The Unbegotten

by John Creasey

  ‘Obviously, it could be,’ Palfrey answered.

  The man who had exclaimed ‘My God’ now called out as if in anguish, ‘My God!’ Another man, whose voice Maddern didn’t recognise, said in tones of protest, ‘Oh, really!’

  ‘Well, it could be a visitation,’ interjected plump Mary Dexter, the only woman present.

  That remark silenced them all.

  There was growing uneasiness among them; in some, clear signs of distress. And as he studied Dr. Palfrey’s finely drawn face and went back over the meeting so far, Maddern had a feeling that Palfrey had deliberately created this distress. Nothing he said in his low-pitched, pleasing voice was calculated to soothe.

  ‘The moon,’ Plumley exclaimed, in a tone of near ecstasy.

  ‘Oh, no,’ Mary Dexter exclaimed.

  ‘Ah. Dr. Palfrey. Ah.’ Sir Gerald Daley shifted in his chair. He was an impressive, grey-haired man with a clear complexion, a high-bridged nose and arched lips. ‘You can’t seriously suggest that the moon could possibly have caused this?’

  ‘Why not?’ demanded Plumley, shrilly.

  ‘My dear sir. The moon—’ Daley stopped in mid-air, so to speak, shook his head and fell silent.

  ‘I have heard rumours, you know,’ said Rees, ‘to the effect that when the astronauts returned from the moon some moon dust which survived in joints and crevices of the capsule was blown off in the wind as they entered the Earth’s atmosphere. And there can be no saying where it came to Earth, can there?’

  ‘Dai, you’re as bad as George here,’ protested the man who had said, ‘Oh, really!’

  ‘I don’t always agree with George as you well know,’ retorted Rees. ‘But we are dealing with a positive, physical manifestation. Man has been to the moon. He has brought back moon dust as well as a wide variety of other mineral samples. There is no certainty about the nature and the effect of these samples.’ He paused, in a shocked silence, then went on quite sharply, ‘Is there, Dr. Palfrey?’

  ‘Some certainty,’ Palfrey answered promptly. ‘Tests have been and are being made on moon dust and moon mineral samples in most of the major research departments and universities in the world.’ His hand strayed to his hair again. ‘You know as well as I do, gentlemen, that some of the results have been released.’

  ‘What hasn’t been released? That’s the key question,’ Rees put in.

  ‘Yes, indeed. And I don’t know the answer,’ Palfrey replied. ‘I do know that there is no evidence at all that moon dust or any substance from the moon not burnt off when the space craft re-entered the Earth’s atmosphere is known to have had any effect on animal birth anywhere.’

  ‘You mean, experiments have been made?’ a man demanded from the side of the room.

  ‘In great depth, yes. On mice, rats, rabbits and monkeys. All the results have been negative. The period from conception to birth has been normal in every way. It was an obvious possibility that there could be a delay or a quickening effect from unknown drugs,’ Palfrey went on. ‘These tests were part of routine tests and had nothing to do with my special enquiry. I simply checked in great detail. There is no evidence at all of moon-caused sterility.’ He patted the ringlet of hair down again, and smiled faintly. ‘As I told you, we have no idea what has caused these areas of sterility, and we must find out.’

  ‘Didn’t you say that there were several areas?’ Simister asked, from his seat near Daley.

  ‘Three known areas, yes. One here, one in North Wales and one in the Yorkshire Ridings. The conditions and the type of countryside are much the same, as I’ve told you. Rural—where one would expect more than the average birthrate. Widespread, with a small town such as Middlecombe, a single hospital, a community not absolutely isolated but as near as we have to isolation in the British Isles these days. There were some reports from farmers of barren periods among livestock, and fertilisers were suspected. As they were from isolated areas, not a lot of attention was paid, and most research was abortive. There was similar delay in recognising the situation where human births were concerned. General practitioners inevitably noticed it first and reported—as you know. Some put it down to over-use of contraceptives, which are becoming much more freely available. Then farmers sent in reports.’

  ‘Damn it, not every woman would use them even if she could,’ interpolated a big, powerful-looking man, Smith, the local gynaecologist and obstetrician. He played rugby for the Western Counties and was perhaps the most beloved doctor in the area. ‘Why, I know dozens—hundreds—who believe they’re the Devil’s spawn. Not all are R.C.s by any means, either. I could name half a dozen men who’d rather do without fun and games for months than allow their wives to use the pill. No one in his senses can blame this load of barren women on the pill. It’s madness.’

  Trust Bob Smith to bring common sense into the discussion, Maddern thought. He himself felt much better now, perhaps a little disappointed in Palfrey, who had lost that impressiveness and become almost meek and tentative.

  ‘Nicely put,’ he approved. ‘The key words are “no one in his senses”.’ While they waited for him to go on, he smiled, diffidently. ‘Not everyone is in his senses, especially about the pill. I’ve known men of sound common sense and high intelligence get hysterical, both for and against it. Now!’ He squared his shoulders, and there was a change in him, a return of decisiveness. ‘Some questions, please. Has anyone present any theory as to the cause of the barrenness?’ He looked from man to man. ‘Anyone!’ Then in a tone almost of exasperation, he went on, ‘No one with a single idea. Tell me, gentlemen, how many of you have realised the possible significance of this phenomenon?’ When there was no reply, he continued. ‘Do you realise, for instance, how far it could spread?’

  Maddern spoke, very quietly.

  ‘If it’s infectious or contagious, eventually nationwide. But on the face of it it can’t be infectious or contagious.’

  ‘Why not?’ demanded Simister, who looked antagonistic.

  ‘The phenomenon apparently doesn’t apply to neighbouring rural districts,’ answered Maddern. ‘People intermingle a great deal on some of the border areas. If it were contagious or infectious this incidence would not be confined virtually to the Middlecombe Rural boundaries. It would spread in a wider and wider circle. And people who move from the area would be affected, causing many more than three affected places.’ He said all this quite objectively, thinking only slightly ahead of his words, and as he finished he turned to Palfrey. ‘Is this restriction true of the other two childless districts, sir?’

  ‘Yes,’ answered Palfrey. ‘The area affected seems to be one of the terrain rather than of population.’

  ‘Then the indications are that it is not infectious or contagious,’ Maddern said. ‘It—’

  That was the moment when he broke off. A thought of such horror struck him that for a moment he felt sick. With the nausea came a moment of dizziness, and Palfrey’s face seemed to shimmer and shake and Palfrey’s eyes grow huge. All of this was over in a flash, and he steadied, but his train of thought was broken. He hoped Palfrey would not ask him to take the question further.

  He sat down.

  Another man was speaking and a dozen others spoke, obviously simply for the sake of talking to Palfrey. At last, the voices stopped and Palfrey said very clearly, ‘Thank you all very much, gentlemen. What we need is the closest possible description of all the pregnancies you have coped with in the past year, particularly of pregnancies which may have been terminated early. We need, in fact, a detailed analysis of the health of women of child-bearing age, so that we can check if there are any similarities or any factors which might help us.’

  Simister spoke, almost sarcastically.

  ‘But these are women who’ve had their children. We want to know what women have been up to to prevent conception. After all, we may—’

  He broke off ab
ruptly as Maddern had, and sat down. Suddenly, everyone was on the move; as suddenly, a man appeared at the doorway carrying a sheaf of folders, handing one to each doctor. Maddern took one, almost mechanically, and tucked it underneath his arm. As he went out, Dai Rees caught up with him.

  ‘It’s a remarkable business, isn’t it?’ Rees remarked.

  ‘Astonishing.’

  ‘But I can’t understand why Palfrey should come here, can you?’

  ‘Eh?’

  ‘I can’t see why Palfrey came down here. He’s normally involved in international affairs, and—’ Rees broke off, as if astounded. ‘Good God!’

  ‘Good God it is,’ agreed Maddern, soberly.

  “They’re afraid it could have international repercussions!’

  ‘Could be,’ conceded Maddern.

  ‘I wonder what the hell is going on?’ said Rees, helplessly. They walked through the little copse towards their parked car, some cars moved off. A stink of petrol exhaust fouled the air, and Rees waved his hand in front of his cars. Several engines were already turning, car doors were slamming, his face grimaced. ‘Damned stink,’ he complained. ‘You’d think that they could at least take the stench out of petrol fumes, wouldn’t you, even if they can’t stop us from being poisoned. Oh, well!’ His car was near Maddern’s. ‘Must be off, I suppose. Don’t seem to have much more leisure, even though we haven’t any anxious mothers to look after.’ He climbed into his car, and called across, ‘I forgot—you still have a mother and child, haven’t you?’

  Rees roared with laughter, and drove off, the blue fumes from his exhaust billowing about Maddern’s car with an unpleasant stench.

  Maddern went off on his rounds, visiting the old and the young, the slightly sick and the dangerously ill, the convalescent and the nigh unto death. Everything was normal, except that there were so few mothers and infants-in-arms. He finished his calls a little before one o’clock and felt a strange sense of anticlimax. Rees was wrong in one way: there was considerably less work, and so more leisure, if one chose to use it. Until early evening surgery he had nothing to do, unless he made a few calls ahead of time, or there were some urgent messages at home.

  He preferred to be busy.

  How busy he had been when Lilian had been alive! How seldom he had had a free afternoon, and how excited he had been whenever he had been able to get home for an hour before evening surgery. He pulled into the creeper-covered garage at the side of the cottage and let himself in. There was no sign of Bertha, but several messages were in the wooden bowl on the chiffonier.

  Would he telephone Mrs. Duyman? She’d had an attack. That assumed a heart attack, of course, and was a normal call from a neurotic woman. There wasn’t much the matter with her body, only with her mind. Would he call and see Josiah Davenport, an old man who often wanted no more than a chat and deserved it. And finally: would he please wait at home until Dr. Palfrey had called to see him—about two thirty.

  ‘What on Earth does he want with me?’ Maddern said aloud. The message brought back to mind everything that had happened and been said at that meeting, and he shrank from much of it.

  He had a cold lunch, left out by Bertha who always went to her sister on Monday afternoon, stacked the dirty crockery on the draining board and as he looked out of the leaded window saw a girl in the garden among the apple and pear trees. She was young and very slender, and for a moment he wasn’t quite sure it was a girl. Then she turned round, and he saw her sideways on so that there was no doubt.

  She was looking upwards.

  Puzzled, he stood watching. The fruit was plentiful but wasn’t ripe enough for eating, and in any case why should a girl pick apples in the middle of the afternoon? He was even more puzzled when she darted a quick glance towards the house, as if fearful of being seen. He was hidden by a curtain, and apparently she did not see him.

  Next moment she leapt upwards, arms outstretched, gripped the bough of a tree and hauled herself out of sight. It was done with such speed and grace that it was almost possible to suspect he had dreamed it. But that had been no dream! He moved away from the window, cautiously, then went upstairs to the room immediately above this: the spare bedroom. It had a clear view of the orchard, particularly of the tree where she had disappeared. He squeezed between an old four-poster bed and the window, peered out, and saw the girl, sitting cross-legged on a thick branch, her back against the trunk. He himself had lopped two adjoining branches in the autumn, that was why she had so much room.

  He went downstairs and into the kitchen, then out and towards the garden shed, and as he neared the shed, he saw a man; one of those who had been among the trees at the hospital. The man ducked out of sight and did not reappear. Maddern felt a creepy feeling running up and down his spine and gritted his teeth.

  Was he one of Palfrey’s men?

  If so, why was he watching this house?

  And did the girl work for Palfrey, too?

  Maddern went into the toolshed, selected a pair of secateurs and strolled into the garden. Between shed and orchard was a little rose bed, and a lot of the old, dying bloom wanted taking off, while there were a few scarlet roses. Old Josiah loved red roses.

  As he clipped and snipped, Maddern looked about him. As far as he could judge there was no one else in the garden; and if he hadn’t seen the other two he would never have suspected that anyone was here. It was pleasantly warm. Tall beech trees and spreading chestnut trees from parkland adjoining the house sheltered him from the hot sun. He did not search, but once or twice looked up. There was the girl, legs drawn up, body pressed very tightly against the trunk, as if she were scared.

  Then, Maddern saw a remarkable thing.

  She took her hand from her pocket, and he caught a glimpse of a small pistol. She levelled it, and his heart began to thump, but she was levelling it at someone at least five yards to his right. He turned his head, very cautiously, and saw the man who had ducked out of sight.

  If he, Maddern, was any judge, the girl was waiting until the man drew within range; and the moment he was, she would shoot.

  Chapter Four

  A MATTER OF URGENCY

  A cry hovered in Maddern’s throat, and the sound would not come. He stood in cold stillness. The girl sat in ambush and the man drew within a dangerously close range. Then, as Maddern broke the tension and began to shout a warning, a man he had not seen before appeared beneath the tree, behind the girl, and spoke in the most casual of voices.

  ‘That’s enough, Susie. Down you come.’

  He stepped beneath the girl and held his arms upwards and outwards, as if to catch her when she jumped. Instead of jumping, she stood up and stretched out for a higher branch, then with a dazzlingly swift movement pointed the gun towards the man and fired. There was a bark of sound. The man dodged to one side, just in time. The girl then dropped until she swung on the branch where she had been crouching, kicking out at the first man who was now close to the tree.

  ‘Watch her,’ the other called. ‘Little vixen!’

  ‘That’s enough, Sue,’ the other reproved. ‘Drop that pistol and—’

  Instead, she let one hand go, levelled the gun, and fired again. The speaker swayed to one side. The girl dropped to the grass, and straightened up, light as a bird. Then she began to race towards the house, her beautiful fair hair streaming back from her head.

  There was only one expression on her face: terror.

  It showed in her eyes, in the way her lips were turned back, in the way her hands were clenched. Terror. She did not look behind her and did not seem to know that Maddern was there. Both men spun round and began to follow, but she had ten or twelve yards start, and she ran like the wind.

  ‘Stop her!’ one man called.

  It was too late, even had Maddern been inclined. She was past him in a flash, and the men, running as fast as they were ab
le, seemed lumbering by comparison. The second one, indeed, lost his balance and pitched into Maddern’s precious roses. He gasped, as thorns clawed at him. Maddern, torn between fear for the girl and alarm for his roses, was still rooted to the ground. He could not decide whether he wanted the girl to get away, or whether he wanted to quieten her. In his mind’s eye he could still see the terror on her face.

  Suddenly, she crumpled up. He did not know what she had fallen over, but it was something in the grass. The man closed on her softly, but before he could reach her she sprang to her feet again.

  He grabbed her.

  She struck at him savagely, kicked and kneed him; she was a maelstrom of violence and he fought desperately to control her. There was froth at her lips, and her teeth showed, she even tried to bite. As Maddern drew up, knowing she must be quietened, he could hear the rasping of her breath down her throat. Soon, she would surely collapse.

  And she did so on the very instant the thought entered his head. The man saved her from falling but only took her weight against his body. He himself was gasping for breath, and blood began to ooze from a long scratch on his cheek.

  Maddern said, ‘I’ll take her.’ He stood behind the girl named Sue or Susie, and turned her round, then hoisted her over his left shoulder with surprisingly little effort. A bee settled on her hair. He carried her towards the back of Hallows End through the kitchen to the surgery, laid her on the examination couch, then turned to the cabinet where he kept his drugs. He had a hypodermic already loaded, for emergency use, with morphine. He unlocked this and took out the syringe, as the man who had caught her came in.

  ‘What are you giving her?’ he asked.

  ‘Ephregen,’ answered Maddern shortly.

  ‘How long will it put her out?’

  Maddern did not answer but unstopped a bottle of alcohol, dipped in a swab, pushed up a loose-fitting sleeve and then cleaned a spot on the girl’s arm. Next, he picked up the syringe and held the needle under some sterilised water in a steaming pan.