by Peter Hall
For the first time in his life, John fainted.
When John awoke, he found himself in the cab of a Land Rover with his hands tied to the steering wheel. It was a short distance from a derelict house where, in the early morning light, he could see one of his mates standing in the stress position against a wall. The fog had lifted, revealing a clear blue sky. The low sun cast long shadows. A handful of soldiers casually stood around, some smoking. It was difficult to believe this was the hell hole where he had been abused to the point of collapsing.
A wave of overwhelming relief passed over John. Thank God. His fingers and toes tingled as the feeling returned to them. He looked at himself in the rear-view mirror, expecting to see a bloody welt where the draw cord had cut into his neck, but only a thin pink line could be seen. Then came shame. He had told them everything. Absolutely everything. Fellow British soldiers questioned him for a few hours. They hardly touched him, yet he had been so terrified and confused, he said anything to make it stop. His two mates were still out there. They had not fainted. They did not blabber like babies. John bet they could remember their army numbers.
What a twat. Why did he give in so easily? This was only a sodding training exercise, for God’s sake. He just had to keep his mouth shut for a couple of hours. Perhaps it was something to do with autism—some instinctive panic reaction? There was never any real danger. Why did his brain go into a complete meltdown? What a plonker.
A new sound cut through the air—a screaming Land Rover engine. No—two or more, coming closer, fast. Round the bend in the road came four Land Rovers at high speed, spraying water and mud in their wake. What the hell was going on? Soldiers jumped out, and he recognised them! His mates were here. It was a rescue. A real rescue, not something pre-planned.
“Here! Here! I’m over here!”
John struggled to free his hands. A moment later, the door flew open.
“Cal. You okay?” Gordon said.
“Gordo, my hands!”
A massive knife appeared, and in seconds, John was free. He saw a tussle going on at the house. Nothing serious, a bit of jostling and wrestling. Soldiers on both sides grasping and pulling each other to the ground, or pinning them to walls. The sheer numbers of the rescue team overwhelming the few paras.
The other two prisoners were freed and led to the rescue Land Rovers. They acted dazed and confused.
“C’mon Cal,” Gordon shouted and slapped him on the shoulder. The two soldiers ran together towards the house and jumped into the nearest Rover.
Engines revved. Wheels spun and gravel was thrown backwards as the Rovers accelerated. The soldiers of The Rifles began shouting and cheering with glee. Seconds later, they were speeding away. John’s comrades cheered, laughed, and slapped each other on the back. One man had a bloody nose, yet he seemed not to notice.
John sat silent and numb, gasping for air.
Late on Sunday afternoon, Sarah was pruning the flowers in her front garden and wondering whether to stop for a cup of tea and maybe a scone. Most of the garden had been tidied for the winter, but the roses and fuchsias proudly displayed their red and purple blooms, which glowed in the fading sunlight.
The sound of a car coming up the lane drowned out the orchestra of bird song. She smiled as John pulled into the driveway next to her. John got out, dragging his webbing and bergen rucksack after him. Goodness! How dishevelled—filthy, crumpled clothing hung from his slumped shoulders. Traces of camouflage paint framed his face and red eyes. Most unlike John!
“Hello dear. Gosh, you are a sight. Oh, dear me, you pong a bit as well. Did you have a nice time?”
John gave an unconvincing half-smile. “Yes, Mum. It was great, but a little tiring.”
“Never mind. You’re filthy. I trust you’re going to have a shower before anything else?”
“Yes, Mum.”
“I’ll put the kettle on and make us a nice cup of tea. Mind you take those boots off before going into the house.”
“Sure, Mum—although I don’t think my bare feet will be much cleaner.”
Sarah watched him trudge towards the front door.
Boys will be boys. I hope he enjoyed his war games.
John sat at his workstation, staring unseeing at his computer screen. His hands rested by his keyboard. The same rain front which had tormented him on Dartmoor now flung heavy droplets against the office windows, creating a low rumbling, interrupted by occasional thunder and lightning. It was the perfect accompaniment to his mood.
The events of last weekend churned over and over in his mind. Trying to find something positive about his humiliating performance. He looked at the graze on the back of his hand. At the time, it seemed like his hand was being crushed. In reality, there were a few surface scratches, not even worthy of a sticking plaster.
Last evening, he had gone to bed at seven p.m. The earliest for as long as he could remember, yet he had lain awake for hours. Now he was shattered and ached in a dozen places.
Building websites never seemed so trivial and pointless.
A cup of coffee appeared next to his hand. He looked up and saw Gordon, who wore a broad smile. “Thought you looked like you needed it. Pretty intense weekend, eh?”
“Thanks. Yes, that’s one word for it. How come you’re so… lively? I feel like death warmed up.”
Gordon sipped his own drink. “Don’t worry. I’m feeling knackered as well. But I’m used to it. That was your first real hard weekend. When you’ve been doing it a while, you learn survival tricks—like how to sleep curled up in a muddy trench and not falling asleep on a slope. Besides, I didn’t have to go through the inquisition. Whilst you were spending three hours standing against a wall, I scoffed bacon and eggs.” He took another slurp of coffee and wheeled his chair over to sit next to John. “How was that session, by the way? It looked harsh.”
“Horrible. I’ve experienced nothing like it. I didn’t think they could do that in training.”
Gordon shook his head. “Me neither. I’ve never seen anyone go so far. That’s why we came and rescued you. We watched from a distance and decided you’d suffered enough. Lieutenant Greene’s put in a formal complaint. If that’s what they do in training, can you imagine what the fuck they do to real prisoners?”
John was silent for a moment. Normally, he was secretive about his feelings and would never tell his mother about the interrogation. But when you’ve shat in the same hole as somebody, you form a bond. There are no secrets between army buddies.
“You know I fainted?”
“Yes. I heard. Don’t sweat it. It happened at the end of a really tough weekend. You were exhausted, disorientated. Remember, those were professional interrogators, and they deliberately tried to break you.”
“They succeeded. And nobody else fainted.”
“I spoke to Gerry and Bricey on the coach home. They both came pretty close to it.”
John’s boss stepped out of his office and walked past them towards the kitchen.
“I think we should make these fonts bigger and move that banner further down the page,” Gordon said. They waited until the coast was clear.
John spoke first. “I panicked. I lost control. I was fucking useless.”
Gordon lowered his voice to a whisper. “That’s why we have training. Next time, you’ll know what to expect. You’ll do better. Drink your coffee and stop overthinking it.”
Gordon wheeled his chair back to his desk.
John nodded and dutifully took a sip of his drink without tasting it. Was he overthinking it? It was a relief that Gordon brushed off his miserable performance under interrogation, but John could not dismiss it so easily.
The interrogation had been a disquieting experience. John had read true stories of immense bravery, where people resisted unimaginable torture for months. John hoped it would be the same for him. After all, he was cool and logical—wasn’t he? Before last weekend, he imagined gritting his teeth and telling the interrogator to go to hell.
But
that was not how it happened. Not at all. In reality, he folded under the slightest pressure. He panicked and acted like a complete wimp. If a movie hero caved in so quickly, John would be scathing.
Gordon had said he would do better next time. Would he? Or would he panic again? Was this a lack of experience, or a basic flaw in his personality? Making quick decisions had never been his strong point. Anxiety was never far away—lurking in the shadows, ready to grab him by the balls, turning him into a stuttering idiot. John made a point of planning everything to the nth degree. Every Plan A had a Plan B, C, and D. Nothing was left to chance. That was how he survived life. That way, he avoided unpleasant surprises and the need to react quickly. Whatever happened, John always had a plan to follow.
Except last weekend he didn’t. He never expected to be captured, nor could he have predicted that interrogation. John had been caught unprepared. He had been complacent. But he could learn from it.
Gordon was right. John would act better next time, but not for the reason Gordon believed. John would relive the interrogation in his mind and rehearse exactly what he should have done. He would do it again and again. Each time with a different scenario. Whatever the interrogators did, John would have an answer to it. If there was a next time, it would be different.
Of course, the biggest mistake was getting captured. That was stupid. So, he would also replay that incident and plan how he should act.
This should be a solvable problem if he put his mind to it.
CHAPTER 14
Cal Makes A Decision
TIMELINE: 14 months after Yellow Death
Accept the things to which fate binds you, and love the people with whom fate brings you together, but do so with all your heart.
Marcus Aurelius (121–180)
So far, so good. I haven’t ballsed it up yet, thought Cal.
A few miles from Davy’s Supastore, Cal found a track off the main road, running parallel to a small bubbling stream. Juliet and Cal reversed their SUVs into the bushes next to each other. Cal brought out a saw and began removing tree branches. A few minutes later, both vehicles were camouflaged with foliage.
They both collected wood, and Cal shot a rabbit in an adjoining field.
“Shall I light a fire?” Juliet said.
Cal looked around. “Do you mind if we wait another fifteen minutes? It’s still quite light and I don’t want smoke leading anybody else here.”
Juliet shrugged. “Fine, but don’t blame me if dinner’s late.”
“I’m going for a walk. Be back in about twenty minutes.” Cal shouldered his rifle and walked off for his evening reconnaissance of the area. As usual, he left an emergency pack near the campsite. As he circled their vehicles, checking for escape routes and hazards, he reflected on the experience so far with Juliet. Being alone with a woman would normally reduce him to a stuttering fool. Yet, he found himself surprisingly relaxed in Juliet’s presence.
Perhaps this was partly due to Juliet’s personality. Her job involved putting people at ease and she seemed well practised at it. What also helped bolster Cal’s mood was the environment. He never fitted into what passed for normal society, with the numerous conventions, rules, and fashions. In this alternative world, Cal felt in control. Nobody gave him orders. The new lifestyle suited him well—he was healthier than ever and wanted for nothing. Living alone, using his own wits and guile since the Death, had given him a sense of confidence which all the years of schooling and therapy had failed to do. Cal was in his element.
When he walked back into camp, there was a spring in his step. He was looking forward to spending the evening with Juliet.
He began the daily routine of setting trip wires around their campsite.
“What’s that you’re doing?” Juliet shouted as she gutted the rabbit.
“Booby traps. Trip flares and tear gas, to be precise. I don’t like surprise visitors.”
Juliet frowned. “I don’t want to seem ungrateful, but what if I want to wee in the night? I’ve lived this long without experiencing tear gas and I’d like to continue that way.”
“Don’t worry. I’m setting the gas grenades in a horseshoe shape around the front of the trucks. Best not to go wandering that way. Around the back, I’ll set the trip flares and show you where they are in a minute. They’ll wake us up if anyone approaches during the night, but there’s no real harm done if you set one off by accident.”
“So, do you think they’ll work? I mean, if anything creeps up on us.”
“Well, I’ve not woken up with a badger in my tent yet.”
They stewed the rabbit with canned vegetables and potatoes. While it was bubbling away over the open fire, they sat in the dark, drank tea, and chatted. The river could be heard babbling in the distance, and occasionally an owl hooted. It was a cold and cloudy night, so they both covered their legs with sleeping bags.
“That stew smells gorgeous. God, I’m hungry,” Juliet said.
“If you want, I’ve got some snack bars in the car.”
“No thanks. I’d rather wait. This is going to be wonderful. I’ve not had fresh meat for weeks. The smell is delicious.” She poked at the stew with a large spoon. “It’s taking ages. Maybe we should have roasted the rabbit?”
“Hmm. Nice, but all the fats drop off into the flames. Wasted calories. This way we get all the goodness.”
“But it would have been so tasty. Are you always so damned practical?”
“Not always. For instance, why don’t we open one of those bottles of wine?”
“Now that’s a fantastic idea.”
“Better still, how do you fancy mulled wine?”
An hour later, they were both sitting with their sleeping bags pulled up to their chests, eating large bowls of rabbit stew and drinking steaming red wine. The crescent moon hid behind the clouds, so the only light was their campfire and head torches. They had swapped stories about incidents they had seen since the Yellow Death. Cal had told Juliet about the red mini-bus, but had avoided any mention of his caches.
“God, I needed this,” Juliet said.
“What? The booze or the food?”
“Both. And the chance to sit down and relax… and talk. You’re a good cook, this stew is delicious.”
“Me? I’m a crap cook. I thought it was mainly you that did the stew.”
“It was. I’m being polite. It’s strange how before the Death we cooked with all sorts of spices and flavourings. Now we just stick a few bits of meat into a pot with some veggies, a bit of salt. Boil for an hour and it tastes like heaven. I really appreciate the flavour of every chunk of veg and morsel of meat.”
“I guess our tastes adjust. You’re right about this being delicious. It’s great to have hot food in your belly to warm you up, if nothing else. However, I’d still say you have to go a long way to beat a good curry.”
Juliet laughed. “A very long way indeed. India, to be precise. It’s going to be some time before you enjoy another vindaloo.”
“True.” He spooned a particularly large chunk of rabbit into his mouth. Despite the myth, it was not like chicken at all. More chewy and dry, which he liked, but it also had a more intense flavour—gamey and earthy. Of course, he had only ever eaten chicken raised on intensive farms with processed feed and growth hormones. A wild chicken might taste entirely different—if wild chickens even existed.
He looked through the campfire at Juliet. She looked back and smiled. With the light from the flames dancing on her face, she was beautiful. This was… nice, cosy, companionable… perfect. There was nowhere else he wanted to be. The conversation was relaxed and natural and, when there was silence, there was no awkwardness between them. Cal could not remember being so comfortable with another person. “You were telling me about your time as a doctor.”
“Oh yes. Well, after med school, I worked as a junior hospital doctor at the John Radcliffe in Oxford. I wanted to work with children, so moved to Exeter three years ago when an opening came up in paediatrics. I lov
ed it most of the time. Fixing up kids was so satisfying. It wasn’t only healing the kids, it was the reaction of the parents as well. Of course, sometimes it was hard. You can’t help getting emotionally involved more than is good for you.”
She sipped her drink. “On my first day at the Royal Devon, another doctor approached me. Kevin was quite handsome. I tried to put him off. New job, new apartment, my hands were full without starting a new relationship. But he was patient and persistent. Eventually, I agreed to go out with him. We became steady and often slept over at each other’s places, although we both still kept our own homes. I had a cat called Napoleon.” Juliet was silent for a few seconds. “Kev and I were talking about setting up home together. Then the plague arrived and everything went to hell. Kev was one of the first to go down with it and… One of his friends told me he was planning to propose. Apparently, he’d been carrying a ring around for days waiting for the right moment.”
Juliet’s voice petered out, and she became quiet, lost in her own thoughts as painful memories welled up. Cal wanted to help, but was nervous about saying something sounding crass or insincere. Experience had taught him it was best to stay quiet than say the wrong thing. If they had been sitting closer, he would have put his arm around her. But in the end—as usual—he did nothing.
A few moments later, she came out of her reverie.
“Sorry about that. I didn’t plan to burden you with my troubles. You’re a good listener.”
“I’m a better listener than talker, that’s for sure.”
Juliet put her mug down and blew her nose. “When I returned to my flat for the first time afterwards, Napoleon had gone. I stayed there three days, hoping he’d turn up. That scrawny cat was my only living link to the pre-Yellow Death world, but he’d disappeared. I hate not knowing what happened to him.”
“I expect he wandered off to find food when his normal source had dried up. There was no way he could know you’d come back.”
