The End of the Web

by George Sims

  Outwardly calm, X was the subject of extreme excitement: he knew that in the next half-hour he was going to live more intensely than most men did in twenty years. His body was preparing for the vital trial of strength, his mind concentrated absolutely on a ritualistic series of movements which he had visualized and rehearsed.

  Down the track there was the sound of a powerful engine: a moment later X saw Chard’s green Rover 3500 effortlessly mounting the steep track. X bent down and adjusted the papier-mâché mask over his face. He had made the eye slots larger so that his vision was not impaired. He picked up the large Colt in his right hand and held it behind his back.

  The driver of the Rover stopped as near as possible to the farm gate and sounded the horn. A moment later he got out of the car awkwardly and leant on an ash-stick as he opened the gate, staring towards the cottage and calling out in an irritable voice, ‘Hello! Hello there! Mr Quentin? Are you there?’

  X moved away from the porch but stood under a low branch of an elm-tree which he knew would keep him partly concealed. He held his left arm out in front of his face and waved to Chard but made no move towards him.

  Chard said, ‘Oh, good. I thought for a moment…’ He began to walk up the path towards the cottage laboriously. ‘So you are here. Well, I’m on time as agreed. I hope all this business is going to be worth my while.’

  X said, ‘Yes’, quietly. The mask made the word come out slurred and sounding funny. He still held his left arm up as if welcoming the crippled man. When Chard was within twenty feet X dropped his left arm and produced his revolver, pointing it straight at Chard’s chest and walking forward quickly, saying, ‘Stand still!’ The command came out as ‘Shtand shtill!’

  Chard did as he was told. X had banked on him having a healthy respect for firearms as did most ex-servicemen who had seen action. Chard’s face was suddenly pale. He said, ‘For fuck’s sake. What’s this? A bad joke?’

  ‘Not a joke.’

  ‘Christ!’

  Chard had melancholy brown eyes, black hair that had thinned and retreated from a widow’s peak, and an aggressive Punch-like chin. He had heavy shoulders and a wide chest. He stared at the Colt as though hypnotized by it, repeating the words ‘You fool, you fucking fool’ to himself. His right hand slid a few inches down the shaft of the stick.

  X said, ‘Keep quite shtill. Give me the shtick. The shtick! I want it.’

  Chard took his eyes off the Colt and said, ‘Wait! For Christ’s sake let’s talk. Give me a chance.’

  X nodded. ‘Yesh. I’ll give you a chance. But first give me the shtick.’ Immediately the stick was in his left hand he lashed out with it at Chard’s legs. Chard lunged forward desperately with his right fist and then toppled over. X rained down swingeing blows. A particularly vicious blow on Chard’s chest made him jerk forward, crying out something incomprehensible. A denture fell out of Chard’s mouth, leaving him with a long sunken upper lip. The sound of breath from his half-paralysed diaphragm was like an eerie, continuing sigh. A blow on his neck made him twist about convulsively from side to side. When X paused for a moment Chard fumbled with a button, letting out a captive cry: ‘Oh Jesus, Jesus!’

  X ripped off his mask with the hand that held the Colt and rained down more blows with the stick, a series of methodical strokes which he punctuated by talking in a quiet persuasive voice: ‘Look old man…Mr Quentin speaking…What we’ll do…Is this…We’ll take it slowly…That’s right…Easy does it.’

  After a few minutes X crouched down on his haunches by the inert body. The only sounds to be heard were his own rapid breathing, a blackbird singing in a may-bush, and the insistent trilling of larks high above the meadow. X was sweating profusely as he stooped to pick up the denture and place it in Chard’s inside jacket pocket; he then surveyed the ground around the body with minute care as if he were a detective scrutinizing the scene. Some blood mixed with vomit had run down Chard’s jacket and shirt but there did not appear to be a trace of it on the grass. In threshing about convulsively Chard had broken some stalks in a patch of ground-elder.

  X kept his attention fixed on the blood-stained jacket as he dragged the heavy body to the cottage, then went back to pick up the stick, mask and revolver. He covered the flagstones in the kitchen with some old newspapers and laid the body on them. He went through all of Chard’s pockets, removing a bulging wallet, a diary and an envelope. He then covered Chard’s gaping mouth with plaster and bound his wrists and ankles with wire. Following his ritualistic plan he ran wires along the body and tightened them so that in the end he had transformed the intractable corpse into a box-like structure.

  Glancing down at the Colt as he went out of the kitchen door, X noticed a streak of blood along the barrel, which was perplexing for he could have sworn that he had not used it in the assault. With this vivid reminder of the scrupulous care that was essential, he concentrated his gaze upon the ground as he retraced his steps to the scene of the hand-to-hand struggle and then on to the car.

  Driving the Rover to the cottage was accomplished in a few moments without any difficulty, then X placed the body together with the stick, mask and revolver in the boot. As an afterthought he collected the old newspapers from the kitchen floor and laid them over the corpse, then locked the boot.

  As he turned the ignition key and the V8 engine purred in response, X was aware of a sudden tight feeling in his chest: the drive along the overgrown kitchen garden path through briars and great mounds of couch-grass would be more difficult in a large car than it had been during his trial run in the Volkswagen. He moved the gear lever to the lowest drive position and eased off the hand-brake. The Rover moved slowly forward, gliding smoothly over the bumpy path, but a long briar forced its way through an open window, inducing in X a momentary sensation of panic. He stopped the car and wound up all the windows tight before proceeding again. He could not entirely avoid the grey lichen-covered branches of the deformed apple-trees. They scraped the windows and top of the car, screeching a series of protests as though making up for the fact that Chard had died without a scream or a whimper. One tough branch was particularly intransigent, being bent back rather than broken and then whipping against the top of the car with a bang that made X break out again in a cold sweat. By the time the Rover was near to the pond, X’s hands were wet and shaking.

  When X stepped from the Rover, switching off the engine and setting the hand-brake rather too hard with a nervous jerk, he experienced a profound feeling of relief at having successfully negotiated the drive to the pond. He had no mechanical knowledge of cars, and one recurring doubt about his plan had been possible trouble with the Rover’s automatic drive.

  He felt calm again and once more master of the situation as he stood at the edge of the pond surveying its weed-choked surface. The pond was partly screened by may-bushes but he looked beyond them to scan the large meadow and the distant woods, straining his eyes to detect any sign of movement. He could hear the faint sound of a tractor’s engine a long way off, but he could see nothing to worry about.

  He walked back to the Rover slowly, going over all that had happened in his mind, thinking hard whether he had made any slips that could be detected. He looked round the interior of the car to make sure that there was nothing that might float out when the vehicle was submerged, then locked the two glove-compartments. After locking the cap to the petrol-tank he tried the boot again, then replaced the key in the ignition, set the gear lever at neutral and released the hand-brake.

  Pushing the Rover into the pond was an easier job than he had imagined. Once he had got the heavy car in motion it slid forward and vanished into the water with movements that were like a convulsive series of gigantic belches. X had to step back sharply to avoid a spray of mud and weed. Large bubbles continued to rise for a few minutes with a reek of stagnation, then the surface was still again. There was a square area free of weed but half an hour would change that.

&n
bsp; X picked up the largest branch broken from one of the apple-trees and used it to obliterate the car’s tracks through the couch-grass and cow-parsley. He collected the other broken branches and twigs and threw them into the thick undergrowth. Entering the cottage, he took off his white cotton gloves and put them with his other equipment in the brief-case. Then he began to walk down the path, keeping his eyes on the ground as he again retraced the route that he had taken with Sidney Chard. He examined the patch of ground-elder closely and decided it would have taken Sherlock Holmes to prove that the broken stalks were not the result of lovers lying there. Once out of the shade of the elm-trees he was aware of the larks singing high above and the growing warmth of the sun on his back. It was going to be a hot day as well as a very busy one for X.

  Chapter VI

  A zinc-coloured sky with a galvanized-iron horizon. Leo Selver stood on the steps of a Cypriot restaurant in Charlotte Street looking at the sky and taking deep breaths as he waited for Judy Latimer to ‘spend a penny’ in the basement toilet. After a stiflingly hot day the oppressiveness of the evening of Wednesday, 15 August 1973 was extreme. Selver felt sure that a thunderstorm must develop soon and welcomed the idea of cooling rain. Over in the south the grey sky had an ominously bruised look about it. All day he had been the subject of a mild but persistent headache which he partly blamed on the sweltering heat. It seemed as if London had been temporarily transformed into a vast oven, or an experimental chamber from which the air was being extracted. He said, ‘Can’t breathe properly’, to himself in a mock whining tone and then laughed at the idea of putting this to Judy as an excuse for an unsatisfactory sexual performance; he had an unpleasant premonition that the evening might end or the night be punctuated with some kind of apology for impotence. After wanting the girl so badly, now that the sexual act seemed a definite possibility he had no desire at all.

  Leo Selver was puzzled by his curious invalid eunuch-like state, for on other occasions the chance to make love to an attractive woman had always found him ready and cancelled out minor aches and pains. His evening with Judy had started off badly, somehow getting him on the wrong foot, and he had not been able to recover his balance. On meeting her outside a shabby house at the end of a demolished row in Stephen Street she had come into his arms as if that was the natural thing to do, and her manner had been quite the reverse of the teasing one she had adopted in his flat. He had found her open-mouthed kiss and probing tongue sweet but surfeiting, like a mango, and the image of the fruit lingered on in his mind after their embrace was over—the rich, juicy yellow flesh, so much of it, and of such cloying quality.

  Judy’s appearance had been as much of a surprise to him as her behaviour. Her make-up was much more extreme than on the other times they had met, and she was dressed in an abbreviated version of a French sailor’s jersey that left her midriff bare, and white hipster trousers that barely concealed her navel. The clinging jersey revealed her figure to be fuller than he had thought and as they had walked to Charlotte Street she had held his arm lightly one moment, clinging tight the next, pulling him into contact with her breast in a provocative fashion. He could hardly believe she was the same girl who had been so reluctant to lie down on his bed.

  ‘Darling, that meal was simply delicious.’

  Selver looked down the basement steps to see Judy coming up. He felt that he had a sheepish smile glued to his lips. Perversely he wanted the evening to be over and done with; he realized how pleasant it would be to be spending it in Beatrice’s undemanding company, walking along the front at Brighton where the sea-breezes would blow away his headache and he would not be expected to excel at sexual athletics.

  As Judy reached the top of the steps she put her hands on Selver’s shoulders and kissed him on the lips, saying immediately afterwards, ‘God, I hope that wasn’t terribly garlicky!’

  ‘No, of course not. I had the humous too.’

  ‘So you did, darling. Wait a sec. I absolutely insist on you removing your jacket. Poor chap, you looked terribly warm in there. Let me.’ She undid the jacket and helped him take it off, then quickly removed his tie, folded it up and put it in his pocket.

  ‘No point in looking super-smart in such weather. Besides, you’re very dishy in just a shirt.’

  Judy’s fingers closed round his wrist as they began to walk along Charlotte Street. Her face was pleasantly flushed and her eyes shone with excitement. Her honeysuckle scent seemed to be compounded with some other warm odour from her skin that Leo found enticing even in his strangely lack-lustre mood.

  As Judy chattered on about the restaurant which she had chosen for their dinner, Selver was trying to understand her changed attitude towards him. Throughout the meal she had ignored the handsome young waiters who had hovered round their table even though one had tried to catch her eyes, laughed extravagantly at Selver’s few feeble jokes, touched his hand at intervals between a great deal of eating and drinking. Leo had been very conscious of the insistent warm pressure of her leg against his while he toyed with his plate of humous, hiding the remains of it with a knife and fork when she cleaned her plate. Afterwards he had picked at a lamb kebab while she devoured a large helping of roast suckling pig, then patiently sipped a weak mixture of wine and water when she surprisingly ordered a dish of fried calamares instead of a sweet. She had drunk three-quarters of a bottle of retsina and most of the red wine. Swaying to the bouzouki music, she had gently kicked his foot from time to time and once had trodden on it quite firmly, all the time looking into his eyes and smiling enigmatically.

  Selver thought: My ESP is trying to tell me something. Perhaps she is what is known in modern parlance as a ‘cock-teaser’, perhaps she’s trying really hard to get me in the mood again before running off as she did the other day. Perhaps she really hates men.

  ‘Leo…’ Judy stared at Selver when they reached the corner of Percy Street. ‘Is it okay if we have another drink before we go back to my place?’

  ‘We are going there then?’

  ‘We most certainly are. Poor darling. You…I shan’t be doing another Cinderella trick if that’s what you think. Wait a mo. Here’s another garlicky taste so that you’ll know.’ Judy clung tight as they kissed so that Leo was aware of every inch of her body, but it had as much effect on him as embracing a statue.

  ‘See what I mean? No, it’s just that—well, my flat’s a slightly grotty dump. Another drink or two and we shall be unaware of the grottiness.’

  ‘We could go on to Welbeck Street if you like.’

  ‘Definitely not, love. It’s just round the corner and I’m probably exaggerating the grottiness. Anyway, tonight it’s my turn to entertain you. Besides it’ll be good for you to see how the other half lives. You may not get many more chances. Condemned premises you see! You must have noticed the other houses in the street are down.’

  ‘Not Gresse Buildings.’

  ‘Quite right. Not Gresse Buildings. They will remain in Stephen Street as a reminder of…well—of something. But my old house is definitely for the chop. That’s why I got the ground-floor flat at a knockdown bargain price. The upstairs part’s already vacant. And my six months is nearly up.’

  ‘What will you do then?’

  ‘Don’t know, love.’ Judy looked at him with a serious expression for a moment, then she shrugged. ‘I don’t plan much. And that’s a fact. Well, it’s not much good, is it? Yes, to sum up—my advice folks is, don’t plan much. Now, where was I? Suggesting a drink at the Bricklayer’s, was I not?’

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘Just one of your nice old-fashioned-type pubs, The Bricklayer’s Arms in Gresse Street. We have to pass the door walking to my place anyway. A good ambience there, as they say, this time of night. Okay?’

  For a moment Selver was tempted to tell her that he would much prefer to have some coffee. He wanted to say: ‘Let’s just talk and forget the Romeo bit. Tell me about your p
lans that didn’t come off. I am interested.’ But his ubiquitous pride prevented this. He said ‘Fine’ and accompanied her like a sleepwalker.

  The dark sky was lit by a distant flash of lightning followed by a rumble of thunder when they reached the corner of Rathbone Place and Gresse Street.

  Judy said, ‘Just made it in the nick of time. Here we are.’

  The Bricklayer’s Arms was jam-packed with a mostly young, modishly dressed crowd. Judy seemed to know quite a few of its patrons but she cut short their greetings, pushing her way to the bar, saying, ‘I’d love a vodka, darling. But you’ll have to push and shout a bit. I’ll hold your jacket.’

  Selver moved further along the bar to get within reaching distance of the blonde barmaid who was being kept extremely busy. He stood next to a tall young man with a mop of black curls who was saying to his companion: ‘Well, you can tell Trevor this. I’m putting the balance-sheet through the computer and if it as much as coughs I’ll have his guts for garters.’

  Selver ordered a large vodka, and some tonic water with a slice of lemon, planning to say the tonic was gin if questioned by Judy. He pondered what it was that prevented him from telling her that he did not feel up to consuming any more alcohol or embarking on love-making. He could not believe that impotence had really set in at fifty. Worrying all day because he could not contact Sidney Chard might have something to do with his malaise. Then again, he had been disappointed on going to Bathwick Mews to find that Eddy Buchanan was off on his travels, this time in Greece or the Greek Islands. It had been a prime example of a drowning man grasping at a straw to think of contacting Buchanan—how ironic that he should try to seek assistance from someone he had once verbally run down, talking to Beatrice about ‘young Eddy’s self-destructive, feckless existence’. These must be the reasons why he felt so down and incapable of responding to Judy. But perhaps middle age had something to do with it too. Selver thought: Life is an obstacle race with most of the obstacles grouped at the far end.