‘I want my cities to last for a thousand years or more. And I want my citizens to know that beneath their feet is nothing more than good, clean earth, free of disease and filth and vermin.
‘These brains I employ - these architects and engineers - they insist on undermining everything I try to do. I ask them for cities without sewers, and they look at me as if I was crazy. They shrug their shoulders and insist that it can’t be done. And I say why not? And they say because it’s never been done. Cities have always had sewers and they always will.
‘Do you see what I’m up against?’
‘Yes,’ said the Squirrel. ‘You’re up against what I’ve always been up against. People too dull to ever share your dreams.’
The Panda laughed. It was a brief, humourless laugh filled with sharp edges. ‘Dreams? There are no such things as dreams. In all my life, I have never dreamt – not even once. When people sleep, it’s so much like dying they convince themselves they’re not asleep at all. They create their own little worlds and revel in false memories.
‘People are as afraid of sleep as they are of death. Dreams are like the afterlife. They’re a myth. They’re no more real than the pot of gold at the end of the rainbow.
‘I have a man working for me who believes this whole world is some sort of dream. He thinks he owns it. He thinks it exists only in his head. And I let him think that because it makes him useful. People who deny reality and talk about dreams are easy to manipulate. And you, yourself, serve as a good example of that.’
*
Later, the March Hare was to remember the walk to the Duchess of Langerhans’ summer residence as a series of disjointed images that told fragments of a story. It started with the walls of the maze twisting this way and that, confusing his sense of direction.
Outside the maze, he must have run across the lawn to the forest, through the forest and across Mayflower Meadow. But that part of the journey was lost to him forever.
At the top of Hangman’s Hill, he paused for breath. Although his paw rested on Shadrack’s sleeve, he had no actual recollection of Shadrack being there. From Hangman’s Hill, they crossed Parsifal Bridge. Shadrack uttered something about bulrushes and how blue the Tired River looked. The March Hare replied that it was actually grey; it only looked blue to those who were in love.
A country lane led them up to the gateway to Sunway House; it was a ten minute walk, but the March Hare would always remember it as a single step.
Sunway House was everything an aristocrat’s home was meant to be. Sweeping lawns. High gables. Bay windows besieged by ivy and roses.
Running up a set of steps and reaching the front door, the March Hare tugged urgently at the bell cord, and then came to the realisation that he had done the wrong thing.
The Duchess was a kindly soul, well-known for her acts of charity and compassion. If anyone could - and would - help Shadrack, it was her. But he should have approached with greater caution. The Duchess did not live alone. She had a full compliment of domestic staff, and if the wrong one should answer the door…
Muttering an obscenity, the March Hare took Shadrack’s arm and started to lead him away from the house. Too late. Before he had even reached the bottom of the steps, the door swung open. He heard the click of the latch, the groan of antique hinges. He froze.
‘Yes?’
Young and tender, the voice sliced into his heart. Even without turning, he knew who had answered the door. He could picture her there in her maid’s uniform, her freckled face a mask of polite welcome.
‘Lisa,’ said Shadrack.
The March Hare turned around slowly. His eyes focused on Lisa’s at the very moment recognition flooded them with shock and tears. Her hand went to her mouth. ‘Shadrack,’ she said. ‘But you’re… ’
She did not finish the sentence, could not bring herself to utter that simplest but most final of words. And yet it echoed through her head. Dead. Dead. Dead. Shadrack was dead.
‘I’m sorry,’ said the March Hare. ‘I’m so terribly sorry. I should have thought things through before bringing him here.’
Then he saw her face soften and he saw hope in her eyes, and he wanted to slap her, to tell her that what she was thinking was not so. Her lover had not returned. The Shadrack she had known since childhood and had long planned to marry was still gone. All the March Hare had brought her was an empty, obscene travesty of Shadrack, a shell with half a face.
Ignoring the March Hare, Lisa swept down the steps. She was the heroine of a melodrama, a sweet young girl welcoming her beau home from war. Glad beyond all measure, she ran to him. And then stopped.
Where were the open arms, the cries of joy? Shadrack stood with his back to her, seemingly unaware that she was there at all.
Her eyes sought the March Hare’s for reassurance. They found only pain.
‘Tell me,’ she said, ‘what has happened to him.’
The March Hare began to cry.
*
Meanwhile back at the Bunker:
‘Why are you telling me this?’ asked the Grey Squirrel. It bothered him that the President of Hearts should be so casual about revealing his feelings. ‘I think you’re more afraid of Death than anyone I know.’
‘In that case you haven’t really been listening. Death doesn’t scare me. In fact, I welcome the thought of giving up life, of not existing, of not being aware.’ The Panda sighed heavily. What was the use of explaining things to mere plebs? Nobody understood him. If they did, they would never have made him President. ‘I guess we’d better get down to business. If you want the Royal Librarian’s job, this is where you start to earn it. Give me a brief summary of your meeting with Ormus. I know, of course, who was there. I just want to know what was said. For instance, did Ormus mention the Red Orchestra?’
‘He did more than that. He drafted us into it - both me and the March Hare. According to him, that was our only chance of staying alive.’
‘Did he tell you the names of any other members?’
‘Only the Knave and the Royal Librarian.’
‘No mention of the Big Cheese?’
‘He alluded to him. Which I guess means that Ormus himself isn’t the Big Cheese.’
‘Any hint of when they plan to move against me?’
‘None whatsoever. But there’s a big meeting at Mrs. Pogue’s tomorrow. I suppose I might find out then.’
‘Good.’
The Panda glanced down at some notes he had scribbled on his desk pad. ‘According to the Penguin, there was a girl at Castle Ormus. Tell me about her.’
‘Her name’s Julie. As far as I can tell, she and Ormus are lovers - though I’ve never seen such an unlikely matching in all my life. Also she had a strange accent.’
‘We know all about her. In fact, I am in some small way responsible for her being here. But that need not concern you. I want you to go to that meeting at Mrs. Pogue’s and then wait to be contacted again.’
‘And the job? The Royal Librarian, I mean?’
‘Yours as soon as you’ve earned it. Meanwhile, I expect General Cartier will be wanting to be briefed in greater detail, so I suggest you seek go him out.’
It was a dismissal.
‘I’ll do that,’ said the Grey Squirrel, rising to his feet.
‘And there’s one more thing you should be aware of. It may or may not affect things, but it would be wise for you to bear it in mind.’ The Panda cleared his throat. ‘Shadrack’s escaped. Unless my men can get to him first, he’s likely to end up with Doctor Ormus.’
‘That doesn’t sound so bad.’
‘Ormus isn’t stupid. He’ll spot Peregrine Smith’s handiwork in Shadrack straight away.’
‘He already knows Smith is alive.’
‘At the moment he only suspects. But that isn’t the worst of it. Unfortunately, Shadrack did not escape alone. He took the Albatross with him.’
‘So what?’ said the Squirrel, ‘He’s only a bird.’
‘They say he can bring grea
t misfortune upon those who mistreat him. And right now I don’t expect that he exactly looks upon me as a benefactor.’
‘That’s superstition.’
‘Is it?’ said the Panda. ‘I only wish I could be sure.’
Chapter 8
Duchess
Clutching a pink gin, the Duchess of Langerhans settled into the plush comfort of a silk-laden sofa and inflicted upon the March Hare a look of reproach. Her spectacles - which were perched on the end of her nose - caught the sunlight and glinted menacingly. She was not pleased.
‘Young man,’ she said in a tone that was crisp and aristocratic, ‘you have caused untold distress to a very fine young lady. What do you have to say for yourself?’
The March Hare shifted uncomfortably in his chair and searched for an excuse. He couldn’t find one. Of all the places he could have brought Shadrack, he had chosen the one he should have avoided.
‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘I’m just so very, very sorry.’
He felt small. It seemed that the whole room with its lavish tapestries, its high walls and gilt ceiling had been contrived to make him feel that way. He was worthless. He didn’t belong in such a nice house.
Maybe I should just dig a hole and bury myself in it, he decided.
The Duchess shook her head as if she did not believe that someone so crass and insensitive could exist upon the same plane of reality as herself. She was a large woman. The slightest movement in any part of her body set off a series of ripples, a chain reaction of rolling fat. The shaking of her head caused her chins to flap and her jowls to undulate like water beds. Her bosom heaved and fell. ‘Sorry is not good enough,’ she admonished. ‘I’ve a mind to put you over my knee and give you a good spanking. The shock you gave Lisa could have killed her, and that would have left me without a housemaid.
‘Goodness knows where I would have got another one. Thanks to awful Panda and his frankly silly war, I am already seriously understaffed. The last thing I need on my plate is a dead housemaid.’
Feeling trapped and miserable, the March Hare started to rise. The Duchess gave him a look that first stalled him and then pushed him right back into his chair. On the wall behind her, a portrait of the Duchess’ great-grandmother looked down on him with equal disgust. He was beginning to resent his treatment.
‘Look,’ he said, ‘I’ve said I’m sorry and I don’t know what else I can say. It’s not as if I meant to hurt anyone. I was just trying to help. And if I didn’t think things through as well as I might, that’s because I have been having a very bad time today. My boss has been arrested. I’ve witnessed an assassination attempt on the Queen. And now I find one of my best friends mutilated beyond belief and somehow still alive. Is it any wonder that I’m losing touch with things?’
The Duchess seemed to soften at this. ‘Well, I suppose what’s done is done. There’s no use crying over spilt gin, so we’ll let it go at that. However, that still leaves the question of what to do with poor Shadrack. I think probably it would be best to call Doctor Ormus.’
‘Why?’
‘Because he’s a doctor.’
‘Not a doctor of medicine.’
The Duchess appeared amused. ‘Not a doctor of medicine? My dear boy, Doctor Ormus is a doctor of just about everything. Wasn’t it he who invented television?’
‘I think that was Peregrine Smith. And I don’t see what television has got to do with it.’
‘Television? What a time to be thinking about television. We’ve more important things to worry about.’
The Duchess rose to her feet. Her hand explored the forbidding valley between her mighty breasts and emerged moments later clutching a leather pouch. Untying the pouch, she extracted a pinch of snuff. She rolled it between thumb and forefinger then inhaled it with great relish through her left nostril.
‘To work,’ she uttered. ‘There is much to be done and probably very little time in which to do it.’
The Duchess looked as if she was about to launch into a speech, but the ringing of the doorbell laid that possibility to rest. ‘Now who,’ she wondered, ‘can that be?’
‘Maybe someone looking for Shadrack?’ suggested the March Hare. ‘It could be that he’s a deserter and the army have tracked him down. Perhaps we should hide.’
‘In my own home? What a thing to suggest!’
There was a knock on the door.
‘Enter!’ commanded the Duchess. She moved towards the door as it swung open.
Lisa stepped in. Aside from lacking her usual smile, she showed no sign of the trauma she had just been through. Her maid’s outfit showed off the perfection of her figure to a degree that was almost pornographic. ‘A visitor, Ma’am,’ she announced with a curtsey.
‘Who is it, dear child?’
Before Lisa could answer, a coarse voice cried from the hall. ‘Screw the intros! Just tell me where Shadrack is!’
The Duchess dropped her pouch of snuff. ‘What the - !
‘The March Hare leapt to his feet. ‘It’s that bloody albatross. Don’t let him in.’
The bird ambled into the room. ‘That’s no way to treat a guest, pal. You should try being civilised.’
‘Civilised? Right now I would be happy to wring your neck.’
‘I wouldn’t try it. Nasty things happen to people who mess with the Albatross. Just ask Shadrack.’
Giving vent to a shriek of rage, the March Hare lunged towards the bird. The Duchess nimbly stepped in his way, her three hundred pounds of flesh easily absorbing the force of impact. The March Hare fell on his behind.
‘Impetuous youth,’ chided the Duchess. ‘This bird is quite right. He is our guest and therefore it is incumbent upon us to be hospitable. Besides, there are one or two questions I would like to ask him.’
‘Nuts,’ said the Albatross. ‘Just give me Shadrack.’
‘Little bird,’ said the Duchess, placing herself on the sofa. ‘You are in grave danger of finding yourself squashed between the carpet and my buttocks. Now just you behave yourself.’ She turned to Lisa. ‘My dear, fetch some fish for our visitor, will you?’
‘Raw,’ said the Albatross. ‘And make it herring.’
‘Yes, Ma’am.’ Lisa curtsied and left.
Feeling defeated, the March Hare remained on the floor. It was as good a place to be as any.
‘Now,’ said the Duchess to the Albatross. ‘Perhaps you would care to enlighten us as to the nature of Shadrack’s regrettable condition?’
The Albatross hopped onto the sofa and made himself comfortable beside the Duchess. ‘Sure thing, fatso. Where do you want me to begin?’
‘At the beginning, of course.’
‘Well, it all began about two months ago. I was flying across what you folks laughingly call the War Zone.
‘It was morning… ’
*
Morning on the Eastern Front. The War Zone basked in summer’s full glory, enjoying a rare moment of brittle calm. Across the cloudless sky, plumes of white smoke acted as reminders of the temporary nature of the present serenity.
In Trench 206, the men of Company B spoke in reverent tones of their last battle. It had lasted three days and nights, each moment a blaze of screaming, murderous upheaval. It was like being caught in the climax of a great symphony with your veins full of adrenalin and the music going on and on, changing only in pitch, never in volume.
That had been a good fight, said the men, remembering the endless onslaught of howitzers, the sharp, incisive crack of a thousand rifles. Above them, biplanes had swept through columns of fire and smoke, reminding some of swallows, others of the Angel of Death.
They agreed that some good men had died in that battle, but they had died noble, honourable deaths. Even Shorty Mendoza who lasted only a few seconds before mis-throwing a hand-grenade. Poor Shorty. While everyone else had the sense to run for cover, Shorty tried to redeem himself by picking up the grenade in order to rethrow it. They never did find his right arm, but at least they had recovered enough of h
im to ensure he qualified for a full-size casket.
Shadrack was shaking. Despite the heat, he felt intensely cold. The morning stillness played on his nerves like a cat with a ball. It seemed unnatural, almost hostile. And it gave him time to consider things he would rather not think about.
His one consolation was being on lookout duty, excused the chore of joining with the rest of the company in their version of manly camaraderie. He could hide his fear beneath his field coat. The others had to resort to cracking jokes and boasting about their prowess on the battlefield and in bed.
With his back against the trench wall, he sipped his coffee and stared at Sergeant Rock’s impressive back. Of all things Shadrack hated about this war - some profound, some petty - he hated Sergeant Rock the most. To him, the Sergeant represented all that was crass and futile.
‘You don’t know how lucky you are,’ the bullish NCO told his men. His thick lips were wrapped with obscene intimacy around the butt of an unlit cigarette. ‘I was at the front during the autumn offensive and I can tell you it wasn’t at all nice. Man, how it rained! There was raindrops bigger than an elephant’s testicle and twice as hard. It cut so bad you didn’t dare whiz in case your wanger got cut in two. And these here trenches - they was like swimming pools. I knew this Major who went for a walk and stepped straight into a puddle. Guess the mud must have sucked him down or something, because we never did see him again. Times like that, war just ain’t no fun at all.
‘Which reminds me of this widow I was on intimate terms with back in the Hinterlands. A fine woman she was. Blessed with the biggest mazonkas this side of the Pearly Gates!’
A Plague of Hearts Page 7