The Doomsday Carrier

by Victor Canning

  Bluntly, he said, “No, you shouldn’t. That’s what you and the rest of the people at Fadledean have done and would do—but always from a safe distance. In a handful of days Charlie will be walking death. A whiff of his breath, a single droplet of his spittle, a flea bite from one of his fleas, a drink of water into which he’s piddled—and bingo! And after Charlie the time would come when a few men could fly tourist to any country and plague would fly in with them. What difference is there?”

  “None at all.”

  “Full marks for honesty. But what happens to the Fadledean types when they get beyond it, when age or conscience unsteadies their hands or doubts fog their minds? A cottage with a garden and a fat pension? Or, more likely, a safe billet in some University, distinguished fellows or dons, with an eye open for likely graduates, the bright boys and girls, the potential Nobel prize winners, maybe? Looking through their microscopes, shaking up their test tubes and dreaming dark dreams. You and I and our kind are killers. The only point I would make—not a plea for mercy or mitigation—is that every man, woman and child I’ve killed has been killed quickly, not coughing up their lungs from some foul gas or lingering while a filthy disease eats them away. Crude, isn’t it? But true—and I say it without anger or any personal condemnation of you. For us both the whole affair has long been academic. And now, for both of us, our masters have decided that our specific usefulness has gone. Nothing left but to be turned out to pasture. . . for me. And you?”

  Jean was silent for a while. Every word he had said was true, the bleakness of spirit behind his talk unmasked almost totally. So, what was there for her?

  She said, “I suppose I shall get married and wait for memory to fade enough to leave me comfortable.”

  “Quite right. As my father’s favourite poet said, time at last will set all things even.” He nodded at her left hand. “Who will it be? George Freemantle? You still wear his ring.”

  “So I do. And so I shall until I can give it back to him personally.”

  “To run a risk that you really at heart want to run?”

  Jean stood up, and he rose with her. She said evenly, “I’m going to bed.”

  “Why not?”

  He walked up with her and at her bedroom he stepped past her and opened the door. As she went in he followed her and when she turned, facing him with a frown, he said, “Children get scared by bad dreams at night and seek comfort. So do men and women, not because they’re scared but sometimes because they want the comfort of forgetting their own identities.”

  For a moment or two she was on the verge of rejecting him angrily, but the words died in her mind. She looked at him and the brown deeply creased face was impassive, the overhead light turning the grey hatching of his hair to silver and his body was still, ready to turn to or from her with a calm indifference as to which it might be so that she guessed that it was not only comfort he sought for himself but comfort for her if she needed it.

  She said, “Yes, I’d like you to stay.”

  He walked to her telephone, called the switchboard and said, “If there’s a call for me during the night ring this number.” Then he went to her wardrobe and opening it took down the bottle of whisky from the top shelf.

  As he turned and smiled, she said, “You’ve searched this room before?”

  “Naturally. But I’m off duty now. We’ll have to make do with the bathroom glasses for our nightcap. Minor comforts before the major ones.”

  Waking during the night with him sleeping at her side she wondered how Charlie was passing this night. . . man, woman and ape all adrift.

  * * * *

  Charlie, since the light never died completely from the sky of the midsummer night and the attack by the gamekeeper had disturbed him, wandered eight miles north-west along the line of a disused railway track. For most of its way the track ran through deep cuttings, their sides now thickly tangled with thorns and briars and the bed of the track carpeted with a flourishing growth of flowers and weeds. Hawking pipestrelle bats hunted the soft-winged moths and rabbits, hearing Charlie’s approach, ran for their burrows, white scuts signalling alarm to others of their kind. The air was still and balmy. A plane went over with its navigation lights winking and Charlie sat down and watched it, chattering softly to himself. The few pellet shots he had suffered had long ceased to worry him. Finding an old tin can, he picked it up and moved on, throwing it ahead of him and then racing to retrieve it. He played with the can for a while as he progressed and then abandoned it as his eye was caught by the pale light of a glow-worm in a patch of weeds. He squatted by it and touched it with one finger cautiously. The light went out. He sat and waited and the light came on after a while. He touched it again and this time the light went out and stayed out. Charlie picked up the grub and ate it and shuffled away.

  Half an hour later he came to a part of the track where it ran level with the surrounding fields. Close to one of the field fences a small bivouac-type tent had been pitched. Propped against the fence were two bicycles. The front of the tent was open against the warmth of the night and stacked outside it were two cardboard boxes. Charlie sat down by one of the boxes and opened its cardboard flaps. Inside, among other things, was a wrapped loaf of sliced bread and a bottle of milk. Charlie poked a finger through the tin foil cover of the bottle and drank clumsily from it, the milk spilling over his chin and throat. Then he tore the wrapper from the loaf and stuffed three slices of bread into his mouth and sat quietly chewing. Inside the tent a young man and a girl slept soundly in a large sleeping-bag. The girl mumbled something in her sleep. Attracted by the noise and having no real fear of human beings, Charlie swallowed his bread and moved into the tent. He squatted by the girl. When in sleep she muttered again he put out a finger and touched the side of her face gently and gave a few soft pant-hoots. The girl stirred and turned her head away, her loose hair lying across her pillow close to Charlie’s hand.

  The young man at her side, disturbed by her movement, turned towards her and in his sleep threw out a bare arm across her shoulders and said from the depth of some dream, ‘So I told him. Yes, I told him—and that was that . . .’ His words mumbled away into silence.

  Charlie reached out and gathered up a thick tress of the girl’s hair. For a moment or two he fingered it gently. The girl shook her head in sleep. The movement excited Charlie who drew back his lips and through partly closed teeth gave a friendly but loud series of waa-waa-waas and tugged at the long hair.

  The girl woke suddenly, sat up, and found herself looking into the grimacing face of Charlie. For a moment the girl stared at Charlie who pushed his lips forward in a great pout and hoo-hooed at her. The girl screamed, a long, high-pitched scream, and the suddenness of the noise startled and panicked Charlie, and woke the young man. The girl screamed again and struck at Charlie who leaped away and ran in his sudden alarm towards the closed end of the tent. He hit the thin upright pole at the back of the tent. It snapped at his weight and the fabric collapsed over him in dark folds. Thoroughly frightened now by the canvas about him and the screams of the girl and the shouting of the young man, Charlie fought his way free of the fabric and back towards the front of the tent. He jumped over the young man as he was struggling out of the sleeping-bag and somersaulted out of the tent, hitting the front pole with his full body force and snapping it so that the whole of the tent canvas slowly settled down over the two campers in an untidy heavy mantle from underneath which came the screams of the frightened girl and the angry swearing and shouting of the young man.

  Moving quickly, upset and frightened, Charlie vaulted the field fence and headed straight across it, travelling fast on all fours and scattering a flock of sheep. It was some time before the alarm in Charlie died away and he slackened off his pace.

  As the first larks began to rise to greet with their song the strengthening return of daylight, Charlie came out of a small fir copse bordering a rough side road. He crossed the road and followed a narrow path which passed through a small water meado
w. Beyond the meadow was a stretch of canal over which the path was carried by a humped-backed bridge. Charlie crossed the bridge and veered away up the canal path. To his right a main railway line ran parallel with the canal for a while. A few hundred yards along the line to the east was a small town and a railway station. Charlie slipped through the wire of a fence at the canal side and crossed a piece of waste ground beyond which was a railway siding holding a goods train. Charlie climbed the siding wooden fence, calm now and drifting aimlessly.

  But as he approached the trucks a dog came down the track, a large black-and-white mongrel. Seeing Charlie the dog began to bark and headed for him. Frightened, Charlie ran for the nearest sanctuary. He galloped to one of the carriages, climbed its side and dropped down into it, and stayed there hidden.

  The dog stood by the side for some minutes, barking and running around and then, since Charlie did not reappear, finally moved off down the line, wormed its way under the fence and headed canalwards in search of rabbits.

  At ten o’clock that morning the Charliephone rang in the Salisbury police station. It was from the Newbury police station. A sergeant reported that they had had a call from one of their local constables that a young newly-married couple camping out on their honeymoon by the old railway line near West Grafton had told him that during the night they had been attacked by the escaped chimpanzee, Charlie.

  “Attacked?” queried the Salisbury man.

  “Well, that’s what the girl says. Says she woke up when Charlie began to get familiar with her as she slept. She screamed and Charlie did a bolt for the wrong end of the tent and one way and another the whole thing collapsed on them. But her husband thinks Charlie wandered in looking for food and when his wife woke and screamed he just panicked.”

  “That’s more like it. Well, let’s have all the details. Time, names and address and so on. Where are they now, anyway?”

  “God knows. They just reported it and cycled off.”

  But the young couple did more than that. Their story was too good to keep to themselves. At a cafe where they stopped for coffee they told it to the owner and in the public house where they had beer and a lunch snack they told it, and since the publican was often in a position to pass titbits of news to the local press he passed the story on. It reached Fleet Street in time to make the last editions of the evening newspapers.

  But long before all this Charlie, who had dropped off to sleep in his railway truck, was awakened by its jolting as it moved away from the siding being drawn westward in a string of container vans and trucks along the main line running down from London to Exeter.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  AFTER BREAKFAST THAT same morning as Charlie moved westwards Rimster motored down to Salisbury to Jean’s flat to collect her mail and also to pick up some personal articles which she wanted. Ever since George Freeman tie had left a letter for her at the flat he had kept her away from the place in case she should run into the man, making his intention quite clear to her. This morning, anyway, Armstrong, the Scientific Coordinator of Fadledean Research Station was coming to Redthorn House to discuss certain technical details with her which had to be cleared up from the work she had left behind. Although she knew quite clearly that she would never go back to work there, he guessed that Armstrong would probably make this announcement officially to her at the meeting. Well, she would not be over-concerned. The best thing she could do, anyway, when this was all over would be to go back to George. Retire, if not immediately gracefully, at least with confidence into marriage and let time dull her memories.

  When he let himself into the flat, Rimster found George sitting in the lounge, reading a newspaper and drinking coffee.

  George showed no surprise at seeing him. He lowered his newspaper and said, “Who are you?”

  “My name’s Rimster. I’ve come to collect Miss Blackwell’s letters and a few of her things. You’re George Freemantle?”

  “Right. The letters are there.” George nodded to the table. “Including another one from me. I don’t suppose you’ve brought anything from her to me?”

  “No.”

  “Where is she?”

  “I can’t tell you that.”

  George stood up. “Can’t or won’t?”

  “Both. But I can give you some advice.”

  “I don’t want advice. I just want to know where she is so that I can go and talk to her. Today’s Monday, a flat day at the works, so I got here at seven and decided to sit it out until someone came. And here you are, though you’re not quite the type I expected. I was looking for some army type or a pimple-faced boffin.”

  For a moment Rimster said nothing, eyeing this big, amiable man, sizing him up . . . easy-going with people, except in business, and probably very much in love with Jean even though he found himself stepping over the side lines at times. Matchmaking wasn’t in his brief, but he felt that Jean could do far worse. Marry George and have his children, run his house and overlook his occasional excesses of the spirit and flesh, and Fadledean would soon fade from her memory. In bed she had come alive with him, and clearly had with this man—but this was the man who would warm her to life during the day as well. Happy couple, like thousands of others. Lucky George and lucky Jean.

  He said, “My advice to you is to sit tight until she’s finished the job she’s doing and you’ll find that things will work out.”

  “Where is she, Mister Messenger Boy?”

  “Carrying on with her work—and she’s not allowed visitors.” George shook his head. “Not good enough. Not for me, anyway. So I’ll tell you what I’m going to do. Either you tell me where she is without trouble, or I’ll make you tell me. And don’t think I’d worry about an assault and battery charge or any damn thing like that. Understood?”

  “Perfectly, but I’d advise against it.”

  George shrugged his shoulders. “You’re a cool number, aren’t you?”

  “Just sit down and finish your coffee while I collect a few things.”

  Rimster began to move across the room. As he did so George reached for him and grabbed him by the shoulders from the back to spin him round. Rimster coming round easily, not wanting to do what had to be done, kicked George’s feet from under him and pushed him backwards so that he fell sprawling into the armchair.

  Rimster said, “If you get up from that chair before I leave here, I’ll have to start being rough.”

  For a moment or two George looked up at him, anger working across his face. Then suddenly he smiled and shook his head, saying, “Funny thing, isn’t it, but I had a feeling right from the start that it might happen this way. Okay—I’m not the type who goes bashing his head against a brick wall. You know what happened between Jean and me?”

  “Yes, I do.”

  “Bloody fool I was, but there it is .., the old Adam.”

  “I wouldn’t worry too much about it.”

  “You think that, really think that?”

  “Yes, I do. Once she’s finished this job she’s on I’d bet on it. But until then just be content with writing.”

  “What’s it all about—this Charlie the chimp thing?” Rimster smiled. “I can’t discuss Miss Blackwell’s work. But when her present job is finished I can tell you that she will be resigning from Fadledean. And now you can help me.” He took a list from his pocket and handed it to George. “You know her things better than I do. Just get these packed up into a case while I help myself to a lager from the kitchen.”

  George stood up. “I’ll be glad to.”

  Standing at the lounge window with his glass of lager, looking out over the roof tops, at the tall spire of the cathedral and the distant greenery of the poplars and willows by the river, Rimster was caught by a rare passage of regrets. George was all right and he would get his Jean . . . nice house, children and all the trimmings . . . all the things he would never get because he had never wanted them before and it was far too late now to think about them. And he knew too that he would never sleep with Jean again, not now that he
had met George. He had gone to her bed, he saw now, far less from a need for comfort than conventionally—as so often before—because it was a fringe benefit of the job. And she had let him come because . . . well, probably because she was humanly calculating enough to want to even the score with George. Love might make the world go round, but anger and injured pride too often led to a loveless sharing of beds.

  George came back with a small suitcase. Handing it to Rimster, he said, “Give her my love.”

  “I will. And in return if the press come poking around you just say she’s away on a job. You don’t know where.”

  “Will do,” said George, and added as Rimster went towards the door. “And give my love to Charlie as well when you find him.”

  * * * *

  Charlie at that moment had been in his moving carriage for about ten minutes as the train moved westwards down the line. The truck was empty except for a folded tarpaulin cover in one comer. Standing on this Charlie could look over the side. At first he had been frightened by the movement of the train, but by now he was becoming used to it and was hooing and waaing to himself gently. The sun was shining from a cloudless sky on the eighth day of his freedom.

  After a while Charlie, bored with standing, watching the countryside roll by, squatted down on the tarpaulin. He began to groom himself, his body swaying gently to the movement of the truck. Then finding a tear in the tarpaulin he amused himself by tugging at it until he pulled a piece off. He put it in his mouth and began to suck at it contentedly. Meanwhile the goods train rolled on, passing through small stations . . . Pewsey, Woodborough, Patney and Chirton Junction and, a little after mid-morning, through Lavington. Two miles beyond Lavington it slowed up and finally halted in a deep cutting where the signals were against it.

  When the train jolted to a halt Charlie was dislodged from his tarpaulin seat. He rolled over lithely and then stood up on the folded canvas and looked over the side. A few yards away on the track side was a small hut and standing outside it were three railway gangers who were working on the line. Charlie swung himself up on to the edge of the side and dropped to the ground. Seeing the men he ambled towards them, holding on to the piece of tom canvas as he sucked it.