But Mrs de Frackas was not to be so easily deterred. Over a long lifetime in which she had been bullied by governesses, shot at by Afghans, bombed out of two houses in two World Wars and had had to face an exceedingly liverish husband across the breakfast table for several decades, she had developed a truly remarkable resilience and, more usefully, a diplomatic deafness.
‘I’m sure you will,’ she said cheerfully, ‘and now I’ll see where Mrs Wilt keeps the eggs. I always think that children can’t have enough eggs, don’t you? So good for the digestive system.’ And ignoring the automatic she bustled about the kitchen peering into cupboards. Chinanda and Baggish conferred in undertones.
‘I kill the old bitch now,’ said Baggish. ‘That way she learns we’re not bluffing.’
‘That way we don’t get out of here. We keep her and the children we got a chance and we keep up the propaganda war.’
‘Without TV we got no propaganda war to keep up,’ said Baggish. ‘That was one of the demands of People’s Alternative Army. No TV, no radio, no newspapers.’
‘So we demand the opposite, full publicity,’ said Chinanda, and picked up the phone. Upstairs Wilt, who had been lying on the floor with the telephone to his ear, answered it.
‘Zis is People’s Alternative Army. Communiqué Two. Ve demand …’
‘No you don’t. We do the demanding,’ shouted Chinanda, ‘Ve know British psycho-warfare.’
‘Zionist pigs. Ve know CIA murderers,’ countered Wilt. ‘Ve are fighting for ze liberation of all peoples.’
‘We are fighting for the liberation of Palestine …’
‘So are ve. All peoples ve fight for.’
‘If you would kindly make up your minds who is fighting for what,’ intervened the Superintendent, ‘we might be able to talk more reasonably.’
‘Fascist police pig,’ bellowed Wilt. ‘Ve no discuss viz you. Ve know who ve are dealing viz.’
‘I wish to God I did,’ said the Superintendent, only to be told by Chinanda that the People’s Army Group was –
‘Revisionistic-deviationist lumpen schwein,’ interjected Wilt. ‘Ze revolutionary army of ze people rejects fascistic holding of hostages and …’ He was interrupted by bangs from the bathroom which tended to contradict his argument and gave Chinanda the opportunity to state his demands. They included five million pounds, a jumbo jet and the use of an armoured car to take them to the airport. Wilt, having shut the kitchen door to drown out Gudrun Schautz’s activities, came back in time to up the ante.
‘Six million pounds and two armoured cars …’
‘You can make it a round ten million for all I care,’ said the Superintendent, ‘it won’t make any difference. I’m not bargaining.’
‘Seven million or we kill the hostages. You have till eight in the morning to agree or we die with the hostages,’ shouted Chinanda, and slammed down the phone before Wilt could make a further bid. Wilt replaced his own receiver with a sigh and tried to think what on earth to do now. There was no doubt in his mind that the terrorists downstairs would carry out their threat unless the police gave way. And it was just as certain that the police had no intention of providing an armoured car or a jet. They would simply play for time in the hope of breaking the terrorists’ morale. If they didn’t succeed and the children died along with their captors it would hardly matter to the authorities. Public policy dictated that terrorists’ demands must never be met. In the past Wilt had agreed. But now private policy dictated anything that would save his family. To reinforce the need for some new plan, Fräulein Schautz sounded as though she was ripping up the linoleum in the bathroom. For a moment Wilt considered threatening to fire through the doorway if she didn’t stop, but decided against it. It was no damned use. He was incapable of killing anyone except by accident. There had to be some other way.
*
In the Communications Centre ideas were in short supply too. As the echo of the last conflicting demands died away the Superintendent shook his head wearily.
‘I said this was a bag of maggots and by God it is. Will someone kindly tell me what the hell is going on in there?’
‘No use looking at me, old boy,’ said the Major, ‘I’m simply here to hold the ring while you Anti-Terrorist chappies establish rapport with the blighters. That’s the drill.’
‘It may be the drill but considering we seem to be dealing with two competing sets of world-changers it’s fucking near impossible. Isn’t there some way we can get a separate line to each group?’
‘Don’t see how, sir,’ said the sergeant. ‘The People’s Alternative Army seem to be using the extension phone from upstairs and the only way would be to get into the house.’
The Major studied Wilt’s clumsy map. ‘I could call a chopper up and land some of my lads on the roof to take the bastards out.’
Superintendent Misterson looked at him suspiciously. ‘By “take out” I don’t suppose you mean literally?’
‘Literally? Oh, see what you mean. No. Doubt it. Bound to be a bit of schemozzle, what!’
‘Which is precisely what we’ve got to avoid. Now, if someone can come up with a scheme whereby I can talk to one group without being drowned out by the other I’d be grateful.’
But instead there was a buzz on the intercom. The sergeant listened and then spoke. ‘The psychos and the idiot brigade on the line, sir. Want to know if it’s OK to move in.’
‘I suppose so,’ said the Superintendent.
‘Idiot brigade?’ said the Major.
‘Ideological Warfare Analysis and the Psychological Advisers. Home Office insists we use them and sometimes they come up with a sensible suggestion.’
‘Christ,’ said the Major. ‘Damned if I know what the world is coming to. First they call the army a peacekeeping force and now Scotland Yard has to have psychoanalysts to do their sleuthing for them. Rum.’
‘The People’s Alternative Army are back on the line,’ said the sergeant. Once more a barrage of abuse issued from the telephone amplifier but this time Wilt had changed his tactics. His guttural German had been doing things to his vocal cords and his new accent was a less demanding but equally less convincing Irish brogue.
‘Bejasus it will be nobody’s fault but your own if we have to shoot the poor innocent creature Irmgard Mueller herself before eight in the morning if the wee babies are not returned to their mam, look you.’
‘What?’ said the Superintendent, baffled by this new threat.
‘I wouldn’t want to be repeating meself for the likes of reactionary pigs like yourself but if you’re deaf I’ll say it again.’
‘Don’t,’ said the Superintendent firmly. ‘We got the message first time.’
‘Well I’ll be hoping those Zionist spalpeens will have got the message too begorrah.’
A muffled flow of Spanish seemed to indicate that Chinanda had heard.
‘Well then that’ll be all. I wouldn’t want to be running up too big a telephone bill now would I?’ And Wilt slammed the phone down. It was left to the Superintendent to interpret this ultimatum to Chinanda as best he could, a difficult process made almost impossible by the terrorist’s insistence that the People’s Alternative Army was a gang of fascist police pigs under the Superintendent’s command.
‘We know you British use psychological warfare. You are experts,’ he shouted, ‘we are not to be so easily deceived.’
‘But I assure you, Miguel …’
‘Don’t try bluffing me by calling me Miguel so I think you are my friend. We understand your tactics. First you threaten and then you keep us talking …’
‘Well as a matter of fact I’m not keeping …’
‘Shut your mouth, pig. I’m doing the talking now.’
‘That’s all I was going to say,’ protested the Superintendent. ‘But I want you to know there are no police …’
‘Bullshit. You tried to trap us and now you threaten to kill Gudrun. Right, we do not respond to your threats. You kill Gudrun, we kill the hostages.’
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‘I’m not in a position to stop whoever is holding Fräulein Schautz …’
‘You keep trying the bluff but it doesn’t work. We know how clever you British imperialists are.’ And Chinanda too slammed the phone down.
‘I must say he seems to have a rather higher opinion of the British Empire than I have,’ said the Major. ‘I mean I can’t actually see where we’ve got one, unless you count Gibraltar.’
But the Superintendent was in no mood to discuss the extent of the Empire. ‘There’s something demented about this bloody siege,’ he muttered. ‘First we need to get a separate telephone link through to the lunatics in that top flat. That’s number one priority. If they shoot … What on earth did he call the Schautz woman, sergeant?’
‘I think the expression was “the poor innocent creature Irmgard Mueller”, sir. Do you want me to play the tape back?’
‘No,’ said the Superintendent, ‘we’ll wait for the analysts. In the meantime request use of helicopter to drop a field telephone on to the balcony of the flat. That way we’ll at least get some idea who’s up there.’
‘Field telephone incorporating TV camera, sir?’ asked the sergeant.
The Superintendent nodded. ‘Second priority is to move the listening devices into position.’
‘Can’t do that until it gets dark,’ said the Major. ‘Not having my chaps shot down unless they’re allowed to shoot back.’
‘Well, we’ll just have to wait,’ said the Superintendent. ‘That’s always the way with these beastly sieges. Just a question of sitting and waiting. Though I must say this is the first time I’ve had to deal with two lots of terrorists at once.’
‘Makes you feel sorry for those poor children,’ said the Major. ‘What they must be going through doesn’t bear thinking about.’
14
But for once his sympathy was wasted. The quads were having a wonderful time. After the initial excitement of windows being shattered by bullets and the terrorists firing from the kitchen and the front hall, they had been bundled down into the cellar with Mrs de Frackas. Since the old lady refused to be flustered and seemed to regard the events upstairs as perfectly normal, the quads had taken the same attitude. Besides, the cellar was usually forbidden territory, Wilt objecting to their visiting it on the ostensible grounds that the Organic Toilet was insanitary and dangerously explosive, while Eva barred the quads because she kept her stock of preserved fruit down there and the chest freezer was filled with homemade ice cream. The quads had made a bee-line for the ice cream and had finished a large carton before Mrs de Frackas’ eyes had got accustomed to the dim light. By then the quads had found other interesting things to occupy their attention. A large coal bunker and a pile of logs gave them the opportunity to get thoroughly filthy. Eva’s store of organically grown apples provided them with a second course after the ice cream, and they would undoubtedly have drunk themselves into a stupor on Wilt’s homebrew if Mrs de Frackas hadn’t put her foot down on a broken bottle first.
‘You’re not to go into that part of the cellar,’ she said, looking severely at the evidence of Wilt’s inexpert brewing in the shape of several exploded bottles. ‘It isn’t safe.’
‘Then why does Daddy drink it?’ asked Penelope.
‘When you get a little older you’ll learn that men do a great many things that aren’t very sensible or safe,’ said Mrs de Frackas.
‘Like wearing a bag on the end of their wigwags?’ asked Josephine.
‘Well I wouldn’t quite know about that, dear,’ said Mrs de Frackas, evidently torn between curiosity and a desire not to enquire too closely into the Wilts’ private life.
‘Mummy said the doctor made him wear it,’ continued Josephine, adding an unmentionable disease to the old lady’s dossier of Wilt’s faults.
‘And I stepped on it and Daddy screamed,’ said Emmeline proudly. ‘He screamed ever so loudly.’
‘I’m sure he did, dear,’ said Mrs de Frackas, trying to imagine the reaction of her late and liverish husband had any child been so unwise as to step on his penis. ‘Now let’s talk about something nice.’
The distinction was wasted on the quads. ‘When Daddy comes home from the doctor Mummy says his wigwag will be better and he won’t say “Fuck” when he goes weewee.’
‘Say what, dear?’ asked Mrs de Frackas, adjusting her hearing aid in the hope that it rather than Samantha had been at fault. The quads in unison disillusioned her.
‘Fuck, fuck, fuck,’ they squealed. Mrs de Frackas turned her hearing aid down.
‘Well, really,’ she said, ‘I don’t think you should use that word.’
‘Mummy says we mustn’t too but Michael’s daddy told him …’
‘I don’t want to hear,’ said Mrs de Frackas hastily. ‘In my young days children didn’t talk about such things.’
‘How did babies get born then?’ asked Penelope.
‘In the usual way, dear, only we were brought up not to mention such things.’
‘What things?’ demanded Penelope.
Mrs de Frackas regarded her dubiously. It was beginning to dawn on her that the Wilt quads were not quite such nice children as she had supposed. In fact they were distinctly unnerving. ‘Just things,’ she said flatly.
‘Like cocks and cunts?’ asked Emmeline.
Mrs de Frackas eyed her with disgust. ‘You could put it like that, I suppose,’ she said stiffly. ‘Though frankly I’d prefer it if you didn’t.’
‘If you don’t put it like that how do you put it?’ asked the indefatigable Penelope.
Mrs de Frackas searched her mind in vain for an alternative. ‘I don’t quite know,’ she said, surprised at her own ignorance. ‘I suppose the matter never arose.’
‘Daddy’s does,’ said Josephine, ‘I saw it once.’
Mrs de Frackas turned her disgusted attention on the child and tried to stifle her own curiosity. ‘You did?’ she said involuntarily.
‘He was in the bathroom with Mummy and I looked through the keyhole and Daddy’s …’
‘It’s time you had baths too,’ said Mrs de Frackas, getting to her feet before Josephine could divulge any further details of the Wilts’ sexual life.
‘We haven’t had supper yet,’ said Samantha.
‘Then I’ll get you some,’ said Mrs de Frackas and went up the cellar steps to hunt for eggs. By the time she returned with a tray the quads were no longer hungry. They had finished a jar of pickled onions and were half-way through their second packet of dried figs.
‘You’ve still got to have scrambled eggs,’ said the old lady resolutely. ‘I didn’t go to the trouble of making them to have them wasted, you know.’
‘You didn’t make them,’ said Penelope. ‘Mummy hens made them.’
‘And daddy hens are called cocks,’ squealed Josephine, but Mrs de Frackas, having just outfaced two armed bandits, was in no mood to be defied by four foul-minded girls.
‘We won’t discuss that any further, thank you,’ she said, ‘I’ve had quite enough.’
It was shortly apparent that the quads had too. As she shooed them up the cellar steps Emmeline was complaining that her tummy hurt.
‘It will soon stop, dear,’ said Mrs de Frackas, ‘and it doesn’t help to hiccup like that.’
‘Not hiccuping,’ retorted Emmeline, and promptly vomited on the kitchen floor. Mrs de Frackas looked around in the semi-darkness for the light switch and had just found it and turned it on when Chinanda cannoned into her and switched it off.
‘What are you trying to do? Get us all killed?’ he yelled.
‘Not all of us,’ said Mrs de Frackas, ‘and if you don’t look where you’re going …’
A crash as the terrorist slid across the kitchen floor on a mixture of half-digested pickled onions and dried figs indicated that Chinanda hadn’t.
‘It’s no use blaming me,’ said Mrs de Frackas, ‘and you shouldn’t use language like that in front of children. It sets a very bad example.’
‘
I set an example all right,’ shouted Chinanda, ‘I spill your guts.’
‘I rather think somebody is doing that already,’ retorted the old lady as the other three quads, evidently sharing Emmeline’s inability to cope with quite so eclectic a diet, followed her example. Presently the kitchen was filled with four howling and vomit-stained small girls, a very unappetizing smell, two demented terrorists and Mrs de Frackas at her most imperious. To add to the confusion Baggish had deserted his post in the front hall and had dashed in threatening to kill the first person who moved.
‘I have no intention of moving,’ said Mrs de Frackas, ‘and since the only person who is happens to be that creature grovelling in the corner I suggest you put him out of his misery.’
From the direction of the sink Chinanda could be heard disentangling himself from Eva’s Kenwood mixer which had joined him on the floor.
Mrs de Frackas turned the light on again. This time no one objected, Chinanda because he had been momentarily stunned and Baggish because he was too dismayed by the state of the kitchen.
‘And now,’ said the old lady, ‘if you’ve quite finished I’ll take the children up for their bath before putting them to bed.’
‘Bed?’ yelled Chinanda getting unsteadily to his feet. ‘Nobody goes upstairs. You all sleep down in the cellar. Go down there now.’
‘If you really suppose for one moment that I am going to allow these poor children to go down that cellar again in their present condition and without being thoroughly washed you’re very much mistaken.’
Chinanda jerked the cord on the venetian blind and cut out the view from the garden.
‘Then you wash them in here,’ he said, pointing to the sink.
‘And where do you propose to be?’
‘Where we can see what you are doing.’
Mrs de Frackas snorted derisively. ‘I know your sort, and if you think I am going to expose their pure little bodies to your lascivious gaze …’
‘What the hell is she saying?’ demanded Baggish.