To Retribution: When there's no going back Read online

  To Retribution

  F. J. Curlew

  Copyright © 2015 F J Curlew

  All rights reserved

  For Nicola

  Table of Contents

  Part I 6

  1 9

  2 15

  3 21

  4 24

  5 27

  6 32

  7 35

  8 39

  8 43

  9 50

  10 57

  11 64

  12 71

  13 75

  14 83

  15 89

  Part II 96

  16 97

  17 104

  18 110

  19 116

  20 122

  21 128

  22 135

  23 143

  24 151

  25 160

  26 166

  Part III 175

  27 176

  28 182

  29 190

  30 197

  Part IV 205

  31 206

  32 216

  33 224

  34 231

  35 238

  36 247

  37 256

  Part V 264

  38 265

  Part I

  'The menace once again appears

  and on the walls a rising rancor...'

  Neruda

  1

  Jake, as usual, sat on the barstool hunched over his laptop; faded jeans, a Hardcore Help Foundation hoodie, spiky mohican. The remnants of the pub could barely be seen through the glow of the three screens flicking shadows across the walls. Everything of value had been stripped months ago. Piping, panelling, brass fittings, pictures, even the old pool table had all been taken, most of them during the riots, after which the owners had given up and left. The windows and doors had been boarded up and Jake and his colleagues had covered them in blackout blinds, just to be sure. What had once been a friendly local had become their latest safe house.

  'I don't like the look of this at all,' Jake said, with a note of panic in his voice, his leg beating a nervous rhythm. 'We're down,' he added, his fingers clicking the staccato of his anxiety as they flitted across the keyboard. Checking, checking, checking.

  'Could it be just a glitch, a technical thing?' Suze asked, as she hurried across to him, stale alcohol and mould creeping out behind each footstep. She leant one arm on the wooden bar, the other on Jake's shoulder.

  'Uh uh,' he shook his head. 'The computer's fine, Internet’s up, but the site's vanished. It's gone. I mean completely. Just gone.' His face drained of colour as he frantically racked his brain for any possible, innocuous reasons. None sprang to mind.

  'We're still secure, right? I mean, even if they've managed to close us down they can't track us?' she asked as she watched him, concerned by the disappearance of his usual cool façade.

  Brian sat at a table with his laptop open watching the black screen flicker, as if staring at it could make the site spring back into life. He shook his head. 'Definitely been taken down.'

  'What do you reckon, Bri?' Jake asked. 'You're the expert here.'

  'We're on a proxy chain to hide the IP, so safe as possible but... dunno, it's dangerous...if they've managed to hack us. Shit, shit, shit.' He nervously played with the collection of silver earrings which curled around his ear.

  'Okay, so do we need to make another move then?' Suze asked. 'I mean, is it that time again?'

  'I reckon it is. Christ knows how much they've got,' Brian replied. 'I'm for getting out of here. And they,' he pointed skywards. 'They are sounding too close tonight.'

  Outside the air rang with the menacing clatter of helicopters; their searchlights sweeping the deserted streets. The curfew sirens shrieked above the clamour, warning all good citizens to remain indoors. Curtains were drawn; doors were locked and bolted; residents withdrew inside the flickering lives of approved media.

  Jake scanned the old bar which had been the nerve centre of their operation for the past few months. 'Shit,' he mumbled.

  This day was going to come. They knew that. And they'd prepared for it. They gathered everything of importance, making sure nothing was left behind which might leave a trail back to them. The place returned to its state of abandonment.

  The sound of heavily booted feet trying to be quiet drew closer. The click of weapons.

  'You hearing that?' Jake whispered.

  Suze nodded, throwing on her biker's jacket and shoulder bag. 'Out of here,' she mouthed.

  One of the reasons they had used the old pub was its delivery hatch which left a hidden rear exit – a top priority these days. Jake lifted the hatch in the floor and climbed down the small flight of wooden steps to the old beer cellar. He made his way carefully in the dark, across the cold stone floor, fumbling for the delivery hatch. Feeling the coolness of the metal he pulled the latch across, raising the hatch just enough to give him a clear view of the disused car park at the back of the bar.

  'Okay. It's all clear,' Jake whispered over his shoulder.

  They slunk silently out through the hatch and sidled, their backs to the wall, along the edge of the tarmac, where weeds and grass now defiantly forced themselves between the cracks; the charred skeleton of a burned out car its only occupant; a stark reminder of what had happened here not so long ago. Their behaviour was almost military as they crept along the alleyway at the back of the car park.

  Flowing beyond the alleyway was the canal, once a place where Jake and Brian would sneak off to, disobeying the warnings of well meaning grown-ups, in pursuit of mischievous play. Here they'd thrown stones at bottles and cans which casually bobbed their way along the water. Sometimes they'd raced things from one bridge to the next, twigs, leaves, lollipop sticks, anything which would float. The most difficult bit was getting past the weir, where now the eyeless head of a doll spun grotesquely, caught in the eddy at its foot.

  They kept to the shadows, the crumbling walls of a disused warehouse, the overhang of unruly trees; through the old canal bridge, slimy and dripping, foetid and claustrophobic. Half an hour later they had reached the back of the railway embankment, with its brick arches and assortment of workshops. They scrambled up the incline, which was littered with broken bottles, rusted cans and discarded needles. Suze caught a cry in the back of her throat as a sharp pain seared across her shin. Shit! She felt drops of warm blood begin to creep down her leg.

  Jake fumbled nervously with the keys, checking left and right up the dimly lit cobbled lane. He clicked open the padlock, then opened the door of his lock up. He'd been given this place by his dad, ostensibly as somewhere to work on his bikes but they both knew the real reason. A place of escape, a sanctuary away from the madness. He had converted it into something habitable. It served its purpose.

  'We should be okay here for a while,' Jake said, as he flicked the light switch on.

  'Brian! Where's Brian, Jake?' Suze asked, her voice fraught, uncharacteristically so. 'Christ. He was there at the bridge. I could hear him right behind me.'

  'Shit. I'd better go check. Hold tight and don't move. All right?'

  'All right. Be safe.'

  'Yeah. You know me,' he said, smiling with a reassurance he didn't feel.

  She wandered around the room, taking in its tall vaulted ceiling, bare brick walls and tiny windows set high in the wall. He had made an attempt to personalise it with some posters of classic motorbikes, a picture of an old town with tall spires caked in snow and, most interestingly to her, photographs, which she took to be of his family. Jake, aged about nine or ten with an older girl; a man and a woman sitting around a bonfire on a beach rimmed by pine trees with a pale, pale blue sky caught between
night and day in the background. It made her smile. There were a few more of the girl, at different ages, laughing, flowers in long braided hair, playing with a pet rabbit, sledging.

  She flicked through some magazines which were lying on a table made out of a couple of tyres covered with a piece of wood, bikes and computers, no big surprise. There was a letter poking out of an envelope, well fingered, tattered. She picked it up and turned it over in her hands. The handwriting was spidery and smudged. It was addressed to Jake. The temptation to read was strong but guilt quickly replaced it. She carefully put it back on the space it had left clear of dust. Her hands were trembling and she suddenly felt dizzy. She steadied herself on the back of the rickety old armchair and gratefully slumped into its seat.

  When Jake came back he was alone. He locked the door behind him and scratched his head. 'I couldn't see him anywhere.' He thought for a bit, running through possible scenarios. 'He knows this area so well though, I'm sure he'll be fine. Maybe he headed off to his folks' place?'

  'I hope so. And New Dawn?'

  'Didn't see any but I could hear them. D'you reckon they were out for us?' His brow was furrowed showing off the little scar that ran through his eyebrow up to his hairline.

  'Yes, yes I do. Too much of a coincidence otherwise, don't you think?'

  'Probably, yeah.' He took a double take at his friend and colleague. 'Shit, Suze, look at you! You're shaking like you've got the D T’s. You okay? Jeez.' He fetched a blanket from his rickety little camp bed and wrapped her up. She winced.

  'Are you hurt?' he asked.

  'It's just a scratch. I'll be fine,' she replied.

  'Let me look, okay?'

  He gently pulled her trouser leg up and raised his pierced eyebrow at her. 'That's more than a scratch, sweetheart. Nasty. I'm sure there's an old first aid kit here somewhere,' he said, as he rummaged around under the sink.

  He cleaned the gash as best he could and covered it with a creatively applied assortment of sticking plasters. 'That'll have to do for now but I reckon it needs stitching.'

  'Yeah, yeah. That's the least of our worries right now. Do you think someone grassed on us?' Suze asked, as she huddled in front of the two bar electric heater which sent out crackles and spits in protest, its warmth gradually beginning to seep through her. Though why she felt cold, she wasn't sure. It was a typically humid August night in London.

  'Can't imagine who. I mean, who else knew? That place has always been the three of us. Maybe they just hacked the system and somehow traced us. You know anything we can do they can do better, right?'

  'I guess so. What about here? Are we safe? I mean...'

  'No worries there. This place is off the radar. Anyway, best try and get some shut eye.'

  'Okay.'

  2

  She woke up to the smell of coffee. 'You're a star, Jake. Cheers,' she said, gratefully wrapping her hands around his favourite Banksy mug; "Keep your coins, I want change." it read. 'And in THE mug, I am honoured.' She remembered buying it with him at a stall in Camden, not long after they'd first met. He'd been really chuffed with it. They'd bumped into each other during registration for their journalism degrees at L.S.E., discovered they shared classes and causes and begun hanging out. They talked media control, politics, conspiracies, corruption.

  'And you are welcome,' he smiled, graciously, mock bowing. 'How are you feeling?'

  'Not bad, thanks. No sign of Brian then?'

  'Uh uh, nothing. But whatever, we need to decide what we're gonna do. Do we hang on here and hope that we're just being paranoid and it'll quieten down or hide out somewhere? Personally I'm for getting as far away from Lewisham as possible, laying low till we find out what's going on. What do you reckon?'

  'I guess so,' she said, with resignation in her voice. 'Where to though?'

  'Somewhere safe, out of the way, out of town maybe. Dunno.'

  'How about my parents place? It's in the middle of nowhere and they're, well, my parents.' She smiled across at him.

  'Are you sure? I mean, will they be okay with us just turning up?'

  'Yes. Of course. It's been far too long since I saw them anyway. They'll be fine with it. It's quite a trek though.'

  'How much of a trek?'

  'Cornwall.'

  'Cool! We could pretend we're off on holiday,' he said, laughing.

  'We could, if you happen to have a travel pass or two tucked away somewhere,' she replied, with an expression of feigned expectation.

  'Sadly not.'

  'Ah well. We'll just need to keep out of sight then.'

  In an attempt to tighten things up, increase security, the leaders had made all travel illegal without a pass. It made it easier for them to round up trouble makers, control possible dissidence, keep a tight grip on things. I.D. cards were compulsory, black marks given to lawbreakers, dissidents, anti government activists.

  He handed her a crash helmet.

  'By bike.' she said, enthusiastically. 'Cool. Just like old times.'

  He smiled at her. 'Yeah! I reckon it'll be safest too. We can go off road when we need to, to avoid check points and the likes. Should be okay.'

  Once the city was behind them they relaxed a bit. The countryside appeared strangely untouched by the 'disturbances,' as they were called by the powers that be. They kept heading west, riding past fields of cattle casually grazing, rows of hops standing, awaiting transformation into delirium, a stream gently gurgling its way to the consuming ocean. Evening began to close in bringing a chill to the air. Suze shivered and clung tightly on to Jake's back. He pulled over.

  'You need to stop, babe?' he asked. 'We could maybe camp over there for the night. The cover looks good,' he said, as he studied the small copse in the distance.

  'What is it with you these days, babe, sweetheart? For Christ's sake I hate it! Drop it will you?'

  'Shit, sorry,' he said, taken aback. Hurt spoke through his dark brown eyes. 'It's just, well, yeah, sorry. Suze.'

  'Uhu. I could do with a break though.'

  'I can see that. Best check that leg of yours.'

  'No. It's fine really! For Christ’s sake, I'm okay,' she snapped at him.

  He held his hands up in a gesture of surrender. 'Okay, okay.' Her mood concerned him. It wasn't like her and he guessed stress, pain; perhaps most worryingly an infection.

  They slept under the cover of the trees for a few hours then headed off again, skirting villages and towns, avoiding any signs of habitation, sticking to quiet back roads, cutting through woods, off roading as often as they could. Finally, the gentle hills gave way to a coast she recognised. Curlews shrieked in the distance, as if heralding her homecoming. She closed her eyes and threw her head back drawing in a deep breath of the salty sweet air.

  She found herself caught in a delicious reverie. She was a child again in the hidden, sandy coves where she danced to the rhythm of the waves crashing on the shore, twirling, laughing, through the magic of her imagination. The feel of her long wet curls gently flopped against her sun burned skin. She was standing on the tall grey cliffs where she balanced precariously, leaning forward, arms outstretched, fingers wiggling, imagining she was a bird in flight. Reluctantly, she snapped herself out of it.

  She took them down a dirt track, not wide enough for a car, which crept through the woods, so dense that it was completely enclosed. Branches twisted together over their heads like the grasping fingers of desperate lovers. Jealous threads of sunlight forced their way between them. She smiled, feeling that familiar relief of arriving at the sanctity of her parents' realm.

  'Home,' she said, her voice sounding drained and croaky. 'It smells of home.'

  They were soon met by the joyous yelping of the family's collies as they bounded towards the bike. Suze removed her helmet and carefully climbed off.

  'John, Yoko! Hi guys!' She bent down to stroke them. Their tails wagging furiously, tongues lolling. 'So good to see you!'

  Jake laughed, 'John and Yoko – really?'

  'Well
, yes. It's a family tradition. We've also had Ché and Fidel, Nye and Jennie. The closest I ever came to getting a slap from my mum was when I suggested Maggie and Denis for two of the kittens!'

  'Oh brilliant! I love it,' Jake said, laughing. He swung the heavy metal latch off the wooden gate post and they walked in to the cobbled yard. A clamour of clucking chickens ran around in a panic. Feathers and straw speckled the ground.

  On one side of the yard stood the main house. A traditional old Cornish farm house painted a brilliant white with grey slate tiles and tall chimneys. Swallows darted in and out from nooks and crannies under the eaves which supported the muddy balls of their nests. Around the courtyard stood a curious assortment of buildings and sheds. There was a working barnyard, where cats contentedly stretched and yawned; their bellies full of mice.

  Two quirky wooden hen houses, lovingly crafted by Suze's father, Geoffrey, stood close to the barn. One of the long, low, stone sheds, once housing cattle, had been converted into a self-contained apartment for a select few who came to escape the mayhem of city life and enjoy the tranquillity of a retreat. It had also been a place of safety, a temporary shelter for those in need. Stained glass stood in place of windows sending patterns of suns and moons, birds and flowers dancing over the whitewashed walls and stone floors.

  'Mum. Hi. God are you a sight for sore eyes!' She was such a constant in her battered dungarees, rainbow Doc Marten boots and hand knitted cardigan. Her outrageously red hair tied back with a rustic Celtic clip. Thankfully, Suze thought, some things never change.

  'Suzanna!' Katherine's green eyes twinkled with a combination of relief and delight, followed quickly by concern. 'My dear child you look absolutely terrible,' she said, as she took in the full effect of her bedraggled daughter's sickly pallor, her eyes settling on the bloodstained jeans. 'Whatever has happened to you?'

  'It's been a rough couple of days, Mum, but I'm fine, really.'

  'This is not what fine looks like to me!'

  'Mum, this is Jake. Jake this is my mum, Katherine.'