Bold as Love (19 page)

Pretend what happens next is not your business: except that it soon will be, because the military solution is no solution, and the trouble won’t stay in Yorkshire. The Islamics are inextricably part of this country. Give them up for lost, give up the whole thing—

Sage rolled over. ‘You still awake?’

‘Yeah. What time is it?’

Ax’s watch was a piece of retro handicraft: you couldn’t read it in the dark.

‘Middle of the night time. What does it matter?’ Sage stretched out his arm, resignedly, so Ax could check his wrist. It was just after three thirty, by the clock function figures that glowed through the skin, about an inch above where the skeletal-hand masks would stop.

‘That’s a clever thing.’

‘Nnmm. I think I don’t like it. I’m gonna get Olwen to take her spell off again. It’s giving me future shock.’

‘That’s a daft remark, coming from you. I suppose the masks are acceptable because they aren’t useful for anything.’

‘Except intimidating people.’

‘And hiding behind. They don’t interfere with your closet—hippie belief that we should all go back to hoeing the veg and getting up at four am to milk the moo cows, the hardy few of us that survive—’

‘Forget it, Ax. You’re not going to inveigle me into one of your insomnia conversations. Go to sleep. Or not, I don’t care.’

In the dark of dawn it was raining hard. One of their trucks was so badly grounded they couldn’t shift it, the other refused to start. They covered everything and set off on foot. After an hour they came out of the plantation into a shallow upland valley: clad in straw-grey winter grasses, crisscrossed by fresh tyre tracks, alive with barmy army guerrillas—sitting round their camouflaged trucks, wandering to and fro, readying their unorthodox weaponry—; strangely hard to spot in the thick, small rain. It was called Yap Moss, this place: about half way, on a north east, south west diagonal, between Ilkley Moor and the Brontes’ Haworth. The great Muslim controlled conurbation of Leeds, Bradford, Halifax lay to the south. Another December the ground would have been sodden and impassible, but this (inspite of what the guerrillas felt about the weather) had been a very dry year. The commanders consulted with their young Alexander. The groups came together, split again into larger companies and moved to their positions. Shortly the Islamists came over the hill, in about half their reported strength.

Ax and Sage’s company was in the centre, at the lowest point of the valley. It was intended that the enemy should believe they’d found all their quarry when they saw this mass of barmies: that they would commit themselves to the low ground and get caught. Down they came. Fewer in number, better armed, looking much more like a New Model Army, they dropped and fired and jumped up and came on, like that night-patrol in Doncaster magnified.

‘Transmission mast,’ said Ax to Sage.

‘See you there—’

Don’t go to meet them, let them come on. Those organised volleys are not as dangerous as they look, here are no serried ranks to be mown down. Fire when it is stupid-time, when there’s really no chance that you won’t hit someone. Soon, in the racket and the blur of smoke and rain, the fighting will be hand to hand, then the Islamists will lose their advantage. Now it’s happening, a melee like a dancefloor. There’s Sage, using the roman legionary’s stabbing sword Brock gave him, easier for him to grip: the skull glimpsed, grinning, perhaps their eyes meet but it’s difficult to say. What hard work it is, how cold the rain, how sickening the thrust into flesh and the grappling, the warm blood, warm as the sweat that bathes your body. The slamdancing crowd heaves, something has happened. It should be step two: the Islamists have committed themselves and our reserved forces, that have been taking advantage of every dip and hump on Yap Moss, have risen out of the landscape. A barmy Signals voice in Ax’s ear confirms, yes that’s where we’re at. Now we push them up the hill again, yes it can be done.

The strangest thing is that if you look up, if you ever dare, you can see all round you quiet empty stretches of the Moss. It would be possible to elbow your way free (well, cut your way) and get out. I’m tired, the DJ’s crap, I don’t want to dance no more, let’s get a drink. There’s a hippie in a gasmask. What,
seriously
? The Deconstruction Tour did its best to rip the heart out of this county’s capacity for organised violence, but there are still a few chemical plants around… No, it’s not a gasmask it’s some weird gaming accessory. Islamists must think we’re mad, avatar masks and fancy dress—

Transmission Mast. There it is. So we’re up the hill. This may mean we’ve won, at least it means we have the advantage, what happened to the rest of the Islamists? For a moment, with that spidery tetrapod looming out of the rain—which had become a fine, stinging hail—Ax had the wonderful illusion that the battle was over and it hadn’t been too bad. But here they come, another rush. The voice in his ear told him what was happening now: about five or eight hundred Islamists had been waiting on the ridge, and it’s all to do again. Pull the company, such as has remained in reach, together. Slamdance over to the open base of the mast, not much shelter but a focus, and now we can use the rifles again, firing into the wall of this renewed advance. Sometimes you can think in this. As if walking in the night… Do the mechanical things, concentrate your mind on something else entirely. He realised that Sage was beside him. So they had made it. They dropped together behind a heap of stones, an old cairn that stood by the mast. Breather.

Ax stared ahead of him, listening for Signals, hearing only static.

‘What’re you thinking? Chris, don’t start
posing
, get
down
, you stupid fucker—’

‘Space programme.’

Sage tipped back his head and cackled, skull’s jaws parting on open—throated darkness.

‘Yeah, very funny, but think of what’s happening to us: no GPS on this battlefield. Phone networks wrecked in the name of landscape preservation, satellite owners changing the locks because we can’t pay the rent. I don’t see going back to a terrestrial system. We may have to put up our own hardware.’

‘Oh really? Launched from where and with what?’

‘That’s what I’m thinking about.’

‘You, beyond belief. Better get back on. Are we winning?’

‘Yes.’

The fighting was becoming scattered, spreading out. Their position between the great metal limbs would soon be out of the loop, the Islamists were giving ground fast. It’s over: nothing left to do but fire from comparative safety into what begins to be a full retreat.

‘I hate this,’ muttered Ax, coming down. ‘I fucking
hate
the whole thing—’

‘Could be worse. We haven’t had to torture anyone yet.’

‘Oh, right. We’re having a clean war. But we know what’s going on: and some of the most evil stuff is being done by our side,’ Suddenly he turned on Sage. ‘What d’you mean
had to
? Under what fucking circumstances would you feel you
had to—?
’

‘Figure of speech, Ax. Calm down.’

‘Fuck. Let’s get after them. No point in staying here til we run out of ammo.’

Ax went charging out across the ridge, the others followed. Some Islamists had formed a block and were departing in order, others spilling out in all directions. The weather had worsened again, the hail driven by a bitter wind: and suddenly, right overhead, that sound like tearing silk. Three silhouettes zoomed out of the cloud, three unmarked fighter planes shearing down, raking the field with machine gun fire. Everywhere bodies dropped, hit or diving for cover. The block of retreating Islamists kept going, some of them falling: it was not at all clear whose side the planes were on. Ax stood staring upward, trying to identify them. Where the fuck are they coming from? The voice in his ear was reporting victory but not any more. This is not a victory.

Someone grabbed him. It was Brock, the big mouthy Extreme Green. ‘Ax! Fucking hell! Yer not going to bring down any fighters with that popgun, let’s
get off the hill
!’

They ran: Sage and Brock in the fore with Ax, Chris and Zip, a few others, such as Jackie Dando, Romany ex-squaddie, the man with the smack, someone Sage would not have regretted much if he’d been left on the Moss. Soon Ax came back from his blank-out, stopped short, changed direction.

‘This way. Ground gets more broken, better cover—’

Of course he was right, he was always right. Through swerving gusts of hail they could see the upland folding into valleys, furze of bare tree branches almost underfoot: then they were dropping into a narrow gorge, a stream in the bottom. Sage, jumping down from the rocks, almost landed on top of a lone Islamist.

He’d been hiding among boulders, using a phone. Sage got the phone. Brock and Jackie got the unknown, hauled him to his feet, relieved him of a rifle, held him by the upper arms. He was a slight young man, in battledress that looked weirdly clean and tidy, like his mum had pressed it for him; a neat white bandana around his brow. ‘Who were you calling?’ said Jackie, amiably. ‘You won’t get a taxi to come and pick you up out here, Ahmed.’

The prisoner stood, mouth tight, eyes bright, staring at Sage: who was checking the phone, and discovering something disturbing. He handed it to Ax, the skull looking
oh, shit
, and went up to the prisoner, invasively close and evil.

‘You’re French,’ he said. ‘What are you doing here, mademoiselle?’

A second’s stunned panic. Then she burst into life, threw off the startled barmies, pulled a small automatic from inside her flak jacket and almost blew a hole through the mask before they disarmed her. The tableau resumed, Sage well in her face, that skull looking uncannily
natural,
peering out from a sage-green British Army Issue balaclava—

‘Yes, French, and a woman,’ She spat, glaring defiance, ‘So what, English?’

‘Well, I’d rather be a woman than a frog-eater,’ said Sage, grinning, wiping saliva from the skull’s chin with the back of a skeleton hand. ‘Just
about
, rather.’

‘Suit yourself, exhibitionist asshole.’

‘I bet you know something about those planes,’ said Brock.

The rest of the group had caught up. They scrambled into the gorge and stood staring at the prisoner. About twenty men, some gaps in the ranks, some walking wounded; some strays from other parties. All of them powder-blackened, dirty, unshaven, dishevelled, many of them pierced and scarified like savages.

Ax repeated Sage’s question, more gently. ‘What are you doing here?’

‘I fight for the cause of religious freedom,’ she answered, visibly struggling now to assemble her English. Her eyes flickered, taking in the size of them, their numbers, the threat of their sex. ‘That’s all you will get out of me.’

‘Right,’ said Ax. He walked away, sat on a rock and stared at the ground. At last he took out his own phone. ‘You may as well relax, everyone. I’ve got to talk to some people. Sage, could you come over here?’

Sage went over, and sat by Ax. The hail flew into their eyes and faces, bounced glittering from the ground; rattled on stone. A very dead sheep lay festering on the brink of the noisy little stream. What’s that stain in the water? Iron? Ah, no: too dark, and crimson rather than rust. Blood, from some dead or dying human body fallen in, back towards Yap Moss.

There’d been reports of foreign nationals spotted with the Islamists. This was the first solid confirmation.

‘Of course she knows something about the planes,’ said Sage.

‘Yeah. Fuck. Looks like we’ve got international intervention. Non government, I suppose, like us. Not that the French have much government at the moment, not that it makes any difference. This is very bad.’

‘What are we going to do with her?’

‘I’ll get a police helicopter, we’ll take her to Easton Friars. It’s not important. Sage, I’m not going to pretend this can be fixed. I’m not going to carry on.’

‘Okay.’ Sage looked up into the darting white hail and the grey sky. ‘Sounds reasonable to me. If the Islamists have outside support, we are fucked. Might as well admit it now, ’stead of pissing around creating havoc for about ten years first. But what then? How do we stop the real military from moving in?’

Silence.

‘Ax?’

‘I’ve got an idea. No, it’s more than an idea. I know what to do. I think I’ve known since we came up from London. I just couldn’t face it.’

‘You gonna to tell me what the idea is?’

‘Not right this moment. Sorry.’

‘Oh, no problem.’ No problem, except Ax looking as if he was about to jump off a very high building. See if he could fly. ‘Just remember, before you make any strange moves: the President is holding my band hostage, as well as your girlfriend, your brothers, your drummer, and the rest of the Few.’

‘Don’t worry. I can handle the Pig, and this will work.’

They walked a few miles to a headland where the helicopter (a very special concession: the police treasured those machines) could pick them up. The lads went on, out to the road: to rejoin their own groups, get medical treatment; or find their way back to the camp in the forest. Ax and Sage and the prisoner were taken to Easton Friars outside Harrogate, present quarters of the barmy High Command. Richard was waiting in the great desolate front hall.

‘Congratulations. Come upstairs, to the habitable regions, we’ve made arrangements for mademoiselle up there. You two’ll want to clean up.’

‘Suppose we will. Congratulations?’

‘I hear you won a famous victory.’

‘Old news.’

The house had been empty before the barmies arrived. It was ruined still: damp seeping through the bare walls, shards of plaster fallen from the ceilings; dust-sheeted furniture that no one had bothered to remove rotting in situ. While Ax spent the next day with the commanders Sage explored, opening doors, surprising fieldmice, spiders, ghosts. He found the prisoner alone with her chaperone, in a cavernous empty salon on the first floor. She seemed pleased to see him. The mask didn’t scare her now she realised it was merely a rockstar’s stupid affectation. Shame.

‘So your friend is Ax Preston.’

She’d been treated nicely and politely questioned, and in the end had made no difficulty about telling them who she was with. Her outfit called itself the Force Expeditionaire Internationale. They were French, German and Netherlanders, mostly. She didn’t know all the nationalities. Maybe some Russians. They were all Muslim, and it was their right and duty to join the
jihad.
She’d come over by sea. The planes were ‘borrowed’ from the French Air Force. She didn’t know about the pilots, or what weaponry they had, or where they were flying from.