‘Why should you return?’ Ma May spoke for the first time since they’d eaten, ‘Smart money says you’ll turn us in and collect the bounty.’
Gunnar winked at her, ‘Then lucky for you Mother Misery, I’m as dumb as a donkey.’
Chapter Twenty-One
Keen's boots passed quietly over the flagstones as she made her way down the dim Abbey corridor. She reached the large oak door of the library and her hand hesitated for a moment on the cold iron handle. Jakob was at prayer in his cell but even so she heard his disapproval of her actions, ‘Rest up and keep hidden.’ Is what he would have told her, and she knew this to be good advice, deep down, but there was a powerfully inquisitive force driving her since Michael Farmer had arrived earlier. The thought of another week, maybe two, sequestered in the Abbey amongst the Brothers made her dread the long hours and days ahead. She felt that the inactivity and silence had begun to dull her wits and with her body already a stranger to her she feared a head full of feathers too.
She turned the handle and pushed against the door. It swung open with a whispered rasp of hinge, not loud but loud enough in the heavy silence of the library where Michael Farmer sat studying. He looked up at the sound of the hinges and their eyes met briefly before she turned to close the door behind her. She may have seen a fleeting look of surprise on his face but when she turned to him once more his eyes were firmly fixed on the papers spread out on the desk before him.
The room smelled of musty old books and dusty old documents. They were stacked in rows on all the shelves in the arched recesses around the room and in piles on all the desks set about. Keen looked across the long room and through the dirty windows at the darkening scene in the courtyard beyond. It was empty and windswept and the small, crabbed magnolia tree at its centre looked bent and woebegone.
The silence in the room would have become awkward if she had let it stretch for another second. Michael Farmer was the visitor here and yet she felt like the intruder. ‘Good evening.’ She ventured. He looked up at her. ‘I’m sorry to disturb your privacy, and your work.’ She added.
‘I welcome the distraction,’ he said, pushing himself back a little from the desk.
There was a moment of silence between them and Keen thought she would lose him again to his books but he spoke. ‘I’m Michael Farmer, from Fleet. I’m looking for proof of family on the Island to support a claim request to settle on land here.’
‘Things don’t go well in Fleet?’
‘A few keep the best for themselves while the rest of us struggle to make do. The authorities seem unable or unwilling to intervene.’
‘Kick backs?’
He smiled ruefully, ‘I understand that they would line their own nests first, but when there is so much empty land I can’t fathom why shares are not given to all who wish to work it.’
‘Control.’ Keen said flatly and Michael Farmer furrowed his brow in question. ‘You are easier to govern if you can be held close and dependent. That’s all I meant.’
‘That certainly seems to be the aim.’ He said. ‘So I’m here.’ he continued, ‘Though it cost all the family savings for the permit to be released from my labour so I could travel here.' He laughed bitterly. 'Family folklore says our people lived on the Island and if I can find documents to prove this I can register a claim to relocate. But this isn't news to you.’
Keen shook her head sadly. 'There is a ragged trail of folk with hopes such as yours who have made their way to this room. Some find what they seek.' She crossed to the old brazier in the centre of the room to warm her hands.
‘My wife has a child on the way,' he continued, 'I’d like to provide a better life for them.’
Unconsciously, Keen ran her warmed hands across her belly and Michael Farmer caught the movement, he looked Keen frankly in the eye and she snatched her hands away and folded her arms across her chest. The intensity of his gaze provoked a response from her. 'Jakob, my twin, is a Brother here, I’m staying awhile to consider a new life also.’ She said.
‘I wondered at your presence here when I saw you at lunch.’
She laughed, ‘I'm fortunate.’
‘I’m also in the Brothers' debt,’ he said, ‘do they always reach out so readily to help? Are there others here now claiming sanctuary?’
‘They are happy to share what they have and to help when they can, it is their mission after all. Besides, Michael Farmer, when your claim is proved and you are a neighbour you can always find a way to repay your debt if it still weighs heavy.’
‘That I’d happily do,’ he said, then his face clouded, ‘if the document I need even exists.’
Keen settled herself on the nearest high-backed stool. ‘Perhaps I can help in your search.’
He brightened, ‘I need proof that George Farmer was buried here and his forebears also, two generations of them or my claim falls down.’
Keen rubbed her hands together. ‘Then let us find George Farmer in the records.'
Chapter Twenty-Two
The temperature inside the library had fallen markedly in the last few hours despite Keen's attempts to keep the brazier fed. The smell of the smouldering wood tugged at her memory.
The Brothers had been burning the year's dead wood and clippings in the Abbey gardens as she and John had said their goodbyes before he and Gunnar had departed.
'Rest up, get well and don't worry about me.' John had said to her, 'I need to know you are safe here while I track David.' She had looked askance at him so he had added, 'I will return but give me five days and if I can't return in that time I will send word.'
She had looked from Mann to Gunnar in disbelief. John was promising more than he knew he could deliver. For one thing he was reliant on Gunnar and there was no guarantee that the man would be true to his word. Gunnar seemed to sense Keen's mistrust.
'I will get him to Chenko's door.' Gunnar had told her. 'I promise you that. And Chenko has a transmitter so John could send word to you.'
'There.' John had said as he gave Keen a searching look, 'Give me the five days?' Keen had agreed because she did not then have the strength to argue. She could not find the right words to tell John about her unborn child, and thought it unfair to deflect him from his search for David anyway. Building inside her now though was a desperate desire to share her news with John. He should know, because the knowing would keep him safely beside her.
In the flickering candlelight of the library she ran her finger down the list of entries recording births in the Parish, in the generations leading up to the calamity. She didn't expect to find the name Farmer listed on the page, but she persisted because it was an occupation for her.
She wondered what she would do when her baby was born. She supposed she would raise it here at the Abbey. It would be a good start for a child and maybe it wouldn't be such a bad life for her.
She had spent most of her adult life set in opposition to the injustices that the authorities handed down. Springing John from Russell's tank was only one such episode. She and Amir had offered a safe house for people running to ground, and they had kept in touch with outlaw cells that hit power and supply lines, pegging back military encroachment and heavy-handed Government interference. Now, that old life had ended and she would need to feel a part of something else.
She looked up to catch Michael Farmer studying her; he quickly returned his attention to a pile of papers on the desk. Perhaps she could find purpose in helping genuine claimants search the records here in the Abbey library, work to help them wrest their land back from the Government. People like Michael Farmer might be small fry but if enough small fry swam together in a shoal they could dizzy a predator.
Chapter Twenty-Three
The wait had long been chafing on Russell and the chill night air had crept into her bones. She sat tensed against the cold, and her own impatience, on a thick tree root at the line where the sand met the dense woodland in an uneasy truce at the top of the beach. It was a crisp clear evening lit by an immense autumn moon
that hung low on the horizon and tinged sea, sand and stone with an amber lick.
She pulled the thick woollen coat tighter about her, the one she had taken from the wardrobe back at Keen's house, and stared at a broken backed gaffer half buried in sand on the shoreline. Back lit by the moon it cast an immense shadow up the beach towards her, looking for all the world like the bones of a long dead whale. It was the marker for her meeting place with Vincent. She wondered how he was faring in his scope of the Abbey and finding news of John's whereabouts. She had furnished him with a detailed description of John and a warning to keep his distance.
She glanced at a sudden movement further down the beach but saw it was only one of the family of rodmen who had earlier sold her a pint of whelks and a mug of cider. They were building a fire against the night air and an old man amongst them had struck up a shanty. She had no fear they would offer up trouble, she even took some comfort from their song and chatter but the hard barrel of the pistol pressing into her breast gave more comfort still.
The upset of hearing her name mentioned in a broadcast had lessened somewhat in the passing hours. This was helped in part by a conclusion she'd reached about who was behind the message and the fact she felt no immediate threat now. She also reasoned she had the means to test her theory once she returned to the Facility.
Her attention was suddenly caught by a noise from the dense tree line behind her, she thought she'd heard someone approaching, but no one appeared. Her heart was left banging in her chest. Where was Vincent? He'd been gone since dawn and she didn’t know whether that meant good news or bad. She had learned patience in the course of her research in the Lab, but there at least she’d been active, here on this godforsaken beach there was nothing to do but sit and wait.
She had to trust that his plan was a good one. They had had the hard night drive towards the coast to formulate it. The father of a childhood friend of his had come to the Abbey once in search of family records and that was the story that Vincent would borrow to gain entry to the Abbey now and, provided that story flew, he was to return with news. Good news she hoped else John’s trail would be cold and she had no idea where to begin a new search.
His dire warning to stay away from him, to leave him be or else, still rang in her ears. He had meant it, she didn’t doubt, but she really had no choice but to follow him. The pursuit had become her life, the production of a vaccine against the virus her oath. The reward of a berth back to the States was a dream that had seemed unattainable until she had met him again under the viaduct, and he had gravely misjudged her if he thought she would give up that dream, or let him alone now.
Chapter Twenty-Four
The room was dark and airless. Colonel Smith ran his finger around the inside of his collar in the hopes of relieving the pressure on his neck. Across the desk from him, Secretary Hunt finally looked up from the thick dossier he’d been reading.
‘Well Colonel Smith?’
Smith squinted into the shadows on the far side of the table in an effort to pull Hunt’s features into sharper focus. Something about the look of the man troubled him.
‘She is young.’
‘From a family of dippers and horse thieves.’
Smith felt his anger rise. ‘Rosie Mullen is a sharper and has a mouth like a fishwife I'll grant you but she is clearly making a false claim for your promised bounty. I didn’t think it appropriate to apply pressure to such a young girl.’ Smith emphasized the last two words to add some heft to his defence.
‘I wish I had the luxury of your sentimentality Colonel, but I don’t. Which is why I acted on her intelligence immediately while you were still filing a report that actually refers to John Mann as a phantom. Phantom was the word you used wasn't it?’
Smith sighed. Not this again.
Secretary Hunt stood up and crossed to the window to gaze out into the moonlight. Smith could see him better now in the half-light, could study him more closely. With a sudden jolt he realized the root of his misgivings about Hunt’s appearance, the man wore false hair, Smith had never known a man to do such a thing. The rouged whores at the barrack gate maybe, but a man? Hunt broke into his thoughts.
‘And what of Doctor Russell?’ He said.
‘In the field with her team I believe.’
'Even though Private Evans maintains that team are long dead?’ Smith shifted his weight uncomfortably on the hard chair, 'He didn’t mention that?' Hunt continued. 'During the cosy debrief you had with him over tea and scones?’
'He witnessed nothing, it's guesswork on his part.'
'He seems certain that he himself stood only feet away from the 'Phantom' John Mann and that Russell returned here yesterday evening without her team, and if you'd pressed Evans you'd know all this too.'
'Pressed?' Smith held on tight to his temper, ‘If you threatened that boy I'll...’
‘Soldier.’ Hunt spoke loudly over Smith. ‘Private Evans is a soldier who deserted the field, and he will be dealt with accordingly.’
Smith stood suddenly, scraping his chair backwards with a loud grating noise on the concrete floor, anger swelled inside him. ‘Might I remind you Sir that I am in command of this Facility and I will decide who is on a charge and who is punished and how. I don’t know what authority you think you wield here but I don’t recognize it, I won’t have you telling me what to do in my own back yard. Why are you even here in your muff-hair wig, shouldn’t you be in London, bending to touch your toes and bearing your pale arse each time Washington makes a demand of you?’ Smith trailed to a breathless halt under the burning gaze of Hunt. He found he couldn’t stop staring at the man's hair. A shiver ran down his spine as it dawned on him clearly that this dandified man he had just grievously insulted was a very dangerous man indeed. He began to regret mocking him but could no longer bear the sight of him either. He pulled at his collar again to allow a bead of sweat to run freely down his neck. I need air, he thought, ‘Guards.’
The door to the office opened with a loud bang and two armed guards entered the room. Smith gave them a cursory glance and was gratified to see the reassuring bulk of Corporal Henry Cole. Cole routinely won a lot of coin from him at dice and so owed him some allegiance.
‘Corporal, oblige me by escorting the Secretary out of the Facility and off of my compound. Mind he doesn’t take a tumble on the way. It’s easily done.’ Smith bolstered his courage by flashing a bold smile at Hunt, a smile that began to feel strained when Cole made no move to carry out his order. Secretary Hunt ambled slowly from the window back to the desk and took his seat again.
‘You’ve been running a leisure camp here Colonel Smith. The list of your failures of command is long and pitiful and I haven’t the time to address it now.’ Hunt sighed as if this was somehow painful for him. ‘I hereby relieve you of said command and charge you with dereliction of duty so severe it borders on absence without leave.’
A burst of mirthless laughter escaped Smith. ‘You are insane Sir. Do you intend to lead a mutiny against me? Is there to be a Court Marshal too? Come don’t disappoint me, rip the stripes from my uniform for sport.’ Smith laughed loudly again and turned to Corporal Cole hoping to encourage his laughter too, but Cole and the other guard at arms remained impassive.
Hunt cleared his throat calmly, ‘Let me be very clear Colonel, this was your Court Marshall.’ Smith turned back to Hunt in a fog of incomprehension. ‘You have been found guilty,’ Hunt continued, ‘and you will be held under armed guard until sentence is passed.’ Hunt smiled at Smith now. ‘I would like to spend an hour or so considering which punishment can be worthy of your crimes, so I’ll get back to you on that matter.’
Smith looked appalled, his slack mouth hung open. He shook his head and ordered his thoughts. ‘You have no authority here, you have no right.’
Secretary Hunt flipped the dossier closed on the desk in front of him and made a steeple of his fingers under his chin. ‘Remove the prisoner from the room.’
The room was filled with Smit
h’s curses and the sounds of scuffling as the guards manhandled him out through the door. Hunt noticed none of it. He leaned back in his chair and closed his eyes tight against the pain behind them.
Loose ends. He hated loose ends and lack of order. Smith could be easily dealt with and so too Evans. The Mullen girl, flushed like a rat by the broadcast, may still prove useful, or at least her information may if it led to John Mann.
He pulled a small plastic bottle of painkillers from his pocket and shook two pills out into the palm of his hand.
The days of hick operations like Smith's at this Facility were over. Once the Government had secured the cities it would tighten its hold on the rest of the country using whatever means necessary. Washington would not deal resources without such assurances. And Mann would be the ace up his sleeve in future negotiations with the Americans. He reached up to smooth a hand over his hair, softly so as not to exacerbate the throbbing pain in his head. At even his lightest touch though a prickle of excitement ran over his skull at the thought of finally meeting the Cobra face to face. John Mann, a man who inspires a myth.
Beyond the risk he posed as a viral time bomb, was the danger he presented as figurehead. If he chose to he could potentially stoke opposition to the Government, rally the people out of the London fields and back to the countryside to rebuild for themselves. It was a choice he could still make, or be steered to. Whispers of the Cobra myth still wove like snakes through rural towns keeping alive the potential for rebellion amongst the in-breds there too. Hunt shifted uneasily and reached to pour himself a glass of water. Mann's threat must be contained, or better still traded out of the Country. Control the myth, control the people.