Present Tense [Round Two of The Great Game]

by Dave Duncan

"I told you you wouldn't want to hear all this."

  "Yes, we do!” Alice said. “What about Goldfish?"

  "And he was absolutely miserable! To start with, he was big, but he was shaped like a pear. Also—"

  The car coughed and slowed, the motor silent.

  Ginger guided it into the curb, and it came to a halt right by a streetlight. It hissed and clinked.

  Alice said, “Hell's bells!"

  Ginger had slumped over the wheel. After a moment he turned around. “Anyone got any ideas?"

  "It may just have overheated,” Smedley said. “Let's give it a few minutes and then try cranking it.” If he had some tools he might be able to do something, or at least show Exeter how to do something ... but he hadn't.

  A lorry went rumbling by.

  "We're not supposed to park here,” Alice said, her voice brittle. “And I don't imagine the buses are running yet. Care to explain all that blood on your coat, Edward? Or your trousers, Julian?"

  "Or why I am wearing pajamas,” Edward said. “The old crate's done very well."

  "But not well enough!” Now there was no hiding the overtones of panic in her voice.

  "How about a taxicab?"

  "At this time of night? Away out here? Explain the bloodstains?"

  "Just a thought."

  "Telephone the Royal Automobile Club,” Smedley suggested.

  "Don't be stupid! We have no papers!"

  They sat in brooding silence for a while.

  Failure was a bitter taste in Smedley's throat. So near and yet so far! The sun would be up soon, and they must look a hopeless bunch of guys. You could get away with a lot in London, but marching around covered in blood was not one. Without his folly, the others would have had a good chance, even yet. All his fault.

  Lorries rumbled by in both directions. There were no pedestrians in sight, but the capital awoke early. Covent Garden would be stirring by now, and Billingsgate.

  Smedley stiffened. He must be imagining things. That wasn't just traffic he was hearing. It must be! Or was he starting to have delusions in addition to all his other madness?

  "What's that noise?” Exeter said.

  "Oh no!” Alice said. “Look!"

  A policeman had just passed under the next streetlight. He was heading their way with the solid, unhurried tread of the bobby on his beat.

  "I don't have my license!” Ginger wailed.

  "I don't have anything at all,” Exeter growled. “Will he take me for a deserter?"

  "Julian,” Alice said wildly, “you're on convalescent leave, and we're taking you to my home in—"

  "I don't have my hospital discharge yet and why at four in the morning and Exeter has no papers at all and the blood—"

  There was no innocent explanation! No one answered. They all just stared helplessly as their nemesis approached relentlessly along the pavement. With his helmet on, he looked about eight feet tall. He would have to stoop to see in the window.

  He did.

  "Morning, Officer!” Ginger said in his best Cambridge drawl.

  Pause. “Good morning, sir."

  "The jolly old engine's overheated, you see. Just giving it a moment to calm down, and then we'll be on our way."

  Pause. “Will you tell me the purpose of your journey this morning, sir?” The copper glanced at the three passengers in the back. He did not shine his light on them, not yet.

  Ginger said, “Er..."

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  15

  GINGER SAID, “ER...” AGAIN.

  Smedley could feel Alice shaking. Or maybe it was him.

  Somebody think of something!

  "Yes, sir?” said the voice of the law. A regulation notebook appeared in the bobby's hand.

  "Well, it's like this,” Ginger said and fell silent.

  "Convalescent leave!” Smedley said loudly, and leaned forward to wave his paybook at the policeman.

  The law was becoming suspicious. “In a moment, sir. First may I see your driving license, sir?"

  Ginger drawled, “Well, actually, officer—"

  Behind the car, the night exploded in fire. Not a furlong away, a building sank to its knees and toppled forward into the street. The car jumped bodily. Gravel rattled on roof and windows. The policeman vanished. Before the roar had died away, another ... and another ... and another ... all around. Glass tinkled in deadly rain.

  "Out!” Exeter shouted, struggling with the door.

  "Get down!” Smedley barked. The others jumped at his tone of authority. “This is as safe as anywhere. It's raining glass out there."

  He pushed Alice down on the floor. Exeter went on top of her. As Smedley followed, he caught a glimpse of the policeman, on his feet again, staggering toward the nearest burning ruin. Boom! Boom! The car rocked. Boom-boom! Hail spattered on the roof. Guns crumped regularly in the background between the bomb blasts. Boom! The car leaped, windows shattering. People were screaming right outside, they must be pouring out of the houses, idiots.

  From underneath, Alice said, “My God!"

  "This is nothing!” Smedley said scornfully. “Throwing darts. It'll take a direct hit to hurt us.” Or the adjacent building falling on them, of course. He felt quite unworried. Odd, that. After the creeping barrages of the Western Front, this was a very pathetic fireworks display. The last few bombs had been farther away. The noise was mostly people yelling and the roar of fires.

  Boomboomboom! Closer again.

  "Nothing, you say?” Exeter's voice sounded strained. This was not spear-throwing and shield banging.

  "Kids’ stuff. You all right, Ginger?"

  A distant voice said, “I just died of fright, that's all."

  "Good show."

  Heartbeat—beat—beat—beat—beat—

  "Is it over?” Alice said. “Someone is kneeling on my kidneys."

  "Wait and see. Later planes aim for the fires."

  BOOM! The car rose a foot and fell back with protesting squeaks. Something sizable struck the roof, but now the clamor of hail was briefer.

  "No, it's not over."

  Minutes crawled by. Distant clanging of a fire engine bell. A lot of shouting and cursing now, some very close. More explosions very far away. The futile hammering of guns.

  "I think we can risk it,” Smedley said. “Watch out for glass in here.” He sat up. The car had lost all its windows. A fiery dawn lit the street and the frightened crowds, many people still in their night attire. “Exeter, old man, I do believe you're wearing the proper kibosh now."

  They emerged cautiously from the battered vehicle. Ginger had lost his hat and his pince-nez, he was blinking and mumbling. Apparently all four of them had escaped uninjured. The same could not be said for the inhabitants of Greenwich, or possibly this was Deptford. There were bodies on the road, wailing children, and hundreds of people in night attire. Policemen were trying to move the crowds back and let the ambulances and fire engines through. No one was interested in the fugitives now.

  "That was very tricky timing,” Smedley said. “How far is it from here?” He looked at the other three, who were staring aghast at the burning buildings. “Alice! How far is it from here?"

  "What? Oh, miles!"

  "Let's get started, then! Don't wait to say good-bye to everybody."

  Alice stared at him. “How can you make jokes?” she shouted. “There are people dying, bodies—"

  "If you don't laugh you cry. Come on!"

  "But you can't walk in your condition!"

  "Then you can carry me. Come on! No one's going to question how we're dressed! Or where the blood came from.” Smedley took Ginger's arm and urged him into motion. He assumed Exeter and Alice were following, but he did not look back. He felt the same wild exuberance he had known when he lost his hand—saved! No matter the cost, deliverance was what mattered. They could explain their bizarre appearance now, if they were asked. It could not be more than five miles or so to Lambeth, and he was sure he could manage that. He had walked a
lmost that far with a tourniquet on his bleeding stump. Alice would find it harder in her fashionable shoes.

  That was a very strange journey along the winding darkened streets of the great city. Half the population had emerged to look at the fires and the searchlight beams playing on the clouds. They cursed the Hun and called out condolences in incomprehensible accents.

  About half an hour later, as the fugitives emerged from the affected area, they began to attract more attention. People started asking questions. It could not be long before another policeman appeared. Then a lorry pulled up and asked in very thick Cockney if they needed help. Alice rode in the cab with the driver, denouncing the bombs and explaining about going to stay with a mythical aunt. The men rode in the back, and a few minutes later they all arrived safely at her flat.

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  16

  ALICE HAD NEVER HAD FOUR PEOPLE IN HER SITTING ROOM BEFORE. She had far too much furniture, and it was all designed for greater, grander rooms. The three men standing there, blinking in the harsh light, seemed to fill every inch. This was the first time she had been able to see Edward properly. He had not changed in the slightest from the gangling, fresh-faced boy he had been three years ago. Except that now his expression was murderous.

  "Do sit down, please!” she said. “And I'll make some tea."

  They were all beat, as if they had mud smeared under their eyes. The two youngsters were blue chinned, old Mr. Jones's beard was frazzled. His thin hair lay all awry over his bald crown, while his fingers kept touching the bridge of his nose, feeling for lost specs. She probably looked a hag herself. She ought to be exhausted, yet she seemed to be floating in unreality, a bubble on a sea of illusion.

  "So the old bastard did steal it all?” Edward said.

  "Don't speak ill ... You do know he died?"

  "Glad to hear it. And for all eternity, he will wonder why he's in hell!"

  "Edward! Go and wash out your mouth."

  Still glowering, he removed the greatcoat and spread it on the sofa, bloodstains out. He gestured for Julian to sit there, while he flopped into a chair, apparently unaware that his pajamas were blood spattered also. Mr. Jones sank into the other with a long sigh, like a collapsing balloon. Alice took the kettle from the counter and headed for the bathroom to fill it, stepping over feet.

  She heard Julian say, “Your late lamented uncle Roland, I presume?"

  Edward growled something she did not catch; probably just as well. She returned to put the kettle on the gas ring, then stepped over all the feet again and went into the bedroom. D'Arcy's photograph was safely hidden in the drawer. She had only one other thing to remember him by, the bottle-green velvet dressing gown he had kept at her flat in Chelsea. Many of her favorite memories of him involved that gown—sitting on his lap, watching him take it off, or taking it off for him, or stepping inside it with him and feeling its soft touch on her back as he closed it around them both, body against body.... Every day I do not hear is one day closer to the end of the war.

  D'Arcy would not mind her lending his dressing gown to Cousin Edward. Young Cousin Edward had been a little too friendly in the car. He should have grown out of his romantic illusions by now.

  She went back into the sitting room and dropped the gown on him. “Here. You can make yourself a little more respectable."

  Then she went to the cupboard and began taking out cups and saucers, not watching what was happening behind her back. Edward must have risen and donned the gown and sat down again, because she heard the chair squeak. Presumably three grown men knew a man's garment when they saw one. The silence was pregnant. Extremely pregnant.

  She turned enough to see Julian. If that was an owlish look in his eye, then it was an owl trying very hard not to hoot.

  "We must take a gander at your leg,” she said. “It may need a doctor."

  He blinked solemnly. “Then it won't get one. It's only a gash. A scar there won't ruin my looks."

  Scar! She spun around to look at Edward. His eyes had never been bluer, but she did not read in them what she had expected—reproach, self-reproach, humiliation, anger, all of them? No, Edward was amused, and suddenly it was her face that was burning. He had seen through her little ploy. However he looked on the outside, there was an older, more experienced Edward inside there.

  Ignoring the embarrassment she had brought on herself, she touched his forehead. He jerked his head away.

  "You had stitches!” she said.

  He smiled sardonically. “Now you believe me?"

  "I believed you before.” But that physical evidence made her feel creepy. He had no scar at all, which was impossible.

  "The sawbones have some new techniques,” Julian said. “They're using them on the—” He yawned. “Scuse me! On the wounded. They say they can put a chap back together so the scars don't show."

  "They couldn't three years ago. Get those bags off, old man,” Edward said without taking his mocking gaze away from Alice. We're all men of the world here. “Want to take a look at your leg."

  Julian yawned again. “In a minute. Alice, how safe are we here? How about the neighbors?"

  She turned back to the kettle, feeling it. “The old lady across the hall is as nosey as they come but deaf as a pole. The two couples at the end are away all day. You may be noticed when you go to the loo, though."

  "Do it in squads and march in step?” He grinned wanly. “Or do you have a bucket we can use?"

  "Good idea,” she said. Julian had a foxy streak, an echo of his boyhood mischief.

  She sat down on the end of the sofa, and all her bones seemed to creak. The bubble had burst. She felt old. She wished the watched pot would boil. She did not want tea, she wanted a mattress. “Two of you can share the bed. If we—"

  "Tommyrot!” Julian said. “I can sleep in two feet of mud with shells falling all around. Nagian warriors lie on the ground, so I'm told."

  "'Sright.” Edward yawned also. “That's why they sleepwalk so much."

  Well, well! Big boy now.

  "I'll remember to lock my door."

  Jones, too, was having trouble keeping his eyes open. “And I made out very well on the settee last night, or whenever it was. Feels like a week ago."

  "We'd better draw up some plans, though,” Edward said sadly. “A couple of hours’ shut-eye until the shops open won't hurt, but we can't stay here longer."

  "Why not?” Alice had been wondering about that, and had decided that they had left no trail. “There's nothing to connect the car to us.” She had dropped the lockup key down a drain in Bermondsey.

  "No. It's Stringer. If he was telling the truth, we're all right, of course. If he was just protecting the Old School Tie, you see. But if he was trying to trap me and calls in the law ... He knows who I am."

  Now it was Jones who hid a yawn. “I tracked you down in one afternoon, Miss Prescott. The police should be faster."

  Edward nodded and rubbed his eyes. “And if Stringer is on the side of the Blighters, then I've put you all in mortal danger."

  The kettle began singing a warning.

  "The who?” Alice said.

  "The Blighters.” He glanced around bleakly, as if expecting to see doubt in the weary faces. “They're the Chamber's allies in this world. They contrived the massacre at Nyagatha. They're a damned sight more dangerous than the law, although they can warp the law to their own ends if they want to. They have powers you can't imagine. They killed Bagpipe."

  Alice caught Ginger's eye, and his expression frightened her. He believed. Timothy Blodgley, she recalled, had been nailed to a draining board with a butcher knife. In a locked room.

  "How could they know you were in Staffles in the first place?” she demanded. “And if they're so clever, why not kill you on the spot? Why ever let you reach England alive?"

  He shrugged.

  "Well?” she demanded. “You can't just issue cataclysmic warnings and then not explain them!"

  "The man who tricked me in
to landing in Flanders expected me to die,” Edward said. “But he knows I'm extremely hard to kill, because of the prophecy. So it would make sense for him to have put a mark on me, like a ring on a pigeon. Then the Chamber passes word:

  "Dear Messrs. Blighters,

  "The indicated subject has just returned to your manor. If he is alive, would you please stop him breathing at your earliest convenience. If you will do same, you will oblige,

  "Your humble servants, etc.

  "The car broke down exactly where the bombs were going to fall! Or vice versa. I really oughtn't involve you lot anymore, but I'm frightened that the Blighters may decide to take you off as witnesses or even just for spite. In that case, my luck may help shield you also."

  Ginger said, “Good Lord!"

  "They're not infallible,” Julian said sleepily. “The bombs missed. You are heading back to Nextdoor, aren't you? To pass a message, you said."

  "No."

  Alice rose and stepped over Edward's feet to reach the kettle. She poured some water into the pot to warm it. She wondered why Smedley was so eager to cross over to this other world of Edward's. Running around with spears did not sound like his cup of tea, especially since he would have to throw with his left hand and carry the shield on his stump. Did he seriously believe that magic could give him back his hand?

  After a moment, Julian said, “Why not? Why aren't you going back?"

  "Lordie!” Edward said. “You should know! Because I came back here to fight in the war I'm supposed to fight in, that's why! How much identification will I need to enlist?"

  "If you can breathe you're in,” Jones growled.

  It would not be that easy, Alice thought. And how long could he stay in? Her indestructible cousin was trailing a remarkable history behind him now. Too many people knew of him and knew him by sight. The thought of another loved one at the Front was a horror, and yet that confession made her feel guilty and unpatriotic. He would have to enlist under a false name, so she could no more be listed as his next of kin than she could be D'Arcy's. She would have two names to look for in the casualty lists.

  "What about this prophecy?” she asked. “Did you kill the Zath character?"