‘And it’s still England, of course. In some ways it’s been something of a pleasure to discard some of the new ways and go back to our roots. There’s no government interference – no income tax! And with no foreign imports we’ve been thrown back on the way it was for our grandfathers. Why, we’ll probably start speaking the old dialect again . . .’
As Mildred rambled on in this way, and as I half-listened to other conversations at the table, I gathered glimpses of life within the Cordon. There was a regular trickle of suicides; not everyone was so jolly, it seemed, as these dinner-party guests. There could be visitors, some welcome – like doctors, parachuted in from outside or sent through the Trench as I had come – and some not. There had even been adventurers, mostly from overseas, out to ‘bag a Martian’ as one might bag a lion in the Congo. They were rarely seen again. And crime and punishment, ever necessary, was run on a ‘common sense’ basis, according to Mildred, in the absence of the usual ‘chain of command’ of the police and the courts. Later I heard of a case of a man, a would-be rapist, left staked out for the Martians. I had no way of verifying the story; it struck me as authentic . . . ‘Do you hunt?’
The non sequitur threw me; I had no chance to reply. ‘You must come,’ she said. ‘Especially in the winter. There’s nothing like it. You’re up in the morning mists, and off on the gallop. The cries of the hounds echoing, and then the hard riding, the eager horse under you – and then back home, hot and exercised, for a bath, a nap, and an evening of convivial conversation at a decent dinner party . . .’ She seemed lost in memories. Then she grinned. ‘Better than life as a clerk in some office, eh?’
As soon as I could I made my apologies, pleading tiredness – which was half the truth, at least.
But Frank caught me on the way out. ‘Well, now you’ve met the Vigilance Committee, or most of ‘em.’
‘Local worthies, all self-selected. Not much democracy, I imagine?’
‘Somebody has to do it, Julie. Implement the rationing, for instance. There were cases of cannibalism, you know, in the aftermath of the First War. Can’t have that. Oh! I recognise that expression. I can see your scepticism. Typical reaction from you, Julie! I can’t admit there aren’t a few of us who don’t enjoy the chance to lord it over the rest. I’m just doing my best. But you must try to fit in.’
‘“Fit in”?’
And he urged me to visit Verity in the morning for my blood donation; she had been given the use of one of the pubs to run the operation, for it had a cool cellar.
‘A blood bank,’ I said mildly. ‘I’m surprised it’s a priority in a population as small as this. It’s not a war zone – not an active one . . .’
He mumbled something about needing to cope with infrequent but traumatic injuries, then rather stumbled to a halt. Maybe he saw the suspicions gathering in my head before I was sure of them myself. ‘Just do it,’ he said, more harshly. ‘It’s rather the rule. We have to live with these people, Julie. We have no choice.’
‘I need to see Albert Cook,’ I said bluntly. ‘Frank, it’s vitally important.’
‘So is survival.’ And he returned to the party.
20
VERITY BLISS
The next morning I called early at the blood bank pub, the White Hart – open for business in the legal hours, a sign claimed, but no beer!
Verity Bliss was there, opening up and giving the step a perfunctory sweep. She wore a kind of coverall, sturdy and practical in drab green, perhaps a farm worker’s garment. Her hair was cut even shorter than mine.
She eyed me frankly. I introduced myself, offered a hand which was shaken.
She said, ‘Your ex-husband told me you were here – warned me you might be coming to see me.’ She smiled, but it was a wary expression. ‘He said I needed to drag you from your bed if you didn’t volunteer.’
‘I thought it was expected. What one does in this village.’
She looked at me openly. I immediately sensed there was a communication between us, under the surface. ‘Look – no matter what our blessed Vigilance Committee says, whether you donate or not is up to you.’
‘Why don’t you show me this blood bank?’
She thought that over, and nodded.
The pub’s cellar was reached by a trapdoor and shallow wooden steps; Verity turned on an oil lamp which gave flickering light. With walls of flint, and I guessed that the use of those glistening nodules here was a sign of age and not affectation, the place was indeed cool, even in midsummer. Much of the space was given over to racks that looked as if they might have once held wine bottles. Now they held flasks, slim, tall – each about the size of a wine bottle, in fact, but without the neck – and fashioned of a silvery metal.
I plucked one from the shelf and hefted it. ‘Heavier than it looks.’
‘Aluminium. Each holds more than a pint of blood.’
I glanced around. ‘There must be hundreds here.’
‘There’s more in other stores. Army issue, for battlefield use, left behind like the soldiers when the Cordon came down. They are derived from Martian technology; they are like Dewar flasks of an advanced kind – based on systems they used to store humanoid blood in their space cylinders.’ She took the flask from me and turned it, showing a scribbled date, identity of donor, blood type. ‘We’re careful how we store it, and use it.’
I looked at her in the dim light. ‘My brother said all this blood is needed in case of traumatic accidents. Happens a lot around here, does it?’
She said frankly, ‘What do you think?’
‘And how often must people donate, to build up such a store from such a small community? Once a month? More frequently?’
‘Depends on the age of the donor, their health -’
‘What happened to Mr Cattermole?’
‘Who? Oh, the postmaster. Don’t know him very well. What about him?’
‘He didn’t show up for dinner last night. His place was set; he sent no message. Next time - is this how it works? – there won’t be a place set for him at all.’
We were eye to eye. She hesitated, then said at last, ‘You’re seeing it quicker than most.’
‘The Martians must feed,’ I said gently.
‘Yes.’
‘How does it work?’
‘They come among us and they – pluck – as you may pluck a strawberry as you cross a field, and pop it in your mouth. You can run and hide, but -’
‘You can’t outrun a fighting-machine.’
‘That’s it.’
‘And the blood?’
‘It was Frank’s idea, actually. That’s what they’re after, in the end. If we see them come, if we leave a stack of the donations in their way, it can distract them. Not always -’
‘I imagine they prefer the fresh stuff. They did bring living humanoids in their cylinders, to top up their stored supply.’
‘Yes,’ she said. She looked away, as if ashamed. ‘We’ve worked out a kind of mode of living, you see – there’s a certain rationality to it, for a live human can produce a pint of blood a month forever, if you keep her alive, and I sense the Martians understand that - it’s not communication, exactly -’
‘You’re cooperating with them.’ I had snapped; I was moved to touch her arm. ‘I didn’t mean to be harsh. You do what you must to survive.’
‘Yes. And the blood store has saved lives.’
‘But this place,’ I said. ‘The village. Mildred Tritton spoke to me last night of fox-hunting! As if -’
‘I know.’
‘They’re too damn comfortable. Even Frank, perhaps – compromised,at least.’
She faced me squarely. ‘Will you give the blood?’
I thought about it, thought about what coursed in my veins. Perhaps one donation would be enough to complete my mission, if the Martians took my blood as part of this grisly propitiation.
But I found I was not ready. I found I was not ready to commit that dread act, not yet.
And I was deeply reluctant to participate,
even dishonestly, in Frank’s scheme of submission to the Martian lords. My head was in a spin. I was reminded of France, in a way – of the compromise of occupation, of men who betrayed their own brothers to save themselves, of women I knew who had gone with German soldiers for the sake of a handful of military rations. This, though, a blood sacrifice – a literal one – so that one could go on living at the feet of the Martians – and Frank was complicit in it. Well, he was a doctor, not a soldier; he had to heal those before him. But – fox hunting! Somehow I did not feel I could confide in him, about my deeper mission, any of it.
I looked at Verity. ‘We just met. But I feel as if I can trust you more than my own ex-husband.’
She shrugged. ‘Frank’s a good man. But that’s families for you.’
‘Have you heard of a man called Albert Cook?’
She pulled a face. ‘Everyone’s heard of him.’
‘Do you know how I could find him?’
‘No.’
‘Very well. Are there franc-tireurs?’
She stared back at me.
‘I mean, those who resist -’
‘I know what it means,’ she snapped. ‘Yes.’
‘I need to find them, I think.’
She was immediately suspicious. She had survived in this place two years; she had a right to suspicion. ‘Why do you need to find franc-tireurs?’
‘I have a mission.’
And I told Verity Bliss a partial truth. I told her of my cover mission, the wretched drawings by Walter, the scheme to make a meaningful contact with the Martians, one lot of sapient beings talking to another – Walter’s wistful project so cynically subverted by Eden and those who commanded him. I told nothing of the deeper truth, though I suspected I would be asking this woman to risk a great deal for me, and guilt stabbed even as I told these lies of omission.
‘Will you help me?’
She hesitated a long time before answering. Then she said, ‘There is a man called Marriott. I’ll see what I can do.’
21
A BICYCLE RIDE
She set up a meeting with ‘Marriott’ by the end of the day. ‘How did you manage that?’
‘Would you believe carrier pigeons? The Martians aren’t aware of them.’
I wasn’t sure I did believe it. This was a countryside full of secrets.
We set off the next day. I had no idea if we would return to Abbotsdale or not. I took the practical clothes I had travelled here in, complete with military-issue boots, and my rucksack with some essentials, and Walter’s leather satchel tucked under my jacket. Verity took a small bag with a few essentials, and a kind of belt containing basic medical gear, for use on campaign. I felt guilty not to tell Ted Lane I was going, but this was my mission, not his.
As for not telling Frank - I was ambivalent. Put it like that. I did not entirely disrespect his position here, but it would not have been mine. We were divorced, you will remember all; we had differences of character profound enough for that.
We cycled, Verity Bliss and I, on the back roads and the lanes, that sunny spring morning. It was a Sunday, and I heard distant church bells; evidently these, and the flocking of the human sheep to their services, did not disturb the Martians. But I remembered Albert Cook’s bleak prophecy, as recorded in Walter’s Narrative, of how in the domain of the Martians we would live in cages ‘full of psalms and hymns and piety’.
The exercise did me good, I think, a loosener after days of sterner travel, and the horror of the tunnels which still haunted me. But even in the bright daylight, with the birds singing as they had, I suppose, for a million years, in such a countryside on such spring days, Verity kept a wary eye out, and I learned to also.
‘You’d think a ruddy great fighting-machine would be an obvious landmark,’ she said. ‘That you would see them before they see you. Not necessarily. It’s motion that catches your eye, and when they’re not moving they can have an eerie stillness about them. You might see a slender form from the corner of your eye; you think it a steeple, a flagpole, a wireless mast. No!’
‘Mars is said to be a dusty world, and far from the sun so the light is dim,’ I said. ‘To come to a world like this – to a day like this – must be a glory of light and colour.’
‘Or a dazzle, as a ski run is for us. Perhaps they wear sunglasses. Ha! That would be a sight to see.’
Verity said that the Martians generally didn’t interfere with cyclists, not identifying that most democratic of vehicles with war-making capabilities. ‘One can hardly carry a field gun on a safety cycle. Best not to go too fast, however. Speed seems to be another trigger for their attention.’
‘Not much chance of that,’ I said, gasping as we came to yet another rise.
‘They are motivated to keep us alive, the Martians. Most of us anyhow. That is the horrible price we pay. But that latitude gives us an opportunity, just a chink. We must move around, we must do things – we must farm to feed ourselves and gather fuel to keep warm, and so forth. And we can use that freedom to move to serve our own purposes.’ She tapped her temple. ‘No matter how acute a Martian’s eyes, he cannot see inside here, can he?’
In the end, we found Marriott by lunch time.
Having set off from one inn in Abbotsdale, Verity brought me to another, set on the crest of a hill on the road that runs south out of Amersham towards Wycombe. I thought it had been a coaching inn once; like many of the older buildings in the area, the inns and the churches, it was walled with flint nodules. I could see where a sign-board had been smashed off its bracket.
Outside, two men sat on a bench, lounging in the sun, dressed in grimy work clothes and flat caps, and with tankards on the bench at their sides. As we rode up the hill, they called out bawdy encouragement. ‘Can you make it, love? Look at those thighs a-pumpin’, Toby! You need a hand?’ And they made lewd grasping motions with their fingers.
Verity glanced at me. ‘Ignore them.’
I shrugged. But I saw that the liquid in the tankards was clear, like water; whatever they were drinking wasn’t beer.
I took in the countryside. We were remarkably close to the heart of the Martian occupation here. From this height I could even glimpse the periphery of the Redoubt, the big main pit they had dug into the ruins of Amersham. It was a brown scar visible beyond the spring greenery. This was to our north-east as I saw it; to the north-west I made out an extensive but shallow flood from which trees and field boundaries and a few buildings protruded, running up a valley away from the Martian camp. I imagined the Martians’ rough earthworks had damaged the local drainage, and such floods must be common.
As we dismounted the two men outside the inn got to their feet, staggering a bit, and comically doffed their caps to us. They were perhaps thirty, I thought, both tough-looking, their hair crudely cut and dirt smeared around their necks, and if their manner was drunken their eyes were oddly clear. Something wasn’t right about them, I could see that.
One of them approached me. ‘Welcome to the Flyin’ Fox, missus. I’m Jeff and he’s Toby.’
The other sniggered. ‘No, you clown, I’m Jeff and you’re Toby.’
‘I’ll give you a hand with yon jalopy.’ He made a grab with his left hand for my handlebars – and with his right for my backside. ‘Oops!’
Palm had barely made contact with buttock before I had got hold of his index finger, swivelled around, twisted the finger and forced him down on one knee, his arm bent backwards.
‘Ow! Pax! Pax! I didn’t mean no ’arm!’
Verity said calmly, ‘I think you can let him go, Julie.’ I saw that she’d set her bicycle on its stand, and stood with her jacket pulled back to reveal a glimpse of the service revolver in its holster at her waist.
The other man stood with his hands raised. ‘Let’s all calm down.’ The country burr was still there but the drunken slur was gone.
I gave my miscreant’s finger one last vicious twist, then let him go.
He got to his feet shaking his hand and tucking
it under his armpit. ‘I didn’t mean no ’arm. Just keeping watch and playing a part, is all.’
‘“Playing a part”? Thought so.’ I got hold of one of the tankards and poured the clear liquid onto the ground. ‘Pure water? Even an idiot like you can’t get drunk on water – Jeff, or Toby.’
‘Neither,’ he snarled, ‘and you don’t need to know.’
Verity let her jacket drop. ‘It’s all cover, Julie, in case the Martians are watching.’
‘That’s it,’ said my assailant. ‘They got used to seeing us drunk, see, at a place like this. Rolling around and even laughing at ’em, when they come and stand over us. So long as you stay out of reach of them tentacles and nets . . . I don’t suppose they’s so smart as to be able to tell a true drunk from a faker.’
‘Got carried away in the performance, did you?’
‘What’s wrong with that? And where did you learn to ’urt a man like that?’
‘Paris, if you must know. I was caught up in the flight from London in the last lot, the First War, with my sister-in-law. We had to fight our way past men like you. After the War I learned how to look after myself properly.’
‘Didn’t mean no ’arm -’
‘You deserved what you got,’ Verity snapped. ‘Now, Marriott’s expecting us.’ She pushed past the men and led me without further ado into the cool shadows of the inn.
22
‘MARRIOTT’
The man we knew only as ‘Marriott’ was in the inn’s cellar. The Martians, of course, knew or cared nothing of human names, but I suppose the secrecy that surrounds such operations becomes a habit.
He was dark of complexion and dark haired, short, perhaps fifty, and he had a pronounced London accent. He poured us tea, made with hot water from a Dewar flask.
The cellar, which smelled faintly of damp, was lit by smoky candles that looked home-made, and most of it was taken up by the clutter you might have expected: stands with empty beer barrels, pipes and tubes, cartons and kegs, and a few bottles of spirit on a rack. But there were a few incongruous items: a stack of rifles, boxes of ammunition – even what looked like a machine gun. Maps had been pinned to the walls: good quality, ordnance survey. These had been extensively marked up in pencil, red and white, and stretches had been shaded blue, marking the flooded areas perhaps. And there was a kind of wireless receiver, on a side table by one wall.
The Massacre of Mankind Page 26