"Fear a Painted Devil"

Chapter 8

Which V? All of them

Rated R for Violence

Disclaimer: Characters belong to Moore, Lloyd and WB

"…some fierce thing replete with too much rage,
Whose strength's abundance weakens his own heart;"--sonnet 23


V looks down two stories below into the street. In the darkness on the roof he is invisible. His white mask hides beneath the flat brim of his large hat; his body hides shapeless beneath swaths of midnight cashmere. He waits. He would have preferred to watch this townhouse from across the street, but the winter trees offer him no cover in their naked branches and a bright streetlight pokes its nosey finger across the walkway. Up here, up high, it is dark. He has already chosen a means of descent. A drainpipe and a convenient trellis await his return. It's not the best choice, but it will be enough.

He waits for Rumfries. He can see across the street and down the alley. Lights are on in the homes, people are coming home, walking up, going in. Families are sitting down to table together. He can hear the tellys coming on: voices of strangers in the dark. He knows Rumfries will wait until midnight. He shall wait until midnight.

He thinks about Evey. Locked in the Shadow Gallery, blind and deaf, separated from the machines in the surveillance room. His eyes and ears. She must understand the larger context. He knows she does not. He knows she sees only her own heart, her own memories, her own fears. How to share with her? How do I teach her this…connection? He knows he can teach her nothing. I wanted her to see what is going on, to understand what I am doing. He grieves. She only sees what she wants to see. Individuals. Events. No philosophy, no meaning, no overview...more importantly, no context. He taps the cold bricks with a gloved finger. She is still caught up in her own little drama. Well, tomorrow night will be the Bishop. She has agreed to help me with that. He was surprised she agreed. He knew she was still angry about the Art Curator, Miss Bartlett. He smiled. If only she knew where I am right now. He tipped the mask listening. Miss Bartlett is directly below me. In her bedroom. She is reading. Marx, I believe. I saw the forbidden tome on her nightstand. Outside Miss Bartlett's townhouse the neighborhood quiets house by house as the lights go off one by one.

V waits. Miss Bartlett is under surveillance. V pulls his video scrambler from his belt. This one records fifteen minutes then broadcasts a loop to the cameras' output. The Eyes will not realize they are blind, but for how long? Long enough to do what needs to be done. He sets it up, activates its wireless card. Lets it run.

He pushes back his cape, fingers his blades. All there. All ready. Rumfries will come armed. He will come with five men. Five men who will be wearing body armor and metal helmets. Not easy targets with a knife. Not from above or face on, and more important: these men wear berets when they are not wearing helmets. Highly trained, strong, disciplined. No, not an easy night tonight. These men are fighters, not Fingermen. Warriors, not cops. Soldiers, not petty thieves. He fingered the knives again.

As with any adversary, he must know their weaknesses. And he does. Because they are soldiers, they train to fight others like themselves. Other men with guns and body armor. Yes, I'm wearing a vest, and yes, this is my heaviest mask. But that is not how they will be defeated. He felt a stab of pity, even remorse for the soldiers whose names were the first five on the duty roster tonight. They have not been trained to fight me.

A car drives slowly down the tree-lined street. V follows it with his eyes. He is waiting for an armored vehicle, not a mini cooper. And Rumfries. Here is a man with a weakness. Six major weaknesses. V remembers pulling up the Major's service record on his computer. A man with a past. A man so heavily decorated in his youth that he must choose which medals to wear on grand occasions, for though he trains at the gym every day, his broad chest is not wide enough to display all the marks of the government's appreciation. But that was more than ten years ago. For twelve years Major Rumfries has been controlling a desk instead of a commando unit. And he has been busy in those twelve years. V smiles grimly as he remembers the pretty face on the screen. Cynthia is her name. A pixie-like girl who married a war hero, then settled down in a little brownstone to produce five little future generals. V recited their names to himself: Trevor, Graham, Cecil, Derek and baby Michael. He shakes his head, strands of his hair lift up into the night breeze. Creedy is a politician, and places the image above the function. Only a man with no weakness can stand against me. To select a man like Rumfries, based entirely on his reputation and past achievements instead of a stronger, younger man who will not succumb to the most basic threats is the height of folly.

And then there is Creedy's weakness. Sutler. V leans against the chimney. I will play that card tonight as well, but now it is time for Rumfries and time for Miss Bartlett. He hears another engine, this one larger than a mini. He feels the adrenaline as he sees the headlights dim, and then blink off. The jeep rolls to a silent stop below him. Yes, they are here. Welcome to Hell, gentlemen. Lady Macbeth was wrong. It is not childish to fear a painted devil.

Five men emerge from the jeep, he hears the clatter of their rifles as they prepare for their raid. Below him Miss Bartlett's light has gone off. He checks the precious parcel beside him, then touches the laces of his cloak. The heavy fabric falls away from his shoulders; he will not need the cloak right now. The hat follows. It is time. He watches as the men enter the townhouse one by one. No need to break the door, they have a key. The better to keep the neighbors quiet, complaisant and contained. No noise. No furor, no attention from the other citizens. He waits. As he expects, Rumfries enters behind four of his men. The fifth stands watch on Miss Bartlett's porch steps, rifle ready. V knows they will not harm her. She is slated to disappear, and then be found dead on some lonely moor. She will emerge, silent, bound, a black bag over her head. I will be here for her. Too bad Evey knows nothing. How happy she will be when I tell her what I've done tonight.

Time to go. He clutches his parcel and vaults over the edge of the roof, one hand firm on the drainpipe, his boots on the bricks as he slides to the ground. The smallest of thumps as the black boots meet the soft earth is the only sound that tells the soldier guarding the door that this easy assignment, this quick snatch-and-grab will be his last. V sets his parcel aside for now. Leans it against the house.

V has a knife in his hand, and like a shadow he creeps step by step until he has reached the edge of the little circle of light that comforts the sidewalk at midnight. He pauses, counting, ready for the strike, listening. He is pressed against the bricks to the left of the dimly-lit doorway, below the low steps that lead to the threshold. This must be timed just right. He hears heavy jackboots on the stairs inside. They are dragging Miss Bartlett down. Now. He launches himself at the guard; the feeble light does not have the strength to flash on his knife. In the darkness the knife comes up from below and pierces the guard's throat, above the body armor, below the helmet, so fast and so thorough there is no sound but a gurgle. V catches the man as he falls, keeps the rifle from clanking to the pavement. The hapless guard is deposited in the bushes below Miss Bartlett's window. One. He crouches. Ready.

The next soldier emerges from the house, notices the guard is gone, and immediately assumes a defensive position, the rifle leading. The barrel pans back and forth. He is well-trained, but even so, I can tell he is not alarmed. He knows he is with five other soldiers, in a little townhouse on Acorn street. Not in the jungles of Asia or the desert sands of Syria. This little kernel of complacency is his death. No one trains to fight me.

The knife comes out to strike like a serpent, the long blade, sharp as a razor, enters the soldier's thigh. The man tries to scream, but a gloved hand is forced between his teeth. Too late. Your femoral artery is severed. There is another slash. Now your carotid. Ten minutes. Good bye. V drags him to lay upon his comrade in a bloody embrace of death. Two.

Now he hears the sounds of Miss Bartlett's limp body being dragged to the door by two soldiers. They will be slow. The third soldier is leading with his weapon, they all stop. What will they do? Begin firing? Call for back-up? I think not. They will assess the situation, fan out, try to see what has happened. Sure enough, Miss Bartlett is dropped unceremoniously in her foyer, Rumfries is on his phone…funny how it doesn't seem to be working, now, isn't it? V hears Rumfries tell one of the soldiers to stay with their victim. The other two take up positions at either side of her front door. Another knife appears in his other hand. Now it is time for throwing. He backs up. Must have at least ten feet. Fifteen is better. As the first rifle barrel glints in the streetlight, its owner is struck in the face by the pommel of a heavy knife. His nose is broken, blood pours over his mouth. He curses, lowers the weapon to point at the darkness, indicating to the other soldier from whence the knife has come. Not the smartest thing to do, but it was exactly what V intended. Thank you for the open target. The second blade strikes the soldier in the now unprotected throat. Yes. Ten feet is enough. "Turn on the lights!" someone shouts. Funny. Those won't work either. Three.

"We're under attack!" he hears. Yes, you are. Come out. Two more knives in his hands, he leaps up from behind the bushes, comes into view, briefly, so briefly. Rifles do not work at close range, do they? The soldier tries to strike him with the barrel of his weapon. Not fast enough. V's unearthly reflexes are frightening to watch. The red slash seems to just magically appear across the soldier's throat. Four. V has launched himself at the other man already. One little burst, pop pop pop from the rifle, the shots are wild, go up into the sky, the rifle clanks to the ground, silent. Silence also takes the soldier who carried it. His body lies twitching in its own blood, rivulets cascade down Miss Bartlett's front stoop. Five. V stands erect in the doorway. Shoot me, Major. And the major does. His service revolver comes up. V counts, one two three four five six. That how many steps it takes to close the distance between us. Funny how it comes out even that way, one step for every shot. V reaches for the empty pistol, snatches it and throws it into the next room.

"Good Evening, Major."