School's Out Forever

by Scott K. Andrews

  Half an hour later I swung the lorry into the driveway of the school and hit the brakes as hard as I could. The lorry skidded and ended up diagonally across the tarmac. I heard protests from the cabin behind me, but I couldn’t worry about that now.

  There was a roadblock ahead of us, flanked by armed men in combat uniforms.

  I reached down, grasped the sidearm that I’d taken from Caroline, and considered what to do. One of the men was approaching the lorry, rifle raised. He didn’t look like the usual rabble. None of the local wannabe soldiers wore uniform that convincing.

  I thought about throwing the lorry into reverse and running, but it would require a three-point turn, and he’d be here long before we could escape. If he opened fire the children could be hit. I wouldn’t put them at risk.

  Charge the checkpoint, then? I seriously considered it for a moment, but eventually decided against it. I had to follow the rules I’d set down for myself: never shoot first and prepare for the worst but assume friendly intent until proven wrong.

  I kept the engine running and the lorry in first, with my foot on the clutch. I had no idea who this guy was or which group he represented. They could be friendlies. I forced myself to stay calm and wait for him to show his hand.

  But he and his mates had obviously taken control of the school. My school. That made me angry. I tried not to imagine what could be going on in there right now.

  I cocked the pistol and rested it on my lap, then I rolled down the window.

  The man stopped about ten metres from me, rifle raised.

  “Are you armed?” he shouted.

  “Yes, thanks,” I replied, politely.

  “Throw down your weapon and step out of the cab. Keep your hands where I can see them.”

  “Why?”

  “Because I’m asking nicely, ma’am. I don’t want to shoot you.”

  “That’s good. I don’t want you to shoot me either. We have something in common. Now do you mind telling me who the fuck you are and what you’re doing in my school?”

  “Not your school any more, ma’am, I’m afraid. You’d be Jane Crowther, yes?”

  “That’s right.”

  “Then it’s my duty to inform you that in accordance with emergency provisions, and Royal decree, this estate is now under the control of the British Army. And you are under arrest for looting, kidnap and suspected murder.”

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  KATE’S BROTHER HAD a thing for soldiers.

  If I close my eyes and concentrate I can almost see those bright eyes, that cheeky grin, and hear him saying: “Imagine, all that time in uniform, being butch, sharing showers and never even copping a snog. I mean, talk about repressed. I tell you, Sis, a closeted soldier on a night out is my idea of heaven. So gloriously dirty!” Then he’d tell that unrepeatable anecdote about a captain from Aldershot, a rubber hose and a camcorder, and Kate and her friends would all be wetting themselves by the time he got to the bit where the lube tube exploded.

  “Something funny, miss?”

  I put my hand over my mouth and forced myself to concentrate. “No, Captain, nothing at all. Just... wind.”

  I was sitting in my office on the ground floor at Groombridge Place, but I was on the wrong side of the old mahogany desk. I loved that desk. It’s amazing the sense of power and confidence just sitting behind a big desk can give you. Props like that help when you’re making it all up as you go along, like I’d been. But today I was sat on a hard plastic chair with my hands cuffed behind my back while the man who had introduced himself as Captain Jim Jones sat in my comfy leather swivel chair, facing me across my desk. He pouted sourly and rubbed the back of his neck. He kept doing that. As nervous tics go it wasn’t the worst, but it was starting to irritate me.

  The captain was thirtyish, six feet tall, slightly built, with thin sandy hair and big teeth that looked like they were trying to escape from his face. Pretty rather than attractive. He seemed comfortable in his uniform, though, and when I’d been brought in here his men had followed his orders efficiently and without question. Command came easily to him, it seemed. Whoever these guys were, they were well disciplined.

  He narrowed his blue eyes warily, as if daring me to give my assessment out loud.

  “Well then Miss, as I was saying before your breakfast interrupted me, we’ve taken control of this establishment following a report that you were involved in the trafficking of children.”

  There was something about the way he said ‘Miss’ that made me want to kick him in the shins. I suppose I should have stayed calm and pliant, played the innocent, but he was in my chair and he was patronising me. I wasn’t in the mood to be patient.

  “Okay,” I replied. “Let’s deal with that first, before we get to the question of who you are and by what authority you’ve taken control of my school. What report? From who?”

  “We have certain assets in play, Miss,” he said. Smug git.

  “Right,” I snapped, irritably. “In English we say ‘spies.’ You’ve got a spy or spies in the trafficking network that I’ve been negotiating with.”

  I paused for a second and ran through everyone I’d come into contact with since I’d started negotiations with Olly a few weeks ago.

  “There was only one person in that organisation who knew where I came from, except Olly,” I said. “The spotty one, Smith. He wasn’t there this morning. Reporting in, was he?”

  Jones was wrong-footed by that and almost stammered.

  “I can’t discuss ongoing operations,” he said curtly.

  “Right, so Smith told you I was selling children to Olly, and instead of shutting that scumbag down you waited ’til I’d gone to do business, seized the school, presumably to protect the kids, and then waited for me to get back. That way you leave Smith in place, which means you don’t know where the kids end up yet. That about it?”

  The captain rubbed his neck.

  “Thought so,” I said. “Only two problems there, Captain.

  “One: I’m not trafficking children, I’m rescuing them. If you talk to the kids from the back of the truck I was driving when you arrested me – kids, by the way, who need medical attention, which is what I should be doing now rather than explaining myself to you – if you talk to them, they’ll confirm what I’m saying.

  “Two: Olly is dead, as is one of his goons. The other two ran away and the final one is the sod with the bag over his head. I was going to interrogate him and find out where the kids end up, but if you really are the British Army and not just a bunch of roleplaying inadequates, then I’m sure your interrogation techniques will be far more effective than mine. I don’t enjoy inflicting pain.”

  Captain Jim was not used to people talking back to him. I could see that it was taking a lot of effort for him to stay calm. He was used to unquestioning obedience; maybe I could use that.

  “If what you say is true, we’ll have it sorted out in no time, Miss.”

  This was not the reasonable, measured answer I wanted. And he’d called me Miss again.

  “And while we’re at it,” I said, “who the sweet holy fuck do you think you are to come walking into my school at gunpoint and start tossing orders about?”

  “As I’ve explained, Miss, we are the British Army.” He was getting testy. I wondered what would happen if I really pushed him.

  “My big fat arse you are.”

  “I can assure you...”

  “If you’re the army then where were you after The Cull burnt itself out? Where were you when martial law fell to pieces? Where were you when the rape gangs and cannibals and the England-for-the-English death squads started running things? Where were you when I had to lead an army of children into battle, for fuck’s sake? We could’ve used you! What, were you too busy putting ‘assets’ in place to actually fucking help? And how many of you are there, eh? Seriously, are there even enough of you to be an army? Even if you are all soldiers you’re just another militia now. And as for that Royal Decree bollocks, Christ, don’
t make me laugh. That bunch of parasites bled out and died just like everyone else. Who’s left? Fergie? Is that it? Are you Fergie’s Forces? God help us. Or is it Harry? He likes a good uniform, that one; just make sure it’s not got a swastika on it.”

  I was red in the face, breathing hard, and I’d stood up half way through my rant, trying to assert some measure of control over the situation, impose myself on him a bit.

  The captain just sat there, placid, letting me get it out of my system.

  “Finished?” he asked.

  I’d misjudged him. He’d been annoyed by my niggling jibes and insubordination, but a full temper tantrum just brought back his sense of superiority and condescension.

  I nodded and sat back down. So much for that idea.

  “Well?” I asked.

  He spoke calmly and with control. If he was angry he was determined not to let me see it.

  “I can assure you, Miss, that I am a member of His Majesty’s Armed Forces. At present the UK has no civilian administration, but the emergency provisions laid down by the government at the start of the crisis still hold. Martial law remains in effect. However, we do not have enough troops to enforce it. Instead, we are engaged in an operation designed to restore some level of order and security.”

  I waited for more information, but he said nothing else. “Is that it?”

  “I am not authorised to tell you more,” he said smugly. “We are not in the habit of revealing top secret plans to school teachers.”

  “I’m a matron, not a teacher, and if you think you’re going to restore order by wearing a uniform, looking pleased with yourself and being vague at people then the best of luck to you.”

  He smiled thinly and for the first time I suspected that Captain Jim could be quite ruthless if the circumstances demanded it.

  “You misunderstand, Miss. I have more than a uniform.” He reached down and I heard the soft metallic click of a button being undone, then he laid a Browning semi-automatic pistol on the desk in front of him. “I have my standard issue Browning sidearm.”

  I was about to make some sarcastic rejoinder when he reached down and produced the handgun I’d been carrying when I was detained. He gently placed it alongside his own.

  “The curious thing,” he said, “is that you do, too. And you’re no soldier. Which raises some interesting questions, don’t you think?”

  Before I could reply there was a sharp knock at the door and the captain barked “Come!”

  A young female soldier entered, snapped to attention and saluted.

  “We found what we were looking for, Sir.”

  “Thank you, Private,” replied the captain, getting to his feet and holstering his gun. “Bring her,” he said, and left without giving me a second glance.

  I felt the squaddie grip my shoulder, so I stood up and was led out of the room and into the main reception hall of the old house. The double front doors were to my right, the main staircase with its plush red carpet was to my left, and a series of doors led to rooms off the hall. Normally this space would be full of life – running kids, play fights, all sorts of wonderful commotion. Now there was just a young man in uniform with a machine gun nestled in the crook of his arm, indicating to the captain that he should walk past the staircase and into what would once have been the servants’ area. I followed, receiving a sneer of contempt from him as I passed. Like I cared.

  We went through a small door beside the staircase into a narrow corridor that led to the scullery, pantry and kitchen. But it turned out that our destination was the cellar. As I got to the cellar door I caught a glimpse of the courtyard through a small window. I saw all the children and staff of my school, lined up, stood to attention, being watched by three soldiers whose guns were trained on them. My first instinct was to raise hell, but I’d realised what was coming, so I bit back my anger and followed Captain Jones down the stairs into the armoury. The female squaddie remained in the corridor above.

  A single naked bulb lit the cool, damp, barrel-vaulted chamber where we kept our guns and ammunition. It was not that different to the armoury back at St Mark’s, out of which we’d hauled as many boxes as possible while Mac’s time bomb counted down. The captain was standing by a box of SA80 machine guns, inspecting them closely. He lifted one out, felt its heft, and assured himself it was the genuine article and not a replica or a toy. Then he scanned the room, found the ammunition, checked that too, and slammed the magazine into place. Satisfied, he shoved the muzzle hard into my abdomen and looked me in the eye.

  “I’m authorised to shoot looters,” he said quietly. “In fact my C.O. positively encourages it. But lucky for you I like to get my facts straight before I start shooting. So I’m going to give you one chance to explain to me how a young nurse and a house full of children happen to be in possession of enough army property to wage a small war. And you’d better make it good, Miss Crowther, because the serial number on that box tells me that this ordnance came from a Territorial installation about ten miles from here, and the men who were guarding it were found tied up and murdered last month. As you can imagine, we take a dim view of people who kill our colleagues.”

  I took a deep breath and maintained eye contact. Such pretty blue eyes, but they were hard and cold. I didn’t doubt he’d shoot me if I said the wrong thing.

  “I thought,” I said, “that you were here to stop me trafficking children?”

  “I am. And I’ll do as you ask – talk to the children from the truck, interrogate your prisoner, check on Olly and see if he’s as dead as you say. It’s easy to check a few facts and find out if you’re lying. But this,” he gestured to the crates, “is another matter. And I’m still waiting.”

  There was nothing to do but tell the truth.

  “I took control of this school a few months ago,” I explained. “Before that it was briefly run by a man called Sean MacKillick – a ruthless, violent psychopath. He was setting himself up as some kind of tribal leader until he was betrayed and killed by the children he was attempting to lead. Then I stepped in and took his place. These children were – are – horribly traumatised. I’m trying to look after them and keep them safe. It was MacKillick who raided your base, killed those men and took the guns. I just sort of inherited them.”

  His eyes were sharp and calculating as he considered what I’d just said. I stood there underneath the light bulb, with my back to the staircase, waiting for his decision, knowing that I might only find out what it was when a bullet hit my spine.

  Looking back at that moment, I think he believed me. I fancy that I saw the change in his eyes, the instant he chose trust over fear. But I may be wrong. I’ll never know. Because at that precise moment the young woman soldier from upstairs was thrown down the cellar stairs. I looked down and to my left and saw her eyes blink once in surprise before she died. Her throat had been slit and there was arterial blood still pumping from the gash.

  “Drop the gun,” said a familiar voice behind me.

  Oh no.

  Captain Jim still had the machine gun jammed into my stomach but he was looking over my shoulder at the boy coming down the stairs. Then he looked back to me and held my gaze. I suppose that’s one of the things about soldiers – they’re trained to stay cool even when awful things happen out of the blue. I could see the captain calculating the odds, weighing his chances, not sparing a second thought for the poor dead girl lying next to me on the floor.

  “I said drop it,” barked Rowles as he came down the stairs. I couldn’t see him, but I presumed he had a gun aimed at the captain’s head.

  I needed to try and defuse this situation.

  “I thought you were walking back, Rowles,” I said, maintaining eye contact with the captain, telling him with my eyes that he shouldn’t do anything hasty.

  “They had horses. I nicked one. Who are these bastards?” asked the boy.

  “They say they’re the British Army.”

  “Ha. And who are they really? More traffickers? Militia? What?”<
br />
  “Thing is Rowles, I think they might be telling the truth. I think they may actually be the army.”

  The captain inclined his head slightly, acknowledging what I was doing, giving me leave to continue

  “So why have they got everyone lined up outside like they’re about to start shooting?” asked Rowles.

  “He’s got a point, you know,” I said to the captain. “You go around kidnapping people at gunpoint with no explanation, they’re going to assume you’re just another bunch of thugs. They’re not going to think ‘hang on, maybe they’re here to help, maybe they’re lining us up against a wall for our own good’. They’re going to think ‘oh look, another shower of bastards with big guns’, and they’re going to start a fight. You can’t blame them for that. After a year of fighting for our lives against all sorts of gun toting, uniform wearing bully boys, why would anyone give you the benefit of the doubt if this is the way you do business?”

  Don’t do anything stupid, Captain, please don’t shoot the boy.

  He considered what I’d said, his gun muzzle still nestled in my tummy, Rowles’ gun still pointing at his head.

  “We’re the army, Miss,” he said. “We don’t have to explain ourselves.”

  “And that’s the kind of arrogant bullshit that gets people killed,” I replied angrily. “Of course you have to explain yourselves. Anyone can get army guns and uniforms these days, they’re just lying there. The point of the army is to be better than that. You’re supposed to protect us from the thugs, not act like them. That girl on the floor, what was her name?”

  “Julie, Julie Noble.”

  “Well Julie Noble would still be alive if you’d just knocked on the door and introduced yourselves instead of waving guns around and lining up children like cattle.”

  “These days people have a tendency to shoot first and ask questions later,” he said. “We’ve lost a lot of good soldiers trying your approach. It’s proven more efficient to seize control and then explain later. Saves lives.”