that she'd be depending on me? Was having another life to consider going to bring about some kind of pattern to my own? I snapped out of it and scrutinized the yards directly below, making sure no one was creeping up on us down there.
A drop of maybe thirty feet below was No 26's back yard, half of it roofed over by several sheets of corrugated iron that was meant to keep the rain off the coal heap and rinsing mangle underneath; in the open section I could see a tap fixed to the wall and the door to the outside lavatory. All was quiet down there, as I'd expected, and I pushed myself straight, using the banister post on the landing to haul myself back.
The wooden stairs creaked as usual as I descended to the next landing, and I paused outside the door of the bedroom where Wilhelm Stern's cold body lay. I decided not to look in - what was there to see? The shrouded shell of what was once a very brave man? No thanks, not today - and went down to the ground floor, my left hand sliding round the thick central beam that rose from the corridor below to the landing at the top of the house. When I filled the kettle I noticed the water was running brown, something I hadn't been able to discern the night before. I shrugged and put the kettle on the gas cooker - boiling heat would kill any germs and we'd just have to put up with the taste. It was as I was reaching for the matches to light the canned gas that I heard the noise.
A scratching sound, coming from the corridor outside.
Mice? Rats? Tiny animals who were survivors like me? Creatures lurking behind the walls or under the floorboards? As I struck the match, the noise came again. And this time I realized it was coming from the front door.
Blowing out the flame, I made my way round the Morrison shelter to the window. I leaned between the withered flowers and wireless set on the sideboard and peered through the parted curtains. The street outside was empty.
The quiet yelp I heard next had me scooting into the corridor and drawing the bolts of the front door I'd locked in the early hours of that morning. Turning the key and without thinking, I pulled the door open and there was Cagney sitting in front of the doorstep, his paw raised to scrape the painted wood again.
He howled when he saw me, but it was a small, exhausted sound, and he tried to stand on all fours, his tail twitching in a feeble attempt at a wag. He almost toppled over with the effort and I saw that his haunches and back legs were covered in blood, the pavement underneath him sticky with the stuff. There were bloody stripes across his back and flanks, as if someone had taken a whip or thin stick to him.
'Oh Jesus, boy...' I dropped to one knee and Cagney tried to lick my face. 'What have they done to you?'
Opening up my arms to him, I leaned forward and he shuffled towards me, desperate for my comfort, the drool that sank to the ground from his jaw flecked with red. Bad thoughts surged through my mind just then, a deepening rage welling inside me that was only contained by my pity for the half-dead mutt that was my friend and companion.
'Cagney -' I began to say, when the doorframe beside me erupted into a powdery flurry of splinters.
I fell back into the corridor, the machine gun's roar and wood shrapnel shocking me off balance. The second burst of gunfire caught Cagney full-on and small explosions ripped open his back, lifted him, his agonized shriek piercing the air over the sound of the bullets.
This time I screamed his name, knowing when the last bullet tore open his head he was already dead.
His quivering body slumped across the threshold and I had no choice, no matter how much I loved that dog, self-preservation taking over and instinctively making me kick him out again. With nothing to jam the door now, I kicked it shut.
Bullets pierced the thick wood, showering me with splinters, thin rays of sunlight penetrating the tiny holes to shine through the dim, dust-filled air like a dozen narrow flashlight beams. I heard footsteps on the cobbles outside and something slammed against the door, shaking it so hard I feared it might fall inwards. Taking a chance, I reached up for the key, twisting it in the lock, then I scrambled away from those beams of light, rising to a crouch as someone began to prise open the door's vertical letterbox.
From the room beyond the partition wall came the sound of breaking glass.
I fled up the stairs, taking them three at a time, cursing myself for stupidly leaving the pistol beside the bed, reaching the first landing as furniture crashed over in the room below and more bullets bit into the tough front door, probably around the lock itself. Something smashed and I knew they were inside.
On the first landing I ran into Cissie, who was barefoot and - beautiful, gutsy lady - was clutching the gun I'd left behind.
Running footsteps and shouts along the corridor below.
Snatching the gun from her, I pushed Cissie up, barely giving her the chance to turn. She tripped, but regained her balance instantly, using her hands on the stairs above to help herself climb.
I paused only long enough to lean round the stout centre post and shoot at the leading shadow below.
The shadow's owner hesitated, reluctant to risk the next bullet, and it gave us time to gain the top landing.
'How did they find us?' Cissie cried, clutching at me. 'I thought they didn't know this place.'
'They followed Cagney,' was all I could tell her as heavy boots pounded the stairs. I realized the Blackshirts must have caught Cagney back there at the hotel, trapped him in a room, as likely as not, just in case he might come in useful. They'd beaten the poor mutt, half-crippled him so's he couldn't move too fast, and then they'd let him go in the hope he'd head straight for one of my sanctuaries. And Cagney knew my routine, even if I wasn't properly aware of it myself. Ysee, I always came here after the Savoy, it was a rut I'd subconsciously fallen into over the years. The palace, the hotel, downgrading to Tyne Street, from there to an apartment near Holland Park, back to the palace to repeat the process. It could've been natural instinct that had brought Cagney after me, but I figured it was more likely to be the set agenda, one he'd gotten used to. And of course, he'd used the alleyway to get to the house as we always did, a route I believed would be invisible to the enemy, bringing his trackers with him. Hubble had gone with his hunch, and it'd paid off. What I couldn't understand was why he'd gone to so much trouble now that he had a healthy blood supply.
Machine-gun fire sprayed the wall next to the landing window opposite us and Cissie screamed as she backed into the tiny bedroom with its single cot behind us. I caught her arm and hauled her back out onto the landing, firing four shots over the stout balustrade to give the Blackshirts something more to chew on.
Their reply was another burst of machine-gun fire that smacked into the ceiling over our heads, dislodging plaster and fragments of timber.
It suddenly dawned on me. These lunatics weren't out to capture me - hell no, they didn't need my blood any more. This time they were out to kill me. Call it revenge, anger over the killing of some of their own by me and the dance I'd led them over the years, or maybe just plain envy because I had something they hadn't - good, wholesome, disease-free blood. These boys were out to nail me once and for all -and I guess that included anyone who was with me.
'Cissie,' I said, more calmly than I felt, 'We're gonna jump.'
She looked at me as if I were crazy. Then her gaze went to the open window and panic took over. She tried to yank her arm away.
There's a roof just below,' I said quickly, holding her tight 'Well be okay. Just trust me.'
Bullets thudded into the plaster ceiling again and chipped wood off the edge of the landing. Gunsmoke rose from the stairwell, its cloud mingling with the floating white dust. There were more excited shouts down there and one or two banshee screeches. Heavy boots clumping on wood, single, wild shots. They were coming up.
'Now, Cissie,
She came with me, no hesitation at all, hopping across the gap onto the window's deep ledge, our figures blocking the light for no more'n a fraction of a second as bullets shattered glass and frame beside us. We were gone, dropping like stones through the air, falling in an eternity of dread that took maybe three seconds, possibly less, the corrugated roof rushing up to meet us.
We both yowled in terror as the old, rotted iron gave way beneath us, a neat section breaking off like a
