by John Wyndham
‘ “Yes, sir. A good boy, Jim. Not one of the wild ones. Can’t think how he’d come to be driving mad in the village. Not like him at all.”
‘Then there was quite a pause till he said in a funny sort of voice:
‘ “Before that, he hit one of the Children – one of the boys. Not badly, I think, but he knocked him across the road.”
‘ “One of the Children –” I said. Then I suddenly saw what he was meaning. “Oh no, sir! My God, they couldn’t’ve –” but then I stopped again, because of the way he was looking at me.
‘ “Other people saw it, too,” he told me. “Healthier – or, possibly less shockable people – Perhaps I myself should have found it less upsetting if, at some previous stage of my quite long life, I had already had the experience of witnessing deliberate murder….” ’
∗
The account that Zellaby himself gave us, however, ended at the point where he had sat shakily down on the bench. When he finished, I looked from him to Bernard. There was no lead at all in Bernard’s expression, so I said:
‘You’re suggesting that the Children did it – that they made him drive into that wall?’
‘I’m not suggesting,’ said Zellaby with a regretful shake of his head, ‘I’m stating. They did it, just as surely as they made their mothers bring them back here.’
‘But the witnesses – the ones who gave evidence… ?’
‘They’re perfectly well aware of what happened. They only had to say what they actually saw.’
‘But if they know it’s as you claim – ?’
‘Well, what then? What would you have said if you had known, and happened to be called as a witness ? In an affair such as this there has to be a verdict acceptable to authority – acceptable, that means, to our well-known figment, the reasonable man. Suppose that they had somehow managed to get a verdict that the boy was willed to kill himself – do you imagine that would stand? Of course it wouldn’t. There’d have to be a second inquest, called to bring in a “reasonable” verdict, which would be the verdict we now have, so why should the witnesses run the risk of being thought unreliable, or superstitious, for nothing?
‘If you want evidence that they would be, take a look at your own attitude now. You know that I have some little reputation through my books, and you know me personally, but how much is that worth against the thought-habits of the “reasonable man”? So little that when I tell you what actually occurred, your immediate reaction is to try to find ways in which what appeared to me to have occurred could not in actual fact have done so. You really ought to have more sense, my dear fellow. After all you were here when those Children forced their mothers to come back.’
‘That wasn’t quite on a level with what you are telling me now,’ I objected.
‘No? Would you care to explain the essential difference between being forced into the distasteful, and being forced into the fatal ? Come, come, my dear fellow, since you’ve been away you have lost touch with improbability. You’ve been blunted by rationality. Here, the unorthodox is to be found on one’s doorstep almost every morning.’
I took an opportunity to lead away from the topic of the inquest.
‘To an extent which has caused Willers to abandon his championship of hysteria?’ I asked.
‘He abandoned that some little time before he died,’ Zellaby replied.
I was taken aback. I had meant to ask Bernard about the doctor, but the intention had been mislaid in our talk.
‘I’d no idea he was dead. He wasn’t much over fifty, was he ? How did it happen?’
‘He took an overdose of some barbiturate drug.’
‘He – you don’t mean – ? But Willers wasn’t that sort….’
‘I agree,’ said Zellaby. ‘The official verdict was that “the balance of his mind was disturbed”. A kindly-meant phrase, no doubt, but not explanatory. Indeed, one can think of minds so steady that disturbance would be a positive benefit. The truth is, of course, that nobody had the least idea why he did it. Certainly not poor Mrs Willers. But it had to suffice.’ He paused, and then added: ‘It was not until I realized what the verdict on young Pawle would have to be that I began to wonder about that on Willers.’
‘Surely you don’t really think that?’ I said.
‘I don’t know. You yourself said Willers was not that sort. Now it has suddenly been revealed that we live much more precariously here than we had thought. That is a shock.
‘One has, you see, to realize that, though it was the Pawle boy who came round the corner at that fatal moment, it might as easily have been Angela, or anyone else…. It suddenly becomes clear that she, or I, or any of us, may accidentally do something to harm or anger the Children at any moment…. There’s no blame attached to that poor boy. He tried his very best to avoid hitting any of them, but he couldn’t – And in a flare of anger and revenge they killed him for it.
‘So one is faced with a decision. For myself – well, this is by far the most interesting thing that has ever come my way. I want very much to see how it goes. But Angela is still quite a young woman, and Michael is still dependent on her, too…. We have sent him away already. I am wondering whether I should try to persuade her to go, too. I don’t want to do it until I must, but I can’t quite decide whether the moment has arrived.
‘These last few years have been like living on the slopes of an active volcano. Reason tells one that a force is building up inside, and that sooner or later there must be an eruption. But time passes, with no more than an occasional tremor, so that one begins to tell oneself that the eruption which appeared inevitable may, perhaps, not come after all. One becomes uncertain. I ask myself – is this business of the Pawle boy just a bigger tremor, or is it the first sign of the eruption ? – and I do not know.
‘One was more acutely aware of the presence of danger years ago, and made plans which came to seem unnecessary; now one is abruptly reminded of it, but is this where it changes to an active danger which justifies the breaking up of my home, or is it still only potential?’
He was obviously, and very genuinely, worried, nor was there any trace of scepticism in Bernard’s manner. I felt impelled to say, apologetically:
‘I suppose I have let the whole business of the Dayout fade in my mind – it needs a bit of adjustment when one’s brought up against it once more. That’s the subconscious for you – trying to pass off the uncomfortable by telling me that the peculiarities would diminish as the Children grew older.’
‘We all tried to think that,’ said Zellaby. ‘We used to show one another evidence that it was happening – but it wasn’t.’
‘But you’re still no nearer to knowing how it is done – the compulsion, I mean?’
‘No. It seems just to amount to asking how any personality dominates another. We all know individuals who seem to dominate any assembly they attend; it would appear that the Children have this quality greatly developed by cooperation, and can direct it as they wish. But that tells us nothing about how it is done.’
∗
Angela Zellaby, looking very little changed since I had last seen her, emerged from the house on to the veranda a few minutes later. She was so clearly preoccupied that her attention was only brought to bear on us with a visible effort, and after a brief lobbing back and forth of civilities it showed signs of wavering again. A touch of awkwardness was relieved by the arrival of the tea tray. Zellaby bestirred himself to prevent the situation congealing.
‘Richard and the Colonel were at the inquest, too,’ he said. ‘It was the expected verdict, of course. I suppose you’ve heard?’
Angela nodded. ‘Yes, I was at Dacre Farm, with Mrs Pawle. Mr Pawle brought the news. The poor woman’s quite beside herself. She adored Jim. It was difficult to keep her from going to the inquest herself. She wanted to go there and denounce the Children – make a public accusation. Mr Leebody and I managed between us to persuade her not to, and that she’d only get herself and her family into a lot of trouble, and do no good to anybody. So
we stayed to keep her company while it was on.’
‘The other Pawle boy, David, was there,’ Zellaby told her. ‘He looked as if he were on the point of coming out with it more than once, but his father stopped him.’
‘Now I’m wondering whether it wouldn’t have been better if someone had, after all,’ Angela said. ‘It ought to come out. It will have to some time. It isn’t just a matter of a dog, or a bull, any more.’
‘A dog and a bull. I’ve not heard of them,’ I put in.
‘The dog bit one of them on the hand; a minute or two later it dashed in front of a tractor, and was killed. The bull chased a party of them; then it suddenly turned aside, charged through two fences, and got itself drowned in the mill pond,’ Zellaby explained, with unusual economy.
‘But this,’ said Angela, ‘is murder.’
‘Oh, I don’t say they meant it that way. Very likely they were frightened and angry, and it was their way of hitting out blindly when one of them was hurt. But it was murder, all the same. The whole village knows it, and now everybody can see that they are going to get away with it. We simply can’t afford to let it rest there. They don’t even show any sign of compunction. None at all. That’s what frightens me most. They just did it, and that’s that. And now, after this afternoon, they know that, as far as they are concerned, murder carries no penalty. What is going to happen to anyone who seriously opposes them later on?’
Zellaby sipped his tea thoughtfully.
‘You know, my dear, while it’s proper for us to be concerned, the responsibility for a remedy isn’t ours. If it ever was, and that is highly questionable, the authorities took it away from us a long time ago. Here’s the Colonel representing some of them – for heaven knows what reason. And The Grange staff cannot be ignorant of what all the village knows. They will have made their report, so, in spite of the verdict, the authorities are aware of the true state of affairs – though just what they will be able to do about it, within the law and hampered by “the reasonable man”, I’m bothered if I know. We must wait and see how they move.
‘Above all, my dear, I do implore you most seriously not to do anything that will bring you into conflict with the Children.’
‘I shan’t, dear,’ Angela shook her head. ‘I’ve a cowardly respect for them.’
‘The dove is not a coward to fear the hawk; it is simply wise,’ said Zellaby, and proceeded to steer the conversation on to more general lines.
∗
My intention had been to look in on the Leebodys and one or two others, but by the time we got up to leave it was clear that, unless we were going to be back in London much later than we had intended, any further calls would have to be postponed until another visit.
I did not know how Bernard felt when we had made our farewells and were running down the drive – he had, in fact, talked very little since we had reached the village, and revealed scarcely anything of his own views – but, for my part, I had a pleasantly relaxing sensation of being on my way back to the normal world. Midwich values gave a feeling of having only a finger-tip touch with reality. One had a sense of being several stages in the rear. While I was back at the difficulties of reconciling myself to the Children’s existence, and boggling at what I was told of them, the Zellabys had long ago left all that behind. For them, the improbable element had become submerged. They accepted the Children, and that, for good or ill, they were on their hands; their anxieties now were of a social nature over whether such a modus vivendi as had been contrived was going to collapse. The sense of uneasiness which I had caught from the tension in the Village Hall had been with me ever since.
Nor, I think, was Bernard unaffected by it. I had the impression that he drove with more than usual caution through the village and past the scene of the Pawle boy’s accident. He began to increase his speed a little as we rounded the corner on to the Oppley Road, and then we caught sight of four figures approaching. Even at a distance they were unmistakably a quartet of the Children. On an impulse I said:
‘Will you pull up, Bernard? I’d like the chance of a better look at them.’
He slowed again, and we came to a stop almost at the foot of Hickham Lane.
The Children came on towards us. There was a touch of institutionalism in their dress – the boys in blue cotton shirts and grey flannel trousers, the girls in short, pleated grey skirts and pale yellow shirts. So far I had only set eyes on the pair outside the Hall, and seen little of them but a glimpse of their faces, and then their backs.
As they approached I found the likeness between them even greater than I had expected. All four had the same browned complexions. The curious lucency of the skin that had been noticeable in them as babies had been greatly subdued by the sunburn, yet enough trace of it remained to attract one’s notice. They shared the same dark-golden hair, straight, narrow noses, and rather small mouths. The way the eyes were set was perhaps more responsible than anything for a suggestion of ‘foreigners’, but it was an abstract foreignness, not calling to mind any particular race, or region. I could not see anything to distinguish one boy from the other; and, indeed, I doubted whether, had it not been for the cut of the hair, I could have told the boys’ faces from the girls’, with certainty.
Soon I was able to see the eyes themselves. I had forgotten how striking they were in the babies, and remembered them as yellow. But they were more than that: they had a quality of glowing gold. Strange indeed, but, if one could disregard the strangeness, with a singular beauty. They looked like living, semi-precious stones.
I went on watching, fascinated, as they drew level with us. They took no more notice of us than to give the car a brief, unembarrassed glance, and then turned into Hickham Lane.
At close quarters I found them disturbing in a way I could not quite account for, but it became less surprising to me that a number of the village homes had been unprotestingly willing for them to go and live at The Grange.
We watched them a few yards up the lane, then Bernard reached for the starter.
A sudden explosion close by made us both jump. I jerked my head round just in time to see one of the boys collapse, and fall face down on the road. The other three Children stood petrified….
Bernard opened the door, and started to get out. The standing boy turned, and looked at us. His golden eyes were hard, and bright. I felt as if a sudden gust of confusion and weakness were sweeping through me…. Then the boy’s eyes left ours, and his head turned further.
From behind the hedge opposite, came the sound of a second explosion, more muffled than the first – then, and further away, a scream….
Bernard got out of the car, and I shifted across to follow him. One of the girls knelt down beside the fallen boy. As she made to touch him he groaned, and writhed where he lay. The standing boy’s face was anguished. He groaned, too, as if in agony himself. The two girls began to cry.
Then, eerily down the lane, out of the trees that hid The Grange, swept a moan like a magnified echo, and, mingled with it, a threnody of young voices, weeping….
Bernard stopped. I could feel my scalp prickling, and my hair beginning to rise….
The sound came again; and ululation of many voices blended in pain, with the higher note of crying piercing through.… Then the sound of feet running down the lane.…
Neither of us tried to go on. For myself, I was held for the moment by sheer fright.
We stood there watching while half a dozen boys, all disconcertingly alike, came running to the fallen one, and lifted him between them. Not until they had started to carry him away did I become aware of a quite different sound of sobbing coming from behind the hedge to the left of the lane.
I clambered up the bank, and looked through the hedge there. A few yards away a girl in a summer frock was kneeling on the grass. Her hands were clenched to her face, and her whole body was shaking with her sobs.
Bernard scrambled up beside me, and together we pushed our way through the hedge. Standing up in the field now, I could see
a man lying prone at the girl’s knees, with the butt of a gun protruding from beneath his body.
As we stepped closer, she heard us. Her sobs stopped momentarily as she looked up with an expression of terror. Then when she saw us it faded, and she went on weeping, helplessly.
Bernard walked closer to her, and lifted her up. I looked down at the body. It was a very nasty sight indeed. I bent over it and pulled the jacket up, trying to make it hide what was left of the head. Bernard led the girl away, half supporting her.
There was a sound of voices on the road. As we neared the hedge a couple of men there looked up and saw us.
‘Was that you shootin’?’ one of them asked.
We shook our heads.
‘There’s a dead man up here,’ Bernard said.
The girl beside him shivered, and whimpered.
‘’Oo is it?’ asked the same man.
The girl said hysterically:
‘It’s David. They’ve killed him. They killed Jim; now they’ve killed David, too,’ and choked in a fresh burst of grief.
One of the men scrambled up the bank.
‘Oh, it’s you, Elsa, lass,’ he exclaimed.
‘I tried to stop him, Joe. I tried to stop him, but he wouldn’t listen,’ she said through her sobs. ‘I knew they’d kill him, but he wouldn’t listen….’ She became incoherent, and clung to Bernard, shaking violently.
‘We must get her away,’ I said. ‘Do you know where she lives?’
‘Aye,’ said the man, and decisively picked the girl up, as though she were a child. He scrambled down the bank, and carried her, crying and shivering, to the car. Bernard turned to the other man.
‘Will you stand by and keep anyone off till the police come?’
‘Aye – It’ll be young David Pawle?’ the man said, climbing the bank.
‘She said David. A young man,’ Bernard told him.
‘That’ll be him – the bastards.’ The man pushed through the hedge. ‘Better call the coppers at Trayne, guv’nor. They got a car there.’ He glanced towards the body. ‘Murderin’ young bastards !’ he said.
