TWENTY-SIX
When they heard the dogs behind them, Greville decided that he and Nosey would have a better chance if they separated. The dogs, presumably, had picked up the scent. Doubtless they would continue to follow only one scent; but even if they split up and followed both, the chances of individual survival were still surely better.
Nosey was not in very good shape. Neither, come to that, was Greville. He knew that he had set too hot a pace at the beginning. Altogether, they must have covered at least three miles by now. Brabyns Wood lay far behind them. That had been the easiest part of the flight. Since then they had been floundering through patches of half-frozen mud and the seemingly interminable and deceptive carpet of long dead grasses and weeds that covered what was once good farming land. Now they were shambling unsteadily up a long and gentle rise; and they could hear the excited barking of the dogs behind them. They were exhausted.
The village of Lower Brabyns could not be far ahead; but it was much farther from them than the dogs were. Greville turned and looked at Nosey’s tortured face.
‘Stop a minute!’ The luxury of not having to push one leg in front of the other was so great that Greville didn’t think he could start moving again.
‘We’ve had it, mate,’ groaned Nosey. ‘We’re outnumbered. Them fucking dogs has got four legs. We’ve only got two.’
‘So we separate,’ panted Greville. ‘Give them something to think about … You go that way. I go this way … Half a mile detour for each of us. Then we close on the village … Here, take the gun.’
Nosey still had some spirit left. ‘Keep it. You’ll need it just as much as me.’
‘No time for arguing. Take the bloody gun. I’m tired of carrying it anyway … And – good luck, Nosey.’
Nosey took the gun and held out his other hand. ‘And the best of British luck to you, too, mate. We ain’t going to make it, but what the hell.’ He managed a grin. ‘It was worth it just for Big Tom. So long.’
‘We’ll make it,’ said Greville. ‘Get moving.’
Greville sent a mental priority telegram to his legs. He stared down in amazement as one came out in front of the other. The movement developed into an unsteady walk. The walk broke into a tottering run. He didn’t look back, which was perhaps fortunate. For Nosey did not move at all. He just sank gratefully down on the grass and stretched his aching limbs. Then he examined the revolver. Three bullets. Which left two for the dogs …
Greville had covered more than three-quarters of a mile before he heard the shots. Mechanically he counted them. One … A long pause … Two … A longer pause … Three …
Greville kept moving. He was too tired even to think about Nosey. He knew that when he next stopped he would stop for good. So he kept moving. He had crested the hill and was coming down the far side. Consequently the dogs sounded a little farther away. He looked ahead, straining to catch a glimpse of Lower Brabyns. He thought he saw something that looked like a village in the distance; but odd patches of fog seemed to be obscuring his vision.
He wondered vaguely why the fog should be tinted with crimson, and why in the middle of the fog there should be strange little flashes of lightning. But he managed to keep moving. There was nothing else to do.
Presently he began to fall down. It was a frightening sensation because he seemed to be falling from a high building. It was frightening also because the temptation to lie where he had fallen was tremendous; and the energy required to pick himself up seemed to be more than mortal man could supply. Nevertheless, he did manage to pick himself up. Cursing at first, then groaning, then crying, then whimpering.
The world had become dark. He didn’t know where he was going and he didn’t even know where he had been. All he knew was that he had to keep moving.
Eventually there was no strength left to keep moving. He fell over something that seemed to cut into both legs. As he went down he thought he could hear bells ringing. Not church bells. Little bells. Oddly, he thought of James Elroy Flecker:
When those long caravans that cross the plain
With dauntless feet and sound of silver bells
Put forth no more for glory or for gain,
Take no more solace from the palm-girt wells …
And then he thought of palm-girt wells. And a hot sun pulsing energy out of an azure sky. He thought of sweaty camels and sweaty men with brown, lined faces. He thought of palm trees and water and music. And of the Samarkand that had existed only in a man’s mind.
The vision was beautiful. Too beautiful to let go. But he was too tired to hold on to it. The sound of silver bells dissolved into silence. The sun was eclipsed. The oasis became dazzlingly black pools. And all that was left was night …
When Greville finally opened his eyes, he found that he was sitting in an easy chair. The first thing he saw was a log-fire spitting and crackling in an open hearth. The second thing he saw was a group of people – two men and a woman. The third thing he saw was a naked female torso. No arms. No legs. Only breasts like overripe melons and a belly that was so smoothly round that it surely contained all the fecundity of the cosmos. It was made of stone. Beyond the torso was another block of stone, roughly and vaguely carved, with two holes in it. Beyond that was a thing of iron. It might have been a twisted skeleton; it might have been a twisted bedstead; it might even have been a joke of a cage for an oddly mutated parrot. There was something about it that made Greville want to laugh.
He laughed.
One of the men spoke. ‘Well, well. Another bleeding philistine. Just my bleeding luck … Now that you’ve joined the party, brother, you’d better tell us who issued the invitation.’
TWENTY-SEVEN
Having told his story, Greville sank back in the easy chair, gazed hypnotically at the log fire and gratefully sipped the drink that had been given him – a very generous measure of good Scotch. Once he had begun to talk, he found – to his amazement – that it was difficult to stop. He had told them not only about Big Tom and Sir James Oldknow’s military ambitions but about Liz and Francis, the cottage at Ambergreave and even about Pauline. He had talked for quite a long time, and at the end of it he was surprised to find that it all amounted to a public confession. At the end, he realised that he had simply been trying to justify himself – but for what and to whom he did not know. He felt empty and light-headed. The Scotch and the warmth of the room had eased the pain in his limbs and transmuted it into an almost delicious aching. He was curiously uncertain whether he was dreaming or had just awakened from a dream.
But at least he was alive … I ache, therefore I exist …
The three people regarded him intently. The two men – one weather-beaten and rock-like, the other tall and angular – were standing. The woman, full-figured, attractively faded and in her mid-forties, sat on the chair opposite Greville.
‘Were not really anarchists, you know,’ she said. ‘That’s just the Squire being two-dimensional. Actually, we’re nothing but cranks, misfits and loafers. There’s about a hundred and fifty of us; and we came together simply for security … I’m Meg, by the way. The tall and rather intellectual-looking gentleman is Joseph. He fancies himself as a historian. The rugged individual is Paul. This is his studio. He’s responsible for the sculpture that seemed to amuse you.’
‘We’re an unholy trinity,’ remarked Paul drily. ‘Meg lives with both of us. That’s how we keep power in the family.’
Joseph said: ‘They’re just trying to confuse you. Actually, we’re a sort of hereditary triumvirate. We were in at the beginning and so we got saddled with the decision-making. It works quite well, really. You see, there’s only one basic commandment: try to do as little damage as possible. It amounts to a rather negative philosophy, I’m afraid, but the odd thing is it seems to work.’
‘Shit,’ observed Paul. ‘We’ve got a community that’s holding its own simply because most people aren’t too loopy to see where their own interests lie. We don’t give a damn whether people are homosexual or Hu
ngarian. We don’t give a damn whether they are sex-crazed or schizophrenic. So long as they do their whack and don’t bust up the furniture. We’ve got two prophets, one messiah and an eighteen-stone bitch of a spiritualist. We’ve got demented mechanics and phallic sculptors – that’s me. We’ve got prostitutes – precious few of those, I’m afraid – and even bleeding saints, if there was anybody to canonize ’em. But they are all with it enough not to interfere with each other. Now, we picked you up more dead than alive on a telephone-wire Maginot Line devised by a black-hearted Negro called Alexander the Great. We’re so damn crazy we’d think anybody normal – if there was anybody normal – was a hundred octane nuts. So are you in or out? If it’s out, we’ll give you a pack of food and boot you out of the village in the nicest possible way. If it’s in, you don’t say “sir” to anyone, but you bloody well do what you’re told until you find your feet. Now, what do you want?’
Greville liked Paul. He liked his aggressive honesty. He had a feeling that this was the kind of community in which he might possibly find a place. But before he could contemplate any kind of future, there was a problem to be solved.
‘What the hell do you want?’ demanded Paul.
Greville looked at him. ‘First of all, I want Liz.’
Paul sighed. ‘How romantic! Sir James Oldknow has acquired her for breeding purposes. So what do you propose to do about it – go and ask him politely to send her down here, complete with trousseau and layette?’
‘I thought you might help me.’
‘Did you now! And we’re supposed to get ourselves chopped up just because you lost your woman? Think again.’
Greville began to get angry. ‘If you sit on your backsides long enough, you’ll find you’ve all been volunteered into the feudal system.’
‘I doubt it,’ said Meg. ‘Alexander, our little Negro friend, is so crazy he’s worth two battalions. If Sir James Oldknow starts empire-building, he may live to regret it.’
‘Actually,’ said Joseph, ‘Sir James has already been kind enough to send us a deputation. They arrived about half an hour after you did. Sir James says he wants you back. He also says that though you’ve been rather naughty, he’s prepared to forgive and forget. However, until your go back, Liz isn’t going to get any more food … Rather primitive, I thought, but doubtless quite effective.’
‘What are you going to do?’ asked Greville.
‘Nothing,’ said Meg calmly. ‘This isn’t our problem. As Paul says, we don’t propose to risk our people for someone we ve never seen.’
Greville was silent for a moment or two. ‘Can you give me any weapons?’ he asked at length.
Paul laughed. ‘Sir Lancelot rides again! What the hell do you think you can do?’
‘Not much,’ said Greville simply. ‘But I can try … Will you give me any weapons?’
‘We’ll have to talk to Alexander,’ said Joseph. ‘He has acquired quite an armoury, so I expect something can be arranged.’ He gave Greville a thin smile. ‘I hope you don’t know what you are doing … Incidentally, and just to observe protocol, you’ll have to steal whatever you need and leave us – in the best tradition – stealthily and by night.’
Greville managed to raise a smile. ‘Oddly enough,’ he said, ‘that is exactly what I thought of doing.’
TWENTY-EIGHT
The night was cold; but Greville had been given a couple of sweaters and a thick pair of corduroy trousers. There had even been two volunteers to go with him – hoping, doubtless, to acquire women of their own. But Paul had vetoed that idea. He had pointed out, somewhat drily, that if on the morrow any other bodies than Greville’s were discovered, Sir James Oldknow would have a legitimate tailor-made reason for marching into battle. The one thing that was likely to bring unity to his mixed bag of followers was woman-stealing.
So Greville was entirely on his own. Alexander, the Negro, a pint-sized Napoleon who insisted on styling himself General of the Anarchists had been most kind. He had let Greville have an ancient but workable sten-gun, half a dozen magazines, two grenades, a knife and a suicide pill. Greville had not been particularly interested in the suicide pill, but Alexander had insisted. He claimed it was de rigeur.
As Greville made his way across the five miles of no-man’s-land that lay between the two villages, he was thankful that the night was moonless and rather misty. He did not, however, harbour a great deal of optimism for his expedition. He knew that he needed more than darkness and the element of surprise. He needed about ten good men or about ten successive miracles.
He realised there was very little hope of being able to get anywhere near Liz. Probably Sir James had moved her out of the pen, anyway. But there was just a slender chance, thought Greville, that if he created enough diversions and raised enough hell he might get within shooting range of Sir James Oldknow himself. And even if he couldn’t retrieve Liz, at least there was the possibility of scoring an eye for an eye …
Alexander himself had escorted Greville through what Paul had called his telephone-wire Maginot Line. It did indeed consist of stretched telephone wires. They had been threaded through empty tin cans and fixed at intervals to knee-high wooden posts. Between the wires small pits had been dug in the earth at random so that any force attempting a night-time invasion would make quite a lot of noise and probably collect a few sprained ankles in the process. It was on Alexander’s Maginot Line that Greville had foundered that very morning.
Before Alexander turned back to the village, he gave Greville one final piece of advice. ‘Now, boy,’ he whispered, ‘remember there ain’t no hurry in this thing. Take your time – you got all night. Move a little, then stop and listen like you was a goddam big microphone. When you find something moving, use the knife like I showed. And don’t let the poor bastard have any chance to give you the playback. Bon soir, old chappie, bon chance and bon bloody appetit.’
With muted chuckles, Alexander retreated into the darkness; and Greville was alone.
As the Negro had said, he had plenty of time – there were still two or three hours to go until midnight – but Greville was eager to get the whole thing over and done with. At least, he told himself grimly, when you are dead you no longer have to worry about being afraid or getting hurt.
So he pushed or through the winter night with a speed and lack of caution that would have made Alexander throw up his hands in despair. For a while, luck was with him, however. After half an hour and without incident he had reached Brabyns Wood.
He had also reached the end of his one-man assault upon the feudal system. For, as he soon discovered, Brabyns Wood was alive with men.
At first Greville thought they were Sir James Oldknow’s private army. massing for a surprise attack upon the anarchists. But there were too many of them. And, by the light of several fires that had probably been used for warmth and cooking, he discovered an even more convincing reason why they could not be Sir James Oldknow’s men. Each of them wore a monk’s habit.
The sight was incongruous, fantastic, absurd – and terrible. Each of the ‘monks’ carried a weapon of some kind. Several had rifles or shotguns, but most were armed with spears or longbows.
At first Greville wondered why they advertised their presence so openly. But then, he reflected, there was no reason why they shouldn’t. The Brothers of Iniquity were too numerous to be attacked by wandering bands of scroungers.
And that led to a torrent of questions. Why were they there? What did they intend to do? Which way did they intend to go? Would they turn south and obliterate the feudal system? Or would they travel north and devote their attentions to anarchism?
Greville’s first impulse was to turn back and attempt to warn Alexander. But while he was doing that, the Brothers of Iniquity might well decide to tackle the nearer community of Upper Brabyns. The only thing to do, he decided, was to wait and find out.
He did not have to wait long.
As he crept cautiously nearer to Brabyns Wood, the fires began to be extinguished, on
e by one.
Then, to his immense surprise, he literally walked into one of the brothers – posted, presumably, as a sentry. Both men fell over. Even as he went down, Greville remembered Alexander’s final piece of advice. The knife seemed to jump into his hand of its own volition. He struck once, and hit nothing but the earth. He struck again with the same result.
The man he had walked into evidently had better eyesight, for he managed to fling himself on top of Greville. But Greville still had the knife. Alexander had told him to aim either for the throat or below the rib cage and to strike upwards. But he didn’t know where his assailant’s throat was and he didn’t know which way was upwards. He just plunged the knife in again and again, wherever the opportunity seemed to present itself. He expected screams, but there were no screams. And, uncontrollably, he kept on striking with the knife long after the man was dead.
Eventually, Greville rolled from under the body and picked himself up. No fires were visible now. There was nothing but utter blackness – and the sound of many men moving.
They were moving towards him. And that must mean that they had decided on Lower Brabyns.
Without thinking, Greville lay down once more by the side of the man he had just killed. There was a warm wetness over his hands and face. Salty fluid trickled into his mouth. He didn’t know whether it was his blood or the dead man’s. He didn’t care.
Columns of men passed on either side of him, not more than two or three yards away. He heard voices and occasional laughter. He waited until there was nothing more to hear at all.
Then he got up, and turned back in the wake of the Brothers of Iniquity. He was thinking of Francis and of the destruction that had been wrought at Ambergreave. He felt physically and spiritually numbed.
Theoretically, Alexander’s Maginot Line would give warning of the attackers. But suppose it didn’t? Suppose the Brothers of Iniquity had inspected it in daylight and were planning a detour? Or suppose that Alexander’s sentries were not as alert as they should be? If this band of sadistic psychopaths got as far as the village they would soon make short work of anarchism and would leave behind them the same trail of desolation that they had left at Ambergreave.
Cloud Walker, All Fools' Day, Far Sunset Page 38
