The Continuous Katherine Mortenhoe

by D. G. Compton

  And I’d thought I was cynical ... ‘I could always insist on standing trial at once,’ I said.

  ‘Wouldn’t that be just a teeny bit vulgar? A discreet contribution to the inevitable fund would be far more realistic.’

  ‘Plus, no doubt, a discreet bottle of vodka in the right quarter.’

  He refused to be needled. ‘That’s extraordinarily kind of you. But I’m only doing my duty.’

  ‘Your duty to the fat politicians.’

  ‘Some of the people’s elected representatives are really quite thin.’

  You meet flip little crooks in all sorts of places. But they seldom win unless you want them to. This one was winning. ‘Supposing I was recognized?’ I said, faltering ever so slightly.

  ‘Deny it. We’ll issue a name at once, to stop speculation. Anybody who thought they recognized you was simply mistaken. Not many people have my sergeant’s way with faces.’

  ‘And the car? Anyone who checked its ownership from the registration number would—’

  ‘Would make his inquiry via the police.’ He sat back. ‘It’s a wicked old world,’ he said. ‘But I can’t honestly see what will be gained by your making a martyr of yourself

  Nor, honestly, could I.

  Just then a first aid orderly arrived to tidy up my face. Apart from a couple of bruises there was really very little damage. My ribs, likewise, were bruised but not broken. And as for the thrilling taped evidence of my eyes, I knew very well that Vincent would (regretfully) agree with the inspector that it could hardly be used.

  Later an unmarked police van arrived and I was bundled into it, a jacket over my head. I could hear the inspector speaking to the inevitable group of reporters. ‘. . . Assisting us with our inquiries. That’s right. No, his name is Barber. Christopher Barber, aged twenty-seven. One of these advertising whiz-kids. I’m sorry, no, I’m not divulging his home address. I know how persistent you gentlemen can be. Contact Area Office in the morning. Maybe they’ll have something for you . . .’

  The police van moved away. Few of the reporters would bother. And I knew from experience that those who did would get little joy. Barber was a common enough name.

  And the Advertising Association had no official registry. And the world moves on.

  ~ * ~

  The girl on reception at NTV House recognized her at once and paged her straight up to Vincent Ferriman’s office. On the way from the hospital she’d had one of her little paralyses, and fallen down in the street by an Anti-Surveillance Gadget shop. But she’d kept her face to the wall, and stayed anonymous, and nobody had bothered her. She couldn’t see her watch to time the paralysis, but it had seemed to last about ten minutes. Then she’d got up, and dusted herself, and continued on to NTV House, hobbling slightly because of a bruised knee.

  Vincent Ferriman was glad to see her, but didn’t gush. He was solicitous, but didn’t oppress. He sat her down, and sent for soup and sandwiches because her little paralysis had delayed her and she hadn’t had any lunch. Then he settled himself behind his desk and in a fatherly fashion watched her eat. An Aimee Paladine fatherly fashion.

  When he got down to business it was on a level that did not insult her intelligence. ‘You’re here because you’ve nowhere else to go,’ he said. ‘You don’t want to hear my rationale. You have already rejected emotionally anything that I could possibly say. You’re here because the commercial world has left you no alternative.’

  It was a fair enough statement of the facts, but it didn’t warm her to him. She kept on eating. She had seldom felt so hungry.

  ‘It’s not an ideal situation,’ he went on, ‘but at least it’s workable. It’s up to me to improve it as we go along. For the moment you’re here, and that’s enough.’

  She chewed. ‘I want the money now,’ she said. ‘And I think it should be more.’

  ‘More than what?’

  ‘Last night’s excitements have put up my value. Being kidnapped has made me a more valuable property.’

  ‘The jargon’s right, Katherine, but I don’t see—’

  ‘I want more, Vincent, and I want it now.’

  Tough. Hard-boiled. Using his first name like an insult. But he didn’t seem to notice. He spread his hands. ‘Looked at another way, Katherine, your market value is down, not up. A couple of days ago you had a choice in the matter. Today we’ve agreed you have none.’

  He had to go through the motions. ‘There’s always Rocky Mountain Waffles,’ she said.

  She’d hoped to baffle him, but he smiled, and even corrected her. ‘Rocky Haven Waffles. And their place is a dump.’

  ‘I don’t mind. I’m not doing this for myself. I’m doing this for all the little terminals to come. Establishing a higher rate for the job. United we stand, divided we fall.’

  At this Vincent laughed aloud, and she knew he was disarmed. She finished the last corner of the last sandwich. The cheap joke, the outrageous demand, the vulgar aggression, had swamped his distrust. She would get what she was asking. She would get it for Harry’s sake: the money in advance, safe in the bank, leaving her free to do as she had planned, to cheat the image machine in every way she could. For Harry’s sake, the money in advance, so that they couldn’t snatch it back whatever she did.

  ‘Five hundred thousand,’ she said, ‘in advance. That means now.’

  Vincent laughed again. It wasn’t, of course, his money. ‘We’ll have to see Contracts. But they’ll never advance you more than half, even on my say-so. Half a million is a lot of money, even for NTV

  She’d settle for half, if she had to. ‘I’ll need at least four.’

  ‘Three.’

  ‘Three and a half.’

  ‘Be reasonable. Three’s the whole original offer.’

  That was true. It was all Harry’d get, there’d be no second payment on completion, but he could hardly complain. Now she and Vincent were both laughing.

  ‘I still say three and a half. I’ve only the one death to sell. Don’t you feel bad, trying to knock me down?’

  ‘And I still say three. I thought we were treating it as a strictly union matter.’

  ‘Three and a quarter.’

  ‘Three.’

  ‘You’re a hard man.’ She stopped laughing. ‘But all right. Three it is.’

  It was all Harry’d get, but he could hardly complain. And NTV could sue someone who wasn’t there, a nonperson, a dead person, all they liked. She stared at Vincent, watching his laughter cease as abruptly as hers had.

  ‘I’ve a feeling I’ve been outwitted,’ he said. ‘But I’m far too nice a person to mind.’

  They went down a couple of floors to the Contracts Office. She read her amended contract carefully, not because she was interested, not because it mattered, but because she would be expected to. Then she signed, and the witnesses signed, and Vincent was all smiles, and she went across with him to Accounts where the sum of three hundred thousand pounds was registered into the central banking computer for hers and Harry’s joint account. Five minutes later she rang her branch, just to confirm. The manager went away to check. When he returned his voice was hushed, both by the size of the deposit and by his sudden unworthy contact with the hem of Katherine Mortenhoe’s garment.

  Vincent rubbed his hands. ‘Now I’d like you to meet your series director. Roddie’s something really rather special. He’s not like me: he’s got the makings of a conscience.’

  ‘Couldn’t it wait?’ She had a lot to do, and not long in which to do it. ‘Last night is catching up on me. And officially I’ve got another day of my Private Grief left.’

  ‘Only a social meeting, Katherine. I think you’ll feel better once you’ve met him. And there’s something he’s got to explain. Something we’ve had up our sleeve just waiting for someone like you.’

  He reached for the telephone. ‘Besides, you slept in the hospital till nearly one, so you can’t be feeling all that tired.’

  He knew altogether too much about her. He and Dr Mason must have
a hot line. She considered doing a Gordon’s Syndrome on him just to be awkward, but it seemed a sort of sin . . . Her series director, he had said. It was a nice thought: dying really did need a series director. But this Roddie was a luxury she’d just have to do without.

  After a great deal of telephoning — a circumspect call to Gerald for example, to her first husband (she might have known they’d be on to him) — Vincent finally traced her series director to some official-sounding place over on the far side of the city. His questions became even more circumspect, and he made notes of the answers secretively, smiling at her, charming her as he did so. Afterward he told her — very lightly — that Roddie was tied up on some official matter and mightn’t be available until the following day. She wasn’t curious, merely relieved. The following day was a problem to be solved as it happened.

  She promised to deliver herself up to the protection of NTV at four the next afternoon, and got away as quickly as she could. She gained the impression that Vincent Ferriman suddenly had other things on his mind, and wasn’t altogether sorry to see her go.

  From NTV House she took a taxi, first to her bank and then on as far into the old dock area as the driver would go. Then she walked. She had seen the sort of shop she was looking for in a color magazine some fourteen months before. Fringies had been news in those days. Where she was going there’d be plenty of them.

  The road she walked along was a huge trackway slashed across a mass of flashy last-generation housing and some little back-to-backs even older, its surface cracked and tufted with stringy grass. The article had said much of this housing was occupied, but she saw no signs of life and heard none. Above the road shredded decorations were strung between the huge tilted lamp standards: faces peeled from house-high posters, egg crates, a thousand plastic bottles, alloy balustrading, coils of brown and blue electric cable, silver foil pie plates, a string of enormous yellow wristwatches from some advertising campaign. Instant art. They twirled and chattered above her in the cool, bright air. On either side of them the chopped-off ends of the houses were dazzle-painted, and lettered with last year’s slogans.

  Ahead of her she saw the trackway partially blocked with a thirty-foot-high replica of an old-fashioned cash register made from rusty boiler plating. As she skirted it she realized it had once been used as a defensive position, with firing slits and a blast-shielded entrance. At the top of it someone had rung up an undergraduate No Sale. She reminded herself that once she too had been an undergraduate.

  The trackway ended abruptly at a vast jumble of derelict trucks piled in front of the entrance to the old Container Depot. There seemed to be no way around. Children were playing in the trucks. When they saw Katherine approach doors slammed and they were suddenly very quiet. A tin can clattered onto the road in front of her and rolled a few feet. She stopped walking.

  ‘Please may I come in?’ she called.

  There was a pause, and then a cheerful chorus of shouts and a few more tin cans. She noticed that none of them fell particularly near.

  ‘See you next Tuesday,’ the children chanted. ‘See you next Tuesday.’

  Katherine waited for a gap. ‘Tuesday’s a long way off. Mayn’t I come in today?’

  There were shrieks of laughter. One of the truck doors opened and a boy of fourteen or so climbed down a stairway of battered radiator grilles. He came toward her, then stopped a few yards away. His head was shaved like that of a Sioux.

  ‘It’s a dirty insult,’ he said, his voice surprisingly pleasant. ‘See you next Tuesday — it’s a dirty insult. The initials make a dirty insult.’

  Katherine worked it out. ‘I don’t think that’s an insult.’ He was almost as tall as she was. ‘Most men love cunts best of all. So how’s that an insult?’

  ‘It just is.’

  ‘All right — see you next Tuesday too, then. With knobs on. Now may I come in?’

  He laughed. ‘You don’t know how.’

  ‘Will you show me please?’

  He hesitated. ‘I don’t mind.’

  She followed him to the big double doors of a derelict container. Behind them at the far end of the container was a short tunnel through the remaining piled vehicles, and beyond that the vast open truck park of the Depot.

  ‘We don’t mind you knowing,’ he said. ‘Lots of people know. They still can’t get in if we don’t want them to.’

  He ran back to his gang, and they started up their chant again.

  Inside the high wall of the Depot her arrival was noticed, but only mildly. On her way across the truck park to the terminal building she passed many groups of Fringe People, talking, or playing a complicated throwing game on the marked-out asphalt or just sitting. They appeared to find their permanent leisure not in the least troublesome. Usually they looked up as she passed, and offered their embarrassingly pious greeting. ‘Care,’ they said, and smiled, and made signs. ‘Care . . .’ It wasn’t as if they were all of them young — you expected piety in the young. Many of them were as old as she, or older. But at least the media hadn’t penetrated their rarefied lives, so that her presence, the PG sticker on her lapel, gave them no salacious thrill.

  Overhead thousands of sea gulls screamed and circled.

  They were a new breed, pi-dogs, scavengers of the new society. If you’d offered them a live fish most of them wouldn’t have known what to do with it. In their own way the fringies were equally new.

  The Container Terminal had once been a combined railhead, cargo dock, and truck-loading center. Now the vast area under its roof was divided up into streets and little open spaces crowded with stalls like an eastern bazaar. A thousand conflicting musaks helped the illusion. Owing to the lack of rain inside the terminal all sorts of unusual building materials could be used: one ‘house’ Katherine saw was built entirely of white expanded polystyrene blocks that had once contained transistor radios from Sweden. Another, mustier, was made of books, many from Peregrine. The air in the narrow streets was heavy with the smell of joss sticks that didn’t altogether cover other even less desirable scents.

  Katherine wandered for some minutes, unable to find the sort of shop she needed. She felt absurdly self-conscious in her city clothes. Nobody questioned her or offered to help, but people watched her go by with an interested openness that she found threatening. They seemed so agreeable to the possibility of communication, and to have so much time for it, that she shrank away. Preserve me from having a rigor now, she thought. They’ll be bound to touch me, intrude, put all their repulsive caring into practice.

  Suddenly, mercifully, she came on a whole street of the shops she wanted. Clothing shops for her planned disguise. She stopped at the first, hardly more than a stall, with a candy-striped awning and a stock that to her eye looked like a combination of old rummage and Hong Kong imitations of old rummage. The fat young woman beside it — sitting on a kicked-in guitar loudspeaker — was dressed in the uniform of a New York policeman.

  ‘Klutzy clothes?’ she asked. ‘You want klutzy clothes?’

  Katherine knew she was being played for a tourist. It was an insult worse than ‘See you next Tuesday.’

  ‘I can think of nothing more horrible,’ she said stiffly, and then heard herself, and tried to smile. ‘You see, I need things that’ll last more than a day or two. I’m hoping to change camps. If you’ll have me.’

  ‘If you don’t fit you won’t stay. It’s as simple as that.’

  Katherine had no intention of fitting. Or of staying. What she needed was a disguise that would last out her time.

  Klutzy clothes were what tourists brought back and wore to parties.

  She chose a reddish-brown robe belted with a long plait of soft Oriental hair, an under-robe of quilted terylene, and a hooded ski-troops survival jacket. Glengarry golfing socks, clogs, sun-goggles, and a necklace of sharpened steel disks (for tight corners, the fat young woman said), completed her outfit.

  Other stall-holders gathered around to give advice. Her hair would give her away un
til it had grown, they said, and hiding it under the ski hood would be uncomfortable if the warm weather kept up. So she added a yellow plastic sou’wester. She’d need a sleeping bag, they said, so she chose one that zipped around and doubled as a holdall . . . The bill came to nearly a hundred and fifty pounds.

  ‘That’s ridiculous.’

  The fat young woman crossed her hands piously over her uniformed breasts. ‘Changing camps is never cheap,’ she said.

  ‘But you believe money isn’t important.’

  ‘But you’re the one who’s paying. And you believe it is.’