The Fledgeling

by Frances Faviell

  ‘She cracked her bloody skull on the concrete. . . .’ he was saying.

  ‘How do you know she is dead—she may be unconscious. We must do something about her at once.’

  ‘No, you don’t. Not until Ninny and I have got away. . . .’

  ‘Give me her handbag,’ said the old woman, faintly.

  Without a word he handed it over.

  The dark expensive leather bag was damp and muddy but Mrs. Collins recognised it . . . she had seen it before. In this very room and on this very afternoon. . . . She couldn’t bring herself to handle it.

  ‘Have you looked in it to find out who she is?’

  ‘Yes. A Miss Rhodes . . . some bloody kind of social worker. . . .’

  Miss Rhodes . . . Miss Rhodes. . . . What now? The appalling mess into which this escapade of Neil’s was bringing them all seemed to have no end to its repercussions. . . . She heard Neil gasp as he heard the name arid saw that he was so horrified that he was shaking. She knew from the rough way in which he had handled her that the blow Andersen had struck Miss Rhodes had been no light tap. He had intended that she be put out of his way—for a time at any rate.

  CHAPTER XIX

  NEIL had never seen Mike agitated and on edge; that he was now visibly, horribly shaken by the occurrence on the bombed-site was apparent.

  ‘You’ll have to find me some clobber. I wasn’t able to change into civvies . . . no time with that blasted inspection,’ he began, threateningly. ‘Yours’ll be too small but what about your brother-in-law, Charlie . . . his should fit me. . . . Or do you suggest that I get myself up in female things like yours? Hurry up now, you little bastard.’

  The sneer in his voice and the look he gave Neil infuriated the old woman. ‘Don’t talk like that here,’ she said. ‘I won’t have it. You won’t frighten me with your blustering.’

  ‘Mike . . . have they missed me yet? Have they?’

  ‘Not when I left. They will have by now. We must get moving, Ninny. That bleeding woman has just about done it for us. Have you fixed things for us?’

  ‘I don’t want to come with you. . . .’ Neil stammered. ‘I won’t. I don’t want to be mixed up with your hurting Miss Rhodes. She’s been good to my grandmother. . . .’

  ‘Don’t want to come with me?’ repeated Mike, softly. ‘Well, well. Fancy that now. I shall have to find a means of making you. You’ve got an old aunt—and some cousins in Drogheda. They’re too useful for me to allow you to go there without me.’

  The old woman, listening intently, was thinking as rapidly as she could—and as clearly as her emotions would allow. She realised that Neil had told Andersen every detail of their family life, every detail of the house and which rooms they occupied, of her illness, and all about Aunt Liz in Ireland. It was no use despising the boy for his cowardice, or reproaching him for his stupidity. She knew from the callousness with which he spoke of Miss Rhodes that any appeal to the better feelings of Mike Andersen would be useless.

  ‘We’ve got to be off in ten minutes . . . get the clothes and make your brother-in-law fix the lorry . . . have you got the bloody money you said you’d get?’ He stood menacingly over Neil. But Neil, to his grandmother’s astonishment, was making some kind of resistance.

  ‘Did you say you hit Miss Rhodes?’ he demanded.

  Yes—but it was only a tap. I tell you she fell backwards.’

  ‘You frightened her.’

  ‘Serve her right. She frightened me—coming snooping round like that. Said I’d upset the kid and it was her duty to report me. . . .’

  ‘You did threaten the child . . . and she hasn’t arrived home,’ said Mrs. Collins. ‘Charlie was out looking for her—she’s been missing all evening.’

  ‘I told the kid off for staring at me—but I never touched her. Honest, I didn’t. I haven’t seen her since.’ Mike Andersen, for all his charm and confidence was looking frightened himself. . . . Was it her imagination or was he looking less alert? Ten minutes . . . surely something must happen in ten minutes. The old woman had no other thought in her mind than that the tablets which this intruder had swallowed, thinking they were aspirins, must shortly take effect . . . she was feeling guilty that she hadn’t stopped him. But would he have believed her if she had told him that they were not aspirins? He had swallowed them so quickly that she doubted if she could have stopped him.

  ‘What time is it?’ she asked Neil, although she knew.

  ‘Three o’clock. . . .’

  ‘I tell you, Ninny and I have got to get away. This business has put the lid on it for us. . . . Where’s your brother-in-law, Tarzan? He must fix the lorry. We can’t risk the railway.’

  ‘I told you—I’m not coming with you. What you’ve done has changed everything. . . .’

  ‘Look, you miserable twister. It’s my belief that you meant to double-cross me. You’ve been making plans to get away before I turned up? Haven’t you? Haven’t you?’

  Neil, his face grey and sweat on his forehead, stammered, ‘Yes, Mike. I changed my mind . . . I don’t want you with me . . . let’s go our own ways . . . it’s safer.’

  ‘Cut it out. Nothing doing. I can’t lose my pretty boy, my frightened little nit-wit . . . I’d be bored—bloody bored without you. . . . Hurry up now and find me some clothes. If yours are too small get your brother-in-law’s.’

  ‘If you think Charlie will lend you anything of his you’re mistaken,’ said the old woman, sharply. ‘And if you think he’ll help you get away after what’s happened over there on the bomb-site you’re even more mistaken. My grandson’s not going anywhere with you. I forbid it, Neil. I’d rather give you up to the police and get you taken back than that you should throw in your lot with this worthless creature.’

  The two lads began quarrelling and the old woman strove to think what she should do, while keeping an eye on the clock. . . . Would the tablets work? Would they? She had a strange feeling that the doctors sometimes put some harmless ones among the real ones . . . they were always afraid of you becoming addicted as they called it. As if it mattered to what an old person like her got addicted. Supposing they didn’t work? What then? She could detect no signs yet that Andersen was becoming affected by them. She must have imagined it just now. Suppose the effects on a young tough person like him were different? That they had far less effect? It seemed to her that the best thing to do was to summon Charlie and Nona before this Mike had persuaded Neil to fall in with the plan he was now demurring from complying with. That he would succeed in doing so was obvious. When the police had arrived to fetch Neil on both those previous occasions there had been nothing so appalling on his face as the expression on it when he had come through the door and found Mike Andersen in her room. She understood his desperate anxiety to get away before this man arrived. He had intended, as Andersen had said, to double-cross him.

  What should she do? How to summon Charlie? The bell had been removed from her reach. Should she scream? That surely would be the best. The house was very quiet the only sound the voices of the two arguing at the foot of her bed. Would Charlie and Nonie wake? Nona was a light sleeper, accustomed to listening for the bell. If she were to scream loudly Nonie would hear—but what would be this creature’s reaction to it? That he would stop at nothing she now knew. His eyes told her that—quite apart from the episode with Miss Rhodes. Always laughing were they? Laughing at what? At the stupidity of those he fooled with his plausibility, laughing at ninnies like Neil who were too scared to resist him. The thought of that poor girl lying over there on the waste ground made her frantic.

  The two were still arguing but Neil’s protests were becoming weaker. She saw that Andersen had abandoned threats and was now cajoling Neil into agreeing to fall in with his plans. A loathsome kind of bantering cajolery—and she saw those hands on Neil.

  Dispassionately she considered what weapons she had. Nothing—unless she could get a knife from the kitchen . . . but that was impossible. Although Andersen was intent on his persuasion of Neil th
ey were standing at the foot of her bed between her and the doors to the kitchen and the hall, and those quick-moving eyes of his were constantly on her.

  The scissors! The huge strong scissors which she used to cut the thick tough wool for the rugs she made. They were at hand, lying under her pillow where she usually kept them so that she did not lose them. Her fingers curled as she realised that she could lay her hand on them now if she wished. She would scream and if, as he had done before, he tried to smother her cries by clamping his hand over her mouth she would not hesitate to use the scissors.

  ‘Stop arguing,’ she said sternly. ‘No one is going to stir a finger to help either of you until Miss Rhodes has been attended to.’

  ‘I’ve told you,’ said Mike Andersen, fiercely. ‘Not until we’ve got away. After that you can bloody well cover her with cotton wool and lilies if you like.’

  ‘Listen! She was sitting here in this very room this afternoon. Can’t you see that whether or not you get away it’s bound to come out that you attacked her? She must have seen you . . . and that child will have talked. If she told Miss Rhodes that you had frightened her then she’ll have told others—as she told me. There’s always a witness. . . .’

  ‘I knew she was here, I saw her come out, that’s why I had to put her out for a while. . . .’ he said contemptuously. And if that bastard Charlie doesn’t help me to get away—and quickly, then I shall swear that Ninny here attacked her. My word’s as good as his.’

  Did he mean it? Was he bluffing? If he showed not the slightest anxiety or compunction over what had happened to Miss Rhodes—why should he be bluffing? If he thought her dead, then all that mattered to him was to get away. ‘And if Miss Rhodes recovers, Mr. Clever? She must have seen you. Did she speak to you?’

  His face darkened at the recollection. ‘Yes. Interfering busybody. But it was dark—she couldn’t have seen me clearly—it could just as well have been Ninny. . . . She knew he was here. She told me so. If she was going to give him away he had as good a motive as I had to keep her quiet. . . .’

  The old woman’s hand crept quietly under the pillow and felt the scissors. They were large enough and sharp enough to penetrate anything. Miss Rhodes had given them to her, it would be no more than right that they should be used to avenge her. The trouble was that her wrists and arms were old and weak now. But if she could goad this Mike Andersen sufficiently he might attack her, and then surely fear and the fury of self-preservation would give her the necessary strength for what she had to do. For one thing and one only stuck out in her mind—to get Neil out of this creature’s clutches even if it meant sending him back to take his punishment again. She had made a terrible blunder in giving in to Nona. She had been as weak as her grandson and had no right to criticise him.

  In the same way as she was accustomed to mustering her strength to resist the onslaughts of the Monster, so now she summoned them to resist this young creature, the spread of whose influence could be compared in her mind to the spread of the Monster in the corruption which followed in his wake. And if she used too much strength? If the scissors should prove fatal? She had plenty of those tablets saved. She would never be a burden on the young people when they were ready to emigrate. She closed her fingers round the scissors firmly keeping her arm still under the bedclothes. She said, loudly:

  ‘If Miss Rhodes is dead, you are going to answer for it, Mike Andersen, and I’m warning you now.’ Then, gripping the scissors firmly, she screamed as loudly as she was able.

  The scream, high and shrill although not strong, shattered the quietness of the brooding tenseness of the house. In a moment Mike had put a hand roughly over her mouth, cursing as he did so, and she lunged upwards at him with the scissors as violently as she could. With his other hand he gripped her wrist as in a vice and began forcing the scissors inwards and backwards until their points were against her own throat. She could not cry out . . . she was almost choking from the vicious clamp of his hand over her nose and mouth. She began feeling herself suffocating as she struggled wildly and valiantly until she could resist his grip on the scissors no longer, and suddenly she felt their sharp points pierce her skin through her thick nightdress and a warm trickle run down her breast. . . . Well this is it . . . I’ve been too clever. . . he’s turned the tables on me . . . she thought despairingly, not because she was afraid of death—she was too accustomed to its nearness for that—but because she would have failed to put right the great wrong she had done Neil.

  And then she was aware that her grandson had hurled himself on Mike, knocking the scissors from his hand, and that he was hitting savagely at her attacker, forcing him to release his hold on her mouth to protect himself from this unexpected quarter. The two fell to the floor locked in a hold and, summoning her failing breath, she screamed again, twice. The cries were much weaker than the first cry had been. Nevertheless, there were sounds now all over the house and she could not imagine why Nonie did not come.

  Neil, in a fury of which she had never suspected him capable, was raining blows on Mike, hitting hard and horribly. She could hear the impact of their respective blows and the quick painful panting breaths from them both as they fought, crashing into the furniture, knocking down things, each hitting the floor only to get up in his turn and begin again.

  Was it her imagination or was Neil getting the better of Mike? The boy himself did not know what had come over him. The sight of the blood on his grandmother’s nightgown had released something in him. All the insults, miseries, indignities and obscenities he had endured from this youth flooded back to him now and he fought violently and ferociously, rather as a small creature will resist a large one with every weapon at its disposal. Every word of his brother Len teaching him to resist his tormentors both at school and in the Army came back to him suddenly. It was as if his brother was in the room at his side, encouraging and counselling him. ‘Attack. Attack . . . Neil. Never wait for your adversary. Always try to get the first blow in. Get it in hard and sure . . . there! and there! and there! Go on, lad, go on. . . .’ And he heard the voice of the boxing instructor telling him up at the camp that he had all the lightness, quickness, and strength needed for a lightweight fighter if only he could pull himself together and get over his fear of everyone and everything.

  Oblivious in his excitement that Mike’s blows were becoming less brutal, less direct and deadly in aim, he went on like an automaton hitting out at the face he loathed. He was overwhelmed with hate, not only of Mike, but of himself and everything that had been between them. An urgent violent revulsion demanded the complete obliteration of his enemy, Mike. For Mike was the enemy. Mike. He had become the enemy which they were always quoting in the Regulations . . . the enemy who had to be killed . . . to kill the enemy . . . in order to kill the enemy . . . everything learned in the rifle and sten-gun drill was to achieve one end—the death of the enemy.

  Here, at last, was the enemy whose obliteration was vital . . . kill . . . kill . . . kill. . . . Attacking desperately again, he took some appalling punishment; his breath was coming in short agonised gasps, one eye was blinded and blood was pouring from his nose, filling his mouth. Its taste excited him and, unconscious of pain, he saw only the receding and advancing face which mocked and goaded him on. He hit out viciously again, aiming a terrible left at Mike’s chin. It was a blow which both Len and the boxing instructor had tried in vain to teach him—he had lacked the guts to deliver it. Now, oblivious that Mike was no longer hitting with any power but was staggering about in a dazed bewildered way he achieved the blow—a hard, horrible crack. Mike began to sag and collapse; and then, as the watching woman screamed again, there came the final crash to the ground. With him fell the pink china swan, so that Linda’s carnations were spilled over the fallen body.

  And now at last there were sounds across the hall, and Nonie stood there in her dressing-gown. She stared incredulously at the scene; at her twin, leaning panting and gasping over the body of another serviceman, at the turned-over chairs, t
he broken ornaments, the blood dripping from Neil’s nose . . . to her grandmother in the bed. Like Neil, she saw only the bright red stain on her grandmother’s nightgown and ran, horrified, to her.

  ‘Only a scratch,’ said the old woman fiercely, but the girl saw the dark bruises on her neck and chin and round her mouth and exclaimed at them. . . . ‘It’s nothing . . . the skin’s just pierced, that’s all. Get Charlie quickly . . . will you?’

  Nonie said, breathlessly, ‘He’s awake—he’s coming. . . . Neil. . . .’ she ran to her brother ‘. . . are you all right? Are you?’ Then she looked incredulously at the unconscious figure on the floor. ‘Mike Andersen?’ Her lips formed the name.

  He nodded, still gasping.

  ‘You knocked him out? Really?’ She couldn’t believe it.

  ‘Yes,’ said her grandmother quietly, looking at the clock. ‘He knocked him out—it took a long time—at least it seemed a long long time to me—but he did it.’ Thirty-five minutes it took! she thought, grimly . . . but they worked! I saw their effect . . . I saw his bewildered face when his strength began to fail . . . but Neil shall never know. Never! . . . never! . . . It’s my private miracle.

  In the hall Nonie was screaming to Charlie to hurry. She no longer cared who heard her . . . her brother was repeating incredulously. . . . ‘I knocked him out. I knocked him out!’ Then he began mopping at his nose at his grandmother’s command. ‘Are you all right, Gran?’ he asked, unsteadily. ‘He hasn’t really hurt you, has he?’

  ‘Nothing. Just a scratch—but he would have if you hadn’t stopped him, boy.’

  ‘If he touches you again, I’ll kill him,’ he said, savagely. ‘He went down like a sack of potatoes . . . to think I was so afraid of him.’

  His grandmother thought quietly to herself. . . . He took them himself—snatched them before I could stop him. . . . It was the miracle I prayed for . . . I wonder how long it’ll take him to come round?