Sean Gabb: The Churchill Memorandum

“Can this thing be turned off, Michael?” I asked, still looking at his bomb. There were dozens of buttons, and that counter was going down with surprising speed.

“The short answer is no,” he said without looking back. “Once the six digit code is keyed in, the countdown can only be stopped by unscrewing the main panel—which, in any event, is booby trapped. These things are not made with safety in mind once they activated. But why would you wish to stop the countdown?”

“Just wondering,” I said. I moved quietly round so that the bomb and the bench on which it sat covered about three quarter of my body. I looked harder at the panel, and tried to understand the Russian words and letters that seemed to explain the use of each button. There were dozens of them. Except for those that were numbered, each might have meant anything or nothing. I gritted my teeth and pushed a button at random. If it was supposed to do anything, it didn’t show on the display. I pressed another with an arrow on it that pointed upward. Now, the time on the display dropped a whole minute. I pressed it again and again. The time dropped by two minutes.

Foot must have heard the gentle accompanying beeps. Already on the lower steps up to the main cellars, he now froze. He turned back to face me. He pointed his revolver at my head.

“Get away from that panel,” he said sharply. He drew back the hammer and squinted as he took aim. “I may have left my killing box upstairs. But, if you press one more of those buttons, I’ll shoot you on the spot.” I squatted down behind the bench. My head was now covered by the bomb. I couldn’t see the buttons on its panel. But I knew well enough where they were. I pressed the relevant button again. We must now have been down to sixteen minutes.

“Put the gun down, Michael, and stand over against that wall,” I said. I pressed the button again. We hadn’t more than fifteen minutes now—perhaps less. “If I take this down another ten minutes, you might as well sit where you are, and put your head between your legs, and kiss your arse goodbye.” I let the fingers of my right hand wave provocatively just above the panel. I was sure he could see them. I heard shoe leather scrape on the floor of the cellar.

“If you move another inch, Michael,” I shouted, “I’ll keep that button pressed until it’s gone all the way down. Do you suppose it will go down to zero? Or will it give you a minute’s grace, so you can die above stairs amid Harold’s pictures and the potted plants? Throw the gun over here, and come with me. We’ll get everyone out into the drive, and you can call the surrender.”

“Look, Anthony,” Foot began. He cleared his throat and started again in a most reasonable tone. “Look, we’ll never get everyone out of this house in time. And it’s bloody murder outside. You really shouldn’t imagine that anyone, on either side, will pay attention to me this far into the battle.

“Anthony, I’ve a better idea. I’ll take out all my bullets and put the gun down. We’ll then walk out of here together. We still have time to get upstairs. Or do you want to be the man who killed yourself and me, and everyone else in this house?”

“I want your gun, Michael,” I repeated with serene conviction. “Whatever the risk, we’ll do it my way. If you come any closer, or try running upstairs, I’ll blow us all up. I’d rather not—but sooner that than let you make that submarine meeting. We’re wasting time as it is. Would you like me to take us down another minute?” I poked my right hand an inch above the cover of the bomb and let my fingers wave about.

“You’re a bloody fool, Markham,” Foot shouted. I heard the snap of his revolver as he pulled the cylinder out. I heard the sound above my head of bullets thrown against the wall. “You can put your head out now,” he called. I looked. He was standing about a dozen feet away. He held the unloaded gun in his right hand. As I poked my head higher beyond the cover of the bomb, he laughed bitterly and tossed the gun out of reach.

“Come on, then Markham,” he jeered, taking up a fighting pose. “Let’s do it fair and square, like in those shite novels that form the ballast of your mind. It’s you against me. If you win, you and everyone else gets a chance out in the drive, and you can hand me over to Powell when he comes through the gates in his armoured car. If I win—well, you can at least tell yourself you tried.”

I broke wind again. Whatever I’d been thinking upstairs, I hadn’t supposed this would come to personal combat. I looked at Foot. He was pushing forty six, and—even forgetting his lungs—didn’t look in very good shape. On the other hand, there was something confident about that fighting pose. He’d squealed for mercy the night before to Pakeshi. But Pakeshi had been armed and in total control. Now, Foot looked as relaxed and confident as any man can be who knows he has only limited time for crushing his opponent.

I took a deep breath and ran out from behind the bench. I took another breath and let out what I hoped was a fearsome cry. I launched myself at Foot. He stepped aside as I reached him, and let me crash into some broken cane furniture that was stacked in a corner. I heard him laugh as I pulled myself upright and wheeled round to face him. He was over by the bomb and was pressing buttons. A relieved smile on his face, he turned back to face me.

“You can’t stop the countdown, Anthony,” he cried triumphantly. “But you can reset the manual override. I still don’t have forever to dispose of you—but we are back where we should have been if you hadn’t made your brave but ultimately futile gesture.” He took off his spectacles and placed them on the bench. Without them, he looked younger and far less human. Though he blinked as he stepped forward, there was something low and predatory about him. I tried to stop shaking and stood up. I clenched my fists and tried to remember what I could of my last attempt at boxing. That had been in 1946, when I thought Briggs Minor had broken my nose. The oceans of drink I’d soaked up suddenly ebbed away, and exhaustion mingled with total clarity of mind. I could imagine how stupid I looked, as I bounced up and down and threw short punches at the air. In other circumstances, I might have joined in Foot’s mocking laughter.

But now he fell silent. He held up both hands to his chest and stretched their fingers wide and straight. He looked at his hands and rubbed them together. He put them close together as if he had them about a throat. Keeping hands held in this position, he stretched his arms in my direction. He put back his head and howled. It was like a wolf in the zoo—no, it was like the monster in the most horrid German horror film. He howled again and rushed at me, hands still held out as if they already had my throat cupped in them. Oh, forget German horror films—forget the worst childhood nightmares from which you wake up screaming uncontrollably. This was indescribably worse. I saw the mad eyes, the mouth pulled open tight, the outstretched hands. Across the fifteen feet or so that had separated us, he raced straight towards me. From the corner of one eye, I saw the shadow he cast from the cold brightness of the chemical lamp.

As he came close, I bounced aside. Still bouncing up and down, I lashed out with a parody of a right hook. I got him on the nose. Hardly thinking what I’d done, I got him a left on the upper jaw that spun him about. Uncomprehending, I saw him lurch back and overbalance onto the floor. Now squealing as he had with Pakeshi, he had both hands cupped over his nose. As he straightened himself and sat up, he took his hands away and looked at them. They were covered with blood from the vessel I’d managed to burst in his nose. He whimpered and scrabbled his shoes on the brick floor as he pushed himself back against the wall and looked again at his bloody hands. For one lunatic moment, I did think of walking over to him and telling him to get up and fight like a man. But, as said, the alcoholic tide had fully ebbed. I looked across the room. I was now on the far side from the steps. I had a thought—if I could get past Foot and up the steps, I could lock him into this cellar. Now he’d cancelled my own interventions, we must still have at least eighteen minutes till the bomb went off. In that time, I could arrange something with those scared, sobbing creatures up in the hall. I could try to make sure Foot had no more victims that night.