Hurst - Robin Crumby (bookreader TXT) 📗

approve of drinking, particularly when someone was on duty.

“Everyone’s accounted for. The castle is yours. Try and keep it together out there tonight, yeah? No messing about.” He checked his clipboard, angling the paper towards the light to read the rota. “Roger and Simon will relieve you at 0200 hours. Remember, perimeter walk every half hour, one of you stays at the main gate at all times. Here are the keys.”

“So these are quite literally the ‘keys to the castle’,” joked Tommy. “I’ve always wanted to say that. You know we’ve done this a hundred times before? I could walk the walls with my eyes closed.”

“That’s what I’m worried about, you sleepwalking again,” said Scottie.

“Like to see you try,” came a voice from the group around the fire.

“How much do you want to bet?” boasted Tommy.

“Gentlemen, please. Just do your jobs. Just this once, try and behave like professionals,” implored Nathan.

The pair of them burst out laughing. “Aw, we’re only pulling your leg, Nathan. We’ll do our best, don’t you worry. We’re a crack team, we are, ain’t we, Scottie? The A team. Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid, Batman and Robin, Bonnie and Clyde,” said Tommy.

“Bonnie was a woman, ya giant dunderhead,” corrected Scottie.

“Right, I’ll leave you to it,” said Nathan, growing tired of their levity. “No pranks, Tommy. Keep your eyes peeled for the Nipper and Zed’s team. They might put in a late appearance. Unlikely, but you never know.”

“We won’t let you down, will we, Tommy? Come on.”

The two of them said their goodbyes and left the rest of the group to enjoy the remains of the fire. Scottie put his arm around Tommy, meandering unevenly towards the armoury to collect a rifle each and the flare gun, in case of emergencies. No doubt it would be another uneventful night like all the others. Still, better to be safe than sorry.

Chapter Forty-three

The lead boat carrying Copper and his men was making steady progress up the channel. The wind had died, but there was still just enough breeze to disperse what little noise they were making. The seventy-five horse-power twin Yamaha outboard engines drove them forward against the incoming tide. Trevor said it was slackening by the minute as it neared high water.

Surprise was critical. Copper’s plans depended on his five-man team getting over the wall without being seen. From there, they would make their way to the main gate on the northern side of the fortifications, knock out the guards and secure the entrance for the main attack group waiting for their signal.

When Copper closed his eyes he had a mental map of the castle. He’d been there once before on a date with a local girl years ago. It had been her suggestion, a boat trip from Keyhaven and a walking tour of the castle. It had rained the whole day and they cut their losses and made a cursory tour of the battlements. They saw the museum and displays, walked around the castle and took the early ferry home in time for fish and chips on the village green at Milford. He couldn’t remember her name. Sarah or Serena, something like that. It didn’t matter now, she was likely dead, along with all the rest.

He berated himself for his wandering thoughts. He needed to get his mind back on the job at hand. If what Will had told them was to be trusted, they could expect only limited resistance. Two guards, lightly armed. It would be a turkey shoot. Once they had the two girls, Adele and Stella, together with the Hurst leaders, the rest were expendable. They didn’t need more mouths to feed. They had all the human specimens they needed for the experiments. Still, if there were young women amongst them, they might take a few back to keep the men entertained. After all, their nights were long and dull. Play it by ear, that’s what he’d do. He was trusted to make his own decisions.

As they passed a line of yachts on river moorings, the rhythmic throbbing and gurgling from the engines grew louder, echoing momentarily across the water. There was nothing they could do about it, other than cut the engines and paddle the rest of the way, but that would take too long. The engines were a necessary evil.

Trevor was keeping to the left side of the channel, staying out of the last of the tide and keeping clear of the mudflats marked by wooden posts every fifty yards or so, leading them out towards open water at the mouth of Lymington River.

The R.I.B was built for coastguard use and maintained with the latest equipment. It had a functioning radio, proper seating for its crew of four to six, a powerful searchlight, together with oars and flares. Copper’s men were relaxed but focused. None of them was particularly enjoying being out on the water. There were a few green faces amongst them as the size of the waves grew and their craft began to pitch and yaw. The men gripped the handles nearest them a little tighter as they were tossed around, bouncing off waves, buffeted by the wind which seemed to strengthen now they were beyond the shelter of the harbour and river estuary.

In the distance they could see the dark outline of the castle. It looked enormous, more like a small citadel than a castle. Beyond Hurst Spit, on the other side of the Needles channel they could see the Isle of Wight. A shapeless mass in total darkness, stretching as far as the eye could see, punctuated by the Needles rocks like giant jagged teeth, facing Christchurch Bay. The island was shielding them from the worst of the wind, blowing in from the Channel Islands, Cherbourg peninsula and France. The remnants of the earlier storm had blown itself out.

For a moment, the wind seemed to strengthen again, gusting and swirling. Every few seconds, a new torrent of water broke against the bow of the boat, soaking the men with spray. The engine note changed slightly, lost against the sound of their wash and waves. They turned their faces away from the wind, bracing themselves each time the boat pitched into a new wave. In a few minutes their clothes and equipment were soaked. The men licked salt from their lips, as water sloshed around their feet, making the floor slippery.

The castle came closer into view and they could make out the battlements and towers of the old fort. An outline of a lighthouse towered over the encampment. A dull orange glow lit up the inside of the castle walls. Copper guessed it must be a campfire. He smiled to himself. The fire would diminish the defender’s ability to see anything in the dark.

Rounding the Hurst headland, their boat kept its distance from the beach, labouring against the incoming tide that flowed faster here, funnelled over rocks. Copper’s men shrank lower, hidden from sight. Copper kept his eyes focused on the shoreline. His senses were alert, ever vigilant for any waves breaking against obstructions in the water, buoys, posts, or fishing nets. He was fairly sure there were no sea defences added by the Hurst crew to protect against shore landings by an invading force. The pilot checked his bearings and pointed the bow of the R.I.B towards the beach in between two groynes, nudging Copper to make sure he was happy for them to head in. Peering over the bow of the boat, Copper had one final scan and gave a thumbs up. It was safe to proceed.

Copper was under no illusions. Despite what he knew of Hurst’s defences, he told his men never to underestimate an adversary. The castle would be well defended. A significant threat that needed eliminating once and for all. One side of Copper’s mouth curled upwards. He was looking forward to getting his own back. As his boss was fond of saying, revenge is a dish best served cold. The pilot killed the engines and they surfed the rest of the way in to the beach.

Chapter Forty-four

Will was fairly sure that he was not being followed. After his headlong dash from the Ship Inn to the outskirts of Lymington, he paused, gasping for breath behind an abandoned truck near the town sailing club, or what was left of it. It was little more than a burned-out shell, ravaged by fire and the winter storms. The car park was part waterlogged, scattered with abandoned vehicles. They were of no use to Will. Most were rusting heaps, their batteries long since flat and their ignitions dead.

On the green, beside a band stand, he noticed a large mound, with black plastic sheeting flapping in the breeze. He squinted, trying to discern its shape and purpose in the darkness. With a shudder of realisation, he recognised it as man-made, like dozens of others scattered around the town. Bodies collected from the houses that lined the riverside, ready for collection and disposal by clean-up crews who never showed up. Perhaps they themselves had succumbed to the sickness. After all this time, he recognised the faint stench of decay, of bodies left to decompose above ground. A feast for rats.

He turned away, his chest still heaving, and slumped onto a bench, keeping his eyes fixed on the road behind. He half expected footsteps, but there was no movement, no torchlight searching out their quarry. Why hadn’t they followed him? Wasn’t it obvious he would head this way, making for the castle? His thighs were burning from the exertion of jogging the short distance from the town quay. He had kept to side streets as much as possible. Either he had given the men from the hospital the slip, or else they had decided it no longer mattered whether he lived or died. He had served his purpose and sooner or later they would have killed him, of that he had little doubt.

Will was just getting his breath back when he spotted something unusual, tucked behind a boat trailer. Half-buried beneath nautical paraphernalia, race buoys and coiled polypropylene rope were the handlebars of a bicycle. He debated whether it was worth burning time trying to free his hands or continue on foot.

For three long minutes, half crouching, he gyrated his whole body up and down, rubbing his wrists against the rusted metal edge of the trailer. The backs of his hands were raw from the friction and incessant scraping, but eventually with a final grimace and a gasp of elation, the plastic ties broke and he pulled his hands free. He massaged his shoulders and biceps, manipulating his painful fingers to restore full circulation. He levered the trailer upright, dragged the bicycle out from its hiding place, and let the trailer crash down again. He looked around half expecting to see a dozen men racing his way. Other than the rhythmic percussion of a hundred sets of rigging tapping against masts in the marina, there was silence.

The mountain bike was in poor condition with two flat tyres, a rusting frame and missing its saddle. Someone had discarded the bike here with good reason. He swung his leg over and tested the pedals. The chain squeaked round, crying out for some lubrication. The brake pads had either perished or were missing, he couldn’t tell in the darkness. Compared to running another ten kilometres, the bike was better than nothing, but only just.

He pushed off, wobbling unevenly down the tarmac surface before picking up speed and gaining some improved stability. He didn’t risk going through the gears and peddled slowly on the rims at little more than walking pace. Passing the last of the boats in their cradles, beached like whales stranded by a falling tide, he left the boatyard. He manoeuvred the bike through a kissing gate, lifting the back wheel through. Beyond, the asphalt path stretched out ahead of him. Moonlight reflected off the Lymington river’s undulating surface.

He picked up his speed a little and quickly lost