The Empty World

by D. E. Stevenson

  Alice thought for a few minutes. “I suppose we shall just have to keep on and trust to luck,” she said.

  “It’s the petrol,” Tom told her. “I meant to fill up in Fairtown and I forgot.”

  “Stop and fill up now,” Alice suggested.

  Tom saw that the idea was an excellent one. If he stopped at the next petrol-pump and filled up — what was there in that to cause suspicion? He would explain to Bolton that he had forgotten to do it in town. It was better to stop now than later when the men might have begun to suspect that they were being deceived and led away from Bardsholme.

  He drew up at the next pump, and began to fill the tank. The other car stopped, and Bolton put his head out of the window.

  “How much farther is it?” he enquired.

  “I don’t know exactly,” Tom replied. “Fairtown is rather out of our usual beat. Alice and I were out on a little expedition of our own when we ran into you.”

  “I thought it was quite near,” Bolton objected.

  Tom laughed. “It depends what you call near,” he said. “It’s less than fifty miles.”

  “Right you are,” said Bolton. “I’ve plenty of juice for three times that distance.”

  Tom saw that Bolton’s suspicions were allayed, he took a glance at the car — it was a racing Plumpton of the newest make — it was no use trying to outspeed them. He finished his job and climbed back into the seat of the Bugatti. They sped on.

  “Well?” demanded Alice.

  “It’s not well at all,” Tom replied ruefully. “They can make rings round us if they want to.”

  “It’s funny, isn’t it?” Alice said. “Funny that they should suddenly want to join up with us. Do you think they really mean to run straight?”

  “Yes, I do,” Tom said thoughtfully. “But they couldn’t. It would be hopeless. There would be endless trouble if we had them with us. And, remember, Sir Richard is ill, and David away.”

  Alice nodded, she agreed with all he said — these men were impossible, they would soon become tired of the quietness of Bardsholme. She remembered Jane’s story of how they had behaved to her. They could never be trusted.

  “I’m sorry for them,” she said at last.

  “So am I. But we can’t help that. It wouldn’t be fair to the others to have them at Bardsholme.”

  Tom drove on and on through the bright moonlit country. He was tired and hungry, for he had had nothing to eat since lunch, but he did not dare to stop. The lights of the pursuing car were close behind — they must be getting suspicious — there was nothing for it but to drive on. He scarcely knew where he was going, he just kept on — driving with mechanical precision — while his mind wrestled with the problem of escape.

  After some time he began to recognize landmarks in the country — surely he had seen that tall tower before, and that queer round hill with its crown of trees — he realised that they were nearing a village on the east coast where he had stayed when he was a child. The village — Tom remembered — was at the bottom of a cliff, close to the sea. A steep road led down to it from the top of the cliff — a long steep winding road.

  Suddenly he saw what he could do — a plan sprang into his head. It was rather a dangerous plan, depending upon several chance factors for success, but he thought it was feasible, and, at any rate, there was nothing else to be done — nothing that he could think of.

  “Alice,” he said urgently, “you’re not asleep, are you?”

  “No — I was just thinking —”

  “I have a plan — rather a mad plan, but better than nothing — will you do exactly what I tell you?”

  “Yes.”

  Tom was satisfied with the answer, there was no time to explain his plan to Alice. Already they had reached the top of the cliff, and were slipping down the first curve in low gear. Far below them the North. Sea gleamed like silver in the bright moonlight. A chill wind, heavy with the smell of seaweed blew in at the open window of the car.

  Tom guided the car carefully round a bend in the steep road, and stopped.

  “Get out quickly and hide in the bushes,” he said.

  They both jumped out — Alice ran to the bushes at the side of the road and crouched down. Tom released the brakes and stepped back; the Bugatti bounded forward, crashed through a small white paling at the side of the road, and disappeared over the edge of the cliff.

  Tom did not stop to see the end of the car, he ran back to the bushes where Alice was hiding, and flung himself down. The whole manoeuvre was completed in less time than it takes to tell. The fugitives were hidden, and the Bugatti was crushing over the edge of the cliff when the other car nosed carefully round the corner. There were shouts of horror and a grinding of brakes as Bolton brought the Plumpton to a standstill. The three men jumped out and rushed to the edge of the cliff.

  “Good God!”

  “Can you see it — down there on the rocks?”

  “What on earth can have happened?”

  “Brakes bust, I suppose.”

  “How ghastly!” (This was Ackrington.)

  “Any chance for them?”

  “Being alive, d’you mean? Not one in a million.”

  “Not a dog’s hope.”

  They stood there for a few minutes. Tom could see the three dark figures outlined against the sky. The furze bush behind which he and Alice were hidden was poor cover, but fortunately that did not matter because their pursuers were completely taken in by the ruse. They never glanced up the road, so sure were they that Tom and Alice were lying at the bottom of the cliff amongst the wreckage of the car.

  “We had better go down and have a look,” Bolton said at last.

  “What good will that do us?” Greig demanded sulkily.

  “Pretty ghastly mess, isn’t it?” added Ackrington.

  “We had better go,” Bolton said again. “There might be something in the car which would tell us where the others are.”

  “Come on then for God’s sake,” cried Greig. “Let’s do something instead of standing here — I suppose we shall be able to get a drink in that damned village —”

  “A drink is an excellent idea,” Ackrington agreed.

  They climbed back into the car and went on slowly, and very carefully down the road.

  Tom heard a little chuckle at his elbow. “That’s shaken them,” Alice whispered. “They are not taking any risks.”

  “I wonder if they’ll get tight at the pub.”

  “They’ll discover that we’re not in the car — what will they do then?”

  Tom considered. “I don’t know,” he said. “I hoped the car would go on fire, but it evidently hasn’t. It will take them some time — plenty of time for us to get away. By the time they’ve had a few drinks and scrambled over the rocks to the car the tide may have come in. Let’s have a look.”

  They walked to the edge of the cliff and looked down. The Bugatti was nothing but a heap of tangled wreckage, it lay in a crevice between two boulders half covered with water.

  “Poor old Bugatti,” Alice said, with a little shudder.

  “I know — it’s horrible,” Tom agreed. “I feel like a murderer — it was a thundering good car.”

  Tom and Alice walked slowly up the road, they walked slowly because they were tired. It was a deserted bit of road, there was not a car in sight. Presently they saw a farm-house half hidden by some trees, and decided to make for it. There might be a car in the garage — there would almost certainly be food.

  The farm-house and farm buildings were very quiet and ghostly. They went in and looked about. It seemed so queer to find a farm-house without a dog to announce their arrival, without hens pecking about in the yard, without cows or pigs or any of the usual live inhabitants. They found some biscuits in the larder, and what was even more important, an old and very ramshackle car in one of the outhouses. The car was one that had been used to take livestock to the market, but Tom and Alice were not particular.

  As they drove along they ate the biscu
its and shouted at each other above the rattle of the car — ordinary conversation was impossible. They were pleased with themselves and with each other.

  “It was very neat,” Alice shouted.

  “I’d rather have a plain one,” Tom shouted back.

  “A plain what?”

  “A plain biscuit — two or three plain biscuits — I’m starving — those sweet biscuits are no good to a starving man.”

  They found a better car in the next village, and, after that, conversation was easier, and the miles went quicker. They drove on and on. The stars paled and a faint greyness touched the earth — it was almost like a grey mist. Alice was asleep, her head leaning comfortably against Tom’s shoulder. He drove on. He was tired but very happy.

  Dawn broke as he reached Bardsholme, turned in at the big gates and sped up the avenue. There was a light burning in Sir Richard’s study.

  As the car drew up at the steps Maule and Farquhar came out.

  “Good God, where have you been?” Farquhar cried. “We’ve been demented. What happened? Why did you not come home?”

  “We’ve had some adventures,” Tom replied; he was dazed with sleep. It was difficult to drag himself out of the car. Alice, just awakened, was also dazed. They clung to each other as they went up the steps to the door.

  “Why, man, you’re half dead!” Farquhar exclaimed, seizing Tom’s arm. “Come away in, and have a drink, and tell us all about it.”

  By this time the rest of the household had assembled, variously attired in dressing-gowns and overcoats. The only absentees were Sir Richard (who had not been told that Tom and Alice had not returned, and who had gone to sleep quite comfortably at his usual hour) and David and Jane, who were still absent on their hunt for Boddington.

  The two wanderers were dragged into the kitchen and provided with food and drink. They told their story between mouthfuls, while their audience listened wide-eyed. Everybody was horrified to hear that Bolton and his companions had found their way to Fairtown, it was much too near Bardsholme to be comfortable.

  “Will they come back, I wonder?” Farquhar enquired anxiously.

  “I don’t think so,” replied Tom. “We led them away north, and they will probably hunt about in that neighbourhood. They won’t realise we were leading them astray. You see, they probably had a few drinks at the local pub and by that time — with any luck — the tide would have come in. If they went along the rocks and looked at the car they would think our bodies had been swept out to sea —”

  “Poor wretches!” exclaimed Iris, with a little shudder.

  “Yes, it’s a bad look-out for them,” Tom agreed, “only three of them left now, and each distrusting the others — no companionship amongst them at all. But it would have been impossible to have them here, quite impossible. They are bad all through, and so frightfully — callous. I asked what had happened to the others and they told me Thomas had been shot in a brawl, and Sands — the cook — hanged himself — they didn’t seem to mind.”

  “What did they say about Gosse?” Maisie enquired. The man was there, sitting in his usual seat at the table, staring vacantly before him, but they knew that they could talk about him in his presence without his understanding a word.

  “Yes, what did they say about Gosse?” asked Farquhar with interest.

  Tom lowered his voice. “They lost him on purpose,” he said. “Just drove off and left him when he was asleep. They said he was a nuisance and complained about things — so they just gave him the slip. I never told them he was here, of course.”

  “I wonder how long he wandered about — alone,” added Alice, looking at the subject of their conversation with pity in her eyes.

  “And how he found his way here,” said Iris.

  Tom handed in his cup for more cocoa. “We shall never know that,” he said with a sigh.

  Miss May poured out a generous helping. “I think you were very clever,” she said, smiling placidly. “Very clever indeed. I don’t know how you manage to think of things like that all of a sudden — which of you thought of it — of sending the car over the edge like that so that they would think you had been drowned?”

  “It was Tom’s idea entirely,” Alice said. “And, perhaps, as you are all here, we had better tell you our other news.” She looked at Tom and smiled.

  “We’re going to be married,” Tom said proudly.

  There was a chorus of congratulations. Most of the company had paired Alice off with David Fenemore in their own minds, but his departure with Jane had puzzled them. Maule was unfeignedly pleased, for he had set his heart upon Iris, and, now that Tom was out of the running, he thought he had a good chance, he had no idea that Iris was determined to marry Joe Bunce if she could get him. Miss May was delighted too — a romance of any description was meat and drink to her, and she had no ulterior wishes or desires. Perhaps Iris was the only one whose congratulations were not sincere — she was still slightly jealous of her one-time maid, and, although she did not really want Tom herself, he was a convenient second string if Joe failed her. Now there was only Joe and Maule left — and Maule, in the eyes of Iris, was “a Cissie” — she couldn’t possibly marry Maule. You’ll have to get a move on, my dear, she told herself firmly, unless you want to find yourself on the shelf.

  CHAPTER

  TEN

  Bolton, Ackrington

  and Greig

  Bolton drove carefully down the steep road to the village. He had no desire to repeat the accident, and hurtle over the edge of the cliff to a watery grave. He drew up in the little street before the village inn.

  “Here’s the pub,” he said, “it looks fairly hopeful —”

  They tumbled out of the car and went in. By this time they were used to finding everything open, to walking into strange places and finding and taking anything that they happened to want. Ackrington found glasses, and Greig descended to the old-fashioned cellar below the house, carved out of the solid rock, and returned with three bottles of brandy.

  “There’s more where this came from,” he said. “We’ve struck oil here. I votes we stay here for a bit and have a good beano.”

  “You mean a booze, I suppose,” said Bolton.

  “Same thing — it’s the only thing to do in this stinking world — and not a bad thing either —”

  “Here, give me some,” Ackrington said hoarsely. “I want a drink badly — something to take the taste of that horrible accident out of my mouth.” He seized a bottle from Greig, knocked the head off with the poker and poured a generous measure into his glass. “Horrible, wasn’t it?” he continued. “I shan’t forget it in a hurry — the way the car toppled over — the crash — ugh!”

  “Give me some, too,” Bolton demanded.

  “Here, not so fast!” exclaimed Greig. “Who was it fetched the stuff from the cellar? That’s what I want to know.”

  “You, of course,” said Bolton. “And you can go down and fetch some more when we want it — that’s about all you’re good for.”

  As a rule Bolton was the peace-maker, keeping the others in hand, and smoothing over the quarrels that arose like squalls out of a clear sky, but to-night he was in no mood for peace, his nerves were shattered, he felt a tide of rage rising within him, and he had not the self-control to keep it down. The moment he had seen the car going over the cliff he had known that they were done, had felt it in his bones. With the death of Tom and Alice all hopes of finding the others had vanished — he was condemned to live for the rest of his life with these two men — the empty-headed Ackrington and the coarse-fibred Greig. Bolton hated them both. He had grown to hate them more and more as the days went by. He hated them so much that he could scarcely bear to look at them — Ackrington’s receding forehead, Greig’s huge ears.

  “It’s all I’m good for, is it?” Greig cried furiously.

  “Yes, it’s all you’re good for,” repeated Bolton, “you lousy swine, you bat-eared —”

  “Who are you calling names —”

&nb
sp; “I’m telling you what you are. You had better behave yourself or you’ll find yourself left —”

  Ackrington took no notice of the quarrel, he was sitting at the bar counter drinking solidly. He wanted to drown that awful sight — he wanted to forget the crash of the car as it went over the edge, and struck the rocks below — he had seen men die, but this was different — this had touched his imagination, had roused his horror.

  Greig was foaming with rage. Men’s passions rose quickly in the new conditions — there was nothing to control them, no fear of consequences, no discipline. He took the unopened bottle of brandy by the neck and struck at Bolton with all his might — Bolton dodged behind a chair, drew his revolver and shot Greig neatly through the heart. The man pitched forward on to the floor, and lay there in a sprawling heap at Bolton’s feet.

  “Two of us now,” Ackrington said thickly.

  “It was self-defence,” said Bolton, “self-defence, that was what it was. The man was crazy. He struck at me with that blasted bottle — what was I to do?”

  “I’m not blaming you,” said Ackrington, pouring out more brandy and gulping it down with avidity. “Not — blaming you — only it’s — it’s damn funny, isn’t it — Don’ you know song ’bout ten li’l nigger boys, Bolton? Damn funny song.” He turned round on his chair and sang —

  “Ten li’l nigger boys going out to dine,

  Big bear hugged one — then there were nine.

  Nine li’l nigger boys going out to skate,

  One fell through the ice — then there were eight.”

  “Chorus now, Bolton —

  “One li’l, two li’l, three li’l, four li’l, five li’l nigger boys,

  Six li’l, seven li’l, eight li’l, nine li’l, ten li’l nigger boys.”

  “Shut up, Ackrington,” Bolton said.

  “Don’ you like the song, ol’ boy?”

  “No, I don’t.”

  “That’s pity. Lots more verses ’bout nigger boys. Only one left — at the end — one left. Wonder who that’ll be — you or me.”