‘It’s silly of me,’ he said without encountering any opposition, ‘but until that’s done I can’t help worrying that some joker might steal my only copy. Now there’s one in here too I don’t care if my house burns down. Most authors have their funny little ways and I suppose that’s mine.’
After Brownlow had gone, Adrian thought for a time about him and his funny little way. It could be taken as showing a relentless determination to stay in touch with the reading public, a group seldom far from his thoughts, or just to continue to be counted as a writer. That was understandable enough in somebody with his history, but even total non-starters like Pennistone had their version of it. What was it about the almost always frustrating career of authorship that made them pursue it so obstinately, in the face of every disappointment and discouragement? By rights Brownlow would have packed it in a couple of books ago, decided to live on his fat, taken to drink, fallen down dead, even found something else to occupy him, but no, he was hellbent on going on writing his very own sort of terrible novel and getting it published.
At this point in his reflections, Adrian almost literally bumped into Derek Richards coming out of his office. Derek was the son of the co-founder of the firm and was widely said to owe his position in it to little but his paternity. Perhaps in compensation, he affected a wild-eyed, bardic manner that suggested a mind usually bent on higher things than representing writers. Nevertheless there was a kind of distant friendliness about him.
‘You managed to get rid of that old fart Brownlow, then,’ he said.
‘Unfortunately he left the typescript of a new novel with us.’
‘Why can’t he go back to his roots in where is it and stay there?’
‘Bristol. I suppose he wants to feel he’s still a writer.’
‘You mean there was a time when he was one?’
‘Enough people would say so and there must be some who’d say he still is.’
They crossed the entrance hall of the building. Derek said with an air of indifference, ‘Yes, I’ve noticed that you literary agent fellows tend to, what’s the word, identify with your clients. Now and then to a rather touching degree.’
‘Maybe. You should hear what we think about the likes of Brownlow in our innermost thoughts.’
‘But I trust you’re not going to tell me.’
‘Haven’t you ever wished you were a writer, Derek?’
‘Never, thank God. You have, I know. Be very careful that nothing happens to you, or you may find yourself writing it up.’
‘Don’t worry, nothing’s going to happen to me.’
But evidently Derek was tired of the subject of writers and writing. ‘So Keith Gordon has eluded both the arm of the law and the assassin’s bullet,’ he said.
‘What? What are you talking about?’
‘I got it on the News. A chunk of masonry squashed the conniving villain as he was about to enter his offices in the City. Apparently an accident.’
‘Surely not. There must be hundreds of poor swindled sods dying to knock off an arch-shit like Thief Gordon. What were the circumstances?’
‘You obviously wouldn’t expect me to know all of them, but evidently there were plenty. So far they hadn’t managed to find any suspicious ones. What seems to have happened . . .’
And for the rest of their short walk to the pub that was their undeclared destination, Adrian discussed with Derek the fate of the famously shady financier, and the very existence of Jack Brownlow altogether faded from his mind.
II
A couple of mornings later, Adrian was preparing to leave his comfortable Tufnell Park flat and go to work when the telephone rang. The girl he lived with, a picture researcher called Julie something, answered it.
‘It’s for you,’ she told Adrian, chewing a croissant.
‘Mr Hollies? Oh, it’s Sergeant Chatterton here, sir, Metropolitan Police, Kilburn Division,’ said a reliable youngish voice, which went on to elicit his agreement that he was the owner of a specified car. This part took place against a considerable distant accompaniment of ringing telephones, buzzing buzzers and general intramural clamour. The voice continued, ‘We picked up the vehicle in question early this morning, sir. It had been malparked near—’
‘I had no idea, I didn’t even know it had gone,’ said Adrian in a state of some consternation.
‘No doubt you didn’t, sir. We have good reason to believe it had been used in an attempted break-in at some premises in Maida Vale last night. I wonder, sir, if we were to send one of our cars to pick you up, if you’d be good enough to come and collect it, bringing with you the relevant documents just to formally establish ownership. We’ll get a car up to you right away.’
Not more than twenty minutes later a white car with an orange stripe round it, labelled Police, duly pulled up outside the flat. Adrian picked up the required pieces of paper and looked about for Julie to kiss her goodbye for the day, but she had already left. Outside on the pavement he was greeted by a red-faced, solid-looking man in his middle thirties and a pale, taller, younger one. Both wore smart police uniform with peaked caps.
‘Mr Hollies?’ said the older policeman. ‘Good of you to be with us so promptly, sir. I’m PC Beaumont-Snaith and this is PC Llewelyn. This business must have come as something of a shock to you, sir, but don’t you worry, it’ll all be settled very shortly.’
With some vague idea of verification, Adrian said, ‘I was rather expecting somebody called Sergeant Chatterton.’
‘Ah, he’ll be down at the station waiting for you, sir. I’m afraid poor old Chatty is a bit on the desk-bound side these days, eh, Taff?’
‘Oh, indeed,’ said Llewelyn with a chuckle.
‘If you wouldn’t mind getting in the back, Mr Hollies? Rather a squash, I’m afraid, but this week we’re having to take one of our trainees with us everywhere we go. Chris, this is Mr Hollies. DC Fotheringay.’
‘You’re a detective, then,’ said Adrian alertly to the large man in plain clothes as he settled himself next to him in the back of the car. He heard Llewelyn say something into a hand-microphone about returning to base.
‘I’ll tell you all about that, sir,’ said the large man in a deep voice, ‘if you wouldn’t mind just picking up that file for me down there on the floor. It’s a bit further than I like to bend, I’m afraid.’
‘Of course.’
Adrian’s fingers had not quite touched the grey cardboard oblong on the floor in front of him when a strong hand fastened on the back of his neck and propelled him bodily downwards. A sharp point penetrated the skin of his upper arm through jacket and shirtsleeve and, before fear could reach him, he felt himself floating into a region where there were no policemen and no car nor anything else in particular.
After a lapse of time impossible to measure, Adrian became aware that he was lying on rather than in a bed that was strange to him. By degrees he found that this bed stood in an equally unfamiliar, small, clean but barely furnished room. The light was dim but definite enough for him to be sure it came from some artificial source and not from the two windows, which were heavily curtained and, as he was to find later, blacked out with thick paint. At any rate, he had no difficulty in reading the few words typed on a sheet of paper he found on the bedside table beside an electric bell-push with wires affixed. The message ran, ‘Don’t try to get out. You won’t make it.’
Adrian found that he was still dressed as he had been, apart from his shoes, tie and jacket, which proved to be ready to hand. There were two doors out of the room, the main one strongly and invisibly fastened, the other open and leading to a proportionately small bathroom with w.c., handbasin, shower, comb, soap and towels, all in good order. No razor, in fact nothing more. Adrian peed, washed his hands and face and combed his hair. On returning to the bedroom, he investigated a previously unregarded table near the main window. Under a white cloth it bore a plate of cheese sandwiches and a flask of whisky. Without premeditation he disposed of both and found them excellent. The
n he put on shoes, tie and jacket again, pressed the bell-push and sat down on a padded chair facing the main door. Within a minute it opened and in came the two men Adrian knew as Beaumont-Snaith and Fotheringay. Both had changed out of their former clothes into cotton sweaters and denims. Their manner had ceased to be respectful without becoming hostile in any way.
‘How are you feeling, Hollies?’ asked Fotheringay in his bass voice. He perched quite companionably on the end of the bed while Beaumont-Snaith leant against the wall by the door.
‘A bit heavy,’ said Adrian. ‘Sort of limp. I think perhaps I’m still dozy from that stuff you pumped into me. What was it?’
Fotheringay looked at Beaumont-Snaith, who told him not to do that and added, ‘I just took what was given me and passed it on to you as ordered.’
After nodding resignedly, Fotheringay said to Adrian, ‘Well, the next bit of orders is we take you along to talk to, er, the next one up from us, if you reckon you’re ready for it. There’s no great rush.’
‘Oh good. But I’m ready for it.’
‘Oh, yeah.’ The big man made no move. ‘Aren’t you afraid, Hollies?’
‘Naturally I am, but ever since I woke up about twenty minutes ago I’ve had a lot to think about, for instance what this place is and what I’m supposed to be doing here. Or rather what the chap you’ve mistaken me for would have been doing here.’
‘Oh, so you reckon you’ve been mistaken for somebody else.’
‘I know I must have been.’
Over by the door, Beaumont-Snaith pushed himself upright. ‘I think it’s time we fetched you along to meet the next one up from us, don’t you, er, Fotheringay?’
Their way took them along an L-shaped piece of carpeted corridor in which and from which there was nothing to be seen and, except for the burble of distant traffic, nothing to be heard. All the same, Adrian sensed he was on an upper floor of a considerable building that stood on its own. Beaumont-Snaith, in the lead, knocked at a closed door and entered, followed by the other two.
A well-groomed, well-dressed man of about forty, who had been sitting behind a large desk writing something, put down his pen and took off his spectacles with an exclamation of pleasure, rose to his feet and extended a hand. ‘Good morning, Mr Hollies,’ he said affably, in decisive tones that seemed to Adrian in some way familiar. ‘Do take a seat. So glad you could come.’
Without volition, Adrian shook the proffered hand and almost as spontaneously took the seat, a comfortable chair near and at an angle to the desk. He hardly needed to glance at the heavy furniture, the rows of books and periodicals or the Italian prints on the walls to perceive the ambience aimed at as expensive-professional. Beaumont-Snaith and Fotheringay were no longer to be seen.
‘At this stage of the proceedings,’ said the man behind the desk, smiling, ‘I should of course press a switch and tell somebody offstage that I don’t want any calls or visitors till further notice, which is acknowledged by the appallingly distorted voice of the somebody, but that would be going a little too far. Still, there is a switch I can press to cause something amusing to happen.’
No switch sounded, but after a moment sounds of ringing telephones, buzzing buzzers and the like were to be heard from a concealed loudspeaker or speakers. With another smile, this time an eager, guileless, almost childish one that might have heralded the repetition of some established old favourite, the unknown recited carefully against this background, ‘Mr Hollies? Oh, it’s Sergeant Chatterton here, sir, Metropolitan Police, Kilburn Division. I wonder if you’d mind confirming that you’re the owner of’, and vehicular details followed. In the middle of them the loudspeakers faded. ‘There, now. What do you think of that, eh?’
‘I think that whatever it is you’re trying to do here you’re doing it to the wrong man.’
‘Oh, the wrong man. I see. But I’m afraid that’s quite impossible, Mr Hollies. Well, let’s just check, shall we? Here we are
– Adrian Hugo Hollies, born younger son of Frederick Irving Hollies deceased and Diana Victoria née Barton, educated Westminster School and Trinity College, Oxford, blah blah blah, at present director of Parkes & Richards, et cetera. Oh yes. Er, current live-in girlfriend Julie Scharwenka, employed by Central Magazines plc. That is your life, isn’t it . . . Mr Hollies?’
‘Yes, but I still say all this couldn’t possibly have been meant for me and there’s still been a mistake, it must just have happened at an earlier stage, for heaven’s sake. Surely.’
‘Oh dear, I’m sorry to say that’s not the case either,’ continued Chatterton’s voice for a moment before an abrupt return to the earlier stockbroking inflection. ‘You’ll have to take my word for that, my dear fellow. I was present when this thing was set up and you, Adrian Hugo Hollies of Parkes & Richards, were at the centre of the picture right from the beginning.’
‘Oh. What is this thing you mention?’
‘You know some of the answer to that already. A mechanism for removing you from your daily life and imprisoning you for an indefinite period somewhere you’ll never escape or be rescued from.’
This silenced Adrian, but only for a moment. ‘Is that all?’ ‘It’s what you might have inferred unassisted. Some of the rest is that your experience here is an end in itself. Nothing is required of you in the shape of information, your signature to a confession or any other action or reaction. Whatever happens you stay. Yes?’
‘I was going to ask, though why I should hope to get anything helpful out of you I don’t really know, I was going to ask if this is supposed to be a punishment for something I’ve done.’
The man Adrian was always to think of as Chatterton shook his head. It was a rather handsome head, in fact his whole being radiated something like distinction. ‘No,’ he said firmly. ‘I’ll tell you what is true, that indeed you have done something that displeased somebody, but to tell you what it is or was would be to immediately forfeit the anonymity that is of the essence of this enterprise, and . . . and after all, punishment suffered without knowledge of either the offence or the offended party can hardly be called punishment at all. So, let’s call it revenge. Somebody intends to satisfy himself – or herself – by retaliating upon your person for some wrong you’ve inflicted upon him or her.’ Chatterton appeared less than pleased with this formulation, but after a pause continued fluently enough, ‘And that satisfaction and that wrong correspond to no legal definition, otherwise my principal would no doubt have looked for redress through the courts.’ He finished strongly and with an air of triumph, smiling as he spoke and springily adjusting his position behind the desk.
‘You mean any sensible person would think that whatever it is I’m meant to have done is ridiculously disproportionate to all this elaborate and obviously very expensive bloody fuss.’
Chatterton looked wary. ‘I’m sorry, Mr Hollies, I’m not sure I follow you.’
‘Really? Well, just consider. I’m a literary agent and as such I must have inflicted a great many wrongs on people, or what they might see as wrongs. And in my private life I’ve done quite a few things I’m ashamed of, like many of us. But nothing on this scale. Unless your principal is mad. Well, is he? Or is she?’
The question seemed to flummox Chatterton a little. ‘I’m afraid I can’t answer that. Or rather, I can assure you between ourselves that for practical purposes he or she is . . . is entirely sane.’
‘Have I injured you?’ asked Adrian quickly.
‘Oh no, Mr Hollies, you’ve never done anything to me, anything at all. Why, you’ve never set eyes on me before, have you?’ For a moment there, the shadowy presence of Sergeant Chatterton, and the absence of Chatterton QC or FRCS, was unmistakable. ‘You and I have no quarrel.’
‘So how much does this carry?’
But this time upmarket Chatterton was prepared. ‘The organization will naturally see to it that I don’t lose by this interruption of my more regular activities.’
‘Such as resting, eh?’ When this brought no rep
ly but a huffy toss of the head, Adrian went on, ‘How long do you expect this interruption to last?’
‘That’s easy,’ said Chatterton with a less pleasant smile than before. ‘As long as it takes.’
‘As long as what takes? As long as it takes to what?’
‘We have a modest programme arranged for you, Mr Hollies, but I’m afraid it would be premature at this stage to speculate on its likely duration. It’ll last quite long enough to satisfy you, you’ll find.’ The last part was delivered in a tone that seemed to lack some of the required conviction.
‘I see. I mean I see I’m not going to get anything out of you if you can help it. Why did you have me fetched along here, to this room?’
‘If you really want to know, removing any unhelpful theories you might have formed about the reason for your presence here, impressing you with—’
‘But leaving a big question mark over the disparity between size of punishment and crime.’
‘From our point of view there’s nothing unhelpful about question marks being left in your mind,’ said Chatterton with some complacency. After a pause he added in a different tone, ‘And I wanted to have a look at you.’
‘I hope the sight’s been worth the trouble.’
‘Aren’t you frightened, Mr Hollies?’
‘One of your underlings asked me that. I told him of course I was, but I was trying not to let it interfere with my powers of observation and thought.’
‘Admirable. If true.’ Chatterton paused again before hurrying on, ‘I’ve got news for you, Hollies. You won’t be done any physical harm. Nothing actually painful’s going to happen to you, nothing . . . messy, you understand?’ Then, with yet another change of mood or idiom, he continued, ‘But before this is over you’re going to wish that all you had to put up with was something along those lines, something painful in that way, something that really . . . hurts. Right, I’ve said enough already. Ah, here we are.’
Dear Illusion: Collected Stories Page 49