Part 3 (1/2)

For a moment Rice doubted; perhaps the figure would laugh and stride into the mist. Ice sliced through his toes; he tottered and then plunged. ”How did you make sure there was n.o.body about?” he forced through swollen lips. ”When you got rid of him?”

The eyes flickered; the scar s.h.i.+fted. ”Who, Phillips? G.o.d, man, I never did know what you meant half the time. He'll be wondering where I am--I'll have to think up a story to satisfy him.”

”I think you'll be able to do that.” Cold with fear as he was, Rice was still warmed by fulfilment as he sensed that he had the upper hand, that he was able to taunt as had the man on the cliff-top before the plunge. He plunged into the fog, knowing that now he would be followed.

The grey fields were abruptly blocked by a more solid anonymity, the streets of Lower Brichester, suffocating individuality, erasing it through generations. Whenever he'd walked through these streets with Jack on the short route to the pub each glance of Jack's had reminded him that he was part of this anonymity, this inertia. But no longer, he told himself. Signs of life were spa.r.s.e: a postman cycled creaking by; beyond a window a radio announcer laughed; a cat curled among milk-bottles. The door was rolled down on a pinball arcade, and a girl in a cheap fur coat was leaping about in the doorway of a boutique to keep herself warm until the keys arrived. Rice felt eyes finger the girl, then revert to him; they had watched him since the beginning of the journey, although the figure seemed to face always forward. Rice glanced at the other; he was gazing in the direction of his stride, and a block of ice grew in Rice's stomach while the glazing of the pavement cracked beneath his feet.

They pa.s.sed a square foundation enshrining a rusty pram; here a bomb had blown a house asunder. The next street, Rice realised, and dug his nails into the rubber of the torch in his pocket. The blitz had almost bypa.s.sed Brichester; here and there one pa.s.sed from curtained windows to a gaping house, eventually rebuilt if in the town, neglected in Lower Brichester. Was this the key? Had someone been driven underground by blitz conditions, or had something been released by bombing? In either case, what form of camouflage would they have had to adopt to live? Rice thought he knew, but he ------------------------------------com71 didn't want to think it through; he wanted to put an end to it. And round a corner the abandoned house focused into view.

A car purred somewhere; the pavement was faintly numbered for hopscotch. Rice gazed about covertly; there must be n.o.body in sight. And at his side the figure did the same. Terrified, Rice yet had to repress a nervous giggle. ”There's the house,” he said. ”I suppose you'll want to go in.”

”If you've got something to show me.” The scar wrinkled again.

Bricks were heaped in what had been the garden; ice glistened in their pores. Rice could see nothing through the windows, which were shuttered with tin. A grey corrugated sheet had been peeled back from the doorway; it sc.r.a.ped at Rice's ankle as he entered.

The light was dim; he gripped his torch. Above him a shattered skylight illuminated a staircase full of holes through which moist dust fell. To his right a door, one panel gouged out, still hung from a hinge. He hurried into the room, kicking a stray brick.

The fireplace gaped, half curtained by a hanging strip of wallpaper. Otherwise the room was bare, deserted probably for years. Of course the people of the neighbourhood didn't have to know exactly what was here to avoid it. In the hall tin rasped.

Rice ran into the kitchen, ahead on the left. Fog had penetrated a broken window; it filled his mouth as he panted. Opposite the cloven sink he saw a door. He wrenched it open, and in the other room the brick clattered.

Rice's hands were gloved in frozen iron; his nails were shards of ice thrust into the fingertips, melting into his blood. One hand clutched towards the back door. He tottered forward and heard the children scream, thought once of Harriet, saw the figures on the cliff. I'm not a hero! he mouthed. How in G.o.d's name did I get here? And the answer came: because he'd never really believed what he'd suspected. But the torch was s.h.i.+ning, and he swung it down the steps beyond the open door.

They led into a cellar; bricks were scattered on the floor, bent knives and forks, soiled plates leading the torch-beam to tattered blankets huddled against the walls, hints of others in the shadows. And in one corner lay a man, surrounded by tins and a strip of corrugated metal.

The body glistened. Trembling, his mouth gaping at the stench which thickened the air, Rice descended, and the torch's circle shrank. The man in the corner was dressed in red. Rice moved nearer. With a shock he realised that the man was naked, s.h.i.+ning with red paint which also marked the tins and strip of metal. Suddenly he wrenched away and retched.

For a moment he was engulfed by nausea; then he heard footsteps in the ------------------------------------com72 kitchen. His fingers burned like wax and blushed at their clumsiness, but he caught up a brick. ”You've found what you expected, have you?” the voice called.

Rice reached the steps, and a figure loomed above him, blotting out the light. With studied calm it felt about in the kitchen and produced a strip of corrugated tin. ”Fancy,” it said, ”I thought I'd have to bring you here to see Harriet. Now it'll have to be the other way round.” Rice had no time to think; focusing his horror, fear and disgust with his lifetime of inaction, he threw the brick.

Rice was shaking by the time he had finished. He picked up the torch from the bottom step and as if compelled turned its beam on the two corpses. Yes, they were of the same stature--they would have been identical, except that the face of the first was an abstract crimson oval. Rice shuddered away from his fascination. He must see Harriet--it didn't matter what excuse he gave, illness or anything, so long as he saw her. He shone the beam towards the steps to light his way, and the torch was wrested from his hand.

He didn't think; he threw himself up the steps and into the kitchen. The bolts and lock on the back door had been rusted shut for years. Footsteps padded up the steps. He fell into the other room. Outside an ambulance howled its way to hospital. Almost tripping on the brick, he reached the hall. The ambulance's blue light flashed in the doorway and pa.s.sed, and a figure with a grey sock covering its face blocked the doorway.

Rice backed away. No, he thought in despair, he couldn't fail now; the fall from the cliff had ended the menace. But already he knew. He backed into something soft, and a hand closed over his mouth. The figure plodded towards him; the grey wool sucked in and out. The figure was his height, his build. He heard himself saying ”I can always help to look after the children.” And as the figure grasped a brick he knew what face waited beneath the wool. ------------------------------------com73

The Interloper

When Scott entered the cla.s.sroom it was as if a vacuum-jar had been clamped over the cla.s.s. Thirteen conversations were truncated; thirty boys stood, thirty folding seats slammed back; a geometry set crashed, scattered; John Norris coughed nervously, falsely, wondering if Scott had heard him saying seconds before to Dave Pierce ”The Catacombs at lunchtime, then?” Scott's gaze froze about him. ”All right, sit down,” said Scott. ”I don't want this period wasted.” He sat. The congregation sat. Homework books were flurried open. John sensed Scott's haste, and pin-cus.h.i.+ons grew in his palms; he thought of the solution on which everyone else agreed; he lived for the arrival of the Inspector in the afternoon, when Scott surely couldn't take it out of him. clamped over the cla.s.s. Thirteen conversations were truncated; thirty boys stood, thirty folding seats slammed back; a geometry set crashed, scattered; John Norris coughed nervously, falsely, wondering if Scott had heard him saying seconds before to Dave Pierce ”The Catacombs at lunchtime, then?” Scott's gaze froze about him. ”All right, sit down,” said Scott. ”I don't want this period wasted.” He sat. The congregation sat. Homework books were flurried open. John sensed Scott's haste, and pin-cus.h.i.+ons grew in his palms; he thought of the solution on which everyone else agreed; he lived for the arrival of the Inspector in the afternoon, when Scott surely couldn't take it out of him.

”Answer to the first one. Robbins?” On the bus that morning, during breaks in the dawn game of musical window-seats, they'd compared solutions. (”What'd you get, Norris?” ”34.5.” ”You sure? I had 17.31.” ”So did I.” ”Yes, I did too”) The pins stung. ”Correct, x knowledge knowledge 2.03 or com3.7. Anybody not get that? Any questions?” But n.o.body dared stand unless so ordered. ”Next. Thomas?” Thomas stood, adjusted his homework, gave vent to a spurious sigh of desperate concentration. Scott drummed a stick of chalk, swept down in dusty robes on Thomas. ”Come on, lad, you can't dither in an exam. 27.5 is the answer, isn't it?” Thomas beamed. ”That's right, sir, of course.” ”No, it isn't, you blockhead!” Scott strode behind Thomas to peer at his homework, drove his knuckles into Thomas's kidney with an accuracy born of years of practice. ”Wake your ideas up, lad! Fuller, can you show Thomas how to think?” 2.03 or com3.7. Anybody not get that? Any questions?” But n.o.body dared stand unless so ordered. ”Next. Thomas?” Thomas stood, adjusted his homework, gave vent to a spurious sigh of desperate concentration. Scott drummed a stick of chalk, swept down in dusty robes on Thomas. ”Come on, lad, you can't dither in an exam. 27.5 is the answer, isn't it?” Thomas beamed. ”That's right, sir, of course.” ”No, it isn't, you blockhead!” Scott strode behind Thomas to peer at his homework, drove his knuckles into Thomas's kidney with an accuracy born of years of practice. ”Wake your ideas up, lad! Fuller, can you show Thomas how to think?”

The exam in six months, possessing Scott with terrifying force. The Inspector's visit, driving Scott to fury at being subdued in the afternoon. Oh, G.o.d, John prayed, don't let him ask me question five. ”That's it, Fuller. Go on, sit down, Thomas, we don't need you as cla.s.s figurehead. Hawks, what have you got for the next one?” The cla.s.s next door roared with laughter, Foghorn Ford must be taking them, the English master, John's favourite, ------------------------------------com74 who let him write poetry in cla.s.s sometimes when he'd turned in particularly good homework. Silence. Laughter. John was jealous. Scott was behind him somewhere, pacing closer: ”Come on, come on, on, Hawks!” Further down the corridor cracked the flat sound of a strap. Some of the masters you could come to terms with, like the art master; you had only to emulate the skunk to get rid of him. But Strutt, the gym master--he'd have your gym-shoe off for that. And you couldn't do much about Collins's geography cla.s.s--”Spit” they called him, because sitting on his front row was like standing on a stormy promenade. Yet no cla.s.s was so suffocated by fear as Scott's. One lunch-hour when John had been writing poetry Thomas had s.n.a.t.c.hed his notebook and Scott had come in and confiscated it; when John had protested Scott had slapped his face. Dave Pierce had told John to protest to Foghorn Ford, but he hadn't had the courage. Next door Ford's cla.s.s laughed. Further off the strap came down: Hawks!” Further down the corridor cracked the flat sound of a strap. Some of the masters you could come to terms with, like the art master; you had only to emulate the skunk to get rid of him. But Strutt, the gym master--he'd have your gym-shoe off for that. And you couldn't do much about Collins's geography cla.s.s--”Spit” they called him, because sitting on his front row was like standing on a stormy promenade. Yet no cla.s.s was so suffocated by fear as Scott's. One lunch-hour when John had been writing poetry Thomas had s.n.a.t.c.hed his notebook and Scott had come in and confiscated it; when John had protested Scott had slapped his face. Dave Pierce had told John to protest to Foghorn Ford, but he hadn't had the courage. Next door Ford's cla.s.s laughed. Further off the strap came down: Whap! Whap! Silence. Laughter. Silence. Laughter. Whap! Whap! Whap! Whap! WHAP! WHAP! John felt Dave's eyes on him, deploring. He turned to nod and Scott said ”Norris!” John felt Dave's eyes on him, deploring. He turned to nod and Scott said ”Norris!”

He stood. More moist pins stabbed. On the still air hung chalk and Scott's aftershave. ”Yes, sir,” he stammered.

”Yes, sir. The first time I repeat myself it has to be to you. Question five, Norris, question five!”

The Inspector. The Catacombs at lunchtime. Foghorn Ford always called him ”Mr Norris.” None of these could comfort him; fear twinged up from his bowels like wind. ”34.5, sir?” he pleaded.

”Norris--Thomas I can understand, because he's an idiot, but you--I showed you how to do this one on the board yesterday. Don't tell me you weren't here.”

”I was here, sir. I didn't understand, sir.”

”You didn't understand, sir. You didn't ask, sir, did you? You were writing poetry about it, were you? Come out here.” Scott cast his robes back; chalk whirled into the air.

John wanted to shut his eyes, but that wasn't permitted; the cla.s.s was watching, willing him to represent them in the ritual without shaming them. Scott pulled John's left hand straight, adjusted it to correct height with the strap. He aimed. John's thumb closed inadvertently. Scott flicked it aside with the strap. The crowd was hushed, tense. The strap came down. John's hand swelled with hectic blood.

”Now, Pierce,” said Scott. ”I'm sure you can enlighten your friend.”

A bell shrilled. Ford's cla.s.s pelted to the playground, flattening against the wall to file as Scott approached. ”Time for a drink, Ford?” he called. John ------------------------------------com75 averted his face as he pa.s.sed, swollen with fear and hatred. ”Scott's not too bad really,” Dave Pierce said. ”Better than that swine Ford, anyway, keeping me in last week.”

Disloyal to his throbbing puffed-up palm, thought John bitterly. ”Glad you think so,” he muttered.

”Never mind, John. Did you hear this one? Two men go to a doctor, see--was John could guess the sort of thing: he didn't like to hear it, couldn't join in the secret sn.i.g.g.e.r at ”Edgar Allan Poe,” Poe,” ”oui-oui,” and so on. ”We'd better hurry,” he interrupted. ”You get past the gate and I'll be under the wall.” ”oui-oui,” and so on. ”We'd better hurry,” he interrupted. ”You get past the gate and I'll be under the wall.”

He strolled past the playground; boys walking, talking, s.h.i.+vering in the pale February light which might have been shed by the gnawed slice of moon on the horizon; a group in one corner huddled round photographs, another conferring over homework for the afternoon; beyond, on the misty playingfield, a few of Strutt's favourites running in gym-suits. On the bus that morning a man cradling a briefcase had offered to help John with his homework, but he was obscurely scared of strange men. He stood against the wall beyond the playground. When Dave's lunch pa.s.s flew over, he caught it and made for the gate.

A prefect leaned against the railings; he straightened himself, frowning, as befitted his position--one day a week for the school spirit, he'd rather be at the pub. Above his head words were scratched on the king george v grammar sign through the caretaker's third coat of paint, in defiance of the headmaster's regular threats. John flashed the pa.s.s from his good hand and escaped.

Down the road Dave was waiting by fragments of a new school: a lone s.h.i.+ning coffee-urn on a counter, pyramids of chairs, skulls drawn in whitewash on the one plate-gla.s.s pane; a plane had left a fading slash of whitewash on the sky. ”How do we get to The Catacombs?” Dave asked.

”I don't know,” John answered, feeling comfort drain, emptying the hour. ”I thought you did.”

Heels clicked by in unison. ”Let's follow these girls, then. They're a bit of all right,” Dave said. ”They may be going.”

John drew into himself; if they turned they'd laugh at his school blazer. Their pink coats swung, luring Dave; their perfume trailed behind them-- The Catacombs would be thick with that and smoke. He followed Dave. The girls leapt across the road, running as if to jettison their legs, and were lost in a pillared pub between a shuttered betting-shop and the Co-operative Social Club. Dave was set to follow, but John heard drumming somewhere beneath the side street to their left. ”It's up here,” he said. ”Come on, we've lost ten minutes already.” ------------------------------------com76 Cars on the main road swept past almost silently; in the side street they could hear beneath their feet a pounding drum, a blurred electric guitar. Somewhere down there were The Catacombs--but the walls betrayed no entrance to this converted cellar, reclaimed by the city in its blind subterranean search for s.p.a.ce. Menace throbbed into the drum from the rhythm of John's hot hand. Spiders s.h.i.+fted somnolently in a white web wall within a crevice. A figure approached down the alley, a newspaper-seller with an armful of Brichester Brichester Heralds, Heralds, his coat furred and patched as the walls. John drew back. The man pa.s.sed in silence, one hand on the bricks. As he leaned on the wall opposite the boys it gave slightly; a door disguised as uneven stone swung inwards from its socket. The man levered himself onward. his coat furred and patched as the walls. John drew back. The man pa.s.sed in silence, one hand on the bricks. As he leaned on the wall opposite the boys it gave slightly; a door disguised as uneven stone swung inwards from its socket. The man levered himself onward.

”That must be it,” Dave said, stepping forward.

”I'm not so sure.” The man had reached the main road and was croaking ”Brichester Herald!” Herald!” John glanced back and saw the pub door open. Scott appeared and strode towards him. John glanced back and saw the pub door open. Scott appeared and strode towards him.

”No,” John said. He thrust Dave through the opening; his last glimpse was of Scott buying a Brichester Brichester Herald. Herald. ”That was your friend Scott,” he snarled at Dave. ”That was your friend Scott,” he snarled at Dave.

”Well, it's not my fault.” Dave pointed ahead, down a stone corridor leading to a faint blue light around a turn. ”That must be The Catacombs.”

”Are you sure?” John asked, walking. ”The music's getting fainter. In fact, I can't hear it anymore.”

”I couldn't really hear it anymore when we came in,” Dave admitted. ”Come on, it's got to be here.” They rounded a turn.

A wan blue glow narrowed away into dimness. Slowly a perspective formed; a long stone pa.s.sage, faintly glistening, too narrow to admit them abreast, perhaps turning in the distance--somehow lit by its own stones, luminously blue. It lured curiosity, yet John grasped Dave's arm. ”This can't be it,” he said. ”We'd better not go on.”

”I am, anyway. I want to see where it leads.”