Реджинальд Хилл - Matlock's System

“I never trusted you, Abbot.”

“Indeed? Then I’m pleased I never voted for you or your party in my life.

“Well, recently things began to come to a head. I was influential in the movement, you understand, but not its leader. The Scots had been approached, not through me. I was much against it. I have reason to believe they are not very fond of me either.”

“They’re not,” said Matlock, remembering.

“Curious folk, the Celts. You see, what I wanted was not a revolution, but the threat of one. I wanted a gun to point at Browning should he look troublesome. But the gun was now cocked and it had a hair trigger. Matters were out of my hands, the climax was fast approaching. So I looked at my cards, then volunteered to be the one to contact the charismatic Matthew Matlock. You’ll be interested to know, Mr. Matlock, that not even the leaders of this motley gang of revolutionaries knew just how much or little you yourself knew. But you were our unifying factor, our rallying point. Under you, the Anti-A’s could move as one in a way they couldn’t under any other single individual.

“So I wanted you with me. I still couldn’t see which way was best to go. But with you, I had a double chance.”

“You mean, to use me as a figurehead, or to trade me in to Browning?”

“Exactly. But Browning moved too quickly for me. My intelligence service was limited. He squashed the plot and got you. Your value to me was less now, but still worth a risk — your risk — to get hold of. So Francis brought you out and here you are.”

Matlock closed his eyes and was surprised to find he could almost have slept.

Oh Lizzie, Lizzie, he thought, I long for your arms to shelter me from these men who turn me, and turn me, and turn me again, till I face the way they want, but never know which way that is.

“Are you all right?” asked an anxious voice.

He opened his eyes. The Abbot now stood beside him, his face all benevolent anxiety. The oak panels glowed gently in the shifting light of the flames. All seemed well. Even the flickering whiteness of the monitor screen seemed safe, domestic. He shook his head.

“What now, Abbot?” he asked. “Why do you tell us all this? What has happened?”

“Yes, Abbot,” came Carswell’s voice. “I guess you’ve been with Browning these last few days. What have you been up to?”

The Abbot smiled and rested his fingertips together to form a Norman arch.

“True, Brother. I have been negotiating with him. And very amenable I have found him. He doesn’t want trouble at this point in time. His position is precarious enough as it is, though he has made a great deal of political capital out of the uprising that never was. Of course he has not mentioned that its main purpose was to overthrow the Age Laws.

No, he has subtly insinuated that its main purpose was to steal the property of, and rape the wives and daughters of, every good citizen. Fortunately, Mr. Matlock, he still regards you as a person of some importance. In the hands of the Scots, say, you could still guarantee sufficient support in the North to make an invasion feasible. So I have promised to keep you safe and sound.

“I did have to make a couple of concessions, Brother Adeste. One of them involves you, I fear. He fears for your health up here in this bleak place. A man of your age needs what comforts the South and the metropolis can offer him. He has sent a special escort of men with a long history of medical training to accompany you on your journey.”

Carswell stood up, slowly, as if his years had suddenly grown heavy on his shoulders.

“I will not go.”

“You must.”

“I will not. I will not. You bastard. You traitor!”

He turned and ran desperately to the door. Francis’ waiting arms wrapped round him and he kicked for a moment, then hung like a rag doll.

“Are they here, Francis?”

“Outside, Abbot.”

“Good. Give him to them.”

Francis turned and opened the door, Carswell didn’t struggle but turned his head as he was carried through and raised a limp arm towards Matlock.

“Matt,” he said, and again, “Matt.”

Matlock didn’t move. In the lighted square of the door over Carswell’s pathetic white hairs he saw two men, not robed but in suits, their dark-blue ties split down the middle by a thin silver line. One looked him straight in the face for a second, then the door closed behind Francis and they were gone.

“Abbot,” he said.

“I’m sorry about that, Matt — I may call you Matt now, I think — but ...”

“Abbot,” he interrupted. “Those men. Browning’s men. They saw me.”

A shadow crossed the Abbot’s face for a moment, but he then gave a smile.

“I take your point. They know you’re here. But not for long eh? We’ll move you along in a very short while. It’s all laid on. But first, and very important, we mustn’t forget your imminent birthday.”

“Abbot,” said Matlock, “you don’t know Browning as I do. You should do, but you don’t. You can’t. It won’t be hours. It might be minutes. You must stop those men. You must ...”

His protests died as the wall panel at which the Abbot had been fumbling moved away and out of the gap revealed there slid a shining silver machine.

It was a Heart Clock Adjuster.

“Just step over here please, Matt, and we’ll put you on a few years. We have to keep you alive now, don’t we?”

All Matlock’s fears came rushing back.

“It can wait a few moments, Abbot, but those men can’t. Get hold of them, for God’s sake.”

The Abbot hesitated.

“I fear you are exaggerating the dangers, Matt. Of course we don’t want Browning to know your exact whereabouts. But by the time those men make a report, he’ll know you could be anywhere. In any case they will not be allowed to leave without clearance from me.”

“You bloody fool,” screamed Matlock, his own fears suddenly, horribly, hardening to certainty. “Haven’t you seen a wrist-radio? Don’t you think Browning wouldn’t be happy to take this place apart if he thought he could get everyone here at one fell swoop?”

“He wouldn’t dare. We know too much. He wouldn’t dare.”

But the Abbot’s voice was full of uncertainty and suddenly he moved purposefully across to his desk-phone. But before he could touch it, it gave off a high-pitched urgent scream which only stopped when he picked it up.

“Yes,” he snapped, jabbing a button. The picture on the monitor leapt from the Church, where the acting-Abbot was saying the benediction, to the control room in the tower. A worried looking monk peered out towards them.

“Abbot,” he said, “something’s happening out by the gatehouse. We’re trying to get in close-up ...”

He dissolved before their eyes and the screen went blank. A split second later the floor rocked beneath their feet and a huge explosion blasted their ears.

“Dear God,” said the Abbot, white-faced. “Dear God!”

The door burst open and Francis rushed in.

“The tower. They’ve blasted the tower.”

“How, for God’s sake?”

“How should I know? Rockets, I think.”

He was shouldered aside by another monk.

“Abbot,” he cried. “They’re coming in. Helicopters full of men.”

Suddenly he and Francis stiffened together like some ghastly double act, then toppled forward into the room.

The Abbot stood stock still, but Matlock moved forward so quickly that he caught Francis’ gun before the dead monk hit the ground and revealed the smoking hole between his shoulders.

Matlock threw himself out into the corridor his finger pressed hard on the trigger. The speed of the attack surprised the two men who stood outside. One of them went down to the first burst of shots, the other dropped flat and took aim, but there was no time for aim.