[ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]
The soldiers moved with quiet efficiency - no bawled orders from a senior NCO.
Each man knew what was expected of him; each carried a slung rifle. Kent
wondered if the bullets were rubber. He noted, too, the riot shields being
unloaded, and the open crate on the tailboard of the centre vehicle. Tear gas!
Soldiers stood around the vehicles, wary, not lounging. Steel helmets, too.
Not a beret to be seen. A couple of officers wore battledress and peaked hats.
They merely watched the proceedings, all so thorough in every aspect.
Kent's eyes wandered up towards the still invisible mountain peaks. Possibly
the southern ones would remain shrouded hi mist throughout the day. He knew
the army would be there, too, blocking the pass - the road that led down
through Moniaive towards Dumfries. He admired their sheer efficiency. He had
seen it before, on his several trips to Belfast. The army just moved in,
nothing spectacular, but one knew they were ready for any eventuality. This
platoon had probably come direct from Edinburgh, their orders issued prior to
the Prime Minister's speech last night. A nocturnal military takeover. This,
the dawn squad, would have been the last to arrive. Nobody would be entering
Page 62
ABC Amber Palm Converter, http://www.processtext.com/abcpalm.html
or leaving the valley!
He let himself into the building, fully aware that the soldiers were watching
his every move until the door closed behind him. They were not concerned with
what he did inside.
Contrary to his earlier plans, he picked up the telephone, as an experiment.
He guessed what would happen, and he was correct. No sooner had his forefinger
dialled the first two digits, 01, than the disengaged signal was sounding, a
perpetual monotone. Communications had been suspended.
Kent sat down hi the swivel chair, and relit his pipe, then reached in the
cupboard for the whisky bottle. His recent promise to Coyle to remain here
until the end was now an enforced one.
McLellan had sat in a daze throughout the hours of darkness. His wife Edith, a
small frail woman, was virtually in a state of collapse after the broadcast,
and having helped her upstairs to bed, he had come downstairs again. By 3.a.m.
the ashtray was full of chewed cigar butts, and the atmosphere in this
spacious room was thicker even than the rolling mist outside.
His first fear was of dying. He would never forget the sight of those dead
pigeons and the Alsatian in the Square. Yet, until this massive conurbation
had claimed the valley, he had looked forward eagerly to the weekly
grouse-shoots. That was a form of death that had pleased him, elated him when
a dead grouse rolled on the sparse heather, a measure of his skill. It had put
him amongst the landed gentry. It was pursuit of this sport that had resulted
in his first meeting with McLoughlin. He remembered, word for word, those two
letters he had typed. McLoughlin's tender for the new estate would be granted;
McLellan would see to that. Would have seen to it! He chewed angrily on yet
another cigar. The houses would not be built now. Nobody would need them.
Those already erected would be blown up with the rest of the valley, the whole
country.
A movement hi the corner of the room caught his eye. A sudden stiffening of
his corpulent body, a tensing of every nerve. He saw that Alsatian again,
skulking in the alleyway, scavenging the diseased pigeons, the way it had
regarded him steadily as if to say, 'You're going to die, just like me!'
Then he relaxed again, with a sigh of relief. The yellow Labrador, ageing now,
moved out from its resting place, and came towards him. It, too, remembered
those glorious days amidst the heather, the dead birds waiting to be
retrieved.
McLellan stroked the smooth head, something to occupy his restless, flabby
hand. He would have had the dog put down after the grouse moor had been built
over, if it hadn't been for Edith. She loved this dog a lot more than she
loved him. It was funny, he hadn't petted the animal for ages. Perhaps all
this business had something to do with it, a kind of reconciliation.
His thoughts moved to the gun in the hall wardrobe. A Purdey, worth at least a
couple of grand, a sign of affluence at any shooting party. There were
cartridges, too. Maybe half a box. One shell would be sufficient. So easy. He
could opt out of this waiting game, settle for death and have done with it.
He half rose, but flopped back in the chair. He tried to find excuses why he
would not go through with it. The radioactive level might fall, life would
revert to normal, McLoughlin's tender would be accepted, and McLellan would
get his pay-off. All in hard cash, as agreed. Perhaps he would move out, leave
Edith here in this place with her beloved dog. She wouldn't object.
Another cigar. More melancholy thoughts again. Everything closing in upon him.
Something in the Prime Minister's speech came back to him: 'Animal and bird
life is apparently more vulnerable to radioactivity than are humans'. He sat
bolt upright, gripping the upholstered arms of the plush chair. Damn it, those
grey squirrels that infested the garden every morning! Surely the squirrels
would be affected, too. And he could stop them. Something to do. He had to
Page 63
ABC Amber Palm Converter, http://www.processtext.com/abcpalm.html
take it out on someone or something. One small shred of satisfaction before .
. .
He struggled out of the chair and lumbered into the hall, listening for a
moment. There was no sound from upstairs. He did not want Edith to hear him
assembling the Purdey. She might jump to the wrong conclusion.
He returned to the lounge with the gun-case and that last box of cartridges.
There was a clinking of steel as he fumbled, assembling stock and barrels,
snapping the fore-end loudly to secure the weapon. The well-oiled breech
opened noiselessly; he dropped a cartridge into each chamber, and closed it.
Then he flopped back into the chair, breathing heavily. The dog, ears pricked
in anticipation of an outing, nuzzled against him. Roughly he pushed it away.
With a whimper of disappointment, it retired to its earlier resting place
behind the settee.
Gun across his knees, McLellan lit another cigar, and settled back to await
the coming of daylight.
His cigar smouldered for a while, then went out. His eyes closed, and he fell
into a fitful doze. Somewhere, far away, he heard the rumble of heavy wheels.
Probably more waste being brought in for reprocessing ...
It was full daylight when he awoke, stirring slowly at first, then struggling
to his feet as everything came flooding back to him. A moment of panic as he
stumbled towards the bow windows overlooking his large garden. Perhaps he was
too late. He opened one of the windows quietly. His head ached abominably, but
he ignored it. Only one thing mattered - so long as the creatures had not
already come and gone.
This damned mist. He cursed as he saw it swirl around these upper reaches of
the valley, resting the gun on the sill whilst he put on his spectacles to see
more clearly. He peered intently. A faint movement, a breath of sudden
mountain breeze which temporarily cleared away a patch of the grey vapour. He
pushed the window even wider, and picked up the shotgun.
The squirrels were there again, as he knew they would be. They hadn't missed a
morning in his garden for a month now. Horrible, rat-like grey creatures, they [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]
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The soldiers moved with quiet efficiency - no bawled orders from a senior NCO.
Each man knew what was expected of him; each carried a slung rifle. Kent
wondered if the bullets were rubber. He noted, too, the riot shields being
unloaded, and the open crate on the tailboard of the centre vehicle. Tear gas!
Soldiers stood around the vehicles, wary, not lounging. Steel helmets, too.
Not a beret to be seen. A couple of officers wore battledress and peaked hats.
They merely watched the proceedings, all so thorough in every aspect.
Kent's eyes wandered up towards the still invisible mountain peaks. Possibly
the southern ones would remain shrouded hi mist throughout the day. He knew
the army would be there, too, blocking the pass - the road that led down
through Moniaive towards Dumfries. He admired their sheer efficiency. He had
seen it before, on his several trips to Belfast. The army just moved in,
nothing spectacular, but one knew they were ready for any eventuality. This
platoon had probably come direct from Edinburgh, their orders issued prior to
the Prime Minister's speech last night. A nocturnal military takeover. This,
the dawn squad, would have been the last to arrive. Nobody would be entering
Page 62
ABC Amber Palm Converter, http://www.processtext.com/abcpalm.html
or leaving the valley!
He let himself into the building, fully aware that the soldiers were watching
his every move until the door closed behind him. They were not concerned with
what he did inside.
Contrary to his earlier plans, he picked up the telephone, as an experiment.
He guessed what would happen, and he was correct. No sooner had his forefinger
dialled the first two digits, 01, than the disengaged signal was sounding, a
perpetual monotone. Communications had been suspended.
Kent sat down hi the swivel chair, and relit his pipe, then reached in the
cupboard for the whisky bottle. His recent promise to Coyle to remain here
until the end was now an enforced one.
McLellan had sat in a daze throughout the hours of darkness. His wife Edith, a
small frail woman, was virtually in a state of collapse after the broadcast,
and having helped her upstairs to bed, he had come downstairs again. By 3.a.m.
the ashtray was full of chewed cigar butts, and the atmosphere in this
spacious room was thicker even than the rolling mist outside.
His first fear was of dying. He would never forget the sight of those dead
pigeons and the Alsatian in the Square. Yet, until this massive conurbation
had claimed the valley, he had looked forward eagerly to the weekly
grouse-shoots. That was a form of death that had pleased him, elated him when
a dead grouse rolled on the sparse heather, a measure of his skill. It had put
him amongst the landed gentry. It was pursuit of this sport that had resulted
in his first meeting with McLoughlin. He remembered, word for word, those two
letters he had typed. McLoughlin's tender for the new estate would be granted;
McLellan would see to that. Would have seen to it! He chewed angrily on yet
another cigar. The houses would not be built now. Nobody would need them.
Those already erected would be blown up with the rest of the valley, the whole
country.
A movement hi the corner of the room caught his eye. A sudden stiffening of
his corpulent body, a tensing of every nerve. He saw that Alsatian again,
skulking in the alleyway, scavenging the diseased pigeons, the way it had
regarded him steadily as if to say, 'You're going to die, just like me!'
Then he relaxed again, with a sigh of relief. The yellow Labrador, ageing now,
moved out from its resting place, and came towards him. It, too, remembered
those glorious days amidst the heather, the dead birds waiting to be
retrieved.
McLellan stroked the smooth head, something to occupy his restless, flabby
hand. He would have had the dog put down after the grouse moor had been built
over, if it hadn't been for Edith. She loved this dog a lot more than she
loved him. It was funny, he hadn't petted the animal for ages. Perhaps all
this business had something to do with it, a kind of reconciliation.
His thoughts moved to the gun in the hall wardrobe. A Purdey, worth at least a
couple of grand, a sign of affluence at any shooting party. There were
cartridges, too. Maybe half a box. One shell would be sufficient. So easy. He
could opt out of this waiting game, settle for death and have done with it.
He half rose, but flopped back in the chair. He tried to find excuses why he
would not go through with it. The radioactive level might fall, life would
revert to normal, McLoughlin's tender would be accepted, and McLellan would
get his pay-off. All in hard cash, as agreed. Perhaps he would move out, leave
Edith here in this place with her beloved dog. She wouldn't object.
Another cigar. More melancholy thoughts again. Everything closing in upon him.
Something in the Prime Minister's speech came back to him: 'Animal and bird
life is apparently more vulnerable to radioactivity than are humans'. He sat
bolt upright, gripping the upholstered arms of the plush chair. Damn it, those
grey squirrels that infested the garden every morning! Surely the squirrels
would be affected, too. And he could stop them. Something to do. He had to
Page 63
ABC Amber Palm Converter, http://www.processtext.com/abcpalm.html
take it out on someone or something. One small shred of satisfaction before .
. .
He struggled out of the chair and lumbered into the hall, listening for a
moment. There was no sound from upstairs. He did not want Edith to hear him
assembling the Purdey. She might jump to the wrong conclusion.
He returned to the lounge with the gun-case and that last box of cartridges.
There was a clinking of steel as he fumbled, assembling stock and barrels,
snapping the fore-end loudly to secure the weapon. The well-oiled breech
opened noiselessly; he dropped a cartridge into each chamber, and closed it.
Then he flopped back into the chair, breathing heavily. The dog, ears pricked
in anticipation of an outing, nuzzled against him. Roughly he pushed it away.
With a whimper of disappointment, it retired to its earlier resting place
behind the settee.
Gun across his knees, McLellan lit another cigar, and settled back to await
the coming of daylight.
His cigar smouldered for a while, then went out. His eyes closed, and he fell
into a fitful doze. Somewhere, far away, he heard the rumble of heavy wheels.
Probably more waste being brought in for reprocessing ...
It was full daylight when he awoke, stirring slowly at first, then struggling
to his feet as everything came flooding back to him. A moment of panic as he
stumbled towards the bow windows overlooking his large garden. Perhaps he was
too late. He opened one of the windows quietly. His head ached abominably, but
he ignored it. Only one thing mattered - so long as the creatures had not
already come and gone.
This damned mist. He cursed as he saw it swirl around these upper reaches of
the valley, resting the gun on the sill whilst he put on his spectacles to see
more clearly. He peered intently. A faint movement, a breath of sudden
mountain breeze which temporarily cleared away a patch of the grey vapour. He
pushed the window even wider, and picked up the shotgun.
The squirrels were there again, as he knew they would be. They hadn't missed a
morning in his garden for a month now. Horrible, rat-like grey creatures, they [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]