THE SILVER HORDE HEIST
In progress. Post-collapse mystery/crime. Scroll down to read Chapter One
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From the writer of ‘The start of the world’ comes a brand new collection of short stories.
There’s Anjelica, a call-girl who looks in the mirror to see her use-by-date rapidly approaching. No problem, a rich, older man will do nicely. I’ll just switch the product lifespan from single night only to lifetime access.
The young rising corporate executive using companies as stepping stones to the top. She switches jobs regularly, collecting companies to build up her CV. None of them are more than springboards and the next one is going to boost her green credentials. But she finds, to her exasperation and bewilderment, the owner’s strategy, you could even say his code, is entirely upside down, the very opposite of her own. It’s surely doomed to imminently fail, she thinks. And yet it doesn’t.
And there’s Tane, a former gang prospect. He ends up, by a stroke of luck, falling on his feet into a thriving post-collapse community. After failing more trials than he passes, Tane is assigned as a shepherd on a high hill pasture. All alone for months. Nothing to do but watch the sheep — and think. Until something happens.
‘Princesses in the new world’ is set in post-collapse North Wales, where a highly driven leader has taken over a former holiday camp - think Butlins - populated it, fortified it, and is desperately trying to retain and rebuild enough of the lost 21st C tech to give them a chance to rise out of the hand-to-mouth subsistence everyone around them scrapes by under. Most of his workers are grudgingly tolerating semi-slavery until that longed-for day arrives. But on one dread day, everything is threatened by twin attacks, from without and within.
The silver horde heist
Chapter One
I MADE MY FINAL micro-adjustments to the diving helmet. When I was satisfied with it I walked into the water, out toward the centre of the lake and stopped as soon as my head was fully submerged. Good. I could see the bubbles tumbling up to the surface, out of the valve by my left cheek. Fresh air came in by the other valve, hand pumped by Smudger, let’s call him my apprentice. In my left hand I held a thin white rope, tied around both our waists. A single tug from me meant ‘pump faster.’ Two meant ‘I’m in trouble, wade in and pull me out quick.’ So far, we hadn’t needed to test how hard Smudger would need to pull. Smudger has just turned seventeen and weighs under ten stone. I’m six-four and over fifteen.
I continued on down. Each step churned up mud and silt. It didn’t rise up as far as my faceplate, I could still see the wrecked car I was aiming for, but it did block my vision below my knees and I had to wait until it settled before taking any more steps. The lake bed boasted bricks, rocks, supermarket trollies and probably holes and drops. So I took my time. Air is free and it wasn’t too cold underwater in my dry suit. As the silt settled once more I saw the teddy, a yard or so off to my right. It wasn’t as easy to squat down as I’d expected but by keeping my moves slow and steady I got down and back up again with barely a wobble.
As I stood waiting for all the silt to clear again I noticed a pike coming near to investigate the disturbance. He moved imperiously through his kingdom like the apex predator he was, almost swaggering. When all he saw was me, he veered off with a contemptuous swish of his tail.
I tucked the teddy into my belt and pushed forward to the car. I was on the lake bottom now. I looked up at the surface ten or so feet above me. I wondered whether the gathered crowds on the bank could actually see me this far under water. Free entertainment, not to mention drama, was pretty rare these days and most people’s workdays had finished. When I say most people, I suppose I should point out that the lake, the largest in a series of former gravel pits, lay midway between Upper Holloway and Spital Hill. Now a large chunk of the Spital Hill population were drudges who had to work long hours for low pay in conditions the other two villages wouldn’t permit. Even so, there were still more than a hundred gawping at me, Smudger and Jenks. And a good smattering of those were from Holloway.
I hadn’t wanted to do the salvage job in the evening for that very reason but Smudger had a day job of his own so I had to wait until after he’d knocked off. And right now I was in a slow spell which had booted my plan to give him more days into the long grass. Had this been ten years ago all the kids would have been at home on their phones and everyone else watching streaming TV. Maybe there’d have been a handful of bored teens here, watching, filming it to put on social media, to score some likes from another person’s effort. Today, all that the kids knew about mobile phones was that older people kept banging on and on about them, as though they’d lost a fortune or a winning lottery ticket.
Today, not everyone was here for the entertainment. Before I’d even put on the suit, I noticed Spital Hill’s poor were either begging from, trying to sell something to or peddling some or other flim-flam on Upper Holloway’s wealthy.
A few more steps and I was opening the driver’s door. A shoal of a hundred minnows rushed out of the safe haven the pike couldn’t squeeze into. How many of them would survive the day? The guy’s face was mostly bone but his afro still spiked outwards, swaying gently as my movement swished the water. I checked his pockets before I eased him out of his seat onto the lake bottom. Nothing. The nylon clothing had held together well but I could feel bones through it. I patted down his back pockets and found a wallet. The notes were ten years worthless but I took the coins.
I found what I was looking for stuffed under the driver’s seat, carefully drew it out and left it on the springs, all that was left of the driver’s seat. That had to be shared but anything else I found was all mine. Below the dash was the boot release. Inside I found two or three decent items, a jack, a polythene roll of basic tools, a metal jerrycan which felt full, hopefully full of petrol, not lake water, but the treasure was a box of shotgun shells. Ten years ago they’d have been in a box but now the cardboard was long gone. I placed them inside one of my cloth bags to hide them from prying eyes on the surface. Nothing on the back seat. As I’d hoped, the passenger had been carrying the shotgun. I took that too. He had more coins than the driver, plenty of rings and even better, two thick gold chains. Alas, it was part of our gentlemen’s agreement that I had to share them too. And the final Brucie bonus was a second bag of necklaces, earrings, bracelets and whatever from the robbery, underneath the passenger seat. Mostly gold. Some silver and a lot of gemstones. Except the bag must have been plastic and was long gone. But the loot was still there, undisturbed and undamaged by ten years of water. Even divided in half, this find was a – well - a goldmine. And although it was me doing the dangerous part, I wouldn’t have even known the car was there without Jenks, never mind the treasure trove inside. Two dead armed robbers with a footballer and his WAG’s jewellery collection. What would that have been worth in the old money?
Jenks, to give him his former full title, Detective Superintendent Jenkins of Oxclose Lane CID had spent years tracking down which lake the coked up, wannabe gangstas had spun off the road into as they tried to outrun a tuned and turbocharged 2 litre Cosworth pursuit car with a driver mainlining on righteous adrenaline. And that wasn’t easy when all the records had been computerised, i.e. lost forever.
So, fair’s fair, I thought as I bagged up the bulky items and tied the rope around the bag’s neck. I’d drag that up the slope and pull it in once I was waist height in the water. I slung the smaller canvas bags with the jewellery and shells around my neck and started the slog back up to daylight and fresh air.