by Jon Grahame
Smiffy turned the Land Rover. As they were heading back, Reaper pointed to a yellow JCB digger that was parked next to the transport plane, that he now noticed had US insignia.
‘We should use the JCB,’ he said.
Smiffy nodded and changed direction.
Reaper said, ‘The Flight Sergeant took everything useful?’
‘That’s right. He left us well supplied, though. Two heavy and three light machine guns and plenty of ammo.
Anything he couldn’t take, he spiked.’
‘What’s in the transport plane?’
‘The Hercules? Hummers for the Middle East. It was refuelling.’
‘What vehicles have you got?’
‘Three other Land Rovers, the truck out front and six other trucks. But four of them are in for service or repairs. Then there’s the civilian cars, as well.’
Smiffy volunteered to drive the JCB, which was a relief, because Reaper hadn’t a clue how. He drove the Land Rover to the guardhouse, parked and waited for the airman. The young man was no longer chatty. He gulped at having to face what was inside. Reaper guessed Smiffy had never been in action. He may have seen plenty of dead bodies after the plague, but none that had been the victims of close range gunfire. He stood in front of him to stop him entering.
‘Look . . . what happened. I’m sorry. I’m really sorry.’
The young man nodded and his Adam’s apple bobbled as he gulped. Reaper put a hand on his shoulder. ‘You start digging. I’ll put them in the bags and then we’ll move them. Okay?’
‘No,’ he said, in a rush of determination. ‘I want to do it. They were my mates.’
Reaper nodded, stepped aside and let him go first.
Inside the door, Smiffy stopped, he gasped and burst into tears once more, turned and went back outside.
Reaper went in and bagged the bodies. It was difficult work on his own but the dead don’t complain at being manhandled like sacks of potatoes. Reaper was a realist. He would give them as much dignity as he could, but bagging them was an awkward business.
Besides, he was more concerned with the living.
By the time he finished, he could hear the noise of the JCB digging the grave. He dragged the bodies away from the blood towards the door then went outside.
The clouds were breaking, the sun coming through like a searchlight, the day was getting warmer and he realised he was sweating badly enough to be able to smell himself. Clifford switched off the JCB, climbed down and walked to Reaper. The hole he had dug was about three feet deep and six or seven feet square.
‘I’m sorry,’ Smiffy said.
‘We’re all sorry. Come on.’
He led Smiffy back inside the guardhouse, and together they carried the bodies of his former comrades out into the sunshine, laying them in a row at the edge of the communal grave. They paused a moment, in reflection, but Reaper felt that too much reflection might be bad for the youngster.
‘Okay?’ he said, stepping down into the freshly dug earth.
Smiffy nodded and climbed down to join him.
Together they lifted the bodies and lay them side-by-side in the ground. Afterwards, Smiffy used the JCB to push the earth back, creating a mound on top of the grave, a mound of newly turned earth that stood out on the green sward that stretched all the way to the runway.
They loaded all the supplies that had been left, plus the machine guns and other weapons and ammunition, into the back of the lorry. It was agreed that Smiffy would drive the lorry with Reaper as his passenger.
Cassandra Cairncross would drive her own car, a Mitsubishi four-by-four, with Sandra as her guide and Emily and the two children in the back. Before leaving, Cassandra left a message in an envelope addressed to Flight Sergeant Babbington pinned to the notice board in the Officers’ Mess. It explained where they had gone. The Mitsubishi would lead and the lorry follow, and they did not intend to stop until they reached Haven. But first, they had to say their goodbyes.
Smiffy had disappeared for half an hour while they were loading and had made a cross in one of the workshops, bolting together two pieces of metal that had come from an aircraft’s mainframe. Reaper thought it highly appropriate.
The group stood on the grass by the grave and watched while Clifford thrust the cross into the earth.
When it was secure, the young man stepped back, brushed any dirt from his uniform, and stood to attention. Reaper wondered whether he should say anything, as the silence lengthened on a sweet summer afternoon, but Cassandra Cairncross took the responsibility.
‘Lord, look after these three young men, James Billings, Billy Bentley and Tommy Shaw. They were good young men and always did their duty, even unto death. We will remember them but please, Lord, you take care of them.’
They bowed their heads in silence for a moment and Leading Aircraftman Clifford Smith saluted, as rigid as the iron cross he had driven into the grave.
After long seconds, Reaper said, ‘Amen to that. Now, one last duty.’
He and Smiffy got into the Land Rover and drove across the field and onto the runway. The transport plane was on their right, the control tower on their left and the tarmac, that had usually accepted Typhoon fighter planes, now whistled to the tyres of their creaking vehicle as they headed for the far hangar.
Smiffy directed Reaper to stop the Land Rover beside a hut next to the hangar.
‘It’s a five-minute fuse,’ he said.
He jumped down, went into the hut and returned a few seconds later. He climbed back into the Land Rover and nodded to Reaper who checked his watch and then drove back the way they had come. It might be a five-minute fuse but even explosives experts made mistakes and Reaper drove as fast as possible back to where the Mitsubishi and the truck were parked near the fresh grave.
The group waited, Sandra armed as usual and keeping an eye out for possible danger that might be lurking beyond the perimeter fence, while Cassandra, Emily and the children stood holding hands in a line waiting for the last act. They were so calm that Reaper felt obliged to slow his mad dash to a speed more commensurate with a mass cremation. He stopped the vehicle and Smiffy went to join the women and children. Reaper joined Sandra, both pretending to watch for danger. They exchanged a look and he saw the sympathy in Sandra’s eyes and felt the moisture in his own. What a fucking cock up, the lady had said. His cock up.
He looked at his watch.
‘It’s about due,’ he said, and he and Sandra turned to face the hangar, slightly apart from the group that had legitimate reasons for grief. After all, their loved ones were in that hangar and had been waiting for their funeral rites. This time, no one said anything.
The explosion was small and a little disappointing.
No windows were shattered, no pieces of hangar were blown off. But it had obviously been designed to act as a combustible and, as the fire within took a grip, they saw the power of the blaze. Flames came through the roof and black smoke rose in acrid clouds.
‘Let’s go,’ he said, wanting to move the mourners before the smell of burning bodies drifted across the airfield.
They boarded their vehicles, Cassandra taking one last look and mouthing a farewell before she got behind the wheel, and then they were off on their journey to Haven.
The new arrivals were welcomed and Reaper and Sandra made their reports to Nick, Ashley, Pete Mack, Kate and Judith in the dining room of the manor house. Cassandra Cairncross sat in on the debriefing.
Sandra told of the new contacts made at Northallerton, the possibility that King Arthur had been reborn in Richmond and how they had found Catterick Camp deserted after soldiers and villagers had answered a radio call and left for Windsor.
Reaper then took up the story and told how he and Sandra had come under attack. He gave the details of his own counter-attack baldly and succinctly, and explained how they had gone on to discover the truth in the Officers’ Mess. He made no excuses and did not try to mitigate what might be seen as an excess of zeal in shooting the thr
ee men dead. Sandra added a few brief comments when he had finished, stressing how they had both believed themselves to be under an attack that could prove deadly, and the group lapsed into a momentary silence, before Cassandra asked if she was allowed to speak. When she was invited to contribute she was also succinct.
‘What happened was no one’s fault. The times have conditioned us all. We were determined to keep people out, because we feared their motives. We did not attempt negotiation because we felt ourselves to be in a vulnerable position. Reaper and Sandra believed they were in danger and they have been conditioned by past experience to react in a swift and certain way. That resulted in the three deaths. It was no one’s fault. It was the fault of the times we live in.’
Nick murmured something conciliatory and Ashley moved the conversation on by asking what they thought might be happening in Windsor. The group talked around the possibilities for a while without getting anywhere.
‘Speculation won’t help,’ Pete said. ‘At some point, we’ll have to go and find out.’
‘But not tonight,’ Nick said. ‘It’s time we all got some sleep.’
Judith took Cassandra to the room in the manor house where Emily and the children had been placed.
For tonight, the group would stay together. Tomorrow, new arrangements would be made that would be more suitable to individual needs. Smiffy had already shed his uniform and was bunking down in a spare room in one of the houses with two other men.
Reaper left the meeting with Kate and they stood outside the pub. The night had become overcast and there was a promise of rain. Kate, wearing a T-shirt and jeans, shivered.
‘You should go inside,’ he said.
She hooked her arm through his.
‘What about you?’ she said.
‘I don’t know about me.’
‘It wasn’t your fault.’
‘I know. People have said.’
‘But you don’t believe them?’
‘I’d be lousy company tonight.’
‘What makes you think you’re good company any other time?’ He managed a smile as she thumped him.
‘Go on,’ she said. ‘Stay strong and silent. I’ll be waiting when you need me.
He kissed her gently. ‘I’ll always need you.’
‘But not tonight,’ she said, and went into the pub.
Reaper walked slowly up the hill, letting the dark swallow him. Clouds and no moon. He didn’t look back from the crest but continued down the other side to the mobile home that had become their guard post.
Arif was on duty.
‘Hey, Reaper, man. I heard there was action.’
‘Three dead. I killed them,’ he said, deadpan. ‘They didn’t need to die.’
Arif immediately sensed his mood and left Reaper alone to sit in the camp chair outside. The young man went inside and brewed coffee. He took a mug of it out to Reaper.
‘If you want something in it, there’s whisky,’ he said.
He shrugged. ‘I don’t myself, but . . .’
‘No thanks. The coffee is good.’ Reaper raised the mug in a salute to him. ‘Thanks, Arif.’
‘No problem.’ He stared out at the night. ‘Look, as long as you’re out here, I’ll catch some zeds, right?’
Reaper nodded his agreement. ‘I’ll take that top bunk, right? I mean, probably too high for an old man like you, anyway.’
‘Careful, Arif.’
‘Whatever. Night, Reaper.’
‘Night.’
Reaper let the night envelop him. He wondered what the hell had happened at Windsor. Survivors from at least two military camps had apparently gone there and the only word back was: Imperative. Stay where you are – which implied that Windsor, or some location on the way, was extremely unhealthy.
Was Windsor under siege?
That was a crazy idea. There weren’t enough survivors to mount a siege. But maybe there was a conflict. Didn’t anyone ever learn? Another nagging thought came to the surface. What if the appeal to military units was a con trick perpetrated by someone who wanted to acquire whatever weapons they might possess? Prince Harry? As Cassandra Cairncross had said, his name had been a clarion call. Order in the midst of chaos. A rallying point behind the banners of one of the most popular royals. But it wasn’t necessarily true. Someone down south might simply be empire building; attracting units into an ambush, disarming them, killing any officers who might resist, coercing the rest to join or go the same way. It would be a hell of a way to raise an army. It was a worrying thought. At least Windsor was a long way away and, if this empire builder was based in the south, it would be the south he would first wish to pacify. He probably thought the north had already reverted to wicker and woad.
Reaper would try other military bases and forge new alliances for that time in the future when conflict arose. War was not a popular concept for those who had escaped to Haven but the possibility had to be faced and proper preparations would reduce casualties. Which brought him to the crisis of conscience he had felt building all day.
Three young men had died. He had killed three servicemen who had been doing nothing but try to protect the women and children they had been told to protect by their commanding officer. He had made assumptions that had been wrong and three lives had been snuffed out. But had he been wrong? Should he have done it differently? Could he have done it differently? Would it have been better to simply go away and leave the area?
Why hadn’t leaving been an option? He could tell himself that he had feared there might be women and children at risk, that they might have been captive like the schoolgirls in Scarborough. He could tell himself he was protecting Sandra. But they could have run away. Retreated, found another car and returned home.
The truth was, Reaper hadn’t wanted to retreat. He had wanted the conflict: wanted to test himself, to prove how deadly he had become. Had he become immured to normal sense and sensibilities? He preferred to believe he had simply reacted. He had been faced with gunshots, the possibility of death. And, in this new order, he had eliminated the opposition. He had done nothing wrong.
But he was still racked with sorrow at taking three young lives. He wondered, if the situation arose again, would he be able to react as clinically as he should?
Chapter 17
AS THE POPULATION OF HAVEN HAD GROWN, volunteer squads had cleared bodies from the homes in the surrounding villages. The buildings had been cleaned and disinfected and occupied by new arrivals. Among their community they now had carpenters, bricklayers, mechanics, an engineer, a plumber, academics, a nurse, teachers, working and professional men and women, even a journalist, whom Reaper avoided in case his prejudices surfaced. One of their unlikeliest success stories was Ronnie Ronaldo from Castleford, which he swore was his real name. He was a chap who confessed he had avoided work for the last fifteen years, yet had become their best ever scavenger. He had led them to an Asda warehouse that had enough stock to service the north of England. For Ronnie to discover his vocation, all it had taken was a plague.
They were in contact with eight other communities, none as big as their own, but all wishing to maintain peaceful and mutually beneficial relationships. The Haven committee was still mainly made up of first arrivals, but they knew it would not be long before they would have to hold elections to create a democratic council. Reaper was pleased that such progress had happened in a relatively short time. Nevertheless, he worried about maintaining the peace, and the possibility of what might be happening in Windsor. As Pete had said, there would come a time when someone would have to take a trip south to find out what was going on. Reaper knew it would be him. First, though, he would try another airforce base, this time in the flatlands of Lincolnshire.
He went the next day. He waited until the others had gone off to their allotted duties. He wanted no arguments about going alone. It had been his ruling that missions should involve at least two people; that everyone should have a back-up. But he was still brooding about the three dead servicemen and kn
ew he would be a poor companion for a field trip. Reaper found Smiffy and asked him where the nearest RAF station was located across the Humber. Smiffy knew of a camp near Brigg because he had once visited the place, but was unsure if it was the closest. Nevertheless, Reaper was happy enough to have a destination and, if he saw signs for any other along the way, he could always divert. He told Arif of his intentions, overrode the young man’s objections, and took the Astra van.
Reaper bypassed Driffield and Beverly on his way to the Humber Bridge. He was used to empty roads with only the occasional crashed car or abandoned vehicle to disrupt his speed, but he slowed as he approached the suspension bridge that crossed the mouth of the estuary. It was a glorious feat of engineering, a beautiful creation, almost a mile long, that had been designed to support a daily load of traffic in each direction, and last for more than a hundred years. It would last a lot longer now, with no traffic at all. Reaper slowed as he went through the tollgates and drove at a sedate pace across the wide expanse of water. Was it his imagination? Perhaps the sun was playing tricks on the surface, but the water seemed clearer, as if the world was healing now that man-made pollution had almost ceased.
He saw no signs of habitation on his journey. Some areas, he had discovered, were like that. The few people who had survived had moved on from sparse rural areas, to come together with others to form small groups. Even Brigg seemed deserted, although he knew only too well that residents might prefer to remain hidden.
The camp was easy to find and was deserted.
Buildings and hangars were ruins and the remains still bore the marks of the fires that had destroyed them.
Had these airmen also gone south? There was no one to ask. He drove in past a gatehouse that was poignantly similar to the one he had stormed, and followed the road to destroyed barracks and office blocks. The Officers’ Mess was one of the few buildings left intact. Reaper got out of the van to explore it and went inside cautiously, his carbine at the ready.
There were no messages on the notice board, no relevant entries in the log in the office. The bar was strangely untouched, neat and tidy. Chairs set around tables that were clear of any clutter, tall stools waiting at attention at the bar.
