REAPER WAS TRANSPORTED to Banbury in the back of a military truck. It stopped at a civic building and he was transferred into the back of a Transit van for a twenty minute drive made in total blackness. When the rear doors opened again, the van was in an enclosed yard alongside a large house.
He was led down outside stone steps and put in a cellar that had one small horizontal window at ceiling level. The cellar contained a camp bed and an old-fashioned kitchen sink. There was no other furniture. He guessed that the yellow plastic bucket was his toilet. At least it had been washed out. The sink’s single tap worked so he had water, although it was probably unfit for drinking. A bottle of water was by the bed.
The room was about four metres square with whitewashed plaster walls and a stone flagged floor. He lay on a camp bed, put his hands behind his head and wondered how long they would make him wait.
He woke early when first light provided poor illumination through the high window. He got up, had a piss in the sink and turned on the tap to rinse it clean, and lay down again. An hour later, wide awake, he exercised. Push ups, sit ups, physical jerks. He worked up a sweat and lay down again and waited some more.
The day dragged on. Nobody came. He became hungrier, but that was their intention. Make him uncomfortable, make him worry about what was to happen, make him nervous. He napped. He had another drink. He did more exercises. He napped again. The hours dragged. He tried not to make plans. It would be better if he just reacted. He thought of Greta and a future together. He thought of Sandra and wondered when she would find another chap. He thought how the dying of the old world had given him a new life. But that was the same for everyone. For some, the new life would never compare to what had been lost. For him, it had been a chance at redemption. But not this Redemption.
He thought of his daughter, a suicide at fourteen. The hurt was as deep as ever. He thought of the crime that had caused her to take her own life. Back then, when the world was supposed to have been civilised, men raped. Now that society’s safeguards had gone, men raped more than ever. A vile crime that was often worse than murder. Had men always been prone to such evil?
Throughout history, it had always been a by-product of war. Part of the victor’s spoils. Defeat the enemy, sack the city and take the women. Give men the veneer of a social life, jobs, wages and respectability, and most would never contemplate abusing women: they were the fairer sex, to be protected. But how soon respectability was shed when there was nobody to enforce the law, the rules, the moral code.
Was it any different here, under the New Army of General Purcell?
He fell asleep when the darkness deepened and was startled from a dream that was instantly forgotten when they came in the dead of night. A bright torch shone in his face, a boot kicked the camp bed. ‘Up, up!’ said the voice. Harsh, brutal, portending pain.
Reaper got to his feet and was pushed towards the door. He couldn’t see clearly but guessed there were two of them. He took a step before he remembered to limp. He turned it into a stagger, his hands out like a blind man. Someone knocked his arm away.
He stumbled up the outside stone steps into a cool night. The air was fresh and pleasant, a scent of some kind of blossom he couldn’t identify. He was pushed and guided by the beam of a torch, along a path at the back of the house. Light spilled from an open doorway. He was shoved inside and stumbled again, held his leg and winced.
The room was a scullery. A washing machine, drier, freezer and refrigerator lined one wall. It was lit by electric light. They had a generator. Two doors led from it. One of the guards moved past him and opened one of them and pushed him again. It was a room without windows and a stone flagged floor. The walls were plaster and had at one time been white. Now they were dirty and patchy. A kitchen table was in the middle of the room, two hardback chairs either side of it. The only light in the room came from a high-powered desk lamp on an adjustable arm, that was pointed at the one vacant chair on his side of the table. A man sat in the other chair. The shadows made it difficult to see him but he was bulky and silent. A brown cardboard file was on the table next to the lamp.
A second table was against a wall. Upon it were pincers, pliers and DIY tools that could also be used as weapons of torture. Two large hooks had been embedded in another wall; chains hung from them. They hung nicely over stains on the plaster that could very easily be blood.
A guard pushed him to the vacant chair and he sat down.
‘Good morning,’ Reaper said.
The hulk in the shadows said nothing. The two guards remained behind him, standing either side of the door, which they had closed.
They waited.
At last, the hulk said, ‘Name?’
Reaper said, ‘Tom Watson. And you are?’
‘Where are you from?’
‘The Welsh borders.’
‘Whereabouts?’
‘That’s close enough.’
‘No it isn’t.’
‘Perhaps I’m missing something here, but I came looking for organisation, leadership, a new beginning. Prince Harry, for God’s sake. I came to offer my services as a pilot. And what do I get? Shot down, locked up, kept in a cellar and now given a third degree straight out of a B movie and instruments of torture from Hammer horror. Now we both know my value as a pilot. You start damaging me and I may never fly again. As it is, you’ve hurt my leg and it’s going to be at least ten days before I can get up in a kite again. So cut the bullshit and take me to your leader. Or at least back to that camp bed. I was having a very nice dream when your goons woke me up. Jane Fonda in her heyday. Remember Barbarella?’
Silence again. The hulk twitched. This was not going the way he had intended. He opened the file, took out a map and unfolded it on the table. He thumped it. ‘Show me where you came from,’ he said forcefully.
‘No.’
A long pause. Reaper suspected the man did not have too many brain cells and his attitude was challenging the three that were active. ‘No?’ Pause. ‘Why not?’ He sounded genuinely puzzled.
‘Because I have another aircraft there and I don’t want you sending a lorry load of idiots to tie it to a tow truck and haul it back here.’
The hulk scratched his head. Maybe he was trying to find another brain cell. ‘We can hurt you.’
‘No you can’t,’ Reaper said patiently. ‘I’ve already explained why.’
‘We can starve you.’
‘Now that is plain stupid. Why would you want to?’
‘So you’ll tell us what we want to know.’
‘What is it that you want to know?’
‘Where you come from.’
‘No problem. I’ll take you there when my leg’s better. But I’m not telling you. Now, unless you can provide me with a cup of tea and a bacon sandwich, perhaps you can get your chums to take me back to my room. You are beginning to piss me off.’
The man got up suddenly and kicked his chair back across the room with a clatter. He took two strides around the table and pulled back his right fist as if to swing a punch. A bulky man, overweight, with broad shoulders, a beard and small eyes. He had a sergeant’s stripes on his uniform and was wearing black leather gloves. Probably had delicate knuckles that needed protection when beating up prisoners. Reaper didn’t move. He was almost sure a blow would exceed the chap’s authority. He didn’t throw one. Instead, he turned around and returned to the shadows.
‘Take him back,’ he said, and the guards escorted him back to the cellar and the camp bed.
* * *
He completed his limited ablutions in the dawn light and waited for Round Two. Two guards came again. He didn’t know if they were the same two. They wore combat uniform and black berets and side arms. The day was cloudy but warm. He was taken into the scullery and along a shadowed corridor, into the wide hall of a handsome house. He was guided upstairs and into a bathroom.
A guard said, ‘There’s hot water,’ and they left him.
A stack of white towels, fresh underwear and socks and a blue Polo shirt.
Reaper stripped and showered. It was a wallow in luxury. They were extravagant with their display of oil-fired affluence. He washed his hair and shaved, dressed in the clean items and threw his old ones in a bin. He felt better already and suspected the bacon sandwich might not be beyond the realms of possibility. He exited the bathroom and rejoined the waiting guards who took him downstairs. One knocked at a door, opened it and he was ushered inside.
The room was wood panelled and had a dining table with a dozen chairs round it and an array of dishes on a long sideboard. He could smell the bacon. A man who could only be General Purcell was already at the table, eating breakfast. A neat man who sat erect and used his knife and fork precisely. He looked up and nodded a greeting.
‘Help yourself,’ he said.
The guards departed and Reaper limped to the sideboard and heaped bacon, sausage, eggs and fried tomato onto a plate and cut himself a wedge of bread. Tea and coffee were both on offer and he poured himself a mug of black coffee. He took the food and the drink to the table and sat opposite the general.
The general smiled and said, ‘Eat. Plenty of time to talk.’
He ate. Purcell finished, refreshed his cup with tea and walked to the window to stare out at the garden. He sipped the tea, comfortable in a silence broken only by Reaper devouring the food. It did not take Reaper long. He was starving. When he had finished, Purcell returned to the table and held out his hand. Reaper stood up and shook it.
‘I’m General Purcell.’
‘Tom Watson.’
‘I hope you didn’t mind last night’s little pantomime?’
Reaper shrugged and said, ‘I much prefer this approach. My compliments to your cook.’
They resumed their seats.
‘Ah, Adams. He’s indispensable. Not much of a soldier but he looks after me well. The other approach was standard military procedure.’ He smiled again and Reaper couldn’t tell whether the man was being patronising or sincere. He also didn’t think being threatened in a cellar in the middle of the night was standard military procedure, but who was he to dispute the point? ‘I never did think it would work with you. As you made quite clear, you know your worth.’
‘I’ve had time to consider it. I estimate we are getting down to the bare bones of civilisation. A few more gone and we may never recover. That’s why I came here. It seems you have started the recovery. Stopped the rot. It seemed to be the best place for me and somewhere I could be useful.’ Reaper fixed Purcell with a look. ‘And be rewarded for my usefulness.’
Purcell nodded. ‘I admire both your honesty and your grasp of the new reality. We live in a meritocracy. Skills and leadership will always be rewarded. And you have a very special skill.’
‘There were 30,000 pilots in the UK before the virus,’ he said, re-quoting de Courcy. ‘I reckon maybe a dozen survived. Take out the suicides and the victims and the ones who went insane, and there are not a lot left.’ Purcell nodded. ‘Which makes me, as you say, special. What makes me more special is that I can teach others to fly.’
He saw the gleam in the general’s eyes. This was a development Purcell had not considered.
‘You can teach?’
‘Back at my modest HQ, I have everything you need to teach others – including a simulator.’
‘A simulator?’
‘Nearest thing you’ll get to flying without leaving your living room. The latest technology, before technology collapsed, that can help those with the right aptitude become a pilot.’
‘It’s that good?’
‘It is.’
‘And you can do this?’
‘I can. This is for light aircraft but, with your backing, we can find other simulators, more advanced, so that pilots with the basic knowledge can learn to fly helicopters and jets.’
‘These simulators exist?’
‘They have them at Heathrow, Gatwick and Manchester airports. They must be at other places, too. And I’ve landed at RAF airfields in the north. There are jet fighters just waiting for a team of mechanics to give them a service and they would be ready to go.’
Purcell was obviously interested but controlled his emotions well. ‘You believe that all this is a possibility?’
‘I know it is, general. You could have a real air force.’
The general nodded as if it made perfect sense so Reaper fed him some more.
‘When the military units moved south to join you, they destroyed all weapons and explosives they couldn’t carry.’ He shrugged. ‘It made sense to be cautious. But there is one RAF station I know that has a bunker full of missiles. It’s sealed and safe and ready when we are. I’m not just talking about an air force, general. I’m talking about air power.’
‘Which station?’
‘It’s in Yorkshire. But it’s safe. No one else can access it. The missiles will wait until we have the pilots. It was up there that I found a mechanic. He’s waiting for me back at base.’
‘A mechanic as well? You seem to have been very fortunate.’
‘He was a motor mechanic. I introduced him to aircraft engines. He is now first class and a trained man on the ground is indispensable. There are plenty of light aircraft sitting on airfields and in hangars, but it takes time to make sure they’re safe. It’s a long way down if something goes wrong. That’s another reason to go back. For my mechanic and an aircraft I know I can trust.’ Reaper gave the general a smile of optimism and caution across the table. ‘Of course, at the moment there’s just me and a mechanic. But I’ve had time to think things through. This mission you have undertaken will take years. Building an air force will be a slow process, but I guarantee you’ll have your first pilots flying light aircraft within three months. Once they’re proficient, some can move on to helicopters. Easier than road transport, excellent for fast troop movement. The best pilots can move on to jet simulators. That will take a lot longer. But in, say, eighteen months time, you could have a jet fighter at your command.’ Reaper worried momentarily that he was laying it on a bit thick, but it seemed exactly what Purcell wanted to hear.
‘Mr Watson, if you deliver only a fraction of what you promise, you will be an undoubted asset and will be very welcome here in Redemption. The rewards will be considerable. We shall endeavour to make up for the rudeness of your arrival and the loss of your aircraft.’
‘No problem. I was probably flying too low and invited trouble.’ He patted his leg and said, ‘There’s no lasting damage.’
‘As regards your leg, I shall have our medical people do what they can. As regards an airfield, there is one that might be suitable not far from here at Hinton – the other side of the M40. Or you could scout around the village to see if there is anything suitable?’
‘Is Hinton in good repair?’
‘I shall ensure that it is.’
‘Then that will be fine.’
‘As regards Redemption itself, you may have questions?’
‘Not really. I know the mine is a work camp and that you operate other camps for troublemakers.’
The general raised an eyebrow.
‘They put me in the canteen at the mine and the cook was talkative. I was impressed with what I heard. Redemption has discipline, control, an army, a civilian population and a plan for the future. What you have created isn’t just a chance for survival. It’s the start of a new nation. I’d like to be part of it.’
Reaper had taken his attempt at ‘sincerity’ as close to patronising as he dared and hoped Purcell would accept it. Megalomaniacs usually did. Purcell did.
‘I think we will get along, Mr Watson. We share a vision that others are often too small-minded to see. But there is one thing you haven’t asked me about, and I am intrigued to know why?’
‘You mean Prince Harry?’
‘I do, indeed, mean Prince Harry.’
‘A popular figurehead always appeals to the masses and you can’t get much more popular than Harry. But he’s a fake. Everything I’ve heard about Redemption has centred around you, General, not Harry.’
He could see Purcell was again flattered.
‘You seem very sure, Mr Watson.’
‘The real Harry has a pilot’s license. In fact, he has more than that. He can fly both fixed wing and helicopters and he’s a qualified instructor. By now, you would have had Harry – or the men he’s trained – flying reconnaissance all over the country. I haven’t seen any. I wonder why?’
Purcell smiled. ‘The real Prince Harry would be too valuable to risk in an aircraft.’
‘Maybe, but I’m still betting the one you’ve got is a fake. He’s a figurehead. But he’s a fake. Am I right?’
Purcell said, ‘You’ll find out at dinner, Mr Watson. I do hope you will join us?’