The English Assassin (11 page)

Then he climbed out the way he had come, trudging back to the road and noticing that his heavy Frye boots were coated with mud and shit.

On the other side of the garbage heap he heard the note of a taxi’s engine. He clambered quickly over the refuse, waving urgently at the cab. Rather reluctantly it stopped and let him get in.

The airport, he said.

As he had often suspected, the end had come quietly and the breakdown had been by slow degrees. In fact the breakdown was still going on. Superficially there was nothing urgent about it. As the weeks passed and communications and services slowly worsened, there always seemed to be a chance that things might improve. He knew they could not improve.

He remembered his old friend Professor Hira (who now sometimes called himself ‘Hythloday’) escorting him through the chaos of Calcutta and saying, There
is
order in all this, though it’s not as detailed as we’re used to, I suppose. All human affairs can be seen as following certain basic patterns. The breakdown of a previous kind of social order does not mean that society itself has broken down—it is merely following different forms of order. The ritual remains.

The cab-driver glanced nervously at the rag-pickers. Some of them seemed to be eyeing the taxi as though it were an especially fine piece of carrion. The driver speeded up as much as he dared, for there was only room for a single line of traffic on what was still, officially, a two-way road.

Jerry stared reflectively at the shit on his boots.

You got to believe in something. You can’t get excited about nothing, Colonel Cornelius, said Shakey Mo.

The four of them were squeezed into the cabin of a 1917 Austin-Putilov half-tracked armoured car. Beesley was driving while Cornelius, Shakey Mo Collier and Karen von Krupp manned the machine guns. The car was travelling slowly over the stony countryside of West Cornwall. In the distance a farmhouse was burning. They were trying to reach St Michael’s Mount, a fortified islet about ten miles down the South Coast, opposite the town of Marazion. Beesley believed he would find friends there.

Cornelius tried to make himself more comfortable on the pressed-steel saddle seat, but failed. They went over a bump and everyone clung on to the handgrips. It was very hot inside the half-track, even though they had lifted up the lid of the conning tower for ventilation. The original crews had worn gasmasks.

You’re probably right, said Cornelius.

He saw a few figures, armed with rifles, move along the crest of the hill where the farmhouse burned. They didn’t seem to offer a threat, but he kept his eye on them. His machine gun was inclined to jam. He took out his Smith and Wesson .45 revolver, retrieved, like the rest of their equipment, from the Imperial War Museum, and checked it over. There was nothing wrong with that.

He was worrying about his wife and children. It was years since he had last remembered them: There was a list in his mind:

One Woman

One Boy

One Girl

A woman had recently slashed her wrists in Ladbroke Grove after gassing her little boy and girl. All were dead. There was no reason why it should be his particular relatives. But there had been something about a Noël Coward and Gertrude Lawrence record on the gramophone and it seemed to him to be a clue to something even more familiar. He wiped the grime and the sweat from his face and glanced across the cabin to the opposite position. Karen von Krupp, her skirt hitched up, straddled her seat looking at him, her back to her gun. She was so old. He admired her stamina.

Whoever suggested the Highlands as a safe retreat was a fool, said Bishop Beesley, not for the first time. Those Scotchmen are barbarians. I said the Scilly Isles was a better bet and now we’ve wasted three months and nearly lost our lives a dozen times over.

The half-track droned on.

I think I can see the sea, said Karen von Krupp.

Jerry wondered how he had come to throw in with these three.

It’s getting dark, said Mo Collier. He climbed out of his seat and stretched, making the stick-bombs at his belt rattle. What about making camp?

Let’s wait until we reach the coast road, if it’s still there, said Bishop Beesley. He looked over his shoulder, straight into Jerry’s eyes. He smirked. Now what’s wrong with you? Can guilt be anything more than a literary conceit, Mr Cornelius? He uttered a suggestive chuckle. What truly evil person ever feels guilty? You might almost argue that evil-doing is an honest reaction against that sham we call ‘guilt’. Repentance is, of course, a rather different kettle of fish. He returned his attention to his steering.

Jerry considered shooting him and then seeing what happened to the half-track without a driver. The bishop was always transferring his own problems onto others and Jerry seemed his favourite target.

Speak for yourself, he said. I’ve never understood you, Bishop Beesley.

Mo sniffed. You sound as bored as me, colonel. I could do with some action, I don’t know about you.

It’s freezing. Karen von Krupp drew up the collar of her dirty sheepskin jacket. Could we have the tower closed now?

No, said Bishop Beesley. It would be suicide with our exhaust in the condition it is.

Karen von Krupp said sulkily: I’m not sure I believe you.

Anyway, it’s still quite warm. Shakey Mo was conciliatory. Chin up, Frau Doktor. He grinned to himself and began to move his machine gun about in its slit. Brrrrr. Brrrrr. We might just as well’ve come on bikes, the chances we’ve had to use these.

Portsmouth wasn’t enough for you, eh? said Karen von Krupp bitterly.

Mine was the only bloody gun working, Collier pointed out. I maintain my equipment. All the others jammed after a couple of bursts.

We were nearly killed, she said. She glanced accusingly at Jerry. I thought that Field Marshal Nye was a friend of yours.

Jerry shrugged. He’s got his duty to do just like me.

Law and Order freak, explained Collier, lighting a Players. Groovy. I wish we had some music.

An explosion rocked the car and the engine whined miserably.

Bloody hell! yelled Collier in relief. Mines!

A 14-year-old boy died after falling 60ft from the roof of a block of shops near his home in Liverpool on Saturday night. He was William Brown of Shamrock Road, Port Sunlight.

Guardian
, 29 December, 1969

A boy of 13 was remanded in custody until February 16 at Ormskirk, Lancashire, yesterday accused of the murder of Julie Mary Bradshaw, aged 10, of Skelmersdale. The girl’s body was found on Monday night in the loft of a house.

Guardian
, 11 February, 1969

A boy aged 12 found murdered on a golf course at Bristol yesterday was killed by four or five savage blows on the head it was said after a post mortem last night. The blows could have been made with a tree branch, said police. Martin Thorpe, of Rye Road, Fulton, had gone to Shirehampton golf course to search for golf balls.

Guardian
, 2 April, 1970

A schoolgirl was killed and five other children and three adults wounded when Arab guerillas fired Russian-made Katyusha rockets into the Northern Israeli town of Beison yesterday. Three of the rockets fell in the playground of the school. Two of the injured children were in a serious condition.

Guardian
, 2 April, 1970

Schoolboy Michael Kenan, aged 12, was drowned in a reservoir at Durford, near Chelmsford, Essex, yesterday while bird nesting with friends.

Daily Express
, 8 June, 1970

Police tightened security in Warsaw yesterday as a curfew was again clamped on the port of Szezecin, the scene of violent street fighting on Thursday … A Swedish radio reporter, Mr Anders Tunborg, said, “The tanks repeatedly charged the crowds who sprang out of the way to avoid being run down. A mother and her young daughter did not get out of the way in time and an onrushing tank hit them both. A young soldier stood watching nearby and crying.”

Scotsman
, 19 December, 1970

You are killing your children.

With her chemise pulled up to her navel, Una Persson pressed her slim self to Catherine Cornelius who lay beneath her. Catherine’s clothes were neatly folded on the stool near the dressing table. Una Persson’s summer shirtwaist frock, stockings, drawers and corsets were scattered on the carpet. The bedroom needed painting. It was a bright summer afternoon. Sunlight crept through the tattered net and the dusty glass of the windows.

With passion Una said:

“My own dear love. My darling sweet.”

And Catherine replied:

“Dear, dear Una.”

She arched her perfect back, quivering. Grasping her buttocks, Una kissed her roundly in the mouth.

“Love!”

Una gave a long, delicious grunt.

“Oh!”

“Una! Una!”

Later the door rattled.

In stepped Miss Brunner, trim and prim.

“All girls together.” She laughed harshly. She made no apology because it was obvious she relished interrupting and embarrassing them. “We must be about our business soon. This place needs a tidy.”

Una rolled clear, directing a muted glare at Miss Brunner who was crisp in linen and lace, like an ultra-fashionable bicyclette.

“The new chambermaid’s arrived,” said Miss Brunner. She began to fold Una Persson’s dress. “She wants to clean in here.”

Catherine was puzzled. “There’s no need…”

“Come now,” said Miss Brunner, flinging open the door, “we mustn’t let ourselves go.” She revealed the maid, a huge, red figure in a green baize overall and a sloppy cap, a bucket in one hand, a mop in the other. Her hair hung down her face. “This is Mrs ‘Vaizey’.”

Una pulled up the sheets.

“Oh, my gawd!” said the cleaner, recognising her daughter.

Catherine turned over.

Mrs ‘Vaizey’ gestured with the mop and bucket. She was miserably upset. She looked ashamed of herself. “This is on’y temp’ry, Caff,” she said. She looked wretchedly at Miss Brunner, who was smiling privately. “Could I—?” Then she realised that Miss Brunner had known all along that her name hadn’t been Vaizey and, moreover, that Miss Brunner had known Catherine was her daughter.

Mrs Cornelius sighed. “You bloody cow,” she said to Miss Brunner. She glanced at the pair in the bed. “Wot yer up ter?” She remembered how she had looked like Catherine once. She recalled the money she might have had if she had not been so generous, so soft. Her heart went out to her daughter then. She dumped the mop into the bucket of water, pointing the handle at Miss Brunner. “You watch this one, love,” she said to Una Persson, since only Una Persson was now visible above the bedclothes. “She’ll ’ave yer fer sure if she gets a chance.”

“You’re not being paid for cheek, you know,” Miss Brunner replied somewhat feebly, striding towards the door, “but to clean the rooms. Your type, Mrs ‘Vaizey’, are ten a penny, as I’m sure you know. If you’re not happy with the position…”

“Don’t come it wiv me, love.” Mrs Cornelius began to splash about the linoleum with her mop. “Not everybody’ll work in a third-rate whorehouse, neither!” Her anger grew and she became proud. “Fuck it.” She picked up the bucket and threw the contents over Miss Brunner. As the starch ran out, the linen and the lace sagged and the Lily Langtry wave fell apart over her forehead.

Una grinned, sitting up with interest.

Miss Brunner hissed, clenched her hands, began to move with staring eyes upon Mrs Cornelius, who returned the stare with dignity so that Miss Brunner paused, dripping.

“Yore nuffink, yer silly little tart. I’ve ’ad too much. Caff!”

Catherine peered out from the bed.

“You comin’, Caff?”

Catherine shook her head. “I can’t, Mum.”

“Jest as yer like.”

Una Persson said: “I’ll look after her, Mrs Cornelius.”

Mrs Cornelius removed her cap and apron and threw them at Miss Brunner’s feet. “I’m sure yer’ll do yer best, love,” she said softly. “Don’t let Modom ’ere shove yer abart!”

Miss Brunner seemed paralysed. Hands on fat hips, Mrs Cornelius appeared to grow in stature as she waltzed around the drenched figure. “I know yer! I know yer!” she chanted. “I know yer! I know yer! Ya ya ya!”

“Everything all right at home, Mum?” said Catherine desperately.

“Not bad.” Mrs Cornelius was pleased with herself, although later she might regret this action. She’d taken the job because of the boy, after she and Sammy had had words. But tonight it would be feathers and frills again and a trip to the Cremorne Gardens. Her right hand swept down on Miss Brunner’s sodden and corseted rump. There was loud bang as flesh struck whalebone. Still Miss Brunner did not move. Mrs Cornelius giggled. “Don’t let ’er wear yer aht.” She circled Miss Brunner once more and then waved at her from the door. “Ta, ta, Lady Muck.”

In terror, Catherine murmured to her mother, “See you soon.”

“Keep yourself clean and yer can’t go wrong,” advised Mrs Cornelius as she closed the door. The last Catherine saw was her leering wink.

Miss Brunner came alive with a snort. “Dreadful woman. I was forced to sack her. I’ll get changed. Can you two be ready by the time I’ve finished?”

Una was amused by Miss Brunner’s attitude. “This is a farce. Whom are we to entertain this evening?”

“Prinz Lobkowitz and his friends will arrive at six.”

“Oh,” said Catherine, reminiscently.

“Silly creatures,” said Miss Brunner.

Una Persson raised her lovely eyebrows. “Aha.”

“Our success depends on tonight’s meeting,” Miss Brunner said as she left. The door slammed.

Una stroked Catherine’s thigh beneath the sheet. “I wonder if this is the ‘big meeting’?”

Catherine shook her golden head. “That’s not for a while.”

“For all we know it’s already happened. And what comes after the meeting? This identity’s getting me down. Not enough information. Do you ever think about the nature of Time?”

“Of course.” Catherine twisted so that she could place her delicate lips on Una Persson’s flat stomach and at the same time her hand rose lightly to touch her friend’s clitoris. Una sighed with pleasure. From where she lay she could see the abandoned mop, the fallen bucket, the apron and the cap. “Your mother has spirit. I hadn’t expected that.”