“What’s it like out there?”
“Carnage, Stella. I just can’t believe how badly people are behaving,” she says sitting down at the kitchen table.
“They’re frightened I guess.”
“Yes, yes, I suppose you’re right.”
For a moment she considers telling Stella of the incident at the office then decides against it. Best not worry the girl, she was nervous enough as it was. She’d have a drink then start to plan what to do next. Bramwell would be the best place to be - perhaps it was essential that they went - but getting there on foot would be arduous at the very least.
“I’m dying for a cup of tea. Did you get the gas stove out of the cellar?”
“No! I thought about it, but …”
“OK. Not to worry. I’ll get it and then we can have a warm drink,” she smiles up to her daughter as she takes her shoes off and rubs her feet. “How does hot chocolate sound?”
“Tea would be better,” she smiles back.
Uri had watched from the corner as they’d walked down the street. He’d kept his distance the entire way, but with the chaos all around it had been easy to follow them without being noticed—they were too busy gawking at the pathetic individuals looting and scrabbling for food. He thinks back to Viktoria waiting for him at home. She was used to him being out at odd hours without a phone call to reassure her but, given the situation, she was probably becoming worried.
Side-stepping the fights that had broken out outside the shops, and crunching over the broken glass that littered the paths, he’d become concerned about his own family—what food did they have at home? Was it enough for a day, two days and, if this continued, a week? Viktoria was a good wife, frugal and she cooked well—there was always good home-cooked food on the table, and she cooked in advance, to make life easier, she said. But … the freezer, with all her carefully prepared dishes, how long would they stay frozen with the power out?
The lights he’d watched in awe were beautiful, but they’d brought with them a deadly chaos. The hairs on his neck creep as he mulls over the ramifications of the power outage; after one day people were panicking, fighting among themselves, and stealing. If the power remains off then what? How long before they start to murder each other for food and water. He was used to dealing out death, but it was all so controlled, and never once had his own family been in danger. Looking back to the street, and the rabble fighting at the end, his belly clenches; as soon as this job was complete he’d return home. If he was with Viktoria and Anna they would be safe.
He draws back as the man approaches. The woman has already gone inside. As soon as the man was out of the way, he’d make his way to the house and enter through the back. The front was too open, and even though the road was quiet, there were bound to be nosey neighbours looking out through the windows to the street. He enters a passageway three houses down from the target’s and makes his way to the back. Beyond the slabbed area at the back of the house lies a long area of grass surrounded by shrubs and taller trees that backs onto the gardens of the houses on the road behind. It’s not looked over, so there’s less chance of him being seen. To the right, across the yard, a low wall separates the properties. This was going to be easy! With confidence he strides across the yard and swings his leg over the wall. One more yard to go and he’ll be there.
“Shine the torch over here, Clare,” Jessie commands as she shuffles off her backpack and drops it to the floor. Clare illuminates the area and Jessie clicks the safety lock of the gun to on then places it gently into her bag along with the pack of cartridges she’d found in the terrorist’s bag. She takes a final look at the bodies sprawled on the floor and stands. Once he’d realised she was serious, he’d talked—told her what she wanted to know. She had to trust that it was the truth, although, given the source, that was perhaps questionable. Without remorse she turns away. “Let’s get out of here. The smell of petrol is making me sick.”
Chapter 24
Michael crouches as he sets the traps. It hadn’t taken long to find the runs. He’ll come back tomorrow and check the snares, confident that each one will hold fruit. He’d taken a different route today, exploring a little further beyond his usual hunting grounds, there was no rush to get back home after all.
He makes his way back along the track to the road where his bicycle is leant up against a large beech tree. It was so peaceful. There were only the birds and the odd scurrying in the undergrowth to make a noise. Beautiful! Just the way he liked it without the unbearable and constant drone of traffic. Here he could relax, take a break from the demands of other people. It was true what they said, other people were hell! He shrugs off his backpack and takes out a strip of cloth then ties it around the tree’s trunk—a low-tech reminder of just where he’d left the road. He didn’t usually bother with markers when he was out poaching, but he wasn’t too familiar with this area. Satisfied that the fabric is secure, he swings the rucksack back over his shoulders and mounts his bicycle. He stands, stretches and looks around. It wouldn’t be long before the sun started to drop in the sky and, although his bike had naturally powered lights, he didn’t want to be caught this far out in the dark.
As he peddles through the empty lane he slows down to peer at the house he’d noticed on his way to the hunting ground. Hidden behind the hedgerow, he’d almost missed it, but now that he had time, his curiosity was getting the better of him. He balances on his bike, tip-toes on the tarmac, peers over the gate and down the gravelled driveway. A large wooden gate secured with a heavy link chain bars the way. He dismounts and wheels his bike to the gate to get a better view. At the side on a wooden post, almost grown over with ivy, is a sign that reads ‘BRAMWELL’. The drive curves and only the rooftops and chimney can be seen above the dense shrubbery that surrounds it. Intrigued, he climbs the gate, swings his leg over and jumps to the ground. His feet crunch on the gravel and his heart hammers with excitement. If there was a chain like that across the gate, then the owners must be away and perhaps not coming back for some time, that or it was empty? He looks back at his bike on the other side of the gate. Perhaps he should bring it this side. No. There wasn’t another soul about for miles.
With slow steps, he follows the drive until the house comes into view. It’s beautiful. A single storey cottage with a large wooden door surrounded by flowers and woodlands—just the kind of place he should have, but of course, being an operative at a garlic bread factory, he had no way of affording it. Unable to help himself, Michael walks up and peers in through the window to the living room. It was exactly as he’d imagined it to be although perhaps a little sparse suggesting that the owners didn’t live here. A leather sofa takes up the majority of the space in the small room and is placed opposite a log-burner with a large basket full of logs ready to be burned. At the back of the room is a book case with just a few books sitting on its shelves. In the corner is a pile of transparent, and obviously very full, plastic containers. He counts them – six in total. Odd. Must be a holiday home and the containers are supplies for when they returned. They really should have put them somewhere out of sight though.
He moves to another window and looks in through the kitchen. Again, sparse with more boxes. A solid, scrubbed pine table sits at the centre of the room surrounded by mismatched chairs. Of more interest to Michael is the ancient-looking stove. He peers at it closely, checking around its base for the evidence of gas pipes—there are none. If he’s not mistaken, it’s an oven that can heat the water system as well as cook meals without one kilowatt of electricity. His stomach grumbles as he pulls away and makes a full circle around the house. To the back and sides are vegetable gardens, untended and overgrown, but obviously easy to make operational again. A wave of jealousy washes over him. There was no way - in his lifetime - that he’d be able to afford a place like this, but why shouldn’t he have it when it was empty? He peers again into the kitchen. It looked so enticing and … friendly. He could just imagine himself coming down to its warmth in the mornin
g with the sun streaming in through the windows and making himself a pot of tea—with leaves of course, none of those plastic teabags!
He walks around to the front door. Cobwebs stretch from the quaint porch to the door’s handle and at the corners they’re thick—not the kind that have been spun overnight, but the kind that have been there for months and collected countless moths, flies, dust and leaves. Turning to look down the drive, the daisies, plantain and grass that grow up through the stones confirms it for him. The house isn’t lived in and, by the look of it, whoever owns it hasn’t been here for at least six months.
He walks back up to the gate and jumps onto the other side then grabs the handlebars of his bicycle. Before he rides away he takes a final, yearning look. If the electricity wasn’t back on by morning, he was coming back. The house was more than he’d ever dreamed of, and if the owners weren’t going to look after it, then he would—he’d be doing them a favour. And anyway, there was a useable stove there and he had to eat.
An uneasy quiet has settled on the house: no radio, no television, no hum from the boiler as it heats the water, or the fridge and freezer as they kept the food fresh. Clarissa pulls out the bottle of milk from the fridge and closes the door. It’s still cold, but the chill is already warming to tepid. She opens it again and casts her gaze over the shelves. There were some unopened cartons of yoghurt, a pack of sausages, black pudding, a dozen eggs and a carton of orange juice along with half a tub of butter and a tray full of salad vegetables. She thinks back to the people clustering around the entrance to the supermarkets and shops, and shudders.
The food in the fridge would last them a day or two at a stretch. She closes the fridge door, pours a small amount of milk into a cup and drops the teabag in. The small aluminium kettle whistles on the camping stove. As she makes her tea she looks out to the window—the sun is low in the sky, shedding its purpling light across the garden. Was the front door locked? Yes, she’d locked it after she’d watched Bill disappear down the road. The back door? Yes, bolted too. She takes a breath and removes the tea bag from the cup then walks to the cupboards. They’re not empty she notes with relief although how long two half-full packets of cereal and a random selection of tins would last is a cause for concern. At least they had the cellar if the power didn’t come back on—they could wait it out for a few days but getting to Bramwell was perhaps … she thinks back to the attacker in her office … essential. The one fear she’d had when she’d taken on this job had finally come home to roost! A flicker of movement outside catches her attention and she leans over the sink with a racing heart then looks out across the garden.
A large black and grey striped cat sits squatting next to her peonies. She raps on the window. It turns its head and then looks away with disdain. Damned cat! “Go on!” she calls. “Go back home!” She’d have to talk to Celia again, but what could she do other than keep the cat inside and Clarissa didn’t want it to become a prisoner! She’d talk to Thomas the next time he came to mow the lawn—perhaps he could advise on something that would deter the cat from doing its business in the garden. She turns from the window, not wanting to witness the cat scratting over the inevitable turd and takes a sip of tea.
Footsteps sound in the hallway then Stella walks into the room. “Did you call me?” she asks with a smile.
“No, darling. Badger was at it again.”
“Ugh! He thinks the garden’s his personal toilet.”
“Hmm. I’m going to ask Thomas how we can stop it.”
“Jessie’s crossbow?”
“Stella! No-”
“Only joking, Mum. As if I’d kill a cat!”
“I’ve boiled the kettle. Do you want a cup of tea?”
“Yes, sure,” she replies then glances out of the window. “There he goes. Jumping onto the fence into Mrs Clayton’s garden.”
“Hah! If Ted catches it there’ll be fireworks.”
“Mum … what are we going to do?”
“Do?”
“Yes. Do. What if the power stays off?”
“Well, we’ve got enough food to last here for a few days, and Jessie stored some down in the cellar too, but if it continues, we’ll have to find food from somewhere else.”
“Where? I think it’ll all be gone by the time we get to the shops.”
“I don’t think we should go to the shops, darling. It’s dangerous. The panic is bringing out the worst in people.”
“Then?”
“Well, we should go to the cottage.”
“How?”
“Walk.”
“Walk! But it’s a hundred miles from here.”
“Yes, it is. We’ll wait for Jessie as long as we can but, if the worst comes to the worst, then we’ll have to head up there.”
Uri watches the women from his position in the garden as they walk about the kitchen, sipping from their mugs, opening the cupboards and examining the contents. Women isn’t quite right. One’s not much more than a teenager—with hair the same colour as Anna’s. He clenches his jaw and takes a breath. They had said nothing about the girl. The breath eases his tension. He could dispatch the target without a second thought, but killing her child? No, but then again, if he had to … The girl takes another sip from the mug then disappears. He licks his lips. They’re dry and the spittle has congealed at the corners of his mouth; it has been six hours since his last drink.
Chapter 25
Stella opens the back door and bends down to stroke the cat. She smiles into his upturned face as she tickles him under the chin.
“You’re very naughty, Badger. You must use your own garden to go to the toilet, OK?” The cat purrs. “Good. Now, goodnight,” she says rising and looking out across the lawn. As she pulls the door to, a scuffling noise makes her heart miss a beat and she stands stock-still for a second before closing the door, making sure the lock clicks shut. Something had been out there. It always did give her the creeps when she was on her own in the house and it wasn’t the first time a stranger had been in the garden. Probably just a dog, but you couldn’t be too careful.
“Mum,” she says walking back through the house and into the sitting room. “There’s something in the garden.”
“Something?”
“Yes. I heard a scratching sound.”
“Well, it’s probably just that cat.”
“No, he was at the door. It was a scuffling sound.”
“Ugh! Has Geoffrey left the bin open again?”
“Oh, you mean … rats!”
“Well, it’s the most likely explanation,” she says rising. “I’ll go and check.”
Stella follows her mother back across the hallway. The door is open to the kitchen and as they cross the threshold a thud sounds. Stella stops and listens. “Mum! What was that?” she asks as her mother swings round to face her, a look of fear in her eyes. “What is it, Mum?” she repeats.
“Get down into the cellar,” she says as she steps towards her and grabs her sleeve, one index finger held to her lips.
Without hesitation, her mother’s look of distress enough to make her obey without question, she walks across to the cellar door. As it opens the sound comes again.
“Quick!”
She grabs the torch from the hook on the cellar door and shines it into the hole.
“Hurry, Stella,” her mother says anxiously from behind.
The door pulls shut as she takes the final step to the floor.
“Stella, we have to hide.”
“Why? What’s going on?”
“I’ll explain later. There’s enough space behind those boxes if we push them forward.”
Another thud sounds from upstairs, the noise amplified in the cellar.
“Quick, help me move them,” her mother instructs as she pulls at the boxes beneath the long bench stacked with Jessie’s stockpile.
“OK,” Stella agrees and bends to pull at the boxes. They scrape against the bricks.
“Shh!”
Her mother pulls more boxe
s forward. “Get behind,” she whispers as footsteps sound outside the cellar door. She scrambles between the wall and the boxes as her mother shines the torch. The footsteps fade then the staircase creaks.
“Are you coming?”
“There’s no room.”
“There is! Come on in.”
The sense of panic is growing in Stella as her mother squeezes in beside her.
“Don’t breathe so heavy,” her mother chides. “Stay calm.”
“I am, but what’s going on? Who’s in the house?”
“Today, at the office, there was a man. I think … well, I discovered that-”
Footsteps sound again on the stairs.
“Turn off the torch!”
The cellar plunges into darkness.
“Discovered what?”
“Shh!”
Footsteps sound outside the cellar door and the latch clicks. Stella’s heart races as light shines from the hallway. She holds herself stiff, breath caught in her chest, as the man makes his descent.
Uri shines his torch down the wooden steps. The heavy scent of mildew wafts over him along with a gust of damp air. A cellar. Hand against the cool bricks he takes more steps until his torch illuminates the room. It’s a small, low-ceilinged square although there could be a doorway to another chamber. It’s hard to tell in this light. He takes the last steps down and scans each wall. The place is stacked with plastic containers and metal shelving. At one end is a tall, military-looking cabinet. His torch lights up the shelves, and he steps forward to take a closer look.
Pulling at one of the neatly stacked boxes, he flips the lid open and shines the torch inside. It’s full of packets of dried foods. Intrigued he shines his torch on the larger containers stacked below the table. They’re the same kind Viktoria uses to keep Anna’s toys in. Pulling it forward he stops. A scratching noise catches his attention. Mice? Rats? He swings the torch across the floor checking for movement. If there’s one thing he can’t abide, it’s rats! Dirty, filthy, stinking creatures. He cringes as a memory flits across his mind, of a story he’d read as a teenager about huge rats that attacked humans; they came up from the sewers and … he shudders. Focus, Uri! He had to find the woman. After the debacle at her office, it was a matter of pride now. No one escaped Uri. He was known for the precision of his jobs and he wasn’t going to let a middle-aged woman spoil his record.
Days of Fire Page 16
