by Denis Hughes
He stopped and looked in a window. A street woman came and swayed alongside him, whispering. He turned his head and saw the red mouth and beckoning eyes. But her smile disappeared when she saw his face plainly. She moved on, leaving him alone with his loneliness. He’d find no comfort in her brand of pleasure. Even that hideously naked self who was waiting in the Carson for him would be company of a sort. But he walked on morosely, thinking.
Gyro-cars hummed softly along the streets, carrying parties pleasure-bent. The West End hadn’t altered in that respect.
What was he going to do about that thing in his hotel room? Was he destined to support its presence for the rest of his life? The thought made him sweat. He couldn’t understand how it had happened in the first place. Some strange and unknown force had split him into two separate and independent entities, and that was that. But was that other being only playful, or was it evil? He wished he knew the answer. And why, why was it 2034 instead of 2017? Life had been so simple in those days. Now it was a hell to be alive at all!
He entered a square where people were staring upwards at an enormous video screen on the face of a building. Varden realised it was a public news-cast screen. The face of a man was up there, clear and well defined.
“Lord Bungers, the Prime Minister,” whispered someone near him, telling a friend.
Varden peered hard at the man on the video screen. It was a strong face, with a heavy jaw and shrewd, dark eyes. A thin scalp of silver hair clung tightly to a high-domed skull.
Prime Minister of England, thought Varden. He liked what he saw, and there was a ring of stern authority in the words and phrases Lord Bungers was using, too.
“…cannot tolerate for ever the abysmal degeneracy of the Nations now ranged against us,” he was saying. “It is not our wish, nor the wish of any sane nation, to crave for war, but unless we can again reach agreement with our rivals we shall be forced to take up their challenge.
“Almost twenty years ago we did reach agreement. Differences were laid aside and nations were at peace in their own security. But now it is my solemn duty to issue the most grave and ominous warning it has been my lot to utter during this, my term of office. I have to tell you, the people of England, and the remainder of the civilised world as well, that we shall not hesitate to use our utmost endeavour in the event of catastrophic war being forced on this country.” The big jaw was thrust out defiantly “We shall not,” the Prime Minister continued, “make war unless all other methods fail, but I impress on you all that there is a limit to abuse of the conference table.”
Varden glanced round at the faces of the people near him. The words of Lord Bungers rolled on in their grim and sonorous phrases. Nowhere did Varden see a smile or a smirk around him. Every man and woman in that silent gathering, grouped in their hundreds as they were, seemed absorbed by the unswerving strength of the man whose image they watched.
Only when the speech came to an end did the crowd seem to let go its breath. For a long second there was dead silence as the video screen went dark, then a tumultuous storm of cheering broke out and rolled and echoed back from the tall canyon walls of the street.
Varden stood amazed, being pushed and jostled by the milling crowd of which he was part. Then somewhere not far from where he was a man raised his voice, abusing the Prime Minister, calling the government a bunch of yellow wolves. “They’re afraid of war!” he screamed. “Afraid to use all the devil’s weapons they possess! Cowards! Deceivers!” He was shaking his fist at the blank screen when Varden saw him last. Then the crowd closed in and shut off his view. He nearly went down himself in the melee. Above the shouting and swearing a woman screamed on a high note of panic. Varden felt himself surging forward with the mob, unable to control his own movement. A fist caught him on the side of the face, but he barely felt the pain. In the dim distance he seemed to hear the wail of sirens. Mob violence in London!
The lights on the block fronts swirled as he turned this way and that on the eddies of the crowd. All round him, on every side, people were crying and yelling, cursing each other, the men at the top, the working man, the enemy and the State. A hundred separate fights were in progress between the factions, and this spot at any rate had already started its war.
It was then that the personal element entered and persuaded Varden to join in himself, briefly anyway. He was suddenly confronted by an individual with one black eye and blood running down his chin. The man didn’t even bother to find out what allegiance he followed. His fist, a ball of iron, came sailing through the close summer night and caught Varden on the side of the jaw. Only just in time did he swing his head to avoid the full impact of the blow, but the balance of it made him see red. He felled the man and experienced his first taste of satisfaction since leaving hospital.
Another body catapulted against him, cannoning off his shoulder and staggering sideways. Instinctively he reached out a hand and grabbed. A wriggling bunch of savage flesh turned and lashed at him wildly. Beyond the blows and the fear he saw a woman’s features, drawn and scared and white. Then they suddenly exploded as another man forced himself forward, beating at the woman in a panicky attempt to break out of the crowd. Varden acted swiftly, without conscious thought. His free hand went out in a deadly punch as the man ducked and wove. But he still maintained his grasp on the struggling woman. He had to because he dare not lose her now. She was just another link in this strange excursion through Time, a link with the Past and the Future as well. His fingers were steely hard as they bit down on Rhonna Blake’s arm and dragged her towards him.
*
The park was quiet and dim, an oasis of peace. Varden sat on a bench with his eyes closed. The woman beside him was busy repairing her face.
They’d fought their way clear in the end, had run from the scene of the riot only just ahead of the police who dispersed it. As yet no word had passed between them.
He heard a compact snap shut, then the bench creaked a little as she leant against it. Varden opened his eyes, grateful for the gloom. He was more grateful, perhaps, for the fact that his other self was not there to goad and taunt him. “Good of you to get me out of that,” she said, taking the cigarette he offered.
“I recognised you.” He could feel her eyes on his face. It was too dark to see it clearly, but he hoped she wouldn’t shrink when he brought some light on the scene. “How are you?”
“So-so,” she replied. Her voice was rounder, more adult, a pleasant voice with no harsh edges. “I had an idea you were dead,” she added thoughtfully.
He flicked his lighter and cupped the flame in his hand. Rhonna turned to face him. The planes of her face were clean and firm, untouched by the mouldering of age. She must be thirty-seven or thereabouts, he thought.
“I want to see you properly, Bob,” she said.
A small pulse was beating sluggishly in the side of his neck. For a moment he sat there, stony and cold inside, with the warm summer breeze playing on his cheek.
“I’m not very pretty,” he muttered, un-cupping the flame of the lighter and letting its glow fall across his face. He could watch her as she stared at him, watch the gradual change of expression, the flicker of pity in her green coloured eyes.
“I had to make sure,” she whispered. “I’m sorry…about your face, I mean. Does it…hurt at all?”
A wild desire to laugh rose in his throat. She was sorry for him! Why did she have to say that? Why in the name of God couldn’t she just have nodded and taken him for granted, shutting her eyes to the ghastly pattern of scars?
“Thanks,” he said hoarsely. “But I don’t need pity! I’m too conceited—remember? Too hard to care a hoot what people feel for me!” He thrust his face close to hers. “You don’t care what happened to me, Rhonna! You’re too wrapped up in what will happen to the world if they start the war that’s coming!”
She shrank back as if he’d struck her on the mouth. “There’ll be no war,” she whispered. “They’re too late now. We’re almost ready. Just a few more
days and there can’t be a war at all.” Her words were fierce. Then: “I thought you might have changed, but you haven’t.” With what was suspiciously like a sob she jumped up and fled among the shadows, leaving only the faintest trace of perfume behind.
*
It was late when he returned to the hotel. As he went in past the reception desk a bell-boy intercepted him.
“A Mr. Merrick called to see you, sir,” he said. “He left a message to say would you call him at Miss Rochelle’s flat when you came in.”
Varden nodded in a surly fashion. He was thinking that up in his room that other being would be waiting for him, grinning sadistically. He went up in the lift.
“I’ve been thinking while you’ve been gone,” said Varden Two. “And I’ve discovered that by thinking about you very, very hard I can make myself partly solid. Maybe with practise I’ll be as real to the outside world as you are. Remind me to try.”
Varden scowled angrily. “What are we going to do about us?” he asked. “I’ve been thinking, too. You’ve got to keep out of my way or you’ll drive me crazy, then you wouldn’t be too good yourself!” He poured himself a drink, glancing at the tilted bottle. It was half empty. “Have you been drinking this?” he demanded.
The other man nodded. “Now and again.”
“It drinks, but no one else can see it!” grumbled Varden. “Are you going to be with me for always?”
He grinned. “Heavens no! You’re too dull, Bob! I’m calling on the lush Viki later on tonight, I think. Merrick was here earlier on, by the way. He’s someone else after us for no good.”
“I’m supposed to call him at Viki’s place.”
“Go ahead. See what he wants.”
Varden crossed the floor to the video and flicked it on. A different Smile with long, dark hair and a small, tilted nose came to life on the screen. Varden was put through to Viki’s flat without delay. She was curled up in the corner of a settee like a Persian cat, with Merrick bending over her confidentially. He straightened up at once, recognising Varden.
“Ah, there you are at last!” he blared. “Thought you must be out on the tiles all night, Bob. Why not come on round for a drink?”
“Yes, do that, honey,” put in Viki’s syrupy tones from the background.
Varden shook his head. “I’ve earned my sleep tonight,” he said. “Got involved in a riot in town.”
Merrick growled. “A pack of fools!” he said. “They don’t know what they’re talking about. They’re much too yellow to risk a war! They’ll just hang on and hang on till the other side starts it, then it’ll be too late. We’ve got to start it first, I tell you!” His face, already florid, was redder than ever. Why did a man work himself up like that about a war? Varden wondered dispassionately.
“That guy wants one badly” muttered Varden Two. “He’d start it himself if he could. Personal gain, if you ask me.”
Merrick said, “Forget it, Bob. How are you fixed for a job these days? I could help, I think.”
Varden eyed him narrowly. “See you in the morning.” he said. “In the bar downstairs. If you have any ideas I’ll be glad to listen. So long.” He switched off the video before either Merrick or Viki could say any more. Then he turned and glared at his companion, now smoking a cigarette in evident enjoyment of the situation.
“Don’t you ever sleep?” he demanded tersely.
The man who was Varden shook his head. “When you sleep I live,” he said laconically. “You’ve had enough for one day, brother. Go on and turn in; I shan’t disturb you this time!”
Varden was genuinely tired. He said nothing more, but undressed. Varden Two tried his clothes on, found they fitted, and walked round with annoying solidity. Just as Varden shut his eyes and set to wooing sleep the other man went quietly out, closing the door behind him.
CHAPTER 5
NO PEACE FOR THE DEAD
Merrick didn’t waste any time in coming to the point. His eyes were hot and angry when Varden entered the bar next morning.
“You’re a damn fool to walk around as if you didn’t have a care in the world!” he said, glancing round cautiously as he spoke. He kept his voice low, too.
Varden frowned. “Why should I hide myself?” he demanded. “I’ve come for a job from you, Merrick, and I mean to have it. I want to get out of this city and go a long way fast. Start all over again.”
“I’m not surprised.”
Varden gave another frown, peering curiously at Merrick. “What’s the matter with you this morning?” he asked. “Aren’t you satisfied with the threat of coming war?”
Merrick flushed darkly. “You don’t seem to have a conscience,” he grunted. “But if that’s the way you want it, all right. I’ve got a job for you, but whether you can do it now I’m not so sure.”
“What’s the job?”
Merrick ordered a drink for both of them before answering. Varden saw that there was no sign of Viki; she hadn’t come down with Merrick apparently. He thought about his own position and the problem of getting away from that other entity now in his room. If Merrick could fit him up with a job he’d just leave and not go back at all.
Merrick eyed him calculatingly. “Let’s talk about war,” he said. “The one that’s coming.”
Varden shrugged. “I thought it couldn’t start,” he said. “Scientists and things…”
“Rubbish! It’s going to start, and I’m going to start it!”
Varden sipped his drink. “You are, eh? Where do I come in?” He decided that Merrick must have a very bad liver this morning. Almost as bad as his own!
Merrick leant towards him. “I want to know what Blake and his pals think they can do to prevent a war,” he said earnestly. “That’s your job, Bob, though how you’re going to do it now I fail to see. However…”
“Just a minute,” said Varden bleakly. “Where do I find the Blake girl? She’ll be my best line of attack.” He did not want to probe into Rhonna’s affairs regarding war, but he did want to locate the girl again and try to apologise for being so rude last evening. Here was a way of doing it.
“Don’t treat her like the other three, Bob. It wouldn’t pay!”
“I’ll treat her any way I like!” he snapped. “Give me her address and let me get out of here. You’re like a bear with a sore head.”
Merrick said nothing, but scribbled something in a black notebook and tore out the page. “There you are,” he said. “Keep in touch with me by video, but don’t come to Viki’s flat.”
Varden’s jaw tightened. “She’s my woman, isn’t she?” he demanded dangerously. “Or has she changed her mind? Not that I want her, mind, but I’m curious.”
“Keep away,” Merrick told him. “That’s all!”
Varden sneered. He felt bitter today, more so than yesterday. “In that case,” he said, “you can chase Blake for his secrets on your own. I’m through with you!”
Merrick’s eyes narrowed. “You’re hot,” he said. “If you don’t obey my orders, Bob, you’ll be on trial inside a week!”
Varden felt a chill of fear creep down his spine. “Why?”
Merrick gave a short laugh, more sure of himself now. “You don’t have to ask me that,” he said. “Get going on the Blake girl, and don’t try to pull any tricks or you’ll suffer. I want full details of the old man’s activities, and you’re the person to do it. Now move!”
Varden left the bar in a puzzled, angry frame of mind. He did not understand Merrick’s attitude. Last night on the video the man had been affability itself. Now there was an underlying hint of blackmail in his approach. He wondered if the man could actually start a war of his own. It didn’t seem possible, yet Merrick was a man who never said impossible things. And Varden himself was accepting this task because he wanted to contact Rhonna again, not because he wished to help Merrick by worming secrets from Rhonna’s father.
He stumbled into the street and stood gazing at the busy scene. Once again he seemed to be on the brink of a world that was st
range and alien to him, but now there was a shadow behind him, a shadow contained in what Merrick had said and hinted at. He wondered about it, but could reach no definite conclusion.
He was turning towards the Carson Hotel when a blue uniformed patrolman approached slowly down the street. Suddenly the man paused in his stride, staring at Varden intently. Varden gave him look for look. His temper was frayed and he didn’t care what happened now.
The patrolman, however, didn’t stare for long. He broke into a run, straight for Varden. Varden watched him coming for a second or two before he realised the man was making for him. Then he remembered. Merrick’s strange attitude. Something was very wrong, he thought wildly.
He started running himself, glancing over his shoulder to make sure. The patrolman was close on his heels, shouting now. People stepped into Varden’s path, trying to bar his way. He crashed a man in the face with his outstretched hand, sending him spinning. He thought he heard the word, “Murderer!” but didn’t believe it. A woman hurled a shopping satchel at his legs, but he jumped clear, then dived for the roadway, panic rising in his heart because he didn’t understand and was frightened.
Next instant there was a rushing hum in his ears and a swiftly moving gyro-car swept towards him, the white face of the driver showing with dreadful clarity behind the screen. A siren wailed and the brakes screamed. A woman shrieked. Varden saw it coming a second beforehand. He leapt, but no human movement could avoid the inevitable. He felt a frightful impact on his body, then was hurled yards along the roadway, to finish up a crumpled heap of flesh against the offside curb. He saw some dust and scraps of paper in the gutter under his nose, but lights jazzed and whirled in his brain and blotted them out.
The whole of his body was one mass of flaming agony, but he was not unconscious, which puzzled him. He lay where he was, hearing running feet and the agitated whispers of people all round him, people in the presence of a sudden tragedy. Someone bent over him. The white, startled face of the driver.
