A Plague of Hearts

by Patrick Whittaker

  The two girls laughed at a private joke. Lisa closed her compact and placed an affectionate hand on Julie’s shoulder. Both girls seemed remarkably relaxed, almost as if they were at a party.

  The door opened. All conversation in the room broke off as the Mad Hatter strolled in. He was closely followed by the March Hare, who staggered breathlessly into the room.

  Julie let out an audible gasp. ‘Your shirt - ’

  ‘Pretty, isn’t it?’ said the Mad Hatter. ‘I’m thinking of opening a boutique. This is just the thing to capture the public imagination. It’s what you might call designer outrage.’

  ‘Or self-mutilation,’ said Doctor Ormus. ‘I thought you got over that sort of thing.’

  ‘I felt it was time for a revival. The razor blade has such a sweet kiss.’

  ‘Suppose I said I didn’t feel you were in a fit state to lead this group? It’s my opinion that you’re mentally unsound.’

  ‘And this from a man who has psychotic visions. Mechanical lizards, indeed!’

  ‘I could have you certified.’

  ‘I already have been. If you were to look in my bedroom, you would see a framed Certificate of Clinical Insanity hanging on the wall. And it’s valid for another three years.’

  The Grey Squirrel knocked back the remainder of his wine. ‘So you’re the Big Cheese? I should have known.’

  ‘No, you shouldn’t,’ countered the Mad Hatter. ‘It’s supposed to be a secret. If you’d known it, I would have had to kill you.’ He glanced around the room, doffed his top hat towards the gerbils. ‘Glad to have you aboard, gentlemen. These must be trying times for you.’

  One of them stepped forward. The March Hare recognised him as the Driver. ‘Just give us a crack at the Panda,’ he said. ‘That’s all we ask.’

  ‘No sooner said than done. Because tonight’s the night we make our move.’

  The March Hare caught his breath. He wondered if he was expected to fight.

  ‘Is that wise?’ asked the Mock Turtle, turning his sad eyes on the March Hare. For a moment, their faces reflected each other’s misgivings. ‘I don’t think any of us are ready for this. You might have warned us.’

  ‘I couldn’t take the chance, my friend. I’m as loyal a subject of the King as anyone here, but I really wouldn’t want him to catch wind of our intentions. I know he has a spy in our organisation, and I really don’t mind that. But he has a habit of letting his secrets end up on the desk of the Panda. And we wouldn’t want that, would we.’

  ‘The King’s on our side.’

  ‘Sure he is. But there are certain of his Ministers who are altogether too sympathetic towards the Panda. As much as I hate to say it, the King’s a security risk.’

  ‘He could give us a lot of help.’

  ‘If it’s anything like the help he’s already given us, then we can do without it. Tomorrow when this is all over, you have my blessing to send him a complete report.’

  ‘You know I’m his man?’

  ‘I’ve known for a long time, and that’s why I’ve kept you out of the way. Frankly, the less His Majesty knows, the better I like it.’

  ‘I have some intelligence from him anyway. It concerns TARTS.’ The Mock Turtle paused uncertainly.

  ‘Go ahead,’ said the Mad Hatter. ‘From now on, we’re going to be sticking pretty close to each other. If there are traitors here, they won’t have any chance to betray us.’

  ‘Well, you must be wondering why TARTS hasn’t been used as an offensive weapon since the unfortunate incident at Gerbil Town. According to my sources, something went wrong with the machinery shortly afterwards. I’m no scientist so don’t expect me to go into any great detail. All I can tell you is that something called a vector gauge blew out, which meant they could no longer control the direction of the beam.

  ‘Anyway, they’ve nearly fixed that now. It seems they got a replacement from somewhere.’

  ‘From me, I’m afraid,’ Ormus muttered unhappily. ‘The Penguin came by the other day and demanded that I hand it over. I’m really sorry but I had no idea of its purpose. Peregrine Smith left it with me many years ago.’

  ‘It seems then,’ said the Mad Hatter, ‘that we have less time than we thought. Once they get TARTS working again, we don’t stand a chance. Instinct told me that tonight was the night for our coup d’etat, and this proves I was right.’

  ‘Right, schmight!’ said the Cheshire Cat, strolling in through the open door. He hopped onto the table and looked from left to right, as if to evenly distribute the effect of his smile. ‘Just come to tell you that everything’s ready when you are, Boss.’

  The Mad Hatter clapped his hands together. ‘Splendid! Let’s not waste any time. We’ve got one hell of a night ahead of us and I’m rather looking forward to it.’

  ‘But what’s the plan?’ asked the Grey Squirrel.

  ‘Simple. You and the March Hare stay with me and the rest follow the Cheshire Cat. He’ll take you downstairs where you’ll find combat uniforms and rifles. And then you’ll go on to the banks of the Tired River and wait for the signal to attack the Bunker. Doctor Ormus has all the details and he’ll fill them in for you as you go along.’

  ‘Am I to take it,’ said the March Hare, still groggy from the marijuana, ‘that you expect to overthrow the Panda with just a handful of men?’

  ‘Indeed not, you furry fool. Out there is a whole army of able body men and women. They’ve been hiding in the barn. If you look out of the window, you might just catch the last of them getting into the army trucks.’

  ‘Great plan,’ said the Mock Turtle, with obvious sarcasm. ‘We just charge the bunker and that’s it - two thousand Blue Shirts throw down their arms and surrender.’

  ‘My plan is a bit more devious than that,’ said the Mad Hatter. ‘I’m going to tip the scales so far in our favour they’ll probably break. Tonight, we have nothing to fear but fear itself.’

  ‘Fear, schmear!’ said the Cheshire Cat. ‘The way I see it is simple. Keep your claws sharp and your tail up and the world’s your lobster.’

  Chapter 16

  The Fourth Card

  When the others had left and the last of the army trucks had gone, the Mad Hatter led the March Hare and Grey Squirrel out onto the back terrace. The night was rich with country smells that carried a hint of nostalgia - apple blossom and freshly turned earth. Tranquility ruled supreme.

  A low picket fence mapped the limits of Mrs. Pogue’s back yard. Beyond that, fields of corn swept in a golden array to the horizon, merged with a sky that was awash with starlight. There are nights when stars are stars - very pretty but no more than that. And there are nights when the firmament is covered in a soft mist, as if seen through a veil of tears. On such nights, one can only look and wonder.

  ‘Endless,’ said the March Hare. ‘That’s the only way to describe it. A sky like this is a glimpse of eternity.’

  The Grey Squirrel stepped down off the terrace. He kicked idly at an empty beer can. ‘When you’ve seen one sky, you’ve seen them all.’

  ‘You speak like someone who’s never seen anything,’ said the Mad Hatter, settling into the inevitable rocking chair.

  ‘I speak as a proletarian,’ said the Grey Squirrel. ‘One day the stars will be ours to do with as we wish. When that day comes, I’ll be glad of their existence. But until then, they count for nothing.’

  ‘They count for everything,’ objected the March Hare. ‘When you look into such a sky, you begin to understand that there’s a purpose to life, some grand design that lies behind everything we say and do.’

  ‘Bollocks! Life is the end result of billions of years of random chemical exchanges. There is no God. That’s something I know without having to know why or how I know. It’s instinct.’

  ‘There’s nothing random about you,’ said the Mad Hatter, speaking in a voice of cool venom.

  ‘Peregrine Smith put you together in a test tube.’

  The Grey Squirrel spat. ‘Smith had nothing to do wit
h it.’

  ‘Yes he did. Ask Doctor Ormus. I have.’

  ‘And what did he have to say?’

  ‘That Smith is an alien.’

  ‘A what?’

  ‘An alien from the planet Earth.’

  ‘There’s no such planet.’

  ‘Not in this universe,’ the Mad Hatter conceded. ‘But the Red King dreams many dreams. He dreams of other Red Kings, all with dreams of their own. And at the centre of one of those dreams is a planet called Earth. It’s where Julie and Alice come from. They were accidentally brought here as the result of certain experiments performed by Peregrine Smith.’

  ‘That’s impossible.’

  ‘Nothing’s impossible,’ said the Mad Hatter with conviction.

  ‘And everything is permitted, I suppose?’

  ‘Absolutely.’ Removing his hat, the Mad Hatter reached inside the lining and brought out a deck of playing cards. ‘I’m going to do something now, and it’s very important that you understand it.’ He exposed the bottom card and tapped it with his finger. ‘The Red King is the key.’

  ‘Wait,’ said the Grey Squirrel, stepping back onto the terrace. ‘That’s not the Red King. That’s the King of Hearts.’

  ‘Oh? Does it look like the King of Hearts?’

  ‘The current one? No. But that design is hundreds of years old.’

  ‘So humour me. Let’s say for the sake of argument that it is the Red King.’

  But the Grey Squirrel was having none of it. ‘Card games! Make-believe! Is this your idea of how to run a revolution? Are we going to spend all night discussing mythology while our comrades are out there putting their lives on the line?’

  ‘I’m trying to explain my plan to you.’

  ‘And that involves cards?’

  ‘Every General has his own method of planning strategy. Some use mathematics; some use astrology. Still others thumb through history books to learn from the mistakes and triumphs of their predecessors.’

  ‘And the Mad Hatter uses playing cards!’

  ‘I use philosophy and instinct. The Red King himself directs my every movement. That’s why the resistance movement is called The Red Orchestra.’

  The March Hare watched in silent amusement as the Grey Squirrel’s face went through a series of bizarre contortions, expressing in turn anger, confusion and frustration.

  ‘I don’t believe this is happening,’ announced the Grey Squirrel.

  ‘Believe it,’ said the Mad Hatter. ‘And accept it. No man can out-run his destiny. The Creed of the Red King defines the underlying force behind reality. We are no more than the figments of a vast imagination.’

  ‘You’re crazy.’

  ‘That’s why they call me the Mad Hatter.’

  ‘If Ormus knew the way you see things… ’

  ‘He knows and he’s with me all the way. He has as much faith in the Red King as I do.’

  ‘I don’t believe it.’

  ‘Than what do you believe?’

  ‘Does it matter?’

  ‘Maybe. Maybe not. But what both Doctor Ormus and I believe is that we were always destined to fight the Panda and lead the Resistance. I was the first to know, because I saw it all in a pack of playing cards. Ormus saw it too, in his own way, but his vision was not as clear as mine. That’s why I was chosen to lead the group, and that’s why it has fallen to me to bring about the Panda’s demise.

  ‘Every move I’ve made against the President has been on the advice of these cards. You see, cards are a symbol system. Each one is charged with its own meaning, its own data. They’re a doorway into the mind of the Red King.’

  With a deft movement of his little finger, the Hatter flicked the King of Hearts into the air. It fluttered to the ground like an injured butterfly.

  The Squirrel stepped away from it. ‘Are you saying that your plans were formulated according to the random fall of cards?’

  ‘Something like that. Only the term "random" has no real meaning. It’s a label we tie to events when we’re unable to see their cause.

  ‘Here. Take them.’

  The Mad Hatter handed the cards to the Grey Squirrel who held them in his palms as though they were something fragile.

  ‘Shuffle,’ said the Mad Hatter. ‘Let’s see what your future holds.’

  ‘I can’t shuffle.’

  ‘Then just draw four cards from anywhere you like.’

  The Grey Squirrel cut the pack, counted out four cards. These he gave to the Mad Hatter.

  Looking all the time at the Grey Squirrel, the Mad Hatter bent forward and laid the cards face-down in a line on the floor. He turned over the rightmost one. ‘This,’ he said, ‘reveals your character.’

  It was the Ace of Clubs.

  The Grey Squirrel was suddenly nervous. ‘What does that mean?’

  ‘It means that a great violence drives you on. There are feelings inside of you that are so strong you dare not face them. You spend your life running away from yourself. You have no centre, no motivation other than to keep moving, never looking back.

  ‘The second card will speak of your dealings with others. See? The Jack of Diamonds, symbol of mercenary dealings. Someone is paying you for certain immoral activities. I wonder who that can be.’

  The Grey Squirrel made no comment.

  ‘And this third card - the Jack of Clubs - means you intend betrayal.’

  ‘And the fourth card?’ asked the March Hare, intrigued. ‘What does that say?’

  ‘This is nonsense!’ said the Grey Squirrel, abruptly. ‘I’ve had enough of this. Maybe we should go and catch up with the others now.’

  ‘There’s plenty of time for that,’ said the Mad Hatter. ‘You can’t leave now. Not without seeing the fourth card. Your future lies there. Isn’t that something worth knowing?’

  ‘I’ll know it soon enough.’

  The Mad Hatter flipped over the fourth card. The Ace of Spades. The Death Card. With a startled squeal, the Grey Squirrel reached for the gun in his anorak pocket. The Mad Hatter leapt to his feet and produced a gun of his own. Bullets sang out. Echoes tumbled into the night.

  The Grey Squirrel dropped to his knees, held his head in his paws. ‘Mother of Mercy,’ he whispered. ‘I’ve been murdered.’

  Dust flew into the air as his face crashed to the floor.

  The Mad Hatter stroked his revolver. A thin wisp of smoke spiraled from the barrel. ‘Every time a gun is fired,’ he said sadly, ‘another bullet dies.’

  *

  Deep in the bowels of his Bunker, the Panda amused himself by reading the latest report from his Chief of Applied Technology. This one was entitled The Military Applications of the Self-Destructing Unicorn. It ran to thirty six pages of meticulously reasoned argument. Page 7, for instance, detailed a scheme whereby the creature would have its front brain removed and replaced by gelignite. The unicorn would then be sent as a gift to an appropriate party, such as a foreign Head of State or even a home-grown subversive. Three months later, the in-growing horn would reach the jelly and trigger an almighty explosion.

  ‘Pop,’ said the Panda, with some amusement. He was alone in his Campaign Room, surrounded by maps and charts and a brand new set of propaganda posters depicting Spadisher soldiers committing barbarous acts against women and babies. Not knowing whether it was day or night, the President wore pyjamas.

  An exploding unicorn, he thought. An amusing idea. Perhaps I’ll give one to each of my Generals as a sort of thank you for all the help they’ve given me these past few years.

  Lazenby can have two. With any luck, one will explode just as he’s buggering the poor thing.

  The Panda’s thoughts were interrupted by a knock on the door. Irritated, he slouched forward in his chair, placed his elbows on the desk. ‘Enter,’ he said abruptly.

  General Lazenby walked in, carrying with him an aura of nervous intensity that made the room feel five degrees cooler. Though dressed in full uniform, he looked uncommonly disheveled. His top button was undone and
there was a slight but noticeable smudge of oil on his tunic. He saluted briefly then sat opposite the Panda.

  ‘Well?’ said the Panda.

  ‘Everything’s set,’ said Lazenby. His thin lips grew thinner. It was obvious that he did not enjoy the task the Panda had given him. ‘We’ve fitted and tested the vector gauge and Smith assures us that all he needs now are the co-ordinates and a few hours to build up the power.’

  ‘Good. But I want everything checked and double-checked. We’ve had too many cock-ups already on this front.’ And that, thought the Panda, is an understatement.

  The last time TARTS had been deployed, a relay had jammed, switching the machine into Transceiver Mode. So instead of killing, it had reached into another reality - the same one Smith had originated from - and brought back a little girl. Alice.

  Lazenby wiped his palms on the sides of his trousers. ‘I’d like your permission to set up a study group,’ he ventured.

  ‘To what end?’

  ‘To map out all possible uses for TARTS.’

  ‘What you’re trying to tell me, General, is that you’d like it to be used as something other than a weapon. Because for someone like you, war is acceptable provided it’s fought with guns and rockets and razor-sharp steel. I don’t think you even care who wins this war - just so long as we stick to some whimsical code of chivalry.

  ‘Well, let me tell you something, General. We have no choice but to use that machine as a weapon. I’ve just received a report that the Duke of Pancreas has broken through our lines and is very close to Enigma. Unless we wipe out the Spadisher army within the next few hours, we’re going to see our country in the hands of foreigners. Or rather, we’re not. Because at about the same time, you and I are going to be swinging by our necks from lamp posts - hung by our own men. To the victors, the spoils. To the rest, nothing.’

  ‘I can see your point,’ said Lazenby. ‘But that isn’t what I was getting at. Smith beamed himself here from Earth to escape prosecution for conducting illegal experiments. Then he built TARTS, a crude duplicate of the machine that had brought him here. He demonstrated its transportation possibilities by bringing across that girl Julie - the one who’s now co-habiting with Doctor Ormus. Then when the machine went wrong, it sent out a beam to the exact same trans-spatial co-ordinates and brought back Alice.’