by Guy N Smith
10.30; there was still plenty of time. He need not start worrying for another half hour; he had been anxious all day, an adolescent relishing a first date, wondering if his girl would be late or maybe stand him up. Christ, I’ll go mad if she doesn’t come soon!
He was worried by eleven when there was no tap on the door, nearly frantic by 11.10. A feeling of futility, an emptiness that was already manifesting itself. She isn’t going to come.
Damn it, he would go and find her. He knew her chalet, the last-but-one in the residential staff row. A dilemma, suppose she had already started out and they missed each other on the way. He mapped out her route in his mind; down by the Caribbean Bar, along the main thoroughfare past the bingo halls and the amusement arcade, left by the Marine Bar. A maze of camp streets, she would surely take the shortest route. Even so they could easily pass in the late night crowds, the cinemagoers lingering to buy food, eating in the streets.
11.20 and he knew he had to go. He found a scrap of paper, scribbled on it in untidy capitals, BACK SOON, found a stone in the litter-strewn border and weighted it by the door. Leave the lights on, a curtain not properly closed so I can peep in when I get back. Just to be on the safe side. His mouth was dry, he remembered how Norman and those other three had looked down on the beach. He might end up the same, Ann with him.
He walked fast, this time ignoring the shadows and dark places, scrutinising every female he passed. He knew he would recognize Ann’s walk from a distance, her posture. Hoping; hopes being dashed a score of times.
Glancing into late-night shops as he came to the brightly-lit area, not expecting to see her there but taking no chances. It would be easy to miss her now the crowds were swelling.
The staff quarters were at the rear of the main reception area, no different from the rest of the accommodation, only the occasional one lighted. Which figured; if you worked here you spent as little time as possible in your digs apart from sleeping. So you were either in bed, at work or out enjoying yourself.
Jeff could see the outline of Ann’s chalet, increased his step. No lights! A sinking feeling, nausea again, wanting to break into a run, hammer on the front door, shout her name. All of which would be a waste of time because she wasn’t there.
Christ, I must have missed her on the way, I’d better hurry back! Which was optimistic thinking. He tried the door, it was locked, rapped on it but he knew there would be no answer. Simply because the chalet was empty.
And then he got that same feeling that he’d had earlier in the day in his own accommodation. Vibes that came out of the deserted building like bad breath, mocking him silently, creating a void in his stomach. A kind of presence that remained after they had been and gone, you picked it up as a creeping feeling, tried to shrug it off but it would not go away.
You recoiled from it, peered about you, cringed, wanted to run. A forerunner of panic but you wouldn’t find anything. You wouldn’t see or hear anything, you just knew, and your nerves were shot.
A combination of fear and frustration, a dead weight pulling you down to the deep bottom of despair.
Jeff Beebee stood there in the darkness of a deserted holiday camp street and he knew that they had beaten him, they had snatched Ann from his grasp. And it was only a matter of time now before they got him. He was demoralized, there for the taking.
Chapter Twenty-three
‘This place is like a bloody shithouse,’ David A Dolman snarled in a vicious, slurred voice. ‘Worse, in fact.’
Arthur Smith shifted uncomfortably, was already regretting his association with this man. In the beginning it had been a case of shared grievances, bitter diatribes about society, the government. Now it was like fetching a puppy from the dog’s home which at the outset had been playful and harmless, but had turned into a vicious animal that was likely to sink its fangs into you. There was just one difference; with a dog you could always have it destroyed, Dolman was dangerous in a different way, you couldn’t get rid of him. He was a fanatic, more than a militant – an anarchist!
‘You’re lucky,’ the groundsman mumbled. ‘Every chalet on the camp booked except this one. It’s empty because that damp which got in after the big thunderstorm last week has made it uninhabitable. They put the job on to our lot to get it put right, and because of you I’ve made a meal of it. Christ, if I’d wanted, I could’ve dried it out, patched up the decorations and had it ready for the end of last week. I don’t know how much longer they’ll stand for me dallying about. I told the boss that it’ll take a fortnight to dry out before we can do anything. Let’s hope they don’t come down to check for themselves. They only want to find you hiding in here and I’m for the chop!’
‘They won’t find me.’ Dolman was confident, arrogant. He looked round the chalet again; a large patch of damp stained the gable end brickwork, visible where workmen had scraped off the cheap flowery wallpaper. Chairs stacked on the table in the corner, drawers pulled out, cupboards open and empty. A dead electric meter. Just his own suitcase the only sign of habitation. A hideout, the temporary lair of a man on the run, filled with the sharp odour of disinfectant. ‘But you’ve got to admit, things are going well.’ He stood up, hobbled on an ankle which was still heavily bandaged.
Arthur Smith nodded, tried to look enthusiastic. Too bloody well! Strewth, after that business on the donkey field he’d hoped that would be the end of it, trying to incite the masses from a bloody soapbox. Security wouldn’t stand for that kind of thing; they hadn’t. They’d duffed Dolman up, dumped him back in his digs. And fucking well stay there until you’re able to walk again and by that time you’ll be on your way home!
Dave Dolman had limped back into action. This time he was more cunning, he’d moved about the camp, was an expert at sussing out the guys he needed, he could bleedin’ well smell ’em! Arthur had helped him, hidden him, but now things were starting to get out of hand. Dolman hadn’t gone for your average working man, he’d found kids, teenagers on the dole who didn’t want to work, anyway. Fired ’em up, got ’em so that they’d go on the rampage at a second’s notice. Football hooligans, muggers, skinheads, they were all here if you looked for them. Quiet enough on their own, they’d come to Paradise for the booze and the birds, but band them together and you had a formidable army. No mass meetings, talking to them in the bars, putting them in touch with others. Arthur Smith was sweating at the enormity of it all. Dave had fifty or sixty of them just waiting for the signal and Jesus only knew what he had planned! A riot of some sort undoubtedly.
‘We have to fight the enemy in the streets.’ Dolman had a glazed expression on his face, a recitation that poured from his thin lips. ‘The days of freedom of speech are over, this bloody lot have seen to that. Put the cops in in full riot gear, use plastic bullets. But once the war gets a hold it’ll be difficult to stop. They can break up meetings but a mob on the rampage is a different kettle of fish. And we’re almost ready, Arthur, within a day, or two days at the most.’
‘What … what are you planning?’ He didn’t really want to know. Going on an all-out strike was one thing, a bit of subtle sabotage was all in the game, but this time folks were going to get hurt. He wondered about shopping this loony. He’d left it too late, those kids were all psyched up to riot and they’d have their day, Dolman or no Dolman.
‘Ah, wait and see!’ An expression of cunning, suspicion. You aren’t getting cold feet, are you, Arthur? ‘The lads know what they have to do, they’ve all been briefed. They can’t wait to get their own back on society for what it’s done to them. You stick around, Arthur, you’ve never seen anything like this. Those city riots over the last few years will look like disturbances at a garden fete compared with what’s going to happen here, you mark my words!’
Smith’s mouth was dry, he could have used a pint but Dolman didn’t meet him in the bars anymore. I’ve served my purpose, without me they’d’ve chucked you out, booted your arse through the gates last week.
‘I’ll be movin’ out of this pig
sty,’ Dolman laughed, an unpleasant sound. ‘Tomorrow, probably.’
‘What!’ A surge of relief, the onus wouldn’t be on the groundsman then, they could finish drying this chalet out and nobody would be any the wiser. ‘They’ll be lookin’ for you, Dave, there’s nowhere else on the camp you can hide.’ Sod it, I shouldn’t have said that, the bugger might decide to stay now.
‘Isn’t there?’ The cunning look was back. ‘You leave that to me, I’ve got a place lined up. But don’t go running off ’cause I shall need you. I want a key to the barrier padlocks.’
‘I only ’ave one, me own,’ Smith whined. The barriers were kept locked to stop holidaymakers from bringing their vehicles into the camp. There would be a full scale investigation if they were found unlocked. The authorities would soon discover who was responsible and, anyway, he needed his key for getting the big mowers to and from the playing field.
‘Get me a duplicate cut.’ Dolman held out a pound coin. ‘There’s that place next to the souvenir shop that does it, where they cut replacement keys for idiots who have lost their chalet keys. Let me have it in the morning, I’ll be needing it.’
The other took the coin, dropped it into his pocket. I’m taking orders like a schoolboy, doing his fetching and carrying; food, drink, papers and all I get is a few pence change out of it. But Dolman had an hypnotic influence, Smith was only too well aware of that. You found yourself obeying him, telling yourself that this was the last time, but you did it again and again. Those bums on the donkey field would have listened to him if the security men hadn’t intervened. ‘All right, I’ll see what I can do.’
‘You won’t have any problems, you’re the head groundsman. If they won’t cut a spare key for you, they won’t cut one for anybody.’ Which was true.
‘Be here early tomorrow.’ Dolman moved towards the bedroom, a sign that this meeting was at an end. ‘Like I said, I’ll be moving out after that and you might not find it easy to get hold of me.’
Arthur Smith let himself out into the half-lit street. He had difficulty in straightening up, thought that maybe another bout of back trouble was imminent. I’ll go sick, not come in tomorrow. But he knew he’d come into work, no matter what. Because he was scared, frightened of a small man with a sprained ankle and a virulent tongue. And after the killings and then that chairlift accident, anything might happen. You got to believing that there was some kind of hoodoo on the camp.
Commander surveyed the small man with short-cut fair hair who sat opposite him in his temporary office. Rarely did he converse with agents direct but Muliman was an exception; the other fitted no pattern, showed neither respect nor fear. Infuriating at times when he did his own thing, but that thing was usually the right one so you made allowances. And when everything was beginning to go wrong, Muliman was the man to put them right.
‘You’ve done well.’ Compliment him, even if it bounces off let him know that you’re pleased with him. Watching for a flicker of a smile, but there was none. Stoic, waiting for the next order, Muliman was like that. ‘I read in the midday edition of the Mail that the Maces were involved in a serious head-on going home. He was killed instantly, she’s critical and not expected to live. Unfortunate, speeding I expect.’ A hint of a smile that faded. ‘McNee has vanished into thin air, nobody has even missed him. That chairlift disaster, I understand that Tong was one of the victims. Our troublemakers seem to be disappearing from the scene.’ Again there was no reaction.
Commander cleared his throat. Now came the reprimand, a slight change of tone. ‘But where the hell is Dolman?’
‘He’s hiding out in a chalet that had to be discontinued temporarily due to damp,’ Muliman replied evenly, no hint of gloating because the chief had failed to score against him. ‘He’s been there two days.’
‘Then why haven’t you done something about him?’
‘I needed to discover the extent of his contacts. You could bring him in and give him the antidote.’
‘I’ll do things my way. He’s a threat to society, with or without C-551. Take him out.’
‘Okay.’
‘And Beebee?’
‘He’s wise to the fact that there’s some kind of experiment going on, avoiding the restaurant like the plague. You’ll either have to abandon him or …’
‘Normally that would be the easiest course of action. Not now. He’s talked to Tong, he may tie up the boy’s death with the Maces’ car crash, we daren’t risk it. And, in any case, Stackhouse must’ve tipped him off, he wouldn’t have got wind of it from anywhere else. She’ll have to be questioned, and I think Morton has to be looked into, too. Bloody fool, a man in his position playing about with a wench in the Service. He could have found himself a woman with no risk but the man has to go and get involved!’ A hint of the chiefs underlying anger. Things were going very wrong and those responsible must be punished.
‘I’ll take Beebee.’ Muliman eased himself out of his chair, reminded Commander of a hunting tiger emerging from a daytime snooze with the onset of nightfall.
‘No, Dolman first! He’s stirred up a lot of trouble, got a bunch of ultra right-wing activists behind him. We know now what happens to militants when they go over the top, they’re thirsting for power. The experiment has served its purpose and we don’t want any more publicity. The media are having a field day, calling it the “Camp of Death”. If anything else happens we’ll have to call everything off and I don’t like unwinding projects, such a waste of all the work that has gone before.’
‘No problem, I’ll take Dolman tonight. He’ll just vanish, no need to worry. Maybe Beebee, too.’
‘Afterwards. Play it carefully. Then I think we’ll have to review the situation.’
Muliman was almost at the door when Commander called him back; a rare trace of hesitancy in the chiefs voice, an afterthought.
‘Yes?’ Muliman never used ‘sir’, he worked for you but he was not subservient. Commander reflected that he probably would not have been their top agent if he was.
‘I’m worried about Morton,’ confiding, perhaps for once wanting to share a worry.
‘I’ll check on him for you,’ Muliman replied and went outside.
And when the agent was gone, Commander found himself thinking, you wondered if he had ever really been here at all. A man who covered all his tracks, you half-wondered if the meeting had been in your own imagination. A marshland will-o’-the-wisp that had evaporated and even the memory of it was hazy.
Chapter Twenty-four
‘Hey, wake up!’
Valerie Evans stirred, felt her shoulder being shaken. She groaned her protest, tried to go back to sleep but the fingers roughly gripping her shoulder would not let her. So warm and comfortable, it couldn’t possibly be time to get up yet. Aware that it was still dark, her thoughts a jumble. Billy was ready for work, well, he did not need her. His sandwiches were all ready in the fridge, all he had to do was to fill his flask. He was quite capable of making his own breakfast, he had done it for the past thirty years.
‘Val, wake up!’
‘Uh?’ She opened her eyes again, could just make out his silhouette in the semi-darkness of the bedroom, saw that he was wearing his overcoat and muffler, had his cap on. ‘Off you go then, Billy …’ It all started to come back, the trek in the snow, the way those ‘policemen’ had virtually arrested them. And where was Ruth? Valerie sat up. ‘What’s … happening?’
‘They brought us ’ome.’ She could tell he was angry and he had every right to be. ‘They’ve cordoned off the estate, we’ll ’ave to try again, love.’
‘Oh!’ A sense of despair, the ignominy of yesterday, the jeering crowds, that doctor fellow. ‘It won’t be any use, Billy, and they might get nasty with us next time.’
‘Well, we can’t stop ’ere.’ He was stubborn, had looked out her clothes. ‘We’d better not put the light on, the less folks see, the better. It’s snowing hard.’
‘You’ve checked?’
‘Don’t need to, it�
��s that bleedin’ cold it can’t be doin’ anythin’ else. Now, hurry up and get dressed, we want to be off the Estate before it gets light. Otherwise they’ll spot us.’
‘They’ll still have the roadblock set up.’ She was shivering, pulling on her clothes as fast as she could, still felt a little dizzy. ‘We won’t get through. I tell you, we’re wasting our time, Billy.’
‘We won’t stick to the road.’ He grinned in the darkness. ‘They’ll be on the lookout for folks there. We’ll go across the fields, but we’ll ’ave to go carefully to avoid the deep drifts. Take our time and we’ll be all right.’
She finished dressing, had some difficulty in finding her wellington boots, eventually located them stuffed in a drawer. Now who the hell had put them there, like they weren’t supposed to be used again? Funny, she couldn’t remember coming back home, the last thing she recalled was that doctor injecting her. He must have put them out, he didn’t have any right to do that without a patient’s consent.
‘Come on,’ Billy was already at the door, impatient to be gone.
‘Where’s our food gone?’ Peering round the room, searching for that carrier bag containing their supplies.
‘I expect they took it,’ he clicked the latch, ‘but we’ll starve anyway if we stop ’ere. We’ll ’ave to chance finding some grub on the way.’
It was dark and cold outside. She clung to Billy’s arm, wondered again about Ruth, presumed that they had taken her back to her home also, wherever that was.
Deserted streets, they kept to the shadows, slunk along, Billy stopping to listen every so often but there was no sound apart from the soughing of the wind. The snow did not appear to be particularly deep here, probably blown off by the wind and drifted elsewhere.
‘Look!’ She tugged her husband’s arm, pointed with her other hand. ‘There’s a light on over there.’
