The Exodus Plague | Book 2 | Imprisoned

by Collingbourne, Huw

  “I thought you might appreciate a change of scenery so I’ve arranged to have you taken to…”

  “Wait just one moment!” Leila leapt from the armchair in which she had been ensconced and strode purposefully across to the window. The Colonel looked taken aback, as well he might for Leila was a good two inches taller than he was and well-versed in the arts of killing. “The thing is, my dear,” Leila went on in a more placating tone of voice, “I don’t entirely appreciate things being ‘arranged’ for me without my prior consent.”

  The Colonel, by this point, had regained his composure. “In the present emergency,” he said, “I’m afraid that the formalities of etiquette sometimes have to be dispensed with. Be assured, I have your best interests at heart. Besides which, it was my impression that you lot wanted to get away from Cambridge. Is that not so?”

  “Well…”

  “So where exactly are you ‘arranging’ to have us taken?” Jonathan asked.

  “A little place by the coast. Balmy sea air. Sandy beaches. All that sort of thing.”

  “A holiday resort?” said Leila, raising an eyebrow.

  “A sort of secure village, you might say. You’ll be well looked after. A chap called Digby runs it. Charles Digby. He’s a decent old duffer. Bit of a windbag but his heart’s in the right place.”

  “And if we refuse?” said Leila.

  “The Colonel smiled. He had a charming, friendly smile. “Refusal is not an option. You leave this evening. At six sharp.”

  *

  The journey was long and uncomfortable. They rode in a vehicle that looked mid-way between a Land Rover and a small truck assembled from steel plates and rivets. The driver, a taciturn soldier with an almost impenetrable Glasgow accent, told them it was a Command and Liaison Vehicle; he got quite tetchy when they insisted in calling it an armoured car.

  The journey lasted about five hours and for most of that time there was very little to see through the windows. They drove on rutted roads through a succession of small, seemingly deserted, villages. The driver took small country roads whenever possible, instead of A roads and motorways. “Ye never can tell who’ll be oot there watching,” he explained.

  At one point they saw a fire in a village up ahead. It was too far away to tell if it was a garden bonfire or something more sinister. The driver was taking no risks. He made a long detour. Jonathan, sitting next to the driver, stayed awake the whole journey, expecting and fearing to see gangs of red-eyes waiting to ambush them. But the trip was uneventful. Maybe the driver’s cautious strategy had been the right one after all.

  Leila and Geoff sat in the back along with Bobby, a few bags containing their possessions (the contents of Leila’s bag chinked in the way a bag filled with bottles of wine might chink whenever the vehicle went over a rut). Jonathan had brought his guitar in its case; that, at least, was an improvement over their ill-fated escape-by-punt strategy. Leila and Geoff dozed off from time to time. Bobby settled himself on Leila’s lap and snored soundly throughout the journey.

  Eventually a road took them up over a hill from which, when they descended on the other side, Jonathan was startled to see the ocean, stretching darkly away from the base of the cliff along which the road now led, to the distant horizon.

  He called to Leila who had been snoring at the time. Leila woke Geoff and all three of them gazed in wonder at the sight. The sky was dark, clear and densely sprinkled with stars. The scene was one of breath-taking beauty.

  Five minutes later they arrived at a tall iron gate. At each side of the gate stood a watchtower. The watchtowers contained spotlights which, at that moment, were aimed at the armoured vehicle in which Jonathan, Geoff and Leila were sitting. There were soldiers in the watchtowers with guns that were also aimed at the vehicle. Two more soldiers stood at ground level, one on either side of the gate. Their guns too were aimed at the vehicle.

  The driver turned to his passengers with a broad smile. “Welcome to Camp Jollity,” he said.

  Internment

  Stony Cove: May

  Camp Jollity

  “I say, Digby, how d’you fancy a quick bet on the knobbly knees?”

  “On the what, Smedley?”

  “The knobbly knees. You know, the contest. Chaps roll up their trouser legs and parade about a bit and the one with the knobbliest knees wins a prize.”

  “Have you been drinking, Smedley? You are making no sense whatsoever.”

  Archibald Smedley, who had been staring fixedly from the large picture window which overlooked the swimming pool, turned to face his boss who was sitting at his desk solemnly contemplating a crossword puzzle from an old and yellowing copy of the Times.

  “I am told that a certain Fred Stokes is the favourite.”

  “The favourite what, Smedley?”

  “To win the knobbly knees contest.”

  Charles Digby laid the newspaper on his desk, took off his reading glasses, rubbed his tired eyes with his fingertips and bleared across the room at his assistant. “Are you seriously telling me that people in this Camp place bets on other people’s knees?”

  “Oh, rather! Well, now that the Epson Derby and the Grand National are no more, one has to bet on whatever is available.”

  Charles Digby sighed. He had never understood the gambling urge. Such money and success as he had obtained had been won not by taking a punt on a horse but by sheer hard work and determination.

  “Take a seat, Smedley. I’ll get Wendy to bring in some tea, shall I?”

  “And biscuits?”

  Charles Digby flicked a switch on his desktop intercom and spoke into the small microphone: “Wendy, I wonder if you could rustle up a pot of tea for two?”

  “And biscuits,” Archibald Smedley reminded his boss.

  “Have we still any of those chocolate digestive biscuits, Wendy? We have? Then bring a few of those too, would you?”

  Charles Digby sighed again. There was something about Archibald Smedley that tended put Charles Digby into a sighing mood.

  “Have you been sleeping well, Archie?” he asked.

  Archibald Smedley noticed the use of his first name. The diminutive form too. That, he thought, was ominous. It did not bode well. It meant that trouble lay ahead.

  “Well, sir, as a matter of fact…”

  “Call me Charles, Archie. No need for formality, is there?”

  “No, sir. I mean, er, Charles… well, sir, as a matter of fact, the last few nights have been somewhat disturbed.”

  “Disturbed, ’eh? Worry, stress, anxious thoughts racing through your mind?”

  “Steel drums, sir. And maracas.”

  “Maracas, Smedley? Did you say maracas?”

  Archibald Smedley smiled. He noticed that his superior had dropped back into the habit of referring to him by his surname. That could only be for the good.

  “Yes, sir. It’s the Caribbean Steel Band.”

  “What is the Caribbean Steel Band, Smedley?”

  “It is, sir. The source, that is, of my sleepless nights. They practise in the Jollity Building, sir. In the ballroom. And sometimes in the ballroom lounge.”

  “A Caribbean Steel Band?”

  “Not ‘a’, sir. ‘The’ Caribbean Steel Band. There is only one of them.”

  “Well, we can at least be grateful for that, I suppose. Oh, thank you, Wendy. Put them there, on my desk, would you?” (this addressed to a young, willowy blonde woman who had just entered the office carrying a tray upon which stood a pot of tea, a jug of milk, a dish of sugar, cups, saucers, spoons and a plate of chocolate digestive biscuits), “That’s all, Wendy. I’ll pour the tea. Help yourself to biscuits, Smedley. I can’t help wondering, you know, if recent changes in your responsibilities regarding the day-to-day running of the Camp might be taking a toll. On your mental health, as it were?”

  “Crikey, sir, my mental health’s never been better. It’s true, there have been certain challenges since we took control of the Camp that I had not previously experienced. But,
you should know me well enough, sir, to realise that I relish a challenge.”

  “But knobbly knees, Smedley. Surely, knobbly knees contests have been consigned to the past. I suppose you’ll be telling me next that you have organised a glamorous grannies competition.”

  “Oh, indeed I have, sir. Knobbly knees on the sports field this afternoon. Glamorous grannies in the Jollity Theatre tomorrow.”

  “You astonish me, Smedley. I had thought such frivolities would have been forbidden under the present regime.”

  “Oh no, not at all, sir. I had a word with the commanding officer and he’s all for it.”

  “General Fforbes-Tomkinson is a fan of knobbly knees contests, is he? I confess to a degree of incredulity.”

  “Well, sir, I didn’t actually specify the exact details.”

  “You didn’t mention the knees, you mean?”

  “I just suggested that some form of organised entertainment might do wonders for morale. And the General was all for it.”

  “I see. I can’t help wondering if he might have taken a somewhat different view had you been a little more specific on the exact form of entertainment that you had in mind. From my experience of General Fforbes-Tomkinson, ten mile hikes and cross-country races tend to me more in his line.”

  “At any rate, since I am the Camp Entertainments Officer…”

  Charles Digby sighed again. The sigh was even more heartfelt that his previous sighs.

  “…well, as Entertainments Officer, it falls within my preview…”

  “‘purview’,” Digby muttered half way through a sigh.

  “…it falls within my purview to decide on the exact nature of the entertainments on offer. I had a chat with one of the former staff here, a rather nice young woman called Felicity…”

  “Get on with it, Smedley. I don’t need an account of your romantic exploits.”

  “…and it was she who told me all about the knobbly knees and glamorous grannies competitions. They are established traditions, I am given to believe, and guaranteed to boost morale.”

  “Are they indeed? But who are to be the entrants? Who, precisely are to provide the knees which are guaranteed to boost morale? The guests?”

  “Some of them, yes, sir. The ones who are able to walk and who are not considered to be dangerous. But some of our chaps have entered too.”

  “Our men have entered for the knobbly knees contest?”

  “The lower ranks only, of course, sir. It would not do for officers to participate, wouldn’t you agree?”

  Charles Digby sighed yet again. “Thank God for that, at any rate.”

  “Oh yes, when I broached the subject, you might be surprised at quite how many privates were enthusiastic about taking part. There were one or two chaps who even wanted to enter the glamorous grannies contest.”

  “Is that within the rules, Smedley?”

  “I’m not entirely sure, sir. The fact of the matter is that we are rather short of actual grandmothers in the Camp at the moment. To be frank, I have failed to find any at all. So I think we may have to interpret the rules rather freely on this occasion. However, the glamourous granny contest is not until tomorrow, so there is still time.”

  “You don’t think you might fit in a ten mile hike, I suppose?”

  “I could make the suggestion, as it were, to the men. But, frankly, sir, I suspect their enthusiasm may be low.”

  Lieutenant-Colonel Charles Digby sighed. It was a sigh that outclassed all the sighs that had preceded it. It was a sigh of acquiescence that trembled on the edge of despair. When General Fforbes-Tomkinson had appointed him to the ‘vital’ task of running the top-secret facility known only as ‘J Base’, Lieutenant-Colonel Charles Digby had leapt at the chance. It was Important Work. National Security. Reporting direct to the Prime Minster and whatnot and so on and so forth. Little did he think that it would involve glamorous grannies and knobbly knees competitions. And little did he know that things were about to get worse. Much worse.

  Wakey! Wakey!

  “Bing-bong! Good morning, all you lucky people. Today the weather is sunshine with occasional showers, but whatever the weather, there’s always plenty to do at Camp Jollity. Be sure you don’t miss the knobbly knees contest on the sports field this afternoon. If your taste runs to the exotic, the Ray Winterbottom Trio will treat you to an afternoon tea-dance with a Mexican flavour at half-past three in the ballroom. And remember, if there’s anything you want, the whitecoats are always ready and willing to help you. Bing-bong!”

  Leila pulled the pillow over her ears to try to muffle the noise. It was to no avail. Five minutes after the first announcement the speaker crackled into life and the shrill electric “Bing-bong!” rang out once again: “Good morning, all you happy people. Time to rise and shine and get ready for another wonderful day filled with fun and merriment. First sitting for breakfast is now being served in the Dining Hall. If you miss that, second sitting is at eight o’clock. This evening the whitecoats will be putting on a show called ‘Songs From The Movies’ in the Jollity Theatre. This will feature foot-tapping melodies from all your favourite films plus spectacular dance routines and, of course, everyone’s favourite funny-man, Cheerful Charlie Rubenstein with jokes that will make you cry with laughter. Bing-bong!”

  “Oh, for God’s sake…” Leila shoved the pillow to one side and tentatively pulled back a sheet. She opened one eye. Light was flooding in through the thin floral material of the curtains. Then she opened the other eye and began to take in her immediate surroundings. She was in a dismal little room with a single bed (in which she was lying), a wardrobe covered in peeling off-white paint and a small, dirty-looking sink in the corner. The only other furniture were a hard, wooden chair with a sagging rattan seat and a cheap bedside cabinet on which stood a lamp and a digital clock. She looked at the digital clock. It displayed: 07:34:22.

  “Jesus, Joseph and Mary!” she cried. Her Catholic upbringing had a tendency to surge within her when she was woken early in the morning. Mornings were, for Leila, things which should be avoided at all costs. “Half-past sodding seven! What sort of place is this to wake people up at half-past sodding seven! It’s inhuman.”

  She poured herself slowly out of the bed and staggered into her clothes. She splashed a couple of handfuls of cold water over her face in an (unsuccessful) attempt to wake herself up. Then she opened the chalet door and peered out at the world beyond.

  It was more ghastly than she had imagined.

  She shut the door again and sat on the bed. She tried to recall where she was and why she was here. She remembered the long drive from Cambridge and the arrival at a Camp surrounded by high fences. They had arrived at night and, apart from a few beacons manned by soldiers standing in lookout turrets stationed at points around the perimeter of the Camp, everything had been in darkness. They had been driven towards the accommodation blocks which, as far as one could tell in the darkness, were long, featureless lines of rooms like military barracks. One room had been assigned to Leila, the adjoining one had been assigned to Jonathan and Bobby the dog; the one beyond that had been assigned to Geoff. Leila had assumed that the Camp was a military medical installation. Everything the Colonel had told them about it suggested as much. He had spoken of doctors, biochemists and virologists in attendance. He’d spoken of the care that was being given to patients and volunteers.

  That the Camp was under military control was clear from the armed soldiers who had welcomed them at the gates. But as for its medical credentials… those seemed a good deal less certain.

  Leila opened the door again, just a crack. She wanted to take another look outside without attracting unnecessary attention to herself. My God! It was even more ghastly than she’d thought! There were clowns. Half a dozen of them. They were wearing bright orange, checked suits, they had big flat shoes like flippers, their hair was red, green or blue and they had white-painted faces with big red noses. One of them had a drum strapped in front of him and he was banging it with t
wo sticks. A couple of others were holding balloons.

  Leila shut the door in horror. What kind of madhouse was she in? The speaker crackled into life again: “Bing-bong! Wakey-wakey, rise and shine, all you lazy, stay-in-bed people. All the early-bird campers have already had their breakfast. But the good news is that all you sleepyheads have still got time to avail yourself of the second sitting which will be served in the Dining Hall in exactly five minutes. On the menu today we have Cornflakes, porridge, fried tomatoes, bacon, eggs, liver and stewed lungs. Then why not while away the rest of the morning watching the Punch and Judy man who’ll be performing outside the Kiddies’ playroom – or inside, if it rains – at ten o’clock precisely. There’s so much fun to be had and never a dull moment at Camp Jollity! Bing-bong!”

  There was a knock on the chalet door. Leila held her breath. She had a horrible feeling that there might be clowns outside. Maybe if she kept very quiet they’d think she had gone to breakfast, then they’d go away and leave her in peace.

  There was another knock at the door, louder and more insistent than the previous one. Leila reached inside her coat where she kept one of her favourite hunting knives. It was a knife with a fixed blade, seven inches of carbon steel with a partially serrated edge and a mahogany handle. Some might have called it a fighting knife. What the heck: hunting knife, fighting knife? It was all the same to Leila.

  She held the knife at the ready. In a swift movement she opened the door and… Jonathan jumped back with a little squeak of terror.

  “Oh, it’s you,” Leila put the knife back into its sheath which was sewn into the lining of her greatcoat, “A bit early for you, isn’t it?”