“Days?”
“Ago.”
“You’ve changed.”
“You haven’t.”
“I should hope not. It’s been tough, though. Did Beesley set you up from the beginning?”
“Yes. But I fell in love…”
“Like a junkie with his dope.” He checked his guilt.
“You weren’t the dope I took you for.”
“It’s a shame, I know.”
She licked her lips. “Can I drop you anywhere?” There was a smell about her and it reminded Jerry of Frank.
“I don’t think so.”
“Jerry—I need you more than you need me.”
“I know that.”
“I haven’t been happy.”
“I can believe that.”
“Just a little, Jerry, understanding…”
“You have that.”
“Mercy.”
“Sorry, Belle. It’s not time to show it.”
She started the engine of the Riley. “What were you trying to do with the stars?”
“Just hoping to get everything over with quickly. Ragnarok, of sorts.”
“You are fond of Wagner? I, too, am… Well, maybe not so fond. The end of the world. Is that why you were making all those converts? To take them over with you?”
“Something like that. But you can’t impose love…”
“The world isn’t going to end. Beesley’s seen to that, hasn’t he?”
“He’s making a good try.”
“I know why you want the world to end. I hate it, too.”
“It’s not as simple as that. I’ve got a kid sister, you see. I want to give her a better break than I had. A niece, I mean.”
“You’re mixed up.”
“Not as much as you, Karen.”
He drew his vibragun. She put her foot on the accelerator. “Your brake’s still on.” The car bounced. Jerry pointed the gun and she shook so much she was soon indistinguishable from the ash. He hooked the green-and-purple clothes out of the seat with his boot. Poor woman. He didn’t know where she’d found the energy in the first place. What had she wanted that she had called “Love”?
Death? Perhaps, in the end, he had been merciful. He holstered the vibragun and got into her seat. It was very cold.
He didn’t feel much warmer himself. The engine was hard to get started again. The motor wouldn’t turn. He pumped in more fuel, and it sparked at last.
* * *
Through the grey day, through the ruins, he let the car roll straight down the obsidian length of Westbourne Grove.
He had a feeling Beesley was in this area. The bishop had probably sent Karen von Krupp to find him.
He reached the rubble of Ladbroke Grove and the car could move no further. He got out and began to climb over the concrete, between the fronds of twisted wire that had once reinforced it.
He reached the place where the convent had stood and clambered to the highest slab to sniff the scene.
Holland Park was visible. It stood intact on a rise to the south-west, its trees ghostly gold and green. Jerry considered it.
A few minutes later, he unsheathed his vibragun from its chamois holster, turned, and, resting the gun on his bent left arm, sighted on a patch of rubble close to the centre of the demolished convent.
The rubble began to quiver and shiver. Then there was nothing left at all but a cloud of dust. Jerry stepped forward and looked into the smooth clearing.
The steel trapdoor was still there. It shone as if burnished. He kneeled on it, pressed his palm against it and murmured a couple of words. The door hissed and took him down twenty feet. He got off and looked up the shaft at the sky. He could see the sun. It had hardly moved.
The steel door ascended and shut off the light.
Jerry depressed a switch. A little illumination flickered for an instant around the room and then died. He moved cautiously through the darkness towards one wall, felt for a shelf above his head and found what he was hoping to find, took out his lighter and by its flame managed to ignite the wick.
He saw that the paraffin was low. He hoped it would last.
The lamp was of blue glass, decorated with gold and scarlet flowers. It cast shadows around a room full of dusty, alchemical equipment; part of an earlier era. Jerry crossed to a wooden door and pulled it open.
It creaked.
“Mutability.”
He entered a tunnel and the light shone on the semi-luminous white coats of half-dead rats. As he pushed his feet through them, they barely moved.
The tunnel was damp and cold and still. By the light of the lamp he saw that his own hands had gone a pale golden colour. He needed sustenance. Beesley must have increased the machine’s power. He trod on a rat and it squeaked faintly. “Mutuality.”
* * *
After half a mile the tunnel began to slope upwards until it ended at another steel door. He pressed his hand on it. It didn’t move. He murmured the words. The door stayed shut.
With a sigh, Jerry brought out his vibragun. His bones ached.
It took much longer than usual for the gun to disintegrate the steel. Gradually daylight filtered in and there was a hole large enough for Jerry to crawl through. He was in Holland Park, close to the Belvedere Restaurant which had once been part of Holland House and had included the orangery.
He had left in the afternoon. Now it was morning. Did Beesley realise how senseless his plan was? An abuse of the power.
He thought of Catherine and began to run.
“Love!”
3. SO YOU WANT TO BE A ROCK AND ROLL STAR?
As he reached the Elizabethan façade of Holland House, Jerry paused and looked up.
The American jets were dancing in the frozen sky. For several minutes they performed complicated formations then regrouped into conventional flights and flew away from London towards the Atlantic. Either they had been recalled or events had got on top of them.
With mixed feelings Jerry watched them leave.
He was on his own now.
Pushing open the mansion’s heavy doors he entered a large, gloomy hall. A Shifter gateway had once been here, but he knew it must have dispersed by now. Beesley had buggered the phasing completely.
He drew his gun and started up the Tudor staircase.
Mitzi was waiting, unarmed, at the top. She wore an ankle-length dress in Regency stripes of dark and light pink. There were pink slippers on her feet and her blonde hair was combed to frame her face. Her large blue eyes regarded him.
“Herr Cornelius. You are not looking well.”
“I’m as well as could be expected.” He motioned with the vibragun. “Is Beesley here?”
“My father? Yes. He’s waiting for you. He thinks you’re probably ready to join us at last.”
She smiled and Jerry saw that her teeth seemed to have grown to points, like a fox’s. “It will soon be summer again, and we can be together…” She turned, walking back along the landing. “This way.”
Jerry hesitated.
“What’s the matter?” She paused by the door of the main bedroom.
“Death.” His nostrils quivered. “A lot of death.”
“There’s nothing wrong with death. Nothing to be afraid of. A sleep…”
“It depends on the kind.” He gripped the gun desperately.
“Don’t you like the idea of life after death?”
“It depends on the kind.”
“Herr Cornelius, you have no trust.” Her eyes widened with sympathy. “You are so wild.”
“I…” He felt very tired.
“You are a fierce beast.”
“No…”
“You must be more tame. In time.”
“I want…” He gasped as the tears flooded from his face. “I want…”
“Peace. We want nothing more.”
“Peace?”
He rocked on his heels. His grip was still tight on his gun, though all his energy seemed concentrated in his right hand.
&
nbsp; She came towards him. He tried to raise his gun. She stretched out her palm. He shook his head.
“Don’t you want to rest? We can help you rest.”
“Not that kind. Not—retreat…”
She frowned, her eyes concerned. “Why do you split hairs so? Does it matter about the kind?”
“Yes.”
“We all grow older, you know. More mature.”
“No.”
“Love,” said Mitzi. “Do you have nothing but your Cause? It is hopeless, you know.”
“Love.” The tears chilled his cheeks. He trembled as he thought of Oxford and Catherine and the Science of Innocence.
“You know,” Mitzi murmured, “that what you have done is wrong. But we forgive you.”
He snarled and laughed through his teeth. The energy left his right hand and blazed from his eyes. “I am Jerry Cornelius.” The gun dropped. He bent but she swept forward and kicked the gun through the banisters and he watched it fall slowly to the floor of the hall below.
“It’s a turning world, darling.” Mitzi helped him straighten up, wincing as she saw his eyes. “There are many kinds of beauty.”
Jerry staggered back from her with a growl.
The cardinal came out of the master bedroom. “Misericordia! The poor chap looks completely beaten. He needs help.”
Jerry tried to descend the stairs. It was dawn outside. He gasped as the cardinal seized him around the waist.
“Could you bring him in here, please, Cardinal Orelli.” Mitzi’s voice was vibrant with sympathy. “He’ll soon feel a new man.”
Jerry shut everything down.
He let them get on with it. He had given himself up.
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1. ONE TOO MANY MORNINGS
He was awakened by a cold caress.
Mitzi’s waxen hand was on his brow. He felt the heat leave his head and he tried to jerk away.
She removed her hand.
He lay on a hard mattress in a wide four-poster with grey curtains that were drawn back so that he could see Bishop Beesley standing by the Jacobean dresser and bending over the box which stored Jerry’s machine.
Ash-coloured light came through the window. Jerry took stock of his reserves. They were low.
“Good—um—hello, there, Mr Cornelius. I see my daughter’s been looking after you. She’s an angel. A ministering angel.”
Jerry sat up. He was still dressed in his white suit and he was unbound. He frowned suspiciously at Mitzi.
“I’m sick,” he said, “of…”
“Cancer?” said Mitzi.
“Crabs.”
“It’s a complicated state of affairs, I’m afraid,” said the bishop, chewing a Crunchie bar. The artificial honeycomb coursed down his chins. “I’ve got so far, but I now need your help. I want to find out where the rest of your ‘converts’ are, for a start. Some are hanging on, you know, against all common sense.”
“I promised them nothing less than the Millennium.” Jerry drew a sluggish breath. “What do you expect?”
“I’m afraid we’ll have to put back the Millennium for a while.” Beesley smacked his lips. “I know it’s disappointing. They were all prepared for it, weren’t they? Well, that’s over. If you can help me locate them, I’ll get in touch with them and arrange a deconversion. Could I say fairer?”
Jerry took a lock of his hair in his hand. It was stringy and off-white. He sniffed. “Cut cocaine.”
“You knew the apocalypse wasn’t due for several million years yet, Mr Cornelius,” Bishop Beesley continued, “and yet you wished to bring it about for purely selfish reasons. Reasons, I regret, that I simply fail to understand. It may be all right for you—but consider your dupes!”
“What do you think my crash programme was for?” Jerry glanced out of the window. A wind was blowing the ash northward.
“You can’t save the whole human race, Mr Cornelius. Besides, I insist that your motives were still suspect, let alone your goals!”
Jerry got off the bed and walked weakly to the box but Mitzi barred his way, looking questioningly at her father. Bishop Beesley shrugged. “We’ve reached something of an impasse, I’m afraid. The power seems to be weakening.”
“You can say that again.” Jerry smiled. “What else did you expect?”
Bishop Beesley cast down his eyes in embarrassment and unwrapped a toffee. “I never claimed to be a scientist, Mr Cornelius.”
“Naturally.” Jerry stroked the box. “You’ll have to find a power source, won’t you? Whether transmission of any kind’s possible now, I just don’t know. Things are fixed, Bishop Beesley. They are solid.”
“The sun hasn’t moved for an—for some t…” Mitzi gave up. “It isn’t moving.”
“That’s merely an indication,” Jerry said. “An image, if you like. I’m going to have to think…”
“What sort of power does the machine take?” Beesley asked, chewing. “Electricity?”
Jerry laughed as best he could. “I’m afraid not. It runs on primitive energy. It’s all very basic, when you get down to it.”
“Where do we get this energy?”
“Is Cardinal Orelli still on the premises?”
“I think he went to the lavatory.”
“Never mind. Ask him in when he’s finished, will you?”
“Herr Cornelius,” Mitzi whispered, “you must explain to us everything. You must not make mysteries. It is a time for frankness. You will admit that you have no choice now.”
“Frankness.” Jerry drew a deep breath. “You said it. Bring Cardinal Orelli in as soon as you can. I’m very tired. Time’s slipping by. I need a long rest.”
“I think I heard him on the landing.” Bishop Beesley opened the door. “Ah, cardinal. Would you step in here a moment please?”
Cardinal Orelli smiled at Jerry. “How are you, my son?”
“How do you feel, cardinal?” Jerry asked.
“Very well.”
“Good.” Jerry opened the lid of the box and moved a plate set in the bottom left corner. It was about four inches wide and six inches long and eight inches deep, lined with a rubbery substance. “Would you place your hands together, cardinal? Palm against palm.”
The cardinal smiled and assumed a praying position.
“That’s fine. Now put the hands into the slot there. Don’t worry, it won’t hurt you.”
The cardinal glanced at the bishop who nodded. Mitzi’s lips parted, her eyes shone. The cardinal dipped his hands into the slot up to the wrists, the box hummed briefly, the cardinal’s lifeless body crumpled to the floor.
“It’s fuelled again,” said Beesley, bending over the gauge. “Good heavens!”
“It won’t last long,” said Jerry. He turned a knob and gripped a metal bar positioned in the centre.
A shock raced through him and he felt a little sick, but he kicked Beesley in the crutch so that he fell back into Mitzi’s arms, picked up the box and made for the door.
They yelled at him as he raced down the stairs, paused in the hall to recover his vibragun and dashed out into the grey day.
He was using up energy very quickly, in spite of everything. He stumbled down the steps, through the gates, out over the cricket pitch, his boots sinking
in ash, and behind him came Bishop Beesley and Mitzi who had paused only to get their Remingtons.
In the middle of the cricket pitch he fell and the box flew from his arms. He choked on the ash.
He tried to get up but collapsed, rolled over on his back to get his vibragun out, but already Mitzi and Bishop Beesley were standing over him, their rifles pointing at his heart.
“We’ll have to manage on our own now that we know how to keep the machine’s strength up.”
Apologetically, Bishop Beesley squeezed the trigger.
There was a pop and a slithering noise and a bullet fell out of the barrel. Mitzi pulled her trigger and the same thing happened. Her bullet fell in Jerry’s lap. He felt a mild shock in his right ball.
Mitzi raised her head at the sound of barking. Bishop Beesley followed her gaze.
Coming across the ash, her head and body swathed in white furs, driving a sled pulled by a team of a dozen dogs, including two St Bernards, a borzoi and three salukis, was a tall woman armed with a steel bow and a quiver of alloy arrows. Close by she stopped the dogs and they flung themselves down panting. She fitted an arrow to her bow.
“I wonder if you’d let Mr Cornelius rise?” said the woman in the white fur.
They stepped back and Jerry got up, dusting ash off his suit.
The new arrival motioned with her bow. “What I’d like to know, bishop—I take it you are a bishop—is what you think you’re accomplishing, fucking about with the sun and so forth.”
“I’m trying to put things right,” Beesley said sullenly. “I’m a journalist by trade.” He studied the woman’s weapons, obviously attempting to decide if the bow and arrow were as ineffective as his rifle.
“A bow has more power, at short range, than an ordinary rifle,” said the tall figure.
“How much more power?” asked Mitzi.
“Quite a bit.”
Mitzi sucked at her lower lip.
Jerry went down on his knees beside the box and began to drag it through the grey dust towards the sled. It took him a while to load it aboard. “I hope I’m not overburdening you,” he said to the newcomer.