Son of Heaven (8 page)

Tom stood there a long while, staring at the gap between the trees and stroking his chin. They had to go through. There was no alternative. Only it was certain that this, if anywhere, was where
they’d make their move.

‘Well?’ Frank Goodman said, coming over. ‘You got a plan?’

‘Me? I’m just savouring the air, Frank. Enjoying being alive, while I still am.’

‘So what do we do? Turn round and go home? Wait another month? Or do we blast our way in and blast our way out again?’

Tom smiled. ‘Sounds about as good as anything I could come up with.’ He turned, looking to Jake. ‘What d’you think, Jake?’

‘We’ve done it before, and there’s not a man here who’s afraid of doing it. And as Frank says, the only alternative is to let those fuckers chase us off.’

Jake turned, looking to the others. ‘All those in favour of going home…’

There was not a movement. Not a flicker of an eye.

‘Okay… all those in favour of the blast-us-in-blast-us-out plan…’

Six hands went up, then a seventh. Finally all eight were raised.

‘Good,’ Jake said. ‘Then that’s decided.’ He looked to Tom. ‘You think they’re watching us?’

‘They’re pretty stupid if they’re not.’

‘Then they’re not far in. They’re probably thinking to unnerve us. To hit us immediately we’re inside.’

‘Or just outside,’ Dick Gifford said, surprising them all by even speaking. ‘So why don’t we just leave all the stuff here and crawl towards them, army style, and take
them on, man for man? We can come back for the stuff after we’ve dealt with ’em.’

Jake looked to Tom, who, like him, was grinning now. Tom nodded, then looked to Dick Gifford.

‘Fucking brilliant plan, Dick. And one they won’t expect. We go in there, yeah? And hunt ’em down, one by one.’

Jake’s heart was racing now. But he wasn’t afraid. He’d done this far too often to be afraid. As Tom fixed the details of the attack, Jake looked from face to face, seeing how
each of them met his gaze unflinchingly. In the early years after the Collapse, they’d had to do this three, four times a year – mainly in the summer – seeing off raiding parties,
fighting for their lives against desperate bands of men who would have taken everything – their food, their women and their children. It had schooled them to be hard as well as fair, to be
unsparing when it was called for. There wasn’t a single one of them who hadn’t risked his life a dozen times and more.

Last of all his eyes locked with those of the new man, Frank Goodman. ‘You good for this, Frank?’

Goodman nodded. There was steel in his gaze.

‘Okay,’ Jake said, ‘then let’s do as Dick says. You see any kind of movement, you target it. Only I’ve got one change of plan. We don’t go in. We stay
outside
, keeping low, until we’re sure we’ve got most of them. All right? We don’t go inside unless we have to, because once we’re inside we won’t know
who’s a friend and who’s not. Are you all good with that?’

There were nods all around.

‘Good, then let’s load up and get at them.’

They marched towards the trees in a straight line, the eight of them spread out like gunfighters, guns raised. Tom gave the order at a hundred yards and they went down, onto their stomachs and
crawled forward, army fashion, rifles held up in front of them. The way they’d trained to do it years back.

Fifty yards out and the first few shots came from the woods. They whizzed past their ears like angry hornets, or threw up tiny chunks of dirt.

Dick Gifford was the first to return their fire, his single well-aimed shot bringing a howl of pain from among the trees. Next to him, some four or five paces to Jake’s right, Frank
Goodman laughed, then opened up.

One thing was clear immediately: the raiders weren’t that well armed. It was likely that only half their number had guns, and not good ones at that.

Too easy
, Jake thought, letting off three quick shots at a movement to his left. There was a cry, followed instants later by a terrible screaming that went on and on.

An answering shot whizzed past his ear.

Dick opened up again, a rapid burst, and the screaming stopped.

For a moment there was sporadic fire, single shots, carefully aimed, and then they all opened up at once, the eight of them getting off shot after shot. For a moment the raiders returned a
desultory fire. Then, seeing that the game was up, they began to turn and flee.

Or tried to.

Far to Jake’s right, Tom was kneeling now, taking aim at the running men. Dick Gifford was also on his knees, as were Eddie and Frank. In a moment they were all kneeling, picking off
anything that moved.

In the silence that followed a thin haze of smoke settled. The smell of cordite was strong in the air, while the barrel of Jake’s gun felt warm against his hand. There was a pulse
throbbing in his brow.

He stood up very slowly, still cautious, his gun still levelled at the trees. There wasn’t a sign of life in there. Not a moan or a whisper.

Jake swallowed. They were going to have to go in and make sure. He looked across at Tom and smiled, but it was a strained expression. He’d never liked this part.

He walked towards the trees, his rifle moving slowly, left to right and back again, ready to blast anything that moved, but he could see already how devastating their fire had been.

He could hear a faint moaning now. One or two were still alive, if barely, just away to his right.

Three of them had fallen in a heap about ten yards in. They were clearly dead. Just beyond them another lay sprawled out on his face like he was sleeping. Only there was no movement, just a lot
of blood.

Jake turned full circle, trying to make out how many bodies there were. A dozen at least.

Tom stepped up alongside him. ‘You all right?’

Jake nodded. Dick Gifford and Frank Goodman came and stood with them, guns lowered.

‘Serves the fuckers right,’ Goodman said, looking about him contemptuously. ‘Thought they could pick us bare.’

Jake took a long breath. He could smell the dead men. Could smell their blood and faeces. At the end they’d been afraid. As well they ought. They’d not had a clue who they’d
taken on.

He knew he ought to be unsentimental about all this, but when it came to it he couldn’t stop himself. He always felt sorry for them. No matter how much he tried to convince himself that it
was ‘us or them’, as Tom so often argued, it simply didn’t matter. They were still living, breathing human beings. Or had been, until a few moments ago. That was why he
couldn’t share Goodman’s contempt, his cynicism.

The moaning came again. Goodman turned, looking towards the noise, then went across. There was a gunshot, then, four or five seconds later, a second.

Again it made sense. There was no use taking chances, and they couldn’t afford to take on a badly injured enemy. Even Jake knew that that made no sense. Yet it seemed a touch too ruthless
somehow.

Goodman returned, his face hard. He passed by them silently.

‘He lost a brother to raiders,’ Tom said, speaking quietly, for Jake’s ears only. ‘Ten years back. His brother bandaged the guy up. Saved his life. First opportunity the
bastard had he shot him… in the back. So now Frank doesn’t take chances.’

Tom straightened up, looking about him, then raised his voice. ‘Guess we’d better see what they’ve got.’

Again, Jake loathed this part. Stripping dead bodies – it seemed indecent somehow. He himself would have left them, but it made sense. Life these days was about surviving, and anything
that helped tip the balance had to be embraced. They had no one but themselves to rely on.

He walked across to the one who lay face down, then, steeling himself, turned the body over.

‘Christ…’

It was a girl. A teenage girl. Her face was scabbed and pale and her hair was cut shoulder length, but there was no mistaking it.

Tom came across, then winced. ‘Jesus…’

Jake looked into his face; saw what he was thinking.

It could so easily have been one of his girls.

‘Leave her be,’ Tom said quietly. Then, looking about him again, he gave another order. ‘We’ve not time enough to bury them. But we can’t leave ’em here. Who
knows what diseases they’ll spread. We’ll pile ’em up and burn ’em, okay?’

There were nods at that.

‘Look at this!’ Frank Goodman said, straightening up above the corpse he had been searching, his face lit up with a beam of a smile. ‘It’s a watch. It’s a fucking
gold watch!’

Tom took a step towards him.

Crack!

Jake was still staring at the girl. For a moment he didn’t understand. It sounded a bit like a gunshot, only they’d stopped firing minutes ago and all the raiders were dead.

Crack!

Wood splinters flew from a nearby tree.

Tom grunted, then dropped to his knees.

‘Tom…?’

Behind him, Frank Goodman was crashing through the trees, heading further in. After a moment two shots rang out and then a third.

There was a yelp, then further crashing.

Jake knelt beside his friend. ‘Tom… where are you hit?’

Tom gasped for breath, then let out a tiny moan. ‘My shoulder… my right… shoulder…’

Jake looked to the Giffords, who were staring out through the trees, watching the pursuit.

‘Ted… Dick… give me a hand. We need to carry Tom over to the wagons, and we need to do it now. He needs this cleaned up and bandaged.’

From deep among the trees, Frank Goodman’s voice floated back to them. ‘What was the fucking matter with you, you stupid cunt! You’d got away! You’d fucking got away! Now
look what you’ve done!’

They heard the click as he cocked the gun again, then a soft, almost muted explosion.

Jake closed his eyes. It was best not to imagine.

‘You’ll be okay,’ he said, helping Dick and Ted get Tom to his feet. ‘We’ll put some iodine on it and some nice clean bandages. Then we’ll get you
home…’

Tom shook his head. ‘No, Jake. We’ve got to go on. We haven’t got time to go back. I’ll be okay. It’s just a flesh wound. A few painkillers and I’ll be
fine.’

Just then Frank Goodman returned. He had a sour look on his face. ‘There were three of them, further back among the trees. I got one of them, but the other two escaped.’ He looked at
Tom. ‘What’s the damage?’

Tom grimaced. ‘It stings like fuck, but I’ll be okay. At least he missed my head.’

Goodman nodded. ‘Well, I didn’t fucking miss his. You should have seen his eyes when I put the gun in his mouth…’

‘They’re just boys,’ Eddie said, coming across. ‘There’s not one of ’em over twenty.’

‘City boys by the look of it,’ Jake said. ‘Shanty-dwellers, I’d say. But what are they doing this far west?’

And the girl…

They had come to the edge of the trees, but every tiny movement was making Tom wince with pain.

‘Sit him down,’ Jake said, taking charge. ‘Let’s bring the wagon over.’

They did as Jake said. Ten minutes later it was done. The wound was cleaned and bandaged, while a heavy dose of morphine had numbed Tom’s pain.

Jake crouched beside him, watching as the others made a pile of the bodies in the clearing beside the road.

Frank Goodman took the petrol can and poured it over them, then looked across at Jake. ‘You want to do the honours, Jake?’

They were all here. All fourteen of the dead. And Eddie had been right. There wasn’t one of them over twenty, and most of them were younger than that. A lot younger. And then there was the
girl…

Unsentimental, he told himself. You’ve got to be unsentimental.

He struck the match and let it fall, standing back as the flames roared up.

They would have killed us. They would have left our bodies to be pecked clean by the birds.

But it didn’t matter what he told himself. They were just kids. Just fucking kids.

Peter sat with the Hubbards, at the head of their old kitchen table, in the ‘man’s chair’ as they always called Tom’s seat. He liked being there; liked
the way they always made him welcome, as if he was their brother, not just a cousin.

He always ate well at the Hubbards’. Much better than at home. Not that he complained. His dad did his best. But he wasn’t half the cook Mary Hub-bard was.

The girls were messing about right now, giggling and whispering to each other. They were up to mischief, but for once Peter couldn’t be bothered to find out what was going on.

Mary had cooked a casserole. She brought it in, wearing thick oven gloves to carry the steaming pot. It smelled delicious. Prime beef with all the trimmings. But Mary herself seemed distracted
for once. She went through the motions of being there, but her mind clearly wasn’t. Peter could tell she was thinking about something. When she looked at you, she would smile, as always, but
the smile would fade after a moment, as if it hadn’t the power to sustain itself.

He ate, trying to enjoy the meal, slipping the odd piece of meat beneath the table for Boy. Only he was too distracted now. The more he observed Meg’s mother, the more certain he was that
something was wrong. It wasn’t just the air of distraction that surrounded her, it was something deeper. She seemed sad. Only that made no sense. He’d been with the Hubbards dozens of
times when Tom and Jake had gone to market, and she’d always treated the occasions as a kind of holiday, to be celebrated. They’d always had a lot of fun. Today, however, she seemed
positively miserable, and there seemed no reason why.

There was no way, of course, that he could ask, but it preyed on his mind. When they went out into the garden after lunch, he didn’t join in the girls’ game, but stood there by the
end wall, looking north, Boy settled by his feet.

They’d be a fair way along by now, he reckoned. At East Stoke, maybe, halfway to Wool. That was, if they hadn’t made it to Wool already.

‘Peter?’

He turned as Meg ran up. ‘Yeah?’

‘We’re going in to Corfe. You wanna come?’

‘Nah… later, maybe.’

Meg looked disappointed, but she didn’t argue. As she ran off, Peter looked down at Boy, then knelt to pet him and rough up his coat.

‘You’re a good dog… You liked Aunt Mary’s stew, didn’t you? You could’ve eaten a whole bowl on your own…’