Spoticus

  ‘Gits,’ said Parker.

  ‘This little trip is going to take you a long way off your route,’ said Lewis over breakfast.

  ‘Doesn’t matter,’ said Vizzy. ‘We haven’t got any appointments for a day or two. But we’re going to get to Wales one day, come what may. It’s our destiny.’

  The tents, the sleeping bags and the utensils disappeared into green rucksacks that looked slightly incongruous against the black-clad figures. Fires were raked over, rubbish was buried discretely and the field went back to its original state. Only squares of white grass where the tents had been and a few piles of ash showed that anyone had passed this way.

  Push had found her bearings and was busy consulting with Vizzy on the route.

  ‘I’ve always wanted to see the Isle of Wight,’ said Vizzy distantly. ‘But you know we can’t come that far with you. Southampton won’t be safe for us.’

  ‘I don’t know how we are going to get to the island. I don’t suppose they will just let thousands of us onto the ferry.’

  ‘So what are you going to do?’

  ‘Play it by ear, I guess.’

  ‘Something will turn up,’ said Lewis.

  At the top of the field they popped over a style set into a stone wall and followed a chalky path south along a ridge. Conifer plantations on either side gave way to straggly Scots Pines and then to open vistas.

  ‘Is that the A34?’ said Parker, pointing down into the valley to his right.

  ‘Guess so,’ said Push, turning her map the right way up.

  ‘Is that the marchers?’

  The road was laid out below them as if someone had dribbled a grey ribbon along the floor of the valley. From their vantage point they could just hear the peeps from frustrated drivers crawling on the north carriageway. The south carriageway was clear immediately below them and then peppered with tiny black figures starting from about a mile away to the north.

  Vizzy was impressed. ‘Wow. There must be millions of them.’

  Push started jumping up and waving. ‘Not advisable,’ said Lewis. ‘Not a chance of them seeing us from here but we don’t want to attract any attention.’

  ‘At least we know we are keeping up with them,’ said Parker.

  The cars seemed to be dwindling in numbers, until only a few stragglers were heading up from the south.

  ‘Strange,’ muttered Lewis. He turned his gaze south.

  Where the terrain broadened out, they could make out a junction with a couple of bridges crossing the main road. There was some activity between and around the bridges.

  ‘Has anyone got a pair of binoculars?’ asked Lewis. A couple of hands went into rucksacks and two were proffered to him. Vizzy took the other pair.

  ‘I can make out some lorries and, OH MY GOD, tanks!’ she squealed.

  ‘Pass me the phone, would you?’ said Lewis quietly, turning to Push.

  * * * * *

  The General stood on the bonnet of a troop-carrier with binoculars in his hands, straining to see what was going on up the road.

  ‘Here they come. Here they come,’ he said as the first of the marchers rounded the distant bend in the road. ‘No mistakes this time, Charlie me boy,’ he mumbled to himself. ‘Even if those press hawks are watching every move. If the little monsters get funny with me again, I’ll give them something to put on their six o’clock news!’

  ‘Sorry, sir. Were you talking to me?’ squeaked a voice in his earpiece. The General flicked his microphone off angrily. ‘How long before they get here?’ he said, turning to his Lieutenant.

  ‘Fifteen minutes,’ said the lieutenant, ‘if they don’t stop this dawdling.

  The dual carriageway was completely sealed for miles in each direction. Both north and south lanes had a line of tanks parked abreast with just enough room for a soldier to squeeze between them. But not the remotest chance that a march could pass. The slopes of the bridge under which they were parked were lined with soldiers three deep. On top of the bridge, every single inch of railing was taken up by a camera or a microphone.

  * * * * *

  Lydia used the zoom on her camera-phone to review the situation. There was no doubt that the blockade under the bridge was completely impenetrable. But she kept the marchers going until they were within 500 metres of the soldiers. Her pondering was interrupted by the sound of her ring-tone.

  ‘Yo, Lewis! Are you safe?’

  ‘Safe enough,’ said Lewis. They briefly compared notes on the past few days.

  ‘Have you seen the roadblock ahead?’ asked Lewis.

  ‘We’ve just spotted it. Don’t suppose you could summon up a couple of thousand dragons or eagles or sommat?’

  ‘Look at the slip roads.’

  Lydia turned to Piperdy. ‘What’s he mean, “Look at the slip roads”?’

  Piperdy started to laugh. ‘What is it?’ asked Lydia. Soon, other picked up on the reason for his amusement. Then everyone was clutching their sides, pointing and screaming.

  ‘The slip road,’ murmured Lydia, ‘I can’t believe it!’ She stood with her back to the bridge and flapped her arms. ‘Shhh, keep it down. They may not have noticed.’ The marchers fell silent.

  She turned back to her phone. ‘Cheers, Lewis. See you on the other side.’

  * * * * *

  The bridge was part of one of those large junctions where one busy road tries to cross another. Two bridges formed part of a roundabout which took the traffic from the crossing road. In between the bridges was a bowl of land, shaped like some ancient Roman amphitheatre. Here, behind the tanks, army lorries were parked nose to tail, waiting to carry off the protestors. There were sloping slip roads on each side of the bridges, both north and south. And those slip roads were unguarded.

  ‘Who’s guarding the slip roads?’ said the General into his microphone.

  ‘B Squad,’ came the answer in his headset.

  ‘No, we’re not,’ said the lieutenant next to him. ‘I’m B Squad. C Squad is doing it.’

  ‘No we’re not,’ said the man next down the row. ‘I thought you said A Squad had it covered.’

  ‘Find out who’s guarding the slip roads,’ said the general into his microphone testily.

  ‘Er, it’s not us,’ said the crackly voice.

  ‘Oh my God,’ said the General.

  * * * * *

  The whole march swept quietly but swiftly up the slip road, Lydia leading the way.

  ‘Get those trucks backed up,’ shouted the General. He clambered awkwardly down from the bonnet of the troop-carrier and tried to squeeze between two tanks. He got stuck about halfway.

  The children streamed around the roundabout and onto the south-bound slip road. Two corporals climbed onto the tanks and tried to pull the General out vertically. ‘Never mind me, get those trucks moving. You have to cut them off before they get back onto the main road.’

  But the trucks were jammed in, forty deep and bumper to bumper. When their drivers could be found, the rearmost lorries fired up their engines and tried to reverse up the road. All the rest had nowhere to go. It was too little and too late. The lead marchers were already back on the road. And although there was a couple of miles of march still to make the crossing, it was too late to trap them all.

  The General unclipped his belt and relieved himself of his gun. A quick yank and he was free. A solid wall of marchers peered down at him from the slip road. He struggled up the bank with assistance from behind from the helpful corporals. ‘You lot; to me!’ he shouted at the soldiers who were guarding the grassy bits under the bridge. They followed him with guns cocked and ready.

  ‘Get out of the way, you little horror bags,’ he shouted as he reached the slip road. He pushed children this way and that, clearing a path towards the roundabout. ‘Platoon. Form up!’ he bawled and pointed at the ground where white lines marked the circumference of the roundabout. Twenty soldiers bustled in, cutting the march in two.

  ‘Halt,’ he shouted at the children. ‘Nobody
passes this point.’ Still puffing and panting from his exertions, the General became conscious that he was surrounded by journalists.

  ‘Are you going to fire on the children, General?’ called a man from the BBC.

  A hardened war correspondent from ITV began speaking solemnly to camera. ‘Not since the fall of Baghdad has such a force of arms been deployed against an opponent so ill-equipped to counter it.’

  On the other side of the road, an NBC reporter wanted to know if it was still safe to be standing so close to the action. ‘I don’t want to get blood on these shoes.’

  More and more cameras crowded in on the General until the soldiers were hemmed in by mics and cables. ‘Are you going to open fire?’ they all clammered. The children, in the meantime, simply stepped around the obstruction and carried on towards the opposite slip road.

  ‘Get out of the way!’ blustered the General at the media scrum. ‘How can we get a clear shot with you lot in the way?’ A microphone made contact with his nose, pushing his head back.

  ‘So you do intend to shoot the children, then?’ asked the London correspondent of The Washington Post.

  The General was bewildered. ‘I… no… we… they… Of course not! What do you take me for?’

  He elbowed his way stiffly out of crush of journalists and called for his men to follow. His priority now, he decided, was to salvage as much of his personal dignity as possible. He commanded his men to fall in line and they marched back down the slope towards the tanks. “Tactical withdrawal”, he said to himself.

  He was met by three of his lieutenants. The middle one walked forward and saluted. ‘What are your orders now, Sir?’ His face was twitching with suppressed laughter.

  ‘Piss off,’ said the General.

  Chapter Eighteen

  The Goths shouldered their packs and headed off down a lane. A slight haze was clearing slowly and, nestling at the end of the valley, they could see a church spire rising from a circle of thatched roofs. In other circumstances, they might even have appreciated the view.

  ‘So,’ said Lewis, ‘you’re into all this romantic literature and anarchy and vampires and stuff, are you?’

  ‘Nah, we just like pissing off our parents, mainly,’ said Vizzy. ‘But we’re not keen on being pushed around. Bit like you, I suppose.’

  The village had a sad feel to it. The only children to be seen were toddlers or babies in buggies. All the adults looked as though there was a part of them missing. They each reasoned that everything was perfectly normal because Colonel Jackman had told them it was. But deep inside they knew it wasn’t right; there were no bouncing balls, there were no ice cream vans, there was no laughter. There were no children.

  Until a gang of Goths appeared in the High Street. Lewis and friends were persuaded to stick to the middle of the group and try not to look conspicuous. Push had gleefully accepted the offer of some jet black lipstick which she had inexpertly applied herself.

  They stopped at a little post office to buy a few supplies. The old lady behind the counter served them in sullen silence. She made a big show of examining Vizzy’s twenty pound note under an ultra-violet light. Satisfied that it was genuine, she slipped it into the till and snarled, ‘Do call again.’ Her son stood at the door, eyeing the shelves to check that nothing disappeared that wasn’t paid for.

  ‘They always treat us like this,’ said Vizzy. ‘We’re outcasts, pariahs, the scum of the earth.’

  ‘How are you paying for all this?’ asked Lewis.

  ‘Let’s just say that my dad is still looking for a replacement for his Jaguar XJ,’ said Vizzy.

  They got a few choice looks from the postman and the vicar but nobody was inclined to interfere with them. A jeep rounded the corner. Lewis, Parker and Push instinctively crouched behind their companions. The soldiers in the jeep slowed and took a good look at the Goths. Deciding they were mostly harmless, they drove on at speed.

  * * * * *

  ‘I’m just popping out for a bit, Mum,’ said the man from the shop as soon as the party of Goths had disappeared round the corner. He lent against the Post Office wall, lit a cigarette and got his mobile out.

  ‘’Ere, Denny. It’s Taz. You know those ads on the telly about that plonker Spoticus? I reckon I’ve just clocked him in our shop. Round up the boys and meet me by the cross in half an hour.’

  * * * * *

  As the dusk gathered, black rain clouds swept in from the west. They climbed a steeply wooded combe along a lane tunnelled by overhanging trees. Where the road levelled off somewhat they discovered small fields behind high stone walls on either side of the road. They looked as though they hadn’t been disturbed for some time.

  ‘This will do,’ said Vizzy.

  They chose a spot where the field dipped and the wind lessened. Rucksacks were unbuckled, tents were unfurled and a steady pile of firewood grew as Goths returned with armfuls from the trees.

  Lewis and friends, who had no shelters to prepare, were on cooking duty. Push started to lay out vegetables for a stew.

  Vizzy wrinkled her nose and stared at the darkening sky. The first spots landed on her upturned face. ‘Better get the tents up first.’ But, before a single tent peg was driven into the ground, the evening quiet was split by the roar of motorbikes tearing up the lane behind them.

  Denny jumped off his scrambler and pushed open the gate. Taz rolled into the field on his quad bike. He was followed by a dozen or so assorted scramblers and quads. They lined up abreast, cavalry style, at the top of the slope.

  ‘Sitting ducks, eh, Tazzer?’ Denny sniggered.

  ‘Let’s go get ‘em. Stuff the Goths as much as you like, all right? But don’t break the boy. He’s worth a packet.’

  They pulled forward in formation and accelerated towards the astonished campers. The rain started in earnest.

  Lewis dropped the billycan he was holding and leapt over the pile of tents and rucksacks. ‘Form a square,’ he shouted. Somewhere in the dusty corners of his memory he found an idea that soldiers in a square formation were invulnerable to cavalry. Something to do with the Battle of Waterloo. British infantrymen grouped together in squares, their muskets and bayonets bristling outwards like a porcupine. The horses naturally refused to go anywhere near pointy metal spikes and their riders could be picked off, one by one, as they circled uselessly around the outside.

  ‘What?’ shouted Vizzy, above the noise of the charge and rattle of rain.

  ‘Quick,’ said Lewis. ‘Form a square. Six to a side. Facing outwards. Grab a stick.’

  They got the idea soon enough and shortly there was knot of Goths in the middle of the field, standing mostly on their camping gear and brandishing firewood. Lewis stood in the middle, stick raised aloft like a battalion commander.

  Lewis’s theory was correct in some respects. The leading bike riders were loath to plough straight into the middle of a bunch of stick-wielding bodies. They broke to the left and right, some becoming unseated as they bashed into each other on the other side. What resulted looked more like the US Cavalry fending off Apaches rather than a scene from the Napoleonic Wars. The defenders began to feel pretty secure. They even ventured to lunge their sticks into the wheels of circling bikes. More than one of the villages came over his handlebars as their front wheels juddered to a splintering halt.

  ‘Nice idea,’ said Vizzy. ‘Where did you get that from?’

  ‘Oh, some old film, I expect,’ said Lewis. ‘The only way you can break a British Infantry Square is if they lose their nerve and run.’

  ‘Right,’ said Vizzy, but her quizzical look displayed a certain amount of scepticism.

  A crack of thunder rolled across the woods. Then a flash of lightning and another ear-splitting rent. The rain fell in stinging rods. Taz led his squadron back to the brow of the slope. The defenders cheered and jeered.

  They regrouped by the gate, in single file formation. ‘Sod this,’ said Taz. ‘I’m going in. Follow me.’ He let his throttle rip and mud shot
from his rear wheels, splattering the riders behind him.

  When he was half across the field the defenders could just about make out Taz’s face through the pelting rain.

  ‘Bugger me,’ said Parker. ‘He’s not going to stop.’

  ‘Hold steady,’ shouted Lewis.

  ‘He’s not going to stop, Lewis,’ said Push. Vizzy tugged urgently at Lewis’s sleeve.

  ‘Keep it together,’ cried Lewis.

  ‘He’s not going to stop, Lewis!’ screamed Vizzy.

  With 20 metres to go, Lewis’s nerve broke. ‘He’s not going to stop. RUN!’

  The Goths scattered in every direction. The quad bike crunched over the bags and tents and slewed round to pursue the nearest group of fleeing defenders. Bikers were everywhere, clubbing down the Goths with sticks or just empty fists. Then jumping off their rides to lay into anyone they could catch. Most of the Goths made for the trees where they stumbled over the fence into relative safety. Lewis, Push and Parker had the same idea but were quickly surrounded by bikes. They stood, back to back, swinging their sticks wildly. But to no avail. Lewis was hauled without ceremony onto the back of a quad. A biker knelt on his back while the driver drove back up to the ridge. Push and Parker were frog-marched behind. Taz was waiting.

  The biker kicked Lewis off the back of the quad bike and he landed at Taz’s feet. ‘That’s him,’ he said. ‘Get him on his feet’.

  Lewis’s brain started calculating:

  Run. Didn’t work last time we tried it.

  Fight them. Too many.

  Play dead. Don’t be stupid.

  Appeal to their better natures. Ditto.

  Pay them off. YES, brilliant! NO, we haven’t got any money.

  Confuse them by doing a strange dance. Maybe not.

  Stubborn defiance. Is that all you’ve got? Yep, stubborn defiance. Might buy some time.

  ‘Take your stinking paws off me, you damn dirty ape,’ he spat. Push and Parker looked at each other nervously.

  ‘That ain’t very nice,’ sneered Taz. ‘After all the trouble I’ve taken to track you down.’

  ‘Can I hit him?’ asked Denny.

  ‘I recognise you,’ said Lewis. ‘You’re the moron from the shop.’

  ‘One more word, runt, and I’ll give you something to remember me by.’ Lightening played on Taz’s leering face.

  ‘You’re the one with the ugly mother. The ugly mother who can’t count and tried to rip us off.’