“Mr. Strong....”
“Paul,” he said. “You’re an intelligent man. So ask yourself, to keep an ... organism alive, does a grown man have to crawl? To that. . .?” He pointed. His voice rose, riding the other down. “There’s something you haven’t realized,” he said. “Any of you. Something I’ll tell you right now. You’re sick, you know that ?” He stared round the circle of faces. “The brain is sick. Sick with this ... rubbish jolting into it. You’re divided against yourselves. And you know what that means to a mind? They call it schizophrenia. Yeah, that’s what you’ve got. The first Gestalt brain in the history of the world is going round the bloody twist...”
Surging. The rage, the roar of the Wheel, threats, of oldness and death and things worse. He closed his eyes, rocked. Anne had her face in her hands. “That’s enough,” said Paul sharply. “All of you, that’s enough....”
Silence, through all dimensions.
The older man got up and walked round to Jimmy. Put a hand on his shoulder, steered him away from the table and across the room. “Listen,” he said, “and try to understand. In what we do, we have no choice. Mr. Strong, if I laid a pocket knife on the table there and put eleven thousand pounds in your hand, would you allow me to pick out your eyes?”
Jimmy was silent.
“We have done nothing wrong,” said the accountant. “Understand that. We do nothing but exist. Now think what that means. Try to imagine yourself the only one of your species. Perhaps there has never been another unit like ours, or ever will be again. Mr. Strong, we did not ask to be born. Yet we ... came into being, in an environment that was never meant for us. A hostile world.”
“Don’t chop logic,” said Jimmy viciously. “You own this town. You drive it, you shape it...”
Paul shook his head, and he was sweating. “We own nothing. We ... direct certain aspects of life in Warwell. We have to. And believe me, for us it is very simple. We could do much more. Warwell is our ... home, our shell if you can think of it in that way. And I swear to you, nothing but good has come from that domination....”
Jimmy was staring out the window, seeing and not seeing the distant lights of the fair. The noise of the rides reached the house thinly. He said tonelessly “There’s blood on your hands.”
“No, Mr. Strong. Not yet...”
He brushed the man’s arm away, turned to stare into the faded blue eyes. “Paul,” he said. “This I believe. You’re a good man. Or maybe you were once before this ... thing got hold of you. I’m sorry for you, because you’re in deadly trouble.” He raised his voice to include the others in the room. “Give in,” he said. “Get to a ... hospital, somewhere they could understand you, help you. You’re needed; there’s no power like yours in the world.”
He read their answer in the silence.
“OK,” he said. “Now I’ll tell you this. I don’t hate easily; but I hate for a long, long time. And I’m defying you. Get off my back. Go to Hell where you belong, get out of my way...” He shoved past Paul, went to Anne. Said simply, “You coming?”
She lifted a ravaged face. Shook her head wordlessly.
“Uh-huh,” said Strong. “OK....” He walked across the room, opened the door, looked back at Paul. “You know what you’re doing,” he said. “I don’t have to spell it out for you. And I’ll tell you what I’m going to do. I’m taking that girl out of this. I don’t know how. I don’t care. But I’m taking her if I have to break all these bastards down one by one. You’re not a corrupt man,” he said. “Not yet. But you will be. Because evil is a stain that spreads.” He turned away. “I’ll talk to you when you’ve cleaned your house....”
The doorhandle was snatched out of his hand. The door smashed shut; he pulled at it briefly and knew no force he could raise would open it.
Across the room, Paul’s face looked grey. Behind him the Little One smiled a blue china smile. Anne had turned away, she was covering her face again. Suddenly his body needed her, but he couldn’t move. A barrier seemed to have built itself in front of him; he could feel the heat and nearness of it, though there was nothing he could see.
Paul walked back to the table, stood leaning on his knuckles. “I don’t think you fully understand your position,” he said. His voice shook slightly; he moistened his lips again with the tip of his tongue. “As I said, we exist; and Warwell is the ... fortress we have built for ourselves. What our true function may be we don’t know. Perhaps we are a random particle in a random universe, and have no purpose. But we wait, and we hope. Sometimes, we pray.
“Mr. Strong, we are a living organism. Like any other breathing creature we defend ourselves if attacked. We fear mutilation, we fear death. You must not threaten us....
“There is no blood on our hands. Your somewhat theatrical phrase can have no meaning for us. We are neither good nor evil. We exist, we endure. If you force us, we shall kill....”
Silence in the room, total and absolute. The light, the bright threat spreading from face to face now the thing was finally said. In the quiet, a ride at the fairground hooted. Whup ... whup-whup-whup....
“You cannot fight us,” said the accountant. “We could break your bones where you stand, we could burst your heart. You cannot warn others of our existence; to try would be to fail, and we should know.” He looked back towards the window. His lips were set; he was the judge pronouncing sentence. “You must not stay,” he said finally. “You have till the fair leaves at the end of the week. You will not be molested. Should you remain beyond that time you will be destroyed.”
Jimmy tried to make his brain work. “Anne,” he said. “Anne. . . .”
She quivered but she wouldn’t look at him.
“No,” said Paul. “No more. Leave now, please. I’m sorry....”
The door opened for him. He stepped through and down the darkened stairs. He carried with him one last impression. A pair of bright blue eyes, the smiling red horseshoe of a mouth.
* * * *
Seven
Strong wiped his face, felt the sweat on his forehead mingle with the rain. Looked up at the blind grey sky. He was unshaven, eyes dark rimmed from lack of sleep. The drizzle soaked the shoulders of his mac, ran down inside the collar. He didn’t notice it.
Round him were the massive rides of the fair. Water beaded painted woods, spread dark fingers across tight-stretched sheets of tarpaulin. He reached the Switchback, leaned his hands on the curved wall of the machine. Above him, over the chin-high tarps, gargoyle faces peered. Golden cats and cockerels, motionless in the dead light, eyes bright and painted, blue like the eyes of china dolls. The rain made a faint hissing, nearly inaudible; and it was Saturday morning.
He hung his head. Paul, he thought for the thousandth time, Paul.... Can you ask a man to gouge his eyes out, cut off his hands ? Can you expect him to do it ... ? Now they’ll punish Anne, he thought. As they punished her before. ... They’ll hunt her again, send unspeakable things to hop across the fields, snuggle in her bed.... Paul doesn’t understand, he thought. Paul’s detached, remote. And then, Paul does understand. But how can you ask a man to cut off his hands....
Saturday morning. He groaned, hanging his head, wanting Anne, the warmth of her, her young-old face. His time was nearly out. At midnight, with the chiming of the church clock, the fair lights would snap off, the rides run down in darkness. Then they would come for him. Not Paul; but Johnny and the Little One, they’d come. And afterwards, they’d make his Anne dance to a tune. Afterwards? No, before. They’d start tonight, they’d show him what they could do.
He saw Paul’s face again in his mind, old tortoise eyes wary, mouth pursed saying no, no.... The Gestalt was not evil, but it was sick. Sick of a pair of china eyes, a horseshoe smile....
“Gestalt,” he said, and banged his fists on wood. “Gestalt, Gestalt....” His life was tied now to Anne, the brain was his enemy. Unbreakable, undefeatable. How to fight it.... For every perfection a fault, he told himself. For every strength, a weakness. Find the flaw. Use G
estalt against itself, somehow there’s a way. Kill the brain, poison it maybe. Poison it ? How, with what....
He lifted his head, wet hair dangling. Round the sides of the great ride, baroque cowboys galloped; under his hands, an Indian was plunging from his horse. The head was thrown back impossibly, a round hole in the forehead spewed a thin stream of blood. The face was contorted, mouth stretched with pain....
Jimmy’s eyes widened, slowly. He stood and stared a very long time, hands now slack at his sides. Then he turned and walked rapidly away, purposive now that he knew what he had to do.
* * * *
East Street, on a fine June night. The rain cleared away, the air warm. Turquoise streaks still showing in the western sky, silhouetting the church. Solitary balloon floating a quarter mile up, somebody stabbing at it with the silver finger of a searchlight. Shopfronts blazing in town, crowds jostling down and back from the river. Noise of the fair coming across the water, hootings and the music of the rides.
Strong pushed along crowded paths seeing the traffic, saloons balked and bad-tempered, open cars moving with their toploads of youngsters or cruising slow, hunting for pickups. Seeing the endless people, kids with faces candyfloss-sticky cradling coconuts and dolls, girls in blouses and skirts and tight jeans and summer frocks, faces laughing, kiss-me-quick hats perched on their heads and papier-mâché sombreros, the boyos with their plaid shirts and jeans, leather jackets, Norton and Matchless studded across the shoulders and crossed bones and skulls, the ton-up Joes....
Searching all the time, hunting till he saw her. Boyo on either side of her and she arm in arm, the pickups laughing and burly, sporting black cock-combs of hair, she in step, body wriggling and being a whore’s body, only the eyes desperate, bolting like the eyes of the hare.... She saw him and there was pain, but she couldn’t stop. She passed on down the street, throwing her head back, laughter peeling from her, heigh-ho come to the fair....
He huddled in the doorway of a shop, brain spinning. Watching the crowd that seemed now to surge forward and back dizzyingly, faces like foam flecks on a sea. They were close, he knew they were close. They were in her body controlling it, pulling the wires that made the marionette step and prance. The punishment, the fun, had started....
He saw them. Johnny cutting a dash in fawn tapered slacks, white shirt framing Gigolo-darkness. Turning and laughing now, showing his teeth and braying. The Little One in a froth of summer dress, hanging on his arm and smiling, always she must smile.... He stepped into the crush behind her praying she wouldn’t turn then knowing she wouldn’t turn. Knowing incredulously that she’d nearly forgotten him already. She doesn’t care what happens to you, Jimmy ... as long as it’s funny....
His hands made themselves into balls of bone. He said through his teeth, “It’ll be funny....”
The Green Dragon was nearly deserted, the serious drinking hadn’t started yet. The river terrace nestling by the bridge arch was empty. Water chuckled against stone piers, the noise of the fair came loud across the Starr. Jimmy edged forward, keeping to shadows. They were standing together by the steps down to the landing stage. She holding his arm and looking out across the river, smiling he knew, smiling....
He said quietly, “Johnny....”
He whirled, and Strong hit him. All the rage, all the hate exploding from a point and that point in his fist, at the end of an arm that swung, cracked....
Perfect timing. No sense of impact, but the body flung itself back, thudded against the bridge. Then the rock spun at Jimmy’s head, missed, half numbed his shoulder. Iron chair rose from the terrace and whirled at him, he knocked it aside and ducked knowing others would come and stones and bricks, converging on him as a centre. Watch the Little One, she throws things....
He reached her in two strides and she tried to bolt, but she wasn’t quick enough, it was one ... two ... for himself, for the beating, for Anne. Her body wrapped itself round the blows, “Ip,” she said, “Ip....” And he’d got Johnny’s arm, he was twisting it high behind his back, hauling him up by the wrist. “Where is she... ?” said Strong. “Where is she ... ?”
“Eeehh . . . Yeehh. ...”
“C’mon boy, where ... ?”
Raspberry dribble on the chin and spilling down the shirt, teeth bared, thin high noise coming between them. Strong twisted again and the Little One started to scream.
“Fair . . .” said Johnny. Gritted. “Fair. . . .”
“Where, in the fair ... ?”
“Bastard....”
Twist, and feel the bones flex.... “Where ...?”
“Gallopers.... The b-big ride....”
“Good boy, what’s she doing ... ?”
“With the ... boys...”
“What happens, Johnny? What happens now?”
“Fun....” He was wheezing. “Then afterwards ... the real fun....”
It was possible to see red, everything in bright flat sheets of colour. “Johnny,” said Strong, “You’re going to have a very bad night....” He heaved his victim at the flight of steps. And as he shoved, pulled ...
Sharp high cracking of bones and the body crashing, arm flying out loose. Then there were two of them down there both holding an arm, both rolling and shrieking. Gestalt...
Jimmy ran across the bridge, flung himself into the traffic. A skidding, close noise of a hooter.... He fended off a bonnet with his hands and there was a crash, a grinding. Good, he thought good, confuse the issue.... Then the fair was ahead, the brightness and noise. Floating haze of faces orange-lit, jostling and shoving, hands grabbing. Thunder from the Switchback and the Scenics, rich din of organs, smack and clang of shooting galleries, shrieks of Laughing Sailors. Somebody yelled at Jimmy, punched his back. He ducked, swerved, saw Anne. She was reeling, holding her arm. He reached her and clung. People were staring, he shoved his way through them. She was gritting her teeth and moaning. “Jimmy, what... what’d you d-do... ?”
“Broke all your good right arms,” he said. His breath was sobbing, the lights were spinning in front of his eyes. “I ... sorry,” she said. “Pass out....” He yelled at her, “You can’t....” Then, “Just a little way.... Just a little way Anne, come on....”
They were clear of the fair. He had the car parked close, he bundled her into it, started up, bucked his way across rough grass. Out back of the fair was a lane, he burst the paling by it and the hedge, wallowed, got away. Anne was clinging to the dash one-handed, the other arm lay in her lap uselessly. Halfway to Midhampton she was still whimpering. God, he thought, what range does this thing have.... He was in the outskirts of town and swinging round the first rotary when she sat up and yelped with relief. He shouted to her, “What happened ... ?”
“They put him out....” Her eyes were wide now, terrified. “Jimmy, they’ll take us. You can’t get away. . . .”
“Great,” he said. “Hold them out, Anne, you must...”
“Trying ...” She was rocking in the seat again, there was sweat on her face. “The car,” she said. “Don.... The police will stop the car, he’ll make them....”
“Damn the bloody car....” There was the main line station ahead, he swung across the forecourt, braked with a squeal, jumped the door.
“Jimmy...”
He slapped her bottom. “Move, Anne, run....”
“You can’t...”
He yelled at her. “I know. I can’t win. I can never bloody win, I’m used to it....” He grabbed her wrist. He was panting again. “Knew it would happen.... They’d send you to the fair....”
“How... ?”
“Heard them make their minds up,” he said. “It was starting, after all that. It was in me, it grows....”
“But you c-could ... be a part. Jimmy, you could...”
“Of that... ?” He bellowed at her. “That... ?”
She was shuddering. “You hurt the Little One. She’ll kill you....”
“Paul won’t let her. Anne, we’ve got to try....” Hammering on the ticket office window. “West
Coast Pullman,” he said. “Got it all worked out. Ten minutes....” But this was British Railways, the train would be late. The trains were always late. It was part of a pattern of craziness.
Anne was stamping like a hound. “Hurry,” she said. “Please....”
“Been rung in,” he said. “Six minutes.... Anne, it’s OK, we’ll make our own Gestalt.” They’d told him platform ten; there was a tunnel, he took the steps at a run still holding her arm. The suitcases in his hand were bumping his knee, “Jimmy,” she said. “What...”
“What?”
“Cases....”
He gasped. “Luggage. For the hotel. Keep your hand in your pocket, you haven’t got a ring....”
“Jimmy....”
New Writings in SF 6 - [Anthology] Page 7