Baker rose from his seat, walked around the desk and backhanded me hard across the face. A large signet ring cut a groove across my cheek and I felt blood begin to trickle down it.
'Don't answer me back, boy,' he growled, his facade of civility momentarily stripped away. 'I killed looters. Plain and simple. We need law and order, especially now. There can be no exceptions to the rule of law, not for sex or age. Wrongdoing must be punished. Justice must be seen to be done and it must be swift and merciless.'
I lifted my head and stared at him.
'What about the right to a fair trial? What about mitigating circumstances?'
'A fair trial? Like the one you gave your teacher before you killed him? Don't be naive.'
Dammit, why did all the nutters I found myself talking to always have to keep making such fair bloody points? Anyway we'd killed his niece. There was nothing at all that I could say that would change that. There was no talking myself out of this.
'Okay, I'm your hostage, you've got a plan to take the school and you're probably going to kill me. So let's get it over with. Why don't you tell me what you've got up your sleeve and then I can escape and foil your evil scheme. What do you say?'
Even as I said the words I cringed inwardly; I've seen too many bad movies. Perhaps it was because this was a scenario I'd seen played out so many times that I couldn't quite bring myself to feel I was really in jeopardy. The hero always ends up talking to somebody who's about to kill them, and they always manage a last-minute escape. It's a rule.
'My dear boy,' replied Baker, his facade back in place. 'I won't have time to explain my plans. Sorry.'
Baker was working from the script of a different film.
'Why? Got an appointment to keep?'
'No. But you do.'
Only a few months ago I had found it hard to conjure up any real concern when faced with imminent death. Reeling from the carnage of The Cull, emotionally shut down after burying my mother, I was barely interested in my own survival. Now, after being savaged and shot, I was keenly aware of how easy it was to die, and more determined than ever not to do so until I was old, feeble and surrounded by fat grandchildren.
But as I was marched up to the gallows I couldn't see any way to stay alive beyond the next five minutes. My nerve was only barely holding. By the time the rope was slipped around my neck I felt like shitting myself and I wanted to cry.
I stood on the raised wooden platform looking down at the assembled faces of the Hildenborough market crowd, eagerly awaiting the 'Main Event' – my death. Some looked excited, others looked bored. They munched on hot dogs or sipped their beers as if it were just another day. Williams avoided my gaze.
I tried to work out how a simple trip to market and a little light gossip had led so quickly and inescapably to my imminent death. This hadn't been the plan. I wasn't supposed to die here, not now. What about Mac? What about Matron? What about my dad? This was supposed to be an ordinary day, nothing too risky, nothing spectacular. This wasn't supposed to be the second date on my tombstone.
It seemed that death had caught me unawares.
Which, of course, is what it always does.
Baker stood beside me and addressed the throng as I tried to prevent my knees from buckling. The rope itched and scratched at the soft flesh of my neck.
'Citizens of Hildenborough, and honoured guests, today marks a new beginning for this town.'
There was a smattering of enthusiastic applause and a few cheers.
'Ever since The Cull descended upon us I have striven to make this town safe – safe for mothers and children; for families and old people. In this town I have made it my business to preserve the values and ideals that made this country great. And I believe I have done so, with your help. Hildenborough is a haven, a sanctuary in a violent and depraved world. But no longer. Today we shall begin to take the message to the country. Today we shall start the process of civilisation anew. From this town, from this very spot upon which I stand, we shall spread peace and safety throughout the land and we, I, shall be its saviour.
'And that process begins with an enclave of violence and sickness that sits on our front doorstep. Yes, friends, in a small village not far from here is the school of St Mark's. I know that some of you had children that attended that school, and you remember it as a centre of excellence, fostering values like duty, respect, obedience and independence.
'It is my sad duty to inform you that those values have become perverted. Under the leadership of a cruel, vicious man, the surviving children have armed themselves, overthrown their teachers, and declared themselves an anarchist state.
'Their lawlessness threatens us all. If we allow them to go unchecked then it won't be long before we are overrun by thugs and bullies, muggers and hoodies; feral children who know only the instinct to smash and destroy the homes and lives of their elders and betters.
'I am here to tell you that this shall not be allowed!'
Cheers and applause again. But, I noticed, not from everyone. A group of about fifteen men stood at the rear of the audience and they appeared to be watching not Baker, but the crowd. The hysteria Baker was whipping up with his well judged oratory was not reaching them.
When the cheering had died down Baker gestured to me.
'This young man had a bright future. He's not from a good family, his parents own no land and possess no great wealth. But his father served in Her Majesty's forces and they helped pay for his son's education at one of the finest schools in the land. They offered him an opportunity to better himself, to rise above his humble origins and excel. And what has he done with that chance? He has put on a uniform to which he has no right, picked up a gun, and embarked on a campaign of slaughter that is too horrific to relate to you good people here today.'
I wanted to point out that it was Mac he wanted. But that was beside the point. Baker had to demonise me before killing me, only then would his point be made and his lesson handed down.
'One could say that he has simply reverted to type. That he was never of good stock and had no place at a school such as St Mark's. I leave such judgements up to you. What I can do, however, is dispense justice for the men and women he has slaughtered. One of whom, friends, was my own, dear niece, Lucy.'
A gasp from the crowd.
'The execution of this murderous animal signals the start of my campaign to clean up this county, this country! Even as we stand here a force of men is taking control of the school that harboured his vile criminal urges. By tonight we shall have expanded our territory to include this great institution for education and civilisation which I shall personally see is restored to its rightful place at the heart of a nation ruled by respect!'
Huge applause. And the group of men at the back of the crowd sloughed off their long coats and stood waiting for… what?
Baker turned to me.
'Lee Keegan, I find you guilty of the crime of murder and I hereby sentence you to hang by the neck until dead.'
And he pulled the lever.
CHAPTER NINE
Jon used to have this battered old hardback book called The Hangman's Art. He was sick like that. It was the memoirs of an executioner but also a manual for a good hanging. Amongst all the factors the author considered important – a black canvas hood, the binding of hands and feet, the fluid motion of the trapdoor – the most crucial detail was the length of the rope.
If you hang a man with a rope that's too long the drop will decapitate the condemned, and nobody wants that. Conversely, if the rope is too short then the condemned person's neck will not break and they will swing there, choking to death. This outcome was not considered merciful.
The book contained a graph charting the ratio between the weight of the condemned and the correct length of rope required for a clean, clinical snap of the neck and a swift, essentially painless dispatch.
Thank Christ nobody on Baker's staff had a copy.
