Blood Crazy (20 page)

‘Boxer's no bully. He's not bright but with a bit of guidance from Middleton he'll get the community in shape again.'

‘So he's the kind of person who'll listen to reason?'

‘Ah … So you
did
have a motive for coming up here.' I blew dirt off the filter. ‘You want something from him.'

Del-Coffey smiled. ‘See, you're not as ignorant as you pretend, Nick. Very perceptive of you. The truth is I need help with research. Kitty and I are working every hour God sends.'

‘You won't get it. Boxer's told us plain and simple – what's done is done. All he wants here is a comfortable routine with everyone sticking to a timetable.'

‘I'll reason with him.'

‘Your funeral, Del-Coffey. Curt tried to persuade Boxer that getting up before nine was a mug's game. Now Curt's lip looks like it's got a chunk of raw meat stitched to it.'

‘Listen, Nick. The Creosotes are changing. They might pose a greater threat now than they did back when this catastrophe started.'

Del-Coffey looked round as if afraid he would be overheard, then he leaned forward. ‘Three weeks ago I saw twenty Creosotes gather on the big hill that looks over the hotel. They arrived about an hour before sunset. You lot were in the middle of a party, and so stoned you probably couldn't see much past the end of your noses, never mind half a mile away.' Del-Coffey's hands shook, excited. ‘I watched through my telescope. They just stood there and very, very intently watched what was going on in the hotel grounds. At dusk they turned round and walked away over the brow of the hill.'

‘They just stood and watched?' I looked up at his face. ‘So? That's good news, isn't it? They watch but they no longer attack us.'

‘They haven't attacked yet. That doesn't mean they won't try in the future. If we're going to survive, we need to know more.'

‘Well, there's only twenty of them. There's three hundred of us – and we've enough guns and ammo to fight a war.'

‘But if you could have seen their faces, Nick. You look at them and you know,
you just know
, they are planning something.' He took a deep breath. ‘From my findings over the last few months, my conjecture is that adults are undergoing some kind of transformation here.' Del-Coffey tapped his head. ‘What we saw in Doncaster, that savage and insane behaviour, was only the first stage in a continuing process. Adults are undergoing a psychological metamorphosis. Although their bodies are the same their minds are being retuned. Like when you buy improved software for your computer, the hardware's the same but its performance is better. Do you follow? Or if you replace the engine in your car with a more powerful one … Remember Slatter's father? He could hear things none of us could. I watched those adults on the hill. They were half a mile away and yet they could see what was going on at the hotel as if they were looking through binoculars. And listen to this … I was in the house in the village, and when I called Kitty to the telescope, the Creosotes on the hill actually turned their heads to look down at my house. They had actually heard me. No, Nick, don't pull a face, it's not fantasy. The changes in their heads have radically improved the way they process data coming in through the senses: hearing, seeing, smell … I'd put their audio ability on a par with a dog's, which is very good indeed.'

‘Okay, Martin. So, you're telling me this: a bunch of loonies that look like tramps are turning into supermen.'

‘No, not exactly. But the psychological metamorphosis is improving certain aspects of their minds.'

‘Well …' I wiped my hands on a rag. ‘You go tell Boxer that and he'll either laugh you to shit or he'll crack your nose.'

‘It's true, Nick. We need to send teams out to conduct field research. We need to know where the Creosotes migrated to; we need to know who they were signalling to; what the symbols laid out in fields meant and what—'

‘Where are those Creosotes now? If Boxer sees them he might at least hear you out.'

Del-Coffey shrugged. ‘God knows. They stayed two days to watch the hotel. Now they've disappeared. I found signs they had stayed in the next valley up near the dam.'

‘What you need to do is show Boxer a mob of blood-thirsty
Creosotes … Words like ‘research,' ‘hypotheses' and ‘psychology' don't exist in his vocabulary.'

Del-Coffey pulled an envelope from his back pocket. ‘I've got photographs.'

‘How did you get these?'

‘On the second evening. I managed to sneak up the next hill with the camera and a telephoto lens.'

The black and white photographs were as clear as I expected them to be, taken as they had been by Eskdale's resident genius. They showed twenty men and women, watching the hotel and its residents at play. They looked like naturalists closely observing our behaviour patterns – as if they would take that knowledge away and use it in some strategy they were creating.

Their clothes were shabby, hair long, scruffy, the men bearded. An old man carried a long pole. Ever eaten a kebab with vegetables and meat on a skewer? There were little heads threaded on the pole.

Del-Coffey pointed to the man with the pole. ‘That's my uncle. He helped my mother raise me. And those,' he pointed to the head pole. ‘I think those are my cousins.'

Suddenly the bees buzzing through the flowers sounded very loud. I pointed to the photograph of a man and a woman standing on the brow of the hill.

‘And those are my parents.'

The fourteen days were up.

Dave Middleton had seven days left.

‘Oh …'

‘I didn't hurt you?'

‘No … Nice … Oh, very, very nice.'

I lay on my back, Sarah above me: the early morning sunshine penetrated the curtains in a blaze of flaming glory.

Naked, she pressed down onto me, sighing, letting her head drop forward so her hair washed across my bare chest.

Boxer's orders. Work six days a week. On the seventh day it's R&R. Rest and Recreation. Sarah and I hungrily obeyed.

She kissed my face and throat and chest, moving hard now, panting. My hands caressed her breasts, tanned golden by day after day of sunshine.

‘Don't leave me, don't you ever leave me, don't, ah … Nick, don't leave me … promise.'

‘I promise … Ah … I'd be mad … to leave … this … You are BEAUTIFUL! JESUS …'

Ten minutes later we lay still, limbs and bedding tangled, watching the dust motes ride the sunbeams.

‘It's better, isn't it, Nick?'

‘It gets better every time.'

‘No …' She giggled. ‘I'm not talking about sex now. The community's better now Boxer's in charge.'

‘Don't you miss the awesome powers you used to wield on the Steering Committee?'

‘No. Power seems attractive when you haven't got it. When you have it, it brings problems, loads and loads of problems.'

‘Such as?'

‘Jealousy. Some people, Nick Aten, resented being told what to do. Don't pull a face, it's true. And there was responsibility for people's lives and well-being. We lost people on the way here. If we'd been smarter and more experienced they'd still be alive now …'

‘You're thinking of Jo and the others in the mini-bus?'

‘In fact, they would still be alive if we'd listened to you, Nick.'

We talked for a while. The situation did seem better; we were even relieved that the summer-long party was over; it had, maybe, been a kind of wake for our past life, family and friends who had been obliterated on that day in April.

Sarah stroked my stomach thoughtfully. ‘Dave Middleton's happier now; things aren't being run exactly the way he wants but at least there's some kind of order, the community's working again. And he was right, you know. One day we're going to have to learn to survive properly and that means planting crops, looking after live-stock, even making our own clothes and tools.'

I grunted. Sarah's gentle stroking was more interesting than what she was saying.

‘The only person who's still cheesed off,' she said, ‘is Martin. Did you hear about when he went to Boxer to ask for people to be assigned for research? What he got were Boxer's boots to polish. Six pairs. Nick, are you listening? Nick … Ahhh! Not with your tongue – it tickles …'

Shrieking with laughter, she pulled me over her. We rolled onto the floor laughing.

We were still making love when we heard the gunshots.

Someone was shooting rats, or crows, or tin cans – who cared. Sarah's long legs were wrapped around my back. This was my universe beneath a cotton sheet – a place full of heat, excitement and endless delight.

* * *

The hammering on the door came fifteen minutes later.

‘Nick! Sarah!' Dave's voice came through the door like a bullet. ‘Get downstairs as quickly as you can! Something terrible's happened.'

‘What's wrong? Dave, what is it?' called Sarah as she pulled on her T-shirt. Dave was already gone, hammering on other bedroom doors down the passageway.

As I dragged on my jeans the feeling hit me as bright as the bloody sunshine. ‘The shit's just gone and hit the fan again.'

We stood under the apple trees looking down at him.

Dave pointed with a stick. ‘Eight, nine … ten. Holy Father, the poor boy. There's another one. Eleven bullet wounds.'

Whoever had shot Boxer had done a thorough job. He lay flat on his back looking like he'd been dipped in blood. One bullet had drilled through the back of his head, straight through his brain to partly erupt from his forehead. The bullet looked like a brass stud set in the skin.

‘Creosotes?' asked Simon, his face as white as paper.

Dave shook his head. ‘Murder.' He covered the body with a blanket. ‘One of
us
did this … Simon. Bring a couple of the older ones to move the body to the stables. We'll bury him later. Billy … Christopher.' Two twelve-year-olds came forward. ‘Please go round everyone in the community and ask them … No, tell them … They must assemble on the driveway in front of the main entrance at eleven o'clock sharp. I'm going to make an announcement. Janet, will you please run down to the village and ask Martin and Kitty to join me in my office. Thank you.'

At ten to eleven we were all waiting. Martin stood at the front, near the steps up to the main entrance where Dave would make his speech. Sarah had already guessed it would be a belt-tightening, shoulder-to-the-grindstone sermon, followed by an announcement that there would be democratic elections for a new Steering Committee and leader.

No one talked. The sun climbed higher. It grew hotter. Sweat began to run down my forehead.

Dave Middleton appeared. He held out his arms in the communal embrace we knew of old, his expression serious.

He opened his mouth – but he never got a chance to speak. Out from the hotel swaggered Curt and Jonathan. Curt pushed Dave firmly forward down the three steps to the driveway.

Dave turned annoyed but he shut his mouth when he saw Curt carried the Kalashnikov and Jonathan a pump-action shotgun.

Curt shouted, ‘Listen. We're going to cut through the crap. Someone's topped Boxer. We're going to find out who did it – and believe me they'll wish they were never frigging well born.'

Jonathan smirked while Curt talked.

Curt lifted up the assault rifle so everyone could see it. ‘Until this is sorted out, me and Jonathan are taking charge. Get it? From now on – we're your bosses.'

They'd wasted no time in breaking into Boxer's gunroom. Or maybe they just took the key from his body.

‘Jonathan's going to read out a list of names. Those people come and stand behind me. The rest can piss off. Ah-ah … When I give the order, boys and girls.'

Jonathan read out the names. Sarah caught my eye as two dozen delinquents, bullies, morons and good-for-nothing shits who had caused all the trouble in the community lined up behind Jonathan, smug grins twisting their faces.

‘And just to remind you we mean business.' Curt pulled back the bolt on the Kalashnikov. ‘I'll give you to the count of three to get down on your knees. One, two—' He pulled the trigger blasting a stream of bullets low over our heads.

With the explosions hammering our eardrums we scrambled on all fours across the dirt to hide in the bushes.

The long, hot summer ended with a bang. The afternoon they buried Boxer the mother of all thunderstorms battered Eskdale. Rain turned fields to mud; rivers ran down the roads.

The following morning, the first day of October, as our new masters slept off the effects of the wake they had held for Boxer, I walked through the orchard under a sky full of cloud mountains. With me were Martin Del-Coffey, Sarah, Kitty and Dave. Our expressions were just plain worried.

‘I really thought the community was coming together again.' Dave lightly rubbed the blister on his cheek where Curt had stubbed out his cigar after Boxer's funeral. ‘Boxer maintained discipline. Everyone was back at work again.'

I said, ‘Boxer could crack heads but he wasn't bright. When you're leader you have to keep looking back over your shoulder to see who's coming up with the knife.'

‘So now we have these two gentlemen.' Del-Coffey sniffed. ‘You know they're petty tyrants. All they'll do is run this place to gratify their own perverted appetites.'

Dave shook his head; inside he was hurting. ‘Jonathan … I can't believe it of him. He was actually in the choir of St Timothy's. He taught at Bible study classes.'

‘This last few months has changed people,' said Sarah. ‘By all
accounts Curt had been in trouble with the police over the last few years: Nick's told me if there was a fight in a nightclub Curt was often at the back of it.'