Baines looked around the room in disbelief. “When did this happen; and, when was someone going to tell me? I don't want to read these things in the bloody paper!”
The room was silent, even Start kept quiet now. Baines pondered the facts. The eyes around the table were lowered, Baines looked on but no one returned his gaze. Start was leaning back in his seat, nonchalantly tapping his pen against sausage like fingers.
“Who is this guy? Is he a murderer, working under the shadow of the system change? Or have we played a part in this situation? We do not need any sort of hero figure fuelling the resistance.”
Start saw his opportunity and took it: “Definitely the first- he is a crazy old hermit. We visited the farm - he blew it up, killing his wife, their neighbours and three of our people. That was two days ago. He disappeared into the countryside, and we caught up with him last night in a local town - but he managed to kill two more of our people...because our people are no good! We need military personnel on the ground.”
“Did he escape?”
“Yes, he is still at large. But, he is one man - we’ll find him and arrest him.”
“Who is in charge on the ground?”
“Rudi Truter.”
Baines thought for a long moment; there was nothing to be gained by carrying this on. The lights buzzing overhead irritated him. And the large table creaked as the shell-shocked room shuffled and murmured. This had been planned as a victory meeting full of positivity, but every one of them knew that Baines had dreamt of an entirely peaceful, unopposed revolution and these deaths were hard for him to stomach. Not least because the real enemy, opposing media and politicians out in the wilderness, could easily find a way back into the population’s minds with a story like this.
After a long pause, he spoke again, “Look people, we have done the violence and the fear over the past twenty years; during that time we rioted, disrupted and smashed this country into listening. There were deaths, there were difficult decisions and actions which I am not proud of now, but it worked and we changed the system: a feat which seemed unimaginable back then. Now that the country has put its faith behind our ideology we can’t let anything de-rail it. You have seen here that every positive action we take, no matter how massive, no matter how many millions of people it benefits, these changes can be undermined by the smallest or the most isolated problem. A dog can be driven to madness by one flea. Lucas, your people need to find this guy and detain him so that he will face trial; I don’t want any more killing, understood?”
“Understood, Ben. I’ll keep you fully up to date with the situation.”
Baines wrapped the meeting up quickly, distracted by this turn of events and eager to get out of that room and back to work. The members left the room into the vast open plan office beyond, where hundreds of bodies busied themselves around workstations. Their aides and secretaries scurried over like loyal dogs.
Lucas Start pulled two of his deputies to one side; both had been in the meeting.
“We carry on with our activities exactly how we were and exactly how we had planned, ok…?”
Both men nodded agreement as Start continued without waiting for an answer,
“Our illustrious leader does not share our view that to keep a nation under control there must be fear for the general population. And reward for us. Now get on to Truter. Get that farmer found. Take him out of the equation before he makes a mockery of our security forces!”
Meanwhile, in the meeting room, Baines picked up the phone and dialled a number from his head. A cold hard voice picked up after two rings.
“Yes?”
“Hello, are you ok?” Baines asked hesitantly.
“What do you have for me?” came the answer down the line. Baines's head dropped and he thought for a second about persevering, then his head nodded gently and he moved straight to business.
“I have a problem in Northumberland; I don’t know whether Lucas’s people can handle it…sorry, really I just have no idea what’s going on up there. Can you go up find out what’s happening and let me know?”
“Do you want me to sort it?”
“Uh, what…no, no, just Intel and report back…” Baines was knocked by the language from the other end of the phone - it seemed that one way or another it was always your closest allies that one feared the most.
The phone clicked off without another word. Baines looked at his desk, looked at the receiver, then placed it back on the main body of the telephone.
EIGHT
Nat awoke softly to a stiff cool breeze whistling past the shelter. The morning air full of oxygen was invigorating; he sat on his makeshift bed and looked out to the valley beyond. The first hint of sunrise was pushing the horizon so all he could see was the black block of the land against the deep blue of the earliest of morning skies. So thick and bold were the two colours that it had a distinct beauty in its simplicity. There were no street lights, no headlights and no house lights. No human interference in the poetry of nature and he sucked it up, forgetting for a moment the chaos that had become his existence.
He considered what Claire had said to him. He considered leaving for Scotland, but that felt like betrayal. Betrayal of Esme, of Home. It was a betrayal of all those other farmers who might stay and fight the regime. He wanted to see the life fade from Truter's eyes, and he wanted Truter to know he was the reaper. Such was the pain that he felt: the only outlet was carnage.
He sat looking out over the valley; he felt empty. The sun rose, it washed the land with gold which warmed his craggy skin. The breeze whipped those straggles of hair around his eyes forcing him to squint, adding weight to the deep lines around his eyes.
The vast Northumbrian sky opened out in front of him like the vision of Eureka, and the cotton wool clouds hung low so that above his head there were enormous gaps of vivid blue. But, as he looked into the distance, the covering of cloud seemed to become a solid body punctuating the enormity of the heavens above.
In front of him, the rough grazing land fell away down the valley side. The thick tufts of grass were blown this way and that by the incessant bluster. Two small trees shaped like battered witches’ hats grew in the field about two hundred feet in front of him, his eyes moved on down to his sheep grazing further down in the more sheltered hillside. His gaze moved on again to his arable fields and he thought how on earth he would manage to turn and seed them in the coming weeks.
He could see across the valley to the far side. The patchwork of greens and browns stretching off into the distance, all that land toiled by local people for centuries under a system which had, on the whole, worked. It was not these country people who had swindled and cheated to enormous profits. Change the banking system and huge dominating companies, but don’t destroy the heartbeat of the country; this was, after all, his country also.
With those thoughts running through his mind, he decided to pay a visit to Rowell’s farm that day, see if he could begin to get consensus on a plan for the rest of his life. The breeze changed direction and snapped him out of his thoughts; he set to making a fire and preparing the second rabbit he had killed the day before.
As he tore the hot flesh from its bones with his teeth and hands and munched it down, he was sure it tasted better than the first he had eaten the day before. The meal seemed to vanish in a flash, but he felt good to have warm meat and beans in his belly. He was sipping on a hot tea and picking at the bones when his eye was caught by crows leaving their roosts in the middle distance, at the edge of his property. This was nothing unusual as crows have to eat too, but this was alongside the road and it was a substantial flock of birds that had taken to the wing. He turned his ear and listened intently and there it was, the hum of an engine, powering along the road leading to his gates.
He looked down at the fire. It was not smoking much, but he grabbed the large circle of turf he had cut away to dig the fire pit and threw it over the embers cutting off the oxygen supply.
He leapt to his feet, snatching up
his rifle from just inside the shelter. He sprinted as fast as he could across the open ground; he could see two cars now moving along the lane, not slow but not rallying. It was a race now - he had around two hundred yards to make in comparison to the cars’ three-quarters of a mile. He had to take the upper hand: two cars meant potentially eight or even ten men. He had a full magazine yesterday, had spent two rounds on breakfast, so fourteen left in the clip. As he ran, he castigated himself for not picking up another box of ammunition. Simple mistakes lead to misery, he thought.
He was running across open land as he saw the cars turn into his driveway. If they hadn’t seen him now, they were even more useless than the general impression he was building of them. It worked for him if they caught sight of him now because he was about fifty yards from his destination, the copse which curled over the brow of the hill above their home. He felt that if they saw him they would think he was running and they would follow…he hoped.
He had his back to the cars now as he ran as fast as he could up the hill. More of a lollop than a sprint, his ears filled with the whisp of his boots through the thick grass and rasp of his aging lungs trawling vainly for enough air to power his engine up the hill. He couldn’t hear the engines now. His large frame broke the tree line and he skidded onto his belly turning to face back down the hill and bringing the rifle sights to his right eye in one fluid movement.
He fought to regain his composure, his lungs and muscles burning, the up and down of his panting made ridiculously large tidal swells to his aim through the sights, so he put bare eyes on his pursuers. The sweat began to bead on his forehead as he watched the men step out of the two cars. They were the same cars as those he had seen the night before. He put his head down for a few seconds as his breath began to regulate. The damp rich peat filled his nostrils with a sweet smell as the adrenalin began to wane. He looked back at the cars.
* * * * *
Roland was driving the first car with Conor to his left and Davey and Steve in the back seat. Truter and Gerry followed in the black car. Roland was scared; he didn't want to hunt this man down,
“I don't know why we're doing this, we never signed up to become bounty hunters...,” he said.
“You just gotta do what you're told, mate,” replied Conor.
“I dunno what you lot did to him that night, because he was in town last night just to confront us.”
“You don't want to know, Roland. You're far too delicate,” shouted a grinning Steve from the back of the car. Conor turned and gave a conspiratorial giggle to his buddy.
“Fuck you guys, this is serious, this fucking shit. This guy is killing people!”
“That’s why we've gotta stop him now,” said Conor.
“That’s why Rudi brought us this time,” grinned Steve.
“Yeah, well, you should be stopping him not me...”
“I'll have a word with Truter,” smirked Conor.
“Ha ha, I'm sure that wanker will be very understanding,” softened Roland, as Steve leaned forward and said,
“Look, Roland, we know what we're doing. Don't worry about this farmer - last night he took everyone by surprise. Now we know what we're up against, we can get our game face on and give him as much respect as he deserves.”
“I've got no idea what that means, but I'll take it as reassuring...”
As the car pulled up the drive, Davey exclaimed, “Look up there in the field above the house! That’s someone running into the trees!”
The other three craned their necks to look, but none saw Nat as he vanished into the copse.
“You better be sure about that, Davey, cos if I have to walk all the way up there and we don’t find him, you won’t be coming back with us…” commented Conor.
“Well, I’m not sure,” replied Davey nervously. “I just saw something move.”
Davey knew what he had seen but opted to put his head back below the parapet. He was scared enough of the two marines and he wasn’t going to give them more ammunition to use against him. They were already having a field day on his physical vulnerability and general lack of confidence. He pushed his hands deep into the pockets of his hoody and sank back into the cramped rear seat of the car. Steve, next to him, sucked his teeth and shook his head at him; and, Conor, in the front, simply said “idiot” and chortled to himself. As the car pulled to a stop in front of the burned down house, all four men opened their respective doors and climbed out into the mild morning air.
Rudi Truter pulled his car in alongside theirs and through the open window he barked, “Find the bastard now, lads. Let’s put a lid on this.” Gerry remained in the car with Truter.
The four of them got to it. Moving around to the back of the car, Steve leaned deep into the boot and pulled out two shotguns, one of which he handed to Roland. “Here you go, mate, just squeeze here to shoot and pump here after,” he said with a big grin. Conor pulled out an SA80, an old weapon but a good one. He then threw a handgun to Davey, who dropped it much to the Marines’ delight.
“Don’t bother taking the safety off that, Davey...you'll shoot yourself,” Conor called over to him. Roland turned to Davey and whispered, “Who knows when these were last fired, and I really don’t want to start shooting people.”
“Hey Roland," Truter called over. "You come and sit with me, we need to talk; and, anyway, I don't think you're really the killing type.” He turned to Gerry who was on the other side of the car: “You tasted his wife...you go and get him.”
Davey and Roland looked at each other and then down at the floor. The latter almost let out an audible whimper, his relief was so great. He felt for Davey too, but right now they jogged in separate directions. Gerry ran to catch up with the Marines. He took Roland’s weapon as they passed each other. Roland gave him an apologetic look as they crossed, but Gerry smiled at his old friend reassuringly, keen to do his master’s bidding. Gerry pushed open the big heavy barn door and pointed the gun into the shadows.
Roland settled into the passenger’s seat of Truter’s car. He couldn't get it out of his head: what had occurred at the house the other night? It all seemed wrong to him. What had they done to this farmer to cause this reaction? He looked at Truter through the windscreen, looking up into the surrounding countryside as though he were sniffing the air for the scent of his prey. He knew deep down that these people were not what he imagined. This rough edge, this mob-like attitude was not why he had joined the NSO.
For him, the NSO was losing its direction and this paramilitary unit was abusing their power. The reality of this struggle was a lot less romantic and far more painful than the riots and protests that were held before the revolution. Also, before, he was one among thousands but now the NSO had organised them into small groups; contact with the opposition was far more likely and far less watered down. He found himself on the frontline and he didn’t want to be there, but he was in a whirlwind and the only thing more ominous than the guy they were looking for was Rudi Truter.
* * * * *
As Nat watched from his vantage point, the four men disappeared into the farmyard while the other climbed into the second car. He looked down his sights and focussed on the one man left in view.
He was the leader from the previous night; he stood in between the open driver’s side door and the car itself with one foot remaining in the foot well. He was dressed all in black with a jacket or jumper zipped up tight around his neck. He wore black gloves. His face was tanned - it was a hard face, lean features. He offered no emotion as he scanned the countryside. Nat could read his thoughts as he looked around the landscape: they were similar people in many ways. He could see the wolf in him hunting. As Nat put himself in Truter’s head conversely, he could see this man by the car climbing inside his own mind and narrowing down the possibilities. Nat could see within a few short moments that this killer knew he was in the land and he knew then this fight was going to continue.
* * * * *
Gerry and Davey came out of the darkness of the barn lad
en with loot that Steve and Conor had packed them up with. Truter exploded…
“What the fuck are you doing, you fucking idiots!!” he said as he moved away from his car, slamming the door shut in anger.
“Do you think we are here to steal junk? You drop that shit now or I’ll shoot you all myself. There are plenty of people out there who would jump at the chance to have your privileges. So you keep your eyes on the task in hand.” He stood square to all four men who had the wind knocked out of their sails and stood forlornly. Embarrassed about the armfuls of tat they had just stolen, they dropped the junk at their feet and looked to Truter for direction.
“Now get the fuck into those fields and don’t come back here until you have this guy!”
Steve chirped up, “Davey, where did you see something move up there?”
Truter’s eyes were wild now and his face seemed to tighten, “What the hell did you just say?” he said with a menacing calmness. All four men stood stock still as the penny dropped. If they were in the bad books before, now they were in serious trouble. Steve, realising he was the focus of Truter’s murderous gaze, pointed at Davey. “He said he saw something move up there when we pulled into the drive, but then he said it was probably nothing.”
Truter’s gaze moved to Davey the young man recoiled with fear. Judging the situation Truter softened and asked, “What did you see, Davey?”
“Errr… I’m sure I saw someone running into the trees at the top of the hill.” He looked to where Nat lay.
The Border Reiver Page 9
