Plague Bomb (13 page)

His emaciated body would not have been a pretty sight at any time, his anaemic flesh sagging in flaccid wrinkles, his withered genitals bracketed by the distended mounds of a double hernia. With much of it covered and discoloured by huge raised blisters that made it even less attractive.

‘There must have been a chemical in the water, a modern derivation of mustard gas perhaps. What ever it was it was present in sufficient strength to do what you see here. If he’d swallowed any quantity of it he’d be dead by now, but I don’t think he has, although a little of it does seem to have splashed on his face.’

Sherry couldn’t bring herself to step close enough to see where Webb was indicating. From her youngest days, from as far back as she could remember, right from when her mother had enrolled her with the child model agency, virtually every moment of her life had been in some way concerned with her appearance. Cosmetics, clothes, her hair, how she walked, smiled, talked, how she smelled: every waking moment filled with such things and thoughts of them, and most of the people around her had been similarly occupied with themselves.

A greater contrast with that narcissistic world than the Zone could not have been found. Any blemish, any deformed or ugly thing she found utterly distasteful and avoided, or had avoided. Here she was being presented with the incarnation of all that she most abhorred; gross disfigurement, old age, sickness, suffering ...

‘Feeling faint?’ Still beaded with perspiration from the effort of attaining his orgasm, Gross entered the room, pausing to wipe his sticky fingers on faded curtains that gave off clouds of dust. ‘You need a drink. This should be just the place to find some. This way I think ...’

‘We should only consume such supplies as we brought with us.’ Calling after the fat man, Webb’s words trailed off as Gross went down the cellar steps.

‘Don’t be such a fucking old woman.’

His reply to the caution came back to them amid the clinking of bottles, and was followed by a loud crash in turn succeeded by the prolonged sound of breaking glass.

‘Shit, it’s as black as fucking hell down there. Get me a torch from the ... no, don’t bother, I’ve found a candle.’

A minute later he reappeared at the top of the stairs, his arms laden with bottles, and more protruding from the baggy pockets of his sports jacket,

‘Really, I’m quite serious, you shouldn’t even consider drinking any of those…’ Webb declined the slim necked green bottle thrust at him. ‘…they could be contaminated.’

‘Oh piss off, you fucking kill-joy.’ Depositing his load on a table, not bothering to catch a Riesling that rolled off to shatter on the stone floor, he delved through the interior of the medical kit until he discovered a small bottle of antiseptic.

Choosing a sparkling white completely at random, he liberally splashed a third of the disinfectant over the gold foil wrapped about the wine’s wire bound cork, wiping the surplus off immediately on his sleeve.

‘There, that’ll do it, you fussy sod. Here, try a bit.’ The cork came free with a bang as he wrenched at it, and a spout of foam splattered the floor and his shoes.

Again Webb declined, instead going over to Edwards to wrap a blanket about him. ‘We should keep moving. There is still a good distance to travel.’

‘So what’s your hurry. If there was someone after us, there’s not now, not with that bridge down. Isn’t that right, my little aging starlet?’

Sherry Kane also refused the offer of a drink, but immediately wished she’d accepted the offered bottle, just so as she could hit him with it. Gross made her shudder, he was so repulsive. There had been times, when she was resting, and the rent was due, when she’d had to take Johns like that ... like the slob in the green Chevrolet with the stickers in the windows. He’d wanted her to piss on him. When his offer had reached a hundred she’d done it, standing astride him as he lay in the filth of a service road behind Sunset Boulevard.

Afterward she’d had to shower a dozen times. Not that he’d touched her, just laid there shining that pencil torch beam up her miniskirt and making gurgling noises like a baby. She’d been busting to go anyway, but it had taken a good ten minutes...

Gross reminded her of that one. In fact he reminded her of all the bad ones, all rolled together; the orals when they wouldn’t use a sheath and forced her to swallow, the annals who wanted it rough and wouldn’t use cream, the fanny hair pluckers, the biters…

Getting no response, no acceptance of his invitation to imbibe with him, Gross contented himself with sitting on a rail-back chair and making suggestive motions toward the woman by circling his fingers about the neck of the bottle and running them up and down.

He drank fast, belching loudly after every other pull. ‘Not bad this stuff. Don’t usually drink much plonk myself, leave it to French peasants and the trendy wine bar crowd, unless it’s free that is, at some buckshee union do.’ He threw his head back to drain the last drops, then chose another from the selection before him. After an even more cursory decontamination than he’d carried out on the first, he opened and started into a hock.

‘Those stuck up gits I had to negotiate with probably drank this stuff, you know, the pin striped, poe faced captains of British industry. I killed one of them you know, really.’ Tapping the side of his wide-pored bulbous nose he winked at Sherry. ‘You don’t believe me do you, either of you?’

‘Believe what?’ Beginning to lose his patience, Webb was provoked into the snap. It defeated its own purpose, not silencing the union boss, but giving him encouragement.

‘That I killed a shitty white collar crud. Well I did, with this.’ He stuck out his furred tongue and wagged it from side to side.

A glimpse was enough for Webb, and he busied himself with lighting ornamental candles set in wall fittings, as the last of the evening’s light faded.

‘Nine hours the dumb fucker was sat opposite me.

Every time he increased the offer, I upped the demands. When he said he’d introduce a bonus scheme I said the brothers didn’t want one, when he withdrew it I said we wanted it. He had to settle on our terms in the end, he had an important defence contract. Just when he thought he had it all sewn up, I put in a load more demands, he was practically bloody crying. On the way home he had a heart attack, drove right under the back of a bus, messy. The company went bust, I moved on, started it all over again somewhere else.’

‘You’re not fit to be a representative of the workers.’ Sherry made no move to prevent it, as in upending the second bottle Gross tipped over backward in his chair. He managed to arrest his fall by clutching at the table, at the expense of several more smashed bottles.

‘Workers? Don’t make me laugh, I don’t give a fuck about the workers.’ Walking unsteadily to the bar, Gross went behind it and relieved himself into a sink. ‘Who do you think it is who’s been paying for the life of luxury I enjoy. I got a union job when I saw what a load of cloth-capped ignorant sods were in charge. Inside a couple of years I was earning more as a union official then most of the university educated wankers I was negotiating with, and all paid by the thick shits slaving their guts out on the factory floor. Bloody lovely, and even better when you add in the free car and petrol, expenses paid trips abroad, a mortgage through the union at a fixed two percent and not forgetting private health care insurance and last but not least those big fat fees from the TV stations every time I went to the studio and put on my serious-and-oh-so-deeply concerned-and genuinely-sorry face to lie about the reasons for yet another piddling stupid strike.’

‘You’ve had enough to drink.’

‘I have never had enough.’ Brushing aside Webb’s attempt to wrest his- bottle from him, Gross took a long series of gulps before paused for breath and then belching. ‘That’s why I started taking Ivan’s money. Easy it was, just start a strike here, rig a ballot there, nothing to it. I was doing it anyway, and the good old USSR paid up like I was doing it to order.’

‘Help me to carry Edwards to the car.’ Not really expecting any assistance, Webb was surprised when Gross, pants still gaping, took the professor’s blanket- swaddled feet.

‘Should have chucked him overboard like that ancient fool with the dog collar and worry beads.’ Having difficulty focusing as well as keeping his footing, Gross lurched in a zig-zag course with his share of their unconscious burden.

‘Any further diminution of our numbers would, I feel, devalue our mission. In fact his condition might even enhance the propaganda value of our journey.’ Webb had to stop while the drunk disentangled his feet from the tangle of bandage that had unwound and was trailing from Edwards’ right hand.

‘How about if I slit his throat, then we’d have a heroic martyr, wouldn’t we. That’s got to be worth more points, hasn’t it?’ Giving up his attempts to divest himself of the bandage, Gross resigned himself to its hobbling restraint and  signalled Webb to lead on. ‘Fucking silly idea. Did you fancy a bit of embalming practice?’

‘I did it to stop him scratching himself, to lessen the chance of infection.’ Waiting for Sherry to unfasten the tailgate and move some of the equipment to make room, Webb’s arms ached abominably when at last they were able to push the chemical’s victim into the back of the Rover.

Much less gently, Gross swung his portion of the casualty inside, slamming shut, the rear door without making any effort to arrange Edwards comfortably. ‘Well he’s asleep isn’t he? Christ,’ he became indignant at the looks the others gave him, ‘with all the problems he’s got what difference is a ruddy stiff neck going to make?’

‘You are an animal.’

Breathing heavy alcoholic fumes over her, Gross nudged the woman. ‘Just parts of me. Want to see a cock that wouldn’t disgrace a stallion?’ His clumsy grab at her breast met only thin air as she stepped beyond his reach. Stuck up whore! He’d have her yet, every way he could, every way there was, and then some.

‘Right, well I’ll just collect the medical kit then, and we can be on our way.’ Webb pretended not to have seen the attempted indecent assault. The woman had a reputation, and if she didn’t complain about the lout’s advances then there was no reason for him to concern himself. And besides, she appeared quite capable of taking care of herself, and if he did intervene and it came to a physical conflict between him and Gross, he could not be certain of coming off best. Slight lingering qualms he might have had about leaving them together were allayed when the inebriate followed him back inside the inn.

‘Thought I’d lay in a stock, to tide me over until we reach the commie lines and they top us up with vodka.’

Webb half hoped the fall he heard on the cellar stairs meant Gross had sustained a disabling and painful injury, but the drunk heaved himself back to the bar a few minutes later smothered in cobwebs and burdened with many bottles. ‘We don’t have the room to take all those.’ The protest he made, Webb knew would be ineffectual.

‘Oh piss off. With old Holy Joe gone there’s loads of sodding room. If you still say there isn’t then I’ll chuck out the other old git.’ Blearily he examined a label.

‘Can’t stand red, tastes like weak ink.’ He shied the bottle at a boar’s head over the door, lurching unsteadily. ‘So far you’ve been giving all the orders, well from now on I want a say, and I say we get our priorities right. He waved a burgundy over his head before sending it at the candles. The room was darkened instantly, bottles clinked noisily. ‘These are my priorities.’

Offering no further argument or resistance, Webb groped his way to the door. Glass crunched underfoot. All he could hope was that the uncouth Gross would swiftly drink himself into a stupor. The man’s capacity for alcohol was legendary, but surely even he had to have a limit.

Watching him sprawl on the rear seat of the Range Rover, leaving the door for others to close, and start on a fresh bottle, Webb began to have doubts.

The food had gone cold, but Rozenkov didn’t notice, spearing a white dumpling that floated half submerged in the scum of grease on top of the fast congealing gravy, and pushing it and half the handle of the fork into his mouth. His jaws clamped tight and the prongs withdrawn were as bright as if just polished.

Beside him the radio chattered and crackled. He didn’t miss a word, occasionally flicking the tuner to select another channel. It was not as good as being there himself, but it was the next best thing.

A timid knock at the door and a pink faced young junior sergeant entered, stopping yards short of the desk. He had to cough twice before he could speak. ‘The colonel has finished his meal?’

‘Can you clean boots?’

Confused by the officer’s unexpected question the soldier stumbled a hesitant affirmative.

‘Good. When I take a new post I always like to start from scratch. You will look after me. I do not have time for petty detail. So long as my uniform is not crawling and my car is always ready when I want it, you should do. Can you manage that?’

‘I think ... Yes, Comrade Colonel.’

‘At last. You are the first in this building I have found prepared to commit himself. You can clear away ... wait ... this meal, who prepared it?’

‘Sergeant-major Gorbatov, Comrade Colonel. You did not like it? He is usually very good, he was cook at our Washington embassy for five years. Very often he has cooked meals for ...’ Realizing he was being indiscreet he stopped abruptly.

‘I know what you were going to say. Sometimes my predecessor would lend him out to party officials to cater for private parties, in return for certain favours. Who is Gorbatov’s assistant in the kitchens, what is he like, speak up man.’

Any idea the junior sergeant might have had of softening or colouring the truth evaporated when the officer raised his voice. ‘It is Private Zhiraev, he ... he is not a good cook. Gorbatov is always shouting at him. I think they are, that is I think they may be related, by marriage.’

‘And Sergeant-major Gorbatov, probably at the prompting of his wife or mother- in-law, is keeping the dolt here, far from the dangers of the front line. Another of the cosy arrangements that have been so much a feature of this department. Tell Private Zhiraev he is now in charge of the kitchens, tell him that as long as he does not poison anyone, without having been ordered to do so, he can ignore all complaints from my staff. He can refer them to me if they are persistent.’