by John Brunner
“But whoever decided to transmit the interview live instead of recording it,” the MO snapped, “deserves to be hanged, drawn, and quartered!”
“Yes.” Cordery licked his lips. “No doubt a court of inquiry … But there is one point.”
“What?”
“Was Stevens–well–literal about his injuries?”
“As a matter of fact, he was.”
“Oh.” Cordery shuddered, and it cost him a visible effort of will not to put his hand to his crotch. “I see. In that case I suppose there’s some excuse for him.”
“There is no excuse,” the MO said flatly, “for a soldier to resent being injured in the line of duty. That’s what he lets himself in for when he enlists. If Stevens didn’t realise, it was his own stupid fault. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m very busy. After today’s confrontation with the strikers, I have twenty-four casualties to attend to.”
XII
“Wait outside, please,” David Sawyer said to the young constable on duty in the private ward where they were keeping Harry Bott. Not that there was much chance of him running away. A splinter of glass had cut a major artery in his thigh, and he was still on a plasma drip.
Sawyer had got off lighter, but not by much. He had stitches in his scalp and right biceps, and one of his hospital-issue slippers was twice the size of the other to make room for a thick dressing. Apart from residual tenderness, though, he felt fine. He had slept the clock around three times, for no accountable reason, and he’d woken with his mind clear as spring water.
“What do you want?” Harry said, glancing up from the magazine he was reading. “Your oppo Sergeant Epton was in already–isn’t one of you jacks enough for today?”
“Yes, I know Brian’s been here,” Sawyer said, taking the chair the constable had been using and dragging it awkwardly towards the bed. “In fact it’s because of something he just told me that I’ve come calling.” He sat down.
“You’re wasting your time. Like you said, it was a fair cop. That much I can’t argue about, but it stops there.” Harry’s round face darkened, “I don’t know who turned you on to the tickle, but I have my susses, and after I’ve done my bird I’ll sort him out. Better still, have him taken care of while I’m inside. I know how I can set it up without you pinning it on me!”
“You mean by getting Joe Feathers to attend to it?” Sawyer suggested. “No, that won’t work. While you’re doing your bird, your precious brodier-in-law will be porridging too, and if I can swing the deal he’ll be in the same stir, and what’s more he’ll know it was you who put him away.”
He curled his lip into a consciously sinister grin and crossed his arms on his chest.
“What are you running on about?”
“I’ll explain. When you were planning the Rexwell job, you needed someone to carry heavy crates. So you borrowed Chas Verity from Joe–without telling him, I’m sure, because if you had told him you’d have had to cut him in, and Joe isn’t the type to be satisfied with a tip, is he? All I need do, then, is let the word loose close enough to Joe for him to hear, before we nick him, that he’s sitting out his tenner because you were greedy.”
Harry preserved a sullen silence.
“Don’t you want to know how I can pin a tenner on Joe-thanks to you?” Sawyer waited until he saw by a fractional twitch of Harry’s eyes that the bait had been taken. “I’ll tell you. Accessory to murder! And if you don’t cough, I’ll send you up for accessory after instead of a regular B-and-E!”
“What the hell makes you think I could cough about a murder?” There was alarm in Harry’s voice. “And anyway, who’s dead?” .
“His name was Post. Dr Maurice Post.”
“You mean that scientist geezer they found in Kentish Town? I read about him in the papers. But that’s not on my turf, nor anywhere near it!”
“No more is Rexwell Radio. You were never one to mess on your own doorstep, which is why you’ve got away from us so often. But it’s bang next door to Joe’s manor, isn’t it? And … Well, I saw the body. I can just about picture the man who attacked him. Tall, like about six-four, and heavy, like seventeen or eighteen stone, and rather stupid, so that after he’d done his victim in he’d beat him another couple of times for luck. I can even imagine what Post was hit with. Likely, one of those detachable handles they use for hydraulic jacks, a steel bar about a yard long and an inch thick. Sorry! I mean two centimetres by a metre, don’t I? And most of Joe’s frighteners are carried on the books at that car-breaker’s yard in Finchley. You know that! What weight did Chas wrestle at, Harry? Heavy, wasn’t it?”
Harry lay there staring.
“And we all know he’s been Joe’s right fist since he quit the ring–just the person Joe would tell to sort out a stranger peddling pills on private turf.”
“Pills? I don’t know anything about pills!”
“Ah, but Joe does, and what’s more so does my oppo Sergeant Epton. That’s what we were talking about when he came to say hello after his chat with you. You say you read about Post’s death. So you know where he was the night before he died! In the Hampstead Arms! There’s a bit of history attached to that pub, isn’t there? A few years back some of Joe’s pushers were getting ruddy blatant in there–and on his front step at that, because he lives only just up the road. Well, that’s taken care of, but we keep up our contacts by way of insurance, and someone we believe says he saw one of Joe’s boys in there as well as Post the night he died. And to top the lot, he says he saw Post showing off a batch of pills … and Joe’s man was standing right beside him.”
He leaned back. “So I read the situation this way. Joe’s boyo phoned in and said something to the effect, here’s this amateur moving on to our patch and we can’t have that, and the usual car-load of frighteners rolled up and when Post left the pub they–ah–impressed him with the villainy of his trespassing.”
“Never took no interest in Joe’s business,” Harry muttered.
“Try convincing a jury of that. I’ll tell you how it’ll look to them. We nicked Chas on a job with you. It follows that when he’s not working for Joe he’s one of yours. We’re going to break him because he’s stupid. You know how thick he is. Far too diick for any court to believe he’d do something as enterprising as beating up a famous scientist unless he was told to. All of which spells accessory after!”
He gave a faint chuckle. “Come on, Harry. As a good Catholic, you’ve never approved of Joe’s dealing. And when a discreet cough could make the difference between the ten you’d pull down this way, and–oh–five at most for breaking and entering, even less if you have the sense to cop good behaviour … Well?”
He could almost see the logic of the argument working itself out behind Harry’s eyes. But when the other finally spoke, what he said startled him.
“You win, damn you! I knew Chas must have something on his mind, the way he was acting … But there’s one condition.”
“Try me. No promises, but try me.”
“It’s Vee. My wife.” Harry was twisting and untwisting his fingers. “She’s got another baby coming. And she’s not been feeling too well. If anything happens to her while I’m inside –well, the kids’d be put in care, wouldn’t they? I was in care when I was Patrick’s age, and that was hell!”
Sawyer waited.
“So make sure she gets seen by a doctor. A good one. Of course, I’ve been telling her she has to put up with it, that’s a woman’s work in the world, bearing kids and bringing ’em up … But if I’m going to be in stir–well, I want you to make sure whatever has to be done gets done to make sure she’s around even if I’m not.”
“Do you mean that–?” Sawyer began.
“I know what you’re going to say! What will Father Grady think if the doctor says she mustn’t have the new one? Well, damn Father Grady! What use is a mother who’s too sick to take care of the kids she already has?”
Curiously touched, Sawyer said, “It’s a bargain. You do realise it won’t be as easy as it would have
been ten years ago? But I’ll do my best. That’s a promise.”
“Are you sure it’s all right for Brother Bradshaw to speak tonight?” Lady Washgrave asked for the tenth time.
The doctor who had taken charge of the injured evangelist at the London Clinic (of course! No wicked socialised medicine for him!) smiled, likewise for the tenth time, and repeated his previous assurance.
“The wound was really far less serious than it appeared, even though he still does have to wear a sling on that arm. Naturally it bled freely, so we gave him a transfusion for safety’s sake, but if anything I’m sure he must be fitter now than when he arrived. You know he slept for two whole days? He must have been utterly exhausted!”
His smile was becoming a trifle glassy by now. Seizing his chance to change the subject, he added, “You must be delighted with the way things are going!”
“Oh, yes!” Lady Washgrave agreed. “There’s little doubt the tide has turned our way at last.”
To launch the New Year’s Crusade she had booked the Albert Hall with its seven thousand seats, overruling her timid committee, who feared that hangovers from last night’s party-going would prevent people from attending. Despite the chill sleet spattering the streets, the hall was nearly full with ten minutes to go before the starting-time. And some of the vacant places would be occupied by people currently shivering under umbrellas in the hope of glimpsing Brother Bradshaw as he drove up.
Catching sight of Tarquin through the throng of notables awaiting their signal to adjourn to the dais–the Home Secretary, a bishop, actors, writers, singers, the chairman of an international corporation, and lesser lights who by contributing generously had acquired the status of Patrons of the Campaign –she inquired anxiously, “Have there been any disturbances?”
She was always afraid there might be, and when there were she felt physically ill. Her ideal act of Christian witness was Harvest Festival in an old village church on a placid autumn day. Events on this grand a scale ran the risk of counter-demonstrations, not merely from militant atheists and Communists but–more horribly-from Christian extremists, Pentecostalists and Anti-Popery fanatics.
“Nothing to speak of, milady,” Tarquin assured her. “The police have the crowd well in hand.”
“They’d certainly better improve on their performance at the airport,” Lady Washgrave said tartly. “Granted, Mr Charkall-Phelps apologised personally for that fiasco, but when one thinks of the BBC newscasters raking over all that dirt…!” She clenched her fists.
“But it backfired, milady! They wound up making him look like the Prodigal Returned, didn’t they? I mean, half the young people here tonight must have sampled drugs, and as for–well, sexual irregularities …!” He blushed like a little boy, one of the characteristics which had endeared him to her. “Knowing he’s tasted the fleshpots, they’re that much more eager to hear why he returned to the fold!”
Before Lady Washgrave could reply, muffled by the walls but still fierce enough to carry to their ears there arose a mighty yell of acclamation.
“Judging by that,” Lady Washgrave said, “it sounds as though you’re perfectly right, Tarquin dear. Ask the Home Secretary and the bishop to join me in welcoming Brother Bradshaw, please!”
Ten minutes later, to the accompaniment of a roaring hymn led by a choir that had come by bus all the way from Merthyr Tydfil, they assembled on the platform under a huge neon cross and Lady Washgrave gazed out with satisfaction over the ranks of the faithful. Or, perhaps, the would-be faithful. Either way, it was gratifying to see the hall so packed.
–I do hope none of them came here in the hope of further scandalous revelations!
While greeting Brother Bradshaw, she had caught a glimpse of a banner wielded by a servant of Satan, which cried in huge yellow letters screw lady washgrave, she needs it badly … but a burly constable had hurled its bearer to the wet flagstones.
So now everything was in the lap of–ah–The Deity.
She tried not to preen at the compliments paid her by Charkall-Phelps, who had generously consented to chair the meeting, nor to feel put out at the far longer time he spent talking about Brother Bradshaw, at the mention of whose name such a storm of applause broke out one expected him to rise and bow; however, he acknowledged the tribute with a mere nod.
“How admirably modest he is!” Tarquin whispered from the row behind where the officials of the Campaign were seated. Strictly, he was not in that category, but she had organised an exception to the rule in view of his devoted services.
Then Charkall-Phelps invited the bishop to offer a prayer of dedication, and relinquished to him the place of honour. Lady Washgrave closed her eyes, preparing to enjoy the prelate’s resonant delivery; he was accounted one of the finest public speakers in the Church of England.
After an impressive pause, his baritone voice rang out.
“Lord God of Hosts, behold Your army, mustered against the horde of evil in response to the trumpets of righteousness! We, poor and unworthy servants of Christ–”
“Now that’s dishonest for a start!”
Lady Washgrave snapped her eyelids apart. That comment had been made within range of a live microphone, and in an American accent!
–Heaven forbid the stewards should have let some of those terrible extremists sneak in!
But it was no fanatic her gaze encountered. It was Brother Bradshaw! And in the body of the hall practically everyone’s eyes had been on him!
The bishop’s, naturally, had not. Unused to interruptions, he was blinking in bewilderment.
“Did you call yourself a ‘poor servant of Christ’?” Bradshaw said now, very loudly and clearly. “Poor, hm? Well, I happen to know you pulled down sixty thousand pounds last year!”
Lady Washgrave felt the world collapse as the bishop gasped and swung around.
“And the ‘unworthy’ bit, too!” Bradshaw pursued. “I don’t believe it–and neither do you! I seldom met anyone smugger or more pompous!”
By now the audience was trembling like a mountain in the penumbra of an earthquake zone. Thoroughly flummoxed, the bishop was hanging on to the rostrum with one hand, to steady himself.
“What’s more!” Bradshaw barked. “That bit you started with about the Lord of Hosts! My God isn’t a man of war! He’s the Prince of Peace!”
“Is he drunk or–or crazy?” Tarquin whimpered.
“I don’t know!” wailed Lady Washgrave. “But look down there, look at the reporters!” She pointed at the press table; everyone seated at it was grinning broadly.
“Shut up!” someone called from high at the back of the hall.
“No! No!” An answering chorus broke out. “That’s Brother Bradshaw! We came to hear Brother Bradshaw!”
“Uh–stewards?” Charkall-Phelps said uncertainly to the microphone before his chair. But the stewards, mostly husky rugger-playing medical students, were glancing helplessly from side to side as the commotion spread.
“Silence!” Regaining his presence of mind, the bishop bent his full episcopal wrath on Bradshaw. “Kindly tell me what you’ve taken exception to in the prayer I had barely begun to offer!”
“You called us an army!” Bradshaw snapped. “Armies kill! They burn, they pillage, they destroy! They follow orders blindly, to My Lai, to Lidice, countless abominations! You’re not an army!” He spun to face the crowd.
“Or if you are, you have nothing to do with the goodness of God! I’ve been lying in the hospital these past few days–you heard about that? And do you know what I’ve been thinking about? Do you imagine I’ve been praying for mercy because! once got stoned and screwed a groupie whose mother didn’t have the sense to put her on the pill?”
There was an awful hush. His listeners weren’t here expecting such terms to be used in public by the world’s most highly paid evangelist.
“No, I’ve been praying for forgiveness because I’ve been telling lies!” Bradshaw shouted. “Hypocrisy! That’s the sin against the Holy Spirit! I’ve b
een worse than that smug bugger of a bishop–more like the money-changers in the Temple! To sit back in my plush Hollywood home and tell the poor their plight is a punishment for their sins–that was evil! To bless the tools of war–I’ve done that, and it was wicked! There isn’t a sinner in the hall with more on his conscience than I have, unless it’s this bunch of bastards up here on the platform with me!”
By now he had shouldered the bishop aside from the main microphone, and to everyone in the hall it carried the sound as a sudden awful gust of agony broke from his diaphragm.
There were people present who had never heard a grown man sob before.
“Help me!” he forced out. “Oh, Lord, help me! If You ever pitied a man, help me now!”
With a wild swing of his unbandaged arm he swept the microphone to the floor, jumped from the rostrum, and ran pell-mell for an exit. No one was quick enough to intercept him. By the time the stewards had collected their wits, he had vanished.
“Well,” Tarquin exclaimed. “At least it’s a mercy we didn’t get the live television coverage you were hoping for, milady!”
“Oh, shut up, you bloody fool!” snarled Lady Washgrave. “You and your Prodigal Returned …!”
XIII
“So who exactly is this helpful friend I’m taking you to see?” Kneller demanded as he inched his car through the dense traffic of the West End. The New Year’s bargain-sales were under way and the streets were crowded with both vehicles and pedestrians, but the stores themselves were nearly empty; most people were simply gazing with awful envy at the window-displays. It was a grey, cold evening, though not actually snowing or raining at the moment.
“Habib Nasir,” Hector said, and checked his watch. “If I’d known it was going to take so long I wouldn’t have asked you to call on him with me … He’s not exactly a friend. He married a girl I was in medical school with, called Eileen. And he works for the Epidemic Early Warning Unit.”