Fortunately the photographer usually accompanying Small is not present - or perhaps not so fortunately on this occasion, Deborah reflects in a moment’s amusement, since she is probably looking as glamorous as she ever has in a good while and would not have minded setting the record straight for once with a decent picture or two. How ironic.
‘No, seriously, Deborah - how about a truce?’ Small continues, still in pursuit and flipping the collar of his trenchcoat up around his ears as the snowfall begins to thicken. ‘Look, why don’t you just take a stroll with me for five minutes, just five minutes. I might just have an offer for you that you would find interesting?’
‘I doubt it.’
But he asks again, and seems for one most uncharacteristic moment as she stops to look properly into his face for the first time, genuine enough and even repentant. Sad little man, she thinks. What would he have known of the world, the world of the senses; the mysteries. What would he, with his narrow repertoire of sexual experience, have known of life’s passions and joys? She almost pities him and his banality, in the way most people would pity a child born deaf and blind. Full of indecision, for one fleeting second she feels an ache in her heart, something tugging almost physically at her coat sleeves, urging her back in the direction of the hotel. Herman will most likely already have returned by this time, be waiting for her with a welcoming drink - with good news, perhaps, or even just some kind words. And the chill of apprehension that comes upon her as she turns away from the security of that prospect clings to her as a constant shadow in her thoughts as she agrees to give the wretched man his five minutes - just five minutes. In truth, she suspects there could be an opportunity to at least try to put an end to this ridiculous state of warfare between herself and her husband’s newspaper. Would it really be possible, she wonders? She decides to give the unpleasant Mr Small the benefit of the doubt, for once. Five minutes.
‘You know what? - I hardly recognised you just then,’ Small remarks, almost gallantly as he walks at her side, glancing up from time to time at her face. ‘I suppose your friend Herman has provided some fresh inspiration, eh?’
‘You don’t honestly expect me to comment on that, Small, do you?’ Deborah replies with a commanding air, putting lots of emphasis on the name, which gives her great pleasure and which she knows from experience and from reports by others, is always liable to irritate the man intensely. ‘I have no doubt you will make up your own story anyway, regardless of what I say? So let’s just get to the point, shall we: what exactly is this offer of yours?’
Being neither of them at all familiar with the locale as they stroll around the ancient streets and squares, she feels they have become somewhat lost already. And here, for a moment she is taken aback by the sight of a most unusual fountain, its sculptured motif featuring a monster of some kind in the process of swallowing up a child. Illuminated merely by a few gas lamps, all shrouded in halos of mist, the grotesque object makes her heart tremble with a terrible sense of foreboding as, all about them, the air continues to darken and thicken with snowflakes. It becomes very quiet.
‘Give us the story we really want,’ Small begins again as they continue walking - since he seems likewise unimpressed with the hideous statue. ‘I mean the one the boss back home really wants. Then we’ll call it quits. No one else will bother you. And I have this on the highest authority.’
‘Is that a fact?’
‘Yea, straight up. I’m not kidding, Debs. Listen, I’ll explain. You’ve heard of the Upwards With Reason! campaign in the News Chronicle, haven’t you?’
‘I have been following it with unerring interest,’ Deborah replies.
Having by this time wandered along a narrow lane and into one of the numerous small courtyards of the city, their voices, she notices, echo in the empty space, compelling them to speak softly - the distant rattle and clamour of traffic with its ironshod wheels on the main road, by contrast, seeming to belong to a different world of industry and bustle, so very far away that once again she feels impelled to run towards it, to take herself out of this curious, silent place with its museums and churches and other seemingly deserted buildings becoming with every minute more and more eerie.
‘Yea, well, it’s made a fair old impact so far,’ Small continues, undaunted and with an attempt at triumphalism - though in having to march along at the double to keep pace with Deborah’s long strides, his appearance does rather belie such a demonstration of confidence. ‘We’ve been opening a debate, see - reality versus illusion - what kind of society do folks really want for themselves in the next century? We’ve got badges and posters everywhere. Even a couple of MPs on the case - questions in the House and all that. Everybody’s getting involved.’
‘Oh really,’ she responds. ‘Everybody? All those frustrated husbands, dwarfed by their wives’ intelligence; all those third-rate academics entrenched in atheism to boost their own grubby little careers; and every jack-the-lad and tedious shop-floor bully with an axe to grind against anyone with an ounce of imagination or flare. Oh yes, I know the type, Small - your everybody. Very impressive retinue.’
‘Debbie!’ the man laughs, as if admonishing her as the wretched snow continues to swirl, swishing all about them, settling upon the shoulders of their coats and upon the rims of their hats. ‘We’re talking of thousands, probably hundreds of thousands of people. It’s catching on Stateside, too, with the US Mercury.’
‘Ah, yes: the US Mercury,’ she repeats with the air of merriment. ‘Isn’t that the one with photographs of actresses on every other page? You see, that’s what I mean, Small - the kind of papers you work for, it’s all about masturbation, really - the mental variety as well as the more obvious physical version. Anyway, what’s the deal? You still haven’t explained what this great offer of yours is all about.’
They both draw to a halt, as Deborah, with increasing impatience, makes a point of looking deliberately into the eyes of her antagonist, wondering what extreme act of contrition he is going to ask of her in order to buy back her peace and dignity. She has already anticipated it being something pretty unpleasant, but what comes next surpasses even her hardened expectations of her husband’s vindictiveness.
‘Upwards With Reason,’ Small reiterates. ‘Back it.’
‘I beg your pardon?’ Deborah says, stunned.
‘Back the campaign!’ Small repeats in the same brash, truculent voice, a sound just then so much a part of the icy darkness gathering about them that it seems hardly to be emanating from him at all. ‘Give it your blessing, Debs. Confess the error of your ways and deny all this clairvoyance stuff. Tell the people it’s just a load of drivel, what you do. That’s all he wants, the governor. That’s what he wanted me to tell you. Back the campaign, and you’re free of us forever.’
‘I see,’ Deborah responds, endeavouring still to cultivate the same measure of self-control. ‘The ultimate humiliation, eh?’
‘Yea - that’s it, Debs: the ultimate humiliation, ha ha!’ Small replies, his face almost hidden now as he dips his head again and again against each renewed blast of icy snow driving across the square - so it all looks like some hideous fairground automaton speaking there before her. ‘You’ll be all washed up then, see - if you ain’t already. There will be nowhere lower to go. And the governor … well, he’ll have all he wants, because you’ll be taking the blame for your daughter, see?’
But to his obvious surprise, instead of acquiescing, she steps up to him then, and with outstretched palms pushes hard against his chest, just the once, but very firm.
‘Bastard!’ she curses to his face, though not loudly, because the breath she feels has been taken from her in her despair. Then, to her astonishment, and most ungallantly, he actually pushes back - a palm upon her shoulder - to which she shoves again, even harder, more out of fear than obstinacy - shoving against his chest once more, against the filthy heart housed there - until, unbalanced and with sliding feet on the paving, he falls back against some iron railings. They have p
ointed tips, and his sleeve becomes snagged on one as he slips - following which, as he tries to extricate himself, there comes the sound of a long tear ripping into the arm of his coat. ‘Bitch!’ he mutters, managing to get up onto his knees.
But Deborah, blinded with rage, is at his throat now, gripping and twisting his collar - so that he, still all bent up and unable to release himself or get to his feet, appears to be choking.
‘You bastard!’ she repeats through gritted teeth, hauling him up herself to the accompaniment of an additional ripping sound. ‘And you can take this back to your governor from me,’ she adds with a swift and merciless knee, upwards into his groin.
Small, writhing with the agony of the blow, is physically sick there and then - to which Deborah, feeling she has already done enough, and becoming frightened of the consequences, turns quickly from the sordid spectacle and begins walking - walking as fast as she can on her heels.
Disentangling himself from the railings, meanwhile, Small dabs at the vomit on his chin with his sleeve. ‘You’re mad, Deborah, just a mad, stupid bitch!’ he splutters, running after his assailant and attempting without success to raise his voice, for it clearly hurts him. ‘Your daughter’s dead, can’t you get it into your thick skull - dead and buried - gone up in smoke months ago. And your handsome boyfriend - he’s just after the publicity, isn’t he! Yea, haven’t you figured that out yet? A second-rate music hall turn - being seen with you gets him in the papers, don’t it!’
These awful remarks arrest her progress and she turns to face the wretched man once more, approaching her with a curious limping gait, his sleeve hanging all ragged and one hand still clutching his groin. Observing him like this, it is for Deborah a most unusual feeling. The lower part of her body feels so very cool, but her head is so hot, boiling with rage and anguish over what he said about Herman.
‘That’s not true,’ she stammers, tearful. ‘It can’t be ...’
‘Of course it’s bloody true, you stupid old bag!’ Small retorts. ‘Everyone in town knows that. They’re all laughing at you.’
Deborah, her head hung low, her body trembling all over with emotion, is distressed now almost beyond endurance, visibly so - a spectacle seeming to gratify her tormentor even more, emboldening him yet more.
‘Ha! Yes, that’s right,’ he laughs, right in front of her again, and watching with curiosity as, for some reason, Deborah removes one of her gloves. ‘All makes you look pretty damn stupid, doesn’t it Debs - if anything can make you look even more stupid than you already are. You’re beaten - understand. You might as well play ball with us. Do what we want and back the campaign. Do it in your own words, now. Or - like you say - I’ll write the speech for you, anyway. And you know what that’ll mean. Yea, I can just see the headlines - Exclusive! Our man in Bern receives the confessions of psychic-joker Deborah Peters!’
But just then Small stops, his face frozen, for he has seen in Deborah’s right hand the dreadful, instinctively recognisable shape of a small revolver. And it is pointing at him.
‘Gone too far, Small,’ she mutters in a strange, distracted kind of voice, but she knows he has heard.
Together, they both see the awful darting flash long before either of them registers the noise of the shot - their conscious minds in their extremity having expanded each half-second to the length of twenty. She has pulled the trigger just the once - it could have been a door slamming, nothing remarkable in the sound of it, as his body crumples and falls back, almost seated, into a corner of the dark stone walls.
Frantically, shaking herself out of the fascination of the spectacle, Deborah looks around amid the snowfall. It is a miracle, but there is no one - not another living soul in sight. No one has seen! And at which, with almost comical theatricality, from a ledge above them, a huge pile of accumulated snow and ice conveniently slides down with a terrible thud over much of the body to camouflage the crime and to complete the process of concealment that, she realises with astonishment, might just keep the spectre from the notice of passers-by until daybreak. And then, immediately aware of the entrance through which they had entered the square, she walks calmly from the scene.
‘Look at me Poppy!’ she murmurs as she goes, walking a little faster now. ‘Look at me. See how I have killed for you, killed for all that you and I have ever held dear. Should I have let them drag our names through the mud, mock us with their insults and lies? The world is changing, Poppy. The great mother is stirring from her slumber, pushing aside all those who punish and keep their women in chains. But the chains are loosened now, and we will discover ourselves again, won’t we? - if we search long enough, and far enough. I am near, Poppy, I am near to you in my vengeance - you who have been enslaved and held captive for so long. Hear me calling wherever you are. Hear me calling in the darkness. Wait for me. I am so very near.’
Chapter 24
With an all-too-familiar feeling of mystification, Herman searches all over the hotel for Deborah. He searches the lobby, the restaurant. He makes inquiries at the reception desk, among the porters, the waiters and chambermaids. Nobody has seen her since early this afternoon. In desperation, he takes a stroll outside, peeping into nearby restaurants, any shops that might still be open - but all to no avail. The principal streets are still busy, the traffic galloping along, loud and indifferent to any careless pedestrian - reminding him of the manifold dangers of the city after dark, and thick snow and treacherous ice on every pavement.
Despairing of ever finding anyone by chance in such a large city, after an hour of searching, he returns to the hotel. There is nothing to be discovered in her room, either, once he has persuaded the staff to open the door - not a note, not a message for him or for anyone - while enquiries at the Bern hospital, via a fleet-of-foot boy at the hotel, rule out the eventuality of an accident, compelling Herman to consider the awful possibility of her having simply run off on yet another stage of her confused and rambling quest.
He asks himself whether he is being irrational, to be so concerned. After all, Deborah is a grown woman. She can look after herself, surely. Or can she, in her present state? And whereas only a short while ago there had been for him a sense of mild irritation and puzzlement, by now a genuine sense of panic has begun to set in. That she should go away now, just when he had finally located the organisation that might be connected to her daughter’s disappearance - now, without even waiting to hear his findings from the meeting with Herr Gross? It is just astonishing. Either that or down right sinister.
In the quiet of his room, reclining on his bed and glancing again and again at the paper on which is written those details he has obtained this afternoon, he is forced to weigh up his options most seriously - whether he should continue on to this place alone - a castle of some kind judging by its name, Schloss Lethe - or whether he should simply make contact with the authorities, the Swiss police, and drop the whole thing into their lap instead. Though, to be sure, the authorities had been of precious little help so far. And really, what does he have to show them anyway - a pseudo philosopher with a penchant for galactic intelligences; a couple of maps and some psychic intuition? No, that just wouldn’t do. It becomes apparent, furthermore, that the location of this so-called ‘study centre’ matches exactly the area he had identified during his dowsing with pendulum and map yesterday - and thereby confirming for him the obvious course of action. He writes out a message for Deborah, therefore, should she return, and telegraphs the stationers shop in Heidelberg, in case she should ever enquire there for news. Then, just a few hours later, shortly before daylight, he takes a train east, out through the valleys of the Swiss and Austrian Alps, changing routes where necessary, but always with the one clear destination in mind - the place they call Schloss Lethe, the remote stronghold and headquarters of the Society for the Teachings of Redemptive Mercies.
The trains are excellent at first as he proceeds towards Vienna: good, modern rolling stock, well appointed and comfortable with large windows through which he becomes en
thralled by a progression of the most spectacular glimpses of mountain scenery surely anywhere on Earth, of cloud-capped peaks and glaciers and, in the valleys, picturesque villages clustered round frozen streams. The familiar pointed steeples of the churches also gradually give place, the farther East he is taken, to the more bulbous spires of a once-Turkish influence - exotic shapes reminding him of his increasing distance from home, not only in miles, but in cultural distinctions, as well. The journey south from Vienna to Graz is almost equally as agreeable - but eventually conditions deteriorate, and with the need to take recourse more and more to branch lines as he ventures deeper into the remote regions of Styria, it is to finish up on a wooden bench in a wagon hauled by a filthy engine that spits soot and smoke and whose only source of heating is a primitive box stove at one end. Frozen almost to the bone, he eventually reaches the end of the line where, after exhaustive questioning of the locals, he is told the only way onward is via a carriage ride - itself difficult to procure, but even this, once completed, only terminates at a small village deep at the head of a valley. It is getting dark, and the roadway up to the Schloss is impassable, especially at this time of the year, they tell him after finding board at the only inn. There is no one willing to risk hiring him a horse or mule in such treacherous conditions, moreover - until it soon becomes painfully obvious that tomorrow he will be obliged to hike the last few kilometres to the mountain retreat on foot.
Thus, following a surprisingly sound sleep upon a mattress so well worn it was shaped like a hammock, and having equipped himself with a rucksack, stout boots and a long waxed topcoat, like a forester’s, Herman sets out in the company of a local guide upon what he trusts will prove the very final stage of his journey. David is the name of the young man who has been enlisted to show him across the difficult terrain - a sprightly enough fellow, fond of whistling, but who volunteers scant else by way of companionship, and precious little information, either, about himself or their destination, a matter over which he seems intent on evasion whenever Herman broaches the subject.
THE HOURS BEFORE: A Story of Mystery and Suspense from the Belle Époque Page 23
