The Death of Grass

by John Christopher

  They therefore kept away from habitation, travelling in the bare fields and keeping close beside the hedges or stone walls which formed the boundaries. It was about half-past six when they crossed the main road north of Masham, and the sun had warmed the air. The boys were happy enough, and had to be restrained from un-necessary running about. The whole party had something of a picnic air, except that Ann remained quiet, withdrawn, and unhappy.

  Millicent commented on this to John, when he found himself walking beside her across a patch of broken stony ground.

  She said: ‘Ann shouldn’t take things too much to heart, Johnny. It’s all in a day’s work.’

  John glanced at her. Neatness was a predominating characteristic of Millicent, and she looked now as though she were out for an ordinary country walk. Pirrie, with the rifle under his arm, was about fifteen yards ahead of them.

  ‘I don’t think it’s so much what happened,’ John said, ‘as what she did afterwards that’s worrying her.’

  ‘That’s what I meant was all in a day’s work,’ Millicent said. She looked at John with frank admiration. ‘I liked the way you handled things last night. You know – quiet, but no nonsense. I like a man to know what he wants and go and get it.’

  Discounting her face, John thought, she looked a good deal more than a score of years younger than Pirrie; she was slim and tautly figured. She caught his glance, and smiled at him. He recognized something in the smile, and was shocked by it.

  He said briefly: ‘Someone has to make decisions.’

  ‘At first, I didn’t think you would be the kind who would, properly. Then last night I could see I was wrong about you.’

  It was not, he decided, the concupiscence which shocked him in itself, but its presence in this context. Pirrie, he was sure, must have been a cuckold for some time, but that had been in London, in that warren of swarming humanity where the indulgence of one more lust could have no real importance. But here, where their interdependence was as starkly evident as the barren lines of what had been the moors, it mattered a great deal. There might yet be a morality in which the leader of the group took his women as he wished. But the old ways of winks and nudges and innuendoes were as dead as business conferences and evenings at the theatre – as dead and as impossible of resurrection. The fact that he was shocked by Millicent’s failure to realize it was evidence of how deeply the realization had sunk into and conditioned his own mind.

  He said, more sharply still: ‘Go and take over that case from Olivia. She’s had it long enough.’

  She raised her eyebrows slightly. ‘Just as you say, Big Chief. Whatever you say goes.’

  On the edge of Witton Moor they found what John had been looking for – a small farm-house, compact and isolated. It stood on a slight rise, surrounded by potato fields. There was smoke rising from the chimney. For a moment that puzzled him, until he remembered that, in a remote spot like this, they would probably need a coal fire, even in summer, for cooking. He gave Pirrie his instructions. Pirrie nodded, and rubbed three fingers of his right hand along his nose; he had made the same gesture, John remembered now, before going out after the gang who had taken Ann and Mary.

  With Roger, John walked up to the farm-house. They made no attempt at concealment, and strolled casually as though motivated by idle curiosity. John saw a curtain in one of the front windows twitch, but there was no other sign that they had been observed. An old dog sunned himself against the side of the house. Pebbles crunched under their feet, a casual and friendly sound.

  There was a knocker on the door, shaped like a ram’s head. John lifted it and dropped it again heavily; it clanged dully against its metal base. As they heard the tread of feet on the other side, the two men stepped a little to the right.

  The door swung open. The man on the other side had to come fully into the threshold to see them properly. He was a big man; his eyes were small and cold in a weathered red face. John saw with satisfaction that he was carrying a shot-gun.

  He said: ‘Well, what is it you want? We’ve nought to sell, if it’s food you’re after.’

  He was still too far inside the house.

  John said: ‘Thanks. We’re not short of food, though. We’ve got something we think might interest you.’

  ‘Keep it,’ the man said. ‘Keep it, and clear off.’

  ‘In that case…’ John said.

  He jumped inwards so that he was pressed against the wall to the right of the door, out of sight of the farmer. The man reacted immediately. ‘If you want gunshot…’ he said. He came through the doorway, the gun ready, his finger on the trigger.

  There was a distant crack, and at the same time the massive body turned inwards, like a top pulled by its string, and slumped towards them. As he fell, a finger contracted. The gun went off crashingly, its charge exploding against the wall of the farm-house. The echoes seemed to splinter against the calm sky. The old dog roused and barked, feebly, against the sun. A voice cried something from inside the house, and then there was silence.

  John pulled the shot-gun away from under the body which lay over it. One barrel was still unfired. With a nod to Roger, he stepped over the dead or dying man and into the house. The door opened immediately into a big living-room. The light was dimmer and John’s gaze went first to the closed doors leading off the room and then to the empty staircase that ascended in one corner. Several seconds had elapsed before he saw the woman who stood in the shadows by the side of the staircase.

  She was quite tall, but as spare as the farmer had been broad. She was looking directly at them, and she was holding another gun. Roger saw her at the same time. He cried:

  ‘Watch it, Johnny!’

  Her hand moved along the side of the gun, but as it did so, John’s own hand moved also. The clap of sound was even more deafening in the confinement of the room. She stayed upright for a moment and then, clutching at the banister to her left, crumpled up. She began to scream as she reached the ground, and went on screaming in a high strangled voice.

  Roger said: ‘Oh, my God!’

  John said: ‘Don’t stand there. Get a move on. Get that other gun and let’s get this house searched. We’ve been lucky twice but we don’t have to be a third time.’

  He watched while Roger reluctantly pulled the gun away from the woman; she gave no sign, but went on screaming.

  Roger said: ‘Her face…’

  ‘You take the ground floor,’ John told him. ‘I’ll go upstairs.’

  He searched quickly through the upper story, kicking doors open. He did not realize until he had nearly finished his search that he had forgotten something – that had been the second barrel and, until the shot-gun was re-loaded, he was virtually weaponless. One door remained. He hesitated and then kicked this open in turn.

  It was a small bedroom. A girl in her middle ’teens was sitting up in bed. She stared at him with terrified eyes.

  He said to her: ‘Stay here. Understand? You won’t get hurt if you stay in here.’

  ‘The guns…’ she said. ‘Ma and Pa – what was the shooting? They’re not…’

  He said coldly: ‘Don’t move outside this room.’

  There was a key in the lock. He went out, closed the door and locked it. The woman downstairs was still screaming, but less harshly than she had been. Roger stood above her, staring down.

  John said, ‘Well?’

  Roger looked up slowly. ‘It’s all right. There’s no one else down here.’ He gazed down at the woman again. ‘Breakfast cooking on the range.’

  Pirrie came quietly through the open door. He lowered his rifle as he viewed the scene.

  ‘Mission accomplished,’ he commented. ‘She had a gun as well? Are there any others in the house?’

  ‘Guns or people?’ John asked. ‘I didn’t see any other guns, did you, Rodge?’

  Still looking at the woman, Roger said: ‘No.’

  ‘There’s a girl upstairs,’ John said. ‘Daughter. I locked her in.’

  ‘And this?’ Pi
rrie directed the toe of one shoe towards the woman, now groaning deep-throatedly.

  ‘She got the blast… in the face mostly,’ Roger said. ‘From a couple of yards range.’

  ‘In that case…’ said Pirrie. He tapped the side of his rifle and looked at John. ‘Do you agree?’

  Roger looked at them both. John nodded. Pirrie walked with his usual precise gait to where the woman lay. As he pointed the rifle, he said: ‘A revolver is so much more convenient for this sort of thing.’ The rifle cracked, and the woman stopped groaning. ‘In addition to which, I do not like using the ammunition for this unnecessarily. We are not likely to replace it. Shot-guns are much more likely equipment in parts like these.’

  John said: ‘Not a bad exchange – two shot-guns and, presumably, ammunition, for two rounds.’

  Pirrie smiled. ‘You will forgive me for regarding two rounds from this as worth half a dozen shot-guns. Still, it hasn’t been too bad. Shall we call the others up now?’

  ‘Yes,’ John said, ‘I think we might as well.’

  In a strained voice, Roger said: ‘Wouldn’t it be better to get these bodies out of the way first – before the children come up here?’

  John nodded. ‘I suppose it would.’ He stepped across the corpse.

  ‘There’s generally a hole under the stairs. Yes, I thought so. In here. Wait a minute – here are the cartridges for the shot-guns. Get these out first.’ He peered into the dark recesses of the cubby-hole. ‘I don’t think there’s anything else we want. You can lift her in now.’

  It took all three of them to carry the dead farmer in from the door and wedge his body also into the cupboard under the stairs. Then John went out in front of the house, and waved. The day was as bright, and seemed fresher than ever with the absence of the pungent smell of powder. The old dog had settled again in its place; he saw now that it was very old indeed, and possibly blind. A watchdog that still lived when it could no longer guard was an aimless thing; but no more aimless, he thought, than the blind millions of whom they themselves were the forerunners. He let the gun drop. At any rate, it was not worth the expenditure of a cartridge.

  The women came up the hill with the children. The picnic air was gone; the boys walked quietly and without saying anything. Davey came up to John. He said, in a low voice:

  ‘What was the shooting, Daddy?’

  John looked into his son’s eyes. ‘We have to fight for things now,’ he said. ‘We have to fight to live. It’s something you’ll have to learn.’

  ‘Did you kill them?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Where did you put the bodies?’

  ‘Out of the way. Come on in. We’re going to have breakfast.’

  There was a stain of blood at the door, and another where the woman had lain. Davey looked at them, but he did not say anything else.

  When they were all in the living-room, John said:

  ‘We don’t want to be here long. The women can be getting us a meal. There are eggs in the kitchen, and a side of bacon. Get it done quickly. Roger and Pirrie and I will be sorting out what we want to take with us.’

  Spooks asked: ‘Can we help you?’

  ‘No. You boys stay here and rest yourselves. We’ve got a long day in front of us.’

  Olivia had been staring, as Davey had done, at the marks of blood on the floor. She said:

  ‘Were there only – the two of them?’

  John said curtly: ‘There’s a girl upstairs – daughter. I’ve locked her in.’

  Olivia made a move towards the stairs. ‘She must be terrified!’

  John’s look stopped her. He said: ‘I’ve told you – we haven’t time to waste on inessentials. See to the things we need. Never mind anything else.’

  For a moment she hesitated, and then she went through to the kitchen. Millicent followed her. Ann stood by the door with Mary. She said:

  ‘Two are enough. We’re going to stay outside. I don’t like the smell in here.’

  John nodded. ‘Just as you want. You can eat out there as well, if you like.’

  Ann did not say anything, but led Mary out into the sunshine. Spooks, after a brief hesitation, followed them. The other two boys sat on the old-fashioned sofa under the window. There was a clock ticking rhythmically on the wall facing them. It was glass-fronted, so that its works were visible. They sat and stared at it, and spoke to each other in whispers.

  By the time the food was ready, the men had got all they needed. They had found two large rucksacks and a smaller one, and had packed them with chunks of ham and pork and salted beef, along with some home-made bread. The cartridges for the guns were slipped in on top. They had also found an old army water-bottle. Roger suggested filling more bottles with water, but John opposed it. They would be travelling through tolerably well-watered country, and had enough to carry as it was.

  When they had finished their meal, Olivia started collecting the plates together. It was when Millicent laughed that John saw what she was doing. She put the plates down again in some confusion.

  John said: ‘No washing up. We get moving straight away. It’s an isolated place, but any house is a potential trap.’

  The men began picking up their guns and rucksacks.

  Olivia said: ‘What about the girl?’

  John glanced at her. ‘What about her?’

  ‘We can’t leave her – like this.’

  ‘If it bothers you,’ John said, ‘you can go and unlock her door. Tell her she can come out when she likes. It doesn’t matter now.’

  ‘But we can’t leave her in the house!’ She gestured towards the cupboard beneath the stairs. ‘With those.’

  ‘What do you suggest, then?’

  ‘We could take her with us.’

  John said: ‘Don’t be silly, Olivia. You know we can’t.’

  Olivia stared at him. Behind her plump diffidence, he saw, there was resolution. Thinking of her and of Roger, he reflected that crises were always likely to produce strange results in terms of human behaviour.

  Olivia said: ‘If not, I shall stay here with her.’

  ‘And Roger?’ John asked. ‘And Steve?’

  Roger said slowly: ‘If Olivia wants to stay, we’ll stay here with her. You don’t need us, do you?’

  John said: ‘And when the next visitor calls, who’s going to open the door? You or Olivia – or Steve?’

  There was a silence. The clock ticked, marking the passing seconds of a summer morning.

  Roger said then: ‘Why can’t we take the girl, if Olivia wants to? We brought Spooks. A girl couldn’t be any danger to us, surely?’

  Impatient and angry, John said: ‘What makes you think she would come with us? We’ve just killed her parents.’

  ‘I think she would come,’ Olivia said.

  ‘How long would you like to have to persuade her?’ John asked. ‘A fortnight?’

  Olivia and Roger exchanged glances. Roger said:

  ‘The rest of you go on. We’ll try and catch up with you – with the girl, if she will come.’

  To Roger, John said: ‘You surprise me, Rodge. Surely I don’t have to point out to you just how damn silly it is to split our forces now?’

  They did not answer him. Pirrie and Millicent and the boys were watching in silence. John glanced at his watch.

  ‘Look,’ he said, ‘I’ll give you three minutes, Olivia, to talk to the girl. If she wants to come, she can. But we aren’t going to waste any more time persuading her – none of us. All right?’ Olivia nodded. ‘I’ll come up with you.’

  He led the way up the stairs, unlocked the door, and pushed it open. The girl was out of bed; she looked up from a kneeling posture, possibly one of prayer. John stood aside to let Olivia enter the room. The girl stared at them both, her face expressionless.

  Olivia said: ‘We should like you to come with us, my dear. We are going to a safe place up in the hills. It wouldn’t be safe for you to stay here.’

  The girl said: ‘My mother – I heard her screami
ng, and then she stopped.’

  ‘She’s dead,’ Olivia said. ‘Your father, too. There’s nothing to stay here for.’

  ‘You killed them,’ the girl said. She looked at John. ‘He killed them.’

  Olivia said: ‘Yes. They had food and we didn’t. People fight over food now. We won, and they lost. It’s something that can’t be helped. I want you to come with us, all the same.’

  The girl turned away, her face pressed against the bed clothes. In a muffled voice, she said:

  ‘Leave me alone. Go away and leave me alone.’

  John looked at Olivia and shook his head. She went over and knelt beside the girl, putting an arm round her shoulders. She said gently:

  ‘We aren’t bad people. We’re just trying to save ourselves and our children, and so the men kill now, if they have to. There will be others coming who will be worse – who will kill for the sake of killing, and torture, too, perhaps.’

  The girl repeated: ‘Leave me alone.’

  ‘We aren’t far ahead of the mobs,’ Olivia said. ‘They will be coming up from the towns, looking for food. A place of this kind will draw them like flies. Your father and mother would have died, anyway, in the next few days, and you with them. Don’t you believe that?’

  ‘Go away,’ the girl said. She did not look up.

  John said: ‘I told you, Olivia. We can’t take her away against her will. And as for your staying here with her – you’ve just said yourself the place is a death-trap.’

  Olivia got up from her knees, as though acquiescing. But instead she took the girl by the shoulders and twisted her round to face her. She had considerable strength of arm, and she used it now, not brutally but with determination.

  She said: ‘Listen to me! You’re afraid, aren’t you? Aren’t you?’

  Her eyes held the girl as though in fascination. The girl’s head nodded.

  ‘Do you believe I want to help you?’ Olivia asked her.

  Again she nodded.

  ‘You’re coming with us,’ Olivia said. ‘We’re going across the Pennines, to a place in Westmorland where we can all be quite safe, and where there won’t be any more killing and brutality.’ Olivia’s normal reserve was entirely gone; she spoke with a bitter anger that carried conviction. ‘And you are coming with us. We killed your father and mother, but if we save you we shall have made up to them a little bit. They wouldn’t want you to die as they have done.’