THE FORCES OF HAVEN WERE at the White Cottage two days in advance. Their group was formidable. Four teams of Blues, two teams of Scots, Ash, Pete Mack, Smiffy and Sandra, plus an impressive array of armaments. Dr Greta Malone had insisted on coming with them. Her logic was simple: there would be action, there would be casualties, there would be need for emergency treatment. Besides, she needed to be as near as possible to Reaper.
They stood to the day before deadline. By evening, they realised no one was coming and relaxed. The next day, they were in position with the dawn and waited again. Still no one came.
Doubts deepened with the dusk.
‘One more day.’ Yank said. ‘There’s still one more day.’
Reaper had said he would be back in four days but to allow five in case of unexpected contingencies. Five meant the unexpected had happened. Sandra didn’t like the implications.
They spent an uncomfortable night. Some camped at the airfield, some stayed in the White Cottage. Sandra remained at the field to be that much closer; she sat in the caravan that had served as control for the strip, drank coffee and watched the night. At two in the morning, she heard a sound outside and reached for her carbine.
‘It’s only me.’ Greta pushed open the door and came inside. She helped herself to coffee and sat on the couch.
‘He’ll be all right,’ Sandra said.
‘I know,’ Greta said. But she did not sound convinced.
They sat for a long time in silence, staring through the wide window at a clear sky.
Greta said, ‘You’ve known him from the beginning, haven’t you?’
‘Dad and daughter.’
‘You could be. You’re very alike.’
Sandra was pleased Greta thought so. It hadn’t occurred to her before. Others might not have appreciated such a comparison but, yes, she was pleased.
‘I never knew my dad. He went absent without leave. I’ve never thought about it before, but if I could have chosen one, it would have been Reaper. You know about his daughter? His real daughter?’
‘Yes.’
‘We’re the same age. And the same thing happened to me. You know?’
‘I know.’
‘We were the first. Me and Reaper. He found me, rescued me, trained me.’ She gave a sort of laugh that was tinged with sadness for a lost life and, maybe, a lost father. ‘He put a gun in my hand when I was still in shock and that probably helped. I was desolate. I mean, that sounds like a wrong word but it’s not. Desolate land. A desolate girl. I was a wasteland. No feelings. Nothing but self-pity and fear. I had nothing. He gave me anger. He gave me belief. He gave me a gun. Two days after he rescued me, I killed my first man. That night I slept in his arms. He was a shield. He made it all right.’
They lapsed into another silence. Greta didn’t break it. Eventually, Sandra did.
‘I have no regrets about the people I’ve killed. That sounds cold but it’s true. They deserved to die. The Reverend Nick and some of the others, they talk about how wrong it is to be judge and jury and deliver death, but you know what? They’re secretly grateful. They can’t do it but they know somebody has to.’ She sniffed, took her time. ‘I was an assistant in Top Shop.’ She laughed. ‘Can you believe that? I sold silly dresses to silly girls. Bought them myself with staff discount.’ Silence again. ‘But you know what I really wanted? I wanted to better myself. Sounds daft now, I suppose, but I wanted to go to university. We had plans, me and my mum. She was helping me.’ She turned for the first time and stared at Greta sitting in the shadows. ‘I’d have done it, too.’
Greta said softly, ‘I have no doubt you would.’
Sandra went back to staring at the night. ‘Reaper could have had me, you know? Sex. I wouldn’t have minded. But he never once … never once …’ She began to cry and Greta went to her and knelt on the floor in front of her chair so she could hold her. Sandra welcomed the comfort. ‘I don’t know what I’d do,’ Sandra said. ‘I don’t know what I’d do. He’s my dad and I can’t lose him. I lost my mum but not him, too. I can’t lose Reaper.’
‘You won’t lose him,’ she said. ‘He’s indestructible.’
* * *
Reaper wasn’t feeling indestructible. He was hanging from chains against a wall in the interrogation room, his hands manacled above him. They had stripped him to the waist and, in the process, had found the throwing knife he carried on a cord around his neck and which had hung down his back. Logan had given him a beating, not with his fists, but with a piece of wood to the body. The General had ordered that his face was not damaged.
Then he had been left to ponder his fate, as Purcell had said, until the arrival of Barstow the Beast, back from his tour of outlying facilities. The fate he was supposed to ponder, he guessed, included more beatings and the application of the Hammer House of Horror implements that were on a table on the other side of the room. They had thoughtfully left a lamp on so he could see them.
Barstow was in a good mood when he arrived.
‘I knew you were wrong,’ he said. ‘I knew it.’
Then he aimed a kick at Reaper’s genitals. Reaper twisted and turned, grateful that at least his legs were not chained apart.
‘The great bloody Reaper. The Grim fucking Reaper.’ He kicked him again. ‘Well, the world’s now really grim for you, you bastard. And it’s going to get a lot worse.’ Another kick. ‘Now, first things first. You were in an aeroplane and you sure as hell didn’t fly it. So, where’s the pilot? The General is hoping you’ll cooperate. I don’t give a toss. We don’t need an air force. We’ll be flying in balloons before we’re flying jets again. But you managed to paint him a pretty picture that he swallowed hook, line and sinker. So I said I’d ask. And as I know you’re not going to give me an answer, that means I can carry on kicking you.’
He kicked Reaper again.
‘Want to tell me? I thought not. Ah well, happy days.’
He picked up the same length of wood that Logan had used and swung it. The piece of wood broke in half, which only made Barstow laugh. He chose instead a length of rubber hose and beat him some more. When he had worked up a sweat he dropped the hose on the floor, snorted with derision at his captive and left the room.
It’s only pain, Reaper told himself. Only pain. Others have been through far worse. His daughter went through far worse. Most of the world had gone through far worse. It was only pain; he could deal with it. He could endure. That’s why he had been spared; to endure so that others could have a chance. He’d made a mess of the past life, he would not make a mess of this one.
But by Christ, his body hurt, and he wondered how many ribs must be cracked or broken. Or maybe he was being soft. Sandra … he remembered when he first saw her and he almost cried. Almost cried at what she had been through and what she had become.
‘Come on you bastards!’ he shouted. ‘You’ve got the Angel to deal with yet!’
But no one heard. No one was listening. And he was glad. He knew Sandra would come and it would be best if he didn’t tell anyone else. But the thought helped him through the pain.
He wouldn’t have believed it possible, but he fell asleep hanging from the chains. A kick brought him awake and he tried to stand upright and discovered his legs ached as much as his body. When he focussed, the General was standing in front of him, arms behind his back. The guard left the room and closed the door.
‘We could have done great things together,’ the General said, his voice tinged with sadness. ‘I’m not talking about flying. I’m talking about a partnership. You could have joined me, been part of the New Army. You could have brought Haven into what we are building. Together, no one could have stopped us.’ He stared at Reaper for a while and shook his head. ‘What did you hope to achieve? Assassination?’
‘It occurred to me.’ Reaper’s throat was dry and his voice cracked.
‘If you had tried, you would never have escaped. Why take the risk of coming here?’
‘To see the opposition. We know nothing about you,’ he lied. ‘We needed intelligence.’
The General shook his head again. ‘You were recognised by one of the guards at the People’s Park. He joined us from Whitby. Once seen, never forgotten.’
‘The curse of celebrity.’
The General smiled. ‘Being a celebrity means there will be no bullet in the back of the head. We have to show the people that we are untouchable. That we have captured the great Reaper. Your death will be a showpiece.’
‘As long as it’s not boring.’
‘Next Sunday, the People’s Park in Banbury will hold its first games and you will be the star attraction in a gladiatorial contest to the death.’ Another smile. ‘Sadly, you do not get choice of weapons.’
‘Who’s going to fight me?’ he said, and knew as soon as he had asked the question. ‘Barstow.’
‘That’s right. He will face you in the arena. You will fight with swords. So there you have it. I should warn you that the Beast is quite a fearsome warrior. He will take his time killing you and make it as unpleasant as possible. And if you think you might have half a chance against him, think again. Your face will be unmarked but your body will be damaged.’ He brought his hands from behind his back. He was holding his swagger stick in his right hand and he used it to prod Reaper in the body. Reaper winced. ‘Cracked ribs will make it rather painful to wave a sword about. But I’m sure you’ll try. It’s a shame, Reaper. It really is.’
He left and the lights went out. At least Reaper now knew they would not damage him too much until the day of combat. No broken legs or arms. And he would retain his rugged good looks.
* * *
The next day, he was moved to the basement where he had first been kept and where he collapsed gratefully onto the camp bed. He was left a bottle of water but no food. Another way to ensure he would be weakened when Sunday came. At least he could nurse his pain in peace for a while.
Barstow came midday.
‘Snug?’ he said. ‘You really do have a soft number here, don’t you Reaper? Comfortable bed, plenty to drink.’ He grinned. ‘Never fear, there’ll be more pain tomorrow. Just enough. On Saturday we’ll lay it on a bit. By Sunday you won’t be up to much at all. You’ll be hungry and hurting and just wanting it to end.’
Reaper said nothing. There was nothing to say.
Barstow laughed and looked across to the guard by the door and nodded.
The guard opened the door and Harry and Judith were pushed inside. The girl gasped and tried to cross the room to him, but Barstow grabbed her arm and pulled her against him. Harry began to step forward to help her and the Colonel back-handed him across the face and knocked him to the floor.
‘Make sure he stays there,’ he said to the guard. He held the girl closer than he needed to, pushing against her from behind. One arm holding her, one hand teasing her breasts. ‘This is how it ends for the great man,’ he said. ‘Take a good look. Both of you. This could be you.’
Harry said, ‘You wouldn’t dare.’
‘You’re not indispensable, Harry. We could arrange for you to be shot by terrorists. You’d die a hero. We would all mourn. And I’d step into the breach and take care of the Honourable Judith.’ His hand tightened over a breast and she screamed. Harry was kicked by the guard when he tried to get up. ‘I might even marry her. Something you haven’t done. Make a proper woman of her. Give her kids, start a dynasty. How does Prince Brian sound?’ He laughed and threw Judith towards the door. ‘Go on. Get out. You, too,’ he said to Harry.
The pair paused and looked back. Anguish in their eyes. Harry trying to let Reaper know there was nothing they could do. Reaper trying to let them know it was okay. But they had seen the bruises on his body and had heard what was in store, so how could they believe anything was okay?
The guard ushered them out and Barstow exchanged a last look with Reaper. ‘I shall enjoy killing you,’ he said, conversationally. ‘I’m glad you came.’
Then he turned and left and Reaper was alone.
* * *
The daylight from the high window was dimming when the door next opened. He was surprised when Judith Finlay came in. The guard said, ‘Ten minutes.’
She carried a bowl and cloths and a small wicker basket.
His puzzlement showed and she said, ‘I went to the General. I told him the cuts needed treating. They could lead to infection. They need you to at least look normal on Sunday.’ She crouched by the bed and began sponging away blood on his body. He hadn’t really noticed that he had blood on his body.
The guard eyed the girl with open lust. She gave him a dismissive look in return and he shuffled his feet and went outside.
‘The General allowed this?’ Reaper said.
‘Not really. But is the guard going to take the risk that he didn’t?’
‘If Barstow finds out – ’
She stopped him with a look. ‘Barstow plans on taking over. And when that happens, nothing can save us. Harry will be killed and I’ll belong to the Beast.’
‘And I’ll be dead.’
‘You’ll have a chance on Sunday.’
Reaper smiled sadly at her optimism.
‘I know,’ she said, ‘but it’s a chance.’ She passed a cloth to him. He lifted a corner and saw cooked steak. ‘Adams gave it to me. He knows what Barstow is up to as well.’
Reaper pushed the bundle beneath his pillow.
‘Has Harry ever thought of appealing directly to the people? Maidstone believes he’s real. Wouldn’t he help?’
‘Maidstone bends whichever way the wind is blowing. Harry thought of making a stand but he was told there would be reprisals if he gets out of line. Civilians would be sent to the camps. There could be random executions. He has to obey.’ Her eyes were desperate. Her only hope? Pieces of steak wrapped in muslin.
He nodded. ‘There’s always a chance, Judith. Remember that. There’s always a chance.’
‘We’ll try and get more food to you,’ she said. ‘We’ll try.’
The door opened and the guard said, ‘Time’s up.’
The girl gathered her things and left. Reaper watched the soldier eyeing her from behind as she climbed the steps and then the door closed. He was her only hope. A forlorn hope.