The English Assassin Read Online Free PDF

music on stolen Gibsons, Yamahas, Framus twelve-strings, Martins and even Hofners. It’s a shame, really. Who can blame them?
    Jerry fingered his new gloves.
    You and they have more in common than I, major.
    Major Nye gave him a sympathetic glance. Aren’t you lonely, Mr Cornelius?
    For a moment self-pity flooded all Jerry’s systems. His eyes gleamed with water. Oh, fuck.
    Major Nye knew how to get through.
     
    * * *
    When half the barbarians were on the South Bank, the bridge, shaken by a hundred different twelve-bar blues and a thousand moccasins and calf-length suède boots, fell slowly over into the grease of the Thames. Large stones broke away from the main towers as they toppled; pieces of asphalt cracked like toffee struck by a hammer. The whole mock Gothic edifice, every inch of grimy granite, was falling down.
    Their long hair fluttering behind them, those babies not in slings and packs falling from their arms, their guitars and bundles scattering around them, their beads and furs and laces flapping, the barbarians sank through the air, struck, and were absorbed by, the river. For a moment a cassette tape recorder could be heard playing ‘You Can’t Always Get What You Want’ by the Rolling Stones and then that, too, was logged by the water.
    Arriving too late, a Panther patrol lowered its .280 EM1s as if in salute to the dying. Standing in single file along the North Bank they watched the children drown.
    The Panthers were led by a tall aristocrat in a finely tailored white suit, a neatly trimmed Imperial beard and moustache and short hair cut close to the nape of his black neck. He carried an elegant single-shot Remington XP-100. The bolt-action pistol was borne more for aesthetic effect than anything else. He held it in his right hand and his arms were folded across his chest so that the long barrel rested in the crook of his left elbow. The Panthers in their own well-cut cream uniforms looked enquiringly at their Head. It was unquestionably a problem of taste. The Panthers lived for taste and beauty, which was why they had been the most virulent force against the barbarians. The war between the two had been a war of styles and the Panthers, under their American leaders, had won all the way down the line.
    At last the Panthers on the North Bank reached a decision. Lining the embankment, they turned their tall backs, dropped their chins to their chests and lounged against the balustrade, listening to the fading cries of the dying until there was silence in the river again. Then they climbed back into their open Mercedes and Bentley tourers and rolled away from there.
    A few barbarians stood on the far bank, twisting themselves joints, hesitating before rejoining the exodus as it ploughed on towards the Borough High Street, heading for the suburbs of Surrey and Kent and what was left of the pickings.
    And those, said the major, indicating the disappearing Panthers, do you identify, perhaps, with them?
    Jerry shrugged. Maybe a little more. No—no, there’s nobody left at all, major, let’s face it. I’m on my own in this one and I can’t say I like it. My fault, perhaps.
    Possibly you lost sight of your targets, Mr Cornelius.
    I’ve hit all the targets, Major Nye. That’s the trouble. He took out his needler and turned it this way and that to catch the light on its polished chrome. Is there anything sadder, I wonder, than an assassin with nobody left to kill?
    I shouldn’t think so. Major Nye’s voice was now more than sympathetic. I know exactly what you mean, my dear chap. And I suppose that’s why we’re both standing here watching. Our sun has set, I’m afraid.
    Keep moving towards the sun and it will never set, said Jerry. That’s positive thinking, major. It will never happen. It’s a matter of finding the right place. The correct speed for forward momentum.
    Major Nye said nothing as he shook his grey head.
    It will never fucking happen! Jerry shouted.
    The masonry had blocked the flow