Hurst - Robin Crumby (bookreader TXT) 📗

until the day those bitches from the Chewton Glen captured us.”

Jean glared back at Seamus but her words of reproach froze on her lips, just like every other time he criticised the sisters. Joe watched their silent exchange. He hated the way Seamus manipulated her. How he would feign interest in her teenage life, commenting on the clothes she wore, how she wore her hair, ingratiating himself slowly but surely into her favours. Joe had to admit Seamus was a good listener. Jean would hang around late into the night at least until the guard told her to leave.

In the end Seamus had convinced Jean to make the leap from sympathiser to collaborator. When the commotion of the fire distracted the guards and drew them from their posts, she crept back to the stable block. She stole the keys from a hook, released the men from their captivity. Together they ran down the drive towards open fields and freedom beyond. Jean had remembered to bring what little food she could conceal over the last few days. In Tupperware containers, she kept biscuits and leftover rice, already desiccated and stale. In her rucksack she had a metal flask for water, a torch and a pocketknife.

Joe wasn’t sure, but he was beginning to think that the fire was no accident. Perhaps Seamus had put her up to that too. He had to admit, it was fortuitous for their purposes, to say the least. Judging by the smoke that rose high into the dawn behind them, the fire had been devastating. He felt terrible leaving Zed and the rest of them behind. His best option was to wait for an opportunity to slip away. He felt a responsibility to Jean, despite what she may or may not have done. Without him there, he feared for her safety. He determined to take her back with him to Hurst.

When they were several miles from the hotel, Seamus held up his hand and they gathered round a lonely bench on a country lane where the landscape opened out. Views stretched across fields of rapeseed, swaying bright yellow in the sunshine. The four men took it in turns to drink from the flask of water Jean had brought. They shared a joke, hands on hips, wiping sweat from their brows, before finally allowing Jean and Joe to share the last drops.

“Where are we heading?” asked Joe, interrupting a private conversation between Seamus and one of the others.

“Not much further now. Maybe another mile. There’s a house not far from here, very secluded. Big place with an orchard and greenhouses, full of vegetables. We used to deliver animal feed there. Seems like a lifetime ago.”

“How do you know there won’t still be someone there?” challenged Joe.

Seamus spat something on the ground and kicked the earth with his boot. He looked up with a smile, squinting in to the sun. “I don’t, but I’ve a feeling that the farmer’s daughter will remember me. Either that, or they’ll be long gone by now. It was a couple of years ago. If you’ve got a better idea, I’m all ears.”

There was an edge to his voice that made Joe pause. It wasn’t worth an argument. After all, he had no intention of staying with the group. His instinct was screaming that prime sites like these were normally occupied. If they still had stores and food, then they would not welcome the arrival of strangers.

As they approached the farm, they stopped at the boundary fence, watching the house and outbuildings for any movement or other signs of recent occupation. Seamus told the others to stay hidden while he scouted ahead. After twenty minutes, lying on a grassy bank under a sycamore tree, basking in the mid-morning sunshine, they heard footsteps approaching down the lane and readied themselves. Joe grabbed a small log, holding it high above his head, ready to strike. The others shifted uneasily from one foot to the other, waiting to grab whoever emerged from around the corner. They all breathed a collective sigh of relief as Seamus whistled a prearranged greeting.

Walking up the rough track that led to the farm, there were no signs of vehicles. A tree had fallen right across the track, blocking the road. They passed a sign for a local construction firm and immediately understood why. The whole place was mid-renovation. Scaffolding framed the far end of the farmhouse, where the original red brick building was being extended. A large modern kitchen with a conservatory, patio area and stone steps led down to a landscaped slope thinly covered with what looked like newly sewn grass, stretching towards a stream that ran through the back of the property.

They took a minute to refill the flask in the lazy flow of the cool water, before cautiously approaching the front porch. There was a beaten-up old estate car parked outside with three flat tyres.

Seamus tried the handle, but found the oak panelled door locked. Its white paint had peeled away, revealing knotted wood and sturdy iron hinges. He kicked at the door a couple of times, grunting as he came off worse for wear. The others watched him, arms crossed, faintly amused by his bravado. The hinges and lock refused to budge. Seamus directed the group to split up and head in opposite directions.

Joe and Jean set off together, testing each of the shutters and windows on the ground-floor windows but found them each securely fastened. Jean froze, hearing footsteps coming around the house towards them. They pressed themselves against the wall and crouched down only to see Seamus and the others rounding the corner, completing their search. The extension and conservatory proved more rewarding. They found an empty window frame with no glass. Seamus punched one of the other men on the shoulder, laughing at their good fortune.

Inside was a half-finished kitchen stacked with pallets of floor tiles and flat-packed furniture, including various tools left out at the end of a shift. Seamus smashed a small pane of semi-opaque glass with his elbow and reached through, groping for the catch. He found the key still in the lock. Seamus paused as he and Joe had the same thought. If the house was all locked up from the inside, did that mean someone was still living here? Seamus raised his finger to his lips and made sure everyone had understood his instruction before continuing their search.

The door squeaked in protest as he wrenched it open, stepping into the cool darkness beyond. The main reception room looked untouched, dust layered grey on every surface. There were no signs of disturbance. A vase in the middle of a long mahogany table held what remained of wilted flowers, the water brown and mouldy in its base. There was a musty smell about the place. Disturbed dust drifted in shafts of sunlight that penetrated through gaps in the shutters. It was like stepping into a tomb, frozen in time, untouched by human hand for months, maybe years.

Next door, there was a snug-room with whitewashed walls and a large fireplace, its grate covered in grey ash, from a fire long since cold. Either side there were bookshelves set deep into the wall. Behind the door, Joe could see a high-sided armchair facing an old-fashioned television set. Joe had not seen a TV like this since his childhood staying at his grandparents’ house up near Scarborough, in north Yorkshire. Televisions with cathode-ray tubes predated plasma and flat-screen technologies by some twenty years.

A sixth sense made the hairs on Joe’s neck prickle. Was his mind playing tricks or was there someone sitting in the chair? He signalled to the others behind him and leaned his head further around the door. His instincts proved right. He could see a pair of shoes resting on a footstool. He readied himself, gulping air. He picked up a glass paperweight from the side table and advanced further into the room.

Slumped in the armchair was an emaciated old man. His eyes were open, staring lifelessly at the TV, his mouth wide, with prune-like skin drawn tight across his jaw, discoloured and ravaged by time.

Joe had gotten used to seeing death at close quarters. It no longer bothered him. In fact he had developed a whole vocabulary around death that helped to dehumanise the victims. Jack had once told him it was a coping strategy and that no one ever got used to seeing dead people. They just found a way of dealing with it so it no longer held the power to shock.

Joe leaned in closer, inspecting the corpse. There was no sign of illness, no flecking in the eyes, no dried blood around the nose or ears. This man had died from old age, plain and simple. He had simply sat there and waited to die, an empty mug perched on a nested table beside him. Perhaps the old man had nowhere else to go, watching the news broadcasts until they went off air, replaced by the pre-recorded public service announcements that told everyone to stay indoors, avoid contact with others and wait for further instructions. He had died alone, on his own terms.

It seemed to Joe a better way to go than the panic and disorder in the cities, the chaos at the hospitals and treatment centres overrun with the sick. In the end the hospitals had simply locked their doors and turned new arrivals away. Fearful of further contamination, poorly resourced to deal with the flood of humanity, they were unable to do anything but reserve them floor space to curl up and die.

He was jolted back to the present by a scream. Jean hid her face against his shoulder, shielding her eyes with her hands. She looked through clenched fingers, a morbid fascination beginning to replace the initial horror. “That’s disgusting,” she said, unable to look away.

“No evidence of infection. This one died of old age.”

Seamus gave the body a cursory look before turning his back. “The rest of the place is deserted.”

Joe was still staring at the old man’s face, studying his features. There was something about him that looked familiar. He clicked his fingers, pleased with himself as the penny finally dropped. “David Jason.”

Jean looked up at him confused.

“You know. Don’t you think he looks a bit like David Jason?” Jean was none the wiser. “You remember? The actor? Played Del Boy off that BBC sitcom Only Fools and Horses?”

Jean looked again but shook her head. She had never heard of Only Fools and Horses though she liked the name.

“Suppose you never had just the four broadcast channels to choose from. Your generation was all reality TV and box sets, YouTube and watching stuff on your phone.” Joe sighed, nostalgic for a forgotten time when families would watch live broadcasts together on a Saturday evening. Doctor Who, X Factor, Strictly.

“You talk funny.” Jean frowned, pushing past him.

Seamus’s voice from the wood-panelled corridor outside interrupted their exchange. “Jean, go make yourself useful and get a fire lit. There’s a whole larder full of cans and pasta in there. We’ve hit gold,” he said, clapping his hands together in delight.

With a sigh, Jean mumbled something under her breath and dutifully headed off to grab logs from the stack of chopped wood in the garage, together with the firelighters and matches Joe had found above the fireplace in the snug.

Together the men carried the old man’s body outside and dumped his frail desiccated corpse head first in a large green recycling bin. Joe rushed out to remonstrate with the men, berating them for their lack of respect, insisting they bury him properly. The other men looked at each other and walked off, laughing at Joe’s protestations. “If that’s what you want, then you do it,” said the larger of the two.

Joe rummaged in the shed amongst an assortment of gardening tools before he found what he was looking for. He grabbed a shovel and started digging a shallow grave under an olive tree. Considering they were taking