The Village King (11 page)

T
he rain
had
stayed off. “We
won’t get trench-foot, lad,” remarked Frank. Everyone laughed as Stephen
shovelled a load up and out the trench along with the others. Phil was further
up, clearing gorse with the soldiers, while Gary worked alongside Stephen and
Frank.

The trench was coming on. At a
meter deep and two meters wide, they had made it half-way to their objective.
There was continuing discontent amongst some of the village about being pressed
into service. Even Stephen was beginning to wonder why they had started it as
his back felt the strain of another shovel load.

September sunshine had faded to
October skies and nothing further had been heard from the forest. Only the
soldiers ventured up there to hunt for deer and were returning unharmed. But
the silence troubled Stephen; what were the forest folk up to? On his and
Phil’s return, Gary had reported their bunker was still intact. They could
leave here, and go there any time, but Stephen felt compelled to stay. He knew
he was not being honest with himself, or others, for his reasons, but stay he
did and the others stayed with him.

He threw his shovel into the dirt
and leaned his foot on it. He pressed the handle down and lifted another shovel
load out.

He looked to Gary to see what he
was doing but he was standing still. “Having a rest, Gary?” Stephen shouted
out. Gary’s jaw was open. Frank was looking up the road and Stephen noticed
everyone on the line rest their shovels and look up.

Gary said, “Listen.”

Stephen lifted his head and
stilled his breathing. He could hear a low buzzing. It rose in tone then paused
and resumed at a lower tone. It grew louder. The tone changed again. It was an
engine, changing gears. They all started to recognise it, a petrol engine.
Stephen shouted, “Colonel!”

Pullman and Talbot left the
soldiers further up the trench and ran up the road. She threw the Private her
rifle and she drew her Browning pistol. They ran up the road and knelt down
either side of the tarmac. Talbot pressed the SA80 into his shoulder and eyed
the sight. Pullman sighted her pistol up the road and waited. Stephen slapped
Gary on the arm to go and fetch his rifle. The boy gathered his and wits ran
off to the manse.

The vehicle was coming closer.
They could hear the engine getting louder. Finally, round the bend they saw a
white SUV trundle round. As it came closer, Stephen could see it had black
letters painted on the side: UN. The SUV slowed down as it approached and
stopped about 200 metres from where Talbot and Pullman were. It had turned at
an angle.

It sat there for a few moments,
its engine idling. To Stephen’s left, he saw Gary run out the manse and take up
a position parallel to Pullman. He leaned into his rifle and eyed up the
sights, aiming at the truck. Finally, the rear passenger door behind the driver
opened and someone stepped out.

He was tall and wearing a blue
helmet, its paint all chipped, and a Kevlar vest which covered his body. Large
yellow letters on the vest and helmet proclaimed: PRESS. He took short steps in
his cargo trousers and boots. Empty hands were outstretched. “Good afternoon,”
he called out in a southern English accent, his eyes moving from the diggers to
the soldiers and back again. “Is there someone in charge I may speak to?”

Everyone looked at Stephen, who
was looking into the truck. Someone else was in the back while two people sat
up front. The driver kept his hands on the steering wheel, while the other
clearly had a pump-action shotgun in his lap, pointing at the roof. The person in
the back was moving around, trying to see out.

Stephen pulled himself out the
trench. “You can talk to me.”

“May I come forward?” the man
called out.

Stephen beckoned him to approach.
Gary followed him with the rifle, while the soldiers covered the truck. As he
came closer, Stephen was shocked to see that he recognised this man. He was a
television journalist from before the virus; Thomas Townsend. He was smiling
and he kept his empty hands held away from his side.

“Good afternoon, sir,” said
Townsend.

“Good afternoon,” replied
Stephen, cordially. “Are you from the UN?”

Townsend frowned briefly. “No. We
just use one of their old trucks. We’re from the American Broadcast News
Service.”

Stephen almost gasped. “I heard a
report the Americans were hit as bad as us.”

“They were,” said Townsend. He
seemed to be weighing Stephen up, eyeing the surroundings; their village,
trenches, and soldiers. “But things are beginning to change.”

Stephen looked around. He jutted
a chin at the truck. “Who have you brought?”

Townsend glanced over his
shoulder. “Camera operator; driver.” He paused before adding, “Guard.”

“Are you looking for trouble, Mr
Townsend?” said Stephen, revealing he knew the man’s name.

“No,” smiled Townsend, grateful
for being recognised. “We’re here for the news.”

“Well,” said Stephen. “You better
come tell us some.”

T
ownsend
set up
in the
church. The driver parked the SUV out front and the guard stayed at the truck,
after persuasion by the journalist, because Stephen would not allow him inside
with his shotgun. From the back-seat emerged the other passenger, a female
camera operator introduced as “Just Sue.” She hoisted an old beat-up looking
camera onto her shoulder and lit a powerful light on a stand she had set up
earlier. Townsend held a microphone wrapped in fur on the end of a pole and
placed headphones on his head.

As everyone gathered in the pews,
he spoke, looking into the camera. The hubbub around him masked what he was
saying. Stephen and his “family” took their customary place and Karen sat down
in between them and rested her head on Alana’s arm. They ignored Charlie and
his growing entourage who sat further down.

Townsend turned to the
congregation and called out, “Thank you for coming. Please, take a seat.” The
last of the villagers took their seats. Vincent, still dirty from digging, sat
next to Charlie. “Thanks again. Your welcome is gratefully received.” Townsend
raised a glass of whisky he had been given earlier.

“Is the telly back on, then?”
someone shouted. Alana smiled at Stephen. He found himself laughing along with
everyone else.

Once the laughter had died down,
Townsend said seriously, “In America, yes. Here? I don’t believe so.” He went
on to tell them about how he came to be here filming.

Like many others in the south-east
of Britain, he had fled across the water from the virus. Things were bad there,
too, like everywhere. French authorities were unable to help much but Americans
had come to the refugee camps and did the best they could. Journalists filming
for the ABNS, the American Broadcast News Service, had recognised Townsend. He
had been offered a job touring around Britain to file news reports about the
situation.

What he found echoed the news
brought by Malcolm in the yacht “The Mercury”. There were isolated pockets of
places similar to their village, some terrible lawless places, but mostly what
they found was empty land. Official estimates put the population of the former
UK at under two million.

There were gasps from the
congregation when they heard that. Charlie called out, “That would make sixty
million dead?”

“At least,” said Townsend. “The
virus got the most; the civil war got many; famine and other disease; murder.”

He listed the causes of death
like some far away statistic, thought Stephen, and he felt a few eyes on him. Something
Townsend had said popped back into Stephen’s head. “You said ‘former’ UK?”

“Indeed I did,” said Townsend.
“There is no UK Government anymore, let alone Scotland or Wales. We’re not sure
about Ireland but we do know about Orkney and Shetland.”

Townsend was letting the people
take in the information bit by bit, pausing after each new item. It explained
his confusion about his query on the UN, thought Stephen, Townsend had not
realised the news never reached here. There was probably no UN either. There
were a few whispers and murmuring in the room but mostly people kept quiet and
listened. Some asked about Orkney and Shetland.

“Claimed back by Norway,” said
Townsend, “though there are American troops on the ground in Shetland.”

“What for?” Pullman had stood up.

Townsend looked around the room.
“They are guarding Sullom Voe oil terminal. Production is up and running in the
North Sea too in a joint effort between the US and Norway.”

“Are the troops coming here?”
Pullman sounded angry all of a sudden. The mood in the room was changing. Sue
swivelled the camera around catching the reactions.

Stephen saw that Alana noticed
this. She leaned into him. “He’s here to find the news, not tell it.” He nodded
in understanding and thought about Malcolm telling him he had seen some
mysterious activity on the north-east horizon; those ships were probably
involved in oil production.

Townsend managed to calm everyone
down by talking over them. “We don’t know what their plans are but my sense is
that no, they won’t come here.”

There was hush. Everyone was
thinking, why not? If the Americans had enough of a society to dig for oil,
send troops, and finance journalists, then why were they not doing more?
Townsend took a sip of his whisky. His hand was shaking. He said, “Your whisky
is very good. And what a lovely church. What happened to your hall?”

Heads turned to Stephen. He
calmly looked back at Townsend and said nothing despite the camera pointing at
him. Changing the subject, Townsend told them the rest.

The south-east remained the least
populated. People had fled north when they couldn’t get on the boats across the
channel. There was talk of rebuilding a civilian government backed by France
and Germany, but no-one Townsend had spoken to knew where the Royals were. When
he spoke about that, Stephen glanced at Pullman. She had told him how she had
shot refugees trying to get on board the HMS Defender, as it left Rosyth, with
the royal family on board. Having fled from Balmoral, they had boarded in Fife
and headed off, leaving Pullman as a Sergeant in Colonel Morgan’s unit.

Townsend explained how Europe was
just as badly hit by the virus but were getting organised again. The larger
landmass meant more people were around. In the British Isles, defences like the
M74 wall and the Manchester bombings had failed to contain the spread of the
virus. When he had finished, there were few people with an appetite for more
news.

S
tephen
sat at
the end of
the pier. He let his feet dangle off the edge. The horizon was blank. Frank sat
further on at the end of the moorings and dozed while his fishing rod did the
work. On the shore, Karen and Alana walked along, picking up stones and
throwing them in the water. Waves gulped against the pier and washed the pebble
beach.

When he heard footsteps, Stephen
turned around. Townsend was walking towards him, alone. “May I join you?” he
asked and gestured to a spot next to Stephen. When Stephen nodded, Townsend
eased himself down. He was stiff, and he looked older than when he had been on
television. He breathed in the clear air.

They sat in silence for a few
minutes. Frank was beginning to snore which made Stephen laugh lightly.
Townsend joined in. “Lovely day, isn’t it?”

Stephen felt sorry for the
journalist, trying to break the ice. He looked at him seriously. “Why won’t the
Americans come and help us?”

Townsend breathed in, realising
the ice had broken. “They’re almost in as bad shape as us. What resources they
can spare are allocated to rebuilding some sort of infrastructure.”

Stephen thought about that. “And
our oil is helping them.”

“East Lothian is beautiful,
Stephen. But there’s nothing here worth having.” Townsend was speaking plainly,
perhaps feeling he was expected to, but he softened it by adding, “In the grand
scheme of things. Except your whisky.”

Stephen couldn’t help himself but
smile. “Why wasn’t it as bad over there?”

“It was as bad, apparently. Why
we’re in this state, I don’t know. But there’s something about the virus people
don’t know.”

Stephen shrugged. “What’s there
to know now? We’re all immune.”

“That’s the thing,” said
Townsend. He looked around as if they would be overheard. “Some might have had
a low dose of it; sick then recovered. But the thing about the virus is, most
of us left just never caught it.”

Stephen blew air out. He had to
let that thought sink in. The implication was staggering. It was blind luck
they were still there. They sat and listened to the water for a while. Stephen
finally asked, “So why are you here?”

“Don’t underestimate the US
affection for England, Stephen.”

“England?” He smiled at the
endearing trait of Americans to refer to Britain as England.

Townsend started to get animated.
He kept his voice low so as not to wake Frank, but he spoke with urgency. “But
it’s my job to go beyond that. At the moment, American viewers see a far-off
land where a war rages. Soon, they will see places like yours and see the real
people. Then, they’ll want to do something.”

Stephen nodded. He could
understand that. “So what do you want to do here?”

Townsend spoke even quieter.
There was a slight tremor in his voice, as if scared. “I’d like to be able to
talk to people and ask them about their experiences.”

Stephen shrugged. He had no
intention of standing in Townsend’s way. He could do what he liked.

Townsend leaned in, “The good
things. And the bad.”

Stephen nodded. Now he
understood. The journalist had already been talking to people in the village
and he was probably starting to hear stories of recent developments. He guessed
they were from Charlie, directly or not. Then Townsend added, “We would want to
hear all sides.”

Stephen looked coldly. “Are you
looking for confessions?”

“No, no, no, no.”

“I’m not finished.” Stephen held
up a hand. Alana and Karen had left the beach and were walking down the pier.
When they heard Stephen’s tone they stopped. Townsend blinked and swallowed.
Stephen went on, “Cross the river. Walk up the shore, there’s narrow track just
up from the beach. There’s a gorse bush, huge, which masks a short hollow. Are
you following this?”

Townsend nodded, his face pale.

“In that hollow, there are three
bodies. They’ll be a state now but people from here will recognise them. We’re
free now, because those three bodies are there.”

“Are you threatening me?”

Stephen huffed a laugh. “Are you
recording me?”

“No,” said Townsend. “I swear I’m
not.”

“Well, maybe you should have,”
said Stephen. Frank shuddered awake at the raised voices. “You could listen
again to what I said.” Alana and Karen made the final few steps and sat next to
Stephen.

Townsend said, “I meant no offence,
Mr-“

Stephen pointed out beyond the
river. “If you’re looking for an atrocity, you’ll find it up there. If you want
to know what happened here, dig up the church yard. If you think the choices
I’ve made have been easy, then report it.” He breathed heavily out his nose and
then said more quietly. “Help us. Or, take your car and clear off.”

Townsend waited for a moment. He
looked like he was about to say something, before he thought better of it, and
puffed to his feet and left. Alana placed her head on Stephen’s shoulder. Frank
went back to sleep.