The Hurst Chronicles (Book 1): Hurst (14 page)

Chapter Twenty-nine

Four vehicles parked up outside the Ship Inn on the quayside in Lymington. Around a dozen men dismounted, unpacked their gear and weapons and headed inside. The mood was light and relaxed, but they moved with quiet efficiency and purpose. One of them held the passenger door open and waited while Will shuffled his backside across the seat towards the door. His hands were still cuffed behind his back. One hand on his head, the other placed firmly on his arm, he was manhandled from the car. They pushed him through the doorway and into the semi-darkness of the pub.

The man in black loitered outside and shooed a seagull that landed next to the VW Van closest to him. The seagull glided a few yards away and voiced its displeasure, its mocking call echoed back from the row of buildings that lined the quayside. Several other gulls swooped down and joined the first in a shrieking chorus. He kicked wildly at the nearest one almost losing his balance.

“Bloody seagulls. Go on, get lost.”

The seagulls ignored him waiting expectantly for a piece of bread. Gone were the days of easy meals, of old ladies sitting on park benches feeding pigeons scraps. Ice cream cones snatched from small children’s hands, discarded fish-heads left by visiting trawlers unloading their catch on the quay. Like many creatures grown dependent on humans, centuries of learned behaviours were hard to shift. Seagulls were finding the new world tiresome in having to find their own meals again. Yet, old habits died hard and the seagulls blindly followed the men around as they unloaded, opportunistically waiting for something dropped, hoping for a scrap thrown their way.

Inside, the pub’s windows were mostly boarded up at the lower level and reinforced with wooden batons nailed in place to secure against a break in. Behind the bar's wooden counter, the current occupants, an elderly man and his thirty-something daughter handed out snacks and drinks to the group from the hospital.

Copper’s squad was already inside and had set up camp in the family restaurant area towards the back. They were preparing for this evening’s sortie, disassembling and cleaning their weapons, loading bullets into magazines, unpacking and repacking pouches in their webbing to ensure there was nothing loose that might rattle. Stealth and surprise were critical to their success. One man had an ordnance survey map out and was marking up positions and approaches with a red marker pen.

The man in black strode in and greeted members of Copper’s group, slapping one on the back. The man twisted round ready to snap, resenting the unwanted contact, before recognizing who it was, and feigning a smile. Copper was over in the corner straddling a chair facing backwards, smoking a Cuban cigar, a gift the publican had welcomed him with. It was a small token but an important mark of respect for his position as de facto leader of the group. Copper followed the man in black as he stepped carefully over resting bodies and abandoned gear.  He spun the empty cigar tube between his stubby fingers on the darkly stained varnished surface and laughed at one of the men's bawdy jokes. He never took his eyes off his leader, studying his movement and easy mannerisms like a vulture watching its prey, biding his time.

“Any sign of the Hurst team?” The man in black stood in front of Copper, adjusting his belt. Attached to his belt was a large bowie knife in a sheath with a black leather strap secured to his thigh.  The strap looked uncomfortable, poorly fitted and pulled too tight.

“No, nothing. Complete waste of time. We waited all night and came here at first light.”

“Where are they?” he snarled, slapping his fist down theatrically.

“Perhaps they went the long way round via New Milton. Or we got there too late, who knows.”

“It doesn’t matter now. We know where they’re heading. We’ll find them sooner or later. Are the boats ready?”

“Yeah. We’re good. We’re set to leave at dusk.” He snatched the map from the other table and laid it out in front of them, smoothing out the creases. “Our pilot, Trevor, says it’s no more than half an hour from here.” He pointed to the fisherman’s quay on the chart. “Tide’s with us, which helps. We head round in three groups. First group’s with me in the R.I.B. We’ll take a wide sweep past the salt marshes and out into the main channel before swinging up here and attacking from the South side at what should be slack water. We’ve got all the gear you wanted, and Griff here has done some rock climbing in the past. He says that the castle wall shouldn’t be a problem. Then your group stays inshore and brings the main group via the sheltered Keyhaven side and wait for our signal by the main gate. No noise. According to our friend here, resistance should be minimal. Couple of guards at the main gate, two-man patrol on the wall. Once they’re taken care of, the castle is ours.”

“Good, good. Well-done Copper. I can’t wait to see the look on their faces. Remember, we need the two girls alive. As for the rest of them, well, I’ll let you and the boys decide. Let off some steam. Save their leaders for me. They know what’s coming to them after their little jaunt last night. No one messes with our lot and gets off scot-free.”

At the other end of the bar, next to a smashed up cigarette machine, was a dusty old piano. One of the men from the hospital wandered over and lifted the lid. He tried a couple of keys and found the piano was in relatively good working order. He sat down lightly on the bench seat, flexed his fingers, took a moment to get his bearings and launched into the introduction to 
Skyfall
 to the muted cheers of the rest of the assembled company who stopped what they were doing to listen in awe. Music was such a rarity these days.

Copper took a long draw on his cigar and blew a perfect smoke ring that glided across the table towards the man in black who flapped at it, turning his nose up at the smell. A broad grin stretched across Copper’s face, relishing the thought of flexing his muscles and getting some action. “Yes boss.” Tonight was going to be fun.

Chapter Thirty

Tommy and Nathan hurried after Jack and Terra as they brought their over-night bags down to the 
Nipper
. Sam was already on board topping off the fuel tanks. He was siphoning marine diesel from a large yellow five-gallon jerry can with a hand pump.

Since emerging from their meeting with Lieutenant Peterson, Jack and Terra had both been monosyllabic. Tommy watched them whispering. What were they keeping from him? They were really trying his patience this time. None of this was making much sense and Nathan had a hundred unanswered questions buzzing around in his head.

“But I still don’t understand. So, Peterson is gathering together all the leaders from each camp to discuss what exactly? Are they here to rescue us? Is there a relief mission en route from the States? Please, Jack, tell me,” asked Nathan.

“The American told us in no uncertain terms that the details of the plans he shared with us were classified and for our ears only,” said Jack. “He even said it was a matter of national importance and paramount that advance knowledge of the meeting even taking place should not be shared. Perhaps he was being a little melodramatic, who knows. Anyway, all you need to know is that we’ll be gone for a night. That there’s a ‘Summit’ being held on the Isle of Wight and that me and Terra are invited.”

Terra put a hand on Nathan’s shoulder. He was almost beside himself with curiosity. “Listen, I know this is killing you both not knowing, but it’s for the best. There are people who don’t want this meet to happen. People who would do anything to stop this alliance being formed. Trust no one. The American was very clear on that point. There are other forces at work here that should not be underestimated.”

“What other forces?” asked Tommy. “Do you mean like the French? Or are we talking Russians, Chinese?? What exactly are you talking about when you say ‘other forces’?”

“He didn’t say, Tommy. But it stands to reason that the Americans’ presence here will attract others, both good and bad. Anyway, listen, we’ve already told you too much. You’re to tell no one about any of this. If people ask, say that we’ve gone to see Anders on the 
Maersk Charlotte
. There could be spies, even here at Hurst. People who would kill for that information.”

“OK, OK. But Jack, you know we can be trusted. How long have we all known each other? Two years, give or take?”

Jack smiled at Nathan in sympathy but turned on his heels and started walking again. There was nothing more to say. Nathan scuttled after him down the pontoon towards the 
Nipper
. Jack climbed the small steps covered with old carpet and half hurdled the gun-whale, athletically for a man of his advancing years. He turned and faced the pair of them again and made one last attempt to placate them.

“Trust me. This is good for Hurst. You know we’ve been trying to broker an alliance with the other survivor groups for months. This is our chance. If the Americans can pull it off, it will ensure peace, trade and co-operation for months, maybe years. Even if there’s the smallest chance of that, we need to be there, at the negotiating table when that deal is brokered.”

“And if it’s not, what then?”

“We’ve got to try Nathan, you must see that. Hurst is isolated and weak on its own. Joining together would secure our future.”

Nathan nodded but he didn’t look too convinced. Terra came up behind him and put her arms around his shoulders. “Nathan, listen. We promise to tell you guys everything we can when we get back. Until then, you two are in charge. Try and keep a lid on the rumour mill won’t you? We’ll try and get word to you when we’re on our way back tomorrow morning. But remember the transmitter range isn’t great so you’ll probably see us before you hear us.”

Nathan's body language spoke volumes about how unhappy he was being left in the dark like this. He stood shoulders slumped, forlornly watching their final preparations, like a scolded child.

Sam cast off the bow as Jack unlooped the mooring line at the stern and handed it to Nathan. The 
Nipper
’s bow drifted out in the tide from the pontoon as Jack hurried back into the wheelhouse and put the engine lever ahead slow. The
Nipper
responded reluctantly and with a churning of water astern, her propeller drove her slowly out into the main channel, heading East towards Cowes and Osborne Bay beyond.

***

Jack knew the way with his eyes closed. He’d passed Osborne House a hundred times, the former residence of Queen Victoria. He’d visited the National Trust property with his teenage son many years ago. Back then, Osborne House had been maintained in all its Victorian splendour and open to the public. It was a by-gone relic of the opulence and prosperity of the British Empire preserved in aspic for future generations. Jack remembered the place well from his previous visit. The stately home encapsulated all the glory and decadence of the British Empire at its height in the 19th century. Back then the Empire had covered a quarter of the entire globe. He remembered the tour guide telling them proudly that in Victorian times ‘the sun never set on the British Empire’. The whole place spoke volumes about the opulence and unbridled patriotism that prevailed at the time. Right now, he snorted, the British could barely manage a cup of tea, let alone rule the world.

Until the breakdown, Osborne House had been a popular visitor attraction with beautiful landscaped gardens, manicured lawns and ornamental ponds. Planted orchards ran down to the beach that looked across the Solent towards the mainland. Sam and Jack had moored off that beach so many times for a swim in Osborne bay and a sunbathe on the foredeck of the 
Nipper
 on their way back from fishing trips or visits to No Man’s Land Fort.

He had no idea what had become of Osborne House itself. He imagined it was likely inhabited and home to a group of some description. The Isle of Wight and its islanders had suffered terrible hardship and total collapse of law and order, same as everywhere else. They had been hit hard by the virus, but their isolation had somewhat insulated them from the resulting chaos and violence that followed. The sense of unity and community afforded by its island status and separation from the mainland meant that rival groups were a little more willing to work together and keep themselves to themselves. There were fewer raids and less pressure from a starving population, less competition for resources.

On his travels, Jack had met several different groups on the Island. There were dozens of them, scattered along the coastline and inland. The island was rich in farmland, with hundreds of greenhouses growing tomatoes, cucumbers, and other vegetables and fruit. It had its own vineyards, breweries and dairy farms, meaning there was an abundance of food in the early days, with groups gathered around farm buildings and smaller villages. Yet, over time the crop yield had quickly collapsed and most of those greenhouses had grown wild and untended, with hundreds of hectares of vegetables rotting in the ground. Ripened tomatoes died on the vine, with no one left to harvest them.

Jack had heard whispers of a rising power though, a man they called Briggs. Like so many on the mainland, opportunists with a thirst for power, Briggs had formed a colony of former inmates from Park Hurst prison, near Newport at the centre of the island. He had begun to expand his sphere of influence across the island, forming alliances where possible. He gave short shrift to those who stood against him. Would Briggs be present at this gathering of leaders? It seemed plausible to believe he would. He wondered who else he knew would be there. Which of his friends would make the trip and which would stay back suspicious of change, of outsiders, of the Americans, preferring to keep things as they were.

Terra joined him in the wheelhouse and put an arm around his waist. She put her head on his shoulder and gave him a little kiss on his cheek. Terra loved their infrequent trips away from Hurst where they could be relaxed in each other’s company, free from the prying eyes and expectations of others. At the stern, Sam stood coiling the mooring lines and stowing the food and supplies they had loaded in the lockers, watching them with some small degree of affection. Terra reminded him of his mother. She had been a proud, fiercely religious Catholic woman, resettled on the South Coast of England from Wexford in southern Ireland. His father had died when he was very young, yet his mother was stoic in her grief. She simply got on with it, holding down three cleaning jobs and looking after four children under the age of fifteen without complaint. Terra had that same indefatigability and quiet resilience he admired. Sam wondered to himself about the Americans. Why were they really here? What was so special about the Isle of Wight that they would organize a meeting at Osborne House? How many ships had they brought? When would they reach England? He shook his head. Best thing he could do was to get on with it and not get his hopes up. That’s what Jack said anyway.

He stooped down and picked up a long thread of seaweed and threw it over the side. He watched as it floated away behind them in the churned up waters of their wake, wiping the slime from his hands on his trousers. Behind them Hurst grew smaller by the minute until when he looked back again, it was just a black line on the horizon. A castle surrounded by the tidal waters of the Solent, and the tide was just beginning to turn.