Down: Trilogy Box Set (67 page)

The lead MI5 officer in the tactical squad was in radio contact with Ben Wellington.

“Ask them who they are,” Ben instructed.

“State your names,” the officer said.

Back in the control room in Dartford, the cabinet room in Downing Street, and the situation room at the White House, the assembly saw and heard the responses from two men with London accents: Jason Rix and Colin Murphy.

“Do they have a peculiar odor?” Ben asked.

“They smell bloody awful,” was the reply. “Putrid, really.”

“Ask them when they died?”

“Say again? Did you say, ask them when they died?”

“Affirmative. Just ask them, please.”

“When did you two die?” the officer asked hesitantly.

Rix seemed to understand that someone off-premises was watching and directing the questions. He looked around the room and spotted a lens affixed to the wall.

“Is that a camera?” he asked.

“Tell him he’s correct,” Ben instructed.

“Yes, it’s a camera.”

Rix looked into the lens and smiled. “The both of us, me and Murphy shuffled off the mortal coil in 1984.”

Murphy got into the action, addressing the wall. “Be an angel and let me finish my beer.”

“Where are we?” Rix asked.

The officer received permission to respond and told them they were in South Ockendon.

“Do you have our women?” Rix asked. “Christine and Molly.”

They were asked for their full names.

“Christine Rix and Molly Murphy,” Rix said. “They’re our wives.”

Chatter broke out in the control room.

Ben asked everyone to be quiet and directed the reply. Rix and Murphy were told the women were at large and that they would be brought in for questioning immediately.

“That’s all right,” Rix said to the camera. “We know the drill. We were coppers in our day.”

The VIPs departed Dartford for London in government cars and Ben began to prepare for Rix and Murphy’s interrogation. A room had already been prepped for the purpose. He had the recording devices checked, the medical team alerted to perform a preliminary assessment on the prisoners’ arrival, and the canteen ready to feed them. He was about to ring his wife to let her know he was unlikely to be home for dinner when his mobile went off. It was an MI5 number at Thames House. One of the junior intelligence officers assigned to monitor radio traffic from the Metropolitan police and surrounding constabularies introduced herself and apologized in advance for the call.

“No need,” Ben said. “I left clear instructions to be alerted if we picked up anything out of the ordinary.”

“I believe this satisfies the criteria,” she said stiffly, as if star struck by how many organizational rungs she had vaulted to be talking directly to Ben. “Police in Buckinghamshire have been called out to the Iver North Water Treatment Works to respond to an unauthorized entry into the facility.”

As she talked, Ben put her on speaker to punch up a map on his phone.

“Go on,” he said.

“The police are en route but emergency services have the caller on line and I’m continuing to monitor.”

“What details have been provided?” Ben asked.

“Two intruders, both male, described as wandering about inside one of the facilities. The caller said they seemed to be, and I quote, ‘in a daze.’”

“I see, anything else?”

“He approached to ask who they were and withdrew to call 999 when he became alarmed at their smell.”

“Did you say, smell?”

“Yes, sir, their odor. He said it was repulsive.”

Ben stared at the map. Iver, Buckinghamshire was west of London, about forty miles as the crow flies from Dartford. The water works was adjacent to the M25.

The MAAC tunnels ran directly underneath.

“Listen closely,” Ben said, taking the phone off speaker, “and do exactly what I say. This is a matter of national security and I’m depending on you to get this absolutely right.”

It was all too familiar.

The sad little village of Dartford was just as John and Emily had left it a week earlier—smelly, drab, and shabby. They stood in the middle of the road on the same spot they had straddled for their journey home. On taking their first steps they felt the mud tugging at their boots once again. The small cottages were shuttered, the road deserted.

Trevor and Brian turned in tight circles in silence.

“Are we in the right place, guv?” Trevor finally asked.

“As advertised,” John said, slipping off his backpack. It was still heavy, a good sign. He checked its contents. Everything was there. The books had made it through.

Brian snapped out of his trance and dashed off, fighting the mud until he had his hands on the wooden club propped against one of the cottages. It was crudely fashioned from the bough of a tree. He rejoined the others, brandishing it with both hands.

“Good man,” John said.

“That’s why you’re paying me the big money,” Brian said. “It’ll do until we find something with a sharp edge.”

“I can’t believe we’re really back,” Emily said.

“We knew what we were signing up for,” John said. “In four weeks we’ll be back on this spot heading home. With the others.”

She gave a one-word reply. “Hopefully.”

“Definitely.”

She smiled at that. “Your American attitude comes in handy at times like this.”

John motioned for everyone to follow him as he made his way across the road to Dirk’s cottage. He didn’t bother to knock. The structure was poorly built with gaps around the doorframe so he called out without shouting.

“Dirk, are you in there? Believe it or not, it’s John Camp.”

It was only a few strides from one end of the cottage to the next so John wasn’t surprised that the door flung open immediately.

Dirk stared at him, his pupils constricting in the morning light. Duck peered over his shoulder.

It was Duck who spoke first. “I told you they’d come for ’em,” he said. “I told you so!”

“How about letting us in?” John asked.

“’Course you can,” Dirk said, standing aside to let them pass. “I reckon you missed us something awful.”

“Yeah, like a bad hangover.”

Emily had been hoping beyond hope that Arabel and the children would be there. When she saw they weren’t, she deflated like a bad soufflé. Trevor was equally disappointed.

Dirk looked at Trevor and Brian with suspicion but carried on with John. “You’re looking brighter than last we saw you.”

“I’m doing much better, thanks. Miracle of modern medicine.”

“Who are your mates, then?”

“This is Trevor and this is Brian. They’ve come to help us.”

“You’ll need plenty of that,” Duck said urgently.

“Were they here?” Emily asked. “My sister, the children?”

“They wuz,” Duck said. “And Delia as well. But they was taken. I swear, there weren’t nothing me or my brother could do to stop it from ’appening.”

“Do you know where they are?” she demanded.

“We do,” Dirk said. “And we’ll ’elp you good and proper. You’re a man of your word, John Camp. You said you’d get my brother back and you did. Sit down, ’ave some of my ale and we’ll tell you what we know.”

The morning dragged on. All six of them were bearing the emotional scars of their seven days of captivity. Rix and Murphy hadn’t been holding them captive but they had confined themselves to the cramped quarters because they feared showing themselves outdoors. Even the act of using the privy involved cracking the rear door to see if anyone was in the fields then dashing there and back. Tony had declared it worse than prison because at least there you’d know your sentence and understand your circumstances. But to Martin it was wholly analogous to prisoners being sent to Australia in the nineteenth century. When those poor wretches had arrived on the vast penal colony, they too had been strangers in a strange land and their hope of returning home was no more than a small, fading flame.

By late afternoon, they began to get nervous.

“Why haven’t they returned?” Eddie asked.

“We’re eating them out of house and home,” Martin said. “They probably went hunting after looking for their wives.”

“Maybe they were sucked back to Earth,” Charlie said.

His brother snorted at him but Charlie asked him why he was being so dismissive.

“Yeah, sorry to doubt you,” Eddie answered sarcastically. “I expect they found the magic wardrobe and pissed off to Narnia.”

“I don’t like it,” Tony said. “This is the longest they’ve ever left us. What are we supposed to do if they don’t return?”

Tracy began to blubber and Alice scolded Tony for setting her off but he was tired of walking on eggshells around the fragile woman.

“You’re right,” he fumed, “I should have said, what are we supposed to do even if they do return. We’re buggered either way.”

Amidst a backdrop of Tracy’s sobs, the group argued amongst themselves for a time until Martin raised a hand and shushed them.

“Listen,” he said.

At first it was more like an irregular vibration of the coarse floorboards but it morphed into a low rumble and then the unmistakable sound of galloping horses heading their way. Martin slightly opened the shutter on the road-facing window and saw men waving and pointing at their cottage.

He swore and glanced at the crude weapons Rix and Murphy had left behind.

“We’re going to be taken,” he muttered.

“Should we fight?” Eddie asked.

“We should not,” Martin said. “I know what we were told but if we do we’ll be hurt or worse.”

“What will happen to us if we don’t fight?” Alice said, going for the iron bar. “That’s what I’m worried about.”

Through her tears Tracy managed to say, “I don’t want to go. Don’t let them take me.”

“Alice, put that bar down,” Martin said. “You’ll only get all of us killed.”

“Where are they? Are they coming?” Tony asked desperately.

The raiding party came into Martin’s view, ten or more riders, soldiers with slung rifles and belted swords which slapped against their horses’ flanks.

The captain of the guard dismounted and began talking to the scrawny man with whom Murphy had exchanged words earlier.

Seconds later a voice loudly called out, “You lot in there. Come out with your hands held high or we shall come in and drag you out by your hair.”

Martin and Tony looked at each other in sorrow and desperation but Eddie had another plan. He opened the rear door and bolted through it. Charlie needed no encouragement and followed along. The two of them sprinted past the outhouse into the surrounding field.

A soldier who had been sent to watch the rear of the house shouted that there were two men fleeing. He made off after them on horseback and was quickly joined by other riders.

At the same time, the captain of the guard ordered an assault on the house and men burst through front and rear doors with swords drawn.

Martin raised his hands into the air, shouted over Tracy’s shrieks that they were surrendering, and begged them not to hurt anyone. Alice let the iron bar fall from her hands.

The captain, a young man with a mane of flowing hair, stepped into their midst and told Tracy to stop screaming as she was hurting his ears. He examined the four of them and smiled ear-to-ear. “It’s true! They are decidedly different,” he called through the door. “It’s perfectly safe, Fletcher. You may enter without fear.”

Fletcher, a greasy and waddling man with a pudgy, moon face and rubbery lips peered in. Once inside he inhaled the ambient air through his nostrils and declared his amazement.

“By Jupiter, it’s true! They are far and away not the usual sorts. No they are not! Methinks the rumors swirling about have credence. These people are not dead, are they, captain?”

“I do not know what they are, Mr. Fletcher.”

“Well, are you dead?” Fletcher asked.

Martin answered. “I’m a physician and I can assure you that we are very much alive.”

“A physician!” Fletcher gushed. “And alive too. How extremely valuable. How did you come here if you are not dead?”

“I’ve no idea how it happened,” Martin said. “One moment we were in our houses, the next moment we were here.”

“It seems you are not the only ones,” Fletcher said, moving amongst them, surveying his new property.

“There are others?” Tony asked.

“And what is your profession?” Fletcher asked him.

“I’m an architect.”

“Really? A builder of edifices?”

“I design them. The men who escaped are builders.”

There were shouts from the rear field. It sounded like the brothers might no longer be escapees.

“An architect. I see. Another valuable profession methinks. To your question, yes, we have heard tales that a colleague of mine, Solomon Wisdom, by way of Greenwich, recently brokered the sale of living arrivals and profited splendidly from the transaction. I did not believe these tales but now it seems they were so. And now, by Jupiter, I am to be richly rewarded myself.”

“Also me,” the captain said.

“Yes, captain,” Fletcher said. “You will receive your usual percentage. We shall all prosper. A physician, an architect, a young, attractive wench and, well, another wench.”

“Fuck you,” Alice said.

“A wench with a mouth on her,” Fletcher laughed. “Worth an extra few crowns for being feisty.”

The captain had completed his inspection of the premises. “Where are the men who own this dwelling?”

“We don’t know,” Martin said. “They left us this morning and haven’t returned.”

“They will be severely punished for failing to report your arrival,” the captain said. “Sweepers are not to be trifled with.”

The rear door opened and the brothers were thrown in, their hands bound with rope. The soldiers manhandling them declared that something was different about the prisoners then realized there were four other different sorts already there. The captain told them to mind their own business and sent them outside to keep order among the villagers gathering in the road.

“Why did you run?” the captain asked the brothers.

“I don’t know. Why do you smell like shit?” Eddie asked him back, his eyes blazing with hatred.