Chapter 19

AS SOON AS DAYLIGHT ILLUMINATED THE INTERIOR of the garage, Kev once more took stock of what might be either used as a tool to effect an escape or a weapon with which to protect himself against Chef. The motorbike was outside in the yard and, if he got that far, he would be happy to take his chances. The garage was solid and if he attempted any serious hammering or kicking, he had no doubt guards would be sent in immediately to stop him. At about nine, he heard engines start up in the distance. A door opened, voices shouted and the door banged. The engines were revved up and a convoy departed.

Reaper was on borrowed time.

All he wanted now was for Chef to come to enjoy his fun and Alec to stand to one side and give him a chance. Come on, me hearty. What’s keeping you?

It was after ten before Kev heard footsteps. He got out of the deckchair and stepped back into what was left of the shadows. The garage door opened but it wasn’t Alec who stepped inside. This was a man he hadn’t seen before. Medium height but big with muscle. He wore jeans, boots and a beer belly. He wore a torn tee shirt but he looked nothing like Bruce Willis. He carried no weapon; his arms looked lethal on their own.

‘This him?’ he said.

Chef stepped round him. ‘It is indeed,’ he said. He had dispensed with his full-length black leather coat and looked skinny in his cowboy boots, black jeans and a black vest. Skinny but deadly dangerous. His arms were ropes of muscle.

Kev said, ‘Look, all I wanted to do was join your lot. If you don’t want me, I can soon be on my way.’

‘You soon will be on your way,’ said Chef, with a smile. He placed the canvas bag he carried on the workbench and unrolled it. It contained eight or nine cutthroat razors. He chose one, took it out with care and opened the blade. ‘This is hand-made in France. Sheffield steel and an olive wood handle. A Thiers Issard.’ He pronounced the words with a French accent and inspected the razor with affection, then folded it and put it away. ‘Too good for you,’ he said. ‘We need something a little more prosaic.’ He chose another. ‘This is a German one. Utilitarian, carbon steel and celluloid handle.’

He moved it in the air in front of him as if making practice moves.

‘A little carvery with this to loosen up the wrist and then, if you’re good, I may use the Thiers Issard to finish.’

‘You’re a maniac.’

Chef smiled at him. ‘That’s been said before and I take it as a compliment. Now, you won’t feel a thing. At first. The pain comes later. About ten seconds later.’

‘Do you want me to get him?’ asked Torn Vest.

‘I don’t think he’ll give us any trouble, Vincent. I’ll make you a deal,’ he said to Kev. ‘Cooperate and I’ll be quick. Fight me and I’ll cut your face to ribbons. You’ll need a sewing machine to put it back together.’

He moved forward and Kev stiffened as if in panic, his arms stretched wide along the shelves at his back. He closed his eyes and held his head up, as if doing as Chef had instructed, and heard the man’s footfall in front of him.

Kev opened his eyes and swung his right hand with as much force as possible. It held a cordless nail gun he had found among the abandoned tools. He had set it to rapid fire and hoped, as he pulled the trigger, that the batteries still had something left. If not, the weight of the gun itself should knock his attacker back. The power surged. Chef’s nose spurted blood from the force of being hit in the face, and his forehead shuddered as 90mm nails were thumped into his skull.

He fell backwards, the razor dropping from his fingers, and Vincent in the torn vest gaped in shock before the cosh swung and he fell in a heap across the body of his boss. Kev dropped the nail gun and found he was having difficulty breathing. Deep breaths, he told himself, and stared across the garage at Alec who was staring back.

‘We’d better go,’ said Alec.

‘How did you know that I’d put him down?’ said Kev, still breathless.

‘I didn’t. But I reckoned an old Jack wouldn’t go down without a fight.’

Kev nodded.

‘We’d better go,’ Alec repeated.

In the yard, a second bike was alongside Kev’s.

‘We take it nice and easy,’ said Alec. ‘My face is known. If anyone stops us, we’re taking messages to Steel. Okay?’

‘Okay.’

Kev could feel himself begin to shake at how close he had been to mutilation. Concentrating on riding the bike would help and, once clear of the town, they would have to ride fast. Time was running out.

Tower Street and Monkbar had both been cleared. The team brought their Range Rovers within the walls and left them in the half empty car park behind Clifford’s Tower.

Abraham’s people had responded willingly to Reaper’s requests. Sandbags had been found and filled. York’s propensity to flood after heavy rainfall meant there was always a ready supply. They had been stacked to provide further cover alongside the Second World War field gun that stood in the corner of the square on the raised frontage of the old museum entrance. There, they had created a nest for a light machinegun that was manned by Tanya and Jenny. An advertising board from inside the museum was propped against its front to disguise its existence until it was needed. It said proudly: Welcome to the Castle Museum – the best day out in history.

The modern glass-fronted entrance to the museum was behind them. The nearest panel had been smashed in and the jagged edges knocked clear, to allow the girls a line of retreat if things went wrong. They had plotted a route through the back of the museum to the banks of the river and the castle walls.

The high walls of Clifford’s Tower would not provide the necessary fields of fire into the square. They might have been fine for sitting out a siege and pouring boiling oil from their broken battlements, but they were not suited as a place to site automatic weapons. At the top of the fifty-five steps, there was a concrete platform in front of the small doorway into the Tower. More sandbags had been placed here on both sides and had been disguised with more signs, this time from the gift shop inside. The sandbags did not have to be high because the elevation alone provided protection.

This was where Yank and Keira were located with automatic L85 rifles. They had no escape route but they could retreat inside the tower and barricade the door if necessary and wait until the militia arrived from Haven. At least, that was the plan but, as Sandra knew only too well, plans seldom went to plan.

James had a position on the museum roof which had a solid stone wall around it, intermingled with stretches of balustrade. He had declined to use a sniper’s rifle because he would be so close to his target. He had both a carbine and an automatic L85.

Reaper moved the vehicles in the car park, placing two near the base of the mound to give him cover if he had to come down from the steps quickly. He also familiarised himself with an escape route through the car park and into the Coppergate shopping centre.

The rain had stopped. The clouds were no longer uniform and were breaking up. Glimpses of blue sky promised a pleasant afternoon, if they lived to enjoy it. Everything they had planned was on the assumption that Steel would come to York with a small force, maybe a dozen men. Why would he need more? That was why they had brought no mortars or grenades. And surely, it would be too difficult to organise a bigger flying column at short notice. A lot was riding on assumptions.

The steps and the grass mound upon which the Tower stood were wet and treacherous. Reaper wore a long navy blue waxed coat with a storm cape over the shoulders. He had a Glock strapped to each thigh and carried an Uzi sub-machinegun on a strap hidden beneath the open coat, which was draped over his shoulders like a cloak so that it could be shed quickly.

Brother Abraham had insisted on being part of the subterfuge and waited with Reaper and Sandra at the bottom of the steps in clean and distinctive white robes. A wooden cross hung around his neck and he carried a bishop’s crook. A volunteer from among his flock was across the road in Tower Street, hiding in the trees. Another lookout was further away, on the other side of the Tower Street – Bishopgate roundabout, keeping watch for the approach of Steel’s men, whether they came on foot or in vehicles. They were both equipped with personal radios and Reaper also held one to receive their warning.

An alarm was raised from a different quarter when Brother Mark arrived in a hurry on a bicycle. The skirts of his robe were flying and his sturdy legs peddling as fast as he could across the car park.

‘We’ve found Cedric,’ he shouted.

‘Shit,’ said Sandra. ‘Perfect timing.’

It was 11.30.

‘He’s at Monkbar and he has hostages. Children. He demands the freedom to leave. He knows what’s happening. He knows Steel is expected at noon and he has given us the same deadline or he kills the children.’

Reaper and Sandra exchanged a look.

‘I’ll go,’ she said.

‘He’s not alone,’ said Mark. ‘There are three others. Two have guns.’

But Sandra was already moving, Mark running in her wake. She climbed into one of the Range Rovers and the monk got in beside her. His body odour was immediately apparent and, as she switched on the engine, she also lowered the windows. Now was not the time to hand out a lecture on personal hygiene. But later?

‘Where are they?’

‘In a shop, just inside the gates. We have men on the walls. Two have shotguns, although they’ve never fired them before, and others have longbows.’

‘Who are the hostages?’

‘Two girls, aged ten and eleven.’

The situation was going from bad to worse.

‘Guide me,’ she said, and the monk pointed which road to take. ‘What does he want?’

‘A car and to be allowed to leave.’

‘Will he kill the girls?’

‘He is an evil man and I think he will. As a last act of evil pleasure.’

Her mind was racing and a course of action was presenting itself in a logical sequence. She stopped the Rover in a long, open square where, she suspected, a market had been held in ages past.

‘Direct me to the Treasurer’s House. I don’t want Cedric to know I’m here.’

He pointed and she drove, slightly less in haste, as she outlined what he was to do.

Sandra left the Rover in the wide private drive that led alongside the Treasurer’s House to the section of castle wall from which they had dropped early that morning. She led Mark up onto the castle wall and they climbed over it, dropping onto the gently sloping grass embankment on the other side.

‘That one,’ she said, pointing to a silver Mercedes saloon that was parked at the side of the road.

Brother Mark hoisted his robes and ran to the gate. She crossed the main road that ran parallel to the wall and took up a position in the bushes and trees that filled the open space between traffic lights and the start of a row of houses. On the end wall was an ancient advertisement, painted on the red brickwork: Nightly Bile Beans Keep You Healthy, Bright Eyed and Slim.

So did hunting down scum like Brother Cedric.

At 11.45 a radio message from an excited lookout alerted Reaper that someone was coming.

‘They’re early,’ said Reaper.

Abraham began to move to the top of the steps but the sound of a motorcycle made him pause. Pete Mack braked his Harley Davidson fiercely in Tower Street and turned up the approach road to meet them.

‘They’re on their way,’ he said. ‘But there’s more than expected. Maybe eighty. Maybe a hundred.’

Pete had been watching on the route from the south, near the junction of the M18 and the M62. It was the first time he’d been able to use the Harley, which was his pride and joy, with a real sense of urgency. His exhilaration at the ride was tempered with the news he brought.

Reaper said, ‘Sandra’s gone to Monkbar. A hostage situation with the bad bastard who killed Rebecca. Tell her. The odds are too steep. Tell her to stay back and watch the outcome. She will need to get back to Haven to organise resistance. Make sure she goes, Pete.’

‘How do I find Monkbar?’ said Pete.

Abraham pointed.

‘Go towards the Minster, he said. ‘It’s just to the right.’

Pete engaged the gears and set off again, across the car park.

Reaper shouted up to Yank and Keira.

‘Change of plan!’ With so many to fight, the Tower could become a death trap, just as it had 800 years before. ‘Join Jenny and Tanya.’ They picked up their weapons and ammunition and came down the steps.

‘What’s wrong?’ asked Yank.

‘There’s more than we thought. Maybe too many. Set up behind the field gun. We’ll see how they play it. Wait for them or me to start it. Then take out anyone in the square. If it gets heavy, get back to Haven. They’ll need you.’

‘What about you?’ said Yank.

‘There’s still a chance to take out Steel. After that, I’ll get moving, too.’

‘Luck Reaper.’

‘You, too.’

He nodded to the two girls, who turned and ran along the road towards the field gun.

‘James!’ Reaper called. The young man showed himself on the roof. ‘The odds have changed. Steel’s bringing a small army. If you get a chance, put him down. But don’t get trapped up there. There’ll be too many of them. Get back to Haven. We’ll re-group there.’

James raised an arm in acknowledgement and sank back behind the balustrade.

‘And now,’ Brother Abraham said. ‘I think it’s showtime.’

Reaper stopped him from climbing the steps with a hand on his arm.

‘These odds are suicide, Brother. You should get to safety.’

Abraham smiled. ‘This is my city and this is a holy site. I believe this is a holy cause, good against evil. We stand against evil in different ways, Brother Reaper, but we stand against it together. I shall add authenticity to your charade as well as a little godliness. And I can always seek refuge in the Tower.’

‘In that case, I’m glad to have you along, Brother.’

Abraham walked up the steps. After a moment, Reaper followed, but stopped a short way from the top and knelt. Abraham reached the concrete platform, faced outwards and spread his arms like an Old Testament prophet.

‘How’s this?’ he said. ‘Impressive enough?’

Reaper grinned.

‘While you’re at it, you might actually say a prayer,’ he said. ‘I think we’re going to need one.’

Abraham nodded and joined his hands in front of him and bowed his head. After a moment, he said, ‘Will you hear my confession, Reaper?’

‘What?’

‘My confession. I can’t think of anyone else who would understand.’

Reaper was confused. ‘Is this really the time?’

‘Considering that there may not be another, I think it is. Will you hear me?’

Reaper glanced at his watch. ‘Go ahead,’ he said.

‘Abraham is not my real name. I chose it when I gave myself to God. My real name is Colin Hazlehurst.’ He took a deep breath, as if preparing for a great revelation. ‘Before the plague, I was a journalist.’

‘Jesus Christ,’ said Reaper, in shock.

Abraham made the sign of the cross between them to dispel Reaper’s blasphemy.

‘I was a member of that very profession that fed the lie, that fed the madness of modern society. I was a member of the tabloid Press. What changed me was a road to Damascus moment that happened on the Docklands Light Railway.’

Reaper glanced up at Abraham to see if this was a wind-up but the monk’s eyes were closed and his expression was serious.

‘It started with a newspaper story I was writing. A feeble attempt to mock God and His plague. The deaths had started, although this was in the early days of the pandemic. I was writing a “what if” story about the end of the world, without for one moment thinking such a thing would happen. As part of the story, I went online and was ordained by an internet church. A free and painless rite of passage that took two minutes and cost nothing. I ticked the appropriate boxes and became Brother Abraham. My holy orders were granted by an ethereal message – hypertext through hyperspace. You can’t get closer to God than that. It made a very amusing part of the story I wrote.’

‘You were ordained over the internet?’

‘I became Brother Abraham of the Church of the Eternal Light. It’s based in California – if anyone has survived. It was a gimmick for a story. And no, I didn’t take it seriously, either.

‘Then the situation became worse and the possibility of apocalypse was not such a far-fetched idea but others refused to accept the inevitable. Life and lifestyle blinkered them. But my eyes had been opened. My Docklands Light Railway moment. I was on my way home when I knew the world was over. It came to me, a blinding flash of divine revelation.’ He paused, reflecting on the moment. ‘I never returned to the office. I threw my phone away, my first rejection of the trappings of society.

‘This was two weeks before the end. Life was staggering on towards an inevitable conclusion. Then I realised the importance of my ordination. I went back online and read the philosophy of the Church of Eternal Light. It was simple enough, a combination of humanism, benevolence and Christian principles. I immersed myself in a search for truth. I looked for it in Buddhism, Islam, Judaism, Christianity, Hinduism. And I found Him back in the Church of Eternal Light and its philosophy of basic humanity. I opened my heart and God entered. A simple God who delivered a message of good and evil. A God people could understand.

‘Before the plague there were too many gods, too many beliefs, hatreds, wars. My God is the One God who is neither Muslim nor Christian nor of any particular persuasion. He embraces all, for God is a concept that belongs to everyone. As all around me died, God allowed me to live. He told me to pray to Him and to help others who wished to follow a truer path than before.’

Abraham had been speaking quietly and without fervour. He had been confessing the accident of his position. He sighed and said, ‘That is why I came to York and that is my confession.’

They exchanged a long look; Abraham’s was expectant and hopeful.

Reaper said, ‘Do your followers know where you were ordained?’

‘No one asked.’

‘Probably best not to tell them.’

‘Probably,’ agreed the monk. ‘Do I have your absolution, Brother Reaper?’

‘You do, Brother Abraham.’

‘Then I shall offer another prayer for our salvation.’

Hell, thought Reaper, kneeling on the wet steps. It can’t do any harm.

He armed the Uzi.

Sandra favoured the carbine she had learned to shoot with and leaned against a tree for stability. Across the road was a toyshop with a window full of antique dolls, then a bicycle store and then the parked Mercedes that, even now, Brother Mark was telling Cedric was waiting for him. She hoped Cedric would not suspect a double cross. He was in a bad situation and human nature would make him want to believe what Mark was promising: an escape without a shootout. His followers would likewise want to accept terms rather than fight; they were amateurs, after all.

She knew what she had to do: kill again without hesitation. Amateurs they may be, but they had chosen Cedric and violence and had crossed the line without hope of redemption by holding children as hostages. There could be no doubts, no second chances. Once again, she was judge, jury and executioner.

A woman climbed over the wall in the same place where she and Brother Mark had jumped down. She stared anxiously across the road into the trees but did not see Sandra. She took up a position at the side of the bicycle store, leaning her back against the wall and resisting the urge to look around the corner. She continued to stare across into the trees and, when her body stiffened, Sandra knew she had been seen. The plan was taking shape.

Two men appeared at the corner of Monkgate. One was young, one middle-aged. Both wore track suits. One carried a rifle, the other a handgun. They hesitated on the corner by the second hand shop, stared up the road and one pointed.

‘It’s there!’ he shouted.

The men were joined by Brother Cedric, still favouring his crossbow, and a young woman who held the pony tail of a little girl in one hand and a knife in the other. The young woman had a sharp face that might have been attractive but for the harsh lines of anger and desperation. Her hostage was too terrified to cry, her eyes and mouth wide in fear. Cedric was grinning and the group began to move at a fast pace towards the promised car.

Already the plan was working because Mark had negotiated the freedom of one child in return for the car. But, of course, they would not let the second one go.

Sandra focussed through the sights on the woman with the knife and blanked her mind to any thoughts of compassion. She squeezed the trigger: a chest shot that sent the woman spinning backwards to crack her head on the pavement. The knife fell from her hand but she maintained the grip on the girl’s hair, pulling her to the ground with her. The other three stopped in shock. The man with the rifle pointed it across the road towards the trees but couldn’t see Sandra. Another chest shot put him down. The younger man dropped the handgun and raised his arms. Too late. She shot him, too.

Cedric crouched, the crossbow at the ready but without the benefit of a target. He backed up until he was against the glass of the toyshop, dozens of eyes from dead dolls staring at him.

‘Bastard!’ he shouted, and fired the crossbow bolt in final, desperate anger, and Sandra remembered how he had killed Rebecca.

The chest shot raised him from his crouch. The head shot that followed smashed him back through the glass of the window and he lay, half in and half out of the display, two more dead eyes staring into eternity.

Sandra walked steadily across the road. She let the carbine hang from its strap and took the Glock from its holster. The woman peeped round the wall from the side of the bicycle store. The little girl now started crying and the noise seemed to break the tension. The woman ran to the child, scooped her up into her arms and continued running towards Monkbar. Sandra inspected the bodies and delivered three head shots.

Brother Mark and Pete Mack came round the corner from Monkbar. They stopped and stared at the bodies. Then shooting from the other side of the city caught all their attention.