could have taken those still standing away from here – we would have been miles away by now. Instead, she spent the whole night pulling people to
safety. I owe her my life but so do some of you. You all knew my parents – they have lived here for all of their lives. They’ve seen you grow up. Whatever you might have thought of the
King before,
he
did this. He sent the planes that bombed and killed my parents.’ He jabs his arms towards the windows. ‘I dragged them out of the rubble last night and had to
stand in here as the Kingsmen burned their bodies. That’s who
they
are. We need to show them who
we
are.’
He stamps his foot again as a small cheer erupts.
‘I don’t know about you but there is no way any of them are going to lay a finger on Silver. Whether we run or fight doesn’t matter. What is important is showing them –
showing everyone – that they can’t do as they please.’
Another cheer goes up and I feel a lump in my throat. I don’t feel as if I have done anything to save these people. If anything, my presence is what drew the plane here.
He is interrupted by another screech and then the amplified voice of the Kingsman outside. ‘You have sixty seconds.’
On the screen above Hart, the timer pulses through the seconds. I remember the old-fashioned clock which sat above the cooker in our old home. Somewhere it is now buried or crushed under the
rubble. I can hear it in my head. Tick-tock, tick-tock.
Some of the survivors reach for the few weapons they have but the resources are even more meagre than I feared. One of the men scrapes the blade of a knife against another to sharpen it but he
must know it will have no effect on a Kingman’s armour. One of the women starts stamping on the wooden remains of the frame in which the King’s picture was once housed. She forms two
spear-shaped objects, each with a sharp point. They may do some damage to the unprotected parts of a Kingsman but will offer little defence against the weapons they have.
On the screen, the Kingsmen unsheathe their swords and take a step forward. There are ten seconds to go. The leader in the middle is still chewing hard, eyes fixed on the village hall. Together
they stride purposefully in unison, their steps in time to the countdown. Around me people are massing, men and women, older and younger than me. I want to tell them to stop, that I don’t
want them to do this on my behalf, but I can’t get a word in over their murmuring. One of the bigger men pushes me backwards, away from the doors.
The image on the screen changes to where someone is filming from the grass bank we emerged onto yesterday. The steeper angle offers a view of the whole village: the piles of wreckage, the giant
crater, the burning row of bodies – and the ring of Kingsmen that circle the village hall.
‘We’re surrounded,’ someone says near the front. I see people’s bodies tense ahead of me as they ready themselves for a fight.
The camera shifts again to the one in front of the Kingsmen. They continue to march as one until they reach the bottom of the steps just as the timer ticks to zero.
6
I am so far back in the crowd that I hear the doors being opened without being able to see them. On tiptoes, I peer over the nearest villager but only in time to watch the tops
of the doors slam shut again. The screen is a blur of movement as whoever is filming tries to turn around.
A voice blares from outside: ‘Who are you?’
Everyone has turned to watch the big screen where the Kingsman in grey is framed tightly. His features don’t appear to have changed, his eyes staring firmly ahead, jaw rigid. As the image
erratically pans around to the top of the steps, finally coming into focus, there is a gasp from the people around the room.
I turn, clutching onto Opie to support him as we stare up to see his father standing by himself in front of the huge doors of the village hall.
‘It doesn’t matter who I am,’ he replies. His
safety. I owe her my life but so do some of you. You all knew my parents – they have lived here for all of their lives. They’ve seen you grow up. Whatever you might have thought of the
King before,
he
did this. He sent the planes that bombed and killed my parents.’ He jabs his arms towards the windows. ‘I dragged them out of the rubble last night and had to
stand in here as the Kingsmen burned their bodies. That’s who
they
are. We need to show them who
we
are.’
He stamps his foot again as a small cheer erupts.
‘I don’t know about you but there is no way any of them are going to lay a finger on Silver. Whether we run or fight doesn’t matter. What is important is showing them –
showing everyone – that they can’t do as they please.’
Another cheer goes up and I feel a lump in my throat. I don’t feel as if I have done anything to save these people. If anything, my presence is what drew the plane here.
He is interrupted by another screech and then the amplified voice of the Kingsman outside. ‘You have sixty seconds.’
On the screen above Hart, the timer pulses through the seconds. I remember the old-fashioned clock which sat above the cooker in our old home. Somewhere it is now buried or crushed under the
rubble. I can hear it in my head. Tick-tock, tick-tock.
Some of the survivors reach for the few weapons they have but the resources are even more meagre than I feared. One of the men scrapes the blade of a knife against another to sharpen it but he
must know it will have no effect on a Kingman’s armour. One of the women starts stamping on the wooden remains of the frame in which the King’s picture was once housed. She forms two
spear-shaped objects, each with a sharp point. They may do some damage to the unprotected parts of a Kingsman but will offer little defence against the weapons they have.
On the screen, the Kingsmen unsheathe their swords and take a step forward. There are ten seconds to go. The leader in the middle is still chewing hard, eyes fixed on the village hall. Together
they stride purposefully in unison, their steps in time to the countdown. Around me people are massing, men and women, older and younger than me. I want to tell them to stop, that I don’t
want them to do this on my behalf, but I can’t get a word in over their murmuring. One of the bigger men pushes me backwards, away from the doors.
The image on the screen changes to where someone is filming from the grass bank we emerged onto yesterday. The steeper angle offers a view of the whole village: the piles of wreckage, the giant
crater, the burning row of bodies – and the ring of Kingsmen that circle the village hall.
‘We’re surrounded,’ someone says near the front. I see people’s bodies tense ahead of me as they ready themselves for a fight.
The camera shifts again to the one in front of the Kingsmen. They continue to march as one until they reach the bottom of the steps just as the timer ticks to zero.
6
I am so far back in the crowd that I hear the doors being opened without being able to see them. On tiptoes, I peer over the nearest villager but only in time to watch the tops
of the doors slam shut again. The screen is a blur of movement as whoever is filming tries to turn around.
A voice blares from outside: ‘Who are you?’
Everyone has turned to watch the big screen where the Kingsman in grey is framed tightly. His features don’t appear to have changed, his eyes staring firmly ahead, jaw rigid. As the image
erratically pans around to the top of the steps, finally coming into focus, there is a gasp from the people around the room.
I turn, clutching onto Opie to support him as we stare up to see his father standing by himself in front of the huge doors of the village hall.
‘It doesn’t matter who I am,’ he replies. His
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