The second roadblock was some way out of Wellington. It consisted of another patrol car, two policemen, a soldier and, of course, an automatic rifle.
'Damn it!' Gerald Pitkin drove slowly up to the barriers. Apart from the following three-wheeler there was no other traffic here. It was as though the initial panic was over. The public had accepted the situation, resigned themselves to it. They had been told to go back to their homes and die like good citizens. And they were obeying.
Gerald pulled up alongside the barriers, wheels half-turned in anticipation of the U-turn he would be forced to make.
'Sorry, sir.' A policeman stepped forward. 'I'm afraid you'll have to turn around and go back.'
'We're on our way to Shrewsbury. To my brother's place.'
'I'm sorry, sir. The A5 and all roads to Shrewsbury are closed.'
'There's been an accident?'
'I don't know what's happened, sir. But the roads are all closed. Now, please move on.'
The soldier had moved forward as though in support of the constable, the rifle no longer carried casually, the muzzle swinging in an arc until it pointed at the Fiat. 'All right.' Pitkin nodded. 'We'll go back.' The three-wheeler was already following them as though the driver had never expected to be allowed through. Like everybody else, he had to satisfy himself that he had made the attempt.
'Well, so much for that,' Bertha groaned. 'Now for the long haul back to Birmingham. You ought to have phoned the AA first.'
'We're not going back,' Gerald stated firmly. 'What!'
'I said, we're not going back. Can't you see what's going to happen? By tomorrow there's going to be rioting in the city. Folks won't take this lying down.' 'What on earth can we do, then?' 'We'll take a right turn back here.' Gerald braked as they caught up with the tail of the traffic queue. 'I think it's signposted Little Wenlock. You can get up on to the Wrekin that way.' 'How will that help us?'
'We'll ditch the car and go on foot. They can't patrol the whole countryside, they won't have enough men. We'll get through. We'll wait for dark, though, and with luck we'll be in Shrewsbury by morning.' 'You're mad,' Bertha Pitkin said, but she did not argue. Harry Pitkin said nothing. He never had been a conversationalist. A loner from boyhood, he accepted life as it was. If his father said they were going on an all-night hike then he would trudge along with them.
Somewhere over the Wrekin there was a rumble of thunder, followed a few seconds later by a flash of lightning. But there was no rain.
Chapter Ten
St Philip's Churchyard was crowded shortly after daybreak. The overnight cloud formation had vanished, and once again the new day was threatened with scorching heat. There was to be no let-up.
People sat on the grass, dishevelled, weary after a sleepless night. They came from all walks of life, the social barriers having been destroyed by the Prime Minister's speech a few hours previously. In the background a couple of uniformed and helmeted policemen watched intently. Their presence was only a formality. If anything happened they would be powerless to prevent it. Their radios were futile, for there were not sufficient numbers of police at Digbeth station to answer the call. Every available man was out on the road-blocks.
The crowds were demoralised. Even the early frustration had gone. Despair was widespread. The church was full. Those who were unable to get inside knelt and prayed on the steps. A team of clergymen were administering Holy Communion. Several other religious bodies congregated into separate groups. Others were proclaiming the end of the world, insisting that there was salvation for those who followed in their path. Only they would be saved.
There were political meetings, too, the voices of the speakers carrying in the still atmosphere above the lower tones of those who prayed.
Marcus Vandon rejoiced in the crisis. On six successive occasions he had lost his depositin local by-elections; Now at last he would be able to sway the masses. They would listen to him now. He had something positive to offer. Action. The current government was a negative one, deserting its people in their hour of need, leaving the dying to bury their dead.
There was something commanding about Marcus Vandon in spite of his small stature. His voice demanded attention. He had a command of the English language far superior to most politicians. Small of build, it was his eyes, wide and staring, and the lean determined features which made him stand out from other men. Some had compared him with Hitler, and there was a marked similarity. People faced with the curtailment of their freedom as well as possible death are always prepared to listen to alternatives. And Marcus Vandon had a solution to offer. Standing on the small stool which he had brought along to give him an extra few inches in height, he addressed those nearest to him.
'We are being deserted in our darkest hour by those whose duty it is to protect us.' he began. 'We have been singled out for sacrifice. Our police and armed forces are determined that we shall not escape. Why? I ask you, why?'
He paused for a second, glancing around, noting with satisfaction that his audience was swelling.
'Because of the disease,' somebody replied halfheartedly.
'Yes, but why is the disease here in our midst, destroying usl They tell us that an unfortunate accident has come about, and that these bats escaped from the Biological Research Centre on Cannock Chase. I put it to you that they were deliberately released!'
An uneasy murmur greeted his words.
'Think about it.' Vandon continued, 'We have an overpopulation problem. Immigration goes unchecked. Inflation is soaring. An application for an IMF loan has been turned down. Unemployment is approaching the two-and-a-half million mark. What is the answer? I ask you, what is the answer when a ruthless government is determined to stay in power and continue to pursue their policies which have already failed?'
He paused again. Angry mutterings reached his ears, and with difficulty he suppressed a smile.
'I'll tell you. Reduce the population. And that is exactly what this government is doing. It has sentenced all of you to death. Each and every one of you. They have chosen an area which is both highly populated and can be cordoned off efficiently. Within weeks each and every one of you will be dead. Myself included.'
'What are we going to do about it, then?' a man at the front of the crowd which surrounded Marcus Vandon asked. 'You tell us this, but what's the answer?'
'It is partly your own faults.' Vandon lowered his voice, a perfect mild reprimand, a father offering to forgive and help his erring son, 'You refused to heed me in the past. Only a small minority gave me their votes, I could have been your mouthpiece, asking these questions in Westminster, and it is doubtful whether this government would ever have dared to attempt such an atrocious act of treason and mass murder had they had one amongst them protesting and remonstrating with them. But it is still not too late, my friends! Are we going to huddle in our homes and await death, as they order us to?'
'We bloody ain't!'
'What else can we do?'
'I'll tell you!' Marcus Vandon stabbed his forefinger in all directions, singling out individuals, making them leaders of men in their own estimation. The choice is yours.., and yours... and yours, sir. We have the numbers, in spite of these hired killers, this so-called British Volunteer Force. They can no more contain us than they can stop the tide from flowing. We must show our strength, and drive these self-appointed upholders of a law which does not exist from our streets! We must break out of this human safari-park in which they have enclosed us! Courage is needed, friends. A few will die, but we will all die if we stay. I beseech you, act now! And remember afterwards that it was Marcus Vandon who saved you from certain death.'