'48

  Some of the Blackshirts, I began to realize by sound alone, had taken the other staircase – there were two inside the tower – and they seemed to be making better progress than those behind us. We caught a glimpse of this bunch as they poured onto one of the spacious landings below, and a roar went up when they spotted us too. Muriel almost collapsed in front of me.

  ‘They…They’ve got us, Hoke,’ she stammered, her chest and shoulders heaving. ‘We can’t make it.’

  So much for the Bulldog Breed. ‘We’re nearly there. One more flight, that’s all. Well be okay up there, I promise you.’

  I stepped alongside her and grabbed her by the wrist. Her whole body was shaking and she seemed to spasm with every breath. she drew, but I half-carried her with me, using whatever strength I had left to keep her moving. At first, she weighed on me, but when she saw the staircase opening out onto the top landing, some of her strength – and her spirit – returned and she began to climb by herself. The gloom brightened too and, I guess, in some foolish way that gave her more hope. She stumbled on ahead of me.

  We virtually dragged ourselves up those last few steps, using our hands on the higher treads, our knees on the lower ones. And then we arrived at a wide area with windows overlooking the river and city on three sides, the sun piercing the grime and lightening the room with broad dust-swirling shafts. There was no time to rest and though Muriel’s legs were giving way and dry retching noises came from her throat as she sucked in air, I forced her on, taking her to the half-glass double doors across the room from us. There were other doors here, cupboards or doors to private offices, as well as tables and chairs, cleaning equipment and all kinds of clutter, but the important thing for us was those wide double doors – we had to get through them before the mob reached this level.

  And we managed to, staggering onto the long walkway that stretched across the River Thames, running parallel with its sister footbridge a short distance away to join the north tower with the south. We were a hundred and forty feet above the water here and a coolish breeze drifted through the open iron latticework of its side walls, ruffling our hair, brushing our skin, helping to revive us. We drew in deep gasps of clean air, filling our laboured lungs with its sweetness, our eyes closing at the sheer pleasure. Yet still I wouldn’t let Muriel linger.

  ‘Down to the other end,’ I told her wearily, heading that way myself. The noise of the approaching Blackshirts was muffled by the double doors that had swung closed behind us, but it was growing louder by the moment.

  ‘Yes,’ she said meekly, breaking into a stumbling run. Her face was racked with exhaustion, but there might have been a smile there, a faint glimmer of relief showing through. There was a chance now, she was thinking, a chance if we can just get through those other doors at the end of the long span. Most of those people following were in poor condition and they’d be in even worse shape than us after the climb. Once on the other side of those doors it would be easy to descend, we’d easily get away from them, and then out into the south side of the city, losing ourselves in the streets there. Oh yeah, I could see her thinking all that and, although she was dog-weary, she was already beginning to pick up speed as she avoided debris and piled boxes along the pedestrian bridge, hurrying past equipment covered by tarpaulin that protected it from the elements, stuff that might have been stored there since the walkways had been closed to the general public at the outbreak of the war. Shadows were already falling on the glass section of the double doors as I followed her, the room beyond becoming crowded.

  The walkway was wide enough to allow at least five pedestrians to walk comfortably side by side along its length and enjoy the spectacular views of London through the intersecting iron girders; those girders sloped inwards so that the ceiling was narrower than the floor below, and rising above the opposite footbridge I could see the slate roof and spires of the south tower. Across the gap, inside the sister walkway, an anti-aircraft battery had been installed and I remembered thinking more than once about coming up here one night and waiting for the stubborn German bomber pilot to fly his Dornier along the river – like the Luftwaffe before him he always used the Thames as a guide into London and the docks – then blasting him out of the sky as he went by. Nice idea, ‘cept I knew as much about heavy artillery as I did about knitting cardigans, so I abandoned the idea. But the thought, inspired by my first privileged tourist visit here, had always kept Tower Bridge in my mind, and last night, knowing Hubble and his black army were garrisoned in the nearby castle, a different notion had come to me.

  I passed a corpse wearing the dusty blue uniform of a custodian or maintenance man precariously perched on a straight-backed wooden chair halfway along the footbridge and I had to skirt around the covered boxes it seemed to be watching over. The jacket was loose over slumped skeletal shoulders and the dead man’s shrivelled eyes were cast down at the concrete floor; strands of white hair on the naked scalp were too brittle to be stirred by the breeze. Avoiding more boxes, I went after Muriel, who was almost at the end of the walkway by now.

  We both heard the double doors behind us burst open and the yattering rabble surge through, but neither of us bothered to look. I began to slow down though, popping the flap button of my holster as I did so.

  Muriel made it to the doors, almost crashing into them in her eagerness to get through. She was sobbing as she grabbed the vertical handles on each side and pulled. I heard her cry out in dismay when nothing happened. She tried again, yanking the double doors with all her might, rattling them in their frame. Still they held tight

  She looked over her shoulder at me as I drew near. ‘They’re locked, Hoke!’ she almost screamed. ‘Oh my God, they’re locked!’

  I came to a halt and turned to face the advancing mob, drawing the pistol from its holster in a smooth, easy movement

  ‘Yeah,’ I said to her. ‘I know.’

  27

  SHE STARED AT ME as though I’d finally flipped and I guess my grim smile confirmed her suspicions.

  ‘We’re trapped,’ she said incredulously between hard-fought breaths.

  ‘So are they,’ I remarked, nodding towards the small army of Blackshirts, which was now beginning to slow down to a stroll as they realized our predicament.

  S’far as I could tell, most of them were on the walkway now – a few were probably still climbing, but they’d be here soon – and their unhealthy faces were filled with weary triumph. Some were unsteady on their feet, others were being helped along by their buddies; one or two were holding on to the iron girders for support and sucking in great lungfuls of the high fresh air. They filled the footbridge, a shabby band of sick bigots and hopeful (and hopeless) parasites, stealing forward, coming to a halt when they saw the gun in my hand. Weapons were raised towards me.

  I waved the Browning in the direction of Muriel and said, ‘She’ll be no good to you dead. And neither will I.’

  Even the dullest of them got the message. They stopped shuffling forward.

  ‘Don’t shoot.’

  I recognized the feeble, high-pitched voice easily enough, but wondered if Hubble was talking to me or his rabble army.

  ‘We have them now, they can’t escape.’

  The crowd moved aside as he was helped through from the back, McGruder and another Blackshirt supporting him by the elbows. That pleased me a whole lot. Hubble had made it, and that had been my main concern.

  Muriel had come away from the locked doors to stand closer to me and Hubble frowned at her.

  ‘Keep away from him, Miss Drake,’ he warned, fixing her with those fanatical eyes of his, the dark tints around them making him look like the villain in one of those old silent movies. He tried to straighten his body, an effort that was only partially successful, as if to assert his former power. ‘This man is a savage, but he won’t harm you. That’s right, isn’t it, Mr Hoke? You wouldn’t shoot such a fine young lady.’

  ‘I guess not,’ I replied, and pointed the gun at his forehead.

  His un
wholesome smile withered and he lost his grand pose: his body sagged to its old lines. He glared at me.

  ‘You can’t kill us all, fool,’ he hissed through his grimace. ‘One shot and my men will tear you to pieces.’ His eyes sought Muriel again. ‘Step away from him. Join us again, your friends, your true kind. I was desperate before, otherwise I would never…’ he left it unsaid, still smart enough not to spell it out for Muriel. ‘We have this one now, we…I…can use his blood…’

  Unbelievably, Muriel took a step towards this degenerate. But she looked around at me before going any further, confused and uncertain.

  ‘Go ahead,’ I said, weary of the game. ‘Join them if that’s what you want to do. But he’ll bleed you, Muriel, he’ll steal your blood and leave you dry.’

  ‘But what else can I do, Hoke? How else can I survive?’ She looked beaten, her strength gone, her breathing still unsteady. ‘They’ll kill us right here if we don’t go with them.’

  ‘My dear Muriel, of course we wouldn’t do that.’ Hubble had dropped the ‘Miss Drake’ in favour of a more paternal address, and there was something obscene in the wheedling tone he mistook for charm. ‘We’re the same, you and I, and your father was a valued friend. Whatever your decision, I promise you’ll not be harmed in any way.’

  And if you believe that, Muriel, I thought to myself, you deserve all the hell you’ll get from this ghoul. But the banter was okay, all this talk was giving the stragglers time to reach the walkway. Raising my head, I looked past those in front and saw two Blackshirts stumbling through the doors at the far end. They had to be the last of the pack judging by the numbers here. Okay. Time for the finale.

  I lifted the canvas bag from my neck and flipped it open. Four steps took me to the girders on the inner side of the footbridge and, using a diagonal strut for support, I pulled myself up onto the handrail that ran along its length. Over their heads I could see a shadowy figure beyond the glass half of the distant doors. Good. Cissie had left her hiding place and was sliding an iron bar through the handles on the other side of the double doors, locking them good and tight. She wouldn’t have done it unless the stairs were empty, so I silently wished her God speed on her journey down.

  The Blackshirts were watching me uneasily, unsure of what I was up to and waiting for their chance to rush me; I kept the pistol levelled at Hubble, hoping that would hold them back.

  ‘You got a choice, Muriel,’ I said, much calmer than I felt and keeping an eye on the crowd rather than looking at her. ‘Come with me, or stay with this vermin and die.’

  That confused her even more, but there was no time for explanations. McGruder let go of Hubble to take a couple of steps towards me; the gun redirected at his head gave him second thoughts.

  ‘It’d give me great pleasure,’ I let him know, and his agitation settled. He was still too close for comfort though, and I decided it was now or never. But it was my turn to be surprised when Hubble began to make odd gagging noises, as though something was stuck in his throat

  He clutched at his neck, his black fingers shivering, pulling open his shirt, his body starting to convulse. His eyes looked as though they were about to pop from their sockets, and they were bleeding from the corners; blood was pouring from his ears also, and then from his open mouth. He stooped even more as McGruder reached for him, and then began to squeal, an awful drawn-out sound that was more animal than human. His hands grabbed at his chest, then his stomach, then a shoulder, his body contorting as he tried to touch the pain. His black pants were drenched as liquid poured from his lower orifices, and I knew it was blood that was soaking them, that blocked arteries inside him were bursting, discharging their dammed-up load; soon other, smaller veins were breaking, discharging their flow, and we could see the darkness spreading beneath his sallow skin. His muscles cramped, major organs began to falter, then fail. The moment he had dreaded and had known was approaching fast was finally here. It was time for Hubble to die.

  His squealing became a high, keening scream that ended when a fierce gusher of blood exploded from his mouth to splatter the floor and those close to him. His dying was violent and it was horrific, and we watched as if mesmerized. That is, we watched until I decided that no person, no matter how twisted, how evil, deserved such an agonizing death. I shot him between those leaking eyes and he dropped without another murmur.

  Everything happened fast then, and I moved like a jack rabbit to keep ahead of it all. A howl went up from the crowd and McGruder went down on his knees beside Hubble’s blood-oozing body. Others hurled themselves at me and by the gleam in their eyes I could tell they wanted to drag me down and tear me to pieces with their bare hands. I lashed out with my foot, kicking one in the jaw – that same, healthy-looking guy whose face I’d slammed the door against downstairs – sending him reeling back into the mob and giving me time to pull something from the canvas bag hanging loose from my shoulder. Holding it in my left hand, I took careful aim along the walkway with my right, my elbow looped around the iron strut, the extra height on the rail giving me the angle I needed. I pumped three rapid shots into the blue-uniformed corpse on the chair surrounded by covered boxes.

  Those shots did two things at once: the noise stunned the Blackshirts enough to paralyse them momentarily, and the corpse tumbled over sideways onto the floor, releasing the lever of the hand grenade it had been sitting on – I’d carefully pulled the pin earlier that morning, y’see. I had a few seconds to get off the walkway before the grenade exploded and set off the dynamite inside those covered boxes.

  One more thing to do before I left the scene: I dropped the pistol, shrugged off the bag on my shoulder, drew the pin of the grenade in my left hand and tossed it into the crowd, close to the disguised explosives on the other side of the walkway. Then I was gone.

  Dizziness hit me as soon as I’d squeezed through those struts and was on the outside of the footbridge. The river and south pier below seemed to leap up at me, the sudden vast emptiness around me nearly making me lose balance. But I fought against it and quickly slipped down through the gap between the walkway floor and outer ornamental rail, my foot finding the top edge of the raised bridge just below. Those few seconds I’d needed to escape had passed and I wondered if the grenades were going to blow – there was no way of knowing what those years in storage had done to their mechanisms – and I had time to look up and see Muriel’s white, frightened face peering down at me through the girders, then someone scrambling past her before I ducked under the footbridge.

  The explosions came and the world around me erupted, the first boom mingling with the second. I clung to the great bascule as it shuddered beneath me, and the air thundered with the blasts, the roof above my head juddering wildly, threatening to collapse on top of me, now another blast joining the first two, the sound alone almost sending me reeling into the waters so far below. Flames shot out from the footbridge, only the thick concrete a few feet above my head protecting me, and huge balls of fire rolled into the sky. I screamed against the noise and my own horror, aware that Muriel’s body had been carried ahead of those flames, narrowly missing the opposite walkway to fall away through the air, only one arm outstretched, the other one missing, her clothes torn from her but her skin burning. It was a fleeting glimpse, but one that was fused into my brain, a sight I knew even then would never fade – if I lived through this. I shut my eyes, but the image was even stronger.

  I began to slip, the trembling of iron and concrete beneath me increasing, so that I had to open my eyes again to find ridges, projections, anything I could cling to. Debris of all sorts – bits of wood, fragments of iron, pieces of bodies, whole bodies – was flying outwards, tumbling almost leisurely to the river below, and smoke, fire, and dust billowed into the air. The top of the bascule was wide enough for me to lay on, and metal ridges and holes containing bolts that locked both sides together when the bridge was lowered helped me cling there while the entire structure shook and groaned. I was afraid the whole bloody thing would come d
own because when I’d hidden the dynamite along the walkway in the twilight hours of dawn, Cissie helping me haul it all up those tower stairs, I’d no idea how powerful it was or how unstable. Like the grenades, it’d been in storage a long time, so it was unpredictable. Well, now I was finding out, and I was scared as hell.

  Massive black smoke-clouds darkened the sky and the bascule continued to vibrate like a vast tuning fork. I began to pull myself towards the other side of the span, only too aware of the long drop on either side and soon I was at the rail that ran by the roadside, the thick, ornamental balustrade that would serve as a ladder to the pier below. And as I lowered myself over the edge, biting into my lip, terrified I was gonna lose my grip and fall, I looked up to see McGruder, his face black and scorched, hair burned off his blistered scalp, crawling towards me along the top of the bascule. I just had time to remember the figure I’d seen climbing past Muriel through the girders, when the world lurched away from me once more.

  Both of us slipped, McGruder managing to fling an arm over the wall that was the vertical roadway, me linking an arm through the decorative end of the rail as I slid down. We held on to the bridge as it began its rumbling downward journey. But it abruptly juddered to a halt and I was almost thrown off again. My legs swung free and I clawed desperately with my other hand as the arm through the hole was nearly wrenched from its socket. I grabbed another part of the patterned rail and my feet found a hold further down. Still deafened by the noise of the explosions, the world a strangely silent place around me, I hung on for my life, happy to stay where I was ‘til my nerve came back.