Within that new perimeter, hundreds of tiny figures were working, some raising what looked to be small buildings, while others walked out towards the fields that were within the fence, some holding livestock while others had the remains of crops growing in them.
“What the hell is that?” I said, forgetting to remain silent, and got another elbow in the ribs for my trouble, this one hard enough to bring tears to my eyes as I struggled to breathe.
“You’ll find out soon enough,” my tormentor said, “talk again and I’ll knock your teeth out.”
By the time I could straighten to look out of the window again, the scene was lost from view in the rolling hills, but I’d seen enough to get my brain working.
The camp, or whatever it was, looked a little like I imagined a beachhead in hostile territory, except that in was in the middle of Oxfordshire and encompassed enough farmland to feed hundreds if not thousands of people.
This must be where they were taking everyone they’d been gathering up, I realised, although whether they were helping them or using them for some other reason I wasn’t sure. We were too far away to tell what was really going on, but I had the feeling we were going to find out sooner than we liked.
We passed through no fewer than four checkpoints before we got to the base, each one manned by half a dozen soldiers with various badges and emblems on their uniforms. I knew they signified different regiments, but without Emily to tell me who they belonged to I couldn’t even hazard a guess.
The base itself was lightly manned, a result of so many soldiers being needed for the massive perimeter, I assumed. The Landrover pulled up in front of what looked to be some kind of administration building, and as soon as we stopped the tailgate was let down and we were pushed out and onto the tarmac before being led inside.
The building was dim, almost gloomy, and smelled of polish and paper. They marched us through a reception area and down a long corridor, finally arriving at a nondescript wooden door.
One of the soldiers knocked and then walked in, leaving us in the corridor guarded by the other three. There was a brief, low buzz of conversation and then he came back out.
“They can go in,” he said, “kit to be left out here.”
Emily was pushed through the doorway and I followed closely behind, not wishing to be propelled by an overeager guard and find myself going sprawling.
None of the soldiers came in with us, instead closing the door behind us and leaving us to look around the room as bright sunlight streamed in through a large window.
It appeared to be a conference room. A large table sat in the middle, a dozen chairs spaced around it, and pictures of various military endeavours graced the walls.
A now defunct conference phone sat in the middle of the table, as well as a jug of water and several glasses, but it was the occupants of two of the chairs that drew my attention.
One of them was a man in his mid-fifties, greying hair neatly cut and matching the colour of his pencil-thin moustache. He wore a camouflage shirt and trousers, the seams still perfectly pressed, and even sitting down he looked unusually tall.
There was something of the school-master about him, a feeling that from the second he laid eyes on me he was judging me, weighing my usefulness.
The second man was a complete contrast. He was about the same age, but there the resemblance ended. His scruffy brown hair was receding rapidly, leaving a few lonely hairs to sprout from the top of his head while the rest hugged the sides and back. He wore a business suit that looked like he’d slept in it for several days running, the white shirt turning a grubby grey and the tie poking out of an inside pocket where it had been stuffed.
He had bags under his eyes that bulged out from beneath his brown spectacles, and he looked very much like he was carrying the weight of the world on his shoulders.
It was with a start that I realised that I recognised him. Iron the suit, give him a few hours’ sleep and put him in a photograph shaking hands with someone over a multi-billion pound defence project, and there sat the Secretary of State for Defence, Terrence Harvey-Smith.
I stood there staring, all kinds of crazy thoughts running through my head. Perhaps the government had survived, were rebuilding with areas farmed out to cabinet members to look after. The thought gave me a little comfort, but then I remembered how the civilians we’d seen had been treated and the first tendrils of fear began to tickle in my stomach.
It was the old soldier who spoke first.
“I’m told you’re REME,” he said to Emily, straight to the point.
“Yes sir,” she replied, “Sergeant Morris, 1st Battalion.”
“We need more soldiers, so that’s good for us. I’m also told, however, that you were trying to make off from troops when you were apprehended.”
“We were simply trying to carry on with our journey sir, not running away.”
I looked around the room as they spoke, sizing up our chances of escape and seeing none. Even if we could somehow get free of the room, we were smack in the middle of the base, and besides, the man in front of us might be older but he fairly radiated a calm competency that I had no doubt would extend to killing us both if necessary.
“And what journey is that?” The Secretary spoke for the first time, looking at us both. The soldier frowned at the interruption but let it pass.
“We’re trying to get to Manchester to find my daughter,” I said before Emily could speak, “she’s only eleven years old.”
The men exchanged a glance and the soldier shook his head.
“I hate to be the bearer of bad tidings,” he said softly, “but most of Manchester is in flames. A recon unit came back this morning and the fires are as bad as London.”
My stomach lurched and I felt a sudden urge to throw up. Forcing it aside, I met the old man’s eyes and shook my head.
“She’ll have got out. Her grandparents live south in one of the smaller towns, they’ll have made it to there.” I willed myself to believe it even as I spoke. The thought of it not being true was too much to bear.
The Secretary waved his hand as if the subject was unimportant.
“That’s as may be, but we couldn’t let you go up there at any rate. We’re trying to rebuild civilisation here, we need all the hands we can get, no exceptions.”
“No exceptions? That’s my little girl you’re talking about!” I was beginning to get angry now, and anger felt better than fear so I let it build. “Who gives you the right to take people off the street, hold them prisoner and then dictate what they can or can’t do? Last time I checked this was still a free country!”
The soldier leaned forward, frowning.
“I don’t think you know who you’re talking to, young man! And besides, if we don’t do something drastic there won’t be a country, never mind a free one!”
“I know exactly who I’m talking to, he’s the Secretary of State for Defence, but that doesn’t give him the right to tell me what I can and can’t do!”
Harvey-Smith stared at me intently, eyes boring into mine.
“I thought you looked familiar,” he said at last, “what’s your name?”
I was so taken aback by this that I forgot for a moment to be angry.
“Malcolm King, I’m a journalist.”
He nodded as if remembering. “About six months ago, you asked that bloody annoying question about the defence deal with the Chinese and the risks of corporate espionage.”
I nodded, amazed that he would remember one journalist out of a crowd of dozens.
The soldier turned to him. “You know him?”
“I wouldn’t go that far, but the question was a pain in the arse, ruffled a few feathers with the Chinese sitting next to me in the bloody room.”
“So what now?” I said, the anger coming back. “Do I get punished for speaking my mind?”