Реджинальд Хилл - Matlock's System

“I’ll count three,” he said. “The first one will be in his stomach.”

He didn’t even have to start counting. Quietly the man went to work.

It was four-ten.

Matlock watched him closely. Video-tape equipment on a small scale was sufficiently common in households now for him to have some idea of what the man was doing. He might even have been able to manage it himself but it would have taken him much longer. Too long.

As it was, it was after four-twenty when the job was finished. But he still had to check. He picked up the stretch of tape which had been removed.

“Now play this,” he said.

It was the right piece. He pressed the accelerator switch and it whizzed across the screen at a great rate.

It was nearly four-thirty.

“Where are the unused tapes?” he asked. “The other three versions of this?”

The man took him to a store cupboard and silently pointed out three cylinders. Matlock saw his name on them. Quickly he removed the tape from each and replaced the cans on the shelf.

Distantly he heard the two-tone bell. Someone had arrived.

“Pick him up,” he said, pointing to the unconscious youth. “Now let’s go.”

They made their way out of the studio, down a long corridor and up a flight of stairs.

Behind them doors were opening and shutting.

“Angus!” cried a voice. “Are you there? Where are you man?”

Matlock pressed his gun to the unconscious man’s throat.

“Answer him,” he said.

“I’m up here, Jimmy,” called the man.

“Tell him you’ll be off home in a minute. Tell him to enjoy himself. Be natural!”

“I’m just off, Jimmy,” the man called again. “See you later. Enjoy yourself.”

“I will,” came the reply. “When I sign off, I will!”

Silence fell. Matlock listened long enough to make sure no one was after them.

“On we go,” he said.

They stopped finally in a small office which did not look as if it received very frequent use. Matlock still did not know what to do with these men. Perhaps it was his very concern with this problem which helped him solve it. The older man, Angus, had laid his friend on a desk. As he turned he must have noticed the break in Matlock’s concentration. Or perhaps he had just reached the point of desperation. Whatever the cause, he leapt forward. He might have succeeded if he’d been faster, come in lower, used his feet. Instead he came swinging a punch at Matlock’s head like an old-fashioned pugilist.

Matlock shot him twice before the blow could land, and fired a third time as he fell. This shot burned a hole in the side of the young man’s head.

An accident. Matlock mouthed the words silently as though they could help. But he knew how little of an accident it was.

There was a key on the inside of the door. He took it out and locked the room behind him as he left.

All he had to do now was keep out of the way till the broadcast was over. It would probably have been as safe as anything for him to have remained in the transmission building, but something drove him out into the fresh air. He paused only to drop the rolls of tape he was carrying into a refuse shaft. Then he abandoned caution for a while as he strode down into the town again, feeling the fresh east wind clutching at his cheekbones. But once the buildings began to grow up around him again, he realized just how foolhardy this was and turned away from the broad thoroughfare he was approaching into darker, meaner streets that would have been a Curfew Area in England.

Here, he thought, there will be less chance of recognition, more chance of finding somewhere to hide. But as he turned out of the narrow streets to go down an even narrower, darker passageway between two ancient buildings, he cannoned into a long, stooping figure who cursed him violently in good, broad Scots at first, then stopped, peered closely at him and said in perfect English, “Dear God. Matlock!”

“Oh, no,” said Matlock. “Not you too.”

“I’m afraid so,” said the man as he thumbed his force-gun to stun and applied it to Matlock’s head. “Sorry, Matt. But you’re going to have to come back and answer for yourself.”

Matlock made a hopeless gesture towards his own gun, the force-gun popped gently and he fell forward into darkness and the arms of his one-time friend and agent, Colin Peters.

The first thing he saw as he clawed his way up out of darkness was the wall clock. It read nine-forty-five.

So it was over. Nearly three hours over. The broadcast would have been stopped of course. They must have checked. The invasion would have proceeded without it. Or perhaps they’d made copies of the tapes he’d destroyed. Perhaps they had just gone ahead according to plan. If they had, they might still want to use him. They might keep him alive a bit longer.

The thought came as no comfort to him.

He would have to face Lizzie again, he supposed. At least they would be rid of pretence. That was one thing he had done with, pretence. He had had enough of it forever. From himself. And from others. From professionals like Browning and the Abbot, you expected it. But Lizzie. And now, Colin. Colin! It just didn’t make sense. Browning’s police had captured him. He had seen them capture him, long ago, on that rooftop as he rose up in Francis’ helicopter.

The door opened and Colin came in.

“Feeling better?” he asked brightly.

“Better than what?” asked Matlock.

“Ah, you are feeling better. Smoke?”

“No thanks,” said Matlock, swinging his legs out of bed. He saw for the first time his clothes had been changed again. He was now wearing a kind of loose fitting house-suit.

Everyone’s at it, he thought. Stripping my clothes off as soon as I close my eyes.

“It’s nice to see you again, Matt,” said Colin.

“Yes. You showed it.”

“I’m sorry about that. I didn’t know.”

“Know what. And where am I?”

The room was strange and at the same time faintly familiar. He shook his head in an effort to clear away either the strangeness or the familiarity, but both remained.

Colin looked at him and laughed.

“Where are you? What a question. Here!” he said and reached up to the window and pulled up the Venetian blind.

For a moment Matlock thought he had fainted again. There stretched out before him was an unforgettable, unforgotten panorama.

It was the skyline of London. And from a familiar viewpoint.

He realized now where he was. He was in a room of the Prime Minister’s apartments in the House of Commons.

But something else struck him as well. The light outside. It wasn’t the light of late evening. It was the light of morning.

It was now nine-fifty-five in the morning.

He opened his mouth to speak, then closed it again. There wasn’t time to do anything. The Scottish machine was not the same as the English. It would have to be an operation. And why should they want to do anything in any case?

And why should he want anything done either? He was weary of it all. Now was the time to go.

But perhaps a few answers first.

“So you were with Browning all the time?” he said.

“With Security,” corrected Colin.

“And you weren’t captured on the rooftop? You were in pursuit?”

“I’m afraid so, Matt. I’m sorry, but I was just doing my job. You became quite a problem, you know. Browning was very concerned about you for a long time. You should have accepted his offer. He did everything in his power to persuade you. Why. I even had to blow a hole in your window with a force-gun to give you a scare!”

“That was you?”

“Yes. But without harmful intent. I thought you’d be still in the lounge. Browning really wanted you, you know. It wasn’t till I reported on your traffickings with the Abbot that he decided on the crash-budget and the security blitz. It was really all your fault in a way.”