The Possessors

by John Christopher

  When they had gone, Grainger said, “I hope she’ll get a good sleep this time. But someone had better stay with her. She still could do something rash.”

  “Mandy’s doing that,” Hamilton said, “while I look after things down here.” He added, to Deeping, “She’s putting her in our room for the present—thought it would be best. Hope that’s all right?”

  Deeping said quickly, “Yes, of course.”

  Hamilton looked around the circle of his guests. “I should think you could all do with a rest.”

  “What about you and Mandy?” Douglas asked. Hamilton laughed. “All in the day’s work. You learn to manage without sleep in this business.”

  Some of the party chose to go to bed; others stayed up. The Graingers split on this, he deciding that, with the new day well advanced, it was absurd to think of sleep; she, yawning like a great sleek cat, declaring that she found no temptation in the sunlight when she had had less than her due of rest. “Yes,” Grainger told her, “off you go and renew that beauty.” She smiled, patted him lightly on the cheek, and took her graceful way upstairs.

  Diana, rather obviously not looking at Grainger, said that she, too, felt it pointless to go back to bed. There was no need, Jane thought, to worry about this. Diana was a girl who enjoyed flirtations and, she was fairly sure, knew how to keep a firm hand on them; while Grainger, whatever his gallantries, was not likely to stray far from his decorative and capable wife. Her own first decision was for staying up, but she altered this when it became apparent that Douglas was staying up also. In part she disliked the thought of being credited with a similar maneuver to her sister’s; rather before, though, she felt a lingering embarrassment over her question to him when they were out on the snow together, and his clumsy, would-be sympathetic reply.

  She undressed quickly, and climbed into bed. There was the keen voluptuous pleasure of feeling the warmth and weight of blankets over her, and, this coinciding with a wave of drowsiness and fatigue, she thought that she might be able to get to sleep. But the coffee had undone her, as she had suspected it might. Time and again she rolled to the very edge of oblivion, only to snap back into wakefulness. When she had looked at her watch and realized it was nearly an hour since she had come up to bed, she recognized the inevitable, sat up, and reached for her book.

  There were occasional sounds from outside—people moving about the house. Footsteps, once, going past her room in the direction of the bathroom. The book she was reading was of the kind she enjoyed, but which these days seemed a rarity: written about fairly pleasant people in fairly pleasant prose. It crossed her mind as a little strange that she could be interested in the doings of these fictional characters, and not in those of real people. But perhaps the fictional ones were nicer: the proposition, she admitted, included herself.

  She did not, at first, pay any attention when the activity outside increased and became noisier—voices raised, someone hurrying. But a feeling of urgency gradually communicated itself. She got out of bed, put on wrap and slippers, and opened her door. Douglas was coming up the stairs, and she called to him, “What is it? Have they found the boy?”

  The impression he usually gave was a boyish one— slim and dark with a clear skin under a quiff of rather curly hair—and being tense, as he was now, did nothing to change that. He still looked like a boy, but a worried one. He stopped when Jane spoke, and looked up at her.

  “No,” he said. “They haven’t found the boy. But we’ve lost Ruth now.”

  5

  Ruth would not agree to being undressed again, but Mandy persuaded her to lie down, on top of her bed, and have a blanket pulled over her. Then she drew up a chair beside the bed, and talked to her. She never had much difficulty in talking to people; George had reckoned that a major asset when they had decided to become guest-house proprietors. The secret, although she did not understand it herself, was that she had very little vanity, and so could talk about herself without either embarrassment or aggressiveness. And she did not look to the other person for approval or disapproval. She rattled on about herself, and George, and the odd but comfortable life they had lived together. Ruth listened to her—it was difficult to gauge with how much attention—and at last said, “Of course, you have no children.”

  The tone was bitter. Mandy hesitated before replying. The twelve years before George was the part of her life she did not talk about. And one kind of loss was different from another—speaking of it would give no comfort to this one bereaved. She shook her head.

  “No, we haven’t had children.”

  Something in her voice had given her away. Ruth said sharply, “Was George your first husband?”

  She said reluctantly, “No. We’ve both been married before.”

  “And children?”

  “Not George.”

  Indeed, not George; the notion of Phyllis with children would have been either laughable or sinister. Poor Phyllis had been created for wartime R.A.F. officers’ mess dances, for prangs and beat-ups, and a brave recognition that there was no future in anything. What was it George had said? “Three fiances shot away from over her—but the war had to end sometime.”

  “But you,” Ruth said, “did you have a child in your first marriage?”

  “I had three children,” Mandy said, and recognized the tense she used, as she always did.

  “What happened to them?”

  “Their father got custody.”

  “Couldn’t you have fought that?”

  “No.” She thought about it. “Not honestly.”

  “Does honesty have anything to do with it?”

  “I think so. I hope so. It was the best thing for them.”

  “You don’t seem to have minded much.”

  There was as much incredulity in it as contempt. Mandy said, “They were happy, fond of their father. And very American. George and I … we’ve had fun, but I wouldn’t say it’s been terribly stable, the right kind of background for growing children.”

  “It sounds very objective.”

  “As bad as that? There was something else as well, of course. I was the guilty party. I’d run off with a foreigner. Could you see any American court giving me custody in those circumstances?*6

  There was a silence before Ruth said, “It’s not the sort of thing I’m very good at understanding, I’m afraid.”

  “No,” Mandy said. “I’m not very good at explaining, either.”

  She thought that Ruth would pursue it, but she did not. It seemed, in a way, that the passage—the total failure of comprehension, communication—had eased her. Her face, as she lay back against the pillow, was strained and miserable, but less so, Mandy thought, than it had been. And after a time her breathing became more even, deeper, and Mandy saw that she had dropped off to sleep.

  She watched the sleeping woman, trying to think of some meditation which would pass the time. But the good memories, for the moment, had been driven out by the bad; and she would not surrender herself to those. She had looked at her watch when she first noticed Ruth was asleep and, glancing again, she saw that only five minutes had gone by. The realization was depressing. She needed-— she really needed—a little something to cheer her up.

  With a shock of surprise and then of pleasure, she realized something else: that she had not had a drink so far that day. There had been the hurried rising in the middle of the night, with Ruth screaming at the foot of the stairs, and from then on she had been too busy, too preoccupied, to think of it. And, of course, she was glad of that. It showed that, even though it had become a habit, it was a habit that could be broken. Through the window she saw the distant peaks, bright with morning sunshine. Perhaps the mountains had something to do with it. They had always frightened her a little and, between seasons when she had time on her hands, they oppressed her more than ever. It was between seasons that the drinking crept up on her; when there were guests in the house she drank no more, if anything, less.

  Maybe if they went somewhere else … The Camargue, p
erhaps. Or Greece—one of the smaller islands. The sound and sight of the sea, she thought, would be comforting. Up here there was either silence or the inhuman howl of the wind. And cowbells in the summer, far-off, melancholy.

  She took the bottle from its place, taking care not to chink it. It was less than half full; she had not realized the level had got so low. She poured her tot into the glass, and then poured a little more. After all, she still had something in hand. She took tiny sips, one after the other. It warmed her, and the mountains in the distance looked less frightening. Then she tired of sipping, and drained the rest, feeling the brighter, heavier glow inside. She held the empty glass in her hand, and stared at it. It was very quiet; she could hear nothing but the breathing of the sleeping woman, and the ticking of her own watch. She looked at it. Only a quarter of an hour. The thing to do, she decided, was to pour another drink and not to touch it for—how long? Another quarter hour? Half an hour, perhaps? What was important was to see it in front of her, available, waiting on her act of will.

  She started drinking the second glass after ten minutes, and her failure so depressed her that she drank it all quickly and poured another. This time she set no time limit and was surprised and pleased to find, the temptation less. She had needed to relax, and perhaps the two drinks had been enough to achieve that. She felt relaxed now, and physically tired—not sleepy, but it was wearisome sitting up in a chair. She took the glass and walked quietly around to George’s bed. She put the glass on his bedside table, and lay down. She could see both Ruth and the glass at the same time, and the softness of the bed was a comfort. George’s bed. She thought of him with affection. I am not an unhappy woman, she thought—with George, who could be? Perhaps it’s just that some things have to be paid for, and some of us don’t have the money. So we go bankrupt. She reached for the glass, brought it down, tilted it to her lips without spilling it, and had a little drink.

  When she awoke it was to the guilty realization that, having dozed off like that, Ruth might have herself woken, and seen the glass on the table between them. This was the first part of the shock of seeing the other bed empty: Ruth had woken, perhaps gone to the bathroom, and Ruth had seen that she was drinking. She felt a sweat of shame break out on her. It took a moment or two of waiting, listening for returning footsteps, wondering how to carry it off, before she remembered why she was here—that she was supposed to have been watching.

  She got up then, quickly, not bothering about the glass, and hurried out of the room. The bathroom door was closed. She rapped on it, received no answer, and turned the knob. The door opened, and the room was empty. She checked the other rooms on the floor, but without much hope. The bathroom on the first floor … she might have thought this one was occupied, and gone there. It was a slim chance, but she went, anyway. That door was also closed, and once again there was no answer when she knocked. But this time it did not budge when she tried to open if.

  George, when she told him, wasted no time. He raced upstairs, threw himself against the bathroom door, and burst it open. Following close behind him, Mandy saw that there was no one in the room, and also that the window on the far side was open. A little powdery snow was blowing in; falling from the roof presumably since the sky was clear and blue.

  It was the easiest way to get out of the house unobserved. There was a lean-to roof three or four feet below the window ledge, sloping down. The drop from that to the ground was not more than eight feet, and into thick snow. It was possible to trace her progress: snow scuffed along the roof and a hole marking the place where she had jumped down.

  Mandy said wretchedly, “I’m sorry. I ought not to have fallen asleep like that.”

  He put an arm around her shoulders, and gave her a hug.

  “You were tired, lovey. Not to worry. I don’t think we shall have much difficulty in picking her up.” He turned from the window. “That wasn’t what I was afraid of.”

  “She’s gone to look for the boy again?”

  “What else? But if we found the poor little devil now, I’m not sure she’d believe it. Anyway, let’s go and see Selby.”

  From the house, they could see no sign of Ruth. Elizabeth was still sleeping, and Stephen, but the others were present downstairs. Diana, who was hanging on to Grainger, said, “If we go in pairs, it will be best, don’t you think? And all go different ways.”

  Grainger said impatiently, “No need for a major search party. It’s fairly obvious where she’s headed for.”

  Douglas Poole said, “Obvious?”

  “I think so. Up beyond the avalanche. It’s where she claimed she saw the child before.”

  “This time she might think she’d seen him in the opposite direction.”

  “Doubt it. A pretty fixed delusion, I should guess. She’s not likely to vary it.”

  Jane said, “An odd one. Carrying a basket.”

  Mandy felt a chill of unease. She said, “Is that what she said—that the boy was carrying a basket?”

  Grainger said, “Yes. It’s the odd touch you get with a certain kind of fantasy-hallucination. Absurd and plausible at the same time.”

  Mandy said, “But there is a basket missing.”

  They looked at her. George said, “Are you sure?”

  “I noticed it when I was down checking the food. The old wicker basket that used to hang behind the door.” There was a silence. George said, but not unkindly, “Maybe you didn’t look in the right place. Maybe someone moved it.”

  They were all uncomfortable, contemplating they were not sure what. Grainger said forcefully, “It’s ridiculous! Quite ridiculous.”

  Jane said, “I wonder …”

  “What?”

  “You suggested someone may have moved it. Andy may have taken it—before all this happened. To play with, or something. And Ruth could have seen him with it. So she could have imagined him with it this morning.”

  The atmosphere of relief was palpable. Grainger said, explosively commendatory, “Takes a woman to find the logical answer. Plainly, that’s it. You can’t be sure it wasn’t there yesterday, can you, Mandy?”

  “No.”

  It was true: she could not be sure. On the other hand, she felt herself that it had been there. And there was the matter, which she had not mentioned, of food being missing. Cheese, biscuits, two small tins of corned beef. She had thought that someone had taken them as a precaution against their being cut off for so long a time that food became scarce. It was the sort of thing that she could imagine Deeping getting up to. That might still be the explanation. In any case, there was no point in saying anything.

  George said, “Let’s get back to the important thing— finding Ruth and bringing her in. You’re probably right about where she’s gone, Selby. There isn’t much cover in other directions, for that matter. Better have all the chaps come along, I suppose?”

  She found chaos in the kitchen, and Marie quietly weeping. Things, it appeared, had become too much for her: their being cut off, the child’s death, the lady screaming in the night … and now the dough would not rise for the bread which Madame had asked her to prepare. It sat in tins on the rack above the cooker, the covering muslin sagging sadly. Tables and floor were in a clutter. She soothed the girl, made her hot coffee from a fortunately boiling kettle, and set her to work clearing up the mess. The explanation of the dough was simple; she had forgotten the yeast. Fortunately flour was one of the items in good supply; and she could probably work more fat in and make pastry from it. Not the kind of pastry of which she would be very proud, but edible at least.

  Order had more or less been restored when she heard her name called from the hall. Diana’s voice, and excited. But happily excited, she thought, as she went to see what was the matter. Diana met her outside the door leading to the bar, and pulled her in.

  “Look!”

  She pointed out of the window. Figures were coming across the snow from the direction of the avalanche. The four men who had gone out. And Ruth. And … She stared, unable
to believe what was so plainly visible. George, in his strong arms, was carrying a small pyjamaed figure. Andy. And the boy was alive. There could be no doubt of that. She saw him turn his head to look at his mother.

  Jane was there, too. She said, “I don’t understand. How could he .. .?”

  The wave of happiness and relief was so great that Mandy felt tears welling in her eyes. Relief, and remorse. She said, blaming herself, “And we wanted to stop her going out there to find him … She knew. But he might have died while we kept her in the house.” She blinked her eyes vigorously. “They must both be freezing cold. I’ll go and get hot drinks ready.”

  As she turned, Jane said, in a puzzled voice, “The basket …”

  Mandy looked again. The boy, carried in George’s arms, was holding the basket that had been missing from the basement. She said happily, “You see—she was right about that, too.”

  “It doesn’t make sense,” Jane said.

  “It doesn’t matter! I must go and get something ready for them.”

  She told Marie, who was as incredulous as she had been and then, accepting the fact, wept again. When they heard the front door open, they both went out and joined the other two women to greet them. They were taken into the salon, everyone jostling and laughing and talking at once. Mandy went to take the child from George, but Ruth reached for him at the same time. She said, “Let me have him.” Her voice sounded thick and heavy, presumably in the anticlimax of emotion. “I can look after him now.”

  Mandy had touched the boy’s face. She said, “He’s so cold! Bring him up close to the fire. Pull the settee forward, George. We must warm him.”

  “I am all right,” Andy said. “I’m not cold.”

  It was as extraordinary hearing him talk as seeing him. She remembered the white, seemingly dead little figure of the previous day, and could not link it with the living boy. Although he was so cold, he was not shivering.