The English Assassin

by Michael Moorcock

  “Well, you might,” said Old Sammy bitterly, losing his good humour as the beer in his glass disappeared.

  “’Ave anovver,” she said, by way of rewarding him for the compliment.

  He brought his glass over to the bar where she sat on a high, saddle-shaped stool, her massive behind spilling over, so that the dark wood was all but hidden. “’Aven’t seen too much of you, lately,” he said.

  “Nar,” she said. “Bin away. Visitin’ an’ ’at, in’ I?”

  “Go somewhere nice?”

  “Abroad. Went ter see me son.”

  “Wot, Frank?”

  “Nar! Jerry. ’E’s ill.”

  “Anything bad?”

  She snorted. “Iber-bleedin’-natin ’e corls it! Mastur-fuckin’-batin’, I corl it!” She turned as a third customer entered the Portobello Star. “Oh, it’s you. Yore late, incha?”

  “Sorry, my dear. Delays at immigration.” Colonel Pyat wore a cream-coloured suit, lavender gloves and white spats over tan shoes. He had a pale blue shirt and a regimental tie. His light grey homburg was in the same hand that carried his stick. His manner was hesitant.

  “Sammy, this is ther Kernewl—my hubby.”

  “How do you do?” said Pyat.

  “How do? Jerry’s dad, eh?”

  Mrs Cornelius shook with laughter again. “Well, ’e might ’ave bin once! Gar-har-har!”

  Colonel Pyat smiled weakly and cleared his throat. “What will you have, sir?”

  “Same agin.”

  Pyat signed to the wizened old bat behind the bar. “Same again in these glasses, please. And I’ll have a double vodka. Nice morning.”

  “Nice for some,” said the old bat.

  Mrs Cornelius stopped laughing and patted the colonel affectionately on the shoulder. “Cheer up, lovey. Yer do look as if yer’ve bin in the wars!” She opened her shapeless handbag. “I’ll git these. Pore ole sod.” She cast her eye about the gloomy bar. “Where’s yer bags?”

  “I left them at the hotel.”

  “Hotel!”

  “The Venus Hotel, in Westbourne Grove. A nice little place. Very comfortable.”

  “Oh, well, orl right!”

  “I didn’t want to put you out.”

  “Well, you ain’t!” She paid for the drinks and handed him his vodka. “But I woulda thort… First day ’ome… Well…”

  “I didn’t mean to upset you, my dear.” He rallied himself. “I thought I’d take you out somewhere tonight. Where do you suggest? And then, later, perhaps, we could go on a family holiday. The coast or somewhere.”

  She was mollified. “Crystal Palace,” she said. “I ain’t bin there fer a donkey’s.”

  “Excellent.” He swallowed his drink and ordered another. “Welcome austerity. Farewell authority!” He saluted himself in the mirror.

  She looked critically at his clothes. “’Ad a run o’ luck, ’ave yer?”

  “Well, yes and no.”

  “’E orlways wos a very smart dresser,” said Mrs C. to Sammy. “No matter ’ow much ’e ’ad in ’is pocket, ’e’d orlways be dressed just so.”

  Sammy sniffed.

  Colony Pyat blushed.

  Mrs Cornelius yawned. “It’s better ter go away in the autumn. If the wevver ’olds.”

  “Yes,” said Colonel Pyat.

  “I’ve never ’ad an ’oliday in me life,” said Sammy proudly. “Never even let ’em evacuate me!”

  “That’s ’cause yer never worked in yer life!” Mrs Cornelius nudged him. “Eh?”

  Sammy bridled. But she put her fat hand round the back of his neck and kissed him on his wrinkled forehead. “Come on, don’t take offence. Yer know I never mean it.”

  Sammy pulled away and took his glass back to his table in the corner.

  Colonel Pyat climbed onto the next stool but one. His eyes kept closing and he jerked his head up from time to time as if afraid to go to sleep. He didn’t seem to have the energy, these days.

  “I ’ope yer brought somefink ter eat over wiv yer?” said Mrs C. “Everyfink’s runnin’ art ’ere. Food. Fuel. Fun.” She bellowed. “Everyfink that begins wiv ‘F’, eh?”

  “Ha, ha, ha,” he said distantly.

  “One more for the road an’ then we’ll be off,” said his wife. “Yer never reely liked pubs, did yer?”

  “Excellent.”

  “Cheer up. It can’t be as bad as orl that!”

  “Europe’s in a mess,” he said. “Everywhere is.”

  “Well, we’re not exactly at the ’eight of our prosperity,” she told him. “Still, fings blow over.”

  “But the squalor!”

  “Ferget it!” She guzzled her light.

  “I wish I could, my dear.”

  “I’ll ’elp yer.” She leaned across the empty stool between them and tickled his genitals. “Tonight.”

  Colonel Pyat made a peculiar giggling noise. She took him by the arm and led him through the door and into the stinking streets. “Yer’ll like the Crystal Palace. It’s orl crystal. Well, glass, reely. All different sides. Made o’ glass. An’ there’s monsters. It’s a wonder o’ the world, the Crystal Palace. Like me, eh?”

  Mrs Cornelius roared.

  REMINISCENCE (G)

  Children are stoning a tortoise. Its shell is already cracking open. It moves feebly, leaving a trail of blood and entrails across a white rock.

  LATE NEWS

  A 17-month-old baby girl was shot dead in Belfast tonight, Army sources said, by an IRA gunman’s bullet meant for an Army patrol. A seven-year-old girl who was with her escaped injury although another bullet tore through her skirt.

  Morning Star, 24 September, 1971

  A drug given to women during pregnancy may cause a rare type of cancer in their daughters many years later, the British Medical Journal warned yesterday. The cancer has been found among girls aged 15 to 22 in New England and has been linked to the drug stilboestrol, which was given to their mothers for threatened miscarriages … Treatment has proved successful so far in the majority of cases, but one girl has died.

  Guardian, 10 September, 1971

  A boy aged three was knocked down and killed by an army vehicle near the Bogside district last night. As the news spread, crowds began to stone army units in the area. Several shots were fired at the troops and petrol bombs were reported to be thrown. The army did not return the fire.

  Guardian, 10 September, 1971

  THE ALTERNATIVE APOCALYPSE 7

  Nothing survives, said Una Persson, who was older, more battered and wiser than Jerry had ever seen her, nothing endures.

  While there’s lives there’s hopes. Jerry finished stripping the Banning cannon and immediately began reassembling it. The ruby had not, after all, been faulty. It was just wearing out. The gun wouldn’t last much longer. Still, it wasn’t needed for much longer. He was more worried about his power armour. Some of the circuits, particularly those on his chest, were looking a bit frayed. They were holed up in the basement of a deserted old-people’s home in Ladbroke Grove. They listened to the scuffling of the rats with intense interest, expecting an attack.

  It’s almost over now, isn’t it? she said without regret. Civilisation’s had it. The human race has had it. And we’ve bloody had it. Are these all you’ve got? She held up a cerise Sobranie cocktail cigarette with a gold tip.

  He opened a drawer in the plain deal table on which his cannon was spread. Looks like it. He rummaged through a jumble of string, coins and postcards. Yes.

  Oh well.

  You might as well enjoy what’s left, he said. Take it easy.

  It isn’t easy to take. What with everything speeding up so fast. It’s all burning too quickly. Like a rocket that’s out of control, with the fuel regulator jammed.

  Could be. He slotted one piece of scratched black metal into another. He fitted the cumbersome ammunition feed and worked a couple of slides. He didn’t bother to put the safety catch on as he turned the cannon on its swivel mount so that it pointed towa
rds the barred window. I don’t know. He sighted along the gun; he stroked back his long straight hair. Times come and go. Things re-cycle. The Jesuits…

  Did you hear something?

  Yes.

  She went to the corner where her Bren lay on their mattress. She picked the Bren up and drew the strap over her leather-clad shoulder. She flipped a switch at her belt. It even took her power armour a few seconds to warm up now. After the village… she began.

  You survive, Una. It wasn’t something he wanted to hear about again. It disturbed him.

  She looked at him suspiciously, searching his face for a sardonic meaning. There was none.

  Alive or dead, he said and fired an explosive shell through the window and into the shadowy area. Magnesium blazed for a moment. Cold air came in. A shape darted away. Jerry flipped his own switch.

  Beesley, Brunner, Frank and the rest, Una said, peering cautiously upwards. All the other survivors. I think some are trying to get into the house.

  It had to come. In the long term there’s never much safety in numbers.

  I’d always believed you worked alone. A bit of a bourgeois individualist on the quiet.

  Assassination’s one thing. Jerry said primly. Murder’s quite another. Murder involves more people and a different moral approach and that, of course, ultimately involves more murders. A reflex. People get carried away. But assassination is just the initial preparation. The ground work. Like it or not, of course, everything boils down to murder in the end. A grenade burst in the basement and the rest of the glass flew into the room, rattling against their power armour.

  There’s self-defence.

  I’ve never been able to work that one out.

  Jerry pulled the table nearer to the window, then angled the Banning upwards through the bars, firing a steady, tight sweep of shells. Two of the attackers flared up and fell. Karen and Mo, said Jerry. Not for the first time. They heard footsteps over their heads and then a few creaks on the cellar stairs outside their inside door. Una opened the door and, with her Bren, took two more lives. Mitzi Beesley and Frank Cornelius. Frank, as usual, made a lot of noise, but Mitzi died quietly, sitting upright with her back against the wall, her hands in her bloodstained lap, while Frank rolled and writhed and gasped and cursed.

  Two more grenades came into the room and exploded, temporarily blinding them, but hardly denting their power armour.

  This is almost the end, said Jerry. I think it’s down to Miss Brunner and Bishop Beesley. It had better be. Energy’s getting low.

  Miss Brunner rushed down the stairs, her face twisted with rage, her red eyes blazing, her sharp fangs bared. She was awkward in her tight St Laurent skirt. She tried to get her Sten to fire. Una killed her, shooting her in the forehead with a single bullet. Miss Brunner staggered back without grace.

  Bishop Beesley appeared in the area outside the window. He was holding a white flag in one hand, a Twix bar in the other. Even from here Jerry could see that the chocolate was mouldy.

  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 ALTERNATIVE APOCALYPSE 8

  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.

  LATE NEWS

  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

  REMINISCENCE (H)

  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.

  THE FOREST

  “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.