The Devil in Green (26 page)

'What about you, Mallory? Anybody you left behind?'

'I don't think about the past. No point. It's gone. Same as there's no
point thinking about the future. You just have to deal with what's going on
around you.'

'You see, that's what I'm talking about. I can't agree with that. We need
to hold on to the good things from the past, to give us some perspective.
Especially now, with all this.' He gestured to the wide world.

'You just have to deal with things, Daniels. That's all it comes down to.'

'No, that's wrong. Your memories are your guide. They let you create a
framework so you can tell good from bad. Without that kind of compass,
who knows how you're going to end up
dealing with things}
You see society
out there: it's fallen apart. No rules or regulations. All we've got is what's
inside us.'

'That's all we ever had.'

They reached Malmesbury House where the infirmary was situated.
The grand Queen-Anne facade sported a remarkable blue and gold
sundial, the rococo interior too delicate for the use it had been assigned.

The infirmarian was a former surgeon named Warwick. He was in his
fifties, with a brusque manner and the crystal pronunciation of a public-
school education. Without any unnecessary chat, he made Mallory lie on a
table in a white-tiled room filled with stainless-steel medical instruments
oddly juxtaposed against jars of dried herbs and bottles of odd-looking
concoctions. It was as if a modern doctor shared office space with an
Elizabethan alchemist.

Mallory winced as Warwick examined the various bruises and abrasions. 'So, with the back-to-basics thing that's going on here, can I expect
some blood-letting and leeches?' he said.

'As much as I would like to oblige,' Warwick replied tartly, 'we still
adhere to the basic tenets of modern medicine. Though there is an element
of make-do, depending on what treatments are available.' He checked
Mallory's ribs closely then grunted, 'No breaks. Who gave you a going
over? Or is this part of basic training?'

'It was a test.' Mallory saw Blaine's face, felt a dull burst of anger.
'Which I passed with flying colours.'

Warwick snorted and turned to the shelves that lined one wall. 'Practising medicine in these times is difficult enough without dealing with
self-inflicted injuries. If this happens again, you deal with it yourself.'
He delved into various jars before wrapping the contents in a small cloth
package. 'Infuse these in boiled water and drink it four times a day for the
next three days.'

Mallory sniffed at it; the contents were fragrant. 'What's in it?'

'Would it really make any difference if I told you?'

Daniels surveyed the jars. 'Heard any news from outside, Warwick?'

'Like what, exactly?'

'I know you hear everything in here. You get a snippet of information
from everyone with an ailment. It's like a little spider's web, with you at the
centre, collecting information.'

'Thank you for the flattering analogy,' Warwick said contemptuously.

'What about the Government?' Daniels asked.

'Not heard anything.'

'Somebody must be trying to put things back in place.'

'Well, they obviously haven't got very far, have they?'

'No power on the horizon, then?'

Warwick removed a jar from Daniels' hands and replaced it on a shelf.
'There's no oil coming in. They shut down most of the pits in the nineties.

And I heard that all the nuclear power stations went off line during the
Fall.'

'Yeah, I wondered why we hadn't had a China Syndrome experience,'
Daniels mused. 'I hear you've got one of those clockwork radios tucked
away.'

Warwick shifted suspiciously. 'Who told you that?'

'I just heard.'

'You know how they feel about technology here.' He rearranged the jars
for a moment before adding, as if as an afterthought, 'I've heard that all
frequencies are dead. There's nothing coming in from the Continent at
all.'

'So either everybody's suffering the same all over the world,' Daniels
said, 'or England's the only place with people left alive.'

'Well, that's a thoroughly depressing thought,' Warwick said, with a
cold smile. 'The survival of the human race might be down to us.'

'And aren't we good representatives?' Mallory chipped in.

For the next three nights there were heavy frosts. The night office, the
lauds of the dead and prime were all torturous in the freezing confines of
the cathedral, where breath plumed white and the plainsong was disrupted
by shivering until the mass of bodies raised the temperature a little. The
bishop took the decision to limit the numbers of those who wished to pray
before the bones of St Cuthbert due to the queues that built up throughout
the day. Many, he said, were not seeking God's help with their ailments.
They simply wanted a sign of God's power and it was wrong to test
Him.

It was in the early evening that Miller overheard a commotion at the
gates, which had not been opened since the attack. The torches blazing
permanently around the entrance area cast a dull red light across the
guards who leaned over the walls to talk animatedly with someone
attempting to gain entrance.

The anxious note in the exchange drew Mallory from his path back to
the barracks. He had a sense that here was something important, so he
stood in the shadow of the nearest hut, stamping his feet against the cold.

After a few moments' debate, the guards sent word back for advice; they
had obviously been told not to open the gates for anyone. The runner
returned with James, who appeared agitated. He listened at the gate for a
moment, then insisted it be opened. The guards were reluctant, but they
eventually agreed to open the gates a crack so that whoever was outside
could slip inside.

The visitor wore the black vest of a cleric and was shivering from the
cold. He appeared so weak that he could barely stand, and his eyes had the
glaze of the bone-weary or drugged.

Concerned, James grabbed the cleric's arm to lead him closer to a
brazier that the guards used to warm themselves. The visitor's gait was
slow and laboured, and even in the firelight his eyes didn't lose their dead
expression. Intrigued, Mallory slipped as close as he could without being
seen.

'—you sure?' James was asking.

'Near Stonehenge.' The cleric sounded as if he was talking through
depths of water.

James motioned to two of the guards to support the cleric, and then the
four of them disappeared in the direction of the cathedral.

The summoning came at around eleven p.m. when Hipgrave appeared at
the door, as bright and smart as if it were the middle of the day. 'The
operations room. Now,' he barked. He disappeared swiftly, expecting
mockery.

The operations room was a grand name for a room that contained only a
wall map of the local area, a pile of useless phone directories and a few
chairs and a table. Blaine and Hipgrave were talking intensely near the
window when the others entered. Hipgrave motioned for the new arrivals
to take seats.