“So why have you stuck by him?”
“Same reason you have. Like it or not, the bastard has influence and he’s hard as nails. It’s better to have him on your side than end up fighting against him.”
“So is that what you’re planning? Some kind of rebellion? An uprising in Lowestoft?”
“It’s not about what I’m planning, but you’re not a million miles off the mark.”
“What, then?”
Llewellyn looks as if he’s about to answer, but then he stops. He stares out of the window into the distance again, then presses his ear against it. He lifts his head from the glass, then taps it with his finger. For a few seconds I hear nothing, and I’m starting to wonder if my hearing is as screwed as the rest of my worn-out body, but then I gradually become aware of a deep, low rumbling noise. It quickly gets louder, and it’s soon so deep and so loud that the window starts to rattle and shake in its frame. Then I see a tank appear. Belching black exhaust fumes into the air, it bulldozes its way across the grassland, caterpillar tracks churning the ground, and stops directly below us. There’s a crudely painted red and white circular insignia on its front and its side. I’ve seen those markings before … I look up again and see that the tank was just the first of several vehicles now moving toward the museum in convoy. Christ, what is this? Most of the advancing machines are clearly military (although there are several civilian cars and bikes here, too, bulked up with improvised armor plating and other defenses), and all of them are decorated with the same red and white concentric circles as the trucks I saw in Southwold. Nestled right in the middle of it all are two heavily armored troop carriers. Where the hell did this bunch come from? The traffic fans out, leaving a space for the first troop carrier to drive closer to the museum. It stops a short distance from the entrance, brakes hissing.
“Bang on time.”
“Llewellyn, what is this?”
“You ever heard that expression, keep your friends close and your enemies closer?”
“Yes, but—”
“Well, get ready to meet your friends. Word to the wise, McCoyne: Doesn’t matter who you are or what you can do, these days all that matters is staying on the team with the fuckers who’ve got the most muscle and the biggest guns, and that’s this crowd. This is just the advance party.”
The door of the troop carrier slides open, and somewhere between ten and fifteen figures quickly emerge, all of them wearing similarly colored clothing—a very basic, improvised uniform of sorts. The troops form a loose protective guard of two roughly parallel lines that stretch from the vehicle right up to the door of the museum. A number of other people follow them out of the transport and walk through the gap that’s opened up between them. I see two men, then a woman, then a small, white-haired man who walks with a stick …
“Who are they?” I ask.
“See the old guy?” Llewellyn says, with something approximating pride and genuine emotion in his voice. “That’s Chris Ankin.”
I can’t believe what I’m hearing.
“Chris Ankin? The Chris Ankin?”
“Mind your p’s and q’s,” he says as he tugs my arm and leads me back down the stairs. “Prime Minister, President, Commander in Chief, Sir, Your Highness—call him what you like, he’s the Boss Man now.”
31
LLEWELLYN AND CHANDRA ARE whisked away, and Healey returns to the van. I’m left alone with Swales. He seems almost as bemused by events as I am, and I get the distinct impression he’s here just to make up the numbers. We watch from a ground-floor window as the new arrivals quickly set up camp. Some build fires and erect temporary shelters. Others are dispatched into what’s left of Norwich, presumably to look for fuel and supplies and anything else of value. They’re working together, no hint of aggression or any pecking order.
Swales notices a line forming outside a mess tent. He heads straight for it, and I follow him. We’re given a little food without question—some kind of bland, rice-based paste and a few thin crackers—and a mug of coffee each and left to our own devices again. It’s not great tasting, but it’s not half-cooked dog, either, and I manage to swallow a few mouthfuls. We sit on a bench in a sheltered alcove just outside the museum building, out of the way of everyone else but still close enough to watch. It’s funny, less than an hour ago Swales was definitely one of “them,” but now we’re thick as thieves, relatively comfortable in each other’s company because there’s someone new in town, neither of us having any immediate desire to mix with these strangers.
There’s controlled activity all around us still as these people, whoever they are, continue to establish their makeshift base. Each person is carrying out their allotted task without question or complaint, people who were obviously fighters working alongside people who obviously weren’t … it’s a pale imitation, but it’s almost like things used to be. This is like what I saw in Southwold, albeit on a much grander scale. So what’s the connection? Are they all stealing from Hinchcliffe?
“You gonna eat that?” Swales asks, nudging me with his elbow and nodding at my practically untouched food.
“You want it?”
He snatches the plate and starts scooping up the rice paste with clumsy fingers, smearing nearly as much of it over his face as he manages to get into his mouth.
“Good?”
“Good,” he answers, wolfing down a cracker. “I’ll eat anything, me,” he continues, showering me with crumbs.
“So I can see.”
Swales obviously isn’t the sharpest tool in the box, but his strength and size (and no doubt his track record and ongoing appetite for violence) have helped him become one of Hinchcliffe’s “elite.” He’s strong, impressionable, and, I expect, easily manipulated—perfect fighter fodder.
“So what do you think about all this, then?” he asks.
That’s a surprisingly difficult question to answer. These days it seems that something happens every few minutes that skews my perspective on everything again. Everything feels fluid. Nothing sits still.
“Depends what ‘all this’ is, doesn’t it?”
“Don’t get you.”
“First I thought we were out plane spotting, then I thought Llewellyn was going to kill me, and now I’m sitting having lunch with half an army. I’ll be honest with you, Swales, I don’t have a fucking clue what’s going on anymore.”
“I got told nothing. Llewellyn said he’d got a job for me, that’s all. Didn’t know nothing about all this.”
“So what do you think about it all?”
Swales has a naïveté and innocence that may well prove to be his undoing. He talks candidly, barely even thinking about what he’s saying. Still, that probably makes him more honest and reliable than most of the backstabbing bastards Hinchcliffe surrounds himself with.
“Got to be a good thing, ain’t it?”
“Suppose.”
“This is like things used to be.”
“I guess.”
He pauses to eat more food. Then, when his second plate’s almost clear, he speaks again.
“You know what I used to do for a job, Danny?”
“No.”
“I used to flip burgers ’cause that was the only job I could find. There’s plenty about the old times I miss—”
“But not flipping burgers?”
“Definitely not flipping burgers!” He laughs. “I miss my mom and my brother, even though he turned out to be one of them. Miss my buddies … Don’t get me wrong, I wouldn’t go back for any money, but I wouldn’t say I’m happy with the way everything is, you know?”
“Like what?”
“Like the fighting. You do it ’cause you have to, but that don’t make it right. You can’t just kick back and relax like you used to. You’ve always got to be on the lookout. Llewellyn says you got to stay one step ahead of everybody else, ’cause the one guy you’re not watching is the one who’ll creep up behind you and kill you.”