Haycox and I climbed out of the moat and searched the grounds for evidence of escape. The canvas-covered trucks I’d seen them driving at Hildenborough were nowhere to be found, but there were fresh tyre tracks in the gravel of the car park. At least some of them had escaped the fire and moved on.
They could be miles away by now.
But had they retired to lick their wounds and start again somewhere else, or were they planning their revenge?
When we got back to the school we were met by guards at the gate. Norton had beefed up security upon Rowles’ return. I left Haycox to tend to our exhausted steeds and I went straight to the store cupboard and flung open the door. Our captured Blood Hunter was curled up into a little ball, rocking back and forth muttering in the dark. I grabbed him and hauled him out.
“The other prisoners,” I yelled. “Why didn’t you tell us about the other prisoners?” I shook him and kicked him, slapped him round the head and yelled into his face but I could get no reaction. He was oblivious.
An hour later, after we’d given him some food and something to drink, he started to talk.
“But you only asked about the prisoners from Hildenborough,” he said. And there was that urge again, the one I was trying to resist. The urge to shoot someone in the head.
When the girls and Matron had been captured the crypt had been full so they’d been imprisoned in the library, on the south side of the house. As far as he knew they were still there when we attacked. There was nothing more he could tell us, so we escorted him to the main gate and turned him loose.
Then I went to find Unwin. I had to tell him that his sister was dead.
IN THE MONTHS that followed we searched far and wide. We collected six more horses, Haycox trained all the boys in riding, and we sent out three-man search parties every day. After a month we’d searched everywhere within a day’s ride and we had to start sending out teams that slept under canvas. Two-day searches gradually evolved into three-day searches, and still no sign of the Blood Hunters.
Eventually we had to abandon the hunt. It was likely that Matron and the girls were dead, that David died in the explosion, and that the trucks were taken by the remnants of a leaderless cult which had now scattered far and wide. We were probably searching for a group that no longer even existed. It was a hard reality to accept but eventually we had to move on.
As spring turned into summer the school slowly started to become what it should always have been. We cultivated a huge vegetable garden, and erected a couple of polytunnels for fruit and salad. The herds of sheep, pigs and cows grew steadily, and all the boys helped when it was time for lambing and calving. Heathcote’s careful husbandry made sure we never went without meat, milk, butter or cheese. The river gave us plenty of fish, and the re-established Hildenborough market grew to the point where we could trade for sauces, jams and cakes.
Hildenborough elected Bob as their new leader. We developed close ties with them, and even played them at cricket once a month. A few of their adults came to live with us, mostly those with surviving children. I made it clear to the parents that I was in charge and any adults were here strictly by the permission of the children.
One market day Mrs Atkins came back to school with a tubby, red faced, middle-aged man, and she moved him into her room without ceremony or hesitation. His name was Justin, and the two of them made the kitchen into the hub of the school. They were always in there cooking something up, and all the boys loved to hang out there. It felt homely, which was something none of us had felt for a long, long time.
Our searches had found no trace of the Blood Hunters, but they had allowed us to compile a very good map of the area’s settlements and farms. We made contact with as many as would allow us to approach, and although it was early days I could sense the beginning of a trading network.
Once I was sure that the school was secure and running smoothly, we began to look for new recruits. There were plenty of orphaned kids in the area, running in packs, or living with surrogate families. Seventeen new children joined us, ten of whom were girls. A few tentative romances blossomed. Two women from Hildenborough volunteered to teach classes, and so each morning for two hours there were lessons. We didn’t have a curriculum to follow, so they just taught whatever took their fancy. Both of them were naturals, so although attendance wasn’t compulsory they always had a full house.
Green’s theatre troupe was a roaring success, too. They abandoned Our Town in the end, and produced a revue that they took to Hildenborough and some other nearby settlements. They were our finest ambassadors.
In spite of the sunshine and goodwill we didn’t neglect the military side of things. We maintained a strict defence plan, with patrols and guard posts, and every Friday we did weapons training and exercises. I devised a series of defensive postures for possible attacks, and we drilled the boys thoroughly in all the permutations; if someone came looking for a fight they’d find us ready and waiting.
Every now and then we’d catch a whiff of something happening in the wider world, rumours of television broadcasts and an Abbot performing miracles, but our fuel was long gone so we couldn’t tune in. Whatever was brewing in the cities couldn’t reach us out here in the countryside. Not yet, anyway. So we carried on building our little haven and prepared for the day when either madness or order would come knocking on our door again.
I flatter myself that I was a pretty good leader. The boys would come and talk to me when things were bothering them, and I did my best to resolve disputes and sort out any issues. I think I was approachable and fair. You could hear laughter in the corridors of Castle again, something I never heard when Mac was in charge. I relied on Norton and Rowles to let me know when and if I got things wrong, and they weren’t shy about knocking me down a peg or two when necessary.
As my wounds healed I continued exercising my leg and found that my limp became much less marked. My cheek did scar slightly from Baker’s ring, and Norton joked that it made me look like an Action Man. Within a couple of months I felt as fit and healthy as I’d ever done.
None of this stopped the nightly visitations of the dead keeping me awake, of course.
And there was still no sign of my dad.
I WENT THREE whole months without picking up a gun.
Felt good.
Couldn’t last.
THE WOODHAMS FARM was about two miles south-west of the school. A collection of outbuildings and oast houses around a Georgian farmhouse, it was inhabited by ten people who’d moved down from London after The Cull. They’d found the place empty, moved in and started running the farm, which boasted a huge orchard and fields devoted to fruit production, including grapes and strawberries. Mrs Atkins met them at Hildenborough market and they’d extended an invitation for Green and the theatre group to visit their farm for the weekend. The boys would put on their show and in return they would put the boys up, feed them, and let them bring back some fruit for the rest of us. Lovely. What could possibly go wrong?
Jones was one of our new recruits. His parents were dead but he’d been living in Hildenborough ever since The Cull. He was a good pianist, so Green had recruited him for the revue, and he’d fitted in well. Green’s troupe had left for the Woodhams place in a horse-drawn cart, so when Jones came staggering through the front gate after midnight the duty guards raised the alarm.
“I’d just played the opening chords of After Fallout when there was a knock on the door,” he told us. “Ben Woodhams got up to answer it, we heard a struggle at the door and then a gang of men burst in wearing balaclavas and waving guns around. Green put up a fight and he got hurt pretty badly. I managed to slip out in the confusion and I’ve been running ever since. It’s about two hours or so now. You need to hurry!”