by Andrew Garve
He laid her on the floor and chafed her cold cheeks. Her whiteness frightened him. He was fumbling for the brandy when she stirred and opened her eyes. “It’s—no good Ben” she murmured. “You—go.”
“Okay, honey. You just lie still—I’ll be back soon.”
She smiled, and her eyelids flickered, and presently she seemed to be asleep.
He flashed his torch around making sure that the ground where she was lying was flat and safe. He left her own torch on, and a spare one beside her in the basket with some food and the brandy flask. He covered her with his jacket. Then driven by a new sense of urgency, he struggled up the ladder. Even the fate of the plant had become a secondary matter. His one thought now was to bring help before Julie’s remaining strength was undermined by cold and loneliness and fear.
Chapter Sixteen
Ten minutes later he stumbled out on to the turf beside the Pikes. The air was acrid with smoke. He glanced down towards the coast and saw that a grey haze was slowly drifting over the hillside. It looked as though Quilter had made a job of it.
He stopped at the cottage to sluice his face and get himself a drink. He knew he was just about all in. His hands were still trembling from the strain of hauling himself up the ladder and most of what was in the whisky bottle went down his shirt, but he saved enough for a stiff shot. When he’d knocked it back he felt better. He grabbed the phone and impatiently flashed the exchange. Minutes passed, but no one answered. In the end he gave it up and drove down to the Plough at reckless speed.
The innkeeper’s wife was standing at the door, looking out towards Blean. She turned as she heard the jeep. “Why, Mr. Traill …!” she exclaimed, staring at him.
“Is Mr. Martin about?”
“No, they’re all down at the plant. You’ve heard about the explosion …?”
He slammed in the clutch and drove on. Better to go straight to the police, he thought—they’d be able to organise everything. He trod hard on the gas and the hedgerows rushed by.
Blean was seething. Half the population seemed to be making its way towards the plant, whose chimneys, at least, still stood. A fire-engine dashed past, clearing the road with its bell. Another followed close behind. The resources of the district were being mobilised.
Ben stopped by a knot of women on a street corner. “Say, could you direct me to the police station?”
One of them pointed across the Square and he saw the blue lamp and drove across. He stopped the jeep with a squeal of tyres and stumbled up the stone steps. The station was empty except for a burly, heavily-moustached sergeant who was talking on the telephone. In the corner of the room another phone was ringing.
Ben lurched heavily against the counter. “Officer …!” he cried.
Sergeant Barrait gave him a cold stare and went on talking. When he’d finished he turned and walked slowly to the other phone. Ben drummed on the counter, glanced at the door, wondered if there was anywhere else he could go. The fire station, the hospital …? No, he’d get no help there, not at a moment like this.
At last the sergeant came back to the counter. “Well, what is it?”
“Officer,” said Ben with desperate earnestness, “I know how this atom plant was blown up. It was done from a pothole and there’s a woman still down there. I need your help …” He lolled forward on to the counter.
Barratt looked him slowly up and down, noting his torn shirt, his tousled hair, his drooping eyelids. He sniffed suspiciously.
“You’ve been drinking.”
“Only a mouthful—I spilt it down me.”
“I’ve heard that one before. The best thing you can do, young fellow me lad, is to go and sleep it off.”
“Don’t be a bloody fool, I’m stone sober …”
“Now look here …!” began Barrat in a threatening tone.
“You’ve got to listen to me. My name’s Traill, I’m an American. I’m not drunk, do you understand—I’ve spent the last twelve hours in a pothole with a madman, that’s why I look like this. Up there on the hill—it runs right down under the plant.” He looked hopelessly at the sergeant’s wooden face. “Christ, I thought English policemen were wonderful! You know what a pothole is, don’t you? I tell you I was with the guy that blew up the plant, and his wife’s still there in the hole and she’ll probably die … Officer, you’ve got to do something—I need men, ropes, an ambulance …”
Barratt looked at his wild, bloodshot eyes and slowly shook his head. Then he shrugged and drew an open ledger towards him. “What did you say your name was?”
“Traill—Benson Traill.”
“How do you spell it?”
“Oh, for God’s sake, officer …!”
“Now see here,” said Barratt, “do you want me to take particulars or not?”
Ben groaned. “Okay!” He spelt out the name, fuming.
“Address?”
“The Plough Inn.”
“Ah! Barratt sounded as though he might have a word to say to the proprietor of the Plough Inn. His pen scratched slowly over the paper. “Now then, you say you know who’s responsible for this explosion, eh?”
“Yes, it’s a guy named Quilter—Laurence Quilter. He’s an M.P. He’s down there now in the pothole …”
Barratt flung down his pen. “You’re drunk, all right. Come on, now, get out of here or you’ll find yourself in a cell. We’ve got enough on our hands this morning without being bothered with people like you …” The telephone rang again and he picked up the receiver and said, “Station sergeant here,” jerking his head at Ben and indicating the door.
Ben fingered a moment, then saw that it was hopeless and staggered out. If only he’d been a bit more coherent!—but he was so tired, so desperately tired and anxious. With the whole town in ferment, probably no one would listen to him …
His eye lit on an empty telephone kiosk across the road and suddenly he knew what he must do. He rushed ever, grabbed the receiver, and dialled 0. The ringing seemed as though it would go on for ever, but when he’d almost abandoned hope the operator answered.
“Say, miss, will you get me the United States Embassy in London? I don’t know the number offhand but it’s terribly urgent …”
“Is it a priority call?”
“Sure, top priority.”
“Who are you, please?”
“I’m an American—it’s a matter of life and death. I must get through …”
“I’m sorry—the lines to London are all busy.” She rang Off.
Ben dropped the receiver and sagged against the side of the box. There must be some way. He had a picture of Julie waking at the bottom of that cold dark chasm, alone and frightened, wondering what had happened to him. God, she might try to climb the ladder by herself! He rushed frantically out into the street. People were still moving towards the plant. Maybe he’d better go there, too—that was where everything was happening. There’d be security officers attached to the place and they might listen to him. He jumped into the jeep and started to honk his way through the crowd. Soon there were so many people that he had to leave it and continue on foot. There was a huge throng beside the first line of wire—they were packed tight, hundreds of them, waiting for news. A dozen policemen were on duty by the entrance, keeping the road clear. The double iron gates stood ajar, with a uniformed guard just inside and an inspector outside. Ben could see a sentry box and a guardhouse beyond. A huge notice said, “All passes must be shown.”
He shouldered his way forward almost to the gates. Then a constable stopped him. “Where do you think you’re going?” he demanded.
“I’ve got some information,” Ben said. “I’ve got to see the security people.”
The inspector heard him and strolled up. Again Ben felt cold, critical eyes surveying him; again he heard that suspicious sniff. “Have you a pass?”
“No, but it’s vital I see someone. I can tell you …”
“No one comes in without a pass. Stand back!”
At that moment an ambu
lance drove up and two policemen pushed the gates wide.
The engines roared and the ambulance slid forward. As it went through Ben slipped in beside it. From somewhere a hand shot out and grabbed him and swung him round. “Oh, no, you don’t—what’s the idea, eh?” Somebody seized him by the collar and began to march him towards a van. God, they were going to take him away now! Suddenly he saw a man approaching whose appearance seemed familiar—a man in a soft hat and a raincoat.
“Inspector!” he shouted. “Inspector Ford!” The man stopped.
“Inspector, you know me! Can I speak to you?” Ford came up to them. “What’s going on?”
“Obstructing the police, sir “said the constable, “Drunk, I reckon.”
“My name’s Traill,” said Ben desperately. “Don’t you remember—I was with Mrs. Quilter that day you called at the cottage.”
Ford stared, sniffed, looked him up and down. “Yes, I remember. What are you doing here?”
“I’m trying to get somebody to listen to me.” Ben was almost weeping with frustration. “It was Quilter who blew up the plant. I was there. He did it from a pothole …”
“A pothole!” Ford suddenly took his arm. “All right, constable, I’ll see to him. Come with me, Traill.”
Ben hardly knew what happened after that. He was going through the wire, and through some more wire and then he was in a small brick hut and there were plain clothes men around, and someone was handing him a cup of tea and then he was telling his story and people were actually listening …
There was no more trouble. Ben was vaguely aware of sharp instructions being given and preparations being made, and soon a convoy of vehicles was threading its way out of Blean—a police car, another police car, an improvised ambulance, and a lorry with a squad of heavy rescue workers from the plant. Ben sat with Ford in the leading car, giving directions in a voice he hardly recognised as his own. In a matter of minutes the convoy had turned up the track and ground to a standstill by the Pikes.
They wouldn’t let Ben go down again, and waiting was agony, but Ford reassured him. The men had got all the proper tackle, he said, and they knew what they were doing. Mrs. Quilter would be all right. Half an hour passed—the longest half-hour Ben could remember. Then a helmeted head emerged from the hole, and another, and they were hauling Julie out.
He dropped down beside her on the grass and took her hand. “you okay, honey?”
She gave a faint smile. “Yes, Ben,” she whispered. “I’m—okay.”
He smiled back and they lifted her and put her in. the ambulance and he watched it drive away down the hill. Then he blacked out.
Chapter Seventeen
He woke in darkness and for a second thought he was back in the pothole. Then he discovered he was lying on something soft with a rug over him and realised that he was in the sitting-room of the cottage. He got up and switched on the light. He was still filthy and smelt abominably of stale whisky.
The door opened and a man came in, grinning. “Ah, so you’ve come to life, sir! How are you feeling?”
“Scruffy. Have I slept long?”
“Twelve hours. My name’s Howlett, by the way—I’m from Special Branch. Would you care for coffee, bacon and eggs?”
“Would I? You my male nurse or something?”
“Just for the moment, sir. I’m really here to get a full statement from you, but there’s no hurry.”
“How’s Mrs. Quilter?”
“She’s fine. They’re keeping her over at the hospital to-night, but she’ll be back in the morning. It was just exhaustion. Right, I’ll get the coffee in.”
Ben went to the bathroom and cleaned himself up. When he came down again the food was ready.
“My, that smells good,” he said. “I see I was wrong—the police are wonderful.” He sat down. “Any news of Quilter?”
“There is, indeed. He’s dead.”
“Oh! “Ben was silent for a moment. “What happened to him?”
“They tell me he was in a very narrow passage when he fired the charge and the force of the explosion jammed him in there like a cork in a bottle.”
“They’ve been down there, have they?”
“From the top end. There’s a huge crater and the tunnel’s exposed.”
“I see. Well, I guess it was a quick death.”
“I rather doubt that, sir, from what I hear.”
Ben pushed back his plate. “Does Mrs. Quilter know about it?”
“I don’t think so, not yet. They were going to tell her to-morrow.”
“I hope they’ll tell her it was quick.”
“They always do, sir. I shouldn’t worry about that.”
“What about the plant? Some of it seemed to be standing.”
Howlett smiled. “Good lord, sir, it’s hardly touched. The explosion was underneath one of the lavatory blocks—completely destroyed it, of course, but the main buildings are intact except for the windows.”
“Anyone killed?”
“Three chaps—two workmen and a lavatory attendant.”
“The whole thing was a fiasco, in fact?”
“Yes, but it might not have been. The engineers say that Quilter made the mistake of exploding his charge too near the surface, so the force of the thing was mostly wasted in the air. If a mine like that had gone off in solid ground it would have had the effect of a small earthquake and the shock waves might have made the main production block unusable.”
“As near as that, eh?”
Howlett nodded. “Quite an achievement for an amateur!”
“He had guts,” said Ben. “I’ll say that for him. I couldn’t have done what he did in a million years.” He lit a cigarette. “Okay, what about this statement?”
Chapter Eighteen
First thing in the morning, Julie came back. She was pale and very subdued, and it was obvious the whole episode had hit her hard. They sat on the bank in the sun and they talked for a long time. There was much that she still didn’t know and Ben filled in the gaps.
“I suppose,” she said at last, “that I was wrong to try and stop you on the ledge?”
“To stop me? Oh, that! He shrugged. “It was natural enough.”
“Three men died, though, and it might have been more.”
“You don’t have to answer for that. Anyway, you know darned well that what I was saying didn’t register.”
“It wouldn’t have made any difference if it had I couldn’t think of anything but that ghastly drop and Laurence falling down and down into the darkness and being smashed.”
Ben took her hand. “Forget it, honey—please! You did what anyone would have done. I know how you felt.”
“I wonder if you do. It wasn’t that I still loved him—at least, I don’t think so. I’d finished with that. I didn’t really feel anything at all about him consciously, except that—well I somehow felt responsible for him.”
“That’s what I told you in France—unsatisfied maternal instinct. You ought to do something about it.”
A flicker of a smile crossed her face. Then she became solemn again. “The trouble is, Ben, that I can’t really blame him. Oh, I know it was a terrible thing he did but it grew out of what he was—I don’t think he could help himself.”
“That lets us all out.”
“Yes, but he wasn’t normal—he was different.”
“He sure was. Still, honey, don’t imagine I want to strike a moral attitude. What was that crack some Frenchman made I’ve never investigated the soul of a wicked man, but I once knew the soul of a good man, and I was shocked.”
“Oh, Ben, you are tolerant.”
“Sure—now he’s dead.”
“That’s better than gloating. I heard some people talking in the town as I left the hospital—oh, I don’t blame them of course, but it was horrible. They never really knew him when they thought he was so wonderful, and they still don’t know him. Why must everything always be black or white?” Her eyes filled with tears. “He was never happy, ne
ver at peace with himself. He wanted to be strong—he hated his weaknesses. He never trusted himself, never felt secure—he always wanted to be reassured. I suppose that’s why he became a communist. He spent his whole life trying to prove to himself that he was as big a man as he wanted to be, and failing.” She looked across at the smoking chimneys of the plant. “He failed in this last thing, too—and thank God for it! But I’m glad he doesn’t know.”
Ben squeezed her hand. “Poor kid!—you’ve had a hell of a time. You’ll have to try not to think about it any more, though, honey.”
“I know, Ben.”
“I had a long talk on the phone this morning with the doctor at the hospital—the guy who gave you the once-over.” She looked startled. “Why? I’m all right.”
“He says not. He says you’re very run down and he recommends a sea voyage. I said what about a voyage to Trinidad and he said that was just the right length. What about it, Julie?”
She smiled up at him. “Oh, Ben, yes.”
Copyright
First published in 1952 by Collins
This edition published 2012 by Bello an imprint of Pan Macmillan, a division of Macmillan Publishers Limited Pan Macmillan, 20 New Wharf Road, London N1 9RR Basingstoke and Oxford Associated companies throughout the world
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www.curtisbrown.co.uk
ISBN 978-1-4472-1578-3 EPUB
ISBN 978-1-4472-1578-3 POD
Copyright © Andrew Garve, 1952
The right of Andrew Garve to be identified as the
author of this work has been asserted in accordance
with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
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