The pressure became almost unbearable. But it had one good effect: Timothy was carried to her side. His sweating face had a waking-up expression: his eyes were coming alive. He said, ‘Hell! … Beth, are you all right?’
‘No,’ she whimpered. ‘Please help me, please get me free!’
Now Beth panted for breath and her feet left the ground. ‘Help me get down, Timothy …’ she choked. She had realized that her only safety lay near the ground: legs are thinner than bodies. But then there were the trampling feet. They were dangerous too.
Timothy, eyes starting with fear, said, ‘Right! – Now!’ – and used all his strength. His elbows levered outward. The bodies yielded for a second. The second was enough. Beth fell down almost to a kneeling position, surrounded by a forest of legs. Then Timothy was down with her, his elbows still jutting out, sideways; for the feet were shuffling, millimetres at a time, closing in.
‘She told them to do it!’ Beth told him. ‘She hypnotized them! Lisa did it!’
‘Do like this!’ Timothy gasped. He took up a frog-like attitude, facing Beth. They put their hands on each other’s shoulders and braced their spines. Their bodies made a bridge. The feet shuffled and tried to invade their space, break the bridge. Beth and Tim sweated and held on. Above them, the living forest closed in, blotting out the light.
Timothy said, ‘Hold on. Look!’ They were crouched over a manhole cover, a big, round, cast-iron disc. ‘Escape hatch!’ he said. ‘But we can’t lift it!’ Beth choked.
‘Reach in my back trousers pocket,’ Timothy said. ‘Get my Army knife!’ It was a Swiss Army knife, a multi-bladed instrument of good steel. She could feel the knife – but it was sealed in the pocket by Timothy’s crouching position. ‘String, idiot!’ Timothy muttered. She found the string lanyard connecting the knife to Tim’s belt. She tugged at it. It broke.
It took fumbling, stifling minutes for her to get the knife free: but only seconds to open the strongest, thickest blade, a can-opener. ‘Give it me … quick …’ Timothy muttered. He thrust the blade into the little square hole at the edge of the manhole cover and heaved.
The blade broke.
He fumbled another short, thick blade open. All the time, shoes shuffled closer and closer: bony legs pressed against his ribs and spine or nudged his backside, threatening to tip him off balance so that he would fall face forward against Beth. But he still had time to be cunning. This time, he inserted the edge of the blade, not its flat, in the little square hole: and took his time applying lifting force.
The manhole cover moved. A curved, gritty crack showed. Beth thrust the piece of broken blade into the crack to hold it open. Timothy nodded and gave her a skull-like smile. Slowly, carefully, he applied more leverage. The blade held. The cover kept moving until it showed a slit like a long smile. Timothy shoved three fingers into it. The smile crushed them painfully but, ‘We’ve done it!’ he said. ‘Give us a hand!’
Beth gave a hand, literally. She too put her fingers into the gap. It was a mistake. The forest of legs shifted closer still. A man’s foot trod on the edge of the cover and bore down on it. Beth gave a scream of pain. Timothy swore and jabbed with his knife at the leg above the foot. The leg jerked and the foot lifted. Simultaneously, Beth and Timothy gave a great heave and wrenched the manhole cover up and away.
Beneath them there was a dark, damp hole, crusted with grey; and they could see the top rungs of a crude metal ladder. The rest of the ladder led down into nothingness.
‘Go on!’ Timothy said. ‘Down!’ Beth wriggled and crawled between the trembling struts of his arms. Somehow, she got herself into the hole and began climbing down the steel ladder.
Timothy tried to follow. The human forest closed in tighter still, locking him up in a shrinking prison of feet and legs. He pushed frantically at them, even beat at them with his fists. It made no difference. The forest kept closing in.
He clawed at his knife and managed to open a cutting blade. He slashed and stabbed with it. Bloodstained trousers and jeans: blood jetted and dribbled from nylons and bare flesh. Yet however furiously he hacked and stabbed, nobody protested, there were no cries of pain. But slowly, very slowly, the feet and legs uneasily drew back.
Then Timothy’s feet and hands were on the steel ladder and he too was clambering down into the dark hole.
THE SEWER
They were in a sewer. The smell was horrific. It choked them.
‘Lucky old us!’ Timothy said. ‘It could have been one of those electrical things – you know, all wires and cables, just a box in the ground, not leading anywhere.’
‘I’m going to be sick,’ Beth said faintly. And was. When she had finished, she said, ‘Will there be rats? I’ll die if there are rats. Rats in the darkness!’
‘You won’t die,’ Timothy said. ‘Don’t be stupid.’ But the thought of rats terrified him. He too was sick, for a long time. The open manhole cover above them admitted only a faint gleam of light: the crush of bodies had closed in to seal the hole. The hole dripped and the droplets fell on Timothy’s head and shoulders. He finished being sick and looked at the droplets, puzzled. The hole had seemed only damp. Why should it drip?
He suddenly realized the answer. The droplets were blood from the legs he had hacked at. He was sick again.
They moved into the darkness of the sewer. The smell was like a gas, choking and inescapable, filling their minds and bodies. They were afraid to breathe. Yet soon they overcame the horror of it: for there was light ahead. Pale, grey light. They slogged on through the shallow wet filth. The sewer was unusually empty – Timothy could see this from the wet tide line much higher up the curved walls. He wondered why and thought, ‘Of course: everyone’s out on the streets, nobody’s at work or at home.’ Hand in hand, he and Beth made for the light.
It came from some sort of air vent or grating. There was no ladder leading up to it, only a narrow, angled chimney. Beth said, ‘We’ve got to go on, haven’t we?’ Her voice was surprisingly steady. ‘But I might be sick again.’ Timothy squeezed her hand. Good old Beth: she was brave. ‘We’ll be all right, Beth,’ he said, and was proud of himself for keeping his voice as normal as hers.
They went on into darkness. Timothy felt Beth’s hand shake and tremble in his – or was he the one that was shaking? At least there were no rats. He wondered what else there was in sewers. He wondered if it mattered that his feet were squelching in his sewage-filled shoes. Was sewage poisonous? Beth said, ‘Well, at least we’re better off down here than up there … aren’t we?’ Her voice sounded shrunken.
‘Of course we are.’
‘And we’ll find a way out, won’t we?’
‘Of course we will. I mean, there’s got to be a way out, just like there was a way in.’ He spoke gruffly to make sure his voice would not shake.
Again the tunnel lightened. Again it was only another vent or grating, useless to them. And then they saw the rats.
The rats huddled and squeaked in front of them. They formed a knot, a gibbering village of evil, perched on a ledge. The rats climbed over each other and turned their hideous, red-eyed heads to the sound. Beth kept screaming. The rats cocked their heads and listened attentively, unafraid. Some ran off into the darkness. Two ran towards Beth and Timothy, their wet hunchbacks bobbing, their raw tails writhing.
Timothy gave a cracked yell of sheer terror and hysterically flung his knife.
By chance, his aim was true. The knife slammed into the main cluster of rats. There were squeaks and high-pitched yelps, scrabblings and scurryings and splashings: then, suddenly, no rats.
‘It’s all right,’ Beth said. Her fingers were locked rigidly in Timothy’s. He was shaking violently. ‘It’s all right, it’s all right, it’s all right,’ Beth kept saying, mechanically, as she dragged him forward. ‘No! No! I don’t want to!’ he complained, in the high wailing voice of a little child. They staggered forward, slipping and stumbling, each knowing that this was the end, they were going to die in this hideous pla
ce. Then the rats would get them.
But now there was a dim little crescent of light above them: and a ladder: and a manhole cover at the top of the ladder: and they were standing in the empty road outside J. W. Noakes, Groceries & Provisions, Families Supplied.
The air was like a sublime drink that you took down in huge greedy gulps. The light of the sun was blindingly beautiful.
That evening
Beth said, ‘The TV broadcast is tomorrow, Tim. The Lisa Treadgold special. What are we going to do?’
He said, ‘Something. Something really dramatic, something to make people see her as she is … But I don’t know what.’
They were in the garden. It was late evening. Although they had washed themselves again and again – even hosed out their shoes – they still imagined that they smelled of the sewer; that everyone in the world was their enemy; that their own parents would turn them in, betray them to Lisa Treadgold. That was why they talked in low voices and were in the garden.
It was light enough for Beth to see her brother’s face. It was alive, unfogged. She was talking to the real Timothy, the complete Timothy. She was not alone. So there was a spark in her voice as she said, ‘I think I’ve got an idea. A brilliant idea.’
‘It had better be brilliant,’ Timothy said, thinking how childish Beth sounded.
‘It’s a good plan, honestly!’ she said.
‘All right,’ he said, shrugging his shoulders. ‘What do we do? Cause a riot? Set fire to the studio?’
‘Oh, nothing like that,’ Beth said. ‘We smash her. Do her in. Kill her.’
Timothy gaped and stared at the dark outline of his little sister’s face. Her hands rested in her lap. She looked perfectly at ease.
‘Kill her?’ he said. ‘Is that all? Kill her? Just like that?’
‘That’s all that’s left for us to try,’ she said. ‘Kill – or be killed. Well?’
Timothy said, wearily, ‘I’m sure it’s a brilliant plan. You must tell me all about it some time.’
‘I want to tell you now! Listen, Tim –’
‘Some other time,’ Timothy said. And walked along the dark path through the palely luminous late roses, back to the house.
In his bedroom, he leaned out of the window and felt the dew in the dark air against his face. Above him he saw the stars: a thousand worlds, a million, all cold, remote, none of them caring. Around him there was a fringed silhouette of trees and the lights of houses – houses with people in them, families, children, old folk, the lot. To all of them, this was just the end of another day.
He got into bed and lay on his back, wide awake, staring at the ceiling. There had been Romans and Egyptians, Shakespeare and Charlie Chaplin, world wars and village fêtes, crucifixions and being kept in after school. How could it all just stop?
A long way away, someone whistled to a dog. A car driver changed down a gear for Mall Hill. From downstairs, his father’s voice said, ‘Boomboom, boom-oomer boom?’ and his mother’s voice, an octave higher, went ‘Oop – oop, oop, oop,’ in reply. Timothy had known those sounds all his life. This time tomorrow, it could be all over. The whole human story might have a line drawn under it. A line and just two words: The End.
TV SPECTACULAR
‘Why’s she got a ticket, I haven’t got a ticket!’ the large woman in the fur jacket said loudly and angrily, glaring at Beth. ‘Despite having applied in good time,’ the woman said.
‘Applied in good time,’ her little husband echoed. He was almost invisible in the press of heads, bodies and legs in the foyer of the theatre where the big Lisa Treadgold show was soon to be screened.
The crush in the foyer was nothing to the crush outside, beyond the plate glass doors. The whole world, it seemed, wanted to be part of Lisa Treadgold’s live audience. ‘Ruddy kids get everything these days,’ said the big woman. ‘Pampered, they are. Expect everything served up to them on a plate.’ ‘Pampered,’ said her husband, bobbing his angry little head above the shoulders pressing in on him. ‘On a plate.’
Beth giggled. She was in wild good humour, like someone running a high temperature. She was being towed by a policeman. There were dozens on extra duty, controlling the crowds. ‘If you please,’ this particular policeman kept saying. ‘Thank you very much. Ticketholders only. Make way, if you please.’ Behind Beth, Timothy and Mac shuffled forward too, thankful for the policeman. Without him, even though they clutched their tickets, they might never have reached the foyer, let alone their seats in the theatre.
Outside, even the cars in the streets seemed excited. They nudged, hooted, heaved, whirred, flashed their lights. Occasionally an over-excited car bumped into another; the small collisions left droppings of broken glass and plastic on the tarmac. CAR PARK FULL said the notices. Attendants waved torches and arms trying to shoo the cars away. But still they came. Beth, Timothy and Mac had come in the Carpenters’ car. They had parked it a mile away and walked the rest. They had been wise.
‘If you please!’ said the policeman, for the hundredth time – and suddenly they were in the auditorium, vast and cool and dimly lit. ‘Blige me …’ said the policeman, running a finger round his damp collar. He winked at a pretty girl usherette and said to her, ‘Here you are then. More customers. See you after the show, right?’ She gave him a flirty look and said, ‘I told you, I’ve got a regular. He’s an all-in wrestler.’ The policeman grinned and left, no doubt to escort more ticketholders to the auditorium – which gave him another chance to chat up the girl. She said, ‘This way, follow me. Row B! Right up front! Well! You must have friends in high places!’
‘Lisa Treadgold is my mother,’ Beth replied grandly. ‘We’re her illegitimate children. Don’t tell anyone.’
They settled themselves in their plushy seats and looked round for their parents. They had been separated from the children by the crowd, long ago. ‘They’ll turn up,’ Mac said. ‘Anyone got any sweets or anything?’ He was his old self, Beth saw. Timothy too. Lisa had lifted the fog on this special evening. Would she bring it down again during the programme? Of course she would. But when? How? Why?
Beth thought, ‘Time to act.’ She got up, said, ‘Excuse me,’ and started pushing past Mac’s knees.
‘Hey, where are you going?’ he said, surprised.
‘To kill Lisa Treadgold,’ Beth said, in a low voice.
‘What did you say?’
‘Back in a minute,’ Beth said. Now she was clear of the seats and standing in the aisle. Her head was lowered and her face half hidden by her dark hair. She was looking into the open handbag she held in her hands, apparently checking its contents.
‘Where did she say she’s going?’ Timothy asked.
‘She didn’t. The Ladies, I suppose.’
They saw Beth close her bag, straighten her shoulders and start walking. ‘She’s going the wrong way,’ Timothy said. ‘The toilets are at the back.’
Beth walked towards the curtained stage. She moved briskly, almost jerkily. There were small flights of stairs leading up to the stage. Beth walked up one of them. Nobody noticed or tried to stop her – not even when she stretched out her arm, pushed aside the edge of the glowing stage curtain and disappeared behind it.
Mac and Timothy stared at each other speechlessly. ‘She’s gone bonkers!’ Mac said at last, ‘She said she had a plan …’ Timothy replied uncertainly.
Behind them, the buzz of the people – the seats were filling up rapidly now – almost drowned the canned music flooding the theatre.
Behind the curtain, Beth stood, very small, her eyes very big, waiting her chance. Her lips moved. You would have to have stood very close to her to hear what she was saying.
‘Lisa Treadgold,’ she whispered. ‘Kill Lisa Treadgold.’
There were so many people milling about on and around the stage that Beth was soon discovered.
‘For God’s sake,’ the assistant stage manager, a girl, said, ‘what are you doing here?’
‘Miss Treadgold invited me,’ Beth said
, staring right back into the ASM’s furious face. ‘Here’s my ticket.’ The ASM was too angry to look at it. ‘Look, I don’t care if –’ she began.
‘Here’s her letter. Read it,’ Beth said. She held out a letter from Lisa Treadgold. It was Fanny Bishop’s letter. It meant nothing. But it had Lisa’s famous signature at the bottom of it. The ASM groaned and repeated, ‘Look, I don’t care if –’
‘I’m part of the show,’ Beth said, speaking slowly and distinctly.
‘I’ll call the floor manager!’ replied the ASM. The floor manager, a man, had a face that seemed to be boiling between the earphones he wore to link him to the director in the control booth. ‘Who in the name of –’ he began, pulling at his earphones which squeaked urgent messages. ‘Part of the show,’ Beth said calmly. ‘Friend of the big star. That makes me a starlet.’
‘I don’t care who you are, get out of –’
‘Twinkle twinkle,’ Beth said, waving the letter right under his nose. As she guessed, he had no time actually to read the letter. ‘They say I’ve got a smile rather like Lisa’s,’ Beth said and gave the floor manager a ghastly little smile, all syrup and front teeth. He backed away.
‘I suppose I could find myself sitting here,’ Beth said sweetly. She minced to the ring of armchairs surrounding the speakers’ tables and sat down in one right next to the plushiest armchair, the star’s chair, Lisa’s special chair. ‘Thirsty work, being a telly star!’ she said brightly. She reached for the special glass, a handsome smoked goblet, ready-filled with water, facing Lisa’s chair: and drained it.
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