The Ironclad Prophecy (27 page)

CHAPTER TWELVE

“Hallo, Hallo! Here We Are Again...”

A
TKINS CURLED UP
against the bole of a tree, his pack by his side and his rifle clasped to his chest. He was weary to the bone, aching and stiff, but too tired to sleep.

He was acutely aware of Mathers. It was hard not to be. He sat cross-legged atop the tank on the driver’s cabin, surrounded by lighted candle stubs, still wearing his rain cape, splash mask and turtle helmet, which he never seemed to take off at all these days. He muttered to himself while the rest of his men slept fitfully below.

It was disconcerting, because he couldn’t make any sense of what Mathers was saying. Sat there in the candle glow, with the small night creatures buzzing and whining around him and crawling all over him, he just looked damn unnerving.

M
ATHERS IGNORED THE
pain. The unsettled feeling in his stomach was getting worse. The fumes from the engine seemed to be a balm for it, but the engine was off. He had already taken several slugs of distilled petrol fruit from his flask and that seemed to calm it. The problem was he was having to drink more and more of the stuff. Just inhaling the fumes was no longer enough. Now, as he sat here, small creatures of the night attracted to the flame swarmed around him. He let them crawl on him. Any one of them might have a bite that would kill him, but this was a test of faith. He could hear the voice of his god, Skarra, in their incessant buzzing. His god would protect him. All he had to do was give himself over to Skarra completely, without fear. He felt none. Even though he felt a myriad of scuttling legs, fluttering wings, stings and bites, he didn’t even flinch.

A
MONG THE MEN,
the fragile truce between the two groups of Tommies was barely holding, each group giving the other distrustful looks, as if just waiting for an excuse.

Atkins hated being stuck on a wild goose chase with an officer whose orders he couldn’t countermand. They should have been heading back to the encampment. God alone knew if it was still even there. He sat there, imagining a bloody slaughter as the chatts overran the trenches, and all because he hadn’t returned with the tank in time.

He glanced over at the tank crew, bivouacked beneath a tarpaulin strung out from the starboard sponson. Alfie Perkins was in the middle of them. He was lying down, his head propped on his hand, looking across the clearing to where Nellie Abbott slept, near Napoo. After a while, one of his crewmates poked him roughly and reluctantly he lowered his head.

Chandar lay curled up on its side, almost in a ball, like a woodlouse, a length of rope tying its ankle to a tree root, a formality to mollify the others. There had been several opportunities when Chandar could have escaped but had chosen not to do so. As harmless as the old Khungarrii duffer seemed to be, it was definitely hiding something, part of which involved him, and Atkins very much wanted to know what it was.

Porgy, Chalky and Pot Shot sat on watch by the fire, and Gazette, Gutsy and Prof lay sprawled out. Gutsy was snoring loudly enough to wake the dead.

Atkins watched as Porgy got out his deck of cards. It was no ordinary deck. Each card was a small photograph of a girl he claimed he had stepped out with, which was odd because there were at least two of the music hall sensation, Marie Lloyd, in there. When quizzed, Porgy just winked and called them ‘his jokers.’ He started showing them to Prof, trying to engage the depressed man’s interest, reeling off the stories of spooning attached to each one. Atkins grinned as Porgy slapped Prof’s hand away as he tried to have a closer look at a particular card. Porgy’s ambition was to collect enough to create a full deck of cards from them. Poor Porgy. He wondered how his mate would ever complete the set now.

Gazette turned over. “What’s up, Only, can’t sleep?”

“No, Gutsy’s farted.”

“Yeah, at least it’ll keep the beasts at bay.”

They watched the large Tommy roll over in his sleep smacking his lips contentedly, like a dog in front of a fire.

Goaded gently by the others, across the campfire, Chalky was in full flow. “The way I heard it, right,” he was saying in a low voice. Pot Shot leaned forwards conspiratorially and smiled encouragingly as he continued, “Only, Everson and Ketch had cornered Jeffries, right, and he was only in the chatts’ own temple planning to use it for his own black art. He had Nurse Bell tied to an altar and he was poised with a big knife, about to sacrifice her to the devil and it should have been a shoe-in ’cause Jeffries had no other weapons. So Lieutenant Everson tells Jeffries that the game’s up and that he was to give himself up and come with them, his silver dagger poised above Nurse Bell’s heart. But he laughs at them as he raises his hand, right? Like he was going to plunge the knife down, so the Lieutenant fires, right, and he shoots it right out of Jeffries’ hand. And he curses, but not in English like you or I –”

“Or an NCO,” said Porgy, winking at Gazette.

But Chalky was lost in his story now, conjuring his own retelling before the fire. “Aye, or a bloody NCO,” he acknowledged before plunging on. “He curses in a foul and ancient language what no one honest and God-fearing would understand, the language of devils, and he raises his arms like he was surrendering, like, but then there were this evil red glare in his eyes and he began chanting, and suddenly bolts of green lightning blasted out of his finger tips. The first blast got Corporal Ketch and he were, like, burnt to a crisp in an instant.”

Porgy nudged Prof. “Sends shivers down your spine don’t it? It’s like he was there.”

“Oh aye, and what happened next?”

“Well, then Only – that is, Corporal Atkins – takes a shot at Jeffries, but the mad magician just waves his hand and flings the bullets back at them through the air and one gives the Lieutenant a Blighty one, right in the shoulder. An’ then Jeffries starts saying as how if he can’t send Nurse Bell to hell then he’ll summon up summat to fetch her there. Then he starts to conjure a demon to kill them while he makes his escape and there’s a horrid green glow and a smell of sulphur as something from the inner circles of Hell begins to take shape...”

“Inner circles of Hell, I like that,” said Porgy, nodding with approval.

“...and Nurse Bell screams. And Only realises he has moments to act before the demon becomes as solid as you or I. So Corporal Atkins, not having no holy water or the Padre’s bible, decides he has to save the lieutenant the only way he can. That’s when he notices the magic circle Jeffries is stood in is made from salt, and he scuffs away the circle breaking the spell, like, before it’s complete. Enraged, the demon brings down the chamber before vanishing back into the Pit he came from. Then, with the chatts’ temple collapsing about him, the Corporal rescues Nurse Bell and the Lieutenant and pushes them down a shaft to safety. Then, he turns to Jeffries who is not best pleased at his evil plans being thwarted and all. The Corporal charges him with his bayonet but then Jeffries vanishes in a cloud of black smoke and a demonic laugh and Only – Corporal Atkins – vows:
By blood and sand, we’ll find you and when we do we’ll make, you send us home you diabolical fiend!
”

“It’s true,” said Porgy, wide-eyed and impressed. “He said them very words.”

“Blood and sand,” muttered Atkins. He hadn’t caught all of it, but he’d overheard enough. “Stop encouraging him, Porgy, that’s not how it happened and you know it,” he growled, turning his back to them and pulling his army blanket about him. Bloody hell, every time he overhead that story it got bigger with the retelling. He was pretty sure that soon his bloody bayonet would be Excalibur itself in disguise. If Chalky knew what kind of man his corporal really was he’d be severely disappointed.

S
OFTLY, ALMOST IMPERCEPTIBLY,
the nocturnal noises of the jungle segued into a dawn chorus as shrieks and cries and deep bass clicks gave way to bleary hoots, whistles, trilling and whoops, alerting the men to the slow, incremental creep of daylight.

Atkins woke, stiff and aching, to see Napoo squatting on his haunches over the fire. It appeared that the urman had already been up and caught breakfast, as he was cooking several small animals on skewers over the fire.

“Right, just off for me morning ablutions,” announced Gutsy, stepping into the undergrowth with his rifle.

“Keep an eye out for Jeffries!” came the usual riposte.

Atkins looked over at Mathers, still sat on top of the tank. He must have slept sitting up all night, his head lolling. Mathers’ head snapped up and turned to look at him through the eye slits.

Disconcerted, Atkins started like a guilty schoolboy and averted his gaze.

Chandar was silent. It hadn’t said much since their kidnapping. It was watching the tank crew pour the last of their petrol fruit fuel from the drums into the
Ivanhoe’s
petrol tanks in the two front track horns. Atkins wondered if Chandar was beginning to suss them out.

“It’s... an offering,” he suggested.

Chandar looked at him briefly then returned its gaze to the tank. It chittered to itself, and fingered the tassels on its shoulder robe, like the Padre telled his rosaries. It seemed to Atkins that the old chatt’s beliefs were being tested, though he couldn’t tell how. It seemed uneasy, and that made him nervous. If it were human, Atkins would have thought it windy. Even before their attempted abduction by the Zohtakarrii, something had agitated the chatt, something it was reluctant to share. Combine that with Mathers’ attitude, and Atkins felt this entire stunt was going to Hell in a handcart.

A
TKINS PERFORMED HIS
usual morning ritual. Every man on the Front Line had his little good luck ritual. Gutsy had his rabbit foot; Porgy had his deck of cards. Atkins had his letter. If he could still smell Flora’s perfume on her last letter, then he would be safe. However, for some days now, a week perhaps, the scent had been fading almost beyond his ability to sense it. Today he couldn’t smell it at all. He felt a rising panic before remembering that, back in the urmen’s ‘tank’ hut, Mathers had been drinking the petrol fruit, and claimed it heightened his senses; maybe he could sense any faint, lingering scent. As much as he loathed humbling himself before the tank commander, the appeal might go some way to appeasing him and smooth over the rift between them. It was worth a try. Besides, he
had
to know.

He ambled over to where the officer was inspecting his tank. The words almost stuck in his craw. “Sir, I – may I ask you a favour?”

The tank commander cocked his head to one side, intrigued, and invited Atkins to continue.

“I’ve got a letter from my sweetheart. I – I can’t smell her perfume anymore. I was wondering if you could tell me if there’s any trace of it left.”

“Hrm.” The masked subaltern seemed to consider the request. From the tone in his voice, the idea seemed to amuse him. “Let me see it.”

Reluctantly, Atkins took out the worn envelope from his tunic pocket and eased the sharply creased writing paper from it. Mathers snatched the folded note with more haste and less care than Atkins would have liked, and held it up to his chainmail and leather mask. He noticed the welts and insects bites on Mathers’ hands as he held the letter. Atkins heard a quick audible sniff from beneath the chainmail. Mathers’ head lolled back in a languorous manner, as he inhaled again, this time more slowly, deeper, relishing what he found there.

“Hey!” Atkins snatched the letter from his hands, scowling at the officer as if he’d just insulted the lady.

“Merely making sure, Corporal,” said Mathers, his head moving as though sucking up the last faint dregs of scent, his chainmail rattling faintly.

Atkins reverently slipped the letter back into its envelope and returned it to his pocket. “Is there anything left, sir?”

Mathers appeared to be lost in a reverie.

“Sir?”

Mathers looked at him. “Yes. I can still smell it.” He turned on his heel and went back to inspecting the tank.

Atkins sighed with relief. He hadn’t even been aware of holding his breath. He closed his eyes, tipped back his head to the heavens and offered a muttered, but heartfelt, thank-you. He would see the day out and that, at least, gave him some little comfort.

He returned to 1 Section, who were packing their gear and getting ready to move off, and approached Nellie Abbott.

“I’m worried about Lieutenant Mathers,” said Atkins. “Can you give him the once over? The last thing we need is a windy ruddy officer.” Nellie looked uncomfortable with the idea. Atkins pressed the point. “Look, Alfie’s life depends on this man. Do you really want that if he’s funked it?”

“That’s not fair, corporal.”

“Maybe not, Miss Abbott, but it’s true. Will you do it? If not for me, for Alfie?”

There was a stony silence and he felt himself wither under Nellie’s glare. Yet another thing of which he wasn’t proud. As she turned on her heel, he grabbed her earnestly by the wrist. “He’s been badly bitten by insects,” he confided. She looked down at the importunate hand on her wrist, arching an eyebrow, and he released her. With a dismissive huff, she strode over to Lieutenant Mathers, who was still inspecting the tank.