Blow the House Down

by John Blackburn

  ‘Is it, indeed.’ He almost snatched the receiver from her hand. ‘Now, we’ll know the truth.

  ‘George Strand here, Roger. I’m glad you rang because I want to know about that damned lying weather report you’ve had put out. It was inaccurate, of course? The wind’s not blowing from the exact north-­west by north, is it?

  ‘No, Roger, I’ll listen to you in a moment, but tell me about that forecast first. It was just a ruse, wasn’t it? An exaggeration to disperse those marchers?

  ‘What? What?’ Strand’s face was turned away from her, but Janet saw his head sink lower and lower into his massive shoulders till he appeared almost deformed. ‘Thank you, Roger. Now, what’s this urgent news?

  ‘Good God! Good God Almighty!’ He stared up at his wife who was holding the telephone stand for him.

  ‘Thousands of the young devils, eh, and you’re quite power­less to get them out. That’s not my concern, Roger. I wasn’t responsible for the interior fittings or decorations.

  ‘Oh, I see. Yes, that’s serious all right, but the emergency switch is electrically operated from the mains sub-­station in Pickford Road, and the tanks can be emptied in seven minutes flat. Get ’em to start pumping right away.

  ‘What the hell do you mean? The bastards did what? Come on, I’m listening, Roger. Are you there? Roger, I can’t hear you? Hell’s bells.’ He reached out and banged the rest up and down.

  ‘Try and get through to the police station again, Mary, but I think the lines have gone dead.’ He turned his head and Janet and Paul were struck by the change in him. After the weather report, George Strand had appeared tired and irritable and worried. Now there was something almost puckish and determined in his face. He made Janet think of some Falstaffian warrior preparing for battle.

  ‘This is quite a night for us. Those marchers are creating merry hell and have got the better of Rawlinson’s brave boys in black for the time being. They’ve wrecked the bus depot and the town hall, and judging by the way the line went dead, the telephone exchange too. But what concerns us is that they’ve broken into the Heights.

  ‘You can stop rattling that thing, Mary, and help me up.’ He grasped her arm and pulled himself from the chair. ‘The gas tanks were refilled after your search, Gordon?’

  ‘Yes, Sir George.’ The news had also brought Paul and Janet to their feet. ‘They were pumped up to full pressure last night.’

  ‘And they can’t be emptied into the mains either. Apparently some of the louts charged a police cordon with a van which overturned and smashed an electricity junction box. There’s no power in that area till they get it fixed.

  ‘There’s more to come, Miss Fane.’ He grinned at Janet’s obvious anxiety. ‘It seems some intelligence major with a damn fool name I can’t remember, believes that there’s going to be another sabotage attempt by setting off a blow-­back to explode the tanks. I don’t believe a word of that, but we’d better get down there right away. Fetch me my hat and coat, Mary.’

  ‘No, George. Please don’t go out – not on a night like this. It could be the death of you.’ A sudden flurry of rain beat on the windows to drive home her point. ‘Mr Gordon can tell them what to do.’

  ‘Don’t argue with me, girl. I’m due to die pretty soon anyway, and I’m not missing the fun.’ Strand’s eyes twinkled as she walked off and he was clearly enjoying himself hugely. ‘I couldn’t care less if a rabble of degenerates get roasted, but no domestic gas is going to blow up my Heights, unless I give the word.

  ‘Thanks, Mary, love.’ He chuckled while she helped him on with a heavy overcoat and adjusted a muffler around his neck. ‘You two came here by car, I suppose? Good. My chauffeur is an old crock like me and I don’t want to drag him out.

  ‘And with those hooligans on the rampage, we’d best take along a bit of life insurance.’ Strand opened a bureau drawer and produced a heavy automatic pistol. ‘If I have to use this beauty, it won’t be the first time; nor the second, either.

  ‘But I forgot to tell you about the weather report. For once I was wrong and it’s quite genuine. The wind is blowing directly from the north-­west by north and should reach gale force within an hour or so.’ He had checked that the clip was full and slipped the automatic into his pocket.

  ‘Pretty soon you’ll all be able to see how a Strand building behaves against the Skulda.’

  Paul drove as fast as he dared, but it was a slow journey to Randel­wyck. Though the rain lessened while they were crossing the lower slopes of Billon Tor, the wind increased as the town came into view. At times he had to fight to keep on the road as gust after gust came howling over the moor and caught the car body.

  But at last they were there and it was like entering a besieged city. In the suburbs every blind and curtain was tightly drawn, the shop windows were in darkness and the street lamps gleamed dully on low current. Very few vehicles were to be seen and they did not pass a single pedestrian. The inhabitants of Randel­wyck were cowering behind locked doors and only the wind was abroad. It tore at the shrubs in the neat suburban gardens, and swept down the squalid ‘long rows’ as if revelling in the city’s agony.

  ‘You can take it easy, young man. I’ve no wish to die in a motor accident.’ Paul had skidded round a corner and Strand spoke for the first time since they had left his house. ‘I’ve been making a few mental calculations just now. A lot of windows are bound to have been broken, and even if this sabotage attempt is a possibility, which I doubt, the gas density will be negligible. The explosion won’t cause too much structural damage, though we can hope for a satisfactory death roll, if it does occur.’

  ‘Don’t talk like that, George, you know you don’t mean it.’ Through the driving mirror Paul saw Mary Strand press his hand, but he pulled it away from her.

  ‘I mean every word I say, Mary; always have. It’s not meaning anything that’s going to ruin the world. Liberalism: the cult of “I don’t know, so let the other chap do what he likes.” That’s the spineless attitude which allows riots like this to happen.’

  They were approaching the centre of the town and Strand pulled himself more upright. Across the street the windows of a big supermarket had been broken and ambulances and police cars were stationed before them. Two ambulance men were lifting a body on to a stretcher, but whether it was alive or dead, male or female, there was no time to tell.

  ‘It’s like the London blitz; just like that.’ A stench of burning wafted through the heater vent and Janet gave a little choking cough. Paul turned another corner and the bus depot came into view. Behind a line of fire engines and police vehicles two big coaches were still smouldering.

  ‘At least the police are in control here.’ The wheels lurched over broken bricks and rubble that had been used as missiles, and Janet clutched the dashboard to steady herself. No rioters could be seen, and everywhere uniforms and official vehicles were in evidence. ‘Let’s hope they’ve managed to clear the Heights too.’

  ‘They won’t have, my dear.’ Strand spoke with complete confidence. ‘Our friends will sit tight and register their protest like the public-­spirited young men and women they are. We’ll know in a few seconds.’

  They had started to cross a bridge, and Paul wrenched the wheel as a gust swirled up the river and buffeted the car. The rain had stopped, and clear ahead lay the north tower with searchlights playing on its darkened windows. Strange orange flecks were glowing from some of the balconies: Strand’s gimmicks on which the safety of the building depended. ‘But it’s on fire already.’

  ‘Don’t be daft, lad.’ Both towers were in plain sight and Strand leaned forward. ‘Apart from a few minor fittings there’s no combustible material in the place. But there’ll be decorators’ stores still there and paint and turps can make wooden doors burn nicely. The boys and girls have lit bonfires to show how powerful they are.’

  ‘You have been warned.’ The words came in harsh gasps, distorted by the loudspeakers and the wind, but just recognizable as Alderman Mallory’s
. ‘There is every chance of a major gas explosion at any moment, so come out at once. You are risking your lives by remaining where you are.’ His voice broke off and was followed by a long, gibbering, chattering roar: the occupying army demonstrating its distrust and contempt of authority.

  ‘Oh, it’s you, Sir George.’ A crowd of onlookers was held back by lines of police and the street was cordoned off. Paul had stopped; a sergeant shone his flashlamp into the car and nodded. ‘The Chief Constable is over there to your right.’ He waved them through and Paul drove slowly across the stretch of wasteland surrounding the building which had been cleared in preparation for lawns and flower-­beds.

  ‘Good of you to come, George.’ Rawlinson helped Strand out of the car. Behind him stood Dealer and Renton, and Mallory who was still speaking into the microphone. The wind was driving his words back from the towers and each indistinct sentence was answered by jeers and catcalls and chants.

  ‘Just what are we to do, George? It’ll be half an hour before the power comes on again, and if Major Dealer’s theory is right, the gas tanks could blow at any moment. There must be well over six thousand kids inside the building; the blacks in the north towers and whites in the south.’

  ‘How appropriate. Mike Mallory’s dream of racial unity at last fulfilled. “In death they were not divided.” ’ Strand stood watching the searchlights sweep across the walls. On every balcony groups of figures capered and danced and waved banners. Rising above the jeers and catcalls came a steady chant from the ‘Maoists’. ‘Out – out – old men out – Ho, Ho, Ho Chi Minh.’

  ‘I should advise you to do nothing, Roger. But if you want to indulge in heroics, the solution is simple.’ Strand tightened his muffler. ‘The emergency release valve is situated between the two towers and can be operated manually. Open the valve and the gas will be dispersed.’

  ‘We know that, George. I’ve got the key. But those young devils are ready to kill anyone who goes near them. They’ve torn out every movable fitting they could, and when we tried to rush the towers earlier on, they let fly from the balconies. Three of my men were injured and I can’t order them to go under that barrage again.’

  ‘We’re here, because we’re here. We’re here, because we’re here.’ The chant had changed to a First World War song and Paul studied the distance to the valve housing. He had little sympathy with the demonstrators; Strand’s callous indifference was probably justified, as was Rawlinson’s caution. Why should men risk their lives for a rabble of teenage delinquents?

  ‘We’re here, because we’re here, because – we’re here, because – we’re here.’ Paul walked over to the car, remembering how he himself had demonstrated in his student days; the elation produced by a mixture of self-­assertion and a desire to put the world to rights. As he had hoped, the bottle of whisky in the glove compartment was still a quarter full. Crouching well forward so that no one could see him, he raised the mouth to his lips and did not lower it till the bottle was empty. With the chants ringing in his ears and his eyes fixed on the building which might turn itself into one vast bomb at any moment, he waited for Dutch courage to arrive. When it came, he turned and walked back to the group of watchers. ‘May I have the key to the valve locker, Commander Rawlinson?

  ‘Thank you.’ Taking care not to look at Janet, he slipped it into his pocket and ran.

  Paul knew that the distance he had to cover was almost exactly four hundred yards, but they felt like four miles. His feet slipped and slithered on the uneven ground, which was littered with rubble and bogged by the earlier rain; gusts of wind tugged at his jacket, and at every stride the chanting, jeering voices, maddened by drink and drugs and triumph, grew louder and more threatening, ‘Out – Out – Out – Ho, Ho, Ho Chi Minh.’ Once he stumbled and fell to his knees, twice he almost decided to turn back and he never knew what drove him on. Pride perhaps, animal stubbornness, a quarter of Johnny Walker Black Label in his belly; hadn’t an Austrian savant once said that little is known about the chemistry of fear except that it is highly soluble in alcohol?

  The hatch was below the centre of the lower bridge, and as he approached a searchlight swept along its parapet to show a line of faces: the black faces of Mahomet N’genza’s ‘Lions’ howling their fury when they saw him. The barrage opened: bottles and paint tins, window glass, door panels and a pair of decorators’ steps which had been soaked in white spirit and set alight. The steps crashed straight in front of him, blazing like a torch, but somehow he stumbled over the flames and under the shelter of the bridge.

  The hatch was secured by a padlock which opened easily and when he threw back the cover the blazing steps behind him provided all the light he needed. The gauge was at full pressure, showing that so far no taps had been opened, which was one comfort. He knelt down and grasped the control wheel. Once the valve was released, seven minutes would be needed to remove the danger of a gas explosion.

  ‘Damnation!’ The wheel was set solid and Paul muttered in frustration. ‘Damn the man who was supposed to check the valve.’ However much he fought and struggled, the wheel remained locked. ‘Damn the bastard who slopped paint around the joints and allowed it to harden. Damn you, yourself, for not having the sense to bring a wrench or a lever, Paul Gordon.’ His breath came in gasps, his arms were ceasing to obey him and before his eyes the pressure gauge mocked his efforts. One more try and he would give up and face No Man’s Land again. Paul flexed his muscles for the final attempt, knowing full well that it would end in failure, and then swung round.

  ‘ ’Avin’ a bit o’ trouble, chum?’ A nasal Cockney accent had replaced the clipped tones of Sandhurst, and Paul didn’t recognize Major Dealer at first.

  ‘Need an ’and to turn that, do yer?’ Dealer had not escaped the bombardment from the bridge and blood was trickling from a cut in his forehead.

  ‘Move over a bit then.’ He knelt down and Paul caught the pleasant odour of lavender-­scented hair cream. ‘Right, when I count three, give the bitch all you’ve got, mate.

  ‘One – two – three. ’Ere she goes.’ The wheel turned beneath their joint efforts, the valve opened and the pressure gauge slowly started to fall.

  ‘Good show, Gordon.’ With that emergency over Dealer’s usual accent had returned. ‘Let’s get the hell out of here, old boy, but employ a bit of strategy this time. I’m not running under the centre of that bridge again, so we’ll work across to the left where they’re not expecting us.’ He led the way to the wall of the north tower and paused with a smile.

  ‘You okay, Gordon? Got your breath back? Right, let’s go.’ He started to run forward towards the searchlight, tripped over an obstacle and fell.

  Paul did not see what caught Dealer off balance, but he heard him swear, swung round to see him pull himself up, and then go down again, because something had come hurtling down from the upper storeys, caught him in the back and disintegrated into fragments: the brand new television set presented to Jack and Hilda Baxter by the Rotary Club.

  Paul knelt beside him, hearing Stephen Dealer say – try to say – ‘ ’Ook it, chum. I’m a goner – the bleeders have bust me spine, so for Gawd’s sake leave me be. I can’t move me soddin’ legs no more, so ’ook it.’ Then there was no more movement from Dealer’s lips, no flutter from his pulse; not breath, but blood came from his mouth; Dealer was dead.

  Paul stood up and impotently shook his fist at the murderers he might have helped to save. Missiles were being directed at him now and one of them was on fire. He watched it come swirling down from the tower, pause in flight as though tied to elastic and shoot back the way it had come: a roll of spirit-­soaked wall­paper sucked up by the turbulence that Strand had harnessed. He turned and stumbled away to safety.

  20

  ‘I wish I’d done nothing. I wish the gas had exploded. I wish the bastards were being roasted alive this minute.’ Janet’s arms were around him, the Chief Constable had pressed a brandy flask into his hand, George Strand was smiling with cynical benevolence
. Beyond their faces Paul could still picture the blood dribbling from between Stephen Dealer’s lips.

  ‘Changed your tune, young man?’ The wind howled in added fury and Strand’s heavy overcoat was tugging at his shoulders. ‘I think I once told you that heroism is all very well in its place, but to risk your life for vermin is plain stupidity.’ He jerked his thumb towards the south tower. A red flag was flying on its roof and more fittings and articles of furniture were being thrown from the balconies.

  ‘Let’s go to the car, George.’ Mary Strand’s words were barely audible against the gale and the voices chanting from the building. ‘Mr Gordon is so tired and you must get into the warm. Please, George.’

  ‘Aye, you’re right, lass. We can watch the spectacle in comfort.’ Strand looked at his wrist watch. ‘Won’t be long now before the Skulda really shows what it can do.

  ‘Nay, hang on to Roger’s flask, Gordon. You may have made a rare fool of yourself, but you’ve earned a drink more than he has, and I can do with a swig or two meself.’ He walked ponderously back to the car and lowered himself on to the rear seat.

  ‘That’s better, and I’ll have a pull at the brandy now.’ Strand took the flask from Paul and raised it to his lips. ‘Quite a sight, ain’t it, Mary love. I hope Betty is enjoying herself as much as I am. She’ll feel right proud of her old dad before this night’s out.’

  ‘Betty is dead, George.’ Mary Strand shook her head. ‘You must try and forget her, darling. She died ten years ago.’

  ‘You’re wrong, lass. It will be twelve years come February since they killed her.’ He watched the searchlights moving across the Heights. ‘But don’t you think that real love can bring the dead back sometimes? I believe that, Mary, and I’m quite sure that my Betty is here with us now.’

  ‘Paul, are you all right?’ He was sitting slumped over the steering wheel and Janet looked at him with concern. ‘Nothing hit you when you were under the bridges?’