Part 4 - Saturday into Sunday - The Day of the Invasion.
I checked my watch - ten past ten. "We have a problem, ladies and gentlemen. The game is afoot."
There were surprised noises from the lighted table. And then a few seconds of silence as it sank in.
The Admiral insisted that he be allowed to view the scene next, to confirm my prognosis. "What a blasted lucky coincidence that we should be here to raise the alarm," he said after indeed confirming that there were what appeared to be several thousand alien spacecraft just leaving the moon. By sheer luck, it would appear that we had witnessed the start of the invasion.
Obviously, the other military personnel were required to confirm too, as they quickly did. Followed by the Prime Minister. Although his eyesight was no longer as sharp as it used to be, he did see the approaching rockets emerging from the dark side of the moon, just exactly from the locations that the ladies had forecast, plumes of green smoke showing their route.
After the briefest conversation, the Prime Minister, giving his most gracious thanks to the ladies especially, and the military personnel all left in a great hurry to steel the nation and call out the guard.
We five were left to close up the Observatory and turn off the lights.
The Contessa hugged Annie and Walter and insisted that they take our carriage since they had small children to get home to. Annie burst into tears at this and Walter stood there thanking her profusely. She hurried them on their way. "Go. Kiss the little darlings for me!"
They promised, as they scurried out the door, to send the carriage back for us post haste. Without a word being said between us three it was obvious that we expected never to see the coachman again - he would have his own family to get home to.
We started walking, eating another slice of pizza and finishing off our drinks. As we emerged from the park, we heard the first peels of alarm ringing from the nearest church. I offered around my Sweet Vs and we stood for a minute, enjoying a last moment before all hell would doubtless break loose.
As the alarm spread from parish to parish and church to church, sleepy, scared looking people came out to see what the fuss was all about. Mothers in nighties tried to calm screaming children, fathers in their pyjamas rubbed their eyes, children cried, grandmothers fussed, dogs barked at the commotion, cats hissed at anything and everything - the flotsam and jetsam of humanity clamoured to find out what was going on.
We hurried along back towards Tower Bridge, heading at my suggestion to my Harley Street practice - I knew that I would need my medical skills that night and I had all of my general practitioner's equipment there, and a large amount of analgesics.
As we progressed through Greenwich to Deptford there was a change in feeling around us. I had expected panic in the streets as everyone tried to get out of London, away from the inevitable death and destruction. Exactly what had happened the last time. But no!
People were getting organized - each street appeared to have a plan and everyone knew their part in it.
Barricades were being built from people's furniture at strategic points. Men were carrying bedframes and wardrobes, sofas and sideboards and big heavy tables from house after house and building them high, building them wide, building them robust. Rusty old carriages shored up on piles of house bricks were found in back gardens and taken through for the cause. Old women looked after the children who were too young to help, gathering them together indoors away from the hustle and bustle, safe and out from underfoot.
Sandbags had been made up and stored and were now brought out for the barricades or used to fortify upstairs windows where rifle barrels were beginning to be seen. Kitchen knives, machetes, pitchforks, cricket bats, rounder bats and anything that could possibly be used as a weapon were being collected and brought forth for common use against the Martians.
I called over to a young girl. "Get clean blankets, soap, hot and cold water, and lots of them. Put them on the ground floor of that block." I wouldn't be here but at least there would be basic medical provisions.
The Contessa stopped in the middle of the street, organized chaos going on all around us. "What's going on?" she asked. "Why are they not running? They know what is coming!"
I smiled. Bernhardt looked confused for a second, as if he was surprised he had not wondered the very same thing. Then he smiled. I offered him the chance to explain. He thanked me with a nod.
"Pride, Contessa," he rightly said. "During the last war, they fled, like rats trying to leave a sinking ship. The people of the greatest empire this world knows, in total disarray. Its military might torn asunder. Millions dead, injured or un-homed. Taken unawares. That was why they lost India to the Chinese in '98 - they were suddenly seen as not unbeatable."
He turned to me for acknowledgement - I nodded again.
"That and revenge, Signorina. Don't forget that a lot of the people around here are survivors, myself included - who watched strangers, their families and friends torn apart, trampled underfoot, incinerated. Literally. Revenge is a good motive. Trust me. At least they are organized and ready this time. I'm not saying they won't run, but at least they'll fight first. Take a few down. There are easy ways into the underground tunnels where there are blankets and water supplies for thousands just laid away for this very scenario. We will not fall as easily this time," I said with a bit of pride, I must confess.
"Good," the Contessa said enthusiastically. "Tell me, gentlemen, realistically what chance do we have?"
Bernhardt thought for all of half a second before saying, "Three-fifths of fuck all, your ladyship."
I laughed. "I think you're forgetting about a little place called Rourke's Drift," I said.
"Good point," said Bernhardt. "However, this will be more like having one hundred brave Welshmen with dinner forks in their little farmhouse against four thousand Zulus with cannon and Gatling guns looking in. Let alone spears against rifles."
That shut me up. We walked on.
We reached Tower Bridge to find it impassable. The drawbridge was up and the army was blockading either side. We approached them, but backed away hurriedly when a steely-eyed young private pointed his rifle in our direction. "Don't even fuckin' try it, mate."
We decided to heed his words and didn't even fuckin' try it.
We continued further west - unfortunately, this would add time to our journey, but we had little choice. The next two bridges had not yet been rebuilt, so we headed to Westminster Bridge. There next to the bridge we came upon the large, grey granite County Hall building.
-------
Religious fervour was not something to which I have ever been accustomed. Religion to me is a staid, serious affair; a mix of Old Testament empire building and New Testament love and peace with a touch of hallucinatory Revelations thrown into the mix. Being a doctor I knew for a fact that prayer did not work - if the Almighty has made up his mind then it will not be changed.
I'm more of a 'turn up on Sunday morning and sing some sombre hymns' type of Christian, say you're sorry and partake of some of the worst wine and crackers in the world. And they're always out of cheese - you'd think they could manage some smooth Cheddar or crumbly Caerphilly, but no.
I don't think there can be any doubt that the God of both halves of the Bible is a God that demands blood sacrifices - whether it be the demand for his followers' foreskins or his own flesh nailed to a crucifix. But I never expected to see a sacrifice of the flesh on the very banks of the Thames diagonally across from the Houses of Parliament - the very centre of civilisation. There wasn't much blood this time but there was definitely plenty of flesh.
There was a facsimile of a Christian cross approximately seven feet tall near the edge of the grass overlooking the river, downstream from the County Hall. The crossbeam was about four and a half feet high, and was constructed as a pillory. The beam was split along the centre, hinged at one end and padlocked at the other. These two pieces of wood had three channels cut in each of them that when joined together perfectly held a person by the neck and both wrists.
The Contessa was the first to see any details through the veil of bodies singing Hosannas to the blasphemous depravity taking place. This was like no Sunday worship that I had ever seen, the dancing more closely resembled an African tribal dance. Her gasp of astonishment grabbed Bernhardt and my attention and we instantly stepped in front to defend her.
"Holy fuck!" Bernhardt ejected.
The Contessa giggled and put her hand in front of her mouth.
I shook my head and tried not to grin. However, no matter the frivolity of the comment this was a serious matter which had to be dealt with.
"Bernhardt, do you have your revolver? Good. You know what we have to do. Signorina, stay close." I took her hand.
We slowly pushed our way through the throng who were alternating between blessed beatitude and frenzy. Had it been a normal day I could definitely have added a lot of patients to my practice - these people were in serious need of release. I was surprised to see just how many of the onlookers were women of various ages - from adolescent to ancient hag - all singing to the heavens, dancing, some even... touching themselves.
But we were on a rescue mission and could not be distracted. I caught a glimpse from Bernhardt which said, "I've got him - you two look after her."
As we broke through the inner circle we could see the whole sordid diorama in front of us.
The cross held a young woman in place by the neck and wrists. Naked. Her white flesh alight in the bright moonlight. Faint tints of green highlighted her form, and as I glanced at the sky briefly I saw the green lights of the Martian exhaust trails above us. Her long dark brown hair hung down, damp, clinging to her face.
Behind her, hands on her hips, thrusting into her was a bishop. Or at least it was a naked man wearing nought but a bishop's hat.
No-one was paying us much attention as they watched the bishop take his rather substantial appendage out of her and work it furiously manually. Even when Bernhardt pressed the muzzle of his revolver to his temple he didn't stop. In fact, I heard him clearly saying, "Almost done me old China, then you can have the titfer."
Bernhardt held the gun where it was and looked at me for translation.
"They don't teach you Cockney Rhyming Slang in the army, do they?" I asked. Finally, something he hadn't mastered - I had been beginning to wonder. "He said to wait a minute and then you could have a go if you insisted. But at least let him finish first - and you have to wear the hat."
When we had reached the woman's head I had glanced past the bishop and seen where the men in the crowd had ended up - in a queue. The ones at the front of the queue were naked, obviously eager for their turn; those further back were in various stages of undress and readiness.
I nodded towards the queue. Bernhardt's gaze turned towards it.
"Oh!" he said.
I glanced at the padlock. I hadn't expected to see the key in it, but since it was there I went to unlock it.
"Oi! Piss off! What the fuck are you playing at, cunt?"
This came from the last person I had expected, the woman in the pillory. I was so surprised that I took half a step back. My mouth dropped open. It proved to be a most inconvenient time.
Next thing I knew I had a wet mass of hot seminal fluid come flying over the cross and hit me in the face - across one cheek, dripping off my chin and hitting the back of my throat. I instinctively closed my mouth and swallowed before I realised what it was.
"Fucking good shot, Bertie!" shouted the woman, and burst into a gaggle of laughter.
The Contessa looked mortified, but then started laughing as I tried to spit out the invasive salty liquid. "Just swallow it, man - it's not as if it'll turn you into one a' them 'omersexuals!" she said through her tears. I didn't know whether to laugh or cry or gag or vomit or puke. I sat down and rested against the lower part of the cross. I looked up into what appeared behind the curtain of dark hair to be a beautiful young woman, smiling at me.
"I think you've got a bit of, ummm..." she said, trying her best in her present predicament to motion toward my chin. I wiped off the sticky residue and flicked it away. She snorted humorously. "Now you know wot it's like for us, guv," she said. "What's this all about then?"
"Rescuing... a damsel... in... distress?" I said, suddenly completely unsure of myself. This beautiful young woman seemed to be perfectly in control of her surroundings.
"Did you 'ear that Bertie? Alfie? They're rescuing a damsel in distress," she said with a put-on fancy accent. "That's the first time I've ever been called a bleedin' damsel! I don't 'alf feel posh!"
I could hear peals of laughter breaking out over the singing, making the rounds until the hymns had stopped. I could feel the blush rising in my cheeks.
The Contessa knelt down beside me, smiling. "I think we may have got things a bit wrong." I nodded, embarrassed. "You've still got..." she said and wiped the remainder of the sticky globules from my chin. She winked at me and then raised her fingers to her mouth. "See, this is how you do it," she whispered in an incredibly sexy deep tone, and proceeded to lick her fingers with the very tip of her tongue. She then sucked her fingers dry. I could feel all of the adrenaline that had rushed into my system for the rescue mission accumulate in my groin.