And now they were stirring and raising themselves up from the mattresses, and their eyes were changing. The sadness and hopelessness was fading, and a fierce intense hatred was taking its place. Appalled by what he saw Simon jack-knifed to his feet, but quick as he had been, they too had leaped up and were upon him.
Mathieu closed with him and his scrawny arms had in them all the strength of steel. Exerting every ounce of his considerable force Simon was barely holding his own with his assailant. And then the girl, uttering a piercing shriek of passionate and diabolical rage, snatched up a curved knife from the altar and clawed herself up upon his back.
Simon knew that he was being overpowered and had no chance and, weak with fear for the first time in his life, started to shout for help. The girl had twisted her hand into his hair and was forcing back his head, exposing his throat. And the knife flashed once in the light from the unshaded bulb. Simon’s cries ceased, smothered and silenced by the bubbling blood that gushed into his windpipe.
There came the patter of running feet, and of calling, and amid a great confusion and tumult the door was burst open and Emanuel Louis ran into the room. Almost at his feet lay the body of Simon Cust, the throat from which his lifeblood was pouring had been slit from ear to ear like that of a sacrificial animal.
Emanuel’s eyes passed on to the dirty matting on the floor where a beef sandwich was oozing from its torn wrapping. It was clear to him what had taken place. His charges had been fed meat. Meat and salt; those were the forbidden foods of zombies, the keys which would give them back their memories, and the interfering fool had not known it. So they had turned and rent the first man they had seen, judging him to have been responsible for their final degradation.
The two occupants of the shabby room, blood spattered and with their arms hanging loosely by their sides and nearly to their knees, brushed past him blindly. Along the passage, lined with horrified Negroes, they went, and passed unmolested down the stairs and out into the deserted street.
Emanuel Louis let them go, for it was useless to try to stop them, and then in his turn he paced through the waiting and watching men and women and went down to the hall and to the telephone. As he reached it a woman began to wail from above and soon all had taken it up in a weird and uncanny lament.
Having made his call, Emanuel Louis sat on a hard chair by the booth and waited. He had not long to wait. In a very few minutes there was a screech of tyres as a squad car braked to a halt in front of the house and there was a roar of motor bicycles, and the hall became filled with policemen, two of them middle-aged and in plain clothes, and a uniformed constable, and a young Hercules in crash helmet and leather-encased legs who stood behind them with his hands planted on his belt. From the street more men could be heard arriving.
Emanuel Louis led them up to the room where Simon Cust was lying, and for a moment the men stood in a shocked semi-circle eyeing the body. The smaller of the plain clothes men was the first to speak. “Stop those damned niggers making such a bloody din, can’t you?” he said. “It’s enough to turn your stomach.”
His companion also swivelled round to face Emanuel Louis. “Well,” he said, “are you going to tell me which one of you is responsible?”
The plump little man stared back at him sorrowfully. “I am going to tell you,” he said. “Those who have done this thing have gone. They have gone I do not know where, but it will be to the west.”
“What’s that?” demanded the police officer. “You admit that you know the identity of the murderers? Why the hell did you let them get away?”
“They will be making for the west,” said Emanuel Louis once again, scarcely seeing the stern and stolid faces that surrounded him, “for when the Living Dead realize what they really are, they always head for the graves from which they have been dragged.”
THE LESSON
The party had thinned out, as well it might, since the hour was past nine o’clock, and the invitation had clearly stated “Cocktails 6.0–8.0.” However, a hard core was apt to remain, and in this case the lingerers comprised Waveney and Milton Payne and “Mumso” Vivian. And Oscar Landmore.
Oscar had become extremely drunk. He had long since taken over the duties of host from Rupert, and seemed to be ever present at somebody’s elbow with a freshly made jug of Martinis in his hand, or else hovering by the table on which clustered bottles of whisky and half emptied siphons, exhorting one and all to refill their glasses with that warm and enveloping hospitality shown by a fellow guest who has no plans of his own for the evening.
He weaved up to Mrs. Vivian. “Can I get you another ‘mumso,’ Bloody Mary?” he inquired with cheerful solicitude.
Mrs. Vivian was not amused. She did not care for drunks, whom she found tedious. She considered that Gina and Rupert should make a point of discouraging such conduct as Oscar Landmore’s. The handsomely beautiful woman gave him a look which would have gone far towards quelling a mutiny. “Nothing more for me,” she told him coldly. The Paynes were saying good-bye. She was dining with them and playing bridge, otherwise she would have taken her leave long before. She wondered how Bobby Clarke, who was to make their fourth, had liked being kept waiting.
“On Thursday, Gina,” Waveney was saying, “and no more grumbling about the stairs! If Honor can manage them then so can you. It’s not absolutely necessary to have had a sherpa’s training if you lunch with me!” she finished with a touch of tartness. They moved together into the red papered hall, raising a hand or nodding to Oscar as they collected their coats and prepared to go out into the rainy November night.
“I’ll come down with you,” Gina said. “You’ll never find the lights. They’re automatic and turn themselves off. It’s one of the management’s economies. A sort of battle of wits and mobility—a combined operation which a novice has no chance of winning.”
Rather to her astonishment Rupert followed them into the lift. It was a tight squeeze. Grouped in the doorway and peering out into the rain they saw that it had increased in density and was sheeting down. They stayed bunched together and talking in the lobby for quite a long time, hoping that it would ease off, for the Paynes had been forced to park their car on the other side of the Square. Finally Milton said to his wife: “I’ll go. It’s useless waiting any longer. You girls stay here.” He turned up the collar of his coat and plunged gallantly into the deluge.
As they turned away from seeing off their departing guests Gina said: “We’ll have to ask Oscar to dine, darling. He’s nowhere to go, and is really in no fit state to be turned loose.”
Rupert groaned. “I thought we’d arranged to eat out,” he said. “I’m not taking him with us to ‘Umberto’s’. He’d tack around it like an out of control sand yacht.”
“We’ll have to get something from the delicatessen,” Gina said, “and stay here. It’s not very far and doesn’t close until ten. I’ll fill him up with black coffee, so for God’s sake don’t give him any more booze.” She discouraged Oscar’s visits from becoming too frequent, for when he came to see them Rupert, under his friend’s influence, was inclined to drink too much himself. In fact, glancing at him, she thought that her husband was a little high even now.
“What a bore he is!” said Rupert, oblivious of Gina’s unspoken criticism and more than half to please her.
They had known Oscar Landmore for many years and known him well, Rupert especially, in fact the two of them had been together at Harrow. As a young man Oscar had been gay and amusing and greatly in demand, but at forty a large and regular daily intake of alcohol had become a “must” to keep him going, and not just a pleasurable social stimulant. He had remained kindly and obliging, and was totally ineffective, and children were still able to appreciate his innate goodness and gave him their confidence and love. He was usually hazy and rather fuddled, a happy prisoner in a world of his own, unconsciously trading on the memories of days gone by
.
He had been married at one time to a rich and attractive American wife and their union had lasted for six years, but his lack of ambition and his unreliability had wearied her and she had left him and subsequently remarried, and his existence now had grown aimless and a shade pathetic. If one were lucky enough to catch him sober he possessed a lot of his former charm, but such occasions were becoming less and less frequent, yet for old times sake it was impossible to shrug him off uncaringly. His boyish good looks had vanished, and his laughing eyes, which had been of a bright blue and which had been his chief attraction, were faded and slightly milky, and sad and affectionate and compassionate in the puffy face.
As Rupert unlocked the door of their flat and fumbled with the key in the lock there came the sound of scampering feet from the direction of the small bedroom to their left. “Milo!” called Gina. She tried to sound stern. The child should have been asleep an hour ago, although she had to admit that the racket of the party would have made actual slumber difficult, if not impossible, but tomorrow was a school day, which had been one of the reasons why her seven-year-old son had been packed off to bed early. It had been arranged for him to go to his grandmother in Felixstowe for the week-end, but Rupert had grown stubborn and had said that he must wait until Saturday. Already he had started to fuss about the child missing his lessons.
Milo adored Oscar, which was another factor for his having been confined to his room—to save both of them from mutual embarrassment. It would distress the boy to see his idol staggering and behaving foolishly, and for the same reason Oscar, too, had a right to their protection.
Gina went into her own room to comb her hair and Rupert crossed over to the bed in which the little boy was lying with screwed-up eyes and as rigid as if held in the grip of rigor mortis rather than in the more relaxed one of sleep. Beside him on the pillow reclined Penny, an ancient broken-beaked and battered penguin that had lost most of its stuffing, and to which Milo had been fiercely attached ever since babyhood.
His father pulled out his watch and saw that they had been away for more than twenty minutes. He wondered how much more of his whisky Oscar had managed to consume. They would have to hurry if they were to get to the shop before it shut. Rupert prodded his son with his thumb. “You’re not fooling me!” he said. “What exactly have you been up to?”
Milo kept his eyes closed, but he could not help smiling. “Um?” he said, and gave a prodigious yawn.
“You’ve been to the drawing-room,” said Rupert accusingly, “to see Oscar. Haven’t you?”
The little boy sat up abruptly, his face bright with excitement. “Yes, Father. We’ve been playing at space warfare. He was a wicked Martian and I was Jeff Hawke and I captured him with my deadly paralyzing ray-gun and made him my prisoner, and I tied him up with a helmet over his head as our atmosphere is too strong for him, and now he can’t move at all as I’ve trussed him up so well,” he finished with satisfaction.
“A helmet?” queried Rupert.
“Well,” Milo admitted reluctantly, “I broke my proper one, so it was a plastic bag really, the one that Mummy’s new yellow jersey was packed in. It’s a bit crinkly, but it does O.K. for a space helmet if you’re not too fussy. And then just as I finished I heard you coming back so I jumped into bed so that you would find Oscar as a surprise. We arranged it between us. I had to climb on to a chair to do it,” he went on, “but I must admit that he was quite copulative,” he added graciously.
Rupert grinned. “I think that ‘co-operative’ is the word you mean,” he said, “and it was wise of you to get back into bed,” he added drily.
“Why, what does the other word mean?” Milo inquired.
His father laughed. “It is capable of several interpretations,” he said.
Gina joined them and bent to tuck Milo up and kissed him good night and then lingered, while Rupert went on to the scene of rather squalid chaos that is the aftermath of cocktail parties.
He found that the Martian prisoner had been roped to one of the three pillars which separated the dining alcove from the drawing-room, and that Milo had made a professional job of securing him. As Rupert came in Oscar inhaled and blew out his cheeks, unable to speak owing to the balled up handkerchief which had been stuffed into his mouth. Being a natural comedian and greatly addicted to playing the fool he rolled imploring eyes desperately at his host, who professed to ignore his presence.
Rupert lit a cigarette before going over to release him, then, when he was reaching out to do so, he changed his mind. “You can stay right there where you are, old fellow,” he said, “and sober up.” He glanced meaningly at the drink table. “We’re generously inviting you to dine and we’ve got to go out and get the food, so be a good fellow while we’re gone. We won’t be more than ten minutes, and you’re staying trussed up until we return.” Rupert shook a clenched fist at Oscar in mock anger. “It will serve you right for over-exciting Milo, who was given strict instructions not to get out of his bed!”
Gina caught a glimpse of part of the captive from where she was standing in the hall. “There’s no need for you to come, Rupert,” she said. “Take the dirty glasses and empty bottles into the kitchen for me and start tidying up, there’s a darling.”
“I want to come,” Rupert insisted. “I could do with a breath of fresh air.”
“Then untie poor Oscar first.”
“The hell I will!” Rupert inspected his son’s handiwork. “Oscar must be taught a lesson.” The knots were tight, but not so tight as to be painful. He straightened up and brushed a scatter of cigarette ash from his waistcoat. “He’ll do,” he said with quiet satisfaction. He gave a friendly grin to Oscar, who was growing alarmingly red in the face with his futile efforts to communicate. “’Bye, old boy!” he called. As they passed Milo’s door he said: “That child is wonderful with his hands. Even Houdini would have had a problem getting out of that lot!”
“’Night, Milo,” Gina called out. “If you get up again I’ll skin you alive. ’Night, ducky.”
“’Night, Mummy.”
The rain was not quite so heavy, and they hurried across the pavement to where they had left their tiny Austin, and Rupert laboriously arranged his long length behind the steering wheel, jabbing with impatience at the lever with which to push back the seat for extra leg room. The windscreen wipers went into valiant frenzied action. He engaged the gear and the car jerked forward. Gina looked at him anxiously, “Would you sooner that I drove?” she suggested.
“No, thank you. I’m perfectly capable of driving.” He spoke shortly, annoyed by her implication that was a questioning of his sobriety.
Gina compressed her lips and said no more until he had overshot the turning which he should have taken. She sat tensely, aware now that she should have insisted upon driving. Rupert swerved violently to avoid a wavering bicycle that had no rear light, and the front wheel of the Austin bumped jarringly against the kerb. “Do be careful, Rupert,” she said, then added: “You’ll have to take the second on the right. Macey Street has been made one way.”
“We’ve got to step on it,” Rupert said. “They’ll be shut in five minutes.”
“For God’s sake!” said Gina as an island with concrete defenses veered towards them. “Rupert, stop! Let me drive. Don’t be so idiotic. The road’s like glass. What’s so important about buying a tin of tunny fish and a packet of spaghetti compared to life?”
Rupert did not answer. He kept his eyes straight ahead, the line of his mouth sullen. They arrived at the delicatessen just as the shutters were going up. Gina hurried in. A few minutes later she returned carrying her parcel. Rupert had not got over his annoyance and began to drive away with exaggerated caution. While they waited for the traffic lights to change to green he relented and said: “Milo’s certainly an imaginative little beggar.”
“Yes,” said Gina. “I think that he is
.” She was always ready to discuss her child. “In what way in particular?” she asked.
“Using your plastic bag as a space helmet,” said Rupert laughing. “The one that your jersey from Harrods was packed in.”
“Helmet . . .” she said. “What do you mean, ‘helmet’?”
“The bag. He crowned Oscar with it!”
“Was that what it was?” Gina was silent for a moment and then drew in her breath and laid a hand on Rupert’s sleeve. “Rupert,” she said urgently. “He’ll be in danger. Oscar. Was it tied round his neck? If so, he won’t be able to breathe properly—there’ll be no oxygen.”
Her husband did not answer immediately. “I believe that it was,” he said thoughtfully. “What a bloody fool I’ve been!”
“Then for the love of Christ hurry!” said Gina. “I read only the other day that a baby had suffocated itself in that way—in a matter of minutes.”
Rupert looked at her appalled before putting his foot hard down on the accelerator, and the small car shot forward out of the side turning which led on to Chelsea Embankment.
A van had been parked on the corner, obscuring their view of the road, and as they shot forward past it they saw too late that an enormous lorry was bearing down on them at speed from the right. The driver of the vehicle was perched in his cab far above their heads. The immense wheels loomed over them. There was the tear of crumpling metal, a screeching of brakes, and Gina instinctively raised an arm to try and shield her face as a shower of splintered glass fell in from the shattered windscreen. The Austin turned over onto its side, entangled with the lorry, and was dragged along. Then there was nothing but confusion and agony and darkness.
The Smell of Evil Page 11