The Empty World

by D. E. Stevenson

  “You’ll regret this,” Bolton said, swallowing his rage and trying to speak calmly. “You’ll regret this. We were willing to be friends, but we won’t stand injustice, and it is injustice. You’ll soon find who’s top dog. Come, Brown —”

  They walked out. Day followed them, and shut the door behind them.

  “You see!” he said. “The sooner we’re out of here the better.”

  “I know,” said Fenemore. “Look here, there’s no time for discussion. Let Sir Richard say what’s to be done.”

  Jane felt sorry for Sir Richard, she looked at him, and saw him pull himself together with a visible effort.

  “Let me think a moment,” he said. “We had better leave separately and make for some place where we can meet. What about my own place — Bardsholme? It’s on the east coast — just here.” He spread out the map of England and showed them where it was. “It’s a bit off the beaten track,” he continued, “but that is all to the good. The surrounding country is well wooded, and there is a good river. It’s near Fairtown, quite a big town and good for supplies. Do you all agree?”

  They all agreed.

  “I’ll go back to Glasgow,” continued Sir Richard, “and pick up the others. We’ll have to leave Maule and Lammer just now. I know, my dear fellow, but we must get the women away safely — there’s no time to be lost, not an instant. We can think of Maule and Lammer afterwards. Day will take Miss Bright and Miss O’Connell — off you go, Day. Fenemore will take Miss Forrest. Farquhar had better come with me. Waken Farquhar, will you?”

  The two young men were trained to obey orders, they had chosen Sir Richard as their leader, recognising instinctively his fitness for the post. They wasted no time in questions and arguments, but hurried off. Day chose a car from amongst the half-dozen which were parked near the gate, packed in his two passengers and sped off. Farquhar was haled out of bed, and pushed into Sir Richard’s car, protesting sleepily.

  “I wish you were coming with me,” said Sir Richard to Jane, as he started up the engine. “But you will be all right with Fenemore, no need for you to come back to Glasgow. Better to get straight away south. We’ll meet at Bardsholme.”

  “I’d rather come with you,” Jane said.

  “Obey orders,” he replied smiling.

  Jane felt that the whole thing was slightly ridiculous. She could not feel that there was any danger, and she objected to being handed about like a parcel of valuable and highly inflammable goods. Fenemore would think she was a nuisance, but would be too polite to say so.

  “See that you choose a good car,” said Sir Richard to Fenemore a trifle fussily. “They may come after you, you know. You want something fast, and —”

  “It’s all right, sir. I’ll take care of Miss Forrest.”

  “What car are you taking?”

  “That Rolls,” grinned Fenemore. “I never go in for second best.”

  He started up the engine as he spoke. Sir Richard drove out of the gate and disappeared. Jane ran back to get her coat which she had left in the Officers’ Mess.

  CHAPTER

  SEVEN

  “He Will Always

  Hate Me”

  Jane was in the Mess putting on her coat, when she heard shouts, and the sound of heavy feet trampling across the gravel. A shot rang out, and then another.

  She seized up her gloves, and ran out to see what had happened. A group of men were standing round the car. Two men were lying on the ground in strangely twisted positions. Jane saw that one of these was Fenemore, he was easily recognisable in his pilot’s uniform. It would have been wiser to turn back and hide, for nobody was looking towards Jane, they were too intent upon their own affairs. But Jane was not wise, she felt no fear for herself, she ran forward and bent over Fenemore.

  “What have you done!” she cried angrily.

  “Hullo! Here’s one of them,” she heard somebody say. “I thought you said they had all gone. Keeping this one for yourself, I suppose —”

  Jane felt herself seized from behind in a strong rough grasp. She looked down and saw, in the light from the car, the two hands that were holding her. They were covered with large brown freckles.

  Jane fainted.

  When Jane recovered consciousness she found herself lying on the sofa in the Officers’ Mess. She was surrounded by a blur of anxious faces. Somebody was holding a glass of brandy to her lips. Jane drank some of it, and felt better.

  “There’s nothing to be frightened of,” a voice said.

  “No indeed, we wouldn’t harm a lady.”

  “Feeling better now, aren’t you?”

  Jane looked from one to the other, and was reassured. The faces were smiling and friendly. She picked them out, one by one — the tall boy with the fair hair was Ackrington; the little man with the grey moustache was Thomas; Greig was the one with the long pale face and the weak mouth; Bartoluzzi was sallow with crinkly black hair.

  “What happened?” Jane said. “What did you do to Fenemore?”

  “He’s all right,” replied Bolton, “just stunned.”

  “Who was the other man — who got hurt?”

  “Lammer.”

  Jane looked round at their faces. She realised that Lammer was dead.

  “It was a accident,” said Bartoluzzi sullenly. “He ’appened to be there when my gun go off. I shoot at that damn Fenemore, and I ’it Frederick —”

  “There was no need for you to shoot at all,” Brown said. “You’re a — sight too ready with your gun —”

  “I ’ate Fenemore,” said Bartoluzzi grimly.

  “Shut up,” Bolton said sternly. “Can’t you behave decently in front of a lady? You’re frightening her —”

  “What she wants is a good sleep,” added Thomas. “It’s been an upsetting experience for a lady.”

  They all agreed to this, and Jane was shepherded upstairs to a good-sized airy room which had evidently belonged to the Commandant of the aerodrome. They all came with her, jostling each other on the stairs in their efforts to help her. Jane realised that they were trying to worm themselves into her good graces, they distrusted each other. Every man was playing for his own hand. She saw that this was a point in her favour, but she was too tired to make any plans tonight. She stopped at the door of the Commandant’s room and faced them.

  “This is going to be my room,” she said, trying to speak with firmness and confidence. “Nobody is to come in here on any pretext whatever.”

  They stood there, looking at her.

  “That’s right,” said Fuller Brown. “You lock the door.”

  There was a murmur of agreement from the others.

  “I’m going to rest,” Jane continued. “I’m tired, frightfully tired. But first I want to know about Fenemore. Where is he? How was he hurt?”

  “He got a knock on the head,” replied Bolton. “Maule is looking after him. He’s all right — a little thing like a knock on the head doesn’t worry anybody.”

  “Fenemore’s as tough as blazes,” added Fuller Brown.

  Jane thought they were speaking the truth, and her heart was lightened. She locked the door and pushed a heavy chest of drawers against it. Then she bolted the window and secured the shutters with an iron bar. The room was now as safe as she could make it, she threw herself down on the bed and fell at once into a deep sleep.

  It was late in the afternoon when Jane woke. She lay for some time thinking about everything that had happened. It was extraordinary how little frightened she felt. Courage had flowed into her while she slept. I have the whip-hand over them, she thought, as long as I can keep it I’m safe. Not one of them would dare to touch me because all the others would be on him like a pack of hounds. I must play them off, one against the other. I must pretend to be quite contented to remain with them, and then, when I get the chance, I can escape. An opportunity is bound to come.

  She was still lying, turning things over in her mind, and making plans, when she heard a scratching sound, and saw that a piece of paper ha
d been thrust under the door. It was a note, written on a piece of paper torn from a diary, and ran as follows —

  “Dear Miss Forrest, I shall be on sentry duty beneath your window from midnight until 4a.m. and will help you to escape. I will knock four times on the window when the coast is clear. I shall have a ladder so it will be quite easy. Your devoted friend, Arthur Ackrington.”

  Jane’s spirits rose, here was a chance of escape already! In a few hours’ time she would be free … and then, as she thought about it, she began to have doubts. Was she wise to trust herself to this Ackrington man? Perhaps she was safer to remain where she was. Besides, there was Fenemore to think of — Jane found herself thinking a good deal about Fenemore — she liked the clean lines of the man, and his steady blue eyes. Fenemore was a prisoner like herself, and in far more danger. If she escaped with Ackrington there was no knowing what they would do to Fenemore.

  So thinking, Jane tidied her hair in front of the Commandant’s shaving-mirror, and smoothed her dress. She was quite rested now, and very hungry. Her small wrist-watch told her that it was five o’clock, she must have slept twelve solid hours. It was curious to look at the little watch which had been her friend and companion in that other safe world, which had vanished for ever. The little watch ticked away just the same — it was, in some strange way, reassuring.

  Jane moved the chest of drawers, opened the door and went downstairs. She found her gaolers in the middle of a meal. They were delighted to see her, and fell over each other in their efforts to find her a chair, and supply her with food and drink.

  “We were just talking about you,” Thomas said.

  “And what were you saying about me?” asked Jane, smiling calmly, and slicing the top off a boiled egg.

  Nobody vouchsafed a reply to this natural question, they were all too frightened of each other.

  “You better tell her about Fenemore,” said Fuller Brown, after a significant silence. “Tell her what we’ve decided.”

  “Fenemore is making a nuisance of himself,” Bolton said obediently.

  “Well, what can you expect?” enquired Jane. “You should let him go. Nobody likes being kept a prisoner —”

  “My G — ,” that’s good!” exclaimed Fuller Brown. “We want him to go. You don’t suppose we want to keep Fenemore, do you? What good is Fenemore to us?”

  “He won’t go without you,” Bolton explained.

  “I’d stop ’is nonsense easily,” added Bartoluzzi. “ ’E wouldn’t trouble us no more if I ’ad my way with ’im —”

  Jane’s feelings on hearing this information were mixed. She was glad that Fenemore was sufficiently recovered to be a nuisance to his unwilling hosts; and she was frightened at the animosity they seemed to bear him; and she was strangely uplifted and comforted to hear that he had refused his liberty unless she could share it. He really was rather a dear (a foolish dear, of course, because he was doing her no good by remaining, he could have helped her to escape much more easily if he had been free) but still a dear. She turned the matter over in her mind, and a plan began to form.

  “Perhaps I could persuade him to go away,” she suggested innocently, “if I could see him alone for a few moments —”

  “Not likely!” cried Fuller Brown, his small eyes gleaming slyly. “You shan’t see him alone if I’ve any say in it. How do we know what tricks you’d be up to?”

  “You shut your mouth and let Bolton tell her what’s been decided,” said Thomas. “Always shoving your oar in when you’re not wanted —”

  “You mind your own business,” shouted Fuller Brown. “Who d’ you think you are?”

  “Leave him alone!”

  “Let him speak!”

  “Shut up, will you?”

  There was chaos for some moments, everybody took sides in the dispute. They shouted and swore and glared at each other like wild beasts. Jane was terrified, she saw that Sir Richard had been right about these men. They had shed their veneer of civilisation, they had given rein to their passions. There was no law to hold them in check, no fear of the consequences. Jane expected to see murder done before her eyes, but they stopped short of murder. Bolton got them calmed down — a blow here and a word there — the noise subsided as suddenly as it had started.

  “Now listen,” Bolton said, “you made me boss, and, as long as I’m boss, I’ll damn well be boss.”

  “All right, all right,” muttered Fuller Brown. “Get on with it.”

  Bolton looked round the room to see if anybody was disputing his leadership, they were all cowed. He sat down slowly and resumed the proceedings where they had been interrupted.

  “It’s like this,” he said, turning to Jane. “We’ve decided that you can see Fenemore here, in front of us, and tell him that you’re staying and he’d better clear out.”

  “Am I staying?” Jane said. Her voice was rather shaky in spite of her efforts to steady it.

  “You’re staying all right,” replied Bolton with a smile. “You can stay as one of us — a free companion — or as a prisoner, whichever you like.”

  “We’ll give you a good time,” put in Greig. “A damn sight better time than you’d have with the other crowd.”

  They were all looking at her anxiously.

  “You don’t want to be a prisoner, do you?” said Thomas.

  Jane shook her head. Her mouth felt dry, and there was a queer lump in her chest.

  “That’s right,” Bolton said encouragingly. “You’re staying, but Fenemore’s got to go. We’ve no use for Fenemore, he’s too uppish altogether.”

  “Put it clear, Bolton,” implored Fuller Brown. “He’s got to clear out or it will be the worse for him.”

  “I shoot ’im if I see ’im ’anging round,” added Bartoluzzi, tapping his revolver significantly, “and I not miss next time.”

  “You see?” Bolton said.

  Jane saw. She agreed to their terms — indeed she had no option.

  “Let’s finish supper first,” she said as nonchalantly as she could manage. The food now tasted exactly like sawdust, she had the greatest difficulty in swallowing it, but she wanted time to think, to get her ideas into order.

  Ackrington was sitting next to her, he poured out some wine for her and advised her to drink it. Jane drank some and felt better, her courage was rising now — Dutch courage — she could feel it flowing through her veins like fire. Her cheeks were flushed and her eyes shone.

  After supper Fuller Brown disappeared, and returned with Fenemore and Maule. Fenemore looked pale and dishevelled, and there was a sullen expression on his face, which lifted when he saw Jane.

  “Miss Forrest —” he began eagerly.

  Jane smiled at him calmly. Her heart was fluttering like a bird, but nobody must suspect the fact.

  “Miss Forrest, couldn’t I — couldn’t we speak to each other for a few minutes —”

  “Not alone,” said Fuller Brown, smiling in a nasty way. “Nobody is allowed to speak to Miss Forrest alone —”

  “We can say what we want to say quite easily with the others here,” said Jane. “At least I can.” She turned to Fenemore, and added, “Mr. Bolton says you have been making trouble here, Captain Fenemore. Why don’t you go away and join your friends?”

  “But you —” he gasped, gazing at her in a bewildered manner.

  “Oh, I’m staying here,” replied Jane, smiling.

  “But, Jane — Miss Forrest I mean — you don’t mean —”

  “Sir Richard said we could choose,” said Jane. She looked round at the assembled company, and added, “I’ve chosen.”

  There was a murmur of approval.

  Bartoluzzi stepped forward and nudged her arm. “Tell ’im about this,” he said, showing his revolver.

  “Leave her alone,” Bolton cried. “Stand back there, Bart. Let her do it her own way, she’s got twice your brains.”

  The others laughed delightedly, they were in high good humour. It always pleased them to see somebody put down and made
to look a fool.

  “But you don’t mean — you can’t mean —” cried Fenemore.

  “Why not?” enquired Jane calmly. “Everybody’s very kind to me. We’re going to have a good time together, aren’t we?”

  “You bet we are!” chorused the gang.

  For a moment Jane thought she had gone too far, Fenemore was looking at her incredulously. There was only one thought in her mind — he must believe her, she must make him believe that she was perfectly happy to stay with these men. If he didn’t believe that, he wouldn’t go; if he didn’t go, they would kill him. Go it, Jane, she urged herself, you’ve got to act now as you never acted before. A man’s life is at stake.

  She gathered herself together for a supreme effort. “Come on, fill up the glasses,” she cried with a shrill laugh. “We’ll make a night of it, boys.”

  Fenemore stared at her, he was half convinced, but only half. What else could she do? She flung her arm round Ackrington’s neck (even at that moment she had time to feel glad that it was Ackrington who was sitting next to her — if it had been Fuller Brown — ) and held out her glass to be filled. Half a dozen hands reached out to fill her glass, a dozen furious eyes glared at Ackrington who was too surprised and embarrassed to enjoy his rise to queen’s favourite.

  “Take away that creature,” Jane continued wildly. “I can’t enjoy myself properly — look at his goody-goody face. We don’t want kill-joys here —”

  Fenemore threw off the hands that sought to remove him.

  “Don’t trouble,” he said furiously. “I’ll go. There’s no need to remove the kill-joy. I wouldn’t stay here now if you paid me. I only want to say this,” he added, looking straight at Jane, “I’ve never been so disappointed in all my life.”

  He turned on his heel and went out, followed by Maule, who had stood beside him the whole time without speaking.

  The room whirled round with Jane, and, for a few moments, she thought she was going to faint. She had saved Fenemore, but the cost was terrible. He will always hate me, she thought, and perhaps I shall never see him again.