“The dog? No, I think not, Smedley. The girl was sent here by Colonel McPherson. If the dog belongs to the girl we must work on the assumption that it too was sent here by Colonel McPherson. The Colonel seems to have some special position in the current regime. Can’t think why. I’ve always thought he was a bit of a duffer. Collects antiques, I understand.”
Smedley looked shocked. “How ghastly.”
“Quite. Even so, if Colonel McPherson sent a dog here, one must assume that the dog is entitled to be here. Don’t you think?”
“Oh, absolutely, sir.”
“Who are the chaps with the girl, d’you know, Smedley?”
“No idea, sir. I was informed of the girl’s arrival. I can’t recall if I was informed of the arrival of any companions of hers. I am not personally informed of every arrival, of course. Only those of special significance.”
“What is the significance of the girl, exactly? Do we know?”
“I suspect it might not mean much to us even if we were told. These medical chaps have a lingo all of their own. I was simply informed that she had to be watched.”
“Really? And has she been? Watched, I mean.”
“Absolutely, sir. Discreetly, of course.”
“Oh no, Smedley, not the clowns again?”
“Well, the thing is, sir, they seem so inconspicuous.”
“Clowns, Smedley? Inconspicuous? Not a word I would have chosen.”
“What I mean is, sir, if people suspect that they are being spied upon, the last people they suspect of doing the spying are clowns.”
“Ah. Yes. I see. You may have a point.”
“I say, sir, isn’t that the Italian chappie? With the girl. You know, what’s his name, Carlo or Pablo or some such?”
Lieutenant-Colonel Digby was too busy administering a match to the tobacco in the bowl of his pipe to answer Captain Smedley immediately. After sucking at the stem of the pipe a few times, causing the tobacco in the bowl to spark and glow, he peered through the fragrant smoke towards the other side of the sports’ field. “Ah, yes, Matteo. That’s the boy’s name. Nice chap. Quite brilliant, you know.”
“Really, sir?”
“Oh yes, absolutely. Historian, I believe. You know, Ancient Rome, the Wars Of The Roses and whatnot. Quite a high-flyer at Cambridge. Absolutely first rate mind, so they tell me.”
“Good Lord, sir, I had no idea.”
“Seems a bit of a waste, doesn’t it. I mean, if I were in charge, I would be inclined to make an exception for a chap of that calibre. But I’m not in charge and, like you, I have no alternative but to follow the orders I am given.”
“Quite, sir.”
“Now then, Smedley, about this knobbly knees contest. What are the protocols for such an event, exactly?”
“Here’s the chap who can explain everything,” said Smedley, indicating a fat man in a multi-coloured striped blazer who, at that moment, was wheezing towards them at a brisk walking pace (the closest he ever got to actually running) from the general direction of the Kiddies’ Play Room.
“Who on earth is that?” said Lieutenant-Colonel Digby.
“Don’t you know him, sir? Oh, you really should come to one of his shows. He’s an absolute hoot.”
“Yes, yes, Smedley, never mind all that. Who is he?”
“Cheerful Charlie Rubenstein, sir. He’s going to be compering the knobbly knees contest.”
Lieutenant-Colonel Digby sighed profoundly but the sigh was carried away on the breeze.
*
Matteo was shaking. His eyes were wide and staring. For a moment, Jonathan thought the boy might be having a fit. But then he started to breathe deeply. He held out his hands, palms down and seemed to push down upon some invisible thing in the air in front of him. “Focus,” Matteo said, “Calm. Calm. Focus.”
“Is he all right?” Geoff said.
“It’s a panic attack,” said Leila, “And I can see what brought it on. That man.”
“What man?” said Jonathan.
“On the other side of the sport’s field. Look at Matteo’s eyes. He’s following that man.”
The man Matteo was watching was a short, fat man wearing a red, green and yellow-striped blazer and a straw boater with a multi-coloured ribbon tied around the brim. In the lapel of his blazer there was a huge yellow sunflower.
Jonathan stood in front of Matteo, blocking his view of the man in the striped blazer; he held Matteo’s shoulders, looked into his eyes and spoke softly but firmly. “Who is he? Why are you frightened of that man?”
Matteo’s eyes were unfocussed. For a while, Jonathan wasn’t sure if the boy had even heard his question. So he repeated it. Then, quite suddenly, Matteo’s face broke out into a huge grin. “Toffee apples,” he said.
“What?”
“In the fair. They sell candy floss and toffee apples.”
“Do you want a toffee apple?”
Matteo shook his head vigorously. Then he ran off, back in the direction of the chalets, making his arms into wings and flying across the grass like a human aeroplane.
Geoff shook his head. “Simple,” he said, “I told you, he’s not all there.”
Toffee Apples
As the day wore on, the breeze subsided and the sun came out. Jonathan, Leila and Geoff took advantage of the warm weather to explore the Camp. For the most part, it looked like any traditional British holiday Camp. With its regimented lines of chalets and its bleak, industrial-looking buildings containing coffee shops and bars, ballrooms, TV Rooms and a theatre, it conjured up the condensed misery of a well-regulated holiday with guaranteed fun for all the family.
The only thing missing were families. The campers were all quite young, many of them teenagers and barely anyone much older than thirty. Most of them had the same air of dull sluggishness as Matteo and his two friends. When they walked, they walked slowly, dragging their feet as though they lacked the energy to pick them off the ground. On the whole they seemed almost oblivious of everything around them. They looked stoned, spaced-out, trippy. They behaved unpredictably. Every so often someone would laugh hysterically. From time to time, someone would suddenly sit on the ground and cry or start shouting for no apparent reason.
“Shit, man,” said Geoff, as they arrived at the fairground and noticed a young girl of about sixteen sitting in a static dodgem, ripping apart a teddy bear with her teeth and tearing out its stuffing, “These people are starting to freak me out.”
“Starting?” said Leila, “You must be a slow starter, then. They’ve been freaking me out all day.”
“Why d’you think they are here?”
“Isn’t that obvious?” said Leila.
“No.”
“I have a horrible feeling that Leila’s right,” said Jonathan, “What’s going on here is all too obvious. Project Exodus. It’s an experiment. These people are the subjects of the experiment.”
“Shit, man!” said Geoff, “You’re freaking me out even more than they are.”
None of the rides in the fairground was operational. The Dive-Bomber wasn’t diving, the dodgems had nothing to dodge, the galloping carousel wasn’t galloping and the rollercoaster neither rolled nor coasted. The entire place carried with it an air of sadness and decay.
In one dismal corner, next to the haunted house, a young man was humping a woman the way a stray dog might hump a bitch in the street. But the young man was less successful than the average dog; he seemed to have no idea of the technicalities of the procedure. Its mechanics had defeated him. After a few moments he rolled off the woman and lay back on the ground staring at the seagulls wheeling in the sky above.
“I tell you, man, this whole damn’ place is really freaking me out. I’ve seen some weird stuff over the past few months. But nothing like this. I am really, really getting the creeps here.”
“Me too,” Jonathan said, “But where else is there? Maybe it’s safer to be inside the madhouse than outside looking in. Like him.”
Jonathan poi
nted towards the perimeter fence at the edge of the fairground. There was a man there. On the outside. He was holding the bars and staring at Jonathan. He was a young man, skinny and dirty, unshaved and with greasy, untidy hair. But he seemed harmless. Jonathan walked over to him. “How are you doing?” he said.
“Not so good,” said the young man, “There’s no food out here any more.”
“There must be,” Jonathan said, “In the shops. Tins and stuff.”
“The Army took it. That’s how you’ve got food in there. My friend’s in there.”
“In this Camp?”
“Yes.”
“You want to visit him?”
“Yes.”
“Can’t you come inside?”
“They won’t let me in,” said the man, “I’m surprised they let you in. That’s why I was watching you. I’ve never seen anyone like you – like us, I mean – not inside the Camp. Not unless they are with the management, that is. The people in charge, I mean. Your mate,” he nodded in Geoff’s direction, “He’s like us too, isn’t he?”
“It depends what you mean, I suppose. He’s…” But he didn’t have the chance to finish the sentence. A loudspeaker blared: “You! Townie. Get away from the fence!” The loudspeaker was attached to one of the columns supporting a nearby watchtower. On the covered platform at the top of the watchtower, a soldier was speaking into a microphone. He had his gun pointed at the man standing outside the fence. “Go on! I warned you before. Clear off! This is your last chance.”
“I better go, then,” said the man.
“Yes, I think you better had,” agreed Jonathan.
“Why won’t they let him inside the Camp?” Geoff asked after the man had backed away from the fence, “I mean he seems normal enough.”
“Maybe that’s why,” said Leila, “He’s normal. Uninfected.”
“Well,” said Geoff, “so am I. So is Jonathan.”
“But not me,” said Leila.
“You recovered,” said Geoff.
Leila thought about that for a while. “Did I?” she said, “Come on, chaps, let’s go and explore the town.”
They walked along the road that bisected the Camp, dividing the lines of chalets from the other amenities, until they arrived at the gate. The gate was locked. Armed soldiers stood at either side of it.
“Any chance we could go outside for a while?” said Leila.
“None at all,” said the nearest soldier, a chunky individual with a gruff voice and an expression sour enough to curdle milk.
“We just want to take a stroll,” Leila persisted.
“Well, you can’t.”
“Why ever not?”
“Orders, Miss. Them that’s on the inside stays on the inside. Them that’s on the outside stays on the outside. Once you’re inside there’s only two ways to get outside. Either you goes out under a white sheet in an ambulance or else you has a word with Sergeant Major ‘Crusher’ Edwards.”
“I see, and where might one find Sergeant Major ‘Crusher’ Edwards exactly?”
“He’ll find you, Miss, have no fear of that. He’ll find you.”
And so he did. At precisely 18:55 that evening outside the Jollity Theatre.
Knobbly Knees
“Cor deary me, a kitchen table’s got better legs!”
“Ha! Ha! Charlie Rubenstein is an absolute hoot, don’t you think, sir?”
“Well, Smedley…”
“Call them things ‘knees’, sunshine? They look more like a couple of walnuts in a pair of tights – ’ere, you aren’t wearing tights, are you, lad? There’s a lot of that going on these days!”
“Isn’t he just the most hysterical thing, you’ve ever seen, sir?”
“Well, Smedley, I would have to confess that the observation about the kitchen table did hint at humorous potential.”
“Sir?”
“Look, old man, to be perfectly blunt with you, I rather think that knobbly knees competitions may not be quite up my street, as it were.”
On the small stage, Cheerful Charlie Rubenstein, still wearing his luridly striped blazer with a huge artificial sunflower in the buttonhole, entertained an audience of about twenty apathetic guests and another dozen or so off-duty soldiers whose occasional shouted responses to the compere’s banter tended somewhat to the obscene.
“Good for morale, though, don’t you think, sir?”
“A string quartet playing some of the juicier bits of Haydn and Beethoven might also be good for morale. I can’t help thinking that having members of the armed forces exposing their knees to public ridicule threatens to undermine discipline.”
“We tried to involve the guests, sir, but they weren’t terribly enthusiastic.”
“That’s the problem, isn’t it. They aren’t enthusiastic about anything. Look at that audience. I’ve seen more enthusiastic crowds at a Co-op funeral.”
“Ha! Ha! I say, that’s rather good, sir. Rather droll.”
“What?”
“More enthusiastic crowds at a Co-op funeral. Very amusing. Um… What is a Co-op funeral exactly?”
“That’s beside the point, Smedley.”
“Ah, yes, quite, sir. What is the point, precisely, sir?”
“The point is that I am not at all persuaded that the fraternising of our chaps with the patients is at all…”
“Guests, sir.”
“What?”
“We are supposed to call them guests, sir. Not patients.”
“The point is that having our chaps making laughingstocks of themselves…”
Smedley glanced over the audience squatting sullenly and silently on the ground. Laughter was conspicuous by its absence.
“…well, Smedley, the point is, it’s just not the done thing.”
“No, sir.”
“In fact, it is my opinion that we should cancel tomorrow’s glamourous grandmother competition.”
“Oh, gosh, sir! Do you think that’s a good idea?”
“See to reason, Smedley. The whole idea is doomed from the outset. After all, we haven’t any grandmothers in the Camp. I checked. Of grandmothers, glamorous or otherwise, we are singularly devoid.”
“Oh, that’s not a problem, sir. A few of the chaps have borrowed some costumes from the theatre’s wardrobes. With a bit of makeup and a wig, some of the chaps would look quite alluring.”
“No, Smedley, I am not to be persuaded. The glamorous grandmother contest cannot go ahead.”
“Oh, sir!”
“It’s my final word. There are already more than enough entertainments for the patients…”
“Guests, sir.”
“For example, there’s that thing this evening. What’s it called?”
“‘Songs From The Movies’, sir. Yes, I looked in at the rehearsals earlier in the week. Looked awfully good. Do you enjoy musical theatre, sir?”
“In moderation, Smedley. Everything in moderation.”
“Absolutely, sir. Though I have to say if you’d seen Private Witherspoon in a long damask satin evening gown with a pearl necklace and matching accoutrements, you might well change your mind about the glamorous grannies competition.”
“I think not, Smedley, I think not.”
Roll Call
“Bing-bong! Good evening, all you happy people. This evening we have the theatrical highlight of the week when our talented whitecoats will be lining up to keep you entertained with their spectacular production of ‘Songs From The Movies’. And as if that wasn’t enough, you can always be sure of laughter and merriment aplenty with everyone’s favourite funny-man, Cheerful Charlie Rubenstein. With a song in their heart and a smile on their lips, the whitecoats will have you tapping your feet; and Cheerful Charlie Rubenstein is sure to have you rolling in the aisles with hilarity. ‘Songs From The Movies’ starts at seven o’clock sharp in the Jollity Theatre. Don’t be late! Bing-bong!”
“Oh, for God’s sake! Who would want to go and see that? It sounds appalling.” Leila sat back on her bunk bed and f
illed up three plastic mugs with red wine from one of the bottles which she’d brought in her luggage.
“It can’t be worse than the knobbly knees contest, surely,” said Jonathan, who was squirming with discomfort on a hard wooden chair.
“You actually went to watch the knobbly knees contest, then?” said Geoff who was sitting cross-legged on the floor with Bobby the dog snuggled up to him, snoring gently.
“We just glanced at it,” said Jonathan, “Where were you? We thought you’d be there.”
“Nah. Had better things to do.”
“Like what?”
“Reading.”
“You! Reading! Again! I confess to being astounded,” said Leila, gulping down the wine in one swift movement before refilling her mug to the brim, “And which literary great had so absorbed you that you were willing to miss the once-in-a-lifetime experience of the knobbly knees competition? The continuing adventures of James Bond, I suppose.”
“Nah. I read them already.”
“What, then?”
“Batman comics.”
“Ah, and there was I thinking you might have embarked upon the works of Dostoevsky. Or possibly Wittgenstein.”
“Nah,” said Geoff, “There was only Batman comics. I found them in a drawer in my chalet.”
“The opportunities for intellectual pursuits appear to be limited here, it would appear,” said Leila, “At any rate, I assume that we are all resolved that our time would be better spent guzzling red wine, reading Batman comics and drawing up plans for our escape than watching a bunch of geriatric whitecoats and a fat comedian singing and dancing.”
“Speaking for myself,” said Jonathan, “nothing in this world would persuade me to sit through a single minute more of Cheerful Charlie Rubenstein.”
But he was wrong. Because just then the speaker crackled into life again… “Bing-bong! Good evening, campers. Here’s your final reminder that tonight’s big show, ‘Songs From The Movies’ starts at seven o’clock sharp in the Jollity Theatre. Attendance is obligatory. Be sure to line up for the evening roll-call on the grass leisure area outside the theatre by 18:50 at the latest. Anyone who fails to attend will be in violation of Camp ordinances and appropriate disciplinary action will be taken. Have a wonderful evening! Bing-bong!”
The Exodus Plague | Book 2 | Imprisoned Page 12