“You useless fucker,” he screams at him as the pounding continues. “They’ll have our balls if he gets away.”
Healey pushes me back into the office again and slams the door shut. I try to open it, but he’s holding it from the other side. I can hear Llewellyn yelling orders, but his words are drowned out by the noise of someone dragging furniture across the landing to block me in. When the noise finally stops I can hear him again.
“Go get Ankin. He needs to talk to this freak and put the little bastard straight.”
34
TRAPPED. I’VE BEEN OVER every inch of this damn room, and there’s no way out other than the door I came in through and the window, which is bolted shut. Desperate, I grab the heaviest thing I can find—a fire extinguisher—and throw it at the glass. It shatters, filling the room with noise and allowing the bitter wind to gust in, immediately sending the already low temperature plummeting farther. I knock out the last shards of glass and lean out, but it’s too big a fall; a sheer drop onto concrete, not even any drainpipes, gutters, or ledges to use to help me climb down.
More voices. Fast-approaching footsteps.
I grip my knife tight and stand ready to fight. The office door is yanked open and Chris Ankin storms in. He’s carrying a bright lamp that burns my eyes, and I catch a glimpse of Llewellyn and several others outside before the door’s slammed shut again. The harsh illumination makes Ankin’s weathered face look severe and intense. He’s much older than me and physically smaller, but the sheer force of his angry entrance makes me cower back until I can’t get any farther away.
“Put that knife down, you useless fucker,” he spits at me. No more smooth talk. He puts the lamp down on the edge of a desk, then leans on his walking stick and glares across the room at me, breathing hard. “I don’t think you quite understand,” he says, pointing accusingly. “I might not have made myself completely clear earlier. Whether you like it or not, one way or another you’re going back to Lowestoft to deliver my message to Hinchcliffe.”
All the vote-winning pretense has been dropped now, and for the first time I’m seeing the real Ankin. I’ve never been good at dealing with people in positions of authority, and I feel as anxious now as I do when I’m with Hinchcliffe—but there’s an important difference here that I’m quick to remember: Ankin has no hold over me. He needs me more than I need him.
“Why should I help you? What are you going to do if I don’t do what you say? Kill me?”
He moves toward me again menacingly.
“I understand your position, McCoyne,” he says, virtually spitting out each word, “but here’s mine. Everything hinges on us getting into Lowestoft and keeping the structure of the town intact. You’ll help because I’ve told you you’ll help, and if I have to march you in there with a loaded gun held to your head, then that’s what I’ll do.”
This isn’t the way I wanted it to be, but so be it. Other than a little time in this grubby world I have nothing left. No family, no friends, no life, hardly any possessions … I can’t be bothered arguing any more. The harder I try to fight, the more I always seem to lose.
“Kill me now, then.”
“What?”
“I won’t do it, Ankin. I’m tired of fuckers like you pushing me around and telling me what to do. You’re going to have to kill me, because I’m not going back to Lowestoft.”
“Don’t be so stupid,” he says. “What’s that going to achieve?”
“Absolutely nothing. Then again, that’s exactly what me talking to Hinchcliffe will achieve also. In case you hadn’t heard, the man’s a complete fucking psychopath. Like I told you earlier, if you think he’s going to shuffle off into the distance and let you take over everything he’s built up in Lowestoft, you’re very much mistaken.”
Ankin’s a sensible man, I’m sure he is. Regardless of the games he plays and the outdated political interests he still seems to nurture, I know he’s no fool. He looks straight at me, and I can see him silently weighing up his limited options. He’s in a crap position to try to bargain with me, and he knows it.
“Hinchcliffe relies on you, doesn’t he?”
“He’s a nasty, resourceful bastard. He doesn’t rely on anyone. He uses people, that’s all. If I’m not around, he’ll just find someone else.”
“You think? That’s not the impression I get from Llewellyn. He seems to think you’re different. Tell me, how long have you been there?”
“A few months.”
“And how did you come to Hinchcliffe’s attention?”
“I led him to the Unchanged nests, helped him to hunt them out and get rid of them.”
“So you’ve been pretty valuable to him?”
“I wouldn’t go that far. Definitely not now the Unchanged are gone.”
“Well, he obviously still needs you. Otherwise he wouldn’t have sent you out here with Llewellyn. No offense, but you’re not the strongest-looking fighter.”
“None taken.”
“Look,” he says, sounding weary, “I’m going to lay things on the line for you. You’re going back into Lowestoft tomorrow, whether you like it or not.”
“Like fuck I am—”
“You don’t have any choice. Like I said, taking the town is of paramount importance.”
“Spare me the rhetoric. I won’t go.”
“You will. This is bigger than you and me, Danny, much bigger.”
Ankin starts pacing the small room, running his fingers through his shock of white hair, seething with anger and frustration. The strangest thing is that, suddenly, I feel nothing. No fear or apprehension … absolutely nothing. I’m still curious, though. Something doesn’t ring true.
“I don’t get it.”
“Don’t get what?” he asks, barely able to look in my direction.
“Why you think you need Lowestoft so badly. It’s just a modest little town, for crying out loud. Why not just move on to the next place?”
Ankin walks to the broken window. It’s pitch black outside, and I doubt he can see anything, but still he stares out for an uncomfortably long time.
“Okay, here’s the score,” he finally says. “I’ll level with you. The stuff I told you earlier, I didn’t give you the full picture.”
I’m not surprised. I try to guess what he’s going to say next. That there are no reenforcements, perhaps? That there’s an even bigger army out there somewhere hunting him down?
“Go on…”
“It’s the politician in me—I can’t help trying to give everything the right spin to help get my point across. It’s hard to break the habits of a lifetime, you know?”
“Try.”
He sits down on the edge of the desk, leaning on his stick for support.
“Things are worse than I said earlier. I just didn’t want to put too much pressure on you at once.”
“Worse? How could things be any worse?”
“Sahota’s not negotiating in Wales. Last I heard he was fighting there, trying to get a foothold in the north of the country. We haven’t had any contact from him for a while.”
“How long?”
“About three months.”
“Jesus.”
“I told you that Devon and Cornwall were probably livable, but the fact is the contamination’s so bad we haven’t even been able to get down there. Truth is we don’t hold out much hope of anyone being left alive there now. You know how it all happened, the refugee camps drew people into the cities, and where the Unchanged went…”
