Over by Christmas Page 2

  “A bit more, I think,” Ruth said. “Mister Mitchell and Isaac rescued her near the beginning of the Blackout, when she was ten. She was abducted in Ireland, brought to Britain by some horse traders. But she doesn’t like talking about it.”

  “My point is, she’s used to being alone,” Eloise said.

  “But not while in a wheelchair,” Ruth said.

  “She’s back at work now,” Eloise said, “so she must be recovering.”

  “But she’s still in that chair,” Ruth said. “I do worry it might be permanent. Now she’s spending the holidays alone, when almost everyone she knows is away at war.”

  That was part of the reason for her worry. The other part was that she felt responsible. Anna Riley had been shot because she had been in the lead climbing the stairs, but the man holding the shotgun had been Simon Longfield’s father. Simon had been her friend at the academy. But then Ruth had learned he’d been spying on her, and the Serious Crimes Unit’s investigation, for his mother. Mrs Longfield was an industrialist who had dreams of wearing Britain’s rusting crown. Simon’s parents had died during the raid which had put Anna Riley in the wheelchair. Isaac had made Simon disappear. Ruth didn’t know if that meant he was alive or dead, nor did she care.

  “You’re worried,” Eloise said. “Of course you are. Anna’s your second-cousin by employment.”

  “She’s my what?”

  “The twins worked it out,” Eloise said. “They’re trying to figure out what Isaac’s place in the universe is, you see.”

  “Them and me both,” Ruth said.

  “Mister Mitchell worked for your mum back when she was a professor in America, so that makes him and Isaac your cousins by employment, and so his daughter becomes a second cousin. I thought she should be your niece, but they decided that was too weird.”

  “Your brothers are weird,” Ruth said.

  “Tell me about it. Have you heard from Isaac?”

  “Not a peep since he disappeared,” Ruth said. “I went down to the docks earlier, but his boat isn’t back either.”

  “Do you think he went to the front?”

  “He must have done. He’s probably with Mister Mitchell, causing trouble in France.”

  When Isaac and his followers were in Dover, Isaac squatted in the police station apartments. The enigmatic Mrs Zhang spent most of her time on their ship, mostly to prevent the navy from commandeering it. Gregory did most of the cooking. The sniper, Kelly, was meticulous, though she treated all property as communal. Isaac acted as if he owned the place, and so had a right to sell it. Despite that, Ruth did worry what had become of him, and his team.

  She retreated to her room to hang up her uniform. The trousers were covered in slush-melt, but due to the power shortage, the launderette had shut up early for Christmas. She’d have to make do with a brush-clean when the uniform was dry. Christmas? It didn’t feel like it. Growing up in the refugee camp, Christmas had been a big deal. There hadn’t been much food, and even fewer gifts, but they’d decorated the schoolhouse, they’d had plays and pantos, songs and stories, and a giant bonfire. They’d had fun. This year, the war had cast a long shadow over the festivities.

  Was it the war? Or was it also the violence she’d witnessed since leaving the police academy?

  During her two months with the Serious Crimes Unit, they’d saved the old prime minister’s life, and that of the American ambassador, a man who seemed certain to win the presidency in the U.S.A.’s upcoming reunification election. They’d stopped coups and plots by politicians, by police officers, and by the leadership of the Railway Company. Counterfeiting. Kidnapping. Murder. So much pain, so much death. So many innocent lives taken, or ruined.

  From her coat pocket, she took out the letter from the convent in Twynham. Postmarked a week ago, it had only arrived that morning. The letter wasn’t long, and penned by the Mother Superior, but was in response to one of her own, written to the man they only knew of as Ned Ludd.

  The young man, an extreme technophobe, had been encouraged to sabotage the telegraph. He’d been arrested, but his delinquent co-saboteurs had all been murdered. No one knew who he was. Even he didn’t know who he was. The poor man could barely string a sentence together, and it was rarely coherent. The charges against Ned had been dropped, and the convent had offered him a room, and work in their gardens. Ned Ludd’s misguided friends hadn’t been so lucky. So much pain. So much misery. So much death. All reduced to a line on the radio’s news bulletin and a pull-out section in the paper.

  She propped the letter on the narrow desk as a reminder to write a reply when she was in a more cheerful mood. Pulling on her favourite moth-chewed baggy jumper, she trekked back out to the living room, where Eloise had turned on the digital projector, left behind by Isaac.

  “Oh, are we watching a movie tonight?” Ruth asked.

  “Absolutely,” Eloise said. “I don’t know when either of us will get another night off. So what do you want to watch?” She cautiously tapped the button on the side of the projector, slowly scrolling through the movies preloaded on the USB.

  “There are a lot more than I thought,” Ruth said.

  “Hundreds,” Eloise said. “It’s got to be nearly all the movies ever made.”

  The cinema in Dover had been closed again to preserve electricity. It had only been open a few months, previously having been shuttered for twenty years due to the latent taboo surrounding old-world technology. The theatre had been shut for the winter, too. The panto had been cancelled. The city gates were closed at nightfall, and a curfew began at ten. There wasn’t much to do in Dover except work, and there was plenty of that for the both of them.

  “How did Isaac get so many films?” Eloise asked.

  “Don’t ask,” Ruth said. “That’s the answer to any question involving him. Ooh, The Remains of the Day, that’s what Remaining Days is based on.”

  “I’ll wait to see it on stage,” Eloise said. “Lord of the Rings?”

  “The books had a lot of walking in them,” Ruth said. “I get enough of that during daylight.”

  “Independence Day? That must be a political movie.”

  “Veto,” Ruth said. “I fancy something silly and distracting, and nothing to do with politics, or policing. Maybe something about animals?”

  “How about this one, The Silence of the Lambs? That sounds pretty tame.”

  “Perfect,” Ruth said.

  Part 1

  Behind the Lines

  Henry Mitchell

  France and Belgium

  15th - 18th December

  15th December

  Chapter 1 - The Front Line

  The Drummond-Dumond Farm, Pas de Calais, France

  Henry Mitchell walked his bicycle north along the icy highway. He’d abandoned any attempt at riding two miles, and three falls, ago. This road was in better repair than most, twenty years after the collapse of the previous civilisation, but the winter storms had left a frosting of frozen mud camouflaging the ice-filled potholes.

  The old road signs told him they were halfway between Calais and Dunkirk, and still on the A16. To the west was the coastal Green Zone. To the east lay the rest of Europe. On paper, the highway marked the front line. In reality, there were no signs of life between his shadow and the horizon. Ahead lay a ruined farmhouse. Behind was a wrecked fuel tanker, gathering rust for twenty years. At his side was his guide, Jean-Luc Roseau, a twenty-three-year-old French trader who’d grown up scavenging along the old highways of Europe.

  “We could still reach Dunkirk tonight,” Jean-Luc said.

  “You mean if I get back on the saddle?” Mitchell asked. “Why the rush? We’ve got plenty of time.”

  “The sooner we reach Dunkirk, the sooner we will get to Belgium,” he said, raising a hand to check his pride and joy, a drooping moustache which nearly reached his chin.

  “But the spy won’t arrive in Nieuwpoort for another week,” Mitchell said.

  “If he’s on time,” Jean-Luc said. “
But if he’s late, we could be waiting in Nieuwpoort for days. We could miss Christmas. There will be a table for you at Monsieur Fry’s restaurant.”

  “Isaac will meet us in Nieuwpoort with his ship,” Mitchell asked. “It’s about five hours sailing to Dover.”

  “If his ship is in Nieuwpoort,” Jean-Luc said.

  “It will be,” Mitchell said. “Isaac is a lot of things, not all of them good, but he is a man of his word.”

  “Bien sûr. But we still need to scout the Belgian harbour for the navy, and the bridges for the army. That will take two days.”

  “So we’ll be done by the twenty-third,” Mitchell said. “You’ll still be back in Dover for Christmas lunch. I might even make it back to Twynham. Regardless, it’s only another sixty kilometres. We’ll camp in the ruins tonight, and still reach the Dunkirk garrison soon after first light. We’ll be across the border by lunch, and in Nieuwpoort by nightfall.”

  “If there are no new orders awaiting us in Dunkirk,” Jean-Luc said. “And whether there are or not, we won’t stop in Dunkirk. It is a week until your spy arrives in Belgium. A week living in the ruins, cooking what we can hunt over wood fires.”

  “I thought you grew up living like that,” Mitchell said.

  “Which is why I take advantage of simple luxuries when they are available,” Jean-Luc said. “The garrison in Dunkirk will have hot showers. Hot food. Maybe even clean clothes.”

  Mitchell glanced down at his slush-speckled trousers. Wearily, he threw his leg over the crossbar and kicked off. “Fine. Dunkirk tonight, Belgium tomorrow, but I’ll want a Christmas dinner from Mr Fry, as well. Two dinners. One for me. One for my daughter.”

  Fifty was a milestone still on Henry Mitchell’s horizon, but it loomed larger each day, casting a shadow nearly as long as the winter sun on the snow-flecked French fields. He should have been back in Dover three days ago, but he’d taken a detour to gather evidence from an enemy mortar attack on the garrison at Ardres. Frustratingly, the enemy had left little behind beyond footprints and bullet casings.

  Until two months ago, the Royal Navy’s intelligence unit had been entirely focused on tidal heights and harbour depths. Following the attack on Calais, a new unit had been formed, run by Commissioner Weaver out of Police House in Twynham, answering directly to the Prime Minister. Henry Mitchell wasn’t the only member of that unit, but where the others sought clues on where the next attack might come, he was hunting the mastermind behind them.

  He’d been given the rank of Inspector-General. No real authority came with the title. Nor did a pay-rise. But the rank rang with sufficient authority that he could ignore the naval officers running the army who didn’t think politicians should be running a war.

  “Monsieur, ahead!” Jean-Luc hissed.

  “Trouble?” Mitchell asked, raising his eyes, though not his head.

  “Les rosbif,” Jean-Luc said. “They have barricaded the bridge.”

  “Why’d they do that?” Mitchell asked, realising the answer even as he spoke. “Because of the railway depot two miles to the south.”

  The A16 followed the coast but always a few kilometres inland. In the south, it led to Abbeville, where it turned inland and towards the rubble of Paris. In the north, it changed its name at the border, but continued on through Belgium, the Netherlands, and Germany, all the way to Denmark and the long-destroyed bridges to Sweden.

  Twenty years after the Blackout, the limited nuclear exchange, and subsequent famines and plagues, ice-age winters and furnace summers, the European Union was little more than an idea. France was in exile, and the United Kingdom was both disunited and on a certain path towards republicanism. But the regiment of conscripts guarding the bridge stood beneath the Union Jack, the old French Tricolour, and the new European Union’s starfield banner.

  “Halt and be recognised!” a young private in conscript-green yelled, her voice rising to a squeak at the end.

  “Inspector Henry Mitchell, Military Intelligence,” he said.

  “Inspecteur-Générale!” Jean-Luc added. “Je suis Commandant Jean-Luc Roseau de la Grande Armée Européenne.”

  The private looked doubtfully at their uniforms, clearly uncertain what to do next.

  “Call your NCO,” Mitchell said. “When presented with a problem, it’s always best to pass it up the chain of command.”

  The private nodded, and hurried away.

  The barricade had been built across the road, partially with broken farm equipment, and partly with the railway ties and tracks which should have been laid over this bridge as part of the new railway’s expansion. Those plans had stalled as the barbarians had swept through Europe.

  “That’s the canal L’Aa?” Mitchell asked, walking over to the side of the bridge. Below, the storm-swollen river lapped around and into a stone-walled fishing shelter with a car-steel roof.

  “The farm on the northern bank belonging to the Drummond and Dumond families,” Jean-Luc said. “They began with a trading post, opened an inn, and then a farm. They maintained this section of the road.”

  “Their gravel and cement repairs hold up as well as any in Twynham,” Mitchell said diplomatically. “Did the families make it to Dover?”

  “Most did. Four cousins went south to find a missing trade caravan. That was eight weeks ago.”

  Mitchell could guess what had happened to them, and to the caravan.

  An officer approached from the farmhouse. Like the private, he wore the hastily produced green tunic and trousers of a recent conscript, but on his belt was a Royal Navy sword, and on his face was the befuddled suspicion of a fish out of water dumped straight into a restaurant’s pick-your-own tank.

  “Howdy,” Henry said, leaning into his childhood American accent. “Inspector Henry Mitchell, military intelligence. We’re scouting northward. You are?”

  “First Lieutenant Donnie Ho, HMS— I mean Captain Donnie Ho, First Kent Fusiliers. Do you have identification?”

  “My badge,” Mitchell said, pulling the chain out from beneath his coat. Unlike the conscripts, he and Jean-Luc wore the unofficial uniform of civilian scavengers: lightweight, artificial, old-world fabrics, all of a mottled grey colour which doubled as camouflage in their semi-frozen world. “You can confirm my authority by sending a telegram to the admiral in Calais. The code word is spangled.”

  “They haven’t laid the telegraph here yet,” Ho said. “We had a radio, but—” He stopped himself, as if worried he was about to reveal a military secret.

  “I bet they have a telegraph at end of the railway line, two miles back,” Mitchell said.

  “Our orders are that no one leaves this post,” Ho said.

  “Well, if you don’t believe us, you should put us under arrest, and give us a meal. If you do believe us, you can just offer us that meal.”

  “And I must inspect the damage for Madame Dumond,” Jean-Luc said.

  “Who’s that?” Ho asked.

  “Madame Dumond, matriarch of the Drummond-Dumond trading clan,” Jean-Luc said. “This is their farm. As representative of the European Union Restoration Council, I shall have to file a report.”

  “A report?” Ho asked, instantly enraged. “There’s a bloody war on!”

  Mitchell hid his smile, letting the two bicker while he took in the defences.

  Ten soldiers stood on the bridge, in the centre of which, facing north, was a 120mm rifled cannon. This weapon looked to be a naval gun affixed to a recently built six-wheeled carriage. A second carriage stood dangerously close, stacked with ammunition. Mitchell turned his gaze eastwards, to the no-one’s land stretching all the way to the Alps. Shells on a bridge? That would be a tempting target.

  “If we’re going to argue, let’s do it inside,” Mitchell said, and began walking, before Captain Ho could object.

  The Drummond-Dumond hamlet had originally been a three-storey farmhouse with four large barns and two small outbuildings built on the northeastern edge of the bridge. Since the Blackout, a steel palisade had
been erected. From the withered weeds growing in the cracked cement holding the welded car roofs in place, those defences had been built in the early years. In turn, they’d constricted how far out the farm could grow, forcing the owners to build up and between. Double-decker walkways linked the house and the barn. Between them, again facing north, was another artillery piece, and another six-wheeled caisson, still attached to the four bicycles which must have towed the ammunition here. Other equipment was being uncertainly stacked by conscripts as green as their coats.

  “Have you just arrived?” Mitchell asked.

  “I can’t discuss our deployment,” Ho said.

  “Mister Mitchell, is that you?” a woman called.

  Mitchell turned and saw a sergeant walking towards him. It took him a moment to put a name to the young but battle-worn face: Joanna ‘Jo-Jo’ Johannes, whom he’d last seen in the hospital, just after the assault on Calais six weeks before. Back then, she’d been a corporal in the Marines, and recovering from a gunshot.

  “Jo-Jo! Good to see you,” he said. “But shouldn’t you still be on the sick-list?”

  “A promotion’s the best medicine in the world, sir,” Jo-Jo said.

  “Do you know him, Sergeant?” Ho asked.

  “Everyone knows Mister Mitchell, sir,” Jo-Jo said. “He saved the prime minister, stopped the coup, and helped me stop them taking Calais. How is Constable Deering, sir?”

  “Keeping the peace in Dover,” Mitchell said. “Why are you guarding that bridge?”

  “I don’t think we should—” Ho began.

  “The generals want bastions along the front line,” Jo-Jo said. “They sent us here to build one.”

  “Bastions?” Mitchell asked. “First I’ve heard of it.”

  “The general believes the bastions will create a truly safe Green Zone, behind which the French farmers can return to till the land,” Ho said.

  “But after a long day in the fields, where will we sleep when you are in our beds?” Jean-Luc asked.