Cloud Cuckoo Land Page 26
‘Look, love, what’s all this about? We’re taking you to the survival induction, we’re saving your lives. For God’s sake, what’s going on? Come on, open the door and we’ll sort it all out!’
The pilot was obviously a bit more of a bastard because the helicopter slowed as they reached the power lines. It climbed slightly and hovered so that Leonard was left dangling above a cats-cradle of high-tension cables, with 200,000 volts flowing through the national grid.
Leonard had to admit that up would be preferable to down. He hoped that Lena would weigh this all up and press the right button; he’d be no good to anyone if he was killed.
The winch-man had given up on the gun, he’d bent the metal back enough to get his hand through and he was reaching out for the obstruction. In the few seconds before he knocked the steel rod aside, Lena figured it out. She looked out at the black landscape, and down at Leonard hanging above the power cables. Then she looked back at the winch arm; there was a red box with ‘Warning’ stamped on it. She pulled a pin out so she could open the cover and underneath there was a yellow handle. The winch-man pushed the door open as she pulled on the handle labelled ‘cable release’.
Leonard dropped and hit the cables, his body braced across three lines, but there was no spark, no flashing white extermination. Only his own weight ripping at his shoulders, pulling them out of their sockets as he tried to hang on. He swung his legs up and locked his ankles together above the cable. Then he passed the electrical wire hand over hand until he reached the nearest pylon. The released winch cable was wrapped up in the power lines, looped around them like a piece of spaghetti. There wasn’t any power, of course there wasn’t power, there hadn’t been for days - clever, clever Lena.
He shinned his way along the power line until he reached the nearest pylon, picked his way between closely meshed steel, glass discs and ceramic buffers, then he clambered onto a metal platform and stood upright.
The helicopter had flown on and only a faint and vanishing drone remained.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
Leonard bent down to a man’s body. It was just anybody, lying up against a low wall, trapped underneath a heavy motorbike. Another violent death, the face fixed into an expression of ironic surprise and inevitability. The biggest shock of all, though, was the mutilation of the man’s face. The top lip was missing, leaving bared teeth and bloodied gums. Obviously it had been brutally cut away by an assailant who knew exactly what to look for.
The motorbike was a low-slung American make with tasselled, leather bags fitted all over it. Leonard needed some transport, so he hauled it up and straddled it. He checked for damage then he kicked it into life. He revved the engine, then dropped it into first and opened the throttle. He’d forgotten to lift the foot-stand so it scraped along the tarmac, sparking like the last match in the box.
He drove with the lights out, in case he was shot at.
He drove into the west of the city. This was familiar ground but things had changed, it was like a war zone. All the streetlights had been exploded and there were just a few candle flames, in one or two windows. Leonard’s stomach churned as sirens came and went.
A few people staggered around the streets, carrying guns or swinging knives. Leonard kept to the back-routes so he could avoid human contact. He moved quickly in fits and starts, accelerating from corner to corner.
He made his way to the Spanish district, where he parked up and watched Tony’s Bar for any signs of trouble. He waited twenty minutes before crossing the street. When he reached the window he lifted himself up on tiptoe. His calves shook with cramp but he managed to see in. Tony was sitting at one of the tables; he seemed to be in a solitary reverie. He was bent over a cocktail glass, smoking a cigarette. He was studying his own hands, as if he were checking for surface cracks, signs of deterioration.
Leonard pushed on the door gently and stepped inside. He stopped and waited, not wanting to take another step, not until the shotgun had been lowered.
Tony’s voice came after a wheezing cough. It was a lower and thinner version of his old voice, minus the usual undertones of anger and malice. ‘Leonard?’
Leonard noted Tony’s busted nose, the broken glass and the ankle deep foam that had obviously bled out of the fire extinguisher that was lying on the floor.
Tony lowered the shotgun, settled both his elbows back on the table and rested his jaw against his hands.
‘What happened, Tony?’
‘We had a visit from Ian Marble. The man has lost his mind.’
‘What?’
Tony’s eyebrows lifted and he exhaled through his nose. He twisted a finger into his ear and scratched his nose.
‘Gone to the dogs, haven’t we! There’s no hope left. The whole city has gone crazy, place is full of drunks, spun out soldiers and mercenaries. Know the first thing they did?’
‘No?’
‘They shot the police, all of them. So now they drive around in the old patrol cars. Gangs of bloody SS marines, shooting the place up! Have you got a weapon?’
‘No.’
‘Well I can’t give you the shotgun, I need it, but you’d better get hold of a firearm as soon as possible!’
Leonard sat down, not at Tony’s table but the next one.
‘Forget about hope, Tony, hope doesn’t have any effect on what happens!’
‘Well why not? Mostly I only really hope for what’s best! So why the fuck not!’
Tony finished his cocktail.
‘D’you want one of these?’
‘What is it?’
‘It’s new, I’ve dubbed it the “Ice Moon”.’
‘Go on, then.’
Tony crossed the room slowly, shakily. He had to think about his balance, but he made it to the bar and got some support there. He looked up at Leonard and spoke in a quiet and measured voice.
‘Well, it seems congratulations are in order, aren’t they, dad!’
‘What?’
‘Adeline’s pregnant!’
‘Yes, I know.’
Tony turned back to the bar and picked up a carton of cream.
‘Where is she, Tony?’
‘She’s sort of unavailable at the moment.’
‘Is she upstairs?’
Tony sniggered.
‘Oh, if only, eh? No, you see Leonard, she’s been taken hostage!’
He held out the filled glass and Leonard took it.
‘What do you mean?’
‘Well Ian’s got her, hasn’t he? He’s a clinically insane, fucking head-case. And that’s why it’s good to see you!’
‘Why’s that?’
‘You’re the ransom, see? He knows you’ll come looking for him. He knows you’re in love with Adeline!’
‘I’m not in love with Adeline.’
‘Save it, Leonard, I’m not a complete idiot.’
‘And I’m not an absolute bastard, either. Come here, Tony.’
Leonard took the tagging pistol out of his pocket. He pushed Tony up against the wall and made an attempt at tagging his lip. Tony ducked out under Leonard’s arm.
‘What are you doing, Tony? In case you didn’t know it, I was about to tag you for inclusion on the survival programme. You’ll be safe, you’ll survive.’
‘I don’t want your bloody charity. I’ve got my own plans.’
‘What do you mean? You’ll die in the first hours of the impact like eighty five percent of the world’s population. Let me do this for you.’
‘Fuck off. Is that clear enough for you?’
‘Alright, I hear you.’
Leonard sucked up the last of the foaming cocktail and stood the glass on the bar.
‘So where is she, Tony?’
‘Don’t know. You find Ian, you’ll find Adeline!’
Leonard didn’t hang around; he went to the back door. He pressed down on the exit release bar and stood outside in the alley. He had to cover his nose with his sleeve because the place was stacked high with rotting, uncollected rubbis
h.
◊
Leonard couldn’t get used to the way the bike handled. Fine rain had wet the streets down so the brakes took a while to check his speed. The cornering was sluggish too and maybe the tyre pressures were low because the ride was spongy.
He drove up to One Tree Hill and propped the bike on its stand. Ian’s apartment was in darkness but then again so was the whole row of houses. The street door was open, though, so Leonard went on through. He flicked on a torch and found his way up the stairs. He stood in front of the door for ages, listening and trying to figure out what to do. Ian always used a security chain, so kicking the thing off its hinges would not be easy. He raised his fist and banged on the glossy paintwork. He waited, and nothing happened. He knocked again with the soft part of his fist and he realised that the door wasn’t locked.
Leonard moved slowly up the hall and searched through the whole flat until he was sure that it was empty. As soon as his adrenalin level had dropped, he felt exhausted and starving hungry. He hadn’t eaten properly for days and his stomach was churning.
He shone the torchlight into Ian’s kitchen cupboards, but he only found things to eat out of or with, until he checked the back of a waist-high unit. He grinned and pulled out a tin of peeled, plum tomatoes. There was another welcome sight when he pulled open the cutlery drawer and found the can opener lying there, just where it should be.
He spooned the tomatoes from the can; they tasted sweet and sharp, but were finished too soon. The only other food was a jar of dried spaghetti, the twist shapes. There was no way of cooking them but he tipped the jar into his pocket anyway, he could probably crunch or suck on them, one at a time, maybe the starch would keep him going.
He went and had a piss in the bathroom, rested the torch on top of the cistern and in its light, he caught several sights of himself in the mirrored walls. That was too much ‘Leonard’ by far, looking pretty shagged out too, dirty and drawn and most of all, desperate.
He twisted the shower tap and it worked. Tepid water and not much pressure but Leonard stripped off and stood under it. He managed to scrape some dried soap out of a dish attached to the wall, and he scrubbed himself down, head to toe. He found a couple of neatly folded towels in a bathroom cabinet and he rubbed himself down. His skin tingled, he felt a little newer.
He wandered back into the lounge and panned the torch beam around the room. On the table next to the window, a vase of dead flowers and lying on the floor, a blow-up mattress. Maybe Ian’s house was not the obvious choice for a safe house, but Leonard had to sleep. It didn’t look as if anyone had lived in the place for a couple of weeks and he just needed to put his head down.
◊
He woke very early because he was so bloody uncomfortable, his face and all down his left side was stiff and numb. He went into the bedroom and opened a wardrobe, found some trousers and unpacked one of Ian’s stock of striped shirts. He dressed and had a final look around.
On the way out, he caught sight of a milk churn standing in the hallway behind the door. He lifted the lid and choked on the smell.
He locked the place and went down to the motorbike; the weather was good and he was clean and less hungry than he had been. His new clothes lifted his spirits. He kick-started the bike and stuffed a couple of the pasta twists into his mouth, then lifted the stand and pulled away downhill.
The plan was to get to the Mirabelle and see if anybody knew anything. The old route was sprinkled with wrecked cars and the only people he saw were a couple of young children running in and out of the empty shops, back and forth through broken, plate-glass windows.
Leonard got to a T-junction and turned left. As he did, though, he saw a police car with its doors open and two soldiers hacking away at a boarded-up doorway. They turned and watched him pass, but then they went back to smashing the door in.
All along the approach road to the Mirabelle, people were sat out on pavements, with bits and pieces scattered across old blankets in front of
them. They were trying to sell the last of their worldly goods, and if no one was buying, they would offer themselves. They would sell anything they could, in exchange for an object of immediate value, for food or a car ride, for drugs or just one night’s protection.
Leonard tried to look as fucked as everyone else, but he felt a bit self-conscious arriving on the bike with a clean face and a new shirt. He jumped up the steps and walked into the reception of the hotel. Not much had changed, except that a few of the chairs were upside down and had been left that way. Harry was manning his post at the reception desk and he was looking straight at Leonard.
‘Bloody hell, Leonard, I was pretty sure I’d never see you again.’
‘Yeah, well, here I am.’
‘Well, come on in, get yourself over here and tell me what’s been going on!’
Leonard smiled.
‘Maybe I could cut a long story and say that I’ve been on the run.’
‘Well, I’ll tell you what, you should have just kept on running! You’re a marked man, I’m always being lifted up by the scruff of the neck and asked about you.’
‘What’s happened to your dancing tits, Harry, and your headphones?’
Harry looked pissed off.
‘That’s all over, no power. Like most things now, cancelled ‘til further notice! I don’t get post anymore, not even a bloody take-away menu comes through the letterbox!’
Leonard stood on the other side of the bar and rested his elbows. Harry was a nice guy, he hadn’t lost his head or got it shot off, and he was still here minding his own and everybody else’s business.
‘I’m going downstairs, Harry, I’ve got to see Beryl, OK?’
‘Well, ah I wouldn’t if I were you, Leonard, see there’s…’
‘I’ll see you in a minute, Harry.’
He went through and down the stairs. The door into the boiler room was closed but the glass was still broken so he reached through and turned the handle. It was dead quiet inside and smelled stale. Leonard took a few steps and walked round the printing press.
‘Stop right there, shit-face.’
Leonard stopped. He looked across at the bed and came face to face with the Warden.
‘What are you doing here, Gopaul?’
‘Oh no, you first.’
Warden had never looked good, but he’d never looked this bad. His skin was grey, his bleached hair matted to his skull and the skull itself was visible through his colourless skin. Leonard took another couple of steps towards the bed.
‘That’s it, that’s far enough. I have a gun, you see!’
Something underneath the bed-sheet was being raised up to a sharp point; it looked exactly like a gun. But then again, it also looked exactly the way a skinny, pointed finger does, when it’s jabbed up through cotton.
Leonard was fed up with this kind of complication. He jumped forward and whipped the sheet off. But there was a gun, and it was aimed at Leonard’s groin. Warden was fighting with the thing, but he couldn’t quite muscle up the required trigger pressure, not even with two of his skinny digits looped through the guard.
‘You bastard, Gopaul, I know you killed my friend!’
‘What?’
‘You killed Raymond!’
‘I’ve killed no one! I had an accident with a South African soldier in the north a few weeks back. But who’s Raymond?’
‘He was one of my runners. I had him follow you for a couple of weeks.’
‘Yeah, I remember, but I didn’t kill him.’
‘You didn’t?’
‘No.’
Warden gave up on the gun. He reached out for a bottle of water and took a sip.
‘I need to find Beryl.’
‘Well, that’s interesting because they took her off in a bloody helicopter a couple of days ago. Dragged her kicking and screaming out of here. She was taking pretty good care of me up until then, nursed me on chicken soup. Now Harry has to sort me out.’
‘She was air lifted!’
‘Yeah.’
‘Who did it then?’
‘I don’t follow.’
‘Who killed Raymond?’
‘I can’t say for sure but at a guess I’d say it was someone we both know. I’d say it was Ian Marble!’
‘What, namby pamby Ian?’
Leonard nodded. Warden got himself up on his elbows, his sunken eyes wandered around the room. He was still only half conscious and his lips were trembling.
‘Our fucking viral nature, at last exposed, eh?’
‘Our what?’
‘Have you seen the way bacilli spread across a petri dish?’
‘I don’t understand?’
‘Have you?’
‘Well no, not lately.’
‘…how it eats itself into a corner, eats itself right out of existence. Well that’s our good selves, isn’t it? Scavenging bastards all of us, not a noble deed left in any one of us, eh?’
Warden dropped back, as weightless as a charcoal drawing. He was losing his mind, rambling on, under the morphine jabs.
‘Listen boy, way I see it, whole thing, and everything, history and all. Well…’
‘Well what?’
‘We… It’s just one sodding step forward, two sodding steps back, that’s the way of the world - self destruct, wholesale violence, that’s the currency.’
He laughed and looked away. Leonard pulled out the tagging pistol.
‘Listen, Warden, look at me!’
Leonard took hold of the Warden’s jaw and turned his face back so he could make eye contact.
‘How many rounds left in this thing?’
‘Bloody cheek, you’re the shit who stole it, now you want the manual! Bollocks to you!’
‘Just tell me, how many shots are left?’
‘Do the sums yourself. There were rumoured to be ten thousand escape pods, a thousand allocated to each area. We had ten pistols, one hundred silicon tags in each. All very decimal, eh?’
‘OK, but how many left in this one?’
‘Fuck knows. Your guess is as good as mine. Who gives a shit?’