Blood Line: What if your family was the last left alive? (The Blood Line Trilogy Book 1)

by Michael Green

  43

  ‘Hello, Uncle Mark,’ Fergus said cheerfully as Steven and Mark walked through the door into the Punishment Room.

  ‘Hi, lad. We’ve come to relieve you.’

  ‘What have you done wrong this time?’ Fergus laughed.

  Mark tapped him on the shoulder and they changed places. ‘Insolence.’

  ‘That sure was some run you put in. How did you do it?’

  ‘Ah, well, that would be telling.’

  Steven was standing back, watching the water buckets winding their way up through the ceiling. ‘Why do we have to keep the treadmill going twenty-four hours a day?’ he asked Fergus.

  ‘To keep the tank filled, of course.’

  Steven looked critically at the treadmill grinding away on the chafed shaft. ‘There’s enough water going up that belt to keep fifty tanks full. Did you help build it?’

  ‘Sure did,’ Fergus said proudly.

  ‘What sort of bearings have you got at the top of the belt?’

  ‘Well, none … just a wheel over an old beam that was already up there.’

  ‘And the water empties into a tank?’

  ‘Yup, sort of — it goes onto a sluice, and then into the top of the holding tank.’

  ‘What happens to the water from there?’

  ‘Well, there’s three pipes leading out at the bottom of the tank. One feeds the toilets and sinks around Flag Court, one feeds the kitchen, and the third one feeds the staterooms.’

  ‘So what happens when the tank is full?’

  ‘There’s an overflow pipe that leads out onto the roof.’

  ‘So any overflow goes onto the roof, along the gutters into the downpipe, and back into the reservoir.’

  ‘Oh, I don’t think the tank ever gets full.’

  ‘What makes you so sure?’

  ‘Well, if ever the treadmill stops, the Chatfields are over here like a shot. The only way they’d know the treadmill had stopped was if the tank was empty, and they ran out of water.’

  ‘We could hear running water when we were in our cell on the other side of the tower,’ said Mark. ‘I bet the overflow is emptying onto the roof.’

  ‘I don’t see how it can be,’ Fergus said firmly.

  Fergus was about to leave the Punishment Room when Damian and Jasper came to the door. ‘What are you still doing here?’ Jasper challenged him.

  ‘He’s been telling us about the treadmill,’ Steven said from behind the wheel.

  ‘And what are you doing here?’ Damian demanded.

  ‘The treadmill’s sticking. It’ll take two of us to keep it going. After all, we don’t want you running out of water, do we?’

  The brothers hesitated. Mark suspected they’d arrived bent on some form of retribution. The presence of the two younger men had put them off their stride.

  ‘Well, you don’t need to be here,’ Damian snapped at Fergus. ‘It won’t take three of you to keep it going.’

  ‘I’m the one who built it, remember. I’m just helping check the bearings,’ he said, bending down and peering under the treadmill with Steven. There were no bearings, just the chafed shaft.

  ‘Well, hurry up and get on with it,’ Jasper said.

  The two brothers walked away.

  ‘Thanks for your support,’ Mark said as he watched Damian and Jasper crossing Flag Court.

  ‘I’ll drop you back a couple of lengths of timber from the workshop after I’ve had my dinner. You might need them if those two come back.’

  ‘Could get you into trouble.’

  ‘Well, you did tell me you needed two bits of timber to mend the shaft, didn’t you?’

  By the time Fergus walked past the door and furtively threw in two lengths of timber, Mark had finished telling Steven the story of his escapade. Steven hid the lengths of timber behind the door and took his turn on the treadmill.

  ‘It doesn’t make sense,’ he said after a while.

  ‘What doesn’t make sense?’

  ‘The amount of water that’s going up this belt is enough to supply this household half a dozen times over. I’m sure the overflow is emptying out onto the roof. So how do they know when the treadmill stops?’

  ‘Search me,’ Mark said.

  Damian and Jasper didn’t return that night. Either their anger had abated, or they were concerned they might get as good as they gave.

  Steven couldn’t spend the following day in the Punishment Room as he was required to do his share of work in the gardens. He was relieved when he saw Jasper and Damian head out the gates on their horses shortly after breakfast; at least his father would be safe while they were away.

  As he worked in the garden, Steven’s tradesman’s brain grappled with ways he might make the treadmill more efficient. At the very least he would keep his eyes open for some grease — even a smearing on the chafed shaft would reduce the friction. Moreover, if he could somehow fit bearings on the upper shaft, the treadmill would become a lot less arduous to drive.

  It was late afternoon before the brothers returned to Haver. Steven looked in on his father on his way to dinner and was glad to find him in good spirits. He promised to return and relieve him once the meal was finished.

  Shortly after Steven’s visit, Damian and Jasper also looked in through the open door. Mark tensed and kept a wary eye over his shoulder. He’d decided he wouldn’t take a beating without a fight. However, the two brothers didn’t enter the room, choosing instead to taunt him from the doorway.

  ‘Had a good day?’ Damian asked sarcastically.

  ‘No complaints,’ Mark said, trying to sound light-hearted.

  ‘Anything we can get you?’ Jasper asked. The sarcasm was menacing, but there was nothing Mark could do but play them at their own game.

  ‘A nice steak, medium rare, and a bottle of New Zealand Kerr Farm cabernet sauvignon would be very nice,’ he replied.

  ‘We’ll see if we can get you an invite to dinner,’ Jasper smirked as they walked off. Mark was relieved they’d gone.

  A little later, in the Great Hall, the Chatfields arrived for dinner. Nigel and his sons were particularly cheerful.

  ‘Welcome, everyone,’ Nigel said expansively. ‘Please be seated.’

  The greeting surprised everyone. Nigel rarely used the word ‘please’ when talking to any of them.

  ‘He’s up to something,’ Cheryl said, fiddling nervously with the safety pins that held the neck of her tunic together.

  ‘Probably had a good day foraging,’ Paul said. ‘Looks as if they’re enjoying a couple of extra bottles of wine tonight.’

  With the exception of Allison, who was sitting quietly next to Nigel, the diners at the top table were in high spirits, raising their glasses to one another and also to Miles, who was on guard duty in the Minstrel Gallery. Miles returned the salute; he had a glass of wine in one hand and a rifle in the other.

  The Chatfields’ good spirits were infectious. Everybody relaxed and began to enjoy the meal. Even Paul’s nervous twitch subsided.

  As the dinner was drawing to a close, Nigel rose to his feet. ‘Good evening everyone, I hope you enjoyed your meal.’ The families looked up at him, suspicious of his motives. ‘I see one of our members is missing … Mark Grey. Ah yes, he’s on the treadmill. Sir Damian, would you be so kind as to invite Mark to join us?’

  Steven stood up and climbed over the bench.

  ‘Where do you think you’re you off to?’ Nigel demanded.

  ‘Well, someone has to keep the treadmill going.’

  ‘To keep the treadmill going — Your Lordship,’ Nigel reprimanded him. Normally the discourtesy would have been met with a tirade of abuse and probably a week’s punishment on the treadmill. Instead Nigel continued in his mockingly pleasant tone. ‘No need to leave the hall, young man. The treadmill can stop for once.’ The families looked at one another in disbelief; the treadmill had never been allowed to stop before. Nigel smiled benignly. ‘Please sit down.’

  Steven hesitated; he was worried
about his father, but Nigel had despatched only Damian — his father ought to be able to handle him himself. Even so, he decided if Mark wasn’t in the Great Hall within five minutes he was going to make a break for it and head for the Punishment Room.

  ‘Please carry on with your meal,’ Nigel said. It was the third time he’d used the word please. It was unnerving.

  The Steed, Morgan and Dalton families relaxed and continued eating. The Grey family remained on edge, relaxing only when Mark walked, unharmed, into the Great Hall followed by Damian.

  ‘Ah, Mark Grey,’ Nigel said, standing again. Everyone in the Great Hall stopped talking and turned to watch the top table. ‘Kindly come this way.’ Mark walked cautiously towards the dais. ‘My sons tell me you’re partial to Kerr Farm cabernet sauvignon, from New Zealand.’ Mark shrugged his shoulders. ‘Can’t find a bottle of that particular wine in my cellar, I’m afraid,’ Nigel continued. ‘But I do have a bottle of the New Zealand Hinchco Reserve merlot. Perhaps that would do?’

  Nigel poured a glass from the bottle and held it out to Mark. The rest of the community looked on in amazement; they’d never seen Nigel offer a kindness to anyone, let alone a glass of his precious wine. Mark eyed the wine suspiciously and wondered if it were poisoned.

  As if he were reading Mark’s thoughts, Nigel poured himself a glass from the same bottle and sipped it. ‘Nothing quite like New Zealand wine is there?’ he said. ‘Well, have a drink. Tell me what you think.’

  Mark swirled the glass and tested the bouquet — it was fine. In fact, it was great. He took a sip; the wine tasted divine. He looked up and said, ‘Perhaps a little less fruity than the Kerr Farm.’

  There was stifled laughter from the Grey table.

  ‘Ah, yes. Always got a smart-arse comment, you Kiwis,’ Nigel observed, his words growing more menacing with every syllable. ‘Talking of Kiwis,’ he continued, ‘didn’t you tell us yesterday that Kiwis can fly?’

  Mark wondered where the line of questioning was heading. ‘In a manner of speaking.’

  ‘And did this Kiwi,’ Nigel asked, jabbing his finger at Mark as his voice gathered pace and volume, ‘in a manner of speaking, of course, fly out of the park the other night?’

  Mark was reluctant to give a straightforward denial. ‘I’m not so sure a Kiwi could fly as far as that.’

  ‘Liar,’ Nigel yelled as he leaned across the table and knocked the wine glass out of Mark’s hand.

  The priceless crystal went spinning across the stone floor and smashed against the wall. Steven stood up. Paul, ever watchful, touched his arm and pointed to the Minstrel Gallery; Miles already had his rifle lined up on Steven’s head. Reluctantly, Steven sat down again.

  ‘Sir Greg, pass the evidence,’ Nigel snapped.

  Greg passed his father a wooden box. With great ceremony, Nigel lifted the lid, paused and peered in. The families in the hall leaned forward, anxious to see what he would pull out. Triumphantly, he lifted an item from the box. ‘And what is this?’ he demanded accusingly, thrusting his head forward.

  Mark knew he was done for. ‘Well, I can’t be sure,’ he said defiantly, ‘but it looks like an empty baked beans tin to me.’

  ‘Yes, a tin of baked beans,’ Nigel said dramatically, as if he were addressing a full gallery at the Old Bailey. ‘A tin of Watties baked beans. A tin of New Zealand baked beans!’

  ‘Watties are owned by Heinz,’ Mark said weakly. ‘Perhaps Heinz imported them.’

  ‘And perhaps the general manager of Heinz opened the tin within the last day or two and left it on the front doorstep of number four Lodge Road, which would explain why there’s still juice inside the tin,’ Nigel said sarcastically. Damian and Jasper laughed, enjoying their father’s performance and pleased that Mark was at last getting his comeuppance. ‘And perhaps the general manager of Heinz took this off the wall in your brother’s house and put it on the dressing table beside your bed,’ he said triumphantly as he lifted the framed photograph of Jane, Zach and Nicole from the box.

  Mark’s heart sank. It sank even further when Nigel dipped into the box again and lifted out the wallet of photographs that had been in the rucksack Jasper had confiscated. ‘A photograph that matches the one you were carrying in your rucksack when you ignored my sign and walked into my park!’

  Nigel held up the two photographs and turned towards the members of the community as if they were the jury. They couldn’t see the detail from where they were sitting, but it didn’t matter. They weren’t the jury; there was only one member of the jury, and he was the judge as well.

  Just as Mark thought things couldn’t get worse, Nigel handed the framed photograph and the wallet to Damian and said, ‘Burn them.’

  ‘No,’ Mark pleaded.

  The appeal was futile; Damian walked ceremoniously to the great fireplace and threw the wallet and the framed photograph contemptuously on the fire. There was a crack as the glass in the frame shattered, followed by a flash as the photograph burst into flames and was devoured. Damian also took the opportunity to poke the branding iron, which he had placed in the fire earlier in the evening, deeper into the embers.

  ‘Yes, burn them,’ Nigel repeated dramatically, as Damian walked back to the dais. ‘Moreover, photographs are not the only things that need to be burnt. What is the punishment for leaving the park?’

  ‘A branding,’ Mark said softly.

  ‘Speak up.’

  ‘A branding,’ Mark said defiantly.

  ‘Exactly,’ Nigel said nodding his head in mock gravity. ‘And I wonder who should have the honour of branding you? Your brother perhaps? No, he’s had his turn already, he branded Steven.’ There was a new spark of vicious mischief in Nigel’s eyes. ‘Ah yes, Steven Grey. We have not yet witnessed a son branding his father.’

  ‘That won’t be necessary,’ Mark said as he turned and walked towards the fireplace, rolling up the sleeve of his tunic as he went.

  ‘I have not dismissed you,’ Nigel yelled furiously after him.

  ‘That won’t be necessary,’ Mark said again.

  He ignored Nigel and he also ignored the rifle Miles was now pointing in his direction. Of Nigel’s four sons, Miles was the one Mark felt was least likely to shoot him in cold blood. He was already at the fireplace before he had time to fully consider the risks involved. He bent down and picked up the branding iron. As he withdrew it from the fire, he hooked the smouldering photograph wallet from the embers; it skidded across the hearth onto the stone floor and came to rest at Adam’s feet.

  Mark stood up, turned to face the top table and then, with the same melodrama with which Nigel had pulled his evidence from his box, pressed the branding iron to his own bare arm. The families in the hall gasped as they saw and smelt the singeing of his flesh. Then he threw the branding iron back into the fire with the same contempt Damian had shown as he threw the photographs. Looking at the other families in the hall rather than the head table, he said, ‘I’ve got a treadmill to drive.’

  Adam took the opportunity to drop the smouldering photograph wallet into a jug of water. Later he would hand the wallet back to Mark, his act of kindness confirming himself as yet another member of the community Mark could trust. The photographs, though damp and singed around the edges, survived, and would remain Mark’s most prized possession.

  Without a further word, Mark turned and walked briskly out of the Great Hall, followed closely by Steven and Paul. As the fresh air hit him he fainted; his son and his brother caught him before he hit the ground and carried across Flag Court to the Punishment Room.

  44

  Jasper and Damian weren’t finished with Mark. Once all the community members had gone about their daily work they returned to the Punishment Room and shut the door behind them. They had Miles with them. Three against one; things didn’t look good. Damian was carrying a small sack, which he dumped beside the door.

  ‘Where did you put it?’ Jasper demanded.

  ‘Put what?’ Mark asked. He was still turning the tread
mill, looking cautiously over his shoulder. He could see the lengths of timber Fergus had given him, but he didn’t fancy his chances of getting hold of one of them with the three brothers between him and the door.

  ‘The rest of the stuff you had stashed at Lodge Road.’

  The question confirmed Mark’s expectation that the brothers had not found the items hidden at the White Horse Inn.

  ‘There wasn’t anything else.’

  ‘So where did the tin of beans come from?’

  ‘I left it there by mistake when I visited Lodge Road before coming into the park.’

  ‘I don’t believe you,’ Damian said.

  ‘I don’t care whether you believe me or not.’

  Before he knew it, Miles and Jasper had grabbed him from behind and dragged him off the treadmill. The more he struggled, the further his arms were forced up his back. When he was bent over double, Damian kicked him in the face.

  ‘Get the equipment,’ Jasper ordered.

  Damian took a rope and two sets of thumbscrews from his sack. Then, as Miles and Jasper held Mark securely, Damian tied their victim to the stool and his hands behind his back. Once he was trussed up and immobile they let him go.

  ‘Well, smart-arse,’ Jasper said, hands on hips and towering over his prisoner, ‘we can either do this the easy way or the hard way. Where’s the rest of the stuff?’

  ‘I’ve told you, there’s no other stuff.’

  ‘You also told us you hadn’t been up to Sevenoaks. If you had nothing to hide, why did you lie?’

  ‘I saw the sign above the Abbot’s Gate entrance, warning against leaving the park. I thought maybe there was something in the town we weren’t supposed to see. That’s why I lied.’

  ‘And you’re still lying!’ Damian screamed.

  Jasper nodded at Damian, who picked up the thumbscrews.

  ‘Like I said, smart-arse,’ repeated Jasper, ‘we can either do this the hard way or the easy way. Now what did you have hidden at Lodge Road, and where is it now?’

  ‘I had nothing.’

  Damian pushed a thumbscrew onto Mark’s left hand and turned the lever to apply pressure. Pain shot up his arm.