The English Assassin (20 page)

Guardian
, 10 June, 1971

The West Indian immigrant parents of seven children admitted at Berkshire assizes, Reading, yesterday to killing one of their sons in a ritual sacrifice. Olton Goring (40), of Waylen Street, Reading, was committed to Broadmoor after the prosecution accepted his plea of not guilty to murdering the boy, Keith, aged 16, but guilty to manslaughter on grounds of diminished responsibility. Goring’s wife, Eileen (44), pleaded guilty to manslaughter and was ordered to be sent for treatment in a mental hospital. It was said the Gorings were members of a Pentecostal mission in Reading—a revival sect widely supported in the West Indies. Followers believed themselves possessed by the Holy Spirit while in a trance and felt they were in direct communication with God.

Guardian
, 23 August, 1971

A boy aged 14 will appear in court at Tamworth, Staffordshire, today in connection with the death of a man aged 19 whose body was found in a house on Saturday.

Guardian
, 23 August, 1971

A girl aged 14 was charged on Saturday with the murder of Roisin McIlone, aged five, whose body was found beside an overgrown bridle path near her home in Brook Farm Walk, Celmsley Wood, near Birmingham. A blood-stained stick was found nearby.

Guardian
, 23 August, 1971

The black, burning warehouses of Newcastle.

During the First Night Dance on board the LS
Light of Dresden
, bound for India via Aden, Mrs Cornelius went out onto the semi-open observation deck to get some air. She felt a little queasy; it was her maiden trip on a Zeppelin, but she was determined to enjoy herself, come what may. All she had to do was clear her head and let herself get used to a feeling that was like being permanently in a slightly swaying descending lift that was also moving horizontally. She stood outside the big hall where the spotlights played beams of red, blue, yellow and green on the dancers. The band was called the Little Chocolate Dandies. Their saxophones wailing, they launched themselves into their next number, ‘Royal Garden Blues’. Mrs Cornelius wasn’t too sure she was that keen on jazz, after all. At present she felt like hearing something just a teeny bit more restful. But the only thing she could think of was ‘Rock-a-bye-baby’: in fact, she couldn’t get it out of her head. She looked down at the lights of Paris (she thought it was Paris) and imagined the drop. Though she had been assured that it was completely rigid and part of the main frame containing the helium bags, she was sure she could feel the catwalk swaying below her. The music from the dance floor now seemed much more friendly. She reeled back in again.

Everyone was really jazzing it up tonight. She was nearly knocked down twice by couples as she moved towards the bar. She grinned. Ah, well! She felt a hand on her shoulder.

“Are you perfectly well, dear lady?”

It was that bishop she’d met earlier. She’d liked him from the start, with his nice, jolly fat face, though she hadn’t taken to his wife in the baggy pink evening dress, frizzy hair, with her thin, pale, nervous head constantly grinning in a way Mrs C. personally found offensive. If you asked Mrs C., the bishop’s wife fancied herself a bit. Lady Muck. The bishop, on the other hand, was a real gentleman, he could mix with anyone at any level. Mrs C. could go for him in a big way. She smiled to herself at the thought, wondering what it would be like with a bishop.

“Quaite well, thank yew, bishop, love,” she said. “Jist gittin’ me air-legs, thet’s hall.”

“Would you care to dance?”

“Oh, charmed Ai’m shewer!” She put her left arm round his ample, black-clad waist and folded her dumpy right hand in his. They began to foxtrot. “Yore a lovely dancer, bishop.” She giggled. Over the bishop’s shoulder she saw his wife looking on, nodding to her with that same set, patronising smile, though you could tell she wasn’t pleased. Mrs C. defiantly pushed her bosom against the bishop’s chest. The bishop’s red lips smiled slightly and his little eyes twinkled. She knew he fancied her. She went all warm and funny inside as his hand tightened on her corset. What a turn up.

“Are you travelling alone, Mrs Cornelius?”

“Well, Ai’ve got me littel boy wiv me, but ’e’s no trouble. Got a cabin to ’imself.”

“And—Mr Cornelius?”

“Gorn, unforchunately.”

“You mean?”

“Quaite. RIP.”

“I’m sorry to hear it.”

“Well, it was a long time ago, you see.”

“Aha.” The bishop looked upwards, towards the gigantic gasbags hidden behind the dance hall’s aluminium ceiling. “He’s in a happier state than we, all in all.”

“Quaite.”

Well, thought Mrs C., he’s not slow. Maybe he was the original bishop in the jokes, eh? Again she couldn’t stop herself from smiling. Her queasiness had completely disappeared, to be replaced by that old feeling.

“And how are you travelling? First class, I assume?”

“Ai should fink so!” She roared with laughter. “No such luck, Ai’m afraid. It’s second class for me. It’s not cheap, the fare to Calcutta.”

“I agree. I, too—that is to say my wife and I—am forced to travel second. But I must say I’ve no complaints, as yet, though it is only our first night aloft. We are in cabin 46…”

“Oh, reahlly? Wot a coincidence. Ai’m in number 38. Just deown the passage from you. Mai littel boy’s in 30, sharin’ wiv a couple of other littel boys.”

“You have a good relationship with your son?”

“Oh, yes! ’E’s devoted!”

“I envy you.”

“Wot, me?”

“I wish I had a good relationship with my—my sole relative. Mrs Beesley, I regret, is not the easiest woman with whom to be joined in holy matrimony.”

“She seems a naice sort o’ woman, if a bit, you know, out of things, as you might say.”

“She does not take pleasure, as I do, in making new friends. Normally I travel alone, and Mrs Beesley remains at the rectory, but she has a sister in Delhi and so she decided, this time, to accompany me.” Now the bishop’s stomach pressed against her stomach. It was so cosy, it made her legs feel like jelly.

“P’raps she should rest more,” said Mrs C. “Ai mean she could take the chance to relax before we get to India, couldn’t she? It would probably do ’er good.” She hoped the bishop hadn’t noticed the rather savage delivery of that last sentence. He certainly seemed unaware of the change in her tone and only smiled vaguely. The music stopped and, reluctantly, they broke their embrace and clapped politely at the coloured men in tuxedos on the bandstand. One of the musicians stepped forward, his black hands running up and down the keys of his saxophone as he spoke.

“And now, ladies and gentlemen, we’d like to give you my own ‘That’s How I Feel Today’. Thank you.”

Tuba, banjo, three saxophones, drums, piano, trumpet and trombone all started up at once and, oblivious to the other dancers, Mrs Cornelius and Bishop Beesley began to Charleston, still holding each other very close. When Mrs Cornelius next noticed Mrs Beesley, the bishop’s wife was quietly leaving through the exit onto the main corridor. Mrs C. felt triumphant. Po-faced bitch! Didn’t she believe in a feller enjoying himself?

“Ai’m afraid yore waife ’as decided to leave us,” she said into his plump, red ear.

“Oh, dear. Perhaps she’s gone to lie down. I wonder if I shouldn’t…?”

“Oh, come on, bishop! Finish the dance!”

“Yes, indeed. Why not?”

The lights dimmed, the tone of the music sweetened and Mrs C. and Bishop B. began to foxtrot again. It was very romantic. Everyone on the floor sensed the mood and got smoochy. Mrs Cornelius’s bosom began to heave and she wriggled her bulk against Bishop Beesley’s, who responded by moving his hand over her bottom.

She murmured, as the music subsided, “You feel like it, don’t you?”

He nodded eagerly, smiling and clapping. “I do, dear lady. I do, indeed.”

“Would you like to escort me to mai cabin door?”

“I should like nothing better.” The old dog was almost panting with lust. She winked at him and put her arm in his.

“Come on, then.”

This was what she called a shipboard romance.

They went into the passage and turned left, searching for the right cabin number in the dim, blue light.

They slipped surreptitiously past number 46 and Mrs Cornelius searched hastily for her key as they approached number 38. She produced it with a flourish and inserted it delicately into the lock, turning the levers with a soft double click. She stood there coquettishly, a hand on her hip. “Would you care for a nip of something to keep out the cold?”

He snorted.

He darted a quick look up and down the corridor, and dived into the cabin, his mouth closing on hers, his hands caressing her huge breasts. His breath was oddly sweet, almost sickly, but she quite liked it.

She hitched up her skirt and lay down on the bunk. He pulled down his gaiters and flung his sticky body on top of her. Soon they were bouncing up and down in the narrow bunk, all the aluminium-work creaking. They were shouting and grunting in unison as orgasms shook their combined thirty-eight stones of flesh when the door opened and blue light filtered in from the corridor. A spotty youth stood there, peering in. Evidently he couldn’t see clearly. “Mum?”

“Oh, fuck me! It’s orlright, son. Git along, will yer? I’m busy at the minute.”

The boy, who was probably in his mid-teens, continued to stand there, his mean, ratlike features those of an idiot, his large eyes dull and uncomprehending.

“Mum?”

“Bugger off!”

“Oh,” he said, as his eyes got used to the dark, “sorry.”

The door closed.

Mrs Cornelius clambered from the bunk, scratching her pelvis. “Sorry abart that, bishop. Fergot ter lock it.” She pulled the bolt into its socket, then stumbled back, her knickers still around one ankle. She unbuckled her corsets and let them drop and was about to remove her dress when the bishop seized her by the hair and pulled her head down towards his penis which rolled back and forth like the mast of a storm-tossed ship. His eyes continued to stare thoughtfully at the door.

In the passage the boy grinned at his mum’s antics and, dressed only in his raincoat, boots and socks, continued to search for a vacant lavatory. He listened to the vibrations from the vessel’s great engines, listened to the faint sound of the wind as it slid over the monstrous silver hull, listened to the distant music of the jazz band. He ran his hand through his long, greasy hair and wished that he had a monkey suit he could wear. Then
he’d
go to the dance and the janeys had better look out for their virginity! He shuffled down a side passage and then slid open the door onto the observation deck. The lights of the city were past now and the airship seemed to be flying over open countryside. Here and there were a few flickering lights from small villages or farmhouses. Even from this height he didn’t much fancy the country. It made him nervous.

He looked up at the blackness above. There were hardly any stars out at all and a thin rain seemed to be falling. Well, at least the weather would be better in Calcutta.

The ship shivered as it turned a degree or two, correcting its course. The distant music wavered and then altered. There was something almost hesitant about the way the ship moved. The youth stared forward and thought he saw in the distance the white-topped waves of the Mediterranean. Or was it the Bay of Biscay? Whatever the name of the sea, the sight of it meant something to him. For no reason he could understand, the sight filled him with a sense of relief. They were leaving Europe behind.

The youth watched eagerly as they began to move out above the water. He grinned as he saw the land fall away. Apart from the crew, he was the only one to notice this change.

Wondering how he had come to be involved in this revolution in the first place, Colonel Pyat swayed forward to have a word with the driver of the armoured train. Dirty steam struck his face and he coughed painfully, his eyes watering. He tried to rub at his eyes with his free hand, but the train snaked round a bend and forced him to reach out and grab the other steel handrail on the observation platform. The train travelled over a vast plain of burned wheat. In all directions the landscape was flat and black, with the occasional patch of green, white or yellow which had somehow escaped the flames. Colonel Pyat would be glad to get into the hills which he could just see on the horizon ahead. He opened the plate-armoured door of the next compartment and found that it was deserted of soldiers. Here there were only boxes of ammunition and light machine guns. He made his way cautiously between the stacks. Perhaps military responsibilities were the simplest a right-thinking man could shoulder without feeling feeble. Certainly, the responsibility of commanding an armoured train was preferable to the responsibility he had left at home. On the other hand, he could have been helping the sick in some relatively safe hospital behind the lines, not heading willy-nilly towards the Ukraine and the worst fighting of the whole damned civil war. 193– had not been a good year for Colonel Pyat.

He tried to brush the soot off his uniform and succeeded only in smearing more of the stuff over the white buckskin. He sat down with a thump on an ammunition box and, scraping his match on the barrel of a machine gun, lit a small cheroot. He could do with a drink. He felt for the flask in his hip-pocket. It was there, all slim brass and silver. He unscrewed the top and raised the lip to his mouth. A single drop of brandy fell onto his tongue. He sighed and put the flask back. If they ever got to Kiev, the first thing he would do would be to requisition a bottle of cognac. If such a thing still existed.

The thin strains of a piano accordion drifted down the length of the train from behind him. The vibrant, gloomy voices of his troops began to sing. He got up, the cheroot held tightly in his teeth, and continued on his way.

I should have stayed in the diplomatic corps
, he was thinking as he opened a door and saw the huge log tender looming over him, its chipped black enamel smeared with streaks of green and yellow paint where someone had tried to obscure the previous owner’s insignia. There was a door in the tender, leading to a low passage through which he had to pass to get to the engine footplate itself. He heard the logs thumping and rattling over his head and then he had emerged to find the fireman hurling half a tree into the yellow, roaring furnace. The driver, his hand on the acceleration wheel, had his head sticking out of the observation port on the left of the loco. Two guards sat behind him, their rifles crooked in their arms, their legs dangling over the edge of the footplate. They were half asleep, their fur shakos tipped down over their foreheads, and they didn’t notice Colonel Pyat’s arrival. The footplate smelled strongly of the cedar wood which was now their main fuel. Overlaying this was the well-defined odour of human sweat. Colonel Pyat leaned against the tender and finished his cheroot. Only the fireman knew he was there and the fireman was too busy to acknowledge his presence.