deranged desire to defend the little they have here because it’s all they have left. Deeper in, pockets of underclass are beginning to turn against each other now as rifts appear between groups of people and individuals. Some want to fight, some want to surrender. There’s no consensus.
Llewellyn stops just short of the soldiers. Ankin’s transport behind us has stopped, too. I look around and see one of Ankin’s lackeys running toward the van. Llewellyn opens the door and leans out to speak to him.
“What the fuck’s going on?” he demands, but he doesn’t get an answer.
“Ankin says you’re to keep moving. The rest of us will hold position here until this has died down and we’ve had word that McCoyne’s inside. We’ll start our advance in about an hour. Same goes for the columns waiting by the north gates.”
Columns? Christ, that’s an overly ambitious military term to be using. What I’m seeing around me now is hardly a column of soldiers. From where I’m sitting, apart from the color of their shirts there doesn’t seem a huge amount of difference between Ankin’s people moving one way and the ever-increasing crowds of underclass coming the other. In fact, the similarities are frightening.
The lackey disappears quickly, and Llewellyn slams the door. Conversation over.
“Well?”
He doesn’t answer me. Instead he just swerves around the back of the vehicle in front and drives on down the road. He blasts the horn as we approach the human blockade, and a ragged split appears. We accelerate and drive through, narrowly avoiding a bunch of desperate underclass running the other way. A lump of concrete smashes against the window I’m staring out through, the glass protected by a layer of heavy-duty wire mesh, and I jump back with surprise.
The last half mile to the compound is easier. Here word of the approaching army hasn’t yet reached the population, and most of them go about their business (or lack of business) as normal. They barely bat an eyelid as we drive past. It’s early, and many are still in their shelters, delaying the start of yet another day for as long as they can. Ahead of us a group of scavengers pick their way through a mountain of frost-covered refuse—an unplanned landfill site where a children’s play area used to be—looking for scraps of food in the fermenting rubbish. Others crowd around fires. Almost all of them ignore us.
We eventually reach the south gate across the bridge. Llewellyn glances across at me, then blasts the horn. A pair of eyes appear at a wire-mesh observation slot. They disappear again quickly, and the gate is opened.
“Don’t fuck this up,” he tells me. “All you have to do is keep him busy. I’ll give you an hour maximum. Just get this straight, freak, if you try anything stupid I’ll kill you. Ankin says you want out of here, so just do what you’ve been told and your freedom’s yours.”
I don’t respond. I barely even hear him. It’s partially because I’m too scared to care, but also because something’s not right here. The very center of Lowestoft feels different this morning. There are more fighters on the streets than usual, and some of the Switchbacks are unexpectedly armed. The place appears otherwise empty. Llewellyn tosses a set of keys over to me as we near the center of the compound. I drop them in the footwell and have to duck down and stretch to reach them, my wrist still attached to the door. I eventually manage to unlock the handcuffs. Do I make a run for it now? For a moment I consider it until I catch a glimpse in the side mirror of a mob of people in the street behind us. I look up again and see even more of them on either side of the road up ahead.
“I’m going to leave you just short of the courthouse, okay?” Llewellyn asks, focused and oblivious. “Just do what you’ve been told and you’ll be okay. Understand?”
“I understand.”
He throws the van around a sharp right-hand turn.
“We both want the same thing, McCoyne, we both want to get rid of Hinchcliffe. But I swear, if you—”
He stops talking abruptly, and I look up to see what’s wrong. The road ahead is blocked. Familiar-looking fighters advance toward us and surround the van. Curtis, Llewellyn’s deputy, hammers on the glass, and Llewellyn winds his window down.
“Hinchcliffe wants to see both of you,” he says. Llewellyn looks across at me, a hint of nervousness in his eyes.
“Doesn’t change anything. Just makes things a little more complicated. I’ll square things with this bunch. You go in there and feed him as much bullshit as you can.”
Before I can argue he’s out of the van. Patterson opens my door and pulls me out. Llewellyn tries to speak to Curtis.
“We need to talk.”
“Not interested. Get moving.”
“But Curtis—”
“If you’ve got a problem, tell Hinchcliffe.”
Llewellyn tries to struggle but stops when the stunted barrel of a shotgun is shoved into his ribs. With that we’re led toward the courthouse, surrounded by a phalanx of fighters.
“Good morning,” someone shouts. I glance around, but I can’t see who’s speaking; then I look up and see Hinchcliffe standing on the roof of the courthouse. “Bring them straight up here, boys,” he orders. “I’ve been looking forward to this.”
38
WE’RE ESCORTED QUICKLY THROUGH the building. Llewellyn is in front, marching with an arrogance that belies the nerves I know he must be feeling. The place is almost completely deserted. The corridors are empty, and there’s no one in the usually busy courtroom hub. We continue through Hinchcliffe’s personal quarters. Most of the fighters don’t follow us, and I can’t help thinking that, in spite of everything, there are some places that are still sacrosanct. No matter what happens, Hinchcliffe’s ivory tower remains intact. His rooms are in as bad a state as ever, like a particularly rebellious teenage boy’s bedroom. There’s a woman lying on the floor, sprawled out on her back. I only notice her when Curtis treads on her outstretched hand and she yelps with pain. Her face is drugged, expressionless and blank. Another private extension of Hinchcliffe’s foul breeding program, no doubt.
Past the conference room, through another door I haven’t been through before, and we reach a dark staircase. I climb the first flight, Llewellyn right in front of me now, then turn through one hundred and eighty degrees and climb a shorter second flight up. Out through a final door where Hinchcliffe is waiting for us, and I find myself standing in the middle of an area of flat roof. Curtis goes back down, and suddenly I only have Hinchcliffe and Llewellyn for company. Hinchcliffe pushes the door shut.
The roof is completely clear except for a deckchair and a pile of half-used supplies. An empty beer can rolls into a dirty puddle, blown across the asphalt by a gust of wind. It’s damn cold up here, and it’s starting to snow again. Llewellyn tries to talk to Hinchcliffe, jabbering like a nervous kid, but the KC’s not listening. He just walks away, then stops and turns back to face us both.
“Find the plane?” he asks casually.
“I—” I start to answer, trying to remember what my story’s supposed to be.
“Not you,” he interrupts. He points directly at Llewellyn. “You.”
“Listen, Hinchcliffe,” Llewellyn begins, “I just—”
“Wait a second,” he says, cutting across him. “Before you start, do me a favor and spare me the bullshit, okay? Honesty only on my rooftop, right?” He winks at me like a psychotic, old-school serial killer, playing with his victims and taunting them before going in for the kill. Crazy bastard. He takes a sudden step forward and I take half a step back, not sure how much space there is between me and the edge of the roof.
“Hinchcliffe, you really need to listen,” Llewellyn says again.
“Do I? And why would that be, Llewellyn?”
His once-loyal fighter swallows hard and anxiously shifts his weight from foot to foot.
“There’s an army coming,” he says, quickly changing his story to try to dig himself out of the hell-sized abyss he’s suddenly gazing down into. “Look, there was nothing I could do. They found us and—”
I’d like to have heard the rest of his bullshit and lies, but Llewellyn isn’t even allowed to get to the end of his sentence, let alone finish his story. In a movement so sudden and unexpected that I don’t realize what’s happening
