Elizabeth and Jane, with Stephen helping them, cooked the supper which Mandy had prepared. They brought the table and chairs through into the salon, to be more central for keeping an eye and ear on things. George, accompanied by Selby, went down to the basement to bring some wine up, and at the same time to check that all was in order down there. When they came up, they fastened the door again at the top of the stairs.
George was carrying a wicker basket full of bottles.
Douglas said, “You look as though you’ve brought the whole cellar.”
“Half a dozen Dole,” George said, “and half a dozen Johannisberg for those who like it white. The Johannisberg should have been put outside for chilling, but we decided not to be too pompous.”
He had drunk a great deal already and so, despite his warning earlier, had Selby. But there was no question of either of them being at all intoxicated, and Douglas noticed, during supper, that they did not take very much wine. He drank more himself, having confined himself to a couple of drinks earlier on. The Johannisberg was very good. And the stuffed potatoes were good, too. Everyone ate well, which was heartening. Whatever apprehensions there might be about the night which they had now entered, it had not robbed them of appetite.
The women cleared the table, which the men put back in the dining room, and they settled down. Elizabeth suggested putting on the radio, pointing out that it scarcely mattered now if the battery ran down, but George opposed this.
“Too likely to blanket sounds.”
Selby said, “I agree. We want to be sure of hearing things.”
“Mustn’t we talk?” Elizabeth asked.
“I don’t see why not,” Selby said. “As long as no one talks fascinatingly enough to get our complete attention.” It was a cozy scene, Douglas thought. The settee had been brought up in front of the fire, and Jane and Elizabeth were sitting on it, with Stephen between them. The three men were in armchairs, two on one side, one on the other. A good supply of logs had been brought in, and the fire crackled warmly. There were two lamps lit here, and light from other lamps showed through the open doors that led to the dining room, the bar, and the hall. At their backs, the heavy curtains were drawn against the dark. They had their glasses of wine from supper, and they sat together chatting like members of a family, or like old friends who were comfortable with one another. The only discrepant note was provided by the shotgun, resting against the pinewood wall, a few inches from George’s right hand.
By consent, they did not talk of recent events, and avoided reference to those who had been lost. Conversation was light, and anecdotal. Selby told a few medical stories, and George some R.A.F. ones, including a rambling and hilarious account of two days spent in a rubber dinghy on the North Sea, in the company of an air gunner who had gone off his head with religious mania. Would all this, Douglas wondered, reduce itself eventually to such dimensions—be a story told around a fire, and a comic one at that?
It was in the tailing away of their laughter that Jane said, “Listen.”
“What?”
“I thought I heard a sound.”
Alert, Selby said, “Which direction?”
“Somewhere outside, I think.”
They watched and listened, while Selby walked quietly across the room, and pulled the corner of the curtain to one side. He peered out for a moment, then twitched it back.
“Nothing. It’s pretty dark out there, of course. Though it should be brighter soon. There’s a moon-glow in the east.” He clicked his tongue exultantly. “I could see the shoulder of the mountain! That means the mist has gone.”
George got up and went across to look. Coming away, he said, “Dark, but clear. We’ll be all right in the morning.”
Douglas saw in their faces the reflection of the surge of happiness and relief he felt himself. Only a matter of hours.
Stephen said, “We’ll be taken on the helicopter, won’t we? Just to Nidenhaut, or all the way down?”
Elizabeth said briskly, “Wait and see. But one thing we do need to do is to get you off to bed. Come on. We’ll give you enough of a wash in the kitchen.”
“Leave the door open,” Selby said.
“Don’t worry.”
She took the boy away with her; they heard her go, and heard the distant sound of their voices as she attended to his toilet.
George said, “One never quite believes weather forecasts, but the Swiss are …”
He broke off. There was no doubt about the sound this time, nor of the direction. It came from below, and outside—a hammering, and the tinkle of breaking glass. They looked at each other, and Douglas felt his chest constrict.
Selby said quietly, “This is it. Trying to break in. Do you think the planks will hold?”
“I’m taking no chances,” George said. He picked up the gun, and glanced at Selby, who nodded. “Let’s go.”
Douglas followed them. The constriction was fear, but one could go forward, defying it. Halfway down the stairs to the basement, he realized that Jane was following, too. He half-turned, and told her, “Stay upstairs.”
Selby was some way ahead with the light, and she was only a silhouette against the lamplight coming through the doorway above her.
“No. I’m coming.”
Her tone did not brook argument, and there was no time for it, anyway. And he was glad of her behind him. They came down the stairs and across the passage. The light showed that the others had gone through into the room that had held the boxes. They followed them and saw them staring at the window. It had been broken from the outside; glass was strewn on the floor inside. But the planks were in position, and there was no sign or sound of anyone out there.
“I suppose I could give it a barrel, anyway,” George said. “As a warning.”
“I shouldn’t bother. I…”
The crash of glass again, but it was difficult at first to tell where the sound came from. Then, the heavy rapid creak of boards over their heads. They began to run for the stairs, Selby first, the lamp swinging as he ran. They were in the passage when they heard Elizabeth scream. Almost at the same time, there was the slam of a door, and Douglas saw the oblong of light above them blotted out.
15
Even in his combined rage and panic, Selby had the sense to thrust the lamp behind him for someone else to grasp. It was taken from him, and he flung himself up the stairs and against the door at the top. It gave slightly against his weight, but did not open. He drew back, and charged it again, with no better result. His left shoulder felt numb from the impact. He swung around, and hit it with his other side. The door seemed to shift for a moment, but that was all.
He could hear the boy crying, but there was no sound from Elizabeth. The thought of what might be happening to her maddened him, and he slammed himself at the door. Behind him on the stairs, George was saying something which at first he did not take in. In the end, he found himself plucked back by the bigger man.
“Get back,” George said. “I’ve got at least four stone more than you to put into it.”
The thud of George’s onslaught was followed almost at once by a tremendous crash, and Selby had the wild hope that the door had broken. But no light showed, and the crash, he realized was of something falling, not breaking, something massive. George smashed his body forward again and then, turning, called down, “The gun!”
He was wheezing from his efforts. Douglas had the gun, and he handed it up the stairs to him. George held it under his arm, and fired it. The sound was like a blow almost, a hammer against the ears in this narrow space. There was the sharp, choking smell of gunpowder. But, even when George threw himself at it for the third time, the door held.
“Light!”
Jane reached up with the light. They could see that the shot had torn a ragged hole in the wood of the door, about an inch across, but there was more wood behind that, pitted and scarred but substantially intact. George rammed the butt of the gun against the hole, but nothing moved. He said wearily, “It’s no good
.”
Selby pulled at him, trying to get past. “Let me have a go!”
George gave way to him, and he thrust and heaved at the door, but it did not give at all now. Behind him, George said, “It’s the hall dresser. They’ve pulled it over and it’s wedged against the door. A year’s heaving wouldn’t shift it. It weighs a ton.”
He tried once more, but he knew George was right. There was no shifting it from this side. From this side … He abandoned the effort abruptly, and tried to push his way downstairs, past George. But George gripped and held him.
“What are you up to, Selby?”
Selby struggled with him, but he felt weak and bruised, helpless against the other’s greater strength. He said, conscious of the feebleness, the absurdity, of the remark, “Let me go!”
“Go where?” George asked. “Out of the back door, and up the steps to the veranda? The way they got in? You damn fool, you’d be completely at their mercy.”
He could see it was probably true, but he was not prepared to be sensible. He could still hear the boy crying, somewhere upstairs. In horror and misery, he found himself speculating: was the boy watching, held by one of them, perhaps, while the others overwhelmed her—a grotesque and hideous mass rape, of the soul rather than the body? He strained violently against George’s grasp.
“I’m going …”
“Listen,” George said. “Listen. I know how you feel, but there’s nothing you can do for her. Nothing. You’ve got to think of yourself now.”
“Why?”
“And of us. And of a couple of billion people outside. Don’t you see? They’ve almost won ”
The words, and the grim conviction with which they were spoken, shook him into acquiescence. He relaxed, and let George shepherd him downstairs. They stood together in the passage, George’s hand still firm on his arm. He saw all their faces in the lamplight, saw how little their fear was concealed, and wondered what his own face showed. Elizabeth, he thought in agony. Oh God, let her not be hurt.
“They expected to split us,” George said, “and we fell for it. A disturbance at one of the basement windows—the boy could do that easily—and some of us at least would go down to investigate. Then a quick breakthrough into the salon, the door to the stairs slammed, and the dresser dragged across to make sure of it. Whoever was left up there would be no match for them.”
“If we’d all come down …” Douglas said.
“They would still have had possession of the house. They’ve got us trapped down here. They can keep us here until the chopper’s come in, and they’ve got hold of the crew. That’s if they don’t manage to finish us off first.”
“How?” Douglas said. “We can’t get at them, but they can’t get at us, either.”
“Can’t they? They only have to pull the dresser away, when they’re ready. Nothing easier.”
Jane said, “What can we do?”
“Think before we act, for a start,” George said. “We haven’t been doing too well at that.”
He was talking sense, Selby realized. He tried not to think of Elizabeth, but the visualization swamped him with agony. His body shuddered uncontrollably.
Douglas said, “If they did manage to—well, do for us, surely they wouldn’t get far? Two billion—taking over the human race, that is. You weren’t really serious about that, were you?”
Talking would take his mind off its compulsive self-torture. Selby said, “He was serious. And they could do it. Particularly with a helicopter at their disposal. They could seed themselves throughout the Valais, as a start. In isolated places, waiting for a child unaccompanied, perhaps. And the child going home to its brothers and sisters, its mother … Even after people began to realize what was happening, there wouldn’t be much they could do about it. They would cause chaos before they had taken over even a substantial minority. And chaos would serve their ends.” He stared at the lamp, which was beginning to smoke. “Once they’re clear of this place I can’t see any way in which they can be stopped.”
“So they mustn’t get clear,” George said.
Elizabeth was a pain that crushed and ground at him. He said, “I wish I knew how we could stop them. Nine of them, against four of us. Two of them are children, I know, but it doesn’t help very much.” He stared at the gun which George was holding. “Have you got any cartridges for that?”
“One,” George said. “In the barrel I didn’t fire just then. The rest are upstairs.”
“Yes,” Selby said, “I thought so.”
“We’ve got to think,” George said, “and think slowly and carefully. One more mistake might be the last.”
Jane said, “Will they give us time to think?”
“They’re not pressed for time,” George said. “They’ve got us down here, and it won’t be light for another eight hours. And the moves they’ve made so far have been pretty well spaced out. We’ve got time to think. But we’d better make good use of it.”
True, all true, Selby thought. One desperately needed to think. But his thought was of Elizabeth; his mind rocked with wretchedness.
After a time, he knew it must be over for her, and his pain became the less acute though still searing ache of loss. And anger. He had a cold determination to cleanse and avenge and destroy. It had been his mother, dying of cancer when he was seventeen, who had been the reason for his choosing medicine as a career. He had felt something like this at that time. But this was filthier than a cancer, rousing a more bitter, more personal hatred. And cold. It was essential to think clearly, unemotionally.
Douglas was elaborating an idea for luring some of them down and cutting them off from the rest, splitting the forces of the enemy in much the way that their own had been. The idea sounded weak, impracticable.
Selby said, careless of seeming rude, “Look, there are two ways of coping. One is to finish them off in some way. The other is to make sure they don’t strike up contact with the outside world before we do. That involves surviving the rest of the night, of course.”
“Well, yes,” Douglas said, “but if we were to …” George said, “I’ve been thinking about that—about finishing them off. We haven’t got much, but we’ve got the mazout.”
Douglas and Jane showed incomprehension.
Selby said, “A fire? Would it work?”
“It might. I can’t think of anything else that would.” Jane said, “Mazout?”
“The oil,” George said, “for the central heating. Fifteen hundred liters of it, on my last reading.” He looked at Selby, ignoring the others. “Make a pretty little blaze.”
“Where’s the tank?” Selby asked.
“In that little lumber room, to the right of the basement door.”
The thought excited him. “She’d go up with quite a bang.”
“The whole chalet would. A real bonfire.”
“You mean, we start a fire down here?” Douglas asked. “And then what? Just clear out, and wait for help.” The prospect seemed to relieve him. “As long as help does come tomorrow.”
Selby said, “However quickly it caught, they would have a chance of getting out, wouldn’t they? The windows at the front aren’t barred, and there’s the front door.”
“If they were upstairs, they might stand a chance,” George said, “but if they were down here . .
“How do we get them down?”
“They’ll come eventually. They’ll have to come. They daren’t take a chance on leaving us until morning. An hour or so before the light, I would reckon.”
“Wait till they do, you mean?” Selby said. He thought about this, and did not like what he saw. “A bit chancy, isn’t it?”
“Only one of us needs to wait. Have a trail laid of oily rags. The tank’s on the far side from the stairs. Set it off when they’re all down here.”
“And the rest of us?”
“Get out well in advance. Get away from the house. If anything did go wrong, they would need to be away from here—chance they might be able to warn whoever com
es in from outside.”
That made sense, Selby thought. It all made sense. But it was going to take a lot of nerve on the part of the man who stayed behind. He would have to wait, possibly for a couple of hours, for them to come, time his little job of arson to perfection, and contrive to make his getaway. If possible. The odds did not look too good.
He said briskly, “It might work. I can’t think of anything else that would. You know the local terrain, George, so I reckon you ought to lead the main party.”
George looked at him. His face, in the lamplight, was unsmiling.
“You three are going,” he said. “I stay. I reckon I have a right to put a match to my own bloody house.”
Selby thought of George, listening in the darkness, waiting. It was not a question of heroics. Each man had his own fears, and circumstances disabled them in different degrees, and in different ways. He was trying to find an argument to force this home painlessly, when Douglas said, “We draw lots. The three of us. That’s the simplest thing, surely.”
Selby’s eyes crossed George’s, a fleeting recognition by both of them that this, at least, was out of the question. They might have misgivings about each other, but neither was prepared to leave a job like this to the third.
George said, rather loudly, “Let’s get it straight. I’m in charge here. We need you, Douglas, to look after Jane. And we need Selby to convince anyone who flies in about the kind of trouble we’ve got upstairs. They’ll believe a medico where they would say you or I was round the bend.”
Douglas said, “I see the argument for sending Selby off. There’s no argument against us two drawing for who stays.”
He spoke with the stubbornness that a weak man sees in himself as strength; and therefore clings to. It was absurd, Selby knew, to think of hurting people’s feelings at a time like this, but obstinacy of this kind—in both Douglas and George—was something that could not be ignored. Something, too, that could ruin everything.
The Possessors Page 21
