Paul Kane - Broken Arrow

"This isn't finished," Bohuslav told him.

"I know."

Then Bohuslav lowered the blades, exiting stage right, moving soundlessly — which confirmed to Tanek that he'd made the noise up front purely as a distraction.

Tanek sat back down and let out a long sigh. He looked up again at the machines of war, at the hull around him. He was in the belly of a much greater beast than this one when it came right down to it. So much had happened to him since the castle, and there was still so much at stake. More than Bohuslav or even The Tsar realised. Especially them.

He cast his mind back to the last of his dreams before entering Moscow. The last thing De Falaise — or the dream version of him — had said. "Help me…" the blind ex-Sheriff had attempted to say again. Then:

"Help me and help my child."

He'd never wanted to be in charge.

Not even when he'd helped to set up the floating markets in Nottinghamshire. He'd been content to be the person who guided everyone along, without actually being the focal point. People assumed he was organising things even then, though; had always come to him for advice about trading, to settle arguments and disputes. Mainly because he liked things to run smoothly. Even when he'd worked on the proper markets back before the big bloody hiccup that was the A-B virus, folk had done the same. He'd only have to point out the best use of space, where the fruit and veg stalls would work better, or make a few observations on buying and selling, and everyone would think he was running the whole damned thing, instead of just being another trader.

The fact that he'd wandered around the post-Cull markets with a shotgun tucked under his arm hadn't exactly helped in this respect, he had to admit. Good behaviour was a lot more likely when someone was standing a few feet away with a twelve bore. He hadn't really thought anything of it. He'd always gone out shooting with it, even when he was a lad. And when things went wrong with the world it was a no-brainer for him to keep it close by. It was one of the reasons he'd been so reluctant to relinquish it to Robert at the castle.

Stupid idiot had been glad of the thing when they'd gone into fights together, and he would put it up against that man's bow and arrow any day of the week. He didn't have the time or the inclination to start training with those, or take up the staff like Jack, or swing a sword around. It wasn't the Middle Ages. There were people still out there, dangerous people. People like that mad bastard De Falaise, who had no such qualms about carrying a gun. And he, Bill Locke, was damned if he was going to get caught with his pants down trying to string a bow when someone was shooting bullets at him. He much preferred to be shooting them back, thank you very much.

Which was why the gun had stayed with him, and was with him today — by his side as he flew over the countryside in his Sud Aviation SA 341 Gazelle helicopter — 'borrowed' from the same place as his last one: Newark Air Museum. The Sioux had been smashed to pieces by Robert when he chased down the sheriff and rescued Mary, but flying that had given Bill a taste for it again. So he'd requisitioned the more heavy-duty Gazelle for his trip North-East, away from Nottingham and all the memories it held, good and bad.

Bill had really thought things would turn out differently after the fight for the castle had been won. He and Jack began taking care of things while Robert recovered — again, Bill hadn't been the one in charge, merely gave that impression to old and new recruits alike. For a while everything was okay, until The Hooded Man was back on his feet, dishing out the orders. And for some reason — Bill couldn't for the life of him work out why — Robert had decided to just lock up all the weapons that they'd confiscated from De Falaise's troops. Now they sat in the caves, rusting away, when Robert's men could be using them to really make a difference: to keep the peace, just as Bill had done with his shotgun at those markets. It stood to reason, didn't it? At least it did to Bill. But could he get Robert to see it? Could he bollocks.

There was no way he was staying after their last bust up — too many things had been said in the heat of the moment, including Robert still laying the blame for Mark's capture at Bill's feet. How long was he supposed to go on punishing himself for that? Okay, he'd cocked up — but he'd thought the boy would be safe enough with a whole group of armed men looking after him. How was Bill supposed to know that the Frenchman would begin rounding up people to execute unless Robert turned himself in? Mark had forgiven him, hadn't seen anything to forgive, really. So why couldn't Robert?

"One of these days ye goin' to come a right old cropper," Bill had shouted at Robert. "An' I hope I'm there to see it." He'd stormed out of the castle and — bar saying his brief goodbyes — hadn't hung around much longer.

He'd determined to start afresh, maybe see if he could encourage more market networks to start up, if they hadn't already. It had been hard at first, relocating to another area, but he'd soon found out who was who, and what was what. So fast, in fact, it had amazed him. Yes, there were some markets operating, but they were nowhere near as organised or well run as the ones he'd known. Bill recalled visiting one, drawing strange looks from some of the stall-holders (in fact the stalls were little more than things scattered randomly on the floor). They thought he might be there to cause trouble, especially when they spotted his weapon, but he'd soon assured them he meant no harm. "There's quite a bit o' potential here, if everyone pulls together," he'd told them.

Word spread, and soon Bill had found himself in exactly the position he hadn't wanted to be: running things. He had a team of personal helpers — no, more than that, they were his friends. Ken Mayberry, for example — a former social worker who now handled timeslots for the markets; chipper Sally Lane, who along with her boyfriend Tim Pearson (he hadn't been her boyfriend before the plague, in fact Bill remembered her telling him she'd been married, but that was happening more and more, people pairing off), they were in charge of location scouting. It was still sensible to steer clear of big towns and cities, just as they'd done back in Nottingham, so venues now included village community centres, playing fields and even some car parks if they were in relatively isolated places.

Bill and his team had set up shop not far from Pickering and had a radio network of marketeers — as Sally called them, though that always made Bill think of pencil moustaches and swashbuckling — that took in a good chunk of the upper east coast. He was managing to keep the chopper fuelled and thus kept an eye on what was happening. They'd branched out recently into ferrying goods up and down the coast, using rowing boats or whatever else they could get their hands on. Bill had even seen one ingenious soul using a RNLI boat; well, it might as well be put to good use.

Bill had heard rumours of the things going on in Europe, men who made De Falaise look like a novice. There were actually a number in France, apparently. Just as long as none of them came over to these shores again…

But that was always a possible threat. And when Bill got a call like the one he was answering this morning, he had to wonder. A lookout at Whitby lighthouse had spotted something coming in across the ocean. Several large somethings to be precise which looked to be separating out. "Can ye give me any more to go on?" Bill had asked over the crackling static. What came back was unintelligible — had he heard the word ships? — and they'd lost the signal not long after. It was still not a great way of communicating, but at the moment it was all they had, short of smoke signals or semaphore.