The Death of Grass

EIGHT

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 farm-house 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 unnecessary running about. The whole party had something of a picnic air, except that Ann remained quiet, withdrawn, and unhappy.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: “Ann 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,” Millicent 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 recognized 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^{111} which shocked him in itself, but its presence in this context. Pirrie, he was sure, must have been a cuckold^{112} 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 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 realize it was evidence of how deeply the realization 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 farm-house, 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 Ann and Mary.

With Roger, John walked up to the farm-house. 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 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 shot-gun.

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 shot-gun 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 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 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 story, kicking doors open. He did not realize until he had nearly finished his search that he had forgotten something—that had been the second barrel and, until the shot-gun was reloaded, 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 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.”

“In 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 moaning. “In addition to which, I do not like using the ammunition for this unnecessarily. We are not likely to replace it. Shot-guns 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 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 the shotguns. Get these out first.” He peered into the dark recesses of the cubby-hole^{113}. “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 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. Ann 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.”

Ann 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 and pork and salted beef, along with some home-made 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 passing seconds of a summer morning.

Roger said then: “Why can’t we take the girl, if Olivia wants to? We brought Spooks. 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, Rodge. 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.”

“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 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 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 with her—you’ve just said yourself the place is a death-trap.”

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.

“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 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 everything’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. 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 civilized 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 Welling, 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 civilization. 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 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 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 necessary 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 me 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, Rodge.”

“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?”

“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 of 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.

“We’re going over the moors,” John said, “into Westmorland.”

“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 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^{114}, were resting together and discussing, so far as John could judge from the scraps of conversation he picked up, motor speedboats. Ann 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,” Ann said wearily.

“I wouldn’t mind being there now,” John said.”

“I’m tired,” Ann 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 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 them 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^{115}, not Greenwich^{116}. 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 further 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 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 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 one 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^{117} 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 recognizable 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^{118}.”

John made no reply, but climbed up the embankment 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. It was Millicent. 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 realized, 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 week-end 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 Ann?”

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.”

John drew on his cigarette. “I don’t want to talk about Ann. 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.

“Let’s be grown up,” she said. “I may make mistakes, but not about that sort 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 realized 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, half smoked, and trod it into the ground. “I’ll just try the spark test^{119}, and if you don’t fire, I’ll go right down like a good little girl.”

She came towards him. He said: “Don’t be silly, Millicent.” 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.

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^{120} 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 shot-gun.

“No,” Pirrie said calmly. “Put 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^{121} 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.”

“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^{122} 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 lift of bird song; with a shock John recognized 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 recognize 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 himself, but for Ann 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 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.