by Guy N Smith
‘Still fancy that scrubber?’
‘Yes, but I don't know if I could manage her. Maybe if she did all the work, I could.’
‘She'd charge you an extra ten bob.’
They both laughed - hysterically.
‘Hey, I've just thought of something,’ Broadhurst snapped. ‘We could've got out of this mess. If only we'd've …’
His words were lost in a roar of falling bricks, the room disintegrating in a cloud of dust and smoke. The entire building shuddered, belched fumes high into the air, then began to topple outwards. For some seconds it was suspended in space, somehow maintaining an impossible point of balance, before showering down into the street below.
Some of the watchers managed a scream. Most just stared transfixed, hypnotised by the hurtling sections of burning brickwork. The final crash shook the city centre with the force of an earthquake. Windows which were still intact in the various buildings shattered, and jagged slivers of glass fell on to the crowded pavements. One bald headed man was stabbed through the cranium, killed instantly as his brain was pierced, but remaining upright for a few moments, the glass protruding vertically. Those nearest to him screamed in horror, but generally the incident went unnoticed amidst the mass panic and carnage.
Somebody yelled ‘Earthquake!’ Men and women ran blindly in every direction, colliding with each other, falling, some being trampled to death in the crush.
Brick dust and smoke burned lungs that fought to draw breath, floating in the still atmosphere. Daytime was turned to night. And above the general mêlée came sporadic rifle fire a couple of miles to the north.
The siege of Aston Cross was in its final stages. Only a short distance from the blocked Clearway and Spaghetti Junction, the fiercest battle so far was being fought as the thirst-maddened crowds attempted to storm a brewery.
The authorities had anticipated such a move. A dozen soldiers had been drafted in to guard the premises. Beer production had ceased long ago, but vast stocks of the liquid remained in the vats as well as in thousands of cans and crates of bottles. Once the pubs and cafes had run dry, the huge beer factory was certain to be the next target.
The handful of guards manned the barricades in the two streets on either side of the brewery. At first it was a relatively simple matter to keep the mob at bay. Someone was shot approximately every hour. The rest kept their distance. But now the ranks of the attackers had trebled. People who know that death is imminent, regardless, are not easily dissuaded.
Rifles versus bricks and stones: an unequal match when the latter are being hurled by the dozen from behind the comparative safety of abandoned vehicles. That was exactly what was happening in the streets of Aston Cross.
The militia were pinned down. One of their number lay in the gutter, his head split open beneath his steel helmet. Another had a broken arm and was attempting to shoot one handed. Missiles rained down continuously.
A volunteer sergeant wiped his bleeding lower lip with the back of his hand. They couldn't hold out much longer - not out here anyway. The numbers of the opposition were too great.
‘Get back inside,’ he yelled. ‘One at a time, moving from the right. And give covering fire.’
The first soldier moved at a fast trot, keeping low. A brick splintered a yard behind him. Another narrowly missed his head. But he made it. So did the second one, except that his neck was bleeding from a deep cut as those inside the brewery edged open the gates to let him through.
The third man was felled, and once again the inadequacy of the headgear was underlined. He sprawled in the road, kicked feebly like a shot rabbit and then lay still. Unconscious or dead, nobody went to his assistance.
Two more made it to safety. Only the sergeant remained. He peered over the sheet of corrugated iron in front of him, saw a blood-streaked face and fired quickly. The bullet found its mark, and the man pitched forward. There was no time for a second shot. The uniformed man ducked down and winced as several missiles clanged on his section of the barricade.
Shots were coming from the main gateway and windows of the brewery, vivid flashes in the smoke-filled atmosphere. The men were not picking their targets. There was no need to. Anybody who made a move was shot,
‘Run for it, sarge.’
The sergeant hesitated - a moment of cowardice. He knew now how it had been in the trenches of World War I from which his grandfather had not returned. The smell of death was nauseating, the smoke making him cough. It was time to go over the top.
He glanced behind him. A volley from his colleagues kept the attackers back just when it seemed the crowd were about to embark upon a sudden rush.
He had to get back inside. Lurching to his feet he began to run. The physical effort was almost beyond him. Leaden weights appeared to be strapped to his feet. His eyes streamed, blurring his vision. He was never to know how it all ended.
A jarring pain between his shoulder blades almost bowled him over; he staggered, cursed, and regained his balance. Twenty yards still to go, stones were landing all around him.
Suddenly his rifle slipped from his grasp. He heard it hit the road. Oh, Jesus! It was the unforgivable sin, even in the volunteer force, to lose one's weapon.
He had to retrieve it. He could barely see. Kneeling down, he groped blindly. Voices screamed at him from both sides.
‘Hurry, sarge. It's there, in front of you.’
‘The fucker's dropped his rifle. Get 'im.’
The very worst which he feared happened. He glanced back, saw the arcing flame in the gloom and knew what it was: a petrol-soaked rag in the neck of a bottle. He flung himself flat, covering his head with his arms.
The bottle splintered a couple of yards from him. Even his closed eyes could not shut out the blinding flash. Flames lashed him. He convulsed, screaming.
His hair was on fire beneath his helmet. His uniform blazed. Vainly he tore at buttons and fasteners. Oh, God. He couldn't see; he couldn't hear. Yet he was conscious of the heavy-booted feet sweeping by him, the scathing fire from the soldiers. Men fell, but it did not halt the rush, or even slow it up.
A man was lying on top of him - dead; roasting in the flames of the burning uniform. The sergeant screamed and fought within himself. Then he died, forgotten in the heat of the battle, and unlikely to be remembered afterwards.
The gates were breached and now the battleground was the brewery yard. A handful of soldiers crouched behind a row of aluminium barrels. One of these containers was leaking, the amber fluid gushing out, frothing on the concrete. The flow increased, and the crowd smelled the hops, a sweet scent to - those who had thirsted for days.
They stampeded like a maddened herd of cattle in the desert scenting water. Cursing, regardless of personal safety, they surged forward. A few fell to the volley of rifle fire, but it did not halt the main bunch.
Soldiers were seized, their rifles wrested from them. The executions were swift, the hapless men either shot or clubbed to death.
Beer barrels were burst open and an orgy of drinking commenced, men slurping from cupped hands, even lapping on the ground, all else forgotten.
The courtyard was filling rapidly as others joined the initial drinkers. Some were already inside the brewery, raiding the crates, drinking from cans and bottles. A few had fallen into the large vats and drowned.
And from all of this a new kind of madness emerged: drunkenness. The mood changed to a happier one, progressing in due course to a state of euphoria. Singing broke out. To hell with the water! Why drink water when there was beer to be had in plenty? Why leave Birmingham?
Bodies were sprawled all over the place. Only a few were dead. Men slept heavily, snoring loudly.
A young boy was initiating himself into the mysteries of the hop beverage. A pathetic sight: in the beginning he had vomited, experiencing a revulsion at the sharp unfamiliar flavour. Under normal circumstances he would probably have abandoned the venture, but the thirst drove him on. It demanded to be quenched. So he drank some more, finishe
d the bottle, and picked up another.
The opener which had been lying nearby had disappeared. A crowd of teenage youths were removing bottle caps with great rapidity, using the appliance, and the boy feared to ask for it back. In desperation he smashed the neck of the bottle and put it to his lips. He tasted blood, but ignored it.
A third bottle … he was sick yet again, but the urge to drink was stronger than ever. His bottom lip was bleeding freely, and he swallowed some of the blood. It didn't taste as bad as he had imagined.
He paused, and began to hum a tune. He could not remember what it was called. Something they sung in assembly at school: Stand up, stand up for … The words eluded him. All about standing up. He tried to match the words with action, but fell back again. He giggled loudly. A man was urinating in one of the vats. It was all so funny.
The boy thought that his own bladder would burst. ‘I want to pee,’ he shouted, but his words were lost in the din all around him.
He saw others passing water. A woman was crouching in a corner doing it unashamedly. He lay on his back, pulled up one short trouser leg, and gave way to his desires. The hot liquid arced back on to him, saturating his clothes. He laughed uncontrollably. It was nice to be able to do anything you wanted. It didn't even matter if the headmaster saw him.
Then he spied the man watching him - small, sallow faced, wearing a crumpled blue suit. There was something about the eyes, a vacant glazed expression.
‘Shall I take you to the toilet, son?’ An outstretched hand grasped his, hauling him to his feet, the grip tightening rather than relaxing.
‘I don't want to go to the toilet. I've already done it. You watched me,’ the boy said.
But the man did not appear to hear. The youngster found himself being dragged along, through crowds of people who were not even aware of his presence. To begin with he was frightened. Then he began to laugh again. It was hilariously funny. In class they often stopped you going to the loo, no matter how badly you wanted to go. Now he was being forced to go when there was no need. His beer-sodden mind struggled with the situation, but eventually gave it up. He began to laugh again.
The passageway was pitch black. He was aware of his companion nudging open a swing door, felt the cold tiles beneath his feet and the sharp odour of the urinals in his nostrils. He heaved.
Then he heaved again as his throat was encircled by strong fingers, digging into his windpipe, restricting his breathing. Realisation came to him, and with it fear. Maniacal laughter rang in his ears.
He fought and kicked, but it made no difference. The blackness around him was tinged with red. Voices in the distance, drunken laughter. Laughter nearer: the man, talking incoherently, muttering.
The man let the unconscious boy fall to the floor. Feverishly he crashed through the door and out into the darkened corridor, his deed already forgotten. The urge which had commanded his way of life for years was pushed away by a more pressing one. Pushing his way through the crowd, he found an unopened bottle of beer, smashed the neck, and began to drink greedily.
Only when his thirst was partially quenched did he remember what he had done. Violent sobs shook his frail body.
He was glad that he was going to die.
Frank Gordon smoked with relish in the dark confinement of his shop, drawing hard upon his cigarette, savouring the taste of the high tar tobacco.
Approaching sixty years of age, only a fringe of hair remained above his ears and round the back of his neck. Tall and lanky, his dozen or so teeth were nicotine stained, and the fingers which held the glowing white cylinder shook uncontrollably. He trembled partly from fear and partly because of a nervous complaint.
He had been born and bred in Birmingham. Apprenticed to the gun trade, he had served with three world-famous makers of shotguns until eventually he had branched out on his own. One of the last of a breed of true craftsmen, he had remained in Steelhouse Lane until the gunmakers had been driven out by the march of progress.
Gordon sniggered. The old days had vanished. Modern premises in the city centre had no atmosphere. Gone was the smell of oil and polish, and the littered workbench. In its place was a fitted shop, flimsy new wood, and sliding glass cupboards. The guns were not shown at their best in such a setting. No room to do one's own repairs. Instead one had to rely on a ‘gunsmith to the trade’ out of town, taking the blame for shoddy workmanship, apologising to customers. They never believed you; thought you were passing the buck. A steady decline in standards all round.
And now this. Almost every small business in Birmingham had gone to the wall, disintegrating as surely as had those during the air raids of the last war. Premises and stock gone, customers dead or dying - there could be no return to normality … ever.
Yet Frank Gordon was one of the lucky few. His shop, his guns and ammunition were still intact. The crowds and the fires had not spread this far. They would come surely, and it was an even bet which of the two arrived first.
The gunsmith was slowly coming to a decision. It all hinged on a state of hopelessness and his strict moral code. The mobs could arm themselves formidably with the contents of this small shop. Shotguns, target rifles, deer rifles, pistols, ammunition to fit every calibre, hunting knives, crossbows … he shuddered.
The militia had overlooked him in their efforts to guard all danger areas. The IMI at Witton, with the largest stock of sporting ammunition in the country, were heavily policed. The rioters had no chance of getting near enough even to lob a petrol bomb.
But the smaller gunshops remained vulnerable. Gordon shook his head. The authorities had made more balls-ups over firearms during the last decade than in any other field. Of course, they did not understand. The proposed Green Paper was something they wished to forget as soon as possible. Somebody had thought it a good idea to impose restrictive regulations on legitimate shotgun owners because they thought it would help to prevent criminals obtaining unlicensed weapons. Blushing with embarrassment, the administrators of the law had finally owned up to the fact that their proposed legislation was merely hitting at the legitimate gun owner, and would in no way prohibit the criminal's access to weapons. And now, contrary to their policy, they were virtually setting up an armoury for anybody who cared to take it over. Weapons of all kinds were there for the taking.
But no way were they going to take over the Gordon armoury.
He went over all the pros and cons again in his own mind. There was absolutely nothing left to live for even if he did survive these terrible days and nights. He had no family, no close relatives. Everything he owned would be gone. Bankruptcy faced him: an old age of mental anguish, counting his losses, reliving his dreams, always returning to reality; a meagre state pension perhaps.
His mind made up, he walked steadily through to the back of the shop. He did not need a light to see by. Ten years spent within these four walls had printed indelibly on his mind the entire geography of Gordon's Gunshop.
He found the bunch of keys, selected the right one without any fumbling, and inserted it in the lock of the huge steel security cabinet. The door swung back.
He reached down a metal canister from the top shelf. In his mind he saw the ornate label, a facsimile of the one used over a century ago - Curtis and Harvey's Black Gunpowder.
Secretly he had always scoffed at the enthusiasts of muzzle-loading weapons, but now he saw them in perspective. They too had tired of the twentieth century. Their old-fashioned sport, their antiquity of dress, was their safety valve. It wasn't madness. It was a tiny bit of sanity: escapism, perhaps, but a step back in time to a better era.
He undid the can and tipped it up on to the table, listening to the soft fall of gunpowder granules. Empty, he discarded the tin and lifted another down. He always stocked 1lb canisters. The powder kept fresher that way when in use, and ignited instantly. Ten cans, his entire stock, a heap of black powder in an era of darkness …
There was no necessity to make a fuse, he decided. What were a few seconds when faced with eter
nity? As he fumbled for his matches a low chuckle escaped his lips. No need even for a match. His cigarette still smouldered between his lips. The irony of it! His own advice to all who reloaded their own cartridges or used muzzle loaders: Never smoke when the powder can is open.
He paused, the last half inch of the cigarette barely an inch away from the powder, showing the outline of the heap in its faint glow. Frank Gordon had always wondered what lay beyond death, if anything. Not that he had ever given it much thought. Few did when it seemed years away. Now, with the prospect imminent, it was a matter of great importance.
He laughed again, more loudly this time. Why delay when he would discover the truth within seconds?
Quickly he thrust the lighted end into the pile. True to form, the product of the successors to Messrs Curtis and Harvey reacted instantaneously - a devastating explosion in the small room, blowing right through into the front of the shop, carrying fittings and armaments through the steel grill and out into the street, and with the blast flew unrecognisable parts of the human anatomy. Frank Gordon had embarked upon his journey to discover what lay beyond the grave, a blast off into the unknown.
Hardly had the noise of the explosion died away before the flames which engulfed the gunshop were spreading, crackling through into the adjoining carpet warehouse as though eager to join forces with the massive blaze which was ravaging New Street, only a short distance away.
Chapter 12
The Prime Minister spoke to the nation again that night on all television channels and radio stations. The broadcast was relayed to most countries in the world, and those who saw him did not fail to notice the deepening of the lines on his face and the expression of gravity which it was impossible to disguise. Those who heard him on radio were aware of the slight quavering in a strong voice, the frequent pauses, and the exhaustion which emanated from him.
There was no good news, not a tiny ray of hope in the blackness which enshrouded Birmingham. A problem had arisen to which there was no apparent solution.
