Down: Trilogy Box Set

by Glenn Cooper

  “Blaming the victims,” Ben said, “Marvelous. Well, the good news is that they didn’t find your wives. The bad news is we’re no closer to finding any of them and the body count is rising.”

  Christine and Molly drove around London lacking any sense of purpose. Their route and pace were as aimless and listless as their emotions. Gareth had given them what cash he had in his flat and had shouted at them to go. They had left him behind in a state of confusion and agitation.

  Ahead, Molly saw the dome and spires of St. Paul’s.

  “Fancy going to church?” she said.

  “Fuck off,” Christine replied. “Not funny.”

  “We’ve got to go somewhere, luv. How ’bout the cinema then? Sit in the dark, have ice lollies and popcorn?”

  “We need a plan.” Christine said.

  “I know what we can do. We can sell our story to the News of the World then go on the tele and make millions. What do you reckon they’d call us? Hell birds?”

  That almost made Christine laugh. Almost.

  “Did you see how much Gavin hated me?” she said.

  “He didn’t hate you. I don’t think hate entered into it.”

  “If he believed it was me he would have hated me. I abandoned him. What kind of a mother leaves her boy?”

  “A mother who was head-over-heels with Jason. Don’t forget that Gareth West was a domineering, soul sucking bastard. You were at wit’s end, darling. You needed a fresh start and you took it. More power to you. And Jason wasn’t going to be any kind of father figure to the boy. It wasn’t in him. Gavin was better off growing up with one father. And with what happened to us, well, he was spared all that.”

  Christine took it in. A young couple on the sidewalk caught her eye. They were mucking about and having fun. “You’re not wrong,” she said wistfully.

  “’Course I’m not. Maybe I could get my own show on the tele. Advice on life and love from Dr. Hell Bird. So, what did you decide?”

  “On what?”

  “On seeing your sister. We’re not far from Stoke Newington.”

  “I didn’t like her when she was young. She was a cow. Now she’ll be an old cow.”

  “Well I’ve got no one in this world or the next besides Murph,” Molly said.

  “All right, then,” Christine said. “I didn’t want to but we’ll go visit my mum.”

  The address was a small Victorian cottage on a leafy street in Stoke Newington. Hathaway drove past it a few times then found a parking space on a small dead-end road near a mechanic’s garage. Talley held up his hand to protect his sensitive eyes from the bright sun. They had two bottles of Gareth West’s liquor to occupy their time and they would wait until night.

  Waking in the darkness, the booze long gone, they piled out of the car and pissed on the deserted road. When they got to the cottage it was pitch dark. Hathaway rang the bell and when there was no answer he went around to the back, broke a window with a rock, and let the others in.

  “We’d best keep the lights off.”

  “Suits me,” said Talley. “This land’s too bright for my liking.”

  Hathaway fumbled for a pair of candlesticks on the mantle and lit the wicks on the kitchen cooker. Inside the fridge there was a box curiously labeled as wine. Hathaway figured out how to use the plastic spout and tasted it.

  “What a world,” he said. “Wine in a fucking box.”

  He passed the wine box to the others to keep them quiet while he had a proper look around.

  The wardrobes in the bedrooms were filled with old-lady clothes. There was a TV in the lounge that was flat and alien but there was an old boxy set in one of the bedrooms that he thought he might be able to figure out. There was an accumulation of mail on the floor under the slot. All of it was addressed to a Helen Mandeville.

  The kitchen and pantry shelves were stocked with an abundance of canned and dry goods and an overage of loo paper. It seemed Christine’s sister was a food hoarder. In the lounge a breakfront cabinet was filled with cheap, floral china. He pulled open the lower doors and whistled. It seemed she was a booze hoarder too.

  “I reckon we could stay here a while,” he announced to the others, tossing liquor bottles around to eager hands.

  22

  While pondering his next military move, Stalin took possession of Barbarossa’s palace, directing it to be cleaned and scrubbed, removing every filthy remnant of the ancient king.

  “Burn his clothes, burn his mattress, burn everything that burns,” he had said.

  When the bonfire in the main bailey had finally died out, a small army of servants moved all of Stalin’s possessions and those of his generals and advisors into the rejuvenated palace.

  “How long must we stay in this damned place?” Field Marshal Kutuzov had asked after inspecting his own chilly quarters.

  “What’s your hurry?” Stalin had asked.

  “I prefer Moscow,” the general had replied.

  “We all prefer Moscow,” the tsar had said. “But we are soldiers, Mikhail, and soldiers fight. Marksburg is a better place to launch our conquest of Europa than Moscow. Do I need to draw you a map?”

  “Then let’s get on with it,” Kutuzov had sniffed. “Let’s march on the Norselands which will fall like a house of sticks then sail to Britannia and take London from the north. You have seen my war plan.”

  “Soon, soon, Mikhail, but we must consolidate our position in Germania first. Any German officer and noble who is not completely loyal and trustworthy must be purged and replaced with men we own, men whom we can trust. Otherwise, as soon as we leave Marksburg, some devil will try to install himself as the new king and all our gains will be wiped out.”

  It was nighttime and Stalin sat alone in the king’s damp great hall staring at burning logs. He pulled a blanket over his lap and felt himself beginning to drift off.

  His personal manservant tiptoed in. Nikita, a freckled young man, had been at his side since Stalin first seized the reins of power from mad old Tsar Ivan. Ivan had ruled over Russia for over four hundred years, more than living up to his earthly moniker, Ivan the Terrible.

  Nikita inched into view and waited to be acknowledged.

  “What is it?” Stalin asked. “Are you going to scold me for sleeping in my chair?”

  “Apologies for disturbing you. A party of men has arrived at the castle. Their leader, a barbarian, I am told, demanded to see Barbarossa and when informed of his demise, demanded to see you instead.”

  “I’m sure it can wait until the morning. But if he does not have the grace to wait until then, have the guards destroy him. I have no patience for barbarians. There are too many of them about. Has my bed been warmed?”

  Nikita bowed his head, something he always did when he was about to contradict the tsar. “Apologies, Tsar Joseph, but this barbarian has a great treasure he wants to sell to you.”

  “Treasure?” Stalin bellowed. “This palace is filled with treasure. If I see one more golden plate or jeweled ring I’ll vomit. Now, Nikita …”

  “Children,” the young man blurted out.

  “What did you say?”

  “Children. He has children.”

  “That’s absurd,” Stalin said, growing angrier. “Have the barbarian shot.”

  “I refused to disturb you unless I saw for myself. He produced a small boy. Very young, certainly no more than five or six if my memory of children suffices. The boy was scared. His face was wet with tears. The barbarian claims he also has a girl at his camp, even younger. And a woman who tends them.”

  “You saw this boy? And you haven’t been drinking?”

  “Only a little wine. Not enough to imagine a child.”

  “This makes no sense,” Stalin said, throwing off his blanket and pointing toward his boots. “The laws of Hell are inviolate. Children do not come here.”

  “But, Tsar Joseph,” Nikita said, “these children are not dead.”

  Stalin had another drink to steady his nerves. He had been waiting
for over an hour for the barbarian to return to the castle with all his “treasure.”

  From across the great hall he watched a contingent of his imperial guards march in and suddenly part ranks, revealing a squat, one-eyed chieftain dressed in skins and furs, and behind him, a plump, middle-aged woman holding hands with a small boy and a smaller girl.

  “They speak English,” Nikita whispered to Stalin.

  Stalin ignored Clovis and brushed past him without a word, leaving the brute to mutter something in his guttural tongue.

  Delia eyed the tsar suspiciously with an expression to suggest she recognized, but couldn’t quite place him.

  “Please don’t come any closer,” Delia said. “You’ll scare the children.”

  Stalin dropped to a knee. “I do not want to make them scared,” he said in English. He had a look of utter wonder in his eyes. “What is your name, madam?”

  “Delia. Delia May.”

  “Welcome, Mrs. May. I am pleased to welcome you and your little ones. I am Stalin. Joseph Stalin.”

  She blanched and blurted out, “Jesus Christ.”

  The tsar’s moustache curled upwards. “He is not here, only Stalin.”

  “I thought I recognized you,” she mumbled.

  Stalin sniffed the air. “It is true,” he said. “You do not have the smell of death upon you.”

  “Fortunately, no.”

  “How is this?”

  “Do you have time for a rather long story?”

  “Yes, yes, I’m sorry. There will be time. What are their names?”

  “The boy is Sam, the girl is Belle.”

  “Look how beautiful they are. Look how sweet. They are yours?”

  “Heavens, no. I’m just looking after them. They were separated from their mother.”

  “Who is also a living woman?” Stalin asked.

  “She is.”

  “Can I speak to children, please?”

  “If you don’t scare them.”

  Just then, Clovis began to talk loudly, making the children cry out in fear.

  Stalin rose and asked what the barbarian was saying. The Duke of Thuringia and a gaggle of German noblemen had crept into the hall and the old duke came forward, volunteering his assistance.

  “He speaks an ancient dialect, my tsar,” the duke said. “He asks how much you will pay for these trophies?”

  “Give him a bag of coins and send him away,” Stalin shouted to Thuringia. “The bastard is making the little ones cry.”

  The duke went over to Clovis and spoke to him, eliciting a toothless smile and a vigorous head nod and the imperial soldiers led him away.

  Word of the visitors had spread through the castle and Russians and Germans alike began to filter in. Kutuzov came in, tucking in his tunic and Pasha arrived with his shoes untied, the laces flapping on the stone floor.

  Stalin dropped to his knees again and splayed his arms out wide. “Children, come. Sam and Belle come. Come and greet your Uncle Joe.”

  Delia told the children it was safe to come out from behind her. Sam emerged first and took a tentative step forward.

  “How old is Sam?” Stalin asked.

  “I’m three.”

  “Oh, such a big boy. How old is little girl?”

  From behind Delia a small voice said, “I’m two.”

  Stalin wiped tears from his cheeks and blew his nose into a handkerchief. “Such precious children. I am in shock. Never would I have imagined such a thing.”

  “We’re in a state of shock as well,” Delia said.

  Stalin stood again. “You are English, Mrs. May, are you not?”

  “I am indeed.”

  “And where in England are you from?” he asked.

  “London but our jumping off point to come here was Dartford, in Kent.”

  From across the hall a voice rang out in English. Pasha pushed forward through the gathering crowd. “I’m sorry,” he asked. “Did you say you were from Dartford?”

  The journey from Calais to Paris had not been without incident but the Earl of Calais’s armed men had dealt with rovers and brigands with ruthless efficiency. John had guarded his own group with weapons at the ready but the earl’s men did the dirty work, shedding blood and rolling heads at the smallest provocation.

  Weary and exhausted, they arrived in a monochrome Paris shrouded in a heavy canopy of cooking fires. John pointed it out to the Earthers, the great palace on the Île de la Cité.

  “That’s it,” he said.

  “Our Paris is magical,” Tony told Martin, choking on the smoke. “This Paris is crap.”

  “If they’ve got beds and baths, I’ll not complain too loudly,” Alice said.

  Emily put her hand on John’s shoulder. “Giuseppe’s the only man in Hell I look forward to seeing again,” she said.

  “Not Caravaggio?” John asked.

  “Well, him too,” she grinned. “He’s gorgeous. And did I say talented?”

  The Earl of Calais led the way to the guard stations flanking the great castle drawbridge. After an animated discussion with the captain of the guard he returned, waving his one arm.

  “I explained to these men who you are and who I am,” the earl said. “They are summoning high officials.”

  “Garibaldi?” John asked.

  “I am hopeful. I would like to meet this new king. Do not forget to tell him that I have been helping you and your strange friends.”

  “Believe me. You’re going to get a medal.”

  After a long wait, the captain of the guard summoned the earl who in turn summoned John. The huge drawbridge slowly lowered and the group walked across the river and through the outermost defensive wall of the castle.

  From a distance a man hurried toward them and judging by the awkwardness of his locomotion, it was clear he was unaccustomed to running.

  When he got close enough, John saw who it was and called out, “Guy! How are you?”

  “John Camp!” Forneau yelled. “I cannot believe it is you.”

  Puffing and wheezing from the exertion he clasped John’s shoulders and John pumped his hand.

  “Were you not able to return to your own world?” Forneau asked.

  “No, we made it but we’ve come back. I’ll explain everything but first I’d like to introduce you to Emily Loughty.”

  Forneau bowed deeply, his chest continuing to heave. “Giuseppe told me she was beautiful and now I see it with my own eyes. I am honored to know you, my good lady.”

  She did her best version of a curtsy and said she’d heard many good things about him.

  “Come, come, inside,” Forneau told them. “There is much to talk about.”

  The Earl of Calais stepped forward and introduced himself and began explaining how he had volunteered to help them across the wilderness to Paris.

  “Yes, yes,” Forneau said, with a dismissive wave. “You will be rewarded for your service, monsieur. You are surely a friend to the crown. Tomorrow we shall conduct our business.”

  “Does Giuseppe know we’re here?” John asked, politely edging the earl aside.

  “But he isn’t here, John. He and most of our Italian friends have departed.”

  The news left John and Emily despairing.

  “Where is he?” John said.

  “He has gone to Iberia to seek an alliance with King Pedro. Much has happened in a short time. Please come inside. We will talk.”

  “We don’t have a lot of time,” John said. “We need your help. The Queen of Brittania is in Francia …”

  “Yes, yes, I know,” Forneau said. “My spies have reported the news to me. She was in Strasbourg but she has been destroyed by the warlord, Clovis.”

  Emily let out a visceral cry. She knew the one-eyed beast all too well. “Oh my God, John. The children!”

  “Children?” Forneau said. “You know of these children?”

  “My niece and nephew,” she said. “That’s why we’re here.”

  “Tell me what you know, Guy,” John demanded
.

  “I did not believe what I was told but now, perhaps, I do. In Strasbourg children were said to be seized by Clovis. He delivered them to Marksburg in exchange for gold. That is where they are. Marksburg.”

  “Barbarossa has them?” Emily said, her voice quavering.

  “No, not him. He is no more. The Russian tsar has taken control of Germania. Tsar Joseph has them.”

  “I saw him,” Emily told John. “I saw Joseph Stalin when I was a prisoner in the German camp.”

  “I remember,” John said gently, trying to assuage her panic. “You told me.”

  “We’ve got to go to Marksburg,” she said urgently. “We’ve got to go there now.”

  “Please, you must rest first,” Forneau said. “And you cannot just present yourself and expect to succeed in your quest. The tsar and his German allies have a formidable army. You will need much in the way of aid.”

  It was then that Forneau noticed Martin, Tony and the others huddled together a short distance away. He walked slowly toward them, sampling the air and shaking his head in awe.

  “So many live souls,” he said. “The passage between our two worlds has become larger, has it not? I am Guy Forneau, lord regent to the new king. I welcome you to Francia.”

  “Is this Spain?” Trevor asked.

  “Hang on,” Brian said, surveying the vast, rocky beach. “Let me check what the sign says. Or better yet, I’ll just power up the sat-nav.”

  “Stupid question.”

  They tugged and pushed and got the barge as far onto the beach as they could, then tied a line around a boulder to secure it, though Brian was dubious it would hold once the tide came in.

  “Actually it wasn’t a completely stupid question,” Brian finally said. “I sailed around the Bay of Biscay years ago. This inlet looks like one I remember. If I’m right, this is Santander. ’Course the Santander I remember was a major port filled with cruise ships and this beach was stacked with high-rise flats and that hillside was covered in houses with lovely salmon-colored roofs. Other than that it looks exactly the same. Fancy a sangria?”