The three men followed him, however; they hadn’t finished. The older man strolled back around the North West corner of the house and in through the rough old back door, the same route he had passed thousands of times, except now the three younger men followed. He knew they would follow. There was less room in the house. It was a concentrated space which limited movement.
Nat pulled out his chair at the table and sat down facing the three men as they entered his kitchen. It smelled of oil from the Aga and farm machinery and dirt from the fields.
He was wrought like the gates of a prison. Sitting with one leg over the other at the old oak table where he sat every day, he had his arms lying one on top of the other like a lion warily basking in the sun. His eyes darted between his visitors attempting to make sense of the situation but trying desperately to hide his emotion. The pose offered a pensive calm, but his eyes would betray the whirlwind of anger within.
The kitchen was warm and inviting with a rich glow from the lights bouncing off the earthen colours of the flagstone floor. The smell of the open fire mixed with the oily tang and the murmur of the wind through the thick walls called for single malt, not the scene that had unfolded.
Nat attempted to tumble the chaos of the situation into some sort of order in his head, but he couldn’t quite compute. His pulse was racing and his brow beading with sweat, he wasn’t sure whether he was visibly quaking with the fear, confusion and overwhelming anger. He felt like a sealed bottle of water thrown into the fire, it was only a matter of time…
“What are your names?” he asked, buying time, thinking.
Bemused, Roland answered, waving a hand at the relevant person in turn:
“Roland, Gerry and Davey. Now, let’s get down to business as we have a lot of people still to visit after you.”
“What happens if I don’t do what you want?”
“You have to do what we want, it is the law. And, it is not what I want, sir, this is government policy. This is how the country is going to be run from now on.”
The old farmer leaned in slightly on his elbows, drawing their gaze to his brilliant blue eyes, his face solid as granite.
“Do you realise what you are saying? You expect me to hand over my land to a bunch of half-cut revolutionaries who have no idea how to work it?”
“Listen, it is time that everyone had the opportunity to earn a decent living. You can’t keep all this to yourself anymore; everyone in your privileged position will suffer a little in the redistribution. You will just have to deal with it, Sir, like the other ninety percent of the population has had to up until this point in time.”
“Privilege!” Nat exclaimed in his husky growl with leathered palms and knobbled fingers raised aloft. “You have no idea what you’re talking about.”
Gerry piped up “These are hard times. You been watching the news? We have orders to bring this and every other farm under government management, whether by mutual agreement with the current landowner or by force…”
“What he means is that the NSO are the new legitimate government. If you don’t recognise the new system voluntarily this land will be forcibly removed from your possession and whatever rights to it you think you have will be annulled.”
Nat could not believe this situation and didn’t know how to react for the best. What he could see was that these boys were not bosses, they were a forward party. So, he answered with the words he knew were the truth.
“I won’t be giving you any information tonight.”
“Are you sure about that?” said Gerry menacingly, irritated by the old man and staring him down.
Nat's eyes narrowed and focussed on the man, his palm moved slowly to the table as his hand closed into a clench. Gerry shifted on his feet as the adrenalin pumped and he became more at peace with the idea of hurting the grizzled old man. Roland put his hand out to hold Gerry back and was about to speak when the door behind Nat swung open and a young woman entered the space.
She wore thick woollen socks pulled over the bottoms of her jeans, ripped at the knees, which were tight against her athletic thighs. She wore a heavy woollen jumper hanging off her slender but powerful shoulders. Her face was freckled and ivory, her eyes green and her hair an explosion of auburn curls. She had a shotgun shouldered and aimed solidly at Roland.
“He’s sure; now get the fuck outta this house!” She said without a nerve betraying her.
It was Roland who now raised his palms, and as he did he lent towards Nat and spoke in a hushed voice, “You carry on like this and an enforcement squad will visit and they’ll take everything from you.” As he said the words he was looking at the girl with the shotgun…
Nat moved with the speed of a rattlesnake; with all his bulk and size, he grabbed the back of Roland's head with his left hand. Using the table as an anchor with his right, he slammed the man's face into the oak surface crushing his nose and cheekbone. In the same movement, Nat’s right hand punched forward with his palm flat into the boy’s splintered nose. He levelled him in the face and back onto the floor, where he sprawled whimpering with blood streaming from his smashed face.
In one fluid sinuous movement, Nat stood up and moved from Roland to Gerry. Taking one step towards him, he snaffled his head as the ex-soldier flailed panicked punches. Nat rolled his head under arm and began to constrict. At first on the skull, then squeezing down around his neck until slowly breathing became impossible and Gerry felt his life on the brink of a precipice. Nat whispered,
“Do you want me to kill you?” Gerry couldn’t talk but the blood-curdling rake communicated a ‘no.' Nat eased the pressure off slowly, ready to constrict again if he felt any fight from the other man.
“Now pick that snivelling little shite up and get off my farm.”
Gerry was gasping, he rubbed his throat and stood up, pride dented, angry. He asked himself whether he should have another go at this old farmer. He stood face to face with Nat, eyeball to eyeball. Nat could smell his breath and sensed that the man wanted to kill him.
The endless seconds of standoff were disturbed by the spluttering wreckage moaning on the floor; it seemed to focus their minds. Threateningly, Gerry turned slowly with eyes on Nat’s until the very last moment, and then he picked up his friend with the third boy.
They didn’t waste any time getting out the door. Nat snatched the shotgun from his daughter's hand. With an angry look at her, he followed the men out of the house and stood on the gravelled drive as they got into the estate car.
The two men who had remained in the vehicle turned to look at him and then he saw the men talking, probably arguing whether to come back for a shot at him. But they decided against it as the engine fired up and the car skidded off the gravel firing stones behind it as it went. The soft footsteps of his daughter on the gravel ran up next to his shoulder.
Amber looked at her father, “We better work out what we’re gonna do when they come back, Da.”
Nat turned to her, his grimace sent from Hell.
“What did you think you were doing, Amber?”
“I…”
“What if they had guns?” He turned away, deep in thought. His heart was beating trying to think, to plan what to do; he was sure that his home and land were lost to these people. It was true there was nothing stopping this new regime. His immediate conclusion was to get his wife and daughter north of the border into Scotland.
As he stood with his daughter, a mere child with the independence of a woman twice her age, he thought of his old friend in Melrose and his mind was made. If he could get his wife and daughter to Stuart, he could breathe easier and come back to protect his livelihood, or at least make sure no one else could steal it from him. As he watched the black car disappear down the narrow winding country road, his eyes raised and he looked out over the Tyne Valley. Dusk was falling, it was ten to four in the afternoon and the light would fail in twenty minutes. He kissed his daughter's head once again, and the two of them walked back into the house.
* *
* * *
As the car motored towards Hexham, Davey passed Roland a piece of cloth from the boot. Blood was streaming from his broken nose and a gash where his cheekbone had hit the table. A bulbous purple swelling grew on his face and he spluttered with pain. Conor was shouting from the back of the car
“You ok, Roland?” Roland raised a bloody hand in acknowledgement and Conor continued, “We can't let him get away with that, we should have given him some payback and taken him in.”
“We'll come back,” answered Gerry. “We need to report it to Truter, and let him decide what we do next.”
Conor looked across at Steve, who gave his friend a knowing look and said,
“If you treat the locals with kid gloves, they'll learn to fuck you right up. I know it’s not your call, but if we keep letting these bastards go about their shit the way they want to, we will be chasing shadows. And dying doing it; trust me, we've learnt that lesson in every shithole we've toured. Next time we get up there we need to sort him out.”
“That might be, but I'm not doing anything without Truter's say so...that’s not worth doing either.”
“He's right. We wait and return once we have reported to the boss,” mumbled Roland through a swollen bloody mouth. Conor stretched forward and rested a hand on Roland’s shoulder.
“Don't worry mate, he'll get his,” he said, giving the shoulder a reassuring squeeze. The car fell silent as it sped back to the police station in Hexham.
THREE
The office was draped in shadow from the ceiling to head height. He didn’t like the strip beam lights, or the incessant hum they emitted. At first, he was embarrassed by the finery of the antique furniture and fittings in the room. He felt it mocked his beliefs and portrayed him as the type of person he had dedicated his life’s work against. The green glass shades of the lamps, the walnut desk that stood like a rhino in the room, the leather Chesterfields, the regency mahogany sideboard and the wood panelled walls: all these items falsely portrayed him as one familiar to the trappings of wealth and power.
Nevertheless, beggars cannot be choosers, and he had possession of this office building by donation from a party member, who was his wealthiest establishment convert. He couldn’t argue the fact that it gave his cause a base, a hub, and added substance to his movement. He wasn’t hiding away in some northern town in an old gym or some such. He occupied a listed Regency building in W1. One thing was for certain - he was not prepared to move into Downing Street at any time soon. His movement would create its tradition, not follow those of the enemy.
Behind the desk, hung high on the wall, were two portraits painted in oil that illustrated the true nature of Baines’ beliefs. The solemn bearded faces of Mikhail Bakunin and Johann Most looked down upon the room. Their eyes unwaveringly pierced the shells of those seated on the other side of the desk, those visitors, whether allies or opponents, to the epicentre of The Revolution.
Two middle-aged men occupied the room. The first sat behind the desk with his chair pushed away from it. He was leaning back in the seat, legs splayed and resting only his heels on the floor. His arms hung at ease by the side of his chair. He rested like a rag doll, relaxed.
His colleague had just helped himself to coffee at the ornate sideboard, on which he now leaned. He was a hefty man, barrel chested, thick necked, with a large meaty face in which bulged ‘piggy’ eyes. His unattractiveness was something that had never bothered this man. He took a long deep breath and exhaled loudly, exaggerated and bullish.
“So, how are you settling into the new house?” asked Lucas Start, the man who was standing.
The other remained reclining, but his eyes focussed on his comrade.
“You know, I haven't really thought about it; it’s a house, same old problems with moving in and no wife to sort them out while I'm here. Can't see me spending much time there anyway.”
“Jesus, Ben, you mustn't forget how to live. Enjoy your position a bit now, get some women, have a party...don't spend your life here creating problems for yourself.”
“You amaze me, Lucas. We have just led the country in a revolution where the founding belief is common ownership of the nation’s wealth - and you want me to start living like a bloody rock star.”
“If you have some fun, Ben, the world will keep turning. Look at me - I manage the balance...”
“You!” laughed Baines gently shaking his head. “You're a bloody power hungry menace,” he stopped for a second, and then added, “Who’s lucky I'm dedicated to leading the country!”
The two men chuckled. Then, the man seated continued,
“I haven't left the office in three days; there's too much to organise, and the Scots are refusing any diplomatic contact.”
“We've been through this, Ben. Forget the Scots. We've got it under control...”
“Yeah, well, until it’s controlled I can't relax. We've come too far to be invaded by our very testy and increasingly powerful neighbours,” he said, with a resignation that war was inevitable.
“Don't worry about it, Ben. The Scots won't act directly, and The Wall will cut off supplies to any rebels. We will complete it within a month. Our Intel has identified a number of farms that are likely rebel cells. We are continuing to investigate others and will start clearing the occupants in the coming days. It is a non-problem,” he exclaimed, palms out, eyebrows raised and a huge smile across his broad face.
“I hope so, Lucas...I hope so,” he said, fingering a file on his desk, his head down, chins doubling slightly with age and lips in a pondering pout.
“Anyway,” Lucas added, “all farmers are capitalists. If they don't hand over control of their farms, they're enemies of our regime and will be evicted.”
“Good. The sooner we get the redistribution completed, the sooner we will have a buffer, and we can move on and forget the old system.”
As Ben finished, there was a knock at the door. His expression quickly changed from relaxed to resolute. He was quick to his feet, tightening his tie. A tall man of six feet, his dark grey suit was well fitted but not expensive, his white shirt and dark blue tie had been bought on the High Street. He was a handsome, charismatic man with a kind face. His dark brown hair was cut short, and his deep brown eyes were accented by thick brows. It was not hard to follow a man like Baines - he had a presence that turned people’s heads when he entered the room. And now he had managed, over the course of twenty years, to create the most seismic shift in British politics since Oliver Cromwell.
* * * * *
The Regime’s men had left over two hours ago; Nat was sitting with Amber at the kitchen table, sipping a scalding tea while she nursed hers with hands wrapped around the mug. They sat mainly in silence waiting for Esme to return. His daughter would unwillingly do what he said, but he was not so convinced that Esme, his wife, would be so compliant. In fact, he knew he had another fight on his hands: this land was even dearer to her than it was to him. The latch clunked and his wife entered the room. Her curls had been flattened by a brief but heavy shower and her face was muddy - she had been to check on the horses.
“We have to get the fence sorted in the bottom field; Franklyn is giddy enough. I don't want to go chasing him across the Aspinalls’ land... I tell you, he is the sturdiest stallion I've ever...” She always chattered. Nat had come to realise over time that it made up for his lack of words. As she set down the bucket she was carrying, she turned and saw her family with heavy faces and immediately she knew something had happened.
“What is it, Nat?” She spoke as she moved over to him and put her hands around his face. “They've been, haven't they?” She always touched him; it was a simple luxury that her husband rarely experienced in his physically punishing lifestyle.
“They have,” he said, looking into her hazel eyes, her lightly freckled face wet and mud-spattered. She was the most beautiful woman he had ever seen. “It is over, Esme. We are going to be turfed out if we don't give up the farm, so either way we lose everything.”
“No...No, Nat, it won't happen!” She stood up straight and turned away from him, thinking, ‘There will be some compromise, what do they think - that every farmer in the country is going to give up their land?’
To him, she said, “No, it won't happen, Nat. You'll see, something will give.”
“You can't bury your head in the sand, Esme - this is happening.”
“He's right, Mum; but, we have to fight, not run,” added Amber.
“Don’t you start, lass! We agreed: you go to Scotland,” Nat shot across the room at Amber.
Esme turned to her family, “You mark my words: I will not be leaving this farm. Nat, you go see Rowell, join them and let’s fight. I will happily have Scots soldiers based here if it means it’s ours; I will not walk away.”
“No one’s walking away, Esme,” Nat replied. “But, you are not staying here. I won’t let either of you stay here. You go and stay with Stuart, just while the trouble starts, so we can know where we are. I will be here, and I will join Rowell, I will fight whoever comes onto this farm...”
“I won't go Nat,” Esme snapped.
“You will! Don’t be so stubborn, lass! Losing the farm is bad enough - don't make it worse; just let me know you're safe!” Nat raised his voice as his patience wore thin.
“And what about you, you stupid man! I want to be here with you...Amber will go; we stay here.”
“Amber, can you leave me to talk to your mother for a minute?”
“But, I want to fight...” she began to argue, but Nat was having none of it. He turned to her and snapped,
“Now girl, get out of here!”
She wanted to argue but resisted her impulse and left her parents to talk. Nat got up and put his hands on his wife's shoulders.
“Esme, look what would happen if this really got bad, what if we both died here on the farm, left Amber with no parents...”
The Border Reiver Page 2
