Hurst by Robin Crumby (i read books .TXT) 📕

as his work shall be. I am Alpha and Omega, the beginning and the end, the first and the last.

Revelation 22:11-22:13

 

Dear Riley,

Every day we say a prayer for you and your people. We forgive you for all the hurt and pain you have inflicted upon our flock.

The Lord in his almighty wisdom sent you here to show us the error of our ways. The fire and the outbreak of the sickness here were God’s will, of that I am certain. The Lord moves in mysterious ways.

Do not look for us, you will not find us. Do not return here. Only sorrow remains.

Sister Theodora

 

Riley refolded the letter and handed it to Pavlowski who scanned the handwritten text and shook his head. “Don’t take it personally, Riley.”

She feigned a smile and answered, “I won’t.”

Chapter Fifty-eight

After a leisurely breakfast and friendly inquisition, Terra and Briggs adjourned to a well-appointed drawing room in one of the oldest parts of Carisbrooke Castle. He held the door open and waited for her to enter. Following close behind was the enormous bulk of one of his most trusted deputies. Earlier, Terra had witnessed Briggs speaking with the man with the extravagant tattoos on his face with what appeared to be genuine tenderness, his arm around his shoulder like a brother, sharing a joke. The man’s name was Hatch or Hutch. Anyway, something that made her think of rabbits.

A fire, recently lit, crackled and spat sparks in the enormous hearth stacked with logs and kindling that was just beginning to catch. She could see scrunched-up paper still burning at its core. To the right of the fire was a large pile of newspapers. She angled her head, trying to make out the masthead, cover picture and headline on the topmost copy. It was dated more than two years ago at the very start of the outbreak. She scanned the copy. Rumours of a terrorist attack, photos of a royal baby, political crisis. It had been several months since she’d read a magazine or paper. At Hurst, Scottie had made a habit of collecting hundreds of broadsheets, local papers, trade journals, science papers and fashion magazines, chronicling the chaos of the outbreak. The first early warning signs had been ignored. Dismissed as localised winter flu spikes, of little concern to the developed world. As the scale of the outbreak became clear, wild theories proliferated. The final issues of The Times and The Telegraph had been single-sheet publications as printing works and newspaper offices closed in short order.

Terra reflected on the fact that the world had become an altogether smaller place. So little was known of what was happening elsewhere beyond their immediate environment. Nowadays people tended to view the world with blinkers on, busying themselves with what was in front of their noses. There seemed little point worrying about what lay beyond. She was reminded of Jack’s mantra that one of the keys to happiness was to never worry about things outside your control. Concentrate on the here and now, or at least that’s what Jack had always told her.

There was a chill in the air that the fire had not quite dispelled. Terra stood barefoot, her back to the flames. She scrunched her toes in the deep pile of a large red rug, marked by small burn holes where coals had fallen from an unattended grate. The room was impressive, with portraits of distinguished noblemen that graced the walls. A framed watercolour had been left propped against a bookshelf, jostling for space with statues and trophies collecting dust against the walls, presumably stolen from the surrounding area by Briggs’s men. In the corner, in pride of place, stood a suit of armour in richly polished metal, a mace in one hand together with a ball and chain in the other.

Briggs closed the oak-framed door and slumped into his favourite armchair set nearest the fire. He watched Terra as she moved around the room, noting where she lingered, what she picked up, and what she ignored in his growing collection of looted artworks.

She felt his eyes following her and accentuated the sway of her hips as she walked, planting her bare feet carefully to avoid pieces of glass on the wooden floor. She made sure he was watching closely and retained his attention by flicking her head coquettishly to the left, making eye contact over her shoulder. She was enjoying this fleeting sense of power and sway she held over him. She thought she sensed conflict, as if he was fighting his instinct to trust her. She smiled inwardly, encouraged by his uncertainty.

He waited for her to finish her turn around the room, enjoying the contours of the dress and the way it hugged her figure, before patting his lap, inviting her to join him. She blushed and tried to laugh off his request, but quickly realised from the humourless expression that, on this occasion, he would not take no for an answer.

She approached the armchair but hesitated, looking awkwardly at him. It reminded her of unwanted attentions from an affectionate relative when she was young. She remembered Uncle Sebastian at Christmas time, insisting that she still sit on his lap, despite being a pubescent teenager. She shuddered, even after all these years, thinking of his arm snaking around her waist, his coarse hands massaging her shoulders.

Briggs patted his knee again. “Come on. I’m not going to bite.”

She modestly perched on his knee, but he grabbed her waist and quickly manhandled her across his lap. She was powerfully aware of the smell of the man. He was in need of a good bath. She did her best to remain calm as he studied his prize up close, drinking her in, angling her chin to left and right, studying the contours of her face.

In the folds of her cardigan sleeve she adjusted a small blade she had smuggled from the breakfast table. It was a wooden-handled kitchen knife with a serrated edge. Hutch had been careless leaving a blade this sharp within reach and not realising its absence on clearing.

She might never get this close to Briggs again. His neck was thickly muscled above a black sweater, his bulging vein close enough to bite. She summoned the courage to do the deed, to get it over with, to rid the world of this tyrant. The neck was her best option. An unsurvivable wound. A clean kill. A quick stab with the knife and it would all be over in seconds. And yet, she found reasons to defer. Could she really kill someone in cold blood?

He smiled at her, enjoying her discomfort, but growing impatient at her reluctance, her body stiff and tense, unresponsive to his touch. The smile faded on his lips and turned into a snarl as he bared his teeth and whispered, “You need to learn, woman. Learn to appreciate me.” He pulled her closer. His mouth was right next to her cheek, his breath sour and hot. His lips caressed her ear lobe, sucking at the stud earring she wore, nibbling it gently between his teeth. She fought to maintain control, her heart racing. He mistook her shortness of breath for excitement and continued.

The wooden hilt of the knife slipped against her wrist and the blade caught in the flesh of her index finger. With the weight of his body against her arm, the knife threatened to break the skin and draw blood. Her moment had come, if she could free her hand. Strike now or lose the chance forever. It would be over in a moment.

There was a knock at the door and without waiting for an answer, one of Briggs’s henchmen strode in, followed by Victor, the first officer from the Maersk Charlotte. Briggs looked affronted by this interruption, his head buried in Terra’s neck. He loosened his grip slightly and Terra took advantage of the distraction, springing to her feet before he could grab her wrist again.

There was a smirk on Victor’s lips as his eyes flicked from Terra back to Briggs, conscious he was interrupting this moment of intimacy, enjoying her discomfort as she stood awkwardly, hands fidgeting like a frightened child.

“What do you want, Victor? Don’t you have somewhere else to be?” said Briggs.

“Sorry. I can see you’re busy. I won’t keep you long. I’ve just finished interrogating the others. They know nothing. Next time, we need to get an American.”

His voice was heavily accented, East European, certainly. Terra couldn’t place it. Baltic states, former Soviet Union. Latvian or Estonian, she guessed, waiting for Victor to continue, wondering how many other hostages they had taken from Osborne.

“I thought you should know the Maersk Charlotte is on the move,” he added. “She weighed anchor this morning and is heading into Southampton docks to begin unloading. The Royal Navy has rigged up power to one of the giant cranes. They will begin unloading the humanitarian supplies, unless that is, we choose to stop them. Construction of the first of the refugee centres is expected on the island within the week.”

“Good, good. Just like we planned. And our men? Are they in position?” asked Briggs.

“They are, as you instructed. We have made contact with the hospital. Copper is now in charge. It would seem that his boss met with an untimely accident during their failed attack on Hurst.”

“How careless. And this new man, Copper, is he someone we can do business with? Can he be trusted?”

“Oh yes, he is a policeman. None more trustworthy, no? He and I go way back. He should prove a useful ally. He tells me their doctors are working on a prototype vaccine. They have already synthesised a strain of the virus, portable and deadly. They are conducting clinical trials to perfect them. He can start sending us samples as soon as we’re ready.”

Victor was about to divulge further details when he paused, his mouth half-open. His eyes darted across to Terra who was listening to the exchange, betrayed by a look of concern she failed to hide on learning about the attack on Hurst, her thoughts turning to Jack and the rest of the team.

“What about her? Are we to trust her? Surely, her loyalties lie with Hurst and the Americans. You should not be fooled by her kisses.”

Terra made as if to speak, to defend herself at Victor’s accusations, throwing her arms wide in a gesture of innocence. Victor nodded to the henchman who grabbed Terra by the wrist, bending her arm back until she winced. He patted her down for concealed weapons and wrestled the small kitchen knife from her sleeve and held it up for Briggs to see.

“This one you must watch like a hawk. She is not to be trusted. One of my men saw her take this earlier, but failed to mention it till just now. You were lucky I got here when I did.”

Victor presented the handle of the knife to Briggs who took it and weighed it for size, patting it while he nodded, fixing Terra with a look of reproach. He made a low tutting sound and got wearily to his feet, seemingly disappointed by this small act of treachery.

“It’s lucky you were here, Victor. Your instincts serve you well, unlike you two, you useless bastards,” he said, gesturing towards his bodyguards who were doing their best to blame each other. “It’s stuffy in here. Let’s take some air. I can’t think in this room. Victor, Terra, Hatch, follow me. There’s something I want to show you.”

He opened the door and waited for the three others to head out into the front lobby area and courtyard beyond. Outside it had stopped drizzling. Rainwater was dripping from roofs and gutters, collecting in large barrels positioned underneath drain pipes. Their shoes crunched across the wet gravel. Terra was still shoeless and tiptoed in bare feet, pushed from behind when her pace slowed.

They climbed the steep steps covered with moss through a