Blow the House Down

by John Blackburn

  ‘I realized that high ground was dangerous before either of you were born, and not by reading municipal records or anemometer figures either. I studied the terrain with my naked eyes and used the brains God gave me.’ He nodded towards an aerial photograph of the Heights which showed that their spires protruded well above both walls of the valley.

  ‘I’ll tell you a story to demonstrate how I discovered that. Before I got to college, I worked for a firm of timber merchants as a hooker-­on; that’s the lad who chains logs to the tow. We was on piece work and all sweating our guts out: all except one chap called “Monkey” Metcalf. He really did look like a monkey and he was a drunk and a layabout who hardly did a hand’s turn. Yet, on payday, old “Monk” took home more brass than a skilled timber-­feller or a teamster. After a while I asked the boss the reason, and he told me that “Monkey” wasn’t paid to work with his hands, because he had the gift of using his eyes. Drunk or sober the old chap could walk through an acre of woodland and calculate how many cubic foot of sound timber it contained.

  ‘And I’ve got a trained eye like Metcalf, Gordon. That’s how I know that, given the exact meteorological conditions of wind force and direction, the terrain is bound to create violent turbulence.’

  ‘You knew? You admit that you knew the danger all the time?’ Janet stared at him in bewilderment. Could Strand’s sudden changes of speech and manner hint at mental disturbance? Was their original notion true, perhaps? Had there been an earlier stroke and was he senile before he started to design the Heights? ‘Yet you went ahead and allowed them to build on that site; right in the path of the turbulence.’

  ‘Quite correct, my dear. You’ll understand why in a moment, but I want to get things into their right perspective before I explain. The Skulda is a fine strong gale, but it has no connection with what we saw produced in the wind tunnel. That was a freak phenomenon which just couldn’t happen in nature; almost earthquake conditions were simulated – they would flatten the pyramids.’ He chuckled and knocked back the rest of his brandy. ‘Though the model might have stood up to it for quite a while, if Joe Pinter had taken the trouble to reproduce my design accurately and include balustrades.

  ‘No, just you keep quiet and listen for a change, Gordon.’ He shook his head at Paul’s attempted interruption and held out the glass. ‘Top us up again, Mary, there’s a good girl.

  ‘What I’m going to tell you is to be kept in the strictest confidence, because there’s been too much scaremongering already. First the wind tunnel going haywire, then Baylis with his bomb, and now talk of some secret society on the warpath. If those blocks are ever to be occupied, there must be no more stupid statements in the newspapers or on that contraption.’ He scowled at the silent television set. The square was filling up, three lines of police separating the marchers from a smaller group – probably Martin Judson’s contingent.

  ‘Thanks, Mary. Now fetch me the November issue of last year’s Civil Engineering Gazette.’ She had refilled the glass and again Strand’s face altered as she hurried over to a bookcase. He still looked arrogant and self-­assured, but tired too: tired and battered like a boxer who has won by a chance knockout after taking terrible punishment against the ropes.

  ‘When Mike Mallory first approached me, I didn’t want to have anything to do with the project; you know that, well enough. I’m that rare being, both an architect and a civil engineer, and I’d always designed structures with some nobility about ’em: bridges and dams and railway tunnels and theatres. Rabbit hutches, boxes to house the “too-­many”, wasn’t in my line at all, and what Mallory suggested was eight separate blocks, only ten storeys high, which would occupy all the waste land below Priory Bridge.

  ‘Ta, love.’ Mary Strand had found the periodical and laid it on the arm of his chair.

  ‘A right nerve Mallory had, bothering me with a piffling scheme that any small-­time draughtsman could have drawn up for him. But a few days later I suddenly remembered how, years ago, I’d studied the lie of the land and realized that the legend must be based on fact. From that moment the Skulda became a personal challenge and I knew that the Heights had to be built; that those towers would be my swan song, my last major work. I told Mike Mallory exactly what he could do with his ten-­storey hutches, but said I would design something really fine, if they gave me the chance: a skyscraper standing on open ground which would be a wonder of the whole bloody world. Aye, it was because of the turbulence that I wanted to create the Heights.

  ‘Now, let’s get shot of this South American business.’ Strand was thumbing through the journal. ‘There was no need for you to waste public money telephoning East Germany, Miss Fane, here’s the information in black and white: the Santa Anna building in La Libertad which was lowered and braced on Erich Lansberg’s sound professional advice.’

  ‘You say sound advice, Sir George.’ Paul gaped at him. ‘I don’t understand you. If Lansberg was right . . . if the valley has the same characteristics as the Selva . . .’

  ‘You’ll understand if you use your eyes, like I did, young man.’ Strand held the Gazette out to him. ‘Try to ignore the fact that the Santa Anna building has three towers instead of two, that the bridges carry no load, and tell me how the basic design differs from mine.’

  ‘The conceptions are certainly similar.’ Paul studied a photograph and the specifications printed below it. ‘Almost identical stress factors apply and the same bracing methods have been used. The slabs are all supported by bored piles; these were sunk to a depth of twenty-­seven metres, while you only needed twenty-­three for the Heights. In both cases a form of reinforced system construction was employed.’

  ‘Fair enough, but what about the exteriors of the towers, my boy?’ Strand was looking up at the oil painting above the mantelpiece. ‘How do they differ?’

  ‘The roof of this building is copper, marble facings were used, the balconies are only three metres wide and they continue around each tower without a break.’

  ‘Good, you’re getting warmer at last.’ Strand sniffed at his brandy. ‘Our balconies extend a full fifteen feet out from the towers, don’t they? Mallory’s dream of rooms in the open air, my dream of harnessing the elements. They are all spaced, and the balustrades, omitted in Pinter’s model, are set at an angle. Balustrade is a misnomer, of course; on the Heights both the side and end walls have no pillars and are solid sheets of alloy, but I’ve always disliked the word parapet when applied to a balcony wall.

  ‘Most local people who know the legend – Joe Pinter is one of ’em – consider it stuff and nonsense and don’t give the Skulda a thought. But Mike Mallory is a bit of an antiquary and he suspected that the story was based on fact and that extreme turbulence might hit the neighbourhood from time to time. However, after I’d explained how I’d studied the terrain and worked out a method to control the phenomenon, he realized that my trick – gimmick, you might call it – would work.’ Strand watched Janet leave her chair and walk across to the fireplace.

  ‘Aye, Mike had faith in me all right, though he lost it for a while during that damned wind-­tunnel scare. He pushed the scheme through committee and, better still, he kept his mouth shut, just as you’re going to do.

  ‘Is the penny starting to drop at last, my dear? Are you nearly home and dry?’ He smiled at Janet who was staring up at the pictures above the mantelpiece. ‘Do you realize that when the Skulda blows, my Heights will stand because I’ve drawn the dragon’s teeth?’

  ‘I think I understand, Sir George.’ Janet frowned at the oil painting and then at the photograph of the Heights, and she saw that the pictures had a striking similarity: the revolving sails of a windmill and the jutting balconies of a stationary building. They each made her think of the blades of a turbine, a machine which derives its name and power from turbulence. She turned to him with deep humility. ‘The balconies are the trick, aren’t they, Sir George?’

  ‘Clever girl. You’re dead right, and your fool of a boss hasn’t half your brains.’
Strand nodded happily. ‘Pinter never realized that the Skulda was a fact, and he kept moaning about the balconies from the word Go. He said that they were unnecessarily wide and the gaps between ’em wasted valuable space. He never saw that they were my inbuilt safety devices; the way to tame a dragon.’ He waved his crippled hand towards Paul.

  ‘I don’t have to tell you that it’s not actual wind velocity, but short, violent gusts that threaten high buildings; any schoolboy knows that much. Well, them balconies are designed to deflect the wind away from the towers, and there’s more to it than that.

  ‘In the spaces separating them a back pressure will be created and it will build up to unify the gusts and turn them into a constant spiral of air which can do no damage at all.

  ‘You won’t get final proof till the Skulda blows, lad, but I know my job and I trust I’ve done a little bit towards lulling your fears.’

  ‘You have, and I hope you’ll accept my apologies, Sir George.’ Paul was beside Janet looking at the photograph, and he felt as though he had just been fitted with a stronger pair of spectacles. In certain lights, the balconies created an impression that the building was in motion. That was why he had listened to Lansberg. That was the illusion that had made him think there was something sinister about the appearance of Mallory Heights. Now he knew that George Strand had created a complete work of art. He also knew why the gimmick had to be kept secret. However effective the protection, no tenants would feel safe if they were told that their entire safety depended on those slim slabs of reinforced concrete. Whatever happened, the Skulda must remain a myth.

  ‘But is anything the matter, sir?’ Paul had turned and held out his hand, but George Strand did not appear to see or hear him. He was staring at the television and his face was stricken.

  ‘Turn it up, Mary. For the love of God turn it up, child.’ The brandy glass dropped from his fingers when the volume came on.

  ‘A deep depression which is moving down the North Channel should reach the Randel­wyck area later this evening.’ The announcer was standing before a weather chart and pointing towards a circle in the north-­west by north. ‘Heavy rain and winds of exceptional violence are expected.’

  ‘Lies – bloody lies. Aye, that’s what it is.’ Strand’s voice was part groan, part cackle. ‘A trick to try and get those demonstrators to disperse quietly. Clever fellow, our Chief Constable. Gales at this time of the year, indeed. From the north-­west by north, too. Damned nonsense.’ He reached out and pulled his wife down on to his knees.

  ‘Yes, Roger Rawlinson will have told them to make that announcement, Mary. The Skulda only comes in winter and early spring. That proves his lie. A downy bird is Roger Rawlinson, lass.’ His tired eyes begged her young ones for reassurance, and Paul’s and Janet’s earlier forebodings returned. However brilliant Strand’s scheme to tame the elements might be, with a test in sight, he appeared to have suddenly lost faith in it.

  From behind the curtained windows came a bellow of thunder and the rattle of rain on glass.

  17

  In a few minutes Allan Trevor should be ready to talk. The room overlooked a yard at the back of the police station and Stephen Dealer stood watching the fine rain drift down on to the roof of the bicycle shed, the dustbins, and the parked cars.

  Trevor was very quiet. Dealer glanced at his watch while he listened to the faint breathing, but he didn’t turn round. He had read up on the ‘truth drug’ and he knew that the time factors and the first approach were all important.

  A strong little man, was Allan Trevor. Much much stronger than he had imagined possible. Sergeant Jones had once boxed middleweight for the Welsh Guards, but it had taken him all his time to hold Trevor in the chair while he, himself, had pulled up his sleeve and injected the Pentothal into a vein.

  Very, very strong and not a nice little man at all. From the moment he realized what they intended to do, the mild cooperative mask had been torn aside and Trevor’s true personality was revealed. He had every reason to feel frightened and angered by their treatment, but the screams and curses and almost animal fury had been quite unexpected. Dealer dabbed his right cheek with his handkerchief. Even with Jones pinioning him, Trevor had managed to break free for an instant and slash out with his nails. The bleeding had almost stopped but the scratches were still painful.

  But after three minutes the drug started to work and Trevor became quiet; perhaps too quiet. If the dose had been too much for his small body, he might remain unconscious till its effect wore off, they would learn nothing, and Dealer’s career would be at an end. The same applied if Trevor were innocent, but he had few worries on that score.

  ‘Ah, you’ve woken up, Allan.’ Jones had signalled by clearing his throat, and Dealer turned with a smile and walked towards him. It was vital to adopt a firm but friendly manner at the start of the interrogation.

  ‘Have you had a good sleep? I do hope so, because you were very tired and Emrys and I have been rather worried about you.’ Dealer was a stickler for protocol, having come from a working-­class home and deeply resenting it. Using Jones’s first name came hard, but it was necessary in the cause of duty.

  ‘Yes, we’ve been worried about Allan, haven’t we, Emrys? He seemed to have lost all trust and forgotten who his real friends are.’ He also had to force himself to appear pleasant to Trevor, for whom he had developed a personal loathing. ‘But that’s all over now, isn’t it, Allan? You’ve slept well, and you know we are your friends – that you can have complete faith in us.’

  ‘Friends – friends? You, my friends?’ Apart from the staring eyes Trevor’s face looked as lifeless as a death mask, and it was almost with surprise that Dealer saw his lips move.

  ‘Naturally we are your friends, Allan.’ Dealer held out his hand to show the two crossed signal flags he had recently inked on to the palm. ‘We and the other “Sailormen” are the only friends you have. How else do you think we knew that you killed Lansberg?’

  ‘Lansberg – the German professor? You must be one of us if you know about him, I suppose.’ The narrow forehead puckered while he concentrated. ‘I wish James Baylis had told me more about Lansberg. I never wanted to harm him, you see. I pleaded for information at the beginning; James would only keep repeating that I was under orders from the “Sailor­man” and I had to obey them.’ There was misery in the drugged face and Dealer could imagine the constant pleas and orders of his workaday life. ‘This new line in sofa suites, sir; you can’t go wrong with that. They are selling like hot cakes in London.’ ‘Fill that bloody order book next week, Trevor, or find yourself another job. If you think you can, with the reference I’ll give you.’ Allan Trevor, unsuccessful salesman on commission. Lonely and unloved and unbalanced: a sad man till one day he had met another maniac, been given a cause to cherish and grown evil. He looked up at Dealer with sudden awe in his face. ‘Are you the leader – the “Sailorman” himself, Major?’

  ‘You know I’m not, and call me Stephen, because we’re friends, Allan.’ Dealer had been elated at the start of the session, but Trevor’s apparent lack of information was a body-­blow. ‘Now, prove that you trust me. Repeat the name of the leader, Allan. That is also an order.’

  ‘I trust you, I want to obey you, but I never knew the name, Stephen. I only spoke to him twice; on the telephone. He was with James Baylis and told me that I had to do what James said because Lansberg was a threat – a danger.’ His eyelids started to flicker while he spoke. ‘Lansberg knew of our plans, and he had to be stopped. If he talked the blight would spread – the disease – foulness festering, breeding in Mallory’s towers of darkness. Lansberg realized how the Heights would be brought down, and I had to kill him.

  ‘Please give me a glass of water, Stephen, I feel so tired and my body is drying up.’

  ‘Of course, you are tired, but soon you will go back to sleep.’ Dealer held the glass to his lips. ‘How did Lansberg discover that Baylis would try to sabotage the Heights?’

  ‘Did he disco
ver that, Major . . . Stephen . . . Steve? I don’t think he could have done, because he died, didn’t he? I killed him myself – with this.’ He lifted his right hand and examined it as though it was a curious object he had never seen before.

  ‘It was easy, Stephen. I didn’t think I could do it at first. Years ago when I first met James, when we found that we shared the same fears and he introduced me to our great crusade, I became so strong and full of happiness. But while I was waiting outside the hotel for Lansberg I thought I couldn’t kill him. I was about to walk away and defy the “Sailorman” himself, but God helped me.’ Outside, thunder rumbled over the town and when it had passed they heard wind rattle the windows and heavy rain beating on the area floor.

  ‘I looked up at the two hideous towers and I saw God’s hand pointed against them and I knew that I was His instrument. When I lowered my eyes, Lansberg was coming down the steps from the hotel and I realized he was drunk; filthily drunk. He was staggering when he crossed the pavement, and slobbering at the mouth. I stood behind him and I could smell him while we waited: a reek of stale alcohol that sickened me so much that I had to fight not to vomit.’ Trevor’s bloodless lips crawled like white worms. ‘Then, when I raised my hand – God’s hand – it didn’t feel as though I were touching a man, but as if there was an obscene animal body hidden under the clothes. Just one push and it was all over. I’ve always been strong, Steve, you know that, but I never imagined I could kill anything so easily.’