The Dark Chronicles

by Jeremy Duns

  I had washed down a Benzedrine tablet before leaving the flat in the hope it would stave off the remnants of my fever, but while it had succeeded in dulling the pain and heightening my senses – I could make out the grain of Osborne’s tortoiseshell spectacle frames – it also seemed to have filled me with a feeling of recklessness. As I read from my hastily prepared address, I fought a rising urge to blurt out the truth to the congregation. I remembered hearing about Maclean’s drinking in Cairo, and how he had eventually cracked and started telling colleagues he was working for Uncle Joe. Nobody had believed him, of course, and on hearing the story I’d blithely asked myself what could have brought him to such a state. But now, with the enormity of my sins bearing down on me, I wondered if this was where my crack-up was going to begin. It was an oddly tempting idea, like the thought of jumping in front of a train as it came into the platform. It would be a story to fill the Service’s basement bar for years to come: the man who had confessed to murdering Chief in his eulogy at St Paul’s. Perhaps they could get Bateman to make it into a cartoon.

  I reminded myself that I was feeling the effects of the Benzedrine. I took in the Corinthian columns, the Whispering Gallery, and higher still the frescoes stretching across the interior of the dome, then forced myself back to my address.

  ‘But for some,’ I said, raising my voice to counter my loss of nerve, ‘Sir Colin was much more than the man charged with securing this country against foreign threats. He was a friend, a husband and a father.’

  Christ, what had I been thinking when I wrote this? Other memories sprang into my mind: his delight at catching a large trout that summer in Ireland, after he had insisted on using his ancient ‘lucky’ bait; the way Joan had looked at him when we’d returned to the cottage with the tail of the fish poking out of the basket, knowing he’d want it for supper that night. And Vanessa, of course…

  I stopped myself going any further down that track. I realized that my hands were gripping the sides of the lectern, and that they were coated in sweat. My voice had frozen in my throat. I couldn’t do this – it was monstrous. My only sop was that it hadn’t been my idea. ‘You knew him best,’ Dawes had said when the arrangements had been discussed. ‘Nobody else was as close.’

  I looked down at the rest of the address. It ran through Templeton’s career, from military service to Cambridge to intelligence in Germany and beyond: his friendship with my father in Cairo, then Istanbul, Prague, London. His body in the Thames, thrown there by Sasha and me in the dead of night… Not the last bit.

  I looked up again and was surprised to see Farraday standing by the lectern. He was fiddling frantically with his tie, whispering urgently.

  ‘What is it?’ I asked. He mounted the steps.

  ‘You’re making a scene,’ he hissed, pushing past me. ‘Return to your seat, or I’ll—’

  But I never found out what he’d do, because at that moment he fell to the ground, and blood started gushing from the centre of his shirt. The cathedral was filled with screaming, but my mind was now totally lucid. I looked up. The shot had come from somewhere in the Whispering Gallery – and it had been meant for me.

  I started running down the aisle.

  II

  I reached the spiral staircase and began climbing it several steps at a time, the soles of my shoes clanging against the steps. From somewhere far above me, there was a further clatter of noise – was the shooter coming down? I plunged my hand into my trouser pocket and wrapped my fist around my car keys, the only weapon I had with me. How the hell had he brought a rifle into St Paul’s? I kept climbing. The noises were fading, and my dizziness was increasing. Some long-buried memory told me there were 259 of the things, but I resisted the urge to count them and pushed upwards, upwards, trying not to think about what had just happened, regulating my breathing and concentrating on the task at hand: get to the top; find the sniper.

  I reached the Whispering Gallery, but there was nobody there, not even a Redcap. I glanced down and saw that several of them were heading for the staircase, against the flow of the crowd. I looked around frantically. Had the sniper gone back down another way? Would he shoot again? And then I registered movement in my peripheral vision. It had come from the far end of the gallery: a slim figure, bearded and dressed in black. He had a case strapped to his back, no doubt containing the dismantled rifle. He was heading towards a doorway that led to the next flight of stairs.

  I resisted the temptation to stop for breath and ran after him, willing my feet to move faster, using my arms to hoist myself along the narrow iron banister and ignoring the rising heat in my chest, until finally I came out of the staircase and felt the freshness of the morning air on my face. I was at the base of the dome now, the Stone Gallery. My trousers fluttered in and out as the wind whipped against them, and I could feel my cheeks beginning to do the same. Voices echoed in my ears, and they were getting louder: the Redcaps would be here soon. I realized I had to get to him before they did – who knew what he might say if he was taken into custody? If he told anyone I had been his target it wouldn’t take long for them to start speculating why, and having just cleared my name that was the last thing I wanted.

  I reached out for a moulding on the wall, and began edging my way around the gallery as quickly as I could. Without meaning to, I caught a glimpse of the Thames far below, a glittering snake swaying in the mid-morning sunshine. I forced my eyes away and continued my journey around the platform.

  The dome of the cathedral had been covered in scaffolding for years – structural damage from the war – but all of it had been taken down a few months ago. Or most of it had: as I turned the corner, I saw that there was a ladder lying on the ground, and what looked like a small pile of workmen’s tools. Was this what the sniper had come up here for, something hidden in this mess?

  Finally, I saw him. He had climbed onto the balustrade, seemingly oblivious to the wind and the height. He was sitting astride a climbing rope, which he had tied around the balustrade, and was now busy looping it around one of his thighs. He glanced up at me, then went back to his task, bringing the rope across his midriff and over one shoulder. I was just a few yards away, and pushed myself to get closer. If he was going to do what I thought… He brought the rope around one of his wrists, and took hold of it with both hands, one above and one below. He pushed himself back and started to fall.

  It was now or never.

  I surged forward and jumped blindly. He’d gone further than I’d thought, so that for a few moments I thought I’d mistimed it, but then came the crump of contact as I smacked into his back. I immediately clasped my arms around his torso, gripping as hard as I could and hoping to Christ that the rope was tethered tightly enough and could take the load of two men. The sniper started shaking his shoulders in an attempt to dislodge me, and as the ground approached two conflicting urges were passing through my brain – the physical one, saying ‘let go, you madman’ and the other one, saying ‘if you let go you will die, if you let go you will die…’

  I managed to hold on and we landed with a crash, the two of us a heap of limbs and bones. My whole body felt numb from the jolt of the impact, but I seemed to be uninjured. I was still trying to regain my bearings when I saw that the sniper had already let go of the rope and was off and running. It took me a few seconds to get to my feet and begin pursuit.

  And he was fast, bloody fast, spurting down the narrow road, weaving his way around dustbins and lamp-posts. There was no traffic about, and he rushed across the pavement and darted down a grass-patched alley. I hurtled into it after him, my breathing coming heavily, half my brain still catching up from the fall. There was a thickening burr of noise, but it wasn’t until I made it to the corner of Cannon Street that I saw the crush of people. Two massive placards bobbed above the crowd, reading ‘PEACE AND SOCIALISM’ and ‘ALL OUT MAY DAY – SMASH THE WHITE PAPER’. The latter slogan was also being chanted by members of the column, the words echoing off the buildings.

  Of cours
e. The May Day march. It had turned violent last year, when it had been about Powell and immigration. This time Wilson and Castle seemed to be the villains, their crime being to propose trade union legislation. I caught the tinny strain of a loudhailer from somewhere in the direction of Lincoln’s Inn Fields, and then there was the wail of a police siren seemingly very close by, and a clump of the column began moving off at a faster pace. The group behind were momentarily caught off guard, and I squeezed past a man in a checked shirt and jeans and squinted up Ludgate Hill, searching for a glimpse of the sniper. A sea of heads stretched into the distance. I looked for any unusual movement within it, for anyone running. Nothing. I turned and saw police and security staff massing around the entrance of the cathedral. Some of the Redcaps had seen me and were heading in my direction. I ducked back into the crowd and checked down Cannon Street again. Still nothing. Where the hell had he gone?

  Then I saw him: a dark figure running up Ludgate Hill to Farringdon Street. Was he heading for the station? I pushed forward and began chasing him, calling out as I did in the hope that someone might stop him, but my throat wasn’t working properly, and neither were my legs, and by the time I’d reached the end of the street he had already vanished. If he got on the Tube and I wasn’t there with him, that would be it.

  The drumming in my head and throbbing in my chest were telling me to stop to take some rest, but I forced myself to keep going and even made up enough ground to see him heading into the station entrance. I reached it less than thirty seconds later, and raced into the booking hall. He’d vanished again. And now I had to make a decision: under- or over-ground? The Underground seemed the better bet, as trains left much more frequently. There was a queue at the ticket office, but a quick glance told me my man wasn’t in it. I couldn’t see any inspectors and I guessed he had jumped over the barrier, so I did the same, pushing past people to try to catch sight of him.

  As if by telepathy, he looked back at me the moment I spotted him. He was already on the footbridge, and I made my way towards him, keeping my eyes fixed on the rifle casing on his back. Behind him, a field of grey sky spread across the glass roof.

  I reached the bridge and saw that he had ducked to the right, heading for the eastbound platform. I followed, shouting: ‘Police! Stop that man!’ This time the tactic worked. People stopped and turned to see who I meant, and the sniper slowed to avoid the attention. But he was confused, and an old lady with a bag of shopping bumped into him. There was a group of people coming across the bridge, and I noticed that they were carrying banners: reinforcements for the march, I guessed, or perhaps they’d had enough and were going home, but there was a crush and we were both finding it hard to get through. If only I could get a few steps closer to him…

  A train started rumbling into one of the platforms below, and I looked down. It was the eastbound. I called out ‘Police!’ louder, pushing my way through until I reached the staircase, but it was like swimming in mud. The train grated to a halt and as I reached the foot of the stairs the doors juddered open and a crowd of people moved forward and into it. I couldn’t see the sniper, but I had to gamble that he would get on board. My feet hammered down the platform and made it through the doors as they were closing.

  I took a second to recover my breath again, my chest heaving, and then looked around. I saw him at once. He was in the next compartment, just a few yards away from me. He was standing there quite casually, partly obscured by a woman reading a paperback. I pushed the doors apart and stepped into the compartment. He looked up, and a smile broke out across his face, almost a leer. His right hand was thrust into his jacket pocket, and I could make out the outline of what looked like the barrel of a pistol. Just inches away, a man wearing a fisherman’s sweater, canvas trousers and boots was seated next to a young boy, perhaps eleven or twelve years old, who was dressed almost identically in miniature. The boy’s head was directly in the line of fire. The sniper raised his eyebrows at me and I nodded to show that I understood: not a step nearer.

  This was my first chance to examine the sniper at close quarters. He was a youngish man, in his mid to late twenties, wearing a black suit with a dog collar – so that was how he had managed to get into the cathedral. He was of average height, but well built: unsurprisingly, considering the acrobatics he’d just pulled off. He had a wolfish look about him: a long handsome face, olive skin, thick shoulder-length hair, greasy with pomade or something similar, and a wild beard. The Christ-meets-Guevara look. No doubt it went down well with female revolutionaries, but he looked fake to me, like a fashion photograph. Despite the fixed smile he was sweating profusely, and I didn’t think it was entirely due to physical exertion – every couple of seconds the muscles in his jaw twitched. Was he injured somewhere? Got it: his jacket was torn just below the left shoulder, a sliver of half-dried blood just visible against the dark fabric. Probably where the rope had burned him – I wondered how his hands felt.

  I looked around the carriage, and saw that most of the passengers were clutching banners or sheets daubed with slogans. They weren’t the students and flower children you typically saw on protests, but labourers and factory hands. A man in a boiler suit and boots caught my glance, and stared at my suit with open aggression.

  ‘Been on the march, ’ave you?’

  I shook my head, and looked intently at the sniper.

  ‘’Ark at ’im!’ the man announced to the carriage. ‘’Is Lordship ’ere don’t want nothing to do with the likes of us.’

  ‘I’ve been at a funeral,’ I said coldly. The man went quiet and started looking at the toothpaste advertisements.

  The sniper smiled softly to himself. If he were to show his gun, panic would ensue and it would probably be to his disadvantage: the train would be stopped, transport police would board. But he knew I would try to avoid him taking that route, so as long as he kept his threat discreet he had the upper hand. Perhaps I could pull the emergency cord – that would flush the bastard out. I thought better of it. The gun could end up going off. On the other hand, if it were an automatic it wouldn’t be able to cycle in his pocket, meaning that for the moment it would be a one-shot gun. I put it out of my mind: I had no idea whether it was an automatic or not, and one shot was too much to risk anyway.

  I turned my attention to his intended targets. The man had a ruddy face, calloused hands and a broken nose: a docker, I thought. The boy, no doubt his son, looked like he’d already spent a few years on the docks himself. He was skinny, gangly-legged, with sunken cheeks and a glazed look in his eyes. At his age I had been wearing a tweed jacket and tie at boarding school. Father had been in Singapore then, and I’d never worn long sleeves before, let alone a jacket or tie, but I had soon got used to it…

  I wondered what they were doing on the Underground. Perhaps the boy had been too weak to make it through the march? Then I noticed that the father was wheezing every few seconds. It wasn’t that he was looking after the son, but the other way round.

  The fluorescent lighting panels in the ceiling started flickering – and then, just like that, they went out, and we were plunged into darkness. The train screeched to a halt, and there was a collective gasp from the passengers, followed immediately by groans of frustration and anger and the murmuring of voices. Someone near me swooned and a few people lunged forward to help them – Blitz spirit and all that. I didn’t have time to be chivalrous because the sniper might try to do something. He couldn’t open the doors, but he could move between the carriages.

  I made to step forward, but as I did the lights flickered back on. The train started moving again and the carriage returned to normal. Someone gave the woman who had fainted a thermos flask and she took a drink from it, gulping it down.

  I turned my attention back to the sniper. He didn’t look Russian, I realized. There was something about the way he was staring at me – he was enjoying it. There was also a bravado about him, and I put him down as a southern European. His enjoyment sent a fresh wave of anger through me. I had g
iven Moscow more than two decades of my life, and now they had sent this thug to shoot me down like a dog. If he were taken in for questioning, he might reveal I had been his target, so I needed to kill him, and soon.

  But first I wanted some answers.

  The clacking of the train began to slow. The boy squinted up at the Tube map on the wall of the carriage, talking to his father. It looked like the incident with the lights had scared him, and they wanted to get off at the next stop. They started to busy themselves – they had a hold-all with them, presumably for drinks and sandwiches.

  The boy helped his father up and they moved to a spot in front of the door. The sniper took a step back, but kept his aim fixed on the boy, at his midriff. I glanced at his face: he was watching me watching them. In some situations I might have tried to rush him, counting on the fact that he would hesitate before killing an innocent child. But this was not such a situation: this man had just killed the head of the Service in a very public place, and would stop at nothing to get away from me. The boy was expendable to him, and I had to act with that in mind.

  We came into Barbican, and the doors opened. People rushed forward to get off the train. I made to move, but the sniper was fixing me with a frantic gaze, his nostrils flaring. The father and boy were oblivious to the danger, and were not moving. Had they simply got up a stop early to prepare? No, the father was leaning down to adjust the hold-all – it wasn’t entirely closed.

  He stood up, and as the boy held out his arm to help him off the train, the sniper made his move. He leapt onto the platform and took the boy under his arm, then started running, dragging the startled boy with him. There was a shout from the father, from others on the platform. For a moment, I froze. Then I jumped forward, too, but the doors were already closing. I squeezed through and onto the platform, but the two of them had disappeared among the passengers emptying from the other carriages, and I pushed past people, furious with myself for reacting so slowly. A mother was trying to get her pram off before the doors closed and people were helping her, blocking off the entire width of the platform. By the time she had made it out I had lost several valuable seconds. I looked up the platform. There they were, at the far end of it, the sniper running towards the tunnel we had just come through, the boy’s head cuffed under his arm.