What a day, thought the March Hare. He studied the grey walls of the palace, the ivy and banners that clung to its centuries old granite, and he saw the impermanence of it. Someday, he realised, all this is going to come crashing down. The palace, the Monarchy, the whole bloody country. And it’s going to happen sooner than we know…
He was suddenly aware of a figure in a raincoat and trilby walking towards him. The March Hare thought for a moment that it must be the Penguin, come to rile him some more. But the broad shoulders and hurried steps quickly demolished that idea.
The figure was carrying a hedgehog between two golden paws.
‘Hello there,’ said the Hedgehog as he and the figure passed the March Hare. ‘Lovely day, isn’t it?’
‘Sure,’ said the March Hare who couldn’t remember a day less lovely. He would have hurried on but for the strange contraption strapped across the Hedgehog’s stomach. It was a metal box attached to an alarm clock by two wires. And there was something familiar about the figure in the raincoat. He decided to follow.
‘Clear off!’ said the figure. ‘You’ll ruin everything.’
The Hedgehog giggled. ‘We’re playing a joke on the Queen. It’s going to be a hoot.’
The figure’s face was obscured by his hat but from this close there was no hiding the fact that he was a gerbil. The March Hare backed off. If the gerbil wanted to play a joke on the Queen, that was his look-out.
Rather him than me, thought the March Hare, turning on his heels. It would be best not to hang around. The Queen wasn’t renowned for her sense of humour.
He stopped beneath the shade of a sycamore tree. Maybe he could watch from a safe distance. It would really be something to see the Queen made a laughing stock.
Three exhausted flamingos lay on the grass beside the Queen. They had helped her gain a six hoop lead over the other players and were grateful that their stint was over.
The Queen turned to her caddy and in a loud voice demanded her Number Six flamingo. ‘Tricky shot this,’ she screeched, wiping sweat from her eyes. ‘I think I’ll go for the old up and under.’
Her caddy in the mean time was struggling to remove a flamingo from its leather sheath.
‘I’m Number Five,’ insisted the hapless bird, its eyes bulging in terror. The caddy had it by the throat and was tugging with all his might.
A claw burst through the sheath and carved a long slash up one side.
‘Unnggh!’ said the caddy, reddening from exertion. ‘Urrf!’
All eyes were on the caddy. Only the March Hare seemed aware of the Gerbil sneaking across the lawn.
When he was about fifty yards from the Queen, the Gerbil broke into a run. He lifted the Hedgehog above his head and launched it at the Monarch’s broad back.
‘Death to tyrants!’ cried the Gerbil.
‘Wheee!’ cried the Hedgehog, sailing past the Queen.
A hapless courtier turned just in time to receive the full impact of the Hedgehog in his chest. Dozens of spines pierced his rib cage.
Dazed by this sudden turn of events, the courtier stared stupidly at the creature implanted in his thorax.
‘Yah, missed!’ shouted the Hedgehog, pointing a finger at the Gerbil. ‘You couldn’t hit a barn door with a banjo. Call yourself a fast bowler? I’ve seen - ’
The Hedgehog exploded. Flame and flesh burst in all directions, covering the Queen and her entourage in blood. The March Hare saw something metallic fly high into the air, flashing in the sunlight as it tumbled end over end. Without knowing why, he was certain that whatever it was had come from the Hedgehog. And it was not part of the bomb.
The Queen was the first to recover. Before anyone else had even wiped the blood from their face, she picked up her own Hedgehog and returned fire. The Gerbil ducked and was off balance just long enough for three of the Queen’s Guard to reach and overpower him. Knocking him to the ground, they piled on top of the would-be assassin.
Rolling up her sleeves, the Queen advanced. She pushed her Guards away one by one, and then lifted the Gerbil by the scruff of his neck.
‘You nasty little rodent,’ she hissed. ‘You overgrown rat. So you think you can kill your Queen, do you?’ Her voice suddenly thundered, ‘Kill! Me! How dare you even think of it! I’m going to have your skin for a foot mat!’
The March Hare did not want to see any more. He dared not think about the carnage he had just witnessed, nor about the Gerbil’s unhappy fate. It was time to go.
A shadow swept along the grass, passed over his feet. He looked up to see a large white bird turn sharply right before coming in for an awkward landing at the entrance to a maze. In the air, its huge wings had looked impressive. On the ground, they were suddenly a handicap. Their ungainliness made it impossible for the bird to walk a straight line; it teetered from side to side.
A youth stepped out from the maze. Dressed in khaki, he might have been any young soldier on leave from the war. But even from a distance of three hundred yards, the March Hare recognised him at once, and then had to tell himself he must be wrong. Shadrack was dead. He had been killed in action.
The youth and the bird spent some moments looking at one another. Nothing was said. It was as if each was waiting for the other to make a move. Finally, the bird lumbered its way past the young soldier and disappeared into the maze.
The soldier turned and followed.
A series of horrible screams brought the March Hare’s attention back to the drama on the croquet pitch. The shock of nearly being killed must have suddenly gotten to the Queen; she was sitting on the grass bawling her eyes out while her guards and courtiers looked on helplessly. There was no sign of the Gerbil. No doubt he was on his way to some dank dungeon.
The March Hare felt one step removed from events, as if witnessing them second-hand on a newsreel. In the space of a few hours, his world had been turned upside down, leaving him insecure and bewildered. And of all the things he had seen, it was the white bird that bothered him most.
The Albatross had last been in Hearts some four years ago at the height of the cholera epidemic. Previous to that, its every appearance had coincided with some national misfortune - a failed harvest, a massive quake which destroyed the city of Cathode and killed over 700, the death of the Prince of Hearts…
Though not superstitious, the March Hare felt it was more than coincidence that the Albatross should re-appear just when the whole nation seemed to be falling apart. He looked around. Nobody else seemed to have noticed the bird.
Half-convinced he had suffered an hallucination, the March Hare ran towards the maze. There was either something in there which was of the greatest importance to both himself and his country, or else there was nothing at all. He had to know which.
*
At the very same moment that the March Hare entered the maze, an armour-plated Herschel IV limousine pulled up at the main entrance to the Presidential Complex. Passes were handed to Blue Shirt guards, checked, double-checked, and then handed back. Satisfied that everything was in order, the Sergeant of the Guard waved the limousine through.
The Grey Squirrel looked out from the back seat, sensing how right it was that the windows should be tinted black. From his view point, the colours of the sky and trees were subdued, as dark as they should be on a day like this. A day of deception and betrayal.
It did not occur to him that the blue and red of his anorak were inappropriate.
He shifted restlessly. His thigh briefly touched that of General Cartier’s before reflexes cut in and jerked it away. The momentary contact seemed to drain the last of his energy. He wanted to go home and sleep forever.
General Cartier rolled down the window on his side of the car and threw out the cigar butt that had been resting inertly between his tobacco-stained teeth. Tension showed in the set of his face, the lines that eddied round his cheek bones like badly-drawn contours.
He got out of the car as soon as it stopped, leaving his chauffeur with nothing to do but step out and salute.
The General saluted back but otherwise ignored the man.
They were outside the double iron doors which formed the entrance to the Bunker. A machine-gun sat broodingly in a nest of sand bags, its snout roving from side to side as if trying to catch the scent of potential prey. The Blue Shirts manning the gun were grim-faced. If they had any thought at all, it was a common one - protect the Panda at all costs.
A camera above the doors added to the air of menace. It followed the Grey Squirrel’s every move as he opened the limousine door, stepped out and stood at Cartier’s side. Should the Squirrel do anything remotely suspicious, he had no doubt that both he and the General would be ripped apart in a hail of bullets.
With a low hum, the Bunker door swung open, revealing a gently-sloping tunnel with walls lined with narrow slits. Behind each slit, a machine-gun or a flame-thrower loitered with deadly intent.
Together, General Cartier and the Grey Squirrel entered the subterranean fort. To the Squirrel, it seemed as if he had passed through the Gates of Hell.
*
The maze had been built more for show than confusion. It took the March Hare less than a minute to find its centre. Grass gave way to concrete paving. Statues of famous poets and mythical beasts were scattered at random, a gathering in stone of the fantastical and the fantastic. Mildew and erosion gave character to otherwise bland expressions.
The great poet T.S. Wallis stared down from his lofty pedestal, undisturbed by the huge sea bird resting on his shoulders. Moving round to the front of the statue, the March Hare caught sight of Shadrack. He was sitting on a bench, his head in his hands.
The Albatross squawked. ‘If I were you, pal,’ he advised the March Hare, ‘I’d leave well-enough alone.’
The March Hare ignored the warning. He approached Shadrack with gentle, precise footsteps, worried that any sudden move might scare him off. As yet he had no explanation for his friend’s apparent return from death. It seemed to him that he was caught in a delicate spell. If he said or did the wrong thing, he would break the enchantment and Shadrack’s spirit would be sucked back into the Underworld.
Shadrack looked up. His face was a patchwork of scar tissue and exposed bone. Most of his hair had been burnt away. His one remaining eye regarded the March Hare with cold curiosity.
The March Hare froze in his tracks. A shiver of revulsion ran down his spine. He tried to back away but his legs gave and then his stomach seemed to kick out in protest. Briefly his world fell apart. Sense and meaning receded from him like fragments from an exploding shell. It was what he had wanted all day, ever since the Knave’s arrest.
Seeing the March Hare fall to his knees, Shadrack stood up and held out a bandaged hand. It did not occur to him to offer any assistance or to hide his disfigurement. Nor did he understand his friend’s reaction.
The Albatross laughed a nasty laugh. ‘I’ll leave you two boys to it then. You must have lots to discuss.’
Seemingly pleased with the scenario he had helped create, the Albatross spread its wings and took off. In moments, it was gone.
The March Hare regained a measure of control and looked up. ‘My God, Shadrack,’ he whispered. ‘What have they done to you?’
Shadrack let his hand fall to his side. ‘Hare,’ he said, as if recalling the name. ‘March Hare. Friend.’
Chapter 7
A Butterfly Screaming
‘The Enigma Concerto,’ said the Panda, ‘by Terence Bergen.’
‘Excellency?’
The Panda stabbed a finger towards the speaker on the wall. ‘That music I asked you about. A popular tune by all accounts. I’ve been thinking about why I’ve never heard it before, and I guess I must have done. Only I wasn’t listening.’
General Cartier felt disconcerted. What was the Panda driving at? Was he supposed to read some profound moral into the President’s previous lack of interest in music? ‘Your Excellency’s a busy man,’ he said. ‘One would hardly expect you to be an expert in every field. I, myself, have little time for the Arts.’
‘If your duties are too much of a burden on your time,’ said the Panda maliciously, ‘just let me know. I’m sure I can find a younger man to fill your shoes.’
‘That wasn’t the point I was trying to make, Your Excellency.’
‘Never mind, General. Let’s get down to business, shall we? I take it you’ve brought the Grey Squirrel with you.’
‘He’s outside, Excellency.’
‘Good. Send him in. Then you can be on your way. I don’t think I’ll be needing you again today.’
Cartier bristled inwardly at being spoken to like some apprentice boy. ‘Yes, Your Excellency.’
*
When he entered the Conference Room, some of the Grey Squirrel’s despondency left him. The maps on the walls clearly depicted the limits of the Panda’s power. A blue line marked the Kingdom’s Eastern frontier, while beyond that a red squiggle showed the furthest into Spades that the army had managed to push in six years of fighting. The two lines were not very far apart.
So much for Imperial Hearts, thought the Grey Squirrel with some satisfaction.
The Panda sat at his desk, looking no more special than an office clerk. His ceremonial red jacket with its lines of medals and twists of gold braid looked phony.
Only flesh and blood, decided the Grey Squirrel. He’s as mortal and vulnerable as the rest of us.
Playing idly with a paper clip, the Panda waited for the Grey Squirrel to seat himself. It worried him not that the Squirrel deliberately delayed by pretending to study the wall maps. He had seen the ploy used before by every one of his Generals. It was their way of telling him that his power was not absolute, that they were not afraid of him. The first point he already knew. As to the second - the Panda believed that only the fearful go out of their way to show no fear. So he let the Squirrel play his game.
Eventually, the Grey Squirrel turned to face the Panda. ‘You wanted to see me, Your Excellency?’
‘To be precise, I wanted to talk to you. Take a seat.’
The Squirrel did as he was asked but made a point of slouching.
‘Comfortable?’ asked the Panda.
‘Yes, thank you.’
The Panda pointed to a small device occupying the only part of his desk not smothered by papers.
‘You see this?’
‘Sure’
‘Do you know what it is?’
The Squirrel shook his head.
‘It’s a metabolism monitor.’
‘A what?’
‘It measures the metabolism of anyone within a six foot radius. Right now it’s telling me that your heart is beating twice as fast as normal, your sweat glands are open and there is a very high level of adrenalin in your blood.’
‘Meaning?’
‘You’re scared.’
The Squirrel swallowed so hard it hurt his throat. Yes - of course he was scared. He could feel sweat coating the underside of his fur. Who wouldn’t be scared, sitting opposite a homicidal megalomaniac who used people as he saw fit and then discarded them? He looked into the big, black eyes that regarded him so stonily; there was no trace of compassion.
Sitting upright, the Grey Squirrel placed his paws in his lap and waited.
‘Actually,’ said the Panda, ‘I was lying. But then you’d expect that from a politician, wouldn’t you?’
‘One day,’ said the Grey Squirrel in an icy whisper, ‘you’re going to find yourself in a situation you can’t handle.’
‘Possibly. But I think it’s a good bet you won’t be there to see it.’ The Panda scratched at the side of his face. He had the beginnings of a fur ball on his right cheek. ‘Actually, this device is a miniaturised tape recorder. Any resemblance to a metabolism monitor is purely coincidental. Perhaps you’d like to hear what I have on it?’
The Panda held the recorder in his paw, and then craftily pressed both the record and playback buttons at the same time. The resulting squeal of feedback was like fingernails running down a
blackboard. Cutting off the device, the Panda leaned back in his chair. ‘Do you know what that sound was?’
‘I’ve no idea.’
‘Would it help if I told you the sound had been magnified a thousand times over?’
‘No.’
‘Would you like to know what it was?’
‘Not really. But I expect you’re going to tell me anyway.’
‘That was the sound of a butterfly screaming. I nailed it to a tiny wheel and tore its wings apart with a red hot needle. And when I was done with it, I crushed the miserable little insect beneath my thumb.’
‘And that gave you pleasure, did it?’
‘Very great pleasure. Yesterday I had my Chief Architect executed for incompetence and I didn’t enjoy that at all. I just signed my name to a bit of paper and he was gone. It was too easy. And that’s the problem with power. It takes all the fun out of being a bastard.’
‘And so you play with insects and bugs?’
‘And people. Don’t forget people. I wouldn’t be where I am today without the support and love of the people. Democracy’s such a wonderful thing.’
The Squirrel suppressed a sudden feeling of anger. The Panda was trying to rile him; he wasn’t going to rise to the bait. ‘I believe I used to know your Chief Architect,’ he announced quietly, calmly. ‘He was rather innocuous as I recall.’
‘Innocuous and vacuous,’ said the Panda. ‘But to me he was a threat. When I assumed my current position, I made the people a promise. I told them that I would tear down all the slums in this nation and replace them with housing fit for human habitation. Which is why I hired a Chief Architect in the first place.
‘His job was simple. I asked him for plans for new cities, new places to dwell. And I let him hire as many other architects as he felt was needed.
‘And they keep bringing me their plans - their scrappy, piddly bits of paper - and they tell me it’s the best they can do. They show me streets the way I want them - wide and straight and filled with trees and fountains. They give me houses and hospitals and parks that conform to my exact specifications. And it all looks wonderful, wonderful. But they leave out one thing which is more important than anything else, and they truly believe that I should be giving them medals for doing half a job.’ The Panda was on the verge of tears. His voice was strained with anger. ‘How many times do I have to tell these people? Beautiful streets are not enough. You can build cities as high as you like. You can have your skyscrapers and offices and People’s Palaces but at the end of the day it means nothing unless your foundations are good. If a city is to thrive it must be built on purity.
A Plague of Hearts Page 6