Empty World

by John Christopher

  “I can’t stand this. I’m going to bed.”

  She left the room and Billie and Neil sat for some minutes in silence. Then, without speaking, he left her and went to his own room.

  • • •

  It was some time before Neil got to sleep, and when he did he slept heavily. He was awakened by someone tugging at his arm, and realized simultaneously that it was broad daylight and that Billie was bending over him. He wondered hazily if she had come upstairs to continue the row, and struggled to sit up. Her face was tense, but with something other than anger. She was talking but he couldn’t properly make her out. He said:

  “What’s that?”

  “Wake up. I said it’s Lucy. She’s not here. She’s gone.”

  She told him more while he pulled clothes on. She had wakened earlier, at first light, and seen Lucy moving about. She had asked what she was doing, and Lucy had told her to go back to sleep: it was just that she was feeling restless. This was not particularly unusual—Lucy was a light sleeper and sometimes did get up very early—and Billie had turned over and slept on. But when she had finally woken properly and got up herself there was no sign of Lucy in the house.

  “She’s probably gone for a breath of fresh air,” Neil said. He looked out of the window into wintry sunlight. “It’s quite a fine day.”

  “That’s what I thought,” Billie said. “I waited for her to come back. But it was over an hour ago, and she hasn’t.”

  She looked more nervous than he had seen her; frightened almost. He realized she would have had to be alarmed to have wakened him. He said, feeling the beginning of apprehension himself:

  “We’ll go out and call for her.”

  The street showed its usual shabby emptiness. They stood in front of the house, and called in turn. Nothing answered but a screaming gull.

  The sun shone still and the morning was not too cold, but clouds were building up over the roofs westwards. Neil thought of Lucy the previous afternoon, pleading with him not to get into another fight with Billie, and of the tremor in her voice when she said: “I can’t stand this. . . .” He turned to Billie:

  “We’d better go and look for her.”

  “Where?”

  “Well, round here, to start with.”

  A quarter of an hour of searching and calling brought no result. Then Neil had an idea:

  “The bookshop. . . .”

  Billie nodded. “She might have gone up there. We’d better take the bikes.”

  That was when they found the bicycle Lucy used was missing. They took their own and rode to the King’s Road bookshop together. There was no sign of her; no answer when, in turn, they called her name. They looked at one another. Billie’s face was strained. She was going to blame him, Neil thought—say how everything had been all right until he came. He did not care if she did: nothing mattered except the fact that Lucy was missing. But instead she said:

  “Swears & Wells. . . .”

  “What?”

  “We were talking the other day about fur coats, with the winter setting in. She said we ought to go to Oxford Street, and choose some.”

  Neil nodded. Anything was better than standing here.

  “Right. Let’s go.”

  They cycled, in silence but side by side, through Knightsbridge and across the park to Marble Arch; then down the gloomy canyon of Oxford Street. Swears & Wells, when they reached it, was as blank and forbidding as all the other department stores. Moreover its doors were locked, and there was no sign of a forced entry. They checked all round, then stood together on the pavement under a lowering sky. Neil said:

  “We might as well get back.”

  Billie said nothing, but nodded. She looked as though she might be going to cry. He got on his bicycle, and she followed him.

  They had not gone much more than a hundred yards before it started raining—a few heavy spots, soon turning into a drenching downpour. They had to take shelter in the doorway of one of the shops. It was a photographer’s, the window full of expensive-­looking cameras. In front of them the rain sheeted down and the gutter soon was running full. Lightning flashed, and he saw Billie shiver when the thunder followed.

  He supposed he ought to console her, with words if nothing else, but the thought was unbearable. Earlier he had been able to forget his dislike; there had even been some sense of alliance since they were both seeking the same person. Now, inactive because of the rain, he was forced to think about Lucy, and the more he thought the more frightened he became.

  It had been absurd to imagine she had gone on a foraging expedition of her own, either to the bookshop or the furriers. It was not the sort of thing she would do. Nor, he was sure now, had she abandoned them because of the bad feeling between Billie and him. And if neither of those explanations for her being missing was right, there seemed only one possibility: that something had happened to her.

  She had gone out early, and taken her bicycle. In the morning dusk she might not have seen a pothole in the road, might have fallen and twisted an ankle—maybe broken a leg. He thought of that, willing it to be so, to keep the other image out of his mind. But it would not be rejected: he saw her cycling, saw the spotted beast lurking in the shadows, crouching, springing. . . .

  Billie said: “Oh God, I wish it’d stop.”

  Neil did not answer. He hated her more than ever—for having gone back to sleep when Lucy went out, for having suggested this wild goose chase into central London . . . for being alive when Lucy might be dead. It was irrational, he realized, but he could not help it.

  The rain slackened at last, and by unspoken agreement they got back on their bicycles and headed west. A thin drizzle persisted, and Neil was soon soaked to the skin. He did not mind the discomfort, welcomed it even: to some extent it stopped him thinking.

  They abandoned their bicycles outside the house. Following Billie up the steps to the front door, Neil thought of what he was going to do. A quick rub-down, dry clothes and waterproofs, and out again. If anything had happened to her. . . .

  He heard Billie’s exclamation of relief as he reached the top of the stairs. It was only then he noticed there were lights on in the sitting room, and felt the warmth from the paraffin heater. He ran the last few steps, jostling Billie as he entered. Lucy was in her usual armchair, sewing.

  Billie said: “What happened to you? We thought. . . .”

  She did not finish the sentence. Lucy said:

  “It was a fine morning, so I went for a ride. I got as far as Chiswick Reach. I was luckier than you—I got back just before the rain started. You’re both drenched. Go and change, and I’ll put the kettle on.”

  • • •

  Neil was not alone with Lucy until the following morning when Billie made her delayed expedition to the bookshop. Neil did not, on this occasion, volunteer to go with her. She asked Lucy if she wanted to come. With satisfaction, Neil heard Lucy say:

  “I don’t think so, today. I’ve got things I want to do.” She smiled at Billie. “If you see a new cookbook that might be useful you can bring me it.”

  When Billie had clattered down the stairs and the front door had closed behind her, Neil said:

  “Why did you do it?”

  “Do what?”

  “Go out on your own yesterday morning.”

  “I told you—it was a fine morning, I felt like a ride.”

  She had a strange look: defensive, distant. It made him feel defensive himself, and slightly ­nettled. He said:

  “You could have left a message. We were worried about you.”

  “I didn’t mean to be gone long.”

  “But you were.”

  She paused. “I wanted to think about things.”

  “What things?”

  “Just things.”

  Her evasiveness irritated him further. He said, aware of the sharpness
in his voice:

  “You should have thought of us—wondering what had happened to you.”

  She looked at him in silence for a moment. In a small cold voice, she said:

  “Perhaps I should. I’m sorry.” She didn’t sound sorry. Her voice still colder, she said: “Weren’t you going to see to that broken window?”

  She turned away and went into the kitchen, where he heard the sound of pans being vigorously cleaned. He resented that, too, and the cutting little reminder about the window. He angrily set about getting the materials together and went to work on the glass. It was a poor way of spending one of the rare hours without Billie on the scene, but that was Lucy’s fault.

  His anger evaporated while he worked. It didn’t matter whose fault it was; the point was that minutes were passing and all too soon Billie would be back. He finished puttying the glass, wiped his hands on a rag, and walked towards the kitchen.

  He was halfway across the sitting room when Lucy entered it. They stopped and looked at each other. She still had that strange look. She said scoldingly:

  “You’ve got putty on your shirt.”

  She came and stood in front of him and put her hand to his sleeve. The smell of the scent she wore mingled with the oily smell of putty. He put his hand on her shoulders, felt her draw back, but caught and kissed her all the same.

  She was very still. He had the feeling he had ruined everything. She pulled back again, and he let her go. He said, as awkward as the kiss had been:

  “I’m sorry.”

  She was smiling, and shaking her head.

  • • •

  He looked over her shoulder when they separated again. Billie was standing at the top of the stairs; for once she had come up quietly.

  12

  BILLIE MADE NO COMMENT, THEN or later. Lucy, when she was briefly absent, said to him:

  “Try to make things easy for her.”

  “Billie?”

  “Yes.”

  “If she’ll let me.”

  “She knows she’s . . . a spare part. We mustn’t rub it in.”

  Neil liked hearing her say “we.” And in his present mood anything Lucy wanted he wanted. He said:

  “I’ll do what I can. It’ll be difficult. She’ll hate me more than ever now.”

  But to his surprise Billie’s attitude had changed. The sniping and criticism stopped completely. She appeared to go out of her way to be amiable to him. When the project for moving to the country was brought up again, she supported it enthusiastically. Almost too enthusiastically: she put forward ideas and suggestions without hostility but with a noisy assurance that Neil thought was even more irritating.

  He much preferred to talk about it in the rare moments of being alone with Lucy. Spring was the obvious time for the move, and they considered the various possibilities. The difficulty was in deciding which to choose. In the end they agreed they would head first towards Oxfordshire. That was Neil’s idea: he wanted to see the countryside in which Lucy had grown up.

  Later, they thought, they would wander westwards, into the Cotswolds. They had a feeling, persuasive because they shared it, that they would find what they were looking for among the honey-­coloured villages and farmhouses deep in those friendly hills. Billie reappeared at that point, and Neil did what he could to look pleasant. It wasn’t easy.

  Nor did it get easier. He was able to control himself when Lucy was present, but increasingly when he was alone with Billie he found himself snapping at her. The fact that she accepted this meekly did not improve matters. He grew to loathe her subservience even more than he had her brashness and hostility. He tried to take refuge in blankness, in not responding to her in any way, but it didn’t work. The fact was that every moment of her being there was a moment in which he could not be alone with Lucy. And this was something which would continue indefinitely. In the old world there would have been some hope of escape: there was none here. The sight of her coming into the room, her footsteps on the stairs, set his teeth on edge.

  • • •

  Billie had kept a record of the passing days; she had hung up a calendar on the sitting room wall and punctiliously marked it each morning. So it was she who drew their attention to the approach of Christmas. She was insistent on making it an occasion, and proposed an expedition so that they could get presents to give one another.

  Neil thought it pointless, and said so to Lucy. She nodded.

  “I know. We’ve got all we need. But let’s humour her. Please?”

  He shrugged. “All right. But don’t expect a tiara.”

  She caught his hand, smiling. “I won’t.”

  They went to Bond Street together; then separated to make their choices. Neil was soon back at the rendezvous, and waited restlessly until Lucy joined him. He was uneasy about her being away even for half an hour; he had wanted her to take the gun but she had firmly refused.

  Billie was the last to return, and looked pleased with herself. She cycled ahead of them as they made their way back against a biting wind, singing, or rather shouting carols as she went. That evening—Christmas Eve, she reminded them—she played carols on the cassette player, well beyond the point of boredom.

  They exchanged presents the following morning. Lucy had got a silver-backed brush and mirror set for Billie, and Neil gave her soft leather boots. Her presents to them, not just gift-wrapped but decorated with a profusion of seals and ribbons, were far more magnificent: for Neil a gold Swiss chronometer, showing the time all over the world, attached to a gold bracelet which it was a distinct effort to lift; for Lucy, a necklace of diamonds and sapphires.

  Finally they opened their presents to each other. Neil had got a small book of love poems for Lucy while hers to him was as simple: a set of detailed maps of England.

  “So you can find the way for us,” she said, smiling. “I thought of getting a compass, as well, but I didn’t see one.”

  Billie’s exuberance faded, and was replaced by a moroseness that lasted the rest of the day. Neil wondered if she thought they had actually planned to mock her costly gifts by the modesty of their own to one another. He couldn’t help being pleased about it. It was another sign of the closeness between him and Lucy, a further reminder that where two was company, three was none.

  Lucy did her best to sustain a festive spirit by cooking them a special meal, finishing with plum pudding and brandy sauce; and producing a box of crackers to go with it. They all put on paper hats but it was hopeless. Billie sat most of the time without speaking, and went early to bed.

  • • •

  Snow came soon after; at first in a flurry that melted as it fell but later in a steady down-drift settling more and more thickly on roofs and ledges and pavements. It snowed all day and much of the night; then, after a dry grey morning with the wind whipping fallen snow into drifts against the walls, it set in again.

  The blizzard continued off and on for several days, and afterwards the going was too difficult to venture far. They only went out to collect snow to melt: the pipes had frozen and taps were no longer working. Most of the time they were obliged to stay indoors.

  During this period of confinement, Neil found Billie getting on his nerves worse than ever. She had got over her sulks and was trying to be helpful but there was something about her appearance of cheerfulness that maddened him. She had always had an annoying habit of whistling through her teeth: now she did it almost continuously, and always the same tune—“The Cock o’ the North,” off-key. In the end, when Lucy was in the kitchen, he said to her in a low but savage voice:

  “If you don’t stop that whistling, I swear I’ll kill you! I mean it.”

  She looked at him, crestfallen. “I’m sorry, Neil.”

  He turned away without answering. Even his own name, spoken in her voice, rasped on his nerves.

  Next morning, though, they awoke to bright suns
hine, and the sound of water dripping from the eaves. The thaw was rapid, and by mid-day the roads were passable. Billie, euphoric again, proposed that she and Neil make an expedition to the Supermarket.

  “Do we need to?” He looked at Lucy. “How are supplies?”

  “Low in cooking oil and nearly out of potatoes. But we could manage for a couple of days.”

  “It might snow again,” Billie said.

  “Doesn’t look like it.”

  Neil pointed to the unblemished blue above the roofs opposite. Billie said:

  “I don’t think we ought to take a chance on that.”

  Lucy nodded at him from behind her, urging him to be accommodating. He said:

  “All right. I’ll come with you.”

  He slipped the gun into his anorak pocket before leaving the house; it had become a routine action by now. Outside it was even better than it looked: a mild spring-like day with water gurgling in the gutters. There were patches of snow in places, but not enough to impede their bicycles.

  They rode side by side and Billie chattered cheerfully at first. Neil did not respond—he did not feel like it and Lucy wasn’t there to spur him—and after a time Billie fell silent, too.

  They parked their bicycles and Neil pushed open the door of the Supermarket. A window had collapsed during the blizzard and snow had drifted in. It was melting messily, with soggy cornflake packets sticking out like artificial boulders. Year by year, of course, the ruin would increase and spread—the winters dragging things down, and spring and summer turning seeds into saplings and finally into foundation-wrenching trees. But it wouldn’t matter: they would be a long way from here, in a place where nature could be tamed.