Breakdown, page 20
At last someone comes. A knock at the kitchen door.
‘Deliveries.’
I cross the flagged floor, open it. There stands Harold, the guy who gave Lenny the strawberry.
‘Settling in?’ he says.
He eyes all the produce. I don’t say anything.
‘You’ll want the news.’
‘Thanks for yesterday,’ I say.
‘You’ll want to hear how the little boy’s doing.’
Is it so obvious I’m desperate for news? ‘Why’re you here?’ I say.
‘And how your young man’s making out in the slammer.’
Tarquin? I open my eyes wide. ‘He’s not my young man,’ I say.
‘Bet he’d like to be.’
I close my mouth. Let him think what he likes. I remember Nan. ‘Them as stay quiet, learn more.’
‘Well I don’t have long, so what news d’you want first?’
Who exactly is he? This is the third time he’s just turned up. He seems to be able to do what he likes, go where he wants, be everyone’s friend, be invisible to soldiers, even. That means he’s got to be dodgy.
‘I’m never any good at remembering names,’ he says. He offers me his hand.
I take it. ‘I’m Melissa,’ I remind him. ‘And it was Lenny. You were kind to Lenny.’
‘Pleased to meet you, Melissa. I suppose you know your name means queen bee?’
I nod. I like the addition of ‘queen’.
‘Mine, Harold, means leader of the army. It’s something I’m working on. Obviously.’
I smile. That was funny.
‘Now have you thought any more about magic?’
‘No,’ I say. ‘Sleight of hand and fooling six year olds isn’t magic.’
‘Pity,’ he says. ‘I was going to offer to solve all your problems.’
‘I wish.’
‘You could try believing,’ he says. ‘After all, it can’t get much worse, can it?’
He’s right. It can’t.
‘I want something more than news or strawberries,’ I say. ‘I want to know how to get out of here.’
He shrugs. ‘Isn’t that what we all want?’
‘I don’t know about everybody else,’ I say. ‘That’s what I want. Right out, and not back to London.’
‘It’s not impossible,’ Harold says. He eyes me warily.
My eyebrows raise a little.
He makes a motion like he’s washing his hands. ‘You help me. I help you.’ He continues gazing at me, unsmiling, thoughtful. ‘Takes two,’ he says. ‘One hand to wash the other.’ He pauses. ‘With cooperation,’ he adds, ‘anything is possible.’
He unloads some baskets onto the kitchen table. All the time keeping his attention on me, watchful. ‘Perhaps we have some common ground?’
He carries on unloading the deliveries, piles carrots on the table. He goes out, disappears round the side of the house, reappears with a box of cherries and some onions. ‘Perhaps we could come to an understanding?’
He steps back into the kitchen, hangs the string of onions on the back of the door. ‘We’re all human after all,’ he says, ‘and this camp was only designed by humans.’
I take a handful of cherries and wait.
Nan always said, ‘You can tell when a horse wants to go home. Just give it a free rein and it’ll carry you with it.’
I never even saw a horse till yesterday, let alone rode one. But I give Harold free rein. I want to see where he’ll take this.
‘But only a very few humans control it. One, the current internal manager – he controls the black market – and two, the adjutant.’ Harold sits down and watches me closely, his eyes cautious, calculating.
‘That foul man in camouflage?’
‘And three, the General, of course.’
The cherries are sweet beyond belief. I try not to look like I’ve never eaten any before.
‘Power,’ he says, ‘isn’t given. You have to seize it. Every time you don’t take power you allow others to take it from you.’
Carefully I spit the stones into the palm of my hand.
‘We can change things,’ he says. ‘We can achieve the impossible, but we must be ready to cooperate, ready to seize power, ready to use it, don’t you think?’
I stay quiet. I don’t think I’m supposed to say anything.
He looks at me. ‘Are you ready to seize power?’
The air seems to suddenly crackle with a dangerous energy. I’m supposed to say something now. But I hesitate. I change the subject.
‘I’d like to hear the news first,’ I say. ‘Lenny and Tarquin?’
He nods, still attentive. ‘Lenny’s in a house two doors from where you slept last night with a nice young woman, and your young man’s in the prison cells.’
My young man? That’s the second time he’s said it. For a moment I catch a glimpse of Lenny and Tarquin and me from the outside. A little loving unit.
Harold watches me.
A little loving unit split up and scattered. A lump forms in my throat.
‘They’re alive,’ says Harold. ‘That is the most important thing, and with life and cooperation’ – he stresses the word – ‘anything is possible – even a reunion.’ He pauses as if he’s asked a question.
‘Reunion isn’t enough,’ I say. ‘We need to get out.’
He nods again as if I’ve passed some kind of test. ‘With cooperation,’ he repeats, ‘everything is possible.’
‘Theoretically,’ I say bitterly. ‘There’s a huge fence and the army between us and out there.’
‘True,’ says Harold. ‘But the army are only human and entirely controlled by only three people. Imagine if there were a change of power. Imagine if Billson, our current internal manager, were replaced by someone who had a mind to help you?’
‘There’s still the adjutant and the General,’ I say.
‘But this new internal manager would have access to all kinds of things.’
‘Like?’ I take more cherries.
‘Well, he’d control all the comings and goings, all shipments in and out.’ Harold smiles, a sly curl of the lips. ‘To be precise –’ he taps the table –
‘Food out to London,
‘Food out to Newcastle,
‘Coal in from Newcastle,
‘All rations to all camp inmates,
‘All work details, paperwork and supply checks.’
‘The army don’t do any of that?’ I ask, surprised.
He shakes his head. ‘Prisoners do everything.’
‘So what work detail are you on now?’ I ask, suddenly aware that he too is a cog inside this huge prisoner-run system.
‘General deliveries,’ he says. ‘I almost forgot.’ He disappears outside again, round the side of the doorframe, and reappears after a minute with a stack of boxes on a trolley. ‘General’s special supplies,’ he says. ‘Last of the crop. Let’s hope he can make them stretch.’
The boxes are full of bottles.
‘Wine: six crates. Brandy, three star: one crate. Produce of Biomes Seven and Eight. You must sign here.’
I’ve never seen wine or brandy before. I take care not to let my jaw go slack.
‘Do you think you’d like to cooperate?’ he says after I’ve signed. ‘Because when everything’s said and done, all you need to do is ask yourself: would a change of internal manager be in your interests? Ask yourself what the current manager does for you now. Then consider what another, one who you’d helped up the ladder, could do for you – if he had the means.’
I smile. The horse has found his way to the stable, Nan, just like you promised. ‘Tell me more,’ I say.
‘Here’s the thing,’ he says. ‘I’ve got access to every house in the camp.’ He stacks the crates up by the cellar door. ‘I’ve got cooperation in every terrace, barrack and biome going. I control all the news. That much power I have already seized. I’ve cooperation on every shift, detail, work gang, train arrival and departure, but I haven’t got cooperation in the General’s quarters, not since Dora jumped.’ He hastily crosses himself and adds, ‘Poor Dora.’
‘So that’s where I come in?’
‘So while you consider the offer, d’you want the news in full?’
I nod. I do want more news.
‘Lenny’s fine. He’s in that house, as I told you, on the old village high street. The woman’s given him a second apple. She’s kind and is looking out for him. Lenny doesn’t seem to mind. He’s made friends with her kids, ’specially Tommy. He’s missing you, though.’
‘And Tarquin?’ I say.
‘He’s settling down in the slammer,’ says Harold. ‘His trial is set for sometime next month. The officer he mangled had to be transferred and won’t be back for a while.’
I let myself relax, just a little.
‘It’s going to be a big case. He’ll probably get a flogging and, if he survives it, ten years. He’s happier, though, since I gave him news of Lenny, and he’s my cooperation in the old police cells at the moment.’
A flogging. If he survives.
‘We’ve got to get out of here before that trial,’ I say.
‘So, are you going to cooperate or not?’ says Harold. ‘He’s got a fortnight’s solitary, by the way, to start off with.’
Ten years.
‘Can you get us out?’ I say bluntly.
‘Yes or no?’ says Harold, his eyes suddenly narrowing.
I nod, my mind racing. ‘When does the General get back from Andover?’
‘Maybe a few days, a week at most,’ says Harold.
I look up at him. ‘What’ve I got to do?’ I ask.
‘Just keep your eyes and ears open for now, remember who comes, who goes, what they bring, what they take, what they say, who they say it to. Think about seizing power. How the forest can be felled. News is what I want. Insider knowledge. Intelligence is my business.’
‘Is that all?’ I ask.
‘For now.’
‘And later?’
‘A bit of borrowing and a bit of replacing, maybe.’
‘Thieving and lying you mean?’
‘Well, all property is theft if you want to get moral,’ he says. ‘And, before you ask, I also deal in blackmail.’ His eyes go snake cold. ‘So if you’re in, you stay in.’ He watches me steadily, so I get the point. ‘Are you in? Speak up, because I told Lenny I’d bring him word.’
I look at him. He’s got all the cards, hasn’t he? He pulls the last one out.
‘By the way,’ he says, ‘this is yours.’
On the table he puts the key ring. My key ring. With its little picture of the cottage.
‘How’d you get it?’
‘Ways and means.’
‘Can you get my coat too?’
‘I get what I like,’ he says.
I think of Nan, the dogs, the wharf.
‘Please?’
‘Nothing easier … ’ He leaves the ‘if’ unspoken in the air of the kitchen.
‘I’m in,’ I say. ‘I don’t know your plan, but I’m in.’
‘Good,’ he says. ‘I’ll be back tomorrow with detailed news and a few little jobs for you.’
I nod.
‘Till then: one, ears; two, eyes. And in particular, Mrs Fellowes of fifty-two Barlow Street wants news of whether Dora ever got the sewing kit. You could just check on that for her. I believe it was in the General’s downstairs study.’
‘Here,’ I say. I grab the package of chicken and vegetables salvaged from the stew. ‘Give them to Tarquin. Get the coat, give it to Lenny. Can you?’
‘Of course,’ he says. ‘I can work magic.’
And with that he leaves.
I find a bit of string. I thread it through the key ring. I hang it round my neck. I look at the little cottage in its plastic setting, the roses, the valley and the mountains. Then I close my fist over everything. I hold it tight. ‘If only we were there,’ I whisper into my closed hand. If only.
I set about putting away the deliveries. I hope to God Harold isn’t all talk. For the first time since we were thrown in the back of the lorry, I allow myself to hope. I’ll help Tarquin like he helped me. I’ll save Lenny from this horrible place.
And if the General tries to touch me again –
I’ll kill him.
45
I keep my eyes and ears open. I need news I can trade with Harold. Something that will shift the balance of power.
I find out everybody hates the General, except maybe Marcy. He oversees all the farm camps north of London. He oversees the main rail link to the coal mines. This house was once part of a country estate. The village was called Compton Powell. Biomes One to Ten produce luxury items entirely for consumption by the army elite. Biomes Eleven onwards are supposed to grow staple food crops for the nation. The rest of the army takes them.
I find out the farm ships trashy foodstuff up north, to the coalfields, for extortionate rates, and pays very little for the coal. I find out the coalfields in the Midlands are coal camps like this one, but their output is low. They can’t turn convicts into miners, apparently.
I find out there’s a huge black market inside the camp. Corruption is everywhere. The black market’s controlled by the internal manager, Mr Billson – and I begin to understand what Harold could achieve if he had the job.
And he’s right. The prisoners do everything, including overseeing. The army conducts checks, but each work-gang officer varies. Some are Philistines. Some are not. Some regularly flog workers. Most workers are half starved and have to steal to eat.
But I’m pretty sure that Harold knows all that, so I try to listen out for the things he might not.
Marcy, the General’s aunt, sends me down to the chicken farm in Biome Six to collect the eggs. It’s very close. On the old estate. That’s why I’m allowed to go. I’m surprised I am allowed to go. But I don’t fool myself. The minute I put one foot too far, I’ll be for it. Marcy tells me exactly where I can go and where I can’t. She especially dwells on what will happen if I don’t believe her. She tells me (with some relish) that since Dora, the General isn’t going to let any bird fly the coop a second time.
I use the freedom. Though I don’t trust Marcy one bit. I remember her laying out the weapons in the kitchen. Maybe she has new orders. Perhaps the General is planning some different game. One where he lets me loose on the estate and hunts me down. I wouldn’t be surprised. It’d be no fun for him if I didn’t know where I was going. So I explore as thoroughly as I can, noting hiding spots, short cuts, watercourses, and timing myself between points.
I make the trip to Biome Six. I enter the pen, throw the house waste to the chickens, and add a helping of chaff that came in from Biome Twenty-five. I collect the eggs. I crack two into the bowl I brought the waste in. I mix them up with my finger and drink them down. I’ve put myself on a fattening diet. Grow tough, grow strong. You won’t be able to outsmart anyone if you’re weak.
Then I head back to the manor. I jog to build stamina. On the way I notice that certain points in the stone wall around the estate have collapsed. I notice that some of the walkways can be roped off.
I nod my head.
I know your game. I’ve guessed it. You’ll set me up. You’ll open the cage. You’ll watch me try to escape. Then you’ll hunt me down.
The jog tires me out completely. I’m not ready for his new game. I’ve got to get out before that. And he’ll be back soon. Four days have gone already.
I shiver. Did Dora really jump? Or did you hunt her up to the old quarry? Did you give her a choice: jump or submit? Or did you use her up then force her over?
I need news to trade with Harold.
Before it’s too late.
I take a shortcut through the coppice and head for the General’s greenhouses. On the main door is a sign: NO ADMITTANCE. I suppose that means me too. Though I take no notice. The General’s away, and the sign looks very old. Like it was put there long ago when people obeyed rules and there was order and safety.
And I need a quiet place to think. To plan. Plus the sign annoys me. If the General did have it put there, then I’m going in. So I push on the double doors. The locks on them are old; one door should be bolted to the floor but it’s not. It only takes a bit of shaking for both to give.
Inside is an old-fashioned greenhouse, high clear spaces, glass panes, green-dappled light. Wooden frames. Bees hum. Beautiful. The sun sparkles through in diamond patterns. And curling upwards everywhere are orchids. The General’s collection: rare, exquisite.
I stand there. Racking my brains for some brilliant plan. All the orchids have exotic names and are arranged alphabetically: Acrolophia; Adamantinia; Aerides, Fox Brush Orchid; Dragon’s mouth; Cup Orchid; Galeandra, Hooded Orchid; Galearis, Showy Orchid.
I stand and breathe in thick perfumed air. Bees dart from flower to flower. Was it like this before? Were there multitudes of flowers? Priceless orchids as well as wayside blossoms? Birds and sunshine? Clouds casting shadows on sunny fields?
I try to imagine it.
Then I hear something. Instantly, I duck.
Voices of two men. Coming from inside, by the walled garden exit. So others come here to plan too. I take a big breath. I remove my shoes. No squeaks. I leave them behind a bed of Hexalectris. I slink over behind some Mesadenus. I crouch and listen.
‘So,’ says a deep male voice. Not one I recognise. I peer through the vines. He’s in farm overalls with a cap, a belt and army boots. He’s plump.
‘So,’ he says again. ‘Over here.’
Another guy, I can’t see him, answers. ‘Order in from the west country.’
‘Right.’
‘They want honey.’
‘How much?’
‘We can charge them double. Their bees didn’t survive. They’ve had to replace the lot. We got them over a barrel. Can charge what we like.’
They move a bit closer together. Are they workers or what?
‘How many jars we got?’
‘To spare? About two dozen.’
‘If we can make that four dozen, we’ve got ourselves a real deal.’ He moves. I move too. I want to see him. I step out from behind a Monk Orchid, move across a pathway and squat down inside a huge towering tangle of vanilla. I get a clear glimpse of him then: a short man in camouflage, carrying a baton. A gun strapped to his thigh. The adjutant from the courtroom shed.
