Fifty people surrounded the old oak tree. Kicking, screeching, pummeling.
Ernie fired a shot into the air. No one seemed to notice. Rounding a corner at the edge of the square, a phalanx of KNPs ran across pounded earth. Wielding riot batons, swinging freely, they forced the crowd to disperse.
Only Miss Kang and Mr. Shin lay in the dust. Shin was hurt. His leg was broken—a compound fracture—and maybe an arm. I knelt next to Miss Kang Mi-ryul. Her nose was bashed in, the one she'd pointed to only yesterday. Also bashed in was her forehead and the side of her skull. Using my forefinger and thumb, I pinched the flesh above her carotid artery. The skin was still warm but the flow of blood, the force of life-giving fluid, had stopped.
* * * *
Back at 8th Army I typed up my report. Private First Class Everett P. Rothenberg had already been released by the Korean National Police. Mr. Shin, the pool player, had been taken to a hospital and was recovering nicely, although he was facing hard time for the Korean legal equivalents of aggravated assault and aiding and abetting a murderess.
Miss O Sung-hee was scheduled to be buried by her family in a grave mound back in Kwangju. Miss Kang Mi-ryul, on the other hand, would be cremated. That's all her family could afford.
What they did with her ashes, I never knew.
Copyright (c) 2008 Martin Limon
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Department: REEL CRIME by J. Rentilly
Color this summer green. Really green. Whereas last summer was all about the swordplay and magic wands, and the summer months are, historically, when the studios rake in the most greenbacks, this season we've got a green—as in eco—thriller from M. Night Shyamalan, a green comic book hero from Edward Norton, and a high-finance conspiracy thriller from the director of Run Lola Run. Which isn't to deny that the summer films—the sequels, TV-to-movie makeovers, and high concept extravaganzas—are simply banking on big numbers and boffo business. Sight unseen, no one can yet testify to the quality of the below-listed films, but to say, books by the covers, these are the best bets for discriminating audiences who favor wit with their spectacle, chills with their spills, mystery with their mayhem, and suspense with their sensory overload. And just for fun, why not catch Maxwell Smart back in action again?
Indiana Jones and the Kingdom of the Crystal Skull
The fall of Communism and the Iron Curtain. The Internet. The Los Angeles riots. Harry Potter and the wizards of Hogwarts. OJ Simpson. September 11. Ubiquitous iPods. Saddam Hussein. Harrison Ford's sixty-fifth birthday. These are just a few of the things that have happened since Indiana Jones last unspooled his swashbuckling heroics in movie theaters. Kids who were born in 1989, when Indiana Jones and the Last Crusade was released, will be able to vote for the first time this November. That's how long it's been since we last saw the good Dr. Jones. And you know what? We can hardly wait, breathless as we are at the return of Indy's first love, Marion Ravenwood (Karen Allen), the addition of Cate Blanchett as a torture-fetishist villain, and rumors that Indy and son (Shia LeBeouf) will circle the globe to get to a fallen alien spacecraft before the nasty Russians do. Cliffhanging is never more fun than when Steven Spielberg is at the helm of an Indiana Jones film—even if it took eighteen years and no less than a dozen stabs at the screenplay to come to make that famous bullwhip crack again. May 23
The Happening
Once upon a time, with films like Unbreakable and Signs, writer and director M. Night Shyamalan had a sixth sense about how to engage, haunt, and captivate moviegoers’ imaginations. But by the time he butted heads with the studio chiefs over the critically reviled Lady in the Water and endured a none-too-flattering biographical book, it seemed like the day was done for Night. With The Happening, Night goes green, mixing inconvenient truths about environmental catastrophe with mind control and invading aliens. Will audiences bite or balk at Night's attempted renaissance? Mark Wahlberg and Zooey Deschanel star. June 13
The Incredible Hulk
Also going green this summer is Oscar-nominated actor Edward Norton. An indie-film stalwart, Norton is perhaps an unlikely comic book superhero, but he brought his formidable street cred and writing chops to this Marvel Comics adaptation. (Zak Penn is the film's credited screenwriter). Directed by nouveau action maestro Louis Letterier (Transporter), a disciple of Luc Besson, this Hulk is action-packed—in stark contrast to Ang Lee's contemplative, psycho-drama-heavy Hulk a few years back—and poised to rake in the green. Lots of it. June 13
Get Smart
Would you believe ... Almost two decades after bumbling secret agent Maxwell Smart—the anti-James Bond—last appeared on television, and twenty-five years after he exploded across the big screen in The Nude Bomb, Agent 86 is back in action. The fact that the film is scripted by Tom Astle and Matt Ember, the gentlemen behind the abysmal Failure to Launch, and directed by Adam Sandler go-to guy Peter Segal has us a little uneasy that there might be more kaos than control in this incarnation, but we're uber-pleased to see The Office's Steve Carell stepping into original Smart Don Adams's shoe-phone. June 20
Mad Detective (Sun taam)
Helmed by Johnnie To, the Jerry Bruckheimer of Hong Kong, here's an art-house alternative to the broad, noisy summer films of, uh, the Jerry Bruckheimer of Hollywood. A Hong Kong variation on Silence of the Lambs, Mad Detective follows a rookie cop on his quest to hunt down a serial killer. Sure, it sounds like every other serial killer flick released in the past twenty years, but that's failing to give proper credit to To, who is a film artist of the highest caliber. Prepare to go into the darkness. Deep into the darkness. June 25
Wanted
Stop us if you've heard the one about the innocent young man drawn into his father's shadowy, illicit underworld, who can only truly come of age by squaring his old man's unfinished business. Now forget that you've seen that movie ten times already, and think Morgan Freeman, James McAvoy, and Angelina Jolie in the cast, directed by the visually adept but character-driven director Timur Bekmambetov (Night Watch), based on the visceral, filthy graphic novel of the same name. Now Wanted is on our want-to-see list. June 27
The Dark Knight
Much like Tim Burton before him, Chris Nolan took the world by surprise when he nimbly employed his rich, psychotic touches in service of the Batman film franchise. Nolan, best known for Memento, made the best Batman film of the lot, 2005's Batman Begins, drafting a plausible, even moving backstory for our dark hero, delivering all the requisite chills and spills, but with enough psychological detail to render the entire effort somehow resonant and meaningful. The shocking, untimely death of Heath Ledger, here playing The Joker, is likely to loom large over the film's release, but we're in line for this one already. July 18
The Mummy: Tomb of the Dragon Emperor
This glossy franchise has always felt like the poor man's Indiana Jones, rich as they are with wink-wink humor and proficient special fx, so it'll be interesting how this third installment stacks up against the return of the real Dr. Jones. Hard to say if this is merely a disposable, big-paycheck gig for stars Brendan Fraser and Maria Bello, or if the story—centering on the mummy of China's first emperor, here played by Jet Li—will, uh, wrap us up. Hey, it's August. It'll be air-conditioned anyway. August 1
Blindness
Based on Jose Saramago's acclaimed novel about a contemporary city brought to the brink of total collapse by a mysterious epidemic of blindness, this one's got an excellent pedigree and a stellar creative team. Starring Mark Ruffalo, Julianne Moore, and Gael Garcia Bernal, directed by FernandoMeirelles (The Constant Gardener), Blindness is a thinking-man's thriller, a chilling modern myth, a dose of poetry in a comic book summer. August 8
The International
A decade ago, Tom Tykwer breathed new life into the action film genre with Run Lola Run, an exhilarating, philosophically-hefty blast of adrenaline and Butterfly Effect pontificating. In this big studio thriller, Tykwer shows Clive Owen and Naomi Watts through the (presumably breathtaking) paces
of greed, corruption, conspiracy, and international finances. This one's for the grown-ups—sleek, clever, and intelligent. August 15
Copyright (c) 2008 J. Rentilly
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Fiction: TOM WASP AND THE TOWER OF LONDON by Amy Myers
It isn't often a chimney sweep takes a hand in affairs of state, but today, admiring Her Majesty's Fortress, the Tower of London, in the morning's grey dawn, I was minded of the occasion on which I, Tom Wasp, had been so honoured.
"Do you think Queen Victoria ever heard how we saved her crown jewels for her, Ned?” Ned's my chummy and a stalwart friend for all his tender eleven years. He thought for a moment.
"No, guv,” he said at last, worldly wise. “But we know what we did, so what's it matter?” He was right, of course, and after our little adventure they began to plan a safer place to keep the jewels, which was reward enough in itself.
Our story began on a foggy morning so damp and wet I never thought a living soul would hear our cry of “Sweep! Sweep!” let alone the deputy Keeper of Her Majesty's Crown Jewels in England's great fortress. Most agitated was George Hardcastle as we passed through the Byward Tower with its ancient portcullis, past the great White Tower, and over to the steps that led up to the keeper's apartments. These were in the Martin Tower at a corner of the inner wall of old fortifications and next to the entrance to the Jewel House. That was where Queen Victoria kept all her golden regalia, the symbol of England's glory. Since to see these splendid objects costs a whole sixpence, I had never seen them myself but greatly longed to do so.
"Ghosts, sweepie!” Mr. Hardcastle explained gloomily. “It's my belief they've been at the keeper's chimney again."
I made haste to assure him that I was well practised in the removal of ghosts from flues. It was true, even though Ned's mouth dropped open at this statement. With all the chimneys I've swept with my old Smart's cleaning machine, I ain't yet encountered a ghost stuck halfway up, which surely proves they flee at the sight of my brushes. So I decided I'd oblige Mr. Hardcastle. He led me through the Martin Tower entrance, pointing out the chamber to our left, where the crown jewels used to be kept until the great fire of 1841. As the Keeper of the Jewels was temporarily absent, he, the deputy, had the honour of being their official guardian—hence his desire, I realised, to ensure no ghosts sullied the keeper's chimney.
"Queen Anne Boleyn, would this ghost be?” I enquired, as we walked up the stairs. Ned looked up hopefully. He's never seen a queen, let alone a dead one stuck up a chimney. George Hardcastle was an old colour sergeant, he told me, wounded in the Crimea, and so it had surprised me to hear him talk of ghosts, but it seemed he was serious.
"It's my belief her evil spirit's living in that chimney,” he agreed, as he plodded into the sitting room, where a large chimney piece stuck out far into the room, with a small fireplace surmounted by a mantelshelf, awaited us. “She sent down a creepy white thing last night to tell us she was about to walk abroad again. She was imprisoned here, so it's natural enough she'd want to make her home in the same chimney,” he explained.
The room was pleasant enough, former prison or not, and possessed two windows, both cut eight or nine feet deep into the solid Tower wall. Mrs. Hardcastle bustled forward to greet us. “Nonsense, George,” she addressed her husband briskly. “You know the old queen doesn't have her head any more. It was chopped off by that husband of hers, Henry VIII. So when she walks abroad, she shouldn't have any head; yet the ghost the folks here have seen walking these last few nights has some sort of head. Anyway, Anne Boleyn wouldn't go around killing people. You're just scaring this lad with such crazy talk of dead queens. Our ghost's probably quite different to Anne Boleyn's. It's most likely Henry VIII himself, looking for his poor dead lady. Like a pie, young man?"
At this thoughtful offer, Ned took to her immediately, despite this foolishness about ghosts. I didn't like the sound of what I'd heard though.
"Killing people?” I asked cautiously. It had been my belief that Tower Green was no longer used to chop heads off.
"One of our tower sentries found dead last night,” George Hardcastle said heavily. “Two of them were guarding the jewels outside the Jewel House last evening, when the ghost walked abroad. One fled, the other poor soul died of fright. There's been talk of phantoms for a while now, and one of them's hiding out in that chimney, you mark my words, sweepie. That fire wouldn't take this morning, and that's because it fair shivered at what it saw above it. Your job's to make sure that what's in our chimney goes up and not down."
"I can still smell it up there,” Mrs. Hardcastle declared, hand clasped to plump bosom.
I peered earnestly up the narrow flue but all I smelled was the usual London fog. This being the season when good fires begin to be kept, the chimney was probably still damp, and trapped some fog within it. But when I told Mr. Hardcastle so and assured him this was probably the explanation of his creepy white ghost, he shook his head dubiously.
"It's happened before, you see, and now it's back. In the old days, before my time. It was well over forty years ago when it first walked—1817; the year stuck in my mind as being only two years after Waterloo when we thrashed those Frenchies good and proper. And now there's another Emperor Napoleon on the throne of France. No good will come of that, for all he likes to pretend he's pally with Britain. It's too much of a coincidence, sweepie, there being two Napoleons involved with this ghost."
"What happened the first time?” I enquired, seeing he was all ready to tell me anyway.
"Mr. Swifte, he being the Keeper of the Crown Jewels then, was living here in the Martin Tower. He was dining nice and quiet with his wife and two friends when all of sudden a column of white, in the shape of a most fearful phantom, all chill and cold, appeared over their tabletop, then jumped on poor Mrs. Swifte, seized hold of her shoulder, and then made off after Mr. Swifte bravely threw a chair at it. Well, Mrs. Swifte, she escaped lightly, for the poor sentries down below were attacked by a great white bear of a ghost who slithered under the Martin Tower door to reach them. One took to his heels, and the other poor soul died of fright. Just like last night, you see.
"There were investigations of course, but the authorities could find no other explanation either of Mr. Swifte's nasty phantom nor the ghostly bear. No phantasmagorical equipment could have been set up, nor could the phantom have been a column of fog trapped in the chimney, as some tried to maintain. That was disproved too. So when I heard all this talk of Anne Boleyn's ghost walking these last few nights, and saw this puff of white coming out of this chimney last night, as she got her skirt ready to walk abroad, I didn't wait for any more of the spectre to come slithering out, whether it was a royal ghost or not up there. I read it a few words of Scripture, and back it must have gone, for it never came out again. We kept a good fire and told it to sizzle and die like the phantom of hell it was. But something must have escaped through the top nevertheless, for Anne Boleyn walked all right last night, and I reckon she's back in her nest in this chimney right now."
I tried hard to make sense of this. Whether there were evil spirits in this chimney or not, there certainly seemed to have been a dead body as a result, and that needed to be treated with respect. “Was it a bear killed the sentry last night?” I asked seriously.
"No, sweepie. It were Anne Boleyn on her way to see her crown. There's plenty here saw her, poor lady, crossing the yard and coming up to the iron gates of the Jewel House. She had her day of glory at her coronation and wanted to see her crown again, not knowing it isn't there."
Now this was serious. “Stolen?” I asked sharply.
"In a way, sweepie. Most of the regalia was melted down when Oliver Cromwell and his gang chopped the king's head off years ago, and set up a republic. The next king had to make another set before he could be crowned. So last night Anne Boleyn had all her trouble for nothing, and it's my belief that's why she killed the sentry."
"You said he died of fright,” I reminded him.
"There were marks of hands round his neck,” Mr. Hardcastle admitted darkly. “She tried to twist off his head, I reckon, jealous because he had one and she didn't. Or else she thought he'd stolen her crown. So it comes to the same thing: He died of fright."
"But it was murder."
"Even if it was,” Mr. Hardcastle said reasonably, “she's died once, and even the queen's military can't condemn a lady to death twice. Anyway, they arrested the other sentry, even though I told them it was the ghost that did it."
"How did the ghost get in to see her jewels?” I asked, deeply interested in this problem. “Steal the sentry's keys, did she?"
Mr. Hardcastle regarded me pityingly. “She's a ghost, sweepie. She can walk straight through gates and doors. Anyway, the sentries don't have the keys. I have the keeper's keys at the moment. And she only wanted to look at her crown, not steal it. Which is just as well because no one has a key to get at the jewels themselves, only the outer gates and the chamber door."
"No one?” I enquired. This seemed somewhat strange.
"Almost no one,” he amended. “When the armouries, which were on the other side of this tower stretching way along where the barracks do now, were burned down in 1841, this old tower nearly went with it, crown jewels and all. And do you know why, sweepie? Because there was no key to the jewel case available. The only key was held by the Lord Chamberlain himself and he was asleep in his bed in Saint James's miles away. Well, the old fire was raging away, so a group of tower men rushed in to save the jewels, fire or no fire. They had to bend the iron bars of the cage by hand, so that a policeman could squeeze in to hand out the regalia. His clothes were afire, but he wouldn't leave his post, not till he'd handed over the last piece. A good servant to His then Majesty, he was. Nowadays the keeper holds the only key on the Lord Chamberlain's behalf so that won't happen again."
"And Anne Boleyn's ghost didn't trouble you for any of the keys, you being the keeper's deputy?” I asked mildly. Mr. Hardcastle seemed to think I jested, for he glanced at me sharply.
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