by Peter Millar
As he stared, stupefied at the American he had trustingly put his faith in, he realised that even the man’s voice was different. Before it had struck Stark as conveying an uneasy mixture of braggadocio and self-doubt, now it was cold, calm, self-confident and wholly unfazed by the fact that he was heavily outnumbered. This was not a man who was used to facing hard questions from editors; this was a man who was used to asking hard questions, and using hard means to get whatever answers he required.
It was Malcolm, the Museum Man, who replied, his heavily accented voice now a slow drawl almost languid with venom: ‘You fucking scum. Why the hell shouldn’t we just blow your brains away now, Yankee.’
‘Stop it!’ Fairweather snapped. ‘Come one step further, and I’ll do something we’ll all regret.’
‘You’re going to kill her anyway. Just like your mate tried to. And when you do, you’ll meet the same fate he did.’
Calmly, Malcolm produced an ancient-looking pistol and pointed it straight at the American.
‘I don’t think so,’ said Fairweather. ‘And nor do you, you know. Does he, Lizzie. Or aren’t you running the show any more?’
Lizzie had moved back, not before giving Stark a baleful glare, and was now on the very edge of the platform. Her look was thunder, but she didn’t deign to reply.
‘You’ve got it wrong, you see,’ continued Fairweather. ‘I don’t know what happened with my colleague – he always was a bit of a hothead – but I have no intention of doing any harm to this sweet little old lady here. All we – that is me and my compatriots – want to do is to help her regain her memory, make her understand what really happened all those years ago, and not the crazy, mixed-up version that’s worked its way into her old grey head in the meantime.
‘Winston was half-American. He was our pal. Our big hero. Presidents have had busts of him in the Oval Office since 1949. Now that Russia’s teetering, communism’s collapsing, we’re going to reel you guys back in. Rehabilitate ol’ Winnie-the-pooh, give you something to believe in again. So you can live the American dream. Rejoice in the free world. Drink Coca-Cola, eat Big Macs. You know it makes sense. That’s the future. Not just for you, for everybody. Get used to it.
‘The version of history you guys were getting all so worked up about is just pure pie in the sky. You know that, Miss Lizzie, or should I say Elizabeth – that’s who you’re named for, isn’t it, the princess who should be queen? Hell, even your ol’ gran here knows America would never betray Britain. Everyone knows that. And if they don’t they soon will. There’s a movie about it. The camera never lies. With the right management, this ol’ gal here could even be a star. So just back off, Malc, or whatever your name is.’
The Museum Man glanced at Lizzie. She shook her head and he lowered his weapon.
‘Now that’s what I like to see,’ said Fairweather. ‘English and Americans all allies again, just like in the good old days. Now just do what you’re told and we’ll all be fine.
‘First thing is – me and Mrs Goldsmith here are leaving, quietly and peaceably, but not by that godforsaken route we had to follow to get here. This is an old Deep Shelter, hell, if I’m not mistaken it might even be the one Eisenhower himself used. You sitting where old Ike used to sit?’ Lizzie ignored him. ‘Well, I reckon there’s another way out of here, a whole lot easier. At the very least the way our friend Harry there got out of your little prison, though I don’t fancy train-dodging and I’m not so sure the old lady here’s quite up to it.’
The old lady gave a timid whimper. Fairweather was obviously controlling the pressure on her wounded arm. Even so, she piped up in that thin, ethereal voice from another era: ‘I know what I saw, sir, and these people know too, and none of your bully boys will make any of us believe differently.’
‘Sure thing, ma’am, sure thing. And nobody’s going to force you, but I am going to ask you, very firmly, to come with me right now. You’ll have every chance to tell the world what you know once we’re out of this communist colony.’
‘And just how do you plan to achieve that, even if we do show you how to get back above ground?’ Lizzie had found her voice at last, and it was cold, chastened and angry.
‘Don’t you worry about that. We have our ways and means. For very special guests of the United States government, that is. You put in a request one day, and I just might see what I can do for you.’
Lizzie spat on the platform. The American tutted.
‘Manners, manners. “Manners maketh the man”. Isn’t that one of your old English sayings. But then maybe it doesn’t apply to women. Leastwise not women like you. But maybe you’d still be so kind as to indicate the exit from this little warren. We’ll go quietly …’
Then all hell broke loose.
It was the dogs they heard first, a sudden outburst of barking and yelping as if a pack of foxhounds had been simultaneously let off the leash, a howling and bellowing that was amplified by the echoing tunnels from which it emerged.
Then the arc lights hit them, a blinding wash of white-blue intensity that instantaneously swamped the subterranean world’s glow-worm gloom. And the crackling growl of the megaphones.
‘Department of Social Security. Stay right where you are. Do not move. I repeat: this is the Department of Social Security. Do not move.’
Everyone moved: ducked or dived. Throwing himself to the ground Stark caught a fleeting image of Fairweather and the old lady pressed back against the wall, the gun still held to her temple, and what appeared to be the Museum Man in stark silhouette brandishing his pistol.
Then there was an explosion and the light intensity halved, creating a ghastly cartoon world of darting figures and extenuated shadows. Stark scrabbled for the cover of darkness.
Chapter 52
Arthur Harkness stood to attention on the reviewing stand outside the National Gallery, his right arm raised in stiff salute as the first of the floats entered Stalingrad Square.
By his side stood his guest of honour, though the body language of the two men suggested relations were not as warm as the comradely kiss shown on state television had suggested. The ‘wind of change’ blowing in from Moscow felt decidedly chilly in London.
The crack troops of the New English Army had already passed by, as had the Ernie Bevin Boy Scouts and the Kent Collective Farmers with their tractors and ploughs. Now it was the time for the Socialist Society and Cultural Section, floats displaying achievements of art and design from the best of the capital’s colleges.
At the back, on the final float, still halfway down the Strand, Kate Stark’s hands were sweating. She knew what she was about to do. Knew what the consequences could be. And she was still determined to do it.
Lizzie had tried to dissuade her. But not too much. She knew that secretly the young woman admired her. And being admired by Lizzie Goldsmith was the best thing that had ever happened to her. Apart from meeting her grandmother, and hearing her story. And reading the pages of the diary of a man she had been brought up to believe was a monster and a coward.
Maybe he had been a monster, in some ways. So many people were. But he was no coward. That was sure. And so few things were sure. That was the point. That was why she had designed the stencils, stolen the materials from the art department at college. Painted the wall of Bankside power station with the image people had tried to forget. And, in a daring stunt that even Lizzie had been shocked by, taken her stencil to the Wall itself, no more than a few hundred metres from her brother the policeman’s office.
The fact that her brother was a policeman had of course probably contributed to the ease with which she was allowed to take charge of the float for today’s parade. That and the fact her father was a Hero of Socialism. She was a steady pair of hands. Safe. Reliable. She would show them. And she would show Tommy Paine who was a copper’s nark. Even if she ended up in jail for doing so.
She had done her research, even if she had not obviously been able to see the photographs. But Lizzie’s gran had confirmed th
ey existed, had given her suggestions even. Told her that in any case they used to – probably still did – play tricks with photographs, doctor them to airbrush people out or paint them in.
Well, that’s what she had done. Not painted people in but painted people as they were, in situations that had happened. And one that hadn’t. She would use art to make a political statement. To shock and to challenge. It was all there, pre-painted on the double-sided three- by four-metre hoarding on the back of the float. The pictures everyone else thought it displayed – a series of working-class characters from Shakespeare – were on paper fixed to cover her own work. Paper she would rip down at the last minute, when she was in front of the reviewing stand. In front of Arthur Harkness himself. And the rest of them.
She would show them.
Chapter 53
Marchmain and his men had emerged in a Tube tunnel unlike any other with a short platform. On the tracks stood a single carriage covered in cobwebs and painted red, white and blue. The sign on the door said in large letter H.M.G ONLY. His Majesty’s Government.
They had moved cautiously along the tunnel aware of a low hum and the possibility that the switch they had tripped upstairs to restore power and lighting to the lift shaft might have been a master, in which case the rails could be live too. He doubted it but you could not be too sure.
As soon as he detected voices, the tunnel ahead of them flooded with light and the men from the Department, as designated, raised either their megaphones or their automatic weapons. Marchmain was prepared for trouble, but also knew the shock effect of blinding light and commanding authority. He was not, however, prepared for the lunatic who launched himself out into full target range and with a levelled pistol fired immediately and directly at the source of the light. One of the arc carriers collapsed in a shattering of glass while the other automatically ducked, sending his beam bouncing around the platform ahead like the illumination for some surreal disco.
In the dancing beam the colonel could see people diving in panic for shelter. He ordered his men to fire a volley into the air. He wanted to capture, rather than kill, if at all possible.
The bright beam steadied, its crouching bearer regaining courage and equilibrium. It picked out an extraordinary vignette. A tall man, holding a small, elderly woman, with a gun held tightly by the side of her head, pointed forward but still too close to her temple to be of comfort to her. The pair had moved towards the platform edge, into full range of Marchmain’s armed men. At that moment he recognised Benjamin Fairweather.
‘Wait. Hold your fire,’ Fairweather called in an unmistakable American accent. ‘I think we can negotiate.’
Just what the American thought he could negotiate Col Marchmain was never to know. At that precise moment the little old woman he was clasping tightly lurched to the side with all her weight. There was not much of it, but enough. For a millisecond they teetered on the platform edge, then toppled off, still locked in that unlikely embrace, to fall across the tracks. They must have touched both live rails simultaneously, although one alone would have been fatal. A flash of arcing electricity shot blue and white across the ground and briefly up one wall, accompanied by a sudden smell of cooking that rapidly became the stench of burnt flesh.
Then there was quiet. Marchmain surveyed the deserted platform ahead and cursed. The rats had run off into their hidey-holes. He doubted that they could go far, or fast. Even so, he ordered his men to advance quickly onto the platform to scour the side passages and investigate possible escape routes, using all necessary force to prevent flight, while he himself stepped slowly towards the smoking charred remains that lay across the track, careful not to touch the live rail himself.
It was not a pleasant sight. The voltage had sent their muscles into spasm, drawing their cheeks back in horrible grins, blackening their flesh. Marchmain felt sorry. He would much have preferred to have had a long conversation with the American, at his leisure and in a place of his choosing.
Who the little old lady was, he had no idea.
Chapter 54
From a pool of shadow Harry Stark watched in spellbound horror as the American and the old lady toppled from the platform onto the live rails. It had been no accident. She had pushed them both. He turned his eyes to where Lizzie had been, anticipating her grief. What he saw was her crouching against the wall in the furthest recess of the platform, gesturing frantically at him to come to her. Back along the platform the DoSS agents had lined up several of the others against the wall and were frisking them.
‘Come on,’ she shouted.
Behind her a steel door was set in the wall. She turned a round airlock-style handle and it swung open.
‘Your grandmother … The others …’
‘I know. But it wasn’t an accident. You saw. She made a decision. She was a brave woman, but she was old and losing blood. A choice between the Americans and the DoSS wouldn’t have looked very appealing. Hurry up. There’s nothing we can do for anyone right now.’
‘Where are we going?’
Stark was already talking to a retreating back. He followed it as best he could into yet another dark tunnel.
‘Tell me the truth, Harry. You didn’t lead them here?’
‘Of course not.’
‘You brought the American.’
She couldn’t see him, but Stark hung his head, then shook it even though she wasn’t looking at him: ‘That was stupid. You have to believe me, I had no idea. No idea about any of it. I’m still not sure I see straight.’
‘Who can? It’s not a straightforward world. How did the bloody DoSSers get here?’
‘No idea. Honestly. I don’t even know where we are, other than a crude guess. Was that really true, what the American said, that that was a Deep Level Shelter used by Eisenhower?’
‘Probably. It makes sense, given Malcolm’s grasp of the layout.’
‘The layout?’
‘Come on. You’ll see. But shut up. We want to hope they stay in the main tunnel, especially as it looks like they’ve put the power back into the rails all the way.’
They had gone about fifty metres before Stark asked the question he wanted answered.
‘All the way to where?’
‘All the way to Churchill’s bunker. Upon a time, anyway. This is part of a whole mesh of tunnels that they began in the 1930s and rapidly expanded after the outbreak of war. They were working on them right up until 1949, worried as hell that the other side would develop nuclear weapons first.’
‘I thought anything like that had been filled in.’
‘Most have. Now it runs into rubble and concrete. The whole area where the bunker was located was gone over with a fine-toothed comb in case there was any sign of a corpse. His corpse.’
‘But I though it was burnt.’
‘It was. But the Russians almost certainly found the remains. With a Colt 45 bullet in the head. Convenient, Churchill’s personal weapon was a Colt 45, same gun issued to just about every American officer. Suited the suicide story.’
‘So where are we going?’
‘Wherever Malcolm’s gone? He knows more about these tunnels than almost anyone. His job at the Library gives him amazing access to old documents. He almost certainly knows another way out. He told me there were several emergency staircases to the surface. It would help if we had a light.’
‘Here,’ said Stark. ‘Take this.’ She turned and he tossed her Fairweather’s penlight. She clicked the switch and a thin, high-powered beam darted into the distance, showing a bifurcation in the concrete-walled tunnel.
‘Good,’ said Lizzie. ‘This is where I thought we were. Most of the original government tunnels were like this, pedestrian only. That one leads to the old local telephone exchange underneath Northumberland Avenue and once probably linked through to Downing Street, the Bunker, maybe even the old Houses of Parliament. All the ones that lead under the frontier were blocked off when they built the Wall. You can only get so far in any direction. This one led to the Admira
lty. Stops before the Arch of course, but I’m betting Malcolm knows something. Now shut up and don’t waste your breath.’
Stark did as he was told. For the next few minutes they ran in silence, the penlight’s beam dancing off the walls in front of them until they rounded a corner and its narrow clear beam illuminated a man kneeling at the foot of a fixed ladder.
‘Malcolm. Thank God. Is there a way out …?’ Lizzie’s question evaporated as she spoke. ‘What … what are you doing?’
From above, dangling down alongside the rungs of the fixed ladder were wires. Wires that Malcolm, the Museum Man, was busy attaching to some primitive apparatus of chunky batteries that could only be one thing. A homemade detonator.
‘I’m going to blow out the candles on their fucking birthday cake, that’s what I’m doing.’
‘What?’
‘Up there,’ he flicked his head upwards. ‘Strapped to the underside of a manhole cover, an old concealed escape exit that just happens to be in front of the National Gallery where old Arthur and his mates are stood to attention. Fertiliser and sugar, not exactly gelignite, and not enough to take out the podium, but enough to show we’re not all slaves prepared to line up and march past our masters.’
‘Malcolm, you can’t. You know Kate’s there.’
Kate. Stark’s blood ran cold. His little sister. Of course, the college float. She would be there. He glanced at his watch. Any minute now.
‘She’s doing it for us.’
Doing what? Stark’s gaze flicked from one to the other. Neither paid him any attention.
‘It’s no good. Not enough. All they understand is force. Even this isn’t enough. But it’s a start. Why is he here anyway?’
‘He’s on our side.’
