“It’ll do I think,” he said. “Should be fine here…”
Harry looked at him. Did he have more to say? He looked unsure. “But…?” he pressed.
“Nothing … it’s just that the wall looks fucking huge now we’re stood next to it. Are we going to get over it?”
“We’re going to have to,” Michael said. “Desperate times call for desperate actions.”
“Where d’you get that little gem from?” Harry grinned.
“Can’t remember. Some film or other, I expect. It’s true, though.”
“Bloody hell,” Harte continued nervously, “climbing over castle walls in the middle of the night. It’s all a bit James Bond, isn’t it?”
“Give us an alternative and we’ll listen,” Harry said.
“We gave up on the idea of a helicopter rescue, remember?” Michael said. “Now that was more like James Bond.”
Harte was too anxious to see the funny side. Truth was, he wasn’t even listening anymore.
“It’s fine,” Harry said, trying to reassure him. “I did a lot of climbing. I’ve been up rock faces far worse than this in my time.”
With that he began to get himself ready. He took various pieces of kit from the bag Harte had been carrying—carabiners, harnesses, and the like—and issued the same to both of the others.
“What am I supposed to do with this?” Harte asked.
“Nothing. Leave it to Michael. You remember what to do, don’t you Mike?”
Michael nodded and hoped that he did. Harry had given him the briefest instruction before they’d started out, but after all they’d been through to get here, he thought he’d probably forgotten most of it.
“I remember,” he said, sounding less than convincing.
Harry laid out the climbing rope, unspooling it carefully along the ground, then attached one end to his belt. “I’ll get up and over,” he explained, “get the rope fastened to something on the other side, then you two follow when you hear my signal, okay?”
“Okay,” Harte said. “What’s the signal?”
“It’s the middle of the fucking night,” Harry said. “If you hear anying on t of the ordinary, take that as your cue to start climbing.”
“Got it,” Michael said. “Get going.”
Harry stood at the foot of the wall and looked up to find his first handholds. He reached up, dug his fingers into the narrow gaps between the huge, ancient stones, and lifted himself off the ground. Michael watched as he hauled himself up, impressed by his dexterity and speed. He’d climbed several meters in no time at all.
“I’ll never be able to do that,” Harte complained.
“You don’t have to. You’ll have the rope to help you, remember?”
Harte looked up at Harry, way above both of them now, scrambling up the sheer face of the wall at lizard-like speed and without a damn care. It had all sounded deceptively simple when they were back in Chadwick making plans—get across the dead by foot, scale the wall and get into the castle, round up everyone who wants to leave, find a vehicle big enough for them all, then get the fuck out of the castle before anyone notices. But plans like this always sound okay until you’re there, he said to himself. Crossing the dead had been a nightmare in itself, and as for climbing the wall … he honestly didn’t know if he could make it. If Harry slipped and fell … it didn’t bear thinking about. There’d be no way he could survive and no way they could help him. He remembered Steve Morecombe who’d died as a result of an accident he should have made a full recovery from.
Bloody hell, and this was the easy part of the plan. He was seriously doubting if they were going to make this.
* * *
Harry was more than two-thirds of the way up now. His arms ached—he hadn’t done anything like this for a while—but he was able to ignore the pain because he knew it wouldn’t last much longer. He felt for another handhold, and managed to find a narrow gap between two huge chunks of stone which had been carved and dropped into position hundreds of years ago. Now’s not the time to get distracted, he told himself as he thought about how many years these massive blocks had remained in place and all that had happened to the world around them in that time. Even if he made it through tonight and lasted another fifty years, his entire life would be little more than the blink of an eye in comparison to the centuries this place had been here.
He eventually reached the top of the wall, peering over at first, then pulling his legs over, keeping low so that he wouldn’t be spotted from inside. He lay flat on his stomach and looked down into the castle grounds. There was the cesspit Harte had told him about—he could smell it from up here—and near to it lay an unmistakable shape wrapped in a tarpaulin. It was a body, no question about it. He glanced back in the other direction and gave Michael and Harte a quick thumbs-up to let them know he was okay and he hadn’t been seen. Bloody hell, all that talk of James Bond … he was actually starting to feel like a spy. But spying was yet another redundant profession now there were so few people left alive.
Harry looked along the inside of the wall in bothons. Several trucks had been parked a short distance behind him. They’d make this immeasurably easier. As well as giving him something at a convenient height to lower himself onto, one of the trucks would also be a perfect anchor for him to tie the rope to. More than that, if he could get hold of the keys, any of the vehicles he could see would be perfect for getting people out of the castle compound. He looked back at Michael and Harte again, still standing in the same place, still waiting for his signal, then gestured in the direction in which he planned to move.
38
Between them, Harry and Michael helped Harte down onto the roof of the truck. The three of them lay flat, so as not to be seen. It was past eight, although the day had been long and tumultuous and it felt like the middle of the night. The moon was still out, but vast swathes of the camp inside the castle remained hidden in shadow, the tall encircling wall blocking out what little light there was. The only other illumination came from the windows of a couple of the caravans at the far end by the gatehouse, and from the glowing remains of a small, untended fire. Fortunately the bitter cold seemed to have kept everyone inside their shelters tonight, hiding away like hibernating animals.
“Do you know who wants out and can you make them known to us somehow?” Michael whispered. “Problem is, we don’t know who’s who.”
“I’ve got a good idea.”
“So where are they likely to be? In those caravans?”
“I guess so,” he replied. “There’s a classroom, a café, and a few other rooms over by the gatehouse, but I don’t see much activity up there. They must be in the vans. We need to be careful, though. Don’t want to find ourselves knocking on Jas’s door by mistake.”
“We should split up,” Harry suggested. “Go recce the place out, then meet back up over here and decide on a plan of action when we know where everyone is. Just stay out of sight and don’t get caught.”
“Wasn’t planning on it,” Harte mumbled. Did they think he was stupid?
The three men climbed down off the truck, lowering themselves as far as they could then dropping the last meter or so onto the gravel. Dressed in dark clothes, and with hats and scarves intentionally obscuring their faces, they moved off in different directions. Michael took the long way around to the various prefabricated rooms near to the gatehouse, but found no one there as Harte had suspected. He thought the place looked surprisingly well organized. If it hadn’t been for the wreck of the bus in the middle of the courtyard and the signs of fire damage to one of the caravans, all would have seemed well.