by Glenn Cooper
Trotter smiled. “Exactly.”
“I will consider your offer.”
“Is this your decision to make?” Trotter asked. “Who’s going to be the decision maker in your king’s absence?”
“You may consider me to be his majesty’s regent until he returns.”
“I don’t know how things work around here,” Trotter said, lowering his voice to little more than a whisper, “but if Henry doesn’t come back, then perhaps you could do better than regent.”
Cromwell looked at the compact, mustachioed man holding onto his trousers and nodded curtly. “Please use your considerable influence to get half the people to climb upon that wagon, if you please.”
When Trotter returned to the knot of VIPs Bitterman asked him, “What were you saying to Cromwell?”
“I warned him that I am holding him personally accountable for all our treatment.”
Quint snorted, “Warning? It looked like you were begging.”
Trotter ignored him and told the others, “They want us on the wagon. We’re going to London.”
4
Malcolm Gough nervously crossed and uncrossed his long legs. He had been kept waiting for over an hour, the only one inside a patient lounge on a cleared-out floor of the Royal London Hospital. A month earlier he had been summoned by MI5 from his academic perch at Cambridge to come to this very hospital where he’d had the oddest meeting of his life. John Camp, recovering from surgery, had asked him questions about Henry the Eighth as if he were a living, breathing person. Gough had left that meeting, baffled and bemused, but having signed the Official Secrets Act he had not been able to share the experience with anyone, even his wife.
Earlier in the day he had received a call from Ben Wellington, asking him to come down to London that evening for an urgent consultation.
“It’s not really convenient,” Gough had said.
“I’m afraid it’s not optional,” Ben had answered. “It’s a matter of national security.”
“I’m a history professor,” Gough had reminded him.
“Yes you are.”
“Does this have anything to do with the problems in London we’re seeing on the news?”
“It does.”
“You don’t intend to further pick my brain on Tudor monarchs?” he had asked half in jest.
“We do. A car and driver will be outside your house at five. Please pack an overnight bag and bring a good suit. You’ll be meeting the queen.”
The lounge door swung open and Gough saw John Camp, clean-shaven for the first time in a month, striding in wearing a smart blue blazer, gray trousers and a striped red tie. Though his clothes were fresh his face was weary.
“I thought I might be seeing you again,” Gough said.
“How’ve you been, Professor?”
“I was perplexed the day I left you and I’m still perplexed.”
“We’re going to try to help you with that.”
“Are you?”
“I assume you’ve been watching the news.”
“Who hasn’t? It’s alarming. The complete and utter babble from the authorities hasn’t helped.”
John sat across from him. “With fairness, it’s not an easy situation to explain.”
“This chap, Giles Farmer, has been on the tele making wild claims about the MAAC collider, extra dimensions, portals, and what not.”
John leaned forward and said, “He’s pretty much got it right.”
A visibly shocked Gough exclaimed, “What?”
“I mean he’s got no idea what that dimension is. Are you ready for the truth? Once I tell you your life’s never going to be the same.”
“I presume you’re going to tell me regardless.”
John nodded and smiled. “Are you a religious man, Professor?”
“I’m not a church-goer but I believe in a higher power, yes.”
“How do Heaven and Hell fit into your belief system?”
“Well, I think they’re useful abstractions to motivate behaviors.”
“I don’t know about Heaven but I’m here to tell you that Hell exists. It’s not an abstraction.”
Several minutes into his monologue, John paused to ask the blanched professor if he was all right. Gough asked whether he might have some water and John left him and returned with a bottle from the nursing station fridge.
“I suppose you’re next going to tell me that you met Henry over there,” Gough rasped.
“I did. And not just him.”
John rattled off more. Cromwell. Queen Matilda. Robespierre. Barbarossa. King Pedro. Himmler. Stalin. With each name, Gough’s mouth opened a bit more until it was agape.
“This is all quite unbelievable,” Gough said, shaking his head like it was on a swivel. “Whether or not I’m prepared to believe you, all of it begs this question: why am I here?”
“Because you know as much about Henry as any living person.”
“And why is that a useful skill for a government which seems to have so many pressing interests at hand?”
“Because he’s in a room down the hall.”
“Who is?”
A unit of the Royal Marines 3 Commando Brigade occupied a defensive position on the Leatherhead Town Bridge over the River Mole. They had been deployed only an hour earlier, taking over from a beleaguered Surrey police unit. Jack Venables, a 2nd Lieutenant, peered through his night-vision binoculars toward the town centre and put them down to rub his tired eyes. He thought that one of his corporals might be dozing but the upbraided soldier demonstrated that his head was lowered to study a map with a penlight.
“Sorry,” Venables said. “Carry on.”
The squad’s sergeant, Callum Ferguson, was still glued to his binoculars and alerted Venables to signs of activity.
“Four individuals coming toward us. Three hundred meters. They’re running.”
Venables got the eight-man squad to the ready and reminded them of their rules of engagement.
“And tell us again how we’re supposed to tell a citizen from an alien?” one of the privates asked. As an afterthought he added, “Sir.”
Venables seemed irritated by the insubordinate tone but he patiently acknowledged the difficulty and bizarre nature of their assignment. “Look here,” he said. “All of us, me included, are rather far down on the feeding chain on this thing. I haven’t been told much more than what’s on the tele. But the distinct impression the Lieutenant-Colonel gave at the briefing this afternoon was that the town’s been overrun by unidentified aliens who can be identified by their distinctively unpleasant odor.”
“So we’re supposed to sniff their armpits before we shoot them?” the private said.
“Shut the fuck up, Saunders,” the sergeant said.
Another private lifted his head from his riflescope. “Didn’t they tell you where they were from, Lieutenant?”
“I’d say the Lieutenant-Colonel was evasive but I got the distinct impression that we weren’t talking about little green men from Alpha Centauri or refugees from the Middle East. Sergeant, their position?”
“Two hundred meters. Still coming our way.”
“My girlfriend texted me,” the corporal said. “She said they were saying they’re from another dimension.”
“Your girlfriend must be from another dimension to be stepping out with you,” Saunders said.
“Button it up right now,” Venables ordered. “At fifty meters, hit them with floodlights.”
When the klieg lights were trained on the four approaching figures they stopped and shielded their eyes.
“Royal Marines,” the sergeant shouted over the sounds of the coursing river. “Approach slowly with your hands on your heads.”
The two men and two women complied and walked toward them down Bridge Street. Just before they got to the bridge, the soldiers saw them look to their left, apparently alerted to something coming from Minchin Close, an unlit dead-end street. Suddenly one of the women screamed as a dark figure sprang out and
grabbed her and began dragging her away from the light.
“What the fuck!” Saunders yelled.
The three other civilians dropped their arms and began running toward the bridge.
“What are our orders?” the sergeant shouted to Venables.
“Hold your positions!” the lieutenant said. “We are not authorized to enter the town centre.”
“But a woman’s been snatched!” Saunders said.
“I may have a shot,” the corporal said, tracking a glowing, green figure through his riflescope.
“You do not have permission to engage,” Venables said. “We have our orders.”
Two men and a woman were on the bridge now and the sergeant ordered them to sit on their hands in the middle of the road. They were all young adults and they appeared to be in a state of shock and distress. The woman was crying uncontrollably. The men kept looking behind them to see if they were really safe.
“Check them for weapons,” the sergeant ordered his Marines.
“They got Sarah,” one of the men moaned. “And you lot did nothing.”
Saunders did the frisking and when he was done he loudly sniffed at the bearded young man.
“What are you, a fucking dog?” the man said to him angrily. “People are dying out there, begging for the police and the army. And you’re safe and sound on this bridge sniffing at me like a retard.”
Saunders ignored him. “The smell’s all right,” he reported.
Venables came forward and had the other two searched. “It’s all right, you can stand up.” He looked them in the eyes and said, “We have orders to keep clear until the authorities know what they’re dealing with. As I understand it, thousands of civilians responded to our messages throughout the day and made their way out. You’ll be transported to an evacuation center in Dorking.”
The other woman spit at him and swore.
He wiped the spittle from his cheek with his hand. “I’m sorry your friend was assaulted. There was nothing we could do. Tell me what’s been going on inside the town centre.”
The second young man spoke evenly. “We hid most of the day in Sarah’s flat not far from the shopping centre. People were running past but we were too scared to move. We saw some horrible things from the windows. Horrible. We heard the loudspeakers but we didn’t dare budge. A half an hour ago we heard them crashing through the back door and we ran out the front.”
“What did you see?” the lieutenant asked.
“People being butchered,” the man said. “They’re animals, nothing but wild animals. We saw people being eaten alive.”
John led Gough down the hall toward a knot of MI5 officers guarding a doorway. They stood aside when John approached.
“Ready?” John asked the professor.
“I don’t know I am,” Gough said.
John knocked on the door and opened it. It was an ordinary hospital room, identical to the one he had himself occupied a month earlier. A large man with stubble for a beard and long gray hair laced with ginger lay on top of the made-up bed in a terry cloth robe, his scarred and purplish legs in full view. He was intently reading a book, Gough’s book, The Life and Times of Henry VIII, but he put it down and exclaimed, “There you are! John Camp, my captor. I am most displeased.”
“Aren’t they treating you well, Your Majesty?”
“I have been served no wine, I have been served no ale. They have given me water and something vile which tickles my nose and tastes revolting.”
John looked at the soda can and smiled.
“And what is this?” Henry pointed at uneaten food on a nearby tray.
“It’s called a sandwich.”
“It too is revolting. And where are my clothes?”
“They’re having them cleaned, I think.”
“Damn you man. They were not soiled.”
“I think they wanted them fumigated before you met the queen.”
“What is fumigated?”
“Um, kill any bugs or lice.”
“How dare you. I have no lice!” the king shouted.
“Just a precaution. I’d like you to meet the man who wrote the book you’re reading. Your Majesty, this is the scholar, Malcolm Gough. He probably knows more about you than any living man.”
Gough looked wobbly on his stilt-like legs and John thought he might go down in a faint. “I-I hardly know what to say,” Gough stammered. “Can this be true? Can this be happening?”
“Do you wish to pinch my flesh, sir?” Henry said. “Will that satisfy you?”
“No, no. It’s just that …” His knees buckled. John caught him and held him upright while he reached for a chair.
“Do you mind if the professor sits?” John asked the king.
“He had better. If you had done me the courtesy of a flagon of ale I would offer him some.”
“Have some water,” John said, pouring Gough a glass.
He drank it thirstily and signaled with his hand that he would be all right. “I apologize,” he croaked. “I wish I could tell you how powerful this moment is for me. I wish I could tell you how many times I imagined what it would be like possessing a time machine and going back in history to your court. To meet you. To talk to you.”
“You are not alone in your bafflement and amazement, scholar,” Henry said. “After so many centuries I have grown accustomed to the strange environs of Hell but the collision of our two worlds has left me reeling, this I freely admit.”
“Mr. Camp has requested that I ask you some questions,” Gough said.
“Questions of what nature?” Henry asked.
“Questions about your life and time.”
“Toward what end?”
Gough looked to John to answer.
“Here’s the way it is,” John said. “I know that you are who you say you are. I was in Brittania with you. I don’t need any convincing. But in about two hours we’re scheduled to take you to see the queen and the people in charge of the government want to be certain you are, in fact, Henry the Eighth, not some impostor. After all, you don’t look much like the picture of you on the cover of the professor’s book.”
“Holbein,” Henry said. “It was a dread experience to sit for him. His flatulence would foul my chamber imbuing it with an aroma akin to a rotting room. In any event, it is not an easy thing to maintain corpulence in Hell. My present physique is that of my younger self.”
Gough cleared his throat and asked his first question. “You mentioned Hans Holbein. He was commissioned by Anne Boleyn to design a drinking cup for her. Could you please tell me what he engraved on that cup?”
Henry swung his legs over the bed, briefly exposing his prodigious private parts before fixing his robe. He scrunched his forehead in thought and said that it was difficult to recall such a detail after five hundred years.
“I can move on,” Gough volunteered.
“It was a falcon,” Henry suddenly declared. “A falcon perched on a bed of roses.”
Gough turned to John and nodded.
“You had some significant involvement with my university, Cambridge,” Gough said. “Can you tell me what that was?”
“Yes, I read in your book that you are a scholar at Trinity. Do you wish me to tell you how Trinity came to be?”
Gough nodded again.
“The colleges of Cambridge were awash in riches and land and I might add, papist sentiments. As I was seizing church properties the university feared it would be next and the masters prevailed upon my queen, Catherine Parr, to persuade me not to close them. For the sake of economy I merged two colleges, Michaelhouse and King’s Hall, and a number of hostels to form Trinity. I am pleased it still stands.”
“Right again,” Gough told John.
“In 1513 you led the English army in an invasion of France and there you seized some French towns. Could you name them?”
“Now that I can recall as if yesterday. Thérouanne and Tournai. They were small victories but they were glorious to the young man I was.”
Henry glowered at the professor. John thought Gough was going to bolt from the room in terror—until the king began to laugh uproariously and slap his bare thigh.
A Royal Airforce Merlin Mk4 helicopter equipped with high-resolution night-vision cameras approached Leatherhead from the south, crewed by three flight officers and two telecommunications techs.
The pilot hailed Lieutenant Venables who had heard the approaching craft just before the pilot came through on his headset.
They exchanged perfunctory greetings and the pilot said, “We’ll be sending you real-time images. Any particular sectors of interest?”
“The Swan Shopping Centre, for one, and Bridge Street, on the approach to our position on the Town Bridge.”
“Affirmative. Stand by.”
The helicopter swooped low over the Marines’ checkpoint and Venables opened his laptop and logged into the RAF comms portal. The screen came alive with stabilized images of the flyover.
The chopper flew in a spiraling pattern over the town at an altitude of three hundred feet closing in on the shopping centre. And Venables could see the occasional person emerging from a building and frantically waving for help. Then, on North Street, he saw a group of at least thirty congregating men looking up at the sky but doing no waving or gesturing of any sort.
He did a screen grab and called his sergeant over. “I think these are the scum who’ve been running amok in there,” Venables said.
“I wish they’d let us in to deal with them,” the sergeant replied.
“Me too but we’re on a short leash. If command knows who they are or what they want they’re keeping it to themselves.”
“If my wife and kids were in there they wouldn’t be able to keep me out,” the sergeant said.
The helicopter’s spiral tightened until it was almost over the shopping complex and large multi-story car park.