by James Munro
"Lishman, sir," said Grierson.
"And his friends. These two splendid fellows can be his friends. As they're a lot better than the originals, I think you might start with your arms free. Grierson can be Lishman." He leered at Grierson. "If you don't mind, we'll assume that you've already kicked him. Otherwise he might fret. Down, Grierson."
Grierson lay down.
Craig said, "I don't think I can do it."
"Why not?" asked Loomis.
"I'd have to hurt them," Craig said.
"They're paid to take risks," said Loomis. "We all are. Start whenever you like."
Grierson, flat on the floor, marveled at Craig's swift, easy grace. The whole thing went like a ballet. The P.T.I.'s moved in, he grabbed one, threw him, and in the same movement attacked the other, knocking him out. The one he had thrown bounced in again, and again Craig threw him, this time holding on the lock he had used. The P.T.I, groaned, and lay still. Craig let him go, turning to
Loomis, and Grierson remembered his instructions and prepared to spring.
"Any more?" Craig asked, and Grierson leaped for him, grabbing his arm in a hammerlock. Craig somersaulted forward, and Grierson went with him, still clutching Craig's fist. He landed underneath, and Craig swayed aside and struck with the edge of his hand at Grierson's arm. Pain scalded across his biceps and he loosed his grip. Craig wriggled free and his arm came across Grierson's throat, pressed deeper and deeper into the windpipe. Grierson struggled for air; his eyes seemed to be ballooning in their sockets, his legs thrashed.
"Who do I have to do next?" Craig snarled at Loomis. "You?"
"No, no, I'm convinced. But we had to see for ourselves. You must see that. You might let poor Grierson breathe a little."
Craig got up then, and hauled Grierson to his feet. For a while he had to told him up, but at last Grierson could breathe without feeling that every breath was being forced through a throat choked with steel wool.
Loomis said, "You're slipping, Grierson." Then to the P.T.I.'s, "You're all slipping."
One of them was silent; he was still unconscious. The other, murder in his eyes, said, "Yes, sir."
Loomis slapped Craig on the back.
"Come on," he said. "I think you're entitled to a drink."
Farther into the cellars was a small, luxurious bar. Loomis went behind it and mixed pints of black velvet, the Guinness drawn from the wood, the champagne uncorked with the minimum of fuss.
Craig looked at his tankard suspiciously.
"What's in this lot?" he asked. "Spanish fly?"
"Please," said Loomis. "I'm completely satisfied, and I'm sure Grierson is too. Aren't you, Grierson?"
Grierson croaked "Yes" and let the soothing chill of his drink caress his throat.
"I worry, you see," said Loomis. "I have to worry. That's why I try things out first. I never tried out one like you before. I never thought I'd get the chance."
"I don't think there are any more like me," Craig said.
"If there are, I'm sorry for them. Look. I made a hell of a lot of money out of arms. A hundred thousand quid." Loomis whistled. "But you don't make that sort of money and then just live happily ever after. At least I didn't." Craig drank more black velvet, hesitated, then continued: "I knew I was on their list two years ago. I knew I was due to die. That's why I kept on with judo. You've no idea how difficult that was. I had to drive twenty miles to practice-I didn't even dare to let it be talked about where I lived. It was too big a lead. Then there was the pistol. The only way you're good with a gun is practice, again, and that wasn't easy either." He sighed. "I made money all right, and I enjoyed making it. I didn't worry too much about where it came from. No. That's not true. I didn't worry at all. But it didn't bring me any happiness. I didn't worry about that, either. Not till now. I'd made my choice, and my money, and I didn't kick about it. I just got ready for trouble. I didn't think it would be Alice and that poor bloody brother of hers who'd get it." He looked at his drink. "I didn't think champagne could make me so miserable," he said.
"That's the stout," said Loomis. "What are you going to do now?"
"See my girl," said Craig. "If you don't mind."
"Why on earth should I?" asked Loomis. "We're all heteros here. Anything else?"
"I want to see a man called McLaren." When Loomis asked why, he tried to explain. "I met him in Sicily," he said, and told them what had happened.
"All right, it's a good story, but what do you want to see him for?" Loomis asked.
"You hear a lot about things that change people's lives-Reader's Digest stuff-and I'm not blaming McLaren for what happened to mine, but he was the only one who ever saw what I was and what I could make of myself. I want to see if he's done it too."
"Done what?" asked Grierson.
Craig struggled with unfamiliar ideas, ideas that had nothing to do with bills of lading, or manifests, or the maintenance of small arms.
"He told me what the world was going to be like, and he was right. About the world anyway. I did what he said I ought to do. I don't mean that it was his fault. I just did it. I'd like to know if he went in for teaching. Somehow I can't help feeling that he wanted to go the same way as me."
"Suppose he hasn't?" Loomis asked.
Craig shrugged.
"It won't make any difference; it's too late for that. I just want to know." Again he struggled for words. "Look. I'd done a lot of things before I met him. I've done a hell of a lot more since. And I never dream about them. Never. But I do dream about that bloody rest camp, and his singing, and me watching those poor bastard soldiers dancing under the moon. I want to know what he's like now."
"Does he know your name?" Loomis asked. Craig shook his head.
"He just knew me as John. I only found out his name because he introduced himself to the Jocks."
Loomis grunted, and meditated. After a while he said, "That seems to be all right. But I'd like you to tell somebody else about it before I make any decisions."
"Who?"
Loomis peered at him shyly. "A psychiatrist," he said.
"Do you think I'm crazy?" Craig asked. "I don't want to kill him. I just want to talk to him."
"I don't care if you're crazy or not," said Loomis. "I want you the way you are. If you think you're a teapot, you're going to go on thinking you're a teapot till the job's finished. And talking to McLaren may make a difference. I couldn't risk that." He turned to Grierson. "Go and get Wetherly," he said.
Wetherly joined them in the bar. He was small, rosy, and bland, a pared-down Pickwick, and he drank a pint of black velvet and heard about McLaren, while Loomis stayed in the background and read a much-used paperback called Death in Purple Garters. After a while the psychiatrist left Craig, and dragged Loomis away from his book.
"It's always the same," he complained. "You want the answer in minutes when it takes me days to find out what the question is."
Loomis peered vaguely at the book's front cover. The purple garters were there, all right. There superbly, in fact.
"All right," Wetherly snapped. "He's sane enough, but he's under a great emotional strain, most probably fear. The man McLaren is important to him in a way I find it hard to explain. You might say that he represents for him a sort of super-Craig-a realization of all Craig's aspirations and needs."
"Never mind the codology," said Loomis. "This is urgent."
Wetherly sighed.
"Now he's not so sure. He's beginning to suspect that McLaren wanted to take his own advice." "So?"
"Craig's ashamed of himself. He's failed all along the line."
"He's made a fortune. Mind like a razor, and he could crush you with one hand. How on earth can he have failed?"
Wetherly sighed.
"You use the same words as I do, but they all have a different meaning," he said. "He's failed with his wife, failed with his friends, he thinks he may fail with his girl. He's a very violent man. People who come close to him get hurt."
"So long as I can pick
the people," said Loomis. "What's this got to do with McLaren?"
"If he's a sort of super-Craig, and he's failed too, Craig won't feel so bad. If he's succeeded-"
"How do you mean-succeeded?"
"Craig thinks he may be a schoolteacher. In Craig's estimation, that would argue a high degree of success. I shouldn't advise a meeting if he is. On the other hand, if he's what Craig would consider a failure-a meeting may be useful for your purposes."
"I'll find out what he's doing," said Loomis, still looking at the cover of the book.
"He gave me McLaren's address."
Loomis held out his hand, not looking.
"It won't make any difference," said Wetherly, "but I can assure you that that young woman's development is anatomically impossible."
Loomis looked hurt.
"We all have our dreams," he said. "We have to. Otherwise you'd be out of a job."
CHAPTER 11
That evening Grierson drove Craig out to the studios of the Express Television Company in his Lagonda. His arm had only just stopped aching and his temper was vile. He loathed Craig, and the easy contempt with which he'd thrown him and hurt him, and it was now a matter of urgency that Craig should be impressed, if not terrified.
The big, soft-purring car was impressive by any standards, and so was his driving skill as he threaded it north to Hampstead and through increasing London traffic; then over the Heath and north on to the Al, letting in the supercharger, watching the rev counter and speedometer climb, up and over, until they reached a hundred and kept on going, the car handling beautifully, beautifully handled. There, you bastard, Grierson shouted in his mind at Craig. There. And he four-wheel-drifted a curve, feathered out so that his revs hardly fluttered, and pressed his foot down again. Craig, who hadn't spoken in minutes, sat up then and listened to the car's eager roar, then turned to Grierson.
"Your plugs need cleaning," he said.
For a moment Grierson was so angry that he almost crashed the car, then he eased back on his right foot and risked a glance to his left. Craig was laughing at him.
Grierson put his foot down again and the car leaped forward, then once more he eased off and he too began to laugh.
"All right," he said. "I give in. I suppose you drive at Le Mans too."
"No," said Craig. "I wish I could. I used to drive an E-type Jag, but I swapped it for a Bristol. My wife-" he hesitated, "she liked a roof. You were really going a bit there."
"A hundred and ten's her top," said Grierson. "At her age, it isn't kind to ask for more." He eased back further. "Now remember. I'm a bloke sent down by the advertising people because they want to keep in good with me and I said I wanted to watch a recording. You're an old pal of mine who's come because I invited him. That means I'll be the one that people will watch."
"Suits me," said Craig. "Imagine. Old McLaren. On the old telly." His voice was mocking, and Grierson looked at him again. Craig didn't look angry; just mildly amused, mildly pitying.
"What's your name?" asked Grierson.
"John Reynolds."
"Profession?"
"Company director," Craig said. "Big bass fiddle." "What's the name of the advertising company?" "Jansen, Caldecott and True."
"Roger," said Grierson. "There's a party on at McLaren's when it's all over. I've fixed it for us to go if you want to."
"I'll see."
"Let me know," said Grierson. "Now tell me all about your companies, you greedy bastard."
Express Television was a great, glass-fronted building, set among lawns and fountains and flowers. Enough Hertfordshire woodland had been spared to give it a frame that softened its angular opulence, and in the spring night its glass glowed with the warmth of many lights. There was a doorman with a uniform that compromised between that of an officer of the Blues and an R.A.C. patrolman, doors which were great, unblemished slabs of glass and opened of their own accord, elevators that smelled of carnations, and a studio executive so devoted, so absorbed, so happy just to serve the cathode ray tube that the two men felt ashamed to admit they knew nothing of TV.
The executive, Slatter, was there to enlighten them. He whipped them over the course in fifteen minutes, took them to his office for large pink gins, and from there to the studio, through the maze of cables and sound booms and cameras to the outcasts' corner from which, in reverent, utter silence, they might watch the creation of viewing time. Craig looked at the procession of performers: dancers dressed like birds of paradise; two comedians in football jerseys; four youths who were all teeth and electric guitars, and a Scotsman called Archie McPhee, who told Scots stories in a soft, Highland voice, and philosophized gently about the rush of urban life and how badly it compared with the ripple of a trout stream and the cry of whaups among the heather. The philosopher's real name was McLaren.
When the rehearsal ended, Slatter took them to his office for chicken sandwiches and Moselle, then back to the viewing room to watch in its entirety "Scotland the Brave," written by and starring Archie McPhee. Grierson had wanted to sit with the studio audience, but Craig, not yet ready for the substance, concentrated instead on the nickering shadow. First the company sign, a screaming diesel belting over a bridge, and then the pipers like guardsmen, the rattling side-drums, the roar of studio applause as Archie McPhee came on and told stories about the gnomic wisdom of the Hieland man, and rhapsodized about gray hills and purple heather. The dancers next, for hard-edged modernistic dancing, and then the comedians in football jerseys. Commercial break. More Archie. A Scots tenor, thinly disguised as Bonnie Prince Charlie. More comedians. Birds of Paradise chorus. Commercial break. The dentate youths with guitars. More Archie, singing, this time, the thin wailing mouth music for a team of dancers, the men all disguised as Bonnie Prince Charlie, the women as Flora Macdonald, but dancing this time the real stuff, the genuine hundred-proof that McLaren had called the fag-end of a culture that would die with the war. Then the orchestra took up the tune and turned it into a twist, and the chorus (Flora
Macdonalds all, halfway through a strip) were twisting too in the background, the stars came on and waved, and the music softened as Archie stepped forward, remembered again the cry of the curlew, the plash of water where the brown trout rose. And then it was over, and the audience yelped with laughter as two chorus girls tried to teach Archie to twist and his kilt turned skittish and the credits rolled.
"I think we've got a winner in Archie," said Slatter. "He's done well in the shows for the region of course, but on his own I think he's fabulous, don't you? He'll be networked next month. It's that little touch of philosophy that gets them. He's genuine, you see. Just one of the people, but educated too. And the audience knows it. You can't fool an audience." And there Slatter's face was religious in expression, for though he believed nothing else, he believed utterly that what he had just said was true.
"We'll just go and have a drink and give Archie time to change," he continued, "then we'll pop down and say hello and be off to the party. You are coming, aren't you?" Craig nodded. "Oh good. I'd like you to tell your people that we don't just give you a good show, we give you a good time too."
Then more Moselle, and a VIP trip to the star dressing room where Archie received them as an equal-for were they not important too?-and opened champagne for them, and the four youths in semi-dishabille, for now they had shed their guitars though their teeth still glowed, allowed themselves to be introduced. And everyone had been splendid, and in the relaxation of tension after sustained effort Craig, for the first time since he came into the studio, recognized an emotion he could share.
"Now don't forget the party," said Slatter. "Chelsea. Sure you can find your way?"
"We'll give you a lift," said Craig. "You can show us where it is."
The executive hesitated, then surrendered. The company which had sent Grierson had such satisfactory accounts. Such big ones. The Lagonda impressed him too, as it was meant to do.
Craig asked if he might drive, and Grierson reluctantly agree
d. Slatter droned on about Tarn ratings and costs per minute, then settled down to find out what Grierson's interests were, and Grierson lied quite happily, for Craig's driving was worthy of the car, and the Lagonda roared in pleasure as it skimmed the empty moonlit roads. Only once was there any risk, when Craig squeezed between two vans, but he slowed down so gently, changed gear so rightly before he swooped away, that Grierson smiled his content as he wondered why Slatter had turned quiet. The executive said no more until they reached Cheyne Walk, and then was first out of the car.
McLaren's flat was on the ground floor, as big and beautifully furnished as a stage set. All light and airy and open; all Swedish, Danish, Finnish, except for the maid, who was a Spaniard. Slatter came back to life, sliced turkey and ham for them, mixed the dressing for the salad and poured them more champagne, until car by car the other guests arrived and he could introduce these influential madmen to two pretty girls, and tell Archie that he had been splendid and go home to his wife, who nagged him, and cocoa, and the works of Anthony Trol-lope.
Craig enjoyed the party. He had been drinking all day, and the drink had eased the tensions that the day had brought; the sight of Pucelli, Cadella's death, the tests Loomis had flung at him like bombs. Now he was John Reynolds again, this time with interests in machine tools, die-stamp machines, and nuts and bolts, dancing with pretty girls, now and then kissing one in the conservatory that seemed built for the purpose, playing Mutt to Grierson's Jeff, and waiting till the crowd thinned and he could get McLaren on his own and ask him what the hell he was playing at.
At the beginning of the party McLaren had been aloof, restrained, yet affable, a Lord Chesterfield among poets, but as time went on he had changed, first into a roaring boy, then to a surly Harry Lauder, loudly estimating the cost of turkey, ham, whisky, wine, and meaning every word. Most of his guests seemed as familiar with this act as with the current Top Ten, and talked on, over and around it until he retired to a sofa and lay with his head in a dancer's lap while she fed him whisky from a six-ounce glass.
