Jimmy was as excited as everyone else by the old man's account of the President's train. Partly because he was a newsman with a good scoop, but also because of the way it had affected the audience — for the first time on any of his settlement visits he had seen genuine hope in their eyes, the first inkling that there might be a real possibility of escape from their squalid existence. Electricity! Television! As he made his way back through the tangle of huts Jimmy could hear snatches of 'The Star Spangled Banner' being sung.
It was a pleasant relief to emerge back into the fresh air. Jimmy looked across to where Dr Hill was now getting towards the end of his line of patients. Three sorry-looking children lay on stretchers, ready for transportation back to the Titanic. Since he'd been gone a second boat had arrived from the ship. First Officer Jeffers and several crewmen had set up a folding table and chair and were now interviewing locals who wished to board the Titanic. There weren't very many of them; they stood lethargically and answered Jeffers' questions as if they didn't care one way or another if they were successful.
As there was still clearly some time to kill, Jimmy decided to do a little more exploring. He began to circle around the outside of the settlement. Several dogs snapped at him. Soot-faced women stared at him as he passed their homes. He stepped over another drunk. When he had landed he had wanted to ask as many of these people as possible for their personal stories of what had happened to them during and since the plague, but since hearing about the Presidential train he could no longer summon the enthusiasm — he wanted to write something positive for a change, he'd had enough of death and disaster.
When he was about halfway around the settlement there was a scream from up ahead. His view was obscured by a jutting wall — yet he immediately knew who it was.
Claire!
Jimmy charged around the corner and saw her lying on the rubbish-strewn ground about a hundred metres ahead. A boy of roughly his own age was standing over her.
'Hey!' Jimmy yelled.
The boy looked startled, then reached down and grabbed Claire's camera. She held on to the strap and pulled back, but the boy punched at her face and she let out a cry of pain. The boy ripped the strap from her grasp and darted back into the maze of interconnected sheds that made up Tucker's Hole.
Claire pulled herself up to her knees just as Jimmy reached her. There was a thin trickle of blood coming from her nose.
'Are you all right?'
She gave him a look that said Stupid question.
'I'll get Dr Hill. . .' Jimmy started to turn, but she grabbed his arm and shook her head. 'Claire! This is stupid! Talk to me . . .'
But instead of talking, she jabbed her finger after the boy and grunted. The camera.
Jimmy took her hand and hauled her to her feet. She quickly disengaged her hand. He reached up to wipe the blood from her lip, but she turned her head away. Jimmy tutted and turned towards the gap in the jagged wall where the boy had disappeared.
'I'll get it back,' he said. But as he started to follow, Claire was right behind him. He stopped and shook his head. She nodded. He put his hand up to stop her. She put her hands on her hips and gave him a look. He sighed.
'Oh please your bloody self, you half-wit.'
He turned into the alley. Claire followed.
For the next forty-five minutes they played cat and mouse with the thief. Several times they caught glimpses of him, only for him to disappear again. And it wasn't as if they could report him to the police. There were no police. There were no laws or courts or punishments. If they wanted to get the camera back they had to get it themselves. They got lost, they were shouted at, they fell over drunks, they found themselves accidentally standing in people's bedrooms, more than once they disturbed someone having a pee — all without a word being spoken between them. They were tired, sweaty, determined, but eventually had to concede that they weren't going to get Claire's camera back. They agreed this just by looking at each other. Jimmy shrugged, Claire shrugged; he nodded towards what he thought was the twisting path back to where the other crewmen were; she nodded back.
When they stepped back out into the late afternoon sunlight they were immediately aware that something had changed — but for a moment couldn't quite put their fingers on it. The same sullen people were standing around, there was the same fetid stench, pockmarked children were still running back and forth playing soccer with a burst ball, presumably over the worst of the chicken—
'They're gone!' Jimmy exclaimed.
With a dreadful lurch in his stomach he'd realised that there was now no trace of Dr Hill, the nurses, the sick children, or indeed Jeffers and his crew.
'We spent so long chasing that camera that. . .'
Claire was giving him a look that said So it's my fault?
Jimmy rolled his eyes. He stopped the closest footballer. 'Hey — the doctor, the nurses, how long ago did they leave?'
The boy, who was only about seven, looked frightened. Another, older boy shouted across: 'About half an hour ago. Did they leave you behind? My parents did that a couple of weeks ago. You can play for my team if you want.'
'Thanks, but . . .' Jimmy was already looking around, trying to decide on the best course of action.
Claire pulled at his sleeve and pointed away from the settlement — not towards the beach where they'd landed a couple of hours before, but to the east. Jimmy remembered now — Dr Hill had told them where to meet in case they got split up.
Two clicks to the east of the river.
Whatever the hell a click was. Jimmy hadn't been paying much attention when this rendezvous point was discussed at the planning meeting on the Titanic. But it seemed that Claire had. She strode out in front of him, and then broke into a jog. Jimmy took a deep breath and followed.
They were running through dense woods, following an ancient path that twisted up, then down again towards the coast. The sunlight through the branches gave the kind of lovely rippling, flickering effect that might have caused epilepsy if you were prone to it. Claire loped confidently along.
'You know,' Jimmy said between breaths, his eyes glued to the ground so that he wouldn't trip over the tree roots poking out every few metres, 'you're going to have to talk to me eventually.'
Claire didn't respond.
'I know you're pig-headed, but you'll cave in, I know you will.'
Nothing.
'And when I say you're pig-headed, that wasn't a reference to Babe.'
Nothing.
'Even if you do look quite similar.'
Claire stopped. Jimmy smiled to himself. He'd gotten to her. Even if she hurled abuse at him, at least they'd be talking. But she didn't turn. He saw now that the path ahead of them was split — in three directions. Each path was still generally heading to the east — but which one to follow?
'Lost, are we?'
Claire's head snapped towards him — but then a sudden crack diverted their attention. They had both seen enough action in the past few months to recognise a gunshot when they heard one. And close at hand. There was a moment when their eyes met, before they threw themselves off the path. They lay with their faces pressed into the mossy forest floor, breathing hard, their eyes urgently scanning the trees.
'Wasn't aimed at us,' Jimmy whispered. Claire nodded. There was nothing moving ahead. 'Probably hunters.' Claire nodded again. 'The sensible thing to do . . . would be to keep going . . . we have a boat to catch. Investigating would be time-consuming, and possibly dangerous.'
Claire looked at him. He saw the merest sliver of a smile. Then she raised herself to her knees and crawled across the path and into the trees on the other side — i.e. in the vague direction of the shot.
Jimmy had expected nothing less. He followed a moment later.
They moved forward as quietly as they could — but in the almost absolute silence of the woods it was difficult not to make a noise. If there were birds in the trees they were watching, not singing. There was no breeze to produce the aching sound of swaying branches.
They had progressed about a hundred metres when they heard it: soft, yet unmistakable. Somebody was singing. A man's voice. Light, melodic. A hymn.
It drifted eerily through the trees. It was so out of place. Jimmy and Claire exchanged glances before advancing again. Perhaps only ten or twelve metres further on they came to the edge of a clearing and stopped behind the cover of a small clutch of low ferns. Ahead of them they saw a man in a long black coat and black, wide-brimmed hat, with a rifle in his hand. He was crouching over something, and singing to himself. Jimmy thought at first that it was indeed a hunter, examining the animal he'd killed, and was on the point of rising to ask for directions when the man moved a little to the side, affording them their first proper view of his kill.
Of the dead man.
Of wide, staring eyes.
Of a gaping, bloody hole in his chest.
Of the man in black searching his pockets.
And singing, singing that hymn.
The man in black moved around to the other side of the corpse, and now they saw that he was wearing a minister's collar around his neck. His face was pure white and dominated by a long, thin nose. He reminded Jimmy of the austere seventeenth century Puritans he'd been forced to learn about in school.
Claire squeezed Jimmy's arm. She indicated with her eyes that they should back away. Jimmy nodded.
But immediately his foot found a twig and it snapped with surprising volume.
Instantaneously the minister's eyes shot up. Their heads were already pressed hard into the mossy forest floor as he scanned along the trees. He rose from his crouching position and raised his rifle. He was about twenty metres away from them. Slowly he moved the rifle from left to right — one long, bony finger curled around the trigger.
He began to move in their direction.
Claire's nails dug into Jimmy's arm.
He was coming, slowly, but coming.
Wait and hope he stopped, or make a run for it?
Jimmy wasn't going to lie there and wait for him. This minister had already killed one man — there was nothing to stop him shooting them either. He looked at Claire. She nodded.
He mouthed — 'One, two . . .' They sprang up on three and sprinted back the way they'd come. At first there was only the soft pad of their feet on the forest floor . . . until the first shot shattered a branch centimetres from Claire's head. She let out a scream, but didn't miss a step.
A second and third shot rang out just as they came to the diverging paths. The third smashed into a tree to Jimmy's right and a wood splinter sliced along his cheek; Jimmy charged along the path that veered slightly to the left. A fourth shot cracked out further to the right and there was another scream from Claire — but further away.
She'd taken the other path!
But which one was the minister—?
A branch exploded to Jimmy's right. He tumbled to the ground, rolled, sprang back up and kept running. He had his answer.
But did that mean Claire was safe . . . or was she already dead?
Or lying wounded and the minister was going to kill Jimmy first before going back to finish her off?
Either way, there was nothing he could do!
Just keep running!
It was then that the minister's high pitched, whiny voice rang out. 'I see you, boy! I'm coming for you, boy!'