Stephen Baxter - The Massacre of Mankind

Cook’s cave, of course, was not natural, but it was not the rough quarry I had expected. For the most part we followed a neat tunnel, with flat floor and vertical walls rising up to an arched roof over our heads. As Mary had said, the way was well lit with candles and smoky oil lamps; the light was good enough for me to see the marks of individual picks in the walls – the signatures of workers already two hundred years dead, I supposed.

This tunnel opened out into a couple of chambers, one of which had subsidiary passages going on out of sight, like a maze. Then we turned a sharp right, into another, still larger chamber. This cave turned out to be called, locally, the ‘Hall’. And here it was that Cook and this Mary had made their home, their nest.

There was no bed, but a mattress heaped with sheets and blankets lay on crates – I imagined the labour of hauling down a decent bedstead. A robust table and chairs looked like the foldout military types people brag about being meant for use on campaign. Clothing hung from coat racks or rested in open trunks. There seemed to be no facility for cooking, and I would learn there was a kitchen range closer to the entrance to the caves, where a chimney had been improvised. Water stood in buckets, and I would learn there was a kind of chemical toilet. It would take some labour to survive down here, I realised at once, lugging water in and waste out. Cook must think the concealment worth it.

The heating came from a stove fed by bottled gas, with a kind of vent set in the wall above to carry away the waste fumes. As, so we would be told, we were three hundred feet underground at the cave’s deepest point, I had, and still have, no idea how Cook had managed to arrange for this bit of ventilation – perhaps via some natural crevice. But he had been in the horse artillery, I remembered; such men develop practical skills.

Clearly a great deal of care had been taken to secure this place, both, I supposed, against the hostility of humans who might not love Cook, and the Martians who could do no more than tolerate him. And the reason for all this care and attention to detail became obvious. A small child sat in a cot, in the middle of the chamber, raised up above the cold floor. The little girl could not have been one year old, but when she saw us approach she grabbed the bars of her cot and tried to stand.

‘Oh, how adorable.’ Verity took a reflexive step forward.

‘You keep off of her.’ That was Cook.

I turned, startled; he could have been only paces behind us as we came down the corridor. Now he stood at the entrance behind us, dimly lit, revolver in his hand.

Verity raised the hand that was free of the sling. ‘Look – I’m not a nurse, but I’m a VAD, trained as such. You know what that means, Bert. And I’ve had to learn fast about the care of children and infants since I got stuck in Abbotsdale.’

‘There’s nothing wrong with her,’ Mary said defensively.

‘But it can’t do any harm to let me look.’ Verity glanced around at the cave. ‘Are you down here all the time? I mean, I don’t suppose she sees much of the sunshine – or of doctors. There might be vitamin supplements which—’

‘You leave us be!’

Cook was more placating; he holstered his revolver and walked forward. ‘Now, Mary, don’t take on. I don’t believe she means any ’arm.’

‘That’s true,’ I said. ‘For she’s only here by accident. It’s me who’s been trying to get to see you, Bert – and I’ve come on quite a journey to do that, if you want to know. Poor Verity’s just been dragged along in my wake, so to speak.’

Verity grinned. ‘Nice way to speak of someone who helped save your life.’

‘You know what I mean.’

Cook rubbed Mary’s back. ‘If she wants to look Belle over – well, let ’er, she might do some good. People are there to be exploited; if they volunteer for the purpose, then use them.’

I shared a glance with Verity. I had not expected to find he had a secret family, but that remark about ‘exploited’ was the authentic Bert Cook.

‘But not just now, eh?’ He began to strip off his garb, the coat, the legal wig, the mayor’s chain. ‘Mary, isn’t it time for ’er feed? You see to that, and I’ll rustle up some supper.’

Somewhat resentfully, Mary took the baby from her cot, and walked past us, deeper into the cave complex and out of sight. The baby, wide-eyed, stared at us as she passed in Mary’s arms.

Bert Cook tried to be a host, in his own extraordinary way. ‘Sit there,’ he said, pointing to the fold-out table. ‘Now, if I turn my back to rustle up some grub, can I trust you two not to pull any stunts?’

‘Oh, don’t be ridiculous, Bert,’ I said wearily as I sat down. ‘You know me, at least. None of us are story-book heroes.’

‘Very well,’ he said, though he sounded cautious. ‘And I suppose I should remember my manners. We don’t ’ave guests for dinner very often, as you can imagine.’ He cackled. ‘The odd rat, but Mary sees to them with a spade or a broom.’ He started digging out packets of food and tin plates from one of the trunks as he spoke. ‘Funny sort of place, isn’t it? The caves. Read up on ’em once I acquired ’em. Chap who dug ’em out supposedly ran satanic rituals down ’ere. Nah, I don’t believe it; ’e was a traveller, a rake, a bit of flash; I think ’e was cocking a snook. Good story though, eh? And besides, what could be more devilish than the Martians? And they’re no legend.

‘Are you thirsty? The water in the buckets is clean. As for grub, it’s bacon and spuds and beans.’ He leered at me. ‘From the farmers. They pay me to keep the fighting-machines away. Leave offerings, like. ’Course, some are more compliant than others. We get it all cooked up, we do it in batches on the range – that’s out by the door – we cook when it seems safe, then scoff it cold. And a mug of tea.’ He set a kettle on the gas stove. ‘Your brother-in-law did feed me that night in Maybury, all those years ago, in the middle of the First War. Albert Cook pays ’is debts.’

So we sat and ate cold meat and bread in the cave. The food made us calm and relatively companionable, as a shared meal always will – a bit of common humanity. I even made them a gift of the caddy of Indian tea I had taken from the villa.

I asked tentatively, ‘How did you come to this, Bert? And Mary. Why do you hide away?’

‘Wouldn’t you? If you did what I do.’

‘I’m not sure what it is you do, Bert.’

He turned a knife, casually, but point first at Verity’s chest. ‘ She knows. If I let you go, you’ll skedaddle off back to Abbotsdale and tell all them soldiers and nobs where I am, and maybe they’ll tell the authorities outside, the soldiers and the government, and next thing you know they’ll be flushing me out like a rat. And that won’t do, will it?’ He eyed her, more calculating. ‘The only option being for me not to let you skedaddle out of ’ere at all – ain’t it?’

Verity looked at him with contempt and, I thought, some courage. ‘I’m not going back to Abbotsdale – not for now. I’m going to stick with Julie, and she wants to go on into the Martian pit – don’t you?’

In fact we’d never discussed such plans, not so bluntly, Verity and I, not since we’d been thrown together.

Bert raised his eyes at that. ‘And?’

‘And she thinks you can get her in there. Because you come and go, Bert, you come and go.’

I forced a smile. ‘Come on, Bert. Tell us the tale . There’s nothing you like better than to talk about yourself, I know that much.’

He looked at me, startled, and a disarming grin spread across his face. ‘You know me better’n I know myself, I think. Ha! Very well, then. But if you ever write it down—’ and now he pointed the knife at me ‘—make sure you have it true, this time.’