The Border Reiver (19 page)

“My wife.”

As he uttered the words, Nat pulled the trigger - the dampened metallic snap ended the chorus of 'No' ringing out from Stuart, Tom, Baines and Amber.

The wood fell silent, the phone line fell silent and Nat’s heart fell silent. He felt an immediate release of his pain. But he also felt an instant self-loathing for taking a man’s life in such cold blood. He had no time to digest his actions before Stuart was onto him, a giant fist breaking the skin above his eye and knocking him off his feet. Stuart grabbed the phone and hung up.

He screamed at Nat:

“We could have used him to get Claire back, you selfish, stupid bastard! Esme is fucking dead, you idiot, are you a fucking murderer now? You're no better than those fuckers...You've got a daughter - you got to start thinking! What have you done, Jesus!” He threw his hands through his hair and turned a tight circle as though he were looking for an answer.

“You probably just killed us all.”

Nat knew his friend was right; he sat stunned. He was so tired. He just sat staring at the forlorn body of the man he had just murdered. Stuart stepped over to Nat, grabbed his collars and lifted him roughly to his feet. He looked him in the eye, drawing the farmer’s attention away from the body.

“Who was on the phone, Nat?”

“It was Ben Baines,” he said in a whisper.

As Stuart let go of his jacket and turned away, looking at the floor, the weight of the name he had just heard etched all over his face.

Nat added, “He said that that is his brother.” Nat pointed at Tom's body.

Stuarts' hands ran through his thick hair again and he paced, mind racing and blood boiling. He exclaimed, “You have got to be fucking joking me! You just killed the brother of the leader of the NSO. We have got to be screwed; this place is going to be crawling with an army looking for you.”

“Now he knows how it feels to have someone taken away.”

Stuart slowed down, regaining some composure. He looked down at the dirt and kicked at it.

“This changes things for me, Nat. We go into Hexham tonight, get Claire and then I leave with her and Amber. I'll take them back across the border and you can come with or stay...up to you, but I'm not staying here.”

“I'm not going back to Scotland,” came the acerbic voice of Amber from a short distance. Stuart looked at the father and his daughter, both staring at him with solemn but unwavering faces, muddied, wet and ashen; they were not going to be persuaded. Stuart looked to the heavens and turned on his heels and walked away from both of them, uttering over his shoulder,

“You'll make a bloody murderer of your daughter now, will you?”

Nat called after him, “We have to make them see that we will not flinch, that we can hurt them too.”

But he was all too aware that his justification was unconvincing. As he spoke, Amber walked over to the agent’s mobile phone, she switched it off and put it in her pocket.

*    *    *    *    *

Baines stared at his phone, no real tangible emotions except anger and hatred; his brain still working overtime to arrange the facts. He heard the farmer’s voice, he had seen how brutal the man could be; he knew his brother was dead.

He looked around his room, the meaningless grandeur. So far from the rioting street politician he had been, so far from the people he had set out to benefit. He, resigned to the cul de sac power had sent him down, was doing deals with the old regime, being controlled by his own extreme elements and had no control whatsoever over benefiting the general population he had always wanted to serve.

Something had just switched on in his belly, a furnace of energy; a new cause...as Lucas Start bowled into his office the two men looked at each other and Start smiled.

“I haven't seen that look since our days in Parliament Square Ben...”

“That farmer just killed my brother.”

Lucas paused for a second, unsure whether to trust his old colleague, but he could see the sincerity and focus in his eye and he knew they had a shared goal once more.

“I want to see the rebels in the north hunted down, Lucas, and I want that farmer hanging from a tree!”

Start looked at Baines perplexed. There was not a hint of acting in Baines - he was solemn, genuine and determined.

“I can see it now, Lucas; there is no place for my ideals. The dog will always bite the hand that feeds it sooner or later, unless, of course, we can control the dog. I will commit to your vision, Lucas.”

Simple as that, the pendulum had swung, and Baines had steered a new course. The two men stood for a moment, eye to eye. Baines evoking sincerity while Start calculated the play until the latter broke the silence,

“Oh, I don't doubt that now, Ben.”

The two men shook hands and Start turned to leave the room, then turned back. “What's changed, Ben? Apart from your loss, why join me now?”

“I've changed Lucas, I have changed,” he replied with assurance and determination.  Start looked thoughtfully into the middle distance as he turned again, raised his hand and gave a wave as he left the room in acceptance of the explanation.

As the shadows of evening became longer the weather was drawing in. A deep blanket of cloud bubbled in the sky and a wet wind blustered, signifying rain in the air. The three rebels were seated around a small fire; they ate a gamy pheasant. The woodland was quiet around them; it seemed to feed off their dark moods. They didn't speak until Nat threw the last of his bones into the fire and said,

“Better get set in the field shelter, looks like rain coming.”

“Aye,” replied Stuart. He didn’t look at his friend as he got to his feet.

The two men sat side by side in the field shelter as the rain began to come down. As the light began to fade they looked out over the valley that they knew so well. The chipboard factory continued to burn, there was no electricity running - not a single light shone across the whole landscape. No cars were on the road. The Tyne Valley had become a war zone and as night fell, people hunkered down.

They said nothing to each other. All the time that Amber was away from them they sat in silence and that didn't change when she struggled up the hill with the heavy holdall. She placed the bag in front of the two men on the dry earth in the shelter and then she reached inside the bag and took one of the new NSO guns. She also took six full magazines. She moved over to the far corner of the shelter and began taping the magazines, two together head to toe.

They cleaned the weapons in silence keeping a close eye for approaching traffic.

Nat was consumed by an emotional deep freeze. Amber wanted desperately to hug him, to have him back, but she was also damaged by witnessing his cold-blooded killing first hand. She didn't have the words to mend such situations: they communicated by actions, by working together on the farm, there was never great dialogue in their family.

There was no need for words between Stuart and Nat; they were bound to each other through history. Nat knew he had disappointed his friend but never questioned his loyalty and he was sure Stuart felt the same. The three of them understood one thing very clearly: they shared the same all-consuming reality. Events were moving so fast they had no time to stop and contemplate the fact that a few years previously this situation in this country would have been unimaginable. Everything had changed and they just had to keep moving and remain one step ahead.

Amber watched her father; he was drinking tea and staring out across the valley. The rain was coming down in thick grey waves like a plague of locusts wafting across the countryside. The tanned and creased hide of his face was like a lump of varnished oak. Those blues eyes pierced his crow’s feet like two sapphires set in a carving, his white teeth shone through that perpetual grimace even in the fading light. Then he spoke,

“She's got to be in the police station.”

After a momentary pause to digest Nat’s sudden statement, Stuart answered, “How the hell will we get her out of there?  Or more to the point, how will we get in there?”

“That is the question,” Nat pondered.

“There is no way the three of us can get into the police station and survive. It is bound to be full of NSO. We need to go to Waters Meet, join others like us,” stated Amber.

As his words trailed off, all their ears pricked to the sound of engines. Nat flashed a look at Stuart - maybe the fight was coming to them. Dusk was in its full, deepening throws, but there were no headlights accompanying the rough growl of engines. They hunkered down in the shelter, heart rates increasing with every nearing grunt of the accelerator.

Both Stuart and Nat filled magazines with rounds as their eyes fixated on the bottom of the driveway, both hoping that the engines would die away into the distance. Both disappointed when they began counting the trucks into the driveway: one, two three, four, five, six! They came fast, each tailgating the truck in front, losing little speed around the sharp turn into the drive. All the vehicles were large four by fours.

Nat turned to Amber, handing her the 33 rifle and directing, “Go get yourself in the tree line, if they start coming up the hill start shooting and don't stop until they're gone or you run out...ok? Go, quick!”

She turned and swung the weapon onto her back and ran northeast towards the trees. Nat and Stuart set off to the south-east to meet the visitors at the ruin of the farmhouse. As the vehicles motored up the long drive the two men ran down through the wet grass, its undulations testing their every step as the incline of the hill pulled them faster than their limbs could manage. Just as the vehicles were pulling up outside the tumbled stones, Nat and Stuart fell in behind the stone wall which ran west away from the northern end of the barn.

Sitting with his back flat against the wall, Nat looked across at Stuart, who was kneeling at the base of the wall looking back for the next call. They could hear the engines die; they heard the crunch of footsteps on the gravel. Nat nodded to Stuart and both men rose, leading with their weapons. They had them trained before the top of the cold, wet stones were tucked into their armpits.

The men who had stepped from their trucks scattered as the arms came into view, running back behind the big metallic chunks, skidding on the gravel all arms and legs. All the fuss was unnecessary. Nat recognised the Toyota up front.

Rowell’s youngest son called out, “Mr Bell, it’s Jesse Rowell - you helped my dad today.”

“I know who you are,” Nat responded bluntly.

“Can we talk?”

No response.

“It concerns Claire,” he came back again.

“We're listening,” called Stuart immediately.

“You two can't take on Hexham on your own. It is crawling with NSO and you will be massacred. We are attacking tonight - and what if one of ours shoots you in the confusion?”

He stepped out from behind his truck, he was a blond, ruddy twenty-something sporting a closely shaven head on the sides with a limp Mohican covering the centre of his scalp. Now he stepped a few paces closer, still a good distance from the wall, but subconsciously communicating the fact that they were about to be party to covert information.

“We have over a thousand men down at Waters Meet. We are going to attack the town tonight, drive the NSO out of Tynedale and start the civil war proper from the north. Word is that the Cornish and the Welsh are fighting. We have the backing financially and with weapons from the Scots. All through the north of England, people will join us if we can show some momentum.”

“None of that means anything to me...” Dismissed Nat.

The boy paused, as if conjuring up courage; then, he responded, “What happened to your wife, Nat, was terrible, and we all want revenge for that, but I know Amber too, I care about her...don't you? Lots of these people joined the rebels because of what happened to you, don't let them down, don't let your daughter down and don't let them win by committing suicide.”

“Listen, son, you wind your neck in...All we're interested in is getting the girl back.”

“Ok, ok, you stay up there living in a tree for the rest of your days... But you know one night someone will come and cut your throat or they’ll just burn you out, sooner or later...”

“Come on, Nat, you stubborn bastard, we'll be much more likely to get Claire safely with them.”

Stuart climbed the wall and jumped down the other side. He walked over to Jesse Rowell and held out his spade-like hand.

“I'm Stuart, his brains,” he said with a smile on his face and a nod back up the hill to the stone wall that Nat remained behind.

As he sat with his back to the wall, he looked back up the hill to his beloved woods. He noticed the grey film of dusk over the land, the damp smell of wet grass and rain in his nostrils, his clothes sodden and the semi-automatic weapon in his hands. As his daughter broke through the tree line and walked down the hill towards them, he had a moment of clarity in the storm that his life had become. There was more to his life than killing those men that had had a hand in Esme's murder.

He pushed himself off the cold moss covered stone, out from the cover and back into the cold breeze, the great wide open. He pushed his stiff limbs up over the stone wall and a few stones tumbled as he slid down the other side.

His old bones rocked as he stomped towards the car; he rested his weapon on his shoulder as he walked. The young men ventured from the cover of their trucks and began to clap their hands for him. His grimace thickened and he awkwardly waved a large hand for them to stop. The reality of his new life was becoming evident: he had become a cog in a larger machine now, larger than his farm, larger than his life. He didn't want it, he wanted Esme to be the start and finish of his breath, but his experience now was that life had moved on.

He looked into the young Rowell’s eyes and he saw the boy feared him. Neither said a word as they shook hands. As Amber joined them and greeted friends among the men, Nat stood aside, feet wide, hands in the pockets of his muddied, padded wax jacket, his shining white mane wet, greasy and slightly matted. His head was spinning, as he watched his daughter moving through the young people and finally to Jesse in front of him who she hugged tight and exchanged some soft words. Nat looked to his left - Stuart stood next to him. Shoulder to shoulder, they would stand against the NSO.

*    *    *    *    *

  Rudi Truter was in pain. He sat in a dark room in a quiet corner of the police station. Both bones in his arm had been broken by the journalist. They had brought a doctor to the station to put a cast on it. He had done as good a job as he could, but the pain was excruciating. On top of that Truter's other elbow was sore too; he had visited the journalist in his cell and made short work of the man's baby face with his good elbow. He was waiting for his latest round of pain killers to kick in before he went back to kill both the prisoners. They were of no use to him and keeping them there simply created a security issue.

The pain was beginning to dull when he heard a voice in the corridor calling his name. He called back and the voice returned telling him that Ben Baines' office was on the telephone. Everything else could wait. The man handed him the phone and Truter pressed the receiver to his ear. He didn't recognise the officious, nasal tone of the aide’s voice on the other end. There were no pleasantries.

“Mr Truter?”

“Yes.”

“I'm calling on behalf of Mr Baines; he has been disappointed by your lack of ability in containing the rural community in your region.”

“I've got one man on a killing spree and an untrained group of terrorists making home-made explosives. Once I get more men I will crush both the problems...”

“The way we see it is that you have allowed the creation of a local hero in opposition to our cause and the destruction of the largest employment facilities in the area. You do understand, don't you, that our ideology is primarily concerned with getting people working.”

“I'm fighting a war here with kids and thugs for my army - I can't do everything myself. Once I have the trained reinforcements in position, I will get the area secure and under our control.”

“Did you know about the rebel force congregating at Acomb? I think that is about two miles north of where you are...”

Truter balked, “What - twenty farmhands with shotguns?”

“No Truter, hundreds at least, maybe more, armed by the Scots. This job has become too big for you, Mr Truter. A gentleman called Beaston, General Anthony Beaston, will arrive this evening with more troops and he will relieve you of your command and find a role for you to fill.”

Truter paused for a second and opened his mouth to argue his corner but as he did so, he heard a calm click as the aide hung up. He was now out in the cold, wounded physically and mentally. Worse than being bottom of the pile, he had failed.

He put the phone down on the table in front of him. He looked across the room, the felt carpet, toughened plastic chairs, the ancient metal filing cabinet which stood under a clipboard littered with police bulletins, guidelines and assorted rubbish akin to any office noticeboard. This noticeboard, however, was a historical item, a window into the past, as there was no police force now.

*    *    *    *    *

They took the black estate car that had been driven by the man whose throat Nat had cut. They followed the speeding convoy of four by fours. Nat was driving and he was doing his best to keep up with the young drivers who were taking full advantage of the empty streets. They wound down the steep bank from Oakwood like the cars of a roller coaster and onto the roundabout giving access straight into Hexham, left to Newcastle and right to Carlisle. The A69 was the highway linking Newcastle to Carlisle on opposite sides of the country and all that lay in between.

The convoy looped the roundabout and hit the long ramp onto the motorway at pace. They were doing well over seventy as Nat mulled over the wisdom in using the main roads. The speed of the journey couldn't be argued, but the noise of the seven engines and their respective headlights was like sending a rocket across the dark, still countryside and hoping it wouldn't be noticed.

The convoy left the motorway, pulling right, across the oncoming but empty carriageway, losing some traction and adding a squeal from some of the fat tyres in front. It whooshed seven times into the straight road leading into the small quiet village of Acomb.