Ladies From Hell (11 page)

She moved round the bath, captured the Rural’s other hand. “Girl,” she said, “you got tidemarks where I wouldn’t of even
thought
of tidemarks. But we’re nearly through.” She scotched on to a crate. “Get to sayin’ ’em through in my head sometimes,” she said. “All the names. Sort of like hymns. ‘
Thou hast enlarged me when I was in distress
.’ That’s a great name for a truck as well. And you know what she’s carryin’? Enough hardware to flatten a fair-size town. We brought that in. She’s got thank-you placards all the way round; and they don’t even know … Then there’s ‘
Kys thy moder, Jhesu
.’ Can’t mistake her. She’s got an icon on her forehead, right here. Slap over the windshield. Real icon too, found it on a rubbish tip in back of the British Museum. And ‘
Edi be thu, heven-quene
…’ That’s Middle English, that really gets ’em guessin’ … And ‘
Go hert, hert with adversitee
…’ She’ll do her share of
hurtin’, one day. Soon, now …”

She stood up, held out a big towel. “Come on,” she said. “I ain’t doin’ no more now. We’ll renew the onslaught in the morning …”

She swathed the other and sat her down, began rubbing her hair. “I guess you reckon I’m nuts,” she said. “I ain’t though. We had this bitty setback, had to scatter, but that don’t hurt the plan. The plan’s all made, ready to go. We bin plannin’ for years, travellin’ up and down, anywhere a lorry could go. Or a boat. That’s why we used the canals …”

She threw the hand towel down, picked up another. “When we move,” she said, “they’ll all move. All the folk I told you about. And the Rurals. Even the old Prof, he’s got himself a crossbow hid away. Works real good, too. You just think about that. All the shantys, all boilin’ up together. Like pokin’ a stick in a termite nest. And you know what we’re gonna do then?”

The Rural stared, eyes big in candlelight. Her lips moved; but she made no sound.

“We’re gonna blow the roads,” said the American girl. “Every drag’s carryin’ enough blasting sticks to take out a Motorway. Then we go in. Take the cities. Take the power stations. We got the hardware, and we got the knowhow. But we got something else as well. A good old-fashioned Cause. Honey, you know why the middle classes lost out all those years back? They’d been on top too long, is all. Their brains got addled, they couldn’t think straight no more. And that’s what’s going to happen again. To the new Brass. They bin rulin’ the roost twenty years now, they’ve had it easy. They ain’t bin kicked around, not like us. Well, you start kickin’ a guy and he’ll start thinkin’. Harder you kick, the harder he thinks. It’s gonna be our turn now. Because this stinkin’ little country has had enough. Jeeze, it ain’t even fucking Communism. When Johnny blows that whistle, we’re goin’ to be in London inside a day …”

She hauled the bathtub to the door. She said, “You wanna go outside again? Nope? Best get that bed made up then. And get these on …”

She arranged blankets busily, turned to see the Rural still pawing in a baffled way at the garments she had thrown
to her. She said, “Jeeze, you even forgotten
pajamas
? You put your feet in, dope. Come here …”

The night was sticky and hot. The Jugs roared from the embankment; twice thunder grumbled in the distance, but the storm came no closer. The American lay sleepless, conscious of the dead bulk of the great tree hanging close over the roof, hearing the other’s steady breathing from across the shack. Sometime in the small hours, she dozed.

She woke to weight and warmth. She said foggily, “What the hell
you
doin’ here …” The Rural snuggled, contentedly. She suffered, frowning, the cupping of her breast; but when the other began to move rhythmically against her she hauled up, still half asleep, and brought her a smart slap. “You just cut that right
out
,” she said. “That ain’t no way …” She settled back, grumbling. “Reckoned you was like a damn puppy dog,” she said. “You even got all the vices …” Then she reached in the faint light, brushed the other’s lashes with her fingers. “Hey,” she said, “there ain’t no call for that. Come on, dope, I ain’t mad at you …” She groped under the blanket she had folded as a pillow, produced a handkerchief. “Do I gotta do
every
Goddam thing?” she said. “Blow …”

She slipped an arm round the other’s shoulders, pulled her close. She smelled, now, sweet and clean. The American lay and stared at the half-seen ceiling. In time the snuffling grew less. She said, “You know what? I always wanted a kid sister. Or a kid of my own. Somebody I could talk to. Like I talk to you. Well, neither ain’t goin’ to happen now. So I guess I’m stuck with you.” She stroked the other’s hair back from her face. She said, “Guess if you counted them, I got more hangups than you, Babba. Know what I mean?”

She grinned, and sat up slightly. “Hey,” she said, “that’s kinda pretty. Honey, you got a brand new name …”

But the Rural made no response. She had drifted back to sleep.

The American rose early, shrugged herself into the windcheater. She stood staring down a moment at the other, still lying tousled; then she left the shack, easing the door to gently
behind her. Silvery mist shrouded the high bank, clung round the concrete pilings on which the little restaurant stood. Through the mist, as ever, moved the lorries. She started to walk toward the deserted steak house, one hand thrust deep into her pocket. She found a flight of rusted iron steps, and began to climb.

She was back in half an hour, carrying a dusty metal can and with her lips compressed into a line. The Rural was sitting up among the blankets, looking distressed. She ran to her when she appeared, with a little whimper of relief.

The American girl set the can down. “It’s OK, honey,” she said. “I hadn’t gone far. I found us some cleanin’ stuff.” She pursed her lips again. “Honey,” she said, “you
know
anything about that steak house? What happened there?”

The other looked blank; then her eyes lighted on the tin bath. She ran to haul it into the centre of the room. She knelt banging the side and looking hopeful; and the American’s expression softened. She put her hands on her hips and laughed. “No way, hon,” she said. “Ain’t goin’ through that performance twice in twelve hours. You won’t get dusty, you’ll keep awhile. C’mon now, we got other things to do …”

She set a saucepan on the stove. “One thing I shall never understand,” she said, “is how you kept your teeth good. Come on now, you set in that chair …”

After the meal she examined the other critically. “Phase Two of the big cleanup,” she said, “is about to commence.” She had produced from somewhere a pair of folding scissors and a comb. She turned the Rural’s head, gently, her fingers under her chin. “A little layerin’,” she said, “is goin’ to produce a minor miracle. Also, you are sufferin’ from splittin’ ends …”

She draped a towel round the other’s shoulders. “For my sins,” she said, “this was once on a time my gainful employment. You just would not believe how tired you can get starin’ at wealthy ladies’ unwashed necks. Hey, keep your head still you nut. It ain’t goin’ to improve you only havin’ half an ear …”

She worked deftly, with many pauses for assessment. Small drifts of cut hair gathered on the towel. She found a parting, sucked her teeth, changed her mind and started again. The scissors clicked steadily; finally she seemed satisfied. She walked
right round the Rural, who followed her with baffled eyes. “I
think
,” she said softly, “Madam will not be displeased …” She flicked the towel away and turned her attention to the other’s hands, first carefully demonstrating the use of the scissors on her own nails. “Don’t you go prancin’ round now,” she said when she had finished. “We ain’t done yet …”

The Rural sat obediently still while she sorted clothes, frowning and holding them to the light. “By rights,” she said, “these could stand a deal more airin’. Also pressing would be a distinct advantage. But since we don’t seem to have a dryclean joint within hail, we shall have to make the best of it …”

She chose, finally, a shirt and belted threequarter-length skirt. The Rural reached for them, curiously; but she shook her head. “First,” she said, “you are goin’ to be introduced to the grand old British custom of underpants. Oh, God … No, your
legs
go in ’em, you dope. What you think you got there, an Ascot hat?”

After a certain struggle, the investment was completed. “Sort of like the end of a saga,” said the American girl. “And you have no
idea
what a relief it is to me …” The shirt followed, and the skirt. The American cinched the belt tight, brushed at the hem. “Those creases’ll drop out mostly,” she said. “I suppose I seen worse. Least you had the sense to store ’em high. Sit down now, babs. These are sandals. They go on your feet. Look, try a little lateral thinkin’, won’t you? That’s it. That’s a girl …”

She gave a last touch to the Rural’s hair, stood back. Then she took her hand, gently, pulled her forward to the dressing table and tilted the mirror. “Look, honey,” she said. “That’s what they took away from you. And I gave it back. Did you ever see hair so black? Did you ever see eyes quite so Goddam blue … ?”

The other’s mouth opened slowly. She stared; at the mirror, down at herself, back to the mirror; and suddenly it seemed the eyes of the American girl stung, so that she
brushed irritably at her face, squeezed the top of her nose. “Well,” she said, “put this down as a million-year typing error. Honey, I’m startin’ to realize what God felt like. I only made a human being. He made the whole damn world …”

There was a shout, from the direction of the canal.

The American sprang away from the window with much of the speed of a cat. She pressed herself to the wall, and swore. Two men were climbing the bank from the water. Behind them, dim in the mist that still clung to the cutting, drifted a long many-windowed boat, its fibreglass cabin top finished in cream and blue.

The Rural had leaped back, alarmed. The other turned to her. “Stay here,” she said urgently. “And keep down. You understand? Whatever happens,
keep out of sight …
”

She ran through the door. The strangers paused at sight of her and shouted again, their voices echoing and blurred.

The American girl moved to her right. “You come on up here,” she said. “I ain’t engagin’ in no hog-callin’ contest …”

At the sound of her voice the newcomers stiffened. Then shiny things appeared as if by magic in their hands; and the old challenges, incomprehensible now but still chilling, rang up from the water.

“Reach, by Huskalon!”

“Reach, by Mikalfot!”

The American girl had dropped once more into the same strange half-crouch. She held her arms out, both together, stiffly pointing; and it seemed she was the Thunder-thing after all, for noise burst from her fingertips. Noise, and a pencil of dark flame. Blood and cloth scraps flew from the nearer man; he spun back down the slope and the noise came again. A figure crashed from the foredeck of the boat; then the sound was all round about, and sparkling from the line of cabin windows.

The Rural was standing, dazed, at the American’s side. She swore again and lunged at her, knocking her off her feet. She said, “Y’ crazy bitch,
get down
…” She recoiled to the foot of the Convolvulus King. She lay staring back and up. On the forecourt of the restaurant now stood a
great red lorry. Name-boards adorned its sides; from tailboard and cabin top swung the bright tinsels of the Trucker Cult. Thin smoke-streaks sped from its cab; and the noise was redoubled in a great thunder-crash. The canal boat swung sideways, smoke pouring from its shattered cabin. Another explosion, a ball of light; and it began to burn, the smoke from it rolling up darkly over the bank.

The American girl was kneeling on the grass, her hair hanging, the pistol still gripped in her fist. She said weakly, “My God. The Cavalry came. Baby,
come on …
”

But she couldn’t move. The lorry on the forecourt, the red lorry, seemed to be burning as well now, like a flame. Men ran from it; and it was as if a shutter clicked open, in her mind.

They had been efficient. They closed and locked the restaurant doors, lowered the slatted, blinds. Hair hung to their shoulders; and their eyes held no expression. Guns were in their hands; she had tried to run, panting, and her way had been barred. The faces laughed at her; she was forced back and down, while her father knelt in the kitchen, crying and calling for Jesus. She crawled to him, when they had finished with her. She tried to lie across him; but they pulled her away and stamped, and stamped, and stamped …

Afterwards, she supposed she had known what to do. “If anything happens,” he had said, “if anything ever happens to me, get down to the shack. Stay down there with the Rurals, nobody’ll look for you there …”

Her hands were to her throat. She knew now what the Blue Monkey had been. Why it had come. She glared down at the clothes she wore, her own clothes, and screamed at the top of her voice.

“
They killed him
… !”

The men were running now along the top of the bank. Some carried bulky packages. Another, fair-haired, stood poised above the cab top. He shouted, “Helen, for Christ’s sake! Come on!”

“Give me a hand! I can’t move her!”

“There’s no time! We’re setting charges!
Get moving … !
”

The American choked. She said to the boy with
the rocket launcher, “Put one into that. It don’t deserve to stand …” Smoke fled with a roar; and the windows of the restaurant flew outwards. Bright orange flame licked up at once inside.

Doors slammed. The engine of the huge drag bellowed. It lurched and moved forward. More men tumbled aboard. The long cab seemed full of them. The road behind erupted, in a thunderous sheet of flame.

The American girl crammed her knuckles at her mouth. Tears were on her throat; and she was craning, trying to see behind her. She said, “Oh my God, oh my God,” and the fair-haired driver laughed. He said, “Cut out the Bonny and Clyde bit honey, we all know you do it great …”

The road ahead, the bright haze where London lay, seemed to dance and shimmer. But she held tight to the Rural crouched beside her, feeling her tremble as the Juggernaut gathered speed. She said in quite a different voice, “Wake up, you bloody city, bang your bells. We’re on our way to eat you …”