A Plague of Hearts

by Patrick Whittaker

  Shadrack winced. Something had bitten his leg. He prayed that it wasn’t a body louse or any one of the other dozen or so parasites currently plaguing the army. They’d been told in training that such infestations would be considered self-inflicted wounds, which meant that a man could find himself court martialed just for carrying ticks. And as if that wasn’t enough, there were now rumours of bubonic plague.

  Sergeant Rock shouted an obscenity, then let rip with a great guffaw. Apparently, the vulgar expression he’d used had been the punch line to a joke. The men rocked with laughter. ‘I ain’t kidding,’ said Sergeant Rock. ‘It was the darnedest thing I ever saw and to this day I still don’t know what she did with that rolling pin!’

  More raucous laughter.

  Shadrack turned away in disgust and chanced a look over the top of the trench. In theory, he should have used a periscope, but such equipment had not found its way to the Front for two years or more.

  No-Man’s Land stretched before him like a harsh, ugly fact begging to be ignored. The scars it bore would have been no sadder had they been inflicted upon the face of a good friend. It was a landscape of despair, devoid of all hope, all meaning. It was the line which separated reason from insanity.

  The ochre tones of mud laced with barbed wire depressed him. In the distance, a series of wooden spikes served to mark the beginnings of the enemy’s battle lines. There was no sign of movement, but Shadrack could easily picture the scenes in the opposing trenches. They would be much the same as here - men singing and joking, smoking cigarettes and bragging about their bravery. No-Man’s Land was a mirror; each side of it a reflection of the grim reality of the other.

  Beside a spent mortar shell, a badly decayed arm rose from the mud like an accusation; it served as a meeting point for a swarm of flies. Unless there was a poison gas attack, it would soon be crawling with maggots.

  Shadrack squinted against the glare of the sun, tried to determine whether the sleeve on the arm bore two stripes or three. Meanwhile the boys of Company C - led and encouraged by Sergeant Rock - had launched into a ditty which told of love, war and the sexual proclivities of a certain barmaid and her donkey. Some sang in tones as rich and vibrant as mortars. Others managed as best they could, seemingly oblivious to the painful limits of their vocal abilities.

  Above them all, Sergeant Rock’s voice roared like a monstrous cannon.

  ‘I’ve never seen a lassie so abused,’ they sang, sitting comfortably on their ammo crates, nursing insipid tea and ersatz coffee. Though they would have preferred to be in a circle, the geometry of the trench forced them to sing side by side. ‘We had our way and left her bruised. We kissed her donkey and wished her well. But God help the Devil if she goes to Hell.’

  Halfway through the chorus, one of the men detached himself from his comrades and strolled up to Shadrack.

  ‘Not much of a war, is it?’ he said, handing Shadrack a lighted cigarette. The stripe on his arm announced that he was a lance corporal. He had scarred cheeks and a bruised forehead. ‘It’s all a bit untidy for my liking.’

  Shadrack took a long drag on the cigarette, savoured the bitter taste as it crept over his tongue and down his throat. It was the first time in weeks that anyone had shown him anything like friendship and he was surprised at how deeply grateful he felt. Picking a shred of stray tobacco from his lip, he searched for small talk. ‘If you ask me, they’re building for their biggest push yet.’

  ‘The Spuds, you mean? They’re more likely to be fast asleep in their bunks. Can’t take the excitement the way we can. Knew a few of them before the war, and they were lazy bastards to a man.’

  ‘Have you ever wondered,’ asked Shadrack, ‘where we are?’

  ‘How do you mean?’

  ‘Are we in Hearts or Spades? We’ve advanced and retreated so many times I bet even our Generals don’t know where this place is.’

  ‘According to Sergeant Rock,’ said the Lance Corporal, ‘there used to be a village here. But those bastard Spuds bombed it out of existence.’

  ‘I suppose,’ said Shadrack, ‘that it’s Hearts. At least technically. I mean, it may have been Spades once, but now we’re here it’s our territory and therefore Hearts.’

  ‘You’re a funny bugger, Shadrack. You’ve been with us two months and still none of us can figure you out. You fight like a demon and think like a scholar. And you’re always bloody day-dreaming.’

  ‘What else is there to do? Whem we’re not fighting for our lives, things tend to get a bit boring around here.’

  The Lance Corporal shrugged. ‘They call me Vinegar Joe, by the way. That’s on account of my father being Crudestuff of Crudestuff foods.’

  ‘Never heard of them.’

  ‘You should have. They’re the biggest producers of beef in the Kingdom.’

  ‘I don’t eat beef. In fact, I try not to eat meat at all. Some of my best friends are animals.’

  ‘Know what you mean. I’ve met a few talkies in my time, and they all seem like good blokes.’

  ‘Sure,’ said Shadrack, who wasn’t listening any more. He was gazing up at the sky, following the progress of what appeared to be an extremely large sea gull. ‘That bird’s asking for trouble.’

  Vinegar Joe looked up. ‘It’s big enough to be a talkie. You reckon it’s a spy?’

  ‘Could be. But if it is, it’s one of ours. There aren’t any talkies in Spades.’

  ‘Yeah, but we wouldn’t send one to war.’

  ‘And I don’t think they would, either.’

  Vinegar Joe looked doubtful. When it came to the enemy, he was always prepared to believe the worst. By now, the rest of the company had sighted the bird. Fourteen rifles were trained on its belly.

  ‘Wait till it gets closer,’ ordered Sergeant Rock. ‘Anyone scares it off, they’re on fatigues from now till the end of the war.’

  The bird spiraled down a thermal, oblivious to the danger below. As it came closer, Shadrack recognised it. ‘Wait a minute, Sarge. We can’t shoot that.’

  Sergeant Rock spat. ‘And why the bloody hell not?’

  ‘That’s the Albatross, Sarge.’

  ‘A friend of yours?’

  ‘No, Sarge.’

  ‘Oh good. I am relieved. That means we can blast it out of the sky without hurting your feelings.’

  ‘He’s a protected species.’

  ‘And this is a war zone. If I say that thing’s meat, it’s meat.’

  ‘But it’s unlucky to harm it.’

  ‘You some sort of moron, Shadrack, or what?’

  ‘No, Sarge. But It’s a well-known fact that - ’

  ‘Shut up, Shadrack. If you want facts, I’ll give you facts. Fact Number One - I don’t like you, Shadrack. Fact Number Two - I’ve never liked you. Fact Number Three - nobody likes you. Fact Number Four - I ain’t having nobody spreading superstitious crap around here. And here’s Fact Number Five - if I tell you to shoot your own mother, the only thing you I want to hear from you is whether I mean through the heart or through the head. Understood?’

  ‘Yes, Sarge.’

  ‘I’m glad that’s clear, Private Shadrack. Because you have just been elected to give our friend up there a typical Company C welcome.’

  ‘Beg pardon, Sarge?’

  ‘Shoot the bleeder.’

  ‘I can’t do that.’

  ‘That’s an order, Mister! Either he gets filled with lead, or you do. The choice is yours.’

  It was no choice at all. Conscious of Sergeant Rock studying his every move, Shadrack threw away his cigarette and unslung his rifle. The bolt needed oiling. As he pulled it back, it squealed and then settled into place with a dull click. He took careful aim and fired.

  The Albatross gave vent to a hideous shriek. Its wings flapped wildly, grasping at air in a frantic effort to stay in flight. Shadrack could only watch in numb horror as the bird began to descend.

  ‘Give the man a coconut!’ someone shouted. ‘We have ourselves a prisoner.’

&n
bsp; The Albatross landed at Shadrack’s feet and tumbled head first along the trench, rolling beak over flippers, before coming to an undignified halt in a pile of oily rags. A red patch on his abdomen marked the bullet’s point of entry.

  ‘You bastards,’ screamed the Albatross, lying on his back. ‘Who did that? Who was it?’

  All eyes turned to Shadrack. His finger was still on the trigger. A telltale plume of smoke drifted craftily from the barrel of his gun.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ he said, miserably. ‘I was only obeying orders.’

  ‘Yeah, that’s what they all say! You could have killed me!’

  Sergeant Rock stepped in. ‘That was the general idea, little birdy. And unless you’re smart, I’m quite willing to finish the job myself. Me and the boys here haven’t had proper roast meat for a long time.’

  ‘That,’ said the Albatross, ‘is the least of your worries. Just wait until the King hears about what you’ve done. I’m a protected species. He’s not going to like this.’

  ‘I think you’re a spy.’

  ‘And I think you’re a prat!’

  A brilliant flood of crimson washed over Sergeant Rock’s grizzled features. ‘Shadrack,’ he said. ‘This here sea gull is now a prisoner of war. You will escort it to Battalion Headquarters and see that it gets interrogated. If it tries to escape - shoot it.’

  ‘Oh, marvelous,’ said the Albatross. ‘Really bloody marvelous. That’s made my day, that has. It comes to something when a chap can’t even go for a quick spin without being shot down and banged-up by his own side.

  ‘Boy, are you going to be sorry. All of you! And especially the guy who shot me. Nobody crosses the Albatross and gets away with it.’

  The barest shadow of doubt crossed Sergeant Rock’s face. He grinned nervously. ‘On your feet and start marching - or you’ll find my bayonet where it hurts the most.’

  ‘You’ll have to help me up. Or is that too much to ask?’

  ‘Shadrack. Help it up.’

  ‘Yes, Sarge.’ Bending down, Shadrack placed his hands under the Albatross and began to turn him on his front. He was relieved to note that the bullet only seemed to have nicked the bird.

  ‘Watch it!’ warned the Albatross. ‘I’m a little delicate right now - and you’re in enough trouble as it is. You’d just better hope I don’t die.’

  ‘Do you want me to carry you?’ Shadrack asked.

  ‘No thank you. You’ve done quite enough damage already.’

  ‘Do you hurt much?’

  ‘What do you care, garbage-breath?’

  ‘Only asking.’

  ‘Well ask yourself what happened to everyone else who ever harmed me. There’s not one of them who didn’t come to a nasty end.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Shadrack. ‘I’d heard something to that effect.’

  ‘I’m just glad I’m not you, pal.’

  At this point in the tale, Lisa returned carrying a silver bowl stuffed to the brim with raw herring. She handed it to the Duchess who placed it on her lap. No-one spoke until Lisa had left the room.

  ‘Gimme a fish then,’ said the Albatross the moment the door closed.

  ‘Story first,’ said the Duchess grimly. ‘Fish second.’

  ‘There’s not much left to tell. That night, Spades launched an all-out offensive and wiped out Company C. Not a single one of them survived.’

  ‘And Shadrack?’

  ‘Was on his way back from Battalion Headquarters when he got caught in a napalm attack. His body was shipped back for burial five days ago. Only I hadn’t finished with him. The son-of-a-bitch wasn’t going to get off that lightly.’

  ‘So you brought him back from the dead?’ said the March Hare. He had never felt so appalled in his life. ‘You couldn’t let him rest in peace.’

  The Albatross was dismissive. ‘Don’t blame me, pal. It was all Peregrine Smith’s doing.’

  ‘Smith is dead!’

  ‘Then maybe somebody ought to tell him, because last time I saw the old boy he was pottering around a laboratory in the President’s Bunker.’

  ‘I think you’re lying.’

  ‘Think what you like. Now, do I get my fish or what?’

  The Duchess placed her hands over the bowl of fish. ‘My dear Mr. Albatross,’ she said chidingly, ‘you don’t honestly think I would reward you for telling me so much and then no more, do you? Kindly finish your story.’

  ‘Gimme a fish!’

  ‘Not until you have explained exactly how Peregrine Smith managed to raise Shadrack from the dead.’

  ‘He used some stuff called orgone energy. And that’s about all I can tell you.’

  ‘Have you met Smith?’

  ‘Yes!’ The Albatross seemed impatient to get to his fish. ‘After my illegal arrest, I was sent to the Presidential Bunker and kept in a cage in his laboratory there. A couple of days later, they wheeled in a human corpse which turned out to be Shadrack. I wasn’t too amused when they dumped it right outside my cage.

  ‘And I know he was dead and I know Smith brought him back to life. I was there when it happened. It gives me goose bumps just thinking about it.

  ‘I’ll tell you one thing - Smith isn’t going to get away with treating me the way he did. I think he wanted to use me for some experiment, only I managed to escape in time. He and the Panda are going to suffer enormously. Within a week, Hearts will fall to Spades. You just mark my words.’

  ‘So how did you get out?’ asked the March Hare. ‘That bunker must be near escape-proof.’

  ‘Some of the guards let me out. They were smart, you see. They know what happens to people who upset the Albatross.’

  ‘And Shadrack?’

  ‘I insisted that he come with me. They weren’t about to argue.’

  The Duchess shook her head woefully. ‘I really wish I knew what to make of all this. One thing’s for sure though. Peregrine Smith is probably quite anxious to get his hands on Shadrack again, and I imagine he’ll receive all the help he wants from that disgusting President of ours.

  ‘We have no choice but to hide Shadrack and hide him well. In the meantime, I had better get in touch with Doctor Ormus to see what he thinks of it all. If anyone can help Shadrack, it is he.’

  Sure, thought the March Hare. All roads lead to Ormus. It’s a wonder don’t they canonise him.

  ‘Now,’ said the Albatross, ‘how about my fish?’

  ‘Help yourself,’ said the Duchess, placing the bowl on the floor.

  ‘And don’t forget, I still want to see Shadrack.’

  ‘That’s not possible.’

  ‘You’ll be sorry.’

  The March Hare wanted so much to hurt the Albatross. As if they had a life of their own, his hands went through the motions of strangling thin air. But he did not leave his seat. There was, he knew, a time and a place for everything.

  The Albatross started on the herring.

  Chapter 9

  The Velvet Underground

  It was if a giant had died by the banks of the Tired River, and all his flesh had been stripped by carnivores until only his rib-cage remained, a huge metal frame tarnished with rust. Bathed in moonlight, it cast a matrix of soft shadow over the old dockyards.

  ‘This used to be the biggest warehouse in the Kingdom,’ explained the Duchess of Langerhans, sweeping the beam of her flashlight along the ground. The beam revealed railway tracks and fractured concrete. A few hardy shrubs had managed to reclaim parts of the industrial wasteland.

  The March Hare followed the sweep of the flashlight. Beside him stood Lisa and Shadrack.

  ‘If one was to study one’s history,’ the Duchess continued, ‘one would find this to be the oldest part of Enigma. In fact, if it wasn’t for these docks, this town would never have happened. It’s a shame they had to close. I suppose the eternal combustion engine has been as much a curse as a blessing.’

  Lisa turned to Shadrack and straightened the lapel of his jacket. Now that the worst of his wounds had been dressed and partially dis
guised with make-up, his face was unsightly rather than repulsive. They had swapped his army fatigues for a suit that had belonged to the late Duke of Langerhans; it was slightly too large but Lisa decided that it lent him a certain elegance. The patch over his ruined eye made him look roguish.

  The March Hare gazed around the abandoned dockyards, wondering that so many buildings should be left to decay. ‘Guess this is the price we pay for progress.’

  Lisa took his arm, pointed to the river. ‘I’ve always thought of that as being my own, personal river. Ever since I was little, I’ve sort of identified myself with Miranda. I suppose you could say she was my role model.’

  ‘Who’s Miranda?’ asked the March Hare.

  ‘According to legend, she was the wife of a powerful magician who was deeply in love with her because she was the most beautiful woman who ever lived. They say that when she died, her husband just sat down and cried for a thousand years and all his tears became this river.’ Lisa smiled distantly. ‘Isn’t it strange how sad things can be so beautiful?’

  The Duchess of Langerhans led the way to a corner of the warehouse. Her flashlight sought out and found a mattress sitting in a cluster of nettles. She turned to the March Hare. ‘Dear boy,’ she said, ‘am I right in thinking that you’re safe from the sting of these awful weeds?’

  The March Hare nodded. ‘My fur protects me. It’s just my palms I have to watch out for.’

  ‘How perfectly convenient. Perhaps you would honour us by removing that mattress? I can assure you that to do so would further our cause no end.’

  The mattress threatened to disintegrate in the March Hare’s paws. A foul-smelling concoction of rotten straw and fabric, it played host to a whole encyclopaedia of moulds and insects. A beetle flew straight at his face, skimmed the top of his head and then disappeared into the night. The March Hare took it in his stride.

  He pushed the mattress to one side. It had been covering a sheet of corrugated iron. At the Duchess’s prompting, he lifted it up, expecting to find nothing but concrete and dirt. He was wrong.

  ‘Stairs,’ he muttered.