“Of course,” said Ben. “’Course I knew.”
The madman nodded. “Interesting.” He stayed sitting there, gun half raised, nodding pensively.
Beneath his right buttock, Ben made a fist, scooping up leaves and dirt, ready to throw them into the nutter’s face if the chance presented itself.
“Did the other boys notice it, the change in you?”
“Oh yeah, natch.”
“That’s good. I’ll need that, I think.”
Ben cursed inwardly. Why had he agreed to go along with Jack’s stupid plan to switch identities? It had seemed funny at the time. Jack was scared of his own shadow, and even though he resented Ben’s confidence, he wasn’t afraid to use it to his advantage. Just like a toff, thought Ben, not for the first time wondering why he’d thrown his lot in with these spoiled Harrow kids, refusing to admit to himself that he had been so scared of being alone that even a bunch of pampered prats had seemed like an attractive peer group. So he’d tried to adopt the accent and manners of the boys around him; he was good at blending in. He’d even begun to think maybe he’d found a home, until the cultists arrived.
He wondered if there was any point in protesting that he wasn’t Jack. Probably not. The madman had killed Jack without a second’s thought. Ben knew the only reason he was still alive was because the madman thought he was someone else. If Ben told him the truth, and if he was believed, he’d end up just as dead. Better to play along, to try and find some advantage. That was another thing he’d learned in the care home — if silence doesn’t work, keep them talking, sometimes you can deflect them.
“Tell me about the others,” asked Ben.
The madman shook his head briefly, forcing his attention back to the here and now.
“Oh, they were nothing, really,” he replied. “Spoilt brats. Trustafarians. I should have realised that the lower down the list I got, the better they’d be. You’re almost normal, like me. It’ll be good to have a normal king, don’t you think?”
Ben nodded. “So, let me see if I’ve got this right,” he said cautiously. “I’m King of England, yeah? You’re next in line to the throne after me. And you’ve gone around killing everyone in line before me. Now you’ve just got to off me and you become king. That about it?”
The madman’s eyes narrowed, suspicious again.
“You know that,” he said.
Ben nodded. “Oh yeah, just wanted to be absolutely sure we were on the same page.” He was gobsmacked; he knew Jack had been posh, but he’d had no idea he was bloody royalty. “So, how many kings have you killed?”
Could he persuade the nutter of the truth — that he’d got the wrong person, that he’d already killed the king and was in fact already the monarch? He cursed himself for speaking without thinking; no, he couldn’t, because he’d gone and reinforced the madman’s belief that you felt the moment your predecessor died, that becoming king was some sort of massive supernatural head rush.
There was nothing else to do. He was going to have to try and fight this guy. Ben knew he didn’t have much of a chance, but if he didn’t do something he was going to be shot dead at any moment. And he was damned if he was going down without a fight.
He clenched his handful of dirt and prepared to make his move.
“Kings and queens,” corrected the madman. “Ten in all. You’ll be number eleven.”
Ben ignored the nerves and the insistent pressure on his bladder, and rolled to his right, releasing his arms and flinging the forest mulch into the face of the madman.
“Like fuck I will!” he yelled, and then he was up and running.
ARTHUR WIPED THE muck from his eyes as he rose to his feet. The boy had already vanished into the undergrowth, but he was hardly stealthy and he could clearly hear him blundering away to his left. With a weary sigh, he gave chase. It was his own stupid fault. He should have just shot the boy when he had the chance. Then he would have fulfilled his destiny and ascended to invincibility. As it was, his legs hurt, his eyes stung, he had a stitch from running and he was starting to get really cheesed off. Time to kill the boy and be done with it.
He held tight to his gun as he ran.
BEN KNEW THE madman wasn’t far behind him, so he put his head down and concentrated on going as fast as he could. A bullet pinged off a tree right beside him, and he put on an extra burst of speed.
He was so focused on his pursuer that he didn’t see the man who stepped out in front of him, only becoming aware of his presence when he ran smack into the heavy log the man was wielding.
He was unconscious before he hit the floor.
ARTHUR SAW THE boy lying on the ground and stopped dead. Had he tripped, or hit his head on a tree? He was pretty sure his hopeful shot hadn’t found its mark.
He approached the boy carefully. Maybe he was playing possum, waiting for him to get closer so he could spring some trap. Arthur told himself not to be paranoid; there were no traps here.
Which was why he was so surprised when Mr Jolly stepped out from behind a tree and shot him in the gut.
Arthur stood there for a moment, his face a mask of stunned surprise. Then his gun dropped from his hand and he fell to his knees, clutching his stomach. He remained kneeling as his supervisor from the camp walked towards him shaking his head ruefully.
“And you were so close, Arthur,” said Mr Jolly as he approached. “So close.”
Arthur didn’t understand. He was so shocked and confused that he couldn’t even form a question. He just stared, baffled, at the man who had shot him.
Jolly knelt down as well, so he was facing Arthur.
“Of all the people I showed that spreadsheet to, you were the unlikeliest candidate,” he said. “I’d almost given up.”
Arthur registered that his accent had changed. The glottal stops of his Wandsworth accent had gone, replaced by round, plummy RP.
“I really didn’t think you had it in you. The one before you, now he was a go getter. But when he saw his name on the list he just laughed. In all, you were the sixth person whose name I added to the spreadsheet, and by far the least promising. Or so I thought. Just goes to show, doesn’t it? You never can tell about people.”
“I…” gasped Arthur. “I don’t…”
“Understand. Yes, I know. You’ve gone quite round the twist, haven’t you? Poor love. I knew you’d finally lost the plot when you killed that reprehensible parasite Parker. Making him a paper crown, painting it gold, then setting him up in a tableau, in a big chair with a roll of silver foil as a sceptre… well, it was inventive, I’ll give you that. But a bit bonkers, don’t you think?”
“What are you… doing here?” Arthur was beginning to feel lightheaded, as if the world was spinning around him. Gravity suddenly seemed to be on the blink. He saw spots before his eyes and found it hard to draw breath.
“Oh do keep up, Arthur. I replaced my name on the line of succession with yours. Simple plan, really. Convince someone else that they’re the rightful heir, they traipse off and kill everyone who stands in their way, and I sit back, watch the show, then pick off the hapless patsy at the end. That way I only have to kill one idiot, rather than eleven.”
Arthur’s head swam. Was this another test? Surely what Jolly was saying couldn’t be true. No, it had to be a test. It was his destiny to be king. He knew that, more certainly than he’d ever known anything in his life.
“You used me?” he groaned.
“Well of course I did, dear boy. First rule of being king — delegate the nastiest jobs to the most expendable serfs you can lay your hands on. And you, Arthur St John Smith, are the most entirely expendable person I’ve ever had the good fortune to meet. Plus: murderous, delusional and now, very dead indeed.”
ARTHUR LAUGHED.
“Funny,” he said, his voice little more than a whisper. “You see, I really am the king. I can feel it. You wouldn’t know what I mean, of course. But it’s in my blood. Don’t you realise who I am?”
“Go on, surprise me.�
�
“I’m the once and future king. Arthur, you see? My name isn’t a coincidence. My parents must have known. Don’t you realise? This is the moment of England’s greatest need and I am come again!”
With that final pronouncement, Arthur’s eyes rolled back in his head, he toppled sideways and lay motionless.
THE KING OF England, Jolyon Wakefield-Pugh, tutted affectionately.
“Nutty as a fruitcake,” he laughed.
He rose to his feet and turned to deal with the last bit of unfinished business.
But the boy was nowhere to be seen.
“Oh,” groaned Jolyon. “Oh bugger.”
BEN WAS WOOZY and concussed but he still had enough presence of mind to slip away quietly the moment he regained semi-consciousness. Once he was out of earshot he increased his pace, half falling forwards with every frantic step. He made for the school buildings, which seemed to offer the best chance of cover and safety.
The bump to his head had only made the events of the morning seem even more surreal and dreamlike. Had he really been attacked by two men who thought he was king? Had Jack really been shot down in cold blood right in front of his eyes? Could any of this be real?
He broke cover at the tree-line and made for the ruins of the main building. There was a cellar there where he could hide.
But when he made it to the bricks he lost his footing and fell, sprawling on the ruined masonry. As he lay there he could feel consciousness slipping away again. The fear of death overwhelmed him, and he whimpered “Mum” before succumbing to the darkness.
LIEUTENANT SANDERS, LATE of the SAS, now barracked at Salisbury with the remnants of the British Army, had all but given up hope. Six months spent chasing royalty, and all he’d found were corpses. Each time he found a new one he’d contact his superior officer and break the bad news. And each time he was ordered to go find the next person on the list.
Sanders wasn’t much of a monarchist, but he had to concede that a figurehead would be a useful rallying point for the scattered survivors of post-Cull Britain. A heroic king or a stern but comely queen would provide a focal point for patriotism and a sense of allegiance that could help rebuild the nation.
It helped keep the army in line too, if they had someone they could swear an oath to.
So he’d scoured the length and breadth of the British Isles with a list of names and last known addresses, trying to find the rightful monarch. And each time he arrived, they were dead. He wasn’t stupid, after the third body he’d realised that someone else was using the same list for a different agenda. A radical republican, maybe?
He skipped to number five on the list, but was too late. Then seven. Again, too late, and the body too long cold. Now he’d jumped to eleven. He had to get ahead of this bastard, whoever he was.
When he got to Harrow he went in cautiously, weapon at the ready. The school was still smoking, and he got a familiar sinking feeling. There was no-one alive here.
But just as he was about to give up and go on to the next name, he caught an impression of movement through the wisps of smoke. Moving cautiously, he stalked his prey.
JOLYON WAKEFIELD-PUGH STOOD over the unconscious body of the boy he believed to be king and considered his next move.
More specifically: knife, gun or brick?
He eventually plumped for brick, reached down and grabbed one, enjoying its heft and solidity. He raised his right arm, ready to bring the brick crashing down on the boy’s skull, ready to seize his destiny.
WITH HIS ARM raised, the man presented a perfect target. Sanders knew nothing of his grievance or motive in wanting the boy dead, but he knew a murderer when he saw one. Martial law gave him the right to take action, and he was not afraid to do so.
He put three rounds into the chest of the King of England, killing him instantly, and he felt satisfied that he had done right.
Then he ran to offer aid to the fallen boy.
Sanders turned him over and felt for a pulse. Strong and steady. He was alive, but he had a nasty head wound that needed some attention. He had a medical kit in his jeep, so he leaned down and grabbed the boy’s hands, lifting him into a sitting position, ready to throw him over his shoulder. As he did so, something fell out of the boy’s pocket on to the ground.
He let go of the boy’s right arm and reached down to pick up the library card.
He read the name on the card.
Then he looked down at the boy.
Then he looked back at the card.
“Well fuck me sideways, Your Majesty,” said Sanders, grinning fit to burst. “Pleased to meet you.”
He threw the child over his shoulder and walked back to his jeep, singing the Sex Pistols’ God Save The Queen at the top of his voice.
ARTHUR ST JOHN Smith sat in the bottom of the ice house, pressed hard on his stomach wound and wondered where it had all gone wrong.
He had crawled away from the scene of the shooting, instinctively seeking a quiet sheltered place in which to die, like a mortally wounded cat. Now he sat on the soft carpet of moss and leaves, feeling his life seeping out through his fingers, waiting for the fair folk to come and carry him back to Avalon, to wait for the call to come again.
He knew they would find him. It was only a matter of time. He just had to be patient. His destiny was calling, he could hear it on the wind.
A fox peered in at the doorway, sniffing the air, drawn by something else the wind carried — the enticing tang of fresh blood.
Arthur heaved a stone at it, and it ran away.
For now.
CHILDREN’S CRUSADE
Original cover art by Mark Harrison
PROLOGUE
CAROLINE OPENED HER good eye and winced. It was hard to divorce the pounding in her head from the shockwaves of the explosion that still reverberated around the small room. The walls were painted white but they glowed orange as the fireball billowed up the street outside.
Even with her head swathed in bandages, her hearing muffled, and her vision clouded by the lingering anaesthetic — not to mention the fact that one of her eyes was healing underneath a thick gauze dressing — Caroline knew instantly what was occurring.
Someone was attacking the base.
The night was warm and the window was open. It rattled in its frame and a wave of hot air pushed the curtains towards the ceiling.
She was lying flat on her back with her hands on her belly and was wearing what felt like a cotton nightdress. The crisp white sheets felt luxurious on her bare calves. It had been so long since she’d felt clean sheets.
She remembered her mother ironing the bed linen in front of the telly, watching Eastenders from within a cloud of steam.
The curtains fell back into place and the orange glow faded and began to flicker as fires took hold. Caroline heard the crack of small-arms fire; sporadic at first, then constant and concentrated. Fire and a firefight. She wondered how long it would take for the conflict to reach her room, and what would happen when it did.
She sniffed the air, expecting cordite and smoke, but instead smelled lilies, strong and pungent. She focused on the chest of drawers that sat against the wall directly in front of her. The sense that she was one step sideways from reality was reinforced by the uneasy feeling that the world was somehow flatter. If she never recovered the use of her other eye then things would always be this way; the depth of the world reduced to one smooth surface, like a painting or a television.
On top of the wardrobe stood a large green vase which held about ten flowering lilies, their petals white with streaks of purple and yellow. They were exquisite.
Caroline wondered where Rowles had found them, and smiled at the thought of her best friend.
Then she frowned. Where was he?
Engines now, outside. Deep, throaty roars and the rumble of caterpillar tracks coming closer. Tanks, then. She could not imagine who would have the resources to attack this place, the most heavily defended position in the country, base of operations for the ent
ire British Army.
She licked her lips. Her mouth felt musty and she had a sharp, bitter taste at the back of her throat, like bile or grapefruit. Wondering what the time was, she gently rotated her head until she could see the clock on her bedside table. 10:15. Not so late, but it was already dark outside.
She stroked her belly through her nightshirt, feeling the flat planes of her abdomen and the hollow empty ache inside, a reminder that she had not eaten for at least 24 hours. Then she thought: it might be more than that. How long had she been unconscious? It could be days.
She felt no disquiet at the prospect of having lost time in this nice, clean, envelope-smooth bed. What a nice place to lose time, she thought.
A distant whine grew into a piercing shriek that swept across the outside sky like a banshee. Fighter jet. No, two fighter jets. As they screamed overhead there was a whoosh and a hiss then a series of loud explosions as the planes launched missiles into the most entrenched positions, or eliminated British tanks or buildings.
Her nice warm bed didn’t seem a safe place to be, but Caroline did not panic. She was too weak from surgery to lift herself into a sitting position, let alone leave the bed and search for shelter. The knowledge of her helplessness freed her from fear. There is no point, she told herself, being afraid of something you can’t change; you will survive or you won’t and there’s nothing you can do to influence the outcome either way.
A tank ground to a halt beneath her window. She heard a whirr of engines as the turret rotated and the gun was manoeuvred into firing position. Then a moment’s pause before her bed shook as the shell was fired.
Now she could smell gunpowder and the tang of hot, oiled metal, but the smell of the lilies was not entirely swamped. She imagined the flowers fighting back against machinery, and winning.
Since the explosion had woken her, Caroline had heard no noises from inside the building where she lay, tucked up safe on the second floor in her convalescent room. Now she heard the unmistakeable clatter of boots on the stairs at the end of the corridor. It was one person, running. Looking for somewhere to hide, perhaps? Or coming for her?
School's Out Forever (afterblight chronicles) Page 53
