“What are you going to do?’’
“Ring up John for a start. He said he was going straight home.’’
She followed him into the room, shutting the door behind her.
“Why?’’
He turned to look at her, having dialled the number, the receiver at his ear.
“Why – what?’’
“You want the Russians to get him! You want to help them – to get him out of the country! You’ve always hated him and for no reason at all!’’
Colin did not answer. He was speaking to Carfax, or rather listening, occasionally saying yes or no. When he put down the receiver he looked at his wife, so coldly that for perhaps the first time in the course of their marriage she was afraid of him.
“You are quite ludicrously wrong,’’ he said. “I know for a fact that Sudenic has no intention of staying in England and never has had. But if he had wanted to stay I would not have opposed it. As far as I am concerned he can go where he likes, but not back to Russia. That would be the end of him. Ring up John yourself if you don’t believe me.’’
He moved away from his desk, holding out the receiver to her. She went forward, taking it, but making no attempt to dial.
“It’s time you sorted out your ideas, Margaret,’’ Colin went on, still moving away from her. “You’re out of date. I’m not jealous of Sudenic, now. You are. I know all about his affair with Louise, or rather all he’s told Stephen about it, because Steve has told me. I still don’t like him, but I shall do everything I can to help him, if only to score off the bloody Russians. So you’d better stop making a fool of yourself, if you can.’’
Without looking at her he walked out of the room, shutting the door quietly behind him. Margaret laid her head on his desk among the shattered pieces of her own past image and wept bitterly, while the telephone buzzed gently in her hand, waiting to be of service.
Chapter Fifteen
Boris woke early on sunday morning. He had not slept well, for he too had seen the evening papers and the Press publicity given to his case worried him. Also the apparent lack of interest shown by the authorities. He had never really understood the peculiar balance in England between the ordinary police and the security forces. Were they really the same? Did they overlap? Was there some truly sinister third body he had not yet encountered, one that would pounce when he least expected it?
Almost, he felt, it was easier in the Iron Curtain countries, because there you knew what to expect. Authority was the enemy of freedom, openly, ideologically, fanatically. There was something definite to fight, to trick, to elude. Something immensely powerful but often self-defeating for that reason. Here in England freedom was apparently unrestricted, but from time to time you fell over the barbed wire of some hidden, crazily constructed obstacle to freedom. This made his present situation more difficult than ever.
He woke early, then, his mind heavy with unanswered questions, his head aching from unrest. He glanced again at the evening papers of the day before. They told him nothing. His uncouth self of February looked at him from a hirsute face. But as he lay in his bath an idea came to him, or rather the development of a previous idea and later, reading the Sunday papers while he passed his electric razor slowly over his jaw, the idea moved further and grew firm and pleased him. A new plan, he thought. I must find Stephen tonight and scrap everything we discussed on Friday and talk to him of this. He remembered ruefully that the best part of the day had to be spent with Margrethe on the river. He hoped she would not be difficult. He had never encouraged her but he knew what lay under the frozen exterior of this ice-maiden.
He had arranged to meet Margrethe at the railway station at Marlow at noon. She had insisted upon bringing a picnic lunch for them both, so he thought it appropriate to carry with him a small bottle of spirits as his share of the provisions. Apart from anything else it made a convenient bulge of indeterminate size in the pocket of his blazer, so the other contents were not defined.
Margrethe was already there waiting for him. This was to be expected, since she had told him that she was spending the week-end with friends at Peppard. She was, however, alone.
“You do not bring your friends?’’ Boris asked her as they left the station entrance.
“No. They are lazy today and the river is too familiar to them.’’
He said no more. But when Margrethe reached a bus stop and stood by it, he asked, “Where are we going? Are there no boats at Marlow?’’
“Hundreds,’’ she answered. “Far too many. My friends have told me of a small place between here and Henley where it would be possible to hire a boat. They are difficult to get, you know, at this time of the year. They rang up this place and the boat is reserved.’’
“That’s fine,’’ said Boris, lightly. He had expected something of the sort.
The bus arrived, they travelled some distance and got down where a small lane led off towards the north bank of the river.
When they saw the water in the distance Margrethe said, “The boathouse is where you see those roofs just ahead. If you like to go down to the bank from here and find a good place for our lunch I will bring the boat.’’
“By yourself?’’
“Why not? I understand boats. In Sweden—’’
“River boats? What will it be?’’
“A punt. You know what that is?’’
Boris remembered days on the river with Margaret. A large party in three punts. A single day after they were engaged, the punt drawn in under the willows with the pole upright in the mud on the outer side to hold the boat firm. So long ago, so different from now—
“What are you thinking?’’ Margrethe demanded.
“Of a punt. Years ago, when I was very young. You know how to throw the pole? It is not easy.’’
“I use the paddle.’’
“Oh yes, the paddle. Bring two paddles, then I can help you.’’
She left him, walking away towards the houses where the small lane seemed to end. Boris found a stile, crossed it into a rough field and came to the river-bank, lined with a row of willows.
He stood for a time looking at the water and then up and down stream. From where he was he could not see the boat-house, for it was hidden by a bend in the river. But in the opposite direction, not more than a hundred yards away, there was a lock with a weir beside it, protected by a low-slung chain.
It was all very familiar, so familiar that he allowed his thoughts to go back more freely than ever before to his earlier sojourn in this quiet country and to all that the visit had brought him, all he had lost. He found that now he regretted nothing of that time. He would never really have belonged in this land.
He looked down again at the water. It was moving sluggishly near the bank, but a few yards out the current was quite noticeable, helped by the wind, which was making little ripples on the surface. The lock, he saw, was on the south bank. If they were to go downstream they would have to cross over to reach it. With this wind and the current so swift—
He walked upstream a short distance, intending to move round the bend and see if he could find a more suitable spot for mooring. But before he had gone more than a few yards he saw the nose of a punt appearing and there was Margrethe, close to the bank, paddling gracefully and bending her head from time to time to avoid the overhanging branches of the willows.
She shouted gaily, “Here I am! Where do I come in?’’
“It would be better the other way,’’ he called. “Let me get in the boat and we will go back upstream.’’
But she had already drawn level and was sliding past him.
“After lunch,’’ she said. “Now I am hungry.’’
He followed, moving back the way he had come. Margrethe passed the spot where he had stood. He began to run, calling to her, “Stop, stop! We are too close to the fall. It will be hard work to go back.’’
He saw the punt dive in towards the bank and disappear behind the branches of a large tree that grew out over the water. I
n a few seconds he was on the bank waiting to make fast the punt to a root.
But Margrethe did not bring it farther in. Instead she backed off a little.
“This is so dark,’’ she said. “And muddy. I want to bathe.’’
“You can’t bathe here. It would not be safe.’’
“Why not?’’
He saw her eyes go past him, narrow and harden. He leaped for the strong willow branch thrusting out over the river.
He was only just in time. The heavy body of a man shot under his legs and into the water, propelled by the force which had been intended for his own back. As his feet swung down again they caught his assailant’s emerging head a crack that sent him under once more, this time beneath the punt, now rocking violently a little farther from the shore.
In the punt Margrethe reached for her handbag. Boris let go his hold on the branch and dropped into the stream as a bullet tore into the leaves at the spot he had just left.
Under water he could see nothing. He was half buried in mud, not daring to come up while his breath lasted. But thrusting out his hands in all directions he felt the side of the punt. He pushed; it moved; he flung himself after it, churning up more mud. But the water was immediately deeper, so he knew the bank was behind him.
When he had to breathe he surfaced with a great effort, drew breath and sank again immediately. But this time he did not follow the punt; he groped under water to the bank and found a root among the loose rubbish, branches, rotten logs and occasional sharp tins and rolling bottles. He followed the root the way it thickened and put his face up again for more air.
He found he was peering from directly below the tree that had saved him. Out in the river was the punt, moving quickly now downstream. Margrethe was leaning over the side towards him and he saw a dark head in the water and two hands clasping the side of the punt,
She was trying to get the man in, but there would not be time. The only thing she could do, the only chance she had for them both, unless they were very good swimmers, was to let him hold on and try herself to paddle across to the lock. That was their only chance.
Boris pulled himself slowly out of the water. The two were occupied solely with themselves. They had no thought for him now. Probably Margrethe considered she had disposed of him. He did not shout his instructions, his warning. He sat on the bank and watched.
There were boats in the lock, which was filling and a number that had come down, as they should, near the other bank and were strung along the far shore waiting for the gates to open. Voices and laughter came distantly from these boats and faint music from transistor radios. No one appeared to notice the silent struggle going on in mid-stream, where the man still tried to heave himself from the water and Margrethe still tried to pull him up.
With a mighty struggle the man at last got a shoulder over the side of the punt, which instantly heeled so that water poured over its shallow freeboard. Margrethe flung herself to the other side, the man got a knee up, strained, rolled back a little, strained again and was in, lying gasping on the floor-boards, while the punt still rocked and Margrethe, crouching, trying to steady the craft, clambered away to take control again.
Boris watched. He had seen the paddle fall overboard when the punt heeled. He now saw Margrethe search about, he heard her frantic cry to the man to rouse himself. Was it beneath him? Hurry, hurry, they were drifting dangerously. Hurry!
The man moved, slowly, because he was exhausted, waterlogged, unused to boats. There was no paddle. Margrethe began to cry for help.
But at that moment the lock gates opened and a crowd of boats emerged, power launches revving up to travel-speed, rowing boats, punts, canoes, all filled with laughing, shouting, singing crowds. More radios, guitars thrumming, accordions bleating. Margrethe’s thin cries went unheard until too late.
It was a small inquisitive boy at the lock, eager to understand its mechanism, who walked across the bridge where the sluice gates were operated and happening to look away to the weir saw the punt and heard the cries. He ran to the lock keeper and persuaded him to look. They saw the punt drive head-on at the chain, turn sideways, slew round, tipping out its passengers, and then, after another turn, slip under and shoot down the weir.
The boy stood transfixed. He saw the punt, its greater weight driving it faster than the woman, catch her up, ram her unconscious and slither on into the tossing froth below, from which it presently emerged upside-down, floating peacefully forward.
The lock keeper shouted orders, snatched up a life-buoy and ran for the lower river bank. He leaped into the nearest rowing boat, seized the sculls from an astonished young man and pulled out into the river.
The man with Margrethe had snatched at the chain as once more he was thrown into the water. He clung to it as he had clung to the side of the punt, until his arms would no longer hold his face above water. The lock keeper shouted, “Let go!’’ The cry was taken up by the horror-struck crowd, themselves working to keep their craft in safety while at the same time preserving their ringside view of the event.
But the man held on while he drowned. Only when his life was fading did his grip relax and his limp body shoot down into the turmoil below the weir.
Boris watched, sitting motionless under the concealing branches of the tree in the deep shade of the willows. When the crowd of boats above the lock moved slowly away, the radios switched off, the guitars silent, he slipped back into the sunshine, spread his soaked blazer on the grass, took off his dripping shirt and spread that too. He had not intended to bathe and had no trunks with him. It would be dangerous in this puritan country, he thought, to be seen naked. At all costs he must avoid publicity. So he had to lower himself into the water again to wash the mud from his flannels. Afterwards he went back to the sun and lay down.
He was shivering now, from cold, delayed shock and present fear. He had seen the boat capsize and the pair go over. He did not know what had happened to them. But he knew that this was the fate they had intended for him. He knew that Margrethe, as he had begun to suspect, was yet another enemy, whatever she might once have been. He saw now the point of the Russian move to secure Press publicity for him. It was to prepare the way for his death, an apparent suicide. Kidnapping had failed – twice. British security had been alerted. Only assassination was left and secret assassination at that.
He looked at his watch. It was waterproof and was still ticking. Only just after one. The whole dreadful sequence had taken no more than twenty minutes. He groped in the pocket of his blazer. The gun would be useless but the flask promised relief.
When he had taken a long pull he lay down again, turning his back now to the sun, his head on his arms, his eyes commanding all views of the narrow field, its hedge, the stile, the telegraph poles along the lane beyond. There was only one way out of this place, the way he had come in. Except along the edge of the river, either towards the hidden boathouse, which might, for all he knew, be no boathouse at all, or else towards the weir and again he realized he was ignorant of what he would find there.
But one thing was certain. Whatever kind of rescue was going on, and whether those two were alive or not, there would be police cars and an ambulance and a search for witnesses who had seen Margrethe and her companion and perhaps himself. It was very clear that he must leave this place. It was clear, too, that he could go neither to one side nor the other, nor cross the river at this point. Therefore he must leave the field by a different route and strike due north.
He cursed himself for not bringing a map with him. But then he had not suspected Margrethe of such melodramatic conduct. Some double crossing, some double talk, but not this. She was so palpably unsuited for it. A sick wave passed through him as he considered the enormous greed that must have driven her into such conduct.
When his shirt was dry he put it on. It was a modern summer shirt, open-necked, straight, to be worn inside or outside the trousers. He left it outside. In this way it would hide the dark wetness round the waist of his flannels, the
legs of which were nearly dry. He picked up his blazer. It no longer dripped but was very damp. With a shudder he hung it round his shoulders and began to move along the bank towards the corner of the field.
The hedge came down almost to the river edge but not quite. Another field seemed to turn into the orchard of a small house. Both field and orchard were empty. No doubt the inhabitants, if any, were down at the river watching the accident.
Crossing the orchard, boldly, Boris moved deliberately, with slow steps, to a gate, passed through and found himself in another lane, evidently exclusive to this house and running roughly parallel with the one he had avoided.
Before long he reached the road. Down it to the west was the place where he and Margrethe had left the bus. He turned to the east and finding another lane before long, that led north towards the hills, quite visible a few miles away, he went across to it and began to climb.
He walked for three hours, judging his direction by the sun and working towards the west, away from Marlow. Then, remembering that he could reach the railway at Henley and finding that name persistent on signposts, he went down from the hills, tired, hungry and sick at heart.
There was no food at the station. He found some ancient chocolate in a machine on the platform, but threw it away after one nauseating mouthful. He had to wait fifty minutes for his train. But at Paddington the buffets were open, so he gathered a meal of sorts on to a tray and ate hungrily, but without relish.
Afterwards he took a taxi to the end of the road where he lived and after a careful inspection, walked the rest of the way to his flat.
He remembered then that Stephen had gone back to Portsmouth. He would have to write to him to arrange a meeting. Though it was now desperately urgent to develop his plan, everything would depend upon Stephen’s willingness to help him. No, not willingness. The will was always there. Ability. Freedom. Why did that word come up so often? Freedom.
He dragged his mind back from the edge of despair, where it was now swaying wearily. He began to count his friends and consider what they could do. Louise, charming Louise, a small part perhaps, but she was really a solace only, not to be relied upon. Margaret, poor Margaret, necessary, but perhaps dangerous. Ann, no real place for Ann. Sørensen, a well-wisher, but entirely helpless. His own secret fellow workers, utterly unreliable. Who else? He went to his telephone and spoke to Scziliekowicz, the old man, his father’s friend.
The Alien Page 15
