The Anti-Death League

by Kingsley Amis

  "No."

  Colonel White, Leonard and Venables left together. Hunter and Ayscue followed. Out in the evening sunshine they took the cinder path that led round and up towards the camp theater.

  "How did your evening with young Pearce go?"

  "Oh, it was very enjoyable in some ways."

  "But not in the way that was intended to be the most important way?"

  "Unfortunately not. However, the evening was far from wasted. We were served at dinner by the most charming and understanding waiter. I drove over and lunched there today under his auspices, and then he spent most of the afternoon under mine."

  "Good show."

  Hunter frowned and stroked his mustache. "I hardly like bringing this up, Willie, but why don't you disapprove of me?"

  "Oh, good God, Max, surely you know me better than to have to ask that. I disapprove of as little as possible on principle. I want to encourage people to go in the direction I think is best for them, not tell them they're too disgusting to deserve to be able to make a start. So I can't oblige you with any disapproval. Why are you so keen to get it, anyway?"

  "My dear, I don't think this line of talk suits you at all. Still, if you insist… Tell me, Major Ayscue, what makes you think I want to earn your disapproval?"

  "The first chance you got you told me you were a practicing homo and went into quite a bit of detail. In the White Hart, with James and Moti. You remember."

  "Just. Perhaps I did blab a bit, but I was pissed at the time."

  "You were pissed all the time in those days. It didn't make you blab to the Colonel or Brian Leonard as far as I know. I got the impression you were trying to pick a fight with me, Max."

  "I told you I was pissed. Look, what's all this about?"

  "Admit you've got it in for the Church."

  "Oh, I see, I see. You're probing about that bloody poem, aren't you?"

  "Who told you about that?"

  "Andy did."

  Ayscue nodded. "Oh. Yes. You know, at one time I thought it was possible he'd written the poem."

  "Did you?"

  "I don't think so any more. But he did seem to have the strongest motive."

  "How do you mean?"

  "For heaven's sake, Max. Fawkes was Pearce's friend and Fawkes died."

  "Oh yes, of course, sorry."

  "Still, he seems to be pretty well back on an even keel now, don't you agree?"

  "Mm. Steady as a rock."

  "I'd like to think I've helped him a bit there by getting him interested in this Roughead sonata thing."

  "Oh, you've got him interested in that, have you? Well done."

  "We've had a few practices. For an amateur, you know, he's remarkably good technically. There's a lot of talent there, Max."

  "Yes, I thought so, too."

  They fell silent and entered the theater. This was no more than an oversized hut with a low stage at one end. The weekly cinema show took place in it, and it had also been used for a concert organized by the Sergeants' Mess, two thinly attended lectures arranged by Ays-cue, and a couple of morale-building harangues by the Colonel. No play had been presented here during the unit's tenancy of the camp, but for a moment Hunter wondered whether some ambitiously unextravagant production might not be impending, or even in progress. The blinds had not been rolled up after Sunday's film, and the screen was still in position. On and near the stage a number of uniformed figures, under strong illumination, were sauntering or standing about. As he and Hunter made their way up the aisle, Ayscue said,

  "I've got a feeling we may be going to meet the author of that poem quite soon."

  "Why should you feel that?"

  "He's obviously the same as this Anti-Death League character."

  "This is all rather too deep for me, I'm happy to say."

  Ross-Donaldson held the stage. Plump but elegant, his face at least as expressionless as ever, his hands clasped behind his back, he strolled to and fro in a measured way, glancing every so often towards the door. Near the back wall there stood two members of the main camp guard in the at-ease position. Both men were armed, and both looked rather self-conscious. Venables, Leonard and Colonel White were grouped round a battered piano beside the stage, the first two staring into space in different directions, the Colonel in the act of settling himself in the only nearby chair with a large album of community songs which he had presumably found on the spot. He was quietly humming a tune.

  In the audience, six or seven men were sitting in ones and twos. Hunter picked out Ayscue's batman, Evans, and then, in the front row, Naidu chatting to a sergeant.

  "Fancy seeing you here, Moti."

  "Good evening, gentlemen." Naidu got up and swept a mock bow. "And to what do we owe this pleasure?"

  "Vulgar curiosity," said Hunter, nodding to the sergeant. "The best kind, in fact. That's on my part. Willie seems to think he may have a professional interest in this League business. Or at least the Colonel thinks so. Or said he thought so. But what about you, Moti? Your attendance at this sort of caper is far more extraordinary."

  "Oh, no. I'm Orderly Officer today."

  "And it's part of your rounds to look in at all meetings convened by anonymous fanatics. Quite so. Brian thinks of everything, doesn't he?"

  "Max, you're incorrigible. The truth is far simpler. The Orderly Sergeant here and I have survived the grim rigors of guard-mounting, and we're now on our way to the next port of call in our laid-down duties. We decided to dodge in here and lie doggo for a while before having to endure being asked to give a ruling on the edibility or otherwise of the meat pies now being consumed in the canteen. So we're here for utilitarian reasons. But what of all these others?"

  Hunter ran his eye over the small remainder of the audience. "I don't know anything special about any of these chaps," he said. "As regards the officers, it's mostly official interest, I suppose." He lowered his voice. "You know, if Alastair really wants to catch this anti-death merchant he's going a funny way about it. If I were he, the merchant I mean, I'd have been standing about outside for a good half-hour, reading the notices on the board and taking careful heed of anyone coming in here. I think the sight of the Adjutant arriving with a couple of armed men would discourage me from putting in an appearance myself. Alastair ought to have given him time to come on the scene first. We might as well go back to the Mess."

  "Let's give it a few more minutes," said Ayscue.

  "Actually," said Naidu, "I did notice a couple of guards outside, at a respectful distance from the entrance. No doubt they're keeping an eye on anybody who may be keeping an eye, as it were, on the place. Let me ask you," he went on without perceptible quickening of interest, "what you take the culprit's motive to be. What has he in mind, would you say?"

  Naidu's inquiring glance embraced the Orderly Sergeant, who moved up and joined the group.

  "Ah, you get your crackpots in any shower, sir," he said. "Pacifists and Communists and vegetarians and the rest of them. We had a brotherly-love king down the depot when I was there. Nasty piece of work he was. He never washed, either. Led us no end of a dance before we got him down-graded psychopathic and discharged him."

  "Is this man who may still favor us with his presence a brotherly-love king?" asked Naidu in the same tone as before. "I'm merely asking for information, you understand."

  "I think perhaps he is, in a tortuous and tortured sort of way," said Ayscue. "And that's what makes it so sad. There's a genuine sympathy and love for humanity working away there somewhere."

  Hunter lit a cigarette. "How dull," he said.

  "To me it's unmistakable."

  "Ah, they're all the same, sir. Just calling attention to themselves. You know, like children. Showing off. Cutting a dash, like."

  "Why are we all whispering as if we were in church?" asked Hunter. "Oh well, never mind. I see your batman is in attendance, Willie. Does that mean he's President of the League, do you think, or did you ask him along in case you needed a shoeshine all of a sudden?"


  "You decide that for yourself, old boy. As far as I'm concerned it's about as likely that I told Evans to come while I was having a heroin bout as that he could be mixed up in any enterprise that involves reading and writing."

  "A little harsh, I think. And he's reading now. That's a magazine he's got there."

  "You know what I mean."

  Naidu looked at his watch. Ross-Donaldson made the same movement, turned in his walk and came forward to the front of the stage.

  "May I have your attention, please?" he said. "I'd like everybody up there who isn't present either on duty or as an official observer."

  "What are we present as, Willie?"

  "Shut up, Max, and sit still."

  After some hesitation and shuffling of feet, five men moved up the aisle and formed into a rough line along the stage. The Colonel, Venables and Leonard moved in the other direction and took seats in the front row.

  "Stand easy, everybody," said Ross-Donaldson, then continued in his flattest voice, "Are any of you men connected in any way with the Anti-Death League?"

  There was silence, during which a lance-corporal at the end of the line consulted the others by eye. Finally he came to attention.

  "No, sir," he said.

  "Stand easy, corporal. I'd like to hear from each of you in turn."

  Ross-Donaldson, hands behind back, walked up and down the line a couple of times and gazed at one man after another. Coming to a halt, he suddenly said,

  "You."

  "Sir."

  "Are you connected with the Anti-Death League?"

  "No, sir."

  "Or with Human Beings Anonymous?"

  "No, sir."

  Pausing at every turn, Ross-Donaldson asked the others the same question. They all answered no. At the end of this there was another and longer pause, and at the end of that Ross-Donaldson, facing the lance-corporal, spoke suddenly again.

  "What do you think about death?"

  "Death, sir?"

  "Yes, death. What do you think about it?"

  "I never think about it, sir."

  "Never?"

  "No, sir."

  "Right. Next. What do you think about death?"

  "It's nothing to do with me, sir."

  "In that case why are you here?"

  "No reason in particular, sir. My mate and I thought there might be going to be some kind of show, so we turned up on the off-chance."

  "I see. Next. What do you think about death?"

  "It's something we've got to think about, sir. It's a big problem. I've got a few ideas on the subject, nothing very original, I'm afraid. I came along to see whether it was intended to hold some kind of debate on the topic, some sort of profitable exchange of views that might help to clear up the question."

  "But you didn't put up those notices?"

  "Oh no, sir. They didn't express my feelings about the matter at all."

  "Right. Next. What do you think about death?"

  "It's a terrible thing, sir. Terrible. A scourge, that's what it is. Millions of people every year. And nothing's being done about it. I thought perhaps somebody was starting to at last, sir, so naturally I decided to attend, to hear what the person had in mind. But it looks as if I'm wasting my time, doesn't it, sir?"

  "Yes. Next. What do you think about death?"

  The next and last man in the line was Evans. He rubbed the side of his face, grinning, before he answered.

  "Well, sir," he said, "I don't want to strike the wrong note or offend anybody's susceptibilities, but on the whole I'm rather in favor of it, actually. It strikes me there's a lot of people about who could do with a dose of that kind of thing. A notoriously underrated way of solving the world's problems, to my mind. Because, after all, what does it mean? Mere cessation of consciousness, as I understand it. Which most of us could do with anyway. And then there'd be a better kind of life for the rest of us. If any. That was why I joined the Army, as a matter of fact. And they put me on polishing shoes and pressing trousers-no disrespect to you, Major Ayscue, I assure you. Whereas what I was after was killing people, you see."

  Evans started laughing. The other men joined in and stood in more relaxed attitudes. Ross-Donaldson went on walking to and fro.

  "Remarkable," said Naidu to Hunter in a low voice. "An extraordinary performance. I owe so much of what I am to your country that it ill becomes me even to seem to criticize. But this is a reversion to the primitive, my dear Max. Progress should at least bring it about that one manages not to fall back to the first notions. This amazing show. Thank you for having civilized us in the past; I must now take leave to say I don't understand you any more, however, much as I should like to. Are you ready, Sergeant?"

  The Orderly Sergeant got to his feet. At the same moment Ross-Donaldson halted and said, more quietly than before,

  "Thank you all very much for answering my questions. You may go now."

  The scene broke up. The guards asked permission to smoke and were granted it. Hunter and Ayscue went forward onto the stage and joined Ross-Donaldson, who stood as if awaiting congratulations for his performance.,

  "Great fun, Alastair," said Hunter. "In a rather limited way."

  "Thank you. I'm satisfied now that we shall hear no more of this matter."

  "Oh, don't say that, I should hate to think you were right."

  Hunter turned to Leonard, who had just come over.

  "What do you say, Brian? Has the League packed up, do you think?"

  "I wish I did. This is very frightening. The whole situation has changed in the last fifteen minutes."

  "What, because five yobs say they're nothing to do with it and are obviously telling the truth?"

  "No. The sinister thing is the non-appearance of whoever put up those notices."

  "I don't follow you."

  "Can I talk to you about it for a moment? Will you excuse us?"

  Ayscue and Ross-Donaldson said they would, and Leonard drew Hunter aside.

  "Well?"

  "Until just now there were two important alternatives as to what was in the mind of… X. Either the thing was some sort of joke, or there was something behind it. Now I remember you telling me once that there was no hard-and-fast division between jokes and being serious, but in a case like-"

  "I was joking when I told you that, dear boy. You shouldn't have taken me seriously."

  "Let's go into that another time, if you don't mind. I was going to say that it made sense to take these two alternatives about X in turn. All right, he's joking, or fooling or whatever you want to call it. He wants to cause a stir. Bother the authorities. Get me and Alastair and the Colonel worried. Well, I heard what you said to Venables earlier on about that. You were right and he was wrong. If it was any conceivable sort of joke X would show up to see how it went over, even if there were fifty armed guards round the place. A man who could turn out all those notices and post them round the camp without being discovered would have the wit to bluff his way through the sort of nothing-to-go-on questioning he'd come up against. But he doesn't turn up. So he isn't joking. Or, if you like, the posting of the notices was an end in itself. In other words they weren't really notices at all. They were copies of a manifesto."

  Behind them, they heard Venables do his talking-without-words laugh. He and the Colonel were making for the door. He stopped laughing long enough to say to them,

  "You see? A fiasco. The case of the absent pranksters."

  Then he went on laughing and followed the Colonel. Ross-Donaldson and Ayscue were also on the move. Hunter and Leonard went back down the aisle. Leonard turned off the lights. Outdoors again, the two headed back towards the Mess.

  "Well, you see where we've got to if I'm right," pursued Leonard. "X is making a protest. A protest about what? About the infliction of death on the innocent."

  "I thought it was the infliction of death on anybody that was getting him into a state."

  "All right, on anybody, then. And this is a military unit that exists for combatant purposes,
i.e. the infliction of death."

  "Not only that, Brian. The infliction of lots and lots of lovely death. The unusually efficient infliction thereof."

  "You're not shaking me. I don't see why you or anyone else not in the secret shouldn't have got that far. Yes. Correct. So we're dealing with someone who knows what Operation Apollo's about and has become distressed enough at that knowledge to protest in a very eccentric way. Now can you see why I'm frightened?"

  "You're wondering what he's going to do next."

  "Wondering pretty hard, yes. If he runs loose with some of the equipment we've got here I can't foresee the consequences. Or rather I can."

  "There's none missing, is there?"

  "Not yet," said Leonard.

  "But that wouldn't fit in, would it, if he's against death? He'd be more likely to try to destroy it."

  "That's another danger. But we don't know what he'll do. We can't assume he'll stay logical. If he does, his classic course would be to let the enemy know what he knows. Which gives me the equivalent of two spies to take care of instead of one."

  "Mm. I suppose X can't be your original spy. Calling attention to himself like this. He couldn't be sure you wouldn't trace the typewriter he did the notice on."

  "Not quite." Leonard looked gloomy. "I've established three facts. It isn't any of the machines officially in the camp. There are scores of thousands of this particular kind in the country. And none was sold to a stranger by any of the shops in the town over the relevant period. X must have gone farther afield. I can't see myself ever finding out any more that way."

  "Really?"

  They walked into the cobbled hall of the Mess. The Colonel's voice was audible from the ante-room, calling for drink.

  "Would you like to come up to my room for a bit?" said Leonard. "There's some time to go before dinner."

  "Fine, yes."

  Deering was in Leonard's room, standing by the window smoking. He glanced over his shoulder casually as the door opened, then came to what he seemed to think was attention at the sight of Hunter.

  "Evening, sir."

  "Good evening, Deering. I shan't be wanting you now."

  "I just came along on the off-chance you might need me for something."

  "Thank you, but, as I said, there isn't anything."