The Border Reiver (14 page)

The two men pondered; neither had a plan at this stage and both were beginning to get restless- they had spent enough time on a park bench in the open. Eastman turned to Ben pulling a mobile phone from his pocket and handing it over.

“There's one number in there, Baines, and it’s secure; use it to contact me. You call me. I will never call you, so never answer that phone: if it rings, it’s compromised. If I need to get a message to you, I will do it another way. Get your thinking cap on, Baines. You may have caused this mess, but now you have a chance to help put it right before the country is torn apart.”

The two men stood and looked at each other, both naturally contemplating shaking hands but rejecting the idea. Eastman spoke again and broke the awkward moment.

“The situation with these land reforms is more far reaching than you think you know. Your vision of self-sufficiency needs a co-operative countryside. They’re the ones that put the food on our tables and dispose of our rubbish and produce a lot of our energy. So, now they’ve stopped playing ball, all your workers in the cities are beginning to go hungry, dirty and medieval. You can't take people’s farms and put workers on them who don't know what they are doing. You need the landowners to manage it.”

Baines knew all this. He couldn’t argue, he simply responded, “It wasn’t meant to be like this…”

Eastman continued, “I’m sure you were party to the pact he has signed with the South Americans: England is now, to all intents and purposes, a Brazilian colony. They are arming, funding and training Start’s rapidly growing army. Were you any good at history?”

Baines, humiliated by the freedom he had given Start, made no comment.

“At School, did you like History?” Eastman said slowly with a supercilious tone.

“Don’t fuck around, Eastman.”

“The Vietnam War and the arms race were the catalysts for the flower power movement - you know, everyone dancing around on acid, screwing each other the nice way. Well, your era will go down as the antithesis of that. Your lovey-dovey, super-righteous ideology has spawned a tyrant. Who has unleashed a level of bloodshed and degree of control over people the like of which has not been seen since ISIS rolled into Syria…and we all know what happened to them.”

“I can see what’s happening.” Baines eyes were sharp, determined, “Don’t underestimate me, Eastman. I’ll find a way to put this right.”

“Ben, most of the people who would react are on the payroll. His first rule is the mixed squads, so your educated followers are now serving in military units next to violent thugs and criminals who are benefiting from the brutality of the regime. Fear keeps the peace better than any other form of control. Start uses those who enjoy the lawlessness to maintain the terror through the rank and file of the NSO, as well as that of the general population. I always told you there are too many variables in society for idealism.”

“You just stick to creeping around in the shadows; I’ll handle Lucas. You remember one thing: it was me. This revolution. It was me they followed. Not you. Not Start, no one else.”

“Maybe, but the last twenty years was nothing in comparison to the mess you’ve made now.”

He turned to walk away and called back over his shoulder,

“You make sure you call me; do the right thing.”

Ben watched him walk away; as he reached the road a black Jaguar car pulled up fast and he hopped into the rear seat. The car sped off - he could hear the large engine growl as it left the curb. He stood for a moment, then looked around quickly as if remembering that he was entirely exposed. He looked at the phone in his hand, slipped it into his coat pocket and began the walk back to his office.

*    *    *    *    *

Rain beat upon their faces as Amber and Stuart roared down the country roads on his powerful quad bike. Stuart drove and Amber rested comfortably behind him with their luggage giving her a back rest. The gear consisted merely of a full jerry can, a holdall full of weapons, some dry clothes and a small amount of food. Both of them wore ponchos to protect from the driving rain, which flapped behind them like the capes of Victorian horsemen.

When they reached the giant concrete structure of the border wall, the crossing point which Amber and her father had used days earlier was now an enormous grey barrier so they followed along the foot of the wall heading west where the land had been cleared by the construction workers. After about five miles the evidence of building became more apparent and they both knew they were getting close to the end of the wall as it stood so far. Stuart hammered on and the bike chewed up the sludgy dirt until the deep treads bit into traction. He could see the dull grey of the wall disappear up ahead and he twisted the throttle to its full extent.

The super-fast bap-bap-bap of the engine resonated through the trees and their headlight betrayed their position; there was no stealth in this mission. Stuart had the bike drifting in a wide left hand arc around the end of the wall and they disappeared on the southern side of the concrete, on English soil and with thousands of tonnes of masonry between them and the Scottish border.

They were travelling with speed and were twenty yards from the end of the wall when the flood lights fired up and illuminated the whole area. Instantly blinded by the sudden glare Stuart momentarily relaxed his grip on the throttle then pointed the handle bars straight and opened it up once again. They could hear some sort of voice over a loud hailer but couldn’t hear the words. They disappeared into the darkness of the woodland along the wall and no one gave chase.

A short while later they slipped out onto the tarmac next to the old stone bridge. The rain was easing off, but the night was pitch black, the cloud cover was thick and dark as a theatre drape. The road was smooth and fast compared to the woodland trails and the heavy peat soil of the open country. Amber hunkered down in the cold of the night, exasperated by the speeding bike. Stuart made the perfect windbreak, his solid frame unmoved by the chill or the ups, downs and shifting camber of the undulating road. Like a machine, he looked south.

An hour later, Stuart skidded to a stop outside Amber’s ruined home. She felt numb in the silence of the night and with the muscle memory of the vibrations from the bike. She pulled her stiff legs off the bike and stretched out, looking into the darkness at the black lump which was her home. Stuart put his arm around her, preparing for tears. But the young woman brushed his arm away, taking a few paces towards the charred ruin, and took a few seconds to absorb it in the night’s sky. She then turned to Stuart, the breeze blew her auburn curls across her face and she swept them aside with a decisive hand. The moonlight broke the cloud for a moment, her pale complexion glowed in the white light and her young eyes had that sudden steel about them.

“Let’s take the bike up the hill- we can hide it in the woods. I know where he will be.”

The quad climbed the steep incline with ease and Amber directed Stuart without a word, she wasn’t going to compete with the snarl of the engine. As they approached the gate into the wood, Amber jumped off the quad and ran over to the gate which she knew so well. As her hand came to rest on the on the sodden moss covered wood, she could feel the damp foliage filling her nostrils with the smell of the cold night. A voice came calm, almost a whisper on the wind,

“What are you doing back here, girl?”

Shocked, Amber jumped back from the gate and squinted into the gloom. There, only five paces in front of her, the huge shadowy figure appeared - her father was standing in the middle of the path. She ran to the gate and pulled the rope loop over the post, freeing the old five bar which she flung back-handed, it swung quickly open and she embraced her father.

*    *    *    *    *

It was overwhelming love he felt for his daughter. He hugged her tight and long. He found he couldn’t speak because he was fighting back tears and he couldn’t let go of her because she would see the state he was in. Stuart was standing close and rested his hand on his friend’s back; Nat finally released his daughter and turned to his old friend. The two men hugged, Nat stood back, his hands still on his friend’s arms.

“I thought you were going to keep her in Scotland?”

“She is your daughter, pal, you know she would have come on her own…”

“Aye, she’s stubborn. It’s good to see you both,” he said with a rare smile and slap on Stuart’s shoulder. It was true, their arrival was easing the loneliness and that eased the pressure he felt. His problems were being halved. 

They spoke little as their feet whispered through the dewy ferns and mosses of the woodland floor. Nat was still shaken from the attack hours before. He had taken the three bodies and dumped them again outside Hexham in the darkness of the evening. They were professionals: they carried nothing except their weapons and empty mobile phones.

The early hours brought the cold, cold air. It was on their nostrils like pure oxygen, fresh and invigorating. The night was unmoving and silent, there was about an hour before the sun began its ascent. Nat led them to the little valley where he had buried Esme and made his rough camp.

As they ventured down the steep side of the ravine, the moonlight lit the waters of the stream and the smooth round boulders. The grass and trees seemed to absorb the silvery light and appeared as thick black shadows. Amber went immediately to her mother’s grave and kneeling beside it she placed a laboured hand on the cold stone.

“Tell me what happened?” She said without raising her head or looking at her father, her voice just drifting across the night.

Nat felt his throat constrict and his eyes well up. His heart raced and his stomach churned. He felt his shoulders begin to heave, but he controlled his emotions and fought back the tears, no good would come of showing weakness in their situation. He began picking up kindling to make a fire as he cleared his throat,

“When I got back to the house, I found her dead - she had been shot in the head and she wouldn’t have known anything about it, Amber.”

He knew that his tone was probably not the most convincing and that he hadn’t made eye contact with Amber, busying himself with the fire. But then he was pretty sure it didn’t matter. Amber didn’t reply, she quietly pulled her knees up to her chin and pulled her jumper down over her legs. She sat quiet, resting her arms on her knees and watched as the morning light began to wash over the valley. Stuart joined Nat at the fire.

“So, tell me what it’s like, how much fighting?”

“It seems to be escalating daily but, to be honest, beyond my stupidity I haven't been at too much risk. They seem to be a mixture of thugs and kids with a sprinkling of people who know what they're doing. I think there is a lot of resistance. I hear gunshots in the day but mostly at night, so I can’t see that I’m the only one fighting.”

He didn't elaborate further, he didn't mention the professionals who almost killed him or the mystery of his protector. He hadn't worked that out for himself yet.

“When did you last sleep in a bed?” asked Stuart.

“A couple of days ago at Claire’s...”

Stuart’s interest sparked up at the mention of Claire, Nat leaned his shoulder across towards Stuart:

“...They shot me and she patched me up, she's fine - don’t worry, keeping her head down.”

“We have to get her with us, make sure she stays safe,” Stuart said, his eyes embroiled in the dancing flames of the catching fire, the orange glow washing over his untamed features.

“We’ll get her - after I finish with the bastards that killed Esme - and then we make a break for Scotland until all this sorts itself out.”

“It might not be so easy for you now, Nat. You are the face of the resistance after what you did, and when everything is said and done what you did will be seen as an atrocity, a war crime.”

“Yeah well, I never wanted to be famous… I’ll drift back into obscurity long before this misery is over.”

“You never know how this will pan out; there is resistance to the regime in Cornwall, Wales and all across the north of England.”

“Is that what the news said?”

“Aye, that’s what it said,” Stuart mumbled with a degree of hopeless resignation in persevering. Both men chuckled into the fire as Amber crept over and nestled herself between the two hulking figures. Nat added a pot of water to the flames; as they watched the orange wisps lick the pan, the water began to steam. Nat put his arm around his daughter as the grey-blue light of morning overcame the dark of night.

“It’s good to see you, my lamb,” he whispered.

*    *    *    *    *

As they sat in the little valley, sipping hot coffee in the fresh morning, half a mile away a ghostly figure floated silently across the farmyard and into the barns. He felt his way across the dark space, the smell of dust and petrol thick within his nose. He didn’t stop to look at what might be in the barn; he was looking for a safe place. He found it in the ladder leading up to the hay loft. He climbed the rickety old wood which creaked wildly under every step and he positioned himself on the edge of the platform with his legs dangling. He perched because he was unsure about the floorboards, he couldn’t risk them being rotten and him crashing through and injuring himself so he stuck to the much thicker joist which made the frame of the mezzanine.