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  “Eh?”

  Jerry had not been expecting her. He had come to the South Bank in the hope of finding the Dome of Discovery, but a Palestinian bomb (about the only one to hit London before the whole of their ramshackle air force had been blown apart) had left a huge crater in its place—indeed, there was no evidence that it had actually been constructed. When the Ka-12 had arrived Jerry had been bouncing up and down, clinging to a fallen girder, telling himself that this was the last time he would trust one of Flash Gordon’s tips. Gordon had heard that Catherine had been transferred here from Roedean at the outbreak of the invasion, when half of Sussex had fallen to disaffected Kentish marines who had made a surprise mass attack along the whole coast between Hastings and Littlehampton. The Nursing Home, Sunnydales, had actually driven back the marines, but not before it had sustained major damage and lost over seventy per cent of its charges.

  The rolled-up linen blueprints of the Festival site were already going limp. They stuck at an angle from the pocket of his military-style camelhair overcoat. Soon they would be useful as handkerchiefs. Rain dripped from the brim of his trilby onto his cheeks so that it looked as if he had been weeping. He began to tramp away from the Hall, over cracked concrete, towards the iron framework of Hungerford Bridge.

  “Eh?” asked Miss Brunner again. She hurried behind. She wore an uncharacteristic Balenciaga New Look dress in avocado-green velvet over which was pulled a black duffel coat. On her feet were ponyskin boots and on her head a peculiar astrakhan cap, as if she had tried to make a concession to several different ideas of taste at the same time. “Eh?”

  Jerry stopped. “Yes, very grey. A chilly era altogether, wouldn’t you say?”

  Having obtained her response she was satisfied, turning on him immediately. “You’re being facetious.” Ostentatiously she studied the river again. “Well, it’s a shambles! I can’t think what’s got into the British Empire.”

  “Corruption in high places?” Jerry felt in his other pocket to make sure his cigarette cards were still dry.

  “Rot!”

  “I thought—”

  “It’s poor morale all round.”

  “Not all round.” Jerry rubbed the water from his skin. “Some people are fighting for their liberty for the first time ever.” He looked wistfully towards his ruined Princess.

  Her foxy mouth snarled at him. “Liberty! How I hate it! Given the chance I intend to establish a sane element of authority in this country again. I’ve put all my money into land. It’s land that England’s made of. Land is the only thing of importance. And the one who has most land has most power to revive England’s greatness. Happy people, Mr Cornelius, are people who know where they stand. A responsible ruling class does not trade in ambiguities—it trades in facts and statements of fact. It tells people exactly what their position is and what they may do within certain well-defined limits. People would rather not own land themselves, because of the responsibility. Therefore they are prepared to let those who own the land make their decisions for them. Owning land, you see, brings with it a great burden. By lifting that burden from the shoulders of the common man, by putting experienced managers in charge, we shall produce a stability this country has not experienced for fifty years. A hundred years. It is my dream, Mr Cornelius, to re-establish the Rule of Law in Great Britain before we see 1960 again. I shall need experienced people like yourself. That’s why I looked you up. You have the makings of a fine manager.”

  Jerry shook his head. “All I want to do is keep my head down until this floppy decade’s over. There’s no other way to survive it that I know.”

  “It’s the key period, Mr Cornelius.” Her eyes were on fire. “There is still a chance for us to stem the tide, re-divert the waters so that they irrigate the roots of a sane, tranquil, stable society—cottagers, villagers, townsmen and citizens all building for a common aim. Give each man, woman and child a place and a purpose and, as a consequence, a firm idea of identity—show them who the enemy is, what they must fight, and all this internal squabbling, this unhappy squeaking for revolution, will be finished with, once and for all. We reached the peak of our social evolution in 1900 and now we are devolving at a sickening rate. Can’t you see it?”

  “I appreciate your faith in the restoration of the status quo, Miss Brunner, but I’m not sure land values are the whole answer. I mean, by 2000 we’ll probably all be living on Mars and Venus anyway, won’t we? The future’s in space, isn’t it?”

  “Space!” She was vicious. “I don’t believe in space! And neither should you. Our duty is to remember our heritage—and to make our fellows recall that heritage, too!”

  She was giving him a headache.

  “Rockets!” he said pathetically. “Whoosh!”

  She indicated the crater. “That’s what rockets do. Boom!” She drove her point home: “They blow everything up.”

  “Yes, well, they’ve got to, haven’t they? First?” Against her enthusiasm his logic, never very strong, disintegrated. “Haven’t they?”

  She moved towards him, her boots squelching. “You’re very naïve, Mr Cornelius. I’m older than you…”

  “I wouldn’t say that.”

  “… and I may seem a trifle old-fashioned. But mark my words our future lies in the yeomen of England, not in some half-baked fashionable creed of anarchistic scientific internationalism. There are too many ‘-isms’ in the world already—and the result is Chaos. Come with me. Let me exorcise the demon of nihilism and breathe a new spirit into your troubled soul. There is only one ‘-ism’ which will save us—the good old English penchant for pragmatism. We must reduce the number of choices facing the bewildered people of England. Choice produces confusion and confusion leads to social disintegration. And when we are strong again, strong enough to show the world that we know who we are and where we are going, we can extend the same salvation throughout the globe, bringing stability and order wherever we go. We stopped too soon, you see. We lost sight of our goals. We became afraid of responsibility—of the responsibility of Empire—we let other countries get away with far too much and, as a result, lost faith in our own authority.”

  “I’m still not sure about my own identity, let alone what I should be doing.” As he walked on towards Hungerford Bridge Miss Brunner again began to follow.

  “Strong authority produces a strong identity, personal and corporate.”

  “It all sounds a bit too political for my taste,” Jerry told her. “I never did understand politics very well.”

  “But that’s exactly it.” They had reached the iron steps of the bridge and began to climb. The metal rang as Jerry’s heels struck. She disapproved of his steel blakeys. “I hate politics, too. I’m completely apolitical. I’m talking about faith—faith in one’s country and its greatness—faith in common sense, in order, in justice—faith in traditional values which, say what you like, never let us down in the past.” They were crossing the river now. Jerry regretted the damage he had done to his Princess. The noble flying boat was waterlogged in her starboard float and part of the wing was already under water, lifting the plane over.

  “She’s sinking,” said Miss Brunner. “Isn’t she?”

  “It’ll be a long time before that old girl goes down.” Jerry spoke sentimentally. It was this feeling for imperfect or misconceived machinery which had got him into trouble more than once before.

  They reached the opposite side of the bridge and crossed the road to the fractured Charing Cross Underground Station, where a coffee stall had re-established itself. The embankment at this point still had its big trees, its shrubs, its nameless statues. They joined the queue of wounded soldiers and derelicts moving slowly forward until Jerry heard a familiar voice from the counter. “Garn, yer ol’ bugger, toast’s anuvver bloody tuppence!”

  Jerry’s throat contracted. His mother had returned to London. He broke from the queue.

  “Eh?” said Miss Brunner, grabbing for him and missing.

  He ran up Villiers Street tow
ards the Strand as fast as he could go. At the top of Villiers Street he climbed the ruined wall of the mainline station and risked a look back. Miss Brunner was in friendly (and to him, sinister) conversation with his mother. It seemed that the most disparate people were forming alliances these days. He dropped from the wall and ran on, through Admiralty Arch, to the Mall. There were grey trees on either side of him; even the grass of the park looked grey and smelled sterile. He ran towards Buckingham Palace at the end of the Mall not because he thought he would find safety there but because its outline was the only one he currently recognised. He reached the roundabout outside the palace, the statue of the old queen, and the fountains. To the left of the palace, the tall houses of Victoria and Pimlico looked attractive; they had hardly been touched by any of the wars. He decided to make for Buckingham Palace Road and Prince’s Street, where he had once had friends, but, as he walked panting beside the railings of the palace, there came a shout from the other side and he turned his head to see a soldier in a scarlet-and-black uniform, a bearskin on his head, threatening him with what appeared to be a Lee-Enfield .303.

  “Halt,” said the guardsman.

  Jerry stopped. “What?”

  “Halt. ’Ow’d’yer get frew ther fuckin’ barrier, chum?”

  “Didn’t know there was one,” said Jerry. “I’ve been away ill.”

  The guardsman’s brutal, bloodshot eyes narrowed. “Stay there,” he said. He called over his shoulder. “Corp!”

  A corporal ran out of a gatehouse at the side of the palace façade. It was Frank. His face was pale and covered in acne, emphasised by his scarlet tunic. He grinned broadly when he recognised his brother. “Jerry! You come to see us, ’ave you?”

  Jerry shook his head and was silent.

  “Unlock the gate, soldier,” said Frank with some relish. The small wrought-iron gate was opened and the guardsman stood back to allow Jerry to enter, but Jerry remained where he was. “I didn’t know you’d joined the Army, Frank.”

  “I was called up, wasn’t I? It’s me National Service. You oughta be in, too.”

  “I’ve been ill.”

  “Well, come on! We’ve a lot ter talk abaht!” Frank pretended enthusiasm. “Seen Cathy, ’ave yer? And Mum? She’s runnin’—”

  “I know.” Jerry shuffled through the gate. “The coffee stall.”

  “That’s right. Wiv ol’ Sammy. Nil desperandum!”

  “Who?”

  The soldier locked the gate behind him. “Are you allowed to have visitors, then?” Jerry asked.

  “Me? I’m quite an important man round ’ere, these days. I’m expectin’ to ’ave proper promotion any day now. I’m the senior officer, anyway. All the others are either on barrier duty or dead or wounded.”

  “Who’re they fighting?”

  “You have been away a long time, me old son! The Miners Volunteer Force, o’ course. It’s a terrorist organisation, mainly from Durham and that way. They’ve been givin’ us an awful lot o’ trouble, but we’ll lick ’em!” Frank opened the green-painted door in the white stone wall. They entered a small office full of dark polished wood. “Cuppa?”

  “Thanks.”

  Frank filled the kettle from a big steel drum and placed it on a portable gas-ring. He lit the gas. “Yeah. I’m virtually second in command at the moment.”

  “What? To the king?”

  “The king! Do me a favour!” Frank laughed heartily and sat down in a comfortable leather armchair beside a small coal fire. It was warm and secure. Jerry took off his soaked coat and hung it on a big hook near the door. Frank’s khaki greatcoat was there, too. He sat down on a straight-backed wooden chair on the other side of the fireplace.

  “What’s wrong with the king, then? Been deposed, has he?” Jerry rubbed his hands and warmed them at the grate.

  “Deposed? ’E’s bloody dead, ain’t ’e!” Frank was coarser than Jerry remembered him. It was probably the effects of army life.

  “Then who’s in charge?”

  “The Church took over, didn’t they? Sort of care-taking capacity until order’s restored.”

  “The Archbishop of Canterbury or something?”

  “Nar! They ’anged the poor old blighter months ago. The current boss is a bishop. Bishop Beesley. You must’ve ’eard’v ’im!”

  “Vaguely,” said Jerry. He loosened a soggy tie.

  “You must ’ave. ’E’s gonna bring back spiritual values into our way of life, in’e?”

  “Oh, then Miss Brunner’s working with him?”

  “Do us a favour, Jerry! She’s the one ’oo led the fuckin’ miners on London, ain’t she!”

  “It beats me,” said Jerry. He watched as Frank rose to pour water into the teapot.

  “You’re dead lucky I spotted you.” Frank stirred the tea in the pot. “I’ll put in a word. On my recommendation you’ll get a commission. Captain, at least. Bound to.” Frank reached out and turned the knob of a big table wireless. There was a lot of interference but through it all came the voice of Edmundo Ros. To a rhumba rhythm he was singing his latest hit. Enjoy yourself, it’s later than you think. Enjoy yourself, enjoy yourself, it’s later than you think.

  Jerry reached out for the mug Frank offered him. His hand was trembling.

  “This is the chance for people like us to take advantage of the opportunities,” Frank was saying, “and make something of ourselves. They need us, see.”

  “What for?”

  “Our will to survive,” said his brother. “Our terror of poverty.” His grin was savage. “Our ratlike rapacity, Jerry old lad. Our vitality. They’ll pay anything for our protection.”

  “Sort of Danegeld, you mean?”

  “Call it what you like, mate. Not that they can’t teach us a thing or two about ’anging on. As soon as we’ve got those bloody miners off our backs—and that’s as good as done, at least for the time bein’—we’ll be in charge. Then we’ll show ’em!”

  “It sounds a bit dodgy to me,” said Jerry. He was still unclear of the issues or of his brother’s ambitions. “They’ve had a lot more experience. They’ll turn on you, Frank.”

  “I know too many secrets.”

  Jerry shrugged. “Well, maybe you’re right.”

  “Are you on, then? Comin’ in with me?” Frank grinned an eager grin.

  Jerry shook his head. “I’ll keep moving, I think. This isn’t my decade at all.”

  “You won’t get a better opportunity.”

  “I’ll wait and see what the future brings.”

  “The future?” Frank laughed. “There isn’t any future. Make the most of what you’ve got.”

  Jerry scratched his damp head. “But I don’t like it here.”

  “You never believed you’d be visiting your brother in Buckingham Palace, I bet.”

  “I never believed in Buckingham Palace,” said Jerry helplessly. He began to smile. “And I’m not sure I believe in you any more.”

  “Oo, you snooty little sod.” Frank glowered. His pallid lips set in anger. “You stupid, stuck-up shitty little bastard! And I was trying to ’elp you! Well, if that’s the way you wanna play it. I’ve got powers to enlist you. And once you’re fuckin’ enlisted, me old son, you’ll see the error of your fuckin’ ways.”

  Jerry drew his needle gun from a pinstriped pocket. “I think I’ll have to borrow your uniform if I’m going to get through. I’ll let you have it back later.”

  Frank was hardly aware that his life was being threatened. He stared curiously at the needle gun. “What’s that?”

  Jerry said: “The future.”

  7. HARLEQUIN INVISIBLE; OR, THE EMPEROR OF CHINA’S COURT

  Jerry shrugged himself back into his frilly Mr Fish jacket and kissed Mitzi Beesley heartily on her exposed left buttock. Mitzi twitched. Her voice from beneath the pillow was lazy. “You could stay another couple of hours. My dad won’t be back yet. We haven’t tried it with those bottles.”

  “We’d only get stuck.” He made for the stairs.
“Besides, you’re not nearly old enough.” It seemed to him, as he went down, that he was still surrounded by the aura of her juicy lust. “See you.” He opened the street door.

  He walked out into the Chelsea sunshine. The bishop, a popular local figure, had not done too badly for himself since the dissolution. King’s Road was crowded with pretty people, with music, foodstalls, hawkers of disposable clothes, fortune-tellers, prostitutes of every possible persuasion, beautiful buttons and blossoming bows; soft bodies brushed against him on all sides, delicious perfumes swam into his nose; his flesh sang. He pressed through the throng, whistling an Animals tune to himself, on his way to The Pheasantry, which Mr Koutrouboussis had recently purchased. There was no doubt about it, thought Jerry, Utopia had been worth hanging on for. Everyone was happy. Here, there and everywhere, sang the Beatles as he passed a daytime disco; they were the poets of paradise. Turn off your mind, relax and float downstream…

  There was, Jerry found himself bound to admit, still a minority of people who would have preferred the euphoria of austerity to all this and, indeed, the King’s Road was not what he would have considered his own natural environment, even on festival days such as this one. Nonetheless, if he missed an egg and chips there was always someone to provide a fantasy of more generous proportions, with a hurdy-gurdy and a rebuilt tram or two. If anything got to him here, then it was the self-consciousness, absent from his own territory further north, where hangovers of the poverty trance still operated to the advantage of the natives. And, too, it was in King’s Road that he saw the seeds of disaster, of the destruction of everything he held dear. He put these thoughts from his mind and shouldered his way a little more aggressively up the road only to stop dead as he reached the stone gates of The Pheasantry and confronted none other than Miss Brunner. She wore a white angular Courrèges suit with shorts, white PVC boots and a white PVC floppy hat and satchel. On her nose were huge, round sunglasses and her red hair was cut quite short. A very noisy radio went by—Jumpin’ Jack Flash, it’s a gas, gas, gas—so he could not hear her greeting but, to his astonishment, he was sure she had mouthed the word “Darling” at him. He stopped, leaned his thin body against the opposite gatepost and sniffed at her Young Lust. “Swinging along okay, Miss B?”