The Death of Grass

FIVE

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 recognized 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 mess 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 cubbyhole. 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.^{63}”

“How?”

“The bastards!” Roger said. “The bloody murdering bastards. We aren’t like the Asiatics. We’re true-blue^{64} 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^{65} 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^{66}.”

“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 has 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 pipe-line^{67} 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^{68}. 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 position 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^{69} 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 civilized 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? Wetting’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 visualized a panic-stricken London, with himself and Ann 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 Ann. 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 round 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 Ann, 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 Wetting’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 week-ends.”

“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—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. “Good-bye.”

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 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, Ann opened the door for them. She looked tense and unhappy. John put an arm around 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?”

Ann 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?”

Ann 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,” Ann said. “See if there’s anything important I’ve missed.”

When Mary had gone upstairs, Ann 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?”

Ann 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 realize 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?”

“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. Ann 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.”

Ann nodded. “All right.” She walked through to the kitchen. John called after her:

“Anything I can get for you?”

Ann 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 stabilizer. 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 Custances’ 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.

“… emphasized 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 a 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 voiced 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^{70}. 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 pile-up.”

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 London 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 a few get through. It doesn’t matter, does it?”

The young officer grinned. “Sorry, it’s as easy to land a general court-martial^{71} 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^{72} the cars, and try it on foot, through the fields?”

Ann 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^{73} voice, Ann said: “Then what can we do?”

Roger looked at her, laughing. “Easy, Annie! Everything’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^{74}. 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 Ann.

Roger said: “Point one—this road bypasses A.1 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.1.”

A Vanguard^{75} swept past them along the road, closely followed by an Austin^{76} which John recognized as having been at the roadblock. Roger nodded after them.

“Quite a few will try it, but they won’t 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.”

Ann 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!” Ann 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.”

Ann said: “I want you to stay, John.”

“Now, Ann…’ John began.

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 Ann, and then got out of the car. “We’ll be back as soon as possible,” he said.

Ann commented bitterly: “Are we chattels^{77} 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^{78} 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 displaying 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 incongrously 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^{79} 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 a 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 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 gunsmiths 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 asked.

“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 warningly:

“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. Ann 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.”

“Ann,” 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^{80} 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 with Millicent.”

John got out of the car. He said to Ann:

“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.”

Ann 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 road-block was. They stopped there, and John and Pirrie slipped out and disappeared into the night Five minutes later, Roger restarted 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 presumed 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 flaming 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 of 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 loudmouthed 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,”^{81} 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^{82} at a fairground, he thought—a clay-pipe that must be shattered, for Ann, 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 apologize 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 Ann moved over as John opened the door and got in. He pushed the accelerator pedal down hard.

Ann 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^{83} 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 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.