Bolton shuddered. “You’re drunk, Ackrington,” he said.
“I know that — meant to get drunk — meant to get thor-thorough-thoroughly sozzled. Best thing to do.”
“We’ve got to go and look at that car,” Bolton told him, going over to the counter and taking his arm. “We’ve got to go and look — it’s our only chance, the only thing left for us to do.”
“I don’ wan’ to, Bolton — wan’ to forget it —”
Bolton shook him. “Don’t you see it’s our only chance,” he said urgently. “There may be something in the car to tell us where they are — we’ll never find them if the tide comes in.”
“Our only — chance —” said Ackrington, blinking at him like an owl.
“Yes, don’t you understand — we’ve got to find the others — we’ve got to. There may be something in the car that will give us a clue to their whereabouts —”
The words seemed to penetrate Ackrington’s dazed brain, he rose unsteadily to his feet, and clutched at Bolton for support.
Bolton looked at him anxiously. “You’re too boozed already,” he said in dismay. “I’ll have to go myself — I’ll come back here for you afterwards —”
“No, no,” cried Ackrington, clinging to him like a limpet. “I’ll be all righ’, ol’ man — don’ wan’ to stay here alone. I’ll come with you. Be all righ’ in a min — minute.”
They went out together, stepping over Greig’s body, Ackrington clinging to Bolton’s arm. The moon was still bright, but a few wisps of cloud scudded across the sky. The wind was rising. It blew in from the sea in salt-laden gusts. Ackrington raised his head and sniffed it gratefully; he felt better. They had drunk so much in the last few weeks that they had begun to get inured to the action of spirits; it took more and more of the fiery stuff to deaden their brains.
They set off together down the street, and climbed down the narrow path leading to the rocks. The tide was coming in, Bolton noted, it was creeping over the rocks and gushing into the pools. The waves were small, but each one came a little higher than the last. There was no time to spare — even now they might be too late to wrest any secrets from the shattered car. He took Ackrington’s arm and helped him along — the rocks consisted of large boulders covered with limpets, and straggling green and brown seaweed. On their left the cliffs rose black and forbidding in the pale moonlight — on their right was the sea — a gleaming silver sheet.
“Hurry up,” Bolton said. “The tide’s coming in.”
They made what haste they could, stumbling, slipping, climbing over the welter of boulders. Below them the water sucked and gurgled and splashed.
“Sea-gulls,” Ackrington said breathlessly.
“What?”
“Sea-gulls — look! Flying across the sea.”
Bolton shuddered with horror. “You’re batty — there aren’t any sea-gulls,” he said angrily.
“Sea-gulls,” said Ackrington again. He pointed out to sea, his finger moving as if he registered a bird’s flight.
“There’s nothing there,” said Bolton. “Nothing. You’ve got the jim-jams, Ackrington. There aren’t any birds — you know that —”
“Sea-gulls,” Ackrington repeated stubbornly.
Bolton said no more. He concentrated on his job. It was no light undertaking to get a drunk man over the rocks. He hauled him up and let him down, he hung on to his arm and led him over the slippery places. The perspiration poured off him in streams. Once when Ackrington slipped and fell on the seaweed he seized him by his coat collar and dragged him back into safety at the risk of his own life, and his heart thudded violently against his ribs — Ackrington had become valuable to him, as valuable as life itself, Ackrington was the only one left, the only living creature in his world. If Ackrington went —
They reached the car at last, it was more than half submerged in the hungry waves. One side of it had been torn off and lay in a heap of tangled metal a short distance away. There was no sign of the bodies of Tom Day and Alice O’Connell.
Bolton stowed his companion in a crevice between two rocks, and climbed down to the car. He poked about amongst the debris, dodging the waves as they swept about his ankles. He put his hand in the pocket near the driving seat and found Sir Richard’s driving license — Sir Richard Barton — Bardsholme, Near Fairtown. There was nothing else to be found. A wave came as he stood there reading it, and wet him to the waist. He climbed back up the slippery rocks to Ackrington.
“Found anything?” Ackrington asked. He was sobered by now, the fumes of the brandy had receded from his brain. He felt cold and sick and deadly tired.
“I’ve found this,” Bolton replied, shoving the license into his hand. “Queer, isn’t it? — Near Fairtown. D’you think they were deceiving us — leading us up the garden path? D’you think they’re living at Sir Richard’s place?”
“It looks like it,” Ackrington said.
“Dirty skunks!”
“They’re dead now, anyway.”
“Yes — swept out to sea.”
“No signs of them?”
“No.”
There was silence between them, they were thinking. Dawn broke over the sea. First a faint greyness, then a suffusion of yellow in the sky, and then an orange light on the horizon.
“For God’s sake let’s get out of this,” said Ackrington at last. “I’m half frozen — I want a drink and a bed —”
Bolton rose and stretched himself. He too was cold, soaking with sea-water, tired and dispirited.
They went back over the rocks, slipping, stumbling and climbing. There was a huge pile of boulders stretching from the face of the rocks into the sea. They had come round the foot of it before, on their way out, but now the tide had risen, and the waves were boiling round the base of the pile.
“We’ll have to go over the top,” Bolton said. He took hold of a boulder and pulled himself up. Ackrington followed. The boulders were covered with barnacles which scraped their hands and tore their knees. Half-way up the heap of boulders they came to a ledge, a narrow ledge sloping seawards, above them towered a boulder larger than the others, black and polished, with a few tufts of coarse grass growing in its crevices.
“We’re above high-water mark now,” Bolton said, sinking down for a moment to rest, “and I’m just about all in.”
“You look it,” replied Ackrington. “But we haven’t far to go now — come on —” He put his foot in a hole in the rock and reached upwards to a tuft of grass with his hand. “Come on, Bolton,” he said. “This is easy compared to what we’ve come over.”
The words had scarcely passed his lips when the tuft of grass tore from its bed, he fell backwards, rolled over the ledge past Bolton and crashed on to the rocks below. Bolton sprang up and tried to grab hold of him as he disappeared over the edge, but he was too late. He looked over and saw Ackrington lying on a rock at the bottom of the heap of boulders — his neck was twisted, his head was hanging sideways in a pool —
“Ackrington,” he cried. “Ackrington — for God’s sake!”
The cliffs echoed his cries. He climbed down, slipping and stumbling, clinging to the barnacled rocks with bleeding hands. When he reached the man he seized him, and dragged him out of the pool, and propped him up against a rock. Ackrington’s head lolled sideways — Bolton shook him — “Ackrington, speak to me — speak to me — speak to me!” There was no sound save the echo of his own voice and the soft swish of the waves against the rocks.
It was some minutes before he allowed himself to believe that Ackrington was dead — but, at last, the realization forced itself upon him, and the fact that he was alone was borne upon his consciousness. He flung himself upon the rocks in a frenzy of fear.
The sun rose like a golden ball upon the edge of the horizon, a path of gold stretched across the sea. The dawn wind swept in, stirring Bolton’s hair, flapping the skirts of his coat. He sat up and looked round with staring eyes — he was alone. There was nobody left, not a single creature left to speak to, not
an animal, not a bird. He was the only living creature in the world.
Bolton rose and began to climb the rocks, he slipped and fell, scoring his knees and his elbows, but he scarcely noticed the pain, he climbed up the boulders, and, from there, to the cliff — he was on the road now. He ran down the road towards the inn — his legs were so weak that they crumpled beneath his weight, and he fell on his face. He scrambled up and ran on. Something was hovering round him now, flapping its wings in his face — he put up his hands to ward it off. It was Ackrington’s seagull — no, it was Ackrington himself — and there was Greig with his bat’s ears, standing in the middle of the road — Greig with the bottle of brandy in his hand —
Bolton shrieked, and turned back — there were faces all round him now — Bartoluzzi, Thomas, and the wretched Gosse — they were shouting at him, accusing him, they were closing in all round him, leering at him with their ugly faces, pointing at him with coarse hairy hands. “Leave me alone!” he cried, and the cliffs took up the sound and gave it back to him. “Alone — alone,” they mocked. They were chasing him now — he could hear them coming after him as he ran wildly up the road, he could hear their footsteps behind him, crunching the gravelly surface — Sands, who had hanged himself, Greig with his bat’s ears and the bleeding hole in his heart, little Thomas who had died in agonies because there was no doctor to attend to his wound — Gosse who had been left behind to fend for himself — they were all after him now, driving him up the road, driving him to the edge of the cliff, closing in upon him, pushing him — pushing him over.
He staggered for a moment on the edge of the cliff and looked back, and, in that moment, sanity returned, and he saw that the road was empty — there was nobody there — he staggered and tried to step back, tried to throw himself down, tried to clutch at the grasses that grew on the crumbling soil, but it was too late. The impetus of his mad rush carried him over — there was one wild scream of fear and agony and terror and the man went over. His body turned twice in the air, and fell with a dull thud on the rocks below.
PART III
Lastly I should say that the people were of a physical beauty which was simply amazing … The women were vigorous and had a most majestic gait … Each feature was finished, eyelids, eyelashes and ears being almost invariably perfect … The men were as handsome as the women were beautiful.
Erewhon, Samuel Butler.
CHAPTER
ONE
The Blackbird
Bungalow
Jane and David searched for the bungalow all morning. They lunched quickly and frugally at a little inn by the side of a stream and continued their search in the afternoon. It was anxious work. Sometimes Jane felt sure she recognised some landmark — a clump of trees or a corner with a petrol pump — and they would turn down the road and go for miles in the wrong direction.
“Don’t worry,” David kept saying, “don’t worry, Jane — I never expected to find the place straight off. Have patience, we shall soon find your Blackbird Bungalow.”
At last, when Jane was almost in despair, they found it. They came upon it quite suddenly and unexpectedly, having made a large circuit. Jane was almost sure she recognised the road-the winding snaky road that ran steeply downhill between overhanging trees. She wanted David to slow down at the bend where her accident had occurred.
“I’m almost sure it was here!” she cried excitedly.
He put on the brakes, and they crawled round the corner, and stopped short of the tangle of burnt cars which still blocked the road.
“Here we are,” she said, with a sigh of thankfulness and relief.
They left the car in the road, and climbed the little path to the bungalow, it was just as Jane had left it. The sun was shining in at the front windows, making splashes of yellow light on the polished floor and the Persian rugs. There was a fine film of dust over everything.
“What a nice house!” David said, looking round appreciatively.
“Friendly, isn’t it?” agreed Jane. It was like coming home again to be here. She felt happy now, for she had done her part in bringing David here. It was for him to do the rest. She made tea and they had it together in the lounge.
“We had better stay here to-night,” David answering her unspoken thought, “and begin the search tomorrow morning. It can’t be far from here to Boddington’s place. Blackbirds don’t fly far as a rule, and it would have to be fed by hand. No worms, you see.”
Jane saw.
After tea David broke up some stale bread, which he found in the larder, and scattered it about the garden.
“Just in case,” he explained to Jane. Then he got out a map and they decided where they were. It was a little difficult to find the exact spot where the bungalow stood, but Jane remembered a river at the bottom of the hill, and a bridge over it, and a small village where she had found the ancient car to carry her on her way, and that cleared up the matter. David took a pair of compasses out of his pocket and drew a circle round the bungalow.
“Five miles,” he said, “blackbirds don’t fly farther than that — not so far —”
Jane listened to him dreamily, she was tired but not uncomfortably so. She lay back in a low chair with one leg crossed over the other, her foot swinging idly, the slipper dangling on her toe. How differently she felt from the last time she was here — then she had been anxious, frightened, and alone, to-night she was calm and peaceful, and David was here.
It was getting dark now, and David had put on the light, to see what he was doing. It made the room more intimate and homely. They had lighted a fire in the grate, for the house felt damp, and had stoked it well with wood. It was burning well, with little red and blue flames.
“— don’t you think so, Jane?” said David suddenly.
Jane laughed. “I’m afraid I wasn’t listening,” she said. “I was thinking how nice it is here, I like a fire (don’t you?) even if it isn’t strictly necessary. Perhaps even more when it isn’t strictly necessary. Luxuries are always nicer than necessities, aren’t they?”
David looked up from his occupation, and his eyes dwelt on her lingeringly.
“What tiny feet you have got, Jane!” he heard himself saying. It was not what he had meant to say at all, and he was surprised at his own words.
Jane smiled and looked at her foot. “It isn’t really very small. Fives, I take,” she replied lazily.
Why did she never say his name, David wondered. Since their reconciliation he had taken pleasure in calling her Jane on every possible occasion, but she never used his if she could avoid it. Did she avoid it consciously, or unconsciously, and was it a good sign or a bad?
“Jane,” he said suddenly, “may I ask you a rude question? — Something that I have no business to ask.”
She was startled out of her dreamy mood into awareness. What could it be that he wanted to ask her?
“I might not answer it,” she said, looking at him with her straight gaze, “but I promise not to be angry, if that will do. I think we ought to be very frank with each other, and do away with stupid conventions of what is, and what is not, our business. Everybody’s affairs affect us all now, so —”
“Are you going to marry Sir Richard?” asked David hoarsely.
A strange shiver shook Jane, and she found she could not look at him. It was more the tone of the question than the words which embarrassed her. She answered, a trifle incoherently. “He asked me — long ago — but he said I was not to answer — I didn’t answer — I might have said yes, then.”
“But you wouldn’t say yes, now?”
“Doesn’t it seem — doesn’t it seem horrible when he’s ill?” she said in a fluttering voice. “I love him dearly, just as much, you know —”
He pushed the table aside, and came across to her. “Jane, do you — could you possibly care for me? I’ve been so horrible, but it was because I loved you. Can you understand that? I loved you all the time. I thought you were perfect, and then, when you seemed — when I saw you with those m
en, you died to me. You weren’t there at all — it wasn’t you. You were something I had dreamed about, something that didn’t exist. But now I know you. You are alive to me again — how can I make you understand?”
“I do understand,” she said.
He kneeled down, and put his arms round her, their lips met very gently. “Oh, Jane!” he said, “you’re too good for me.”
“I’m too old for you,” she said, with a little laugh of happiness, “but I don’t suppose that matters much — as things are. You haven’t much choice, my poor David.”
“You don’t need a choice if you can have perfection,” he told her softly.
He kissed her eyes, and her hair, slowly and lingeringly. Jane lay still and let him, she was all his. She realised that she had loved him for a long time, she had loved him when she sent him away from the aerodrome with insults and gibes, perhaps even before that, who could tell. Was it the thought of David which had influenced her decision to return to the others when Sir Richard had outlined his plan? Had she craved for him then, subconsciously? It was so long ago that she could scarcely remember her feelings, and yet, in actual time, it was barely a month. It was barely a month since the electric storm had wrecked civilisation, but how much had happened in that short four weeks.
Jane moved a little restlessly in the tenderly enfolding arms.
“What is it?” he asked quickly.
“I was thinking about Sir Richard,” she said. “I’m so fond of him, David. It seems unkind to — to do this to him, especially when he’s so ill.”
“We must get him well before we tell him,” replied David, “but I think he only wants your happiness, Jane.”
“He said so,” Jane admitted.
“We shall be there, near him, helping him,” David continued. “He will have you near him. I don’t think he will want more than that — just to see you happy. You will be happy, Jane?”
She put her arms round his neck and kissed him; it was a good answer, and David was satisfied with it.
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