by Guy N Smith
He was halfway through his fruit juice when Ann returned, slid into the vacant chair on the other side of the table. He nodded to her and said, ‘By the way, I haven’t seen that boorish chap I got landed with the other night. Wasn’t he the clown who …’
‘Yes, a bit of a nuisance. I haven’t seen him since either.’ She spoke just too quickly and her attempt to change the subject was only too obvious. ‘I can recommend the shepherd’s pie tonight, Jeff.’
‘I’ve ordered,’ he was watching her closely. ‘Chicken salad. It’s too hot to eat anything cooked and, anyway, if we’re going into town later I thought perhaps we’d try a meal. There’s sure to be an Indian or a Chinese open late, especially holiday times.’
‘Oh!’ Thank God! Damn you!
‘That is, if you want to go into town.’
‘Oh, yes, that’d be fine.’
‘Good, that’s settled then.’ He saw how the colour drained from her features. Something was definitely worrying her; tonight he would drag it out of her. There was an undercurrent of unrest in the camp, you couldn’t fail to notice it. Maybe it was the murders, it couldn’t be anything else.
‘See you later then.’ She stood up, held on to the back of the chair for a moment.
It was half-past ten when Ann Stackhouse arrived at Jeff Beebee’s chalet, unusually early and he was barely ready. She saw that he had changed out of his blue suit into slacks and a shirt and cravat. She was tense, had a slight feeling of nausea. She had made up her mind to tell him tonight; not everything, she would honour her official secrets, but enough to persuade him to leave. If he left of his own accord then Tony couldn’t blame her for not slipping him the drug.
‘Hope the car still starts.’ He pulled the front door shut behind them, tested it. ‘Haven’t used it since I arrived. I was tempted to go for a run somewhere today but it’s not much fun on your own, is it? And, anyway, the roads are packed with tourists. One of the attractions for me coming to the camp was not having to drive. And talking of driving,’ he stole a glance at her, saw how pale she was in the artificial lighting of the camp, ‘there’s only just over a week of my holiday left. I go back a week tomorrow.’
‘Oh!’ He hoped it was disappointment, so expressionless as if her thoughts were elsewhere.
‘I was thinking,’ they were clear of the main camp now, just a warren of chalet streets, dark shadows in between the intermittent lamps; his hand felt hers, she was sweating. ‘As I said, I was thinking that maybe I could drive up here at weekends, book in as a weekender.’
‘No!’ She slowed her step, almost stopped. ‘No, Jeff, I don’t want you to do that.’
‘I see,’ suddenly there was a void in the pit of his stomach, ‘it’s just a holiday romance, all over on Saturday week, eh?’
‘No, Jeff, I don’t want it to end, please!’ She clutched at him, held on to him. ‘Whatever happens, I can’t bear the thought of not seeing you again.’
This was crazy, for a second he doubted his own sanity and hers. Then relief flooded back; whatever else, the most important thing to him was that she did not want their affair to end. ‘I think you’ve got some explaining to do,’ he spoke quietly, firmly.
‘Yes, but I can’t tell you everything. Not yet, anyway.’ She seemed to be dragging him along now, looking around as though she feared that somebody might be following them, eavesdropping on them. ‘But … Jeff, suppose we just got into your car and drove out of the camp, didn’t come back? Would you … do that?’
Christ, she was working herself up into a state, he had detected a trace of near-hysteria, desperation in her plea. ‘If you really wanted to, I would. But I’d have to pack first. I’m not leaving all my things behind. Look, let’s go and have a meal first, and perhaps I can persuade you to tell me what’s going on. Then, maybe tomorrow, if you’re still in the same mind, we’ll go. How’s that?’
A compromise was better than nothing. She relaxed a little. An hour or two away from this dreadful place was an appealing thought right now.
Below them was the car park, three acres of uneven ground outlined in the eerie half-light from the camp. Lines of vehicles, old bangers and new registrations, a caravanette in the centre towering above the rest. An empty attendant’s booth. If you wanted to take your car you drove to the main gates; there was a security man on duty 24 hours a day. He gave you a pass which you had to show upon your return. A sudden disturbing thought struck Ann as they descended the steep path down to the rough ground below. They would see her, maybe recognize her; there was no way of knowing what lengths Morton would go to. This was high-risk security, top level. The sinking feeling returned.
‘Jeff?’ She held on to him, pulled him back.
‘What is it?’ Christ, don’t say she’s changed her mind!
‘I … I don’t want to be seen at the camp checkpoint. Maybe if I could … lie on the floor at the back. Or something.’
‘If it’s that serious.’ He kept a hold on her, eased her gently down on to level ground. ‘I must say, though, I think you’re overreacting, whatever the problem is.’
They walked on, not talking. He had to stop and think just where his car was parked; third row along, right at the end. In the darkness his foot kicked against something which rolled and clinked; an empty drink can probably, untidy buggers! He sensed his companion’s start, thought he detected a tremble in the hand he held.
‘Here we are.’ He searched his pockets for the key, made out the squat shape of the old Maxi parked between two other cars. ‘She goes, that’s one thing in her favour. I have to run two vehicles, you see. A van for work.’ Embarrassed in case she had been expecting something better. Ann did not appear to notice.
He opened the driver’s door, reached across the seat and opened the passenger side for his companion. It felt strange to be sitting in a car again; he had just become accustomed to not having to rely on vehicular transport.
‘Let’s hope she starts.’ He turned the key. The engine spluttered, picked up, and he revved the throttle. ‘Well, the rest seems to have done her good.’
‘I think I should get in the back.’ Ann sounded nervous.
‘All right, just let me back out first then you can change over.’
He engaged reverse gear, let the clutch out, and the moment the car began to move he knew that something was wrong. He had to accelerate to turn the wheels and even then they seemed to move only with a tremendous effort. The car was sagging, resting on its chassis, a cringing dog shuffling backwards on its belly. The steering wheel would barely turn, they felt the unevenness of the ground underneath.
‘Christ, whatever’s the matter?’ The engine stalled, it was as though the wheels were bogged down, immovable. ‘Let’s have a look out there.’
Jeff grabbed a torch from the glovebox, climbed out. He had recognized the symptoms, come across them before, that feeling of frustration when the steering went heavy and the wheels pulled to one side. A puncture. But never so pronounced as this. He shone the torch, the dim beam confirmed his fears on the front offside wheel; the tyre was flat. And the one on the nearside front! He knew then before he checked that the back ones had suffered the same fate. Standing there in disbelief, staring at the car which gave the appearance of having sat down.
‘Jeff, what’s the matter?’ Ann had the door open, he saw her frightened features, the whiteness of her face, the terror in her eyes.
‘Flats.’ He tried to sound casual. ‘Four of ’em! Hey, wait a minute ...’ He dropped to his knees, checked a valve, then another, didn’t bother with the remaining two because they would be the same. ‘Not punctures, they’ve been let down. Deflated on purpose! Bloody vandals! Ah, well, that scotches our plans for tonight. I’ll have to borrow a footpump from somebody tomorrow, blow them up enough to get me up to the camp garage and then we’ll be operating normally again!’
‘Oh, no!’ She was close to tears.
There’s no accounting for women, he thought. First you’re not keen on go
ing into town and now that you can’t go you’re upset. ‘I’ve still got a bottle of wine left,’ he tried to console her as he re-locked the car. ‘Guess we’ll have to make do with that. The seafood bar will still be open with a bit of luck and we can pick something up there on the way. Now, come on, we’ve got some talking to do. You did promise to fill me in on one or two things.’
They were like strangers tonight, Jeff thought, sitting on the same settee but all they had done so far was to hold hands. Frequent lapses in conversation, small talk for the sake of it. He refilled Ann’s glass; maybe soon the wine would start to relax her and then he would press her to talk.
‘I guess I’ll get an early night.’ She stared at the wall opposite. ‘I’d better go back to my place tonight, if you don’t mind, Jeff.’
‘Please yourself,’ he was tight-lipped, ‘but I think you owe me an explanation. You did give me a half-promise. Remember?’
She licked her lips nervously. ‘I can’t tell you, Jeff. Oh, I wish to God I could, but to stop you putting too much pressure on me, let me tell you I’m sworn to secrecy by the Official Secrets Act.’
‘The Official Secrets Act!’ He was incredulous. ‘But … but that’s for top-ranking civil servants!’
‘Which I am,’ she smiled wanly, ‘and please don’t ask me to enlighten you. Suffice to say that tonight if you had been willing I would have run away with you. I don’t think we would have got far, they would have had roadblocks and search parties out looking for us. It wasn’t vandals who let down your tyres, Jeff, it was … I can’t say, but they don’t mean you or I to leave the camp.’
‘Me! How do I figure in it? I suppose it’s because we’re having an affair.’
‘Partly true.’ She was looking down at her feet now, head bowed. ‘I did try and get you to check out a few days ago, Jeff. I guess that now it’s too late. We’re both caught up in this business and we’ll have to see it through. Pray God that we’re still together at the end of it.’
‘Okay, you can’t tell me,’ he was on his feet, pacing up and down the room, ‘but odd things have been happening, not to mention two murders and a police shooting. Some kind of spy ring, maybe. Or are they up to something, the people running the camp?’
She flinched and he knew that he was near the truth.
‘Don’t ask me, Jeff, please.’
‘I’m just talking to myself, hazarding guesses.’ And looking for reactions. ‘Some kind of unhealthy governmental experiment like dosing people with radiation to see how they react?’
‘Shut up!’ A near-hysterical scream and he knew he was very close to the truth.
He stepped forward, put an arm around her. ‘I’m sorry, I’ll keep my suspicions to myself. Now, I reckon you’d be better off staying the night here.’
‘No,’ she was adamant, ‘I must go back to my own chalet. They might check, particularly as they’ve gone so far as to stop us leaving the camp. I’d better go, Jeff.’
‘I’ll walk you back,’ he kissed her.
‘No, I’ll be all right. I think the less we’re seen together from now on, the better for both of us. Oh, Jeff, go before it’s too late. Get your tyres blown up in the morning and get away from here!’
‘No way,’ he squeezed her hand, ‘I’m sticking around now. Neither you nor them are going to drive me out. I’ll see you in the restaurant tomorrow.’
She let herself out into the night, streets of shadows where the lamplight did not penetrate, a holiday world that had become a place of terror. In her pocket she still had the tablet known as C-551. They had given her one last chance and she had spurned it. There wouldn’t be another and that was a very frightening prospect.
She walked quickly, frequently glancing behind her, peering into the doorways of deserted chalets whose occupants were out enjoying themselves; bingo, cinema, discos, life went on as normal in an abnormal camp.
Late evening desolation before the campers began returning to their digs. Empty streets, no drunken laughter. She would explain to Morton in the morning that Jeff Beebee had eaten salad that night, that there was no way she could have administered the drug. He wouldn’t believe her; she couldn’t blame him. Because when it came to the crunch I would have ducked out, I know I would.
Suddenly there was somebody in front of her on the walkway. A silhouette, featureless, stocky; it didn’t step out to bar her path, rather a materialisation as if it had sprung up out of the concrete surface. Legs apart, slightly bowed, head thrust forward threateningly.
Ann gave a gasp of surprise, cringed, somehow was unable to turn and run. A silent encounter, the other just watching her, face hidden in the shadows but she knew the expression was malevolent. Her legs felt incredibly weak, she wished she could faint, aware of how her heart had started to hammer. Knowing that this street of chalets was deserted apart from herself and this stranger, that was the worst part. A light here and there behind closed curtains and the music from the fairground seemed to increase, purposely to drown any cry for help she might give.
A metre, no more, separated them. The other was tensed, he might spring upon her at any second. Her brain was confused, trying to find a reason, a motive. A mugger; you can have my handbag, there’s nothing in it, anyway. A rapist; I’m not going to struggle if you promise not to kill me. No, it was neither of those, deep down she knew. This was the price of failure, of disobedience.
In one bound he had her, grabbed both her wrists in one hand, pulled them behind her back, arched her spine as he did so. She grunted with pain, looked up, but still his face was invisible; he had positioned himself perfectly with the nearest streetlamp at his back, knew exactly where to stand.
Calculated rather than vicious, he had rendered her powerless with one move and still had a free hand. Her instinct was to kick out, to aim for his groin, but she held back; she would have overbalanced and, more frighteningly, enraged him.
Sheer terror petrified her, robbed her of movement in every limb. She could not even plead with him. She wanted to yell, ‘I did my best but he ate cold food, it was no good.’ It would have been futile.
Then he struck her, not a short jab into the pit of her stomach, more a grinding of a bunched fist, boring deep into her. A human power drill pushing the breath out of her, would have doubled her up had she not been held at full stretch. Agonizing abdominal pain, throwing up as her intestines were distended, head to one side, afraid that she might drown in her own vomit. Thrown on her side but still held off the ground. The fist came out of her, she sensed a rush of air inside her as the vacuum was filled. And then he hit her.
A downward chopping blow with the flat of his hand, catching her across the side of the neck. More of a slap, and as he released her and she slumped to the ground she thought her neck was broken. Writhing, wanting to clutch herself, her stomach, her neck, but her hands would not move. Lying there like a cast-off soft toy, looking up and seeing that figure towering over her; it appeared to have grown to giant proportions, menacing because it made no threats. Flinching and anticipating a further assault, but none came.
He spoke for the first time, flat tones devoid of expression, a husky whisper. ‘That was just a warning.’
She tried to mouth a reply, an apology, an assurance, but none came. Her lips felt numbed the way they did after a dentist’s injection, she doubted whether they even moved.
So cold-blooded, no abuse, nothing personal, that was the terrifying part. A job that had to be done and he had done it, chosen his time and place and carried out his assignment with total efficiency. Ann wanted to cry but that would come later; she feared for her body, internal injuries, a dislocated neck, maybe whiplash. Paralysed, spending the rest of her life in a wheelchair, those few seconds a recurring nightmare for evermore.
Her attacker turned away, stopped and looked back as though an afterthought had occurred to him.
‘Next time they won’t recognize you when they find you,’ Muliman said and glided away into the darkness.
Chapter Fifteen
Ruth Mace had not slept all night. Gwyn was restless, too, and she had done her best not to disturb him, sneaking out of bed sometime around dawn and going through to the kitchen for some aspirin. If anything, the tablets made her worse.
She debated whether or not to confide in her husband. He certainly would not welcome the prospect of another child, he had made enough fuss when she was pregnant with Sarah. All this was bad enough and when she recalled something she had read in the papers, it must have been weeks ago. Doubtless, it had evoked a storm of protest from women everywhere although Ruth could not remember the outcome.
The government was concerned about the population explosion; the unemployment figures had topped four million and there was only one solution – no family was allowed more than one child! She felt herself starting to panic, wrung her hands together in despair. At the time it hadn’t worried her much, nobody concerned themselves with matters which did not affect them directly, did they? You had enough problems of your own without taking on anybody else’s. She and Gwyn wouldn’t be having any more family, anyway, so it didn’t matter to them.
Desperately she tried to remember what she had read. The details were hazy, she hadn’t taken it all in, just snatches of it, skimming through the long leader article. When had the birth limit become law? Surely it must be in force by now, or if not then it would be by the time she gave birth.
The media had made a comparison with China. A family was allowed only one child; there were innumerable methods of birth control so you didn’t have any excuse. The penalty was severe for parents contravening the new laws. Oh, God, it was all coming back to her now. A fine of £5,000 and/or a term of two years’ imprisonment for the offending mother and father. Ruth almost screamed her anguish aloud.
And that wasn’t all. She pushed her clenched fists up to her mouth, gnawed on the knuckles. The authorities had the power to remove a second child, take it away! Perhaps it was put into care; that wouldn’t solve the country’s problems, though, because in a few years’ time they would have a host of unlawful teenagers about to join the dole queue. The newspaper had been a bit vague about what happened to ‘confiscated’ offspring. They might be put down like an unwanted pet! Euthanasia!
