Spoticus

  He slid a shoulder bag round to the front and reached into a pocket. He pulled out a tobacco tin. Push could see two pairs of rabbit ears poking out of the main compartment.

  ‘Let’s go,’ said Push. ‘He’s clearly batzoid. No offence, mister.’

  ‘None taken. Give me two minutes. If you aren’t totally satisfied with the results you can have your money back.’ He took the tin and clambered out of the gorse. Through the gap they could see him sprinkling black powder in great arcs across the path. He stared down towards the railway line briefly and then dodged back into the bushes. ‘I think we had better retire to a safe distance, don’t you?’

  They climbed up the valley and through a line of trees. They crouched behind a tumble-down stone wall and observed. The hunters left the railway line and started up the access path. When the hounds reached the powder they all ran round in circles and howled. Then most of them sat down and started scratching, their long back legs raking furiously at their ears and collars. The hunters pushed and prodded them; eventually resorting to sticks. But the dogs wouldn’t move.

  ‘He he he. Greybeard’s own special mixture.’ He tapped his nose and winked. ‘Not keen on hunting dogs, me. Not their fault, really, but they’ve got some nasty habits when it comes to foxes. And children!’ He laughed.

  ‘Well, thank you,’ said Push. ‘That was really kind of you, but we have to keep going I’m afraid. Nice to meet you, again.’ They started heading off.

  ‘Well, you could do that,’ said Greybeard, cheerfully. ‘Or you could come and have a bite of supper with the missus and me.’ He patted the bag with the rabbits. ‘Stew tonight.’

  They hesitated. ‘It might interest you to know that I live in a part of this forest that is very difficult to find, even if you know these parts.’ He took a small tin whistle from his top pocket and started trilling, tunelessly.

  ‘Well, I suppose…’ said Lewis.

  ‘That’s settled then,’ said Greybeard.

  Chapter Sixteen

  He led them deeper and deeper into the woods. Something reminded Push of the story about gingerbread men. Or was it the one with a witch and a cottage? But there was something about Greybeard that engendered trust, even if he was a bit wacky.

  Lewis kept an eye on the sky. Whenever he caught a glimpse of the sun, he confirmed that they were still travelling in a southerly direction.

  ‘How far do you think we are from Southampton, Mr Greybeard? asked Lewis.

  ‘About 25 of your earth miles. And it’s plain “Greybeard”. Not “Mr”. Not for years.’

  ‘That’s two night’s walk,’ said Lewis, ‘We could be there the day after tomorrow. I think it’s time we contacted Arseface again.’ He caught up with Greybeard. ‘Do you mind if we stopped for a minute? Push has a little errand to perform.’

  ‘Not a problem, young sir.’ and he immediately squatted on a fallen log. Push sat next to him and pulled out her mobile. He leaned over to take a look.

  ‘Ooow! Modern magic! I love magic. Is it powered by pixies?’ he said and winked at her. Then he turned away and stared wistfully at nothing in particular. ‘Not dead keen on electricity, to be honest. It makes your karma seep away – seriously drains your astral batteries.’ He edged slowly away from her.

  ‘Now remember what we agreed,’ said Lewis. If the government spooks are monitoring the phone networks, their machines will pick up on any words that they programme in.’

  ‘Ooow, have I wandered into some kind of anarchist cell?’ chuckled Greybeard.

  ‘Here goes,’ said Push and dialled the number. ‘Can I speak to Mr Wenger?’

  A posh-sounding voice at the other end said, ‘Yarse.’

  ‘Hello, Arsef… Hello Mr Wenger. This is March and March Limited. PLC,’ she added for good measure. ‘I’m calling about the package we ordered from you.’

  ‘Yarse.’

  ‘We expect to be at our rendezvous point in two and a half days.’ she said in her primmest voice. ‘Will you be able to deliver the package as we discussed?’

  ‘Yarse.’

  ‘And will you be able to bring it personally?’

  ‘Yarse.’

  ‘Is he even listening?’ said Push, staring up at the other two.

  ‘Yarse.’

  ‘Is that a definite yes, Mr Wenger?’

  ‘OF COURSE IT IS,’ said Arseface in his normal voice. ‘Now, get off the line!’

  Push looked worried.

  ‘Well, it’s in the lap of the gods now,’ said Lewis.

  ‘Best place for it,’ laughed Greybeard, even though he didn’t really know what they were talking about.

  Push put away her phone and sat quietly staring into the distance with her hands on her knees. Greybeard had already set off up the track, whistling.

  ‘Do you suppose he’s dead?’ she said softly.

  ‘Arseface? You’ve just been talking to him,’ said Parker.

  ‘Not Arseface. The man on the railway line. Do you suppose he’s dead?’

  ‘Yes, I think he’s dead,’ said Lewis. There was no way of sugar-coating it.

  Push began to cry silently.

  * * * * *

  They skirted along the base of a cliff, picking their way through boulders the size of houses. The rocks had worked their way loose from the top of a cliff in a process that had been going on since the last ice-age. Thick scrubby bushes sprouted from every available crevice. The top of the cliff was lined with overhanging cedars.

  They came to a small clearing under a ledge of rock, forming a sheltered bowl. In the middle of clearing was a dome-shaped tent. It was made of bent-over sticks and covered with bits of canvas and plastic sheeting. It was daubed liberally with moss and mud to fill in the cracks. Three goat were tethered by the cliff face, munching contentedly on prickly bushes. There were chickens running loose everywhere and a couple of cats sleeping on a pile of logs. A plume of smoke drifted gently up from a campfire in front of the tent. The word; “HIPPYCAMPUS” was painted onto a sign leaning against the tent.

  A woman was sat, cross legged, at the entrance to the tent. She was knitting. She had a blue headscarf in her hair, which was similar to Greybeard’s in colouring and consistency.

  ‘This is my bird,’ said Greybeard proudly.

  ‘Don’t call me “bird”,’ said the woman, looking up at last and smiling at the children. ‘I’m not a bird, I’m your loving partner. Silly sausage! He never could get the hang of gender politics,’ she winked at Push.

  Greybeard started again. ‘This is my “loving partner”, Bluenettle,’ he said.

  ‘Don’t call me “Bluenettle”, said the woman, in a sing-song welsh accent. ‘He makes up the silliest names for me. He calls me nettle because he says I’ve got a bit of sting to me.’

  ‘And I calls her blue,’ said Greybeard, ‘cos…’

  The woman held up her hand. ‘They won’t want to hear about that. You daft git. My real name is Jennifer. And his is Trevor,’ she giggled.

  Greybeard looked crestfallen for a moment.

  ‘Welcome to our home,’ she said. ‘you can stay here, eat here, sleep here, if you like. And I think you’ll find our charges are very modest.’

  ‘Oh,’ said Lewis, patting his pockets in embarrassment. ‘I’m afraid we don’t have any money.’

  ‘Who said anything about money?’ said Jennifer. ‘All that is required is that you tell us your story. That’s the standard tariff around here.’

  * * * * *

  Push declined the rabbits but tucked cheerfully into the creamy vegetable broth she was served. The other two were happy to sample bunny-rabbit for the first time.

  ‘This is delicious,’ said Parker, ‘I wish my mum could cook like this.’

  ‘You could cook like this if you put the effort into it,’ chided Jennifer.

  The campfire was stoked up and they lent back contentedly as the shadows lengthened. Greybeard lit a pipe and got out a stone jug of something he described as cider. The child
ren politely declined.

  ‘What’s it all about, then?’ he said and he cackled for no apparent reason.

  ‘Yes, let’s have it,’ said Jennifer. ‘Why is a bunch of people with guns and dogs interested in three little shrimps like you? What makes you Enemies Of The People?’

  Parker led off with the whole new government thing and Greybeard made chortling noises as if this was all news to him. Push picked up the story from the Summer Camp. Lewis took over when she got to the big breakout. But he failed to mention his pivotal role so Push interrupted and explained that they were in the presence of the world-famous Spoticus.

  ‘Spartacus, is it?’ said Greybeard. ‘I know a bit about him. He didn’t come to a very good end, I seem to remember.’ Jennifer kicked his heel and he stopped talking.

  ‘So what’s next?’ she asked.

  ‘Got to get to Southampton,’ said Lewis.

  ‘Ooow, that’s going to be tricky,’ said Greybeard. ‘I’ve never seen so many soldier boys at large. I travel from one end of these woods to the other everyday. On my little duties,’ he said, pointing at his game bag. ‘And every time I look out over the fields I see another convoy of blooming lorries going this way or that way. And more helicopters than bluebottles round a cow-pat.’ He lent back on his elbows and took a long tug on his pipe.

  ‘We have got some friends at the other end of the wood who might be able to help you. Nice people,’ he said dreamily. ‘We trade with them. They get us stuff from the shops in the village and we give them rabbits and a few root vegetables. I think you’d get on well with them. Take you to them if you like?’

  ‘Yes, but not just now,’ said Jennifer. ‘They need some kip.’

  ‘We have to get going,’ said Lewis, but he couldn’t keep his eyes off the inviting tent.

  ‘Three hours,’ said Jennifer. ‘That’s all. We’ll wake you up at midnight, promise.’

  * * * * *

  All three of them were reluctant to relinquish the snug pile of blankets that Jennifer had tucked them under. Lewis sat up and consulted his wrist watch in the light of a lantern swinging in the door of the tent.

  ‘Time to go,’ sang Greybeard.

  Jennifer gave them all a hug and handed each a parcel wrapped up in grey paper and string. ‘Tuck those in your tunics. Keep you going for a couple of hours at least.’

  They turned as they left the clearing. The moonlight picked out her waving figure briefly before she shrank back into the shadows.

  ‘Who are these people we are going to see?’ asked Parker as he jogged alongside Greybeard.

  ‘They are what I believe you call Goths.’

  ‘GOTHS!’ said Parker. He stopped dead in his tracks. ‘Goths! I hate Goths.’

  ‘Now that ain’t very nice,’ said Greybeard. ‘Why do you hate Goths?’

  ‘Well, because they’re all so morbid… and black.’

  ‘That’s all you see on the outside, innit? You haven’t actually talked to any recently, have you? Fact is, they’re outsiders, just like you. And they’ve been on the run much longer than you have. Ever since these camps started.’

  ‘I like Goths,’ said Push. ‘Leastways, I like the make-up.’

  ‘Yeah, but the music!’ said Lewis.

  ‘Goths!’ said Parker.

  * * * * *

  Greybeard led them over a stile into a small field on the edge of the hill. In the moonlight they could make out the outline of tents. Plumes of smoke from dying fires wafted this way and that in the light breeze. He made a noise like an owl, squatted down and waited.

  After two minutes, nothing had happened, so he got up again. ‘Always was a dozy lummox. Think we better try a more conventional approach. VIZZY,’ he shouted. At last, a torch beam erupted inside the nearest tent. It wobbled slowly to the tent flap. A face emerged, picked out by the torch beam.

  ‘Greybeard?’ said the voice, ‘It’s the middle of the night.’

  ‘Vizzy, me old mate, I’ve got a job for you.’

  * * * * *

  The powwow lasted half an hour. Vizzy sat by the fire, which she had re-enlivened with a few logs, and pulled her long leather coat around her knees.

  Greybeard acted as their advocate, laying out their story and asking for Vizzy’s help. Lewis was doubtful but Vizzy picked up on the significance of the mission in no time.

  ‘And when you get to Southampton?’ she asked.

  ‘We’re not entirely sure about that,’ said Parker. ‘But plans are being developed,’ he added hopefully.

  ‘Brilliant,’ said Vizzy. ‘It’s about time somebody stuck it to Jackman’s lot. They’ve been harassing us for weeks.’

  ‘Why haven’t they rounded you up? We heard that snatch squads have been out for days now, pulling in anyone who isn’t in a camp.’

  ‘Oh, they just ignore us. Seems we’re not a high priority. I guess they think we’re untrainable. We get a worse time from the villages and towns we go through. Mostly they just chase us off. A few shopkeepers are happy to take our money but they won’t let us camp. That’s why we’re up here in the woods. We’re trying to get to Wales. Jennifer says, “everything is lovely in Wales.”’ Vizzy imitated her accent.

  ‘Well, they don’t have a Jackman, that’s for sure,’ said Push.

  ‘So can you help?’ asked Lewis.

  ‘Love to,’ said Vizzy. ‘Whatever you can do to piss Jackman off is fine by us.’

  ‘We’ll have to get going while it’s still dark.’

  ‘No need for that,’ said Vizzy. ‘Like I say, they just ignore us at the moment.’

  Push looked at the faces around the fire. Greybeard had disappeared. She could just make out his shadowy figure retreating towards the trees.

  ‘Greybeard,’ she called. He stood at the edge of the wood and waved. ‘Bye,’ she called softly.

  Chapter Seventeen

  The Second Battle of Southampton Road took place two days after the incident with the tank.

  Things had not been going entirely smoothly for Lydia. There was a constant erosion of their numbers as children succumbed to upset stomachs, the common cold, festering blisters or plain old home sickness. A fleet of ambulances was held in reserve by the police. One by one the sick were ferried away. No one was entirely sure where they were being taken but Lydia had the Chief Constable’s word that they would be well treated. For some unfathomable reason, Boris Pickles continued to stick it out despite moaning constantly.

  Looking on the bright side, every hour brought new recruits, streaming down the slip roads from the surrounding towns and villages. Some had marched for days to intercept them.

  The new marchers brought new problems. The march was now strung out over several miles. It was difficult to maintain communications between the tail and the head. Lydia set up a team of runners drawn from fit volunteers. They made their way up and down the route, taking orders from the leaders, listening to problems from the foot sloggers.

  The Disappearance of Spoticus problem didn’t go away, either. At every bridge, hordes of journalists and TV people fired questions down at them. ‘Where’s Spoticus? Where’s Spoticus?’ Piperdy wrote out a statement. It read, “Mr Spottiswood is too busy to talk to you lot so bog off”.

  Catering was on a different scale now. The road was almost as big as a motorway and service stations were few and far between. They had hit on the idea of pizza deliveries quite early on. But even the larger towns could only supply a fraction of their needs. And a slither of pizza is worse than none at all.

  Then Piperdy suggested using supermarket delivery services. He rustled up a web-activated phone and they made a big-time order. Lydia got a call from the supermarket manager. He couldn’t quite believe the size of the order. Or the delivery address. When Lydia confirmed the gold card number he became more co-operative.

  ‘I’m going to have to call in favours from every branch in the South,’ he said, ‘but you’ll have your delivery by six o’clock this evening.’ The police let t
he vans through early that evening and a swarm of quartermasters descended on the convoy, devouring shopping bags and bakery trays like locusts. Every preference was catered for and everyone went to sleep fully sated. Apart for Boris Pickles, who complained that he would normally be tucking into a ricotta and broccoli quiche about this time.

  But the biggest headache for Lydia was the certain knowledge that the General would be back for another go.

  * * * * *

  ‘Of course we are going to have another go,’ said the General. ‘That skirmish at the bridge was just my opening gambit. This time we’re going to arrest the lot of them.’

  He had patiently explained his tactics over and over to his lieutenants until they began to get the picture. Of course he had meant to surrender his gun – that was a deliberate ploy to try to gain the confidence of the protesters. Of course he had meant to let them stream past the blockade – there was no sense in detaining them once those morons from Military Intelligence had screwed everything up with their ill-fated snatch operation.

  ‘I’m just biding my time,’ he said. But, in reality, he had only hours to get the job done. Jackman had promised to demote him to private if he screwed up a second time.

  ‘This time, we go in hard and we go in tooled-up. They won’t be expecting that.’

  This, of course, was exactly what Lydia was expecting. It was just that she didn’t know when it would happen. Nor did she have a clue what they would do when they were finally met by the full force of the army.

  * * * * *

  By the time twenty Goths emerged from their tents the next morning they had been transformed. Tired and grubby faces were replaced by immaculately pale foundation make-up. Ruby, sun-ripened lips were masked in livid purples and coal blacks. Every eye had a lining and every eyebrow was arched. Each head of hair had been sprayed and straightened until it had set solid in whatever attitude its owner desired.

  As for the clothes! Push couldn’t imagine how they carried such a wardrobe. It was fair to say that black was the predominant colour, set off by the occasional splash of red tartan or blue velvet. Leather, chains, dog-collars, lacy gloves, frilly cuffs, even top hats all competed for attention. Every seam was straight and every top coat freshly pressed.

  ‘Epic,’ Push whispered. ‘It’s like they’re going to a party.’