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  The sight along Spring Hill Road was always one to lift the spirits. It was an avenue of mature trees, their upper branches swaying in the gentle wind and the sunlight making dappled patterns on the road around their shadows.

  It had taken a three-year fight to save these trees from being part of the city council’s now infamous felling programme. It was a policy that seemed to Martin and many other like-minded people arbitrary and needless. His group, SEAN, had campaigned against it and had been part of the victory. Martin felt the sense of triumph every time he walked along the road and gazed at the trees, glorious and bursting with new life.

  This time, though, he was distracted by the activity at the far end of the road. People were gathered. Some of them were wearing orange and yellow high-viz gear and hard hats. There was a council truck too. The scene was wearily familiar and Martin increased the pace of his limping progress towards it.

  The closer he got, the more clearly he could hear the raised voices. Several neighbours were making their enraged point to a man in orange jacket and trousers who seemed to be drawing their attention while the other council workmen unloaded gear from the back of the truck. This was all happening outside Martin’s home.

  ‘Samir, what’s going on?’ he asked the man from next door as he reached the edge of the group.

  ‘They say they’re going to chop that one down,’ he replied, gesturing with a nod of his head towards the large tree to their left. The one directly outside Martin’s home. The one he regularly stood and watched from his bedroom window. One of the trees he had helped to save.

  ‘Could you look after my bike for a minute?’ he asked and, without waiting for an answer, strode purposefully towards the man who, it seemed, was in charge.

  ‘Excuse me,’ he said and the words proved enough to stall the neighbours in their business of haranguing the unwavering man before them. Martin had become their self-appointed leader through past campaigns to save the trees.

  Maybe it was the jacket, possibly the cycle helmet or perhaps it was the reaction of the neighbours, but the council man also fell obediently quiet and diverted his attention to the short figure who now stood before him.

  ‘These trees are protected under the Street Tree Working Partnership, agreed between the city council and citizens’ environmental protection groups to prevent a return to the illegal felling that took place three years ago. Can I ask what authority you have to be here?’

  The council man’s eyes narrowed beneath the peak of his hard hat and his hands clenched into fists inside his heavy-duty black gloves. He loathed protesters. They got in the way, with their bleeding hearts and small-minded indignation. He had a job to do and he hated having to deal with these time-wasters.

  ‘We have an order to cut down that tree,’ he said, pointing towards the unfortunate intended victim. ‘It’s in a dangerous condition and there have been complaints that the damage caused by its roots to the footpath are a potential tripping hazard, as well as an obstruction to people with mobility scooters.’

  ‘Rubbish,’ said a young woman from the grim-faced crowd opposite him.

  Martin held up his hand to quieten any further protest. He knew the best way to deal with people like this was to speak their language.

  ‘This tree has been examined recently and it is perfectly healthy. It’s over a century old and it will still be there long after you and I are gone. As for these alleged complaints – who has made a complaint? Can you show us these complaints? I’m not aware of any complaints and I live here. Does anyone else here know about complaints?’

  The huddle behind him shook their heads in unison.

  ‘So where is your evidence to back up your claim of an unsafe tree and complaints?’

  The council man drew a deep breath. His patience was wearing thin.

  ‘Look, it’s only a tree. What does it matter?’

  That was the wrong thing to say to an experienced environmental campaigner.

  ‘Only a tree? Trees are the earth’s lungs. Sheffield has more trees per person than any city in Europe and there are 35,000 street trees like this which remove three tonnes of air pollutants every year and store 12,000 tonnes of carbon. This city would choke without its trees and that’s before we even consider the amount of wildlife they support. Only a tree?’

  ‘35,000 of them, you say?’ The council man nodded his head and looked up at the tree with a mocking new-found respect.

  ‘I guess that means we won’t miss this one.’

  He jabbed his finger into Martin’s chest. ‘This tree is coming down and either you get out of our way or I get the police in to have you all arrested.’

  He turned, ignoring the angry calls of the disgruntled group, to head towards the truck, which now had metal mesh fencing leaning against it, ready to cordon off the area around the tree. One of the workers wore a helmet with a curved Perspex visor and was checking over a fearsome chainsaw.

  Martin said nothing. He was not a man often stirred to anger but neither was he easily intimidated. He was weighing up his next move. David’s stinging criticism rang in his ears again.

  It was time to show he could still make a difference.

  It was time to take direct action.

  ‘Right,’ he declared to himself and returned to where he had left his bike. He unravelled the heavy-duty security chain, with its blue PVC coating, from where he had wrapped it around the frame.

  ‘Give me a hand will you please, Samir?’ he asked and his neighbour followed him to the endangered tree. Martin coiled one end of the chain around his right wrist and then reached both of his arms around the substantial trunk of the old tree.

  ‘Wrap the chain around my other wrist and click the two ends of the combination lock together, will you?’

  Samir did as he was asked and then scrambled the four-digit combination code, locking it in place. The gathered crowd watched as Martin was secured in his embrace of the tree and cheered loudly when the operation was complete.

  The head of the council workers heard the cheer and turned to see what the cause of it was.

  ‘Oh, for fuck’s sake,’ he cursed, under his breath, and sighed heavily.

  The symbolic expression of defiance drew all the onlookers together. They gathered around where Martin and the tree were now joined and clapped, goading the council workers with the joyous support of their new hero. Some of them took out their mobile phones to preserve the scene on video. As the beginnings of a chorus of ‘We Shall Overcome’ started to gather momentum, the worker with the chainsaw looked to the boss.

  ‘What are we going to do?’ he asked.

  A mixture of malice and despair filled the older man’s expression. The situation had become complicated. Instinctively, he wanted to instruct his men to force the crowd out of the way, cut the tree-hugger free and get the job done but that would make it even messier.

  ‘I don’t need this,’ he responded, finally.

  ‘Let somebody else sort this one out. Pack up. We’re heading back to the depot.’

  3

  ‘So what message would you like to send the council in light of your victory here today?’

  The TV reporter tipped her microphone towards the short man tethered by a bicycle security chain to a large tree and smiled in anticipation of his reply. It was a great local news story – a triumph of ordinary people who were prepared to make a stand, defeating the insensitive, uncaring bureaucrats. The positive energy of the gathered crowd in their shared glory made it a great interview and she felt her final question was perfectly judged.

  Light the blue touch paper, stand back and admire the results.

  ‘What I would like to say to the council, and particularly to council leader Cranford Hardstaff, is stop trying to destroy our environment. We have been prepared – not only me, many of the other people who live on this street have taken a turn as well – we have been prepared to chain ourselves to this tree night and day in order to save it from the council’s vandalism. We’ve
kept up our vigil for five days and we would have been ready to maintain our protest for five more months, if necessary, because we wanted to show that Sheffield people are proud of their trees and we won’t stand by and watch the council chop them down without just cause. We defeated the council in their programme of slaughter three years ago to win protection under the Street Tree Working Partnership and we have won here again. What I would say to Cranford Hardstaff is, don’t challenge the will of the people. Your job is to do what the people want you to do, not to impose the misguided beliefs of you and your cronies upon us. Listen to us because the ordinary people will never be defeated!’

  The crowd cheered and Samir moved forward to twist the numbers of the combination lock that tethered Martin to the tree trunk. He broke free with a flourish, raising his blue PVC-coated binds above his head like a detainee released from the grasp of tyranny, prompting more cheering and a round of self-congratulatory hugs.

  The camera panned back for the reporter to wrap up her broadcast.

  ‘This is Fiona Reece for Yorkshire News Today in Sheffield.’

  A large forefinger jabbed down on the screen of the phone to turn off the video and a contemptuous flick of the wrist sent the phone sliding across the desk. Cranford Hardstaff was not in a great mood anyway and the local news report which, it had been pointed out to him, was currently generating a lot of traffic on social media had made his mood even darker.

  ‘Fucker!’ he cursed.

  Hardstaff was a council veteran. He had held his seat for thirty-two years. Nobody knew more about the mechanics of local politics than he did and nothing irritated him more than people – especially ordinary people – telling him what he should do.

  Listen to the people, my arse! Nobody ever got anywhere in politics by listening to people. The public, as far as Hardstaff was concerned, were there to do the decent thing once every four years by voting him back into office and then accept everything he told them was in their best interests. That’s the way it works.

  A familiar scowl deepened the lines on his round face. It was the expression he had cultivated early in his council career; his don’t-fuck-with-me look intended to intimidate opponents and party allies alike, and it was now so well practiced that it was practically his default expression. He allowed it to soften only when it was time to press public flesh during an election or when he sought a favour and needed to convince his hapless victim they might benefit from the deal as well. They rarely did.

  His ways had served him well – thirty-two years a councillor and a record eleven of them as council leader. Cranford Hardstaff not only controlled the council. He was the council.

  Now that time was drawing to a close.

  Hardstaff had announced, three months earlier, that he would not be defending his seat at the forthcoming May elections. It was time, he told a specially convened press conference, to dedicate more time to his family and enjoy his retirement. He had two months left in office, after which he hoped to be able to celebrate a little something in the Queen’s Birthday Honours List - in recognition of his magnificent record of public service - and to luxuriate in the benefits of everything he had set up over the years.

  The final part of those plans was currently in motion. Time was tight but all the pieces were in place. He was about to make himself a rich man and he had no doubt he deserved it.

  Public legacy was one thing, but a large private fortune was preferable, by far.

  Normally, Hardstaff would not have allowed himself to be rattled by minor social media provocation like the one he had just watched, but the subject here was still a sore one.

  The controversy over what he judged to be a perfectly reasonable and economically beneficial programme of urban tree felling three years ago had led to a humiliating climb-down and had, briefly, led to calls for him to stand aside as leader. He had crushed dissenters within the council, of course, but making the public outcry go away had proved much more difficult. It had been his most glaring defeat. The one saving grace was that no one uncovered his connections to the company contracted to carry out the felling programme.

  Yet it haunted him still. It was referenced, to his great irritation, in all the reports of his pending withdrawal from public life and now here was some jumped-up twat calling him out on the local TV news over another bloody tree incident. Who the fuck does he think he is?

  ‘Perkins!’ he yelled in the direction of his half-open office door.

  Ten seconds later, a slight, harassed figure scuttled through the door carrying a blue A4-sized hard-backed pad. Perkins had a good idea what this was about. It was he who had alerted the boss to its presence. Being the bearer of such bad news was the hardest part of his job as the council officer assigned to assist the leader.

  ‘Yes sir,’ he said, attempting a calm smile and preparing to, again, feel the blast of Hardstaff’s fury for a matter that was, most certainly, not his fault or of his making.

  ‘Why the fuck was I not informed about this?’ Hardstaff demanded, leaning his hefty frame back into his black leather executive chair with a low creak.

  Perkins had been seeking to find the answer to that question since he had, with a heavy heart, realised the report was a matter that the boss needed to be made aware of.

  ‘I’ve been looking into it, sir, and I believe it was simply a basic health and safety issue. The tree in question had been examined and parts of it were found to be diseased, so the decision was taken to send out a team to make it safe. Unfortunately, it wasn’t realised at the time that this was one of the trees identified for felling in our previous programme and that’s the reason for the public outcry this time. Parks and Recreation still have the matter in hand, sir. The tree still needs to be cut back, at least. This isn’t quite the end of the matter.’

  ‘The fucker on the interview seemed to think it was,’ spluttered Hardstaff, pointing accusingly at his phone where it had come to rest by a pile of papers on his desk. ‘Who the fuck is he, anyway?’

  ‘I haven’t yet established that, sir,’ Perkins replied.

  ‘Well, find out! I’m going to have his balls. If the fucker thinks he can take me on, he’s got another think coming.’

  ***

  ‘We defeated the council in their programme of slaughter three years ago to win protection under the Street Tree Working Partnership and we have won here again. What I would say to Cranford Hardstaff is, don’t challenge the will of the people. Your job is to do what the people want you to do, not to impose the misguided beliefs of you and your cronies upon us. Listen to us because the ordinary people will never be defeated!’

  Evelyn Dawes pressed the button on her TV remote control with a contemptuous curl of her lip. She had seen enough of that jumped-up bigmouth and the rest of her no-good neighbours over the last five days without having to listen to them on the local news programme as well. Who did they think they were, making an exhibition of themselves and causing such a disturbance in the street like that? What a rabble! And all over some tree!

  It was a good job she didn’t leave her house much these days because she would hardly have been able to get out of the door for all the neighbours with their placards and the camera crews and the other fools creating such nonsense.

  Thank goodness it had all died down now. She had something important to do.

  Evelyn carefully eased back the edge of the grubby net curtain in her living room with her spindly fingers to peer outside.

  The wind was really getting up now. The forecast had said that Storm Daphne would be sweeping through in the late afternoon and into the evening and, for once, they hadn’t been wrong. Storm Daphne! Whoever thinks of these silly names?

  The bare branches of the trees on Spring Hill Road – all the trees, not just the one that had been the centre of all that fuss – were being buffeted by the strong gusts of wind and the long TV aerial on the house opposite was being bent and shaken. It was a wild evening but at least it wasn’t raining.

  Evelyn all
owed the curtain to fall back into place and took a deep breath. She wanted to do this and a bit of bad weather wasn’t going to stop her. She had wanted to do it since she had found out his address in the letter from her solicitor and had thought out her plan. It was time he faced the consequences for what he had done to her.

  She drew on a long winter cardigan and then put on a well-worn thick black coat, adding protective bulk to her stick-thin aged body. She then picked up a mustard-coloured woollen hat and pulled it down over her straggly grey hair before easing her feet into a pair of scruffy black boots.

  All ready.

  She had left the most important part of her preparations for last. Evelyn went to the dark oak sideboard and took out an old biscuit tin from the bottom drawer, placing it on the top surface and opening the lid. She lifted out an object wrapped in a blue shawl and carefully peeled back the folds of material, knowing fully what it concealed but needing to check anyway.

  As the last fold fell away, Evelyn looked down on what had been hidden at its centre. A pistol. A vintage World War Two German Luger pistol, its black paintwork chipped and its brown wooden handle dulled but still a formidable looking weapon.

  It hadn’t seen action for more than seven decades but all that was about to end tonight.

  She wrapped the shawl around it again, almost reverently, and carried it on her two flat palms, like a divine offering, to her fawn shoulder bag, placing it carefully inside and zipping it closed. She looped the strap of the bag over her bony shoulder and set off into the faded light of the evening.

  The first blast of strong wind, as she trod carefully down the steps from her front door, was almost enough to knock her over. Evelyn steadied her tiny frame and set out again. It was even wilder than she had thought from looking through her window.

  She checked to make sure there were no cars coming up or down the street and stooped her head against another powerful gust as she began to cross.

  The noise of the wind meant she did not hear the cracking sound above her head but, seconds later, as she had almost reached the pavement on the other side, she felt the impact of the heavy branch as it broke from the tree and landed, with a sickening thud, on the back of Evelyn’s neck.