by Simon Clark
In the doorway at the entrance of the building stood a lone Foresters' Marine armed with a rifle, the characteristic green bandanna around his neck.
'This way, sir,' he called. 'Please hurry.'
Even from this distance I saw that his face burned a bright red colour. Suddenly I realized he was blushing with embarrassment - or with shame.
We were halfway across the vast expanse of marble floor when I heard Gabriel mutter, 'I don't like the look of this… something isn't right.'
Another five paces - and then something strange happened to the lone Marine. He suddenly shot backwards. As he flew back through the doorway he gave a strangled cry. 'I'm sorry! I didn't want-'
As he disappeared through the doorway a dozen black-uniformed figures took his place. Without any fuss they pointed machine guns at us.
We aimed our own weapons back at them.
Stepping between the Guardsmen came a man I'd seen before. It was Rory Masterfield, the sharp-faced man I'd met on the steamship that first brought me to New York. Dressed in trousers and an open-necked shirt he held out his arms to show he was unarmed.
'Kerris. Ask your friends to put down their guns.'
'No.'
'Tell them,' Masterfield insisted. 'There's no point in you all dying over this.'
'We're walking out of here,' Kerris shouted. 'Tell your men to clear the way.'
'You know you'll not get through the doorway. There are hundreds of our soldiers out in the road.'
'You won't shoot.'
'Won't we?'
'No. Because you won't risk injuring Christina. Torrence values what she has too much for that.'
'Then we've reached an impasse, haven't we?'
As he said the words he stepped back. Then he put both arms straight up, above his head.
I interpreted that as a signal to someone. I glanced round for hidden snipers. Above my head electricians had made a start on rigging temporary lighting to replace the chandeliers smashed during yesterday's firefight.
Only no light bulbs hung down from the cables. Instead there were long thin wires from which objects that looked like candles dangled.
Sam noticed them, too. He pulled a grenade from his belt. I raised the muzzle of my gun. Seeing that blue-black gun barrel come up to bear on the Guardsmen in the doorway was the last thing I remembered with any clarity for a while.
For right then it felt as if the entire building had crashed down upon my head.
The first perception after that to make any sense to me was my recollection of looking up and seeing that wire-festooned ceiling. Hanging down from the wires, like a strange kind of fruit, had been sticks of dynamite.
I never did hear the actual detonation. (At least, I had no memory of having heard it - one of the effects of the concussion. I guess.) But I felt its effects, all right. When I opened my eyes all I could see were blurred pairs of boots hurrying around my head. At that moment I could still hear nothing. In fact, it felt as if my ears were stuffed with cotton wool. However, I could feel a distinct pins-and-needles sensation in my face.
For the moment I was content to lie there on the floor, because the world had taken to lurching dizzily around me. But even as I decided that standing upright wasn't really for me, hands seized my clothing to hoist me roughly to me feet. I blinked and my blurred vision improved. To my right stood Gabriel Deeds. Blood streamed from his nose while one eye was closed by an almighty swelling.
I looked to my left. Kerris stood there, her face as white as paper. My hearing came back in a rush accompanied by ringing sounds that, I guessed, came from somewhere inside my blast-addled head. Behind me was Sam Dymes, his face blackened by the effects of the explosion. And there was the rest of our dishevelled team: Christina, Marni, the Marine and two undercover operatives.
While milling all around us in a state of high excitement were dozens of Guardsmen. I saw Rory Masterfield watching me with an expression on his face that could only be described as smug.
I winced as the smarting around my eyes intensified. Being a little taller than average I figured I was paying the price for my face being nearer the explosion. Flash burns were beginning to make their stinging presence felt.
Hands grasped my arms as I was searched for any weapon that I might still have concealed up a sleeve or down a boot. Presently the Guardsmen were satisfied. One of them shouted back towards the entrance, 'Prisoners secured!'
The line of black uniforms parted in front of me.
A tall figure strolled forward. And once more I found myself looking into that resolute face with its one green and one yellow eye. Torrence looked pleased with himself. He regarded my face closely, as if I were some much-sought-after antique. 'Yes,' he said at length. 'You do look remarkably like your father, Masen.' He smiled at me. 'Now, in a little while, I'll be able to repay Bill Masen for this.' He pointed at his egg-yolk eye. 'Believe me, I will be paying him. back with interest. And how is your mother, Josella Playton?'
I kept my mouth firmly shut.
'Or does she call herself Josella Masen now?' He smiled again, then brought his face close to mine so the yellow eyeball hovered in front of my own eyes. 'I'm looking forward to our reunion party. Hmm. Come to think of it, Josella won't be that old, will she? Oh, I know she'll be too long in the tooth to have children naturally. But I'm sure she can play host to Christina's progeny, can't she?'
Torrence didn't wait for a reply. Instead, he looked over the rest of his catch. Again he looked pleased with himself. He had every reason to be. He'd lured us down to the lobby using a captured Marine. With a stroke of brilliance his men had strung sticks of dynamite across the ceiling, using the explosive in such a way that it wouldn't produce lethal shrapnel but would generate a concussive blast wave to stun its victims. There had been a chance that we might have suffered more serious head injuries, but Torrence had gambled that the ovaries deep inside Christina's stomach would be unharmed, and that his surgeons could speedily remove them if need be. But then, my father always freely admitted that Torrence had good organizational skills, even if they were applied downright brutally. What was more, he must have galvanized his anti-triffid squads into action overnight. Through a window I could see armoured bulldozers clearing away the once fearsome sixty-foot plants that had been burned to cinders by what must have been a veritable firestorm from massed ranks of flame-throwers. With Manhattan cleared of invaders - human and triffid alike - the city was once more in this man's iron grip.
Torrence paused to look at both his daughters. First he scrutinized Marni, paying particular attention to the scar. Then he turned to look at Kerris again. 'You know,' he began, 'I think you really are twins. Of course, you don't look so identical now.' He spoke back over his shoulder. 'Masterfield.'
'Sir?'
'I want you to make sure that Kerris Baedekker once more resembles her sister. Then she can go to the Maternity Complex.'
'Yes, sir.' Rory Masterfield spoke with unconcealed eagerness. 'And the others, sir?'
'David Masen is important to my strategies for the Isle of Wight. As for the others…' He gave a dismissive wave of his hand. 'I think they will have a long and uncomfortable career in the coal mines. No promotion prospects, naturally. Now, what I think is essential is-'
With a wordless bellow, Marni broke free of the man holding her. She launched herself forward, slashing at Torrence's face with her clawed fingers. He moved back. But not before I saw red lines slash across one cheek.
Before her fingers could reach his one good eye the Guardsmen had pounced on Marni, dragging her back. Roaring with fury, she turned her attention on them.
In one movement Torrence drew a pistol from beneath his jacket and fired.
Marni pressed the heel of her hand to her breastbone. Then, as her face creased with pain, she crumpled to the floor. There she lay, face down. Unmoving.
I bunched my fists and judged my chances of getting just one full-blooded punch into the man's face.
Torrence, howev
er, decided not to take any more risks. 'Put them in chains.' Angry, he touched his scratched face, then glared down at Marni's still body. 'And throw that thing into the incinerator.' He kept his pistol in his hand.
Guardsmen had started snapping steel cuffs on my wrists when I heard a disturbance in the street outside. For a moment I actually hoped it signalled the return of the triffids. But these were no shouts of alarm. More a rising buzz of voices that, although quite calm, were insisting upon something.
Torrence rolled a fierce green eye in the direction of the main doorway. I followed his gaze. There in the entrance was a line of civil guards armed with rifles. I saw them look uneasily at one another. Then, one by one, they moved aside.
Curious now, I raised my head to look over the Guardsmen in front of me as a ripple of voices came through the lobby. Even the Guardsmen were distracted from chaining their captives.
By now the civil guard had moved yet further apart, and I saw, with some measure of disbelief, a curious body of people marching across the lobby. These, I realized, were the Blind. They moved with a quick confidence, their white sticks sharply tapping the marble floor. Indeed, there were so many of them that the rap of their sticks drowned out every other sound in the place.
'What is this?' Torrence asked with supreme irritation. 'Get these people out of here.'
But the Blind moved forward, and what I took at first to be dozens of them turned out to be hundreds. What a mixture they were. All the different colours of humanity were there. Some were neatly dressed, others wore rags. Clearly they'd come from both Free Manhattan and the slave camp in the north.
Torrence's expression switched between anger and bewilderment.
At the front of this strange procession was an unsighted woman of around seventy with long white hair; beside her a sighted girl acted as her guide.
Torrence let out a sudden laugh. He looked at me, then at Sam Dymes. 'I know what this is, Dymes!' Pointing back at the Blind with his pistol, he said, 'This is your secret weapon.' He laughed even louder. 'Is this the best you could do?'
'I… I don't know anything about this.' Sam's voice was barely a whisper.
'Oh, so you're disowning this absurd pantomime? Sanity at last!' Torrence then turned and bellowed at the Blind men and women. 'Listen to me! Don't you know that the old adage still rings true?' He pointed to his green eye. 'That in the country of the blind the one-eyed man is king!'
'General Fielding,' began the elderly woman in calm tones.
'Oh go away, blind woman. And take your rabble with you.'
'We are not leaving, General Fielding. Or should we address you by your real name… Torrence, isn't it?'
Torrence's humour vanished. 'Masterfield, have this place cleared, and if they don't clear out in five minutes give the order to open fire on them.'
Guardsmen raised their weapons.
The woman spoke out in a clear voice. But she didn't address Torrence. Instead she called out, 'Stephen? Stephen? Are you there?'
This was a cue for all the Blind. With a calm dignity they began to call out in clear voices.
'Elizabeth? Elizabeth?'
'Anthony?'
'Hans, are you there, Hans?'
'Joe? Can you hear me, boy?'
'Colleen?'
'Rose?'
'Aaron, are you there, son?'
'Theo…'
'Michael, it's your father…'
The slave Blind and the free Blind were calling to their sons and daughters.
'Colleen?'
'Benjamin, this is your mother.'
'Can you hear me, son?'
'Thomas…'
With unsuppressed fury Torrence barked at his men. 'Drive those people out of here with your fists if you have to… if they don't move, put a bullet in them. Shoot them down like dogs!'
I glanced round at the Guardsmen. They couldn't have looked more stunned if a whole squadron of tanks had thundered through the doors. Everywhere, faces of the armed men flushed red; they began to look to one another to see what their comrades would do.
They did nothing.
The Blind continued to call out to them.
'Joe, listen to me. Throw your gun down, my boy.'
'Colleen, put away your gun.'
'Benjamin…'
I looked from Guardsman to Guardsman. Their grim expressions had begun to change as powerful emotions started to build inside them.
Suddenly an officer threw his gun to the floor, where it clattered loudly.
And all the time the clear voices of the Blind continued calling to their sons and daughters.
'Pick that gun up,' Torrence raged at the Guardsman. 'Pick it up or I'll have you court-martialled!'
Shaking his head, the man lowered his gaze to the floor. After that, a rifle was thrown down, followed by a sub-machine gun.
'I order you to pick up those guns.'
Another gun fell to the floor, then another and another. Soon the sound of metal striking marble filled the lobby. I looked at the civil guard in the doorway. They followed suit, laying down their rifles and pistols. As quickly as the sounds had filled the lobby it became silent.
Then the elderly woman spoke. 'It's over, Torrence. Your co-rulers have been arrested. They will be tried in a court of law in due course. As you will be.'
'What? You… you creatures stand in judgement of me? Never… never.' He raised the pistol, pointing it at the woman's face.
It is sometimes said that there is no such thing as a true accident. That our unconscious desires guide our actions.
Only one of my arms had been manacled, the shackling process having been interrupted by the arrival of the Blind. Now a yard of chain hung from my right wrist. At the end of that formidable chain was a heavy steel cuff.
Before Torrence could fire I swung the chain with all my strength. I had intended to strike the arm that held the pistol. But I whipped the chain too high. At that moment, Torrence heard the sound of the approaching chain and half turned.
The manacle cracked into the side of his face. I saw only too clearly the damage caused by the open steel cuff as it embedded itself in his single good eye.
The screams, the curses, the sheer despair and fury of Torrence's inarticulate but highly vocal rage still rang around the building as the medics took the man away.
I turned to see Kerris kneeling beside Marni, holding a bloodstained hand. Tears glistened on her face. I went to her. I think I was the only one to move at that moment. Even though the lobby held perhaps five hundred people, everyone was still. As if even now, though the man himself had been disgraced and deposed, the ghost of Torrence's presence somehow still held sway there.
But formidable though the tyrant had been, the malign presence did, at length, pass and was no more. Guardsmen joined their blind mothers and fathers. From the emotions they displayed I sensed that the soldiers hadn't seen their parents for a long, long time.
That was, perhaps, the instant that Torrence's spell was well and truly broken. Families, now reunited, began to leave in small groups.
In a little while we'd leave, too. But not just yet. Arrangements had to be made for Marni. We would make sure we did right by her.
CHAPTER FORTY FIVE
THE WORLD BEYOND
ON a bright October morning the flying boat's hull kissed the surface of a perfect sea. I throttled back and the engines that had powered our fifteen-hour flight eastwards across the Atlantic fell silent. The green hills of the Isle of Wight were as I'd remembered them. A mist clung to the shoreline, softening the outlines of the houses of Shanklin. Presently a motor launch fastened a line to the aircraft's nose, then towed it to the jetty where quite a crowd had turned out to see us.
It had been a long journey and there was still a lot of work to do back in Manhattan. But I thought it only right that my parents should meet the woman who was carrying their first grandchild.
We disembarked to cheers and wild applause. I'd seen nothing like it before. What had happen
ed to that customary English reserve? I smiled as Gabriel Deeds found himself surrounded by dozens of islanders eager to shake him by the hand. The American Indian, Ryder Chee, made an impressive if incongruous figure among the crowd. But even his customary solemn expression broke into a crinkling smile as islanders surged forward to welcome him.
Christina laughed with delight, waving and clapping her hands back at the crowd, her eyes flashing with excitement.
It all became confusing, not to say a little riotous for a time. But suddenly I was face to face with my father. His strong face broke into a smile. 'Enjoy this moment, son,' he told me, putting his hands on my shoulders. 'You're getting a welcome fit for a hero… and you deserve every bit of it.'
Coherent speech became impossible. There were too many hugs, handshakes and kisses, too much backslapping for that. My old pilot buddy Mitch Mitchell managed to reach over the thronging people, displaying an impressive length of arm that justified his nickname of 'Monkey'. He rubbed my hair vigorously while calling out, 'White Swan, tomorrow night at eight. The beers are on me!'
By degrees we made it into the town where cars waited for us.
My father, Bill Masen, that hero of an earlier era, had learned from radio messages about what had happened to me over the last few weeks, but he was eager to learn more. 'And you say that the girl you found, Christina Schofield, is actually immune to triffid poison?'
'As are Ryder Chee and his tribe. They can walk among triffids like we'd take a stroll through an orchard.'
'You told me over the radio that you had another surprise for me.'
I smiled. 'Yes, I have.'
He grinned. 'Come on, David, what is it? You're not going to keep your old father in suspense, are you?'