Sky High

by Michael Gilbert

  ‘I hate cats,’ whispered MacMorris.

  Outside on the main road, at the end of the avenue of trees, a car slowed, accelerated and passed on. The noise died and the silence folded back again.

  ‘Look here,’ said Tim at last, ‘if you’re really—I mean, if you think there’s some funny business going on, why don’t we go up and have a look? Two pairs of hands are better than one.’

  ‘I’d be very grateful.’

  ‘Don’t whisper. If anyone is listening that’ll give the game straight away. I’ll help myself to a stick out of your hall-stand. Let’s try and make it sound as if you’re showing me upstairs to the lavatory or something. And there’s one other precaution I’d like to take before we start. I’m sure you’ll forgive me mentioning it, but I’d prefer to leave that thing behind.’

  ‘What thing?’ MacMorris showed his teeth for a moment.

  ‘The one in your jacket pocket. If we’re going to do some brawling in the dark it would be a damned sight more dangerous to our side than six burglars.’

  ‘I—’

  ‘Go along. Put it in the desk. It’ll be quite safe there.’

  It was a little, black, lady’s gun. MacMorris dropped it into the desk, shut down the lid, and turned the key.

  ‘You may be right,’ he said. ‘I think I’ll take a stick myself.’

  ‘That’s the boy. Now I take it this switch works the upstairs passage light. Splendid. We’ll just have the hall light off and the passage light on. Up we go.’

  The first floor – MacMorris’ own bedroom, a spare bedroom hardly furnished, a third room, not furnished at all, a bathroom and a linen cupboard – were all empty and in order.

  Tim looked speculatively at the narrow stairs which ran up, almost ladderlike in their pitch, to the attic storey.

  ‘What’s up them?’

  ‘Nothing to speak of,’ said MacMorris. ‘A box room on one side – it’s got a window – I believe you can get out on to the roof from it.’

  ‘Can you, though?’ said Tim. ‘Sounds promising.’

  He went up the stairs, which hardly creaked under his solid weight, and pushed the door of the box room ajar with the knob of his stick.

  ‘Is there a light?’

  ‘The switch is just inside the door.’

  The box room had nothing more sinister in it than three suit-cases and a tailor’s dummy.

  Tim looked inquiringly at MacMorris, who blushed and said, ‘Not mine. It must have belonged to the lady who had the house before me. I’ve never had the nerve to throw it away.’

  ‘It is rather luscious,’ agreed Tim. ‘This window doesn’t look as if it’s been opened for a long time.’

  It was jammed with disuse and covered with cobwebs. Exerting all his strength Tim raised the sash an inch and a fat spider ran out and looked at him.

  ‘All old inhabitants here,’ said Tim. ‘What about the other room?’

  He opened the door. There was no light switch. Tim stood absorbing the peculiar mixtures of sound and smell. In the darkness water hissed and gurgled into a dimly seen tank. All around was the flat, choking smell of dust and rust and a sharper smell, which was something like metal polish, but was more probably the verdigris on brass joints.

  ‘Nothing much to attract a burglar here,’ said Tim. ‘Unless he’s come to steal the ball-cock.’

  He shut the door softly and they walked downstairs to the hall.

  ‘I guess it was a cat,’ said Tim. He went back into the sitting-room, picked up his drink and finished it. Holding the empty glass in his hand he wandered, as casually as he could manage, towards the sideboard and set it down on top of it. What he wanted was a quick look at the photograph that hung there.

  He couldn’t make much of it. The room lighting was against him. It was a younger MacMorris. The picture might have been taken ten or fifteen years ago. He was wearing the ordinary service dress of a British officer. The cypher on the buttons was indistinct and there were no identifying badges, but a single ribbon was visible and it looked suspiciously like the ribbon of the Military Cross. The only other detail that appeared was that the photographer was a person called Ardee, who worked at 233, Charing Cross Road.

  ‘I must be off,’ said Tim. ‘I’ll try to see Gattie on Saturday. I shouldn’t worry too much, if I were you. Most people who send letters like that are cowardly little squirts, who wither up and die of panic if they are forced out into the open.’

  ‘I hope you’re right.’

  The last glimpse Tim had, as he stood on the step, was MacMorris’ face, white but curiously composed.

  Outside in the road he stood for a moment letting his eyes get used to the darkness. It was an automatic gesture.

  Two houses further down the road there was an upstairs window lit up.

  Tim loafed along, under the trees, until he was nearly opposite to it. He had his hands in his raincoat pocket and was whistling soundlessly to himself.

  A few minutes passed, then a shadow started moving behind the lighted window; a gentle rhythmic gesture. Someone was brushing their hair. He watched, entranced.

  A minute later the shadow shifted again and the General appeared. He was in pyjamas and, staring squarely out of the window, he took the first of the dozen deep breaths which were part of his ritual before bed.

  Tim turned about and walked fast for the main road; so fast that he nearly bumped into someone who was standing under the tree.

  ‘Sorry,’ said Tim. And then, ‘Oh, it’s you is it, Queen?’

  ‘That’s right, sir.’

  ‘Lovely night, isn’t it?’

  ‘It is that, sir. Might be spring.’

  ‘Yes. I suppose it might. Well – good night.’

  ‘Good night, sir.’

  Curse the man. Could he have seen him? Might be spring! Could he even be laughing at him?

  When he got home his mother was reading. She put the book down and said, ‘How did it go?’

  ‘Like wildfire,’ said Tim. ‘We’re terrific pals now. In fact, I’m not sure I’ve not been elected official bodyguard.’

  ‘What does he want a bodyguard for?’

  Tim told her.

  When he had finished his mother did not smile. She said, unusually seriously, ‘What did you make of it?’

  ‘I’m not sure,’ said Tim. ‘At the time, I was for it. He’s got quite a way with him, has little Bogus. You go there intending to be all terse and stand-offish, and before you know where you are you’re having a drink and listening to his life story. Come to think of it, he’s fairly accomplished actor.’

  ‘Actor?’

  ‘I don’t mean a professional. But he registers emotions so hard that you can’t miss them, even if you happen to have your back turned.’

  Then you think he was making it all up?’

  ‘I didn’t at the time. No. Now, I’m not sure. When he was talking about the letter he started by saying, “I didn’t really mean to tell you” – or words to that effect. But as a matter of fact he led up to it quite cold-bloodedly, by asking if it was true I had been in the Commandos, and then saying he might need a bodyguard himself – and so on.’

  ‘And the noise in the house?’

  ‘It was him who heard it. Not me.’

  ‘I thought you heard something too.’

  ‘I thought I might have done. But that may merely have been the way he put the act on. Or there may even have been a noise. A door banging, or the water tank gurgling, or something.’

  ‘But he had got a gun.’

  ‘Yes. That was right enough,’ said Tim thoughtfully. ‘That bit wasn’t put on. And he wouldn’t have produced it unless I’d insisted. I don’t know.’

  ‘Can you think of any reason for him putting on an act?’

  ‘People do things like that,’ said Tim. ‘I told you about the chap in our unit who was always sending himself the most extraordinary telegrams from girls—’

  The window was wide open and from where she was sitti
ng Mrs. Artside could look straight out of it. Tim was standing behind her, and so they both had a good view.

  A truncated cone of flame, squat and orange coloured; an obscene firework, throwing the tree tops into silhouette.

  Then the curtains puffed gently inwards and the house seemed to be rocking with the noise. ‘God in Heaven!’ said Tim. ‘Are we at war?’ When his mother did not answer, he looked round. She was on the floor in a heap.

  Chapter Four

  ECHOES

  Sir Nathaniel: ‘When in the World I lived, I was the World’s Commander.’

  ‘Mummy. For God’s sake. Mummy.’

  Tim dropped down on to his knees beside her. She was breathing deeply and jerkily and her face was a bad colour.

  What was the first thing? Get her off the floor. Make her comfortable.

  Strong though he was, he doubted whether he could lift her dead weight. He pulled a cushion off the chair and put it under her head.

  The words ‘burnt feathers’ flitted into his mind. Even at such a moment Tim almost smiled at the bare possibility of his mother having hysteria. Perhaps it was a stroke. Then he ought to get the doctor, and quickly. As he started to his feet his mother opened her eyes, looked blindly out of them and said, quite clearly, ‘Bill.’ Then her eyes cleared as her senses returned and she said, ‘Tim. What’s happened?’

  ‘You passed out. Do you think you could get up on to the sofa?’

  ‘Of course I can get up on to the sofa.’

  ‘Take it easy,’ said Tim. ‘You may not be quite as spry as you imagine. You hit your head an awful smack as you went down. That’s right. I’ll put my arm under your shoulders. Up we come.’

  ‘It’s the first time I’ve ever done that in my life.’ Liz sounded cross.

  ‘There’s a first time for everything. How’s that? I’ll get you a drop of brandy.’

  ‘Tim,’ said Mrs. Artside, ‘was there an explosion?’

  ‘There certainly was. A whopper.’

  ‘I thought that might have been in the dream, too. What was it?’

  ‘No idea. It looked like a ten-tonne bomb. Probably the gas-works blowing up. We shall know soon enough. Have a shot of this.’

  Ugh,’ said Liz. ‘Urrrh. I don’t know why people always rush round giving people brandy in a crisis. What a revolting taste. Take it away.’

  ‘Pity to waste it,’ said Tim, and tipped up the glass.

  In the hall the telephone began to jangle.

  Tim darted out, snatched off the receiver, and said, ‘Yes?’

  ‘Palling here,’ said the voice at the other end. ‘Is Mrs. Artside – oh, it’s you, Tim. Good. Now listen, I think you’d better come over here quickly. Don’t alarm your mother.’

  The General’s voice was modulated to the deliberately casual tone that he used in moments of real crisis. There were staff officers still living who would have recognised it uneasily.

  ‘What is it, sir?’

  ‘There’s been an explosion down the road.’

  ‘MacMorris?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Are you all right?’

  ‘We’re all right. Lost a bit of glass. The house next door caught the brunt. Lucky it’s empty.’

  ‘And is Sue—?’

  ‘Yes, yes. She’s all right. Now jump on to a bicycle or something and get over here as quick as you can.’

  ‘Of course,’ said Tim.

  He went back into the drawing-room. His mother was on her feet and looked fairly steady.

  ‘Are you all right if I—?’

  ‘Yes. Go along,’ she said. ‘That was Hubert, wasn’t it? I thought it sounded as if it came from that direction.’

  ‘It was MacMorris.’

  His mother looked at him but said nothing.

  Tim ran to the garage, got out his bicycle, and pedalled off down the road. A soft full moon had come up over the edge of the trees.

  As he swung off the main road into Melliker Lane, the sharp smell of high explosive and death hit him. It was not new to him.

  MacMorris’ house was the farthest down the lane. Next to it was the empty house. Then the Pallings and then three others. All the latter were blazing with light.

  There was a little knot of people in the road; the General, Sue, and Constable Queen amongst them.

  The shell of the MacMorris house was still smoking gently. It was as if someone had torn the top half roughly away, lifted it into the air, and dropped it back sideways on to the bottom half. The soft moonlight made it look somehow even more horrible.

  The General said, ‘Here’s Artside. I asked him to come along.’ He sounded like a host putting a late guest at ease. ‘I’d like you to talk to Queen.’

  ‘Talk?’

  ‘Tell him he mustn’t go into that house yet.’

  Constable Queen said obstinately, ‘It isn’t a matter of talk. It’s a matter of duty. The man may still be alive.’

  ‘My duty as a magistrate,’ said the General, ‘is to save any further loss of life. Tim, will you talk sense to him?’

  Tim looked at the house.

  ‘There’s no one alive in there,’ he said. ‘The blast alone would kill instantly; even if nothing else hit him.’

  The little crowd had fallen silent as Tim spoke. Nobody answered him directly. They were ready to help, if wanted, but were not going to put themselves forward. Tim could not help reflecting that most of them must have seen that sort of thing before in the last fifteen years.

  ‘I’ve sent for the fire brigade,’ said the General, and as he spoke a squeal of tyres on the main road brought all heads round together.

  A big car cornered sharply and came to a halt. A dapper, black-haired man climbed out from behind the wheel, and Constable Queen went forward, relief evident in every line of his figure.

  ‘Good evening, Sergeant,’ said the General.

  ‘Good evening, sir,’ said Sergeant Gattie. ‘Would someone mind telling me what’s been happening?’

  The General looked at his watch.

  ‘It happened just over fifteen minutes ago,’ he said. ‘I doubt if anyone can tell you much more than that.’

  ‘How many people inside?’

  ‘Only one, as far as we know. Major MacMorris. The next house is empty.’

  ‘Bit of luck there,’ agreed the sergeant. He caught sight of Tim and moved across.

  ‘Did you see it happen?’

  ‘More or less,’ said Tim. ‘My mother and I were both looking out of the window, and we got a good view, even if we were a bit far away. I don’t think it was a gas explosion, if that’s in your mind. Much too heavy. If it hadn’t been so impossible, I should have said a solid charge of H.E. And detonated.’

  ‘Would have made a good deal more sense in Tel Aviv,’ said the sergeant softly.

  ‘I agree,’ said Tim.

  They had reached the back of the house, out of sight of the others. The damage here seemed less extensive.

  They looked at each other.

  ‘If it hasn’t come down by now, it’ll probably stay put,’ agreed Tim.

  That’s right,’ said Gattie. ‘I’ve often noticed that. It’s the first ten minutes you want to watch – whilst it’s still rocking. Have you got a torch?’

  ‘I’ve got my bicycle lamp. Better not let the others see. The General practically put Queen under arrest when he wanted to dash in.’

  ‘Quite right,’ said Gattie with a grin. His strong teeth showed white under his line of black moustache. ‘Can’t waste trained constables.’

  There was no need to open a window. The whole casement, frame and all, was slewed outwards, sagging drunkenly on a single upright.

  Inside the dust still hung in choking clouds.

  Tim barely recognised the sitting-room he had been in two hours before. The word ‘snuggery’ came unbidden into his mind.

  The light from Gattie’s torch was swivelling round the floor, along the rubble of plaster on the carpet, under the table, where a space showed
, clear and black; a heap in the corner.

  The sergeant squatted and probed gently. It was nothing more sinister than a tapestry stool, which some freak of the explosion had covered with the tablecloth and then buried in debris.

  ‘I think he’d be upstairs,’ croaked Tim. He was speaking through the handkerchief that he had tied over his mouth and nose.

  Sergeant Gattie nodded. He also was wearing a handkerchief and it was impossible to make out much of his expression.

  Tim slid gently out into the hall. The door was immovably shut, but it was no longer completely filling the doorway. The bottom half of the staircase was quite intact, the stair carpet and even the rods in position. The top half had disappeared.

  Tim got as high as he could and felt above him. There was a ledge of broken joists. It was awkward, because he had to hold the bicycle lamp in one hand, but so far as he could feel it was tolerably secure.

  After a moment’s thought, he put the lamp away. There was a dim radiance over everything, and he looked up and saw the moonlight shining through the space where the roof had been.

  He pulled himself up, got one knee on the jagged edge, grabbed at something solid looking, found that it was a pile of loose slates, and started to slip.

  The hand of Sergeant Gattie came up from below, grabbed his foot, and steered it into a hold.

  This time it was easier. Another pull, a quick wriggle, and he was up.

  If the bottom rooms were a mess, the top storey was naked Bedlam. The blast had been more direct and more wilful. It was almost impossible to tell where passage ended and room began.

  If there’s any of him anywhere, thought Tim, he’ll be in his bedroom.

  Immediately in front of him, turned on its side and almost completely blocking the passageway was a mountain of twisted metal which Tim tentatively identified, after stubbing his toes on it, as the cold water tank.

  He edged round to the right of it, and a crunch of broken china suggested that he was now where the bathroom had been.

  A few steps further and he sensed he was in the bedroom.

  He got his lamp out again and flashed it around.

  The explosion had played its usual tricks. Three of the walls were more or less intact. A picture, its glass unbroken, hung above the fireplace, whilst the heavy iron bed had been picked up bodily and flung across the room.