by Paul Hoffman
‘Probably not.’
She was surprised at this and hopeful.
‘Why?’
‘He has no reason to kill them.’
‘He has no reason to keep them alive.’
‘No.’
‘I thought,’ she said, after a silence, ‘he might be keeping them to use against you.’
‘Not any more, obviously.’
‘Can I do anything to help them?’
‘No.’
‘Are you sure?’
‘You know you can’t help them so why keep asking if you can? Feeling guilty?’
‘For being alive and happy? Sometimes.’
‘But not all the time.’
She let out a sigh.
‘Not all the time. Not even most of the time.’
‘Just enough guilt to make you feel better about yourself and make it all right to enjoy your happiness. Go ahead. They can’t be happy, so be happy for them.’
‘It’s not up to you to tell me what to do. I’m a very important person and you have to do as I say.’
He laughed. ‘Yes. I’ve decided to do as I’m told from now on. A beautiful rich woman who owes me her life – I could take orders from someone like that.’
‘Well, you can’t kill everyone you don’t like any more. I meant it when I said you’ll have to learn to be agreeable.’
‘Agreeable?’ He said the word as if it were one he’d heard before but never expected to need in any practical way. It was good to see Riba again and it was a pleasure to see her so well accounted for. He didn’t know whether to say it but he said it anyway. ‘I found out what Picarbo wanted you for, what he was doing.’ He told her plainly and quickly.
‘Horrible,’ she said softly, ‘and mad.’
‘Bosco thought pretty much the same – that he was mad, I mean – that’s why he might keep the rest of them alive. Bosco disapproved.’
‘You don’t seem,’ she said, ‘to think of Bosco as badly as you used to.’
‘I wouldn’t say that. I understand him better and I’d like to understand him even more before I cut his head off.’
13
Far away from the Four Quarters, in the great, green, greasy jungles of Brazil, a storm of measureless power is approaching its height. Winds blow, rain lashes, there is lightning and thunder enough to crack open the world – and then it moves into decline by a fraction of a fraction of an infinitesimal not even a puff of air strong enough to blow a single speck of dust off a slippery slope. The great storm is beginning to disperse.
Redeemer General Gil, now with the honorary title of Defender of the Holy Glee, came into Pope Bosco’s war room and bowed slightly less humbly than was owed.
‘Anything?’
There was no doubt, despite the fact that they were supposed to be going about the business of bringing the world to an end, that this enquiry referred to Thomas Cale.
‘As I told Your Holiness yesterday, the last news was that he was in Leeds and probably suffering the effects of dysentery – ill at any rate. He’s left now but I’m not able as yet to say where.’
‘Have you put more people on it?’
‘As I said I would –’ he paused, ‘yesterday.’
‘Good people?’
‘The best.’ This was true enough as far as it went, which was not very far, given that the good people he had out looking for Cale were the Two Trevors. Gil had decided that the end of the world, a project in which he deeply believed, would take place a good deal sooner if it were preceded by Cale announcing it to God personally. Bosco’s obsessive belief that the death of the world could not come unless Cale administered it was a delusion in Gil’s estimation – a blasphemy he was careful to conceal. Cale was never the incarnation of God’s anger, he was just a delinquent boy. Once he was confirmed as dead Bosco would just have to get on with it.
‘I want to know immediately you hear anything.’
‘Of course, Your Holiness.’
It was a dismissal but Gil did not move. Throughout the conversation Bosco had not taken his eyes from the great map of the Axis powers laid out on one of the four massive tables in the room.
‘You aren’t worried he’ll give away your plan to attack the Axis through Arnhemland?’
‘Away from here, Cale is merely a thorn in his own side. He could shout it out in the middle of Kirkgate on market day and no one would listen – least of all Ikard or that buffoon Zog. Was there something else?’
‘Yes, Your Holiness. The end of the world. There are problems.’
Bosco laughed, delighted at this.
‘Did you expect to bring about the apocalypse without them?’
‘There are unanticipated problems.’ gil was finding it harder these days not to be irritated by his pontiff.
‘Yes?’
‘Moving the populations out of the territories we’ve annexed is diverting more supplies and materials than we can easily provide. There are too many people to move to the west and not enough food or transport to do the job without robbing the exact same stocks from our militants. We must slow down one or the other.’
‘I’ll think about it. What else?’
‘Brzca came to see me.’ Brzca was a man with a talent, a genius if you will, in the matter of killing in numbers. He was in charge of the practical problem of transporting captured people into the west and beginning the process of bringing an end to God’s greatest mistake. ‘He’s having problems with his executioners.’
‘He has complete freedom of access to any suitable person in the militant. I made it clear he has priority.’
‘I’ve done everything you asked,’ said an increasingly irritated Gil.
‘Then what’s the problem?’
‘Too many executioners are becoming sick – in the head, I mean.’
‘He knows the importance of this, why didn’t he say something before now?’
‘Mostly they only began their duties three months ago. It turns out that killing two thousand people a week begins to take a toll after a few months. Nearly half of his people are unable to continue. It’s not so hard to understand. I know it’s necessary but I wouldn’t want to do it. But there it is.’
Bosco said nothing for a while and then walked to the window. Finally, after some time, he turned back to Gil.
‘You know I am proud of them, my poor labourers. When I think of what we are obliged to do it makes me sick with dread. To endure what they must endure and remain a decent person – well, it’s clear what spiritual strength it requires. Is he still here?’
‘Yes.’
‘Send him to me. Together we will discover a way to help our people find the spiritual courage to continue.’
‘Your Holiness.’ Gil started to withdraw. Bosco called out after him.
‘I know Brzca of old: tell him not to kill those who’ve failed. We must make an allowance for human weakness.’
14
‘Name?’
Vague Henri looked at his interrogator with an expression of helpful bewilderment.
‘I’m sorry, they didn’t tell me your name.’
‘Not my name. Your name.’
A pause – for just as long as he thought he could get away with.
‘Yes.’
‘What?’
‘Yes, I see.’
‘So, what is it?’
Despite the difficulty of his situation, Vague Henri was enjoying appearing to be dim while really being a cheeky little sod, a dangerous line he had perfected over many years of tormenting Redeemers and the reason for the name Cale had given him five years ago. Now no one knew him as anything else.
‘Dominic Savio.’
‘Well, Mr Savio. You’ve committed a serious offence.’
‘What does offence mean?’
‘It means a crime.’
‘What does committed mean?’
‘It means “done”. It means you’ve done a crime.’
‘I’m a good boy.’
You’re also
an idiot, thought the interrogator. He sat back. ‘I’m sure you are. But it’s a crime to cross the border without papers and it’s another crime to enter the country at any point unless that point is an official border crossing.’
‘I don’t have any papers.’
‘I know you don’t have any papers, that’s why you’re here.’
‘Where can I get the papers?’
‘Not the point. It’s a crime to try to come into the country without papers.’
‘I didn’t know about the papers.’
‘Ignorance of the law is no excuse.’
‘Why not?’
‘Because then everyone would say they didn’t know about the law. They could say they didn’t know murder was against the law. Would you let someone go who’d committed murder if he said he didn’t know killing people was against the law?’
‘Soldiers kill people, that’s not against the law.’
‘That’s not murder.’
‘You said “killing people”.’
‘I meant murder.’
‘I understand.’
The interrogator was not sure how he had let the questioning of the boy slip in such a way. Once again he attempted to get control of the situation.
‘Why did you try to enter the country at an illegal place?’
‘I didn’t know it was illegal.’
‘All right. Why were you trying to get into the country?’
‘The Redeemers were trying to murder us. Sorry, to kill us.’
‘What do you mean?’
Vague Henri looked at him wide-eyed with alarm at the question.
‘I mean make us not live.’
‘I know what kill means. Why did you say murder and then change it to kill?’
‘You told me soldiers can’t do murder.’
‘I don’t think I did.’
Vague Henri looked at him. Blank.
‘Why were they trying to kill you?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘They must have had a reason.’
‘No.’
‘Even Redeemers have to have a reason to kill someone.’
Vague Henri was tempted to say something sarcastic but had the sense to stop himself.
‘Perhaps they thought we were Antagonists.’
‘Are you?’
‘Is that a crime?’
‘No.’
‘I’m not an Antagonist.’
‘Then who are you?’
‘I’m from Memphis.’
‘At last.’
‘Sorry?’
‘Never mind.’
‘What did you do in Memphis?’
‘I worked in the kitchens at the Palazzo.’
‘Good job?’
‘No. I cleaned dishes.’
‘Parents?’
‘Don’t know. Dead, I think. Maybe they’re just going about like me.’
‘Going about?’
‘Going about from place to place looking for work. Staying away from Redeemers.’
‘But you didn’t – stay away from them, I mean.’
‘Will I go to prison?’
‘Not worried about your friends?’
‘They’re not my friends.’ This was true enough. ‘I was just travelling with them. Did some cooking. It seemed safer.’
‘Do you know who they are?’
‘Just people going about trying to find work and stay away from the Redeemers. You would if you were them – if you were me.’
The interrogator was silent for a moment.
‘No – in answer to your question. You won’t go to prison. We have a camp for crossovers, people like you, about thirty miles away in Koniz. You’ll have to live in a tent. But you’ll be fed. There are guards to keep you safe. There might be more questions.’
‘Will I be able to leave?’
‘No.’
‘So it is a prison?’
‘No, it’s a sort of holding place while we find out more about you. There are thousands doing what you’re doing. We can’t have them just wandering all over the country. We’d have Redeemer fifth columnists everywhere.’
Vague Henri appeared to consider this. ‘What’s a fifth columnist?’
‘A sort of spy. You understand now?’
‘Yes,’ said Vague Henri.
‘Fair enough, then. You go to the camp and you’ll be safe there. Then we’ll see. Things will probably settle down. Then you can go on your way.’
‘Is that what you think? That it will all settle down?’
The interrogator smiled. He wanted to reassure the boy. ‘Yes. That’s what I think.’ And on the balance of probabilities this was truly what he did believe. What was the point, after all, of the Redeemers fighting a war on so many fronts? There had been serious concessions to the annexation of Nassau and Rockall and plausible reassurance from the Pope as a result of them. It was difficult for a cautious and pessimistic person, which is what he considered himself to be, to see what the Redeemers could gain from a total war. There was nothing left to concede, everything had already been given away. Anything more would merely be unconditional surrender and not even the most recalcitrant and feeble would tolerate that. From now on the Redeemers would either be happy with the significant concessions offered them, and which had cost them nothing, or risk everything they had in a universal war, which might cost them everything. A war did not, on balance, seem plausible. He pushed a piece of paper across the table.
‘Sign this,’ he said softly.
‘What is it?’
‘Read it if you like.’
‘I can’t read,’ said Vague Henri.
‘It asks you whether or not you brought any meat or flowering vegetables into the country. And to give details, where applicable, of any misfeasance committed here or in another country. Misfeasance means bad things.’
‘Oh,’ said Vague Henri. ‘No bad things. Here or anywhere. I’m a good boy.’
The next day he was in a walking convoy on his way to the tent city the interrogator had told him about. He thought it was unlikely they’d actually get him there as there were around three hundred refugees, some of them women and children, and only fifteen guards. As it turned out, the camp at Koniz was on the way to Spanish Leeds so it made sense to let the border guards feed him and keep him safe as the interrogator had said they would. He’d probably skip out before they got there, or after if it seemed more sensible.
A prison with tents wasn’t going to be able to hold someone who’d got out of the Sanctuary – boastful thoughts he had to revise over the following days. The Swiss guards knew their job and so maybe the guards at Koniz would too. Still, things could be worse. He could be dead like most of the dozen Redeemers he and Kleist had taken over the border to kill Redeemer Santos Hall for murdering Kleist’s wife and baby in the wilderness on the way to Silesia.
Of the four kinds of military failure Vague Henri’s small expedition to kill Hall was the worst: disaster from the word go. Nothing went right: the rain started as they left and did not stop, the horses became sick and so did the men. They stumbled into three Redeemer patrols when a minute later or earlier they would have passed unobserved. Even before they arrived at Santos Hall’s camp in Moza they’d lost two men. When they arrived they just walked into the camp, well able to blend in with men they’d lived with most of their lives; unluckily one of the Purgators was immediately recognized by an oblate who was being sent back to Chartres with hideous foot rot. Again, a fraction earlier or later and everything might have been reclaimed from the previous week of disasters.
Having only passed through the first wall of defence they were able to fight their way out, but not without losing another four Purgators. In the dark of their escape he lost Kleist and had no idea whether he was alive or dead. And yet although it had failed miserably, and was a foolish idea in the first place, their attempt to kill Santos Hall had been well planned by two people who knew what they were doing. No one could have foreseen their dreadful bad luck nor its f
requency. They had thrown a coin twelve times and twelve times it had come up tails. Vague Henri had plenty of time to consider what he’d done wrong in planning and executing the attack and was very willing to learn from his mistakes. But as far as he could see he hadn’t really made any, other than doing it in the first place.
In a few days his run of misfortune deserted him and a storm helped him slip away just before the column made it to Koniz. In a week he was back in Spanish Leeds having learnt an important lesson – although he wasn’t quite sure what it was. Never do anything, perhaps.
Within two days he was delighted and relieved by the arrival of Kleist, only for both of them to learn from Cadbury that Cale was back and being looked after in some luxury by Riba, now wife of the Hanseatic Ambassador to the Court of the King. Vague Henri was delighted by the return of Cale but put out by the news of Riba, having nursed something of a crush on her since he had shamefully spied on her washing naked in a pool in the Scablands after their escape from the Sanctuary. But both he and Kleist had more pressing problems. Cadbury had not turned up to tell them the local gossip but to summon them before Kitty the Hare, who knew very well what they’d been up to and was aggrieved at their stupidity.
‘If you have prayers, prepare to say them now,’ said Cadbury, ushering them to the door.
Cadbury’s light-hearted attempt at alarming the two boys seemed less amusing when he delivered them to Kitty’s house by the canal. Cadbury saw two men entering Kitty’s rooms. He didn’t recognize them, but he had spent too much time among the wicked not to recognize this quality when he saw it in someone. The way they held themselves, the way they moved and gazed at others betrayed their grudge against life. There were other explanations, of course: few people of an elevated moral stature came to do business with Kitty the Hare. Still, his nose for bad business was twitching. He sent one of Kitty’s servants to fetch Deidre. He turned to the two boys and gestured them over to the table by the wall.
‘Gentlemen, your material.’
He grimaced to signal that any claim not to know what he was talking about would be an insult to all three of them. They started to empty their various hidden pockets onto the table: a knife, a shiv, an awl, a hammer, another knife, a razor, a small pick, a wimble, a gouge and finally a pair of pliers.