The Power of Five Oblivion (9 page)

“What did you just promise me?” the Traveller snarled. “We can’t take her with us. There’s no room.”

“I don’t know who you are.” Jamie was speaking through gritted teeth. “And I don’t know where you’re going. If I come with you, I’ll do as you say. But I’m not coming alone. And that’s not negotiable.”

Another mushroom of flame. It was close by and for a moment all three of us glowed red. We had no time to argue and the Traveller knew it. He nodded, angrily. “All right. But that’s the last demand you make. From now on you do as I say.”

I barely heard his words. They were drowned out by an explosion, louder and more powerful than any that had gone before. The ground trembled. The very air fizzed and a huge ball of scarlet flame rose into the night sky. The nearest helicopter had fired a missile. I didn’t know if it had aimed deliberately or not but it had hit the church … poor old St Botolph’s, which had stood there for centuries and which had never done anyone any harm – unless you count having a magic door that had opened to allow death into our village. I saw the top of the tower crumble. Huge pieces of stone rained down, most of them in flames. The graveyard seemed to have caught fire.

And still people were running mindlessly, even though there were fewer of them now, less than half as many as there had been. They were trying to keep out of the glow of the fire, aware that it turned the immediate area into a death trap. But there was nowhere to go. The police were everywhere, waiting for them in the same way that George and I had often waited for a rabbit to come out of its hole. I no longer recognized any of the villagers. They had become leaping shadows, running hopelessly, being cut down by the silent men behind the visors and riot shields.

We were among them. Following the Traveller, we made our way down the main road. We didn’t run. Moving slowly was the secret. Panic would kill us – we had to make certain we weren’t seen. A single line of fire streaked across the sky and there was another shuddering explosion, somewhere near the garage. We were heading towards the river, the opposite direction from the one I would have taken because it led away from the wood. But after what he had said, I didn’t dare argue with the Traveller. I found myself focusing on the red cloth that he was wearing around his neck. It made him easier to pick out and it stopped me seeing the horror that was taking place everywhere else.

More missiles fell. The ground shook. I was waiting for the single blast that would find our little group and blow us all to pieces. Dust and debris swept into my eyes, almost blinding me, and there was an endless, high-pitched screaming in my ears. A man was hurled, somersaulting through the air in front of me, and landing just ahead. I couldn’t avoid him. It was the vicar, Reverend Johnstone. He knelt there as if at prayer, then lay down as though he was tired and wanted to go to sleep. I wondered if he knew that his church had been destroyed. I wanted to stay and help him but the Traveller had already gone past and I had no choice but to follow.

We reached the crossroads and the Queen’s Head. The pub was still standing, although this was where the first explosion had come from, the one that had taken out the generator. It was quieter down here … at least, there were fewer people and most of the killing was still taking place around the square. I wasn’t sure I had any hearing any more. I looked back and saw that the whole village had become a firestorm. The muzzles of the machine guns were flashing white. We drew to a halt. Jamie looked stunned. Perhaps he was blaming himself for all this. It would have been even worse for him, if he thought that this was his fault.

“We can’t rest,” the Traveller said. His lips moved and I read the words without properly hearing them. “We have to keep going.”

We continued down the hill. I was becoming more uneasy all the time. What was there here for us? A stagnant river and a houseboat that couldn’t move because, long ago, we had eaten the horse that pulled it.

Another blast. More screams – but distant now and less often. There were fewer people to kill. Thankfully, we seemed to have been forgotten. And it was pitch-dark down here.

“What happened to the lights?” I asked.

“I blew up the generator,” the Traveller said. “Now let’s move…”

I saw the river ahead of us, a black ribbon that picked up some of the reflections from the fire. The water had no current. It was oily and dead. I smelled it too. For years now the river had had a thick, unpleasant odour, which in its own way warned you to stop and go back the way you had come. As we reached the quay, I tried to convince myself that we were on our own, that nobody had followed us. But I didn’t believe it. It was as if the night were alive and watching us. It wasn’t going to be as easy as this. They weren’t simply going to let us slip away.

“Where now?” Jamie asked.

There wasn’t much of a choice. If we went straight ahead, we’d fall in the water and drown … if we weren’t poisoned first. There were a couple of buildings – an old warehouse and the harbour master’s office, which had been converted into someone’s home. We could follow the towpath to the left or to the right. Either way, it ran out after a time, disappearing into nettles and mud, which of course had been allowed to happen quite deliberately.

“This way,” the Traveller pointed to the right.

“Wait a minute,” I said. My hearing had returned.

“What?”

“There’s someone here…”

The Traveller stopped and looked around him. It was almost black down here, everything just vague shadows and shapes. His hand had dropped to his waist and I saw that he was carrying a weapon, a machete or some sort of sword. I knew that it wasn’t me that he was worried about. He was staying close to Jamie, watching out for him.

“You’re wrong,” he said.

“I heard someone.”

And that was when the policeman appeared out of the darkness. I saw his hand rise to his shoulder and a second later, he had flicked on a torch which was strapped there, leaving him free to cradle the machine gun which was aimed at us. The powerful beam leapt out, dazzling us. The policeman had lost his helmet and visor but I still couldn’t make out much of his face. He was in total command. There was nothing the three of us could do. He could cut us down where we stood.

“Stay where you are!” he grunted. A voice crackled somewhere inside his helmet and he spoke into a microphone that curved round in front of his lips. “I have them…”

“Where are you?” It was the woman from the helicopter.

“At the church,” Jamie said. It took me a moment to understand that it was he who had spoken. He was staring at the policeman. There was something strange about him that I had never seen before, although somehow, I knew what was happening. Jamie had powers. He had already told me that. Now he was using them.

“They’re at the church,” the policeman said.

He knew that he had lied. It hadn’t been what he wanted to say. He was struggling to break free of the spell or whatever it was that gripped him. His hand tightened on his weapon and I was certain he was going to shoot us right there. But then I heard a soft footfall, coming across the quay. Someone was rushing out of the darkness behind him and as the policeman became aware of the danger and turned, he was struck down from behind. The policeman fell. George was standing over him, holding the cricket bat he had just used to knock the man out. I had no idea how he had got there or if he had been waiting for us all along.

“You have to go, Holly,” he said.

“You’re coming with us, George.”

“No. I can’t.”

He looked down and I saw the dark stain on his shirt. He had been shot or he had been cut or maybe he’d been hit by shrapnel from one of the missiles. I had no idea how he’d managed to make his way down here and I was amazed he’d found the strength to save us in the way he just had. At the same time, I knew he didn’t have a lot of time left.

“George…” I began and choked on his name. Tears were pouring down my cheeks and I was wondering how all this could have happened. Only a few days ago, I’d been picking apples and he’d been making bread.

Then I heard the sound I dreaded most, the stamp of leather on concrete, and I knew that although Jamie had tried to trick them, there were more policemen on the way, running down the main road towards the quay. George slumped to his knees. He couldn’t stand up any more. At the same time, he swept the dead policeman’s machine gun into his hands and pressed it against his chest. I understood what he was going to do.

“Go on, Holly,” he said. “Get out of here.”

“George…” I couldn’t believe I was saying goodbye to him.

The Traveller wasn’t waiting any longer. He grabbed my shoulders and dragged me in the direction he’d wanted to take. Jamie came with us. He looked sick, in shock. George stayed where he was and I didn’t look round.

I felt a slight rise in the ground. I knew that we were following the towpath along the edge of the river. We ran for about five minutes – and there it was in front of us, a black bulk that had to be the
Lady Jane
, the Traveller’s home, stuck in the mud, where it had been for the last seven years. I allowed myself to be bundled on board. I felt the wooden deck beneath my feet and collapsed onto it. Behind us, on the quay, I heard machine-gun fire and knew that it was George, protecting me to the very end.

I didn’t know what would happen next. I thought that we would hide here until it was all over. Perhaps the Traveller thought that the police would never look for us here. But then I heard the most extraordinary sound: a metallic cough followed by a rumble somewhere below. The entire boat began to vibrate and I realized that although the
Lady Jane
had been pulled by a horse when it arrived, that had just been a trick, a diversion, and that it still had a working engine. The Traveller even had fuel.

He and Jamie released the ropes. George was still firing short, uneven bursts, keeping everyone back, stopping them seeing where we had gone. The Traveller was standing next to me. He leant out and pushed us away from the bank. Jamie climbed in and crouched beside me. A last stammer from the machine gun, then a single shot and a sudden cry. The Traveller went over to the tiller.

The engine made little sound, a dull throbbing, as we slipped into the night. I looked back one last time and saw nothing close by, but in the distance a red glow spread across the landscape as the village burned.

ENDGAME – THE CONFERENCE

EIGHT

The car slowed down and stopped at the traffic lights and at once nine or ten children ran forward. They were the usual crowd – barefooted, dressed in rags or half-naked, starving, with empty, saucer eyes, their hands cupped in the universal symbol for food. They almost seemed to be vying for who could look the most pathetic.
We’re starving
, they pleaded, their shirts hanging open to reveal the skin stretched over their ribcage.
Give us something to eat. Give us money
. Their hairless heads swivelled on their scrawny necks, trying to catch the driver’s eye.
Give us anything
.

The driver ignored them, staring straight ahead through his sunglasses, waiting for the lights to change. Outside, the temperature was well into the thirties and the streets stank of filth and decay, with raw sewage trickling down the gutter, actually moving faster than the traffic.

There were shops on both sides but most of them had been abandoned, plate-glass windows displaying grey interiors and shelves that had been emptied long ago. Any buying or selling was being done on the pavements. There were food stalls: foul concoctions, brains and entrails, bubbling away beneath a layer of scum in battered metal pots. Old men and women sat cross-legged in front of tiny piles of fruit and vegetables which they had brought in from the fields that spilt over into the suburbs, hoping to sell them to get money for what? For more fruit and vegetables to sell another day? One half-crazed woman crouched over a pyramid of dried milk in tins, a decade past its sell-by date. Another had a collection of batteries, as if anyone would have a use for them even if they could have afforded them. And, of course, there were beggars; blind, broken and babbling. A man with stumps instead of arms, another with no eyes, a third seeming to disappear into the roadside with nothing beneath his waist. A woman cradled a baby that was probably dead. A few stray dogs lay curled up in the shadows. The animals who hadn’t already starved to death would feed on the ones who had.

As always, the noise was deafening, the traffic so snarled up that it was difficult to tell in which direction it was even supposed to travel. There were one or two expensive limousines carrying important people to important places, but most of the vehicles belonged on the scrap heap or had perhaps been rescued from it. There were crumpled, ancient cars with cracked windows and plastic seats, only kept in service with odd, spare parts and prayer. Buses stood rumbling, jammed with people pressed against each other without air for hours on end, slowly baking to death in the heat. And everywhere there were bicycles, rickshaws, scooters and tuk-tuks, motorized death traps that zigzagged through the traffic with their lawnmower engines buzzing like angry wasps.

The driver tapped his thumbs against the steering wheel, waiting for the lights to change. One of the children, a boy of about six or seven, rapped on the glass and pointed at his mouth, and the driver was briefly tempted to take out the gun which he always carried and shoot him right between those pathetic, staring eyes. The street-sellers would look up for an instant before going back to their work. And the blood would spread in the flyblown puddles that filled the cracks and the potholes in the road. One less mouth to feed! For a moment, he was seriously tempted. But to shoot the boy, he would have to roll down the window, and that would mean letting in the heat and the noise just for a few seconds. It wouldn’t be worth it. His passenger wouldn’t be pleased.

The lights changed but the car didn’t move. There was an obstruction just ahead. An ox had been pulling a cart filled with old fridges and freezers – scrap metal – turning left across the carriageway. But the weight had been too much for the wretched animal, which had collapsed, blocking all three lanes. Its owner was standing over it, beating it again and again with a wooden stick. But the ox couldn’t get up. It tried to raise itself onto its spindly legs, then collapsed again. Two policemen in black-and-white uniforms ran forward. They could have helped. They could have redirected the traffic or forced some of the children to help move the load. Instead, they began to shout, lashing out with their truncheons. Soon everyone was shouting at everyone. Horns blared. The ox lay still, staring out with saliva dribbling from its mouth.