Mary.
She jumped up, ran outside, almost colliding with a soldier sprinting past. He wheeled on her, swung his rifle up, lowered it.
“Get to your transport,” he shouted. “We’re evacuating. The mist’s coming in.”
THE TESTAMENT OF PRIVATE OWEN SHORE CONTINUED staring across the pulverised landscape of mud ponded with great drowning shellholes full of fouler water still and i stand here i stand alone with the comrades bodies scattered round and the germans starting to advance unaware of where i was taken the indignities heaped upon me till at last i died and the rain beats down foul stagnant trench water laps around my groin i grip my rifle tighter with sodden gloves shivering with cold staring across the pulverised landscape of mud ponded with great drowning shellholes full of fouler water still and i stand here i stand alone with the comrades bodies scattered round and the germans starting to advance and the corridors decay and the other dead search for me till one at last enters my unending dreams and says
“OK, MOVE ALONG. No shoving. Keep in line. Keep moving. We’ll get you all out.”
Was the soldier trying to convince the herd of refugees shuffling towards the camp gates, or himself? Anna clung on to Mary, Vera to her. The klaxons blared. Engines revved nearby.
Movement was maddeningly slow. There were so many of them, packed nearly shoulder to shoulder. She couldn’t see over their heads into the cold distance; couldn’t see the mist. It was maybe best not to know how close or far it was. There was no sign of Renwick or Stakowski, but then they were police officers. They’d have orders to follow, work to do. It was all on her now.
“Mary? Sweetheart?” The child stared, eyes vast in her numbed, white face. “Mary?” Anna’s voice shook; Mary shut her eyes.
“Easy.” Vera squeezed her shoulder. “She’s just shaken up. She’s lost a lot.”
“She’s lost everything.”
“We all have.”
“What’s going to happen to her?” Anna touched Mary’s hair.
“She’ll survive. Just got to get her out of here. We can sort the rest out later.”
“Yes. Knuckle down. Get through this. Like they did in the trenches. God.” She almost laughed.
Vera gripped her arm tight enough to hurt. “Anna.”
“Ow. OK. OK. I’m alright.”
The mark above her breast stung coldly.
“We’ll make it,” said Vera. “The three of us–”
Screams; shots rang out. The crowd heaved and spilled backwards. Anna stumbled; Vera held her up. For a second, the crowd parted; the way to the main gates was clear. She could have run if she’d wanted, but she didn’t. Just beyond the wire was a wall of yellowish-brown mist. It poured through the open gates, and shapes – some with leering faces, some with shattered ones – leapt out of it to embrace those at the head of the column.
More screams. Somebody cannoned into Anna. Bodies piled against her, forcing her back. Vera, though... Vera was clear, struggling towards her. Anna only just managed to thrust Mary at her – “Take her!” – before she was driven backwards.
“Aunty Anna! Aunty Anna!”
She had to get back to Mary. She mustn’t fall. If she fell, she’d be finished. The crowd was bearing her away from Mary. Anna tried to slip sideways, out of it. but there were more screams, and the crowd surged. Oh Christ it was a stampede, a panic.
Anna bulled her way to the side, trying to break out of the column. She stumbled, started falling; she grabbed at a man to save herself. He punched at her face. The blow glanced off her cheekbone; her glasses slipped awry. If they were lost, she’d be blind and good as dead. The stampede surged and buffeted them; she clung to her aggressor. His eyes were wild; he was bearded and shaggy-haired – an academic, a musician, a biker? The flood was slacking and she tried to pull away, but he came at her and threw another punch, missing. He swung again. When she tried to avoid this one her foot slid and she fell. He kicked out at her; it glanced off her hip with a shock of pain that almost made her vomit. He raised his foot to stamp on her; she caught it and twisted, pushed back. He shouted in pain and fell on his back. If she let him get up he’d kill her.
All at once she was terrified and full of rage, and at the same time utterly calm; things moved too fast for her to feel anything and at the same time everything was in slow motion, except her. She got up. She needed a weapon. A tent had collapsed nearby. The pole stuck out of the canvas. She grabbed it, pulled it free. The man got up and lunged at her. She hit him in the face. He staggered back, clutching his eyes; Anna ran in and hit him in the throat. His scream choked; he fell. She hit him again. And again and again; the thrill of the impact sang up her arms. No bastard would come between her and Mary.
“Anna!” Someone caught her arm. She spun. Vera. “Come on.”
The man was still. Blood and hair covered the tent pole. She didn’t look at it after that. The man’s face was a red blob. He looked dead. Well fuck him. She didn’t care. Her own thoughts’ coldness scared her. There was a thin whining noise in her ears; her head felt light. The bastard had got what he asked for. She’d done what she had to. End of story. That was what you did to protect–
“Mary? Where’s Mary?”
“She’s safe, I told her to stay put. Shit!” Vera was pointing at a collapsed tent. There was no-one there. “Oh, shit!”
“You left her?” Anna heard her voice become a scream. “You fucking left her, you–”
“I had to help you.”
“We’ve got to find her.”
“Fucking how, in this?” Vera didn’t push the point; she could see Anna wasn’t going to give way. And she wasn’t running off on her own. She needs me more than I need her. Again that coldness of thought, as liberating as it was frightening. “Where? Where would she go?”
“I don’t know. I don’t–” Yes she did. “She’d hide. Inside the tents.” She ran forward. “Mary. Mary!”
The mist was rolling in, and the dead with it. Up near the gate, soldiers in insectile respirators were standing their ground, firing at the dead without effect. Already they were falling back. The dead rushed after them, but Anna ran on.
“There–” Vera pointed. A tiny, red-haired figure scrambled out of the half-fallen tent.
“Aunty Anna! Aunty Anna!”
“Mary–” Anna ran forward. She’s screaming for me. Not Vera, not Daddy, me. I’ll keep you safe, princess, I’ll–
“Aunty Anna–” And then the mist took her and Mary screamed, voice choking off; Anna ran forward, screaming too, Vera’s voice shouting vainly for her to stop.
“BLOODY DRIVE, MIKE.”
Stakowski floored the accelerator; the Land Rover roared along the camp’s perimeter. Out in the mist they could hear screams and the jagged rattle of rifle fire.
“Get us round the back,” Renwick said from the passenger seat.
“Alright. Put your seatbelt on.” Renwick fumbled with it, fingers thick. “Christ, why didn’t you see the MO when we had the chance?”
“Too much to do. ’Sides, there were plenty of others in a worse state.”
“Yeah? Seen yourself in a mirror lately? You look like death on a stick–”
“Just do as you’re fucking told Mike, get us round the back–”
“We’re here. They’re bloody streaming out. Sod-all chance of finding anyone.”
“We’re trying, Mike.” Renwick sat up straight, teeth clenched, sweat on her brow. “We’re bloody trying to find them.” To find that kid, find Mary, save this one at least.
“Never said we wouldn’t, boss. Now put your bloody seatbelt on.”
SOLDIERS RAN PAST her; one shouted, snatched at her arm. She pulled free and ran on. In the mists, shadows fought. Running men and men who stood to fight both fell at their enemy’s touch.
The edge of the mist. The swimming-pool reek of chlorine. It’d kill her if she went in. But it was killing Mary now. Wait. On the ground. Two soldiers, both dead. The paths of glory. They wore respirators; sh
e pulled one off. The rest, too – the soldier was in a full suit. If the chlorine got into a cut; chlorine mixed with water became hydrochloric acid, even she knew that. She stripped the soldier, mumbling an apology as she went. Suit, gloves – quickly, quickly – and then she ran.
There. The tent. And Mary thrashed beside it, tearing and clutching at her face, kicking feebly. Little lungs, so easily damaged. How long? A minute? Less? More? How long did it take?
The dead rose up and wafted towards her and then away, swaying clear. The mark on her breast burned. Searing cold. Bless Nan’s father for giving her the chance to save Mary. Damn her for endangering the child to begin with.
Two of the dead approached Mary; a huddled shape in a rattling wheelchair and a tall figure with a black void where its face should have been. Anna ran shrieking at them, brandishing the tent pole; they sank away into the mist. She fell to her knees beside Mary. There was froth on her lips and her eyes were bulging. Anna threw aside the tent pole and gathered her up.
“Anna–” She rose, half-turning; a shape thundered out of the mist towards her. The face was deformed, insectile. She groped for the tent pole–
“Anna!” Not an insect’s face, a gas-mask. The voice, she knew it. “Anna, it’s me. Vera.”
Anna stood; Vera gripped her elbow and they ran, the mist foul and deep around them.
REFUGEES SPEWED OUT of the rear gates; fleeing vehicles’ red taillights wove away into the night. There was a thud, screams. Stakowski saw bodies on the ground, cars bouncing over them, and turned away.
The Land Rover was halted by the gates. So far none of the refugees had noticed it, but if they did? Would they swarm over it, try to break in? He grasped his pistol, then let go of it. He had to get Renwick out of here, get her looked at. If the mist ever stopped, they might have a chance.
“Can you see anything?”
“Plenty, but not what you’re talking about.” A last few figures ran out through the gate; the mist was uncomfortably near. Nothing living would come out of that.
He still kept shying away from it, who they fought. On his father’s side, Poland had been a different front, a different war. But his mam had talked about the men on her side of the family who’d joined the Kempforth Pals and never come back. Might be them, coming for him in that mist. Might be them behind what had been done to Roseanne Trevor and the rest, behind all the death that had followed.
The mist was almost on top of them now. He was about to tell Renwick it was hopeless, they should go, but then two figures ran out of the mist, gas-masked, one with a child in her arms. He knew the child’s face, and when one of the women pulled her mask off, he knew hers too.
STAKOWSKI FLOORED THE accelerator, spun the steering wheel. Anna glimpsed shapes on the ground in the car’s path, caught in its headlights; she shut her eyes. The Land Rover’s wheels thumped and bounced over uneven things. You could stop this. You could stop it. Behind them, the mist swallowed up the perimeter fence.
She pulled off the gas mask, gulped the clean air. “Thanks,” she gasped.
“Mention it.” Renwick said thickly. Stakowski glanced sideways at her. “Keep your eyes on where you’re going, Mike.”
“Aunty. Aunty Anna–” Oh god, that voice. Mary’s voice. A grating, whispering croak. “Make it stop.”
“Don’t try to talk.” She gripped Mary’s hand. Her arms and legs shook. Muscles ached in her back; her hip throbbed from the kick she’d taken. Vera squeezed her free hand.
“Thank you too,” Anna got out.
Vera smiled faintly, brushed Anna’s hair with her fingers. “It’s OK.”
Tall high rows of lights glimmered; the motorway. Red taillights wove ahead of them, down towards it.
“Where to now, ma’am?” Stakowski asked.
“Just get us away from this, Mike. Hell for leather. Get on the radio while you’re at it, see if you can... if you can...”
“Boss?”
“... can...”
“Joan! Christ–” Renwick flopped sideways; the car swerved. Anna grabbed her shoulder to stop her falling; Vera cradled Mary, let her prop Renwick upright. “What’s wrong with her?” Christ, his voice had nearly cracked.
“Looks like a stroke or something.”
“A stroke? Christ on a bike. That headshot she took. I thought she’d been looking bad. Told her to see the quack for Christ’s sake. Should’ve known...” Stakowski fought to steady the wheel.“We need help. OK. One of you watch behind us. Other one look after her.”
“We’ve a little one to look after, too,” shouted Vera.
“Well, bloody multi-task then. You’re supposed to be good at it.”
They passed a car that had flipped over; blurred, wide-mouthed shapes flew towards them. Hands smacked at their windows; Mary let out a strangled cry. Anna glimpsed wide eyes and mouths, caught screamed threats and pleas. Stakowski shifted gears, trod harder on the accelerator; the cries faded, were gone.
“Oh god,” said Anna. “We just left them–”
“Would you rather it was us?” asked Vera. “Or her?” She nodded at Mary.
“No.”
“Well, then.”
But it wasn’t just well, then. It couldn’t be, because she could have stopped it. Was that on Anna’s head too? Was every death that happened because she wouldn’t sacrifice Mary? Fuck anyone who said so. She wouldn’t kill her child for anyone.
Another car lay at the foot of the motorway embankment, but there was no-one in sight; it looked like the occupants had been lucky. Stakowski fought to keep the Land Rover under control. A huge chunk of the barrier was gone; the soldiers must have ripped it up as they went. Stakowski steered through the gap onto the motorway, drove hard and fast, overtaking again and again as the speedometer climbed towards 100. The other vehicles fell behind. Some of the tension ebbed out of him.
The motorway looked deserted; he could see nothing up ahead. The sodium lights above glinted off concrete, broken glass, the ruffled fur and feathers of roadkill. “How we doing?”
“Can’t see any mist,” said Vera. “Think we’ve left it behind, for now.”
“Good... oh Christ.”
The motorway lights flickered, flashed twice, and went out; the dark piled above and around them, rushing in.
“Mike!” Anna shouted; for a second she sounded like Renwick. He cut the speed as fast as he dared, turned the headlights on full beam.
Behind them, more headlights blinked into life, following.
Anna held Renwick’s hand, stroked Mary’s hair. “Where now?”
“The hell should I know?”
“Try the radio,” said Vera.
He did, but heard only a mush of static, and dull, leaden voices full of dead, empty misery.
None of them spoke after that; the voices of the dead filled the car. Behind them, the other headlights shone in the black; the few who’d escaped. Stakowski shut the radio off, and they drove on in silence through the endless night.
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
Monday 23rd December.
STAKOWSKI WOKE, BLINKING crusted eyes. He was lying on a hard surface; his head ached. His mouth tasted foul; he was bloody cold.
He sat up, hugging the coarse blanket around him. The room was bare. Blanket-wrapped bodies covered the floor. In the corner, a couple of blankets had been hung up in front of a row of buckets. Despite the cold, they reeked. The only sounds were snores and heavy, sleep-laden breathing.
In the distance, gunshots and an explosion’s muffled thud.
Stakowski uncurled and rose stiffly to his feet, stretching aching muscles and wincing at the crack and creak of joints and bones. A few sleepers twitched and stirred as he picked his way over to the window, but no-one woke.
The window was cracked; a thin blade of wind keened through it. His reflection’s eyes were tired and bloodshot; there was greyish-white stubble on his face. He looked old; felt it too. And he stank; hadn’t changed his clothes in two days. He felt greasy, dirty. H
e’d have killed for a hot bath and a leisurely soak.
His grey hair was matted, odd tufts sticking out. Shouldn’t let you out on our own at your age, Renwick would’ve said. His teeth were furred, and started to chatter; he clenched them.
Cold morning; a thin snow falling. Jesus: two days to Christmas.
Half a dozen squaddies jogged down the street outside. Someone shouted orders. Stakowski heard engines revving.
The dead’s dull, leaden voices had faded as they’d driven, Renwick lolling in the passenger seat, the kiddie coughing and retching in the back. Around three in the morning they’d found a living voice and been guided to an industrial estate on the outskirts of Leeds, pressed into service as an emergency refugee centre and ad hoc hospital. One blanket each, a space on the floor and a bucket to shit in.
Refugee. Stakowski tasted the word; it was bitter. His father had been one. That was why he’d come here, because Britons didn’t become refugees. It hadn’t all been plain sailing. If Ulster hadn’t been a civil war Stakowski didn’t know what was – but compared to most other countries, it had been safe. Maybe they’d been lucky to last this long.
Outside was an army Land Rover, a machine gun mounted on the back, engine running. Across the road was the ‘hospital’; a defunct haulage firm’s offices. Renwick was there now, and the little girl.
Best not think of Renwick now. Drive himself mad. He was having trouble thinking about yesterday, full stop. But he’d done his job, got the sick to the hospital, seen Anna and Vera securely billeted, before collapsing. He’d managed that, but he didn’t know how much he had left for anything else. Stakowski breathed out; condensation bloomed across the glass.
He picked his way towards the door; Anna blinked, groped for her glasses. “Mike?”
He put a finger to his lips.
Anna nodded. Beside her, Vera started to stir.
“Wake her up,” said Stakowski, “and let’s go.”
The Faceless Page 31
