SHE DIDN’T UNDERSTAND when I pulled her round to the stairway.
‘The docks,’ she gasped as she tried to break away. She drew in quick, sharp breaths. ‘We can lose them easily in the docks.’
She had a point. The road under the northern span of the bridge led straight into dockland – or what was left of it after the fire-bombs had done their worst – where there were plenty of side streets, alleyways and ruined buildings to get lost in. Sure, it would’ve been easy to shake off the Blackshirts in that labyrinth, ‘cept that wasn’t any part of my plan.
‘We’re going onto the bridge,’ I told her, trying to catch my own breath. Sweat trickled down my back and my throat felt burned dry.
‘You’re insane. The bridge is raised – we can’t get across!’
‘We can use one of the walkways at the top.’
She looked at me as if I really was crazy, but there was no time for argument, so without another word I pushed her into the covered stairway. The lead Blackshirts were about forty yards away, and for now they’d given up shooting, no doubt confident they’d soon catch us. Coming up the rear was Hubble, pushed by McGruder in that ridiculous perambulator, waving his arms and bitching orders as he bumped over the cobblestones. With one last look, Muriel scuttled up the steps.
At the top of them, a short tunnel led back under the bridge’s roadway, and another flight of stairs went up to the bridge approach itself. Our footsteps echoed around the damp walls together with the sound of our own laboured breathing and even before we’d reached the second flight of stairs I heard pounding feet and shouts coming after us. By now we were running on adrenaline – my old ally – and I could only pray it’d sustain us for a little while longer.
Up the stairs we scrambled, both of us using the iron rail set in the brick wall to pull ourselves forward, my other arm clamping the canvas bag against my side to stop it bouncing around. We burst into bright sunlight again and the bridge’s north tower loomed over us, battleship-grey suspension girder-chains on either side of the roadway rising away from us in great, swooping slopes towards the upper reaches. With its stone cladding, arched windows, mouldings and niches, turrets at each corner, the tower resembled some sinister Gothic castle straight from a creepy Grimm’s fairy tale. Fairy tale? Hell, with its shallow balcony near the top and spires and finials around the roof, it felt as if we were making straight for Bela Lugosi’s town house. Bloodsuckers on our tails, a virtual mountain to climb ahead of us, I closed my mind and kept going.
Through the great archway at the base of the tower where traffic once flowed onto the bridge itself we could see a huge concrete wall plugging the gap. Rusted buses, trucks, and automobiles still queued before it as though waiting for the bascule (that concrete wall was the raised bridge section itself) to lower so they could continue their journey into the city’s southern sprawl. On the other side of the bascule was a sheer drop to the river below and directly opposite was the underside of its sister bascule, this one also raised and standing erect against the south tower.
Beside the archway was a narrow flight of stone steps leading up to an inset doorway, and this was the entrance into the tower, which I wanted to be inside before the mob got too close. Once there, it meant a long haul to the fourth level where the high walkway that spanned the river, joining both towers, would take us across. Although it would be a tough climb for us, I knew it would be even tougher for those unhealthy freaks on our tails.
Along the approach we raced, traffic that would never move again on our left, a thick, ornamental iron rail to our right, howling Blackshirts hard on our heels, and blue skies and dead city all around. Somehow it felt as though I were taking it all in for the last time: the battered, broken rooftops across the city, those wrinkled balloons sagging in the sky, buildings that used to be thriving warehouses now empty shells along the river’s edge, bent and crumpled cranes, boats and barges still moored to quaysides, stirring in the drift. Three years I’d remained in this open mausoleum when survivors with more sense had fled, three years of tidying the streets and getting nowhere. D’you still remember the point of it all? the familiar sneaky little voice inside my head jeered. And if you did, was it still worth the effort? Forever hunted by sick people turned to vampirism, hiding away like an animal, killing just to stay alive, always vigilant, always afraid, carrying on the war when it should have finished with the Blood Death genocide. Did it make any sense at all? No, ‘course it didn’t, none whatsoever. Sally was gone, she knew nothing of this even though your obsession was because of her. Her and…well, you know. You’re crazy, Hoke, crazy like the human leeches chasing you now. Have been since you lost the world. And you know it. But at least it’s coming to an end, this madness. Yeah, another end, and this time you’ll probably be included. You should’ve listened to Cissie, Hoke. She told you you were crazy too…
Bullets whistled over our heads again, interrupting that sly, taunting voice inside my head, a voice that was my own good sense, snapping me back to the here and now. Fact was, I had no choice anyways: my idea had progressed too far to call it off. Those Blackshirts were still trying to frighten us into stopping, but their shots only encouraged us to make a final spurt onto the pier that ran around the base of the tower. The bridge’s control cabin, protected by sheaths of steel plating and sandbags, nestled beneath the tower itself, and I noticed its green signal was still raised to allow non-existent ships through. Out of sight underneath the pier were the cogwheels and accumulator tanks that helped operate the bascule on this side of the river.
‘Up the stairs!’ I ordered Muriel as I wheeled around to check on the hounds. Hell, the first goon, who was just about one of the healthiest-looking specimens in a black uniform I’d seen for a couple of years now – healthier even than McGruder, I’d say – was only ten yards away. I could’ve dropped him easily with the Browning, but I didn’t want to discourage the crowd from following us into the tower, so instead I turned my back on him and skipped up the steps after Muriel. She’d already pushed open the door at the top and we went through almost together.
‘Keep going,’ I said to her, pointing to the rising stairs inside, and without even glancing at me she did as she was told. Her shoes clacked on the iron treads and her breaths were now emerging in short, sharp cries. I waited in the shadows behind the door, listening to the approaching footsteps outside. They grew louder, broke as the Blackshirt leapt the first few steps, then resumed, coming closer.
Waiting ‘til the last moment, I slammed the door in the goon’s face and heard a muffled shout, then a series of yelps as he bounced back down those steps again. I’d busted the door’s lock in the early hours of that morning, so I couldn’t shut the Blackshirts out and give myself a chance to get a good head start on them up the stairs before they broke in. I raced after Muriel, taking the steps three at a time and soon catching her up.
Like I said, a long haul to the top, two hundred and six steps in all (I’d counted them some hours ago), the hydraulic lifts naturally out of action, bullying Muriel all the way. Pounding footsteps followed us up, the occasional, useless shot ringing out (we were well protected by the solid staircase as long as we kept two flights ahead of the pack), our hearts thudding faster, our legs growing heavier, and our lungs heaving painfully with each step. Oh Jesus, we were never gonna make it, we didn’t have the strength. But still we went on, every turn a sweetener to reach the next. Although there were plenty of windows, the glass was filthy, so seeing our way was another problem. Quite a few times one of us tripped, but when it was Muriel I just lifted her again and pushed her onwards, and when it was me I cussed and used the thick wooden handrail to pull myself up. The higher we went, the more exhausted we became; and it was getting harder for both of us to draw breath. To make matters worse, the commotion below seemed to be growing louder, the pack drawing closer and closer. Impossible, I kept telling myself, those people were in worse condition than us, we were still way ahead of them. If only I could’ve believed myself.
Some of the Blackshirts, I began to realize by sound alone, had taken the other staircase – there were two inside the tower – and they seemed to be making better progress than those behind us. We caught a glimpse of this bunch as they poured onto one of the spacious landings below, and a roar went up when they spotted us too. Muriel almost collapsed in front of me.
‘They…They’ve got us, Hoke,’ she stammered, her chest and shoulders heaving. ‘We can’t make it.’
So much for the Bulldog Breed. ‘We’re nearly there. One more flight, that’s all. Well be okay up there, I promise you.’
I stepped alongside her and grabbed her by the wrist. Her whole body was shaking and she seemed to spasm with every breath. she drew, but I half-carried her with me, using whatever strength I had left to keep her moving. At first, she weighed on me, but when she saw the staircase opening out onto the top landing, some of her strength – and her spirit – returned and she began to climb by herself. The gloom brightened too and, I guess, in some foolish way that gave her more hope. She stumbled on ahead of me.
We virtually dragged ourselves up those last few steps, using our hands on the higher treads, our knees on the lower ones. And then we arrived at a wide area with windows overlooking the river and city on three sides, the sun piercing the grime and lightening the room with broad dust-swirling shafts. There was no time to rest and though Muriel’s legs were giving way and dry retching noises came from her throat as she sucked in air, I forced her on, taking her to the half-glass double doors across the room from us. There were other doors here, cupboards or doors to private offices, as well as tables and chairs, cleaning equipment and all kinds of clutter, but the important thing for us was those wide double doors – we had to get through them before the mob reached this level.
And we managed to, staggering onto the long walkway that stretched across the River Thames, running parallel with its sister footbridge a short distance away to join the north tower with the south. We were a hundred and forty feet above the water here and a coolish breeze drifted through the open iron latticework of its side walls, ruffling our hair, brushing our skin, helping to revive us. We drew in deep gasps of clean air, filling our laboured lungs with its sweetness, our eyes closing at the sheer pleasure. Yet still I wouldn’t let Muriel linger.
‘Down to the other end,’ I told her wearily, heading that way myself. The noise of the approaching Blackshirts was muffled by the double doors that had swung closed behind us, but it was growing louder by the moment.
‘Yes,’ she said meekly, breaking into a stumbling run. Her face was racked with exhaustion, but there might have been a smile there, a faint glimmer of relief showing through. There was a chance now, she was thinking, a chance if we can just get through those other doors at the end of the long span. Most of those people following were in poor condition and they’d be in even worse shape than us after the climb. Once on the other side of those doors it would be easy to descend, we’d easily get away from them, and then out into the south side of the city, losing ourselves in the streets there. Oh yeah, I could see her thinking all that and, although she was dog-weary, she was already beginning to pick up speed as she avoided debris and piled boxes along the pedestrian bridge, hurrying past equipment covered by tarpaulin that protected it from the elements, stuff that might have been stored there since the walkways had been closed to the general public at the outbreak of the war. Shadows were already falling on the glass section of the double doors as I followed her, the room beyond becoming crowded.
The walkway was wide enough to allow at least five pedestrians to walk comfortably side by side along its length and enjoy the spectacular views of London through the intersecting iron girders; those girders sloped inwards so that the ceiling was narrower than the floor below, and rising above the opposite footbridge I could see the slate roof and spires of the south tower. Across the gap, inside the sister walkway, an anti-aircraft battery had been installed and I remembered thinking more than once about coming up here one night and waiting for the stubborn German bomber pilot to fly his Dornier along the river – like the Luftwaffe before him he always used the Thames as a guide into London and the docks – then blasting him out of the sky as he went by. Nice idea, ‘cept I knew as much about heavy artillery as I did about knitting cardigans, so I abandoned the idea. But the thought, inspired by my first privileged tourist visit here, had always kept Tower Bridge in my mind, and last night, knowing Hubble and his black army were garrisoned in the nearby castle, a different notion had come to me.
I passed a corpse wearing the dusty blue uniform of a custodian or maintenance man precariously perched on a straight-backed wooden chair halfway along the footbridge and I had to skirt around the covered boxes it seemed to be watching over. The jacket was loose over slumped skeletal shoulders and the dead man’s shrivelled eyes were cast down at the concrete floor; strands of white hair on the naked scalp were too brittle to be stirred by the breeze. Avoiding more boxes, I went after Muriel, who was almost at the end of the walkway by now.
We both heard the double doors behind us burst open and the yattering rabble surge through, but neither of us bothered to look. I began to slow down though, popping the flap button of my holster as I did so.
Muriel made it to the doors, almost crashing into them in her eagerness to get through. She was sobbing as she grabbed the vertical handles on each side and pulled. I heard her cry out in dismay when nothing happened. She tried again, yanking the double doors with all her might, rattling them in their frame. Still they held tight
She looked over her shoulder at me as I drew near. ‘They’re locked, Hoke!’ she almost screamed. ‘Oh my God, they’re locked!’
I came to a halt and turned to face the advancing mob, drawing the pistol from its holster in a smooth, easy movement
‘Yeah,’ I said to her. ‘I know.’