Hartinger's Mouse (Commander Shaw Book 12)

by Philip McCutchan

  I got out. The heavy gun looked as if it might go off at any moment and if it did there wouldn’t be a thing left of my head. But Fesse was looking dead keen to get off the road, which I wasn’t. I said conversationally, wasting a little time, “I suppose you know you don’t have the cure after all.”

  For a moment he looked quite furiously angry, as though he might shoot and be done with me. He snapped, “Weiler does not know everything. I —”

  “But we have it, Fesse. Seawater.”

  “I have heard the broadcasts on the radio.” He was in a hurry still. “I have no comment, none at all. Move off the road. That way.”

  He indicated the north side. I obeyed and he followed close. I heard his heavy breathing almost down my neck and felt the pressure of the sub-machine-gun’s snout in my spine. Soon we were out of sight from the road, not that there was any traffic along it currently anyhow. I dare say it never was used a great deal. After a while I asked Fesse where he was making for, and why he’d hung around. The answer to the second part was what I’d suspected: he wanted me. But not, after all, to kill me. He said, “If I have to kill you, then I will. I mean that, Commander, believe me.” I did. “But if possible I want you alive.”

  “To do what?”

  “Further experiments.”

  “Why me?” The Continent, after all, had its own indigenous population; but maybe it was the seawater. He might want me more than ever now, which gave me longer to live, perhaps.

  He answered my question: “You are as good as anyone.”

  “Thank you. But was I really worth risking a long wait?”

  “I think so. Tell me about the salt water.”

  I did. I said it seemed, as no doubt he had gathered for himself, to be working very well. He said that later on I would be able to demonstrate, but the demonstration would not be held in Britain — that much, at least, I’d guessed. I said, “I still can’t see myself as worth the risk of your hanging around in Scotland. Was it just revenge, Fesse?”

  “You may choose the word if you wish. There was no real risk, you know,” he added.

  “Oh?”

  “You have seen my pack, of course. It contains the disease spores in powder form. If anyone had tried to arrest me, I should have puffed the disease at him.”

  “What good would that have done you?”

  “The disease has quickened in its effect, and the organisms I have with me kill very fast. So long as I remain in wild country I cannot be taken. The disease will act before I can be removed to safe custody.”

  “Mad,” I said. “Definitely insane.”

  He laughed behind me, and it really was a crazy sound. “The proof of the pudding is in the eating. I have been puffing powder into the air already, and spreading the sickness. So far, I have been successful. You can’t deny that.”

  “All right, I won’t deny it, then. How did you get on to me?”

  He said, “By listening to the various reports, and using my brain to interpret them.”

  “Great. That’s what you were supposed to do, Fesse.”

  “What do you mean?” There was a difference in his tone now; he was angry and, possibly, a shade off his stroke.

  “Didn’t you ever suspect a trap, Fesse? Didn’t you really?”

  There was a pause, then he laughed again. It was a high laugh and I was convinced it wasn’t sane. He said, “Trap or no trap, it is all the same. If there was any trap at all, it was you who fell into it head first, Commander Shaw. And if you try to tell me you have soldiers behind you, who will follow us, then I shall say you are wasting your precious breath, for if there had been anyone keeping a guard on you, they would have come into the open by this time.”

  I shrugged. It was true enough, all of it. It looked as though I had landed right in the creek now, up to my neck, and definitely no paddles handy.

  *

  I had no idea where we were going, except that I had a feeling it was north-east. By the sun, that seemed to be the most consistent heading, though we were twisting and turning most of the time owing to the lie of the land. It was utter desolation; not a soul, not a dwelling in sight. Just the birds for company — and Fesse of course, still holding the gun in my back. He wouldn’t say where we were going, wouldn’t answer any more questions at all now, and I couldn’t even draw him out by references to Weiler, whom he had tried to double-cross. He simply didn’t react, except that when he grew angry he took it out on my spine by means of the gun. I felt a mass of bruises after a time. And my feet were hell. I reckoned my shoe-leather wouldn’t last all that much longer. I hadn’t even the hope of a search, at least not for a long while yet. Thanks to my own plan, I wouldn’t be missed very quickly; and it would be difficult to say the least for Daintree to get any sort of line out to me even when that shot-up car was found. I tried, as we stumbled on, climbing and descending what seemed like whole mountain ranges, to visualize the map and work out our likely movements. If I was right about our north-easterly course, we would presumably be keeping level with Loch Carron and then Glen Carron, and later we might alter to the north-west and try to make the coast by way of the glens or straths. If we did that, we would reach the sea somewhere around Loch Torridon way, I supposed. After that, my geography ran out on me — I was almost too damn weary to think properly by this time. After all, I’d had no sleep the previous night, having spent the time walking to Dornie. I was hungry, too, and glad now of the Scotch pancakes I’d eaten for breakfast.

  The sun went down and we still went on walking, taking brief rests from time to time, very brief ones. Having got his man, Fesse was all for pressing on. I wondered again what he had got lined up for us — a surface vessel, something like a fishing boat that wouldn’t be remarked on at first sight? A submarine, a helicopter? Weiler had been going to use a helicopter, I remembered, to ferry him away to the vessel lying out in the Atlantic. During the night we crossed what I think must have been the A890, running up from Stromeferry to Achnasheen. I’d fancied we might do that, and had hoped to create a diversion, but no such luck. The road was empty both ways and we went across in total anonymity and once again we vanished into the desolation of the wild, wild north. Ross and Cromarty, I thought, from now on you’re out, right out. If I get clear of this little situation, it’s Margate for me. We went through a forest and we came to another road, and we crossed it into more forest. Fesse was a pretty fair navigator, all right, assuming he knew where he was heading and wasn’t just going further and further round the bend. Also, something was giving him an inexhaustible supply of energy. Myself, I was moving like a robot now, just plunging one foot down in front of the other, on and on and on. I didn’t dare try anything; that gun was far too steady and it would have blasted off into my back the moment I did so much as look round without orders to do so.

  But I knew that before long I would have to take the risk. In fact I would have taken it before now if we’d seen any human movement anywhere, pinning my hopes on very fast movement. Probably, of course, forlornly.

  I wasn’t in the least prepared for what actually did happen.

  *

  The dawn was once again superb, absolutely wonderful. Green and gold and purple lit the hills and the tree-tops, filtered down to Fesse and me moving along a carpet of pine needles. Babes in the wood, I thought, just babes in the wood. One day, maybe, someone will come and rescue us. My head reeled and felt light and woolly. Grandma and the wolf. Rumpelstiltskin. Grimm … by God, this was grim all right! I laughed, sounding mad myself I expect. There was no reaction from Fesse. Not just then. He was probably whacked himself by this time. I just might be able to catch him off guard if I moved really fast, but could I? My reactions were right down to zero minus and I was tottering. My eyelids kept on falling, and I had a job to force them up again. I was terrified that I would stumble, and trigger-happy Fesse would open fire just to be on the safe side. I saw from the sun’s new position that we had changed direction in the night — north-west. We must be heading for
the coast above Loch Torridon.

  As we came clear of the trees at last I decided I had to do something, even if it was only to say goodbye. I forced my eyes to stay open for long enough, and I took a grip of my lolloping limbs and steadied for a swift turn. At the very instant I was ready to swing, Fesse gave a stifled gasp. I stopped — I shouldn’t have done, I should have taken a great opportunity, but I stopped. I asked, “What is it, Fesse?”

  “Nothing,” he said, breaking a long, long silence. “Go on walking, or I shall shoot.”

  I shrugged and obeyed. Suddenly I was more alert, my senses reacting to this rather newer situation. A hundred yards farther on Fesse groaned again, then suddenly yelped. It was a sound of agony, but the gun was still hard in my back. He stumbled on, breathing heavily and giving little grunts of pain. I asked, “Got the sickness, Fesse? Caught up with you, has it?”

  “No, it is not that,” he hissed. I could hear the pain in his voice. “Move on.”

  I moved on. The gun was still there. After another terrible yell came from him I asked, “Come on, let’s have it, what’s the trouble?”

  “It’s my stomach. A great pain.”

  Unkindly I said, “Go behind a bush. I’ll wait.”

  “Damn you, it is not that!”

  “What, then?”

  “I — don’t — know.” He gave a horrible cry then, a sort of strangled shriek of pure agony. The gun left my back and I was round in a flash. Fesse was teetering on his legs, his arms swinging the gun in circles. Then he dropped it. I picked it up. I said happily, “Oh, brother! If it isn’t my turn now, I don’t know what it is. Get going, Fesse, and move for the nearest nick, me in charge.”

  His face was green. Slowly, his hands clasping his gut, he collapsed to the ground with that heavy pack on top of his body. I saw quite clearly that he was past any more movement. I stood with the gun pointing down at him till I saw it wasn’t necessary any more. There was no fight in him at all; I think he just wanted to lie there and die. I looked around. We were still very much in the wilds, so far as I could see. I fancied my best bet would be to take my bearing from the sun and head south, where I felt fairly sure I might hit Loch Torridon. There would be some loch-side towns or villages, and there would be police, probably troops as well. In my present state of weariness I couldn’t possibly have carried Fesse to medical care, and I don’t believe I could have brought myself to do so anyway. And he couldn’t run away, I was positive about that. He was going to die quite soon, if I was any judge. I looked down at him again, closely. Something was going on in the man’s stomach; the whole gut seemed to be heaving, bulging. It was uncanny and horrible. He was still conscious, but his eyes held a glazed look, and his lips were flecked with white foam. I couldn’t make it out at all. He certainly had no redness anywhere, and no sores. His skin was quite whole and even pallid, as though all the blood was draining away. As I watched he passed out cold, but his gut went on heaving.

  I turned from him and headed south, and after a terrible walk during which I fell down twice and slept without being aware of it till I woke in a sweat, I reached Loch Torridon and some cottages and a little village store-cum-post office, and a telephone line. The army didn’t take long to show up and I insisted on guiding them personally back to where I’d left Fesse. This time I was in a tracked vehicle, an infantry carrier. We didn’t find Fesse where I’d left him, or where I believed I’d left him. I didn’t think my navigation was in error, though it could have been, and events proved me right. A man, a farmer, came running up from somewhere when he saw the troops.

  He called, “Are ye lookin’ for a man that was found here sick?”

  A sergeant looked down from the vehicle. “That’s right. Where is he?”

  “Away over yonder.” The man waved northwards, beyond a dip in the hills. “I found him and took him back to the house.” I wished I’d taken a look that way; it would have saved a long walk, if the house happened to be on the phone. “I’m afraid he’s dead.”

  He sounded worried about that. I came to life. “You don’t need to be afraid any more,” I said, “just so long as you haven’t opened that pack he was carrying. Have you?”

  “I have not.”

  “But you must have touched it?”

  “Aye, but —”

  “Wash,” I said. “Wash well and quickly. What was the matter with the man, anyway?”

  It was then that I noticed that the Scot looked sick himself — literally as though he might puke at any moment. He said, “I think you’d better come and see for yourselves.”

  We did. We found Fesse in a barn — just in case of the sickness, the farmer’s wife had refused to have him in the house. When I looked at what was there, I was sick on the spot.

  *

  I was beyond sleep by this time and I insisted on flying south straight away. The RAF laid it on the line for me. The doctor didn’t like it, but he had to give in, and by way of compromise said I was to sleep on the plane and when I woke I was to take a couple of pep pills which he’d given me. I went out flat during that flight as a result of another pill, a tranquillizer, but not so flat I didn’t have ghastly nightmares about Fesse. I was met at Heathrow by a car from Focal House, and I dropped off again in the car in spite of the pep pills. When I woke we were coming into the City. I took a long look out of the windows. Things were getting back to normal — starting to, anyway. It was going to take a while, but the thing looked like being over now, and there would be no further contamination. The fact that Weiler had got clear away didn’t matter. Actually, now we could control the sickness after all, it was rather hard luck on Weiler. I kept thinking of Fesse as I was whisked up in the lift. He must have got himself contaminated by some of the spores he’d been carrying in his pack but had been protected by his own immunity rather than by what he believed to be his antidote — protected personally, that was. The thing that lived in his gut hadn’t been protected. I wondered where the dividing line was between animals and humans vis-à-vis that horrible contagion, just what did or did not constitute animal in that restricted sense. When I was shown into Max’s room, I found brandy and steaming hot coffee waiting. Max poured me a mixture of the two and then the first thing he asked was, “What exactly did Fesse have wrong with him, Shaw? Everyone’s been very cagey, I don’t know why.”

  I said, “I do. They didn’t know, or anyway they couldn’t believe it. I knew, because I knew Fesse’s organisms affected animal life differently — that animals grew, whereas humans developed the skin-loss and the sores alone. We have a hell of a lot to learn about the moon yet. Fesse himself was immune to his disease, but …”

  “But what?” Max stared, frowning at me across his desk.

  I said, “Fesse happened to be brewing a tapeworm.”

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