Chain Reaction

by Christopher Hodder-Williams

  She sighed resignedly. ‘All right; you win. But you must do it without fail next Saturday.’

  He threw up his hands in mock despair. ‘Who promised to obey whom? All right, it shall be done.’

  Julia picked up the tray and waited pointedly. ‘Now, drink up,’ she said, unconsciously using exactly the same tone as she did with Maureen. ‘No lunch until.’ She took the soup-bowl affair from him. ‘Let me see you move the ice-cream wagon — or whatever you call it. I know your tricks!’

  ‘For heaven’s sake, when are you going to stop treating me like a child?’

  ‘You know the answer to that!’ she said. ‘Come on, I’ll help you.’

  Maureen was home from school in time for lunch, and they sat down, the three of them, to steak and kidney pudding. It was good lawn-mowing food.

  ‘I’ve finished cutting the grass,’ said Cartwright, with inordinate pride. Mr Jossborough, their immediate neighbour, mowed his lawn once every three weeks.

  ‘Thank you, darling,’ said Julia, lumping the potato out of a steaming dish. ‘Have you put the machine away?’

  ‘I’ll do that after din-dins,’ he said, mimicking her.

  Maureen laughed. ‘Din-dins!’ she repeated.

  ‘Daddy is a very lazy man,’ said Julia, pretending to be cross. ‘I hope you don’t grow up to be as lazy as he is.’

  ‘My teacher thinks I’m lazy,’ said Maureen without reproach. ‘She says I fall asleep in class.’

  Julia looked at her reproachfully. ‘Do you?’

  Maureen tested a piece of kidney with her fork. ‘I’m not the only one,’ she said guiltily. ‘Teacher’s such a bore.’ She sounded very grown-up all of a sudden.

  John said: ‘It’s not very polite to go to sleep, dear. At any rate, you mustn’t be caught doing it.’

  ‘John!’

  ‘Well!’ he exclaimed with his mouth full, ‘I always went to sleep during army lectures — only nobody ever saw me do it. It’s a matter of technique. You sleep, you see; and yet at the same time you don’t sleep. You’re moribund.’

  ‘What’s “moribund”?’ said Maureen.

  ‘Don’t take any notice of him!’ said Julia.

  ‘When I grow up,’ said Maureen, ‘I’m going to sleep whenever I like.’ Her tone changed perceptibly. ‘Mummy, do I have to eat this?’

  ‘Try, dear. Have a little of it, anyway. What’s happened to your appetite these days? You used to eat everything in sight!’

  ‘I’m just not hungry,’ she said simply.

  ‘Well, put it on my plate,’ said John. ‘I’ll eat it for you!’

  They were silent for a while. An aircraft passed high overhead. Nothing was said until Maureen asked: ‘Can I get down, Mummy?’

  ‘Say your grace.’

  ‘ThankGodformygooddinneramen.’

  ‘Go and have a rest, there’s a good girl,’ said Julia.

  There was no protest, and the child went quietly out of the room.

  Julia waited until the door was shut behind Maureen. ‘You see?’ she said.

  John looked absent-minded for a moment, not realising at first what she was talking about. ‘Oh, Maureen. I don’t know. After all, she’s growing up. She’s growing into a big girl. Nearly eight. You use energy when you grow.’

  ‘All the more reason to eat.’

  ‘Do you think there’s something on her mind?’ he asked. ‘Something worrying her?’

  ‘I wondered, too,’ said Julia. ‘But what? I thought I knew everything about that child, and she’s never seemed remotely unhappy up till now. And she looks so pale.’

  ‘Could it be something at the school that’s upsetting her? Perhaps some of the other children are making her unhappy?’

  ‘It’s possible. I think I’ll go and talk to the headmistress. She ought to know.’

  Cartwright searched for the little machine he used for rolling his cigarettes.

  ‘On the sideboard,’ said Julia automatically. Then: ‘You know what I think? I think she’s a bit anaemic.’

  ‘Does Doctor Fuller think so?’

  ‘He didn’t mention it. But he’s given her an iron tonic.’

  ‘You don’t think she’s caught anything?’

  ‘There’s nothing at the school.’

  John turned the handle and rolled the cigarette neatly. The mechanical action seemed to be geared to his thought processes, as if the act rolled a cylinder in his brain and set the controls for a decision.

  ‘I think you should see the teacher,’ he said. ‘She may have noticed something that we haven’t. And if Maureen isn’t any better in a few days, then we’ll go and see the doctor again.’ He had licked the paste, and now lit the cigarette with a table lighter. ‘Don’t worry too much, Julia,’ he added. ‘Lots of children go through phases like this. It’s all a part of growing up.’

  *

  Maureen was about the same when they took her to the doctor’s on the subsequent Tuesday.

  Dr Fuller saw the parents privately after the consultation, while the child waited with the nurse in the other room.

  Fuller was a short little man, with a flat top to his beautifully bald head. He stood with his weight slightly forward, as if he were about to open a door. He was squeezing out his chin with his right hand; pulling down the flesh until it formed a fat little lump below his face. Then, as his forefinger and thumb passed below the bone, the flesh shot up again with a visible wobbling motion. This usually meant he was puzzled.

  ‘I don’t know,’ he said. ‘I just don’t know.’ He closed the door of a medicine cabinet thoughtfully and with precision. ‘I know Maureen pretty well.’ It didn’t require comment. ‘She’s not generally like this. I’ve never known her like it before. You know how she always pulls my leg? Well, she didn’t this time. But physically she seems all right. I checked her thoroughly. What can be wrong? You were right to suggest a blood test. I’ve taken a slide, and I should get an analysis through by Friday. Maybe that will tell us something. If not, I’ll have her X-rayed.’

  Julia was taking all this quite calmly. ‘What for?’ she said. ‘T.B.?’

  ‘Might have a spot on the lung,’ he said casually. ‘Nothing very serious about that. Got to catch it in time, though. I had one once; lovely excuse for a holiday in Switzerland.’ He somehow didn’t look as if he had ever taken a holiday in Switzerland. ‘Still, I don’t think it’s lung. Doesn’t cough, does she?’

  Julia said: ‘No; I’ve never heard her coughing.’

  ‘That’s what I thought.’ He extended his hand. ‘I’ll let you know the moment the result of the blood test comes through,’ he said. ‘Meanwhile, don’t worry too much. And if Maureen seems to want to rest more than usual, well, let her. Can’t do her any harm.’ He squeezed his chin with the remaining hand. ‘Let me know if either of you start feeling a bit off-colour, won’t you?’

  *

  ‘I’ll help you do that cupboard tonight,’ said John.

  Julia regarded him humorously. ‘Are you working on the assumption that the best form of defence is attack?’ she asked. ‘No; I couldn’t find the printing paper!’

  They went through to a bright, modern kitchen, decorated in pale blue and white. Everything about it was shining and hospital-clean. But when the food cupboard was opened, the big letdown became immediately evident. For among the rightful contents of a kitchen larder were interpolated alien objects like the old enlarger that John no longer used, the packets of flashbulbs, the printing frame — a dozen assorted pieces of equipment that should have felt more at home in a dark-room.

  ‘I do see what you mean!’ said Cartwright. ‘Though where I’m going to put all this stuff, I just don’t know.’

  ‘But you never use it, John,’ said Julia. ‘Why don’t you get rid of it? Sell it.’

  ‘You never know,’ he said. ‘I might need it some time. Besides, in that condition none of it would fetch anything to speak of. It’ll have to go in the attic.’

  She made a despairing
gesture. ‘Where it will remain till Kingdom Come! Incidentally, your printing paper is underneath the tinned stuff.’

  He took down one of the tins from the shelf and examined it absently. ‘Is Maureen asleep?’

  Julia was balancing herself carefully on top of the kitchen table. ‘I think so,’ she said. ‘I think she dropped off the moment she got into bed.’ She punctuated her remarks jerkily each time she stretched up to reach the things on the top shelf of the cupboard. ‘I can’t help wishing we knew for certain what was wrong with her.’

  John was making a neat stack of the canned food over in the corner. His contribution to the proceedings was more companionable than it was operational. ‘We’ll know soon enough,’ he rejoined. ‘I’m sure it’s nothing serious.’ He changed the subject deliberately. ‘I’ve never heard of Spigett’s baked beans — Heinz we know; Crosse & Blackwell we know; I hope Spigett’s are as good!’

  Julia’s stack of unloaded kitchenware was now very much larger than his. ‘Have you come in here merely to discuss the grocery list? Or are you actually going to do some work?’ She looked momentarily at the cans that now formed a small display of their own. John had arranged them as if they were in a shop window. ‘As a matter of fact, we always have Spigett’s — I’m surprised you haven’t noticed before.’

  ‘I never eat ‘em,’ said John.

  ‘And you never cook ‘em,’ she mimicked. ‘Here, pass me that brush, will you?’

  ‘Good Lord!’ exclaimed Cartwright suddenly.

  Julia paused with a half-empty jam-jar in her hand. ‘What?’ she said.

  ‘You’ve got a secret supply of tinned salmon, and I didn’t know!’

  She laughed. ‘You weren’t meant to!’ she said. ‘It wouldn’t be there now if you’d known about it.’

  ‘Well, let’s have it for supper tonight,’ he said. ‘Special treat.’ He transferred the can to a place of honour on top of the electric clock. ‘It’s an ill wind that blows no one any good,’ he remarked. ‘If I hadn’t “helped” you with this chore, I would never have discovered this Royal Fish.’

  ‘I don’t know why you’re getting so worked up over tinned salmon,’ said Julia. ‘But we’ll have it, if you like. Only do help me a bit, will you? You haven’t done anything at all so far.’

  ‘Nonsense! Who did the tins?’ he protested.

  ‘Oh yes, the tins! Well, you can graduate to the jellies now …’

  *

  After the meal, John tried to persuade Julia to have an early night.

  ‘If you want me,’ he added, ‘I’ll be in the dark-room. Only don’t do what you usually do, and fling open the door with the hall light on. It doesn’t make for good photography!’

  Julia made herself a cup of tea to postpone the act of going to bed. She knew she wouldn’t sleep, only lie there and worry about Maureen. Now she tried to think back, tried to work out when the graph of the child’s health had first veered downwards. Well, she had certainly been all right at Christmas, though she had paid the price of childish gluttony …

  ‘Mummy,’ said Maureen, ‘I feel funny.’

  ‘You look funny,’ said Mummy.

  ‘I think I want to be sick,’ said Maureen, her eyes holding their fixed, expectant stare.

  ‘How many chocolates?’

  There was still a half-masticated one in the child’s right hand. The eyes now descended towards it in a slow sweep, hesitated for a moment, as if one more bite might be possible before the impending and inevitable disaster, decided against it, and returned to her mother. ‘I think I ate twenty,’ said Maureen, ‘not counting the little ones.’

  ‘I’m not surprised you feel sick,’ said Julia.

  ‘Well, you see,’ said Maureen by way of explanation, ‘the big ones are empty ones — I mean, there’s nothing much inside. I mean to say, they’re just held together by the chocolate on the outside. So I thought, what with there being nothing but juice in the middle …’ She broke off, as if the complexity of the explanation was too much for her. ‘But I was wrong!’ she finished unhappily.

  Julia wasn’t certain which would happen first — the tears or the vomiting. She decided to take no chances. ‘The bathroom,’ she said simply.

  Maureen nodded with great understanding, then bolted for the door.

  When she came back a few minutes later, she was beaming.

  ‘What happened to the half-finished sweet you had in your hand?’ demanded Julia.

  ‘Oh, I ate it,’ explained the child blandly. ‘I’m hungry again now.’

  *

  ‘I thought you were going to bed?’

  John had returned from the dark-room, blinking in the strong light.

  Julia said: ‘I’m just going. I thought I’d have a cup of tea first.’

  ‘Good idea.’ John was holding some printing paper. He peered at it now.

  ‘You look as if you’ve seen a ghost,’ said Julia, handing him a cup.

  ‘In a way I have. Did you take any of these glosses out of the packet?’

  She looked at him blankly. ‘No. Why on earth should I? Anyway, it was a new packet, wasn’t it?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Well, it hadn’t been opened.’

  ‘That’s what I thought. But could any liquid have got into the packet — acid, for instance?’

  ‘Of course not! Just tins of food, that’s all I keep in there. None of them were open, even.’ She was slightly impatient. ‘What’s all this about ghosts, anyway?’

  He showed her one of the prints. ‘They’re all like that,’ he said; ‘only the top one is the worst. Take a look!’

  She gazed at it for a few moments and shrugged. ‘Obviously it’s been damaged,’ she said non-committally. ‘I’ve long since ceased to be surprised to find things damaged on delivery. You’d better send the packet back to the makers.’

  John stared at the print now that his eyes were adjusted to the bright light. In the middle of the paper there was a black patch, perfectly round, about 2 1/2 in. in diameter. All the way round the circle was a dark halo, not quite as black as the rest. The black blob looked startling and somehow devilish against the clear white background of the rest of the print. It reminded him of a photograph of a solar eclipse, only the image was clearer and more uniform.

  He spoke almost to himself. ‘To be damaged in transit it would have to be exposed to a strong light; that would mean unsealing the package.’

  Julia answered him. ‘Then it must have left the makers in that condition.’

  He laughed. ‘Kodak? That sort of thing just doesn’t happen. But I would very much like their opinion on it.’

  ‘Well, hadn’t you better process it, or whatever you do? I seem to remember that the prints go foggy otherwise.’

  He was still talking rather distantly. ‘I already have. I put it straight in the fixing-bath as soon as I noticed it.’

  He laid the print down on the table and sipped his tea,

  ‘Well,’ said Julia, ‘I think I will go up to bed now. I expect you’ll sort this out before long, darling. Will you make sure all the lights —’

  He cut her short abruptly. ‘Get me a tin of beans!’ he rapped. ‘Go on, quickly!’

  He was so intense that she didn’t question the sudden command.

  John heard the car draw up outside while Julia was in the kitchen. He thought it was probably someone visiting the house next door.

  Julia called from the kitchen. ‘I’m so used to a muddle that I can’t find the dratted things now! What on earth do you want them for. anyway?’ The door-bell rang. ‘Get it, will you?’ she shouted. ‘I’m still looking.’

  It was Dr Fuller. ‘Can I come in, Mr Cartwright?’ he said. ‘I’m sorry, barging in at this hour.’

  ‘Of course!’ said John. ‘You must have a drink. Come into the living-room.’ He led the way, still talking. ‘I expect you’ve got the result of the blood test, perhaps?’ They entered the room. ‘You must forgive the muddle; what will you have? Some whisky?
’

  ‘Thanks. Just a little … that’ll do fine.’

  Julia came in, clutching the tin. She was surprised to see the doctor there. She greeted him warmly, however, and handed the tin absent-mindedly to her husband. She had forgotten about it now.

  Ignoring Fuller for a moment, Cartwright placed the tin over the angry mark on the printing paper.

  It fitted exactly.

  Cartwright looked up blankly. Then he looked back at the tin; and some faint memory of his schooldays — something buried among all the long-forgotten science lessons through which he had sat so inattentively — was trying to filter through to his conscious mind.

  He said: ‘Now, just what the hell is going on here?’

  CHAPTER THREE

  ON the third floor of Filbury House was the telephone exchange for the Directorate. It served the whole Department — that is to say, the top three floors of the building. The two lower floors were annexed by the War Office.

  Sally was a good switchboard operator — always calm, even on a day like this, when the consoles seemed to have broken out into a rash of impatiently flickering lights, each one representing a member of the staff expecting instant service.

  Between two calls she had time to remark to her neighbour:

  ‘Something’s going on; you can put your last dollar on that.’ She spoke into the headpiece microphone. ‘Atomic Development Commission,’ she parroted.

  ‘This is the Continental Service,’ said the girl at the other end, ‘what is your number?’

  ‘Whitehall 0011.’

  ‘Geneva is calling you; hold the line, please.’

  Simmel paused at the typewriter and answered the plan 7 phone. When Gatt was on the line he put him straight through to the Director and listened on the line — normal practice except for personal or highly confidential calls. This way he could keep fully in the picture and take any notes that were necessary.

  When Hargreaves had finished, he told Gatt the travel arrangements he had made. Gatt didn’t sound very pleased, especially when he was told he had got to fly. Dick pacified him as best he could and hung up.

  A few more staccato jabs at the typewriter with his middle finger and Simmel had finished the report. He ripped it out of the machine and checked it through. Then he picked up Cartwright’s original letter and read it once more. It was a rambling communication — that of someone who had suddenly been faced with a situation so completely beyond his comprehension and emotional endurance that he could not throw off the impression that it was all part of some horrifying dream.