A cinema organ began to play ‘The Teddy-Bears’ Picnic’; Ann switched the volume down until it was only just audible.
Roger said: ‘If we drove all night, we could reach the valley by the morning. I don’t like the sound of all this. It looks as though Leeds has broken loose. I think we’d better travel while the travelling’s good.’
‘We didn’t get much sleep last night,’ John said. ‘A night run across Mossdale isn’t a picnic at the best of times.’
‘Ann and Millicent can both take a spell at the wheel,’ Roger pointed out.
Ann said: ‘But Olivia can’t drive, can she?’
‘Don’t worry about me,’ Roger said. ‘I’ve brought my benzedrine with me. I can keep awake for two or three days if necessary.’
Pirrie said: ‘May I suggest that we concentrate immediately on getting clear of the West Riding? When we have done that, we can decide whether to carry right on or not.’
‘Yes,’ John said, ‘we’ll do that.’
From the top of the bank, the boys called down to them, waving their arms towards the sky. Listening, they heard the hum of aircraft engines approaching. Their eyes searched the clear sky. The planes came into view over the hedge which topped the bank. They were heavy bombers, flying north, at not more than three or four thousand feet.
They watched, in a silence that seemed to shiver, until they had passed right over. They could hear the engines, and the excited chatter of the boys, but neither of these affected the sharp-edged silence of their own thoughts.
‘Leeds?’ Ann whispered, when they had gone.
Nobody answered at first. It was Pirrie who spoke finally, his voice as calm and precisely modulated as ever:
‘Possibly. There are other explanations, of course. But in any case, I think we ought to move, don’t you?’
When they set off, Davey had joined Steve and Spooks in the Citroen, which was leading the way at this point. The Ford came second, and John’s Vauxhall, carrying now only Mary and Ann in addition to himself, brought up the rear.
Doncaster was sealed off, but the detour roads had been well posted. Meshed in with an increasing military traffic, they went round to the north-east, through a series of little peaceful villages. They were in the Vale of York; the land was very flat and the villages straggling and prosperous. It was not until they had got back to the North Road that they were halted at a military checkpoint.
There was a sergeant in charge. He was a Yorkshireman, possibly a native of these parts. He looked down at Roger benevolently:
‘A.1 closed except to military vehicles, sir.’
Roger asked him: ‘What’s the idea?’
‘Trouble in Leeds. Where were you wanting to get to?’
‘Westmorland.’
He shook his head, but in appreciation of their problem rather than negation. ‘I should back-track on to the York road, if I was you. If you cut off just before Selby, you can go through Thorpe Willoughby to Tadcaster. I should steer well clear of Leeds, though.’
Roger said: ‘There are some funny rumours about.’
‘I reckon there are, too,’ said the sergeant.
‘We saw planes flying up this way a couple of hours back,’ Roger added. ‘Bombing planes.’
‘Yes,’ the sergeant said. ‘They went right over. I always feel ’appier being out in the country when things like that are up aloft. Funny, isn’t it – being uneasy when your own planes go over? That lot went right over, but I should stay clear of Leeds, anyway.’
‘Thanks,’ Roger said, ‘we will.’
The convoy reversed itself and headed back. The road by which they had come would have taken them south; instead they turned north-east and found themselves, with the military vehicles left behind, travelling deserted lanes.
Ann said: ‘Our minds can’t grasp it properly, can they? The news bulletins, the military checkpoints – they’re one kind of thing. This is another. A summer evening in the country – the same country that’s always been here.’
‘A bit bare,’ John said. He pointed to the grassless hedgerows.
‘It doesn’t seem enough,’ Ann said, ‘to account for famine, flight, murder, atom bombs…’ she hesitated; he glanced at her, ‘… or refusing to take a boy with us to safety.’
John said: ‘Motives are naked now. We shall have to learn to live with them.’
Ann said passionately: ‘I wish we were there! I wish we could get into the valley and shut David’s gate behind us.’
‘To-morrow, I hope.’
The lane they were in wound awkwardly through high-hedge country. They dropped back behind the others’ cars – Pirrie’s Ford, with a surprising degree of manoeuvrability, hung right on to the Citroen’s heels. As the Vauxhall approached a gate-house, standing back from the road, the crossing gates slowly began to close.
Braking, John said: ‘Damn! And a ten-minute wait before the train even comes in sight, if I know country crossings. I wonder if they might be persuaded to let us through for five bob.’
He slipped out of the car, and walked round it. To the right, a gap in the hedge showed the barren symmetrical range of hills which were the tip for a nearby colliery. He put his head over the gate and looked along the line. There was no sign of smoke, and the line ran straight for miles in either direction. He walked up to the gate-house, and called:
‘Hello, there!’
There was no immediate reply. He called again, and this time he heard something, but too indistinct to be an answer. It was a gasping, sobbing noise, from somewhere inside the house.
The window on to the road showed him nothing. He went round on to the line, to the window that looked across it. It was easy enough to see, as he looked in, where the noise had come from. A woman lay in the middle of the floor. Her clothes were torn and there was blood on her face; one leg was doubled underneath her. About her, the room was in confusion – drawers pulled out, a wall clock splintered.
It was the first time he had seen it in England, but in Italy, during the war, he had observed not dissimilar scenes. The trail of the looter… but here, in rural England. The casual reality of this horror in so remote a spot showed more clearly than the military check-points or the winging bombers that the break-up had come, irrevocably.
He was still looking through the window when memory gripped and tightened on him. The gates… With the woman lying here, perhaps dying, who had closed the gates? And why? From here the road, and the car, were invisible. He turned quickly, and as he did heard Ann cry out.
He ran round the side of the gate-house. The car doors were open and a struggle was taking place inside. He could see Ann fighting with a man in front; there was another man in the back, and he could not see Mary.
He had some hope, he thought, of surprising them. The guns were in the car. He looked quickly for a weapon of some kind, and saw a piece of rough wood lying beside the porch of the gate-house. He bent down to pick it up. As he did, he heard a man’s laugh from close beside him. He straightened up again, and looked into the eyes of the man who was waiting in the shadow of the porch, just as the length of pit-prop crashed down against the side of his head.
He tried to cry out, but the words caught in his throat, and he stumbled and fell.
Someone was bathing his head. He saw first a handkerchief, and saw that it was dark with clotted blood; then he looked up into Olivia’s face.
She said: Johnny, are you better now?’
‘Ann?’ he said. ‘Mary?’
‘Lie quiet.’ She called: ‘Roger, he’s come round.’
The crossing gates were open. The Citroen and the Ford stood in the road. The three boys were in the back of the Citroen, looking out, but shocked out of their usual chatter. Roger and the Pirries came out of the gate-house. Roger’s face was grim; Pirrie’s wore its customary blandness.
Roger said: ‘What happened, Johnny?’
He told them. His head was aching; he had a physical urge to lie down and go to sleep.
Ro
ger said: ‘You’ve probably been out about half an hour. We were the other side of the Leeds road before we missed you.’
Pirrie said: ‘Half an hour is, I should estimate, twenty miles for looters in this kind of country. That opens up rather a wide circle. And, of course, a widening circle. These parts are honeycombed with roads.’
Olivia was bandaging the side of his head; the pressure, gentle as it was, made the pain worse.
Roger looked down at him: ‘Well, Johnny – what’s it to be? It will have to be a rush decision.’
He tried to collect his rambling thoughts.
He said: ‘Will you take Davey? That’s the important thing. You know the way, don’t you?’
Roger asked: ‘And you?’
John was silent. The implications of what Pirrie had said were coming home to him. The odds were fantastically high against his finding them. And even when he did find them…
‘If you could let me have a gun,’ he said, ‘– they got away with the guns as well.’
Roger said gently: ‘Look, Johnny, you’re in charge of the expedition. You’re not just planning for yourself; you’re planning for all of us.’
He shook his head. ‘If you don’t get through into the North Riding, at least to-night, you may not be able to get clear at all. I’ll manage.’
Pirrie had moved a little way off; he was looking at the sky in an abstract fashion.
‘Yes,’ Roger said, ‘you’ll manage. What the hell do you think you are – a combination of Napoleon and Superman? What are you going to use for wings?’
John said: ‘I don’t know whether you could all crowd in the Citroen… if you could spare me the Ford…’
‘We’re travelling as a party,’ Roger said. ‘If you go back, you take us with you.’ He paused. ‘That woman’s dead in there – you might as well know that.’
‘Take Davey,’ John said. ‘That’s all.’
‘You damned fool!’ Roger said. ‘Do you think Olivia would let me carry on even if I wanted to? We’ll find them. To hell with the odds.’
Pirrie looked round, blinking mildly. ‘Have you reached a decision?’ he inquired.
John said: ‘It seems to have been reached for me. I suppose this is where the alliance ceases to be valuable, Mr Pirrie? You’ve got the valley marked on your road map. I’ll give you a note for my brother, if you like. You can tell him we’ve been held up.’
‘I have been examining the situation,’ Pirrie said, ‘If you will forgive my putting things bluntly, I am rather surprised that they should have left the scene so quickly.’
Roger said sharply: ‘Why?’
Pirrie nodded towards the gatehouse. ‘They spent more than half an hour there.’
John said dully: ‘You mean – rape?’
‘Yes. The explanation would seem to be that they guessed our three cars were together, and cut off the straggler deliberately. They would therefore be anxious to clear out of the immediate vicinity in case the other two cars should come back in search of the third.’
‘Does that help us?’ Roger asked.
‘I think so,’ Pirrie said. ‘They would leave the immediate vicinity. We know they turned the car back towards the North Road because they left the gates shut against traffic. But I do not think they would go as far as the North Road without stopping again.’
‘Stopping again?’ John asked.
Looking at Roger’s impassive face, he saw that he had taken Pirrie’s meaning. Then he himself understood. He struggled to his feet.
Roger said: ‘There are still some things to work out. There are well over half a dozen side roads between here and A.1. And you’ve got to remember that they will be listening for the noise of engines. We shall have to explore them one by one – and on foot.’
Despair climbing back on his shoulders, John said:
‘By the time we’ve done that…’
‘If we rush the cars down the first side road,’ Roger said, ‘it might be giving them just the chance they need to get away.’
As they walked back, in silence, to where the two cars stood, Spooks put his head out of the back of the Citroen. His voice was thin and very high-pitched. He said:
‘Has someone kidnapped Davey’s mother, and Mary?’
‘Yes,’ Roger said. ‘We’re going to get them back.’
‘And they’ve taken the Vauxhall?’
Roger said: ‘Yes. Keep quiet, Spooks. We’ve got to work things out.’
‘Then we can find them easily!’ Spooks said.
‘Yes, we’ll find them,’ Roger said. He got into the driving seat, and prepared to turn the car round. John was still dazed. It was Pirrie who asked Spooks:
‘Easily? How?’
Spooks pointed down the road along which they had come. ‘By the oil trail.’
The three men stared at the tarmac. Trail was a high term for it, but there were spots of oil in places along the road.
‘Blind!’ Roger said. ‘Why didn’t we see that? But it might not be the Vauxhall. More likely the Ford.’
‘No,’ Spooks insisted. ‘It must be the Vauxhall. It’s left a bit bigger stain where it was standing.’
‘My God!’ Roger said. ‘What were you at school – Chief Boy Scout?’
Spooks shook his head. ‘I wasn’t in the Scouts. I didn’t like the camping.’
Roger said exultantly: ‘We’ve got them! We’ve got the bastards! Ignore that last expression, Spooks.’
‘All right,’ Spooks said amiably. ‘But I did know it already.’
At each junction they stopped the cars, and searched for the oil trail. It was far too inconspicuous to be seen without getting out of the cars. The third side road was on the outskirts of a village; there the trail turned right. A sign-post said: Norton 1½ m.
‘I think this is our stretch,’ Roger said. ‘We could try blazing right along in one of the cars. If we got past them with one car, we could make a neat sandwich. I think they would be between here and the next village. They sheered off sharply enough from this one.’
‘It would work,’ Pirrie said thoughtfully. ‘On the other hand, they would probably fight it out. They’ve got an automatic and a rifle and revolver in that car. It might prove difficult to get at them without hurting the women.’
‘Any other ideas?’
John tried to think, but his mind was too full of sick hatred, poised between some kind of hope and despair.
Pirrie said: ‘This country is very flat. If one of us were to shin up that oak, he might get a glimpse of them with the glasses.’
The oak stood in the angle of the road. Roger surveyed it carefully. ‘Give me a bunk-up to the first branch, and I reckon I shall be all right.’
He climbed the tree easily; he had to go high to find a gap in the leaves to give him a view. They could barely see him from below. He called suddenly:
‘Yes!’
John cried: ‘Where are they?’
‘About thee-quarters of a mile along. Pulled into a field on the left hand side of the road. I’m coming down.’
John said: ‘And Ann – and Mary?’
Roger scrambled down and dropped from the lowest branch. He avoided John’s eyes.
‘Yes, they’re there.’
Pirrie said thoughtfully: ‘On the left of the road. Are they pulled far in?’
‘Clear of the opening – behind the hedge. If we went at them from the front we should be going in blind.’
Pirrie went across to the Ford. He came back with the heavy sporting rifle which was his weapon of choice.
He said: ‘Three-quarters of a mile – give me ten minutes. Then take the Citroen along there fast, and pull up a few hundred yards past them. Fire a few shots – not at them, but back along the lane. I fancy that will put them into the sort of position I want.’
‘Ten minutes!’ John said.
‘You want to get them out alive,’ Pirrie said.
‘They may – be ready to clear off before then.’
‘You w
ill hear them if they do. It will be noisy – backing out of a field. If you do, chase them with the Citroen and don’t hesitate to let them have it.’ Pirrie hesitated. ‘You see, it will be unlikely that they will still have your wife and daughter with them in that case.’
And with a small indefinite nod, Pirrie started off along the road. A little way along he found a gap in the hedge, and ducked through it.
Roger looked at his watch. ‘We’d better be ready,’ he said. ‘Olivia, Millicent – take the boys in the Ford. Come on, Johnny.’
John sat beside him in the front of the Citroen. He grinned painfully.
‘I’m leading this well, aren’t I?’
Roger glanced at him. ‘Take it easy. You’re lucky to be conscious.’
John felt his nails tighten against the seat of the car.
‘Every minute…’ he said. ‘The bloody swines! God knows, it’s bad enough for Ann, but Mary…’
Roger repeated: ‘Take it easy.’ He looked at his watch again. ‘With luck, our friends along the road have got just over nine minutes to live.’
The thought crossed his other thoughts, irrelevantly, surprisingly; so much that he voiced it:
‘We passed a telephone box just now. Nobody thought of getting the police.’
‘Why should we?’ Roger said. ‘There’s no such thing as public safety any longer. It’s all private now.’ His fingernails tapped the steering-wheel. ‘So is vengeance.’
Neither spoke for the remainder of the waiting time. Still without a word, Roger started the car off and accelerated rapidly through the gears. They roared at the limit of the Citroen’s speed and noisiness along the narrow lane. In less than a minute, they had passed the opening to the field, and glimpsed the Vauxhall standing behind the hedge. The road ran straight for a further fifty yards. Roger braked sharply at the bend, and skidded the car across to take up the full width of the road.
John whipped open the door at his side. He had the automatic from Roger’s car; leaning across the bonnet of the Citroen, he fired a short burst. The shots rattled like darts against the shield of the placid summer afternoon. Then, in the distance, there were three more shots. Silence followed them.
The Death of Grass Page 10
