The Guardians (16 page)

“No good saying we can't hope, because we do.” Mike shrugged. “Our chances may not be very bright, but they're better than no chance at all and no hope.”

“You mean you're intending to go . . .”

“Over the Barrier. A reverse journey from yours.”

“And live there—in the Conurb?” Rob said incredulously.

“Yes.”

“In crowds and noise and squalor? You'd hate every minute of it. I know what it's like. You don't. Plotting in country houses and taking part in a
revolt for a few hours isn't the same as living as a Conurban, day after day, month after month.”

“I didn't imagine I was going to enjoy it.”

He was serious, Rob saw. He was torn by conflicting feelings. He felt he was letting Mike down again—that Mrs. Gifford's jibe about repaying help was still true. On the other hand . . .

“You're wrong about this,” he said. “I'm sure you'll come around to seeing it. When you do, even if you are in the Conurb, you can come back. If I went . . .”

“It would be a different proposition. I know.” He put a hand on Rob's shoulder. “If you wanted to come I wouldn't take you.”

“Don't go,” Rob said. “Nothing will happen to you if you surrender to the police.”

Mike looked at him. “You think not?”

“I'm sure. Now there's no danger . . .”

“Leave it,” Mike said. “I've made up my mind.”

“If you would just talk to your parents—let them know that you're here, that you're safe.”

“If I did, do you think they would let me go again?” Rob was silent. Mike went on, “I suppose I
ought not to have come back, but it was on my way and I thought I had a better chance of stealing food here than anywhere else. At another place a dog might have barked. Tess only tried to lick me all over. I mustn't hang about, though. I want to get across the fence by morning. The moonlight's a help.”

“And Captain? You can't very well take him with you.”

“No.” He managed a smile, a small one. “I'll turn him loose. He'll find his way home.”

“Change your mind!” Rob said. “You still can.”

“No.”

“I could raise the alarm—call your father.”

“But you won't.”

He said it with conviction and Rob knew it was true. He pointed to the pile of wet and dirty clothing.

“I'll ditch those in the morning.”

“Thanks. I'm off now. If you should change
your
mind about the way things are . . .” He smiled. “Unlikely, I know. But just in case, I'm heading for the Southampton Conurb. A place called Eastleigh.
Desborough Road, number two-four-four. You'll find me there, or someone who can tell you where I am.”

“I'll see you off.”

“No. Better not.”

“On the contrary. If we do disturb anyone I can do the answering. Say I felt restless and went wandering. To the kitchen, perhaps, because I was hungry. It accounts for that chicken.”

“A good point. Let's go then.”

The stairs creaked but they did not disturb anyone. The lamplight under the door of the drawing room showed that Mr. Gifford was still up with his port but they crept past quietly and unobserved. In the kitchen Mike took a loaf and several thick slices off a leg of ham.

They climbed in turn through the window. The moonlight shone on the bank of retreating cloud, low in the west, outlining the house and the shapes of trees. Captain whinnied softly as Mike approached him.

They shook hands and said good-by. Wasting no more time, Mike mounted and rode off across the black and silver grass.

T
HEY LOOKED LIKE AN ORDINARY
patrol. They wore scarlet tunics and high leather boots and swords swung from their belts. The leader also looked ordinary but unthinkably he had entered the house without being announced or even waiting for leave. He found the family at breakfast. He was a lean, dark man in his late twenties with a thin nose that had been broken and badly set at some time and a mouth that was almost smiling but not quite. He made a quick bow, clicking his heels.

“I hope you will forgive the lack of ceremony.” He spoke rapidly in a dry tone that did not indicate
much interest whether he was forgiven or not. “This is urgent, government business. My name is Marshall. Captain Marshall.”

Rob noticed something unusual—in fact extraordinary. On the other side of his belt there was a leather holster, protruding from it the butt of a pistol.

“Is it—to do with my son?” Mr. Gifford said.

“What about your son?”

“I thought . . .”

The eyes were cold, the skin around them wrinkled and leathery as though from long staring into harsh sunlight and bleak winds. Compared with the normal gentleman of the County he looked both wilder and more disciplined. A veteran, Rob guessed, of the China War.

“Have you seen your son since the rebellion?”

Mr. Gifford shook his head. Mrs. Gifford asked in a strained voice, “Do you have any news of him, Captain?”

“Only, ma'am, that his name is on the list of those against whom warrants have been issued for arrest on a charge of armed rebellion.”

“Then he's alive!”

“He may be. I have no information to the contrary.” His gaze went to Mr. Gifford. “You understand that if your son returns home the authorities must be informed and he must be held until a patrol arrives to take him into custody?”

“Yes,” Mr. Gifford said, “I understand that.”

“They won't put him in prison?” Cecily burst out.

Ignoring her, Marshall continued, “If you do have information as to his whereabouts you will please disclose it to me.”

“I have no information,” Mr. Gifford said wearily.

Marshall stared for a moment in silence, then said, “And if any such intelligence comes to you in the future you will notify the appropriate authorities. Is that also understood? The penalty for failure could be heavy.”

“Yes,” Mr. Gifford said, “it is understood. If you have now fulfilled the purpose of your mission, Captain, we will not keep you from your duties.”

Marshall gave a small shake of the head. “That is not the purpose of my mission.” He looked at Rob, sharply appraising. “This is Rob Perrott, I
believe, a distant relation of Mrs. Gifford, who lives with you.”

“Yes,” Mr. Gifford said. “The son of my wife's cousin.”

A slight nod, the eyes still watching. Marshall said:

“My instructions are that he is to accompany me for questioning.”

Mr. Gifford was silent.

“He is not involved in any way,” Mrs. Gifford said. “Our son is—we accept that. But not Rob. You have our word on it.”

Marshall's eyebrows lifted slightly but otherwise his expression did not change. “Those are my instructions.” He paused, and added, “The boys lived together and were at school together. Something may have been said, some hint given, which could be useful. Possibly the boy himself does not appreciate this. This is not an arrest and he will be well looked after.”

“Where are you taking him?” Mrs. Gifford asked.

Marshall did not answer that, but repeated, “He will be well looked after.”

“And how long will you keep him?”

“Not long. No longer than is necessary.”

Rob rode at Marshall's side with the rest of the patrol clattering behind them. Marshall spoke little and his manner did not encourage Rob to talk. It was not until they swung down a familiar road and he saw park gates in the distance that he said, “Are we going to Old Hall, then?”

Marshall glanced at him. “Yes.”

He was greatly relieved. The disciplined silence of Marshall and his patrol and the guns, had conjured up a picture of a gloomy prisonlike building somewhere, in Bristol perhaps, and harsh inquisitors. To be taken to Sir Percy Gregory's home, where he had won his medal for archery, was far less alarming. Hopes continued to rise when he was handed over not to any military figure but to Sir Percy's butler, Jenks, a man of impressive but not unkindly appearance, who remembered him and spoke with courteous amiability.

He waited in a long oak-paneled hall. The walls were lined with oil paintings of past Gregorys, more than a score of them, interspersed with the
heads of stags. One, between two men in ruffles and lace with long wigs, had enormous antlers: he counted twenty-three points. Typically County, and reassuring.

The butler, returning, said, “Sir Percy will see you in his study, Master Rob. If you will follow me.”

There was a very large desk, its top covered with shiny green leather, by one of the windows, but Sir Percy was not sitting behind it. As Rob entered he was at the sideboard pouring a glass of whiskey from a decanter.

“Ah, there you are, my boy! I should think you'd like a little refreshment, eh? Lemonade, or coffee?”

“I would like coffee, sir.”

“See to that, Jenks. And some cake or a few biscuits. We're not lunching for a couple of hours. Now, Rob, come and make yourself comfortable.”

Rob's spirits rose higher still. There did not seem much to be alarmed about if he were invited to luncheon. Two wide low leather armchairs stood on either side of the hearth where a fire was burning brightly. Sir Percy settled Rob in one and took the other himself.

“Late in the year for a fire but I like the look of it. And there's a nip in the air still. Touch of frost early this morning. Now then, I imagine you'll have some idea of what I want to have a chat with you about.”

His squatness filled the width of the armchair in whose twin Rob felt lost. But there was nothing threatening about his bulk, nor about the moustache, black flecked with white, curling above the thick lips and the chin with the deep cleft in it. He looked like a friendly uncle. Friendly and not particularly intelligent, but one would still need to be wary.

“About Mike, sir?”

“Yes.” Sir Percy shook his head. “A sad little to-do, this. I've known him all his life, of course. There's a distant connection on the male side. The boy needs help.”

Rob half nodded but did not say anything. Sir Percy repeated, “He needs help from all of us. Tell me, did he talk to you about this business?”

“No, sir.”

“That's a bit strange, isn't it? You're his cousin. You live with him, you're both in College House.”

There was no threat in the tone.

“We did not see all that much of each other at school. We're in different forms. We have different friends, too.”

“Yes. Still, I should have thought he might have said something to you.”

The eyes blinked at him shrewdly.

“He was probably fairly sure I wouldn't be on their side,” Rob said. “And if so it would be taking an unnecessary risk to tell me anything.”

“That's a good point,” Sir Percy conceded. “Ah, here's nourishment. Put the tray down on the little table, Jenks. You can help yourself, Rob.”

There was steaming coffee in one silver pot, hot milk in the other. Rob poured himself a cup and took a slice of cherry cake. Sir Percy said, “Tuck in. I like to see a lad with an appetite. You were raised in Nepal, weren't you? And your mother is . . .”

“She and Aunt Margaret are cousins.”

“That's right. And your father . . .”

Rob filled in the details, volunteering information before it was requested. He had the background and story pat by now. After all, on the day
of the garden party he had fooled Sir Percy's friend, who had lived in the country. He knew he was telling it well.

Sir Percy finished his whiskey and went to pour another.

“You're a bright boy, Rob.” He had his back to him, getting the drink. But there was, Rob had already noticed, a mirror in the sideboard which had him in view. He gave a slightly embarrassed smile.

Sir Percy turned around, glass in hand.

“Yes,” he said. “You're a bright boy, Rob Randall.”

The sound of his own name shocked him into rigidity. Sir Percy's broad face still wore an expression of slightly stupid amiability but that was now the reverse of reassuring. He realized he had been cunningly led into exposing himself as a skilled liar.

Sir Percy did not return to his armchair but went around the desk and seated himself in a heavy high-backed chair. He took a file out of a drawer. Opening it, he read:

“Robin Randall, born August 17th, 2038, in the Fulham sector of Greater London. Father, John Randall, born Basingstoke 1998, died Charing Cross Hospital, April
2052: heart failure following electric shock. Mother, Jennifer Hilda Randall, maiden name Gallagher, born 2007, died 2049: carcinoma. Birthplace: Shearham, Gloucestershire.”

He looked up. “Is that what gave you the idea of crossing over?”

They knew everything about him. Denial would be absurd. He said in a low voice, “Partly, sir.”

“Yes.” Sir Percy nodded. “Did your mother ever talk about the County?”

“No. I didn't know she came from here until . . . I found some letters after my father died.”

“An interesting point,” Sir Percy said. “Would the discovery in itself be enough to allow an enterprising youngster to break the conditioned taboos against the County, or did she, even without saying anything, unconsciously predispose you in that direction? Worth bringing up at the next meeting of the Psychosocial Committee. Still, that's not immediately to the point. Do you have anything to say for yourself?”

“How long have you known about me?”

He realized as he spoke that it was not up to him
to put the questions. Sir Percy did not seem to mind.

“Since three days after you went to live with the Giffords. That was, of course, some time before you gave that very convincing show for the benefit of Charlie Harcourt. Typical Nepalese settler twang!” He smiled. “A pity I can't put him in the picture. It would be amusing to see his face.”