Thirst (Thirst Series)

by Guy N Smith

  Carol moaned softly as she felt her lover's hands exploring her. Slowly he began to undo her clothing, opening up her blouse and then sliding her lower garments down. She trembled with excitement. Suddenly it was all like a new adventure. Everything else was forgotten: Cummins, Birmingham, their own plight.

  Nothing was hurried as they embarked upon the greatest union of all between man and woman.

  ‘I'm very much in love with you, Carol,’ Ron Blythe murmured.

  ‘I love you too, Ron,’ she replied, feeling suddenly inadequate. The words sounded so hackneyed, like lines stolen from a slushy romantic film of the fifties. But they summed it all up so perfectly.

  Their bodies moved together, shuddering as their level of passion rose. Tongues touched and thrust, simulating everything that was happening lower down.

  Finally, they could contain themselves no longer, their love erupting in unison, rolling over. Alternately dominating and being dominated. Then they sank back in a gentle embrace, basking in the warmth of their love, reluctant to uncouple. For a few moments the world stood still.

  Mike Cummins' heavy breathing was rhythmical, rising and falling slowly. He slept - or made a pretence of doing so.

  ‘I've only one regret,’ Carol Evans murmured.

  ‘What's that?’

  ‘I wish you hadn't had a vasectomy. I'd like a baby, by you.’

  ‘The op isn't final,’ Blythe said as he kissed her. ‘There's just a chance it can be reversed. It isn't always successful, though.’

  ‘Would you be willing to try it? Just for me.’

  ‘Yes,’ he laughed softly. ‘D'you know something. I'm beginning to regret having had it done. I never thought I would. But, there again, I never thought I'd meet up with you.’

  The following morning, having queued for over an hour for lukewarm porridge, bread, and weak tea, the three of them returned to their tent. As they ate they watched the line of refugees seeking to pass through the checkpoint by devious means. Already the number was far greater than it had been on the previous day, whole families arriving on foot, carrying suitcases and plastic bags crammed with their belongings.

  There was a general feeling of optimism but as the morning wore on this slowly evaporated. Almost everybody was being turned back, the sergeant becoming increasingly more sarcastic and ill tempered, cutting short excuses and pleas with a curt order to go and collect a tent and get camped in the field.

  ‘Ain't seen anybody get out yet.’ Cummins spat on the ground. ‘You're taking your time thinking o' something, Blythe.’

  ‘I haven't given up yet.’ Ron Blythe rose to his feet, helping Carol up with him. ‘I think maybe we could do worse than take a walk around. We're spending too much time watching the checkpoint. Let's move back.’

  ‘What's the point? There's nothing back there.’

  ‘And there's not much here, either. Come on. At least it will give us something to do.’

  They wandered slowly back in the direction of the city, passing the crowds which flocked towards the barriers. Nobody heeded them. Nobody was interested in anybody except themselves.

  The short tract of countryside merged into suburbia. Grass and arable land met concrete and tarmac, a contrasting blend of beauty and stark monotony. Trees and hedges were replaced by buildings and dividing walls. Civilisation was conquering nature. Even now, the battle was only halted temporarily. Soon it would begin all over again.

  ‘Where's it all going to end?’ Blythe gazed from the natural landscape to the ugly artificial one. ‘One day there'll be nothing left. No fields or hedges. They won't need to nationalise agricultural land because there'll be none left. Just look over there. They're already levelling the ground for another huge building site. A council estate. Two or three thousand symmetrical boxes …’

  Excavations had come to a halt. Rutted canyons scarred the surrounding fields. Half a dozen bulldozers stood like sleeping monsters of destruction, their drivers and overseers having fled from the smoke and death.

  Bulldozers: industrial tanks, capable of forcing their way through barriers of rock and soil, leaving a level landscape in their wake, toppling obstacles which stood in their path.

  ‘Tell me, Cummins -’ Blythe's eyes narrowed and there was a thoughtful expression on his face, ‘- what did you do before they caught you? Apart from killing people with an axe, I mean.’

  ‘I drove one of those.’ The convict pointed towards the nearest bulldozer. The jibe appeared to go unnoticed.

  ‘I thought so. I remember reading about it somewhere, probably in the report of your trial.’

  ‘What the hell's it matter what I did?’

  ‘A lot.’ Blythe began to walk towards the standing machinery, the others automatically following him. ‘You said you wanted a bright idea. Well, I don't quite know how bright this one is. But when you're in a real hole anything seems worth trying. At least it helps to pass the time.’

  They stood before the yellow steel giant, its wheels towering several feet above their heads, the cab silent and forlorn, its windows caked with a layer of dust and grime.

  ‘Think you could drive this one, Cummins?’

  ‘Think? I bloody well know I could.’

  ‘Then the first thing we need to know is whether it's got any fuel left in its tanks,’ Blythe said. ‘If it has, and if it's still mechanically sound, then we might just stand a chance of getting out of here. Failing that, then I've run right out of ideas. Let's take a look.’

  Chapter 16

  The policeman moved slowly, cautiously, through the smoking streets. His uniform was creased and dirty, and on his right hip he carried a holstered revolver.

  Slight of build, and below average height, a few years previously his application to join the force would not even have been considered. Even in the remote possibility of acceptance, his bushy black beard would not have been tolerated. But times and attitudes had changed.

  Constable Ken Hoare had applied for a transfer two months before. He hated Birmingham and everything it incorporated - the people, too. His wife had wanted to get away into the country.

  There had been problems. But he had been persistent. Eventually he had had his wish, and with a certain amount of bad grace his sergeant at Digbeth Police Station had informed him that he was to join the West Mercia Constabulary in Worcester on the following Monday.

  For Constable Hoare that Monday never came. When he should have been taking life more easily in Worcester he found himself instead attempting to sort out the hell of the Aston Clearway. He had not come off duty since. None of the police had. All leave had been cancelled, and rest periods were taken on the battlefield amidst the slain and the wounded.

  One conflicting order followed another. ‘Leave the looters to the volunteer forces.’ ‘Concentrate on casualties.’ ‘All volunteer forces to be withdrawn to the boundaries.’ ‘Police and regular army to converge on priority danger areas.’

  Hoare found himself on his own. There was too much for too few to do. Instructions were vague. You just went in and did what you could. That wasn't much. How the hell could you help the dying? The living didn't want to know you. The sight of a uniformed policeman had them dodging back into the smoke and shadows.

  Another thing: Ken Hoare was a stranger to Birmingham. That made life even more difficult, especially when he got split up from his colleagues.

  He had his radio - to begin with, at least; until three louts jumped him from a side alley. Kids, no more than thirteen or fourteen at the most, soccer hooligans - they were even wearing their blue and white scarves, determined to take their revenge on anybody or anything that represented authority.

  The scuffle was over in a couple of minutes. He smiled to himself as he listened to their running footsteps and saw their shapes disappear into the swirling smog. This was how it should be on Saturday afternoons: a free hand to sort them out; no crowds yelling abuse at the law, cheering when the little bastards knocked your helmet off, booing and hissing when you th
rew one or two out of the ground.

  They had knocked him to the ground, but Hoare had grabbed a couple of feet before they could put the boot in. Both had gone down and, just as the third one was preparing to drive a steel-capped toe into the policeman's face, the constable had kicked out in a scything sweep. Three down, and the law was first to rise.

  Two cropped heads banged together with a sickening thud, and even as they reeled back, the third one found himself in a half nelson.

  ‘You're breakin' my fuckin' arm!’

  ‘I'd like to break your fuckin' neck, and if I did who's goin' to tell tales? With corpses everywhere, another three won't be noticed!’

  Hoare heard the arm crack, felt it go limp, and flung the youth from him. Without waiting he went in on the other two again, swinging his right foot. He got the first one in the groin, the second in the solar plexus. That settled it.

  He was angry. Once he'd broken a yob's jaw at St Andrews. It had made the headlines of the dailies. Police Violence. The Chief Constable had really hauled him over the coals. There had been a kid killed on the terraces in London the following Saturday, and it hadn't made nearly so much publicity. Public opinion was one sided, and the magistrates were too lenient.

  Tight lipped, Ken Hoare watched these three yobboes picking themselves up, whimpering and groaning. He thought about finishing them off. It was an ideal opportunity. Nobody would be any the wiser,

  Jesus, it wasn't worth the effort. It might trouble his conscience in later life. In all probability they would drink some of the poisoned water and die a much more terrible death. It was no crime to hope!

  He walked on, and then he discovered that his radio was smashed. It didn't really matter. There was no point in calling anybody up. All the officers were far too busy to worry about him. It galled him to think that he might have been doing a desk job in Worcester. He consoled himself with the thought that many of the West Mercia force had been drafted in to help here. His own position might not have been altered, after all.

  He wandered on towards the city centre. He couldn't go back. His job was to patrol the danger zone until further notice; just watch and keep out of trouble. One copper on his own didn't stand much chance.

  He heard voices coming from a nearby church: chanting, a psalm. He stood listening, noting the bodies lying around the door. He looked up and wondered if the church had a steeple. There was no way of telling, because if it had it was lost in the low-lying smoke cloud.

  ‘… He maketh me down to lie …’

  That was true enough, Hoare reflected. Everybody was being made down to lie: to die. All the same, he marvelled at people's faith. There had to be something in this business of religion. He'd never found the time for it himself. Maybe he should have. Then he'd have felt more deeply, understood folks. Some of them didn't mind dying because they believed there was a better life beyond the grave. Well, it couldn't be any worse than this place - not unless there was a hell down below, and then it would about be on a par.

  He lifted the latch on the heavy wooden door, pushed it open a few inches and peered inside. The scene which greeted him caused him to stare in amazement.

  There were about thirty or so people in the double row of pews. Several more were sprawled on the oak benches, dead. Some knelt whilst the others stood and attempted to sing the Twenty-third Psalm, their bodies rigid like toy soldiers with moveable limbs which had been fixed in a certain position.

  Hoare gripped the door handle as realisation flooded into his numbed brain. The dead still knelt in prayer, paying mute homage to their Maker.

  The constable could only see part of their faces from where he stood. They reminded him of diseased fruit on gnarled and withered trees, clusters of hideous surplus growths that had burst, the juice drying into a congealed mass in the sunlight.

  The unaccompanied psalm came to an end. The preacher, standing before the altar, closed his book and turned to a small wooden table on which stood silver goblets and a plate of unleavened bread.

  The congregation, those that were able to walk, began to file from their seats, staring fixedly at the wine as they jostled for position at the rail. The preacher picked up a plate and spilled some of the white squares. His hands shook uncontrollably, his voice was a staccato croak.

  ‘Take … eat … this is my body …’

  Communion. The Last Supper - few, indeed, would attend another.

  The wine: eager hands gripped the proffered goblets, trying to tear them from the priest's hands. They drank noisily, thirstily.

  ‘This is my blood. Drink …’

  A middle-aged woman on the end of the row lurched to her feet and made a short bow to the altar. She lost her balance, tottered and fell sideways. Several heads turned in her direction but nobody made any move to go to her assistance. The clergyman gave the sign of the cross, and passed the wine to a small frail man.

  ‘Drink, and ye shall be saved.’

  Constable Hoare closed the door quietly and stepped back out into the street. He wanted to pray, but he did not know what to say. It was something he had never done in his life.

  Then he heard them start to sing again inside the church ‘… fast falls the eventide …’

  He was shaken. Since joining the force he had come to accept death. It was something that happened, something one could not avoid. Everybody knew that they had to die sometime, but they hoped that it would be tomorrow rather than today. Yet those people in the church had gone in there to await death. They didn't try to run from it like nearly everybody else had. Every single one of them in there had drunk weedkiller. They knew they were going to die. They accepted the fact, almost welcomed it. There had to be something in blind faith, Hoare decided. One day he would go to a church service and try to find out … perhaps. More than likely he wouldn't bother.

  Night passed and day dawned again, weak sunlight struggling to penetrate the drifting smoke. The constable turned down a street on his left to avoid a crowd of youths. He hoped they hadn't seen him, and increased his step.

  After a time the streets became quieter. Typical high-class suburbia: three-storeyed red-brick houses stood in their own gardens, screened by high hedges and shrubs, quiet backwaters in a teeming city. Apart from the smell of burning there was little evidence of the terror that existed a mile or so away.

  Ken Hoare wondered if some of the occupants were still in residence. If so, perhaps they would be glad to see a policeman. Some of them might still have bottled drinks and food in their houses.

  A sound attracted his attention, a scraping and chipping noise as if somebody was digging. He stood listening. That was what it was, for sure, coming from the garden of the house immediately opposite, the one screened by a hedge of high laurels.

  He crossed over the road and walked up the narrow gravel drive. Whoever was digging was at the rear, and cautiously the policeman stepped on to a narrow verge of neatly mown grass. There was nothing to be gained in advertising his own presence yet.

  A long wide garden, surrounded by a high brick wall, stretched beyond the rear of the house. There was a shrubbery, a lawn interspersed with flower beds, and a vegetable patch beyond this. It was here that the man was digging.

  He was tall with thinning grey hair and heavy-rimmed glasses; the policeman noticed he was weeping, the tears dripping as he worked. Beneath the outward grief was an air of kindliness and understanding.

  Constable Hoare moved closer. He could see the hole which the other was digging, a large rectangle some six feet long and half as wide. The man was standing in it, throwing the earth up into a high mound, some of it showering back in a miniature avalanche. He worked steadily, occasionally muttering to himself.

  Suddenly he looked up and saw the watching policeman. He stiffened, and the spade fell from his hands.

  ‘You know, then?’ His head bowed, the words were scarcely audible.

  Hoare moved towards him, watching him carefully. The man's hands shook as he rubbed them nervously together, a
nd his lower lip quivered.

  ‘Know what, sir?’ the constable asked.

  ‘What I'm doing.’

  ‘What are you doing, sir?’

  ‘I'm digging a grave, of course.’

  ‘I see. And who is the grave for?’

  ‘For my wife, of course. But you know that already.’

  Ken Hoare hesitated, scrutinising the other closely. He said. ‘Go on, tell me your side of the story. I'm afraid I don't even know your name.’

  ‘Peters,’ the tall man said, and climbed out of the hole. ‘Dr Henry Peters. I killed her. I killed Elsa and I'm not going to tell any lies about it. There was no other way. She would have died in a day or two anyway. I couldn't bear to see her suffer. So I gave her a merciful release. I'll put it all down in writing if you want. I'll sign a statement to that effect of my own free will.’

  ‘No, it won't be necessary.’ The policeman stroked his beard thoughtfully. ‘You see, nobody else knows anything about it. Only you and I … and I'm not sure I was listening when you told me.’

  Peters stared in disbelief. ‘Then … then they didn't send you to … to arrest me?’

  ‘No. I've no warrant. I heard somebody digging and came to take a look.’

  ‘I'm going to bury her here. There's no alternative. In the beginning there were funeral services all day long. But there were too many dead. They couldn't cope. The hospitals have wound down to a standstill. The mortuaries can't take any more. It'll come to mass cremations when they finally get round to it … and I don't want Elsa burned with dozens of others. I wouldn't even know I'd got the right ashes, would I?’

  ‘You carry on,’ Ken Hoare smiled. ‘and the best of luck to you. As far as I'm concerned you're just doing your winter digging.’

  Doctor Peters stepped back into the partly dug grave, picked up his spade again, and then regarded the other with a thoughtful expression.