The Camp

by Guy N Smith

  ‘Christ!’ He threw up a hand to shield his eyes, squinting as he was dazzled by the bright sunlight. ‘Snow blindness, I should’ve had me sunglasses on! Hey, love, what’s this then? You’ll catch your death stood out there with nothin’ but a summer frock on. Come on in quick, and let’s shut the door.’

  Their visitor stepped nervously into the room, looked around in puzzlement, jumped when the door slammed shut. ‘Oh, I’m awfully sorry,’ she made an attempt to straighten her windswept hair, ‘I seem to have come to the wrong place. I thought …’

  ‘There ain’t many right places left,’ Billy grimaced. ‘Everybody’s up and left.’

  ‘Oh!’ Dismay on the attractive features, a slim hand going up to her forehead as though she was suffering from a headache. ‘I didn’t know … you see, I’m not well and my husband’s ill. And I don’t know where my daughter is.’

  ‘Not surprisin’,’ He motioned her to the settee. ‘It’s the same for everybody. The big snow, the New Ice Age. People ’ave got split up, everybody’s going south, I tryin’ to get across to France or somewhere, anywhere where it’s warmer. Your husband and daughter ’ave probably gone on ahead of you.’

  ‘Yes.’ There was a vacant expression on her features, she looked very tired. ‘You’re probably right but I didn’t know about the snow. I didn’t think it was cold enough. I don’t seem to be able to think straight. It’s like my memory’s going.’

  ‘Same here.’ Valerie spoke for the first time. ‘I’m having trouble, lots of things I can’t remember. What’s your name, love? I’m Val, and this is Billy.’

  She made as if to get up, to offer a handshake, but the effort was too much for her. ‘I’m …’ She had to think hard, wrinkled her forehead. ‘Ruth. That’s it, I’m sure it is.’

  ‘Don’t you worry, we’ll look after you.’ Billy eyed her up, noted the slim figure, wished that she would relax a little and not sit up so straight and proper. ‘You relax. It’s the cold that affects your memory, fogs yer brain. We’re both the same. D’you know, just before you arrived we were trying to remember where we lived before we moved ’ere and we still aren’t certain.’ He laughed again, a guffaw of relief because they had company.

  ‘I think I’d better put the kettle on,’ Valerie moved towards the working surface. ‘Ruth looks as though she really needs a cuppa.’

  ‘That would be lovely,’ Ruth sat with her hands clasped in her lap, twisting them together as if she was trying to lather soap in the wash basin. ‘But only if it’s not too much trouble, I don’t want to put you out.’

  ‘What’s another half hour?’ he glanced apprehensively at his wife but she did not appear to have heard. ‘Now, Ruth, let me put you in the picture concerning our plans. And I know Val has got a spare jumper and coat that’ll fit you. You’re goin’ to need ’em!’

  The three of them sat there sipping hot tea, Billy slurping his the way he always did but Valerie did not appear to notice.

  ‘What’s your husband do for a living, love?’ Billy looked at Ruth. She didn’t look like a chain worker’s wife but you could never tell. Everybody round here was either working in the foundries or else on the dole.

  She closed her eyes, furrowed her brow again. Concentrated thinking that wasn’t getting her anywhere. ‘I … I can’t remember,’ she was close to tears. ‘All I know is we had a row of some kind … I wish I knew where he was.’

  ‘Safe as ninepence, I’ll bet.’ Billy put his empty cup and saucer down on the table. ‘You’ll probably meet up with him on the way. Your daughter, too.’

  ‘I sincerely hope so.’

  Valerie got up, began to rummage in wardrobe and drawers, pulled out a thick green hand-knitted sweater, a frayed pompom hat, and lifted a light coat from an array of hangers. ‘Here, see if these’ll fit you, Ruth.’

  ‘I really don’t think it’s all that cold.’ She let the Evanses help her into the garments. ‘In fact, I feel stifled.’

  ‘It’s through comin’ into the warm out of the freezin’ cold,’ Billy grunted. Christ, I hope you’re not running a temperature, the last thing we want is somebody sick slowing us up.

  ‘These will be fine,’ Ruth smiled in spite of the fact that her body was already beginning to perspire freely. She hoped she wouldn’t get BO because she didn’t have any deodorant with her. Perhaps these kind people had a canister or a rub-on. She could always ask them if she needed it.

  ‘You ain’t got any wellingtons!’ The awful realisation suddenly dawned on Billy Evans.

  ‘Oh, I’m sure they won’t be necessary,’ Ruth replied.

  ‘They bloody will.’ He stroked his chin. ‘Look, I’ve got an idea,’ he began to peel off his galoshes with some difficulty. ‘You put these on, I’ve got some strong work boots in the cupboard. Ain’t I, Val?’

  ‘Here they are.’ Valerie searched the bottom of the wardrobe, produced a pair of scuffed leather boots. ‘They’ll probably be better for you, Billy. You know how your feet sweat when you wear anything rubber. We don’t want you smelling, do we?’

  ‘Bugger the niff!’ He grabbed the boots, pushed his feet into them and began to struggle with the long laces. And stop giving my personal secrets away. Next you’ll be telling her that I sometimes fart in bed when I’ve been to the pub.

  Ruth stood there stiffly, embarrassed, wished there was some way she could repay these kind people. They seemed to know all about what was going on and she was fortunate to have found them. Providence had, indeed, looked after her.

  ‘And ’ere’s me bleeding sunglasses!’ Billy reached on the table and held up a pair of Polaroids triumphantly. ‘I guess we’re all set now. Put yours on, too, Val. You got a pair, Ruth?’

  ‘Why, yes!’ She unbuttoned her topcoat, found her sunglasses in the pocket of her dress. She put them on just to please the others. They restricted her vision even more than they usually did, she could barely make out the various items of furniture in the room.

  ‘Right, let’s go!’ Billy Evans checked that his overcoat was buttoned right up to his muffler and opened the door. Jesus, it looked bad out there!

  Chapter Seventeen

  Norman tong walked past the Maces’ chalet shortly after breakfast the next morning. The curtains were closed, there was no sign of life; they might have packed and left for all he knew. He idled on the opposite side of the street, contemplated going and knocking on the door again. If Gwyn became abusive then there was really nothing lost. Sarah might be there, she had to be. No, she isn’t, and you damned well know it. You could sense it, empty vibes coming at you from the silent holiday dwelling. Then where was she? Just thinking about it brought back that feeling of frustration bordering on panic, a helplessness that made you want to beat your fists on the wall and curse without stopping. Which was totally useless.

  He wandered on, past the restaurant. He wasn’t hungry, the thought of food brought on a feeling of nausea. A glance through the window, he couldn’t see that supervisor, perhaps she did not start work until later. She was a cool one, just too suave, he didn’t believe a word she said.

  Norman went into the newsagent’s, a long narrow shop with racks of paperbacks, postcards, gaudy magazines. Browsing but not really seeing, flicking pages of magazines just for something to do with his hands. The floor space was crowded, a queue for newspapers, people chatting and laughing.

  ‘Can’t see anything about it in here.’ A man in a hooped shirt that served to accentuate his protruding stomach showered cigarette ash down his front as he obstructed the flow of customers, his newspaper at full spread. ‘You’d think it’d be in the Sun, they don’t miss much.’

  ‘It ain’t in the others, either,’ a youth with acne and a strong Midlands accent who might have been his son replied. ‘Funny, ain’t it? I s’pose it’s the old story of this being the forgotten land, north of Watford where they live in tents. Get a siege in London and it’s splashed over the front page of every daily rag. Not a mention of this one, we don’t even know w
here they came from.’

  ‘Or who they were.’ The older man tried to squeeze up against the counter to let an impatient woman pass through to the till. ‘Holidaymakers, like us. Campers. Jeez, Mike, we might’ve sat next to ’em in the sundae bar.’

  ‘Yeah.’ The other folded up a paper, tossed it back on to one of the piles. ‘A crazy guy kills a girl on the island, murders his own girlfriend and then the cops storm the chalets and shoot ’im. It stinks, like they’re tryin’ to cover sommat up. Because of the girl, maybe. I’d love to know who ’er was, Dad.’

  Norman stiffened, a cold hand seemed to squeeze his heart, it missed a beat. A girl murdered … No, it couldn’t be or Gwyn would have said … Christ, Gwyn had been in a right state, Ruth was walking round in a daze. And there was no sign of Sarah! Oh, merciful God!

  The panic which had been threatening since the previous evening hit him, had him pushing against the flow of customers, fighting his way to the door.

  ‘Oi, you, where the bloody ’ell d’you think you’re goin’?’

  He ignored the angry comments, found himself back outside in the bright morning sunshine. A two-way stream of campers, one lot heading for the beach via the chair lift, the other hurrying to be in time for the early bingo session. The music was just starting up; he clasped his hands to his ears, tried to shut it out. What have you done to my girl, you bastards?

  No, it couldn’t have been Sarah who had been murdered. Why not? Because it’s always somebody else, somebody you don’t know. It has to be somebody. He stopped outside the amusement arcade, leaned up against a stanchion. He had to think logically, determine a plan of action.

  ‘When I say “ draw”, draw. Or else get outta town.’

  Norman wheeled round, caught a glimpse of a hard-bitten moustachioed face, eyes fixed on him. A killer who was all but real, a man whose profession was death. Norman flinched, felt his pulses step up a gear. Your nerves are shot, pull yourself together.

  He wasn’t going to get anywhere mooching aimlessly. He needed to talk to somebody, to ask questions. Somebody had to know. An idea, a faint hope that filtered into his confused mind. The security office at the camp entrance, they would know, if anybody did. He remembered seeing a doorway with a sign above it that read ‘Enquiries’, which meant that they were there to answer questions. Well, he was going to ask a few.

  He had to stop himself from breaking into a run. I just want to know the worst. No crap, the truth. If it was Sarah who had been murdered then he would have to face up to it. Threading his way through a crowd of campers walking in the opposite direction to himself, cursing them, hating them because they were carefree and laughing. They couldn’t give a shit who the murder victim was, provided it wasn’t one of them.

  Norman stood on the wide tarmac looking across at the security block. There was something sinister about it; the uniformed man on duty in his box, the barriers across the road. A hut with barred windows where they kept the takings. A kind of Checkpoint Charlie. If your credentials aren’t in order you don’t come in or go out. And if you try to rush the barriers you’ll be mown down, there’s a machine gun in that window over there trained on you. You stupid bastard, it’s a computer!

  He tried to walk normally across the open space, his legs felt weak and he was trembling, his mouth was dry. He knew when he tried to speak his lower lip would quiver and he would stammer.

  He stood there trying to find the door marked ‘Enquiries’ which he had noticed on his way in yesterday. Unmarked doors, most of them closed. The guy on the barriers was watching him intently, checked some papers, nodded to a car driver to pass through. A lull in the traffic, turning towards Norman.

  ‘Can I help you, mate?’

  ‘Er … yes.’ It didn’t sound like his own voice, more of a rasping whisper as if he had a touch of tonsillitis. ‘I … I … where’s the enquiry office?’

  ‘That’s it, there!’ A sort of can’t-you-bloody-well-read voice, a finger pointing to a white board with red lettering on it. ENQUIRIES. Oh, shit! ‘Says so over the door.’

  Norman nodded, shuffled towards the nissen-type hut. The building was elevated from the ground for some reason, like a caravan on blocks parked up. A short flight of steps led up to the door which stood ajar.

  A man sat behind the counter-type desk, grey-haired, probably a part-time retirement job, Norman thought. Checking some tickets, sorting them as if it was a game of patience. Looking up, glancing back down again. You’ll have to wait, son, I’m busy. A cigarette drooped from the corner of his mouth, a trickle of smoke wisping up his nostrils and into his eyes but he seemed impervious to it. A rumbling bronchial cough that dislodged ash but he didn’t seem to notice that either. Meticulous, checking and re-checking, putting the counterfoils into a neat pile and banding them.

  He looked up, a questioning expression but no words. ‘Can I help you?’ had obviously worn thin since the beginning of the holiday season.

  ‘I’m … looking for … somebody?’ It sounded foolish.

  ‘Missing child? What name, please?’

  ‘No, no. It’s my girlfriend.’

  ‘What name?’

  ‘Sarah. Sarah Mace.’

  ‘Chalet number?’

  ‘Thirty-seven. Yellow Camp. I’m thirteen.’

  The other fixed him with a reproachful stare. A half-smirk. Who are you kidding, son? You don’t mean to tell me you’re sleeping in separate chalets?

  The man began flicking through a register, found the page he was looking for, ran a pencil down the margin. With his other hand he squashed out the buttof his cigarette in a half-full ashtray, slid a pack out of his pocket and put a filter tip to his lips. A lighter was flicked, a cloud of smoke and the rumbling cough started up again. And throughout all this he had not taken his eyes off the book in front of him.

  ‘Thirty-seven. Jones. You must’ve made a mistake, laddie.’ Enjoying the other’s dismay; and don’t try to tell me my job, I’ve got the records to prove it.

  ‘There must be some mistake.’ Norman’s sweat had turned cold, he shivered. ‘I know because …’

  ‘There is a mistake,’ the official reached down another pile of those buff-coloured cards from a shelf behind him, slipped the band off them, ‘yours! Now, I’m busy, go and find out the number of your bird’s chalet and …’

  ‘The name’s Mace. M.A.C.E. Sarah.’

  ‘Names are no good to me, I only go by numbers. You asked about Yellow Camp, thirty-seven. I told you. Jones. That’s all I can tell you if you ask me a dozen times over.’

  The floor beneath Norman’s feet seemed to move, like stepping on to a bus that was just in the process of pulling away. He clutched at the desk to steady himself and the sensation passed.

  ‘I want to see the boss.’ It was supposed to sound forceful, a demand, but it came over more as a plea.

  ‘Dawson’s head of security.’ A faint note of resentment. ‘It’s his day off. There’s only me, and Jepson on the gate. And he won’t be able to help you.’

  ‘I mean the camp boss.’

  ‘You mean the General Manager.’ He had already begun to sort out his new pile of cards. ‘His office is in the main reception building. But you won’t get to see him. He only sees people by appointment and not just willy-nilly. You have to have a good reason.’ His cough was escalating, vibrating the cigarette in his mouth, flecks of ash floated in the air like a gentle snow shower. Now piss off, will you.

  Norman held on to the rail as he went back down the steps. Either he was mad or they were. Jesus, he knew the Maces were in 37, there was no disputing the fact. Except by a bad-tempered security official.

  The youth was angry now, tight-lipped as he strode back across the tarmac, checked a signpost just to make sure; reception was down the street on his left, he could see the top of the building from here.

  A huge hallway, he surveyed it with confusion. Two counter screens with a long queue at each; Bank and Post Office. A line of lettered racks, A-Z, with i
ncoming mail sticking out of pigeon holes. Travel Enquiries, a young girl sat on a stool amid an array of colourful brochures; train or bus, like a day away from the camp on parole.

  A dozen or more telephone booths, every one occupied. It’s great here at Paradise, wish you were here. Lifelines to sanity.

  A television area, rows of easy chairs, people watching the morning programmes because they were fed up with everything else. A silent film, you couldn’t hear the sound because everybody was talking. Norman looked one way, then the other, saw a line of closed doors with a white plaque on each. Cashier … Maintenance … General Manager’s Secretary!

  He approached the door, stood looking at it. Did you knock or did you walk right in? He decided to knock, two soft raps with his knuckles, stood back. Listening.

  ‘Come in.’ A female voice that sounded far away, disinterested.

  He pressed the handle and the door moved silently inwards. A luxuriously fitted and carpeted office greeted him, a floor-to-ceiling window with a Venetian blind. A central desk, an attractive, slim dark-haired girl seated before a word-processor. She glanced up, smiled. ‘Close the door, please. You can’t hear a thing in here when the door’s open. Now, what can I do for you?’

  ‘I’d like to see the General Manager.’ Norman’s confidence was returning. At least this girl looked as though she wanted to help.

  ‘I’m afraid Mr Morrison’s rather busy at present.’

  ‘I don’t mind waiting.’ Stubborn. I’m not leaving here until I’ve seen him.

  ‘Oh!’ Perplexed, maybe campers went away more easily than this one. ‘Can you tell me what you want to see him about, Mr …’

  ‘Tong.’ Norman smiled, at least he meant to. ‘I’d prefer to tell him myself. It’s important. Urgent.’

  ‘Oh, I see.’ She hesitated, picked up an intercom and buzzed it three times. ‘There’s a Mr Tong wants to see you personally, Mr Morrison. He says it’s urgent, doesn’t mind waiting … I see, I’ll tell him.’