THE FARM!

Chapter 23

"Hey Jem, giv' us a swig o' that my man."
"No fucking chance, donkey dick, you've already downed most of my share. Piss all left and no more rations 'till this afternoon."
Nat cursed under his breath, 'son of a bitch', then with an ingratiating smile, "well can I at least 'ave a smoke then?"
Jem pulled a brown cigarillo from a dirty crumpled pack, handed it to Nat, turning his back to light his own; sheltering the feeble flame from the updraft with hands calloused and coarse from years of manual graft.
"This is a shit-ass boring job and no mistake. What in fucks name is this all about!" Nat expostulated waving his hands in the direction of the cavern from which they could see the critical point where the track divided some forty feet below.
"Your guess is as good as mine my friend, but one thing I do know. It don't pay to ask too many questions. Just do what the rest of us do; take the money; drink the free booze and smoke the free fags."
"Too fucking right," Nat replied swaying slightly, "no complaints on that score; the rate of pay keeps the old witch 'appy and feeds the frigging kids. There's naff all else, work-wise, going on 'round here. Not since all the big hotels went all-inclusive. Ripped the guts outta the place. I woz headed back up the arse-end of the 'olloway Road to get back on the benefits 'till this deal came along. Seems just too good to be true, but I just can't help thinking what the fuck's going on."
"Not a clue..." Jem replied taking a long drag from his cigarillo, the smoke curling around the yellow ends of his mustachios. "But just keep your mouth shut. There's been too many disappearances 'round here for my liking – and I don't want to be one of 'em. I've got me wife, kids and all the family back here." Then a sound or the vague sensation of a presence alerted him. As he turned towards the door he was catapulted forward striking his head on a jagged spur of exposed rock before collapsing into a heap on the ground.
Nat was immediately consumed by terror, his cigarillo falling from his lips as it became patently clear that the person who was alive and smoking beside him only a moment ago was now a lifeless corpse. He also found himself gazing into the muzzle of Gus's gun.

The operation proved somewhat easier than Gus had expected. The lock on the door at the bottom of the stairs was secure enough, but the frame was rotten and he managed to stave it in with a few well-aimed kicks from his boot followed by a shoulder shove using the full weight of his substantial bulk. Clearly, he thought, this mob hadn't anticipated any serious resistance from the demoralized and cowed captives. This was what he had reckoned and relied upon. The success of his entire career was based on the philosophy that it is not your own strength that wins battles, but the identification and exploitation of the weaknesses of others. It was this mentality that took him to the top echelons of the security service and a philosophy he tried to instil into his grandson.
Pip, Emily and Fitz, were trailing behind and wondering exactly what Gus planned to do next. However, it was obvious to them that if they wanted to survive, then their role was to do exactly as he told them – to be alert to his every command.
So they stayed behind in the small rocky antechamber that they'd found unoccupied when they broke through the door. Pip stroking Emily's hair by way of comfort and taking the opportunity to retie her bandages. She in turn put her arms around his neck in the way that girls do when they really like a boy and kissed him passionately. Fitz turned his head away, not wishing to intrude on their few moments of togetherness and thinking back to his own teenage love, a distant, yet poignant memory.
Gus made his way up the narrow spiral staircase, crudely cut into the rock. It reminded him of childhood; clambering up the tower to the bell platform – a task that gave him an excuse to escape his Father's brutality and his Mother's hysteria. He briefly considered how much of his career had been a distraction from thinking about the emotional impact of his earlier years. But he quickly cast aside these painful memories to focus on the job in hand.
When at the top of the stairs and immediately outside the sentry post, he overheard the muffled voices of the guards talking in that strange amalgam – a North London accent underpinned by a Turkish inflection, creating distinctive speech patterns, unique, yet easily identifiable. However, it was a crude and harsh assault on Gus's ears, accustomed as he was to the standardised English he'd grown up with.
He pushed the door ever so slightly. It wasn't locked and hadn't even been pulled to. He opened it a crack until he could see the bulk of a man standing near the door. The man was distracted, expostulating to his companion; completely unprepared for any attack. 'Almost too easy,' Gus thought, whilst at the same time removing his jacket and wrapping it around his gun-hand in order to stifle the report of the shot.
He shoved the door open, took a long step forward, aimed and fired at the man's head just as Jem was turning towards the door. Then two further steps and he held Nat, rigid with fear; staring down the muzzle of the gun aimed squarely between his eyes.
Now, Gus thought, as he made his way back down the stairs with the disarmed Nat in tow. The real job begins.