The Death of Grass

by John Christopher

  Roger thought about this for a moment. He said:

  ‘Yes. O.K.’

  ‘But you don’t know what it’s going to be like in London!’ Ann said. ‘There may be rioting. Surely there can’t be anything important enough to make you take risks like that?’

  ‘From now on,’ Roger said, ‘if we’re going to survive we shall have to take risks. If you want to know, I’m going back for firearms. Things are breaking up faster than I thought they would. But there’s no danger back there this evening.

  Ann said: ‘I want you to stay, John.’

  ‘Now, Ann…’ John began.

  Roger broke in. ‘If we want to kill ourselves, wasting time in wrangling is as good a way as any. This party’s got to have a leader, and his word has got to be acted on as soon as it’s spoken. Toss you for it, Johnny.’

  ‘No. It’s yours.’

  Roger took a half-crown from his pocket. He spun it up.

  ‘Call!’

  They watched the twinkling nickel-silver. ‘Heads,’ John said. The coin hit the metalled road and rolled into the gutter. Roger bent down to look at it.

  ‘All yours,’ he said. ‘Well?’

  John kissed Ann, and then got out of the car. ‘We’ll be back as soon as possible,’ he said.

  Ann commented bitterly: ‘Are we chattels again already?’

  Roger laughed. ‘The world’s great age,’ he said, ‘begins anew, the golden years return.’

  ‘We can just make it,’ Roger said. ‘He doesn’t put up the shutters until six. Only a little business – one man and a boy – but he’s got some useful stock.’

  They were driving now through the chaos of rush-hour in Central London. On that chaos, the usual rough-and-ready pattern was imposed by traffic lights and white-armed policemen. There was no sign of anything out of the ordinary. As the lights turned green in front of their car, the familiar breaker of jay-walkers swelled across the road.

  ‘Sheep,’ John said bitterly, ‘for the slaughter.’

  Roger glanced at him. ‘Let’s hope they stay that way. See it clearly and see it whole. Quite a few millions have got to die. Our concern is to avoid joining them.’

  Just past the lights, he pulled off the main street into a narrow side-street. It was five minutes to six.

  ‘Will he serve us?’ John asked.

  Roger pulled in to the kerb, opposite a little shop displaying sporting guns. He put the car in neutral, but left the engine running.

  ‘He will,’ he said, ‘one way or another.’

  There was no one in the shop except the proprietor, a small hunched man, with a deferential salesman’s face and incongruously watchful eyes. He looked about sixty.

  Roger said: ‘Evening, Mr Pirrie. Just caught you?’

  Mr Pirrie’s hands rested on the counter. ‘Well – Mr Buckley, isn’t it? Yes, I was just closing. Anything I can get you?’

  Roger said: ‘Well, let me see. Couple of revolvers, couple of good rifles with telescopic sights; and the ammo of course. And do you stock automatics?’

  Pirrie smiled gently. ‘Licence?’

  Roger had advanced until he was standing on the other side of the counter from the old man. ‘Do you think it’s worth bothering about that?’ he asked. ‘You know I’m not a gunman. I want the stuff in a hurry, and I’ll give you more than fair price for it.’

  Pirrie’s head shook slightly; his eyes did not leave Roger’s face.

  ‘I don’t do that kind of business.’

  ‘Well, what about that little .22 rifle over there?’

  Roger pointed. Pirrie’s eyes looked in the same direction, and as they did so, Roger leapt for his throat. John thought at first that the little man had caved in under the attack, but a moment later he saw him clear of Roger and standing back. His right hand held a revolver.

  He said: ‘Stand still, Mr Buckley. And your friend. The trouble with raiding a gunsmiths is that you are likely to encounter a man who has some small skill in handling weapons. Please don’t interrupt me while I telephone.’

  He had backed away until his free hand was near the telephone.

  Roger said sharply: ‘Wait a minute. I’ve got something to offer you.’

  ‘I don’t think so.’

  ‘Your life?’

  Pirrie’s hand held the telephone handpiece, but had not yet lifted it. He smiled. ‘Surely not.’

  ‘Why do you think I tried to knock you out? You can’t imagine I would do it if I weren’t desperate.’

  ‘I’m inclined to agree with you on that,’ Pirrie said politely. ‘I should not have let anyone else come so close to overpowering me, but one does not expect desperation in a senior Civil Servant. Not so violent a desperation, at least.’

  Roger said: ‘We have left our families in a car just off the Great North Road. There’s room for another if you care to join us.’

  ‘I understand,’ Pirrie said, ‘that travel out of London is temporarily forbidden.’

  Roger nodded. ‘That’s one reason we wanted the arms. We’re getting out to-night.’

  ‘You didn’t get the arms.’

  ‘Your credit, not my discredit,’ Roger said, ‘and damn well you know it.’

  Pirrie removed his hand from the telephone. ‘Perhaps you would care to give me a brief explanation of your urgent need for arms and for getting out of London.’

  He listened, without interrupting, while Roger talked. At the end, he said softly:

  ‘A farm, you say, in a valley? A valley that can be defended?’

  ‘By half a dozen,’ John put in, ‘against an army.’

  Pirrie lowered the revolver he held. ‘I had a telephone call this afternoon,’ he said, ‘from the local Superintendent of Police. He asked me if I wanted a guard here. He seemed very concerned for my safety, and the only explanation he offered was that there were some silly rumours about, which might lead to trouble.’

  ‘He didn’t insist on a guard?’ Roger asked.

  ‘No. I suppose there would have been the disadvantage that a police guard becomes conspicuous.’ He nodded politely to Roger. ‘You will understand how I chanced to be so well prepared for you.’

  ‘And now?’ John pressed him. ‘Do you believe us?’

  Pirrie sighed. ‘I believe that you believe it. Apart from that, I have been wondering myself if there were any reasonable way of getting out of London. Even without fully crediting your tale, I do not care to be compulsorily held here. And your tale does not strain my credulity as much, perhaps, as it ought. Living with guns, as I have done, one loses the habit of looking for gentleness in men.’

  Roger said: ‘Right. Which guns do we take?’

  Pirrie turned slightly, and this time picked up the telephone. Automatically, Roger moved towards him. Pirrie looked at the gun in his hand, and tossed it to Roger.

  ‘I am telephoning to my wife,’ he said. ‘We live in St John’s Wood. I imagine that if you can get two cars out, you can get three? The extra vehicle may come in useful.’

  He was dialling the number. Roger said warningly:

  ‘Careful what you say over that.’

  Pirrie said into the mouthpiece: ‘Hello, my dear. I’m just preparing to leave. I thought it might be nice to pay a visit to the Rosenblums this evening – yes, the Rosenblums. Get things ready, would you? I shall be right along.’

  He replaced the receiver. ‘The Rosenblums,’ he explained, ‘live in Leeds. Millicent is very quick to perceive things.’

  Roger looked at him with respect. ‘My God, she must be! I can see that both you and Millicent are going to be very useful members of the group. By the way, we had previously decided that this kind of party needs a leader.’

  Pirrie nodded. ‘You?’

  ‘No. John Custance here.’

  Pirrie surveyed John briefly. ‘Very well. Now, the weapons. I will set them out, and you can start carrying them to your car.’

  They were taking out the last of the ammunition when a police constable strolled
towards them. He looked with some interest at the little boxes.

  ‘Evening, Mr Pirrie,’ he said. ‘Transferring stock?’

  ‘This is for your people,’ Pirrie said. ‘They asked for it. Keep an eye on the shop, will you? We’ll be back for some more later on.’

  ‘Do what I can, sir,’ the policeman said doubtfully, ‘but I’ve got a beat to cover, you know.’

  Pirrie finished padlocking the front door. ‘My little joke,’ he said, ‘but your people start the rumours.’

  As they pulled away, John said: ‘Lucky he didn’t ask what your two helpers were up to.’

  ‘The genus Constable,’ Pirrie said, ‘is very inquisitive once its curiosity is aroused. Providing you can avoid that, you have no cause to worry. Just off St John’s Wood High Street. I’ll direct you particularly from there.’

  On Pirrie’s direction, they drew up behind an ancient Ford. Pirrie called: ‘Millicent!’ in a clear, loud voice, and a woman got out of the car and came back to them. She was a good twenty years younger than Pirrie, about his height, with features dark and attractive, if somewhat sharp.

  ‘Have you packed?’ Pirrie asked her. ‘We aren’t coming back.’

  She accepted this casually. She said, in a slightly Cockney voice: ‘Everything we’ll need, I think. What’s it all about? I’ve asked Hilda to look after the cat.’

  ‘Poor pussy,’ said Pirrie. ‘But I fear we must abandon her. I’ll explain things on the way.’ He turned to the other two. ‘I will join Millicent from this point.’

  Roger was staring at the antique car in front of them. ‘I don’t want to seem rude,’ he said, ‘but mightn’t it be better if you piled your stuff in with ours? We could manage it quite easily.’

  Pirrie smiled as he got out of the car. ‘A left fork just short of Wrotham Park?’ he queried. ‘We’ll find you there, shall we?’

  Roger shrugged. Pirrie escorted his wife to the car ahead. Roger started up his own car and cruised slowly past them. He and John were startled, a moment later, when the Ford ripped past with an altogether improbable degree of acceleration, checked at the intersection, and then slid away on to the main road. Roger started after it, but by the time he had got into the stream of traffic it was lost to sight.

  They did not see it again until they reached the Great North Road. Pirrie’s Ford was waiting for them, and thereafter followed demurely.

  They had their suppers separately in their individual cars. Once they were out of London, they would eat communally, but a picnic here might attract attention. They had parked at discreet distances also.

  Roger had explained his plan to John, and he had approved it. By eleven o’clock the road they were in was deserted; London’s outer suburbs were at rest. But they did not move until midnight. It was a moonless night, but there was light from the widely spaced lamp standards. The children slept in the rear seats of the cars. Ann sat beside John in the front.

  She shivered. ‘Surely there’s another way of getting out?’

  He stared ahead into the dim shadowy road. ‘I can’t think of one.’

  She looked at him. ‘You aren’t the same person, are you? The idea of quite calmly planning murder… It’s more grotesque than horrible.’

  ‘Ann,’ he said. ‘Davey is thirty miles away, but he might as well be thirty million if we let ourselves be persuaded into remaining in this trap.’ He nodded his head towards the rear seat, where Mary lay bundled up. ‘And it isn’t only ourselves.’

  ‘But the odds are so terribly against you.’

  He laughed. ‘Does that affect the morality of it? As a matter of fact, without Pirrie the odds would have been steep. I think they’re quite reasonable now. A Bisley shot was just what we needed.’

  ‘Must you shoot to kill?’

  He began to say: ‘It’s a matter of safety…’ He felt the car creak over; Roger had come up quietly and was leaning on the open window.

  ‘O.K.?’ Roger asked. ‘We’ve got Olivia and Steve in with Millicent.’

  John got out of the car. He said to Ann:

  ‘Remember – you and Millicent bring these cars up as soon as you hear the horn. You can feel your way forward a little if you like, but it will carry well enough at this time of night.’

  Ann stared up to him. ‘Good luck.’

  ‘Nothing in it,’ he said.

  They went back to Roger’s car, where Pirrie was already waiting. Then Roger drove slowly forward, past John’s parked car, along the deserted road. It had already been reconnoitred earlier in the evening, and they knew where the last bend before the road-block was. They stopped there, and John and Pirrie slipped out and disappeared into the night. Five minutes later, Roger re-started the engine and accelerated noisily towards the road-block.

  Reconnaissance had shown the block to be held by a corporal and two soldiers. Two of these could be presumed to be sleeping; the third stood by the wooden barrier, his automatic slung from his shoulder.

  The car slammed to a halt. The guard hefted his automatic into a readier position.

  Roger leaned out of the window. He shouted:

  ‘What the hell’s that bloody contraption doing in the middle of the road? Get it shifted, man!’

  He sounded drunk, and verging on awkwardness. The guard called down:

  ‘Sorry, sir. Road closed. All roads out of London closed.’

  ‘Well, get the flaming things open again! Get this one open, anyway. I want to get home.’

  From his position in the left-hand ditch, John watched. Strangely, he felt no particular tension; he floated free, attached to the scene only by admiration of Roger’s noisy expostulation.

  Another figure appeared beside the original soldier and, after a moment, a third. The car’s headlights diffused upwards off the metalled road; the three figures were outlined, mistily but with reasonable definition, on the other side of the wooden barrier. A second voice, presumably the corporal’s said:

  ‘We’re carrying out orders. We don’t want any trouble. You clear off back, mate. All right?’

  ‘Is it hell all right! What do you bloody little tin soldiers think you’re up to, putting fences across the road?’

  The corporal said dangerously: ‘That’ll do from you. You’ve been told to turn round. I don’t want any more lip.’

  ‘Why don’t you try turning me round?’ Roger asked. His voice was thick and ugly. ‘There are too many bloody useless military in this country, doing damn’ all and eating good rations!’

  ‘All right, mate,’ the corporal said, ‘you asked for it.’ He nodded to the other two. ‘Come on. We’ll turn this loud-mouthed bleeder’s car round for him.’

  They clambered over the barrier, and advanced into the pool of brightness from the headlights.

  Roger said: ‘Advance the guards,’ his voice sneering.

  Now, suddenly, the tension caught John. The white line in the centre of the road marked off his territory from Pirrie’s. The corporal and the original sentry were on that side; the third soldier was nearer to him. They walked forward, shielding their eyes from the glare.

  He felt sweat start under his arms and along his legs. He brought the rifle up and tried to hold it steady. At any fraction of a second, he must crook his finger and kill this man, unknown, innocent. He had killed in the war, but never from such close range, and never a fellow-countryman. Sweat seemed to stream on his forehead; he was afraid of it blinding his eyes, but dared not risk disturbing his aim to wipe it off. Clay-pipes at a fairground, he thought – a clay-pipe that must be shattered, for Ann, for Mary and Davey. His throat was dry.

  Roger’s voice split the night again, but incisive now and sober: ‘All – right!’

  The first shot came before the final word, and two others followed while it was still in the air. John still stood, with his rifle aiming, as the three figures slumped into the dazzle of the road. He did not move until he saw Pirrie, having advanced from his own position, stooping over them. Then he dropped his rifle to his si
de, and walked on to the road himself.

  Roger got out of the car. Pirrie looked up at John.

  ‘I must apologize for poaching, partner,’ he said. His voice was as cool and precise as ever. ‘They were such a good lie.’

  ‘Dead?’ Roger asked.

  Pirrie nodded. ‘Of course.’

  ‘Then we’ll clear them into the ditch first,’ Roger said. ‘After that, the barrier. I don’t think we’re likely to be surprised, but we don’t want to take chances.’

  The body that John pulled away was limp and heavy. He avoided looking at the face at first. Then, in the shadow at the side of the road, he glanced at it. A lad, not more than twenty, his face young and unmarked except for the hole in one temple, gouting blood. The other two had already dropped their burdens and gone over to the barrier. They had their backs to him. He bent and kissed the unwounded side of the forehead, and eased the body down with gentleness.

  It did not take them long to clear the barrier. On the other side equipment lay scattered; this, too, was thrown into the ditch. Then Roger ran back to the car, and pressed the horn button, holding it down for several seconds. Its harsh note tolled on the air like a bell.

  Roger pulled the car over to the side. They waited. In a few moments they heard the sound of cars approaching. John’s Vauxhall came first, closely followed by Pirrie’s Ford. The Vauxhall stopped, and Ann moved over as John opened the door and got in. He pushed the accelerator pedal down hard.

  Ann said: ‘Where are they?’

  She was looking out of the side window.

  ‘In the ditch,’ he said, as the car pulled away.

  After that, for some miles, they drove in silence.

  According to plan, they kept off the main roads. They finished up in a remote lane bordering a wood, near Stapleford. There, under overhanging oaks, they had cocoa from thermos flasks, with only the internal lights of one car on. Roger’s Citroen was convertible into a bed, and the three women were put into that, the children being comfortable enough on the rear seats of the other two cars. The men took blankets and slept under the trees.