The Shameful Suicide of Winston Churchill (24 page)

Arthur Harkness stood to attention on the reviewing stand outside the National Gallery, his right arm raised in stiff salute as the first of the floats entered Stalingrad Square.

By his side stood his guest of honour, though the body language of the two men suggested relations were not as warm as the comradely kiss shown on state television had suggested. The ‘wind of change’ blowing in from Moscow felt decidedly chilly in London.

The crack troops of the New English Army had already passed by, as had the Ernie Bevin Boy Scouts and the Kent Collective Farmers with their tractors and ploughs. Now it was the time for the Socialist Society and Cultural Section, floats displaying achievements of art and design from the best of the capital’s colleges.

At the back, on the final float, still halfway down the Strand, Kate Stark’s hands were sweating. She knew what she was about to do. Knew what the consequences could be. And she was still determined to do it.

Lizzie had tried to dissuade her. But not too much. She knew that secretly the young woman admired her. And being admired by Lizzie Goldsmith was the best thing that had ever happened to her. Apart from meeting her grandmother, and hearing her story. And reading the pages of the diary of a man she had been brought up to believe was a monster and a coward.

Maybe he had been a monster, in some ways. So many people were. But he was no coward. That was sure. And so
few things were sure. That was the point. That was why she had designed the stencils, stolen the materials from the art department at college. Painted the wall of Bankside power station with the image people had tried to forget. And, in a daring stunt that even Lizzie had been shocked by, taken her stencil to the Wall itself, no more than a few hundred metres from her brother the policeman’s office.

The fact that her brother was a policeman had of course probably contributed to the ease with which she was allowed to take charge of the float for today’s parade. That and the fact her father was a Hero of Socialism. She was a steady pair of hands. Safe. Reliable. She would show them. And she would show Tommy Paine who was a copper’s nark. Even if she ended up in jail for doing so.

She had done her research, even if she had not obviously been able to see the photographs. But Lizzie’s gran had confirmed they existed, had given her suggestions even. Told her that in any case they used to – probably still did – play tricks with photographs, doctor them to airbrush people out or paint them in.

Well, that’s what she had done. Not painted people in but painted people as they were, in situations that had happened. And one that hadn’t. She would use art to make a political statement. To shock and to challenge. It was all there, pre-painted on the double-sided three- by four-metre hoarding on the back of the float. The pictures everyone else thought it displayed – a series of working-class characters from Shakespeare – were on paper fixed to cover her own work. Paper she would rip down at the last minute, when she was in front of the reviewing stand. In front of Arthur Harkness himself. And the rest of them.

She would show them.

Marchmain and his men had emerged in a Tube tunnel unlike any other with a short platform. On the tracks stood a single carriage covered in cobwebs and painted red, white and blue. The sign on the door said in large letter H.M.G ONLY. His Majesty’s Government.

They had moved cautiously along the tunnel aware of a low hum and the possibility that the switch they had tripped upstairs to restore power and lighting to the lift shaft might have been a master, in which case the rails could be live too. He doubted it but you could not be too sure.

As soon as he detected voices, the tunnel ahead of them flooded with light and the men from the Department, as designated, raised either their megaphones or their automatic weapons. Marchmain was prepared for trouble, but also knew the shock effect of blinding light and commanding authority. He was not, however, prepared for the lunatic who launched himself out into full target range and with a levelled pistol fired immediately and directly at the source of the light. One of the arc carriers collapsed in a shattering of glass while the other automatically ducked, sending his beam bouncing around the platform ahead like the illumination for some surreal disco.

In the dancing beam the colonel could see people diving in panic for shelter. He ordered his men to fire a volley into the air. He wanted to capture, rather than kill, if at all possible.

The bright beam steadied, its crouching bearer regaining
courage and equilibrium. It picked out an extraordinary vignette. A tall man, holding a small, elderly woman, with a gun held tightly by the side of her head, pointed forward but still too close to her temple to be of comfort to her. The pair had moved towards the platform edge, into full range of Marchmain’s armed men. At that moment he recognised Benjamin Fairweather.

‘Wait. Hold your fire,’ Fairweather called in an unmistakable American accent. ‘I think we can negotiate.’

Just what the American thought he could negotiate Col Marchmain was never to know. At that precise moment the little old woman he was clasping tightly lurched to the side with all her weight. There was not much of it, but enough. For a millisecond they teetered on the platform edge, then toppled off, still locked in that unlikely embrace, to fall across the tracks. They must have touched both live rails simultaneously, although one alone would have been fatal. A flash of arcing electricity shot blue and white across the ground and briefly up one wall, accompanied by a sudden smell of cooking that rapidly became the stench of burnt flesh.

Then there was quiet. Marchmain surveyed the deserted platform ahead and cursed. The rats had run off into their hidey-holes. He doubted that they could go far, or fast. Even so, he ordered his men to advance quickly onto the platform to scour the side passages and investigate possible escape routes, using all necessary force to prevent flight, while he himself stepped slowly towards the smoking charred remains that lay across the track, careful not to touch the live rail himself.

It was not a pleasant sight. The voltage had sent their muscles into spasm, drawing their cheeks back in horrible
grins, blackening their flesh. Marchmain felt sorry. He would much have preferred to have had a long conversation with the American, at his leisure and in a place of his choosing.

Who the little old lady was, he had no idea.

From a pool of shadow Harry Stark watched in spellbound horror as the American and the old lady toppled from the platform onto the live rails. It had been no accident. She had pushed them both. He turned his eyes to where Lizzie had been, anticipating her grief. What he saw was her crouching against the wall in the furthest recess of the platform, gesturing frantically at him to come to her. Back along the platform the DoSS agents had lined up several of the others against the wall and were frisking them.

‘Come on,’ she shouted.

Behind her a steel door was set in the wall. She turned a round airlock-style handle and it swung open.

‘Your grandmother … The others …’

‘I know. But it wasn’t an accident. You saw. She made a decision. She was a brave woman, but she was old and losing blood. A choice between the Americans and the DoSS wouldn’t have looked very appealing. Hurry up. There’s nothing we can do for anyone right now.’

‘Where are we going?’

Stark was already talking to a retreating back. He followed it as best he could into yet another dark tunnel.

‘Tell me the truth, Harry. You didn’t lead them here?’

‘Of course not.’

‘You brought the American.’

She couldn’t see him, but Stark hung his head, then shook it even though she wasn’t looking at him: ‘That was stupid.
You have to believe me, I had no idea. No idea about any of it. I’m still not sure I see straight.’

‘Who can? It’s not a straightforward world. How did the bloody DoSSers get here?’

‘No idea. Honestly. I don’t even know where we are, other than a crude guess. Was that really true, what the American said, that that was a Deep Level Shelter used by Eisenhower?’

‘Probably. It makes sense, given Malcolm’s grasp of the layout.’

‘The layout?’

‘Come on. You’ll see. But shut up. We want to hope they stay in the main tunnel, especially as it looks like they’ve put the power back into the rails all the way.’

They had gone about fifty metres before Stark asked the question he wanted answered.

‘All the way to where?’

‘All the way to Churchill’s bunker. Upon a time, anyway. This is part of a whole mesh of tunnels that they began in the 1930s and rapidly expanded after the outbreak of war. They were working on them right up until 1949, worried as hell that the other side would develop nuclear weapons first.’

‘I thought anything like that had been filled in.’

‘Most have. Now it runs into rubble and concrete. The whole area where the bunker was located was gone over with a fine-toothed comb in case there was any sign of a corpse. His corpse.’

‘But I though it was burnt.’

‘It was. But the Russians almost certainly found the remains. With a Colt 45 bullet in the head. Convenient, Churchill’s personal weapon was a Colt 45, same gun issued to just about every American officer. Suited the suicide story.’

‘So where are
we
going?’

‘Wherever Malcolm’s gone? He knows more about these tunnels than almost anyone. His job at the Library gives him amazing access to old documents. He almost certainly knows another way out. He told me there were several emergency staircases to the surface. It would help if we had a light.’

‘Here,’ said Stark. ‘Take this.’ She turned and he tossed her Fairweather’s penlight. She clicked the switch and a thin, high-powered beam darted into the distance, showing a bifurcation in the concrete-walled tunnel.

‘Good,’ said Lizzie. ‘This is where I thought we were. Most of the original government tunnels were like this, pedestrian only. That one leads to the old local telephone exchange underneath Northumberland Avenue and once probably linked through to Downing Street, the Bunker, maybe even the old Houses of Parliament. All the ones that lead under the frontier were blocked off when they built the Wall. You can only get so far in any direction. This one led to the Admiralty. Stops before the Arch of course, but I’m betting Malcolm knows something. Now shut up and don’t waste your breath.’

Stark did as he was told. For the next few minutes they ran in silence, the penlight’s beam dancing off the walls in front of them until they rounded a corner and its narrow clear beam illuminated a man kneeling at the foot of a fixed ladder.

‘Malcolm. Thank God. Is there a way out …?’ Lizzie’s question evaporated as she spoke. ‘What … what are you doing?’

From above, dangling down alongside the rungs of the fixed ladder were wires. Wires that Malcolm, the Museum
Man, was busy attaching to some primitive apparatus of chunky batteries that could only be one thing. A homemade detonator.

‘I’m going to blow out the candles on their fucking birthday cake, that’s what I’m doing.’

‘What?’

‘Up there,’ he flicked his head upwards. ‘Strapped to the underside of a manhole cover, an old concealed escape exit that just happens to be in front of the National Gallery where old Arthur and his mates are stood to attention. Fertiliser and sugar, not exactly gelignite, and not enough to take out the podium, but enough to show we’re not all slaves prepared to line up and march past our masters.’

‘Malcolm, you can’t. You know Kate’s there.’

Kate. Stark’s blood ran cold. His little sister. Of course, the college float. She would be there. He glanced at his watch. Any minute now.

‘She’s doing it for us.’

Doing what? Stark’s gaze flicked from one to the other. Neither paid him any attention.

‘It’s no good. Not enough. All they understand is force. Even this isn’t enough. But it’s a start. Why is he here anyway?’

‘He’s on our side.’

‘Like my father was,’ said Stark.

Lizzie winced.

‘Your father was a …’

‘Malcolm, don’t.’

‘Why the hell not? It’s true, isn’t it.’

‘We don’t know. It was never proved.’

‘Never proved, my arse. More good men – and women – were arrested in the months after … Your father, Mr Metropolitan PP Stark, was a two-faced bastard. A fucking DoSSer
double agent, that’s what he was. I don’t know why I don’t …’ He pulled from inside his leather jacket the aged but effective pistol that had shot out the arc lights.

‘Don’t move. Any of you.’

The voice came from behind them. Marchmain. On his own, apparently. But armed. The bastard had followed them. Stark turned and in the same instant, Malcolm thrust the pistol into his belt and disappeared, pulling himself up the ladder, detonator in one hand.

‘Tell him to come back,’ said Marchmain, now clearly in view, his service Makarov levelled at them.

‘He won’t listen,’ said Stark. ‘You don’t understand. There’s a bomb.’

‘What?’

‘A bomb,’ said Stark. ‘Attached to a manhole cover. We’re underneath the square.’

Marchmain’s face froze. At that second a dulled but clearly audible blast of music sounded from above: ‘There’ll always be an England …’ The national anthem. The parade was reaching its climax.

‘I can stop him,’ said Lizzie, who grabbed the rungs of the ladder and started climbing.

‘Get her back,’ said Marchmain. ‘I don’t want to kill you, Stark. I don’t think you’re a traitor. I just think you’re confused.’

Stark stared up the well of the ladder. Lizzie, lighter and more agile, had caught up with Malcolm and seized hold of his foot. They were about four metres above his head. He heard a gruff expletive, then a shout and a clunk against concrete. At his feet lay Malcolm’s ancient pistol. He had pulled it from his belt only to have Lizzie knock it from his hand. Stark dropped to the ground and snatched it.

‘What are you waiting for, Stark?’ Marchmain shouted. ‘You have a weapon now. Use it.’

Stark glanced at the DoSS man for a second in puzzlement and then he understood.

He stared up the length of the ladder. Malcolm had struggled free of Lizzie’s grasp and was several rungs above her, the makeshift detonator still clutched in his hand. The image of the dead body under the bridge, its head nearly severed, fleeted through Stark’s mind. And then far more vividly, the face of his little sister somewhere up there above them. In harm’s way.

‘Lizzie, get back. Against the wall.’

She glanced down and understood in an instant.

Stark took the ancient weapon in both hands, braced himself as he had done a thousand times on the Met firing range, aimed up the length of the ladder, to where Lizzie was splayed against the wall a few rungs beneath his target. He hoped and prayed his aim was good enough. And fired.

His aim was not perfect. But it was good enough. Just. A rattle and clunk and the detonator landed on the ground at his feet, splashed with blood. He had hit the Museum Man on his outstretched arm. From above came a cry of anguish and pain, and then a violent curse. Malcolm had lost his grip, and fallen. But not far enough. His uninjured hand had flailed out and caught hold of the first available object. Lizzie’s leg. She screamed but didn’t try to shake him off, as if torn between self-preservation and saving the life of the man clinging to her. Stark watched in horror, terrified that at any moment she would risk everything by reaching down to give him a hand.

But Malcolm was the heavier by far. Just as she had not been able to hold him back for long, he could not hold on
to her. Stark could see his legs dangling in the air, desperate to find purchase on the rungs of the ladder. One of them made it. Just. And then gravity took over. The big man’s hand slipped. He reeled back against the opposite wall and then fell.

Stark sprang back, just in time, as the body crashed to the ground in front of him. A thin rivulet of blood ran from one ear. The Museum Man was history.

‘Well done, Stark,’ said Marchmain. ‘Your father would have been proud of you.’

Stark lifted his head and looked Marchmain in the eye. And shot him in it.