To See The Light Return. Sophie Galleymore Bird
are we whispering, who’s going to hear us?’ Mrs M whispered back.
‘There could be a lookout at the breakwater, sound carries.’
He could sense an eyebrow being raised, but she kept her opinion to herself.
‘Papa Bear to Baby Bears, Papa Bear to Baby Bears, hold position and get ready for the approaching bowl, over,’ the Major rasped into his walkie-talkie. Mrs M had chosen the call signs, designating herself Goldilocks. Her reasoning, that no one accidentally coming across their wavelength would take them seriously.
‘Baby One to Papa Bear, received and understood, standing by, over,’ came through the walkie-talkie. Tom and his team were in position.
‘Baby Two to Papa Bear, received and understood, standing by, over.’ So were Dick and his team.
‘Baby Three to Papa Bear, received and understood, standing by, over.’ This came through so close he heard Harriet’s voice in stereo, both through the radio and from his left, nearby.
‘Papa Bear to Baby Three, we’re too bunched up, get yourself over to port. No engines, you’ll need to row. Over.’
He could hear Harriet and her team cursing as they hunted in the bottom of their boat for their oars. A clatter of wood as the oars were slotted into rowlocks and then silence. He gave them a couple of minutes, then ‘Papa Bear to Baby Three, give your position, over.’
‘No idea Papa Bear, but we can’t hear you any more. Er … Baby Three. Over.’
‘Roger that.’ It would have to do.
The lights of the oncoming boat were coming closer. The Major reckoned they had another five minutes until it would be upon them. Mrs Mason nudged his shoulder and passed him her hipflask and a piece of flapjack. While he sipped whisky and ate, he heard her going over their weapons, dry-firing to check the mechanisms were in good working order, before loading them with the few bullets they had. Guns were still fairly easy to come by. Ammunition was harder to find.
her moonstruck moment
It had surely been hours. After sitting still for so long in intermittent rain and the chill wind coming in off the water he was freezing, despite his heavy wool jacket. At least the rain was passing over and clouds were clearing. The moon had crossed the midpoint of the sky and was heading for the western horizon. Will yawned and checked his watch by flashing his torch briefly. If Mrs Mason’s information was correct, there was still about half an hour to go before the boat reached her and the Major. So, more waiting.
Hopefully he wouldn’t have to be here much longer, or he might start glowing in the dark, irradiated by the abandoned Trident nuclear submarine facility at Devonport, two miles away from where he was sitting. Stories of what decades of accidents and inadequate storage of materials had done to the local population were legion all across the county. Will reckoned they were rubbish, but still, it made him uncomfortable to be there.
He slumped back against the shack. And heard a scuffing sound, nearby.
He tensed, listening hard.
It came again.
Will held his breath. Should he take a look around the corner of the building, and risk being seen, or wait for whatever it was to come around that corner, and definitely be seen? Whichever it was, he needed to get up. Getting to his feet as quietly as he could, he waited, nerves thrumming with tension.
It was too big to be an animal, unless it was a human-sized animal. A someone, or some thing, from Devonport …
The scuffing separated itself out into shuffling footsteps. Then came a scraping noise, a bang, and silence. A thud and, a few moments later, snoring reverberated through the wood he was leaning against. Shaking off his fear of Devonport, Will surmised he had heard someone coming home to sleep in the shack. Homelessness was endemic in the city. Most of the empty streets of houses had shutters screwed onto the doors and windows as property speculators bought them up and waited for the financial tide to turn. Some were squatted and many of those were crack houses offering the most basic and squalid shelter to addicts. These were controlled by gangs, who protected their own patches under their overlord Spight with a brutal regime of violence and intimidation.
From the resonance of the snores, Will decided he was safe enough. It didn’t sound like the sleeper was going to be waking any time soon. He rested his back against the wall and yawned.
Other sounds roused him from a light doze.
These were simpler to decode. Sniggering, whispering, a harsh laugh. The sounds of young men out to do damage.
‘Stupid fucker’s left the door open, that’s gonna make it easier.’
‘Listen to ’im snore – like a pig!’
‘Who’s gorra light?’
The voices were young, male and drunk, their accents a mix of broad Devon and a hard, urban patois peculiar to Plymouth.
There were three of them. Will had done well in fight training, but he knew he was outmatched. What on earth was he supposed to do now? The significance of what was being said wasn’t really sinking in as he started to back away towards the chain link fence that delineated the dock. Surely the Major would understand if he carried out the rest of his mission from somewhere safer, with a reasonably clear view of the harbour.
There was the sound of flint being struck. A whoosh as something ignited.
‘There you go, stinking dickwad!’
‘Serve you right, pukin’ all over me trainers.’
A whump as flames caught hold.
‘F-u-c-k, look at it go!’ The dirty, cobwebbed window in the wall Will had been leaning against was aglow with flickering light. High-pitched giggling, on the verge of hysteria, told him the lads were still there.
No no no no no. What was he supposed to do now?
‘Shit, is that paint cans?’
‘What? Where?’
‘Back wall. We gotta go, they gonna blow the fuck out the place!’
Sounds of running feet and hoots of laughter.
Will was torn. He wanted to carry on backing away, he didn’t want to run into the burning shack and pull out an unconscious drunk. Any minute now he would get word from the Major and he couldn’t afford to be distracted.
But if he didn’t, someone was going to die.
But he could die if the shed blew up in his face.
But he had a duty; he’d sworn to follow the ethics of the resistance, co-opted from the international Permaculture movement. Earth care, people care, future care. If this wasn’t people care, what was?
The peeling paint on the back wall of the shack began to blister.
Swearing loudly, Will ran around to the front, where roiling black smoke was pouring out of the open door. Pulling off his hat and holding it over his nose, he switched on his torch and ran inside, keeping low to avoid the worst of the smoke. The fire had taken hold in a pile of old overalls and cloths to one side of the shed and was spreading fast. Casting the beam of his torch around the interior, he could see the tins of paint, but no sign of the drunk.
A hacking cough over to his right. Will crouched, peered into the beam of the torch, and spotted an old man lying on another pile of rags and overalls on the other side to the fire.
Stuffing the hat in his pocket and holding his breath, Will darted further in, grabbed the old man under the arms and heaved him off his bed of rags. An explosion of sparks as the blazing pile tipped, and now the flames were creeping closer to the paint tins and the temperature in the shed was rising rapidly. The old man struggled as he started coming back to consciousness and, startled,