The Village King (8 page)

I
n the
end
, The Mercury
brought back crabs, a lobster, and a heap of fish. Having liberated the warehouse
keys from Rory the night before, Stephen gave the sailors a small barrel of
whisky which Malcolm and his mate seemed happy with. Despite the failing light,
The Mercury sailed off to the South, rounding the point, and disappeared from
view. There were gaps in the warehouse but there were still countless barrels
of whisky. Stephen hoped they could use it to trade with other passers-by.
Perhaps things were returning to normal, he thought.

In the church, Stephen shared out
the fish amongst eager villagers. The dank atmosphere of the church was
replaced first by the fresh salty smell of fish and then by cooking. Charlie
and Vincent had lit a fire in a pit in the middle of the church which in
earlier times would have been used to heat the congregation.

It was a relaxed atmosphere, with
everyone enjoying themselves. Happy chatter about The Mercury and its news; the
fires to the north-east; other villages; some ships on the horizon. Whilst some
were still eating, Stephen stood up. “Most of you know me. I am Stephen.” He
introduced Alana, Karen, Gary and Phil. Then he was stuck for words. He looked
to Alana who gave him a brief warm smile. “We need to run things better round
here. There are to be no more robberies. We trade things. And the whisky and
the water belong to us all.”

There were a few murmurs of
approval. Charlie spoke up, “We need to control the warehouses carefully. If we
can get fish for whisky...” He let the thought hang in the air.

Frank said, “We need our own
boat.”

There were agreements to that and
conversations sprang up. Stephen quietened them down and said, “And the women
here are to go unmolested.” He instantly regretted the use of the word though
he had used it deliberately. He followed it by saying quietly, “Or you answer
to me.”

Everyone went silent. He had
basically threatened them and asserted his authority over them. After a moment,
Alana prompted him, “How will we organise ourselves?” This perked everyone’s
interest.

“We’ll have a council. Four
members to make decisions instead of one. Voted in to office by us all.”
Stephen was referring to Suzanne, who had stayed at home, and had run things in
the past with barely any consultation, let alone consensus.

Charlie said, “What about two
judges? Separate from the council, where we can take disputes to.”

Stephen looked to Alana. With her
eyes, she agreed with the idea. She played with Karen’s hair. Stephen said,
“Great idea. Any other ideas?”

“Yes,” said Gareth, emphatically.
“What about Morgan?”

Stephen beckoned Phil and Gary to
his side. He put an arm on each of their shoulders. “I’ll take care of that.”

“
T
here’s
something else
everyone’s too afraid to ask.”

Stephen looked Charlie right in
the eye when he said that. They had been discussing Morgan. Loose tongues, due
to whisky, had confided in Charlie late at night. Some soldiers had told him
the unit had kept their discipline through Morgan but were long ago cut off
from any chain of command. Charlie shared this with Stephen.

Stephen stood at a makeshift
paddock the soldiers had created next to the manse. Two horses, previously
owned by the dead soldiers, had trotted over to see them. Stephen had promised
the horses to Alana and Karen, hoping they would not have to be slaughtered for
food. Alana showed Karen how to feed the first horse with an apple. Dressed in
her new clothes, and pair of just too big trainers, Karen followed her
movements and the second horse snaffled the apple out her hand to the girl’s
obvious delight. The sun was shining, probably the last of the autumn warmth.

“So what’s this thing, people are
too afraid to ask?” Stephen spoke gently but directly.

Charlie cleared his throat. “We
need, we need another constable.” He tried a nervous smile. “I’m glad Paul’s
gone.” Charlie glanced at three fresh graves in the church yard.

Stephen glanced at Alana. She
gave a short noncommittal shake of her head, unseen by Charlie. Stephen said to
the man, “You want the job?”

“Not at all,” Charlie said
squarely. “I want on the council.”

“Good luck on the vote,” said
Stephen, then he sighed. “I’ll think about it. Until then...”

Charlie nodded. He knew what
Stephen meant. Until there was a constable, Stephen would be the law and order.
Charlie waved them goodbye. He ruffled Karen’s hair. She pulled back,
disgusted, and Stephen thought Alana was going to hit him.

When he had gone, Stephen turned
his attention to the horses, but spoke to Alana. “You don’t fancy it?
Constable?”

She laughed. “Chief Constable,
maybe.”

He smiled. They had spent the
night together again and he had enjoyed every minute. She looked him in the
eye, a wicked glint shone out.

From on top of his junkyard gate,
Gareth started ringing his bell.

M
organ’s
Unit of
ten rode
into the village. Morgan sat up on his horse like he had a steel rod in his
back. The others looked exhausted. Chin straps had already been unclipped. Two
of the men walked, pulling their horses, each with a deer strapped over the
saddle. Every one of them was grubby, in contrast to their normal well turned
out selves.

Morgan stepped down from his
horse and handed the reins to Lieutenant Baxter. Weaver held back and stayed on
his horse outside the cattle-grid, as if sniffing the air, which still had the
stale smell of charred wood from the ruined hall. He was looking around as the
rest of the unit lifted themselves off the horses and threw down their helmets.
A few fell onto the grass and lay back in the sunlight. Gareth quietly climbed
down from on top of the gate.

Weaver shouted out towards the
manse, “Pilrig. Jones.” No response from the soldiers they had left behind.
Weaver seemed troubled. He caught sight of three fresh graves in the cemetery.
“Colonel Morgan?” he called out, alarm in his voice.

Morgan turned. He was on the path
to the manse. Silver pistols shone in the sunlight. A few of the men sat up at
Weaver’s tone. Morgan’s eyes blazed. There was a massive crack. Morgan’s head
exploded and his teal beret flew into the air. He dropped to his knees.
Soldiers dived for their weapons.

“Cease fire! Cease fire!”

Weaver’s horse spun round. He had
a pistol out and was trying to see, yelling, “Who gave that order?”

Stephen emerged from his hiding
place within the gate. “Cease fire!” he shouted. He had the shotgun in his
right hand. He grabbed the horse’s bridle with his left and jammed the shotgun
into Weaver’s neck. As Weaver aimed at Stephen, the shotgun was fired. Weaver
fell back and Stephen let go of the horse. Shots crackled around as Stephen
ducked back to the gate. More shots were fired from the manse and from inside
the burnt-out village hall.

Stephen shouted again, “Cease
fire!” He fired the other barrel into the air. The shotgun made a loud boom and
the soldiers went quiet. They had been caught unawares and were at a loss to
know what to do. Stephen emerged, having left the shotgun behind. He had the
pistol in his hand. “Cease fire!”

Gary came out of the Manse, his
rifle at the ready. Phil emerged from the hall and ran up, carrying his own
rifle. The two boys covered the soldiers, who had backed into a group. Alana
rounded from the wash-houses and advanced holding the Glock in her right hand,
the left hand cupped under. She bent her knees and moved swiftly to cover the
ground.

“Drop your weapons!” Stephen
shouted, his voice boomed around the buildings, filling the space. One soldier
threw his rifle straight to the ground. The rest, panicked, and with eyes
searching, began to lay their weapons down.

Stephen called out, “Lieutenant Baxter.
Come here!” His blood was running fast. He knew he didn’t have much time before
he ran out of adrenaline. No-one moved. “Lieutenant. Now!” He screamed the last
word.

One of the soldiers pushed one of
the men huddled amongst them. Others joined in and eventually Lieutenant Baxter
staggered forward, jostled out of the group. Stephen saw he was young and
frightened. Stephen holstered his Glock and beckoned him forward. Alana covered
Baxter. When he came up, Stephen put a hand on Baxter’s shoulder and unsheathed
his hunting knife.

Retrieved from one of the dead
soldiers, who had stolen it from Stephen, the knife was a 10 cm fixed blade of
laminate steel on a grip shaped handle. Stephen rammed it into Baxter’s neck.
Blood spurted. The soldiers yelled and recoiled amongst themselves.

Alana called out, “Nobody move.”
Her authoritative voice restored order.

Stephen twisted the knife and
withdrew the blade from Baxter’s neck and let him fall to the ground.
“Sergeant?!”

The soldiers began to panic,
imagining themselves being picked off one by one in order of rank. Gary shot
into the air then aimed back at the men. They were surrounded and, backed into
a corner they could still be dangerous. The shot controlled them. “Sergeant?”
Stephen sounded impatient. He was covered in Baxter’s blood.

Movement at the end of the
wash-houses. Alana turned round and bent her knees slightly. “Stop! Do not
move.”

From around the corner, the
female Sergeant appeared and confidently approached. She had been at the
toilets, Stephen realised, and suddenly appalled none of them had noticed. She
carried her rifle across herself, with the muzzle pointed down. Her helmet was
on and hooked in place. She ignored Alana pointing a gun at her and strode
forward. A few paces away, she stopped, and said, “You called me?”

Stephen smiled at her.

A
ll the
soldiers
had to take
their boots, jackets, and shirts off. They were stripped of all weapons and
herded into the church. Charlie and Vincent joined Phil in being an armed guard
watching over them. Gareth was instructed that no-one was to touch the dead
soldiers, but Stephen had removed Morgan’s pistols. The Sergeant was allowed to
keep her full uniform and rifle. They took her to the manse. After she’d
fetched Karen from the vestry in the church, Alana made tea.

They sat round the kitchen table.
Gary sat across from Stephen, who had washed his face of Lieutenant Baxter. The
Sergeant stood with her back to the rear door. She eyed the canned food, which
is what Stephen wanted her to see; that they had retaken their stolen
belongings. Alana placed mugs on the table and poured the tea out a giant
tea-pot. She caught Stephen’s eye and he saw she was thinking the same thing as
him. They had made love on the table during the night. He managed not to smirk.

Suspicious at first, the Sergeant
waited until Stephen sipped at his tea. She lifted the mug up. “Any milk?”

“You killed most of our cows,”
said Stephen coldly.

The Sergeant blinked
acknowledgement. She put down the mug and unhooked her helmet strap, took it
off and placed it on the table across from Morgan’s silver pistols, which lay
with the grips facing her. She kept the rifle slung over her right shoulder but
thought better of it and laid it up against the cans. Stephen introduced them
all to her. He could tell she realised that if they had wanted her dead, she
already would be. The Sergeant introduced herself as Lucy Pullman.

“Sit down, Sergeant Pullman,”
said Stephen. “Please.”

Pullman sat down and sipped her
tea. “I prefer coffee.”

Stephen smiled. He glanced up at
Alana, who was leaning against the worktop and watching Pullman intently. He
wanted to ask her now what she thought of the Sergeant, realising he valued her
assessment and was beginning to rely on it. “Tell me about your unit.”

“Ragtag group,” said Pullman.
“Some aren’t even soldiers. We pick up strays as we go along.”

Stephen thought of Phil and his
two dead friends back at the farmhouse. “Are you a soldier?”

Pullman nodded. “Lancashire and
Borders. Afghanistan, 2014. Back here when the virus took hold. Battle of
Grangemouth.” She sat back and shrugged. The oil refinery at Grangemouth had
been destroyed in a battle for control in 2016. The part she was leaving out,
Stephen realised, was five years of being a Sergeant in Morgan’s Unit.

Stephen leaned forward. He looked
at the silver pistols on the table, then straight at Pullman. “How would you
like a promotion and some proper soldiering?”

“Depends.” She returned Stephen’s
stare but she stayed sat back in her chair. “What have you got in mind?”

Stephen gestured around the room
as if it were the whole village. “These are British citizens. Do your duty.
Protect us. Don’t leech off us.”

Pullman thought about that. “How
are you set up? Where’s Rory?”

Stephen said, “Suzanne’s in bed.
Rory is our business. We’re going to create a council; that’s your government.
We’ll have judges; there’s your judiciary. Gary’s the General. Alana’s Chief
Constable. Karen runs the stables. And you’ll be the Colonel.”

Pullman looked at them in turn.
Karen was smiling but everyone else was dead serious. The Sergeant asked
Stephen, “And what do you do round here?”

Stephen sat back and said
nothing. He stared at her and never moved.

Pullman closed her lips and
Stephen saw her throat constrict as she swallowed. She took a sip of her tea.
“And the men?”

“I’ll help you get them into
line, and you answer to Gary, but you run the unit the way you see fit. You
train the rest of the villagers up as a militia.”

“What do we eat?” Pullman was
pushing now for concessions.

“Eat your fucking horses for all
I care,” said Stephen, knowing they clearly needed a base for winter, and that
he held all the cards. He spoke more softly when he saw Karen frown. “Or go and
catch more deer. Trade with the villagers for vegetables. They’ll be glad of
the venison.”

Pullman sat up. She pulled her
body armour. “OK,” she said simply.

“Can you get the men in line?”
Alana asked.

“Yes, ma’am,” Sergeant Pullman
said, sure of herself. She seemed tough to Stephen, having survived all this
time as the only woman in a small army.

“Let me ask you some questions,”
said Stephen. Pullman nodded agreement. “The horses, guns, equipment. Who owns
it? The unit or the individual soldier?”

Pullman’s expression told Stephen
she hadn’t thought about. “British Army, I guess.”

“Well here’s your first order,
Colonel,” said Stephen. “The Chief Constable is taking possession of everyone’s
kit until we’re sure they can be trusted. Except yours. You keep yours. Morgan,
Weaver and Baxter; you and your men can bury them but their kit and horses
belong to me.”

Pullman nodded, though she looked
a little unsure about the last part. Robbing dead soldiers would gall her,
Stephen knew, but she agreed anyway. “Any more orders, sir?”

“Yeah,” said Gary, asserting his
new found position. “Get your men to sort our defences out. We’ve got a gate
and a cattle-grid but it’s just embarrassing when you ride around them.”

“Yes, sir,” Pullman said firmly.
She stood up, careful not to startle them. She saluted. After a pause, Gary
jumped to his feet and saluted her back.

Stephen didn’t trust himself to
give a convincing salute, so he pushed the silver pistols across the table.
“Jump to it, Colonel.”