Cloud Walker, All Fools' Day, Far Sunset (35 page)

‘No more stops,’ he said grimly. ‘Not for anyone or anything.’

‘What if someone else has the same idea as those other clever little bastards?’

‘We don’t stop. We drive round it or through it. If we can’t do either, we’ve had it anyway. A couple of shotguns aren’t much of an arsenal.’ He started the car, took a last vague glance at
The Angler’s Rest
, and then set off in the tracks that had been carved by Father Jack’s Land Rover along the weed-covered road. He thought that if he put his foot down he stood a very good chance of overtaking the Land Rover before long. But he had no desire to overtake it. Whatever Father Jack had taken, he had earned.

So Greville let the station wagon roll along at a reasonable pace, profoundly thankful that he and Liz were still alive. After a time, he was pleased to see that Liz was dozing. She lay huddled in her seat like a small child tired out after a big party.

Some party! thought Greville. It had been hilarious. He began to sweat as he recalled how near they had both been to a particularly stupid – and sordid – form of death. But then, he reflected, all death was sordid. You could die of cancer, accidents, old age, overeating, alcoholism (if you were lucky), hunger, appendicitis, rats, cats, dogs, disease and bullets. Whatever it was, it was stupid and sordid – about as stupid and sordid as staying alive.

The road slipped by. The sun began to sink low towards the western edge of the world. The station wagon passed unmolested through small, ribbon-like villages. Greville was past caring about precautions. He had been near enough to total disaster not to worry too much about what might happen next. Goddammit, if anything was going to happen it bloody well would! So why frighten hell out of one’s self by worrying about it.
Que sera, sera
…

Presently Liz woke.

‘I’m sorry,’ she said.

‘Don’t be. A bit of rest was what you needed.’

‘Not about that. About landing you with me. I’m more trouble than I’m worth. If I hadn’t wanted to see the Festival Hall and the British Museum everything might still have gone all right for you.’

‘If you hadn’t got yourself into a mess on Chelsea Bridge,’ pointed out Greville drily, ‘the day might have been a hell of a lot duller. On the other hand, I might be dead by now. Who the devil knows?’

‘Nevertheless,’ said Liz, stretching herself and wincing, ‘I want you to know that I’m sorry.’

‘Your sorrow is noted.’ He smiled. ‘It will probably be held against you.’

‘Where are we?’

‘About forty miles from salvation. There are a few more villages to get through and a small town called Thetford. If we survive those, we stand a reasonable chance of living till morning.’

‘I don’t even know whether I want to live till morning.’

‘You do. That’s the trouble. We all bloody well do. It’s part of the old genetic programming. When God created the world he filled it full of cretins and said: “Now look, chaps, the great thing is not to write great poetry, create symphonies or produce paintings that make people want to cry.” The great thing is to live till morning. And if you are still alive when morning comes, why then you must do your best to increase the odds against some other poor bastard. For if you don’t do unto him, as sure as I knocked together this old firmament out of nothing he’ll do his damnedest to do unto you.’

Liz began to laugh. ‘Greville,’ she said, ‘I think you’re practically the greatest. You pinched me from the dogs, you lick somebody’s shoes to give me a chance of living, you put baby lotion on my legs – and lose half your possessions while you’re doing it – and you still let me ride in your car and try to keep me happy. You realise you’re destroying my faith in human nature?’

‘That is the aim,’ retorted Greville. ‘Essentially, I’m a sadist.’

The sun slipped smoothly over the horizon. The twilight that followed was hardly light enough to drive by, but it suited Greville’s programme. He did not switch the car’s headlamps on. Instead he dropped speed to little more than twenty miles an hour and stayed in third gear. He was hoping to slip through Thetford – the last real danger point before Ambergreave – in as inconspicuous a manner as possible.

By the time they reached the outskirts of the town stars were pricking the now turquoise eggshell of the sky. Greville’s eyes were tired with peering through the windscreen; but they were not too tired to notice the flickering of an oil lamp about a hundred yards along the road.

It was a typical night prowlers’ set-up, he thought. Someone would be listening for cars, someone else would be organising the block and, no doubt, a small posse of transnormal citizenry would be ready to pounce if they thought the attack could be carried through without much loss.

‘Poke a shotgun through the side window,’ said Greville. ‘Don’t shoot until I tell you, and don’t shoot at anything but lights.’

At the same time as they swung the searchlight on him, Greville switched on his own headlamps. The road block was a poor one – it was only a farm trailer. Furthermore, there was a wide grass verge on the right; and if he drove straight at the three men who were standing on it in the glare of his headlamps, he stood a good chance of getting through.

‘Now!’ he shouted.

The first barrel accomplished nothing except a vaguely human scream; but Liz had better luck with her second try. The searchlight went out.

Greville put his foot down and headed straight for the three men. They began shooting, but the car’s headlamps must have ruined their aim. The station wagon lurched sickeningly as it hit the grass verge. Then there was a heavy thud and a bump as it hit at least one of them. Then it was through.

For good measure, Liz fired a couple of backward parting shots, but they probably accomplished nothing. For now there was only darkness once more. Greville switched his lights off immediately, and almost by instinct found his way back to the road.

‘Not long, now,’ he said. ‘Providing we get through the town in one piece. Things aren’t quite tough enough yet in this part of the world to make people really desperate. The real danger is not from the locals but from nomads.’

‘That road block seemed like a local affair,’ observed Liz.

‘It was. But they weren’t really trying, and they hadn’t had much experience. Otherwise we wouldn’t be here.’

Liz yawned. ‘You almost fill me with optimism.’

He laughed grimly. ‘Sometimes I even convince myself.’

They passed through Thetford without any more difficulty. Greville was on home territory and knew his way sufficiently to take the narrow streets at a speed high enough to dismiss all danger of spontaneous attacks. The only thing to be feared was a well prepared block; but fortunately they didn’t encounter any.

When they were clear of the town, he switched on his headlamps once more, and Liz saw that the car was running along a smooth straight road flanked on either side by tall trees.

‘Thetford Chase,’ said Greville. ‘It used to be a national park or something like that. Plenty of deer. I’ll bring you hunting some time.’

‘Cheers for the rustic life.’

‘It has its moments.’

A few minutes later they came to the village of Ambergreave. Greville gave a long blast on the car’s horn. It startled Liz out of a semi-doze.

‘What the hell did you do that for?’

‘A local signal,’ explained Greville. ‘No sense in running the risk of collecting unnecessary pot-shots. Just possibly somebody might be tempted.’

Liz was surprised. ‘You mean they won’t attack just because you live round here?’

‘It’s not an infallible rule. But as I told you, we’re not entirely down to cannibalism in these parts yet.’

Ambergreave was a long straggly village with most of the houses and cottages set well apart. It took longer to drive through than the town of Thetford and it seemed totally deserted. Presently the station wagon turned off the hard road. Greville changed down into second gear, nursing the car along a narrow bumpy track. Presently the track widened then sloped gently down to the edge of Ambergreave Lake, a broad expanse of water, still as a mirror, reflecting the large low moon like an orange lantern.

Greville drove along the edge of the lake to a small jetty, then pulled the car up and switched off the engine. But he left the headlamps on, and Liz saw that they were illuminating the shape of a small rowing dinghy.

She got out of the car, stretched herself cautiously and watched Greville go down to the boat. He lay down on his stomach on the jetty and put his arms into the water, evidently feeling for something round the side of the dinghy.

‘What are you doing?’

‘De-fusing the transport,’ he retorted laconically.

Presently he stood up and held out his hands towards her. There was a grenade in each, with a long trailing piece of wire linking them both.

‘If anyone wants to come visiting,’ he explained, ‘they have to use the boat. In which case they blow themselves to glory.’

Liz gazed across the stretch of water at the vaguely outlined patch of land on which Greville’s cottage stood.

‘How nice to live on an island,’ she said.

‘Don’t we all?’ said Greville. ‘There was once a character called John Donne who used to write poetry and think otherwise. But he was a nut-case. A real nutcase. He had delusions of grandeur … Yes, poor old Donne was up the spout – a regular transie.’ He stowed the grenades in the car, switched off the headlamps and locked the doors. ‘The trouble is, everybody lives on islands and nobody knows how to build rowing-boats … Now come and sit at the back here, and I’ll ferry you home – just like they used to do in the romantic movies.’

Liz stepped into the boat and sat down. ‘It would be nice to be able to go to the pictures,’ she said wistfully.

Greville took the oars and pushed off. Suddenly he began to laugh.

‘What’s so funny?’

‘It’s just occurred to me,’ said Greville, ‘that at least ninety per cent of all the film-stars must have survived – for a time at least. Which just goes to show that God – if there is a god – must have a nice sense of humour.’

On the outside and by moonlight Greville’s retreat looked like an uneasy hybrid of miniature pagan temple and Victorian public convenience. It had a broad flight of steps leading up to a small portico flanked by Lilliputian marble columns. The whole of its front was faced with large blocks of some kind of stone; but, as Liz later discovered, the sides and back were of Suffolk brick and with ordinary cottage windows. The steeply sloping roof was covered with pantiles, adding a vague suggestion of the Japanese to its mixed ancestry.

Greville tied up the dinghy and led Liz up the steps to the massive double-front door – a thing of oak and studs and wrought iron. He pushed it open, felt on the inside wall and pressed a switch. An electric light came on, and somewhere there was the subdued noise of a generator starting automatically.

‘It’s marvellous,’ said Liz, surveying the electric light and the untidy but comfortable room that it illuminated.

‘It’s what happens when an English country gentleman gets an acropolis complex with pagoda complications,’ remarked Greville drily. ‘Let’s get to bed for Christ’s sake. It’s been somewhat of a day … Do you want anything to eat first?’

‘All I want,’ said Liz, ‘is unconsciousness.’

‘You can have that for free.’

The bedroom was a small poky room leading off the far end of the living room. It looked like an afterthought – as indeed it was, along with the tiny kitchen. It contained nothing but a large bed, a chest of drawers and a thick rug that lent a touch of luxury and decadence to the dull brick floor.

‘If you want to pee or have a shit,’ said Greville, ‘you’ll have to go outside. There’s a lavatory of sorts just through the kitchen door.’

‘I don’t want to do anything,’ yawned Liz, ‘except sleep. I’ve just about had my lot for today … Are we sleeping together?’

‘There’s only one bed,’ Greville pointed out. ‘If you prefer the floor you can have it.’

‘I don’t, but on the other hand I don’t think I could face a good screw tonight … Not,’ she hastened to add, ‘that I’m suggesting anything. It’s just that I’m still sore enough not to want it.’

‘You disappoint me,’ said Greville. ‘I was just getting myself in the mood for an all-night sex orgy. Now shut up and get into bed.’

He went out of the bedroom and bolted the outer door, then he came back
and bolted the bedroom door. Liz took off her few clothes. So did Greville. He did not look at her.

‘Get into bed. I’ll switch off the light.’

She got into bed and waited for him. Greville kicked off his shoes, switched out the light and joined her. There was a sudden silence as the generator ceased producing electricity.

For a while they lay side by side, not touching, each of them naked and each of them conscious of the other’s nearness. The darkness and the silence were absolute. They were two children alone in the cosmos, with no one to comfort them but each other.

Greville, tired though he was, found that he could not sleep. So did Liz. They were too close to each other for comfort – too close and yet too far away.

‘Greville,’ whispered Liz at last, ‘if you want it, I think I can face it.’

‘Shut up and go to sleep. I don’t want any damn thing.’

Liz smiled in the darkness. ‘Everybody wants something. If they didn’t they’d just die … What do you want?’

‘Peace,’ said Greville.

‘You can’t get it alone.’

‘How do you know?’

‘I’ve tried. If I thought I could get it alone I wouldn’t have worried about Jane.’

‘I don’t give a tinker’s cuss for Jane.’

‘I know.’

‘I don’t give a tinker’s cuss for you, either.’

‘Liar! Not for me as a person, maybe. But you want me to depend on you.’

‘Don’t be stupid. You are just a bloody complication.’

Liz rolled herself against him. ‘I expect that’s what you need. I bet you’ve been looking for a bloody complication for quite a while.’

In the darkness Greville hit her. ‘You’re madder than most,’ he said heavily. ‘You like to press your luck.’

Her face stung, but Liz didn’t turn away. The tears trickled silently down her cheek, and she kept her voice steady so that Greville would not know about them.