The Doomsday Carrier

by Victor Canning

  Inside were a packet of sandwiches, a paper bag which held two bananas and an apple, and a bottle whose top was corked. Charlie ate the bananas and the apple and one of the sandwiches. Picking up the bottle he shook it once or twice and then pulled the cork free with his teeth. Bottles, too, he had dealt with before. He raised the bottle, which held a cheap white wine, and poured some into his mouth. Almost at once, not relishing the taste, he spat the wine out and threw the bottle through the open boathouse door, chattering quietly to himself.

  An hour later when the fisherman, who had been having good sport, came back for a late lunch Charlie was half-a-mile away lying full length on his stomach along a stout branch almost at the top of a tall elm in a spinney at the foot of a long rising sweep of bare downland. He lay there watching the traffic moving along the broad curve of a stretch of main road that climbed the downland a quarter of a mile away, the sunlight flashing on windscreens as the cars and trucks turned into the beginning of the curve. Charlie lay there all the afternoon, disinclined to move and aware of a slow growth of uneasiness in his body. Now and again he whimpered and once when he pulled himself leaves to make a wad in his mouth he held it only briefly and then spat it out. Towards evening his head began to ache and a thirst grew in him so strongly that he finally climbed listlessly down the tree and set out in search of drink.

  He found it in a water tank at the back of a small cattle shed in a field that lay alongside the road. The water came from the roof guttering and the tank was still half full from the past week’s storm. Charlie leaned over the edge of the tank and drank his fill.

  Feeling better he moved across the field and climbed up on to the hedge which bordered the road. The hedge was an old one made of beech which had been layered years before and now was thick with new growth. Charlie pushed his way through it and then sat in a tall patch of hogweed and thistles that fringed a small lay-by. It was seven o’clock and broad daylight, but the traffic along the road had thinned. The few cars that passed came fast around the bend and none of the drivers or passengers saw Charlie, whose dark coat merged into the shadow cast by the hedge.

  Feeling more at ease, but disinclined still to move much, Charlie lay back among the weeds and watched the traffic. Ten minutes later Harry Swinton came slowly round the bend and, seeing the lay-by, pulled into it.

  Harry Swinton was a commercial traveller who worked for a Southampton firm of sweet and chocolate manufacturers. He was a middle-aged man, short and far too much overweight from lack of exercise and an over-fondness for food and drink. Not being a family man he felt that what he did with his own body was nobody else’s concern and, since he was a jolly and a kindly man as well as a fat one and loved a joke and good company, he was well liked in the trade and very successful. At this particular moment he was recovering very slowly from the effects of a heavy lunch with plenty to drink with one customer and also the cumulative effect of an hour’s drinking that evening with another customer. The years had taught him just how much he could drink with safety and still drive, a criterion strictly his own and not likely to be recognized by the police.

  He switched off the motor of his station wagon, unclipped his safety belt for comfort, and leaned over and opened the passenger door to admit more air into the car. Fresh air, though it was still damned hot with the day’s heat, Harry boy, he told himself, and half an hour’s shut-eye would do him the world of good. He eased himself back in his seat comfortably, lit a cigarette which he did not want, took two or three puffs and then threw it out of the window and shut his eyes. A good day, Harry, he mused. A damned good day. Nice fat order book, good company along the way, maybe just a few more drinks than usual over the odds, but what the hell? If you didn’t drink with them when they wanted to it showed up in the orders they gave. There was, the Lord be praised, no nagging or anxious wife waiting at home. Not that he was against women, and many barmaids’ eyes lit up when he bounced into a pub and, now and again, lit up even brighter when he bounced into bed with them. No regular attachments, though. Not for you, Harry boy. A canary and a cat in his flat and a landlady to look after them while he was away were all he wanted in the way of company for the short hours he was at home. Pity about kids, of course—but then you couldn’t have everything, and anyway, Harry lad, you’ve got plenty of nephews and nieces to spoil. So what . . . so what? Snoring gently, he drifted into sleep.

  As he slept cars now and then passed along the road but the people in them had no chance to see Charlie because he was shielded by the bulk of Harry’s car which was standing only a few yards from where he lay. Not feeling well Charlie was disinclined to move. He sat with his long arms wrapped around his legs and his chin resting on the top of his knees and watched Harry’s cigarette slowly bum itself away on the gravel of the lay-by. A squirrel came out of the hedge, tail arched, ran to the lay-by waste bin and climbed it to forage for food scraps. Beyond the road on the down slope a colony of rooks began to return to their roosts in some tall trees, cawing and wheeling. From somewhere in the distance came the drone of a helicopter and once an army truck came up around the bend carrying soldiers who had been out looking for Charlie. A few moments later a wood pigeon flew from the field to the top of the beech hedge and, seeing Charlie, flighted away across the road.

  As the bird disappeared Charlie eased himself forward on to all fours and went slowly across to the open door of the station wagon. Harry was snoring loudly. Charlie hesitated for a moment and then climbed up on to the empty seat alongside him. Harry stirred and muttered something in his sleep. Charlie replied with a soft and friendly pant-hoot. Then he reached out and rummaged with one hand in the shelf of the facia board in front of him. Lying on it were road maps, a packet of cigarettes, a crumpled paperback book and a few bars and packets of Harry’s confectionary wares. Harry seldom ate his own wares, although he could extol them with convincing fervour and sincerity. He kept the sweets there to give away.

  Charlie took a crimson wrapped bar, smelt it, and then slowly began to tear away the paper wrapping. A few seconds later he was munching on a round length of milk chocolate studded with chopped walnuts. Charlie ate half of it and reached again to the shelf. Within the next five minutes Charlie, without any real hunger, but unable to resist the feast although he was not his normal self, sampled four of Harry’s most popular lines. The last of them was a bag of soft-centred boiled sweets of different flavours, and it was as Charlie was listlessly sucking one of these, his big lips pouted, that Harry woke up.

  And Harry woke as he always woke from his short naps. Fifteen minutes or half an hour was enough to bring him awake, alert and unfogged by any residual sleep. Though this time, because of his good day, he still retained a slight suggestion of a headache but not enough to impair his usual good humour and aplomb. He grunted, opened his eyes, and pulled himself upright in his seat. At the movement Charlie turned to him, hoo-hooed softly through pouted lips and touched him on the arm.

  Harry turned his head and saw Charlie. The fading euphoria of past drink still mellow in him, he showed no surprise. It took a lot to surprise Harry and a lot to frighten him and his reaction to the unusual was usually humorous and quick-witted. He knew all about Charlie. The shops and public houses he had covered that day had been full of talk about the Fadledean chimpanzee.

  After a moment or two, he said, “Well, Charlie old boy, nice to see you.” Then, seeing the scattered wrappings and half-eaten chocolate and sweets, he went on, “Sampling the wares, eh? Well, nothing like trying the goods before you buy.”

  Charlie, who could sense friendliness in humans, hoo-hooed a little louder and beat gently with one hand on the shelf in front of him.

  “What’s that mean?” asked Harry. “You want to get moving? And so you should. You stay loafing around here and some stupid bastard will run you over as you cross the road. But you don’t have to worry. Harry’ll look after you—though Harry didn’t mind admitting that right at this moment you’re a bit of a surprise number. Have to thin
k you out.” He reached for his cigarettes and lit one. As he did so Charlie gave a quick grunt and reached for the packet. Harry pulled out another cigarette and gave it to him. “Shouldn’t use ’em at your age, but if that’s what you want.”

  As Charlie put the cigarette into his mouth and began to chew on it Harry got out of the car without hurry, closed his door and walked around the car and closed Charlie’s door. Back in the car, he gave Charlie a grin and fastened his seat belt, thinking to himself, Harry boy, you’ve had a few odd turn-ups in your mis-spent life but this is the oddest and, Harry, you can’t say it’s unwelcome. Seems a nice friendly chap and what a story . . . ! Oh, yes, Harry, what a story for customers and friends—and the publicity! Here he comes, Harry the big white hunter, doing what half the bloody army and air force couldn’t do. Every customer will want to hear that one—and that should push up sales. Still, only problem is—will Charlie boy sit there and be good while I drive him?

  Without hurry he switched on the engine and let it idle for a while. Charlie appeared unconcerned. Have to watch him when I start, thought Harry. If he starts jumping about frightened I’ll have to stop, slip out and flag a car for help. Whatever happens I’m not letting this one go. Harry Swinton rides into town with Charlie the most wanted chimpanzee in the country. They’ll have me on telly and in the papers. Tough on the little fellow though. Back into the cage. Still, let’s face it, we all live in cages of some kind or other. Well, here I go.

  He put the car into gear and began to move slowly off. Charlie drew his lips back tight, grimaced and called softly waa-waa-waa. But he made no attempt to move.

  “That’s a good chap,” said Harry. “And don’t worry, we’ll take it easy. Have you in Salisbury under the hour.”

  Harry moved out on to the road and began to go easily up the curve. Charlie squatted on his haunches on the seat and held the front of the dashboard shelf with one hand. In his time Charlie had driven in enough trucks and cars not to have any fear of them. In addition, his slowly rising feeling of unease probably made him unwilling to take any action unless it were forced on him.

  So with Charlie sitting quietly beside him Harry began the drive to Salisbury—which was on his route back to Southampton. He drove carefully, chiefly not to disturb Charlie and also partly because the effects of the day’s business drinking were still with him. And as he drove he chatted gently to Charlie, fancying that his talk would help to keep the animal calm. Talking to Charlie was no strain because Harry in his long hours on the road had years ago developed the habit of talking aloud to himself. Some of his best ideas had come to him while driving and talking. Within ten minutes of leaving the lay-by one of the best ideas Harry had ever had came to him.

  Consolingly, he said, “You got to look at it like this, Charlie boy. While in principle I’m all in favour of freedom for everybody and every damn thing . . . well, freedom’s got its dangers for the likes of you . . . Oh, yes it has. It’s all right in the good old summer time, easy pickings in every garden and warm days and nights. But what about when winter comes? Thought of that yet?”

  Charlie suddenly belched loudly.

  “Pardon?” said Harry. “Well, perhaps you’re right. But think about me. Do me a lot of good taking you in will. Things are keen in my business, you know. Cut-throat. Anything that gives you an edge must be considered, and I’ve already considered it. Put it up to the boss as soon as I get back. We’ll put out a new line . . . let’s say The Charlie Bar. Milk or plain chocolate with a nut-and-cream filling. Nice wrapper with a jungle background and your beautiful old face stuck right in the middle. I tell you, Charlie—it can’t miss. Not with all the free publicity to go with ours. The old man will wet his pants with excitement and yours truly will get his in the form of a damn big pay rise . . . Oh, Charlie boy, I can see happy days ahead—”

  At this moment Charlie gave an anguished grunt, gaped his mouth wide, and was violently and heavily sick. The vomit spurted across Harry’s lap, distracting his attention from driving. The car swerved to the left and, before Harry could correct it, Charlie was sick again and began to swing his arms about wildly. One hand accidentally caught Harry heavily across the face making him lose control of the wheel. His car slewed off the road, bounced across the sun-baked grass verge and the front hit the bordering hedge with a crash. Harry’s seat belt saved him from going through the windscreen, but the impact of the crash made the door on Charlie’s side fly open. Before Harry could do anything—though he was capable of little—Charlie gave a loud scream of fright and jumped out of the car. Screaming he ran up the grass verge, swerved across the road and disappeared down a narrow footpath which ran alongside a plantation of young spruce trees.

  Very slowly Harry freed himself from his seat belt, got out of the car and examined it. It was damaged but not too badly. He stood there shaken, his jacket and trousers covered in vomit. Then bracing himself together he took a series of deep breaths and, since he was a quick-witted man, rapidly assessed his personal position. It was the firm’s car. The firm did not like its cars knocked about—especially by travellers who might have been drinking too much. Though you tell me, Harry asked himself, how you can do business without being sociable? But there it was, Goodbye to the Charlie Bar available with five different fillings.

  A car turned the far comer and as it came towards him he stepped into the road and began to flag it down, rehearsing his story . . . Bloody motor cyclist came down like a bat out of hell on his wrong side. Forced me over . . . Could have killed me . . . Look at the state I’m in—shook the guts out of me with fright. Yes, that was it. And no mention of Charlie. That would only lead to more trouble, and trouble enough, Harry boy, you’ve already got plenty of. Nobody—least of all his boss who knew how he liked his drop—was going to believe any story about giving a chimpanzee a lift.

  The approaching car drew up, and Harry Swinton braced himself staunchly to begin his story.

  CHAPTER NINE

  ON THE MORNING of the ninth day of Charlie’s freedom the publicity about him began to build up rapidly. All the papers carried the story of his supposed attack on the two campers and most of them had also the story of his dropping off a goods train and the attempt of the gangers to detain him, all with photographs and personal interviews with the people concerned. It was a good story for the press because Charlie was a sympathetic character, the public immediately siding with him against authority, and delighted that he had evaded capture for so long. There was editorial comment, some of it humorous and some of it serious. Why, it was asked, was such a large operation being mounted to capture him and get him to Fadledean? What was going to happen to him when he got there? Was there a possibility that the authorities might be being less than frank and that Charlie had really escaped from Fadledean? One paper carried a popular article by a well-known ethologist on chimpanzees, and two others had articles discussing Fadledean and the ethics of using animals for experimental purposes. On radio the disc jockeys made jokes and puns, and there was an interview with a Fellow of the Royal Zoological Society outlining the biological similarities between men and the higher primates, and two manufacturing firms began to put in train the production of Charlie sweat shirts with a grinning chimpanzee face on the front.

  The correspondence columns of most papers carried readers’ letters—astutely held over from the first news of Charlie’s escape—which echoed the editorial comments and the public feeling.

  It was commented that no further statement had been available from the Ministry of Defence about Charlie’s role when he should eventually be taken to Fadledean and that calls to Fadledean had been met with a refusal to discuss Charlie. A Liberal Member of Parliament, prominent in his support for the Royal Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to Animals, announced that he was putting down a question in the House of Commons and would be satisfied with nothing less than a personal answer from the Minister of Defence.

  Spurious or mistaken sightings of Charlie began to come in on the Ghar
liephone at Salisbury and to other surrounding police stations. The noble owners of two wild life parks announced that they were only too willing to buy Charlie from the government to save him from going to Fadledean.

  There was mad comment and glad comment, humorous and wise and crank comment on the air, in print and on television. Charlie had arrived as a national figure.

  Captain Stevens reading his morning newspaper at breakfast pursed his lips cynically at the thought of all the fads, cranks, and genuinely concerned people who would jump on the Charlie bandwagon. Rimster and Jean reading, too, at breakfast knew that no editor was going to let the story die while Charlie remained free, and Harry Swinton, setting out on his day’s round in a borrowed car, switched off the radio news in disgust as he savoured the bitterness of the loss of publicity to his firm and the fading vision of the Charlie Bar in different flavours.

  Grandison in an early morning interview with the Minister of Defence eventually got him to agree to press the Prime Minister hard for an official statement to be made that, while Charlie was harmless, unless frightened or cornered, there had been, unfortunately, some official confusion over the first statement covering Charlie’s escape. He had broken loose from Fadledean, not while being transported there.

  “You’ve got to cover yourself on that point, Minister, as I’ve said all along. The papers and the media will ride it hard for a day or so and then it will be accepted. Once you’ve got that, you’re on solid ground if Charlie should ever look like going the limit.” For a moment or two he was tempted to go further and say to the Minister that if the government refused to do this, then he should back up his insistence to the point of stating that he would resign otherwise. He decided against it because by now he was pretty sure that the statement he wanted would be made. He went on, “Also, I think you should settle a date by which—if Charlie by some miracle is still free—the first of a series of warning announcements should begin.”