A Plague of Hearts Page 3

  It was no surprise to the March Hare when he spotted the Caterpillar sitting on a mushroom, smoking hash from a brass hookah. He was seven feet of articulated splendour, from the bright amber of his face to the twin swirls of camouflage that met at the tip of his tail. As if to take refuge from his own brilliance, the caterpillar kept his head covered with a beret and looked out at the world through a pair of yellow sunglasses.

  ‘Morning,’ said the Caterpillar, as sanguine as ever. It seemed more a statement than a greeting. ‘What gives? I haven’t seen you around here for a long time.’

  ‘I was just passing through,’ said the March Hare. ‘I thought I’d stop by and say hello.’

  The Caterpillar nodded sagely. ‘Been a rum sort of morning,’ he declared, by way of conversation. ‘There’s an indefinable something in the air which is just plain uncool. I am talking about some really bad karma.’

  ‘How do you mean?’

  ‘I mean well. Always have done. But little girls freak me out.

  ‘I used to have this recurring dream when I was younger. I’d be the size of a normal caterpillar - just your typical pre-adolescent creepy-crawly - and there’d be this little girl who wasn’t so little to me. She’d have hands as big as cricket screens and teeth like bleached mainsails, and she’d pick me up from my mushroom and swallow me whole.’

  The March Hare pulled a face. ‘That’s spooky. It reminds me of a nightmare I once had where I was being boiled alive in a stew, drowning in a maelstrom of gravy and lentils.’

  The Caterpillar expelled twin plumes of marijuana smoke through his nostrils. ‘There was one here a while ago.’

  ‘One what?’

  ‘One little girl. She said she was from some place called England. I guess that makes her an Eng.’

  ‘You must mean Alice. I think she’s lost or something.’

  ‘You’ve met her?’

  ‘Yes. At the Mad Hatter’s tea party.’

  ‘Did she mention anything about the Big Cheese?’

  ‘The Big what?’

  ‘The Big Cheese. I sent her to see him. He’s the only one who can help her now.’

  The March Hare had no idea what the Caterpillar was on about. Probably some drug-induced fantasy. ‘I got the impression she was chasing after the White Rabbit.’

  ‘That would explain why she kept going on about the Great White Bunny. She was a strange one, you know. As barmy as an aardvark on acid. And she kept changing size. One minute she’d be knee high to a hemp plant, the next she was big enough to eclipse the sun.’

  ‘I expect she’s at that awkward age.’

  ‘She’s just plain crazy, if you ask me.’ The Caterpillar blew a smoke ring which rose up and settled around his antennae before dispersing in the still summer air. ‘Tell me, you ever hear of December?’

  ‘No. Where’s that?’

  ‘It’s nowhere. The little girl said it was a month.’

  ‘How strange.’

  ‘She also said there were months called January and August. Sometimes I envy the young. They’re the only ones who experience the world as it truly is, because they aren’t afraid to dream, to look beyond this pale facade we call reality.

  ‘But what freaks me out about that girl Alice is that she’s so obnoxious. I try to love everyone, but some people just weren’t made to be loved. Isn’t that sad?’

  ‘Not really,’ said the March Hare. ‘I think love’s kind of over-rated. I mean, it’s not much of a collector’s item, is it?’

  ‘Love,’ said the Caterpillar, ‘is the concept by which we measure our humanity. Without it, we might as well be rocks.’

  And with that, the Caterpillar must have said all he had to say because he suddenly fell silent.

  Standing on tiptoe, the March Hare peeked over the top of the mushroom and found him apparently fast asleep. The pale blue vapour which rolled from the Caterpillar’s hookah held a promise of release from cares and worries. As it faded into its own special oblivion, the March Hare felt as if he was watching a dream escape. It took an effort for him to turn away from the prospect of mild euphoria and temporary peace, and once he got going, he did not dare look back.

  If he was unable to escape the feeling of being watched, it might have been because of the compound eyes, hidden behind dark lenses, which followed his progress through the Pleasure Garden.

  Alone again, the Caterpillar whispered into the side of his hookah. ‘Number 33 calling Base. Number 33 calling Base. Are you receiving me?’

  As if choking on its noxious contents, the hookah spluttered twice then whispered back. ‘Reading you loud and clear, Number 33. Go ahead, please.’

  ‘The arrow is still on course. Should hit the target within the next hour or so.’

  ‘Roger, Number 33. Thanks for your help. Over and out.’

  ‘Yeah,’ said the Caterpillar. ‘Really far out.’

  *

  At the end of Bluebell Lane, where it met Hangman’s Drive, the March Hare boarded the Enigma ferry and sat on a wooden bench at the front of the boat. The Tired River stretched before him like a lazy yawn, perfectly at peace with itself and the world in general. He trailed his paw over the side, hoping that some of the river’s contentment might rub off on him.

  As the ferry set off, its only other passenger turned out to be the Grey Squirrel. He sat on the deck, looking at nothing in particular, a clutch of books brooding in his lap. His red and blue anorak clashed with the March Hare’s mood.

  The two animals had never gotten along. Their opposing personalities had seen to that. The Grey Squirrel took life seriously and did not easily suffer the opinions of others. An intellectual, he resented his lowly position in life, and was convinced that had he been human he would have risen to great heights. He certainly would not have spent his adult life serving as a librarian.

  The March Hare, on the other hand, enjoyed his job and gave little thought to promotion. He was also - he was the first to admit - a great lover of doing silly and trivial things.

  The ferry passed Cobbler’s Wharf. Stooping willow trees did their best to conceal the barbed wire that lined the river bank, but there was no hiding the machine-gun turrets and the concrete monstrosity which they guarded. Four great searchlights rested on the Bunker’s roof, electric owls waiting for night to fall.

  Signs were not needed to tell people to keep away. The towers and turrets spoke a language all their own.

  ‘A sad sight,’ said the Grey Squirrel. He had picked up his books and shuffled towards the March Hare. ‘They must have spent millions building that place.’

  The March Hare nodded. When he spoke, it was not out of politeness. He wanted the Squirrel to know that he too was aware of the Presidential Compound’s obscene significance. ‘I remember the warehouse that used to stand there and the meadow behind it. That was the Knave’s favourite picnic spot.’

  ‘They reckon the President hasn’t left the Bunker in over a year. I sometimes suspect he’s not even alive any more.’

  ‘He still makes television broadcasts.’

  ‘They can be faked. Who’s to say they don’t use a stand-in?’

  ‘For a Panda?’

  ‘Maybe there’s more than one Panda. Maybe they’ve cloned him.’

  ‘Highly unlikely. Peregrine Smith was the only man who ever knew how to create clones, and he’s dead. Thank God.’

  ‘I’ve heard rumours that he’s still alive and working for the government.’

  ‘And you believe them? I doubt that even the Panda would throw in his lot with someone as evil as Smith.’

  ‘You don’t seem to realise how ruthless these people are. They want to take over the world.’

  ‘Our Constitution forbids occupation of foreign countries.’

  ‘Constitution, my arse. Whoever’s running things in that Bunker doesn’t give a tinker’s cuss for the Constitution. He’s out of control! Were you aware, for instance, that the military has embarked upon a secret program to exterminate every gerbil
in existence? ‘

  The March Hare felt himself mentally recoil from the Squirrel’s words. They struck too close to his own thoughts for comfort.

  Was the Panda really capable of waging genocide against his own kind? It somehow rang true. What kind of a person was it who could keep himself locked up underground for months on end, never seeing sunlight, never breathing fresh, unprocessed air?

  And this was the very person who had signed the Knave’s arrest warrant.

  The Squirrel edged closer. ‘You’re on your way to Enigma, aren’t you?’

  ‘I would hardly be on the Enigma ferry if I weren’t.’

  ‘You’re looking for the Big Cheese.’

  It was the second time he had heard that name that morning. Who - or what - was the Big Cheese? ‘Actually I’m going to see Doctor Ormus.’

  ‘So am I. He should be expecting us.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because he’d know by now about what’s happened to our respective bosses. Yours has been arrested and mine’s been murdered by one of the Panda’s Death Squads. He was found this morning with piano wire wrapped around his throat. The police have already said it was suicide, but it strikes me as absurd that anyone would - or even could - kill themselves that way.’

  ‘But why should the Panda want to knock off the Royal Librarian?’

  ‘That,’ said the Grey Squirrel, ‘is what I intend to find out.’

  Chapter 4

  The Big Cheese

  The music filtering into the Conference Room filled the Panda with a vague nostalgia for something he could not name. Resting his elbows on his desk and his head in his paws, he reflected on how different his life might have been had he been human. Instead of twelve feet of reinforced concrete, there would be a sky over his head and perhaps a wife at his side. And children. Things his Generals took for granted.

  He doubted that he would have become President. Given a choice, he would have steered clear of politics and entered a more honourable - and less stressful - profession. It was not as if he even cared for the Party or its doctrines. They had asked him to stand as a bye-election candidate, hoping that his cuteness and apparent docility would win over at least the housewives. When he’d come through with a majority unheard of in recent times, it seemed only natural that he should set his sights on the party leadership and then the presidency.

  It had been easy. Ridiculously so. No struggle. No starving in the wilderness. It seemed that in politics cuteness was the key.

  So here he was, the youngest President in the entire history of Wonderland, a dictator who had come to power by virtue of two black eyes, a wet nose and a streak of ruthless cunning.

  The mahogany desk which supported his elbows was littered with maps and documents, well thumbed legacies of his years at the top.

  Just one match, he thought, a single flame and the will to use it and these papers become ashes. Then I can get up and walk away, disappear into obscurity, leaving behind only a smoke-filled room. I’ll tell my Generals and Party Big-Wigs that I’m going into retirement and they can find someone else to conquer the world for them.

  But, of course, it wouldn’t be that easy. The Panda was too important to be allowed to slip away.

  Leaning back in his chair - all velvet and leather - he opened the desk drawer and examined its contents. Everything in there, the chewing gum and the paper clips, the photo of himself as a youth wearing his school uniform - all these were covered by a fine film of dust. It made him feel old, as if he was dead and buried and all-but forgotten.

  What made me look in here? he wondered. His younger self stared up at him from the old photo, a reminder of things past and lost forever. In the picture, he was smiling. And in the background, the red brickwork of the Faraday Secondary School gave way to playing fields. There seemed to be a rugby match in progress; the players were blurred, out of focus, matchstick boys playing a game of no significance whatsoever.

  The President had been excluded from such games. The school governors had not liked having to allow animals into their school and were certainly not going to put the human children through the ordeal of sharing showers with them. For the most part, they did not even have to work with them. Separate classes. Separate rules.

  Suppressing a feeling of hurt, the President closed the draw and pressed a button on the side of his desk.

  The response was immediate and predictable. Like a well-trained circus dog, General Cartier appeared in the doorway then marched briskly forward, his face as bland as the buff folder tucked under his arm. He stopped in front of the President’s desk, clicked his heels and saluted.

  ‘This music,’ said the President, pointing to a speaker hanging on the wall. ‘What is it?’

  Cartier frowned. ‘I honestly don’t know, Your Excellency. I’m not really a musical person.’

  ‘No. You wouldn’t be, would you?’

  General Cartier made no response. It did not occur to him that he was being criticised. Snugly sheltered behind his uniforms and medals, he was sure of himself, certain he could hold himself against the strongest of verbal attacks. But his whole strategy depended on the attack being frontal and obvious. He was not a subtle man. Blood and thunder were the terms he thought in and that left him wide open and vulnerable.

  Which was why the Panda found him valuable.

  There was no danger of Cartier involving himself in quiet, complex conspiracies against the status quo. Such intrigues were beyond the grasp of his imagination. If Cartier was to turn on the Panda, it would be an all-out, nothing-held-back affair. One which could be spotted a mile off.

  Standing in front of the President, the General had no real presence. He was like a familiar piece of furniture, a lamp-stand without a bulb.

  Or, decided the Panda, a machine without a mind. ‘I want to ask you something.’

  ‘Excellency?’

  ‘And I want an honest answer from you. Understood?’

  ‘Of course, Your Excellency. My expertise is always at your disposal.’

  ‘I want to know if you think I’m cute and cuddly.’

  For a second, Cartier lost a layer of composure. The question hit him like a physical projectile, causing him to blanch. ‘Well,’ he said, and paused while he sought for an answer. Finally, he had one. ‘My wife, Mrs. Cartier, has often told me that you have a way of looking sad and vulnerable which she finds quite endearing.’

  ‘You mean she wants to mother me?’

  ‘You’d have to ask Mrs. Cartier that, Your Excellency.’

  ‘Maybe I will.’ The Panda decided to settle for an impasse. ‘All right, General. We’ll let the matter drop. I hear the Gerbils were busy again last night.’

  ‘They blew up an ammo dump in Bios - less than ten miles from here.’

  ‘And what action have you taken?’

  ‘We’ve set up several road blocks and are using as many men as we can spare to search the area. With any luck, we’ll have the blighters under lock and key by nightfall.’

  The Panda doubted it. But there were more important matters to worry about. ‘How about Operation Big Sweep? Do you have the figures?’

  Cartier patted the buff folder he had brought with him. ‘All the latest intelligence is in here, Your Excellency.’

  ‘Where’s General Lazenby? I thought you two were working on this together?’

  ‘He’s right outside.’

  ‘Then ask him to come in. And tell him to bring a couple of chairs. I’m not having you two hovering around me like a pair of hungry vultures.’

  ‘Yes, Your Excellency.’

  Two chairs and General Lazenby were duly fetched.

  The Panda watched every movement of Cartier’s face as he sat down; he noted that the man never once glanced at Lazenby. The mistrust between his two top Generals was something the Panda both relished and encouraged. Divide and conquer. Keep the enemy at its own throat.

  Lazenby perched uneasily on the edge of his chair. A thin, intense person, he chewed p
ersistently at his lower lip, kept looking from left to right as if expecting disaster to strike at any moment. The Panda loathed all his staff but had a special dislike for Lazenby. The man was an opportunist. He had inherited a great fortune at a young age and used his money to bribe and bully his way into General Command, drawing about him a tangled web of deceit and intrigue.

  The Panda hoped that Lazenby would one day suffer a nasty and undignified end.

  I’m surrounded by perverts and psychopaths, the Panda reminded himself. There’s not one of my Generals who isn’t sick in the head.

  ‘Everything’s working out fine,’ Lazenby announced. He smirked insolently, pleased with himself for flaunting protocol by addressing the Panda without leave to do so. ‘I would say that at least ninety-percent of our targets have been rounded up and the remaining few have been rendered ineffective. I don’t think we need worry any more about the so-called Red Orchestra.’

  The Panda pointedly ignored this snippet and turned to General Cartier. ‘I don’t want any let-up in effort until every last element of dissent is safely neutralized. This gets top priority.’

  General Cartier looked uncomfortable. It was his habit to obey orders without question, but these latest ones made no sense at all. ‘I really don’t think we should be wasting our time with a handful of malcontents. So far, they’ve had absolutely no significant effect on any aspect of our war effort whatsoever.’

  ‘That’s as maybe,’ said the Panda. ‘But I feel this war will be over in a matter of weeks, and I want the path to peace to be as uncomplicated as possible. I don’t expect you to understand my reasons. After all, you’re a soldier, not a diplomat.’

  Finally acknowledging Lazenby’s presence, the Panda pointed a clawed finger in his direction. ‘What’s the latest on the March Hare and the Grey Squirrel?’

  ‘As you predicted, they’re heading to Enigma. In fact, they were spotted passing on the ferry just a few minutes ago.’