'Won't be long now,' said Jimmy, 'then I bet there's hot dogs.'
'Yeah!' said someone.
'How'd you know?' someone called.
'I can smell them.'
Urgent mutterings and sniffings came from the troop.
'I can smell 'em too,' someone called out.
'And pizza!'
'There'll be hot baths,' someone called.
'Playstation 5!' laughed another.
'Hot dogs, pizza and Playstation 5 all together in the bath!' one shouted.
Laughter rolled through the troop.
'Probably get electrocuted,' said Rain Man.
'Shut up, Rain Man,' said someone, and they laughed again.
'Quiet back there!' It was Mohican, from the front.'It's not safe out here — keep your voices down!'
They fell silent, very quickly. Why wasn't it safe? They had guns. What was there to be scared of? They all had these same thoughts. They moved closer together as they marched, peering fearfully into the night.
The trees finally began to thin out and the glow returned, this time much more intensely, growing brighter until they finally reached the brow of the hill. Without being ordered to they came to a natural halt, looking at the vista below.
Jimmy had seen many ramshackle settlements, choking on wood smoke and poisoned by disease and bad drainage, while reporting for the Times — but this was quite the opposite. He was looking down the hill and across a flat plain on which a settlement perhaps the size of twenty football pitches joined together had been built. Long wooden huts were laid out in a perfectly symmetrical pattern, perhaps as many as fifty of them, surrounding a pentagonal-shaped group of larger buildings. There were open parks marked out for sports on every side. The whole, massive area was surrounded by a high wire fence and guarded by watchtowers, set into it at intervals of perhaps twenty metres, from which intensely bright spotlights swept back and forth. It was really impressive. Jimmy could sense the excitement around him. The group's fatigue and misery were instantly forgotten as they surged forward, breaking into a jog.
Mohican led the way, pointing ahead. 'Welcome to Fort Hope!' he cried.
Jimmy knew he was grinning as widely as everyone else; his legs definitely felt lighter, his head was now clear. Fort Hope — the Promised Land! Yet. . . yet. . . as they drew closer and its massive gates began to swing out, and he saw the guns bristling on the watchtowers and poking out of the wire fence, he couldn't help thinking that it was not only supremely well equipped to keep people out — but also to keep them in.
14
The Minister
Claire lay frozen as the minister bore down on her. She could not scream, she could not even make a sound. The shock was total. The man who had shot her, who had quite possibly killed Jimmy, was here on the Titanic, here in front of her, here almost right on top of her. . .
. . . and then he passed by. If he even noticed her, he gave no indication; there was just that humming, the slow solid footsteps on the deck, his eyes staring straight ahead under that wide-brimmed hat. Claire hardly dared breathe. Her eyes followed him as he continued along the deck towards the doors at the far end. She put her hand to her chest, trying to still her racing heart.
What if he turns back?
He can't fail to see me, the second time.
But he stepped inside, was visible for a few moments through the glass, then disappeared from view.
Claire counted to thirty. Then sixty. She got up from the sun bed and cautiously approached the doors. She peered into the area in front of the elevators, and along the corridors leading away. No sign of him. She pushed the elevator button.
What if they open and he's standing there?
I haven't the strength to fight him off.
She glanced behind her. There was a small, red, glass box attached to the wall — fire alarm. If she smashed that then everyone would come running and he wouldn't have the chance to . . . she stepped back as the elevator doors opened.
Empty.
Claire jumped in, pushed the button, and prayed that he wouldn't suddenly appear and trap her inside before the doors closed. She went down one level then hurried along to the bridge. When she peered through the door she saw Captain Smith and First Engineer Jonas Jones bent over a computer screen, looking tense. She scanned the rest of the room for First Officer Jeffers. He was easier to talk to, he would understand, he would do something. But there was no sign of him. She asked one of the passing crewmen where he was, her voice high, quivering — part fear, part adrenaline.
'He's off duty, love,' said the crewman.
Claire nodded. 'Don't call me love,' she said.
'All right, darling,' said the crewman. Ordinarily she would have laughed it off — or reported him, depending on her mood — but she just stared at him. 'You all right, love? You look a bit pale?'
'Fine.' She turned away. Jeffers' quarters were six levels below.
Keep calm. The minister is one man. This is your ship. She started walking. A cold sweat plastered her blouse to her back. Her arm ached more than it had since she'd returned to the ship. When she reached the elevators her heart skipped again as the door opened and a man stepped out, but it wasn't him, it was one of the chefs going off shift. The Titanic was huge and she knew that the chances of running into him again so quickly were slim, but still she jumped at every movement around her, every sound. She made sure to stay in the interior of the ship. She knew if she ventured out on to deck he might simply step out of the shadows, pick her up and throw her overboard.
When she eventually reached Jeffers' quarters she knocked lightly on his door. She would have hammered on it, but what if that drew the attention of the minister and he came thundering down the corridor and killed her before Jeffers could answer?
She knocked again. After what seemed like an eternity Jeffers opened the door, his eyes bleary and his hair sticking up at a mad angle. He tutted the moment he saw who it was.
'Claire, what the—?'
Claire threw herself forward, pushing the door fully open and thrusting past him right into his cabin.
Jeffers' mouth dropped open in surprise. But he recovered quickly 'Claire! I'm tired, I haven't time for your . . .' He stopped. His eyes had cleared now, and he could see the horror etched on her face; her bottom lip was quivering, her eyes were wide with fear. 'Claire — what is it?'
'He's here!'
He moved towards her. 'Who is, Claire?' He put his hand on her shoulders and bent slightly so that she was looking straight into his face. She collapsed against him and burst into tears. Words came out in a torrent, but they were incoherent, jumbled half-sentences. 'Claire! Claire, shhhhh . . . just slow down — I can t . . .
He led her across the cabin and eased her on to the side of his bed. 'It's OK,' he said gently, 'you're safe now.'
'But . . . he's . . . out . . .' She squeezed her words out between snorts and wheezes and cries. 'What . . . if . . . he. . .
'Shhhhhh. Breathe. Deeper. That's it . . .'
Slowly, slowly, she regained control of herself. He got her a Coke from the mini bar. 'I'm sorry . . . sorry . . . it's just . . .'
'Tell me.'
She told him. She tried to remember Scoop's journalistic training. She kept it as simple and succinct as she could. When she was finished she apologised again for getting into such a state.