Ancient Images

by Ramsey Campbell

  ***

  Lord REDFIELD: My Lords, I have listened with great interest to the discussion of the Bill the noble Viscount has moved. I am happy to be assured of the general health of our film industry and of any industry that we may call our own. Nevertheless I should like to sound a note of warning. The right reverend Prelate has reminded us of the moral basis of this Bill, which bids to counteract the colonization of our picture-houses and the minds of our picturegoers by alien influences. Yet your Lordships are aware how much more dangerous an enemy within may be, and I feel obliged to draw the attention of the House to an unhealthy aspect of our film industry-that is, the germ of the British horrorific film.

  I apologise to any of your Lordships who deplore the invasion of our fair language by this ugliest of words, but it appears that the content of this breed of film is such that no existing word can adequately describe it. In speaking of these films the noble Lord, Lord Tyrrell, said that the power of the cinema, improperly used, might bring civilisation to an end. The noble Lord also issued a stern warning against the production of films dealing with religion or politics, since this could contravene the exhibitors' licence not to show films that might lead to disorder. I ask your Lordships to appreciate the greater threat posed by horrorific films to the civilisation of which we may consider ourselves guardians. He is not a true Englishman who will not shed blood in defence of the land-I speak as one who lost many tenants to the trenches during the Great War-but righteous violence is altogether separate from the lust for blood which these films stir up. In some of our counties- though not, your Lordships may rest assured, on any land that bears the Redfield name-libertarianism apparently demands that parents be allowed to subject their children to the influence of these films. It is heartening to observe that our nation recognises the snares of libertarianism for what they are, and that there have been public outcries against the exhibition of such films. I am relieved to learn that a certification is shortly to be introduced that will bar children from viewing films that are judged to be too mild in their gruesomeness to be banned outright from our shores, and I think your Lordships may be proud to hear that our national aversion to the horrorific has caused Hollywood producers to turn their energies to the creation of more wholesome fare. But, my Lords, all those advances may be rendered fruitless if British producers are allowed to exploit these savage appetites.

  I understand that only one such film is presently being produced here, and it is my belief that an example should be made of it in order to check this poisonous growth. The story of the film need not concern us here-it is drawn from an undistinguished piece of gruesome fiction on which time has already passed judgment and which no civilised taste would wish to see revived-but it is of such offensiveness that the producer has been forced to import actors sufficiently degraded, or sufficiently desperate, to accept the work. One, who plays the role of an English lord, was in fact born an Englishman, but emigrated to America and adopted a Russian name, the better to portray thugs and monsters. I gather he was once a lorry-driver, and your Lordships may agree that the world would be healthier if he had remained industrious and unknown. His partner has played both Jesus Christ and the vampire Dracula. Your Lordships may wonder that any nation which is not steeped in heathenism refrains from casting out such a blasphemer. In his native Hungary he was a revolutionary, and was almost slain by the just wrath of the patriotic crew of a vessel on which he fled. His American audiences have been led to believe that his father was a baron when in fact the father was a baker, a trade which an Englishman would surely have thought cause enough for pride. I am informed that the mere appearance in public of this actor has been known to lead to panic, and I wonder if the laws barring undesirables from our shores may not apply in his case.

  I hope your Lordships will not feel I have devoted more time to my theme than is justified. The noble Lord, Lord Moyne, warned your Lordships of imported films that present a false picture of life; how much more vile is a film such as this, which presents a false picture of England! Is our land to be represented abroad by such trash? Is the world to be led to believe that the English have a taste for savagery, a thirst for blood? There are horrors enough in Germany and elsewhere overseas without worse being stirred up in the name of entertainment. The day may dawn when we as a nation will need to bare our teeth at the Hun. Until then, let England enjoy the peace which it has earned and which is its right and its nature, and let all those who seek to undermine that peace be hunted down and subjected to the full force of the law.

  Lord Strabolgi, the next speaker, thanked him for his eloquent plea for vigilance and expressed the hope that any appropriate action would be taken, and returned to the subject of the Cinematograph Bill with what Sandy suspected might be relief. She wondered if any of the listeners had been struck by the most suggestive aspect of Lord Redfield's speech: how knowledgeable he was about Karloff and Lugosi, about details so obscure that she was certain he must have gone to some trouble to learn them. She scanned the little that remained of the debate, then leafed through the volumes in search of other speeches by Lord Redfield, without success. A librarian announced that the library was closing shortly, and Sandy carried the pile of volumes to the desk. She had one more lead to follow. The librarian found her Willings' Press Guide, and in a minute she confirmed what she had thought the moment she'd seen Lord Redfield's name. The Redfield family owned the Daily Friend.

  ***

  Sandy booked into the Midland, a four-star hotel opposite the library, and imagined how next month's bill from her credit card was growing: another forty pounds to manure it by the time she checked out tomorrow. In the lobby she caught sight of a poster for the Corner House, which was showing the version of Alice Graham had restored. She jogged to the cinema to give herself another look at the film. The auditorium was full of children enjoying Laurel and Hardy in the roles of the Walrus and the Carpenter. Perhaps some small children at the back were restless, for the exit doors that gave onto a subterranean foyer crept open more than once. Sandy was certain Graham would have been delighted to see a new generation enjoying a film that might have been lost except for him.

  After the film an upsurge of children carried her out of the cinema and left her beneath a streetlamp. She thought for a moment that the coach had left a child behind, until the low shadow dodged into an alley. She bought a Greek sandwich to eat as she strolled back to the hotel, feeling optimistic but bemused. She was almost sure she knew who had bought the rights to Spence's film in order to suppress it, but why had they? Before she reached her room, the exhaustion of driving overtook her. She lay awake in bed for a few minutes, wondering drowsily why someone was padding up and down the corridor, and then she was asleep.

  In the morning she went out before breakfast for a copy of the Daily Friend. LAYBYS AREN'T FOR LAYABOUTS SAY LORRY-DRIVERS, a headline declared. Enoch's Army had attempted to park for the night in several laybys on a road fifty miles or so west of where she had encountered them-she wondered where they'd been wandering meanwhile-and lorry-drivers were complaining that they had nowhere to pull off the road for a break. "Someone's liable to get killed," a lorry-driver had apparently said in bold type. Sandy leafed through the paper at the breakfast table, and was about to discard it when a full-page Staff o' Life advertisement caught her eye. "Hold on," she murmured, her memory brightening.

  She went over to the library as soon as it was open, and consulted a business directory. Staff o' Life was both owned by the Redfield family and based in the town of Redfield. She copied down the phone number of the factory at Redfield, and hurried back to the hotel through a procession of businessmen and early shoppers, barely noticing them as she homed in on the telephone in her room. She felt lithe with clarity, cool with anger. Smoothing her skirt as she sat on the bed and then picked up the receiver and dialed all felt like a single movement that was reaching down the line and finding her quarry at last.

  The phone rang twice and released a woman's voice that was complet
ing a remark. The voice came closer. "Staff o' Life?"

  It sounded welcoming, almost intimate, and sufficiently Northumbrian to turn the first word into "stuff." "I'd like to speak to Lord Redfield," Sandy said.

  "May I ask what this is in connection with?"

  "His family history."

  "One moment, please. Connecting you with the press office."

  "Wait, it isn't something-was Sandy protested, but the voice had already been replaced by a recorded jingle, a music-box version of a song she remembered from childhood:

  "Pat-a-cake, pat-a-cake, baker's man, Bake me a cake as fast as you can. Pat it and prick it and mark it-was-"

  Sex and violence gets everywhere, Sandy thought wryly, trying to ignore her sense of being listened to. A voice interrupted her thoughts and the jingle. "Press office. Mary speaking."

  "I've been put through to the wrong extension. Can you transfer this call to Lord Redfield?"

  "What would this be relating to?"

  "It's a private matter."

  "I'll put you back to the switchboard."

  "Before you do you might tell me-was Sandy said, and held her breath. The press officer was saying, "Can you switch this caller to Lord Redfield? She says it's private."

  There was a pause that made Sandy's head swim. It was apparently meant as a rebuke to Mary in the press office, for at last the operator said, "Putting you through to Lord Redfield's press secretary."

  "… And put in the oven for baby and me," the jingle resumed, having omitted the notes where the song would have indicated what the cake was to be marked with. "Pat-a-cake, pat-a-cake," it repeated, and a woman hummed the next bar. "Annabel Worthington, Lord Redfield's press secretary," she said.

  "I keep being wrongly connected," Sandy said with all the impatience she could muster. "I'm trying to reach Lord Redfield about a family matter."

  "Whose family?"

  "His."

  "If you'd like to leave a message I'll make sure it's passed on."

  "I don't think Lord Redfield would want me to. I think he would want to speak to me personally."

  "Does he know you?"

  "I believe so."

  "But you haven't the number of his direct line?"

  "Not with me, no."

  "If you'll leave your name and a number where he can reach you I'll see the information is with him as soon as he's free."

  At the moment this seemed to be the best Sandy could hope for, and certainly preferable to another round of extensions and pat-a-cake. She gave Annabel Worthington her name and the number of the hotel, and added impulsively, "Tell him it's about his grandfather."

  The press secretary cut her off with an efficient click. Sandy replaced the receiver and set about packing, and began to regret having left the message. At the very least she'd trapped herself into waiting for a call that, now she thought about it, she had no earthly reason to expect; the nobility weren't so easily summoned. She ought to have driven straight to Redfield instead of announcing herself and her suspicions. No wonder she felt more spied on than ever, and caged by the anonymous room. She'd finish packing, she decided, and then call the press secretary to say she had to move on. That way surprise might still be on her side when she arrived at Redfield.

  She was snapping the clasps shut on her case when the phone rang. It was the hotel receptionist, she guessed, and took her time about picking up the receiver. "Yes?"

  "Miss Allan?"

  "I'm just leaving."

  "Can you wait? I have Lord Redfield for you."

  It was a voice from Staff o' Life, not from the hotel. Sandy swallowed and straightened her back. "I'm here," she said.

  If they played pat-a-cake with her now, she thought she might scream. She was steeling herself against the jingle when a man's voice breathed in her ear: "Miss Allan."

  "Yes."

  "I believe you have been after me."

  The voice was light, controlled, gracefully modulated, effortlessly sure of itself. "That's right," Sandy said.

  "I'm sorry you've had so much trouble."

  Whatever he was apologizing for, the apology threw her. "Well, yes, I did," she said awkwardly.

  "I'm told that you spoke of my grandfather."

  A hint of regret in his voice seemed to suggest it was her turn to apologize. "That was the message," she said, feeling churlish.

  "I should like to clear up any misunderstanding. Will you come here?"

  "Where's that?"

  "To my town," he said as if he was too polite to sound amused by her question. "Once you arrive, ask anyone for me."

  "When would you like me to come?"

  "Why, the sooner the better, I think you will agree."

  "Today?"

  "Ideal. I shall look forward to dealing with you face to face."

  "Me too," Sandy said, to say something, and held on to the receiver when he had vacated it. She snorted at herself to jar herself out of her reverie, and poked the receiver rest to clear the line of static that sounded like thin breathing. When the line buzzed at her to dial, she did.

  The second ring brought her a preoccupied response. "Mmh?"

  "Roger?"

  "Sandy! I was wondering where you'd got to."

  "I didn't want to call you until I knew where I'd be next."

  "Before you head off anywhere, you ought to know what I've found out. This may be the break you've been waiting for."

  "I'm pricking up my ears."

  "The magazine one of the guys you met gave you, Picture Pictorial? It was owned by the same family that owns the Daily Friend."

  "Redfield."

  "Oh, you know?"

  He sounded so crestfallen that she wished he were close enough to hug. "I didn't know that, and it's one more reason for me to go where I'm going. It was the Redfield family that tried to stop Giles Spence making his film."

  "Do you want me to be there when you talk to them?"

  "How soon could you be? Redfield must be five or six hours' drive from London."

  "I'll be on the road as soon as I finish this chapter. If I can't be there tonight I'd expect to be tomorrow morning."

  "I really ought to go there now. I've been invited. I'll be fine, don't worry," she said to reassure both of them. "And then I'll wait until you get there, if you like. Call Staff o' Life when you arrive. I'll leave a message with the switchboard to say where I am."

  "I'd really like to go with you," he complained, "but another book has started to germinate as well."

  "Got a title?"

  "Disney's Noses."

  "I can't wait," she said, and added, "to see you." She wasn't sure if he heard; he was saying "See you there." He broke the connection, leaving her alone with the static that sounded more than ever like laborious breathing close to her ear, or like a wind rattling in and out through a gap between sticks. "See you there," she echoed Roger, and made her way out of the hotel.

  ***

  More motorway. It swooped east through the Pennines, where factories sprouted red-brick chimneys in valleys among crags. Headlights in a drizzle turned the motorway into a river of diamonds, spilling over the horizon and winding in wide curves down the slopes. Further into the mountains, a mile-long procession of lorries was hauling itself upward, laboriously as wagons in a mine. As she sped past and left the drizzle behind, she felt she wasn't so much driving as being driven. She'd covered so many miles on Graham's behalf that she had lost count of the days she had been traveling.

  Beyond the Pennines the land grew flat, then flatter still. Sandy left the motorway at the exit which she judged to be closest to her destination, though Redfield wasn't marked on the signboard that announced the exit, nor on the sign at the intersection to which the access road led. The widest road from the intersection, heading more or less east, appeared to be her route.

  It was unfenced. Only ditches separated it from fields of grain and cabbages and grass beneath a pale bare sky out of which the sun had been cut, a round spyhole into a white-hot furna
ce. Sandy wouldn't have thought it possible for the landscape to grow flatter, but it had. The occasional line of trees at the limit of her vision was gray not with mist but with distance. Here and there a piece of farm machinery picked at a field. Mud tracked onto the road spattered her windscreen so often she began to worry that she might run out of washer fluid before she could reach a garage. Once, as she cleared the windscreen yet again, she almost ran over a pheasant in the middle of the road.

  The route sloped down through a copse, then climbed until it reached a humpbacked bridge, and stayed slightly higher than the landscape it wound through. The whole of the land was yellow with the widest fields of wheat she had ever seen. There was no movement except for the nodding of stalks and the occasional scarecrow. When she rolled down her window she heard the landscape rustling. The sound and the unrelieved yellow that appeared to stain the border of the sky made her feel oppressed, and so did her body. She'd started her period a day early, just as she'd reached the copse. She was more in need of a garage, or somewhere else with a toilet, than ever. When she caught sight of a thatched roof beside the road ahead she drove faster, willing the building to be a pub.