“What can I do for you, Ben. I’ve got a lot to get through?” he lifted the articles slightly from his desk.
“What’s that then?” asked Baines.
“Where are you, Ben. Are you on my side?” Start’s eyes narrowed and his gaze didn’t waver from the eyes that sat slouched in the chair across his desk. Baines locked his eyes to Start’s and sat up in the chair. He was a master at commanding attention and Start lapped it up.
“I had my doubts when you usurped me, if I’m honest. But I’m no baby, Lucas. What am I going to do, creep around in the shadows while you struggle on? You need me and I need you - just like it always has been.”
Start said nothing, but pushed himself up and walked the couple of paces to a small occasional table on which stood a cut glass decanter and two glasses. He lifted it and turned from the waist, raising the decanter in Ben’s direction. Ben nodded, maintaining the silence as he allowed Lucas to pour two hefty drams of single malt.
The big man took his time, enjoying the tinkling of cut glass and the warming sound of flowing spirit. He turned with the two glasses in hand and returned to his seat, placing the glasses one on either side of the desk, all the while looking searchingly at his old compadre. He allowed himself to fall back heavily into his commodious leather desk chair. His fat hand came up to his mouth, and he pinched his bottom lip between thumb and forefinger.
“Let’s not ham this up too much, Lucas. I’m here and God only knows you need my help.” Ben leaned forward and raised his glass to the other man, then took a healthy swig of the brown doctor.
Calmly, Start responded, “How about your relationship with Eastman and the toffs?”
“I spoke to him once, Lucas...Look, you screwed me, what did you think I was going to do?”
Start contemplated for a moment then abandoned his hand.
“Of course I bloody well did, you idiot. I knew something like that would happen. I’d just stabbed you in the back. For fuck’s sake, Ben, if I had been in your shoes I would have jumped across the table and strangled me there and then.”
“Well, if you know about that then, you’ll know I’ve had no further contact...nothing was compromised.”
“I’ll take your word for that. The way I see it, it is not your style to be a double agent creeping around the darkness. Your beliefs are too strong and your ego is too big. And, God, you are right - I could do with your help. I’ve got the heavy-hand bit down to a tee, but I have no control when it comes to policy and balance. I need your brains and your diplomacy, Ben...I’m big enough to admit it!”
“And I need your thuggishness, backstabbing, your paranoia and your scheming,” Baines said slowly.
“Well, thank you very much! The dictator and the politician.”
“Jesus, Lucas, you have a phenomenal sense of self.”
The two men raised their glasses and saw off the whisky they had left. As they savoured the smooth heat of the peaty alcohol and felt it warm their insides, Lucas tilted his glass at Ben again to silently ask if he wanted another. Ben slid his empty glass across the desk, “God yes, keep them coming, I could do with a soaking.”
As the big man once again rose from his desk, he pointed Ben over to the other side of the room. There were two high back armchairs positioned in front of a huge fireplace. Ben nestled into his armchair; he smiled and raised his glass. Lucas reciprocated, and after a moment sparked,
“Hey, did Beaston get that bloody farmer?”
“I don’t know. I think he annihilated everything else in the vicinity and, by all accounts, he certainly quashed the uprising, but I think the slippery little bastard got away.”
“You can’t obsess about him, Ben. There are thousands like him causing trouble now. It is a cancer which is really threatening my...or should I say...our,” Lucas checked himself, and his eyes darted to Ben in apology, “…regime.”
Ben chuckled at the slip. He didn’t care, as he knew that this merry dance would be enjoyed by both of them until that time came when one could destroy the other.
“Your judgement has been clouded by the pressure, Lucas. You were the one who said to me that Civil War was our friend. Think about it - instability and fear focuses the mind, gives a siege mentality. People won’t be worrying about the finer points of education and health care if they think that somebody is about to kill them and steal their home.”
“I know all this, but how do we stop the tide turning against us?”
“Politics, my friend, politics; the flock will follow if the words are right.”
The room fell silent and both men sipped at their drinks, the shadows loomed like the masquerade of their friendship. Lucas slouched down in his seat and pointed with his glass toward Ben.
“I am sorry about your brother, Ben, a ruddy mess and a great man lost.”
“You know, I really don’t think he would have minded going like that. To live the way he did for so many years, he was tortured; never been normal since we lost our parents.”
Ben stared into the distance living the memories of the most momentous and horrific time of his life. He was only young when his mother had been chosen for a two-month stint working in New York. It was the first week of her stay when the Twin Towers came down. She had been in a meeting on the ninety-first floor. Two days later Ben’s father had turned to drinking the grief away in a London pub. At three in the morning he was mugged forty yards from his front door; in his stupor, he fought back and was stabbed. He bled to death in the quiet street whilst his attacker escaped with eighteen pounds. He was not even carrying his mobile or wallet because, in his drunkenness, he had left them in the bar.
It had been a couple of days after the funeral that Tom had joined the army. Ben had never spent more than a few hours at a time with him after that day, and in recent years it had been limited to a few words every few years. So, their recent contact had been a real pleasure for Ben.
“Yeah, well, it must be hard on you. We will find that farmer you know.”
“Someone was going to kill him sooner or later. Luck was with him for forty-odd years. I know we’ll string that bastard up, but you know the reality of death is that life doesn’t even skip a beat. My parents, now my brother; if I stop to grieve, we lose ground and we can’t lose ground now Lucas.”
And so it was that the new bond had been forged. It was at that point that Start regained his composure, the confidence returned. The heavy hand of power began to rise above the country again, because he was absolutely sure that Ben Baines could return justification, reason and empathy from the general population for the war against its own people.
It didn't matter that both men knew that the other would finish him when the opportunity and the timing were right.
NINETEEN
The walk back down the hill was hard going on Nat; his calf muscle was next to useless. Every time he put weight on the leg, the pain was fierce. His face felt contorted from wincing.
His leg was painful, but he had no idea of the damage the wound in his chest had done or was doing. He needed medical attention and he needed it fast.
He staggered towards the car. He touched the cold handle of the door, and no sooner had his hand made contact than he heard the engines. His heart sank as his head spun to see seven or eight military vehicles snaking along the narrow country road below his farm. He watched for a second or two; then he turned to his wood. The land that he knew so well was his only chance of escape. It was not an upper hand against these numbers; but, if he could get into the trees, he could disappear.
Jumping into the car, he fired the ignition and the engine sparked first time. He slammed his foot on the accelerator and pulled off the clutch; the vehicle leapt into action, tearing for bite in the loose gravel. As the tyres gnarled at solid earth, it lurched forward. He spun the wheel to point the car at the gate leading into the field and up to the woods. He clattered through the wooden gate which had bridged the gap to the top field for over fifty years. He kept his foot flat as the
car revved in second gear up the steep incline. The land was not too boggy and the car’s tyres managed to grip enough to push the lump of metal up the hill. The engine whined as he approached the gate to the wood. Again, he drove straight through it and then veered the car into the ditch with a violent rocking thump. He shook off the impact and rolled out of the car.
Scrambling through the undergrowth, bracken tearing at his skin, he fell on the top of a knoll just behind the stone wall which separated the wood from the field below. He had a clear sight of the farm below; the vehicles were stopping, lined up on the gravel and the drive. He watched as troops jumped from the trucks and were directed to fan out across the field and approach his position.
He rested his head in the soft wet grass as he thought. He was desperate now, he felt cold and tired. He had three full magazines for his rifle and he could drop some of the men who wanted him dead now. Or, he could run and leave them guessing where he was.
However, they saw the car. They must have seen him driving up the hill.
He raised his head to the telescopic sights and he lined up the first, unlucky, anonymous shadowy figure. He settled his breath, in, out, calm, steady and then he squeezed the trigger and he felt the kick. He heard the pfft of the silenced shot and the dark figure fell.
After the first shot, Nat stopped. He rested his head again in the wet earth; he had no stomach for killing faceless men anymore.
He looked again at the approaching soldiers and beyond. Then he noticed the NSO commander by the trucks. Without hesitation, he put his eye to his weapon and fired twice. He hit the man in the shoulder, and he watched as he scrambled out of sight behind the vehicles. It was less than a minute later that he saw the black dot parting the smoke over Hexham in its violent downdraft. He paused for a second as if for confirmation of what he already knew. There it was, soft, almost inaudible: the pulsating throb of rotor blades beating a course for his position.
He wanted to lie there forever, but he had to move. Digging into the depths of his determination, he pushed himself through the pain and to his feet, and he ran as fast as he could into the thickest part of the wood. He didn't stop; he knew he had many acres to lose himself in.
* * * * *
“I want him pinned down, but I don’t want a kill from the air; you understand me?” Beaston spat over the radio to the pilots in the helicopter. “I want to see the whites of this bastard’s eyes,” he muttered to himself after putting the receiver down. He sat on the tailgate of one of the trucks; his shirt was pulled down over his broken shoulder. Nat's bullet had passed in through the meat of his upper arm. A medic worked quickly to stem the blood and make the injury stable. The General would live, but it was another infuriating dent in his pride.
As the chopper roared overhead, Beaston was brushing the medic away and barking at his troops to form up. There was no time to lose, now was the time to rid the dog of this tick.
* * * * *
Nat scrambled through the thick coniferous wood. The bare branches at ground level were hard as bone and ripped his skin as he ran. The strong sticky sap filled his nostrils with its reassuring smell. He ignored his injuries as best he could, but he knew that his movement was laboured and that he was still losing blood; he felt light headed. He focussed on surviving the next hour. His goal was to reach an outcrop of rock which would give him a rocky shelter from the searching helicopter and also give him some elevation from the approaching NSO men.
He was about two hundred yards from where he wanted to hide. To his left were the deepest darkest coniferous trees in the woodland. To his right was the edge of the steep ravine which gave passage to where Esme lay buried. He hugged the edge of the drop because the going was much easier than in the thick of the trees.
As he ran, he tried to duck a fallen tree trunk but he caught his back on the bow; he was knocked off balance and he veered over the edge of the ravine. With no conscious decision, he threw out a hand and grabbed a thick branch which hung from the leaning tree. He hung, his legs scrabbling on the steep unstable slope. His hunting rifle fell from his shoulder. It hung on his wrist on his injured side; he had no strength to swing it back up onto the flat ground, so he wriggled it free and let the weapon slip away down slope.
The thud, thud of chopper blades was loud in the air now. He was a sitting duck hanging helplessly over the edge of the ravine. His good hand held his weight, but he had to move. He swung himself up and grabbed with his left hand. Excruciating pain shot through his chest as he grabbed another branch on the trunk. He screamed out in pain as his weakened body took the strain. He was then able to walk his legs up to the top of the incline. His calf was also hurting but nothing like the pain in his chest. He blinked and breathed heavily as he contemplated moving his sound arm.
Finally, he took the full weight of his body on his left arm and grabbed the next branch with his right. The bark now tearing at his hands, but he was there, able to use his stronger right arm to lift himself up and onto safe ground. He lay quietly for a short while catching his breath and collecting himself. All composure had gone; the farmer began to understand that his injuries were making it impossible to keep running. But one thing was certain: he had to get up and get into the rocks or he didn’t have a chance.
TWENTY
The white van trundled over the undulations of the north Northumberland highway. Few places on earth offer a sky vaster and a landscape wilder. Amber sat staring out across the browns of the moorland as it stretched off for miles before hitting the blue sky with its huge billowing clouds. Stuart did not look up from the road; they hadn’t spoken since leaving the farm.
Stuart swung the van off the road at Catcleugh Reservoir and followed the rough woodland track through Castle Crag Forest to hit the border a few miles north at a crossing the Scots had opened for the retreating rebels. They had travelled a short distance when Stuart skidded to a stop. Coming the other way were a number of vehicles which pulled to a stop in front of Stuart’s van.
The door to the first vehicle opened and Jesse Rowell jumped down from the four by fours driver’s side. He ran to Stuart’s window.
“You made it. Good to see you, Stuart. Amber.” He looked through to Amber and smiled warmly.
“Likewise, Jesse. Is the border shut up ahead?”
“No, it’s open; but, we have had word from friendlies in the NSO that, Amber, your father is alive.”
Amber moved immediately to leave the van.
“I’m coming with you then,” she said.
“Whoa, lassie,” said Stuart. “We’ll both go, but we gotta get these guys safe first.” He indicated to the back of the van.
“We haven’t got time for that, Stuart,” Jesse butted in. “Word is that they have him on the run at Carlins Law. And they have men in numbers combing the land to flush him out...we need to get down there and meet them head on from the north. See if we can get him out of there.”
Stuart looked across at Amber, thinking.
“Ok, we’ll come with you if there’s room. Someone in the back can take this one on to the border.”
“Not a problem. Let’s go.”
Stuart and Amber jumped into the flatbed of the truck. It was cold, but they were joining ten other bodies huddled in there. The convoy moved out to save the farmer who had become much more than a mere fighter in their struggle against the regime.
* * * * *
The helicopter flew low and virtually over his head. The trees rocked wildly under the down force of the helicopter blades, and the noise was immense. Nat couldn’t think, undergrowth slapped him across the face and filled his eyes with vicious specks of dirt. He clenched his fists and beat the earth pushing himself to his feet. He staggered towards the rocky knoll and slid between the crags. He covered himself with his poncho, and he searched the raging sky for the helicopter. To his dismay the helicopter hovered low above his position, and he knew that it was guiding the men to where he was.
He watched as the chopper spun slowly, abo
ut fifty feet above his position. He wondered whether a bullet would pierce the windshield. Then he looked at the tail rotors and he watched as it came around. He had a clear shot straight up below the tail and it was moving slowly enough, he thought. He had no idea whether the rounds from his handgun would penetrate the metal or affect the mechanics, but it was worth trying.
The pain of aiming the weapon was excruciating, but the need was greater. He took the strain and watched as the tail of the helicopter slowly spun around to show itself above him once again. His eyes were locked on the tail and he knew he’d make the shot.
As the tail came to its closest point, he released a burst of five shots, smooth as a whisper and his shot was straight and true. It penetrated the underside of the tail where the rotor’s components were positioned, but the helicopter carried on circling as it was.
Nat’s head dropped; there was nothing more he could do. Then he heard a slight change in the sound above him. He looked up again, and his eye caught the wisp of black smoke coming from the rotor blades. He must have hit the mechanism; he could see the helicopter was making more erratic moves. He watched carefully. The smoke became thicker, the tail began to spin more quickly. It was as though the wind had dramatically picked up all of a sudden, and the helicopter banked off to the east, the pilot was losing control, and the rear rotor was smoking heavily now. The aircraft went out of view below the trees to Nat’s left, and he heard the deafening grind of rotors on wood, like a giant lawn mower running over sticks. Then there was an enormous crash and the noise of the engines stopped.
The wood was silent, peaceful. Nat lay against the rock, his breathing was shallow. Blood was oozing from the wound in his chest. Right then, he felt like he would never move again. The sounds drifted through the trees. He could hear the faint rustles and snapping branches of the approaching soldiers. He lay prone against the cold stone, slumped and lifeless. He was shivering, struggling for breath, concentrating on the necklace that Esme had given to Amber. He waited.
The Border Reiver Page 24
