Dream Paris (41 page)

THE HANGING

“W
HERE ARE WE
going?” asked Francis.

“I told you. We’re going home.”

“I know, but how do you suggest we get there? The city is at war.”

As he spoke, a dark shadow cut across the courtyard. We looked up to see the yellow shape of a Zeppelin diving towards some not-too-distant target.

“I know a way, Miss Anna!”

Of course Mr Monagan knew a way.

“There is a café at the north side of the
Place de la Bastille
. I’ll meet you there with my coffee truck.”

“And then?”

“We’ll head for the West Gate…”

He turned and ran, through a gate in the opposite wall of the courtyard, almost knocking over a prisoner coming the other way.

“But he’s a spy,” reminded Francis.

“I know. But so far he’s the only person who’s not suggested anything I actually disagree with.”

We marched through the centre courtyard to the Bastille’s wide gate. A small door was set in it, guarded by two Pierrots.

“Let us through,” I demanded.

They looked at each other.

“
It’s not safe out there
.”

“We choose to take the risk. Let us pass.”

They opened the door, and we stepped into a world of smoke and screams, of the clash of metal and the shudder of bombs.

Despite my fear, I did what Francis had told me to do: I took the time to tune in, to seek my bearings.

The Bastille sat at the focus of a star of wide boulevards, the surrounding buildings set well back as if they had recoiled from the prison in horror. The perimeter of the space was crowded with people, the citizens and refugees of Dream Paris, pressing into the cheap cafés and market stalls that surrounded the
Place de la Bastille
. They were angry, shouting insults at each other. A handful of blue caped
flics
ran for their lives, their colleagues left curled up on the ground, protecting their heads from the feet of the revolutionaries surrounding them. No one was interested in the Bastille. Yet. That was probably just as well. So far, we remained unnoticed.

“Which way?” asked Francis.

“That way’s north,” I said, pointing. “At least, I think it is. We’ll head for the café. Hopefully, Mr Monagan will be there.”

“Anna, I’m still trailing a wire behind me.”

“It barely shows now, Francis. Besides, there’s so much wire around now, and people are so distracted…”

There was a high-pitched shriek and a whoosh.

“Missile!” shouted Francis, throwing himself on me, pushing me to the ground.

I heard the roar of engines. The Zeppelin, water spilling from its sides onto the yellow cobbles, yawed wildly as it tried to gain height.

“It’s trying to get away.”

A rose bloomed on the side of the Zeppelin, and I had the sense of movement… A blast of heat washed across us, drying my eyes. I pulled Francis to his feet and we began to run, feet hard against the cobbles, ankles twisting. The great shape of the Zeppelin was falling, burning, flame running across the yellow skin, a growing shadow on the ground beneath it. On and on we ran, plunging into the mass of people, reaching the edge of the
Place
, turning down one of the wide boulevards, Francis pulling me to the walls, pulling me sideways down an alley, out of the path of any explosion and then at last we stopped, leaning against a wall, gasping for breath.

“Missile,” panted Francis. “That was a missile. Army. British Army.”

“This isn’t a rescue! It’s an invasion!”

“Anna, we could make contact with the British troops. I could get new orders.”

I didn’t like that idea.

“Is that what you want to do?”

“My first orders are to protect you.”

I knew that too. I was using Francis, dragging him with me away from his fellow soldiers. Probably putting him in more danger. And yet, what the Army was doing was wrong. Wasn’t it? I wasn’t sure any more. I’d abandoned my mother, turned down safe passage home. Now I was wandering through a city under attack, all because of my principles. I didn’t even know what my principles were any more…

“Francis, I don’t know what to do.”

I was crying. There, in the middle of the chaos, in the middle of the noise, the washes of heat, the droning and the whistling, Francis held out his arms. I stepped into them and he hugged me.

“There’s nothing wrong with that, Anna,” he said. “Everyone feels like that sometimes.”

“Not me,” I said. “Not me.”

“Why not you?”

“I played the trumpet. I cured myself.”

“I think you’re confusing Dream Paris with Fairy Land. Anna, you’re one of the bravest, most competent people I’ve ever met. But that doesn’t mean you’re never going to need help.”

I couldn’t answer that.

“Come on,” he said, gently. “We need to move. We need to keep to the edge of the trouble. That way people are less likely to notice us.”

“But where are we going?”

Francis thought.

“Downhill. That will take us to the river. We can follow it downstream to the gate.”

W
E MADE OUR
way through the city, always heading downwards. Down alleys, the walls pasted with peeling cartoon posters, running with crowds along wide boulevards, plunging down side streets to get away from the barricades set up by the
flics
, creeping through tall arches decorated with graffiti. Always keeping our heads down, trying our best not to be noticed.

It couldn’t last. We were rushing down a long cobbled road, heading for a tiny five-road intersection, when we were spotted. A big man with a blue chin had been walking beside us for some time. He kept examining me, kept looking at Francis, looking behind us, looking at the wire. I pretended to ignore him. Down the hill we marched, heading for the intersection, heading for the point where we could choose a different road and part company.

Too late.

The man spoke in French, too rapid for me to follow. I ignored him, marched on. He repeated himself. The intersection was getting closer. If we just kept walking… but no. The man spoke again. He reached out, took hold of me.

“Let go of her!” called Francis, pulling me away. That was it. Everyone was looking in our direction now. Francis took my hand, began to pull us along, but the word was spreading through the crowd, a gradual crescendo of chatter. And then they moved in and pulled us apart, they pulled my arms up behind my back.

“
Anglaise
!”

“
Espion
!”

“Anna!”

A man staggered backwards and I saw Francis, his fists raised. He punched a woman, hard, the full weight of his body behind the blow. His elbow snapped back into a stomach, he stamped down on an instep. He was serious, he was deadly. This was Francis the fighter. But another woman flung an arm around his throat, pulled him backwards, someone kicked him hard in the balls and then he was lost in the melee.

More hands grabbed hold of me, my arms, my legs. Someone groped at my breasts, another hand grabbed at my backside. I was pulled this way and that, shouting on every side.

“Francis!” I called. “Francis!”

I could hear nothing but French, I could feel hands pulling me in every direction. My dress ripped, my right arm was wrenched in the socket and for one icy moment I thought they were going to try to tear me apart. And then a consensus seemed to develop, all at once, and suddenly the crowd opened up ahead of me and I was being dragged into the gap, dragged down the street, trying to keep my feet, slipping, grazing a knee, being pulled back up, a stabbing pain in my right shoulder.

Onwards, pulled through an endless sea of bodies. I thought I felt rain, until I realised they were spitting on me, calling out names. Flames burst in the sky; I didn’t care, I was too busy trying to keep my feet. The level of noise rose, the shouting, the screaming, the boos, the catcalls. Someone was beating a drum, and somewhere ahead I heard a sudden cheer and a burst of applause. The rattle of the snare, a continuous military tattoo. The feel of the ground beneath my feet changed and I realised I was being dragged over grass, pulled along a strip of grass between trees. There was something hanging from the trees, and I cried out in terror. My captors laughed at my reaction; one of them reached out and groped me once more.

“
Eh, espion
?”

They turned me so I could get a better view of the bodies hanging from the trees. Men, women and children, bodies still swinging, still being spat at and pelted by stones.

“I’m not a spy!” I screamed. “I’m on your side! I want to help!”

They laughed, they jeered, they pulled me onwards, heading towards the sound of drums, the crowd parting to let us through… And I saw our destination and I almost lost it completely.

I was being pulled to a group of prisoners, surrounded by guards with guns. Men, women and children, looking around wide-eyed with terror. A revolutionary wearing a grubby blue scarf pointed to a woman with red hair. She shook her head, tried to back away, but the man in the scarf grabbed her and pulled her from the group.

The hangman was waiting for her, stripped to the waist and wearing a leather hood, his pasty skin glossy with sweat. The hangman asked a question, the woman’s reply was lost in the jeers of the crowd. I watched as they tied one end of a rope around the struggling woman’s neck, the other end was thrown over a branch of a tree.

“Please! I’m not a spy! I just want to go home.”

She was English. Half-starved, no doubt marched from the workhouse to Dream Paris. About to be hanged because people like Mr Twelvetrees had decided that Britain’s interests would be best served by forging closer alliances with this city. The hangman turned to the crowd, held a hand to his ear. They cheered louder. The drums suddenly stopped, and the big man pulled on the rope, hand over hand, hauling the woman into the air. The sun dappled the space below the leaves, it dappled the woman as she kicked and choked. They tied the other end of the rope around the trunk and then immediately forgot about her. They left her to die unnoticed whilst they chose their next victim. My guards shouted, they pointed to me and I was dragged forward…

And then there was a disturbance in the crowd. Francis! He’d broken free! He was a soldier, he knew how to fight. When I saw the flash of orange at his side the relief was so great I almost laughed. Mr Monagan! He was there too! Mr Monagan, who always turned up when he was needed. He was holding a large gun with a flared barrel and I watched as he took aim and fired. The rope holding up the red haired woman snapped, and she fell to the ground.

“Miss Anna! I’m coming!”

“Mr Monagan! Mr Monagan!” I was crying, tears of joy.

And then someone swung a stick at the back of his orange head and knocked him to the ground.

“No!”

The crowd fell on Mr Monagan, they kicked and punched him, they tied his hands and feet and dragged him to the leather-hooded hangman. Another length of rope was brought forward and somehow tied around his neck.

“No!” I shouted. “
No!
”

Mr Monagan had not stopped speaking during all of this time, his voice drowned out by the crowd. I could imagine his calm, reasonable tones, I imagined him explaining that this wasn’t helping anyone, I imagined him asking to be released so he could go back and sell his insipid coffee. Whatever it was he was saying, it wasn’t working. It took two men to pull him up into the air, but they managed. Mr Monagan kicked and kicked, and the crowd loved it.

And then it was my turn. They seized my hands, they pulled them up behind my back and tied them so tightly I felt the blood swelling at the wrists.

The hangman leaned forwards. I saw brown eyes behind the leather hood. I smelled his sour breath as he rasped:

“Any last words,
espion
?”

“I’m not a spy! Ask Jean-Michel Ponge! Ask Mme Joubert! I was trying to help!”

He laughed and then I felt the rope being pushed over my head, I felt the knot next to my ear, the scratchy feel of the coconut hair. I felt it pulling, stretching my neck…

“
Arrêtez
!”

Someone was shouting stop! I was on tip toes, the rope pulling me up…

“
Arrêtez
!”

There it was again! Why wasn’t anyone listening? I was pulled into the air and I couldn’t breathe. My feet were kicking of their own accord, I was spinning back and forth, I saw jeering faces, dapples of sunlight spinning this way and that. I heard gunfire, I saw the crowd surging…

I tumbled to the ground, fell on my side, the rope still too tight. I couldn’t breathe. The jeering crowd was scattering, running from the men and women with dark faces, thin faces, dirty faces that were coming through the trees in good order. An army, carrying rifles. But which army? Whose side were they on?

I didn’t care. Someone cut the rope from around my neck, freed my hands. I saw them cutting down poor Mr Monagan’s body.

A hand gently took mine and I jumped.

“Anna! It’s okay.”

The hand tightened around mine. It was Francis, his voice hoarse.

“Oh, Francis!”

“I know.”

He hugged me. I hugged him.