Ridiculous!
Hardly. She belongs with us
.
Ridiculous because Susannah had found someone: Austin. They were happy together. And I have Lucy. For convenience. For sex.
Not for love.
Luca forked up the last of his eggs, and washed them down with some tea. Impatience boiled through him. I need to be out there,
get those damn slackers cracking.
He found Johan sitting at the other end of the table, with the single slice of toast and glass of orange which was his whole
meal. “You ready yet?” he asked curtly.
Johan’s rounded face registered an ancient expression of suffering, creasing up into lines so ingrained they must have been
there since birth. There was a glint of sweat on his brow. “Yes, sir; I’m fit for another day.”
Luca could have mouthed the ritual reply in tandem. Johan was possessing Mr Butterworth. The physical transformation from
a lumbering, chubby sixty-year-old to virile twenty-something youth was almost complete, though some of the old estate manager’s
original characteristics seemed to defy modification.
“Come on then, let’s be going.”
He strode out of the hall, directing sharp glances at several of the men around the table as he went. Johan was already rising
to his feet to scurry after Luca. Those who had received the visual warning crammed food in their mouths and stood hurriedly,
anxious not to be left behind.
Luca had a dozen of them follow him into the stables, where they started to saddle up their horses. The estate’s rugged farm
ranger vehicles were still functional, but nobody was using them right now. The electricity grid had been damaged during the
wild times, and only a couple of possessed in Stoke County owned up to having the knowledge to repair it. Progress was slow;
the small amount of power coming from the geothermal cables was reserved for tractors.
It took Luca a couple of minutes to saddle up his horse; buckles and straps fastened into place without needing to think—Grant’s
knowledge. Then he led the piebald mare out into the courtyard, past the burnt out ruins of the other stable block. Most of
the horses Louise had set free during the fire had come back; they still had over half of the manor’s superb herd left.
He had to ride slower than he liked, allowing the others to keep up. But the freedom of the wolds made up for it. All as it
should be. Almost.
Individual farms huddled in the lee of the shallow valleys, stolid stone houses seeking protection against Norfolk’s arctic
winters; they were scattered about the estate almost at random. Their fields had all been ploughed now, and the tractors were
out drilling the second crop. Luca had gone round the storage warehouses himself, selecting the stock of barley, wheat, maize,
oats, a dozen varieties of beans, vegetables. Some fields had already started to sprout, dusting the rich dark soil with a
gossamer haze of luxuriant emerald. It was going to be a good yield, the nightly rain they conjured up would ensure that.
He was thankful that most of the disruption to the estate had been superficial. It just needed a firm guiding hand to get
everything back on track.
As they approached Colsterworth, the farms were closer together, fields forming a continual quilt. Luca led his team round
the outskirts. The streets were busy, clotted by the town’s residents as they strove for activity and normality. Nearly all
of them recognized Luca as he rode past. His influence wasn’t quite so great here, though it was his objectives which had
been adopted. The town had elected itself a council of sorts, who acknowledged Luca had the right goals in restarting the
county’s basic infrastructure. A majority of the townsfolk went along with the council, repairing the water pump house and
the sewage treatment plant, clearing the burnt carriages and carts from the streets, even attempting to repair the telephone
system. But the council’s real power came from food distribution, over which it had a monopoly, loyalists mounting a round
the clock guard on the warehouses.
Luca spurred his horse over the canal bridge, a wood and iron arch in the Victorian tradition. The structure was another of
the council’s repair projects, lengths of genuine fresh timber had been dovetailed into the original seasoned planking; energistic
power had been utilised to reform the iron girders that had been smashed and twisted (somehow they couldn’t quite match the
blue paint colour, so the new sections were clearly visible).
The Moulin de Hurley was on the other bank, a big mill house which supplied nearly a quarter of Kesteven island with flour.
It had dark-red brick walls cut by tall iron-rimmed windows; one end was built over a small stream, which churned excitedly
out of a brick arch before emptying into the canal at the end of the wharf. A series of tree-lined reservoir ponds were staggered
up the gentle curve of the valley which rose away behind the building. There was a team appointed by the council to help him
waiting by the Moulin’s gates. Their leader, Marcella Rye, was standing right underneath the metal archway supporting an ornate
letter K. Which gave Luca a warm sensation of contentment. After all, he owned the mill. No! The Kavanaghs. The Kavanaghs
owned it. Used to own it.
Luca greeted Marcella enthusiastically, hoping the flush of bonhomie would prevent her from sensing his agitation at the lapse.
“I think it’ll be relatively easy to get this up and running again,” he said expansively. “The water powers the large grinder
mechanism, and there’s a geothermal cable to run the smaller machines. It should still be producing electricity.”
“Glad to hear it. The storage sheds were ransacked, of course,” she pointed at a cluster of large outbuildings. Their big
wooden doors had been wrenched open; splintered and scorched, they now hung at a precarious angle. “But once the food was
gone, nobody bothered with the place.”
“Fine, as long as there’s no… ” Luca broke off, sensing the whirl of alarm in Johan’s thoughts. He turned just in time to
see the man stumble, his legs giving way to pitch him onto his knees. “What’s—?”
Johan’s youthful outline was wavering as he pressed his fists against his forehead; his whole face was contorted in an agony
of concentration.
Luca knelt beside him. “Shit, what is it?”
“Nothing,” Johan hissed. “Nothing. I’m okay, just dizzy that’s all.” Sweat was glistening all over his face and hands. “Heat
from the ride got to me. I’ll be fine.” He clambered to his feet, wheezing heavily.
Luca gave him a confused glance, not understanding at all. How could anyone be ill in a realm in which a single thought had
the power of creation? Johan must be severely hung over; a body wasn’t flawlessly obedient to the mind’s wishes here. They
still had to eat, after all. But his deputy didn’t normally go in for heroic benders.
Marcella was frowning at them, uncertain. Johan gave a forced
I’m fine
nod. “We’d best go in,” he said.
Nobody had been in the mill since the day Quinn Dexter had arrived in town. It was cool inside; the power was off, and the
tall smoked-glass windows filtered the daylight down to a listless pearl. Luca led the party along the dispenser line. Large,
boxy stainless steel machines stood silent above curving conveyer belts.
“Initial grinding is done at the far end,” he lectured. “Then these machines blend and refine the flour, and bag it. We used
to produce twelve different types in here: plain, self-raising, granary, savoury, strong white—you name it. Sent them all
over the island.”
“Very homely,” Marcella drawled.
Luca let it ride. “I can release new stocks of grain from the estate warehouses. But—” He went over to one of the hulking
machines, and tugged a five pound bag from the feed mechanism below the hopper nozzle; it was made of thick paper, with the
Moulin’s red and green water wheel logo printed on the front. “Our first problem is going to be finding a new stock of these
to package the flour in. They used to come from a company in Boston.”
“So? Just think them up.”
Luca wondered how she’d wound up with this assignment. Refused to sleep with the council leader? “Even if we only produce
white flour for the bakeries, and package it in sacks, you’re looking at a couple of hundred a day,” he explained patiently.
“Then you need flour for pastry and cakes, which people will want to bake at home. That’s several thousand bags a day. They’d
all have to be thought up individually.”
“All right, so what do you suggest?” “Actually, we were hoping you might like to come up with a solution. After all, we’re
supplying the expertise to get the mill going again, and providing you with grain.”
“Gee, thanks.”
“No thanks needed. This isn’t a Communist society, we’re not giving it away. You’ll have to pay for it.”
“It’s as much ours as it is yours.” Her voice had risen until it was almost an indignant squeal.
“Possession is nine-tenths of the law.” He grinned mirthlessly. “Ask your host.” His mind detected his people were sharing
his amusement; even Johan’s thoughts were lighter. The townies were highly uncomfortable with the facts being presented.
Marcella regarded him with blatant mistrust. “How do you propose we pay?”
“Some kind of ledger, I suppose. Work owed to us. After all, we’re the ones growing the food for you.”
“And we’re running the mill for you, and transporting the stuff all over the county.”
“Good. That’s a start then isn’t it? I’m sure there’ll be other useful industries in Colsterworth, too. Our tractors and field
machinery will need spares. Now all we need is a decent exchange rate.”
“I’m going to have to go back to the council with this.”
“Naturally.” Luca had reached the wall separating the dispenser line from the chamber housing the main grinder. There were
several large electrical distribution boxes forming their own mosaic over the bricks. Each one had an amber light glowing
brightly on the front. He started pressing the trip buttons in a confident sequence. The broad tube lights overhead flickered
as they came alight, sending down a blue-white radiance almost brighter than the sky outside. Luca smiled in satisfaction
at his mental prowess. The circuitry for governing this old island was mapped out in his mind now, percolating up from his
host.
His modest feeling of contentment faded, absorbed by a new body of emotion slipping over his perceptual horizon. Around him,
the others were reacting in the same fashion. All of them turned instinctively to face the same outer wall, as if trying to
stare through the bricks. A group of people were approaching Colsterworth. Dark thoughts sliding through Norfolk’s atmosphere
of the mind like threatening storm clouds.
“I think we’d better go take a look,” Luca said. There were no dissenters.
______
They used the railway to get about over the island, adapting one of the utilitarian commuter trains which had trundled between
the island’s towns. A steam-powered ironclad fortress now clanked and hissed its way along the rails, hauling a couple of
Orient Express carriages behind it. Several sets of what looked like twin recoilless ack-ack guns had been mounted at both
ends of the train, while the barrel of a big tank cannon pointed along the top of the boiler, emerging from the combination
turret/driver’s cabin.
Just outside Colsterworth, where the rail went over the canal before it got to the station, Luca and Marcella stood side by
side on the embankment at the head of their combined teams. More people were emerging from the town, bolstering their numbers.
Antibodies responding to an in-cursive virus, Luca thought. And they were right to do so. People here were made to wear their
hearts on their sleeves, visible to everyone else. It saved a lot of bullshitting around. Plain for all to see, those coming
down the track were set on just one thing.
The train let out a long annoyed whistle, sending a fountain of steam rocketing up into the sky. Metallic screeches and janglings
came pouring out of the engine when its riders realized how committed the townie blockaders were. Its pistons pounded away,
reversing the wheel spin.
Luca and Marcella stood their ground as it howled forwards. A thought-smile flashed between them, and they stared down at
the tracks, concentrating. The rails just in front of their feet creaked once, then split cleanly. Bolts holding them to the
timber sleepers shot into the air, and the rails started to curl up, rolling into huge spirals. Flame spewed out of the train’s
wheels. The riders had to exert a lot of energistic strength to halt its momentum. It stopped a couple of yards short of the
coils. Billows of angry steam jetted out of valves all along the underside, water splattered down onto the tracks. A thick
iron door banged open on the side of the driver’s cabin. Bruce Spanton jumped down.
He was dressed in anti-hero black leathers, impenetrable sunglasses pressed tight against his face. Heavy boots crunched on
the gravel chippings of the embankment as he stalked towards the huddled townsfolk. A holster with a gold-plated Uzi slapped
his leg with every step.
“Hello,” Luca muttered, “Somebody watched way too many bad cable movies when they were younger.”
Marcella subdued a grin as the ersatz Bad Guy halted in front of them.
“You,” Bruce Spanton growled. “You’re in my way, friend. You must feel lucky to try a move like that.”
“What do you boys want here?” Luca asked wearily. The bad vibes emanating from Spanton and the others in the train weren’t
entirely forged. Not everyone on Norfolk had calmed down after returning from the beyond.
“Me and the guys, just passing through,” Spanton said challengingly. “No law against that, here, is there?”
“No law, but plenty of wishes,” Luca said. “This county doesn’t want you. I’m sure you’ll respect that majority opinion.”
“Tough shit. You got us. What you gonna do, call the cops?”
A big silver Western sheriff’s badge mushroomed on the front of Marcella’s tunic. “I am the police in Colsterworth.”
“Listen,” Bruce Spanton said. “We’re just here to check out the town. Have us a bit of fun. Stock up on some food, grab some
Norfolk Tears. Then tomorrow we’ll be gone. We don’t want no trouble; it’s not as if we want to stay here. Crappy dump like
this, not our scene. Know what I mean?”