The World House (19 page)

  "Very strange, though it doesn't explain the deathwish you seem to have developed."

  "It's a fascination with lost people, I guess. I read about the box in a magazine. One of those grocerystore conspiracy tabloids, Bigfoot, crop circles, UFOs, you know the kind of thing… There was just something about the box story though, it grabbed the imagination. It was about a man, a Victorian explorer, named Roger Carruthers…"

  "That's got to be a made-up name!"

  "No, he definitely existed. He didn't put his name to anything ground-breaking but he was a compulsive essayist. Up until his last expedition at least; that was the subject of the article. History reports that Carruthers died in Tibet. He was one of the first Englishmen to visit the country after Francis Younghusband did his bit for the Empire by storming in there and forcing the acceptance of British occupation under gunpoint."

  "The English have never been refined in their politics."

  "Nobody building an Empire ever is. According to the report filed by the British Museum, Carruthers was simply there on an exploratory mission. This article reproduced a letter, allegedly from one of his colleagues on the expedition, stating that Carruthers had been searching for a specific artifact."

  "Let me guess, a box?"

   "Got it in one. The letter went on to claim that Carruthers found the box but, when he attempted to claim it in the name of the King, the Tibetan soldiers opened fire on his party. It was during this firefight that Carruthers vanished. So… a good story but as crazysounding as the rest of the stuff in the magazine."

  "Though now we can guess that it's probably true."

  "Oh every word, I have no doubt. Having been intrigued by it I tried to see if I could find any more evidence. I'm a history professor," he said as if it was an embarrassing admission, "so I have access to a lot of research material…"

  "A man who has no history of his own becoming an expert in the subject… Freud would have a field day with you."

  Alan smiled, "I'm an open book. Anyway, the box, however, was everywhere. Missing people reports, auction lists, even a dossier claiming Hitler's interest during the Second World War."

  "None of which explains why you wanted to find the box and then use it."

  "How else could I solve the mystery? To prove it utterly I had to use it. It's more than I can bear sometimes to have one mystery in my life I really couldn't tolerate two."

  "How like a man. Is it so unbearable to have mysteries?"

  Alan couldn't answer that.

 

The boar was butchered and roasted, chunks of it stirred into a large stew of roots and tubers harvested from the jungle. Alan couldn't in good conscience refuse the meal, despite the way that boar's swinging tongue sprang to mind with every chewy mouthful. Sophie had no such compunction; she simply sat down and stared at the flames, disinclined to interact with the group. Alan was almost envious of her at times, as he was introduced to one broken person after another, Helene (Lyons, 1964, housebound two years) sobbing over her children, lost to her for ever; Gregor (Massachusetts, 1992, housebound one year) and the wife he left at the altar, jilted not by a loss of affection but geographical circumstance; Pedro (Barcelona, 1936, housebound three years) and the family that may never have survived the war… One by one they came to the new man, eager to tell their stories to a pair of fresh ears.

  "They are all so lost," said Stefania once they had been left in peace. "We are inextricable from our surroundings – pulling us from them is like uprooting a flower, we cannot thrive."

  "And you?"

  "Oh, I go hungry and my bones ache but I left nothing behind of any consequence. It's easier for me. I view my situation as one to be endured as simply as possible. I am stuck here but while some dream of going home, I simply live by the best and most comfortable means available."

  "Is that why they all look up to you?"

  Stefania smiled. "People are drawn to the fearless. They think we know better than they do."

  "And what do
you
think?"

  "I think that I am willing to do what is best for the community and that will always mean they need me. I make decisions others do not want to make. I take responsibility and I live with the consequences." She looked at Sophie. "She was lost before she ever came here, I think."

  "She's all right, just a bit different. She helped me when I needed it and that's all the proof I need of someone's worth."

  "Worth? Yes, that is the question isn't it? What are people worth?"

  "I don't tend to think in such terms." The conversation was becoming uncomfortable; a strange mood had settled over Stefania, and Alan was becoming uncertain what he should say. "It was just a figure of speech."

  "But it is the key to survival. Worth – and nature's assessment of it – is what keeps a species strong."

  "Perhaps, in a general sense…"

  "No!" Stefania sat forward in her chair. "In a very real sense. Look at Toby…" Still high on his success as a hunter, Whitstable was telling all who would listen how he had stalked the boar through the undergrowth. "Yesterday he was a joke," Stefania continued, "stuck behind his ridiculous glasses, and his silly accent, his talk of financial indices and the money he made in 'the City'. What use was he? He was nothing but an extra mouth, one portion less for everyone else, a drain, a waste."

  "Well, he proved himself today, didn't he?"

  "Oh, yes, when he had to, when his future was at stake."

  Alan was starting to grow concerned at the direction this conversation was taking. "His future?"

  "I told him we needed to eat. Either he brought us something for our pot or he went in it himself."

  Alan's mouth grew dry. "But you didn't mean it–"

  "Of course I did. Like I said, I make the decisions others are not willing to make."

  "But you wouldn't have actually…"

  "Lionel Tailor, New York, 1948, two years, I dashed his brains out myself while the others held him down. He was the first. Stephanie Kray, London, 1989, six months… Dear fat Stephanie was not cut out for the wild life. We ate well for three days. As for sweet, pregnant Louise–"

  Alan jumped to his feet, knocking over his stool. Stefania stared at him calmly. "Sit down, you foolish man, scared of mysteries and big decisions. If you try and run you will fill our stomachs tomorrow. As it is I have a better suggestion: tomorrow you hunt. If you find us meat, if you contribute to our society, then all will be well and we can put this conversation behind us."

  "And if not you'll eat me?"

  Stefania laughed. "Dear Lord, no. Though I grant there's a few dinners on you, we'll eat the retard. It's about all she's good for."

  Alan lunged to attack but he felt hands on his shoulders before he had got within a foot of her.

  "See?" said Stefania, "fear for your safety makes you willing to harm another. Would you kill me if you thought it might let you or the girl survive?" She smiled. "I think you would. We are no different."

 

Sophie sits and watches the flames. She does not like it here in the cave so this is the best place to be. While watching the flames she can forget that she does not like it here and then nobody will get cross. She does not want Alan to get cross. She likes Alan. He knows facts. Facts are good. The people here are not like Alan. The people here are Wrong. They wear Wrong Clothes. They eat Wrong Food (and they ask her to eat it too but she will not, it is not spaghetti and she knows better). Some of the people here look at her in a way she does not like. They look at her in a way that you do not look at other people. Not the look that people use when they do not understand her. Not the look people use when they are scared of her. Not the look people use when she is making them feel uncomfortable by being with them (she thinks this is because people think she is Wrong, and, like her, they do not like Wrong Things). These people look at her in a way she does not quite understand. They look at her in the same way her father looked at a whisky bottle after her mother died. But this does not make sense. Sophie is not a bottle of whisky. Sophie has heard that sometimes people can be drunk but she does not think it is true as she has never seen it. People are too thick to drink, they're just not squishy enough. Sophie hopes she will not find out she is wrong when these people drink her later.

  For a minute Sophie thinks the people are going to try and drink Alan. Then she thinks that maybe they just want to help him empty himself, help him become quiet. He is very angry about something, he is shouting a lot. They're not helping when they grab him. Alan is like Sophie, he doesn't like people touching him like that, it makes him shout even more. Sometimes he shouts about her but this makes her worry that he is angry with her so she turns away and looks at the flames for a while. She doesn't want to think that Alan could get so angry with her. When she looks back the strange people have stopped touching him. They have tied him up and sat him far away from the fire. He seems calm now. This is good. She wonders whether she should go and see him but the old woman is talking to her and now she is worried as she hasn't heard what the woman was saying. The old woman looks very serious so Sophie nods. Old people like it when you agree with them, it is the main thing that makes them feel the world is right.

  "You have no idea, do you?" the old woman says. Sophie shakes her head. The old woman smiles. Sophie knows how to please old people, it is easy.

  Sophie walks over to see Alan. Now he is calm she likes him better.

  "Hello, Alan," she says, thinking this will help make him even happier. Grownups like it when you speak to them. Usually Sophie is too busy thinking about other things to remember this. But she remembers it now.

  "Sophie, honey," he says, "listen to me, this is really important, we're in trouble and you need to…" but Sophie forgets to listen because she is wondering why Alan keeps calling her honey. Honey is something her mother used to have on toast. Sophie does not have honey on toast. Sophie likes her toast medium, brown, plain — no butter or jam or marmalade or Marmite or honey or anything,
plain
. But her mother eats honey. This is because everyone likes things different. Sophie doesn't like that but she accepts it. But why does Alan call her honey? It is very strange. Sophie realises she has been forgetting to listen because Alan looks very very very sad. It's all right though. Sophie knows how to make grownups feel better when she hasn't been listening. Sophie smiles.

 

Alan gave up trying to fight against the ropes; he wasn't strong enough and all he was succeeding in doing was cutting deep grooves into his wrists. One by one the people in the cave were falling asleep. Alan tried not to hate them all, tried to convince himself that they were just people driven to inexcusable actions by their experiences. He didn't manage; he wished them the very worst. He looked around the chamber, trying to think of a way out of the situation. He was still thinking when, exhausted, he fell asleep.

 

Whitstable woke him. "I've said I'll help you," said the financier, throwing a sturdy club at Alan's feet.

  "Keep an eye on me, you mean?"

  "That too."

  "Let me guess – if you let me get away she'll have you on the menu tonight as well."

  "She wouldn't do that to me," Whitstable scoffed, "I've proven myself…"

  "…of worth, yes, I know. Well, not in my eyes. Untie me and let's have this done."

  Whitstable gave him a cautious glance and began to work the ropes loose. "Don't even think of trying to fight," he said, holding up his sharpened stake. "I'm not afraid to stick you with this."

  "I don't doubt it," Alan replied, standing up and stretching his aching legs. "Can I warm myself?" he asked, nodding towards the bonfire. "My circulation's not what it once was and being tied up all night hasn't done me any favours."

  "Help yourself," said Whitstable.

  Alan picked up the club and made to walk over to the fire but his legs buckled, pins and needles working through them like a colony of ants.

  "This is stupid," said Whitstable, grabbing hold of Alan and keeping him on his feet, "there's no way you're going to be able to hunt."

  "I know," Alan admitted, "that's the problem. It's not a fair fight, is it?"

  "Life isn't fair," said Whitstable, "it's kill or be killed, survival of the fittest."

  "It shouldn't be," Alan replied. "I wish it wasn't." He looked over at Sophie, who was still watching the fire. "Sophie?" he said, "three is good, isn't it?"

  She turned to look at him, her attention grabbed by his words. "Three is good." She walked over to them. "Three is the times it takes to really know something."

  Alan nodded. "Look over there," he said to her, pointing towards the door, "this is something not worth knowing."

  Sophie turned to look and, reassured she wouldn't have to watch, Alan grabbed hold of Whitstable's shoulder and pushed him into the fire.

  Whitstable's screams echoed around the cave as Alan shoved his club into the flames until it caught. "Everyone keep back!" he shouted, thrusting the flaming club above his head as the panicked savages began to circle him. Alan grabbed at Sophie. "Three is good," he whispered in her ear, "remember that. I know you don't like me holding you but I need to right now, it's important." He hummed in her ear and she relaxed slightly.

  Whitstable rolled clear of the fire, still screeching, and ran into the gathered crowd. Someone threw a blanket over him and pushed him down into the dirt.

  "What are you doing?" asked Stefania, calmly waving a few braver souls back as they inched towards Alan. "Let him have his moment," she said, "it won't last long."