Them or Us Page 25

  “Put that knife down, you useless fucker,” he spits at me. No more smooth talk. He puts the lamp down on the edge of a desk, then leans on his walking stick and glares across the room at me, breathing hard. “I don’t think you quite understand,” he says, pointing accusingly. “I might not have made myself completely clear earlier. Whether you like it or not, one way or another you’re going back to Lowestoft to deliver my message to Hinchcliffe.”

  All the vote-winning pretense has been dropped now, and for the first time I’m seeing the real Ankin. I’ve never been good at dealing with people in positions of authority, and I feel as anxious now as I do when I’m with Hinchcliffe—but there’s an important difference here that I’m quick to remember: Ankin has no hold over me. He needs me more than I need him.

  “Why should I help you? What are you going to do if I don’t do what you say? Kill me?”

  He moves toward me again menacingly.

  “I understand your position, McCoyne,” he says, virtually spitting out each word, “but here’s mine. Everything hinges on us getting into Lowestoft and keeping the structure of the town intact. You’ll help because I’ve told you you’ll help, and if I have to march you in there with a loaded gun held to your head, then that’s what I’ll do.”

  This isn’t the way I wanted it to be, but so be it. Other than a little time in this grubby world I have nothing left. No family, no friends, no life, hardly any possessions … I can’t be bothered arguing any more. The harder I try to fight, the more I always seem to lose.

  “Kill me now, then.”

  “What?”

  “I won’t do it, Ankin. I’m tired of fuckers like you pushing me around and telling me what to do. You’re going to have to kill me, because I’m not going back to Lowestoft.”

  “Don’t be so stupid,” he says. “What’s that going to achieve?”

  “Absolutely nothing. Then again, that’s exactly what me talking to Hinchcliffe will achieve also. In case you hadn’t heard, the man’s a complete fucking psychopath. Like I told you earlier, if you think he’s going to shuffle off into the distance and let you take over everything he’s built up in Lowestoft, you’re very much mistaken.”

  Ankin’s a sensible man, I’m sure he is. Regardless of the games he plays and the outdated political interests he still seems to nurture, I know he’s no fool. He looks straight at me, and I can see him silently weighing up his limited options. He’s in a crap position to try to bargain with me, and he knows it.

  “Hinchcliffe relies on you, doesn’t he?”

  “He’s a nasty, resourceful bastard. He doesn’t rely on anyone. He uses people, that’s all. If I’m not around, he’ll just find someone else.”

  “You think? That’s not the impression I get from Llewellyn. He seems to think you’re different. Tell me, how long have you been there?”

  “A few months.”

  “And how did you come to Hinchcliffe’s attention?”

  “I led him to the Unchanged nests, helped him to hunt them out and get rid of them.”

  “So you’ve been pretty valuable to him?”

  “I wouldn’t go that far. Definitely not now the Unchanged are gone.”

  “Well, he obviously still needs you. Otherwise he wouldn’t have sent you out here with Llewellyn. No offense, but you’re not the strongest-looking fighter.”

  “None taken.”

  “Look,” he says, sounding weary, “I’m going to lay things on the line for you. You’re going back into Lowestoft tomorrow, whether you like it or not.”

  “Like fuck I am—”

  “You don’t have any choice. Like I said, taking the town is of paramount importance.”

  “Spare me the rhetoric. I won’t go.”

  “You will. This is bigger than you and me, Danny, much bigger.”

  Ankin starts pacing the small room, running his fingers through his shock of white hair, seething with anger and frustration. The strangest thing is that, suddenly, I feel nothing. No fear or apprehension … absolutely nothing. I’m still curious, though. Something doesn’t ring true.

  “I don’t get it.”

  “Don’t get what?” he asks, barely able to look in my direction.

  “Why you think you need Lowestoft so badly. It’s just a modest little town, for crying out loud. Why not just move on to the next place?”

  Ankin walks to the broken window. It’s pitch black outside, and I doubt he can see anything, but still he stares out for an uncomfortably long time.

  “Okay, here’s the score,” he finally says. “I’ll level with you. The stuff I told you earlier, I didn’t give you the full picture.”

  I’m not surprised. I try to guess what he’s going to say next. That there are no reenforcements, perhaps? That there’s an even bigger army out there somewhere hunting him down?

  “Go on…”

  “It’s the politician in me—I can’t help trying to give everything the right spin to help get my point across. It’s hard to break the habits of a lifetime, you know?”

  “Try.”

  He sits down on the edge of the desk, leaning on his stick for support.

  “Things are worse than I said earlier. I just didn’t want to put too much pressure on you at once.”

  “Worse? How could things be any worse?”

  “Sahota’s not negotiating in Wales. Last I heard he was fighting there, trying to get a foothold in the north of the country. We haven’t had any contact from him for a while.”

  “How long?”

  “About three months.”

  “Jesus.”

  “I told you that Devon and Cornwall were probably livable, but the fact is the contamination’s so bad we haven’t even been able to get down there. Truth is we don’t hold out much hope of anyone being left alive there now. You know how it all happened, the refugee camps drew people into the cities, and where the Unchanged went…”

  “We followed.”

  “Exactly. Most of our people were drawn inland toward the fighting. Up north, Glasgow and Edinburgh were taken out with two bombs within hours of each other, and the cumulative effect of that was devastating. Much of Scotland is uninhabitable now. In fact, the only parts of Scotland we think are still livable are the places where hardly anyone lived anyway—and out in those extreme parts of the country, if there is anyone left alive, they’re going to have a hell of a job living through the winter.”

  “So what exactly are you saying to me? That the whole country is dead?”

  “I’m saying that this area is far more important than I originally led you to believe.”

  “Wait, are you saying that this is it?”

  He pauses before answering. “Pretty much. There were other towns, other outposts, but not anymore. It’s all so fragile, Danny. All it takes is for a few cracks to show and they fall apart.”

  “Jesus Christ.”

  “So you can understand why I need to get into Lowestoft, can’t you? It’s the largest center of population there is.”

  “On this side of the country?”

  “No, in the whole country.”

  “Fuck me. You are joking, aren’t you? Lowestoft?”

  I can tell from the expression on his face that joking is the very last thing on his mind.

  “I’m sure there are more people left alive than there are just in Lowestoft, but they’re scattered over massive areas. There’s nowhere else left like this right now. Lowestoft is unique, probably the biggest concentration of people there still is, we think—and as I said, any people who are left out on their own through the next few months are going to find it awfully hard to survive. No regular food supplies, an extreme winter because of the bombs…”

  “But if you’re as well supported as you say you are, why not just take Hinchcliffe out and take the damn place by force?”

  “It’s an option, and I haven’t ruled it out, but it might not be as easy as it sounds. Thing is, like anybody else, Hinchcliffe and his fighters will do all they
can to protect themselves. Remove him and some other tough bastard will just rise up and take his place. If we were to go in heavy-handed, there’s a real danger we could bring the whole damn place crashing down around us, and then what? Having you here has given us an unexpected opportunity to try to negotiate and break this cycle of violence. We all need Lowestoft intact. We need the people to survive, the buildings to survive, Hinchcliffe’s food stocks to survive—”

  “He won’t tell you where the food is. No one knows but him.”

  “I’m sure he won’t, but that just further underlines my point. This is our very last chance.”

  Ankin’s words have become a blur of noise. I’m still struggling to grasp the concept that the small, run-down port on the east coast where I’ve been trapped for the last few months has, by default, become the most important place in the country. The new capital, even.

  “So what about you?” I ask him. “Why are you here now?”

  “We’ve been on the road for most of the time.”

  “On the road?”

  “We were originally based around Hull, but that wasn’t an ideal location. The pollution levels up there became too dangerous, and with the numbers of people we’ve been trying to coordinate, it just became impractical. We needed to find somewhere safer and more central, and that’s Lowestoft.”

  “So that’s your real reason for coming here, isn’t it? You’re a king without a kingdom.”

  “Not at all, though I suppose you could look at it like that. The fact is, it’s less about the kingdom and more about the subjects. We need numbers to get this country functioning again. If we’re going to be able to salvage anything from the ruins of what we’ve all lost, we need to get people together in decent numbers. We can criticize his methods, but Hinchcliffe’s managed to do just that. From what I’ve heard, though, he’s only interested in feathering his own nest and everyone else can go to hell.”

  “That’s pretty much it.”

  Ankin looks down at his boots. He seems defeated and lost, all the bullshit and spin suddenly knocked out of him.

  “We have to do this, Danny. This might look like a minor skirmish in comparison to the things we’ve all seen and done over the last year, like two tribes scrapping over a strip of land, but it isn’t, it’s much more than that. Everything I’m hearing tells me Lowestoft can’t continue to survive how it is right now, and at the same time my people can’t survive without Lowestoft. If we don’t make this happen, then this country will die. This is our very last chance. The pressure’s not just on your shoulders, but you can make a crucial difference here. You’re in a unique position to help stop our slide back into anarchy.”

  “I think you might be too late.”

  “Well, I don’t, and while there’s breath in my body and even the slightest of chances, I’m going to do what I can to make it happen.”

  I have to give him his due, he’s good. For a fraction of a second I almost buy into his story, but it’s all irrelevant to me now. None of it matters. Everything I ever cared about is gone. Ankin seems to know that and anticipates it.

  “I assume you don’t owe Hinchcliffe anything,” he says, his voice flat and unemotional now, “so what could I do to make you help me?”

  “There’s nothing. All I have now is time, and I’m rapidly running out of that. I just want to spend the days and weeks I’ve got left on my own. No more fighting, no more bullshit politics and exploitation, no pressure … No offense, Ankin, but you can fight your own battle with Hinchcliffe tomorrow.”

  I try to walk away, wanting to end this pointless conversation, but there’s nowhere left to go. A gust of cold air and the sudden movement catch me by surprise, and before I know it I’m doubled over coughing. I lean on the back of a chair for support, hacking my guts up. I manage to turn away and avoid the embarrassment of showering Ankin with bloody spittle.

  “You don’t sound so good,” he says. “Come to mention it, you don’t look so good either.”

  “I’m sick.”

  “You don’t say. Been suffering long?”

  “Since the bombs.”

  “What, some sort of cancer, is it?”

  “That’s what I’m told.”

  “What are you doing about it?”

  I manage to stop coughing temporarily. I collapse into the chair, panting hard.

  “What can I do? Live with it till you die from it, that’s the advice the doctor gave me.”

  “Must frustrate you, though, knowing that before all this happened, there might have been some drugs you could have taken or something else you could have done.”

  “It breaks my fucking heart. It’s this goddamn war that’s made me sick.”

  “I agree, and that just reinforces everything I’ve been trying to say to you. It’s so important we finish the work we’ve started here and try to put what’s left of this broken country back together. I don’t suppose medical care is very high up on Hinchcliffe’s list of priorities, is it?”

  “He doesn’t give a shit unless he’s the one who’s hurting.”

  Ankin stops and thinks for a moment longer, watching me as I cough again, then wipe my mouth. I instinctively hide the smear of blood on the back of my hand.

  “This country needs you, Danny.”

  “Well, I don’t need it.”

  “Look, I’m not promising anything, but I could have a word with a few people we’ve got here with us. Most of my medics are elsewhere right now, but we do have a doctor on-site. He won’t be able to operate or come up with a cure or anything like that, but I’m guessing you’re probably well past that stage anyway. He might be able to make the time you’ve got left a little easier.”

  “Are you bribing me now?”

  He grins. “Suppose I am. Still, it’s a genuine offer, Danny. You help me, and I’ll help you.”

  “And you think your people can help me?”

  “Like I said, I doubt we can save you, but I’m sure we can make things a little easier. We could either give you a while longer or make the wait a little shorter, whichever you choose. You interested?”

  “Not really.”

  “Come on, Danny,” he says, his frustration clear. “Just talk to Hinchcliffe for me. They say he listens to you.”

  “Hinchcliffe doesn’t listen to anyone.”

  “You underestimate yourself.”

  “No, you overestimate me.”

  “That’s not what I’m hearing. Look, there’s nothing you can do or say to change the fact that we’re marching on Lowestoft tomorrow, you included. Go on ahead and talk to him for me, pave the way for us, and I’ll guarantee your safety.”

  “Just how are you going to do that?”

  “Leave it to me. Llewellyn will travel with you. He’ll get you in, then he’ll get you out again. After that, the time you have left is your own, I promise. A few more hours, one meeting with Hinchcliffe, then I swear you’re free to go.”

  35

  IT’S PITCH BLACK AND rain is coming in through the broken window when Llewellyn barges into my freezing-cold room and hauls me up onto my feet. Christ, it must be the middle of the night. He drags me downstairs, ignoring my protests and hardly saying a word, then shoves me out through the museum door. With my right arm held in his viselike grip, he leads me through the muddy quagmire outside.

  “Time for your checkup,” he says, virtually throwing me into the back of a long red and white truck, then slamming and locking the door behind me. It’s as dark inside the truck as it is outside, and I work my way along its length looking for another way out. It’s some kind of medical vehicle, laid out like a makeshift mobile clinic. On closer inspection, it looks like one of those blood donation units that used to come to the offices back home every so often. I used to give blood just for the free cup of tea and an hour off work.

  I’m drenched and shivering. The windows are welded shut, and there’s no other obvious way out. There’s a skylight above me, and that looks like my only viable means of esca
pe. Groaning with effort, I manage to drag a metal box across the floor and try to get up, but it’s not high enough and the tips of my fingers barely reach the ceiling. I’m looking around for something else to stand on when the door flies open again. The noise startles me, and I look around to see a balding, willow-framed man climbing the steps up into the back of the unit, using the handrail to both support himself and haul himself up. He looks at me with a mix of bewilderment and disinterest, then calmly closes the door again and hangs his light from a hook on the ceiling.

  “Danny McCoyne?” he asks as he removes a scarf and two outdoor jackets, then puts on a heavily stained white overcoat.

  “Yes.”

  “Sit down, please, Mr. McCoyne, and stop trying to escape. There’s really no need; I’m actually trying to help you. It’s bad enough that I have to come here at this hour, so let’s not make things any harder than they need be.”

  With little other option, I do as he says, taken aback for a moment by being called Mr. McCoyne for the first time in as long as I can remember. He takes off his half-moon glasses, which have steamed up, and cleans them on his grubby lapel. He’s tall and thin, and something about his manner and the way he carries himself suggests he’s well educated. In comparison to Rona Scott he’s a bloody angel. That foul woman is a butcher: brutal and rough. I visualize this man standing amid the carnage on the battlefield, carefully dissecting Unchanged rather than just hacking them apart like everyone else.

  “Mr. Ankin has asked me to have a look and see if there’s anything we can do for you. How long have you been sick?”

  “I don’t know when it started. It’s only over the last few weeks that things have gotten really bad.”

  He nods thoughtfully, then starts to carry out a very brief physical examination. He checks the same things Rona Scott checked, but he makes me feel like a patient, not a slab of meat. He checks my pulse, listens to my heart, looks into my eyes, asks me about allergies and medication and all the other questions doctors used to ask back in the day. I’m feeling nervous suddenly, and without thinking I start asking questions back—pointless small talk to calm myself down.

  “Have you been with Ankin long?”