by Paul Kane
“Judas Priest!” whispered Bill as they drew even closer. “Better wait out here, lad.” Mark was having none of this, and Bill had to admit he’d earned the right to see how this thing had played out. They both had.
So, following the trail of the Challenger’s tracks, they made their way into the wood. It wasn’t long before they came upon the remains of the metal beast. Bill made the mistake of opening the hatch at the top and looking inside.
“Trust me, ye don’t want to see in there,” he warned Mark before the boy got any ideas.
“It’s over,” said a voice from behind them, “there’s nothing to see here.”
Bill and Mark spun around, and spotted Robert.
“Sound like a copper,” commented Bill.
“Go home. It’s over.”
Mark was still looking from the tank to Robert, but the man was trying desperately to avoid his gaze.
“They’ll be back,” Bill told him. “If this De Falaise thinks he’s lord of the manor. And there’ll be a lot more folk needin’ help, an’all.”
“Go home,” Robert repeated and began to walk away, into the trees. Mark’s next words made him stop.
“What home?”
The man in the hood, with his back to them, hesitated only briefly. Then he blended in with the green.
CHAPTER EIGHT
DE FALAISE STOOD on the balcony, hands on the rail, and surveyed the city below him. There was a glass information plinth – cracked, but still quite readable – which told him exactly what he was looking at, or the major landmarks at least: The view from Castle Rock, south to west, from what had once been the Inland Revenue building, disused now, to Wollaton Hall. Built for Sir Francis Willoughby in 1588 (the year of the Spanish Armada’s defeat), the hall was almost as saturated with history as the site on which he stood.
De Falaise’s initial explorations of the castle and its grounds had taught him much about this place, all of which had earned his respect and confirmed that it was the best location he could have possibly chosen to mount his takeover.
Surprisingly, the castle had been left relatively untouched by those still alive in the City. As expected, there had been some vandalism – such as spray paint on the side of the castle and various colourful phrases inscribed on the wooden doors of the souvenir shop, as well as defacement of the busts that guarded the door. Lord Byron would definitely not have been happy that they’d turned him into a buffoon with a moustache and a red nose. And the vandals had done some damage inside, too, beginning with the shop – its contents strewn about the place: books about the castle shredded, plastic figures torn from their packaging.
Once it was ascertained that nobody was in residence, De Falaise had insisted on taking his initial tour alone. The ground floor contained the remains of a museum. Glass cabinets housing examples of metalwork, ceramics and woodwork had been smashed, their contents tossed aside. Security grilles over the windows in the shapes of branches and leaves remained intact, sadly useless since the doors had been breached. In one room De Falaise discovered a children’s mural depicting an ark, which asked, ‘Can you Help Noah Find The Animals?’ There were bloodstains smeared over the simplistic paintings of a horse, lion, elephant and toucan.
Similarly, the exhibition called simply ‘Threads’ had been ravaged, the clothes from various centuries broken out of their cabinets and tried on, then discarded as if in a budget high street shop sale. Dummies were on their sides, some headless, some stamped on till they were flattened.
But it was on this level that De Falaise also found one of his favourite rooms, containing items from the history of the Sherwood Foresters Regiment. The glass cabinets here had been broken into, as well – presumably so that people could reach what they thought were working weapons inside. Upon finding they were either too old, or merely replicas, they’d left them behind. De Falaise was surprised that they’d also left the rather lethal-looking sword bayonets and knives, but then he had no way of knowing how well armed the people who’d broken in here had been. If they’d already had guns, they probably wouldn’t have felt the need for close combat weaponry.
He’d noted that the case containing the book of remembrance had also been smashed, the book itself thrown on the ground. De Falaise had stooped to pick up the tome, placing it back where it should be, when his eye caught a pair of dummies wearing full dress uniform: red jackets, white shirts, bow ties and cummerbunds. They were standing in front of a couple of silver cups, worthless now. But if nothing else, this reflected the more civilised side of war. To the victor, the spoils, thought De Falaise absently, making a mental note to come back and check what size the uniforms were.
Parts of the wrecked café could be salvaged and used as a mess hall for the men – though as their numbers grew this might have to be reconsidered. In the South Hall he found the long, regal-looking stairs, the white banisters dirty and the grey steps chipped. There were torn posters for an exhibition on the upper floor, which must have still been running when the virus struck Nottingham. De Falaise gazed up at the images showing historical characters who may or may not have existed, but had become legend. The exhibition was all about the latest TV incarnation of these characters, information about each one contained on huge cardboard standees.
It took him through into the long gallery, once a place where the great masters hung: home to Pre-Raphaelites and Andy Warhols alike. The paintings that had run the length of this airy room, its creamy walls smudged with dirt, had now either been slashed or stolen. It upset De Falaise a little, not because he was any great lover of art, but because he loved the idea of it. He’d always imagined himself surrounded by the finer things in life. And art was a connection to the past, to history.
Descending into the bowels of the castle, he found one of the most interesting areas – and one remarkably still intact. If there was anything he needed to know about the history of the Castle or the city, it was down here. When the castle had power, a movie theatre had played a twenty-minute film. ‘Relive the excitement of battles, intrigues and power struggles,’ it announced on the sign, and De Falaise wished that it was still working. Of all the things on this level, De Falaise found three the most fascinating. Firstly, there was a model of the castle as it was in its prime, a natural fortress – at its highest two hundred feet – protected by three sheer rock faces. Many of the same principles of defence still applied, and it would help him considerably when he came to position guards.
Secondly, he found skulls and bones behind glass: ‘Evidence from Cemeteries.’ He crouched to look at the long-dead, those who had made their mark in history – pledging to do the same. Down another flight of steps, he found the more recently deceased – or pictures of them, anyway, next to a gigantic representation of one of the lion statues from the Council House they’d fired upon. ‘Meet You At The Lions,’ this display was called, revolving around a focal point in the city where people would get together. Metal rods held plastic squares with photographs of people and messages. Men, women, children: families that were long gone now. De Falaise stared into the faces of the dead citizens, snapshots of a frozen moment in time.
“Rather you than me, mes amis,” he whispered to them.
A side exit took him back into the open air. He wouldn’t stay there long, because he was desperate to check out the famous caves. Man-made, carved out of the rock, he’d had to smash some of the locks that kept out intruders – nobody had bothered before; why should they want to come down here? – and he’d made use of the industrial-strength torches they’d brought with them. Down in the western defensive wall he found a chamber that had been meant for a medieval garrison, and ‘David’s Dungeon,’ where King David II of Scotland had once been held captive. It hadn’t been used for this purpose for quite some time, but De Falaise fully intended to put that right. In fact, walking up some steps and outside again, he found a pair of stocks that would also be ideal for his needs.
Down yet more steps, just off from the café, was anothe
r man-made structure. De Falaise navigated the sandstone stairs which took him into ‘Mortimer’s Hole,’ a lengthy tunnel named after Roger Mortimer: an Earl of March once taken captive by Edward III (who’d used the passage to enter the castle). The first thing De Falaise would do would be to secure the entrance at the bottom of the tunnel, at Brewhouse Yard, so that nobody could do the same to him. The castle was only vulnerable at points like these – leaving the iron side-gate and the arched Castle Gateway the main causes for concern. As soon as he was satisfied he knew the castle inside out, De Falaise had ordered those defensive positions fortified.
He left the balcony rail now and strolled round the property, along the East Terrace. A glance up to the rooftop revealed the barrel of a sniper rifle, ably handled by Reinhart. Men were positioned at various points along the balcony and armed guards patrolled on a constant basis in shifts. As he made his way along to the steps, De Falaise looked out over the piece of overgrown grass that had once been the site of the Middle Bailey. Now that, and the small car park behind, were home to just a few of the vehicles they’d brought with them – those not out and about, that was.
De Falaise smiled. He thought about the troops already in circulation, making ‘contact’ with the small communities that had banded together, letting the people know that there was a new force to be reckoned with. They would not just be left alone to get on with things, but would have to bow down to him if they wanted to live. As in Nottingham, as in all of the places over here they’d ploughed through, they’d encountered little resistance. Most saw the wisdom of giving him his tribute, especially with a couple of deaths to illustrate the alternative.
Like the community Javier had reported back on: ‘Hope,’ its residents had optimistically called it. Their leader had tried to put up a fight, though from what Javier had said, the man hadn’t been any kind of threat – which was probably why his people were mourning him right now. Javier had also brought a little unexpected gift back from Hope, the thin, auburn-haired woman who waited inside for him. She’d apparently had a spark in her back at the village, though now she was just like a rag doll which he would use as he pleased; her eyes dull, resigned to the fact she was a possession. It was how he preferred his women to be: malleable. De Falaise took great pleasure in dressing her up in some of the gowns he’d found inside the castle, imagining himself back in the past. He’d tire of her eventually, but for the time being it amused him to have her around. Hands behind his back, he made his way to the nearest doors.
His plans were coming together nicely. And there was nothing and nobody to stand in his way.
THE BOY HAD skirted around and was now standing in his way. This kid had been silent, he’d give him that; and quick.
Robert had been running away – been desperate to get away, in fact – when Mark had appeared in front of him. He hadn’t wanted to get involved, wouldn’t have done if he hadn’t heard the explosions and gunfire coming from the direction of the market. The fact that he’d been hanging about on the edge of the woods, determined not to attend the market, but somehow gravitating towards the place, had nothing to do with it.
Instinct, that’s all it had been: a throwback to his years on the force. His curiosity and the fact that people might be at risk was what made him break cover again. Or was it the idea that Mark might be in danger? He dismissed that, because it was dangerous thinking. Whatever the reason, once he’d seen what was going on at the market, he’d had little alternative but to act.
Robert had to admit he’d been shocked. He’d never seen tanks and guns like that outside of visits to museums. And definitely never in action. What did he have to fight these people with? Only the bow and arrows he used for hunting, his knife. They’d cut him to ribbons before he got anywhere near them (a part of him actually found this appealing). But then he got to thinking: it was all a matter of hunting, wasn’t it? Maybe he didn’t need to get anywhere near them to pick a few off. And if he kept on moving, perhaps they’d miss him initially.
He’d been lucky.
The more adrenalin that pumped through him, the more he used skills he didn’t even realise he had: hearing keyed into every bullet fired, every bike or jeep engine; muscles lean and strong, thanks to nothing but exercise and eating from the land; eyes sharp enough to pick a target, enough practice with the bow to hit it faultlessly. It wasn’t until now, when he looked back on what he’d just done, that it felt real.
Lucky, that’s all. Pure luck.
That and the fact the majority of the ‘soldiers’ appeared to be novices. Barely a step up from some of the thugs he’d dealt with on a daily basis during his early years on the beat. They knew how to handle their weapons, but that didn’t make them fighters. Pin them down and all they really were was scared.
And you killed some – badly injured others...
It wasn’t his fault, he reasoned. It was this... what was his name? De Falaise, the Frenchman. And that bastard in the tank, another European. What was this, some kind of invasion?
Not your problem, Robert told himself. Stay out of it and go back to waiting. Waiting for your death.
But Mark was preventing him from doing that, barring his path. He pulled off his hood and sighed. “Look, move out of the way, will you?”
Mark shook his head. “I’m not going anywhere.”
“Fine,” said Robert, stepping to the left in an effort to get around the boy, “then I will.”
Like a shadow, Mark sidestepped with him. He could be just as quick as Robert, probably quicker. Robert backed up and tried to go right. Mark was in his way there too,.
“Oh, come on!” Robert shouted, quickly getting fed up with this game. “Let me through or –”
“Or you’ll what?” Mark challenged. “Do to me what you did back there to them? I don’t think so. You saved us.”
“Maybe that was a mistake.” He regretted the words as soon as they’d tumbled from his mouth, but couldn’t take them back. Mark stuck out his bottom lip – more child than canny adolescent now. “That came out wrong, I didn’t mean...”
“S’okay,” Mark said, rubbing his nose on his sleeve. “I understand.”
“No, you don’t,” Robert told him. “I meant maybe I should have just left well enough alone. If Bill’s right and they do come back, then I could have made things ten times worse for you all.”
“They were shooting up the place. They were running me down with motorbikes! They had a tank, for fuck’s sake –”
“Watch your mouth,” snapped Robert instinctively, chastising himself almost as he did so. He had no right to tell this kid off.
Mark looked at him, confused, then added softly: “How much worse could it be than that?”
Robert considered this for a moment. “More men; more guns; more tanks. People like that always come back stronger than ever.”
“Then you agree with Bill?”
That was clever – Robert had walked right into that one. If he agreed that De Falaise’s troops would return in larger numbers, then didn’t he have an obligation to help out? Hadn’t he just admitted his own guilt in the next stage of whatever this was? Robert said nothing, for fear of digging himself a deeper hole.
“It weren’t no surprise, anyway,” Mark said eventually to break the awkward silence.
“What are you talking about?”
“The men coming. You hear things, touring round, y’know? I knew something was going on, just not what – or that it would reach us here.”
“So this is already happening in other areas?”
Mark nodded. “Lots. Food, clothing, all sorts taken. Even people, sometimes.”
“Why didn’t you tell...” Robert had forgotten himself for a moment and Mark punished him for it.
“Tell someone? What, you mean like the police?” He knew Mark was studying his face for some kind of reaction; what Bill had hinted at just ten minutes ago had obviously stuck with him.
“No. I meant... Isn’t there someone...”
&n
bsp; “I told you before,” Mark said. “There isn’t anyone. I haven’t got a regular place to stay. Nobody to take care of me...”
“I thought you said you didn’t need anyone to do that,” said Robert, turning the boy’s own words back on him.
“I don’t,” snapped Mark, puffing up his chest. “But...”
“What?”
“It’s hard sometimes. Being on my own.” Mark looked down. For all his bluster, this kid missed having a home, having parents. Missed TV, games, holidays.
“Read to me some more, Dad... please...”
Robert shook his head. “I don’t know what you want me to say.”
Mark nodded at the woodland. “You live out here, don’t you? All by yourself.”
“Yes.”
“Don’t you miss... y’know, people? To like, hang out with and stuff?”
Robert thought back to the men in yellow with the gas masks, then pictured the men with machine guns. Nothing had really changed in all that time, had it? The answer had to be no. But how could he write off the rest of the dwindling population when there were still people like Bill out there, the men and women from the market? And Mark. “I... I try not to think about it,” was all he could answer.
There was another awkward pause before Mark came right out and said what was on his mind. “Can I come with you?”
So many emotions flooded through Robert at that moment he couldn’t really make sense of them. But chief amongst them was fear. He’d felt oddly calm as he’d dodged the bullets and gone up against the German in the tank. Now this simple question petrified him. How could he let Mark come with him, how could he risk spending any time with him at all, when he could be snatched away at any moment like Stevie had been? Robert had come here to wait, not to be an adoptive father.
“Out of the question,” he said at last.
