Cloud Walker, All Fools' Day, Far Sunset (43 page)

‘ “Greville, my friend,” said Francis, nearly falling over himself in his eagerness to get out of the car, “you are almost a civilised transnormal. One should not allow an educated mind to starve. It’s the worst kind of vandalism.”

‘ “Three minutes,” I said. “You talk too much.”

‘Beaming all over his face, Francis ran across the square like a child of another age heading for the school tuck-shop.

‘Liz and I sat side by side, each with a shotgun ready to poke out of either window. There’s a special art in shooting from a car. By then, even Liz was getting good at it. But there was nothing to shoot at. Night was coming down, the world was quiet and, for all we could tell, we were the only people in the vicinity.

‘I was glad of the fading light. The car seemed horribly exposed, standing in the middle of the square. But that was the best place to be. Anyone who wanted to investigate would have to cover about forty yards of open ground: anyone who wanted to shoot from the cover of the nearest building could barely see his target.

‘Liz shivered. “We’re not alone,” she said.

‘ “How do you know?”

‘ “I can feel it.”

‘ “Does your extra-sensory perception extend to knowing where the opposition is?”

‘ “No.”

‘ “Then concentrate on it.”

‘Francis had taken a small rechargeable electric torch with him. We could see the dancing glow it cast on the inside walls of the library. Many of the windows were broken. I had a feeling he would be a bit disappointed. Rats would have disposed of most of the books.

‘It seemed a long time, but it was probably only two or three minutes,
before he returned, staggering, with a pile of books. He dumped them in the back of the station wagon, piling them untidily on the rest of our treasures.

‘ “There’s not much left,” he said, puffing from his exertions. “The
Britannica
seems to be reasonably untouched, though. Another couple of trips and I’ll have the rest of the volumes.”

‘ “What the devil do you want an encyclopaedia for?” I asked irritably.

‘ “What the devil do you want to go on living for?” retorted Francis.

‘ “You’d better be quick, then. Liz seems to think we are not alone.”

‘ “Good,” said Francis equably. “Loneliness is not conducive to happiness.” He trotted back to the library.

‘The second trip did not take so long.

‘ “I heard noises,” he said unconcernedly, as he dumped his load of books. He chuckled. “Maybe it’s a late borrower in the fiction department.”

‘ “Get in. We’re pulling out.”

‘ “Not until I have the rest of
Britannica.’’
And off he went again.

‘The minutes passed. He was a long time coming back. I was just about to go and haul him out when I saw his unmistakable, book-laden bulk in the semidarkness.

‘He pushed the books among the rest of our loot. “Guess what!” he said excitedly. “I’ve found a boy dressed in skins.”

‘ “That’s nice,” I said. “Now get in. We’ve been here far too long.”

‘ “No,” said Francis. “I’ve just remembered. I need a good dictionary … The boy’s starving. Do you think –”

‘ “No, I don’t bloody well think. Now get in the car before I shoot you.”

‘Francis laughed. “Never make a threat you don’t propose to carry out. Just one more minute. I know exactly where the dictionary is … About the boy. Perhaps we might just –”

‘ “We might just nothing!” I snapped angrily and pointed the shotgun at him. “Now get in before I blow you to glory.”

‘Francis sighed. “Sorry to be a nuisance. I’ll just get the dictionary.” And off he went.

‘I felt like shooting him. I felt like beating his silly brains out with a gun butt. I did nothing but sit and wait and fume.

‘Liz attempted to soothe me in an odd sort of way. “What does it matter? What does anything matter? Don’t get worked up about him, love. He’s got to have something to take to bed at nights.” She giggled. “Even if it is only a dictionary.”

‘And suddenly I felt sorry for anyone and everyone who did not have his Liz.

‘Presently Francis emerged from the library. He was carrying more than the dictionary. There was an indistinct but vaguely human shape in his arms. He staggered a little, and I would have got out to help him – except that I was feeling too damned angry again. Hell, I’d saved the man’s life, and he didn’t
give a damn about what I thought or felt or wanted. I let him struggle across the square with his armful of skin and bones. I couldn’t see the child very well, and I was thinking that pretty soon I might just as well turn my little cottage into a combined vagrancy hostel and orphanage.

‘Francis had almost reached the car when somebody – by luck or good management – did an excellent bit of shooting.

‘At the same time, Liz thought she saw a movement on the far side of the square and banged away with her shotgun. So did I. Both barrels. Somebody screamed.

‘Then I turned to look at Francis. He had dropped to his knees, still clutching his sad little bundle of humanity. He looked as if he was staying upright by sheer will-power. I jumped out of the car and ran to him. Liz was still shooting.

‘Francis had a boy of perhaps nine or ten in his arms. The dictionary had fallen to the ground.

‘ “Sorry, dear lad,” said Francis.
“Deus ex machina
. Very fitting … The boy’s all right?”

‘ “The boy’s fine,” I assured him, and took the little heap out of his arms.

‘ “I’ve had it,” said Francis. “Keep our Neanderthal friend as a souvenir … The poor child couldn’t move … I found him with a home-made bow and two arrows, if you please.” He sank down on his haunches and grinned. “He was trying to read
Grimm’s Fairy Tales
by candlelight.”

‘ “I’ll get you back to the car,” I said.

‘ “No good … Take the boy … And, Greville –”

‘ “Yes?”

‘ “Love somebody … Build something.” Francis made a low and terrible kind of growling noise. Then he flopped back in an untidy heap.

‘I looked at the child I was holding. The bullet had passed right through Francis and struck him in the back of the head.

‘He could have been about ten, I suppose. He was wearing a single garment made of cat skins, and he looked as if he’d been starving for months. Probably he wouldn’t have lived long anyway.

‘I looked at Francis, then I looked at the child once more. Oddly, the child’s face seemed much older. It looked as if it had already endured all the miseries of man.

‘Francis was dead and the child was dead, and Liz was banging away with her shotgun as if it was the glorious twelfth.

‘ “The boy’s fine,” I babbled, as I laid him down by the side of Francis. “He’d like to stay with you a while, just to keep you company.”

‘Then I came to my senses, and dashed back to the car. And I started the engine and got the hell out of it quick. Liz never saw what she was shooting at. Maybe they never saw what they were shooting at, either.’

The frosts came, bringing with them the sharp and antiseptic flavour of winter. The landscape died in hoary splendour. Leaves drifted into bleak, undisturbed mountains, dead wood fell, and the November world hung grey with loneliness.

In an odd way the death of Francis sobered Greville and Liz. It frightened them more than the destruction of Ambergreave had done, more than any of the bizarre or pointless killings they had witnessed – or brought about – since they came together. It frightened them because Francis had come to belong to them, because, having accepted him in their intimate world, they had unconsciously bestowed upon him their own unconscious assumptions of immortality.

True, they lived in the shadow of violence and had some experience of the art of murder; true also that they were conscious – Greville particularly so – that each day of continued existence was a welcome and possibly unmerited bonus. But none of this really compelled them to accept the fact of their own mortality.

The death of Francis did. For, in the short time that they had known him, Francis had become a part of them; and a part of them had died.

It was impossible now to retire to their little cottage on the island and shut out the world. It was impossible because the world entered in the form of a ghost. Invisibly, Francis listened to their music. Silently, he took issue with Greville’s more dogmatic statements. And there was even mute laughter when Liz uttered one of her habitual
non sequiturs
. Greville would not have believed it possible that one who was dead could be so insistently and negatively alive.

The gaiety was gone, the fantasy could no longer be maintained. Even in the act of love there was only desolation. Skeletons seemed to be rattling inside the passionate flesh: intimations of oblivion defied Beethoven, alcohol, food and orgasm.

Greville could not understand why an old man whom they had only known briefly should affect them so much. He could not understand why an invisible sentinel should bar all the familiar avenues of escape.

‘Love somebody,’ Francis had exhorted, dying. ‘Build something.’

Well, there was someone to love – though love itself was a most painful luxury. But what was there to build? What could you create in a world that
was dying, that was surrendering all its illusions of greatness to the primal law?

You could build nothing but a pyramid of memories – the glory that was supermarkets, the grandeur that was launderettes. Physically and emptily potent, Greville became despondent with awareness of his spiritual impotence. And the despondence was infectious.

The nightmares that had plagued Liz returned with greater intensity. Jane was another ghost, inhabiting the colourful drowned world of darkness. Jane was Liz, and Liz was Jane; and together they endured the twilight terrors of being alone in a nocturnal madhouse where lust and cruelty were the only signs of human companionship.

One morning Liz could stand it no longer. She gave Greville his breakfast then pointed a loaded pistol at him.

‘I’m going away,’ she said calmly. ‘You can come with me, but you can’t stop me. If you think you’ll humour me by conning and then bring me back at the first opportunity, you’ll probably succeed. But then I shall just have to kill you and start out again … I tried once before. You stopped me, and I was glad you stopped me. But not this time.’ Her voice faltered a little. ‘I’m playing it for real.’

Greville looked at the pistol, then proceeded to finish his meal without hurrying. Liz had become a passing fair cook. The ‘bacon’ tasted like vintage bacon, the free-range egg was far more acceptable than any egg he had ever bought in a shop.

While he was eating, he tried to think; but all the normal processes of thought seemed to be blocked.

Reluctantly, he put down his knife and fork and gave his attention to Liz. The pistol was still pointing steadily at him. ‘Chances are I could kick the table over and snatch the pistol,’ he thought. ‘She’d be too surprised to shoot.’

But he didn’t kick the table over or attempt to do anything. He was saddened by the pistol. He was saddened by Liz. He was saddened by the sudden inescapable knowledge that his tiny island was no longer big enough.

‘Jane?’ he asked unemotionally.

‘Jane,’ confirmed Liz.

‘How long have we been together? It seems quite a long time.’

Liz thought for a moment. ‘Three months, I suppose … You lose track.’

‘Four months,’ corrected Greville. ‘Four months and about two weeks. The way things are, it’s practically a lifetime.’

‘It’s over,’ said Liz flatly. ‘It was nice, but it’s over. I’m going to look for Jane. I should have gone a long time ago. You shouldn’t have stopped me. That way we’d have still remembered the happiness.’

‘I love you,’ said Greville. ‘That means something?’

‘Yes.’ She hesitated. ‘But not enough.’

‘I saved you from the dogs.’

‘I’m glad about that.’ She smiled impishly. ‘But you also saved yourself, didn’t you?’

‘From the dogs?’

‘No. From dying … It’s no good. I’ve made up my mind. I’m going. I’ve got to find Jane or I shan’t get any peace.’

Greville surveyed her sombrely. ‘I’ll tell you something. I’m not sure I believe in Jane.’

Liz tightened her grip on the pistol. Her knuckle showed white where her finger had taken the first pressure on the trigger. ‘What the hell do you mean?’

‘I’m not sure I believe in Jane,’ repeated Greville calmly. ‘I think she may be a figment of your warped imagination. I think she may be nothing more than an excuse for you to do whatever comes into your little transie mind. I think she may be a carefully cooked up excuse that you’ve given yourself for continuing to stay alive.’

For a moment or two, he thought she was going to shoot him; then suddenly she began to laugh. It was high, hysterical laughter. The kind of laughter, thought Greville, that you might indulge in if you were shocked, hurt or afraid.

‘You big, stupid bastard,’ said Liz. ‘Do you think I could spend months needling myself with nightmares about somebody who doesn’t exist?’

‘Yes. We’re all slightly nuts or we wouldn’t be here. It may suit you to have an imaginary sister. For all I know, you may have a bloody great dose of schizophrenia. Jane could be your private piece of therapy – enduring all possible ills and degradation just because you feel guilty because you are still alive. Maybe you even had a twin sister. Maybe she died. What proof have you got that you’re not just playing psychological games?’

‘I don’t need to prove anything to anybody,’ said Liz simply. ‘Jane is real enough for me. That’s all that matters. And I’ve got to find her … You remember that morning on Chelsea Bridge? Hell, you don’t think I was taking risks like that just for kicks, do you?’

‘Why not?’ retorted Greville. ‘I had a damn silly reason myself for being on Chelsea Bridge. Why shouldn’t you be just as crazy as I am?’

Liz laughed. ‘This is getting us nowhere. The only problem to be solved is whether I have to put a bullet in you or whether I go peacefully … You can stop me, as I said. But then there’d be a next time; and I wouldn’t let you stop me then.’

Greville looked at her and thought of all the good times they had had, remembering the love-makings, the insatiable appetite for music, the shared dangers and discoveries.