The English Assassin (24 page)

The sound of rifle-fire in the passage outside. Shouts. Running, booted feet. A clang. More shots. The bolt was withdrawn outside. Auchinek cringed as the door opened.

Catherine Cornelius, looking like a young Una Persson, stood in the doorway, an M16 over the shoulder of her brown trench coat, a green tam-o’-shanter on her golden curls.

“Are you the chap we’re to rescue?” said Catherine. “Mr A?”

“Auchinek.”

“Shall we release the lot?” She indicated the other cells in the corridor.

“I don’t know,” he said, watching out for Wallace, who was sure to appear in a minute.

“This isn’t my normal job, you see,” explained Catherine pleasantly as she coaxed him from the cell and into the corridor of twisted iron and broken corpses. He saw Wallace. His red throat was cut by rifle bullets. He was dead. Auchinek gazed at him in wonder.

She led him past the corpse towards the outer door, which was off its hinges. “I normally get the nursing jobs, but we’re short-staffed, at present.”

“Who are you?”

“Catherine Cornelius.”

“No—your—outfit?”

“Biba’s.”

“Who do you work for?”

“I work for England, Mr Auchinek, and freedom.” Self-consciously, she put the M16 on automatic and rested it on her hip as they crossed the quadrangle of Brixton Prison and reached the main gate. “There’s a car waiting. Perhaps you could direct me? It’s been a long time since I’ve been in South London.”

They stepped through the blasted gate and stood in a narrow street. A Delage Diane was waiting for them, its engine running.

“It’s a bit of a waste of power,” she said apologetically, “but I find the bugger rather hard to start.”

“Miss Cornelius…”

“Mr Auchinek?”

“I don’t understand.”

“I’m afraid I can’t help you there. The ins and outs of the revolution—if it
is
a revolution—are a bit beyond me. I just work for the cause.”

“But I’m not a revolutionary. I’m a businessman. I think you know more…”

“Honestly, no…”

“Perhaps I should go back? A mistake.” He hesitated beside the car.

“Don’t you remember Macedonia?”

“Were you there?”

“You were an idealist. A guerrilla.”

“I’ve always been in show business. All my life. Promotions. Management.”

“Well, there you are, then.” She opened the door of the car for him. “Nobody’s going to beat you up any more.”

“I’m tired.”

“I know how you feel.” She got into the driving seat and fiddled with the gears. The car seemed unfamiliar to her. “We’ve still got a long journey ahead of us.” They began to move slowly forward. “Modification of species and so on. Perhaps it isn’t really a revolution at all.”

Auchinek saw misery in Catherine’s mouth. He began to cry. She reached the main road, crashing the gears as she turned the Delage towards the Thames.

“Good ole England!” said Mrs Cornelius, raising her pint of ale and saluting a picture of a bulldog painted on the glass behind the bar.

“Oh, yore ’opeless, Mrs C!” Old Sammy in the corner guffawed, opening wide the black, wet circle of his toothless mouth and shaking all over. He lifted his own pint and poured its contents into his wasted, cancerous body.

“’Ere, come on, I mean it,” she said. “There’ll orlways be an England. We’ve ’ad our ups an’ darns, but we’ll pull through.”

“Well,
you
might,” said Old Sammy bitterly, losing his good humour as the beer in his glass disappeared.

“’Ave anovver,” she said, by way of rewarding him for the compliment.

He brought his glass over to the bar where she sat on a high, saddle-shaped stool, her massive behind spilling over, so that the dark wood was all but hidden. “’Aven’t seen too much of you, lately,” he said.

“Nar,” she said. “Bin away. Visitin’ an’ ’at, in’ I?”

“Go somewhere nice?”

“Abroad. Went ter see me son.”

“Wot, Frank?”

“Nar! Jerry. ’E’s ill.”

“Anything bad?”

She snorted. “Iber-bleedin’-natin ’e corls it! Mastur-fuckin’-batin’,
I
corl it!” She turned as a third customer entered the Portobello Star. “Oh, it’s you. Yore late, incha?”

“Sorry, my dear. Delays at immigration.” Colonel Pyat wore a cream-coloured suit, lavender gloves and white spats over tan shoes. He had a pale blue shirt and a regimental tie. His light grey homburg was in the same hand that carried his stick. His manner was hesitant.

“Sammy, this is ther Kernewl—my hubby.”

“How do you do?” said Pyat.

“How do? Jerry’s dad, eh?”

Mrs Cornelius shook with laughter again. “Well, ’e might ’ave bin once! Gar-har-har!”

Colonel Pyat smiled weakly and cleared his throat. “What will you have, sir?”

“Same agin.”

Pyat signed to the wizened old bat behind the bar. “Same again in these glasses, please. And I’ll have a double vodka. Nice morning.”

“Nice for some,” said the old bat.

Mrs Cornelius stopped laughing and patted the colonel affectionately on the shoulder. “Cheer up, lovey. Yer
do
look as if yer’ve bin in the wars!” She opened her shapeless handbag. “I’ll git these. Pore ole sod.” She cast her eye about the gloomy bar. “Where’s yer bags?”

“I left them at the hotel.”

“Hotel!”

“The Venus Hotel, in Westbourne Grove. A nice little place. Very comfortable.”

“Oh, well, orl right!”

“I didn’t want to put you out.”

“Well, you
ain’t
!” She paid for the drinks and handed him his vodka. “But I woulda thort… First day ’ome… Well…”

“I didn’t mean to upset you, my dear.” He rallied himself. “I thought I’d take you out somewhere tonight. Where do you suggest? And then, later, perhaps, we could go on a family holiday. The coast or somewhere.”

She was mollified. “Crystal Palace,” she said. “I ain’t bin there fer a donkey’s.”

“Excellent.” He swallowed his drink and ordered another. “Welcome austerity. Farewell authority!” He saluted himself in the mirror.

She looked critically at his clothes. “’Ad a run o’ luck, ’ave yer?”

“Well, yes and no.”

“’E orlways wos a very smart dresser,” said Mrs C. to Sammy. “No matter ’ow much ’e ’ad in ’is pocket, ’e’d orlways be dressed just so.”

Sammy sniffed.

Colony Pyat blushed.

Mrs Cornelius yawned. “It’s better ter go away in the autumn. If the wevver ’olds.”

“Yes,” said Colonel Pyat.

“I’ve never ’ad an ’oliday in me life,” said Sammy proudly. “Never even let ’em evacuate me!”

“That’s ’cause yer never worked in yer life!” Mrs Cornelius nudged him. “Eh?”

Sammy bridled. But she put her fat hand round the back of his neck and kissed him on his wrinkled forehead. “Come on, don’t take offence. Yer know I never mean it.”

Sammy pulled away and took his glass back to his table in the corner.

Colonel Pyat climbed onto the next stool but one. His eyes kept closing and he jerked his head up from time to time as if afraid to go to sleep. He didn’t seem to have the energy, these days.

“I ’ope yer brought somefink ter eat over wiv yer?” said Mrs C. “Everyfink’s runnin’ art ’ere. Food. Fuel. Fun.” She bellowed. “Everyfink that begins wiv ‘F’, eh?”

“Ha, ha, ha,” he said distantly.

“One more for the road an’ then we’ll be off,” said his wife. “Yer never reely liked pubs, did yer?”

“Excellent.”

“Cheer up. It can’t be as bad as orl that!”

“Europe’s in a mess,” he said. “Everywhere is.”

“Well, we’re not exactly at the ’eight of our prosperity,” she told him. “Still, fings blow over.”

“But the squalor!”

“Ferget it!” She guzzled her light.

“I wish I could, my dear.”

“I’ll ’elp yer.” She leaned across the empty stool between them and tickled his genitals. “Tonight.”

Colonel Pyat made a peculiar giggling noise. She took him by the arm and led him through the door and into the stinking streets. “Yer’ll like the Crystal Palace. It’s
orl
crystal. Well, glass, reely. All different sides. Made o’ glass. An’ there’s monsters. It’s a wonder o’ the world, the Crystal Palace. Like me, eh?”

Mrs Cornelius roared.

Children are stoning a tortoise. Its shell is already cracking open. It moves feebly, leaving a trail of blood and entrails across a white rock.

A 17-month-old baby girl was shot dead in Belfast tonight, Army sources said, by an IRA gunman’s bullet meant for an Army patrol. A seven-year-old girl who was with her escaped injury although another bullet tore through her skirt.

Morning Star
, 24 September, 1971

A drug given to women during pregnancy may cause a rare type of cancer in their daughters many years later, the British Medical Journal warned yesterday. The cancer has been found among girls aged 15 to 22 in New England and has been linked to the drug stilboestrol, which was given to their mothers for threatened miscarriages … Treatment has proved successful so far in the majority of cases, but one girl has died.

Guardian
, 10 September, 1971

A boy aged three was knocked down and killed by an army vehicle near the Bogside district last night. As the news spread, crowds began to stone army units in the area. Several shots were fired at the troops and petrol bombs were reported to be thrown. The army did not return the fire.

Guardian
, 10 September, 1971

Nothing survives, said Una Persson, who was older, more battered and wiser than Jerry had ever seen her, nothing endures.

While there’s lives there’s hopes. Jerry finished stripping the Banning cannon and immediately began reassembling it. The ruby had not, after all, been faulty. It was just wearing out. The gun wouldn’t last much longer. Still, it wasn’t needed for much longer. He was more worried about his power armour. Some of the circuits, particularly those on his chest, were looking a bit frayed. They were holed up in the basement of a deserted old-people’s home in Ladbroke Grove. They listened to the scuffling of the rats with intense interest, expecting an attack.

It’s almost over now, isn’t it? she said without regret. Civilisation’s had it. The human race has had it. And we’ve bloody had it. Are these all you’ve got? She held up a cerise Sobranie cocktail cigarette with a gold tip.

He opened a drawer in the plain deal table on which his cannon was spread. Looks like it. He rummaged through a jumble of string, coins and postcards. Yes.

Oh well.

You might as well enjoy what’s left, he said. Take it easy.

It isn’t easy to take. What with everything speeding up so fast. It’s all burning too quickly. Like a rocket that’s out of control, with the fuel regulator jammed.

Could be. He slotted one piece of scratched black metal into another. He fitted the cumbersome ammunition feed and worked a couple of slides. He didn’t bother to put the safety catch on as he turned the cannon on its swivel mount so that it pointed towards the barred window. I don’t know. He sighted along the gun; he stroked back his long straight hair. Times come and go. Things re-cycle. The Jesuits…

Did you hear something?

Yes.

She went to the corner where her Bren lay on their mattress. She picked the Bren up and drew the strap over her leather-clad shoulder. She flipped a switch at her belt. It even took her power armour a few seconds to warm up now. After the village… she began.

You survive, Una. It wasn’t something he wanted to hear about again. It disturbed him.

She looked at him suspiciously, searching his face for a sardonic meaning. There was none.

Alive or dead, he said and fired an explosive shell through the window and into the shadowy area. Magnesium blazed for a moment. Cold air came in. A shape darted away. Jerry flipped his own switch.

Beesley, Brunner, Frank and the rest, Una said, peering cautiously upwards. All the other survivors. I think some are trying to get into the house.

It had to come. In the long term there’s never much safety in numbers.

I’d always believed you worked alone. A bit of a bourgeois individualist on the quiet.

Assassination’s one thing. Jerry said primly. Murder’s quite another. Murder involves more people and a different moral approach and that, of course, ultimately involves more murders. A reflex. People get carried away. But assassination is just the initial preparation. The ground work. Like it or not, of course, everything boils down to murder in the end. A grenade burst in the basement and the rest of the glass flew into the room, rattling against their power armour.

There’s self-defence.

I’ve never been able to work that one out.

Jerry pulled the table nearer to the window, then angled the Banning upwards through the bars, firing a steady, tight sweep of shells. Two of the attackers flared up and fell. Karen and Mo, said Jerry. Not for the first time. They heard footsteps over their heads and then a few creaks on the cellar stairs outside their inside door. Una opened the door and, with her Bren, took two more lives. Mitzi Beesley and Frank Cornelius. Frank, as usual, made a lot of noise, but Mitzi died quietly, sitting upright with her back against the wall, her hands in her bloodstained lap, while Frank rolled and writhed and gasped and cursed.

Two more grenades came into the room and exploded, temporarily blinding them, but hardly denting their power armour.

This is almost the end, said Jerry. I think it’s down to Miss Brunner and Bishop Beesley. It had better be. Energy’s getting low.

Miss Brunner rushed down the stairs, her face twisted with rage, her red eyes blazing, her sharp fangs bared. She was awkward in her tight St Laurent skirt. She tried to get her Sten to fire. Una killed her, shooting her in the forehead with a single bullet. Miss Brunner staggered back without grace.

Bishop Beesley appeared in the area outside the window. He was holding a white flag in one hand, a Twix bar in the other. Even from here Jerry could see that the chocolate was mouldy.