Nailed by the Heart (36 page)

His
face was stony.

Ruth
handed him a mugful of black coffee. "We're low on food. But I
put aside the biscuits you're owed. In the plastic box behind you."

Stiffly
he turned, nearly filling the kitchen area of the caravan. David
watched from the sofa, his eyes wide.

Mark
pulled out a handful of biscuits.

Then
he held them out to David. His face broke into such a broad grin it
felt as if a light had shone into the caravan.

"Here
you are, son. When I was your age I always hated going to bed on an
empty stomach. And yes, as far as I know the rope swing is still
there hanging from that tree. Waiting for you to play on it again."

David
delightedly took the biscuits. "Thanks, Mark."

"Pleasure."
Mark, taking his coffee, stepped out into the courtyard where he
stretched his stiffened arms into the air.

Chris
followed.

"It's
time to do something," Mark said. "I reckon there isn't
much time left."

"We've
done what we can. Tony says we can do nothing but wait."

"Tony
Gateman is full of shit." Mark grinned. "There is something
we can do. Hey, Gateman, can we have the pleasure of your ugly face,
please?"

The
little Londoner walked cautiously across the courtyard, maybe
wondering if his friend's sanity hadn't leaked away under that old
blanket. Mark looked almost cheerful. Like a man who knew there was
work to be done and was itching to do it.

Ruth
joined them as they stood there in the growing gloom.

Tony
asked, "What now?"

Mark
took a deep swallow of the scalding coffee. He relished the rush of
burning liquid down his throat. "I've decided I'm going for
help."

"In
God's name how?"

Mark
nodded at the Hodgson boys' motorbikes leaning against the seafort
wall. "I'm riding out."

"That's
suicide, Mark. You know that."

"It's
suicide to stay here, old pal."

Chris
shook his head. "But you saw what happened to Wainwright. Even
for someone on a motorbike those things move bloody fast."

"And
you'd never get past the ones outside the main gate. There are always
four of the monsters blocking the causeway now."

"If
you ask me," said Tony, "this is what they're expecting
now-us to panic, and make a run for it, right into their arms."

Mark
wouldn't be discouraged. "No problem. We blast the causeway
clear with shotguns. We did it before and we put the bastards out of
action for six hours. All I need is six minutes. I'll be long gone."

"A
problem." Tony held up a finger. "They are learning. They
stand about twenty yards from the gates which puts them beyond
effective range now."

"And
if you do get past them," said Ruth quickly, "there are
more up the beach. They've put a barrier across the road. I know they
must have opened it up to let Wainwright drive through, but no one
can guarantee the road has been left clear."

Mark
swallowed another mouthful of burning coffee. "With the Saf Dar
on the beach, I'll have to take the chance that the bike can shift
faster than them. I used to be pretty good on cross-country trials
bikes. If the barrier of stones is still there I can lug the bike
over even if I can't ride it over. Or maybe cut up through the dunes.
Then if I get a clear run I can be in Munby within twenty minutes. A
couple of hours after that the choppers will be lifting you off the
roof."

The
man's enthusiasm was infectious. A straw for a drowning man to catch.
Chris felt his spirits rising.

But
Tony poured on the cold water. "But how are you going to shift
the Saf Dar from the causeway? You can't simply ride at them and hope
you'll get through. They'd yank you off that motorbike as easily as
if you were a child on a tricycle."

Mark
smiled. "I haven't a clue. But I know someone who's got the
answer."

Tony
stared back at him through his thick-lensed glasses. "Who?"

"My
old friend Tony Gateman. That's who."

Tony
blinked.

"Chris,
Ruth, can I prevail upon you to get Mr Gateman a coffee? He's got
some thinking to do. If this cunning old fox can't come up with a
solution, no one on earth can."

Tony
shook his head. "You've over-estimated me this time, old son."

Mark
smiled. "We'll see about that."

Chris
sat with his arm around Ruth on the caravan sofa. It was 8 p.m. Dark
outside.

She
rested her head against his cheek. "I'll check David in a
minute."

"Oh
... No rush. He's all right. He'll be fast asleep by now." He
smiled. "You'd think Mark Faust had given him the world when he
gave him those biscuits. You know, I'm sure David knows more than
what we've told him."

"He's
an intelligent boy. You can't hide the truth forever."

"But
what effect is it going to have on him psychologically?"

Ruth
kissed the back of his hand. "Don't worry. He's safe in here.
We're still able to give him attention. It's not as though he's been
separated from us. That'd be traumatic for a six-year-old. At most
all he's experiencing is inconvenience. No sweets. No videos."

Tony
tapped lightly on the caravan door. "Sorry to bother you, folks.
But I thought you ought to know something."

He
pushed his glasses up the bridge of his nose. "And that is I've
completely lost my ruddy sanity."

"You've
come up with an idea?"

"Yes.
I've come up with an idea. But it is utterly insane. Come on, I'll
explain."

Chris
and Ruth followed. Tony, carrying a camping-gas light that hissed
loudly, walked across to where Mark waited at the far side of the
courtyard. One of the Hodgson boys was standing with his prized
motorbike, its fuel tank brush-painted banana-yellow. Mark inspected
the engine closely, his big fingers caressing cables and wires as he
looked, his face fixed in concentration.

"Right,
Mark." Tony sounded brisk. "I've told these good people I'm
mad. And I've come up with a mad plan."

"Don't
believe that shit. The little guy is a genius. Right, Tony. Spill the
beans."

"Well.
... this is it. Mark's going for help. We have been kindly allowed
use of the motorcycle. The bike is fast and the tank is more than
half full. More than adequate for Mark's requirements. The immediate
problem is that lately the Saf Dar have, when the tide is out, posted
a guard across the causeway. This is beyond the reach of the
shotguns. So. ..." Tony gently kicked one of the ancient cannon
lying against the wall. "We clean two of these babies up and use
them to blast the Saf Dar off the causeway. 'Course, it won't kill
them. But it'll give Mark time to ride out across the causeway and
onto the road."

"You
are joking." Chris's hopes sagged. "Tony, those things have
been used as fence-posts for the last hundred years. Look at the
rust. You could no more fire those things than you could sit on them
and fly rings around the bloody moon."

Ruth
shot him a look. "Listen to what he has to say, Chris."

"Thanks,
Ruth ... I know they're old. But I'm gambling on the fact that
they've not rotted through. Look, Chris, desperate times call for
desperate measures. And this isn't pie in the sky. I've thought it
through. In theory it should work."

"All
right. But these cannon are two hundred years old. What do we use for
ammunition? How do you fire them?"

"Basically,
all cannon are metal cylinders open at one end. Down through the open
end you stuff explosive, then you pack wadding, cotton wool or
shredded rags; after that you put in your shot, a cannonball, or any
chunks of metal-nuts, bolts, nails. Pack in more wadding. Then you
point the cannon at your target and light the fuse at the breech.
That could be a piece of string soaked in petrol or rubbed with gun
powder."

Mark
rubbed his oily hands on the seat of his trousers. "We've got
everything we need. Tony suggests the two long cannon. You've got
piles of old bolts in the seafort. They'd make good shot."

"For
the explosive we'd use shotgun shells. We'd have to cut open maybe
forty or so for the explosive charge." Tony smiled grimly.
"Don't forget. ..." He prodded one of the cannon with his
toe. "These were formidable brutes in their day. Loaded with
grapeshot they could turn men into piles of mincemeat at fifty
paces."

"But
how are we going to lug these things up onto the walls?"

"We're
not. We'll aim them at the gates. When we're ready, we swing the
gates back. Fire the cannon through the gateway. They'll blast away
anything on the causeway-including the Saf Dar. When that happens
Mark rides across the causeway and disappears in the direction of
Munby like greased lightning."

"We
open the gates?" Chris chewed his lip. "It'll take
split-second timing."

"It
will. We'll have to get everything right first time. Gates swinging
open together, cannon firing first time, Mark riding away like the
clappers, then getting the gates shut before those red monsters
either come back to their senses or whistle up reinforcements."

"When
do you propose to do it?"

"Tomorrow.
Tide will be low enough by 8 a.m."

Chris
rubbed his jaw and thought of Ruth and David. This was their chance
to make it out of here. "Let's do it. What do you want me to
do?"

Tony
pushed up his sleeves. "You, Mark and I will clean the cannon.
Ruth, we need you to cut up shotgun shells. Carefully. Get Mrs
Hodgson to help. We'll need plenty of explosive." He smiled. "I
want to make sure that when we fire these things someone hears the
bang in paradise."

The
early stages were easy enough. By lamplight they rolled the cannon
across the courtyard. With help from the Hodgsons they upended the
cannon, muzzle down. A dried plug of earth dropped out onto the
cobbles like a massive crumbling dog turd. Then Tony, using a mop and
sea water, carefully cleaned the inside of the barrel.

"Shit,"
he panted over one of the long cannon. "This one's fucked."

"How?"
Mark leaned forward, his eyes burning intensely.

"The
barrel's split. If we fired the thing it would kill anyone standing
within ten feet of it. The barrel would explode like a bomb. We'll
use the other."

The
third cannon was a short, squat thing with a massive bore that would
have taken a cannonball the size of a football.

"Chris,
nip over and tell Ruth to cut the charges out of another thirty
shotgun shells." Tony rubbed his jaw. "I'd hate to be stood
at the wrong side of this when it goes off."

Hardly
speaking, they worked for another two hours, carefully cleaning the
barrels of the cannon, then rolling the things, crunching heavily
across the cobbles toward the gates. There they were heaved onto
stacks of timber and aimed at where the opening would be when the
gates were swung back. Then Tony and Chris spent a further hour
sorting through piles of rusting bolts the size of a man's thumb.
Fired from the mouth of a cannon at three hundred miles an hour, the
shrapnel effect of these would be devastating.

As
Chris worked he couldn't help but recall the villagers' pathetic
attempt to barricade the pea-green village hall. Then, as an
outsider, he had been able to recognize immediately that this was
just a device to take people's minds off what was happening.

Now
he was an insider. He was working on what might turn out to be a
crackpot scheme. Maybe it was just Tony's way of taking their minds
off what would happen in the next few hours.

Tony
believed that the old god that once every few centuries stalked this
gritty divide between dry land and ocean, demanding a blood
sacrifice, was about to show.

He
scooped handfuls of bolts into a plastic bowl.

The
old pagan god. Ha, ha, that's a good one, Tony.

That's
what Chris would force himself to say. But deep down he believed it
was true.