Angel

by Jon Grahame

  Tanya and Jenny had been left behind at Haven, along with Ashley, their head of militia, as home security.

  The journey was uneventful, although, twice, groups watched them go past from the fields at the side of the motorway. Reaper hoped they would be intimidated by their size and show of weapons. They went south of Leeds and along the M62, deeper into the territory Reaper had been avoiding. Signs for Bradford and Huddersfield went by and they left conurbations behind as they climbed into the high moorlands. A long swooping stretch took them down a valley and past a reservoir, up the other side and onto the tops, so that it seemed as if they were driving across the roof of the world.

  Here, the two parts of the motorway split apart, where the planners had followed contours for ease of road building, so that the three-lanes of the western highway ran at a higher level and separate from the eastern highway. It looked as if the moors had bulged and pushed them apart. A lone farmhouse sat incongruously in the middle of this split. What a place to have lived, thought Reaper, surrounded by clouds and two streams of traffic heading non-stop across a magnificent emptiness.

  Down to their right, below the farmhouse and the highway going east, was a reservoir and, beyond that, according to his map, the road to Ripponden. At a junction at the highest point on the moorland, Ronnie was waiting for them. He led the way onto the Ripponden road, then turned off again.

  The yard, where the snow plough had been left, was too small to accommodate all their vehicles and Reaper worried that they would be seen, but Ronnie opened the double doors of an empty vehicle storage shed and one of the lorries nosed inside. Ronnie disappeared through a door at the back carrying a camping lantern and, a few minutes later, with the creaking and grinding of old machinery, part of the rear wall of the shed slid sideways, with Ronnie pushing it manually. The dim glow of the lantern revealed a hollowed out cave with a few old spades and pickaxes leaning against the wall, a small stack of firewood, a sack of coal, a brazier, and a camp bed upon which was a rolled sleeping bag.

  At the back of the cave were steel doors and a sign that said: Danger. Keep Out. Emergency Reservoir Access. Authorised Personnel Only.

  Ronnie grinned at Reaper and held his hand out to indicate the steel doors, as if he was a magician about to perform a trick. He walked up to them, placed both hands flat on the steel and pushed. The doors opened.

  ‘That bloke Robert. He never locked it when he left,’ he said.

  He pushed one door wide and Reaper pushed the other. The lamp Ronnie had brought didn’t penetrate the darkness.

  Reaper shouted back to the lorry driver, ‘Headlights!’ and a moment later, the twin beams dispelled the shadows and showed the start of a concrete road that led downwards into the hill. Suddenly, the headlights were unnecessary as strip lights in the ceiling came on. Ronnie reappeared. ‘The generators are still working,’ he said. ‘There’s a car park and turning area down the slope. There’s space for the lorries.’

  Ronnie climbed into the cab of the first lorry, which led the way down the slope, the second following. There was now space to get the three Range Rovers and the Land Rover out of sight, parked in the shed and at the entrance to the bunker. They closed the shed doors. Kev and James remained outside, taking guard duty.

  Reaper and the others walked down the road, which was wide enough for one lorry, for about fifty paces before it levelled into the promised parking space. Two other lorries were already there, as Ronnie had said, their rear ends at what appeared to be a loading bay. There was enough space for the two lorries they had brought, but they wouldn’t be able to turn until the others were moved.

  Deep alcoves were cut in the walls, each containing a vehicle. The choice of the country’s last government had been Range Rovers: comfortable and all purpose. There were six of them. Two narrower roads led off from the loading bay. Each was sign posted: First Avenue, and Second Avenue. Beneath each was a list of destinations.

  First Avenue led to Communications, Radiation Monitoring, Map Room, Cabinet Room, Offices, Armoury, Canteen, Barracks. Second Avenue led to Civilian Living Quarters, Dormitories A and B, Canteen, Medical, Library.

  What looked like six dodgem cars were lined up. Two were four-seaters, the other four had two front seats and rear space for cargo.

  ‘They’re electric,’ Ronnie said. He pointed to the cables that connected each to a wall socket. ‘I plugged them in yesterday, see if they would charge up.’

  ‘How far do the tunnels go?’ asked Reaper.

  ‘Not far. It’s walkable. But you’ll need the dodgems for moving supplies. Most of the bodies are in bed. About a hundred squaddies. Two shot themselves. A few senior officers and about sixty civilians, including medics.’

  They had all been excited about getting here and exploring this realm beneath the ground but, as Ronnie had given the figures, Reaper realised they were in a mausoleum. This was the last resting place of up to two hundred people who had travelled here in hope and died in despair. The others in the group caught his mood and his gaze found the Rev Nick.

  The cleric said, ‘We’ve all experienced death in many forms over the last year. We have seen that life is precious and yet it can be snatched away so swiftly, so cruelly. What we are standing in now is a grave. Let us tread carefully and let us be respectful to the memories of those who died here.’

  He dipped his head and held his hands together and they all acknowledged a long moment’s silence.

  Reaper broke it.

  He said, ‘Pete, find out what’s in the trucks. We’ll split into two groups and take an avenue each.’

  Greta went with Sandra to the medical centre and others inspected the civilian quarters. Reaper and Smiffy took another group down the military and office wing. Most of the soldiers were, as Ronnie had said, in their bunks in the barracks. One had shot himself in the showers.

  Smiffy looked at their uniform badges.

  ‘Paras,’ he said.

  The armoury had 120 Heckler and Koch L85 rifles with optical sites and four that were slightly different.

  Smiffy picked one up and inspected it.

  ‘Long range sniper rifle. Five round magazine, folding stock, bipod to hold it steady and a range of about 1,000 metres. This thing on the end is a sound suppressor. It also reduces the flash of the shot. The sight is brilliant.’ He squinted at it. ‘Twenty-five times magnification. Even I could hit a barn door with one of these.’

  Reaper picked up an item he didn’t recognise.

  ‘Grenade launcher,’ said Smiffy. ‘They fit under the L85.’ He pointed at other equipment. ‘Mortars, General Purpose Machine Gun, Light Machine Gun, Combat Shotgun, Combat Body Armour, night sights.’ He pointed at but did not explain what the last item was; Reaper knew a helmet when he saw one. ‘They’ve got top quality gear. Loads of ammunition, too.’

  A hundred and twenty combat rifles, twelve grenade launchers, four mortars, two heavy GP machine guns, six Light Machine Guns and twelve shotguns. In the barracks, the men had Sig 226 handguns in holsters, hanging from their bunks or in their lockers.

  Smiffy called and Reaper joined him in a side room.

  ‘Clansman communications,’ he said. ‘It’s a combat net radio system. I thought they’d been replaced by a newer version. All singing and dancing, like.’

  ‘I didn’t know you were an expert, Smiffy.’

  ‘I’m not. Had a mate who was in Signals. The new sort could send everything from your Afghan holiday snaps to mucky movies. Maybe when the world went tits up, the Paras went back to basics.’ He pointed at hand-held receivers. ‘Manpack radios, range about 500 meters.’ He pointed again. ‘Vehicle mounted radio. Only one of them.’ He looked at Reaper. ‘I wonder if those Rovers at the entrance have them? Did you notice whiplash aerials? Maybe they planned on having one for base HQ and the others for mobile units? Range about thirty kilomet
res. Radio transmission or morse code.’

  ‘You may just have got yourself a job as a Radio Operator.’

  ‘Not me. About all I can do is plug the headsets in.’

  Pete Mack arrived outside the barracks in one of the dodgems, the Rev Nick alongside him.

  ‘One truck contains nothing but ammo. The other is full of books.’

  ‘Books?’ Reaper said, and wondered whether they should unload it and use it for something more useful.

  ‘The books are excellent,’ said Nick. ‘Remember what Cassandra said. They compiled a library of books that could be used to start again? They’re those sort of books. We need them, Reaper.’

  ‘Okay. We’ll take them. Let’s start moving the guns from here. And the radio equipment.’ He looked at Smiffy. ‘Let’s have a look at the communications room.’

  The bank of radio equipment was impressive and daunting. Reaper sat in a chair before a bank of dials and knobs. A headset lay on the desk, its cable snaking away to a jackplug connection. He flicked switches and dials lit up. He held the headset to one ear and heard static. He handed it to Smiffy.

  ‘Put them on and try the dials. See if you hear anything other than static.’

  Smiffy sat at the desk, put on the headphones and moved the dials. Reaper left him to it.

  Pete started organising and Reaper inspected the bedrooms used by the officers: a general, a wing commander, a major, a captain and three lieutenants. All were in uniform, most of them lying on their beds. The major was sitting in an armchair with a glass still in his hand and a whisky bottle by his feet.

  He went in the canteen, kitchens and storerooms. They were well stocked with tins and packets of food and cases of lager. The walk-in refrigerators were still working. Inside were steaks, beef roasting joints, lamb and pork chops, chickens, sacks of frozen chips and vegetables. He moved on, inspected empty offices and a cabinet room with two bodies slumped in chairs and another face down on a rather fine Oriental rug.

  Back at the loading bay, he checked the Range Rovers. All six had whiplash aerials and were fitted with Clansman radios. They were ready and waiting for Special Forces to take them.

  Reaper was tired even though he’d only made a tour of inspection. He had been excited when he had been told of the bunker, had looked forward to seeing it and acquiring the riches it contained, but it really was a tomb and the feeling of so many lost souls trapped beneath the moors was oppressive. Of course, it was all in his mind. But he still felt it.

  Pete Mack was efficiently allocating space and dictating where items went, so Reaper walked down Second Avenue to the medical centre. Here, Greta was giving the orders.

  ‘We’ve got a mobile operating theatre,’ she told him, ‘and all the gubbins that goes with it.’

  ‘Gubbins?’ he said. ‘That’s a medical term, is it?’

  ‘It’ll do for you.’

  ‘I’ll leave you to it.’

  On the way back, he saw Sandra step out of a doorway shaking her head. She was followed by Ronnie dragging a large steel box that was obviously heavy. She made no attempt to help him.

  ‘What have you got?’ Reaper said.

  ‘Ronnie’s found gold,’ said Sandra.

  ‘I’m taking it back for Judith,’ he said. ‘For the bank.’

  ‘Can I see?’ asked Reaper.

  Ronnie opened the lid of the box. It was full of one ounce gold Kruger Rand coins and looked like pirate treasure.

  ‘Jesus, Ronnie. It’s a lottery win.’

  ‘If we had a lottery,’ said Sandra.

  ‘And if there was somewhere to spend it,’ said Ronnie. ‘But there will be. I talked to Judith. Some time in the future, people will use money again. Bound to happen and probably sooner than later. And these Kruger coins are the best, so when we do have money again, we’ll be well set up.’

  Sandra looked at Reaper.

  ‘Do we take it?’ she said.

  ‘We take it,’ he smiled. Judith had told him about the Bank. ‘Well done, Ronnie.’

  They loaded everything they deemed essential onto the two spare lorries. Gavin had located the bunker’s fuel tanks. The generators had been running for a year, yet were still half full. But, as Ronnie had reported, everything apart from the refrigerators had been switched off when he found the place, presumably by the unfortunate survivor known only as Robert.

  Reaper checked with Smiffy but he hadn’t heard anyone broadcasting radio messages.

  ‘Just static,’ Smiffy said. ‘The airwaves are dead.’

  Before they left, they defrosted steaks in the microwaves in the civilian canteen, and cooked steak and chips. With it, they drank cans of lager, or wine, from the Deputy Prime Minister’s private stock. Halfway through, Reaper said he would go outside and relieve James and Kev, so they, too, could enjoy the bounty they had discovered.

  ‘I’ll go with you,’ said Greta. ‘I could do with some air.’

  ‘You don’t have a gun,’ he said.

  ‘I’ll be the one that runs for help. Not that you ever need any.’

  He raised an eyebrow at the remark and Sandra said, ‘Oo-ooh.’

  Greta and Reaper laughed and left the canteen. They walked up Second Avenue.

  ‘This is a strange place,’ she said.

  ‘It’s a sad place.’

  ‘Not somewhere I would have wanted to be at the end.’

  ‘But you’re a doctor. You knew what the end would be. Presumably, they thought they had a chance.’

  They reached the loading area and Reaper looked back down both avenues from their apex.

  ‘What a strange bloody world.’

  ‘In the days of The Bomb, the Government felt places like this were necessary.’

  ‘This time, we’ll make sure we don’t build another bomb.’

  They turned and walked up the slope and, when she stumbled, he held her arm briefly to steady her, then relinquished his touch as if her skin was fire. Neither spoke, both aware of the contact, and they went out into the shed, past the Range Rovers, and pushed open the front door just enough to give them egress to step out into moorland air that tasted so very fresh.

  For a moment, they stood side by side, simply enjoying the outdoors after the hours beneath ground with the dead.

  ‘Yo!’ shouted James.

  He was on a hillside that gave views of the approach road in front and the hills behind them.

  Reaper said, ‘You’re relieved. The job’s almost done. Get down below and grab some grub. Steak and chips and lager and wine. Well, lager for Kev.’

  ‘Righto, me hearty!’

  ‘You’re still too young, aren’t you James?’

  ‘Probably,’ said James. ‘But I could manage a glass of red.’

  The landscape of the Pennines was totally different to the gentle hills and pastureland of Haven. Greta suspected it would have had an alien feel, even before the pandemic. This other worldliness was now underlined by the total lack of traffic on the double fringes of motorway that cut across the high moorland, as if left there as decoration by a long dead giant. Sunshine reflected from the water of the reservoir and a few fluffy white clouds emphasised the blue of the clear sky, but the air still had an edge to it.

  They sat on a hillock and she stared upwards.

  ‘No vapour trails,’ she said.

  Reaper followed her gaze but said nothing.

  ‘Even on the most perfect day, you got vapour trails,’ Greta said. ‘Somebody going somewhere. Families to Majorca. Businessmen to Stockholm. Superstars to LA.’

  ‘It’ll be a long time before aircraft fly again,’ Reaper said. ‘If they ever do. Maybe we’ll have airships next time round.’

  They sat in silence for a while, looking into nowhere, rather than at each othe
r. Greta began to think it had been a bad idea to come outside with him. His feelings seemed sealed. Everything about him was surface; observation, reaction, response. No pro-action, as far as she was concerned. No hint at what he might be thinking. About her.

  She had grown up in Bromley with two brothers so she knew about the silences of men. Give them an emotional issue to deal with and they would opt for the pub. Maybe, if they were pushed into a corner by a girlfriend, they might buy a bunch of flowers and hope that would save them having to say anything.

  Greta had had her share of boyfriends and one serious partner. When she met Andy, they hadn’t needed words. A look or touch had been enough and the sex had been great. They hadn’t even spoken a great deal when they split up. There had been no deep discussions just a brief row. The excitement had gradually seeped away and they hadn’t been ready to settle for a comfort zone and call it marriage. Besides, he’d been seeing someone on the side and Greta found out. The betrayal had been inevitable; if he hadn’t found someone, she would have, but because the infidelity was his, she had the moral ground from which to pick a fight. Even then, just words. No deep insight, no confessions. Just a parting that had taken her to Yorkshire. And the pandemic.

  Greta had been in the middle of it at Scarborough General Hospital. She had been unable to lock herself away in a room until it was all over. She had been surrounded by the dying and the dead. The hopeful and the desperate. The hope had died in their eyes long before their bodies followed. She had been their last hope and she still felt an irrational sense of failure. At the end, she had contemplated suicide. A swift and painless exit from what was left of the world. She had the necessary medication in her bag when she had driven to the harbour. For one last time, she wanted clean air and horizons. Sitting here on the moors reminded her of the occasion not much more than a year ago. Had it only been a year?