Liz laughed. ‘That’s a good one! It’s the best excuse for blindness I’ve heard yet.’
‘Why didn’t you tell me!’ he raged.
‘Because,’ she said quietly, ‘I don’t even know if you are the father. It could be one of the Richmond Lot. It could be one of the Northerners. It could even be one of those wretched kids that screwed me on the way out of London … I was afraid to tell you. But now I’m not afraid any more, because I know that everything is going to be all right … It will be a little girl and I shall call her Jane.’
Greville stared at her helplessly. He felt as if someone had just hit him with a block of wood – about fifteen times.
‘Let’s try to get some grip on reality,’ he said in a carefully controlled voice. ‘Always assuming, of course, that there’s a bit of reality to get a grip on … You say Jane’s dead. All right, I accept that. I was never sure she was alive, so I can’t much quibble about her dying … But this baby … Goddammit, you can’t be that woolly-headed. You must have some idea.’
‘No idea,’ retorted Liz flatly. ‘That time I ran away – it wasn’t just for Jane, you know. I thought I’d find her and then we could go somewhere quiet and then I could have my baby, and you never need know … I’ve got to say this. I can’t really care who the father is.’ She patted her stomach protectively. ‘After all, she’s mine.’
‘Jesus Christ!’ said Greville helplessly. ‘What in the world do we do now?’
Liz seemed to be in command of the situation. ‘Turn back,’ she said. ‘We’ll go back to the cottage and you can screw me as much as you like – except for a little time before baby comes and a little time afterwards … Then we shall all be happy.’
‘Shall we indeed,’ snapped Greville. ‘Shall we indeed!’
He raced the car’s engine, went into first gear viciously and tore away with a jerk. Throwing caution to the winds, he began to cruise along at nearly forty miles an hour, his spirit numbed, oblivious of everything. The road began to twist and turn, but he did not slow down.
He did not see the sign: Beware trespassers. You are approaching manorial territory. It was a big sign, newly painted, at the side of the road. But he didn’t see it.
He didn’t even see the road-block until it was too late. Anyway, it was a damn silly road-block – a few bales of hay manned (if that was the right word) by a couple of tweedy-looking gents with shotguns.
Seeing that he had left it too late to reverse, he slowed down a little as if he proposed to stop. Then when he was about twenty yards from the bales of hay, he changed down in to second gear and accelerated like the devil.
The engine screamed, the gear-box whined, and the station wagon leapt forward, scattering men and bales with reckless abandon. Greville saw one of the men bowled head over heels, his shotgun going off as it pointed to the sky. It gave him a savage delight. He hoped the man was hurt – badly hurt. He hoped he would live quite a long time to nurse his pain.
The other man had disappeared completely from view, but he was evidently shooting, for the car was rattling as if it had been hit by a volley of hail-stones. Then they were through the tumbling barrier of bales and away.
Greville gave a cry of triumph. The road-block had occurred at a good time. It had occurred when he badly needed to do something and smash somebody.
He was still accelerating, still filled with a bubbling boiling mixture of anger and violence and hatred and love when suddenly there was a sound like the end of the world. The roadway seemed to drift up towards him in slow motion like a snapped ribbon. Then the car slewed over sideways and began to roll.
The last thing he heard was Liz shouting.
The last word he heard was: ‘Jane!’
Then suddenly, inexplicably, there was nothing but fog. And the fog became a black enveloping river.
TWENTY-FOUR
There was a cage. He couldn’t get in, and Liz couldn’t get out. She was naked, and she wasn’t alone in the cage. There was a ring of male faces. Greedy faces, vacant faces – slack with lust and anticipation.
Francis stood by Greville’s side, dressed like a circus ring-master. ‘Walk up! Walk up!’ he shouted jovially. ‘See the greatest little show on earth. See the beautiful lady ridden bareback by the most intrepid erection and demolition experts in the world … Walk up! Walk up!’
‘Stop!’ screamed Greville, his voice making no sound. ‘That’s Liz. You can’t let them do that to Liz.’
‘Walk up! Walk up!’ said Francis, oblivious. ‘See the Turn of the Screw in three dimensions and natural colour.’
Big Ears was in the cage. ‘Let’s have a go,’ he pleaded. ‘There’s nothing else to do.’
Nibs was also present. ‘By all means,’ he said grandly, ‘provided you repent afterwards of such sordid fornication. Let us trust this is a lesson to poor Uncle. I am afraid that at times he harbours indelicate thoughts.’
‘Stop it!’ screamed Greville silently. ‘She’s mine. Liz belongs to me.’
Francis took off his top-hat and put on a mortarboard and gown. ‘Gentlemen,’ he said, ‘we have here a most interesting example of paranoia. The patient has delusions of considerable grandeur. Note the simple phrasing: Liz belongs to me. Apparently, gentlemen, the patient genuinely believes that he is capable of possessing another human being. Extrapolating further, I think it is only fair to adduce his belief in the concept of romantic love.’
‘I love her,’ said Grenville mechanically. ‘She belongs to me.’
‘Go stuff yourself,’ retorted Smiler.
Francis dissolved into Father Jack. He regarded Greville benevolently. ‘Ego te absolvo, my son.’
Liz waved at Greville cheerily. ‘I’m no good at anything but screwing,’ she said.
Father Jack shot her neatly through the forehead.
And Greville woke up screaming.
‘Steady, lad! Steady there! You’re with friends.’
The room came into focus; and with it a man’s face. It was large, round and ruddy. It had a thick, grey moustache and on top a thin, receding line of hair. The lips were smiling but the eyes were cold and remote. The head was attached to a body. The body wore a check shirt and a tweed jacket.
Greville stopped screaming. ‘Where’s Liz?’ The words were no more than an exhausted whisper.
‘Ah yes, the woman.’ Cold Eyes paused. ‘It’s no good beating about the bush, laddie. Take it on the chin, there’s a good fellow. Best in the end, what? She’s dead, d’you know.’
‘Dead?’ Greville felt suddenly numb.
‘Dead,’ repeated Cold Eyes. ‘Mean to say: you can’t go driving cars all over land-mines without making a bit of an omelette, what?’
‘Dead,’ repeated Greville stupidly. ‘Dead.’
‘After all,’ went on Cold Eyes. ‘It was a bit naughty, wasn’t it? My men asked you very decently to heave to. But off you go like a mad thing without so much as a civil “by your leave”. It’s a wonder you aren’t dead, too, laddie. The car is pretty much a write-off.’ He laughed heartily. ‘Still, what the hell. There’s no need to worry about your no-claim bonus, eh? Main thing is to get you up and about … No bones broken. Would you believe it! The devil takes care of his own.’
‘Who – who are you?’ asked Greville.
‘Name of Oldknow laddie. Sir James Oldknow – not that it matters these days … My boys seem to like to call me Squire.’
‘Where the hell am I?’
‘Ah, the classic question,’ said Cold Eyes jovially. ‘You are in Brabynes House, laddie, in the village of Upper Brabyns, in the manor of Brabyns, Leicestershire … And now it’s my turn. What’s your name?’
‘Greville.’
‘Christian or Surname?’
‘Both.’
‘Don’t play games, laddie. I’m a busy man.’ Cold Eyes made a sign, and another face came into Greville’s field of vision. It was attached to a massive body.
The newcomer slapped Greville’s face twice – hard. As
he tried to avoid the second blow, he realised that he was in a bed.
‘Be good,’ said the burly man, ‘and answer the Squire’s questions. He doesn’t like people who don’t co-operate.’
‘Now,’ said Sir James Oldknow. ‘Christian or Surname?’
‘Surname.’
‘And your Christian name is –?’
‘Matthew.’
Sir James smiled once more with his lips only. ‘How nice. We already have Mark, Luke and John … How old are you?’
Greville had to think about that one. ‘Thirty-seven.’ ‘You look ten years older … The white hair, I suppose.’
‘I feel ten years older.’
The burly one slapped him again. ‘The Squire doesn’t like cheekiness,’ he said.
‘What was your profession?’ asked Sir James.
‘Grave-digger.’
‘Naughty,’ said Sir James. ‘Very naughty.’ He gave a sign, and the burly man advanced on Greville once more.
‘You’re a slow learner.’ The burly man hit Greville in the throat. He was too weak to avoid the blow. Sir James waited patiently until he had finished coughing and gasping.
‘Profession?’ he repeated. ‘That is, before the solar eruptions, of course.’
‘Adman.’
‘I beg your pardon’
‘Advertising man … I was a copywriter.’
‘Splendid,’ said Sir James, rubbing his hands. ‘Absolutely splendid. I have just the job for you. In a way, I suppose it’s promotion … No doubt you will be happy to learn, Mr Greville, that you will shortly enter the field of Public Relations.’
Greville felt a hysterical urge to laugh bubbling dangerously inside him. He fought it down. Sir James – Oldknow did not look as if he would approve of laughter – unless it was his own.
‘Public Relations?’ echoed Greville blankly.
‘You heard me the first time, laddie. Try to keep a grip on things. It’ll be an advantage – to you … Now, are you going to take a sensible interest in life?’
‘Yes.’ The burly man was out of sight once more, but not out of mind.
‘Then I’ll put you in the picture.’ Sir James Oldknow settled himself on the side of the bed. ‘My family has had a few thousand acres in this part of the world for about three centuries … Not that that’s important in itself, d’you know. But it gives a man roots. It gives him his bearings … D’you see what I’m driving at?’
‘I think so.’
‘Well, now. Here I am in this topsy-turvy world, a man with land, a knowledge of how to deal with men, a sense of position and – though I say it myself – a bit of a flair for leadership … It begins to add up, doesn’t it?’
‘Yes,’ agreed Greville carefully, ‘it begins to add up’
‘The point is,’ continued Sir James, ‘when the sun gets a bit off-colour and people start kicking the bucket, it makes for a nasty spot of anarchy – unless you’re lucky enough to have somebody who knows what’s what.’
‘I imagine you know what’s what,’ supplied Greville.
‘That’s it, laddie, that’s it. I know what’s what … Incidentally, while I think of it, have you got any Negro blood in you?’
The impulse to laughter bubbled once more, but Greville managed to suppress it. ‘I don’t think so.’
‘Good. Good … You don’t look as if you have. But what about Jewish blood? That’s a bit more insidious, isn’t it?’
‘I’m afraid I haven’t got any Jewish blood either. Is that bad?’
‘No, laddie. It’s excellent. Depending on how you shape, I might even consider you for breeding purposes. We’re a bit thin on intellectuals … Now where was I?’
‘What’s what,’ prompted Greville.
‘Ah, yes. Well, that’s me. The point is, laddie, I represent order in chaos. Stability. Permanence. Some chap once wrote about the rich enduring qualities of the English tradition. Well, there you have it. You see, with the world as it is we’ve got to take a sensible approach. And that brings us back to the feudal system, doesn’t it?’
‘Inescapably,’ agreed Greville. Soon, he was thinking, soon I shall be able to cry for Liz. If I humour him, maybe this clown will go away; and then I shall be able to think about her. I shall be able to build up a picture of what she was like. I shall be able to see the look on her face when I kissed her – and the look there was when she told me about the child … Oh, Liz! Dear, warm Liz!
‘Basically,’ said Sir James, ‘it’s a mutual security pact. I look after you: you look after me. You swear fealty: I swear to protect you. Damn simple. Damn fine arrangement. I’ve got two hundred and forty-seven men, seventy-four women and about two thousand acres. You’ve got yourself. We strike a bargain. You give me energy and loyalty. I give you security and protection. What could be neater?’
‘Nothing at all,’ said Greville tactfully. ‘Nothing at all.’
‘Good. Then you’re in the Public Relations business … Very properly, my people are a bit afraid of me. That’s good. That’s very good. But it’s important that they should understand me – that’s where you come in. And when they understand me, it’s important that they should like me – that’s where you come in again … I’m a bluff old type. No finesse. Never had time for it. That’s where you come in once more. Understanding, liking, finesse. Your department. People have to know that what I tell ’em to do is for their own good … Now, how does it sound to you?’
‘A definite challenge,’ said Greville.
‘Think you can meet the challenge?’
‘I hope so.’
‘Good. There’ll be speeches, news sheets – that sort of thing. You see, I want my people psychologically prepared for war.’
Greville was weak and aching, and he was beginning to feel light-headed. ‘For war? he repeated dully.
‘For war,’ said Sir James emphatically. ‘The age-old struggle has never been – as friend Marx would have us believe – between the haves and the have-nots. That was just a damn big socialist-communist red herring. The real struggle is between order and anarchy. Order as represented by established authority, and anarchy as represented by the long-haired decadents who gibber about equality and all that rot … Point of fact, there’s a rather nasty bunch of annies about five miles away. Their presence is, to say the least, disturbing. Not only do they give sanctuary to a few of my runaway serfs – in every society there are bound to be a few malcontents – but they attempt to undermine me with subversive propaganda. Incidentally, that’ll be another of your jobs – counter-propaganda … Anyway, as I see it, the trick is to deal with the annies before they outnumber us … So my people have got to be made to see what a rotten lot of decadent bastards they are. D’you follow me?’
Greville’s head was aching, his limbs were aching and his throat was aching. More than anything he wanted to be alone. ‘The lucidity of your argument is admirable, Sir James,’ he said. ‘You may count on me to do whatever I can.’ For a sickening moment, he was afraid he had overplayed it. In fact, he knew he had overplayed it. But Sir James Oldknow was impervious to irony.
‘Splendid,’ he said. ‘Absolutely splendid. Tomorrow we must get you out of bed. Then you can have the regulation two weeks’ basic training, and then you shall swear the oath of fealty. After that, my dear fellow, you’re in business. Do a good job and you will not find me ungrateful.’
‘What is the basic training about?’
‘Oh, lots of things,’ said Sir James, airily. ‘Husbandry, unarmed combat, the use of the longbow.’
‘I see … I’m already a pretty fair shot with a rifle.’
Sir James Oldknow laughed. ‘Firearms,’ he said, ‘are strictly for the use of the Praetorian guard … You have quite a lot to learn, laddie. I hope you benefit by it.’
TWENTY-FIVE
It was nine days before Greville managed to make his escape from Sir James Oldknow and his latter-day feudal system. But for two men – known respectively as Nosey and Big Tom – he migh
t not have attempted to escape at all, or, at least, not until it was too late; for he was haunted by memories of Liz. The thought that he would never see her again sapped his energy and even his self-respect. For a while he was not really sure whether he wanted to live or die. Memories of Chelsea Bridge rose disturbingly in his mind – not of the day when he saved Liz from the dogs but of the night he killed Pauline.
He had killed her, he thought, because he was trying to kill himself. Maybe he had killed Liz for the same reason and, oddly, in a similar way. Maybe both episodes constituted one of the odd little jokes of history. Maybe the possibility that someone else’s child lay cradled in Liz’s belly was somehow a sequel to the fact that other men than he had lain between Pauline’s legs. And maybe Liz and Pauline were the same person in a different world …
Fortunately he didn’t have much time for introspection. Come to that, he didn’t have much time for anything. Sir James Oldknow was as good as his word. Weak though he was, Greville was hauled out of his bed early on the following day by Big Tom – the heavy individual who had been present at his interview with Sir James.
It was barely after dawn when Big Tom arrived. Greville was still uneasily asleep. Big Tom picked him up like a child and set him on his feet. Then he threw his clothes at him.
‘The Squire says for you to get basic training,’ he announced happily. ‘I’m basic training.’ He laughed. ‘By the time I’ve finished with you, you’ll think there’s nothing more basic in the world. I’m going to toughen you up. Even a bloody clerk has to be able to stand on his own two feet.’
After he had dressed, Greville was taken out of Brabyns House, through two wooden gates in two wire fences that he later learned were electrified, and to a kind of mess hall where about twenty men were eating breakfast.
Breakfast consisted of porridge, some rather grey bread, a slice of bacon and a hot drink that was obviously meant to be a coffee substitute and tasted like burnt toast mixed with water. Greville was allowed ten minutes for eating; then training began.
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