Jacksboro Highway

Chapter One

Luke dragged the hind’s carcass down the bracken-clad slope, the stems bending and cracking as he descended. He reached a flattish clearing situated within a cluster of oaks. He’d earmarked the spot earlier, before he’d settled down in his hide to wait. As he knelt down to start gutting her, a cloud slid across the sun, casting a shadow over the glade. Luke shuffled around on his knees to allow daylight to brighten his work. He looked up and saw a small patch of grey sky through a gap between the boughs of two enormous oaks. The branches came so close they looked like arms, stretching out to touch their fingertips, connecting the two giants above as they were certainly connected below ground. But they didn’t quite reach, and through the gap dribbled just enough daylight for Luke to work under. Darker clouds from the east were gathering. When he’d set off from the village the sky had been clear and blue, with a handful of morning stars still winking, but the incoming autumn storm Luke had initially hoped would veer away and miss him, had kept straight on, inexorably closing on him in the Woodbrough hills. Soon enough he’d feel the drop in pressure and before he got back to Flockton with his prize, he’d be soaked.

Wolf looked out from his upper floor window. To the west, the Woodbrough hills rose up from the valley bathed in sunshine. But he felt, without having to check the barometer, that it wouldn’t last all day, a storm was coming. Damn. If it lasted into the evening and night, that would be bad for business.

He reached the bed in two paces and threw back the duvet. The redhead started, then woke quickly, alarmed, curling up like a foetus to cover her nudity.

“Up,” Wolf ordered. “Get your clothes on.”

He snatched up his own clothes from the bedside chair, starting to and slipped them smoothly over his long, muscled frame. The girl, Trixie, looked up, caught her breath, and sat up, leaning back on her arms, with her knees apart. She raised her eyes hopefully. God, he was a good looking devil. Long blond hair and beard. Blond hair all over his long, long, lean body too. Wolf looked as Viking as if he’d just climbed out of the longboat. Ice blue eyes that pierced right through you —  if you dared look at them. His eyes were as cold as his heartless soul. She suppressed another shudder of desire.

Wolf lifted his knife belt from where it hung on the chair’s back. He swung it around his waist, clipped it tight.

“Hurry up. Or you’ll dress out there.” He nodded at the door. It opened onto Wolf’s indoor balcony from where he could look out onto the casino floor and beyond that the lure pole set into its small, circular podium. Behind it, and to the sides were the doors and curtains to other rooms and attractions.

Trixie slid off the bed and found her clothes, littered around the room where she’d thrown them last night, performing a private show for him. Not many people would be out there to see her this early, just a few cleaners maybe, but still. She wasn’t going to give them a free look. Punters had to pay and so could they.  

Wolf pulled a leather thong from under his pillow. Dangling from the end were thick keys that wouldn’t have looked out of place on a dark ages jailer’s belt. A few smaller keys jangled against them. He snatched up a blood-red wristband, slid it up his arm to emphasise one bicep. He strode to the door, unlocked it. The heavy, solid steel drew complaining groans from its hinges as it swung open. Wolf snatched up the girl’s jacket and handbag, placing them on the desk from where he viewed his kingdom.

Trixie hopped across the room holding her jeans up with one hand and her heels in the other. Wolf pulled the door shut, echoes rang across the high- roofed space. Faces looked up at the sound, then quickly lowered again at the sight of Wolf. He locked the door, lifted the thong over his head, then swaggered down the stairs to his casino’s main floor.

Luke pushed the cart down Flockton’s main street. The hind’s head and front legs lolled up and down, dangling over the edge. The rain had paused but the cart’s wheels splashed through the puddles it had left. Copper and chestnut coloured leaves skittered across the road. He’d dropped in at home for a kiss and cuppa with Hera, changed out of his wet camo gear, put on dry clothes, then set off for the cold store. Most faces turned away as he trundled past them. One or two said quick hellos, mostly his trade customers, but moved hurriedly on down the street, not offering anything friendlier. He opened the butchery and cold store complex door and dragged the carcass inside. The cold store itself stood in the corner of the larger room, surrounded by sturdy wooden benches and butchers blocks. Hooks and chains hung from the rafters. Luke had to duck underneath them. The smell of ammonia stung his nostrils. He frowned when he reached the bench he shared with several other butchers. Blood and meat debris littered the block. Black, white and tan hair decorated the mess. He grunted, poured a bucket of brine from the barrel and began scrubbing.

When Wolf reached the bottom of the stairs, he turned around and walked through a door into a long corridor with an earthen floor. Above him were his private rooms he’d just locked behind him. Breathing in the fusty air he walked past side rooms containing dry goods, maintenance and cleaning supplies, all boring necessities he delegated to others. At the end of the corridor, through one last door he entered a dark cubicle. He snapped on the dim light bulb. A trap door lay in the centre, surrounded on three sides by a waist high barrier. Underneath the trap was a short wooden set of steps which creaked under his weight. At the bottom of the steps, a sloping sand floor led to a row of cells. An anxious pale face stared at him through the bars.

Chapter Two

Daisy locked the gas bottle store’s green wooden door and climbed onto the cart’s front seat. The store was an old, oddly shaped red brick building far too small for even a singleton to live in but a bit too large and charmingly designed to be just an outhouse. Father had told her they were electricity board substations, built all around the country between the wars. She wasn’t the only one who found them quaintly appealing. Artists and photographers had found that rustic charm sold well as calendars and greetings cards. Her brother, who’d loaded the empty gas cylinders for her would already be walking back to the stables, where he had a full day’s work ahead. When she returned here, probably around midday, with another load of filled gas bottles, she’d have to run and fetch him to unload them too, leaving the Shires hitched up while she did. Phew. Their family business was a roaring success, earning her mum, dad, brother and herself a good living, not to mention Uncle Ryan and her cousins, But, my goodness, they worked long hours for it.

As she flicked the reins to set the horses moving, she noticed a tall, lean man round the corner into the square, pushing a cart with an animal’s carcass on it toward Main Street. It was that hunter guy, wasn’t it? Luke something. Mum didn’t like him, said he was rough, ill-mannered and Daisy was to keep away from him. Dad knew better than to argue when Mum worked herself up into one of those states. Though Daisy, who’d only finished school that summer, and considered Ophelia to be the raddest, most tragic chick in literature, thought her mother’s rants had more than a flavour of ‘the lady doth protest too much.’

The girls who’d finished school with her were split right down the middle about Luke. Those who swooned over him weren’t all of the type her mother said they would be, girls drawn like magnets to bad boys who would, she’d warned Daisy with that finger, be nowhere to be found as soon as they missed their first period. Two or three of his fans were sensible girls. One was Katie, Dr. Kildare’s daughter. Her mother told Daisy regularly, with that look turned up to eleven, that she was to find a nice boy — with a future, like that sweet boy Gideon who’s always so nice and polite. That sweet boy, Daisy thought, is two months younger than me, and he still runs the after-school comic book club which all the other boys his age have already dropped. All the Flockton boys a few years older, who’d left school last year or the year before, were taken, one of them by Katie Kildare. Not that Daisy had fancied them then, but times had changed. Besides, she’d protested to her mother’s deaf ears, how could she possibly meet boys with a future from the other villages, when she wasn’t even allowed to go to the Saturday discos?  

The horses hooves clattered as she turned onto Mile End Road, heading for the old coal mine and gas plant. Luke slipped out of her peripheral vision and her mind.

***

“What’s on today darling?” Nigel asked his wife Harriet, who doubled as his secretary on his admin days. He checked his tie in the mirror, tutted when he noticed it was slightly twisted and slipped it off to tie it a second time. On administration days, when he represented Flockton’s governing council, Nigel took care to dress smartly in a shirt, tie and jacket, as he had always done in the old world. Satisfied with his tie, he combed his frustratingly straight and lifeless hair into a side parting. Nigel wore a tidily clipped moustache but, unlike almost all other men, was clean shaven everywhere else. Given that open bladed razors were the only type left and shaving took more time and care than it used to, he was proud to be different. Before the collapse Nigel had worked as a finance officer for the local authority. And although at that first village meeting to elect the council he’d protested that it didn’t qualify him to become Mayor, a majority disagreed, calling out that it was closer than any other candidate had come. Nigel had accepted, waveringly, cautioning the crowd that he’d try his best but they should make allowances.

“Traders’ troubleshooting workshop at nine-thirty,” Harriet told him, reading from a clipboard. “Then a trade visit to Stoke Ferry.”

Harriet wore a lilac twinset. A plain short-sleeved merino jumper underneath a striking cardigan decorated with a floral jacquard pattern and a delicate trim running down the entire front edge. After the establishment of the Six Villages, she had not only managed to rescue her entire wardrobe from Lowham, but raided many of the empty houses for more, including those of her deceased friends and associates. With her discerning eye she’d rescued clothes, shoes, lingerie and jewellery. Nigel no longer marvelled at Harriet’s ability to outdress every other woman wherever they went and in every setting, whether formal or casual. It was simply a given. He did wonder how soon it would be before he was instructed to purchase a fourth wardrobe.

Harriet ran her finger down the clipboard. “Didn’t we schedule that meeting last week?”

“We did,” Nigel told her. “To sign off on our access to their wharf and slipway.”

“Yes, I remember now.” Harriet added a neat tick to her list.

Nigel carried on. “Stoke are asking far too much, but that’s probably just their opening gambit. We’ll get it squared away today with a bit of compromise.” He checked his tie one last time before turning to Harriet. “And Ray’s coming along too. That means we can ride in comfort on a horse and cart.”

“Oh?” Harriet’s nose wrinkled.

“You know he’s always looking to expand. Today he wants to work out if its viable to set up a ferry to cross the river. At the right price, he could ship Eddie’s coal across. The villages on the other side are interested — apparently. And maybe with a barge or two — horse drawn of course — he could ferry goods to Lowham instead of making dozens of cart journeys.” Nigel nodded at the clipboard. “Anything else?”

“Yes.” Harriet’s mouth twisted. Her hand rose unconsciously to rub her prize piece, an antique brooch, its centrepiece an impressive sapphire. She’d found it on one of her hunts.

“You’ve got to field Jared’s latest attempt to start a poker night in the Bull. Where they’ll gamble — for money,” she added contemptuously.  “And now he wants to add a strip club night.” She wiped her mouth as though the words had a sour taste. “There are more people behind him this time. I’ve been informed there are now several — " she sniffed in disapproval, “men — who have agreed to bankroll the venture.”

“Hmm.” Nigel’s hand rose to his clipped moustache.

“Please don’t fold, darling. Even the thought of it is simply horrific. Women dancing nude for men’s entertainment.” She shuddered as though nails had been dragged down a blackboard. “We have a theatre and, occasionally, a mini cinema. Striptease and gambling are cheap attractions which appeal only to the lowest class of men.” Harriet folded her arms.

“The thing is, sweetness, things aren’t what they were six months ago. We’ve got to factor in Las Larsen now.”

“You should call it what it is, Sin City. Imagine letting a vulgar gin palace like that affect us. We should simply act as though it doesn’t exist. And you watch — soon enough, it won’t. Places like that need a large supply of low-class customers. Base, seedy people. People who were unemployable before. Drug addicts, the workshy. And immoral, cheap, debauched women. They’ll soon find that most of that class didn’t survive the clean-up. Of course they’ll attract a small number to indulge in their, ugh, sordid amusements, but not from here. And then they’ll have to pack up and go elsewhere. It’s not only me darling. All the Wives agree.”

Nigel turned away to look out of the window. What was taking Ray so long? If Harriet knew he taxied a cartful of men up to the casino and strip club twice a week. She really didn’t get it. But trying to explain would only set her off. At a recent council meeting, Adrian had estimated how much money the men spent up there. Or perhaps ‘lost’ was a better word. But even over six villages, he couldn’t see how that amount could ever sustain such a large operation.

“I can’t see how they break even, let alone stay in the black. They probably don’t even have a business model, let alone a fully costed plan? I expect you’re right dear, Larsen will soon have to admit defeat and move on.”

Harriet looked victoriously at Nigel. Nigel wore a resigned expression.

“We shouldn’t be even thinking about pandering to the lowest of desires,” she continued on a roll. “They,” (Nigel wondered who Harriet imagined ‘them’ to be) “should be inspired to live decently, like us.” Footsteps descended the stairs and into the kitchen. It was Lottie. Harriet had adopted her soon before making her move for Nigel. Initially, none of the village’s families had been biological. Everyone had lost parents, children and relatives in the collapse’s carnage. Most had lost everyone they’d ever known. A mere remnant of children under eight had survived. The interim government had augmented the six villages’ meagre number of survivors until there were enough capable adults to grow and thrive as a community and economy. As they’d done with the villages across the river and further down the valley. Something, Nigel had no idea what it was, although Robin, Flockton’s vicar might have some answers, had motivated older villagers to adopt the younger ones and become families. The Wives, Nigel often thought, had selected girls who reminded them of their younger selves. Harriet left the bedroom and went downstairs to join Lottie.

Nigel sighed. Sometimes he thought Harriet had successfully buried the memories of all the death and carnage in a bottomless pit, never to be hauled back up into the daylight. She certainly enunciated as though she was still a non-executive director at whatever that NGO had been called. Or as if she were introducing the winners and worthies at the annual polo club fundraiser.

He, however, was constantly worrying.  How had that damned night club or casino strip bar or whatever the heck it was set up so fast? One minute it was an abandoned farm, with barns and empty grain silos. The next it had become a sprawling complex with scores of men and women working there. And how on earth does it siphon so much of our money off? It’s like a bottomless pit. One minute it was just a marquee travelling round all the village outskirts. At first, he’d thought it was a religious revival tent. Well, he couldn’t have been more wrong.