Pushing the last morsel into his mouth, he licked his spoon, and then the crumbs from his fingers. ‘This bread tastes ruddy awful, real bitter. Wonder what they been doing to it?’
‘Shit, that sure isn’t no mystery.’ Ripper was taking longer over his food, and had more than half of his three ounces of bread left to eat. ‘During vacation I used to work in a bakery, and taking an interest I had a chat with the guys who work the ovens here. Seems they can’t afford to use a few tons of cooking oil each week, greasing the tins, so they made an artificial substitute, using a soap base. That’s why the crust tastes kinda bitter. Won’t do you no harm though, less you drunk a gallon of the stuff.’
‘Such things have had to be accepted a long time in Russia, since before the war.’ Boris pointed at Clarence and Burke. ‘Perhaps one more election and your country would have started down the Socialist slope towards food substitutes, food rationing and uncomplaining acceptance.’
‘Well, I sure ain’t accepting, and sure as hell I’m complaining.’ Chewing the last mouthful, Ripper pulled a face at the coarse flavour of the lukewarm drink with which he tried to wash it down. ‘What we just had, well all excepting Dooley that is,’ he ducked the flake of damp-stained plaster shied at him, ‘weren’t fit for hogs. Now isn’t there some place hereabouts where a guy can get decent food that at least bears some resemblance to the real thing?’
‘I heard they got a black market.’ Burke prised gristle from between his teeth, then pressed his stomach with the palm of his hand and produced a rapid sequence of spectacular belches. ‘But if what I’ve seen in the Zone in the past is anything to go by, then I’d say our chances of scraping enough together to find the price of a can of beans is pretty remote. Especially as the only thing they’ll accept in payment is hard currency, around eighteen carat.’
‘Who do we know who’s in the habit of carrying around chunks of gold?’ From Sergeant Hyde the question had a rhetorical air, but he was looking direct at Dooley.
‘Oh no.’ Conscious that all eyes were on him, Dooley hugged his pack close. ‘What’s mine is mine, and it stays that way. There’s nothing you can say is going to make me part with my hard-earned savings.’
‘Savings shit.’ A snort was added to Burke’s repertoire of revolting noises. ‘You’ve been trying your hand at a bit of wheeling and dealing. Remember that quartermaster sergeant who had all those blankets go missing? Only a direct hit that burned his store to the ground saved the poor worried bastard from a court martial. That was when I first saw you with those Krugerrands.’
‘Lies. It’s all fucking lies. You won’t bloody blackmail me. I told you. Nothing you can say is going to get me to part with what’s mine by rights.’
‘You sure about that?’ Hyde made no threatening move, but the big man backed into a corner and balled his fists.
‘Give up, Sarge.’ Burke shook his head. ‘When he says we can’t get him to change his mind and pool what he’s got, I believe him…’
With a smug expression, Dooley nodded his pleasure at their acceptance of his refusal.
‘… Even if we told him the black market is on the Reeperbahn…’ ‘Where?’ His grip on the pack relaxed as Dooley became instantly interested. ‘Did you say the Reeperbahn? Where all the hookers… and the strip clubs… Jesus, why didn’t you tell me, what are we waiting for?’
‘Keen, isn’t he.’ Clarence came from the shadows of an alcove. ‘But knowing friend Dooley, might I suggest you check first on just what funds he does have available. In the past he has been known to exaggerate, just a little.’
With savage ill-grace, and a glare at their faintly smiling sniper, Dooley dug a grubby hand into the depths of his pack, and withdrew a small, garishly patterned plastic case that might once have held a woman’s toilet things. Unfastening its zipper, he emptied the contents onto the floor.
The flickering light from their single oil lamp illumination found a thousand facets on which to reflect as it lit the pile of assorted rings and other jewellery.
‘And the other?’ Burke tapped an angular bulge in the side of the pack.
‘Bloodsucker.’ From a faded blue velvet covered case that a second rummage in the pack produced, Dooley tipped a dozen gold coins into his hand. The pair of sovereigns looked insignificant among the nest of large South African pieces. ‘You satisfied now? That was going to be the down payment on a pig breeding unit when this was all over.’
‘We’re doing you a favour; save you from a life of toil and shit shovelling.’ Scooping up the jewellery and taking the coins, Burke handed them to Clarence. ‘You look after them. You’re distrusted less than anyone else.’
Without comment on the dubious compliment, the sniper transferred the gold to his own pack, along with a few extra trinkets and a little currency donated by the others.
‘Now don’t be unhappy, friend.’ Adopting a paternalistic manner that his youth made unconvincing, Ripper consoled Dooley by patting him on the shoulder. ‘The old guy has a point. Hell, a stud like you don’t want to waste his time on one frau and one farm. Think big.’ ‘Big?’
‘Sure. You don’t need a stack of gold to get what you want. Get yourself off to Miami, batten onto the wrinkled old dames who go there for their twilight years. All you need is enough for a decent set of duds, and you’re off. You could be ironing the wrinkles out of the old girls at the rate of ten a day, if you can keep it up. Know what I mean?’
Understanding dawned slowly, then burst upon Dooley’s face. ‘Hey, you’re right. The place is packed with widows… but I’d have to do it right. A few good suits, a tux or two, sports jackets… and I’d need a car, expensive but not too flashy, got to get the image right. It’ll take a bit of cash… think I can have a bit back, just to sorta get me started…?
NINE
Twice they were forced to take cover while Soviet bombers circled overhead. The first time they made the mistake of going down into a huge command shelter that was occupied by the inmates of a mental hospital. A dozen nurses and staff were trying to create a degree of order but as fast as they secured the co-operation of one section, there would be disruption in another and bedlam would break out all over again.
Much of the problem appeared to be created by the fact that the raid had coincided with a mealtime, and many of the patients, knowing only that they were hungry, were making their feelings felt.
Inga and Revell were besieged the instant they came through the blast proof doors and found themselves jammed into a corner while various hands plucked at their pockets in search of something to eat.
After several minutes of this not deliberately violent, but bruising, treatment, a member of the staff forced a path through to them and managed to convince the more reasonable of the patients that they had nothing. With the turning away of a few, the rest gradually followed until a single old man remained. He pulled at his bottom lip, looking at Revell and Inga in turn with an accusing glare. ‘But you have been eating.’
It was a statement, and Revell could only nod in agreement by way of answer. He looked around, but luckily none of the others had heard, or if they had then they’d already lost interest.
‘Oh, don’t worry about them. They’ll not bother you again. Are you surprised that I am so rational? I know you are. We don’t all gibber and caper you know, and all of us have been better since the siege started. They haven’t had the time to give us our treatment. But for some of us of course, treatment or no treatment, it makes little difference.’ The old man indicated a boy, squatting on the floor, whom two nurses were trying to get back into his clothes.