Blood Bond (13 page)

Mark was dumbfounded by the scene of devastation that lay before them. Gulf Harbour Marina no longer existed. The breakwater had gone. The masts that had once pointed proudly to the sky had gone, and the two blocks of apartments closest to the marina had gone too.

‘Do you think it was a storm?' Steven asked quietly.

‘The damage is far worse than any storm could do,' Mark said, at last able to speak. ‘This has to be the work of a tsunami.'

The rest of the crew looked on in horror. They had no idea what Gulf Harbour had once looked like, but they could see the huge jumble of timber, smashed fibreglass, tree branches and wreckage that lay on the spit between the island and the peninsula. None of them voiced the pressing question in their minds.

Despite the fact it was high tide, the alarm on
Archangel
's depth sounder suddenly went off and Mark threw the engine into reverse. ‘Either the sea bed's lifted, or silt's been laid down,' he said to Steven.

Mark reversed
Archangel
into deeper water and tried again.
Eventually he found what he guessed was the old channel into the marina and carefully manoeuvred
Archangel
forward. Again the depth sounder let off a warning.

They were now in what had been Hobbs Bay before the marina had been built, sheltered from the northerly wind. ‘That'll have to do,' Mark called out as Steven prepared the anchor. As the chain rattled through the anchor lead, Mark trained his binoculars on the head of the bay. Some of the pre-cast concrete buildings of the canal-side development were still standing but many seemed to have collapsed. The landscape was so different that Mark had difficulty establishing whether the block of townhouses his family had occupied was one of the buildings that remained.

‘Any signs of life?' Steven asked.

Mark shook his head. No words would come.

‘Perhaps they've moved to higher ground,' Allison suggested softly. Looking at the jumble of debris, she knew she was grasping at straws.

Steven prepared to lower the dinghy from the davits. ‘Would you like Fergus or me to come with you?' Allison asked.

He shook his head. ‘Best we check it out ourselves first,' he said.

She squeezed his hand and kissed him on the cheek. He could sense her feeling of helplessness.

As Steven rowed towards the head of the bay, Mark struggled to gain his bearings. It reminded him of how once, when driving a car in fog, he had become totally disorientated, even though he knew the road well. Most of the shoreline had changed. He tried to guess where the marina worksheds and fuel jetty had once stood. Not a single mooring pile remained to identify where jetties had once stretched out from the shore.

At the head of the bay, they found what resembled a creek rather than the man-made canal it had once been. The pontoons, gangways and railings had all been swept away, as had the concrete block walls that had once lined the canal. All that remained was the rock face where the waterway had been blasted out.

‘Looks as if our block's still standing,' Mark said. ‘But the tower blocks have collapsed.'

Steven glanced over his shoulder as he rowed. The loss of the towers was a major blow. Six floors of one of the towers had been crammed with important items he had helped collect in the months following the pandemic. It was unlikely they could assemble such a collection again.

Directly outside the block of three townhouses that had once been their home, they clambered over the edge of the creek and tied the dinghy's painter to a partly buried paving slab. They were both silent as they made their way into the building. The gardens and patio that had once fronted the canal had disappeared. Water had scoured the soil from the building's foundations. Some of the pre-cast concrete slabs that formed the houses had moved, no doubt forced apart by swirling water. They walked through the hole where the patio doors had once stood, both thinking the same thoughts, but neither voicing them. Surely no one could have survived the forces evident from the destruction they were witnessing.

At a sudden sound they both swung round. Standing behind them, tail in the air, stood Misty. He slowly sauntered past them and meowed in greeting, as if they had just returned from a day on the farm. He wandered nonchalantly through the gap where the back door had once been.

‘Perhaps they're still alive,' Mark said, filled with sudden hope.

‘I doubt it,' Steven said solemnly. ‘He wouldn't still be lying there if they were.' He was peering over what had once been the half-wall separating the lounge from the kitchen area. A wheelchair lying on its side was pinned up against the wall, the remains of a corpse tangled in the frame.

Mark sank on his knees beside the body and began to cry. The grey hair, the missing teeth and the ring on the left hand confirmed it was his brother Christopher.

‘How long ago do you think it happened?' Steven asked once his father had finally stood up and wiped the tears from his cheeks.

Mark stared out the back door hole. ‘Probably not that long ago, based on the state of his body.' His voice was choked with emotion. ‘There're a couple of weeds growing in the silt out there. Three weeks — a month — maybe a bit longer.'

‘I wonder why Christopher was in a wheelchair?'

‘Heaven knows — he was healthy enough when we left.'

‘Perhaps his thyroid was playing up.'

‘Doubt it. He had enough Thyroxine tablets to last a lifetime.' Mark began to choke up again.

‘The fact he was in the wheelchair may be significant,' Steven said, excitement evident in his voice. Mark looked at him enquiringly. ‘If he was really ill and in a wheelchair, he might have been sleeping downstairs. Perhaps everyone else was asleep upstairs.'

‘He wouldn't have been sleeping in his wheelchair,' Mark said, staring forlornly at the corpse. ‘And you're right — if they were alive, they would have buried the body.'

Steven could see his father was becoming increasingly disheartened. ‘Let's bury him now, then,' he suggested gently, putting his arm around his father's shoulders.

‘No, let's have a look round first.' Mark headed for the gap where the back door had been. Misty returned and meowed again as Steven prepared to follow his father. He stooped and picked up the cat.

‘What happened, Misty — are they still alive?' he asked. The cat gave no reply; he simply nudged Steven's hand, demanding the customary stroke under the chin and rub behind the ears. Steven quickly obliged, then placed the cat back on the ground and hurried after his father.

The progress of the tsunami could clearly be seen by the line of flotsam and debris on the side of Marina Hill. The tarmac of the road had been lifted in places and all the low walls that had lined the road had collapsed, as had two-thirds of the buildings. The fruit trees and vineyards the family had planted along the base of the hill had been swept away.

‘Hello,' called Mark, little force in his voice.

‘Hello!' Steven called louder. Neither of them expected an answer. ‘We should have brought a rifle and fired off a couple of shots,' Steven said.

‘We'll fire shots from
Archangel
later,' Mark replied, his tone of voice showing he believed the action would be futile.

‘It must have been a hell of a wave,' mused Steven as they walked
past the pile of rubble that had once been the small shopping centre at the head of the canal. They were surprised to see the clock tower on the island in the middle of the canal still standing. The four clock faces had all stopped at different times, adding nothing to their knowledge of when the tsunami had struck.

They climbed to the top of Marina Hill. The houses there were as deserted as they had been when
Archangel
had sailed for England. Weeds and small bushes had further invaded the area. It was difficult to pick out the graves they knew dotted the slopes. Father and son stood side by side on the top of the hill for several minutes, looking in all directions. There was not a single plume of smoke or any other sign of life.

‘Look,' Steven said suddenly. ‘Over there on the golf course.' Mark looked where Steven was pointing and saw the strange platform with the tin hut on top. Without speaking, they ran towards it, their hope refuelled.

‘Something went wrong here,' Steven said when his father arrived, panting. He pointed at the hole in the ground and the pile lying beside it. ‘Looks like they were intending to build the platform on four piles, but ended up building it on only three.' As he scrambled up the ladder onto the platform his critical tradesman's eye inspected the work. ‘Pretty rough,' he called down to his father. ‘I'd have thought Christopher could have done a better job than this.'

‘Maybe Christopher didn't build it,' Mark speculated as he mounted the platform. ‘What do you think they built it for?'

‘Some sort of lookout, perhaps,' Steven said, opening the door of the aluminium shed. ‘Or perhaps it was a defence platform. There's a rifle here.'

‘Defence from whom?'

Steven shrugged. ‘The rifle's loaded. They obviously felt the need to have it at the ready.'

‘Fire off a shot,' Mark said quickly.

Steven pointed the rifle in the air and fired. The sound reverberated around the valley. They waited for a few minutes but there was no reply.

‘I think I can see a couple of sheep down in the valley,' Mark said.
‘Let's bag one on the way back. We'll have it for dinner.'

But as they descended from the platform a rifle shot in the distance startled them both.

‘Someone's still alive!' beamed Mark. ‘Fire it again.'

This time the rifle shot was answered immediately.

‘It came from the direction of the marina,' said Mark. He set off down the hill with renewed energy, Steven hard on his heels.

By the time Diana had walked slowly across Stable Court towards Duncan, she could no longer hear Nigel's frantic screams or his banging on the locked workshop door.

‘What have you done to him?' Duncan asked.

‘Taught him a lesson,' Diana said as she walked past.

She reached the kitchens as the fire bell started ringing. Theresa and Susan stopped packing sandwiches in the picnic baskets they were preparing and ran towards the door.

‘Aren't you coming?' Susan shouted to her sister.

‘No,' said Diana.

 

Damian heard the bell ringing in the Punishment Room at the foot of Cromwell's Tower and stepped off the treadmill. He tried to reach the door to see what was going on but the chains padlocked to his ankles restricted his movements. Naked, and with his hands tied behind his back, he shuffled across to the bucket in the corner of the room and relieved himself before returning to the treadmill.

Jasper, locked in a cell on the second floor of Cromwell's Tower, looked through the peepholes in the shutters that darkened the room. He saw Duncan ringing the fire bell and felt a glow of satisfaction. The peasants were having problems already.

Greg, locked in the clock room on the floor above Jasper, could see nothing. He was terrified the fire might be in the tower itself.

Susan and Theresa reached Flag Court as Paul raced in from the gardens with Cheryl and the children in hot pursuit. Bridget and Jennifer arrived a little later, while Kimberley and Rebecca, tending the livestock a mile away, took longer to get back to the house.

‘The workshop,' Duncan shouted. Running into Stable Court, the family could see smoke beginning to billow though the barred window and from beneath the closed door.

Paul and the women dragged the ancient hand-operated fire-cart into the courtyard, and ran the hose from the rear of the cart into the reservoir beneath Flag Court. Kimberley and Rebecca helped Cheryl and Bridget couple some lengths of hose together, while Susan, Theresa and the children ran backwards and forwards to the rack beneath Cromwell's Tower to collect more sections. Slowly the hose snaked its way towards the workshop.

Duncan could hear coughing and spluttering from the gap beneath the workshop door. He tried the handle but found it was locked. He ran back across the courtyard towards Susan. ‘Where's Diana?' he yelled.

‘In the kitchen.'

Duncan found Diana sitting on a chair, calmly drinking a glass of milk. The key to the workshop was on the table in front of her.

‘You bitch,' he breathed as he snatched up the key and dashed out of the room.

‘He got what he deserved,' she called after him.

By the time Duncan had returned to the workshop, the hose from the fire-cart was being directed through the barred window by Cheryl and Bridget. Crouching beneath the billowing smoke, they held the hose above their heads, trying to direct a jet of water into the room. Paul and the remainder of the adults were furiously pumping the handle of the fire-cart.

The only noises from the workshop as Duncan unlocked the door were the splashing of water and the crackling of burning wood. Then a tin of paint exploded from the heat. He pushed at the door, but it would not open.

‘Move away from the door, Nigel,' he shouted, but there was no reply and no movement from the other side. ‘Paul, come and help!'

Paul left the fire-cart and ran across to the workshop. Together they pushed the door open a few centimetres. Another tin exploded and a rush of flame and heat seared through the door, momentarily forcing them back. They shoved the door open a little more.

‘We'll have to attack the fire first,' Duncan said.

The hose was moved from the window and directed through the partly open door. It took nearly half an hour to douse the flames and for the smoke to clear sufficiently to allow Duncan and Paul to force the door open a little more and squeeze through the gap.

They found Nigel's naked body lying face down on the floor, jammed behind the door. Duncan put his fingers to the bull-like neck. ‘Dead,' he announced after a few seconds. Nigel had suffered serious burns but had clearly not burned to death. ‘The smoke must have killed him,' Duncan speculated.

‘A lot of the tools are damaged,' said Paul. He stopped beside the charred workbench. ‘It looks as if Diana trapped Nigel's thumb in the vice,' he continued, staring intently at the charred remains and the blackened knife lying beside it. ‘I think he was forced to cut it off.'

‘He was, but it wasn't his thumb,' announced Duncan, who had rolled Nigel's corpse over onto its back in order to clear the doorway. ‘Stay out,' he ordered the children, who were milling about outside.

Paul walked across to Duncan and stared down at the corpse. ‘I may have hated the bastard, and I would gladly have voted for his death, but I couldn't have done that.'

‘Me neither,' said Duncan quietly. ‘We're going to have to watch that bitch.'

The two men left the workshop, Duncan locking the door and handing the key to Paul. ‘Get him wrapped up in a tarpaulin or something as soon as possible. I'm off to talk to Diana.'

He made straight for the kitchen.

‘Where's Diana?' he asked Susan, who was tidying herself up after the fire.

‘I'm not sure. She left instructions to give you these,' she replied, nodding towards two picnic baskets. ‘You're having a picnic lunch today.'

‘Where is she?' he demanded angrily.

Susan shrugged. ‘I've no idea. You know her — she's a law unto herself. She did say something about preparing for a meeting this evening though.'

‘What meeting?'

Susan shrugged again. Duncan guessed Susan was telling the truth. Haver House, with its more than three hundred rooms, was too vast to search. He had no option but to grab the picnic baskets and carry them away, his anger slightly dissipated by the thought that at least there would be a meeting that evening.

‘What did Diana say?' Paul asked as Duncan returned to the workshop.

‘She's gone to ground, preparing for a meeting tonight. I presume it's a committee meeting.

‘Well, that's good.'

Duncan put down the baskets and knelt to help Paul roll Nigel's mutilated body onto the outspread tarpaulin. ‘You and I need to stick together at the meeting, otherwise Diana will get everything her own way.'

Paul nodded, and Duncan noticed for the first time that his nervous tic had ceased. The tic had lasted from the moment Nigel had executed Paul's son until the moment he had discovered Nigel was dead.

‘What are we going to do with the corpse?' Paul asked.

‘Nobody's going to be interested in a funeral.'

‘What about his sons?'

‘They don't matter anymore. We'll chuck him in the rubbish pit — that's all he deserves. Let's get the handcart.'

‘I wonder what Diana's planning for Nigel's sons?' Paul asked as they left the workshop again.

‘It's not Diana's decision,' Duncan said sharply. ‘It's a committee decision.'

 

When Duncan arrived in the Great Hall at seven o'clock for the evening meal, he was relieved to find that the vestiges of Nigel's power had been removed. The table on the dais had been stripped of its white tablecloths and pushed back against the wall, as had the huge throne-like chair and two of the three gilded chairs that Nigel's sons had used. The third gilded chair had been placed at the end of the refectory table with a place setting laid before it.

Platters of bread and butter lay on the table and Susan and Theresa were delivering additional dishes of pâté and smoked trout. Duncan's eyes lit up — he had not tasted such rich fare since before the pandemic. ‘Who's sitting where?' Duncan asked Theresa, looking suspiciously at the gilt chair.

‘Sit wherever you like.'

The members of the community, except for Diana, filed into the hall. No one, including Duncan, chose the gilt chair, or the two places on the bench on either side of it. Duncan chose a seat in the middle of the table opposite Paul.

Nigel had decreed that no one was to touch the food on the tables until he and his sons were seated. But Nigel was dead and his sons imprisoned. Everyone looked at Duncan. It was his opportunity to make a statement. He stretched out his hand and took a bread roll.

‘My mother will be here soon,' Theresa said sharply. ‘She wants grace said before we eat.'

Duncan felt he had no alternative but to put the roll back. ‘Good idea,' he agreed, stroking his beard in an attempt to hide his embarrassment, but inside he was fuming. It was just like the old days of waiting for Nigel's arrival.

Five minutes later Diana walked in, still wearing the Tudor dress she had worn that morning. Duncan suddenly realised that no one else, himself included, had discarded the grey tunics that Nigel had forced them to wear. As Diana walked towards the refectory table, Duncan's nieces Kimberley and Rebecca stood unprompted, as they had been required to do upon the arrival of Nigel and his sons.

‘Sit down,' Duncan whispered angrily, and the two girls hurriedly followed his order. Diana walked directly to the top of the table and stood in front of the gilt chair. Theresa stood beside the empty place
on her right hand and Susan on her left.

‘Please stand for grace,' Susan said. Everyone, including Duncan, stood up.

‘Lord,' began Theresa, ‘we thank you for our deliverance from evil. We thank you for the knowledge you imparted to my mother that enabled our salvation. We thank you also for the bountifulness of your harvest, the food that has been placed upon our table and for your many blessings. Amen.'

A chorus of ‘amen' reverberated around the Great Hall.

‘Please be seated. Enjoy your meal,' Diana said. ‘As you will see, I have arranged a special treat for you all today.'

A murmur of excitement and anticipation swept along the table. Halfway down, Duncan leaned across to Paul and muttered, ‘Who the hell does she think she is?'

‘I think she's doing a good job,' Paul countered, helping himself to some of the smoked trout. ‘Everyone appreciates saying grace. And look at the spread she's given us.'

‘What do you mean given us?' said Duncan, incredulous. ‘It's our food!'

Once the trout and pâté were finished, Diana nodded to Susan and Theresa, who rose from the table and hurried off to the kitchen. The rest of the family craned their necks to see what was going on.

Suddenly the sound of music filled the room. The vocalist was Frank Sinatra, the tune ‘My Way.' It was the first time for almost three years that they had heard music. Theresa was pushing into the room an old-fashioned, hand-wound gramophone, its great brass horn filling the Great Hall with sound. Instinctively, everyone in the hall except Duncan got to their feet, clapping and cheering.

Duncan was becoming even angrier. Diana was mirroring the same spectacle that Nigel had employed at the Christmas function the year they arrived at Haver. On that occasion the gramophone — playing ‘Rudolf the Red-Nosed Reindeer' — had been followed by the entrance of Nigel and his three sons dressed in their Tudor costumes for the first time. Duncan recalled that everyone had clapped and cheered on that occasion too, before the day had ended in disaster. Was history repeating itself?

As the applause began to wane, Susan appeared at the door pushing a large trolley, on top of which lay a huge roasted pig, fringed with roasted vegetables and with an apple in its mouth. A fresh round of applause broke out, followed by even more clapping as Theresa placed bottles of wine along the length of the refectory table.

For almost three years they had watched Nigel and his sons sit at the top table and drink wine. Now they were being allowed wine too. Life appeared to be looking up. Diana alone did not drink the wine, sipping instead at a glass of water. Even Duncan succumbed and began to relax as the wine flowed and spirits soared.

‘Here's to Nigel,' Paul said, raising his glass. ‘May he rot in hell!'

Cheers rang around the Great Hall.

‘What's going to happen to Nigel's sons?' Jennifer called out to Diana.

‘I'll talk about them after we've finished our meal,' Diana replied.

‘How did you manage to drug the Chatfields?' Paul asked.

‘That's for me to know,' Diana said.

‘Could you have killed them?'

Diana nodded.

‘Why didn't you?'

‘I have other plans for them?'

‘We'd better be careful what we say,' Duncan joked. ‘She might poison us too.'

‘I might,' Diana confirmed.

Only Diana and Duncan didn't laugh.

Once the meal was finished, Diana rose from her chair to address her family. She spoke without notes. Locked away in the library all afternoon, she had carefully prepared, memorised and rehearsed her presentation.

‘The tyranny of the Chatfield family is over,' she began. ‘We now enter a new dawn, a new chapter in the history of mankind. Together, we can not only survive — we can also prosper. However, to prosper we must be organised, and we must work hard together. We must all contribute our skills for the common good.'

A murmur of agreement and much nodding of heads accompanied her words. Those closest to the wine took the opportunity to replenish their glasses.

‘We need the rule of law and we need a simple form of government based on democratic principles.'

‘Hear, hear,' Duncan said forcefully, clearly relieved at Diana's reference to democracy.

‘What I propose is that we elect a leader.'

‘Not another lord of Haver!' Paul exclaimed.

‘Of course not,' Diana assured him. ‘But we should respect our leader, whoever we choose. They will be doing a very important and a very demanding job. I suggest we simply call them Leader.'

‘Sounds a damned sight better than Your Lordship,' Paul agreed.