Life Goes On

by Alan Sillitoe

  The isolation of Peppercorn Cottage had inspired me to do a bit of living off the land. The rabbit ran a couple of yards, then stopped and began to spin, so I grabbed its back legs and delivered the chop that killed.

  I sharpened a knife on the doorstep, drew out the guts and stomach, cut off the head, skinned and jointed it. For a stew I threw in potatoes, carrots and onions, and a few bay leaves from a bush by the door. I stoked up the fire, feeling like a cannibal, and swung the black pot over the flames.

  The light from the beam didn’t quite reach the four walls, so that the blazing fire turned the place into a cave. Perhaps the rats turned against me mostly because I wouldn’t allow them to get too friendly. Some people say they are very intelligent creatures. I heard more squeals of resentment as I chewed at my broiled rabbit and threw the bones into the fire than I had while devouring salty and tasteless sausages. But I refused to share my delicious and plentiful food. They were big enough to go out and catch their own rabbits.

  Shadows moved on the walls. I saw rats everywhere. I turned and fired the pistol and, because I shot out of malice instead of self-preservation, a ricochet struck my ankle. I swear to God the little bleeders laughed in chorus. When I took my sock off there was a dark bruise, and I hopped around the room till there was more ache in my foot from the cold than the bullet.

  I was stuck till someone came for the packages. Maybe they wouldn’t turn up for a month. I preferred not to think about it, as I pulled a stone from the fireplace and hurled it at a rat by the stairfoot door. I got it right on the arse, but a convenient hole swallowed it up. They were getting bolder.

  The gap in the clouds when I stood at the open door showed brighter stars than I’d ever seen. One rat ran outside and another ran in. Then the one that ran out came in again. How long would they put up with me? I stood aside so as not to interfere with the traffic. All the same, I liked the isolation of the house. If it was mine I would set rat traps and lay poison, buy more lamps to hang up, bring stoves to heat the place, nail pictures on the wall, spread new carpets, install a battery television and record player, get a generator, and a pump to draw water from the stream, as well as fix a toilet in the shed by the side of the house and open a radio telephone line to the local exchange. I would clear the vegetation and lay out an ornamental garden, build a terrace and sun porch, and excavate a swimming pool. I would give parties and invite all the young girls from miles around.

  I spat. Too expensive. Might as well buy a house in Clapham. When I slammed the door I almost trapped another rat on its way in. I decided to spend the night in the car which, seen from the window of this mud-smeared rat-infested hole in the hillside, seemed the height of civilisation. I wondered if being sent to this place wasn’t Moggerhanger’s notion of a test to see whether I wouldn’t turn grey-haired or go mad. I filled a flask and made bacon sandwiches. Several trips were necessary to transfer provisions, blankets and the gun to the car. I was careful to lock the cottage door after me.

  The stars beamed, trees swayed, water rippled a few feet beyond the fender. I was full and content, though not particularly drowsy. There was little rain. I was comfortable, yet felt more vulnerable in the car than I had in the house, in spite of my squeaking and scurrying friends. I listened to the radio, ate, drank tea, and got out now and again for a stroll, careful to open and close the door quickly. At ten o’clock there was nothing to do but sleep. Then I felt a rat run over my hand.

  No, it was a corner of the blanket tickling me. But, I said to myself, blankets don’t have little cold claws and damp noses, even at the corners. The tickling of a blanket is like that of a butterfly or moth, or even at the worst a bluebottle. In no possible way could even the edge of a blanket be compared to the snout of a fully fledged Shropshire rodent.

  I jumped up, banged my head and the little bleeder ran squeaking under the steering column. To shoot in such a confined space would be foolhardy, and Moggerhanger wouldn’t like slug scars all over his interior decoration. I dived across the seats to get at the rat with my bare hands, hoping it hadn’t brought its mate as well, otherwise they would have at least two families by morning.

  If I wasn’t safe in a Rolls-Royce, where would I be safe? I had to put a stop to the invasion. A live rat in a car was no joke. I lit a fag and took a few minutes to think the matter out and to lull the rat into a state of over-confidence. I wasn’t born yesterday.

  I pulled on leather gloves from my overcoat pocket. The rat was near my boot, sniffing the leather. The light was on, and I could see it clearly – about eight inches long and quite pleased with itself. I actually saw its teeth, and felt them against the side of my boot.

  That rat was never more surprised in its life – what was left of it. Neither was I. I gripped it like a vice around the soft belly then opened the window and threw it towards the stream. I listened for the splash, but to my chagrin it landed on the further bank, and then I heard the splash as it began swimming back. I battened all hatches and made as good a search as could be done with my torch, till I knew I was alone. I laughed like Boris Karloff after he’d strangled his seventh victim. I was safe from the rats, but even so, now and again through the night I heard one or two running over the roof of the car, and they sounded as if they had it in for me.

  Ten

  ‘I say, you there!’

  I thought the rats had invented a miniature battering ram, and were tapping it at the window, but I soon realised that the collectors had arrived. I yawned and sat up. The day of my deliverance was at hand.

  ‘Dammit, old man, why don’t you shake a leg?’

  He had, at least on the face of it, the sort of public school hee-haw that to me marked him as definitely untrustworthy. I may have been wrong, and no doubt I was, and he was no more untrustworthy than I was, which was why I recognised it so instinctively. I was never against clearly spoken English, though I’d heard people in London say that a northern accent was homely and cute. I dropped my Nottingham twang as soon as I began working at the estate agents when I was seventeen, otherwise people might not have understood me as quickly as I wanted them to, which would have been bad for a conman’s chances of success. When crossing frontiers as a gold smuggler, a neutral twang was the first requirement, which even Bill Straw used on his travels.

  The man outside the car looked, with his blue eyes and blond locks, as if he had just left the changing-room by the sports field, but I knew immediately that he had come for the drug boxes inside the cottage. He smoked a slender pipe and had a scarf around his neck, though whether university colours or football emblem I didn’t know. When he smiled there was something hard about the mouth. He was in his mid-twenties, but he could have been older. Whoever he was, he wasn’t himself.

  I opened the door and got out. There were two of them, the other being dark-haired and wearing a scarf of a slightly different design. ‘Sorry we pulled you out of the land of shut-eye,’ the fair one said. ‘I’m Peter.’

  ‘I’m John,’ the other called from the bank of the stream, where he was tying a red-white-and-blue canoe to a sapling. ‘You may wonder what we’re doing here.’

  ‘So would I,’ said Peter. ‘We’re paddling the whole length of the River Drivel, from its source to the sea, for charity – a sort of sponsored paddle. We were dropped about four miles north by landrover, but on most of the route so far we’ve had to carry the damned kayak.’

  ‘It looks a shade better from here on,’ said John. ‘At least there aren’t any roadblocks.’

  ‘We need ballast, that’s all.’ Peter tapped his pipe a little too hard on the front fender of the Roller, and the bowl flew away from the stem. ‘Oh bollocks!’

  I detected a slight change in his accent.

  ‘Fact is,’ John said, ‘we need five little counterweights to stow athwart the keel.’

  ‘There are ten,’ I informed him.

  ‘We’ve been told to pick up five. I expect somebody else’ll call for the others.’ I noticed a scar down the left s
ide of his face, and he hadn’t got it from duelling with sabres. ‘You get my drift, Mr Cullen?’

  ‘It’s in the dresser cupboard.’ I nodded towards the door and gave him the key. Early morning wasn’t my favourite part of the day, especially before breakfast, and I knew that with such people the fewer words the better, one trait which criminals have in common with the police. Talking never got you anywhere, unless you wanted it to.

  He took the key grudgingly and opened the cottage door.

  Peter saw the blankets in the car. ‘I say, did you spend the night in there?’

  ‘Sure.’

  ‘Whatever for?’

  ‘It’s more comfortable, for one thing, and for another …’

  There was a scuffle from the house and John, if that was his name, fell over the doorstep as he hurried out. ‘Fucking rats,’ he cried with a look of terror. ‘The place is full of ’em.’

  ‘I saw one or two.’ I’d known there would be nothing more certain to establish his accent – which seemed to be mostly West Country. ‘But they were quite tame. They won’t harm you.’

  He wanted to kill me, but realised that one or both of us would end up in the river if he tried. ‘I’ll make you some tea,’ I said, ‘if you’ve time. I haven’t had mine yet.’

  They sat on the stone bench while I got the stove going. The cups weren’t of the cleanest and Peter wiped the rim with a folded white handkerchief. ‘How long have you been here?’

  ‘A couple of nights.’

  John glanced towards the door. ‘Better you than me.’

  ‘I can take it or leave it.’

  ‘Me,’ he said, ‘I’d leave it. I read a book once about the future. I forget what it was called. I always do. But some blokes put a cage over a chap’s face with rats in it. I had nightmares for a week.’ He stroked the scar on his cheek and downed the scalding tea at one swallow. He’d been in prison.

  ‘We should be leaving.’ Peter set his cup on the bench. ‘Or we’ll be late at the off-loading point. The tide waits for no man.’

  I helped him out with five of the packages, and we wrapped each in a plastic container while John pulled the canoe onto the gravel. They slotted in neatly. ‘I hope the stuff doesn’t get wet.’

  ‘No chance,’ Peter said. ‘If it does, we’ll turn boy scouts and dry it out.’

  We manhandled the boat across the lane, slid it over half a field and down through some bushes to where the river came out of a gully. They hoisted a pennant saying SAVE ST DAMIAN’S and, laughing and shouting, wielded the paddles to avoid the banks in the swirling current. They certainly knew their job, I reflected as I went back to the cottage to wait for the next collection.

  I ate breakfast in the feeble sunshine outside. The rats were already sensing victory, for I could hear them playing hide and seek. I lit my first fag, happy at the notion – mistaken as it turned out – that my job was half over. The weather was good, above the two walls of land. It was always the case that as soon as I got to thinking that life was improving, something bad happened to tell me that I should have had more sense. Optimism was never anything but a warning.

  A car came down the lane, and I saw the blue flashing light through the bushes. Four of the biggest coppers I’d ever seen came running in, picked me up and flattened me against the wall. Thank God they hadn’t used violence. I shouted all manner of threats about my lawyers and the Civil Liberties Association, but it had no effect. They threw me on the floor and the tracker dog sniffed me up and down. I think it was a mixture of Great Dane and Labrador, crossed by the Hound of the Baskervilles, though who was I to question its breed? It was certainly the biggest canine bastard I had ever seen.

  ‘It ain’t on him,’ one policeman said.

  I could have told them that, but they hadn’t asked. In any case, it was hard to speak with my face in the mud.

  ‘Where is it, then?’ Number Two shouted, bending down to my ear. He yanked my face towards him.

  ‘Where’s what?’ How could they have got at me so easily? I didn’t know what hit me. They use blitzkrieg tactics these days: one at the back, one at the front and one down the chimney. Without standing up, he waddled over my body to get to the other ear. Number Three pressed a boot on my neck and the pain was so intense I thought he’d break it. ‘You fucking well know where it is. Now where the fuck is it?’

  I certainly did, and wasn’t going to take any stick for Moggerhanger. ‘In the house. In the dresser cupboard.’

  I was pulled up like a rag doll, sat on the bench and given a cigarette. ‘Why did you make things so difficult? Why didn’t you say so?’

  The inspector shouted to the bloke inside. ‘How many?’

  ‘Four, sir.’

  ‘There should be five.’

  The copper came out with the five boxes on his arm. ‘It was too dark to count.’

  ‘I’ll deal with you later.’

  The other went in, to fetch a biscuit for the dog. ‘Got any water for our Dismal?’

  I pointed to the stream.

  ‘Don’t be so sarky.’

  My blood was racing with speculation. Would I get sent down for twenty years? Or forty? Next time, I’ll do a murder and only get five. I wouldn’t take the blame for Moggerhanger over this job, even if he had me cut to ribbons in jail. I was ready to cry at the balls-up that had been made, and wondered how it was possible that the coppers had got to know I was down here with such a cargo. I could hardly credit the fact that the Blemishes had been the most sophisticated kind of narks. Yet it was hard to disbelieve anything in this life. Before the arrival of the canoeists I could have assumed that the packages contained nothing but Epsom Salts or sachets of aspirins, as advertised on television, and that I was a decoy, but they couldn’t have set up such an original and elaborate transport plan only for that.

  ‘I don’t know what you’re after.’ I stroked the dog, which seemed amiable after its biscuit and water. ‘There’s nothing illegal in those packets. In any case, I didn’t see a search warrant, if you don’t mind me saying so.’

  I dodged a backhander, but it wasn’t seriously meant, otherwise it would have got me. ‘We don’t need ’em these days,’ the biggest bastard said. ‘Don’t you watch telly?’

  ‘Do you mind if I go in for a biscuit?’ I asked. ‘I’m famished.’ The inspector nodded. I came out with the packet, and Dismal pulled the first one from my hand. After a kick from the inspector it disentangled itself and went off for a piss.

  In such circumstances my powers of observation go to pieces, but I saw that the inspector was, if nothing else, well built. He took his cap off to talk, and to scratch his bald head. I wouldn’t have described him as white, but as pink – and I hope I don’t go against the Race Relations Act in doing so. He had thickish lips, prominent blue eyes and a nose that seemed to have been broken more than once. He looked halfway civilised with his cap off, but the tone of voice was so reasonable it would have made anyone quail, except me. ‘Listen, we’re taking the stuff to our laboratories. It’s not for you, or me, or my officers here to say what these packages contain until they have been properly examined by competent authorities. So shut your fucking mouth. I strongly advise you to stay at your present domicile – meaning here – until such time as you hear from us. There may be further questions, following which, charges may well be brought. Is that clearly understood – sir?’

  ‘All right,’ I said.

  He put his hat on. ‘Back in the car, lads!’

  I waved them off with a smile, to show that I didn’t believe I had anything to fear, or like a guilty man who thinks it’s the best way to act innocent, but knowing that it’s the surest way to be taken as guilty. But when the car was out of hearing I only hoped that an escarpment had formed at the top of the lane in the last half hour so that they would drop five hundred feet and never come back.

  No such luck. It was the end. Half of Moggerhanger’s precious loot was on its way to the cop shop, while I was condemned to stay in a rat i
nfested hovel till such time, maybe two or three days, as they would come and take me away. I didn’t even have the heart to go inside and make another cup of tea. My morale had gone, and that was a fact. I couldn’t think for the noise of water from one direction, the triumphant scratching of rats in the other, and the rushing of wind through branches overhead.

  But the one thing about your morale having gone bang is that you no longer need fear it will go. It’s gone, and good riddance, and under the circumstances it had had fair reason to evaporate. Reflecting further, once your morale has well and truly gone, it can only come back. Nothing stays the same. That’s the joy and excitement of life. I was more philosophical than in my early twenties.

  The first indication of returning sanity was when Dismal the tracker dog came out of the bushes and licked my hand. It wanted another biscuit, and though my supplies were limited, I gave it one. The large brown head lay on my knees in gratitude. It was a big dog. If it stood on hind legs it would reach to the top button of my waistcoat, meaning that since he had become my guest we had exactly three hours supply of food left. How could those callous bastards, have forgotten such an amiable animal? By cheering me up it seemed anything but dismal.

  The horrible truth came to me that they had left it behind to stop me getting away. What malicious ingenuity! I couldn’t believe it. But what else could I believe? In my rage I kicked the brute. It made no difference. The bloody hound came back and lay at my feet. I gave it a slice of smoked bacon. By the time they returned the dog would be whimpering by my skeleton. Such a scene indeed was dismal. My sense of humour was coming back.

  I smoked another cigarette. I was too depressed to puff a cigar. The dog tried to pull it from me before I could light up, but desisted on being threatened by the flaming match. I walked to the edge of the stream. It was too wide to leap across. The dog pleaded for me not to drown myself. It had very expressive eyes for a police dog.

  I went into the house, packed my things, including the remains of the food, and loaded them into the car. Then I locked the door, and settled myself in the driver’s seat. Because I acted like an automaton I knew that what I was doing was right. Whether it was sensible, I wouldn’t know for some time, but sense did not seem to offer much help in my predicament. It had always been my gut-feeling – and I can remember my Cullen grandfather saying so – that you never go to the cop shop on your own two feet. They have to drag you there kicking and screaming – after they find you.