‘Gemma?’
She stopped. ‘Yes?’
‘All I want is for us to stay together, that’s all,’ John said. She started to say something in response, but he held up his hand. ‘I know what Henry said, and I know that you won’t be with me exclusively, but whatever time you’ve got spare, if Henry is all right about it, I would like you to share it with me.’
Gemma grinned and then bit her lip seductively.
He laughed, she knew how to play him, and went back to rummaging, pulling old pieces of machinery to one side, a bit more skip in his step. At the back, covered in dust, he found some animal traps, with metal hinges and strong serrated jaws. They were dusty, with rust on the edges, and so he wasn’t sure if they worked anymore.
He set one of the traps, his arms straining as he pulled on the jaws, until he felt it click into place. He found an old bamboo cane against the wall and placed it in the trap. He didn’t have to push hard before the jaws snapped together, sending one end to the floor, leaving him with a piece of bamboo with a jagged end. He liked it. There were six of the traps, and he carried them outside. Three for the field, two on the path that ran in front of the house, leaving one by the back door. It got dark there, with no lights shining at the back, and so whoever was coming wouldn’t find out until the jaws snapped around their ankle. He just had to make sure that everyone knew about them.
John took a deep breath and looked around to see what else he could use to secure the compound. Then he saw it. The red fuel tank, filled with the petrol they used to run the quad bikes and the old cars that were parked behind the end barn. They bought cheap cars from auction and ran them until they broke down. He could make petrol bombs, because there was a store full of bottles, ready for use with the home brew.
He went outside to set the traps and then he filled a barrow with empty booze bottles and wheeled them towards the house. When he got inside, he saw that the Elams were already nailing the barbed wire to the windows, following Gemma’s lead, creating a spider’s web across each one, nailing the wire half in and then bending the nail over. Peter wasn’t doing much good. He wasn’t the sort who was used to physical work, and so he bent more nails than he pushed in, but it was the effort he was putting in that John admired.
Jennifer looked back and grinned. ‘This will keep them out.’
‘I hope so, I really do,’ John said, ‘but leave a space in the middle of each one. We’re going to make petrol bombs. If they get the grilles off, we can fight back with those.’
Jennifer’s eyes widened at that. She liked the thought.
John pointed to the wheelbarrow by the door and addressed the other young women that were left. ‘Fill those from the fuel tank. Dip a rag in the petrol, get it soaked, and then jam the cloth hard into the neck. I want ten under each window. We’ll work out how to make a catapult, so we can use them when they are further away.’
As the women scurried off, John went to the cabinet where the old man kept his shotguns. There were three of them, and a box of cartridges. The last firearms licence was a few years old now, due for renewal. John guessed that he wouldn’t be applying for another.
The cabinet was in the hallway next to the old man’s room. As he pulled out one of the shotguns, there was a moan from the room.
John pushed open the door, one of the few rooms that had one, the shotgun still in his hand. Henry wanted to keep the old man locked away. As the door creaked open, the old man looked at him. His eyes were yellow, his skin pale grey. He tried to make sounds, but all that came out were strangled moans. His head lifted as if he was making an effort to get up, but he just flopped back onto the bed, his head turned to one side.
Dawn brushed past him, pushing John into the doorframe. ‘I’m going to feed him, and change him,’ she said, her eyes fierce. ‘Don’t think about stopping me. Henry hasn’t said that we shouldn’t.’
John didn’t say anything. Instead he just watched as Dawn went to him and lifted a cup to his lips. He drank gratefully, even though he couldn’t lift his arm to grip the cup. As the sheet fell away, John saw the ribs jutting through the skin, through the soiled vest, his shoulders sharp and bony.
‘Get some bread,’ Dawn said. ‘And heat some soup. He’s starving to death.’
The old man shook his head, not much more than a tremor, and then looked towards the gun. He nodded, almost invisibly, his mouth hanging open, his eyes yearning, but John saw it all the same. He was straining towards the gun before he flopped back onto the bed, his chest rising up quickly, his lungs working like pistons, his breaths coming out as loud rasps.
‘He wants me to kill him,’ John said quietly, looking down at the shotgun in his hand.
Dawn shook her head. ‘No, that is not what we are about, you know that, John. Come on, get some soup. He’s dying.’
There was a click next to him, the snap of metal, and Gemma appeared in the doorway alongside him. She was holding one of the other shotguns.
‘Henry hasn’t told us to feed him.’ Gemma raised the shotgun. ‘So are you going to go against him? Are you going to be the one who betrays us?’
Dawn’s eyes flashed between the shotgun and the old man, then to John, looking around the room, pleading, scared. ‘We can’t do this,’ she said, her voice cracking. ‘It’s inhumane.’
‘Come out,’ Gemma said, her voice lacking in tone, flat and emotionless, and she twitched the shotgun.
Dawn put the cup down and walked towards the doorway, her shoulders slumped. When she went past John, she looked up at him, stared into his eyes, and he read what she was thinking, that it was all wrong.
John looked towards the old man, and doubts surfaced, because he looked close to death, emaciated and bedridden, and John knew it was cruel.
Gemma spoke up. ‘John, help me.’
When he glanced back towards her, he felt his doubts slip away.
John turned round to push Dawn on her shoulder, so that she stumbled towards the bottles now piled in one corner.
‘Sit there, don’t move,’ he said, and then he walked towards the door that opened onto the field.
Someone had to keep watch.
Chapter Thirty-Three
As Charlie looked at the contents of the Billy Privett file spread across the table, Donia asked, ‘So what is the story? The real story?’
‘You’ve heard of Billy Privett?’
She nodded. ‘Everyone’s heard of Billy Privett. That’s why I came to Oulton.’
Charlie was surprised. ‘What, because of Billy?’
‘Not exactly,’ she said, smiling, knowing how it sounded. ‘I knew which firm represented him, and so I guessed that you were important.’
‘And now, you’re disappointed?’
‘I didn’t expect you to be how you are,’ she said.
‘What, some small practice above a takeaway?’
‘Something like that,’ she said, embarrassed.
‘You don’t need fancy offices if you do criminal work,’ Charlie said. ‘Just somewhere convenient for the clients and not too far from the court.’
‘So about Billy?’
Charlie sighed. ‘He was just a loser who got lucky once in his life,’ he said, waving his hand dismissively. ‘Six numbers, that’s what changed him. He was a pain in the arse before he won it. Afterwards, he was a pain in the arse who suddenly thought he was a big deal.’
‘But was he a murderer?’