“Let it go, Ben,” Warner says, still surprisingly calm. “Does it really matter? Fact is, he’s here now and he’s got a simple choice to make. He can play ball and follow our rules, or he can fuck off and keep walking. If he’s as cold, hungry, and miserable as he looks, I think he’ll do what he’s told.”
“I will,” I say quickly, sounding deliberately pathetic. “I don’t want any trouble.”
“Fair enough, then,” Warner says, picking up his pen again and chewing thoughtfully on the end of it. “The first rule you need to know is that it’s one day’s work here for one meal and one night’s shelter. You work hard and you keep working until you’re told to stop and you’ll get fed. Any slacking and you’ll get fuck all.”
“Sounds fair.”
“I wouldn’t go that far, but you get the idea.”
“Okay.”
“Second rule: Any problems here, you come and see me. Understand?”
“Understand.”
“You don’t try to sort things out yourself, right?”
“Right.”
Warner leans back in his chair and continues to watch me for a few uncomfortable seconds longer.
“You don’t look like you’ll last the day,” he says. Insolent bastard.
“I’m fine.”
“Right, then,” he announces. “Get him out to the others, Ben, and find him something to do.”
9
FUCKING HINCHCLIFFE. THIS WAS never part of the deal. The light’s poor and I have no way of telling the time, but I feel like I’ve been working here for hours now. The time is dragging and I’m fucked—completely exhausted—but I don’t dare stop and show it. I’m not interested in the promise of a meal (I’ll take their food, but I’m not hungry—I’ll end up adding it to my stocks back at the house), but I need to keep up the illusion and find out as much as possible about what’s happening here. I just want an easy life, and that means putting up with a day’s hard work to try to keep Hinchcliffe happy.
He’s got good reason to be suspicious. Something’s not right here. All this “one meal for one day’s work” bullshit doesn’t ring true. They’re definitely starting to play from a different rule book here in Southwold, but I don’t know what they’re hoping to achieve. Maybe John Warner’s got Lowestoft in his sights and he’s trying to build a platform here, a stepping-stone to taking over? Whatever’s going on, he must be personally benefiting from it somehow. No one does things “for the greater good” anymore. I need to find out what’s going on, and I need to be quick. Hinchcliffe will expect a report from me before nightfall.
Days like today confirm that Hinchcliffe’s faith in me is badly misplaced. I’m not cut out for this subterfuge and bullshit. He sent me here to uncover what’s happening in Southwold, but so far all I’ve done is help dig a pit in a field well away from everything and everyone else. I’m working with a handful of other people—some look like fighters, others more underclass in their demeanor—but generally conversation is sparse and everyone keeps to themselves. From what I understand, this is just one of several work parties operating today. There are more people working just outside the town, trying to prepare fields for planting crops next year. They’re stupidly optimistic. There’s been so much smoke, radiation, and Christ knows what else thrown up into the atmosphere that I doubt anything will grow again for a long time. A while ago, before Hinchcliffe plucked me from the crowds, back when I was just another member of his scavenging pack, I saw the full extent of the damage the war has done: huge swathes of countryside that were completely dead, forests full of bleached, bare-branched trees, the corpses of thousands of birds littering the ground …
“You asleep?”
I shake my head and look around quickly. Not asleep, just daydreaming.
“Sorry,” I say to the short, nervous-looking man who’s standing next to me with a shovel. He’s just finished filling a wheelbarrow with soil, and I’m supposed to be emptying it. He stares at me through glasses held together with tape. Long strands of greasy black hair blow wildly in the wind—the comb-over from hell whipping back and forth across his otherwise bald pate like a lid.
“Focus on the job,” he whispers to me. “They won’t feed you otherwise.”
He makes it sound like they’re fattening us up so they can eat us. I’ve got to get this sudden cannibal fixation out of my head, but where else is Warner getting all this food I keep hearing about, and why is he so eager to share it? I push the wheelbarrow over to the mound of earth that’s already been dug up and empty it out. The distance I’ve covered is short, but I’m exhausted and I take my time so I can get my breath back. I pause and look out over a low stone wall. I can see another working party in a field in the distance, and I decide I’m glad I ended up over here. Looks like the people there really drew the short straw. They’re plowing a huge, odd-shaped field by hand. There is a single horse, but it’s painfully thin, its ribs exposed like it’s swallowed a xylophone. It hardly seems able to support its own weight, let alone do anything else. It’s the first time I’ve seen a horse in as long as I can remember. I watch as it bends down, tired legs shaking, and begins nibbling at the weeds on the edge of a sandy pit. There are other pits dotted around, and I realize that I’m looking at what’s left of a golf course. The people working there don’t appear to have made much progress, and I’m not surprised. Even though it’s approaching the warmest part of the day, the soil here is still frozen hard.
When I return to the others, almost everyone else is taking a break. As I was late to the party (and also because my dawdling and lack of effort have been noticed), I’ve been told in no uncertain terms to keep working. One other man is left working with me. He’s a strong, thickset fighter who continues digging at the bottom of the pit. His head glistens with sweat, his thinning silver hair slicked back. He looks like the type of man who’s done this kind of work all his life: solid and muscular but not particularly athletic. He’s hardly said two words since I’ve been here, but as the others are a safe distance away and I’ve got my back to them, I risk trying to make conversation. It’s not easy. He’s buried chest deep in the large, six-foot-square pit, and he digs constantly, only pausing to either swap his shovel for a pick or pass up another bucket of soil for me to dump into the wheelbarrow.
“You been here long?”
“Couple of weeks,” he says, barely acknowledging me. I try offering information to get him to talk.
“I just got in this morning. Looks like a pretty well organized place.”
“Warner does okay,” he says, grunting with effort as he shifts another bucketful of dirt.
“You get much trouble here?”
“Only from people who ask too many questions.”
“Sorry.”
A handful of sheep have wandered into the field and are milling around, as hungry looking as the horse. Their fleeces are patchy and mangy looking. They drop their heads and try to graze, but the grass is thin and unsatisfying. They barely look up when I push the wheelbarrow past them to empty it, too weak to run away. When I return to the pit I take a chance and try again.
“Look, I heard what you said about asking questions, but what exactly are we doing out here?”