The Hurst Chronicles (Book 2): Sentinel

by Robin Crumby

  Jack paused mid-step and studied Joe. Jack had spent half the night tossing and turning, pondering the question of what to do. He was placed in an impossible position. Do the right thing or remain loyal to his team? He had a good mind to refuse the Sister’s request for Jean and Joe to stand trial, but his scruples were getting in the way.

  “My hands are tied,” said Jack. “She says she won’t leave without Jean.”

  “What are you going to do then?” said Joe, looking understandably anxious, like he hadn’t slept much either worrying about what would happen next.

  “Well, if Jean refuses to go, there’s no way the Sister can remove her by force. So I’d say we’re at an impasse. Listen Joe, I’m trying to do the right thing but I don’t have much room to manoeuvre. Someone or something is going to have to budge.”

  “Please Jack. There’s no way she’ll get a fair trial. They already think she’s guilty and if I go with her to protect her, now I will have to stand trial too. It’s impossible.”

  “Well, the only solution I can see is that we hold the hearing, or trial, whatever you want to call it, here at Hurst. That way, it’s fairer for everyone. We can even get someone independent to decide.”

  “You’re seriously going to allow the pair of us to go on trial?”

  “If you’re both innocent then you have nothing to worry about.”

  “You know we’re both innocent Jack.”

  “Well then. I’m sorry Joe, I think that’s the best to hope for. I will suggest that to the Sister as a compromise when we get back.”

  Jack made clear that was an end to the matter and trudged on, looking out over the sea towards Mudeford in the distance. It was a clear morning as the sun rose slowly behind them, casting long shadows from the castle walls. Joe dropped back to fall in line with the others, shaking his head. It was hard going on the shingle with Jack’s heavy boots slipping with each step, displacing the stones underfoot.

  Jack cast his eyes further west and south beyond Christchurch Bay towards Old Harry Rocks and Studland Head. He remembered taking his young nephew to see Anvil Point lighthouse, taking in tea and a walk at Durlston Country Park. The views back towards the island and his home at the time just outside Barton on Sea had been stunning on a Spring day. He used to love to hike along the coastal paths on his own when he wasn’t fishing or maintaining the boat. Chesil Beach was a long drive but worth it, Lulworth Cove, fossil hunting on the Jurassic Coast. He wondered whether it was still the same, whether he would ever get to free camp in the dunes again or visit his favourite camp site near Swanage.

  “Look Jack,” said Will, pointing into the distance. Ahead of them where the shingle joined up with the roadway at the edge of Milford village someone had lit a bonfire. They must have dragged branches and logs up from the woodland a few hundred meters away. The first smoke was curling up into the morning sky.

  The party stopped in its tracks as Jack grabbed his binoculars trying to make out the faces of the two figures standing warming their hands.

  “Can you see who it is Jack?” asked Sam.

  “Not from here. There are two men by the looks of things. They certainly don’t look familiar.”

  He passed the binoculars to Will who squinted into the distance. “These things are filthy, I don’t know how you see anything through them.”

  “Terra used to clean the lenses for me. Probably a bit overdue now. Listen Will, Sam, Tommy, let’s go and talk to them, find out what they want. The rest of you carry on to the farm and get started.”

  One of the soldiers stepped forward, grabbing the walkie-talkie from his belt. He was assigned for their protection and was taking his responsibilities seriously for a fresh faced young man, no older than Sam.

  “I should call this in, see what Sergeant Flynn wants us to do,” said the young soldier.

  “Good idea. Wouldn’t hurt to have a little back-up, just in case.”

  The party split at the bridge that led over the waterway that ran alongside the remainder of the raised sea defences that ran towards Milford. With a wave, Scottie led the rest of them onwards towards the open fields and farm beyond.

  Jack and the rest of them stopped a couple of hundred meters from the bonfire, watching the flames and smoke leap higher into the air now the damp wood had finally caught properly. At either end, the men had fashioned two fork-shaped branches and rammed them into the stones. They were in the process of skinning and gutting an animal ready to be roasted on the spit.

  “I’ll do the talking,” said Jack. “The rest of you just back me up. I don’t want any trouble, so let’s take it easy.”

  The two soldiers weren’t used to taking instructions from civilians and exchanged glances before nodding their agreement. The group of five men spread out in a line as they continued up the remainder of the dirt roadway. The two men finally noticed their approach, one nudging the other. They appeared to be unarmed, or made no attempt to reach for their guns. One of them continued skinning what looked like a lamb.

  “Morning,” shouted Jack, keeping his distance, unwilling to get too close, his arms crossed in front of his paunch. “What are you doing here?”

  The two men seemed to find that funny and sniggered into their sleeves. They were an odd-looking pair whose appearance suggested they had been sleeping rough for some time, unshaven and filthy. One wore a camouflaged fishing jacket that reached down to his knees with hooks and tied fishing flies attached to his breast pocket. The other wore a full-zip track suit with a bright orange beanie. They were both of them no older than twenty. Their joviality quickly passed and was replaced by dead-eyed stares, seemingly unintimidated by the five of them.

  “Maybe you missed the signs or can’t read, but this here’s our land. That’s our place up the beach there,” Jack said pointing to the castle. He gestured towards the fire and the dead animal. “That’s our firewood you’re burning and by the looks of things, that’s one of our lambs you just killed.”

  The two men nodded but seemed unfazed, shrugging their shoulders.

  “You don’t own this land. No one owns it. It ain’t stealing, anyhow.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?” threatened Will with unapologetic menace, before Jack cautioned him with a stare.

  “We’re just passing through, that’s all. So I wouldn’t go making trouble. We’re on our way to the island.”

  “Just the two of you?”

  “No, we’re just the first. There are plenty more behind us.”

  “Where have you come from?”

  “Here and there. Bournemouth mostly, but there are other groups from Weymouth and Poole too.”

  As he was talking he inserted the butcher’s knife deep into the lamb’s throat and sawed through the muscle and tendons until the skull fell with a disturbing crunch on to a rock, blood splashing across his boots, though he didn’t seem to notice. He took the long stick which had already been sharpened to a spear and thrust it through the neck cavity, ramming it through its body until with a sharp twist, it emerged at the other end. Grabbing both ends, he placed the skewered animal on to the spit, watching the flames begin to lick the carcass, turning the flesh a charred black.

  “I like it round here. Good view of the island. Reckon we could stick around here and wait for our friends to arrive,” said one man to the other, ignoring Jack. “Those your fields over there, are they?” said the man in the track suit, pointing towards Scottie’s group in the distance.

  “That’s right. They’re our fields,” insisted Jack.

  “Got any eggs? Any chickens?”

  “Enough for us, yes, but not enough to share.”

  “That’s a shame. It doesn’t have to be like this you know. You give us what we want and we’ll leave you alone. We don’t want to hurt anyone.”

  Will and the others looked at each other, dumbstruck by their bravado. Jack was in no hurry to start a fight, but these men needed to understand where the line was drawn.

  “Listen, I’ll tell
you what. Finish your fire, warm your hands, eat your meal, then be on your way. You’re not welcome here. I want you gone by the time we get back. Okay? Do we understand each other?”

  “Oh I think we understand each other,” smiled the man in the fishing jacket.

  With a final stare, the Hurst group turned on their heels and strode back towards the bridge and the fields beyond.

  “What was all that about?” asked Sam.

  “Beats me,” said Jack. “They must have a screw loose. They’re lucky we didn’t shoot them where they stood.”

  “Something tells me they’re still going to be there when we get back,” warned Will.

  “And I doubt they’ll be alone by then,” added Sam. “Didn’t he say they were the first. I wonder how many more of them there are? Perhaps the fire is to guide the rest in.”

  “I doubt it Sam,” said Will. “We’ve had plenty of people passing through here in the last few weeks. News travels fast. There will be dozens more groups on their way West towards Lymington and the island.”

  “Private, call it in. I want everyone back to the castle by lunchtime. Tell Sergeant Flynn we need to double the guard and get some more men out to keep watch on the workers.”

  The Private grabbed his walkie-talkie and turned his back on the group, trying to reach Flynn.

  “Will, can you get after Scottie and tell him to bring the animals back to the castle this afternoon? We can put them in the field behind the lighthouse for now. They’ll be safer there. I don’t want them so far away from us if things kick off.”

  Will nodded and set off after Scottie at a slow jog. The group were already far along the tidal road that flooded from time to time, dodging between puddles to keep their boots dry. In the distance Jack noticed another plume of smoke rising above the wood. It was definitely time to get everyone back to the safety of the spit.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

  Riley had been up since dawn waiting for the first boat heading west she could locate. It was a routine personnel transfer run up from Portsmouth to Lymington, so only required a small detour to the USS Chester anchored in the main channel and then on to the castle.

  Riley was down in the canteen, saying goodbye to those already assembled at this early hour, devouring a hearty buffet-style breakfast with fresh eggs delivered from the island the day before, cooked any style, something that tasted like bacon but was likely a substitute, fried tomatoes, fresh bread rolls, frozen sausages, and pancakes with Canadian maple syrup. She had never seen such a feast.

  Zed seemed to be labouring, hunched over his plate with one good hand. He was having some trouble cutting his sausages but was too proud to ask for help. Despite his initial protest, she leaned over his shoulder and grabbed the knife and fork, making short work of slicing everything up into bite-size pieces.

  Jones paused mid-mouthful watching Zed’s indignation across the table, a mischievous smile spreading across his lips. “Looks like you need a hand.”

  There a moment of silence as Riley cringed, wondering whether Zed was quite ready for jokes at his expense. Zed looked up into the Sergeant’s eyes.

  “I’m glad you find my injury amusing,” rebuked Zed dead-pan.

  “It’s not like you’re completely armless, I know,” continued Jones, to a snigger from one of his team.

  “Very funny Sergeant. Very funny,” he smiled. “Your jokes are about as hilarious as the scientist’s flu jokes I’ve had to listen to.”

  “Really? I didn’t know they had a sense of humour.”

  “They don’t. Only lame one-liners.”

  “Try me.”

  “Oh stuff like ‘man walks into a doctor’s surgery with a runny nose. ‘Flu?’ asks the doctor. ‘No, came by bicycle’.”

  “You’re right, that is terrible. What else you got?”

  “Don’t encourage him,” groaned Riley.

  “Last one I promise. What’s the difference between bird flu and swine flu?”

  “Don’t tell me, I heard this one already. Something about tweetment and oink-ment.”

  “With all this swine flu talk, it’s like the ‘snoutbreak of the aporkalypse’. Next we’ll all be waking up with apples in our mouths.”

  “Right, when pigs fly…”

  “Enough already,” shouted Riley, “that’s terrible.”

  “I tried to warn you. Never ask that man to tell jokes.”

  There was a knock at the door and Riley turned to see a crewman in a survival suit breathing heavily.

  “Mam, just to let you know your ride is two minutes out.”

  “Thanks, I’ll be right there.”

  Riley felt a tightness in her chest, all of a sudden feeling emotional about leaving her new friends behind. She hugged Zed’s back and affectionately kissed him on the head, ruffling his hair. She waved goodbye to the rest of them and headed out the door. Jones got to his feet and followed her out. Outside the doorway, Riley paused, waiting for him to catch up, noticing the other men exchanging knowing looks.

  “Wait up Riley. I just wanted to say that if you need anything, and I mean anything, just call. One of my team is always listening in on channel 9. They know where to find me,” he smiled awkwardly. “Listen, it’s been fun hanging out.”

  She blushed at his attentions, tucking a lock of hair behind her left ear. She hadn’t allowed herself to actually care about anyone for too long. It had been her self-defence mechanism. Besides, no one had asked her out on a date for quite some time, if that’s where this conversation was heading.

  “Me too,” she said. “Sorry I was such a hard-ass back at Porton. I appreciate what you’ve done for me, for all of us. Not sure what would have happened if you hadn’t shown up when you did.”

  “Oh, it was nothing, just doing my job. So listen, if it’s okay with you, I might pop on over and see you at the castle sometime next week.”

  “I’d like that. Thanks,” she smiled, looking at her hands. “Okay, I better be going, that boat won’t wait for me.”

  “Be seeing you,” he said, touching her arm.

  “You too.”

  She turned with a wave and headed left towards a watertight door nearest them that led on deck where they were loading up a small Royal Navy fast launch. Two large crates were being winched up to the Chester as two other men climbed down the rope ladder. A crewman helped her down onto the smaller vessel. She took the hand offered by the Royal Navy officer below. She had mixed feelings about leaving Zed and the team. She desperately wanted to get back to the castle and Adele, but felt torn. Yet there was nothing more she could do here on the Chester. Her place was back at Hurst.

  The crew cast off the mooring lines and they headed away from the Chester against the incoming tide. As soon as they were clear, the helm throttled up the powerful diesel engines and Riley watched the churned-up waters and diesel fumes curling into the morning air behind them. They headed up towards the bow of the enormous destroyer, watching their wake slam against the Chester’s steep-sided hull.

  Out in the main channel to the East, they were dazzled by the morning sunshine breaking through scattered clouds. Behind them, she could make out the Isle of Wight ferry in the distance leaving Portsmouth harbour with a Royal Naval escort holding course alongside. She wondered how many more of the refugees would be on their way to a new life on the island. It was said that there were now several hundred new arrivals per day. She wondered where they all lived and worked. It must be a massive logistical operation. She’d like to see it for herself one day.

  She was enjoying the sensation of speed as they bumped over the waves heading back West, feeling the wind in her hair, ducking against a shroud of salt spray as they caught a wave. As they neared the entrance to the Lymington river, the pitch of the engine dropped and their speed slowed, their bow returning to a shallower incline.

  They reached the outer markers to the river entrance passing marshland and mudflats on either side of the narrow channel that was lined with wooden posts and buoys. Sh
e was surprised to notice two soldiers occupying a small race committee platform at the head of the river, exposed to the elements. As they passed close by, she saw there was a small shelter with a radio set and GPMG machine gun set up to cover the river entrance. In worse weather, she imagined it would be untenable or at the very least a torrid guard duty for the men posted there.

  In the distance Riley could see a forest of masts and boats moored up in Yachthaven and Berthon marinas to their left. Compared to peak season, the marinas were virtually deserted. During the first outbreak, so many locals had taken to their boats to escape the mainland and either head to sea or to the island in the hope of finding refuge from the virus. There had been talk of people setting course for the Channel Islands, where it was believed there was no virus. Several of the vessels tied up in the main channel had broken free in the storms and littered the shoreline, holed and wrecked.

  The navy launch weaved a path through the tight river channel between moorings. The passage had not been dredged in some time and was said to be impassable to larger vessels, though the flat-bottomed ferry seemed to have no trouble operating here. She could see the Lymington ferry port now ahead of them opposite the main town. Even from this distance, you could hear the buzz of activity carried on the wind.

  The whole of the river front around the port was lined with hundreds of people. Everywhere she looked she could see hunched figures huddling together in shelters and tents. Long lines of refugees snaked towards the fortified entrance to the port. There was a large military presence here, barriers and metal fences set up to limit access to the embarkation and quarantine zones. The whole area around the port was unrecognisable to her; she had only heard second-hand stories of its transformation under military occupation.

  The navy launch cruised slowly against the morning tide towards a landing jetty nearest the ferry, which towered over them. She could hear the unsettling screech of grinding metalwork as they loaded vehicles, hand carts and successive groups of people. A hundred dirty faces watched their approach. Many looked beaten, young and old, barely able to stay awake, leaning over the railing. All their fight was gone as if every ounce of energy had been used up to reach the ferry port from whichever Godforsaken place they had come. These were the lucky ones, those that were virus free, passed fit to make the crossing. Looking up at their faces, Riley couldn’t help but feel a tremendous sadness descending on her. There was simply no way to help this number of desperate people. The island would be a fresh start for many, a chance to rebuild, but for those turned away, there could be no hope. They would not survive another winter like the last.