Afterlight (50 page)

‘It’s not just fucking vegetables?’

‘We have fish, loads of fish. We have eggs too. And chicken occasionally. ’

‘Eggs!’ Harry looked at Bushey. ‘Did you say eggs?’

‘Fuck that.’ Bushey made a face. ‘You said chicken? I’d sell me own grandma for a Kentucky Fried—’

‘Quiet, you two,’ said Walfield.

Adam nodded gratefully. ‘But here’s the thing, lads,’ he continued. ‘Maxwell and his soldier boys are planning on moving there themselves. They know about it, and they’re going for it. That’s what all that noise today has been about. That’s why they grabbed a hundred workers earlier this morning and took them into the middle. They’re packing up their stuff and leaving.’

Walfield nodded. ‘Shit! That’s what we were saying earlier, wasn’t it? Thought they’d found someplace better, that this was them fucking off with the supplies.’

‘Well, you were right,’ said Leona.

‘The thing is, gents,’ said Adam, ‘we have to beat Maxwell there and—’

‘Oh, I get it,’ said Bushey nodding slowly. He looked up at Leona. ‘You want us to help fight those boys when they arrive?’

Adam looked at him and splayed his hands in guilty admission. ‘Yes. We’d help Leona’s people defend themselves. That’s the price of admission.’

The men looked at each other. It was Walfield who spoke. ‘I don’t know, Brooksie, mate. They’re all psyched-out in the head. It’s Maxwell’s doing. Last few years he’s been brainwashing those little pricks into believing they’re all fucking superhero warriors. That makes ’em dangerous.’

Harry nodded. ‘They’ll fight like bloody pit bull terriers. Maxwell will probably coke them out of their heads before he sends them in.’

‘How many other men are there at your place?’ asked Adam.

‘Not many, I’m afraid. About a dozen grown men. Although most of them are pretty old.’

Walfield, Bushey and Harry glanced at each other unhappily.

‘A dozen men and us. Sixteen effectives,’ said Adam.

‘Seventeen,’ added Leona. They looked at her. ‘And every other woman there who doesn’t want to be raped by a gang of teenagers,’ she added quietly.

The men nodded. Point taken.

‘What about weapons?’ asked Walfield. ‘What have you got?’

‘Some guns. Four or five, I think.’

‘That’s it?’

She nodded.

Bushey shook his head and turned to Adam. ‘That’s not good, sir.’

Sir?
She looked at Adam and it occurred to her for the first time that he must have been their commanding officer. The deferential body language, the guarded familiarity hinted of old habits hard to kill off.

‘What she hasn’t told you fellas yet is
where
they’re based.’

‘It would need to be a bloody castle,’ said Harry.

‘It’s better than that.’ He turned to her. ‘Isn’t it, Leona?’

‘Yes, I suppose it is. It’s a gas rig on the North Sea.’

Their eyes widened in comedic unison.

‘It’s big,’ she added, ‘five separate, linked platforms all sitting on eighty-foot support-legs. It’s hard enough climbing on when there’s someone above giving you a helping hand. Trust me.’

‘And a whole lot harder if there’s several hundred people firing guns and throwing things down at you,’ added Adam. ‘Right?’

She nodded. ‘That’s right.’

The men continued to pretend to be pissing in silence.

Walfield spoke up again. ‘We’d need more guns.’

‘Well, we’ll be getting two more when we take down the little fuckers guarding the gate.’

Bushey looked up. ‘Rush them?’

Walfield smiled. ‘I’ve got a shiv I keep under my cot. Would do the job nicely.’

‘No way,’ said Harry. ‘They’d drop us before we could get close enough.’

Adam shook his head. ‘I’m pretty sure they patrol with empty clips. Maxwell was worried about them wasting ammo unnecessarily. You remember? Limited ammo was a concern when he had us weapons-training them?’

They nodded.

‘And no one’s ever bothered to try and escape. Shit, most nights those boys aren’t doing their job properly, anyway. They’re too busy arsing around.’

‘Or sleeping on the job,’ added Walfield.

‘It’s the last thing those boys will expect,’ said Adam. ‘Even if they are packing loaded clips, I bet they’ll still be fumbling for the safety by the time we’re on them.’

Walfield grinned. ‘Useless twats.’

Adam turned to Leona. ‘Most of the boys were pretty crap at handling the SAs properly. All thumbs. You watch them. They hold them like movie gangsters.’

Harry nodded and smiled. ‘Christ, we were shit drill instructors, weren’t we?’

‘So we’re doing this? said Bushey, scratching at his ginger goatee.

Walfield nodded. Harry gave it a moment and nodded. ‘I’m in.’

‘Bushey?’

‘Get away from this shit hole? Yeah, I’m in, sir.’

‘Good. Then we’re going for it tonight.’

‘Tonight?’

‘Yes. You’ve all heard the noises coming from the middle. They’ve been at it all day. They could be leaving at any time.’

‘Are we sure that’s them packing up?’ asked Harry.

Walfield nodded. ‘Someone in my work group got a look round the side of the dome. They’ve got the barges lined up there. They’re loading stuff on.’

‘If we don’t get home first,’ said Leona, ‘if they get up onto the rigs before us, then it’s all for nothing. We might as well stay here and just wait for things to fall apart.’

‘How long’ll it take Maxwell to float his way up?’ asked Walfield.

‘My guess, it might take him three or four days,’ said Adam. ‘Say, two days if the sea’s millpond calm.’

‘So how’re we getting there?’

They heard the shrill scream of the work whistle in the distance.

‘On foot,’ said Leona. ‘Bicycles if we can find some. Shouldn’t be difficult - first retail park we come across there’ll be a shop.’

‘How long will that take us on bikes?’

‘Two days,’ she replied. Her eyes flickered towards Adam. ‘Maybe three . . . four.’

‘So,’ said Adam, ‘that’s why we need to get away first.’

The whistle blew again.

‘We’re out of time, lads. So, tonight we’re going for it. Okay?’

The other three men nodded as they pretended to shake off and tuck away.

Adam looked at them all. Very quietly he spoke, little more than a whisper. ‘Right then. One hour
after
the bedtime whistle blows.’

‘Where do we meet?’ asked Walfield.

Adam thought about it. ‘The rainwater pool.’

Leona knew where he meant. He was talking about the large family-sized paddling pool. It was to the left of the dome’s main entrance, towards the river’s edge.

‘Got that, lads?’ said Walfield. Both lance corporals nodded. ‘Back to work then.’

Leona watched the three men turn and make their way through the cluster of stinking plastic butts towards the plantation, converging with all the other workers.

Adam stirred. ‘All right, Leona? You okay with them?’

She knew what he was asking of them. ‘They seem like good men.’

‘They are. They’re good fellas.’

‘And you were, like, in charge of them?’ she asked.

He shrugged awkwardly. ‘Once upon a time, yeah. I was their CO.’

‘Like an officer?’ she asked.

‘Exactly like an officer. Flight Lieutenant, to be precise.’

‘That sounds impressive.’

Adam led the way through the butts back towards the aisles of beans where they’d been working this morning. ‘It’s not. I was a junior officer really. I was only twenty-five when the crash happened.’

‘Flight Lieutenant . . . sounds like you ought to be flying a plane.’

‘RAF regiment,’ he sighed. ‘Air Force grunts. I’m not a pilot, I’m afraid.’

‘Oh,’ she replied.

Adam laughed softly. ‘And that’s
exactly
the response I used to get from girls.’

‘I’m sorry, that was rude of me.’

‘Don’t worry, doesn’t mean anything now, does it?’

‘My work group’s on root-crops the rest of today,’ said Adam, pointing to the other side of the plantation, near the old boarded-up entrance to North Greenwich tube station. ‘We’re digging up whatever runty little potatoes and onions are left in the grow troughs. So, I’ll see you later.’

She smiled. ‘Later.’

‘Enjoy the rest of the day,’ he said.

‘It’s going to drag,’ she replied.

He laughed and she thought she saw a smile under that dark beard that she could grow to like.

 

 

 

V
alérie Latoc’s jaw set in quiet deliberation for a moment. Finally he looked up across the table at everyone who had crowded into the mess to hear his judgment.

‘God has not given me guidance on this,’ he said caressing the bandaging wrapped around his right hand. Dark brown smudges of blood still showed through the layers of cotton and lint. Beneath the wadding his hand ached dreadfully.

He’d been incredibly lucky . . .
blessed
even. Jennifer’s shot had been poorly aimed, kicking to one side as she’d pulled the trigger. Some of the pellets from the round had caught the hand he’d raised to protect his face. He’d lost his little finger, and the top half of the next finger along. The rest of the shotgun’s pellets had whistled harmlessly past, rattling off the compression chamber’s far wall.

‘You should decide what is in your hearts,’ he told them. ‘And let that guide your decision,’ he added sombrely.

There was a silence for only the briefest moment, then Alice Harton broke it. ‘They should both be tossed over the side! She’s a fucking psycho. She’s bloody well dangerous. And Walter . . . he’s . . . he’s scum!’

Murmurs of approval from those standing behind her.

‘Jennifer is a very distressed person,’ said Valérie. ‘And it is understandable. Surely it is also forgivable?’

‘She went at you with a gun!’ shouted someone at the back of the room.

‘She shot you!’ added Alice.

‘Yet here I am alive and well. And that is as God wills it.’

‘Praise be,’ someone gasped.

‘The Koran and the Bible teach us that forgiveness is what brings us closer to God.’

He gazed at their faces, wary that someone, somewhere, might just ask him to cite a passage from either. He knew a little of both books; he’d certainly had time enough to read them both in Prison D’Arlon. He could manage well enough with a street-corner debate . . . certainly not enough to fool a theological scholar, though. Mind you, it never ceased to amaze him how little those of faith seemed to actually know of their books. It was easy enough to invent theological-sounding passages, provided you used the right language. Most people presumed you were quoting something too obscure for them to recognise. It was more than his knowing a little scripture that made people listen to him, though. It was the confidence of utter conviction that he carried. He hadn’t trained as a priest or a pastor, he had not studied as an imam. What he had was a far higher authority than that. What he had was the authority of a prophet.

God had picked him . . . despite his
weaknesses
; God had never judged him on that. In fact, Valérie realised, it was his weaknesses, the temptations of the flesh that goaded and teased and tempted him when his mind was still, that made him so perfectly suitable.

Natasha.

He’d dreamt of her last night. Smiling beautifully, sitting at the Lord’s side like a wonderful angel. And Hannah sat on the other side.

I am so sorry,
he’d sobbed.
Please forgive me. I am weak.

The mess was noisy with voices discussing the matter, shrill voices talking over each other with increasing volume.

‘—after what he did?’

‘—dirty bastard should go over.’

Dr Gupta cut in loudly. ‘We don’t know he did anything to Natasha! We found a shoe. That is all!’

She was shouted down by a wall of angry voices. Valérie raised his hands. ‘Let the doctor speak!’

Tami Gupta nodded gratefully at him. She had the floor, the room was quiet. ‘We found a shoe on his boat. That is all.
A shoe.
And that is all we have. And we are happy to see him dead because of just that? When you think of all he has done for us, that he has been amongst us for years and nothing like this ever happened—’

‘There’s always a first time!’ someone shouted out.

‘Yes . . . yes, but not Walter. I know it’s not Walter.’

‘How do we know it’s not his first time anyway?’ asked Alice. ‘How do we know he wasn’t a paedo before the crash? How do we know if he was ever convicted? Was on a sex offender’s register? Huh?’

Tami shook her head. ‘We do not know. But then, we know nothing really about each other’s lives before the crash, do we? Right? Only what people say about themselves.’ She looked around. ‘I am sure there are many more secrets in this room - things we did before the crash, things we did during the crash - that we feel shame for. That we keep to ourselves.’