Greville unslung his sten gun. He judged he was about fifty yards behind the rearguard. He judged also that in about ten minutes, unless the Brothers of Iniquity changed direction, they would be among the telephone wires and tin cans. That, no doubt, would be the time to signal the start of the party.
But the Brothers of Iniquity were nearer to Lower Brabyns than Greville had calculated. About two hundred yards ahead he heard what, less than twelve hours ago, he had interpreted as the sound of silver bells.
He quickened his pace. The need for silence was over. After about ten seconds he actually ran into one of the rearguard columns.
And then everything began to happen at once.
Greville emptied his first magazine into the darkness ahead. Screams and shouts told him that he had found targets. At the same time, a small searchlight was switched on somewhere in the village. It swept over the telephone wires, picking out the columns of advancing men.
Greville dropped to the ground, tore out the empty magazine and slipped another one into the sten. Then he rose to one knee, firing at the same time, spraying the black lines that were negotiating the telephone wires to the sound of old tin cans.
Fifteen or twenty men fell as if they had been scythed. The rest evidently could not understand that the firing could be coming from behind them. With savage cries they forged ahead, eager to get to grips with the defenders.
Greville changed magazines once more and began to cut into another line of the advancing men. At the same time the Brothers themselves started shooting. And then there was a blinding flash, and another, and then an entire dazzling barrage of light.
Greville stood amid the Brothers of Iniquity, temporarily blinded. Arrows whistled. Rifles and light machine-guns began to chatter away. Bedlam reigned.
Suddenly, he felt a smashing blow in his shoulder. Then there was another one in his leg. He spun like a top, still firing the sten gun blindly. Then the whole hullabaloo seemed to be fading away. Overcome by a curious lethargy, he decided to sit down. The lethargy persisted. So he decided to lie down.
He didn’t know it, but his finger was still crooked tightly round the trigger of the sten gun. He lay on his back, shooting blindly at the hidden stars until his magazine was empty.
The vibration stopped, and he knew that there was nothing left to worry about.
He had had a hard day, he thought dimly, and now it was time to go to sleep.
TWENTY-NINE
Greville opened his eyes. He was in a comfortable bed between clean, sweet-smelling sheets. He became fascinated by specks of dust dancing in a shaft of sunlight. Their movements were lazy and random – like tiny stars, he thought vaguely, dancing from nowhere to nowhere in a miniature cosmos.
He felt a dull pain that seemed to stretch down the left side of his body; but against the overwhelming fatigue that came down like a curtain, the pain didn’t matter too much.
Beyond the shaft of sunlight, half-hidden by shadow, there was a woman’s face. It looked a bit like Liz; but then it obviously wasn’t Liz. The effect of concentration became too much for him.
‘Hello,’ he mumbled thickly. ‘You’re someone else, aren’t you?’
Then he gave a great sigh and went back to sleep.
Six hours later, when the sunlight had given way to twilight, he woke up bathed in sweat and screaming: ‘Liz! Liz! Oh, Liz!’
Somebody lit an oil lamp; and there was Liz, standing by the bed, holding his hand, wiping the sweat from his forehead. He looked at her and could have sworn that she was real.
‘See what happens when I’m not there to look after you,’ said Liz. ‘You made a fine bloody mess of yourself, didn’t you?’
‘I thought … I thought …’ he babbled. ‘Goddammit, what’s happened?’
‘Not to worry. Everything’s all right, love. Now go back to sleep. You’ll live.’
He tried to sit up, and the effort made him groan. Great knives of pain sawed away at the muscles of his shoulder. He collapsed sobbing.
‘Here,’ said Liz. ‘drink this. They haven’t got any pain-killers left.’
Brandy slopped over his chin, but most of it found its way into his mouth. The burning sensation was utterly beautiful. The room got dark, and he found a nice warm whirlpool. The trick was to dive clean into the centre of it.
‘Sleep,’ commanded Liz. ‘You’ve been pressing your luck. I’ll be here when you wake up.’
Once more he slept. And awoke before daylight. Thirsty but cool. The pain had gone away.
Liz was still there. The lamp was still burning.
‘My love,’ said Greville. ‘Oh, my love!’
Liz smiled. ‘So you’re still delirious, then?’ She leaned over the bed and kissed him on the lips. ‘Didn’t you know bad pennies always turn up?’ she whispered. ‘Now go back to sleep till morning.’
‘I want a drink.’
‘Brandy?’
‘No, water.’
Liz gave him a glass. ‘You must be someone else,’ she said happily. ‘The man I knew wouldn’t have touched it.’
Greville drank greedily, then closed his eyes.
Morning came. He opened his eyes, and Liz was still there. She lay curled up in a big chair, sleeping.
As the lamplight lost its battle with the increasing daylight, Greville studied her. Her nose was shining, her lips had fallen open. She was wearing a drab brown dress that fitted her like a potato sack.
Greville felt on top of the world.
He didn’t say anything because he didn’t want to waken her. If he had been a praying man, he would have said: ‘Thank you, Lord, for miracles gratefully received.’
But he was not a praying man. He was simply glad to be alive, and glad that life included Liz once more. He looked at the swelling of her belly. Beneath the potato sack, beneath the flesh there was the absolute testament – a busy little colony of cells that would one day have the effrontery to call itself human.
What the hell did it matter who the father was? For he could only ever be the father in an empty biological sense. Whatever the stupid facts, no matter who provided the mechanics of the act, the child would belong to Greville and Liz. At the beginning, he thought half-cynically, it would be nothing more than a tiny blue-eyed computer. And he and Liz would jointly programme it. Perhaps they would make of it something that could look at the night sky and be moved to tears. Or perhaps it would turn into a twentieth-century Caligula. But whatever happened, it would belong to them alone. For they would make out of the clay a statue that would at least dance and take pleasure in the illusions of life …
He drifted into dreams again. It was quite late in the day when he next awoke. There were other people in the room besides Liz. Meg and Joseph.
‘Congratulations,’ said Meg. ‘We didn’t really have any doubts. Both bullets passed clean through. But congratulations. Another week or so, and you’ll be bouncing around with the best of us.’
‘How the devil did you get hold of Liz?’
‘We bought her,’ said Joseph. ‘It seemed the easiest way. After the Brothers of Iniquity had departed, we were in no position to take her by force – even if we had wanted to.’ He gave a tight smile. ‘However, our visitors themselves donated the price. It was, I recall, ten rifles and two hundred rounds of ammunition.’
Greville was silent for a moment or two. ‘They’ll use the rifles against you,’ he said at length. ‘Sooner or later, Sir James Oldknow will come charging down here with the Brigade of Guards and the Household Cavalry.’
Joseph shrugged. ‘We hope it will be later rather than sooner. In order to teach him the facts of life, we invited him to see what had happened to the Brothers of Iniquity. The final count, I believe, was a hundred and fourteen dead. Of which, I may say, you appear to have accounted for at least thirty … He was duly impressed.’
‘But not for long,’ observed Greville. ‘I doubt whether anything impresses the Squire quite so much as his own delusions of grandeur.’
&n
bsp; ‘Which is where you come in,’ said Meg. ‘Or where we hope you will come in. We lost about fifteen per cent of our strength, including Paul and Alexander. Since you are such an aggressive character, we rather hope that you might take up where dear little Alexander – rest his soul – left off.’
Greville gave her a wan smile. ‘I’m not sure I’m community-minded enough for you people,’ he said. ‘I’m not even sure I have any faith in democracy.’
Meg snorted. ‘Poof! Who wants democracy. You can’t have democracy with a colony of nut-cases. What we need are benevolent despots.’
‘What he needs,’ said Liz pointedly, ‘is a bit of peace and quiet. Give him a chance to get some strength before you start filling his head with nonsense.’
‘You’re quite right, my dear,’ said Joseph primly. He turned to Greville. ‘We’ll come and see you again tomorrow. I’m rather afraid we need someone like you. But enough of that. I’ll have some food sent up. Your bandages have already been changed, and I expect Liz can attend to your bodily needs … Anyway, thanks for helping us. You were the best investment we have made for a long time.’
When Meg and Joseph had gone, Liz said impishly: ‘I like that bit about attending to your bodily needs. Have you got any?’
‘Jump into bed and find out.’
‘Not today, thank you,’ she retorted. ‘I’m blowed if I’ll have you passing out on me before I reach a climax.’
Presently there was a timid knock at the door, and a child of about ten, a girl, brought in a tray on which there was a bottle of red wine, two glasses and two steaming plates.
‘Venison and two veg,’ announced the child in awe. ‘Meg said you was to eat it all … But she said if there was any left over, I could have it.’
Greville regarded her benevolently. ‘I’m almost certain there’s going to be quite a lot left over. Stay and find out.’
The child sat at the foot of the bed and watched greedily while Liz and Greville ate. There was indeed a lot left over. Neither of them were very hungry. They were too excited at being together again.
By the time they had finished the meal, it was almost dark once more. Liz lit the oil lamp. Greville kept the bottle of wine and the glasses, and sent the child scuttling away with several large slices of venison.
‘Chateau-neuf du Pape,’ he read the label on the bottle incredulously. ‘Where the hell did they get it?’ He poured another glass for Liz and himself. ‘Had any good screws lately?’ he asked casually.
‘Dear love, as far as the Squire was concerned I was just a mare in foal. Three meals a day – until you became naughty – and nothing to do. The welfare state. I never had it so boring.’
‘Come into bed,’ said Greville, relaxing. ‘I can’t do a bloody thing, but I just want you close.’
‘Amen,’ said Liz. She took off her dress and displayed the roundness of her belly. ‘You’ve got over it?’
‘I’ve got over it.’
She smiled. ‘I think I was crazier than usual … It’s going to be our child isn’t it?’
‘It’s going to be our child,’ said Greville positively.
It was very difficult for them to touch each other without giving Greville a certain amount of pain; but after a time they learned the trick. Liz lay on his right side with their legs touching from hip to toe. To Greville it was like a benediction. He wanted to stay awake and savour the situation, but presently he was fast asleep.
When they woke up in the morning they were both stiff – Greville from his bullet wounds and Liz because she had hardly dared to move. They kissed each other in the grey, early light. They kissed each other and mumbled words that were nonsensical and profound, words that could have little meaning for anyone who overheard them, words whose only value was as the sound effects of pleasure …
At length, Greville said: ‘I’ve been thinking.’
‘Why? I’m sure it’s not good for you just now.’
He patted her affectionately. ‘Because of that lump in your belly, I suppose … We’ve got to live somewhere, haven’t we?’
‘Yes.’
‘We’ve got to have as much security as we can get.’
‘I suppose so.’
‘Then,’ said Greville, ‘we might as well join the Band of Hope – but only on our terms.’
‘Fine,’ said Liz equably. ‘What are our terms?’
‘Ridiculous,’ said Greville. ‘Absolute dictatorship masquerading as sweetly reasonable co-operation … They’ll never wear it, of course. But at least I’ve got an ace to play … Everybody is short of women. I think I know where I can lay my hands on about thirty.’
‘Where?’ demanded Liz, wide-eyed. ‘Although,’ she added, thoughtfully, ‘I’m not sure that I want to know.’
‘The Convent of the Sacred Heart,’ said Greville. ‘Now you’d better make me presentable so that I can do a bit of hard bargaining with Meg and Joseph.’
Meg and Joseph appeared shortly after breakfast.
Liz was still in bed, naked; but neither of the visitors seemed disturbed or embarrassed.
‘I trust you slept well?’ said Joseph.
Greville glanced at Liz and smiled. ‘Adequately, bearing all things in mind.’
‘Have you thought about our proposition?’ asked Meg.
‘I have. And I’m going to make a little speech. After which, it’s in your hands.’
‘Go ahead,’ invited Joseph. ‘Speeches are as yet unrationed.’
‘Well, mine goes like this. You people are trying to get together a community that works and will survive. As things are at present, you haven’t got a chance. You survived the Brothers of Iniquity by the skin of your teeth. Your next problem is Sir James Oldknow with a fanfare of trumpets. And after him – if you survive again – there will be someone or something else. If it isn’t people it will be dogs or rats or something like that. You’re too exposed. You’re too free and easy. And you’re not growing. In fact, with every challenge that comes along, no matter what happens you can only continue losing … Am I overstating the case?’
‘Possibly,’ said Joseph, ‘but not so that one notices it. Proceed.’
‘Well, then, if you – or in fact anybody – wants to build a community that will last and expand you’ve got to go back to fundamentals. You’ve got to find a piece of land that’s suitable and be prepared to hold it against all comers – human, animal or vegetable. Then you’ve got to get recruits. Then you’ve got to be able to expand as you need to expand … You could try an island, of course – something like the Isle of Man or Guernsey or even the Isle of Wight. But all islands are at the same time too big and too small. They’re too big when you start and too small when you really want to grow bigger. One thing is sure, you can’t sit here in the middle of England indefinitely and hope it will all turn out for the best.’
‘So far,’ said Meg, ‘you’ve done nothing but state the problem. What about the solution?’
Greville’s shoulder was beginning to throb, but he ignored it. ‘The solution is to find a piece of land which you can defend, on which you can expand and from which you can’t retreat. Then you start recruiting. And you don’t recruit by inviting people to join you for tea and cakes. You recruit by taking the offensive against any nearby community that is either decadent – in the sense that it’s going nowhere – or failing. In short, you steal people. You guarantee them food and a certain amount of freedom: in turn they give you a certain amount of “co-operation” – no more, in both cases, than is strictly necessary. As time goes by, the amount of co-operation that’s required will become less – we hope. As time goes by the amount of freedom that can be allowed will be more – we hope. But expanding will have to be the order of the day. That way you can grow. Any other way, and you’ve had it.’
‘That’s all very well,’ said Joseph, wrinkling his nose, ‘if one wants to found a new society.’
‘What else is there to found?’ demanded Greville calmly. ‘We’ve already got enough blo
ody chaos to last us for a thousand years. Liz has a child inside her. I’d like to think it’s got some sort of bearable future. I’d like to think it’s not going to have to spend the best part of its life just avoiding being killed by rats, cats, dogs or humans. I’d like to think it will get a chance to live.’
Meg was getting exasperated. ‘Fine talk,’ she said icily. ‘You’re still up in the air. Come down to earth and tell us what it’s all about. Tell us what you’d like to do.’
‘I’d like you to give me absolute power for a year. Failing that I’d like you to leave me alone until I get well. Then Liz and I will push off after saying thank you very much.’
‘ “Absolute power”,’ quoted Joseph, ‘ “corrupts absolutely”.’
‘I’m corrupt already.’
‘To hell with that,’ snapped Meg. ‘What would you do?’
Greville smiled. ‘First of all, I’d get my strength back. Then I’d make arrangements to collect enough women to give us a decent chance of biological survival. Then I’d start a mass migration. I’d wait till the decent weather comes, then I’d take the whole community down to the tip of Cornwall. There might be somebody there already, of course. But in that case we’d either lick ’em or make ’em join us. If, on the other hand, they licked us, the problem would be solved anyway … But if they didn’t lick us, or if there was no one there in the first place, we could begin to build. We’d start with a couple of square miles of territory – backs to the sea and all that stuff. We’d clear it of all the livestock we didn’t want and erect fences, barricades, ditches – anything to keep the rest out. Then as we grew we’d gobble up a bit more territory each year.’ He laughed. ‘A couple of generations from now, who knows, we might even get as far as Devon. Ten generations from now – providing we don’t get another good dose of solar radiation – we would very likely get as far as holding a general election and filling the Houses of Parliament with people who couldn’t do any real harm … Now tell me I’m too far gone.’
Cloud Walker, All Fools' Day, Far Sunset Page 39