Them or Us Page 11

  11

  THE WOMAN JILL WAS right about the food—it was warm and it was limited, both in taste and volume. I forced myself to eat, knowing that I needed to build up my energy after the unexpected exertion of the day. I never expected to have to do a full day’s physical labor here. Every muscle in my body hurts now and I feel half dead, even worse than usual.

  I’ve been trying to walk off the food lying heavy on my stomach, determined not to spend another night throwing up. I walk slowly around the perimeter of the village square, trying to observe as much as I can without drawing attention to myself. There’s a very different atmosphere here, much less immediate tension in the air. Back in Lowestoft, you constantly feel that everyone’s on edge, that a fight might break out at any moment for any reason, often for no reason at all. Here there seems to be more tolerance and cooperation, and I’m surprised, if not wholly convinced. They must know something about Warner and his regime that I don’t, either that or this place is genuine and these people are trying to rebuild.

  I do my best to avoid the crowds. Considering there are only around thirty people here (according to Hinchcliffe), it’s harder than I expected. Back in the center of Lowestoft, people often cram together in the same buildings. Here, though, they’re much more spread out. There are candles and lamps visible in many of the buildings around the square, and I feel like there are eyes watching me constantly. I know that’s just paranoia, because no one gives a shit about me, and that’s one of the reasons Hinchcliffe sent me here. If anyone asks I’ll just lie my way out of trouble and tell them I was looking for a place to sleep.

  There’s a truck parked across the full width of a road up ahead, blocking it off. It’s an ex-army vehicle, I think—painted matte green save for some kind of crude emblem that’s been daubed on one side and on the hood. It looks like a target, red and white concentric circles with more red at the bull’s-eye. As I get closer, I realize I can hear voices in the street behind it. I walk right past the mouth of the road and try to glance around the back of the truck, but I can’t see much. There’s a small crowd of people there, but I can’t tell how many or what they’re doing. I keep moving, then take the next right turn, hoping that the side street I’ve just entered will somehow connect with the road that runs parallel. It doesn’t, but the houses I’m walking past now back on to those on the other road. I carry on a little farther, then stop, check again that there’s no one else around, then climb over the gate at the side of the house nearest to me. It’s quiet, and I can hear the voices in the blocked-off street as I walk the length of the overgrown back garden. There’s a hole in the end fence. I duck through it, squeezing through a gap I’d never have got through if I wasn’t so thin, and continue toward the house up ahead, which, to my relief, appears empty and dark. The back door is missing, its frame badly damaged. I go inside, checking yet again that no one’s there, then slowly creep up the stairs. From an echoing room at the front of the house, I look down onto the street below.

  There are five figures waiting in the road. I can’t tell who any of them are from this distance, but I can see that they’re armed, although their weapons are held casually and they don’t seem to be expecting trouble. One of them sits down on the curb; another takes a swig from a hip flask.

  It’s a few minutes before anything happens. I’m leaning against the wall, eyes starting to go, almost falling asleep, when the man sitting down gets up quickly and the posture of the others suddenly changes. They stand ready as a group in the middle of the street. Then I hear an approaching engine, and I see headlights coming closer. It’s another ex-army truck—similar in size and condition to the one that’s been left blocking the other end of the road. It stops a short distance away with a sudden hissing of brakes. The driver, along with two more men, gets out.

  They move fast. The driver opens the back of the truck and climbs up into it, then starts passing stuff down to the others, who carry the heavy boxes and crates away toward another house and a storage shed near the blocked mouth of the road. They’re working steadily for a good few minutes, unloading a stack of food, some weapons, and other, less easily identifiable, supplies. It’s a decent-sized hoard. Suspiciously large, in fact. They won’t have got their hands on that much stuff anywhere around here. Within a couple of minutes the unloading is complete, and as quickly and unexpectedly as they arrived, the second truck, its driver, and the passengers all disappear. I catch a glimpse of that same circular red and white insignia as the truck reverses back down the street.

  Smugglers. Christ, that’s it. No wonder Warner’s so cocky. The wily bastard is stealing to keep Southwold running the way he wants it, and he’s obviously building up a decent and well-connected support structure, too. So the next question is, where’s he getting it all from? This all looks surprisingly well organized, and whoever he’s stealing from must have enough stuff in storage not to notice the occasional truckload disappearing. There’s only one person who’s likely to control enough around here to be in that position, and that’s Hinchcliffe. By the looks of things, though, these aren’t opportunistic raids. Everything I saw just now looked carefully planned, so that means Warner had help. He must have people on the inside. Maybe Neil Casey wasn’t killed? Perhaps he’d been working for Warner all along? Fuck me, this is getting complicated. I feel a strange sense of relief that I’ve actually found something to go back to Hinchcliffe with. It means I should be able to get out of here before long.

  The road outside is completely empty now. I leave the house the way I came, slipping back through the hole in the fence, then going down the side of the adjacent house and out onto the other street.

  “So where d’you think that bunch came from?” a voice asks suddenly from somewhere behind me. I spin around anxiously. I go to grab my knife but clumsily drop it. The owner of the voice switches on a flashlight and shines it at me. Shit. I try to rush him, but he steps out of the way, then angles the light directly into my face, blinding me. “Don’t panic,” he says, “I don’t want any trouble.”

  The man shines the light back at himself for a second, and it reflects off his thick glasses. I recognize him immediately. It’s the guy from the working party this afternoon, the one with the bad hair who was watching me so closely in the house. Is he onto me? What am I supposed to do now, kill him? I pick up my knife just in case.

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “The delivery,” he says. “I heard it, so you must have seen it. Same thing happens every few days around this time.”

  “I saw nothing,” I tell him.

  “So why are you here?”

  “I was just looking for somewhere to sleep,” I lie.

  “Bullshit. I’ve been watching you. You’ve walked past more than two dozen empty buildings.”

  “You’ve been watching me? Why?”

  “Because I want to talk to you. Look, can we go somewhere less public…?”

  “The middle of the street’s fine. Anyway, why would you need to talk to me? Are you some kind of stalker?”

  He ignores my jibe.

  “It’s Rufus, isn’t it?”

  “Yes,” I answer after a brief but noticeable delay.

  “So what do you think?”

  “About what?”

  “About what they’re doing here? About the truck you just saw? About the way Warner’s trying to get these people organized?”

  “Did he send you to find me?”

  “Not at all. I’m just trying to work out what’s happening here, same as you are. So I’ll ask you again, what do you think?”

  “I think I’m bloody tired after working all day and I really don’t care about Warner or any mysterious trucks,” I answer. “I’m grateful for the food, and now I just want to find somewhere I can crash for the night like I told you. I took a wrong turn, and that’s why I’m here. I’m really not interested in anything else.”

  “I don’t buy that.”

  “I don’t care.”


  It’s clear this guy is just some deluded little idiot. Maybe he gets a kick out of causing trouble—some kind of masochist looking for a beating, perhaps? Whoever he is and whatever he wants, I’m not getting involved. Things are complicated enough already. I try to sidestep him and head back toward the center of town, but he stands his ground and blocks my way through.

  “I’m sorry,” he says, “but I don’t get it. You’ve just seen a truck full of supplies being unloaded, and you’re telling me you don’t want to know where it came from?”

  “I’m not telling you anything.”

  “Why are you really here?”

  “What’s it to you?”

  “I know you’re lying to me, Rufus,” he says. “I can read you like a book. My name’s Peter Sutton, and I want answers, same as you.”

  12

  MY MIND’S RACING, AND I do all I can not to show it. Who is this person? I need to be damn careful here and keep up my act. If he’s working for Warner, then I could be in real trouble. Likewise, if he’s discovered I’m here spying for Hinchcliffe, there’s every chance I won’t get out of Southwold alive. I need to find out which it is.

  “So talk.”

  He looks around anxiously, despite the fact he already knows the street’s clear, then speaks.

  “I don’t think we’re seeing the full picture here.”

  “Tell me something I don’t know.”

  “We’re only seeing what Warner wants us to see.”

  “Isn’t that usually the way with leaders?”

  “Yes, but this is different.”

  “How?”

  “Can’t quite put my finger on it yet, but those trucks are the key. If we knew where they were coming from then things might start making sense.”

  “Nothing’s made sense for the best part of the last twelve months. Anyway, why are you so interested in Warner? As long as he provides food, does it matter where it comes from?”

  “Yes, but—”

  “You make it sound like you think he has an ulterior motive.”

  “Maybe he does. Someone’s supporting him, that much is obvious.”

  What’s equally obvious is that Peter Sutton doesn’t seem to have any information. He sounds as unsure about what’s happening here as I am. I start to walk back toward town. I’m tired, and I’m desperate not to screw up my “mission” by saying something I’ll regret or getting caught talking out on the street so close to Warner’s food and weapons cache. I need to find somewhere quiet where I can report back to Hinchcliffe, then get some rest in case I end up working another full day tomorrow.

  “I should go…”

  “Just wait. Just give me a few more minutes.”

  “Why?”

  “Because I need your help.”

  “You need my help?”

  Now alarm bells are beginning to sound.

  “Just stop and listen to me, Rufus. I’m like you.”

  “The only thing we have in common is that we’re both still alive.”

  He stands in front of me, blocking my way past.

  “I know what you can do,” he says. “I know you can hold the Hate.”

  For a second I’m floored, although I try not to show it. I push past him and keep moving. How the hell did he know that? Someone must have told him—although I don’t know who, because no one here knows anything about me. Maybe he came here from Lowestoft too? Oh fuck—is that sick bastard Hinchcliffe playing mind games?

  “You know nothing about me.”

  “Yes I do,” he says. “I know what you can do because I’m the same. I can hold it too—”

  Do I believe him? Does it even matter any more? The Unchanged are extinct, so holding the Hate has become as irrelevant a skill as being able to speak Russian. I’m gripping my knife tightly and psyching myself up to use it if Sutton doesn’t leave. Could I kill him? He might not look like much, but I don’t know what he’s capable of, and it’s all about aggression levels now, not size. The screwiest are often the most unpredictable. I’ve seen people half his height kill others twice their weight. Nope, whatever trouble he’s got himself into, I’m not getting involved. I’ve already got enough on my plate—correction, I’ve got nothing on my plate—and that’s how I intend keeping it. I’m about to tell him as much when he starts talking again.

  “When I found out what I could do,” he explains, “I tried to stop fighting, tried to pull away from the war. But there was nowhere to go, and I got tangled up in things I couldn’t get out of. When I learned how to hold the Hate, I started to look at things differently again, started to question what I’d been told and why things were happening. All they wanted me to do was hunt and kill and…”

  “Wait, who is ‘they’?” I ask cautiously.

  “Simon Penkridge, Selena, Chris Ankin…”

  Two of the three names mean nothing to me. I try not to react, but it’s impossible when he mentions Chris Ankin.

  “Ankin?”

  “I never saw him, but the others said they were working for him. They were sending people into refugee camps to kill like bloody suicide bombers.”

  “You refused?”

  “You don’t say no to people like that. I went along with it for a time, then managed to get lost in the crowds and got away from them.”

  “Wise move,” I’m forced to admit, reflecting for a second on my own experiences. The things he says add some weight to his story, but the fact remains, why should I care? All of that is history now, and I need to focus on today. Does this guy know anything that might be useful to Hinchcliffe? Against my better judgment I decide to ask. “So what’s your connection with this place?”

  “Just passing through, same as you.”

  “About these trucks. You’ve been watching them for a while?”

  “I’ve seen them coming and going, but I don’t know anything about them.”

  “So you don’t know where this stuff’s coming in from?”

  “No idea, but I’m trying to find out. Fact is, I need all the food I can get my hands on right now, so I’ll take whatever’s going.”

  “You don’t look like a big eater.”

  “I’m not. Look, where are you heading?”

  “How many times do I have to tell you? To find somewhere to crash for the night.”

  “I know a place. Come with me, there’s something I want to show you.”

  Now alarm bells are really beginning to sound. This guy doesn’t know anything. He’s completely out of his tree. What the hell could he possibly want to show me?

  “No thanks. I think you’ve got the wrong man.”

  “No I haven’t,” he insists, walking alongside me again. “You’re the only one who can help. I can’t do this on my own anymore.”

  “Do what exactly?”

  “Not here,” he says, looking around nervously. There’s a small crowd up ahead gathered around the area the food was distributed from earlier. This guy’s a liability and the best way of getting rid of him, I decide, is to get deeper into the crowd, then give him the slip. I’ll keep him talking for a few seconds longer so he doesn’t suspect I’m about to do a disappearing act.

  “We’re not the only ones who can hold the Hate, Sutton. I’ve met plenty of others.”

  “Yeah? Where are they now?”

  “Dead,” I’m forced to admit, remembering the misguided, kamikaze freedom fighters I managed to get myself mixed up with.

  “Exactly. See, I knew you’d say that. You’re the first person like me I’ve come across since the bombs.”

  “I’m not like you. Stop saying that. I’m not like anyone.”

  “Yes you are. I knew it as soon as I saw you out in the field earlier. The questions you were asking just confirmed it. You’re no scavenger. That’s not why you’re here.”

  Shit, is he onto me? Has my cover been blown?

  “So how could you tell? I didn’t sense that you were any different. For all I know you could be lying to me, feeding me bullshit so you can—
”

  “No bullshit, I swear. You didn’t see that we’re the same because you weren’t looking for it. It’s not about what you do, it’s what you don’t do that really gives you away.”

  “What?”

  “I don’t know what really brought you here to Southwold today, but I’m damn sure it wasn’t the promise of a meal and a bed. You didn’t pick up on me because you were preoccupied thinking about something else. It was obvious—the way you asked so many questions to different people, the way you avoided eye contact. We’re not like the rest of them…”

  Just keep the conversation going for a few more seconds, I tell myself. I’m close to the edge of the crowd now.

  “I ask questions because I don’t want to fuck up. I’ve been on the road for weeks, and this is the best place I’ve found in a long time.”

  “You’ve no more been on the road than I have. I know you’re lying, Rufus, but I understand. You don’t need to. We all have things we need to keep hidden. I’m on your side.”

  “On my side? You don’t know what you’re talking about. Who said anything about taking sides?”

  “It’s all about taking sides now.”

  “Is that right?”

  “Okay, then, tell me the name of the last place you passed through before this one. How long were you there for? And the place before that…?”

  I don’t bother answering. This guy’s a fucking crank. Probably had one too many bangs on the head on the battlefield and now he’s finally lost it. No matter. Not my problem. We’ve reached the crowd, and when Jill, the woman from the working party earlier, appears in front of me, I take the opportunity to use her as a distraction.

  “Jill,” I say, grabbing hold of her arm and pulling her closer. “This guy wants to talk to you.”

  I push her and Peter Sutton together, and before either of them can react I shove my way through the rest of the bodies and slip away into the darkness.