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the water as if fearing an invasion from London's other half. A wartime
concrete pillbox stood among them, solidly square but useless against the
enemy's last invisible weapon. To our left, Tower
Bridge rose high and proud, its bascules frozen open for all time, the river
beneath flowing clear and pure in the sunlight.
Me in the lead, we headed towards it.
26
SHE DIDN'T UNDERSTAND when I pulled her round to the stairway.
'The docks,' she gasped as she tried to break away. She drew in quick, sharp
breaths. 'We can lose them easily in the docks.'
She had a point. The road under the northern span of the bridge led straight
into dockland - or what was left of it after the fire-bombs had done their
worst - where there were plenty of side streets, alleyways and ruined
buildings to get lost in. Sure, it would've been easy to shake off the
Blackshirts in that labyrinth, 'cept that wasn't any part of my plan. 'We're
going onto the bridge,' I told her, trying to catch my own breath. Sweat
trickled down my back and my throat felt burned dry.
'You're insane. The bridge is raised - we can't get across!' 'We can use one
of the walkways at the top.'
She looked at me as if I really was crazy, but there was no time for argument,
so without another word I
pushed her into the covered stairway. The lead Blackshirts were about forty
yards away, and for now they'd given up shooting, no doubt confident they'd
soon catch us. Coming up the rear was Hubble, pushed by McGruder in that
ridiculous perambulator, waving his arms and bitching orders as he bumped over
the cobblestones. With one last look, Muriel scuttled up the steps.
At the top of them, a short tunnel led back under the bridge's roadway, and
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another flight of stairs went up to the bridge approach itself. Our footsteps
echoed around the damp walls together with the sound of our own laboured
breathing and even before we'd reached the second flight of stairs I heard
pounding feet and shouts coming after us. By now we were running on adrenaline
- my old ally - and I could only pray it'd sustain us for a little while
longer.
Up the stairs we scrambled, both of us using the iron rail set in the brick
wall to pull ourselves forward, my other arm clamping the canvas bag against
my side to stop it bouncing around. We burst into bright sunlight again and
the bridge's north tower loomed over us, battleship-grey suspension
girder-chains on either side of the roadway rising away from us in great,
swooping slopes towards the upper reaches.
With its stone cladding, arched windows, mouldings and niches, turrets at each
corner, the tower resembled some sinister Gothic castle straight from a creepy
Grimm's fairy tale. Fairy tale? Hell, with its shallow balcony near the top
and spires and finials around the roof, it felt as if we were making straight
for Bela Lugosi's town house. Bloodsuckers our tails, a virtual mountain to
climb ahead of us, I closed on my mind and kept going.
Through the great archway at the base of the tower where traffic once flowed
onto the bridge itself we could see a huge concrete wall plugging the gap.
Rusted buses, trucks, and automobiles still queued before it as though waiting
for the bascule (that concrete wall was the raised bridge section itself) to
lower so they could continue their journey into the city's southern sprawl. On
the other side of the bascule was a sheer drop to the river below and directly
opposite was the underside of its sister bascule, this one also raised and
standing erect against the south tower.
Beside the archway was a narrow flight of stone steps leading up to an inset
doorway, and this was the entrance into the tower, which I wanted to be inside
before the mob got too close. Once there, it meant a long haul to the fourth
level where the high walkway that spanned the river, joining both towers,
would take us across. Although it would be a tough climb for us, I knew it
would be even tougher for those unhealthy freaks on our tails.
Along the approach we raced, traffic that would never move again on our left,
a thick, ornamental iron rail to our right, howling Blackshirts hard on our
heels, and blue skies and dead city all around. Somehow it felt as though I
were taking it all in for the last time: the battered, broken rooftops across
the city, those wrinkled balloons sagging in the sky, buildings that used to
be thriving warehouses now empty shells along the river's edge, bent and
crumpled cranes, boats and barges still moored to quaysides, stirring in the
drift. Three years I'd remained in this open mausoleum when survivors with
more sense had fled, three years of tidying the streets and getting nowhere.
D'you still remember the point of it all? the familiar sneaky little voice
inside my head jeered. And if you did, was it still worth the effort? Forever
hunted by
sick people turned to vampirism, hiding away like an animal, killing just to
stay alive, always vigilant, always afraid, carrying on the war when it should
have finished with the Blood Death genocide. Did it make any sense at all? No,
'course it didn't, none whatsoever. Sally was gone, she knew nothing of this
even though your obsession was because of her. Her and ... well, you know.
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