Frank kicked his ankle gently.
“Come on, Dad,” he said. There was a genial note in his voice. “What happened to the sick guy?”
“I ain’t seen a sick guy,” Old Humphrey said. “I mind my own business.”
Max suddenly snatched the frying-pan out of the old man’s hand and threw it across the room.
Frank giggled.
“What happened to the sick guy?” he asked again.
Old Humphrey stared at the frying-pan lying in the corner, at the food that dripped down the wooden wall on to the floor, and he clawed at his beard.
“The newspaper man took him away,” he said shrilly. “That’s all I know.”
“What newspaper man?” Max said.
“Magarth,” Old Humphrey mumbled. “He’s worried me before. Everyone worries me. Why can’t they leave me alone?”
Frank stood up.
“No one will worry you any more,” he said softly, stepped to the door.
Old Humphrey turned, sliding his broken boots over the dirty floor, clutching at his ragged overcoat.
“Close your eyes,” Max said. “We don’t want you to see us leave.”
“I won’t look, mister,” Old Humphrey said.
“Close your eyes,” Max repeated softly.
The grimy, wrinkled eyelids dropped: like two shutters of an untenanted house.
Max slipped his gun from the shoulder holster, touched Old Humphrey’s forehead lightly with the barrel, squeezed the trigger.
* * *
Half-way down the broad stairs, on the landing leading to the final flight of stairs, stood an old grandfather clock.
As Carol crept past it it gave off a loud whirring sound and began to chime.
For an instant she stood very still and watched herself run out of her body, down the stairs, whirl and run back into her body again. Then she realized it was only the old clock chiming and she leaned against the creaking banister-rail, sick with shock. She went on down the stairs towards the dark hall and the front door that led into the open.
She reached the hall, stood for a moment to listen.
Miss Lolly poured boiling water into a tea-pot. She put a cup and saucer, a bowl of sugar, a jug of milk on the tray.
Carol heard all this, knew exactly what Miss Lolly was doing. In a minute or so Miss Lolly would be coming out into the hall with the tray.
The hall door was ajar and the warmth of the sun-baked garden seeped through the opening, wound like an invisible ribbon around Carol’s limbs.
She moved quickly and silently past the big oak hall-stand on which lay a dirty ten-dollar bill. There’ll be money on the hall-stand, Miss Lolly had said. Carol picked up the note: it felt dry and brittle in her nervous fingers. She held it tightly, not quite believing it was real, and went on to the front door.
She opened the door, which creaked sharply, making the nerves in her body stiffen like pieces of wire. She looked back over her shoulder.
Miss Lolly was watching her from the kitchen door. She was crying. Tears ran down her gaunt face and sparkled like chips of ice in her beard. She held the tea-tray before her: the crockery rattled faintly because her hands were trembling.
They stared at each other, sympathy and terror bridging the gulf between them, then Carol ran out on to the verandah, closed the front door behind her, shutting off the sight of Miss Lolly’s triumphant but agonized expression.
Close by the rasp of a saw biting into hard wood jarred the peaceful stillness. Carol paused to reconnoitre the ground. There was an overgrown path that led from the house down to a white-wood gate. Beyond the gate was the by-road, sandy and rutty, that led into the jungle of cypress and brier. It’s a long walk to the main road, Miss Lolly had said.
The sound of the saw abruptly ceased: a silence full of hot sunshine fell over the old plantation house. Carol walked swiftly, and carefully across the verandah to the head of the four rotten wooden steps that led to the path. There she paused again to listen.
She did not hear Sherill come round the side of the house. His naked feet made no sound in the soft, hot sand. She first became aware of him when he arrived at the bottom of the stoop and was staring at her with angry, frightened eyes as if he couldn’t quite believe what he was seeing.
Beyond his tall, upright figure lay the by-road and freedom.
“Get back to your room,” he said harshly.
Carol looked quickly to right and left. The rail of the verandah, rotten as it was, fenced her in. It was impossible to retreat: only the dark hall yawned behind her, but it offered no escape. Escape lay ahead, beyond this angry, frightened man who barred her path.
“Don’t touch me,” she said fiercely. “I’m going . . . you can’t stop me . . .”
“You’re not,” Sherill send. “Go back to your room. I don’t want to hurt you . . . but I shall if you don’t go back.”
The thought of further pain made Carol cringe, but she didn’t move, and when Sherill began a cautious approach she still did not move.
“Get back,” he said, reached out and caught her arm.
She struck at him then. Her fist caught him high up on his cheekbone, startled rather than hurt him; then she flew at him, kicking and hitting him.
He held her close. His arms, big and hard, encircled her, crushing her to him, smothering her efforts to hit him, driving the breath out of her body. He gave her a hard chopping blow with his clenched fist that landed in the hollow of her neck, turning her sick and faint. She ceased to struggle and he half carried her, half dragged her, into the hall. Then he paused, stared at Miss Lolly, who faced him, a double-barrelled shot-gun in her hand.
“Put her down,” she said firmly. “Please, Tex, put her down.”
“Get out of the way,” Sherill snarled. “Have you gone crazy, too?”
Carol suddenly bunched herself against him like a spring coiling, then sprang back against his encircling arms, breaking his hold. She thudded against the wall, staggered, half fell. Miss Lolly pushed the gun against Sherill’s chest.
“Don’t make me shoot you,” she pleaded, her eyes wild. “She must be allowed to go. We mustn’t stop her. We have no right to keep her here.”
Sherill cursed her, but he made no move as Carol slipped past him, ran blindly into the open towards the white wooden gate.
“You know what you’ve done?” he said. “You damned old sentimental fool. I shouldn’t have trusted you.” He went to the door, looked after Carol. She was running very quickly: he was astonished that anyone could move so lightly and yet so quickly over the uneven ground. He knew he had no hope of catching her.
Then he thought of the dog, and without looking at Miss Lolly he ran down the wooden steps, round the building, to the kennels.
Carol kept to the by-road. Each side of her the dense jungle of trees and bushes and high grass shut her in like the walls of a maze. As she ran she listened and heard no sound of pursuit, but she did not slacken her pace until she had gone some distance from the old plantation house; then, panting, a pain in her side, she slowed to a walk.
She had no idea how far she was from Point Breese. She realized that the distance must be great, for she had spent a long time in the rapidly moving Packard. But she had money now: admittedly not much, but enough if she could only reach a bus stop or a railway station.
She realized with something like triumph that the Sullivans had only a few minutes’ start over her. They had the car, of course, but they wouldn’t find Steve quickly. She was certain that Magarth wouldn’t have left Steve in that wood. With any luck she would arrive at Point Breese before the Sullivans found him: that was all she asked for.
Then suddenly she stiffened, her heart fluttering, looked back over her shoulder. Not far away came the bay of a hound, and instantly she began to run again.
If that man had set a dog after her. . . again she looked back along the twisting, narrow, hedged-in road. Was there any use hiding? She came to an abrupt standstill, looked wildly around for
a stick—some weapon with which to defend herself.
A moment later she saw the dog. It came bounding down the narrow road: a great black brute with a spade-shaped head, close hair and a long tail. Its eyes were like little sparks of fire.
Carol caught her breath when she saw this black monster rushing towards her. There was nothing she could do. It was like being in a nightmare, and she stood still, the hot sun beating on her back, her shadow, long and thin, pointing at the dog like a weapon.
When the dog saw her it slowed to a menacing walk, its muzzle only a few inches from the ground, its tail stiff, in line with its back and head.
Carol scarcely breathed. She fixed the dog with her eyes and was as still as if she had been carved out of stone.
The dog slowed its pace, snarled at her: the great fangs as white as orange pith under the black lip. Then its hair stiffened all along its thin, hard back, and it stopped, crouched, uncertain whether to spring or not.
Knowing it was her only chance of escape, Carol willed the dog to remain where it was. She tried to see into the dog’s brain, and now that she had stopped it in its tracks she moved forward very slowly and the dog began to back: like a cartoon film in reverse.
For a full minute they continued to stare at each other, then the dog’s tail gradually lost its stiffness, like a ship striking its flag, then its nerve broke and with a low howl it turned and bolted back down the narrow road, and with a sob of relief Carol turned and fled in the opposite direction.
* * *
Sherill was blundering down the hot road when the dog passed him and he stood staring after the dog, the blood draining out of his face. He knew then that Carol had escaped and there was nothing he could do to recapture her.
He stood for some moments, unable to think. If she ain’t here when we get back, you best not be here either, Max had said. The Sullivans didn’t make idle threats. Slowly he turned and walked back to the old plantation house, pushed open the wooden gate, walked stiffly up the garden path.
Miss Lolly sat in the basket chair, a wooden, frightened expression on her face. She looked at him out of the comer of her eyes, but he said nothing, walked past her into the house. He was inside some time, but Miss Lolly continued to sit in the sun, waiting. She had no regrets. She felt that in releasing Carol she had, in some way, justified her own tragic life.
Sherill came out on to the verandah. He was wearing a grey and black check suit, Mexican boots and a big white Stetson. Miss Lolly remembered that hat when, years ago, Sherill had joined the circus and it had attracted her attention: remembering how young and dashing he had looked, wearing it. But now, his face white and puffy, there wasn’t any resemblance left of the young man who had fluttered her heart.
Sherill dumped down the two bags, walked down the wooden steps, then paused.
“You best pack up,” he said without looking at her. “We’ve gotta get out,” and he went on down the path, round the house to the barn. He moved slowly as if his boots were too tight.
Miss Lolly continued to sit in the basket chair. Her fingers fumbled at her beard, her eyes were bright with unshed tears.
On the upper landing of the house the grandfather clock chimed the half-hour. The clock had been in Miss Lolly’s spacious caravan throughout her circus career. All the other furniture in the house—what there was of it—belonged to her, and each piece was a memory in her life.
A large red and black butterfly fishtailed in and landed on the verandah rail, close to Miss Lolly. She looked at it, watched it move its wings slowly up and down and then take off, flying through the motionless hot scented air.
The butterfly reminded her of Carol. “Beauty should not be imprisoned,” she thought. “I did right: I know I did right.”
Sherill drove round to the front of the house in a big Ford truck. He cut the engine, got out, came up the steps.
“You’ll have to help,” he said, still not looking at Miss Lolly. “We can take most everything in the truck.”
“I’m going to stay,” Miss Lolly said quietly. “This is my home.”
“I know,” Sherill said roughly. “Well, you’ve smashed it up for us now. Come on, don’t talk a lot of drivel. We’ve got to get out . . . you know those boys. . . .”
“You go,” Miss Lolly said, thinking of the butterfly. “I’d rather stay, even if it’s only for a day or so. I’ve been happy here.”
Sherill eyed her, lifted his shoulders wearily.
“All right,” he said. “If that’s the way you feel. I’ll get off then.”
Miss Lolly looked up.
“I did right, Tex,” she said quietly. “It was an evil thing.
“Yes, you did right,” Sherill said, defeated. “So long, Lolly.”
“Good-bye,” she said, “and good luck, Tex.”
She watched him dump his bags in the truck, climb into the cab.
“They said they’d be back in two or three days,” Sherill said as he stabbed the starter.
“It’ll be long enough,” Miss Lolly returned.
* * *
Carol had got to within twenty-five miles of Point Breese when her luck seemed to run out. Up to this moment she had been travelling by various routes and vehicles towards Steve, but now night had come down the cars and trucks which before had stopped willingly enough seemed shy of her.
The drivers were not chancing trouble by stopping for the rather wild-looking girl who waved frantically at them as they rushed through the darkness. A man might have got a lift, but not a girl. The drivers who passed Carol were heading for home; they didn’t want trouble or excitement. One or two of them did hesitate, slow down, wondering if she was a looker, whether they might have a little fun with her, but that patch of road there were no lights, and they decided she’d probably be a hag, so they kept on, increasing their speed, feeling suddenly virtuous.
Carol was tired. Prom the start it seemed to be going so well. A truck picked her up on the State Highway and the driver was decent to her, sharing with her his ample lunch, talking cheerfully about things that happened to him in his narrow walk of life. He set her down at a cross-roads, showing her the direction she’d have to take, wishing her luck.
A travelling salesman gave her a lift only a few minutes after the truck had disappeared in a cloud of dust. No, he wasn’t going to Point Breese, but he could drop her off at Campville, which was on the route.
He was more curious than the truck-driver and had asked questions. What was she doing, thumbing rides ? Was she running away from home? Did she know she was pretty nice to look at? Hadn’t she better let him take her home? But she evaded these questions, made him talk about himself.
At Campville he gave her five dollars.
“You’ll need it, kid,” he said, opening the car door for her. “Aw, forget it. I’m making good money in this racket. If I want you to have it, why shouldn’t I give it to you? Get a meal. So long and luck.”
In a little restaurant in the main street she learned that the Sullivans had been in there. They had dropped in for a cup of coffee: four hours since. The news cheered her, and she finished her meal, went out into the street and caught the bus to Kinston, another milestone along her journey.
At Kinston she had to wait an hour or so before she found transport. Kinston, they told her, was forty-five miles from Point Breese. There was no direct bus service to Point Breese. She’d have to change at Bear Lake. There’d be an hour and a half wait at Bear Lake for the connecting bus.
A young fellow in a blue suit and stained grey hat, hearing the conversation, said he was going to Point Breese. He would be glad to take her. So she went with him, and they drove out of Kinston into the thickening dusk.
The young fellow drove very fast and said nothing and smoked cigarettes all the time. He drove with only one hand and whipped the car in and out of traffic, bearing down upon other cars until they slewed aside with brakes squealing, shooting recklessly across intersections.
He frightened Carol more by his
silence than his recklessness.
When they got into the open country he slammed on his brakes, ran off the road on to the grass verge. Then he threw away his cigarettes and grabbed her.
He was very strong and handled her with practised ease. He kept kissing her while she tried to fight him off. While they struggled, he never said a word, and Carol hadn’t enough breath to scream.
He seemed to know exactly what he wanted to do to her: and he did it, and then he shoved her away from him and lit a cigarette. His hat had fallen off in the struggle and his hair had broken about his face, hair long as a girl’s. He flung it back with a toss of his head.
When she opened the car door and staggered out on to the grass verge he didn’t even look at her, and he drove away fast, the red glow of his cigarette like a little sneering eye where his mouth should have been.
That was when her luck ran out. It was some little while before she gathered enough courage to wave again to the passing cars: but none of them stopped.
There was a long tear in her dress and one of her stockings had come down and she was crying. She looked wild all right, and the drivers were scared of her.
After a while she gave up waving and began to walk. She walked stiffly. It was dark and lonely and the night air was turning cold. But she kept on, thinking of Steve, imagining the Sullivans already in Point Breese.
Then she heard the sound of brakes and a moment later a big kind of wagon she couldn’t see much of it in the darkness—drew up and the driver switched on his spot-lamp and focussed it on her.
She was too tired and sick to wonder at his startled exclamation.
“Hello there,” the driver said out of the darkness. “I guess you could use a ride.”
She said yes; not caring what happened to her so long as she could reach Point Breese.
The driver climbed down from the cab and stood beside her. She saw he was wearing a white coat.
“This must be my lucky day,” he said with an excited laugh, and caught hold of her very expertly so that she was helpless without being hurt.
He ran her to the back of the wagon.
The Flesh of The Orchid Page 13
