I ignored it.
I was just about to get up and leave when Baker said something that brought me up short. One of the others had asked something about local communities.
“The nearest thing to a community in the area is a school up the road,” said Baker. “A proper school, mind; fee-paying, uniforms, teachers in gowns, army cadets, pupils from good families. There’s a whole collection of boys there playing soldiers.”
“So are you going to approach them? Bring them into your alliance?” asked another.
“Hard to say. We’ve been keeping them under surveillance for a while now...” Shit! “...and there have been some pretty unpleasant goings on there recently. About six weeks ago they actually crucified one of their teachers.”
Various exclamations of disbelief.
“No, really. And they’re very heavily armed. They raided the armoury of a Territorial Army HQ, so they’ve got machine guns and grenades. They’ve not threatened us at all but I have a suspicion that they may be behind my niece’s disappearance. She left in pursuit of three looters a few months ago, and two of them were boys, so...”
As he momentarily lost the thread of his conversation in a choke of emotion I had a familiar sinking sensation. Here was the biggest player in the area and Mac had only gone and shot his bloody niece. A confrontation would be inevitable if this ever came to light.
“Anyway,” he continued, “I’ve been considering our first move and I think we have to let them know who’s boss. After all, they’re only boys, they should fall into line if they’re shown a firm enough hand. No need for a shooting war. I think a strong demonstration of authority should sort them out.”
This was all starting to sound familiar. Mac’s idea of a strong display of authority involved crucifixion. I imagined Baker’s would involve some poor sod swinging at the end of a noose. Anxious that it shouldn’t be me, I lustily knocked back the remains of my pint, forced myself not to gag, and rose to leave. But as I made for the exit Baker stepped into my path and said:
“My dear Lee, where do you think you’re going?”
“I APOLOGISE, LEE – it is Lee, isn’t it?”
I nodded.
“I apologise, Lee, for misleading you back there. I am well aware that your glorious commander-in-chief executed my niece.”
Baker was sat at a huge desk in what I took to be his office. I could see the business of market day proceeding normally through the huge arched window behind him. A tall woman had just taken the lead in the egg and spoon race.
I was tied to a chair, facing Baker across the desk and wondering how I’d ended up here.
“My source passed on that tidbit of information a few weeks ago,” he said.
“Your source?”
“Steven Williams. I believe he helps run your little farm. He’s out there now, trading vegetables. Nice young man. He thought rather highly of Mr Bates and didn’t take his death well. He came to us one market day and asked for sanctuary, but we were able to persuade him to return to the school and draw us a few maps, detail your defences, provide us with profiles of the key players, that kind of thing. He’s been most helpful.”
I took a moment to digest this. Williams had betrayed us. I didn’t know how to feel about that. On one hand, I couldn’t really blame him; but on the other he’d thrown in his lot with a bunch of tweed-clad fascists who probably thought The Cull was all the fault of immigrants.
“He told us about you, too, Lee. The loyal second-in-command, wounded in action, accessory to at least three murders that we know about.”
There was no point explaining that I was planning to betray Mac too. I was going to have to stay in character; play the part I’d created for myself and hope I could find a way out of this.
How ironic if I ended up hanging for Mac’s crimes before I had a chance to hang Mac for them myself.
“You killed two boys who were just scavenging for food. Don’t you dare talk to me about murder,” I spat.
Baker rose from his seat, walked around the desk and backhanded me hard across the face. A large signet ring cut a groove across my cheek and I felt blood begin to trickle down it.
“Don’t answer me back, boy,” he growled, his façade of civility momentarily stripped away. “I killed looters. Plain and simple. We need law and order, especially now. There can be no exceptions to the rule of law, not for sex or age. Wrongdoing must be punished. Justice must be seen to be done and it must be swift and merciless.”
I lifted my head and stared at him.
“What about the right to a fair trial? What about mitigating circumstances?”
“A fair trial? Like the one you gave your teacher before you killed him? Don’t be naive.”
Dammit, why did all the nutters I found myself talking to always have to keep making such fair bloody points? Anyway we’d killed his niece. There was nothing at all that I could say that would change that. There was no talking myself out of this.
“Okay, I’m your hostage, you’ve got a plan to take the school and you’re probably going to kill me. So let’s get it over with. Why don’t you tell me what you’ve got up your sleeve and then I can escape and foil your evil scheme. What do you say?”
Even as I said the words I cringed inwardly; I’ve seen too many bad movies. Perhaps it was because this was a scenario I’d seen played out so many times that I couldn’t quite bring myself to feel I was really in jeopardy. The hero always ends up talking to somebody who’s about to kill them, and they always manage a last-minute escape. It’s a rule.
“My dear boy,” replied Baker, his façade back in place. “I won’t have time to explain my plans. Sorry.”
Baker was working from the script of a different film.
“Why? Got an appointment to keep?”
“No. But you do.”
ONLY A FEW months ago I had found it hard to conjure up any real concern when faced with imminent death. Reeling from the carnage of The Cull, emotionally shut down after burying my mother, I was barely interested in my own survival. Now, after being savaged and shot, I was keenly aware of how easy it was to die, and more determined than ever not to do so until I was old, feeble and surrounded by fat grandchildren.
But as I was marched up to the gallows I couldn’t see any way to stay alive beyond the next five minutes. My nerve was only barely holding. By the time the rope was slipped around my neck I felt like shitting myself and I wanted to cry.
I stood on the raised wooden platform looking down at the assembled faces of the Hildenborough market crowd, eagerly awaiting the ‘Main Event’ – my death. Some looked excited, others looked bored. They munched on hot dogs or sipped their beers as if it were just another day. Williams avoided my gaze.
I tried to work out how a simple trip to market and a little light gossip had led so quickly and inescapably to my imminent death. This hadn’t been the plan. I wasn’t supposed to die here, not now. What about Mac? What about Matron? What about my dad? This was supposed to be an ordinary day, nothing too risky, nothing spectacular. This wasn’t supposed to be the second date on my tombstone.
It seemed that death had caught me unawares.
Which, of course, is what it always does.
Baker stood beside me and addressed the throng as I tried to prevent my knees from buckling. The rope itched and scratched at the soft flesh of my neck.
“Citizens of Hildenborough, and honoured guests, today marks a new beginning for this town.”
There was a smattering of enthusiastic applause and a few cheers.
“Ever since The Cull descended upon us I have striven to make this town safe – safe for mothers and children; for families and old people. In this town I have made it my business to preserve the values and ideals that made this country great. And I believe I have done so, with your help. Hildenborough is a haven, a sanctuary in a violent and depraved world. But no longer. Today we shall begin to take the message to the country. Today we shall start the process of civilisation anew. From this
town, from this very spot upon which I stand, we shall spread peace and safety throughout the land and we, I, shall be its saviour.
“And that process begins with an enclave of violence and sickness that sits on our front doorstep. Yes, friends, in a small village not far from here is the school of St Mark’s. I know that some of you had children that attended that school, and you remember it as a centre of excellence, fostering values like duty, respect, obedience and independence.
“It is my sad duty to inform you that those values have become perverted. Under the leadership of a cruel, vicious man, the surviving children have armed themselves, overthrown their teachers, and declared themselves an anarchist state.
“Their lawlessness threatens us all. If we allow them to go unchecked then it won’t be long before we are overrun by thugs and bullies, muggers and hoodies; feral children who know only the instinct to smash and destroy the homes and lives of their elders and betters.
“I am here to tell you that this shall not be allowed!”
Cheers and applause again. But, I noticed, not from everyone. A group of about fifteen men stood at the rear of the audience and they appeared to be watching not Baker, but the crowd. The hysteria Baker was whipping up with his well judged oratory was not reaching them.
When the cheering had died down Baker gestured to me.
“This young man had a bright future. He’s not from a good family, his parents own no land and possess no great wealth. But his father served in Her Majesty’s forces and they helped pay for his son’s education at one of the finest schools in the land. They offered him an opportunity to better himself, to rise above his humble origins and excel. And what has he done with that chance? He has put on a uniform to which he has no right, picked up a gun, and embarked on a campaign of slaughter that is too horrific to relate to you good people here today.”
I wanted to point out that it was Mac he wanted. But that was beside the point. Baker had to demonise me before killing me, only then would his point be made and his lesson handed down.
“One could say that he has simply reverted to type. That he was never of good stock and had no place at a school such as St Mark’s. I leave such judgements up to you. What I can do, however, is dispense justice for the men and women he has slaughtered. One of whom, friends, was my own, dear niece, Lucy.”
A gasp from the crowd.
“The execution of this murderous animal signals the start of my campaign to clean up this county, this country! Even as we stand here a force of men is taking control of the school that harboured his vile criminal urges. By tonight we shall have expanded our territory to include this great institution for education and civilisation which I shall personally see is restored to its rightful place at the heart of a nation ruled by respect!”
Huge applause. And the group of men at the back of the crowd sloughed off their long coats and stood waiting for... what?
Baker turned to me.
“Lee Keegan, I find you guilty of the crime of murder and I hereby sentence you to hang by the neck until dead.”
And he pulled the lever.
CHAPTER NINE
JON USED TO have this battered old hardback book called The Hangman’s Art. He was sick like that. It was the memoirs of an executioner but also a manual for a good hanging. Amongst all the factors the author considered important – a black canvas hood, the binding of hands and feet, the fluid motion of the trapdoor – the most crucial detail was the length of the rope.
If you hang a man with a rope that’s too long the drop will decapitate the condemned, and nobody wants that. Conversely, if the rope is too short then the condemned person’s neck will not break and they will swing there, choking to death. This outcome was not considered merciful.
The book contained a graph charting the ratio between the weight of the condemned and the correct length of rope required for a clean, clinical snap of the neck and a swift, essentially painless dispatch.
Thank Christ nobody on Baker’s staff had a copy.
I DON’T THINK there’s any shame in admitting that as I fell into space I lost all control of my bodily functions and shat myself. As I reached the full extent of the rope’s length it snapped tight and dug hard into my windpipe.
I heard a sharp crack and knew that I was dead.
The brain takes a fairly long time to die once deprived of oxygen. I remember Bates telling us once that during the French Revolution the severed heads of guillotine victims could blink on command for up to four minutes after the chop. I wonder what they were thinking, how conscious they were of their situation. Were they screaming silently or were their final, bodiless minutes strangely serene?
As I swung there, knowing that my neck had snapped and that I was beginning the irreversible process of brain death, my vision swam and my lungs cried out for breath that I couldn’t force into them. I didn’t feel serene at all. I wanted to kick and fight and bite and scream my way out of the noose. But my hands were tied and my feet kicked helplessly at thin air. All I could see was the sky rotating above me.
I’ve no idea how long I hung there, it felt like a lifetime. Eventually, just as my vision was starting to fade and the roaring in my ears reached the pitch of a jet plane taking off, I felt someone grab my feet and push upwards. The pressure on my windpipe briefly abated and I gasped down the tiniest of breaths before the grip loosened and I swung free once more.
Then my weight was taken again, but this time it felt like I was standing on someone’s shoulders. I was pushed upwards until I flopped onto the wooden platform like a landed fish. I felt hands loosening the noose and I breathed deep. Before I had time to get my bearings, while my hearing and vision were still blurred and faded, I was pulled to my feet and two people took my weight. I staggered between them, powerless to control where I was being led.
My senses began to re-establish themselves as we hurried down off the scaffold and across grass, around the side of the main building and away from the market. I could hear screams and gunshots. After a short run we stopped and my two rescuers started arguing.
“Where?” Petts.
“Um...” Williams.
“Quickly! We won’t get far with him like this.”
“Okay, inside.”
“Are you fucking nuts?”
“Inside!”
They dragged me through a side door into the main building and then up three flights of stairs. When we finally stopped we were inside a tiny attic room, probably an old servants’ quarters. A small window looked down onto the square below. There was a bed in the corner and my two schoolmates dropped me onto it. Williams closed the door and pushed a chest of drawers across it before slumping onto the floor.
“Who are they?” asked Petts.
“How the fuck should I know?” shouted Williams, on the edge of hysteria.
Resting on the bed I felt the adrenaline surging through me. I was shaking like a leaf, but I could breathe!
“My... my neck. I heard it break,” I gasped. “Why am I still alive?”
“If your neck was broken you’d be dead. Your neck’s fine,” said Petts. “I mean, you’ve got a hell of a bruise, and rope burns and shit, but no broken bones.”
“But I heard it! I heard it break!” I protested.
“That wasn’t your neck, that was a gunshot,” said Williams. “They opened fire the second you dropped.”
I levered myself upright and felt the awful slickness in my pants as I did so.
“Who opened fire?”
“Take a look,” said Petts, gesturing to the window.
I shuffled sideways on the bed and peered down onto the market square. It was a scene of total chaos. The first thing I noticed was Baker, lying next to the lever, half his head missing, sprayed across the gallows platform.
At least that was one less mad bastard to worry about.
The forecourt was still full of people, but they were surrounded by the men I had seen at the back of the crowd. Some of these men carried guns; all
brandished what looked like homemade machetes. There were some bodies lying around the place, a few villagers, and two of the attackers.
I could hear sporadic gunfire in the distance.
“They shot Baker just as he pulled the lever, and the crowd panicked,” explained Petts. “There was a stampede but they were ready for it and they herded everyone back towards the building’s entrance. Some of the men had guns and there was a fight, and during the confusion we were able to get to you. But it looks like these new guys, whoever they are, have got things under control now. By the way, Lee, you stink.”
“Yeah, sorry about that.”
At that moment a strange figure appeared, walking down the driveway towards the house. He was tall and lean and dressed in an immaculate three-piece pinstripe suit, complete with stripy tie and bowler hat. He carried an umbrella and his face was daubed with watery brown paint. He was flanked by two huge bodybuilder types, stripped naked and entirely daubed with the same brown stain. Both men carried machine guns.
Obviously an unknown force had stormed the town. I reasoned that one or two of them must have made it over the wire under cover of darkness and hidden a cache of weapons, probably in one of the abandoned houses. Then the main force had arrived one by one, ostensibly for market day, collected the weapons and waited for the appointed time – my execution. The gunshots in the distance indicated that another force had attacked the guard posts once they’d heard the shooting from inside the town. It seemed like a well organised and effective attack. Now here, in his finest suit, came their leader.
Much as I wanted to see what transpired I was conscious that a force of men from Hildenborough was about to storm the school. We couldn’t hang around here, we needed to get back and warn them. I turned to Williams.
“When do they attack?”
He looked up at me, wide-eyed. “What?”
School's Out Forever (The Afterblight Chronicles: The St Mark's Books) Page 12
