“Don’t come any nearer,” he shouted, to lend verisimilitude to his recent ordeal and to tell her that he was unhurt. “Lie down. They may start firing again.”
Lady Maud stopped in her tracks. “Oh thank Heavens, you’re all right, Blott,” she shouted. “I thought you’d been killed.”
“Me? Killed?” said Blott. “It would take more than that to kill me.”
“Who was it? Did you get a good look at them?”
“It was the army,” Blott told her. “I’ve got photographs to prove it.”
Chapter 27
By next morning Blott was famous. The news of the attack came too late to be carried by the early editions but the later ones all bore his name in their headlines. The BBC broadcast news of the atrocity and its legal implications were discussed on the Today programme. At one o’clock there were further developments when it was announced that twelve Marine Commandos were helping the police in their enquiries. During the afternoon questions were asked in the House and the Home Secretary promised a full Enquiry. And all day reporters and cameramen swarmed into the Gorge to interview Blott and Lady Maud and to photograph the damage. It was clearly visible and extensive. Bullet holes pockmarked the entire arch, suggesting that the army’s fire had been quite extraordinarily wild. The heads of several figures in the frieze were missing and the PIATs had torn gaping holes in the wall. Even hardened correspondents used to the tactics adopted against the urban guerrillas in Belfast were astonished by the extent of the damage.
“I’ve never seen anything like this,” the BBC correspondent told his audience from the top of a ladder before interviewing Blott at the window. “This might be Vietnam or the Lebanon but this is a quiet corner of rural England. I can only say that I am horrified that this could happen. And now Mr Blott, could you tell us first what you know about this attack?”
Blott looked out of the window into the camera.
“It must have been about one o’clock in the morning. I was asleep and I heard a noise outside. I got up and went to the window and looked out. There appeared to be men climbing up the wall. Well I didn’t want that so I poured oil down the wall.”
“You poured oil down the wall to stop them?”
“Yes,” said Blott, “olive oil. They slipped down and then the firing began.”
“The firing?”
“It sounded like machine-gun fire,” said Blott, “so I ran into the kitchen and lay on the floor. Then a minute or two later there was an explosion and things flew around the room and a few seconds afterwards there came another explosion. After that there was nothing.”
“I see,” said the interviewer. “Now at any time during the attack did you fire back? I understand you have a shotgun.”
Blott shook his head. “It all happened too suddenly,” he said. “I was all shook up.”
“Quite understandably. It must have been a terrifying experience for you. Just one more question. Was the oil you poured down the wall hot?”
“Hot?” said Blott. “How could it be hot? I poured it out of the can. I hadn’t got time to heat it up.”
“Well thank you very much,” said the interviewer and climbed down the ladder. “I think we’ll cut that last remark out,” he told the sound man. “It made him sound as if he would have liked to have poured hot oil on them.”
“I can’t say I blame him after what he’s been through,” said the sound man. “The buggers deserve boiling oil.”
It was an opinion shared by the Chief Constable.
“What do you mean, a police support role?” he shouted at the Colonel from the Commando Base who came up to explain that he had been ordered by the Ministry of Defence to send a team of rock-climbers to assist the police. “There weren’t any of my men within miles of the place. You send your killers in armed with rockets and machine-guns and blow hell out of…”
“My men were without any weapons,” said the Colonel.
The Chief Constable looked at him incredulously. “Your men were without weapons? You can stand there and tell me to my face that your men were unarmed when I’ve seen what they did to that building. You’ll be telling me next that they had nothing to do with the incident.”
“That’s what they say,” said the Colonel. “They all swear blue they had left and were on their way back to their transport when the firing occurred.”
“I’m not bloody surprised,” said the Chief Constable. “If I had just bombarded somebody’s private house in the middle of the night I’d say I hadn’t been near the place. That doesn’t mean anyone with any sense is going to believe them.”
“They weren’t carrying weapons when you arrested them.”
“Probably ditched the damned things,” said the Chief Constable. “And in any case for all I know there were others who got away before my men arrived.”
“I can assure you -” the Colonel began.
“Damn your assurances!” shouted the Chief Constable. “I don’t want assurances. I’ve got the evidence of the attack itself and I have twelve men trained in the use of the weapons needed for that attack who admit that they attempted to force an entry into the Lodge last night. What more do I need? They’ll appear before a magistrate in the morning.”
The Colonel had to admit that the circumstantial evidence…
“Circumstantial evidence, my foot,” snarled the Chief Constable, “they’re as guilty as hell and you know it.”
“I still think you ought to look into the business of the civil servant who gave them their instructions,” said the Colonel despondently as he left. “I believe his name is Dundridge.”
“I have already attended to that,” the Chief Constable told him. “He is in London at the moment but I have sent two officers down to bring him back for questioning.”
But Dundridge had already spent five hours being questioned by Mr Rees and Mr Joynson and finally by the Minister himself.
“All I did was tell them to climb into the arch and hold Blott till the police could come and evict him legally,” he explained over and over again. “I didn’t know they were going to use guns and things.”
Neither Mr Rees nor the Minister was impressed.
“Let us just look at your record,” said the Minister as calmly as he could. “You were appointed Controller Motorways Midlands with specific instructions to insure that the construction of the M101 went through with the minimum of fuss and bother, that local opinion felt that local interests were being looked after and that the environment was being protected. Now can you honestly say that the terms of reference of your appointment have been fulfilled in any single particular?”
“Well…” said Dundridge.
“No you can’t,” snarled the Minister. “Since you went to Worford there have been a series of appalling disasters. A Rotarian has been beaten to a pulp in his own house by a demented demolition expert who claims he was incited…”
“I didn’t know Mr Bullett-Finch was a Rotarian,” said Dundridge desperately trying to divert the floodwaters of the Minister’s mounting fury.
“You didn’t know…” The Minister counted to ten and took a sip of water. “Next, an entire village has been wrecked…”
“Not an entire village,” said Dundridge. “It was only the High Street.”
The Minister stared at him maniacally. “Mr Dundridge,” he said finally, “you may be able to make these fine distinctions between Rotarians and human beings and entire villages which consist only of High Streets and the High Streets themselves but I am not prepared to. An entire village was wrecked, a pedestrian was incinerated and twenty persons injured, some of them seriously. And this village, mark you, was over a mile away from the route of the proposed motorway. A Member of Parliament has been devoured by lions…”