by Andrew Tudor
As he stood taking in the extraordinary scene, one of the brown-robed functionaries came up to him.
“Prophet’s word be with you,” he said, inclining his head in Hart’s direction. “You have the look of a stranger in a strange land. Have you come to join us?”
“Um, yes,” Hart said, doing his best to appear bashful, simple even, at being directly addressed in this way. “That’s if you’re the Peculiar People. You are, aren’t you?”
“We are indeed. And always happy to welcome another into the fold.” The man made a sweeping gesture across the crowd. “As you see, we have multitudes.”
“What are they all doing here?” Hart asked.
“The Chosen One is going to address us. This is Hylands Park.” He pointed to a white neo-classical villa in the distance. “The house is his residence, but shortly he’ll be coming down here to walk among us and to speak.”
Hart looked wide-eyed at the man. “Will it be all right if I wait to see him? Me being a stranger and all.”
“Of course. You’ll be very welcome. We are open to everyone. Just stay close to me and I’ll make sure that you get to hear him. We who wear the robe…” he held out his arms as if to show his garb to best advantage, “… we are The Guardians. His special disciples and protectors.”
Hart did his best to look suitably impressed at this self-important claim, while wondering if their protection of the Chosen One ran to torture and murder. Probably so, he thought. Apocalyptic religious fundamentalism had all too often proved to be a happy home for psychopaths. Still, this accidental contact might well prove useful.
“Thank you,” he said. “What should I call you, sir?”
“We are all Brothers and Sisters,” the man replied, “and I am Brother Lionel. You are?”
“John,” Hart said, adding with a tentative smile, “Brother John.”
“Praise be! It’s a good biblical name, Brother John.” Lionel took his arm. “Now, stick close to me and I’ll make sure that you are near enough to see The Prophet when he speaks.”
Which he did, subjecting Hart to a constant commentary on the PeePees’ beliefs, both before and after the Chosen One had spoken. Hart noted that wherever their leader walked among the adoring crowd he was surrounded by a group of Guardians, the kind of men that at other times and in other places would have been wearing dark suits, sunglasses and earpieces. They were taking no chances with their white-robed leader even in the midst of his own people. As for the speech itself, it began with an invocation of the Zeno epidemic in a prophetic passage from the Book of Daniel – ‘they shall place the abomination that maketh desolate’ – then, after that, appeared to Hart to be no more than a series of rhetorical flourishes and non sequiturs. The crowd clearly thought differently, however, and enthusiastic cries of ‘Praise Be’ and ‘Hallelujah’ punctuated it throughout.
Once the prophet had retreated to his villa – no sackcloth and ashes here, Hart thought irreverently – Lionel proposed that Hart came home with him for that night and then, the next day, they would find him a place in one of the hostels that the PeePees had set up for newly arrived converts. Hart accepted with alacrity. Hopefully he could find out more about the PeePees’ plans by playing the simpleton in need of guidance. Over a meal Lionel proved garrulous enough, but Hart did not learn much other than what little might be gleaned from a string of quotations from Revelations and assorted other biblical sources. By 10pm he was relieved to be shown the bedroom where he was to spend the night.
Left alone, he extracted his hunting knife and silenced pistol from his bag. He was not about to place any trust in the seemingly avuncular Brother Lionel so, when he did get into bed, he remained almost fully dressed and kept the knife and pistol close at hand. He lay back to rest, neither quite asleep nor fully awake, a skill that he had learned many years earlier in his security service training. Sure enough, at around 1am he heard the soft tread of bare feet on the landing outside his room and then the slow opening of the door. Hart lay still, hugging one of the pillows to his chest as might a child in need of comfort, concealing the pistol behind it. Lionel, wearing pyjamas, came into the room, glanced briefly at the apparently sleeping form and then began going through the contents of Hart’s bag. He’ll find nothing incriminating in there, Hart thought, taking a firmer grip on the gun. The search complete, Lionel walked across to the bed, sat down on its edge and placed a hand on Hart’s thigh. Hart started as if suddenly awakened, then sat up, still clutching the pillow to his chest.
“It’s all right, John,” Lionel said. “I thought we might keep company with one another during the night.”
“Did you?” Hart said, and then again more harshly, “Did you indeed?”
He pushed the pillow towards Lionel to repel him, ensured that it was wrapped tightly around the gun and squeezed the trigger. There was a dull thump and Lionel fell backwards off the bed, prostrate on the floor and gasping in shock. Hart stood over him and, recalling the dreadful circumstances of Jenny’s death, pressed the pillow over Lionel’s face and held it there until all movement ceased. He dragged the body over to the room’s empty wardrobe, stuffed it in and closed the door. Then he sat down and listened carefully. Not a sound. If anybody had heard the muffled gunshot they would have thought it was someone dropping a heavy object or banging into some furniture. After collecting his possessions, Hart set about searching the house, beginning with Lionel’s bedroom and working his way downstairs.
In Lionel’s wardrobe he found an almost new Guardian’s robe. He stood looking at it for a moment then folded it up and crammed it into his rucksack. He also took Lionel’s PeePee pendant which was hanging on the back of a bedroom chair. Downstairs he discovered a wallet containing a quantity of PeePee currency and Lionel’s identification papers, which he added to his haul. In a folder of documents he came across a letter instructing Lionel to join his section of the Holy Army at Wisbech on a day some five weeks hence, as well as a map which showed the Army’s line of assembly stretching north from Chelmsford to Lincoln. Five weeks, Hart thought, I don’t have long. Pocketing the letter and the map, he took what food remained in the kitchen then slipped out the back door into an untidy rear garden. In a small lean-to shed were stored a few rusty gardening implements and, Hart was pleased to discover, an old but functional bicycle. He wheeled it out, checked that the tyres were firm, and prepared to leave. It was now almost 3am.
Fortunately Lionel’s house was on the west side of the town so Hart was quickly into countryside. He would be far from the PeePees by dawn and, all being well, should be back at Whipsnade before nightfall. As he cycled he reflected upon what had happened. He had never killed a man before so he tried to examine the sensation of having done so now. But it proved elusive. He couldn’t quite grasp what it meant for him to have directly taken someone’s life. Of course, while at the DSD he had been involved in activities which had led to others’ deaths, but they had always been at a distance. This had been up close and personal. Yet he found that he had no distinctive feelings about it, neither sorrow nor guilt, nor even satisfaction. It had just been something that was necessary and he had done it efficiently enough. He knew now that, if he needed to, he would be able to kill again. But the more important lesson that he had learned from his visit to Chelmsford was quite how serious a threat were the PeePees and their Prophet. This gave him a renewed sense of purpose and so, as he pedalled onwards and dawn eased into the sky behind him, he began to formulate a plan.
It proved far too long a winter for so many people that year. A population weakened by cold, hunger and stress had little resistance to the flu when the virus came calling. Many died, while many more were closer to it than their friends and families would have wished. In the little Argyll community the two children had to be nursed through desperate fevers and, having avoided it for so long, Ali finally succumbed. She was six days bedridden and for a significant proportion of that time knew lit
tle or nothing of what went on around her. She was not left alone for a minute, Douglas and her father taking turns to sit with her as she oscillated between lucidity and incoherent rambling, between fever and fits of uncontrollable shivering. When at last she returned to the world of the living she lacked energy and stamina for several weeks, only slowly getting back to something like her old self.
She and Charlotte convalesced together, reading and playing games while tucked up on the sofa in front of the wood-burning stove. So cold had the winter been that their stock of seasoned wood was running low and, much to Duncan’s disgust, they were threatened with the need to use freshly felled timber on the fire. Not that the two recovering patients were greatly concerned just as long as the logs kept appearing and they could keep warm. It was on such a fire-hugging day that Charlotte suddenly made an announcement.
“Auntie Ali, I want to be called Charley from now on.”
“Why’s that?” Ali asked. “Charlotte’s a lovely name.”
“Yes, it’s OK, but it’s very long. Yours gets shortened to Ali instead of Alison, and there’s Rav and Kenny and Jimmy, and…”
At this point she ran out of examples, allowing Ali to intervene.
“But Douglas stays Douglas,” she said.
The little girl looked at her conspiratorially. “I asked him about that,” she whispered, “and he told me that it was because he didn’t like to be called Doogie. But I have to keep that a secret.”
“Yes, you’d better,” Ali whispered in return. “All right, I’ll call you Charley if that’s what you really want. But you’d best explain to your mum and dad that it’s your idea or they might tell me off.”
Charlotte nodded. “I promise,” she said, cuddling up to Ali and staring happily at the glowing logs.
Ali, too, looked deep into the fire and contemplated their situation. She was more or less better now, feeling guilty about still spending the days resting instead of doing her share of the work. Apart from the flu, they had survived the winter without facing any desperate crises. In preparation for what they now thought of as the inevitable move north, Jimmy and Kenny had made several trips to Poolewe. The Magic Wagon, as Charlotte-now-Charley had dubbed the lorry, proved remarkably reliable, and with various ingenious adaptations had allowed them to transport not just supplies and possessions to the relative safety of the far north-west, but also Murdina’s cattle and sheep. They had bought the animals from her when she had moved in with her sister in the nearby port town of Oban. So there was now yet another deserted house in what had once been a viable crofting community. The flu, it would seem, was doing a better job of emptying this part of the Highlands than had the infamous Clearances.
Ali’s sleepy ruminations on Scottish history were suddenly interrupted by the arrival of first her father, looking grim, closely followed by his dog, and then the rest of the group other than Jimmy and Kenny who were still away in the north. They gathered around the fire as Ali forced herself to sit up and pay attention.
“What’s happened?” she asked.
Duncan, who had squeezed onto the sofa next to her, gestured towards Douglas. “Douglas has got some news,” he said, putting an arm around Ali’s shoulders.
“Not good news, I’m afraid,” Douglas began. “Winter’s been very bad further south, a lot of people starving around Glasgow, and with the first signs of easing weather the Reivers have started moving north again. I’ve spoken with some people who managed to stay one step ahead of them. It sounds like they’re not just coming up the main route past Loch Lomond but also through Inveraray and, I guess, up the coast. I think it’s time for us to move on.”
“How long have we got?” Sarah asked.
“I simply don’t know.” Douglas frowned. “It’s impossible to predict. Depends on how many there are and what they find to delay them along the way. But I think we have to assume the worst and leave as soon as practically possible.”
Ali slipped her arm round her father’s waist and leaned her head on his shoulder. This was what she had been dreading for months.
Meeting no disagreement, Douglas continued. “If you could all start getting organised as we’ve planned. I’ll radio Jimmy and Kenny to see when they can get here. We should meet again this evening when I’ve had a chance to talk to them.”
The group dispersed, leaving Ali and Duncan sitting forlornly on the sofa with Pike flopped out on his sheepskin rug in front of the fire.
“Please come, Dad. What’s the point of staying here?” Ali was close to tears.
“We’ve been through all that, Alison. There’s nothing to be gained by going over it again. I’m content here. I don’t want to go traipsing off to the north at my time of life.” He paused, staring absently at the sleeping dog. “I haven’t mentioned it before sweetheart but I’m not in good health. I’ve probably not got long left anyway. So I’d rather stay.”
Ali turned to him in disbelief. “You’re just saying that. It’s not true.”
“I’m afraid it is. I have a tumour. Before all this happened they might have operated, perhaps got me a few more years. But there’s no chance of that now. When it gets to be too much I’ll know what to do.”
“Oh god,” Ali groaned. “Why didn’t you tell me before?”
“No point in worrying you,” he said. “Nothing you or anybody else could do about it.”
Ali was unable to think of anything to say, certainly nothing that would persuade her father to change his mind. Sensing their unhappiness Pike came across and rested his chin on Duncan’s leg, looking up at the two of them with mournful brown eyes. Idly scratching the dog’s head Duncan murmured, “Good boy, Pike,” then turned to Ali.
“Have you heard anything from your mother?”
Ali was surprised at the enquiry. Her parents had not parted on good terms when her mother had left for the USA with a new partner. Ali could not recall Duncan ever asking about her before.
“No,” she replied. “Not since Zeno happened. They were in California. She was never very good at keeping in touch anyway. I did try to contact her when I was still in Edinburgh, but no response.”
“I tried too when all this started. I wanted to make things better between us before… well, you know, before everything fell apart. I don’t even know if she got the message.”
Ali squeezed her father’s hand and they sat in silence as the afternoon wore on until they were interrupted by Douglas bursting in, clearly irritated and swearing under his breath.
“You’re still here. Good,” he said, “they can’t make it down here. Jimmy and Kenny, I mean. Something about Fort William. It’s become a kind of fortress again. Last time they were travelling up it was already getting difficult. If they try now they think they’d lose the lorry and maybe their lives. But they believe they can safely meet us just north of there if we can make our way to them.”
“Plan B then,” Ali said. They had already discussed alternatives that might be managed on foot if they were forced to flee at short notice.
“Aye, and we’ll need to keep well away from the main roads north in case of Reivers. It’s the rough route up the east side of Loch Etive for us, then along the glen and onto the old West Highland Way at the Kingshouse.”
“Should take you about three days to the Kingshouse from here,” Duncan observed.
Ali smiled at him. “You might do it in that,” she said, “but we’ve got young children and adults who aren’t accustomed to hillwalking.”
“Hah,” Duncan replied, mock affronted. “I’d do it in two, but OK, for you lot I’ll say four days then. It’s not the bairns you’ll have to worry about, it’s the unfit grown-ups.”
“At least four,” Douglas said, then turning to Ali: “Alison, while I talk to the others could you go down the road and tell Shona what’s happened? I don’t know if she and the two boys will still want to come now, but if they do they’r
e welcome and their ponies will be very handy.”
“Right. I need to get out for a bit anyway. Too long in front of the fire.” She stood up and went in search of her coat. “Come on, Pike. You like to visit the ponies, don’t you?”
Much of the next day was spent in packing and, Shona proving willing to join them with her teenage sons, setting up saddlebags for the three Highland ponies. Ali worked even harder at these tasks than she might otherwise have done, partly to prove to herself that she was fit again, but more to take her mind off the imminent separation from her father.
They had their last communal meal that night, then Ali and Duncan were left alone in front of the fire. They talked for a while about memories, happy and sad, about what the future might bring, about their love for each other. Then they simply lapsed into silence, Ali with her head in her father’s lap as she had so often lain as a child.
Douglas found them still there, both asleep, when he arose at six in the morning. Gently he squeezed Ali’s shoulder to wake her and set about preparing breakfast. By eight o’clock the group were ready, ponies laden, weapons and rucksacks distributed among the adults. Ali and Duncan had said what they had to say the night before and had agreed to keep farewells short in the morning. She hugged her father, whispering “I love you” in his ear, then knelt down and cuddled Pike who had been nervously watching the travel preparations.
“You look after him, Pike,” she said, the dog licking her face in response.
Then she turned away and joined the others as they set off, resisting the temptation to look back. Duncan and Pike watched them out of sight then retreated together into the empty house, its heavy silence a reminder of the finality of their parting.
That day Pike never strayed from Duncan’s side, except occasionally to look down the road along which the group had disappeared as if expecting their return at any minute. Duncan tried to fall back into the daily routine that he had maintained for so long before the visitors had arrived, but it was difficult and he found himself constantly speculating about where they would have reached on their journey. On the day after their departure he tried once more to re-establish normality, but this time, at around midday, his efforts were interrupted by the unmistakeable sound of gunfire. Pike, always nervous of fireworks and thunder, retreated immediately to his favoured hiding place beneath Duncan’s desk.
