Hurst by Robin Crumby (the reading list book TXT) 📖

glass, he cupped his hands to the ground-floor window, shielding the reflection and peered in. One of the other men joined him outside the house and with a silent nod from his partner he raised his rifle butt and smashed in the window.

Glass showered down onto Will and Bob. They didn’t have time to get away, falling backwards, hands protecting their faces from the glass and glare of the outside light. A rifle was now pointed at their heads by the silhouetted figure.

“Keep your hands up where I can see them. Stand up. Slowly, slowly.”

Bob and Will did exactly as they were told.

“Who are you? And what are you doing here?” demanded the man with the rifle.

He moved further towards them, no longer haloed by the bright sunlight, so Will could get a proper look at him without squinting. He looked paramilitary, wearing the same improvised uniform as the others they had observed, probably stolen en masse from a department store or outfitters. He was heavily bearded with steely eyes set slightly too close together. Will determined to appeal to his better nature.

“We’re just looking for food, that’s all.” Will kept his hands behind his head, trying to remain calm and not provoke the man, feeling the blade of the knife pressed against his thigh in its leather scabbard. He wondered whether Bob could distract him while he made a lunge for his throat.

“Where’s the rest of your group?” said the man towering over Will, pointing the rifle from one to the other. He was on edge. Try to keep him calm, thought Will, keep him talking.

“There’s just the two of us,” Will lied. “This is Bob and I’m Will.”

The man looked past them into the room, unconvinced. He waved to the other men to take a look inside. Just then, the radio in Bob’s pocket crackled with static.

“Give me that,” scowled the man with the rifle.

He was local, Will was sure of that. He looked half-familiar. Bob reluctantly passed him the radio. He turned it over in his free hand, stepping aside as he was joined by his leader, the man from the Overfinch, shaking his head at Bob and Will. The black Barbour jacket he wore looked brand new, with a crisp black shirt and tie, cargo trousers and polished shoes. He looked a little like a bailiff to Will, with the same air of menace and efficiency about him.

“Just the two of you, eh? So who’s that on the radio then?”

His voice was distinctive, educated. He was never very good with regional accents. Somewhere up north? Manchester was his best guess. Bob stared back, trying to think of a convincing response. “It’s not our radio. We just found it.”

The man in black stared back at him, his head tilted to one side. “Don’t try my patience.” He raised the radio to his mouth and pressed the button to talk. “This is a message for the friends of Bob and Will. If you want to see them again alive, come out now and show your faces. You will not be harmed.”

There was nothing but static.

“Last chance. I’ll count to five and then one of them dies.” He counted slowly, staring blankly at the pair of them. Will glowered back defiantly as the count reached its conclusion.

The man raised his gun and pointed directly at Bob’s head. “Time’s up. Come out, come out, wherever you are, this is your last chance before one of them dies. Eenie, meenie, miney, mo…”

Will interrupted him. “Look, we’re just looking for food. Please, check the rucksacks, take what you want, just let us go.”

The man with the rifle rummaged through their packs and confirmed their contents.

“How many of you are there? Where’s your base? Tell me, now,” the man in black shouted, frustrated with their refusal to cooperate. He looked like the sort of person who was used to getting his own way.

Bob shifted uncomfortably. He seemed on the verge of caving in. With a fierce stare, Will cautioned him to keep quiet. The exchange of glances was not lost on the man in black. He pointed to Bob and slid his finger across his throat.

Chapter Eight

The single shot was muffled but unmistakeable from across the street. Zed paced the room, staying hidden from sight. He threw his head back in frustration, before getting a grip on his emotions.

“We can’t risk going over there,” he whispered, peering through the shaft of light between the curtains. “There are too many of them.”

“We can’t just sit here and do nothing,” challenged Mila angrily, encouraging Sean to support her. They were both terrified. They were just kids after all.

“Both of you, listen to me. We’re not going to do anything. Think about it. We’re outnumbered and outgunned. Best-case scenario? They’re bluffing and trying to lure us out. Worst-case, we come out guns blazing and take a few of them with us, then we all get captured or we all die. It’s lose-lose. This way, we manage our losses and live to fight another day. So all three of us are going to sit tight and wait this out. Got it?”

Mila scowled at him. She didn’t like it, but she didn’t have a better plan. She knew he was right. Maybe, just maybe, it had been a warning shot designed to draw them out of their hiding places. Zed was sure they would take the others back to their camp alive.

Across the street, the door opened and Will was marched out towards the people carrier, his hands tied behind his back. There was no sign of Riley. The men loaded up their gear again together with the two rucksacks, taking a final look around before climbing back into the vehicles, and the convoy pulled slowly away.

Zed waited five minutes to make sure no one had stayed behind and then stole across the street. Inside, he met Riley coming down the stairs.

“Where’s Bob?” she said, concern manifest in her body language, both of them fearing the worst.

On the living room floor, Bob’s body lay prone. There was a perfectly round dark hole in the middle of his forehead. A circle of blood spread slowly outwards on the carpet. Zed scratched his fingernails across his face, put his head in his hands and let out a primeval cry. Riley came up behind him and put a hand on his shoulder.

“There was nothing we could do,” she conceded.

“What about Will? Where’s Will?” said Mila anxiously, the colour draining from her face.

“They took him,” said Zed, coming to his senses. He leaned out of the smashed window, looking back down the street after the convoy. “But I’ve a good idea where they’re going.”

Chapter Nine

Jack grabbed the last of the sacks, heavier than the previous dozen. With Sam’s help, they cradled the load between them, walking sideways, cheeks puffed out, towards the pontoon and the Nipper. Its engines were throbbing rhythmically, ready to leave, water spurting from the engine outlet every few seconds. They stowed the last sack with the others, brim-full of potatoes and carrots, neatly tucked in rows, made fast with a frayed rope under the bulwark at the stern. They hauled a large blue tarpaulin tight to keep their cargo dry and stop it from sliding with each roll of the waves, not to mention the wind and weather on this morning’s voyage.

Jack looked up at the grey skies, his eyebrows furrowed at the sight of dark clouds threatening in the south-east, bringing squalls and rain. Nothing to get excited about, mind you but he was experienced enough as a skipper to never underestimate a storm and its ability to create havoc even in the sheltered waters of the Solent.

The Nipper cast off and angled away from the jetty, heading out under full engine into the deeper waters of the shipping channel. They made towards their first port of call just a few miles away east towards Cowes. Looking south towards the Isle of Wight, they passed Fort Albert, converted into luxury apartments several decades ago but unsuitable to host a group of any reasonable size. Despite its Napoleonic grandeur and imposing position, facing Hurst on the opposite side of the western entrance to the Solent, it looked deserted.

Passing Yarmouth, Sam pointed to the harbour entrance where The George hotel had once stood, next to the ferry port. Little now remained. It was a burned-out wreck. Its ancient timbers lay blackened and broken where it had collapsed in a fire. Jack shook his head, remembering the many nights out he had enjoyed in Yarmouth pubs with friends and acquaintances.

In the distance loomed the enormous hulk of the Maersk Charlotte, its decks stacked seven or eight stories high with containers of all different colours. Jack thought from a distance it looked like a giant Lego ship, but as they got closer its true scale was breathtaking. Nearly one thousand feet of Sovereign class shipping vessel. Its hull was painted a pale blue, with a rectory-red waterline just visible, fully laden as she was. On board, its modest crew of fifteen had been swollen by dozens of others taking refuge. Without unloading the containers on shore, their cargo was mostly useless or inaccessible. However, many of those opened onboard yielded unusual and unexpected treasures. Four hundred thousand litres of bottled water, three thousand kilos of white rice, a dozen Yamaha pianos, four Kawasaki motorbikes, cut timber, plastic sheeting and tents. Humanitarian aid no doubt heading for Somalia, Ethiopia or Sierra Leone. The list of containerised goods went on and on. A veritable treasure trove, a modern-day Aladdin’s cave. The ship had set up shop as a floating trading post, open for business day and night, ready to trade with whoever and whatever came their way.

The Charlotte’s captain, Anders Bjørklund, was an amiable Norwegian. Like Jack, he had served in his country’s navy for many years before retiring and taking command of a container ship. He had travelled the world and had the T-shirts to prove it, literally. He had more tall tales of nautical adventures, of wives and beautiful ladies, to entertain the small company who gathered to drink Ukrainian vodka and eat meatballs in their comfortable ship’s canteen. Somali pirates had boarded no less than three times, or so he said.

Rounding the stern and entering the wind shadow created by the ship’s enormous hull, Jack shifted the throttle into neutral. Using the tide to take way off and come slowly alongside, he waited patiently for the stairway to be lowered.

The Charlotte, like so many of her sister ships, had been heavily fortified to counter the threat of pirates in the Gulf of Aden on its route through the Suez Canal past Somalia. Its walkways were caged, with gates compartmentalising access to parts of the ship. Fire hoses were mounted on the guardrail to ward off any skiffs or high-speed launches that got too close. These defences had provided welcome protection against unwanted visitors in the Solent. Her hull was roughly painted with warning messages to deter the curious and inquisitive. The most prominent of them read “Boarders will be shot: do not approach within 50 metres”.

One of the crew appeared at the rail and waved to them, cigarette hanging from his lips. He grabbed the bowline from Sam and fended off the fishing boat as it came alongside. Once they were secure fore and aft, Jack and Sam climbed the stairs and came aboard the Charlotte.

Chapter Ten

After a cursory pat-down and bag search for concealed weapons, the Filipino deckhand led them in silence along the Maersk Charlotte’s walkway through a series of locked gates and stairways up towards the bridge and the main entrance to the crew quarters. Sam looked nervous as the gate was padlocked again behind them, locking them in, but Jack’s silent nod reassured him. The deckhand heaved open a large watertight door and they stepped over the raised edge.

Inside, the air was warm and stale. It stank of unwashed bodies, mildew and boiled