Riordan was speaking again.
‘How long have you lived here, Cartwright?’
‘Seven years.’
‘And a vet, eh? Everyone knows you?’
‘I suppose so.’
‘Fine. You’re our safe conduct, Cartwright. Nobody will ever suspect the good healer. But remember this, and remember it good. If we’re stopped, you’re not to mention any place or person whatsoever by name. Understand?’
‘I’m afraid I…’
‘Look, Cartwright. If the police stop you and you volunteer the information that you’re going to Timbuctoo Farm or been to see Mr Smith the Grocer and there’s no Timbuctoo Farm or Smith the Grocer, they’re going to get very suspicious, aren’t they? So as little as possible—and nothing I can’t check on.’
He was shrewd, all right, Riordan. The thought had never even occurred to me.
‘What are all these sacks for, Cartwright?’ Riordan was speaking again. ‘Vets usually carry these?’
‘Quite often. For sick animals and…’
‘All right,’ he interrupted. ‘They’ll cover us fine. You’re carrying sick animals, if anyone asks. Remember, if we’re stopped, I can see every flicker of expression on your face in the driving mirror. And the point of the gun is three inches from your back.’
The third set of level-crossing gates were closed, to let through the evening train. As I braked, John Howarth, the station master, came hurrying up.
‘I thought it was you, Peter. Mary’s coming off this train. Will you take her home? It’s a filthy night, and with these two damned murderers around I…’
‘Of course, I will,’ I said. ‘Tell her to wait in the bus shelter on the other side.’
‘Thank you, boy.’ He looked closely at me. ‘You’re looking a bit under the weather, you know. Too much—sorry, here she comes.’ He hurried off, and we could hear the train approaching in the distance.
‘Mary, eh?’ Riordan murmured from under the sacks. ‘Friend of yours, hey?’
‘Yes,’ I said shortly. ‘And I’m not going to pick her up.’
‘You are, you know.’
‘Do you think I’m going to let you two damned murderers…’
‘You said you would. If you don’t, after promising, they’re going to be as suspicious as hell when she tells the station master.’
‘I don’t give a damn. You can’t make me do it.’
‘Of course, she doesn’t have to tell the station master—by the way, is he a friend of hers too?’
‘Her father.’
‘So. Well, Mr Cartwright, where’s this bus shelter?’
‘A hundred yards or so beyond the line.’
‘And buses this time of night?’
Like a fool I answered: ‘No’.
‘So the shelter’s deserted,’ Riordan said softly. ‘I’ve got a silencer and she could lie there for hours. No suspicions.’
Three minutes later I pulled up by the shelter. Mary came running out, pulled open the door of the Land Rover and jumped inside, tendrils of dark wet hair clinging to her neck and cheek, but cheerful and smiling as always.
‘Hullo, Peter! Am I glad to see you tonight! The thought of walking home…’ She broke off and peered at me. ‘Why, whatever in the world is the matter, Peter?’
‘Move over to the middle seat, Mary.’ Fear for her had driven all fear for myself, and my mind was working at last. I thought I saw a glimmer of hope, no more than a desperate chance: but then I was a desperate man.
She moved slowly across, staring at me.
‘I’m afraid 1 have a bad shock for you, darling,’ I said. I put my arms round her slender shoulders, felt them stiffening under my pressure, sensed rather then saw the widening of the eyes. ‘You’ve
heard of Riordan and Sellers?’
She nodded dumbly.
‘They’re right behind us, darling—and they have guns in their hand.’
She said nothing, just turned slowly in her seat then put her hand to her mouth to stifle a frightened shuddering sigh as she saw the gun, the pale gleam of a face in the gloom.
‘No screaming, young lady,’ Riordan said quickly and quietly. ‘This is a gun. Drive on Cartwright—and don’t blame your friend, lady. If he hadn’t stopped…’ He explained briefly, then went on thoughtfully: ‘Darling this, darling that, darling the next thing. She really does appear to be your friend, Cartwright.’
‘Damn you to hell, Riordan,’ I said savagely. ‘She’s my fiancée and now you’ve…’
‘Your fiancée, eh? Well, well, well.’ His voice changed. ‘How do I know she’s your fiancée?’
‘What the devil does it matter…?’
‘It matters a lot. I never trust anybody or anything. Engaged? Ring?’
‘Yes.’
‘What’s it like?’
‘Emerald, four diamonds.’
Riordan stretched his hand. ‘Show me.’
Wordlessly, Mary struggled to get it off her finger. God, I thought, she was behaving magnificently. She passed the ring back to Riordan, who struck a match, glanced at it and handed it back.
‘Well, well,’ he said softly. ‘Love’s young dream. The perfect set-up, eh, Sellers. Who’s going to question love’s young dream?’
There was a police block at the entrance to Lipscombe. Again there were red swinging lamps with, in the background, a truck across the street as a roadblock. On either side of the road I could see two policemen, strangers to me, mounted on their red-painted 100mph Thunderbird Twin Triumphs. They had that indefinable look of all motor cycle policemen—medium height, lean, very tough, very competent. But it was Sergeant Wynne who approached me. With the possible exception of Ainsworth, the young Vicar, Wynne was my best friend in Lipscombe.
‘Evening, Pete,’ he smiled. His torch reached across my seat, lit up Mary’s face. ‘Oh, hullo.’
‘Evening, George,’ I interrupted. ‘What’s all the cloak-and-dagger stuff for?’ I nodded at the policemen on their motor cycles, the truck across the road, felt the hairs on the back of my neck stand on end as I felt the pressure of Riordan’s silencer against the base of my spine. ‘Looking for our wandering boys, Riordan and Sellers?’
‘We are indeed,’ Wynne said grimly. ‘Suppose you’ve seen nothing, Pete.’
‘Sorry,’ I shrugged. ‘All quiet between here and Tarnmouth. I don’t envy you your job on a night like this.’
‘Me neither,’ Wynne said feelingly. ‘Wish I was up looking for a double-twenty in the “Horse and Plough”.’ We were both members of the local darts team. ‘See you up there tonight, perhaps, Pete?’
‘Perhaps, perhaps not.’ I shrugged and grinned, knowing that Riordan was watching every slightest change of my expression in the driving mirror. ‘There’s a dance on in Tarnmouth. May be the small hours before we…’ I broke off, put my arm round Mary’s shoulders and squeezed: she nestled her dark head against my shoulder. ‘Well, you know how it is, George.’
‘Yes.’ He took out his handkerchief, wiped some rain off his face and grinned back at me. ‘Married myself, but I know how it is. Be seeing you, Pete.’
‘Be seeing you.’ I waited till the truck had backed out of the way, let in the clutch and moved off. Riordan stirred in the darkness.
‘Not bad, Cartwright, not bad at all.’ His tone changed, became soft and menacing. ‘Why did you mention Tarnmouth, damn you?’
‘Don’t be such a bloody fool,’ I said wearily. ‘The only road out of Lipscombe leads there.’
We drove there in complete silence. I drove there in low gear most of the way, only once changing into top. It made for rather a noisy journey, but the low gear suited the road, the noise suited me. Every yard of the four miles I feared Riordan would order me to stop the Land Rover and take over himself: and then for Mary and myself there would only be the long sleep in the nearest ditch or behind the nearest convenient hedgerow. But the order to stop came only when we moved on to the Tarnmouth jetty.
‘Far enou
gh,’ Riordan said harshly. He was almost there now, and the strain was beginning to tell, even on him. ‘Kill the motor.’
I put my foot on the clutch, slipped the gear lever silently into first, switched off the ignition key, placed my right hand across the telltale red ignition light, switched the ignition on again and waited. The handbrake was off.
‘Don’t move, either of you,’ Riordan warned. He was quite safe: the edge of the jetty was only 15ft away and deep water beyond. We couldn’t escape that way.
I stared in the rear mirror, saw the pale gleam of light as they lifted the screens above the tailgate, heard the metallic scuffle of a boot against the tailgate, and pressed the self-starter at the same instant.
Everything happened in a moment of time. The Land Rover jerked forward violently for a couple of feet before the engine stalled, Riordan and Sellers, swearing viciously, fell heavily to the ground behind, and the darkness and silence of the night was abruptly broken as two powerful headlights behind blazed into life at the same instant as clutches were let in and the twin cylinder engines of the powerful motor bikes caught with a throaty roar.
Riordan and Sellers had no chance. They were still struggling to their feet, blinded by the lights, when the motor bikes hit them: and before they could get up again four powerful policemen, piling out of the car immediately behind, had fallen on them with batons swinging.
‘Beautifully, done, Pete, beautifully done indeed.’ It was Sergeant Wynne talking, affecting not to notice the almost uncontrollable trembling of my arms and legs. ‘We’ll have that game of darts tonight yet—after a few pints. Tell me all.’
I told him, and at the end he turned to smile down coldly at a dazed and handcuffed Riordan.
‘Mr Cartwright here had a unique opportunity of studying that young lady’s engagement ring. He must have watched another ring being slipped on beside it, for practice like, at least 20 times before her wedding: and Mr Cartwright was the best man. It was hardly likely,’ Wynne finished drily, ‘that the Vicar’s wife was going to go out all night dancing with another man only 48 hours after her wedding.’
Postscript
Rewards and Responsibilities of Success
Some time in 1954 the Glasgow Herald ran a short story competition. I had no writing aspirations—I won’t say literary aspirations, for there are a considerable number of people who stoutly maintain that I never had and still don’t have any literary aspirations—and no hope.
However the hundred pounds first prize was a very considerable lure for a person who had no money at all. I went ahead and entered anyway, with a West Highland sea story carrying the title The ‘Dileas’. I won and was approached by Ian Chapman, the present chairman of Collins, the publishers, who asked me if I would write a novel. To everybody’s surprise, Collins remain my publishers still. After twenty-seven years.
During those twenty-seven years I have written twenty-seven books, fourteen screenplays, and numerous magazine and newspaper articles. It has been, and remains, a fair enough way of earning a living. I have been called a success, but ‘success’, in its most common usage, is a relative term which has to be applied with great caution, especially in writing.
Quantification is far from being all. Some of the most ‘successful’ books, magazines, and newspapers in publishing history have beggared description when one tries to describe the depths to which they have descended. Enlightenment may not be my forte but, then, neither is depravity.
It is difficult to say what effect one’s books have had, what degree of success or failure they have achieved. Consider, for instance, the reactions of those who had the debatable privilege of being on the Glasgow Herald’s editorial board at the time when those short stories of long ago were under consideration.
Some may feel, or have felt, a mild degree of satisfaction that they had the foresight or acumen to pick on someone who was not to prove a total dud: all too many writers produce one story and then are heard of no more. Others on the board may have felt a profound indifference. Still others, gnashing their figurative teeth, may have rued the day they launched on his way, a writer whose style, they felt or feel, in no way matched the high standard set itself by Scotland’s premier newspaper. I shall never know.
The effect on the reading public is equally hard to gauge. I did write a couple of books which I thought might be judged as being meaningful or significant but from readers’ reactions I was left in no doubt that the only person who shared this opinion was myself. I should have listened to Sam Goldwyn’s dictum that messages are for Western Union.
I have since then concentrated on what I regarded as pure entertainment although I have discovered a considerable gulf may lie between what I regard as entertainment and others’ ideas on the subject.
I receive a fairly large mail and most of it is more than kindly in tone. I am aware that this does not necessarily reflect an overall consensus of approval: I am essentially a non-controversial writer and people who habitually sign themselves ‘Indignant’ or ‘Disgusted’ of Walthamstow or wherever, don’t read my books in the first place, or if they do, don’t find the contents worthy of disparaging comment.
The effects of writing on myself, of course, I know fairly well although I’m aware that, even here, there may be room for blind misap-praisal. The main benefits of being a full-time writer are that they confer on one a marked degree of independence and freedom, but that freedom must never be misinterpreted as irresponsibility.
I don’t have to start work at nine a.m., and I don’t: I usually start between six and seven in the morning. But then, though I often work a seven-day week, I don’t work a fifty-two week year.
Being in a position where there is not one person, anywhere, who can tell you what to do—and that’s the position I’m in—is quite splendid. But no one is wholly independent. I have a responsibility towards my publishers.
Publishing houses are not, as has been claimed, a refuge for rogues, thieves, and intellectual criminals who depend for their existence on their expertise in battening on the skills and talents of the miserably rewarded few who can do what the publishers are totally incapable of—string together a few words in a meaningful fashion. Some publishing houses are run by people who are recognisably human. Mine is notably one of those.
I feel some responsibility, though not much, to book editors. Collins New English Dictionary defines an editor as one who revises, cuts, alters, and omits in preparation for publication. I feel moderately competent to attend to the revising, cutting, etc., before it reaches the editor. But they can be of help, to some more than others.
I feel no responsibility whatsoever towards book critics. The first criticism I ever read was of my first book, H.M.S. ‘Ulysses.’ It got two whole pages to itself in a now defunct Scottish newspaper, with a drawing of the dust jacket wreathed in flames and the headline ‘Burn this book.’ I had paid the Royal Navy the greatest compliment of which I could conceive: this dolt thought it was an act of denigration.
That was the first so-called literary review I ever read: it was also the last. I’m afraid I class fiction book reviewers along with the pundits who run what it pleases them to term ‘writing schools’. One must admire their courage in feeling free to advise, lecture, preach, and criticise something which they themselves are quite incapable of doing.
My greatest responsibility and debt are to those who buy my books, making it possible for me to lead the life I do. Moreover, while deriving a perfectly justifiable satisfaction in pointing out my frequent errors of fact, they never tell me how to write. I am grateful.
One great benefit arising from this freedom is the freedom to travel. I do not travel to broaden the mind or for the purposes of research. True, I have been to and written about the Arctic, the Aegean, Indonesia, Alaska, California, Yugoslavia, Holland, Brazil, and diverse other places, but I never thought of writing about these locales until I had been there: on the obverse side of the coin I have been to such disparate countries as Mexico and China,
Peru and Kashmir and very much doubt whether I shall ever write about them.
About future writing I really don’t know. From time to time, Mr Chapman has suggested, a trifle wistfully I always think, that some day I might get around to writing a good book. Well, it’s not impossible for no doubt to the despair of all those book reviewers I never read, I wouldn’t like to retire quite yet.
About the Author
Alistair MacLean, the son of a Scots minister, was born in 1922 and brought up in the Scottish Highlands. In 1941 at the age of eighteen he joined the Royal Navy; two-and-a-half years spent aboard a cruiser was later to give him the background for HMS Ulysses, his first novel, the outstanding documentary novel on the war at sea. After the war, he gained an English Honours degree at Glasgow University, and became a school master. In 1983 he was awarded a D.Litt from the same university.
He is now recognized as one of the outstanding popular writers of the 20th century. By the early 1970s he was one of the top 10 bestselling authors in the world, and the biggest-selling Briton. He wrote twenty-nine worldwide bestsellers that have sold more than 30 million copies, and many of which have been filmed, including The Guns of Navarone, Where Eagles Dare, Fear is the Key and Ice Station Zebra. Alistair MacLean died in 1987 at his home in Switzerland.
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By Alistair MacLean
HMS Ulysses
The Guns of Navarone
South by Java Head
The Last Frontier
Night Without End
Fear is the Key
The Dark Crusader
The Satan Bug
The Golden Rendezvous
Ice Station Zebra
When Eight Bells Toll
Where Eagles Dare
Force 10 from Navarone
Puppet on a Chain
Caravan to Vaccarès
Bear Island
The Way to Dusty Death
The Lonely Sea Page 20
