The One Safe Place

by Ramsey Campbell

  Marshall heard sounds of dissatisfaction from the public gallery, and couldn't look when the judge did. His parents were going to be ejected, and it was his fault for not telling them about Fancy and the videos, an incident which until now hadn't even seemed worth remembering. Apparently the judge's gaze was enough to quell his parents, and perhaps their reaction confirmed what the judge had been led by the lawyer to think, because he said, "You may continue, Mr. Keen."

  "Just a few more questions, Marshall, if you can concentrate for me. Would you remind the court where my client was when your father came home?"

  Marshall wanted to clarify the business with the videos, but couldn't think how. "In my mom's and dad's room," he said with little patience.

  "And just remind us why you'd taken him upstairs."

  "Not to look at videos."

  "I hear you. Why had you taken him upstairs?"

  There seemed to be nothing more to the question than the words of it, yet Marshall was having to rub the palms of his hands on his trousers. "He made me."

  "This was a stage of the dragging which you allege took place."

  "I guess so."

  "It would have to be, wouldn't it? But I still don't understand why he would choose to wait for your father upstairs, or did he expect to find your father up there?"

  "No, of course not," Marshall said, wondering why nobody had intervened to prevent him from stating what was only his opinion. As he fought the way his mouth was trying to lug at his face, a memory came to save him. "He wanted to see the rest of the house."

  "Wanted to see the rest of the house," the lawyer said, and let his gaze drift past Marshall. Of course there was nothing behind him except the wall, but the gaze was invoking the experience of being pushed upstairs by the intruder: the smell of sweat which must have been partly Marshall's own, his skin crawling as though from the touch of stubble, the presence behind him like a weight on his whole being, the noose of his collar and tie close to throttling him, the hard object digging into his back. "So at any rate," the lawyer said, "we have you in the bedroom. About how long would you say you were there before your father came home?"

  "I don't know." The longer Marshall thought about it, the more protracted and oppressive the memory seemed, heavy with undefined fear. "Hardly any, I mean, just a minute."

  "You were there for just a minute. Very well, and then..."

  "I heard my dad's car."

  "You heard what precisely?"

  "Heard it stop outside and him getting out."

  "Help me grasp this if you will. You weren't able to see him."

  "I knew who it was, though, and I was right."

  "I think you were asked not to anticipate. What did you suppose was likely to happen when your father came into the house?"

  "He was going to try and hurt him, the man who'd got in was."

  "That was your belief. Acting on that belief, did you attempt to protect your father?"

  "Yes, I ran onto the balcony and—"

  "I take it that my client could not have been holding you at this point."

  "Yes he was, but I got free and—"

  "A moment, now. From what exactly did you have to free yourself?"

  Marshall rubbed his sweaty palms with his sweaty fingers. "He was holding my shirt collar."

  "Is it possible that the buttons which you say were snapped off may have been dislodged as you freed yourself?"

  "I guess."

  "Mr. Keen..."

  "I believe I'm leading to my last important point, my lord. So, Marshall, you run onto the balcony and try to warn your father, do you?"

  "Right."

  "What do you call to him?"

  "I..." Marshall swallowed and tried to keep his fingers still. "I said..."

  "A little louder, if you can."

  "I said 'Don't come in, he's got a gun.'"

  "But you told the court my client was unarmed."

  Marshall's right eye twitched, but he couldn't close out the sight of everyone watching him. "Do you wish to change your testimony?" the lawyer said.

  The prospect of even more interrogation drove Marshall's voice out of his stiff mouth. "I thought he had a gun, but it was his finger."

  There was a chorus of sniggers from the public gallery. Surely now the judge would clear out the intruders, but he only gave them a sharp look. "And what was your father's response to your warning?" the lawyer said as though he was sparing Marshall any number of harder questions.

  "He didn't hear what I said."

  "In which case you must have believed he was in even greater danger."

  "I guess."

  "And been prepared to do anything you could to protect him."

  "Sure."

  "An understandable reaction, given the apparent situation as our young witness saw it," the lawyer told the jury, most of whom were beginning to look as unsure as Marshall felt about where this was leading. "So, Marshall, can you explain to the court how Mr. Fancy came to be hospitalised?"

  "He tried to jump on my dad and missed."

  "To jump from where?"

  "Our balcony."

  "A balcony which I think we have established is on the first floor?"

  "Second. Well, what you call first, yeah, first."

  "We need to be absolutely clear about this. Approximately how far from the ground would you say the top of the balcony railings are?"

  "Is," Marshall corrected before he could stop himself, and received a frown from the judge. "I don't know. About..."

  "In the region of twenty feet, shall we say?"

  "About."

  "I should inform your lordship I was able to establish that the height is just in excess of twenty feet. Now, Marshall, I would ask you to think carefully before you answer. Are you telling the court that my client jumped from that height in order to catch your father when he could have walked downstairs and confronted him as he let himself into the house?"

  "Yes," Marshall responded at once, and heard the answer fall dead. "Well, he did. He jumped like you said."

  "Take your time before answering this question. Might you have given him any help?"

  "Help?"

  "Perhaps the usage is unfamiliar. My client is on the balcony, and you believe he may be preparing to shoot your father, though in fact he is unarmed. Might you have given him a push?"

  Marshall saw understanding spread through the jury, and felt it take hold of him. "I didn't," he blurted.

  "Let me remind you of the situation as you have described it. You've just freed yourself with enough force to rip buttons off your shirt. Presumably you consider protecting your father more important than, say, stopping a fight in the school playground. Are you saying you wouldn't do everything in your power to protect him and think about the consequences afterward?"

  Marshall wished he had indeed behaved like that. Perhaps his wish could be heard in his reply—perhaps he didn't even want the reply to be believed. "No, I didn't," he said.

  "No further questions."

  "Mr. Penman?"

  The opposing lawyer shook his head without bothering to glance at Marshall. "You may stand down," the judge said.

  As Marshall turned to the steps the witness stand seemed to quiver, and then the courtroom did. He held onto the edge of the stand as he picked his way down the suddenly rubbery steps. The robed woman took his elbow for a moment to steer him toward the public gallery, and Mr. Penman glanced up from sorting papers long enough to give him a slow blink which Marshall took to express profound disappointment. At least Marshall was trudging to his parents, both of whom only looked relieved. But the youth called Ken leaned sideways behind Marshall's mother and butted the air and opened his mouth. No sound emerged, but his lips around his bared teeth shaped the words unmistakably as he bulged his bloodshot eyes at Marshall. "We'll get you for what you done."

  7 A Verdict

  That evening Marshall watched videos with Tom Bold and Ali Syed and Trevor Warris. Tom had brought his girlfriend Pippy,
a large girl who, although she was months younger than any of the boys, already had breasts, and who kept calling Tom "Tombola" because her mother did. She ate most of the salad at dinner, while little Trevor devoured several of the burgers on the communal plate which Marshall's father kept replenishing. When the picnic was over Pippy organised the boys in clearing everything into the house and washing up the plates and utensils, and so they were all in the kitchen when Ali said to Marshall, "Show us something we can't see in Britain."

  "Just your videos," Marshall's mother said at once.

  Trevor, whose older brother apparently talked and read about nothing except videos, turned out to know most about them. In the room at the top of the house he selected a pile tall enough to tuck under his chin, and while Marshall employed the fast forward button he added a commentary to the chorus of pops of the bubble gum Pippy had shared around. "That was cut," he said when Indiana Jones's adversary pulled out a man's living heart, and "So was that," when the screaming man was lowered into a pit of fire. Marshall never enjoyed hearing gum in a movie theater, but now he joined in like the gracious host he was, and had succeeded in producing the loudest pop yet when the phone rang in the hall and upstairs.

  There surely wasn't any reason for his palms to begin sweating, and he rubbed them down his pants legs before they could really start. He heard the ringing cease after five repetitions as the machine by the stairs took the call, and then his father picked up the phone in the study. "Hello?"

  "Can we hear the music? I like this bit," Pippy said, and so all Marshall heard of the conversation through the microphone on the answering machine was his father's blurred voice and another. As the movie began to rewind Trevor suggested other films to watch—Robin Hood, Prince of Thieves was a popular choice—and Marshall heard his mother meet his father as he came downstairs. "Why are you looking like that?" she said.

  "It's on the machine. Wait while I play it back."

  Marshall sprang himself out of his chair and ran into the hall. "Can I listen?"

  His mother made a stern face at him, but his father pondered and said, "Maybe you should."

  Marshall wiped his sweat off the remote control he was still holding and entrusted it to Trevor. As he closed the door the answering machine delivered itself of several clicks, and then his father's voice said, "Hello?"

  "Don Travis? it's Teresa Handley. I'm the writer who wrecked your party by causing a scene."

  "Of course you didn't. How's everything?"

  "He can come back if he keeps his nose clean. I used to wonder where you lot across the pond got that phrase from. Meanwhile I'm celebrating publication day all on my own."

  "Here's to your book never turning up in my shop."

  "I'll drink to that." An interlude of static followed, then, "I just did. How about you and the family? How's the case?"

  "The court thing, you mean. Marshall was the star of the show. Kept his head with all the man's relatives watching him."

  He mightn't be so confident if he knew what the man in the gallery had mouthed at Marshall. "When are you expecting the verdict?" Teresa Handley said.

  "Should be Monday when the bad guy gets justice."

  There was a silence which Marshall suspected was occupied by another drink. "Have you thought what to do if he doesn't," the crime novelist said eventually and somewhat indistinctly, "or come to that, if he does?"

  "Stay here in either case."

  "There's a pioneer. Over there I expect you'd get yourself a gun to be on the safe side."

  "We've never owned one."

  "Have you not? Me neither, believe me." This time the stretch of static couldn't disguise the clink of glass against teeth. "The point being, at the party I was saying to your wife that when I was researching this last masterpiece of undying literature I got introduced to someone at the supply end of things, so if you ever feel the need I could put you in touch."

  "Well, that's very..."

  "You mustn't think I make a habit of this. Only in the circums, and with you being used to everybody having one that wants one instead of only those who shouldn't like it's getting to be here, and I felt I owe you a favour after wrecking like I said."

  "If you want to do us one, send us a signed copy of the new book."

  "I will, to all of you and yours for putting up with me. Give my regards to the prof and to junior," she said, and was gone with a clash of glass against the mouthpiece.

  "Didn't she realise she was being recorded?" Marshall's mother said as the tape gabbled backward to reset itself. "She mustn't care about technology. She still writes longhand and her husband processes it." Marshall could tell she was clearing this speech out of the way of something else, and as the machine clicked into its listening mode she said, "Frankly, Don..."

  "Go ahead, be that."

  "I don't see why you felt you had to..." A nod at Marshall said the rest.

  "Marshall's a person too, aren't you, son? I thought we always took his feelings into account."

  "I hope we do. Do we, honey? Never hold off saying if you think we aren't."

  "So can I stay?"

  "I set myself that trap, didn't I?" she said, and had to laugh. "I still wouldn't have minded first chance at hearing the tape, but at least now it's over."

  "You don't think we should discuss it."

  "Discuss what, Don? Buying a piece?"

  "I figured I should hear what you thought at least."

  "I think you have to be kidding if you even need to ask. We're talking illegal and dangerous here, the kind of thing that could get us deported. And I have to say I don't like that glint in your eye, Marshall. Guns hurt, and they maim, and generally mess up people's lives if they leave them alive at all. They aren't like they are in the movies, and if you don't know that, maybe you should watch a few less."

  "I do know, mom. I've seen the real stuff on television, on the news."

  "Of course you know the difference. I'm not attacking you, honey, I'm attacking..." She gestured loosely at herself. "And I can't imagine you'd care much for the idea of a gun around the house."

  In that case, Marshall reflected, she didn't know him as well as she would like to think, but he also meant it when he said hopefully, "We don't need one, do we?"

  "Believe it. Like Don told the lady, we're here and we're staying and we don't need any defences we haven't already got. Now can I hear an altercation that sounds like it needs you to sort it out, or shall we?"

  "I'll get it," Marshall said, though he felt he'd been manoeuvred into leaving so that his parents could say things they didn't want to say in front of him.

  Pippy was insisting his copy of Conan the Barbarian was the one she'd seen on television, and Trevor was maintaining that it couldn't be and, worse, finishing Tom's words for him. Ali was failing to keep the peace by suggesting that the disagreement didn't matter. By the time it had been established that Pippy had watched a satellite broadcast Marshall was dismayed how much anger had been generated to no end. Pippy's mother arrived during the last ten minutes of the film. "Doesn't he ever put his shirt on?" she said of Conan, and "Looks a bit like you, Tombola" and at least half a dozen other comments which everyone tried to ignore. As soon as the credits began to roll she bundled all the visitors out to her milk delivery van, and then there wasn't much to distract Marshall from having to wait all weekend to learn what the judge and jury said.

  Meanwhile, as he lay in bed, he kept hearing the threat the man in court had only mouthed. Surely it was the kind of threat you heard in the schoolyard, boys saying they'd smash someone's face to a pulp or break their arms and legs or cut their balls off. Words could be a kind of violence you committed when you hoped not to go any further. The older man had elbowed Ken hard in the ribs when he'd seen him mouthing, and the three had only stared at the Travises as Marshall's parents had led him out. They hadn't been following whenever he'd looked back, and he ought to remember they had no reason to follow. They'd find out as soon as they spoke to their relative—fin
d out that Marshall had done nothing whatsoever to him.

  Marshall slept before he expected to, and awoke on Saturday knowing the weekend was planned in advance. That afternoon he went bowling with his friends from school, and later he ate Indian with his parents at the Shere Khan. On Sunday his father took him to Laserquest, where they zapped as many opponents in the dark plasterboard maze as they could without having their own laser guns disabled. After dinner at home they went with Marshall's mother to the ice rink.

  It was in a building as large as a barn—too large for the disco music which grew blurred with trying to encompass the rink. Soon Marshall was skating across the ice while clumps of people hobbled around its edge and clung to the low wall. He met his parents in the mist beneath the yellowish arc lights, and then they glided arm in arm away from him, and he thought they were reliving some part of their life together, perhaps from before he'd been born. Suddenly—he didn't know why—the air tasted like tears. He had to give them time with each other, but once he saw them swooping back toward him he wobbled to them, having lost his confidence. "Here he comes," his father cried, stretching out a hand to catch him, but Marshall couldn't feel supported while he was unable to ask whether they already knew what he had only just realised—that his useless performance on the witness stand would set the gunman free.

  He tried not to let his mother see him shiver, but she did, and five minutes later the Travises reclaimed their shoes. Outside the night seemed as cold as the rink. As the Volvo swung out of the parking lot onto the main road a pair of headlamp beams hacked through the car, and the outlines of Marshall's parents blazed as if they were exploding. All the way through several suburbs of Manchester he was intensely aware of them, close enough to touch and yet rendered unreal as paper silhouettes by his sense of their vulnerability. A hair sprouted from the top of his father's head, and every oncoming car spotlighted it and the drooping night-heavy flower of his mother's hair. He was still seeing the fragile silhouettes as he fell asleep in bed, afraid to dream. He was still feeling vulnerable on their behalf as he walked to school the next morning.