The Border Reiver (6 page)

It was dark now, but the night was relatively still and relatively mild; he had been sitting for hours and he wasn’t feeling the chill. He had studied the birds, pigeons and blackbirds, merrily going about their business; he had studied the damage to his Jeep’s rear bumper.

Now he was studying the outline of a rotund lone figure shuffling up the street towards him. Then, his stomach turned and adrenalin coursed his blood as he caught a flash of white from the corner of his right eye. His eyes darted from the approaching man to a white car, which turned into the street and directly passed Nat and his vehicle. He recognised the car: it was the regime thugs that he had seen the night before.

As it cruised past his position, his steely gaze pierced into the interior; although he couldn’t see the occupants, he stared as hard, unadulterated and menacingly as he could. The car slowed briefly then accelerated away. Nat turned back to the person approaching; at a distance he recognised the gait, and shortly after, the face of his old friend Wes Milburn.

“Nat, I thought that was you. How are you? I heard about your house…”

Before the old man could continue, Nat responded, “Esme’s dead.” 

Wes eyed his old friend, unsure of his state of mind. “I know, Nat. The NSO representative told us about the explosion, the booby trap. What were you thinking, man? I don’t think you can fight them anymore. This is a new system, a new government; for now, the choice is gone, you have to live like the majority of the population want to…I suppose.”

“They raped her; she didn’t die in the explosion. She died in my arms of a bullet wound. She set off the explosion…”

Wes was absorbing the information; he gulped and stared through the pavement stunned for a second. He breathed out, and, lost for words, he put his hands on Nat’s shoulder.

“I-I don’t know what to say, Nat.”

“Just don’t give in that easy, Wes. What exactly have you given over to them?”

“Well, everything. We carry on living in the house, but we have a workforce to work on the farm. All produce is collected by officials and distributed to local shops for sale. I get paid a wage according to the hours I work. But so far that’s it; everything else is exactly as it was. How did your situation get to this, Nat…Esme, I mean?”

Before he could answer, Nat saw the white car approaching up the hill once more, and it had a black car following closely behind it. He knew this was it.

“Go now!” he exclaimed to Wes, pushing him from the bench. Wes read the situation quickly from the tone of Nat’s order and turned on his heels, shuffling off in the direction he had come.

The breeze rustled chill through the naked trees somewhere in the dark behind him, and the cold night filled his nostrils with fresh, clean air seasoned by wood smoke from a nearby fire. Nat stood squarely on the road, rigid and tall, facing his demons head on, as always. The two cars - a white sporty hatchback and a black estate car - pulled into two spaces next to his Jeep. They pulled to a stop with a quiet whistle of breaks and the engines cut out one after the other. Nat stood, waiting, his heart pounding but eyes cold and menacing- this is where he wanted to be, this was his showdown and he was in control.

Three of the four doors opened in each car with the familiar dull clunks and out stepped six men. Nat’s adrenalin and fear were combining like a horrific speedball, adrenalin taking him up like a racehorse at the gate and the fear paralysing him with that muddy lethargy of overwhelming nerves. So, he stood stock still and relied on instinct to take over.

*    *    *    *    *

As they pulled up to the curb, Roland spoke through the graphic injuries which the farmer had inflicted. They were slowly healing, the left side of his face had been a swollen mass of purple and his nose remained bent to the right. Nat had broken his cheekbone, eye socket and nose on the table and the boy was in no mood for another fight like the last. Political debate was his bag not physical war. He slurred through bulging lips,

“It’s definitely him again. I’m staying well back this time.”

“Yeah, don’t worry, mate, we’ll leave Rudi to deal with this one,” said Gerry.

"That's what worries me: he's a bloody psychopath as well."

Davey sank as low into the back seat as he could.

Rudi Truter had arrived in the North East like a whirlwind three months before. He was one of Lucas Start’s party enforcers. He had set about organising the party members into teams to action the new system and the redistribution of wealth. He was a ruthless mercenary with no real affiliation to the party beliefs, but he had met Start at a rally in London years earlier and had been caught up by the violence of the revolutionary struggle. It was his job to bring Northumberland under the control of the NSO and, until the previous night, things had been going well. This headache had occurred when that woman had fought too hard and the retribution had spiralled out of hand. At this point, he only needed to remove this farmer from the equation. Then he could create his own version of last night’s events, instead of his bosses and the wider public finding out the truth somehow.

*    *    *    *    *

Six men stepped out of the cars. Nat snarled in their direction - now the fuelled blood was coursing his veins and rage was taking over the nerves. The three men who arrived in a black car looked instantly more capable than the three he had met before. They lined up in front of him. The skinny kid with an ugly face and the guy Nat had beaten up weeks before hung back beside the white car. In front of him, from left to right, stood a thick-set black man wearing a black Gore-Tex jacket, black cargo pants and sturdy boots. Next to him stood a giant man of eastern European origin, who looked as though he had fought with every person he had ever come into contact with. He wore primarily the same clothes as his accomplice, just a variation in manufacturer, and together they certainly formed a military impression - worse still, a Special Forces image - to the proceedings. Next to them stood the leader- he had that swagger, the air of authority. He, too, wore black, his hair was golden and he was tanned, but he wasn’t soft. Nat could see the coldness in his eyes; he was dangerous and he was the man Nat wanted to break. To his right stood the man who had squared up to Nat in his kitchen but had thought better of taking him on then.

Now the golden man spoke, his Boer guttural tones breaking the silence,

“Mr Bell, my name is Mr Truter, and I’m in charge of NSO security in Northumberland. You are in serious trouble, Mr Bell. The explosion you caused at your farm last night killed people, Mr Bell.”

Nat seethed at how this was being spun, he wanted this guy alone so that he could take the time to cause him suffering.

Truter carried on, “…it may seem like there is no law currently, but there is, and it's me. We still live in a civilised society, Mr Bell, and although there is new leadership in the country and a little chaos, it doesn’t mean we can turn a blind eye to crime. You have to come with us now, for the murder of three of our NSO colleagues and the unlawful killing of Bob and Jean Scott and your own wife, Esme Bell.”

Nat was reeling; he could see how this story could be believable. But, he also knew the truth, and the injustice placed more pressure on him, the atmosphere had become so heavy. Like a cornered wild animal and so full of rage, his grip tightened on the ball-peen hammer which he had been holding by his side but out of view behind his leg. He stood closest to the smaller paramilitary, about three paces away.

The four men were bathed in the orange glow of the street lights, and their breath was beginning to form condensation as the air temperature dropped. The street was dead quiet and a slight drizzle began to fall. Nat had no plan at all; he had a hammer. They could have guns. He looked at each of the four faces in front of him: Truter was totally relaxed, assured but losing patience with the silence. The other men were watching intently, but also unnervingly calm, as if this type of situation - and far worse - were second nature to them.

Nat spoke to the smaller paramilitary, “Were you at my house last night?”

“Yes,” he replied, and as he lifted his chin to give the affirmative, Nat saw the deep desperate scratch marks on the man’s neck.

“You shouldn’t have done that.”

“Done what?”

“The woman, my wife…”

Before any of them had time to register the words, Nat had taken an enormous step forward. He swung the heavy hammer with every inch of power he could muster, meeting the man's temple with a splintering crack underscored by a dull thud. The hardened steel drove through his cranium with ease and mashed two or three inches deep into his brain. He went to ground with immediate and devastating paralysis.

While his body convulsed, as his mind came to terms with the irreparable damage which had just been inflicted, Nat raised the tool again - this time aiming it at Truter. Although the three men in front of him had been surprised by the speed and unadulterated violence of his attack, they were quick to gather their composure and Truter dodged backwards, avoiding Nat’s lunge. The hammer connected with the shoulder of the Eastern European, who gave an audible wince and fell to one knee. As Nat realigned his body for the third attack, he looked up to find himself staring down the barrels of two guns which were levelled at his head. He understood immediately that this was it: someone was going to pull the trigger.

He heard two shots, but felt no pain and saw no muzzle flash from the guns in front of his face. As Truter and the mercenary turned to see who was attacking them now, Nat turned the other way and ran as fast as he could into the lifesaving darkness of the park. He was no sprinter, so he tried to keep changing direction as he went. As he ran, he heard three more gunshots; the first whistled past his head. The second slammed into a tree trunk to his right. The third ripped through his left shoulder like a freight train through a car left on the tracks. The force of the impact threw him off his feet and he rolled through the dirt, but he was back on his feet in the same motion and he carried on running. It was only after another ten paces that the excruciating burning sensation oozed across his body from the epicentre in his arm. The limited paralysis of the pain lasted for about ten seconds in which he staggered on, and then his mind cleared, adrenalin kicked in once again, and he was running freely.

He knew this park, he had played in it as a child and he knew that the stream running through it went underground about fifty yards ahead of him. This was his new plan, get into the darkness and pick them off one by one in the confined space if they followed, or escape and reorganise if they didn’t.

He crouched behind a nearby tree in the darkness to see what his pursuers were up to. They were still under the street lights standing over their comrade’s corpse. Two of the men had guns drawn, the eastern European was rubbing his shoulder, and Roland and Davey remained cowering by their car. He turned back towards the stream and on the Southern side of the park he saw Wes’s old Land Rover tearing off up the street and he realised where those first shots had come from. He owed Wes his life and he wouldn’t forget it.

He moved quickly through the shadows holding his shoulder in an attempt to stem the blood, but he could feel the warm tacky liquid running freely down his arm. He needed to move quickly.

He climbed the low wall and skidded down the gully to where the stream disappeared into its underground channel. The pain from his arm was ferocious and occupied his mind, but there was nothing he could do about it now. The bullet had passed through flesh; since no bones were shattered, he focused on getting away.

The tunnel was only chest-high so he staggered along hunched over, virtually crawling. The river bed was rocky and slippery, there were branches and logs stuck in the tunnel, the ceiling was hard and rough against his back. The darkness made this hell even more challenging and the cold water of the stream filling his boots and washing over his lower arms made the whole adventure more demanding.

He had travelled a short distance into the tunnel when he heard voices at the mouth. He cursed his luck. Then bright torchlight illuminated his surrounds. It washed over him for a split second.

“There!” shouted one of his pursuers. When the tunnel had been illuminated, he had seen a stout tree trunk left by a previous flood. He flung himself through the small gap between the top of the trunk and roof of the tunnel and in behind it. When the beam finally zeroed back on the spot where he had been, it rebounded off the log and he heard a voice say, “Nah…that was just a tree stump.”

He breathed a sigh of relief, which was short lived, as the other voice called out, “It wasn’t, man, I saw something move in there…”

“Well, you get in and have a look then.”

“Ah shit…” came a disdainful reply. Nat realised he was back in the firing line.

His breathing was shallow and snatched because he was trying to contain his panting from the sprint. He held his upper half at an awkward angle in order to remain behind the log but also out of the water. It was taxing his stomach muscles, but he knew the small margins were the difference between life and death. He gritted his teeth and took the strain. His grip tightened on the hammer and he waited.

The light from the torch washed over the log and beyond into the tunnel above Nat’s head. He could hear his pursuer cursing as he stumbled along the river bed. Whether it was the man he had met before or the other even bigger guy, there was no way they would be comfortable or moving freely in this confined space. Nat felt he had the upper hand.