by Susan Cooper
Under the luminous blue light, glowing from high circles that seemed to float in the dark ceiling, the Minister bent eagerly over his rows of twitching needles and bulbs; his face seemed to change, to grow softer and open-mouthed, with imbecile intensity as if he were in a trance. Queston thought of the wretched Warren. It was absurd and faintly horrible, like a spiritualist service de luxe.
He heard a low throbbing resonance fill the room, indefinable but insistent. The screens in the wall drew his eyes, growing luminous with a strange deep white light subtly filled with other colours, melting and changing, red, yellow, green, blue, through the spectrum—yet not the clear colours of broken light but all somehow perverted, softened, turned to unpleasant pastel shades. They compelled his eyes, swirling and twisting, and all the while the humming pulsation seemed to grow and fade and yet always remain the same; and then slowly, within the colours and within the sounds, disturbing, jarring patterns began to take shape. He knew that they were clutching slimily at his reason; that he was not seeing or hearing, but caught in something that had total, terrifying control over the seventh sense.
He forced himself to look away, to think coherently. He looked at Mandrake; he had thought the man could not see the screens, but now he realized that a mirror hung over the banked switchboard, angled to catch the reflected picture down, and that the Minister sat there like some insane organist with his head raised and his hands weaving meaningless patterns to and fro over the controls. Suddenly it was all frightful, the madman and the light and the noise; the sense of immanent terror was on him again, as it had been while the senseless Warren gibbered possessed, and he knew that he must not stay there in the room, that his reason would not be able to tolerate the monstrosity of what was to come.
As he turned, the door swung violently open. It banged loud against the wall, and a figure fell forward out of the dark.
‘Minister! ’ The high terrified voice was almost a scream.
At the very edge of the abyss, the light and the sound exploded, as if the organ that was not an organ had been flung into a great crashing discord. Queston’s mind cringed and whirled under the impact; a fearful, bruising eruption, as if the universe shook. And then relief came, flooding in to bring him back into sanity before he had been caught quite away. He never forgot the intensity of that relief.
The room rang with smitten silence. He saw that a second, smaller form also stood in the doorway; and that the first, whimpering softly, did not move. ‘Minister!’ The voice was lower now, and recognizable.
Mandrake said: ‘You bloody fool—’
‘Don’t blame him,’ said the small man in the doorway. ‘He didn’t have much choice.’
‘Oakley!’ Queston leapt forward.
‘Put some more light on,’ Oakley said coldly to Mandrake; there was absolute assurance in his voice. After an instant, Mandrake moved, and the room was bright again. Queston saw James Thorp-Gudgeon before him, stooped and dishevelled, the small eyes wide with fear in his pasty, podgy face. His tie was askew, his thin hair wisping in wild strands, his mouth slack and wet. He no longer wore a gown. He looked extremely unattractive. He was clasping one forearm to his chest; it seemed bent at a curious angle.
Oakley stood behind him, in shirt and trousers. He moved slightly backwards, so that the revolver in his hand covered the whole room. ‘Come on out past me, David.’
‘Where’s Beth?’
‘Outside, keeping watch. Quickly.’
Queston came past him, still dazed. He said foolishly: ‘Where did you get the gun?’
‘From our fat friend. He was trying to show off, I guess. Do they have guns? ’ Oakley was watching the three men; suddenly he snapped: ‘Come away from there! ’ Mandrake, who had moved gently towards the screened switchboard, jerked forward to where Brunner and Thorp-Gudgeon stood in the middle of the room.
Queston looked at them. ‘I don’t know. I doubt it. Those suits hang too well.’ He grinned, seeing from the bitter twist of Brunner’s mouth that he was right.
‘Good.’ The journalist’s flippant detachment was all vanished; he spoke crisply, a copy-book outlaw, a thin white wire of a man. ‘Not a squeak, any of you, or I shall shoot. I’ve got nothing to lose.’
‘If you try to take your friend away, or get him killed,’ Mandrake said quietly, ‘you will lose everything for all of us.’
‘I’ve had my indoctrination, thanks,’ Oakley looked contemptuously at Thorp-Gudgeon. ‘It didn’t take. David?’
‘Yes? ’ Queston had been peering out into the gloom for Beth.
‘Anyone around?’
‘No.’
‘If Beth sees anyone she’ll whistle. Now quickly. There were Ministry cars parked outside when we were brought in. We have to get one. Officially. That means a big bluff. Taking one of these boys—’ he jerked the revolver, and Queston saw all three heads jerk with it—‘along as a guarantee.’
‘Which one?’
‘Would they miss Fatso?’
Queston looked from Mandrake’s cold furious face to the cringing Thorp-Gudgeon. ‘I doubt it.’
Oakley grinned. ‘We’ll move up to top league. Take Big Boy himself. Come on, Minister.’
Brunner swung a stiff arm forward in protest. ‘The Minister is bound to Oxford. If you take him out you will kill him.’
Oakley looked at him, and said a single casual word.
‘I swear it.’ The sweat glinted on Brunner’s forehead. ‘Queston, tell him. You can’t do it. You’ve seen the pull working. Take me, you and I are the same. I’m not bound anywhere. Only the rootless can go, now.’
Queston studied Mandrake’s unflickering eyes. ‘O, come. He’s above such things.’
‘For God’s sake,’ Brunner said urgently. ‘You can’t. It’s true. Minister, tell them.’ He turned, protective and passionate, but Mandrake did not move, and he flung round again. ‘Queston you’ve seen what happens.’
‘Yes,’ Queston said. ‘I have. Come on, Mandrake. We’re going for a drive.’
Mandrake stepped forward in silence. Oakley came down the steps, his revolver steady. ‘Better do something about those two. Here.’ He pulled his tie from his neck, and held it over his shoulder.
Queston followed and took it. He unknotted Thorp-Gudgeon’s tie. There were tears of pain on the pudgy face. ‘My arm, David. Mind my arm.’
‘It’s broken, I guess,’ Oakley said.
Queston moved the fat, quivering form to stand back to back with Brunner. He tied Thorp-Gudgeon’s sound arm tightly to Brunner’s at the wrist. Then he looked round the room. At the far end, on the map-covered wall, a pipe ran high up along the rough-plastered stone. He led them towards it, and tied Brunner’s other wrist viciously tight to the pipe so that his arm was held high in the air.
‘That’ll hold long enough. Nobody’ll hear them down here. The radio’s the danger.’ He went to the switchboard at the opposite end of the room, peered at the back and jerked out as many free wires as he could see. There were small white flashes as they came away. For the first time, Mandrake made a sound of protest, like a groan.
‘Beth whistled,’ Oakley said suddenly. He put the gun in his pocket and kept his hand there. He said softly to Mandrake, ‘You’re taking us to Magdalen Bridge. Find a reason, and make it good. If you do anything to give a warning, I shall shoot you. Whatever happens to me afterwards, I swear I shall shoot you first. Now move.’
Mandrake walked out, very upright, into the dark. Queston saw Brunner’s chest heave with an indrawn breath as he swung the door to; locking it, he put his ear close. Through the heavy oak, and two feet of stone wall, the helpless shout was no more than the faint echo of a sound far away.
He followed Oakley, and Beth came to him out of the shadows by the glimmering Shelley memorial. He put his arm round her shoulders and pulled her close, hard, for a second; she put her cheek briefly against his neck. Her skin was cool.
‘Over there,’ she said softly. ‘Coming towards us.’
They strained dazed eyes into the darkness, and heard slow footsteps chewing the gravel.
Oakley said low to Mandrake: ‘Now.’
The Minister’s tall figure strode out from the murk of the arch, and they heard his voice firm and peremptory. ‘Jeffries!’ Queston thought, ridiculously: ‘He can see in the dark…’
The footsteps paused. ‘Mr Mandrake, sir! ’ Startled and respectful.
‘I want a car at once to go down to Magdalen, and then round to Christ Church. Is there a driver about?’
‘There’s a couple just come into the lodge, sir. I’ll get one of them at once.’
‘Christ Church? ’ Beth whispered anxiously. Queston pressed her hand, but said nothing. He had seen Oakley’s shoulders already hunch like a dog’s pricked ears at the man’s words. But then they had relaxed. In a moment he relaxed as well. Magdalen was only a few yards away; even Mandrake was unlikely to want a car for that distance, on a fine night. The second part of the order made it plausible. Mandrake was not only doing as he was told; he was adding coolly ingenious extras of his own. Either he was very anxious to avoid death, or he was planning something.
They followed him into the yellow-lit lodge; he glanced at them coldly over his shoulder as if stressing his authority. A man in the dull black Ministry uniform leapt out of the lodge, hastily pulling on his cap, and the porter opened the door cut in the great gate.
‘Thank you, Jeffries,’ Mandrake said. ‘I have my key.’
‘Good night, sir.’ The door closed again. But Queston noticed an inquisitive head peeping dark from the dim-lit window of the lodge.
The driver unlocked the car, took off his cap, and stood holding the door at the back.
Oakley said politely: ‘After you, Minister.’ His right hand remained firmly in his pocket. Queston looked at the buttoned holster on the driver’s belt, and held his breath.
Mandrake’s face was blank. He paused, and looked out at the empty road over the car roof. A distant car’s engine hummed somewhere, and died away. There was no other sound. He inclined his head to Oakley. ‘Thank you,’ he said gravely. He climbed into the car.
‘Perhaps Miss Summers would like to sit in front,’ Queston said hastily. ‘I’ll go round the other side.’ He ran to the other door, and then he and Oakley were sitting on either side of Mandrake; Oakley half-facing him, hand in pocket. Beth slid into the front seat, and the car moved off. For an instant Queston was aware of nothing but the shape of her head, silhouetted against the windscreen.
Round the long curve of the High Street, the driver slowed the car. ‘Magdalen, sir?’
Oakley pointed silently to the near side of the bridge.
‘Just this side of the bridge,’ Mandrake said.
The car stopped. There were lights beyond the bridge, and moving figures. The driver turned off the engine, and made to open the door.
Oakley said quietly: ‘Just a moment, driver. Sit still, and don’t make a sound. I have a gun pointing into the Minister’s stomach. If you don’t do exactly as I tell you, I shall shoot first him and then you. Especially—’ his voice hardened as the man’s left hand involuntarily jerked ‘—if you try to reach your gun.’
The driver sat still. He had a square head; the back of his neck was thick, the hair shaven. He said stolidly: ‘Is it true, sir?’
Mandrake’s voice seemed to come with difficulty. ‘Quite—true,’ he said. He had begun to shake violently; next to him, Queston felt the compulsive jarring of his body, and he did not think it came from fear of being shot. He leaned forward and took the revolver from the driver’s belt; broke it, and spun the loaded chambers. He had seen no cartridges on the belt. ‘Any more?’
‘In the front there,’ the man said.
Beth opened the locker above her knees, and rattled a box. The noise came very loud.
Beyond the bridge, lights began to dance as if someone came towards them.
‘Now,’ Oakley said, ‘will you, David, or shall I?’
‘Stay there.’ Queston got out, and moved quickly round to the driver’s door. He opened it. The man sat looking at him, expressionless, his eyes flicking down to the gun barrel and up. Queston said: ‘Get out, and stand where you are. If you make any attempt to raise an alarm before we’ve gone, we shall shoot the Minister at once. Do you understand?’
Suddenly the look of other-listening was on the man’s heavy face; vague, half-possessed. Queston felt the old distaste. ‘Get out.’
‘You wouldn’t shoot the Minister? ’ It was as if the man repeated a blasphemy.
‘That depends on you. If he dies, you’ll have killed him.’
The man got out at once. He looked back at Mandrake, like a sad dog. Then he stood in the middle of the road, his arms hanging limp, watching. Queston slipped into the driving-seat; switched on, felt the wheel affectionately, looked at the petrol gauge. It was registering full. He handed the gun to Beth. ‘You only have to pull the trigger. It reloads itself. No noise, and not much kick.’ She took it gingerly, and nodded.
‘Not a hope of bluffing here,’ Queston said, looking towards the lights. ‘Neck or nothing. All right?’
‘O.K.’ Oakley said softly, behind him. ‘But the Minister looks sick.’
Queston thought for a swift instant of the pull of place: the farmer at Stonehenge… would leaving Oxford kill Mandrake? Too late now. He pressed the starter, felt his right foot take life of its own; and the car swept forward up and over Magdalen Bridge.
‘Keep low,’ he said to Beth.
The lights were arc lamps. It was like a frontier post. He saw figures moving on the road, and a low striped pole barring the way before them. Fifty yards away he slowed, turned his headlamps full on and sounded the horn. The trumpeting roar leapt out into the silence, but none of the figures moved to raise the bar. Two men set off up the road towards them, flashing torches and shielding their eyes.
‘Right,’ Queston said under his breath. He turned off all his lights and put his foot down hard. The car howled, leapt forward; he saw Beth duck, the fights flash close, and startled faces, with black open mouths. Light, white fight, blinding, and then the striped pole a barrier before them, nearer, nearer; and in the second that his arm came up to ward off flying glass he saw that there was no need. The big car took the crashing impact of the bar on the apex of its heavy steel radiator, and they were through and away, the splintered wooden arms tossed aside harmless in the road.
The beam of the headlamps rode before them, thrusting the darkness to either side. Ten minutes from Oxford, and no word spoken inside the car.
‘What time is it? ’ Beth said.
Oakley said from the back seat: ‘Quarter of twelve. David, what road is this?’
‘The London road. Goes through High Wycombe. It turns off north soon. Better decide where we want to go.’
‘I’ve been watching out back. They aren’t following. Why not?’
‘Are you sure?’
‘No sign of lights. No one could take this road without them.’
‘They must be there somewhere.’
‘Maybe. But you’ll have to stop soon. Our friend here is in a bad way.’
Queston’s eyes were strained forward on the path of running light, and the hedges flashing without colour on either side. He said, without turning, ‘What’s wrong, Mandrake?’
‘He’s out cold,’ Oakley said. ‘Passed out when we crashed through that pole. I don’t like it. His breathing’s odd, and his pulse is getting faint. It’s as if he’s going deeper under all the time. Maybe he knocked his head. Or maybe—’ He stopped.
If you take him out you will kill him… Queston knew he was remembering Brunner’s anguished plea. He glanced in the driving-mirror. Nothing. Only the dark that swallowed the road again when they had passed. He slid the car slower on to the grass verge, on a long curve in the road.
Silence washed round them as he switched the engine off. He wound down the window, put his head out, and listened for the sound of
a following car. Still nothing. Only the murmuring, menacing emptiness that made no noise.
He put his hand automatically forward into the map compartment, and found a heavy, rubber-coated torch.
‘Let’s have a look at him.’
He shone the torch on Mandrake’s face. Beth turned to look, made a small frightened noise and drew closer to him. Mandrake’s head was flung back on the seat; his face was white and glistening, and the light carved deep scornful dark lines down from nose and mouth, and shadowed the eye-brows into a black-gashed frown. It was a mask, chalked and empty. And no way of telling what lay underneath.
‘Tough baby, isn’t he? ’ Oakley said.
Beth’s voice was husky. ‘I was too frightened to look at him properly before. He’s evil.’
Queston said slowly: ‘And defenceless.’ He snapped off the torch, bringing darkness down like a blind, and felt Beth jump. ‘Let’s get him out into the air for a couple of minutes. But we can’t spare more.’
Together he and Oakley dragged Mandrake out on to the grass. He had seemed a narrow-built man, but he was very heavy.
‘His breathing seems better.’ Queston straightened up.
‘Leave him for a bit,’ Oakley said. They spoke in half whispers, without the scuffle of their movements the road was utterly silent, and the darkness hung all round them, threatening.
Beth said, from the car: ‘What are we going to do with him?’
‘If we take him farther away—’ Oakley left the words hanging.
‘I know,’ Queston said. ‘And how do they reconcile that little phenomenon with being masters of the collective subconscious, I wonder?’
‘Old Gudgeon tied himself in knots trying to defend it. All he really had to offer was that if you push propaganda hard enough, it can end up having hold of its author as well. It’s possible. I knew an advertising man once, wrote so much crap about a soap powder that he finally bullied his wife into using nothing else. Used to quote his own slogans at her.’
‘Guard thine own,’ Queston said bitterly.
‘White is right, I think it was,’ Oakley turned towards the grass verge, peering down through the darkness for the solid black of the man lying there. ‘How’s the—Christ!’