Hurst, Robin Crumby [funny books to read .txt] 📗

The nights had been long and spent in total darkness. They conserved their candles and torch batteries for when they were preparing meals. When it got dark, there was nothing to do but sleep. They watched the stars from their balcony window, telling stories, reminiscing about school days.

After fifty-five days the food ran out. They searched the other flats for tinned goods, or anything that was still edible, exhausting all that remained. Hungry and thirsty, they waited as long as they dared before setting out for Aunt Harriet’s town house in Lymington. He hadn’t been sure whether she would still be there, but it was as good a place as any to head for. He could still picture the views over the estuary and glimpses of the Solent.

Joe remembered the day they left the tower block for the last time, lowering their kit down a rope from a second-floor window before clambering after it. They loaded the Transit van in silence with what remained of their supplies and set out along back streets and alleyways, choked with abandoned vehicles. After several miles of slow progress heading out of the city, they had swung south towards Hythe, hugging the coastline, avoiding the main roads through the New Forest. Rounding two vehicles locked together in a head-on collision, they got the van stuck in a deep ditch, its front wheels spinning uselessly in muddy water. Without a winch and a truck, there had been no way of getting it out again, so they continued the rest of their journey on foot.

It was further than they realised. They had no map and only a pocket compass with a mind of its own, but figured that if they stayed close to the coast, they would get there eventually. It took them the best part of two days. Keeping to footpaths that sometimes ran deep into the forest, crossing fields left to grow wild, sleeping in deserted farmhouses. When they finally reached Lymington River, they found themselves opposite the ferry port and single-track railway station. Walking into town, they caught sight of other survivors and kept their distance. Their large backpacks caught the attention of those they passed who chased them into nearby fields.

Lying on the cold stone floor, Joe’s memory jumped forward to the fateful night of the attack. Raised voices in the street, someone banging relentlessly on the door. Somehow they had found a way in, smashing through a ground-floor window, even though it was shuttered and padlocked.

He had replayed the following minutes again and again in his head. Stupid and careless. They had fallen asleep with the candle burning. Somehow the light must have been visible from the street below through closed curtains. They didn’t stand a chance, there were too many of them, torches flashed in faces. Howard fought back and was stabbed in the stomach, Joe was badly beaten. They took their rucksacks and left them for dead. Joe held Howard’s hand as the colour drained from his face. His pulse grew fainter until the touch of his skin grew cold and his body stiffened. After that, Joe must have passed out.

It was Zed who found Joe with broken ribs and a fractured jaw. They pulled him out, cleaned him up, carried him to the Land Rover. Riley tended to his wounds, whispering soothing words to keep him conscious. He could still picture Riley’s face, her long brown hair, her even smile, her green eyes. In the permanent half-light of the cellar, he felt he could reach out and touch her, but her image was temporary. The rest of his group was most likely back at the castle by now, wondering where he was. He shuddered, remembering that no one knew what had become of him. He was on his own. This time there would be no chance of rescue.

He looked deep within himself, wondering whether he had the courage and strength to carry on. His second incarceration in a week. Out of the frying pan and into the fire. Was this his punishment for finally giving in to carnal pleasure at the hotel? His first time, after so much anticipation, had been purely functional. No talking. Watched by the guard. Then his first was quickly followed by several more. Each partner different and exciting, yet devoid of emotional connection. An exchange of services. Few words. The guard had called him a breeder. An underclass to the women who used him. To them he was no better than an animal. He wondered what real love would feel like and whether he would live long enough to experience it. Mila. He thought of his beautiful Mila, a smile forming on his lips.

He twisted his body, rolling over on his back as his thoughts turned to Jean, the young girl he had come here with. The girl he had put his life on the line to try and protect. Look where that had got him. An idea began to form in his mind, building slowly like a ray of light barely visible, half imagined. Jean and he were partners now, they both shared a common enemy. Seamus would get what was coming to him. He would teach that bastard a lesson. He was suddenly filled with hope. Jean would find a way. She was young but also resourceful. Somehow he had to believe she would get him out of here. He just needed to hold on and stay strong, whatever happened. Right now, hope and faith were all he had left. He had come so far to get to this point. He owed it to Howard.

From the kitchen above came the sound of raucous laughter and a chair scraping on the stone floor. The door at the top of the stairs swung open on its hinges and he heard the heavy clump of boots coming down the narrow steps towards the cellar. Joe looked back up into the light from the small window shrouded in foliage and whispered a silent prayer, repeating over and over: “Forgive us our trespasses – deliver us from evil”.

He rolled over and managed to get himself up into a kneeling position. If only he could get to his feet, he could try something. His legs were numb and unresponsive. The renewed blood flow caused agonising shooting pains.

Footsteps stopped outside the door as he heard the rattle of keys. With a grimace he levered himself into a crouch, using the chair to support his weight. He rocked back uncomfortably on to the tips of his toes and as the door opened he launched himself forward with all his might, catching his abuser completely by surprise, barging him backwards. The man smashed his head back against the brick wall. Joe was on him quickly before he could recover. Pressing his elbow into the man’s throat, throttling him until he lay still. Joe wasn’t sure if he was dead or just unconscious. It didn’t matter to him.

There was a call from the kitchen above. A question left unanswered. The voice was slurred and uncertain.

Joe checked the man’s pockets and found a small kitchen knife. He stopped for a second, listening carefully for any further movement on the floor above. There was silence.

After several attempts, dropping the knife on the floor, he held the blade between his knees and moved his wrists backwards and forwards against the serrated edge as the bungee cord began to fray. He freed his legs and stood painfully, braced against the wall. He looked up the stairwell to the kitchen, trying to remember the layout. With the knife in his right hand, he climbed the stairs looking for Jean and Seamus.

It had been a frustrating night for Copper and his men. Ahead of their attack on Hurst Castle later that evening the weather had deteriorated rapidly. A local man, they called Trevor, stood at the doorway, sniffing at the wind, making faces at the darkening sky, where grey clouds were gathering over the Ship Inn on Lymington quay.

Trevor reckoned it was blowing a force six, but gusting seven or eight, with a big sea swell to go with it. It was also a south-westerly wind, far from ideal for their intended beach landing on the exposed spit facing the Needles rocks.

Will watched from the shadows as the two leaders conferred for several minutes in heated debate. The man in black finally gave in to common sense, postponing the attack until the following night, providing the weather improved in the meantime. Copper seemed impatient, perhaps realising his men were psyched and ready to go. Will knew from bitter experience that delays weakened resolve and would dull the men’s edge as a fighting force. They had all been cooped up in the pub for most of the day. They were restless and baying for blood.

Copper strode back into the bar with confirmation of the bad news. “Attack’s off, boys.” There was a chorus of disapproval and disappointment. “No, listen, he’s right, it’s too dangerous for a beach assault tonight. We wouldn’t be able to land where we need to. And with the swell, someone’s going to drown, and I’d rather it wasn’t one of you lot.”

Will’s wrists were still cuffed behind his back. The plastic ties were biting and chafing but if he sat very still, leaning forward, he found the pain lessened and he could get the blood flowing all the way to his fingers if he wiggled them slowly. He was racking his brains to figure out a way to get a message to his friends at Hurst to warn them of the impending attack. He had been trying to make eye contact with the landlord and his daughter, but they had not looked his way. Will was watching them carefully, observing their interactions with Copper and the others, trying to determine whether their loyalty to Copper was feigned or real.

The landlord’s daughter collected the empty bowls from the dinner they had served the hungry men. It wasn’t much, just some soup made from boiled vegetables, followed by a few chunks of “Fruit and Nut” chocolate they had liberated from a vending machine. They took it in turns to swig from a bottle of Cointreau the landlord had found behind a catering fridge. He was saving it for a special occasion.

When the girl was within earshot, Will whispered the words “Help me” as loudly as he dared. She looked at him and very deliberately shook her head. “Please,” he implored. As she approached his table, he noticed she walked with a slight limp in her left leg. She reached across and started wiping the table nearest him with a cloth, even though it looked spotless. She leaned close, looking past his shoulder. Her long brown hair brushed against his right arm.

“They’ll kill me if I help you.”

“And they’ll kill me if you don’t.” He smiled wanly.

Before he could say anything else she moved on to the next table, but glanced back at him from behind the bar counter. He wasn’t sure if he could trust her, but right now, she was his best and only option.

With the attack off for the night, Copper took some of the men on a scavenging mission, more to pass the time than for any real purpose. They already had with them everything they needed. But as Copper had said, it didn’t pay to have the men stuck in close quarters for hours on end. Like dogs and small children, his men needed daily exercise. They had all seen too many arguments boil over into fistfights and worse.

Will watched the way Copper interacted with the others. There was no question: his men respected, even liked him. Perhaps there was more to Copper than met the eye. He seemed full of contradictions that kept Will guessing. With his men, he was affable, humorous, even charming. The former policeman seemed to defy categorisation. He had come to know him as cruel and dispassionate, adept at extracting