‘We’ll take a case each of the pilchards, the treacle pudding, the hamburgers in onion gravy, the baked beans…’
‘I really must be fair, for such a good customer it wouldn’t be right of me to let you take those. Not that I’d ever sell anything that was… off, but I think there is a chance, just a chance that they may be, shall we say, suspect. I’ll let a couple of tins go cheap, well, at a discount, to some of the locals. That should tell us, then if they’re alright you can have them next time. Take prunes instead.’
‘I’m overwhelmed by your sense of decency.’
Half turning to pat Clarence on the wrist as a mild rebuff for his sarcasm, the transvestite stopped. He’d seen the look in the sniper’s eyes and it had made him go cold. Bustling back to the business he tried to hide his discomfort.
‘Now, you must have something very special to offer for such a big order. Oh, do hurry, I can hardly wait.’ His fingers making fluttery birdlike movements, the proprietor sat across a table from Hyde as he accepted the bundle from Clarence, and spread the gold and jewellery on the bright metal surface.
‘Which of those do you want?’
‘Which… Oh, you’re being unfair, you’re making fun, you saucy thing. Now, do come on, show me what you’ve brought.’ When nothing more was produced he looked at Hyde, then at the others, and then back at the trinkets and coins. ‘Those,’ he swept them to the floor so that they rolled and scattered across the room, ‘those wouldn’t buy a can of each. Do you think I run a charity shop? Get out.’
‘Remember, your bum-chum’s not here now.’ Burke shoved the snarling ugly-mouthed freak back into its seat.
‘Find the stuff.’
‘NO.’
As, on Hyde’s order, the others began to pull the place apart the proprietor yelled and fought to get free and Boris had to assist in pinioning him.
The search didn’t take long. There was a small combined bedroom and kitchen behind the bar, some very basic lavatories and that was it. All that was found was two tins each of ham and potatoes, and four of sliced peaches.
‘Where’s the rest of it?’
Ceasing to struggle, the transvestite spat at Hyde, missed, and was cracked across the face with the flat of the NCO’s hand. Blood trickled from a split lip, staining the fluffy sweater and making a dark glistening patch amid the sparkling sequins. The voice now was more normal, more masculine, but still had a distinctive soft edge of affectation. ‘I don’t keep it here, you fools. It’s hidden, where you’ll never find it, and you won’t get me to talk. I like pain, if I talk you’ll stop hurting me. You can’t win.’
‘Let him, it, go. Pick up Dooley’s gear and let’s get out of here.’ Ushering the others up the stairs, Hyde hung back to wait for Clarence and Ripper.
‘Won’t you watch my act before you go?’ Mounting the stage the transvestite attempted to push his wig straight as he began a hip swaying dance in time to the tinny music from a portable cassette player he set on top of the electric organ. ‘Of course, I’m not in my proper costume, and the lighting’s not good, but this’ll give you an idea.’ He slid a hand into the neckline of his top and rubbed his chest.
Clarence walked to the edge of the stage and in one fluid movement grabbed a metal-legged stool and swept the dancer’s legs from beneath him.
Alone in the room, Ripper didn’t hear Hyde calling for him and went to the edge of the stage. Nursing a swelling ankle the transvestite saw him and dragged himself to the edge.
‘You look nice in your uniform. Stay here, I need a helper, I’ll let you do things, anything.’
‘Mister, you are sick.’ With that Ripper brought the butt of his rifle down on the damaged ankle, laddering the dark fishnet tights. As he followed the rest of the squad he could hear the transvestite calling after him, and hoped the others couldn’t.
‘Oh, oh, don’t go, you can hurt me if you want. Oh, you bad boy, you’ve made me… oh, I’m wet… don’t go…’
‘These will not go far, after we have given Colonel Horst his share.’ They’d walked several blocks and were back in the commercial quarter before Boris took the cans from his pack and weighed them in his hands.
‘Probably start bloody rows as well. Here, give ‘em to me.’ Dooley took the food and approached an old woman. ‘Hey, old girl, frau, got something for you.’
Grabbing up her few possessions the woman scuttled off as fast as her weak legs would carry her and dived into a narrow opening beyond which the big man couldn’t follow.
‘Here, let me show you.’ Taking a can of ham, Boris crossed to the other side the road and walked past a small family group resting from pushing a handcart. As he did he deliberately let the can slip and walked on pretending not to know he’d dropped it.
The father picked it out of the gutter and held it like it was a bullion bar, carefully wiping the dirt from it with a frayed cuff. He looked after Boris, as if uncertain what to do, then caught sight of his two children and pushed it under his jacket.
‘OK, Dooley.’ Hyde gave him a shove. ‘You want to play Father Christmas, that’s how you do it.’
‘Fucking marvellous, isn’t it. You can’t give food away, you got to let them lift it. Hell, I always knew everything in the Zone was upside down, now I reckon it’s inside out as well.’
He wandered off up the road, seeding the pavement with luxuries close by those he judged to be worthy or in need of his generosity.
‘He’s enjoying himself.’ Burke watched him go. ‘Still, this time he’s not doing any harm, useless great lump.’ He couldn’t help smiling as he witnessed one of the worst pieces of acting he’d ever seen when a deaf old lady failed to notice a can of fruit dropped at her feet and Dooley pretended to see it and let her beat him to it. In that moment the old lady’s life was transformed, and it showed in her face as she hugged her prize.
The last one gone, Dooley walked on his own for a while, and when he came back streaks of clean skin showed on his face. ‘I thought I was enjoying this fucking war. I must have been fucking mad.’
He went off to walk on his own again, and each time he scrubbed his sleeve across his eye, so his face became a little cleaner.
TEN
The soaring concrete column on the TV tower looked as if a manic giant had taken several huge bites out of it. Four hundred feet up, the restaurant and observation platform looked largely intact, but above that the transmitter and receiver aerials had been smashed almost beyond recognition. Some of the great bowls and dishes had been torn away and now lay crushed and battered at the foot of the tower.
All the surrounding area appeared to have been singled out for special attention by the enemy artillery, and for several blocks the most that remained of any building was a pockmarked skeletal frame. Where less substantial structures had stood, now no two bricks remained joined.
A group of men were working at the base of the tower, and as the pair approached, a truck-mounted generator started up and roared loudly until the covers were closed.
Inga showed a pass to a guard on what had once been a doorway, but had now been remodelled by the raw energy of explosives into a ragged-edged opening, and led Revell inside. The generator provided power to a string of low-powered red-painted bulbs that marked the route through the dark interior to the doors of an elevator.
Only the inner doors ‘remained, the outer ones lay close by, torn off and holed by the round that had penetrated the walls to gut the entrance hall. Taking care not to touch the tangle of exposed wiring snaking from the control panel, Inga pressed the button for the restaurant. Squealing and jarring in their damaged dust-filled guides, the doors closed slowly, needing help over the last few inches.