"‘48" - читать интересную книгу автора (Herbert James)1WHAT THE HELL WAS THAT? My eyes snapped open and my head lifted an inch or so from the floor; a mess of thoughts stalled any sense. I pushed the quilt I’d borrowed off my chest and an empty beer bottle rolled across the dusty carpet when my booted foot (I’d learned to sleep with my boots on) knocked it over. The glass made a dull I listened. Cagney, who’d found a dark corner to nest in – he liked the shadows; survival came with low profile – gave a mean growl, a soft rumbling that was warning rather than alarm. I brought up a hand to silence him and he obeyed; I could just make out the shine of his eyes as he watched me. The quilt slid away when I leaned on an elbow and a sharp knife punctured the general ache inside my head, punishing me for the insobriety of the night before. There were plenty more brown bottles littering the floor around me, empty soulmates to the one I’d kicked over and counter-testimony to my long dislike of English beer. Skin scraped against jaw bristle as I wiped the back of my hand across dry lips. Full consciousness arrived in a rush and then I was up, moving swiftly towards the light, crouched and quiet, ears and eyes alert for the slightest disturbance. I skirted the little round table and paused beside the open door to the balcony, keeping out of sight behind glass darkened by rotting blackout boards. Despite the early hour a dry summer heat maundered through the opening, its soft breeze carrying dust motes from the damaged city outside along with its sourness. I snatched a quick look into the sunlight, ducking back again straight away. Then I took another, extended look. The last barrage balloons hovered over the battered land-scape like bloated sentinels. Much closer, directly opposite, the grey and grimed trio on the memorial plinth bowed their heads as if in shame, the words Truth, Charity and Justice now irrelevant. Save for metal litter, the broad, tree-lined avenue behind them was deserted. What then? I’d chosen this billet because the balcony room offered a good view of anyone approaching the main entrance; it also gave me plenty of places to play hide ‘n’ seek in. The building was a warren of rooms, halls and corridors, a honeycomb of hideaways. It suited me fine. But someone had discovered my sanctuary; the mutt wouldn’t have growled for no reason. Maybe it was rats, skulking through the passageways, hardly afraid of humans any more. Or another dog, a cat maybe. But I didn’t think so. Instinct told me it was something else. Instinct and Cagney I’d learned to rely on. I didn’t waste any more time. The motorcycle was where I’d left it last night, carpet rucked up around its wheels. That was another thing I could rely on: a single-cylinder Matchless G3L, this one painted buff for desert warfare, only never shipped out. A survivor. Like me and the dog. I moved fast, scooping up my fly-jacket from the floor and shrugging it on as I went. The added weight in the lining provided a small comfort. Out the corner of my eye I saw that Cagney was on his feet, ready for action, but waiting for me. His stubby mongrel tail was erect, expectant. Within seconds I’d pushed the bike off its stand, mounted it and was switching on. I kicked down on the starter, hard but smooth, sensing the machine the way you can if you ‘know’ them, if you love every working part, and the engine roared into life first go (I’d given this baby a lot of care and attention). The wheels burned carpet as I took off, heading for the closed set of doors at the end of the room, doors that were just beginning to open. I hit them hard and someone on the other side squawked blue hell as the heavy wood struck him. Paws grabbed at me as I shot through, but the Matchless was already too fast and all they found was empty air. Now I could smell ‘em and believe me, it wasn’t pleasant. One fool standing further back in the room jumped in front of me waving his arms like some demented traffic cop, so I swerved the bike and raised a boot. Groin or hip, I’m not sure which I made contact with, but he doubled up and swung round like a top, his whooshy grunt affording me some pleasure. Short-lived though, because the angle of the bike caused it to slide along the room’s big rug, ruffling it up in thick waves. A few years’ dust powdered the air as I fought to control the skid. I lost it, though. The machine slicked away from me and I let it go, afraid of catching a leg underneath if we both went down together. I rolled with the fall, tucking in a shoulder and staying loose the way I’d been trained. I was up, crouched and ready before the bike had slithered into a fancy chest of drawers halfway down the chamber, ruining painted panels and gold carvings. One of the intruders, his face ugly with dirt and aggression, came lurching towards me while his two pals behind the crashed doors tended their hurts. Cagney trotted into view and stood in the doorway, interested in how things were working out. The Blackshirt, almost on me now, clutched an M1 carbine across his chest. Now either he was too crocked to aim the rifle, or he was under orders not to shoot me. I figured the second was most likely, because I knew by this time that his chief, Hubble, would prefer me alive – my blood would be better warm and runny. You see, he had a crazy use for me. Real crazy. But then I guess only the crazies were left. The crazies and me. And who said I was sane? Well fuck you, Hubble, you and your goons. Satan’s hell-house would be cooler’n a penguin’s ass before you took me alive. Hubble’s stormtrooper caught the glint in my eyes and changed his mind about following orders. He began to swing the weapon towards me. His action was sluggish though, as if he had to think about the move rather than just react, and it occurred to me he wasn’t only dazed by the slam he’d taken, but by the effects of the Slow Death itself: there was a darkness around his eyes and smudges beneath his skin, bruisings that were never going to fade; and the ends of his fingers were blackish, as if the blood had jellied at his body’s extremities. That didn’t make him any less dangerous though, just a little slower. My own weapon, a Colt.45 automatic, standard US issue, was in the holster I’d stitched into the lining of my leather jacket. Buck Jones might’ve made the draw, but I was no gunslinger. So I made the only move open to me. I took a dive, rolling forward under the rifle barrel, head tucked in, legs curled up. As soon as my back hit the deck I kicked out with both feet, catching the goon in the lower belly and doubling him up. He almost fell on top of me, but I used my legs again to push him to one side. He gave a kind of honk and collapsed. I was on him before he had the chance to get his breath back, pushing the rifle towards him instead of pulling it away as he’d expected. The breech cracked against his jaw and his grip relaxed. In one swift action I wrenched the carbine from him and smacked the stock against the side of his face. His head snapped to the right and his body went limp. I tossed the weapon aside and sprinted towards the Matchless. Cagney decided things were going pretty well and scampered from the doorway to join me, yapping his approval as he skirted the injured Blackshirts. I ignored his licks as I hauled the motorbike away from the wrecked cabinet, angry that my cover was blown, my regal refuge now useless. There’d be more of them around, searching for me, combing every room, every corridor, every damn nook and cranny, no matter how long it took. I pulled the bike upright and swung a leg over. Voices came through from the balcony room I’d been using as a bivouac and I guessed Hubble’s screwball army had been applying a pincer movement, working through the place from both sides. How the hell did they know I was here? I had the whole goddamn city – and there was plenty left still standing – to hole up in, yet he’d zeroed in on me. Shit luck. Someone must’ve followed me or caught me sneaking in. With anger as much as fear I hit the starter hard, but this time the engine didn’t kick in first time. Those voices were getting louder and the men I’d already tangled with, ‘cept the one I’d poleaxed with the rifle butt, were rising to their feet and regarding me with hate in their hearts and caution in their eyes. I tried again, adding a cuss for luck, and the engine caught, the machine roared into life. Music to my ears. Running footsteps next door; they’d heard the music too. Cagney took off without me, heading into the blue as if he were the prey. Well maybe he had a point – they’d shoot him just for the pleasure. The motorcycle’s front wheel almost reared up as I took off; I had to lean low over the fuel tank and use my weight to hold the bike to the floor as I fled the bad guys. There was a crack of gunfire from behind and the cobwebbed face of a tall pedestal clock ahead of me imploded. Sculptured figures, all dusty gilt, clung for dear life as the old timepiece reverberated with tiny jangly explosions. The marksman was either a shit shot or he wanted to unnerve me; maybe he was only warning others I was on my way. I hurtled through the open doors at the end of the room and had to brake hard to avoid crashing through windows dead ahead; this was where the east face met the north wing. My left foot dragged floor as I brought the bike round in a skid that sent a small table and the ornate and no doubt priceless (but nowadays worthless) vase on its top flying. The vase shattered on the floor, but no one was going to complain. Because of the blackout precautions, everywhere inside this place was gloomy, but enough light shone through chinks and cracks for me to find my way. I’d just entered the complex of private apartments and bedrooms so knew there was a stairway close by. Unfortunately it was too steep and narrow for the bike and I had no mind to try it on foot: speed was my ally, had been for some time now, y’see, and I had to stick to the escape route I’d already worked out. Besides, I’d be an easy target for anyone waiting to ambush me in the stairwell. Another bullet whistled through the doors and thudded into the wall next to the windows; but I had the bike under control again and shot into the long corridor that would take me through the north wing. Fortunately the place had been cleared of corpses and evacuated as soon as the main tenants – God rest their poor souls – had taken flight, so I didn’t have to worry about rotting carcasses getting in my way. I opened up, roasting rug, spewing up dust, the engine’s roar shaking the walls, filling the air. It didn’t take long to reach the west wing and that’s where the real fun started. I’d been making for the main staircase, which I knew the Matchless could take easy enough, reducing speed along the way only to negotiate the trickier twists and turns, and I’d arrived at a long picture gallery where I could change up a gear, make better headway. I’d zipped past Rembrandts, Vermeers, Canalettos (I’d spent some time in this museum with its glazed arched ceiling and low viewing couches set around the walls, enjoying the brilliance before me but bitter, I guess, that these works of art now counted for zilch), when a figure leapt out from one of the several openings, halfway down on my left. He only clipped my shoulder as I went by, but that was enough. I lost balance and slewed off at an angle, careering into one of the gallery’s small tables, knocking it aside before running into a couch. I recovered enough to keep going, my right leg trapped between bike frame and seat, yelling as my pants ripped and my skin burned. I pulled away, picking up speed again, the gallery no more than a dirt track without soil to me. But again I had to brake as three men appeared in the little lobby at the end of the hall, using the handbrake a split second ahead of the footbrake pedal and leaning hard so that the bike screeched to a clean sideways halt. I sat there one or two moments, fists tight around the handgrips, holding the clutch lever, sweat soaking my forehead, running down my back. Vibrations from the machine’s simmering engine ran through my body. The three Blackshirts watched me from the lobby, one of ‘em grinning, knowing they had me trapped. They all carried firearms, but no one bothered to take aim. Their hair was short, cut military-style, and their shirts – black, naturally, although the effect spoilt by dust and creases – were tucked into loose black pants, the grimy uniform of arrogance, the cloth of annihilation. These sick degenerates still hadn’t learned the lesson. A shifting in the shadows behind them, and then another face, a woman’s face, appeared at their shoulders. She grinned too when she sized up the situation. I glanced to the left and saw the sap who’d tried to ambush me pulling himself up, disappointment souring his mug. Through the same entrance came another Blackshirt, this one thumping what looked like a pickaxe handle into the open palm of his hand, the dull I turned back to the four who were creeping out of the lobby. They stopped, as if my look had caught them out, and now all of them grinned as I sat there revving up the engine. They had me, they were thinking. And then I grinned too and theirs faded away. I took off, spinning the bike, swerving close to the wall, aiming straight at the luckless ambusher who’d only just picked himself up. His eyes widened, first in surprise, then in panic, as I hurtled towards him, the bike’s roar deafening as it bounced off walls and curved ceiling. He managed to jump clear, throwing himself into the arms of his slack-jawed buddy, the axe handle trapped between their bodies. I was long gone before they’d had time to disentangle, veering left and disappearing through the opposite doorway to the one they’d used (luckily for me the gallery had more than its share of entrances and exits). I was in a room whose main wall was one huge bowed window that, if it hadn’t been for the blackout shades, would have overlooked acres of overgrown lawns and weed-filled gardens. Tall black pillars on either side of individual windows reached up to a vaulted and domed ceiling and over white marble fireplaces were big arched mirrors in plaster frames. (I’d taken all this in, you’ll understand, on another day when my time was less occupied.) I kept the bike turning in a rough elongated semi-circle from my starting point, tyres screeching off a parquet flooring of rich woods, speeding up into the adjoining room, sure of the layout even in the dusky light. I straightened up, whipping past Corinthian columns, long velvet drapes, the breeze I was creating causing low-hanging crystal chandeliers smothered in cobwebs to sway; past blue and gold chairs, large paintings of ancient monarchs mounted on blue flock walls; past a marble and gilt bronze clock with three dials, a dark blue porcelain vase, a set of elaborate side tables, again all marble and gilt bronze; diverting round a circular single-pedestal table, before zooming through the open mirror doors into the next state room. (I knew exactly where I was headed because I’d had plenty of time to check out the whole set-up during my stay and, being naturally cautious, I had more than one escape route planned should the need arise, with certain doors deliberately left open to give me a clear run.) What I needed was for those lunkheads to follow me rather than try to cut me off, because I was continuing the semi-circle, the blue room itself parallel to the picture gallery they’d chased me from. I’d snuck a quick look to my left just before going through the doors into the grand dining room and observed that the small lobby which served both the gallery and the blue room was empty. Good. It meant they’d taken the bait – the Blackshirts were chasing instead of waiting. Vases of withered flowers, an oval tureen, and tarnished silver ewers with cobweb sails trailing to the huge lacklustre tabletop said it all: Grandeur given over to decay. The dusty red walls and carpet gave me the sickening feeling of passing through a festering, open wound, and the cold eyes of long-gone royals framed by dull gold followed me all the way. These crazy notions were brought on, I guess, by adrenaline overload; but what the hell, they kept my senses kicking. I began to brake again for the sharp turn I was gonna have to make, and almost stopped completely inside the smaller antechamber filled with large tapestries I found myself in. Shoving one of those over-elaborate kneehole desks out the way with my front wheel, I went on through to a short passage room, then foot-wheeled a left into another gallery. A wide descending stairway was at the far end and that was my goal. I gritted my teeth and tightened my grip as I raced past the usual collection of masterpieces, aware I was travelling too fast to take the stairs but disinclined to slow down – I knew my pursuers would second-guess me as soon as they heard the bike coming back their way. I braked hard at the last moment. It was a bumpy ride, despite the fact that the Matchless G3L was one of the first British motorcycles to be built with hydraulically damped telescopic forks and the stairway itself was fitted with a plush red carpet all the way down; my arms were rigid fighting the acute angle, my butt barely touching the seat, every bone in my body jolted as I kept the rear wheel almost locked. Head juddering, bones rattling, I vented a staccato kind of wail (I’d never taken the stairs at that speed before), and then the bike was level for a piece and my wail pitched to a whoop of relief or triumph, I’m not sure which. On either side, two arms of the grand staircase swept up to a balcony overlooking the next set of steps I was about to take, the doorway at the top leading to the long picture gallery where they thought they’d had me trapped; the Blackshirts had cut back and were pouring through that doorway. The lead goon just had time to raise his gun over the bronze balustrade and fire a wild shot before I opened throttle and took off, sailing over the second set of steps without touching one. My extended whoop came dangerously close to a scream as a bullet clanged off the bike’s pannier rack. The shock of landing nearly threw me off, but I rode the bounce, tyres scorching carpet as I braked and fought to keep the machine in a straight line. We screeched (yeah, bike and I) to a stop inches from the opposite set of rising steps in the great entrance chamber. I grabbed a breath, then dug my heels into the deep pile, hauling the Matchless back to give me room to swing round. Shouts and footsteps behind told me the mob was descending the curved staircase. Someone released a burst of fire that could only have come from a Sten gun and as I turned I saw holes puncturing paintings around the walls. Maybe the shooter was trying to scare me into surrender; or maybe he was just pissed off, as the British say. I’d cleared enough space when I heard a yap from close by. I did a quick scan for Cagney, but he was nowhere in sight Well the mutt could take care of himself – hadn’t he let me grab all the attention while he’d sneaked down another way? I opened up again, and the Matchless spun a smart turn, scuffing the bottom step of the four leading to a marble hall beyond the entrance chamber. That was where Cagney finally showed, loping along the royal gathering place, avoiding the marble on either side of the red carpet which presumably was too cool or too smooth for his dainty pads. He lingered to wag his stumpy tail at me and I yelled at him to get the hell out He took the hint and streaked past me towards the entrance doors. My circle was taking me close to the staircase I’d just sailed over and the sight I caught was not an encouraging one: three of my pursuers were leaning over the stair rail aiming their weapons at me while still more scurried down behind them. The angle was too awkward for the marksmen and anyway, I didn’t wait for them to get a bead on me. Their shots chewed carpet and chipped marble columns, but I was out of there, hunched over the handlebars, already passing through the entrance doors to the classy porch outside. With my right foot scraping concrete, I skidded around the double portico’s stone columns and was soon out in the open; left again and a quadrangle surrounded by the four blocks of the ancient building itself spread out before me. Across the broad expanse of concrete and directly opposite the portico was a narrow archway, with even narrower pedestrian passageways on either side, leading through to the forecourt and open gates. In better times the ceremonial coach had used that archway, but now it was going to accommodate just one man and his dog. Cagney was already halfway across and I was catching up fast. when I spotted the Bedford OYD tucked away in the far corner of the square. The army truck hadn’t been there the night before, nor the night before that, so I figured the Blackshirts had arrived in it earlier that morning – a military vehicle suited their martial games just fine. One of them, on his own and presumably the driver, straightened from the snub-nosed hood he’d been leaning against, his jaw dropping open, cigarette falling from it. His weapon must have been inside the cab of the truck, because he was soon pulling at the driver’s door. He’d guessed my intention and by now I was too committed to change direction. He heaved himself up into the driver’s seat. Cagney had already disappeared into the shadows of the arch (which, incidentally, was beneath the balcony room I’d holed up in for the past few days – I’d run full circle, you see) and I accelerated, anxious to join him. The Bedford quivered as the driver started her up, and then began to roll forward. Yeah, he’d guessed my game plan all right and now I understood his: he was gonna plug the exit Just to tighten things an arm appeared through the open cab window and the black metal of a gun barrel pointed my way. Maybe I could have tried for a different route at the last moment, through a courtyard behind me on my right and out into the street beyond (the two other archways directly ahead were sealed by sandbags), but like I say, I was committed. Besides, that would’ve meant slowing down, then offering my back as a target; even if he’d missed with the first bullet, he’d have taken me with the second. No, there really was only one choice and anyways, I was already two-thirds across and going a pretty fair lick. A bright flash of gunfire came from the truck and even over the noise of the bike’s 347cc engine I swear I heard the I rocked a little to spoil his aim, mighty glad that driving and shooting at the same time wasn’t this particular hero’s speciality. That small pleasure lasted no more’n a heartbeat – it was plain the truck was going to reach the archway ahead of me. Another shot cracked out, just as wild as the first one, but it struck metal; the blackout shield over the front light whipped away. I tried a fancy swerve, but with every second our common objective was drawing us closer together and soon he’d have a target he couldn’t miss. I hissed a curse – I mean, the beginning of one – when the Bedford ’s hood moved across the first passageway; that curse changed to a rage-roar as the truck stole some of the archway. The rattle of gunshots from behind reminded me the truck driver was not the only contender. A hail of badly aimed bullets flailed the wall ahead. The Blackshirts chasing me were too far away and maybe too excited to get off any decent shots as they came out of the double portico, but they sure as hell didn’t help the situation any. Luckily they were keeping their fire to the right to avoid hitting the moving Bedford and from their angle truck and bike must’ve seemed pretty damn close. More puffs of plaster powdered off the wall beside the second passageway and at any moment – we’re talking split seconds here – I expected to feel bullets thudding into my back. Goddamn, the truck had covered the archway and the driver was slamming on his brakes to keep it that way. It slid onwards though, bellying across the passage. Another gunshot, the I twitched the handlebars, no more’n a shrew’s shrug, as the hood closed the gap, knowing I couldn’t stop now even if I’d wanted to. I kept up the roar, jaw straining, eyes narrowed, hands clenched tight around the grips, bullets spewing into the wall above and beside the passageway, truck still sliding, the hand with the gun waving at me, the gap closing down, tighter, tighter - And then I was through, elbow skimming along the truck’s hood bar, leather sleeve on the other side scuffing plaster. I was in the cool shade of the short passageway, my roar hollow-sounding, and then I was out again in bright, glorious sunshine, tearing over the wide forecourt for the open gates, their gilded ironwork rotting to rust, the tall railings on either side worthless protection against the death that had claimed almost all, bloodline having no privilege over blood type. Through the gates I sped, and around the old queen’s memorial, past the statues of women and children I’d gazed at from the balcony room less than ten minutes ago, round to the other side where Victoria herself sat facing the long, elm- and lime-lined Mall. I swear I could feel her mournful eyes on my back as I fled Buckingham Palace, heading for another sanctuary in the dead city. Half a century ago she’d been proud mother to a fabulous empire and a great country; now there was nothing left of empire and precious little of country. Better then those eyes were only of stone. Gunfire broke the thought that was fleeting anyway. I had a straight run ahead of me and I took full advantage: the Matchless approached seventy and I knew I could coax more out of her. If I was gonna lose those bastards behind me I’d have to. |
||
|