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Also by John Christopher in Sphere Books:

THE WORLD IN WINTER

A WRINKLE IN THE SKIN

THE POSSESSORS

THE YEAR OF THE COMET

THE CAVES OF NIGHT

THE LONG VOYAGE

The Death of Grass

JOHN CHRISTOPHER

SPHERE POPULAR CLASSICS

SPHERE BOOKS LIMITED

London and Sydney

First published by Michael Joseph Ltd 1956

Published by Sphere Books Ltd 1978

30-32 Gray's Inn Road, London WC1X 8JL

Reprinted 1979, 1980, 1984, 1985

This edition published by arrangement with the author

and his agents

trade

MARK

This book is sold subject to the condition that

it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent,

re-sold, hired out or otherwise circulated without

the publisher's prior consent in any form of

binding or cover other than that in which it is

published and without a similar condition

including this condition being imposed on the

subsequent purchaser.

Set in Intertype Times

Printed and bound in Great Britain by

Cox & Wyman Ltd, Reading

Prodrome

As sometimes happens, death healed a family breach.

When Hilda Custance was widowed in the early summer

of 1933, she wrote, for the first time since her

marriage thirteen years before, to her father. Their

moods touched - hers of longing for the hills of West-

morland after the grim seasons of London, and his of

loneliness and the desire to see his only daughter again,

and his unknown grandsons, before he died. The boys,

who were away at school, had not been brought back

for the funeral, and at the end of the summer term they

returned to the small house at Richmond only for a

night, before, with their mother, they travelled north.

In the train, John, the younger boy, said:

'But why did we never have anything to do with

Grandfather Beverley?'

His mother looked out of the window at the tarnished

grimy environs of London, wavering, as though with

fatigue, in the heat of the day.

She said vaguely: 'It's hard to know how these things

happen. Quarrels begin, and neither person stops them,

and they become silences, and nobody breaks them.'

She thought calmly of the storm of emotions into

which she had plunged, out of the untroubled quiet life

of her girlhood in the valley. She had been sure that,

whatever unhappiness came after, she would never

regret the passion itself. Time had proved her doubly

wrong; first in the contentment of her married life and

her children, and later in the amazement that such contentment

could have come out of what she saw, in

retrospect, as squalid and ill-directed. She had not seen

the squalidness of it then, but her father could hardly

fail to be aware of it, and had not been able to conceal

his awareness. That had been the key: his disgust and

her resentment.

John asked her: 'But who started the quarrel?'

She was only sorry that it had meant that the two

men never knew each other. They were not unlike in

many ways, and she thought they would have liked each

other if her pride had not prevented it.

'It doesn't matter,' she said, 'now.'

David put down his copy of the Boy's Own Paper. Although a year older than his brother, he was only

fractionally taller; they had a strong physical resemblance

and were often taken for twins. But David was

slower moving and slower in thought than John, and

fonder of things than of ideas.

He said: 'The valley - what's it like, Mummy?'

'The valley? Wonderful. It's ... No, I think it will

be better if it comes as a surprise to you. I couldn't

describe it anyway.'

John said: 'Oh, do, Mummy!'

David asked thoughtfully; 'Shall we see it from the

train?'

Their mother laughed. 'From the train? Not even the

beginnings of it. It's nearly an hour's run from Stavely.'

'How big is it?' John asked. 'Are there hills all

round?'

She smiled at them. 'You'll see.'

Jess Hillen, their grandfather's tenant farmer, met them

with a car at Stavely, and they drove up into the hills.

The day was nearly spent, and they saw Blind Gill at

last with the sun setting behind them.

Cyclops Valley would have been a better name for it,

for it looked out of one eye only - towards the west. But

for this break, it was like a saucer, or a deep dish, the

sides sloping up - bare rock or rough heather - to the

overlooking sky. Against that enclosing barrenness,

the valley's richness was the more marked; green wheat

swayed inwards with the summer breeze, and beyond

the wheat, as the ground rose, they saw the lusher green

of pasture.

The entrance to the valley could scarcely have been

narrower. To the left of the road, ten yards away, a

rock face rose sharply and overhung. To the right, the

River Lepe foamed against the road's very edge. Its

further bank, fifteen yards beyond, hugged the other

jaw of the valley.

Hilda Custance turned round to look at her sons.

"Well?'

'Gosh!' John said, 'this river ... I mean - how does it

get into the valley in the first place?'

'It's the Lepe. Thirty-five miles long, and twenty-five

of those miles underground, if the stories are to be

believed. Anyway, it comes from underground in the

valley. There are a lot of rivers like that in these parts.'

'It looks deep.'

'It is. And very fast. No bathing, I'm afraid. It's wired

farther up to keep cattle out. They don't stand a chance

if they fall in.'

John remarked sagely: 'I should think it might flood

in winter.'

His mother nodded. 'It always used to. Does it still,

Jess?'

'Cut off for a month last winter,' Jess said. 'It's not so

bad now we have the wireless.'

'I think it's terrific,' John said. 'But are you really

cut off? You could climb the hills.'

Jess grinned. 'There are some who have. But it's a

rocky road up, and rockier still down the other side.

Best to sit tight when the Lepe runs full.'

Hilda distance looked at her elder son. He was

staring ahead at the valley, thickly shadowed by sunset;

the buildings of the Hillen farm were in view now, but

not the Beverley farm high up.

'Well,' she said, 'what do you think of it, David?'

Reluctantly he turned his gaze inwards to meet her

own.

He said: 'I think I'd like to live here, always.'

That summer:, the boys ran wild in the valley.

It was some three miles long, and perhaps half a mile

wide at its greatest extent. It held only the two farms,

and the river, which issued from the southern face about

two miles in. The ground was rich and well cropped, but

there was plenty of room for boys of twelve and eleven

to play, and there were the surrounding hills to climb.

They made the ascent at two or three points, and

stood, panting, looking out over rough hills and moorlands.

The valley was tiny behind them. John delighted

in the feeling of height, of isolation and, to some extent,

of power; for the farm-houses looked, from this vantage,

like toy buildings that they might reach down and pluck

from the ground. And in its greenness the valley seemed an oasis among desert mountains.

David took less pleasure in this, and after their third

climb he refused to go again. It was enough for him to

be in the valley; the surrounding slopes were like cupped

and guarding hands, which it was both fruitless and

ungrateful to scale.

This divergence of their interests caused them to

spend much of their time apart. While John roamed

the valley's sides, David kept to the farmland, to his

grandfather's increasing satisfaction. At the end of the

second week, boy and old man, they went together to

the River field on a warm and cloudy afternoon. The

boy watched intently while his grandfather plucked ears

of wheat here and there, and examined them. His near

vision was poor, and he was forced to hold the wheat at

arm's length.

'It's going to be a fair crop,' he said, 'as well as my

eyes can tell me.'

To their right there was the continuous dull roar as

the Lepe forced its way out of the containing rock into

the valley.

David said: 'Shall we still be here for the harvest?'

'Depends. It may be. Would you like to be?'

David said enthusiastically: 'Oh, yes, Grandfather!'

There was a silence in which the only intrusion was

the noise of the Lepe. His grandfather looked over the

valley which the Beverleys had farmed for a century

and a half; and then turned from the land to the boy at

his side.

'I don't see as we shall have long to get to know one

another, David boy,' he said. 'Do you think you would

like to farm this valley when you're grown?'

'More than anything.'

'It'll be yours, then. A farm needs one owner, and I

don't think as your brother would be fond of the life,

any road.'

'John wants to be an engineer,' said David.

'And he'll be likely enough to make a good one. What

had you thought of being, then?'

'I hadn't thought of anything.'

'I shouldn't say it, maybe,' said his grandfather, 'since

I never seen aught of any other kind of life but what

I glimpse at Lepeton Market; but I don't know of

another life that can give as much satisfaction. And this

is good land, and a good lie for a man that's content with

his own company and few neighbours. There's stone

slabs under the ground in the Top Meadow, and they say

the valley was held as a stronghold once, in bygone

times. I don't reckon you could hold it now, against

guns and aeroplanes, but whenever I've been outside

I've always had a feeling that I could shut the door

behind me when I come back through the pass.*

'I felt that,' David said, 'when we came in.'

'My grandfather,' said David's grandfather, 'had himself

buried here. They didn't like it even then, but in

those days they had to put up with some things they

didn't like. They've got more weight behind them today,

damn them! A man should have the rights to be buried

in his own ground.'

He looked across the green spears of wheat.

'But I shan't fret so greatly over leaving it, if I'm

leaving it to my own blood.'

On another afternoon, John stood on the southern rim

and, after staring his fill, began to descend again into

the valley.

The Lepe, from its emergence to the point where it

left the valley altogether, hugged these southern slopes,

and for that reason they could only be scaled from the

eastern end of the valley. But the boy realised now that,

once above the river, it could not bar him from the

slopes beneath which it raced and boiled. From the

ground, he had seen a cleft in the hill face which might

be a cave. He climbed down towards it, breaking new

ground.

He worked his way down with agility but with care,

for although quick in thought and movement he was

not foolhardy. He came at last to the cleft, perhaps fifteen

feet above the dark swirling waters, and found it

to be no more than that. In his disappointment, he

looked for some new target of ambition. Directly over

the river's edge, rock swelled into something like a

ledge. From there, perhaps, one could dangle one's legs

in the rushing water. It was less than a cave would have

been, but better than a return, baulked of any satisfaction,

to the farmland.

He lowered himself still more cautiously. The slope

was steep, and the sound of the Lepe had a threatening

growl to it. The ledge, when he finally reached it, gave

little purchase.

By now, however, the idea had come to obsess him just

one foot in the water; that would be enough to meet

the objective he had set himself. Pressed awkwardly

against the side of the hill, he reached down with his

hand to unfasten the sandal on his right foot. As he did

so, his left foot slipped on the smooth rock. He clutched

frantically, aware of himself falling, but there was no

hold for his hands. He fell and the waters of the Lepe

- chill even in midsummer, and savagely buffeting took

him.

He could swim fairly well for a boy of his age, but he

had no chance against the violence of the Lepe. The

current pulled him down into the deeps of the channel

that the river had worn for itself through centuries

before the Beverleys, or any others, had come to farm

its banks. It rolled him like a pebble along its bed, as

though to squeeze breath and life from him together.

He was aware of nothing but its all-embracing violence

and his own choking pulse.

Then, suddenly, he saw that the darkness about him

was diminishing, yielding to sunlight filtered through

water still violent but of no great depth. With his last

strength, he struggled into an upright position, and his

head broke through to the air. He took shuddering

breath, and saw that he was near the middle of the river.

He could not stand, for the river's strength was too

great, but he half-ran, half-swam with the current as the

Lepe dragged him towards the pass that marked the

valley's end.

Once out of the valley, the river took a quieter course.

A hundred yards down, he was able to swim awkwardly,

through relatively calm water, to the farther bank, and

pull himself up on to it. Drenched and exhausted, he

contemplated the length of the tumbling flood down

which, in so short a time, he had been carried. He was

still staring when he heard the sound of a pony-trap

coming up the road and, a few moments later, his grandfather's

voice.

'Hey, there, John! Been swimming?'

He got to his feet unsteadily, and stumbled towards

the trap. His grandfather's arms took him and lifted

him.

'You've had a bit of a shaking, lad. Did you fall in

then?'

His mind remained shocked; he told as much as he

could, flat-voiced, in broken sentences. The old man

listened.

'It looks like you were born for a hanging. A grown

man wouldn't give overmuch for his chances if he'd

gone in like that. And you broke surface with your feet

still on the bottom, you say? My father used to tell of a

bar in the middle of the Lepe, but nobody was like to

try it. It's deep enough by either bank.'

He looked at the boy, who had begun to shiver, more

from the aftermath of his experience than from anything

else.

'No sense in me going on talking all afternoon,

though. We must get you back, and into dry clothes.

Come on there, Flossie!'

As his grandfather cracked the small whip, John said

quickly: 'Grandfather - you won't say anything to

Mummy, will you? Please!'

The old man said: 'How shall we not, then? She can't

but see you're soaked to the bone.'

'I thought I might dry myself ... in the sun.'

'Ay, but not this week! Still . . . you don't want her

to know you've had a ducking? Are you feared she'll

scold you?'

'No.'

Their eyes met. 'Ah, well,' said his grandfather, I reckon I owe you a secret, lad. Will it do if I take you to

the Hillens and get you dried there? You shall have to

be dried somewhere.'

'Yes,' John said, 'I don't mind that. Thank you,

Grandfather.'

The wheels of the trap crunched over the rough stone

road as they passed through the gap and the Hillen

farm came into view ahead of them. The old man

broke the silence between them.

'You want to be an engineer, then?'

John looked away from his fascinated watching of the

rushing Lepe. 'Yes, Grandfather.'

'You wouldn't take to farming?'

John said cautiously: 'Not particularly.'

His grandfather said, with relief: 'No, I thought not.'

He began to say more, but broke off. It was not until

they were within hail of the Hillen farm buildings that

he said:

'I'm glad of it. I love the land more than most, I

reckon, but there are some terms on which it isn't worth

having. The best land in the world might as well be

barren if it brings bad blood between brothers.'

Then he reined up the pony, and called out to Jess

Hillen.

A quarter of a century later, the two brothers stood

together by the banks of the Lepe. David lifted his stick

and pointed far up the slope of the hill.

There they go!'

John followed his brother's gaze to where the two

specks toiled their way upwards. He laughed.

'Davey setting the pace as usual, but I would put my

money on Mary's stamina for first-overthe-top.'

'She's a couple of years older, remember.'

'You're a bad uncle. You favour the nephew too

blatantly.'

They both grinned. 'She's a good girl,' David said, 'but

Davey - well, he's Davey.'

'You should have married and got a few of your own.*

'I never had the time to go courting.'

John said: 'I thought you countrymen took that in

your stride, along with the cabbage planting.'

'I don't plant cabbages, though. There's no sense in

doing anything but wheat and potatoes these days.

That's what the Government wants, so that's what I

give 'em.'

John looked at him with amusement. 'I like you in

your part of the honest, awkward farmer. What about

your beef cattle, though? And the dairy herd?'

'I was talking about crops. I think the dairy cattle will

have to go, anyway. They take up more land than

they're worth.'

John shook his head. *I can't imagine the valley without

cows.'

'The townie's old illusion,' David said, 'of the unchanging

countryside. The country changes more than

the city does. With the city it's only a matter of different

buildings - bigger maybe, and uglier, but no more than

that. When the country changes, it changes in a more

fundamental way altogether.'

'We could argue about that,' John said. 'After all...'

David looked over his shoulder. 'Here's Arm coming.'

When she was in earshot, he added: 'And you ask me

why I never got married!'

Arm put an arm on each of their shoulders. 'What I

like about the valley,' she said, 'is the high standard of

courtly compliments. Do you really want to know why

you never married, David?'

'He tells me he's never had the time,' John said.

'You're a hybrid,' Arm told him. 'You're enough of a

farmer to know that a wife should be a chattel, but

being one of the newfangled university-trained kind,

you have the grace to feel guilty about it.'

'And how do you reckon I would treat my wife,*

David asked, 'assuming I brought myself to the point of

getting one? Yoke her up to the plough when the

tractor broke down?'

'It would depend on the wife, I should think - on

whether she was able to master you or not.'

'She might yoke you to the plough!' John commented.

'You will have to find me a nice masterful one, Arm.

Surely you've got some women friends who could cope

with a Westmorland clod?'

'I've been discouraged,' Arm said. 'Look how hard I

used to try, and it never got anywhere.'

'Now, then! They were all either flat-chested and bespectacled,

with dirty fingers and a New Statesman tucked behind their left ear; or else dressed in funny-

coloured tweeds, nylons and high-heeled shoes.'

'What about Norma?'

'Norma,' David said, 'wanted to see the stallion servicing

one of the mares. She thought it would be a

highly interesting experience.'

'Well, what's wrong with that in a farmer's wife?'

David said drily: 'I've no idea. But it shocked old Jess

when he heard her. We have our rough-and-ready

notions of decorum, funny though they may be.'

'It's just as I said,' Arm told him. 'You're still partly

civilised. You'll be a bachelor all your days.'

David grinned. 'What I want to know is - am I going

to get Davey to reduce to my own condition of barbarism?

John said: 'Davey is going to be an architect. I want

to have some sensible plans to work to in my old age.

You should see the monstrosity I'm helping to put up

now.'

'Davey will do as he wishes,' Anne said. *I think his

present notion is that he's going to be a mountaineer.

What about Mary? Aren't you going to fight over her?'

'I don't see Mary as an architect,' her father said.

'Mary will marry,' her uncle added, 'like any woman

who's worth anything.'

Arm contemplated them. 'You're both savages really,'

she observed. 'I suppose all men are. It's just that

David's had more of his veneer of civilisation chipped

off.'

'Now,' David said, 'what's wrong with taking it for

granted that a good woman will marry?'

'I wouldn't be surprised if Davey marries, too,' Arm

said.

'There was a girl in my year at the university,' David

said. 'She had every one of us beat for theory, and from

what I heard she'd been more or less running her

father's farm in Lancashire since she was about fourteen.

She didn't even take her degree. She married an

American airman and went back with him to live in

Detroit.'

'And therefore,' Arm observed, 'take no thought for

your daughters, who will inevitably marry American

airmen and go and live in Detroit.'

David smiled slowly. 'Well, something like that!'

Arm threw him a look half-tolerant, half-exasperated,

but made no further comment. They walked together in

silence by the river bank. The air had the lift of May;

the sky was blue and white, with clouds browsing slowly

across their azure pasture. In the valley, one was always

more conscious of the sky, framed as it was by the

encircling hills. A shadow sailed across the ground

towards them, enveloped them, and yielded again to

sunshine.

'This peaceful land,' Arm said. 'You are lucky,

David.'

'Don't go back on Sunday,' he suggested. 'Stay here.

We could do with some extra hands for the potatoes

with Luke away sick.'

'My monstrosity calls me,' John said. 'And the kids

will never do their holiday tasks while they stay here.

I'm afraid it's back to London on schedule.'

'There's such a richness everywhere. Look at all this,

and then think of the poor wretched Chinese.'

'What's the latest? Did you hear the news before

you came out?'

'The Americans are sending more grain ships.'

'Anything from Peking?'

'Nothing official. It's supposed to be in flames. And

at Hong Kong they've had to repel attacks across the

frontier.'

'A genteel way of putting it,' John said grimly. 'Did

you ever see those old pictures of the rabbit plagues in

Australia? Wire-netting fences ten feet high, and rabbits

- hundreds, thousands of rabbits - piled up against

them, leap-frogging over each other until in the end

either they scaled the fences or the fences went down

under their weight. That's Hong Kong right now,

except that it's not rabbits piled against the fence but

human beings.'

'Do you think it's as bad as that?' David asked.

'Worse, if anything. The rabbits only advanced under

the blind instinct of hunger. Men are intelligent, and

because they're intelligent you have to take sterner

measures to stop them. I suppose they've got plenty of

ammunition for their guns, but it's certain they won't

have enough.'

'You think Hong Kong will fall?'

'I'm sure it will. The pressure will build up until it has

to. They may machine-gun them from the air first, and

dive-bomb them and drop napalm on them, but for

every one they kill there will be a hundred trekking in

from the interior to replace him.'

'Napalm!' Arm said. 'Oh, no.'

'What else? It's that or evacuate, and there aren't the

ships to evacuate the whole of Hong Kong in time.'

David said: 'But if they took Hong Kong - there can't

be enough food there to give them three square meals,

and then they're back where they started.'

'Three square meals? Not even one, I shouldn't think. But what difference does that make? Those people are

starving. When you're in that condition, it's the next

mouthful that you're willing to commit murder for.'

'And India?' David asked. 'And Burma, and all the

rest of Asia?'

'God knows. At least, they've got some warning. It was the Chinese government's unwillingness to admit

they were faced with a problem they couldn't master

that's got them in the worst of this mess.'

Arm said: 'How did they possibly imagine they could

keep it a secret?'

John shrugged. 'They had abolished famine by statute

- remember? And then, things looked easy at the begin19

ning. They isolated the virus within a month of it hitting

the ricefields. They had it neatly labelled - the Chung-Li

virus. All they had to do was to find a way of killing it

which didn't kill the plant. Alternatively, they could

breed a virus-resistant strain. And finally, they had no

reason to expect the virus would spread so fast.'

'But when the crop had failed so badly?'

'They'd built up stocks against famine - give them

credit for that. They thought they could last out until

the spring crops were cut. And they couldn't believe

they wouldn't have beaten the virus by then.'

'The Americans think they've got an angle on it.'

'They may save the rest of the Far East. They're too

late to save China - and that means Hong Kong.'

Ann's eyes were on the hillside, and the two figures

clambering up to the summit.

'Little children starving,' she said. 'Surely there's

something we can do about it?'

'What?' John asked. 'We're sending food, but it's a

drop in the ocean.'

'And we can talk and laugh and joke,' she said, 'in a

land as peaceful and rich as this, while that goes on.'

David said: 'Not much else we can do, is there, my

dear? There were enough people dying in agony every

minute before; all this does is multiply it. Death's the

same, whether it's happening to one or a hundred

thousand.'

She said: 'I suppose it is.'

'We've been lucky,' David said. 'A virus could have

hit wheat in just the same way.'

'It wouldn't have had the same effect, though, would

it?' John asked. 'We don't depend on wheat in quite

the way the Chinese, and Asiatics generally, depend on

rice.'

'Bad enough, though. Rationed bread, for a

certainty.'

'Rationed bread!' Arm exclaimed. 'And in China

there are millions fighting for a mouthful of grain.'

They were silent. Above them, the sun stood in a

sector of cloudless sky. The song of a mistle-thrush

lifted above the steady comforting undertone of the

Lepe.

'Poor devils,' David said.

'Coming up in the train,' John observed, 'there was a

man who was explaining, with evident delight, that the

Chinks were getting what they deserved for being Communists.

But for the presence of the children, I think I

would have given him the benefit of my opinion of him.'

'Are we very much better?' Arm asked. 'We remember

and feel sorry now and then, but the rest of the time

we forget, and go about our business as usual.'

'We have to,' David said. 'The fellow in the train - I

shouldn't think he gloats all the time. It's the way we're

made. It's not so bad as long as we realise how lucky we

are.'

'Isn't it? Didn't Dives say something like that?'

They heard, carried on the breeze of early summer, a

faint hallooing, and their eyes went up to it. A figure

stood outlined against the sky and, as they watched,

another clambered up to stand beside it.

John smiled. 'Mary first. Stamina told.'

'You mean, age did,' David said. 'Let's give them a

wave to show we've seen 'em.'

They waved their arms, and the two specks waved

back to them. When they resumed their walk, Arm said:

'As a matter of fact, I think Mary's decided she's

going to be a doctor.'

'Now, that's a sensible idea,' David said. 'She can

always marry another doctor, and set up a joint

practice.'

'What,' John said,' - in Detroit?'

'It's one of the useful arts as David sees them,' Arm

remarked. 'On a par with being a good cook.'

David poked into a hole with his stick. 'Living closer

to the simple things as I do,' he said, 'I have a better

appreciation of them. I put the useful arts first, second

and third. After that it's all right to start messing about

with skyscrapers.'

'Now,' John said, 'if you hadn't had engineers to

build a contraption big enough to fit the Ministry of

Agriculture into, where would all you farmers be?'

David did not reply to the jest. Their walk had taken

them to a place where, with the river on their left, the

path was flanked to the right by swampy ground. David

bent down towards a clump of grass, whose culms rose

some two feet high. He gave a tug, and two or three

stems came out easily.

'Noxious weeds?' Arm asked.

David shook his head. 'Oryzoides, of the genus Leersia, of the tribe Oryzae.'

'Without your botanical background,' John said, 'it

just doesn't mean a thing.'

'It's an uncommon British grass,' David went on.

'Very uncommon in these parts - you find it occasionally

in the southern counties - Hampshire, Surrey and

soon.'

'The leaves,' Anne said,' - they look as though they're

rotting.'

'So are the roots,' David said. 'Oryzae includes three

genera. Leersia is one and Oryza's another.'

'They sound like names of progressive females,' John

commented.

'Oryza saliva,' David said, 'is rice.'

'Rice!' said Arm. 'Then...'

'This is rice grass,' David said. He pulled a long blade

and held it up. It was speckled with patches of darker

green centred with brown; the last inch was all brown

and deliquescing. 'And this is the Chung-Li virus.'

'Here,' John asked, 'in England?'

'In this green and pleasant land,' David said. 'I knew

it went for Leersia as well, but I hadn't expected it to

reach so far.'

Arm stared in fascination at the splotched and putrefying

grass. 'This,' she said. 'Just this.'

David looked across the stretch of marsh to the cornfield

beyond.

'Thank God that viruses have selective appetites. That

damn thing comes half-way across the world to fasten

on this one small clump of grass - perhaps on a few

hundred clumps like it in all England.'

'Yes,' John said, 'wheat is a grass, too, isn't it?'

'Wheat,' David said, 'and oats and barley and rye not

to mention fodder for the beasts. It's rough on the

Chinese, but it could have been a lot worse.'

'Yes,' Arm said, 'it could have been us instead. Isn't

that what you mean? We had forgotten them again.

And probably in another five minutes we shall have

found some other excuse for forgetting them.'

David crumpled the grass in his hand, and threw it

into the river. It sped away on the swiftly flowing Lepe.

'Nothing else we can do,' he said.

Arm, who was dummy, switched the wireless on for the

nine o'clock news. John had landed in a three no-trumps

contract which they could not possibly make, chiefly to

shut out Roger and Olivia, who only wanted thirty for

game and rubber. John frowned over his cards.

Roger Buckley said boisterously: 'Come on, old boy!

What about finessing that nine?'

Roger was the only one of John's old Army friends

with whom he had kept in close touch. Arm had not

cared for him on first acquaintance, and longer experience

had not moved her towards anything more than

tolerance. She disliked his general air of schoolboyish

high spirits almost as much as his rare moments of

savage depression, and she disliked still more what she

saw as the essential hardness that stood behind both

aspects of his outward personality.

She was reasonably sure that he knew what her feelings

were, and discounted them - as he did so many

things - as unimportant. In the past, this had added

further to her dislike, and but for one thing she would

have weaned John away from the friendship.

The one thing was Olivia. When Roger, fairly soon

after her first meeting with him, had brought along this

rather large, placid, shy girl, introducing her as his

fiancee, Arm had been surprised, but confident that this

engagement - the latest of several by John's report would

never end in marriage. She had been wrong in

that. She had befriended Olivia in the first place in

anticipation that Roger would leave her stranded, and

subsequently so that she could be in a position to protect

her when, after marriage, Roger showed his true

colours. She had been humiliated to find, by degrees,

not only that Olivia continued to enjoy what seemed to

be an entirely happy marriage, but also that she herself

had come to depend a great deal on Olivia's warm quiet

understanding in her own minor crises. Without liking

Roger any more, she was more willing to put up with

him on account of Olivia.

John led a small diamond towards King - Jack in

dummy. Olivia placidly set down an eight. John hesitated,

and then brought down the Jack. With a triumphant

chuckle, Roger dropped the Queen on top of it.

From the radio, a voice said, in B.B.C. accents:

The United Nations Emergency Committee on

China, in its interim report published today, has stated

that the lowest possible figure for deaths in the China

famine must be set at two hundred million people . . . '

Roger said: 'Dummy looks a bit weak in hearts. I

think we might try them out.'

Arm said: Two hundred million! It's unbelievable.'

'What's two hundred million?' Roger asked. There's

an awful lot of Chinks in China. They'll breed 'em back

again in a couple of generations.'

Arm had encountered Roger's cynicism in argument

before, and preferred not to do so at this moment. Her

mind was engaged with the horrors of her own

imagination.

'A further item of the report,' the announcer's voice

continued, 'reveals that field tests with Isotope 717 have

shown an almost complete control of the Chung-Li

virus. The spraying of aU rice fields with this isotope is

to be carried out as an urgent operation by the newly

constituted United Nations Air Relief Wing. Supplies

of the isotope are expected to be adequate to cover all

the rice fields immediately threatened within a few days,

and the remainder within a month.'

'Thank God for that,' John said.

'When you've finished the Magnificat,' Roger said,

'you might cover that little heart.'

In mild protest, Olivia said: 'Roger!'

'Two hundred million,' John said. 'A sizeable monument

to human pride and stubbornness. If they'd let our

people work on the virus six months earlier, they would

have been alive now.'

'Talking of sizeable monuments to human pride,'

Roger said, 'and since you insist on stalling before you

bring that Ace of hearts out, how's your own little Taj

Mahal going? I hear rumours of labour troubles.'

'Is there anything you don't hear?'

Roger was Public Relations Officer to the Ministry of

Production. He lived in a world of gossip and whitewash

that fostered, Arm thought, his natural inhumanity.

'Nothing of importance,' Roger said. 'Do you think

you'll get it finished on time?'

'Tell your Minister,' John said, 'to tell his colleague

that he need have no fears. His plush-lined suite will be

ready for him right on the dot.'

'The question,' Roger commented, 'is whether the

colleague will be ready for it.'

'Another rumour?'

'I wouldn't call it a rumour. Of course, he might turn

out to have an axe-proof neck. It will be interesting to

see.'

'Roger,' Arm asked, 'do you get a great deal of

pleasure out of the contemplation of human misfortune?'

She was sorry, as soon as she had said it, that she had

let herself be provoked into reacting. Roger fixed her

with an amused eye; he had a deceptively mild face with

a chin that, from some angles, appeared to recede, and

large brown eyes.

'I'm the little boy who never grew up,' he said. 'When

you were my age, you probably laughed too at fat men

sliding on banana skins. Now you think of them breaking

their necks and leaving behind despairing wives and

a horde of undernourished children. You must let me

go on enjoying my toys as best I can.'

Olivia said: 'He's hopeless. You mustn't mind him, Arm .'

She spoke with the amused tolerance an indulgent

mother might show towards a naughty child. But what

was suitable in relation to a child, Arm thought with

irritation, was not therefore to be regarded as an

adequate way of dealing with a morally backward adult.

Still watching Arm, Roger continued: 'The thing all

you adult sensitive people must bear in mind is that

things are on your side at present - you live in a world

where everything's in favour of being sensitive and

civilised. But it's a precarious business. Look at the

years China's been civilised, and look what's just happened

out there. When the belly starts rumbling, the

belly-laugh comes into its own again.'

'J'm inclined to agree,' John said. 'You're a throwback,

Roger.'

'There are some ways,' Olivia said, 'in which he and

Steve are just about the same age.'

Steve was the Buckleys' nine-year-old son; Roger was

too devoted to him to let him go away to school. He was

rather small, decidedly precocious, and capable of bouts

of elemental savagery.

'But Steve will grow out of it,* Arm pointed out.

Roger grinned. 'If he does, he's no son of mine!'

The children came home for half-term, and the

Custances and the Buckleys drove down to the sea for

the week-end. It was their custom to hire a caravan

between them; the caravan, towed down by one car and

back by the other, housed the four adults, while the

three children slept in a tent close by.

They had good weather for the trip, and Saturday

morning found them lying on sun-warmed shingle, within

sound and sight of the sea. The children interspersed

this with bathing or with crab-hunting along the shore.

Of the adults, John and the two women were happy

enough to lie in the sun. Roger, more restless by nature,

first assisted the children and then lay about in evident

and increasing frustration.

When Roger had looked at his watch several times,

John said: 'All right. Let's go and get changed.'

'All right, what?' Arm asked. 'What are you getting

changed for? You weren't proposing to do the cooking,

were you?'

'Roger's been tripping over his tongue for the last

half-hour,' John said. 'I think I'd better take him for a

run down to the village. They'll be open by now.'

'They were open half an hour ago,' Roger said. 'We'll

take your car.'

'Lunch at one,' Olivia said. 'And not kept for latecomers.'

'Don't worry.'

With glasses in front of them, Roger said:

'That's better. The seaside always makes me thirsty.

Must be the salt in the air.'

John drank from his glass, and put it down again.

'You're a bit jumpy, Rodge. I noticed it yesterday.

Something bothering you?'

They sat in the bar parlour. The door was open, and

they could look out on to a gravelled patch on this side

of the road, and a wide stretch of green beyond it. The

air was warm and mild.

'This is the weather the cuckoo likes,' Roger quoted.

'When they sit outside the "Traveller's Rest", and maids

come forth sprig-muslin drest, and citizens dream of the

South and West. And so do I. Jumpy? Perhaps I am.'

'Anything I can lend a hand with?'

Roger studied him for a moment. The first duty of a

Public Relations Officer,' he said, 'is loyalty, the second

is discretion, and having a loud mouth with a ready

tongue runs a poor third. My trouble is that I always

keep my fingers crossed when I pledge loyalty and

discretion to anyone who isn't a personal friend.'

'What's up?'

'If you were me,' Roger said, 'you wouldn't tell,

honesty being one of your stumbling-blocks. So I can

tell you to keep it under your hat. Not even Ami yet. I

haven't said anything to Olivia.'

'If it's that important,' John said, 'perhaps you'd

better not say anything to me.'

'Frankly, I think they would have been wiser not to

keep it dark, but that's not the point either. All I'm

concerned with is that nothing that gets out can be

traced back to me. It will get out - that's certain.'

'Now I'm curious,' John said.

Roger emptied his glass, waited for John to do the

same, and took them both over to the bar for refilling.

When he had brought them back, he drank lengthily

before saying anything further.

He said: 'Remember Isotope 717?'

'The stuff they sprayed the rice with?'

'Yes. There were two schools of thought about

tackling that virus. One wanted to find something that

would kill the virus; the other thought the best line was

breeding a virus-resistant rice strain. The second obviously

required more time, and so got less attention.

Then the people on the first tack came up with 717,

found it overwhelmingly effective against the virus, and

rushed it into action.'

'It did kill the virus,' John said. 'I've seen the pictures

of it.'

'From what I've heard, viruses are funny brutes. Now,

if they'd found a virus-resistant rice, that would have

solved the problem properly. You can almost certainly

find a resistant strain of anything, if you look hard

enough or work on a large enough scale.'

John looked at him. 'Go on.'

'Apparently, it was a complex virus. They've identified

at least five phases by now. When they came up

with 717 they had found four phases, and 717 killed

them all. They discovered number five when they found

they hadn't wiped the virus out after all.'

'But in that case...'

'Chung-Li,' said Roger, 'is well ahead on points.'

John said: 'You mean, there's still a trace of the virus

active in the fields? It can't be more than a trace, considering

how effective 717 was.'

'Only a trace,' Roger said. 'Of course, we might have

been lucky. Phase 5 might have been slow where the

other four were fast movers. From what I hear, though,

it spreads quite as fast as the original.'

John said slowly: 'So we're back where we started. Or

not quite where we started. After all, if they found

something to cope with the first four phases they should

be able to lick the fifth.'

'That's what I tell myself,' Roger said. 'There's just

the other thing that's unsettling.'

'Well?'

'Phase 5 was masked by the others before 717 got to

work. I don't know how this business applies, but the

stronger virus strains somehow kept it inactive. When

717 removed them, it was able to go ahead and show its

teeth. It differs from its big brothers in one important

respect.'

John waited; Roger took a draught of beer.

Roger went on: 'The appetite of the Chung-Li virus

was for the tribe of Ory^ae, of the family of Gramineae. Phase 5 is rather less discriminating. It thrives on all the Gramineae.'

'Gramineae?'

Roger smiled, not very happily. 'I've only picked up

the jargon recently myself. Gramineae means grasses all

the grasses.'

John thought of David: 'We've been lucky.' 'Grasses,'

he said,' - that includes wheat.'

'Wheat, oats, barley, rye - that's a starter. Then meat,

dairy foods, poultry. In a couple of years' time we'll be

living on fish and chips - if we can get the fat to fry

them in.'

'They'll find an answer to it.'

'Yes,' Roger said, 'of course they will. They found an

answer to the original virus, didn't they? I wonder in

what directions Phase 6 will extend its range - to

potatoes, maybe?'

John had a thought. 'If they're keeping it quiet - I

take it this is on an international level - might it not be

because they're reasonably sure an answer is already in

the bag?'

'That's one way of looking at it. My own feeling was

that they might be waiting until they have got the

machine-guns into position.'

'Machine-guns?'

'They've got to be ready,' Roger said, 'for the second

two hundred million.'

'It can't come to that. Not with all the world's

resources working on it right from the beginning. After

all, if the Chinese had had the sense to call in help ... '

'We're a brilliant race,' Roger observed. 'We found

out how to use coal and oil, and when they showed the

first signs of running out we got ready to hop on the

nuclear energy wagon. The mind boggles at man's progress

in the last hundred years. If I were a Martian, I

wouldn't take odds even of a thousand to one on intellect

of that kind being defeated by a little thing like a

virus. Don't think I'm not an optimist, but I like to

hedge my bets even when the odds look good.'

'Even if you look at it from the worst point of view,'

John said, 'we probably could live on fish and vegetables.

It wouldn't be the end of the world.'

'Could we?' Roger asked. 'All of us? Not on our

present amount of food intake.'

'One picks up some useful information from having a

farmer in the family,' John said. 'An acre of land yields

between one and two hundredweight of meat, or thirty

hundredweight of bread. But it will yield ten tons of

potatoes.'

'You encourage me,' Roger commented. 'I am now

prepared to believe that Phase 5 will not wipe out the

human race. That leaves me only my own immediate

circle to worry about. I can disengage my attention from

the major issues.'

'Damn it!' John said. 'This isn't China.'

'No,' Roger said. 'This is a country of fifty million

people that imports nearly half its food requirements.'

'We might have to tighten our belts.'

'A tight belt,' said Roger, 'looks silly on a skeleton.'

'I've told you,' John said, ' - if you plant potatoes

instead of grain crops you get a bulk yield that's more

than six times heavier.'

'Now go and tell the government. On second

thoughts, don't. Whatever the prospects, I'm not prepared

to throw my job in. And there, unless I'm a long

way off the mark, you have the essential clue. Even if

I thought you were the only man who had that information,

and thought that information might save us all

from starvation, I should think twice before I advised

you to advertise my own security failings.'

'Twice, possibly,' John said, 'but not three times. It

would be your future as well.'

'Ah,' said Roger, 'but someone else might have the

information, there might be another means of saving

us, the virus might die out of its own accord, the world might even plunge into the sun first - and I should have

lost my job to no purpose. Translate that into political

terms and governmental levels. Obviously, if we don't

find a way of stopping the virus, the only sensible thing

to do is plant potatoes in every spot of ground that will

take them. But at what stage does one decide that the

virus can't be stopped? And if we stud England's green

and pleasant land with potato patches, and then someone

kills the virus after all - what do you imagine the

electorate is going to say when it is offered potatoes

instead of bread next year?'

'I don't know what it would say. I know what it should

say, though - thank God for not being reduced to cannibalism

as the Chinese were.'

'Gratitude,' Roger said, 'is not the most conspicuous

aspect of national life - not, at any rate, seen from the

politician's eye view.'

John let his gaze travel again beyond the open door of

the inn. On the green on the other side of the road, a

group of village boys were playing cricket. Their voices

seemed to carry to the listener on shafts of sunlight.

'We're probably both being a bit alarmist,' he said.

'It's a long cry from the news that Phase 5 is out and

about to a prospect either of a potato diet or famine

and cannibalism. From the time the scientists really got

to work on it, it only took three months to develop 717.'

'Yes,' Roger said, 'that's something that worries me,

too. Every government in the world is going to be

comforting itself with the same reassuring thought. The

scientists have never failed us yet. We shall never really

believe they will until they do.'

'When a thing has never failed before, it's not a bad

presumption that it won't fail now.'

'No,' Roger said, 'I suppose not.' He lifted his nearly

empty glass. 'Look thy last on all things lovely every

hour. A world without beer? Unimaginable. Drink up

and let's have another.'

The news of Phase 5 of the Chung-Li virus leaked out

during the summer, and was followed by widespread

rioting in those parts of the Far East that were nearest

to the focus of infection. The Western world looked on

with benevolent concern. Grain was shipped to the

troubled areas, where armoured divisions were needed

to protect it. Meanwhile, the efforts to destroy the virus

continued in laboratories and field research stations all

over the world.

Farmers were instructed to keep the closest possible

watch for signs of the virus, with the carefully calculated

prospects of heavy fines for failure to report, and

good compensation for the destruction of virus-stricken

crops. It had been established that Phase 5, like the

original virus, travelled both by root contact and

through the air. By a policy of destroying infected crops

and clearing the ground for some distance around them,

it was hoped to keep the spread of the virus in check

until a means could be found of eradicating it entirely.

The policy was moderately successful. Phase 5, like

its predecessors, reached across the world, but something

like three-quarters of a normal harvest was

gathered in the West. In the East, things went less well.

By August, it was clear that India was faced with an

overwhelming failure of crops, and a consequent

famine. Burma and Japan were very little better off.

In the West, the question of relief for the stricken

areas began to show a different aspect. World reserve

stocks had already been drastically reduced in the

attempt, in the spring, to succour China. Now, with

the prospect of a poor harvest even in the least affected

areas, what had been instinctive became a matter for

argument.

At the beginning of September, the United States

House of Representatives passed an amendment to a

Presidential bill of food aid, calling for a Plimsoll line

for food stocks for home use. A certain minimum tonnage

of all foods was to be kept in reserve, to be used

inside the United States only.

Arm could not keep her indignation at this to herself.

'Millions facing famine,' she said, 'and those fat old

men refuse them food.'

They were all having tea on the Buckleys' lawn. The

children had retired, with a supply of cakes, into the

shrubbery, from which shrieks and giggles issued at

intervals.

'As one who hopes to live to be a fat old man,' Roger

said, 'I'm not sure I ought not to resent that.'

'You must admit it has a callous ring to it,' John said.

'Any act of self-defence has. The trouble as far as the

Americans are concerned is that their cards are always

on the table. The other grain-producing countries will

just sit on their stocks without saying anything.'

Arm said: 'I can't believe that.'

'Can't you? Let me know when the Russians send

their next grain ship east. I've got a couple of old hats

that might as well be eaten.'

'Even so - there's Canada, Australia, New Zealand.'

'Not if they pay any attention to the British Government.'

'Why should our government tell them not to send

relief?'

'Because we may want it ourselves. We are earnestly

-I might say, desperately - hoping that blood is thicker

than the water which separates us. If the virus isn't

licked by next summer...'

'But these people are starving now!'

'They have our deepest sympathy.'

She stared at him, for once in undisguised dislike.

'How can you!'

Roger stared back. 'We once agreed about my being

a throwback - remember? If I irritate the people round

me, don't forget they may irritate me occasionally.

Woolly-mindedness does. I believe in self-preservation,

and I'm not prepared to wait until the knife is at my

throat before I start fighting. I don't see the sense in

giving the children's last crust to a starving beggar.'

'Last crust...' Arm looked at the table, covered with

the remains of a lavish tea. 'Is that what you call this?'

Roger said: 'If I were giving the orders in this

country, there wouldn't have been any cake for the past

three months, and precious little bread either. And I

still wouldn't have had any grain to spare for the

Asiatics. Good God! Don't you people ever look at the

economic facts of this country?'

'If we stand by and let those millions starve without

lifting a finger to help, then we deserve to have the same

happen to us,' Arm said.

'Do we?' Roger asked. 'Who are we? Should Mary

and Davey and Steve die of starvation because I'm

callous?'

Olivia said: 'I really think it's best not to talk about it. It isn't as though there's anything we can do about it we

ourselves, anyway. We must just hope things don't

turn out quite so badly.'

'According to the latest news,' John said, 'they've got

something which gives very good results against

Phase5.'

'Exactly!' Arm said. 'And that being so, what justification

can there possibly be for not sending help to the

East? That we might have to be rationed next summer?'

'Very good results,' Roger said ironically. 'Did you

know they've uncovered three further phases, beyond

5? Personally, I can see only one hope - holding out till

the virus dies on its own account, of old age. They do

sometimes. Whether there will be a blade of grass left

to re-start things with at that stage is another thing

again.'

Olivia bent down, looking at the lawn on which their

chairs rested.

'It's hard to believe,' she said, 'isn't it - that it really

does kill all the grass where it gets a foothold?'

Roger plucked a blade of grass, and held it between

his finger and thumb.

'I've been accused of having no imagination,' he said.

'That's not true, anyway. I can visualise the starving

Indians, all right. But I can also visualise this land brown

and bare, stripped and desert, and children here chewing

the bark off trees.'

For a while they all sat silent; a silence of speech, but

accompanied by distant bird-song and the excited happy

cries of the children.

John said: 'We'd better be getting back. I've got the

car to go over. I've been putting it off too long as it is.'

He called out for Mary and David. 'It may never

happen, Rodge, you know.'

Roger said: 'I'm as slack as the rest of you. I should

be getting into training by learning unarmed combat,

and the best way to slice the human body into its constituent

joints for roasting. As it is, I just sit around.'

On their way home, Arm said suddenly:

'It's a beastly attitude to take up. Beastly!'

John nodded his head, warningly, towards the

children.

Arm said: 'Yes, all right. But it is horrible.'

'He talks a lot,' John said. 'It doesn't mean anything,

really.'

'I think it does.'

'Olivia was right, you know. There isn't anything we

can do individually. Just wait and see, and hope for the

best.'

'Hope for the best? Don't tell me you've started

taking notice of his gloomy prophecies!'

Not answering immediately, John looked at the scattering

autumn leaves and the neat suburban grass. The

car travelled past a place where, for a space of ten or

fifteen yards, the grass had been uprooted, leaving bare

earth: another minor battlefield in the campaign against

Phase 5.

'No, I don't think so, really. It couldn't happen,

could it?'

As autumn settled into winter, the news from the East

steadily worsened. First India, then Burma and Indo-

China relapsed into famine and barbarism. Japan and

the eastern states of the Soviet Union went shortly afterwards,

and Pakistan erupted into a desperate wave of

Western conquest which, composed though it was of

starving and unarmed vagabonds, reached into Turkey

before it was halted.

Those countries which were still relatively unaffected

by the Chung-Li virus, stared at the scene with a barely

credulous horror. The official news accentuated the size

of this ocean of famine, in which any succour could be

no more than a drop, but avoided the question of

whether food could in fact be spared to help the victims.

And those who agitated in favour of sending supplies

were a minority, and a minority increasingly unpopular

as the extent of the disaster penetrated more clearly,

and its spread to the Western world was more clearly

envisaged.

It was not until near Christmas that grain ships sailed

for the East again. This followed the heartening news

from the southern hemisphere that in Australia and

New Zealand a vigilant system of inspection and des38

truction was keeping the virus under control. The

summer being a particularly brilliant one, there were

prospects of a harvest only a little below average.

With this news came a new wave of optimism. The

disaster in the East, it was explained, had been due as

much as anything to the kind of failure in thoroughness

that might be expected of Asiatics. It might not be

possible to keep the virus out of the fields altogether,

but the Australians and New Zealanders had shown that

it could be held in check there. With a similar vigilance,

the West might survive indefinitely on no worse than

short commons. Meanwhile, the laboratory fight against

the virus was still on. Every day was one day nearer the

moment of triumph over the invisible enemy. It was in

this atmosphere of sober optimism that the Custances

made their customary trip northwards, to spend Christmas

in Blind Gill.

On their first morning, John walked out with his brother

on the rounds of the farm.

They encountered the first bare patch less than a

hundred yards from the farm-house. It was about ten

feet across; the black frozen soil stared nakedly at the

winter sky.

John went over to it curiously, and David followed

him.

'Have you had much of it up here?' John asked.

'Perhaps a dozen like this.'

The grass around the verges of the gash, although

frost-crackled, was clearly sound enough.

'It looks as though you're holding it all right.'

David shook his head. 'Doesn't mean anything.

There's a fair degree of evidence that the virus only

spreads in the growing season, but nobody knows

whether that means it can remain latent in the plant in

the non-growing season, or not. God knows what spring

will bring. A good three-quarters of my own little plague

spots were end-of-season ones.'

'Then you aren't impressed by the official optimism?'

David jerked his stick towards the bare earth. 'I'm

impressed by that.'

They'll beat it. They're bound to.'

'There was an Order-in-Council,' David said, 'stating that all land previously cropped with grain

should be turned over to potatoes.'

John nodded. 'I heard of it.'

'It's just been cancelled. On the News last night.'

'They must be confident things are going to be all

right.'

David said grimly: 'They can be as confident as they

like. Next spring I'm planting potatoes and beet.'

'No wheat, barley?'

'Not an acre.'

John said thoughtfully: 'If the virus is beaten by then,

grain's going to fetch a high price.'

'Do'you think a few other people haven't thought of

that? Why do you think the Order's been rescinded?'

'It isn't easy, is it?' John asked. 'If they prohibit gram

crops and the virus is beaten, this country will have to

buy all its grain overseas, and at fancy prices.'

'It's a pretty gamble,' David said, ' - the life of the

country against higher taxes.'

'The odds must be very good.'

David shook his head. 'They're not good enough for

me. I'll stick to potatoes.'

David returned to the subject on the afternoon of

Christmas Day. Mary and young David had gone out

into the frosty air to work off the effects of a massive

Christmas dinner. The three adults, preferring a more

placid mode of digestion, lay back in armchairs, halfheartedly

listening to a Haydn symphony on gramophone

records.

'How did your monstrosity go, John?' David asked. 'Did you get it finished on time?'

John nodded. 'I almost retched when I contemplated

it in all its hideousness. But I think the one we're on

now will be able to give it a few points for really

thoroughgoing ugliness.'

'Do you have to do it?'

'We must take our commissions where they lie. Even

an architect has to accommodate himself to the whims

of the man with the money to spend, and I'm only an

engineer.'

'You're not tied, though, are you - personally tied?'

'Only to the need for money.'

'If you wanted to take a sabbatical year, you could?'

'Of course. There's just the odd problem of keeping

the family out of the gutter.'

'I'd like you to come up here for a year.'

John sat up, startled. 'What?'

'You would be doing me a favour. You needn't worry

about the financial side of things. There's only three

things a farmer can do with his ill-gotten gains - buy

fresh land, spend them on riotous living, or hoard them. I've never wanted to have land outside the valley, and

I'm a poor spender.'

John said slowly: 'Is this because of the virus?'

'It may be silly,' David said, 'but I don't like the look

of things. And I've seen those pictures of what happened

in the East.'

John looked across at Arm. She said:

'That was the East, though, wasn't it? Even if things

were to get short - this country's more disciplined.

We've been used to rationing and shortages. And at

present there's no sign of any real trouble. It's asking

rather a lot for John to throw things in and all of us to

come and sponge on you for a year - just because things

might go wrong.'

'Here we are,' David said, 'sitting round the fire, at

peace and with full bellies. I know it's hard to imagine a

future in which we shan't be able to go on doing that.

But I'm worried.'

'There's never been a disease yet,' John said, 'either of

plant or animal, that hasn't run itself out, leaving the

species still alive and kicking. Look at the Black Death.'

David shook his head. 'Guess-work. We don't know.

What killed the great reptiles? Ice-ages? Competition?

It could have been a virus. And what happened to all the

plants that have left fossil remains but no descendants?

It's dangerous to argue from the fact that we haven't

come across such a virus in our short period of observation.

A man could live a long life without seeing a comet

visible to the naked eye. It doesn't mean there aren't

any comets.'

John said, with an air of finality: 'It's very good of

you, Dave, but I couldn't, you know. I may not care for

its results, but I like my work well enough. How would

you like to spend a year in Highgate, sitting on your

behind?'

'I'd make a farmer out of you in a month.'

'Out of Davey, maybe.'

The clock that ticked somnolently on the wall had

rested there, spring cleanings apart, for a hundred and

fifty years. The notion of the virus winning, Arm

thought, was even more unlikely here than it had

seemed in London.

She said: 'After all, I suppose we could come up here

if things were to get bad. But there's no sign of them

doing so at present.'

'I've been brooding about it, I expect,' David said.

'There was something Grandfather Beverley said to me,

the first time we came to the valley - that when he had

been outside, and came back through the gap, he always

felt 'hat he could shut the door behind him.'

'It is a bit like that,' Arm said.

'If things do turn out badly,' David went on, 'there

aren't going to be many safe refuges in England. But

this can be one of them.'

'Hence the potatoes and beet,' John observed.

David said: 'And more.' He looked at them. 'Did you

see that stack of timber by the road, just this side of the

gap?'

'New buildings?'

David stood up and walked across to look out of the

window at the wintry landscape. Still looking out, he

said:

'No. Not buildings. A stockade.'

Arm and John looked at each other. Arm repeated:

'A stockade?'

David swung round. 'A fence, if you like. There's

going to be a gate on this valley - a gate that can be held

by a few against a mob.'

'Are you serious?' John asked him.

He watched this elder brother who had always been

so much less adventurous, less imaginative, than himself.

His manner nov/ was as stolid and unexcited as

ever; he hardly seemed concerned about the implications

of what he had just said.

'Quite serious,' David said.

Arm protested: 'But if things turn out all right, after

all...'

'The countryside,' David said, 'is always happy to

have something to laugh at. Custance's Folly. I'm taking

a chance on looking a fool. I've got an uneasiness in my

bones, and I'm concerned with quietening it. Being a

laughing-stock doesn't count beside that.'

His quiet earnestness impressed them; they were conscious

- Arm particularly - of an impulse to do as he

had urged them: to join him here in the valley and

fasten the gate on the jostling uncertain world outside.

But the impulse could only be brief; there was all the

business of life to remember. Arm said involuntarily:

'The children's schools...'

David had followed the line of her thought; he

showed neither surprise nor satisfaction. He said:

'There's the school at Lepeton. A year of that

wouldn't hurt them.'

She looked helplessly at her husband. John said:

'There are all sorts of things . . . ' The conviction

communicated from David had already faded; the sort

of thing he was imagining could not possibly happen.

'After all, if things should get worse, we shall have

plenty of warning. We could come up right away, if it

looked grim.'

'Don't leave it too late,' David said.

Arm gave a little shiver, and shook herself. 'In a year's time, all this will seem strange.'

'Yes,' David said, 'it may be it will.'

The lull which seemed to have fallen on the world

continued through the winter. In the Western countries,

schemes for rationing foods were drawn up, and in some

cases applied. Cake disappeared in England, but bread

was still available to all. The Press continued to oscillate

between optimism and pessimism, but with less violent

swings. The important question, most frequently canvassed,

was the length of time that could be expected to

ensue before, with the destruction of the virus, life

might return to normal.

It was significant, John thought, that no one spoke

yet of the reclamation of the lifeless lands of Asia. He

mentioned this to Roger Buckley over luncheon, one

day in late February. They were in Roger's club, the

Treasury.

Roger said: 'No, we try not to think of them too

much, don't we? It's as though we had managed to

chop off the rest of the world, and left just Europe,

Africa, Australasia and the Americas. I saw some pictures

of Central China last week. Even up to a few

months ago, they would have been in the Press. But

they haven't been published, and they're not going to

be published.'

'What were they like?'

'They were in colour. Tasteful compositions in

browns and greys and yellows. All that bare earth and

clay. Do you know - in its way, it was more frightening

than the famine pictures used to be?'

The waiter padded up and gave them their lagers m

slow and patient ritual. When he had gone, John

queried:

'Frightening?'

'They frightened me. I hadn't understood properly

before quite what a clean sweep the virus makes of a

place. Automatically, you think of it as leaving some grass growing, if only a few tufts here and there. But it

doesn't leave anything. It's only the grasses that have

gone, of course, but it's surprising to realise what a

large amount of territory is covered with grasses of one

kind or another.'

'Any rumours of an answer to it?'

Roger waggled his head in an indeterminate gesture.

'Let's put it this way: the rumours in official circles are

as vague as the ones in the Press, but they do have a note

of confidence.'

John said: 'My brother is barricading himself in. Did I tell you?'

Roger leaned forward, curiously. 'The farmer? How

do you mean - barricading himself in?'

'I've told you about his place - Blind Gill - surrounded

by hills with just one narrow gap leading out.

He's having a fence put up to seal the gap.'

'Go on. I'm interested.'

'That's all there is to it, really. He's uneasy about

what's going to happen in the next growing season -

I've never known him so uneasy. At any rate, he's given

up all his wheat acreage to plant root crops. He even

wanted us all to come and spend a year up there.'

'Until the crisis is over? He is worried.'

'And yet,' John said, 'I've been thinking about it off

and on since then . . . Dave's always been more levelheaded

than I, and when you get down to it, a country-

man's premonitions are not to be taken lightly in this

kind of business. In London, we don't know anything

except what's spooned out to us.'

Roger looked at him, and smiled. 'Something in what

you say, Johnny, but you must remember that I'm on

the spooning side. Tell me - if I get you the inside

warning of the crack-up in plenty of time, do you think

you could make room for our little trio in your brother's

bolt-hole?'

John said tensely: 'Do you think it's going to come to

a crackup?'

'So far, there's not a sign of it. Those who should be

in the know are radiating the same kind of optimism

that you find in the papers. But I like the sound of Blind

Gill, as an insurance policy. I'll keep my ear to the pipeline.

As soon as there's a little warning tinkle at the

other end, we both take indefinite leave, and our

families, and head for the north? How does it strike

you? Would your brother have us?'

'Yes, of course.' John thought about the idea. 'How

much warning do you think you would get?'

'Enough. I'll keep you informed. In a case like this,

you can rest assured I shall err on the side of caution. I

don't relish the idea of being caught in the London area

in the middle of a famine.'

A trolley was pushed past them, laden with assorted

cheeses. The air was instilled with the drowsy somnolence

of midday in the dining-room of a London club.

The murmur of voices was an easy and untroubled one.

John waved an arm. 'It's difficult to imagine anything

denting this.'

Roger surveyed the scene in turn, his eyes mild but

acute.

'Quite undeniable, I agree. After all, as the Press has

told us sufficiently often, we're not Asiatics. It's going to

be interesting, watching us being British and stiff-lipped,

while the storm-clouds gather. Undeniable. But what

happens when we crack?'

Their waiter came with their chops. He was a garru-

lous little man, with less hauteur than most of the others

here.

'No,' Roger said, 'interesting - but not interesting

enough to make me want to stop and see it.'

Spring was late in coming; a period of dry, cold, cloudy

weather lasted through March and into April. When, in

the second week of April, it was succeeded by a warm,

moist spell, it was a shock to see that the Chung-Li virus

had lost none of its vigour. As the grass grew, in fields

or gardens or highways, its blades were splotched with

darker green - green that spread and turned into rotting

brown. There was no escaping the evidence of these new

inroads.

John got hold of Roger.

He asked him: 'What's the news at your end?*

'Oddly enough, very good.'

John said: 'My lawn's full of it. I started cutting-out

operations but then I saw that all the grass in the

district's got it.'

'Mine, too,' Roger said. 'A warm putrefying shade of

brown. The penalties for failing to cut out infected

grasses are being rescinded, by the way.'

'What's the good news, then? It looks grim enough to

me.'

'The papers will be carrying it tomorrow. The Bureau

UNESCO set up claim they've got the answer. They've

bred a virus that feeds on Chung-Li - all phases.'

John said: 'It comes at what might otherwise have

been a decidedly awkward moment. You don't

think...?'

Roger smiled. 'It was the first thing I did think. But

the bulletin announcing it has been signed by a gang of

people, including some who wouldn't falsify the results

of a minor experiment to save their aged parents from

the stake. It's genuine, all right.'

'Saved by the bell,' John said slowly. 'I don't like to

think what would have happened this summer otherwise.'

'I don't mind thinking about it,' Roger said. 'It was

participation I was anxious to avoid.'

'I was wondering about sending the children back to

school. I suppose it's all right now.'

'Better there, I should think,' Roger said. 'There are

bound to be shortages, because they will hardly be able

to get the new virus going on a large enough scale to

do much about saving this year's harvest. London will

feel the pinch more than most places, probably.'

The UNESCO report was given the fullest publicity,

and the Government at the same time issued its own

appraisal of the situation. The United States, Canada,

Australia and New Zealand all held grain stocks and

were all prepared to impose rationing on their own

populations with a view to making these stocks last over

the immediate period of shortage. In Britain, a similar

but more severe rationing of grain products and meat

was introduced.

Once again the atmosphere lightened. The combination

of news of an answer to the virus and news of the

imposition of rationing produced an effect both bracing

and hopeful. When a letter came from David, its tone

appeared almost ludicrously out of key.

He wrote:

'There isn't a blade of grass left in the valley. I killed

the last of the cows yesterday -I understand that someone

in London had the sense to arrange for an extension

of refrigerating space during last winter, but it won't be

enough to cope with the beef that will be coming under

the knife in the next few weeks. I'm salting mine. Even

if things go right, it will be years before this country

knows what meat is again - or milk, or cheese.

'And I wish I could believe that things are going to go

right. It's not that I disbelieve this report - I know the

reputation of the people who have signed it - but reports

don't seem to mean very much when I can look out and

see black instead of green.

'Don't forget you're welcome any time you decide to

pack your things up and come. I'm not really bothered

about the valley. We can live on root crops and pork I'm

keeping the pigs going because they're the only

animal I know that might thrive on a diet of potatoes.

We'll manage very well here. It's the land outside I'm

worried about.'

John threw the letter across to Arm and went to look

out of the window of the sitting-room. Arm frowned as

she read it.

'He's still taking it all terribly seriously, isn't he?' she

asked.

'Evidently.'

John looked out at what had been the lawn and was

now a patch of brown earth speckled with occasional

weeds. Already it had become familiar.

'You don't think,' Arm said, 'living up there with

only the Hillens and the farm men . . . it's a pity he

never married.'

'He's going off his rocker, you mean? He's not the

only pessimist about the virus.'

'This bit at the end,' Arm said. She quoted:

'In a way, I think I feel it would be more right for the

virus to win, anyway. For years now, we've treated the

land as though it were a piggy-bank, to be raided. And

the land, after all, is life itself.'

John said: 'We're cushioned - we never did see a

great deal of grass, so not seeing any doesn't make much

difference. It's bound to have a more striking effect in

the country.'

'But it's almost as though he wants the virus to win.'

'The countryman always has disliked and mistrusted

the townsman. He sees him as a gaping mouth on top of

a lazy body. I suppose most farmers would be happy

enough to see the urban dweller take a small tumble.

Only this tumble, if it were taken, would be anything

but small. I don't think David wants Chung-Li to beat

us, though. He's just got it on his mind.'

Arm was silent for a while. John looked round at her.

She was staring at the blank screen of the television set,

with David's letter tightly held in one hand.

'It may be he's getting a bit of a worriter in his old

age. Bachelor farmers often do.'

Arm said: This idea - of Roger warning us if things

go wrong so that we can all travel north - is it still on?'

John said curiously: 'Yes, of course. Though it hardly

seems pressing now.'

'Can we rely on him?'

'Don't you think so? Even if he were willing to take

chances with our lives, do you think he would with his

own - and with Olivia's, and Steve's?'

'I suppose not. It's just...'

'If there were going to be trouble, we shouldn't need

Roger's warning, anyway. We should see it coming, a

mile off.'

Arm said: 'I was thinking about the children.'

'They'll be all right. Davey even likes the tinned

hamburger the Americans are sending us.'

Arm smiled. 'Yes, we've always got the tinned hamburger

to fall back on, I suppose.'

They went down to the sea as usual with the Buckleys

when the children came back for the summer half-

term holiday. It was a strange journey through a land

showing only the desolate bareness of virus-choked

ground, interspersed with fields where the abandoned

grain crops had been replaced by roots. But the roads

themselves were as thronged with traffic, and it was as

difficult as ever to find a not too crowded patch of

coast.

The weather was warm, but the air was dark with

clouds that continually threatened rain. They did not

go far from the caravan.

Their halting-place was on a spur of high ground,

looking down to the shingle, and giving a wide view of

the Channel. Davey and Steve showed great interest in

the traffic on the sea; there was a fleet of small vessels

a couple of miles off shore.

'Fishing smacks,' Roger explained. To make up for

the meat we haven't got, because there isn't any grass

for the cows.'

'And rationed from Monday,' Olivia said. 'Fancy fish

rationed!'

'It was about time,' Arm commented. The prices

were getting ridiculous.'

The smooth mechanism of the British national

economy continues to mesh with silent efficiency,'

Roger said. They told us that we were different from

the Asiatics, and by God they were right! The belt

tightens notch by notch, and no one complains.'

There wouldn't be much point in complaining, would

there?' Arm asked.

John said: 'It's rather different now that the ultimate

prospects are fairly good. I don't know how calm and

collected we should be if they weren't.'

Mary, who had been drying herself in the caravan

after a bathe, looked out of the window at them.

The fishcakes at school always used to be a tin of

anchovies to twenty pounds of potatoes - now it's more

like a tin to two hundred pounds. What are the ultimate

prospects of that, Daddy?'

'Potato-cakes,' John said, 'and the empty tin circulating

along the tables for you all to have a sniff. Very

nourishing, too.'

Davey said: 'Well, I don't see why they've rationed

sweets. You don't get sweets out of grass, do you?'

Too many people had started to fill up on them,'

John told him. 'You included. Now you're confined to

your own ration, and what Mary doesn't get off your

mother's and mine. Contemplate your good fortune.

You might be an orphan.'

'Well, how long's the rationing going to go on?' 'A few years yet, so you'd better get used to it.'

'It's a swindle,' Davey said,' - rationing, without even

the excitement of there being a war on.'

The children went back to school, and for the rest life

continued as usual. At one time, soon after they had

made their pact, John had made a point of telephoning

Roger whenever two or three days went by without their

meeting, but now he did not bother.

Food rationing tightened gradually, but there was

enough food to stay the actual pangs of hunger. There

was news that in some other countries similarly situated,

food riots had taken place, notably in the countries

bordering the Mediterranean. London reacted smugly

to this, contrasting that indiscipline with its own patient

and orderly queues for goods in short supply.

'Yet again,' a correspondent wrote to the Daily

Telegraph, 'it falls to the British peoples to set an example

to the world in the staunch and steadfast bearing

of their misfortunes. Things may grow darker yet, but

that patience and fortitude is something we know will

not fail.'

John had gone down to the site of their new building,

which was rising on the edge of the City. Trouble had

developed on the tower-crane, and everything was held

up as a result. His presence was not strictly required,

but he had been responsible for the selection of a crane,

which was of a type they had not used previously, and

he wanted to be on the spot.

He was actually in the cabin of the crane, looking

down into the building's foundations, when he saw

Roger waving to him from the ground. He waved back,

and Roger's gestures changed to a beckoning that even

from that height could be recognised as imperative.

He turned to the mechanic who was working beside

him. 'How's she coming now?'

'Bit better. Clear it this morning, I reckon.'

'I'll be back later on.'

Roger was waiting for him at the bottom of the

ladder.

John said: 'Dropped in to see what kind of a nfess we

were in?'

Roger did not smile. He glanced round the busy levels

of the site.

'Anywhere we can talk privately?'

John shrugged. 'I could clear the manager out of his

cubby-hole. But there's a little pub just across the road,

which would be better.'

'Anywhere you like. But right away. O.K.?'

Roger's face was as mild and relaxed as ever, but his

voice was sharp and urgent. They went across the road

together. The Grapes' had a small private bar which

was not much used and now, at eleven-thirty, was

empty.

John got double whiskies for them both and brought

them to the table, in the corner farthest from the bar,

where Roger was sitting. He asked:

'Bad news?'

'We've got to move,' Roger said. He had a drink of

whisky. The balloon's up.'

'How?'

The bastards!' Roger said. The bloody murdering

bastards. We aren't like the Asiatics. We're true-blue

Englishmen and we play cricket.'

His anger, bitter and savage, with nothing feigned in

it, brought home to John the awareness of crisis. He

said sharply:

'What is it? What's happening?'

Roger finished his drink. The barmaid passed through

their section of the bar and he called for two more

doubles. When he had got them, he said:

'First things first - game, set and match to Chung-Li.

We've lost.'

'What about the counter-virus?'

'Funny things, viruses,' Roger said. They stand in

time's eye like principalities and powers, only on a

shorter scale. All-conquering for a century, or for three

or four months, and then - washed out. You don't often

get a Rome, holding its power for half a millennium.'

•Well?'

The Chung-Li virus is a Rome. If the counter-virus

had been even a France or a Spain it would have been

all right. But it was only a Sweden. It still exists, but in

the mild and modified form that viruses usually relapse

into. It won't touch Chung-Li.'

'When did this happen?'

'God knows. Some time ago. They managed to keep

it quiet while they were trying to re-breed the virulent

strain.'

'They've not abandoned the attempt, surely?'

'I don't know. I suppose not. It doesn't matter.*

'Surely it matters.'

'For the last month,' Roger said, 'this country has

been living on current supplies of food, with less than

half a week's stocks behind us. In fact, we've been relying

absolutely on the food ships from America and the

Commonwealth. I knew this before, but I didn't think

it important. The food had been pledged to us.'

The barmaid returned and began to polish the bar

counter; she was whistling a popular song. Roger

dropped his voice.

'My mistake was pardonable, I think. In normal circumstances

the pledges would have been honoured. Too

much of the world had vanished into barbarism already;

people were willing to make some sacrifices to save the

rest.

'But charity still begins at home. That's why I said it

doesn't matter whether they do succeed in getting the

counter-virus back in shape. The fact is that the people

who've got the food don't believe they will. And as a

result, they want to make sure they aren't giving away

stuff they will need themselves next winter. The last

foodship from the other side of the Atlantic docked at

Liverpool yesterday. There may be some still on the

seas from Australasia, and they may or may not be recalled

home before they reach us.'

John said: 'I see.' He looked at Roger. 'Is that what

you meant about murdering bastards? But they do have

to look after their own people. It's hard on us . ..'

'No, that wasn't what I meant. I told you I had a pipeline

up to the top. It was Haggerty, the P.M.'s secretary. I did him a good turn a few years ago. He's done me a

damn sight better turn in giving me the lowdown on

what's happening.

'Everything's been at top-Governmental level. Our

people knew what was going to happen a week ago.

They've been trying to get the food-suppliers to change

their minds - and hoping for a miracle, I suppose. But

all they did get was secrecy - an undertaking that they

would not be embarrassed in any steps they thought

necessary for internal control by the news being spread

round the world. That suited everybody's book - the people across the ocean will have some measures of

their own to take before the news breaks - not comparable

with ours, of course, but best prepared undisturbed.'

'And our measures?' John asked. 'What are they?'

'The Government fell yesterday. Welling has taken

over, but Lucas is still in the Cabinet. It's very much a

palace revolution. Lucas doesn't want the blood on his

hands - that's all.'

'Blood?'

'These islands hold about fifty-four million people.

About forty-five million of them live in England. If a

third of that number could be supported on a diet of

roots, we should be doing well. The only difficulty is how

do you select the survivors?'

John said grimly: 'I should have thought it was

obvious - they select themselves.'

'It's a wasteful method, and destructive of good order

and discipline. We've taken our discipline fairly lightly

in this country, but its roots run deep. It's always likely

to rise in a crisis.'

'Welling -' John said, 'I've never cared for the sound

of him.'

'The time throws up the man. I don't like the swine

myself, but something like him was inevitable. Lucas

could never make up his mind about anything.' Roger

looked straight ahead. 'The Army is moving into posi-

tion today on the outskirts of London and all other

major population centres. The roads will be closed from

dawn tomorrow.'

John said: 'If that's the best he can think of ... no

army in the world would stop a city from bursting out

under pressure of hunger. What does he think he's

going to gain?'

'Time. Enough of that precious commodity to complete

the preparations for his second line of action.'

'And that is?'

'Atom bombs for the small cities, hydrogen bombs

for places like Liverpool, Birmingham, Glasgow, Leeds

- and two or three of them for London. It doesn't matter

about wasting them - they won't be needed in the foreseeable

future.'

For a moment, John was silent. Then he said slowly:

'I can't believe that. No one could do that.'

'Lucas couldn't. Lucas always was the common man's

Prime Minister - suburban constraints and suburban

prejudices and emotions. But Lucas will stand by as a

member of Welling's Cabinet, ostentatiously washing

his hands while the plans go forward. What else do you

expect of the common man?'

'They will never get people to man the planes.'

'We're in a new era,' Roger said. 'Or a very old one.

Wide loyalties are civilised luxuries. Loyalties are going

to be narrow from now on, and the narrower the fiercer.

If it were the only way of saving Olivia and Steve, I'd

man one of those planes myself.'

Revolted, John said: 'No!'

'When I spoke about murdering bastards,' Roger said, 'I spoke with admiration as well as disgust. From now

on, I propose to be one where necessary, and I very

much hope you are prepared to do the same.'

'But to drop hydrogen bombs on cities - of one's

own people...'

'Yes, that's what Welling wants time for. I should

think it will take at least twenty-four hours - perhaps as

long as forty-eight. Don't be a fool, Johnny! It's not so

long ago that one's own people were the people in the

same village. As a matter of fact, he can put a good

cloak of generosity over the act.'

'Generosity? Hydrogen bombs?'

They're going to die. In England, at least thirty

million people are going to die before the rest can scrape

a living. Which way's best - of starvation or being

killed for your flesh - or by a hydrogen bomb? It's

quick, after all. And you can keep the numbers down to

thirty million that way and preserve the fields to grow

the crops to support the rest. That's the theory of it.'

From another part of the public-house, light music

came to them as the barmaid switched on a portable

wireless. The ordinary world continued, untouched, untroubled.

'It can't work,' John said.

'I'm inclined to agree,' said Roger. 'I think the news

will leak, and I think the cities will burst their seams

before Welling has got his bomber fleet properly lined

up. But I'm not under any illusion that things will be

any better that way. At my guess, it means fifty million

dying instead of thirty, and a far more barbarous and

primitive existence for those that do survive. Who is

going to have the power to protect the potato fields against the roaming mob? Who is going to save seed

potatoes for next year? Welling's a swine, but a clear-

sighted swine. After his fashion, he's trying to save the

country.'

'You think the news will get out?'

In his mind he visualised a panic-stricken London,

with himself and Arm caught in it - unable to get to the

children.

Roger grinned. 'Worrying, isn't it? It's a funny thing,

but I have an idea we shall worry less about London's

teeming millions once we're away from them. And the

sooner we get away, the better.'

John said: 'The children...'

'Mary at Beckenham, and Davey at that place in

Hertfordshire. I've thought about that. We can get

Davey on the way north. Your job is to go and pick

Mary up. Right away. I'll go and get word to Arm. She

can pack essentials. Olivia and Steve and I will be at

your place, with our car loaded. When you get there

with Mary, we'll load your car and get moving. If

possible, we should be clear of London well before nightfall.'

'I suppose we must,' John said.

Roger followed his gaze around the interior of the

bar - flowers in a polished copper urn, a calendar blowing

in a small breeze, floors still damp from scrubbing.

'Say goodbye to it,' he said. 'That's yesterday's world.

From now on, we're peasants, and lucky at that.'

Beckenham, Roger had told him, was included in the

area to be sealed off. He was shown into the study of

Miss Errington, the headmistress, and waited there for

her. The room was neat, but still feminine. It was a combination,

he remembered, that had impressed Arm, as Miss Errington herself had done. She was a very tall

woman, with a gentle humorousness.

She bowed her head coming through the door, and

said:

'Good afternoon, Mr Custance.' It was, John noted,

just half an hour after noon. 'I'm sorry to have kept

you waiting.'

'I hope I haven't brought you away from your

luncheon?'

She smiled. 'It is no hardship these days, Mr Custance.

You've come about Mary?'

'Yes. I should like to take her back with me.'

Miss Errington said: 'Do have a seat.' She looked at

him, calmly considerate. 'You want to take her away?

Why?'

This was the moment that made him feel the bitter

weight of his secret knowledge. He must give no warning

of what was to happen; Roger had insisted on that,

and he agreed. It was as essential to their plans as to

Welling's larger scheme of destruction that no news

should get out.

And that necessity required that he should leave this

tall, gentle woman, along with her charges, to die.

He said lamely: 'It's a family matter. A relative, passing

through London. You understand...'

'You see, Mr Custance, we try to keep breaks of this

kind to a minimum. You will appreciate that it's very

unsettling. It's rather different at weekends.'

'Yes, I do see that. It's her - uncle, and he's going

abroad by air this evening.'

'Really? For long?

More glibly, he continued: 'He may be gone for some

years. He was very anxious to see Mary before he went.'

'You could have brought him here, of course.' Miss

Errington hesitated. 'When would you be bringing her

back?'

'I could bring her back this evening.'

'Well, in that case . . . I'll go and ask someone to get

her.' She walked over to the door, and opened it. She

called into the corridor: 'Helena? Would you ask Mary

Custance to come along here, please? Her father has

come to see her.' To John, she said: 'If it's only for the

afternoon, she won't want her things, will she?'

'No,' he said, 'it doesn't matter about them.'

Miss Errington sat down again. 'I should tell you I'm

very pleased with your daughter, Mr Custance. At her

age, girls divide out - one sees something of what they

are going to turn into. Mary has been coming along

very well lately. I believe she might have a very fine

academic future, if she wished.'

Academic future, John thought - helping to hold a

tiny oasis against a desert world.

He said: 'That's very gratifying.'

Miss Errington smiled. 'Although, probably, the point

is itself academic. One doubts if the young men of her

acquaintance will permit her to settle into so barren a

life.'

'I see nothing barren in it, Miss Errington. Your own

must be very full.'

She laughed. 'It has turned out better than I thought

it would! I'm beginning to look forward to my retirement.'

Mary came in, curtseyed briefly to Miss Errington,

and ran over to John.

'Daddy! What's happened?'

Miss Errington said: 'Your father wishes to take you

away for a few hours. Your uncle is passing through

London, on his way abroad, and would like to see you.'

'Uncle David? Abroad?'

John said quickly: 'It's quite unexpected. I'll explain

everything to you on the way. Are you ready to come as

you are?'

'Yes, of course.'

'Then I shan't keep you,' Miss Errington said. 'Can

you have her back for eight o'clock, Mr Custance?'

'I shall try my best.'

She held her long delicate hand out. 'Goodbye.'

John hesitated; his mind rebelled against taking her hand and leaving her with no inkling of what lay ahead.

And yet he dared not tell her; nor, he thought, would

she believe him if he did.

He said: 'If I do fail to bring Mary back by eight, it

will be because I have learned that the whole of London

is to be swallowed up in an earthquake. So if we don't

come back, I advise you to round up the girls and take

them out into the country. At whatever inconvenience.'

Miss Errington looked at him with mild astonishment

that he should descend into such absurd and tasteless

clowning. Mary also was watching him in surprise.

The headmistress said: 'Well, yes, but of course you

will be back by eight.'

He said, miserably: 'Yes, of course.'

As the car pulled out of the school grounds, Mary said:

'It isn't Uncle David, is it?'

'No.'

'What is it, then, Daddy?'

'I can't tell you yet. But we're leaving London.'

'Today? Then I shan't go back to school tonight?'

He made no answer. 'Is it something dreadful?'

'Dreadful enough. We're going to live in the valley.

Will you like that?'

She smiled. 'I wouldn't call it dreadful.'

'The dreadful part,' he said slowly, 'will be for other

people.'

They reached home soon after two. As they walked

up the garden path, Arm opened the door for them. She

looked tense and unhappy. John put an arm round her.

'Stage one completed without mishap. Everything's

going well, darling. Nothing to worry about. Roger and

the others not here?'

'It's his car. Cylinder block cracked, or something.

He's round at the garage, hurrying them up. They're all

coming over as soon as possible.'

'Has he any idea how long?' John asked sharply.

'Shouldn't be more than an hour.'

Mary asked: 'Are the Buckleys coming with us?

What's happening?'

Arm said: 'Run up to your room, darling. I've packed

your things for you, but I've left just a little space for

anything which I've left out which you think is specially

important. But you will have to be very discriminating.

It's only a very little space.'

'How long are we going for?'

Arm said: 'A long time, perhaps. In fact, you might

as well act as though we were never coming back.'

Mary looked at them for a moment. Then she said

gravely:

'What about Davey's things? Shall I look through

those as well?'

'Yes, darling,' Arm said. 'See if there's anything important

I've missed.'

When Mary had gone upstairs, Arm clung to her

husband.

'John, it can't be true!'

'Roger told you the whole story?'

'Yes. But they couldn't do it. They couldn't possibly.*

'Couldn't they? I've just told Miss Errington I shall

be bringing Mary back this evening. Knowing what I

know, is there very much difference?'

Arm was silent. Then she said:

'Before all this is over . . . are we going to hate ourselves?

Or are we just going to get used to things, so

that we don't realise what we're turning into?'

John said: 'I don't know. I don't know anything, except

that we've got to save ourselves and save the

children.'

'Save them for what?' I

'We can work that out later. Things seem brutal

now - leaving without saying a word to all the others

who don't know what's going to happen - but we can't

help it. When we get to the valley, it will be different.

We shall have a chance of living decently again.'

'Decently?'

Things will be hard, but it may not be a bad life. It

will be up to us what we make of it. At least, we shall

be our own masters. It will no longer be a matter of

living on the sufferance of a State that cheats and bullies

and swindles its citizens and, at last, when they become

a burden, murders them.'

'No, I suppose not.'

'Bastards!' Roger said. 'I paid them double for a rush

job, and then had to hang around for three-quarters of

an hour while they looked for their tools.'

It was four o'clock. Arm said:

'Have we time for a cup of tea? I was just going to

put the kettle on.'

'Theoretically,' Roger said, 'we've got all the time in

the world. All the same, I think we'll skip the tea.

There's an atmosphere about - uneasiness. There must

have been some other leaks, and I wonder just how

many. Anyway, I shall feel a lot happier when we're

clear of London.'

Arm nodded. 'All right.' She walked through to the

kitchen. John called after her:

'Anything I can get for you?'

Arm looked back. 'I left the kettle full of water. I was

just going to put it away.'

'That's our hope,' Roger said. 'The feminine stabiliser.

She's leaving her home for ever, but she puts the

kettle away. A man would be more likely to kick it

round the floor, and then set fire to the house.'

They pulled away from the Custance's house with

John's car leading, and drove to the north. They were

to follow the Great North Road to a point beyond

Welwyn and then branch west in the direction of

Davey's school.

As they were passing through East Finchley, they

heard the sound of Roger's horn, and a moment later

he accelerated past them and drew up just ahead. As

they went past, Olivia, leaning out of the window,

called:

'Radio!'

John switched on.

'... emphasised too strongly that there is no basis to

any of the rumours that have been circulating. The

entire situation is under control, and the country has

ample stocks of food.'

The others walked back and stood by the car. Roger

said:

'Someone's worried.'

'Virus-free grain is being planted,' the voice continued,

'in several parts of England, Wales and Scotland,

and there is every expectation of a late-autumn crop.'

'Planting in July!' John exclaimed.

'Stroke of genius,' Roger said. 'When there's rumour

of bad news, say that Fairy Godmother is on her way

down the chimney. Plausibility doesn't matter at a time

like that.'

The announcer's voice changed slightly:

'It is the Government's view that danger could only

arise from panic in the population at large. As a

measure towards preventing this, various temporary

regulations have been promulgated, and come into

force immediately.

The first of these deals with restrictions on movements.

Travel between cities is temporarily forbidden.

It is hoped that a system of priorities for essential movements

will be ready by tomorrow, but the preliminary

ban is absolute...'

Roger said. 'They've jumped the gun! Come on - let's

try and crash through. They may not be ready for us

yet.'

The two cars drove north again, across the North

Circular Road, and through North Finchley and Barnet.

The steady reassuring voice on the radio continued to

drone out regulations, and then was followed by the

music of a cinema organ. The streets showed their usual

traffic, with people shopping or simply walking about.

There was no evidence of panic here in the outer

suburbs. Trouble, if there were any, would have started

in Central London.

They met the road block just beyond Wrotham Park.

Barriers had been set up in the road; there were khaki-

clad figures on the other side. The two cars halted. John

and Roger went over to the road block. Already there

were half a dozen motorists there, arguing with the

officer in charge. Others, having abandoned the argument,

were preparing to turn their cars and drive back.

Ten bloody minutes!' Roger said. 'We can't have

missed it by more; there would have been a much bigger

pileup.'

The officer was a pleasant, rather wide-eyed young

fellow, clearly enjoying what he saw as an unusual kind

of exercise.

'I'm very sorry,' he was saying, 'but we're simply

carrying out orders. No travel out of JCondon is permitted.'

The man who was at the front of the objectors, about

fifty, heavily built and darkly Jewish in appearance,

said:

'But my business is in Sheffield! I only drove down to

London yesterday.' <

'You'll have to listen to the news on the wireless,' the

officer said. 'They're going to have some kind of arrangements

for people like you.'

Roger said quietly: 'This is no go, Johnny. We

couldn't even bribe him with a mob like this around.'

The officer went on: 'Don't treat this as official, but

I've been told the whole thing's only a manoeuvre.

They're trying out panic precautions, just to be on the

safe side. It will probably be called off in the morning.'

The heavily built man said: 'If it's only a manoeuvre,

you can let us few get through. It doesn't matter, does

it?'

The young officer grinned. 'Sorry. It's as easy to land

a general court-martial for dereliction of duty on'

manoeuvres as it is when there's a war on! I advise you

to go back to town and try tomorrow.'

Roger jerked his head, and he and John began to walk

back to the cars. Roger said:

'Very cleverly carried out. Unofficially, only a manoeuvre.

That gets over the scruples of the troops. I

wonder if they are going to be left to burn with the rest?

I suppose so.'

'Worth trying to tell them what's really happening?'

'Wouldn't get anywhere. And they might very well

run us in for spreading false rumours. That's one of the

new regulations - did you hear it?'

They reached the cars. John said:

'Then what do we do? Ditch the cars, and try it on

foot, through the fields?'

Arm said: 'What's happening? They won't let us

through?'

'They'll have the fields patrolled,' Roger said. 'Probably

with tanks. We wouldn't have a chance on foot.'

In an edged voice, Arm said: 'Then what can we do?'

Roger looked at her, laughing. 'Easy, Annie! Every-

thing's under control.'

John was grateful for the strength and confidence in

the laugh. They lightened his own spirits.

Roger said: 'The first thing to do is get away from

here, before we land ourselves in a traffic jam.' Cars

were beginning to pile up behind them in the road.

'Back towards Chipping Barnet, and there's a sharp

fork to the right. We'll go first. See you there.'

It was a quiet road: urbs in rure. The two cars pulled

up in a secluded part of it. There were modern detached

houses on the other side, but here the road fringed a

small plantation.

The Buckleys left their car, and Olivia and Steve got

in the back with Arm.

Roger said: 'Point one - this road bypasses A. I and

will take us to Hatfield. But I don't think it's worth trying

it just yet. There's bound to be a road-block on it,

and we would be no more likely to get through it this

evening than we should have been on A. I.'

A Vanguard swept past them along the road, closely

followed by an Austin which John recognised as having

been at the road-block. Roger nodded after them.

'Quite a few will try it, but they wont get anywhere.'

Steve said: 'Couldn't we crash one of the barriers,

Dad? I've seen them on the pictures.'

'This isn't the pictures,' Roger said. 'Quite a few

people will be trying to get through the blocks this evening.

It will be quieter at night, and better in other

ways, too. We'll keep your car here. I'm taking ours

back into Town - and there's something I think I ought

to pick up.'

Arm said: 'You're not going back in there!'

'It's necessary. I hope I shan't be more than a couple

of hours at the outside.'

John understood Roger too well to think that when

he spoke of picking something up he could be referring

to an oversight in his original plans. This was a new

factor.

He said: 'Not likely to be any trouble in a spot like

this is there?' Roger shook his head. 'In that case, I'll come back with you. Two will be safer than one if

you're going south.'

Roger thought about this for a moment. He said:

Yes. O.K.'

'But you don't know what it's going to be like in

London!' Arm said. 'There may be rioting. Surely there

can't be anything important enough to make you take

risks like that?'

'From now on,' Roger said, 'if we're going to survive

we shall have to take risks. If you want to know, I'm

going back for firearms. Things are breaking up faster

than I thought they would. But there's no danger back

there this evening.'

Arm said: 'I want you to stay, John.*

'Now, Arm...' John began. 69

Roger broke in. 'If we want to kill ourselves, wasting

time in wrangling is as good a way as any. This party's

got to have a leader, and his word has got to be acted on

as soon as it's spoken. Toss you for it, Johnny.'

'No. It's yours.'

Roger took a half-crown from his pocket. He spun it

up.

'Call!'

They watched the twinkling nickel-silver. 'Heads,*

John said. The coin hit the metalled road and rolled into

the gutter. Roger bent down to look at it.

'All yours,'he said.'Well?'

John kissed Arm, and then got out of the car. 'We'll

be back as soon as possible,' he said.

Arm commented bitterly: 'Are we chattels again

already?'

Roger laughed. 'The world's great age,' he said, 'begins

anew, the golden years return.'

'We can just make it,' Roger said. 'He doesn't put up

the shutters until six. Only a little business - one man

and a boy - but he's got some useful stock.'

They were driving now through the chaos of rush-

hour in Central London. On that chaos, the usual

rough-and-ready pattern was imposed by traffic lights

and white-armed policemen. There was no sign of anything

out of the ordinary. As the lights turned green in

front of their car, the familiar breaker of jaywalkers

swelled across the road.

'Sheep,' John said bitterly, 'for the slaughter.'

Roger glanced at him. 'Let's hope they stay that way.

See it clearly and see it whole. Quite a few millions have

got to die. Our concern is to avoid joining them.'

Just past the lights, he pulled off the main street into

a narrow side-street. It was five minutes to six.

'Will he serve us?' John asked.

Roger pulled in to the kerb, opposite a little shop dis-

playing sporting guns. He put the car in neutral, but left

the engine running.

'He will,' he said, 'one way or another.'

There was no one in the shop except the proprietor,

a small hunched man, with a deferential salesman's

face and incongruously watchful eyes. He looked about

sixty.

Roger said: 'Evening, Mr Pirrie. Just caught you?'

Mr Pirrie's hands rested on the counter. 'Well - Mr

Buckley, isn't it? Yes, I was just closing. Anything I

can get you?'

Roger said: 'Well, let me see. Couple of revolvers,

couple of good rifles with telescopic sights; and the

ammo of course. And do you stock automatics?'

Pirrie smiled gently. 'Licence?'

Roger had advanced until he was standing on the

other side of the counter from the old man. 'Do you

think it's worth bothering about that?' he asked. 'You

know I'm not a gunman. I want the stuff in a hurry, and

I'll give you more than fair price for it.'

Pirrie's head shook slightly; his eyes did not leave

Roger's face.

'I don't do that kind of business.*

'Well, what about that little .22 rifle over there?'

Roger pointed. Pirrie's eyes looked in the same direction,

and as they did so, Roger leapt for his throat. John thought at first that the little man had caved in

under the attack, but a moment later he saw him clear

of Roger and standing back. His right hand held a revolver.

He said: 'Stand still, Mr Buckley. And your friend.

The trouble with raiding a gunsmith's is that you are

likely to encounter a man who has some small skill in

handling weapons. Please don't interrupt me while I

telephone.'

He had backed away until his free hand was near the

telephone.

Roger said sharply: 'Wait a minute. I've got something

to offer you.'

'I don't think so.'

'Your life?'

Pirrie's hand held the telephone handpiece, but had

not yet lifted it. He smiled. 'Surely not.'

'Why do you think I tried to knock you out? You

can't imagine I would do it if I weren't desperate.'

'I'm inclined to agree with you on that,' Pirrie said

politely. 'I should not have let anyone else come so close

to overpowering me, but one does not expect desperation

in a Senior Civil Servant. Not so violent a desperation,

at least.'

Roger said: 'We have left our families in a car just off

the Great North Road. There's room for another if you

care to join us.'

'I understand,' Pirrie said, 'that travel out of London

is temporarily forbidden.'

Roger nodded. 'That's one reason we wanted the

arms. We're getting out tonight.'

'You didn't get the arms.'

'Your credit, not my discredit,' Roger said, 'and

damn well you know it.'

Pirrie removed his hand from the telephone. 'Perhaps

you would care to give me a brief explanation of your

urgent need for arms and for getting out of London.'

He listened, without interrupting, while Roger talked.

At the end, he said softly:

'A farm, you say, in a valley? A valley that can be

defended?'

'By half a dozen,' John put in, 'against an army.'

Pirrie lowered the revolver he held. 'I had a telephone

call this afternoon,' he said, 'from the local Superintendent

of Police. He asked me if I wanted a guard here.

He seemed very concerned for my safety, and the only

explanation he offered was that there were some silly

rumours about, which might lead to trouble.'

'He didn't insist on a guard?' Roger aslced.

'No. I suppose there would have been the disadvantage

that a police guard becomes conspicuous.' He

nodded politely to Roger. 'You will understand how I

chanced to be so well prepared for you.'

'And now?' John pressed him. 'Do you believe us?'

Pirrie sighed. 'I believe that you believe it. Apart from

that, I have been wondering myself if there were any

reasonable way of getting out of London. Even without

fully crediting your tale, I do not care to be compulsorily

held here. And your tale does not strain my

credulity as much, perhaps, as it ought. Living with

guns, as I have done, one loses the habit of looking

for gentleness in men.'

Roger said: 'Right. Which guns do we take?'

Pirrie turned slightly, and this time picked up the

telephone. Automatically, Roger moved towards him.

Pirrie looked at the gun in his hand, and tossed it to

Roger.

'I am telephoning to my wife,' he said. 'We live in

St John's Wood. I imagine that if you can get two cars

out, you can get three? The extra vehicle may come in

useful.'

He was dialling the number. Roger said wamingly:

'Careful what you say over that.'

Pirrie said into the mouthpiece: 'Hello, my dear. I'm

just preparing to leave. I thought it might be nice to pay

a visit to the Rosenblums this evening - yes, the Rosenblums.

Get things ready, would you? I shall be right

along.'

He replaced the receiver. 'The Rosenblums,' he explained,

'live in Leeds. Millicent is very quick to perceive

things.'

Roger looked at him with respect. 'My God, she must

be! I can see that both you and Millicent are going to

be very useful members of the group. By the way, we

had previously decided that this kind of party needs a

leader.'

Pirrie nodded.'You?'

'No. John Custance here.'

Pirrie surveyed John briefly. 'Very well. Now, the

weapons. I will set them out, and you can start carrying

them to your car.'

They were taking out the last of the ammunition

when a police constable strolled towards them. He

looked with some interest at the little boxes.

'Evening, Mr Pirrie,' he said. 'Transferring stock?'

"This is for your people,' Pirrie said. 'They asked for

it. Keep an eye on the shop, will you? We'll be back for

some more later on.'

'Do what I can, sir,' the policeman said doubtfully,

'but I've got a beat to cover, you know.'

Pirrie finished padlocking the front door. 'My little

joke,' he said, 'but your people start the rumours.'

As they pulled away, John said: 'Lucky he didn't ask

what your two helpers were up to.'

'The genus Constable,' Pirrie said, 'is very inquisitive

once its curiosity is aroused. Providing you can avoid

that, you have no cause to worry. Just off St John's

Wood High Street. I'll direct you particularly from

there.'

On Pirrie's direction, they drew up behind an ancient

Ford. Pirrie called: 'Millicent!' in a clear, loud voice,

and a woman got out of the car and came back to them.

She was a good twenty years younger than Pirrie, about

his height, with features dark and attractive, if somewhat

sharp.

'Have you packed?' Pirrie asked her. 'We aren't

coming back.'

She accepted this casually. She said, in a slightly

Cockney voice: 'Everything we'll need, I think. What's

it all about? I've asked Hilda to look after the cat.'

'Poor pussy,' said Pirrie. 'But I fear we must abandon

her. I'll explain things on the way.' He turned to the

other two. 'I will join Millicent from this point.'

Roger was staring at the antique car in front of them. 'I don't want to seem rude,' he said, 'but mightn't it be

better if you piled your stuff in with ours? We could

manage it quite easily.'

Pirrie smiled as he got out of the car. 'A left fork just

short of Wrotham Park?' he queried. 'We'll find you

there, shall we?'

Roger shrugged. Pirrie escorted his wife to the car

ahead. Roger started up his own car and cruised slowly

past them. He and John were startled, a moment later,

when the Ford ripped past with an altogether improbable

degree of acceleration, checked at the intersection,

and then slid away on to the main road. Roger started

after it, but by the time he had got into the stream of

traffic it was lost to sight.

They did not see it again until they reached the Great

North Road. Pirrie's Ford was waiting for them, and

thereafter followed demurely.

They had their suppers separately in their individual

cars. Once they were out of London, they would eat

communally, but a picnic here might attract attention.

They had parked at discreet distances also.

Roger had explained his plan to John, and he had

approved it. By eleven o'clock the road they were in was

deserted; London's outer suburbs were at rest. But they

did not move until midnight. It was a moonless night,

but there was light from the widely spaced lamp standards.

The children slept in the rear seats of the cars. Arm sat beside John in the front.

She shivered. 'Surely there's another way of getting

out?'

He stared ahead into the dim shadowy road. 'I can't

think of one.'

She looked at him. 'You aren't the same person, are

you? The idea of quite calmly planning murder . . . it's

more grotesque than horrible.'

'Arm,' he said, 'Davey is thirty miles away, but he

might as well be thirty million if we let ourselves be

persuaded into remaining in this trap.' He nodded his

head towards the rear seat, where Mary lay bundled up.

'And it isn't only ourselves.'

'But the odds are so terribly against you.'

He laughed. 'Does that affect the morality of it? As

a matter of fact, without Pirrie the odds would have

been steep. I think they're quite reasonable now. A

Bisley shot was just what we needed.'

'Must you shoot to kill?'

He began to say: 'It's a matter of safety . . . ' He felt

the car creak over; Roger had come up quietly and was

leaning on the open window.

'O.K.?' Roger asked. 'We've got Olivia and Steve in

withMillicent.'

John got out of the car. He said to Arm:

'Remember - you and Millicent bring these cars up

as soon as you hear the horn. You can feel your way

forward a little if you like, but it will carry well enough

at this time of night.'

Arm stared up to him. 'Good luck.'

'Nothing in it,' he said.

They went back to Roger's car, where Pirrie was

already waiting. Then Roger drove slowly forward, past

John's parked car, along the deserted road. It had

already been reconnoitred earlier in the evening, and

they knew where the last bend before the roadblock

was. They stopped there, and John and Pirrie slipped

out and disappeared into the night. Five minutes later,

Roger re-started the engine and accelerated noisily

towards the roadblock.

Reconnaissance had shown the block to be held by a

corporal and two soldiers. Two of these could be pre76

sumed to be sleeping; the third stood by the wooden

barrier, his automatic slung from his shoulder.

The car slammed to a halt. The guard hefted his

automatic into a readier position.

Roger leaned out of the window. He shouted:

'What the hell's that bloody contraption doing in the

middle of the road? Get it shifted, man!'

He sounded drunk, and verging on awkwardness. The

guard called down:

'Sorry, sir. Road closed. All roads out of London

closed.'

'Well, get the naming things open again! Get this

one open, anyway. I want to get home.'

From his position in the left-hand ditch, John

watched. Strangely, he felt no particular tension; he

floated free, attached to the scene only by admiration

for Roger's noisy expostulation.

Another figure appeared beside the original soldier

and, after a moment, a third. The car's headlights diffused

upwards off the metalled road; the three figures

were outlined, mistily but with reasonable definition, on

the other side of the wooden barrier. A second voice,

presumably the corporal's, said:

'We're carrying out orders. We don't want any

trouble. You clear off back, mate. All right?'

'Is it hell all right! What do you bloody little tin

soldiers think you're up to, putting fences across the

road?'

The corporal said dangerously: 'That'll do from you.

You've been told to turn round. I don't want any more

lip.'

'Why don't you try turning me round?' Roger asked.

His voice was thick and ugly. 'There are too many

bloody useless military in this country, doing damn'all

and eating good rations!'

'All right, mate,' the corporal said, 'you asked for it.'

He nodded to the other two. 'Come on. We'll turn this

loud-mouthed bleeder's car round for him.'

They clambered over the barrier, and advanced into

the pool of brightness from the headlights.

Roger said: 'Advance the guards,' his voice sneering.

Now, suddenly, the tension caught John. The white

line in the centre of the road marked off his territory

from Pirrie's. The corporal and the original sentry were

on that side; the third soldier was nearer to him. They

walked forward, shielding their eyes from the glare.

He felt sweat start under his arms and along his legs.

He brought the rifle up and tried to hold it steady. At

any fraction of a second, he must crook his finger and

kill this man, unknown, innocent. He had killed in the

war, but never from such close range, and never a

fellow-countryman. Sweat seemed to stream on his forehead;

he was afraid of it blinding his eyes, but dared

not risk disturbing his aim to wipe it off. Clay-pipes at

a fair-ground, he thought - a clay-pipe that must be

shattered, for Arm, for Mary and Davey. His throat was

dry.

Roger's voice split the night again, but incisive now

and sober: 'All - right!'

The first shot came before the final word, and two

others followed while it was still in the air. John still

stood, with his rifle aiming, as the three figures slumped

into the dazzle of the road. He did not move until he

saw Pirrie, having advanced from his own position,

stooping over them. Then he dropped his rifle to his

side, and walked on to the road himself.

Roger got out of the car. Pirrie looked up at John.

'I must apologise for poaching, partner,' he said. His

voice was as cool and precise as ever. 'They were such

a good lie.'

'Dead?' Roger asked.

Pirrie nodded. 'Of course.'

'Then we'll clear them into the ditch first,' Roger said. 'After that, the barrier. I don't think we're likely to be

surprised, but we don't want to take chances.'

The body that John pulled away was limp and heavy.

He avoided looking at the face at first. Then, in the

shadow at the side of the road, he glanced at it. A lad,

not more than twenty, his face young and unmarked

except for the hole in one temple, gouting blood. The

other two had already dropped their burdens and gone

over to the barrier. They had their backs to him. He

bent and kissed the unwounded side of the forehead,

and eased the body down with gentleness.

It did not take them long to clear the barrier. On the

other side equipment lay scattered; this, too, was thrown

into the ditch. Then Roger ran back to the car, and

pressed the horn button, holding it down for several

seconds. Its harsh note tolled on the air like a bell.

Roger pulled the car over to the side. They waited. In

a few moments they heard the sound of cars approaching.

John's Vauxhall came first, closely followed by

Pirrie's Ford. The Vauxhall stopped, and Arm moved

over as John opened the door and got in. He pushed

the accelerator pedal down hard.

Arm said: 'Where are they?'

She was looking out of the side window.

'In the ditch,' he said, as the car pulled away.

After that, for some miles, they drove in silence.

According to plan, they kept off the main roads. They

finished up in a remote lane bordering a wood, near

Stapleford. There, under overhanging oaks, they had

cocoa from thermos flasks, with only the internal lights

of one car on. Roger's Citroen was convertible into a

bed, and the three women were put into that, the

children being comfortable enough on the rear seats of

the other two cars. The men took blankets and slept out

under the trees.

Pirrie put up the idea of a guard. Roger was dubious. 'I shouldn't think we'd have any trouble here. And

we want what sleep we can get. There's a long day's

driving tomorrow.' He looked at John. 'What do you

say, chief?'

'A night's rest - what's left of it.'

They settled down. John lay on his stomach, in the

posture that Army life had taught him was most comfortable

when sleeping on rough ground. He found the

physical discomfort less than he had remembered it.

But sleep did not come lightly, and was broken, when

it came, by meaningless dreams.

Saxon Court stood on a small rise; the nearest approach

to a hill m this part of the county. Like many similar

preparatory schools, it was a converted country house,

and from a distance still had elegance. A well-kept drive

- its maintenance, Davey had confided, was employed

as a disciplinary measure by masters and prefects - led

tlirough a brown desert that had been playing-fields to

the two Georgian wings flanking a centre both earlier

and uglier.

Since three cars in convoy presented a suspicious

appearance, it had been decided that only John's car

should go up to the school, the others being discreetly

parked on the road from which the drive diverged.

Steve, however, had insisted on being present when

Davey was collected, and Olivia had decided to come

along with him. Apart from John, there were also Arm

and Mary.

The headmaster was not in his study. His study door

stood open, looking out, like a vacant throne-room,

on to a disordered palace. There was a traffic of small

boys in the hall and up and down the main staircase;

their chatter was loud and excited and, John thought,

unsure. From one room leading off the hall came the

murmur of Latin verbs, but there were others which

yielded only uproar.

John was on the point of asking one of the boys where

he might find the headmaster, when he appeared, hurry81

ing down the stairs. He saw the small group waiting for

him, and came down the last few steps more decorously.

Dr Cassop was a young headmaster, comfortably

under forty, and had always seemed elegant. He retained

the elegance today, but the handsome gown and neatly

balanced mortar-board only served to point up the fact

that he was a worried and unhappy man. He recognised

John.

'Mr distance, of course - and Mrs Custance. But I

thought you lived in London? How did you get out?'

'We had been spending a few days in the country,'

John said, 'with friends. This is Mrs Buckley, and her

son. We've come to collect David. I should like to take

him away for a little while - until things settle down.'

Dr Cassop showed none of the reluctance Miss

Errington had at the thought of losing a pupil. He said

eagerly:

'Oh yes. Of course. I think it's a good idea.'

'Have any other parents taken their children?' John

asked.

'A couple. You see, most of them are Londoners.' He

shook his head. 'I should be most relieved if it were

possible to send all the boys home, and close the school

for the time being. The news...'

John nodded. They had heard, on the car radios, a

guarded bulletin which spoke of some disturbances in

Central London and in certain unspecified provincial

cities. This information had clearly only been given as

an accompaniment to the warning that any breach of

public order would be put down severely.

'At least, things are quiet enough here,' John said.

The din all round them increased as a classroom-door

opened to release a batch of boys, presumably at the

close of a lesson. 'In a noisy kind of way,' he added.

Dr Cassop took the remark neither as a joke nor as a

reflection on his school's discipline. He looked round at

the boys in a distracted unseeing fashion that made

John realise that there was more to his strangeness than

either worry or unhappiness. There was fear.

'You haven't heard any other news, I suppose?' Dr

Cassop asked. 'Anything not on the radio? I have an

impression .. . there was no mail this morning.'

'I shouldn't think there would be any mail,' John said,

'until the situation has improved.'

'Improved?' He looked at John nakedly. 'When?

How?'

John was sure of something else; it would not be long before he deserted his charges. His immediate reaction

to this intuition was an angry one, but anger died as the

memory rose in his mind of the quiet, bloody young

face in the ditch.

He wanted only to get away. He said briefly:

'If we can take David...'

'Yes, of course. I'll... Why, there he is.'

Davey had seen them simultaneously. He dashed

along the corridor and hurled himself, with a cry of

delight, at John.

'You will be taking David to stay with your friends?' Dr Cassop asked,' - with Mrs Buckley, perhaps?'

John felt the boy's brown hair under his hand. There

would very likely be more killings ahead; that for which

he would kill was worth the killing. He looked at the

headmaster.

'Our plans are not certain.' He paused. 'We mustn't

detain you, Dr Cassop. I imagine you will have a lot to

do - with all these boys to look after.'

The headmaster responded to the accession of

brutality in John's voice. He nodded, and his fear and

misery were so apparent that John saw Arm start at the

perception of them.

He said: 'Yes. Of course. I hope... in better times...

Goodbye, then.'

He performed a stiff little half-bow to the ladies, and

turned from them and went into his study, closing the

door behind him. Davey watched him with interest.

'The fellows were saying old Cassop's got the windup.

Do you think he has, Daddy?'

They would know, of course, and he would be aware

of their knowledge. That would make things worse all

round. It would not be long, John thought, before

Cassop broke and made his run for it. He said to

Davey:

'Maybe. So should I have, if I had a mob like you to

contend with. Are you ready to leave, as you are?'

'Blimey!' Davey said, 'Mary here? Is it like end of

term? Where are we going?'

Arm said: 'You must not say "Blimey", Davey.'

Davey said: 'Yes, Mummy. Where are we going?

How did you get out of London - we heard about all

the roads being closed. Did you fight your way

through?'

'We're going up to the valley for a holiday,' John said.

'The point is - are you ready? Mary packed some of

your things for you. You might as well come as you are,

if you haven't any special things to get.'

'There's Spooks,' Davey said. 'Hiya, Spooks!'

Spooks proved to be a boy considerably taller than

Davey; lanky of figure, with a withdrawn, rather helpless

expression of face. He came up to the group and

mumbled his way through Davey's hasty and excited

introductions. John recalled that Spooks, whose real

name was Andrew Skelton, had featured prominently

in Davey's letters for some months. It was difficult to

see what had drawn the two boys together, for boys do

not generally seek out and befriend their opposites.

Davey said: 'Can Spooks come with us, Daddy? That

would be terrific.'

'His parents might have some objection,' John said.

'Oh, no, that's all right, isn't it. Spooks? His father is

in France on business, and he hasn't got a mother. She's

divorced, or something. It would be all right.'

John began:'Well...'

It was Arm who cut in sharply: 'It's quite impossible,

Davey. You know very well one can't do things like

that, and especially at times like this.'

Spooks stared at them silently; he looked like a child

unused to hoping.

Davey said: 'But old Cassop wouldn't mind!'

'Go and get whatever you want to bring with you,

Davey,' John said. 'Perhaps Spooks would like to go

along and lend you a hand. Run along now.'

The two boys went off together. Mary and Steve had

wandered off out of earshot.

John said: 'I think we might take him.'

Something in Ann's expression reminded him of what

he had seen in the headmaster's; not the fear, but the

guilt.

She said: 'No, it's ridiculous.'

'You know,' John said, 'Cassop is going to clear out.

That's certain, I don't know whether any of the junior

masters will stay with the boys, but if they did, it would

only be postponing the evil. Whatever happens to

London, this place is likely to be a wilderness in a few

weeks. I don't like the idea of leaving Spooks behind

when we go.'

Arm said angrily: 'Why not take the whole school

with us, then?'

'Not the whole school,' John said gently. 'Just one

boy - Davey's best friend here.'

Bewilderment replaced anger in her tone. 'I think

I've just begun to understand what we may be in for. It

may not be easy, getting to the valley. We've got two

children to look after already.'

'If things do break up completely,' John said, 'some

of these boys may survive it, young as they are. The

Spooks kind wouldn't though. If we leave him, it's a

good chance we are leaving him to die.'

'How many boys did we leave behind to die in

London?' Arm asked. 'A million? *

John did not answer at once. His gaze took in the

hall, invaded now by a new rush of boys from another

classroom. When he turned back to Arm, he said:

'You do know what you're doing, don't you, darling?

I suppose we're all changing, but in different ways.'

She said defensively: 'I shall have the children to cope

with, you know, while you're being the gallant warrior

with Roger and Mr Pirrie.'

'I can't insist, can I?' John said.

Arm looked at him. 'When you told me - about Miss

Errington, I thought it was dreadful. But I still hadn't

realised what was happening. I do now. We've got to get

to the valley, and get the children there as well. We

can't afford any extras, even this boy.'

John shrugged. Davey came back, carrying a small

attache case; he had a brisk and happy look and resembled

a small-scale Government official. Spooks

trailed behind him.

Davey said: 'I've got the important things, like my

stamp-album. I put my spare socks in, too.' He looked

at his mother for approval. 'Spooks has promised to

look after my mice until I get back. One of my does is

pregnant, and I've told him he can sell the litter when

they arrive.'

John said: 'Well, we'd better be getting along to the

car.' He avoided looking at the gangling Spooks.

Olivia, who had taken no previous part in the conversation,

broke her silence. She said:

'I think Spooks could come along. Would you like to

come with us. Spooks?'

Arm said: 'Olivia! You know... *

Olivia said apologetically: 'I meant, in our car. We

only have the one child, after all. It would only be a

matter of evening things up.'

The two women stared briefly at each other. On

Ann's side there was guilt again, and anger moved by

that guilt. Olivia showed only shy embarrassment. Had

there been the least trace of moral condescension, John

thought, it would have meant a rift that the safety of

the party could not afford. As it was, Ann's anger faded.

She said: 'Do as you like. Don't you think you ought

to consult Roger, though?'

Davey, who had been following the interchange with

interest but without understanding, said:

'Is Uncle Roger here, too? I'm sure he'd like Spooks.

Spooks is ferociously witty, like he is. Say something

witty. Spooks.'

Spooks stared at them, in agonised helplessness. Olivia

smiled at him.

'Never mind, Spooks. You would like to come with

us?'

He nodded his head slowly up and down. Davey

grabbed him by the arm. 'Just the job!' Come on,

Spooks. I'll go and help you pack now.' For a moment

he looked thoughtful. 'What about the mice?'

The mice,' John ordered, 'remain behind. Give them

away to someone.'

Davey turned to Spooks. 'Do you think we could get

sixpence each for them, off Bannister?'

John looked at Arm over their son's head; after a

moment, she also smiled. John said:

'We're leaving in five minutes. That's all the time you

have for Spooks's packing and your joint commercial

transactions.'

The two boys prepared to turn away. Davey said

thoughtfully: 'We should get a bob at least for the one

that's pregnant.'

They had expected to be stopped on the roads by the

military, and with that possibility in view had devised

three different stories to account for the northward

journeys of the three cars; the important thing, John

felt, was to avoid the impression of a convoy. But in

fact there was no attempt at inquisition. The considerable

number of military vehicles on the roads were

interspersed with private cars in a normal and mutually

tolerant traffic. After leaving Saxon Court, they made

for the Great North Road again, and drove northwards

uneventfully throughout the morning.

In the late afternoon, they stopped for a meal in a

lane, a little north of Newark. The day had been cloudy,

but was now brilliantly blue and sunlit, with a mass of

cloud, rolling away to the west, poised in white billows

and turrets. The fields on either side of them were

potato fields planted for the hopeful second crop; apart

from the bareness of hedgerows empty of grass, there

was nothing to distinguish the scene from any country

landscape in a thriving fruitful world.

The three boys had found a bank and were sliding

down it, using for a sleigh an old panel of wood, discarded

probably from some gipsy caravan years before.

Mary watched them, half envious, half scornful. She

had developed a lot since the hill climbing in the valley

of fourteen months before.

The men, sitting in Pirrie's Ford, discussed things.

John said: 'If we can get north of Ripon today, we

should be all right for the run to the valley tomorrow.'

'We could get farther than that,' Roger said.

'I suppose we could. I doubt if it would be worth it,

though. The main thing is to get clear of population

centres. Once we're away from the West Riding, we

should be safe enough from anything that happens.'

Pirrie said: 'I am not objecting, mind you, nor regretting

having joined you on this little trip, but does it not

seem possible that the dangers of violence may have

been overestimated? We have had a very smooth progress.

Neither Grantham nor Newark showed any signs

of imminent breakdown.'

'Peterborough was sealed off,' Roger said. 'I think

those towns that still have free passage are too busy

congratulating themselves on being missed to begin

worrying about what else may be happening. You saw

those queues outside the bakeries? '

'Very orderly queues,' observed Pirrie.

'The trouble is,' said John, 'that we don't know just

when Welling is going to take his drastic action. It's

nearly twenty-four hours since the cities and large towns

were sealed off. When the bombs drop, the whole

country is going to erupt in panic. Welling hopes to be

able to control things, but he won't expect to have any degree of control for the first few days. I still think that,

providing we can get clear of the major centres of

population by that time, we should be all right.'

'Atom bombs, and hydrogen bombs,' Pirrie said

thoughtfully. 'I really wonder.'

Roger said shortly: 'I don't. I know Haggerty. He

wasn't lying.'

'It is not on the score of morality that I find them unlikely,'

said Pirrie, 'but on that of temperament. The

English, being sluggish in the imagination, would find

no difficulty in acquiescing in measures which - their

common sense would tell them - must lead to the death

by starvation of millions. But direct action - murder for

self-preservation - is a different matter. I find it difficult

to believe they could ever bring themselves to the

sticking-point.'

'We haven't done so badly,' Roger said. He grinned.

'You, particularly.'

'My mother,' Pirrie said simply, 'was French. But you

fail to take my point. I had not meant that the English

are inhibited from violence. Under the right circumstances,

they will murder with a will, and more cheerfully

than most. But they are sluggish in logic as well as

imagination. They will preserve illusions to the very

end. It is only after that that they will fight like particularly

savage tigers.'

'And when did you reach the end?' Roger asked.

Pirrie smiled. 'A long time ago. I came to the understanding

that all men are friends by convenience and

enemies by choice.'

Roger looked at him curiously. 'I follow you part of

the way. There are some real ties.'

'Some alliances,' said Pirrie, 'last longer than others.

But they remain alliances. Our own is a particularly

valuable one.'

The women were in the Buckleys' car. Millicent now

put her head out of the window, and called out to

them:

'News!'

One of the two car radios was kept permanently in

operation. The men walked back to see what it was.

Arm said, as they approached: 'It sounds like trouble.'

The announcer's voice was still suave, but grave as

well.

'... further emergency bulletins will be issued as they

are deemed necessary, in addition to the normal news

readings.

'There has been further rioting in Central London,

and troops have moved in from the outskirts to control

this and to maintain order. In South London, an attempt

has been made by an organised mob to break through

the military barriers set up yesterday following the temporary

ban on travel. The situation here is confused;

fresh military forces are moving up to deal with it.'

'Now that we're clear,' Roger said, 'I don't mind them

having the guts to break out. Good for them.'

The announcer continued: 'There are reports of even

more serious outbreaks of disorder in the North of

England. Riots are reported to have occurred in several

major cities, notably Liverpool, Manchester and Leeds,

and in the case of Leeds official contact has been lost.'

'Leeds!' John said. 'That's less good.'

'The Government,' the voice went on, 'has issued the

following statement: "In view of disturbances in certain

areas, members of the public are warned that severe

countermeasures may have to be taken. There is a real

danger, if mob violence were to continue, that the

country might lapse into anarchy, and the Government

is determined to avoid this at all costs. The duty of the

individual citizen is to go about his business quietly and

to co-operate with the police and military authorities

who are concerned with maintaining order." That is

the end of the present bulletin.'

A cinema organ began to play The Teddy-Bears'

Picnic; Arm switched the volume down until it was only

just audible.

Roger said: 'If we drove all night, we could reach

the valley by the morning. I don't like the sound of all

this. It looks as though Leeds has broken loose. I think

we'd better travel while the travelling's good.'

'We didn't get much sleep last night,' John said. 'A

night run across Mossdale isn't a picnic at the best of

times.'

'Arm and Millicent can both take a spell at the wheel,'

Roger pointed out.

Arm said: 'But Olivia can't drive, can she?'

'Don't worry about me,' Roger said. 'I've brought my

benzedrine with me. I can keep awake for two or three

days if necessary.'

Pirrie said: 'May I suggest that we concentrate immediately

on getting clear of the West Riding? When

we have done that, we can decide whether to carry right

on or not.'

'Yes,' John said, 'we'll do that.'

From the top of the bank, the boys called down to

them, waving their arms towards the sky. Listening,

they heard the hum of aircraft engines approaching.

Their eyes searched the clear sky. The planes came into

view over the hedge which topped the bank. They were

heavy bombers, flying north, at not more than three or

four thousand feet.

They watched, m a silence that seemed to shiver,

until they had passed right over. They could hear the

engines, and the excited chatter of the boys, but neither

of these affected the sharp-edged silence of their own

thoughts.

'Leeds?' Arm whispered, when they had gone.

Nobody answered at first. It was Pirrie who spoke

finally, his voice as calm and precisely modulated as

ever:

'Possibly. There are other explanations, of course.

But in any case, I think we ought to move, don't you?'

When they set off, Davey had joined Steve and Spooks

in the Citroen, which was leading the way at this point.

The Ford came second, and John's Vauxhall, carrying

now only Mary and Arm in addition to himself, brought

up the rear.

Doncaster was sealed off, but the detour roads had

been well posted. Meshed in with an increasing military

traffic, they went round to the north-east, through a

series of little peaceful villages. They were in the Vale

of York: the land was very flat and the villages straggling

and prosperous. It was not until they had got back

to the North Road that they were halted at a military

checkpoint.

There was a sergeant in charge. He was a Yorkshire-

man, possibly a native of these parts. He looked down

at Roger benevolently:

'A. I closed except to military vehicles, sir.'

Roger asked him: 'What's the idea?'

'Trouble in Leeds. Where were you wanting to get

to?'

'Westmorland.'

He shook his head, but in appreciation of their

problem rather than negation. 'T should back-track on

to the York road, if I was you. If you cut off just before

Selby, you can go through Thorpe Willoughby to Tad92

caster. I should steer well clear of Leeds, though.'

Roger said: 'There are some funny rumours about.'

'I reckon there are, too,' said the sergeant.

'We saw planes flying up this way a couple of hours

back,' Roger added. 'Bombing planes.'

'Yes,' the sergeant said. 'They went right over. I

always feel 'appier being out in the country when

things like that are up aloft. Funny, isn't it - being

uneasy when your own planes go over? That lot went

right over, but I should stay clear of Leeds, anyway.'

'Thanks,' Roger said, 'we will.'

The convoy reversed itself and headed back. The

road by which they had come would have taken them

south; instead they turned north-east and found themselves,

with the military vehicles left behind, travelling

deserted lanes.

Arm said: 'Our minds can't grasp it properly, can

they? The news bulletins, the military check-points -

they're one kind of thing. This is another. A summer

evening in the country - the same country that's always

been here.'

'A bit bare,' John said. He pointed to the grassless

hedgerows.

'It doesn't seem enough,' Arm said, 'to account for

famine, flight, murder, atom bombs . . . ' she hesitated;

he glanced at her, ' ... or refusing to take a boy with

us to safety.'

John said: 'Motives are naked now. We shall have

to learn to live with them.'

Arm said passionately: 'I wish we were there! I wish

we could get into the valley and shut David's gate behind

us.'

'Tomorrow, T hope.'

The lane they were in wound awkwardly through

high-hedge country. They dropped back behind the

other cars - Pirrie's Ford, with a surprising degree of

manoeuvrability, hung right on to the Citroen's heels.

As the Vauxhall approached a gatehouse, standing

back from the road, the crossing gates slowly began to

close.

Braking, John said: 'Damn! And a ten-minute wait

before the train even comes in sight, if I know country

crossings. I wonder if they might be persuaded to let us

through for five bob.'

He slipped out of the car, and walked round it. To the

right, a gap in the hedge showed the barren symmetrical

range of hills which were the tip of a nearby colliery.

He put his head over the gate and looked along the line.

There was no sign of smoke, and the line ran straight

for miles in either direction. He walked up to the gatehouse,

and called:

'Hello, there!'

There was no immediate reply. He called again, and

this time he heard something, but too indistinct to be an

answer. It was a gasping, sobbing noise, from somewhere

inside the house.

The window on to the road showed him nothing. He

went round on to the line, to the window that looked

across it. It was easy enough to see, as he looked in,

where the noise had come from. A woman lay in the

middle of the floor. Her clothes were torn and there was

blood on her face; one leg was doubled underneath

her. About her, the room was in confusion - drawers

pulled out, a wall clock splintered.

It was the first time he had seen it in England, but in

Italy, during the war, he had observed not dissimilar

scenes. The trail of the looter . . . but here, in rural

England. The casual reality of this horror in so remote

a spot showed more clearly than the military checkpoints

or the winging bombers that the break-up had

come, irrevocably.

He was still looking through the window when

memory gripped and tightened on him. The gates . . .

With the woman lying here, perhaps dying, who had

closed the gates? And why? From here the road, and

the car, were invisible. He turned quickly, and as he

did heard Arm cry out.

He ran round the side of the gatehouse. The car

doors were open and a struggle was taking place inside.

He could see Arm fighting with a man in front; there

was another man in the back, and he could not see

Mary.

He had some hope, he thought, of surprising them.

The guns were in the car. He looked quickly for a

weapon of some kind, and saw a piece of rough wood

lying beside the porch of the gatehouse. He bent down

to pick it up. As he did, he heard a man's laugh from

close beside him. He straightened up again, and looked

into the eyes of the man who was waiting in the shadow

of the porch, just as the length of pit-prop crashed

down against the side of his head.

He tried to cry out, but the words caught in his

throat, and he stumbled and fell.

Someone was bathing his head. He saw first a handkerchief,

and saw that it was dark with clotted blood; then he looked up into Olivia's face.

She said: 'Johnny, are you better now?*

'Ann?'he said.'Mary?'

'Lie quiet.' She called: 'Roger, he's come round.'

The crossing gates were open. The Citroen and the

Ford stood in the road. The three boys were in the back

of the Citroen, looking out, but shocked out of their

usual chatter. Roger and the Pirries came out of the

gatehouse. Roger's face was grim; Pirrie's wore its

customary blandness.

Roger said: 'What happened, Johnny?'

He told them. His head was aching; he had a physical

urge to lie down and go to sleep.

Roger said: 'You've probably been out about half an

hour. We were the other side of the Leeds road before

we missed you.'

Pirrie said: 'Half an hour is, I should estimate,

twenty miles for looters in this kind of country. That

opens up rather a wide circle. And, of course, a widening

circle. These parts are honeycombed with roads.'

Olivia was bandaging the side of his head; the pressure,

gentle as it was, made the pain worse.

Roger looked down at him: 'Well, Johnny - what's it

to be? It will have to be a rush decision.'

He tried to collect his rambling thoughts.

He said: 'Will you take Davey? That's the important

thing. You know the way, don't you?'

Roger asked: 'And you?'

John was silent. The implications of what Pirrie had

said were coming home to him. The odds were fantastically

high against his finding them. And even when

he did find them...

'If you could let me have a gun,' he said,' - they got

away with the guns as well.'

Roger said gently: 'Look, Johnny, you're in charge

of the expedition. You're not just planning for yourself;

you're planning for all of us.'

He shook his head. 'If you don't get through into the

North Riding, at least tonight, you may not be able to

get clear at all. I'll manage.'

Pirrie had moved a little way oif; he was looking at

the sky in an abstracted fashion.

'Yes,' Roger said, 'you'll manage. What the hell do

you think you are - a combination of Napoleon and

Superman? What are you going to use for wings?'

John said: 'I don't know whether you could all crowd

in the Citroen ... if you could spare me the Ford . ..'

'We're travelling as a party,' Roger said. 'If you go

back, you take us with you.' He paused. 'That woman's

dead in there - you might as well know that.'

'Take Davey,' John said. 'That's all.'

'You damned fool!' Roger said. 'Do you think Olivia

would let me carry on even if I wanted to? We'll find

them. To hell with the odds.'

Pirrie looked round, blinking mildly. 'Have you

reached a decision?' he inquired.

John said: 'It seems to have been reached for me. I

suppose this is where the alliance ceases to be valuable,

Mr Pirrie? You've got the valley marked on your road

map. I'll give you a note for my brother, if you like. You

can tell him we've been held up.'

'I have been examining the situation,' Pirrie said.

'If you will forgive my putting things bluntly, I am

rather surprised that they should have left the scene

so quickly.'

Roger said sharply: 'Why?*

Pirrie nodded towards the gatehouse. "They spent

more than half an hour there.'

John said dully: 'You mean - rape?'

'Yes. The explanation would seem to be that they

guessed our three cars were together, and cut off the

straggler deliberately. They would therefore be anxious

to clear out of the immediate vicinity in case the other

two cars should come back in search of the third.'

'Does that help us?' Roger asked.

'I think so,' Pirrie said. They would leave the immediate

vicinity. We know they turned the car back

towards the North Road because they left the gates shut

against traffic. But I do not think they would go as far

as the North Road without stopping again.'

'Stopping again?' John asked.

Looking at Roger's impassive face, he saw that he had

taken Pirrie's meaning. Then he himself understood.

He struggled to his feet.

Roger said: There are still some things to work out.

There are well over half a dozen side roads between

here and A.I. And you've got to remember that they

will be listening for the noise of engines. We shall have

to explore them one by one - and on foot.*

Despair climbing back on his shoulders, John said:

'By the time we've done that...'

'If we rush the cars down the first side road,' Roger

said, 'it might be giving them just the chance they

need to get away.'

As they walked back, in silence, to where the two cars

stood. Spooks put his head out of the back of the

Citroen. His voice was thin and very high-pitched. He

said:

'Has someone kidnapped Davey's mother, and

Mary?'

'Yes,' Roger said. 'We're going to get them back.'

'And they've taken the Vauxhall?'

Roger said: 'Yes. Keep quiet. Spooks. We've got to

work things out.'

'Then we can find them easily!' Spooks said.

'Yes, we'll find them,' Roger said. He got into the

driving seat, and prepared to turn the car round. John

was still dazed. It was Pirrie who asked Spooks:

'Easily? How?'

Spooks pointed down the road along which they had

come. 'By the oil trail.'

The three men stared at the tarmac. Trail was a high

term for it, but there were spots of oil in places along

the road.

'Blind!' Roger said. 'Why didn't we see that? But it

might not be the Vauxhall. More likely the Ford.'

'No,' Spooks insisted. 'It must be the Vauxhall. It's

left a bit bigger stain where it was standing.'

'My God!' Roger said. 'What were you at school Chief

Boy Scout?'

Spooks shook his head. 'I wasn't in the Scouts. I

didn't like the camping.'

Roger said exultantly: 'We've got them! We've got

the bastards! Ignore that last expression. Spooks.'

'All right,' Spooks said amiably. 'But I did know it

already.'

At each junction they stopped the cars, and searched for

the oil trail. It was far too inconspicuous to be seen

without getting out of the cars. The third side road

was on the outskirts of a village; there the trail turned

right. A signpost said: Norton H m.

'I think this is our stretch,' Roger said. 'We could

try blazing right along in one of the cars. If we got

past them with one car, we could make a neat sandwich.

I think they would be between here and the next

village. They sheered off sharply enough for this one.'

'It would work,' Pirrie said thoughtfully. 'On the

other hand, they would probably fight it out. They've

got an automatic and a rifle and revolver in that car.

It might prove difficult to get at them without hurting

the women.

'Any other ideas?'

John tried to think, but his mind was too full of sick

hatred, poised between some kind of hope and despair.

Pirrie said: 'This country is very flat. If one of us

were to shin up that oak, he might get a glimpse of

them with the glasses.'

The oak stood in the angle of the road. Roger surveyed

it carefully. 'Give me a bunk-up to the first

branch, and I reckon I shall be all right.'

He climbed the tree easily; he had to go high to find a

gap in the leaves to give him a view. They could barely

see him from below. He called suddenly:

'Yes!'

John cried: 'Where are they?'

'About three-quarters of a mile along. Pulled into a

field on the left hand side of the road. I'm coming

down.'

John said: 'And Arm - and Mary?'

Roger scrambled down and dropped from the lowest

branch. He avoided John's eyes.

'Yes, they're there.'

Pirrie said thoughtfully: 'On the left of the road. Are

they pulled far in?'

'Clear of the opening - behind the hedge. If we went

at them from the front we should be going in blind.'

Pirrie went across to the Ford. He came back with

the heavy sporting riHe which was his choice of weapon.

He said: 'Three-quarters of a mile - give me ten

minutes. Then take the Citroen along there fast, and

pull up a few hundred yards past them. Fire a few shots

- not at them, but back along the lane. I fancy that will

put them into the sort of position I want.'

'Ten minutes!' John said.

'You want to get them out alive,' Pirrie said.

'They may - be ready to clear off before then.'

'You will hear them if they do. It will be noisy - backing

out of a field. If you do, chase them with the Citroen

and don't hesitate to let them have it.' Pirrie hesitated.

'You see, it will be unlikely that they will still have your

wife and daughter with them in that case.'

And with a small indefinite nod, Pirrie started off

along the road. A little way along he found a gap in the

hedge, and ducked through it.

Roger looked at his watch. 'We'd better be ready,' he

said. 'Olivia, Millicent - take the boys in the Ford.

Come on, Johnny.'

John sat beside him in the front of the Citroen. He grinned painfully.

'I'm leading this well, aren't I?'

Roger glanced at him. 'Take it easy. You're lucky

to be conscious.'

John felt his nails tighten against the seat of the

car.

'Every minute . . .' he said. 'The bloody swines! God

knows, it's bad enough for Arm, but Mary .. .'

100

Roger repeated: 'Take it easy.' He looked at his

watch again. 'With luck, our friends along the road

have got just over nine minutes to live.'

The thought crossed his other thoughts, irrelevantly,

surprisingly; so much that he voiced it:

'We passed a telephone box just now. Nobody thought

of getting the police.'

'Why should we?' Roger said. 'There's no such thing

as public safety any longer. It's all private now.' His

finger-nails tapped the steering-wheel. 'So is vengeance.'

Neither spoke for the remainder of the waiting time.

Still without a word, Roger started the car off and

accelerated rapidly through the gears. They roared at

the limit of the Citroen's speed and noisiness along the

narrow lane. In less than a minute, they had passed the

opening to the field, and glimpsed the Vauxhall standing

behind the hedge. The road ran straight for a further

fifty yards. Roger braked sharply at the bend, and

skidded the car across to take up the full width of the

road.

John whipped open the door at his side. He had the

automatic from Roger's car; leaning across the bonnet

of the Citroen, he fired a short burst. The shots rattled

like darts against the shield of the placid summer afternoon.

Then, in the distance, there were three more

shots. Silence followed them.

Roger was still in the car. John said:

'I'm going through the hedge. You'd better stay here.'

Roger nodded. The hedge was thick, but John crashed

his way through it, the blackthorn spikes ripping his

skin as he did so. He looked back along the field. There

were bodies on the ground. From the far end of the

field, Pirrie was sedately advancing, his rifle tucked

neatly under his arm. Listening, John heard groans. He

began to run, his feet slipping and twisting on the

ploughed ground.

101

Arm held Mary cradled in her lap, on the ground beside

the car. They were both alive. The groans he had

heard were coming from the three men who lay nearby.

As John approached, one of them - small and wiry,

with a narrow face covered with a stubble of ginger

beard - began to get up. One arm hung loosely, but he

had a revolver in the other.

John saw Pirrie lift his rifle, swiftly but without hurry.

He heard the faint phutting noise of the silenced report,

and the man fell, with a cry of pain. A bird which had

settled on the hedge since the first disturbance, rose

again and flapped away into the clear sky.

He brought rugs from the car, and covered Arm and

Mary where they lay. He said, speaking in a whisper as

though even the sound of speech might hurt them

further:

'Arm darling - Mary - it's all right now.'

They did not answer. Mary was sobbing quietly. Arm

looked at him, and looked away.

Pirrie covered the last few yards. He kicked the man

who lay nearest to him, dispassionately but with precision.

The man shrieked, and then subsided again into

moaning.

At that moment, Roger came through the gap from

the road, revolver in hand. He examined the scene, his

gaze passing quickly from the huddled women and the

girl to the three wounded men. He looked at Pirrie.

'Not as tidy a job as last time,' he observed.

'It occurred to me,' said Pirrie - his voice sounded as

out of place in the calm summer countryside as did the

scene of misery and blood in which he had played his

part - 'that the guilty do not have the right to die as

quickly as the innocent. It was a strange thought, was

it not?' He stared at John. 'I believe you have the right

of execution.'

One of the three men had been wounded in the thigh.

102

He lay in a curious twisted posture, with his hands

pressed against the wound. His face was crumpled, as a

child's might be, in lines of misery and pain. But he had

been attending to what Pirrie said. He looked at John

now, with animal supplication.

John turned away. He said: 'You finish them off.'

With flat unhappy wonder, he thought: in the past,

there was always due process of law. Now law itself is a

casual word in a ploughed field, backed by guns.

His words had not been directed to anyone in particular.

Looking down at Arm and Mary, he heard

Roger's revolver crack once, and again, and heard the

gasp of breath forced out by the last agony. Then Arm

cried out:

'Roger!'

Roger said in a soft voice: 'Yes, Arm.'

Arm released Mary gently, and got to her feet. She

clenched her teeth against pain, and John went to help

her. He still had the automatic strapped on his shoulder. He tried to stop her when she reached for it, but she

pulled it from him.

Two of the men were dead. The third was the one

who had been wounded in the thigh. Arm limped over

to stand beside him. He looked up at her, and John saw

behind the twisted tormented fear of his face the beginning

of hope.

He said: 'I'm sorry. Missus. I'm sorry.'

He spoke in a thick Yorkshire accent. There had

been a driver, John remembered, in his old platoon in

North Africa who had had that sort of voice, a cheerful

fat little fellow who had been blown up just outside

Bizerta.

Arm pointed the rifle. The man cried:

'No, Missus, no! I've got kids...'

Ann's voice was flat. 'This is not because of me,' she

said. 'It's because of my daughter. When you were ...

103

I swore to myself that I would kill you if I got the

chance.'

'No! You can't. It's murder!'

She found some difficulty in releasing the safety

catch. He stared up at her, incredulously, while she did

so, and was still staring when the bullets began tearing

through his body. He shrieked once or twice, and then

was quiet. She went on firing until the magazine was

exhausted. There was comparative silence after that,

broken only by Mary's sobbing.

Pirrie said calmly: 'That was very well done, Mrs

Custance. Now you had better rest again, until we can

get the car out of here.'

Roger said: 'I'll move her.'

He got in the Vauxhall, and reversed sharply. A back

wheel went over the body of one of the men. He drove

the car through the gap, and out on to the road. He

called:

'Bring them, will you?'

John lifted his daughter and carried her out to the

car. Pirrie helped to support'Ann. When they were

both in the car, Roger sounded the horn several times.

Then he slipped out. He said to John:

'Take over. We'll get clear of here before we do anything

else - just in case the shots have attracted anyone.

Then Olivia can look after them.'

John pointed to the field. 'And those?'

Through the gap the three bodies were still visible,

sprawled against the brown earth. Flies were beginning

to settle on them.

Roger showed genuine surprise. 'What about them?'

'We aren't going to bury them?'

Pirrie chuckled drily. 'We have no time, I fear, for

that corporal work of mercy.'

The Ford drove up, and Olivia got out and hurried to

join Arm and Mary. Pirrie walked back to join Millie in

the car.

104

Roger said: 'No point in burying them. We've lost

time, Johnny. Pull up just beyond Tadcaster - O.K.?'

John nodded. Pirrie called:

'I'll take over as tail-end Charlie.'

'Fair enough,' Roger said. 'Let's get moving.*

105

Tadcaster was on edge, like a border town half-

frightened, half-excited, at the prospect of invasion.

They filled up their tanks, and the garage proprietor

looked at the money they gave him as though wondering

what value it had. They got a newspaper there, too.

It was a copy of the Yorkshire Evening Press - it was

stamped 3d and they were charged 6d, without even an

undertone of apology. The news it gave was identical

with that which they had heard on the radio; the dull

solemnity of the official hand-out barely concealed a

note of fear.

They left Tadcaster and pulled into a lane, just off the

main road. They had filled their thermos flasks in the

town but had to rely on their original stores of food.

Mary seemed to have recovered by now; she drank tea

and had a little from the tin of meat they opened. But Arm would not eat or drink anything. She sat in a silence

that was unfathomable - whether of pain, shame, or

brooding bitter triumph, John could not tell. He tried

to get her to talk at first, but Olivia, who had stayed

with them, warned him off silently.

The Citroen and the Vauxhall had been drawn up side

by side, occupying the entire width of the narrow lane,

and they had their meal communally in the two cars.

The radio jabbered softly - a recording of a talk on

Moorish architecture. It was the sort of thing that

almost parodied the vaunted British phlegm. Perhaps

106

it had been put on with that in mind; but the situation,

John thought, was not so easily to be played down.

When the voice stopped, abruptly, the immediate thought was that the set had broken down. Roger

nodded to John, and he switched on the radio in his

own car; but nothing happened.

'Their breakdown,' Roger said. 'I still feel hungry.

Think we dare risk another tin, Skipper?'

'We probably could,' John said, 'but until we get

clear of the West Riding, I'd rather we didn't.'

'Fair enough,' Roger said. 'I'll move the buckle one

notch to the right.'

The voice began suddenly and, with both radios now

on, seemed very loud. The accent was quite unlike what

might be expected on the B.B.C. - a lightly veneered

Cockney. The voice was angry, and scared at the same

time:

'This is the Citizens' Emergency Committee in Lon-

don. We have taken charge of the B.B.C. Stand by for

an emergency announcement. Stand by. We will play an

interval signal until the announcement is ready. Please

stand by.'

'Aha!' Roger said. 'Citizens' Emergency Committee,

is it? Who the bloody hell is wasting effort on revolutions

at a time like this?'

From the other car, Olivia looked at him reproachfully.

He said rather loudly:

'Don't worry about the kids. It's no longer a question

of Eton or Borstal. They are going to be potato-grubbers

however good their table manners.'

The promised interval signal was played; the chimes,

altogether incongruous, of Bow Bells. Arm looked up,

and John caught her eye; those jingling changes were

something that went back through their lives to childhood

- for a moment, they were childhood and innocence

in a world of plenty.

107

He said, only loud enough for her to hear: 'It won't

always be like this.'

She looked at him indifferently. 'Won't it?'

The new voice was more typical of a broadcasting

announcer. But it still held an unprofessional urgency.

'This is London. We bring you the first bulletin of

the Citizens' Emergency Committee.

'The Citizens' Emergency Committee has taken over the government of London and the Home Counties

owing to the unparalleled treachery of the late Prime

Minister, Raymond Welling. We have incontrovertible

evidence that this man, whose duty it was to protect his

fellow-citizens, has made far-reaching plans for their

destruction.

The facts are these:

'The country's food position is desperate. No more

grain, meat, foodstuffs of any kind, are being sent from

overseas. We have nothing to eat but what we can grow

out of our own soil, or fish from our own coasts. The

reason for this is that the counter-virus which was bred

to attack the Chung-Li grass virus has proved inadequate.

'On learning of the situation, Welling put forward a

plan which was eventually approved by the Cabinet, all

of whom must share responsibility for it. Welling himself

became Prime Minister for the purpose of carrying

it out. The plan was that British aeroplanes should drop

atomic and hydrogen bombs on the country's principal cities. It was calculated that if half the country's population

was murdered in this way, it might be possible to

maintain a subsistence level for the rest.'

'By God!' Roger said. 'That's not the gaff they're

blowing - they're blowing the top off Vesuvius.'

'The people of London,' the voice went on, 'refuse to

believe that Englishmen will carry out Welling's scheme

for mass-murder. We appeal to the Air Force, who in

the past have defended this city against her enemies,

108

not to dip their hands now into innocent blood. Such a

crime would besmirch not only those who performed it,

but their children's children for a thousand years.

'It is known that "Welling and the other members of

this bestial Cabinet have gone to an Air Force base. We

ask the Air Force to surrender them to face the justice

of the people.

'All citizens are asked to keep calm and to remain at

their posts. The restrictions imposed by Welling on

travel outside city boundaries have now no legal or

other validity, but citizens are urged not to attempt any

panic flight out of London. The Emergency Committee

is making arrangements for collecting potatoes, fish,

and whatever other food is available and transporting it

to London, where it will be fairly rationed out. If the

country only shows the Dunkirk spirit, we can pull

through. Hardship must be expected, but we can pull

through.'

There was a pause. The voice continued:

'Stand by for further emergency bulletins. Meanwhile

we shall play you some gramophone records.'

Roger turned off his set. 'Meanwhile,' he said, 'we

shall play you some gramophone records. I never believed

that story of Nero and his fiddle until now.'

Millicent Pirrie said: 'It was true, then - what you

said.'

'At least,' Pirrie said, 'the story has now received

wide circulation. That's much the same thing, isn't it?'

'They're mad!' Roger said. 'Stark, raving, incurably

mad. How Welling must be writhing.'

'I should think so,' Millicent said indignantly.

'At their inefficiency,' Roger explained. 'What a way

to carry on! At my guess, the Emergency Committee's

a triumvirate, and composed of a professional anarchist,

a parson, and a left-wing female schoolteacher. It would

take that kind of combination to show such an ignorance

of elementary human behaviour.'

109

John said: 'They're trying to be honest about things.'

'That's what I mean,' Roger said. 'I know I speak

from the exalted wisdom of an ex-Public Relations

Officer, but you don't have to have had much to do with

humanity in the mass to know that honesty is never

advisable and frequently disastrous.'

'It will be disastrous in this case,' Pirrie said.

Too bloody true, it will. The country faces starvation

- things are in such a state that the Prime Minister

decided to wipe the cities out - the Air Force would

never do such a thing, but all the same we appeal to

them not to - and you can leave London but we'd

rather you didn't! There's only one result news like

that can have: nine million people on the move - anywhere,

anyhow, but out.'

'But the Air Force wouldn't do it,' Olivia said. 'You

know they wouldn't.'

'No,' Roger said, 'I don't know. And I wasn't prepared

to risk it. On the whole, I'm inclined to think

not. But it doesn't matter now. I wasn't willing to take

a chance on human decency when it was a matter of

hydrogen bombs and famine - do you seriously imagine

anyone else is going to?'

Pirrie remarked thoughtfully: 'That nine million you

spoke of refers to London, of course. There are a few

million urban dwellers in the West Riding as well, not

to mention the north-eastern industrial areas.'

'By God, yes!' Roger said. 'This will set them on the

move, too. Not quite as fast as London, but fast

enough.' He looked at John. 'Well, Skipper, do we

drive all night?'

John said slowly: 'It's the safest thing to do. Once we

get beyond Harrogate we should be all right.'

'There is the question of route,' Pirrie suggested. He

spread out his own road-map and examined it, peering

through the gold-rimmed spectacles which he used for

close work. 'Do we skirt Harrogate to the west and

110

travel up the Nidd valley, or do we take the main road

through Ripon? We are going through Wensleydale

still?'

John said: 'What do you think, Roger?'

'Theoretically, the byways are safer. All the same,

I don't like the look of that road over Masham Moor.'

He looked out into the swiftly dusking sky. 'Especially

by night. If we can get through on the main road, it

would be a good deal easier.'

'Pirrie?' John asked.

Pirrie shrugged. 'As you prefer.'

'We'll try the main road then. We'll go round Harro-

gate. There's a road through Starbeck and Bilton. We'd

better miss Ripon, too, to be on the safe side. I'll take

the lead now, and you can bring up the rear, Roger.

Blast on your horn if you find yourself dropping behind

for any reason.'

Roger grinned. 'I'll put a bullet through the back of

Pirrie's tin Lizzy as well.'

Pirrie smiled gently. 'I shall endeavour not to set too

hot a pace for you, Mr Buckley.'

The sky had remained cloudless, and as they drove to

the north the stars appeared overhead. But the moon

would not be up until after midnight; they drove

through a landscape only briefly illuminated by the

headlights of the cars. The roads were emptier than

any they had met so far. The rumbling military convoys

did not reappear; the earth, or tumultuous Leeds,

had swallowed them up. Occasionally, in the distance,

there were noises that might have been those of guns

firing, but they were far away and indeterminate. John's

eye strayed to the left, half expecting to see the sky

burst into atomic flame, but nothing happened. Leeds

lay there - Bradford, Halifax, Huddersfield, Dewsbury,

Wakefield, and all the other manufacturing towns and

cities of the north Midlands. It was unlikely that they

111

lay in peace, but their agony, whatever it was, could

not touch the little convoy speeding towards its refuge.

He was terribly tired, and had to rouse himself by an

act of will. The women had been given the duty of keeping

their husbands awake at the wheel, but Arm sat in

a stiff immobility with her eyes staring into the night,

saying nothing, and paying attention to nothing. He

fished, one-handed, for the benzedrine pills Roger had

given him, and managed to get a drink of water from a

bottle to swill them down.

Occasionally, driving uphill, he looked back, to ensure

that the lights of the other two cars were still

following. Mary lay stretched out on the back seat,

covered up with blankets and asleep. Even though

brutality used towards the young, by reason of their

defencelessness, provoked greater anger and greater

pity, it was still true that they were resilient. Was

the wind tempered to the shorn lamb? He grimaced.

All the lambs were shorn now, and the wind was from

the north-east, full of ice and black frost.

They skirted Harrogate and Ripon easily enough;

their lights showed that they still had electricity supplies

and gave them a comforting civilised look from a distance.

Things might not be too bad there yet, either.

He wondered: could it all be a bad dream, from which

they would awaken to find the old world reborn, that

everyday world which already had begun to wear the

magic of the irretrievably lost? There will be legends,

he thought, of broad avenues celestially lit, of the hurrying

millions who lived together without plotting each

other's deaths, of railway trains and aeroplanes and

motor-cars, of food in all its diversity. Most of all,

perhaps, of policemen - custodians, without anger or

malice, of a law that stretched to the ends of the earth.

He knew Masham as a small market town on the

banks of the Ure. The road curved sharply just beyond

the river, and he slowed down for the bend.

112

The block had been well sited - far enough round the

bend to be invisible from the other side, but near

enough to prevent a car getting up any speed again. The

road was not wide enough to permit a turn. He had to

brake to a stop, and before he could put the car into

reverse he found a rifle pointing in at his side window.

A stocky man in tweeds was holding it. He said to John:

'All right, then. Come on out.'

John said: 'What's the idea?'

The man stepped back as Pirrie's Ford swept round

in its turn, but he kept his rifle steady on the Vauxhall.

There were others, John saw, behind him. They covered

the Ford and finally the Citroen when it, too, came to a

halt in front of the block.

The man in tweeds said: 'What's this - a convoy?

Any more of you?'

He had a jovial Yorkshire voice; the inflection did

not seem at all threatening.

John pushed the door open. 'We're travelling west,'

he said, 'across the moors. My brother's a farmer in

Westmorland. We're heading for his place.'

'Where are you heading from, mister?' another voice

asked.

'London.'

'You got out quick, did you?' The man laughed. 'Not

a very 'ealthy place just now, London, I don't reckon.'

Roger and Pirrie had both alighted - John was relieved

to see that they had left their arms in the cars.

Roger pointed to the roadblock.

'What's the idea of the tank trap?' he asked. 'Getting

ready for an invasion?'

The man in tweeds said: 'That's clever.' His voice had

a note of approval. 'You've got it in one. When they

come tearing up from the West Riding, the way you've

done, they're not going to find it so easy to pillage this

little town.'

'I get your point,' Roger said.

113

There was something artificial about the situation.

John was able to see more clearly now; there were more

than a dozen men in the road, watching them.

He said: 'We might as well get things straight. Do I

take it you want us to back-track and find a road round

the town? It's a nuisance, but I see your point.'

Another of the men laughed. 'Not yet you don't,

mister!'

John made no reply. For a moment he weighed the

possibilities of their getting back into the cars and fighting

it out. But even if they were to succeed in getting

back, the women and children would be in the line of

fire. He waited.

It was fairly clear that the man in tweeds was the leader. One of the small Napoleons the new chaos

would throw up; it was their bad luck that Masham had

thrown him up so promptly. It had not been unreasonable

to hope for another twelve hours' grace.

'You see,' the man in tweeds said, 'you've got to look

at it from our point of view. If we didn't protect our- , selves, a place like this would be buried in the first rush.

I'm telling you so you will understand we're not doing

anything that's not sensible and necessary. You see, as

well as being a target, you might say we're a honeypot.

All the flies - trying to get away from the famine and

the atom bombs - they'll all be travelling along the . I

main roads. We catch them, and then we live on them -

that's the idea.' ,

'Bit early for cannibalism,' Roger commented. 'Or is

it a habit to eat human flesh in these parts?'

The man in tweeds laughed. 'Glad to see you've got a

sense of humour. All's not lost while we can find something

to laugh at, eh? It's not their flesh we want - not

yet, anyway. But most of 'em will be carrying something,

if it's only half a bar of chocolate. You might say

this is a toll-gate combined with a customs house. We

inspect the luggage, and take what we want.'

114

John said sharply: 'Do you let us through after that? *

'Well, not through, like. But round, anyway.' His eyes

- small and intent in a square well-fleshed face fastened

on John's. 'You can see what it looks like from

our point of view, can't you?'

'I should say it looks like theft,' John said, 'from any

point of view.'

'Ay,' the man said, 'maybe as it does. If you've

travelled all the way up here from London with nought

worst than theft to your names, you've been luckier

than the next lot will be. All right, mister. Ask the

women to bring the kids out. We'll do the searching.

Come on, now. Soonest out, soonest ended.'

John glanced at the other two; he read anger in

Roger's face, but acquiescence. Pirrie looked his usual

polite and blank self.

'O.K.,' John said. 'Arm, you will have to wake Mary,

I'm afraid. Bring her out for a moment.'

They huddled together while some of the men began

ransacking the insides of the cars and the boots. They

were not long in unearthing the weapons. A little man

with a stubble of beard held up John's automatic rifle

with a cry.

The man in tweeds said: 'Guns, eh? That's a better

haul than we expected for our first.'

John said: 'There are revolvers as well. I hope you

will leave us those.'

'Have some sense,' the man said. 'We're the ones

who've got a town to defend.' He called to the searching

men. 'Stack all the arms over here.'

'Just what do you propose to take off us?' John asked.

'That's easy enough. The guns, for a start. Apart

from that, food, as I said. And petrol, of course.'

'Why petrol?'

'Because we may need it, if only for our internal

lines of communication.' He grinned. 'Sounds very

military, doesn't it? Bit like the old days, in some ways.

115

But it's on our own doorsteps now.'

John said: 'We've got another eighty or ninety miles

to do. The Ford can do forty to the gallon, the other two

around thirty. All the tanks are pretty full. Will you

leave us nine gallons between us?'

The man in tweeds said nothing. He grinned.

John looked at him. 'We'll ditch one of the big cars.

Will you leave us six gallons?'

'Six gallons,' the man in tweeds said, 'or one revolver

- the sort of thing that might make the difference

between our holding this town and seeing it go up in

flames. Mister, we're not leaving you anything that we

can possibly make good use of.'

'One car,' John said, 'and three gallons. So you don't

have three women and four children on your consciences.'

'Nay,' the man said, 'it's all very well talking about

consciences, but we've got our own women and kids to

think about.'

Roger and Pirrie were standing by him. Roger said:

'They'll take your town, and they'll burn it. I hope

you live just long enough to see it.'

The man stared at him. 'You don't want to start

spoiling things, mister. We've been treating you fair

enough, but we could turn nasty if we wanted to.'

Roger was on the verge of saying something else.

John said:

'All right. That's enough, Rodge.' To the man in

tweeds, he went on: 'We'll make you a present of the

cars. Can we take our families through the town towards

Wensley? And do you think we could have a couple of

old perambulators you've finished with?'

'I'm glad to see you're more polite than your friend,

but it's no - to both. No one's coming into this town.

We've got our roads to guard, and the men who aren't

guarding them have got work to do and sleep to get. We

can't spare anyone to watch you, and it's damn certain

116

we're not letting you go through the town unwatched.'

John looked at Roger again, and checked him. Pirrie

spoke:

'Perhaps you will tell us what we can do. And what

we can take - blankets?'

'Ay, we're well enough supplied with blankets.'

'And our maps?'

One of the searchers came up and reported to him:

'Reckon we've got everything worth having, Mr

Spruce. Food and stuff. And the guns. Willie's syphoning

the petrol.'

'In that case,' Mr Spruce said, 'you can go and help

yourselves to what you want. I shouldn't carry too

much, if I were you. You won't find the going so easy.

If you follow the river round' - he pointed to the right 'it's

your best way for getting round the town.'

Thank you,' Roger said. 'You're a great help.'

Mr Spruce regarded him with beady benevolence. 'You're lucky - getting here before the rush, like. We

shan't have time to gossip with 'em once they start

coming in fast.'

'You've got a great deal of confidence,' John said.

'But it isn't going to be as easy as you think it is.'

'I read somewhere once,' Mr Spruce said, 'how the

Saxons laughed and chatted together before the Battle

of Hastings. That was when they'd just had one big

battle and were getting ready for the next.'

'They lost that one,' John said. The Normans won.'

'Maybe they did. But it was a couple of hundred

years before they travelled easy in these parts. Good

luck, mister.'

John looked at the cars, stripped already of food

and weapons and with Willy, & youth lean and gangling

and intent, completing the syphoning of the petrol.

'May you have the same luck,' he said.

John said: The important thing is to get away from

117

here. After that we can decide the best plan to follow.

As far as our things are concerned, I suggest we take

three small cases for the present. Rucksacks would have

been better, but we haven't got them. I shouldn't bother

with blankets. Fortunately, it's summer. If it's chilly,

we shall have to huddle together for warmth.'

'I shall take my blanket roll,' Pirrie said.

'I don't advise it,' John told him.

Pirrie smiled, hut made no reply.

The Masham men, having removed their booty, had

faded back into the shadows that lined the road, and

were watching them with impassive disinterest. The

children, sleepy-eyed and unsteady, watched also as

their elders sorted out what they needed from what had

been left. John realised that he no longer counted Mary

as one of the children; she was helping Arm.

They got away at last. Looking back, John saw that

the Masham men were pulling the abandoned cars

round to reinforce the barrier they had already set up.

He wondered what would happen when the cars really

began to pile up there - probably they would shove them

into the river.

They toiled up rising ground, until they could look

down, from a bare field, on the starlit roofs of the town

lying between them and the moors. The night was very

quiet.

'We'll rest here for a while,' John said. 'We can

consider our plans.'

Pirrie dropped the blanket roll; he had been carrying

it, at first awkwardly under his arm and then more

sensibly balanced on his shoulder.

'In that case, I can get rid of these blankets,' he said.

Roger said: 'I wondered how long it would be before

you realised you were carrying dead weight.'

Pirrie was busy undoing the string that tied the roll;

it was arranged in a series of complicated knots. He said:

118

Those people down there . . . excellent surface efficiency,

but I suspect the minor details are going to trip

them up. I rather think the man who went through my

car wasn't even carrying a knife. If he was, then his

negligence is quite inexcusable.'

Roger asked curiously: 'What have you got in there?'

Pirrie looked up. In the dim starlight, he appeared to

be blinking. 'When I was considerably younger,' he said,

'I used to travel in the Middle East - Trans-Jordan,

Irak, Saudi Arabia. I was looking for minerals - without

much success, I must add. I learned the trick there of

hiding a rifle in a blanket roll. The Arabs stole everything,

but they preferred rifles.'

Pirrie completed his unravelling. From the middle of

the blankets, he drew out his sporting rifle; the telescopic

sight was still attached.

Roger laughed, loudly and suddenly. 'Well, I'm

damned! Things don't look quite so bad after all. Good

old Pirrie.'

Pirrie lifted out a small box in addition. 'Only a

couple of dozen rounds, unfortunately,' he said, 'but it's

better than nothing.'

'I should say it is,' said Roger. 'If we can't find a

farmhouse with a car and petrol, we don't deserve to

get away with it. A gun makes the difference.'

John said: 'No. No more cars.'

There was a moment's silence. Then Roger said:

'You're not starting to develop scruples, are you,

Johnny? Because if you are, then the best thing you can

do with Pirrie's rifle is shoot yourself. I didn't like the

way those bastards down there treated us, but I have to

admit they had the right idea. It's force that counts now.

Anybody who doesn't understand that has got as much

chance as a rabbit in a cage full of ferrets.'

Only this morning, John thought, his reasons might

have been based on scruples; and along with those

scruples would have gone uncertainty and reluctance to

119

impose his own decision on the others. Now he said

sharply:

'We're not taking another car, because cars are too

dangerous now. We were lucky down there. They could

easily have riddled us with bullets first and stripped the

cars afterwards. They will have to do that eventually.

If we try to make it to the valley by car, we're asking

for something like that to happen. In a car, you're

always in a potential ambush.'

'Reasonable,' Pirrie murmured. 'Very reasonable.'

'Eighty odd miles,' Roger said. 'On foot? You weren't

expecting to find horses, were you?'

John gazed at the weed-chequered ground on which

they stood; it looked as though it might once have been

pasture.

'No. We're going to have to do it on foot. Probably

it means three days, instead of a few hours. But if we

do it slowly, it's odds on our making it. The other way,

it's odds against.'

Roger said: 'I'm for getting hold of a car, and making

a run for it. There's a chance we shan't meet any trouble

at all; there won't be many towns will have organised as

quickly as Masham did - there won't be many that will

have the sense to organise anyway. If we're making a

trek across country with the kids, we're bound to have

trouble.'

'That's what we're going to do, though,' John said.

Roger asked: 'What do you think, Pirrie?'

'It doesn't matter what he thinks,' John said. 'I've

told you what we're going to do.'

Roger nodded at the silent watchful figure of Pirrie.

'He's got the gun,' he said.

John said: 'That means he can take over running the

show, if he has the inclination. But until he does, I make

the decisions.' He glanced at Pirrie. 'Well?'

'Admirably put,' Pirrie remarked. 'Am I allowed to

keep the rifle? I hardly think I am being particularly

120

vain in pointing out that I happen to have the greatest

degree of skill in its use. And I am not likely to develop

ambitions towards leadership. You will have to take

that on trust, of course.'

John said: 'Of course you keep the rifle.'

Roger said: 'So democracy's out. That's something I

ought to have realised for myself. Where do we go from

here?'

'Nowhere until the morning,' John said. 'In the first

place, we all need a night's sleep; and in the second,

there's no sense in stumbling about in the dark in

country we don't know. Everybody stands an hour's

watch. I'll take first; then you, Roger, Pirrie, Millicent,

Olivia' - he hesitated - 'and Arm. Six hours will be as

much as we can afford. Then we shall go and look for

breakfast.'

The air was warm, with hardly any breeze.

'Once again,' Roger said, 'thank God it's not winter.*

He called to the three boys: 'Come on, you lot. You can

snuggle round me and keep me cosy.'

The field lay just under the crest of a hill. John sat

above the little group of reclining figures, and looked

over them to the vista of moorland that stretched away

westwards. The moon would soon be up; already its

radiance had begun to reinforce the starlight.

The question of whether the weather held fair would

make a lot of difference to them. How easy it would be,

he thought, to pray - to sacrifice, even - to the moorland

gods, in the hope of turning away their wrath. He

glanced at where the three boys lay curled up between

Roger and Olivia. They would come to it, perhaps, or

their children.

And thinking that, he felt a great weariness of spirit,

as though out of the past his old self, his civilised self,

challenged him to an accounting. When it sank below a

certain level, was life itself worth the having any

longer? They had lived in a world of morality whose

121

lineage could be traced back nearly four thousand years.

In a day, it had been swept from under them.

But were there some who still held on, still speaking the grammar of love while Babel rose all round them?

If they did, he thought, they must die, and their children

with them - as their predecessors had died, long ago, in

the Roman arenas. For a moment, he thought that he

would be glad to have the faith to die like that, but then

he looked again at the little sleeping group whose head

he now was, and knew their lives meant more to him

than their deaths ever could.

He stood up, and walked quietly to where Arm lay

with Mary in her arms. Mary was asleep, but in the

growing moonlight he could see that Ann's eyes were

open.

He called softly to her: 'ArmI'

She made no reply. She did not even look up. After a

time he walked away again and took up his old position.

There were some who would choose to die well rather

than to live. He was sure of that, and the assurance

comforted him.

122

During her watch, Millicent had seen distant flashes

towards the south, twice or three times, and had heard a

rumble of noise long afterwards. They might have been

atom-bomb explosions. The question seemed irrelevant.

It was unlikely that they would ever know the full story

of whatever was taking place in the thickly populated

parts of the country; and, in any case, it no longer

interested them.

They began their march on a bright morning; it was

cool but promised heat. The objective John had set

them was a crossing of the northern part of Masham

Moor into Coverdale. After that, they would take a

minor road across Carlton Moor and then strike north

to Wensleydale and the pass into Westmorland. They

found a farmhouse not very far away from where they

had slept, and Roger wanted to raid it for food. John

vetoed the idea, on the grounds that it was too near

Masham. It was uncertain how far the Mashamites

proposed to protect their outlying districts. The sound

of shots might easily bring a protecting party up from

the town.

They therefore kept away from habitation, travelling

in the bare fields and keeping close beside the hedges or

stone walls which formed the boundaries. It was about

half-past six when they crossed the main road north of

Masham, and the sun had warmed the air. The boys

were happy enough, and had to be restrained from

123

unnecessary running about. The whole party had something

of a picnic air, except that Arm remained quiet,

withdrawn and unhappy.

Millicent commented on this to John, when he found

himself walking beside her across a patch of broken

stony ground.

She said: 'Arm shouldn't take things too much to

heart, Johnny. It's all in a day's work.'

John glanced at her. Neatness was a predominating

characteristic of Millicent, and she looked now as

though she were out for an ordinary country walk.

Pirrie, with the rifle under his arm, was about fifteen

yards ahead of them.

'I don't think it's so much what happened,' John said,

'as what she did afterwards that's worrying her.'

'That's what I meant was all in a day's work,' Milli-

cent said. She looked at John with frank admiration. 'I liked the way you handled things last night. You know quiet,

but no nonsense. I like a man to know what he

wants and go and get it.'

Discounting her face, John thought, she looked a

good deal more than a score of years younger than

Pirrie; she was slim and tautly figured. She caught his

glance, and smiled at him. He recognised something in

the smile, and was shocked by it.

He said briefly: 'Someone has to make decisions.'

'At first, I didn't think you would be the kind who

would, properly. Then last night I could see I was wrong

about you.'

It was not, he decided, the concupiscence which

shocked him in itself, but its presence in this context.

Pirrie, he was sure, must have been a cuckold for some

time, but that had been in London, in that warren of

swarming humanity where the indulgence of one more

lust could have no real importance. But here, where-

their interdependence was as starkly evident as the barren

lines of what had been the moors, it mattered a great

124

deal. There might yet be a morality in which the leader

of the group took his women as he wished. But the old

ways of winks and nudges and innuendoes were as dead

as business conferences and evenings at the theatre - as

dead and as impossible of resurrection. The fact that he

was shocked by Millicent's failure to realise it was

evidence of how deeply the realisation had sunk into

and conditioned his own mind.

He said, more sharply still: 'Go and take over that

case from Olivia. She's had it long enough.'

She raised her eyebrows slightly. 'Just as you say. Big

Chief. Whatever you say goes.'

On the edge of Witton Moor they found what John had

been looking for - a small farmhouse, compact and

isolated. It stood on a slight rise, surrounded by potato

fields. There was smoke rising from the chimney. For a

moment that puzzled him, until he remembered that,

in a remote spot like this, they would probably need a

coal fire, even in summer, for cooking. He gave Pirrie

his instructions. Pirrie nodded, and rubbed three fingers

of his right hand along his nose; he had made the same

gesture, John remembered now, before going out after

the gang who had taken Arm and Mary.

With Roger, John walked up to the farmhouse. They

made no attempt at concealment, and strolled casually

as though motivated by idle curiosity. John saw a curtain

in one of the front windows twitch, but there was no

other sign that they had been observed. An old dog

sunned himself against the side of the house. Pebbles

crunched under their feet, a casual and friendly sound.

There was a knocker on the door, shaped like a ram's

head. John lifted it and dropped it again heavily; it

clanged dully against its metal base. As they heard the

tread of feet on the other side, the two men stepped a

little to the right.

The door swung open. The man on the other side had

125

to come fully into the threshold to see them properly.

He was a big man; his eyes were small and cold in a

weathered red face. John saw with satisfaction that he

was carrying a shotgun.

He said: 'Well, what is it you want? We've nought to

sell, if it's food you're after.'

He was still too far inside the house.

John said: Thanks. We're not short of food, though.

We've got something we think might interest you.'

'Keep it,' the man said. 'Keep it, and clear off.'

'In that case...' John said.

He jumped inwards so that he was pressed against the

wall to the right of the door, out of sight of the farmer.

The man reacted immediately. 'If you want gunshot...'

he said. He came through the doorway, the gun ready,

his finger on the trigger.

There was a distant crack, and at the same time the

massive body turned inwards, like a top pulled by its

string, and slumped towards them. As he fell, a finger

contracted. The gun went off crashingly, its charge exploding

against the wall of the farmhouse. The echoes

seemed to splinter against the calm sky. The old dog

roused and barked, feebly, against the sun. A voice

cried something from inside the house, and then there

was silence.

John pulled the shotgun away from under the body

which lay over it. One barrel was still unfired. With a

nod to Roger, he stepped over the dead or dying man

and into the house. The door opened immediately into

a big living-room. The light was dimmer and John's gaze

went first to the closed doors leading off the room and

then to the empty staircase that ascended in one corner.

Several seconds had elapsed before he saw the woman

who stood in the shadows by the side of the staircase.

She was quite tall, but as spare as the farmer had

been broad. She was looking directly at them, and she

126

was holding another gun. Roger saw her at the same

time. He cried:

'Watch it, Johnny!'

Her hand moved along the side of the gun, but as it

did so, John's own hand moved also. The clap of sound

was even more deafening in the confinement of the

room. She stayed upright for a moment and then,

clutching at the banister to her left, crumpled up. She

began to scream as she reached the ground, and went

on screaming in a high strangled voice.

Roger said: 'Oh, my God!'

John said: 'Don't stand there. Get a move on. Get

that other gun and let's get this house searched. We've

been lucky twice but we don't have to be a third time.'

He watched while Roger reluctantly pulled the gun

away from the woman; she gave no sign, but went on

screaming.

Roger said: 'Her face...'

'You take the ground floor,' John told him. 'I'll go

upstairs.'

He searched quickly through the upper storey, kicking

doors open. He did not realise until he had nearly

finished his search that he had forgotten something that

had been the second barrel and, until the shotgun

was re-loaded, he was virtually weaponless. One

door remained. He hesitated and then kicked this open

in turn.

It was a small bedroom. A girl in her middle 'teens

was sitting up in bed. She stared at him with terrified

eyes.

He said to her: 'Stay here. Understand? You won't

get hurt if you stay in here.'

'The guns . . . ' she said. 'Ma and Pa - what was the

shooting? They're not...'

He said coldly: 'Don't move outside this room.'

There was a key in the lock. He went out, closed the

door and locked it. The woman downstairs was still

127

screaming, but less harshly than she had been. Roger

stood above her, staring down.

John said, 'Well?'

Roger looked up slowly. 'It's all right. There's no one

else down here.' He gazed down at the woman again.

'Breakfast cooking on the range.'

Pirrie came quietly through the open door. He lowered his rifle as he viewed the scene.

'Mission accomplished,' he commented. 'She had a

gun as well? Are there any others in the house?'

'Guns or people?' John asked. 'I didn't see any other

guns, did you, Rodge?'

Still looking at the woman, Roger said: 'No.'

'There's a girl upstairs,' John said. 'Daughter. I locked

her in.'

'And this?' Pirrie directed the toe of one shoe towards

the woman, now groaning deep-throatedly.

'She got the blast... in the face mostly,' Roger said.

'From a couple of yards range.'

'Tn that case ...' said Pirrie. He tapped the side of his

rifle and looked at John. 'Do you agree?'

Roger looked at them both. John nodded. Pirrie

walked with his usual precise gait to where the woman

lay. As he pointed the rifle, he said: 'A revolver is so

much more convenient for this sort of thing.' The rifle

cracked, and the woman stopped groaning. 'In addition

to which, I do not like using the ammunition for this

unnecessarily. We are not likely to replace it. Shotguns

are much more likely equipment in parts like

these.'

John said: 'Not a bad exchange - two shot-guns and,

presumably, ammunition, for two rounds.'

Pirrie smiled. 'You will forgive me for regarding two

rounds from this as worth half a dozen shot-guns. Still,

it hasn't been too bad. Shall we call the others up now?'

'Yes,' John said, 'I think we might as well.'

In a strained voice, Roger said: 'Wouldn't it be better

128

to get these bodies out of the way first - before the

children come up here?'

John nodded. 'I suppose it would.' He stepped across

the corpse. There's generally a hole under the stairs.

Yes, I thought so. In here. Wait a minute - here are the

cartridges for tlie shot-guns. Get these out first.' He

peered into the dark recesses of the cubby-hole. 'I don't

think there's anything else we want. You can lift her in

now.'

It took all three of them to carry the dead farmer in

from the door and wedge his body also into the cupboard

under the stairs. Then John went out in front of

the house, and waved. The day was as bright, and

seemed fresher than ever with the absence of the pungent

smell of powder. The old dog had settled again in

its place; he saw now that it was very old indeed, and

possibly blind. A watchdog that still lived when it could

no longer guard was an aimless thing; but no more

aimless, he thought, than the blind millions of whom

they themselves were the forerunners. He let the gun

drop. At any rate, it was not worth the expenditure of

a cartridge.

The women came up the hill with the children. The

picnic air was gone; the boys walked quietly and without

saying anything. Davey came up to John. He said,

in a low voice:

'What was the shooting. Daddy?'

John looked into his son's eyes. 'We have to fight for

things now,' he said. 'We have to fight to live. It's something

you'll have to learn.'

Did you kill them?'

Yes.'

'Where did you put the bodies? * 'Out of the way. Come on in. We're going to have

breakfast.'

There was a stain of blood at the door, and another

129

where the woman had lain. Davey looked at them, but

he did not say anything else.

When they were all in the living-room, John said:

'We don't want to be here long. The women can be

getting us a meal. There are eggs in the kitchen, and a

side of bacon. Get it done quickly. Roger and Pirrie and

I will be sorting out what we want to take with us.'

Spooks asked: 'Can we help you?'

'No. You boys stay here and rest yourselves. We've

got a long day in front of us.'

Olivia had been staring, as Davey had done, at the

marks of blood on the floor. She said:

'Were there only - the two of them?'

John said curtly: 'There's a girl upstairs - daughter.

I've locked her in.'

Olivia made a move towards the stairs. 'She must be

terrified!'

John's look stopped her. He said: 'I've told you - we

haven't time to waste on inessentials. See to the things

we need. Never mind anything else.'

For a moment she hesitated, and then she went

through to the kitchen. Millicent followed her. Arm

stood by the door with Mary. She said:

'Two are enough. We're going to stay outside. I don't

like the smell in here.'

John nodded. 'Just as you want. You can eat out

there as well, if you like.'

Arm did not say anything, but led Mary out into

the sunshine. Spooks, after a brief hesitation, followed

them. The other two boys sat on the old-fashioned sofa

under the window. There was a clock ticking rhythmically

on the wall facing them. It was glass-fronted, so

that its works were visible. They sat and stared at it, and

spoke to each other in whispers.

By the time the food was ready, the men had got all

they needed. They had found two large rucksacks and a

smaller one, and had packed them with chunks of ham

130

and pork and salted beef, along with some homemade

bread. The cartridges for the guns were slipped in on

top. They had also found an old army water-bottle.

Roger suggested filling more bottles with water, but

John opposed it. They would be travelling through

tolerably well-watered country, and had enough to

carry as it was.

When they had finished their meal, Olivia started

collecting the plates together. It was when Millicent

laughed that John saw what she was doing. She put the

plates down again in some confusion.

John said: 'No washing up. We get moving straight

away. It's an isolated place, but any house is a potential

trap.'

The men began picking up their guns and rucksacks.

Olivia said: 'What about the girl?'

John glanced at her. 'What about her?'

'We can't leave her - like this.'

'If it bothers you,' John said, 'you can go and unlock

her door. Tell her she can come out when she likes. It doesn't matter now.'

'But we can't leave her in the house!' She gestured

towards the cupboard beneath the stairs. 'With those.'

'What do you suggest, then?'

'We could take her with us.'

John said: 'Don't be silly, Olivia. You know we can't.'

Olivia stared at him. Behind her plump diffidence,

he saw, there was resolution. Thinking of her and of

Roger, he reflected that crises were always likely to produce

strange results in terms of human behaviour.

Olivia said: 'If not, I shall stay here with her.'

'And Roger?' John asked. 'And Steve?'

Roger said slowly: 'If Olivia wants to stay, we'll stay

here with her. You don't need us, do you?'

John said: 'And when the next visitor calls, who's

going to open the door? You or Olivia - or Steve?'

There was a silence. The clock ticked, marking the

131

passing seconds of a summer morning.

Roger said then: 'Why can't we take the girl, if Olivia

wants to? We brought Spock. A girl couldn't be any

danger to us, surely?'

Impatient and angry, John said: 'What makes you

think she would come with us? We've just killed her

parents.'

'I think she would come,' Olivia said.

'How long would you like to have to persuade her?'

John asked. 'A fortnight?'

Olivia and Roger exchanged glances. Roger said:

'The rest of you go on. We'll try and catch up with

you - with the girl, if she will come.'

To Roger, John said: 'You surprise me, Roger.

Surely I don't have to point out to you just how damn

silly it is to split our forces now?'

They did not answer him. Pirrie and Millicent and the

boys were watching in silence. John glanced at his

watch.

'Look,' he said, 'I'll give you three minutes, Olivia,

to talk to the girl. If she wants to come, she can. But

we aren't going to waste any more time persuading her

- none of us. All right?' Olivia nodded. 'I'll come up

with you.'

He led the way up the stairs, unlocked the door, and

pushed it open. The girl was out of bed; she looked up

from a kneeling posture, possibly one of prayer. John

stood aside to let Olivia enter the room. The girl stared

at them both, her face expressionless.

Olivia said. 'We should like you to come with us,

my dear. We are going to a safe place up in the hills. It

wouldn't be safe for you to stay here.'

The girl said: 'My mother - I heard her screaming,

and then she stopped.' \

'She's dead,' Olivia said. 'Your father, too. There's

nothing to stay here for.'

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'You killed them,' the girl said. She looked at John.

'He killed them.'

Olivia said: 'Yes. They had food and we didn't. People

fight over food now. We won, and they lost. It's something

that can't be helped. I want you to come with us,

all the same.'

The girl turned away, her face pressed against the bed

clothes. In a muffled voice, she said:

'Leave me alone. Go away and leave me alone.'

John looked at Olivia and shook his head. She went

over and knelt down beside the girl, putting an arm

round her shoulders. She said gently:

'We aren't bad people. We're just trying to save ourselves

and our children, and so the men kill now, if they

have to. There will be others coming who will be worse

- who will kill just for the sake of killing, and torture,

too, perhaps.'

The girl repeated: 'Leave me alone.'

'We aren't far ahead of the mobs,' Olivia said. 'They

will be coming up from the towns, looking for food. A

place of this kind will draw them like flies. Your father

and mother would have died, anyway, in the next few

days, and you with them. Don't you believe that?'

'Go away,' the girl said. She did not look up.

John said: 'I told you, Olivia. We can't take her away

against her will. And as for your staying here with her -

you've just said yourself the place is a deathtrap.'

Olivia got up from her knees, as though acquiescing.

But instead she took the girl by the shoulders and

twisted her round to face her. She had considerable

strength of arm, and she used it now, not brutally but

with determination.

She said: 'Listen to me! You're afraid, aren't you?

Aren't you?'

Her eyes held the girl as though in fascination. The

girl's head nodded.

133

'Do you believe I want to help you?' Olivia asked

her.

Again she nodded.

'You're coming with us,' Olivia said. 'We're going

across the Pennines, to a place in Westmorland where

we can all be quite safe, and where there won't be any

more killing and brutality.' Olivia's normal reserve was

entirely gone; she spoke with a bitter anger that carried

conviction. 'And you are coming with us. We killed

your father and mother, but if we save you we shall

have made up to them a little bit. They wouldn't want

you to die here as they have done.'

The girl stared silently. Olivia said to John:

'You can wait outside. I'll help her dress. We shall

only be a couple of minutes.'

John shrugged. 'I'll go downstairs and see that every-

thing's ready. A couple of minutes, remember.'

'We'll be down,' Olivia said.

In the living-room, John found Roger fiddling with

the controls of a radio that stood on the sideboard. He

looked up as John came down the stairs.

'Nothing,' he said. 'I've tried North, Scotland, Midland,

London - nothing at all.'

'Ireland?' John asked.

'Nothing I can hear. I doubt if you could pick them

up from here anyway.'

'Perhaps the set's dead.'

'I found one station. I don't know what the language

was - it sounded Middle European. Sounded pretty

desperate, too.'

'Short waves?'

'Haven't tried.'

'I'll have a go.' Roger stood aside, and John switched

down to the short wave band, and began to fan the dial,

slowly and carefully. He covered three-quarters of the

dial without finding anything; then he picked up a voice,

distorted by crackle and fading, but speaking English.

134

He tuned it in to its maximum, and gave it all the

volume he could:

'. . . fragmentary, but all the evidence indicates that

Western Europe has ceased to exist as a part of the

civilised world.'

The accent was American. John said softly:

'So that beautiful banner yet waves.'

'Numbers of airplanes,' the voice continued, 'have

been arriving during last evening in parts of the United

States and Canada. By the President's order, the people

in them have been given sanctuary. The President of

France and senior members of the French Government,

and the Dutch and Belgian Royal families are amongst

those who have entered this country. It is reported from

Halifax, Nova Scotia, that the British Royal family and

Government have arrived there safely. According to

the same report, the last Prime Minister of Great

Britain, Raymond Welting, has said that the startling

speed of the breakdown which has taken place there was

largely due to the spread of rumours that major population

centres were to be atom-bombed as a means of

saving the rest of the country. These rumours. Welling

claims, were entirely unfounded, but caused panic

nevertheless. When told that the Atomic Energy Commission

here had reported atomic-bomb explosions as

occurring in Europe during the past few hours. Welling

stated that he could not account for them, but thought

it possible that isolated Air Force elements might have

used such desperate measures in the hope of regaining

control.'

Roger said: 'So it got out of hand, and he threw it up

and ran.'

'One of the unsolved mysteries,' John said.

The voice went on: 'The following statement, signed

by the President, was issued in Washington at nine p.m.

'It is to be expected that this country will mourn the

loss to barbarism of Europe, the cradle of our Western

135

civilisation. We cannot help being grieved and shocked

by what is taking place on the other side of the Atlantic

Ocean. At the same time, this does not mean that there

is the slightest danger of a similar catastrophe occurring

here. Our food-stocks are high, and though it is probable

that rations will have to be reduced in the coming

months, there will still be ample food for all. In the

fullness of time, we shall defeat the Chung-Li virus and

go out to reclaim the wide world that once we knew.

Until then, our duty is to preserve within the limits of

our own nation the heritage of man's greatness.'

John said bitterly: 'That's encouraging, anyway.'

He turned to see Olivia coming down the stairs with

the girl. Now that she was dressed, he saw that she was

two or three years older than Mary, a country girl,

more distinguished by health than good looks. She

looked from John's face to the stains on the floor, and

back again; but her face did not show anything.

Olivia said: 'This is Jane. She's coming with us. We're

all ready now, Johnny.'

John said: 'Good. Then we'll push off.'

The girl turned to Olivia. 'Before I go - could I see

them, just the once?'

Olivia looked uncertain. John thought of the two

bodies, crammed in, without ceremony or compunction,

beneath the stairs on which the girl now stood.

He said sharply: 'No. It wouldn't do you or them any

good, and we haven't got the time.'

He thought she might protest, but when Olivia urged

her forward gently, she came. She looked once round

the living-room, and walked out into the open.

'O.K.'John said,'we're off.'

'One minor item,' Pirrie said. The voice on the radio

was still talking, falling towards and away from them

on periodic swells of volume. It was outlining some new

regulation against food hoarding. Pirrie walked over to

the sideboard and, in a single movement, swept the

136

radio on to the wooden floor. It fell with a splintering of

glass. With deliberate movements, Pirrie kicked it until

the cabinet was shattered and the broken fittings displayed.

He put his heel solidly down on to the tangle of

glass and metal, and mashed it into ruin. Then, extricating

his foot with care, he went out with the rest.

Their journey, owing to the presence of the children,

would have to be by fairly easy stages. John had planned

for three days; the first march to take them to the end

of Wensleydale, the second over the moors to a point

north of Sedbergh, and the third, at last, to Blind Gill.

It would be necesary to keep close to the main road, and

he hoped that for long periods it would be possible to

travel on it. He thought it was unlikely there would be

any cars about. By now, Masham's example must have

been followed in most of the North Riding. The cars

would bog down long before they got to the Dale.

Roger said to him, as they made their way down by

the side of a wood in the direction of Coverham:

'We could get hold of bicycles. What do you think?'

John shook his head. 'We would still be too vulnerable.

And we should have to find ten bicycles together otherwise

it would mean having to wheel some along, or

else splitting up the party.'

'And you're not going to do that, are you?' Roger

asked.

John glanced at him. 'No. I'm not going to do that.'

Roger said: 'I'm glad Olivia was able to persuade the

girl to come with us. It would have been grim to think

of her back there.'

'You're getting sentimental, Roger.'

'No.' Roger, hitched his pack more firmly on to the

middle of his back. 'You're toughening up. It's a good

thing, I suppose.'

'Only suppose?'

137

'No. You're right, Johnny. It's got to be done. We're

going to make it?'

'We're going to make it.'

The houses they passed were closed and shuttered; if

people still lived in them they were giving no external

sign of occupancy. They saw fewer people even than

would have been normal in these parts; and when they

did encounter others, there was no attempt at greeting

on either side. For the most part, the people they met

gave ground before the little party, and detoured round

them. But twice they saw bands similar to their own.

The first of these was of five adults, with two small

children being carried. The two parties stared at each

other briefly from a distance, and went their separate

ways.

The second group was bigger than their own. There

were about a dozen people in it, all adults, and several

guns were in evidence. This encounter happened in the

afternoon, a few miles east of Aysgarth. Apparently

this group was crossing the road on their way south to

Bishopdale. They halted on the road, surveying the

approach of John and the others.

John motioned his own group to a stop, about twenty

yards away from them. There was a pause for observation.

Then one of the men who faced them called:

'Where are ye from?'

John said: 'London.'

There was a ripple of hostile interest. Their leader

said:

'There's little enough to be got in these parts for those

who live here, without Londoners coming up scavenging.'

John made no reply. He hefted his shot-gun up under

his arm, and Roger and Pirrie followed suit. They

stared at the other group in silence.

'Where are ye making for?' the man asked them.

138

'We're going over the moors,' John said, 'into West-

morland.'

'There'll be nought more there than there is here.'

His gaze was on the guns, longingly. 'If you can use

those weapons, we might be willing to have you join

up with us.'

'We can use them,' John said. 'But we prefer to stay

on our own.'

'Safety in numbers these days.' John did not reply.

'Safer for the kiddies, and all.'

'We can look after them,' John said.

The man shrugged. He gestured to his followers, and

they began to move off the road in their original direction.

He himself prepared to follow them. At the road's

edge, he paused, and turned back.

'Hey, mister!' he called. 'Any news?'

It was Roger who replied: 'None, but that the world's

grown honest.'

The man's face cracked into a laugh. 'Ay, that's good.

Then is doomsday near!'

They watched until the group was nearly out of sight,

and then continued their journey.

They skirted to the south of Aysgarth, which showed

the signs of defensive array that had now become

familiar. They rested, in the afternoon's heat, within

sight of the town. The valley, which had been so green

in the old days, now showed predominantly black against

the browner hills beyond. The stone walls wound their

way up the hillsides, marking boundaries grown meaningless.

Once John thought he saw sheep on the hillside,

and jumped to his feet to make sure. But they were only

white boulders. There could be no sheep here now. The

Chung-Li virus had done its work with all-embracing

thoroughness.

Mary was sitting with Olivia and the girl Jane. The

boys, for once too tired to skylark, were resting together

and discussing, so far as John could judge from

139

the scraps of conversation he picked up, motor speedboats.

Arm sat by herself, under a tree. He went over

and sat down beside her.

'Are you feeling any better?' he asked her.

'I'm all right.'

She looked tired, and he wondered how much sleep

she had managed to get the night before. He said:

'Only two more days of this, and then...'

She caught his words up. 'And then everything's fine

again, and we can forget all that's happened, and start

life all over from the beginning. Well?'

'No, I don't suppose we can. Does it matter? But we

can live what passes for a decent life again, and watch

the children grow up into human beings instead of

savages. That's worth doing a lot for.'

'And you're doing it, aren't you? The world on your

shoulders.'

He said softly: 'We've been very lucky so far. It may

not seem like that, but it's true. Lucky in getting away

from London, and lucky in getting as far north as this

before we ran into serious trouble. The reason this place

looks deserted is because the locals have retired behind

their defences, and the mobs haven't arrived. But I

shouldn't think we're more than a day's march ahead

of the mobs - we may be less. And when they come ...'

He stared at the tumbling waters of the Ure. It was a

sunlit summer scene, strange only in the absence of so

much of the familiar green. He didn't really believe the

implications of his own words, and yet he knew they

were true.

'We shall be at peace in Blind Gill,' Arm said wearily.

'I wouldn't mind being there now,' John said.

'I'm tired,' Arm said. 'I don't want to talk - about

that or anything else. Let me be, John.'

He looked down at her for a moment, and then went

away. As he did so, he saw that, from under the next

140

tree, Millicent was watching them. She caught his eye,

and smiled.

The valley narrowed towards Hawes, and the hills on

either side rose more steeply; the stone walls no longer

reached up to their summits. Hawes did not appear to

be defended, but they avoided it all the same, going

round on the higher ground to the south and fording

the tributaries of the Ure, fortunately shallow at this

time of year.

They made camp for the night in the mouth of

Widdale Gill, securing themselves in the angle between

the railway line and the river. Fairly near they found a

field that had been planted with potatoes, and dug up

a good supply. Olivia made a stew of these and the salt

meat they carried; Jane helped her and Millicent gave

some half-hearted assistance.

The sun had set behind the Pennines, but it was still

quite light; John looked at his watch and saw that it

wasn't yet eight o'clock. Of course, that was British Summer Time, not Greenwich. He smiled at the thought

of that delicate and ridiculous distinction.

They had done well, and the boys were not too

obviously fatigued. Normally he might have taken

them farther before halting, but it would be stupid to

begin the climb up into Mossdale in such circumstances.

Instead, they could make an early start the following

morning. He watched the preparations for supper with

a contented eye. Pirrie was on guard beside the railway

line.

The boys came over to him together. It was Davey

who spoke; he used a tone of deference quite unlike his

old man-to-man approach.

'Daddy,' he said, 'can we stand guard tonight as well?'

John surveyed them: the alert figure of his son,

Spooks's gangling lankiness, Steve's rather square shortness.

They were still just schoolboys, out on a more

141

puzzling and exciting lark than usual.

He shook his head. 'Thanks very much for the offer,

but we can manage.'

Davey said: 'But we've been working it out. It doesn't

matter that we can't shoot properly as long as we can

keep awake and make a noise if we see anyone. We

can do that.'

John said: 'The best thing you three can do is not to

stay awake talking after supper. Get to sleep as quickly

as possible. We're up early in the morning, and we've

got a stiff climb and a long day to face.'

He had spoken lightly enough, and in the old days

Davey would have argued strenuously on the point. Now

he only glanced at the other two boys in resignation, and

they went off together to look at the river.

They all had supper together, Pirrie having come

down from the line with a report of emptiness as far as

the eye could see. Afterwards, John appointed the hours

of sentry duty for the night.

Roger said: 'You're not counting Jane in?'

He thought Roger was joking at first, and laughed.

Then he saw, to his astonishment, that it had been a

serious question.

'No,' he said. 'Not tonight.'

The girl was sitting close to Olivia; she had not

strayed far from her all day. John had heard them talking

together during the afternoon, and had heard Jane

laughing once. She glanced up at the two men, her fresh,

somewhat fat-cheeked face open and inquiring.

'You wouldn't murder us in our beds, would you,

Jane?' Roger asked her.

She shook her head solemnly.

John said to her: 'Well, it's best not to give you the

chance, isn't it?'

She turned away, but it was in embarrassment, he

saw, not hatred.

He said: 'It's Ann's first watch. The rest of us had

142

better get down and get to sleep. You boys can put the

fire out - tread out all the embers.'

Roger woke him, and handed him the shot-gun which

the sentry kept. He got to his feet, feeling stiff, and

rubbed his legs with his hands. The moon was up; its

light gleamed on the nearby river, and threw shadows

from the small group of huddled figures.

'Seasonably warm,' Roger said, 'thank God.'

'Anything to report?'

'What would there be, but ghosts?'

'Any ghosts, then?'

'A brief trace of an apparition - the corniest of them

all.' John looked at him. 'The ghost train. I thought I

heard it hooting in the distance, and for about ten

minutes afterwards I could have sworn I heard its distant

roar.'

'Could be a train,' John said. 'If there are any capable

of being manned, and anyone capable of manning one,

they might try a night journey. But I think it's a bit

unlikely, taken all round.'

'I prefer to think of it as a ghost train. Heavily laden

with the substantial ghosts of Dalesmen going to

market, or trucks of ghostly coal or insubstantial metal

ingots, crossing the Pennines. I've been thinking - how

long do you think railway lines will be recognisable as

railway lines? Twenty years - thirty? And how long

will people remember that there were such things, once

upon a time? Shall we tell fairy stories to our great-

grandchildren about the metal monsters that ate coal

and breathed out smoke?'

'Go to sleep,' John said. 'There'll be time enough to

think about your great-grandchildren.'

'Ghosts,' Roger said. 'I see ghosts all round me tonight.

The ghosts of my remote descendants, painted

with woad.'

John made no reply, but climbed up the embankment

143

to his post on the line. When he looked back from the

top, Roger was curled up, and to all intents asleep.

The sentry's duty was to keep both sides of the line

under observation, but the far side - the north - was

more important owing to the fact that the main road

lay in that direction. That was the sentry's actual post,

out of direct sight of the group of sleepers. John took

up his position there. He lit a cigarette, guarding the

glowing end against possible observation. He didn't

really think it was necessary, but it was natural to adapt old army tricks to a situation with so many familiar

elements.

He looked at the small white cylinder, cupped in his

hand. There was a habit that would have to go, but

there was no point in ending it before necessity ended

it for him. How long, he wondered, before the exploring

Americans land at the forgotten harbours and push inland,

handing out canned ham and cigars, and scattering

Chung-Li immune grass seed on their way? In every

little outpost, like Blind Gill, where the remnants of

the British held out, something like that would be the

common daydream, the winter's tale. A legend, perhaps,

that might spur the new barbarians at last across the

western ocean, to find a land as rough and brutal as

their own.

For he could no longer believe that there would be any last-minute reprieve for mankind. First China, and

then the rest of Asia, and now Europe. The others would

fall in their turn, incredulous, it might be, to the end.

Nature was wiping a cloth across the slate of human

history, leaving it empty for the pathetic scrawls of

those few who, here and there over the face of the globe,

would survive.

He heard a sound from the other side of the railway

line, and moved warily across to investigate. As he

reached the edge of the embankment, he saw that a

slim figure was climbing the last few feet towards him.

144

It was Milhcent. She put a hand up to him and he

grasped it.

He said: 'What the hell are you doing?'

She said: 'Ssh - you'll wake everyone up.'

She looked down at the sleeping group below, and

then moved across towards the sentry post. John followed

her. He was reasonably certain what the visit

promised. The calm effrontery of it made him angry.

'You're not on duty for another couple of hours,' he

said. 'You want to go back and get some sleep. We've

got a long day in front of us.'

She asked him: 'Cigarette?' He took one from his

case and gave it to her. 'Mind lighting it?'

He said: 'I don't think it's a good idea to show lights.

Keep it under, and cover it with your hands when you

inhale.'

'You know everything, don't you?'

She bent down to his cupped hands to take the

lighter's flame. Her black hair gleamed in the moonlight.

He was not, he realised, handling the situation

very well. It had been a mistake to give her the cigarette

she asked for; he should have sent her back to bed. She

straightened up again, the cigarette now tucked behind

her curled fingers.

'I can do without sleep,' she said. 'I remember one

weekend I didn't have three hours sleep between Friday

and Monday. Fresh as a daisy after it, too.'

'You don't have to boast. It's stamped all over you.'

'Is it?' There was a pause. 'What's the matter with Arm ?'

He said coldly: 'You know as much as I do. I suppose

it wouldn't have affected you - either what happened or

what she did afterwards.'

Complacently, she said: "There's one thing about not

having very high standards - you're not likely to go off

your rocker when you hit something nasty - either from

other people or yourself.'

145

John drew on his cigarette. 'I don't want to talk about Arm . And I don't want an affaire with you - do you

understand that? I should think you would see that,

quite apart from anything else, this isn't the time for

that sort of thing.'

'When you want a thing is the time to have it.'

'You've made a mistake. I don't want it.' |

She laughed; her voice was lower when she did so,

and rather hoarse. I

'Let's be grown up,' she said. 'I may make mistakes, ' but not about that kind of thing.'

'You know my mind better than I do?'

'I shouldn't be surprised. I'll tell you this much, Big

Chief. If it had been Olivia who had paid you this little

visit, you would have sent her back straight away, and ,

no back-answers. And why are you talking in whispers, |

anyway? In case we make anyone wake up?'

He had not realised that he had dropped his voice. He

spoke more loudly. 'I think you'd better get back now,

Millicent.'

She laughed again. 'What would be so unreasonable

about not wanting to wake people up? I don't suppose

they're all as good at doing without sleep as I am. You

rise too easily.'

'All right. I'm not going to argue with you. Just go

back to bed, and forget all about it.'

She said obediently: 'O.K.' She dropped her cigarette, I

half smoked, and trod it into the ground. 'I'll just try the

spark test, and if you don't fire, I'll go right down like i

a good little girl.' i

She came towards him. He said: 'Don't be silly, Milli-

cent.' She paused just short of him. 'Nothing wrong

with a goodnight kiss, is there?' She put herself in his

arms. He had to hold her or let her fall, and he held her.

She was very warm, and softer to hold than he would

have expected. She wriggled slightly against him.

'Spark test satisfactory, I think,' she said.

146

They both turned at the sound of small stones falling.

A figure rose above the embankment's edge and stood

facing them.

Pirrie tapped his rifle, which he held under his arm. He said reprovingly: 'Even carrying this, I very nearly

surprised you. You are not as alert as a good sentry

should be, Custance.'

Millicent had disengaged herself. She said: 'What do

you think you're doing, wandering around in the middle

of the night?'

'Would it be altogether inappropriate,' Pirrie asked,

'to put a similar question to you?'

She said scornfully: 'I thought the eyeful you got

the last time you spied on me had put you off. Or is

that the way you get your kick now?'

Pirrie said: 'The last several times, I have borne with

the situation as the lesser evil. I will grant that you have

been discreet. Any action I might have taken could only

have made my cuckoldry conspicuous, and I was always

anxious to avoid that.'

'Don't worry,' Millicent said. 'I'll go on being

discreet.'

John said: 'Pirrie! Nothing has happened between

your wife and me. Nothing is going to. The only thing I

am concerned with is getting us all safely to Blind Gill.'

In a musing tone, Pirrie said: 'My natural inclination

always was to kill her. But in normal society, murder is

much too great a risk. I went so far as to make plans, and rather good ones, too, but I would never have

carried them out.'

Millicent said: 'Henry! Don't start being silly.'

In the moonlight, John saw Pirrie lift his right hand,

and rub the fingers along the side of his nose. He said

sharply:

That's enough of that!'

Deliberately, Pirrie released the safety catch on the

rifle. John raised his shotgun.

147

'No,' Pirrie said calmly. Tut that gun down. You are

very well aware that I could shoot a good deal more

quickly than you. Put it down. I should not care to be

provoked into a rash act.'

John lowered the shot-gun. In any case it had been

ridiculous, he thought, to envisage Pirrie as a figure out

of an Elizabethan tragedy.

He said: 'Things must be getting me down. It was

a silly thought, wasn't it? If you'd really wanted to dish

Millicent, there was nothing to stop you leaving her in

London.'

'A good point,' Pirrie said, 'but invalid. You must

remember that although I joined your party I did so

with reservations as to the truth of the story Buckley

asked me to believe. I was willing to engage with you in

breaking out of the police cordon because I am extremely

devoted to my liberty of action. That was all.'

Millicent said: 'You two can continue the chat. I'm

going back to bed.'

'No,' Pirrie said softly, 'stay where you are. Stay

exactly where you are.' He touched the barrel of his

rifle, and she halted the movement she had just begun. 'I may say that I gave serious, if brief, consideration to

the idea of leaving Millicent behind in London. One

reason for rejecting it was my assurance that, if nothing

worse occurred than civil break-down, Millicent would

manage very well by dint of offering her erotic services

to the local gang-leader. I did not care for the idea of

abandoning her to what might prove an extremely

successful career.'

'Would it have mattered?' John asked.

'I am not,' said Pirrie, 'a person on whom humiliation

sits lightly. There is a strain in my make-up that some

might describe as primitive. Tell me, Custance - we are

agreed that the process of law no longer exists in this

country?'

'If it does, we'll all hang.'

148

'Exactly. Now, if State law fails, what remains?'

John said carefully: The law of the group - for its

own protection.'

'And of the family?'

'Within the group. The needs of the group come

first.'

'And the head of the family?' Millicent began to

laugh, a nervous almost hysterical laugh. 'Amuse yourself,

my dear,' Pirrie continued. 'I like to see you

happy. Well, Custance. The man is the proper head of

his family group - are we still agreed?'

There was only one direction in which the insane

relentless logic could be heading. John said:

'Yes. Within the group.' He hesitated. 'I am in charge

here. The final say is mine.'

He thought Pirrie smiled, but in the dim light it was

difficult to be sure. Pirrie said:

'The final say is here.' He tapped the rifle. 'I can, if I

wish, destroy the group. I am a wronged husband,

Custance - a jealous one, perhaps, or a proud one. I am

determined to have my rights. I hope you will not

gainsay me, for I should not like to have to oppose you.'

'You know the way to Blind Gill now,' John said.

'But you might have difficulty getting entry without me.'

'I have a good weapon, and I can use it. I believe I

should find employment quite readily.'

There was a pause. In the silence there came a sudden

bubbling lilt of bird song; with a shock John recognised

it as a nightingale.

'Well,' Pirrie said, 'do you concede me my rights?'

Millicent cried: 'No! John, stop him. He can't behave

like this - it isn't human. Henry, I promise ...'

'To cease upon the midnight,' Pirrie said. 'with no

pain. Even I can recognise the appositeness of verse

occasionally. Custance! Do I have my rights?'

Moonlight silvered the barrel as it swung to cover

John again. Suddenly he was afraid - not only for him149

self, but for Arm and the children also. There was no

doubt about Pirrie's implacability; the only doubt was

as to where, with provocation, it might lead him.

'Take your rights,' he said.

In a voice shocked and unfamiliar, Millicent said:

No! Not here...'

She ran towards Pirrie, stumbling awkwardly over the

railway lines. He waited until she was almost on him

before he fired. Her body spun backwards with the force

of the bullet, and lay across one of the lines. From the

hills, the echoes of the shot cracked back.

John walked across the lines, passing close by the

body. Pirrie had put down his rifle. John stood beside

him and looked down the embankment. They had all

awakened with the sound of the shot.

He called down: 'It's all right. Everybody go to sleep

again. Nothing to worry about.'

Roger shouted up: 'That wasn't the shot-gun. Is Pirrie up there?'

'Yes,' John said. 'You can turn in. Everything's under

control.'

Pirrie turned and looked at him. 'I think I will turn

in, too.'

John said sharply: 'You can give me a hand with this

first. We can't leave it here for the women to brood

over while they're on watch.'

Pirrie nodded. 'The river?'

'Too shallow. It would probably stick. And I don't

think it's a good idea to pollute water supplies anyway.

Down the embankment, on the other side of the river.

I should think that will do.'

They carried the body along the line to a point about

two hundred yards west. It was light, but the going was

difficult. John was relieved when the time came to throw

it down the embankment. There were bushes at the

foot; it landed among them. It was possible to see

150

Millicent's white blouse but, in the moonlight, nothing

more.

John and Pirrie walked back together in silence.

When they reached the sentry point, John said:

'You can go down now. But I shall tell Olivia to wake

you for what would have been your wife's shift. No

objections, I take it?'

Pirrie said mildly: 'Of course. Whatever you say.' He

tucked his rifle under his arm. 'Good night, Custance.'

'Good night,' John said.

He watched Pirrie slithering his way down the slope

towards the others. He could have been mistaken, of

course. It might have been possible to save Millicent's

life.

He was surprised to find that the thought did not

worry him.

151

In the morning, a subdued air was evident. John had

told them that Pirrie had shot Millicent, but had let the

children think it was an accident. He gave a full account

to Roger, who shook his head.

'Cool, isn't he?' We certainly picked up something

when we adopted him.'

'Yes,'John said,'we did.'

'Are you going to have trouble, do you think?'

'Not as long as I let him have his own way,' John said.

'Fortunately, his needs seem fairly modest. He felt he

had a right to kill his own wife.'

Arm came down to him later, when he was washing in

the river. She stood beside him, and looked at the

tumbling waters. The sun was shining the length of the

valley, but there were clouds directly above them, large

and close-pressed.

'Where did you put her body?' she asked him. 'Before

I send the children down to wash.'

'Well away from here. You can send them down.*

She looked at him without expression. 'You might as

well tell me what happened. Pirrie isn't the sort to have

accidents with a rifle, or to kill without a reason.'

He told her, making no attempt to hide anything.

She said: 'And if Pirrie had not appeared just at that

moment?'

He shrugged. 'I would have sent her back down, I

think. What else can I say?'

152

'Nothing, I suppose. It doesn't matter now.' She shot

the question at him suddenly: 'Why didn't you save

her?'

'I couldn't. Pirrie had made up his mind. I would only

have got myself shot as well.'

She said bitterly: 'You're the leader. Are you going to

stand by and let people murder each other?'

He looked at her. His voice was cold. 'I thought my

life was worth more to you and the children than Milli-

cent's. I still think so, whether you agree or not.'

For a moment they faced each other in silence; then Arm came a step towards him, and he caught her. He

heard her whisper:

'Darling, I'm sorry. You know I didn't mean that.

But it's so terrible, and it goes on getting worse. To kill

his wife, like that. . . What kind of a life is it going to

be for us?'

'When we get to Blind Gill...'

'We shall still have Pirrie with us, shan't we? Oh,

John, must we? Can't we - lose him somehow?'

He said gently: 'You're worrying too much. Pirrie is

law-abiding enough. I think he had hated Millicent for

years. There's been a lot of bloodshed recently, and I

suppose it went to his head. It will be different in the

valley. We shall have our own law and order. Pirrie

will conform.'

'Will he?'

He stroked her arms. 'You,' he said. 'How is it now?

Not quite so bad?'

She shook her head. 'Not quite so bad. I suppose one

gets used to everything, even memories.'

By seven o'clock they were all together, and ready

to set out. The clouds which had come over the sky still

showed gaps of blue, but they had spread far enough to

the east to hide the sun.

'Weather less promising,' Roger said.

'We don't want it too hot,' John said. 'We have a

153

climb in front of us. Everything ready?'

Pirrie said: 'I should like Jane to walk with me.'

They stared at him. The request was so odd as to be

meaningless in itself. John had not thought it necessary

to have the party walk in any particular order,

with the result that they straggled along in whatever

way they chose. Jane had automatically taken up her

position alongside Olivia again.

John said:'Why?'

Pirrie gazed round the little circle with untroubled

eyes. 'Perhaps I should put it another way. I have

decided that I should like to marry Jane - insofar as

the expression has any meaning now.'

Olivia said, with a sharpness quite out of keeping

with her usual manner: 'Don't be ridiculous. There can't

be any question of that.'

Pirrie said mildly: 'I see no bar. Jane is an unmarried

girl, and I am a widower.'

Jane, John saw, was looking at Pirrie with wide and

intent eyes; it was impossible to read her expression.

Arm said: 'Mr Pirrie, you killed Millicent last night.

Isn't that enough bar?'

The boys were watching the scene in fascination;

Mary turned her head away. It had been silly, John

thought wearily, to imagine that this was a world in

which any kind of innocence could be preserved.

'No,' Pirrie said, 'I don't regard it as a bar.'

Roger said: 'You also killed Jane's father.' I

Pirrie nodded. 'An unfortunate necessity. I'm sure -

Jane has resigned herself to that.'

John said: 'I suggest we leave things over for now,

Pirrie. Jane knows your mind. She can think about it

for the next day or two.'

'No.' Pirrie put out his hand. 'Come here, Jane.'

Jane stood, still gazing at him. Olivia said:

'Leave her alone. You're not to touch her. You've

done enough, without adding this.'

154

Pirrie ignored her. He repeated: 'Come here, Jane. I

am not a young man, nor a particularly handsome one.

But I can look after you, which is more than many

young men could do in the present circumstances.'

Arm said: 'Look after her - or murder her?'

'Millicent,' Pirrie said, 'had been unfaithful to me a

number of times, and was attempting to be so again.

That is the only reason for her being dead.'

Incredulously, Arm said: 'You speak as though

women were another kind of creature - less than

human.'

Pirrie said courteously: 'I'm sorry if you think so.

Jane! Come with me.'

They watched in silence as, slowly, Jane went over to

where Pirrie waited for her. Pirrie took her hands in

his. He said: 'I think we shall get on very well together.'

Olivia said: 'No, Jane - you mustn't!'

'And now,' said Pirrie, 'I think we can move off.*

'Roger, John,' Olivia said. 'Stop him!'

Roger looked at John. John said: 'I don't think it's

anything to do with the rest of us.'

'What if it had been Mary?' Olivia said. 'Jane has

rights as much as any of us.'

'You're wasting your time, Olivia,' John said. 'It's a

different world we're living in. The girl went over to

Pirrie of her own free will. There's nothing else to be

said. Off we go now.'

Arm walked beside him as they set off, walking along

the railway line. The valley narrowed sharply ahead

of them, and the road, to the north, veered in towards

them.

'There's something horrible about Pirrie,' Arm said.

'A coldness and a brutality. It's terrible to think of

putting that young girl in his hands.'

'She did go to him voluntarily.'

'Because she was afraid! The man's a killer.'

'We all are.'

155

'Not in the same way. You didn't make any attempt

to stop it, did you? You and Roger could have stopped

him. It wasn't like the business with Millicent. You were

only a couple of feet from him.'

'And he had the safety catch on. Either of us could

have shot him.'

'Well?'

'If there had been ten Janes and he had wanted them

all, he could have had them. Pirrie's worth more to us

than they would be.'

'And if it had been Mary - as Olivia said?'

'Pirrie would have shot me before he mentioned the

matter. He could have done so last night, you know,

and very easily. I may be the leader here, but we're still

kept together by mutual consent. It doesn't matter

whether that consent is inspired by fear or not, as long

as it holds. Pirrie and I are not going to frighten each

other; we each know the other's necessary. If either of

us were put out of action, it might mean the difference

between getting to the valley or not.'

She said intensely: 'And when we get there - will you

be prepared to deal with Pirrie then?'

'Wait till we get there. As to that '

He smiled, and she noticed it. 'What?'

'I don't think Jane's the kind of girl to remain afraid

for long. She will shake herself out of it. And when she

does ... I wouldn't trust her on night watch - Pirrie

proposes taking her to bed with him. It seems odd to

think of Pirrie as being over trustful - all the same, he's

already been mistaken in one wife.'

'Even if she wanted to,' Arm said, 'what could she

do? He may not look much, but he's strong.'

'That's up to you and Olivia, isn't it? You keep the

cutlery items.'

She looked at him, trying to estimate how seriously

the remark had been intended.

'But not until we get to the valley,' he said. 'She will

156

have to put up with him until then, at any rate.'

As they climbed up to Mossdale Head, the sky darkened

continually, and gusts of rain swept in their faces. These

increased as they neared the ridge, and they breasted it

to see the western sky black and stormy over the rolling

moors. They had four light plastic mackintoshes in the

packs, which John told the women to put on. The boys

would have to learn to contend with being wet; although

the temperature was lower than it had been, the day

was still reasonably warm.

The rain thickened as they walked on. Within half

an hour, men and boys were both soaked. John had

crossed the Pennines by this route before, but only by

car. There had been a sense of isolation about the pass

even then, a feeling of being in a country swept of life,

despite the road and the railway line that hugged it.

That feeling now was more than doubly intensified.

There were few things, John thought, so desolate as a

railway line on which no train could be expected. And

where the pattern of the moors seen from a moving car

had been monotonous, the monotony to people on foot,

struggling through rain squalls, was far greater. The

moors themselves were barer, of course. The heather

still grew, but the moorland grasses were gone; the outcrops

of rocks jutted like teeth in the head of a skull.

During the morning, they passed occasional small

parties heading in the opposite direction. Once again,

there was mutual suspicion and avoidance. One group

of three had their belongings strapped on a donkey.

John and the others stared at it with amazement. Someone

presumably had kept it alive on dry fodder after the

other beasts of burden were killed along with the cattle,

but once away from its barn it would have to starve.

- Roger said: 'A variation of the old sleigh-dog technique,

I imagine. You get it to take you as far as you

can, and then eat it.'

157

'It's a standing temptation to any other party you

happen to meet, though, isn't it?' John said. 'I can't see

them getting very far with that once they reach the

Dale.'

Pirrie said: 'We could relieve them of it now.'

'No,' John said. 'It isn't worth our while, in any case.

We've got enough meat to last us, and we should reach

Blind Gill tomorrow. It would only be unnecessary

weight.'

Steve began limping shortly afterwards, and examination

showed him to have a blistered heel.

Olivia said: 'Steve! Why didn't you say something

when it first started hurting?'

He looked at the adult faces surrounding him, and

his ten-year-old assurance deserted him. He began to

cry.

'There's nothing to cry about, old man,' Roger said. 'A blistered heel is bad luck, but it's not the end of the

world.'

His sobs were not the ordinary sobs of childhood, but

those in which experience beyond a child's range was

released from its confinement. He said something, and

Roger bent down to catch his words.

'What was that, Steve?'

'If I couldn't walk -I thought you might leave me.'

Roger and Olivia looked at each other. Roger said:

'Nobody's going to leave you. How on earth could

you think that?'

'Mr Pirrie left Millicent,' Steve said.

John intervened. 'He'd better not walk on it. It will

only get worse.'

'I'll carry him,' Roger said. 'Spooks, will you carry

my gun for me?'

Spooks nodded. 'I'd like to.'

'You and I will take him in turns, Rodge,' John said.

'We'll manage him all right. Good job he's a little 'un.'

158

Olivia said: 'Roger and I can take the turns. He's our

boy. We can carry him.'

She had not spoken to John since the incident of Jane

and Pirrie. John said to her:

'Olivia - I do the arranging around here. Roger and

I will carry Steve. You can take the pack of whoever

happens to be doing it at the tune.'

Their eyes held for a moment, and then she turned

away.

Roger said: 'All right, old son. Up you get.'

Their progress immediately after this was a little

faster, since Steve had been acting as a brake, but John

was not deceived by it. The carrying of a passenger,

even a boy as small as Steve, added to their difficulties.

He kept them going until they had nearly got to the end

of Garsdale, before he called a halt for their midday

meal.

The wind, which had been carrying the rain into

their faces, had dropped, but the rain itself was still

falling, and in a steadier and more soaking downpour.

John looked round the unpromising scene.

'Anybody see a cave and a pile of firewood stacked

inside? I thought not. A cold snack today, and water.

And we can rest our legs a little.'

Arm said: 'Couldn't we find somewhere dry to eat

it?'

About fifty yards along the road, there was a small

house, standing back. John followed her gaze towards it.

'It might be empty,' he said. 'But we should have to

go up to it and find out, shouldn't we? And then it might

not be empty after all. I don't mind us taking risks

when it's for something we must have, like food, but it

isn't worth it for half an hour's shelter.'

'Davey's soaked,' she said.

'Half an hour won't dry him out. And that's all the

time we can spare.' He called to the boy: 'How are you,

Davey?Wet?'

159

Davey nodded. 'Yes, Dad.'

'Try laughing drily.'

It was an old joke. Davey did his best to smile at it.

John went over and rumpled his wet hair.

'You're doing fine,' he said. 'Really fine.'

The western approach to Garsdale had been through a

narrow strip of good grazing land which now, in the

steady rain, was a band of mud, studded here and there

with farm buildings. They looked down to Sedbergh,

resting between hills and valley on the other side of the

Rawthey. Smoke lay above it, and drifted westwards

along the edge of the moors. Sedbergh was burning.

'Looters,' Roger said.

John swung his glasses over the stone-built town.

'We're meeting the north-western stream now; and

they've had the extra day to get here. All the same, it's a

bit of a shaker. I thought this part would still be quiet.'

'It might not be so bad,' Roger said, 'if we cut north

straight away and get past on the higher ground. It

might not be so bad up in the Lune valley.'

Pirrie said: 'When a town like that goes under, I

should expect all the valleys around to be in a dangerous

condition. It is not going to be easy.'

John had directed the glasses beyond the ravaged town

to the mouth of the dale along which they had proposed

to travel. He could make out movements but it was

impossible to know what they constituted. Smoke rose

from isolated buildings. There was an alternative route,

across the moors to Kendal, but that also took them

over the Lune. In any case if Sedbergh had fallen, was

there any reason to think things were any better around

Kendal?

Pirrie glanced at him speculatively. 'If I may offer a

comment, I think we are under-armed for the conditions

that lie ahead. Those people with the donkey - we

should probably have got a gun or two out of them,

160

apart from the animal. They would hardly have had

the temerity to travel as they were doing, unarmed.'

Roger said: 'It might not be as bad as it looks. We

shall have to make the effort, anyway.'

John looked out over the confluence of valleys and

rivers.

'I don't know. We may find ourselves walking into

something we can't cope with. It might be too late

then.'

'We can't stay here, can we?' said Roger. 'And we

can't go back, so we must go forward.'

John turned towards Pirrie. He realised, as he did so,

that, although Roger might be his friend, Pirrie was his

lieutenant. It was Pirrie's coolness and judgement on

which he had come to rely.

'I think we need more than just guns. There aren't

enough of us. If we're going to be sure of getting to

Blind Gill, we shall have to snowball. What do you

think?'

Pirrie nodded, considering the point. 'I'm inclined to

agree. Three men are no longer an adequate number

for defence.'

Roger said impatiently: 'What do we do then? Hang

out a banner, with a sign on it: "Recruits Welcomed"?'

'I suggest we make a halt here,' John said. 'We're still

on the pass, and we'll get parties going both ways across

the Pennines. They will be less likely to be downright

looters, too. The looters will be happy enough down in

the valleys.'

They looked again down the vista their position commanded.

Even in the rain it was very picturesque. And,

even in the rain, the houses down there were burning.

Pirrie said thoughtfully: 'We could ambush parties as

they came through - there's enough cover about a

hundred yards back.'

'There aren't enough of us to make a pressgang,'

John said. 'We need volunteers. After all, if they have

161

guns we should have to give them back to them.'

Roger said: 'What do we do, then? Make camp? By

the side of the road?'

'Yes,' John said. He looked at his bedraggled group

of followers. 'Let's hope not for long.'

They had to wait over an hour for their first encounter,

and then it was a disappointing one. They saw a little

party struggling up the road from the valley, and, as

they drew nearer, could see that they were eight in

number. There were four women, two children - a boy

about eight and a girl who looked younger - and two

men. They were wheeling two perambulators, stacked

high with household goods; a saucepan fell off when

they were about fifty yards away and rolled away with

a clatter. One of the women stooped down wearily to

pick it up.

The two men, like their womenfolk, looked miserable

and scared. One of them was well over fifty; the other,

although quite young, was physically weedy.

Pirrie said: 'I hardly think there is anything here

that will be to our advantage.'

He and Roger were standing with John on the road

itself, holding their guns. The women and children were

resting on a flat-topped stone wall nearby.

John shook his head. 'I think you're right. No

weapons, either, I should think. One of the kids may

have a water-pistol.'

The approaching party stopped when they caught

sight of the three men standing in the road, but after a

whispered consultation and a glance backwards into the

smouldering valley, they came on again. Fear stood on

them more markedly now. The older man walked in

front, and tried to look unconcerned, with poor success.

The girl began to cry, and one of the women tugged at

her, simultaneously frantic and furtive, as though afraid

the noise would in some way betray them.

162

As they passed, in silence, John thought how natural

it would have been, a few days before, to give some kind

of greeting, and how unnatural the same greeting

would have sounded now.

Roger said quietly: 'How far do you think they'll get?'

'Down into Wensleydale, possibly. I don't know. They

may survive a week, if they're lucky.'

'Lucky? Or unlucky?'

'Yes. Unlucky, I suppose.'

Pirrie said: 'They appear to be turning back.'

John looked. They had travelled perhaps seventy-five

yards farther on along the road; now they had turned

and were making their way back, still pushing the

perambulators. By turning, they had got the rain in

their faces instead of on their backs. The little girl's

mackintosh gaped at the neck; her fingers fumbled,

trying to fasten it, but she could not.

They stopped a short distance away. The older man

said:

'We wondered if you was waiting for anything up

here - if there was anything we could tell you, maybe.'

John's eyes examined him. A manual worker of some

kind; the sort of man who would give a lifetime's faithful

inefficient service. On his own, under the new conditions,

he would have small chance of survival, his only

hope lying in the possibility of attaching himself to some

little Napoleonic gangster of the dales wlio would put up

with his uselessness for the sake of his devotion. With

his present entourage, even that was ruled out.

'No,' John said. 'There's nothing you can tell us.*

'We was heading across the Pennines,' the man went

on. 'We reckoned it might be quieter over in those parts.

We thought we might find a farm or something, out of

the way, where they'd let us work and give us some

food. We wouldn't want much.'

A few months ago, the pipe-dream had probably been

a £75,000 win on the football pools. Their chances of

163

that had been about as good as the chances of their

more modest hopes were now. He looked at the four

women; only one of them was sufficiently youthful to

stand a chance of surviving on sexual merits, and with

youth her entire store of assets was numbered. They

were all bedraggled. The two children had wandered

away, in the direction of the wall where Arm and the

others were sitting. The boy was not wearing shoes, but

plimsolls, which were wet through.

John said harshly: 'You'd better get on, then, hadn't

you?'

The man persisted: 'You think we might find a place

like that?'

'You might,' John said.

'AH this trouble,' one of the women said. 'It won't

last long, will it?'

Roger looked down into the valley. 'Only till hell

freezes over.'

'Where was you thinking of heading?' asked the

older man. 'Were you thinking of going into Yorkshire

as well?'

John said: 'No. We've come from there.'

'We're not bothered about which way we go, for that

matter. We only thought it might be quieter across the

Pennines.'

'Yes. It might.'

The mother of the two children spoke: 'What my

father means is - do you think we could go whichever

way you're going? It would mean there was more of us,

if we ran into any trouble. I mean - you must be looking

for a quiet place, too. You're respectable people, not like

those down there. Respectable folk should stick together

at a time like this.'

John said: "There are something like fifty million

people in this country. Probably over forty-nine million

of them are respectable, and looking for a quiet place.

There aren't enough quiet places to go round.'

164

'Yes, that's why it's better for folks to stick together.

Respectable folk.'

'How long have you been on the road?' John asked

her.

She looked puzzled. 'We started this morning - we

could see fires in Sedbergh, and they were burning the

Follins farm, and that's not more than three miles from

the village.'

'We've had three days' start on you. We aren't respectable

any longer. We've killed people on our way

here, and we may have to kill more. I think you'd better

carry on by yourselves, as you were doing.'

They stared at him. The older man said at last:

'I suppose you had to. I suppose a man's got to save

himself and his family any way he can. They got me

on killing in the First War, and the Jerries hadn't burned

Sedbergh then, nor the Follins farm. If you've got to do

things, then you've got to.'

John did not reply. At the wall, the two children were

playing with the others, scrambling up and along the

wall and down in a complicated kind of obstacle race. Arm saw his glance, and rose to come towards him.

'Can we go with you?' the man said. 'We'll do as you

say - I don't mind killing if it's necessary, and we can

do our share of the work. We don't mind which way

you're going - it's all the same as far as we're concerned.

Apart from being in the army, I've lived all my life in

Carbeck. Now I've had to leave it, it doesn't matter

where I go.'

'How many guns have you got?' John asked.

He shook his head. 'We haven't got any guns.'

'We've got three, to look after six adults and four

children. Even that isn't enough. That's why we're waiting

here - to find others who've got guns and who will

join up with us. I'm sorry, but we can't take passengers.'

'We wouldn't be passengers! I can turn my hand to

most things. I can shoot, if you can come by another

165

gun. I was a sharpshooter in the Fusiliers.'

'If you were by yourself, we might have you. As it is,

with four women and two more children ... we can't

afford to take on extra handicaps.'

The rain had stopped, but the sky remained grey and

formless, and it was rather cold. The younger man, who

had still not spoken, shivered and pulled his dirty raincoat

more tightly round him.

The other man said desperately: 'We've got food. In the pram.- half a side of bacon.'

'We have enough. We killed to get it, and we can kill

again.'

The mother said: 'Don't turn us down. Think of the

children. You wouldn't turn us down with the children.'

'I'm thinking of my own children,' John said. 'If I

were able to think of any others, there would be millions

I could think of. If I were you, I should get moving. If

you're going to find your quiet place, you want to find

it before the mob does.'

They looked at him, understanding what he said but

unwilling to believe that he could be refusing them.

Arm said, close beside him: 'We could take them,

couldn't we? The children . . . ' He looked at her. 'Yes

- I haven't forgotten what I said - about Spooks. I was

wrong.'

'No,' John said. 'You were right. There's no place for

pity now.'

With horror, she said: 'Don't say that.'

He gestured towards the smoke, rising in the valley.

'Pity always was a luxury. It's all right if the tragedy's

a comfortable distance away - if you can watch it from

a seat in the cinema. It's different when you find it on

your doorstep - on every doorstep.'

Olivia had also come over from the wall. Jane, who

had made little response to Olivia, following her morning

of walking with Pirrie, also left the wall, but went

166

and stood near Pirrie. He glanced at her, but said

nothing.

Olivia said: 'I can't see that it would hurt to let them

tag along. And they might be some help.'

'They let the boy come on the road in plimsolls,' John

said, 'in this weather. You should have understood by

now, Olivia, that it's not only the weakest but the least

efficient as well who are going to go to the wall. They

couldn't help us; they could hinder.'

The boy's mother said: 'I told him to put his boots

on. We didn't see that he hadn't until we were a couple

of miles from the village. And then we daren't go back.'

John said wearily: 'I know. I'm simply saying that

there's no scope for forgetting to notice things any

more. If you didn't notice the boy's feet, you might not

notice something more important. And every one of

us might die as a result. I don't feel like taking the

chance. I don't feel like taking any chances.'

Olivia said: 'Roger...'

Roger shook his head. 'Things have changed in the

last three days. When Johnny and I tossed that coin for

leadership, I didn't take it seriously. But he's the boss

now, isn't he? He's willing to take it all on his conscience,

and that lets the rest of us out. He's probably

right, anyway.'

The newcomers had been following the interchange

with fascination. Now the older man, seeing in Roger's

acquiescence the failure of their hopes, turned away,

shaking his head. The mother of the children was not so

easily shaken off.

'We can follow you,' she said. 'We can stay here till

you move and then follow you. You can't stop us doing

that.'

John said: 'You'd better go now. It won't do any good

talking.'

'No, we'll stay! You can't make us go.'

Pirrie intervened, for the first time: 'We cannot make

167

you go; but we can make you stay here after we've gone.'

He touched his rifle. 'I think you would be wiser to go

now.'

The woman said, but lacking conviction: 'You

wouldn't do it.'

Arm said bitterly: 'He would. We depend on him. You'd better go.'

The woman looked into both their faces; then she

turned and called to her children: 'Bessie! WillI'

They detached themselves from the others with reluctance.

It was like any occasion on which children

meet and then, at the whim of their parents, must break

away again, their friendship only tentatively begun. Arm watched them come.

She said to John: 'Please...'

He shook his head. 'I have to do what's best for us.

There are millions of others - these are only the ones

we see.'

'Charity is for those we see.*

'I told you - charity, pity... they come from a steady

income and money to spare. We're all bankrupt now.'

Pirrie said: 'Custance! Up the road, there.'

Between Baugh Fell and Rise Hill, the road ran

straight for about three-quarters of a mile. There were

figures on it, coming down towards them.

This was a large party - seven or eight men, with

women and some children. They walked with confidence

along the crown of the road, and even at that

distance they were accompanied by what looked like the

glint of guns.

John said with satisfaction: 'That's what we want.'

Roger said: 'If they'll talk. They may be the kind that

shoot first. We could get over behind the wall before we

try opening the conversation.'

'If we did, it might give them reason to shoot first.'

'The women and children, then.'

168

'Same thing. Their own are out in the open.'

The older man of the other party said: 'Can we stay

with you till these have gone past, then?'

John was on the verge of refusing when Pirrie caught

his eye. He nodded his head very slightly. John caught

the point: a temporary augmentation, if only in numbers

and not in strength, might be a bargaining point.

He said indifferently: 'If you like.'

They watched the new group approach. After a time

the children, Bessie and Will, drifted away and back

to where the others were still playing on the wall.

Most of the men seemed to be carrying guns. John

could eventually make out a couple of army pattern

.300 rifles, a Winchester .202, and the inevitable shotguns.

With increasing assurance, he thought: this is it.

This was enough to get them through any kind of chaos

to Blind Gill. There only remained the problem of

winning them over.

He had hoped they would halt a short distance away,

but they had neither suspicion nor doubts of their own

ability to meet any challenge, and they came on. Their

leader was a burly man, with a heavy red face. He wore

a leather belt, with a revolver stuck in it. As he came

abreast of where John's party stood by the side of the

road, he glanced at them indifferently. It was another

good sign that he did not covet their guns; or not

enough, at least, even to contemplate fighting for them.

John called to him: 'Just a minute.'

He stopped and looked at John with a deliberation of

movement that was impressive. His accent, when he

spoke, was thickly Yorkshire.

'You wanted summat?'

'My name's John Custance. We're heading for a

place I know, up in the hills. My brother's got land

there - in a valley that's blocked at one end and only a

few feet wide at the other. Once in there, you can keep

an army out. Are you interested?'

169

He considered for a moment. 'What are you telling us

for?'

John pointed down towards the valley. 'Things are nasty down there. Too nasty for a small party like ours.

We're looking for recruits.'

The man grinned. 'Happen we're not looking for a

change. We're doin' all right.'

'You're doing all right now,' John said, 'while there are potatoes in the ground, and meat to be looted from

farm-houses. But it won't be too long before the meat's

used up, and there won't be any to follow it. You won't

find potatoes in the fields next year, either.'

'We'll look after that when the time comes.'

'I can tell you how. By cannibalism. Are you looking

forward to it?'

The leader himself was still contemptuously hostile,

but there was some response, John thought, in the

ranks behind him; He could not have had long to weld

his band together; there would be cross-currents, perhaps

countercurrents.

The man said: 'Maybe we'll have the taste for it by

then. I don't think as I could fancy you at the moment.'

'It's up to you,' John said. He looked past him to

where the women and children were; there were five

women, and four children, their ages varying between

five and fifteen. 'Those who can't find a piece of land

which they can hold are going to end up by being

savages - if they survive at all. That may suit you. It

doesn't suit us.'

'I'll tell you what doesn't suit me, mister - a lot of

talk. I never had no time for gabbers.'

'You won't need to talk at all in a few years,' John

said. 'You'll be back to grunts and sign language. I'm

talking because I've got something to tell you, and if

you've got any sense you will see it's to your advantage

to listen.'

170

'Our advantage, eh? It wouldn't be yours you're

thinking about?'

'I'd be a fool if it wasn't. But you stand to get more

out of it. We want temporary help so that we can get

to my brother's place. We're offering you a place where

you can live in something like peace, and rear your

children to be something better than wild animals.'

The man glanced round at his followers, as though

sensing an effect that John's words were having on

them. He said:

'Still talk. You think we're going to take you on, and

find ourselves on a wild-goose chase up in the hills?'

'Have you got a better place to go to? Have you got

anywhere to go to, for that matter? What harm can it

possibly do you to come along with us and find out?'

He stared at John, still hostile but baffled. At last, he

turned to his followers.

'What do you reckon of it?' he said to them.

Before anyone spoke, he must have read the answer

in their expressions.

'Wouldn't do any harm to go and have a look,' a dark,

thick-set man said. There was a murmur of agreement.

The red-faced man turned back to John.

'Right,' he said. 'You can show us the way to this

valley of your brother's. We'll see what we think of it

when we get there. Whereabouts is it, anyway?'

Unprepared to reveal the location of Blind Gill, or

even to name it, John was getting ready an evasive

answer, when Pirrie intervened. He said coolly:

'That's Mr Custance's business, not yours. He's in

charge here. Do as he tells you, and you will be all right.'

John heard a gasp of dismay from Arm. He himself

found it hard to see a justification for Pirrie's insolence,

both of manner and content; it could only reconfirm

the leader of the other group in his hostility. He thought

of saying something to take the edge off the remark, but

was stopped both by the realisation that he wouldn't be

171

likely to mend the situation, and by the trust he had

come to have in Pirrie's judgement. Pirrie, undoubtedly,

knew what he was doing.

'It's like that, is it?' the man said. 'We're to do as

Custance tells us? You can think again about that. I do

the ordering for my lot, and, if you join up with us, the

same goes for you.'

'You're a big man,' Pirrie observed speculatively, 'but

what the situation needs is brains. And there, I imagine,

you fall short.'

The red-faced man spoke with incongruous softness:

'I don't take anything from little bastards just because

they're little. There aren't any policemen round

the corner now. I make my own regulations; and one of

them is that people round me keep their tongues civil.'

Finishing he tapped the revolver in his belt, to emphasise

his words. As he did so, Pirrie raised his rifle.

The man, in earnest now, began to pull the revolver out.

But the muzzle was still inside his belt when Pirrie fired.

From that short range, the bullet lifted him and crashed

him backwards on the road. Pirrie stood in silence, his

rifle at the ready.

Some of the women screamed. John's eyes were on

the men opposing him. He had restrained his impulse to

raise his own shot-gun, and was glad to see that Roger

also had not moved. Some of the other men made tentative

movements towards their guns, but the incident

had occurred too quickly for them, and too surprisingly.

One of them half lifted a rifle; unconcernedly, Pirrie

moved to cover him, and he set it down again.

John said: 'It's a pity about that.' He glanced at

Pirrie 'But he should have known better than to try

threatening someone with a gun if he wasn't sure he

could fire first. Well, the offer's still open. Anyone who

wants to join us and head for the valley is welcome.'

One of the women had knelt down by the side of the

fallen man. She looked up.

172

'He's dead.'

John nodded slightly. He looked at the others.

'Have you made up your minds yet?'

The thick-set man, who had spoken before, said:

'I reckon it were his own look-out: I'll come along, all

right. My name's Parsons - All Parsons.'

Slowly, with an air almost ritualistic, Pirrie lowered

his rifle. He went across to the body, and pulled the

revolver out of the belt. He took it by the muzzle, and

handed it to John. Then he turned back to address the

others:

'My name is Pirrie, and this is Buckley, on my right.

As I said, Mr Custance is in charge here. Those who

wish to join up with our little party should come along

and shake hands with Mr Custance, and identify themselves.

All right?'

Alf Parsons was the first to comply, but the others

lined up behind him. Here, more than ever, ritual was

being laid down. It might come, in time, to a bending

of the knee, but this formal hand-shake was as clear a _

sign as that would have been of the rendering of fealty. |

For himself, John saw, it signified a new role, of enhanced

power. The leadership of his own small party,'

accidental at first, into which he had grown, was of a

different order from this acceptance of loyalty from

another man's followers. The pattern of feudal chieftain

was forming, and he was surprised by the degree

of his own acquiescence - and even pleasure - in it.

They shook hands with him, and introduced themselves

in their turn. Joe Harris . . . Jess Awkright . . .

Bill Riggs . . . Andy Anderson . . . Will Secombe . . .

Martin Foster.

The women did not shake hands. Their men pointed

them out to him. Awkright said: 'My wife, Alice.' Riggs

said: 'That's my wife, Sylvie.' Foster, a thin-faced greying

man, pointed: 'My wife, Hilda, and my daughter,

Hildegard.'

173

Alf Parsons said: 'The other's Joe Ashton's wife,

Emily. I reckon she'll be all right when she's got over

the shock. He never did treat her right.'

All the men of Joe Ashton's party had shaken hands.

The elderly man of the first party stood at John's elbow.

He said: 'Have you changed your mind, Mr Custance?

Can we stay with your lot?'

John could see now how the feudal leader, his

strength an overplus, might have given his aid to the

weak, as an act of simple vanity. After enthronement,

the tones of the suppliant beggar were doubly sweet. It

was a funny thing.

'You can stay,' he said. 'Here.' He tossed him the

shot-gun which he had been holding. 'We've come by

a gun after all.'

When Pirrie killed Joe Ashton, the children down by

the wall had frozen into the immobility of watchfulness

which had come to replace ordinary childish fear. But

they had soon begun playing again. Now the new set of

children drifted down towards them, and, after the

briefest of introductions, joined in the playing.

'My name's Noah Blennitt, Mr Custance,' the elderly

man said, 'and that's my son Arthur. Then there's my

wife Iris, and her sister Nelly, my young daughter

Barbara, and my married daughter Katie. Her husband

was on the railway; he was down in the south when the

trains stopped. We're all very much beholden to you,

Mr Custance. We'll serve you well, every one of us.'

The woman he had referred to as Katie looked at

John, anxiously and placatingly.

'Wouldn't it be a good idea for us all to have some

tea? We've got a big can and plenty of tea and some

dried milk, and there's water in the brook just along.'

'It would be a good idea,' John said, 'if there were

two dry sticks within twenty miles.'

She looked at him, shy triumph rising above the

anxiety and the desire to please.

174

"That's all right, Mr distance. We've got a primus

stove in the pram as well.'

'Then go ahead. We'll have afternoon tea before we

move off.' He glanced at the body of Joe Ashton. 'But

somebody had better clear that away first.'

Two of Joe Ashton's erstwhile followers hastened to

do his bidding.

175

Pirrie walked with John for a time when they set out

again; Jane, at a gesture from Pirrie, walked a demure

ten paces in the rear. John had taken, as Joe Ashton

had done, the head of the column, which now ran to

the impressive number of thirty-four - a dozen men,

a dozen women, and ten children. John had appointed

four men to accompany him at the head of the column

and five to go with Roger at the rear. In the case of

Pirrie, he had made specific his roving commission. He

could travel as he chose.

As they went down the road into the valley, separated

somewhat from the other men, John said to him:

'It turned out very well. But it was taking a bit of a

chance.'

Pirrie shook his head. 'I don't think so. It would have

been taking a chance not to have killed him - and a

rather long one. Even if he could have been persuaded

to let you run things, he could not have been trusted.'

John glanced at him. 'Was it essential that I should

run things? After all, the only important thing is getting

to Blind Gill.'

'That is the most important thing, it is true, but I

don't think we should ignore the question of what happens

after we get there.'

'After we get there?'

Pirrie smiled. 'Your little valley may be peaceful and

secluded, but it will have defences to man, even if

176

relatively minor ones. It will be under siege, in other

words. So there must be something like martial law, and

someone to dispense it.'

'I don't see why. Some sort of committee, I suppose,

with elected members, to make decisions ... surely that

will be enough?'

'I think,' Pirrie said, 'that the day of the committee

is over.'

His words echoed the thoughts that John himself

had felt a short while before; for that reason, he replied

with a forcefulness that had some anger in it:

'And the day of the baron is back again? Only if we

lose faith in our own ability to cope with things democratically.'

'Do you think so, Mr Custance?' Pirrie stressed the

'Mr' slightly, making it clear that he had noticed that,

following the killing of Joe Ashton, the expression had

somehow become a title. Except to Arm, and Roger and

Olivia, John had now become Mr Custance; the others

were known either by Christian names or surnames. It

was a small thing, but not insignificant. Would Davey,

John wondered, be Mr in his turn, by right of succession?

The straying thought annoyed him.

He said curtly: 'Even if there has to be one person in

charge of things at the valley, that one will be my

brother. It's his land, and he's the most competent

person to look after it.'

Pirrie raised his hands in a small gesture of mock

resignation. 'Exit the committee,' he said, 'unlamented.

That is another reason why you must be in charge of the

party that reaches Blind Gill. Someone else might be

less inclined to see that point.'

They moved down into the valley, passing the signs of

destruction, which had been evident from higher up but

which here were underlined in brutal scoring. What

refugees there were avoided them; they had no temp177

tation to look to an armed band for help. Near the ruins

of Sedbergh they saw a group, of about the same number

as their own, emerging from the town. The women

were wearing what looked like expensive jewellery, and

one of the men was carrying pieces of gold plate. Even

while John watched, he threw some of it away as being

too heavy. Another man picked it up, weighed it in his

hand, and dropped it again with a laugh. They went on,

keeping to the east of John's band, and the gold remained,

gleaming dully against the brown grassless

earth.

From an isolated farm-house, as they struck up towards

the valley of the Lune, they heard a screaming, I

high-pitched and continuous, that unsettled the children

and some of the women. There were two or three men

lounging outside the farm-house with guns. John led

his band past, and the screams faded into the distance.

The Blennitts' perambulator had been abandoned

when they left the road on the outskirts of Sedbergh,

and their belongings distributed among the six adults in

awkward bundles. The going was clearly harder for

them than for any of the others, and they made no

secret of their relief when John called a halt for the day,

high up in the Lune valley, on the edge of the moors. (

The rain had not returned; the clouds had thinned into cirrus, threading the sky at a considerable height. Above

the high curves of the moors to westward, the threads

were lit from behind by the evening sun. (

'We'll tackle the moors in the morning,' John said.

'By my reckoning, we aren't much more than twenty-

five miles from the valley now, but the going won't be

very easy. Still, I hope we can make it by tomorrow

night. For tonight' - he gestured towards a house with

shattered windows that stood on a minor elevation

above them - ' . . . that looks like a promising billet.

Pirrie, take a couple of men and reconnoitre it, will

you?'

178 |

Pirrie, without hesitation, singled out Alf Parsons and

Bill Riggs, and they accepted his selection with only a

glance for confirmation at John. The three men moved

up towards the house. When they were some twenty

yards away, Pirrie waved them down into the cover of

a shallow dip. Taking leisurely aim, he himself put a

shot through an upstairs window. They heard the noise

of the rifle, and the tiny splintering of glass. Silence

followed.

A minute later, the small figure of Pirrie rose and

walked towards the house. Apart from the rifle hunched

under his arm, he had the air of a Civil Service official

making a perfunctory business call. He reached the

door, which apparently he found to be ajar, and kicked

it open with his right foot. Then he disappeared inside.

Once again John was brought up sharp with the realisation

of how formidable an opponent Pirrie would have

been had his ambition been towards the conscious

exercise of power, instead of its promotion in another.

He was walking now, alone, into a house which he

could only guess to be empty. If he had any nerves at

all, it was difficult to envisage a situation in which they

would be drawn taut.

From an upper window, a face appeared - Pirrie's

face - and was withdrawn again. They waited, and at

last he came out at the front door. He walked back

down the path, sedately, and the two men rose and

joined him. He came back to where John was.

John asked him: 'Well? O.K.?'

'Everything satisfactory. Not even bodies to dispose

of. The people must have cleared out before the looters

arrived.'

'It has been looted?'

'After a fashion. Not very professionally.'

'It will give us a roof for the night,' John said. 'What

beds there are will do for the children. The rest of us

can manage on the floor.'

179

Pirrie looked round him in speculation. Thirty-four.

It isn't a very big house. I think Jane and I will risk the

inclemency of the weather.' He nodded, and she came

towards him, her rather stupid country face still showing

no signs of anything but submission in the inevitable.

Pirrie took her arm. He smiled. 'Yes, I think we will.'

'Just as you like,' John said. 'You can have a night

off guard duty.'

'Thank you,' Pirrie said. 'Thank you, Mr Custance.'

John found a room in the upper storey which had two

small beds in it, and he called up Davey and Mary to

try them. There was a bathroom along the landing, with

water still running, and he sent them there with instructions

to wash. When they had gone, he sat on a

bed, gazing out of the window, which looked down the

valley towards Sedbergh. A magnificent view. Whoever

lived here had probably been very attached to it - an

indication, if such were needed, that immaterial possessions

were as insecure as material ones.

His brief musing was interrupted by Ann's entry into

the room. She looked tired. John indicated the other

bed.

'Rest yourself,' he said. 'I've sent the kids along to

smarten themselves up.'

She stood, instead, by the window, looking out.

'All the women asking me questions,' she said. 'Which

meat shall we have tonight? ... Can we use the potatoes

up and rely on getting more tomorrow? . . . shall we

cook them in their jackets or peel them first? . . . why

me?'

He looked at her. 'Why not?'

'Because even if you like being the lord and master,

it doesn't mean that I want to be the mistress.'

'You walked out on them, then?'

'I told them to put all their questions to Olivia.'

180

John smiled. 'Delegating responsibility, as a good

mistress should.'

She paused; then said: 'Was it all necessary ~ joining

up with these people, making ourselves into an army?'

He shook his head. 'No, not all. The Blennitts certainly

not - but you wanted them, didn't you?'

'I didn't want them. It was just horrible, leaving the

children. And I didn't mean them -I meant the others.'

'With the Blennitts - just the Blennitts - the odds

would have tipped further against our getting through

to the valley. With these others, we're going to make it

easily.'

'Led by General Custance. And with the able assistance

of his chief killer, Pirrie.'

'You underestimate Pirrie if you think he's just a

killer.'

'No. I don't care how wonderful he is. He is a killer,

and I don't like him.'

'I'm a killer, too.' He glanced at her. 'A lot of people

are, who never thought they would be.'

'I don't need reminding. Pirrie's different.'

John shrugged. 'We need him - until we get to Blind

GUI.'

'Don't keep saying that!'

'It's true.'

'John.' Their eyes met. 'It's the way he's changing

you that's so dreadful. Making you into a kind of

gangster boss - the children are beginning to be scared

of you.'

He said grimly: 'If anything has changed me, it's been

something more impersonal than Pirrie - the kind of

life we have to lead. I'm going to get us to safety, all of

us, and nothing is going to stop me. I wonder if you

realise how well we've done to get as far as this? This

afternoon, with the valley like a battlefield - that's only

a skirmish compared to what's happening in the south.

We've come so far, and we can see the rest of the way

181

clear. But we can't relax until we're there.'

'And when we get there?'

He said patiently: 'I've told you - we can learn to

live normally again. You don't imagine I like all this, do

you?'

'I don't know.' She looked away, staring out of the

window. 'Where's Roger?'

'Roger? I don't know.'

'He and Olivia have had to carry Steve between them

since you've been so busy leading. They dropped behind.

The only place left for them to sleep, by the time they

got to the house, was the scullery.'

'Why didn't he come and see me?'

'He didn't want to bother you. When you called

Davey up, Spooks stayed behind. He didn't think of

coming with him, and Davey didn't think of asking.

That's what I meant about the children becoming scared

of you.'

John did not answer her. He went out of the room

and called down from the landing:

'Rodge! Come on up, old man. And Olivia and the

kids, of course.'

Behind him, Arm said, 'You're condescending now.

I don't say you can help it.'

He went to her and caught her arms fiercely.

'Tomorrow evening, all this will be over. I'll hand

things over to Dave, and settle down to learning from

him how to be a potato and beet farmer. You will see

me turn into a dull, yawning, clay-fingered old man will

that do?'

'If I could believe it will be like that...'

He kissed her. 'It will be.'

Roger came in, with Steve and Spooks close behind

him.

He said: 'Olivia's coming up, Johnny.'

'What the hell were you doing settling in the scullery?

' John asked. 'There's plenty of room in here. We

182

can put those beds together and get all the kids on them.

For the rest of us, it's a nice soft floor. Fairly new

carpets in the bedrooms - our hosts must have been on

the luxurious side. There are blankets in that cupboard

over there.'

Even while he spoke, he recognised his tone as being

too hearty, with the bluffness of a man putting inferiors

at their ease. But there was no way of changing

it. The relationship between himself and Roger had

changed on both sides, and it was beyond the power

of either of them to return to the old common ground.

Roger said: 'That's very friendly of you, Johnny.

The scullery was all very nice, but it had a smell of

cockroaches. You two, you can cut along and line up

for the bathroom.'

From the window, Arm said: 'There they go.'

'They?' John asked. 'Who?'

'Pirrie and Jane - taking a stroll before dinner, I

imagine.'

Olivia had come into the room while Arm was talking.

She started to say something and then, glancing at John,

stopped. Roger said:

'Pirrie the Wooer. Very sprightly for his age.'

Arm said to Olivia: 'You're looking after the knives.

See that Jane gets a sharp one when she comes in to

supper, and tell her there's no hurry to return it.'

'No!' The incisiveness had been involuntary; John

moderated his voice: 'We need Pirrie. The girl's lucky

to get him. She's lucky to be alive at all.'

'I thought we could see our way now,' Arm said. 'I

thought tomorrow evening would see things back to

normal. Do you really want Pirrie because he is essential

to our safety, or have you grown to like him for himself?'

'I told you,' John said wearily. 'I don't believe in

taking any chances. Perhaps we won't need Pirrie tomorrow,

but that doesn't mean that I take cheerfully

183

to the idea of your egging the girl on to cut his throat

during the night.'

'She may try,' Roger observed, 'of her own accord.'

'If she does,' Arm asked, 'what will you do, John have

her executed for high treason?'

'No. Leave her behind.'

Arm stared at him. 'I think you would!'

Speaking for the first time, Olivia said: 'He killed

Millicent.'

'And we didn't leave him behind?' With exasperation,

John went on: 'Can't you see that fair shares and justice

don't work until you've got walls to keep the barbarians

out? Pirrie is more use than any one of us. Jane is like

the BIennitts - a passenger, a drag. She can stay as long

as she's careful how she walks, but no longer.'

Arm said: 'He really is a leader. Note the sense of

dedication, most striking in the conviction that what he

thinks is right because he thinks it.'

John said hotly: 'It's right in itself. Can you find an

argument to refute it?'

'No.' She looked at him. 'Not one that you would

appreciate.'

'Rodge!' He appealed to him. 'You see the sense in it,

don't you?'

'Yes, I see the sense.' Almost apologetically, he added:

'I see the sense in what Arm says, too. I'm not blaming

you for it, Johnny. You've taken on the job of getting

us through, and you have to put that first. And it's Pirrie

who's turned out to be the one you could rely on.'

He was about to reply argumentatively when he

caught sight of their three faces, and memory was

evoked by the way they were grouped. Some time in the

past they had been in much the same position - at the

seaside, perhaps, or at a bridge evening. The recollection

touched in him the realisation of who he was and

who they were - Arm, his wife, and Roger and Olivia,

his closest friends.

184

He hesitated, then he said:

'Yes. I think I see it, too. Look - Pirrie doesn't matter

a damn to me.'

'I think he does,' Roger said. 'Getting through

matters to you, and so Pirrie does. It's not just his usefulness.

Once again, Johnny, I'm not criticising. I

couldn't have handled the situation, because I wouldn't

have had the stamina for it. But if I had been capable

of handling it, I would have felt the same way about

Pirrie.'

There was a pause before John replied.

'The sooner we get there the better,' he said. 'It will

be nice to become normal again.'

Olivia looked at him, her shy eyes inquiring in her

large placid face. 'Are you sure you will want to,

Johnny?'

'Yes. Quite sure. But if we had another month of

this, instead of another day to face, I wouldn't be so

sure.'

Arm said: 'We've done beastly things. Some of us

more so than others, perhaps, but all of us to some

extent - if only by accepting what Pirrie's given us. I

wonder if we ever can turn our backs on them.'

'We're over the worst,' John said. 'The going's plain

and easy now.'

Mary and Davey came running in from the bathroom.

They were laughing and shouting; too noisily.

John said: 'Quiet, you two.'

He had not, he thought, spoken any differently from

his custom. In the past, the admonition would have

had little if any effect. Now both fell quiet, and stood

watching him. Arm, and Roger and Olivia, were watching

him, too.

He bent towards Davey. 'Tomorrow night we should

be at Uncle David's. Won't that be good, eh?'

Davey said: 'Yes, Daddy.'

185

The tone was enthusiastic enough, but the enthusiasm

was tempered by an undue dutifulness.

In the early hours of the morning, John was awakened

by a rifle shot and, as he sat up, heard it replied to

from somewhere outside. He sat up, reaching for his

revolver, and called to Roger, hearing him grunt something

m reply.

Arm said:'What's that?'

'Nothing much, probably. A stroller, hoping for easy

pickings, maybe. You and Olivia stay here and see to

the children. We'll go and have a look.'

The sentry's duty was to patrol outside the house, but

he found Joe Harris, whose turn it was, staring out of a

front room window on the ground floor. He was a thin

dark man, with a heavy stubble of beard. His eyes

gleamed in the moonlight, which shone into the house

here.

'What's happening?' John asked him.

'I seen 'em when I was outside,' Harris said. 'Comin'

up the valley from Sedbergh way. I figured it might be

best not to disturb 'em in case they was going' right on

up the valley, so came on back into the house, and kept

a watch from here.'

'Well?'

'They turned up towards the house. When I was

certain they was coming this way, I had a crack at the

bloke in front.'

'Did you hit him?'

'No. I don't think so. Another one had a shot back,

and then they went down among the shrubs. They're

still out there, Mr Custance.'

'How many?'

'It's hard to say, in this light. Might have been a

dozen - maybe more.'

'As many as that?'

186

'That's why I was hoping they would go right

through.'

John called:'Rodge!'

'Yes.' Roger was standing at the door of the room.

There were others in the room as well, but they were

keeping quiet.

'Are the others up?'

'Three or four out here in the hall.'

Noah Blennitt's voice came from close beside John.

The and Arthur's here, Mr Custance.'

John said to Roger: 'Send one of them up to the back

bedroom window to keep an eye open in case they try to

work round that way. Then two each in the front bedrooms.

Noah, you can take up your place at the other

ground-floor window. I'll give you time to get into position.

Then when I shout we'll let them have a volley. It

may impress them enough to make them clear off. If it

doesn't, pick your own targets after that. We have the

territorial advantage. Women and kids well away from

the windows, of course.'

He heard them moving away, as Roger relayed the

instructions to them. In the room beside him a child's

voice began to cry - Bessie Blennitt. He looked and saw

her sitting up in an improvised bed; her mother was

beside her, hushing her.

'I should take her round to the back,' he said. 'It

won't be so noisy there.'

His own mildness surprised him. Katie Blennitt said:

'Yes, I'll take her, Mr Custance. You come along, too, Will . You'll be all right. Mr Custance is going to look

after you.'

To the other women, he said: 'You might as well all

go to the back of the house.'

He knelt beside Joe Harris. 'Any sign of them

moving yet?'

'I thought I saw summat. The shadows play you up.'

John stared out into the moonlit garden. There was

187

no trace of cloud in a sky which was heavy with stars fate

playing tricks on both sides. The moonlight gave the

defenders a considerable advantage, but if the cloud

had held, the marauders would probably have missed

seeing the house, standing as it did apart and on a rise,

altogether.

He thought a shadow moved, and then knew one did,

not more than fifteen yards from the house. He cried,

very loudly:

'Now!'

Although he did not rate his chances of hitting anything

with a revolver as very high, he took aim on the

shadow that had moved, and fired through the open

window. The volley that accompanied his shot was

ragged but not unimpressive. He heard a cry of pain,

and a figure spun round and fell awkwardly. John

ducked to the side of the window in anticipation of the

reply. There was a single shot, which seemed to splinter

against the brickwork. After that, he could hear only a

mumble of voices, and groaning from the man who had

been hit.

The weight of fire-power must have come as an

unpleasant surprise to them. They could not have expected

an isolated house such as this to be held in force.

Putting himself in the position of their leader, John

reflected that his own concern, on stumbling on this

kind of opposition, would have been to get his men out

of the way with the least possible delay.

On the other hand, still retaining that viewpoint, he

could see that there were snags. The moonlight certainly

aided the defenders; and it was sufficiently bright to

make good targets out of the attackers if they attempted

any sudden disengagement. John peered up into the

night sky, looking for cloud. If the moon were going to

be obscured, it would be common sense for them to wait

for it. But stars sparkled everywhere.

A further consideration must be that if the defenders

188

could be overcome, the attackers stood to make a neat

haul of arms, and possibly ammunition. Guns were

worth taking risks for. And it was very probable that

they had the advantage both in men and weapons.

It occurred to him that his show of force could have

been tactically an error. Two or three rounds, instead

of seven, might have been more likely to put them on

the retreat. Pirrie might... Pirrie, he remembered, was

somewhere outside, enjoying his nuptials.

The children must have all awoken by now, but they

remained quiet. He heard someone coming downstairs.

Roger called to him softly:

'Johnny!'

He kept his eyes on the garden. 'Yes.'

'What next? There's one fellow standing out like a

sore thumb from up there. Can we start knocking them

off, or do you want to give them a chance to blow?'

He was reluctant to be the one to open the firing

again. They knew his strength now. Further firing would

be an expenditure of valuable ammunition with no

prospect of any practical benefits.

'Wait,' he said. 'Give it a little longer.'

Roger said: 'Do you think... ?'

In the moonlight, a shout rose: 'Gi'e it 'em!' John

ducked automatically as a volley of shots slammed

against the house with a shivering protesting crash of

splintered glass. From above he heard one of his own

men reply.

He called to Roger: 'All right. Get back upstairs, and

tell them to use their discretion. If that gang change

their minds and decide to pull out, let them go.'

This time one of the children had begun to cry, a

frightened piercing wail. John felt far from optimistic

as to the prospects of the attackers pulling out. They

had presumably weighed the considerations as he had

done, and decided their best chance lay in pressing the

attack home.

189

While the new lull held, he called out into the garden:

'We don't want any trouble. We'll hold our fire if

you clear off.'

He had taken the precaution of first flattening himself

against the wall beside the window. Two or three

shots thumped against the far wall of the room in

answer. A man laughed, and he fired the revolver in

the direction of the laugh. There was a rattle of sporadic

fire, either way.

Watching intently, he saw a figure heave up out of

the shadows, and fired again. Something sailed through

the air, hit the side of the house, and dropped, not far

from the window at which he and Joe Harris stood.

He shouted: 'Down, Joe!'

The explosion shattered what glass was left in the

window panes, but did no other damage. A rattle of fire

issued from the house.

Grenades, he thought sickly - why had the possibility

not occurred to him? A fair portion of the guns that

were now scattered throughout the countryside had

originated in army barracks, and grenades were obviously

as useful. For that matter, the men themselves

had very possibly been soldiers; their present unconcern

had a professional air to it.

Without any doubt, grenades tipped the scales against

the defenders. A few more might miss, as the first had

done, but eventually they would get them into the house,

silencing the rooms one by one. The situation had suddenly

changed its aspect. With the valley so close, he

was facing defeat, and death, almost certainly, for all

of them.

He said urgently to Joe Harris: 'Get upstairs and tell

them to keep as continuous a fire on as they can. But

aiming - not popping off wildly. As soon as they see

someone lift his arm, slam everything at him. If we don't

keep the grenades out, we've had it.'

Joe said: 'Right, Mr Custance.'

190

He did not seem particularly worried, either because

he lacked the imagination to see what the grenades

meant, or possibly owing to his faith in John's leadership.

Pirrie had done a good job in that respect, but

John would have exchanged it for Pirrie beside him in

the house. If any of the others scored a hit, under these

conditions, it would be by a fluke; Pirrie would have

picked off the vague moonlit shadows without much

difficulty.

John fired again at a movement, and his shot was

reinforced by shots from upstairs. Then from outside

there was a swift concentrated burst directed towards

one of the bedroom windows. Simultaneously, from

another part of the garden, an arm rose, and a second

grenade was lobbed through the air. It hit the side of

the house again, and went off harmlessly. John fired at

the point from which it had been thrown. There was a

scatter of shots in different directions. In their wake

came a cry which cut off half-way. The cry was from

the garden. Someone had claimed another of the

attackers.

It was encouraging, but no more than that. It made

little difference to the probabilities of the outcome. John

fired another round, and dodged sideways as a shot

crashed past him in reply. The people outside were not

likely to be discouraged by a lucky shot or two from the

house finding their marks.

Even when, after a further interchange of shots, he

saw a grenade arm rise again, and then saw it slump

back with the grenade unthrown, he could only see the

incident as a cause for grim satisfaction - not for hope.

Two seconds later, the grenade went off, and set off a

riot of explosion that made it abundantly clear that

whoever held it had been carrying other grenades as

well. There were shouts from that part of the garden,

and some cries of pain. John fired into the noise, and

others followed suit. This time there was no answer.

191

All the same, it was with both astonishment and

relief that John saw figures detach themselves from the

cover of the ground and run, keeping as low as possible,

away down the slope towards the valley. He fired after

them, as the others did, and tried to number them as

they retreated. Anything between ten and twenty - and

with one, possibly two or three, left behind.

Everyone came crowding into the room - the women

and children along with the men. In the dim light, John

could see their faces, relieved and happy. They were all

chattering. He had to speak loudly to make himself

heard:

'Joe! You've got another half-hour on guard. We're

doubling up for the rest of the night. You're on with

him now, Noah. Jess will go on with Roger afterwards,

and Andy with Alf. I'll take a turn myself with Will.

And from now on, raise the alarm first - and start

wondering what it might be afterwards.'

Joe Harris said: 'You see, Mr distance, I was hoping

they would go on past.'

'Yes, I know,' John said. 'The rest of us might as well

get back to bed.'

Alf Parsons asked: 'Any sign of Pirrie and his

woman?'

He heard Olivia's voice: 'Jane - out there . . .'

They will turn up,' he said. 'Go on back to bed now.'

'If that lot fell over them, they won't be turning up,'

Parsons said.

John went to the window. He called: 'Pirrie! Jane!'

They listened in silence. There was no sound from

outside. The moonlight lay like a summer frost on the

garden.

'Should we go and have a look for them?' Parsons

asked.

'No.' John spoke decisively. 'Nobody's moving out of

here tonight. For one thing, we don't know how far

those boys with the grenades have gone, or whether

192

they have gone for good. Off to bed now. Let's get out

of this room first, and give the Blennitts a chance. Come

on. We need to rest ourselves ready for tomorrow.'

They dispersed quietly, though with some reluctance.

John walked upstairs with Roger, following behind Arm

and Olivia and the children. He went into the upstairs

cloakroom, and Roger waited for him on the landing.

Roger said: 'I thought we'd had it for a time.'

The grenades? Yes.'

'In fact, I think we were a bit lucky.'

'I don't quite understand it. We were certainly lucky

dropping that bloke while he still had the grenades.

That must have shaken them quite a bit. But I'm surprised

that it shook them enough to make them pack

things in. I didn't think they would.'

Roger yawned. 'Anyway, they did. What do you think

about Pirrie and Jane?'

'Either they had gone far enough away to be out of

earshot, or else they were spotted and bought it. Those

people weren't bad shots. Not being in the house, they

wouldn't have had any protection.'

'They could have drifted out of earshot.' Roger

laughed. 'Along the paths of love.'

'Out of earshot of that racket? That would have

brought Pirrie back.'

'There is another possibility,' Roger suggested. 'Jane

may have tucked a knife in her garter on her own

account. These ideas probably do occur to women

spontaneously.'

'Where's Jane, then?'

'She might still have run across our friends. Or she

might have tumbled to the fact that she would be less

than'popular here if she came back with a story of

having mislaid her new husband on her bridal night.'

'She's got enough sense to know a woman's helpless

on her own now.'

'Funny creatures, women,' Roger said. 'Ninety-nine

193

times out of a hundred, they do the sensible thing without

hesitation. The hundredth time they do the other

with the same enthusiasm.'

John said curiously: 'You seem cheerful tonight,

Rodge.'

'Who wouldn't be, after a reprieve like that? That

second grenade came within a couple of feet of pitching

in at my window.'

'And you won't be sorry if Pirrie has bought it, either

from Jane or the grenade merchants.'

'Not particularly. Not at all, in fact. I think I'll be

rather pleased, I told you - there's been no need for me

to get myself fixated on Pirrie. I haven't had to run

things.'

'Is that what you would call it - fixated?'

'You don't find many Pirries about. The pearl in the

oyster - hard and shining and, as far as the oyster is

concerned, a disease.'

'And the oyster?' John offered ironically: 'The world

as we know it?'

'The analogy's too complicated. I'm tired as well. But

you know what I mean about Pirrie. In abnormal conditions,

invaluable; but I hope to God we aren't going

to live in those conditions for ever.'

'He was a peaceable enough citizen before. There's

no reason to think he wouldn't have been one again.'

'Isn't there? You can't put a pearl back inside the

oyster. I wasn't looking forward to life in the valley

with Pirrie standing just behind you, ready to jog your

elbow.'

'In the valley, David's boss, if anyone has to be. Not

me, not Pirrie. You know that.'

'I've never met your brother,' Roger said. 'I know

very little about him. But he hasn't had to bring his

family and hangers-on through a world that breaks up

as you touch it.'

'That doesn't make any difference.*

194

*No?' Roger yawned again. 'I'm tired. You turn in.

It's not worth my while for half an hour. I'll just look

in and see that the kids have bedded down.'

They stood together in the doorway of the room. Arm

and Olivia were lying on blankets under the window;

Arm looked up as she saw them standing there, but did

not say anything. A shaft of moonlight extended to the

double bed that had been created out of the two single

ones. Mary lay curled up by the wall. Davey and Steve

were snuggled in together, with one of Davey's arms

thrown across Steve's shoulder. Spooks, his features

strangely adult without his spectacles, was at the other

side. He was awake also, staring up at the ceiling.

'Don't think I'm not grateful for Pirrie,' Roger said.

'But I'm glad we've found we can manage without him.'

In the new pattern of life, the hours of sleep were from

nine to four, the children being packed off, when possible,

an hour earlier, and sleeping on after the others

until breakfast was ready. It began to be light during

the last watch, which John shared with Will Secombe.

He went out into the garden and examined the field of

the skirmish. There was a man about twenty-five, shot

through the side of the head, about fifteen yards from

the house. He was wearing army uniform and had a

jewelled brooch pinned on his chest. If the stones were

diamond, as they appeared to be, it must have been worth several hundred pounds at one time.

There were tatters of army uniform on the other body

in the garden. This one was a considerably more ugly

sight; he had apparently been carrying grenades round

his waist, and the first one had set them off. It was difficult

to make out anything of what he had been like in

life. John called Secombe, and they dragged both bodies

well away from the house and shoved them out of sight

under a clump of low-lying holly.

Secombe was a fair-haired, fair-skinned man; he was

195

in his middle thirties but looked a good deal younger.

He kicked a protruding leg farther under the holly, and

looked at his hands with disgust.

John said: 'Go in and have a wash, if you like. I'll

look after things. It will be time for reveille soon, anyway.'

'Thanks, Mr distance. Nasty job, that. I didn't see

anything as bad as that during the war.'

When he had gone, John had another look round the

environs of the house. The man who had had the

grenades had had a rifle as well; it lay near where he

had lain, bent and useless. There was no sign of any

other weapon; that belonging to the other corpse had

presumably been taken away in the retreat.

He found nothing else, apart from two or three cartridge

clips and a number of spent cartridge cases. He

was looking for signs of Pirrie or Jane, but there was

nothing. In the dawn light, the valley stretched away,

without sign of life. The sky was still clear. It looked

like a good day lying ahead.

He thought of calling again, and then decided it would

be useless. Secombe came back out of the house, and

John looked at his watch.

'All right. You can get them up now.'

Breakfast was almost ready and there were sounds of

the children moving about when John heard Roger

exclaim:

'Good God!'

They were in the front room from which John had directed operations during the night. John followed

Roger's gaze out of the shattered window. Pirrie was

coming up the garden path, his rifle under his arm; Jane

walked just behind him.

John called to him: 'Pirrie! What the hell have you

been up to?'

Pirrie smiled slightly. 'Would you not regard that as a

196

delicate question?' He nodded towards the garden. 'You

cleared the mess up, then?'

'You heard it?'

'It would have been difficult not to. Did they land

either of the grenades inside?' John shook his head. 'I thought not.'

'They cleared off when things were beginning to get

hot,' John said. 'I'm still surprised about that.'

'The side fire probably upset them,' Pirrie said.

'Side fire?'

Pirrie gestured to where, on the right of the house,

the ground rose fairly steeply.

John said: 'You were having a go at them - from

there?'

Pirrie nodded. 'Of course.'

'Of course,' John echoed. 'That explains a few things.

I was wondering who we had in the house who could hit

that kind of target in that kind of light, and kill instead

of just wounding.' He looked at Pirrie. 'Then you heard

me call you, after they had cleared off? Why didn't you

give me a hail back?'

Pirrie smiled again. 'I was busy.'

They travelled easily and uneventfully that day, if fairly

slowly. Their route now lay for the most part across the

moors, and there were several places where it was necessary

to leave the roads and cut over the bare or heathery

slopes, or to follow by the side of one of the many rivers

or streams that flowed down from the moors into the

dales. The sun rose at their backs into a cloudless sky,

and before midday it was too hot for comfort. John

called an early halt for dinner, and afterwards told the

women to get the children down to rest in the shade

of a group of sycamores.

Roger asked him: 'Not pressing on with all speed?'

He shook his head. 'We're within reach now. We'll be

197

there before dark, which is all that matters. The kids are

fagged out.'

Roger said: 'So am I.' He lay back on the dry, stony

ground, and rested his head on his hands. 'Pirrie isn't,

though.'

Pirrie was explaining something to Jane, pointing out

over the flat lands to the south.

'She won't knife him now,' Roger added. 'Another

Sabine woman come home to roost. I wonder what the

little Pirries will be like?'

'Mjllicent didn't have any children.'

'Conceivably Pirrie's fault, but more probably Milli-

cent's. She was the kind of woman who would take care

not to be burdened with kids. They would spoil her

chances.'

'Millicent seems a long time ago,' John said.

The relativity of time. How long since I found you

up in your crane? It seems something like six months.'

The moors had been more or less deserted, but when

they descended to cross the lower land north of Kendal,

they witnessed the signs, by now familiar, of the predatory

animal that man had become: houses burning, an

occasional cry in the distance that might be either of

distress or savage exultance, the sights and sounds of

murder. And another of their senses was touched here

and there their nostrils were pricked by the sour-

sweet smell of flesh in corruption.

But their own course was not interrupted, and soon

they began to climb again, up the bare bleak bones of

the moors towards their refuge. Skylarks and meadow

pipits could be heard in the empty arching sky, and for

a time a wheatear ran along ahead of them, a few

paces in front. Once they sighted a deer, about three

hundred yards off. Pirrie dropped to the ground to take

a careful aim on it, but it darted away behind a shoulder

of the moor before he could fire. Even from that

distance it looked emaciated. John wondered on what

198

diet it had been surviving. Mosses, possibly, and similar

small plants.

It was about five o'clock when they came to the

waters of the Lepe. It tumbled with the same swift

urgency of peace that it had always had; here its course

lay between rocky banks so that not even the absence of

grass detracted from the evocation of its familiarity.

Arm stood beside John. She looked more calm and

happier than she had done since they left London.

'Home,' she said, 'at last.'

'About two miles,' John said. 'But we'll see the gateway

in less than a mile. I know the river for several miles

farther down. And a bit farther up you can get into the

middle of the river, on stepping-stones. Dave and I used

to fish from there.'

'Are there fish in the Lepe? I didn't know.'

He shook his head. 'We never caught any inside the

valley. I don't think they travel so far up. But down

here there are trout.' He smiled. 'We'll send expeditions

out and net them. We must have some variety in our

diet.'

She smiled back. 'Yes. Darling, I think I can really

believe it now - that everything's going to be all right that

we're going to be happy and human again.'

'Of course. I never doubted it.'

'Dave's stockade,' John said. 'It looks nice and solid.'

They were in sight of the entrance to Blind Gill. The

road squeezed in towards the river and the high timber

fence ran from the water's edge across the road to the

steeply rising hillside. That part which covered the road

looked as though it might open to form a gate.

Pirrie had come forward to walk with John; he too

surveyed the fence with respect.

'An excellent piece of work. Once we are on the

other...'

It was the crude anger of machine-gun fire that broke

199

into his words. For a moment, John stood there,

shocked. He called, more in bewilderment than anything

else: 'Dave!'

There was a second burst of fire, and this time he ran

to get Davey and Mary. He shouted to the others: 'Get

into the ditch!' He saw that Arm was pulling Davey and

Spooks down with her, and that Mary was already

crouching in the ditch beside the road. He ran for it

himself, and lay down beside them.

Mary said: 'What's happening, Daddy?'

'Where is it firing from?' Arm asked.

He pointed towards the fence. 'From there. Did everyone

get clear? Who's that on the road? Pirrie!'

Pirrie's small body lay stretched across the camber of

the road. There was blood underneath him.

Arm caught hold of John as he began to rise. 'No! You

mustn't. Stay where you are. Think of the children me.'

'I'll get him away,' he said. 'They won't fire while I'm

getting him away.'

Arm held on to him. She was crying; she called to

Mary, and Mary also grasped his coat. While he was trying

to pull himself free, he saw that someone else had

got up from the ditch and was running towards where

Pirrie lay. It was a woman.

John stopped struggling, and said in amazement:

'Jane!'

Jane put her hands under Pirrie's shoulders and lifted

him easily. She did not look at the fence where the gun

was mounted. She got one of his arms over her own

shoulder and half dragged, half carried him to the ditch.

She eased him down beside John and sat down herself,

taking his head in her lap.

Arm asked: 'Is he - dead?'

Blood was pouring from the side of his head. John

wiped it away. The wound, he could see at once, was

only superficial. A bullet had grazed his skull, with

200

enough force to knock him over. There was an abrasion

on the other side of his head, where he had probably hit

the ground. It was very likely the fall which had

knocked him unconscious.

John said: 'He'll live.' Jane looked up; she was crying.

'Pass the word along to Olivia that we want the bandage,'

John added. 'And a wad of lint.'

Arm stared from Pirrie to the fence barring the road.

'But why should they fire at us? What's happened?'

'A mistake.' John stared at the fence. 'A mistake we'll

sort it out easily enough.'

201

Arm tried to stop him when she saw him tying a large

white handkerchief on the end of a stick.

'You can't do that! They'll shoot you.'

John shook his head. 'No, they won't.*

They fired on all of us, without provocation. They'll

fire at you, too.'

'Without provocation? A whole gang of us marching

up the road, and with arms? It was as much my mistake

as theirs. I should have realised how their minds would

work.'

'Their minds? David's!'

'No. Probably not. He can hardly be manning the

fence all the time. God knows who it is. Anyway, it's a

different thing with one man, unarmed, under a flag of

truce. There's no reason why they should fire.'

'But they might!'

'They won't.'

But he had an odd feeling as he walked along the

middle of the road towards the fence, his white flag held

above his head. It was not exactly fear. It seemed to

him that it was nearer to exhilaration - the sense of

fatigue allied to excitement that he had sometimes

known in fevers. He began to measure his paces, counting

soundlessly: one, two, three, four, five ... In front

of him, he saw that the barrel of the machine-gun poked

through a hole in the fence a good ten feet above the

202

ground; not far from the top. David must have built a

platform on the other side.

He stopped, seven or eight feet from the fence, and

looked up. From somewhere near the gun muzzle, a

voice said:

'Well, what are you after?'

John said: 'I'd like to have a word with David Custance.'

'Would you, now? He's busy. And the answer's no,

anyway.'

'He's my brother.'

There was a moment's silence. Then the voice said:

'His brother's in London. Who do you say you are?*

'I'm John Custance. We got away from London. It's

taken us some time to travel up here. Can I see him?'

'Wait a minute.' There was a low murmur of voices;

John could not quite catch what was said. 'All right.

You can wait there. We're sending up to the farm for

him.'

John walked a few paces, and stared into the Lepe.

From beyond the fence he heard a car engine start up

and then fade away along the road up the valley. It

sounded like David's utility. He wondered how much

petrol they would have in store inside Blind Gill.

Probably not much. It didn't matter. The sooner people

got used to a world deprived of the internal combustion

engine as well as the old-fashioned beasts of burden, the

better.

He called up to the man behind the fence: The people

with me - can they come out of the ditch? Without being

shot at?'

'They can stay where they are.'

'But there's no point in it. What's the objection to

their being on the road?'

'The ditch is good enough.'

John thought of arguing, and then decided against it.

Anyone on the other side of the fence was someone they

203

would have to live with; if this fellow wanted to exercise

his brief authority, it was best to put up with it. His own

disquiet had been allayed by the promptness with which

it had been agreed to send for David. That at least removed

the fear that he might have lost control of the

valley.

He said: 'I'll walk along and tell my lot what's happening.'

The voice was indifferent. 'Please yourself. But keep

them off the road.'

Pirrie was sitting up and taking notice now. He

listened to what John had to tell them, but made no

comment. Roger said:

'You think it's going to be all right, then?'

'I don't see why not. The bloke behind the machine-

gun may be a bit trigger-happy, but that won't bother

us once we're behind him.'

'He don't seem very anxious to let us get behind him,*

Alf Parsons said.

'Carrying out orders. Hello!'

There was the sound of an engine approaching. It halted behind the barrier.

That will be David!' John got to his feet again. 'Arm,

you could come along and have a word with him, too.'

'Isn't it a risk?' Roger asked.

'Hardly. David's there now.'

Arm said: 'Davey would like to come, too, I should

think - and Mary.'

'Of course.'

Pirrie said: 'No.' He spoke softly, but with finality.

John looked at him.

'Why? What's wrong?'

'I think they would be safer here,' Pirrie said. He

paused. 'I don't think you should all go along there

together.'

It took several seconds for John to grasp the implication;

he only did so then because the remark came

204

from Pirrie and so could be founded only on an utterly

cynical realism.

'Well,' he said at last, 'that tells me something about how you would act in my place, doesn't it?'

Pirrie smiled. Arm said: 'What's the matter?'

John heard David's voice calling him in the distance:

'John!' 'Nothing,' he said. 'Never mind, Arm. You stay

here. It won't take me long to fix things with David.'

He had half expected the gate in the fence to open

as he approached, but he realised that caution - possibly

excessive but on the whole justified - might prevent this

until John's status, and the status of the troop that

accompanied him, had been settled. He stood under the

fence, still blind to whatever was happening on the other

side of it, and said:

'Dave! That you?'

He heard David's voice: 'Yes, of course - open it.

How the devil is he going to get in if you don't?'

He saw the muzzle of the gun waggle as the gate

beneath it opened slightly. No chances were being taken.

He squeezed through the gap, and saw David waiting for

him. They took each others' hands. The gate closed

behind him.

'How did you make it?' David asked. 'Where's Davey

- and Arm and Mary?'

'Back there. Hiding in a ditch. Your machine-gunner

damn near killed us all.'

David stared at him. 'T can't believe it! I told the

people at the gate to look out for you, but I never believed

you would get here. The news of the ban on

travel . . . and then the rioting and rumours of bombing...

I'd given you up.'

'It's a long story,' John said. 'It can wait. Can I bring

my lot in first?'

'Your lot? You mean. .. ? They told me there was a

mob on the road.'

John nodded. 'A mob. Thirty-four of them, ten being

205

children. We've all been on the road for some time. I

brought them here.'

He was looking at David's face. He had seen the expression only once before that he could remember:

when, after their grandfather's death, they had heard

that the whole estate was being left to David. It showed

guilt and embarrassment.

David said: 'It's a bit difficult, Johnny.'

'In what way?'

'We're crowded out already. When things began

getting bad, the locals began to come in. The Rivers

from Stonebeck, and so on. It was their boy who got

hold of the machine-gun - from an army unit near

Windermere. Three or four of the men came with him. It's spread thin. We'll manage all right, but there's no

margin for accidents - a potato failure, or anything like

that.'

'My thirty-four will spread it thinner,' John said. 'But

they'll work for their keep. I'll answer for that.'

'That's not the point,' David said. 'The land will only

support so many. We're over the mark now.'

A brief silence followed. The Lepe rushed past on

their right. The man tending a fire on which a pot was

simmering and the two men up on the platform were

both out of earshot. Nevertheless, John found himself

lowering his voice. He said:

'What do you suggest? That we turn back towards

London?'

David grasped his arm. 'Good God, no! Don't be a

fool. I'm trying to tell you - I can make room for you

and Arm and the children; but not for the others.'

'Dave,' he said, 'you've got to make room for them.

You can do, and you must.'

David shook his head. 'I would if I could. Don't you

understand - those people aren't the first we've had to

turn away. There have been others. Some of them were

relations of people already here. We've had to be hard.

206

I've always told them that you and your family must

come in if you got here. But thirty-four . . . I It's impossible.

Even if I agreed, the others would never let

me.'

'It's your land.'

'No one holds land except by consent. They are in the

majority. Johnny - I know you don't like the idea of

abandoning the people you've been travelling with. But

you will have to. There's no alternative.'

There's always an alternative.'

'None. Bring them here - Arm and the children - you

can make some excuse for that. The others . . . they've

got arms, haven't they? They'll manage all right.'

'You've not been out there.'

Their eyes met again. David said. 'I know you won't

like doing it, but you must. You can't put the safety of

those others before Arm and the children.'

John laughed. The two men on the platform looked

down at them.

'Pirrie!' lie said. 'He must be psychic.'

'Pirrie?'

'One of my lot. I don't think we should have got

through without him. I was going to bring Arm and the

children with me when I came to meet you. He put a

stop to it. He made them stay behind. I saw that he was

protecting himself and the others against a double-cross,

and I was righteously indignant. Now ... if I did have

them here, inside the fence, I wonder what I would have

done?'

David said: 'This is serious. Can't you fool him somehow?'

Tool him? Not Pirrie.' John looked away, up the long

vista of Blind Gill, snug beneath its protecting hills. He said slowly: 'If you turn those others down, you're turning

us down - you're turning Davey down.'

'This man, Pirrie... I might persuade them to let one

other in with you. Can he be bribed?'

207

'Undoubtedly. But the idea will have entered the

heads of the others by now - particularly since I shall

have to tell them they can't just walk in as they had been

hoping. There isn't a hope of my getting the children in

here without them all coming.'

'There must be some way.'

'That's what I said to you, isn't it? We aren't free

agents any longer, though.' He stared at his brother.

'In a way, we're enemies.'

'No. We'll find a way round this. Perhaps ... if you

were to go back, and then I got our people to run a sortie

against you, under machine-gun cover . . . you could

have passed the word to Arm and the children to lie still

until we had chased them away.'

John smiled ironically. 'Even if I were prepared to do

it, it wouldn't work. Mine have been blooded. That ditch

makes a fair cover. The machine-gun isn't going to scare

them.'

'Then... I don't know. But there must be something.'

John looked up the valley again. The fields were well

cropped, mostly with potatoes.

'Arm will be wondering,' he said, 'not to mention the

others. I shall have to get back. What's it to be, Dave?'

He had come already to his own decision, and the

agony of his brother's uncertainty could not touch that

grtmness. Dave said at last, forcing the words out:

'I'll talk to them. Come back in an hour. I'll see what

they say about letting the others in. Or perhaps we'll

think of something in that time. Try to think of something,

Johnny!'

John nodded. 'I'll try. So long, Dave.'

David looked at him miserably: 'Give my love to

them all - to Davey.'

John said: 'Yes. Of course I will.*

The two men came down from the platform and unbarred

the gate again. John squeezed through. He did

not look at David as he went.

208

They were waiting for him as he dropped into the ditch.

He saw from their faces that they expected only bad

news; any news was bad that was not signalled by the

gate to the valley thrown open, and an immediate

beckoning in.

'How'd it go, Mr Custance?' Noah Blennitt asked.

'Not well.' He told them, baldy, but passing quickly

over the invitation to his own family to come in. When

he had finished, Roger said:

'I can see their point of view. He can make room for

you and Arm and the children?'

'He can't do anything. The others had agreed about

that, and apparently they're willing to stick by it.'

'You take it, Johnny,' Roger said. 'You've brought us

up here - we haven't lost anything by it, and there's no

sense in everyone missing the chance because we can't

all have it.'

The murmur from the others was uncertain enough

to be tempting. It's been offered, he thought, and they

won't stop me if I take it straight away while they're still

shocked by their own generosity. Take Arm and Mary

and Davey up to the gates, and see them open, and the

valley beyond . . . He looked at Pirrie. Pirrie returned

the look calmly; his small right hand, the fingers still

carefully manicured, rested on the butt of his rifle.

Seeing the bubble of temptation pricked, he wondered

how he would have reacted if he had had the real rather

than the apparent freedom of action. The feudal baron,

he thought, and ready to sell out his followers as cheerfully

as that. Probably they had been like that - most of

them, anyway.

He said, looking at Pirrie: 'I've been thinking it over.

Quite frankly, I don't think there's any hope at all of

my brother persuading the others to let us all in. As he

said, some of them have seen their own relations turned

back. That leaves us two alternatives: turning back ourselves

and looking for a home somewhere else, or fight209

ing our way into the valley and taking it over.'

Arm said: 'No!' in a shocked voice. Davey said: 'Do

you mean - fighting Uncle Dave, Daddy?' The others

stayed silent.

'We don't have to decide straight away,* John said. 'Until I've seen my brother again, I suppose we can

say there's an outside chance of managing it peaceably.

But you can be thinking it over.'

Roger said: 'I still think you ought to take what's

offered to you, Johnny.'

This time there was no kind of response; the moment

of indecision past, John reflected wrily. The followers

had realised the baron's duty towards them again.

Alt Parsons asked. 'What do you think, Mr Custance?'

'I'll keep my opinion until I come back next time,'

John said. 'You be thinking it over.'

Pirrie still did not speak, but he smiled slowly. With

the bandage round his head, he looked a frail and innocent

old man. Jane sat close by him, her pose protective.

It was not until John was on the point of going back

to the gate that Pirrie said anything. Then he said:

'You'll look things over, of course? From inside?'

'Of course,' John said.

If there had been any hope in his mind of David persuading

the others in the valley to relent, it would have

vanished the moment he saw his brother's face again.

Four or five other men had accompanied him back to

the fence, presumably to help the three already on guard

in the event of John's troops being reluctant to accept

their dismissal. There was, John noticed, a telephone

point just inside the fence, so that the men there could

summon help quickly in the event of a situation looking

dangerous. He glanced about him, looking for further

details of the valley's defences.

210

David said: 'They won't agree, Johnny. We couldn't

really expect them to.'

The men who had come with him stayed close by,

making no pretence of offering privacy to the brothers.

As much as anything, this showed John the powerlessness

of his brother's position.

He nodded. 'So we have to take the road again. I

gave Davey your love. I'm sorry you couldn't have seen

him.'

'Look,' David said, 'I've been thinking - there is a

way.' He spoke with a feverish earnestness. 'You can

do it.'

John looked at him in inquiry. He had been noting the

angle the fence made with the river.

'Tell them it's no good,' David said,' - that you will

have to find somewhere else. But don't travel too far

tonight. Arrange things so that you and Arm and the

children can slip away - and then come back here.

You'll be let in. I'll stay here tonight to make sure.'

John recognised the soundness of the scheme, for

other people under other conditions. But he was not

tempted by it. In any case, David was underestimating

the intervention Pirrie might make in the plan; a reasonable

error for anyone who did not know Pirrie.

He said slowly: 'Yes, I think that might work. It's

worth trying, anyway. But I don't want to have the kids

mown down by that gun of yours in the night.'

David said eagerly: 'There's no fear of that. Give me

our old curlew whistle as you come along the road. And

it's full moon.9

'Yes,' said John, 'so it is.'

211

John dropped down into the ditch where they all were.

He said immediately: 'We shan't get in there peaceably.

They won't budge. My brother's tried them, but

it's no good. So we have the alternatives I spoke of going

somewhere else or fighting our way into Blind

Gill. Have you thought about it?'

There was a silence; All Parsons broke it. He said:

'It's up to you, Mr distance - you know that. We

shall do whatever you think best.'

'Right,' John said. 'One thing, first. My brother looks

like me, and he's wearing blue overalls and a grey and

white check shirt. I'm telling you this so you can watch

out for him. I don't want him hurt, if it can be helped.'

Joe Harris said: 'We're having a go, then, Mr Custance?'

'Yes. Not now - tonight. Now we are going to beat

an orderly retreat out of the range of vision of the

people on the fence. It's got to look as though we've

given up the idea of getting in. Our only hope is having

the advantage of surprise.'

They obeyed at once, scrambling out of the ditch and

heading back down the road, away from the valley.

John walked at the rear, and Roger and Pirrie walked

with him.

Roger said: 'I still think you're doing the wrong thing,

Johnny. You could leave us and take the family back.

They would have you.'

212

Pirrie remarked, in a speculative tone: 'I don't think

it's going to be easy, even as a surprise attack.' He

looked at John. 'Unless you know a way of getting in

over the hills.'

'No. Even if there were a reasonable way, it wouldn't

do. The hillsides are steep in there. It would be impossible

to avoid starting small slides of stones and once

they knew where we were we should offer a target they

couldn't miss.'

'I take it,' Pirrie said, 'that you do not contemplate

rushing that fence - with a Vickers machine-gun behind

it?'

'No.' John looked at Pirrie closely. 'How do you feel

now?'

'Normal.'

'Fit enough to wade half a mile through a river

that's cold even at this time of year?'

'Yes.'

They were both watching him in inquiry. John said:

'My brother put a fence across the gap between hill

and river, but he took it for granted the river was fence

enough in itself. By the banks it's deep as well as swift

- there have been enough cattle drowned in it, and quite

a few men. But I fell in from the other side when I was

a kid, and I didn't drown. There's a shelf just about the

middle of the river - even as a boy of eleven I could

stand there, with my head well above water.'

Roger asked: 'Are you suggesting we all wade up

the river? They would see us, surely. And what about

getting out of it, if it's as deep by the banks as you say?'

Pirrie, as John had anticipated, had grasped the idea

without the need for elaboration.

'I am to knock out the machine-gun?' he suggested. 'And the rest of you?*

'I'm coming with you,' John said. 'I'll take one of the

other rifles. I'm not likely to succeed if you fail, but it

provides us with an extra chance. Roger, you've got to

213

take that fence once we've got the gun quiet. You can

get the men up within a hundred yards of it, along the

ditch. The fence is climbable.

'They will bring the gun round to bear on us as soon

as they realise they are under fire from the rear. That's

when you take our lot in.'

Roger said doubtfully: 'Will it work?'

It was Pirrie who answered him. 'Yes,' he said, 'I believe it will.'

He stood with Arm, looking at the children as they lay

asleep on the ground - Davey and Spooks and Steve

tangled up together, and Mary a little apart, her head

pillowed on an out-thrust arm. He told her then, in an

undertone, of David's plan. When he had finished, she

said:

'Why didn't you? We could have done it. We could

have got away from Pirrie somehow' - she shivered 'killed

him if necessary! There's been enough killing of

innocent people - and now there's going to be more.

Oh, why didn't you take it? Can't we still?'

The sun had gone down and the moon was yet to rise.

It was quite dark. He could not see much of her face,

nor she of his.

He said: 'I'm glad of Pirrie.'

'Glad!'

'Yes. I need the thought of that trigger finger of his

to stiffen me, but it only stiffened me into taking the

right course. Arm, some of the things I've had to do to

get us here have been nasty. I couldn't have justified

them even to myself, except in the hope that it would all

be different once we got to the valley.'

'It will be different.'

'I hope so. That's why I won't pay for admission in

treachery.'

'Treachery?'

'To the rest of them.' He nodded his head towards the

214

others. 'It would be treachery to abandon them now.'

'I don't understand.' Arm shook her head. 'I don't

begin to understand. Isn't it treachery to David - to

force a way in?'

'David isn't a free agent. If he were, he would have let

us all in. You know that. Think, ArmI Leaving Roger

and Olivia outside - and Steve and Spooks. What would

you tell Davey? And all these other poor devils . . .

Jane... yes, and Pirrie! However much you dislike him,

we should never have got near the valley without him.'

Arm looked down at the sleeping children. 'All I can

think is that we could have been safe in the valley

tonight - without any fighting.'

'But with nasty memories.'

'We have those anyway.'

'Not in the same way.'

She paused for a while. 'You're the leader, aren't you?

The mediaeval chieftain - you said so yourself?'

John shrugged. 'Does that matter?'

'It does to you. I see that now. More than our safety

and the children's.'

He said gently: 'Arm, darling, what are you talking

about?'

'Duty. That's it, isn't it? It wasn't really Roger and

Olivia, Steve and Spooks, you were thinking about - not

them as persons. It was your own honour - the honour

of the chieftain. You aren't just a person yourself any

longer. You're a figurehead as well.'

'Tomorrow it will be all over. We can forget about it

all then.'

'No. You half convinced me before, but I know better

now. You've changed, and you can't change back.'

'I've not changed.'

'When you're King of Blind Gill,' she said, 'how long

will it be, I wonder, before they make a crown for you?'

The risky part, John thought, was the stretch between

215

the bend of the river and the point, some thirty yards

from the fence, where the shadow of the hill cancelled

out the moonlight. If they had left it until the moon was

fully risen, the project would have been almost impossible,

for the moonlight was brilliant and they had to

pass within yards of the defenders.

As it was, they were exposed, for some twenty-five

yards, to any close scrutiny that the people behind the

fence turned on the river. The reasonable hope was that

their attention would be focused on the obvious approach

by road rather than the apparently impractical

approach up so swift and deep a river as the Lepe. Pirrie,

in front of him, crouched down so that only his head

and shoulders, and one hand holding the rifle on his

shoulder, were out of the water, and John followed

suit.

The water was even colder than John remembered it

as being, and the effort of struggling forward against

the current was an exhausting one. Once or twice, Pirrie

slipped, and he had to hold him. It was a consolation

that the noise of the river would cloak any noise they

might make.

They pushed ahead and at last, to their relief, found

themselves clear of the moonlight. The hill's shadow was

long but of no great width; they could see the moonlit

road and the fence quite plainly. John had not been sure

of this beforehand, and it raised his hopes still further.

If the fence had been in shadow, even Pirrie's marksmanship

might not have availed them.

When they were not more than ten yards from the

fence, Pirrie stopped.

John whispered urgently 'What is it? *

He heard Pirrie draw gasping breaths. 'I ... exhausted

...'

It was a shock to remember that Pirrie was an old

man, and of frail physique, who had made a harassing

journey and only a few hours before had been knocked

216

over by a bullet. John braced himself and put his free

arm round Pirrie's waist.

He said softly: 'Rest a minute. If it's too much for

you, go back. I'll carry on by myself.'

They stayed like that for several seconds. Pirrie was

shuddering against John's body. Then he pulled himself

upright.

He gasped: 'All right now.'

'Are you sure?'

Making no answer, Pirrie waded on. They were

abreast of the fence, and then beyond it.

John looked back. The valley's defences were outlined

in the moon's soft radiance. There were three men

on the platform, and another three or four huddled on

the ground behind it, presumably asleep. He whispered

to Pirrie:

'Here?'

'Give ourselves a chance,' said Pirrie. 'Lengthen the

range ... I can hit them at another twenty yards . . . '

His voice seemed stronger again. Pirrie was probably

indestructible, John reflected. He trudged after him

through the swirling water, aware of fatigue now in his

own limbs, doubling the water's drag.

Pirrie stopped at last, and turned, bracing himself

against the current. They were about twenty-five yards

inside the valley. John stood at his left elbow.

'Try for the one on the right,' Pirrie said. 'I'll manage

the other two.'

'The machine-gun first,' John said.

Pirrie did not bother to reply to that. He threw his

rifle up to his shoulder, and John, more slowly, did the

same.

Pirrie's rifle cracked viciously, and in the moonlight

the figure of the man behind the machine-gun

straightened up, cried in pain, and went down again,

clutching at the edge of the platform and missing it.

John fired for his own target, but did not hit. More

217

surprisingly, Pirrie's second shot failed of its mark.

Both men remaining on the platform raced for the

machine-gun, and tried to swing it round. Pirrie fired

again as they did so, and one of them slumped across

it. The other pushed him free, and managed to turn it.

John and Pirrie fired again unsuccessfully. The figures

beneath the platform had risen and were reaching for

guns. Then the machine-gun began to sputter in a

staccato rhythm of sound and flame.

It did not manage much more than a dozen rounds

before Pirrie got his third victim, and the deadly chatter

stopped. The men on the ground had begun to fire at

them now, but the whine of individual bullets seemed

irrelevant.

Pirrie said: 'The ladder . . . keep them off the platform

...'

His voice was weaker again, but John saw him reload,

and, with his usual snatched but unwavering aim,

hit yet another figure, which had begun to climb the

ladder to the platform. John tried to listen for sounds of

Roger and the others beyond the fence, but could hear

nothing. They must have reached the fence by now. He

looked at the black line of the fence's top, searching

for the figures that should be climbing over it.

Suddenly, in an entirely natural and unforced tone,

Pirrie said:

Take this.'

He was holding out his rifle.

John said:'Why...?'

'You fool,' Pirrie said. 'I'm hit.'

A bullet whined towards them across the surface of

the water. John could see, examining him closely, that

his shirt was holed and bloody at the shoulder. He took

the gun, dropping the one he had into the water.

'Hang on to me.' he told Pirrie.

'Never mind that. The ladder!'

There was another figure on the ladder. John fired,

218

reloaded, fired again. The third shot succeeded. He

turned to Pirrie.

'Now...' he began.

But Pirrie was gone. John thought he saw his body,

several yards downstream, but it was difficult to be sure.

He looked back to the more important concern - the

fence. Figures were swarming across the top, and one

already had hold of the machine-gun, tilting it downwards.

He saw the remaining defenders throw their guns

away and then, chilled and utterly tired, began looking

for the best place to get in to the bank.

219

Into this room he had come with David, side by side,

their fingers locked together to calm each other's fear

and uncertainty before the mystery of death, to see the

corpse of Grandfather Beverley. The room had changed

very little in a score of years. David had never had any

desire to modernise his surroundings.

Arm said: 'Darling, I'm sorry - for what I said last

night.' He did not answer. 'It is going to be different

now. You were right.'

And in the afternoon of that far-away day, the

solicitor had come up from Lepeton, and there had been

the reading of the will, and David's embarrassment and

guilt when they learned that all had been left to him money

as well as land, because a good farmer will never,

if he can help it, separate the two. Well, he thought, I

got it in the end.

'It's not your fault,' Arm said. 'You mustn't think it

is.'

His mother had said: 'You don't feel badly about it,

do you, darling? It doesn't mean that Grandfather

didn't like you, you know. He was very fond of you. He

told me all about this. He knew David wanted to be a

farmer, and that you didn't. It means that all my money

goes to you - all that your father left. You will be able

to have the very best training an engineer could have.

You do see that, don't you?'

He had said yes, more bewildered by his mother's

220

seriousness than anything else. He had always expected

that Blind Gill would go to David; neither property nor

money counted for anything against his one overwhelming

feeling of distaste, repugnance, for the fact and

presence of his grandfather's death. Now that the

funeral was over and the blinds had gone up again, he

wanted only to forget that grimness and shadow.

'You will have quite enough, darling,' his mother had

said. He had nodded impatiently, eager to be free of

this conversation which was a last link with the unpleasantness

of death. He took as little note of the

urgency of his mother's tone as he had done of her increasing

pallor and thinness in the past year. He did not

know, as she did, that her own life had only a short

time to run.

'Johnny,' Arm said. She came and put her hands on

his shoulders. 'You must snap out of it.'

And after that, he thought, the holidays with aunts,

and his comradeship with David, all the deeper for their

shared isolation. Had there been, beneath all that, a

resentment of what his brother had - a hatred concealed

even from himself? He could not believe it, but the

thought nagged him and would not be quieted.

'Everything's going to be all right,' Arm said. The

children can grow up here in peace, even if the world

is in ruins. Davey will farm the valley land.' She glanced

at the body lying on the bed. 'David wanted that more

than anything.'

John spoke then. 'He'll do more than farm it, won't

he? He will own it. It's a nice bit of land. Not as much

as Cain left to Enoch, though.'

'You mustn't talk like that. And it wasn't you who

killed him - it was Pirrie.'

'Was it? I don't know. We'll blame Pirrie, shall we?

And Pirrie is gone, washed away with the river, and so

the land flows with milk and honey again, and with innocence.

Is that all right?'

221

'John! it was Pirrie.'

He looked at her. 'Pirrie gave me his gun - he must

have known, then, that he was finished. And when I

saw that he had gone under, I thought of throwing it

after him - that was the gun which brought us here to

the valley, killing its way across England. I could have

got to the shore more easily without it, and I was deadly

tired. But I hung on to it.'

'You can still throw it away,' she said. 'You don't

have to keep it.'

'No. Pirrie was right. You don't throw away a good

weapon.' He looked at the rifle, resting against the

dressing-table. 'It will be Davey's, when he is old

enough.'

She shrank a little. 'No! He won't need it. It will be

peace then.'

'Enoch was a man of peace,' John said. 'He lived in

the city which his father built for him. But he kept his

father's dagger in his belt.'

He went to the bed, bent down, and kissed his

brother's face. He had kissed another dead face only a

few days before, but centuries lay between the two

salutations. As he turned away towards the door, Arm

asked:

'Where are you going?'

"There's a lot to do,' he said. 'A city to be built.*

222

THE EXPLOSIVE NOVEL OF INTERNATIONAL

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WILLIAM CLARK

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