Them or Us

11

THE WOMAN JILL WAS right about the food—it was warm and it was limited, both in taste and volume. I forced myself to eat, knowing that I needed to build up my energy after the unexpected exertion of the day. I never expected to have to do a full day’s physical labor here. Every muscle in my body hurts now and I feel half dead, even worse than usual.

I’ve been trying to walk off the food lying heavy on my stomach, determined not to spend another night throwing up. I walk slowly around the perimeter of the village square, trying to observe as much as I can without drawing attention to myself. There’s a very different atmosphere here, much less immediate tension in the air. Back in Lowestoft, you constantly feel that everyone’s on edge, that a fight might break out at any moment for any reason, often for no reason at all. Here there seems to be more tolerance and cooperation, and I’m surprised, if not wholly convinced. They must know something about Warner and his regime that I don’t, either that or this place is genuine and these people are trying to rebuild.

I do my best to avoid the crowds. Considering there are only around thirty people here (according to Hinchcliffe), it’s harder than I expected. Back in the center of Lowestoft, people often cram together in the same buildings. Here, though, they’re much more spread out. There are candles and lamps visible in many of the buildings around the square, and I feel like there are eyes watching me constantly. I know that’s just paranoia, because no one gives a shit about me, and that’s one of the reasons Hinchcliffe sent me here. If anyone asks I’ll just lie my way out of trouble and tell them I was looking for a place to sleep.

There’s a truck parked across the full width of a road up ahead, blocking it off. It’s an ex-army vehicle, I think—painted matte green save for some kind of crude emblem that’s been daubed on one side and on the hood. It looks like a target, red and white concentric circles with more red at the bull’s-eye. As I get closer, I realize I can hear voices in the street behind it. I walk right past the mouth of the road and try to glance around the back of the truck, but I can’t see much. There’s a small crowd of people there, but I can’t tell how many or what they’re doing. I keep moving, then take the next right turn, hoping that the side street I’ve just entered will somehow connect with the road that runs parallel. It doesn’t, but the houses I’m walking past now back on to those on the other road. I carry on a little farther, then stop, check again that there’s no one else around, then climb over the gate at the side of the house nearest to me. It’s quiet, and I can hear the voices in the blocked-off street as I walk the length of the overgrown back garden. There’s a hole in the end fence. I duck through it, squeezing through a gap I’d never have got through if I wasn’t so thin, and continue toward the house up ahead, which, to my relief, appears empty and dark. The back door is missing, its frame badly damaged. I go inside, checking yet again that no one’s there, then slowly creep up the stairs. From an echoing room at the front of the house, I look down onto the street below.

There are five figures waiting in the road. I can’t tell who any of them are from this distance, but I can see that they’re armed, although their weapons are held casually and they don’t seem to be expecting trouble. One of them sits down on the curb; another takes a swig from a hip flask.

It’s a few minutes before anything happens. I’m leaning against the wall, eyes starting to go, almost falling asleep, when the man sitting down gets up quickly and the posture of the others suddenly changes. They stand ready as a group in the middle of the street. Then I hear an approaching engine, and I see headlights coming closer. It’s another ex-army truck—similar in size and condition to the one that’s been left blocking the other end of the road. It stops a short distance away with a sudden hissing of brakes. The driver, along with two more men, gets out.

They move fast. The driver opens the back of the truck and climbs up into it, then starts passing stuff down to the others, who carry the heavy boxes and crates away toward another house and a storage shed near the blocked mouth of the road. They’re working steadily for a good few minutes, unloading a stack of food, some weapons, and other, less easily identifiable, supplies. It’s a decent-sized hoard. Suspiciously large, in fact. They won’t have got their hands on that much stuff anywhere around here. Within a couple of minutes the unloading is complete, and as quickly and unexpectedly as they arrived, the second truck, its driver, and the passengers all disappear. I catch a glimpse of that same circular red and white insignia as the truck reverses back down the street.

Smugglers. Christ, that’s it. No wonder Warner’s so cocky. The wily bastard is stealing to keep Southwold running the way he wants it, and he’s obviously building up a decent and well-connected support structure, too. So the next question is, where’s he getting it all from? This all looks surprisingly well organized, and whoever he’s stealing from must have enough stuff in storage not to notice the occasional truckload disappearing. There’s only one person who’s likely to control enough around here to be in that position, and that’s Hinchcliffe. By the looks of things, though, these aren’t opportunistic raids. Everything I saw just now looked carefully planned, so that means Warner had help. He must have people on the inside. Maybe Neil Casey wasn’t killed? Perhaps he’d been working for Warner all along? Fuck me, this is getting complicated. I feel a strange sense of relief that I’ve actually found something to go back to Hinchcliffe with. It means I should be able to get out of here before long.

The road outside is completely empty now. I leave the house the way I came, slipping back through the hole in the fence, then going down the side of the adjacent house and out onto the other street.

“So where d’you think that bunch came from?” a voice asks suddenly from somewhere behind me. I spin around anxiously. I go to grab my knife but clumsily drop it. The owner of the voice switches on a flashlight and shines it at me. Shit. I try to rush him, but he steps out of the way, then angles the light directly into my face, blinding me. “Don’t panic,” he says, “I don’t want any trouble.”

The man shines the light back at himself for a second, and it reflects off his thick glasses. I recognize him immediately. It’s the guy from the working party this afternoon, the one with the bad hair who was watching me so closely in the house. Is he onto me? What am I supposed to do now, kill him? I pick up my knife just in case.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“The delivery,” he says. “I heard it, so you must have seen it. Same thing happens every few days around this time.”

“I saw nothing,” I tell him.

“So why are you here?”

“I was just looking for somewhere to sleep,” I lie.

“Bullshit. I’ve been watching you. You’ve walked past more than two dozen empty buildings.”

“You’ve been watching me? Why?”

“Because I want to talk to you. Look, can we go somewhere less public…?”

“The middle of the street’s fine. Anyway, why would you need to talk to me? Are you some kind of stalker?”

He ignores my jibe.

“It’s Rufus, isn’t it?”

“Yes,” I answer after a brief but noticeable delay.

“So what do you think?”

“About what?”

“About what they’re doing here? About the truck you just saw? About the way Warner’s trying to get these people organized?”

“Did he send you to find me?”

“Not at all. I’m just trying to work out what’s happening here, same as you are. So I’ll ask you again, what do you think?”

“I think I’m bloody tired after working all day and I really don’t care about Warner or any mysterious trucks,” I answer. “I’m grateful for the food, and now I just want to find somewhere I can crash for the night like I told you. I took a wrong turn, and that’s why I’m here. I’m really not interested in anything else.”

“I don’t buy that.”

“I don’t care.”

It’s clear this guy is just some deluded little idiot. Maybe he gets a kick out of causing trouble—some kind of masochist looking for a beating, perhaps? Whoever he is and whatever he wants, I’m not getting involved. Things are complicated enough already. I try to sidestep him and head back toward the center of town, but he stands his ground and blocks my way through.

“I’m sorry,” he says, “but I don’t get it. You’ve just seen a truck full of supplies being unloaded, and you’re telling me you don’t want to know where it came from?”

“I’m not telling you anything.”

“Why are you really here?”

“What’s it to you?”

“I know you’re lying to me, Rufus,” he says. “I can read you like a book. My name’s Peter Sutton, and I want answers, same as you.”