A Fairly Dangerous Thing

by Reginald Hill

  The boulder came to a halt in the widest part of the cave. The eye of the black tunnel which Jim had unplugged leered uninvitingly at them. Jim rose to his feet, rubbing his back.

  ‘He’ll get five years,’ he said unemotionally. ‘I’ll get fifteen.’

  He said no more but crouched down and began to move into the depths of the cave.

  ‘He’s right,’ said Joe hopelessly. ‘I’ve got to try it. But you’ll be all right, Maggie. You stay. They can’t touch you.’

  He kissed her passionately.

  ‘This afternoon,’ he said. ‘In the field. That wasn’t usual. I was worried about all this.’

  ‘So?’ she said drawing back. ‘Why are you telling me?’

  At first he didn’t know. Then suddenly he did.

  ‘If I get away, if things ever get back to normal,’ he said in a rush, ‘will you marry me?’

  For answer she pushed him forward into the tunnel.

  ‘Move,’ she said. ‘Let’s catch up with Jim.’

  He twisted his head to look at her.

  ‘But you’re not coming …?’

  ‘You may be my fiancé,’ she said, ‘but that doesn’t mean I trust you. I’ve seen you in action and I’m not letting you out of my sight. So move!’

  Joe’s heart was singing with joy as they went forward towards the patch of lightness which marked the other end of the cave. He felt lightheaded and had to take deep breaths of the stuffy, musky air to satisfy the oxygen needs of his racing blood. The smell of the air reminded him of something. Whatever it was, it would be associated for ever in his mind with this glorious moment.

  An arm like a shillelagh came out of the shadows and impeded his further progress.

  ‘Hold it,’ whispered Lord Jim. ‘And keep quiet.’

  He led them a few steps farther forward and pointed. In the shadows ahead something stirred momentarily. A cavernous mouth opened, yawned. A whole group of shadows rearranged itself. Then became still.

  Between the three fugitives and the mouth of the cave there lay sleeping four extremely large lions.

  CHAPTER VI

  It was Maggie who rose to the occasion, Joe observed with pride. Her old doubts about the escape route seemed to have disappeared completely in the glow of their new relationship.

  ‘Cats,’ she said. ‘They’re just cats. Like Vardon.’

  Absurdly the mention of Vardon brought tears to Joe’s eyes. He would be worried. He hated Joe to be out late, though he refused to organize his own outgoings and incomings to any fixed schedule.

  ‘Come on,’ said Maggie.

  So saying she stepped lightly forward and walked past the sleeping beasts without a glance in their direction. At the mouth of the cave she stopped and beckoned impatiently.

  With an inward prayer, spoken with that fervour known only to agnostics in trouble, Joe moved forward. He was almost past them when his foot sent a stone rattling along the cave floor.

  The biggest of the beasts, obviously the daddy of this happy family, raised his noble head slightly from the cushion of his paws (each, to Joe’s jaundiced gaze, equal in terms of bedding to a sizeable bolster) and opened his left eye.

  Joe froze, uncertain whether to try to stare the beast out (as recommended by the Boys’ Own Paper) or to affect complete indifference by looking elsewhere. Dogs, he knew, could be made to feel very uncomfortable and aggressive if you stared hard at them. Vardon, on the other hand, often locked eyes with him for minutes on end, sometimes to remind him it was time for food or bed, but more often with the dispassionate gaze of a philosopher, trying to reach some comprehension of the strange object before him.

  He prayed that it was philosophy not food that was going through this lion’s head. Whatever it was took a long time, but finally, as though deciding that Joe was an illusion created by some gobbet of undigested beefsteak, the animal shook his head slightly and went back to sleep.

  Joe was shaking when he reached the comfort of Maggie’s arms. Behind him Jim came through at a fast trot.

  It was, they theorized later, the rustle of the purple silk which did it. Like a snake on the cave floor. Even lions wouldn’t like snakes.

  Whatever it was, with one accord as though at a prearranged signal, all four lions (mummy, daddy and two nearly full-grown sons, or daughters—there was no time to check) leapt up and started roaring mightily.

  Joe’s first impulse was to run.

  ‘Hold it,’ yelled Jim joining them with a mighty bound. ‘They’ll come after us.’

  Where Jim derived his dubious knowledge of lion-lore, Joe did not know. Perhaps he had always wanted to be a lion-tamer. Now, before they could stop him, he bent down, picked up a sizeable lump of rock and hurled it at the nearest lion, catching it painfully on the chest. It stepped back, snarling out promises of savage retribution. Joe and Maggie joined the onslaught now, flinging rocks, pebbles, bones (there were a distressing number of these around), sticks and abuse at the now thoroughly roused beasts. It seemed certain to Joe that the light must dawn eventually, the animals would realize what laughably puny opposition they were up against and the counter-attack would bowl them over in seconds.

  In fact, the end came as suddenly as he had feared. But it was quite unexpected.

  Daddy, who had looked like potentially the biggest threat of all, simply decided that enough was enough, turned tail and disappeared into the depths of the cave. The other three glanced after him, glanced at each other in disillusion, then, with flicks of the tail which clearly said ‘What the hell!’ they went after him. In a couple of seconds they had disappeared completely from view.

  ‘We’ve won!’ said Joe joyfully.

  ‘Oh God,’ said Maggie in horror. ‘They’ve gone through!’

  Lord Jim went scrambling up the rocky mound of the grotto, closely followed by the other two. It took some time to find a vantage point from which they could see through the thorn hedge and the double-wire fence which even up here acted as the park-boundary, but when they did it provided a sight worth seeing.

  The brightly-lit gardens were buzzing with activity. The naked and semi-naked guests had been shepherded into a fairly orderly group in the centre of the lawn and clearly some kind of identification parade had been taking place.

  Equally clearly the search party had made contact with the lions, for suddenly, down from the upper reaches of the garden, shouting high-pitched warnings, losing their helmets in their flight and leaving them where they lay, came a dozen or more constables. The group on the lawn seemed to freeze. One figure stepped out from among them (it looked like Prince) and seemed to be shouting angrily at the running policemen, who began to slow down. A couple even turned as if to go back for their helmets.

  Then the four lions broke out of the shadows of the azalea grove.

  The light seemed to take them by surprise and their forward impetus carried them almost to the edge of the lawn before they halted. For a moment they stood still, the police stood still, the naked and half-naked guests stood still.

  Then, as though at a signal, they let out one magnificent, arrogant, concerted roar and loped away to the side, passing (as though deliberately) before one of the floodlights sited behind the lawn, so that their shadows were cast mightily on the façade of the house.

  After that everybody was running. And from this distance it sounded as if everybody was shrieking. For between five and ten seconds the gardens looked as if they were filled with two or three hundred panic-stricken men and women. Then, suddenly, like a piece of trick photography, they were gone. The lions too. Everything still. Not a sign of movement.

  Except…

  ‘Look,’ said Jim, pointing. ‘On the roof. To the far right. See?’

  Joe saw. Some figures, two? three? detached themselves from a huge chimney-stack at the stables end of the house and disappeared behind the parapet which overlooked the car park.

  ‘Cess? Bertie?’ he said.

  ‘Who else. Listen!’

  Anoth
er noise now began to rise against the night’s stillness. A siren, distant as yet but coming fast.

  ‘Police?’ asked Maggie.

  ‘No,’ said Jim. ‘Fire. There’d be a direct alarm-link with the fire station.’

  ‘You know,’ said Joe thoughtfully, ‘What with the fire-engine coming through—and they’ll probably call in the rangers off the gates to deal with the lions in the garden— I reckon we might be able to get out of here without having to hack our way through this kind of stuff.’

  He indicated the wire and the thorn with distaste.

  ‘You could be right,’ said Jim.

  ‘Come on,’ said Maggie.

  He was right. The god of thieves must have decided they had had enough of accidents and disasters for one day. Suddenly everything was plain sailing. They reached the main gate at the bridge without sight or sound of another lion. As anticipated, there was a tremendous amount of activity at the gate, which was being left wide open for minutes on end. To slip through was absurdly easy and the gate at the other end of the bridge no longer seemed to be manned at all.

  They walked for an hour, agony in bare feet, before they felt it was safe for Maggie to try the main road. Dressed as they were, it was clearly dangerous for either of the men to be seen, but Maggie was able to repair most of the ravages caused by the night and appear quite presentable. Joe gave her careful directions to where he had left his car, and where the key was hidden. Fifteen minutes later, crouched in a ditch they watched her climb into the cab of a lorry, and thirty minutes after that she was back with the VW.

  ‘We’ll have to watch for police-checks,’ warned Jim.

  ‘Hang on,’ said Joe, reaching into the glove-compartment. ‘Here we are. There won’t be any checks the way we go.’

  He produced Cyril Solstice’s route-map.

  The wisdom of God was unquestionable, thought Joe. Nothing was created without purpose. Even Cyril’s strange obsession turned out to be merely another small piece in the great jigsaw of fate.

  Not even the necessity of sending his lovely little car splashing through two fords could interfere with this new optimism.

  But the rest of the night was not yet ready to pass entirely without incident.

  They garaged the car and made their way swiftly through the back door of Joe’s house. This necessitated passing Alice’s door and to Joe’s horror it opened as they passed and Alice appeared in her dressing-gown. She looked enigmatically at Maggie, at Joe in his borrowed tails, at Jim in his silk trouser-suit.

  ‘Go on up,’ said Jim.

  Joe and Maggie obeyed, Joe looking back uneasily from the landing, fearful lest Lord Jim should be offering some threat of violence to his neighbour. They looked to be in close confabulation, then Jim suddenly turned on his naked heel and to Joe’s consternation marched out of the front door. Quickly he ushered Maggie into the flat and peered out of the window.

  Parked almost opposite the house was the blue Cortina. Jim approached it, wrenched open the door and leaned inside. There was evidence of violent movement. After a minute or slightly longer, Jim withdrew, slamming the door with a ferocity which must have done some damage, the car engine started up and, somewhat erratically, the vehicle moved away into the darkness.

  ‘What was all that about?’ asked Maggie.

  ‘God knows,’ said Joe. ‘And He won’t tell.’

  Jim was as unforthcoming as God when he reappeared, accepting with a grunt the ill-fitting clothes Joe put at his disposal and refusing an invitation to spend what remained of the night in the flat.

  ‘I’ll take these,’ he said bundling up their borrowed robes. ‘Sooner they’re got rid of, the better.’

  ‘What about Cess and the others?’ asked Joe with not altogether spurious anxiety. ‘Shouldn’t we try to find out …?’

  ‘Why? If they got out, we’ll learn. If they didn’t, we’ll hear too. Lay low.’

  With a polite nod to Maggie, Jim passed silently through the door.

  ‘I hope he’s all right,’ said Maggie.

  ‘He will be. What about you?’

  ‘What about me?’

  ‘Well, er, are you staying, or do you have to go?’

  ‘I’m beginning to wonder about you,’ said Maggie looking at him coldly. ‘Ever since I started teaching, you’ve given the impression that you’d like to be ripping the black lace off me all the time. Recent events make me wonder if it isn’t just an act. Anyway I’m going to bed. What you do’s your own business.’

  She disappeared into the bedroom, reappearing a moment later barely covered in the black lace.

  ‘Of course,’ she said. ‘It is your flat. And you’re entitled to ask me to leave.’

  At nine-thirty the next morning there was a prolonged ringing of the doorbell. The events of the previous twenty-four hours, (not least, the events of the previous four or five, ) had enveloped Joe in a cocoon of fatigue which it took considerable will-power to shake off.

  But it fell away like a transvestite’s bosom when he saw who it was at the door.

  ‘Come in, Sergeant Prince,’ he said, shakily.

  ‘I’m sorry to trouble you so early,’ said Prince with a smile. ‘Thought you might be playing golf this morning and I’d catch you before you went.’

  ‘No,’ said Joe. ‘I was asleep.’

  ‘Oh? Late night?’

  ‘Relatively,’ said Joe cautiously. ‘What can I do for you?’

  ‘Have a nice time at Averingerett yesterday?’

  ‘Very. Thank you. Why do you ask?’

  Prince ran his fingers through his white hair.

  ‘You see, I got out to Averingerett after all. Funny how things work out, isn’t it? That call I got to go into the station. It was because of a tip-off.’

  ‘Tip-off?’ said Joe, trying to assess the amount of interest he should realistically be showing.

  ‘Yes. Can’t give you details. But it was about a man we’ve been after for some time. In connection with pornographic films.’

  ‘Oh, Chubb,’ said Joe with relief. It had been Jock after all.

  ‘Why do you say that?’ demanded Prince. Belatedly Joe realized his error.

  ‘Why, well, Chubb … It was in the paper. Our senior mistress, you know her, Onions, was on the jury. So we heard all about it.’

  ‘I see,’ said Prince. ‘Oddly, when we get there, we found there was a robbery in progress.’

  ‘Robbery?’

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘That’s remarkable,’ said Joe. ‘Catch anyone?’

  Prince eyed him with what might or might not have been irony.

  ‘Not yet,’ he answered. ‘But we live in hope. You see anything odd while you were there?’

  ‘Me? No. Why do you ask?’

  ‘Well, you’re a bit of an expert, aren’t you? We reckon these boys must have stopped behind after afternoon closing. And they seemed to know what they were after, judging from what we found in their bags.’

  ‘Bags?’

  Prince nodded.

  ‘Bags. They were in a hurry to get away, it seems. My men saw a couple of them, so there’s a chance of identification.’

  This was like a jolt to the solar plexus.

  ‘Though they were naked. And wet.’

  ‘Your men?’ he managed.

  ‘Makes a difference,’ said Prince ignoring him. ‘Hard to hold a satisfactory identification parade. Hurt your legs, have you? That looks sore.’

  Joe glanced down at his bare legs protruding from his Japanese bath-robe. He couldn’t have been altogether wrong about the prevalence of briar-rose last night. There were several nasty scratches plainly evident. Involuntarily he pulled the robe more tightly round him to hide his body.

  ‘It’s nothing,’ he said. ‘My cat. Had a scare. Can be quite vicious when he’s got the wind up.’

  On cue, Vardon appeared from the kitchen. He had been most offhand a few hours earlier, his normal reaction at being left by himself longer than he felt
was suitable. But now he oozed condescending forgiveness and jumped on Joe’s lap, purring loudly.

  ‘He looks very vicious,’ said Prince. ‘Maggie enjoy the trip?’

  ‘Oh yes. Very much,’ said Joe, glad to be back on what seemed like firm ground.

  ‘That’s odd,’ said Prince. He didn’t carry on, but started wandering round the flat looking carefully at the few paintings and ornaments Joe possessed.

  He wants me to ask why, thought Joe suddenly uneasy. What’s wrong? What have I said that’s wrong?

  The ground began to lose some of its firmness.

  ‘Why?’ he asked hopelessly.

  ‘Well, your friend Laidlaw. You saw him yesterday afternoon, didn’t you? It came up last night, quite by chance. He didn’t recollect anyone being with you. In fact, he was certain you were by yourself.’

  Jock. Oh, the bastard! But why blame Jock? It was his own fault. He remembered telling Jock just that.

  Prince turned from a close study of a Picasso print. Either he didn’t like Picasso or he had decided that the friendly front had had its day. Both perhaps.

  ‘So, was he wrong?’ he said. ‘Or were you wrong, Joe? Perhaps Maggie wasn’t with you. Perhaps you just didn’t like to tell me you’d had a quarrel?’

  This almost contemptuous offer of an excuse was the worst thing that had happened yet. It meant Prince was very nearly confident enough to come right out in the open. Once he did that, Joe suspected he would not retreat till he had dug up every last scrap of truth.

  ‘Joe!’ shouted Maggie from the bedroom. ‘Bring us a cup of coffee, there’s a love.’

  Prince froze where he stood, a look of complete surprise on his face.

  He didn’t expect this, thought Joe. This could knock most of his little theories about me to hell and back. If only Maggie doesn’t put her foot in it! I’ve got to have a quick word with her somehow.

  He smiled apologetically to Prince and turned to the bedroom door, but it was too late. It was open and Maggie stood yawning widely, his silk dressing-gown draped loosely around her. It was a magnificent sight. Then she saw Prince.

  ‘Maurice!’ she said, pulling the dressing-gown tightly round her, producing an effect almost as voluptuous.