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The nearest point of the encirclement was past the camp, across a small field, through a row of shrubs and down a shallow slope. Mordred tried to take the lead, but Hannah skipped up and linked arms with him. “Give me the flag and I’ll let you do the talking,” she said. Her voice trembled. She didn’t add anything. Though getting there took no more than three minutes, everyone’s boots filled with lead, their bodies with adrenalin and their brains with endorphins. When they arrived, they were both high on natural chemicals and sluggish with despair.
Twelve men in leather jackets and jeans stood up in mild surprise and turned to face the surrender-party. Mordred waved his white flag and smiled. He’d have to say his speech again in whatever language they spoke, but he might as well rehearse it. Give Hannah and her friends a flavour.
“Nice evening,” he said. “I’m John, and these are my friends from the camp across the way. We’ve come out here to ask if you’ll let us out. We realise we’ve lost. We don’t want anyone to get hurt. We’re willing to leave the island, if necessary. You’ve nothing to gain by hurting us. We’ve got a pregnant woman among us, as you can see. Probably more than one, given the lack of TV on an evening.”
The men looked at each other. They seemed annoyed by their own puzzlement. “We don’t speak English,” one of them said.
Mordred smiled. “Luckily, you don’t have to,” he replied in Lithuanian.
“Hey,” the same man replied in surprise. He grinned. “Whoa. Was that - ?”
“Me speaking your language,” Mordred said.
He didn’t expect what happened next. They all came over and started shaking his hand, slapping him on the back and laughing like he was an old friend.
“Not before time!” one of them said, a giant with a round stubbly head, a double chin, and a high-pitched voice. “I’m Vincas Samauskas. I’m in charge here. What’s your name?”
“John Mordred. I don’t get it - ”
“Are you in charge in the camp, John?”
He didn’t really know what was going on any more. “Er, I can be. If you want.”
“Because in about three hours, you’re going to be attacked.”
“I know.”
“You know? How?”
“We’ve got a spy in Saint Helier,” Mordred replied. “A taxi driver.”
“Hang on, I recognise you. You were the guy they beat up. We thought you were still in hospital.”
“I received an early discharge.”
“We banged a few heads together outside, stop them making away with you. Why isn’t anyone inside the camp doing anything?”
Mordred scratched his head. “Who are you? If, er, you don’t mind me asking?”
“We were sent here by Mr Decristoforo. To protect you.”
This took what felt like a full minute to sink in. Mordred felt his head blow off and his breath vanish within his chest.
“What is it?” Hannah said anxiously. “What’s going on, John? Say something.”
“They’re here to look after us!” he said. “My God, they’re not going to attack us, they’re here to defend us!”
“You need to start working,” Vincas said. “We’ve got shovels and spades and stuff. All you need. Get your manpower together. No one behind you need get hurt tonight. Just do as we say.”
Trenches were dug, spiked stakes were driven into the ground, people armed themselves with clubs and spears made from dismembered trees, and prepared for battle. A sense of urgency reigned, born of excitement. Ramparts were erected, orders barked, and chain gangs passed boulders from the beach over a mile away. At eleven, the news was bellowed round the camp that a one thousand-odd strong militia had set out from Saint Helier. Vincas and his men were all in the camp now. In the last couple of days, they’d seen the enemy running reconnaissance missions, and knew the three or four points by which they’d attempt ingress. They fortified them with concealed defenders.
The Lithuanians’ orders were transmitted through Mordred to a network of adjutants, who took them to all corners of the twelve fields the protesters occupied. At half past eleven, news came in that the assault force was halfway there. The drums were brought out, and fitted to PA speakers driven by diesel generators. Men began to play them, another one joining the throng every five minutes, until the noise was deafening.
“Put the fear of God into them!” Vincas shouted. “They know we know they’re coming!” He laughed. “If you were among them, how would your knees feel right now?”
“WHAT?” Mordred shouted.
“I SAID - ” He gave a dismissive wave. “You’ll be able to hear this all over the island!”
“My ears are bleeding!”
“If that’s the worst that happens to you tonight, I’ve done my job!”
One of his men came up, cupped his hands and shouted something in his ear. He stood up, beaming.
“They’re starting to turn back!” he shouted. “We’ve been harrying them all the way from the capital. Rocks thrown, clubs swung, all out of nowhere. That and the drums – they’re giving up!”
Mordred smiled. He laughed. No one here was going to die. Everyone was going to live. They’d won, with hardly a shot being fired.
“Where are you going?” Vincas shouted.
“I’ve got to tell my sister!”
Another drum joined the reprise, at God knows how many gigahertz. Trumpets sounded. Now it really was impossible to hear.
Three days passed. Summer seemed to turn overnight to autumn. The air grew colder and the breeze from the sea a little less friendly. It felt like soon they’d be looking up at V’s of geese flying south for the winter. Mordred didn’t know whether you got that here. Did they pass over Jersey on their way to Africa? He hadn’t been recalled to London yet. Maybe he’d stay long enough to find out.
The presence of Decristoforo’s reinforcements had obviously reached Pownall. No more was heard of his militia. Presumably, he was sensible enough to realise that tit-for-tat could be the end of everything for everyone. He’d said The Waiting Game was his Plan B. Winter would achieve what amateur soldiers couldn’t.
Mordred asked Vincas about himself. He owned a private security firm in Vilnius, guarding compounds at night, the rich and famous at home, money on its way from A to B. He’d met Peter Decristoforo about a year ago, after the old man invited him to England to discuss ‘a large scale project’. He hadn’t gone into details, but did provide enough in terms of a first class flight to and from Heathrow, three days’ accommodation at a top London hotel, a chauffeur-driven car and a variety of paid-for outings, to convince the Lithuanian that he meant business. It turned out that what he wanted was what Vincas had just provided: a hundred strongmen to defend a protesters’ encampment on Jersey. Be ready for the call.
Which meant Decristoforo was one of World War O’s prime instigators. Mordred reported back to MI7, and the search for him was upgraded to top priority. Vincas claimed not to know where he was and within a few hours of talking to Mordred, he and his men disappeared, leaving all their equipment behind. According to hearsay, they left in ten big rowing boats from the east of the island like a band of Vikings desperate for Denmark.
Hannah knew that spies could still be anywhere, so she was careful to keep news of the departure to herself and her immediate circle. Theoretically, the camp was wide open to attack again, but there was a new confidence now, and, for a few days, humiliating defeat no longer looked a possibility. Thanks to the generator, mobile phones could be re-charged. Food in varying quantities arrived from sea, from foraging and from sympathisers in the surrounding villages.
Then the trickle of people leaving turned into something more. Four days after the Lithuanian exodus, and from a combination of causes including boredom, hunger, lack of running water, fatigue, the cold, low morale, the camp had shrunk by three quarters, and its end looked in sight. Suddenly, there were more flags than there were people, and the depletion showed no signs of slowing.
At last, even Hannah seemed to realise the game was up. She sat outside her tent with Mordred one sunny evening and watched a pair of seagulls glide over.
“How long do you think it’ll be before Pownall sends his men in again?” she asked. “Not that he’ll need to now, but I’m sure he’ll want to give us a whipping before we leave. Just to console himself.”
“We’d better get you out of here then. You’re not a ship’s captain. You don’t have to go down with the vessel. And to be fair, we are trespassing on someone’s land.”
“It’ll be fabulous to see Tim again. And get a proper shower.”
“There’s still the City of London. Apparently, resistance is still going strong there. But then that’s because the mayor insists on dealing with it in-house ... so I’ve heard.”
“Are you and Gabrielle serious?”
“We have our ups and downs. I don’t know.”
“Are you sure you’re not gay?”
“As sure as I can be.”
“Because everyone will be all right with it, you know. In the family, I mean. Even mum and dad. Obviously not Gabrielle, but that’s why I’m asking. I wouldn’t want her to get hurt because you’re in denial.”
“I’m not in denial.”
“I don’t understand why you’re not serious about her then. She obviously likes you, and she’s really attractive, and she’s a nice person, and she’s intelligent. Is it because she’s taller than you?”
“That’s it, yes.”
“Sorry, I’m prying. I’ll be quiet now.”
“Okay.”
“She’s related to Edna Watson,” Hannah told him. “The Olympic sprinter.”
“I know.”
“Sorry, I said I’d shut up.”
They sat in silence for a while. The sun beat down, the air filled with gorse scent, and a single bird repeated a refrain. Somewhere in the far distance, a ship’s horn blew.
“I’ve been thinking about what Pownall told you to tell me,” she said.
“Oh?”
“Maybe he’s right. I don’t know, I’m not a financial expert. Maybe Jersey is completely transparent now. The point is, why should anyone believe anything any of them say any more?”
“Let it go.”
“I can’t. It’s their arrogance.”
“Here comes Kit, the magic taxi-driver.”
She looked in the usual direction. Just as before the attack, he made his way painstakingly towards them, looking at the ground. Newsflash from Saint Helier. They had radio access out here, but often Hannah’s spies would be so far ahead of the game, information would arrive at the camp before it arrived anywhere else. Mordred put out an extra deckchair and Hannah opened a can of lemonade.
“Bad news,” Kit called out, as soon as he was within speaking distance.
“Come and sit down,” Hannah said. “Have a drink.”
“Have you heard the weather forecast?” he asked.
“No, but it’s a very nice evening.”
“There’s a hurricane on its way.”
Hannah laughed.
“I’m not kidding,” Kit said. “Why would I joke about a thing like that? You’re completely exposed up here. You need to split up and find shelter. Barns, cattle sheds, anything. Go into the towns, sit down somewhere. A pub or something. You can’t stay here.”
Hannah walked away a short distance. She sighed desolately and put her hands on her head. “Have either of you ever read the Book of Job? Where, right at the beginning, a series of messengers arrives with bad news?” She did an imitation in a low voice. “‘The Sabeans attacked and killed all your servants’; ‘a bolt of lightning burned up all your sheep’; ‘your house fell down’. I feel like I’m him. ‘Pownall’s put together a militia and he’s coming to get you’; ‘all your supporters are deserting’; ‘there’s a hurricane on the way’. Sorry I laughed.”
“I can see the funny side,” Kit said unconvincingly, “when you put it like that.” He drank his lemonade.
Mordred sighed. “I suppose we’d better tell everyone.”
“And bid them good bye,” Hannah said. “This is just the excuse everyone needs to leave. It’s everyone for himself with a force twelve gale in the offing.”
“Pownall seems pretty convinced of that too,” Kit said. “He came for a look at you all this afternoon, from just over there. Brought two of the other ministers with him in one of our cars. Last glimpse of the rebellion. This was the forecast they’d all been waiting for, apparently, something once-in-a-lifetime. He’s got a direct line to the Met office in London. Gets to hear the good news early.”
Now that Mordred looked, there were dark clouds right down on the horizon in the west. Angry looking slabs of cold, granite-bottomed steam, shooting electric flashes. Yes, you had to hand it to them: they did look quite Biblical. Very like the Book of Job.
Soraya and her band were coming up the slope. They’d been in the sea since four that afternoon, and they’d taken to wandering round the camp in their underwear unless it was cold. They seemed permanently depressed now, like they’d ended up in jail but they didn’t know how. Every day Soraya’s fans brought her supplies from mainland France, so she wasn’t hungry. None of them were. “I’m losing my mystique,” she said one morning as she stood in the ocean eating baked beans from a can with a tablespoon. “Sooner or later, people are going to start seeing me for who I really am.” Even so, photographers still came from Rennes, Le Mans and Paris, risking their lives in fragile-looking boats, just to take a few shots of her.
“What’s going down this evening?” she asked sardonically. “God, I’m bored. Never again. Never be a protest queen no more, no more, never protest no more, oh Lord.”
“There’s going to be a hurricane,” Hannah said.
“Yeah, sure.”
“I’m not joking. Look.” She pointed to the clouds.
“Sure. I’m not an idiot.”
Hannah laughed. “What are you talking about? I never said you were.”
“I know what a hurricane is, girl. It’s wind. And I know what wind is. It’s air. And air’s see-through. So don’t go taking the piss. I’m fed up enough. If it wasn’t for the fact that you’re carrying my child - ”
“God-child,” Hannah corrected her.
“Hannah’s not joking,” Kit told Soraya. “The thing about moving air, baby, is that it moves other things. Like clouds. And it moves them in certain ways so you can tell from a distance how fast that air’s moving, and that you’d better shift your sweet bippy if you know what’s good for you. I’m from the USA. We have hurricanes all the time. And believe me, wonder gal, that is one. If I was back where I came from, folks’d be battening down the hatches now.”
“So she’s not just saying that to cheer me up?” Soraya said, wide-eyed. “There really is going to be one?”
“You bet your sorry ass,” Kit said grimly.
Soraya looked as if she’d won the lottery. She extended both her arms and looked emotionally at the sky. “Whoo-HOO! Thank you, GOD!” She stood on Hannah’s deckchair and addressed the camp. “Hey, listen up, everyone! Great news! THERE’S GOING TO BE A HURRICANE!”
Suddenly, everyone was standing up, whoo-hoo-ing and giving thanks to whatever deity they believed in. The excitement-drought had finally come to an end.
“Does anyone in Britain actually know what a hurricane is?” Kit asked.
“Only what we’ve gleaned from The Wizard of Oz,” Mordred replied.
