Christopher Brookmyre - Parlabane 04 (44 page)

'I can see why people end up trying to kill you,' Emily told him.

'They're not going that wrong, Jack,' Vale warned. 'We won't be able to hold out much longer at the front. And with Baxter knowing about our generator plans, I fear you made a wasted trip. We'll need to fall back for a last stand. Baxter knows about that too, but it's still our best hope.'

'Fall back where?'

'Underground chambers. Sir Lachlan said they go well beyond the foundations. Lots of doors to get through. If we keep retreating as each one falls, they'd have to take it room by room.'

'And Baxter knows about this?'

'I'm afraid so.'

'Good.'

'Good? How?'

'Tell you in a sec. We just need a bit more time.'

A scream echoed from the central hall: Kathy's. 'They're almost through,'

she shouted.

'Sounds like we're fresh out,' Rory said.

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'Not so. Luckily, these days it comes in handy-sized tins.'

Parlabane handed Vale a heavy-looking can of petrol and picked up the yellow object, in closer proximity to which Emily could now read the words: HoseTek 440 Pressure Washer.

'My trip wasnae wasted, believe me.'

Kathy gave a scream, prompting Alison to turn around and face the front again. They had lain Liz down on her side after her eyes had closed, in order to protect her airway. Kathy had instructed Ger to do the same for Sir Lachlan, whose blood loss had caused him to succumb a few seconds earlier. Alison looked over the balustrade in time to see the mattress on the left tear free of its crude rigging and topple forward, a decapitated body slumping down on top. Its counterpart billowed with the impact of another blow, ripping enough of the sheeting to suggest one more attack would finish it. Ger sprinted past her to the half-landing where he'd left his knives, while Toby took position behind his left-hand catapult.

The erstwhile human battering ram was dragged outside by the feet to clear the way in. There was a moment of incongruous stillness as the huge windowframe stood breached but empty, the sound of an angry engine and whining tyres that bit louder now that the mattress was gone. Then one of the ramming party, having retrieved his swords, climbed into the towering aperture and bent to help up his companion. Toby pulled a restraining wire on one of the modified resistance machines, causing all of its suspended weights to drop from the highest point in its frame. These in turn rapidly pulled upon an already taut cable, and drove a sharpened broomhandle at speed along a channel formed between two chairlegs lashed to the machine's upward angled bench. The sharpened tip snagged on something less than halfway along, causing the broomhandle to flip approximately one hundred and sixty degrees without the business end leaving the bench.

'Bugger.'

He leapt across to the other machine and began re-angling it to face the same window as the second intruder got to his feet on the table beneath. This time the broomhandle flew fast and true, hurtling through the narrowest of gaps between both men and disappearing out into the night.

'This kind of shit never happened to Hannibal Smith,' Toby remarked, looking around for support as the swordsmen jumped simultaneously from the table.

Ger picked his spot and launched a knife from the half landing. It missed the head of the intruder on the right by millimetres, but it was enough to buy Toby a second to turn and run for the stairs. He spun and tripped on the 270

bottom step, in panic Alison thought, until she saw the cluster of fibres jutting from his shoulder.

'GER!' she shouted, as he prepared to launch another knife. Alison pointed to the window, where the sniper was opening the breech of his gun, readying another dart. Both swordsmen began to charge, giving Ger three targets for one blade as the sniper lined him up as his next shot. He sent the knife over both advancing heads towards the window, causing the sniper to duck out of sight as the blade whistled through the gap. The resulting stray dart lodged itself in the balustrade less than a foot from where Alison stood, helplessly watching the situation unfold.

She heard the approach of hurried footsteps and looked to her right to see Parlabane and Vale crouch over something in the mouth of the corridor. Emily knelt behind them next to the wall, yanking a standard lamp's plug from its socket.

Toby tried to regain his footing, but tripped dizzily as the intruders drew near, one raising his claymore above his head, the other fixing his gaze on Ger. Behind him, two further assailants climbed on to the sill, carrying machetes. The other mattress had ceased billowing a few seconds before, which meant there'd soon be two more behind this pair.

Just then, Alison heard a thunderous bellow accompanied by a furious buzzing, and watched Rory charge from the corridor, thrusting a chainsaw before him. The first two intruders stopped almost mid-pace, trading an afteryou-Claude look before stepping back to put space between themselves and this new opponent. Their reinforcements stepped down from the table and the four spread out, adopting cautious defensive stances as Rory tried to ward them away from the still scrambling Toby.

The sniper reappeared at the breached window, chambering another dart. Beside him, the next two intruders climbed through on to the table, bearing more steel. Ger stood, rooted on the half-landing, his last means of defence gripped tightly in one hand. At the window, the sniper was this time lining up Rory in his sights.

Then there came a clear shout from below.

'Rory, hit the deck.'

Rory obliged as all enemy heads turned to see where the cry had come from. Vale stood in the archway, holding the lance from Sir Lachlan's pressurewasher in both hands, the feed-hose dunked into a twelve-litre can of petrol. Parlabane knelt to one side of him, a blue lighter-flame flickering above his glove-protected fingers.

'This game of soldiers is over,' Vale said grimly. He twitched the trigger and sent a searing plume of flame strafing across the frozen quartet. 271

'My God,' Emily said, her voice an awestruck, horrified whisper. The four intruders flailed and scrambled, crashing into the weight machines and each other as they fled screaming; clothes, hair and skin engulfed by fire. Behind them, the two on the table dived back outside as Vale swept the scorching jet towards the window. The burning men attempted the same means of exit. Two of them made it, though their fates would be no different to the two who didn't: the pair of them collapsing short of the table, breathing flame instead of oxygen.

Even yards back, Parlabane could feel the intense heat as well as hear their strangled cries and smell the burning flesh. He looked at his friend gripping the lance, his face filled not with hate or anger, but calm, solemn concentration. Now he really knew why they called him Death's Dark Vale.
I've done things I wish I hadn't had to; wished it had been someone else doing
them; wished they hadn't been necessary.

Amen.

'Who the hell is this guy?' Emily asked him.

'We could tell you, but we'd have to kill you,' he said with a wink. 'Come on. We've got work to do.'

Vale torched the big reception desk blocking the front door, then the tables and mattresses either side. Behind in the corridor, Rory and Emily busied themselves by dragging several armchairs from the drawing room and piled them up to block the passage. Once they were clear, Vale set those ablaze too. Nobody would be coming through that way for a while either. Parlabane unplugged the pressure-washer and pocketed the lighter while Vale grabbed the other petrol can. Ger stuck his knife through a belt-loop and helped Emily carry Toby up to the gallery. From outside, the sound of a straining engine still carried above that of the crackling flames.

'They'll be back,' Parlabane warned, climbing the stairs to where Alison and Kathy stood over the unconscious Liz and Sir Lachlan. 'They've no choice. We need to get our wounded holed up somewhere secure. Now, who knows where to find the entrance to the underground chambers?'

'Sir Lachlan,' Alison said glumly.

'Shit.'

'It's awright,' Ger informed them. 'He told me before he passed out. It's in the laundry, door in the basement. Under one of the machines.'

'Perfect. Okay, Emily, go and warn Max and Joanna we're coming through. Alison, you've got the keys, right?'

'Yeah, but not to the--'

'You lead everybody to the tower and lock yourselves in.'

'The tower? But I thought you said we were going to the underground chambers?'

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'No, that's just where they'll
think
we're going.'

Vale gave Parlabane the edited highlights as they and Ger made their way to the basement, the chef dragging two bedsheets behind him, one corner of each tied together. The campaign medals were pinned along the length of the knotted linen at irregular intervals, so that on the wireframe model it would appear that the group were making their way to the laundry, single-file and plausibly spaced.

They hadn't had time to stop and press Max and Joanna for where they reckoned they fitted into Shiach and Baxter's plans, but Parlabane was more curious about what had merited his own inclusion on the truly 'ultimate' guestlist.

'I'm also pretty hazy on where the hell they've been for the past decade or so. Unless it's like all those semi-retired rockers who hit a certain age and decide it's now or never to re-form the band for one last crack at glory.'

'Don't ask me,' Vale said. 'I'm clearly too old and rusty to offer any worthwhile insight. I used to be able to spot a spook at a thousand yards. Baxter was right under my nose the whole time and I never sniffed him out.'

'You didn't look too rusty upstairs, trust me. Besides, Baxter was good, I'll give him that. Sold us a pretty neat dummy with Campbell. He held his end up well enough. Seems like this Shiach nutter was the rusty one.'

'Let's not close the book on how rusty he is just yet, eh?' Vale warned.

'Good shout. Let's just check they're buying this.'

Parlabane put the receiver to his ear, Vale likewise with the device he'd removed from one of the flame-grilled fallen. He heard nothing for a few seconds, then Baxter's voice cut across the airwaves.

'Oi! Where the fuck do you think you're going? Get back here.'

'Bollocks to this,' replied a Cockney accent. 'I'm out of here. You told us it would be a picnic, not a fucking barbecue.'

'You can't escape this. Remember: once it starts, it has to be finished.'

'That's your problem, mate. It's your face they've seen, not mine.'

'I'm warning you, after we've finished with them, we'll be coming for you.'

'Then I guess it says it all that I fancy my chances more against you than against them. See ya.'

'Leave him,' said another voice, older, gruffer, East Coast: Shiach. 'We can handle this better without spineless scum. They're pulling back, like you said. Bruce, get out of the truck. I'll take over. They've abandoned their barricades. Grab some darts and send everybody who's left in through the billiard room.'

Vale smiled. They were standing just outside the games room door. He and Parlabane pocketed their receivers again, knowing they had to be used sparingly. A few words, perhaps uttered in the heat of the moment, and their advantage would be lost.

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Parlabane told Ger to keep going while he knelt down and plugged in their improvised flame-thrower at a socket in the corridor. Vale grabbed books and board games from the shelves and cabinets lining the walls, tossing some on to the snooker table around the body of the Incredible Self Decapitating Man, others on to the tennis table beneath the unbroken skylight. Together they shifted the sideboard until it blocked the route to the door, then they stood behind it and waited.

They heard heavy footfalls crunch on the gravel above, drawing near. Still they waited. They wanted these bastards to see them.

'Right,' said a voice above. 'You go first. No, leave the fucking sword. I'll drop it to you once you're down. You'll
see
why in a second.'

A pair of legs dangled into the empty skylight, cautiously dreeping down backwards. Parlabane lit the pilot and Vale let rip. The flame burst engulfed the protruding limbs and the man crashed down on to the snooker table, on to which Vale poured still more fire. He then ignited the tennis table and finally the sideboard, before they withdrew and closed the door.

'How many left, do you reckon?' Parlabane asked.

'Five, maybe six. Still enough anyway, while they're the ones holding dart guns. Plus we're almost out of petrol. Come on.'

Ger was waiting for them in the laundry.

'Baxter's fucked the generator, by the way,' he said. 'I checked it while you guys were busy. Cables are aw ripped oot.'

'Shit,' said Parlabane. 'That confirms they've got night vision then.'

'Yes, but they're not going to opt for seeing in the dark with their goggles while they still think they can see through walls with their laptop. Let's get on with it.'

It took the three of them to move the enormous twin cylinder tumble-dryer.

'I thought the lyre of Orpheus opened the door to the underworld,' Vale muttered, panting. 'Not bloody Electrolux.'

The warped wooden trapdoor revealed beneath was a couple of feet square, hinged in two places on the left-hand side. The handle had been removed in order that the dryer would have a level base, so Ger had to wedge it open with his knife. He reached down inside a foot or so and flicked a switch, a dim light glowing below in response.

'I don't know how far the electrics go,' he said. 'But I'm sure I read that Stormcrow did some vocal takes down in Willcraft's excavations. Stupit bastards thought it was haunted.'

From somewhere above, they heard a dull thud and felt a shudder of impact. The pillars had fallen, bringing down the stone canopy and leaving the front doors exposed for the truck to ram them.

'It's about to be,' said Vale.

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'I feel like the pied piper,' Ger muttered, climbing down the steps out of sight.

'Well, you've sure got the troosers for it.'

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