by Guy N Smith
‘Paul … Paul Merrick.’
‘All right, Paul. Just stick along with me.’
In silence they trooped out into the night. The smoky atmosphere was a relief after the cloying smell of death. The burning city centre was a beacon to guide them.
Four people: a boy and a girl steeped in grief, silently mourning their loved ones; two men, both with blood on their hands. One bore the responsibility of thousands of deaths, his conscience torturing him. The other, a vicious killer, the blood lust still running in his veins. An odd assortment, embarking upon a pilgrimage to destiny.
Chapter 11
All around the tall office block in New Street the fire blazed, an inferno that went unchecked. The fire fighters moved back, mingling with the sightseers. Bodies lay across the street. Those nearest the flames were already charred, and the stench of roasting human flesh filled the air.
Not all of the dead were victims of the fire. Several had succumbed to the effects of the weedkiller in the water supply, the matter which seeped from their sores drying in the intense heat.
Gasps of horror came from the watchers. High above, on the tenth floor, they could see faces at the wide windows. People were trapped inside - people for whom there was no hope of escape whatsoever. Death from poisoning was horrible enough. Being roasted alive was far more terrible.
‘Jeez, ain't nobody goin' to try and get them guys out?’ somebody asked.
‘No chance,’ a sallow-faced man at the front half-turned to reply. ‘Ain' no firemen or equipment. Anyway, why feel sorry for the sods? Them weedkiller blokes are up there. They started all this, so they can't complain. Pity they didn't drink their own bleedin' poison.’
‘Let the fuckers burn,’ somebody else shouted.
Jeers and catcalls. There was no sympathy for the doomed members of the action committee.
The next fire was fully a hundred yards away. It was spreading, but somehow it had leapfrogged up New Street. A chance spark, perhaps; or a petrol bomb through a ground floor window, thrown by one who sought revenge - nobody would ever know. Terrorists, like the fires, could rampage unhindered.
Ken Broadhurst stared down at the crowd below. His features were ashen. It was something he had never contemplated. No feverish nightmare could convey the true terror of such a situation. He turned back, and glanced at his companions: Croxley, silent, robbed of his authority, soon to have his life snatched away from him; Wing Commander Wallace, barely five foot three but normally sure of himself in everything he did - right now he wasn't sure of anything, except that he was going to die; Colonel Blaxley, tall, imposing, an expert at field tactics - he too had run out of ideas; the two chemists, Gleason and Gillett - they had tried in vain to find an antidote for Weedspray, and would never get another chance. They would all go down in history as failures … if anybody remembered them!
Broadhurst thought too about Blythe. Trust the swine to get off the train before it crashed! It was funny the way he had just walked out. Almost as if he knew. And somebody had started this fire … no, he wasn't the type. He had no reason to … unless he was going to try and kid the world that he had died along with his colleagues. Men were doing strange things in the madness phase of Weedspray poisoning. It wasn't altogether an impossibility - just an improbability.
‘It's bloody hot,’ Croxley said.
Nobody answered him. It was a stupid thing to say, Broadhurst reflected, like a drowning man complaining that the water was wet.
It was stifling in the room. The heat was coming up through the floor. Each of them was wondering how far up the block the flames had travelled. There was no way of telling. Probably they would suffocate before the fire reached them: smoke victims. Broadhurst hoped so. He wanted to be dead by the time the fire burst through. He remembered stories of Joan of Arc being burnt at the stake. Christ, what a way to go! He wondered how long it took to die. Too long, whichever way one looked at it.
‘There must be some way out,’ Gleason's voice whined, an audible cringing that was going to turn to panic shortly.
‘If there is, we've overlooked it.’ There was contempt in Wallace's voice. His strict upbringing through Repton and Sandhurst had implanted two main qualities in him: the correct way to live, and the correct way to die. He trusted that he had carried out the former, and he wasn't going to spoil everything by making a balls-up of the latter. No sir!
‘But surely there are some fire brigades still operating,’ Gillett said, clutching at straws.
‘I doubt it,’ Wallace retorted. ‘and, anyway, they couldn't get through to us. The way the streets are now - abandoned cars, fallen buildings - you couldn't push a wheelbarrow through. And even if the fire brigade did somehow miraculously arrive on the scene, what could they do? They couldn't put ladders up into this lot. And if they squirt the bally water on it we'll go up quicker than ever!’
‘But we can't just … just sit here waiting to die.’
‘You come up with something, laddie, and if we set feet on the pavement below, all in one piece, I'll guarantee you a commission in the army. I'll do more than that. I'll recommend that they make you a general.’
‘But … we're all going to die!’
A moment of stunned silence. They all knew it, but nobody had actually put it so bluntly. It was a certain fact. Even the Chief Constable winced.
‘We should have got out of here earlier,’ Croxley muttered. ‘All the fire precautions in the world don't cater for madmen with petrol bombs, especially when there's no power to work the elevators, and no firemen to come to your rescue. It would be bad enough in normal times, but at least we'd be hoping. But there's nothing to hope for. If anybody wants to pray, please carry on.’
Nobody did. Every so often one of them went and explored the rest of the tenth floor, checked the offices, used the toilet. Broadhurst knew that somebody had been sick in there. It was probably Gleason. Maybe Gillett. They were the two who would crack first.
He still couldn't get Ron Blythe off his mind. It was ironic. He'd had it in mind to promote the research chemist to the board of directors. He'd even spoken to Page, the company secretary, about it. In a way he wished that he had told Blythe - unless, of course, it was he who had set fire to this place. In that case he was glad he hadn't.
Slowly Broadhurst wandered from the room. It was a relief to be away from the others for a few moments. A chance to think without seeing his own fears reflected in everybody else's eyes.
He had considered opening one of the windows and jumping out. He had always had a fear of heights, vertigo. It would be a terrible ordeal, hesitating there on the window ledge, everybody watching from below. The jump into space, turning over and over, denied unconsciousness, the ground rushing up to meet him: solid concrete. A bone-shattering impact - and suppose he didn't die right away! Some character recently had fallen from the scaffolding on a building site, a drop of a hundred and fifty feet; broken arms and legs, smashed pelvis, every injury you could think of, and still he lived. Brain damaged, he was vegetating in an asylum somewhere.
Ken Broadhurst felt the nausea rising in him. No way was he going to jump. He sat down on a typist's chair in a small room at the end of the corridor. Methodically he went over all the known ways of committing suicide. Most of them did not apply in this situation. There was no gas or carbon monoxide, no water to drown in. The idea brought a smile to his bloodless lips. He could, of course, slash his wrists with his penknife. Ugh! Messy, and it took too long. He didn't fancy sitting there watching the blood jetting out of his arteries.
Alternatively, he could always hang himself. The idea was worth considering. It was supposed to be fairly quick. He glanced up. The original iron light fittings were still screwed into the low ceiling. They had not been removed when strip lighting was installed. His hand went to his throat. His fingertips caressed the smooth material of his tie - nylon: it wouldn't snap. You could tow a car with it. All so easy: stand on the chair, a noose around his neck, the other end tied securely
to the bracket above his head, kick the chair away …
He took a deep breath. Some said only cowards took their own lives. It was a fallacy. Only very brave men had the guts to see it through. Or maybe nut cases … whilst the balance of the mind was disturbed … Christ, his balance was disturbed tall right.
You're not really going to go through with it, he told ihimself. Just the motions. At the last second you'll chicken out, untie the noose, climb down, and feel a right bloody ifool. Then you'll go back into the other room, embarrassed, like somebody at a posh party who's sneaked out for a piss and hopes nobody really knows what he's been out for.
You won't do it. You haven't got the guts. But you'll have to try it and back down before you'll believe yourself. Everybody in the other room would kill themselves if they'd got the nerve. They haven't, and neither have you, Ken Broadhurst.
God, it was hot. His furred tongue scraped against his teeth. Sweat rolled from his brow. He'd have to take his tie off, anyway. He wondered why the hell he hadn't done so earlier. He laughed out loud at the reason: because of Wallace; Blaxley; Croxley too. They weren't going to die in a state of improper dress. Their breeding had been too thorough. And instinctively Broadhurst had followed their example. That was what life was all about. Some were born to lead - like Kitchener. He said your country wanted you, and you went. Nobody reasoned or thought for themselves. The masses were born to follow.
Broadhurst pulled his tie off and stared at it, running it between his fingers. The claret and blue bands reminded him of a club tie, colours that meant something, standards which one kept to simply because all the other members did. And they did so because you did. Bloody crazy!
He stood up and placed one foot on the chair. He would have to climb up and stretch to reach that fitting, tie the knot with his fingertips whilst standing on tiptoe.
Well, it was better to get it over with as soon as possible. Then he heard the door open.
‘Oh, there you are, Broadhurst. You'd been such a long time that we wondered if anything had happened to you,’ Croxley said.
Broadhurst nodded, and knew that he was blushing with a guilt which he could not control. Titus Oates had left the party, but this time somebody had followed him.
‘Are you all right, man?’ the Chief Constable asked.
Ken Broadhurst nodded. He turned towards the window and made as if he was looking down into the street below. The smoke was thick and black. It was impossible to see anything now.
‘I was trying to figure a way out,’ he said.
‘And I arrived just in time to thwart you.’
Damn the fellow. He was psychic. No wonder he'd made it to the top flight. He spotted a criminal before the bloke had committed the crime.
‘Not really. I don't think I would have gone through with it.’
‘You never know until you try.’
Silence. Both men looked down at the floor, tracing the ring pattern on the carpet with their eyes.
‘I'll leave you to it if you want to have another try,’ Croxley smiled faintly, and the other knew that he meant it.
‘No. I don't think I could face a second attempt. It wouldn't work this time anyway.’
‘By the way, Gleason's ill.’
‘We're all ill. Soaring temperatures.’
‘I don't mean that. He's one of the poison victims. He's been trying to hide it. Gillett tipped me off. I don't know what we're going to do with him.’
There's nothing much we can do. And I guess it doesn't matter much either way. The fire'll get him before the Weedspray kills him. I wonder how long we've got.’
‘It's anybody's guess. Two or three hours. An hour. Maybe less. There are a couple more floors above this one. If we could break through to the stairway we could always go up. It'd give us another hour or two of life.’
‘A prolonged stay in hell, I'd say. I don't see the point, quite honestly.’
‘It'd be cooler.’
‘A few degrees. But it would soon warm up again.’
They could hear the flames clearly now. Stonework was expanding and cracking somewhere below them. Wood crackled like Yuletide logs and every so often masonry showered down into the blazing abyss below the tenth floor. The fire was moving much faster now.
Someone was coming down the corridor, walking quickly. Both men turned as Gillett entered, an expression of concern on his flushed face.
‘It's Gleason, sir,’ he addressed Croxley. ‘He went out of the room. I thought maybe he'd just gone for a stroll round or to the loo. Well, he's in the loo, all right.’
‘So?’ The Chief Constable raised his eyebrows.
‘The paper knife's missing off the desk, sir. He's got it, and Christ knows what he's doing, but he's locked himself in. I can hear him groaning. He's done something to himself. We'll have to break the door down.’
‘There's no point,’ Croxley sighed, and wiped his forehead with the back of his hand. ‘No point at all. Wherever he's stuck the knife, it doesn't make any damned difference. We don't have to go in there. We can do what the hell we like. We can shit in the corner or piss in the wastepaper basket. Who cares? I don't. Nobody does.’
Gillett stared, and turned on his heel. They heard him walking back to join the others, a gregarious animal returning to the main flock - lemmings which would walk out of the windows to instant death if only they could summon up the courage.
‘You shocked him,’ Broadhurst laughed.
‘So bloody what?’ Croxley laughed too. ‘We don't have to keep up pretences any longer. None of us are going to get out alive. We all know it. And unlike the prisoner in the condemned cell we're not going to be granted any last requests.’
‘And if you were …?’ Broadhurst suddenly felt light headed.
‘I'd ask for a woman.’ Croxley seated himself on the edge of the small frail desk. ‘And not my wife either. I'd like a slut, the kind we used to haul in off the streets in the days when I was pounding the beat. We used to charge 'em with soliciting, bring 'em before a magistrate; they'd be fined a fiver and then go right out and stand on the nearest street corner. Jesus, if I had my time all over again, I'd squander a quid on one of those scrubbers. That's been my fantasy for years, and I've never told a soul. And here I am telling you. Because I know you'll never live to tell anybody else.’
‘You're the most honest man I've ever met,’ Ken Broadhurst said, and meant it. ‘And since we're confessing everything, perhaps you'd like to hear mine, Father Croxley.’
‘Go on. I'll buy it. No, let me guess … You went with a streetwalker. Got a dose. Went for secret treatment at the nearest VD clinic, and nobody ever found out. Not even your wife.’
‘No.’ Broadhurst lit a cigarette, the last in the packet, probably the last he'd ever smoke. ‘Nothing so colourful. I came up from the old slums. Balsall Heath, in fact. When I was sixteen I walked right out of home, and I've never tried to find out what became of my folks. I've kidded everybody I had a public school education. I went into fanatical detail. Even got hold of an old school register, made out I knew the guys in it, bought a history of the school. Christ, I fooled everybody. Except maybe Blythe. I think he was suspicious. But what the hell? I got where I wanted, and I'll take my secret with me.’
‘You're a con man,’ Croxley said. ‘I think if you'd turned to crime you'd've been one of the few who might've got away with it. I'm glad you didn't. Life could have been very difficult for me. I'm sure that you're the type who would have made it to the top without all the bullshit you've been spraying about. You're ruthless enough. I think, also, that if I hadn't showed up you really would have hanged yourself.’
‘Well, it's too late now. Maybe we'd better go back and join the others …’
A sudden rumble came from below. The building vibrated, seemed to tilt. A typewriter fell to the floor with a loud crash and showered its mechanism across the floor. The door swung shut, silently, ominously: an earth tremor. A warning that a quake was imminent. The temperature seemed to ri
se ten degrees in the seconds which it took Ken Broadhurst to reach the door.
He clasped the handle, turned it and pulled. Nothing happened. He tugged more violently. Still it refused to move. He kicked it in desperation.
‘Jammed!’ He turned to his companion. ‘Bloody subsidence. If you ask me, the whole office block has tilted. It was bound to, with the fire eating it away from below. And we're shut in our very own prison cell. One little coffin in a huge crematorium!’
‘It makes no odds,’ Croxley said sitting down again, his heat flush disguising the sensation of sheer terror that gripped him. ‘Our number's up. I guess I really don't want to join those self-opinionated bastards for the last bow. Wallace and Blaxley will be fighting to keep their upper lips stiff. Gillett will be hiding under the table. But we're fortunate. We can do what we bloody well like, Ken. We can go mad. Scream for mercy. Pray. We've cleared the air. We don't have to pretend to each other any more. Go on, man, do what you like, bang and kick at the fucking door!’
Another rumble, this time stronger. Plaster from the ceiling showered down on the two men. The floor was at an angle. They were sliding, grabbing at furniture, taking desk, table, and stools with them into an ungainly heap in the corner.
They fought for breath, drawing in gulps of air that seared their lungs.
They lay there, watching, not talking, seeing the bare bricks grow hot like an old-fashioned bread oven. The window was gone, allowing the acrid black smoke to enter.
Somewhere people were screaming. Broadhurst and Croxley looked at each other. It could have been the crowds down in the street below. It might just have been the other members of the Action Committee, their facade crumbling along with the edifice in which they were destined to die. Nobody would ever know for sure.
Broadhurst was surprised that he felt no pain. His whole body was numbed as though he had been given a hundred shots of local anaesthetic. He managed to turn his head. The Chief Constable was looking at him. Barely a yard separated them.
‘Won't be long now.’ Croxley's whisper was loud, audible even in the background of a multitude of various noises.