Year's Best Scifi 3 Part 33

Danny Keough smiled and shook an empty gla.s.s.Outside, in the car park of The Valiant Soldier, Allie bubbled over. It was the most thrilling thing. To see Terry hit the mirror, Teddy staring at a draw he'd never beat, the Reeve helpless, Janet Speke and the Squire in impotent rage and, best of all, Barry Erskine with his helmet-brim on his nose and blood gushing onto his shoulders. For a moment, Alder was like The Archers, and the villains were seen off.

Lytton was somber, cold, bravado gone.

"It was just a moment, Allie. An early fluke goal for our side. They still have the referee in their back pocket and fifteen extra players."

He looked around the car park.

"Any of these vehicles unfamiliar?"

Maskell's ostentatious Range Rover was parked by Janet's pink Vauxhall Mustang. The Morris pick-up was the Gilpins'. The Reeve's panda car was on the street. That left an Austin Maverick Allie had never seen before. She pointed it out.

"Company car," he said, tapping the windshield.

The front pa.s.senger seat was piled with glossy folders that had "GREAT WESTERN RAILWAYS" embossed on their jackets.

"The clouds of mystery clear," he mused. "Do you have one of your nails?"

Puzzled, she took a nail from her purse and handed it over.

"Perfect," he said, crouching by the car door, working the nail into the lock.

"This is a neat trick you shouldn't learn, Allie. There, my old sapper sergeant would be proud of me."

He got the door open, s.n.a.t.c.hed one of the folders, and had the door shut again.

They left in a hurry, but slowed by the bus stop. The rusting shelter was fly-posted with car-boot sale announcements. Lytton sagged. His shirt-shoulder spotted where his wound had opened again. Still, he was better off than Earless Erskine.

"It's choo-choos, I'll be bound," he said. "The track they run on is always blooded."

There was activity at the pub as Maskell's party loped past the village oak into the car park. Maskell was in the center, paying embarra.s.sed attention to his guest, who presumably hadn't expected a bar brawl and an ear-shooting to go with his ploughman's lunch and a lecture on local geography.

The outsider got into his Maverick and Maskell waved him off. Then, he started shouting at his men. Allie smiled to hear him so angry, but Lytton looked grim.

That evening, after they had eaten, Lytton explained to Susan, showing her the maps and figures. Allie struggled to keep up.

"It's to do with Railway Privatization," he said. "The measures that came in after the War, that centralized and nationalized so many industries, are being dismantledby the Tories. And private companies are stepping in. With many a kickback and inside deal."

"There's not been a railway near Alder for fifty years," Susan said.

"When British Rail is broken up, the companies that have bits of the old network will be set against each other like fighting dogs. They'll shut down some lines and open up others, not because they need to but to get one over on the next fellow.

GWR, who are chummying up with the Squire, would like it if all trains from Wess.e.x to London went through Bristol. They can up the fares, and cut off the Southeastern company. To do that, they need to put a branch line here, across the Southern edge of Maskell's farm, right through your orchard."

Susan understood, and was furious.

"I don't want a railway through my farm."

"But Maskell sees how much money he'd make. Not just from selling land at inflated prices. There'd be a watering halt. Maybe even a station."

"He can't do the deal without Gosmore Farm?"

"No."

"Well, he can whistle 'Lillibulero.'"

"It may not be that easy."

The lights flickered and failed. The kitchen was lit only by the red glow of the wood fire.

" Allie, I told you to check the generator," Susan snapped.

Allie protested. She was careful about maintaining the generator. They'd once lost the refrigerator and had a week's milk quota spoil overnight.

Lytton signaled for quiet. He drew a gun from inside his waistcoat.

Allie listened for sounds outside.

"Are the upstairs windows shuttered?" Lytton asked.

"I asked you not to bring those things indoors," Susan said, evenly. "I won't have guns in the house."

"You soon won't have a choice. There'll be unwelcome visitors."

Susan caught on and went quiet. Allie saw fearful shadows. There was a shot and the window over the basin exploded inward. A fireball flew in and plopped onto the table, oily rags in flames. With determination, Susan took a flat breadboard and pressed out the fire.

Noise began. Loudspeakers were set up outside. Music hammered their ears. The Beatles' "Helter Skelter."

"Maskell's idea of hippie music," Lytton said.

In the din, gunshots spanged against stones, smashed through windows andshutters.

Lytton bundled Susan under the heavy kitchen table, and pushed Allie in after her.

"Stay here," he said, and was gone upstairs.

Allie tried putting her fingers in her ears and s.c.r.e.w.i.n.g her eyes shut. She was still in the middle of the attack.

"Is Maskell going to kill us?" she asked.

Susan was rigid. Allie hugged her.

There was a shot from upstairs. Lytton was returning fire.

"I'm going to help him," Allie said.

"No," shouted Susan, as Allie slipped out of her grasp. "Don't..."

She knew the house well enough to dart around in the dark without b.u.mping into anything. Like Lytton, she headed upstairs.

From her bedroom window, which had already been shot out, she could see as far as the treeline. There was no moon. The Beatles still screamed. In the orchard, fires were set. Hooded figures danced between the trees, wearing ponchos and beads. She wasn't fooled. These weren't Jago's Travelers but Maskell's men.

Allie had to draw the line here. She and Susan had been pushed too far. They'd lost men to Maskell, they wouldn't lose land.

A man carrying a fireball dashed toward the house, aiming to throw it through a window. Allie drew a bead with her catapult and put a nail in his knee. She heard him shriek above the music. He tumbled over, fire thumping onto his chest and spreading to his poncho. He twisted, yelling like a stuck pig, and wrestled his way out of the burning hood.

It was Teddy Gilpin.

He scrambled back, limping and smoldering. She could have put another nail in his skull.

But didn't.

Lytton was in the hallway, switching between windows, using bullets to keep the attackers back. One lay still, facedown, on the lawn. Allie hoped it was Maskell.

She scrambled out of her window, clung to the drainpipe, and squeezed into shadows under the eaves. Like a bat, she hung, catapult dangling from her mouth.

She monkeyed up onto the roof, and crawled behind the chimney.

If she kept them off the roof, they couldn't get close enough to fire the house.

She didn't waste nails, but was ready to put a spike into the head of anyone who trespa.s.sed. But someone had thought of that first. She saw the ladder-top protruding over the far edge of the roof.

An arm went around her neck, and the catapult was twisted from her hand. She smelled his strong cider-and-s.h.i.t stink."It be the little poacher," a voice cooed.

It was Stan Budge, Maskell's gamekeeper.

"Who'm trespa.s.sin' now?" she said, and fixed her teeth into his wrist.

Though she knew this was not a game, she was surprised when Budge punched her in the head, rattling her teeth, blurring her vision. She let him go. And he hit her again. She lost her footing, thumped against tiles and slid toward the gutter, slates loosening under her.

Budge grabbed her hair.

The hard yank on her scalp was hot agony. Budge pulled her away from the edge.

She screamed.

"Wouldn't want nothing to happen to you," he said. "Not yet."

Budge forced her to go down the ladder, and a couple of men gripped her. She struggled, trying to kick shins.

Shots came from house and hillside.

"Take her round to the Squire," Budge ordered.

Allie was glad it was dark. No one could see the shamed tears on her cheeks. She felt so stupid. She had let Susan down. And Lytton.

Budge took off his hood and shook his head.

"No more bleddy fancy dress," he said.

She had to be dragged to where Maskell sat, smoking a cigar, in a deckchair between the loudspeakers.

"Allison, dear," he said. "Think, if it weren't for the Civil War, I'd own you.

Then again, at this point in time, I might as well own you."

He shut off the ca.s.sette player.

Terry Gilpin and Barry Erskine-out of uniform, with white lumps of bandage on his head-held her between them. The Squire drew a long thin knife from his boot and let it catch the firelight.

Maskell plugged a karaoke microphone into the speaker.

"Susan," he said, booming. "You should come out now. We've driven off the gyppos. But we have someone you'll want to see."

He pointed the microphone at her and Terry wrenched her hair. Despite herself, she screamed.

"It's dear little Allison."

There was a m.u.f.fled oath from inside.

"And your protector, Captain Lytton. He should come out too. Yes, we know a bit about him. Impressive war record, if hardly calculated to make him popular in these parts. Or anywhere."Allie had no idea what that meant.

"Throw your gun out, if you would, Captain. We don't want any more accidents."

The back door opened, and firelight spilled out. A dark figure stepped onto the verandah.

"The gun, Lytton."

A gun was tossed down.

Erskine fairly s...o...b..red with excitement. Allie felt him pressing close to her, writhing. Once he let her go, he would kill Lytton, she knew.

Lytton stood beside the door. Another figure joined him, shivering in a white shawl that was a streak in the dark.

"Ah, Susan," Maskell said, as if she had just arrived at his Christmas Feast.

"Delighted you could join us."

Maskell's knifepoint played around Allie's throat, dimpling the skin, p.r.i.c.king tinily.

In a rush, it came to her that this had very little to do with railways and land and money. When it came down to it, the hurt Maskell fancied he was avenging that he couldn't have Susan. Or Allie.

Knowing why didn't make things better.

Hand in hand, Lytton and Susan came across the lawn. Maskell's men gathered, jeering.

"Are you all right, Allison?" Susan asked.

"I'm sorry."