And perhaps I too had been looking for a messenger, looking for a path to take. I don’t know. But there was the cut of a prophet about Jackie Nixon that morning. The light altered about her as she spoke, she drew it to her, and her eyes stole from it. I knew that what she was saying was right, that she was leading the way, and for the second time in my life I put my faith in her.
‘I see you all looking around, counting how many of us there are,’ she said, ‘wondering if there are enough, wondering if it’s even possible and how far we could see it through. I can’t give you any comfort. I can’t make any promises. And I can’t tell you we’ll see it through to the end. What I can tell you is this. History has always turned on the actions of a few individuals. History is on our side. You can do this.’
She was armed with examples from which we could take heart. If we thought a campaign was hopeless we should think again, she said. Afghan guerrillas had not only defeated the strongest military force on the planet, they had contributed to the USSR’s disintegration. The British had lost more people to the IRA than they had during the Suez campaign, the Falkland conflict and the first Gulf war combined. Coalition forces were still suffering heavy losses in South America and China. They could not quash the rebels; their forces were too cumbersome, too conventional. And in the second wave of extremist attacks, ten men with detonation devices and a moderate amount of explosive had paralysed London’s infrastructure for over a month. They had blown up two Southern dams, and two stadiums. They had never been caught.
She was qualified. The others knew it as well as I did. All personal histories eventually revealed themselves at Carhullan, even hers. We knew she had been in the Elites. She had been trained and counter-trained. If there was one thing she understood it was operational strategy and the logic of local land war. She knew the potential of irregular armies, non-state actors, because she had been charged with their elimination. She had spent the first part of her adult life at war. She bore the scars. After ten years she had retired, but like others of her ilk, she had only ever been dormant, never extinct. Sitting among the many books on her shelves by Lawrence, Osgood, Fuller, and Douhet, we had all seen the thick volume, bearing her own name, worked on during her Cambridge years. This was her speciality, her pedigree.
‘I can’t make any of you join me, and I won’t try to,’ she went on. ‘I’ll respect your position if you choose not to. I’ll arrange for you to be placed back in the towns. Don’t worry; you’ll be safe. You are free, Sisters. You’ve been free for a long time. You’ve succeeded where others have failed. We’ve succeeded here. We’ve created true liberty. This place may be the last that’s left of it. And we’ve always stood our ground when challenged. But I want you to think about what we stand for now.’ She paused and licked her lips. ‘Freedom comes with responsibility; it comes with privilege and a conscience. It comes with difficult choices. We cannot stand by and allow the Authority to do what it is doing any more. We cannot wait for them to come and take apart what we’ve made. I will not allow it. You know me. I will not allow it.’
A few heads nodded in agreement. The atmosphere was turning. She knew she had hold of them. She had always had them in her grip. They had come with her this far, and they would go further. She could have driven home her rhetoric, but she did not. The ire drained out of her. She smiled kindly at the women in the room, in their old worn clothing, with their braided and cut-away hair. ‘It’s been a good life here,’ she said. ‘I love this place. God, you know I love it. It’s always been home to my family. My mother had this phrase. You’ve heard me say it in the spring whenever it’s too warm. These are borrowed days. And they’ll have to be paid back later in the year. I think that’s what we’ve had up here.’
She talked about the end of Carhullan and her voice was husked and raw, not because she had been speaking through the night, but because it pained her. Her eyes were so blue I had to look away. The farm would continue to run as it had before, for the rest of following year. Then it would be wound down. The animals would be slaughtered, the ponies turned loose. She and Veronique had wanted it to serve as an example of environmental possibility, of true domestic renewal, but the world had changed too much, and the role of Carhullan had changed with it. One day in the future, the land would be used again, she was sure of that. One day, the fields would be sown and cropped. People would learn to use the earth well. But for now, it had to be given up for another cause.
She looked about the room once more, then turned to face the fire, leaving the women to draw breath, and giving them the only chance they would have to move towards her and slip a blade into her spine.
FILE SIX: COMPLETE RECOVERY
The men arrived later that day, accompanied by Megan and Corky. By then two inches of snow had fallen. There was a slight hesitation when they reached the courtyard, as if they were still unsure of the permission now granted them to cross the threshold. No man had been inside the farm since it had passed into Jackie Nixon’s hands. They must have realised that this entry was a breach of some kind, that something was wrong.
They had rucksacks on their backs, and as many possessions as they could carry. The patrol dispatched to get them had obviously indicated that they would need to clear out of their settlement. They did not seem happy. Nor were the Sisters. Within the space of forty-eight hours it was yet another shock for them to endure. Those who had not yet gone out to work crowded round the windows and seethed about the violation of Carhullan’s first rule. Then they gathered at the fireplace and took down the yellow banner.
From the kitchen, Chloe caught sight of her husband and ran to the farmhouse door, and I watched her take hold of Martyn. The two embraced hard and awkwardly, as if they had been separated for years. Then he held her chin and examined her bruised face. The mothers of the boys ran out too, and took hold of their sons. They had finally been granted their wish. But the circumstances were bleak.
Jackie followed them out into the courtyard. She extended her hand to each of the men in turn. She spoke too quietly for those of us inside to hear, but she must have presented them with a briefer version of what we had listened to, because after a time the men became animated, and their voices were raised. Martyn had his arm tightly round Chloe’s shoulders. I watched his mouth working hard over the words he said. I stepped towards the door and from there I could hear his indignation. ‘We’re not going to be your hostages, Jackie. This is off the deep end. Who the fuck do you think you are to do this now?’ His wife was looking at the ground. To the side, the rest of the men stood in an uncomfortable group, waiting to see where this challenge would lead, their breath puffing white in the air. Only Calum appeared to be at ease, gazing around the buildings and up at the carved date-stone above Carhullan’s doorway, his long thin frame buckled slightly under the weight of his bag.
As Martyn continued, I could see Jackie’s temper beginning to fray. Her hands curled inward, forming loose fists. She was almost a foot shorter than the men in the yard but she was visibly fitter; she was squarely on her own turf, she knew it, and had been queen for too long to put up with any visiting unrest. There was a shoulder holster with a leather pouch slung across her torso — I had seen her wear it before on occasions, its outline showing under her clothes — and in it I could see the square edge of a pistol grip. Suddenly I felt nervous. I knew now that she had used it before.
Then I heard Veronique’s name spoken, and Jackie snapped. She made a sharp gesture with her hand, a slicing motion that cut Martyn off. I had never heard her shout, not in all the weeks at Carhullan, not even during a training session, when the heavy breathing of those on drill was brought to us on the back of the wind across the fell. The women lingering in the kitchen caught her dire volley of curses. They looked up and moved to the window again in time to see her step towards Martyn. His arm fell from Chloe’s shoulders as if he might be about to defend himself. She did not strike him but her ultimatum was clearly and coldly articulated. ‘I don’t have time for your shit. You’ll not be here in this place and come back at me. You’re a kept man. Remember that, Martyn. If you want to go, get out now. But all arrangements are finished, and that’s my fucking prerogative. You’re living on my land. If you leave, you’re on your own. Both of you.’