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

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Inside the main building, Riley waved at Scottie who nodded back, wrapping a bandage round the scalp of one of the injured, whose dark Barbour jacket was slick with sticky blood. Only his eyes and the lower half of the man’s face were visible. Liz had him propped against the wall with a hot cup of tea to hold. He seemed to be suffering from concussion. He was non-responsive, almost dejected. There was an air of melancholy about him. In truth, no one was quite sure how he’d got there at all. He was unarmed and had nothing identifiable in his pockets. And yet, there was something familiar about him, but Scottie couldn’t quite place it. Something about his voice when he had asked for something to drink.

Tommy helped the injured man through to the makeshift triage area where more than a dozen wounded were laid out on mattresses on the floor. One of Copper’s men was tied to a bed, a bullet still lodged in his abdomen, oozing blood when he breathed. They didn’t hold much hope for him but Liz had insisted that whatever he had or hadn’t done, it didn’t make any difference. The people of Hurst were not barbarians. They would administer what medical care they could offer and make the wounded comfortable.

The man tied to the bed seemed to perk up at the sight of Tommy and his charge. He tried to mouth something, but no words came out. Unnoticed, he extended a single finger towards the man with the bandaged head, his eyes flickering as his head slumped back against the pillow. Tommy lowered the wounded man back onto an empty bed, unlacing his boots. The man’s pupils were dilated, his vision cloudy. He was struggling to maintain focus as Tommy moved a finger back and forth in front of his eyes.

“What’s your name?” he asked softly. There was no response, so he tried again. “Can you tell me your name?”

The man blinked back at Tommy and whispered, “Damian. My name’s Damian King.” His voice sounded familiar to Riley. Clipped, northern, hard to place.

“How did you get here?” Tommy continued, suddenly intrigued.

There was another pause as the wounded man tried to make sense of the question. “I’m not sure. I don’t remember. Where am I?”

“You’re at Hurst Castle,” said Tommy. “Liz says you’ll be fine, but you’ve had a nasty blow to the head.”

Riley spotted Nathan doing what he did best, bustling around, making lists of names and their symptoms. There were some casualties with more serious injuries, gunshot wounds and the like, who would need urgent treatment. They didn’t hold too much hope for a couple of them. Zed spotted the man Tommy had supported through and did a double take.

Riley noticed his puzzled look, following his stare towards the man with the bandaged head. There was a flicker of intelligence in his eyes, something Riley recognised.

“Do you know him?” asked Riley.

“Don’t you? This is the piece of work who executed Bob and tortured Will at the hospital. What’s he doing here?”

“You’re joking? This scumbag,” said Scottie, all traces of empathy towards the wounded man gone.

The more she looked, the more Riley thought she knew the man. How could everyone have been so slow on the uptake? Of course, they had likely never seen his face in daylight, only glimpses in torchlight and shadows. It seemed implausible, but impossible to deny.

“Why would they leave their leader behind?”

“I don’t know. Perhaps they thought he was dead.”

“What do you want us to do with him,” asked Scottie.

“We’ll deal with him later,” spat Nathan, gritting his teeth. “Take him to the dungeon. Jack will decide when he’s back.”

As Tommy and Scottie led the prisoner from the room, Will appeared in the doorway, blocking their path. He grabbed the wounded man by the scruff of the neck and lifted him off his feet, smashing him back against the wall. “I told you we’d meet again. I’m going to enjoy wiping that grin off your face,” spat Will.

Damian King’s face was a picture of puzzlement. Unfazed by Will’s anger, he stared back with cold lifeless eyes.

Nathan prised the two men apart, inserting himself between them. “Back off, Will. Look at his eyes, he’s all messed up, he doesn’t even know where he is.”

“Well he’s going to wish he never came here,” snarled Will, incredulous. “The two of us have unfinished business.” Will grabbed the prisoner by the hair and hauled him in close. He hawked up some saliva and spat in his face, before dumping him back down on the ground. “I’m going to make you regret what you did to me. What you did to all of us.” He slapped King across the cheek and watched as Tommy frogmarched the prisoner away to the dungeon.

The USS Chester passed the Needles rocks and iconic red and white lighthouse on its northerly tip. Staying within the main shipping channel, the warship towered over the castle at Hurst and the corresponding fortifications on the island side, Fort Albert and Fort Victoria. The Chester’s progress slowed momentarily as she entered the tidal race flowing westwards.

On the bridge, Lieutenant Peterson had ordered the crew to battle stations. Jack watched enthralled as the deck-mounted heavy machine guns swung around and trained their sights on the battlements of Hurst. Spotters on the ship’s superstructure scanned the shoreline on both sides with high-powered binoculars, in constant communication with sniper teams posted on the upper decks. They were still trying to establish contact with the Royal Navy at Portsmouth, getting no response. The radio operator couldn’t explain why they weren’t answering. The panel of lights and screens in his communication centre were all green. Weather conditions were moderate. They should have easily been in range. Peterson requested one last system check.

Sergeant Jones’s team had reported in a few minutes earlier. They had managed to commandeer a vehicle to inspect the missile crater and tangled wreckage within the blast area. Briggs was not one of the five bodies they had recovered, nor for that matter was Terra. They said the Humvee was barely recognisable, upside down on its roof. They had videoed everything, collecting what physical evidence they could before heading back to Osborne to meet the Seahawk.

Jack waited on deck as the crew lowered one of the Chester’s fast R.I.Bs to speed them back to Hurst. As soon as they were through the tidal race and into calmer waters, they were ready to launch. Sam was watching a crewmember prep the machine gun mounted at the front of the R.I.B, loading ammunition and checking the firing mechanism. Tommy would be so jealous. Sam said he couldn’t wait to tell everyone about the ship and the ride in a helicopter. Two crewmembers helped Jack over to sit on a large grey container loaded with medical equipment. He was unable to stand for long, but had insisted on coming ashore to inspect the damage to the castle.

When the bags and boxes were safely stowed and the rest of the team assembled, the command was given and a hydraulic winch whirred into life. It slowly lowered the R.I.B and its crew until it splashed down in the ship’s wash. The pilot started the outboard engines and steered away from the destroyer’s towering hull towards Keyhaven estuary and the sheltered dock behind the castle.

Even after a lifetime at sea, Jack still found it exhilarating being in a high-speed launch. After the ocean-going Nipper, the R.I.B felt like a seagull, skimming the surface, barely feeling each wave as they sped towards their destination. They passed the end of the Hurst battery, its familiar dark grey rectangles where heavy artillery would have faced the Needles channel, the white lighthouse and outbuildings that Jack called home.

Stretching ahead of them were the narrow-gauge railway tracks that led to the castle gate from the original docks where munitions and stores would have been unloaded. Jack noticed his Land Rover with its doors still wide open, as if it had been abandoned. Rounding the eastern tip of the spit, they headed into the small dock, avoiding a half-submerged yacht. Only its mast and foredeck were visible above the surface at high tide, seawater swilled over its guardrail, tangled with seaweed and grey foam. A large gull hopped across the rail as they approached, before rising gracefully on the breeze, gliding a few metres away on to the crosstrees of another yacht, nodding at anchor.

Jack could see Tommy racing down to meet them at the dock. The gunner swung his bow-mounted weapon round to bear on Tommy’s chest. Jack tapped the man on the shoulder and explained that he was friendly, much to Tommy’s relief.

As soon as the R.I.B. nudged against the pontoon, the four marines jumped ashore and fanned out left and right, scanning for targets. Sam seemed relieved to see his old friend Tommy again, punching his shoulder as they fell into step, sharing a smile and a joke, no doubt eager to swap stories.

Jack interrupted their excitement, impatient for every detail, anxious to hear news about any casualties. When Tommy mentioned that they had captured the man who led the attack, Jack straightened up, setting aside his pain and discomfort, emboldened by this unexpected consolation. He rolled the name Damian King around his mouth, as if trying it for size, searching his memory for any mention of the man. He was certain he wasn’t local. And yet, he was intrigued by the revelation that Will seemed to know the man from before. Where could he have met him?

Back within the protected confines of the austere stone of the Tudor castle, Jack seemed to relax a little, his painkillers kicking in. Arm in sling, he stopped to shake hands with several on their route. They descended the steep stairs that led to the cellar. It was damp and musty down here. The whole place still reeked of smoke, with noticeable fire damage and scoring in several places along their route. In the very corner of the main block, in the bowels of the castle, they arrived at a small dry storeroom where they would have kept munitions and explosives in centuries past. In the half-light thrown from the flame of a lantern hanging on a hook by the door, the guard leaning against the wall looked exhausted, waiting to be relieved. He roused himself as they approached, a flicker of recognition as he noticed Jack. They waited for the youth to retrieve the key from a pocket of his green Parka coat. The heavy oak door swung open to reveal total darkness within, a small rectangle of light from the doorway at their feet. Nathan powered up a small penlight and they stepped inside.

It was not immediately obvious that there was anything or anyone in the shadows until the torch beam located the soles of a pair of boots. A recumbent figure with a bandaged head was slumped against the brick wall, shielding his eyes from the light. The room was inhospitable, to say the least. It was freezing cold so close to the waterline. A silver rivulet of seawater ran past the prisoner’s boot towards a drain in the floor. Cobwebs hung from the low ceiling and oak beams that forced the standing men to bend double as they advanced further into the cramped confines of the cell. Mould had found a home in every brick and every stone here. Jack could taste it on every breath.

For a few seconds, they all stood in silence as