The others nodded.
She looked at each man and then slowly nodded.
“Yes, thank you. There is a place in Milford that----.”
Clay held up his hand. “No need to tell us. Better we don’t know. Just tell us roughly where it is and we’ll drop you off.”
“What do we do about him?” asked Wilson indicating Hamish who had crawled backwards and was now crouched whimpering against the back wall of the cubicle.
“Leave him here. He can spend the night among the corpses. Tie his hands behind him Wilson just to be sure. Not that he’ll get far with that gammy leg. The follow-up group will find and rescue him sometime in the next couple of days.” He smiled grimly. “If the bastard’s still alive.”
Taking his hand from out of his mouth, Hamish snarled, “You’ll fucking pay for this. All of you! Shooting an officer and----.”
Whipping a khaki handkerchief from his pocket Clay stepped forward and swiftly pulling it across Hamish’s open mouth tied it tightly at the back of his head.
“Breathe through your nose if you want to live.” He turned to the others. “We should get going.”
Wilson and Clay led the way. Turner indicated that Carol was to follow and, as she mounted the stairs, he followed to ensure that she didn’t fall. At the top Wilson and Clay turned and reaching out assisted her up onto the floor. In the fading twilight the four of them stood surveying the grisly scene. The destruction of the wool bales had created the impression of a freak interior snowfall that had settled gently over the splintered wood and the twisted bodies lying motionless over various part of the floor.
Carol stared at the scene and turning to Wilson asked, in a trembling voice, “Where’s Stuart? Is he here?”
Wilson touched her gently on the arm. “You don’t want to try and look for him, miss. Hand grenades make a very nasty mess of a body.”
Carol winced.
“Sorry. Best you remember him the way he was. Here. I picked this photo off the floor. Managed to straighten it out a bit. Take it and remember him as a man that was alive.”
She studied the creased images for a moment and then looked up. Her voice was hesitant and barely above a whisper.
“I, I don’t want to stay here. Can we go now please?”
“Yes. Come on,” replied Turner. “Follow me.”
The rain had eased a little as the group sloshed in Turner’s wake towards the truck.
“Up here,” said Turner, opening the cab door.
Trembling and groggy from her injury and the knowledge of Stuart’s death, Carol had to be helped up by Turner and Wilson who then sat either side of her on the large bench seat. Clambering into the driver’s seat, Clay inserted the key, pulled the choke to its fullest extent and then tugged on the starter lever.
The engine turned over slowly but refused to fire.
“Bloody rain,” muttered Clay. He made several more attempts and finally as the engine spluttered into life, he pumped the accelerator pedal vigorously until it emitted a steady roar. Switching on the headlights he thrust the heavy clutch pedal to the floor, graunched the lever into first gear and eased the truck down the narrow road towards the Albany village.
The road surface, made slippery by the deluge, caused the truck to slip and slither. Aware that Clay needed his total concentration the others sat silently watching the headlights picking out the rain-filled ruts.
Still trembling from her ordeal, Carol found some measure of security in being sandwiched between the two soldiers whose bodies enabled her to remain upright with little effort on her part. Nevertheless her mind was a confused jumble of images, the strongest being that of Stuart’s lifeless body in the carnage of the woolshed floor. As the truck continued its bumpy journey down the rutted road an inexorable ache of emptiness crept over her skin and crawled into every part of her being.
Eventually they reached the end and the truck swung south onto the main road. A liberal layer of gravel meant that it was in better condition than the farm road thus enabling Clay to move slowly through the gears and settle into a reasonably consistent speed.
Wilson’s voice broke the silence. “No sign of the others, Clay?”
“Nope. Probably just as well.”
“The others?” asked Carol quietly.
The men remained silent.
“There were more of you, weren’t there?” said Carol.
“More of us? How do you mean?” replied Wilson cautiously.
Carol wrapped her arms tightly across the front of her body and took several slow, deliberate breaths before continuing.
“We thought you might attack us,” she began.
“How?” asked Clay.
“The planes had been flying over the area round the farm for the past fortnight. When the weather got bad Stuart,” her voice broke for a moment, “Stuart said that an attack was a distinct possibility. That’s why we posted additional guards down by the sheep pens.”
The men exchanged glances.
“I’m right, aren’t I?” said Carol.
“Yes, you are,” replied Clay swerving to avoid a water-filled pothole and double de-clutching down a gear. “The rest of our platoon was assigned to approach on our left flank through the yard and the pens. We expected them to rendezvous with us.”
Carol gave an abrupt derisive laugh.
“They won’t. Ever. Our guard squad’ll have ambushed them. They’re probably all dead. Serves them right!” Her voice broke and her trembling recommenced. “Bloody murderers! You’re all bloody murderers!”
“Steady, miss,” said Turner quietly. “They were only doing their job.” He sighed. “I suppose we all were, really.”
“What do you think your people will do now?” asked Clay.
Carol hugged herself fiercely to control her trembling. “Our people were instructed to fight off the attackers and then leave to join others,” she replied tonelessly.
“Others? Are there more groups like yours?” asked Wilson.
“Maybe. Why?”
“Look miss, we’re in trouble,” said Turner. “We’ve shot an officer and directly disobeyed orders. When Beavis ordered us upstairs we had a discussion among ourselves. We all decided we were sick of the whole business.”
The other two grunted in agreement.
“We originally joined up for adventure and good pay,” continued Turner. “The pay’s OK but we never imagined we’d have to kill our fellow Kiwis. Look, miss, I know you must be feeling really lousy but, well you see we’ve only got a short time and we’d like a bit of advice before we drop you off.”
“About what?” asked Carol warily.
“Joining your group,” replied Wilson and the others grunted their agreement.
“Well,” she replied carefully, “some of our recruits did come from you Blitzkrieg Boys,” said Carol.
“Like Brownie.”
“Brownie?”
“Yes, my mate Alfred Brown. He was killed by the grenades.”
“Yes,” replied Carol. “A cheerful man. I liked him. He was also good friends with,” she fiercely bit the inside of her lower lip, “with Stuart.”
There was a pause and after clearing his throat Turner spoke.
“What are our chances of joining your organisation?” he asked.
“There is a way of making contact,” she replied. “No promises. You’d have to be vetted. After all, you are Blitzkrieg Boys.”
“Fair enough,” replied Wilson. “So how do we contact your people?”
Carol sat silently staring at the road unfolding in the truck’s headlights. Her thoughts were in turmoil. Were they still ‘her people’? Was it still her organization? After the horrors of her relationship with Hamish, Stuart had given her a personal happiness she’d never have thought possible. And now he was dead - and for what? Unsuccessfully she tried to stifle a sob.
“Miss?” prompted Turner softly. “I’m truly sorry and I don’t want to worry you, but it’s just that time…”
Jammed in between the two men, Carol was unable to reach her handkerchief. She passed her sleeve across the base of her nose and wiped her eyes with the palms of her hands.
“It’s alright,” she replied. “I’m not sure what’s going to happen to me but I will tell you about making contact.”
The men waited silently.
Recruitment procedures had been part of the Fightback training programme and each participant had been required to commit them to memory.
“On any Monday,” began Carol, “one at a time catch the passenger ferry from Devonport to the city. Sit on the upper deck near the bow. When you arrive on the city side don’t get off. Stay there for the return journey. When the ferry reaches Devonport again get off and walk slowly through the terminal to the end. If no one contacts you, repeat the process. Eventually you will be contacted but you will need to be patient.”
“On any Monday?” said Clay.
“Yes.”
“What if----?” began Turner.
“Don’t ask me any more questions because I have no answers. All I know is what I’ve told you. Nothing more. The rest is up to you.” She put both her hands to her head and leaning forward, rested on the dashboard. “God, I’m tired.”
“We’re almost there,” said Clay. They had reached the outskirts of Milford. “We’ll drop you off and then we’ll have to ditch this truck. It’s a bit of a liability.”
Two minutes later he turned into a side street and stopped. Turner jumped out and handed her down from the cab.
“Sure you’ll be OK?” he asked.
“Yes, it’s not far from here.”
“Good luck,” he said and then lowered his voice. “And thanks for the advice.”
The door slammed and the truck roared away leaving Carol standing alone on the rain-soaked footpath.
The sound of the footsteps and the slamming of the outside door echoing through the woolshed indicated that they had left. After listening intently Hamish made a renewed attempt to loosen his bound wrists. Leaning forwards he twisted his arms, hands and fingers seeking some point of weakness in the cords. His intense efforts lasted for a brief period before, with a curse of frustration he fell back against the wall. The loss of blood, the pain that throbbed in an aching rhythm from his thigh and the restrictions on his breathing imposed by the gag made his efforts futile.
The pallid light that continued to shine down the shaft illuminated the motionless bodies sprawled in the narrow corridor. The intermittent din of the rain on the corrugated iron roof buried all other sounds but, as it eased, Hamish became aware of a different intonation - the relentless buzzing of blowflies. Seemingly from nowhere they had began to assemble and swarm in increasing numbers. Although their main attraction was the dead bodies, some of them began to settle on his face. A vigorous shaking of his head accompanied by muffled curses provided temporary relief but within a few moments the light persistent touch of the tiny feet and probing proboscises began anew on the surface of his skin and around his eyes and mouth.
Slowly, as the sun went down, the light began to recede. Finally it disappeared leaving Hamish Beavis to battle with his tiny tormentors surrounded by sprawling corpses and enmeshed in a blanket of blackness.
Chapter 46
The knock on the door, although not the loud demanding noise that she’d heard regularly over the past few months still caused her to catch her breath. It was dark outside and the hour was late.
Pulling her dressing gown tightly around her she walked apprehensively down the end of the passage to the front door. The head and shoulders of a figure were silhouetted against the leadlight window. As she approached she called out in a voice that trembled slightly.
“Who is it?”
The reply caused her to cry out and reach eagerly for the doorknob.
“It’s me, Auntie Catherine. It’s Carol.”
Quickly unlocking the door she wrenched it open.
The two women stood staring at each other for a moment and then reaching forward buried their heads in each other’s shoulders.
“Carol,” whispered Catherine. “I had no idea if I’d ever see you again.”
“Nor me, auntie.”
“You’re shaking. Come on, let’s get you inside.”
Gently Catherine led her niece into the lounge, seated her on the couch and switched on the light. She gasped in horror.
“Carol! What’s happened? Have you been----?”
“Yes, auntie I have. All of it. Shot at. Hit and, and-----.”
Overcome by an unbearable wave of desolation she clung to her aunt and sobbed.
Catherine cradled the weeping young woman in her arms for a long time, wisely not wasting meaningless words of comfort. Finally Carol turned her swollen, bruised and tear-stained face upwards.
“It’s Stuart, auntie. He’s dead. He died earlier today. I think all the others are dead, too.”
Slowly her sobbing subsided and prompted by her aunt, Carol haltingly began to describe the events of the past weeks, starting with the bus trip to Albany. When she reached the point where she had heard the grenade blasts she broke down again and clung to her aunt.
“I think you should stop talking now, Carol, and let me look at your cuts and bruises.”
Sniffing and taking deep breaths, Carol shook her head.
“In a minute, auntie. I want you to hear the rest.”
“All right, dear, but just the main points. You can fill in the details in the morning.”
Carol nodded. “After the explosion,” she continued, “Hamish and the soldiers came down the stairs. I woke up on the mattress with him staring at me and telling me that Stuart was dead. He had this horrible leer of triumph on his face. When I screamed he slapped me across the face and shouted that as Stuart was dead I now belonged to him.”
Catherine shuddered.
“My screams brought the three soldiers. There was an argument, Hamish tried to draw a gun and one of the soldiers shot him.”
“Shot him? Dead?”
“No, in the leg. They then tied his hands behind his back and when he started abusing them, shoved a gag in his mouth. Then they said that they’d help me get away. We went back up the stairs, they put me in their truck, dropped me off at the top of the road and drove quickly away. I don’t suppose they wanted to be caught helping a ‘terrorist’.”
Her aunt grunted. “I’ve had a few visits over the past months from various unsavoury characters including Hamish. As you know I knew nothing and I think they realized that no matter what they did to me I really had no information as to your possible whereabouts. It was pretty frightening at the time but I haven’t seen much of them recently.”
“What do you think I should do now? I don’t want to put you in any more danger but I had nowhere else to go and----.”
She started to tremble and her aunt, reaching out for her, spoke firmly.
“Enough of that, my girl. What you should do now is have a good hot bath. Then I’ll have a look at you, although there doesn’t appear to be anything broken. After that, a good night’s sleep. We’ll have time tomorrow to decide what’s best to do.”
Her aunt’s prognosis was an accurate one. The cut on her forehead although running up into her hairline was relatively superficial. The left side of her face was swollen from Hamish’s blow and her head throbbed, but otherwise she was physically unscathed. Fortunately, in spite of the traumas of the previous day, Carol was totally exhausted by the time she slid into the sheets, and aided by a strong sleeping pill, fell into a deep sleep that lasted nearly nine hours.
The following morning the two women discussed the situation at length. Carol, although still numbed by the shock of Stuart’s death made a conscious effort to view her complex situation as objectively as possible.
“Let’s first look at the situation from the authorities’ perspective,” began Aunt Catherine as they faced each other over the remains of breakfast. “Do you think the soldiers will inform on you?”
“No. They’ve got nothing to gain by it. They guessed that Hamish had been pursuing a private vendetta against Stuart and me.” She put her hand to her mouth and took several deep breaths, “Now that, now that Stuart has been killed the authorities may not see me as being of such importance. After al, no one actually knew that we were hiding there. The soldiers that tried to ambush us were all killed and if any of the Albany Fightback group survived the attack, I’m sure they’re all long gone.”
“But how will you explain your disappearance from Auckland?”
“If I’m asked I’ll tell them that Stuart was worried about being arrested because of his association with the university. We took off up north and spent the time hiding in the bush. Then we quarrelled and decided to split up. After that I made my way back here. I was worried about being arrested even though I’d done nothing so I travelled alone and kept out of sight. Eventually I wound up here.”
“Sounds a bit flimsy. And what about Hamish? He’ll still want to hunt you down.”
“Yes, but he may not have even survived the night.” She looked uncertainly at her aunt, “I hope not, anyway.”
Her aunt smiled grimly. “Never thought I’d ever wish death on another human being, but in this case-----.”
A loud knocking on the door made them both jump. They looked uncertainly at each other.
“I’d better answer it.” Catherine said. “If I don’t it may look suspicious.”
Carol, her features a mixture of fear and uncertainty, reached out and touched her arm.
“Alright, but be careful. I’ll stand by the back door in case I have to--.”
“Don’t panic. Let me check first,” responded her aunt.
Walking down the hall Catherine immediately noticed a brown envelope lying on the carpet in front of the front door.
“Carol,” she called. “Someone’s pushed an envelope through the door slot.”
Carol hurried down the hall as her aunt cautiously opened the front door and looked out.
“There’s nobody here,” she said to her niece.
“Let’s go outside.”
Uncommon Enemy Page 30
