Collected Stories (21 page)

 "A couple of nifty chops should break his neck, sir, and I could rough his face up a bit - bash it against the wall. Then, with your permission, sir, run a ten-ton truck over his stomach - won't do 'is guts much good but 'e won't be needing 'em."

 "Methy," His Nibs explained to Mr Goldsmith, "works through the nervous system. The stomach is surplus to requirements."

 "Then I thought a couple of swipes with an iron bar about 'ere." Harry pointed to Mr Goldsmith's trembling thighs. "And 'ere." He indicated a spot above the ankles. "Won't do to touch the knee caps, seeing as 'ow they're 'ard to replace."

 "You'll have no trouble with repairs afterwards?" His Nibs enquired.

 "Gawd bless us, no, sir. A couple of rivets in the neck, a bit of patching up here and there. We'll have to replace the eyes. They gets a bit runny after a bit. Otherwise, 'e'll make a first class unit, such as you can be proud of, sir."

 "Very creditable." His Nibs beamed his approval. "You'd better fill in an LD142 and lay on transport to transfer the, eh… unit to the accident point. Let me see…" He consulted a desk diary. "Today's Wednesday - coroner's inquest on Friday - yes, we can fit the funeral in next Tuesday."

 "Tuesday, sir," Harry nodded.

 "Then your resurrection units can get cracking Tuesday night. No point in letting things rot, eh?"

 His Nibs roared again and Harry permitted himself a respectful titter.

 "Well, my dear chap," His Nibs said to Mr Goldsmith. "This time next week you should be doing something useful."

 "Where were you thinking of fitting 'im in, sir?" Harry enquired.

 "We'll start him off as a porter at Waterloo Station. The railway union have a wage claim in the pipeline and one more non-industrial action vote will do no harm. Right, Harry, take him away."

 Fear may make cowards; it can also transform a coward into a man of action. The sight of Harry's large hand descending on to his neck triggered off a series of reflexes in Mr Goldsmith which culminated in him leaping from his chair and racing for the door. His behaviour up to that moment had been co-operative, so both His Nibs and Harry were taken by surprise and for three precious moments could only stare after him with speechless astonishment. Meanwhile, Mr Goldsmith was through the door and passing Myna, who presumably had not been programmed for such an emergency, for she sat behind her desk, typing away serenely, ignoring Harry's bellows of rage. But they spurred the little man to greater efforts and he mounted the stairs with the determination of an Olympic hurdler chasing a gold medal. He burst into the cellar, by-passing the recumbent units and was on his way to the exit before a startled Maurice had been galvanized into action.

 He was like a rabbit chased by two blood-thirsty hounds, when he pounded up the ramp and came to the waste ground. A sickly moon played hide and seek from behind scudding clouds and a black cat screamed its fear and rage, as he went stumbling over mounds and potholes, discarded tins clattering before his blundering feet. They were about twenty feet behind, silent now, for the unmentionable was heading for the domain of the commonplace and their business must be done in shadows without sound or word.

 Mr Goldsmith crossed a cobbled road, galloped under a railway arch and stumbled into a narrow alley. A convenient hole in a fence presented itself; he squeezed through just before running footsteps rounded the nearest corner. They came to a halt only a few paces from his hiding place. Maurice's voice was that of a weasel deprived of a supper.

 "The little bleeder's got away."

 "Won't get far," Harry comforted.

 "Better get back," Maurice admitted reluctantly. "His Nibs will have to notify a DPC."

 The footsteps shuffled, then retreated and Mr Goldsmith dared to breathe again. He emerged from his hole and began to trudge wearily down the alley. He wandered for a long time, completely lost, shying from shadows, running before a barking dog, adrift in a nightmare. He came out into a small square and there on the far side, its steeple reaching up towards the moon, was a church. The doors were tight shut, but the building evoked childhood memories, and he knelt on the steps, crying softly, like a child locked out by thoughtless parents.

 Heavy footsteps made him start and he rose quickly, before casting a terrified glance along the moonlit pavement. A tall, burly figure was moving towards him with all the majesty of a frigate under full sail. His silver buttons gleamed like stars in a velvet sky. His badge shone like a beacon of hope. Mr Goldsmith gave a cry of joy and ran towards his protector. He gripped the great, coarse hands; he thrust his face against the blue tunic and sobbed with pure relief.

 "Now, what's all this?" the officer enquired. "Not more dead men that talk?"

 "Hundreds of them." Mr Goldsmith stammered in his effort to be believed. "They are emptying the churchyards. You've got to stop them."

 "There, there. You leave it all to me, sir. Just come along to the station and we'll get it all down in a statement."

 "Yes… yes." Mr Goldsmith perceived the sanity in such an arrangement. "Yes, I… I will make a statement. Then you'll lock me up, won't you? So they can't reach me?"

 "Anything you say," the constable agreed. "We'll lock you up so well, no one will ever be able to reach you again. Come along now."

 They moved away from the locked church with Mr Goldsmith pouring out a torrent of words. The policeman was a good listener and encouraged him with an occasional: "Beyond belief, sir… You don't say so, sir… It only goes to show… Truth is stranger than fiction."

 Mr Goldsmith agreed that it was, but a disturbing factor had caused a cold shiver to mar his newly acquired sense of well-being.

 "Why are we going down this alley?"

 "A short cut, sir," the constable replied. "No sense in tiring ourselves with a long walk."

 "Oh." Mr Goldsmith snatched at this piece of logic like a condemned man at the rope which is to hang him. "Is the station far?"

 "A mere stone's throw, sir. A last, few steps, you might say."

 They progressed the length of the passage, then turned a corner. The officer trod on an upturned dustbin lid and promptly swore. "Damned careless of someone. You might have broken your neck, sir."

 "This is the way I came," Mr Goldsmith stated and the policeman's grip tightened.

 "Is it now, sir? Sort of retracing your footsteps."

 Hope was sliding down a steep ramp as Mr Goldsmith started to struggle. "You…" But the grip on his arm was a band of steel. He clawed at the blue tunic and twisted a silver button. The bubbling words came from a long way off.

 "Oi… um… dud…"

 The moon peeped coyly from behind a cloud and watched a burly, but dead policeman drag a struggling little man towards eternity.

(1975)

Mother said Brian was not to play with matches and of course he did, setting light to the old summerhouse, so that Father had to put the fire out with the garden hose.

Father maintained that Brian should be spanked but Mother would not let him, stating with cool simplicity, that words were more powerful than blows.

“That’s all very well,” Father grumbled, “but one day...”

“He’s only seven,” Mother pointed out, “and we must reason with him. It’s not as though any real damage was done.”

Julia went out to look at the summerhouse, and truly the damage was negligible. The doorsteps were slightly scorched, but this added to the old-world, time-beaten appearance of the ancient building.

When she came back to the house, Mother was explaining to Brian the virtues and evils of fire.

“The fire keeps us warm; it cooks our food and is nice to look at.”

“Makes pretty pictures,” Brian stated, “lots of mountains and valleys.”

“Yes,” Mother agreed, “and therefore fire is a good friend, but when you set light to the summerhouse, then it was a bad enemy. You—all of us could have been burned to death.”

“Death... death,” Brian repeated the words with some satisfaction. “What is death?”

Mother frowned, then proceeded to choose her words with care.

“The body... your arms and legs become still, and you can’t use your body any more. You... become like Mr. Miss-One.”

Brian grinned with impish delight.

“I’d like to be Mr. Miss-One.”

Mother took the small boy into her arms and shook her beautiful head, so that the fair curls danced like corn in sunlight.

“No, my darling. No. You wouldn’t like being Mr. Miss-One.”

Julia came down late for dinner for she had fallen asleep in her room, and dreamed a strange dream. It seemed that she had been in the drawing room when Mr. Miss-One entered. He had limped across the room and sunk down beside her on the sofa; and for the first time, he seemed to know she was present. He stared straight at her and looked so very, very sad, that when she awoke, tears were rolling down her cheeks.

“You look pale,” Mother remarked, “and your eyes are red. I hope you aren’t sickening for something.”

Julia said: “No,” then seated herself opposite Brian, who made a face and poked his tongue out.

“Behave yourself,” Father warned, “and, Julia, you’re not to tease him.”

“I didn’t...” Julia began to protest but Mother said, “You’re not to answer your father back.”

She hung her head and fought back the scalding tears. The terrible injustice was a burning pain and she felt shut out—unwanted. Brian was a child, a doll for her parents to pet; she was sixteen, tall, awkward, not particularly pretty, which meant being unloved, isolated, scolded—who knows, perhaps hated.

“Julia, sit up,” Mother continued with a sharp voice, “don’t slouch. Heavens above, when I was your age, I was as straight as a larch. Really, I can’t imagine who you take after.”

“Listen to your mother,” Father ordered, smiling at Brian, whose mouth was smeared with custard “She is talking for your own good.”

They might have been talking to a stranger or casting words at a statue. Her very presence, every action, provoked a series of stock phrases. She moved in her chair.

“Don’t fidget,” Mother snapped.

“For heaven’s sake, sit still,” said Father.

Julia got up and ran from the room.

“Oh, no,” Mother exclaimed, “not another fit of the sulks!”

“She’ll get over it,” Father pronounced.

The garden dozed under the afternoon sun, while bees and bluebottles hummed with contentment in the heat. Julia lay back in a deck chair and basked in a lake of misery, wallowing in the melancholy stream of her self-pity.

“I wish I could die. Death is like a beautiful woman in a gray robe who closes our eyes with gentle fingers, then wipes the slate of memory clean.”

She decided this was a noble thought, and really she was quite definitely a genius, which explained why everyone was so unkind.

“I am different,” she told herself, and at once felt much more cheerful. “I think on a much higher plane. Mother is so stupid, afraid to smile in case she makes a line on her face, and as for Father... he’s an echo, a nothing. Brian is a horrible, spoiled little beast. But I’m—I’m a genius.”

Having reached this satisfactory conclusion, she was about to rise when Mr. Miss-One entered the garden. He was carrying a hoe and, walking over to one of the flower-beds, he began to turn the soil, or rather gave the appearance of doing so, for Julia knew that not even a single stone would be disturbed. She crept up to him like a puppy approaching its master, uncertain of its reception. She stopped some three feet from him and sank down on the grass, gazing up into his face.

He was so beautiful. There was no other word to describe that kind, sensitive face. Mother was always a little frightened of Mr. Miss-One, saying that though he appeared harmless, nevertheless, he wasn’t natural. Father regarded him in much the same way, as if he were a stray cat that refused to be dislodged.

“We must be mad to live in a house with a bally ghost,” he had once protested. “Never know when the damned thing is going to pop up.”

This attitude, of course, only confirmed their mundane, unimaginative outlook, and showed up Julia’s exceptional powers of perception. Mr. Miss-One was beautiful, kind, and must have been, long ago, a remarkable person. Julia had no evidence to support this theory for Mr. Miss-One never spoke, was apparently oblivious of their presence, and only performed little, non-productive chores, strolling aimlessly through the house or garden. Furthermore, Mr. Miss-One was not young, possibly as old as Julia’s father, for his black hair was flecked with gray and there were tired lines around his eyes and mouth. But these signs of age enhanced his beauty, making him a strange, exciting figure, combining the attributes of father and lover. Now he stood upright, leaning upon the hoe, and stared thoughtfully back at the house.

“Mr. Miss-One,” Julia whispered, “who are you? I want to know so much. How long ago did you live? When did you die? And why do you haunt the house and garden? Haunt! That’s a funny word. It sounds frightening, and you don’t frighten me at all.”

Mr. Miss-One returned to his work and continued to turn soil that never moved.