Blow the House Down

by John Blackburn

  ‘Aye, I’ve read about it somewhere.’ Joe Pinter’s voice interrupted. ‘But surely those people were just a bunch of harmless loonies with a bee in their bonnets, and the whole thing fizzled out?’

  ‘Your general knowledge does you credit, sir, but I do wish everybody would not keep prefixing lunatics with the adjective harmless.’ The Major nodded to Jones and another picture appeared, showing three granite-­faced men staring fixedly at the camera. One held a telescope, the second a harpoon, the third a pair of signal flags.

  ‘Yes, it is true to say that the movement remained pretty innocuous till after Cuthburt’s death. Then it reached the United States, and these three fanatics came on the scene: Georges Bromville, a former captain in the Confederate cavalry; Elias Stresserheim, a sometime rabbi, turned big businessman; Billy Whiteburn, a professional prizefighter.’ Dealer pointed to each grim face in turn.

  ‘This triumvirate organized the “Sailormen” partly as a religious cult and partly as a secret society on the lines of the Ku Klux Klan. However, they were not anti-­Negro; Eurasians, mulattos, and the partners and children of mixed marriages were their abominations. Nobody knows how many victims were claimed by them, but they were implicated in over a hundred murders and in 1910 President Theodore Roosevelt declared the society illegal. Bromville and Whiteburn were dead, but Stresserheim was tried for murder and sentenced to life imprisonment. He hanged himself in his cell a few months later, and with his suicide the organization atrophied and was thought to have died a natural death. Towards the end of the last war, Himmler was rumoured to be contemplating its resurrection, but dropped the idea like a hot brick when he discovered Stresserheim was a Jew.

  ‘Let’s go back to Number 2 again, Sergeant Jones.’ Janet closed her eyes before the pictures changed and she was certain Mary Strand would have done the same. The thing was too horrible to look at a second time: that poor, bloated, tortured body hanging from its tree with the nails that held it just visible through the hands and feet.

  ‘Her maiden name was Rita Lawrence – came from a very old Mississippi family – married to a Negro schoolmaster, Joe Payne.’ Dealer’s voice sounded as though it was being electrically amplified and coming from a great distance. ‘Payne was found stabbed and mutilated in his classroom, but it was a full fortnight before they found Rita. The police were certain that maniacs with a personal grudge were responsible, till a letter written six months earlier came to light. It had informed the Paynes that God’s servants would destroy them unless Rita had her child aborted, and was initialled G.T.S.’

  ‘Please turn off that horrible slide.’ Michael Mallory spoke for them all, and Janet opened her eyes with relief as Jones obeyed. ‘You are suggesting that this society has been revived, but two murders, however hideous, are very minor evidence. Surely the initials could be coincidental, Major Dealer?’

  ‘The American authorities believed that at the time, sir, but they passed the files of the case to Interpol. Since then a lot more evidence has come to light.’ Dealer motioned to Jones again.

  ‘Some of you may recognize this: a photograph of the Bren­dinmoor disaster which took place some fifteen miles south of here in ’67.’ The hillside on the screen was so littered with wreckage that it resembled a scrap heap. ‘The airliner was returning from France with a party of athletes when it exploded. Forty-­two of the passengers were white and twelve coloured. There were no survivors, and sabotage was confirmed by the “black box” and a letter received earlier by the tour’s organizers. The letter stated that fraternization, even in sport, was against God’s will and those who resisted the divine intention would be destroyed.

  ‘Ah.’ Another scene of disaster was shown and Dealer waited for the horrified mutters and sighs of his audience to die down. ‘Yes, a classroom at Woodersfield Road nursery school in the East End of London, taken shortly after the fire was extinguished and before the bodies had been removed. The teacher and over half of the thirty-­six children were coloured.

  ‘Yes, Mr Mayor, there was a similar letter addressed to the headmistress, and this is its author.’ The face of a youngish, fair-­haired man appeared before them. He looked very smug and self-­satisfied and was smiling broadly.

  ‘Alec Hayes; a thirty-­year-­old clerk with a long history of mental illness. He admitted with some pride that he had set fire to the school and also that he was one of “God’s True Sailormen”. We learned quite a lot from Hayes, ladies and gentlemen. He boasted that the organization was now worldwide, though restricted to a small select membership operating in local groups. Each group leader was referred to as “The Sailorman” – hence my astonishment when you mentioned the term, Miss Fane – and all members bore some nautical symbol on their person. An anchor tattoo as Baylis had, a ship’s wheel on a watch chain which Hayes wore, perhaps a tie with some nautical device, the kind of thing anybody might have about them.

  ‘Yes, Alec Hayes told us a good deal, but not enough to be of real value, and we never learned the names of any of his associates. Because of a quite unpardonable piece of bungling, he was not properly searched before the thorough interrogation and managed to follow Elias Stresserheim’s example and killed himself. Slashed his wrists with a razor blade hidden in the heel of his shoe.

  ‘Now, what have we here?’ Dealer frowned for a moment because the scene of devastation was almost unrecognizable. ‘Of course, the Roxy Country Club near Munich. A mixed troupe of German and Nigerian dancers were performing when the bomb went off. Forty people died.

  ‘Well, ladies and gentlemen, have I persuaded you that the organization exists? That Baylis was a member, and that your building is still in grave danger? If not, I can produce more evidence. There is rather a gruesome picture taken after an acid vat exploded.’

  ‘We’ve seen quite enough, so switch your contraption off.’ The lights came on and Janet saw the Mayor’s hand shake as he poured himself a glass of water and drank deeply before continuing.

  ‘All right, Major Dealer. I’m convinced. This hellish group is a fact, and the Heights is just the kind of symbol such maniacs would choose as a target. But what can be done, in God’s name? We can’t have the building empty indefinitely.’

  ‘Naturally not, sir.’ Dealer lit himself a cigarette. ‘To avoid public unrest, the activities of the “Sailormen” have been kept quiet by all the authorities concerned, and we were praying for a lead to run them to ground. Hayes should have given us that lead, but I was not in charge of his interrogation, and, as I told you, he named no names.’ Dealer flashed his sinister smile across the room.

  ‘But now we have a chance again. Baylis must have had contacts. People whom he visited and talked to in the society, and if I can find one of them, I think I can promise you that he will talk. Give me time to interview everybody Baylis knew and I shall crush “God’s Sailormen” like flies.’ He clenched his right hand in a theatrical gesture and his expression made it clear that he enjoyed crushing people.

  ‘As chairman of the Housing Committee, I believe the decision is mine, Your Worship.’ Michael Mallory turned in his seat and looked from one face to another. ‘I walked through the slum areas of the city this morning, I visited the hostels. Those first tenants of the Heights were symbols of hope, of a new life for our people, and now they feel betrayed and are almost at breaking point. How much time do you need, Major Dealer?

  ‘No, that’s an unfair question.’ He shook his head before Dealer could answer. ‘However long it takes, we can’t risk sending families into a death-­trap. Find these maniacs, Major. Find them quickly, and you find the bomb, Chief Constable. Good luck to both of you.’ He stood up and looked at Mary Strand.

  ‘I don’t know how your husband will take this, Lady Strand, but I have no choice but to lie at his expense. This evening there will be an announcement that Mallory Heights will remain unoccupied till a serious structural defect has been remedied.’

  ‘I insist that you both have another drink with me.’ The waiter was alrea
dy at hand and John Forest beamed at the Virgils. By a stroke of luck he had witnessed the fracas in the street and at once hurried forward, wooed them with friendly charm and ushered them into a hotel lounge. ‘Two large rums and a Curaçao please.

  ‘You’ve certainly earned yours, Mr Virgil. As long as I live I’ll remember the way you dealt with that miserable rabble. If there were more men like you, the country would be a safer and better place to live in.

  ‘But it is the fate of people like you that saddens me.’ His twinkling eyes now grew grave. ‘The way you have been treated makes me ashamed to be English. No sooner are you settled into your new home, than they turn you out, break up your family and house you in what are virtually prisons.’ He paused while the waiter laid down their drinks.

  ‘Perhaps prison is the correct word, too. Perhaps that was the whole purpose of the operation. Get you out of your houses, provide a scare to empty the Heights and move you into hostels; permanent hostels, maybe.’ He sipped at the liqueur, well pleased to see the fear and resentment in their faces.

  ‘If that’s true, what a convenient lunatic Baylis turned out to be. And, in any case, he is known to be dead, and his bomb is in the river. Why aren’t the flats being occupied, then? Can the whole thing be a put-­up job to review the housing scheme, do you suppose?

  ‘My paper has always crusaded for the oppressed, Mrs Virgil, so trust me. Help me to help yourselves.’ Forest gave Molly a wonderful smile full of love and compassion. ‘Tell me exactly what the coloured population think about the council’s actions.’

  11

  ‘You must be out of your mind, man.’ Sir George Strand gave a gruff bark of contempt. ‘That building has had too much adverse publicity as it is and you’ll get no change out of me. Soon people are going to invent a few less flattering names for the place and who’d blame ’em? “The Heights of Folly” might be appropriate, to my way of thinking.’ Strand lay face forward on a couch with the telephone resting on the pillow. Apart from a signet ring and a wrist watch he was naked.

  ‘That’s not my affair, Michael. If this league of lunatics exists and they are preparing to sabotage the Heights, it’s up to the police to stop them. You’re not going to use Carlin, or Spender-­Wade, or myself as an excuse, and that’s final. If you make any statement criticizing the design or construction of the building I shall immediately telephone the newspapers and repeat everything you have just told me; everything, Michael.

  ‘The National Secrets Act. Don’t be a bloody fool.’ He snorted at Mallory’s interruption. ‘I’m old and ill and the next stroke will probably kill me. Those kind of threats don’t bother me in the slightest. But you and your fellow bunglers on the council will have a libel action to answer if you try to make a scapegoat out of me.’ Strand’s back and thighs were still heavily muscled, but he did not sweat nowadays. Beneath the beam of an infra-­red lamp his body looked as dry and inhuman as a lizard’s.

  ‘Public disorder? That’s not my business either. If there are riots it’s your job to control them. What the hell do we pay rates for?’ He cupped a hand over the mouthpiece and spoke to his wife who was massaging his heavy shoulders. ‘Higher, Mary; at the base of the neck, and harder too, if you can, my darling.

  ‘Fob them off in some other way, Michael. Say that there may be a second bomb, say that the search has necessitated some superficial damage and it’ll take time to repair. Say anything you like, but don’t dare to compromise me.

  ‘Ah, now you’ve got it, Mary. That’s the place where it hurts.’ He squirmed as her slim fingers kneaded into his flesh. ‘Now you’re doing me good, lass.

  ‘We may have known each other for a long time, Michael, but I would not say we were close friends. Nor do I give a damn that your precious down-­and-­outs resent having to live in hostels. I told you what I thought of the scheme when you first approached me. I believe in self-­help not subsidies, and it’s a law of nature that the weakest should go to the wall; medicine, not tragedy.

  ‘But I do believe in the things I have made.’ His eyes flickered towards a row of photographs on the wall. One was a family group of himself, his first wife, their two sons in army and air force uniform, and his daughter, Betty, then a baby in arms. On either side of it were displayed some of his professional achievements; the Morn River bridge, Kingsport docks, the Elgar Memorial Hall, the northern entrance to the Helmutshorn tunnel. The tunnel had been Strand’s first major undertaking and the watch on his wrist had been presented to him by the Swiss government during the opening ceremony. Its dial was an inlaid disc of Brazilian ruby and the slim gold case had once belonged to a reigning Tsar.

  ‘And Mallory Heights is my swan song, Michael. The last and best thing I shall ever do. The one structure I want to be remembered by because I put everything I’d got into those towers. You allowed me carte blanche to design a really spectacular structure and, by God, I gave you one. If I have another stroke – if I die or lose what’s left of my wits, it won’t matter. I’m the man who built Mallory Heights and that’s good enough for me.

  ‘What’s that?’ He shook his head ponderously while he listened. ‘No, a retraction and an apology at some later date would not satisfy me at all, so come to your senses. Only a few of us know why the design had to be so unorthodox, and if the herd rumbled the truth not one of them would set foot inside the flats.

  ‘Aye, that’s final. If these “Sailormen” exist, let the police deal with them, but don’t you dare to criticize my plans, Michael.’ He pushed the telephone back into its rest and growled at the girl straining over his big body, wearing herself out for it, loving it. ‘Good lass, Mary, you’re starting to take the pain away at last, but harder, dear, bear down harder – harder.’

  The first tragedy took place during the following evening in a public house called the White Swan, but more generally referred to as the Mucky Duck since a number of West Indians had started to use it. John Forest’s article was partly responsible for what happened, though the brewery’s taste in decor had a lot to answer for.

  The name of the victim was Peter Grey, an elderly and ill-­tempered man, once a tobacconist and newsagent who had been put out of business when a Jamaican speculator bought the premises and promptly doubled the rent.

  Grey, who now worked as janitor in a near-­by warehouse, entered the saloon bar at a quarter to seven, as was his custom, and ordered the first of the three pints of bitter he always drank before going on duty. A copy of the Daily Globe had been left on the counter and Grey proceeded to read the front page, idly at first and then with growing resentment.

  Two photographs of Luke Virgil were displayed and they depicted him as a hero and a martyr. In the first he appeared surrounded by wild-­eyed, wildly dressed youths with his body crouched to protect Molly who cowered behind him in obvious terror.

  ‘Hooligans,’ Grey muttered aloud. ‘Bloody black and white hooligans.’ He looked up and scowled around the walls which were hung with a collection of weapons, some archaic, some primitive, a few genuine, the majority reproductions, but all dangerously sharp. In a corner seat by the window sat a young Jamaican named Henry Commin, also reading a newspaper.

  ‘Sling the white louts into the forces and ship the blacks home to their jungles, that’s what I’d do with the bastards, landlord. Cor, just listen to this.’ Grey took a swig of beer and started to read aloud. ‘ “A good man, certainly a brave man and a kindly husband and father.” ’ The second photograph showed Luke Virgil sitting in the hotel lounge with a soulful stare on his face. ‘ “A man without a job, without a home, who is forced to live apart from his wife and two small children.” ’ The bar was half empty and the words rolled towards Commin who was bent over an article in the Randel­wyck Evening News. Mallory had heeded George Strand’s warnings and the council had issued a statement that the Heights was being searched in case a second bomb existed. The News made it clear that because of the size of the building this might take time, and like many of his compatriots, Commin w
as beginning to believe that the bomb scare was some cunning scheme to deprive his people of accommodation.

  ‘ ’Course the bastard hasn’t got a job. Like the rest of ’em he prefers to live on National Assistance at our expense.’ Commin tried to ignore Grey’s fury, but it was difficult. He too had lost his job and through no fault of his own. New machinery had made a number of workers redundant, and having been only recently taken on at the factory, he had been one of the first to receive his cards. He was also separated from his family. Tired of their single room, his wife had walked out on him, taking their six-­month-­old baby with her, and was now living with a bus driver from Trinidad.

  ‘ “Has this man and hundreds of his fellows been victimized?” ’ Grey continued for the benefit of the landlord who was polishing glasses and pretending not to hear him. ‘ “Is there any truth in Luke Virgil’s suspicion that a deliberate scheme is in operation to deprive them of their rights?” ’

  ‘What do you make of that? Victimized indeed, when they’re being spoonfed all the ruddy time. If they want their rights let them go back to their own bloody countries.’ Grey snorted and finished his beer. ‘Give us another, for Christ’s sake, landlord. This kind of trash puts a foul taste in me mouth. It’s us who’s the victims; having to keep the bastards.’

  Commin raised his eyes and studied two imitation Zulu assegais suspended on the wall. He didn’t know that they were assegais, but he was somehow attracted by the shape of them, with their sharp, stabbing points and the gay zebra hide covering the shafts. He certainly felt victimized and he had been drinking steadily since the pub opened at half-­past five.