by Dc Alden
And lo, it had come to pass, Bertie mused, as a bearded copper waved him forward. He stopped at the security barrier and powered down the window, handing over his City Pass to the butch-looking plod squeezed into the security booth. She snatched and swiped, watching her terminal, and then she brightened. A familiar reaction once the traitors discovered Albert Payne was in town on business for Chief Justice Spencer. She handed his pass back.
‘Thank you, sir. Have a good day.’
Bertie smiled and powered up the window. The security barrier lowered, and he sped away with an electronic whine, glancing in his mirror, cursing the reflection. ‘Rot in hell, you traitorous fucking dyke.’ That made him feel a little better.
He turned right onto Euston Road and remembered a time when he’d driven his black cab, when he’d sit for hours in slow-moving traffic, stopping at lights every hundred metres, waiting for pedestrians, for cyclists, then cross-traffic. The city was a bloody nightmare. It was different now. Traffic lights were a thing of the past. Instead, cops with coloured wands marshalled the big junctions, making sure the traffic kept moving and VIPs travelled unhindered. That was one of the perks of working for The Witch, Bertie knew. Wherever he went, he was left alone.
He drove south to Chancery Lane and collected two boxes from Ede & Ravenscroft, legal attire for The Witch, then he drove further into town. He parked the car on Goodge Street and walked the rest of the way, enjoying the crisp air and the unseasonal blue skies. The view, not so much. Much of central London, the West End as Bertie has always referred to it, had either been destroyed during the initial invasion or bulldozed by the caliphate.
Soho was a case in point. The entire area had been demolished during the religious purges, the demolition teams and wrecking balls knocking over several blocks of buildings between Oxford Street and Shaftesbury Avenue. Nothing remained of London’s gay Mecca except a couple of square miles of a fenced-off building site. Bertie couldn’t care less about the cultural eradication of London’s gay scene. No, what bothered him were the changes going on in his city. The past was being erased, the culture, history, all of it. It was like that old film The War of the Worlds, but instead of the creeping red stuff, they were knocking down beautiful architecture and replacing it with mosques, government buildings, and loads of modern glass and steel shit. London wasn’t being rebuilt. It was being transformed.
Leicester Square and Chinatown were gone too, courtesy of the airliner that was shot down on that fateful summer evening nearly three years ago. Bertie had seen it too, the giant Airbus trailing smoke as it thundered over Mile End Road, wings dipping and swaying. The size and noise of the stricken aircraft had frightened him, and he’d kicked the punter out of his cab and drove straight home to his dingy flat in Kentish Town. It had been a wise move. London had gone to shit after that. The Witch had saved him, though. A couple of weeks into the invasion, they’d come for him, the feral hood rats, and as they’d attacked his barricaded door, Bertie had dropped out of his first-floor bedroom window and fled into the night. He’d known it was coming, because he’d seen them do it to others around the blocks, so he’d prepared himself. With his bags in the boot of his black taxi, he’d driven up to Hampstead, to one of his regulars, the lord chief justice herself, and begged her for refuge in return for his services. She had the room, that big old house where she lived alone, and to Bertie’s surprise and relief, she’d welcomed him inside. The trade-off was his servitude; gopher, waiter, butler, the works, 24/7. Bertie didn’t mind. He lived a decent life compared to most, but sleeping under the same roof as The Witch was often difficult, knowing what she’d become.
He turned into Great Russell Street and saw the cafe further down the pavement. He stepped out of the cold and into a warm, bustling eatery, the tables filled with construction workers and office types eating lunch, chatting, buried in their phones. Behind the counter, white-aproned staff serviced a queue of hungry punters while chefs worked the grill in clouds of sizzle and steam.
He glanced at a group of construction workers sitting nearby, chewing their food like cattle, their faces drawn and sullen, their clothes crusted with mud. Bertie didn’t envy them one bit. It wasn’t a good earner like the old days. Now it was low-paid, dangerous, and crazy-long hours. The fact was, most of them didn’t have a choice. They could work like a slave or starve to death. Simples.
At the counter, Bertie ordered a cup of coffee and a pastry. He made a big deal of searching for a spare seat, working his way over to a window booth occupied by three construction workers. He gestured to the empty space.
‘Mind if I sit here? Busy today.’
‘We’re leaving,’ grumbled a younger guy with a thick Eastern European accent. Him and his pal grabbed their bright yellow coats and left. Bertie thanked them and sat down. The man opposite wore a chequered shirt, sleeves rolled up to the elbows, his thick forearms folded on the table as he read a newspaper. His grey hair was cut short and parted to one side, and the nose on his flat face had been broken more than once, the bridge twisted like a knuckle. He peered over his glasses as Bertie took a careful sip of his coffee.
‘Got a light?’
Bertie dug into his coat pocket. He slid a disposable lighter across the table and the man fired up a self-rolled cigarette. While there was almost nothing positive about what had happened over the last few years, Bertie had to admit that being able to smoke in a café or coffee shop felt good.
‘Want one?’ The man offered a pre-rolled cigarette from an old tin.
Bertie plucked one out. ‘Very kind. Cheers.’ He lit it, blowing a thin column of smoke towards the yellowed ceiling.
George Jacobs muttered under his breath. ‘So, how are you, Bertie?’
‘Fine, George. You?’
‘Bearing up.’
‘How’s work?’
‘Tough.’ George scowled. ‘I had to let a bunch of blokes go this morning. Labourers, most of them. Couldn’t hack the work. Most of ‘em had never seen a site before let alone worked on one. They were office bods mostly, IT workers, teachers, that sort, all of ‘em middle-aged. Working the shovels all day is no picnic, let me tell you. The job slipped, so I had to let ‘em go. Broke my heart.’
‘What about you, George?’
The big man’s cigarette glowed. ‘I’m safe for now. Good gang-masters are worth their weight, and I’ve earned my stripes. They’ll leave me alone.’
‘That’s a relief,’ Bertie said, flicking his ash into a metal tin.
Across the table, George took a pen out of his shirt pocket, the felt tip hovering over the crossword puzzle on the paper in front of him. ‘Go ahead, Bertie. I’m listening.’
‘The Witch had a dinner party the other night,’ Bertie began, taking another drag of his cigarette. ‘All the usual traitors were there, no one special. Later, after most of ‘em had left, she summoned me. When I slipped into the room, they were having a heated discussion.’
‘Who’s they?’
‘Victor Hardy, judge advocate, sits in the Criminal Court with The Witch, and Tim Gates, an art historian or something. Both are regulars at the house…’
Bertie glanced over his shoulder. The café was still buzzing, the staff still jabbering away, the barista machine belching steam like the Flying Scotsman. No one could hear them.
‘Gates said that Wazir dropped a nuke on China. It’s all kicking off out east. They’re pulling troops in from all over the caliphate.’
‘Jesus,’ George whispered, cigarette smoke leaking through his yellowed teeth. ‘And you heard this first-hand?’
‘They didn’t even know I was there. The Witch seemed a bit riled when she saw me but I just played dumb.’
George chuckled. ‘Still faking that stammer, eh? Well, it’s interesting, but China’s a long way away. Doesn’t really affect us. I’m more concerned with Ireland and what’s happening over there.’
‘That’s not all,’ Bertie pressed. He stubbed out his cigarette, flicking ash from his fingers. �
��Gates is queer, bent as a boomerang. He got that stuff about the nuke from his boyfriend, a military intelligence officer, Faisal Al-Kaabi. Works at the big military base in Northwood.’
George’s eyes widened. ‘Holy shit.’
‘That’s not all. Guess who else is in Northwood? General Mousa.’
‘The General Mousa?’
‘The very same. Fresh in from Baghdad, according to The Witch. I heard her on the phone talking about it. Rising tensions is the phrase she used. She also used the word liability. With all the increased security and whatnot, she’s terrified Gates will get caught and tell all.’
‘So?’
‘So, they want me to get rid of him.’
It took a moment for George to react. ‘Seriously?’
Bertie bobbed his head. ‘She sat me down last night, her and Judge Hardy. They called Gates emotionally reckless. If he’s outed, we’ll all hang. Guilt by association, she reckons.’
‘The old bitch is right. I’d grass her up myself if you weren’t involved. What did you tell her?’
‘I told her I’d do it. That I w-w-would do anything for her.’
George grinned. ‘Very convincing, Bertie.’
‘I do my best.’ Bertie winked. ‘Besides, it’s not like I have a choice, right? My neck’s on the line too.’
‘What about this Al-Kaabi? Gay or not, he’s still military intelligence. If he finds out Gates was killed, he could cause serious problems.’
‘They want it to look like suicide. They’re going to fake a letter, implicate lover-boy too. Out him to the authorities.’
George raised an eyebrow. ‘They’re playing for keeps. They’ll hang Al-Kaabi for that, no question.’
‘Two birds with one stone, they said.’
‘Evil fuckers.’ George leaned a little closer, his hard eyes flicking over Bertie’s shoulder. ‘You were careful, coming here, right Bertie?’
‘I’m on official business. I’ve got the old slag’s shopping in the boot of the car.’
‘No chance she’s setting you up for something? Like this meeting, for example?’
Bertie shook his head. ‘She’s scared, George. She wants Gates gone.’
George’s cigarette had gone out. He re-lit it with the disposable, puffing tiny glowing embers across the table. Bertie recognised that familiar frown; George was thinking, weighing up the options, figuring the angles. He was good at that kind of thing. That’s why he was an organiser in the resistance.
A stiff wind barrelled around the café as the door banged open. Four big soldiers barged through the door, heavy-looking beards with body armour and submachine guns. They wore black berets cocked to the side, the crossed gold swords cap badge catching the strip lights. Shuffling in their wake, four traitors in scruffy uniforms, batons and handcuffs dangling from their belts. They stared around the room, emboldened by their gun-toting masters. Bertie’s heart thumped in his chest. Have we been fingered? He wasn’t armed, and neither was George, so fighting their way out wasn’t an option. Bertie sipped his coffee, eyes fixed on the café window. George buried his nose in his crossword. Bertie could hear the soldiers jabbering away in Arabic with the guys behind the counter. He heard the rasp of Velcro and the crackle of radio traffic.
They’ve stopped for a coffee, that’s all. Probably get it for free here. Relax…
‘We’re sweet,’ George muttered as he scratched letters on the paper. ‘They’re leaving.’
The sounds of the street filled the cafe, and Bertie felt that wintry wind swirling around his feet again. The door closed, and then the guns were strolling past the window, faces blurred by condensation, passing out of sight.
‘Time to go,’ George said, standing. ‘Let me have a think about this, see if there’s an angle here. I’ll be in touch.’
George squeezed out of the booth and yanked on a heavy winter coat. He pulled a beanie from his pocket and pulled it down over his ears. A moment later he was gone.
Bertie waited for another 15 minutes before leaving. He made his way back to the car, bent against the strengthening wind, and was grateful to get behind the wheel of the Toyota. As he drove through the checkpoint and headed north towards Camden, Bertie realised that things were about to change. Edith Spencer had always been a target for the resistance, and Bertie believed that one day he’d be called upon to murder her, or at least be an accessory. He had no problem with that. He was all too aware of the pain and terror she’d inflicted on the British people.
But now there were others involved, Gates and his lover, Judge Hardy, the infamous General Mousa. Things were about to get interesting, and probably dangerous.
Bertie smiled as he eased the Toyota along Camden High Street.
Payback was coming, and it would be a proper bitch.
7
The Gunner Sleeps
They held the service just before last light in a field outside the small rural town of Carrickmoor.
A large pit had been excavated by military engineers, and the surviving ranks of the Second Mass, the Third Maine, and the First Irish had gathered in close order around three sides of the grave. There were other units there too, US Marines; Rangers; assorted Canadian, Aussie, and Kiwi infantry, all packed tightly together. Above the graveside, a colourful assortment of national and regimental flags rippled in the chilly breeze, yet they were all fighting for the same cause, for liberty and freedom. This conflict wasn’t like those of the recent past, predetermined by powerful groups with vested interests and dangerous ambitions, conflicts that fed the voracious appetite of the military-industrial complex and often triggered by false-flag operations and suspect evidence. No, the war they were embroiled in now, this war, was worth fighting for. And for those being laid to rest, their deaths hadn’t been in vain.
Eddie was in the front rank, standing close to the edge of the mass grave. It took over an hour for the burial party to carry the shrouded bodies to their final resting place, their names read out for all to hear. Eddie knew some of those names, good lads from the Second Mass, and he struggled to keep his emotions in check. Glancing along the tightly-packed ranks around him, he could see he wasn’t the only one. By the time the burial party had trudged back up the muddy ramp to join the mourners, nearly 300 bodies had been laid to rest.
A stiff westerly scattered the cloud, and the sun made a late, brief appearance, throwing pale bars of light across the field as it slipped below the horizon. As if God himself was paying his own tribute to the men who’d fought and died this last week. When the time came for prayers, led by a military parade and joined by a group of local clergymen, the voices of the First Irish were strong and word-perfect. A hymn was sung with gusto – Dear Lord and Father of Mankind – followed by three volleys of rifle fire and finally The Last Post, its haunting notes drifting on the wind. Eddie felt the bond between him and the men around him strengthening, and as the bugler’s last notes were carried away on the wind, his eyes were drawn to the flags rolling and snapping in the breeze. A lot of blood had been shed for those colours throughout history, and Eddie wondered if there would ever be a time when the fighting would stop…
‘Nae fucking chance!’ Mac said, slamming his beer down on the wooden trestle table. ‘Money, land, natural resources, whatever. Some people would shoot their own mother to get their grubby paws on it. And don’t get me started on religion.’
‘It comforts people,’ Eddie countered.
‘Not if you’re getting your napper sawn off by some Haji executioner. Don’t talk to me about religion, lad. It’s done enough damage.’
Mac necked his beer and reached into the six-pack for another. Eddie did the same, looking around the community hall filled with troops from the Second Mass, their divisional flag hanging from the rafters alongside the Union Jack, their voices boisterous, the tables jammed with bodies and beer, their first since they’d waded ashore all those weeks ago. Six-a-piece, that’s all they were allowed. Mac had downed four of his already. Eddie was trying to pac
e himself, but he was feeling the buzz.
‘So, what now?’ Steve asked.
Mac shrugged. ‘Who knows? As long as the war with China rumbles on, Wazir will focus most of his attention there.’
‘Think it’ll go nuclear?’
‘There’d be no point. Both sides have got enough warheads to irradiate the planet. Besides, that first nuke was one of those battlefield jobs. Decent punch but localised.’
‘And Baghdad is still denying they did it,’ Steve added.
‘Course it was them,’ Mac scoffed, ‘had their reactor fingerprints all over it. I reckon it was some rogue Pak general with a beef.’
‘Did us a favour though, the timing an’ all.’
‘Aye.’ Mac took another swig of his beer and stared across the table at Digger. He’d barely spoken since the funeral service. ‘What about you, nipper? What d’you think?’
‘About what?’
‘About crop rotation in the 15th century, ya daft cunt. Have ya no been listening?’
Digger stopped peeling the label off his bottle. His eyes narrowed. ‘Get off my back.’
‘No. I won’t. I’m gonna ride you like a fucking Grand National winner, ya miserable wee prick.’ Mac leaned closer, jabbed his finger across the table. ‘You think you’re the only person to lose someone? Take a good look around. Everyone here has suffered because of this bullshit.’ He pointed to Steve. ‘He’s not seen his wife and kid since the invasion, doesn’t even know if they’re still alive—’ He glanced at Steve and said, ‘No offence, mate.’
Steve shrugged, but Eddie saw the words had landed below the belt.
