The Great Pursuit (31 page)

'Looks like your kind of town,' said Baby and turned the car on to the side road. Presently
the dark water forest thinned and they came out into an open landscape with lush meadows hazy
with heat where cattle grazed in long grass and clumps of trees stood apart. There was something
almost English about this scenery, an English parkland gone to seed, luxuriant yet immanent with
half-remembered possibilities. Everywhere the distance faded into haze blurring the horizon.
Piper, looking across the meadows, felt easier in his mind. There was a sense of domesticity here
that was reassuring. Occasionally they passed a wooden shack part-hidden by vegetation and
seemingly unoccupied. And finally there was Bibliopolis itself, a small town, almost a hamlet,
with a river running sluggishly beside an abandoned quay. Baby drove down to the riverside and
stopped. There was no bridge. On the far side an ancient rope ferry provided the only means of
crossing.

'Okay, go ring the bell,' said Baby. Piper got out and rang a bell that hung from a post.

'Harder,' said Baby as Piper pulled on the rope. Presently a man appeared on the far shore and
the ferry began to move across.

'You wanting something?' said the man when the ferry grounded.

'We're looking for somewhere to stay,' said Baby. The man peered at the licence plate on the
Ford and seemed reassured. It read Georgia.

'There ain't no motel in Bibliopolis,' said the man. 'You'd best go back to Selma.'

'There must be somewhere,' said Baby as the man still hesitated.

'Mrs Mathervitie's Tourist Home,' said the man and stepped aside. Baby drove on to the ferry
and got out.

'Is this the Alabama river?' she asked. The man shook his head.

'The Ptomaine River, ma'am,' he said and pulled on the rope.

'And that?' asked Baby, pointing to a large dilapidated mansion that was evidently
ante-bellum.

That's Pellagra. Nobody lives there now. They all died off.'

Piper sat in the car and stared gloomily at the sluggish river. The trees along its bank were
veiled with Spanish moss like widows' weeds and the dilapidated mansion below the town put him in
mind of Miss Haversham. But Baby, when she got back into the car and drove off the ferry, was
clearly elated by the atmosphere.

'I told you this was where it's at,' she said triumphantly. 'And now for Mrs Mathervitie's
Tourist Home.'

They drove down a tree-lined street and stopped outside a house. A signboard said Welcome. Mrs
Mathervitie was less effusive. Sitting in the shadow of a porch she watched them get out of the
car.

'You folks looking for some place?' she asked, her glasses glinting in the sunset.

'Mrs Mathervitie's Tourist Home,' said Baby.

'Selling or staying? Cos if it's cosmetics I ain't in the market.'

'Staying,' said Baby.

Mrs Mathervitie studied them critically with the air of a connoisseur of irregular
relationships.

'I only got singles,' she said and spat into the hub of a sun flower, 'no doubles.'

'Praise be the Lord,' said Baby involuntarily.

'Amen,' said Mrs Mathervitie.

They went into the house and down a passage.

'This is yourn,' said Mrs Mathervitie to Piper and opened a door. The room looked out on to a
patch of corn. On the wall there was an oleograph of Christ scourging the moneylenders from the
temple and a cardboard sign that decreed NO BROWNBAGGING. Piper looked at it dubiously. It seemed
a thoroughly unnecessary injunction.

'Well?' said Mrs Mathervitie.

'Very nice,' said Piper who had spotted a row of books on a shelf. He looked at them and found
they were all Bibles. 'Good Lord,' he muttered.

'Amen,' said Mrs Mathervitie and went off with Baby down the passage leaving Piper to consider
the sinister implications of NO BROWNBAGGING. By the time they returned he was no nearer a
solution to the riddle.

'The Reverend and I are happy to accept your hospitality,' said Baby. 'Aren't we,
Reverend?'

'What?' said Piper. Mrs Mathervitie was looking at him with new interest.

'I was just telling Mrs Mathervitie how interested you are in American religion,' said Baby.
Piper swallowed and tried to think what to say.

'Yes,' seemed the safest.

There was an extremely awkward silence broken finally by Mrs Mathervitie's business sense.

'Ten dollars a day. Seven with prayers. Providence is extra.'

'Yes, well I suppose it would be,' said Piper.

'Meaning?' said Mrs Mathervitie.

'That the good Lord will provide,' interjected Baby before Piper's slight hysteria could
manifest itself again.

'Amen,' said Mrs Mathervitie. 'Well which is it to be? With prayers or without?'

'With,' said Baby.

'Fourteen dollars,' said Mrs Mathervitie, 'in advance.'

'Pay now and pray later?' said Piper hopefully.

Mrs Mathervitie's eyes gleamed coldly. 'For a preacher...' she began but Baby intervened.

'The Reverend means we should pray without ceasing.'

'Amen,' said Mrs Mathervitie and knelt on the linoleum.'

Baby followed her example. Piper looked down at them in astonishment.

'Dear God,' he muttered.

'Amen,' said Mrs Mathervitie and Baby in unison. 'Say the good words, Reverend,' said
Baby.

'For Christ's sake,' said Piper fighting for inspiration. He didn't know any prayers and as
for good words...On the floor Mrs Mathervitie twitched dangerously. Piper found the good words.
They came from The Moral Novel.

'It is our duty not to enjoy but to appreciate,' he intoned, 'not to be entertained but to be
edified, not to read that we may escape the responsibilities of life but that, through reading,
we may more properly understand what it is that we are and do and that born anew in the vicarious
experience of others we may extend our awareness and our sensibilities and so enriched by how we
read we may be better human beings.'

'Amen,' said Mrs Mathervitie fervently. 'Amen,' said Baby.

'Amen,' said Piper and sat down on the bed. Mrs Mathervitie got to her feet.

'I thank you for those good words, Reverend,' she said and left the room.

'What the hell was all that about?' said Piper when her footsteps had faded. Baby stood up and
raised a finger to her lips. 'No cussing. No brownbagging.'

'And that's another thing...' Piper began but Mrs Mathervitie's footsteps came down the
passage again.

'Conventicle's at eight,' she said poking her head round the door. 'Doesn't do to be
late.'

Piper regarded her biliously. 'Conventicle?'

'Conventicle of the Seventh Day Church of The Servants of God,' said Mrs Mathervitie. 'You
said you wanted prayers.'

'The Reverend and I will be right with you,' said Baby. Mrs Mathervitie removed her head. Baby
took Piper's arm and pushed him towards the door.

'Good God, you've really landed us '

'Amen,' said Baby as they went out into the passage. Mrs Mathervitie was waiting on the
porch.

'The Church is in the town square,' she said as they climbed into the Ford and presently they
were driving down the darkened street where the Spanish moss looked even more sinister to Piper.
By the time they stopped outside a small wooden church in the square he was in a state of
panic.

'They won't want me to pray again, will they?' he whispered to Baby as they climbed the steps
to the church. From inside there came the sound of a hymn.

'We're late,' said Mrs Mathervitie and hurried them down the aisle. The church was crowded but
a row of seats at the very front was empty. A moment later Piper found himself clutching a
hymn-book and singing an extraordinary hymn called 'Telephoning To Glory'.

When the hymn ended there was a scuffling of feet and the congregation knelt and the preacher
launched into prayer. 'Oh Lord we is all sinners,' he declared.

'Oh Lord we is all sinners,' bawled Mrs Mathervitie and the rest of the congregation.

'Oh Lord we is all sinners waiting to be saved,' continued the preacher.

'Waiting to be saved. Waiting to be saved.'

'From the fires of hell and the snares of Satan.'

'From the fires of hell and the snares of Satan.'

Beside Piper Mrs Mathervitie had begun to quiver. 'Hallelujah,' she cried.

When the prayer ended a large black woman who was standing beside the piano began 'Washed In
The Blood Of The Lamb' and from there it was but a short step to 'Jericho' and finally a hymn
which went 'Servants of The Lord we Pledge our Faith in Thee' with a chorus of 'Faith, Faith,
Faith in The Lord, Faith in Jesus is Mightier than the Sword'. Much to his own amazement Piper
sang as loudly as anyone and the enthusiasm began to get to him. By this time Mrs Mathervitie was
stomping her foot while several other women were clapping their hands. They sang the hymn twice
and then went straight into another about Eve and The Apple. As the reverberations died away the
preacher raised his hands.

'Brothers and sisters...' he began, only to be interrupted.

'Bring on the serpents,' shouted someone at the back.

The preacher lowered his hands. 'Serpents night's Saturday,' he said. 'You know that.'

But the cry 'Bring on the serpents,' was taken up and the large black lady struck up 'Faith in
The Lord and the Snakes won't Bite, Them's has Faith is Saved all Right.'

'Snakes?' said Piper to Mrs Mathervitie, 'I thought you said this was Servants of The
Lord.'

'Snakes is Saturday,' said Mrs Mathervitie looking decidedly alarmed herself. 'I only come
Thursdays. I don't hold with serpentizing.'

'Serpentizing?' said Piper suddenly alive to what was about to happen, 'Jesus Wept.' Beside
him Baby was already weeping but Piper was too concerned for his own safety to bother about her.
A sack was brought down the aisle by a tall gaunt man. It was a large sack, a large sack which
writhed. So did Piper. A moment later he had shot out of his seat and was heading for the door
only to find his way blocked by a number of other people who evidently shared his lack of
enthusiasm for being confined in a small church with a sackful of poisonous snakes. A hand shoved
him aside and Piper fell back into his seat again. 'Let's get the hell out of here,' he shouted
to Baby but she was looking with rapt attention at the pianist, a small thin man who was thumping
away on the keys with a fervour that was possibly due to what looked like a small boa constrictor
which had twined itself round his neck. Behind the piano the large black lady was using two
rattlesnakes as maracas and singing 'Bibliopolis we Hold Thee Dear, Snakes Infest us we don't
Fear' which certainly didn't apply to Piper. He was about to make another dash for the door when
something slithered across his feet. It was Mrs Mathervitie. Piper sat petrified and moaned.
Beside him Baby was moaning too. There was a strange seraphic look on her face. At that moment
the man with the sack lifted from it a snake with red and yellow bands across its body.

'The Coral,' someone hissed. The strains of 'Bibliopolis we Hold Thee Dear' faded abruptly. In
the silence that followed Baby got to her feet and moved hypnotically forward. By the dim light
of the candles she looked majestic and beautiful. She took the snake from the man and held it
aloft and her arm became a caduceus, the symbol of medicine. Then, turning to face the
congregation, she tore her blouse to the waist and exposed two voluptuously pointed breasts.
There was another gasp of horror. Naked breasts were out in Bibliopolis. On the other hand the
coral snake was in. As Baby lowered her arm the outraged snake sank its fangs into six inches of
plastic silicon. For ten seconds it writhed there before Baby detached it and offered it the
other breast. But the coral had had enough. So had Piper. With a groan he joined Mrs Mathervitie
on the floor. Baby, triumphantly topless, tossed the coral into the sack and turned to the
pianist.

'Launch into the deep, brother,' she cried.

And once again the little church reverberated to the strains of 'Bibliopolis we hold Thee
Dear, Snakes Infest us we don't Fear'.

In his Hampstead flat Frensic lay in his morning bath and twiddled the hot tap with his big
toe to maintain an even temperature. A good night's sleep had helped to undo the ravages of
Cynthia Bogden's passion and he was in no hurry to go to the office. He had things to think
about. It was all very well congratulating himself for his subtlety in unearthing the genuine
author of Pause and forcing her to renounce all rights in the book but there were still problems
to be faced. The first of these concerned the continuing existence of Piper and his inordinate
claim to be paid for a novel he hadn't written. On the face of it this seemed a minor problem.
Frensic could now go ahead and deposit the two million dollars less his own and Corkadales'
commissions in Account Number 478776 in the First National Bank of New York. This seemed at first
sight the sensible thing to do. Pay Piper and be rid of the rogue. On the other hand it was
succumbing to blackmail and blackmailers tended to renew their demands. Give in once and he would
have to give in again and again and in any case transferring the money to New York would
necessitate explaining to Sonia that Piper wasn't dead. One whiff of that and she'd be off after
him like a scalded cat. Perhaps he might be able to fudge the issue and tell her that Mr
Cadwalladine's client had given instructions for the royalties to be paid in this way.

But beyond all these technical problems there lay the suspicion that Piper hadn't come up with
this conspiracy to defraud on his own initiative. Ten years of the recurrent Search for a Lost
Childhood was proof enough that Piper lacked any imagination at all and whoever had dreamt this
devious plot up had a remarkably powerful imagination. Frensic's suspicions centred on Mrs Baby
Hutchmeyer. If Piper, who was supposed to have died with her, was still alive there was every
reason to believe that Baby Hutchmeyer had survived with him. Frensic tried to analyse the
psychology of Hutchmeyer's wife. To have endured forty years of marriage to that monster argued
either masochism or resilience beyond the ordinary. And then to burn an enormous house to the
ground, blow up a cruiser and sink a yacht, all of them belonging to her husband and all in a
matter of twenty minutes...Clearly the woman was insane and couldn't be relied upon. At any
moment she might resurrect herself and drag from his temporary grave the wretched Piper. What
would follow this momentous event blew Frensic's mind. Hutchmeyer would go litigiously berserk
and sue everyone in sight. Piper would be dragged through the courts and the entire story of his
substitution for the real author would be announced to the world. Frensic got out of the bath and
dried himself to ward off the spectre of Piper in the witness box.