 
Elysium.

Part Two:

In A Landscape
Elysium. Part Two. In A Landscape.

Kelvin James Roper

Copyright Kelvin James Roper 2013

ISBN: 9781301094998

Published by Tigermoth Books at Smashwords
Table of Contents

Chapter Eleven. Tranter

Chapter Twelve. Guliven

Chapter Thirteen. South-easterly wind. Thirteen knots.

Chapter Fourteen. Birmingham.

Chapter Fifteen. South-easterly wind. Twelve knots.

Chapter Sixteen. InterRail

Chapter Seventeen. South-easterly wind. Eleven knots.

Chapter Eighteen. Stone Hill

Chapter Nineteen. South-easterly wind. Ten knots

Chapter Twenty. South-easterly wind. Nine knots.

Chapter Twenty-One. Stone Hill

Chapter Twenty-Two. South-easterly wind. Eight knots.

Chapter Twenty-Three. South-easterly wind. Seven knots.

Chapter Twenty-Four. South-easterly wind. Six knots.

Chapter Twenty-Five. Stone Hill.

Chapter Twenty-Six. South-easterly wind. Five knots.

Chapter Twenty-Seven. Stone Hill.

Chapter Twenty-Eight. South-easterly wind. Four knots.

Chapter Twenty-Nine. Lundy

Chapter Thirty. Birmingham.

Chapter Thirty-One. South-easterly wind. Three knots

Chapter Thirty-Two. South-easterly wind. Two knots.

Chapter Thirty-Three. Bridgewater.

Chapter Thirty-Four. South-easterly wind. One knot.

Chapter Thirty-Five. Bridgewater.

Chapter Thirty-Six. Dead Calm.

Next: Strings of Life

About the Author

Part Two:

In A Landscape
Chapter Eleven.

Tranter.

Eighty per cent of the formerly civilised world was wasteland. Homes throughout all nations had been left ransacked and dilapidated for generations. Entire cities slowly sank into the landscape rising around it. Spires reached skyward as though claiming last breath before inevitable submergence. Market towns and villages were reduced to enclosures for buddleia, vines and ivy. Thousands of years of civilisation were being reclaimed by nature in one century-long sigh.

Marshal Law had ruled the world-over the first years after the outbreak, and even though the office of power was grudgingly handed back to governments in those countries least affected, most in the western world had grown accustomed to their newly formed authority, reluctant to return power once the initial threat had passed. With each year they had grown more involved with civic interests, until all but few governments were militant, either openly or otherwise.

After a swift suspension of Habeas Corpus, the United Kingdom dwindled into a facade of government that veiled the might of the intelligence services. The military opposed their strength, and after a decade-long struggle two distinct powers emerged. The Ministry of Defence's headquarters became the parliament alpha and joined a grudging coalition with the Ministry of Custody - the governing body that had formed out of the military, while Westminster became a theatre housing nothing more than pantomime jousts of wit - a change that few noticed. Before a generation had passed the Crown was absolved, and the United Republic of Britain, under the Union Chancellery and governed separately by the MoD and the MoC, followed in its wake.

Of the five cities that remained after the first six-year plague, Birmingham had risen to be England's capital city. Home to the headquarters of the Ministry of Defence, the city had retained a police battalion that few others could afford. The ugly headquarter building, known mockingly as The Soufflé, rose from the old city like an apprentice's unforgivable mistake; uneven and crumbling, it would have made architects of yore weep. The entire building had been cobbled together hastily, and built with the brick and stone of local structures. Every home, warehouse and factory in a radius of a mile had been dragged down to not only construct it, but to create a wide perimeter, an expanse that none could traverse the length without being garbed in a gown of copper-jacketed bullets. Rules had become lax in the intervening years; several small communities had even grown into a small shanty quarter, by the name Dead Zone, in the shadow of the government complex. Overspill of the bursting populace of Birmingham, the borough of Dead Zone, with its narrow roads and confusion of buildings, had become a district of brothels and dice-houses, and had rapidly gained for its citizens a reputation for debauchery and abandoned morality.

Only thirty years old, a vast proportion of The Soufflé was supported by an ever increasing network of scaffolding which protruded several metres from the cement and loose-flint surface, making it look as though the building had already collapsed out of embarrassment.

Laur Tranter sat staring across the office on the seventeenth floor. He was sick of looking at the tower of scaffolding and luminous netting outside the window, the glass of which had been appropriated from a nineteenth century factory. Mullioned and oval at its crest, it must have been beautiful in its original setting, he thought, though now it looked alien and malapropos.

It had been three years since his scandalously dishonourable discharge from imaging, one year since his release from Walsall Judicial Reform, and his subsequent ten months of heading the office of Topography and Statistics, though the lack of natural light made it feel like ten years.

He had been welcomed every morning by Birmingham's industrial visage and had quickly grown weary of the flint walls and cherty gravel. In addition, the office faced the north expanse of Dead Zone, and received next to no direct sunlight. If you positioned yourself correctly, you could see through the lattice of scaffolding and see a corrugated steel roof that shone brightly come mid-afternoon, though other than that the office was in perpetual half-light.

It had been the motive behind slowly moving Kimberly closer to the window. For some reason he had been under the impression it was less depressing in the spot where she worked at the far end of the office, though when he had appropriated her desk for himself with the excuse that the glare from the window was setting off an old eye complaint, he had quickly realised that the scaffold-induced gloom was ubiquitous. She had initially thought the changeover had been an advancement of sorts, though he could tell by the look in her eyes that the constant panorama of iron, dust and masonry was bleeding her motivation. He couldn't remember the last time he'd seen her smile, which was unfortunate as it had been uplifting; something he missed now that he thought about it. Maybe it was time to re-arrange the layout of the staff again.

He took a deep breath and stole another glance at the figures in front of him. He turned the page and winced at the scatter graph; under a quarter of a mile of reclamation in six months. How was he going to convey it in a favourable light to the pamphleteers who clamoured for answer their readers questions? How was he going to present it to Sanders?

Sally slid past him and laid a mug of coffee at his desk. He barely noticed it, though looked up and grunted a pleasantry before turning back to the thick document. 'What a mess,' he repeated under his breath, viewing the analyses of the hundreds of operations throughout the country. He skimmed the abstract of each, looking for those two important words, though each time being met by that singular noun beginning to give him chest pains: Void.

He stopped filing through the pages, his eyes catching the words Confirmed Advance. He turned back several pages to the beginning of the report marked with a grid reference. He opened a drawer and retrieved a pocket atlas, scouring the index to find the corresponding location. After an intolerable search, both with and without his glasses, he picked up the phone and dialled Kimberly. He watched her as she glanced at the telephone's orange bulb pulse before turning back to the television screen in the high corner of the room. A report was following the proceedings of the Monclova Convention, the series of high profile military tribunals held in Mexico two years after the 48 Hour War with America. Taking the stand was General George Bishop, one of forty high-ranking officials accused of war crimes during the terrible weekend in July of 2140.

Kimberly looked as though she might ignore the phone, he thought. She reluctantly put her pencil down and picked up the receiver before jabbing the 'talk' stub and answering, 'Hello?'

'Jesus, Kimberly... Do you always leave the phone ringing so long?'

'Oh, Mr. Tranter,' she looked across the office and blushed. 'I'm sorry, I... I was just watching the news.'

'Never mind 'sorry'. Where in East Anglia does 'Fifty-Two' correspond to?'

'Fifty-Two? What're the next three digits?'

'Eight. Nine. Three.'

'Fifty-Two is the... Norfolk County of Walsingham?'

'Walsingham, right...' He flipped through the pocket atlas to find it. 'Walsingham. Got it. Christ.'

'Something wrong, sir?'

He blew a long breath and gave her the rest of the reference number. 'I need to know exactly where it is, ok?'

'It won't take a minute, sir.'

He replaced the handset and marked the page before continuing to scour the document for Confirmed Advance.

Void.

Void.

Void.

Negative Progress.

'Negative progress!' He lay the report down and pinched the bridge of his nose. The papers would have his boss on a spit if they found out his office had ordered a withdrawal. He scoured the page for the name of the lead officer, unwilling to let an agent who called a retreat to continue at the post.

'Captain David Peterson!' Tranter said, tapping the page. 'By tomorrow you're going to be scraping pigeon shit off Nelson's Column with your fingernails, you bastard.'

'Sir?' Kimberly said, holding a scrap of paper toward him. 'The location of the reference?'

He ignored the note and thrust the atlas at her. 'Show me.'

She joined him behind his desk and flipped through the book before perusing a page for a moment. 'Here.' She laid it before him and placed a long fingernail on a railway station in the village of Walsingham.

He swore under his breath and took back the document, scrawling 'Void' where Confirmed Advance had been. 'The bastards have included an old railway line. Anyone can get down railway lines. That kind of trick might have worked fifteen years ago but the media are savvy to it now. It's not reclaimed land!'

Several heads turned in his direction as he ran his fingers through his greying hair. Kimberly had stiffened beside him and he shooed her away, saying, 'Get a message to Reece. Tell him to get his men in order. Remind him that I worked in the field longer than the list of his affairs and child-prostitutes. Remind him I know all the dodges, and we won't stand for any of them!'

'Yes, Mr. Tranter.' Kimberly clasped the atlas to her chest as though protecting herself from his outburst. She turned and retreated to her desk, and Tranter sighed violently, remembering the pressure that agents in the field were under. It had been bad in his day, and although the Crenatin Four situation had been addressed it was still unimaginably bad. Not a month passed without several reports of suicide.

'Kimberly?' He said in a calmer tone. 'Don't mention the affairs.'

She looked at him darkly. 'Shall I mention the child-prostitutes?'

His telephone rang, severing his trail of thought. He looked at Kimberly reproachfully over the rim of his glasses. The orange bulb upon the handset glowed in step with the shrill tone; he plucked the receiver, pressed 'talk' and leaned back in his chair.

'Tranter.'

'It's Burkett.' It was Director General Stranghan's personal assistant. He hadn't spoken to the condescending arse for years, not since after Captain Stumm's death. He swallowed spontaneously at the memory.

'Yes, Sir.'

'Get down to Analysis.' The abruptness was replaced by a dial-tone, and Tranter hesitated as the receiver clicked back into its rest. Analysis, he thought. Why on earth would they want him in Analysis?

He unlocked the drawer and placed the thick wedge of papers within, before standing and making his way from the office.

The fluorescent lights cast a sickly sheen on the walls, and as Tranter ducked into the stairwell he was glad to escape them. Daylight struggled to penetrate the thick crosshatched glass, and pitched the stairs into a hazy, unearthly light. At least it was natural. He ignored greetings as he descended several flights, though stopped briefly to sign an expense form before stepping into another grim corridor. Here he slowed his pace as he tried to remember how to get to Analysis as he hadn't been there in years. He double-backed, made his way across a bridge, and then wound his way down a serpentine staircase to the third floor.

He stepped through an unmarked door into a small room. A policeman was behind a desk upon which sat nothing but a telephone. He noted briefly that the phone had two bulbs, blue and green, rather than the customary orange, and wondered for a moment what they signified.

He fished about in his jacket pocket for his identification, and handed it to the policeman, who studied it closely before passing it back and making a phone call.

'Mr. Burkett? Mr. Tranter has arrived. Yes, sir.' He replaced the phone. 'Mr. Burkett will be here shortly, sir.'

'Any idea what this is about?'

The policeman looked at him with a raised brow and Tranter nodded, suitably admonished, before turning and inspecting the drab photos of countryside that lined the walls. Minutes passed in silence before Burkett entered the room and shook Tranter's hand. 'Long time, Tranter. If you'll follow me?'

They exited through the doorway from which Burkett had appeared, and marched down another ghoulishly lit corridor before entering a large workshop. The cold was the first thing to strike Tranter, and he buttoned his jacket as they stepped amongst the banks of machinery and hanging wires. The last time he had been in Analysis was a few months after its renovation; it had been orderly then, with fewer generators and less clutter.

There was a slab in the centre of the workshop that had been presented by the Prime Minister at the buildings official completion, though it was now lost under the piles of cables they now negotiated, like colonials traversing tropical undergrowth.

A blast of steam and a klaxon signalled they had entered the workshop proper, and Burkett drew back clear rubber drapes and gestured Tranter to enter.

Tranter ducked through into the workspace, his feet kicking up a swirl of vaporous nitrogen. Surrounding him was an array of pumps and bundled power-cords, and of course, the Dark Lens to which it was coupled.

Its black surface shone in the bright strip-lights like a dilated pupil, its lens-protecting domes appearing dark blue and brown, and Tranter couldn't help himself from laying his hand on the smooth surface, feeling the machine's innards pulsate softly.

Burkett walked beyond the machine and gestured Tranter to follow. They passed through another rubber drape, to where sat a woman in her late thirties. She wore the sunken-eyed expression of one who lives before a monitor and comprehends the inner workings of everything. Tranter disliked her instantly, considering her the sort to take apart radios for enjoyment before writing a report on it to express orgasm.

'Tranter, this is Sally Toubec.'

One of her monitors showed a small news window, the same channel that was airing in his office. The report of the trials had been replaced by a run-down of the parliamentary candidates being considered for the berth of President of the proposed, and publicly abhorred, European Nation.

Tranter offered his hand, and asked if there had been any progress in the trial. Sally nodded tersely in greeting, but ignored his hand and his question, before turning back to her monitor. She tapped the keyboard three times and the screen switched from black to blue.

'You're familiar with the mutations of S18K4, Mr. Tranter?' She asked, her voice deflated. She sounded as though she were sick of explaining this to people.

'To a degree. Up to five years ago, yes.'

'Five years? I suppose that will do.' She sighed. 'The D.L. you just had your hands all over came back from a circuit of the Cornish peninsular recently. One of the undergraduate teams was going through the code last week when they came across something peculiar. They sent it up here, we had a look at it, you were called, and now you're here.'

She stood and offered him the screen. He lowered his glasses and stooped. The screen was nothing but a mass of random digits and unmarked tables.

He cleared his throat. 'I'm sorry, it's been a long time since I had to read field statistics, it's changed a lot since...'

'What you're looking at here,' Toubec said, snatching back her seat as though she had offered someone without a license to drive her car, 'is a sample of four-hundred and six locations. These locations are where the D.L. stopped when it sensed, or thought it sensed, an anomaly. These anomalies happen all the time and we have to cross-reference them with other D.L. reports continuously. This one here, for example, has been flagged on four separate occasions, but when you get down into what was actually picked up you can see it's the code of something that died naturally, probably a rabbit or something similar. Over the four separate instances you can see its emitting the elements you would expect from decomposition.' She pointed at various number groups. 'Increase in soil carbon. Phosphorus, potassium, calcium, etc. The pH of the cadaver decomposition island increases the soil nitrogen with each subsequent visit. Just a rotting carcass, nothing exciting.'

Tranter looked at the string of numbers, and wondered how he had ever known how to read it. When he'd been an undergraduate working in analysis, there were always labels to point you in the right direction. These days, however, it seemed as though people understood the code as well as any form of script.

'If you look at this line,' Sally clicked to a separate page and highlighted a passage, 'that's when things start to come alive.'

'What do you mean? Without code. Just tell me what you've found.'

She looked up at him and fixed him with her gaze. 'Someone's making new strains of S18K4.'

'What?' Tranter straightened and turned to Burkett. 'What the hell does she mean?'

Burkett took a packet of cigarettes from his jacket, placing one on the tip of his lips.

'Not in here, Mr. Burkett.' Sally said, unable to muster urgency in her voice. 'You'll blow the place to kingdom come.'

Burkett hesitated a moment, then lit the cigarette. He took a long drag, and gave Tranter a sheet of paper with two separate grid-references typed on it. 'You know where these are?'

'I haven't a clue.' He said, hardly looking at them.

'You should do. They were in the report I sent you yesterday. This was one of the few places to show any sign of advance.'

'You mean in East Anglia? Where was it?' He clicked his fingers frantically. 'Walsingham?'

'No. Beyond the Wessex Border. In Devon. Twenty miles or so north-west of a town called Barnstaple. Village on the coast. Ring any bells?'

Tranter looked down at the grid-reference again. It couldn't be. And yet, there it was.

Mortehoe.
Chapter Twelve.

Guliven.

After five days at sea Guliven and Sean could see black land on the horizon, and the dark spire of the Ballycotton lighthouse piercing the indigo night.

It had been an arduous journey, one of the toughest Guliven had ever known. A fierce wind had chastised them on the first night, a howling north-westerly gale that made a mockery of their advance.

Their arms mutinied, every muscle in their torsos rebelled, and their legs revolted to have been made to endure such strain for so many hours. It had lasted all night, and yet by the break of morning it had ascended as quickly as it had befallen them.

Sean had slept for two hours while Guliven had kept their course, and then he had slept, waking with cramp and a warm midday sun on his face.

His knuckles still bled from the beating he had given his son and the salt of the sea bit at the torn flesh each and every time it sprayed at him. Had he been a man of conscience he may have seen it as Karma for his actions, some will of God punishing him, though he was a stony man who believed in nothing but force and nature.

Sean had arrived on the morning of their departure as Guliven had grasped his boy, flinging him into the grass. Sean dropped the boxes in his arms and ran across the garden as Guliven beat his son and kicked him hard. Guliven had been drunk, he could smell it on him, on both of them. What a family, he had thought, tearing Guliven away as Semilion, bewilderingly, arrived from nowhere.

Guliven had broken away from both of them in his rage and kicked Boen so hard in the back that for a moment he and Semilion froze, thinking the boy's spine had cracked, though he continued to writhe in the dirt, blood streaking his face.

They tore Guliven away finally and dragged him to the pier. Semilion had berated him with curses while Samantha and Arabella crowded over Boen, who lay limply in the grass. He rasped as he breathed - bubbles of blood on his lips.

Guliven sat watching his family darkly as Semilion prodded his shoulder and told him that he could have killed the boy. Sean would never pass comment on a man's actions toward his family, but he didn't agree with the way the new Runner treated his.

'Do you want a salve on that?' Semilion had said eventually with a sigh. Guliven looked down to his bloody knuckles and grunted refusal.

'Right, well, listen here,' he continued as the door to the house closed, the knocker clacking loudly as it did so. 'Guliven? Gul, listen to me!'

Guliven looked up slowly, 'Hmm?' he said casually.

'I've been up all night fretting about the last transmission sent by Camberwell.'

'Why?' Sean had asked, wrapping a length of rope in a hoop and flinging it in the pram they would fill with cargo on their return.

'It just didn't make sense,' Semilion replied brusquely. 'I need you to contact him.'

'Will do.' Guliven sighed, and Semilion produced a leather envelope that smelled of beeswax.

Guliven opened the envelope and read through the instructions, though Semilion paraphrased as though he couldn't read.

'Phone him on that number there, see it? You have to ask him to clarify what he means by a storm front. And more information about the threat that's coming from the south-east.'

'What threat?' Sean asked.

'I don't know what threat, that's why I need some bloody clarification!' He leant back over the sheaf of papers in Guliven's hand. 'And tell him to send another transmission on this date, there... At that time, right?'

Guliven folded the sheaf and placed it back in the envelope. He rose and placed it in a heavy coat and pulled it on. 'Got it. What if I can't reach him?'

'You must,' Semilion said gravely, 'For God's sake Gul, you must.'

You must. The words stayed with Sean. As did talk of an unnamed threat in the south east. They were urgent words, and yet their progress was pitifully slow. It felt as though their homes were burning behind them because they had not the strength to row any faster.

The wind returned on the second night. Not as strong as before, though this time it remained, and stayed with them for another two days. Their sails were useless under such conditions, and the two of them rowed stoically, heaving slowly and repetitively whilst the pram they towed bobbed and rolled; their advance was minimal - maybe thirteen miles each day, and less than quarter that at night.

The fourth day was fine, and in the afternoon an easterly wind roused itself, and they spared no time in unfurling the sail. It ballooned and caught the wind before it had been fully rigged, and for several hours they skipped happily through the calm Irish Sea until dusk was nothing but a reminder of crimson on the horizon. Then the wind died, and they decided to use the lull to row long into the night unabated.

Morning found them both asleep. Guliven had taken first watch, though he had succumbed to fatigue not long after Sean had closed his eyes. They had drifted for several hours, though thankfully not far, and it hadn't taken them long to reposition themselves on their original course, a new north-westerly growing at their bow.

By mid-afternoon they saw the haze of land beyond the horizon, the subtle change in the tone of blue in the distant sky that spoke of change in that which was below. They pushed forward, hoping to reach Ballycotton before night proper, though the persistent wind capsized their optimism, and they resigned themselves to another night at sea, the slowly encroaching land black and cold on the horizon.

The dark clouds had been thunderous and low throughout the day, scudding across the sky as though hauling a veil of rain behind them. By early evening they were replaced by a bank of grey that seemed like some vast and impassable mountain range before a field of cream. The rays of a golden dusk danced behind it and the wind lessened. They decided to spend their last evening at rest, and took it in turns to sleep, before pushing forward, the last leg of their journey taken under the cover of darkness.

They slipped quietly beyond the small, dark, nameless island that preceded the town, the towering lighthouse upon it blind in the starry night. It was still in use, unlike the one in Mortehoe, though was only ever used if the community were expecting a ship to be passing their way.

'Eh,' Sean said with a devilish gesture to the lighthouse, 'what would you give for that to be swinging between your legs?' He was too tired to say anything witty, and yet his tiredness had lent him a humour he hadn't experienced in years. It was such a relief to be at their journeys end.

Guliven looked up wearily, not understanding the question. His eyes fell on the lighthouse. His hard face broke into a smirk and he began to chuckle. 'I don't know,' he replied, 'I'd give my wife her marching orders?' They laughed like schoolboys tittering about breasts, their hoots and the clang of restless buoys the only sound in the still air.

Lights shined from the town and in the hills, sparkling like the sun shattering on dawn waters. It was a magnificent sight, both Guliven and Sean thought, turning to it constantly as they rowed peaceably into harbour - their oars grating wetly in rusting oarlocks.

Ireland had been spared the brunt of the first onslaught of plague. They had closed their borders early and operated marshal law at their boundaries. Illegal immigrants were ubiquitous, however, and no amount of patrolling coastlines could guard every shore. The plague found its way in, and yet was checked by swift quarantines and rounds of copper shells. From the outset news correspondents unveiled the severe treatment of those afflicted, and the unofficial quarantine camps of Craigue West and Bellacorick, but after the world around them began to turn to ash, after the last broadcasts of yellow powders filling streets and the tormented wails of dogs none cared what happened in the camps. None cared of the treatment of those afflicted. Just as long as the advance of the plague were halted.

Less than four thousand people succumbed to the S4K18 virus in Ireland, an almost unnoticeable fraction compared to other countries in the west, and that result had meant that business continued with relative normality.

Electricity flowed, bulbs burned, cars and buses chugged along maintained roads, even funds for a new monorail branching the entire country had been found. Whilst the rest of the world had been dragged back into darkness, Ireland had retained a semblance of civilisation. Limited natural resources saw the regression and abandonment of several areas, and the greatest financial crisis the economy had ever known hadn't spared them, hadn't even been merciful to them, yet they trudged ever forward like the walking wounded.

The country was closed, and became a locked down state. They effectively enforced an international trade embargo and passed laws that made entering or leaving the country punishable by death.

It was that notion that stilled the men's laughter, both hearing a splash to their port. They watched the darkness for a time, before continuing more cautiously.

Close to the harbour they heard a bell ring twice, and knew that they had been spotted. It was either Brian or Tom, Guliven thought, the two watchmen who guarded the harbour for interlopers. Another bell rang in the distance, a response to the first, it sounded lazy, like the half-hearted ringing of a buoy's bell.

The harbour was full of skiffs, catamarans, drifters, row-boats, dinghies, tugs and trawlers. Sail, steam and motor boats alike, they all bobbed calmly in the harbour before a small town of pastel buildings. The wind roused the flags atop their masts and lines, filling the air with the sound of fluttering.

Guliven liked it here; it made him think this must be what Mortehoe would have been like in the past. Electricity burning, lights brightening the night, the vibrancy emanating from the public houses, with little care for who might hear.

'That you, Kelly?' Tom said, climbing down a ladder to take their rope.

'Guliven,' he replied quietly.

'Ah, Gully, how've ye been?' He reached out to take the rope Guliven offered and tied it to a large ring on the harbour wall.

'Apart from my wind-burnt face? Well... Tom, this is Sean Colt, he'll be helping me from now on. I'm the new Runner, see?'

'We bored ol' Kelly, did we?' Tom said with a laugh and returned to the top of the ladder. 'Or is it that he couldn't handle the drinking that goes on after hours?'

'If that's the answer then it was a severe course he took in avoiding it. He died near three weeks ago.'

'No,' Tom said, surprised. 'Kelly? Dead? I don't believe it.'

'It's true,' Guliven continued, 'as true as my face and arse are raw. Heart attack. Out like a light.'

'A shame... A real shame. We all knew Kelly. Liked him, too. Told him he was more a Ballycotton man than whatever you call yourselves in that... Kibbutz of yours. Well, it happens, I suppose. Ned Blarney dropped down dead only two months ago, though he was in his sixties... Kelly were a young man, in his prime. And fit too...'

Guliven had ascended the ladder, and saw Tom better for the lights dotted along the harbour. He was in his late forties, with a wild shock of grey hair tied in a ponytail with a shoelace, and a nose that had been on the receiving end of too many knuckles. He wore a grey jumper two sizes too large for him, quarter-length trousers and sandals, and he bobbed from foot to foot as though readying himself to spar.

They clasped hands and greeted each other warmly, before he introduced Sean properly and spoke a little of the journey they had endured.

'We were expecting you last night,' Tom said, nodding, 'though it was no surprise when you didn't show. Will you be taking the usual or is there anything else you need?'

'Just the usual, though I did promise my wife some sugar.'

'One of the perks, eh?' He nudged Guliven in the arm and led him to a cargo crate secreted behind several abandoned skiffs. He opened the crate, which screamed as metal rubbed metal, then flicked a switch as he entered, dousing a large stock of crates in cream light.

'It's all there, as usual. You can either go through it now or have a drink and do it in the morning, it's all the same to me.'

'Sean?' Guliven said, eyeing the boxes. He didn't much fancy checking the pile now.

'To be honest, I just want to have a whiskey and get myself laid. Does that girl with the red hair still serve at the Blackbird?'

'Jesus, you'll have to be more specific, man.'

'We'll stay the night,' Guliven said, and the three retreated back outside, the door scraping loudly and reverberating in the quiet. Guliven looked over the harbour and the scores of vessels swaying gently, their flags rustling and the water lapping against their hulls. There was one amid them that caught his notice, a rusting tug with a deep orange bow. He'd seen it before, though he couldn't place where.

'Let's be off then,' Tom said, distracting him. He'd probably seen the vessel on a visit here in the past, though why it would stand out to him now he didn't know.

They stepped back up to the main walkway of the harbour and made their way into the town when Guliven realised from where he recognised the tug. The thought hadn't finished forming in his mind when two large men barred their way. They were between the reach of street lamps, and all of them were doused in shadow.

'Who's that?' One of them asked. Guliven recognised his voice. It wasn't Irish, but had the drawl of a Lundian.

'Kenan?'

There was a moment's hesitation before the man replied, 'Guliven?' He almost groaned. 'Jesus Christ, man, why'd it have to be you who took Kelly's place?'

The second man moved swiftly, or Guliven was too slow to react; a fist landed hard and squarely on the ridge of his nose. Blood gushed over his face and tears blinded him and he staggered. He thought for a moment of Sean though it seemed as though he had already been incapacitated by Kenan, and Tom had disappeared from the scene altogether.

'What the hell are you doing?' Guliven cried, covering his nose, but heavy hands had grasped his collar and were dragging him along roughly.

He heard an engine and was bundled into the back of a rusting car. The smell of mildew hit him as he was forced into the seat. He heard Sean protest as he was tossed into the boot, and then Kenan was beside him as Gorran, his brother, slumped into the driver's seat and pulled away on to the high street.

'What do you want?' Guliven said angrily, spitting blood over Kenan. 'Last time we spoke it was as friends, man!'

Kenan looked away from him. They rarely saw each other, though whenever Guliven had stopped on Lundy they always spared time to drink with one another.

'We didn't know it'd be you.'

'Were you expecting Kelly? He's dead, you know?'

'I know...' The words were quiet, almost guilty. They checked Guliven.

'What do you mean you know. How?'

Kenan didn't answer, but the journey had only been a short one. They stopped outside an old garage, and Gorran pulled Guliven from the car, thrusting him inside. Kenan remained outside, hauling Sean from the boot of the car and beating him until his shouting stopped. Guliven couldn't tell if he had ceased of his own accord or whether he had been knocked unconscious. Either way, he was quiet... And safe for a time.

The garage was crammed with obscure shadows cast by engine parts and hanging chains. A single strip light hummed, hurting Guliven's eyes and casting a sickly yellow glare about the room.

Gorran shoved him once more until he was in the centre of the garage, and it was then that he saw the giant form of Red Sawbone stepping from the shadows. He swallowed.

Red was more ancient than he could remember anyone ever looking, his face little more than a yellowed skull atop a neck of exposed tendons, bone and sinew. A thick beard clung to him, more cream in colour than grey, and he walked with a stiff leg which betrayed some former injury that had never fully healed.

Well into his seventies, he was the mere memory of his former self, the broad and strong giant that Guliven remembered, and yet his vengeance-black eyes radiated with all the strength of a blacksmith's hammer.

He bypassed all pleasantries, saying, 'You know me?'

'I do. Kenan and me... We drink sometimes when I visit Lundy.'

Red ignored this. 'And you know of the things that happen in Mortehoe?'

'As well as any other?'

'Then tell me why Richard Kelly was killed.'

Guliven cleared his throat. 'He died of a...'

'Bollocks,' Red growled. 'Don't try me, Mr. Waeshenbach. Don't test me as a fool. He's cold and dead at the hands of a man. Both you and I know it.'

'If that's true then I don't know the reason of it.'

'You know as much as any other, so you say.' Red drew closer, the cream light turning his eyes the colour of thunderclouds.

'In as much as what goes on in Mortehoe and... And in Woolacombe. In respect to our daily lives, not as for murder.'

Red took Guliven's chin in his bony fingers, squeezing it tightly. He looked at him for long moments, reading the silent words in Guliven's eyes.

'My mother called me a spider...' Red whispered. 'Because I liked to gossip as a boy. She meant it as a curse on me, the old bitch, but I was never happier than when she said it. A little web spinner, I was. Stirring up trouble with my words and laying threads for others to follow. It became...' He hesitated, evaluating his words. 'It became my thing, my trait... My virtue. No one spins threads other than me, Mr. Waeshenbach. Not on Lundy, and not in Mortehoe either. It was the agreement that was made when last I set foot there, and now!' He roared the last words, Guliven's heart near exploded in his chest. Red thrust him backwards; his head striking a car exhaust hanging from the wall. 'And now I discovered that so many webs have been spun that you choke on them!' He kicked Guliven in the hip, and although one of his legs was almost useless there was enough force behind the blow to fracture bone.

Guliven screamed, grabbing his thigh, his face buried in the dust. Both Gorran and Kenan were in the garage, each holding Sean's arms high above his back, keeping him immobile, doubled up, and gasping in pain.

'My boys and I, here, we're great lovers of travel... Isn't that right, Gorran?'

'It is, da,' Gorran replied, his voice thick with satisfaction.

'Came here right from Iceland, we did. What's it been, Kenan? Seven days at sea?'

'Near as like, da,'

'Seven days, in that little tug of ours, just to get here. We don't like to come to Mortehoe since all the troubles, see... But I keep an eye on the place. A close eye. I've always a man posted there, see? He sends a broadcast of his own and keeps me abreast of all that happens should I need to revisit. He tells me of hatred toward the old-world that rarely touches the thoughts of men on Lundy, they tell of your defences, your fears... And while we were at anchor in Iceland I heard of Richard Kelly's murder.' His eyes grew dark as he loomed over Guliven. 'Murder. I thought I made it clear that no more would die at the hands of Tuppers. With the blood of his grandfather I thought I made it so clear that you would need be a fucking retard with the brains of a drowned rat to misconstrue it...' He inhaled deeply, and then stepped around Guliven until he was facing him. Guliven looked up, blood on his chin and sweat beading his brow. He sensed another beating was to follow, Red's hands seemed to twitch with the excitement of it, and he braced himself for another onslaught.

'I don't know anything about Kelly. If it was murder then Semilion didn't tell me. I'm not on his council.'

Red drew a yellow hand across his mouth, pondering Guliven's words. He might be telling the truth, and yet he sensed he knew more than he said.

'And Dr. John Camberwell?' He asked.

'John? I know him well. He lives in Mortehoe for part of the year, and then returns to Dublin University for the rest of it.'

'I know all that,' Red responded. He took a length of metal from the wall and prod Guliven sharply with it. 'We've been to see him, you see. Recently. My boys and I.'

Guliven looked up. The speculation in his eyes betrayed he knew more than nothing. Red saw it, drank it up, and smiled as one who has drawn out a long held confession.

'We visited him on the night of his last transmission, the shipping forecast he sends to Semilion each month. We asked him of Kelly, the same questions I'm asking of you now.'

'Camberwell wouldn't know anything.' Guliven spat.

'Oh but he did,' Red smiled. 'He knew more than Semilion thought he knew. He was another web-spinner, he was.' He turned to his sons and gave a subtle nod, the gesture a substitute of drawing his finger across his throat.

Gorran took a knife from his pocket, unsheathed it, and peeled it across Sean's trachea.

Sean gasped, though the brothers held his arms behind his back. He resisted, drawing his head as far back as he could, but it only aided the thin blade in slicing the taut flesh. His neck burst with bright, fresh blood.

'God, no!' Guliven lurched forward as Red thrust the rod in his chest and forced him back.

Gorran sawed at Sean's neck, nearly hacking his head off completely. Sean struggled desperately at first, and Gorran clamped his large hand across his mouth. Blood flowed between his fingers, and Sean struck at him wildly, his eyes wide and searching until he lost consciousness.

'That's enough,' Red said without turning to his boys. Sean was dead, or near enough to be of no threat or use, and he was thrust to the cement floor, dust wafting around him. A crimson pool grew rapidly at his head.

'What do you know?' Red asked ponderously, crouching with discomfort. 'Camberwell told us of Semilion's plans...'

'Camberwell is on the council.' Tears streamed down Guliven's cheek. He was cold and thick-skinned, but he didn't want to die, and few would relish the sight of a friend's neck being hacked open by a blade as they writhed beneath it. 'He would know things like that...' He hesitated, his eyes turning hard as the steel on his chest. He turned to Red, his voice hardened to a growl, 'I don't know a thing!'

Red smirked, though it contained all the mirth of war on the horizon. 'I tell you now, Mr. Waeshenbach. Your life is done. Here, tonight. It is over. You have the choice though, of going quickly or...' He let Guliven finish the sentence for himself.

Guliven held Red's gaze. Sean's blood had spread out in a wide circle and was touching his heel.

'He made us do it.' He conceded, and then thought better of saying any more. Red wanting to know was good enough reason to stay quiet. Especially if the bastard was going to kill him regardless.

'Who? Semilion?' Red barked, impatient. Surely he meant Semilion. Unless it was Kelly who had forced their hand.

Guliven felt blood soaking into his breeches. He cast a glance to Sean, his skin was already grey, drained within moments.

He felt no love toward Semilion, and yet he would say no more if he could go to death knowing he had hindered his murderer.

'Fuck you.' He said dispassionately, and spat at the blade in Goran's hand.
Chapter Thirteen.

South-easterly wind.

Thirteen knots.

Selina lay on the sofa thinking about the nightmares of the previous evening. They were getting worse.

She had been in the water, the dead sinking around her, and no matter how frantically she tried to swim to the surface she was being pulled down with them.

She had woken gasping, and wondered if she had stopped breathing in her sleep.

She took several deep breaths and sat up, looking across Mortehoe from the large window of the living room.

Both Selina and Priya had been given time to become familiar with the mechanics of the village, and advised to do so at their own pace. At first Selina felt compelled to rise at dawn to help the elderly women with their chores. They thanked her and sent her away advising that work would find her in due time, and that she should make use of her days becoming familiar with the village.

When people asked whether she had ever heard of communities such as theirs before, Selina reassured them that she hadn't, or rather she had only heard of such places at the end of sentences like, 'You'll never guess what I heard...' and were more often than not flagrant myths.

Often she would be asked where the nearest habitable city was, though she reminded them always that she didn't know. She was from half a world away, and could only tell them that the capital of Britain was Birmingham. She could barely tell them much about the country at all, other than she had heard it was soon to become part of a European nation.

'What the hell does that mean?' Betty asked. 'How can you join Britain to Europe? It's a bloody island.'

'Not physically join... Are you serious? There have been talks for years of creating a single European nation, with a single government...'

'And a single man running the show?' Tinder mused, 'That's a lot of responsibility.'

'I guess.' Selina shrugged.

Priya was more colourful when questioned. Like an actor, Selina thought. When she spoke, she told of southern Britain being little more than open air gravelands. She spoke of the bloody civil wars in the middle-east and the fall of the Americas.

When Selina spoke there was an air of dissatisfaction, though when Priya told her tales the Smuggler's Rest fell quiet, and everyone hung on her every theatrical word.

They had questions of their own also, and neither missed an opportunity to pick information whenever they could.

Selina was regarded suspiciously when she did this, though on the day of her first vaccine course, which she had been regarding with some apprehension for days, Betty told her a little of the area.

'The land still has various nasties here and there,' Betty told her dismissively when Selina asked why she and Priya had to be injected.

'What kind of "nasties"?' She asked.

'The kind that'd turn your guts to rot.' Reighn Corbin said jovially. Selina turned, and looked into the bright blue eyes of a broad-chested man in his late thirties. He had a bow across his chest, and she learnt that he hunted game in Lee wood.

She asked him more questions, and discovered he was unable to answer for long without mentioning the birth of his new-born son, William, with pride. He told her, after his second drink, that he regarded Selina and Priya as good omens for bringing about the birth of his boy on the day of their arrival, and as such was happy to answer any questions or, if she or Priya needed it, help with repair work on their homes.

As he grew increasingly merry, Selina sorted her questions in order of importance, knowing that she had a limited time until he became incomprehensible. As he spilt his fourth drink across the table and drew a lingering scowl from Betty, Selina asked how they had remained undetected for over a century. He was eager to explain.

'There was woman by the name of Dekeyrel... Sharon, or Susan, or some such. She worked in the pharmaceutical industry at the time of the outbreak. She had relatives living in the Ilfracombe area, just up the way, and she came with her husband and daughter in the hope of outrunning the spread of the virus. The facts are vague... Y'know, so long after the event, but there were conferences with the Tuppers, I mean Semilion's... All our great-grandparents... and a scheme was designed to quarantine Mortehoe and Woolacombe from the rest of the country – a safe haven from the epidemic and a blind-spot from the government of the day. By a miracle the Dekeyrel's managed to extract and contain the virus without killing themselves; they cultivated it and began manipulating its composition. It's amazing what they achieved with what little equipment they had. They trained the Camberwell's and they, in turn, taught their children everything they knew. The founders had even insisted thousands be spent on their education. It meant setting them up in Northern Ireland but he considered it the only way to keep on top of modern practice.

He took a large draught of ale and expelled a wheezing burp, his hand on his chest. He chuckled and excused himself before continuing. 'Where was I? What did I just say?'

'That the Camberwells...'

'The Camberwells, yes. They set them up in Belfast. After the first bout of virus had brought the population to its knees the immunology of humans began to counter the effects of the flu. Vaccines were provided by iCDO, what was then the International Infectious Control Agency, and the Dekeyrel's and the Camberwell's would always be one step ahead of the antibiotics, infecting animals and releasing them close to the perimeter gates in an attempt to convince the authorities the virus was mutating at an exponential rate.'

He looked down at the table, then fixed Selina with an intense, somewhat introspective stare. Flecks of green shone in his hazel eyes. 'Dawn and me, we sometimes talk... You know, about how things might have been if the Dekeyrel's hadn't done what they did.'

'How do you mean?'

'I mean, they had to make the government think this area was unsafe, and they had to kill people to do it. After they'd done it the once they weren't so frightened about being uncovered for hiding away in their own community, or for retaining land that might be used to counter famine, but because they'd slaughtered twenty or so civil servants. Dawn and me, we think that after the first few years the motives got confused, but, well, that's all in the past.'

'And you still do it? Mutate the virus, I mean.'

Reighn nodded, tapping his pipe on the sole of his boot, 'Not anyone you're likely to see drinking in here. There's a basement beneath an old hotel over near Woolacombe where they work on it. Very hush hush. Every couple of months, depending if anything's been caught in the traps in Lee. They take foxes and badgers, any carnivore they can find, up to the border before dosing them and setting them free.'

'Aren't you risking other animals contracting it and the virus returning here?' She asked, shocked.

'Not a chance; there's a furlong of land between the main border and an unmanned perimeter. It's a deep channel of brick and concrete, and anything else they could find when they built it. They release the animals into that area of no-man's land and they're trapped for the duration of... What's it called?'

'The incubation period?'

'That's it, they're trapped for the duration of the incubation period until they're captured by the Britons.'

'The Brit...' She said with a laugh in her voice. She hadn't considered that the villagers had become so detached over generations they no longer thought of themselves as being British. 'What do you call yourselves then?'

'We're Mortehi' George Porter interrupted with a smile as he sat next to Selina. 'Or Mortehoians?' He asked of Reign, who was shrugging to stand and head to the bar. George placed his tankard on the table. 'It never comes up. I mean, we don't really talk about ourselves in that way.'

George retrieved a plate from the bar containing a loaf of bread and some dry cheese. He began cutting thick slices of both and presented Selina with a sandwich. 'We were lucky, in a way,' he said, continuing Reighn's dialogue. 'The Dekeyrels and Tuppers wrote guidelines to conceal us from satellites.' He pointed skyward. 'Sky was brimming with them in those days. Still is. There's the mirror... A telescope of sorts, up in one of the barns on the hill. They built it specifically to track them. Great circular lens it is, I'll take you up there one day. It would have made life a hundred times more complicated, having to remain hidden just in case there were any still overhead,' he smiled briefly as he handed her a sandwich, 'but the collapse of society did more than open up the job market...'

'There was no-one left to maintain their operation...' Selina concluded, thinking of the thousands of satellites circling the globe, waiting on standby for contact – or slowly descending in the atmosphere before falling to earth. She had often wondered how easily the world must have functioned in the old days, what with the legendary internets, and the mass of telecommunication, weather, mapping and entertainment networks. Historians painted the old-world as a golden age of capitalist ease. It was so vastly different to the modern age.

She recalled a teacher taking her class to the Archive Museum and showing them an exhibit that was laden with scuffed and well-thumbed photos of satellite imagery. She remembered the curator explaining how the world had depended daily on those hundreds of thousands of pieces of machinery orbiting the earth. One photo had stuck in her mind, a high altitude shot of Hawaii, a green dot in a shimmering, turquoise blue. In the corner of the photo was a copyright symbol beside the date 2038. It had struck her that at the time the photo had been taken the world knew nothing of what was to follow. They had no idea the difference a year could possibly make. Twenty years later, when the epidemic had claimed near four billion lives, only a score of satellites remained in operation - their tasks many and their application hindered by bureaucracy.

'Are there other communes in these parts?' Selina asked, finding herself unsure whether she approved with the efforts taken to remain secluded when so many others had collaborated to fight the epidemic. 'The world considers land contained within quarantines to be wasteland. Billions have been spent keeping the epidemic contained whilst trying to re-gain land... they need it to curb starvation across the world. Jesus, if this place is discovered and they find out what you've done they'll probably bring back the noose by popular demand!'

At this George laughed, 'That's as maybe. I don't know about communes other than Mortehoe, Woolacombe and Lundy. There are some men who fish away at Putsborough and Croyde but they keep themselves to themselves, I suppose they have families... Unless they breed amongst each other.

Selina snorted a polite laugh as Reighn sat down with another drink and sighed, having been listening to their exchange. 'You might think we're callous for looking after ourselves and not giving a second thought for the old-world, but the powers-that-be of our ancestors day destroyed near everything. Society, finance, the landscape. You don't need me to tell you that...' He looked up as Semilion entered the bar. George saw and turned back to Reighn. 'Keep it down, I don't know if Semi wants us telling her stuff.'

'It's ok,' Selina intervened, 'he's told me quite a bit already, I'm sure he wouldn't mind.'

'Ah, well, there's a difference between what Semi would tell you and what we might.'

Reighn nodded in agreement. 'Well, all I'll say is I'm not surprised our ancestors wanted nothing more to do with the world at large. Now,' He reached for his tankard and missed, before picking it up, draining it and excusing himself. 'Need to speak to Semilion about an increase in Dawn's food rations.' He stood, knocking his chair over.

*

Alongside the calm and flourishing landscape of Mortehoe was an escape from the weight of corporation and the dread of the debtors reformatory. There was no hunger, no redundancy, and - most noticeably - no continual fear of dwindling finances. Everything the community needed was provided for. There were those who went to sea to fish, and those who hunted game in Lee Woods. There were those who sowed and harvested the land, others who made and repaired clothing. There were many proficient in producing food and maintaining health, renovating tired homes and damaged fixings, and those employed to educate and those placed to keep guard at night.

Everyone was set their own task, from Eryn Tupper, who managed the workings of the bar, to Samantha Waeshenbach who prepared and smoked the seafood.

They were given a house each after a week of accommodation at the Smuggler's Rest. Selina's was high up the steep road known as Channel View, and from her cracked living room window she watched the slate topped roofs of Mortehoe.

Priya's house was opposite hers, and from her window Selina could see down into the desolate kitchen.

Troubled by nightmares of drowning and a growing fear of solitude in the dark, Selina vacillated between times of nervous tension and an inescapable gratitude to providence for saving her. In her lighter moments she was taken aback by the peaceful life she and Priya had stumbled upon. She thought less of her cousin who still waited her arrival and of her father, who would likely never learn of the Tangaroa's sinking.

The receding mists of morning took with them the imagined ghosts that plagued her dreams, and when she looked across the sunlit rooftops she found it difficult to comprehend anything other than the seemingly perfect life of Mortehoe.

On her first evening alone she had hauled the residence's large green sofa to the window, avoiding the painful spring that stuck from the middle cushion, and had watched the stars. On more than one occasion she would lean out of the window and survey the villages ramshackle of buildings as the cool air pimpled her skin. She looked at Priya's roof, at her neighbours opposite, and to the pub along the street.

The Smuggler's Rest.

The centre of the community.

She grew to understand the building's importance and became proud of it as one might a local palace. She pondered on it for many hours, trying to place answers to the questions she had cultivated during her conversations with Reighn and George. Was the library of policies contained within? Were important discussions taking place as she looked upon it? Where did the council convene? They were questions that she alone seemed to ponder, Priya having, it seemed, no other interest than wondering what was happening in the outside world and brooding on how one might escape across the border. These fantasies of Priya's reared into outbursts when she became drunk, though as the days passed into weeks she fell into sync alongside the gentle pace of the village, hiding her feelings and yet growing increasingly angry.

She too had been impressed with the size of her accommodation and laughed at the recollection of the previous apartment buildings she had shared throughout her life. 'There's so much room here!' she said, walking about the house in a trance, 'Finally, I've got somewhere to put all my stuff!' She exclaimed sarcastically.

The first time it rained, Priya discovered a leak too serious for instant repair. Jack Little reassured her that it could be fixed soon enough and he added the job to a small, battered notebook. Meanwhile, he suggested she should take her belongings somewhere else.

Grateful for the company, Selina gave her the room above hers \- a spacious attic with a view of the village better than that of the living room. She had considered taking it as her own bedroom, though at night the darkness was too complete, and she felt the stirrings of panic in her breast as imaginings of the Tangaroa's prostrate companions leered at her from the gloom.

'I'll be out of here as soon as I can,' Priya assured her, unaware of the emerging effect the shipwreck was having on Selina.

'Nonsense!' Selina said, flustered. She rushed to the cellar and retrieved one of the many bottles of wine supplied by numerous well-wishers. 'I'd prefer you were here,' she shouted up the stairs, knocking a bottle over. 'I'm not used to so much room to fill with my own company.'

The bottle rolled into a corner where the light of the hatch above failed to penetrate. She watched as shadow cloaked it, and saw the pale flesh of a crewman's hand clasp it.

'It's nothing!' She whispered to herself, stepping toward the darkness. Her anger erased the hallucination and she crouched to pick up the bottle with a swiftness that contradicted her bravado.

Her fingers touched paper instead of glass, and she plucked it from a crevice in the brickwork before patting the ground and snatching up the bottle.

She backed away from the corner, the crewman was in there somewhere, watching her, she was certain of it.

She shuddered and retreated from the cellar, unfolding the piece of tattered paper. It was a letter of sorts, though one that had been crossed out and re-attempted again and again. The contents were different each time, though each paragraph began the same.

FAO Dr. John Camberwell, Belfast University.

RE: .

John,

Since your departure there have been musings over the plans which you strictly chastised. I've refused to be any part of it, but I know that doesn't mean a thing. They'll find someone capable, someone willing to play their final game, and when they do you and I both know that no amount of regret or reform will undo what we've done.
Chapter Fourteen.

Birmingham.

Tranter watched the evening skyline of Birmingham whilst waiting to be called into the conference room.

Behind him was an empty office, dark but for the shifting glow of a television which had been left on. The volume was low, yet Tranter could hear it easily enough.

'Seven weeks into the trial, six generals, four lieutenant generals, and three brigadier generals have taken the stand to answer for their part in the war crimes against the citizens of Cuba, Haiti, The Dominican Republic and Panama during the 48 Hour War, or Fangtooth Weekend, as the massacre has become known in the tabloids.

'The conflict, which arose over trading rights between north and south America, quickly spiralled out of control after the assassination of Mexican President, Emilio Ramirez by U.S. National, Steven Rostler. The month-long legal battle that ensued over the retrieval of Rostler, awakened a fear-climate not known since the American-Brazilian nuclear standoff of the 20's, and culminated in the illegal bombardment of populations of meso-America by Fangtooth Class Submarines, killing an estimated two million of the respective populace...'

Two million, he thought. The number meant little to him. He had never seen a gathering of more than six, maybe seven hundred people. Two million was like imagining the shape of time.

The report continued, though he was focused on the streets of Dead Zone far below the government building. He had lived in Birmingham his whole life, in one district or another. St. George's, Dentend, even a few years over by Brentwood Cemetery. It was a rough metropolis, one of only seven in Britain that had risen from the ashes of The Great Pathogen, and one of five that had survived the consequent rebellions. It was a totalitarian city, complete with a police battalion surrounding the outskirts and several regiments, tank-units and helicopter detachments patrolling both day and night.

The dusky tower-blocks loomed oppressively over Smethwick and Victoria Park, like the ribs of some rotting carcass rising from the earth. Monuments of a former age, they were habited and yet ill-maintained for lack of architectural knowledge. All around them were the towering reminders of a time that surpassed them in almost every technological facet. Buildings crumbled without hope of repair, roads cracked and bulged, sprouting undergrowth, and yet they worked around it - pushing to the back of their minds that it had once been different. Some didn't even know that it had been different. With each child's schooling came a day when they were taught that theirs wasn't the most advanced of generations, that there had been an age far superior, and it always came with a sobering notion of setback that some - amazingly - even denied.

He watched his brooding reflection in the dark glass, the city-scape superimposed against his features.

The sudden pulse of the curfew beacons distracted him and he instinctively checked his watch. It was nine o'clock.

He saw a flash of light in his periphery. It was succeeded by muted gunfire. Several bursts. Down a narrow street in Dead Zone a unit of infantry disappeared into a tenement block. He loved Birmingham for its protection, and yet he hated it for its stark ugliness and iron-fisted bureaucracy, as a child loves the caring atonement of an abusive father.

'... Over the next four weeks, although Mexican authorities have refused to reveal the details of those on trial, it is suspected that a further forty-three United States officials will take the stand while the militias of meso and southern America occupy north American states.'

'Tranter?' Burkett's secretary whispered as she opened the conference room door.

He cleared his throat and thanked her before entering the room. He was greeted by fourteen blank and unfriendly faces sitting at a large oval table.

At the head of the table sat Derritch Stranghan, Director General and Chief of Operations. Grotesquely obese, Tranter could barely bring himself to look at him, though he gave a brief nod of greeting as Stranghan smoothed his tie repeatedly over his belly, as though waiting impatiently in a restaurant.

'Now, this is Tranter?' Stranghan croaked.

Burkett tapped the cigarette of his ash into a tray and doffed his brow at Tranter. He turned back to Stranghan, pushing a file of papers into his gut. 'You can see his profile on page seventeen.'

'Balls to page seventeen,' he said, pushing the file across the table. 'The man's right in front of me.' He turned his small black eyes on Tranter. 'Tell us yourself why you're here. And keep it brief, we've already been here four hours.'

Tranter looked about the room. Every eye, every disinterested, spiritless eye was on him. He was loathe to speak publicly, especially about his own past. There was nothing for it, however. The quicker he began the quicker he would be out.

'In '36 I was middle management in the Imaging Department over at Handsworth Park. Basically, keeping to the point, I was certain I'd seen activity coming from this area,' he pointed at the projected map of Mortehoe on the wall, 'and yet no matter how much we tried to find subsequent evidence there was nothing more than what I had apparently seen.'

'Why couldn't what you'd initially seen be proved? It was all recorded, no?' Stranghan interrupted.

'It was, sir... But you have to remember it was when the old forty-five Trog was being replaced because of its... Temperamental character.'

Stranghan shot one of the nameless suits a deep look. Tranter supposed the man had been in some way responsible for the design or construction of the forty-five model of Dark Lens; the heated propellant coils of which had been located foolishly close to the recording equipment, resulting in the more-often-than-not "noiration" that had earned the forty-five the moniker: 'Troglobites', or more commonly 'Trogs', for their blindness.

The nameless suit made a show of not noticing Stranghan's beady eyes, but revoked his facade by clearing his throat and looking meekly at his dossier.

'The recording I received was in such bad quality that it only took one more replay to render it useless. Even the photos were little more than blurred static.'

'So what was it you saw that made you so interested in Mortehoe?'

'I saw someone amidst all the interference and monochrome. It was out of the corner of my eye and only for the briefest of moments, but I can tell you she wore a light coloured dress and had fair hair, but when I looked at the screen she was gone. I replayed the tape but there was nothing but noise.'

'No-one in imaging could clean it up?'

'No-one.'

Stranghan growled and slumped in his chair. 'Go on.'

'I was convinced I'd seen something but my supervisor wasn't inclined to believe me, and neither were his superiors.' He hesitated. This was the part he dreaded repeating, even though it was all on file and most in the room were already aware of the sensation he had caused. 'I set an operation in progress without authorisation. I opened up communication with Intelligence and recruited a military Captain, sending them into the field.'

'Only your Captain died. Isn't that right?' Burkett said, with somewhat more satisfaction than was necessary.

'Yes, sir. That's right. Three years ago come September.'

Stranghan was taking an interest now. He'd leant forward and was thumbing through the file he'd discarded. 'And this Captain... Stumm, was it?'

'Yes, sir.'

'What happened?'

'Shot, sir. Trying to evade the border. The report says a boat was stolen in an attempt to skirt the coast at Bridgewater, but the military opened fire and, well.' He left the words hanging. The thought of Stumm's death struck him afresh with each recall.

The whole affair had cost him his job at Imaging, placed him squarely on a hopeless career-path, and knocked the salary from under his feet. He now earned little more than he did in his early twenties as a student.

Stranghan looked up from the file. 'Demoted, were you?'

'Yes, sir. Quite impressively so.'

Stranghan looked at him intently, and though everyone's attention was on Tranter, he could feel only the blaze of his. 'It seems to me,' Stranghan said after rubbing his waxy chin, 'that you've been done a disservice, Tranter. You were willing to stake your reputation on what you thought you saw, and it turns out you were right.'

'Three years later, yes. Though I haven't been told what's happening down in Mortehoe, sir. All I know is that it's believed the S18K4 virus is being manipulated in that area.'

'That's all we know also,' Burkett replied, nodding at Stranghan's secretary, who passed Tranter a copy of the file.

He leafed through a few pages. It was a dossier of the data collected from the Mortehoe site.

Stranghan continued, turning to Burkett. 'Who's the analyst who brought this to your attention?'

'Sally Toubec, sir.'

'Any field experience?'

'A year in Southampton, sir. I believe she spent a year on the Isle of Wight as part of her PhD.'

'Part of the Corringham Team was she? That's good enough for me. Get a message to her office and tell her she's being temporarily demoted.' Stranghan's sharp eyes rounded on Tranter again. Tranter looked up from the dossier and straightened. 'And how would you like a temporary promotion, Tranter? Seems only fair that you should finally have some reward for spotting something amiss in Mortehoe, even if you did kill this, er, Captain...'

'Stumm, Sir.' He said haltingly. '... And thank you, sir.'

He left the conference room with the documents under his arm, and sat down in the first seat he came to. Birmingham was shrouded in darkness now, and he watched the sparse lights of the city, a rush of memories making him tremble slightly.

Capricious bastards, he thought, leaning forward and running his fingers through his hair. He had avoided all thought of Mortehoe for so long, it having consumed him so fervently in his former life; now they were thrusting it back in his lap as though they had always wanted it so. Capricious, inconsistent bastards. Stumm could have been spared if they'd have listened before. He might be the head of Analysis by now, had he not been sent to prison and hurled back down the ladder.

He stood, remembering whom he was to be partnered with for the duration of their investigation to Mortehoe. Sally Toubec, the humourless patron of frigidity whom he had disliked so quickly.

Who better than to journey into plague infested territory with than her? He considered, wondering if the liquid nitrogen that emanated from her personality might keep them safe.
Chapter Fifteen.

South-easterly wind.

Twelve knots.

Selina slowly closed the hatch as she read through the letter addressed to Dr. Camberwell. The page was covered on both sides in a small script that made use of every inch. She had been reminded constantly about the sin of waste since coming to the village, though this page was an astounding testament to it. How must the author have felt to have scribbled out so much of the text in their attempt to get it right?

'Are you ok down there?' She heard Priya call, and she folded the page and slipped it beneath the cord around her waist. She had no idea what the contents of the letter meant, though she knew without doubt that Priya would use it as an excuse to escape Mortehoe, and she wasn't prepared to go through that again. Not just yet.

'I'm just coming,' she replied, 'you know, I'd really be happy if you stayed here with me, this place is too big. It scares me at night.'

Priya was touched by Selina's tenacity, and they finished the bottle before heading into a calm pink evening toward the pub where the villagers continued their erratic stream of questions.

Tinder North sensed the irritation growing in Priya, and stood to announce his opinion that they had answered enough for one day. He requested people allow 'the girls', as they were known collectively, to finish at least one drink unhindered. Reluctantly his words were adhered to, and Selina crept to the bar while Priya gave a curious bow before joining her.

'Strange isn't it?' She whispered, her hand draped across Selina's shoulder.

Selina concurred, slurring her words. 'I can't believe we've found this place. It's like when... Cortés discovered El Dorado!'

Priya was in the unfortunate position of being half-draught and choked on her drink. Selina looked confused, then tried to subdue her giggles, and before long they were in tears while the rest of the pub looked on, bemused. Betty appeared at the bar and asked what the joke was, and Selina wiped her eyes. 'Nothing,' she replied sincerely, 'I just can't believe we found this place. It's amazing.'

Betty frowned, though it was difficult not to smile, and Selina turned back to Priya. Let's get one thing straight.' She garbled, her pale face growing rosy, 'If we're going to live together you need to be comfortable with the fact that it'll be me,' she tapped herself on the chest, 'who'll be wearing the trousers.'

Priya smiled, still flushed from their laughter. She finished her wine before hissing through her teeth and winking, 'I'm sorry, honey, I'm a giver not a taker.'

Betty listened to them with a scowl reserved for the sober judging the drunk, and shook her head at the conversation before leaving them be.

Eryn replaced her and pushed a rag glumly across the bar. They had come to know her quite well in the weeks after their arrival. Though considerate and amicable, she had a morose air about her, and was by far the most reserved of the teenagers in the village. They had been assured by others that this was exceptional to her normal character, that she was normally bright and engaging. Since both could recall, however, she had kept herself to herself and would exaggerate busyness, or try her best to leave the room altogether, especially if anyone tried to engage her in conversation.

'Evening, Eryn.' Priya said.

Eryn nodded in reply and smiled faintly, as though to do more would open an old wound.

'What's wrong, love?'

Nothing,' she replied. The smile broadened, but her eyes remained sullen.

Priya smirked devilishly at Selina before disappearing into the next room. Moments later she appeared behind the bar.

'No, you mustn't...' Eryn said, making sure her father wasn't about. 'Pa get's mad if anyone else comes behind here!'

'Where is he?' Priya asked, her hands on Eryn's shoulders.

'Down in the cellar. He could be back any moment.'

'Baron!' Priya called across the room. Baron turned from a flirtatious conversation with Jocelyn Sayer as George stood between them like an intermediary - as though brokering a deal. Baron looked slightly affronted to see her behind the bar. 'Come and fill in for a minute or two, will you?' She gestured for Selina to follow. 'I think our worldly wisdom is needed.' He looked back to George, who offered a wink and nearly shoved him toward the bar.

Priya lead Eryn from the bar to the quietness of an adjacent room that was rarely used. Selina stood and followed, somewhat clumsily.

They sat her on a stool and regarded her with sympathetic expectation, Eryn looked back defensively, and then burst into tears. Selina took her in her arms and held her. She looked up at Priya, who rubbed Eryn's back and waited patiently.

Eryn strived to talk, though a month of suppressed emotion overwhelmed her. Selina 'shhh'd' her until the tears had dwindled.

'What's wrong, dear?' Priya asked, and Eryn moved away from Selina's neck, leaving a blotch of tears on her skin.

'I'm sorry...' Eryn said, wiping her puffed eyes. 'I just don't know who to talk to.'

'You can talk to us,' Selina reassured, touching Eryn's hand. 'You know you can.'

'It's pa... After what we did. He won't let me out.'

'What do you mean? He won't let you out of the pub?'

'Since he found out about me and Boen, he hasn't let me out of here, and no-one's seen Boen at all.'

'Since when?' Priya sat at a table and hooked her hair behind her ears.

'Near a month. I didn't mean to get him into trouble...'

'But what were you doing with him that's caused such a fuss?'

Eryn expurgated the events of the former month in a frantic monologue. The ambiguous death of Richard Kelly, the outsider Boen had seen, their night at the Marisco Tavern, the papers she had stolen from Red Sawbone's room. At the mention of the papers she closed her eyes, exasperated. How could she have been so stupid?

'Did they shed light on anything?' Priya asked.

'Nothing. It was so stupid. It's just a load of numbers - like it's something, I don't know, banking details or something... And sketches of birds and letters about things that are meaningless.'

'Your pa is punishing you for stealing?'

She cuffed her eyes and sniffed. 'He is, though not for the papers. God, I managed to hide them before he returned home.' She rolled her eyes and shivered somewhat comically, cursing. 'If he thought I'd stolen from Lundy, if he thought we'd even been to Lundy... I don't know what he would have done. He took a belt to me and hasn't let me out, and that was because he thought we'd taken the boat on some kind of romantic jaunt. If he'd known about Lundy and the papers...'

'And Boen?' Selina asked. She suspected she hadn't even encountered him since their arrival if he'd also been grounded for a month.

'Baron teases that something terrible has happened to him, but no-one will give a straight answer.'

'We'll find out for you,' Priya said, standing.

'No, please. Don't make it obvious that I was thinking about him. Pa wants to make me forget about it by working me to the bone.'

'Jeez,' Priya sighed. 'The more I know about your father, dear, the more I dislike him. We won't make it obvious.

'We won't ask tonight,' Selina continued, 'but we'll find out for you nonetheless. Subtly.'

Eryn looked uncertain for a moment, and then hugged Selina, 'Thank you. Boen was terrified his pa would find out but I ignored him. God knows what he did to him. I'm so bloody selfish...' The image of the scars she had seen across his back brought new tears to her eyes.

Selina's former thoughts of paradise were checked as Eryn held onto her fiercely. 'I just wanted to know for sure what had happened to Kelly.'

For a moment Selina didn't think much of the name, she had heard it several times during their stay in the village, and even more so in the last minutes of Eryn's ranting. It wasn't until that moment that she was reminded that she had been given Richard Kelly's house to live in. She thought of stepping through the ivy laden door for the first time, Semilion telling her of its previous occupant and how pleased she would be if she loved books – the upstairs rooms were filled with them.

She hadn't thought of it before, so consumed was she with stifling her fears of dead men hiding in the shadows, but Richard Kelly was the author of the letter she had found in her cellar. The man who refused to "play their final game".

*

Semilion sat in the shadowed library, running his hands across his head in frustration. The books of his ancestors lay scattered across the table like a child's fallen bricks.

One volume, nothing more than a spiral-bound notebook, titled Autumn Codec, was apparently the codes that they should use between September and November. Beneath it was a reporter's notepad upon which was penned Butterfly Code, the codes they should use in times of satellite scrutiny.

He thumbed several pages of The High Tide Symbols; jot a note in its margins, then rubbed his eyes.

He was dumbfounded. He had never known about any of these. His father had never taught him any of it. He had only been interested in showing him the old-world news reels and broadsheets, and telling him how terrifying the governments of the outside world had become.

His grandfather had been concerned with teaching him how the world was nothing but a wasteland of corpses and plague, and yet his father thought it important he should know how the governments of the world were struggling to reclaim it. He wondered if it had anything to do with Red Sawbone. Had his father been trying to keep Semilion afraid of venturing out into the world and bringing Red down upon him?

He saw a note scrawled on one of the pages and he recognised the script as belonging to his father. He thought of him lying on the floor, blood on his lips, as Red held a length of wood over him. Since that day his father had been frightened to do anything that might bring Red back to Mortehoe. Soon after that he had shown Semilion the first of the newsreels.

'This is the world, boy,' he would say as he fastened the reel to the projector. He would douse the lights and a bright whirring image would appear across the cracked wall.

'It's all like that out there,' he would murmur throughout the most gruesome broadcasts.

He recalled the first reel showing a street in New York. The reporter wore a thick bodysuit of some shiny material and a gasmask from which protruded black breathing apparatus, and at the bottom of the picture flashed rapid subtitles.

'This scene is the same the world over. Dogs, stray or otherwise, have been scouring the streets for several weeks now with a seemingly insatiable lust for prey, seemingly anything that moves. And, uh, don't worry, I'm protected by New York's finest, here. They reassure me that their military grade carriers can withstand more than a little puppy power. James Eastern, NYNN.' He stood behind a police carrier, and suddenly the policeman standing beside him braced himself and picked up his battered Perspex shield. The camera fell sideways and rattled across the street as the cameraman, dressed in the same thick material as the reporter, fell into view – a Doberman scrabbling and gnawing at the unprotected area at the neck of his gasmask. The policeman raised his shield as several wild mutts scrambled over the bonnet and roof of the truck, sliding and sprawling in their frenzied charge. The policeman beat with his electrified baton while another, sitting in the driver's seat, shot a handgun from his awkward position. A dog's head exploded, though the baton was having no affect other than inflaming the dogs ferocity.

When Semilion had wanted to look away his father had forced him to watch. The reporter had been confident he would be saved by the thick protective layer, and stood motionless whilst three dogs mauled at his arms and legs. The policeman protecting him was dragged down, his throat ripped out and the hand in which he held his baton savaged until his fingers hung in bloody tatters from broken bones.

The reporter tried to retreat back to the safety of the police carrier, his screams manic, but the driver inside drove away in a whirl of screeching fumes and crashed forcibly into a bollard. Dogs piled into the truck as the driver fell out the door and tried to run. They were on him in seconds, pulling, ripping, clawing, their bloody teeth sinking into a cadaver that no longer looked human.

The reel ended, yet there was more for Semilion's young eyes to see, and all the while his father would remind him that this was what the world was like. 'There's nothing out there but this, boy.' He said until Semilion could watch it no more. 'You're grandfather wanted you to believe that there was nothing but death out there, but look. See? It's much worse than that.'

Semilion had believed him. He had never wanted to leave the comforts of Mortehoe if the world outside was nothing but roads of bones and carrion birds.

More footage, Semilion had shrank back from the projection on the wall, and although his father put his arm around him in comfort the grasp was too strong and forced him to look forward. It showed an alleyway from the vantage of a helicopter, it was full of dogs feasting on corpses in some ceramic-coloured Mediterranean town. They pulled at flesh and bone, filling their mouths and stomachs without hunger and vomiting when they could take no more. Military troops filed towards them, crouched and hesitant, before firing canisters from from squat guns, plumes of smoke arching lazily toward the grotesque feast. The canisters burst open in the alleyway, instantly consuming it in a cloudy yellow avalanche. Dark shapes could be seen writhing within the haze, and though this reel was silent Semilion could hear their desperate howls. The military advanced, filling the alley with grenades and rounds of shells.

His mother would find them and switch the projector off before screaming at his father that the reels were giving Semilion nightmares.

'He has to know, for God's sake.' His father would always retaliate. 'Your pa always told him the world was dead. But dead is safe. The world isn't safe!'

'These are seventy years old! This is news footage from the past. You've both lied to him.'

He returned to the present with a jolt as a book slid from the pile and slapped squarely on the tiled floor. He picked it up and looked morosely across the table of books. The Copper Cipher, The Robinson Codes, Astronomical Morse, The High Tide Symbols, there were scores of codes for every scenario Semilion could ever think to imagine, and the thought of wading through all of them made his morbid recollections seem almost attractive.

The Cloud Guide, for example, listed the entire range of clouds – from the low lying stratus to soring altus, each labelled with their own significance from 'all clear' to 'imminent danger'. Then came assemblages, altostratus, stratocumulus, cirrostratus, and scores more, also containing their own individual meaning. Next were clouds that form only during certain times of day, in certain weather conditions, in certain localities etc. Each of these was allocated their own value, until it was possible to say almost anything by mentioning only cloud forms.

Beneath the books was the small piece of paper upon which he had scribbled Dr. Camberwell's last message. It seemed insignificant beneath the strewn books, though Semilion kept referring to it before flicking through pages and jotting down notes.

How did Camberwell know about all these? He wondered. Did he know them off by heart? It seemed impossible, and yet he was slowly re-writing the original transmission with the aid of these books he had never heard of.

He had been reviewing the books for several hours. At first he had only been interested in the codes relating to Britain, though he soon discovered that the entire broadcast had been an encrypted message. In five hours he had managed to transcribe the following.

"Dublin compromised. Broadcast compromised. Stranger intercepted."

He looked at the word stranger and flipped through several pages of The Copper Cipher, before scribbling it out and replacing it with enemy. Again he ran his fingers across his head and sighed. He didn't have time to translate the entire text himself, and yet he didn't want this news spreading throughout the community.

'Am I disturbing you?' Priya said, and Semilion turned around angrily.

'What are you doing down here?' He stood and meant to bar her from coming any closer into the council chamber.

'I'm sorry,' she said as she descended the final step, 'Ted was telling me about this room and, well, I'm just curious.'

He could smell the wine on her, though she managed to hold herself with sobriety. Her eyes betrayed her, however.

'Curiosity isn't the most humoured of qualities here.' He said gruffly, as a grandfather admonishing a child.

'I know,' she smiled, stepping slowly closer. She wore a white linen dress and a leather belt at her waist. She was hypnotic, he thought, and wondered whether she knew it. 'What are these books?'

'Just... Just books left by our ancestors.'

She picked one up. He didn't know why he was letting her do it, but he watched her leaf through pages before laying it back down. She was uninterested in the content, though seemingly ravenous to fulfil her inquisitiveness.

'They had a lot to say,' she said, taking in the crammed bookcase.

'More than I'll ever know. I only found out about these books recently.' He said, one hand on his hip, the other on his neck.

Priya turned to the books again. 'You look like you're studying for an exam.'

'Well, I'm studying alright. There's no doubt about that. You know, you really shouldn't be down here.'

'I know. I'm sorry.' She said again, though made no attempt to leave. He didn't try to force her either.

'So this is where you make all the big decisions?'

'When the council convenes.'

'Is this where mine and Selina's fate was discussed? When we arrived?'

'I actually made the decision myself, and the council convened afterwards.'

'So tell me,' she looked up from a file she had been examining the cover of, 'what is the point of the council if you make decisions without them?'

'My decisions can be nullified if the council wishes it. This isn't a dictatorship.'

'What happened to that Borderly child sounds a lot like a dictatorship, if you don't mind me saying.'

'I'll not take blame for the actions of my grandfather.' He said sternly, wondering who had told her that piece of information.

'Of course,' she placed the folder back on the shelf. 'But I'm surprised that the role of governor passes from father to son. Where's the democracy in that?'

'That's the way it is. Since the beginning. The father knew what was best for the community and passed it down to the son. There's nothing unseemly about it. I don't retain any privileges for the role.'

Priya laughed. 'Except making decisions without the council, you mean? Who else in the community has that licence?'

He hesitated and sat back down. 'I think you should leave.'

He had expected her to challenge him, though she smiled sweetly and apologised for offending him before taking her leave.

He almost called her back. If the situation had been one involving Sarah she would have hollered at him and forced him to accept her view. Priya, however, had left without question and it left him wanting. He nearly stood and followed her upstairs to apologise, but he heard the door close and the trance broke.

He had seen how men watched her, with longing in their eyes, though he had thought himself invulnerable to such transient things as beauty.

It wasn't beauty, he told himself, though of course she radiated it, but instead her strength that intrigued him.

He sighed and turned back to the books strewn across the table.

'You won't beat me, you bastard.' He said, drawing the chair beneath him and pulling The High Tide Symbols back into the light.
Chapter Sixteen.

InterRail.

Tranter sat opposite Toubec on the InterRail Express to the military garrison of Stone Hill. A Ministry of Defence shuttle, the comforts were few, and Toubec's acrimonious nature did little to ease the journey. They hadn't shared a word during the entire transit, and her head had been set in a tattered pamphlet engagingly titled Data Technology. The pages hung loosely from a single staple, and had been printed on the flimsy brown paper favoured by the new printing-press companies of Oxford. He presumed her haughtiness and withdrawal was for the return to field commission, a duty that was compulsory for government blue-collars, incontestable, and usually reserved for undergraduates.

He looked up to the balcony, the first floor being reserved for officials, and noted the refreshment trolley pausing between each seat. Coffee! He thought, wondering how they had managed to import coffee beans during the precarious, if not hostile, relationship with the Americas. He watched a steward fill a small white cup before a moustachioed general sipped at it and smacked his lips appreciatively. Tranter remembered tasting coffee once, along with a cigar and Georgian vodka. A black market offering to his brother during his stag party in a Dead Zone brothel. It tasted like shit, he recalled, and presumed its high regard amongst high society was a result of keeping up appearances.

He glanced to one of the small screens that lined the upper levels, squinting to read the text of the news channel.

[Ministry of Custody to employ 7,000

Sources have confirmed that nearly seven thousand jobs are to be secured in the south after the Military announced an increased need for the controversial RMC, otherwise known as the Rhinox.

The RMC, the nuclear-powered aircraft that has been decommissioned on several occasions due to mis-use leading to war crimes worldwide, will now become the British Military's preferred mode of air transportation.

German Home Secretary, Heinrich Krügg, lambasted the British Ministry of Custody for employing a craft that has "been a symbol of atrocity on an international scale since its inception.]

'I said, "Can you pass that, please?"' Sally repeated, and he looked down to the seat beside him. She had evidently finished Data Technology and was looking expectantly at an old, dog-eared pamphlet titled Medical Review beside him. It was obviously an old copy, being printed on grey re-pulped newspaper stock.

He passed it to her, riled by her lack of thanks as she sat back and folded the cover over. He looked back up to the screen, though the story had changed.

'You know?' He said, turning his attention to the dusty countryside whipping passed beyond the glass, 'It would make this a whole lot easier...'

'Don't tell me how to act, Mr. Tranter! I was quite happy in Analysis. I worked my back off getting away from field work, so don't expect me to be happy about being thrown back into the lion's den... Demoted to the lion's den, I should say.'

'Well, that's as maybe, but being a bitch isn't going to make it any easier. You've got to do it whether you want to or not, and Stranghan can't see you're pissed, so pouting's not going to help.' He snorted derisively. 'Even if he could see, do you think he gives a damn how hard you worked to get out of field work? We all worked hard to get out of field work.'

She held him in her gaze for a while. His words were irrefutable but she was adamant. 'I've sacrificed my entire life for my work...' Her words lingered as though she wanted to express more, how she had towed her partner along beside her, always promising him a normal life but never being able to give it him. He had started and finished a Degree and Masters in Law and still she hadn't found a way to give him what he wanted, namely marriage, children, and the life that goes with it. When I'm settled in work, she would tell him, when they can't get rid of me. Yet part of her knew she couldn't expect such privileged treatment. No-one could. Everyone was expendable.

She looked back down to the pamphlet, feeling his gaze burn into her as he waited for her to continue. She wasn't going to tell him anything so personal.

After a moment he considered that she was a lost cause. He would have to work with the uptight sow, using his own words, whether he liked it or not. He looked at the page of Medical Review facing him; it advertised jobs at the Berlin Institute of Biopharmacy, though Toubec's fingers were covering most of the print. Over the last six years research and development institutes had opened across Belgium and Germany, leading many to conspire that a European nation had already been determined by those coffee swilling echelons, the following years election nothing more than a pretence, and that the continent was being divided into sectors. What had been planned for Britain was anyone's guess. Sector for teenage pregnancies, he considered.

He leant down and opened the case at his feet, retrieving the dossier he had received the previous evening. He had skim-read most of it late that night, but now he resigned himself to delve into the information relating to why he and his merry colleague were now on their way to Stone Hill.

He lost himself in the report chronicling the evolution of S18K4, how this new virus had broken away from a host-specific bacterium and had leapt the barrier to an epizootic strain, able to affect more than one species. He looked at the images of the initial virus, spherical and covered with spiralled barbs. This terrifying new strain was smaller; it's cell-wall thicker. The initial virus affected canine hosts only, sent them into a deranged and insatiable rage. In humans it produced the onset of necrotic cells, gangrenous extremities, internal haemorrhaging and disseminated intravascular coagulation - the untreatable 'crimson purge' that caused orifices to seep with blood until death. This new bacterium, he read with growing alarm, was projected to infect most, if not all, species. It was a panzootic virus that could spread not only between carnivorous species, but between any species of mammal!

'It's a god-damned biological blunderbuss!' he said under his breath, awed to the point of exasperation.

'Sorry?' Toubec said, looking up from the pamphlet.

'... Blunderbuss. It's an old type...'

'I know what a blunderbuss is. I didn't hear what you said is all.'

'This...' He stuttered, hardly able to believe anyone would be insane enough to synthesize something with such lethal potential. 'This is accurate?'

'As far as we can tell. Looks like whoever did this wanted to finish off what S18K4 started. It has a longer gestation period for a start, and unlike S18K4 it doesn't die when exposed to UV light.'

'And this isn't natural mutation?' It was a stupid question and he knew it. She shot him a resigned look before returning to the journal. After a moment she said, 'It's more a combination of Carnivora and a Rhabdovirus, most likely Rabies, than anything S18K4 would have evolved into naturally. Carnivora attacks the bloodstream; and so does this, but it gets into the nervous system also. There's nothing out there that looks like your 'blunderbuss'.

'Jesus...' He said, staring out the window.

They arrived in a station beneath the garrison, and were greeted by lieutenant colonel Noriah, a formidable slab of muscle with more body art than a Maori tattoo parlour. He waited on the platform, broad and rigid, and received them with a crushing handshake.

'Afternoon,' was all he said before leading them both to an elevator shaft that screeched wildly as they ascended to the complex above.

'Colonel Matloff is expecting you in his office.' He said, his eyes hidden in shade beneath his peaked cap and Neanderthaloid brow.

'Is this going to be an easy process?' Toubec asked coldly. The military garrisons that had sprung up alongside the borders across the land were notoriously self-contained. They saw themselves as being the sole protectors of the country and therefore placed themselves on a higher echelon than government. They didn't take too kindly to being used, or being advised how to operate, by the MoD.

Noriah rounded on her slowly. 'You're here at the behest of the MoD. It's our job to entertain you, so you can go home and write your reports and tell the public that everything is well-groomed, trim, and in tip-top condition.' His words were thick with sarcasm, and Toubec visibly stiffened with anger.

'We're also here to save lives, if that matters at all?' Tranter said, looking up from his paperwork with a smile.

Noriah scowled and pulled the door open, leading them into a concrete corridor that reeked of mildew. They followed him up a long stairway that opened out on to a receiving room and more regal furnishings; a Persian-blue carpet topped with plush rugs, potted palms, two leather club chairs and a squat yew coffee table.

The Lieutenant Colonel rapped once on Matloff's door. There was a moment's pause and then there came a casual license to enter.

The Colonel was a sallow-looking man in his late fifties. Lean and white-haired, he rose from his fine, green leather chair and offered them both a languid hand.

'Please sit,' he gestured. 'Thank you, Lieutenant Colonel.'

Noriah saluted smartly, before turning and closing the door behind him.

'Now,' Colonel Matloff said, offering them a case of cigarettes. 'We've received a wire that there's some terrible business occurring over the border. Some new pathogen? Is that right?'

'That's what we're here to find out, sir,' Tranter said, refusing the cigarette. 'I have a report here for you, and can't impress upon you enough the urgency of this matter. This new strain of S18K4 is outstandingly virulent. It makes Carnivora look like a mere headache.'

Colonel Matloff took the report and laid it on the table beside him. 'I'll take a look at it,' he said, picking up the hand piece of the telephone on his desk. 'Frondel? Yes, come and show our visitors to the mess hall. They must be hungry after their journey.'

'Sir,' Toubec said, leaning forward, 'we don't have time to sit around eating. We need to organise an investigation into what's happening on the coast.'

Colonel Matloff returned the handset with a smile. 'Nonsense. There's nothing that would be better done on an empty stomach, dear.'

Toubec scowled, and was ready to respond vehemently as the door opened and the Colonel stood, gesturing for them to follow suit and exit the office. 'Private Frondel will escort you to the mess hall. We'll reconvene in an hour, after I've read through this report.'

Bemused and hustled from the room, Tranter and Toubec followed private Frondel into the humid afternoon light.
Chapter Seventeen.

South-easterly wind.

Eleven knots.

Semilion called on Selina and Priya early the morning following their night in the Smuggler's.

Priya answered the door, her face grilled with red lines from a night of paralytic sleep. Her hair, for the first time, seemed dull and unkempt, and she looked at him with bag-laden eyes. He would never have believe this was the same woman who had mesmerised him the evening before. She wore the same linen dress, he presumed she had returned home and collapsed in bed, roused only by the sound of his knocking.

'Please tell me you've come with paracetamol?'

'For a hangover?' He laughed. 'Not a chance.'

'Then can we speak somewhere close to a toilet,' she groaned, 'I'm more than likely going to expel the contents of your pub without warning.'

He had come to assign them jobs in the village. They knew the day would arrive, and part of them welcomed it. But not today. Nothing was welcome today other than sleep.

'Everyone pitches in,' he said once they were convened in the living room. 'Selina, 'I need you to help Hannah and Morag in the mill. George gives a hand when he's free but, well, he's needed more and more elsewhere. Hannah and Morag are getting on a bit and could use an extra pair of hands... But don't tell them I said that. I'd never hear the end of it.'

'Ok.' She smirked, sensing Hannah and Morag belittled Semilion's authority.

'Priya, I'd like you to lend your services in the crèche looking after our under-fives.'

At this Priya blanched and disappeared into the kitchen. 'I don't have to start today, do I?' She called, her head in the sink.

'No, don't worry, you can both begin tomorrow.'

She nodded and he showed himself out. Selina heard Priya drag herself upstairs and then the creak of the bed as she collapsed into it. She heard a moan of 'Kids!' And then all was quiet.

Opening the living room window, Selina closed her eyes and fell back asleep on the sofa.

*

She woke with a gasp at a quarter past midnight, a drowning man sinking in the shadows of the room. Her heart raced, and then the sound of the front door clicking roused her fully awake. It took her a moment to notice it was the door she had heard, and another to realise Priya must be going somewhere. She took a moment to check there really was no ghost in the shadows of the room, and then leaned towards the window, her forehead squeaking on the cold glass.

The moon was low on the purple sea, and it sent scattered shadows through the streets. A dark-coloured cat sat on a fence beside the house before dancing along to the slate wall that lined the road. It pawed at the moss that hung from it, and then ducked behind a hedge.

She flattened her face against the glass and tried to peer to the foot of the house. Her breath steamed the window and obstructed her vision. She withdrew her face, and watched as the mark shrank, Priya appearing as it did so. She held her breath, and looked back out into the steep garden. She saw Priya, almost a shadow within shadow, wrapped in a duvet. She stepped slowly down the garden steps, crossed into the next garden, and into her own house.

Selina remained at the window and waited for her to reappear, wondering what had been so urgent to collect from her house in the middle of the night. After uncounted minutes had slowly passed, Priya emerged without the duvet, though instead of returning the way she had come, she hopped from a wall on to the dark high street and began walking towards the Smuggler's Rest.

*

Semilion reclined in the battered chair of the council chamber, the radio headphones roasting his ears. Beside him the radio hummed gently, its filaments glowing brightly; they flickered tentatively as he negotiated the channels. He had been waiting for fifteen minutes. The shipping forecast was late.

It was an unusual, but not unheard of, occurrence. Several times Dr. John Camberwell had been delayed, or experienced difficulty with his equipment, though if ever there was a significant problem there would be a singular pulse that proclaimed a twenty-four hour postponement of the forecast. There was no such pulse, and after the broadcast of the previous month he was growing increasingly worried.

In the days after the last forecast, he had sent Baron and George south, telling them to return the moment they saw anything out of the ordinary. They had returned an eternal week later, saying they had continued until they could see the MoD on the horizon, spraying the land with a billowing purple dust before setting it aflame. A few days later Robin and Jeremy returned from scouting Exmoor in search of whatever 'storm-front' Camberwell had been reporting. They described a slight increase of Blackeye activity over the moorland, but nothing out of the ordinary.

'There were the lights, though,' Robin said as they had been getting ready to leave.

Jeremy shrugged as though he hadn't thought it worthy of mentioning.

'What lights?' Semilion asked.

'On the border. The skyline was lit every quarter-mile or so, right across the horizon as far as you could see. Never seen that before, always been a dead lump of concrete as long as I can remember.'

'But there were no people? No soldiers?'

'No,' Robin replied. 'There never is, is there? What's this all about, Mr. Tupper?'

Semilion had simply said he intended to begin a new routine of patrols, just to be safe. Robin and Jeremy scratched their chins and thought little more of it as they left.

The static in his ears was ghostly; a nuclear wind howling, racing toward him. After a time though, with his lamp flickering gently, the steady hiss almost sent him to sleep. An echo of music or a reminder of speech from some drifting signal would wrench him back alert, disappointed it was not Dr. Camberwell.

He had waited for over an hour with no sign of the shipping forecast. He hoped Guliven had reached him and extracted more information, and yet had received no word as yet.

He was, a month later, desperately confused about the former report. The code for storm-front was only supposed to be used after a series of other codes, and yet those had been missing. Either the 'storm-front' had risen so swiftly that there had been no chance to apply the prefix codes, or it meant something else altogether. He supposed the latter as the two scouting missions had unearthed nothing, nothing but lights and Blackeye's on the moors. He ran his hand over his eyes and sighed. What did it all mean? He eased the headphones off and lit his sixth cigarette of the sitting. He couldn't abandon the radio, not with the enigmas of the previous report ringing in his mind.

He should have called a meeting with the community council already. He had to hold a council. He must. And yet...

As he stared at the dusty cement between the floor-tiles, he was wrenched back to his childhood, and the conflict that had arisen between his grandfather and the inhabitants of Lundy.

The union of the communities had been spoken of for years, since he could ever remember, and had always been regarded as a lofty vision that could never actually happen. The reasons from both communities were numerous and constant, though gradually the few who wanted a single colony negotiated and compromised until there were few excuses left to deny them.

A deal was struck on Semilion's tenth birthday. He recalled how his father had missed the celebrations. He recalled the flotilla of boats arriving on a mild and moonless night. Hands running through his hair as strangers passed him on the beach.

The governor of Lundy, a broad and bearded mariner by the name of Red Sawbone, remained behind with his elderly mother and his two young boys. A grand house had been refurbished for him overlooking an expanse of Woolacombe Beach, a gesture grudgingly carried out by Semilion's grandfather, Carrick, who bore a life-long animosity for Red after a trivial confrontation in Red's youth. Red had long ago attempted to appease Carrick, though Carrick hoarded grudges like treasure.

Eighteen families migrated from Lundy, and were given homes in the Woolacombe district, and for several months little changed other than the newfound glee of conversing with strangers. Friendships formed fluidly as each community shared their knowledge regarding various tasks, and gatherings became enriched with Lundian tales and songs.

Nine months passed by, and Carrick grew increasingly frustrated on hearing villagers exchanging their thoughts on how difficult it must have been for Red to break up his community so soon after the death of his wife, Harriet, and how lonely he must have grown after the death of his mother. How hard must it be for him to raise two boys alone, with only the few remaining Lundians to offer any support.

These thoughts burned in Carrick, and his already dark view of Lundians grew darker still. He began to blame them for frivolous occurrences. A blight of carrot-fly, a meagre harvest, a lame calf; all these things would have been rectified had it been left in the hands of a Mortehoe farmer, Carrick seethed. His aggravation, left unchecked, turned to unbridled rage when he discovered a Lundian boy had pushed a cow over in the night and broken its hind leg. The beast had to be killed, and Carrick immediately threw the boy responsible, Joseph Borderly, in the Woolacombe cells.

He starved the boy and made an example of anyone who protested about his treatment. Semilion remembered his own father breaking the jaw of a man who complained to his neighbour about the boy's incarceration. The blow had been dealt to silence the opinions of others, though all it served to do was divide the communities even further. Several families returned to Lundy, and although Carrick hated them, he deemed it should be he who decided who had the right to leave. He ordered that the remaining Lundians stay, dealing harshly with anyone who showed signs of defiance.

There were many who needed to be dealt with, and in an act of desperation – an act deemed essential when devoid the sagacity of hindsight - Carrick executed the Borderly boy, brutally and publicly. If he had thought the act would conclude the surge of resistance from the Lundians he couldn't have been more misguided.

Word had returned to Red of the oppression at the hands of Carrick, and without deliberating on the news he took to the water and sailed to Mortehoe. A stern and formidable man in unexceptional times, this extraordinary news of a Lundian boy's execution set a violent rage inside him. On his route to The Smugglers' Rest he felled any who opposed him, regardless of their age or sex.

Semilion remembered the knife at his throat as his grandfather tried to reason with Red. He remembered being thrown to the floor and his tooth cracking. He remembered the moment he knew he would fear Red for the rest of his life.

Carrick died that day at the hand of Red, and Semilion's father had been beaten so violently that he never walked straight again. For a time, even after Carrick's last breath had left him, Red stood over him, shouting at him in frustrated triumph, calling him an Irish prick and asking him why. Why had he done it? Why couldn't he let their feud go? Why had he let it come to this? He was crying. With fury or pity Semilion would never know, and after running his bloody fingers through his lank hair, he turned to Semilion's father.

'I own this sty now,' he said between breaths, 'and I own every one of you pigs.' Red thrust a length of wood in his father's ribs. 'But if I ever have to come back here,' he growled, 'if I ever have to step foot in this cancerous warren and attend your incompetence I will finish you... But before you die I will ruin your son.' He swung the length of wood in Semilion's direction and it hung before his eyes. 'Do you understand?'

His father's bloody, toothless mouth opened momentarily, but nothing came. Instead he closed them and offered an almost imperceptible nod.

'I'm a man of my word.' Red said, before stepping over Semilion's father and leaving.

Since that day his fear of Red Sawbone, of the memory of Red Sawbone, had increased. In the look of dread in his father's eyes if the name were uttered, with every mention of his grandfather's memory, every time he walked by the room in which his father had been beaten and with every dreadful nightmare did he prophecies the return of Red Sawbone.

He slowly replaced the headphones, noting that in the intervening cigarette one of the ear-pieces had broken. Now the static invaded only his left ear, making him feel off centre and slightly nauseous. He had to resolve this problem alone, and as quickly as possible. He couldn't risk anyone knowing, he couldn't risk word spreading. As infrequent as contact with Lundy was, his fear of the governor kept what little he knew close to his chest.

*

'Reighn! Wake up.' Dawn hissed urgently.

'Nnn? What is it?'

'It's William... He's sick.'

Reighn sat up and put a hand to his head. 'What's wrong with him?'

'He won't keep anything down. Not my milk... not even water!'

He could tell that she feared the worst. Her sunken eyes, pallid skin and tight grip told him that, but her words alone were thick with fright.

'Go and wake Amber...' he said,' 'She'll know what to do.'

'I know what to do!' She spat. Then she wept and held on to him. Her sobs were as desolate as corpses. 'I'm sorry...'

He held her tightly as she wept and looked down at the small collection of blankets swathed around little William. In the middle of the pile was a white face, sucking at the air in silence like a fish out of water.

'Hold him, Dawn...' Reighn said, easing her from his chest. 'Hold him and love him. It might be his last night with us.'

His words faltered, and he felt tears spring to his eyes, but he wiped them away and pulled on his trousers.

'Don't say that...' Dawn mewed pathetically as Reighn left to fetch Amber Summer from her home. She slowly moved towards William, fearing that her touch might sicken him further, and slowly she pulled him close. 'Please don't say that...'
Chapter Eighteen.

Stone Hill.

Toubec sat at the small white table of her barracks room and opened her dossier pertaining to Mortehoe. It was a flimsy folder and she had studied it several times already, though she had faltered when asked questions relating to the strain of virus discovered at the locality, and didn't want to be put in the same situation again.

The barracks room was small, airless, and possessed a thin window that let in nothing but grey light through its thick frosted glass. The bed was small and hard, though not uncomfortable, and in the corner of the room was a wardrobe, empty but for her bag that she had unceremoniously dumped at the bottom.

A circular halogen lamp hung from an arm over the desk, and she manoeuvred it to shed more light over the papers.

Her eye brushed over Tranter's name on the first page, and she considered her temporary partner. So burnt and embittered by the past that he hated anyone who had risen further than he. Everyone, she considered, reflecting that few people had the year-long setback of prison and subsequent shadow on his résumé. He had been unemployable to any department that meant anything, and yet he was one of the old MoD boys. Imaging had probably been down a pawn in middle management, she supposed. Probably he'd been offered it as a stepping stone, though they all knew he would be there until retirement. Who wanted to place someone like him in a position of authority? He'd already shown how he reacted to rejection.

'God,' she whispered, 'how did I get lumbered with him?'

She flipped the page, looking for the details of the new virus, and the numbers that went along with them. She'd always been good with figures and statistics, had always felt they made more sense than words. 'It's the language of lucidity.' She had told her niece, Amile, when asked what the reams of numerical papers she had brought home from work meant.

'Language of what?' Amile asked, pulling a face.

'Look at it,' Toubec fanned out the papers and lifted Amile to her knee. 'If you understand what it says then there's no hiding behind ambiguity or poor description. You can't get into arguments with numbers the way you can with language. The world would be in a better state if people spoke in binary, believe me.'

'You're weird,' Amile had said, and Toubec's sister had snatched her up, telling her not to speak to her aunty like that.

Even a five year old had her pegged as a freak. She laughed it off and told her sister not to worry, had thrown her brother-in-law a twisted smirk that exclaimed 'the things kids say!' And yet she had returned home that evening and wondered what people who had known her for years must think of her.

Her mother pestered her to meet someone and give her more grandchildren, even junk-mail asked her whether she was doing her part to repopulate, and yet she had always been a loner, never able to keep the interest of any man longer than five minutes, let alone the time it took to convince them they might like to spend their life with her.

That was fine by her though. While her sister was happy to live on government subsidy for the children she bore, Toubec felt destined for the rigours of vocation. She had been an apt student and had been told on several occasions, by teachers and employment agencies alike, that she had a talent for numbers that the defence ministry would snatch up.

It seemed, however, that snatching-up equalled seven laborious years of field work, and in that time she didn't see a single numerical figure. What she did see was years of toil and suicide. Lots and lots of suicide.

It wasn't the work so much that drove people to do it; all they were doing after all was clearing the landscape of a century's growth, a process known as Survey Reclamation. It was the tools they had been given to work with.

The process was simple:

Greenjack's, named for their lime-coloured immersion suits, took point-duty, filing out in front and testing areas that Dark Lens' had highlighted as potential spots of contamination. They took more accurate readings and left silver helium balloons in locations that required sanitization before moving ever forward. The landscape, regardless where they went, shimmered like silver fish-scales.

Behind were the Dust Rangers, officers equipped with powder-guns. The barrels some two metres long and requiring both hands to wield it. A second officer carried the bulk of the gun behind, and a third held the large sack of Crenatin Four, the agent provided to decontaminate the land.

Great billowing plumes of purple dust filled the air, settling on flowers, animals, and weeds alike. Eventually the powder burnt through everything, eradicating anything that might be lingering in sap or blood alike.

Behind the Dust Rangers were the Flames, students mostly, or interns, who tailed the entire company setting fire to the land in their wake, and finally the Powder Monkeys, who dusted the scorched earth with a white powder that nourished the soil. Policing all of them were regular army stock, known as Tasiers for the large circular lenses of their gas masks. They were the only division who rarely succumbed to the effects of the earth scorching agent, simply because they were allocated weekly shower privileges, preventing the accumulation of toxins and subsequent manias that were so prevalent throughout the other divisions.

The process of Survey Reclamation was simple, and yet the progression was always pitifully slow.

It had been reputed for years that Crenatin Four was a hallucinogen, one that would give officers, from Powder Monkey to Greenjack, the direst of waking nightmares. It was agreed, after much debate and little research - by the company that produced the toxin - that there were hallucinogenic properties to the product, but nothing that a sturdy gas mask wouldn't counter. Indeed, the reports of delusions petered out for some time, maybe even a year – the year Toubec had signed up – before the serious delirium began.

Further testing, testing that wouldn't happen for another four years due to a stalwart belief in the first report, showed that it was a build-up of Crenatin Four in the skin that caused its victims to suffer acute and incurable depression. Those four years were terrible ones for anyone who worked in the field, whether they suffered the effects of Crenatin Four or not.

Toubec had never succumbed to it, never suffered depression for the toxin, though she had felt its cold grip after seeing half her colleagues take their own life in the space of a week, and hundreds more who died before Crenatin Four was withdrawn.

She had resolved then to fight her way out of field work. Push her way through Flame, Dust Ranger and Greenjack, the acrid smell of Crenatin Four and corpses her daily perfume, until she was safely in a musty office in Birmingham reading through pages of numbers.

She had made it, finally. The room she had wound up in hadn't been musty, it had been loud with the rattling of ill-fitted pipework, and a radio with a broken sound-dial stuck on full. The biting stench of raw sewage clung to the atmosphere from a burst duct outside her building, though it was better than the horror she had trained in. Had her office been inside the burst main it would have been preferable to her years in fieldwork, and now she found herself back in the past, about to head into contaminated land with a man who was brash and reckless, and who had already gotten one officer killed.

She thought again of her niece and smiled. She smiled at the thought of telling her sister she had met someone, an undergraduate studying law.

'Get out of here,' her sister had punched her lightly on the arm.

She had met Michael some weeks after her promotion from field commission. It had been a casual meeting, a friend of a friend. Toubec had found little in common with those she had grown up with – most had taken advantage of the small fortune that could be accrued by becoming a government baby factory, though she had found a common interest with Michael, who was researching the legal ramifications of the Crenatin Four scandal.

He was handsome and engaging, and she managed to hold his interest for longer than five minutes. She actually held it all the way back to her flat, all through the night and the following day. She continued to hold it, four years later, much to her disbelief, and yet, she felt as though she was holding him back.

He had finished university and completed a subsequent Master's degree, and joined a firm in the north of the city. He was settled, and could think about things like marriage and children. She, on the other hand, constantly expected to be kicked out the door and replaced. Turnover was high in Analysis, what with people vying to get out of the field, the same as she had. Employers knew it, and used it to control their staff. She had to prove she was crucial to the running of Analysis before she could allow herself the freedom of a normal life. And yet, she thought, looking around the small cold barrack room, look how easily they had demoted her. It had taken no more than thirty seconds to tell her she was being posted to Stone Hill, and if she protested she would find herself back on field commission permanently.

She heard laughter outside of her room and suspected, from the timbre of their merriment, that some of the infantry had travelled into the local village to drink.

She idly thought of Michael and one of the first cases during his apprenticeship: a squaddie hauled over the coals for fighting in a nightclub. Michael had told her that it happened constantly, that it was rare to find a town near a border that wasn't a hive of altercations between locals and visiting military on leave.

She wondered if any of the privates returning tonight had drawn blood or raised their fists in anger. They advanced, stumbling, down the corridor outside, their elbows scraping across the walls as they hooted and shushed one another.

She stiffened as they neared her door, then sighed relief as they continued to their rooms.

Turning down to the dossier on the table, she closed it and retrieved a sheet of paper from the desk drawer. She missed Michael, and would write him a letter and let him know she was safe and well, and suffering the most interminable of commissions.
Chapter Nineteen.

South-easterly wind.

Ten knots.

The morning was bright, the sky white and ethereal. The first thing Selina saw was a quizzical robin sitting on the windowsill, its black eyes alert. She sat up, alarming the bird; it flapped and fell from the window and dove for a safer perch upon a nearby roof.

She drew the curtains closed and made her way to the kitchen where she lit the wood burner, setting a small iron kettle on a hook above it.

She and Priya had been given many provisions when they were initially escorted to their homes, the villagers providing tea-leaves, sheets, cutlery, towels, and utensils. Food had been especially baked for them; sweet meats, dried fruits, smoked fish, waxed cheese and jars of preserves. With the two of them now in one house, their larder had enough to last months.

Opening a drawer she reached to the back and retrieved Richard Kelly's crumpled letter. She read the opening again, then tried to read the remainder that had been heavily scrawled over in a peak of frustration. It was indecipherable, except for a sentence that looked as though it read: "help, John, you're the only one who ever could." and a brief phrase, "they're so scared of the world."

She flattened it out on the worktop, idly wondering if she should take it to Eryn. Would she know more about it? She still felt uncertain about showing it to Priya, especially after seeing her skulking about in the night. What had she been up to anyway? Looking for a means of escape?

She took a mug from the cupboard, and leaned against the sideboard before cursing herself. She'd forgotten fire wasn't permitted during hours of daylight. She took a flask of water and doused the flames, her need for a cup of tea increasing tenfold.

She heard the floorboards above, instinctively snatching up the letter and returning it to the back of the drawer.

Before long Priya was making her way down the stairs. She appeared at the door, her linen night-dress baring her knees. She put her hands to the small of her back and stretched, then pulled at the rough fabric she was wearing. 'I feel like a potato.'

Selina looked at her, the light of the living room window silhouetting her in the dress. She looked away and willed herself not to blush.

Priya saw and smirked at Selina's demure, near puritan demeanour. 'Morning, honey,' she teased before padding into the kitchen, her feet sticking slightly to the scarred linoleum. 'Did we decide who wears the trousers after all?' She took hold of Selina's hand, interweaving their fingers. 'Only I'm desperate for a cup of tea and I would like to keep you on your toes if you're to be my wife.'

Selina smiled thinly, and unhooked their fingers, sitting at the table in the centre of the room.

'No hot water, I'm afraid.'

Priya blinked, and then raised an eyebrow. 'Oh, right, I forgot about that rule. Well, I suppose we'll just have to make do with cold water. Yum.' She took the empty water flask and Selina laughed, explaining she had thrown it over the fire. Priya rolled her eyes and disappeared into the cellar to collect more. When she returned she said, 'You know? You've never spoken about whether you left a relationship behind in New Zealand.'

'No, I didn't,' Selina bridled, 'I was with someone a few months before I left but, well, he wasn't the most monogamous of men.'

'Ouch,' Priya said, wishing she hadn't said anything.

'I found out about his various indiscretions afterwards of course, though he still had the nerve to tell me that of all of them I was his favourite. Complete bastard.'

'I'm sorry, I didn't mean to pry, I just thought it was...'

'What the hell is that noise?' Selina said, screwing her face and stepping past Priya. 'It's driving me mad.'

'What noise? I don't hear anything...'

'Listen... it's like...it's like wasps eating wood. Can't you hear it?'

Priya lifted her chin, 'Yeah, I can now you mention it.' The noise had been pulling at the back of her awareness but now it was clearly noticeable. 'What is it?'

For a moment they both listened to the rapid tapping that had no discernible source. Priya stealthily moved from room to room, returning to the living room and declaring that it was loudest in there.

Selina stepped to the window and peered through the curtain before immediately recognising the source of the drumming. At the uppermost corner of the window was a small box from which protruded a needle vibrating against the glass. Semilion had shown them the contraption on the initial tour of their homes, and had warned them to keep the windows and curtains closed should it ever sound.

'It's the signal that one of those spheres, those Blackeye things, has been spotted.'

Priya moved toward the window, drawing the curtains before peeling back the partition. She looked over the rooftops and towards the bay, but couldn't see anything. 'Might not even be anywhere near here. Might be over at Woolacombe.'

Selina was at her shoulder, searching also. 'How long do we have to wait?'

'Until this thing stops tapping I sup... Ah, there! I see it, look.' She lowered her voice to little more than a whisper. Selina followed her gaze.

'Where?'

'It's moving down the high street... towards the Smuggler's.' She watched the large black orb drift along the street as though it were cotton riding the breeze. 'The wall's in the way, I can't see it... no, there it is, it's in the Summer's back garden. It's stopped...'

Selina stepped away from the window, placing her hands on the back of the sofa. 'What's it doing?' She turned back to the kitchen, suddenly remembering the fire she had doused, would smoke be pluming from the chimney? She took a few tentative steps but saw there was none.

'Nothing, it's not doing anything.' She drew the curtain back a little. 'Not that I can see anyway.'

There was a long spell of silence, Selina feared something incriminating had been dropped in the long grass. 'It's moving on,' Priya said, 'it's behind... I can't see it... I think it's gone.'

They both exhaled, waiting for the needle to stop rapping on the window pane.

'Is the window upstairs closed?' Selina whispered. Priya nodded in reply.

'And the curtains?'

Priya thought for a moment, then shrugged. 'I don't think so... But there's nothing to see up there anyway.'

They remained quiet for a time, Priya gazing out of the window and Selina waiting cautiously behind the sofa.

After a few minutes Selina began to idle about the other villagers, whether any were outside and how they were warned of the Blackeyes presence. She remembered Semilion mentioning something, though the memories of her first days seemed to be consumed by adrenaline.

Priya stepped away from the curtains, leaving the curtain slightly parted.

'Pri, maybe you should draw it?'

Priya turned and shrugged, 'It's fine, it's not coming back.'

'Famous last words,' Selina replied, somewhat annoyed by her tone. 'How about you?' She found herself asking, her irritation provoking her to ask a lingering and unspoken question.

'Hmm?'

'You were married and you never...'

'I wasn't married!' Priya said indignantly, doing a bad job of feigning laughter. She lowered her voice. 'I mean, I wasn't!'

'Come on, the third finger, your wedding finger,' she snorted and nod towards it, 'there's a band of pale flesh. You were obviously married for quite a while,'

Priya said nothing for a moment and then shrugged. 'There's not much to say. He didn't want to come. I think he'd wanted to end it for some time but... well, it was a good excuse as any for him to finally do it.' She made a hiss and a clicking sound and said, 'He was the first thing in my life that had been stable, and, well... When I boarded the Tangaroa I promised that I'd erase him completely and make a new start.'

Selina thought an apology would have been inappropriate. She had intended to pry. She looked at her feet, willing the right words to fall in to place, though when they didn't come she decided saying nothing would be best. 'Come on, let's have some breakfast while...'

She froze as the dark globe rose in the parting of the curtain. Priya slid away, her back to the wall, as the Blackeye ascended noiselessly into view. It eclipsed the morning light as it filled the window. A single green lens began to revolve and fix the room with its impassive eye.

*

'What... Do... I... Do?' Selina implored through grit teeth as the Blackeye levitated behind the curtain. She had never seen one so close, but knew that Priya had witnessed them before in Bahrain, and hoped she might know enough about them to render her invisible to them.

Priya had her back to the wall, her neck craned to catch a glimpse of the machine. 'It hasn't seen you yet... It'll head back to its depot the moment it does. Slowly get behind the sofa, slowly! Don't make any sudden movements...'

Selina took a tentative step toward the sofa, which was only a little way before her but a seemingly unimaginable attainment. Leaning forward, she transferred her weight and a groan squeaked from the floorboards. At once the Blackeye, which Selina had assumed had been facing her, now rotated to reveal a cluster of glowing lenses of various design, and a sonar that fanned into a silver disk. Selina slid to the floor and scrabbled to the back of the sofa. A bright green laser lit the heavy curtains, though only penetrated the small partition, the thin ray slowly swept over the floorboards, scanning every inch of the visible room, before returning at the same pace and switching off. The cluster of lenses revolved, clicked, and then a second beam, bright blue in colour, caressed the furniture with a grace that was almost admirable.

The warning contraption continued to vibrate against the glass, impossibly loud in the presence of the scrutinising sphere. She willed it to stop, or for the Blackeye to move on, but both persisted; it's great shadow dominating the room, while the buzz of the needle chattered incessantly.

For long minutes the machine remained unmoving and silent at the window, its green lens returned and fixed the room as though willing something to happen. Both Selina and Priya remained frozen, hardly daring to breathe.

Powered only by a tiny solar cell, the warning contraption began to lose its urgency, and a minute later it had stopped altogether. Selina wondered if it was too late, whether the Blackeye would comprehend it as being an artificial sound, whether the recording would now be taken back and analysed by some sound engineer in the depths of the nearest government building.

She wondered if this was the life the villagers lead, constantly on tenterhooks, wondering if they had been heard or seen by a regime hungry to take everything they had once owned. On arriving she had been dumbfounded that they had lasted a century without being discovered, but now she could barely believe that they chose to endure it.

At last the gloom lifted as the Blackeye withdrew. They both waited for a moment, and then Priya checked the window and closed the small partition before lightly stepping to the kitchen and drawing the curtain in there also. She returned by the skirting boards, where the floorboards creaked the least, and waited until they could bare their voiceless anticipation no longer. It was Selina who spoke first, her voice timid and barely audible.

'Do you think it saw me?' she said.

Priya blew her fringe. 'God, Sel... It was close. That green laser lit your hair as you dropped out of sight, but I don't know if it was enough.'

'But it didn't shoot off like you said it would. There's a chance it didn't see me, right?'

Priya said nothing, but looked troubled. After a while she said, 'If they have to hide themselves away with the stress of those things finding them day in day out its no wonder we got such a frosty welcome.' She sighed deeply. 'It'd be unfortunate, wouldn't it? If we got this place discovered after a month.'

Selina swallowed, she didn't think unfortunate was a word that bestowed the sentiment of gravitas she would feel if it were she who revealed Mortehoe after its hundred year seclusion. Repulsive, was more apt. Disastrous! Monstrous even. But not unfortunate.

There they remained until cramp forced them to move. Slowly they abandoned whispered tones, and after a half hour of uneventful waiting Selina opened the curtains. She caught Semilion disappearing behind a fence before he re-emerged and turned toward the house. He looked about nervously, and walked brusquely until he was at the door.

She opened the window and was about to call to him, but he saw her and waved her back inside angrily.

'Never shout out when those things are around!' He spat when he was inside. He looked tired, his eyes bloodshot and rimmed with shadows.

'I'm sorry, I wasn't thinking,' she said, deciding not to tell him about their close encounter. She hoped Priya would think the same.

'What in God's name happened?' he said, running his hand over his smooth pate. 'It was at your window for near five minutes!'

'We don't know,' Priya said, stepping into the room, 'but it didn't see anything, we were upstairs.'

He scrutinised them for a moment and Selina considered then, as Priya absent-mindedly reclined on the sofa and brushed away grit from the soles of her feet, that she was a dangerously convincing liar.

'You're sure it didn't see you? I had my binoculars, I was watching all the while and I swear it took a sudden interest in something that was in this very room.'

Priya pulled a face and shrugged. 'We were upstairs,'

He scoured the room for some explanation, and exhaled when nothing struck his imagination. 'Well, I don't know. I could have sworn... Perhaps a mouse scurried across the floorboards, I've seen Blackeyes chase after no end of rabbits and seagull.' he let the words hang in the air, as though they deserved approval.

'Maybe,' Selina offered, and he seemed appeased.

'What a morning,' he sighed. 'It's been over in Woolacombe for nearly three hours.'

'That'll be why the thing on the window died then,' Priya remarked, gesturing toward it.

'It's a bright day, it'll charge up soon enough.' He turned back to Selina. 'Well, as I'm here I may as well show you down to the mill.'

*

The morning was fresh, and already the sun was warming the streets. Semilion and Selina strolled passed the Smuggler's Rest and beyond the church, down the steep hill she remembered swearing she would never climb again for fear of cardiac arrest. At the foot of the hill, they veered off the road and into a steep field that transformed to a sea-grass beach at its foot.

'So I live in Richard Kelly's house,' Selina asked as casually as possible.

'That's right,' Semilion replied.

'Was he an old man?'

'Not particularly.'

'How did he die?'

'Heart attack.'

Selina rolled her eyes, Semilion was obviously the wrong person to ask about Kelly.

'Eryn seems quiet recently.' She said, changing tack.

He gave a grunt in response.

'She's a nice girl.'

Again he made no reply.

'She doesn't leave the pub much, does she?'

'Listen, Selina!' He said sharply, before sighing and continuing. 'I know you and Priya spoke with Eryn. I know she told you about her punishment. It's the way things work here.'

'It's medieval!'

'It's the only way to keep people in line is what it is. Especially children.'

'I don't agree. She's hardly a child.'

'It works here, Selina. It's the way we do things. You can't change that.'

'I don't want to change anything. I just don't like the thought of Eryn being beaten!'

'She stole from Guliven. Thieves are punished! Dammit, at least I did her the decency of not announcing their crime. That would have been unjust, branding them for the rest of their lives.'

'They only borrowed from his father.' She said, her palms open as she reduced their crime to a triviality.

'Neither of them owned that dinghy, if they had wrecked it Guliven would have been a vessel down and the community would have suffered. Now please, Selina, Eryn is almost at the end of her confinement... by the new moon she will be allowed to return to her usual routine.'

'And what about Boen? Priya and I have never even met him.'

'He's fine. He's being kept busy with his mother. When Guliven returns Boen will continue his routine of bringing in the fish. Most importantly, he's being kept away from my daughter. God knows what they were doing together in the first place.'

'Maybe they enjoy each other's company?'

'As you already said, you haven't met Boen. Eryn's not interested in him.'

'And yet they were caught together.' Selina added, goading him. He didn't look comfortable with the thought, but he said nothing more.

The walk seemed a long one, though Semilion reassured her it was only because she wasn't used to it. They continued down a steep embankment, the grass gave way to flaking rocks that protruded like bones breaking skin. Thick thorny bushes shielded the dusty path from the air, bathing them in a myriad of sun-white rays that pierced the branches above.

They arrived at an artificial recess, an alcove cut into the base of the cliff. Before them was forged a narrow entrance, jagged and obscured by ivy beyond which, Semilion assured, was the mill.

They passed through the ivy into the darkness of the crevice and came to an empty antechamber. Selina was bemused, watching as Semilion took hold of what appeared to be a huge growth of moss and pulled. The camouflaged door wheezed on its hinges lazily and the antechamber glowed in the light of flames beyond.

The mill was similar to a lighthouse, though subterranean and lit by several thin windows high above the creaking rafters. The structure looked strong and ancient, and drapes of spiders webs wafted lazily above them. Behind two layers of small mullioned windows glowed a furnace on the second storey, which soaked the complex in comforting warmth, and made the cobwebs glitter dustily. Behind the glass she could make out the shape of George donning thick gloves and piling the furnace with thick logs and lumps of coal.

Semilion saw her staring. 'You'll lose George at the weekend, he brings back coal from the Woolacombe mines. You'll be up there in the furnace room then.'

In the centre of the ground floor was a circular stone block, white with wheat powder. The wooden floor, also, was stained between the grain with dust, which sparkled in the radiance of the furnace.

'How do they get away with having a fire down here?'

'There's a conduit that draws the smoke into moss filters underwater. It's quite simple really, though I'll tell you now - God knows Morag and Hannah will tell you often enough - never go into the furnace room with both partitioning windows open at the same time.'

She nod distantly and wiped her brow, almost overcome by the heat. She didn't want to know what it was like in the furnace room. Semilion saw and smiled thinly. 'Well, it'll keep you fit at least,' he said, apologising for placing her in such laborious employment. She returned a stilted smirk before her attention was drawn to Morag, who leant over a high railing and gave a yelp when she noticed them.

She was a plump woman, though Selina could tell she was strong and by the look of her thick legs had been traversing the embankment and the countless stairs and ladders of the mill her entire life. Her blue eyes gleamed, as though she had borrowed them from an over-awed child, and her hair was tied tightly in a bun. Selina couldn't tell if it was the flour or her age that had turned it grey.

Morag clapped her hands together, sending a cloud of wispy dust around her like a current about an oar, and she hopped down the spiralling staircase to greet them.

'Morning Mr. Tupper,' she said smiling, and then she looked Selina up and down. 'We've not had the pleasure, have we dear. We'll have to work on those arms,' she winked, and thrust a large dusty hand towards her.

Selina took hold of it and was surprised how gently Morag received her. She'd expected her fingers to be crushed.

There was a commotion high above. Morag dropped Selina's hand, and made her way back up the stairs to the flames.

'Hold on. Hold on will you, Han?'

'What's going on?' Said a shrill voice from above, where the rafters blocked Selina's view. 'Where are you, Morry? This stuff ain't exactly light, you hen!'

'Enough of that!' Morag shouted, 'Mr. Tupper's here with the new-girl so's as we can have some much needed help,'

'Oh... Hello Mr. Tupper. Good morning, Selina, dear.'

'Morning, Hannah,' She stopped just behind Morag and looked up to a mezzanine opposite the third storey. Hannah peered over the bannister, her long brown hair trailing towards them, hiding her face.

Morag turned to Selina, saying 'I've been trying to get her to tie that back for years now. Will she do it? Will she 'eck! Doesn't mind you see,' she turned to Hannah 'people finding strands of it in their pastry!'

'Oh! That was just the once, you crow!'

'Crow am I? You wait!' She bent, and took a handful of flour from a sack, 'See what you make of this!'

'Mr. Tupper, make her stop! It's an incredible waste!' Hannah cried as Morag neared the ladder which lead to the mezzanine.

Selina turned to Semilion, who was stepping back towards the door, washing his hands of the affair. He saluted a farewell as he stepped back into the antechamber.

Selina turned back to the millers, Morag had desisted from climbing the ladder, and was creating another cloud of powder as she wiped her hands together and looked happy for the mess she was making.

'Well,' she said, palms open, 'this is the mill. The Sayers and Corbins provide the wheat and we make the bread. Who provides the wheat?'

'The Sayers and the Corbins?' Selina replied cautiously.

'Blow me if Mr. Tupper hasn't sent us a regular savant! We'll make a miller of you in no time, once we've beefed up those arms of yours.'

She gestured Selina back downstairs to the centre of the mill and gave her a brief tour. 'There's no better teacher than experience, let me tell you. I'll show you about for as long as I can, then I'll put you straight to work. We're way behind, what with that Blackeye snooping around, but never mind, there's not much we can do about the past, eh? You'll pick things up quick enough, I certainly did - an' I'm sure I ain't got 'alf the brains what you 'as, going to a proper school an' all,'

Selina looked modest, and listened to how the mill was run.

'Six rotations per minute,' Morag explained, as though Selina had a clue what she was talking about. 'The water-wheel, it's underneath the building - fuelled by seawater... it turns at six rotations per minute. The gearing from the waterwheel to the shaft driving the running grindstone,' she indicated the huge cylindrical stone hovering above the one below it, 'is about thirteen rotations to one. So...'

'So when the waterwheel has rotated six times,' Selina concluded, 'the grindstone has turned eighty,'

'That's my girl,' she leaned close to her, 'Hannah still doesn't understand that, bless her.'

Selina learned how to feed wheat into the grindstone and how to keep the stones from touching. 'Never,' Morag warned, 'ever let the stones touch, the friction could start a fire and - what with all this dust around - it'll blow us to kingdom come before we can curse your name!'

She learned how to collect the powder, how to store it, how to keep it fresh and make it into dough. She felt as though it would be taxing work, though already she liked Morag and Hannah, and looked forward to becoming regarded as a member of their family.

*

Priya arrived at a large building the colour of browned cheese and lined with broken windows.

'So this is where they teach the kids,' she sighed to herself, regarding it as being in no better a state of repair than her own school. She had been cursing Semilion since his visit, and had debated with Selina whether she could refuse to work in the crèche. She would rather do anything than spend her hours listening to screaming and having her clothes pulled at. Selina had asked her to not cause a fuss and to at least try, promising that if she didn't like it after a week or two they would ask Semilion if he would consider swapping their rolls. Priya didn't fancy working in the mill much either, though she would definitely prefer it over the crèche.

She stepped up the worn stairs and was presented with a surprisingly clean hall, painted white and lined with rows of old books. She was greeted by two women called Rosa and Briney. Both of whom, to Priya, looked as though they wore masks of cheer to cover empty, exasperated husks.

The crèche actually served as both a nursery for toddlers and a school for the older children, a thin hessian veil separating the two. It wasn't uncommon for a school child to be called across the partition to help with a particularly raucous infant of the crèche, and how they learnt anything with all the crying and brawling Priya thought she would never know.

She was charged with looking after seven girls, all under the age of five, and for the first hour they were placid and pleasant with her, though one of the girls, Edith, had a tendency to bite the others ears. She put her former hesitancy aside and began to enjoy herself as the girls sewed beanbags and other toys of irrelevance.

She listened to what was being taught across the partition, and was somewhat surprised to hear that history was being taught. What need have they of that? She thought.

'So why did anyone trust the Germans after the second war?' A girl asked, Priya didn't recognise the voice.

'Because they were all supposed to be friends,' Jocelyn answered. 'The Europeans wanted to trust them; they didn't want to believe that they would start a war a third time.'

'So then why did they?'

'It's complicated, and to understand it fully you have to understand their economy. That's not for me to teach you. They believed they should be stronger because they were such a big nation, but they were stopped from being strong by the other countries in Europe. So they decided to take some control away from Brussels, where all the decisions were being made for them, and a war broke out between Europe. It was nothing like the first two wars, no-one wanted anything like that again... Everyone began to fear that maybe Germans couldn't help themselves, maybe they had war in their hearts.'

'So they bombed them!' Someone interrupted before imitating an explosion.

'Not the people, Harvey. Not the cities. They bombed the Bundestag building, which was where their government was.

Priya had been listening with an interest bordering on disbelief. She couldn't help herself pulling back the partition and interrupting the class.

'You do know that's all bunkum, don't you?'

'It's not,' Jocelyn replied defiantly, though with a touch of doubt in her voice. She went to one of the bookshelves and ran her fingers along the spines. She pulled out a small blue book and held it up. 'It says so right here.'

She offered it to Priya, though Priya didn't need to see it. She had read it in school herself, though it had been as part of her English literature studies, not history.

She took the book anyway, more for the sake of politeness, and studied the battered cover, which hung loosely and revealed warped cardboard beneath.

'See?' Priya offered the book back, turning it over. 'Down by the barcode it should read 'fiction' but it's been worn off. This is a fictional history of the twenty-first century as it may have unfolded without the Trade Centre Wars. It's written by Marlon Vespir, one of the greatest science fiction writers of the early 22nd century. You must have other books by him?'

'Oh God,' Jocelyn went pale. 'You're joking?'

Priya raised her brow and shook her head. 'Sorry. I know this book inside out. Didn't you wonder about all the mentions of mining on Mars by the end of the century.'

'I've been teaching that for years.' Jocelyn said quietly, appalled.

'That we went to Mars?'

She said nothing and slowly nodded.

'Does Semilion know?'

'I... I don't know.' She moved closer to Priya so the children couldn't hear. 'I think he suspects something. I hear him talking to my students sometimes with a look on his face like they're, you know, simple.'

'And everything you teach them comes from this book?'

'Not everything. I always wondered why the fall of Germany wasn't in any other history books, but I never really considered it.'

'Start considering it.'

'I'm not really sure how to get out of this one, Priya.'

'Just tell them it's a thought experiment. Make them write some alternate histories of their own. As for former students, you should take them aside one by one and let them know there was no brink of world war three, there was no mining industry on Mars, in fact you can be sure that nothing in that book actually happened.'

'Would you take a lesson for me?'

Priya blinked in surprise. 'A lesson? No. No way.'

'You must know more than me though.'

'Probably, but I don't see why I should...'

'Please, Priya, just tell them anything you know until I work out what I'm going to teach them.'

'You mean right now?'

Jocelyn regarded her hopefully.

'I've got these girls to look after, Jocelyn. Maybe another day but I can't just drop everything and do it.'

Jocelyn nodded, though looked distant. She pulled her sleeves over her hands and hugged herself before turning back to her class.

'That,' she said so that the children in the back of the class looked up, 'Is what we call a... Thought experiment?' She turned to Priya who prompted her with a nod. 'Which means that what I just told you didn't happen... But someone imagined that it happened. Can anyone else tell me something that didn't happen... Like yesterday morning when the sun didn't rise we all had to spend the day writing by candlelight. Anyone else have another?'

A ginger haired boy raised his hand. 'When you said I hit Sally you smacked my legs.'

'No, that did happen. Yesterday.'

'I mean I didn't hit Sally, she made it up because she's a sow-bag!'

'We're not going through that again, Tarn.' She turned back to Priya. 'I don't think they're getting it.'

I'm not surprised, Priya thought, and gestured for her to keep an eye on her girls. She stood and negotiated the sheet dividing the room, and rubbed her hands together in a guise of excitement.

'Right. Who knows the story of King Kong, the giant ape of New York?'

The children looked at her blankly.

'Ok, how about something more recent. The Oubliette Fields? The Revenge of Wolfhounds?'

All their hands shot up. She wasn't surprised that their suggested reading was books that focused on the ravages of the plague.

'Right, now you all know the part whereby the Egyptian scientists conspire to create a virus to avenge the deaths of their friends?'

The children nodded uncertainly, and Jocelyn watched cautiously.

'Well in real life that never happened. You see, when you write something that isn't true it's called fiction. When you lie it's a fiction.'

'So fiction is bad?' One of the children asked.

'Lying is bad; fiction is something that storytellers use to explore ideas.' Priya explained, trying to muster a fitting explanation. 'I could imagine a story right now to explore how some children escaped a Blackeye that catches them down on the beach. That doesn't mean it has happened or will happen, though it explores ideas how to escape a Blackeye if it did. So, take your... board things, and write a story about something that didn't happen. Something wonderful, or scary, or funny...' She shrugged and turned back to Jocelyn.

'That was great, Priya. Thank you.'

'Don't mention it.' She ducked back through the partition, thinking her job looking after under-fives was better, at least, than Jocelyn's.

*

Selina returned home in the evening exhausted, but she also felt good in herself. She had helped the community in some small way, kept it going just that little bit longer. She was covered from head to foot in flour, her face paler than ever, and she spent most of the steep journey home brushing grain and dust from her hair and clothes.

She met Ted Corbin as she passed by the derelict church. He was calling for Breaker and asked her if she had seen him.

'Little blighter's probably raced off after a rabbit or some such. Good day in the mill? Looks like you've been hard at it.'

'It's a shock to the system but I had fun. Morag and Hannah are... a pair!'

'They certainly are!' He said merrily, before waving her goodbye and calling for Breaker once again.

As she neared Channel View, thankful to be home, she saw Priya returning from the other end of the village. She waited for her at the bottom of the garden kicking a small stone about her feet. As Priya neared, Selina waved and said jovially, 'Good day at work?'

'I hate being around children!' Priya scowled, her blonde hair tangled.

The smile dropped from Selina's face. 'Why? What happened?'

'That Lord of the Manor, Tupper, that's what's happened,'

'What's he done?'

'Given me a job in the crèche is what he's done!'

'And?'

'Oh...' Priya looked as though she could burst into countless reasons, bullet-pointed and revised throughout the day, though she sighed a long breath and her protestations disappeared with it. She looked deflated and distressed. Surely she hadn't taken to heart something one of her new colleagues had said? No, it wasn't like Priya to take things personally.

'They've got their priorities sorted, I'll give them that...' Priya said, 'when a child's out of line they punish them.'

'Did anything interesting happen?'

'Oh, Nothing really. Except one of the little darlings threw their breakfast all over me as soon as I arrived.'

'Why'd they do that?'

'I mean she threw up on me!'

'Oh, gross...'

'Hmm, oh, and take a look at this.' She rummaged in her pocket and withdrew a crumpled sheet of paper. 'A sweet little girl called Edith drew a picture of me...'

'Ah, bless,' she took the sheet and put her fingers to her lips.

'Don't laugh,' Priya said, snatching it back. 'Tell me I don't really have the body of a hippo.'

Selina couldn't help but shrug in mock uncertainty. Priya rolled her eyes and they walked toward the house, ducking beneath the tangled weeds that veiled it.

Though they had been in Mortehoe for little over a month, Selina felt, after a long days labour, that she was slowly becoming part of the community. She closed the door on the day behind her. She thought of their first day after being shipwrecked, the rotting mattress and the ghostly wind in the rafters. It was a distant memory now, and her day in the mill created a sensation of it being the first day all over again, one she felt proud of.

If only her fear of the dark would subside, and the dead of the Tangaroa would leave her in peace.
Chapter Twenty.

South-easterly wind.

Nine knots.

The evening was a fine one, and the last coral rays of the day lit the dust within the Corbin's home into an ethereal haze.

Dawn paced the room with William in her arms. He'd been ill for over a week and had grown increasingly sallow each day.

Amber, the village midwife, visited the house several times daily, and talked comfortingly whilst burning herbs in the hearth and wafting smoke over William, filling the house with a sickly sweet aroma.

'It's what my mother did for me when I was younger,' she replied when Dawn complained about the smell, which after a time had become almost unbearable. 'She burned heather and rose... filled the house with lavender if I was poorly. It smelt like stink for a while, but it did me the world of good.'

Dawn was tired, and her eyes were deep as furrows. She hadn't eaten for days, and her sleep was stolen for fear of waking up and finding William gone. 'I don't like to think of him in pain.' She said. 'He coughs and mews when you waft that smoke over him. He doesn't like it.'

'It's the badness inside him what doesn't like it.' Amber said. 'That's what my mother told me, anyhow... Said a cold is like a spirit, gets inside you where it's warm, and doesn't want to come out no more. You'll see.'

William blinked and clutched for Dawn with his tiny fingers. She sat quickly and fed him.

'See? He's coming 'round and he wants his ma's milk. There's a good boy.'

He drank until Dawn's nipple was sore, but she smiled and cried and thanked Amber, and asked her to fetch more sea-grass and heather and fill the house with as much smoke as she could.

'You're going to be well,' Dawn said to the mass of blankets at her breast when Amber had gone. Her smile was bright yet teetering, tears rolled down to her lips and she tasted the salt. 'You're going to be fine...'

From outside she heard her husband laugh, and Dawn looked across the room to where a bright column of smoke blazed upon the wooden floor. The vapours in the room swirled in the beam, and with her free hand she wafted it closer to her.

'We thought the house was burning down!' Reighn said, a smile on his face.

'Really? Amber said...'

'I'm teasing, dear. I know, I've just seen her. She says young William's feeling better. And how are you?'

'We're going to be well.'

Reighn stroked Dawn's hair and looked in awe at his son; his little fighter. Dawn rest her face in his open palm. He felt the wetness of her cheek in his dry hand, and pulled her close.

*

'You're not going to serve me that, are you?' Tinder said as Semilion poured cider from a demijohn.

'Sorry?' Semilion said, blinking and looking at what he was doing. Thick gloop was hanging from the rim of the jar, plopping into Tinder's cup.

'Look at the state of it. There's enough grot in there to shame Betty's earholes.'

'I heard that, you black-hearted cow-son!' Betty looked up and scathed, mid-conversation.

Tinder turned and doffed his cap before turning back to Semilion, who had placed the demijohn on the floor and was hauling a second to the bar. 'Sorry, Tinder. I wasn't paying attention.'

'You alright, boy? You've been out at sea for weeks.'

'I know,' he pinched his brow. 'I don't know... Things have just been strained since Kelly died.'

'Aye, you can say that again. Guliven has it under control though, doesn't he? He went back and forth with Kelly more times than I can remember, and Sean's as able as Kelly and Guliven put together.' He hesitated for a moment as he took a draught. 'I only ask myself why you chose Guliven as Runner over Sean.'

'I need Sean for other work.' Semilion replied flatly, taking a bottle of ale and sliding it to Baron, who opened it and handed it to George.

'Oh? Other work... Work at sea?' Tinder asked, retrieving a pouch of tobacco.

'I need to speak with him about it before I make it public. You understand?

'Course I do. Better mention it to him quick though, he was upset to have not been chosen as Runner.'

'He didn't say anything.'

'You know Sean. He wouldn't bother anyone even if his head was hanging by a thread.'

Semilion snorted in agreement.

Priya stepped into the bar and brushed down her short cow-hide jacket. Dark spots of rain dotted the fabric, and Tinder got to his feet.

'Raining hard?' He asked anxiously.

'Just spitting. Looks like it'll be pouring in a few minutes though. I can't believe it, there wasn't a cloud in the sky half an hour ago.'

Tinder abandoned his cider and bade them farewell, muttering about his wife.

'What did he say?' Priya asked as she placed her hands on the bar.

'Something about Kit battering him if he doesn't get the washing in.' He took a breath and composed himself. 'What can I get for you?'

'I'll have some of your speciality, please.'

Semilion took a bottle of plum wine and poured a large cup. 'How's your day been?'

'In the crèche? Wondrous!' The sarcasm was as thick as the dregs of the cider. 'God knows why you put me to work in there.'

Semilion smirked. He had given her the job in the crèche because he thought she needed her pedestal destabilised, and he felt as though it was doing the job perfectly. When she had first arrived in the community it seemed as though she had never worked a full day in her life, now she bore the air of someone who knew what it meant to sleep for the grace of labour.

'You know, actually, it's good you're here tonight. I wanted to ask you something. Well, tell you something and ask you something.'

'I'm doubly intrigued.' Semilion looked at her stonily. 'Go on.'

She leant forward, her arms crossed on the bar. 'It's about the codes you've been working on.'

'I've not been working on codes!' He said, trying his best to look indignant, though instead he simply looked as though he was curious how she knew.

'Not according to the titles of the books on your desk. It was pretty bloody obvious.'

'So what is it you wanted to tell me?' He moved to the far end of the bar, away from Baron. Priya followed.

'Remember when we first arrived and you asked us about our former lives? When I told you about my parents? Well, I kind of lied.'

'Kind of?'

'I said they had nothing to do with any insurgent groups in Bahrain. Well, the thing is, they were. Nothing directly. I mean, they had nothing to do with the bombings, but the authorities still held them accountable as accessories because they were go-betweens. They used to pass messages between the rebel groups, and they were always conversing with this group or that in one secret language or another.' She raised her cup to her lips and looked at him seductively. 'I guess that's why I'm so good at being sneaky.'

'So what really happened to them?'

'The rest of what I told you was true. They were caught and locked up. Look, the reason I'm bringing this up is that I hate working in the crèche and whatever it is you're working on is driving you insane.' Semilion made to protest but she rolled her eyes. 'Look at the size of that vein on your temple! It's pulsing like an obese leech.'

He raised his hand and touched the vein, wondering if anyone else had seen it. Tinder had already noticed he wasn't concentrating, and had commented that he had been distant for weeks, Sarah had noticed also.

'I'm good at code-breaking,' she said, quashing his refusals before he could even voice them. 'Come on. What's the worst that could happen?'

He laughed. 'Now there's a provocation for God. What's the worst that could happen? You could translate it wrong and...'

'Then I'll show you all my workings!' She replied, exasperated. 'I'll write down my notes and show exactly how I came to my conclusions. God, Semilion. Give me something worthwhile to do.'

'The crèche is worthwhile. There's nothing more worthwhile that looking after our next generation.'

Priya sighed. 'I know. I didn't mean that. I'm just not the motherly type, you know?'

Selina burst into the bar, soaking wet from the storm. Rain lashed against the window and a cold draught stirred Priya's clothes, making her shiver. She stepped to the door and closed it.

'Where the hell did that come from?' Selina asked. 'There were blue skies a minute ago!'

'Get used to it,' George chuckled, winking at Baron conspiratorially and stepping towards her, 'plenty more of that in the months coming.'

'Come on, sit over here,' Priya said, leading Selina to a seat near a solar lamp. George joined them and placed the lamp closer to her. It didn't give off much warmth but it was better than nothing.

Semilion threw a bunting towel toward them and Selina disappeared beneath it, thrashing her hair below the thick material. She reappeared, red faced, and puffed exasperatedly.

'Remind me to not leave home without one of those awful wax jackets.'

Semilion appeared with a large tankard of mulled wine and handed it to Selina. 'It's not as warm as you'd like, but...'

'It's great, thank you.' Selina smiled, and raised the mug to her lips. It smelled bitterly and the spices almost burned her throat.

'I think maybe you should get out of those clothes and dry yourself properly.' George offered earnestly, though Selina rolled her eyes and shook her head with a sigh.

'Is that the best you've got?' She snorted.

'I hear more intelligently suave propositions at the crèche.' Priya smirked.

'She could catch cold!' George protested.

Selina sneezed and George's eyes widened proudly at the seeming confirmation of his diagnosis.

'Priya,' Semilion said. He beckoned her to the bar and she followed.

'I'd be grateful for any help you might be able to shed on what I'm working on. You're right... I can't continue with everything I have to do as well as working on this throughout the night. I have to ask you to keep it quiet, though. I can't have you telling Selina about it when you're drunk, or mentioning it in the crèche to fill the silence when it's quiet.'

'Jesus.' She laughed. 'Quiet? I take it you've never been to the crèche before.' She held up her hands to ward off Semilion's look of earnestness. 'I get it, really I do. Don't worry, I can keep a secret, especially an important one.'

'God, Priya.' He shook his head slowly. 'I've not known anything more important in a long time.'
Chapter Twenty-One.

Stone Hill.

The land was showing the first signs of autumn. The trees were grudgingly shedding the first of their yellowing leaves to the wind, scattering them amongst the gutters and alleys of Stone Hill Garrison.

Tranter had never seen a border before, not outside of photographs and theatre news-reels. Even having worked in the field he had never seen one first hand, having either travelled by night or come to land via the sea.

Now that he saw one with his own eyes it brought his heart to his mouth. It was simply enormous.

He watched it, dumbfounded. How any nation could have afforded the construction of the thing was a miracle. Even without the troubles of the economy and the lack of capital it seemed unimaginable that there could ever have been a large enough workforce to complete the job within a thousand years. And yet there it was, spanning the entire horizon and reaching a hundred feet – a hundred and fifty at some points - from the wasteland below into the forget-me-not sky.

Eighty-seven point six million tonnes of concrete and iron rose out of the land in the form of an inverted triangular prism. Broader at its peak to hinder ascent and fortified with barbed wires and pikes, it was near impossible to cross, regardless of the surveillance points. Set in a grid formation at an interval of twenty feet were dark globes containing motion-sensitive cameras. Over the decades their casings had faded for the elements, though ninety per cent of them - according to the latest statistics - were still in operation. They each reflected a single point of light like a tarantula lying in wait of prey, and gave the concrete mass an eerie animation; a cold and indifferent gaze, as that of a lidless corpse.

His attention was drawn to a series of squat concrete buildings over a half mile from the camp. Orange lights were pulsing atop their roofs, the same that signalled curfew in Birmingham. These lights, however, warned of a craft approaching on a wide arc from the south. A Rhinox. Elephantine and ugly, with a hold the size of a cathedral, it was a sextuple-rotored helicopter designed to lift tanks and armoured vehicles into remote locations. He watched its course, lethargic and graceful, the giant craft wrenched at the earth beneath, so tremendous was its downstream, leaving a ploughed furrow in its wake.

The panes of the window began to vibrate as the Rhinox approached. Even at such a distance they could cause damage, and had been used, unofficially, to fly over enemy camps to decimate them. Prohibited from flying within a mile of populated dwellings, they were only ever discernible on the horizon of Birmingham. Seeing one so close now was nearly as great an experience as witnessing the border. The craft slowed as it neared the jumble of low buildings, enveloped by a cloud of churned soil and dust before disappearing.

For the duration of the week he and Toubec had attended meetings regarding a sweep of Mortehoe using troops rather than Dark Lens', as whomever was residing in the area had become adept at hiding from them. They had been met by resilience from every quarter: the expense of the operation, the lack of equipment, the lack of topographical information, there seemed to be little in the entire arsenal of the military that could make possible a forty-five mile journey across empty countryside. Even the possibility of a helicopter fly-by of Mortehoe was met with grimaces, rubbed chins and pouts.

He had fought the argument before, years ago in Imaging when he had seen the woman on the screen in the corner of his eye. He had raged at his superior and been offered the same withdrawn expressions and half-hearted excuses. He wondered if history was repeating itself and thought of Stumm. Was Toubec going to receive a bullet to the temple? He could live with that, he thought.

The infantry of the garrison were cold and unhelpful, Tranter considered as the two of them sat alone in the mess hall, the only other being a serviceman sitting alone in the corner some way from them. Tranter had regarded him with suspicion for a while, but the mans constant checking of his watch and his kit bag stuffed beside his feet acted as evidence he were waiting to leave the place.

Not only had the infantry ignored them the duration of their stay, the officers - vital to the arrangement of their operation, were impossible to find, or otherwise continually laying obstructions in their way. He mentioned his thoughts to Toubec, and though she would have been hard pushed to deny it, she reminded him that the staff were following correct protocol, and that it was he who was asking questions he had no business asking.

'Questioning them about their operations!' She admonished him. 'What were you thinking?'

'I wanted to know if they carried out their own work beyond the border. I can't think of any other reason why they don't want us over there.' He had taken her to the window and shown her tyre marks leading beyond the perimeter gate and across the bridge of the no-man's land channel. She regarded the muddy streaks for a moment; obviously he had touched a nerve by noticing it before her. She had no explanation for it; there was no reason for the military to head out beyond the border and into the quarantine zone.

The news on the InterRail had reported that the Ministry of Custody was implementing several-thousand jobs to manufacture helicopters, and over the weeks he had overheard numerous conversations that lead him believe that the finances were coming, almost exclusively, from Stone Hill.

'What on earth are they doing across there?' She said, laying her fingers against the glass. He noticed the lack of acidity that usually accompanied her questions.

'And how can they afford to fund construction of Rhinox when they can't afford to use them to cross the border? He turned back to the lone infantryman. He was obviously listening to their conversation. Toubec followed his gaze and lowered her voice.

She turned to him and raised her brow. 'They make out that they can't afford to open the gates to get through after all the cuts, and yet those tracks are fresh. Even I can see that. Rained on Monday didn't it?'

'Started on Sunday evening.'

She turned back to the border and inspected the tracks. 'You're right,' she said, more to herself than to Tranter. 'They are being difficult.' She was silent for a moment and he watched her crows-feet deepen as she became lost in thought.

'I need to make a call,' she said, leaving greasy fingerprints on the glass as she left.

'Who...? He started to say, though she had gone.

*

Michael Bowson watched the steam of the kettle rustle the flaking kitchen wallpaper. He waited until it whistled and flipped the switch, then poured it into a mug whilst stirring in a thick black caffeinated syrup. The viscous product clung to the spoon as he stirred until the heat dissolved it. Veins of crimson amber swirled until it was a deep, unified mauve.

'Still drinking that crap?'

Michael turned, somewhat startled. Few people came to the office on Sundays. It was Ashard Brindle, the firm's accountant. While he muttered a simple 'Uh, yeah,' he recalled Ashard telling someone he'd be in over the weekend to settle some things.

'My wife tells me there are a thousand different chemicals in this, what's it called?' He picked the tin up and inspected the label, 'Arabica Blend, and five hundred of them give cancer to rats.'

'If that were true and we could prove it,' Michael raised a brow, 'then this Solicitors would be made.'

'That's true. I don't know what she thinks she knows about it anyway, she's a mechanic over at the Co-Operative. Probably read it in a pamphlet.'

Ashard replaced the tin and retrieved another, before spooning a red gel into another cup.

'Can't believe I have to come in today. You know how much Richards spent this month?' He asked, pouring water over his cup and dousing the work-surface. 'God knows what he's been up to but I've got to cook the books so much I'll...'

'You'll what?' Michael laughed. 'Come on, what's the analogy?'

'I was going to say 'I'll have to take the batteries out of the fire alarms'.'

'That is weak, Ash. Even by your standards.'

They both grinned while Ashard dabbed at the work-surface with a dish cloth. 'You got much on today?' He asked eventually.

'Just keeping on top of things. And I've no heating or water at home.'

'One of the perks of having a job, huh? Get to enjoy luxuries such as drinking water.'

A dull trill sounded from outside the kitchen and Michael instinctively scooped up his drink and moved toward it.

'Drink later?' Ashard called as Michael hastened his pace down a grey corridor to his office.

'Come find me around five.' He shouted back, kicking his door closed and spilling his drink as he snatched the phone from the hook and jabbed the 'talk' stub with the earpiece.

'Bowson.'

'Michael?' Toubec sounded distant, as though she were fighting to be heard over an avalanche.

'Sally! Christ, it's been ages. I was worrying about you.'

'I wrote you, didn't you get it?'

He laughed, she couldn't have seen the news reports of the Union Mail Service strikes. 'No, and you're not likely to get anything here soon. The strikes are worse than ever.'

'I thought it might happen, but... Well, we don't have much coverage of news here.'

'Can you talk about what you're doing?'

'Michael? What did you say? The line is terrible.'

'I asked whether you can talk about what you're doing.' He lifted his steaming drink and sipped, recoiling from the heat.

'I'm not doing anything. I'm stuck here with a complete dolt...' She sighed. 'That's not fair. He's not a complete dolt, but I just don't... Did I tell you why he was demoted?'

'Constantly. I think you told me again instead of saying 'goodbye'.'

She laughed. 'No I didn't. 'But Michael, it's just so frustrating. We're not getting any help this end. They're playing the card that they don't have the resources to get us across the border. We sit in conference after conference, TeleLinking other garrisons to see what they can do, and guess what? They can't help either. And yet... And this is the joke, it's rumoured here that its Stone HPill funding this new Rhinox manufacture initiative. They can pay for two hundred bloody helicopters to be made, and generate seven-thousand new jobs, but can't afford a sodding sweep of a village fifty miles away.'

'They're not just helicopters, are they.'

'That's not the point though, is it?'

'I guess. Anyway, how are you coping?'

'Depends who you ask. I'm ok. Look, Michael, I've got something to ask.'

'Go on,' he sat down and grabbed a pen, 'I'm listening.'

'No one here will speak to us. The higher ranks are stonewalling us behind a facade of assistance, and the privates have obviously been told to keep their distance. I need you to find someone who's served here, someone whose...' Her voice was overwhelmed by an echoing crackle.

'Sally? The lines gone again. Are you still there?'

He waited for a few moments until the crackling was replaced by a pulsing dial-tone, and then set the receiver slowly into the headset.

'Find someone who's served at Stone Hill.' He said to himself.

He knew exactly where to start. The one place outside of a garrison you were always likely to find a former squaddie or two.

Prison.

*

Tranter stared from the mess hall window, waiting for Toubec to return. Across the garrison infantrymen went about their business, several stepped from barracks toward the communication tower, two more had pulled up in a carrier and were stepping out, laughing over some matter. An officer stepped in their path and they stood to attention as he casually saluted and continued. They were all acting normally and yet, he thought, there was something in the air that was ubiquitously secretive.

'"A set of lies agreed upon."' He said to himself, his breath fogging the glass.

'Sorry, sir?' Said the young private whom had previously been secreted in the shadows. He had left them and advanced toward Tranter when Toubec had departed.

'Nothing, just quoting Bonaparte.' Tranter replied, turning.

'"History,"' the young soldier mulled. '"Nothing but a set of lies agreed upon." That's right, isn't it?' He joined Tranter at the window.

'Something along those lines.'

'I think 'lies' may be a strong word, don't you?' He said after hesitating. 'There are many perspectives relating to why anything happens, and yet we take only one viewpoint and label it 'the truth'.'

Tranter noted the kit bag at his feet. 'Going on leave, are you?'

'I'm being transferred to Southampton.'

'Really! I was under the impression there was no form of transport capable of such vast distances.'

The young officer snorted with a smirk, then chose his words carefully. 'I shouldn't be saying this, sir, but you're fighting a losing battle with Colonel Matloff. Whatever power you think you have over him from the government, he has more.'

'What happens across the border, private...?' Tranter said bluntly, extending his hand.

'Private anonymous.' He said earnestly. 'Don't think I'm going to turn my back on my staff sergeant and my company. They've been good to me here.' He swallowed, and Tranter read the body language of a young man uncomfortable with his lot. Was that why he was being transferred? 'I'll be gone in under an hour, but... It shouldn't be allowed, sir. I wanted no part in it anymore.'

'Something happens across there, right? Something contrary to the iCDO treaty? Is it related to the manufacture of biological weapons?'

The private almost looked affronted. 'You like quotes, sir?' He replied, looking over his shoulder. 'How about this: "Secret operations are essential in war; an army relies on them to make its every move."'

'Who said that?' Tranter said as the answer struck him. 'Sun Tzu? You're well-read for a...'

'Tarsier?' The young man replied, referencing the large-eyed mammals the military were named after for the gas masks they wore. He turned to the border. 'I requested to be transferred here because I'd not seen one before. A border, I mean. You see them all the time in photos, but they're not the same, are they?'

'No, they're not.'

'I hadn't counted on it being so difficult to apply for the post here. It seemed that everyone wanted a commission, and I simply put it down to the fact that Stone Hill was popular amongst servicemen for the prestige of guarding one of the Great Borders.' He hesitated a moment, lowering his voice. 'The harder it was to be transferred here the more I started hearing things that made me realise that this border alone, this garrison alone, was a place of... Well, a place of benefits.'

'What kind of benefits?'

An infantryman stepped into the mess hall. He nodded toward them casually, and then continued on his way, paying them no attention.

'Just head down to building B3 and turn right, sir,' the anonymous private said to Tranter suddenly, picking up his kit bag and exiting the hall. 'You'll find someone who can wire your message down there.'

'Wait,' Tranter said, 'I need...'

'They can help you down there, sir, I must catch my InterRail.' He said, as the door swung to reveal Toubec. She turned to look at the flustered infantryman.

'What the hell was that about?'

'We need to talk,' he said, directing her to a table farthest from the door.

'An understatement.'

'Where did you go? Who did you call?'

'I had an idea, that's all. It might be nothing but... Well, the phone line is terrible, I can't make any outgoing calls. What were you and the private talking about?'

He told her what had been said and she mulled on it for a while. 'It made me think,' she said finally, 'when we first arrived, Matloff's office was too... luxurious. That leather chair he was sitting in would have set him back half a year's wage, it must be two hundred years old at least. And the rumours that Stone Hill alone is funding the manufacture of Rhinox, what does that say?'

'So they're receiving money to do something?'

'It's feasible... But,'

'What?'

'We're not detectives, Tranter. If there's something untoward here we need to inform the authorities.'

'We will, but not from the garrison. We have to get across the border and find out what's happening in Mortehoe. We need to find this virus and contain it before it's replicated or makes its way into the populace. That's our priority, not the corruption here.'

'And if it's related?'

He looked at her squarely for a moment. If the virus was related to the military then the private's words of secret operations were all but a confession. 'If that virus is militarised,' he was sick at the thought, and could think of nothing but clichés to turn to. God help us all was forefront in his mind, though he left the sentence hanging as he recalled something he had seen on their journey to the garrison.

'Regardless,' Toubec said, wrenching him from his thoughts. 'Until then we need to keep on pushing Matloff for some kind of concession. When all's said and done we have to get out there. It's as simple as that.' She looked up at him and frowned. 'What is it?'

'Nothing.' Tranter replied distantly. He couldn't shake the feeling that there was something staring him in the face about the whole situation. Something he had heard, or seen, on the InterRail.

Something important.
Chapter Twenty-Two.

South-easterly wind.

Eight knots.

The first weeks of the crèche were wearying for Priya, though somewhat tempering. She had grown to like Rosa and Briney - she learned that they were content women with reserves of cheer greater than she had ever known, and quickly changed the opinion she formerly had of them, their happiness wasn't a mask veiling exasperation, they truly did enjoy their lot.

The children wore her to the bone, especially Edith's ear-biting fetish, and while they drove her to distraction and covered her in glues, doughs and bodily excretions, she found herself thinking of them fondly after hours, and bored Selina by regaling her with anecdotes of their doings.

She would find herself falling to sleep and comparing her new life with that of her old one. The last three years had been insane, she thought to herself as sleep coaxed her, and no one in the world could have predicted this outcome.

Who would have ever guessed I'd be looking after children? She would think, reminding herself of former associates. They would never believe it. Priya with children? Never, they would say. She's too hard. Devoid of all emotion. She lives in the now and doesn't think of the future.

It was true, and she had always known it. She had lived for her career and striven for her family, had taken the life out of life and had wound up in the sea almost drowned.

She had often idled with the idea of starting her own family, though only to disregard the thought as inappropriate. It wasn't that she didn't feel the urge for a child, she felt the tug at her stomach that reminded her almost daily she was equipped for such a thing, but she would put the thoughts to the back of her mind and harden.

The crèche was somewhat of a spanner in the mechanics of that process. She found the sensation in her stomach spreading into her chest when she just sat and watched the children. She was able to resist it and push it back down at will, though the fact it was there at all bothered her. She didn't want children. Especially in Mortehoe. Who would be her suitor?

'One of the Briar twins? George Porter? Sean Colt?' Rosa and Briney would present her with potential matches for her to consistently scoff at. They would laugh at all her reasons for dismissing them all. Too narcissistic, too short, shoulders too broad, nostrils too hairy, she could find anything to criticise and enflame out of proportion to justify their being unfit for purpose.

She knew they were running out of options and jested with them to not even search the bottom of the barrel by offering her Semilion or, heaven forfend, Baron.

'Good strong lad, is Baron.' Rosa said, perplexed. 'Whatever's wrong with him?'

Priya shared a look with Briney and they both started laughing.

'What?' Rosa demanded.

'Oh, Rosa,' Briney replied, 'have you ever spoken to him?'

'Not exactly. I've been served by him.'

'He's a tool-box minus the tools!'

'Tool is the right word.' Priya added.

'He's nice enough to me!' Rosa said indignantly, and ended the conversation.

'In all seriousness,' Briney said, holding one of the boys tight as he tried to thump another, 'why don't you try and get yourself a bit more involved? It would make your transition here more comfortable. You spend so much time with Selina, you drink with her, you go home with her... people will start to talk.'

It was said with a smirk but Priya wondered if anything had been said before. It came to her mind that she and Selina flirted with one another in the Smuggler's Rest, but it was just for fun. Maybe it wasn't taken that way by the villagers. Maybe they thought that she and Selina were lesbians!

'Oh God,' she laughed to herself, thinking of when she and Selina had drank long into the night. 'I'm sorry honey,' she had said as Betty looked on, unimpressed, 'I'm a giver not a taker.' Had Betty put it about that she and Selina were lovers?

She smiled and shook her head at the notion.

'Briney, do people talk already? Do they say that Selina and me are, you know? Together?'

Briney flushed. 'Well, some do. Maybe. I don't know.'

Priya took a piece of chalk from Edith's mouth and told her to behave. 'Come on, Bri, I think you do.'

'It's just that you're from the outside, you know? Everything's so bright and dazzling out there in the old-world. Women from your world are together like it's natural.'

'It is natural.' Priya replied defensively, though she didn't know why. 'I mean, I'm not defending it, but there's nothing wrong with it, if that's what people choose to do.'

Briney wrinkled her nose. 'Don't. It's not right. My view is if animals don't do it then it isn't natural.'

'Eat off the floor, do you?' Priya said angrily. 'Shit out in the open?'

'Priya!'

'This place is so backwards. The old-world might have gone to shit but at least we held on to some enlightened views.'

Briney looked blankly at her, then sighed and let her be.

*

The morning had been long and dreary in the mill, and the grey world outside had offered them little light to work by.

Selina had been manning the grindstone, pouring wheat into the grind hole, manoeuvring the lever to lower the stone, grinding the wheat and filling sacks with the resulting flour. It was hard work, though not as hard as hauling the sacks up the ladders to the higher platforms where they were safe from the scrutinising of mice and rats.

Morag and Hannah carried sacks between them to the second tier, then George would continue with them to the third, where they would be locked inside a secure vault.

It was lunchtime, and the four of them groaned a sigh of relief and stretched their backs – gathering outside the furnace room while George boiled hot water and made them all cups of spiced ginger.

'Sixteen more bag-fulls, I reckon,' Hannah said, leaning over the railings and watching the grindstone turn slowly below.

Selina sighed and nodded, too tired to say anything. She crouched on the floor, her back aching as though she had spent the morning carrying rocks.

George emerged with steaming cups for Hannah and Morag, and then another for Selina and himself.

'You've got grease on your cheek.' He said to Selina, who wiped at it with her cuff. 'No, the other one.'

She rubbed the other cheek, though only managed to smear the grease further across her face.

'There's a mirror around somewhere. Only a shard, but....' He stopped as Hannah leaned forward, spitting on her sleeve and rubbing Selina's face like an overbearing mother.

'That reminds me. I saw someone up by the mirror last night. Just before sunset.' He said.

'Who'd be going up there?' Morag asked, 'No-ones used it for years.' She sipped from her drink and flinched from its heat. 'Ow!'

'Semilion goes up there sometimes. So does Bill. Just to check on it.'

'I think Bill goes up there because it reminds him of his brother.' Hannah offered.

'And his pa.' Morag concluded.

'What is the mirror?' Selina asked as Hannah finished with her and returned to her drink.

'It's a great big lens that looks into the sky.' George said animatedly. 'You should see it. I'll take you up there.'

'I remember you offered me that a while back.'

'You're a dirty blighter, George.' Morag said, shaking her head. 'Why don't you just ask if you can hump her?'

'What?' He choked on his drink.

'That's not your game?' Morag turned to Selina. 'Let me know if he takes you up there and doesn't try it on. I'd be amazed. I'd regain my faith in humanity.'

Selina coloured, though couldn't help but laugh at George's evident embarrassment. She found herself liking George the more she got to know him. She detested his inability to conceal his desire for half the women in the village, and his apparent need for approval. She'd learned he did this by putting others down to bolster himself. It wasn't malicious, she had come to realise, he was just terribly insecure.

She didn't know why. He was handsome in a plain and stoic kind of way, and working in the mill in the furnace room had resulted in broad shoulders and the kind of arms a wrestler would be proud of.

'I didn't mean that, honestly.' He said. 'It's really amazing. We should go up there the next time it's a clear night.'

'Oh, he's good.' Morag bayed.

'Wants to take you up there at night!' Hannah teased.

George sighed in mock exasperation and shrugged. 'Well, I'll take you up there if you like, that's all I'm saying.'

Morag chuckled, then turned to Selina. 'Maybe you should go. Of all the things in the community the mirror is probably the most outstanding.'

'Ok,' Selina said, turning to George, 'I'd like to see it.'

He waited until she looked away before turning to Morag and winking.

*

'So it's invisible, whatever's coming from the south?' Priya asked after Semilion had told her of Camberwell's broadcast and the subsequent patrols that had surveyed the area.

'Invisible, or there's a message in the transcript that I'm just not seeing.'

'And the boys you sent out saw nothing on their patrols?'

He told her of the advancing plumes of purple smoke, the fires that raged through the fields, the Blackeye activity over Exmoor and the lights pulsing on the wall.

'The lights might have just been a test.' Priya said. 'I've seen it before when I was in Bahrain. They test them every now and again to make sure they're still working. The Blackeye activity? I heard someone say they use Exmoor during Blackeye trials... that's right, isn't it? And the purple smoke in the south... where did you say it was? Exmouth?' She sighed and thought of the damage the purple agent had done over the years. 'That's Crenatin Four. Its use is illegal, though I'm sure that doesn't matter this side of the border.'

'So once you eliminate all those as being threats, what are we left with?'

'A big fucking mystery, that's what.' Priya ran her fingers through her hair, perplexed.

'Very poetic.'

'And true. What does the council say?'

Semilion rubbed the back of his neck and moved over to the radio transceiver.

'And that coy reaction means you haven't told them?' She snorted. 'What did you tell me? That you don't receive any privileges in your little dictatorship? What would happen if Betty didn't bother mentioning she'd seen something whilst on sentry?'

'It's not the...'

'You'd berate her, wouldn't you? And you'd make a show of it so everyone saw and learnt a lesson from it. Just take what you did to Eryn for taking a boat out for a few hours. You punished her for a month!' She looked at him angrily before swallowing her ire. 'There's some kind of threat here,' she swept her hand over the pile of books on the table, 'and you haven't told anyone. Why not?'

'Sarah knows...' he said. He wanted to tell her about Red, for her to understand why it wasn't as easy as she supposed.

'Oh, as long as your wife knows I suppose it's ok.'

The solar lamp on the table flickered, and Semilion retrieved a fully charged one, placing it beside the old. The books upon the table glowed brightly in the clear white glare.

'I didn't bring you down here to scold me like a child, Priya. You said you knew something about codes. That's all.'

She stared at him for a moment and then shook her head in despair. She hated his little republic, his community princedom where he ruled and others followed. She learnt every day of some new standard that seemed unjust, immoral, or medieval, and all done for the 'sake of the community', their freedom's shackled to ease the governor's neuroticism. She sat down before the table and looked at the notes Semilion had made, resigned to the fact that a puzzle might occupy her mind whilst working in the crèche. Maybe she would crack it and he would give her a job solving more... If there were more to solve.

The page was awash with scrawls and scribbles, notes to check book pages and as-of-yet unread volumes waiting on shelves. The original transcript was nearly indecipherable.

'First of all, I need you to write down the broadcast as you heard it, minus all this... nonsense. I can't work on it if I have to contend with your interpretation as well. If I come up with the same answers then all well and good but I don't want your translation colouring mine.'

He took the page from her, produced a clean one, and began filling it with a small neat script.

'Who taught you to write?' She asked casually.

'My teacher, of course. Jocelyn Sayer's father, Dalton.' he replied after a moment, before continuing with his duplicate. 'He was killed in an accident a long time ago...' He said a few moments later, hesitating in his writing as he remembered the carnage.

Priya watched him attentively. For a moment she imagined an amalgamation of circumstances that had coalesced to form the apprehensive man before her, though it was fleeting. As he started writing again she returned to considering him an unfit, poorly qualified dictator.

Twenty minutes later he was finished, and he handed the page back to her.

'That's everything? As it was recorded?'

'That's everything.'

'Ok, you can leave me now.'

'What?'

'I can't concentrate with you standing over me waiting for answers.' Her fingers scooted him away as though he was an irritating dog. 'Get some sleep or something, go and make Eryn's life miserable, do whatever it is you do, but do it somewhere other than here.'

'It's the middle of the night...'

'I'll let myself out when I start to doze off.'

She turned to the table and opened the first book of ciphers, tapping her pen on her teeth as she studied the text.

Semilion watched her for a few moments, anxious to be leaving the job for someone else, and yet content to have fresh eyes working on it. He had been drudging through it for weeks and had made almost no progress. If she proved to be of any use he might take her out of the crèche and offer her a more strategic purpose.

He took the first step slowly, before asking if she needed a drink, but she was already lost in the books, and didn't hear him when he repeated himself. Already she was making deft notes and flipping through pages as though she would have the task completed before he reached the top of the stairs.

*

The mist clung to the land for longer each day. Dreary dawns and spectral sunsets glowed eerily on the horizon, and already Selina was wishing for the first twitch of spring to touch the ghostly hills.

She was content with her routine and the part she played in the continuation of the community, and the rut of everyday life, a life that became standard and dull, erased all thought of the crumpled letter penned by Richard Kelly. Whatever it had been about was lost for fatigue and daily humdrum, and was only remembered - and even then only vaguely - when she saw Eryn and the torment behind her eyes.

The loss of her father still touched her; he knew she had been boarding an immigrant haul and with her lack of contact he would presume her killed by the U.N.. That was the hardest notion to bear.

She wished to tell her father that she was well and lay, night after night, willing the words into his mind yet knowing it was futile.

They were difficult thoughts to cope with alone, and she had initially turned to Priya for support - none in the village could identify with the totality of loss as she could. The villagers had always been there for one another and, apart from the occasional death, knew little of abandonment, despondency and loneliness, not to mention the loss of identity both she and Priya had experienced. They were no longer daughters or cousins, or members of their former social standing. To those who had loved them in the outside world they were nothing but an assortment of evanescent memories.

Priya proved to be quite the listener, and never refrained from lending an ear when Selina felt low; they would talk deep into the night, and Priya would listen intently, and tell her not to worry, that the life they had found was a better one even if it came with conditions. The words were flat on Priya's lips, however. She didn't believe a word of it.

Selina had heard her leave the house countless times in the middle of the night. She probed the village, Selina supposed, looking for means of escape, before returning close to dawn. On the days following her nightly excursions she was always sullen, as though she had expected to have found some promised transport to whisk her away and yet it had never come. On those days Selina didn't speak of her father, her cousin, or the life they had left behind. She waited until Priya had grown bright again before unloading her fears. It was only on those days that Priya spoke of their new life being a better one – regardless of how cold her words were.

It was a better life, Selina would concede. A quieter life - a life less stressful. The only torment the people had to concern themselves with was the fear that it might end.

She sat on a crest of rocks by Ted's dilapidated lighthouse at Bull Point, watching a mist rolling down from the cliffs.

She felt eyes on her and turned, Ted was standing in a high window of the lighthouse. He nodded at her and disappeared and it sent a shiver down her. He had been acting strangely since the disappearance of Breaker.

The villagers supposed the poor dog had been sniffing around the cliffs and fallen, though Ted was convinced something untoward had happened to him. 'He hasn't never gone missing before,' he would remind at the beginning of an evening, before raising his voice to little more than blunt accusations when the drink had taken hold of his inhibition.

She couldn't imagine anyone in the village doing anything malicious to Breaker, she thought as she watched the misty impression of South Wales on the horizon. The dog still reminded her of the one's she had seen in old newsreels, violent and seemingly the cause of the world's suffering, though she had grown to accept him as harmless.

Ted had spent long hours convincing her to stroke him behind the ears, to run her hands through his fur, but she couldn't do it. And when Breaker had once licked her forearm – gooseflesh rippling along her skin at the thought – she had jumped up and almost burst into tears.

Ted had laughed then and coaxed her back into her chair. Poor Ted, she thought. He didn't laugh any more.

She heard dry mud crunching behind her and neglected to turn. She had grown accustomed to Priya's quiet footsteps.

'Hi, Sel,' Priya said, putting her hand on Selina's shoulder before aping her position, her knees drawn to her breast.

'How are things?' Selina asked, still looking out to the channel.

Priya sighed, 'Fine, I suppose. I'm missing my life,'

Selina smiled, and wiped away a strand of hair that had blown across her eyes, 'It's a better life here,' she reminded Priya, leaning over and nudging her playfully.

Priya nodded, and Selina thought she saw her smile also, though it was short lived.

'What's up?'

'I don't know. I don't just say that it's a better life here to comfort you. I truly believe it. It's just... It's obvious we're going to feel bitter, or lost, away from everything we've grown up around. I've spent my life moving around, and now I'm stuck here.'

'A bird in a cage...' Selina mused.

'A mouse in a mousetrap.' Priya corrected.

'It'll change. Over time, won't it?' It was a question that didn't need answering.

'I know,' Priya said quietly, 'I just wish I could forget everything up to the day we met,' She looked at Selina, who couldn't meet her gaze. Whether she meant the day they had arrived at Mortehoe or specifically when they had met, Selina didn't know. After a moment of silence, the wind whipping their hair, Selina felt Priya's gaze returning to the sea.

'How long do you think they can keep this charade up?' Selina said, changing the subject.

'Not much longer, I don't know how they haven't been caught already. They're not exactly masters of elusion, are they?'

'What do you mean? They're strict about keeping their curtains drawn at night and banning smoke during the day. They have those underground stables and the mill! The mill alone is a feat of technological subterfuge in itself.'

Priya shrugged, 'Let's hope the powers that be don't think of inspecting the place with any degree of scrutiny.' She moved closer to Selina and leant against her for warmth. 'They keep on saying they've got plans and preparations for such a time but, well... I'm not convinced.'

Selina gave her a long hug and stood. She offered her hand for Priya to follow, but she said she'd like to sit and think for a little while longer. 'I'll meet you in the Smuggler's for a drink later?'

'See you then,' Selina said as she walked away.

She thought about what Priya had said, and flushed to think of the words "I just wish I could forget everything up to the day we met." It was a rare lapse into sentimentality, and for a moment Selina felt as though Priya needed her. Together they had been shipwreck survivors, had been companions for months, the closest of friends, and yet those few words, placed at the end a million others spoken over the course of their friendship, made concrete for the first time a bond that had never once been voiced. She felt silly and young, like a teenager drunk on freedom, and she bloomed inside as she made her way to the pub.

Jocelyn Sayer passed her on the way, bright in a long red woollen dress. She looked fresh and was surging with happiness, and several children from her class followed her happily.

'Baron asked me out last night,' she said, trying to contain a smirk. The children burst into giggles. She explained that the two of them were going to have a candlelit meal on the roof of the pub, and that she and the children were off to Fuscia Wood to pick flowers for her hair.

At that moment Selina heard her name being called. Her ears pricked, not quite certain where the voice had come from. It was Semilion.

Jocelyn turned, looking back the way they had come. He had rounded the corner and was waving to them. 'Looks as though Mr. Tupper needs you.'

Selina rolled her eyes before heading onwards, her pace quickened until she and Semilion were a few yards from one another.

Breathing hard, he wiped his bald head and said, 'Selina, it's Hannah and Morag, they've been asking for you. There's a problem at the mill. The God-damned thing's about to collapse in on itself!'
Chapter Twenty-Three.

South-easterly wind.

Seven knots.

Samantha Waesenbach lay a tankard of water beside Boen's bed. He stared at the ceiling, his left eye lifeless and red.

'Here you are, darling,' she said quietly. Boen remained silent. 'It's a nice day out, seems as though the summer's trying to hold on for a few more weeks.' She spoke as though he was fully reciprocating the conversation, though apart from his tensing when she had entered the room, it seemed as though he hardly noticed she were there.

It had been the same every day since his father had pushed him to the floor and kicked him to unconsciousness.

He had woken with pain searing through him, dew and blood on his face, his ribs and cheek fractured, and a fierce burning in his left eye. His father had left in the boat that he and Eryn had stolen; ordered away by Semilion while his mother and sister fussed over him and dabbed him with ointments and pastes.

Boen had screamed to be left alone, his former drunkenness having all but escaped him, and he was hauled up to the bedroom where someone sedated him before leaving him to hug himself to sleep. He woke again on a different day, the sun on the wall denoting it were morning, and he found himself swathed in bandages and braced with splints. There was nothing to do but dwell on imaginings whilst his bones healed and his hatred subsided.

He spent the long days imagining Eryn sitting beside him, comforting him and her ghostly impression simply being there to pass the time in silence. He conversed with her about their night on Lundy and the stupidity of it, at one point they laughed so hard that he had tears in his eyes and his ribs jarred, reminding him that he was injured. He lay motionless after that, his tears changing to that of frustration.

His sister, Arabella, was the only person he would speak to. She came in the afternoons with a thick soup and pleaded with him to not take out his anger on their mother.

'She don't know what to do about him. You know he's always been like it and Semilion don't see any wrong in it.'

'She let him do it,' Boen said bluntly, though he knew that if he hadn't received the blows, or if his mother had tried to pull Guliven away, then she would have absorbed them instead.

Everyone was so weak, he considered. His father for succumbing to drink and anger, his mother for cowering in the face of his temper, even himself for allowing it to happen. He found the imaginary Eryn cooing that he had been taken unawares, that his father had crept up on him from behind and pushed him to the floor before he had a chance to react, but he knew in his heart that the result would have been the same however much notice he'd have received. It would simply have been more humiliating to have cowered from him and be punished for being a wimp and a jellyfish, as his father so often liked to call him. The incidents had happened for as long as he could remember. His first memory, although he never knew the cause of the happening, was of his mother crying in another room, her repressed moans turning to screams. He hadn't seen either of them, but knew without doubt - for all the times it had happened in the intervening years, that his father must have been drinking heavily and taken any or all of his myriad frustrations out upon her.

It had become a way of life in the household, and though it felt as though it had culminated in his being bedridden, blinded in one eye and riddled with fractured bones, his month of constant thought lit an understanding that his life was a long way from culminating in anything. He had an opportunity to change things. He wouldn't allow himself to look back on his life in decades to come and see nothing but a string of abuse and maltreatment. A torrent had been released in his mind. Like a seed pressed by a rock, the beginning had been tough, but now he had grasped a view of light and was focused on nothing but reaching for it. He considered he should be thanking his father for blinding him. He had never seen more clearly.

*

Eryn's grounding had come to an end, and her routine of weekly bottle collecting had been grudgingly returned to her.

She stopped at the foot of the Waeshenbach property and laid her sack of bottles in the grass. She was forbidden to step on the land beyond the gateway, and Samantha had dropped their empty bottles and jars unceremoniously in the road for her to collect. She looked up to Boen's room blankly, wishing she could do something other than stare, and then she crouched and slowly began picking them up.

Her brother had delighted in telling her that Boen's head had been caved in, that he was crippled and would spend the rest of his life in his bed. She knew he was teasing her grossly, but the stillness of Boen's bedroom window, the lifelessness of the entire house, made her feel as though there were truth in his words.

She clutched her skirts tightly and thought of what she had caused. All for her wish to find out what had happened to Richard Kelly, whom she was thinking of increasingly less. His grave was now riddled with weeds and would soon be the same as any other in the churchyard. Her memories of him were dampened by the blows she had received and the devastation she had caused by her curiosity. Such a strange thing, she considered, to have felt such passion for Kelly when he was so much older than she. Such a strange thing, to have caused such disruption for a dead man, to get Boen into so much trouble on a whim and a fancy.

She still had the papers she had stolen from the Marisco Tavern, hidden beneath a board at the bottom of her wardrobe. She had looked at them countless times throughout her incarceration, had hoped that she might find some use in them, for Boen's sake if nothing else, some piece of information that might at least help her understand more the life of Lundy. She had given up on the hope that they served as any kind of clue, they were nothing but sketches of birds, bank details and pages of numbers. It were as though the leaves of several ornithography, calculus and memoir folios had been scattered and gathered haphazardly. They were an irrelevant riddle to her, too detached from her life to be related to one another, and so she looked less and less at the pages of numbers, then less at the pages of correspondence, until finally she only looked at the leaves upon which were drawn birds, and only then because they were pictures of birds, and less because she were attempting to unlock a mystery that had consumed her so completely the previous month.

Her mother had tried to coax from her what she had been doing with Boen. Why had she suddenly been spending so much time with him? She had never shown an interest before. Why had she risked damaging one of Guliven's boats? Why had she jeopardised the safety of the village?

To these questions Eryn had no other answer than to shrug and say that she didn't know. She had felt emboldened by breaking from Mortehoe's chains and crossing the starry sea to Lundy, yet that emancipation had been thrashed out of her by her father's belt. It had also served to install the very same questions in her mind that her mother now pressed her with. Why had she done it? Why?

When she had worn the very meaning of 'I don't know' to the bone, she withdrew to mere shrugs, an act that did little to sate the increasing frustration of her mother who's volatile, highly strung temperament had been a source of much whispered conversation amongst the village since time immemorial, never more so on evenings when she could be heard admonishing Eryn. The still of the village would be broken by sudden flares of piercing exclamation, and all in earshot would share looks and pull faces.

Poor Eryn, they thought. Poor girl, they said, and yet no-one went to her aid or even pretended they had heard a thing. When her mother returned to the bar with a bright smile and a joke on her lips, everyone reciprocated the smile and laughed at the revelry. That was as it had always been, they thought. You can't change things that have always been.

Eryn stood, wrestled the bag of bottles over her shoulder, and remained looking towards Boen's window for a few moments in the hope there would be some kind of movement from within. A twitching shadow. A glare of light, anything.

Her thoughts were distracted by the sound of George and Seb on the road beyond the hill. They were singing Kelly's Song, named so because it had been he who had sung it first after a run to Ballycotton.

On hearing the tune she was struck by the memory of first hearing it as though smacked in the cheek. Kelly had sat at the bar and ordered everyone to be quiet, then exclaimed he had brought something home more valuable than the petty novelties they always pestered him for. At the time she had been shocked by his words, and soaked up the exasperated faces about the room. He had sung an old Irish song, ruined by his drunkenness and forgetfulness and yet, over the years, people had taken to it, one of the few outside songs to be cherished by the villagers.

The old winds of home call me back East, my boys,

There'll be feasting on Geese when I'm there, when at home,

Where the sun meets the dawn with a song and a call,

Back East, back East, hear them all calling me home.

Kelly's Song, it became known as, it had been sung at his funeral and would forever draw fond memories of him from the recesses of everyone's minds. Yet Eryn, on hearing it, turned away from it and hastened home, harried.

A month ago she would have waited for George and flirted with him nonchalantly on his arrival, let him give her a piggy-back home and squeeze him overly so as to make sure he noticed. She would have done anything to gain his attention under a weft of indifference. She would play all the games the chemicals in her body provoked her to play, and yet now she wanted nothing more than to remain unnoticed. She felt labelled a freak for consorting with Boen, for consorting secretly with him in the early hours, and would do anything to shed the weight of people's eyes and gossip.

The words of Kelly's Song behind her stopped abruptly, and she heard George call her name. She quickened her pace, as much as the weight of the bottles would allow, and instinctively she turned to see George and Seb trundling wheelbarrows laden with sacks. They shared confused frowns as she hastened away. They were perplexed by her retreating from them, and yet to her it was conformation that all in the village considered her as nothing more than a monstrous anomaly.

*

'What the hell was that about?' George said, staring after Eryn. 'Didn't she realise it was us?'

Seb shrugged and carried on singing Kelly's Song, then said, 'You've seen how she's been since last month... right up her own miff. She gets weirder every day, hardly talks to anyone now.'

'Hmm. Baron don't say what's up, either. Says it's something to do with Boen...' He nodded over to the Waeshenbach household as they neared it.

'You don't reckon the two of them was rutting, do you?'

George laughed. 'What? Are you joking? Of course not.' He looked after her, though she had already gone. What had she been doing with him that had got her into so much trouble?

'What then?' Seb prodded. 'Come to think of it I ain't seen him much either. When did you last see him?'

'I don't know. I'm sure I've seen him around.'

They both looked up at the residence as they passed by. It seemed cold and uninhabited, though they thought little of it.

'I've got to head down to the Hotel.' George said. 'The stuff in the sack on the left is for them.'

'No problem. I'll come with you.'

'George looked at him sardonically. 'Right. And they're going to let you in because?'

Seb smirked and said it was worth a try, then waved him adieu and said they would speak later in the Smuggler's.

George followed a left fork in the road that lead to the overgrown and crumbling Esplanade. The hotel had been built on a low plateau, and from his vantage he could only see the skeletonised slate rooftop, worn away by a century of exposure to the northerly winter storms.

The exterior of the Edwardian hotel still looked grand, even for the erosion that had started to pick at the sandy walls long before The Great Pathogen. The mouldy rendering had fallen away in large clumps over the years, revealing waterlogged brickwork beneath. Nearly all the windows had been blown out in one storm or another, and as he walked past the side of the three-storey building he saw the empty indoor pool, replete with cracked tiles and thick trailers of ivy. There was something about that pool that always sent a shiver up his spine, it was supposed to be a place for people to frolic and play, and yet there was nothing he knew of that looked more melancholy.

He looked down to Woolacombe Beach and saw the dead bodies of the Tangaroa that hadn't been drawn back out to sea. Silt covered them as though they had been dragged into the sand and turned to stone. George looked away, the combination of the deserted hotel and the bodies almost overwhelming.

He negotiated the wheelbarrow around a pile of fallen brickwork, and unlocked a rusting gate before unloading the barrow on the floor and heading inside, one of the sacks dragging through the debris at his feet. The building had been made to look uninhabited; the windows were grey with water-spray and dust, birds nested in the furnishings and coated everything in droppings and feathers. The walls had long lost whatever colour they had last been painted, and the parts that were wallpapered bulged and split while the plaster beneath crumbled.

All around the hotel fell into disrepair, until George stepped into what had once been a kitchen and opened a door leading to the cellar.

'It's just me,' he shouted down the stairs before him.

Ruben Halifax's old and unhappy face appeared at the foot of the stairs. 'It's just George.' He muttered before disappearing.

George heaved the sack of tools on to his back and struggled down the stairs.

'The Cadens asked if they can have these back by the end of next week.' He groaned as he offloaded the sack on to the floor at Ruben's feet. The cellars were completely different to the upstairs rooms. A lot of the Dekeyrel's money had been spent on equipment to carry out the renovations needed to house a laboratory beneath the hotel. A network of passages had been carved into the stone below ground, where now three separate, hermetically sealed laboratories stood with their own filtered air and tissue culture facilities. George had seen it all, though only once, and had been stunned by what he had seen. It had been like stepping into one of the science fantasies of the future that they had read in school.

White walls, conditioned air, thick-glass panels, biohazard suits, it felt as though future-men had come to live in their poor community to observe them. Yet he knew it wasn't the villagers who were under observation, but the cultures of virus that nestled in petri dishes within incubators.

Ruben looked across the room to three other people, who regarded each other with an air of superiority. Two of them were descendants of the Dekeyrel's, Phillip and Helena, they were both straight backed and serious-looking, and held a certain respected celebrity amongst those of the village. It had, after all, been their descendent who had fled to Mortehoe with the specific objective to cut it off from the rest of the world. They rarely ventured out into the village, preferring rather to stay in the rooms above ground that had been specially enclosed to withstand the dilapidation of the rest of the hotel.

The third was a young woman by the name of Christina Camberwell. Of the three she was the most pleasing to George, who couldn't help but give her an elusive wink and smirk as he entered the room. She smiled back, though turned and left almost immediately, having work to do with her brother in one of the laboratories.

'The Cadens can have them back when we're good and ready.' Ruben said, scratching the roots of his long, ginger ponytail.

'Well, you're not the only people who need this equipment.' George said casually, trying not to get into an argument with Ruben. He liked coming to the hotel, but it was nearly impossible not to leave frustrated by their pomposity.

'We're not the only ones who keep the old-world at bay, you mean?'

'I mean you're not the only ones who need this equipment. And you're not the only ones this equipment serves. If no-one else needed it then it would be kept here and I wouldn't have to haul it three miles in a wheelbarrow when anybody asked.'

'Fair enough,' Philip said, stepping between them and heaving the sack up to his shoulder. 'We'll be finished with it by Friday, no later.'

'What's up with Christina?' George gestured to the door she had left through. 'She's normally a bit more chatty than that.'

'She's just a bit worried about her pa. We've not had any communication with him for a long time, and neither has Semilion.'

'What do you reckon's happened?'

'Most likely something to do with his equipment.'

'What do you need this lot for?' George asked, nodding at the bag of tools. 'Need any help with anything?'

'Nothing really, one of the conditioners needs looking at. We've been thinking about repairing one of the old units for a time and thought it was as good a time as any to do it.'

Ruben looked down his bulbous nose at George. 'So, what's happening out there?'

'Nothing much,' George shrugged. 'The new girls have been given jobs in the mill and the crèche. Semilion had Baron and me go on a patrol in the south which was a complete waste of time. Oh, and Semilion finally gave up any hope of restoring the pool table and chopped it up for firewood. Eryn and Boen have both been shut-ins for a while, they did something together but no-one knows what.

'But the two new girls aren't being suspicious?' Ruben asked. 'When we doled out the vaccinations I didn't much like the look of that blonde one.'

'Priya?' George said incredulously. 'You didn't like the look of Priya? She's beautiful.'

'It's the beautiful ones you've got to look out for.' Ruben sneered. 'Blind you with their looks so you don't see what they're really up to.'

'Blimey, who stung you in the past?' George laughed uncertainly.

Ruben muttered under his breath, snatched the bag from Phillip and left the room. The door closed slowly, and when it clicked shut he looked expectantly at Phillip and Helena.

'He was stung, by Morag.' Helena said, making sure Ruben wasn't coming back.

'Morag? As in Morag Cornish? The miller?'

'Aye. She might not look it after a life in the darkness of that mill but she used to be a lovely young woman. Wasn't she, Phil?'

Philip sighed wistfully. 'She was. I was quite young when she was in her, what? Thirties? I could have only been ten years old but I do remember she caught all the men's eyes.'

'What happened then? With old Ruben?'

'She wasn't interested.' Helena said. 'She only had eyes for one other and it wasn't Ruben.'

'Who was it?' George asked. He had never heard of her being with anyone in the village. Maybe it was someone he didn't know so well in Woolacombe.

'Hannah.'

'Hmm?'

'Hannah.'

'What about her?'

'It was Hannah.'

'What was Hannah?'

'George, will you please understand before one of us dies? Morag was in love,' she lowered her voice, 'with Hannah.'

'Hannah? Hannah from the mill? Hannah and Morag are...'

'Alright, keep it to yourself, will you?' Phillip said, checking the small window of the door to make sure Ruben hadn't decided to return.

'How the hell do you know about this when you spend your lives down here? How come I didn't know anything about it when I spend my days either talking to people in the community or actually working with Hannah and Morag!'

'I suppose you're just a bit dense, George.' Helena said, brusquely. 'Now promise you're not going to say anything. Those two women went through enough hardship when the villagers found out. They don't deserve it to happen again just for the sake of your loose tongue.'

'I won't say anything, I promise.' He wondered who he would tell first. Selina, he thought, he had to tell Selina. She would definitely want to spend time with him if she thought he were a harbinger of juicy gossip.
Chapter Twenty-Four.

South-easterly wind.

Six knots.

The antechamber door to the mill had been left ajar, and from within the large room Selina could hear Hannah and Morag chattering worriedly.

'Oh, Selina,' Hannah said, her face white, as always, with flour.

'Selina, thank heavens you've come, there's been a bit of a drama!'

Asking what was wrong, the building answered with a juddering tremor, dust glittering from the rafters, and Morag explained anxiously that something was stuck in the waterwheel below the mill, most probably a length of driftwood, or some other kind of debris. It had clogged the gears of the millstone, and had shaken the very building, sending dust and empty bird nests from the rafters before the stone shuddered to a halt.

Selina asked why they had called for her, and Hannah, wide-eyed said, 'You're a stick! Look at you! We didn't want to bother the men, they'll think we can't keep safe our station... Though we had to tell Semi otherwise he'd have tried to make our lives a misery.'

'Being as thin as you are,' Morag continued, 'we thought it best if you tried first, you know... to crawl into the shafts below, and remove whatever it is.'

'You're joking of course. I've seen down in those shafts. They're dirtier than Betty's arseh...' She stopped herself. She'd been in their company too long, she thought.

They lead her to a rusty sheet of iron that, when removed, opened into a dark passageway, the sound of rushing water was distant in the blackness below.

She considered chimney sweeps of old who became stuck in flues and suffocated alone in the dark. She mentioned her thoughts sarcastically, but they told her they had never heard of such nonsense, thrusting a solar lantern into her palm.

Hands on her back, they ushered her toward the opening, saying they had lost an hour of the day already, and that she must hurry. Whatever was down there was playing merry havoc with the structure. Selina squeezed into the tight space and descended into the gloom, aware that Priya might consider herself lucky to only have to contend with children's vomit.

Once in the confines of the passage, she was overcome by a macabre sensation that the women would return the iron sheet and leave her there as a joke. She feared she would panic and imagine drowned bodies in the darkness ready to pull her down into the depths. Her heart fluttered at the thought, in the quivering light of the narrow tunnel such thoughts seemed all too real, that dwelling on them for a time might make such things tangible. She called for them to stay by the opening, and to talk to her constantly so that she might stay calm. Hannah replied that they would, a little perplexed by her anxiety, and the two of them began a conversation about nothing in particular.

She came to a junction, one conduit veered horizontally into blackness, and the other continued downward toward the sound of violent water. The bricks became damp the further she edged downward, and a dark sludge soon made them slippery.

'So much for keeping it clean down here!' She shouted as she gripped the stonework, aware that a wrong footing would send her sliding down into the darkness. In reply she heard a laugh and knew the two would be elbowing each other in delight.

Selina descended cautiously, finding it increasingly difficult to keep her footing on the century-worn brickwork. Her breath came hard, and she recalled her first coming to Mortehoe, ascending the rocks to see the battered crewman and the beach of dead. Once again her thoughts dwelled on drowned bodies in the darkness and she had to stop to convince herself that there was nothing down there waiting to grab her.

The din of running water had grown, and reverberated loudly in the confines of the passage. She stopped, and manoeuvred the lantern so that she could see how far she had left to descend. The dark rushing waters were closer than she thought, and it looked as though the water consisted of nothing but yellow bubbles and foam. She found some iron pins in the walls and used them as a footing and a lantern hook. Then, with a flexibility she was unaware she possessed, she twisted in the confined space until she was facing downwards.

Blood rushed to her head, she felt dizzy and nauseous, and a repetitive thought remonstrated her for not securing her waist with a rope.

With echoing grunts and curses, she lowered her body towards the water, her knees and back pressing against the wet brickwork, the bubbles splashing against her forehead. She was sweating, though the cold that radiated from the frothing waters made her shiver at the thought of plunging her hand into it.

Despite this, she tested the iron nail for its strength and then reached forward with her free hand and thrust it into the water.

She gave a start, her heart skipping a beat, before she grew quickly accustomed to the temperature. She felt along the slimy bricks until she came to the wheel, its boards choked and clogged with something quite solid. She lowered herself a little further, cringing at the searing cold, so as to rummage deeper in the water to examine the obstruction.

It didn't take her long, though she didn't expect to find what she found. It was hard, bulbous, and weeds had enveloped it. Selina tightened her grip on the object, and instead of being hard she found it instead to be spongy. Frowning, she gave a tug. Then another.

It was stuck fast.

Her face was pressed against the rushing, violent waters as she edged forward and closed her fingers around the object.

She twisted it gently and then wrenched decisively. She felt something pop, the object dislodged, and Selina knocked the brick wall with her elbow, exclaiming, 'Christ!'

She looked at the wound in the yellow darkness, and saw it was bleeding.

She held the object in one hand, and then pulled herself upright with the other. Pressing her back against the slimy wall, she held up the object that had ground the mill to a tremulous halt.

The bloated eyes of Breaker stared back at her, shining in the lantern-light; his muzzle torn off and left behind in the waterwheel. Selina gasped, and a sharp, rotting stench filled the passage. She tried to cover her mouth with her wrist, though that only brought the rotten, matted carcass closer, filling her lungs with the putrid, burning stench.

She only breathed when necessary, holding it as she climbed back up the slippery bricks toward the light of the mill, the sound of the water decreased, Hannah and Morag's nonchalant conversation overcoming it. '... Still burns those herbs of hers, and the baby coughs out the evil...'

As she turned at the junction, they heard her grunting, and coughing, and scraping along the walls, and laughed to see her.

'Here she comes, what was it, Selina? A stick? A rock?' One of them shouted, though she didn't know which.

They saw Breaker's upper torso in her hand, and they stopped laughing. Hannah turned pale, and Morag gasped - putting her hands to her mouth.

'Goodness, what is that? A rat? The damn thing's enormous!' Hannah said, leaning a little closer to see. 'Lord, is that Ted's Breaker?'

'Oh, poor Breaker!' Morag lamented, reeling.

Selina reached the top of the passageway, and shook the snout-less dog from her sticky hand, it slid wetly on the floorboards, leaving a trail of dark fluid in its wake.

'How did he get down there?' Selina shuddered, wiping tears of disgust from her eyes.

'Poor Ted,' Morag said, shaking her head. 'He loved Breaker so dearly.'

The three of them stared at the carcass in silence, not sure what to do with it. Surely Ted wouldn't want the body back in such a destroyed state.

'Must have got into the air duct,' Hannah said to herself. Morag looked up to her and agreed.

'Then it was always going to be the waterwheel or the furnace. Nowhere else to go, is there?'

Selina looked up to the small glass panels of the furnace room and thought of Breaker ending up in there, thrashing against the window of the cast iron feed door as his flesh melted, the smell of burning hair engulfing the mill. For the first time she considered drowning as being a more preferable death.

George slipped through the door from the antechamber and saw the three of them standing motionless. He had a broad smile on his face, so eager was he to take Selina aside and tell her what he had discovered about Hannah and Morag at the hotel.

'What's happened?' He said hesitantly. By the look of them someone had died. He followed Selina's gaze across the floor and saw a large wet lump.

'What the hell is that?' He sneered, stepping toward it. 'Oh my god is that an animal? How did that get in here?'

'It's Breaker,' Morag said quietly, 'he got trapped in the wheel.'

'That's disgusting.' George lamented, lowering himself on to his knees and inspecting the carcass. 'Does Ted know?'

'Not yet.' Selina offered. 'We only just found him.'

'He'll be devastated.' George said to himself, thinking it probably wasn't the right time to tell Selina his newfound information.

'Take the poor thing outside before he stinks out the place, George.'

'What?'

'All those rocks and irons you lift with Baron and you're not brave enough to pick him up?'

'The rocks and irons we lift aren't all covered in guts, I...'

'George, for fucks sake,' Selina burst, tears pricking her eyes, 'I've just climbed down to the wheel and pulled him out of the water. He's fallen to bits in my hands. The least you can do is take him outside.'

George looked at the three of them for a moment and then stood, shoving the dog inches at a time with his foot. 'Egh! Sick! There's stuff coming out of him!' He said, pained.

Hannah and Morag gave him exasperated looks and went about their business, while Selina looked at him savagely and shook her head. 'If you can't do that properly maybe you can go and tell Ted. Can you manage that?'

George nodded meekly, wondering how he could have fallen so sharply in her estimation.
Chapter Twenty-Five.

Stone Hill.

Tranter lay on his bunk and stared at the ceiling. Outside the lights atop the border pulsed slowly, lighting his room and filling him with resentment. It had been a long and frustrating day in the company of Lieutenant Colonel Noriah, and the border-lights did nothing more than remind him that the garrison was the final authority here and even determined whether to grant him the right to sleep.

He had been finding it difficult not to think of Stumm the last weeks at Stone Hill, the military uniforms bringing to mind the Captain he had ordered across the border and ultimately condemned to death.

'For fraud and conspiring against the orders of superiors, you are found guilty.' The words of the judge resounded in his mind. He saw the courtroom in the plaster of the ceiling, grey and austere.

'For wilful neglect of duty, resulting in the death of an officer, you are found guilty.' The judgement had been unnecessary; he had known what the outcome would be before he had even replaced the handset on learning of Stumm's death. From that moment he knew his life would be deviating toward a course less secure, and one most likely spent in a Judicial Reform. Not that the thought of prison had meant much for a long time, so appalled was he with the realisation of what he had done. Stumm's dead. He'd kept on saying it to himself as though he needed repeated confirmation for it to be true.

For weeks the world was nothing but a mist of questions and guilt. He had never meant for Stumm to die, he had never even considered it could have been an outcome. And yet the drab walls of the police interview rooms and the equally bland cells which he had called home for several months were a testament to the fact that it was all too real, and all too final.

Therefore when the verdict was being announced in court, Tranter had breathed into his chest and known that it was all a pantomime. He was going to be locked up for a very long time and there was nothing that anyone could, or should, do about it.

'On the charge of murder in the first degree, you are found not guilty.'

It took a moment for him to realise what had been said, though the judge had continued without the notion fully sinking in.

'On the charge of murder in the second degree, though it is the consideration of the court that you are directly and irrefutably accountable for the commission that lead to the death of a decorated officer, you did not overtly instruct Captain Stumm on how to cross the border at Bridgewater. Therefore the chain of causation that lead to death was not in your control, and you are found not guilty.'

There was no sense of triumph accompanying the words. He felt eyes on him as though all were in disagreement, as though the words were intended for someone else. He blinked and looked dumbly around. His sentence was stated and yet he heard nothing. His mind raced, and he was overwhelmed by a ringing in his ears that remained as he was ushered from the courtroom to his cell, where his lawyer explained what was to follow.

He served only eight of his twelve month sentence in Walsall Judicial Reform, a period that slipped by uneventfully and without duress.

All the while he was in correspondence with Stumm's family in Durham, proffering his remorse. They had seemed remarkably understanding, he had thought, and assured him that they held no contempt toward him. From their correspondence it appeared that the Stumm family had always been motivated to carry out that which they believed. He received letters proclaiming the Stumms had always put others safety before their own, that many had died in The Great Pathogen saving strangers with no thought of their own mortality, that many had been awarded Government Decorations, and so the death of their child, no matter how seemingly pointless, was one for a Stumm to be proud of.

Tranter had never shared their optimism, and although the court didn't place the chain of causation at his feet, he had always known that Stumm had had few choices in crossing the border, and the route that had been taken had been the only route possible. In many respects he had assisted Stumm into the path of that ruinous bullet, as directly as pulling the trigger himself.

A carrier hummed past the window, swishing through a puddle and casting a fleeting shadow throughout the room.

He sat up suddenly, recalling his forgotten idea that had struck him some days earlier in the mess hall.

Throwing back his thin sheets he pulled on his shirt and trousers and opened the door. He squinted at the bright light as he stumbled down the corridor, stopping at Toubec's room. He rapped on the door lightly, waited a few seconds, then knocked again, more forcibly.

There came a sleepy curse from behind and the door opened slowly.

'Toubec!' Tranter whispered, pushing his way in to her room.

'What the hell? You can't just...'

'That pamphlet, the edition of Medical Review you were reading on the InterRail. Do you still have it?'

'I...' She turned on a sidelight, and for a moment Tranter thought she looked almost effeminate in her plain nightdress. 'I think so. I didn't finish reading it... But...'

'I'll explain in a moment. Something's been bothering me for a while... I'm sorry to have woken you,' he added clumsily.

'Don't worry,' she sighed, 'I couldn't sleep anyway.' She opened the wardrobe and began unpacking her hold-all. 'It's an old copy, five years or so, '37 or '38. Probably horrendously out of date. Here.' She held the dog-eared magazine up to him and he thanked her, rifling through the pages.

'I didn't have much to do on the InterRail,' he explained as he turned the pages over, 'so I was trying to read the pages that were facing me. Well, at least look at the pictures... Here!' He turned the magazine round and handed it to her.

'"Nominations for the Beclere Prize for Virology', 2137." What about it?'

'The inset photograph at the bottom of the page. Doesn't it look familiar?'

The photograph was a microscope-enlarged antibody, stained bright green and vivid against the black background.

She looked at the picture and although she said nothing he could see that her imagination was enflamed. She brushed passed him and sat on the corner of the bed, fervently reading the article. She read out loud the footnote beside the photograph of the antibody. "'The inaugural prize, value £2,600, was awarded to Dr. John Camberwell, who lectures at the University of Dublin. He will be travelling to the Beclere Research Institute, Brussels, to lecture on the "Phylogeography and molecular epidemiology of an S18K4 antitoxin" in collaboration with the office of Professor Lars Scmichen, Vilvoorde University."'

She thought for a moment, and then looked up at Tranter. 'This antibody... It's the predecessor of your 'Blunderbuss'.'

'You mean our new virus evolved from this?'

'The antibody was created by Dr. Camberwell from the S18K4 virus... That's what he won the Beclere Prize for. There are plenty of vaccines that each combat Carnivora Influenza, though it would seem as though this one was better than most.'

'And this new virus, it would consume both the antibody and the S18K4 virus?' Tranter asked.

'Theoretically. Being a matter of conjecture, and with no means to verify it? Yes.'

'Why didn't you recognise this in the beginning? You just said this is five years old!' He couldn't escape the insinuation in his tone, and Toubec couldn't fail to notice it, either. For all the haughtiness and arrogance that she carried around with her, she had overlooked something so patently obvious.

'Are you joking?' She balked. 'Universities aren't government bodies! It's not our...'

'You're telling me this antidote to Carnivora was discovered up to five years ago and no-one in Research knows about it?'

'I'm not telling you an antidote was discovered. This is a photograph of an antibody, that's all. There's no antidote without years of experimentation. And if I've not heard about it then it's not even on the books to start trials at iCDO.'

He pinched the bridge of his nose. 'I'm sorry,' he sighed. He stepped to the phone and picked up the receiver, punching the 'talk' stub. At last, they had someone outside of the military who might know something about the virus beyond the border. 'Operator? Can you connect me to the Irish exchange please? Thank you.'

There was a moment's hesitation. Toubec sat on the corner of the bed.

'Hello, yes. I'd like you to connect me to Dublin University. If there's no department of virology listed then connect me to reception, please. Thank you.'

There was another pause, longer than the first. Tranter turned and watched Toubec. She had taken a notebook and was scribbling on it. He was about to ask what she was doing when he was distracted by a voice at the other end of the line.

'Yes, Dublin University? My name is Laur Tranter, Sub Manager of Topography and Imaging, Birmingham. I'm sorry to call so late but this is a matter of utmost urgency. I need to speak with Dr. John Camberwell.'

Toubec looked up from her notes and watched Tranter as he frowned.

'Hello?' He said, and then repeated himself before replacing the receiver.

'What is it?' She asked.

'Nothing,' he turned to walk from the room, 'the line was faulty, that's all.'

It was desperately obvious that Tranter was suddenly conscious of their being monitored and was impotent to state it. His sudden dismissive air, however, was too sudden a change in character to go unnoticed, surely. She called after him, stepping toward the door and following him to his room where she found him packing his bags.

He slipped her a torn piece of paper, saying. 'I'm done here. They don't want us across the border, they don't want us here at all. And now the phones are going down. I've had it. I'll be getting the 0600 InterRail. Stay if you think you can get any further with Colonel Noriah but if you want my opinion, we're flogging a dead horse.'

It was a more convincing act, she thought, slipping the note up her sleeve and sighing heavily. Now it was her turn to put on a show.

'Give it a few more days. We've got the photograph of the antibody, they can't ignore that.' It wasn't enough. Whoever was listening in, or watching them, or whatever they were doing, would have to suspect nothing. 'For God's sake, why can't you finish anything, Tranter? Too scared you'll find yourself in a position of power again? Too scared you'll have to take on the big decisions?'

He rounded on her and she could tell he no longer remembered this as an act. He was shaking, his eyes were glazed. He thrust a finger toward her. 'You wouldn't know the first thing about making big decisions, Toubec, sitting behind a screen all day, writing reports and filing them in triplicate.' He straightened, and breathed deeply. 'I made one decision. I didn't even think it would save the world. I just wanted the glory of promotion. And all I did was...'

'Laur,' the word was uncomfortable on her tongue. He noted it and looked at the floor, aware of the performance he had momentarily forgotten. Could they hear? Could they see?

He stepped closer to her and placed his hand on her shoulder. He had expected her to be taught, her muscle like oak, but instead she was relaxed and welcoming. The uptight woman he had instantly disliked was as feminine as any he had known. What was he going to do next in this spectacle? Hold her? Kiss her? No, that would be irrational, that would set alarm bells ringing in their opponents minds, and they would find a way to stop them getting the InterRail...

'I'm sorry,' She said, and was in his arms before he had concluded his thoughts, her fingers spread and gripping his back tightly as he scooped her to the tips of her toes. What was he doing? was this still an act? Her nose was on his neck, he could feel her breath on his shoulder, her heartbeat against his.

They remained in one another's arms for long seconds that felt more like hours, she gripping him tightly and he smoothing her back. This was dangerous territory, he thought, feeling arousal stirring within him, and he pulled away before he would have to make any fumbled apologies.

She held him in her gaze for a while, and then sighed. '0600?'

'It's for the best. We've tried everything we could. Let's leave it to Stranghan. You'll get your job back, that's something to look forward to isn't it?'

She raised her brow and nodded unconvincingly. 'Goodnight.'

He jutted his chin and returned the awkward glance before she turned and made her way back to her room where she pulled the slip of paper from her sleeve and placed it against her notebook.

"Dr. Camberwell is dead. We find our own way across the border."
Chapter Twenty-Six.

South-Easterly Wind.

Five knots.

A storm whistled throughout the night, wrenching leaves from trees and filling Mortehoe with sea-spray.

Although safe in the cellar, Priya could feel the wind outside pushing at the building above. The beams of the foundations groaned, and the rafters above trembled. With every gust Priya stopped her writing and tentatively looked up, expecting the entire pub to fall on her like a stack of cards.

It was three in the morning, and she had completed over half of the transcription. It spoke of paid men coming to attack the village, and though it didn't mention of whom it spoke, it alluded to the suspected enemy.

Camberwell, for all the ciphers available to him, didn't have one to describe aptly who would be coming, and so he had seemingly attempted to cobble codes together. He spoke of 'backward accomplices', and of 'before companions', and Priya supposed that this meant they would be attacked by someone they trusted.

She had put this to Semilion, though he didn't know who Camberwell could have meant.

'There's no-one in the south. No-one. There are the men who fish over by Putsborough, but it wouldn't be them... and they're not in the south anyway. Camberwell mentioned that he met with people on a tour of some university's in Europe. They would be south, but friends? Friends to him maybe, but I wouldn't know them from a shitty stick!'

'It's possible they're not from the south, simply coming from the south?'

'We're on the north-westerly coast. What would be the point of coming from the south?'

'You'd never expect it. You watch the sea, whoever is coming knows that.'

Semilion fell quiet, and pondered on who he could afford to send to guard the south and southeast. He had men enough, but sending them out to defend meant the end of secrecy. He would have to tell them, and he wasn't ready for that yet. Once Priya had completed the transcript and he knew all the details he would convene the council and tell them everything he knew.

'I'd like you to work on this until it's finished, Priya. Forget the crèche.'

'Forget the crèche forever?' She thought of Rosa and Briney, and the children she looked after. They drove her mad, and although they were an exhausting problem – they had become her problem, one that she felt was her own to resolve. Her question was somewhat anxious, though Semilion misjudged it as excitement.

'We'll see.' He replied. He couldn't help but smile.

'Where I come from that means yes.' She said almost indignantly, turning back to the books strewn across the table.

He turned to leave though she called him back. 'What are these dots?'

He looked over the page. 'I hadn't translated them myself but they look like a simple break in the transmission to divide up the broadcast.'

Priya shrugged. 'Never mind, I'll work it out, I just thought you might know.'

He stepped back and left her to it, knowing that when she was finished with him she was truly finished with him, and would appreciate distraction like a wasp sting.

*

Boen woke from an uneasy dream, the clouds beyond his window grey and pink. The storm had rattled his pane all night, though now stars lingered in the dawning sky, and he lay for a few moments, trying to remember what had woken him. Eventually he turned his thoughts to the tankard beside him. He reached out for it, grimacing at the pain in his ribs, though he refused to relent. For the past week he had been exercising slowly: lifting books, raising his legs, sitting upright. Ever so slowly he was beginning to notice the difference. His fingers shook as he took hold of the tankard, and he spilt most of the contents as he brought it to his lips, but he replaced it with a triumphant sigh, before collapsing back into his sheets.

Today was going to be a big day for him. He would attempt for the first time since his beating to stand, and from then would begin the real struggle of rehabilitation.

But not yet. Even reaching for the water had knocked the strength from him. He would have to eat more, he considered, even though food made him nauseous.

He turned his attention to the window once again. What's Eryn up to? He thought, knowing she would still be in bed, dreaming of anything other than him. His cheek twitched, and he reminded himself he was growing angry whenever he thought of her. She had risked everything to go to Lundy, risked everything for a dead man, and yet she hadn't even tried to contact him.

Again he sighed, knowing full well that Semilion would have forbidden her to visit him, he probably even banned his name in their home, and yet she had known what they risked if they had been caught, could she not do that for him?

'Leave it alone,' he said, his voice still full of sleep. He had felt himself grow increasingly bitter as the weeks progressed, bitter toward his family, bitter toward the community, but he wanted nothing more than to keep a part of himself that was reserved for Eryn. A part that was untouched by blame, and spite, and self-pity.

A battle flared in his mind as to whether it was self-pity or whether his anger was justified, and again he was lost to thoughts of a thousand conversations that had provoked him across the years. Baron thumping him any time he laid eyes on him throughout their childhood, George abandoning their friendship as soon as Baron took an interest. He relived a moment in school, when Seb had loosened a stone and hurled it at his back. It had hurt for weeks, but not as enduringly as the verbal torment that had accompanied him throughout those years. Skin-ribs, grease-merchant, cow-son, shit-sniffer; the list was endless, and whilst he had thought the intended effect of angering him had never worked, they had twisted him into who he was today: shy, skittish, retiring, and lacking.

His door opened, and his glowering eyes snapped toward Arabella, who stopped in the doorway. He shook away his thoughts and whispered, 'Sorry, come in.'

She slipped inside, easing the door closed, then swept across the room to him. 'You sure you're well enough?'

'I'm not going to get any better laying here like a turd!'

She rolled an apple from her skirts and ordered him to eat it before they started, then brandished a knife and cut it into pieces for him.

'You've lost so much weight, Boen,' she said, her cheek furrowing with sympathy.

He breathed heavily as he chewed and swallowed, nausea stirring in him. He retained some of the apple in his cheek until the feeling subsided, then swallowed more. 'Don't worry. I'm going to eat, even if it kills me.' He replied, meeting her gaze.

'I'll tell ma, she'll be happy to hear it.'

'Don't you dare,' he snapped, grabbing her wrist. 'I don't want her knowing I'm getting better. I already told you, if she knows then pa will know.'

She lowered her eyes. She didn't know what Boen had planned for their father, though she knew, and understood why, it would be terrible.
Chapter Twenty-Seven.

Stone Hill.

Tranter and Toubec waited on the platform for the 0600 InterRail to accept lower-level passengers. Bridges to the upper level were thronged with crew and military personnel, but the lower level remained devoid of life.

'It's only us wanting to board the lower level, for God's sake,' Toubec growled under her breath. 'Can't they just let us board?' Tranter gave her a scowling glance that told her to keep her thoughts to herself.

The clouds had lost their pink sheen and gathered to mask the sky, and a tenacious wind was beginning to whistle through the station.

Tranter pulled the lapels of his coat high, ducking his head to shelter from the cold, when he saw Lieutenant Colonel Noriah step on to the platform.

'Noriah's behind you,' Tranter said, covering his mouth and coughing.

Toubec hooked her hair behind her ear and looked up at the crowded bridge as Noriah focused on them and strode forward.

'Tranter? Toubec?' He nodded curtly. 'You're leaving us, I understand?'

'Of course we are,' Tranter scowled. 'There's not a hope in hell that you're ever going to let us across the border. We're all wasting time and resources pretending you're even debating it.'

Noriah bared the faintest smirk as he fished a cigarette from his breast pocket and masked his lighter with a cupped hand. He drew deeply, the smoke whipped away by the wind.

'You know there's no other way across the border?'

'Is there something you would like to say to us, lieutenant?' Toubec said, unfolding her arms and picking up her bag as the door of the InterRail hissed open and the interior lights flickered on.

'You know there's no way across, don't you?' Noriah emphasised, gazing at Tranter, and all he could hear was the name Stumm. Was that why the military had denied them access and any help whatever? For the death of one of their own?

'Good day, Noriah,' Tranter said, picking up his bag and stepping slowly on to the InterRail. 'I'm sure we'll meet again, and when we do, you're going to give me anything I ask for.'

It was lame, and everyone in earshot knew it. Noriah bared his teeth like a hyena, and returned his cap, shielding his penetrating eyes. Tranter knew he would return to the barracks and share his embarrassing threat with anyone who cared to listen, and his face began to burn as Toubec looked up at him quizzically from her seat.

'"You're going to give me anything I ask for?"'

'It was supposed to be a distraction,' he lied, 'he's thinking what a nothing I am right now instead of wondering what we're planning.'

She raised a brow, unconvinced, but took her notebook from her bag and began writing.

'What are you up to?' He asked, changing the subject.

'Just thinking about that antibody. Making notes. Nothing, really.'

He sat back in his seat as the carriage hummed to life and eased from the station. After a few minutes Toubec looked up from her notebook. 'So. Where are we going to get off?'

'Were heading straight back to Birmingham.' he said, leaning forward. 'You saw the look on Noriah's face, he didn't believe a word of it. I imagine there's someone travelling back with us to make sure we don't make an early exit.'

'And when we get back to Birmingham?' She said, lowering her voice.

'I've got an idea but I'm going to keep it close to my chest, if you don't mind? Just until I've arranged some things.'

Toubec nodded and returned to her notebook, though her attention was drawn ever increasingly to the landscape beyond the window until she were captivated entirely.
Chapter Twenty-Eight.

South-easterly wind.

Four knots.

The door of the Smuggler's Rest trembled as the wind tested it. Betty skulked about the bar, cleaning out the ash from the fireplace and replenishing it with logs for the coming evening.

Selina, Priya and Reighn sat morosely in the corner of the room with a breakfast of rabbit and eggs, Reighn clutched a tankard of ale, idly tapping his upper teeth against the rim.

Priya was tired, though shrugged off any explanation when Selina asked her about it. 'Must be the weather,' she mulled eventually. She had been spending her days at home, cooped in her room and sleeping off her nocturnal commission.

The three of them sat in silence, Selina smiling exaggeratedly at the two of them and Priya doing the best she could to force down her tired irritation.

'Ted's not been down here for a while,' Selina said, toying with her food and trying her best to spark a conversation.

'Thinks someone killed his Breaker, don't he!' Reighn said with a sigh. 'Don't know why, mind. Accidents happen. He should know that better than anyone.'

'Do you think maybe we should go and see him?' She asked Priya, who looked up at Reighn.

'What do you mean he should know it better than anyone?' Priya asked.

'Back when they were doing repair work on the Sayer's barn. It was what? Say, ten years ago? Ted was there when the scaffolding collapsed on Dalton Sayer and James Soothe. Poor bastards took a support beam to their faces; dragging them down in a second and crushing their heads against the wall.'

Priya recalled Semilion mentioning the incident, though hadn't pressed him for details.

'James...' Selina queried.

'Jasmine's husband.' Reighn replied.

'Poor woman,' Selina said, trying not to imagine what the aftermath of such a tragedy would have been like.

'She used to do those palm-readings of hers before then... It was something for the children. Entertainment. No-one really took any notice of it. After the accident though, that's when she started to act like she could see things the rest of us couldn't...'

'Told me my old pa were with me,' Betty interrupted as she continued to sweep the hearth. 'Why she thought I'd be happy to hear that old scoundrel were lookin' out for me I never reckon I'll know.' She stood and left the room, muttering about her father as she did so.

'Started saying she knew things were going to happen. Personal stuff,'

'Like Dawn's miscarriages?' Priya asked tentatively. Selina fired an angry glance at her, what a thing to mention!

'Not the first... But she said that we wouldn't have any more children. I was furious with her. So was Semilion... Banned her from coming here for a long time, he did.'

'Well she was wrong, wasn't she? You've got young William now.' Selina placed her hand on Reighn's wrist, though his taut muscle made her retract it.

Reighn closed his eyes. 'William's so sick... He fights and gets better for a day or two, and then he loses his colour and won't eat, or drink. Amber's stopped burning her herbs... she says it's not making him any better. She doesn't know what else to do.'

'I'm sorry,' Selina said quietly, sharing a forlorn glance with Priya, who was noticeably angry.

'I haven't said anything to Dawn, but I sometimes think,' he cleared his throat as though about to offer a life-long secret. 'I sometimes think that Jasmine got it right. I mean, when I'm scared... In the middle of the night when I can hear him breathing. He's so fragile. So completely helpless... I lay there and expect his breathing to simply stop, for the night to take him away.'

'And you don't think to take him to get help?' Priya said sternly. With the community under the shadow of a southern enemy, she wanted nothing less than to tell him his loyalty to seclusion was nothing short of moronic.

'Where?' Reighn wiped his eyes and frowned.

'Anywhere where there's medication... This community Runner, what's his name?'

'Guliven?'

'Why doesn't he bring back medical supplies?'

'He didn't know to. He left before William fell sick.'

'Then why doesn't Semilion let you take another boat and follow?'

'It would take too long.' Reighn began to grow angry. Did she think he hadn't thought of everything that might save William? Did she think he wouldn't go to the ends of the earth if there was a chance he could save his boy?

'Would take too long!' Priya snorted.

'Don't tell me I'm not doing enough to help him. Where would I go? Do you expect me to put him in a row-boat and take him across the channel? He wouldn't last a night! Or maybe I should carry him to the border? Get myself arrested, have William prized from me and subjected to test after test, and bring the community down with me?'

'At least there would be a chance for him to survive, no matter how small, and no matter the consequences!' Priya spat. 'How many have died to save this place? You know what I hear working in the crèche? They don't even bury the young in the churchyard because there are so many of them Semilion's worried about disease breaking out in the village.'

Reighn pushed his chair back, knocking over his tankard. The ale swept across the table and Selina jumped up.

'You haven't got a clue!' He pointed his thick finger in Priya's face. She grit her teeth and remained motionless, expecting him to strike her. He bore down on her menacingly, before pushing the table forcibly and storming from the pub.

'What the hell, Pri?' Selina glowered.

'It makes me sick! They think they've hidden themselves from the devil when all they've done is caged themselves in with him!'

'Well, it was nice of you to try and get him to understand that, he was opening up about his dying son you... selfish bitch!'

Selina followed in the wake of Reighn, the door slamming behind her as Betty re-entered the bar, noticing the mess surrounding Priya.

'You think I enjoy cleaning up after you lot?' She snapped, snatching up a bucket.

Priya sighed and closed her eyes, thankful she was being taken out of the crèche. Long days and nights of work were rousing her anger before she even realised what was happening.

The wind thrashed Selina's hair as she ran after Reighn. He ignored her at first, but eventually he turned, tears in his eyes, as she caught up with him and laid a hand on his arm.

'I'm sorry about her, there's no excuse for what she just said.'

'Do you really think I wouldn't do anything I could to save my boy? Do you think I want him to die?'

'Of course I don't!' She replied passionately. 'I don't think that at all, Priya had no right to say any of that to you.'

He was silent for a moment, debating whether he should say anything more, the anger he felt towards Priya almost extinguished his true feelings, but the focus of his thoughts brought him back to William.

'The truth is...' He said, turning from her, 'The truth is that maybe she's right and it torments me. I could take him to the border, even if I thought it would be the end of everything here, even if I accepted I would never see him again... I could take him and rest assured that he at least would be safe.'

Selina said nothing, and didn't voice the feeling of panic that coursed through her when he spoke his mind. Was she growing so attached to the place that she would put it before the life of a child? For a fleeting moment she grasped the dilemma unconditionally.

'What will you do?' She asked, and thought for a moment he understood she appreciated his concerns.

'If I'm any kind of father I'll try to get him out of here.' His voice was low. He barely opened his mouth to say it and he stared at the ground.

She looked up at him, the faintest nod beneath her lashing hair.

'I'm... We're living with a choice our great-grandparents made. I know why they made it. At least, we're told why they made it... But in all honesty I don't know. Why they did it... Or why we continue to do so.' He looked up at her, tears in his eyes. Selina said nothing. Her features had changed to one of overwhelming sympathy. 'We know nothing of the world,' he continued, 'nothing except for you and Priya. When I see the two of you, and think that you represent the old-world, it makes me question everything.'

*

George had been walking along the Esplanade, watching the clouds break across Woolacombe, as he headed toward the hotel. A week had passed since he had dropped off the sack of tools, and the Cadens needed them back.

The Tide was in, covering Woolacombe Beach below. When the water receded there would be fewer bodies, and some covered deeper in the sand, sinking a little further each day into the shells and pebbles.

A mist had consumed the horizon out to sea, and through it protruded the grey and irregular wind-turbines and what remained of the fallen oil platform. Waves crashed against the rocks below the hotel savagely, and George could only imagine what the force of the current was doing to those bodies.

He turned away, not liking to be reminded of the corpses strewn down there, and looked instead to the curtains of rain sweeping across Woolacombe.

On the road up by the village he could see someone walking towards him, though George would veer off and enter the hotel before they met, and it was too bleak and hazy to identify them. He wondered who it was momentarily, then stepped lightly down a flight of mossy steps into the grounds of the hotel, unlocked the iron gate leading to the back door, and let himself in.

The interior seemed colder and more macabre than usual, and resounded with a hollowness that made him wonder if there was anyone in the cellar. A pigeon flapped its wings close by and made him jump. He remained by the doorway, his hand shielding his erratic heart as the pigeon perched on a high chandelier and regarded him stupidly.

He sighed and made his way into the kitchen and rapped on the cellar door before opening it. 'It's George,' he called, though there came no reply.

He took the flight of stairs cautiously, though he supposed he only did so because his heart was still thumping and he was feeling skittish because of the weather.

At the foot of the stairs he tried again. 'Hello?' he said loudly, peering round the wall.

Christine was fumbling with a handkerchief and gave a sniff of composition. 'Ah, hi George. I didn't hear you.'

'It's alright. Are you ok though? You look like you've been crying.'

She blinked at him for a moment, the tears in her eyes glinting in the light. 'I... It's ma and pa, I haven't heard from them for months. No-one has.' She picked up her handkerchief again and held it over her eyes. 'I wouldn't mind but there's been nothing, not even a stupid signal to let us know they're well.'

'There could be something wrong with their equipment.' George offered, though he knew that Christine's mother, Robyn, could keep any piece of machinery running blindfolded.

'Ma could fix it if that were the case,' Christina confirmed.

The door beside George opened and Helena Dekeyrel stepped through, and padded across the room to comfort Christina.

'There, don't pay it a thought,' she cooed. 'There's likely a reasonable explanation.'

'The only explanation I can think of,' Christina replied, 'the only one that makes any sense, is that they've been found out by the authorities for sending illegal broadcasts.'

'If that were the case then the authorities would be here by now.' Helena buffeted.

'You know what?' George added. 'When Guliven and Sean left for Ballycotton, Semilion gave them orders to call your pa.'

'What?' Christina asked.

'The day Guliven and Sean left for Ballycotton, I was there at the Waeshenbach's place. Semilion asked them to call your pa. And, well, they'll be back soon. They'll be able to explain everything.'

'See?' Helena said, rubbing Christina's back. 'Semilion's taking care of it. We'll find out for sure when Guliven comes back. He'll probably have a letter from your parents.'

There came a knock on the door at the top of the stairs and George stepped toward it to see who it was.

'It should be Garth,' Helena said as Christina sighed deeply and composed herself, somewhat appeased.

George peered around the corner and saw an old man, bow-backed and hesitant, descending the stairs. though he was shrouded in the gloom of the stairwell, George could see by the way he held his head that he was blind. It was the same person he had seen advancing in the rain from Woolacombe.

'Garth.' George stated in greeting.

'Who's that?' Garth said wistfully, his pearlescent eyes searching.

'George Porter.' Helena answered quickly.

'Ah, we've not had the pleasure. May I ask what you're doing here?'

'I've just come to pick up some tools to take back to the Cordens.'

'You're the fetcher. I see.' Garth reached the bottom of the stairs and his old waxy hand found George's shoulder. He tucked his cane under his armpit and with both hands quickly found George's before shaking. 'I'm Garth Pollman, and I'm the governor of this little place.

George looked into the old man's creamy eyes and couldn't fight off the shudder that quelled within him.

'The hotel?' He said dumbly.

'What goes on beneath it.' Garth smacked him on the shoulder.

'Good afternoon, Garth,' Helena said, followed by Christina.

'A good afternoon it is not,' he replied in jest. 'In all my years I don't recall being so caught out by the rain.'

'We'll make you a nice cup of tea and fetch a towel.' Helena replied, leading him to a chair and gesturing for Christina to do the rest.

'So shall we get started? What's been happening in the last fortnight?'

'Perhaps we should wait a while longer?' Helena said, though trying to suggest to a blind man discreetly they wait until George had gone was beyond her skill.

'Oh, don't mind me.' George said. 'I'll head off.'

'In this?' Garth shook his head. 'It's getting worse outside. Not known a downpour like that since before my ma died. He sounds like a trustworthy young lad? Am I wrong?'

'You're not.' Helena replied, a pained look about her. She didn't like the thought of someone outside the hotel to know their affairs. Their training was detached from Mortehoe and Woolacombe, and a deep division between them and the rest of the community had been rent.

'And I'm sure he'll not tell a soul, isn't that right, boy?'

'Oh... Yes. No, I won't say a thing.'

'There you have it. Do you know what we do here, lad?.'

'Viruses and vaccinations.'

'Brevity is the soul of wit, eh? Aye, we create viruses and vaccinations. Quite amazing things for the equipment we have, really. David... Dr. Camberwell tells me of the machines he has at his disposal in Belfast and it boggles the mind. Doesn't it, Helena?

'It does.' Helena replied. Garth was always talkative, and though she wasn't comfortable with it she didn't have the nerve to resist it.

Christina returned with a cup of tea and laid a sheet across his shoulders, he patted her hand and returned to looking in George's direction.

'And here we have a few rooms with vacuum hoods, microscopes and incubators. Though for all our humble pieces of archaic equipment we have seen things that no other has ever wanted to witness. Isn't that right, girls?'

'Garth,' Helena said politely. 'I don't think...'

'Rapid animate necrosis. Absolutely amazing. Do you know what that is, George?'

'No.'

'Something a certain little virus does to ye.' He grinned, displaying a mouthful of irregular, yellowing teeth. 'Gets in your bones and acts like hydrofluoric acid. Know what I mean by that?'

Helena looked uncomfortably at Christina, who shrugged in reply. If Garth wanted to talk then it was his right.

'I guess it does something pretty nasty?' George guessed.

At this Garth chuckled. 'Pretty nasty indeed. Liquefies bone, it does.' He sighed then and blinked several times. 'A good job it's no more. Semilion was right to destroy it. Makes me shudder to think what would happen if... Well, no use in worrying about things that don't exist. And trust me, that little bastard don't exist no more. Now, girls, what have you got for me?'

George sat and listened to Helena describe several experiments that were being conducted. It was dull and complicated, and he very quickly lost interest. If only Garth had continued talking, he thought, he had an air about him that spoke of storytelling and eccentricity.

After listening to them for several minutes he took the sack of tools and excused himself, heading out into the pelting rain.
Chapter Twenty-Nine.

Lundy.

The gathering clouds had eluded the island, though the wind reaped the ocean-like grass in fitful gusts, pledging a bitter day if not a grey one.

Three figures hurried through the knee high grasses, their long shawls flapping as they trudged toward the cluster of dilapidated buildings sheltered by sprawling skeleton trees.

Behind them puffins hung in the air, buoyant in the wind. They wheeled about one another and strutted proudly about the squat cliffs, honking and squawking.

The men walked in silence, their bearded faces shielded from the wind beneath hessian cowls.

'It's a day long gone since you could walk these fields without losing your foot in the marsh,' Red said, trying to remember the last time he had felt the ground of Lundy so dry. His voice was low and even, as though he were more used to offering orders than making conversation. His tone had suffered the same continual attack as his body however, and left his once thick voice with a dry rasp. He hated the sound of it, and was reminded how much he had withered when his sons spoke, their deep timbres as his once was.

'True, da,' Keenan replied.

Everything withered, Red considered as they stepped down the long field toward a stone wall. Even the strongest of men, the broadest of oaks. He pondered this for a moment, though he considered it didn't matter. Whether the broadest oak withered or not was none of his concern, he was sickened by the onslaught of time.

He was the oldest of the community by some years, and had so many webs left half-spun. He couldn't give in to time, and yet he felt fluid on his lungs, and knew that he had little time left.

He looked up to his sons. He couldn't leave the game in their hands, they weren't interested enough in the welfare of others to take on its responsibility.

Gorran, to his left, strode with the gait of a peacock. Forty years old, he strutted as though he were a young prince ready and waiting impatiently to take over the running of a kingdom. He was dangerous, Red thought. Proud and dangerous, and thought nothing of bedding whomever he wished, regardless of marriage or betrothal. He would get the community into trouble one day, there was no mistaking it. His bravado and sexual insatiability had brought turmoil to the island more than once in his forty years; Red had clout his brains with leather and threatened him with exile more than once because of it.

Kenan was another matter entirely. A year older than his brother, he was as voracious, though more manipulative, and forever plotting. Since childhood Kenan had spent his hours scheming to steal food and wine from the Marisco Tavern, and was forever the bane of anyone owning that which he wished for himself. Red considered that he may have killed him himself if he thought for a moment that he had ever wished to take over his reign. As it was, it wasn't the intention of Kenan's manipulation to land him with any more work than was absolutely necessary. He was a schemer, but a lazy one at that. He had always shunned the responsibility that his father dragged behind him, however, wanting nothing to do with it himself.

A rapist and a thief, he thought as a wheeze escaped him, that's what you spawned, Harriet. A rapist and a thief.

They scaled a low wall, Gorran and Kenan turning to aid Red, who uttered a barely audible moan as he swung his leg. The far side of the wall was thick with mud, indicating a recent downpour that had not sated the fields thirst.

'Damn it, get off me!' he shrugged away their support, and pushed his way onward, his galoshes sucking and kissing the mud. 'We should-a been back days ago with that wind.' He turned, uneasy in the mire. 'But no, you two had to be whoring when you should have been rowing!'

'I was rowing!' Gorran said, imitating rowing whilst thrusting his hips animatedly. Kenan laughed darkly and the wind swept back his cowl to reveal small coffee coloured teeth beneath a wiry auburn beard.

Red strode forward and grabbed Goran's throat. Though he was smaller than his son he was palpably stronger, and fiercer than both combined. 'Think that's funny, do you, you little cock-wart?' He thrust a boot in Goran's shin and tugged his beard, thrusting his son face down into the sludge. He transferred his knee to the back of his head while Gorran thrashed. 'Everything that is happening around you and you're still playing the whore-starved fool? What part of recent months has made you think that you've nothing to think about than drinking and emptying your balls? Murder? Did that make you crave women? When you think about what is going to happen... does that arouse you? You're ma would have been ashamed to call you her sons.'

Driving Goran's face deep into the mud, he released his son with disgust and Gorran rolled over, gasping and spitting. He was terrified of his father, even though he was twice the size and weight of the man.

'Sorry, da! I didn't...'

'Quiet, you retarded little stink! Kenan, help your brother from his knees.'

'Da,' Kenan replied obediently. He clasped his brother's wrist and pulled him sharply from the mud. He was looking across the pathway as he did so.

'What is it?' Red sneered, noticing his son's concern for something he had seen.

'Look,' he raised a gloved hand, pointing to a stretch of pathway. 'Someone's been here,' he stepped lightly on the muddy grass and crouched beside the prints. His father followed, hobbling awkwardly. Gorran picked himself up and wiped his sleeve across his face, joining them quietly, not wishing to provoke his father's anger.

'Not boots,' Kenan offered. 'They're smooth. Thin. No grip on the outsole...' He looked up to Red. 'Moccasins.'

'Mortehoe.' Red growled.

'They're relatively small, as well. And whoever they belonged to were light. Like kids.' He added, kneeling close and running a finger across the imprint. 'Old, too. must have been dry and warm here for a while, except the recent rain.'

Red made no comment further than a contemplative exhale before he marched in the direction of the Marisco Tavern. He felt a tumultuous nausea sweep across him, a feeling he hadn't felt for, what was it now, twenty, thirty years? A feeling that had returned like an unexpected haymaker the day he had received the broadcast of Richard Kelly's death. The feeling that stirred in his gut had a face, a smell, and a name. Carrick Tupper.

Kenan picked himself up and jogged after his father until he was by his side.

'Who do you think it was?' He asked, Gorran catching them up. The siblings shared disquieting looks.

'Don't you find it curious,' Red asked, 'that we should be paid a visit by Mortehoe with everything we've been up to recently?'

'You think they know?' Gorran asked. It was impossible, he thought. They couldn't know. Everything had happened too quickly for them to find out, and they had taken care of anyone who might let on. Camberwell, Waeshenbach, Colt. Silenced.

Red ignored the question and stormed into the courtyard which housed the Marisco Tavern. He pushed the door open as though he expected resistance; it slammed loudly against a wall and knocked over a ceramic vase that had been waiting to fall from the mantel piece for months. It shattered, and his galoshes turned the remainder to powder as he stepped behind the bar, snatching up a demijohn, unstopping it, and taking a long draught.

'Joan!' He rasped loudly, cuffing his mouth and pouring a tankard with ale. 'Joan, you whore, where are you?' His voice returned to its former strength and his son's hearts quickened momentarily, both remembering childhood beatings that had always been preceded by that tone.

Gorran stepped from the bar to search Joan's rooms, though she appeared flustered at the door as he was ducking to step through it. They collided with each other and Gorran stepped back, holding her by the arm and thrusting her toward his father.

'What's going on?' She said, confused by the sudden disturbance. 'When did you get back?'

'There have been strangers on the island, what do you know about it?' Red asked, stepping towards her, scrutinising her.

'What... Strangers? No, I...'

'There are footprints in the mud made by moccasins!' He shouted, spilling his ale. 'You're telling me that no-one saw anything?'

'There was the couple who stayed for a night... They weren't any harm...'

'What couple?'

'They came about a fortnight after you left for Iceland... They'd just been married and asked if they could spend their honeymoon on the island.'

Red thought about this for a moment. It was perfectly plausible that a couple had chosen to honeymoon on Lundy, it had happened several times in the past. It hadn't happened in recent years however, and he didn't like the thought of rarities occurring whilst he was spinning his threads.

'They were just honeymooning?' he asked, his voice a little less menacing.

Joan wrenched her arm from Gorran and stared vehemently at Red.

'Yes, they were just honeymooning. The boy got as drunk as a fiddler's bitch and the girl just sat at the bar talking.'

Red grasped his tankard tightly. Was this something he needed to be concerned about? His mind was already awash with the various outcomes of events already in motion. He didn't need the hindrance of possible interlopers.

'And you're certain they meant no... Malice?'

She twisted her lip downwards and shrugged. 'What are you talking about? They were teenagers, slips of things. They almost shit when they walked through the door.'

He gave a consenting grunt and turned, sitting down at a small table piled with dirty plates and dirty tankards. 'We'll be away again in the morning, we've business in Mortehoe.' He turned to Gorran. 'I want a meeting held with the men by this evening, Gorran. You know how important this is, don't get distracted. Everything in Ireland has lead up to this, right?' He rounded on Joan once more. 'You've kept this place well in my absence.'

'Fuck off,' Joan spat, gathering her breath and reaching for the piled crockery, 'you don't own the Tavern, Red.'

His liver-spotted hand grasped her wrist, halting her as she tried to take the former night's washing away. His hand was cold on her skin, and she looked at him with scorn.

Their eyes locked for a moment, Red considering telling her that he owned her, and possessed the Tavern as an extension of that. But instead he released her and let her go.

'Bastard,' she said under her breath, disappearing into the kitchen.

Gorran sat opposite his father while Kenan took a seat at a nearby table. The two younger men took their pipes and filled them with dark tobacco, then lit them with pink-tipped matches.

'What do we do now?' Kenan asked through a blossom of smoke. His father was deep in thought, though he considered he might find favour if he showed some interest in their next actions.

Red sighed and took another draught of ale. 'It's all in motion. We do nothing until morning.'

They sat in silent contemplation for a while until both sons had finished drawing on their pipes and Red had finished the demijohn. He excused them and sat alone, the sound of the clock his only companion.

His thoughts returned to the journey he had just returned from and how, now returned, he felt overwhelmingly tired. He'd had no time to be tired before, but now, with the slow ticking and the dusty stillness of the room, he felt as though his legs were weighed by anchors.

He took a deep breath, there it was again - that gurgling sensation on his lungs. He considered it was an encroaching cold. He pushed it to the back of his mind, his thoughts returned to Gorran ruling the community once he was dead.

Then, strangely, his thoughts were with his wife Harriet, and how she had danced so spiritedly when the tables and chairs of the pub were pushed back to the walls. He imagined her sitting in the chair opposite him, young and beautiful and her eyes staring into his devilishly. What would she look like, he wondered, if she were here today? Would her eyes be as bright, and as devilish?

His thoughts were interrupted by Joan and she placed a new demijohn on the table. Her former anger had subsided, though she still scowled at him.

'I just spoke to Jamie.' She said, sitting where Harriet had been. 'He said he saw you coming by dinghy. What happened to the tug?'

'Motor's gone. It's being repaired.' He said, for a moment she thought she saw the old man behind his determined eyes.

'You sailed from Iceland?'

'Of course not.'

'You were gone a long time, people were asking questions.'

'Let them ask if they have nothing else to talk about.' He hesitated for a moment, wondering whether he should say more, though he spoke before he had really made up his mind. 'We went to Ireland.'

'Oh? I presume that's where the tug is then? We didn't need another run for a while though... Should I send the boys to pick up the cargo?'

'There's no cargo,' he already regretted opening his mouth; though speaking to someone after days alone with his sons loosened his tongue. 'It was a personal errand.'

'A personal..?' She looked at him incredulously. 'What business is there in Ireland that's personal? What personal business do we have with anyone outside of this bloody island?'

'Hold your mind still, woman, you'll hurt yourself.'

She held him in his gaze for a moment, and then looked aside. There was no use in arguing with him, she considered. He was a bully and competitive besides. If he didn't want to talk there was no use in trying to make him, surreptitiously or otherwise.

'You'll find out soon enough when Gorran gathers everyone here. There was a broadcast, someone has been murdered in Mortehoe.'

'A murder?' She looked to the table, reminded of the troubled days of Carrick Tupper's governorship.

Red looked down into his tankard, his fingernail pressing against the rim. 'The phlegm on my lungs is back.' He said quietly.

Joan said nothing, even though she knew he was telling her that he was dying. The way he had spoken indicated it. Soft and detached. She remained watching the grain in the table.

'I know I fought it off before, but that was some years ago. I've grown weaker since then... And winter will be here before I get any better.' The ticking of the clock made the silence seem protracted and seemingly spurred Red to say more, as though the thought of silence reminded him only of the eternal one which awaited him.

'Gorran will want to take over the community when I'm done... Doesn't bear much thinking about, does it?' He pulled a face and took a draught. 'I suppose he'll be fine once he's given some responsibility. He deals well with the Islanders, I mean the ones in Iceland, and he's a good hand when it comes to fixing the boats.'

'And Kenan?' Joan asked. 'Won't he want what his brother has?'

'Not likely. If he can't pilfer it and drag it back to his lair then he's not interested.' His face turned sour, his former thoughts returning to him. 'I've not been blessed with the sons I wanted... Your boys, Rowan and Fada, they're the kind of men I wanted running this place once I'm gone. Not a... A waste of fucking space and a lazy bastard.'

'You can give them some direction yet,' Joan offered, tired of his conversation. He was right, Rowan and Fada should be in charge once Red was gone, and she intended to see that's what happened.

'Direction!' He scoffed. 'How can I direct those two. Harriet would be ashamed to see them now. I curse her sometimes, Jo, for giving birth to a rapist and a thief.'

'She only gave birth to them, they learnt everything else from you.' She had said the words softly, though the insinuation could not have been veiled had they been spoken underwater.

His eyes burned into her, and yet this time she did not look away. Her pride wouldn't let her.

'Da,' Kenan said, breathless from having run from their upstairs rooms.

Red still loured at Joan, as though he would reach across the table and throttle her. 'What is it?' He growled.

'The papers in the drawer have gone. They're nowhere.'

'Your brother hasn't moved them?' Red asked, his eyes still on Joan.

'He hasn't touched them. He's not been in there. He's out gathering the boys...'

'Let me ask you, Joan.' Red said deliberately, his knuckles growing white as he grasped his tankard. 'These honeymooners. You wouldn't have given them our rooms by any chance, would you?'

Joan said nothing, though her hesitation was all the confession Red needed. He leant forward with a swiftness that seemed near impossible. He grabbed her by the hair, crushing her ear as he did so, and thrust her from her chair. She sprawled to the floor as he screamed at her, telling her she was a stupid fucking bitch.

'Find Gorran!' He shouted angrily to Kenan. 'Spread the word that our meeting is now, not later. Tell the boys to drop everything! We hit the water before sunset!'
Chapter Thirty.

Birmingham.

Tranter stepped from the InterRail as the afternoon light struggled to break the rain-laden clouds. The noise of the city was a disturbing contrast to the quietness of Stone Hill garrison. They alighted at the edge of the old city, just before Dead Zone. In the hazy distance slumped The Soufflé as though it had finally caved in on itself in their absence.

He scoured the platform for a phone-box, leaving Toubec to watch him disappear into the crowd as he made his way toward one.

She followed him, standing beside the box as he made a call, looking over his shoulder for any who might be taking an interest. After five minutes he replaced the receiver, and joined Toubec.

'Let's grab a drink,' he said, gesturing toward a pub a little way from the station.

They ordered a crimson liquid and emptied capsules of caffeine into them. Sitting away from the other patrons in a shadowed alcove, Tranter kept his back to the wall and scrutinised any who entered. He had a hard guise of suspicion about him, more than he had shown whilst at Stone Hill.

A small black and white television sat on the counter, showing a teletext broadcast regarding the proposed European Nation:

[RIOTS IN MILAN OVER LEAKED EN PROPOSITIONS.

Previous tensions turned to rioting in Milan yesterday as leaked documents, containing plans to transform the country into one of three nuclear power hubs intended to power the unified nation states, were made public.

The documents, reportedly left in a hotel foyer in Marseilles and confirmed to belong to the Toulouse Europa Committee, reveal designs for a colossal network of power stations between regions of Milan, Luxembourg, and southern France.

Hotly refuted as the work of a fantasist counterfeiter, TEC chairman Johan Matan stated, "These documents are the work of a dangerous and conspiratorial person or group intent on spreading discontent and inciting violence. Already we have seen violence in several cities, and we are in talks with the police of six European nations to bring these persons to justice. I can confirm that no decisions have been made to turn Milan, or any other region, into a mass power system."

When asked if the design was plausible he declined to reply...]

'So what are we doing?' Toubec said, turning away from the television. 'We should let the office know we're back...'.

'No, there's no point.' Tranter replied bluntly. 'If they don't know we're back already then Stone Hill will make sure they know soon enough. We have to get moving as soon as possible, that's why I called someone I met whilst... Well, whilst in prison. I'm going to be picked up this afternoon and taken back to the border. From there I'll take the same route as...'

Captain Stumm, Toubec thought. 'What do you mean you're being picked up?' She asked instead. 'What am I supposed to do?'

He tried not to shrug but it happened anyway. 'I'm not going to take responsibility for you as well,' he took an exaggerated sip of his coffee. 'If you want to come then it's on your own back.'

'You know how to make a girl feel appreciated.' She rolled her eyes.

'I'm sorry, I've got to go and get something,' he said, standing. 'I'll be about ten minutes'.

She waited for a few moments, and then stepped toward the telephone at the bar. She paid the barman and pushed the 'talk' stub. The line trilled momentarily, before a cigarette-torn voice answered.

'Michael? It's Sally.'

'What's happening down there?' She heard the distinct sound of him standing quickly and his door closing shut. 'Every time I try to contact you I'm told I'm not allowed to connect.'

'It's a long story. I think they were listening in to our conversation. It wasn't a bad connection, we were cut off. It happened again last night.'

'Wait, they let you make a call... but they won't allow incoming calls?'

'I suppose they didn't want to make it so obvious...'

'Are you still there?'

'No, we left today. They weren't going to help us. Why were you trying to get hold of me? Did you find anything?'

'You wouldn't believe what I found. Can you meet?'

'Can you tell me now? I have to go away again.'

There was hesitation, and in the silence she could feel his frustration. Her line of work had never been able to afford him the closeness he yearned for; she had sacrificed him for her career for so many years. How much more could he take, she wondered. How long until she would mine the very last of his love?

He cleared his throat. 'There's a private Edgar Wallace, currently serving at J.R. Exeter for GBH and manslaughter. Looks like a bar brawl got out of hand and the local magistrate managed to wrangle it out of the military's hands. He'd served at Stone Hill for two years, and it looks like he's willing to spill the beans for a reduced sentence.'

'Can't wait to get back, eh?'

'Seems so. He's not the brightest bulb in the box if he thinks he'd be welcomed back after what he's alleged.'

'He's told you already?' Her ear was growing hot, and she noted Tranter had returned with a bag across his shoulder. She lifted a finger, signifying she wouldn't be long.

'The moment he considered there was a chance of him being released early he couldn't wait to tell us... But Sally, I'd really prefer to tell you in person...'

'I'm sorry, Michael. I know what I do isn't fair...'

There was another hesitation. 'Private Wallace has averred that the military test weaponry across the border. Not only that, he alleges that the weaponry originates from the United States.'

'Jesus...' She whispered. the implications were already spiralling into the realms of an international crisis. 'And they receive money to do so?' She nodded, pursing her lips.

'Call it receiving to do so or receiving to keep quiet, either way it's in contravention of the Monclova Treaty. And because it's counter to the most controversial treaty since Versailles there seems to be more money being pumped into this operation to keep it quiet than I've ever heard of.'

'Whatever's being tested must be something special to need to ship it over here.'

'Some of the things this kid has told us about beggars belief. Mexico and Cuba have kept a close eye on America since the war, they cant even test potato guns in the Nevada Desert without meso-American Intelligence being all over it.'

'Can you imagine what would happen if they knew?' Toubec said, her voice lowering. Tranter was looking at her quizzically and she widened her eyes to let him know she was on to something big.

'Another war is what would happen.'

'Only this time we'd be dragged into it.' His voice was weary, as though he had considered this over long weeks.

'Michael, I want to see you...'

'But you've got something important to do, I know. Listen, all this information, it's not really your department, is it? I've got it all here, the kid's statement and testimony... I've got a list of people who need interviewing, and several that need interrogating. There's a Czech Ambassador who's name has been dropped too many times for comfort, and some little known Brussels MP who obviously wants to make a name for himself in the worst possible way. Sally, I can't wait any longer with it in my lap, Barker's already asking questions about why I'm meeting a soldier who's not on our books. I have to let him know. If even half of what he says is true the firm will be made... I haven't said until now because I didn't know if you were safe or...'

'Mike,' Goose pimples had flared across Toubec's arms. 'Did he mention a Dr. John Camberwell?'

There was a rustle of papers, 'Irish virologist... He's cropped up a couple of times. Wallace mentioned the name but couldn't tell me any more. I've had do delve into his involvement myself. He lectures in Dublin and spent some time in Brussels a few years back. He's associated to the MP in some way, but God knows how.'

'He's dead. We found out last night after a call to Dublin University.'

'Dead? What were you doing investigating him?'

'Just following a lead. The moment we were told he was dead the phone was cut. Whoever was listening in on us didn't want us looking into Camberwell's background.'

'Christ. This is insane, Sal. By the end of the day Stone Hill will be swarming with MoD police. I don't care if the military look after their own, they can't cover this up if it's true.'

There was a moments hesitation between them as they remembered footage of the conflicts between the MoD and the MoC of the past. While the country tried to right itself after The Great Pathogen the two ministries had fought for control of the country, finally settling on a tentative coalition. That coalition had been hungering to fail and resolve upon a single power once and for all.

'Do what you have to do, Michael, and thank you.' She meant thank you for finding the information when she had offered so little herself, and yet it seemed strange to thank the incitement of what was to follow.

'I love you, Sally.'

'I love you too.'

She replaced the phone and shook her head at Tranter. 'We have ourselves a distraction at least, but we need to move quickly before the far side of the border becomes a bureaucratic circus.'

He questioned her and she told him about the phone call she had made to Michael previously. His brow furrowed when she mentioned Dr. Camberwell.

'Who the hell was he?'

'Whoever he was, it looks as though it wasn't only the Institute he visited when he went to Brussels.'

'That was years ago.' Tranter leant back and drew a hand lethargically across his mouth. 'What's he been doing since then?'

'It doesn't matter now, not for us, anyway.' She glanced at her watch. 'Michael will be with his boss already, within half an hour they'll be on the phone to God knows who. In a few hours time preparations will be being made to get to the bottom of this whole Stone Hill charade. We, on the other hand, should be concentrating on our crossing of the border.'

'We're being picked up in an hour.' Tranter looked uncomfortable. 'Look, Toubec...'

'Bridgewater, I know... I know why you're hesitant for us to go together. What you were involved in isn't exactly a mystery.'

He raised a brow, trying to feign surprise, though he wasn't sure why. His breach of conduct had been a minor sensation, heralded as The Bridgewater Affair in the broadsheets and The Ministry Rogue in the rags. Some papers had misunderstood and considered him to have been a government officer whom had lead a military group across the border, whereas others had simply focussed on the presumption that he had sent Captain Stumm to die unnecessarily. Which version Sally had read, and what she believed he was only vaguely interested in and, catching sight of the clock on the wall behind her, he stood and suggested they should be making their way.

A battered military carrier was waiting in the shadows of an alley deep in Dead Zone borough, it's black windscreen shining like a loitering Dark Lens.

Tranter thrust his chin toward it and placed his hand on Toubec's elbow, guiding her across the road. She considered pulling away, though a sudden realisation dawned on her that he was terrified of history repeating itself, that he feared there was a golden bullet waiting in a little-used rifle at Bridgewater destined to carve an unassuming hole in her temple, just as fate had reserved for Captain Stumm.

In the time it took them to cross the road toward the military carrier, Toubec had reduced the universe to clockwork, an enormous celestial machine in which she was an irrelevant appendage. As she stepped up on the curb, she saw two cogs revolving toward one another, she one, the golden bullet the other. She pulled her arm from Tranter's hold.

'Listen, you've got to stop thinking it's your job to protect me. It's freaking me out!'

'What do you mean?' He replied, stopping some yards from the carrier.

'Alluding to Stumm all the time, holding my arm to cross the road. It's making me feel like I'm heading to my grave.'

'I'm sorry, I didn't realise...' He lied, resisting the urge to lay his hand on her shoulder. As much as she annoyed him she was growing on him, like a satisfying itch or a favourably distinctive scar.

A rap on the windshield. Tranter turned and nodded, stepping to the passenger door and leaning in the open window.

'Beano? How've you been?'

Toubec stooped and peered in to see what looked like a homeless person, toothless and bedraggled. Ribbons hung from his lank hair and greasy beard. He peered over a pair of ridiculously feminine shades, his tobacco-yellow eyes on Toubec.

'I've been living. Who's this one?' His voice was thick as tar, the product of a life hungover.

'Toubec? Colm Beano. Beano? Sally Toubec.'

Beano raised his hand to the open window. Toubec shuddered as she took the stained fingers and grasped for as short a time as possible without appearing rude.

Tranter opened the rear door and motioned for Toubec to get in.

'Beano was a good friend to me while I was locked up. Looked out for me when everyone found out I worked for the MoD.'

'Lost my fair share of teeth over this one,' he said, grinning a smile like smashed crockery.

Toubec stepped away gladly and pulled the door closed behind her. Tranter threw himself into the passenger seat and turned to Beano, who lay his arm on the passenger headrest, turned to the rear window and began reversing down the narrow alley.

'Thank you for doing this. I'm sorry for calling but there was no other way we'd be able to get to the border.'

'Don't count your chickens just yet, Laur. There's been six arrests in the last month, people trying to get out of the city without papers. Reckon I know a way out that's not patrolled but then again I presume the others did too.'

They exited the alley and crawled through deserted backstreets until they were clear of Dead Zone and the city proper. Beano flicked on a radio that received police traffic in the local area. It was quiet for some time, the only transmissions received detailing the apprehension of an anarchist in the city. Beano thumped the dashboard, scattering cigarette butts.

'He was supposed to be moved three days ago, and now... God! Harry Lancaster, they'll put him away for good now, you see if they don't... Though I don't suppose a MoD man like you cares much for the people's politics.'

'I don't know what you think we do at the MoD, Colm, but we're established to protect.'

'Protect!' Beano snorted, snatching a cigarette from his pocket, lighting it with shaking fingers, and filling the car with wafting smoke. He jabbed his fingers at Tranter, dousing him with ash. 'How many times have we been here, Laur? Half the others in the tin with us had done nothing more than try to stay alive. Remember Jones? Stole bottled water. Four years for a crate of bottled water! And Goddard?'

'I know there were cases that don't sit right morally...'

'The law has to protect those who find a way to survive without committing crime.' Toubec interjected. Tranter raised his brow and looked out of the passenger window.

'She's going to shut the fuck up soon, right? Beano growled, staring at her in the rear view mirror. 'Otherwise I'm kicking her out right here. We've got a two hour drive ahead of us and I'm not going to listen to another second of that shit.'

Toubec opened her mouth, but thought better of it and sat back quietly.

They descended into a decaying aqueduct, stopping only once under an overpass as a small helicopter flirted across the landscape. They crawled out from under the bridge, Birmingham a haze behind them as they exited the aqueduct on to a barely passable country road, dust spiralling about them as they were buffeted violently.

Two hours, Toubec thought as her head connected with the safety bar of the window. She expected to have a brain haemorrhage in half that time.
Chapter Thirty-One.

South-easterly wind.

Three knots.

'Semilion's taking me out of here,' Priya said to Rosa as she cradled Edith in her arms.

'We thought you might not stay,' Rosa said, 'it didn't seem like you liked it here very much.'

'It's not that,' Priya said earnestly. 'I really do like it here. I mean, don't get me wrong. The kids nearly kill me... Especially this one here.' She buried her nose into Edith's neck and made gnashing sounds, much to Edith's delight. 'He just needs my help on something else.'

'Oh?' Rosa's eyebrows disappeared beneath her fringe.

'I don't think he'd appreciate me talking about it. It's something I can help with specifically because of my life before coming here. I've been working for him at night and working here during the day and it's really taking its toll.'

'I see. Well, I don't. But if it's a secret then it's a secret. Do you think you'll be coming back?'

'I hope so,' she said honestly. She had grown to like her role in the crèche. 'It shouldn't take long, this thing I'm doing. And when it's done I'll come back.' She wondered if it were true. She had been hoping that the transmission was some kind of obscure joke, or a riddle set by a bored and brilliant man.

Outside a wet mist hung over the village, and parents and siblings emerged from it like miserable ghosts to collect the children.

Priya was growing increasingly confused by her feelings for the village and her place in it. She had warmed to the people, to the crèche and to the pace of life, though her work with Semilion ignited her sense of self-preservation. She spent long hours decoding the message and found herself wondering whether she should simply run. Run away from any threat that might be, either imagined or real, and make it on her own across the border as she had intended all those long months ago when she and Selina had first arrived.

Yet what of Selina? She had grown even more content. Would she go with her? Priya didn't think she would. Unless, maybe, she told her of the broadcast.

*

'Dawn? 'Amber hit on the door with her palm. There was no reply. She hadn't heard from Dawn in days and had grown increasingly worried. Each morning she had knocked on the Corbin's door and each day she had been ignored. She feared that death had visited little William and the family were grieving in silence.

'Elizabeth? Reighn? Please!' Again she knocked, and heard footsteps sounding quickly inside.

The door opened and Dawn rushed out and almost knocked Amber aside. 'It's William...' She tried to say, but Amber had already pushed passed her and was making her way up the stairs.

Dawn followed quietly behind. She sat on a stool by the window, and watched Amber lean over William's colourful blankets. His arms lay by his side and his toothless mouth yawed motionless. Elizabeth sat on the bed by her brother, her hands clutched together between her legs. She looked at William sadly.

'Oh you poor thing,' Amber whispered, thinking him dead, but then William twitched and she flinched. 'He's still alive, Dawn, we need some warm water.'

'He...' Dawn said. Amber waited for more but nothing else came.

'Elizabeth, love, darling... Fetch your brother some water, there's a love.'

Reighn entered the room, stroking Elizabeth's hair as she passed him. He closed the door and stood in the corner of the room. 'How long do you think he has, Amber? Without proper medicine?' He said the words softly, hiding his harboured intentions of stealing his son to the border.

'There's not much fight left in him,' she smoothed his soft cheek and looked up to Reighn. 'It could be hours, it could be days. He's done well to last this long.'

He moved to the hearth, away from Dawn's snivelling. He had grown increasingly cold to her defeatism, as if tears could help their boy!

Several embers burned dully, and he stoked them with a bent piece of iron, they suddenly sprang to life and crackled brightly.

'If he had medicine... Do you think there would be a chance?'

'There's always a chance, Reighn. But there's nothing here for him.'

'I know...'

Dawn wiped her eyes and looked up at him.

'What are you thinking? You've got that guilty look in your eye.'

Amber picked up William and turned to Reighn, both looked at him curiously. He turned and stoked the fire again, a gesture he knew would confirm Dawn's suspicions that he was guilty of something. He straightened and was about to brush off her curiosity when Elizabeth returned with a kettle filled with boiled water, distracting them.

William's fingers clasped Amber's, and she turned to Dawn.

'Will you take him? He needs his mother's warmth.'

Dawn looked frightened, and turned from Reighn to Amber. 'But he doesn't want me... I only make him ill.'

'Don't say such a thing, darling.' Amber said, and carried the light bundle of blankets towards her.

Dawn trembled, but Amber placed him in her arms, and stroked her hair, and told her she would be well.

Elizabeth began to sniffle, and Amber comforted her in the darkening room. Reighn stood alone by the fire, stoking it slowly.

'There's a place where babies go when they're too sick to grow...' Amber said quietly, and Dawn, as though expecting the words, closed her eyes and turned her head to the window. She lay her forehead against William's, but could feel no breath.

'Heaven.' Whispered Dawn.

Reighn listened earnestly, thinking of the grave on the outskirts of Mortehoe where the countless young of former generations had been buried. That's all that waited for William, no peaceful afterlife in the arms of the Creator, just a slow decomposition amongst the scattered bones of strangers. He had spent the day deliberating on how to smuggle his son out of Mortehoe and offer him into the hands of those who might be able to help, but now, looking down into the ashen face of his boy, he didn't care how he would do it. He only knew that he must, regardless of the means or the aftermath; he would do whatever it would take to keep William alive. Come nightfall he would take him and make for the border, and live the rest of his life knowing he had tried.

Dawn took her face from William's and regarded him before lowering her head. Amber took him from her and lay him on the bed, covering his face with blankets. It was over.

Elizabeth put her hand to her mouth and asked something of Amber, her voice breaking. Amber hugged her tightly.

'No...' Reighn said, looking blankly at the lifeless bundle upon the bed. Frozen, his knuckles turned white as he grasped the mantelpiece. It had taken weeks and yet it had happened outside of time, unexpectedly and unfairly. He had planned to change it. He had had a plan. He was going to save his boy. It was decided.

He felt dizzy, his thoughts burned in him and yet none of them held fast. Time both stopped and flew, and the next thing he knew was he was opening the doors and windows in the house to let his son's soul escape, just as his father had done when his brother had died in infancy.

*

Priya had been troubled by the dots on the translation of the broadcast for some time. Semilion had presumed they were simply divides in the transmission, though the more she studied them the more obvious it became of their intent.

It was a countdown.

South-easterly wind. Fifteen knots.

South-easterly wind. Fourteen knots.

South-easterly wind. Thirteen knots...

She rifled through the pages of her transcript, trying to find the final mark, when the countdown would strike zero.

She found it and hurriedly marked the page with a brief calculation. She stared at it for a moment before standing and racing to the stairs.

She exited into the dark pub, the room's ghostly quiet and draped with impenetrable shadows. She felt along the walls until she found the staircase leading to the upper floors before taking them two at a time. She asked herself how she had washed up from near-death and landed in this situation. In her past a nameless teacher had told her that calamity clings to some like a parasite, feeding off its host's emotions.

'Semilion!' She hissed, not wanting to wake the entire household.

She called again, a little louder, and heard floorboards groaning above. He must be on the second floor. She came to a short hallway, pale moonlight illuminating the walls and guided her to another staircase leading to the second floor. She took the first step and it creaked loudly. She heard a door open.

'Who's there?' It was Semilion's wife, Sarah.

'Sarah? It's Priya. I need to speak with Semilion.'

Sarah came to the top of the staircase and began to descend it slowly. She still spoke in a whisper.

'What do you want? I'll not wake Semilion. He's dead tired.'

'This is important.'

'As is his rest. Now, what do you want of him? I'll try my best to help, and if I can't then we'll discuss waking him.'

'Fine. I need a calendar.'

'That's not a problem, there's one in the study upstairs. Follow me. Quietly... Walk on the edges of the stairs so they don't creak.'

Priya swallowed her irritation and did as she was asked. Semilion wasn't the only one who needed sleep. She had worked for weeks in the crèche and it was only in the last days she had been granted a reprieve.

She followed the sound of Sarah to the second hallway and then up a third flight of stairs to Semilion's study.

As she neared the top she heard Sarah strike a match and was suddenly silhouetted by candlelight. She lay the candle-holder on a cabinet before walking across the room and retrieving a small brown diary from a shelf of books. She returned and handed it to Priya before closing the door.

'What's this about?' She asked. She still spoke in a whisper though now it was in a louder, more authoritative tone. 'It's half-past four in the morning.'

'What day was it when Semilion receive the last broadcast?'

'I believe it was in August. The fifteenth, if I remember correctly. Maybe the sixteenth.'

Priya flipped through the book, Semilion's small, spidery handwriting filling the pages. On the page labelled the fifteenth of August he had written: J. Corbin requested bolts and cement. 15 metres rope weatherproofed and stored in B. Tyler's barn. L. Rayner's Mackerel supply corrupted. Received Shipping Forecast from J. Camberwell.

She took the transmission she had scrawled her calculation upon and muttered to herself.

'What are you doing?' Sarah insisted, though was cut short by Priya's penetrating glance.

Since coming to Mortehoe the days had become obscure and monthless. She knew it was autumn and would soon be bordering on winter – that was all. What day it was had become confusing and then irrelevant long ago.

She turned a final page containing Semilion's hand-writing, the following page blank, and assumed that it marked the current day.

'October Twentieth.' She stated. 'Today's Friday, October Twentieth.'

'What of it?' Sarah asked, bridling. She hadn't been keen on Semilion allowing her to work in the cellar throughout the night, and liked even less that she was now in his study demanding a private audience with him.

'You have to wake Semilion.' Priya said, growing pale.

'I won't. It's half four in the...'

'I couldn't give a shit what time it is, Sarah. Go and wake Semilion now or I'll wake him myself, and half of Mortehoe with him.' She thrust the piece of paper, upon which was pencilled her calculation, in Sarah's face. 'This is a countdown, Sarah. It started the day your husband received the last broadcast and has been running ever since without him knowing it. I've only just worked it out, and...' she swallowed and thought of all the time that had been wasted, 'and it ends in two days.'

'What? You must be wrong.'

'Whatever it is, or whoever they are, they've been readying themselves all this time and they'll be here on Sunday.'

Sarah's stern face dropped like a demolished building, and she stepped back towards the door, staring into Priya's anxious eyes, before turning and bolting from the room whilst calling for Semilion to wake.
Chapter Thirty-Two.

South-Easterly wind.

Two knots.

The cellar beneath The Smuggler's was humid and thick with smoke. Council members from all across the community were gathered, and the seventeen in attendance muttered amongst one another, hypothesising on the nature of the dilemma that brought them together.

A stocky, white haired man descended the last steps in an awkward fashion. He whistled when he saw the number gathered.

'What's all this, then?' He wheezed, laying a hand on the wall. 'Looks like we're all here, 'cept Semilion.'

'None know more than you, Turner,' someone said, and Turner shook his head, before reaching for his pipe. 'Buggeration! No bloody tobacco!'

A pouch was handed to him. He thanked the offering, then turned as Semilion dismounted the stairs and entered the council chamber. The council members fell quiet expectantly as he stepped past them, he tugged at his sleeves nervously and greeted them in turn. He took a box file from the crammed shelf and retrieved from it Priya's translation of Camberwell's broadcast.

'Gentlemen, thank you for coming. I apologise for not calling this council sooner. Some of you here know pieces of information, and all of you are aware of the patrols that have been increased in the south.'

'What's that all about?' Turner said, breaking away suddenly from his pipe.

'I'd like to explain everything and take questions afterwards if you don't mind.'

Priya had nearly finished the translation, and had the bruise-coloured bags beneath her eyes to prove it. She'd protested when he had asked her to clear out of the cellar, and said that if he gave her another few hours she would have more information – possibly even finish the entire transcript.

What she had revealed about the countdown had forced his hand, however. He couldn't wait any longer. He had told her to leave, to take the books with her and finish the rest at home if she wished, but he needed to call a council. There were no two ways about it, the time to hide was over, they needed an offensive, and quickly.

The gathered crowd watched him as he took a deep breath.

'In August I received a broadcast from John. Most of it roused little suspicion on the face of it. There was nothing on the international scene of much interest; no hold up in any of the various civil wars etc.. Very mundane. The thing is... John mentioned that since the last broadcast fifteen miles of land from the border had been reclaimed.'

'In one month? Nonsense!'

Semilion nodded understandingly, picking up the page and reading from it. 'Exmouth, south-easterly wind. Fifteen knots.'

'There's never been fifteen miles of land reclaimed in such a short space of time. Exmouth wasn't even mentioned the previous month.' Turner said.

'Which is the cause for concern, Bill. And that's not the only intelligence that worries me.' He looked down at the sheet once more, and read three simple words: 'Exmoor: Storm-front.'

The room fell into silence.

'What does that mean?'

'We've never heard of a storm-front before.'

'Well, look, it's been generations since these books were used... I've never had a reason to know what they all mean. I never even knew there were all the different code books belonging...'

'So it's not your fault! What does it mean?'

'I'll read you the transcription as it has been translated. "Duress. Extreme Hostility, danger. Broadcast no longer safe. Broadcast intercepted by friend-enemy. Close proximity friend-enemy."'

Several heads shook in exasperation, Semilion continued. '"Storm coming from the south east..."'

Gasps filled the cellar. He swallowed. The next line was the line that had convinced him finally to hold a council. 'Storm rising from fifteen knots, South-easterly. Reducing to Dead Calm at the peak of Orionids.'

'What's that?'

'The peak of Orionids refers to October's annual meteor shower. Unknown to us, gentlemen, there has been a countdown hanging over the community, and in two days it will reach zero. Come Sunday we are to be attacked from the south east.'

'Why the hell didn't you come to us sooner with this?' Turner shouted. Mutterings of concurrence followed.

'Gentlemen, as I said, I wasn't aware of these codes.'

'That still doesn't explain why you've kept us in the dark for so long. We should have been preparing for weeks!'

Semilion evaded their incriminating gazes, and avoided admitting to himself that it was his wife's condemnation that had lead him to believe he could minister the situation single-handedly.

Shouts joined the muttering, and though he didn't catch the words he knew he was once again being condemned.

'Duress. Extreme hostility. To be upon us by Sunday? That's the message?' Turner said after a long draw and exhale. His face became obscured by the lingering smoke.

'It is.'

'What of this month's report?'

Semilion's voice caught in his throat. This was more information that should have been shared with the council. 'There has been no broadcast since.'

An uproar swelled in the chamber, fingers were thrust in Semilion's direction, arms were thrown up in the air, fingers ploughed hair.

'And you kept this from us also?'

'What were you thinking?'

'You've no right!'

Semilion let the accusations flood over him. He had expected it and knew he deserved it. He looked up at the stairway and thought for a moment that Red Sawbone had taken the place of Turner. His heart leapt and he cleared his throat when he realised he was wrong.

Only Turner, he thought to himself, biting his dry lips.

Turner regarded the room earnestly, as though he had been reminded of something long before Semilion had become governor. Semilion watched the old man move toward the library shelves and perused them as though he was searching for a good book. He said something over his shoulder though his words were snatched away by the hollering.

'Gentlemen, please!' Semilion shouted, faces turned toward Turner.

'All this, every page of it, it was written with the intention of predicting and overcoming any problem we might face.' He spoke in a whisper, and then turned to Semilion. 'You've let it go to waste. Your grandfather, Carrick would never have let this happen.'

'This is no time to point fingers!' Semilion snapped, hitting the table. 'We need a resolution. That's why we're gathered, to discuss the meaning of this broadcast and find a solution!'

Eyes still lingered on him. Hateful eyes that accused and loathed him for leaving them in the dark over such a serious matter. When he spoke again his voice was calmer.

'Before Guliven left I told him to communicate with Camberwell and get more information. He should be returning tonight, or tomorrow...'

'We should employ the mirror.' Turner said. 'Make sure we're not being observed.' He raised his eyes to the ceiling and several council members nodded in agreement.

'Ok, that's a good idea, Bill. And we'll need to form some kind of front in the south-east, to stop whatever is coming our way.'

'You're not suggesting fighting your way out of this are you?' Bill asked.

'Of course. What do you suggest? Let them come and take us while we go about our business? If we're going down we're going down with a fight in our hearts. For the sake of our ancestors.'

'Our ancestors,' Bill continued, 'obviously had more in mind for us than common brawling. They used all their wiles and imagination to keep us safe. Not once in the books they left us does it mention raising arms.'

'It doesn't mention a full scale attack, either.'

'Maybe not, but that doesn't stop us using our own wiles now, does it?'

'How so?'

'Whoever is coming might not expect to find anything here. They may only have suspicions. You say there's a countdown so it doesn't seem as though this is a hot-headed attack, maybe it's simply a scouting mission...'

'Or a well –planned attack!' Someone snorted.

Turner ignored them, 'So I say we make the place look as dead as though it's been uninhabited for generations, just as they'd expect to see, and pull back into the countryside. We can grind soil as dust, drag weeds across the roads and disguise them with fallen leaves... and if no-one objects we could exhume a corpse or two to authenticate the scene.'

Another surge of disapproval resounded in the chamber, accompanied by twisted mouths and berating glances.

'Would you have us dig up your ma, Turner?' A voice from the back of the cellar called. 'Throw her bones in the street like manure?'

'I'm just saying,' Turner continued, 'that we could make this place look as dead as dead can be. Make it look as it's supposed to look until they leave.'

'No,' Semilion said firmly. 'I appreciate what you're saying, Bill. But there's too much here for them to investigate should they find anything. Take the mill, for example, or the mirror. Do you think they would take a look at these devices and just leave? And the hotel cellar? What do you think happens when they find the Dekeyrel's work?

'The community is obviously in danger, does anyone disagree with that?' It was Ben Pilgrim who spoke, his hair and beard red and lank. His face was twisted in a perpetual squint. 'Regardless what we think the issue is we need to set up the old defences,' he hesitated momentarily. 'We should think about speaking to the Dekeyrels and Ruben Halifax. Where's Pollman?'

His words had the effect of turning several members pale.

Semilion took a deep breath and nodded gravely. He heard Red Sawbone's words, as guttural and menacing as they had been thirty years ago: 'If I ever have to step foot in this cancerous warren and attend your incompetence...' the words had been roared at his father but he knew they had been intended for Mortehoe's governor, whomever that might be. He nodded and addressed the council. 'If someone is descending on us then yes, it's sensible to turn to them.'

'What do they have that would keep the old-world at bay?'

'Other than the usual deterrents.'

'They have a strain to keep outsiders at bay for a long time. Garth?'

Eyes turned on Garth Pollman, the milky-eyed governor of the laboratory. His voice was slow and heavy with sagacity, as though he would scare his audience into choosing another path. 'We have a deterrent so virulent we near exterminated it immediately without further research. After much deliberation we kept it in isolation and set about working on a vaccine for it. Then we destroyed it, retaining only the information to make more coded DNA strings should it ever need be created.'

'So it is ready to be made should we have need for it?' Turner asked, peering over heads to see the bow-backed man.

Garth sighed, his attempt to discourage the use of the virus he feared so much having failed. 'You have to understand what this thing does. It dissolves all cells. Skin, organs, bones, all liquefied within hours. Think what S18K4 did to the world. This virus could wipe away what's left.'

The gathering stared at him expectantly, their silence a statement that they would not be convinced.

'The information was divided and spread throughout Mortehoe and Woolacombe.' Garth said slowly, his knuckles white on the pommel of his cane. 'It was considered too dangerous to be kept as one. It can be gathered if needs be, the papers are in the hands of several men here. It would take as little as a week to grow a culture of the virus ready for dispersal...' His words faltered. They were discussing a holocaust. 'But... if we released it on whomever is coming from Exmoor it would be released into the animal population.' One attack, he thought, surely one attack doesn't warrant unleashing another plague on the world? Manipulating S18K4 and infecting the local animal population had been contained, a defence separating them from the old-world. This was no less than a genocidal pre-emptive strike. His cloudy eyes searched for Semilion. Was it really necessary to assemble the DNA strings?

Attention was again on Semilion. It had been on his order to disband the papers, so frightened was he of the virus he had been shown.

He had witnessed a hairless rat succumb to the airborne strain, and watched in horror as the creature's pink skin darkened with bruises in four hours. Rapid animate necrosis, that's what Christina Dekeyrel had called it. First soft tissue blackened, eyes and orifices turned to pus, within six hours organs were nothing more than sacks of viscosity, by which time the rodent had long expired. Decomposition continued swiftly, eating away at bone marrow until all that was left were fractured bone erupting from a syrupy pool. More alarming than the quick death and decomposition of the animal was the resulting bubo, a dark green swelling that arose from the waste of the corpse. It bloated into a tightly drawn boil, powdery and flaking, rancid and smouldering before it finally burst - coating the double-glazed partition with its residue.

He had been told that the effects would take longer in humans, though death would be expected to occur within twelve hours. If the vaccine was not taken in the first thirty minutes then there would be no reversal.

'And the bubo?' He had asked, still horrified by the speed of its pollination.

'Fire neutralises it, and kills the virus... But once it's burst and it's in the atmosphere, well, we can't recreate that here. There's no telling what would happen.'

He considered these words as the council looked at him expectantly.

'We've a busy day ahead of us. Garth? I believe you already have the antitoxin on standby? I want everyone inoculated. Tam, Richard, Greg, you go and help, take vaccination kits with you and go door to door. I don't want anyone missed.' He turned back to Garth. 'I want you to prepare a cultivation of the virus. Those here who have the documents containing the DNA strings hidden in your homes, go now and take them to the hotel. Robert, Garret, Frank, Mark, we need to discuss our strike, I'd be grateful if you'd remain here.'

Several people turned to leave the library, the rest stood immobile, unable to comprehend what was to happen to their community.

'If they want a fight, we'll give them one they never expected.' Semilion said, drawing some from their trances. He had meant it to rouse a fire in them, though by the looks of it they were more nervous than he had ever known them.
Chapter Thirty-Three.

Bridgewater.

Dusk was some hours away, yet the roiling cloud darkened the grassy landscape of Bridgewater and made the border upon the horizon appear more lonesome than Stone Hill.

Beano manoeuvred the old carrier to a copse of trees, well out of range of the motion cameras, and cranked the handbrake swiftly.

'We're here,' he said gruffly as he pressed the ignition and gestured away from the border. 'Head north until you hit the water.'

Tranter followed Beano's finger, catching the scent of a lifetime's nicotine-permeated skin. He knew where they should go, he had planned the possible routes captain Stumm could take down to the last detail. That had been years ago, two lifetimes with the interim of prison, yet it was still as fresh in his mind as though he had been scouring the maps with Stumm that very morning.

'Thank you,' he said quietly, fishing in the black bag on his lap uncomfortably and retrieving several black disks. He handed them to Beano, whose yellow eyes became mesmerised.

Toubec sat forward. 'What the hell? They're ministry chips! How do you expect to spend those?'

'Believe me, darling, there's a lot one can do with these chips. I might not be able to buy bread with them but I can enlist the silence of a few officers, if you know what I mean?'

'Tranter...' She began.

'Well, just don't tell them where you got them,' he interrupted. 'There's enough there to make you a target.'

'If anyone asks I'll say me and the tooth fairy've got a thing going.' He smiled and bared the debris of his mouth.

Toubec unbuckled herself and stepped from the carrier, the wind rousing her hair as she did so.

'Suppose you're hoping for a repeat performance of Stumm with that one, eh? Bring her down especially to take one in the forehead? No loss, if you ask me.'

'I didn't.' Said Tranter, patting Beano on the forearm as he stepped from the carrier.

The ignition growled and the vehicle reversed, disappearing into the copse. The engine hummed on the wind until it was imperceptible, leaving Tranter and Toubec alone in the countryside, the border and horizon flanking them.

'Come on,' Tranter said with feigned determination. 'Over that hill's the channel. We should aim to be there by nightfall.'

'What else have you got in your purse?' Toubec asked. She hoped he had brought some useful provisions with him though it seemed he had gathered only the barest of necessities. Isotonic and protein boosters, a torch, and an old two way radio he had bought from police-surplus.

He trudged through the high grass and Toubec followed, keeping a few paces behind. She had heard the comment Beano had made, and though her prime reaction was one of anger, it had left an aftertaste of fear in her stomach.

For an hour they walked in silence, a break in the clouds illuminating the land floridly.

Toubec stopped, her chin in the air as though a scent captivated her. Tranter continued walking, until he became aware that he could no longer hear the accompanying swish of grass behind him. He turned, and saw her inquisitive stance.

'What is it?'

Toubec remained quiet, and after a moment Tranter began to retrace his steps toward her. She held out her hands and he stopped, looking around as though she had perceived something invisible to him.

'Don't you hear it? There....'

He heard nothing but the wind rushing through the grass.

'And there...'

He looked into the middle distance, switching perception to his hearing. There was nothing but grass and wind. And birdcall, and the random buzz of insects now that he thought about it as he tried to marshal all the sounds of the countryside. He lowered his eyes further, trying to perceive beyond the grass, to make the rustling a baseline. And then he heard it also.

It was nothing more than a drone, a resonance that seemed to emanate from nature, like the churn of the sea or the humid expectancy preceding a storm, but this vibration was irregular, changing with the wind.

How Toubec had heard it minutes ago under the snapping briar beneath their feet he didn't know, it was only barely perceptible to him now.

'Is it getting louder?' he asked, looking up to her. The moment he focused on her and drew attention away from actively listening he knew that it was. He could easily hear it now, and she nodded at him nervously.

His first thoughts were of the garrison at Bridgewater behind them. Had they discovered and come to collect them? He cursed under his breath and turned in the direction of the border. It was out of sight, far beyond the horizon, and he spun around to find cover.

There was another copse a quarter mile or so to the east, and he grabbed Toubec by the arm and thrust her in its direction. She was pulled from her concentration and almost plummeted to the ground, though she corrected the fall and wrenched her wrist from Tranter.

Birds erupted from the grasses and the trees, flooding high into the air, predator and prey alike spiralled in the russet rays of the shifting heavens. In her confusion Toubec saw a group of white-tailed deer prancing from the copse in a wild panic. They're heading in the wrong direction, she thought fleetingly, though disregarded them to their own fate as she disentangled herself from a bramble.

A moment later they heard the roar of a helicopter rotor tearing at the sky followed by the unmistakable emphasis of an engine. Still the wind drew at the sound, but now there was no misinterpreting it.

Rhinox had been deployed.

They looked over their shoulders as they ran, expecting the elephantine craft to appear out of the sun in the west, from Stone Hill, low on the ground and churning the earth in their pursuit, but for the increase in vibration they could still see nothing.

The ground reverberated, and the thunderous throb of the blades became deafening. Toubec clamped her hands to her ears, and although Tranter resisted, it wasn't long before he followed her example.

The copse was little under a hundred yards away, and for the shaking earth and screaming in their ears it was as much as they could do to stumble forward, falling to their knees as their feet were shaken from their purchase. Still they struggled on, checking the horizon for any sign of the machines that were shattering their eardrums. Nothing. Where where they? Tranter worried for a moment of the effect they would have when overhead if this were the devastation they wrought from a distance.

Toubec cast a glance once more over her shoulder, and saw the herd of deer separate across the grassland when the obvious struck her.

'We're heading straight for it!' She shouted, reaching for Tranter. Her voice was whipped away and she hurled herself forward, her fingers hooking his flapping jacket. He turned, shielding his eyes from the driving leaves and refuse. They both stumbled to their knees as the sky above the copse began to ripple.

They arrived in a wave of internal thunder, not from behind as expected, but from beyond the copse before them. Two Rhinox, some distance apart, escorted by six small police helicopters encircling them. They ascended from behind the rise; heat vapours pluming from turbines as they crested the trees and shattered them.

Three of the small helicopters thrummed overhead as the closest Rhinox hauled its shadow over the ragged trench it was ploughing in front of Tranter and Toubec. He felt their downdraught push him, almost nudge him out of the way of the Rhinox, which he knew would either launch them so forcibly that their every bone would be crushed to shale, or pin them to the ground with much the same effect as the demolished earth. He screamed and grabbed Toubec once again, and this time she didn't resist.

He drew her from her knees, her cries lost to the pandemonium of vibration, engine's roar, snapping branches, and cracking earth. He dragged her as far as he could before the Rhinox's downstream thumped him hard in the back. He felt it as a shovel to the spine, and he was lifted from his feet as though swept up by a tsunami. The great shadow of the machine drew closer, the broken earth in its wake rushed towards him. He knew his ears were damaged beyond repair, and he expected to be crushed alongside the earth about him as the craft passed overhead. But not Toubec. He wouldn't have her blood on his hands. Not again.

He pushed her forward, little aware of what he was pushing her into. A wedge of soil, from which protruded a shaft of flint, struck him in the cheek. He saw blood spray into the winds, felt the flesh ripple in the vibrations that penetrated him. Dust and grit burned his face, stung the wound, and filled his mouth. The hulking form of the Rhinox was above them, the screaming reverberations seemingly reduced to a singularity, piercing his skull and draining colour, sight, then consciousness from him in a precipitous embrace.

He hit the floor like a discarded marionette, pushed several feet by rolling detritus. The shadow of the Rhinox passed, the singularity of disorder diverged into a commotion of winds, turbines, rotors and vibrations; the earth stopped shaking, and the dust began to settle.

Toubec lay face down, her arms gripping the back of her head desperately. Half covered by loose soil and scattered branches, she got to her knees and turned to find Tranter, cuffing blood from a cut on her brow. Her ears rang loudly, screaming an echo of the vibration that was now long passed. It made her dizzy, and she stumbled forward before vomiting in the grass. The heaves turned to tears of shock, and for a moment she remained on her knees, retching and sobbing and wiping the blood from her forehead.

The hum of the second Rhinox passed some distance away, a shadow in the pastel afternoon, a mile-wide trail of dust bulbous at its tail.

Two of the smaller police helicopters whined overhead, lashing at her hair. She hooked it behind her ears and watched the retreating craft. Were they the result of her call to Michael? Were they on their way to Stone Hill?

She watched them in a daze, the thought of Michael reminding her why she was throwing her guts into the grass, why she was deaf, why she was crying.

'Laur!' She called, running her forearm across her eyes and stepping on to the wide furrow of split and turned earth.

She saw him, buried up to his torso and bleeding profusely from his cheek. She rushed to him and hovered over his wound anxiously. It gaped wide, and she could see his bloody tongue and torn gums.

Instinctively she held her hand to her mouth as she placed a finger to his throat. A pulse beat weakly. Though at least it beat.

Should she wake him, she wondered as she tore an arm from her shirt to cover his wound. She hesitated. How could she bandage a cheek?

She cursed, wishing she had taken advantage of the first aid courses offered by employers. She had taken some years ago, but they had been preliminary courses, bandaging, slings, and recovery positions; there was nothing that dealt with treating a torn cheek from both sides. Blood pumped across his face, turning her stomach again, though it spurred her to take the cloth and wrap it about his jaw. She tore away her second, before tossing the muddied fabric away, and then ripped Tranter's inside jacket before pressing it between his gums and his inner cheek. It was pathetic, and already the outside bandage was blossoming scarlet. She reached down and ripped her tights, adding them to the dressing and tying them at his crown.

She lay her finger on his throat again. His pulse was metronomic. What she was waiting to feel she didn't know; a break in rhythm to indicate impending arousal? She had no idea how much time would pass before he might wake.

A glance about her solidified her fear that there were no local materials to aid her, no shelter even, not after the Rhinox had near decimated the copse. She thought of the two-way radio Tranter had purchased and considered calling for help. Perhaps this was as far as their journey should take them, she thought, wondering if one of the smaller helicopters might receive her broadcast and return. It was gone, however, lost under the earth and debris.

They were alone.

She remained beside him, her ears wailing and her fingers resting gently on his throat; the breeze tousling her hair and the birds reeling in disorientation.
Chapter Thirty-Four.

South-easterly wind.

One knot.

They convened in the afternoon at Bull Point, the sky overcast though thinning to reveal shafts of white that glided across the landscape.

Thirty men. Semilion had ordered their presence and they had come. When he told them of the threat their community faced, the threat their world faced, they had grown pale and asked how they were to defend against the old-world. They had brought with them any weapon they possessed, though truly it was a sorry sight to go up against military arms. Shovels, bats, hatchets, knives, several bows with copper-tipped arrows. Semilion had hoped more guns would be present, though between them there was only a single handgun with four magazines and his own shotgun. Tinder carried a rifle that fired tranquilliser darts, the tranquillisers laced with S18K4. The second party moving to the high ground of High Willhays in the south were in a similar state, though at least they had left in a more fearsome spirit. His own group had spoken of little other than how ill-equipped they were.

'They've got guns!' Stated a man Semilion hadn't seen in some years. He lived in Woolacombe and kept to himself.

'We only need to hold them off for a few days. By the time the Dekeyrels have decoded their DNA strings and have bred their virus we can return, bringing our attackers with us. They might have better weapons than us but we've got knowledge of the terrain and a passion to remain here.' Semilion said angrily. 'Technology can't overthrow that.'

'Training can!' Another said, rousing support from others. 'Years and years of training.'

Semilion looked to those he trusted for support. Tinder leant against a post, though stood upright. 'Training don't count for shit when you're in terrain you've never seen'.

Semilion nodded approvingly and turned to Reighn, though he looked as though he didn't know what day it was – let alone the situation. William's death had struck him hard, and had left him nearly insensible.

'Reighn,' Semilion said.

Reighn looked up, and for a moment he appeared he would agree with the Woolacombe men, and he held himself as though the fight in him had died with his son.

'I say if we're to go down then we take whoever we can with us.'

'That's more like it,' Semilion said, still not satisfied, 'though they're not going to take us down. We've been on this land for over a hundred years. Our pas died here, as did their pas, and their pas before them. This soil is made of our blood and by God we're not yielding it to anyone.'

He had their attention. Some had risen from their slouches; he saw their hands tightening on bow-shafts and hatchets. 'You're all born from the stock that fought to build this place. They risked their lives. They killed to build everything here, and though the military have guns to outnumber our own, we share a heritage with survivors! We survived everything the old-world threw at us. We survived the plague. We survived the collapse. We survived everything! And we will do so again!'

Chests were near visibly filling with pride, and he could see the swell of dignity transform them. They held their paltry tools as though they brandished weapons of mass destruction, and he saw their lips harden as though he had drained them of all apprehension. He turned to the man who had feared the number of guns they would face.

'They have more guns, I guarantee they will and you all know it. But what they don't have is a family down there like you do. They're not fighting for a cause that means anything, whereas you are. You fight for your daughters and your wives, or the children you're yet to have. Do you want them to wake each morning in a prison cell for the rest of their lives? Or rather the same sea breeze and wildflowers that you've enjoyed? You're not fighting against guns, you're not even fighting against men, you're fighting against weakness. Only the weak need enslave. Only the weak need conquer. They know they are vulnerable and in turn stamp their feet like children. Well, we're the hand that slaps the child and puts it in its place.'

Someone shouted in ascent whilst another spat angrily. They were far from warriors, he thought. They were nothing but farm labourers, carpenters and blacksmiths, yet they were free men who feared repercussions. Repercussions of their ancestors, repercussions of living secluded, repercussions of nearly every aspect of their survival. Once face to face with their enemy, Semilion thought, that fear would bend them into a formidable opponent.

He nodded to Tinder, who slung the rifle's strap across his chest and picked up his axe. He shouted at the men to follow him before striding south. It was strange to see him in such a role, though it was strange to see any of them march off to fight. Tinder carried himself well, Semilion thought, his axe resting on his shoulder as though they were doing nothing more than marching to fell an offending tree.

Semilion stepped to his equipment. He slung a bulky radio transmitter, with which he would use to keep contact with the party destined for High Willhays in the south and those left in the village. He hauled it to his back, and he wished for a moment that he had spent more on a lightweight set all those years before when he had told Kelly to purchase them. They were of old army stock, from some unknown era, and although they had been cheap they were sturdy and reliable – if a hindrance to carry.

He looked up at the lighthouse. No-one had seen Ted for a long time, and he had ignored any calls to attend the council meetings or survey of the south. Semilion had tried several times, yet was suddenly angry that Ted should be so overwhelmed by the death of his dog.

'Ted?' He shouted up to the windows, then stepped toward the door and hammered on it forcibly. 'Ted, you miserable coward, come down here now!' His palm thundered on the door until it hurt. 'I don't have time for this, Ted. Either you open up this door or I'm going to waste a shell blowing the damn thing off its hinges. You don't lock me out of my own property!'

He waited a few moments, wondering if Ted might come to the door, or whether he was hiding behind it.

'If you're there you better step away!' On the count of three he blasted both barrels into the lock, though it took another three shells to shatter the old latch on the inside.

'Five shells, Ted. They could have been used on our enemy!' He kicked the door open and stepped inside.

Smoke hung lazily in the room, and dust wafted up from the door swinging open. As he entered he knew something was wrong, he could smell the familiar odour of stagnation that wafted up from the stables after livestock had died.

Semilion lowered his gun and sighed. 'God damn you, Ted.' He whispered, and began to slowly ascend the serpentine stairway that circled to the first floor. There the smell was stronger, and yet it wasn't the smell of death. Old sweat tainted the air, accompanied by the bitter stench of infection and shit.

'Ted?' Semilion asked tentatively, moving from room to room. They were all empty and shuttered, though when he neared the third doorway he held his breath and knew that he was inside.

In the darkness he could see a form prostrate on the floor. Semilion lay his shotgun by his feet and rushed to the window, hurling the shutters wide and dragging the window open. He turned back and started. The man on the floor was covered in blood and beads of sweat pricked his face and bare chest.

It wasn't Ted.

'He took Breaker!'

Semilion flinched and nearly attacked Ted, who stood in the shadows behind him. He stared at him, his heart racing, then turned back to the stranger.

'Who the hell is he?'

'He's a Lundian. I found him. It were him that killed my Breaker.'

'Is he dead?' Semilion asked, crouching beside the man, though he could see his heartbeat pulse weakly at his throat.

'He's not dead. I wanted him to suffer.' His voice was detached, though it began to break. 'The bastard has been here for months, hiding up in Lee Wood. He told me and thought I would spare him the knife...'

'He's a spy?' Semilion stood and turned back to Ted, laying a hand on his shoulder and making him look squarely in his eyes. 'Ted. You've got to tell me everything you know. What did you ask him?'

Ted's eyes were full of tears, and Semilion wondered whether he had destroyed his own mind as he had broken the man's body. 'He hid in Lee Woods. Breaker found him, and look,' he pointed desperately at the man's arm, 'he tried to bring him to us. Bit him good and proper, he did. I left the wound to go rotten, so Breaker can finish him off, avenge himself!' He spat on the man who twitched, as though whatever unconscious nightmare he was suffering mirrored the real world.

Ted breathed heavily. 'He knifed Breaker, and dumped him in a hole... though he never knew it were a shaft for the mill. He didn't know he'd ever be found... But he was found weren't he? Found ripped in two by the waterwheel... And I knew it weren't right. Didn't I! I knew Breaker would never have gone off like that without a reason. I knew he wouldn't fall down no bloody hole... So I went out looking, and I found him bandaged and bleeding.'

'What did he tell you?' Semilion asked desperately.

'Tell me? Told me his confession, didn't he! Tried bribing me first though, said he would pay me to keep quiet...' He kicked the man in the leg. 'What do I need with money?'

'Why is he here? How long has he been here?'

'Months. Years. If not him then someone else. They've been here since Carrick killed their boy, watching us in the darkness and reporting back to Lundy... Telling them all our doings and goings on.'

'And what does he know of the attack from the south?'

Ted looked up at him. 'What attack?' His eyes searched Semilion's, as though there were still a sane part of him clawing to get out.

Semilion placed his hand on Ted's shoulder. 'You've got to head down into the village. Get one of the lads I've left behind to come here and sort this man out. I want him looked after. Have him taken to the Smuggler's and see that Amber tends to him. We need him alive. Jesus Ted, you know what Red would do if this man died. You remember what he did when the Borderly boy was killed.'

Ted looked down at the Lundian. The man's face was porcelain and he twitched under his fever.

'Get that wound sorted,' Semilion ordered again, gesturing at the Lundian's ravaged arm, 'and make sure he's ready to ship back to Lundy by the time I get back.'

'Where are you going?' Ted asked, looking up to Semilion like a lost child.

'I'm going to Dunkery Beacon.' He decided not to waste time explaining why he was heading to the highest point of Exmoor, some thirty miles away, fearing Ted to be non compos mentis. 'I'm taking some men with me. Now, Ted, what are you going to do?'

'I've got to take him to Amber, get her to tend to him while you're at Dunkery Beacon...'

'Good enough. Do it as quickly as you can.' He stepped backwards and out of the room. On his descent of the stairs he looked up and saw Ted looming over the body, as though he were preparing to haul it to the Smuggler's himself. 'Get someone to help you,' he shouted before lumbering back out of the door into the waning light.

*

An evening sun, the colour of tired deserts, turned the buildings of Mortehoe pastel-peach, and their windows to livid flame.

Semilion had left Baron in charge of Mortehoe, and told any other remaining council member to keep silent about the threat from the south. He had spread the word that the fishermen of Putsborough had requested Mortehoe's help in constructing storage facilities and Semilion, in the name of neighbourly kindness, had answered.

No-one questioned their leaving, though once they had gone an air of unease hung over those remaining. They felt unguarded and empty, and feared natures abhorrence of vacuums would rush to fill their emptiness with something unwanted.

News of their leaving had bypassed the mill altogether, though Baron had told George to join him on the Smuggler's roof and keep his eyes open for anything out of place.

Selina trudged home, noting the streets were increasingly quiet now that autumn was in full sway. She didn't see Baron and George watching her as she passed by the eerily quiet Smuggler's.

She heard a door slam behind her and saw a family hustle into the mist, bags of belongings beneath their arms. She watched them momentarily, wondering where they were going, then continued on her way home.

Her footfall seemed lonely on the road, muffled by the crisp leaves that formed a bank along the street. She already missed the sense of life that the village had radiated on their arrival. During the summer, with its untended wildflowers and untamed trees, Mortehoe seemed the very heart of nature - yet in the grip of autumn it had become a cold and desolate place, a place that drew mist from the sea and slumbered beneath it for days. The unkempt fashion that appeased in summer now created a sense of despondency that reminded her of a fairy tale. The leaning buildings, the narrow street, the bent trees, it made her long for the warmth and colour of spring.

'Evening, Miss.'

Selina jumped and raised her hand to her chest. Bill Turner was reversing out of his front door, negotiating the tall doorstep cautiously.

'Jesus, Bill, you frightened the life out of me.'

He exhaled a wheezing laugh before straightening and closing the door behind him. 'Sorry about that, dear. Out at sea, were you?'

'I was just thinking how I miss the summer.'

'Hmm. Hard months ahead before that. Not a warm toe in the village between now and May.' He looked at her curiously. 'What are you doing out?'

'Just heading home. The Smuggler's is empty.'

'Well, it's no time to be sitting around chatting.' He said, but he stopped himself before he said any more. 'I'm heading up to the old barn.' He motioned behind her, to the high wall that ran the length of the road. He meant the barn beyond the wall, and beyond the houses atop it. The barn that was never visited.

'What's up there?' Selina asked.

He hesitated a moment, then considered it wasn't a secret. 'The mirror. It's a telescope of a fashion.'

'Ah,' she nodded deeply, recalling George mentioning it some months previously. 'George mentioned it not long after Priya and I arrived. He said he'd take me up there one day.'

'Yes, I imagine he did.' He smiled wickedly. 'Well, I'm heading up there now.'

'I thought it wasn't used anymore?'

He hesitated again, knowing Semilion would be furious if he disclosed the reason for his operating the mirror. 'It's not used, but we tend to it from time to time. It was a marvel in its day and, as you know, we waste nothing here.'

'Can I see it? George said he'd take me but...'

'Aye... Come on then. There's no reason why not.

He put his arm through hers and they ambled along the remainder of the road, remarking on the beautiful evening and passing their time with small-talk. One thing she had noticed since her coming to Mortehoe was that there appeared to be few, if any, people who were socially inept. They were carefree with their words and rarely tongue-tied or bashful. They spoke from their hearts and rambled about anything, personal or otherwise, without shame or apparent inhibition. Initially she had been shocked by this, memorably when Betty had spoken openly about a rash on her crotch, though she had grown accustomed to it - and even found herself speaking in a way she would have never dreamt before.

Priya loved it, the brazen side of her had unfurled its wings and soared. Selina felt as though the want to speak frankly had been the bane of Priya's life in the old world. She felt sure that the child of foster care and shifting homes had grown a hard shell and an arsenal of verbal ammunition to defend it in a society with little tolerance of disrespect. Now she could say anything she liked, and no-one batted an eyelid.

They pushed through a bush and exited on to a open field the colour of dry blood. At the far end was an old building which slanted precariously, and they trudged toward it, Selina wishing she had worn shoes other than the thin moccasins she wore at the mill. They were perfect for ladders but were no match for the flint decorating the space between them and the barn.

'I were a boy when pa first brought me up here,' Bill said, 'thought it was a wonder to be able to look up into the sky and see all what's up there. Me and my brother spent more time up here than we did in school until Carrick put a stop to it.'

'Why'd he do that?'

'It wasn't a practical way to spend our time, so he said. I suppose he was right in a way, we'd not seen anything since we'd started learning how to operate it with our pa; the only thing we clung to was the story he told us, about seeing a satellite when he was a young man. Heh, once!'

'So what did you do after that?'

'Well, I was sent down to the cattle mine and Gordie was put to the salt. He hated it.'

'I don't think I've met him.' She said, worried he was going to say he was dead.

'Ah, he keeps himself over the way,' he waved his hand toward Woolacombe. 'got himself married and...'

'Sel?'

They turned, Bill's voice dwindling until he saw Priya behind them.

'Priya!' He exclaimed like a teenager, releasing Selina's arm as though he'd been caught in flagrante. His face broke into a smile, obviously enamoured, and took a few steps toward her, arms open to receive, allowing himself this one little pleasure before his world collapsed around him.

Selina smirked at the sudden change in him, and contained herself when the two embraced, Priya stared at her wide-eyed as Bill squeezed her extensively. She had been on her way to find Selina and tell her about the threat coming from the south and convince her that it was time to leave. No more arguments, no more conversations about how things would turn out for the best. It was time to move, and the swifter the better.

Priya coughed delicately and peeled herself away, smiling sweetly at him. 'How are you, Bill?' Her words hid her bitterness. He knew exactly what was happening, though was prepared to keep it from them. He had no idea she knew of the threat coming beyond the horizon, and although she too had kept her knowledge secret she wondered how long he would keep them in the dark. Would he say nothing? Even as soldiers came and dragged the villagers from their beds? If that was who was coming. Would he still claim ignorance, even then?

'Good for seeing you, I was just showing Selina the mirror. Would you like to join us?'

'I'd love to,' she replied as he slipped his arm into hers.

'I was calling after you,' she said to Selina, 'I guess you didn't hear me. I was in the Smuggler's and saw you coming back from the mill.'

'Sorry, I thought it was empty.' She walked beside the two of them until they reached the large building. It was evident now that most of the roof was missing, covered by a thick canvas.

'Looks like it's taken a beating,' Priya said, indicating the large hole beneath the fabric.

Bill unhooked his arm and unlocked the wide door. 'That hole's there by design,' he said, pulling on the door. It creaked loudly on rusting hinges, and he gestured them to enter before closing the door and lighting several solar lamps.

In the centre of the room was a thick wooden ring at waist height. It was large, the three of them could probably fit across its diameter, and it was protected by a dusty patchwork sheet. Priya and Selina stepped towards it while Bill smiled at their wonder and moved toward several ropes that hung from the rafters. He pulled gently on the first; pulleys squeaked and jangled in the darkness. Slowly the canvas which masked the hole was drawn back, revealing a purple sky.

Priya took hold of the sheet covering the mirror and pulled it away. Beneath it was a glass dome that gleamed brightly under the solar lamps.

'This must have cost a pretty penny back in the day,' Selina said as Bill tied up the last rope. The hole in the ceiling was completely unveiled, and he looked up at the wide sky, noting the first stars beginning to shine in the gloaming.

'Indeed,' he sighed. 'All the money of our ancestors combined went into what the Dekeyrel's do, the mill, and this. God knows how they did it, or who they paid to make it... Excuse me.' He stepped beside Selina to a wooden lever, the channel in which it lay circling the mirror's circumference. He pushed it, and the well-oiled mechanics beneath churned as though made of liquid. A shutter beneath the glass unfurled, and the dome changed colour, reflecting the clear Persian-blue evening.

He rounded the mirror and took hold of another lever, pushing more slowly, drawing the lens into focus.

'Wow,' Selina said, speechless, as she looked across the pool of night below her. Stars began to form as glowing mist, shrinking as Bill gently eased the lever. The mirror was awash with obscure shapes which shrank until the entire dome was entirely focused.

Priya leaned on the wooden rim, gazing at the spectacle below. 'I don't care how much I disagree with what goes on here. The biased justice system and lies, the blatant fact that this is a dictatorship under the guise of a utopia...' She said, lifting her eyes to Bill, 'that is impressive.'

Before them, upon a mauve and lilac sea and decorated with fairy-light stars, were the remnants of a former age. Satellites drifted like motes of dust. Hundreds of thousands of them, tumbling slowly in silence, nudging one another and revolving slowly on their eternal amble across the globe. Long generations had passed since they had received any instruction from Earth. Now they floated on the edge of space, their batteries long dead, waiting to one day fall and burn in the atmosphere.

'No wonder you spent your childhood up here,' Selina said, transfixed. 'This is really something.'

'Why does no one use this anymore? Something pretty serious must be going on if you're up here now?' Priya coaxed, and could see the coy look cross his eyes.

'Waste of time, apparently,' Selina offered.

'It was built to see if we were being observed. Back before the plague these things,' he thrust his chin at the satellites, 'near controlled everything... Some were harmless enough, though most watched the world - and would have made a community like this impossible. Never was there a time in human history where the powers that be could watch the actions of all of their peoples... They were so ubiquitous that our ancestors didn't consider that there would be too few people left to operate them, nor the funds to do so after The Pathogen. Now look at them,' he gestured at the ambling satellites, 'they're mostly dead. Like I said before, the last one that looked as though it were being remotely operated was back when my pa operated the mirror.' He pat the wooden rim affectionately. 'That was near sixty years ago.'

'What happened?'

'When he saw it?' He pointed to a car battery in the corner of the barn. It was covered in cobwebs and hid the wire attached to it. 'He flipped a switch and the community shut down. No one moved for days. I could have only been about five but I remember it well. Caused as much of a fuss as the whole Lundy affair.'

'Hannah was telling me about that,' Selina said, looking up from the mirror, 'Semilion's grandfather killed a boy?'

'Don't know what came over him. He was a wrongun, that one. Had so much hatred in him for the Sawbones.'

'Family feud?' Priya offered.

'Only between him and Red. Before that their fathers had got on as well as any other. They traded and visited one another as colleagues. They had known each other before the plague, I think. Their boys, however... Semilion's grandpa, Carrick... He hated Red, in a way that always seemed illogical. There was no cause for it that anyone could tell, or at least that I ever knew of.' He shrugged and pulled a face. 'I don't know... Ah, look.'

He pointed animatedly to a satellite which was reeling closer to its final fall. 'This hardly ever happens, we're lucky...' he said quietly, and for several minutes they watched the small, aluminium device linger as though teetering on a precipice before it became enveloped in a hazy sheen of fire.

Bill eased two levers deftly and kept the satellite in focus as it began to crumble and break into scraps of cinder, embers glowing brightly on a mist of steam until there was nothing left to watch.

'I've only seen that happen a few dozen times,' he said, breaking the silence and returning the lens to its original position, overlooking the battlefield of gliding debris.

'Well, there's certainly nothing there that looks as though it's watching us?' He said, walking around the mirror slowly.

'What are you looking for specifically?' Selina asked.

'A number of things, really, but mostly a change in trajectory or the lack of any movement. We're looking for something just sitting still like a spider.'

They all watched the mirror for some time, until the lilac had bled to a rich black and their examination had returned nothing of interest. Eventually Bill manoeuvred the levers and shut the mirror down, closing the shutter and replacing the patchwork sheet.

'Why the sudden interest?' Priya asked again, wanting to coax the truth from him.

Bill looked up and considered for a moment that he wanted to tell her. She might hang off his every word if he told her about the council meeting. 'No sudden interest, I just thought you might like to see it.' He said, though his hesitation had been too long. Both Selina and Priya were staring at him intently.

'Bill,' she held him in her glare. 'I know exactly what's happening. It was me who decoded the message from Dr. Camberwell.'

He stared at her for a moment, his eyebrows twitching as though they might distract her.

'What message?' Selina asked, the name Camberwell igniting the memory of the letter she had stuffed in the back of the kitchen cupboard. 'Priya?'

'Do you want to tell her or shall I?' Priya asked.
Chapter Thirty-Five.

Bridgewater.

When Tranter woke it was cold and the stars were veiled by a thin cloud. His head rang like a gong, loud and pervasive and reverberating. He ached all over, and that aching changed to a spasm of pain when he tried to move.

He groaned, and wondered why he couldn't hear it, and why his head feel as though it were in a vice? He tried to say something, but a flash of torment stung his cheek. He lifted his arm, wincing, what was in his mouth? More pain flooded his body, his mouth, God, his gums! His teeth. As awareness dawned on him more threads of agony stung and throbbed. Fresh bright spasms, deep slow throbs, latent rushes that burned if he moved, it seemed as though all facets of torment loitered inside him somewhere; he felt tears in his eyes and moaned - a moan that conveyed all his pain and roused more anew \- and still he couldn't hear it.

Toubec was above him, looking over him. Her hair tickling his flesh. She was saying something but he couldn't hear. Nothing. Not even vibrations.

Her lips stopped moving and her features, pale and frightened, slipped into a piteous frown.

His heart raced as things fell into place. He remembered their attempt to run from the Rhinox, the ground breaking around them, the wind swatting him, something ripping at his face...

God, he tried to say, though if he said it or not he didn't know. Fresh pain blossomed in his mouth and he hesitated until it died down. His arm trembled as he raised it and felt the bandage Toubec had wrapped around his head and jaw.

God, he thought again, without even attempting to say it. God! Jesus! I'm alive! She saved me... Thank Chri...' Another wave of pain stung his ribs and he rose to rest on his elbows. Toubec's hands were on his chest, gently trying to ease him back down, but he fought against them and the pain that it caused to shake his head in denial. She relented, and sat beside him, saying something to him regardless if he could hear or not.

They sat there for a while, growing colder as the stars revolved above them. Tranter breathed heavily, fighting off the waves of nausea that came and went with a reassuring regularity.

Toubec tried to comfort him, though weariness overcame her and she slept in the grass, dew wetting her clothes while Tranter slowly raised his knees and pushed himself up to sit upright, his arms wrapped around his legs as he shivered.

The pain in his mouth remained sharp and blinding, but the throbbing of his bones slowly subsided until it levelled out, its only effect being to keep a fresh supply of tears in his eyes.

He got to his feet several hours later and limped through the grass. New pains rushed through him, but there was little else he could do. His choices were either lay down and die without medical attention or fight to keep moving.

He stepped in a teetering line across the ploughed earth, stooping eventually as he found his discarded bag a few hundred feet from where he had come to rest. He opened it and found the contents complete. He switched the two-way radio on, and although he couldn't hear the static hiss he could see the green display light up, and knew it was working.

He turned and walked back towards Toubec. She had woken and was watching him with a look that combined caution and admiration. He threw two squat syringes and she caught them, opening the packaging and injecting herself with the isotonic and protein solutions.

He lifted his arm and pointed to the horizon, she followed his gesture before turning back with an angry frown.

Yes I can be serious, he thought, hobbling passed her and continuing in the direction they had been walking before the Rhinox descended on them.

She was at his side, shouting at him angrily. He watched her mouth and picked up the words rest and heal. He shook his head and continued doggedly, a new throb gaining in his thigh with each step.

Just to the channel, he thought. Just to the channel and we can find a boat. I can sit and rest then, and I'll be happy to lay down and die when we get to Mortehoe.

Dawn came as a smudge of grey cloud on the horizon. Tranter had slowed dramatically, each step small and emphatic. Sweat beaded his pale brow, and he stared at his bloodied shoes as they inched forward. Toubec's hand was on his back and she looked at him fretfully, as though she were guiding him over hot coals. He looked at her, his eyes staring as though he were blind as well, and then he looked forward and stopped, overcome and unable to move any further.

She watched him for a moment, wondering if he would fall to his knees and exhale his last breath. Nothing happened. He swayed slightly and a moan escaped him. He then set off again and she remained still, tears flowing freely as she watched him helplessly - Helplessly stepping down the hill toward the wide Bristol Channel. They had made it. Miraculously he had made it. She rushed towards him, passed him and continued to the water's edge in search of an abandoned boat.

*

'I don't know what you're saying,' Tranter grumbled before clutching his jaw in pain. That was the last time he would say it, even though he knew his words were nothing more than an incomprehensible moan. If she couldn't work that out then to hell with her.

Her hand was on his knee, squeezing reassuringly as he lay in the small hull of the rotting dinghy she had found. The paint and wood was peeling and cracked, though it floated well enough, even if it did let in water through a deep crack on its side.

Lucidity came to him in waves of no particular duration. He had no recollection of walking to the shore, though he had been acutely aware of the time it had taken Toubec to find a boat. The disordered thoughts came with the cold that settled in his marrow, when he started questioning his motives and asking himself why he shouldn't just sleep.

She said something, though the look on her face suggested she understood his meaning if not his words. She took up the oars and began rowing again, deeper into the channel, until the border of Bridgewater seemed far enough a distance to cause them any trouble.

Tranter closed his eyes and tried to ignore the cold. He tried to ignore the pain. He tried to shut everything out, and yet it was impossible. He shivered until his bones hurt. He felt so weak, so impossibly fragile. He didn't know it was possible to be drained so completely and yet still survive.

You just need rest, he assured himself, knowing that it wasn't entirely true. He needed rest, but he needed medicine, splints, stitches... God knows what else. His cheek had stopped bleeding, but he knew that the wound would turn septic if it wasn't treated. He didn't know how long it would take, but he feared the smell of infection would reach his nostrils with every breath.

Why are we doing this? He thought, trying to remember why he had cared so much. He remembered a time when he had wanted to get to Mortehoe for a reason, to prove something, to complete someone else's journey, but it was lost to him. The boat wavered and he was jolted awake. Stumm! He thought, and it was clear to him again.

He felt anxious of slipping away into a delirious state and he tried to sit upright, his spine protesting and forcing him into a slouch again. Don't lose it, he willed, watching Bridgewater Garrison on the shore. This is where Stumm had died. He couldn't lose it before he'd even reached the border.

The moon was losing its vibrancy in the encroaching dawn. A line of gold was in the east, and dark clouds unfurled to blot the sky. He watched the sun rise for a moment, but it seemed to make him colder, and he retreated from it, turning his back to it and shivering once more.

He looked at Toubec, a swell of tiredness overwhelming him again. Who was she? He idled. He had spent so much time in her company and yet he didn't know what drove her to follow him. Why was she pushing herself so hard? This is my fight, he thought, looking up at her wearily, it's my... right to get there. I owe it to Stumm. Why do you care so much?

She looked down at him, her face full of concern and wasted comfort. She tried to smile, though it was nothing but a grim reflection of his frailness. She looked away, not wanting him to see her tears.

He hadn't seen. His eyes were on the dark fortification of Bridgewater border. Orange lights pulsed at its peak, small as match-flares, and search-lights scoured the waters close to the shore.

How did they find you? He questioned Stumm as he watched the lights. Why didn't you come out into the channel..? Here, where it's safe.

He watched the lights of a helicopter ascend slowly in the dawn, thinking how much more activity there was at Bridgewater than at Stone Hill. The helicopter disappeared to the south, and he reached for Toubec's knee, missing it.

Toubec was slowing, exhausted and drowsy. She rowed with her eyes closed, checking infrequently that they weren't drifting off-course. She felt his hand brush against her knee and she opened her eyes. He was staring across the wide channel toward Bridgewater Garrison.

'What is it?' She said, looking anxiously for a long while until she realised he was indicating that they had crossed beyond the garrison. She turned back to him, her precarious smile falling. She wept freely, not worried about him seeing her tears, he had drifted into sleep, or unconsciousness, safe in the knowledge they had finally crossed the border.
Chapter Thirty-Six.

Dead Calm.

George lay fast asleep under a thick duvet that smelt of Betty and dog, unaware of the figure loitering at the foot of the pub. It had moved slowly along the Esplanade, keeping to the bushes, and was now crouching in the ruins of what had once been a bus shelter.

Boen had been outside the Smuggler's Rest for half an hour, looking up to Eryn's bedroom window and deciding what he should do. Throw stones to get her attention? Find a branch and tap on her window? Or climb the wall behind the pub and knock on the glass himself. The latter seemed most complicated and risky, but he'd seen her do it when she was younger, yet was worried - however ridiculously - that Semilion was lying in wait for him.

With Guliven away the Waeshenbach household had not been told of the men's departure, and Boen had slipped through the village avoiding the imaginary eyes of his neighbours, most of whom were some ten miles south.

He shivered and stepped tentatively around the back of the pub. He looked up the tall building and grimaced. He'd not intended on climbing, and didn't know if his body would let him. He'd stretched his muscles and exercised to a gross approximation of his former health, but he was still incredibly weak.

After several inspiringly deep breaths he reached up and hauled himself on the wall. He knocked a loose brick and sent it rattling along the path, and remained quietly on the wall until he was certain no one was coming to investigate. He stood carefully, the moon low and bright in his eyes.

He hopped on to the wall of the Smuggler's, reaching for a window ledge and holding tight, his feet flailing on the brickwork. He pulled himself up to the flat roof, wheezing. There he lay for several minutes, gaining his breath, before he picked himself up and climbed to the third storey ledge.

Only a few metres away George slumbered on the precipice of waking.

Boen crouched and lay a hand on his forehead, his chest trembling for the unexpected exertion. Next time, he swore, he would bring a brick and hurl it at her window, no matter who it hit on the other side. He stood, considering how much time had passed already. Dawn was approaching, grey and bleak. He leant against the low concrete ledge and watched the moon briefly, summoning the nerve to descend the brickwork of the opposite side of the pub to Eryn's window. His back and shoulder ached, and he stretched them slowly until the pain subsided to a throb within his bones.

He took in the moon and it's dancing reflection. A thought returned to him of some long-forgotten summer, and then he saw the boats and froze. His mouth opened and slowly he crouched, watching the several small dinghy's in the breaking reflection of the moon. His first thought was of his father's return, but there were too many, and he knew instinctively that they were from Lundy, come to take back the papers that had been stolen. It was the only thing so many boats could mean.

'God almighty... They're going to kill us...' he whispered, his back to the wall. Who he meant specifically wasn't certain, for everyone would kill them. The Lundians, Semilion, and anyone else who found out of their theft. 'They can't be here!' He spat, turning and watching the dark shapes. They didn't seem to be moving, though that only indicated that they were still a way off; he swore and clenched his fists – his body was shaking. He felt the blood drain from his face.

He closed his eyes again and he held his hands as though he were silencing a room of people, before slipping over the side of the ledge and descending frantically to Eryn's window.

He crouched on the ledge and looked back out to sea, though the spire of the church blocked his view. It didn't matter, they were there, that was all that was important.

He rapped on the glass tentatively.

The thought of Semilion catching him was now the last thing on his mind, replaced instead by the thought of Semilion finishing what his father had started. Maybe he would blind him in his other eye, maybe he would break all the bones that his father had missed.

Thoughts of the Borderly boy came to him. Did Semilion have it in him to kill as Carrick Tupper had? He knocked again on the glass, a little harder, yet still Eryn was nowhere to be seen. Maybe this wasn't her room anymore.

Just my luck, he thought, if Baron appeared and pushed me to my death.

Just then Eryn's face was behind the glass, wide eyed and frightened. They stared at each other momentarily before she rushed to open the window, whispering his name and pulling him inside. He stepped down on to her bed and stumbled on to the floor. It was a small room, and felt confined with them both standing in it.

She hugged him tightly, and pressed her cheek against his, and he resisted the urge to say nothing and simply enjoy the affection. He stepped back, knocking into a shelf, and she looked at the scars and bruises that still lingered on his face.

'Your eye...' She whispered, 'What did they do to you?'

'It doesn't matter. that doesn't matter at all now...'

'You mean because the men have all gone south?'

'What? Why?' He said, confused, before trying to take control of the conversation. 'No, look... There's no time to explain... I've just seen boats from Lundy, they're coming this way.'

'What?' She hissed, snapping a hand over her mouth. Lundians come to take back the papers they stole.

For a moment she wondered whether her fathers absence was a stroke of providence, though that thought quickly soured. He would learn of what had happened, if she was sure of anything in life she was certain of that. Her mind turned to a mess of panicked white-noise before she dragged herself back to Boen's words. 'What?' She repeated.

'Four boats, I think... Maybe five. They're still beyond the wire but they'll be here in half an hour or so.'

Eryn sank to the bed, clasping her hands tightly as though wishing the world to stand still and afford her time to think. Stupid girl! She thought, admonishing herself. Stupid, selfish girl.

'What the hell are we going to do?' He said, kneeling beside her. 'Have you got those papers? We have to give them back... Say there's been a misunderstanding.'

'A misunderstanding?' She retorted, almost laughing. 'I took them from the room next to the one we were staying in and we ran away before the household woke. We can't say we gathered them up with all our stuff by mistake!'

'What are we going to do then?'

'I don't...'

'Eryn?' Baron's sleepy voice was behind the door. 'Who the hell are you whispering to?'

Eryn pulled a desperate face that eloquently said get the hell back out that fucking window, pronto.

Boen returned a look that expressed his confusion, hadn't she said the men of the community had gone south? Her stoic eyes convinced him to leave, and he eased himself up and stepped on to the creaking bed, ducking his head out of the window.

'What?' Eryn replied to her brother. 'No one, I'm just talking to myself.' Her face was contorted and she violently thrust it, gesturing Boen to hurry. She stood to move to the door but Baron had already opened it and was halfway through.

'You're talking to yourself in different voices? What are you, retar...' He saw Boen and pushed Eryn out of the way.

'You sodding prick! What're you doing here?' He stepped towards him, his fist raised above his head like a gorilla mid attack, but Boen, head first out of the window, clung to the frame and kicked Baron hard in the face before he knew what he'd done.

Baron blinked twice, and covered his nose as blood gushed between his fingers.

Eryn stood up and hurled herself at Baron. She pushed him against the wall and pressed her thumb against his throat. She braced herself, ready for him to slap her away, but adrenaline rallied her enough to press harder and get so close she could practically smell the salt in his watering eyes.

'Baron, I know you just want to smash Boen's face in, but you're going to have to help us before you do.'

'What are you talking about?' He winced. 'What's he doing here?'

'Keep your voice down, the last person we want hearing this is ma. She's worried enough as it is, what with everything that's going on.'

'Boen climbed down from the window ledge and whispered to Baron, 'There's no time to explain, and I'll be the first to let you break my nose afterwards, but you've got to go and get George and Riley, Seb and... Well anyone else who's got a bit of muscle on them and hasn't been taken south.'

'Why!' Baron protested, slapping Eryn's hand from his neck and snatching up her duvet to staunch his bleeding nose.

'There are several boats coming from Lundy,' Eryn said cautiously. 'They're here because a few months back we went there and stole something from them.'

'What? You and Captain Grease-balls here? Bollocks.'

Eryn turned and flung her wardrobe open, rifling through clothes and retrieving several pages. She threw them at Baron's feet. 'There. Are these bollocks? Baron, I don't know if they're important or not, but they've obviously been missed. And now the Lundians are coming to get them back.'

'You went there when you stole Guliven's boat?' Baron said slowly. 'Pa doesn't know you stole from Lundy!'

'No he bloody doesn't! He would have done a hell of a lot more to me if he knew what we'd done. So when he gets back he can't find out, Baron. He really can't... And I need you to help me keep him from finding out otherwise he's going to go ballistic.'

Baron looked at her for a moment. He wasn't too fussed if his father beat her for stealing, she deserved it. She deserved it for just consorting with Boen. Jesus, he thought, she'd brought shame to their family by stealing the boat with him. This was infinitely worse.

He turned to Boen. 'When this is done I'm going to kick your face in.'

'Sounds fair.' Boen replied as Baron scowled and dropped the blood stained duvet and skulked from the room to retrieve George from the roof.

*

It took Baron and George a quarter of an hour to gather several of those who had been left to protect Mortehoe.

After complaining, Seb Colt, Chris Benton, and Keth North rushed down the Esplanade as a line of golden dawn began to glow on the horizon.

They had gained access to the other's homes easily enough, no one in Mortehoe locked their doors after all, had violently roused them, told them to stop complaining and follow them to the beach. Only when they refused, and all of them had done, did they speak of the Lundians. 'We're being invaded!' Boen hissed, and they suddenly flew out of their beds to join him, not considering - in their drowsy states - why they were answering an invasion so quietly... And why were there only five of them?

When George had been shaken awake to warnings of Lundian's he saw Baron's bleeding nose and assumed he had already been fighting. He grabbed a large rusting shovel that lay in the corner of the roof and growled enthusiastically about breaking open some Lundian skulls. The others snatched up bats, chains, spades and forks as they ran to the coast, Boen and Eryn behind them.

'We've got to keep back,' Eryn said, pulling on Boen's arm.

'Why?' He tried to pull away but her grip was surprisingly strong. He looked after the others disappearing down the embankment toward the beach and tugged his arm again, this was his chance to prove himself to them.

'You're in no state to fight...' Eryn said, pulling him away. 'Follow me.'

'Where?'

'We're still going to help... We have to help, I'm not saying otherwise... This is our fault after all. My fault... Just come with me.'

Five Mortehoe youths intercepted twelve Lundians on the long beach on which the Tangaroa's dead had been abandoned. Most of the corpses had been dragged back into the sea, though some still remained - snagged on rocks or weighed down by silt - their clothes hanging on them like webs.

The dawn, gold and blinding, lit the underbellies of the grey-gold cloud like trapped fire, and silhouetted the Lundians as they leapt from their dinghies into the surf. They each sported bone-handled knives and thick poles, gripped at their base with leather.

'We've come to...' A blonde youth, no older than eighteen, shouted as Baron reached the shore, kicking up foam in his forward charge. Before the boy's sentence was finished, the Mortehoe boys were upon them, jabbing with their spades and bats as Baron thrust his elbow in the blonde boy's face and dragged him down into the water. There was a unified cry as Lundians leapt from their boats and rushed to aid their friend. The Lundians hadn't expected to be attacked, at least not so swiftly, though the sight of Baron striking their friend repeatedly spurred them to action.

A boot struck Baron in the neck, and he felt the weight of its owner push him to the side. His temple struck the dinghy and blood stung his eyes and sent blinding pain through his broken nose. He looked up and spat at his attacker, a bearded man with manic yellow eyes. In his hand he readied a knife and returned a wad of saliva in Baron's face.

George splashed beside him, and struck the knife into the air with his shovel; it clanged as it spun end over end before plopping loudly in the water. The bearded man held his elbow aloft to protect his face, and the shovel swung round and connected with a dry whump on his shoulder. The man fell to his knees, and Baron punched him squarely in the mouth, a brown tooth plopping into the surf. The man growled like a dog, thought Baron, and lunged at him, though another swipe from the shovel sent him sprawling.

George prodded at the boy who had poured ale into Boen's mouth on the night of his and Eryn's supposed wedding. He struck him on the knee, then in the stomach, and finally in the face – opening it up and sending a trail of blood trickling down his cheek.

'Get out of here you fucking pig-fiddlers.' He shouted as he swung the shovel, the Lundians backed off, forming a semi-circle around them.

A large pebble was thrown at Baron; it struck him on the nose and it started bleeding again. 'I'm going to kill all of you!' He screamed, snatching a bat from Seb and swiping frantically, knocking planks out of Lundian hands. The heavy-hollow sound of wood striking wood resounded on the cliff walls.

Then he was motionless, arms raised mid-attack, as though he'd seen something on the horizon. George and Seb stopped in their tracks.

'What is it?' George asked warily.

Baron's arms lowered, and he slid to the water as though it were summoning him.

The breeze seemed to cease, as did the surf and the sweeping gull above. The Lundians looked at one another anxiously, and the Mortehoe youths frowned at Baron's lethargic descent to his knees.

'Come on then,' George growled, raising his spade and stepping forward.

Baron coughed, made a confused mewing sound, and Seb saw crimson spread across his side and fan from him in tendrils in the water.

'Shit!' Someone said, and George waded to Baron and held him, easing him from the water to the sandy beach while the Lundians stood and silently watched. A gash between his ribs bled profusely.

'I didn't mean to...' said the boy who had stabbed Baron. He was no older than sixteen, and he dropped his blade with a splash.

'Don't apologise, Dillon.' Shouted the man who had lost a tooth. 'If they weren't thieves we wouldn't have come. They deserve everything they get.'

'Thieves?' Seb roared, rounding on them, his eyes full of tears. 'What are you talking about?'

At this one of the Lundians shrugged. 'I don't know what was taken – but Sawbone said you lot came and stole from us.'

'We ain't ever been to Lundy!'

'Not you. People came months back... when Sawbone and his boys was away, ain't that right?'

There was a host of bobbing heads and noises of ascent. 'They ain't here now – but there were two of them.

Seb didn't know who he was talking about, though he guessed them to mean Kelly and Guliven.

'Guliven ain't no thief! And Kelly's dea...' He began to say.

'You're all thieves, empty-balled thieves! Every last stinking one of you!'

Shouting a curse, Seb leapt up and kicked the boy to the ground. He pushed his face into the sand. Around them, Lundians kicked and hit him with their poles, but his fury drove him on, almost unaware of the blows he was receiving.

The boy beneath his fists coughed and spat out sand, he tried to roll over and shake Seb off but he was pinned down, his arm pulled up behind his back. He screamed. Seb's knee dug into his spine and the boy cried as though the pain was beyond anything he had felt before - but then a blow fell on Seb's crown, and he collapsed to his side without making a sound.

The boy in the sand stood and kicked Seb in the stomach before picking up his plank and delivering a series of blows to his arms and legs. Seb remained motionless, his mouth slightly open and his glazed eyes staring into the middle-distance.

There was no lingering silence this time, the Lundians turned to those who held on to Baron, and started prodding them with their pieces of wood. Everyone was jeering at them, except the boy who had stabbed Baron, who was standing a way back, crying.

'Show 'em!' Someone shouted, and the jabbing became more savage.

Baron looked up at George, who was shielding his face from swipes. He was about to give one final lunge into the melee when a head-sized rock burst a hole in one of the dinghies, thrusting the oars spinning into the water. One of the Lundians collapsed backwards – and another swore in pain, clasping his face as a stone scored a red trail down the side of his face.

George pulled Baron away from the shore, a trail of blood following them. Another stone plopped loudly in the water, missing a Lundian by inches. He leapt backwards as a huge stone clumped into the sand, digging a crater next to the man Baron had fought initially. He jumped to the side and a pebble struck him on the shoulder. He clasped his clavicle and shouted in agony, nearly dropping to the sand.

From high up on the cliffs a series of stones were thrown – clouting the Lundians and driving them back to their boats.

*

Eryn looked down at the beach, her pale face golden in the dawn. A moment later Boen was by her side carrying a large rock. He wavered under its weight, checked the beach below, and then hurled it with all his strength. Eryn grabbed his waist to stop him going over the edge with it, then picked up a stone and hove it forcefully.

Several were struck in the face and chest. They scurried out of range, and retaliated by hurling back promises they would find a way up the cliff. The boy who had stabbed Baron in the ribs received a pebble to the crown and he fell to the sand as though struck dead. He clutched his face and began wailing loudly.

'Where are you lot going?' The boy who had floored Seb shouted as several Lundians took tentative steps toward the dinghies. A large piece of flint slit the back of his leg, taking the skin off, and he wailed like an infant as he hobbled towards the sea. The Mortehoe boys held on to Baron, and looked up to the cliffs. On the ridge they watched Eryn and Boen fling stone after stone at the Lundian boats. George wanted to laugh at the sight, though he felt the wet of Baron's wound and looked back down.

'What the bloody hell was that all about?' He said airily, mostly for something to say.

'Ask Eryn,' Baron said. Already he was turning pale.

'You're going to be alright,' George said reassuringly.

Baron snorted, 'Course I am. I owe Boen a kick in the face yet.' He frowned in pain momentarily and then said, 'Seb alright?'

George lay Baron down lightly and gambolled to where Seb lay, checking his pulse. 'He's knocked cold... They battered him proper.' He straightened, still on his knees, and turned to the sea. 'I don't reckon they'll...' He stopped, and slowly got to his feet.

In the commotion he hadn't seen the boat behind those that were already at the shore, but now he saw the dinghy containing three barrel chested men and knew who they were without introduction. He spared a glance to where Eryn and Boen stood, they had stopped hurling stones and had retreated – hopefully to bring help.

He turned back to the boat. The two larger men were in the water and helping the third. He entered the surf clumsily, though brushed away any further help.

George stared, and then remembered Baron. He stepped towards him and stood by him protectively as Red Sawbone limped to the shore, on to the beach, and loomed over him.

'The last time I was here,' Red growled, 'I killed the first man who stood in my way.'

George looked up into his dark, complicated eyes and slowly stepped aside.

Red looked down at Baron, his face almost grey, and smirked derisively. 'You'll be gone in minutes anyway. I shan't waste my time. What's your name?'

Baron looked faint, and only managed to swallow by way of reply.

'It's Baron Tupper,' George offered weakly and Gorran pushed him into the sand beside Seb.

'Semilion's boy,' Kenan said with a smirk.

Red nodded wistfully, the sun shining through his hair. 'I've heard a lot about you, Baron. You've caused me some concern over the years. You see, a little bird has told me that you harbour all the signs of reckless spite and pent up aggression that your grandfather showed. I thought I might have to come here one day and stop you from avenging his death.'

Baron coughed and looked at George for support, though he was frozen and pale, staring up at Red as though he was staring at a terrible, mythical beast.

He returned his gaze to Red, who was silhouetted in the morning sun and surrounded by an aura of pearlescent light like some fiery angel. The pain in his side flared and he winced, and wondered when his father would return to put an end to this. The pain subsided and he remembered his father had left the village for Dunkery Beacon. All the men had left.

Suddenly Red's deception dawned on him. 'You're... You made up the broadcast... You made up the countdown.'

Although his face was in shadow Baron could see the sinister smile cross Red's skull-like face. 'The countdown.' He turned to his sons as though sharing a look of appreciation. 'An inspiration that came when in Belfast, and a labour that caused much concern to the three of us. Your pa's council has long decoded it by now, I hope?'

'They're...' Baron began, though the pain suddenly returned and his world became hazy. His vision was becoming tinged with twitching shadows. Around him stood men from both communities; they seemed grey and ethereal in the shining yet overcast dawn, and they circled him like ancient standing stones wreathed in mist. Above him the clouds were blustery and threatening, and yet the brightness of the sun gilded the sea and turned it the colour of sparkling rust.

'They're off looking for an enemy in the south?' He interrupted Baron, who had not said anything more for long moments. 'They're waiting for a storm that...' He looked back out to sea. The horizon of the north-west was peppered with boats.

Skiffs, catamarans, drifters, row-boats, dinghies, tugs and trawlers - the entire contents of Ballycotton harbour.

Red beamed triumphantly. 'They're waiting for a storm that will arrive from the north-west in under an hour?' He ran his fingers through his beard and turned to his sons. 'We did say north-west in the broadcast, didn't we?'

Gorran and Kenan smirked, happy to be included in their father's high spirits.

Red turned back to Baron. 'Oh dear, Baron. That's most unfortunate. Am I to assume by your little band of friends here that the majority of your community have gone in search of an imaginary threat to the south-east? What a pity.'

Baron swayed before retching on his shoulder, the vomit thick with blood.

Red looked down at him in disgust before stepping around him. 'Show them how humane we are.' He said as he hobbled uncomfortably across the beach.

Kenan knelt down swiftly and thrust a blade beneath Baron's armpit.

Baron choked, his fingers raking the sand. The pain of the second knife was more intense than the first. It felt cold, as though icy fingers had been thrust into the wound, though apart from a near inaudible intake of breath he was unable to react. He felt a surge in his mind, like his father's radio between stations, it overwhelmed him and instinctively he grasped hold of Kenan tightly for some kind of support.

A rush of fatigue overcame him. He became hyper-sensitive to everything within the radius of his senses. The colours of the beach, the sun, the waves, the clothes of those around him, they grew vibrant and melded in and out of dizzying patterns, and throbbed so much he had to close his eyes. The sounds of the waves, the crying, the gulls, the wind, it echoed within him and made him feel as though he could hear the entirety of nature. Why hadn't he ever felt it before? It was truly amazing.

He felt butterflies in his stomach, and a sensation washed over him akin to a child comprehending freedom.

His face blushed for a moment, as though he was holding his breath, and then he sighed, slumping backwards.

George looked on, frozen, his face white. His hand trembled, and he almost reached forward for his friend, realising he had betrayed him by standing aside so easily.

Kenan held the knife forcefully for several moments, and then stood, wiping the blade on his trousers as he turned to the remaining youths. 'I suggest you're gone by the time the boats arrive,' he gestured out to sea. 'There're eighty men and women on their way from Ballycotton and we had to lay some grim lies to your detriment to get them here.' He sniffed, stepping over Baron's drained body, and followed in his father's advance toward Mortehoe.
NEXT:

STRINGS OF LIFE.

Dear reader,

Did you like In A Landscape? I hope you did, and I'd be extremely grateful if you could rate it for me. The more good reviews this book receives the more it attracts new readers.

In A Landscape is free at the moment, but when a charge is attached 10% of each copy will be donated to Cancer Research UK, so more readers means a greater donation to an important charity. My initial target to support Cancer Research UK is £10,000. If I reach that target I'll increase the percentage to 25%

Please rate it on the store from which you downloaded it, and visit:

www.cancerresearchuk.org to learn about the great work that Cancer Research UK has already, and endeavours to, accomplish.

In the meantime, while the book is free, you can always SMS ROPE69 to 70070 and donate £1, and check out my progress at: http://www.justgiving.com/KelvinRoper1601

Kind regards,

Kelvin James Roper

About the author.

Kelvin is a freelance writer, author, artist, editor of The Locked Book Magazine, and co-host of the iBits podcast as well as working as a Laboratory Support Assistant in Cambridge. He is also completing a BSc Hons Degree in Psychology.

Winner of the BT Millennium Man competition, he writes for many online publications, specialising in consumer electronics and short fiction. His ebook, Elysium, is a three part novel that will conclude at the end of 2014, and is published by Tigermoth Books.

His latest project is an epic fantasy that will be published after the completion of Elysium.

Connect with Kelvin on Twitter:

@ropeskin
