CHILDREN OF THE THUNDER

by John Brunner

  It was a trap. He fretted over it. Yet Ellen herself seemed resigned and not unhappy. He postponed a solution, and again, and again.

  And again.

  He made a killing on the racehorse story, even though he had to lay out nearly as much as his own fee in bribes. But then, that was the way of things nowadays. All the newspapers and commercial TV companies maintained so-called contingency accounts in foreign tax-havens from which they could allot such “inducements”… One of the chief reasons why the money-starved BBC was turning more and more into an organ of official propaganda was because it had no such supplementary resources and had to lick the government’s boots in order to survive.

  Knowing that he had earned enough to support himself and his daughter for at least three months, if he didn’t overspend (and there was less and less to buy, anyhow, so that should not be hard, though he had taken advantage of his temporary affluence and was carrying a heavy bagful of groceries) Peter was humming as he approached his home. At least the windows were intact—recently gangs of children had taken to smashing the glass of any house or flat round here where “colored” people lived—and when he slipped his key into the lock it turned easily, so it had not been dosed with superglue.

  Ellen, whom he had phoned to warn of his return, emerged from the kitchen to give him a kiss. As she relieved him of his load of shopping he inquired, “Anything been happening around here?”

  “Mm-hm.” She tossed back her long dark hair. “They used a chunk of your horse-cancer story on the early evening news. I only hope that doesn’t provoke anyone to find out where you live and do what they did to Bernie… Oh! Speaking of Bernie: there’s a message from Claudia. She wants us to go round this evening.”

  He had been looking forward to a quiet evening at home; his assignment, though profitable, had been tiring.

  “Any special reason?” he said at length.

  “She wouldn’t say. But it sounded urgent.”

  “Hmm! Convince me.”

  “Well, she did say something new has turned up.” Ellen caught his hand in hers and adopted her usual melting-eyed expression. “Can’t we? I’d go by myself except—”

  Except dark-skinned people like me can’t walk a British street alone any more.

  She didn’t have to finish the sentence.

  “All right,” he sighed. “But after I’ve had a drink and a decent meal… Know something? I’m getting addicted to Indian food. Haven’t eaten anything else all the time I’ve been away, apart from breakfast.”

  She beamed at him. When he produced whiskey from the bag he had brought she seized it, told him to sit down, and brought him a drink mixed exactly to his taste.

  How strange it was to return to his old home… Peter found himself clutching Ellen’s hand as they walked from the bus stop. They were arriving much later than he had told Claudia on the phone; the bus had been re-routed owing to a fight between a white gang and a group of Pakistani vigilantes which the police had broken up with tear gas.

  More of the streetlights out than when I lived here… More windows boarded up, not only shops now but the ground floors of homes— Grief, what is this country coming to?

  Also the Neighborhood Watch signs had vanished. It looked as though the windows that displayed them had become prime targets.

  They were approaching the house door when two young men emerged from shadow, wearing Thrower brassards and balaclavas drawn up like masks. Dazzling them with a flashlight, the taller of the pair demanded what they were up to.

  Feeling Ellen shrink back into shelter behind him, remembering what had happened to Bernie, Peter fought down the sick sensation that rose in his belly and strove to snap back in a properly defiant tone.

  “I used to live here! On the top floor! I’ve come to call on the person who took over my old flat!”

  “More likely looking for a quiet spot to take his black scrubber,” said the second man.

  “Don’t you call my daughter a scrubber!” Peter blurted before he could stop himself.

  “Ah! Another bocky nigger-lover! Well, we’ll show you what we think of your sort! Right, Ted?”

  “Right,” said the tall one, switching off and pocketing the flashlight.

  Oh, no! Let this not be real!

  But, even as Peter was preparing to offer what resistance he could, Ellen darted away from him, up the steps to the house. It was divided into eight flats and each had an answer-phone. She planted her hands on all the bell-pushes at once and held them down.

  “Why, the bocky cunt!” the shorter youth burst out.

  Amazed and indescribably relieved at her presence of mind, Peter shouted, “Tell them to call the police!”

  “Ah, shit!” Ted muttered. “All right, better get out of here. But”—with a final flare of defiance—“if we ever catch sight of you again we’ll leave our mark on you, hear?”

  And they were gone.

  After explaining and apologizing to the other tenants—who recalled him from his time here and were willing enough to believe him, though some of those who emerged into the hall or on to the staircase bestowed harsh glances on Ellen—they were finally able to ascend to what was now Claudia’s flat. Pale, obviously still weak, but improving, she made them sit down at once. She was drinking Gibsons from a chrome-plated cocktail shaker veiled in condensation, and insisted on pouring for them both.

  “Should I?” Ellen asked nervously.

  “I don’t think one will do you any harm,” Peter replied. “Claudia, you know I have a genius for a daughter? I never saw anything so quick-witted!” And he recounted in detail how Ellen had saved their skins, while she sipped nervously—once—and then ate her onion, nibbling it layer by layer off the stick as she gazed around.

  The moment Peter finished, as though to forestall more praise, she said, “You couldn’t have put me up here.”

  Briefly confused, thinking Ellen was addressing her, Claudia said, “You need somewhere to stay for a while? I could always—”

  “No, no! I meant if the police had dumped me on Dad while he was still here, there wouldn’t have been room.”

  “We’d have managed somehow,” Peter said. “On the trip I just got back from I saw far worse crowding than two people in three rooms. You know there are places in Britain where houses are literally falling down because the owners can’t afford repairs? In some streets you find whole families forced to live in a single ground-floor room because the rest of the house is uninhabitable. I’d have squeezed you in, don’t worry.”

  Ellen caught his hand and gave him a brilliant smile.

  After a pause Claudia said dryly, “I admit, young lady, I was wondering why you’d want to stay in an area that made you so unwelcome. By the way, I think I know the thugs who accosted you. I’m surprised the threat of the police drove them away. They were only planning to do what the fuzz around here make a habit of when they run across a mixed-race couple.”

  “Have things got that much worse since I moved?” Peter demanded. “Or is it simply that I didn’t attract that kind of attention while I was here?”

  “I suspect the latter,” Claudia sighed. “But it’s over, and you’re both okay, though when you leave you’d better call a cab and wait till it’s at the door… Don’t you want to know why I asked you to call by?”

  The powerful drink had calmed Peter’s nerves. Leaning back in his chair, he invited her to go ahead.

  “Bernie’s turned up something new.”

  “But he told me he was quitting!”

  “He changed his mind. He came to see me when I got back from the hospital—brought me a bouquet that must have cost a fortune—and after I talked at him for a while he promised he’d keep at least one search program running. And today this turned up.”

  She tossed him a sheet of email printout. For Ellen’s benefit he read it aloud.

  “ ‘Nothing on LP’—has he suddenly taken to music?”

  “If that’s a joke it’s a pretty bad one,” Claudia said ta
rtly. “Louis Parker, of course!”

  “I know, I know. Sorry. ‘But another possible kid. Check North of England juvenile court reports for last Thursday.’”

  “Which I did.” Claudia passed over another sheet of paper. “I think this must be what he meant.”

  “Hmm!” Suddenly Peter’s interest in the matter was rekindled. “It says here that a girl—the right kind of age—was caught when store-detectives investigating thefts from a supermarket checkout discovered that she was conning the assistants into giving her not only her change but also the money she’d originally handed them. In spite of which she was found not guilty and allowed to go free.”

  “Bernie’s promised to track her down,” Claudia said. “But he thinks it’s going to be difficult. Juvenile court records are kind of shellbacked.”

  “Good to know something is,” Peter grunted, emptying his glass. As though they were at home, Ellen was prompt to refill it, and Claudia’s. Her own was barely touched.

  While she was at it, he went on somewhat shamefacedly, “I must confess I haven’t been working much on the story. And I don’t expect I can in the near future, either. While I was away I found something else. I don’t know whether you heard about it, but last summer an awful lot of plants died over here, or didn’t set seed. Was that reported in the States?”

  “I don’t think so,” Claudia answered. “Oh—wait! I think I heard some reference to it after I arrived. Wasn’t there some sort of blight, like the one on potatoes?”

  “That’s what they tried to make people think. I just found out it was nothing of the kind. It was due to a new insecticide called Thanataph, a bestseller because it’s supposed to provide complete control of aphids all summer with a single application.”

  “Does it?”

  “Yes. Unfortunately it also kills bees. I didn’t make the connection, but you can’t buy British honey any more. I thought it was just another matter of economics—Greek honey in particular has been flooding the market because it’s still cheap. I was wrong. Bees have been dying by the tens of millions. They’re trying to make out that was due to a disease, too, but I have proof that it was not.”

  “Think it’ll make page one?” Claudia countered in a cynical tone. Harking back to Jake’s comment of the other day, Peter answered:

  “Maybe not. But it could make page ten.”

  A drab silence followed. For the first time Peter realized that there wasn’t even a radio in the room, let alone a TV or stereo. He was framing an embarrassed question about Claudia’s finances when she shifted in her chair and heaved a sigh.

  “Sometimes I wish I’d never started on this project, you know. Half the time I can’t believe my evidence. All the time I can’t lick it into shape. I can’t concentrate. I keep wondering whether whatever I was given was meant to affect my mind.”

  Peter offered awkward consolation, but she brushed it aside. They both knew that governments the world around now routinely used drugs to derange or handicap those who opposed them. She went on.

  “Things are pretty bad at home, too. The Strugfolk are under mass attack from the right. Cecil may not be able to underwrite my lawsuit—maybe not even be able to keep on funding my research.”

  “I was going to ask about that,” Peter muttered, feeling guiltier by the moment.

  With a shrug: “Well, he does have—what’s the phrase?—other calls on his purse. It looks as though Walter may finally have put together a case against the funders that will stand up all the way to the Supreme Court, but that won’t be cheap even though the lawyers involved are donating their services. Just to complicate matters, there’s a movement in the various legal associations to have free representation declared unprofessional.”

  Peter whistled. “We really do live in an age that worships Mammon!”

  A harsh laugh. “You noticed? Amazing!”

  Diffidently, having taken another sip of her drink as if to garner courage, Ellen spoke up.

  “Claudia, I don’t know whether Dad told you, but I’m keeping on with the research, as well as Bernie. I—uh—I hope you don’t mind.”

  “Mind?” Claudia echoed, reaching out to pat her on the shoulder. “Mind? Why, that’s the best news I’ve had in weeks.”

  “Really?” Of a sudden Ellen was eager. “I was worried in case you felt I was sort of intruding.”

  “On the contrary. The way I feel right now, I’d welcome help from the devil himself… Excuse me: bad choice of phrase.”

  Ellen smiled mechanically.

  “Of course, I wouldn’t want you to think I’m being much help, because I’m not. But if—” She broke off, biting her lip.

  “If what?”

  “Well…” Encouraged, she sat forward on her chair. “If I could ask about a few things that still aren’t quite clear, maybe I could do better.”

  “Ask away!”

  “Really?”

  “Really really really! What do you want to know first?”

  It was almost midnight when they finally called their cab. On the way home, Peter found himself marveling at Ellen all over again, this time for the grasp she had displayed of the problem that was baffling Claudia, and him, and even Bernie. When she came in pajamas to kiss him good night, he hugged her close.

  “I was right,” he said. “I do have a genius for a daughter. I’m sorry I didn’t find out sooner.”

  “So am I,” she murmured, head against his shoulder. “I wish… But it’s no good wishing about the past, is it? You can only wish about the future.”

  “You’re wise,” he said. “You’re very wise.”

  “But am I smart?” Drawing back, she pulled a face. “If I can find Louis Parker, will you think I am?”

  “If you can, I’ll think you can work miracles!”

  “One miracle coming up! Good night!”

  The big house in Surrey that had felt so empty was now crowded. Every week, or so it seemed, David added another to the roster of its occupants. But when the burden of cooking, cleaning and washing became too much for Harry and Alice, he simply walked out one morning and returned with two middle-aged women from a nearby village, with time on their hands now their children were grown, prepared to work long hours for a pittance. Similarly, when the roof needed emergency repairs, he made himself popular with the landlord by finding a local builder who quoted a ridiculously low price—“as a favor for the young gentleman”—but did a sound, fast job.

  By now Harry was talking about buying the property when their twelve-month lease expired.

  And the very atmosphere of the house seemed to change. At the time of the first arrivals it had been tense, charged with mutual suspicion, and Harry and Alice had tried to argue against what he was doing. Now, however, they were relaxed, even content. So was Sheila who had been withdrawn and spiteful; so was Terry, who had at first been afraid of living in isolation, away from his familiar city streets.

  One chill, foggy evening after supper, when—as had become the usual practice—the kids had withdrawn into the biggest of the reception rooms to hold some kind of council or discussion, Harry heard Alice humming to herself as she loaded the dishwasher.

  “You sound cheerful,” he observed.

  “Do I?” she countered in surprise, and then added after a moment’s reflection: “Yes, I suppose I do. I think we’re doing something—well, worthwhile. Don’t you?”

  “As a matter of fact,” Harry answered slowly, “yes. At first I was very doubtful, same as you. But—well, the last time I lost my temper with David was in Italy, and that was only because I was feeling so unwell. And it wasn’t his fault that the growser we went to see turned out to be a rogue.”

  The last plate duly racked, Alice shut the machine and turned it on. Wiping her hands, she said, “Let’s sit down for a bit and have a drink. It’s been a long day.”

  “All days around here are long,” Harry sighed. “Grief! I never expected to find myself surrogate father to such a mixed-up bunch of mixed-up kids! But I c
an’t.”

  “What?”

  “Can’t take time off for a drink, I mean. I have a pile of forms to complete. Apparently a government education inspector called some time ago, while we were out—”

  “I don’t remember David mentioning that!” Alice exclaimed.

  “He didn’t tell me, either… but he seems to have done a splendid PR job. We can apply for this house to be recognized as a fit alternative to a regular school. The only trouble is that stack of bocky forms. The inspector’s coming to collect them any day now. They’ve become much tougher about this sort of thing recently. So many child-abuse scandals at unlicensed residential homes.”

  “You worry too much,” Alice said, taking his arm. “You don’t have to fill in the forms this very minute.”

  “I suppose you’re right, but it’s a matter of showing willing, isn’t it?”

  “They can wait until the morning,” his wife insisted. “Come on.”

  And, a moment later, as they passed the closed door of the room where the kids were in conclave, she murmured, “I wonder what they’re getting up to.”

  “What kids that age always get up to, I imagine, when they’re allowed to.”

  “If you mean what I think you mean—” she began in sudden alarm. He cut short her reaction.

  “I’m sure there’s no need to worry. David’s a sensible boy. As a matter of fact, when we brought Crystal here”—He hesitated for a second—“I think he must have guessed what I was bothered about, because he contrived to let it drop that she had a valid AIDS certificate. And you remember how scathing he was about the way she’d been behaving.”

  “Yes, and I think that was a bit unfair. After all, what alternative did the poor girl have?”