“Bakir!” Jasmin’s voice calls from the bedroom.
Wasn’t the dirty slut dressed yet? “What?” he barks.
She quiets. Good. He doesn’t want to have to listen to her again. Why did he need her when he didn’t even want her, couldn’t even stand having her around? Lonely. Sure, he was lonely. He stubs the cigarette out then stares back across the city. If the dirty pigs thought the fires were an atrocity—just wait until tonight—then they’d know about it
His plans are outrageous. They will shock the nation beyond recovery and his name would forever bring terror to their hearts. He smiles. One day all of this would be under their rule. One day. The government here was weak. Too afraid of offending, too liberal. When it belonged to them they would rule with a fist of iron—all would follow their rules and their laws. Idiots! The Romans once ruled the world and look what happened to them. Where was their empire now? Nowhere; brought down by barbarian hordes, their forces stretched too thinly, their borders too weak, their governments too corrupt, their flow of money outwards too vast, the walls they built not strong enough. The brotherhood wouldn’t stop until the entire world was an Islamic state and he, Bakir Bin Sayeed, would go down in history as the man who brought England to its fold. Insha’allah!
CHAPTER TWENTY
Sam’s stomach growls with hunger as glass shatters. He turns to the group of men and women gathered outside the locked entrance of the town centre’s supermarket. Nothing amiss. No one throwing bricks at the glass or smashing at it with a hammer. He’d asked them to wait for the manager, told them that Grant would be here soon, and they were listening—for now.
The noise of breaking glass splits the air again, coming from lower in the town, perhaps from King Street with its row of traditional butchers, bakers and tea shops. He strides to the top of the road and looks down the gently sloping hill. The old coaching inn sits to his left, a disused bank, transformed into a gauche pawn brokers to his right, he can see all the way to the bottom of the road. Movement catches his attention halfway down the street where Henson’s the butchers-cum-bakers sits, it’s awning folded back, its doors guaranteed to be locked. A figure stands outside, arm pulled back. In the next second the arm thrusts forward, brick in hand, and the sound of glass crunching rings in the air. The figure disappears through the doorway. It’s not one he recognises. It certainly wasn’t George Henson. At six foot-four, and with a belly that you saw coming first round the corner, he was unmistakable. This figure was slight—just a kid by the look of it. If George caught them, there’d be hell to pay.
Sam runs down the road and skids to a stop outside the double fronted shop. To the left, glass-topped aluminium chillers sit stark, disinfected and empty. Rows of green plastic leaves topped with small red flowers act as dividers between the sections that would hold their freshly butchered meat. A wide mirror sits across the wall, and on its shelves sit cartons of eggs and stuffing mix, along with jars of various chutneys. The raider takes two cartons of eggs and places them gently in a canvas bag hanging from its arm. Hood up, Sam can’t see its face. It turns and Sam pulls back behind the pillar between the shop’s two doors. Peering round, he watches as the hooded figure stops before the tall drinks chiller then moves behind the pastry counter. On the bakery side of the shop, pies, scotch eggs, flans and Cornish pasties sit beneath waxed paper and on the shelves behind the counter are rows of covered cakes. Sam’s stomach grumbles as he watches the figure lift the covers from the first tray of cakes. A face reflects back at Sam as it reaches for a Bakewell Tart. Their eyes connect in the mirror, the girl’s hand frozen mid-air. In the next second, she grabs the tart, pulls it off the shelf then ducks beneath the counter.
Crunching over the glass, Sam steps into the shop, watching the girl’s crouched reflection in the mirror, and walks to the chiller. Bottles of water and cans of fizzy pop face him. He can hear the girl’s breathing, the scuff of her shoes against the tiles as he reaches for the coke bottle-shaped handle of the chiller and pulls. The smell of pastries and bread that fills the shop makes him heady and his stomach growls again. His mouth waters. How long has it been since he last ate?
“Do you want water or a Coke?” he asks as he pulls the bottle from the fridge. Silence. Feet scuffle. “Listen, I’m thirsty and I guess you must be too. If I get you a drink will you pass me one of those cakes?” he asks. He can see the girl crouching, her figure reflected in the mirror. She doesn’t move. “A cherry Bakewell would be good,” he continues. She can’t be more than fourteen. It was tough enough for him to cope with the terror that had gripped the town, how she must feel he can’t imagine. As she rises, their eyes meet across the counter’s glass top.
He smiles. “Could you pass me one, please?”
She turns and reaches for a circular tart sitting at the front of a double row of six. The tart behind slips forwards as she removes it from the slanted shelf.
“This one?” she asks tentatively.
“Yep,” he replies and takes it from her hand. “Now, did you want water,” he holds up the bottle, “or Coke?”
“Water please.”
Sam passes the bottle of water to her with a surprised smile. He would have put his money on the Coke.
“Fizzy stuff makes my stomach hurt,” she says by way of explanation.
“Yeah, me too,” he agrees replacing the can and taking another bottle of water. His stomach growls as he takes a slug from the bottle. The girl eyes him with suspicion as she takes a sip.
“So,” he begins, “what are you doing here?”
She looks to the smashed door. “Same as you. Eating. Drinking.”
He nods.
“There’s nothing at home,” she explains, defensive but apologetic. “We’ve nothing to cook with and I’m sick of cold beans.”
Sam laughs. “I’m with you on that one.”
“There’s nowhere open. How’re we supposed to get food if the shops are closed? And anyway, Mum’s got no cash because the banks are closed so even if the shops were open we’d still starve.”
“They’ll be open again soon. Don’t you worry,” Sam soothes although he’s not convinced that is the truth.
“By mum reckons it’ll be days or even weeks before things are back to normal. My brother Caleb said it’s the apocalypse.”
Sam laughs. “Don’t be daft. It’s just the power grid that’s been knocked out. You’ll see—give it a few days and it’ll all be back to normal.”
She shrugs. He can tell she doesn’t believe him.
“Listen,” he continues. “I’ll do a deal with you.”
“What?”
“Well,” he says looking at the rows of cakes and pastries. “If you help me bag this lot up, then I’ll make sure you get enough to take home to your mum.”
She smiles. “I’ve got two brothers and a sister too.”
“I’ll make sure there’s enough for you all. OK?”
“What about the butcher? What’ll he say?”
“Don’t worry about that. I’ll square it with Mr Henson.”
She looks at the broken glass with apprehension. “You won’t tell him I did it, will you?”
“Perhaps you can do that yourself,” a voice booms as a dark shadow fills the doorway. “Just what the bloody hell is going on here?”
“George!” Sam replies as he turns to the giant. “Just the man I was looking for.”
“Oh, aye? A likely story.”
Sam stares up at George. A man in his early sixties, he was known to have a ferocious temper. In his hand is an air rifle.
“Get out of my shop,” he growls as he steps through the doorway.
“George, I-”
“I’ll count to three. One ...”
Sam steps towards the door. “Come on,” he says to the girl. She steps with him, clutching the bag, bottle of water still tight in her hand.
“And leave that here,” George demands gesturing to the canvas bag of eggs and pastries.
“But we’ve got n
othing to eat!” the girl responds and clutches it to her side.
“Put it on the floor and leave,” George repeats.
Sam watches as a new determination settles across the girl’s face. “No.”
George looks at her in surprise—he was a man used to getting his own way. “You heard me,” he tries again. “Put the bag down and leave.”
“Make me,” she challenges.
How much more coercion did she want? The man was pointing a rifle at her face! “Perhaps we’d better do as he says.”
“No,” she returns. “There’s more food here than he can eat.”
“It’s not for stealing,” he growls.
“Better I take it than it goes rotten just sat here,” she counters.
“George, perhaps on this occasion-”
“What? I should let her steal from me should I, Fireman Sam?”
Sam groans. It always came to that when they wanted to belittle him. “There’s no need for that, Henson.”
George has the good grace to look a little sheepish though he doesn’t apologise. “This is my shop. You’re breaking and entering. I’m within my rights to protect my property,” he raises his rifle a little higher and pulls it into his shoulder.
Sam has to take control. “George, put the gun down. We can sort this out in a civilised way.”
“Nothing civilised about robbing a man and ruining his business.”
“Get things into perspective-”
“She’s looting.”
“She’s trying to feed her family. Her mum and brothers are waiting back home starving.”
“I’ve got a sister too.”
“Sure. And a sister.”
“Mum’s not got any money for food.”
“That’s not my problem,” George sighs. “Protecting my property is. Do you think I haven’t got a family to feed?”
“I know you do,” Sam replies with an image of George’s overweight wife and corpulent, fully grown children in mind. “Listen. We’re all in the same situation. We’re all starving and perhaps doing things we wouldn’t normally be doing.”
The girl nods. “I’ve never stolen before.”
George huffs.
“George, put the gun down,” Sam repeats recognising a crack in his hard exterior. “If that trigger slips ...”
“It’s not going to slip,” he replies. “I know what I’m doing. I’ve been clay pigeon shooting for over thirty years.”
“I know. I’ve seen your trophies,” Sam placates, “but that’s a girl you’re pointing the gun at, not a clay pigeon.”
The gun lowers. The girl clutches the bag and steps to the side towards the door. George raises his gun once more.
“She can leave, but she has to put the bag down.”
“No!”
Sam sighs. “Come on!” he says with exasperation. The smell of Cornish pasties and Bakewell tarts was messing with his head. He had to eat soon. He reaches into his pocket, pulls out a crumpled five-pound note, and slams it on the counter. “There. All paid for. Keep the change. You’re welcome.”
“Right,” George says lowering the gun.
“Thank you,” the girl says and walks towards the door.
“Just hold on,” George blurts. “What about my door. That’ll cost to repair.”
“Fine. I’ll pay for it to be repaired. Just put the gun down.”
George nods, cracks the gun open, and holds it over the crook of his arm. The gold-coloured tops of two cartridges visible, he’d meant business, and although ‘disarmed’ the man is no less demanding. “What about my door? Anyone can get in here now.”
Sam looks at the open space. George was right. Anyone could just walk in and take whatever they wanted.
“I know this isn’t what you want to hear, but a repaired door isn’t going to stop anyone coming in here. Do you know what I think you should do?”
“No.”
“Clear the shelves and open the shutters. People won’t be interested in breaking into an empty shop.”
“And do what with all the food? It’ll not keep. Most of it should be binned now—health and safety.”
“Sod that! There’s nothing wrong with this food—sure the chicken can go in the bin, but the cakes and stuff—they’ll be good for a few more days.” George nods in agreement. “Why don’t you help the community then? I know you do charity work.”
“True. How?”
“Well ... take what you need and donate the rest. There are more than ten thousand people living in this town George.”
“I know that.”
“Well, there haven’t been any food deliveries for the past days, the supermarkets are locked or have been looted and most people don’t have a good supply of food at home. The freezers are all defrosting and the food is rotting and can’t be cooked anyway. We can help those that are most in need. I’ve already had a few families come and ask for help.”
“It’s true,” the girl continues. “We’ve nothing at home apart from a few tins in the cupboard.”
“What do you say?”
George stares at the girl then turns to Sam. “If you help me patch up my door then you can bag up the rest of the food—once I’ve taken what I want.”
“Thank you.”
“There’s meat too,” George continues. “We had a delivery just before the blackout. It’s a bloody disaster. This damned power outage will bankrupt me. We were barely holding on as it is.”
“Insurance?”
“Huh. They always figure a way of not paying out.”
“How much meat?” Sam asks as a plan begins to form.
“I’ve got eight pigs and two sides of beef hanging in the storeroom plus umpteen pounds of sausages, bacon, and ham. Thousands of pounds worth of meat that’s just going to waste.
“It’s in a cold room, right?”
“Yes.”
“So, it’ll still be fresh.”
“Won’t be for long.”
“But it is, right now.”
“Right now, it’s still edible, yes.”
“So-”
“So what?” George asks with a scowl. “You’re going to ask me for it, aren’t you,” he says gruffly.
“Well-”
“What! Give you all my meat?”
“You said yourself it was just rotting away.”
“Well-”
“There’s no point. You can’t cook it anyway.”
“Not with a gas or electric cooker, but you could barbecue it,” Sam says with a smile.
“You’ll need a bloody big barbecue.”
“There’s plenty of big barbecues outside the butchers and restaurants around town come Bike Night. If we ask-”
“We?”
“That’s right, George, ‘we’. Who else is going to butcher it all. I can’t even carve a chicken properly.”
“Huh.”
“It’s times like these that we need to come together as a community, George.”
Another huff.
“In years to come, you’ll be remembered. You’ll be the man who fed the town when it was starving.”
“Well ... but who’s going to pay for it all. I’m not a charity, Sam.”
“Insurance.”
“Well ... we fix the door first.”
“Deal,” Sam says and reaches for George’s hand. The giant stares at him for a moment then takes his hand and shakes it.
“I’ll get Blake to come into work. That’s a lot of meat to butcher.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
Bill pulls the car to the kerb as they reach the town’s old Police Station, Sam’s new headquarters according to Martha who they’d just passed on the way through the town. He’d worried for her safety for a moment as the crowds outside the supermarket had surged forward but she seemed to have the situation under control and he’d noted a number of Sam’s Protectors standing at the shop’s entrance as she handed out bags of food.
As Uri kicks open the damaged car door and then slams it shu
t, four men square their shoulders and stand alert at the entrance to the station. Through the station’s stone-mullioned window Sam sits, head bent, pen in hand.
“We’re here to see Sam,” Bill says as the men close ranks.
“Wait here,” demands a broad-chested man with a sandy beard and tattoos spreading up his neck.
“I’ll go, Fairweather,” Hazzer interrupts, obviously pulling rank. The sandy-bearded man’s face hardens but he steps back, allowing Bill and Uri to follow.
As they walk down the stone slabs to the arched entrance, Sam notices their arrival and, as Hazzer knocks on the door, he calls ‘enter’.
Standing before the blocked fireplace, arms held behind his back, he stands to greet them. A camping bed sits beneath the window with a pillow topped by a neatly folded sleeping bag at one end. The breeze from the open window cools the sunny room. With his combed hair and fresh clothes Sam looks much more in control than on their first meeting but the strain of holding himself together is there nevertheless. Perhaps others wouldn’t notice, but Bill is more attuned to the battle raging inside the man. A crisp white service shirt and black trousers complete Sam’s uniform.
“Bill, Uri,” he nods in greeting as he steps out from behind the desk.
“Sam.”
“How did it go at the hospital?”
“Good,” Bill says with a smile. “Clarissa’s back home-”
“Home?”
“Yes.”
“Already?”
“Yep. I can’t believe it either. The doctor fixed her lung at the hospital and sent her home.”
“At the hospital is chaos,” Uri explains.
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