Blow the House Down

by John Blackburn

  ‘My compliments to you too, sir.’ It was Forest’s turn to receive a smile, and the contrast between the two struck everybody: a soft urbane man confronted by some hard primeval creature from pagan mythology. ‘Your articles have been models of gutter-­press reportage and stirred up as much muck as even you could have hoped, Mr Forest.’

  ‘Look, Sir George, you must be ill or you wouldn’t be talking this way.’ Joe Pinter stepped towards him, his kindly face full of concern. ‘Let’s call it a day, and you get along home.’

  ‘Shut your mouth, Pinter.’ Strand had stopped smiling and his face looked tense and angry. ‘You have all come here for an explanation and that is what you are going to get. You’ve finished, Mr Turner?’

  ‘Yes, Sir George.’ The control panel was screwed back now and he stood stationed before the switches. ‘I’ve made all the adjustments you asked for.’

  ‘Good, then let’s get cracking.’ Pinter was in line with the model and Strand waved him aside impatiently. ‘You are going to see what Miss Fane witnessed last Saturday and what else she would have witnessed, had the phenomena continued. Run the machine on the settings I gave you, Mr Turner.’ He leaned forward and his wife laid a protecting hand on his shoulder, as if fearing he might fall.

  The fan started to revolve, the ribbons on the two towers flapped lazily, then strained out as the current increased, then whipped and cracked madly. The steady drone of the wind grew to a howl and a bellow, and finally to a hammering, pulsing roar full of fury and menace.

  ‘Oh, my God.’ Mallory’s voice was barely audible above the din, but Strand’s laughter was loud and clear, as they all saw the upper bridges start to move, just as Janet had done. A tiny high-­speed vibration at first, and then slower, but more violent, and every bridge became affected, bucking up and down like flotsam on a choppy sea.

  ‘You can see it, can’t you, Michael?’ Strand shouted. ‘All of you can see what is happening and you’re going to see much more in a few seconds. Apologies to Miss Fane will be the order of the day, I hope.

  ‘Ah, they are starting to go.’ Fragments were falling from the main structures now. Facing slabs and balconies and exterior frames were twisting and flapping and suddenly shooting out to strike the walls of the tunnel, while two of the bridges had vanished and the towers were straining away from each other as if fighting to escape from the wind.

  ‘Ten seconds, five seconds, three seconds.’ Strand was counting aloud while he watched the thing he himself had made crumble. ‘One second and that’s that.

  ‘Thank you, Mr Turner, an impressive demonstration.’ He motioned him to switch off the fan because the ruin was complete. What had once been a model of Mallory Heights, proud and soaring and supposedly indestructable, now lay shattered on the floor. ‘If that had been the real building, I wonder what the death roll would have been.’

  ‘You’re mad, George.’ For a moment nobody had answered him. With the exception of Strand and his wife and the mechanic they could do nothing but stare at the ruin in the tunnel. Then Mallory had turned and faced him. ‘You didn’t realize you had made an error till Miss Fane’s experience brought the truth home to you. That shock must have caused your last stroke, and I can only pity you. And for God’s sake stop laughing, man.’

  ‘I’m no nut case, Michael, but you’re a lot of bone-­headed fools.’ Strand’s mirth rolled across the room. ‘Did you pay me to build a military bunker that could resist high explosives? Was I asked to design a structure to withstand earthquake conditions? If you’d done so, you’d have got one. But what I was asked to design was a domestic building.

  ‘Of course the bloody model collapsed under phenomena that don’t even exist in the hurricane belt or the China Seas. The wonder is that it lasted so long and I’m right proud of myself. Tell them what adjustments you made, Mr Turner.’

  ‘I re-­set the motor and the variation control system by lowering the resistance one hundred and five ohms, and fitting smaller cams.’ Turner was clearly enjoying their bewilderment. ‘That would have intensified the wind pressure by fifty miles an hour and subjected the model to gusts of less than two seconds’ duration.’

  ‘Well, does that satisfy you, gentlemen?’ Strand shook with laughter. ‘A wind like that would blow the whole Randel valley away. Do you expect any normal building to stand up to those conditions?’

  ‘Naturally not, George, but I still don’t understand.’ Mallory stood shaking his head. ‘The apparatus had not been tampered with when Miss Fane witnessed the vibrations. It was operating normally?’

  ‘Like hell it was, Michael. And if one of you had had half the savvy of Mary, here, you’d have discovered the truth for yourselves.’ He rubbed his crippled hand against his wife’s arm and she smiled down at him with complete devotion. ‘Like the excellent secretary she was, Mary’s got a good memory. After I heard about Miss Fane’s experience she considered the time factors, and the penny started to drop. It was roughly twelve forty-­five when you saw the vibrations, my dear?

  ‘Quite so.’ He grinned at Janet’s bewildered nod. ‘At just about that time, Mary was in the kitchen and she noticed the oven light was much brighter and flickering.

  ‘I may have had a couple of strokes, I may be old, but I can still take a tip, gentlemen. When Mary told me that, I got on to the electricity people a bit sharpish. Here’s the cause of all the alarm and despondency, and I’ll expect to see it in your miserable rag tomorrow, Mr Forest.’ He pulled a sheet of paper from his pocket and held it out to Paul.

  ‘Read it to them, Gordon, loud and clear so they can all hear you.’

  ‘This is a letter from the manager of the Randel­wyck Electricity Board and dated yesterday,’ Paul read.

  ‘In reference to your inquiry I can inform you that during the period in question a temporary fault developed at our generating station at Kinswood which is not connected to the national grid. This fault was caused by a defective turbine governor and severe current fluctuations occurred in central Randel­wyck and some outlying rural areas. I am happy to inform you that less than three minutes passed before the phenomenon was noticed and the unit responsible disconnected. Should any of your domestic electrical equipment have been damaged as a result of this unfortunate occurrence, our salesman will be pleased to call and . . .’

  ‘That’s enough, lad. Pass it round so they can all see the heading’s genuine. And you give me a hand up, Mary.’ He gripped her slim arm and heaved himself out of the chair.

  ‘Aye, Michael, that current fluctuation would have produced exactly the same effect on the wind tunnel as did Mr Turner’s adjustments. There’s nowt wrong with the Heights and you can all sleep soundly tonight.’ The effort of leaving the chair appeared to have distressed him and Strand swayed slightly. Paul took his other arm and felt the old body shudder beneath his grasp.

  ‘And talking of sleep, get me home and back to bed, Mary.’ He turned and staggered towards the door with his weight on their shoulders. ‘I’m tired, love, bloody tired.’

  5

  ‘A coincidence, just a complete coincidence that you happened to run the machine at the exact time that the current fluctuation occurred.’ Paul was smiling at the television set in Janet’s flat. ‘But thank the Lord, it’s all over. In about forty minutes the idiot’s lantern is going to proclaim that you were not a neurotic scare-­monger, but a heroine who stuck to her guns. How do you feel about that, darling?’

  ‘Certainly not heroic, Paul.’ She watched him reach out and help himself to a generous glass of her whisky. ‘Rather the opposite, in fact. You and Mallory and Joe Pinter were pretty persuasive. If Strand hadn’t telephoned when Sentrie was questioning me, I’m almost sure I would have said I’d imagined the whole thing.’

  ‘You wouldn’t, Jan, and don’t make me feel like a bloody Judas.’ Paul carried their drinks over to the sofa. ‘But to hell with me, and here’s to Georgie Strand – Big Daddy in person.’

  ‘I’ll drink to him all right.’ Ja
net raised her glass. ‘Quite a boy, isn’t he? From the moment he came into the room everybody was dominated by him. Maybe I’ve got a thing for father figures, because whenever he smiled at me I felt I was being undressed.’

  ‘Good for George. Sorry, I have no paternal authority to offer, and I haven’t been weaned yet.’ Paul took a stiff pull of Scotch. ‘I feel sorry for that poor kid, too. She must have one hell of a life.’

  ‘His wife? Don’t be so silly, Paul. She obviously adores him. You could tell that from the way she looked at him.’

  ‘She adores him all right. In the same way a collie bitch adores a brutal shepherd. What’s that damn silly saying? “Better an old man’s darling than a young man’s slave.” Strand may be old, but she’s a slave all right.’

  ‘Rubbish, Paul.’ Janet had developed a strong hero-­worship for Strand and she was beginning to be irritated. ‘The poor man’s sick, and very weak. Remember how you had to help him out of the room. He couldn’t hurt anybody.’

  ‘Couldn’t he just?’ Paul lit a cigarette. ‘He may not mean to hurt her, but Strand’s been a martinet all his life and I don’t suppose he’ll have mellowed much. Did you see the bruises on her arm where he’d been hanging on to her? He must weigh seventeen stone, if he’s an ounce. When we got him into the corridor, he pulled himself away from me and told me he didn’t need my help any more. “That was kind of you, Gordon, but we can manage well enough now.” ’ Paul attempted to imitate Strand’s gruff tones. ‘That girl was almost bent double under his weight.’

  ‘She probably likes doing things for him. I know I would. But don’t get jealous, darling.’ Janet’s irritation vanished as she saw Paul’s expression. ‘I was only joking about being physically attracted to him, but I’ll never forget the way he wiped the floor with all the doubters who said I was imagining things. Did you notice Joe Pinter’s face when the model started to move? For a moment I thought he was going to have a stroke himself.

  ‘Oh, not again.’ The doorbell had rung and she frowned across the hall-­cum-­sitting-­room. ‘It’s bound to be another blasted reporter. Let’s hope Forest’s statement on the ten o’clock news will satisfy them.

  ‘No, I’ll go, Paul.’ She pulled herself resignedly to her feet. ‘But if he tries to push his way in, you can satisfy my Big Daddy cravings by throwing him down the stairs.’

  ‘Good evening, Miss Fane.’ The man’s face was shadowed by a wide-­brimmed hat and he clutched a bunch of flowers in one hand. ‘I am sorry to call so late, but could you spare me a few minutes? We should have a lot to say to each other. You do remember me, Miss Fane? My name is Baylis – James Baylis.’

  ‘Remember you?’ He had removed the hat and Janet saw the face that had constantly stared and nodded at her during ‘Sentry Box’. ‘I could hardly forget you, Mr Baylis.’

  ‘Did I embarrass you, Miss Fane? If so, I do apologize, because I only wanted to show you that I was on your side; to encourage you. Would you be kind enough to accept these as a peace offering and a tribute to your courage?’ He held out the bunch of flowers: white carnations already past their best, with the blooms fading and some of the stalks buckled.

  ‘Thank you.’ Janet took the withered bouquet with reluctance, glad that Paul was near by. Baylis did not look dangerous; pathetic was one word to describe him, but his manner was eccentric to say the least. ‘It’s pretty late and I’ve got a friend with me. What did you want to say?’

  ‘A great deal, Miss Fane.’ He slid his hand into his jacket pocket and produced a visiting card with a shy grin. ‘This might convince you that I am a fairly respectable person.’

  ‘I see.’ The card stated that he held the degrees of M.Sc. and Ph.D. and lived in one of Randel­wyck’s better-­class suburbs. ‘But I still don’t understand, Dr Baylis.’

  ‘Just plain Mister, Miss Fane. I think the title should only be used by medical practitioners and I’m merely a doctor of philosophy. But please let me come inside.’ He looked over her shoulder and saw Paul who had left the sofa and was coming towards them. ‘I understand that Mr Gordon is a close friend, so he must be in your confidence and share our secret.’ He bowed to Paul and held out his hand.

  ‘That’s correct, isn’t it, Mr Gordon? Like Miss Fane and I, you know the truth about Mallory Heights; the real truth.’

  ‘Mr Baylis, you must believe us. We are telling you the truth. This evening Sir George Strand proved that the vibration was due to a fault at the generating plant.’ A quarter of an hour had passed and Paul put every ounce of persuasion he could muster into his voice. ‘Mallory Heights are in no danger whatsoever. What Miss Fane saw was an actual happening, not a vision, as you keep repeating.’

  ‘I still think you are lying – that you have been forced to lie by those in authority.’ It had taken them less than five minutes to realize that Baylis was a neurotic and ten minutes to see that he had a compulsive anxiety about the safety of the Heights. A religious mania which prompted him to believe that what Janet had seen was a God-­given preview of the destruction to come; a vision which he himself had experienced at an earlier date. However hard both of them had struggled to put his mind at rest, he had replied with the complete conviction of a paranoiac and spoken of other destructions of the past: Jericho and Carthage and Pompeii, and the great city that was Babylon.

  ‘What you experienced came from God Himself, Miss Fane, and one day you will see the actual event. The wind that shall come tearing from the sky to rock the foundations of the building till it topples to the ground.’

  ‘I saw the vibration of the model because it took place, Mr Baylis.’ The man might be a neurotic bore, but he was so obviously under great mental stress that Janet felt desperately sorry for him. ‘You must stop worrying and accept what we say. It would take high explosives to damage that building.’

  ‘That was what I thought once, Miss Fane.’ Baylis was standing by the window with his back towards them. Across the city the twin towers were ablaze with light. In a week’s time the Mayor would cut a ribbon and declare them open, and tonight plumbers and electricians, gas fitters and decorators were hard at work on the interiors. ‘But I was assured that the wind will come, a great, swirling wind of terror which will lay waste everything that stands before it and thousands will perish when the towers fall.’ He turned and faced them and they saw that there was a little nervous tic trembling beneath his right eye.

  ‘I still didn’t believe it completely. I doubted my own dreams – I even doubted the word of the Sailorman, himself. Then I saw the conviction on your face, Miss Fane, and I knew I had been told the truth.’

  ‘The Sailorman?’ Paul poured himself another whisky. Part of him wanted to throw their deranged visitor out of the flat, but another part shared Janet’s sympathy. ‘Who is the Sailorman?’

  ‘You wouldn’t know, Mr Gordon. It is unimportant and I should not have mentioned the name.’ Baylis raised his hand to his face as if hoping to rub away the tic.

  ‘When I heard you swear to Sentrie that you were telling the truth, Miss Fane, I knew I had to talk to you; to compare our joint visions of the coming disaster.’ He glanced towards a table and the flowers which Janet had put in water, and for a moment normality returned. ‘I am sorry I did not arrange an appointment, but your telephone was always out of order. I carried those carnations about with me for a long time.’

  ‘They still look very nice, Mr Baylis.’ Beyond the table stood a bookcase and Janet suddenly realized how she could convince Baylis they were telling the truth. The man’s reference to God and Babylon and Jericho proved that his mania was religious and he would respect the Bible if nothing else. She walked across and pulled it from the shelf.

  ‘In a few minutes’ time, the television news will confirm exactly what happened to the wind-­tunnel model, but before it does, Mr Gordon and I are going to swear on this book that what we have said is true in every respect.’

  ‘No, no, you mustn’t.’ Baylis shook his head convulsively with his
hand still pressed to his cheek and his sleeve flapping to show an anchor tattooed on his wrist. ‘Don’t lie before God. You did have a vision, Miss Fane. You saw the destruction to come, so do not risk your immortal souls. Let them make you deceive Man, but not God Himself.’

  ‘Mr Baylis, we both swear that what we told you is the truth.’ Paul spoke with his hand resting beside Janet’s on the Bible, and when he had finished Baylis appeared to grow taller and his air of mania left him. He lowered his hand to reveal that the tic had vanished and straightened his shoulders.

  ‘Thank you. You were speaking the truth after all.’ He walked stiffly to the door and pulled it open. ‘I have been a credulous fool and I should not have come here. But, even if God’s wind does not blow, the city will fall as certainly as night follows day.’ He closed the door and Paul and Janet stared at each other, completely baffled. They had attempted to calm a neurotic’s anxieties, and achieved quite the opposite.

  God’s wind! Carthage, Pompeii, Jericho, and above all Babylon; the centre of Satanic corruption, the great city of the Beast. James Baylis had wanted a very different kind of reassurance. He had hoped to be promised that there really was a wind which could destroy Mallory Heights.

  ‘This is Northmoorland Television and it is now time for the ten o’clock news, brought to you by Gordon Travers.’

  ‘Might as well look at it, Hilda.’ Jack Baxter got up from the armchair, edged his way past a clothes-­horse draped with damp washing and turned up the volume of the set. Through the partition between the flats they heard that one of the Virgils had done the same.

  ‘London. The sit-­in at the Westminster School of Sociology is now in its fifth day.’ Jack scowled at a Vietcong flag flapping idly from a building and a line of police cordoning off the street. ‘The demonstrators have been informed that unless they leave the premises by noon tomorrow, troops may be used to eject them.’

  I should damn well think so, Jack thought to himself. Stupid young louts bent on hell-­raising. Too much time and money on their hands, that’s the trouble. Stick ’em into the factories or the forces and they’d soon learn to behave themselves.