by Alex Scarrow
I think it’s in how much crap you can endure, how much brutality you’re on the receiving end of and yet still keep your humanity.
In a world like this with no laws, no charter of human rights, it’s the women who suffer. It’s the women who learn what it is to be tough, not the men.
Adam Brooks
‘. . . because you never listened to anyone,’ said Tami Gupta. ‘That is the truth, my dear. I am sorry to say that.’
The mess erupted with a chorus of voices. Most of them agreeing with the woman. The chairs and tables had been cleared away to allow as many people in as possible. Pretty much everyone was here. Those unable to fit in the mess stood amongst the rows of preparation surfaces in the galley, sat on the serving counter, the large roller-shutter fully retracted to make it more like one large meeting room. There were even people crowded on the gantry outside, and sitting on the steps all the way down to the accommodation module’s first floor; mostly children, more likely to find the ‘town hall meeting’ somewhat boring.
‘You know I’m very fond of you, Jenny. I say this because it needs to be said. In the early days, when there was just the few of us, it was right that we had someone take charge. And I think we would never have managed without you making the decisions. Perhaps we would never have settled here. We needed you.’
Tami, seated in the chair next to Jenny, behind the one table they’d not stacked out of the way, reached a hand out to her friend. ‘I love you like a sister, Jenny, but we now need to have some sort of a democracy. There are too many people with different opinions. Too many people whispering because their voice is not heard.’ Tami glanced pointedly at Alice Harton. ‘That is how that man came between us. Like an infection from a simple cut, he exploited the discontent . . . the whispering.’
Jenny sat still and looked down at her hands. ‘Maybe . . .’ she began, then paused. Her words quietened the hubbub in the mess. They awaited more from her. ‘Maybe it’s time, then.’ She looked up. ‘I am so bloody tired of it.’
Leona, sitting on her other side, nodded. ‘We know, Mum.’
‘I suppose I just never trusted anyone else,’ she continued. ‘I promised Andy to take care of you both and I just couldn’t put us in a situation where someone else was deciding your fate.’ She sucked in a breath, looking up from her twisting hands at the women and men crammed into the room. ‘But things are different now, aren’t they?’
There were murmurs of assent, nodding heads.
‘I’ll stand down then and we’ll vote on someone new.’
A spattering of applause rippled through them. But Adam, sitting at the end of the table, raised his hand. The applause quickly faded away.
‘But maybe not right now, Mrs Sutherland?’
There were a few muted giggles at the man’s formality.
Jenny offered him a smile. ‘Jenny . . . that’s what everyone calls me, Jenny. All right, Flight Lieutenant Brooks?’
‘All right, Jenny.’ Adam tipped his head in acknowledgment. ‘But this election can’t be now. Not until we’re done with Maxwell.’
‘He’s right,’ said Leona. ‘They’ll be on their way. In fact, I’m surprised we beat them back here.’
‘How big is this army?’ someone called through from the galley.
Adam shook his head. ‘Army’s the wrong word for them. They’re not proper soldiers. They’re boys with guns. About a hundred of them.’
A ripple of gasps.
‘You said a hundred?’
‘They all have guns?’
Adam nodded.
The room filled with voices. It was Leona who raised her hands to quieten them this time. ‘But they’re boys,’ she said. ‘No more than that. They’ve never fought in a battle, they’ve never had guns fire back at them. They’re children.’ She looked at Adam. ‘At the first sight of their own blood they’ll run, right?’
He nodded. ‘They’re green, untested. The only warfare they’ve experienced is on their games machines.’
‘What about you?’ asked Bill Laithwaite. ‘Are you green?’
Adam glanced at Walfield and the other two, leaning against the back wall. ‘Danny?’
Walfield grinned. ‘Three fuckin’ tours back-to-back providing perimeter security in and around Camp Bastion in Afghanistan. Mostly on the receiving end of mortar and rocket fire.’ He shrugged. ‘We had a few toe-to-toe stand-offs. The local Pashtuns fired smarter than the Taliban-imports ever did. An’ I’m pretty fuckin’ sure both will fire much better than those boys will.’
‘We also have the advantage of the defensive position,’ added Adam, looking through the faces for one in particular. He found Martha. ‘If you hadn’t thrown us the rope ladder, miss, we’d have been unable to get on your rig. They may come with ropes and hooks and have to scramble up to those lowest decks . . . what do you call them?’
‘Spider decks,’ said Jenny.
‘If they’ve brought ropes and hooks, then they’ll have to toss and secure ’em under fire. That’s not going to be easy. Not even for experienced soldiers.’
‘But we’ve only got nine guns, sir,’ said Bushey.
Leona cut in. ‘So? We can make other weapons, can’t we? On the chicken deck there are rooms full of iron rivets and bolts, some of them as big as my hand. We can throw those down at them. There are lengths of bungee cable we could make slingshots or catapults from.’
Adam grinned back at Bushey. ‘Hear that? What she said.’
‘Or we could leave now, whilst there’s still time,’ said William. Heads turned towards him. ‘I’m serious,’ he added. ‘I’m . . . I’ve never fired a gun. I’m not really soldier material.’
Leona shrugged. ‘Yes, or we could leave now. But if we did? If we all left now? I don’t think there’s enough food left ashore to forage - not for four hundred and fifty mouths. We’ll go hungry.’
‘And the fact is Maxwell’s boys might attack us ashore anyway,’ said Adam. ‘Maxwell’s made them dangerous, predatory . . . do you understand what I mean by that?’ Not many of them seemed to. ‘You’re mostly women. Those boys have come for that as much as anything else.’
A ripple of whispers across the room.
‘We can’t let them on,’ said Leona.
‘We’ll have much better odds fighting them here,’ said Adam.
‘Perhaps this Maxwell is coming in peace?’ said Rebecca. ‘Is that possible? Could he be coming in peace? Maybe planning to co-operate with us?’
Adam and Leona looked at each other.
Adam shrugged. ‘Maxwell’s a power junky. If he comes he’ll want one thing only; to be in charge. That’s why he created his boys’ army and called them his praetorians. It was all about prolonging his authority at the dome . . . at any cost.’
‘If he did take charge here,’ added Leona, ‘his boys would be in charge. And the women would have to . . . submit.’ The word spelled out more than enough without her having to qualify what she’d meant by it.
‘Abandoning the rigs and running ashore,’ said Tami, ‘does sound like a very bad idea. But after this is done, going ashore is what we will eventually do?’
‘Eventually,’ said Jenny guardedly.
‘We could move now if it wasn’t for Maxwell,’ said Adam.
‘Is it really safe to do this yet?’ asked Sophie Yun. Her sisters nodded at the question being asked.
Leona nodded. ‘Yes, Sophie.’ She turned to her left. ‘It’s finally safe, Mum. It’s not the same place we ran from. Maxwell’s praetorians are the last of the men with guns.’
‘Did you see others ashore?’
‘A few. There’re a few people out there,’ replied Leona. She recalled those people on the motorway; a mute crowd of the hungry. Not menace in their eyes, just lingering hope that someone, somewhere, had an idea how to reboot this world.
‘If we start something ashore, we need to take our time about it, a phased migration. We prepare, plant, grow . . . those people still out there will come. They wo
n’t take it from us, they’ll join us.’
The room was silent.
‘I think - no, I’m certain - we’re probably the largest group left in Britain still managing to make a go of it. Do you see? The community we build ashore, the way we set it up, the rules and values we agree on now, well, those things will set the tone for our future.’ She smiled. It was a hopeful smile, the ghost of which seemed to spread across the mess table to those standing in the room.
‘We’ll be deciding how the future is going to look . . . in a way.’
A soft breeze tickled through the portholes and filled the moment with a portentous whisper.
Jenny nodded. ‘The future.’ She pulled herself wearily out of her chair and met the eyes of those that had deserted her for Latoc as well as the few who had remained loyal. ‘So maybe then, heading ashore . . . this should be the first thing we vote on. What does everyone think?’
Heads nodded silently.
‘All right. This is how it is. We stay here and fight . . . let me see your hands for that.’
One or two at first, then others, encouraged by that, joined. Soon the room’s low ceiling was almost held aloft by a sea of hands. It appeared to be almost unanimous.
‘Afterwards, we make our plans to move back ashore. Hands for that?’
The last few unraised hands appeared.
Leona looked at her mother and thought she saw the clearly defined angle of her shoulders droop ever so slightly beneath her thin cardigan. She knew that gesture so well, she’d seen it so many times before back in the old days; after a long grocery shop when the plastic bags were off-loaded on the kitchen counter and she’d let out a sigh. It wasn’t the sagging shoulders of someone defeated, it was relief.
If that gesture of hers had words it would be this: Job’s done.
Chapter 81
10 years AC
‘LeMan 49/25a’ - ClarenCo Gas Rig Complex, North Sea
‘I missed up here,’ said Leona. They both listened to the rustle of leaves, soothing in the darkness. The moon peeped out at them, painting the helipad a perfect blue momentarily before hiding away again behind a relay race of scudding clouds, all racing each other to reach the distant shore first.
‘How did our old house look?’ asked Jenny.
‘Just as we left it, I suppose. We got weeds growing in the lounge. Oh, and the lawn needs mowing.’
Jenny laughed softly.
‘It’s not our home any more, Mum. It doesn’t feel like that any more. It’s just a place we used to live.’ She plucked at her lips thoughtfully. ‘I thought going back there, I was going home. I thought that’s where I wanted to be. With Hannah gone it seemed pointless struggling on. I just wanted to curl up in my bedroom and, you know . . . ?’
‘I know,’ she replied squeezing her daughter’s hand.
‘But it’s not our home any more.’ Just an empty house with broken windows and damp curls of wallpaper and leaves in the hallway.
‘Is . . . ?’
‘Is Dad still there?’
Jenny nodded.
‘Yes, he is.’
The night was warm, even with the breeze. The sea hissed and splashed nearly one hundred and eighty feet below, bumping gently against the platform legs like some giant turning over in its sleep.
‘Tell me, Lee, how did Jacob die?’
‘Defending me, Mum.’ She could have described her small stifling cell, the smell of shit, the sounds coming through the walls, the night after night of fighting off that scrawny bastard who wanted to tame her, to make her his plaything. All unnecessary details.
‘He was protecting me from another boy.’ She swallowed, pinching at her lips again. ‘He died just like Dad died.’
She felt her mother’s shoulders gently shaking. It might have been easier to change the subject, move on, but Mum needed to hear what she had to say.
‘I think, in some way . . . I think Jake was proud? I dunno, like he figured Dad was watching over us and giving him the thumbs up. I think he died sort of knowing Dad was pleased with him.’ Leona wiped her damp cheek on the back her hand. ‘I don’t know . . . that sounds silly doesn’t it?’
Jenny shook her head. ‘No it doesn’t, Lee. I sometimes think he is there, watching us, somehow.’
‘So maybe they both are now?’
‘Maybe,’ Jenny smiled, ‘maybe . . . all three of them.’
Leona suddenly felt her own façade slipping. Oh, screw it . . . cry if you want, girl.
She did. They both did, for Jacob, for Hannah, for Dad. For quite a while.
Presently, Jenny wiped her nose on her cardigan. ‘Oh, hark at us defenceless wimpy, weepy women.’
‘Mum?’
‘Yes.’
‘I’m so proud of you. You’re not some wimpy, weepy woman. You’ve been a wall, protecting me and Jake, and Hannah. A solid wall. For all the others here, too. Even those ungrateful bitches who turned against you. You made this place happen. You kept us safe.’
Jenny said nothing. Not for a while. Finally she sighed. ‘I am so tired, though.’
‘I know. So am I.’ Leona reached out and hugged her mother. ‘You and me, like two peas in a pod.’ Both grieving mothers. She left that unsaid. Didn’t need to be said. Mum knew what she meant.
Jenny cleared her throat, blew her nose. ‘Those men you brought with you seem like decent types.’
Leona watched as the moon cleared a thin skein of a combed-out cloud. ‘Yeah, I think they are.’
‘Particularly Adam?’
Leona snorted. ‘Oh, come on.’
‘What? He seems quite nice now he’s shaved that awful beard off.’
‘And more your age than mine, Mum.’
‘How old is he?’
She thought about it. ‘I think he said he was twenty-nine when the crash happened.’
‘Thirty-nine, then.’ Jenny grinned. ‘Now, if I was ten years younger . . .’
Leona shrugged. ‘Or if I was ten years older . . .’
They both laughed. It felt good; like gulping fridge-cold lemonade on a hot summer’s day. Wasn’t even that funny, but still, it didn’t stop them.
‘It’s much quieter, ain’t it?’
Adam nodded. Even when it wasn’t a party night back at the dome, those boys made a racket arsing about; shrieking, singing tunelessly, cackling like hyenas. He certainly didn’t miss any of that.
‘Nice an’ fuckin’ peaceful,’ added Walfield.
They gazed out at the moonlit sea; dark swells that bobbed and dropped gently; like a micro mountain range fast-forwarding through geological eras.
The darkness on the rigs was total. It had been Adam’s suggestion; tonight, and every night for the foreseeable future, no oil lamps, no candles, nothing after dark. Nothing that could give them away. No point of light guiding Maxwell and his boys in if they chose to make their approach after dark.
Murmurs of conversation drifted across the restless fidgeting sea from the other platforms. There were people on lookout duty on each platform, looking north, east, south and west. But it was this one at the end - the drilling platform - that was the most vulnerable. Its spider deck was the closest to the water, more often than not catching the tips of larger swells when the sea was in a spirited mood.
Adam silently scanned the sea, looking for the telltale sign of a faint grey skirt of suds amidst the shifting black hillocks. The last twenty-four hours had been busy. There were now little ammunition piles of rusting bolts and nuts and rivets set along the perimeter of the main deck of each platform at regular intervals. A number of women had been busy with needles, threads and scissors making hand-held catapults and slings from lengths of bungee rope, and - believe it or not - the cups of bras. Others had made an array of clubs and spears and cloth-wrapped handles on a number of cutting weapons fashioned from jagged strips of aluminium sheeting. Then there were their eight firearms; the five SA80s they’d taken from the boys and the three remaining assorted guns this community had been relyi
ng on for the last five years.
There was a plan of sorts. Adam could only guess that Maxwell would try for the lowest platform first and, with that bridgehead taken, move down the row attempting to take the production platform next, then the secondary compression platform, the accommodation platform, and then off to the left of that, the primary compression platform. Hopefully, if they threw everything they had at them before they could get a toehold on the drilling platform’s spider deck, the boys would think better of the idea, turn tail and sail away. That’s what Adam was hoping; the first sight of one of their own lying dead, they were going to bolt like rabbits. Failing that, though, if they got on, then with each of those hundred-foot-long walkways, there was another chokepoint on which they could hold them back. He doubted whether a single nut or bolt propelled from the cup of one of their bras was actually going to find a target, but with the air around them whistling with projectiles, perhaps Maxwell’s boys might decide these rigs weren’t such a soft target.
There was a football horn used to summon people for their meal sittings. That was going to be their battle horn. One honk meant everyone on the first platform was to retire across the walkway to the second. Two honks was the sign to retreat to the next. Three honks, the next . . . and so on. A simple plan. But simple was always best.
‘Danny?’
‘Yeah?’ replied Walfield.
Adam looked at him, caught the glint of his eyes in the moonlight. ‘Reckon we’re going to be able to hold them off?’
Walfield sucked his teeth like a builder giving an estimate. ‘Dunno, maybe. It’s a bit of a bastard of a place to try an’ take under fire, to be fair. I guess it depends how much those little bastards really want it.’
‘Maxwell won’t go back to the Zone. He knows the Zone hasn’t got a future. He knows he’s got to take this place. That or face a mutiny.’
