We virtually dragged ourselves up those last few steps, using our hands on the higher treads, our knees on the lower ones. And then we arrived at a wide area with windows overlooking the river and city on three sides, the sun piercing the grime and lightening the room with broad dust-swirling shafts. There was no time to rest and though Muriel's legs were giving way and dry retching noises came from her throat as she sucked in air, I forced her on, taking her to the half-glass double doors across the room from us.
There were other doors here, cupboards or doors to private offices, as well as tables and chairs, cleaning equipment and all kinds of clutter, but the important thing for us was those wide double doors - we had to get through them before the mob reached this level.
And we managed to, staggering onto the long walkway that stretched across the River Thames, running parallel with its sister footbridge a short distance away to join the north tower with the south. We were a hundred and forty feet above the water here and a coolish breeze drifted through the open iron latticework of its side walls, ruffling our hair, brushing our skin, helping to revive us. We drew in deep gasps of clean air, filling our laboured lungs with its sweetness, our eyes closing at the sheer pleasure. Yet still I wouldn't let Muriel linger.
'Down to the other end,' I told her wearily, heading that way myself. The noise of the approaching Blackshirts was muffled by the double doors that had swung closed behind us, but it was growing louder by the moment
'Yes,' she said meekly, breaking into a stumbling run. Her face was racked with exhaustion, but there might have been a smile there, a faint glimmer of relief showing through.
There was a chance now, she was thinking, a chance if we can just get through those other doors at the end of the long span. Most of those people following were in poor condition and they'd be in even worse shape than us after the climb. Once on the other side of those doors it would be easy to descend, we'd easily get away from them, and then out into the south side of the city, losing ourselves in the streets there. Oh yeah, I could see her thinking all that and, although she was dog-weary, she was already beginning to pick up speed as she avoided debris and piled boxes along the pedestrian bridge, hurrying past equipment covered by tarpaulin that protected it from the elements, stuff that might have been stored there since the walkways had been closed to the general public at the outbreak of the war. Shadows were already falling on the glass section of the double doors as I followed her, the room beyond becoming crowded.
The walkway was wide enough to allow at least five pedestrians to walk comfortably side by side along its length and enjoy the spectacular views of London through the intersecting iron girders; those girders sloped inwards so that the ceiling was narrower than the floor below, and rising above the opposite footbridge I could see the slate roof and spires of the south tower. Across the gap, inside the sister walkway, an anti-aircraft battery had been installed and I remembered thinking more than once about coming up here one night and waiting for the stubborn German bomber pilot to fly his Dornier along the river - like the Luftwaffe before him he always used the Thames as a guide into London and the docks -
then blasting him out of the sky as he went by. Nice idea, 'cept I knew as much about heavy artillery as I did about knitting cardigans, so I abandoned the idea. But the thought, inspired by my first privileged tourist visit here, had always kept Tower Bridge in my mind, and last night, knowing Hubble and his black army were garrisoned in the nearby castle, a different notion had come to me.
I passed a corpse wearing the dusty blue uniform of a custodian or maintenance man precariously perched on a straight-backed wooden chair halfway along the footbridge and I had to skirt around the covered boxes it seemed to be watching over. The jacket was loose over slumped skeletal shoulders and the dead man's shrivelled eyes were cast down at the concrete floor; strands of white hair on the naked scalp were too brittle to be stirred by the breeze. Avoiding more boxes, I went after Muriel, who was almost at the end of the walkway by now.
We both heard the double doors behind us burst open and the yattering rabble surge through, but neither of us bothered to look. I began to slow down though, popping the flap button of my holster as I did so.
Muriel made it to the doors, almost crashing into them in her eagerness to get through. She was sobbing as she grabbed the vertical handles on each side and pulled. I heard her cry out in dismay when nothing happened. She tried again, yanking the double doors with all her might, rattling them in their frame. Still they held tight.
She looked over her shoulder at me as I drew near. 'They're locked, Hoke!' she almost screamed. 'Oh my God, they're locked!'
I came to a halt and turned to face the advancing mob, drawing the pistol from its holster in a smooth, easy movement
'Yeah,' I said to her. 'I know.'
27
SHE STARED AT ME as though I'd finally flipped and I guess my grim smile confirmed her suspicions.
'We're trapped,' she said incredulously between hard-fought breaths.
'So are they,' I remarked, nodding towards the small army of Blackshirts, which was now beginning to slow down to a stroll as they realized our predicament.
S'far as I could tell, most of them were on the walkway now - a few were probably still climbing, but they'd be here soon - and their unhealthy faces were filled with weary triumph. Some were unsteady on their feet, others were being helped along by their buddies; one or two were holding on to the iron girders for support and sucking in great lungfuls of the high fresh air. They filled the footbridge, a shabby band of sick bigots and hopeful (and hopeless) parasites, stealing forward, coming to a halt when they saw the gun in my hand. Weapons were raised towards me.
I waved the Browning in the direction of Muriel and said, 'Shell be no good to you dead. And neither will I.'
Even the dullest of them got the message. They stopped shuffling forward.
'Don't shoot.'
I recognized the feeble, high-pitched voice easily enough, but wondered if Hubble was talking to me or his rabble army.
'We have them now, they can't escape.'
The crowd moved aside as he was helped through from the back, McGruder and another Blackshirt supporting him by the elbows. That pleased me a whole lot. Hubble had made it, and that had been my main concern.
Muriel had come away from the locked doors to stand closer to me and Hubble frowned at her.
'Keep away from him, Miss Drake,' he warned, fixing her with those fanatical eyes of his, the dark tints around them making him look like the villain in one of those old silent movies. He tried to straighten his body, an effort that was only partially successful, as if to assert his former power. 'This man is a savage, but he won't harm you. That's right, isn't it, Mr Hoke? You wouldn't shoot such a fine young lady.'
'I guess not,' I replied, and pointed the gun at his forehead.
His unwholesome smile withered and he lost his grand pose: his body sagged to its old lines. He glared at me.
'You can't kill us all, fool,' he hissed through his grimace. 'One shot and my men will tear you to pieces.'
His eyes sought Muriel again. 'Step away from him. Join us again, your friends, your true kind. I was desperate before, otherwise I would never...' he left it unsaid, still smart enough not to spell it out for Muriel. 'We have this one now, we ... I... can use his blood...'
Unbelievably, Muriel took a step towards this degenerate. But she looked around at me before going any further, confused and uncertain.
'Go ahead,' I said, weary of the game. 'Join them if that's what you want to do. But hell bleed you, Muriel, he'll steal your blood and leave you dry.'