Life Goes On

by Alan Sillitoe

  I turned onto the main road and went southerly. The sweeping-brush of the pursuer’s light swept the sky behind. ‘We’ll never shift ’em.’

  Clegg was so maddeningly calm I had an impulse – luckily fought off – to stop the car and fight it out with whoever was after us. ‘Don’t despair, Michael. I can see from the map a manoeuvre which will drop them into limbo for good. We’re coming to a railway bridge. That’s it, we’ve just gone over it. Hard to feel the bump in a vehicle like this. Anyway, after a quarter of a mile – any minute now – there’ll be a sharp turn to the right. It’s only fifty yards or so after it. Then you angle ninety degrees onto a minor road to your left. We know it’s there, but for the others it’ll be concealed. Luckily, we’re still on the large scale map. I wonder how many other lives the Ordnance Survey has saved? All right! NOW! Here’s the right turn coming up.’

  Headlights full on, dead keen and sweating, I swung, and barely missed a van, which hooted fit to burst. Then I turned left along a lane, and dipped every light I dared.

  ‘Very good. They didn’t see us come down here. They’ll go tootling on and a quarter of a mile beyond they’ll find that the road forks, and whichever of those forks they take will be the wrong one, so they’ll lose precious time. They’ve already lost us. Our troubles are over.’

  Could I believe him? Funnily enough, I did. The straight lane went up and down, and into a village. I slowed, in appreciation of Clegg’s tactical victory. Lanes branched left and right. The more the better. We were going east, wending and winding towards the Great North Road. The idea, Clegg said, being to avoid the conurbation of Harrogate. ‘You can go up to eighty on the main road without attracting attention, because it’s a dual carriageway, besides which there’s plenty of traffic. We can get into Leeds from the northeast.’

  ‘You’re a talking map,’ I said.

  ‘I think it’s one of the least difficult problems I’ve ever had to solve.’

  We had ditched our pursuers because he regarded our flight as a challenging kind of game. He’d also be a crack shot with a crossbow in an amusement arcade. ‘The only thing is,’ I said, ‘we’ve got to have food and rest.’

  ‘To think we left all that food and drink with Delphick,’ Wayland said.

  ‘After twenty miles,’ Clegg said, ‘we’ll find a place to eat.’

  Though there was no frightening flashlight in the sky behind, I was still worried by the fact that, heading down the Great North Road, we would be spotted by another of Moggerhanger’s cars that had been sent up a couple of hours ago to reinforce the one already despatched to Doggerel Bank. Any such car would have come up the M1 at a greater speed than could be made on the Great North Road. In two hours they would be passing Nottingham. In less than three they could certainly be where we then were. Whoever was not driving in the car would, as became the best of Moggerhanger’s lads, be observing the traffic, even in the darkness, coming down the lane in the opposite direction. When I put these cogitations to Clegg, he thought them worth acting on, unless it was too late, although he added – and I saw him smile in my mirror – it almost never is. ‘It’s only ever too late once in your life, and by then there’s nothing you can do about it.’

  ‘One of these days I’ll be laughing with my throat at one of your witticisms.’

  To which he replied: ‘I sincerely hope not.’

  Dismal began to howl. ‘We’ve got to stop, or it’ll be all up with us. We can survive hunger, lack of sleep, even a shoot-out, but not Dismal being taken short.’

  ‘It’s like having a baby in the car,’ Wayland said.

  ‘Well,’ I told him, ‘he’s one of us.’

  Dismal’s snout gave an approving nudge. His distress wasn’t immediate, but we’d had our warning, so at the next transport café I parked as far in the dark and behind other cars as I could get. ‘Shall we risk going inside?’

  Clegg twitched his glasses and switched off the map-reading flashlight. ‘I think we can.’

  We waited for Dismal to finish, and went into the usual place of scorching fat and soggy chips, which seemed like paradise. I bought forty fags, and pints of tea for us all – including Dismal. I ordered four plates of everything and a pile of bread and butter, as well as a dozen sweet cakes and more tea. Who knew where the next meal was coming from?

  ‘I believe we’ve done it,’ Clegg said.

  I was superstitious, every moment expecting Kenny Dukes to burst through the flimsy door, having learned so much from Dicky Bush that he’d end up drowning in hot fat and Mars Bars. ‘There’s a long way to go yet.’

  ‘But where?’ said Wayland.

  ‘How the fuck should I know?’

  ‘You must have some idea.’

  I had never been a master of planning and forethought. I lived and acted by the minute, and had survived well enough up to now – I told myself – but I knew that if I was to go on living I must begin to see at least one move ahead in Moggerhanger’s Great Game. But again, my innate nature, or whatever it was, took over. ‘We keep south on this fast road and go to my house at Upper Mayhem.’

  ‘Given up the Equilateral?’

  ‘For the time being.’

  The owner came with our plates and mugs, covering the small table. Wayland ate a cake at one gulp. ‘Moggerhanger might be waiting for you.’

  ‘They’ve been and gone already.’ My mouth was also full. ‘Maybe they never went. I flatter myself that they don’t think I’m so daft as to go there. In any case, you’ll be in no danger because I’m putting you out in Cambridge. You can make your own way to London.’

  ‘Suits me.’ He sounded relieved.

  ‘When you get there, hide for a while.’

  ‘I’ll be too busy.’

  At Upper Mayhem I would collect the documentation on Moggerhanger’s drug empire which Matthew Coppice had promised to send. Then I would get the boat to Holland via Harwich so that, being safe, I could nail Mog and Jack Lanthorn at my leisure.

  ‘Thanks for the excellent meal,’ Clegg said. ‘It’s good to stuff the old belly now and again.’ He went out for the flask and got it filled at the counter.

  ‘Tell me, Cleggy,’ I said when he sat down, ‘I don’t know whether this is a stupid question, but do you think your life has been worthwhile?’

  He took a long drink from his pint mug. ‘It’s only a stupid question insofar as my life’s far from ended. But if you mean to say is my life worthwhile, I can only answer that while a few days ago I wasn’t convinced, at the moment I’m damned sure it is. Funny thing is, Michael, I’ve never asked myself that question, so I assume I’ve always thought my life was worthwhile. Right now I’m positively enjoying myself. What more do I want? I’m turned sixty, but I’m strong, healthy and free. What about you?’

  ‘If I didn’t think my life was worthwhile I’d kill myself.’ I dug Wayland in the ribs. ‘What do you think?’

  He brushed a hand over his bald head, down to his short grey beard. ‘That question’s too meaningful to play around with at this point in time. If I have a lucid moment before I kick the bucket I’ll try to ask myself then, in the hope, I suppose, that there won’t be time for an answer.’

  Clegg smacked his hands together. ‘It’s nice to have a man in the car who’s really thought about it.’

  He was serious, so I nodded. ‘You can say that again – but don’t.’

  At half past nine I drove south like a zombie, just on the right side of safety. My idea had been to cruise at fifty-five, but as soon as I saw a car or lorry in front my foot went down and I swung out to overtake at seventy or eighty. It was impossible to go slow to wherever I was going.

  My mood oscillated from wanting to burst out singing, to an urge to throw the car at full speed against the concrete supports of a bridge or embankment. But I did neither, and we travelled in silence. Perhaps I was intoxicated, and kept alert by the amount of rage which I knew my zig-zag actions were generating in Moggerhanger and Lanthorn. I imagined them going up th
e wall with anxiety, indecision, fury and maybe even fear, a picture which brought a smile to my face – till I myself was no longer cramped by fear, fury, indecision and anxiety.

  What positively cheered me was the pleasure of getting back to Upper Mayhem, even if it would only be safe to stay a few hours. I would warn Bill and Maria, and give them a comfortable lodging allowance from a packet of Moggerhanger’s fivers so that they could play mummies and daddies somewhere else. I’d get there about one in the morning, pull Bill from his uxurious embrace, and have a talk about the way things had turned out at Buckshot Farm, until I fell asleep though my lips went on moving, and they had to carry me up to bed.

  My head nodded at the wheel, and I saw four rear lights in front instead of two. Often there was only one, on English roads. I began to weave without realising, and passed so close to the car which I overtook – though my focusing faculties seemed more or less normal – that I must have scared the shit out of the driver. Dismal nudged my leg as if warning me to take care. ‘Go back to sleep. I can look after myself.’

  ‘What did you say?’

  I nearly hit the verge, but it was Clegg who had spoken.

  ‘I thought you were asleep.’

  ‘Maybe I was, but I heard you say something.’

  ‘I was talking to Dismal.’

  ‘Pull in for ten minutes.’

  ‘I don’t need to, Arthur.’

  ‘You remembered my first name?’

  It pleased him. I imagined his smile. ‘It just came back to me.’

  ‘After all this time.’ Another half mile went by. ‘Do as I say. Pull in at the next layby.’

  ‘Don’t worry.’ I overtook a double dose of juggernaut. ‘I shan’t kill you.’

  ‘I don’t expect you will. Pull in, all the same.’

  ‘Getting nervous?’

  ‘Just pull in.’

  ‘We’ll be all right.’

  ‘Pull in.’

  I had to. No sooner had I switched off than I was asleep.

  I felt a hand on my shoulder. ‘Come on, Michael. Time to be going.’ Clegg held a cup of tea under my nose. ‘Get this down you first.’ There was nothing like that comforting Nottingham tone to stop me losing my temper.

  ‘How long have I been out?’

  ‘An hour. But it’s enough. You’ll be all right now.’

  ‘We won’t get there till two.’

  ‘What’s the hurry? Better than not getting there at all.’

  I had another beaker of tea, then lit a smoke. It was eleven o’clock. Wayland also lit up, and seemed more cheerful. ‘I think the car ride was worth it, to have such good cigars.’

  He would never appreciate my favour of getting him out of Peppercorn Cottage. Maybe Moggerhanger had already sent someone to cut his throat – after last night’s fiasco. I told him, but he said with a touch of bravado, ‘You think I can’t look after myself? I’ve been in some tight spots in my life, let me tell you.’

  ‘I hope you get out of this one.’

  I lapped our way along, to make up for lost time. I felt wide awake, having gone so deep under in that hour of sleep that it seemed like eight. I tore past everyone, never at less than eighty. What was the hurry? The highway was endless. You never got there. But I couldn’t relax the chase. My blood was up, I didn’t care what for. There was only me on the road. Others were toy rabbits in their tins, my sport to overtake. I shall overtake. He shall pursue, it didn’t matter why. If God existed, He liked it that way.

  I came back to life, my sight sharp and clear. At the yellow crossbars before an island when fellow motorists slowed down I pelted along in the outer lane and pulled up only when the white line was in sight. Sometimes I hardly braked but, keeping my eyes to the right and seeing no traffic on the island, shot almost straight across. The top speed of my faculties had come back, and driving to me was like water to a fish.

  We made fair time down that wonderful Great North Road. I put Wayland out in the middle of Cambridge, asking him to deliver heartfelt greetings to my old college.

  ‘Which one is that?’

  He tried to gibbet me with biting scorn, but I disdained to answer. Couldn’t he take a joke? Not Wayland. But now that the time had come he didn’t like having to leave our covered wagon, especially in the middle of the night, though it was only half past one. He knew the town from his student days, and could kip at the station till the milk train left for London. At least he wouldn’t be hungry because, apart from money, I gave him more cigars and the rest of the sandwiches, this latter being an action which Dismal took a very poor view of, for he tried to bite them out of Wayland’s hand before he walked off with never a thank you for our hospitality.

  At two o’clock I went slowly along the lane towards the old railway station of Upper Mayhem, country residence belonging to Michael Cullen Esquire. The house was in darkness, as I had expected. I thought of sounding the hooter to give Bill and Maria fair warning, but couldn’t resist seeing their shock when pulling them out of bed. Clegg and Dismal came through the gate behind while I fumbled for the key. The smell of soil and vegetation from the garden, and the sweet night air, was a real tonic. It was the first house I had owned and I loved the place. I would bring Frances Malham here and she would love it, too. She would come and see me whenever it was possible to get time off from her studies, and even after she qualified as a doctor. By then my divorce would be through from Bridgitte. I decided to get one as from that moment. Frances and I would get married. I might even think well of Uncle Jeffrey and forgive him for what he had done to Maria. Or hadn’t done. I still couldn’t be sure. It wasn’t his fault that his vasectomy hadn’t worked. I would ask him and his family to stay the weekend. I’d even hang a car tyre from the footbridge for his kids to swing on. Frances would bloom in a place like this, lying back in a deckchair in the sunny garden, the two top buttons of her blouse undone. Maybe she’d even be pregnant. How could someone of my age think like that? I was twelve years older, so she probably looked on me as a dirty old man.

  A radio was playing, but it was between about three stations. The noise came from the living room. Just like those irresponsible lovebirds to leave it on. At least it was a sign of life, and I felt quite affectionate towards them, as if carelessness made people human and mistakes made them – almost – divine. I switched on the light.

  All I know is that I didn’t say anything. A catalogue of woes and curses would be needed to describe what I saw. The radio was going because it had been smashed open with an iron bar. The indestructibility of technology was a delight to see, but that was about all I could say for it at that moment. Half the time I had never been able to get that gimcrack Russian radio going, but Kenny Dukes seemed to have had no difficulty. He had simply laid the back open with the poker. Cupboard doors were hanging off. The dresser had been pulled over and Bridgitte’s heirloom Dutch pots smashed. Chairs were ripped and the table lay on its side. I shut the door and ran upstairs.

  Perhaps they had given up by this time, or taken Bill at his word. Unless he and Maria had got out, before reaping the whirlwind on my behalf. The beds had merely been tipped up. As if domesticated to my fingertips, I went from room to room and put them right before going back downstairs.

  ‘Looks like the worst’s already happened,’ Clegg said.

  There was no sign of the large buff envelope I was expecting from Matthew Coppice. Perhaps they had found that as well. I checked the letterbox and it was empty. I pulled the batteries out of the radio to stop it squawking, while Clegg righted the table, shut the cupboards and set the chairs upright. It didn’t look much worse than the shambles after one of my quarrels with Bridgitte in the early days. Dismal lay in front of the fireplace, in which the ashes were still warm from when Bill had kept a blaze permanently going to brew tea in case they cut off the gas and electricity. I put my hands in them. ‘They were here this evening.’

  We went into the kitchen. There was a half-eaten sandwich on a plate, and a pot of cold tea.
It must have broken his heart to leave that. I gave the sandwich to Dismal. In the middle of the table was a typed letter, and after circling three times, I read:

  You’re giving us a lot of trouble, Michael, and I don’t like it. What’s got into you? I trusted you. I never thought you would be so stupid. I thought at first you were running around the country because you thought the Green Toe Gang was on your trail. I thought you thought you were doing me a favour by your evasion tactics. I stretched a point. You disappoint me. It seems as if you’re the victim of a nervous breakdown. It can’t be anything less. Whatever it is, I’m angry. Things are serious. So as to get the situation straightened out as soon as possible my lads are taking Bill Straw and his girlfriend. If you don’t get in touch, or deliver our possessions, or both, they will meet with a very prolonged accident. You know the sort I mean. If they do, you will have only yourself to blame. And when we get our hands on you, you will have an even worse accident. If you turn over the stuff, however, without undue delay, I still won’t forgive you, though I might be induced to forget you.

  Believe me, yours very sincerely,

  C. Moggerhanger

  Clegg filled the kettle for tea. ‘Some news?’

  ‘Yes. From Moggerhanger. Special Delivery.’

  ‘Will they be back?’

  ‘If we’re lucky we’ve got twenty-four hours.’ There was even fresh milk in the fridge.

  ‘Will that be enough?’

  ‘It’ll have to be.’ There was little to be said, though much to be thought. We drank. I poured some for Dismal, who hadn’t even clamoured, as if he realised that our plight was grave.

  ‘All we can do is go to sleep till morning.’

  ‘I can’t enter into competition with a decision like that,’ he grinned.

  ‘I wish you wouldn’t take every possible advantage of my misfortunes to polish your style. It’s getting on my wick.’

  I brought the car in from the side of the road, then stood looking at those clear and numberless East Anglian stars, and wondered when I would be able to do so again.