After what felt an eternity, he was behind the wheel of a thirty-year-old Toyota. He had roughly tied off his calf with a strip of material ripped from the shirt he was wearing. He had tried the same for his chest, but he was unable to do it so he left it to bleed, preferring to escape first and worry about his injuries later.
He took out his knife and prized off the access cover underneath the steering column. Bent double with knees around his ears he grabbed the wiring harness connector and pulled it out giving access to the wires behind the ignition. Taking the two red wires and some insulating tape from his pocket he stripped the ends and wound them together; securing them with the insulating tape. Finally, he took the brown wire and touched it to the end of the reds and the engine fired. He revved it a few times in the deserted garage and let it turn over as he pulled the dead agent’s telephone from his pocket.
He brought up the dialled numbers, there was only one so he pressed the green button and put the phone to his ear. He listened to the dial tone, three, four, five rings and then it was answered.
“Yes,” came the voice of Baines. Nat could hear query, hatred and anger in the tone; he could imagine Baines hoping that he had been killed in the bombing. He could imagine him praying that this might be an NSO operative calling the number he found in the phone on the outlaw’s body. But it wasn’t...
“I have nothing left to live for,” said Nat, his voice a whisper, even though he tried to disguise his laboured shallow breaths with a guttural growl.
“Why don’t you just fucking die then?” retorted Baines with a sudden lack of control.
“I have nothing left to live for,” repeated Nat, ignoring the outburst, “except for the day that I have your blood on my hands; I’m coming for you, Baines.”
He did not wait for any response. He pressed red and threw the mobile onto the passenger seat. He gunned the old Toyota out of the car lot.
On the approach to the bridge out of Hexham, Nat saw two large trucks parked across the road and a heavily armed contingent watched the out of town approach. Nat didn't notice whether any troops saw him as he veered left off the main road about half a mile short of the road block. He was racing along Tyne Green parallel to the river. He gunned the old Toyota aiming to cross back over the river at the point the rebel army had the night before.
The road ran out, but he gave little on the throttle as the car bounced up and lurched over the uneven surface of the golf course. The road tires struggled for traction on the wet grass, but he pushed on, bleeding and in pain. He was a good eight hundred yards short of his destination when he lost control of the vehicle. The jalopy aquaplaned over the grass and fell sideways into a bunker in front of one of the greens. The car rolled onto its roof and wet sand oozed through the smashed windows. Nat fell from his seat, landing on his injured shoulder wincing with pain then curling up as the delayed effect of having the wind knocked out of him took hold of his abdomen.
He pushed himself out of the car and made sure nothing was broken as he sucked air into his lungs. His calf was agony, but he had to walk on it now so he put the pain to a corner of his mind and he began the walk back to the rebel vehicles at waters meet. It took agonizing minutes to cross the ruins of the railway bridge. His injuries heightened his sense of vulnerability. He was concerned by his exposure to attack as he crossed the metal girders of the bridge. And he was also struggling to balance on the relatively narrow metal with his gunshot wounds making him lame and his left arm almost useless.
Noise of the rebel slaughter echoed out of the town like the howls of ghoulish beasts, only to be overwhelmed by explosions and the rumble of falling buildings. As Nat passed the shrine of personal belongings left by the rebel soldiers, he saw the necklace that Esme had given to Amber. He snatched it up with a massive hand and buried it deep in his pocket. His face showed no emotion except for that ever present grimace, but that small contemplation of the dirt at his feet and the slight shake of his head betrayed the disappointment and regret that ate away inside him.
There was no one else at Waters Meet. He could not see a soul, just evidence of the army - rubbish, clothes, vehicles everywhere - but no people. It didn't take him long to find a vehicle with the keys in the ignition and his battered carcass slumped into the driver’s seat. He pulled away from the ghostly Waters Meet, heading for home once again.
SEVENTEEN
The earth moved just as Amber’s foot had touched the ground stepping out of the transit van that they had used to escape Hexham. She turned and stood stiff as the bank of fire erupted high above the town like the walls of hell ripping through the air in a churning billowing mass of fire and smoke. The ground trembled under the waves of explosives which thundered down. The shock-wave reached them a few seconds before the crack which rolled and rumbled on after its initial percussion. Amber fell to her knees as she saw the carnage. There wasn’t a square inch of the southern side of Hexham which was not engulfed in flame, and she could not imagine any shelter in the pulverised streets.
She felt Stuart’s hand on her shoulder, and the deep voice she knew so well spoke softly,
“I’m sure he’ll be long gone, child, don’t you fear.”
“Can you swear to that, Stuart?” she tested, looking up into his ruddy face, dark eyes looking down at her.
“No, Amber, love; no, I can’t.” His eyes searched the middle distance for more words, but there were none. He placed his hand gently on her head, much as Nat had done in the rubble to the body he thought was Amber.
Twelve of the rebels had escaped the fighting in the transit van that now stood on the gravel at Carlins Law. Claire lay battered in the back of the van; a woman, another nurse, was tending to her injuries with a rag and some water. Stuart turned to the people who had spilled from the van to watch the maelstrom unfold in the valley below.
“We need to get back on the road north. That does not look like they’re taking prisoners. We need to beat them to the border!”
He turned and clapped his hands, bustling the forlorn gang into the back of the van. Then he turned and his hand ran across his whiskers as he looked pensively at Amber, still kneeling and facing towards Hexham, away from him. He moved over to her and lowered himself to her level,
“C’mon girl, we gotta go. We can’t stay here.”
“I’m staying here, Stuart. This is my home, my mum, my dad… where will I go?”
“With me, lass, till we find your father. C’mon, please don’t do this, I can’t leave you.”
“I’ll be ok, I’ll stay in the woods, like Dad, he’ll come back, he’ll find me.”
“No lass, it’s not happening that way. You come with me now, then in a few days when the dust settles we come back and catch up with your dad.”
Her face turned to look at him. The morning light made her glow with a vivid, striking beauty, pale skin, glowing freckles and stunning eyes blinking in the cold breeze or fighting tears, Stuart could not tell. The same breeze caught her locks and made them ebb like an autumnal tide.
“I know what you mean, Stuart, and I understand, but if I leave I won’t know, I won’t be able to help and he might need me, he might be injured...”
“I know all this, but look at these people - they can’t survive in your woods. If you stay, I have to stay and we all will probably get hunted down. If we go, we get them safe; we escape this army.” He pointed towards the burning town. “And we can come back. You know your father, he’ll either find us or he’ll be here when we get back.”
“Sounds like what he said when we left the last time - and my mother died.”
“Don’t do this to them, Amber! Don't make the same mistakes your father has made!” he said, the grit showing through in his voice as time began to fray his patience. The young woman's head dropped; she knew he was right. She got slowly to her feet and closed the back doors of the van with a hollow metallic slam; then, as Stuart rose and turned, she climbed into the front passenger side. He ran to the driver’s side and wasted
no time in gunning the white van away from the farm.
* * * * *
Nat’s foot was flat to the floor as he sped along the military road. He hit the roundabout at the Errington Arms at seventy-eight, his tyres screamed on the tarmac and out of the corner of his eye he saw a white van heading north and fast on the A68. It was the only other vehicle he had seen on the road and it worried him a little to think that there may already be NSO troops in the countryside. The car didn’t slow; he took the next turn off the roundabout and carried on hammering the engine.
He was completely oblivious to the hand that fate had dealt. The white van had gone from his mind and there was never a thought that the occupants could have been his daughter and his old friend. Their lives' diverged at the mercy of straining diesel engines and Nat’s belief that his daughter was dead and his daughter’s conviction that he was still alive.
He was back at his ruined home within ten minutes of leaving the roundabout. He smelled diesel in the air and his instincts kicked in. He scanned the surrounding rubble, buildings and landscape for signs of life, signs of an ambush; had someone been dropped off to await his return? He tasted the air and studied the places that a hunter would choose, and he knew there was no one waiting, no one watching him. For now, he was alone.
He went to the barn and grabbed some more clean items of clothing and some towels. He kept whisky in there and it was the only thing he could lay his hand on to clean his wounds before dressing them. He took a bottle and the first aid kit.
His head pounded, so he drank from the tap to slake his thirst, relatively unsuccessfully. He slumped stiffly down in the dusty light of the barn, his back against the cupboard under the sink and took stock of his injuries. He was no doctor, but he was pleased to see that both bullets had passed through him. The pain beat through his body like a drum. The wounds burned as though he was being stabbed with a red hot poker. His internal organs ached and shot with pains. His muscles were limp and his mind was dizzy. He had to fight the shock and he had to fight his natural desire to bleed out.
He ripped off the beaten wax jacket and his sodden clothes. Taking the hose from its circular rack he turned the stiff tap until a jet of icy water tightened his clammy skin. He washed himself down quickly then towelled himself off. The towel was damp but did the job. The remnants of a past life.
From the first aid kit, he took strong pain killers and crudely sewed his wounds shut. Then he tied them off tight with bandages. The painkillers gave him some relief from his wounds, but he was disorientated. He stuffed the first aid kit into his pack. Then he grabbed some fresh clothes which had been sitting in the dryer since the day his life had been turned upside down. He thanked Esme for insisting the washing stuff was in the barn. He took another wax jacket and he took no small comfort from the feel of clean, dry clothes on his skin.
Warm, clean, dry and drugged against the pain, he moved back to his supplies. He strapped his hunting rifle across his back once more, his hunting knife into his belt, stuffed his poncho, a few items of clothing and some tins of food into his pack. He walked quickly towards the door and spilled once more into the open.
He stomped up the hill towards woods where he would decide his future. His mind was cold, he had locked the sadness away, connecting only with the pain; he thought only about survival.
He dug in close to the edge of the tree line overlooking the approach to the farm. It was a mild morning, thick acrid smoke billowed high up above Hexham and he could hear the murmur of sporadic arms fire drifting up the valley. In the fields below him, his sheep grazed across the pasture and he knew the weather was going to remain good. He noticed a ewe in the bottom field, it was lame; he could not do anything to help it, but it would feed him tonight. He lined it up in his sights and watched it for a few minutes. Its front leg was broken or infected and it was tired, struggling just to feed. He imagined the fox would have it that night if he failed to get there first.
A twig snapped behind him, drawing his attention away from the lame ewe. He had covered himself with the poncho and foliage, the broken stick was behind him. He was trapped at the mercy of his hearing and his sense of smell, as any movement would definitely betray his position.
He lay close to the dirt in a thicket of brambles. The rich soil filled his nose with earthy tones and he could smell the sap of the foliage around him. He could hear something approaching him. The noises were small, quiet but relatively constant; whatever was behind him was on the move.
Silently, he rolled slowly onto his back and concentrated on the camouflage material of his poncho and the direction of the intermittent rustling. A translucent spider danced across the material, it captured his attention until the brambles to his right scragged and shook. His eyes darted and head turned, both beasts were less than two metres from each other.
The Roe deer was an adult buck standing at about two and a half feet tall. He was a fabulous specimen with good twelve-inch, four pointed antlers. The deer's coat was almost black from the long winter, and Nat watched him as he stared straight back at the hunters hide. The deer did not flinch; he did not run. But, he could sense a presence; he just couldn't see Nat or smell him. Nat was happy with his hide - if this wily old prey couldn't see him, it was unlikely humans would.
The old farmer relaxed his grip on his knife and slid it back into its sheath as the deer skittered away with long bounds through the undergrowth. Nat rolled back onto his front and his eyes settled once again onto the ruin that was his farm.
As he looked on, his mind drifted back to life before the NSO. They would often lie down in the thick grass and look down on the farm: Esme, Amber and him. They would talk about the business, about the neighbours and people around, as families do. They would talk about Amber’s future, and Esme would be the reason to his anxiety. He had always been hard and capable physically, but Esme had been his latitude, his liberalism and adventure.
The world outside the farm scared him; it was full of threat and deceit. It wasn't so much the physical threat to himself that he feared; it was fear for his daughter and his wife. He felt that society had created a greed that would always leave those without the power short. It was his wife that quashed this paranoia; she would joke with him and reason. He missed her so much and he shook himself as he thought about his current predicament - everything he had ever feared was now real.
As he daydreamed, it dawned on him that he had to move; he had to leave the farm and Esme, or sooner or later they would find him there and burn every square inch until he was dead. In that instant, he decided to make a break for the border. He got to his feet and left the safety of the tree line. His long white mane waved in the breeze, piercing blue eyes framed by that harsh wrinkled squint, and those white gritted teeth shone through tight lips and ever thickening stubble.
The hard man turned, hobbled down the hill, labouring on his lame leg, his chest pain defeating the painkillers. The open air of the middle of the field gave him a feeling of freedom he hadn't felt for a while. He looked up to the vast sky and sucked the fresh air deep into his ailing lungs.
EIGHTEEN
“He does have the ability to survive...” Beaston spoke urgently but calmly, delivering the bad news. He kept his sentences short. He didn't elaborate; elaboration invited questions, prolonged the agony. He couldn't stomach failure, “...but we are turning his land over now. We'll find him, that's all I can say right now.”
“Can you be sure he survived?” asked Baines obsessively.
“Well, his body has not been found in the rubble in town.”
“Look, this is your only objective...find him.”
Baines put the receiver down; he understood all too well that the man at the other end of the phone didn't have anything to go on. But he also understood that that was Beaston's problem. The death of his brother had made him see things in a new light. He had entrusted too much power to Start and his deputies. His failings would lead some men to destruction or to fade into obscurity.
Not Ben Baines: he was in the process of subconscious transformation, re-invention. He was not going to let his importance slip through his grasp, especially now that the one person who anchored him was gone. For his whole life nothing had been more important to Baines than his brother’s admiration. He had no family now, no wife and no children. But, he did have Lucas Start, he had The Party; and, he had power. He was not in the wilderness yet; and, he could enjoy a good life now, if he took advantage of his position.
It was in this thought process that the farmer was losing his importance to Baines already. Baines would make sure that Beaston spent the rest of his days hunting Bell down. That was a certainty. But Baines also had a revolution and the country to stabilise; he had to take control of Start’s government and set it straight once again. He knew he could do it, and he felt alive with the challenge.
As he looked at the dark colouration of the desk beneath him, he swept the hair off his forehead; his tanned skin shone under the low lights in the office. His brow was furrowed and he rubbed his chin like the chess player agonizing over the move that would lead to checkmate. Then his forefinger came down on the mahogany twice, and he pushed himself up from the desk and marched decisively out of the grand room.
He tapped on Start’s office door before entering. As he pushed the heavy door open and stepped onto the dark varnished floorboards, he saw his friend, his colleague and his adversary hunched over his desk. He sat lonely like a bull squashed into a stall. The only light in the room which shone was his desk lamp. The light was dim and the shadows were long. For a newcomer to Start’s domain, it would be a sinister glow and a foreboding space. Baines was no newcomer though; he waltzed into the room and slumped casually down in the seat opposite his old ally.
“Tough at the top, eh, Lucas?” he said jovially. Start’s bullish head rose from the papers he was pouring over, already there was a twinkle in his eye. They say that ninety-five percent of communication is unspoken and Start seemed to understand.
The Border Reiver Page 23
