Blood Roots: Are the roots strong enough to save the pandemic survivors?

by Michael Green

  It was already dark when they reached the village of Seal, less than three miles from Haver. Mark led the party to Johnstone Court, a retirement complex where one of his uncles had once lived. The exhausted travellers slumped onto damp, musty beds. They were too tired to make a meal. There was precious little food left anyway.

  Dawn was breaking when Mark awoke. He found Jane sitting at the foot of his bed. She handed him the mug of hot water she had been drinking and the remains of a jar of bottled fruit. ‘I hope we can get into Haver today,’ she said. ‘We don’t even have enough food to prepare a proper breakfast.’

  ‘Is anyone else awake?’

  ‘Fergus and Jessica are up: the others are stirring. Do you think it’s safe to take everyone in to Haver Park, given what we know about Nigel and his sons?’

  ‘Try stopping us,’ Rick said. He was standing at the door, looking in. Mark resented the intrusion.

  ‘Don’t worry, we’ll be careful,’ Mark said to Jane. ‘I can get us close to the house and out again without our presence being detected if I need to.’

  In no time at all they were ready to get on the road. The breakfast was so meagre it took hardly any time to eat. Mark, rifle in hand, led his party westwards down the road towards Sevenoaks, the town closest to Haver. He reached Wildernesse School and turned left up Seal Hollow Road. Anne caught him up and took his hand. Jane, trailing further back with Zach, Nicole and Audrey, noticed — it was the first time Anne displayed affection to Mark in front of his daughter and grandchildren. It was as if she was trying to make a statement. Jane wondered how her father would explain Anne to Allison, not knowing that her father was wondering the same thing.

  ‘Where are we going?’ Fergus challenged as his uncle turned left into Blackhall Lane rather than continuing along Seal Hollow Road. ‘Aren’t we going through the Abbot’s Gate?’

  Mark glanced over his shoulder. Fergus and Jessica were piggy-backing the twins and struggling to keep up. He waited for them, annoyed that Roger and Rick, who were both walking hand in hand with their partners, had not offered to take the children.

  He took Chelsea from Jessica himself. ‘Last time I went through the Abbot’s Gate I was ambushed by Jasper and Damian. We’ll go over the stone steps.’

  Fergus screwed up his face. ‘I’ve never heard of the stone steps.’

  ‘Exactly, and I doubt weather Nigel or his sons have either. Few people knew about them. My parents used to take my brothers and me over them when we went into the park for our Sunday picnics.’

  Mark halted half a mile further up the road and handed Chelsea to Roger. He lifted his binoculars and scanned the trees at the end of an overgrown farm track leading off to the right.

  ‘What are you looking for?’ Rick asked.

  ‘I was hoping to see smoke.’ There was a tinge of disappointment in his voice.

  They forced their way down the track. Mark was relieved it was April and the nettles had not yet developed their stings. At the end of the track the seven mile long, eight foot high stone wall that enclosed Haver Park loomed into view.

  ‘There,’ he said, pointing ahead. ‘The stone steps.’ It took the remainder of the party some time to pick out the steps, a staircase of grey slabs protruding from the side of the wall, covered in moss. Mark ascended the lower steps and peered cautiously over the top of the wall.

  ‘Deer,’ he announced softly, smiling to Fergus. ‘We’ll eat well tonight.’

  23

  ‘Any sign of our relatives?’ Jane enquired.

  Mark turned around and shook his head.

  ‘We’re still over a mile from the house,’ he said, addressing everyone. ‘We still don’t know what we’re going to find when we arrive. I want everyone to follow me. Quietly! No talking,’ he added, looking sternly at Tommy.

  ‘Isn’t this all a bit melodramatic?’ Rick challenged.

  ‘You have no idea what that bastard Nigel’s like,’ Jessica said, coming to her uncle’s defence.

  ‘Just give me the rifle and I’ll soon take him out,’ Rick boasted.

  ‘Here we go again,’ Fergus breathed. ‘Bloody Yanks wanting to start another war!’

  ‘That’s enough,’ Mark snapped. ‘With any luck we’ll find the Union Jack and Cross of St George flying above the West Tower. But until we know what the situation is, keep your heads down, keep behind me and keep your lips sealed.’ He waited till they had all followed him over the wall and added, ‘I want you to follow me in single file.’

  ‘Why?’ Rick challenged.

  ‘The deer form narrow tracks through the bracken. If we stay in single file, our tracks will look like theirs.’ They could all tell from Mark’s tone that he was fed up with having to explain himself.

  He led them through the bracken and undergrowth on a circular route designed to place them opposite the West Tower. Running through Haver Park was a criss-cross of gravel tracks about six feet wide that had been used by carriages in past centuries. As they reached each of the paths, Mark would halt and anxiously scan in each direction before running across to the bracken on the opposite side. Everyone followed his example, except Rick, who dawdled across.

  Mark’s heart raced as he saw the slightest wisp of smoke rising about the trees in the direction of Haver House, but he didn’t mention it for fear of invoking excited chatter. He was finding it difficult enough to keep the children silent as it was. Gina, Audrey, Chelsea and Marion had never seen many of the birds that fluttered through the trees, and he was forever telling know-all Tommy to keep quiet.

  An hour after they had scaled the wall, they began to climb out of the valley known as the Gallops heading towards the tree-lined knoll on which Haver House stood. A grinning Fergus touched Mark’s arm and pointed out a herd of cattle further along the valley. ‘A good sign,’ he said.

  Mark smiled back.

  ‘I can see your Union Jack,’ Roger announced, ‘and a white flag with a red cross.’

  ‘The Cross of St George. It’s safe to go in!’ Fergus beamed.

  ‘I only hope Steven got Archangel back safely and everyone’s waiting for us inside,’ Jane said. Tears were streaming down her face.

  ‘Come back,’ Mark yelled to the children, who had scampered ahead. ‘I want to check the place out before we go in.’

  ‘Here we go again,’ Rick ridiculed from the rear of the group. ‘Mr Cautious. You’ve got your goddamn flags, for heaven’s sake.’

  Mark ignored the jibe and brought the party to a halt in thick bushes about two hundred and fifty yards from the West Tower. Haver House looked huge even though only a small portion could be seen from their vantage point. With its three hundred and fifty rooms and seven courtyards, enclosed by fortified walls, it almost beggared belief that it had been built more than five hundred years previously by stonemasons using chisels and hammers and mixing their mortar by hand.

  ‘Granddad, there’s someone in front of the house,’ Zach said.

  Mark focused his binoculars. His heart quickened. He couldn’t be sure because the person was on their hands and knees facing away from him, but he felt sure from the posture and size that the figure was his brother Paul. Then a frown wrinkled his brow. The gates to the West Tower were closed. He wondered why anyone would be outside Haver’s walls alone with the gates closed. And why were the gardens that had been so neat and tidy when he left England four years previously now overgrown?

  ‘Let’s get in there. I fancy venison for breakfast,’ Rick said impatiently.

  Mark focused his binoculars on the house, scanning the windows for signs of life. He could see smoke rising from a chimney further back in the complex. Then he focused on the West Tower.

  Rick had had enough. He brushed past Mark. ‘Come on,’ he said to Julie. ‘These Limeys can stand out here all day if they want to. I’m starving.’

  Mark rushed forward, grabbed Rick and jerked him back into the bushes. Rick tripped and sprawled on the ground.

  ‘What the …’

&nbs
p; ‘Something’s wrong.’

  ‘What do you mean, something’s wrong?’ Rick asked as he picked himself up. Mark handed him the binoculars. ‘Look. The Union Jack,’ he said.

  Rick lifted the binoculars and looked at the flags. ‘Yeah, so it’s the goddamn Union Jack.’

  The flag was old and faded, as was the Cross of St George flying beside it. Both had clearly been on the flagpoles for some time. Rick thrust the binoculars angrily back towards Mark, who handed them to Fergus.

  Fergus looked at the flag. ‘It is the Union Jack,’ he said, shrugging his shoulders.

  ‘Don’t you see what’s wrong?’

  Fergus looked again. ‘No. What’s wrong with it?’

  ‘It’s upside down.’

  ‘Goddamn it,’ Rick exploded. ‘The Union Jack looks the same whichever way up it is.’

  ‘Isn’t he right?’ Fergus asked.

  ‘You should have been a Boy Scout, Fergus. Then you would have known that the broad white stripe always goes to the top. That flag’s being flown upside down.’

  ‘All that proves is that one of your son-of-a-bitch relatives is as dumb as Fergus is,’ Rick sneered. ‘And I’m still hungry.’

  ‘My brother Paul was a Boy Scout. He’d never fly the Union Jack upside down.’

  ‘Maybe it wasn’t Paul who hoisted the flag,’ Jessica suggested.

  ‘Something’s not right. I can feel it in my water.’

  ‘You can feel it in your water all you like,’ Rick said, ‘but I’m going in. Who’s coming with …?’

  Before Rick completed the sentence the squeaking of metal hinges announced that the huge metal-strapped timber doors of the West Tower were being opened. Mark took the binoculars back from Fergus and focused on the entranceway. The doors opened slowly, and as they came to rest a pony trap emerged from beneath the archway.

  Even Rick was shocked. ‘What the hell …?’

  There was no pony. Four women were tethered in the traces.

  Mark refocused his binoculars. On the trap, holding the reins and a whip, stood Damian Chatfield, wearing light blue jeans and a gaudy pink shirt. The effeminate look of his long blond hair was somewhat counteracted by his moustache and neat goatee beard. The bow and quiver slung across his shoulders suggested a hunting expedition. The pistol holster slung from his waist suggested Haver was still being ruled by force of arms.

  ‘Who are the poor women pulling the trap?’ Jessica asked.

  All four were wearing the drab grey tunics Nigel had decreed the peasants wear so Mark had trouble identifying them. ‘Kimberley and Rebecca Steed … and Theresa Morgan … I can’t make the other one out.’ The fourth woman was obscured by Theresa. The pony trap changed direction. ‘Penny, it’s Penny!’ he blurted, his voice full of elation and emotion. That meant Archangel had made it back to England.

  Then concern set in. He spoke his thoughts aloud. ‘Why aren’t Steven and Luke pulling the trap? They’d have to be the fittest people at Haver.’

  ‘Why aren’t there any men drawing the trap?’ Fergus asked.

  The stooped figure in the garden was on his knees, apparently begging. As the trap passed, Penny threw something in his direction. The crack of a whip sounded and the young woman jumped as Damian’s whip cut across her back.

  ‘That bastard Damian hasn’t changed a bit,’ Jessica breathed.

  ‘What now, Dad?’ Jane asked softly.

  ‘Well,’ Mark sighed, ‘we obviously can’t risk going in till we know what the situation is.’ The disappointment could be heard in his voice.

  ‘Roger and I could go in,’ Rick suggested. ‘They don’t know us.’

  ‘So how are you going to explain two Americans stumbling into Haver?’

  ‘The problem is this guy Nigel and his three sons, right? With Pretty Boy out in the pony trap, there can only be the old man and two of his sons inside. Give us the rifles; we’ll take them by surprise.’

  ‘We can’t risk it,’ Fergus said. ‘People could get hurt in the crossfire.’

  Rick shrugged. ‘You’ve got to expect a bit of collateral damage in war.’

  Fergus had had enough. ‘Why don’t you get real, you frigging lunatic? The collateral damage you’re talking about is my family!’

  ‘Pity you Yanks didn’t care a bit more about collateral damage in Vietnam and Iraq,’ Jane added. ‘If you had done, you wouldn’t have lost all your goddamn wars.’

  Mark had had enough too. ‘Jane, can you find your way back to the stone steps?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘Fergus and I will stay here. I want you to take everyone else back to Johnstone Court. We’ll set up a temporary base there till we can get back into Haver, or until we decide to move somewhere else. Do the usual — scout around for vegetables and fruit, and find a water supply. Don’t light any fires till after dark. I doubt they’d be able to see any smoke from here, but I don’t want to take any chances.’

  ‘I’ll stay with you and Fergus,’ Rick volunteered.

  Mark opened his mouth, the anger showing on his face.

  Roger spoke first. ‘No, you won’t,’ he said firmly to Rick. ‘This is their fight. The best we can do for now is to keep out of the way until we’re called on to help.’

  Anne looked towards Mark. He could tell she wanted to stay too. ‘Roger’s right,’ he said. ‘Best leave it to Fergus and me for now.’

  Jessica kissed Fergus. Anne and Jane kissed Mark. They both told him to be careful. Everyone looked unhappy.

  ‘Take care crossing the gravel tracks,’ Mark said. ‘Damian will be somewhere in the park, and he’s armed.’ He kissed Anne again and Jane led the party away.

  Roger sidled up to Mark. ‘Don’t judge all Americans by Rick,’ he said quietly. ‘We’re not all gung-ho fools.’

  Mark nodded. ‘I know. I’m sorry.’

  ‘And don’t worry. I’ll make sure he behaves. If he dawdles this time I’ll kick his butt myself.’

  With that Roger hurried off to join the end of the column.

  24

  Mark watched as Jane led the party back through the bracken. As soon as they were out of sight he swung his binoculars back towards the gardens in front of the West Tower. The figure had turned around and was crawling towards the derelict garden shed. Mark felt like crying. It was his brother. Paul had always been thin, almost gaunt, but now he looked like someone from an Auschwitz newsreel. He was three years younger than Mark but looked at least ten years older.

  ‘He looks to me as if he’s dragging his leg,’ Fergus said. ‘I think he might be injured.’

  Twice Paul tried to stand, but he appeared too weak. Part-way down the track he grubbed in the undergrowth and put something to his lips. When he eventually reached the derelict shed, he pulled himself up unsteadily and drank from a water butt. Then he crawled into the open shed and lay down. Drizzle was floating in and Mark wondered if his brother was too weak to close the door. Or had he just given up caring?

  ‘Do you think we can get to him?’ Fergus asked.

  Mark shook his head. ‘There’s someone on the top of the West Tower. I think it might be Greg.’

  Fergus nodded. ‘He’s probably still got a machine gun up there.’

  Two uncomfortable hours later the pony trap returned. The four women in the traces were struggling with the weight of both Damian and a deer carcass draped over the back of the trap. Damian stood tall, a swagger in his posture. A figure appeared on the parapet at the top of the West Tower. It was Greg. Through the binoculars Mark saw the twenty-three-year-old had become obese like his father.

  Greg shouted down into Lawn Court beyond the West Gate and a gaggle of figures rushed out to meet the pony trap, which Damian halted in the archway. Four women took a leg of the deer each and staggered away under the weight of the carcass. Mark recognised two as his nieces Cheryl and Bridget. He wondered why Bridget was limping.

  One of the other women was limping too. It was his fifty-eight-year-old cousin Susan. She had s
uffered from arthritis from the age of forty. The disease had presumably got worse.

  Questions overwhelmed him: why hadn’t he seen Steven, what about the other men, was Aunt Margaret still alive, where was Allison, had Nigel lured Steven into a trap and beheaded him …? Fergus was having similar concerns about his own family.

  Although hungry and desperately thirsty, they stayed and watched all day. The drizzle turned to rain and they licked the moisture from leaves to quench their thirst.

  Through the haze they saw figures flit past the open gates of the West Tower scurrying across Lawn Court, but couldn’t identify them. Their shapeless grey tunics made them all look alike.

  Mark stared anxiously towards his brother Paul. Lying in the open doorway, he was getting wet. He had not seen Paul stir and worried whether he would still be alive by the time they got to him.

  As it grew dark, the doors of the West Gate slammed shut. Mark again caught a glimpse of a figure on the ramparts above the gate. It seemed the Chatfield brothers were still mounting a guard on the tower overnight. There was a chill in the air and he was surprised no fire was lit to keep the sentry warm.

  It was totally dark and raining hard when Mark and Fergus crawled across the open ground to the derelict shed. Mark gingerly shook Paul’s shoulder. His brother’s thin tunic was soaking wet. He feared the worst.

  ‘Paul, Paul,’ he whispered anxiously. ‘It’s Mark and Fergus.’

  Paul moaned. He appeared too weak to speak. They dragged him behind the shed and then across the open ground to the safely of the bracken.

  ‘Paul, Paul, its Mark,’ he whispered again.

  Mark thought he heard the faintest whisper of ‘Thank God’, but the words were slurred.

  ‘What now?’ Fergus asked.

  ‘Help me take off his boots.’

  ‘Why?’ Fergus asked as he undid the laces.

  ‘Place his boot just outside the edge of the bracken.’