A Plague of Hearts - Patrick Whittaker (book series for 12 year olds txt) 📗

/> ‘But there’s no bed here,’ objected Ormus.
‘This will do fine,’ said Shadrack, tapping a knuckle against the side of the tank. ‘I slept in worse places than this when I was in the War Zone. Besides which, I really don’t think I’ll be doing too much sleeping tonight. The only thing I would ask you for though is a pen and some paper.’
Ormus reached into his jacket pocket and brought out a note book. He tore out two pages of equations, handed the rest to Shadrack. ‘I don’t think I have a pen.’
‘There’s one behind your ear, Doctor.’
‘Right.’ The pen was handed over. ‘Are you sure you’ll be all right?’
‘Of course he will,’ said Julie. ‘Now let’s get home and get to bed. I need my sleep.’
*
Back at his cottage, the Mad Hatter made himself a cup of tea and settled down for a quiet evening by the radio. The Home Service was broadcasting the Enigma Concerto, one of his favourite pieces. Amid the flutter of violins and the sturdy pounding of full percussion, he found himself able to concentrate.
The first movement led him through narrow alleyways into a place where arpeggios leapt towards infinity. He was reminded of the fountains in the Old Market Place and the house on the corner where he’d been born.
He recalled the poverty, the smell of damp and the constant scurrying of unseen rats and mice. Had it been a happy childhood? He really could not remember. All he had were fleeting impressions of a long struggle up a slippery slope.
Happy or not, he thought, I’ve come a long way since then. And probably got nowhere. I’m the outside chance in the Red Queen’s Race.
Feeling exhausted from his bicycle ride, he pressed himself into the comfort of his armchair.
He wanted it to swallow him, keep him hidden from a world that was growing increasingly hostile. If his information was correct, Hearts was virtually finished as an independent state.
The war was not going her way. Supplies were short, morale was low and even the most loyal of the Panda’s generals were making plans to bail out.
The war wasn’t all that was bothering the Mad Hatter. Tomorrow morning, his friend, the Knave of Hearts was due to stand trial. It wasn’t enough for them to torture him in private; now they were going to publicly humiliate him, drag his name through the dirt. Possibly make him the most hated man in the Kingdom.
And the one person who could put a stop to it - the King himself - was too scared of the Panda to even try.
The Hatter stared into his tea cup. He could just make out the whites of his eyes reflected in the brown liquid. They were eyes filled with self-accusal. Never mind about what others might or might not do. What about himself? Had he done all he could?
‘What the hell,’ he muttered. ‘I tried, didn’t I?’
With a growl of cellos, the radio mimicked the Tired River pushing itself relentlessly through the heart of Enigma. It reminded the Hatter of distant gunfire, of a war that had been deliberately kept remote. In this age of television and high-speed publishing, never once had the government allowed the public to glimpse the realities of war. Always, the papers displayed pictures of happy soldiers, brave young men on their way to a bold adventure.
The government lied about the casualties, lied about the way the war was going.
There were no victims. No widows. Just martyrs and mothers proud of sons who had laid down their lives for their country.
The Mad Hatter pictured endless rows of corpses about to be pushed into mass graves. No ceremonies. No head stones. And then, at last, he focused in on the biggest problem of all. The real problem. The one that could make the trial of the Knave and the outcome of the war ultimately irrelevant.
‘TARTS,’ sighed the Mad Hatter. ‘We have to do something about TARTS.’
Placing his cup on the arm of the chair, the Mad Hatter leaned forward and manipulated the radio’s tuning dial. Snatches of music, static and bleeps fluttered around his ears until he found the station he was looking for.
Radio Free Hearts was still on the air. If there was any cause for hope in that fact, the Mad Hatter was only too willing to grab at it. He settled back and listened as a sombre voice described how Gerbil Town had been wiped out by the most devastating weapon ever devised.
*
Shadrack had no idea of the time. He did not know if it was day or night.
It didn’t matter.
As he wandered through the Velvet Underground, time meant very little. The damp walls with their myriad cracks, the shadows that fled from the glare of his flashlight, the arched ceiling with its dirty stalactites - all these were elements of another age, another world.
Beyond a small chamber filled with hieroglyphics, he came to the Chapel. This was a large, hexagonal chamber. The walls were draped with saffron cloth. Candles formed a ring around the centre of the Chapel. On the outside of this ring, fifty buzzniks were on their knees, tonelessly chanting a prayer.
Shadrack stood in the entrance, hidden from sight by shadows. For the first time, he felt a kinship with the buzzniks. Like him, they were caught between life and death with no hope of ever returning to the former.
Dressed in a white robe, Lisa stood in the circle of candles. Her face was touched by rapture. She seemed almost ethereal, no more solid than moonlight on a lake.
He wanted to touch her. He wanted to whisper a spell that would make them one person, Lisa/Shadrack. An hermaphrodite. The perfect blend of male and female.
But Shadrack knew no such spell, nor did he hold much faith in magic. Quietly, he knelt and offered a prayer to Lisa. It was the only prayer he had ever learnt.


14. The Trial

A squad of ZOMOs, the President’s own riot police, formed a wall around the Royal Court of Justice. Amidst the tranquility of the palace grounds, their grey uniforms seemed misplaced, an overstatement of power. Having lost jurisdiction over the matter, the Panda was obviously determined to make sure that the trial of the Knave of Hearts would not go unnoticed.
The March Hare passed through the wall without being stopped, but once inside, he was frisked by a security guard and then waved through into the Central Chamber. As he came through the swing doors, he took immediate note of those in attendance. The jury consisted entirely of animals; there was not a human amongst them. So much, thought the March Hare, for trial by one’s peers.
The Knave stood in the dock, leaning his hip against the side for support. He was a motley collection of bruises, bandages and chains. Beneath his pyjamas, the outline of a suspender belt was vaguely visible. Nurse Jane had kept her promise.
The King, decked out in his judicial gown and ceremonial regalia, appeared ill at ease. He was sitting beside his wife, and seemed intent upon shrinking inside himself. He really did not want to be here at all. The Queen, on the other hand, was flushed with anticipation. Since the Panda’s rise to power, she had found herself with too few opportunities to show her authority, and she was set to milk this one for all it was worth.
The platform on which their Majesties thrones were set had recently been raised an extra four inches in an attempt to emphasise the Royal Prerogative. It was the King’s way of thumbing his nose at the Panda.
In front of the platform stood the White Rabbit decked out like a page boy. He held a trumpet in one hand, a scroll of parchment in the other. As the jurors and members of the public settled into their seats, he shuffled from one foot to the other, impatient to begin his duties.
Elsewhere in the court, bedlam reigned as people squabbled over who was sitting where and argued in loud voices as to the probable date and method for the Knave’s execution. Nobody seemed in any doubt as to the outcome of the trial.
So who else was there? The March Hare picked out many familiar faces. The Gryphon, wearing a suit two sizes too small. The Dormouse (already asleep). The Guinea Pig. The Ostrich. Several members of the palace staff. A clutch of journalists. And Alice.
The little girl was doing everything possible to make her presence felt. Hardly a moment passed without her objecting to something or another - the scraping of a juror’s pencil on slate, someone picking their nails, someone breathing too loudly. Before the trial had even started, she had insured that she would be the most hated person present.
The March Hare looked around for a spare seat and discovered to his chagrin that there was only one left. It was next to Alice.
He seated himself just as the King raised his hand to demand silence. ‘Herald,’ he said, as the babble dropped to a murmur, ‘read the accusation.’
At this, the White Rabbit blew three blasts on his trumpet, unrolled the parchment scroll, and then read the following:
‘Be it known that the Knave of Hearts is charged that he did, on a certain day or days, knowingly, willing and with malice aforethought and complete disregard for the safety and security of the Realm and its Peoples, commit a felony contrary to the Official Secrets Act, Section IV, Paragraph V.’
The King leaned his bulk forward and tapped the Rabbit on the shoulder. ‘Is that all it says?’
‘Word for word, Your Majesty.’
‘Hand me that scroll.’
The White Rabbit obeyed with slight but noticeable reluctance. An air of expectancy settled in the court as the King read through the document. After some moments, he looked up. ‘What’s this about TARTS?’
‘May it please, Your Majesty,’ said the White Rabbit, ‘but that paragraph has been deleted.’
‘It doesn’t please me. Why has it been deleted?’
‘It was so ordered by the Department of State Security, Your Majesty.’
‘This is my court. The DOSS has no jurisdiction here. I want it written into the records of this trial that the original charge specifically states that the accused allegedly stole the plans for something called TARTS - whatever that is. Did he steal a cookery book?’
‘I’m afraid I don’t know, Your Majesty. It’s Top Secret.’
‘Is there anybody here who does know?’
‘Only the accused, Your Majesty. And he’s not permitted to say anything about it.’
‘Are you telling me that you’ve brought a man before me in order for him to defend himself, and he’s not even allowed to mention his alleged crime?’
‘He’d be breaking the law if he did.’
‘Which law?’
‘The Official Secrets Act.’
‘Why was I not informed of this before?’
‘Because it’s an Official Secret.’
‘Oh fiddle-faddle!’ said the Queen, who was getting impatient. ‘This is getting us nowhere. Someone had better call the first witness.’
The White Rabbit put his trumpet to his lips and blew three blasts. ‘First witness!’
From a door behind the jurors, the Mad Hatter appeared. He strolled up to the witness stand, a tea cup in one hand, a saucer in the other. His eyes were hidden behind a pair of square-lensed sunglasses.
‘Why,’ said the