Tom Sharpe - Blott on the Landscape

He was woken at one o’clock by a noise outside. It was a very slight noise but it awoke in him some instinct, an early-warning system that told him that there were people outside. He got out of bed and went to the window and peered into the darkness below. There was someone at the foot of the left-hand column. Blott went across the room to the other window. There was someone in the Park too. They must have climbed the fence to get in. Blott listened and presently he heard someone moving below. They were climbing up the side of the Lodge. Climbing? In the dark? Interesting.

He crossed to a cupboard and took out the Leica and the flash gun and went back to the window and leant out. The next moment the entire side of the Lodge was a brilliant white. There was a cry and a thud. Blott went to the other window and took another photograph. This time whoever it was who was clinging to the side of the arch shut his eyes and clung on. Blott put the camera down. Something stronger was needed. What would make climbing difficult? Something greasy. He went into his kitchen and came out with a gallon can of cooking oil and climbed the ladder in the corner of the room to the hatch in the roof. Then he crawled to the edge and began pouring the oil down the wall. There was a curse from below, the sound of slithering and another thud followed by a cry. Blott emptied the rest of the can down the back wall and went down the ladder into his room and shone a torch out of the window. There was no one on the side of the arch now. At the foot a number of men in army uniforms stared up at him angrily. They had blackened faces and one of them was lying on the ground.

“Is there anything I can do for you?” Blott asked.

“Wait till we get hold of you, you bastard,” shouted the Major. “You’ve broken his leg.”

“Not me,” said Blott, “I never touched him. He broke it himself. I didn’t ask him to climb up my wall in the middle of the night.”

He was interrupted by a sound from the other side of the Lodge. The sods were coming up there too. He went into the kitchen and fetched two cans of cooking oil and repeated the process. By the time he had finished the sides of the Lodge were streaked with oil and two more climbers had fallen.

Down below there was a muttered conference.

“We’ll use the grappling irons,” said the Major.

Blott peered out of the window and shone his torch on them. There was an explosion and a three-pronged hook shot past him on to the roof and stuck in the barbed-wire. It was followed by another. Blott raced into the kitchen and grabbed a knife. A moment later he was on the roof and had cut through one rope. He crawled under the wire and cut another. There was another thud and a yell. Blott peered over.

“Anyone else coming up?” he asked. But the army was already in retreat. As they carried their wounded back across the suspension bridge and up the road Blott watched them wistfully. He rather regretted their going. A full-scale battle would have been marvellous publicity. A full-scale battle? Blott went to the cupboard where he kept his armoury. He would have to act quickly. Then he climbed up on the roof and let down the rope ladder. Ten minutes later he was standing on the suspension bridge with the Bren gun.

As the commandos trudged back up the road towards their transport at the Gibbet they were startled to hear the sound of automatic fire behind them. It lasted for several seconds and was repeated again and again. They stood still and listened. It stopped. A few moments later there was a much larger thump and it was followed by a second. Blott had tried out the PIAT and it still worked.

At the Hall Lady Maud sat up in bed and struggled to find the light switch. She was used to the occasional shot in the night but this was something entirely different. A positive bombardment. She reached for the phone and rang the Lodge. There was no reply.

“Oh my God,” she moaned, “they’ve killed him.” She got out of bed and dressed hurriedly. The firing had stopped now. She phoned the Lodge again and still there was no reply. She put the phone down and called the Chief Constable.

“They’ve murdered him,” she shouted, “they’ve attacked the Lodge and killed him!”

“Killed who?” asked the Chief Constable.

“Blott,” yelled Lady Maud.

“No?” said the Chief Constable.

“I tell you they have. They’ve been using machine-guns and something much bigger.”

“Oh my goodness gracious me,” said the Chief Constable. “Are you sure? I mean couldn’t there be some mistake?”

“Percival Henry,” screamed Lady Maud, “you know me well enough to know that when I say something I mean it. Remember what happened to Bertie Bullett-Finch.”

The Chief Constable remembered all too well. Midnight assassinations were becoming a commonplace occurrence in South Worfordshire and besides Lady Maud’s tone had the ring of sincere hysteria about it. And Lady Maud, whatever else she might be was not a woman who got hysterical for nothing.

“I’ll get every available patrol car there as soon as possible,” he promised.

“And an ambulance too,” screamed Lady Maud.

Within minutes every police car in South Worfordshire was converging on the Gorge. At the Gibbet twelve men of the 41st Marine Commando, two of them with broken legs, were detained for questioning as they were about to leave in their transport. They were driven to Worford Police Station loudly protesting that they had been acting under the orders of the Area Commander and that the police had no legal authority to hold them.

“We’ll see about that in the morning,” said the Inspector as they were herded into their cells.

At the Lodge Blott climbed up his rope ladder and hauled it up behind him. He was delighted with his experiment. All the weapons had worked splendidly and, while it was impossible in the darkness to tell what damage they had done to the Lodge, the sound of splintering stonework had suggested that there was plenty of evidence to show that the army had carried out its assault with undue force and quite unwarranted violence. It was only when he was back in his room that he could see how effective the Projectiles Infantry Anti-Tank had been. They had blown two substantial holes in the frieze and the room was littered with bits of stone. Both windows had been blown out by the blast and there were holes in the ceiling. He was just wondering what to do next when he heard footsteps running down the drive. Blott switched off his torch and went to the window. It was Lady Maud.

“Don’t come any nearer,” he shouted, to lend verisimilitude to his recent ordeal and to tell her that he was unhurt. “Lie down. They may start firing again.”

Lady Maud stopped in her tracks. “Oh thank Heavens, you’re all right, Blott,” she shouted. “I thought you’d been killed.”

“Me? Killed?” said Blott. “It would take more than that to kill me.”

“Who was it? Did you get a good look at them?”

“It was the army,” Blott told her. “I’ve got photographs to prove it.”

By next morning Blott was famous. The news of the attack came too late to be carried by the early editions but the later ones all bore his name in their headlines. The BBC broadcast news of the atrocity and its legal implications were discussed on the Today programme. At one o’clock there were further developments when it was announced that twelve Marine Commandos were helping the police in their enquiries. During the afternoon questions were asked in the House and the Home Secretary promised a full Enquiry. And all day reporters and cameramen swarmed into the Gorge to interview Blott and Lady Maud and to photograph the damage. It was clearly visible and extensive. Bullet holes pockmarked the entire arch, suggesting that the army’s fire had been quite extraordinarily wild. The heads of several figures in the frieze were missing and the PIATs had torn gaping holes in the wall. Even hardened correspondents used to the tactics adopted against the urban guerrillas in Belfast were astonished by the extent of the damage.