Chapter Seven
Sometime between the first clap of gunfire above and the waking of the final steam exhibits around the emporium, Edmond observed the whole scene through a peephole no bigger than a corky ball, and realised the desperate truth behind the frivolous violence in his adventure comics.
Desbrusleys, the deaf Frenchman, had been instructed to start up the moving picture show near the hangar’s entrance. This he did, but being hard of hearing, he didn’t know about the synchronized sound recording accompanying the imagery via a gramophone on the same pressure system. Edmond had marvelled at it that summer—he’d watched its demonstration for hours. But he hated it tonight.
The hangar doors flung open and half a dozen armed aeronauts dressed in fur-lined, hooded parkers bounded in. Debrusleys was unaware that the western movie show he’d started a moment before—an action-packed train robbery—was full of loud gunfire. The aeronauts shot back in the direction of the noise. They hit Desbrusleys, whose silhouette could not be more conspicuous against the bright screen, umpteen times. The projected light flickered red, then out. The movie ran no more.
Edmond couldn’t stop himself shaking against the tin wall of the hut. He couldn’t look out, but he must. The intruders fanned out among the stalls. He could see no sign of Angharad, Joe, Reggie, or Bertie Considine, the quiet man who suffered from the early stages of palsy. He tried to picture the heroic rise of Red Mulqueen inside the spruce tree.
I hope you’ve seen ’em, sir. I hope they don’t see you.
He crept over to the window and looked up as far as he could, nowhere near the top of the tree. But a cluster of foliage half way up danced more than at any other point, opposite the third tallest scaffold platform. That had to be Mr. Mulqueen, inching his way up inside, one clockwork stride at a time.
The steam organ piped up somewhere to his left. It drew at least two intruders over to investigate. At the same time, a dull whuh-whuh-whuh gathered pace at the far end of the hangar. Edmond recognized it as the sound of the aerogypsy’s rotor blades. But he couldn’t see anyone inside it, atop the podium. Two more intruders crept toward it at ground level, between the fruit seller’s stall and the booths demonstrating automatic typewriters. Those machines, too, had been switched on—steam columned up from their copper pipes.
The rotor blades quickened to a blur. Above, the miniature steam train that circled the entire emporium gave a whistle. It began its long, laborious climb, but seemed to be empty. The two curious intruders shrugged and turned to reunite with their comrades. They managed a few steps before the aerogypsy’s podium began to tilt, then to topple.
Edmond covered his mouth. Screams, and an almighty metallic clatter signalled the men’s grisly end. The hunched figure of Joe DiStepano scurried away along the far wall, from podium to podium, between the steel bars of the scaffolding.
Yells erupted across the hangar, along with one or two pistol shots. The remaining four aeronauts met at the candy apple stall. One of them removed his neckerchief and wrapped it around his hand—had he taken a bullet?
Had Joe snatched a weapon from under the aerogypsy wreckage?
While his colleagues headed for the tree, Neckerchief Man lagged behind to finish tending his wound. He didn’t get the chance. Reggie and Angharad emptied a barrel full of steaming hot chestnuts over him from across the counter. They kept low as they dashed away, leaving their victim to squeal like a baby as he crawled away on all fours over the cobblestone, toward the exit.
The moment of truth.
Three enemies remained. They were at the base of the tree, pointing up, whispering to each other. They appeared to decide that their best position for shooting was from the right of the tree, between the kiln and the tallest scaffold. Edmond could no longer see them, but he guessed they would probably climb one of the scaffold ladders to gain the best possible shot at Mr. Mulqueen and the injured lady. Should he do something? Tell someone? Call it out? But they were armed and he wasn’t, and he’d already seen them riddle poor Desbrusleys without knowing who or what they were firing at.
Mr. Mulqueen, be careful. Please be careful. He said a quick prayer for the old soldier who’d gallantly risked his life to save a complete stranger. Under fire from above, and now from below, what chance did he have? Surely God couldn’t let him die like this, not half way up a Christmas tree on Christmas Eve.
The silhouette of a hunched, one-armed man crept in front the red-and-green-spangled tree with what looked like a relay baton in his hand. It was Joe. He made straight for the kiln. He stuffed the baton in his belt, snatched up one of the heat-retardant gloves and used it to open the kiln door. The heavy hinge squeaked, drawing shouts from his right. No sooner did Joe toss the baton into the flames than three gunshots made Edmond cover his ears.
Joe staggered away, holding his side. He crashed into the chairs arranged in a crescent for his veteran friends.
Not Joe!
A devastating explosion hurled bricks and flame in every direction from the smashed kiln. Bricks rained down on the cabin’s tin roof and pinged against the scaffolding like a cacophony of giant piano strings snapping. A few of the lower tree branches caught fire, but Angharad, Reggie and Bertie were soon on hand to douse them with pails of water.
Edmond stole out of his cabin in a daze, coughing through the brick dust and the sudden intense heat. Three charred bodies lay under the tallest scaffold—he daren’t get any nearer to those. Meanwhile, Joe had managed to climb onto his chair, and there he sat, perched on the edge of his seat like a rapt spectator at a theatre, chewing tobacco.
Edmond was somehow able to form the words, “Are you shot?”
“Aye, lad, that I am.”
“Is it bad?”
Joe gazed up to the open window in the roof, then behind him to the open exit. Both revealed a blizzard outside. “Bad? No, not bad.” His grey beard hid much of his grimace as he touched the puncture wound in his side, then another in his back. “In and out, straight as you like. I’ve had worse.”
“Angharad, he’s been shot.” Edmond’s alert stopped her in her tracks.
“Joe?”
“I’ll take a bandage. No cause for alarm. It’s bleeding a fair bit, though.”
Angharad shook her head. “Fusiliers.” Then she hurried away to the candy apple stall, where she retrieved their first aid valise.
Joe drew a pistol from his belt, laid it on his lap. Moments later, Reggie and Bertie arrived with sidearms of their own, all pilfered from the dead intruders. “It’s time to get you out of here, lad.” Joe turned to Edmond, rested a hand on his shoulder. “You’ve seen too much already, and they’ll likely not give up so quick.”
“I don’t reckon it’s safe to venture outside yet,” Reggie said. “We’d be better off barricading the doors, lock the buggers out.”
“See to it.”
“Aye.”
“What will happen if more do get in?” Edmond asked.
“God only knows, son.” Joe looked up again, maybe hoping for a sign from Mr. Mulqueen. “And he ain’t telling tonight.”