Blow the House Down

by John Blackburn

  ‘No, Jan, but something should have hit me.’ Above the swirling clouds a big white moon was creeping over the valley and three images appeared like superimposed photographs between Paul’s eyes and the towers. A second impression of Dealer’s dying face, the faces of his murderers craning from the balconies, but it was the third image that mattered: that he had to concentrate on.

  A roll of blazing wallpaper had fallen from the sky and then suddenly jerked back when the turbulence surrounding the building caught it and sucked it up again. A turbulence which Strand had tamed and rendered harmless with balconies that acted like the blades of a rotor: a turbine to control the elements. He closed his eyes for a moment and tried to force figures and formulae into his tired and befuddled brain.

  Gusts of wind deflected into a constant circular path by the actual shape of the building – by the balconies and the spaces between them which allowed Mallory Heights to ride out any storm that swept from Billon Tor, the place of the whirlwind. No, it was useless. He couldn’t concentrate; brandy and whisky and nervous exhaustion had made that impossible, and behind the formula he saw the pictures in Strand’s sitting-­room. A girl who had died and a windmill with proudly revolving sails.

  Had that windmill given Strand his first inspiration, Paul asked himself. Had its steady sails shown him the way to calm the Skulda? Had they also deceived him into making one error?

  ‘You said “they killed her”, Sir George.’ Paul had no idea why he asked the question, but somehow it seemed important. ‘I thought your daughter died after a long illness.’

  ‘She was ill, but they murdered her just the same, Gordon.’ Strand took another pull at the flask. ‘But what did you mean by saying “Something should have hit me”?’

  ‘Because it should have done, Sir George. A roll of burning paper was thrown from one of the flats, but it never reached the ground. About fifty feet above me, it halted in mid-­air and shot back; shot upwards.’

  ‘Did it indeed?’ Strand laid down the flask. ‘What do you consider such a strange phenomenon must signify, young man? That my whirlwind spirals vertically?’

  ‘It does, and that worries me because the balustrades lean out from the building at an angle. For ease of construction those on Spender-­Wade’s model were cemented to their stanchions by Epoxy resin, the strongest plastic adhesive there is. But on the building light rivets were used. If you have only planned against horizontal thrusts – if pressure is being directed against the balustrades from below and the rivets are too light . . .’ Paul broke off and his hand tightened around the steering wheel. From high up on the north tower something which was not an interior fitting or a piece of furniture had gone swirling out into the sky, and he remembered considering another and more sophisticated way in which the ‘Sailormen’ might have sought to destroy the Heights. Had some draughtsman, probably looking as mild and non­descript as Baylis had appeared, spotted the cleverness of Strand’s safety device and made an alteration in the plans that turned the gimmick into a death-­trap? ‘Sir George, did you check the final drawing and see if the balustrades were fitted according to your specifications?’

  ‘Naturally, Gordon. They are held by quarter-­inch, mild-­steel rivets set in the stanchions at intervals of three inches, as I specified.’ Strand swept back a lock of hair and the signet ring glinted under the interior light. ‘I also realized that the gusts would strike with a vertical thrust and planned accordingly. The outer faces of the balustrades are corrugated, remember. Why should I have specified that, do you suppose?’

  ‘I had thought they were purely decorative, but now I just don’t know what to think.’ The answer had removed Paul’s fears of sabotage, but another anxiety had replaced them, because Strand’s safety device acted in two ways. The balconies not only deflected the turbulence, they produced back pressure to assist them. But without balustrades, what would happen? If those slanting parapet walls were removed, surely the turbulence would not be turned away but directed straight against the heart of the building? Should that take place intolerable pressures would be built up in the V-­shaped spaces between the balconies, gusts would hammer at their under-­surfaces and the whole structure be subjected to a rocking, pounding motion.

  ‘Those corrugations won’t help to deflect the wind. They are more likely to catch it and overstrain the rivets.’ While he spoke Paul saw his fear substantiated. Another balustrade had been torn away, and a third was flapping madly against its stanchions. ‘Sir George, I think there is a chance that you may have made a terrible – a hideous miscalculation, after all.’

  ‘Stuff your impertinence, young man. I don’t make miscalculations; not where architecture or civil engineering are concerned. My only mistake was not anticipating that the Skulda would come so soon.’ The seat springs creaked as Strand shifted his bulk forward.

  ‘A big building is like a living body, you know. An organism made up of uprights and cross-­pieces, rivets and welds, piles and slabs; thousands of separate units, inter-­dependent on each other, but still individual. I sometimes think of them as the cells and genes which give the creature life and strength. Providing they exist in harmony, the being is healthy and its creator must see that an exact balance is preserved. Because if the stresses are wrong, if the genes don’t match, if there is an alien strain which refuses to unite with its fellows, the body decays and the building collapses.’ The car shuddered beneath a blast of wind and Strand gave a deep bronchial chuckle.

  ‘I created Mallory Heights, Gordon, and no errors were made on my drawing-­board. I checked every single feature of that building personally and the design is perfect.’

  ‘But the balustrades are falling, Sir George.’ Janet pointed wildly towards the southern tower. ‘The wind is wrenching them away.’

  ‘So it is, girl, but there’s still nowt wrong with the design. When a few more balustrades go, you’ll understand what I was at.’ He chuckled again and leaned farther forward.

  ‘Aye, very soon you’ll all see the beauty of my dream house; the real gimmick that not even a computer could rumble. Without their end walls the action of the balconies is reversed. The turbulence is not lessened but increased, and its full fury is directed against the towers to huff and to puff and to blow the house down.’ Strand raised his hand and Paul felt the automatic dig into the back of his neck.

  ‘Got the joke at last, lad? Them balustrades are the alien genes with which I corrupted the body. Mallory Heights was designed to be a place of execution.’

  ‘Scream your head off, if it makes you feel any better, Miss Fane. With the Skulda on the rampage and those young monkeys shouting themselves hoarse, nobody’ll hear you. But beckon to Roger or one of his policemen, and your boy friend will get a bullet through his spine.’

  ‘I won’t scream because I just don’t believe you. You mean that you deliberately designed a building which would collapse? Why, Sir George? In God’s name, why?’ At the very moment that she finished the question, Janet saw part of the truth glinting at her. Strand’s hand was jesting on the back of the seat and the gold signet ring gleamed in the moonlight to show the mariner’s compass which formed its signet. ‘You are one of them – those maniacs that Dealer told us about – “The True Sailormen”?’

  ‘Where this country is concerned, I am the “Sailorman”, my dear.’ Strand chuckled as he answered. ‘And you’re right in saying that some of our members are a bit batty; James Baylis, for instance. The fool lost faith in me. He didn’t believe my joke would work and tried to mess about with a bomb. I’m very grateful to you for stopping his sabotage attempt. It would have been a terrible waste of effort if the Heights had fallen while they were empty.’ With the gun pointed at Paul’s back, Strand sat grinning at the building. The balustrades facing them were being torn away at regular intervals, but the occupiers had still not realized the danger. On the roof of the southern tower, flames from a burning Star and Stripes were soaring out into the moonlit sky.

  ‘Aye, I may hav
e joined up with some nut cases like Baylis, but it’s all turning out very nicely. A load of scum, both black and white, are going to die soon, so start your engine and we’ll go and take a closer look, Gordon. Don’t worry about anybody following us. Roger Rawlinson will imagine that we’re going to make a personal appeal to our young friends to stop their monkey tricks. He may think us crazy and suicidal, but he won’t risk his men’s lives by sending them after us. Sadly lacking in the death wish is Roger.’

  ‘And you are crazy, Sir George; just like Baylis.’ Paul switched on the ignition. For a moment he considered slipping the automatic transmission into reverse and stamping on the accelerator in the hope of throwing Strand off balance. But the gun was digging into his flesh, Strand’s voice was calm and masterful, and he knew he would be dead before they moved a yard. He started the motor, set the gear lever at ‘Drive’ and edged the car forward. ‘But even if you are mad, you must have motives you consider to be rational. What are they?’

  ‘Respect for a law of nature, Gordon; the survival of the fittest. I believe that miscegenation is a blight that can taint the race, destroy all that we have created, and debase everything worthwhile that mankind has done throughout history. A growth as pernicious as dry rot in timber. A mongrel dog may be strong and active, but being without specialized skills he is virtually useless. He can’t retrieve, or work sheep, or point out game, and it is the same with human mongrels. The strains do not fuse and the creature is less than half a man; an abomination in God’s sight.

  ‘Slowly, though, Gordon. Drive very carefully.’ The car slithered across a muddy slope and the pistol prodded Paul’s back. ‘A broken spring will cost you a broken spine and Miss Fane will have to act as our chauffeuse.’

  ‘George, you are sick, so very sick, darling.’ Mary Strand whimpered from the corner of the seat. ‘You don’t know what you’re doing, George. All this is make-­believe. No building you designed can fall.’

  ‘I know what I’m doing, lass, and I’m not merely sick, I’m dying. Just before Michael Mallory came on the scene a specialist gave me two years at the very outside. That’s why I decided to play my last practical joke and take a few companions along with me. Was it Genghis Khan or Tamburlane who built a mountain of skulls to be his memorial?’ Though Paul could not see his face he knew Strand was smiling. ‘The Heights will be our memorial; yours and mine and Betty’s.’

  ‘What happened to Betty?’ Janet watched the north tower looming before them. Very soon they would be in line with it, and she realized the reason for their journey. ‘She’s your motivation, isn’t she, Sir George? Your goddess of revenge?’

  ‘Good lass. Bright Janet Fane. Almost as bright as my girl was before that black animal hypnotized her.’ His crippled hand touched her hair and even with death towering over her, Janet felt a flush of physical attraction towards her would-­be murderer.

  ‘Aye, very clever my dear Betty was. So beautiful too. The only creature I ever really loved.’ Yard by yard the car crept on and Strand told his story. ‘Pleaded with her I did – threatened – told her she’d break my heart, but Betty was always headstrong. Rushed off to Africa with him. No letters, no word at all for two years; sweet Fanny Adams till I heard she was dead.

  ‘Look at that though.’ Another balustrade swung away from the nearest tower and Strand laughed happily.

  ‘Bet was killed because of her perverted lust and now she’s going to be revenged. Her husband – he was an Oxford graduate – had promised her a modern flat, but what I found was a tumble-­down hut which she’d had to share with three other wives. Ill treatment and squalor and a broken heart destroyed my girl and I’d have torn her murderers apart with me own hands, if they hadn’t told me that there was a child; a little boy.

  ‘I wanted that child of Betty’s. Whatever his race, he was my grandson. I offered ’em a lot of money to let me take him home, but they refused point-­blank. I couldn’t understand their reason till I was taken to see him.’ George Strand was not laughing now and there was a choke in his voice.

  ‘But when I saw him, I understood the lot. I realized that to mix our blood with the Negro’s is a mortal sin, because he is a different species: a sub-­creation, half-­human, half-­animal, whose so-­called culture is based on superstition and horrible cruelty.

  ‘Oh, no, they hadn’t harmed the child; quite the opposite.’ He had shaken his head at Janet’s question. ‘He had been greatly honoured because “One whom Allah has so afflicted is worthy of veneration.”

  ‘I found him in the house of a village headman, lying naked on a raised dais that was draped with red cloth, and about fifty men and women were squatting before it and waiting for him to speak. How the place stank!

  ‘Speak! All the creature could do was to make a constant belching, gasping sound from its diaphragm; air-­swallowing is the name for the condition and it can continue from infancy to old age. The genes had not fused and Betty’s child, my grandson, was a blind, dumb and deformed imbecile; a mere digestive system that should never have been conceived. Yet those so-­called human beings regarded him as a holy thing, a bringer of good luck and an oracle which, one day, would foretell the future for them.’

  ‘So you became as superstitious as they were, Sir George. Because of a physiological accident, you put aside reason, lost all compassion and joined a group of insane fanatics.’ Paul watched the tower creep closer and closer. ‘Now, just like some Negro despot from the jungle you intend to die with a bevy of slaves around you.’

  ‘A fair simile, young man, but not really correct.’ Strand nodded. ‘The reason you’re going to die is because I don’t want anybody to know the truth about tonight’s events. “Poor old George Strand,” they must say. “Made a hash of things – died because of it – all very sad.” That’s why you’re coming along with me.’

  ‘George, please listen.’ Mary Strand nuzzled his arm. ‘The Heights won’t fall and you don’t know what you’re saying. Betty’s dead and I’ve taken her place. Let’s go home, George. Please, darling. I love you, George. No, more than love: I worship you like a god.’

  ‘We’re going home, Mary, all of us are, and very soon now.’ A set of three balustrades swung out from the south tower and went fluttering away towards the river like autumn leaves.

  ‘You can stop the car, Gordon. We’re close enough; quite close enough.’ They were less than a hundred and fifty yards from the building and directly in the path of its possible collapse when Strand gave the order, and Paul made his decision while he obeyed him. With Janet’s and Mary Strand’s lives to consider, the gun had become strangely unimportant; a steel rod at his neck which had to be ignored. Praying that Strand was watching the Heights, he edged the gear stick into reverse and kicked the accelerator. The car shot backwards and Strand fired.

  ‘You bloody young fool. I was expecting you’d try that.’ The reports had almost deafened him and Paul could hardly hear Strand’s laughter. He had not aimed at him, but sent two bullets through the dashboard, shattering the ignition, and the car still lay in the path of the north tower, immovable and useless.

  ‘Now, we’ll all be sensible and enjoy the view. Lower your window, Mary. Let’s get rid of the stink of cordite and listen to the Skulda.’

  ‘We’re here because we’re here because . . . We’re here because we’re here . . .’ The voices continued the chant, but they were dwarfed by the fury of the wind.

  ‘Aye, that’s it. That’s the song of the Skulda; the roar of the dragon that I heard when I was young.’ Strand was craning between Paul and Janet. ‘Imagine what’s happening over there. Think of those gusts battering the walls. Picture them fools inside, wrecking the fittings, burning flags and gibbering like apes, while all the time the turbulence is becoming more violent, the frames are bending, the rivets are being weakened and torn out. When one more level is stripped of its balustrades, the strain will be too great for the bridges to resist. They will snap like matchsticks and then we’ll see the suicide of
the Heights. We will watch my towers dance.’

  ‘We will see nothing, Sir George, and your wife is right. You are just very sick, so put down the gun.’ For the first time Strand had sounded really mad and Paul felt hope. Six more strips of corrugated metal had crashed to the ground, but the building defied the gale. ‘You made a minor miscalculation in not strengthening the balustrades, but that is all. The main structure is sound enough and it’s riding out the Skulda. Your daughter’s death, your grandchild’s condition and your strokes have turned your brain, Sir George. You are suffering from delusions. Now, let’s leave the car and I’ll help you to walk back. The party’s over and Mallory Heights is not falling.’

  ‘Mad, am I? Maybe you’re right, but it’s a divine mania. No coincidence awakened the Skulda at this time of the year. It wasn’t chance that made ’em break into the building, tonight of all nights.’ Risking the gun, Paul turned and saw that Strand’s face was once more contorted with mirth.

  ‘I felt despair when I heard the weather report – when they said the Skulda was coming so soon. I thought that only an empty shell would fall, and all me work had been wasted. But then God came on the scene. God made those demonstrators rush to their slaughter like the swine of Gadara. He chose his victims to avenge my Betty.

  ‘We’ll hear it soon; the sound of death. A building’s death and the death of vermin. How did Browning’s poem go . . . ? Aye, I remember. “The grumbling grew to a mighty rumbling, and out of the houses the rats came tumbling.” ’

  ‘No, he’s not mad, Paul. Not in that way, darling. Look at the bridges.’ Janet had cried out and Paul swung round, realizing that the chanting of the demonstrators had stopped and been replaced by a high-­pitched, humming sound. Through the windscreen he saw that the two upper bridges were quivering like piano wires and both towers trembling before the wind’s attack. With the courage of complete despair he clenched his right hand and swung it at Strand’s face.