Elric to Rescue Tanelorn - Michael Moorcock [180]
“Jesus, don’t you think I wish that, too! But it wasn’t your fault. It wasn’t my fault. And your bloody brother died a hero’s death. It’s him you should be grieving for. You think too bloody much. You have to put it behind you. Now, stop moaning on, will you? Honestly, it’s really not cool to start up like this.” Patrick seemed to regret the harshness of his tone. “You know that as well as I do.”
He knows he’s condemned to silence for the rest of his life. Once you join the movement, you never retire. You’re “released from active service” and that means the movement looks after you until it needs you again. He has never before longed with such passion to be free of it all.
“Well, look at it this way, we got a bit of collateral. That thing will make it easier for us, eh?” Patrick goes to the table and hefts the heavy newspaper parcel.
They had just left the tram at Waterloo Bridge. Tony was going on a stop or two, would leave his bag under his seat and then get the train at Charing Cross. When the bomb went off they had both been thrown flat by the blast and as they got to their feet, trying to catch their breath back, it was as if they had had a vision. The glass of the silversmith’s was blown out and all the stuff in the window had been flung everywhere, apart from the one heavy object that had been central to the display and hadn’t shifted or been damaged. An instinct developed from a lifetime of looting moved Patrick to grab the thing and then run for it. When they met up later, they discovered that Tony, sitting downstairs at the front of the tram, still had the bomb on his lap when it went off.
“Have another bloody drink, man.” Patrick pours whisky into two glasses. “Go on.”
“It doesn’t work for me.”
“God, you’re a bloody morbid bugger! You’re bound and determined, aren’t you?” Patrick drains his own glass and takes the other. “It’s a waste of time! Put it behind you, mate.” He moves about the little room with impatient, aimless steps, as if his body tries to escape even as his brain tells him he has to stay. “This is guerilla warfare. Nobody wants the civilian casualties, but sometimes they happen. I don’t have to remind you. You taught me. Was it our fault that the bomb went off too soon? If your stupid brother had set the bloody timer right none of us would be in this jam now!”
“Well, he’s dead. And so are ten other people, mostly kids. Going home from the pictures on a Saturday night, looking forward to their tea.”
“Oh, man, will you stop it! You’re making it worse for yourself. Nobody was supposed to be hurt. The bomb should have gone off when the tram was in its shed. The sheds were supposed to be empty. The orders were clear. No casualties. Just do maximum damage to the turning plates. Our job’s to disrupt travel and communications, not kill kids.”
“But we did kill kids. And I can’t get them out of my head. I can’t stand the thought of another day of this! Oh, Jesus God, I want to be free of it, once and for all.” Again he saw the disturbed disapproval on Patrick’s face and fell silent.
“Well, you will be, any minute now.” Patrick showed great self-restraint. “Who is this bloke? You know him, don’t you?”
“He’s a German, I think. I’ve been in the same company as him once or twice.” He tried to keep his tone normal or at least controlled. “There was something odd about him. You can’t tell how old he is. But he must be older than he looks. Mick says he was the youngest colonel in the SS.” He sat back down in his chair, feeling a little better for talking. It took his mind off the bombed tram.
“After the war he went to South America and he was in Spain for a while and North Africa. He’s been running guns for as long as I’ve been in the movement. And he’s helped us with other stuff, of course. He was our main contact with Libya until that went sour. You could call him a soldier-of-fortune, a mercenary—I think he’s nothing but a renegade. He has no loyalties at all. No cause, no religion and, as far as I can tell, no damned conscience.”
“He sounds a superior sort