“That’s half the problem,” Hinchcliffe angrily interrupts. I’m surprised by the strength of the alcohol-fueled venom in his voice.
“What is?”
“His rules. Don’t you see, Danny? Warner’s rules aren’t my rules.”
“Suppose not,” I quietly agree, suddenly feeling like I’m walking on eggshells and wishing I hadn’t bothered calling in.
“You’ve heard the old story about two boats in the harbor, haven’t you?”
I don’t have a clue what he’s talking about. “Remind me.”
“They start next to each other and they’re both supposed to be following the same course. One gets it wrong by just a fraction of a degree. They set off together, but the longer they’re at sea…”
“The bigger the gap between them.”
“Exactly. You see what I’m saying? I can’t afford for that to happen, Danny. Not when Southwold is so close.”
“Well, if it’s any consolation, I can’t speak for Warner, but I don’t think the people here are looking to pick a fight. They think he’s just—”
“Don’t get me wrong, that’s not what I’m looking for, either,” he continues, not listening, “but everybody there needs to understand that things run the way I want them to around here. You play ball or you fuck off, that’s your choice.”
“Have you tried telling them?” I ask, only feeling brave enough to confront Hinchcliffe because he’s ten miles farther up the coast. “You could come down here, try a little diplomacy first and then—”
“Yeah, yeah, yeah … Fuck, Danny, it seems to me there’s only two options these days, full-on or fuck all. Why can’t these people just do what I tell them?”
“I know, but—”
“What happens in Southwold is important,” he interrupts again, his voice sounding even angrier now. “I can’t risk having a rebellion on my doorstep, you know what I mean?”
“But are you sure Warner’s a threat?”
“Everyone is a potential threat. I thought you’d have worked that out by now.”
“I still think you should talk to him. Try to find out why—”
“What’s the state of the place like?” he interrupts.
“What?”
“What kind of condition is Southwold in?”
“I don’t know. It’s pretty much like everywhere else. A little less damaged than most places, but—”
“And what about supplies?”
“Now that’s the thing. Warner’s got them getting the fields around here ready for planting. On the face of it he seems to be planning for the future. I’ve been working all goddamned day digging goddamned holes…”
“Nothing’s going to grow. Everything’s fucked.”
“We don’t know that for sure. It might be that—”
“I asked you about supplies, Danny. I’m not interested in next year, what are they eating today?”
I pause, knowing that Hinchcliffe will hit the roof when I tell him about the delivery.
“I saw a truck arrive.”
“A truck?”
“Great big army thing. It wasn’t one I’d seen before. They unloaded a stack of stuff out of the back.”
“What kind of stuff?”
“Couldn’t tell. Food, weapons … I couldn’t see what they—”
“Fuckers. That will have come from my stores. Fucking Neil Casey, I bet he’s got something to do with this. Bastard’s told them where I keep my supplies. Cunt’s sold me out.”
“I haven’t seen Casey. He wasn’t with the truck. They buried a few bodies this afternoon, and I thought he might have been one of them, but I don’t know if—”
“You said weapons?”
“A few rifles, that’s all, nothing any bigger than that. Look, Hinchcliffe, I really don’t think that—”
“I’m not interested in what you think. All I want to know is what you’ve seen.”
“And I’ve told you everything. I’ll find work again tomorrow and see what else I can find out.”
“I don’t think you understand the importance of this, Danny. There are implications for all of us if Warner starts getting support and if people here start hearing what he’s doing. The grass is always greener on the other side, remember that expression?”
“The grass is yellow everywhere now,” I tell him. “What’s happening here is on a very small scale, Hinchcliffe. If Warner’s stealing from you that’s one thing, but I don’t think it’s worth…”
I stop talking when I realize he’s not there anymore. The radio’s dead.
14
THE SOUND OF ENGINES wakes me up. The top floor of the bank is icy cold as I scramble across the room to the window and look down onto the square. All around the edges of the large triangle-shaped area, people are emerging from buildings and spilling out onto the street. Several of them dive for cover as a fleet of vehicles powers into the center of Southwold, filling the air with black fumes and noise. I recognize some of these trucks and vans, they’re from Lowestoft. Hinchcliffe’s obviously thought about our conversation last night and has decided to flex his muscles and remind everyone who’s boss. So much for diplomacy and negotiation, not that I ever expected anything different from him.
The convoy stops, filling almost the entire square now. An army of fighters flood out into the open and begin rounding people up. For the most part they do exactly what they’re told, shuffling toward the center of the square. One woman refuses and runs the other way, but she’s chased down by one of Hinchcliffe’s thugs and clubbed to the ground. She lies on the asphalt screaming, blood pouring down her face, everyone else too scared to help. The fighter drags her over to the others. Christ, I need to get out of here.
The arrival of Hinchcliffe’s troops means my time here is up. I quickly gather my stuff and pack everything into my backpack, but I start coughing as soon as I stand upright, and for a few seconds it’s like I’ve lost control of my body. I try to drink from a bottle of stale water, but the first gulp I take ends up sprayed across the floor before I can swallow it down. Eventually the coughs subside. Panting with effort, I spit a lump of sticky, foul-tasting muck into the corner of the room, then lean against the window.
Down on the street below, directly outside the hotel, there’s an uncomfortable-looking standoff taking place. Several of Hinchcliffe’s vehicles have been parked in an arc around the entrance to the building, and his fighters are advancing. I recognize a couple of the more notorious faces. Patterson is moving closer, and Llewellyn is loitering ominously toward the back of the assembled troops, no doubt there to coordinate them and to keep Hinchcliffe updated. Getting out of the lead truck now is his protégé, Curtis, wearing his usual uniform of full body armor. He’s a vile, nasty bastard, not known for his negotiation skills. These discussions won’t last long.
I finish collecting my gear, then swing my pack onto my shoulders, eager to get out of Southwold fast. I glance out of the window again and see that John Warner has emerged from the hotel now. Barely dressed, he’s walking toward Curtis with arms outstretched to demonstrate that he’s unarmed and ready to talk, gesturing for him to follow him into the hotel. Curtis marches toward him. Fuck. What the hell’s he doing? He doesn’t even try talking to Warner. The bastard just lifts up a machete and takes a vicious swipe at the white-haired leader of Southwold. Warner tries to get out of the way, but he’s taken by surprise. Curtis chops down into his neck, hitting him with such violent force that he drops to his knees, the blade wedged deep into his flesh. Curtis grips the older man’s shoulder and yanks him up, then wrenches his machete free. Still holding him, he sinks the tip of the blade deep into Warner’s chest, then pulls it out again, swiping it through the air to get rid of the excess blood before pushing Warner away. He staggers back, his body soaked with glistening red, then his legs give way and he crumbles to the ground like a marionette with severed strings.