Blackthorn

  BLACKTHORN

  Terry Tyler

  ©Terry Tyler 2019

  This is a work of fiction. All names, characters, places, websites, computer applications, product names and incidents are either products of the author's imagination, and subject to copyright protection, or used fictitiously.

  Any resemblance to actual events, locations or persons, alive or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical or otherwise, without the express written permission of Terry Tyler.

  All rights reserved.

  A big thank you to: Abi, Cathy, Cathy, Barb, Shelley, Liz, Teri, Olga, Helen, Amy, Lisa, Shannon, Judee, Baldock, Gerry, Deborah, Mary, Mary, Jade, Sally, Lucinda, Val, Susie, Laurette, Leonard, Chris, Lisette, Rosie, Brenda, Laurie, Gemma, Sian, Stephanie, Jo, Jo, Jackie, Jackie, Lilyn, John, Alison, Maureen, Judith, Judith, Soo, Tom, Linda, April, Sam, Carl, Caryl, Nicola, Nicola, Brian, Mandy, Robosquid, Sarah, Lucy, Lucy, Lynne, Jessica, Laura, and everyone else who makes opening my laptop each day so worthwhile.

  An extra special thank you to Julia and Mark, as always.

  Contents

  Prologue: Blackthorn, August 2139

  Part 1: A City Divided

  Chapter 1: Evie: September 2139

  Chapter 2: In the House of Wolf North

  Chapter 3: Evie: Three Towns

  Chapter 4: Evie: Lucky Star

  Chapter 5: Lieutenant August Hemsley

  Chapter 6: Evie

  Chapter 7: Byron Lewis V

  Chapter 8: Evie

  Chapter 9: Byron Lewis V

  Chapter 10: Lieutenant August Hemsley

  Chapter 11: Evie

  Chapter 12: Byron Lewis V

  Chapter 13: Evie

  Part 2: Living in the Light

  Chapter 14: Evie

  Chapter 15: Byron Lewis V

  Chapter 16: Lieutenant August Hemsley

  Chapter 17: Evie

  Chapter 18: Byron Lewis V

  Chapter 19: Evie

  Chapter 20: Byron Lewis V

  Chapter 21: Lieutenant August Hemsley

  Chapter 22: Evie

  Chapter 23: Byron Lewis V

  Chapter 24: Evie

  Chapter 25: Byron Lewis V

  Chapter 26: Lieutenant August Hemsley

  Chapter 27: Evie

  Part 3: Hiding in the Shadows

  Chapter 28: Byron Lewis V

  Chapter 29: Lieutenant August Hemsley

  Chapter 30: Jet Lewis

  Chapter 31: Lieutenant August Hemsley

  Chapter 32: Wolf North: One Year Earlier

  Chapter 33: Evie

  Chapter 34: Byron Lewis V

  Chapter 35: Evie

  Chapter 36: Lieutenant August Hemsley

  Chapter 37: Byron Lewis V

  Chapter 38: In the House Of Wolf North

  Chapter 39: Evie

  Chapter 40: Gus

  Chapter 41: Blackthorn

  Chapter 42: Evie

  Chapter 43: Evie: The Five Villages

  Epilogue: Byron

  Author's Note

  Other Books by Terry Tyler

  Prologue

  Blackthorn

  August 2139

  Leaning against the wall of the grain store, Lieutenant August Hemsley braces himself for the horrors of his daily jail block inspection, and reflects that one can hear the place before one sees it: the shouting, the banging of plates on bars, the jeers and foul language.

  Autumn is scarcely a scent on the air, but already there are two, three and sometimes four bodies packed into each squalid cell, and unrest can only increase as winter draws near. Rain has flooded the earth throughout this summer and the last; a meagre harvest means poorer quality food for all, but mostly for those who live in Blackthorn's shacks. Protest marches and strikes have occurred on a regular basis for the past twelve months. Moonlight raids on the bakery, an attempted arson attack on Thorn Lodge, home of Governor North's lieutenants, in which four guards were severely injured―and such rebellions are quelled with aggression, which only serves to further inflame the workers. Only last month the fish wagon was ambushed on the way home from the tarn; this was the work of the loggers, a particularly militant bunch headed by Darius Fletcher, general rabble rouser and unofficial leader of the shackers.

  Lieutenant Hemsley does not know if Blackthorn can survive another winter like the last.

  He turns the corner, and the jail block comes into view: a long, tunnel-like structure with cells on either side, separated by a gloomy passage, with a small hut at its entrance. This hut is the domain of the four second lieutenants employed to keep order. Judging by the cries coming from behind the block, Hemsley assumes that they are currently doing so in their customary unforgiving fashion.

  Lieutenants Thomas and Ogg lean against the door of the hut; Thomas holds up her hand in greeting as Hemsley approaches.

  "Ringleaders and worst troublemakers locked up." She hands him the bunch of keys. "All level one this time―nothing too serious."

  Lieutenant Ogg points to a heap of crudely made placards. "Why can't the dumb bastards just knuckle down and be grateful for what they have?"

  Hemsley studies the rough pieces of board nailed onto sticks, the shackers' protests daubed across them; he winces at a misspelled word in one, a superfluous apostrophe in another.

  "Where's Fletcher?"

  "Ogg let him go." Lieutenant Thomas raises her hands in a gesture of despair. "He's needed to organise the loggers―what could we do?"

  "Left a sour taste in my mouth, I can tell you," says Ogg. "Means he's free to cook up more fun and games."

  A leering face jams itself between the bars of a nearby cell, and directs an obscene comment at Thomas. Hemsley moves forward to issue a reprimand, but Thomas stops him.

  "Don't; a response is what they're after. It's nothing I haven't heard before, anyway."

  Hemsley strolls down between the cells, peering at the prisoners crammed in together, huddled on cold stone floors. One bucket per cell.

  "There has to be a better way," he says, as he makes his way back. "All this achieves is a widening of the gap."

  "Yeah, right," grunts Ogg. "You're the brainbox round here―got any bright ideas?"

  "Anyone know any rain gods?" Sarah Thomas gazes up at the dark clouds above. "We could make a sacrifice to them. To ask them to make it stop, I mean."

  "Let's use one of this lot. No point wasting a sheep or a goat." As Ogg speaks, a bucket of slops is thrown out into the path between the cells. "Right, that's another one for a session out the back. Bunch of bloody animals."

  "That's unfair, really; animals don't behave like this." But Hemsley's colleagues either fail to hear him or don't think his comment merits a response.

  "It's not like a kicking even works as a deterrent any more," says Thomas. "They see it as a badge of honour."

  "Violence is never the answer," says Hemsley.

  Ogg laughs. "Bloody is. Laying into one of these little turds makes me feel a hundred per cent better."

  "No, Hemsley's right," says Thomas. "I don't know what the answer is, though. It's going to take a bloody miracle to sort this lot out."

  Hemsley gazes down the tunnel of cells and feels the weight of the troubled city heavy on his shoulders.

  Alas, miracles are in particularly short supply this year.

  Part 1

  A City Divided

  Chapter 1

  Evie

  Shackers' End

  Early September, 2139

  People still talk about the Fall. Dunno why, 'cause it was over a hundred years ago, but we all do it. Mum says it's 'cause we want to believe that one day our lives will be how it was befor
e, with proper houses for everyone and loads of food.

  My mate Laurel says she'd settle for the clothes. We've seen pictures of them, in the old world magazines in the library. They're kept locked up, and shackers can only look at them under supervision. They probably think we'll eat them, or rip out pages to wipe our arses on, or something.

  The people of the old world were totally pampered. They wouldn't survive a week if they had our lives.

  It's getting worse, too. There's a big city down south called Central that was like Blackthorn only better, but it was attacked two years ago, taken over by a huge army from Wales. Right scary bastards; the battles wrecked the place, and half the folk fled rather than live under their thumb. Most just roam around, working for food where they can. Others have turned bandit. They're the ones you have to watch out for; they raid small communities, and ambush travellers.

  Then again, things haven't been so good even behind the safe walls of Blackthorn, lately. 'Cause of the bad weather, the food's even crappier than normal, especially for the workers. Like, the ones who produce the bloody stuff. Every time you go in the Beer Hut, Darius Fletcher is organising another protest or strike. Gets boring, after a while. 'Specially when his followers get all fired up and drunk. Stupid sods can't see that their families are going to be even hungrier if they're spending half their wages on beer and shine. Then they turn up late for work 'cause they've got hangovers, so the bosses give 'em hell, and it's back to the Beer Hut to moan about it, which leads to Darius banging his fist on the table and talking about rights for the workers―and round and round it goes, but nothing ever changes.

  Mum says, "We need something to put a bit of hope back into our lives."

  Dad says, "We need a good fairy, that's what we bloody need."

  I'm busy at work in the bakery, trying not to drool into the apple and blackberry pie I'm making, when it happens.

  Our very own good fairy appears. Except I shouldn't really call him a fairy, I don't suppose.

  "Ryder's back!"

  It's Laurel who brings the good news. She runs into the bakery leaving the door wide open, with a smile on her face like she's just been told she can have the day off on full pay and take home fresh cream cakes for tea.

  Buck-tooth Dawn, our shitty boss, says, "Well, now, that's a turn up." Silly Thora and simple Snowdrop go all pink and start doing this retarded dance. The older women clasp their hands together and go 'ooh'; even Dad's smiling.

  Ryder's back.

  Of all the travellers who line up at the gates for work in the autumn, he's our favourite. No―he's more than that. Mum says he's our ray of sunshine. The first time she said it, Dad and his mates nodded and said, 'You're not wrong there, Rosy,' so now she says it, like, way too often.

  Everyone rushes over to Laurel for more details, even Dawn. I don't, 'cause Dawn's back being turned means I can sidle over to the tray of fruit scones that have just come out of the oven, and sneak two into my pocket for later.

  Dad stays where he is, too, but he nods with his lips pursed together, which is how you can tell he approves of something.

  "That's good, that," he says. "Perhaps things'll start to improve around here."

  Silly Thora bounces back with her basket filled with apples ready for peeling and slicing, and dumps them on the end of my table, only just missing the pie bottom that I've just taken out to cool. She's all flustered; don't know why, it's not like he's going to take any notice of her.

  "Isn't it awesome?" Her pink face is sweaty and shiny. "Everything always gets better when Ryder's here!"

  It does. Even I've got to admit that.

  He's our lucky star.

  Chapter 2

  In the house of Wolf North

  Lieutenant Hemsley waits, in silence, while Governor Wolf North peruses the weekly list of jail block occupants.

  He flicks at the paper with the back of his hand. "This is all very well, but while half our workforce is locked up, they're not producing."

  "Yes, sir, but crimes can't go unpunished."

  Wolf shifts in his seat, as though having difficulty finding a comfortable position. "The idea is crime prevention, Hemsley. Has the offer been made to Fletcher?"

  "Yes, sir; one free loaf per week, per shack."

  "And how was it received?"

  Hemsley coughs. "He, er, laughed, sir."

  "Fuck it. Throw in a bundle of logs―a small one―but tell Fletcher that's the end of it, and anyone who doesn't get straight back to work will get bugger all." Wolf North throws the list onto the floor and reaches for the whisky at his side, draining his glass before replying. "It's time these wankers appreciated how lucky they are to live in the great city of Blackthorn, which they appear determined to bring to its knees." He picks up the piece of paper, crumples it into a ball, and throws it across the room. "I've a good mind to evict every one of those useless bastards in the cells, and open the gates to Central refugees, instead."

  Hemsley reaches into the front pocket of his lieutenant's tunic, and produces another list, several pages long. "I have here a list of travellers who've taken part in the harvest and want to stay on for winter work―you won't know their names, but I've made a note of their individual skills―"

  Wolf snatches the paper from him. "That's where you're wrong, Hemsley. I know the names of everyone who spends any time here, and a few pertinent details about each. You have to keep it all up here." He taps the side of his head. "There's no need for me to repeat that well-worn cliché."

  Hemsley attempts a smile. "Knowledge is power, sir?"

  "I said there was no need to repeat it." He scans the names, then places the list on a table at his side. "Looks like a good haul this year; more hunters, that's good. Let's just hope we can feed the buggers, eh? Find Lieutenant Ward and tell him I want an up-to-date summary of the food stocks, and projections for the next six months. Oh, and on your way out, nip into the kitchen and tell Angelo I've changed my mind about the lamb chops; I'd like chicken. Roast potatoes, and three veg." He pauses, finger in air. "Actually, tell Ward and Parks they're to join me for dinner so we can go over the figures―tell Angelo, and get him to do a summer pudding. That's Parks's favourite."

  "Of course, sir." Lieutenant Hemsley remains standing for a moment, his mouth salivating at the thought of Angelo's summer pudding. It is his favourite, too, but he has not been invited to join the governor for dinner for at least six months.

  "Uh-uh, Hemsley. Staring out of the window with a daft look on your face won't get the baby bathed." Wolf claps his hands. "Come on, man; chop chop, what are you waiting for?"

  Chapter 3

  Evie

  Three Towns

  Before the Fall, everyone in England lived in big, warm houses with taps and flushing toilets. As well as all the food, they had medicine that could cure any illness, gadgets that made every little job easy, and cars, boats, trains and aeroplanes that could take you anywhere you wanted to go. Then in 2024 there was a disease called bat fever that killed most of the population of the whole world. It faded out after about a year and the people who weren't dead did a big 'phew' because they'd survived, but then it came back in 2027 and finished off a load more of them.

  Those three years are called the Fall. They teach you about it in school.

  For the next hundred years, the survivors put the country back together again as best they could, but all the clever people must have died, 'cause it's not like in the magazines. People say that one day it will be. I don't know how, though. I don't know anyone who knows how to do stuff like TV and aeroplanes. Dad says they were 'making huge leaps forward' in Central before it was attacked―they even cleared some old railway tracks and got steam trains running―but either Governor North doesn't know anyone clever or he wants us to stay as we are. Up in the East End, where him and his mates live, they have lights that come on if you press a switch, and other things that you make work with coal and peat, but we don't get any of that in Shackers' End.

  I haven't be
en outside Blackthorn for ten years, but we know from what the travellers tell us that most of England is just farming villages and small settlements.

  They're all on the other side of the wall, though.

  Blackthorn is really three towns.

  As well as Governor North's posh gaff, up the East End are Thorn Lodge and Falcon House where the lieutenants and doctors and everyone else important lives. The main stores are up there, too, and the laboratories and big water building, with a whole bunch of guards outside all of them. You have no business in the East End unless you work there as a guard, servant, cleaner or cook.

  Only about a hundred and fifty people live there, but they have the best of everything.

  My dad says it's all arse about face; the nobs couldn't manage without the millers, farm workers and shit cleaners, but if they all died tomorrow we could manage just fine. Yet we work for them.

  People have been getting riled up about this for as long as I can remember.

  Trouble is that the two hundred guards work for Governor North, too.

  The guards are next down the line, along with the teachers, nurses, fishermen, hunters, carpenters, builders, the farm and forge managers―anyone who does owt that makes them worthy of a place in the blocks, which are huge square buildings divided into little flats. I've never seen inside one, but I know they're a lot better than the shacks; they have flushing toilets, for a start.

  The blocks are in the city centre, near the big market, the library, the decent hospital and schools, and the bars where nice folk can have a nice drink without some arsehole picking a fight with them.

  Then there's us.

  The shackers, of Shackers' End.

  We're kept apart from the rest of Blackthorn by a humungous stretch of land where the crops are grown, which we call the Ag Zone, 'cause nobody can be arsed to say 'agricultural'. We work on the land to produce the food. We clean toilets and sewage ditches, we sweat in the forges, tend the bees, clean out horse and pig shit, shear sheep, dig peat, milk cows, chop logs, and basically do all the hot, dirty, heavy work so that everyone the other side of the Ag Zone doesn't have to. Darius and his logging crew go south in big wagons to a place called Thoresby to trade our peat and wool for coal; they go east for salt, west for ink, paper and cloth, and to a whole bunch of other places for stuff we don't make in Blackthorn, but they don't get to do the trading. Lieutenant Gregory does that. Darius and co are just there to hump the boxes and sacks.