Blood Roots: Are the roots strong enough to save the pandemic survivors? (13 page)

Mark watched as Jane led the party back through the bracken. As soon as they were out of sight he swung his binoculars back towards the gardens in front of the West Tower. The figure had turned around and was crawling towards the derelict garden shed. Mark felt like crying. It
was
his brother. Paul had always been thin, almost gaunt, but now he looked like someone from an Auschwitz newsreel. He was three years younger than Mark but looked at least ten years older.

‘He looks to me as if he’s dragging his leg,’ Fergus said. ‘I think he might be injured.’

Twice Paul tried to stand, but he appeared too weak. Part-way down the track he grubbed in the undergrowth and put something to his lips. When he eventually reached the derelict shed, he pulled himself up unsteadily and drank from a water butt. Then he crawled into the open shed and lay down. Drizzle was floating in and Mark wondered if his brother was too weak to close the door. Or had he just given up caring?

‘Do you think we can get to him?’ Fergus asked.

Mark shook his head. ‘There’s someone on the top of the West Tower. I think it might be Greg.’

Fergus nodded. ‘He’s probably still got a machine gun up there.’

Two uncomfortable hours later the pony trap returned. The four women in the traces were struggling with the weight of both Damian and a deer carcass draped over the back of the trap. Damian stood tall, a swagger in his posture. A figure appeared on the parapet at the top of the West Tower. It was Greg. Through the binoculars Mark saw the twenty-three-year-old had become obese like his father.

Greg shouted down into Lawn Court beyond the West Gate and a gaggle of figures rushed out to meet the pony trap, which Damian halted in the archway. Four women took a leg of the deer each and staggered away under the weight of the carcass. Mark recognised two as his nieces Cheryl and Bridget. He wondered why Bridget was limping.

One of the other women was limping too. It was his fifty-eight-year-old cousin Susan. She had suffered from arthritis from the age of forty. The disease had presumably got worse.

Questions overwhelmed him: why hadn’t he seen Steven, what about the other men, was Aunt Margaret still alive, where was Allison, had Nigel lured Steven into a trap and beheaded him …? Fergus was having similar concerns about his own family.

Although hungry and desperately thirsty, they stayed and watched all day. The drizzle turned to rain and they licked the moisture from leaves to quench their thirst.

Through the haze they saw figures flit past the open gates of the West Tower scurrying across Lawn Court, but couldn’t identify them. Their shapeless grey tunics made them all look alike.

Mark stared anxiously towards his brother Paul. Lying in the open doorway, he was getting wet. He had not seen Paul stir and worried whether he would still be alive by the time they got to him.

As it grew dark, the doors of the West Gate slammed shut. Mark again caught a glimpse of a figure on the ramparts above the gate.
It seemed the Chatfield brothers were still mounting a guard on the tower overnight. There was a chill in the air and he was surprised no fire was lit to keep the sentry warm.

It was totally dark and raining hard when Mark and Fergus crawled across the open ground to the derelict shed. Mark gingerly shook Paul’s shoulder. His brother’s thin tunic was soaking wet. He feared the worst.

‘Paul, Paul,’ he whispered anxiously. ‘It’s Mark and Fergus.’

Paul moaned. He appeared too weak to speak. They dragged him behind the shed and then across the open ground to the safely of the bracken.

‘Paul, Paul, its Mark,’ he whispered again.

Mark thought he heard the faintest whisper of ‘Thank God’, but the words were slurred.

‘What now?’ Fergus asked.

‘Help me take off his boots.’

‘Why?’ Fergus asked as he undid the laces.

‘Place his boot just outside the edge of the bracken.’

Fergus did as he was told. A few seconds later there was a dull thud as Mark threw the other boot a few feet into the clearing. ‘With any luck they’ll assume he’s crawled into the bracken,’ Mark explained. ‘Knowing the Chatfield brothers, they’ll soon give up looking for him.’

‘So what now?’

‘We’ll piggy-back him to Seal. Lift him up.’

Mark was alarmed how light his brother seemed. But as the journey progressed he was glad he weighed so little.

It was gone ten o’clock by the time they arrived, exhausted, at Johnstone Court. Anne, Jane, Zach, Nicole and Jessica heard them approaching and rushed through the rain to greet them.

Once again Jane’s organisational skills had come to the fore. Hot water and soup bubbled away on the fire lit outside the main door of the retirement complex.

‘We were really worried,’ Jane said as she led them into a ground-floor apartment lit by a tiny taper.

‘Rick wanted to mount a rescue mission,’ Zach added. ‘Roger told him he couldn’t.’

Roger walked in as Fergus and Mark were laying Paul on the bed.

‘Let me have a look at him,’ he said. ‘You’d better get into dry clothes or I’ll be treating you too.’ Mark hesitated. ‘Jane and I can look after him in the meantime,’ Roger added.

‘We haven’t been able to get any sense out of him. He sounds as if he’s drugged or drunk,’ Fergus said.

When Mark and Fergus returned they found Paul propped up on pillows, being spoon-fed hot soup by Jane. Paul saw them and acknowledged them with his eyes. He tried to speak but seemed unable to release the words.

‘He’s had a stroke,’ Roger explained. ‘A few days ago, I suspect. If he’s been out in the open since then it’s a miracle he’s survived.’

Mark glanced at Roger. ‘But he’ll be all right now?’

Even in the dim light of the small taper Mark could see the concern on the doctor’s face. ‘I hope so. He must be a tough old guy.’

Mark leant over his brother. ‘Paul, can you hear me?’ The eyes told him his brother could. ‘Is Steven all right? Are Allison and the others all right?’

Paul tried to speak. The words were incoherent, but there was sadness in his eyes.

‘You’ll have to wait till he’s stronger,’ Roger said gently.

‘I see you’ve rescued one of your clan, then. When are we going in for the rest?’ Rick stood at the door, Julie on his arm.

Mark didn’t answer him. He turned to Fergus. ‘Let’s get some sleep. We’ll assess the situation in the morning.’

Mark found it hard to sleep despite being exhausted. There were so many unanswered questions.

Anne slipped into the bed beside him. It would be the first time they had slept a night together, but it added another question to his list. How was he going to deal with the Allison and Anne situation? All he knew at that moment was that he wanted Anne beside him. She snuggled in behind him, her arm looped over his waist and her
fingers on his bare chest. He guessed she wanted to make love but he didn’t turn over. He just held her hand and squeezed it.

Next day he slipped out from under Anne’s arm, kissed her lightly on the forehead and hurried away to Paul’s bedside. He found Jane and Roger slumped on the sofa at the foot of Paul’s bed. They’d fallen asleep, Jane’s head resting on Roger’s shoulder. He suddenly wished Jane had latched onto Roger rather than Rick.

Paul was asleep too, his breathing laboured, his body jerking as if some great internal fight was taking place. The previous night Jane had bathed her uncle, shaved him and combed his hair. In the growing daylight he looked better than he had by the light of the taper, but not much. Mark waited impatiently for fifteen minutes, willing him to wake up. He needed answers.

Finally he could wait no longer. ‘Paul, Paul. Can you hear me?’ he whispered. He shook his brother gently. Slowly, it seemed almost painfully, Paul came to and looked up. A thin smile emerged from between crooked lips. Saliva dribbled from the corner of his mouth. Mark took the sheet and wiped it away. ‘Is Steven all right?’ he asked.

‘He needs rest.’ It was Roger’s voice. Both he and Jane had woken up.

‘I just need to ask him a couple of quick questions.’

‘If you were the police, I wouldn’t let you.’

Mark ignored him. ‘Paul, where’s Steven?’

His brother tried to speak. His eyes were intense and he was struggling to get the words out. There was an incoherent mumble. Mark bent over and put his ear next to his brother’s mouth. ‘Where’s Steven?’ he asked again.

Other people arrived and milled around in the doorway, talking. ‘Keep quiet,’ Mark snapped.

‘That’s enough questions,’ Roger said sharply. ‘You’re not doing him any good.’

Jane stood up, ushered everyone away and closed the door. Mark continued to hold his head beside Paul’s mouth. ‘Where’s Steven?’ he asked again, desperation in his voice.

Slurred words stuttered from Paul’s lips.

‘Say again?’ Mark said. Again Paul tried to speak.

‘Did you say the Punishment Room?’

The single word was slurred but distinct enough.

‘And where are Allison and the others?’

Tears trickled down Paul’s cheeks. He closed his eyes.

‘Where’s Allison?’ Mark asked again.

Roger touched Mark’s arm. ‘It’s too much. You’re upsetting him,’ he said quietly.

‘Yes, that’s enough, Dad,’ Jane added softly.

Mark wiped away his brother’s tears and saliva, and walked purposefully out of the room. Roger motioned to Jane to go with him.

The others had gathered in Johnstone Court’s common room. ‘Found out anything?’ Fergus asked as Mark and Jane walked in.

‘Steven’s on the treadmill in the Punishment Room,’ Mark explained. ‘I haven’t managed to find anything out about anyone else. I’m going to try and get in tonight.’

‘Could be risky,’ Fergus cautioned. ‘There were cattle further along the valley. It might be safer to wait till someone comes out to tend to them and try to talk to them.’

Mark shook his head. ‘We don’t know how other members of the community will react once they know we’ve arrived. We have no idea what hold Nigel or his sons have over them. They could easily betray us. I need to speak to Steven.’

Fergus looked down at the floor. His sister Andrea had betrayed their escape four years earlier in return for drugs supplied by Damian.

‘How long before we go in and sort this mess out?’ Rick asked. ‘We can’t survive on this crap much longer.’ He held up the mug of thin vegetable soup he had been sipping.

‘You’re lucky to have that,’ Jane spat, smarting from the criticism.

‘Give me a rifle,’ Rick said. ‘I’ll soon bag a couple of those deer we saw.’

Mark rolled his eyes. ‘That’s all we need, a rifle shot being heard back in Haver.’

‘We could do with a deer though,’ Fergus said thoughtfully.

Mark agreed. ‘I think there’ll be deer in Godden Wood. It’s far enough from the house and the carriage tracks — if we can get a couple of deer without firing a rifle.’

‘You’re wasting your time without a rifle!’ Rick scorned.

Mark, Fergus, Anne and Zach set off as soon as breakfast was finished. Rick, much to his consternation, was left behind to help forage for fruit and vegetables. The deer-hunting party collected tennis nets from the sports hall at Wildernesse School and made their way to Godden Wood, where they strung the nets at one end of a copse and managed to spook three deer into them. There was great jubilation when they returned to Seal carrying the slaughtered beasts.

‘Do you want me to come to the Punishment Room with you tonight?’ Fergus asked Mark as they sat enjoying the venison.

‘I want you to come into the park with me, but we won’t risk both of us going inside. I need you to cover me with the rifle, and to take charge if things go wrong.’

Jane looked at her father in alarm.

‘I’m sure nothing
will
go wrong,’ he assured her. ‘I’ll climb in over the gates set in the south wall.’

‘Nigel’s room looks straight out onto that section of the garden,’ Fergus cautioned.

‘He won’t be awake by the time I go in.’

‘What about dogs?’ Jane asked anxiously.

‘We didn’t hear any dogs today. Steven killed them all off, remember,’ Fergus said, recalling how Steven had poisoned the dogs during their escape four years previously.

‘I’m convinced they haven’t replaced the dogs,’ Mark said. ‘If they had done, Damian would have taken them on his hunting expedition.’ He wasn’t sure whether he was trying to reassure Jane or himself.

There was a refrain of ‘take care’ as Mark and Fergus left Johnstone Court late in the afternoon. They made good time, and were in the bushes in front of the West Tower before it was dark. Paul’s boots had disappeared and the bracken had been trampled
down. Whoever had looked for him appeared to have not made too much effort searching.

Mark focused his binoculars on the top of the West Tower. He could see a figure but was having difficulty determining who it was. He handed the glasses to Fergus. ‘Here, your eyes are better than mine.’

‘It’s my father!’ Fergus exclaimed excitedly after a couple of moments. ‘Looks as if he’s on sentry duty.’

‘Why’s your father mounting guard rather than one of the Chatfield boys? Don’t tell me he’s changed sides.’

‘Never,’ Fergus retorted indignantly.

As the night drew on, it grew colder. In the moonlight they could see the figure of Fergus’s father, Duncan, walking backwards and forwards, stamping his feet in an effort to keep warm.

‘If he’d joined the opposition he’d have a fire going,’ Fergus said defensively. ‘Perhaps I should try to make contact with him.’

‘No, whatever you do, don’t try that. There’s something fishy going on. I’m not saying he’s joined the Chatfields — I’m just saying it smells. Let me talk to Steven first. Anyway, I need you to cover me with the rifle.’

Before the matter could be debated further, Mark led Fergus through the bracken and bushes till they were opposite the gates set in the south wall. There were still two lights on inside the house. One was in the window which Mark knew to be the King’s Room. The curtains were open, and half an hour later a figure came to the window. From the silhouette it was clearly a woman, but by the time Mark had the binoculars focused the curtains had been drawn. The light in the room was extinguished shortly afterwards. He wondered if the woman was Allison. Had Nigel made her his wife again?