‘You don’t have to tell me.’
Mike wishes them luck and waddles to his idling four-by-four. ‘You’d have to fancy your chances,’ says Bobbie, ‘outrunning him when he’s not behind the wheel.’
‘Now, now,’ her father says, but she’s glad to see him smile. ‘We’re to stay here, you understand. Block off the escape route through the Poors.’
‘Shouldn’t we hide or something?’
‘Would you like to hide?’
‘Gets out of the sun at least.’
‘Why not? Make an adventure of it.’
Parallel to the firebreak, and marking the limits of the Poors, the gorse grows tall and dense. They edge into it, finding a hollow just large enough to crouch in.
Far away in the Old Dean estate, there is a blast of noise. Two-stroke engines. Like the blorting of ancient war horns.
Their eyes and thoughts tangle. She sees him reach for the walkie-talkie in his pocket.
Her father stands up to watch the access road that separates the Poors from army training land. Nothing yet, though both can hear the engines. A minute. Another.
Two bikers roar past their hiding place. Through gorse needles Bobbie sees dust and the speeding helmets, one blue and one white.
Her father is on his walkie-talkie. ‘It’s Richard Borowski. Two bikers heading your way … Will do.’ He crouches to speak to her. ‘Do you want to know the tactics?’
‘Get cramp?’
‘So we’re setting a trap. Mike is stationed on the Devil’s Highway west of Star Point, the MoD blocks the eastern exit. Meanwhile the police guard the gate back to the housing estate. The bikers won’t be able to escape along the Devil’s Highway, so they’ll come back south, and if they try to make a break for it through the heath, we have, I have, to dissuade them.’
‘How do you plan to do that?’
‘Stand in their way. The helicopter will be driving them towards the officers on the ground.’
‘Do they know I’m here?’
‘Who?’
‘The police.’
Her father’s eyes are big and bright like he’s on something. His mouth is wet. ‘You’re not,’ he says, ‘to do anything. This is my job and you stay hidden.’
‘But –’
‘We’re just a cog in this operation. We don’t try to stop them or make an arrest. We just block off an escape route.’
‘What if they ride straight at you?’
‘They won’t try anything with a police helicopter over their heads. It’ll be like herding sheep.’
‘Right.’
‘Really angry sheep.’ He bleats and makes a furious face and Bobbie is good enough to simper at it. He puts the walkie-talkie on low volume and stows it in his trouser pocket.
They crouch in the prickly shade. Bobbie’s stone is hot from the heat of her flesh.
They wait.
15
The Heave
The day dont give itself to walkin. Groups just off when the sun turn brown like a rotty fruit, like it burn itself out an trees start to shake, dust start to bite. We hear the howlin first. Scowl into the wind till we see it buildin. Risin up fast, a wall of sand an bush, scraps churnin an boilin cross the heave. Bracin for the shock we ball on our knees as the wave smash over us. Like we could drown it come racin up, yankin hair an stabbin eyes an lips. Force each on us to shrink into our lonesum. Tho others near each ones alone. Till Efia feel hands grip her hood an Abans in her face yellin, Hold me, an she catch the crumbs of his words before the wind snatch em away. So she grab Aban an find other hands closin in. Becca, now Dowd is it, an someone else grippin her foot. This go on, each scuttlin to find others till as one the group anchor down gainst the wind. In anger it throw stuff at us, a thornbush, some planks, a scythe of flyin metal. A dead bird pin itself to Dowds back an all hear him screechin like its Davy his self lay a hand on him. Efia see Dowd reach for the corse an throw it into the wind. Then a blow knock her over.
Like nightfall the air go dark, she fold into a roar so loud theres no space to hear herself cry. Keep a hold on her thinks then. Remember shes Efia, this is Aban, these are Malk Becca Rona Nathin Dowd. Picture the group to bind her thinks to it cos elseways this storm drive her mad. Try to breathe low to the ground, make a burrow of air with her body. Mouth shut, nostrils burnin. A mass of bodies holdin fast to life. Waitin for the horror to blow over cos it dont care if we live or die. Dont need witnesses. Just the world ragin like the world must. Till the rage wear itself out or take itself elseways. Into places we scape from for ever.
Who can say how long the storm last, it get so our legs numb, our thinks blank an gobs gum up with dry spit. Malk hide in sleep cos when the blast ease Nathin podge him an Malk snort an say, Wha?
Malk, say Nathin, his voice dusty an broke. The storms passin where we go what we do?
Malk nod then slap the back of his head like to wake him. Blinkin at the sand ghosts before us. Dowd spittin or tryin to spit, Becca whimperin, Aban Efia pickin grit out each others eyes.
War, croak Malk.
Eh?
Water.
Nathin shift fast an give Malk his jercan. Malk pull like a billykid on its mammys tit till others feel likeways an its all guzzlin with no thinks for after. Wind still raw but not so bad we cant rise up an kick blood into our legs, feel it come stingin back. Shake the sand off our clothes, scan the horizon. The scrubs gone white an trees bent like they lookin at the storm tide driftin up they trunks. Nuthin doin but walk on, make ground an look for shelter. Go slow. Head west. Into the ache of empty bellies. Like hungers got our guts on a spool an its drawin us in till we stop to stop it. Gnawin grub from our backpacks, eyes searchin the heave for food or trouble.
Efias up first lookin thru the packs. Frettin, say Nathin but she flip him a finger an line up the jercans. Only one still full. Grub not much better when we finish what we start.
Soon as we can we up an off. Sky clear now an the sun howlin at us. Poundin skulls an eyes. Like a beast ridin our backs it dig its toes behind our knees, weigh down our hips, gnaw our necks. Till we bow under it. Each step a battle. Sweat mixin with sand to streak our skins. Each thinkin we never feel such heat in all our days. Like the suns tumblin inwards or the worlds fallin sunways. Hurtlin into that ragin ball.
There.
What?
Look, say Rona. Aint that smoke?
Bushfire, say Aban.
No. Its cookin.
Best be off, say Becca.
An nuthin to eat or drink? Lets check it, say Aban an he look to Malk who hold the guidin stick. Malk nod an lift the stick.
We chase the smoke to its fire root.
What we finds no stedders up for trade but black ruins. The smoulderin ribs of huts. Bust-up tents an a twitchin dog. Lookin sharp we search for a well. Hopin ones not broke or worse.
Hard to make out much at first. Fire an sand leave a wrack of dust an ashes. Broke stuff mostly. A roastin smell find us an lead to a bloke in the beams of his hut. Arms out like the muscles still at work an fists clenchin. Flesh black charcoal. Head with its pain still showin. From out his belly guts swell like fat grubs. On the hut step the scorch marks of a cookin fire, only yards from the corse. Becca sift the ground for left beans an corn.
Aban kiss the pray patches on his curta an others do likeways. Keep the evil off us. Goin from ruin to ruin an findin only the dead.
How long you reckon?
Malk look at Efia who ask the question.
Fresh, he say. One day or two.
Are you not angry, say Dowd.
Gainst who?
The men who did this.
Hoofers, say Nathin with a shrug.
Can you be sure?
Hoofers dont belong no place dont respect em as does. Tramp grass with they goats an leave folk as belong nuthin but desert.
Hoofers, say Rona, all ousters. An stink at that with they ouster grub an lingo.
Rightyer, say Nathin. You ever hear hoofer speak right? Hoofer
s make nuthin. Dont grow grain dont deserve to eat least not at spence of folk as work the land.
Oh I see, say Dowd an Efia can see hes tremblin. Like you lot I suppose.
Born here thats us. Nathin stab the point of his sharpstick in the sand between Dowds feet. Dowd look at him like he mean to fight for it so Efia say, There aint nuthin here for likes on us lets go.
Us, say Nathin. An whos that then? Nuthin to eat nor drink an we got to drag this ouster with us?
Nathin, say Malk. Thats enuf. Efias right. We find water or best be off.
Long search turn up a well an Aban push off the lid. Out rush a stream of flies. We see no sky in the waters mirror. Only a stink of rotty flesh. Bastards, shout Rona. Sicko bastards!
No water in our guts, we hide from the sun in a hot womb of thorns. Waitin out the hottest with Becca startin up, Why? Why kill an burn what you cant eat or carry?
Why not, say Aban. Flames easy to start an hard to stop. Keep burnin then. Hope yer fire beat the others fire tho fire aint got no sides just hunger an all it want to eat.
Water stem fire, Efia say.
Nathin Becca Rona holler, Where you find water if you far from a well?
Sand do as good, say Efia. Aban look at her an she feel a burnin not like fire in her throat. Aban smile his tidy smile the group can see but the bright in his eyes just for Efia.
Sand can work, he say. Stop fire easy.
How you lift enuf, say Nathin. How you scoop enuf to stem the fire? Tell us Aban an you know so much.
Just sayin, Aban say. Anyways its killin we speakin of. Fire just a way for talkin closer to it.
If fire mean killin, Malk say, how you stem that?
Aban flap his lips an Efia see the muscles in his jaw. Dunno the word, Aban say. Dunno the word but it stem fire better than water.
Love, say Efia.
The words a bird that fly out from a bush. Rona Becca dang they gobs an Nathin Malk stare. Becca laugh first. Love for shade, she say. Love for shades a good trade.
No, say Efia.
Love for shade! A good trade!
Not that, say Efia. Not grindin. But Rona Becca Nathin laughin now, they got they chant like kiddies a ball they toss between em. Only Malk in his way an Aban Dowd keep out of it. Malk standin with the guidin stick, holdin it not right way but like a spear or club. Eyes down in the far-off dust.
Efia see him rise. Stiffness takin every muscle. Malks face like a hand strike it. Thru the song an laughin Efia feel cold panic. Malk, she say. Wassup?
All the group hear the shake in Efias voice an the laughter die. Bodies stiff in that cage of thorns we strain to see out. Becca whimper, tho shes the last to know whats headin our way.
Men. Twenty or more with packs an camels, wadin out of the heat pool. Lopin like dogs. Wakin dust with they boots. Some carry clubs an sticks. Mashtis hangin like sharp fruit from they wrists. Others with guns strap to they backs. Akays an autos. Headin for the ruins till no more than a spears throw from our hidey place.
Best be off, say Becca, best be off –
Shush.
Malk crouch low an all do likeways. Thorns hide us an theres nuthin worth pickin over in the scrub.
Only the men got a hound on a lead.
It smell us for show, say Rona. We gotta run.
Who hold the guidin stick? Me, say Malk. Cant go thru that but give us away.
God oh god, say Becca.
So we wait for em to sniff us out?
Shut it all on you.
We turn quiet cos the men close now. Kickin down the huts, stabbin the ashes with they sticks. Voices cheery like its not a bone ground. The blokes dont have uniforms, only scraps an rags. Bits of combat cammo. Two wearin helmets. One sign mark em all. On shirts an sleeves, a white stickman with hoe in one hand mashti in the other.
Juntamen, say Aban.
The whole group feel sick. Never so awake in years. Every thorn an flint solid an the carder song like its fizzin in our heads. Deaths come callin. A dog bark an its here.
Dowd look cross the thorns to Efia. His face. His lips tight an sweat all over em. Her own face a mask of wet an guts churnin to stew.
Listen, say Dowd. When I run you break for it. Go as fast as you can. I will lead them off.
Dowd no.
They will find us. They find us and its over.
Stay, say Efia.
But Dowds risin. Fucks sake run, he say. Run.
Like in a dream we watch him crash thru thornbush. Tearin him on its claws, arms up gainst his face like a bloke runnin into flames. For a sec or two hes slow cos of the furzes grip, then hes out in the open an hes runnin fast away from the guns.
Quick, say Malk as the huntin dog wake its bark an its gainst different thorns hes pushin, Efia fast after an Aban Rona Becca Nathin. Brush catchin what it can an nuthin doin but take each lash tho worse than thorns the noise we makin. Only the blokes shouts an the dogs coughin cover us. Malk beat off the last branches with the guidin stick. Blood from torn lips in our mouths. Eyes scaldin, heads like a cloud of mozzies.
Crack of gunfire. Efia cry out, Dowd, an she try to turn back. Aban block her. More shots an Efia jerk like shes hit an No, shes screamin, fightin Aban till she cant win an then hes tryin to prop her up but its like keepin sand from fallin an all the others watch just burstin to be gone.
Efia we must go. We must.
Shouts cross the brush still an the dogs barkin like hes sayin, Heres more on em. Efia, say Aban till hes on his knees in the dust an lookin up he see Nathin run cross open ground to a kaysha wood an Malk Rona Becca caught between till its too much for Becca an shes after Nathin an then Rona give in leavin Malk with his useless guidin stick.
Abans eyes cling to Malk. Efia dead weight in his arms. Then crashin sounds thru scrub behind us an Malk break from Aban. Snappin the bond of they eyes hes off cross the heave to join the others.
Aban look weepin at Efia. Please, he say. Let me live. An its like sumthin start up again inside her. Her head in his shade. His thinks find hers an plant a word there. The word she speak before. What stem fire better than water.
He stand an her hand go after. Up like a bird for him to catch. The strength in his arm pulse thru her. Two sets of muscles grip an Efia find her feet. Calls of men comin thru the thorns but its too sharp for em to hurry. Givin Aban an Efia time to get away.
16
Blueface
The native boy stopped ahead of him. Marcus was glad of the chance to catch his breath.
‘Do you hear?’ The whites of the boy’s eyes gleamed in the dark.
‘What is it?’
‘Quiet.’
‘I can’t help breathing.’
‘They are gone.’
Marcus sieved the night noises for sounds of pursuit. Only the breeze in the branches. Perhaps Glyco was still out there. Perhaps he had turned on them and the conspirators lay dead in the heather. That would make Glyco a legend in the forces and he, Marcus, its shameful secret: the officer dragged to safety by a stripling. If they made it. If Glyco still lived.
‘Follow,’ said the boy.
They crawled and stooped beyond the clutch of branches, into the snow. ‘We move faster,’ the boy said and spoke rapid words that Marcus did not understand.
‘Wait – wait. How do you know the way?’
The boy considered the question. He turned on his heel, his head tipped back and his mouth agog. ‘There,’ he said. ‘Like this.’ He made a V shape with his index fingers. ‘It is the flight of geese. That is south. So there –’ He turned again and pointed at stars that Marcus knew: the Seven Plough Oxen with the steadfast star above them. ‘That,’ said the boy, ‘is north.’
‘To the road?’
‘Yes.’
‘We follow the road?’
Again the boy spoke too fast. It was wearying. Without the step-by-step absorption of trying to move in darkness, lassitude spread like fever through Marcus’s body.
His guide seemed to have no such difficultie
s. Like a kid goat he skittered off into the heather and Marcus had no choice but to follow. Dense swells of ling required them to wade like fishermen in shallows. Each stride plunged needles into Marcus’s lumbar, for the cold and his immobility in the grove had wounded him. Perhaps sensing this, the boy was careful to guide them onto fresh browsing, where fires had left only low growth and the brittle charcoal of burned stems.
He was steered thus, pulled and cajoled, south of the native settlement: close enough to distinguish the hill fort against the sky. Perhaps they both had enemies in that place of darkness. It would have to answer for what had been done to him.
They walked together in silence beneath the stars. Soon it was all heath and emptiness again. Marcus had no sense of direction. Were they level with, or beyond, the place of ambush? He had no wish to encounter what remained of Lucius and Celer and the horses.
He felt his legs fail him. The boy leapt to help but was too late.
‘I must sleep. Damn it, I don’t know the word – sleep.’ The boy shook his head. ‘I have been injured and starved, I can go no further.’
The boy made a despairing gesture and watched him where he sat.
Marcus contemplated the frozen heather. A dream pressed down on his head. He fought it with a jerk and groaned as needles of pain swept through his neck.
‘Yes,’ said the boy. ‘Yes, follow.’
‘Enough follow.’
‘Not here. Come.’
Marcus crawled like a baby onto his hands and knees. He growled as he concentrated all his efforts on standing up. There. First task done.
The boy led him slowly across the sleeping earth.
‘Oh, no more thornbushes,’ said Marcus, but his helper seemed to know the place: a clot of gorse into which sheep had gouged a cavity with their bodies. Marcus slumped among the tufts of thorn-carded wool. ‘Wait, where are you going? Don’t leave me!’
The boy returned and made a gesture of lifting food to his lips. He patted Marcus on the chest as if he were a pet dog in need of comforting. Then he was gone for a long time.
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