by Robin Crumby
Heather and Connor dodged between bodies and lost themselves in the safety of the crowd, panting and laughing. Looking back beyond the terminal building, they could see smoke rising from the direction they had come. The loading area had been transformed into a scene of chaos as those left behind scrambled for cover. She scanned the crowds trying to find Rowan and the others from her group, but they were gone. They were on their own again.
CHAPTER SIX
As the Isle of Wight ferry cleared the jetty and harbour wall, they passed Spice Island and Portsmouth old town to the left. Heather and Connor found a quiet corner near the ferry's stern, where a bulkhead shielded them from the worst of the wind and rain buffeting the ship. The lower deck was empty of vehicles but abuzz with noise and excitement as the hundreds of refugees lucky enough to have escaped the mainland chaos inched closer to safety. Looking around, very few men appeared to have made the crossing.
Back towards Portsmouth, they watched the once majestic sight of Spinnaker Tower disappear slowly in their wake. A tattered Union Jack flew from a flagpole on top of the tower, which was decorated with graffiti to an impossible height, where gangs had dared to climb ever higher. Clear of the harbour channel, the ferry swung southwest towards the island, smashing into the teeth of an unforgiving headwind, gusting gale force. The sea behind them had become a maelstrom of white water and spray, horizontal rain sheeted down. They struggled to make out the mainland now, a dark outline of Southsea castle in the distance and the enormous shape of Spitbank Fort looming close at hand, shrouded in mist. Heather knew there should be other Solent forts visible like this one but could not make them out.
A soldier wearing a poncho stepped between the groups, scanning the refugees’ faces. A rifle was slung over his shoulder. Only his eyes and nose were visible. A hood hid his forehead in ghostly shadow. It suddenly occurred to Heather that he might be looking for them. She turned away, taking no chances, keeping her face hidden, motioning to Connor to do likewise. They had learned to keep a low profile to avoid unwanted attention wherever possible. The soldier moved on, oblivious to their presence.
The crossing was bumpy and at times uncomfortable, buffeted by the wind. The St Clare ferry was a twin-hulled catamaran and certainly not designed for heavy weather. She laboured over the short distance without further incident. Craning her head around the corner, Heather saw the island ahead of them and the ferry port of Fishbourne. The village of Wootton Bridge lay beyond. For the last half mile, the St Clare was joined by a Royal Navy patrol boat, bashing into the chop. On board, Heather was surprised to notice a man in bright orange oilskins clinging to a bow-mounted machine gun which he kept trained towards the ferry as they bounced up and down. They were clearly taking no chances today. Once in the shadow of the island, the wind and waves dropped quickly and the howling wind fell to a more melodic whistle as the gusts hurried through the ferry’s superstructure.
With a soft bump, the bow of the ferry nudged the first of the wooden mooring posts. Plunged deep into the mud and river bank, the columns were draped with tyres and rubber defenders to protect visiting ferries against collisions, particularly in difficult docking conditions like today. The skipper had made this passage a dozen times in the last couple of weeks alone and expertly controlled their approach, using his bow-thrusters to counteract the force of the wind and current. Once secured fore and aft the hydraulic pistons groaned into life, forcing the ramp down to meet the hard of Fishbourne.
A welcoming party of solemn-looking soldiers waved the three hundred or so new arrivals off the ship. They were escorted forward in strictly controlled groups of thirty at a time, heading up to be processed.
Heather squinted at a cluster of medics standing chatting by one of the welcome channels. Each processing point was covered by a small marquee pitched to keep the rain off the heads of those sitting scribbling numbers and names on clipboards. She could just make out a whiteboard displaying a message that read “Welcome to Camp Wight”. Underneath was the number 438 which looked like it had been rubbed out several times already as more people cleared the quarantine area.
The medics wore green overalls and disposable white face-masks, held in place with elastic ties. They stood ready to assess each new arrival and send them on to army trucks waiting to take them to the refugee camps said to be less than a kilometre away near Ryde. Heather and Connor patiently waited their turn to disembark, shuffling forward, keeping up with the other refugees. Behind them, soldiers swept the passenger deck, shouting “clear”, making sure there was no one left on board.
Heather had made this crossing many years before with her parents. Gone were the lines of cars and caravans packed with smiling children’s faces daubed with chocolate and ice-cream. She remembered bored-looking officials waving cars forward, wearing day-glow orange jackets.
Now things looked very different. Surrounding the tarmac area were twenty-feet high fences topped with rolls of razor wire. She wasn’t sure whether the fences were to keep the new arrivals in, or others out. She suspected they were to stop refugees making a break for open countryside. It was common knowledge that everyone had to be declared fit before progressing to the camps beyond. Trapped in the fence and on the razor wire, she noticed long strands of what looked like fabric, newspaper, and cardboard, flapping noisily with each gust of wind.
There was an unsettled buzz about the place. Perhaps they had heard about the trouble back on the mainland and feared there might be troublemakers or infected as part of this group. The soldiers nearest them looked on edge, shouting instructions between them, never taking their eyes off the new arrivals.
The front-line soldiers directly handling each refugee wore bio-hazard suits. One by one each person was ushered forward to be manually checked for symptoms of the virus. Connor gripped Heather’s hand tighter.
“I feel sick Heather.”
She turned to face him, trying to hide her alarm. Talk about bad timing. She noticed he was shivering with cold. They had been in wet clothes all day and he probably had a fever coming on.
“Don’t be silly, Connor. Here, take my coat. There, that’s better. Just you wait. Once we get beyond here, you’ll see. They’ll have hot chocolate, cake, and biscuits just like Rowan told us. I promised you didn't I?” She forced a smile, but inside she was terrified. They were so close. They had come so far.
“I’m scared,” blurted Connor, fighting back tears.
“You’ll be fine. Come on,” she said putting her arm round him and rubbing his arms to get his circulation going again.
The group in front of them were next and one by one they were called forward.
“Name?” barked the woman behind a desk with a clipboard with dozens of scribbled details in uneven columns. The doctor in the bio-hazard suit grabbed hold of the refugee, a teenage girl Heather recognised from the boat, with long brown hair and kind eyes. The medic grabbed hold of her lapel, feeling her throat and glands, opening her eyes wide, checking the skin tone, rudimentary screening for signs of the virus.
“Stick your tongue out and say ‘ah’.”
The young girl tilted her head defiantly, but complied. The medic nodded and another person bustled up and thrust a thermometer in her ear canal, pausing while the digital readout settled at 98 degrees.
“Clear. Go ahead and join the line to the right. Next?”
Heather and Connor were next after the girl. The teenage girl was watching the pair of them with a smug grin. She shrugged her shoulders as if to say: “what’s all the fuss about”. Heather watched her go, envious. Her stomach was doing somersaults, fighting down bile. It wouldn't play well to be sick on the soldier’s boot. She distracted herself by concentrating on her brother, squeezing Connor's hand. He was shaking like a leaf, with cold or fear; she couldn't tell.
Heather pushed Connor forward and made him go first. She needed to keep an eye on him, make sure he was keeping it together. When asked for his name by the person with a clipboard, he responded in barely above
a whisper, noticeably trembling in front of the medic. The doctor softened his tone a little, aware of how nervous the boy was.
Connor's fever was obvious, even to an untrained eye, but the medic was a professional and stuck to his task, going through the motions to make sure. Heather watched nervously as his gloved hand pressed against the redness around his eyes where he had been crying, lifted his head to inspect bulging glands and clammy skin around his throat. He thrust the thermometer into Connor’s ear and waited for the loud beep. He cleared the memory and retested.
“One hundred and two,” he announced to the clipboard lady with barely a note of regret.
Two soldiers moved forward, taking up position, one hand on each of Connor’s emaciated shoulders. Her brother looked up forlornly at the soldier for any sign of sympathy but was met with impassive detachment, devoid of any hint of humanity or empathy. It was plain that this was a situation played out all too often. In her state of exhaustion, Heather’s mind drifted, feeling herself floating above the situation.
Rowan had told her that cases of the virus were on the increase again as people left their hiding places seeking out the sanctuary of the island. It was ironic really. Bringing so many people together had proved a catalyst for a fresh outbreak. Not exactly what the Allies had intended. Yet their safeguards had so far prevented the virus from reaching the island.
“Heather?” Connor implored his sister for help as she snapped out of her reverie. The hand on his shoulder tightened as he struggled to reach his sister with an outstretched hand.
Heather felt her back stiffen as she interceded on her brother's behalf, pleading with the soldiers.
“Please. You don’t understand, we’ve been together all this time. He's never been sick before just now. We haven’t been in contact with any strangers. I’m telling you, he’s not infected. It’s probably just a chill. I promise. Look, I would be the first to know. Please?”
The soldiers paused, blinking uncertainly towards the medic, suddenly unsure what the correct procedure was. The doctor, a young woman judging by her size and shape beneath her biohazard suit and mask, shook her head, disinterested. She looked down at her clipboard again, oblivious to their plight.
“He’s got all of the classic symptoms. Elevated temperature, swollen glands, clammy skin. We can’t take any risks. The rules are the same for everyone. Move along. Next person in line.”
Heather lunged forward, grabbing her brother’s hand and trying to pull him away. “I won’t let you take him. He’s my brother.”
As soon as she stepped out of line, the demeanour of the soldiers changed. Any semblance of pity evaporated.
“I’m warning you,” said one of the soldiers, wrestling to grab her arm and pull her back out of the way.
“You’re wrong,” she writhed to release herself from his grasp.
A soldier standing a few meters away unholstered and cocked his pistol and took careful aim at Heather’s chest.
“This is your first and final warning. Step away or you will be shot.”
Heather froze, tears welling in her eyes. Beyond the fence, the commotion had attracted the attention of the other refugees who were loading up onto an army truck. Its canvas cover was pulled back while the last of the passengers was being helped on board. A man shouted back at the soldiers together with a chorus of dissent.
“Hey, pick on someone your own size. They’re just kids.”
The soldier with his pistol drawn grabbed hold of Heather again by the sleeve and pulled her away, dragging her towards the gate and the waiting truck.
It broke Heather’s heart to have to leave him behind, but there was nothing she could do now. Connor held his hands out towards his sister as she was escorted away. He was inconsolable, tears streaming down his cheeks. She tried one last time to make a break, to give him a hug goodbye, but the soldier tightened his grip, dragging her towards the truck. When she looked back again, he was gone.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Terra woke to the ringing of a hand-bell from somewhere outside, just audible in the lull between successive gusts that had been battering her window all night. She stretched and yawned, snaking her arm across the bed. It was still warm where his body had lain.
She grabbed a man’s shirt several sizes too big for her and draped it around her shoulders, leaving it unbuttoned at the front. Standing at the window, the rain was still sheeting down outside, running rivulets down the glass. Beyond the courtyard, the crumbling walls of Carisbrooke Castle stood proudly, towering over the chapel and former Privy garden, now planted with all manner of vegetables for the kitchen. She could just make out Briggs’ right-hand man Victor gesticulating wildly at one of the farm workers. She puzzled at the nature of the confrontation. The local man put down the two large buckets he was struggling with, his head bowed deferentially. Victor cuffed him roughly round the ear and sent him on his way, shouting after him. He stood there for a moment, shaking his head, before striding back towards the main building. He faltered mid-stride, noticing Terra standing by the window. He touched his cap, and she self-consciously pulled the shirt tighter round her body. Victor held her gaze, then continued on his way.
She finished dressing, wriggling into some tight blue jeans, thick socks and walking boots for the day ahead. She slipped a cashmere shawl over her head and adjusted her hair in the mirror. She still looked tired, she thought, rubbing some foundation into her cheeks and applying some bright lipstick. The cashmere felt luxurious next to her skin. She brushed her shoulder-length auburn hair into some semblance of order and then tied it back. She was growing tired of her natural colour. She wondered whether it was time for a change. Turning her head from side to side, she thought perhaps brunette. Maybe cut her hair shorter, but not too short.
Briggs always ensured they had the best of everything here. She only had to say the word and one of his henchmen would see to it, scouring the surrounding area for a particular brand or hard-to-find item. Her dressing table was covered in jewellery, necklaces and precious stones, perfumes of every description. She smiled in spite of herself, picking up several items before choosing an antique platinum ring, set with a sapphire, and diamond stud earrings. Her wardrobe would have made a Hollywood A-lister blush. Dresses for every occasion. And yet, by day, she risked his displeasure by rebelling, wearing comfortable clothes fit for the season and an outdoor life. He would rather she stayed indoors, a trophy to enjoy when he saw fit. She had grown accustomed to his eccentricities and misogyny, but refused to conform. He was a man used to getting his own way and these small battles and disagreements seemed to excite him somehow.
She had been at the castle for nearly five months now. Brought here against her will. Kidnapped during the attack at Osborne House. She had suffered the ignominy of having a sack thrust cruelly over her head, then being bundled into the back of Briggs’ vehicle, despite her screams. That all seemed like such a long time ago. She had bent over backwards to earn his trust, to fit in, to ingratiate herself, to become part of his inner circle. Briggs seemed to think she was important somehow, that her loyalty could be bought with trinkets. It would take more than that, much more, she mused. She had grander designs, but for now she would play along, play the part she had been given.
Downstairs, the place was deserted and she breakfasted on her own. A simple meal of fruit and cornflakes. She was just clearing away the plates when she heard voices outside in the courtyard and the front door slammed open in the wind, as half a dozen men shuffled in, in high spirits.
The door to the dining room was thrown open to reveal Briggs laughing, slapping Victor on the back, striding towards her, a shotgun over his arm. Briggs was dressed like a country gentleman in a shooting jacket and tweed. They handed the weapons to one of their party. Behind them were two others carrying a brace of pheasants, heading for the kitchen where they would no doubt be hung for a few days.
Terra composed herself and smiled her broadest smile. Victor’s mask seemed to slip seeing Terra, unt
il he glanced back at Briggs and resumed his charade of good humour. Briggs strode over to her and ostentatiously bent down and gave her a kiss on the forehead. He put his arms round her shoulders and half squeezed, half throttled her, until she pulled his hands away. He turned to wink at one of his henchmen. Victor looked disinterested and poured himself a cup of coffee.
“How did you get on?” asked Terra, leaning forward, resting her head coquettishly between both hands.
“Not bad, not bad. I bagged a couple of fat-looking pheasants, Harry got one. This muppet here couldn’t hit a barn door,” he said pointing at one of the others who shrugged his shoulders. “We almost had a deer as well, but Harry scared him off,” said Briggs, pointing across the room as Harry protested his innocence, trying to laugh it away awkwardly.
“Where did you find pheasants round here?”
Briggs pointed at Victor. “Ask him.”
“One of the kitchen workers told me about this place not far from here. His father was a groundsman many years ago. Kings and queens used to visit this same wood to shoot. Very old, lots of history. Before guns. Bows and arrows even. It’s in a valley, sheltered from the wind. Full of pigeons and grouse. It was, how do you say, a real turkey shoot? No one has been there for months. Very overgrown, very beautiful. Perhaps Terra, you would like to come with us next time?”
Terra blushed at the idea of accompanying the men. They spent the better part of their days engaged in sport, playing golf or shooting. She opened her mouth to respond but was cut short.
“And this bloody idiot shot one of the dogs,” reprimanded Briggs, all humour suddenly gone from his eyes.
Terra looked genuinely shocked. “Oh no. Which one? Please tell me it wasn’t Keira.”
“Which one’s Keira? The black lab?”
Terra nodded.
“Then it was Keira. I’m so sorry, gal. I know you loved that dog,” said Briggs with what sounded like genuine remorse. “She was flushing out the birds for us. I told you didn’t I? Don’t fire at ground level. Aim high. You could have killed one of us. As it was, it was lucky it was only a dog.”
