by Jon Grahame
As Sandra passed James, they exchanged a casual high five. Job done. Mission accomplished. Jesus Christ. The boy was fifteen and she was a nineteen-year-old veteran. What had he created? What had the world created? For a moment he was engulfed by an unexpected wave of doubt. Was it all worth it?
‘How’s Abraham?’ she said.
‘He’s okay. I haven’t heard any shots. It sounds like he’s persuaded the rest of them to give up.’
‘The old charisma trick,’ she said. ‘Maybe we should try it sometime?’
He smiled.
‘You think so?’
‘Nah. I’ll stick to the tried and trusted.’ She slapped the carbine in her arms.
By the time they had walked round to the front of the Minster, Brother Abraham was once more in charge and, from the smiling faces, most of the people milling about outside were happy at the change of regime and the return of love and peace and total amateurism.
The monk’s presence had worked in persuading Foster’s followers to surrender, especially as he had been flanked by Tanya and Jenny. If any had had any doubt, Keira and Yank’s appearance through the Chapter House at the rear had convinced them that a peaceful solution would be best all round.
The dozen or so insurrectionists who had surrendered, were being kept separate and under guard in the Minster Yard. They looked anxious and had already split into two groupings of what Reaper assumed were the hardliners and those who had been easily led and persuaded to go along for a ride that had ended unexpectedly.
Abraham joined Reaper, Brother Mark was at his side. The young monk had a bruised face as if he had taken a beating. It didn’t seem to have bothered him. He remained slightly aloof, as usual, but he gave Reaper a nod of thanks.
‘There is no sign of Cedric,’ Abraham said.
Mark said, ‘He may be at Monkbar. We are sending people to the guard posts to bring them in.’ Reaper raised an eyebrow and Mark added, ‘Guards were maintained at four points. Two at each.’
As Reaper had suspected, the security had been nominal.
‘Thank you, Brother Reaper,’ Abraham said, and held out his hand, and they shook. ‘I think it’s time that my people joined the federation and found villages in which to live and fields in which to work.’
‘What about the Minster? Holy Trinity?’
‘Perhaps it’s time to put grandeur to one side. God doesn’t only live in great palaces. He lives in men’s hearts. Perhaps I had forgotten that.’
Reaper still couldn’t work the man out. He had shown love, compassion, emotion. He had been as brave, or foolhardy, as a biblical martyr, marching into the Minster and assuming his presence alone would bring people to their senses, if not their knees. And yet he still spouted platitudes as if he was a genuine messenger of God.
‘We need to talk,’ Reaper said. ‘I’m expecting a visitor.’
Reaper, Sandra, Abraham and Brother Mark conferred on the steps of the Minster. Reaper explained about the confrontation at the Humber Bridge and the ambitions of John Steel. Abraham took the news that Reaper was planning an ambush in York with equanimity.
‘So your coming here was not solely to release us from the bondage of the High Sheriff?’ he said.
‘Not entirely. Although we had motive enough after Rebecca’s death.’
Abraham shook his head in sorrow.
‘Why kill someone in such a brutal fashion just because she wanted to leave?’ he said.
‘We knew we would have to sort out this mess before long,’ said Reaper. ‘More people could have died. We had to come. But the threat of this man called Steel meant we came sooner rather than later.’
‘You hope to entice him to York?’
‘That’s the idea.’
‘Why York?’
‘Because it’s not Haven.’
‘That’s hardly a charitable reason.’
‘York is unsustainable, you know that. Your people have to leave to survive. Society is being rebuilt in the villages of England, not the towns and cities. But York is somewhere that Steel could be contained. We have, hopefully, given him a target, a place and a time. If he bites, he will be here at noon to remove me and we’ll be able to remove him and stop a war before it begins.’
Sandra said, ‘That is always accepting that at least one of the people who visited Haven yesterday really was his spy and believed the information they were fed.’ She shrugged. ‘If they were just travellers, Steel won’t come because he won’t know.’
‘There is that possibility,’ said Reaper, concerned at Sandra’s downbeat attitude. It was unlike her. ‘But three people arrived at Haven yesterday, not long after the stand-off at the Humber. We assumed that at least one was a spy, sent by Steel.’
‘Why make such an assumption?’
‘Newcomers who turn up at Haven are rare, these days. Usually they get passed on from one of the other villages or outlying settlements. But these came directly to us. Two women travelling together and a man travelling alone. The man was the stronger suspect.’
Sandra said, ‘Steel always intended to move across the Humber. He had heard the federation was doing well. We think the stand-off has pushed him into speeding up his plans. It’s logical that he would send in a spy. We did. We sent someone to join Steel’s army.’
Abraham said, ‘So let’s assume this man Steel does come. You said you were the target, Reaper. How?’
‘The spies – if that’s what they were – were told that I’m the one who wants war,’ he said. ‘Everyone else at Haven wants a negotiated peace. We told them that today at noon, I will be here in York, alone, doing the fifty-five steps.’
Abraham’s eyes widened.
‘Clifford’s Tower?’
‘They were told you are my confessor. My penance is to climb the fifty-five steps on my knees.’ Reaper gave a twisted smile. ‘They think I have become a convert. That I’ve become your disciple.’
‘How very flattering,’ said Abraham. ‘So, what will you have us do?’
If Steel came, Reaper said, it would be along the approach to York that led to Clifford’s Tower.
‘I want the vehicles moved from the entrance to the city at that point so Steel has a clear run. Ideally, I want him to drive up Tower Street and turn into the square at the top, outside the museum.’
‘What if he doesn’t do what you want?’ asked Sandra. ‘What if he sends someone on foot to shoot you from a distance.’
‘I don’t think that’s his style. I think he enjoys confrontation. Besides, he won’t risk a long shot if he can make sure by getting up close and making it personal.’
‘It’s you that’s taking the risk,’ she said.
He shrugged. Everything was a risk. To Abraham, he said, ‘I want the vehicles moving from Monkbar, too, to give us an escape route, if it’s necessary. There will be other things, but I need to check the tower itself and the killing ground.’ Abraham winced. ‘And I want all your people out of York or in hiding by eleven at the latest. This is not their fight.’
Abraham looked at Mark, who nodded. They would do what was necessary.
Chapter 19
AS SOON AS DAYLIGHT ILLUMINATED THE INTERIOR of the garage, Kev once more took stock of what might be either used as a tool to effect an escape or a weapon with which to protect himself against Chef. The motorbike was outside in the yard and, if he got that far, he would be happy to take his chances. The garage was solid and if he attempted any serious hammering or kicking, he had no doubt guards would be sent in immediately to stop him. At about nine, he heard engines start up in the distance. A door opened, voices shouted and the door banged. The engines were revved up and a convoy departed.
Reaper was on borrowed time.
All he wanted now was for Chef to come to enjoy his fun and Alec to stand to one side and give him a chance
. Come on, me hearty. What’s keeping you?
It was after ten before Kev heard footsteps. He got out of the deckchair and stepped back into what was left of the shadows. The garage door opened but it wasn’t Alec who stepped inside. This was a man he hadn’t seen before. Medium height but big with muscle. He wore jeans, boots and a beer belly. He wore a torn tee shirt but he looked nothing like Bruce Willis. He carried no weapon; his arms looked lethal on their own.
‘This him?’ he said.
Chef stepped round him. ‘It is indeed,’ he said. He had dispensed with his full-length black leather coat and looked skinny in his cowboy boots, black jeans and a black vest. Skinny but deadly dangerous. His arms were ropes of muscle.
Kev said, ‘Look, all I wanted to do was join your lot. If you don’t want me, I can soon be on my way.’
‘You soon will be on your way,’ said Chef, with a smile. He placed the canvas bag he carried on the workbench and unrolled it. It contained eight or nine cutthroat razors. He chose one, took it out with care and opened the blade. ‘This is hand-made in France. Sheffield steel and an olive wood handle. A Thiers Issard.’ He pronounced the words with a French accent and inspected the razor with affection, then folded it and put it away. ‘Too good for you,’ he said. ‘We need something a little more prosaic.’ He chose another. ‘This is a German one. Utilitarian, carbon steel and celluloid handle.’
He moved it in the air in front of him as if making practice moves.
‘A little carvery with this to loosen up the wrist and then, if you’re good, I may use the Thiers Issard to finish.’
‘You’re a maniac.’
Chef smiled at him. ‘That’s been said before and I take it as a compliment. Now, you won’t feel a thing. At first. The pain comes later. About ten seconds later.’
‘Do you want me to get him?’ asked Torn Vest.
‘I don’t think he’ll give us any trouble, Vincent. I’ll make you a deal,’ he said to Kev. ‘Cooperate and I’ll be quick. Fight me and I’ll cut your face to ribbons. You’ll need a sewing machine to put it back together.’
He moved forward and Kev stiffened as if in panic, his arms stretched wide along the shelves at his back. He closed his eyes and held his head up, as if doing as Chef had instructed, and heard the man’s footfall in front of him.
Kev opened his eyes and swung his right hand with as much force as possible. It held a cordless nail gun he had found among the abandoned tools. He had set it to rapid fire and hoped, as he pulled the trigger, that the batteries still had something left. If not, the weight of the gun itself should knock his attacker back. The power surged. Chef’s nose spurted blood from the force of being hit in the face, and his forehead shuddered as 90mm nails were thumped into his skull.
He fell backwards, the razor dropping from his fingers, and Vincent in the torn vest gaped in shock before the cosh swung and he fell in a heap across the body of his boss. Kev dropped the nail gun and found he was having difficulty breathing. Deep breaths, he told himself, and stared across the garage at Alec who was staring back.
‘We’d better go,’ said Alec.
‘How did you know that I’d put him down?’ said Kev, still breathless.
‘I didn’t. But I reckoned an old Jack wouldn’t go down without a fight.’
Kev nodded.
‘We’d better go,’ Alec repeated.
In the yard, a second bike was alongside Kev’s.
‘We take it nice and easy,’ said Alec. ‘My face is known. If anyone stops us, we’re taking messages to Steel. Okay?’
‘Okay.’
Kev could feel himself begin to shake at how close he had been to mutilation. Concentrating on riding the bike would help and, once clear of the town, they would have to ride fast. Time was running out.
Tower Street and Monkbar had both been cleared. The team brought their Range Rovers within the walls and left them in the half empty car park behind Clifford’s Tower.
Abraham’s people had responded willingly to Reaper’s requests. Sandbags had been found and filled. York’s propensity to flood after heavy rainfall meant there was always a ready supply. They had been stacked to provide further cover alongside the Second World War field gun that stood in the corner of the square on the raised frontage of the old museum entrance. There, they had created a nest for a light machinegun that was manned by Tanya and Jenny. An advertising board from inside the museum was propped against its front to disguise its existence until it was needed. It said proudly: Welcome to the Castle Museum – the best day out in history.
The modern glass-fronted entrance to the museum was behind them. The nearest panel had been smashed in and the jagged edges knocked clear, to allow the girls a line of retreat if things went wrong. They had plotted a route through the back of the museum to the banks of the river and the castle walls.
The high walls of Clifford’s Tower would not provide the necessary fields of fire into the square. They might have been fine for sitting out a siege and pouring boiling oil from their broken battlements, but they were not suited as a place to site automatic weapons. At the top of the fifty-five steps, there was a concrete platform in front of the small doorway into the Tower. More sandbags had been placed here on both sides and had been disguised with more signs, this time from the gift shop inside. The sandbags did not have to be high because the elevation alone provided protection.
This was where Yank and Keira were located with automatic L85 rifles. They had no escape route but they could retreat inside the tower and barricade the door if necessary and wait until the militia arrived from Haven. At least, that was the plan but, as Sandra knew only too well, plans seldom went to plan.
James had a position on the museum roof which had a solid stone wall around it, intermingled with stretches of balustrade. He had declined to use a sniper’s rifle because he would be so close to his target. He had both a carbine and an automatic L85.
Reaper moved the vehicles in the car park, placing two near the base of the mound to give him cover if he had to come down from the steps quickly. He also familiarised himself with an escape route through the car park and into the Coppergate shopping centre.
The rain had stopped. The clouds were no longer uniform and were breaking up. Glimpses of blue sky promised a pleasant afternoon, if they lived to enjoy it. Everything they had planned was on the assumption that Steel would come to York with a small force, maybe a dozen men. Why would he need more? That was why they had brought no mortars or grenades. And surely, it would be too difficult to organise a bigger flying column at short notice. A lot was riding on assumptions.
The steps and the grass mound upon which the Tower stood were wet and treacherous. Reaper wore a long navy blue waxed coat with a storm cape over the shoulders. He had a Glock strapped to each thigh and carried an Uzi sub-machinegun on a strap hidden beneath the open coat, which was draped over his shoulders like a cloak so that it could be shed quickly.
Brother Abraham had insisted on being part of the subterfuge and waited with Reaper and Sandra at the bottom of the steps in clean and distinctive white robes. A wooden cross hung around his neck and he carried a bishop’s crook. A volunteer from among his flock was across the road in Tower Street, hiding in the trees. Another lookout was further away, on the other side of the Tower Street – Bishopgate roundabout, keeping watch for the approach of Steel’s men, whether they came on foot or in vehicles. They were both equipped with personal radios and Reaper also held one to receive their warning.
An alarm was raised from a different quarter when Brother Mark arrived in a hurry on a bicycle. The skirts of his robe were flying and his sturdy legs peddling as fast as he could across the car park.
‘We’ve found Cedric,’ he shouted.
‘Shit,’ said Sandra. ‘Perfect timing.’
It was 11.30.
‘He’s at Monk
bar and he has hostages. Children. He demands the freedom to leave. He knows what’s happening. He knows Steel is expected at noon and he has given us the same deadline or he kills the children.’
Reaper and Sandra exchanged a look.
‘I’ll go,’ she said.
‘He’s not alone,’ said Mark. ‘There are three others. Two have guns.’
But Sandra was already moving, Mark running in her wake. She climbed into one of the Range Rovers and the monk got in beside her. His body odour was immediately apparent and, as she switched on the engine, she also lowered the windows. Now was not the time to hand out a lecture on personal hygiene. But later?
‘Where are they?’
‘In a shop, just inside the gates. We have men on the walls. Two have shotguns, although they’ve never fired them before, and others have longbows.’
‘Who are the hostages?’
‘Two girls, aged ten and eleven.’
The situation was going from bad to worse.
‘Guide me,’ she said, and the monk pointed which road to take. ‘What does he want?’
‘A car and to be allowed to leave.’
‘Will he kill the girls?’
‘He is an evil man and I think he will. As a last act of evil pleasure.’
Her mind was racing and a course of action was presenting itself in a logical sequence. She stopped the Rover in a long, open square where, she suspected, a market had been held in ages past.
‘Direct me to the Treasurer’s House. I don’t want Cedric to know I’m here.’
He pointed and she drove, slightly less in haste, as she outlined what he was to do.
Sandra left the Rover in the wide private drive that led alongside the Treasurer’s House to the section of castle wall from which they had dropped early that morning. She led Mark up onto the castle wall and they climbed over it, dropping onto the gently sloping grass embankment on the other side.
‘That one,’ she said, pointing to a silver Mercedes saloon that was parked at the side of the road.
Brother Mark hoisted his robes and ran to the gate. She crossed the main road that ran parallel to the wall and took up a position in the bushes and trees that filled the open space between traffic lights and the start of a row of houses. On the end wall was an ancient advertisement, painted on the red brickwork: Nightly Bile Beans Keep You Healthy, Bright Eyed and Slim.
