CHAPTER FOURTEEN

 

 

THE NEXT AFTERNOON.

Parkes had been trying to raise Windhoven on both the contact and distress frequencies, but got only static in response. The sky was thick with dark cloud. The storm had passed for now, but a couple of times lightning flashed far off in the distance, and a faint crack of thunder would roll in.

Stiles was huddled in a corner of the farmhouse's living room with a microwave lasagne, a dismembered bread roll, and a can of Special Brew, avoiding eye contact and rocking to and fro. He hadn't spoken, except to request food or alcohol. If I'd expected a fount of wisdom, I'd be disappointed. But if the powers that be had been convinced about him, they'd have a sent a full platoon, maybe a company. More likely some senior brasshat or MOD bod had thought of him at the last minute.

Still, I did my best. "Dr Stiles?"

He took a gulp of beer.

"Doctor, I need to know what's happening. We were sent to fetch you. Please. What is it you know?"

He took another gulp of beer.

I kept trying. After a while he started to hum tunelessly. He wrapped his arms around himself and rocked to and fro. Sweat slicked his forehead. When I tried to speak, he hummed louder. I gave up. After a few minutes, he stopped, unwrapped his arms, and drained the can. Then he breathed out, looked into my eyes and said: "Can I have another one, please?"

The food situation wasn't so bad. As well as having stocks of it in the village, we were in farming country, with plenty of sheep, chicken and cows, plus wild rabbits. Most of the animals had survived, so we weren't looking at starvation just yet. On top of that, we had provisions of our own.

For now, though, the locals were using up frozen food before it went off. Result - large amounts of stews and casseroles were being knocked together. So at least it'd be a while before the freeze-dried Army rations came into play. I still had nightmares about the shepherd's pie. In the first Gulf War, the Yanks had called their rations MREs. Officially, it stood for 'Meals Ready to Eat'. The troops preferred 'Meals Rejected by Ethiopians'.

I decided to climb the Hill and scope out the terrain. Tidyman had had a pair of field glasses, which I'd appropriated (Shiny Kit Syndrome again.) Besides, it might be fun.

 

 

JESUS FUCKING CHRIST!

If I'd thought I was out of condition before, I knew it beyond doubt after making that ascent. The path up the Hill facing Barley was practically vertical.

The climb took me twenty minutes. By the end of it, my leg muscles were howling and my lungs felt sandblasted. I sat down at the top to enjoy not being in agony for a minute or two, then stood and got out the field glasses.

Visibility wasn't great, with a thick mist rising off the water spreading out in all directions. Fells rose clear of the surface, a scattering of islands. How many were populated? I remembered the folk waving to us as we flew in. Did they have guns? Would that be enough?

If I hadn't already killed Tidyman, I would've by now for not warning us about the bites. Alf might not be dead if we'd known that. Taken precautions. At least we knew now.

Still, now we knew it took more than just dying to turn you into a nightmare. It was the bite; the bite or the water.

God knew what in the water. I looked down towards the meadows. In the distance, I could see the nearby reservoir. It should be usable. All the same, I'd given instructions that all drinking water be boiled before use.

But what about the water the animals drank?

Not a productive line of thought.

Still, in a way I was starting to enjoy myself. Other people's problems are always easier to deal with than your own.

I looked across the hilltop, saw someone standing by the thick white stubby plinth of the trig point. I was reaching for my P226 before I realised who it was.

I walked over. "Levene."

"Sarge."

"Anything to report?"

"No Sarge." Stupid question; if there had been my PC would've been quacking like Daffy Duck.

I handed him the field glasses. "These might come in handy."

"Thanks, Sarge." He looked out towards the village. "Sarge?"

"Yes?"

"Something to report."

"What?" My hand on the gun again.

"There's a boat out there."

"A fucking what?"

"A boat. There, see?"

He passed me the field glasses. I focussed in. There it was. Small. A dinghy. In the waters off Barley Road. Two occupants. Both women. One was rowing hard, wrenching at the oars, her back to me. Trimly built, chestnut hair in a bob-cut. The other lay slumped across the floor of the dinghy, feet propped on the stern. I couldn't see her face. She was very small, slender. A child?

Also, very still.

The dinghy shifted in the swell, turning side-on. The girl's head lay in the other woman's lap. I zoomed in. Her face was grey. There was a crudely-dressed wound on her arm. Then the other woman was turning the dinghy so her back was to me and the girl's face was hidden once more.

I felt something cold move inside me. "Got your radio?"

"Sarge."

"Alert them down in the village."

 

 

BY THE TIME I reached Pendle Row, I could hear screaming. As I ran in, gunshots rang out. Fully automatic fire. Parfitt, with the Minimi. Mleczko and Hassan running from the Pendle Inn, Billy in their wake. Andrews and Akinbode ran down the Row - later they told me they hadn't been able to get a clear shot at the girl through the hedgerows along the roadside. I waved them all back.

The dinghy bobbed, abandoned in the water. The woman lay huddled near the top of the road, crying out as bullets ricocheted about her. Behind her, the dead girl thrashed on the tarmac. I yelled up at Parfitt.

"Cease fire! Cease fire! Cease fucking fire!"

I ran in. The dead one was still making sounds. I aimed at her. She stared back, frothing blood, eyes ablaze. She was just a kid. Had been.

One shot. Dead centre in the forehead. Her head snapped back. Her body went still, a last, rattling breath escaping in a sigh.

I remembered the live girl and spun to aim at her. Checked there were no bites. Safetied the gun and helped her up, led her back towards the village.

Not straight away, though; the woman insisted on stopping to look at her friend's body. Never a good plan. Just gives you bad dreams.

Believe me.

 

 

WE TOOK HER back to the farmhouse. Hassan checked her over and pronounced her in reasonable health; Jo sorted her out with a change of clothes.

She wove a little as she went, still cold and shivering, and I reached out to steady her. She shrugged me off. "I'm fine. I'm fine. I don't need any help. Which way is the toilet, please?"

She went off fast, not looking back. There was an outbreak of sniggering from Hassan and Parfitt at the bottom of the stairs, who'd wandered in to cop an eyeful, not to mention Billy, who'd wandered in after Mleczko, gawping and giggling. I ignored them and got some stew reheated for her.

Stiles was still rocking in his corner. Now and again he'd grimace, as if at a twinge of pain, or cock his head as if he'd heard something. He was cradling a bottle of gin and taking nips from it. When not doing that, he'd roll another cigarette from the tobacco tin he'd dug out of his filthy jeans.

When she came down, her face was scrubbed clean and her hair tied back with an old shoelace. She mumbled a thank you when I handed her the stew. Otherwise she didn't speak.

Parfitt and the others were still eyeing her up. "Shouldn't you be at your posts?" I demanded.

"Sarge," said Mleczko.

"Well shift your bloody arses, then. Now."

The door bumped shut in the wind, Katja looked up. Glanced sideways at me, and smiled for a second. I felt a warm flutter in my chest.

"Try to eat something," I said to her quietly. "Keep your strength up. You've been through a lot."

Her head snapped up. "How the hell do you know what I've been through?"

I noted her accent for the first time. Eastern or Central European. I had to admit, I liked it. Her jaw was clenched, her eyes bright, her hand shaking.

I leant back in my chair. "I think we've all been through a lot, last couple of days."

She glared a moment longer, then nodded. "Of course. I'm sorry." She said it awkwardly, looking away, chin up. I thought of a cat, proud and territorial.

"Forget it. I'm Robbie McTarn." I didn't give my rank. Time was, it'd've been second nature. I stuck out my hand.

She saw it and smiled, maybe despite herself, then shook. Her skin was smooth and soft, but her grip stronger than most women I'd known. "Katja Wencewska."

"That Polish?"

Her eyes narrowed. Shit. Maybe she'd been an illegal before the flooding. "Just asking," I said. "One of ours is called Mleczko. Polish family."

"Ah." She nodded. "It's Polish. I grew up in Romania. A long story."

And clearly not one she planned to tell. Fair enough. It hardly mattered now.

She ate. At first she was forcing herself but before long she was doing it with real hunger. I wasn't surprised. I didn't know how long she'd been rowing for when I'd first seen her, but from the speed and fury she'd been putting into it, it must have taken its toll.

There was only silence in the room, except for her eating and the odd little noises from Stiles's corner. So as she ate, I told her my story. Some of it anyway. I didn't tell her about the desert road. I don't tell anyone about that. But I told her about the redcaps coming to my door, why we were here, and what had happened - Tidyman, the nightmares attacking.

Katja put down her fork and looked over at Stiles. "What is it that he knows?"

"Search me, hen. No-one saw fit to tell us, and he's not talking." I felt anger flickering up in me suddenly. "One of my men is dead, plus one pilot -" I didn't mention Tidyman because I couldn't care less about the sod "- and the whole reason for the operation sits on his arse stuffing his face and getting pissed. Isn't that right, Stiles?"

He flinched. He'd been looking in our direction; now he looked away.

"Please don't." I looked at Katja. "It's not his fault," she said. "I know it's difficult, but he didn't ask you to come."

"Difficult? You don't know the half of it, hen."

"I know more than you might think. My father was a soldier. Special forces, yes?"

I nodded.

"So I know something of it."

"And what about you?"

"What about me?" She met my gaze full-on.

"What happened to you?"

She didn't speak for a few seconds. Then she shrugged and forked more food into her mouth. "I survived," she said. "Just me. That's all."

Stiles had stopped fidgeting. He was looking over at us both. At her.

As I turned back to Katja, he spoke.

"They're calling me," he said.

"Who?" I asked. He didn't react. He was staring at Katja.

She glanced at me, then back at him.

"Who?" she asked.

"The voices. The souls. All the dead."

He wouldn't say anymore than that. He just stared at her, and her back at him. I don't know what he saw there - more than just a pretty woman, I'm sure of that - or what she saw in him. But after a moment, she went to sit with him. Waiting for him to say more.

Chas slipped in, sat beside me. "All quiet," he murmured.

"Good."

He saw Katja and Stiles. "What's this, then?"

"Fucked if I know."

"Not bad-looking, is she?"

"Shut up, Nixon."

"Robbie?"

I looked at him.

"Don't go falling in love now, for Pete's sake. You're bad enough without getting blue balls."

"Piss off. What about you and Jo?"

He reddened coughed. I stared. "Don't take the piss, Robbie, eh? She's a nice girl."

I shook my head and looked back at Katja and Stiles. I could see Stiles's lips moving, but I couldn't make out what he said, and afterwards, Katja wouldn't tell.