Spoticus

  Around about teatime, they came to a service station that had a mini-market attached to it. Lydia and her newly appointed team of quartermasters walked up to the front door and politely asked to speak to the manager.

  ‘We’d like to purchase some things in your shop.’

  ‘I’ll bet you would,’ said the manager. ‘I’ve seen you lot on the news and I’ve been expecting you all day. If you think one of you rebellious little animals is setting foot in this store, you’ve got another thing coming. Just move on by.’

  ‘Will this do?’ asked Lydia and she presented him with a gold card. It glinted in the lowering sun. His eyes went wide and he mumbled, ‘That will do nicely. Please step inside.’

  By the time they had finished, the only things left on the mini-market’s shelves were potatoes. They even raided the bathroom counter, paying particular attention to blister plasters. Much to Parkers disgust, some people had requested toothbrushes and toothpaste. Every loaf of bread, every piece of fruit and every tin was gone in seconds.

  ‘Don’t bother totting it up,’ said Lydia to the manager. ‘Just charge what you think is fair.’ She smiled sweetly.

  * * * * *

  Half a mile further up the road, they all disgorged into fields on either side of the road and made to camp for the evening. Push’s teams disappeared into a nearby coppice and came back with armfuls of logs. Before long there was a huddle of children around each campfire. Pans were unpacked and steam began to rise.

  A constant crocodile of children moved up and down the road to the nearest lay-by and the newly installed portaloos. A farmer turned up on his quad bike, took one look, shook his head and disappeared with his dogs running behind him.

  ‘It looks,’ said Parker, ‘as though we’re unstoppable.’

  ‘Something like that,’ said Lewis.

  The plunder from the mini-market would ensure that everyone had about enough to eat that night but there wasn’t enough to waste. Each campfire presented itself to the quartermasters in turn and was given its allotted share. Arguing about quantities was frowned upon and the quartermaster’s word was final.

  ‘Budge up,’ said Push as she sat down on the log next to Lewis and dipped her spoon into a bowl of milk and Sugarpuffs. She looked perplexed. ‘What the hell are we doing here?’ she asked. It was half past ten and the pinky sky was just giving way to velvet purple. ‘We’re in the middle of nowhere, camping in a field! I’ve never been camping in my life and I thought I never would. We’re going God knows where and we don’t know what we’re going to do when we get there.’

  ‘We’re going to do whatever we can do,’ said Lewis.

  ‘That’s the plan, is it?’ she said and plopped her spoon into the cereal.

  ‘It’s the best I’ve got,’ said Lewis.

  Lydia poked the fire with a long stick. ‘Come on. At least we’re out of that bloody school. At least we don’t have to be pushed around by zombies anymore.’

  ‘At least I can get away from Parker’s snoring,’ said Push. ‘I’m turning in.’ She gathered up her sleeping bag and stumped off into the gloom.

  Chapter Twelve

  The battle of Southampton Road came about an hour into the following day’s march.

  Lewis had no way of estimating how many had joined their little army. But the little journalist dude who kept turning up on a motorbike said that he thought it was about 18,000 by now. At the first intersection they were met by a stream of marchers, seemingly as large as their own.

  ‘We must be a million strong, now,’ said Parker.

  ‘Something like that,’ said Lewis.

  * * * * *

  Devonish’s helicopter circled the march. All other helicopters had been cleared from the skies. He was at liberty to sweep up and down the march, picking his targets. Specialist equipment mounted at the open door of the chopper was focusing in on individual children. Facial recognition programmes jabbered and jumped as they sifted through each image and matched them up to a databank. Devonish himself was reviewing the file called “Known Troublemakers”.

  ‘Do we have him yet?’ said Devonish.

  ‘Yes,’ said his companion. ‘He’s about 50 metres from the front. He’s wearing a khaki uniform and a beret.’

  ‘They’ve ALL got khaki uniforms and berets,’ said Devonish, burying his head in his hands.

  ‘And he’s got a yellow sleeping bag tied to the top of his rucksack.’

  ‘Good,’ said Devonish.

  ‘And he’s limping,’ said the man, helpfully.

  ‘Have you tagged him?’

  ‘Oh, yes,’ said the man. ‘We got a dart into his rucksack about five minutes ago. The tracker will keep an eye on him.’ He pointed to the monitor screen where a little yellow blip of light indicated one of the figures in the march below them.

  * * * * *

  The General was a modern general. He knew that the modern army couldn’t just do its soldiering and then go home. The modern army had to live in the Age of Communications. It had to be sensitive to Public Opinion. When it came to the business of rounding up a few naughty school children it wouldn’t do to go in too heavy-handed.

  ‘Overkill,’ he said to his second-in-command, ‘we have to avoid overkill. It mustn’t look like David and Goliath, you know. We don’t want anyone bleating in the papers about mistreating the little darlings, do we?’ Although, he thought to himself, that seemed unlikely these days.

  ‘No, we go in light. One platoon only. Put on a bit of a show for the cameras. I shall personally arrest the ringleader. I’m sure he’ll cooperate when he realises that the alternative is likely to be messy. And we’ll have one tank, just for effect,’ he said, as an afterthought.

  * * * * *

  Lewis and Lydia were at the head of the march, nervously eyeing a helicopter that was slowly hopping over the hedgerows in the adjacent fields. Push caught up to them and pulled on Lewis’s sleeve. ‘Can you make that out?’ she said, pointing up the road.

  They had the south bound lane of the dual carriageway to themselves. The police had blocked it to traffic and motorists were squeezing up and down the north carriageway in single file. Some were hooting, some were waving. They were on a long straight stretch of road, hemmed in by deep drainage ditches on each side.

  ‘It’s a tank,’ said Parker. ‘It’s a stonking great army tank.’

  They could all make it out now. There was a line of lorries right across the road under a bridge. In front of them stood a green camouflaged tank. Its brutal-looking muzzle was pointing directly towards them.

  ‘They cannot be serious,’ said Push.

  Lewis shrugged. ‘I expect we’ll find out in a minute.’

  The marchers slowed to a confused halt about 100 metres from the tank. A megaphone crackled and a voice said, ‘Is this thing on?’ and then coughed.

  ‘Children of England,’ boomed the voice. The Government has declared your march illegal and, for your own safety, you will be returned to your schools and families. I trust you will understand that this is for the best and give me your full co-operation. I intend to meet with your leader…’ he unfolded a piece of paper from his pocket and read, ‘… a Master Lewis Spottiswood, to accept your complete and unconditional surrender.’

  They watched the figure on the tank put down the megaphone and scrambled down from the turret. He got stuck halfway and had to be helped by a squaddie. He sauntered down the road towards them, as though he was on a nice Sunday walk with his family.

  ‘What do we do?’ said Parker.

  ‘Let’s wait and see what he has to say,’ said Lewis. ‘Looks like he’s coming on his own.’

  ‘Unconditional surrender!’ huffed Push. ‘He can stick it up his unconditional …!’

  She was cut short by a loud explosion behind them.

  ‘What the…’ said Parker, as they strained to see over the waiting marchers. A cloud of orange smoke was billowing indiscriminately from the central reservation about 100 metres back. Child
ren in a semi-circle around it were cowering away. Some were teetering dangerously on the lip of the drainage culvert on their side of the road. Five or six figures were darting in and out of the slow-moving traffic on the other carriageway. They were all dressed in black, with body armour and balaclavas. Some of them had automatic machine guns slung round their shoulders. Two of them had what looked like night-vision goggles clamped to their faces. They careened over the north carriageway, bouncing over cars and dodging skidding lorries.

  There was a crack, a flash of light and blue smoke started issuing from the feet of the screaming children nearest the attack.

  Back up the road, the General spoke into his headpiece. ‘What the devil’s going on, Spenser?’

  A crackly voice came back to him. ‘Looks like Military Intelligence, sir.’

  ‘Why weren’t we informed?’ shouted the General, turning and gesticulating at the troops behind him.

  ‘Because they never inform us, sir?’ supposed his Lieutenant. The General could just make out Spenser shrugging from his vantage point on the bonnet of a waiting truck.

  The General was good in a crisis. He knew how to adapt to changing circumstances, even if they weren’t as favourable as he had anticipated. He stood his ground for a moment and then decided to walk forward.

  ‘Which one of you,’ he bawled, ‘is Lewis Spottiswood?’

  Absolutely nobody took any notice of him.

  The snatch squad had reached the children and were diving into the crowd, apparently searching for someone. ‘Everyone is to keep perfectly still,’ shouted one of the commandos and tossed another smoke grenade.

  Crowds have difficulty understanding two contradictory orders at once. Standing Still and Explosions are not compatible. With one mind, they panicked. The children behind the action edged nervously back up the carriageway in the direction they had come. The children in front of the skirmish started running towards the waiting army vehicles.

  ‘Bugger me,’ said Parker, ‘we’d better get out of here.’ They all started moving rapidly towards the General. Now a crack of machine gun fire sounded from the tank direction and whizzed over their heads. They froze.

  The General turned back, looking alarmed. ‘Who gave the order to fire?’

  ‘Sorry, sir,’ came a little voice in his earphone.

  The children fleeing the black-clad figures and their pyrotechnics halted. Danger before them and danger behind. The decider came when the snatch squad let off a few new grenades for added effect, and once again children surged around the General. ‘Stop where you are,’ he shouted as they overwhelmed him. ‘This is a military-controlled zone. You are not to go any further. I demand to speak to Lewis Spottiswood.’

  Somebody tapped him on the shoulder and a quiet voice said, ‘Is this your gun, mate?’

  The General spun round. Parker was waving a black service revolver about, as though it was a light sabre. The General’s hand shot down to his holster and discovered that the catch had been lifted.

  ‘How does it work?’ said Parker.

  ‘Don’t be foolish, boy. That weapon is loaded.’

  ‘Oh, I guessed that. Is this how you take the safety catch off?’ He slipped back the metal bolt on the top the gun.

  ‘Give that back before you do yourself an injury.’

  ‘It’s not pointed at me,’ grinned Parker.

  Events unfolded quickly. The helicopter launched itself from the field in which it was waiting. Lurching across the road, it hovered in the field on the marchers’ side. Six black figures were edging along the side of the drainage ditch and heading for a break in the hedge next to the helicopter. They were dragging a boy by the straps on his rucksack.

  ‘I’m not Lewis Spottiswood. I’m not Lewis Spottiswood,’ the boy protested. ‘I don’t even look like Lewis Spottiswood.’ As they neared, Lewis and his mates tried to make sense of the scene that was unfolding in front of them.

  ‘He does, though,’ whispered Lydia, ‘he looks just like you.’

  Push said, ‘Is that you, mate?’ Lewis punched her arm.

  ‘Why are you picking on me?’ said the boy. ‘I’m not Lewis Spottiswood. That’s Lew….’ and he started to point.

  His gaze met Lewis’s. At once, an understanding passed between them in the blink of an eye. The boy stooped struggling, stood up straight, dusted himself down. With an almost imperceptible wink towards Lewis, he faced his captors. ‘Alright, it’s a fair cop. I AM Lewis Spottiswood. I’ll come quietly.’

  Lewis was overcome with relief and guilt at the same time. He promised himself that he’d find that boy one day and thank him.

  ‘He didn’t look a bit like me,’ said Lewis to Push.

  ‘He could have been your twin!’

  The black figures had reached the helicopter and were bundling the hapless look-alike into a waiting seat and strapping him in. The smoke behind them began to part and the rear section of the march edged forward, mainly out of curiosity.

  Parker shouted, ‘Make way, make way for the General.’ He pushed through the crowd, the General preceding him with his arms raised.

  ‘Shit!’ said Lewis. ‘Is that a gun?’

  ‘Anybody want a general?’ said Parker.

  ‘Nice one, Parker,’ said Lewis. ‘I think this changes everything, don’t you, Lydia?’

  He addressed the General. ‘Are you wired up to that lot over there?’ he said, pointing to the tank.

  ‘I am,’ said the General. ‘But you won’t get anywhere by trying to bully the English Army. We are impervious to threats of personal harm.’

  ‘Well, let’s hope your troops don’t feel the same way about shooting at their commanding officer. Tell them we’re coming through.’

  The cheer that went up at the head of the march convinced the people at the back that their best interest was served by going forward. Bit by bit, the protesters turned into one coherent unit again. Parker turned his prize round and pushed him up the road. He waved the gun ostentatiously to attract the attention of the troops. The General muttered into his microphone. ‘In the interest of public safety, Lieutenant,’ he whispered, ‘I think we better let this crowd through. Don’t want any misunderstandings, do we?’

  Lydia drew Lewis aside. ‘It’s time for you to go, mate. It won’t take that lot in the chopper five minutes to work out that they’ve got the wrong guy. They’re probably DNA-testing him as we speak. You can’t be captured; you’re much too important to the march. The whole thing would grind to a halt if you were taken. I think you’d better hit the road. I know what you’re thinking but I can do it, Lew, I can get this lot to Southampton.’

  Lewis shrugged. ‘Of course you can. I’m just a figurehead; you’re the boss.’

  He fumbled in his back pocket and pulled out his gold card.

  ‘No, hang on to that. You need it. We’ll be alright with two. Take Push and Parker with you. Go rough. Stay hidden. Move only at night. We’ll meet in Southampton, I promise.’

  ‘OK, boss.’ They grinned at each other.

  * * * * *

  Thirty or so gun-toting soldiers stood either side of the road like ushers at a wedding. The marchers squeezed past the lorries. Parker stayed close to the General. He had suddenly realised what a juicy target he would make for someone on the bridge. But the only people up there were TV crews. Dozens of cameras strained down at the parade as they filed through the blockade.

  The General was whispering into his microphone again. ‘Cameras, Lieutenant, remember the cameras. The eyes of the world are watching. No silliness, do you understand?’

  Chapter Thirteen

  About half a mile beyond the bridge, Parker ushered the General to the side of the road. They stood and waited for the main body of the walkers to clear. There were cheers as they filed past the captive. Parker waved his gun and took several bows. When the last of the stragglers had gone, he faced the General and said, ‘I expect you’ll want this back?’

  ‘Do be careful, please,’ said the Ge
neral as Parker clumsily tossed the gun from hand to hand. Then he flipped it over and expertly ejected eight cartridges onto the tarmac.

  ‘Here you go.’ He handed the weapon back to the soldier.

  ‘You little sod! You knew what you were doing all along.’

  ‘My Uncle’s a soldier. He lets me play with his gun from time to time. Don’t come after us or you’ll get more of the same.’ He turned on his heels and followed the marchers.

  * * * * *

  ‘When are we going?’ asked Push.

  Lewis raised his eyebrows. ‘How did you know I’m going? And what makes you think I’m taking you with me?’

  ‘It’s obvious, isn’t it? I saw you in a huddle with Lydia. We don’t have a choice really. They’ll be back with another snatch squad within the hour. Parker and I will be your bodyguards.’

  ‘Just a minute…’ began Lewis.

  ‘Don’t argue,’ said Push. ‘I know you were going to ask us. Lydia told me.’

  ‘I thought this was supposed to be a secret organisation!’

  * * * * *

  Mr and Mrs Spottiswood were having a wonderful time. They hired a car at Malaga Airport and headed up into the Andalusian hills for some peace and quiet. And maybe a spot of walking through orchards and lounging by a pool. The brochure proudly announced that there was no satellite TV. You could escape from the modern world for as long as you liked.

  They were blissfully untroubled by anything concerning their children. Mrs Spottiswood even declared that she was feeling slightly normal again. She couldn’t put her finger on the cause so she assumed it was the sun and the fresh air and the odd glass of sangria. It never occurred to her that a fortnight without English TV, or licking English stamps (or any of that tasty new government yoghurt that was supposed to be so good for you) was having a profound effect on her mental health.

  But two weeks of isolated countryside was about enough. They craved sand and discos. So they headed for the coast to spend a last week amid the tower blocks of the Costa del Sol.

  After a dip in the sea and cooling drinks under the shade of a palm tree, they ambled back to their new hotel. Mrs Spottiswood sat on the bed and dabbed at her hair with a towel. She flicked on the television and announced to her husband that she was just catching up on the news from home.