The Smog (2 page)

 

“Did you have a good day?” Grace Drummond asked, as they met at the main bookstall at Waterloo to catch the six o'clock train that evening. It was twenty minutes to six and a queue was already forming. They moved towards it through the throng of office homegoers who were free for a few brief hours.

David Costain hesitated, and then said: “It went very well.”

He means he didn't enjoy it, Grace thought. She wondered where he had been and why he was subdued, noticing a quality in him which sometimes showed on the surface and then was lost. The journey up had been pleasant enough; small talk, village talk, Manor talk, Professor Storr talk, rumour talk – he shied off the scandal about the Professor and his
ménage à trois
– a little cautious political talk which neither allowed to range too far; he seemed independent in his attitudes. Struck as she had been that morning by his severe good looks, the high-bridged Roman nose, the very clearly defined shape of his lips, the clarity of his grey eyes, the short cut fair hair which hid the encroaching grey, she wondered about him.

Their carriage was now overfull of City men, mostly known to one another, who talked with the half-jocular half-gloomy attitude of their kind, their united opinion being that Britain was going to the dogs.

“I'd make the lazy beggars work,” one of them growled. “We could do with a one man government for a few years. A benevolent dictatorship would do the trick, with a single slogan. ‘If you don't work you can't eat'.”

“Hard on wives and children,” murmured an elderly man who had said less than anyone else.

“If a man marries and has children, they're
his
responsibility,” growled the advocate of benevolent dictatorship. “Not the State's.”

Grace was looking at Costain, expecting at the very least a raised eyebrow or a hint of a smile. Instead, he closed his eyes, as if to lessen some painful mental thrust. That he was merely pretending to doze, she could see full well.

Suddenly, the others in the compartment began to shift in their seats, rise, take hats and umbrellas from the rack above them, put magazines and papers into their briefcases and tuck these under their arms. The train slowed down, a voice over a loudspeaker called: “Basingstoke!” The door opened and all but Costain and Grace Drummond leapt to the platform, joining the hurrying crowd of similarly dressed men.

Costain opened his eyes and stretched his legs.

“I'd forgotten the exodus here,” he remarked.

“Strange to think that it happens every day,” said Grace. “I couldn't live like it.” She wondered if he would talk, now that they were alone, and was glad when the guard's whistle blew and doors slammed and the train began to move. It was only about twenty minutes, to Winchester. “What did you think of our benevolent dictator?” she asked lightly.

“He'd probably be the first to join a resistance group,” Costain said drily. “Did you get everything you wanted?”

“Nearly everything,” she answered. “I don't think Geoffrey II—” as in the family she pronounced that Geoffrey two – “will be very pleased, I couldn't get anything new for him. He collects hats! Mary and Jane are always happy with dolls, I've a Japanese one for—”

She broke off, for she saw that hurt expression on his face again, and realised that it must have been the benevolent dictator's phrase about a man's responsibilities to his children which had hurt him before. She felt abashed and wished she hadn't chatted on so superficially about her own children.

He said quietly: “I've been on an annual pilgrimage, to the cemetery where—where my family is buried. I—oh, I'm sorry! I shouldn't—”

“Please,” she begged, leaning forward, “please tell me.”

So he told her.

How, ten years before he had almost decided to buy a new car; how, because of it, he had not had his old one fully tested. How his wife and their three children, two boys and a girl, had gone out in the car and the brakes had failed on a steep hill near their home.

“The car caught fire,” he said. “Exploded, and caught fire.”

He spread his hands, still looking at her, and she was bereft of words. Perhaps there were no words to use, on such an occasion. But – dear God – how she could feel for him! How she realised what he felt, why the word ‘responsibility' had hit him so savagely. The train was moving very fast, the undulating fields of Hampshire sweeping past, but neither of them looked out of the window.

Suddenly, Costain went on: “I don't think I'll go again. Not as a—” he hesitated.

“Penance,” she said.

“
You
see that?” he asked, astonished.

“Of course I do,” Grace answered. “Geoffrey II was nearly run over by a car in Winchester one day. I let him walk on his own instead of holding his hand. If anything had—” she broke off, only to go on: “I couldn't sleep for nights afterwards—” she broke off.

“What did you do?” she asked a moment later.

“I'd been in the Navy,” he answered, “and took a job with a coastal freighter, as second engineer. I wanted to get away, but you can't run away from yourself. Then I—well, the only thing that helped for a while was physical labour and I knew a little about farming, so I bought Sane Farm, and I've been there quite a few years now.”

“Keeping yourself very much to yourself,” she observed. “You really mustn't, you know.”

“I'm sure you're right,” he murmured.

“I know there aren't many people in the village, but it's surprising how many are in the neighbourhood, within a few miles.” She paused, considering. “If we have a cocktail party—and it's past time we did, it must be six months since our last—will you come? You've got to break the ice,” she urged.

“You're very—thoughtful,” he replied. “Yes. Yes, I'd like to very much.”

“Wonderful! And I'll try to get Professor Storr and his household.
That
would really be a triumph!”

They both laughed, quite happily, and only then noticed that the train was pulling into Winchester. Grace picked up her handbag and peered out of the window. Geoffrey would be here; probably all four of them would be, Geoff II on one side of their father, the twins on the other.

There was no sign of anyone at all.

“I wonder what's up,” said Costain, as they moved along the train corridor.

“Oh, someone called at the last minute, I suppose,” said Grace.

“I don't mean your husband—I mean the policemen.”

“Police?” echoed Grace, “oh, I see what you mean. If the police want somebody off the train probably they're not letting anyone else onto the platform.”

She glanced curiously at the four policemen, a sergeant and three constables, gathered in a loose cordon about the ticket collector's barrier. As David Costain helped her down from the corridor and they moved together towards the barrier, two men with cameras moved sharply forward.

“Just a moment, Mrs. Drummond.”

“Stand still a moment, Mr. Costain, please.”

“What—” Costain began.

“Cold hearted baskets,” one of the policemen muttered, and quite suddenly all four of the men in uniform gathered about Grace and Costain, as if to shield them from the photographers. Puzzled, at a loss, Grace glanced up at Costain.

What she saw struck horror through her, reflected from the horror on his face. He actually drew back, and put a hand up to his eyes. Then the sergeant, an elderly man with a clipped grey moustache, said in a tone touched unmistakably with anguish: “You've heard nothing, then.”

“Heard about
what?
”
cried Grace.

The sergeant said as if to himself: “Of course they haven't.” Then he braced himself and went on in a flat voice: “I'm very sorry, Mrs. Drummond …”
Sorry, very sorry, why? …
“We tried to get in touch with you.”
Why, why, why?
Grace was standing rigid, staring, hardly aware that David Costain was gripping her arm tightly. “Something happened in the village,” the sergeant said.
Oh, God, Geoffrey. The children. Oh, God, no.
“No one knows exactly what it was, Ma'am, but—everyone died.”

Died.

Everyone.

Everyone in Sane –

Oh, God, no! Not the children!

“Superintendent Devine or Chief Inspector Wall were to have been here, ma'am, but they had some last minute instructions from the Chief Constable. So I had to come. I'm very sorry, madam. I can't say how—”

“Sergeant,” Grace interrupted in a voice which sounded strange even to herself, “are you telling me that my—my family has been wiped out?”

“All—all the village,” the sergeant blurted out miserably, and then his face brightened and he turned towards the ticket collector's barrier with unmistakable relief. “Here is Superintendent Devine.”

Grace did not hear what he said. The full realisation came to her with sudden, awful truth, as if a monstrous shadow, formed out of nowhere, was pressing against her whole body with a force which seemed to crush her head, her heart, her vitals. One of the policemen moved forward but it was David Costain who put his arm round her shoulders and saved her from falling. He was still holding her when a man he had seen once or twice when in Winchester came forward; this was obviously Superintendent Devine.

“Dr. Wingate's outside,” he said to the sergeant. “He will look after Mrs. Drummond. Thank you, Mr. Costain, for your presence of mind.” He eased the woman away from Costain and two constables half carried her, while cameras whirred and clicked on both sides of the barrier.

“Are you Mr. Devine?” asked Costain in a low-pitched voice.

“Superintendent Devine. I—”

“What the hell has your sergeant been talking about?” Costain was very pale: as pale as Grace Drummond. “The whole village can't be dead.”

“I'm afraid it's true, sir,” Devine asserted. He was a tall, rather plump-looking man, dressed in loose fitting pepper and salt tweeds. “Except for those who were away, or were on high ground. Would you mind telling me why you went to London today, sir?”

The question came sharply, and Devine's eyes, rather unimpressive until that moment, suddenly became very bleak, and their gaze penetrating.

Costain did not reply for a long time. He was aware of glances, avid, compassionate, or averted, of cameras cocked, of pencils poised, but none of these things seemed to matter. Only what he had been told had any meaning at all, and that was a nightmare meaning. The whole village – dead? It was a crazy joke, an insane –

Nonsense: this was no joke; these men were policemen.

“Mr. Costain, I asked you a question—”

“And I'll answer it when we're not being overheard,” Costain said sharply. “I still can't believe—” he broke off, for it was useless to say that, useless to protest. “Where will you take Mrs. Drummond?”

“She will be well looked after, sir.”

“That's not good enough,” said Costain sharply. “I want to know where she is being taken, who is going to look after her.”

“Is that any special concern of yours, sir?” Devine asked.

There was another short pause, in which Costain felt the stirring of anger, anger which grew rather than faded, which made him very resentful indeed. He stared coldly into the superintendent's face, and said with great precision: “That is an insolent question, Superintendent. I resent it very much indeed and I insist on being told what is being done for Mrs. Drummond. Have her parents been informed? Or her husband's? Where
is
she, now?”

He was acutely aware of Devine staring back at him almost defiantly, and could not understand his expression or his manner. His anger rose. There was no reason for such behaviour, Devine was behaving almost as if he were a suspect, not a man who had just received a shock great enough to flatten him.

A –
suspect?

“I'm sorry if I caused you offence, sir,” said Devine perfunctorily. “Perhaps it would be better if we went along to the station, we can deal with all matters there.”

With that, it seemed to Costain, there was no doubt at all: the police were hostile. He could not even begin to imagine why, and was not at all sure that he would do what Devine asked. Because of his anger, he wanted time to decide and he stood unmoving, isolated. He had a strong impression that if he refused to do what Devine asked, he would be taken to the police station whether he liked it or not.

 

 

He had to decide in the next few seconds.

He was aware of changes in his attitude, not only in the past few days but in the past few minutes. His mind worked more quickly even though he did not show it, the habit of keeping one's thoughts to oneself died hard. He was aware of Devine's almost accusing, certainly aggressive manner, of the newspapermen, of the photographers.

“I would like to see Mrs. Drummond,” he said very clearly. “After that, I will go home. I will answer any questions there.”

Devine noticeably stiffened.

“I'm afraid you can't go home, sir. The whole village is contam—is under supervision. It really would be better if you were to come with me.”

Now the man had a reasonable argument. Costain had to go somewhere. But before he answered the significance of the answer swept down upon him. “The whole village is contam—is under supervision.” What had he started to say? Con-con-
contaminated,
that was obviously the word. Now facts drove home with increasing force. Contaminated – the whole village wiped out – gas – poison gas.
Plague area!
He felt himself going pale as reaction set in, and he moistened his lips.

“All right, I'll come with you,” he said, and added with sharp petulance: “But I don't see why you're so mysterious about Mrs. Drummond.”

Devine, only a foot or two away, pretended not to hear, but immediately made a conciliatory move.

“We've kept a room for you at a hotel, sir.”

“Oh.” This was another, lesser shock; he couldn't get into his cottage, couldn't get his clothes, razor, anything he needed, and he had left that morning with only the clothes he was standing up in. Hardly recovered from the realisation of this, he got into the police car just outside the railway station entrance and dropped back heavily into his seat. He closed his eyes and suddenly a picture of the sudden crisis of years ago swam before him.

A policeman had come to his office, stiff-tongued.

“
I'm sorry to have some bad news for you, sir.
”

There was not the slightest thought of what the bad news could be in his mind.

“
Bad news. What kind of—
”

Then he had realised; then he had begun to realise –

“
Oh, God!
”
he had groaned then –

“Oh, God!” he groaned now, and buried his face in his hands.

For the first time, Devine showed a glimpse of sympathy. Something touched Costain's hands.

“Have a little brandy, sir.”

Brandy. One always flew to brandy when in shock. He was shaking and the glass mouth of the flask chattered against his teeth, but that could have been the movement of the car. He sipped, paused, felt warmth creeping over him and sipped again. He handed the flask back.

“Thanks.”

“A nasty shock, sir.” Devine was continuing in his more kindly mood and vaguely Costain wondered what had caused the change.

Costain straightened up, already feeling more bold. “Superintendent, what is all the mystery about Mrs. Drummond?”

“No mystery, sir. We knew in advance what a terrible shock she would have, and made arrangements to have her looked after. Dr. Wingate arranged for a room in a private nursing home, where there is staff night and day and she can be helped as much as possible. Her parents are dead, sir
—
and Mr. Drummond's parents live in Australia. They went there to retire a few years ago.”

“I see,” said Costain.

It did not explain the refusal to tell him where she was, but the brandy had soothed him, made him more tolerant. He leaned back and closed his eyes
–
and again his thoughts and his emotions flew back over the years. He thought – he had actually told himself – he was over it, that he would not
feel
any more, but in an awful way it was even worse because it had happened to him so long ago yet had happened to him again today. He opened his eyes and the picture faded.

Devine held out a cigarette case.

“Cigarette, sir?”

“I don't smoke, thanks. Is there
—
is there any reason why I shouldn't go straight to the hotel?”

“We won't keep you long at the station, sir.”

“I don't understand—” Costain began, and then saw the new red brick police station building. It was useless to argue, and he no longer felt personal resentment; what resentment he did feel was because of Devine's attitude over Grace Drummond, not because of himself. If he couldn't go to his cottage, then it did not greatly matter how long he stayed at the police station. The brandy had quietened his nerves remarkably, no doubt because he wasn't used to it these days.

Devine got out first and they went in.

“If you'll wait here for a few minutes, sir, I'll check some reports.” Devine said, opening the door of a small, pleasantly modern waiting room. A sergeant was close by. “See that Mr. Costain gets everything he requires, sergeant, including coffee. I won't keep you long, sir,” Devine added, and went off.

But to Costain it seemed a long time; every minute was an age, now that it was a question of just sitting alone with his thoughts, remembering. The whole village, wiped out; people from a year old child to a man in his eighties, all gone. And it meant there was nothing for him to do, or virtually nothing. A new thought stabbed through him when a policeman brought coffee. His animals would be gone, six cows, two pigs, a dozen or so fowl, and –

Sheppy.

Sheppy.

He could feel the cold muzzle of the old sheep dog, now
–
black, cold, eager. He could see the black and white of the soft, smooth fur, and feel the velvety softness of the long ears. Tears were hot against his eyes, and he stood up and clenched his fists and began to pace the room.

Why the devil were they keeping him so long? He had been here for over half an hour, the coffee was cold, he was beginning to shiver. If they kept him much longer he would open the door and demand to see Devine, if he wasn't interviewed immediately after that, he would simply go home.

Go home –

He dropped into a chair, feeling sick.

 

Upstairs in Superintendent Devine's office was a man who, even sitting back in a modern but comfortable armchair, looked tall. And with him was Captain Hunt, a youthful-looking officer of the Intelligence Corps, the man in charge of security at Fulton Experimental Research Centre. He was smaller, more compact, more vigorous-looking than the other two, for Devine managed to look bovine whether he was sitting or standing, and the tall man had a preoccupied frown on his broad forehead, very thin and silky fair hair, a rather prominent nose and an insignificant chin. He was so utterly relaxed that it was hard to realise what had brought him here.

“So you're absolutely certain there is no leakage from Fulton?” this man asked.

“I've told you, Dr. Palfrey, it is carbon monoxide with sulphur dioxide, and there is no experimentation at Fulton with either. Absolutely none. This could not have come from Fulton, sir.”

“Or you would have fallen down on your job,” the fair-haired Dr. Palfrey remarked.

“That is not the reason for my certainty, Dr. Palfrey.” The officer's voice was cold with resentment.

“Or else you might have been misinformed,” said Dr. Palfrey mildly. “Research scientists have been known to experiment with gases and bacteria although not authorised to do so.”

“That is not the case here, sir.”

“Ah,” said Palfrey, and added as if to himself: “What it is to be so sure.” He rose to his feet with curiously feline ease and speed, towering over Hunt. Unexpectedly, he proffered his hand. As unexpectedly, his hand clasp was very firm, hinting of considerable physical strength. “And you will be careful to say only one thing to the Press, won't you?” He smiled, apologetically. “Just that inquiries are pending.”

“I understand, sir. You do realise that such an answer will mean that Fulton will come under suspicion.”

“Inevitably,” murmured Palfrey.

“It's hardly fair, sir, if—”

“Questions in the House, loud-voiced disapproval from anti-Government newspapers, more outbreaks of paint daubing with the word ‘plague spot' everywhere. I understand only too well, Captain. But I am afraid it is unavoidable. The moment a different story can be released you will be told.”

His smile, now, was one of dismissal.

Captain Hunt, who had received instructions from Whitehall that he must do everything Palfrey ordered, was none the less indignant
–
and perhaps the more so because the ‘or you would have fallen down on your job' had stung very sharply. Of course that possibility had been in his mind, any man who took pride in his efficiency would have felt the same. And as for the idea that he might have been misinformed
–
Hunt wondered, uneasily, how much he did know of what went on at Fulton, and he also knew that if there had been a leakage from there everyone concerned would want to hush it up.

Except, presumably, this Dr. Palfrey.

Who the hell
was
Palfrey?

He knew part of the answer, of course
–
just as Devine, now sitting behind his flat-topped desk, knew a little. That Palfrey was the head of an organisation known as Z5. That its origins lay in the British and later, during World War II, in the Allied Secret Service, but that it was much more widespread now and had a very different purpose from that of protecting the interests of any nation or group of nations. It was a Secret Service of the world, to which all nations – even those warring against one another – contributed funds. For in the age of the nuclear bomb, when one submarine armed with nuclear warheads could wipe out the cities of a nation or half a hemisphere: when there were bacteria of such dreadful contagious effect that the plagues of history became in comparison only epidemics, a constant watchdog was needed.

Nation watched nation.

Palfrey and Z5 watched individuals; watched phenomena which could not be accounted for by any known national activity, for the small group of wealthy men who could pay genius to seek out ways of destruction so that their money could acquire even greater power; and tiny political groups to the extreme right or the extreme left who sought to rule a nation and would, once in control, begin to seek out other nations to conquer.

There was no definition of the authority or the duties of Z5; its only task was to be for ever on guard.

Those things, then, both Captain Hunt and Superintendent Devine knew, but Devine, in particular, realised that there was a great deal of which he was utterly unaware, and although nothing of it showed, he held this man in awe.

Now, Palfrey dismissed the Intelligence Officer from his mind and smiled his rather vague smile at Devine; he gave the impression that although he was talking to the policeman he was thinking of something else.

“How did things go at the railway station?” he inquired.

“The woman collapsed,” Devine reported.

“We'd hardly expect anything else. Is she at the nursing home?”

“Yes
—
as we arranged.”

“We won't worry her tonight,” Palfrey decided, “and my ‘nurse' is there.” By ‘nurse' of course he meant agent; from the beginning Devine had been surprised at his thoroughness, at the deadly seriousness with which he had taken this disaster. “Costain?” Palfrey inquired.

“I tried to do what you wanted,” Devine replied, and ‘tried' was somewhat characteristic of the man. “He appeared to be very interested in Mrs. Drummond, and when he'd had time for everything to sink in, he seemed very
—
he
was
very distressed.”

“Take those two statements a bit further, will you,” Palfrey asked.

“They spent a day in London, possibly together, certainly going up and coming down on the same train,” said Devine. “It's possible that they are having an
affaire
but nothing I've heard or found out suggests it. They are practically strangers
—
very few people know anything at all about Costain. He took umbrage when I hinted at an
affaire
but didn't lose his temper. It was the other thing that bothered me, the way it suddenly seemed to hit him so that he actually cried.”

After a long pause, Palfrey said: “I see. Go on a bit more, will you?”

“Well, if he did go off for the day knowing what would happen it would automatically prove his involvement. But I'm a long way from convinced. My money would 30 on Professor Storr and his team, or his household, whatever you like to call it.”

“Yes,” said Palfrey. “You could well be right. I'm not oblivious of Storr,” he added in a tone of reassurance. “But I'd like to see Costain first. And while I'm talking to him, leave us undisturbed unless a messenger arrives from London with a letter for me. The letter could be relevant. Oh
—
and coffee and sandwiches, I think. Costain may be hungrier than he realises and I, personally, am famished. Or how about some cheese and beer?”

“I'll fix everything,” promised Devine, and as he finished speaking his telephone bell rang. “Excuse me … Yes … oh, is he. Tell him it's only a matter of minutes.” He rang off, and went on drily: “Costain's getting impatient.”

“I can't say I blame him,” Palfrey said. “He should be in just about the right mood by now. If I'd come slowly to realise the consequence of the destruction of a whole village, I'd be impatient to know more about it, wouldn't you?”