King and Joker

by Peter Dickinson

  “Who did you tell her to find?” he said.

  “I gave her a note. I told her to find my father.”

  “He’ll do. How long have we got?”

  “I don’t know. I really don’t, Mr Theale.”

  (It was just before nine. Father would be on his way to the loo. It would depend whether Kinunu had found him first.)

  “Right,” he said. “Now, I want to know something, and you’d better give me a straight answer. Just before you barged in I was asking the old lady what the hell you’d been playing at up here, saying you’d seen McGivan when you hadn’t, and then fooling around with that clock. You can tell me just as well as she can.”

  “It’s all my fault,” whispered Louise. “Everything’s all my fault.”

  “Why don’t you tell me about it?”

  “No.”

  “Come on your Highness, don’t be a fool. I’ve only got to muck about with those instruments and the old lady will be dead. You don’t want that, do you?”

  “Don’t tell him,” whispered Durdy. “I’ll be gone soon, no matter what.”

  Louise shook her head. After the clarity of action, of knowing what to do, the mists had come back into her mind. Nothing mattered. It was all her fault for being born.

  Theale took a step round the bed towards the console, but before she could move there was a bang and rattle from the door.

  “You there, Lulu?” called Father’s voice. “What the hell’s going on?”

  Theale sprinted back towards the door and raised his pistol.

  “Stand clear,” he called.

  There was a sharp, fierce crack which brought the deafness-whine back into Louise’s ears. Theale’s next words had a furry sound through it.

  “Listen to me,” he called to the door. “I have Princess Louise in here, as a hostage. Anybody tries to come through that door and she’s for it. I want to talk to the King.”

  “I’m here, you bloody fool,” said Father’s voice. “Are you all right Lulu?”

  “Yes,” said Louise. “Durdy’s not too good. He’s been mucking around with her temperature.”

  “Quiet, everybody,” shouted Theale. He seemed to have forgotten about the monitors. “I want everybody out of that other room except the King and that nurse.”

  Pause.

  “I’ll stay, but not the nurse,” said Father.

  “You heard what I said.”

  “I’m not giving you any more hostages and that’s flat,” snapped Father. “Can’t you see it, man? I haven’t the right.”

  “Come off it. You can do what you bloody well want. Now you’ll do what I say or I’ll put a bullet through the Princess’s knee-cap.”

  Pause.

  “I tell you I haven’t the right,” said Father. “I’ll be a hostage, but not the nurse.”

  “No good. I’m going to count up to ten.”

  “I’m not going to change my mind. Sorry, Lulu.”

  “I’m glad,” said Louise. Her voice came out tremorless, but that was the story princess standing between her and the gunman. The real Louise cringed from the burst of agony and the life-time of hobbling.

  “One,” said Theale.

  “D’you really want to saddle yourself with a badly wounded hostage?” called Father. “Think it out, man. She won’t be able to walk.”

  He sounded merely irritable at Theale’s lack of forethought. Theale shook his head and stopped counting.

  “I’m alone in this room now,” called Father. “Tell me what you want.”

  “Give me time. I’ll have to think it out. You stay there, but don’t come back at me for twenty minutes. Princess, move away from that bed and go and stand over by that wall. That’s right.”

  He looked round the room, nodded, put his pistol down on the Heal gate-leg table, drew up a chair, sat down and began to make notes in his police notebook. The silence deepened. No sound at all came from beyond the door. The whine from the pistol-shot dwindled and vanished. Suddenly, close by Louise’s shoulder, the cuckoo clock whirred, clicked and started on its banal call.

  She turned and stared at it. This is why I’m here, she thought. I came to tackle Durdy, and now I know. Nothing will ever be all right again. I don’t care whether I live or die.

  The bird was still leaping in and out of its idiotic little door when she reached up, lifted the clock off its hooks and with a single sweeping movement flung it through the open window.

  Theale shouted.

  She took three running steps, put a foot on her little old desk and swung herself up and over the sash, calling goodbye to Durdy as she did so. She was already reaching down for the bars above the sill when she heard the clock hitting the terrace far below.

  The waves were steeper now and closer together. It was as though the meddling with Miss Durdon’s temperature had started an up-and-down oscillation which couldn’t now be stopped. There was no change in her perception of her own body; that remained as it had been for the last six years, a hazy blur of feeling, like the image of a bright window that stays on the retina after the eyes have looked away; it was a fading ghost that refused to fade. But her mind, her inner self, felt the pull towards darkness. I’m going, she would say, this time I’m going, and all down the slithering slope the darkness would deepen. But then the curve of fall would soften, level and begin to float her upwards with no more speed or effort than the downward swoop, and then she would swim into daylight, still alive in her own Nursery, with Louise standing by the cuckoo clock and that dangerous big boy sitting at the table and a smell like fireworks in the air. Then, before she could summon her will together to take command, she would be swooping down again towards the darkness.

  She was conscious all the time, but conscious without being aware. In one of the troughs she heard a loud bang, and Vick shouting, but she didn’t remember she’d heard them till she floated to the next peak and smelt the gunpowder-smell. That boy’s been shooting at things, she thought. In my nursery, too. I’ll show him who’s master here. But then she was slipping again towards the dark. A few waves later she was floating up towards the unwelcome light when she heard the cuckoo clock begin its call. Then there was a shout and a movement.

  “Good-bye, Durdy darling,” called Louise.

  “Good-bye, Your Highness,” whispered her lips. “Have a lovely journey and sit with your back to the engine.”

  And then she was at another peak, knowing she’d said something which didn’t belong, and the big boy was running across the room with his gun in his hand.

  “If you come any nearer I’ll drop,” shouted Louise.

  Louise was clinging to the bars outside the window, kneeling on the sill. Her face was twisted and hurt, hurt, Vicky’s hurt face, the Nursery at Windsor with its coal fire lighting Vicky’s face as she told the slow, wrenching story of trust betrayed. It must be Vicky—my last baby could never show hurt like that.

  Sliding down towards the next pit Miss Durdon could not feel the tear-drops that trickled across her parched temples.

  Voices, shouts, anger, her own lips saying that somebody must have got out of bed the wrong side that morning, Vicky’s hand round the locket, the ringlet of hair given her by the mean little boor she loved, the crack as the glass burst on the coals, all fading, fading into the bleak now.

  “Don’t be a fool, Lulu. Come in at once. That’s an order.”

  “Tell him it’s nothing to do with him.”

  A strange voice, sour and quiet, but it came from Louise clinging like a monkey outside the windows. You mustn’t give in when they’re like that, you mustn’t promise to take them to the zoo, but you must let them feel that you haven’t trampled them flat. The dangerous big boy was trying—didn’t think he had it in him to speak so gentle.

  “Now come on in, Your Highness. I promise you won’t get hurt, not if everyone’s se
nsible.”

  “I don’t care whether I live or die, I tell you!” More waves—silent now, mostly—the deeps deeper and the climbs more slow—almost into darkness, almost over the real edge, at the peaks the sharpness of knowledge hazed, the edges of dusk closing in.

  “Take it away! I don’t want it! Take it away or I’ll jump before you’re ready!”

  That must be Louise. Her voice had the tone of things ending, but not calmly like Miss Durdon’s end. Harsh, miserable, wounded.

  “Can’t you do something, old lady? She’s going to jump.”

  Who whispered that? Do something. Do something. Do something. Down the long slope the words stayed with her, a whispering echo, muttering round her through the black valley and up the slow floating towards this last brightness. Do something, or Louise will fall. My last baby … Do the one thing left. The garrison of the redoubt lay inert, sprawled across their weapons, but as Miss Durdon came back for a few final seconds to the world where they had fought so long their ghosts rose hovering and stood to their posts. She heard her own voice squeak out with perfect firmness,

  “I can’t die, Your Highness. I want to die but I can’t. Come and help me die, please, darling.”

  The sill projected a sharp two inches beyond the bars. Kneeling hurt, and the bars came at points where it was difficult to grip them firmly and still be absolutely ready to let go. And it was hard to see clearly into the room because of the kinky reflections from the double layer of glass, the cedar tree and the sky and the lime that had the swing on it. The clearest place was through the reflection of Louise’s own face, kinky and double-edged, the face of a stranger, a face in the Hall of Mirrors, a monster. It had three eyes and its mouth was a wide, wavering gash, but it was Louise—not the story princess, not the public face, but herself, visible at last.

  At first she stared through the reflection trying to see what Theale was up to. The panting of the quick effort of climbing out died away. He stood facing her with his back to the bed, his gun half raised. If he hadn’t been there, staring at her, she might have let go and finished everything at once. Her mouth was full of a taste like vomit and the muscles of her cheeks screwed themselves into aching knots. Her eye was caught by the reflection, the grief-monster, herself: Behind it Theale raised his gun and came a pace nearer. She took a hand off the bars.

  “I’ll drop,” she said.

  He stopped but the black hole of the gun still pointed at her.

  “Don’t be a fool,” he said.

  “You don’t understand,” she said. “Nothing matters any more. Nothing.”

  She saw the gun lowered. He shrugged, turned, went back to the door and started talking to Father.

  “Don’t be a fool, Lulu. Come in at once. That’s an order.”

  It was impossible to answer his shout, but she got words out of her mouth telling Theale to tell Father not to interfere. Theale said something and she told him the exact truth. She wasn’t anybody’s hostage because she didn’t mind if she lived or died.

  Something rattled to her left. A sash slid up—it must be Kinunu’s window. Father leaned out, pleading and commanding. She refused to look at him or hear him. She stared at her reflection in the panes, shutting everything else out of her mind. Everything else was lies. The happiness was lies, the love was lies, the strolling by the lake with arms round waists, the careful, honourable explanations, all lies. All putting on a show. A show to the GBP, a show to the Family, a show to themselves. People should understand that you have it in you to make them suffer. It doesn’t matter who you hurt, how much you hurt them, provided you can still put on a show. I say I say I say, your public face isn’t as good as mine. It doesn’t have to be. Her sobs contorted the grief-monster.

  “Lulu. Lulu, darling. Listen to me.”

  She dared not turn her head and see that pale face craning from Kinunu’s window.

  “Go away, Mother. Go away, please. I love you, but please go away. You’re making it worse. Please.”

  Mother tried again, several times, but it was best not to answer. That would only hurt everybody all over again. Perhaps it would be best to let go at once, but Theale was still in there with Durdy. He had to be beaten first. Durdy wasn’t lies.

  When her knees hurt she shifted them without noticing. Pictures began to nudge into her mind, like bits of dream—Kinunu with her cap skew-whiff … Father leaning back in his chair like a lazy tom-cat … you’ll get all the cuddles you want … I was a pretty randy young man … Mother turning from her desk, straight-backed, with arms held slightly out as though she were raising them for her crucifixion … a snuffling little bald man with his trousers round his ankles … Nonny hauling herself laughing from the mud behind a Land-Rover … McGivan’s head toppling forward to an angle that couldn’t be true … Pilfer’s face like mottled meat … her yellow nightie ripped from end to end …

  Something nicked her awareness, something outside the room, a movement or sound, she didn’t know which. She looked to left and right, and then down. Men were coming along the terrace. They wore fire helmets. Some of them carried a canvas sausage. Her mind made the leap to a picture of them spread below like a flower, straining the canvas circle between them to catch her. She shouted furiously down, waved an arm to show she meant it, almost fell … And even when she clutched back at the bar she felt none of the prickle of vertigo on her palms. That shows I really don’t care, all through, she thought. My body’s ready as well as my mind. I’ll get it over.

  She peered through the grief-monster for a final glimpse of Durdy and saw Theale bending over the bed. What was he doing to her? Did he know that he could still get at Louise through Durdy? Down below the firemen had halted—she could afford to wait a little longer and see what he was doing. The late September sun, clear and strong, seemed to distil the morning into silence.

  “I can’t die, Your Highness,” squeaked Durdy, with that old, familiar touch of petulance as though she’d been complaining about her inability to twist the screw-top off a bottle of cough-mixture. “I want to die, but I can’t. Come and help me, please, darling.”

  Unwilled, Louise’s left hand rose from the bars and gripped the top of the sash. She saw Theale had turned to watch her.

  “Go to the other side of the room, Mr Theale,” she said. “Right round the table. Go on. I’ll count five, and if you don’t go, Ill drop. I really will. One …”

  He shrugged and turned away. He was beaten. Now it became difficult to move without the fear of the drop. There was sweat on her palms and her right leg was numb where the pressure of the sill had closed off a nerve-circuit. She worked her way tremblingly upright and stood flexing her ankles to get the feeling back—she’d need to be able to dash for the window if Theale tried anything. He was standing right over at the far corner of the room with his gun half raised. His bright-terrier look was puzzled now. She worked her way on to the desk letting him see that she could always get back out of the window before he could reach her. She took the three paces to the bedside with her eyes still on him.

  “Don’t die, Durdy darling,” she whispered.

  “Over the edge. Going now. Let me go. My last baby. Let me go—oh, Kitten, let me go.”

  “Oh, Durdy, I love you, but you must go if you want to. Oh, Durdy, there’s only you …”

  Forgetting all about Theale Louise crouched by the bed and slid her left arm under Durdy’s shoulders. The body seemed as light as that of a dead bird picked up, fluffed and frozen, starved with midwinter.

  “I mun choose,” breathed Durdy. “You’ve bin tearing me in two. I mun steay wi’ my girls, and I cawn’t teake you wi’ me. I mun be their Durdy, alweays there. Doan’t cry, Kitten …”

  Louise was crying in smooth, easy sobs, sobs not wrenched from her but as natural as singing. She craned forward to kiss the mottled old cheeks and didn’t start or look up when the room filled with a crash, a warning
shout, the crack of a gun and the yells of men. Somebody touched her shoulder. She shrugged the hand away. Through the blur of tears she saw it come down, move the bedclothes aside and feel for the pulse of Durdy’s “good” hand, whose arm lay along the sheet as thin as the shank of a heron. She kissed the dry forehead again and gently lowered Durdy back on to her pillows.

  “She’s gone,” said Father quietly.

  The strangeness of his voice made Louise look up. Her tears distorted his face, but when she wiped her eyes on the sheet she saw that the real face was twisted with grief, like her own face reflected in the window. Tears ran down either side of the nose and hung in droplets from the corners and fringe of the moustache. He was looking down at Durdy.

  Staring at him, at this real person, Louise rose groggily to her feet. She found Mother close beside her, pale and tearless, so she reached out an arm to hold her close to her. Several men were standing around at the other end of the room, and one kneeling by Theale’s body where it lay face down between the table and the dolls’ shelf.

  “Shot himself clean as a whistle,” said somebody. “Neat little bastard to the very end.”

  Chapter 15

  Miss Durdon’s memorial service was held in St George’s, Windsor, and everybody came, about a third of them incognito—the Norways and the Swedens and the Denmarks and the Belgiums and the Netherlands and the poor deposed Greeces and all Mother’s Spanish cousins (forgetting for the day their feud about who should have succeeded old Franco) and a charming Japanese prince (representing the enemy, so to speak) and dozens of deposeds and exes, not to mention all the other cousins, innumerable Mecklenberg-Baden-Hesses and similar many-barrelled Germans, kissing and crying, besides all the home-growns—the Yorks and Clarences and Kents and so on, plus the usual swarm of Mountbattens, and quite a lot more who weren’t really related at all but had, as it were, sent ambassadors to Durdy’s Kingdom—children to stay for Balmoral holidays—Marlboroughs and Norfolks and such—a mighty ingathering, a royal mafia, a sceptred wake. Everybody revelled in the event, their enjoyment spiced by the knowledge that it was a very proper thing to be doing and perhaps the last time they’d get the chance.