That first woman crawled past my legs and then was gone, out the door, making – I hoped – for pastures new. An older woman, grey-haired, wrinkled face, was climbing over benches towards me, a boy of about sixteen helping her. Then came the two boy twins I’d noticed outside the Savoy, hustled by a middle-aged woman. A young girl, no more’n fifteen, leapt from the benches and scooted in my direction, bumping my elbow as she went by. They’d all caught the drift, they’d seen their chance to escape. But I couldn’t leave with them, not ’til Muriel was by my side. And not ’til Hubble had time to organize his men for the chase.
Bullets thudded into the wall beside the door, causing me to crouch, then return fire. More shouts, more screams – more gunfire. But the crowd before me was thinning, everybody scattering for cover. A man – a fleeing hostage – fell into me, knocking me back against the open door, and when he slumped to the floor, clawing at my clothes as he went, I saw the blood spurting from the holes in his back. A great crush of people surged towards me and I knew if I didn’t get out the way I’d be trampled underfoot, gun or no gun. Muriel was close to the front, but somebody tripped in front of her and she and others behind her went down in a tangle of arms and legs.
Another burst of gunfire just to keep things hot and I stepped forward, reaching into the jumble for her, my fingers managing to close around her wrist. I pulled hard and she came up fast, crashing into my chest, her hands resting on my shoulder. I thought I heard her say my name, but there was too much clamour, too many screams and moans, to be sure. I took her with me, backing towards the doorway, watching the advancing Blackshirts among the crowd as we went.
One particular goon was too close for comfort and I knew I had to stop him. But nothing happened when I pulled the Sten’s trigger. Without even thinking about it, I tossed the submachine gun into my left hand and reached for the P-35 with the other. I shot almost from the hip – no time for anything else – and the goon screamed as he clutched his belly and staggered. He fell to his knees, then went down as bodies piled on top of him. Others behind the heap hesitated, watching me warily.
I stepped away from the exit and waved at it with the pistol. ‘Come on, get going!’ I shouted. ‘I’m with you!’ The bolder ones among them believed me and ran outside.
By now Hubble’s army had worked themselves into a frenzy and those with guns started blazing away at the ceiling, frustrated because they still didn’t have a clear line on me. Blue smoke curled in the air and the uproar was deafening; I figured it was time to make my exit. At any moment those Blackshirts would be up on the benches to get a better shot at me, so I re-holstered the pistol and bundled Muriel out the door, breaking into a run as soon as we hit open air. I gripped her wrist to keep her with me and carried the Sten by its body. Those who’d already fled the church were scattering across the courtyard and I silently wished them luck, hoping they wouldn’t quit running ‘til they were on the other side of London. Muriel and me, we cut across the overgrown lawn, our steps high through the long grass, heading diagonally towards the broad stone steps and path that led to the passageway beneath the Bloody Tower. The lane beyond it led to a wooden bridge, which crossed the moat to the wharf road, and if the Blackshirts didn’t cut us down before we reached it we had a chance. We were running on a prayer, but that was nothing new for me.
We passed the empty Vickers machine gun, so far, so good, and kept going; if we could get to the path below the steps we’d be out of sight for a stretch, maybe even long enough to get under cover of the passageway before they opened fire on us. But wouldn’t you know it, it was at that point that Muriel decided to take a tumble. I tried to hold her, but her shoe just slipped from under her and she went sprawling, squawking as she rolled over.
Instead of minding her I whirled around, pulled out the used-up magazine and inserted a fresh one from the bag I carried, my hand slipping into the Sten’s pistol grip as I faced them. What was left of the black army was pouring round the corner of the chapel, still a few hostages among them, the Blackshirts too interested in us to bother with them. No doubt Hubble’s orders were to get Muriel and me, the others could be rounded up later, and that was fine, that’s exactly what I wanted. I gave them a short burst of fire, just enough to slow ‘em down but not to make them lose interest. A peculiar sight then, one that would’ve had me screaming with laughter at any other time: that two-wheeled cart I’d noticed outside the chapel door came into view, McGruder pushing it, Hubble crouched inside like a big kid being taken for a ride. I shook my head, assuring myself this was really happening, it wasn’t just another stupid nightmare after an evening hitting the booze. Nope, I wasn’t dreaming, the bullets chipping concrete in front of me told me so.
I sent a spray of bullets of my own back and had the satisfaction of seeing the cart swerving and Blackshirts hitting the deck. I heard a groan from Muriel and threw a quick glance her way. She was half-sitting, nursing a bleeding elbow that peeked through a hole in her shirt.
‘Are you hit?’ I yelled.
She gave a quick shake of her head and regarded me with some fear. She was scared all right, and not just of the Blackshirts: I guess she thought I might turn my weapon on her.
‘Okay, get up. You know what your new pals want from you, so start running again. I’ll cover you.’
‘We’ll never get away.’ She spoke breathlessly, her small exposed breasts heaving, her frightened gaze sweeping past me towards the mob. ‘There are too many of them, we can’t outrun them all.’
Yeah, I thought Too many of them. Too many to kill with only bullets. And I wanted every damn one of ‘em accounted for. I scuttled over to her and leaned close. ‘Just get on your feet and haul out.’ I yanked her up with one hand and pushed her towards the steps. She was unsteady at first, fastening a couple of shirt buttons as she went, then she broke into a run that started the Blackshirts surging forward again.
I followed close behind, but backstepping, gun trained on our pursuers just to keep ‘em at bay. Timing was everything, y’see; I had to get this exactly right Luckily they were smart enough to slow down, ‘though they kept coming, watching my every move, playing me out. I took a swift head count and figured there were around forty or so of them left and that surprised me. Even if there were some still inside the chapel, the Slow Death had claimed a whole mob of ‘em since the Blackshirts and I had first become acquainted. Well, it didn’t cause me any grief – the less I had to deal with today, the more chance I had of coming through in one piece.
Hearing Muriel’s shoes clattering down the steps, I did a turnabout and made a dash for them myself. A roar went up from the crowd as I disappeared from view and I knew we had only a few seconds to get into the passageway. Quickly catching up with Muriel, I took her arm again to help hurry her down a second set of steps and she cried out in protest, afraid we were both gonna break our necks. Ravens on the green in front of the White Tower flew into the air in alarm, their shrieks – that harsh, croaky kind of kaa – sounded like cursing to me, as if they were warning us off, intruders unwelcome, and I was of a mind to blow one or two of ‘em out of the air just for the hell of it. But I kept going, landing on the path with Muriel, dragging her onwards, the short, dark tunnel opening up ahead.
More shouts, more gunfire. Bullets spattered the ancient wall of the Bloody Tower, warning shots telling us we’d better stop running or else…We plunged into the cool shade of the archway as more bullets ricocheted off the cobbled path, their sound growing louder as they beat a line towards us. I pushed Muriel against the wall and the bullets pounded on past us, their impact thunderous in the confined space. I held her there, waiting for the row to stop, the echoes to fade, my face pressed into her hair and our bodies tight together as chips of stone spat up at us. I caught the faint whiff of faded perfume, felt her softness against me and, stupid though it was under the circumstances, remembered her nakedness beneath me, her arms curled around my waist, pulling me into her. I remembered how afraid, how vulnerable, she’d b
een that night at the hotel. And then I remembered how she’d betrayed her friends.
I pushed myself away from her then, and with an almost contemptuous side-swipe of my arm sent her reeling towards the other end of the short tunnel. As the Blackshirts spilled down the steps I went back to the entrance, showing myself to them. They hesitated yet again, some cowering on the steps, others trying to run back up them, as I raised the submachine gun. I took careful aim and pretended to squeeze the trigger.
When nothing happened they raised their heads or stopped where they were and looked at me. Surprise turned to glee as I tossed the weapon away and disappeared back into the shadows. One of ‘em even laughed aloud, thinking the Sten had jammed.
They came after us then like hounds after a wounded fox, baying for our blood – yeah, literally.
Out in the open on the other side of the archway, the sun stinging my eyes for a moment, I held Muriel by the wrist again and we fled, sweet Jesus, how we fled, the uneven roadway doing its best to trip us, the howling mob behind us giving us all the encouragement we needed. The bridge over the dry moat wasn’t far, but my chest was beginning to burn and my breath was scorching my throat As wild gunshots whined through the air I could feel Muriel starting to slow down, dragging on me, her pace becoming awkward.
‘You gotta keep going!’ I yelled at her.
‘We can’t make it!’ she croaked back.
‘We can. They’re slow, don’t you see? We just gotta keep ahead of ‘em!’
We reached the archway exit and pounded across the wooden bridge, and now that we were outside the old fortress, Muriel’s energy seemed renewed: she picked up speed and her movement became more controlled. Before us was the River Thames, ancient cannon set in a row all along its edge, pointing south across the water as if fearing an invasion from London’s other half. A wartime concrete pillbox stood among them, solidly square but useless against the enemy’s last invisible weapon. To our left, Tower Bridge rose high and proud, its bascules frozen open for all time, the river beneath flowing clear and pure in the sunlight
Me in the lead, we headed towards it.
26
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 Bro
wning, 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.