Them or Us

33

SINCE MY MEETING WITH Ankin first thing this morning, I’ve been kept under close watch. I was taken into a small office on the second floor of the museum under the pretense of waiting to see the main man again a few hours ago, but the longer I’ve been here, the more obvious it’s become that this is just a holding cell. It’s getting dark now, and I don’t think they’re going to let me out until it’s time to go back. The door’s not locked, but every time I look out I see people swarming around on the landing, usually Chandra or Swales taking turns standing watch.

Llewellyn says that Ankin is expecting to rendezvous with thousands more of his people outside Lowestoft, and from what I’ve already seen I have no doubt it’ll happen. As soon as they’re in position, Llewellyn said, Ankin is also expecting me to trot off into town and explain to Hinchcliffe that he needs to step aside and let someone else take over the place. Like fuck. Hinchcliffe’s not going to play ball, and neither am I. They don’t really need me, and I definitely don’t need them. It’s time to get out of here.

My body clock is ticking fast, and I can’t afford to waste any more time. My days are numbered, and I really couldn’t give a damn about any of these people and their stupid, pointless power struggles. It’s exactly the same bullshit politics I used to try to avoid getting tangled up in at work, but here the stakes are immeasurably higher. Except for me. My fate is already sealed. Nothing any of them do will make any difference to me now, so why should I care? What does it matter to me who’s left running Lowestoft, or the whole damn country, for that matter? Sitting here alone in the dark over the last couple of hours, I’ve reached an important conclusion: I’m not going to waste the little time I have left on anyone else—Hinchcliffe, Ankin, Llewellyn, Peter Sutton, Joseph Mallon … fuck the lot of them. I don’t care where I end up, I’m just going to get as far away from everyone and everything else as I possibly can.

I’ve waited hours for a chance to make my move, and now it’s time. Both Chandra and Swales have gone, and the landing is clear. Shivering with cold, I button up my coat and swing my backpack onto my shoulders. I carefully push the door open just a crack, suddenly feeling like a character in one of those old spy movies I’d forgotten about until now. When I’m sure the corridor outside is empty, I take a few tentative steps out of the room, then stop and listen. I can hear a myriad of muffled noises coming from outside and below, but up here it’s silent and I keep going.

A sudden movement out of the corner of my eye makes me freeze. At the end of the short landing, where this stunted corridor opens out into the main part of the museum viewing area, a lone boot is sticking out from behind a wall. I creep closer until I’m near enough to peer around the corner, and I see that it’s Swales. The dumb bastard is fast asleep on guard duty, and there’s no one else on the rest of this level. It’s almost dark—the only illumination coming from the very last light of day seeping in through grimy glass panels in the ceiling high above my head. I stick close to the wall, clinging to the shadows, and cautiously edge along, aiming for the staircase I climbed with Llewellyn when we first got here. I’ll go down to the ground floor, then try to find another way out. Hardly any of these people know me, so it shouldn’t be too hard to slip past them. Hinchcliffe always says I have a face that’s easy to forget, but that doesn’t stop me feeling like the center of attention the farther I manage to get from where I’m supposed to be. There’s bound to be a window I can climb through somewhere. Failing that, there’ll be emergency exits and fire escapes I can use. If I can retrace my steps through the dead streets of Norwich, I’ll be able to find somewhere to shelter and hide until it’s safe. Ankin’s march into Lowestoft is going to happen with or without me, so by this time tomorrow, this ruin of a city should be deserted again. If I stay off the roads and vary my route, I’ll be as hard to find as Ankin’s damn airplane.

I reach the top of the stairs and peer down over the ornately carved balustrade. I can hear voices below, but it’s hard to be sure exactly where they’re coming from. I take a few hesitant steps down, then stop to listen again. The voices are moving away and getting quieter. I think my way is clear. I start moving again, concentrating on trying to get to—

“Where the fuck d’you think you’re going?”

The wide staircase makes the voice sound directionless, and it’s impossible to see much in the gloom. I look around me and see nothing and no one, but then the thump of heavily booted feet thundering down the steps after me makes me look up. Shit, it’s Healey, Llewellyn’s driver. I try to make a run for it, but he’s faster than me and he anticipates my movements. He stretches out his long, muscular arm and grabs my backpack. I try to slip out of it, figuring I’ll be faster without it anyway, but he yanks me back before I can get my arms out of the straps and I fall backward, my head cracking against the marble steps.

“Llewellyn!” Healey shouts, his booming voice filling the whole building. “Get up here!”

He starts dragging me back up. His strength is immense, and he pulls me up the stairs like I’m a rag doll. I kick my legs and try to grab hold of the handrail, but everything’s happening too fast, and I can barely get back up onto my feet. Llewellyn pounds up the stairs toward me, emerging from the darkness like a wild animal charging, face full of fury and rage.

“Who was on guard?” he yells as he thunders past me, grabbing one of my bag straps and helping Healey haul me up.

“Swales,” Healey immediately answers, not about to take any of the flack.

We reach the top of the stairs, and I finally get my feet back down and stand up straight. Llewellyn lets go, but Healey keeps hold of me and throws me back toward my cell. Swales lumbers towards us, a panicked expression on his still half-asleep face.

“Sorry, Llewellyn,” he says, “I couldn’t help it. I didn’t mean to—”

Llewellyn doesn’t let him finish his sentence. He punches him in the mouth—a short, sharp, stinging jab—and then, when he hits the deck, starts repeatedly kicking him in the belly, sending him sliding farther back across the floor each time his boot makes contact.

“You useless fucker,” he screams at him as the pounding continues. “They’ll have our balls if he gets away.”

Healey pushes me back into the office again and slams the door shut. I try to open it, but he’s holding it from the other side. I can hear Llewellyn yelling orders, but his words are drowned out by the noise of someone dragging furniture across the landing to block me in. When the noise finally stops I can hear him again.

“Go get Ankin. He needs to talk to this freak and put the little bastard straight.”