“Yes,” Michael returns with little enthusiasm though he can’t help a smile creep to the corner of his lips. The man was a twat, but a reasonable one at least.
“Now, tell me Michael, how you came to see these rogues at their work?”
“Terrorists, Grahame, they’re terrorists.”
“Are they local?”
“No, I’ve not seen them before. One of them looked a bit like Bilal from the pizza shop, but not, at the same time—dark hair, short and squat and a monobrow like Bilal’s, but it wasn’t him.”
“So an Arab then?”
“Is that what Bilal is?”
“No, they’re Turkish. And Bilal’s alright—he’s a good bloke.”
“Isn’t Turkish the same thing?”
“No.”
“The other men—the one that is lying outside the Police Station—he looked like a Somali. The other—the one that got away—he could have been from anywhere—looked white—and spoke English without a foreign accent.”
“Home bred then?”
“Perhaps.”
“Beggars belief, doesn’t it.”
“What?”
“These people—they want to murder us in our beds and live off us at the same time.”
“It’s our fault.”
“Huh! How so?”
“We’ve let them in. Bloody do-gooders and lefty liberals with their human rights shit.”
“Well, we need human rights-”
“Sure. And they know that. They come here knowing that they’ll get away with murder—literally. There’s two types—them that just hate us because that’s what they’re brought up to believe, then there’s the others that want to islamify the entire country. The irony doesn’t escape me! They thunder on about having the right to free speech and all the while what they really want is to rob us all of our freedom. We won’t even be allowed to think straight if they have their way.”
Michael grunts.
The door swings open and Janet reappears with a green box clutched in one hand and a small packet in the other. Under her arm she carries a flask.
“Got them!” she calls waving the packet in her hands. “The Tramadol will give your pain a run for its money!”
“Thanks,” Michael says as she bears down on him and Barnaby returns with the water, blanket and cling film.
Chapter 14
Bill looks ahead to the horizon and yawns. The day has been long. Getting out of the city hadn’t proved a problem although he was relieved when they’d finally hit the open road and the cleaner air. He looks back at the city and the pluming black smoke. What horrors the people there were suffering he hardly dared to think of—or rather remember. In the past years, he’d seen men, and women, and yes, children, burned to death. Sometimes their burned faces loomed at him, screaming their agony into his face as he slept. How many dreams had been haunted by their tortured and contorted bodies?
Bill had got his revenge though—on those men—the monsters who called themselves freedom fighters. They hadn’t reckoned on Bill’s need for justice and yes, vengeance. As he walks, Clarissa and Andy are at least ten feet ahead, Clare is at his side. His thoughts return to the scenes he lived, and has relived, too many times.
They’d been stationed not too far from the village, even made friends with the villagers. Despite what they said back home, they were here to protect the people and the villagers were happy to see them. The kids had smiled and chatted, brought them water to drink. The men had talked of their fears—how their people were being persecuted by the local, neighbourhood extremists, how they feared the village would be attacked, thanked him for being there, eternally grateful that Bill had left his family to help protect his.
Then the call had come to pull out. There was peace they said, a truce, an agreement, their services were no longer needed.
The desperate call for help had come when they’d been driving back to the main barracks but by the time they’d returned to the village there was nothing left. Each home had been set on fire and so had the people. Bill had gone to the home of Amraz, hopeful even though he knew in his heart that hope was irrational and looked for him and his daughters. He’d found them—huddled together in the ruins—burned beyond recognition—Amraz holding the girls in his arms, the protector even in his last agonising moments. That had been it for Bill. Anger had overwhelmed him and when they tracked down the ‘insurgents’, murdering bastards, Bill had shown no mercy. They’d died, every last man, and it hadn’t been pretty. Bill had cut and slashed and gouged and gutted then burned—just as they had. When he’d finished he’d raged at the sky, raged at the world, raged at the vileness of Men. When he’d finished something inside him had died and the nightmares had come. When he’d finished he’d been discharged—compassionate leave they said—gone psycho Bill called it. No, that wasn’t fair. He understood it now—PTSD is what it was. He was getting better, he could tell, but now, now he could feel the old rage returning and he welcomed it, now he could feel his old power returning and he embraced it. Bill was back and this time he was here to stay. He’d kill every last terrorist he found—show them the same mercy they showed their victims aka none. He smiles at the sky. The bloody bastards would pay.
He watches as Andy walks with Clarissa. She laughs at his joke and Bill’s belly clenches. He was jealous! No. No way. Yes, way! He grits his teeth and takes a breath to ease the tension. Getting close with Clarissa was not something he wanted to do. Emotions, feelings – fekk ‘em. Getting close with Clarissa was exactly what he wanted to do. He sighs, looks away and pulls the imaginary knife out from between Andy’s shoulder blades.
“So, Bill,” Clare says interrupting his thoughts. “You were in the forces.”
“Huh! Yeah, for a while.”
“I thought so. So, where did you serve?”
“A few places.”
“Oh? Like where?”
“Afghanistan, Iraq, Kuwait, Belfast … the list goes on.”
“Cool!”
“Yeah. Clare, tell me. Why are you at the Academy?”
She’s quiet for a moment, seemingly taken aback by his question. “Well … well, I want to be in the navy—obviously.”
“Obviously?”
“… yes …”
“It’s not so obvious to me. Jessie and Alex—they’re obvious, but you … you I’m not so sure of. War is tough.”
“Oh.”
“Don’t get me wrong. I’m not saying you shouldn’t be in the navy, it’s just that you seem a little-”
“Unsuited?”
“Well … yeah.”
“It’s that obvious?”
“Yeah.”
She sighs and droops her head. “Being in the navy is all I’ve … all my father has ever wanted for his kids. He’s a Peer now, in the House of Lords, but he served in the navy. There’s only me—my brother died when he was a kid …”
“I’m sorry to hear that, Clare.”
“Me too.”
“Listen. You don’t choose this life—it chooses you.”
“Sure, but, my dad-”
“Stuff your dad. Joining up—you’re putting your life on the line. If you follow this journey to its conclusion—that’s what you’ll be doing.”
“Sure, I know that.”
“Well, as long as you do. You’ve got to do it for the right reasons and not because you want to please your dad. How old are you Clare?”
“Twenty-three.”
“Well, you’re not a kid any more then. You’re a woman. You’ve got to make your own decisions in life. There are a lot of jobs you can do in the forces. You’re good with languages, right? You knew what those bastards were saying, right?”
“Right.”
“Well, become an interpreter—something like that.”
“But-”
“It’s up to you, Clare, just my thoughts. Like I said, war, going out in the field—it’s tough—you have to be strong—up there,” he says tapping at his temple.
He quietens and looks out across the fields with their newly growing wheat. “Yeah,” he replies. “That’s what happened to me.”
Chapter 15
The Tramadol is wearing off as Michael reaches Bramwell’s gate. The walk back has been hard, but the bike has given him the support he needs. He pulls back the bolt and pushes the heavy gate open, it sticks on the gravel and he flinches at the pain in his legs as he forces the muscles to work. At least the clingfilm was still in place. Grahame had urged him not to go, but despite the pain he just wanted to be comfortable and back in a place where he felt safe. Home, his house back in the town, hadn’t been his first thought; Bramwell had. Interesting how quickly he’d come to think of it as his home, somewhere he felt at peace—somewhere he’d defend.
The town’s edginess was growing and since news of the fire had spread among the inhabitants a new and fierce militancy was rising. Sure, it had been growing in the preceding months, years probably, with all the terror attacks the country was suffering, and the frustration of leaky borders and a government that didn’t seem to have the balls to deal with the growing illegal immigrant problem, and the thousands of men pouring into the country claiming to be refugees, but now the threat wasn’t just in the cities. It was real—it was in the towns—the bastards were targeting them—the ordinary, inconsequential people living their small-town lives. What the hell was going on? What had he, Michael, ever done to deserve being run over or set on fire? Nothing. Absolutely bloody nothing. Intolerant bloody fuckwits! He closes the gate behind him making sure to slide the bolt back in place then pushes the bike onward. The front door is in sight but seems so far away—the sooner he gets another one of those pills down his neck the better. He wheels the bike and begins to lean it against the wall. No. If someone should see it … He takes a breath as another wave of pain spreads through his shins and upwards to his knees then rises through his thighs.
Fumbling in his pocket, he reaches for the strip of tablets Janet had given him and hobbles to the kitchen grabbing the half-drunk bottle of water. He pops two pills and downs them with one mouthful of water. They catch in his throat and their bitterness makes him gag. He swallows another mouthful of water and they disappear into his stomach. Hobbling to the living room he lies on the settee—the leather is cool, the cushion soft on his head. He waits and listens to the birdsong as the Tramadol enters his bloodstream.
Still raw from this morning’s horrors, he startles when a loud scratch sounds outside. Heart tapping a heavy rhythm against his ribs, he pushes himself up on his elbows to listen.
Scratch!
Birds! Just the house martins that were nesting under the eaves.
He lays back against the cushion and closes his eyes. Flames. Screams. Stinking, singeing flesh and hair. Eyes snap open and he focuses on the white paint of the ceiling, rubbing at his forehead as pain pulses inside the back of his head. He takes another sip of water. The bastards deserved what they got. But it’s stuck in your head now. Never mind, you’ll get over it. He takes a breath and his muscles begin to relax. He groans and gives himself over to the Tramadol, letting its chemicals soothe him and pull him down into the darkness of a deep, drug-induced sleep.
Chapter 16
As Jessie reaches the brow of the hill she spots them—five figures walking in the distance: mother, sister, Andy, Clare and Bill. They turn as they hear the noise of the bike’s engine and she can’t help but smile. They won’t guess it’s her. Alex rides just behind her and not too far behind Uri and Viktoria are travelling in the car. There’s enough space on the bikes and in the car to fit everyone in. Getting to Bramwell will be a cinch now.
As she slows to a stop beside the group Bill steps forward. His eyes are lively and a huge smile breaks out across his face, white teeth among his thick copper beard. He’s the only one who looks anywhere near energetic. The rest look worn, reflecting the strain of the last days and the long journey on foot. Andy’s face is pinched and his eyes puffy from lack of sleep. His shoulders sloped, arms limp. There’s a sourness to his face she hasn’t noticed before and, next to Bill, he looks positively flabby. Her mother smiles even though she must be worn-through with tiredness. Bill stands back, hands on hip, grinning. Being tested like this obviously suits him. She returns his smile. His eyes have that same strength that she’d seen in Captain Riley’s and … her father’s. ‘True colours, Jessie,’ is what he would have said. ‘That’s when you’ll see a man’s true colours—when he’s tested, when he’s pushed beyond endurance.’
“You made it then, gal!” Bill says with a smile stepping up and walking around the bike.
“Yep.”
The soft breeze is cooling and as she dismounts, the air heavy with the scent of the yellow rape flowers that fill the fields, a sea of yellow waiting to be harvested and pressed into oil. She begins to relax, relieved to be free of the helmet. Her sister and mother are safe and it won’t take them long to get to Bramwell.
“A Triumph Bonneville!” Bill exclaims as he walks around the bike. “The old ones are the best. Proper British bike this one—won’t let you down.”
“It started first time.”
“Been looked after. Proper engineering. None of this electronic shite that goes belly-up the first time the sun zaps us!” He walks full circle then steps back admiringly. “Been fully restored. What a beauty.”
“It’s just an old bike,” Andy grumbles as he joins them. “I prefer cars—you don’t get wet when you’re driving a car.”
“Never been on a bike, Andy?” Bill asks with a hint of derision.
“No, and never want to either. Four wheels are better than two.”
Bill scoffs and turns back to the bikes, crouching to admire the Triumph’s engine.
“Beautiful.” He stands and takes a step back. “I did Route Sixty-Six a few years ago, well … hell, it must be seven at lea-” He stops and cocks his head. In the distance an engine thrums across the noiseless hills.
“Sounds like someone’s managed to get a car going.”
The group falls silent as they listen to the drone of the engine.
“It’ll be Uri and Viktoria,” Alex explains. “I thought we’d lost them at one point, Jess.”
“We did lose them—at the last junction. Perhaps they stopped off for a comfort break—for the kid?”
“Who?” Andy asks peering down the road as he steps next to Jessie. Body odour, strong and sour, hangs in their air as he shields his eyes.
“Uri and Viktoria. They came with us from the city.”
He knocks against her shoulder as he takes another step forward. He seems unsteady. “You alright, Andy? Do you need to sit down, or have a drink?”
“No!” he replies with a hint of irritation still squinting into the distance.
Jessie ignores his rudeness. The past days have been tough and she’s not about to take umbrage if he’s snappy, it just wasn’t worth the confrontation.
The hum of the engine grows louder and within another minute the yellow Ford Escort rolls into view.
Bill is suddenly alert. “Looks like we’ve got company.”
“It’s them,” Alex confirms.
“Everyone—stay together.” Bill walks to the front. “Keep behind the bikes.”
“It’s OK,” says Jessie as the group becomes tense watching the car move closer and then pull off the road onto the verge twenty feet away. “It’s just a family that we helped back in the city. I said they could travel with us.”
“You didn’t tell them where we were going did you?” Andy asks as he peers along the road.
“No. I just said that they could travel with us. It was safer for us all to travel together.”
“Do they have anywhere to go?”
“I don’t know but the city isn’t safe.”
“The sooner we get to Bramwell the better,” Clarissa adds as the car pulls up.
“We’ve got enough people already, Clariss
a. Do you have enough food for more and will there be enough bed-” Andy’s complaints come to an abrupt halt as the car door opens and Uri steps out.
Bill stares at the car, his body suddenly tense, hands on hips. Her mother makes an odd mewling and clutches at Andy’s hand. Jessie looks from the terror that has fixed over her mother’s face to the set frown on Bill’s to the disbelief in Andy’s and fear clutches at her belly.
“It’s him,” her mother whispers. Her voice trembles as she stares at the blond.
“Who?” Jessie asks following their horrified stares back to the young family.
“Stay calm, everyone,” Bill commands scanning the area then quickly returning his stare to Uri. He’s looking for cover!
“At the house.”
Bill pushes her mother behind his back forcing her to step towards a cluster of low-cut hawthorn that edges the yellow fields.
“Stella!” Bill calls. “Get behind your mother. Jessie, Alex—don’t let him out of your sights.”
Still confused she follows orders and watches Uri as Bill gives her mother and sister cover, his body blocking them from the man behind the car door. In his hand is a large knife.
“I’m not here to harm them,” Uri calls. His voice reverberates in the silence, seems to judder in the hot air.
“Oh, hell!” Jessie exclaims. It’s him! How the hell could this have happened? “Don’t move. Cover me.”
She slips off her rucksack keeping Uri in her sights, watching every movement. He doesn’t move and holds both hands high in a gesture of surrender. Viktoria stares from her husband to the small group of people. Now it made sense that he had a firearm. He’d mumbled something about being a bodyguard. Bullshit! He was the man who had tried to kill her mother. She pushes down the anger rising in her belly, the self-loathing for bringing him to her, and unzips her bag. He’s armed and if he fired they’d stand little chance, but she could make sure he knew she wasn’t about to let him kill her mother.
Nights of Fire: An EMP Survival Thriller (Blackout & Burn Book 2) Page 10
