by Gee, Maurice
They ran at him and tried to grab his jacket but he batted Noel away with a blow of his arm, then plucked Phil off his back and threw him skidding across the cobbles. He ran to the wall and hauled himself up. Noel was lying dazed, but Phil came up on hands and knees, saw the man, ran across the yard and seized his trouser leg. The fire-raiser kicked him away and went over the top. His boots smacked on the pavement and beat off into the night. Phil stood up. He had cracked his head and took a moment to know where he was. Then he jumped for the top of the wall, but could not hold his grip and fell back. He turned to shout to Noel, and saw Chalmers’ warehouse all lit up. Noel was there, by the double doors, uncoiling the hose from the wall, coupling it to the tap, trying to haul it into the building.
‘Help me with this!’
Phil ran to him and they pulled the hose through the door. They shielded themselves and came close to the fire until it seemed to peel the skin from their faces.
‘Turn it on!’
Phil ran back to the yard and turned on the tap. He looked inside and saw Noel standing against the flames, shooting a jet of water into them. It made no difference. ‘Get the brigade,’ Noel screamed.
Phil climbed the padlocked gates. He ran through the streets and came to the firebell and rang it madly. ‘Fire!’ he yelled. ‘Fire! Chalmers’ warehouse.’
Then he seemed to have no part in things. Men took over. He found himself standing by the bell, with the rope in his hand, and saw the engine shriek past, and he trotted back to the warehouse, and there was Noel standing in the yard, and the fat firehose snaking inside. Only a small glow came from in there. The gates were open, Chalmers was running about, Mr Wix was patting Noel’s head, and Clippy Hedges was saying, ‘Every time I look at Mars there seems to be a fire.’
‘Out of the way, boy. Get off home,’ Sergeant McCaa said.
‘No,’ Noel said. ‘He was here. He helped me.’ Then Noel explained and the men all listened, and Hedges patted Phil on the back.
Chalmers said, ‘I can’t thank you boys enough.’
‘We saw him. We tried to catch him. He kicked my face,’ Phil said.
‘It was him all right.’ McCaa had a benzine can and a crowbar in his hands. ‘Did you see who it was?’
‘He was wearing a red thing on his head.’
‘A balaclava,’ Noel said. ‘We couldn’t see his face.’
‘Not very well.’
McCaa looked at him. He could tell Phil wanted to say more. Noel blurted it out. ‘We think it was Mr Marwick.’
‘Marwick?’
‘You could tell by his eyes,’ Phil said.
‘I hope you boys know what you’re saying.’
‘We found a motor spirits can by his place. In Buck’s Hole.’
‘And so you put two and two together.’ McCaa looked at Mr Wix. ‘I don’t like this.’
‘They wouldn’t say it lightly,’ Wix said.
McCaa rounded on the boys. ‘You didn’t see his face? Just his eyes?’
‘Yes,’ Noel said.
‘Did you hear his voice?’
‘No.’
‘You?’ to Phil.
‘No.’
McCaa turned to Wix and Chalmers. ‘This is no good.’
‘Marwick was in my office yesterday,’ Chalmers said. ‘I won’t say he threatened me, but we had some difference of opinion. He was very angry when he left.’
McCaa thought that over. He banged the can on his leg. ‘All right. I’ll talk to him. You boys come. I’d better have you too, Mr Wix.’
‘I’ll come, Sergeant,’ Hedges said.
‘Why?’
Hedges tapped Phil’s head. ‘In loco parentis for this boy.’
So they drove out to Marwick’s farm in the sergeant’s car. The night was dark except for a blade of moon low in the sky. They boomed over the wooden bridge down-river from Buck’s Hole and came to the big old silent house. Light streamed over the veranda from the living room. The sergeant parked his car and creaked on the handbrake. Soon they were inside, facing Edgar Marwick and Mrs Marwick. They stood just inside the door in a group: McCaa, Wix, Hedges, Noel and Phil. The door was ajar and the long hall stretched on either side, and they were outsiders who had penetrated this far by mistake and stood confused and ready to run: so it seemed to the boys. Edgar Marwick, who had let them in, had gone to a place by his mother’s winged chair and stood there butler-like, neat and tidy, curious, cool. Mrs Marwick sat like a queen, an ancient, dry-boned, beak-nosed queen, and held her stick across her knees as though she might suddenly point and order someone’s death. Green beads glittered on her breast. Her black shoes had silver buckles. The boys swallowed and wet their lips. But McCaa was unafraid. He spoke as though this were an ordinary visit.
‘Good evening. Ma’am. I’m sorry to disturb you at this hour.’
Mrs Marwick took no notice. ‘Close the door. I’m in a draught.’
Hedges nudged Phil, who closed it quickly.
‘This is quite an invasion. You’re the sergeant at the police station, is that right?’
‘McCaa,’ said McCaa. ‘It’s Mr Marwick I have to talk with. I can do it in another room if you like.’
‘No, no, I’m curious. And all these people with you?’
‘I’ll come to that.’ He looked at Marwick. ‘I’d like to know where you’ve been tonight.’
Marwick raised his chin. He was taller than the sergeant and looked down with an expression of mild indignation. ‘You’ve no right to ask me that.’
‘Explain it to me, sergeant. It is rather odd,’ Mrs Marwick said.
‘Yes, Ma’am. Someone tried to burn down Chalmers’ warehouse. These boys saw him.’ He turned back to Marwick. ‘They think it was you, Mr Marwick.’
‘That’s damned nonsense!’ Marwick said. ‘You come here bothering me because of a couple of town boys!’ His heavy face had taken on a fierce look and his green eyes glowed.
McCaa kept his voice uninflected. ‘Do you own a red balaclava, Mr Marwick?’
Only Hedges was watching Mrs Marwick. He saw a widening of her eyes. The pupils seemed to expand, then shrink; the irises closed like sea anemones. That was all. She was still. She seemed bored.
‘Balaclava?’ Marwick said.
‘A woollen garment. Covers the head.’
‘I know what a balaclava is.’ Bad-temperedly.
McCaa was dogged. ‘Do you own a coat, sir? Black overcoat, full length. Elbows out. No buttons.’
‘No, I don’t.’
‘It’s hardly the sort of thing my son would wear,’ Mrs Marwick said. ‘Or a balaclava. You should be looking for some tramp or swagger. I don’t care for this, sergeant.’
‘I’m sorry, Ma’am.’ McCaa was not going to be put off. He unwrapped the cloth in his hands and showed the crowbar and can. ‘Have you seen these before?’ he asked Marwick.
‘No. Should I?’
‘What are they, Sergeant?’
‘A crowbar, Ma’am. And a motor spirits can. They were left at the scene of the fire.’
‘And you think they belong to my son? Are they yours, Edgar?’
‘Of course they’re not. I don’t use motor spirits. Got no use for it. And I’ve got three or four crowbars in the shed.’
‘Well, Sergeant, is that enough?’
‘One more thing.’ To Edgar he said, ‘A can was found in the river by your farm.’
It was Mrs Marwick who replied. Sharply, pushing out her face, she said, ‘My farm. It belongs to me. And since the pools were opened, all sons of riff-raff get in. Look somewhere else.’ She lifted her stick and prodded at Noel and Phil. ‘Look at these boys. I wouldn’t be surprised if they lit the fire and are wriggling out.’
They felt as if a bolt of lightning had come out of the stick. McCaa looked at them thoughtfully.
‘That’s not true,’ Noel cried.
‘We saw a man. Even if it wasn’t Mr Marwick,’ Phil said.
‘Oh, they’re not sure now,’ Mrs Marwick sa
id.
Nobody was taking any notice of Thomas Hedges. He had drifted away from the group at the door, and suddenly he stepped close to Edgar Marwick. ‘Can I see your hands, Mr Marwick?’
‘What?’ Marwick half raised his hands, as though Hedges was about to attack him, and Hedges seized his wrist and looked at it. Marwick jerked away. A sound of anger started in his throat, but McCaa stepped forward.
‘What do yo think you’re doing. Hedges? Come here. In fact, get out. You’ve no authority.’
‘Look at the backs of his hands. The hairs are singed. He’s been lighting fires.’
‘I was burning rubbish. Out in the yard. See for yourself,’ Marwick said. And Mrs Marwick added in her thrilling voice, making it ring, ‘The ashes are still hot if you want to see. Now this has gone far enough. My son has been home all night, in this room with me, working on accounts. So please go away. Out of my house.’
McCaa had seen Edgar Marwick’s wrists. He stood undecided.
‘You’re not going to doubt my word, Sergeant?’
‘No Ma’am, of course not,’ McCaa said.
‘Then I’ll say it again, out of my house. And if you want my advice you’ll question these boys. Edgar, show them out.’ She raised her stick and pointed at the hall.
Edgar Marwick waited until the sound of the car died away, then he turned and walked back to the parlour and opened the door. He did not face her, but knew she was watching him. He closed the door, keeping his back to her, waiting for the silence to break. After a time he looked at her over his shoulder.
She had a faint smile on her face. Evenly she said, ‘Fires, Edgar? I thought you’d finished with all that.’
He turned and faced her, with his back to the door. He looked at her from under his brows, like a child, afraid, in disgrace, but still defiant.
‘Come here, Edgar. Sit down.’ She tapped the sofa with her stick.
He disobeyed. Things revolved about her. They fell into the places she chose for them. He would not do it. He moved about the room.
‘I hate dark places.’
‘Sit down. Be still.’
‘You locked me in. You wouldn’t let me come out in the light.’
Mrs Marwick shook her head impatiently. ‘I punished you, Edgar, because of Lucy. You were supposed to watch, and you didn’t watch.’
He crept at her, almost kneeling. ‘You locked me in the cupboard. In the dark. I heard the key.’
‘You had to be punished.’
‘It was like locking up my eyes. It was being buried.’
Flatly, angrily, she said, ‘You should have watched her.’
He did not hear. ‘But I beat you. I lit fires. In here. In my head.’
‘I know you burned the outhouse down. Your father whipped you for that.’
‘More.’ He banged his head with his fists. ‘I burned the churches. I burned the banks. I burned the whole town.’ He thrust his face at her. ‘And now I’m grown up I really do it.’
‘You’re not grown up. Forty-five and still a boy.’ She put her stick on his shoulder and held him still. It made him blink. ‘No more fires. It’s got to stop.’
He fell into sulkiness and watched her again from under his brows.
‘Where’s the balaclava?’
He shook his head.
‘Give it to me.’
‘No. It’s mine.’
‘Edgar –’
‘I put it away.’
She watched him, the hulking man who had never grown into a man. Then she tapped him with the ferrule of her stick and pushed him away. ‘No more fires. Or I’ll let them put you in prison. You won’t like that. It’s dark in there.’
Chapter Seven
The Ram
Mrs Chalmers made a ceremony of morning tea, but her husband had no time for it today. He sipped and scalded his lips, and swore under his breath, and blew in his cup.
‘Francis!’
‘I’m sorry, my dear, but I’ve got to get down and see if they’re cleaning up.’
‘That’s no excuse for blowing on your tea.’
Kitty, on the sofa, followed this with interest. Irene gave a little smirking grin. She was not embarrassed by her parents but treated their contests as a sporting event, which she liked her father to win. She wished he would be as tough about her – about the piano for instance – as he sometimes was about his business.
‘Girls, you can take a biscuit,’ Mrs Chalmers said.
They took one, and Kitty almost felt she should curtsey. ‘Thank you, Mrs Chalmers. And thank you for having me.’
Mrs Chalmers inclined her head. ‘Your brother behaved very well last night. It’s a pity though he made such an accusation. How anyone could think the Marwicks were involved…’
Kitty and Irene sent a look at each other. They remembered their letter.
‘He’s a funny fellow, Marwick, all the same,’ Chalmers said.
‘They’re a very good family. What happened to those boys?’
‘McCaa took them to the station. Got a statement. Not that there’s any good in it. It’s understandable they got carried away. Still, they saved my warehouse.’ He sipped his tea. ‘Too hot. Come along, Kitty. I’ll drop you on my way.’
‘Can I come too? And go to Kitty’s?’ Irene said.
‘May I, not can I,’ Mrs Chalmers said. ‘No, I think not.’
‘We want to practise our pageant speeches,’ Kitty said. The idea came to her out of the air. ‘Irene helps with my pronunciation.’
That pleased Mrs Chalmers. She gave a smile. ‘Very well. Just a short time. See that you behave, Irene.’
‘Yes, Mother,’ Irene said meekly. ‘We’ll get Kitty’s bag.’ The girls went out.
‘I’m not sure I like it,’ Mrs Chalmers said. ‘She is rather common.’
‘Nonsense, Anne,’ Chalmers said. ‘It does Irene good. She’s got some colour in her cheeks.’
Phil had been at the wharves, watching the pilot bring in a freighter. She was a tub with rust patches on her sides, and she made him think of a poem Clippy had read: ‘Dirty British coaster with a salt-caked smoke stack, Butting through the Channel in the mad March days….’ He didn’t know what mad March days were, but he could see this freighter butting at waves, burying her snout and heaving up, with water streaming from her, and he composed a future for himself in which he was cabin boy, then mate, then master, swinging on the wheel and fighting typhoons.
Later, he had walked to the rivermouth and watched the tide running over the mudflats. He followed the river into the town. Men were cleaning up in Chalmers’ warehouse. He watched them for a while, and saw Chalmers arrive in his flash car and start giving orders, and his own part in the fire seemed to sink into the past and become very small. He went on and hung around outside the Wix house. Noel saw him from a window and came out. They walked down to the footbridge and leaned on the rail, watching for trout and talking about the fire.
‘My dad believes us. So does Clippy,’ Noel said.
‘Makes no difference,’ Phil said. ‘That sergeant’s a bugger. He reckons we did it.’ He was bitter. ‘I’d love to get that old tart, Mrs Marwick.’
‘We need evidence,’ Noel said.
‘Yeah. We should get Sherlock Holmes.’
Noel was offended. ‘We could go out to the farm. Sneak in the back.’
‘For what? Here’s Charmy-Barmy. Quit following us,’ Phil yelled. Irene and Kitty were advancing along the bridge.
‘We can walk here. It’s not your bridge,’ Irene said. She did not want to be unfriendly to Phil. ‘My father wants to give you a shilling.’
‘Tell him to keep it.’
‘What about me?’ Noel said.
‘You’ll get half a crown,’ Phil said sourly.
‘Did you tell them about the benzine can?’ Kitty said.
‘Yeah. No good.’
‘Maybe they’ll believe when they get our letter,’ Irene said.
‘What letter?’
‘
We wrote to the police.’
‘We said it was Mr Marwick.’
‘Did you sign it?’ Phil asked.
Kitty grinned. ‘Britannia.’
‘Belgium,’ Irene said.
Phil was impressed, but said, ‘That’s dumb. They’ll work that out. Anyhow, we’re going to get some evidence.’
‘Where?’
‘Marwick’s farm. You coming?’ he asked Noel. He was fretting to try something, do something real.
‘Sure,’ Noel said. He followed Phil along the bridge.
‘We’re coming too,’ Kitty said. She and Irene ran to catch up.
‘No you’re not.’
‘You can’t stop us,’ Irene said.
‘It’s not your business.’
‘He knocked me over. Twice,’ Kitty said.
‘They’ll be all right,’ Noel said. ‘They can keep watch.’
‘They’ll get caught, that’s what’ll happen,’ Phil said. It seemed to him that, compared to Noel and the girls, he was grown up.
They took the dirt road to Marwick’s farm and crossed the one-way bridge and turned up the river towards Buck’s Hole. The front paddocks were empty, but the ones sloping into the hills beyond the farmhouse were dotted with sheep. The house did not have its faery castle appearance today; it seemed big and ugly and threatening. The windows in the bows were like bulbous eyes watching them. They passed the hole and followed the river up towards the rapids, and the yard of Marwick’s farm opened up.
‘There he is.’
Edgar Marwick, wearing a red shin, moved from a shed to some contraption set up in the yard, and stood there working his leg up and down. They could not tell what he was doing, but anything Marwick did seemed sinister.
‘We’ve got to get him out of there,’ Phil said.
‘How?’
They moved up-river. A regular, flat thumping sounded above the noise of the rapids.
‘What’s that?’ Irene said.
‘His ram.’
Irene stopped.
‘Hydraulic ram,’ Noel said. ‘It won’t bite you.’
They passed the rapids and came to the machine bolted to a platform. The intake pipe snaked from the fast-flowing water and the feed-pipe to the house ran off in a straight line over a paddock. Clap, clap, clap, went a valve, like a heart beating. An air chamber, swollen like a fat man, sat in the centre.
