A Sparrow Falls c-9

by Wilbur Smith

  There were narrow cracks in the woodwork through which bright lines of open sky showed clearly, and as he watched he saw one of the lines of light interrupted by a dark movement beyond. It was that flicker of movement that caught his attention, and he realized that he was looking at the body of the person who served the gun. He must be squatting directly over one of the narrow joints in the floor of the platform, and his movements blocked out part of that bright line of light.

  A bullet through the gap would cripple and pin him, but he glanced at the broken weapon in his hand and knew that he would have to get closer, much closer.

  He began to run upwards and though he tried to keep his weight lightly on the balls of his feet, the hobnails in his boots rang on the steel stairs.

  Fergus MacDonald heard them and checked his own run, shrinking into the protective lee of one of the steel girders. One man only, he muttered. But coming up fast He dropped on one knee and peered down through the gaps between the stairs, hoping for sight of the man who he was hunting. The steps overlapped each other like fanned playing-cards, and the lateral supports of the tower formed an impenetrable steel forest below him.

  The only way he could hope for a glimpse was to hang out over the handrail and look down the central shaft-well.

  The idea of that thousand-foot black hole repelled him, and he had formed an estimate of his opponent high enough to guess that the reward for putting his head over the side would be a bullet between the eyes.

  He edged into a better position where he could cover the next spiral of staircase below him. I'll let him come up to me, he decided, and braced his arm against the girder at the level of his chin, and laid the Webley over the crook of his elbow to give the heavy pistol support. He knew that over ten paces it was wildly inaccurate, but the dead rest would give him at least one fair shot.

  He cocked his head slightly to listen to the clatter of booted feet on steel, and he judged that the man was very close. One more spiral of the stair would bring him into shot. Carefully, he thumbed back the hammer of the Webley and looked down over the slotted rear-sight.

  Above them, the Vickers fired again, and Mark paused to catch his breath and check the situation of the gunner, and to his dismay he realized that he had climbed too high in the tower.

  He had changed the angle of sight, and could no longer see through the cracks in the timber platform. He had to retreat carefully down the staircase before once again the bright lines of light opened in the dark underbelly of timber.

  A vague blur of movement reassured him that the gunner had not changed his position. He was still squatting over the joint, but the shot was almost impossible.

  He was shooting directly upwards, awkward even in the best conditions, but now he had no butt to steady the rifle and no foresight, he was shooting into a single dark mass of timber and had to guess the position of the crack because the gunner's body obscured the light from the far side. The crack itself was only two inches wide, and if he missed by a smallest fraction the bullet would bury itself harmlessly in the thick timber.

  He tried not to think that there would be only one shot, the jammed breach made that certain.

  He put his hip to the guardrail and leaned out over the open shaft, squinted upwards trying to set the target in his mind as he lifted the broken rifle in an easy natural movement. He knew that he had to make the shot entirely by instinct. He had no chance if he hesitated or tried to hold his aim steadily on the target.

  He swept up the shattered weapon and at the moment the long barrel aligned, he pressed the trigger.

  In the flash and thunder of the shot a tiny white splinter of wood jumped from the edge of the crack. The bullet had touched wood and Mark felt an instant of utter dismay.

  Then the body that had obscured the light was jerked abruptly aside, and the crack was a single uninterrupted line again, and on the platform somebody screamed.

  Helena MacDonald had just reached the count of twenty again, and was aiming at a gathering of men she could see grouping beyond one of the lorries. She squatted low over the gun and was on the point of jamming her thumbs down on the firing button, when the bullet came up through the floor timbers.

  It had touched one of the hard mahogany baulks, just enough to split the casing of the bullet and alter its shape, mushrooming it slightly, so that it did not enter her body through a neat round puncture.

  It tore a ragged entry into the soft flesh at the juncture of her slightly spread thighs and plunged upwards through her lower abdomen, striking and shattering the thick bony girdle of her pelvis, glancing off the bone with still enough impetus to bruise and weaken the lower branch of the descending aorta, the great artery that runs down from the heart, before going on to embed itself in the muscles high in the left side of her back.

  it lifted Helena into the air, and hurled her across the platform on to her face. Oh God, oh God, help me! Fergus! Fergus! I don't want to die alone, she screamed, and the sound carried clearly to the two men in the steel tower below her.

  Mark recognized the voice instantly. It did not need the name to confirm it.

  His mind shied at the enormity of what he had done.

  The broken rifle almost slipped from his hands, but he saved it and caught at the handrail for support.

  Helena cried again, a sound without words, it was exactly that strange wild cry that she had uttered at the zenith of one of their wildest flights of passion together, and for an instant Mark remembered her face shining and triumphant, the dark eyes burning and the open red mouth and the soft pink petal of her tongue aflutter.

  Mark started to run, hurling himself upwards.

  The screams caught Fergus like a flight of arrows in the heart. A piercing, physical agony, he dropped the pistol to his side and stood irresolute staring upwards, not knowing what had happened, except that Helena was dying. He had heard the death scream too often to have any doubt about that. What he was listening to was mortal agony, and he could not force his body to begin the climb upwards, to the horror he knew waited him there.

  While he hesitated, Mark came around the angle of the staircase and Fergus was not ready for him. The pistol was at his side, and he fell back and tried to bring it up, to fire at point-blank range into the chest of the uniformed figure.

  Mark was as off balance as he was. He had not expected to run into another enemy, but he saw the pistol and swung the broken rifle at Fergus'head.

  Fergus ducked, and the Webley fired wide, the bullet flew inches past Mark's temple and the report slammed against his eardrum and made him flinch his head. The rifle struck the girder behind Fergus and was jerked from Mark's grip, then they came together chest to chest. Mark seized the wrist of his pistol hand and held with all his strength.

  Neither of them had recognized the other. Fergus had aged into a grey caricature of himself and his eyes were shaded by the cloth cap. Mark was in unfamiliar uniform, dusty and bloodied, and he had changed also, youth had become man.

  Mark was taller, but they were matched in weight and Fergus was endowed with the terrible fighting rage of the berserker which gave him superhuman strength.

  He drove Mark back against the guardrail, and bowed his back out over the open shaft, but Mark still had his pistol wrist, and the weapon was pointed up over his head.

  Fergus was sobbing wildly, driving with all the wiry uncanny strength of a body tempered by hard physical work, and fired now by the strength of anger and sorrow and despair.

  Mark felt his feet slip, the hob-nails of his boots skidding on the steel steps and he went over further, feeling the mesmeric suck of a thousand feet of open space plucking at his back.

  Above them, Helena screamed again, and the sound drove like a needle into the base of Fergus brain, he shuddered, and his body convulsed in one great rigid spasm that Mark could not hope to hold. He Vent backwards over the guardrail, but still he had his grip on Fergus gun hand and his other arm he had wound about his shoulders.

  They slid into the voi
d, locked together in a horrible parody of a lovers embrace, but as they started to fall, Mark hooked both legs over the rail, like a trapeze artiste, and jerked to a halt, hanging upside down into the shaft.

  Fergus was somersaulted over him by the force of his own thrust; as he turned in the air, the cloth cap flew from his head and he was torn from the arm that Mark had around his shoulder.

  He came up with a jerk that almost tore Mark's shoulder from its socket, for some animal instinct had kept Mark's grip locked on the pistol hand, and he dangled from that precarious hold.

  The two of them pendulurned out over the black emptiness of the shaft, Mark's legs hooked over the rail, hanging at full stretch, with Fergus'body the next link in the chain.

  Fergus head was thrown back, staring up at Mark, and with the cap gone, his lank sandy hair fell back from his face and Mark felt fresh shock loosen his grip.

  Fergus! he croaked, but the madman's eyes that stared back at him were devoid of recognition. Try and get a grip, Mark pleaded, swinging Fergus towards the staircase. Grab the rail. He knew he could not hold many seconds longer, the fall had wrenched and weakened his arm, and the blood was rushing to his head in this inverted position, he could feel his face swelling and sufflusing and the pounding ache in his temples, while the black and hungry mouth of the shaft sickened him; with his other hand he groped and got a second hold on Fergus' wrist.

  Fergus twisted in his grip, but instead of going for the rail he reached upwards and took the pistol from his own hand, transferring it to his free hand. No, Mark shouted at him. Fergus, it's me! It's me, Mark! But Fergus was far past all reason, as he juggled with the Webley, getting a firing grip on the hilt with his left hand. Kill them, he muttered. Kill all the scabs. He lifted the barrel to aim upwards at Mark, dangling over the drop, twisting slowly in that double retaining grip. No, Fergus! screamed Mark, and the muzzle of the revolver pointed into his face. At that range, it would tear half his head away, and he saw Fergus forefinger tighten on the trigger, the knuckle whitening under pressure.

  He opened his hands and Fergus wrist slipped from his fingers.

  He spun away, falling swiftly, and the revolver never fired but Fergus began to scream a high thin wall.

  Still hanging upside down Mark watched Fergus body, limbs spread and turning like the spokes of a wheel, as it dropped away, shrinking rapidly in size, and the despairing wailing cry receding with it, dwindling away to a small pale speck, like a dust mote which was swallowed abruptly into the dark mouth of the shaft far below and the wailing cry with it.

  In the silence afterwards, Mark hung batlike, blinking the sweat out of his eyes and for many seconds unable to find strength to move. Then from the platform above him came a long shuddering moan and it roused him.

  Forcing his bruised body to respond, he managed to get a grip on the guardrail and drag himself up, until he tumbled on to the staircase, and started up it on rubbery legs.

  Helena had dragged herself to the pile of timber, leaving a dark wet smear across the platform. The khaki breeches she wore were sodden with blood and it oozed from her still to form a spreading puddle in which she sat.

  She lay back against the timber next to the tripoded Vickers in an attitude of utter weariness, and her eyes were closed.

  Helena, Mark called her, and she opened her eyes.

  Mark, she whispered, but she did not seem surprised.

  It was almost as though she expected him. Her face was completely drained of all colour, the lips seemed rimmd with frost, and her skin had an icy sheen to it. Why did you leave me? she asked.

  Hesitantly, he crossed to her. He knelt beside her, looked down at her lower body and felt the scalding flood of vomit rise into his throat. I truly loved you, her voice was so light, breathing soft as the dawn wind in the desert, and you went away. He put out his hand to touch her legs, to spread them and examine the wound, but he could not bring himself to do it. You won't go away again, Mark? she asked, and he could hardly catch the words. I knew you'd come back to me. I won't go away again, he promised, not recognizing his own voice, and the smile flickered on her icy lips. Hold me, please Mark. I don't want to die alone. Awkwardly, he put an arm around her shoulders and her head lolled sideways against him.

  Did you ever love me, Mark, even a little bit?

  Yes, I loved you, he told her, and the lie came easily.

  Suddenly there was a hissing spurt of brighter redder blood from between her thighs as the damaged artery erupted.

  She stiffened, her eyes flew wide open, and then her body seemed to melt against him and her head dropped back.

  Her eyes were still wide open and dark as a midnight sky. As he stared at it, slowly her face changed. It seemed to melt like white candle wax held too close to the flame, it ran and wavered and reformed, and now it was the face of a marble angel, smooth and white and strangely beautiful, the face of a dead boy in a land far away, and the fabric of Mark's mind pulled and tore.

  He began to scream, but no sound came from his throat the scream was deep down in his soul, and his face was without expression, his eyes dry of tears.

  They found him like that an hour later. When the first soldiers climbed cautiously up the iron staircase to the top of the steel tower, he was sitting quietly, holding the woman's dead body in his arms.

  Well, said Sean Courtney, they've hanged Taffy Long!

  He folded the newspaper with an angry gesture and dropped it on to the paving beside his chair.

  In the dark shiny foliage of the loquat tree that spread above them, the little white-eyes pinkled and twittered as they probed the blossoms with sharp busy beaks and their wings fluttered like moths about the candle.

  Nobody at the breakfast table spoke. All of them knew how Sean had fought for leniency for those strikers on whom the death sentence had been passed. He had used all his influence and power, but it had not availed against the vindictive and vengeful who wanted full measure of retribution for all the horrors of the revolt. Sean brooded now at the head of the table, hunched in his chair with his beard on his chest, staring out over the Ladyburg valley.

  His arm was still supported by the linen sling; it had not healed cleanly and the bullet wound was still open and draining. The doctors were anxious about it, but Sean had told them, Leopard, and bullet and shrapnel and knife, I've had them all before. Don't twist a gut for me. Old meat heals slowly, but it heals hard. Ruth Courtney watching him now was not worried about the wounds of the flesh. It was the wounds of the mind that concerned her.

  Both the men of her household had come back deeply marked by the lash of guilt and sorrow. She was not sure what had happened during those dark days, for neither man had spoken about it, but the horror of it still stalked even here at Lion Kop, even in the bright soft days, on these lovely dreaming hills where she had brought them to heal and rest.

  This was the special place, the centre and fortress of their lives, where Sean had brought her as his bride. They owned other great houses, but this was home, and she had brought Sean here now after the strife and the turmoil. But the guilt and the horror had come with them. Madness, muttered Sean. Utter raving madness. How they cannot see it, I do not know. He shook his head, and was silent a moment. Then he sighed. We hang them now and make them live for ever. They'll haunt and hound us all our days. You tried, dear, said Ruth softly. Trying isn't enough, he growled. In the long run, all that counts is succeeding. Oh Pater, they killed hundreds of people, Storm burst out, shaking her shining head at him, with angry colour in her cheeks. They even tried to kill you! Mark had not spoken since the meal began, but now he lifted his head and looked at Storm across the table. She checked the other words that sprang to her lips as she saw his expression.

  He had changed so much since he had come home. It was as though he had aged a hundred years. Though there was no new line or mark on his face, yet he seemed to have shed all his youth and taken upon himself the full burden of knowledge and earthly experience.

  When
he looked at her like that she felt like a child. It was not a feeling she relished. She wanted to pierce this new armour of remoteness that invested him. They're just common murderers, she said, addressing the words not to her father. We are all murderers, Mark answered quietly, and though his face was still remote, the knife clattered against his plate as he put it down. Will you excuse me, please, Mrs Courtney -'he turned to Ruth and she frowned quickly. Oh Mark, you've not touched your food. I'm riding into the village this morning. You ate no dinner last night. I want the mail to catch the noon train. He folded his napkin, rose quickly and strode away across the lawn and Ruth watched the tall, graceful figure go with a helpless shrug before turning to Sean. He's wound up so tight, like a watch spring about to snap, she said. rWhat's happening to him, Sean? Sean shook his head. It's something that nobody understands, he explained. We had so much of it in the trenches. It's as though a man can stand just so much pressure, and then something breaks inside him. We called it shellshock, for want of a better name, but it's not just the shelling, he paused. I have never told you about Mark before, about why I picked him, about how and when I first met him, and he told it to them. Sitting in the cool green shade of the loquat tree, he told them of the mud and the fear and the horror of France. It's not just for a single time, or a day or a week, but it goes on for what becomes an eternity. But it is worse for a man who has special talents. We, the Generals, have to use them ruthlessly. Mark was one of those, And he told them how they had used Mark like a hunting dog, and his two women listened intently, all of them bound up in the life of the young man who had gradually come to mean so much to each of them. A man gathers horror and fear like a ship gathers weed. It's below the waterline, you cannot see it, but it is there. Mark carries that burden, and at Fordsburg something happened that brought him close to the breaking-point. He is on the very edge of it now. What can we do for him? asked Ruth softly, watching his face, happy for him that he had a son at last, for she had long known that was what Sean saw in Mark. She loved her husband enough not to resent that it was not her own womb that had given him what he so desperately wanted, glad only that he had it at last, and that she could share it with him.