IT WAS A WEIRD, tormented sound that wafted through the warm morning air across the wide, open space between the keep and surrounding buildings, muted and agonized organ music that had more in common with Lon Chaney than religious adoration. It came from the little church tucked away in a far corner of the yard, an overgrown, weed-ridden green with untidy trees spread before it, a bell tower rising over its rough-stoned walls and slanted roof, the bell inside its open turret visible from where I stood at the top of the White Tower ’s steps. I took a deep breath, dreading what I might find over there, before descending those stairs and scooting across the courtyard, the soles of my boots sticky with blood, heading for the nearest cover, which was the grand neo-Gothic building opposite, expecting to be challenged at any moment.
Nothing happened though, no sudden challenge interrupted my flight across open ground, and as soon as I reached the opposite wall, I went down on my haunches, facing out, the submachine gun weaving left and right, ready for the slightest disturbance. Apart from the faint, creaky organ music from the chapel, all was quiet and still.
I caught my breath and moved on, keeping close to the wall like always, using all the cover I could get, and before long I was crossing the passageway between the blockhouse tower and the chapel itself. Standing on tiptoe beneath the first of the five tall leaded windows, I peeped in, but the glass was too thick and too filthy for me to see anything clearly. All I caught was movement inside, although I heard other sounds over the organ music, voices shouting, others pleading.
Afraid my shadow might be seen, I ducked again and made my way along the row of windows, skirting round two big, lichen-covered tombs set on plinths along the path, searching for the chapel’s entrance. I found the door around the corner, between the west wall and bell tower, a cart for carrying small boxes or sacks standing close by. The door was open a few inches and the droning music was bad enough to make me want to block my ears. I thought I heard a child’s wailing as I crept closer.
Back against the door, I used an elbow to widen the gap, the Sten upright, close to my chest I lowered the barrel as the door swung slowly inwards, turning my body at the same time towards the chapel’s interior.
The aisle before me, a few feet wide, led straight to a small, plain altar, a gold crucifix at its centre, a decorative leaded-glass window overlooking it Light from all the high windows was dulled by the dirty glass, and the ceiling beams of dark wood cast their own oppressive gloom. To my left was a set of high arches, inside the first an alabaster tomb-chest, a stone knight and his lady laid out on its surface; further along the covered area was a massive wood-carved organ with tarnished pipes; beyond that, at the end wall, another door.
Dust motes floated in the subdued rays of light that played on the heads and shoulders of the congregation and there was movement everywhere, bodies shifting on the benches, distraught children waving their arms in the air, Blackshirts patrolling the centre aisle, weapons at the ready. Some of these people were moaning, others could only cower in fear, but all were looking at the diminutive figure standing before the altar.
Hubble had his back to them, and the tall Blackshirt, the one called McGruder, was helping him remove his shirt, exposing a thin, bruised arm and a hand that was now darkened almost to the wrist. Hubble’s bare shoulder was hunched and covered with nasty blemishes, the blood beneath the skin visibly thickened. It was an ugly sight, which stirred up the nausea I could still taste in my mouth.
He began to turn in my direction and I stepped behind the half-opened door in case he saw me.
With some effort, Hubble straightened himself. His chin jutted as he stood with one hand on his cane in a pose that he probably imagined made him look strong, invincible, a leader of men. But his sunken cheeks and the dark bruising around his eyes, the blueness of those tight-drawn lips, the sickly pallor of his skin, almost translucent now, so that the network of tiny broken veins beneath was clearly visible, his thin hair – once immaculately groomed, now straggly and brittle, falling forward over his waxen forehead – and the stubborn stoop of his shoulders, not to mention the palsied quivering of his limbs – all this only mocked the old image, reduced him to a hideous parody of the man who’d enthralled thousands of similar bigots with his Fascist oratory before the outbreak of the second – and last – world war, a man who’d marched at the head of a neo-Nazi army, subordinate only to Sir Oswald Mosley. Yet those bloodshot eyes still burned with a zealot’s fervour and I realized he was more dangerous than ever: Hubble didn’t have long for this decimated world but his dementia was driving him on, giving him the strength and the will to inflict even more misery.
I remained hidden behind the angled door, figuring out my next move.
The tuneless organ music finally droned to a wheezing halt when the Blackshirt leader raised a trembling hand towards the player, an obese, bespectacled woman with shorn hair, who wore the same black garments of terror as the men of Hubble’s army. She twisted her bulk to face the altar, the effort difficult for her, and even from where I stood peering round the door at the far end of the chapel, I could see the marks of death on her loose-fleshed face. A couple of guards shouted for quiet, another striking out at hostages close to him, as Hubble began to speak.
‘Almighty God, forgive our blindness in not seeking Your blessing and guidance…’
His voice was frail, almost quavery, yet it filled the small church, quietening the crowd more successfully than any threats from the guards.
‘…and look down with favour on our poor mortal bodies and everlasting souls. We thank You for our deliverance and ask that You bless those here among us…’
His shoulders shuddered and hunched even more, and he coughed into a hastily drawn handkerchief, holding it to his mouth ‘til the spasm passed. It was already bloodstained and when he took it away there were fresh, deeper blotches. His voice still had that peculiar distance to it, yet it was uncannily clear, and I wondered what this man’s power had been like in the old days, when he was fit and able.
‘Those among us…’ he went on, as if nothing had occurred ‘…for their selfless sacrifice to the greater cause. Let their pure blood spill into our veins and replenish our sick bodies.’
There were cries of protest from the people packed into those benches and the Blackshirts sitting among them hit out, one of the patrolling guards even poking his rifle into the head of a skinny youth on an end seat. Their objections were quickly subdued.
‘This we ask of You, dear Lord…’
Hubble’s deranged eyes were appealing heavenwards, a martyr suffering for his God. My finger twitched restlessly on the Sten’s trigger.
‘…in the knowledge that we are Your chosen few.’
And there you had it. This crazy man sincerely believed – as had his all-time hero, Adolf Hitler – that God was on his side, that he and his followers were the natural inheritors of the Earth by God’s command. The fact that Hubble’s blood was the wrong kind for survival barely made a dent in his twisted logic; that was just part of the hardship the righteous had to endure and finally overcome, all part of the great test. Hubble had gotten it a little wrong before, but now he’d seen the true way, so was seeking help from the Divine Saviour – something he’d foolishly omitted to do before – to make the transfusions successful so that his and his Blackshirts’ reign would continue. He was too far gone to realize it wasn’t simply goodwill he was asking of his Maker – it was a miracle! I was too disgusted even to smile. I edged the door open further.
It seemed Hubble had completed his devotions or supplications, whatever he considered them to be, and he made a sign with his hand. A Blackshirt on the front bench rose, dragging someone up with him. McGruder, standing protectively close to his leader as usual, beckoned the Blackshirt forward and I saw whose arm he clenched.
Muriel was no longer wearing the long, silver evening dress I’d last seen her in: she’d found, or been given, a man’s black shirt a couple of sizes too big for her, which she wore outside grey slacks. (I caught this when she moved into the centre of the aisle just in front of the altar.) She seemed reluctant to accompany the goon – she kept trying to pull her arm away – and I soon began to understand why.
There was a chair by the altar, which McGruder helped Hubble into (it was odd the way the big man fussed over his leader and I wondered what Hubble had done for him in the past to earn such slavish loyalty) while the other Blackshirt pushed Muriel forward. Y’know, Hubble managed to give her a twisted kind of smile as he settled himself, like she was offering herself willingly and he appreciated the gesture. I noticed her back stiffen.
Something else I noticed right then: beneath the cross on the altar was a tangle of rubber tubing, sunlight glinting off the attached steel needles and clips.
So that was the plan, and Muriel was to be the first. After all, to Hubble’s unhinged way of thinking, she had the purest blood of all. She was healthy, beautiful, with a fine brain that was in tune with his own (what a bonus) – and most of all, this kid had the breeding. A lord’s daughter, no less, a member of the aristocracy, the ruling class. Oh yeah, her blood would do fine. And Hubble knew he didn’t have much time – hell, I could see even from that distance how much he’d deteriorated since a couple of nights ago. The transfusions in the White Tower had failed, but now they had appealed to God, asking for His forgiveness and guidance, and naturally Hubble (what did I say about his kind of people?) had chosen the best for himself. Hallelujah!
McGruder ripped open the front of Muriel’s shirt, tugging one side over her shoulder and pulling her arm out of its sleeve.
‘No, don’t!’ I heard her plead. ‘You can’t do this to me, Max. I helped you. We believe in the same things.’
He only continued smiling up at her like some old, benevolent uncle – a mad-as-a-skunk, depraved old uncle with lechery in mind. He didn’t utter a word though, didn’t even nod his head; McGruder knew what to do and was already making himself busy. Unlike for most of his companions, and certainly his leader, the Blood Death seemed some ways off for the big man: his movement was a little slow, but he still appeared powerful enough as he held Muriel with one hand while he reached behind for a length of transfusion tubing with the other. Several more pieces fell to the floor as he pulled one free and there was a cry from the side of the chapel. The fat, bespectacled organist was stumbling towards the altar, a wail of anguish coming from her open, blue-lipped mouth. On the way she pounced on someone sitting on the front bench, and when she held her thick arms aloft, she was holding a child, a small girl. (You see the lunacy of these people? How much blood did the fat lady expect to get out of this kid? Enough to fill an arm?) She tried to carry the girl to the altar, but somebody screamed and a woman jumped up – the little girl’s mother or guardian, I figured – and tried to snatch her back. Uproar followed as other hostages leapt to their feet and began struggling with the nearest Blackshirts. Women screamed, kids bawled, and the few men among the ‘donors’ started punching, all of them only too aware of what was in store for them even if they hadn’t themselves witnessed the deaths of those others of the same blood. McGruder let go of Muriel and rushed towards the overweight organist, who was struggling with the hysterical woman, the child between them; but by now, other Blackshirts suddenly had the same idea as the organist. There were only a certain number of ‘donors’ left, much fewer than the number of Blackshirts present, and none of those goons wanted to be left out. Other guards began dragging victims towards the altar.
I saw one Blackshirt, a skinny guy who looked as if he hardly had the strength to carry his submachine gun, grab a female by the hair and attempt to pull her off a bench, but she fought back, giving him a shove that sent him toppling into the opposite row of benches. She turned and ran, making for the exit.
She was halfway down the aisle before she saw me in the open doorway, the door pushed wide now, the Sten gun chest-high, pointing straight at her.
Behind her I could see Hubble, on his feet again, his wizened face screwed up in a blaze of fury, his lips moving, mouth open wide, as if he were trying to bring some order to the party. McGruder was punching the fat lady to the floor, the mother had hold of her screaming kid again, and other goons were hauling resisting victims into the aisles, clubbing them with their fists and weapons, just sane enough not to shoot any of ‘em. And maybe that fact had finally dawned on those hostages, that they were no good to the Blackshirts dead, because they were suddenly putting up one hell of a fight.
It was bedlam inside that chapel, a madhouse of shrieks and shouts and warring factions, and through it all, through that pandemonium, Hubble finally clapped eyes on me. His anger turned to blank surprise. And then his pale, shrivelled face arranged itself into a trick-or-treat mask of sheer venom. Something more though, in fact a whole lot more, was in that expression: loathing, sure, but a kind of abhorrence too, as though the devil had arrived on his doorstep. I was the oddity, you see, I was the abnormal. Just like the ABneg types fighting his own men. The disease had rendered us the freaks of society (whatever society he imagined was left) and I was his No 1 freak. The problem was that no matter how loathsome I was to him, I had what he needed. And that made him hate me even more.
Yeah, well, I could live with it. I tucked the Sten into my shoulder and squeezed the trigger.
I’d aimed high for fear of hitting my own kind and the window above the altar shattered, the noise of breaking glass and gunfire suspending the action for a second or two. Heads looked my way, eyes were startled, and then the screaming started all over again. The pandemonium was worse than before when I fired off another burst. People ducked for cover as bullets spat into granite, dug into wood and smashed glass; I eased up so they could hear me yell:
‘Get outta here, just run, get away, go!’
Muriel was one of the first to get the idea, even though my words hadn’t been intended for her. Our eyes locked briefly and I saw the uncertainty in hers – she didn’t know if my next bullets might be for her. But she must’ve decided I was a better bet than Hubble, because next moment she was breaking free of the brawl and heading my way. McGruder made a lunge at her, but I fired off another burst (I would’ve taken his head off if there’d been no danger of hitting innocent people), and he took a dive, disappearing behind a wall of bodies. Sustained fire caused the nose of the Sten gun to rise and I let it, shooting high into the walls, swinging round almost leisurely towards the windows on my right. They exploded one by one, creating the fresh panic that I wanted.
The woman who’d been the first to spot me in the doorway began crawling forward along the aisle, moving fast, her head down as if afraid to look at me again. Muriel wasn’t far behind, but more people were tumbling into the aisle, blocking her path. She had pulled the shirt back over her shoulder and was clutching the material together over her breasts even as she struggled to reach me.
‘Come on!’ I yelled again. ‘Time to go! Move it!’
I only meant the hostages, but some of the Blackshirts had taken to the notion: they started running for the small door at the other end of the chapel. Hubble had had enough of all this. He stood on the step before the altar and jabbed a darkened finger at me, and even over the uproar I could hear his high-pitched voice shrieking orders. McGruder’s head and shoulders appeared over the crowd and he grabbed two nearby Blackshirts, pulling them close around Hubble, forming a protective shield against any gunfire I might send his leader’s way. I took aim anyway, but as I did I realized Hubble wasn’t pointing at me at all; his finger was waving at Muriel as she fought her way down the aisle towards me. McGruder and one of the bodyguards started after her, knocking people aside as they went
And that set me to revising my plan. Hubble wanted the girl as much as he’d wanted me when he thought I was the only healthy blood type left in the city – let’s face it, her bloodline was a few grades up from mine (if you believed in that kind of thing, that is, and Hubble, just like his demagogue, Hitler, clearly did) and that thought gave me a second option. The original plan had been to snatch Hubble; now I realized Muriel might be an even better hostage, because she’d come willingly.
That first woman crawled past my legs and then was gone, out the door, making – I hoped – for pastures new. An older woman, grey-haired, wrinkled face, was climbing over benches towards me, a boy of about sixteen helping her. Then came the two boy twins I’d noticed outside the Savoy, hustled by a middle-aged woman. A young girl, no more’n fifteen, leapt from the benches and scooted in my direction, bumping my elbow as she went by. They’d all caught the drift, they’d seen their chance to escape. But I couldn’t leave with them, not ’til Muriel was by my side. And not ’til Hubble had time to organize his men for the chase.
Bullets thudded into the wall beside the door, causing me to crouch, then return fire. More shouts, more screams – more gunfire. But the crowd before me was thinning, everybody scattering for cover. A man – a fleeing hostage – fell into me, knocking me back against the open door, and when he slumped to the floor, clawing at my clothes as he went, I saw the blood spurting from the holes in his back. A great crush of people surged towards me and I knew if I didn’t get out the way I’d be trampled underfoot, gun or no gun. Muriel was close to the front, but somebody tripped in front of her and she and others behind her went down in a tangle of arms and legs.
Another burst of gunfire just to keep things hot and I stepped forward, reaching into the jumble for her, my fingers managing to close around her wrist. I pulled hard and she came up fast, crashing into my chest, her hands resting on my shoulder. I thought I heard her say my name, but there was too much clamour, too many screams and moans, to be sure. I took her with me, backing towards the doorway, watching the advancing Blackshirts among the crowd as we went.
One particular goon was too close for comfort and I knew I had to stop him. But nothing happened when I pulled the Sten’s trigger. Without even thinking about it, I tossed the submachine gun into my left hand and reached for the P-35 with the other. I shot almost from the hip – no time for anything else – and the goon screamed as he clutched his belly and staggered. He fell to his knees, then went down as bodies piled on top of him. Others behind the heap hesitated, watching me warily.
I stepped away from the exit and waved at it with the pistol. ‘Come on, get going!’ I shouted. ‘I’m with you!’ The bolder ones among them believed me and ran outside.
By now Hubble’s army had worked themselves into a frenzy and those with guns started blazing away at the ceiling, frustrated because they still didn’t have a clear line on me. Blue smoke curled in the air and the uproar was deafening; I figured it was time to make my exit. At any moment those Blackshirts would be up on the benches to get a better shot at me, so I re-holstered the pistol and bundled Muriel out the door, breaking into a run as soon as we hit open air. I gripped her wrist to keep her with me and carried the Sten by its body. Those who’d already fled the church were scattering across the courtyard and I silently wished them luck, hoping they wouldn’t quit running ‘til they were on the other side of London. Muriel and me, we cut across the overgrown lawn, our steps high through the long grass, heading diagonally towards the broad stone steps and path that led to the passageway beneath the Bloody Tower. The lane beyond it led to a wooden bridge, which crossed the moat to the wharf road, and if the Blackshirts didn’t cut us down before we reached it we had a chance. We were running on a prayer, but that was nothing new for me.
We passed the empty Vickers machine gun, so far, so good, and kept going; if we could get to the path below the steps we’d be out of sight for a stretch, maybe even long enough to get under cover of the passageway before they opened fire on us. But wouldn’t you know it, it was at that point that Muriel decided to take a tumble. I tried to hold her, but her shoe just slipped from under her and she went sprawling, squawking as she rolled over.
Instead of minding her I whirled around, pulled out the used-up magazine and inserted a fresh one from the bag I carried, my hand slipping into the Sten’s pistol grip as I faced them. What was left of the black army was pouring round the corner of the chapel, still a few hostages among them, the Blackshirts too interested in us to bother with them. No doubt Hubble’s orders were to get Muriel and me, the others could be rounded up later, and that was fine, that’s exactly what I wanted. I gave them a short burst of fire, just enough to slow ‘em down but not to make them lose interest. A peculiar sight then, one that would’ve had me screaming with laughter at any other time: that two-wheeled cart I’d noticed outside the chapel door came into view, McGruder pushing it, Hubble crouched inside like a big kid being taken for a ride. I shook my head, assuring myself this was really happening, it wasn’t just another stupid nightmare after an evening hitting the booze. Nope, I wasn’t dreaming, the bullets chipping concrete in front of me told me so.
I sent a spray of bullets of my own back and had the satisfaction of seeing the cart swerving and Blackshirts hitting the deck. I heard a groan from Muriel and threw a quick glance her way. She was half-sitting, nursing a bleeding elbow that peeked through a hole in her shirt.
‘Are you hit?’ I yelled.
She gave a quick shake of her head and regarded me with some fear. She was scared all right, and not just of the Blackshirts: I guess she thought I might turn my weapon on her.
‘Okay, get up. You know what your new pals want from you, so start running again. I’ll cover you.’
‘We’ll never get away.’ She spoke breathlessly, her small exposed breasts heaving, her frightened gaze sweeping past me towards the mob. ‘There are too many of them, we can’t outrun them all.’
Yeah, I thought Too many of them. Too many to kill with only bullets. And I wanted every damn one of ‘em accounted for. I scuttled over to her and leaned close. ‘Just get on your feet and haul out.’ I yanked her up with one hand and pushed her towards the steps. She was unsteady at first, fastening a couple of shirt buttons as she went, then she broke into a run that started the Blackshirts surging forward again.
I followed close behind, but backstepping, gun trained on our pursuers just to keep ‘em at bay. Timing was everything, y’see; I had to get this exactly right Luckily they were smart enough to slow down, ‘though they kept coming, watching my every move, playing me out. I took a swift head count and figured there were around forty or so of them left and that surprised me. Even if there were some still inside the chapel, the Slow Death had claimed a whole mob of ‘em since the Blackshirts and I had first become acquainted. Well, it didn’t cause me any grief – the less I had to deal with today, the more chance I had of coming through in one piece.
Hearing Muriel’s shoes clattering down the steps, I did a turnabout and made a dash for them myself. A roar went up from the crowd as I disappeared from view and I knew we had only a few seconds to get into the passageway. Quickly catching up with Muriel, I took her arm again to help hurry her down a second set of steps and she cried out in protest, afraid we were both gonna break our necks. Ravens on the green in front of the White Tower flew into the air in alarm, their shrieks – that harsh, croaky kind of kaa – sounded like cursing to me, as if they were warning us off, intruders unwelcome, and I was of a mind to blow one or two of ‘em out of the air just for the hell of it. But I kept going, landing on the path with Muriel, dragging her onwards, the short, dark tunnel opening up ahead.
More shouts, more gunfire. Bullets spattered the ancient wall of the Bloody Tower, warning shots telling us we’d better stop running or else…We plunged into the cool shade of the archway as more bullets ricocheted off the cobbled path, their sound growing louder as they beat a line towards us. I pushed Muriel against the wall and the bullets pounded on past us, their impact thunderous in the confined space. I held her there, waiting for the row to stop, the echoes to fade, my face pressed into her hair and our bodies tight together as chips of stone spat up at us. I caught the faint whiff of faded perfume, felt her softness against me and, stupid though it was under the circumstances, remembered her nakedness beneath me, her arms curled around my waist, pulling me into her. I remembered how afraid, how vulnerable, she’d been that night at the hotel. And then I remembered how she’d betrayed her friends.
I pushed myself away from her then, and with an almost contemptuous side-swipe of my arm sent her reeling towards the other end of the short tunnel. As the Blackshirts spilled down the steps I went back to the entrance, showing myself to them. They hesitated yet again, some cowering on the steps, others trying to run back up them, as I raised the submachine gun. I took careful aim and pretended to squeeze the trigger.
When nothing happened they raised their heads or stopped where they were and looked at me. Surprise turned to glee as I tossed the weapon away and disappeared back into the shadows. One of ‘em even laughed aloud, thinking the Sten had jammed.
They came after us then like hounds after a wounded fox, baying for our blood – yeah, literally.
Out in the open on the other side of the archway, the sun stinging my eyes for a moment, I held Muriel by the wrist again and we fled, sweet Jesus, how we fled, the uneven roadway doing its best to trip us, the howling mob behind us giving us all the encouragement we needed. The bridge over the dry moat wasn’t far, but my chest was beginning to burn and my breath was scorching my throat As wild gunshots whined through the air I could feel Muriel starting to slow down, dragging on me, her pace becoming awkward.
‘You gotta keep going!’ I yelled at her.
‘We can’t make it!’ she croaked back.
‘We can. They’re slow, don’t you see? We just gotta keep ahead of ‘em!’
We reached the archway exit and pounded across the wooden bridge, and now that we were outside the old fortress, Muriel’s energy seemed renewed: she picked up speed and her movement became more controlled. Before us was the River Thames, ancient cannon set in a row all along its edge, pointing south across the water as if fearing an invasion from London’s other half. A wartime concrete pillbox stood among them, solidly square but useless against the enemy’s last invisible weapon. To our left, Tower Bridge rose high and proud, its bascules frozen open for all time, the river beneath flowing clear and pure in the sunlight
Me in the lead, we headed towards it.