This was laying it on a bit thick, thought Ellie. In any case, if there was a degree of truth in what Feenie was saying, surely the clever move would be to encourage these thugs to drive straight down there!
'Not very keen to have us visit your precious Command Post, are you, darling?' said Popeye slyly. 'Tell you what. Why don't we all take a look-see with you and your friends leading the way like the womenfolk do out in Cambodia when dada wants to take a walk. Takes a lot to make an oriental give precedence to women, but show him a minefield and suddenly he's a feminist.'
Jorge and Luis spoke to each other in Spanish too rapidly for Ellie to understand, then Jorge nodded at Popeye.
'Looks like we're on,' said Popeye. 'All right, ladies. This way if you will. That's right. Nice and easy does it and you'll be back here for the rest of your dinner before you can say Hail-Mary-full-of-grace. You've not had your pudding yet from the looks of it. Fine ladies like yourselves shouldn't have to go without your pudding. Old ones at the front. And you two, give the lady cop a hand.'
Ellie and Daphne looked towards Feenie for guidance.
She said, 'Don't be silly. She can't be moved. Have you forgotten she just got shot?'
'No, but you seem to have, darling,' said Popeye. 'Only way my friends are going to let her stay here is if she gets shot again.'
Feenie considered then nodded at the two younger women, who went to Novello. Feenie had taped a dressing round her wound and put her left arm in a sling. She looked very pale and swayed as they helped her to her feet but uttered no sound. Daphne draped her right arm round her neck and took most of the weight, while Elli supported her left side as best she could without bringing any pressure on the injured shoulder.
'You, where are you going?' demanded Jorge.
Wendy Woolley had made a move towards the marble bench.
'I was just going to get my handbag,' she said fearfully.
Cue Edith Evans, thought Ellie. Time like this and the poor cow doesn't feel able to move without her sodding handbag!
'Leave it,' said Jorge.
For a moment it looked as if Wendy's dread of committing a social solecism was going to be stronger than her fear of the gun.
Then Feenie said, 'For heaven's sake, forget your precious bag. If you must have something to carry, carry this.'
She thrust the medicine chest into Wendy's arms and obediently, though not without one last longing glance towards her large sensible handbag, she fell into line behind Novello and her supporters, with Feenie and Mrs Stonelady leading the way, flanked on one side by Big A. and Little A., on the other by Jorge and Luis.
'Now just in case anyone hasn't read the script,' said Popeye who was bringing up the rear. 'If any one of you decides to make a run for it and hears a shot, don't bother to duck. It won't be fired at you, it'll be blowing a hole in one of the friends you leave behind. Let's go.'
At this hour on a summer evening it should still have been broad daylight, but the clouds which had now eaten up the blue sky entirely were so heavy and dark, shading from murrey through perse to empalling black, that they rapidly moved from the bright-lit windows of the house into a frightening crepuscular world which felt even less like England than Axness normally did. This too was once one of the dark places of the world, thought Ellie. And might be again. What was it these men wanted? And above all, where was Rosie?
Pointless and terrifying speculations, both. She concentrated on the ground at their feet, trying to pick the smoothest way for the injured woman. Ahead, Feenie had reached the warning fence. She halted and called, 'Stay!' in a loud commanding voice. What does she think we are? Dogs? Ellie asked herself as the little procession came to rest.
The fence presented little problem to an active adult who could either climb over or duck under it, but when Jorge asked impatiently why they had stopped, Feenie said in the same loud voice, 'Have you forgotten that you have shot and wounded Miss Novello? She is hardly fit to walk and certainly unable to perform gymnastics.'
Jorge looked ready to give her an argument, but Popeye, moving to the front, said, 'You're dead right, darling. We'll soon have this out of the way.'
He produced a knife, pressed a catch which released a vicious-looking blade and began sawing at the fillet of red plastic.
The Ajaxes were uneasily examining the threatening sky as if minded to open fire on it while Luis and Jorge talked together incomprehensibly fast, but with body language suggesting it was a less than amicable discussion.
Probably debating what to do with us later, thought Ellie. With everyone's attention otherwise engaged, it occurred to her that this might be a good time to make a run for it. Except of course no one was going to run, not with Popeye's threat hanging over their heads . . . but why not? Why should it be of course? Why trust the implied promise that if they all stuck together and did what they were told, no more harm would come to them? She thought of those long columns of the doomed and dispossessed, outnumbering their captors by thousands, who'd let themselves be marched quietly to their deaths during this century, and centuries before, when if they'd turned and fought and run, some at least would have escaped, some must have survived who were driven down to death. Driven down to death . . . that or something like it was the stock phrase Homer used in the Iliad. Not a euphemism in sight there when it came to being killed, nothing for anyone's comfort. Blood, guts, pain, despair, it was all there. No joyful embracing of heroic death. These heroes saved their heroism for living. When it came to dying, as often as not they turned and ran, they screamed, they abased themselves and begged for mercy, they offered bribes and prayers. In the whole of the poem, while there are plenty of reproofs for those who try to hold back from going out to confront the enemy, no one ever gets blamed for doing their best to avoid death on the battlefield.
If Hector could turn tail and run when he saw Achilles raging towards him, why shouldn't I let go of plucky little trouper Novello and head for freedom? For if these men are truly capable of killing one of the others because I have escaped, then they are capable of killing the lot of us once they've got what they're here for.
As these thoughts synchronized through her head, historical, literary and practical indistinguishable from one another, she looked around for the best exit route. Whichever way she ran except forwards, there were yards of open ground before she reached cover and Big Ajax and Little Ajax would have all the time in the world to pick her off. The only area which offered immediate concealment was the shrubbery, but that was beyond the fence and involved running past the Latinos which would be somewhat counterproductive. Still not knowing whether it was common sense or even commoner fear which was making her think of escape, she looked longingly at the jungle of rhododendrons which the ever rising wind was whipping into a maelstrom of branches and leaves and shredded blossom, everything on the move so that it seemed a wonder it didn't all take off like in The Wizard of Oz and go spinning into the vast inane.
Except for one small patch of paleness straight ahead which didn't move, now visible, now not, as the swirling veil of greenery moved over it and away.
She stared. Found the focus. And saw Rosie crouched there, looking right at her, one arm around Tig, the other tightly gripping Carla.
Oh shit! she thought. What to do? Rush forward and scoop her up? Or hope that no one else noticed her? But they must do when they resumed their forward progress, they were right in the way.
And even if Rosie somehow managed to remain hidden, how long were the dogs going to remain under constraint, particularly Carla, who must be bursting to leap out at her mistress . . .
Stay!
That was why Feenie had suddenly started bellowing at them. She too had spotted the lurking trio and realized that her own dog was the greatest danger. Realized also that a few more steps would bring them right up to the girl's hiding place, so caused the delay with the fence. And then she'd gone on to let Rosie know what had happened to Novello.
That was good thinking. Rosie's instinct
to hide probably derived from her reluctance to be caught having disobeyed the injunction not to go beyond the fence. Now she would know there was something seriously wrong.
'There we are,' said Popeye, laying the severed ends of the plastic barrier on the ground. 'Let's go.'
They began to advance once more.
To Ellie it seemed they were heading straight for the spot where her daughter lay concealed. Again, a vision of Rosie making a sudden movement and Jorge taking a potshot came into her mind. But Feenie was ahead. She had to trust in Feenie. They entered the shrubbery, following an old overgrown path. Ellie couldn't help glancing sideways at the place where the trio had been crouching. There was no sign of life, human or canine. She let out the breath she hadn't realized she'd been holding and felt it stretch her lips into a huge smile, which Popeye happened to catch as he glanced at her. He looked puzzled to be in receipt of such a display of happiness. She didn't care. With each step beyond the spot her spirits rose. Whether Rosie would or could do anything to bring them help she didn't know. Great if she could, but all that really mattered was that her child wasn't going to be part of whatever lay in wait for them at the pavilion.
She'd been sure that Feenie was grossly exaggerating the instability of the ground earlier, but now it seemed to her that she could actually feel it moving beneath her feet. She knew, of course, it was partly ocular, deriving from the sense of a world in disintegration that the raging shrubbery gave her, and partly down to the difficulty of maintaining balance when leaning into a strong gusting wind, especially when you were concentrating on keeping someone else upright, but it still felt like walking across the deck of a ship in a tumultuous sea.
No, correction. As they got closer to the edge of the cliff, she became more and more aware of what was happening to the sea. She could feel its spray in the air, hear it exploding against the cliff face, and now she could see it surging below into ever-changing mountain ranges of green and black water. This was designer God's original computer program, projecting how the wilder reaches of His world would look. Now the Andes, now the Rockies, all building up to His Himalayan masterpiece. No one would be walking across the deck of any ship in these seas.
They were almost at the Command Post now. Set on a narrow stack of granite, Feenie had said. How narrow was narrow? This felt like one of those land-hungry storms which wasn't going to go away empty-mouthed.
Feenie was opening a door. She turned and bellowed that they were here and would they please be careful in case there were any broken windowpanes or other potential sources of damage.
She had to shout to make herself heard above the wind, of course, but what she was shouting was so inconsequential. . .
Last time she had shouted unnecessarily it had been to quieten Carla and warn Rosie . . .
There's somebody inside the pavilion, thought Ellie.
They went inside, stepping into a small anteroom with three doors off it, one to either side, one (a double door this) straight ahead. The side doors, Ellie recollected, led respectively to a lavatory and to a small kitchen, which in turn had a door opening onto the steps down to the storage cellar.
Feenie stepped forward and flung open the double door which led into the viewing chamber.
'Oh, my God,' said Daphne.
It was a moment of terror and sublimity. It was like stepping through a door and finding yourself on the peak of Kanchenjunga. It was like floating through an airlock and looking down at the Milky Way. It was most of all like opening a magic casement on the foam of perilous seas in faery lands forlorn.
The wall before them comprised a single pane of reinforced glass running the whole length of the building. Beyond it was nothing but air and sea. And such air, and such sea, the one fit domain for Valkyries and Harpies and flying dragons and golden rams and randy swans and all the wailing souls of the newly dead, the other for Sirens and Krakens and Scylla and Charybdis and the victors and the vanquished of toppled Ilium and the drowned and the shipwrecked sinking into their happy graves to the music of old Triton blowing his wreathed horn.
Ellie stared, speechless. Beside her, Shirley Novello forgot her pain and wondered if she had come to the bounds of living. Big Ajax and Little Ajax uttered their first sounds, grunts of awe, and pressed forward to get a closer look. Even Jorge, pistol dangling forgotten in his nerveless hand, seemed completely rapt.
'Impressive, isn't it?' said a voice behind them. 'Oh, I do like to be beside the seaside.'
Ellie turned.
A woman had appeared from somewhere. Presumably, since the door was open, from the kitchen. In her hands was a short-barrelled automatic weapon like the ones everyone - terrorists, freedom fighters, police ARUs, kids robbing post offices - seemed to carry nowadays. The woman was young, slim, dark, and very beautiful.
Ellie was sure she'd never met her but equally sure she'd seen her before, and very recently.
'You can drop the guns if you like. Or even if you don't,' said the woman.
Big Ajax and Little Ajax looked enquiringly at Jorge.
Jorge glared accusingly at Luis. Ellie guessed that at school when teacher demanded who'd put the drawing pin on her chair, Jorge was pretty quick with the accusing finger. Always someone else's fault. Daphne's fault that she got her nose mashed, Novello's fault that she got shot, all our faults when he finally got round to massacring us . . .
'Now!' said the woman with sudden force.
Slowly, Jorge stopped and laid the gun on the floor, with Big A. and Little A. following suit.
That's better,' said the woman. 'Now we can all sit down and talk this thing through.'
Sounded good to Ellie. Except, it struck her, that they were one short of all.
Popeye hadn't come into the pavilion with the rest of them.
He came now, quietly, knife in hand, moving far more rapidly than Ellie's warning scream.
His left hand seized the woman's long black hair, dragging her head back, while his right set the gleaming blade against her exposed throat.
'Hello, me darling Kansas,' he said. 'How're you doing? Give your gun to Luis here. There's a good girl.'
She didn't look like a good girl. She looked like a girl who'd like to be very bad indeed. But obediently she released the weapon into Luis's hands.
'Right,' said Popeye. 'Now we can relax and enjoy ourselves.'
He let go of her hair and put the knife away.
She turned her head to look at him.
'Uncle Paddy,' she said. 'I knew it had to be a mistake when I heard you were dead.'
'Reports slightly exaggerated, darling.'
'Well, I'm really glad to hear it,' said the woman.
She sounds as if she means it too, thought Ellie. Uncle Paddy? Kansas? Which, Toto, I've a feeling we're not in any more. What the hell is going on? And where have I seen you before?
And then it came to her in one of those flashes of utter clarity.
She recalled precisely where and when she'd seen these beautiful features.
But when the clarity started to fade, she found its aftereffect was to leave her understanding even more benighted than before.
xiv
a face from the past
'What the hell is a painting of Kelly Cornelius doing hanging in Feenie Macallum's hall?' asked Andy Dalziel.
By the time Peter Pascoe skidded to a halt before Gunnery House, he'd regained some measure of control, and when he saw the front door gaping invitingly open, he approached it comparatively cautiously. Then he heard rapid footsteps on the gravel drive and turned to see a man running towards him with something black and metallic in his hand.
Pascoe ducked low, drove his right shoulder into his attacker's gut, straightened up to lift the man's winded body high in the air, and speared him head first into the gravelled drive.
The object he was carrying went spinning away. It wasn't after all a gun, more like a radio, but Pascoe didn't pause to investigate. If this guy was one of the five who'd just turned up, that lef
t only four and the way he felt at the moment, odds like that were in his favour.
He went through the front door low, like the hero of a TV action movie. This faintly mocking self-awareness was perhaps an index that reason was beginning to reassert itself, but if there'd been another open door, he would probably have kept going. Instead, once he'd established the large entrance hall was empty, he saw there were three doors off it, all closed. He paused to make a decision, and reason took the chance to get its messages through to his muscles.
A second or two later it was reinforced by the restraining arms of Andy Dalziel, who had done considerable violence to the engine of Sempernel's car in pursuit.
'Easy, lad,' said the Fat Man. 'They're out of the house now, lucky for you. Getting yourself shot's not going to help any bugger, is it?'
'We outnumber them. Andy, there's only four of them left. Has someone got a hold of that guy out there? He'll tell us what's going off.'
He spoke with the certainty of a medieval torturer.
'I fear not, Mr Pascoe,' said Sempernel, coming through the front door.
'Shit. The bastard hasn't died on us, has he?'
'Happily not. The bastard is in fact one of my operatives whom I'd advised on the radio of your approach and instructed to intercept you before you came to harm.'
'Oh God,' said Pascoe, remembering the vicious force with which he'd speared the man into the gravel. 'Is he OK?'
He broke free of Dalziel and went to the doorway.
The man was sitting on the ground, leaning back against a car. He looked dazed, and his forehead and left cheek were tessellated with gravel.
'I'm sorry,' said Pascoe. 'I thought . . .'
Then the grazed and bleeding features began to tug at his memory. Surely this was the man he'd seen with the Fraud Squad super in the court, the man who matched Ellie's description of the male half of the couple who'd tried to lure her out of the house with their story about Rosie being sick . . .
Dalziel 18 Arms and the Women Page 33
