll wait for you there. You have until then to agree to our demands.’

  ‘I will try to have everything in place,’ Christina said.

  ‘Hostages will be lined up on the deck of the ship and in full view. If anything happens to us, my men who remain on the ship will have instructions to shoot them all. Please don’t think for a minute that we will not do this to achieve our aims. There will be three of us coming out to negotiate with you, and there will be three of us coming back alive,’ Gibbs said.

  ‘Nothing will happen to you, Gibbs, you have my word,’ Christina said.

  Gibbs sat back in the chair and looked out at the sprawling Fishguard coastline ahead of him. The usual blue haze, generated by the humidity and wind, draped the coast like a curtain.

  ‘You do know nothing is stopping them from having snipers in the harbour, ready to take us out?’ Killey said as he walked towards Gibbs.

  Gibbs nodded his head. ‘It’s time to gamble a little, my friend. Let’s see how tough this lady is.’

  ‘It could all go wrong out there.’

  ‘That’s why you’re staying here,’ Gibbs replied.

  ‘Fuck that for a joke. I’m coming with you,’ Killey said.

  Gibbs stood up and took a step towards his friend. ‘I need you and Shredder to stay here to keep an eye on the hostages, so I’ll take Smithy and young Cameron with me. They’re good enough if it all kicks off.’

  Killey started to protest again, but Gibbs simply raised his hand. ‘My mind is made up, mate. Tell Smithy to get us three SA80s, clean and fully loaded, if it kicks off I don’t want anything jamming on us. You and Smithy get five of the wardens from the cells and bring them up to the crew’s quarters. Strip them of their shirts and tape their mouths. Put pillowcases over their heads to cover their identities. Got that?’