The Dark Horizon, page 7
‘Yeah,’ Seb added, in a voice which sounded strangled. ‘I miss Alice so much. I… I loved…’
But the words wouldn’t come. Arms reached out to support a young man who had learnt far too early the bitter lesson of a broken heart.
And what a toll it had taken. No longer so strong, so sure, Seb had been diminished. He was thinner, that vitality of youth stolen away. He looked around the touched faces and said quietly, ‘Alice… we all miss her.’
‘In Alice’s name, that wall has got to come down.’ Esme proclaimed.
The group was reforming, emboldened, clustering closer around June, their unexpected new leader. Unity and belief-infused, the unvanquishable flow of human spirit.
‘We will continue to protest,’ June went on, her voice building. ‘Such a blight, such a monstrosity as Resurgam will not open without it being very clear that many oppose it. People like Alice who died for their beliefs. We will be here each day, and let there be no doubt. However inconvenient it may be for the politicians, however it might be a nuisance for their grand dream, we will be here for the opening day itself.’
Dan made for the Satellite Van, to sit with Loud, try to keep warm and edit the report for the lunchtime news. It was a simple task; pictures of last night’s attack, excerpts of what Alannah and Dance had said and some of June’s words for balance.
The microphone was on hand and Dan was about to record a section of commentary when a banging at the door interrupted.
‘Come in, Adam.’
‘How’d you know it was me?’ the detective asked.
‘No one else knocks the way you do. It’s more like a raid.’
Adam’s face was pale, and not just because of the bitter cold. He was carrying a concern, as sure as if it were piled in sacks upon those slender shoulders. ‘Come out here. I’ve got something to show you.’
He led the way along The Wall, a couple of hundred metres from the gates. Here the colourful graffiti started to fade, replaced by the odd nonsensical daubing or scrawled abuse.
‘Are we going for a long walk?’ Dan asked mildly. ‘It’s just that I did promise my editor I’d knock together some kind of report today.’
Adam was striding hard and not in the mood for forays into the land of humour. They walked up a short but steep hill, rounded a bend and stopped abruptly.
In black paint, in thick letters on the off-white surface, carefully written, was the reason for the Chief Inspector’s concern: ‘THOSE PLANS ARE THE FOUNDATIONS OF RESURGAM’S FALL’
THE BATTLE OF RESURGAM
TWO – THE DEFILING
As if to mark the turning of that fateful year, January brought a new character to the city’s historic skyline. First it was one, then another, and finally a family of cranes.
The greatest of the group reached high into the sky; a thin trellis of a letter T that could often disappear into the low cloud and sea mists of the intemperate, winter weather. Around it clustered more, each progressively shorter, but all equally industrious.
Every day, from the first light of the colourless dawns to the equally bleak dusks, the cranes stooped and swung, hauled and lowered. Beneath, servants scurried to their bidding; lorries feeding the endless hunger of the site, or removing the debris which was once a part of the land. And around and between all this, the supporting cast worked and worked and Resurgam grew.
The first steel was quickly sunk into the ground, mighty beams, man-made trunks of metal, pounded into the bedrock. Across the entirety of the city the noise beat and banged, to become a background wearily familiar in the months ahead.
Beyond the gates of Resurgam the protest gathered strength, but only a little. More environmentalists arrived, concerned for local wildlife and the effect of the relentless cacophony of noise.
The knot of a dozen regular demonstrators grew to twenty. But the snow continued to fall, the temperatures hovered around zero, and the mainstay of the populace shrugged their collective shoulders and got on with the business of surviving January.
For PC Steve Rogers, Resurgam became his beat. A wise old sergeant at Charles Cross, Richard Wagstaff, commended him on handling the brief outbreak of disorder and put the young officer in charge of community relations. He shared more tea and conversation with Seb, June, Alice, Mac, Esme and the others who came and went from the line, and the charm offensive was effective. There were no repeats of the time when civilisation almost fell, the legendary day a single crane was held up for almost one whole minute.
The tide lapped at the harbour, just as it always had, but this time found the blockade of a line of supply barges. And occasionally, when the site was quieter, a posse of swans, ducks and cormorants would venture over, curious to see what had become of a land which once was theirs. But they never stayed, for it had become a hostile, alien world.
The soft sand of the golden foreshore was now bare rock and hard metal. The waters which used to flow across the small stretch of city beach had dried. And the air no longer smelt of salt, nature, and friendly freedom, but oil, man and machine.
From the landward side, some of the human population felt the violation too, and continued their protests against it.
With the coming of the thrust of the building work, the might of the forces protecting Resurgam tripled. PC Rogers was joined on his beat by a young man, a little on the chubby side, dressed in an oversized uniform and fluorescent jacket. His coat was open, despite the incessant cold, probably to show off the impressive weaves of shiny braid and ranks of buttons.
‘This is Mr Ross,’ the policeman told the group of demonstrators. ‘He’s a security officer for the site.’
June produced a matronly expression of indulgence. ‘Don’t security men have Christian names either?’
‘It’s Tommy,’ the young man said, pushing an oversized cap up his forehead and shaking hands.
‘Welcome to the front line,’ she replied, to general laughter.
‘Don’t be fooled, this lot can be quite a handful,’ PC Rogers teased. ‘We’ve already had one nasty outbreak of disorder.’
Eyes shifted to Mac, who emitted a guttural teenage grunt and turned away.
‘And this is Phil Rees,’ the policeman continued, gesturing to another young man. He sported a shaved scalp and was squat and powerful, looked like an ardent worshipper at the temple of the gym. His eyes were a little closer together than was advisable for true binocular vision, and he was also one of those curious people who find a neck surplus to requirements.
‘Alright,’ he muttered.
Alice favoured the newcomers with a smile of classic English beauty. ‘Don’t I know you, Tommy? You were the security man for the shore park here before…’ she nodded towards Resurgam.
‘Yeah.’ Tommy had a quiet voice, difficult to hear above the drills and hammers of the building site. He looked nervous, ill at ease, couldn’t quite stand still. ‘They offered me a job.’ He picked at some of the braid on his cuffs. ‘There’s not exactly a lot about at the mo, so I took it.’
‘Don’t you miss the old beach here?’
‘A job’s a job. You’ve got to count yourself lucky to have one, these days.’
‘But you can’t be happy with what’s happened?’
‘Ok, this isn’t an inquisition,’ PC Steve intervened. ‘Now, who’s got the tea today?’
‘It’s your turn,’ Seb replied.
‘Are you sure?’
As one, the line of protesters nodded. ‘And for biscuits, too,’ Alice contributed, in a manner which, if not absolutely irresistible, came very close.
‘Chocolate please!’ Esme added, with her own brand of more forceful cheeky-charm.
‘All right, I’ll go get some when I’ve finished the hard graft of policing you lot.’
‘We’ve got something to show you, too,’ Alice added.
‘Oh, really? What?’
‘Wait ‘til you get back,’ Esme told him. ‘It’s a surprise.’
The promised revelation was a masterpiece of student creativity, a play entitled Resurgam Defiled. PC Rogers had the good grace to listen with a fixed expression that he hoped resembled keen interest. But, in truth, his mind did occasionally slip to the weeks of training, and a growing understanding of what the affable old instructor, Sergeant “Happy” Hancock had said so many times.
‘No matter what I tell you about, you’ll find a thousand times more bizarre on the beat.’
And here he was, not solving crimes, nor even helping old ladies across the road, but listening to a rambling teenage artwork of the soul. Still, it was only a few more hours until he was off shift and tonight, he might just find the courage to ask Kathy whether she fancied sharing a bottle of wine in the Queen’s Arms. They would seek out a quiet corner, he would tell her of the fascination of these first few weeks of duty, listen to her stories of life as a nurse, and see where the evening took them.
‘Are you listening, Steve?’ he was being asked.
‘I’m savouring every word.’
PC Rogers, by nature a modest man – he would have asked Kathy out ages ago, otherwise – felt proud he’d managed to keep his voice free of sarcasm.
Resurgam Defiled began with the life of a headmistress in wartime Plymouth. The year was 1940.
So far, the conflict had little touched the city. Many of the menfolk were away in the forces, the women working the land, or in factories, on the drive for victory. The fighting was abroad, overseas, too far afield to truly feel.
Margaret, as she would be called, went about running her school, keeping the children educated and entertained, trying to make their lives as normal as possible. And in truth that wasn’t so difficult, because the bubble of their world floated along much as it always had. Until the night the first bombs whistled their sinister tune through the air.
Three people were killed and Margaret had to lead an assembly to explain what happened. Wide-eyed youngsters, uncomprehending, knowing only that amongst their number one was missing. Would not run with them in the playground, sit with them in class, grow with them into adulthood.
That night, alone in her bedroom, the twins safely asleep, Margaret thought back on the assembly and quietly cried.
But if the tears were a secret plea for clemency, they fell unanswered. The bombing went on and more such assemblies followed the first, many more, for Plymouth was marked in the enemy’s mind.
Devonport Dockyard was the principle target. Hundreds of miles away, unseen at sea, the Battle of the Atlantic was being fought. Day and night, a struggle for supremacy which would be so very important in dictating the outcome of the war.
Both sides knew it. And so the enemy pounded Plymouth with a desperate fury, attempting to obliterate the city which dared to nurture the doughty fleet.
In the wartime way, Margaret kept calm and carried on, her upper lip as stiff as a window sill. Despite the fears for her husband, Tony, serving overseas, her family, her neighbours and friends.
‘Are you taking all this in, Steve?’
It was Alice, her gentle voice breaking through more daydreams of Kathy. Only five or six times they’d met now, in the local shop and in the Queen’s Arms.
At first they’d exchanged brief smiles, then a few words of conversation, as befitted neighbours. But the chats had grown longer and it always felt more than a passing politeness.
She was petite and had such lovely hair, a page boy style in a chestnut hue. It was an alluring combination for a young police officer with few friends in this new city.
‘Oh yeah, a hundred and twenty per cent,’ PC Steve improvised.
‘We’ll be asking questions later, to check,’ Esme warned.
‘I’ll get ten out of ten, minimum.’
A knowing look twinkled in Alice’s blue eyes, but the plan for the play rolled on.
The months ran and the year turned to 1941.
Still Plymouth stood defiant. The bombs continued to fall, but the damage was isolated. The personality of the city remained, its core of wood beam Tudor, the smatterings of the arches and parapets of the Jacobeans and the fine stone of the Victorian city centre. It was as it had grown to be, how Margaret had come to know it.
Until the Blitz of Plymouth.
A series of air raids reduced much of the city to rubble, Hundreds of years of history destroyed in a few short hours. But it didn’t stop there. Month after month more bombs fell, an agony of endured suffering. The final attack came three years later, an enemy’s bitter retribution at a nearing defeat.
Margaret’s school was obliterated by a direct hit. But she visited the children at home and set up classes where she could. It was almost a relief, a veil of distraction from the loss of Tony.
She took comfort in the teaching, and in particular the Latin which she had loved from her own schooldays. Perhaps it was that which kindled the idea.
For amidst the ruins, the drifting smoke and the hopeless screams, came one small gesture of defiance. A moment of history defined.
Adrift in the destruction, in the heart of the dying city, Margaret reached her resolution. She found the materials and made her preparations. She walked through a landscape which was no longer familiar to find the mother church of Plymouth. And there, above the door of St Andrew’s, she nailed the simple wooden sign.
Resurgam.
And the people watched, and nodded, and quietly dared to believe. It was a comfort, a light in the long darkness.
To this day the entrance is still referred to as the Resurgam Door, a carved granite plaque now replacing the wood. Groups of schoolchildren are taken to stare at it. People of all ages pause as they pass.
It watches over the reborn city. It humbles; history in a single word.
Resurgam – I shall rise again.
A name now to be used for a skyscraper filled with shops, bars, restaurants and a disco.
‘Do you get it?’ Alice prompted.
‘Stealing a name as important as Resurgam for a bloody shopping centre in the sky,’ Seb concurred.
‘It certainly makes your point,’ PC Steve said diplomatically, handing around some tea and trying to shift the fantasy of a semi-clothed Kathy from his mind. ‘What do you reckon, Tommy?’
The young man ruffled his hair. ‘I can’t say too much. I work for them.’
Phil Rees nodded agreement and flexed his bulky shoulders. This was a man for whom muscles spoke louder than words.
‘But you must think something?’ Seb persisted.
‘It’s the little beach I really miss,’ Tommy replied. ‘I used to love seeing all the kids out with their canoes and windsurfers.’
Alice’s face crinkled into another of those special smiles, the single flaw of her beauty spot for once eclipsed by its shine. ‘That can be the second part of the play. A security guard who loved the old beach, but needs a job. So he’s got no choice but to work for Resurgam.’
Seb nodded hard, but the way he looked at Alice suggested he would have agreed with any words those fine lips formed.
‘It can be one man’s inner struggle, classic dramatic stuff,’ Esme added knowledgably.
‘We don’t need to stop at turmoil,’ Alice added. ‘What about if he’s driven mad and attacks Resurgam?’
The young police officer decided it was time to quell the rising flames of youthful enthusiasm. ‘There’ll be none of that while I’m here, drama or not.’ PC Steve nodded hard to emphasise the words, then added, ‘Uh oh, here comes that reporter again. I’m off.’
Steve Rogers may have been an inexperienced officer of the law, but he’d already learnt to recognise the furtive, lurking, unkempt nosiness which betrays many a hack.
The journalist in question was Barnaby Hill, which colleagues joked made him sound like a middle ranking area of London. In fact, the name stemmed from his parents meeting at college, where both studied English and were keen readers of Dickens.
Barnaby was a junior reporter and keen as the north wind to make a name. A sedentary fellow, fond of food and wine in equal excess, he’d always fancied a specialism as the paper’s Environment Correspondent. The post offered tempting trips to tropical climes, all courtesy of the newspaper.
Barnaby boasted old school friends who had emigrated from London for the better life of the Westcountry. From them he heard of Resurgam, and convinced his editor there was a scandal brewing in quaint old Devon that was worthy of national attention.
‘Make sure you bring me a good splash,’ the man begrudged. ‘I’m not coughing up for a couple of nights in a hotel otherwise.’
Such it was that Barnaby concentrated his questions on Seb, Alice, Esme and Mac. There he sensed the vulnerability of earnest inexperience, and the prospect of reaping the most fruitful harvest.
‘You must fear Resurgam might become a terrorist target?’ he inquired, in a manner as leading as a guide dog. ‘And it’s possible it’s being built where the Pilgrim Fathers set out for the New World, isn’t it? And something as tall as this, there must be some risk it’ll be unsafe? Not to mention the impact on the lovely foreshore and its wildlife…’
Thus gradually, and some way short of scrupulously, it formed; the story which local historians would come to identify as the true beginning of The Battle of Resurgam.
CHAPTER 10
A white van pulled up on the pavement, followed by another. From the first climbed the police photographer, a stick of a man with a top of ginger hair. He took a series of snaps, focusing on the detail of the individual letters.
When the photographer had finished, a couple of men in white overalls and baseball caps emerged from the second van and collected pots of paint and brushes from its innards. They moved in the unhurried manner of the publicly funded workman.
Dan’s mobile vibrated its text alert. It was Claire.
Going shopping, anything you fancy for dinner? Be nice if you could get home early so we could spend some time together. X
