Cloud Walker, All Fools' Day, Far Sunset (45 page)

But neither knights nor dragons presumed to materialise in the desolate, white-edged world. He and Liz were alone with a car-load of junk and desperation.

They were driving from nowhere to nowhere, from oblivion to oblivion, through frozen avenues of time on a winter morning that any sensitive person would have recognised as the naked manifestation of eternity.

In a couple of hours, they had covered nearly thirty miles, which, allowing for the usual stops, map consultations (virtually useless because sign-posts were more or less non-existent) and three small detours, was pretty good going.

Greville felt pleased with himself. He felt entitled to enjoy his breakfast. It consisted of eggs and homemade bread and some precious coffee. Taken by the roadside, with the eggs cooked in bacon fat and the bread used to polish the pan clean and the black coffee stinging his throat like some deliciously painful nectar, he could almost feel happy. He looked at Liz, and his spirits rose. Whatever happened, he told himself firmly, they would stay together.

During the rest of the day they made good progress. Huntingdon had been by-passed without incident. There remained Kettering and Market Harborough as the only towns of appreciable size before Leicester. If he exercised a little bit of ingenuity, it should be possible to get round both of them without too much difficulty.

But whatever route was taken, they could not avoid villages. The two that they passed through during the morning were as silent as the grave. No smoke
rose from the chimney-stacks. Cottage windows, glassless, stared blank-eyed and mute. In the third village, passed shortly after midday, a pack of dogs seemed to have used the houses as a temporary refuge. At the sound of the car they came hurling out of doorways and even first-storey windows, eager for something to kill and eat. Watching them lunge futilely at the wheels and the bodywork, Greville was almost sorry for the half-starved brutes. After all, they had been deserted by those to whom traditionally they were supposed to be the best of friends; and like man, they just didn’t know what had hit them.

A more pleasing sight occurred later in the afternoon when Liz and Greville caught sight of a huge herd of deer. They were passing through relatively open country at the time; and the herd of deer were bounding across the plain – almost parallel with the road – in joyous exultation, glorying in life, freedom, the sharp air of late autumn, and the marvellous absence of the restraining and frequently lethal hand of man.

Being of a practical turn of mind, Liz suggested that they stop the car and drop one of the deer for meat. Greville vetoed the idea. He said he didn’t want to waste time skinning and cutting; but secretly he was too moved by the obvious
joie de vivre
of the herd to want to do anything to spoil it. Besides, they had plenty of food for the time being. The time to shoot deer was when one really needed to.

They had covered nearly seventy miles by nightfall. It wasn’t a bad start. It wasn’t bad at all. This time Greville chose a small hill on which to spend the night – a hill that, according to the map, was miles from anywhere. He kept the car on the roadside, partly on the theory that any predatory animals would be more likely to haunt the nearby woodland and partly on the theory that it would be easier to move away if he had to.

There were no incidents, however – at least, none apart from Liz. The nightmares seemed to be taking an even tighter hold on her. She did not scream this time, she just moaned and shivered and cried softly. Nothing Greville could do would rouse her; and she remained curled up in her seat, sleeping at times, but for most of the time emitting sad and inhuman little noises until well after daybreak.

When, at last, she came to her senses, she did not seem to recognise Greville for a time; and she was strangely uncommunicative throughout most of the morning. She had cooked breakfast like an automaton, programmed for the task. And, in the same way, she had eaten it.

Greville humoured her and tried not to intrude too much upon her private thoughts. It seemed to him that as the morning wore on her spirits were raised slightly. He assumed it was because they were near to Leicester and because she felt that the worst part of the journey was behind them.

But it had nothing to do with how far they were from Leicester or Manchester.

While they were driving along a monotonously straight and relatively clear piece of roadway, Liz said abruptly: ‘Jane’s dead. She died last night … I’m going to have a baby.’

Greville stopped the car and gazed at her in wonderment. ‘Say it all again – slowly. Maybe I’m further round than I thought.’

‘Jane’s dead,’ repeated Liz. ‘She died last night. It was some kind of fever … Hell, I don’t really know what it was. Maybe it was just starvation and misery, or maybe she just couldn’t stand the screwing any more … Anyway, she said to thank you. She said you were all right … So now we don’t need to go to Manchester any more, do we? She really is dead, you know … I’ve been … I’ve been cut off. It’s an odd sensation … A long time ago I read in a book somewhere about people that had to have limbs amputated. Afterwards, some of them could still feel the fingers and arms that weren’t there … Phantom limbs, I think they were called … Now I’ve got a phantom limb … It’s funny, really.’

Greville looked at her. She was dry-eyed and almost abnormally calm. There was not even a tremor in her voice.

‘So Jane’s dead,’ he managed to say finally. ‘I’m sorry … I really am sorry … You’re sure she’s dead?’

‘I’m sure.’

Greville was silent for a minute or two. ‘You said something else,’ he prompted at length. ‘It didn’t seem to be connected with Jane.’

‘That’s right. I’m going to have a baby.’

He was silent again a for a while. Then: ‘How long have you known?’

‘Three months,’ said Liz unconcernedly. ‘Maybe four … You begin to lose track of time.’

‘And why the bloody hell didn’t you tell me before?’ he exploded violently.

Liz smiled. ‘It will be a little girl … I expect I shall call her Jane.’

‘I said why the hell didn’t you tell me before?’

‘You might have chucked me out. You might have told me to go and have my bloody baby in a field … Besides, you should have known. You saw I was getting fatter, didn’t you?’

‘You were skin and bone when I found you. I thought you were just putting on weight because you were eating reasonably well for a change.’

Liz laughed. ‘That’s a good one! It’s the best excuse for blindness I’ve heard yet.’

‘Why didn’t you tell me!’ he raged.

‘Because,’ she said quietly, ‘I don’t even know if you are the father. It could be one of the Richmond Lot. It could be one of the Northerners. It could even be one of those wretched kids that screwed me on the way out of London … I was afraid to tell you. But now I’m not afraid any more, because I know that
everything is going to be all right … It will be a little girl and I shall call her Jane.’

Greville stared at her helplessly. He felt as if someone had just hit him with a block of wood – about fifteen times.

‘Let’s try to get some grip on reality,’ he said in a carefully controlled voice. ‘Always assuming, of course, that there’s a bit of reality to get a grip on … You say Jane’s dead. All right, I accept that. I was never sure she was alive, so I can’t much quibble about her dying … But this baby … Goddammit, you can’t be that woolly-headed. You must have some idea.’

‘No idea,’ retorted Liz flatly. ‘That time I ran away – it wasn’t just for Jane, you know. I thought I’d find her and then we could go somewhere quiet and then I could have my baby, and you never need know … I’ve got to say this. I can’t really care who the father is.’ She patted her stomach protectively. ‘After all, she’s mine.’

‘Jesus Christ!’ said Greville helplessly. ‘What in the world do we do now?’

Liz seemed to be in command of the situation. ‘Turn back,’ she said. ‘We’ll go back to the cottage and you can screw me as much as you like – except for a little time before baby comes and a little time afterwards … Then we shall all be happy.’

‘Shall we indeed,’ snapped Greville. ‘Shall we indeed!’

He raced the car’s engine, went into first gear viciously and tore away with a jerk. Throwing caution to the winds, he began to cruise along at nearly forty miles an hour, his spirit numbed, oblivious of everything. The road began to twist and turn, but he did not slow down.

He did not see the sign:
Beware trespassers. You are approaching manorial territory
. It was a big sign, newly painted, at the side of the road. But he didn’t see it.

He didn’t even see the road-block until it was too late. Anyway, it was a damn silly road-block – a few bales of hay manned (if that was the right word) by a couple of tweedy-looking gents with shotguns.

Seeing that he had left it too late to reverse, he slowed down a little as if he proposed to stop. Then when he was about twenty yards from the bales of hay, he changed down in to second gear and accelerated like the devil.

The engine screamed, the gear-box whined, and the station wagon leapt forward, scattering men and bales with reckless abandon. Greville saw one of the men bowled head over heels, his shotgun going off as it pointed to the sky. It gave him a savage delight. He hoped the man was hurt – badly hurt. He hoped he would live quite a long time to nurse his pain.

The other man had disappeared completely from view, but he was evidently shooting, for the car was rattling as if it had been hit by a volley of hail-stones. Then they were through the tumbling barrier of bales and away.

Greville gave a cry of triumph. The road-block had occurred at a good
time. It had occurred when he badly needed to do something and smash somebody.

He was still accelerating, still filled with a bubbling boiling mixture of anger and violence and hatred and love when suddenly there was a sound like the end of the world. The roadway seemed to drift up towards him in slow motion like a snapped ribbon. Then the car slewed over sideways and began to roll.

The last thing he heard was Liz shouting.

The last word he heard was: ‘Jane!’

Then suddenly, inexplicably, there was nothing but fog. And the fog became a black enveloping river.

There was a cage. He couldn’t get in, and Liz couldn’t get out. She was naked, and she wasn’t alone in the cage. There was a ring of male faces. Greedy faces, vacant faces – slack with lust and anticipation.

Francis stood by Greville’s side, dressed like a circus ring-master. ‘Walk up! Walk up!’ he shouted jovially. ‘See the greatest little show on earth. See the beautiful lady ridden bareback by the most intrepid erection and demolition experts in the world … Walk up! Walk up!’

‘Stop!’ screamed Greville, his voice making no sound. ‘That’s Liz. You can’t let them do that to Liz.’

‘Walk up! Walk up!’ said Francis, oblivious. ‘See the Turn of the Screw in three dimensions and natural colour.’

Big Ears was in the cage. ‘Let’s have a go,’ he pleaded. ‘There’s nothing else to do.’

Nibs was also present. ‘By all means,’ he said grandly, ‘provided you repent afterwards of such sordid fornication. Let us trust this is a lesson to poor Uncle. I am afraid that at times he harbours indelicate thoughts.’

‘Stop it!’ screamed Greville silently. ‘She’s mine. Liz belongs to me.’

Francis took off his top-hat and put on a mortarboard and gown. ‘Gentlemen,’ he said, ‘we have here a most interesting example of paranoia. The patient has delusions of considerable grandeur. Note the simple phrasing: Liz belongs to me. Apparently, gentlemen, the patient genuinely believes that he is capable of possessing another human being. Extrapolating further, I think it is only fair to adduce his belief in the concept of romantic love.’

‘I love her,’ said Grenville mechanically. ‘She belongs to me.’

‘Go stuff yourself,’ retorted Smiler.

Francis dissolved into Father Jack. He regarded Greville benevolently. ‘
Ego te absolvo
, my son.’

Liz waved at Greville cheerily. ‘I’m no good at anything but screwing,’ she said.

Father Jack shot her neatly through the forehead.

And Greville woke up screaming.

‘Steady, lad! Steady there! You’re with friends.’

The room came into focus; and with it a man’s face. It was large, round and ruddy. It had a thick, grey moustache and on top a thin, receding line of hair.
The lips were smiling but the eyes were cold and remote. The head was attached to a body. The body wore a check shirt and a tweed jacket.

Greville stopped screaming. ‘Where’s Liz?’ The words were no more than an exhausted whisper.

‘Ah yes, the woman.’ Cold Eyes paused. ‘It’s no good beating about the bush, laddie. Take it on the chin, there’s a good fellow. Best in the end, what? She’s dead, d’you know.’

‘Dead?’ Greville felt suddenly numb.

‘Dead,’ repeated Cold Eyes. ‘Mean to say: you can’t go driving cars all over land-mines without making a bit of an omelette, what?’

‘Dead,’ repeated Greville stupidly. ‘Dead.’

‘After all,’ went on Cold Eyes. ‘It was a bit naughty, wasn’t it? My men asked you very decently to heave to. But off you go like a mad thing without so much as a civil “by your leave”. It’s a wonder you aren’t dead, too, laddie. The car is pretty much a write-off.’ He laughed heartily. ‘Still, what the hell. There’s no need to worry about your no-claim bonus, eh? Main thing is to get you up and about … No bones broken. Would you believe it! The devil takes care of his own.’

‘Who – who are you?’ asked Greville.

‘Name of Oldknow laddie. Sir James Oldknow – not that it matters these days … My boys seem to like to call me Squire.’

‘Where the hell am I?’

‘Ah, the classic question,’ said Cold Eyes jovially. ‘You are in Brabynes House, laddie, in the village of Upper Brabyns, in the manor of Brabyns, Leicestershire … And now it’s my turn. What’s your name?’

‘Greville.’

‘Christian or Surname?’

‘Both.’

‘Don’t play games, laddie. I’m a busy man.’ Cold Eyes made a sign, and another face came into Greville’s field of vision. It was attached to a massive body.