Them or Us (23 page)

“I can tell you now, that’s never going to happen. Hinchcliffe’s not much of a team player.”

“I get that impression, and ultimately it’ll be his decision. People who’ve taken charge of places like he has don’t usually tend to give a damn about anyone or anything else. I’m not that naive, Danny. I know what I’m dealing with here.”

“Are you sure?”

“I’ve done this before. We used to call them dictators. Anyway, my focus is the people, not Hinchcliffe. From what I’ve heard, there are a lot of people in and around Lowestoft who need help. We are thousands strong, with more firepower than—”

“I know you used to be in government, but that doesn’t mean anything now. I know exactly how Hinchcliffe will react when you turn up. He won’t ever recognize any authority but his own. He’s only out for himself. You turn up and you’ll just be walking into a fight to the death, no matter how many soldiers or guns you’ve got.”

“You’re probably right,” Ankin says nonchalantly. “Like I said, though, situations like this have been successfully dealt with before. Hinchcliffe isn’t the only person trying to carve out a place in the history books for himself. We have to start somewhere, and we have to make a stand.”

History books—now there’s a quaint, old-fashioned notion. People don’t bother with
any
books these days, much less those that are concerned with our irrelevant lives before the war. Ankin just told me he wasn’t naive, but I can’t help wondering if he really does appreciate how deep-rooted the damage inflicted on the population as a whole has been. I look at him across the table. His face is frustratingly difficult to read.

“Was that your plane that flew over Lowestoft?”

“Yes.”

“What exactly was the point of that?”

“Threefold, I suppose. First, it was a signal for Llewellyn, and his excuse if you like, to come to Norwich and rendezvous with us. We’ve had to carefully coordinate our arrival here.”

“Coordinate with who?”

“Llewellyn for a start, and various other people, too. The plane was the easiest way of letting him know it was time. Second, I wanted to stir up the people of Lowestoft and get them thinking. I thought a flyover by a small, unarmed plane would be enough of a distraction to make them ask questions, but not enough for them to misconstrue it as a threat. I didn’t want to bring out the big guns just yet.”

“And the third reason?”

“To get Hinchcliffe thinking, too.”

“You certainly managed that. Fucker was livid.”

“That really wasn’t my intention. I just wanted him to realize he’s not the only one left with any influence around here.”

“He’s the only one with any influence in Lowestoft.”

“At the moment, yes, and we can both say what we like about him, but the fact remains, he’s managed to turn the town into the largest and most established community we’ve yet come across.”

“It’s hardly a community. It’s just several thousand people who happen to be in the same place, nothing more.”

“Okay, wrong choice of word perhaps. Settlement, then. Whatever you want to call it, he’s managed to keep a lot of people in order.”

“The fighters are scared of him, and everyone else is scared of the fighters, that’s all.”

“What about you?”

“I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t scared of what Hinchcliffe might do. I’ve seen him in action. He genuinely doesn’t give a shit about anyone else, and he’ll do whatever he thinks he needs to do to make his point. He says everything boils down to the two
f
’s—food and fear.”

“I don’t necessarily agree with that, but I know where he’s coming from.”

“So how come you know so much about Lowestoft?”

“We’ve had people in and around the place for a while. Llewellyn risked a hell of a lot for us, and there were several others. Do you know Neil Casey?”

“I thought he was dead,” I tell him, remembering the day I spent gravedigging, desperately trying to see if one of the bodies I was helping to bury was Hinchcliffe’s missing foot soldier.

“He wasn’t this morning.” Ankin chuckles to himself. “Last time I spoke to him he was still very much alive.”

“Hinchcliffe sent me to look for him in Southwold. Was that place your doing, too?”

“What had been happening in Southwold was initially because of John Warner, nothing to do with us. I’d been talking to John for some time. He shared a lot of our ideals, and we were doing what we could to help. He was definitely on the right track.”

“I assume you know what happened there?”

“What Hinchcliffe did to Southwold was unforgivable. We were hoping to use the place as a staging post instead of here. It was a difficult one to call, and I got it wrong. I didn’t intend for John and his people to get dragged in like that. Hinchcliffe was obviously under the impression that Southwold was a threat.”

“He saw it as a threat to his authority, nothing more than that.”

I keep my mouth shut about the part I played in Warner’s downfall. Even though Hinchcliffe maneuvered me into that position, I still feel partially responsible for what happened.

“The thing is, Danny,” he continues, the tone of his voice suddenly changing, “what Hinchcliffe’s doing won’t last. He’s going to run out of supplies and ideas eventually. Then he’s screwed.”

“I know. I’ve tried talking to him about it.”

“When people like Hinchcliffe realize their number’s up, they never go quietly. What happens next in Lowestoft is crucial, and we can’t afford to fail. We’re in danger of losing so much of what we used to have, you know? All that knowledge, technology, and experience … it’s too important just to throw it all away. We’ll end up living in caves again.”

“So what exactly are you planning, and why are you talking to me?”

“I honestly didn’t know anything about you until we arrived here. You’re an unexpected bonus, Danny. You’re someone who’s had unprecedented access to Hinchcliffe. You know how he thinks and how he works. Long and short of it, I want your help. Because, in answer to your first question, as soon as all my people are in position, we’re heading for Lowestoft. There are thousands of people there who are suffering, and I’ve got a duty to try to help them.”

“What about Hinchcliffe?”

“Well, that’s the million-dollar question, isn’t it? If I’m honest, we’d been planning to infiltrate and get rid of him.”

“That’s what he did to Thacker, the guy who was in charge before him.”

“I know.”

“If you do that, you’ll be operating down at his level. That makes you no better than him.”

“I’m well aware of that, too, and it was a price I was willing to pay—but it doesn’t have to be that way now.”

“Why not?”

“Because we’re going to give Hinchcliffe a choice and make him think he’s still in control. Who knows, if he plays ball with us, he still could be.”

“What if he tells you to fuck off?”

“Then that’s up to him. Like I said, we’re going to give him a choice. He can let us in to help strengthen and support the town…”

“Or…” I press when Ankin pauses.

“Or he can get out and leave running the place to me and my people.”

“That’s never going to happen.”

“It will if we handle him right. That’s why I’m so pleased that Llewellyn introduced me to you.” He pauses ominously, but I already know what’s coming next. “I want you to go back into Lowestoft and make sure Hinchcliffe is aware of all his options. Make him see the bigger picture.”

“No way. You’re out of your fucking mind if you think I’m going to be the one who goes back there to tell him to pack his bags and get out.”

“No, no,” Ankin says, holding up his hands defensively, “that’s not what I’m asking at all. I want you to go back there as someone who knows him, not as a messenger from me. Just tell him about us. Give him a chance to get used to the idea before we arrive. Come on, Danny, can’t you see how much easier that’ll be? I’ve got thousands of people waiting to march into Lowestoft, and when they see us, most of the people who are already there will immediately switch sides. It’ll be Hinchcliffe and a few hundred fighters against everybody else; they won’t stand a chance in battle. So let’s you and me do all we can to try to stop that battle from ever starting.”

33

SINCE MY MEETING WITH
Ankin first thing this morning, I’ve been kept under close watch. I was taken into a small office on the second floor of the museum under the pretense of waiting to see the main man again a few hours ago, but the longer I’ve been here, the more obvious it’s become that this is just a holding cell. It’s getting dark now, and I don’t think they’re going to let me out until it’s time to go back. The door’s not locked, but every time I look out I see people swarming around on the landing, usually Chandra or Swales taking turns standing watch.

Llewellyn says that Ankin is expecting to rendezvous with thousands more of his people outside Lowestoft, and from what I’ve already seen I have no doubt it’ll happen. As soon as they’re in position, Llewellyn said, Ankin is also expecting me to trot off into town and explain to Hinchcliffe that he needs to step aside and let someone else take over the place. Like fuck. Hinchcliffe’s not going to play ball, and neither am I. They don’t really need me, and I definitely don’t need them. It’s time to get out of here.

My body clock is ticking fast, and I can’t afford to waste any more time. My days are numbered, and I really couldn’t give a damn about any of these people and their stupid, pointless power struggles. It’s exactly the same bullshit politics I used to try to avoid getting tangled up in at work, but here the stakes are immeasurably higher. Except for me. My fate is already sealed. Nothing any of them do will make any difference to me now, so why should I care? What does it matter to me who’s left running Lowestoft, or the whole damn country, for that matter? Sitting here alone in the dark over the last couple of hours, I’ve reached an important conclusion: I’m not going to waste the little time I have left on anyone else—Hinchcliffe, Ankin, Llewellyn, Peter Sutton, Joseph Mallon … fuck the lot of them. I don’t care where I end up, I’m just going to get as far away from everyone and everything else as I possibly can.

I’ve waited hours for a chance to make my move, and now it’s time. Both Chandra and Swales have gone, and the landing is clear. Shivering with cold, I button up my coat and swing my backpack onto my shoulders. I carefully push the door open just a crack, suddenly feeling like a character in one of those old spy movies I’d forgotten about until now. When I’m sure the corridor outside is empty, I take a few tentative steps out of the room, then stop and listen. I can hear a myriad of muffled noises coming from outside and below, but up here it’s silent and I keep going.

A sudden movement out of the corner of my eye makes me freeze. At the end of the short landing, where this stunted corridor opens out into the main part of the museum viewing area, a lone boot is sticking out from behind a wall. I creep closer until I’m near enough to peer around the corner, and I see that it’s Swales. The dumb bastard is fast asleep on guard duty, and there’s no one else on the rest of this level. It’s almost dark—the only illumination coming from the very last light of day seeping in through grimy glass panels in the ceiling high above my head. I stick close to the wall, clinging to the shadows, and cautiously edge along, aiming for the staircase I climbed with Llewellyn when we first got here. I’ll go down to the ground floor, then try to find another way out. Hardly any of these people know me, so it shouldn’t be too hard to slip past them. Hinchcliffe always says I have a face that’s easy to forget, but that doesn’t stop me feeling like the center of attention the farther I manage to get from where I’m supposed to be. There’s bound to be a window I can climb through somewhere. Failing that, there’ll be emergency exits and fire escapes I can use. If I can retrace my steps through the dead streets of Norwich, I’ll be able to find somewhere to shelter and hide until it’s safe. Ankin’s march into Lowestoft is going to happen with or without me, so by this time tomorrow, this ruin of a city should be deserted again. If I stay off the roads and vary my route, I’ll be as hard to find as Ankin’s damn airplane.

I reach the top of the stairs and peer down over the ornately carved balustrade. I can hear voices below, but it’s hard to be sure exactly where they’re coming from. I take a few hesitant steps down, then stop to listen again. The voices are moving away and getting quieter. I think my way is clear. I start moving again, concentrating on trying to get to—

“Where the fuck d’you think you’re going?”

The wide staircase makes the voice sound directionless, and it’s impossible to see much in the gloom. I look around me and see nothing and no one, but then the thump of heavily booted feet thundering down the steps after me makes me look up. Shit, it’s Healey, Llewellyn’s driver. I try to make a run for it, but he’s faster than me and he anticipates my movements. He stretches out his long, muscular arm and grabs my backpack. I try to slip out of it, figuring I’ll be faster without it anyway, but he yanks me back before I can get my arms out of the straps and I fall backward, my head cracking against the marble steps.

“Llewellyn!” Healey shouts, his booming voice filling the whole building. “Get up here!”

He starts dragging me back up. His strength is immense, and he pulls me up the stairs like I’m a rag doll. I kick my legs and try to grab hold of the handrail, but everything’s happening too fast, and I can barely get back up onto my feet. Llewellyn pounds up the stairs toward me, emerging from the darkness like a wild animal charging, face full of fury and rage.

“Who was on guard?” he yells as he thunders past me, grabbing one of my bag straps and helping Healey haul me up.

“Swales,” Healey immediately answers, not about to take any of the flack.

We reach the top of the stairs, and I finally get my feet back down and stand up straight. Llewellyn lets go, but Healey keeps hold of me and throws me back toward my cell. Swales lumbers towards us, a panicked expression on his still half-asleep face.

“Sorry, Llewellyn,” he says, “I couldn’t help it. I didn’t mean to—”

Llewellyn doesn’t let him finish his sentence. He punches him in the mouth—a short, sharp, stinging jab—and then, when he hits the deck, starts repeatedly kicking him in the belly, sending him sliding farther back across the floor each time his boot makes contact.

“You useless fucker,” he screams at him as the pounding continues. “They’ll have our balls if he gets away.”

Healey pushes me back into the office again and slams the door shut. I try to open it, but he’s holding it from the other side. I can hear Llewellyn yelling orders, but his words are drowned out by the noise of someone dragging furniture across the landing to block me in. When the noise finally stops I can hear him again.

“Go get Ankin. He needs to talk to this freak and put the little bastard straight.”