The English Assassin (25 page)

I give up, said the bishop. I now admit I was ill-advised to quarrel with you, Cornelius. He crammed the Twix bar into his mouth and then reached towards his breast pocket. May I? He took out a delicate box of Chinese jade and opened it. From the box he removed a couple of pinches of sugar which he snorted into his nostrils. That’s better.

Okay. Jerry nodded tiredly and pulled the Banning’s trigger, plugging Beesley in the mouth. The face flared in a halo of flame and then disappeared. Jerry abandoned the gun and went to Una, who was pale and exhausted. He kissed her gently on the cheek. It’s all over, at last.

They switched off their armour and lay down on the damp mattress, fucking as if their lives depended on it.

The ruins were pretty now that the fronds and lichen covered them. Birds sang. Jerry and Catherine Cornelius walked hand in hand to their favourite spot and sat down on a slab, looking out over the fused obsidian that had been the Thames. It was spring. The world was at peace.

Moments like these, said Catherine tenderly, make you feel glad to be alive.

Well, he smiled, you are, aren’t you?

She stroked his knee as she lay stretched beside him, supported by one of his strong arms. It’s so relaxing to be with you.

Well, familiarity, I suppose, is a lot to do with it. He, in turn, stroked her golden hair. I love you, Cathy.

You’re good, Jerry, I love you, too.

They watched a spider cross the broken concrete and disappear into a black crack. They stared out over miles and miles of sun-drenched ruins.

London looks at her best on a day like this, Cathy said. I’m glad the winter’s over. Now the whole world is ours. The whole new century, for that matter! She laughed. Isn’t it paradise?

If it isn’t, it’ll do.

A light wind ruffled their hair. They got up and began to wander towards Ladbroke Grove, guided by the outline of the one complete building still standing, the Hilton tower. Black and white monkeys floated from broken wall to broken wall, calling to each other as the two people approached.

Jerry reached into his pocket. He turned on his miniature stereo taper. Hawkwind was halfway through ‘Captain Justice’; a VC3’s synthetic sounds shuddered, roared and decayed. He put his arm round her slender shoulders. Let’s take a holiday, he said, and go somewhere nice. Liverpool, maybe?

Or Florence. Those twisted girders!

Why not?

Humming, they made their way home.

Five teenage pupils from Ainslie Park School, Edinburgh, and a trainee instructor of outdoor pursuits, died near Lochan Buidhe in the Cairngorms yesterday in the worst Scottish mountain accident in memory. The tragedy was heightened by the fact that the party was found within 200 yards of a climbers’ hut which could have ensured their survival.

Guardian
, 23 November, 1971

A schoolboy in a party of 21 teenagers is believed to have died on a mountain in central Tasmania. A police and helicopter search is to resume at first light for the boys who are thought to be huddled together as blizzards break over the mountain.

Guardian
, 24 November, 1971

Two babies died today in a fire at a tented tinker’s camp—hours after their grandfather died in a road accident. Peter Smith (2) and his ten-month-old baby sister Irene, died as fire ripped through their makeshift canvas home at Ferebridge Camp, near Barnbroe, Lanarkshire. Earlier, their grandfather, farm labourer Mr Ian Brown (54) was killed when he was involved in an accident with a car as he was walking near the camp.

Shropshire Star
, 18 December, 1971

Farm worker Alan Stewart, who had a lung transplant at Edinburgh Royal Infirmary on Thursday—his 19th birthday—died last night. Alan, of Kirkcaldy, drank weedkiller from a lemonade bottle a week ago.

Shropshire Star
, 18 December, 1971

A man wearing a papier mâché mask in the form of a skull enters the doors of a pub.

A drunk screams and attacks the wearer.

Mother’s eyes.

“It’s like a magic wood.” Cathy’s voice was hushed and delighted. “So many soft greens. And, look, a squirrel! A red one!”

Frank Cornelius sniffed the air. “Lush,” he said. He tested the ground with his patent leather foot. “Springy. Give me the good old English broad-leafed tree any day of the week.”

“Oo, wot luverly flars!” said Mrs Cornelius, ripping some wild orchids from the moss and holding them to her face. “Thus is wot I
corl
a wood, Kernewl!”

Colonel Pyat gave a modest, proprietorial, smile, and wiped his forehead with a large handkerchief of coarse linen. “This is the English forest at her best. The oak. The ash. The elm. And so forth.” He was pleased to see her happy.

“I ’ope yer remember where we left ther motor,” said Mrs C. fiddling with the controls of her little tranny and failing to find a station. She gave up. She put the radio back in her bag. She cackled. “We don’t wanna be like ther fuckin’ babes in ther wood!”

Mellow sunshine filtered through the leaves of the tall elms, the strong oaks, the aristocratic poplars and the languid willows, filling the flowery glades with golden beams in which butterflies, mayflies and dragonflies sauntered.

They wandered on over sweet-smelling moss and grass and feathery ferns, sometimes in silence, sometimes in a babble of joy when they saw a pretty animal or a bank of beautiful flowers or a little, shining brook rushing between mossy rocks.

“Something like this restores your faith,” said Frank as they paused to watch a large-eyed doe and her faun nibbling delicately at some low-hanging leaves. He took out his rolled gold cigarette case and offered it round, quoting: “‘It is from the voice of created things that we discover the Voice of God never ceasing to woo our love’. Gaudefroy.” It was a quotation to which he would become particularly attached in the coming years, especially over the Christmas period of 1999, shortly before he and Bishop Beesley would pay the final reckoning in the Ladbroke Grove Raid, at a time when their theological disputes would have brought them close to blows. “Time stands still. Man is at peace. God speaks.”

“I orlways said you wos the one should’ve gorn inter ther Church,” said his mother sentimentally. She took a cigarette, a Sullivans, and waved it in a vague, all-encompassing gesture. “And wot would our friend Jerry make of all this, I wonder. Turn up ’is nose? Nar! Even ’e couldn’t knock this.”

“Jerry…” said Catherine defensively, and then could think of nothing more.

“Jerry’s far too involved in the affairs of the world to spare time for the simple things of life,” said Frank piously.

“You’d fink ’e’d write a p.c.” Mrs C. puffed at her fag. “Oh, look over there!”

It was a pool overhung by willows and sapling silver birches with big white boulders all around it. A tiny waterfall cascaded into the pool from high above. They all walked towards it, listening to the water. Colonel Pyat followed behind. He didn’t have the energy any more. He, too, was wondering what had become of the missing member of the Cornelius family. There had been conflicting rumours. One rumour had it that he had been resurrected. Another said he had been returned to the sea. They had all relied too heavily on him, as it turned out. So much for the optimistic slogans. Messiah to the Age of Science, indeed! Now it was plainly too late for action. The opportunities had passed. It was all fragmenting. Even this silly attempt of his to keep the family together was a reaction to the real situation which he could no longer hope to control. Messiah to the Age of Science! A bloody Teddy Boy, more like. But Colonel Pyat was reconciled, really. This holiday might be the last of his life and he wished to make the most of it. He only regretted that he could not go back to die in the Ukraine. The Ukraine no longer existed. With his homeland destroyed, there was little to live for, his love for England being entirely intellectual.

Frank turned back to see what had happened to Pyat. “Come on, old boy.” Frank’s holiday seemed to be doing him good. His face glowed with a vitality that was almost healthy. “Don’t want to miss the beauty spots now we’re here, do you? Where on earth did you find this little corner of England? I didn’t think places like it still existed. If they ever did.”

“Oh,” Pyat shrugged. “You know how it is. Strangers sometimes discover things in a place where the people who’ve lived there all their lives have never looked.”

“Well, you’ve turned up trumps with this one, I must say. It’s like bloody fairyland. Titania’s wood.” Frank was in a literary as well as a religious mood today. “I’m expecting a visit from Puck at any moment. Can you lay that on, too?”

Pyat smiled. “It isn’t the wood that’s enchanted.” But Frank hadn’t heard him; he joined his mother and sister. The two women were unrolling plastic raincoats and spreading them on the rocks. Mrs Cornelius began to unload her string bag, taking out a vacuum flask and two packets of sandwiches.

“’Ere we are. Git stuck inter these, you lot,” said Mrs C.

No wasps or ants came to disturb them as they ate their picnic beside the shady pool. Catherine was fascinated by the water. It was so dark and deep, but there was nothing sinister about it. It was tranquil and seemed to offer peace to anyone who considered entering its still waters. Because she didn’t much care for these cheese and pickle sandwiches anyway, she left the other picnickers and climbed down to stand on a rock beside the pool. The conversation above sounded a long way away. She stared at her reflection for some moments until she realised with a shock that it was not quite her face which looked at her. There were strong resemblances, certainly, but this was a man’s face and its hair was black. It smiled. She smiled back. She turned to remark on the phenomenon to her relatives but they had disappeared out of sight on the other side of the rocks. She felt, then, that she had been standing here much longer than she had realised. She started to climb back. There was a slight afternoon chill in the air.

“Catherine!”

The voice came from above. She looked up and was surprised when she recognised the man who had called her name. He was clad in rather tattered evening dress. He stood offering his free hand to her. His other hand held a Smith and Wesson .45, rather loosely, as if he really didn’t mind if he dropped it.

“What a strange coincidence.” Cathy smiled as she put her palm into Prinz Lobkowitz’s. “How are you? It’s been an age.”

“How are you, dear?” His voice was low and intense, his expression melancholy and affectionate. “I hope you are well.”

“Very well. But you, my dear, you look so tired. Are you running away from someone?” She reached up and brushed his hair back from his wrinkled forehead.

He held her to him. “Oh, Catherine.” He was crying. “Oh, my dearest. It is all over. This is defeat on every level.”

“We must get you something to eat,” she said.

“No. I haven’t much time. I came here for a reason. Colonel Pyat is here?”

“Yes—and Mother, and Frank.”

“I’m sorry,” he said, “but…”

“Well, look who it isn’t!” Frank Cornelius emerged from around a rock, his mother and stepfather in tow. “So you know about this place, too. What a sell! It’s getting like Piccadilly. Perhaps this is the real heart of the Empire, eh? We went for a little walk. Hello, Prinz L.”

“Good evening.” Lobkowitz was embarrassed. “I’m sorry to interrupt.” Birds began to sing everywhere and red-gold sunlight flooded the scene. Prinz Lobkowitz cast a startled glance over his shoulder. “I wanted a word with Colonel Pyat.”

Pyat stepped forward. Then he changed his mind and began to retreat, climbing up the white boulders until he stood looking straight down at the pool.

“Wotcher doin’ up there?” said Mrs Cornelius loudly. And then she fell silent.

There was a smear of dark green on the elbow of Colonel Pyat’s suit. Catherine was glad that Pyat himself didn’t know about it. Or did he?

Colonel Pyat sighed and turned to look down at them all.

“Prinz?” he said.

Lobkowitz reluctantly raised the heavy gun with both hands, drawing in a deep breath before pulling the trigger. Pyat seemed to bow in acknowledgement, receiving the shot courteously in the heart. Then he fell backwards and dropped into the pool. The waters closed over him.

“Oh, blimey!” said Mrs Cornelius, looking with nervous disapproval at the gun. “Oh, Gawd!”

Frank stepped prudently back into the shade of an oak.

Prinz Lobkowitz looked miserably at his old sweetheart. Then he began to climb up the rock on which Pyat had stood. Catherine watched, feeling only sympathy for both the murderer and his victim. Lobkowitz reached the top, turned, raised the revolver to his lips, kissed it and tossed it to Catherine. She caught it with instinctive deftness. At long last Lobkowitz had learned a style.

He jumped into the pool. There was a splash and a silence.

Catherine tucked the Smith and Wesson into the waistband of her skirt and walked past her mother and brother. She entered the cold wood.

“Where’s she off ter?” said Mrs C. “In one of her bloody moods agin, is she?”

“Let’s see if we can find the motor,” said Frank, frowning. “She’ll turn up again when she’s ready.”

“And wot are we gonna do abart cash, I’d like ter know,” said his mother, practically. “Talk abart ther end o’ a perfict day!” She snorted. “An’ I’m a bleedin’ widder agin,” she said, as if suddenly realising the essence of what had happened beside the pool.

She cheered up, nudging Frank in the side.

“Still, yer’ve got ter larf, incha?”

He looked at her in horror.

Sebastian Auchinek, bringing home the cows for their evening milking, heard the shot quite clearly and looked out across the fields to see where it came from. Hereabouts, people rarely hunted at this time of the year, though possibly someone was potting a rabbit or two for his dinner. Beyond the fields, where the wheat sheaves stood waiting for the next day’s attention, he could see the great, green wood, almost a silhouette now in the late-afternoon sun. The shot had probably come from there. Auchinek shrugged and trudged on. He flicked at the rumps of his cows with a light willow stick. “C’mon, Bessy. Git a move on there, Peg.” The phrases were mumbled automatically, for the cows had trodden this path more often than he had and they needed little encouragement. They plodded up the rutted track of red earth between the sweet-smelling hedgerows full of briar roses and honeysuckle, towards the stone milking sheds which lay beside the farmhouse with its warm cobblestone walls and its thick, thatched roof.