“What worries you about this Chinese puzzle?” Packard said.
“If they turn it on Hong Kong,” said Dicky. He stroked his thin red hair. “Just now we have got a renewal of the lease.”
“I see,” Packard said. “Isn’t it rather out of character, for them to try it out without telling anybody? Usually the Oriental mind says show it, frighten ’em, and threaten to use if they’re not frightened.”
“Things have changed,” Dicky said. “It’s almost impossible to recognize any nation from their history or character these days. They’re ail getting more and more alike, and far too many of ’em. Far too many people. It just can’t go on. Something will have to be done. The balance of people now is about forty percent accepted and sixty unwanted. The more unwanted they are the more they beget. It’s a very difficult problem.”
“We could solve it,” said Packard dully. “We probably will—by accident.”
The Prime Minister stared at him, his cheeks coloring a little.
“Which reminds me, David,” he said quietly. “You’ll have to cut out this idea of—sending that chap to Heaven. That’s your code name, isn’t it?”
There was a short silence.
“Why?” said Packard, his voice short and very sharp.
“It’s leaked,” said Dicky, and began to pace slowly up and down the deep plastic wool carpet. “Lorrellmore and his fairies have got on to it.”
Packard laughed shortly.
“My dear brother must have split,” he said. “I suppose I made him jealous over finding Heaven first.”
“Yes, but look, David, you know what he is. If he’s said something it’s because he believes he’s right. I don’t
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want you stirred up in some political muck. You’re far
too valuable a man.”
“Hoskins came here,” said Packard abruptly. “I knew he was after something. Ann kept saying so. There must be something in woman’s instinct. I wasn’t sure. It was she put it into my head, and I played wary.”
“Hoskins.” The Prime Minister stopped. “He’s Marshall’s private detective, almost. Perhaps Canterbury told Marshall, and Marshall is one of Lorrellmore’s— How I hate that young bastard! Still, hate is no good against a man like that. He thrives on it. The thing to do is recognize the strength of his hand and play safe. Don’t do it David. Don’t kill that chap, even if you’re sure you can revive him. It’s too great a risk. Play it down this time. Don’t do it.” “But it could be one of the greatest scientific achievements ever, Dicky,” said Packard, truly earnest. “Suppose he does find Heaven? You’ll be down in history as the leader of the party who gave Heaven to the ordinary man. The Common Man, much too common, silly pod as he is, but he deserves to have Heaven for being able to live for years in a dreary mush of repetition and to think of it as life—”
“What are you thinking, David?” The Prime Minister was suddenly suspicious. “If you succeed—some time in the future—you’re going to organize pleasure trips for the Common Man, are you? That’s not what you’re working for, is it?” “What a truly magnificently horrible idea,” said Packard, staring. “You must have an appalling mind, Dicky!”
“Well, if you send one man, how are you going to stop the rest wanting to go? They’d start looking on it as a holiday. Two weeks in Heaven! Pay later.”
“You’re shoving the thing on to a miserable, vulgar, stupid plane!” Packard shouted.
“It’s the people who’ll do that,” said Dicky. “They won’t know any other way to handle it. It’ll be just like another bagful of sleeping pills, you must know that.”
“All right, I know that,” Packard said quickly. “But I’m not doing it for that, Dicky. You understand me better than to think I would. I’m doing it in an honest, straightforward genuine attempt to find out whether Heaven’s there or not, and what happens to a man when he does die.” “I know you’re honest, David,” Dicky said urgently. “But don’t do it, man. If you do, it won’t be John Brunt you’re
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killing, but yourself as well. If Hoskins has been here, take warning from that.”
“You could bottle him up,” Packard said quickly.
“If I did, the Lorrellmore group would know they’d got you fixed—”
“Which means you,” said David Packard, and turned away. “I have thought of that, Dicky. That’s why I wanted to do it without telling anyone. I don’t know how these sods found—”
“Because you told Canterbury!” shouted Dicky suddenly furious.
Packard turned away. “Curse,” he said violently. “What possessed me to yank his beard like that?”
“The same thing that always possesses you to drown yourself,” said the Prime Minister. “For years Ann’s been hauling you out by your collar, but you never learn. Well, this time you’ve got to. I’m glad you told Canterbury. It’ll mean that you can’t go on. So you’ll have to stop, whether you like it or not!”
Packard clicked his white teeth together and stared at Dicky with wild blue eyes. This was the moment of revelation, and it passed. He turned away.
“Sod it,” he said.
Ann came in with minifilm and started to bring up the projector from the cabinet by the wall. Heatshield was on feature.
-4
Hoskins called on Marshall at about six on the day of lohn Brunt’s death. The Home Secretary was oddly agitated, his waxen face pinker than usual.
“We have traced Brunt’s movements over the last three days,” said Hoskins. “I must say his taste in girls, wine, food, and entertainment are as laudable as his capacity.”
Marshall glared. Hoskins’ levity had the means of driving an unseen fork into his vitals and twisting slowly.
“Where is he, then?”
“He went to Packard’s flat this morning,” said Hoskins.
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“And we can’t trace him since. Nobody saw him come out again, but we can’t be absolutely certain that he didn’t leave. Witnesses are unreliable.”
“But as far as you know he’s still there?”
“Yes.”
“Alive or dead?”
“I haven’t had the chance to look,” said Hoskins evenly. “I would need a very special authority to make a search.”
“And if you were wrong, it would be serious,” said Marshall uneasily. “I think I’d better discuss this.”
“We’ve checked all the places he might have gone to, and he’s absent.”
“That’s negative,” said Marshall. “What we want is something positive.”
“The Professor was shaken over something,” said Hoskins confidently. His casting wrist began to twitch. “He doesn’t usually bother.”
Marshall got up and began to move restlessly about the room, picking up things and putting them down.
“We should have to have a reason for thinking he’s done it. Trying to find Heaven wouldn’t do. People would laugh it out of court.”
“There’s the girl,” said Hoskins. “She could be a reason. From what I’ve learned about Brunt it’s clear he’s not Casanova, but he just honest-to-God can’t help it. He’s nature boy and all girls are natural.” Hoskins’ eyes gleamed with humor in his deadpan face as he watched distaste making a faint impression on Marshall’s waxen features.
“I’ll have to discuss it,” Marshall said abruptly. “See what else you can turn up.”
“I’m running out of fly-sprayers,” said Hoskins, getting up.
“Be direct,” said Marshall with sudden firmness. “Keep on with the story about his aunt being anxious. It’s as good as any and quicker than messing about with fly sprays.”
He turned his back in dismissal. Hoskins poked his tongue out in a suggestive insulting noise, then grinned and went to go.
“Hoskins!”
Marshall stopped the detective because he had seen the gesture reflected in the finely cleaned glass of a bookcase as he had turned
away. But when Hoskins stopped, Marshall knew he had boobed, and so, if he persisted, would Hoskins. Marshall was wary of the power of Hoskins’ probe.
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“Sir,” Hoskins said, turning back.
They looked at each other, and each understood what he saw. It was satisfying to the one side, unpleasant to the other.
“Sir?” said Hoskins again.
“We could be mistaken about this,” Marshall rushed in. He could pick nothing else from the jumbled mass of revolving fear and thought suddenly set turning in his brain.
“It’s a purely routine inquiry, sir. The lady aunt is asking. We asked her to make sure.” His face was plain as a mask. The laugh glinted a moment in his eyes like fairy gold.
Marshall began to realize that he had delegated his personal strength, his power, his wand of office in the case of Packard.
Hoskins was watching him. Hoskins was a country man, from Devon. In his early years he had watched them all, the otters, the pheasants, the rats, the badgers, the moles, the the deer, the salmon, the trout, the kingfishers, the lot. What amused him later was that the ways of men and animals were so alike in trying to escape. He liked to watch people begin to wriggle, then classify them with animals he knew. At first he had thought of Marshall as a rat, but the roundness of face baffled him.
Marshall stared back, but could not guess what Hoskins was thinking. He hated the man because he had chosen him. He hated most people when they came near him.
“I think we should go on,” Hoskins said. “The man has disappeared.”
Marshall sat down abruptly at his desk.
“Keep me posted,” he said, and did not look up again.
This time Hoskins grinned as he went. Marshall did not see, but felt it.
5
He realized that the pump was dry and let the handle fall. Depression had gone and in its place rose dark rebellion again. He looked back at the long sloping stone roof, the moss nestling in the joints, the same moss perhaps as he
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had known all those years ago. It was his house, his place, his father, his life—
He turned and went achingly back into the kitchen. The clergyman put his arms out protectively over the piece of floor he had scrubbed. John walked by, treading round, went out of the kitchen and into the old cellar. The beer barrels were ranged up as they always had been, with pewter pots hanging from the low beams. As if he had done it only yesterday, he took down a pot, eased a wooden spile in a barrel of strong beer, then bent, the pains shooting up him, and turned the tap. The golden beer foamed in the mug. He turned off, straightened, his head dangerously close to the beams, and drank. The rich stuff cooled his throat but tasted sour. For a moment it seemed strange to him that his feelings were more acute, more a part of him than he had remembered.
“You’re brave, love.”
He turned and saw the pretty fat girl standing in the cellar doorway, and a familiar sensation ran through him.
“What’s your name?” he asked quickly.
“Helen.” She came in toward him, smiling, looking at his body as he drank again.
“Not Murphy?” he said, curious.
“No.” She reached out and touched his back. She felt him wince. “It hurts, does it, love?” The soft west country voice burred as Helen’s had done that night in the phone booth, and made him excited, as if it was starting all over again.
“Yes. It hurts. Who is she?”
“She’s boss. She’ll be mad with you, love.”
“She’s been mad already, the bitch,” he said, putting the pot down and wriggling his shoulders to ease the pains.
“Everybody has to do what she says,” Helen said, and smiled. She had a peach complexion, her plumpness making her smile rich, the blue eyes laughing.
“You’re not frightened. I can see that,” he said.
“It’s no good being frightened,” she said, catching his eye as it wandered down her neck. “You never do anything if you’re frightened.” She moved her shoulders slightly so that the low dress became slightly looser. “That hurts, love. I’ve got something to make it better.”
“I bet you need a lot of it with that lady round about,” he said, grimacing.
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“My, you make faces when you move,” she said, and laughed as she took his hand. “Come on, love. I’ll get you some stuff.”
She led the way out through the cellar door into the yard, keeping his hand in hers. He could feel a mutual sensation in the little clasp. It was Helen Murphy. It must be and couldn’t be.
They crossed the yard and went up the open wooden steps to the gallery over the stables. She opened a door and went in, turned, laughed and pulled him into her bedroom.
“Shut the door, love,” she said. “She might come out and look.”
She went and opened drawers and started rummaging, pulling out all kinds of clothes.
“Take your shirt off, love. I’ll have it in a minute.”
He took his shirt off. That, his slacks and the socks and shoes were all he had come to Heaven with. It was thus he had sat down in the glass chair, and thus he had traveled through centuries—or miles—or what? What had he traveled through?
She looked up and saw his back.
“Oh dear, you’re bruised,” she said. She came and stroked his back softly, but he felt it the opposite of soothing. He heard her laugh and turned round. She was laughing as Helen had laughed in the phone booth. She stroked his skin and watched him with bright, merry blue eyes. She stripped like a plump, luscious fruit, coming up out of the dress as if it did not belong.
“You’re Helen,” he said, catching his breath.
“Yes, of course I am, love. I told you.”
“You remember me?” A strange excitement caught his breath.
She laughed, but did not answer. She was soft and sweet and exciting and alluring as the young girl that night in the phone booth, all those years ago.
At first they said nothing. He liked her. He loved the memory of long ago. It was the exact opposite of everything he had suffered at the start of this fantastic journey. It seemed as if she had been waiting for him.
After a while he lay being cuddled against her firm, voluminous breasts.
“It wasn’t ever like that before, love,” she said, her voice
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burring more with excitement, and surprise. “Where did you come from, then? It was never like that?”
He looked up and saw her big, blue eyes staring down at him in wonder. Of course, he realized, he was in a very strange place and though everything seemed familiar its very familiarity seemed to add to an overcolored strangeness.
“What’s it usually like then?” he said, stroking her plump belly. “What do you mean?”
“You didn’t have any pills,” she said, wondering still. “They always have pills, love. Pills to make them go and pills to make them stop. They can’t do anything without. Sometimes they have to stop and have some more pills. Mostly they get so they have to do it all in a rush or they can’t do it at all.”
“Oh,” he said, puzzled.
“You’re not like that,” she said, feeling his shoulder. “I never had anybody like you before. You like girls?”
It was half a question and half a diffident remark.
“Of course. Who doesn’t?”
“Well, men don’t sometimes. Not here, love,” she said. “I never met anyone like you before.”
“I don’t know what you mean,” he said, laughing. “I like girls.”
“I know, I know,” she said urgently, and laughed. “It just seems funny, that’s all. Most of them start looking sad and saying how much they want to but they just can’t and cry on your chest. You get tired of them crying on your chest after a bit. Specially if nothing’s happened. I mean, love, if they’ve done it and got scared you could understand, but because they can’t it’s all silly.”
“But why can’
t they?” he said. “What’s the matter with 'em?”
“It’s what’s the matter with you, love,” she said. “That’s what. I knew when I saw you there’s something funny, I said, there’s something funny with that boy, I said. Golly, I’m glad there is, too.” She hugged him to her big bosom gratefully, sentimentally, then tightly, then excitedly.
“I’m dead,” he said, gazing up at her startled china blue eyes as they stared down between her breasts. She began to shake with laughter.
“You’re better dead than they are alive, then, love.” He raised himself on his hands and looked down at her as she laughed.
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“But I am dead,” he said earnestly. “I was killed.”
“You can’t be. My dad was an undertaker, so I know, love. He was always talking about how to tell. You could mistake some people.” She winked. “Not you!”
“But, Helen, I am dead!” he said very angrily.
“Then give me some rigor mortis, love,” she said, and Sung her firm, fat arms round his neck.
In a while he said, “Is your father still alive?”
“You say funny things.” She held his cheeks in her hands. “I don’t know what you’re up to, love. Why should you bother with my dad?”
“He might have known mine.” He rolled over on to his back. “Who’s the old man downstairs? The clergyman.”
“He’s the vicar.” She rolled over and rested on her elbows, laughing down at him.
“Well, what’s he doing washing the floor?” he said. He was going to add, “Is he dead, too?” but didn’t. Instead he kissed her arm.
“There’s nothing else for him to do, love,” she said. “He likes to keep the place clean, like. Poor old man. They all laugh at him, but he doesn’t know. Don’t talk about him. He always makes me sad. Kiss me here—” She pointed.
“I shall probably go to Hell for this,” he said, quietly. “And do you know, I don’t care?” He kissed her there.
“You’re a funny one, you are, love,” she said and laughed. “I don’t make you out—except sometimes. Even then it’s too good to be true.”
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