The Continuous Katherine Mortenhoe

by D. G. Compton

  ‘She’s out of her tiny mind,’ Vincent said. Dr Mason reached for a jotter, started making notes.

  ‘I’m a bit more than a computer, Rod. I have self-knowledge. I understand what I know what I know what I understand.’’

  ‘Heebie-jeebie talk,’ said Vincent. Dr Mason hushed him.

  ‘But you’re not dying of it. I am ... So I’ve been warned what to expect. Louder and louder till something breaks.’

  ‘Louder? When you say louder, do you really mean faster?’

  ‘Utter heebie-jeebie talk,’ said Vincent. ‘I’ll do you a rerun. You ought to see the buildup.’

  Dr Mason shook his head. ‘It’s not heebie-jeebie talk. She’s being obscure because it’s safer. And your man’s following her. Klausen would be very pleased.’

  ‘But I want to show you the buildup.’

  ‘It’s not necessary. Obviously my computer nonsense is running away with her. We must pull them in before it’s too late.’

  Katherine Mortenhoe past stirred and opened her eyes. ‘Rod? What peep-show did you refuse them, Rod?’

  ‘Pull them in? You must be joking.’

  ‘If you don’t I won’t be responsible for the consequences.’

  ‘Don’t be melodramatic. We both know there’s nothing-whatever the matter with her.’

  ‘I’ve got to get old. There’s . . . so much I’ve got to understand?

  Mason groaned, leaned forward, convulsively turned off the monitor, covered his eyes. ‘She needed something she could understand, feel sympathy for. God help me, I gave it to her.’

  ‘All right, so you did a good job. That doesn’t mean we get—’

  ‘You must pull them in.’ Now he was clutching Vincent’s arm. ‘Don’t you understand? The Syndrome was there ready-made, so I used it. But the computer analogy was too close. Possibly the outrage too. We were playing with fire. If we don’t pull her in I’m telling you she’ll die.’

  ‘Then she really is out of her tiny mind.’

  ‘Suggestible. Hysterical, if you like. That’s one of the reasons why we chose her. But certainly not mad.’

  Vincent removed the doctor’s hand from his arm and carefully took out one of his cigars. It would put him ahead of his daily ration, but he lit it all the same. He was bigger than daily rations.

  ‘My dear fellow, this operation’s cost money. Your own fee wasn’t exactly peanuts. And now you say pull them in.’ »

  ‘I’m a lost soul. And I say pull them in.’

  Vincent winced delicately. ‘It’s late, my dear fellow, and you’re upset. Besides, you’re forgetting — out there is the best research opportunity you’ll ever have.’

  He pointed at Katherine Mortenhoe present, whimpering faintly in her sleep. Dr Mason’s teeth appeared to chatter slightly. ‘That’s what you told me. You also told me there was no question of letting her die.’

  ‘That’s right. An upbeat ending. A miracle cure.’

  ‘Money in the bank, Mr Ferriman. Nothing but that.’

  Vincent stared thoughtfully at the sleeping Katherine Mortenhoe. There were points he could make. Mea culpa was all very well, but the doctor had been paid in advance: his own fee depended on ratings, and on the show’s continuance. Then again, there were artistic reputations at stake here: his own and poor Roddie’s. Furthermore, it was easy — and meaningless — to deny responsibility: there were still no positive steps Mason could take without disclosing his own somewhat unethical part in the proceedings. And Mason was surely no crusader. Unless . . . Vincent glanced sideways: in his present condition the doctor was conceivably capable of even that. But he wouldn’t want to, and he’d welcome a convenient compromise.

  ‘How long d’you think she’s got?’ Vincent asked, very gently.

  ‘Impossible to say. The snowball effect. She believes it’s running away with her, so of course it is.’

  ‘Today? Tomorrow? Surely longer than that?’

  ‘Probably.’

  ‘Then I tell you what I’ll do. You move in here, keep a professional eye on things. I’ll tell Dawlish to give you full facilities. We’ll keep a helicopter on standby and the minute you think she’s in serious danger we’ll buzz on over. Flying doctor, nick of time, wonderful stuff. . . how’s that then?’

  Dr Mason was silent. Vincent knew his man, recognized agreement, capitulation, self-distaste. Crusaders were a dying lot.

  On the screen Katherine Mortenhoe had suddenly disappeared. The camera was on the move. Dim expensive furniture loomed by, a door swinging open, a bright corridor. ‘What’s happening?’ Dr Mason asked.

  Vincent was glad of the distraction. ‘Roddie’s left her sleeping. I expect he’s going for a pee.’

  ‘Do we have to watch?’

  ‘Don’t tell me you’re shy, Doctor.’

  The screen centered on an elevator button, a thumb, sliding doors, a panel of buttons, the same thumb, a close steady view of walnut paneling. Then the doors as they slid back, another bright corridor, a view in mirrors of Roddie walking past, pausing to stare at himself, evidently incredulous, then on down the corridor, trying doors, looking into bedrooms.

  ‘He’s obviously alone,’ said Dr Mason. ’Why doesn’t he tell us what he’s doing?’

  ‘We decided it was seldom worth the risk. Besides, it’s after one. He’d hardly expect anyone except the duty engineer to be watching.’

  On the screen a woman’s bedroom, a quick pan around furniture, dark green with tiny golden stars, dull golden bed cover, on then to a wall-long closet. Clothes roughly sorted, armfuls of them grabbed, the cover off the bed, the pillows. Rushing now, hunting in drawers . . .

  In the viewing room, above the rustle of fabrics, the rattle of drawer runners, Vincent became aware of an insistent little tapping on the door. He called — not irritably, he was never irritable — and Dawlish came in. ‘There’s a lady to see you, Mr Ferriman.’

  ‘A lady? At this time of night? Who let her up?’

  ‘It’s Mr Rodericks’s wife, sir. His ex-wife, that is.’

  ‘Tracey . . . ? All right, I’ll come.’ He left Dr Mason watching, fascinated, as the search in the bedroom continued. Television did that for you, took your mind off things.

  Dawlish had put Tracey in one of the interviewing rooms. Although she couldn’t have been waiting many minutes there were already two cigarettes scrubbed out in the ashtray. She was lighting a third as Vincent entered.

  ‘I tried to call you, but the exchange wouldn’t put me through. So I came.’

  ‘They have their instructions. Outside calls are—’

  ‘I’d have thought I might expect something better.’

  He spread his hands apologetically, wondering why it was so hard for some ex-wives to let go. ‘You saw the show?’ he said.

  ‘I saw the show.’

  She stared at him through her cigarette smoke and he smiled at her encouragingly. If he wasn’t careful he was going to be told that, before knowing him, Roddie had been a fairly sensitive, decent human being.

  ‘You know, don’t you, that before Roddie got to know you he was a fairly sensitive, decent human being?’

  ‘Tracey, my dear, we’ve been through this before. Many times.’

  ‘And we’ll go through it again, just once more.’

  ‘It’s late, Tracey. Couldn’t we—’

  ‘Don’t I know it’s late? Too goddamned late . . . You’ve destroyed him, Vincent. Chewed him up, spat him out, destroyed him.’

  ‘You’re entitled to your opinion. I don’t think he’d agree with you.’

  ‘Maybe he thinks he’s still fighting. Did you know he came to see me?’

  ‘We had the tape.’ Then he felt guilty for scoring so crudely. ‘I ... I didn’t see it. And the sound was missing.’

  ‘I’m sorry. I wish you had. I wish there’d been sound too. Then you’d have understood.’

  ‘The new show’s upset you.’

  ‘The new show? Or the new technique? The new, wonder-mi
racle, electro-neurological technique. In an age of achievements, the latest and the greatest. The Man with the TV Eyes.’

  She was quoting, of course. It was cheap copy, but Vincent wouldn’t disown it. ‘He didn’t tell you?’

  ‘You’re fucking right he didn’t tell me. He was too fucking ashamed.’

  He stood up. ‘This is a pointless and unpleasant interview. If—’

  ‘Have you thought what I’m to tell his son? That his dad’s the Man with the TV Eyes? The man who sold every farthest corner of himself to the square-eyed monster?’

  It was a night for people to splash their souls all over him. ‘Roddie Two’s growing up in a new world, Tracey. These old-fashioned emotive phrases will mean nothing to him.’

  ‘Maybe you’re right at that. Maybe Roddie Two’s new world will see the justice. A fable for our time, Vincent. The only person the voyeur really hurts is himself. And of course the people who love him.’

  She turned her head sharply away, jerked her shoulders, drew painfully on her cigarette. Vincent waited. ‘I shall be interested,’ she said at last, ‘to see if anybody in this lousy world will think that what you’re doing to that woman is wrong.’

  ‘Plenty will.’ He waved his cigar, looming over her, caricaturing the vandal she believed him to be. ‘Seventy-thirty against at the moment, according to the exchange. But it won’t stop them looking in.’

  She stubbed out her cigarette and stood up also. She was, he thought, a pretty little thing, but not one of those whose tears brought out the father in him. ‘I must get back home now,’ she said. ‘There’s a neighbor listening out.’

  She gathered strength, then walked to the door, using the short distance to get straight what else she had to say. Then she turned. ‘You’ve not changed. Of course you despise him. You despise everybody. You always did. What I really came to tell you was—’

  Behind her the door burst open. Dawlish came in fast. ‘He’s asking for you, Mr Ferriman. We said we’d fetch you. He’s hanging on.’

  Vincent hurried across the interviewing room till Tracey blocked his path. ‘I came to tell you,’ she said, ‘that I’d always be around to pick up the pieces.’ But he had dodged past her, had not listened, had more important things to think of. ‘If there are any pieces,’ she shouted after him, down the important, dead corridor.

  And watched him go, his innocent, white-coated puppy dog trotting behind. At least she had Roddie Two. She wondered what he had.

  ~ * ~

  I hadn’t expected to get through to the Presence. I’d intended to tape a message. But the sound gear had crackled and a voice had come back at me, a voice I didn’t know, plummy like a stage butler, asking me to hang on. So I hung on. I sat on the seat and hung on.

  No doubt there were other places from which I could talk to base without fear of interruption, but that night I wasn’t at my most imaginative. So I gave the goggling office boys — goggling butlers? — a steady, unexciting view of an automatic roller towel. Coryton Rondavel provided contraceptives too, for the men who worked in his garage, but I kept my eyes rigorously to the front. I hoped Vincent would hurry. Much longer and Katherine would start feeling sorry for me. Such is the lingua franca of our digestive processes.

  ‘Roddie? I ought to be very angry with you, Roddie, letting yourself be picked up by—’

  ‘Yeah. Well, save it for later. Like the man said, listen now, and listen good. You know where I am?’

  ‘You’re at Coryton Rondavel’s.’

  ‘Right. And I’m just going to steal the least swanky of Coryton Rondavel’s eight swanky motorcars.’

  ‘You’re what?’

  ‘No time to argue. I’m taking one of our chairman’s cars, and you’re going to talk to him, and he’s not going to say a thing. He can charge a rental fee to the company if he likes, but I don’t think he will. Look at some of the footage I’ve recently turned in if you doubt me.’

  ‘I already have. We don’t like the look of what’s happening to La Mortenhoe.’

  ‘Me, I’m just hanging on. Maybe I can snap her out of it.’ Me, I didn’t think so. But Vincent liked his men to think positive. If you weren’t careful, you even talked the Vincent way. Meanwhile, I was just taking each hour as it came. ‘Vincent? You still there?’

  ‘I’m still here.’

  ‘Just now the house is empty. They were pretty high, so maybe they’ve taken their orgy somewhere else. But sooner or later they’re going to come back. And sooner or later Rondavel’s going to discover he’s a car short. If you don’t want trouble I suggest you have someone ring every ten minutes. If he gets us picked up by the police the whole thing’s blown. It’s a lousy assignment anyway. You hear me?’

  ‘I hear you. But for God’s sake, why a car? What—’

  ‘You think about it. I missed the show, but I picked up some of the comments later. From now on we’re hot.’

  ‘I can see that. But—’

  I flushed the toilet straight through his protest. There’s power for you. ‘I’ve got to go,’ I said. ‘She’s been left too long as it is.’

  ‘Wait, Roddie. I’ve got Dr Mason here. He—’

  I cut him, and opened the door. Katherine was over where I’d left her, in the front seat of the black station wagon with the black windows. When I get an idea I really get one. The number plate — CAR 4 — was a pity, but it’d take a very alert and nasty-minded cop to stop us on the off-chance.

  I made my way across to the car and got in smoothly. Katherine had obviously been dozing. She roused herself. ‘I thought you’d left me,’ she said. I put my hand on her knee. ‘I wouldn’t have blamed you,’ she went on. ‘This car business is quite crazy.’

  ‘We’re together,’ I said. You said such things to the sick.

  I’d found car keys on a row of neatly labeled hooks in a sort of chauffeur’s office. It wasn’t my fault that the office door had sort of busted when I sort of leaned on it. I started up, switched on the lights, and drove carefully out of the garage. Going up the ramp must have broken some sort of ray, for an alarm bell started ringing distantly in the house behind us. I slowed, making sure Vincent heard the bell.

  ‘Don’t worry,’ I said to him, to Katherine. ‘He’ll think twice before he calls the police. He won’t want trouble any more than we do.’ And a word from Vincent, dear Vincent, in his best cocktail manner, would clinch the matter.

  I drove down the avenue between the high hedges, and out onto the thruway. For a while Katherine stayed awake, watching the tarmac our lights created and let slip endlessly by. Then I reclined her seat and she slept again. I drove on through the night, not fast, taking each hour as it came.

  Dawn found us maybe a hundred miles on, at about the limit — without a substation — of my transmitting range. Tied to Vincent by bonds of ether, I turned off at the next intersection and began working my way back, using country lanes. There had been few other motorists, and none of them had done other than hurtle by, rocking us with the wind of their passing. As soon as the light was strong enough I drew into a gateway by a field, switched off, and stopped. First it was very quiet. Then, as my ears adjusted, it was noisy again: noisy with the most turned-on set of birds I’d ever heard. I watched the sun come up over a stubbly, undistinguished hillside. After the house, the friends, the life, of Coryton Rondavel it was quite breathtakingly beautiful.

  I got out of the car and went for a short walk. The lane dipped abruptly and came to a stream, and a narrow stone bridge. I sat on the parapet, watching a pair of moorhens. I thought about . . . nothing but the bridge and the stream and the two little birds busy in the rushes. After a time I went back to the car.

  Katherine was still asleep. I’d expected to be revolted by the incontinence when it came, and certainly the smell in the enclosed car was bad. All that really worried me, though, was how degraded she’d feel when she woke. I wound down the windows, backed out into the lane, and drove slowly along to the bridge. Then I got out again, slamming t
he door. She opened her eyes. ‘There’s clothes in the back,’ I said. ‘And your bath is run.’

  Then I went away. If Vincent wanted close-ups of her shame he could come and get them himself.

  In fact she was admirably composed about the whole affair. She emerged from the car carrying a towel, underclothes, and one of Rondavel’s Margaret’s dresses. ‘You think of everything,’ she said. ‘I don’t expect it’ll fit, but at least it’s got a fancy New York label.’