The English Assassin

by Michael Moorcock

  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.

  THE FARM

  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.

  When Auchinek had first gone to earth, he would not have believed that he could have taken so easily to farming. In his old corduroy trousers, his rubber boots, his pullover, leather jerkin and flat, dirty cap, a quarter of an inch of stubble on his tanned ruddy face, he looked as if he had farmed these parts all his life; and he felt it, too. The shot didn’t bother him. Poacher or gamekeeper, human or animal, what happened beyond the confines of his farm was none of his concern. He had a lot to do before dark.

  It was almost dusk by the time he had milked the cows and poured the milk into his electric separator. He drove the cows back into the nearest field and returned to manhandle the milk churns onto his cart. He harnessed up Mary, his old shire-horse, and started off along the track towards the railway.

  When he got to the railway, he lit the oil lamp which hung on its usual post. He had to see to get his milk onto the little wooden platform. In about an hour’s time the train would stop here and pick the milk up, delivering it at the local village station for the dairyman.

  Night sounds had replaced the sounds of day. A few grasshoppers chirped in the long grass of the railway embankment. An owl hooted. Some bats flapped past. Now that his work was over Auchinek felt pleasantly tir
ed. He sat on his cart and lit a pipe, enjoying a smoke before returning to the farm. It was a warm, clean night, with a good moon rising. Auchinek leaned back in the seat and breathed in deeply. The old shire twitched her huge flanks and flicked her tail but was content to wait until he was ready to go. She leaned down in her yoke and began to tug at the grass with her large yellow teeth.

  Auchinek heard a noise in the neighbouring field and identified it as a fox. He’d have to be careful tonight if a fox was on the prowl, though he hadn’t really had much trouble from predators since he’d taken over the farm. Then the rustling grew louder and more energetic. Had the fox already found its night’s meat? There came a peculiar, strangled whimper—perhaps a rabbit. Auchinek peered over the hedge, but the light from the lamp cast only shadows into the field. For a moment, though, he thought he saw an animal of some kind—a savage face that might have belonged to an ape rather than to a fox. But then it was gone. He picked up the reins. He had grown eager to get home to his supper.

  “All right, Mary. Come on now, girl.” The country accent came naturally to him. “Come on, old girl. Gee up, there…”

  When he had turned a corner of the track and could see the yellow warmth glowing from his own windows he felt completely at ease again. It was funny what you sometimes thought you glimpsed at night. All that was over now. He’d never be involved again. And the war couldn’t touch him. The countryside was eternal. It was a good job, however, that he wasn’t superstitious. He might start to have silly fantasies about his past catching up with him. He smiled. He’d boil some eggs for his supper and have them with some of that new bread, then he’d go to bed and finish Surtees’s Hillingdon Hall. Of late, his whole reading had been devoted to eighteenth- and nineteenth-century novels of rustic life, as if he were subconsciously determined to steep himself in even the metaphysical aspects of country lore. He had already read The Vicar of Wakefield, Romany Rye, The Mill on the Floss, Clara Vaughn and Tess of the D’Urbervilles, as well as other, more obscure titles. He didn’t seem to enjoy anything else. Sometimes he would sample a more modern work by Mary Webb or R.F. Delderfield and he found them enjoyable, too. He was going off George Eliot and Thomas Hardy, though. He didn’t think he would read anything more by them.

  He drove into the farmyard and got off the cart, unharnessing the mare. As he led her past the milking shed towards her stable, he heard the milk separator going, the big blades swishing and clacking. He smiled to himself; he was more tired than he had realised. As it sometimes happened when you were feeling a bit worn out, the sound seemed to form a word.

  He remembered Una Persson. Whatever happened to her? It had been a dream, that period in Macedonia and Greece. A nightmare. He’d done some funny jobs in his life before finding the one which suited him.

  Ch-ch-char, went the blades. Traitor—traitor—traitor.

  He closed the stable door, stretching and yawning. The air had turned very cold. They could be deceptive, these autumn nights.

  Traitor—traitor.

  He went inside. It wasn’t very warm in the house, even though the range had been lit in the kitchen. He flicked open the doors of the stove to let more heat out. He could still hear that damned separator going. He shivered. He’d be glad to get under the blankets tonight.

  THE VILLAGE

  The train picked up the churns and took them to the village station where they were unloaded by the dairyman who put them in his van.

  The van rattled happily as it drove down the peaceful street from the station, past the cheerful windows of the two pubs, the Jolly Englishman and the Green Man, past the village hall, where music was playing, past the church, down the alley and round the back of the little bottling plant where the milk would be readied for the morning’s deliveries. Thank God the monopolies didn’t control the farm produce in this part of the world, thought the dairyman. There were still a few corners of old England which hadn’t yet been overrun by so-called progress. The dairyman left his van in the yard and strolled back towards the village hall. There was something special on tonight—a break in an otherwise acceptable routine.

  He pushed open the doors and saw with some pleasure that they had already got the parachutist to start to strip. She was quite a good-looking woman, if a bit on the slim side for his taste. A cut over her left eye didn’t improve her appearance, either. Had that been necessary? He nodded to the other village men and smiled at Bert and John, his brothers, as he took his place near the front of the stage. He licked his lips as he settled back in his chair.

  Una Persson had been captured two days earlier but had had to wait, a prisoner in George Greasby’s barn, while the village decided how best to use her. She was the first parachutist they had ever caught and they understood the conventions involved: a captured parachutist became a sort of slave, the property of whoever could find and hold one. Nearby villages had several male parachutists working their fields, but this was the first woman.

  Conscious of George Greasby in the wings with his brazier and red-hot poker, Una had already unbuttoned her long flying coat and dropped it to the floor. She didn’t much care if he burned her; all she really wanted to do was take the easiest way out and get the whole business over with as soon as possible. It was their idea of dignity and individualism that was central here, not hers. Stripping to ‘King Creole’, the tinny single on the cheap record player, seemed the easiest thing to do. Not that she’d ever cared much for Elvis Presley. She took off her shirt, staring into the middle distance to avoid looking at all the fat, red heads with their bristly haircuts who made up her audience. She’d had worse. She didn’t waste time: off came her boots, her trousers and her pants until she stood passive and naked, showing the few yellow bruises on her left breast, her right thigh and her stomach. It was a bit chilly in the hall. There was a slight smell of damp.

  “All right, now give us a song,” said George Greasby in his high-pitched voice. He waved the poker, holding it in a big, asbestos mitten.

  Fred Rydd settled himself at the piano, running his stubby fingers over the keys and then thumping out a series of discords with his left hand while he struck up a rousing chorus of ‘A Little of What You Fancy Does You Good’.

  Una had played the provinces often enough before. This wasn’t very much different. She tried to remember the words. Charley Greasby, the old man’s son, jumped up on the stage and slapped her bottom. “Come on, lovey, let’s ’ear yer!” With lewd winks at the others, he cupped her breasts in his hard hands and pinched her nipples and yelled in her ear while performing a sort of obscene Morris dance: “I never was a one to go and stint meself. If I like a thing, I like it, that’s enough. But there’s lots of people say, if you like a thing a lot, it’ll grow on you—and all that stuff.” His breath smelled of onions.

  “I like my drop of stout as well as anyone,” sang Una, now that he had started her off. She felt faint. All the villagers were on their feet now, laughing and stamping and clapping. “But a drop of stout’s supposed to make you fat.” The whole hall seemed to be shaking. More of the thickset countrymen were clambering onto the stage. Her vision was full of corduroy, leather and woollen pullovers. The piano played maniacally on. “And there’s many a lah-di-dah-di madam doesn’t care to touch it, ’cause she mustn’t spoil her figure, silly cat!”

  They all joined in the chorus. “I always hold in having it, if you fancy it. If you fancy it, that’s understood. And suppose it makes you fat—well, don’t worry over that. ’Cause a little of what you fancy does you good!”

  “Come on,” said Tom Greasby, who was still wearing his police constable’s trousers, “let’s have all the verses, my pretty. I haven’t heard that one in years. The old ones are the best. Haw, haw!” He put a horny finger into her vagina. She knew it was there but she didn’t feel it much as she went into the next verse.

  She finished the song and was halfway through ‘Some Day I’ll Find You’ when they lost control of themselves and got their corduroys and flannels down,
pushing her on her back as they began, in hasty turns, to rape her.

  The greatest discomfort she felt was in trying to breathe beneath the weight of their heavy, sticky bodies. She had never cared for the country and now she knew why. From the distance came the sound of the record player starting up again with Cliff Richard’s ‘Living Doll’. She realised that her eyes were still open. She closed them. She saw a pale face smiling at her. Relieved, she smiled back.

  It was time to split.

  As the fifteenth rural penis rammed its way home, she left them at it.

  THE HILL

  “There’s lights on still in the village hall,” said Mrs Nye, closing the bay window. “Maybe they’re having a dance down there. There’s music.”

  “I’m glad they’re enjoying themselves,” said Major Nye from where he lay in crisp sheets in the topless Heal’s four-poster. He had gone yellow and his lips were flaking. His pale blue eyes shone from deep cavities and his cheeks were hollow. “Say that for the English. They know how to make the best of things.” He had just recovered from an attack of malaria. He was dying.