Empty World (10 page)

“I think it's simpler carrying on as we are,” Lucy said. “We've a heater in the bathroom for water. You
can't have a proper bath, but it's better than ­nothing.”

She spoke firmly, and once again Neil decided to let it go. He said:

“You're probably right. But it's something to keep in mind, for a permanent place.”

“Permanent?”

“Well, we'll need to think about that, won't we? Somewhere in the country.”

Billie broke her silence. “You push off to the country if you want. We're all right here.”

“We all headed towards London for the same reason,” Neil said. “We knew the supply position would be better—food, clothes and the rest. But it's no good in the long term.”

Billie said: “I don't see why.”

“Well, for a start we need fresh food. We're going short of vitamins. Eventually our health is bound to be affected.”

“Plenty of vitamins in the chemist shops. More than enough.”

“It's not the same as getting them naturally. We could keep chickens—have fresh eggs.”

Lucy said: “Fresh eggs!”

It was a line to pursue, Neil thought. “And milk.”

Lucy said more doubtfully: “The cows will have gone wild.”

“Shouldn't be too difficult to catch a few, and tame them again.”

“And then there's milking.”

“I managed to milk a cow I found wandering, in the early days,” Neil said. “They'll have gone out of milk, of course, but they'll come back in when they calve. We just need to find one that's in calf.”

“The whole idea's silly,” Billie said.

“I don't see why,” Neil said.

“Because it is. Stupid!”

She was suddenly voluble, pouring scorn on the suggestion, haranguing them in a grinding monotone. Neil at first attempted some mild objections, hoping to have Lucy support him. But she did not, and after a time he abandoned argument and sat in silence. When Billie at last came to a halt, it was with the authority of an undisputed victor.

• • •

The girls shared a room on the same floor, at the back of the house. Lucy made a bed up for Neil on the floor above. Billie made no comment, but her look was unfriendly.

Neil left his door open and could hear them talking. The words were unintelligible, but he could recognize the voices and realized that Billie was doing most of the talking. Putting the case for kicking him out, he guessed, but was too tired to bother much. It was good, after the months of solitude, just to listen to the murmur of voices. And even better, knowing one of them was Lucy's. He drifted into sleep, thinking about that.

10

N
EIL AWOKE TO A FEELING
of strangeness and slight apprehension, but as he took in the details of the unfamiliar room and remembered how he had come to be there, it was replaced by contentment. He stretched out in bed. He had slept well: it was quite light outside the window, and birds were making their ordinary daytime noises rather than the full-throated dawn chorus. He listened: sparrows, and a blackbird. Apart from that there was silence all round.

He sat up. Silence. . . . He thought of Billie's open hostility, and the monotonous arguing voice
after he had come to bed. He remembered Lucy's muteness in the face of her earlier hectoring. There was nothing to have stopped them moving away while he was asleep. They would not have been able to take much with them, but that scarcely mattered in a world where everything was so easily replaced. And while they would not have been able to travel far, in the course of a night, there was no shortage of hiding places. Nor would it be easy to track them down, now that they were forewarned.

With these thoughts spinning through his mind, Neil jumped out of bed and pulled clothes on. The stillness seemed more marked as he ran downstairs. He was sure they had gone; equally sure that, though he could well do without Billie, the thought of losing Lucy was unbearable.

He pushed open the door of the sitting room and found it empty. Their bedroom door was already open, and a glance showed that to be empty, too, the beds unmade and abandoned. Neil's pulse hammered as he ran downstairs. Haste was almost certainly pointless—they would have left hours ago—but he could not help himself. He pulled open the front door and saw, as expected, an empty street. He was
staring out, wondering what to do next, when his name was called.

“Neil? What
are
you up to?”

Lucy stood at the top of the stairs. She was wearing brown slacks and a cherry-red jumper: a glow of brightness. Neil went slowly back.

He said: “I thought you'd gone.”

“Gone?”

He looked at her. “Run away.”

She shook her head, smiling. “I was in the kitchen, cleaning up.”

He felt a fool. “I didn't look there.”

“I've finished, more or less. Would you like some breakfast?” She paused. “Billie's gone out.”

Neil sat on a stool and watched her prepare it. There was an appetizing smell of cooking and coffee. Her movements were quick and deft, and gave him a cosy feeling whose roots seemed to lie a long way back. She was humming as she busied herself, a McCartney tune. He said suddenly:

“It was discussed, wasn't it?”

She half-turned. “What was?”

Her smile was a little lop-sided, he noticed,
lifting the left-hand corner of her mouth a fraction more than the right.

“Leaving—while I was asleep.”

Her look was more serious. “Why do you say that?”

“It's a guess. But not all that clever a one. Billie did her best to get away when I chased her. And then was walking on past here until you called. I suppose she still hoped to ditch me somehow. I could hear her going on at you last night. Wasn't that what she was trying to talk you into?”

She turned back to the primus stove, without answering. Neil said:

“Why is she like that?”

“There's a lot of sense in it. Things
have
changed. You can't be expected to trust strangers.”

“But how can you ever come to trust anyone, if you refuse to get to know them?” Lucy did not reply to that, either. “Would you trust me, now?”

She gave a slow nod. “I think so.”

“But Billie doesn't?”

“She's more cautious than I am. She's probably right to be.”

“It's nothing to do with caution. You know that.”

She looked at him across the frying pan.

“What do you mean?”

“It's wanting to keep you to herself—jealousy of anyone else being on the scene.”

“That's silly!”

“I don't think so. She sees herself as the protector and organizer. She tells you what to do. And she doesn't want any competition.”

Lucy stared at him. Her look, for the first time, had resentment in it.

“Billie's my friend. And I don't need protecting or organizing—not by anybody.”

The comment was pointed, and Neil realized he had gone too far. He was silent for some moments, then said:

“At any rate, you didn't let her persuade you to go away. I'm glad.”

“I didn't think there was enough reason. We'd have had to find a new place. It would mean a lot of cleaning up and doing. Too much trouble.”

She spoke with indifference, real or assumed. The latter, he hoped, but could not be sure. Their
eyes met, and at least the unfriendly look had gone. She said:

“Your breakfast's ready.”

• • •

During the next few days Neil had to put up with a good deal of harassment from Billie. She was constantly and acidly critical—of things he said, his appearance, habits, practically everything he did.

He realized she was deliberately trying to make him angry and did his best to disregard it, but now and then she succeeded in getting under his skin. One such occasion was when she called him a pig, the word spat out, for failing to wipe his feet properly on the hall mat, and bringing in dirt.

“Look at that!” She pointed to a dab of leafy mud on the carpet. “Really piggish. And when Lucy's spent hours, cleaning it. It's disgusting.”

What irritated him was not so much the reproach, nor even the bitterly contemptuous tone, as the fact that Lucy was present; and though she said it didn't matter she had, in fact, shampooed the carpet that morning. Nor had she been able to restrain a momentary look of annoyance, which Billie had also
seen with evident satisfaction. The abuse was intended as a reminder of the time when there had been just the two of them, before he blundered on to the scene.

On that occasion as on others Neil managed to bite back the urge to retaliate: he simply apologised to Lucy and held his peace. While he knew where he was with Billie—quite simply she wanted him out—he was not at all sure about Lucy. What was fairly clear was that any sign of aggression towards Billie on his part, however provoked, involved the risk of banding the two girls more closely together.

It was good advice he gave himself, but not easy to follow. He was thinking about it in bed one night, wondering how long he was going to be able to keep his cool, when he heard the noise outside. It shattered the silence, a loud snarling cough that sent a shiver down his spine. A moment later it came again, louder and nearer. He got up, threw on a dressing gown, and went down to the girls' room.

They were awake and had a light on. They looked scared, but probably he did, too. Lucy said:

“It woke you as well? What was it?”

“I don't know.” He hesitated. “It might. . . .”

“What?”

“I was thinking about the Zoo animals. I imagine most of them died of hunger when there was no-one to feed them. But the odd one may have escaped.”

The coughing roar came again; it sounded as though it was directly beneath the window.

“What sort of animal?” Lucy asked.

“A big cat, probably. Leopard, maybe.” He managed a smile. “I'm not very well up on animal noises.”

“It can't get in here,” Billie said, “whatever it is.”

“No.”

For once there was no feeling of hostility. They sat in uneasy silence, listening. Minutes passed and nothing happened. Neil was thinking they might as well go back to bed when there was another sound in the distance, this time a howl of pain. It was repeated a couple of times; then there was quiet again. Lucy looked at him, in query.

“Making its kill,” Neil said.

“Of what?”

Billie answered. “A dog,” she said flatly.

Neil nodded. “It can't hurt us. Go back to sleep,” he said.

In the morning Neil investigated. He did not
have to look far. The carcass, or what was left of it, lay at the corner of the street. Most had been eaten; only the hindquarters remained. It had been a dog, all right, but not the small terrier he had imagined. The hindquarters were of something big and hairy—a sheepdog possibly.

Suppressing nausea, Neil dragged the remains into a nearby garden and left them out of sight behind a bush. Scavengers, the rats in particular, would soon dispose of them. He kept a wary eye open on the way back to the house. Anything capable of killing a dog of that size was as likely to attack a human being. Presumably it was not hungry at the moment, but the thought did not completely reassure him.

After washing he gave the girls a brief account. He did not mention how big the dog had been, but he did say:

“I think we ought to have some sort of protection, a weapon, in case it comes back.”

Billie automatically began pouring scorn on the idea: there was no reason to think it would come back—they had never heard it before—and it hunted by night, and they were safe in the house, anyway.

Neil ignored her, and spoke to Lucy:

“There was a revolver, and bullets, in the place where I lived. I didn't have any use for them then, so I left them there. But I think it might not be a bad idea to go over and pick them up.”

Billie said, with contempt: “It really did scare you!”

He was looking at Lucy. She nodded slightly.

“Yes. I think that's a good idea.”

It was the first time she had come out positively on his side. Billie was silenced. He said:

“I'll go over there right away.”

• • •

Neil found the revolver in the drawer where he had left it. There were three boxes of bullets, two sealed, one opened but nearly full. He filled the barrel and stowed the rest away. More than enough for the present; and if he did need more it should not be difficult to find a gunsmith. The Yellow Pages would help him to locate one.

If he did, it occurred to him, he could also pick up other weapons. A shot-gun would be useful for killing game, if they went out into the country. He had a sudden feeling of optimism about that. If Lucy had sided with him against Billie once, she might do again.

He came out on to the landing with the gun in his hand. Portrait oil paintings lined the hall below and ascended the wall of the broad oak staircase. There was a large window at the top, but the day was grey outside and the faces looked shadowy and unreal. They had been very important people, no doubt, in those days when things like class and rank and wealth had meaning.

One of the nearer ones, he thought, resembled Billie slightly—a woman with a pointed face and staring eyes. He realized he had not yet tried firing the gun. He raised it at arm's length and drew a bead on the glimmering forehead. The crash, and the jerk of the weapon forcing his hand up, startled him. He could not see whether he had hit the picture, and did not stay to look. His ears were deafened, and he felt a bit ashamed of himself as he put the gun in his pocket.

He went through to his own old quarters, where there were things he wanted to collect: his cassette player, which was better than the one the girls had, and various items of food to add to the communal stock, including Swiss chocolates he thought Lucy might like. He filled the rucksack with what he needed.

It was strange being back. He remembered
The Wind in the Willows,
and Mole's wretchedness when he took Ratty back to his abandoned house. This place had never really been a home to him, but seeing it again produced a sense of dreariness and depression.

There seemed to be dust everywhere. There probably always had been: he was viewing it through eyes that had become re-accustomed to feminine standards of cleanliness. The large spider's web occupying one corner, on the other hand, was definitely new. But it was not those things, nor the cold grey ashes in the hearth, which made him marvel at the thought that he had once lived here, and believed himself reasonably content. It was the silence, the crushing awareness of solitude, which did that. He felt a compulsion to break the stillness—to say something, anything. He found himself calling Lucy's name.

His voice sounded like that of a stranger; and the silence which settled back seemed even heavier, more pervading. In it, the thought that suddenly came to him seemed to ring like a cracked discordant bell. How long had he been away from the girls—two hours, three? The first time, anyway, for more than
a few minutes since he had joined them. Would they be there when he returned?

Night after night he had heard them talking, their voices low and indistinguishable. He had not discussed it with Lucy again, but there was every chance that Billie had been plugging the same theme—arguing the case for their giving him the slip and going away together. And was it unreasonable that in the end she should have prevailed? He had no clear idea of what Lucy felt about him; but when he criticized Billie to her, she had been quick to resent it, telling him Billie was her friend. A dominant friend: it was Billie who had organized concealment, Billie who had decided they should make no response to the bell-ringing.

The very thing about which he had been so pleased—Lucy's agreeing with him about getting the revolver—could have been a calculated deceit: the means by which they could secure his absence from the house long enough to give them a good start; and in daylight. They could be miles away by now, lost beyond hope of rediscovery.

Abandoning the rucksack, Neil raced out of the
house. The car stood outside, where he had left it over a week before. He flung himself into the driver's seat and turned the key. The starter whirred, but nothing happened; and the same at the second attempt. He remembered that petrol had been low—that he had been meaning to get more but had left it while he made his search on foot through Chelsea.

A bicycle he had occasionally used was propped in the hall. One of the tyres was flat; he found his fingers all thumbs as he fitted the pump to the valve. It seemed ages before the tyre was inflated, and he could get on the bicycle and pedal away.