Ник Харкуэй - Tigerman

‘She is there,’ the boy said, tonelessly. He pointed at the shanty. ‘In the south side, at the edge. Sometimes she is there. Sometimes in the mountains. She comes and goes.’ He named a street.

The Sergeant nodded. ‘Is she there at the moment?’

‘She wasn’t,’ the boy said. ‘But now she may be.’

‘Won’t she stay away?’ The Sergeant pointed at the screen.

‘No,’ the boy said. ‘The fires are pretty.’

‘Will she… will she be all right?’ Amidst the burning town.

‘No. Yes.’ The boy shrugged. ‘Unknown unknown, right? But she will not be kept safe. She does what she does. They will come to her house or they will not. Burn it or not. She will be there, she will flee, she will stay. Kswah swah. ’

No , the Sergeant realised. Of course. He cannot compel her, in this or in anything. Anyone else he can bargain with, cajole and haggle. He can trade or finesse. But for her he has only himself, and he is a currency she does not recognise.

‘Like hell.’ The words slipped out of him, and he smiled to take the sting. ‘I’ve dealt with refugees before, who didn’t want to come. Done medical evacuation, too. Done it all. You can’t pick her up and pop her over your shoulder because that would be disrespectful and I understand that. But I bloody can, if that’s what it takes.’

He saw the boy’s eyes widen, as if this was an answer he had never considered, and perhaps it was. Then the Sergeant’s shoulder was once more being hugged, fiercely and breathlessly, and his sleeve was wet with tears. You do a lot of crying, don’t you? he thought, wonderingly. But then, I suppose I did, too, when I was little. And wondered why he no longer did. It wasn’t as if the world was notably improved. Although here, now, with the boy looking to him for support in something so important, and accepting his help, perhaps the situation was all right, after all.

The doorbell rang, long and loud, and then again and again, with anger or urgency. Not rioters , he thought. They do not ring the bloody bell. Someone who respected his house. Inoue, or Kershaw, or even Pechorin.

But it was none of them, and when he opened the door the world was once again upside down.

‘It’s the only place, Lester,’ Dirac said.

The Frenchman stood on the stoop, and beyond him was a small woman with two children, both of them wearing makeshift bandages. The woman was coughing: smoke inhalation, but not terrible. Behind her was a man with a gash down one cheek, and behind him there was a family, and behind them more and more in a straggling line which wound away into the dusk.

The wounded of Beauville were looking for help. And for shelter from the gang, the Sergeant realised. It was medieval. When all else is lost, you go to the keep. He had set himself up for this: he had played the role of British Imperial person, and they had seen him do it and had not needed him. But now they did, and so here they were, and he must open the door and let them in or turn them away into a night filled with likely horrors. He felt the colour drain out of his face.

Dirac shrugged. ‘You’ve got room.’

Which he had, and orders to keep a low profile – but now that they were here, sending them off again would be a story. A better, louder one than just taking them in. No doubt Dirac must be seeing double, leading a snake of fleeing families to the dubious safety of a house which might not want them. And just as surely, he must know that the Sergeant could see the image too, and could not in face of it default, even if he had wished to. But this is trouble, real trouble. I can feel it coming.

The Sergeant stepped aside, and waved them in. ‘All the way through to the west wing,’ he said. ‘Get them settled in and I’ll turn on the power. The water won’t be hot for a few hours. Do they have food?’

‘Some.’

‘Bloody hell. How many?’

‘I did not count.’

The Sergeant threw his hands in the air. Dirac laughed. ‘That was almost French.’

‘I’ll give you French. Good evening, ma’am,’ he added automatically to the corpulent matron passing his threshold. ‘All the way down to your right and perhaps you’ll take charge of the bathroom facilities and make sure decency is observed?’

She nodded stoutly, and carried on.

The boy gazed with wide eyes at the incomers, as if they were something he had never imagined and could not now entirely account for.

‘If they fill up the west wing, shove them in the east one, we’ll have to board up the windows but it’s sound,’ the Sergeant said. ‘We’re keeping this floor for a hospital and the upper rooms here for storage and so on. No one goes in my room or yours, at all, and no one in the comms room or the bloody armoury unless I say so,’ and please let me not have to go that road , ‘and keep a space for the lady we were discussing close to you.’

The boy nodded. ‘And the hot Barracuda,’ he added firmly.

Dirac choked a little. The Sergeant stifled the desire to argue or to shout at both of them, and ran to the comms room.

‘This is Ferris for Africa.’

‘Hold, please. Put your thumb on the plate.’

The Sergeant did so.

‘Once more, please.’

‘Sonny, I will put my thumb somewhere so appalling your grandchildren will walk like Gloucester Old Spots. Get Africa and tell her I said it’s a codeword BOHICA.’

There was a suffused silence, and then Africa came on. ‘It’s me. He’s Googling that now, I can tell from the absolutely scandalised expression on his face. Why BOHICA?’

‘I have civilian refugees, locals.’

‘How many?’

‘Lots. A couple of hundred, maybe. Maybe more.’

There was a pause. ‘Fuck,’ Africa said meditatively.

‘Yes, ma’am.’

‘And you’re letting them in because you have with your usual intelligence spotted the fact that keeping them out would be a front page we can all live without.’

‘Yes, ma’am.’

‘Good boy.’

‘Thank you, ma’am.’

‘How did they come to this solution to their problems, Sergeant? Have you been thumbing the scales over there? Flying the flag?’

‘A member of an allied force took it into his head to bring them here. He feels it’s the safest place within reach of the town.’

‘An allied force? Not NatProMan, surely?’

‘France, ma’am.’

She snorted. ‘I should have known. All right, then. Continue to use your initiative, very discreetly. Take necessary steps. And yes, I will fall on you from a great height if you bollocks it up, so don’t. Familiar?’

‘Story of my life, ma’am.’

‘You and me both.’

Kathy Hasp arrived a few moments later on a Triumph motorcycle which must have been more than sixty years old. She rolled the bike directly into the shack which served Brighton House as a garage, tacitly claiming its security in the face of the desperate line of men and women queued up outside the door. There was a rifle carrier by the front tyre and Hasp had adapted this to hold a small digital video camera, which she slapped onto her shoulder as she walked over to the door. Her face was devoid of the overly demonstrative expression she wore for the network. She looked tired and grey.

‘Hey, Lester,’ she said, by way of greeting.

‘Ms Hasp,’ he replied.

‘Seems you got yourself a relief effort here.’

‘Seems so.’

‘I thought Her Majesty was sitting this one out.’

‘Her Majesty is. But I’ve got space and a roof and no orders to the contrary, so I can put up a few friends in their time of need, can’t I?’

‘Old-fashioned hospitality, then.’

The red light on the camera was alight. He’d known it would be, then forgotten. Now he glanced at it for an instant, then away. ‘If you like.’