about it other than its name. I shake my head. The more Hinchcliffe thinks I know, the more he’ll expect from me.
“It’s about ten miles from here,” he explains. “Used to be a nice little spot. Couple of people I knew in the City had second homes down there back in the day.”
Ten miles. Doesn’t sound far, but distances aren’t what they used to be. People tend to stay put in Lowestoft now and, unless they’re out scavenging, rarely venture more than a couple of miles in any direction. Fuel’s in short supply, so most traveling’s now done on foot, and that puts Southwold the best part of a day away.
Hinchcliffe lights up a cigarette and leans back, taking a long draw and slowly blowing out a cloud of blue- gray smoke up toward the ceiling. Now there’s an expression of status if ever I saw one. Smoking these days says to anyone who’s watching that you’ve got the means and the connections to be able to get your hands on a steady supply of cigarettes to fuel your pointless habit. Most people struggle to find food, never mind anything else. Hinchcliffe knows I’m watching him. Cocky bastard.
“Want one?”
“No thanks. Don’t smoke. Bad for you.”
He laughs and lifts the cigarette box up in front of me, shaking it.
“You sure? These are the real thing,” he says. “Word to the wise, if you do decide to start, come and see me first. There are some dirty fuckers making their own smokes from scrag ends and dried leaves and whatever else they can get their hands on. Bit of a black market starting to spring up around here…”
“You were talking about Southwold,” I remind him, eager to get the conversation back on track and get this over with. He leans forward secretively.
“I might have a problem,” he whispers.
“Unchanged?”
“Not this time.”
“What, then?”
“Settlers. I need you to check them out for me.”
“Why me?”
“Christ, Danny, why do you always ask the same damn questions? You know why. You’re forgettable. No one notices you. No one even gives you a second glance.”
“Thanks.”
“You know what I mean. You can handle yourself. Doesn’t matter who or what you come across, you treat them all the same. You don’t rush in there with your fists flying like everyone else I’ve got who could go.”
Bit of a backhanded compliment, but that’s as good as it gets with Hinchcliffe.
“So what’s your problem?”
“Little issue with the neighbors,” he says, grinning again. “There’s something going on down there, I’m sure of it. I’ve been talking to them for a while, trying to get them to pack up and come up here. Thing is, they wanted to stay where they were, so I figured I’d keep them with us and let them get the place organized for me, then get in there and annex them.”
“I take it things aren’t going to plan?”
He screws up his face and takes another drag on his cigarette.
“It’s not that,” he explains, “I’m just starting to get a little uneasy. There are about thirty of them, and they’re not being as cooperative as I’d like. I think they’re stockpiling and digging in, and I need to get a handle on things.”
“Before someone else does?” I suggest. He pauses, and for a fraction of a second I think I might have overstepped the mark. Then he grins again and points at me.
“You got it! See, you don’t miss a trick, Dan. That’s why I like you!”
He doesn’t like me and we both know it. Fucking idiot.
“So what do you want me to do?”
“There’s a guy called Warner running things down there. John Warner. He’s a local. Came with the territory.”
“You don’t trust him?”
“I don’t trust anyone,” he answers quickly. “Do you know Neil Casey?”
I struggle for a few seconds to place the name. I know he’s one of Hinchcliffe’s top cronies, but, truth be told, they’re all the same to me. Their personalities have become diluted. Rufus says they’ve been de-individualized, and I know what he means. I can only tell them apart by comparing their scars and their level of aggression. I lose track of which one’s which, but I think I know who Casey is.
“Tall guy, nasty scar on the back of his head?”
“That’s him. I sent him down there a few days ago, and he hasn’t reported back to me yet. You know the routine, Dan, if you’re working for me and I send you outside Lowestoft, you make contact at least once every twenty-four hours. That’s the deal.”
“You think they’ve got rid of him?”
“I don’t know what I think, and that’s why I want you to go there. Try to get a feel for what’s going on and let me know if there’s anything I should be worried about, OK?”
I don’t want to go anywhere, but what else can I say? Hinchcliffe doesn’t ask, he tells.
“OK.”
“Good man. Take a car from the pool, pick yourself up a radio, and get down there as soon as you can.”
“Now?”
“Why? You got something better to do?”
“No, it’s just that I don’t feel—”
“Get down there now and report back to me tonight. The sooner you go, the sooner you get back, and the happier I’ll be.”
Bastard. I can’t stand being used like this, but what choice do I have? It’s do the job or risk a beating, maybe worse. I get up to leave, but I’m not even halfway across the room when the coughing starts again, worsened no doubt by Hinchcliffe’s smoking and the arid, dry heat in here. I’m doubled over before I know what’s happening.
“You’ve got to start taking better care of yourself, Danny,” Hinchcliffe shouts after me, “you’re a key member of my team.” I glance back at him but I don’t react. Is he being genuine or sarcastic? I can’t tell the difference anymore.
6
HINCHCLIFFE HAS BUILT UP a vast collection of cars in varying states of disrepair. He has several mechanics working for him, but their skills are seriously lacking, as are their resources. Crude bodywork repairs are generally managed, but if their engines don’t run the cars are stripped down for spare parts, then dumped, much the same as everything else. Hinchcliffe’s car pools are starting to look more like scrapyards with heaps of discarded body parts building up and fewer complete vehicles. Some cars have been increasingly cannibalized to keep them running. They look like something out of a third-rate rip-off Mad Max movie but without the performance; sheets of metal welded over missing doors, mismatched tires, wire-mesh windows …
Hinchcliffe keeps most of the better vehicles in a parking lot behind what used to be the police station, and the rest on a guarded patch of wasteland adjacent to the railway station. I always try to take the same car. The guards and mechanics look at me as if I’m crazy because I never go for the one with the biggest engine, the strongest body, or the most space inside. Instead I choose the same little silver, box-shaped car every time—a safe, reliable, old man’s car. Hardly the Road Warrior, but the reason I use this one is simple: I know it’s got a working CD player.
For a long time at the height of the fighting, driving wasn’t such a great idea. In the weeks leading up to the nuclear bombings, when the Unchanged still outnumbered us and before they squandered their last remaining military advantage in desperation, it was generally too dangerous to risk traveling anywhere by road. Now, though, it’s the lack of people and fuel that makes the roads—what’s left of them anyway—quieter than ever. For me,
