King of the World (11 page)

“Don’t worry, Norah, I’ll get them for you,” she volunteered. I know just where they are, I saw them on the front ledge. Let’s have the keys, Diana; I shan’t be two minutes.”

More like five, probably, but never mind. Clutching the car keys in her left hand, Bridget hurried through the lighted hall and out into the dark.

Night had long fallen, and with eyes not yet
dark-adapted
after leaving the house, Bridget picked her way cautiously down the front garden path, bordered by wet, overgrown foliage. Only when she reached the gate did she notice a tall, silent figure standing under the adjacent street-lamp. The pale hair shone like gold under the lamplight, and the slender, gracefully-poised figure was so still that it could have been the statue of some long-dead mythical hero.

For a moment Bridget stood collecting her thoughts. Then:

“Good evening, Christopher,” she said brightly, recovering from her first tiny moment of shock. When he still did not speak or move, she went on: “Are you just coming in, then?” He shook his head, and smiled. Was this the smile that Norah had once described as his “queer, unreal smile”, the prelude to some fresh bout of bizarre behaviour?

“No, I’m not coming in, not yet,” he answered her. “Actually, I was waiting for you to come out. I knew you would, at just this time.”

“How do you mean, you knew I would? How could you? I only knew it myself a minute ago …”

“Of course you only knew it a minute ago. I was the
one who knew it all along. I programmed you to do it. You see, you are one of my creatures, I genetically engineered you. You can only do the things that I’ve programmed you to do, and I programmed you to come out of the house at just this time. And you
did
come out of the house. You see? It works! You have to do whatever I programme you to do.”

To her secret shame, Bridget felt a quiver of alarm. She hastily crushed it. He was only a poor loony.

Still, she didn’t believe in humouring people, not even poor loonies.

“Don’t talk nonsense,” she retorted sturdily. “And now, if you’ll excuse me …” She turned away, and set off briskly in the direction of their parked car, only to be brought to a halt by a mocking chuckle just behind her.

“You see? I’ve programmed you to walk up the road towards the park, and so that’s what you have to do. You have no choice.”

“I
have
bloody got a choice! Up the road towards the park is where I happen to want to go,” Bridget snapped, and set off again at a brisk pace – indeed, almost a run.

With his long, light strides he kept up with her easily, laughing softly as he kept alongside.

“Would you like me to tell you what I’ve programmed you to do at the top of the road?” he enquired
pleasantly
. “You are going to come to a standstill at a certain parked car, a Ford Escort, Registration number G 566 XPA. You are going to insert a key in the driver’s door …”

“Of course I am. It’s my friend’s car, and she’s asked me to get something out of it.”

How does he know the make and number of our car, thought Bridget. He must have been lurking around when we arrived. Not that it matters. No sense in asking questions and thus prolonging his irksome presence.

She edged away from him, stepping from the
pavement
onto the road and quickening her pace. “And now, please, will you leave me alone? I’m in a hurry, I want to get back quickly.”

“Of course you do. I made you that way. Here – listen –” and taking a strong grip on her shoulder he pulled her to a standstill. “Listen. I made you. You didn’t exist until I genetically engineered you, complete with all your memories. I am the world expert in the genetic engineering of human beings. While the scientific pundits with their government research grants have been messing about with cancer cells and onco-mice and such trivia,
I
have been researching the genetic engineering of human beings. I started with centipedes, but of course they had too many legs, so I turned to spiders. I reduced the number of legs until there were only two; and then – and then, after a prolonged period of trial and error, I perfected the method. A secret method of my own. It involves the manipulation of hitherto unknown growth enzymes … Oh, it’s too complicated to explain to you. I didn’t engineer you a brain that could grasp this kind of thing. I didn’t need to. You don’t need much of a brain at all really, since the only movements you can ever make, the only thoughts you can ever think, are the ones I’ve built into you. Here –”

By now they had reached the car, and he gave a thin little squeal of triump. “There! Didn’t I tell you? A Ford Escort, just as I said! And now I’m going to make you
unlock it; I am going to make you lean inside … Yes. yes, you have picked up a spectacle case from the front ledge, that’s exactly what I programmed you to do! And now – you are programmed to start walking again. Back down the road the way you came. It’s all fixed for you – you can’t do anything else!”

Can’t I indeed! She looked at the opposite direction, across the intersecting road, beyond which lay the park with its shadowy trees and bushes looming darkly behind faintly gleaming railings. Suppose, just for the hell of it, she was to put paid to all his nonsense by walking in this direction instead of down the road?

What on earth would be the point? You couldn’t reason with a person whose reasoning faculties are so grossly impaired. Besides, she was in a hurry to get back. But no sooner had she taken a single step in the “programmed” direction than a mad, triumphant chortle from her companion roused in her such a surge of defiance as overwhelmed common-sense, and almost before she knew it, her body had swung round on its heel and raced across the road ahead, taking her with it.

Once in the park, picking her way through the tangled darkness, with black masses of looming vegetation shaking drops of water over her at every step, Bridget realised how silly she had been. And what a waste of time the whole thing had been, too – hadn’t she assured her friends that she’d only be a couple of minutes? Swiftly, she turned to retrace her steps; and even as she did so, she heard the squeak of the park gate.

Was it Christopher? Or some stranger? Whichever it was, she was determined not to be frightened – she, who so despised women who were scared to go out and
about by themselves after dark. But she knew that if you want to hang onto the luxury of despising other people for this sort of thing, you have to be very sure of your own credentials.

Bridget was very sure. She had long ago learned (in the primary school playground, as a matter of fact) that there were three ways of overcoming fear. First, you straightened your shoulders like a soldier on parade, and took two deep breaths. Second, you walked
towards
whatever seems to be menacing you – never away: and, third, whatever it was, whoever it was, you took the initiative. It was essential to speak first; make the first move.

All of which she did on this occasion.

“Good evening,” she said to the dim oval of a human face which she could now just distinguish, like a great white fruit hanging from the dark branches to her left. At her words, the dim face seemed to attach itself to a tall dim body emerging from the bushes and blocking the path ahead.

Christopher, of course, still following her, still
checking
on her every movement in order to dove-tail it into his fantasy.

“This is where you will learn a lesson,” he said. “This is where my early experiments in human engineering have to live because they are imperfect, and very, very dangerous. They have to keep out of sight. They are going to hate you because you are a perfect specimen and they are not. The one who hates you most is the one whose brain somehow got tangled in the mechanism and came out all wrong. He hates you, hates you, hates you, because
your
brain has come out right. By that time, I’d identified the fault, but too late to help him. He resents
it all the more because, physically, he is so perfect. He is tall, and slim, and strong, and a lock of his yellow hair falls across his forehead as he moves. He has beautiful blue eyes, too. The eyes are the windows of the soul. One day, he let me look through those windows – only in the mirror, of course, he was afraid to let me come any nearer. I looked through these blue windows, right through to the distorted brain behind them. I saw it, just that once, in all its horror, and I’ve never looked again. He is somewhere here, right now, among the bushes; I know it, I can feel it. You are going to meet him any minute now, and when you do, you must run, and run, and run.”

For a moment, the pale face came within inches of her own, it streamed and glittered with the sweat of some violent emotion, and the lock of hair fell damply across the forehead.

“You must run, and run, and run!” – and with a thin, high-pitched laugh, the figure whirled around and disappeared round the bend of the path. Once again, she heard the clicking of the iron gate.

Only a few yards to go, really, but it seemed like a long, long walk. Never since early childhood had Bridget experienced this sensation of not daring to run because the very act of running can turn manageable fear into unmanageable panic. Not until she reached the car did the the thudding of her heart slow down and her breathing return to normal.

Christopher was there, waiting for her, and as she approached he gave another of his high-pitched laughs.

“You see? You see? I can make you do things! And now – watch – I’m going to make you walk down the road, back to the house.”

This time, she wasn’t going to argue. She had wasted too much time already. It was a nuisance, a humiliating nuisance, that her knees were trembling so that she could hardly walk, but she set off all the same in her chosen direction.

He was delighted. His little cry of triumph quivered in the air of the quiet, deserted street.

“You see? You see?” he kept repeating, as he paced alongside in his soft shoes. “You
are
walking back along the road! You have to do everything that I make you do. Soon, I am going to make you commit a murder. Yes, murder. One day, very very soon, you will be covered with blood – your hands, your face, your clothes – everything – and you will realise then that what I’ve told you is true. On that day, the truth will be staring you in the face; on that day, you will wish that you had believed me; but it will be too late … You will be in my power. I am the King of the World.”

His long strides were keeping up with hers as she walked faster, and yet faster, finally breaking into a run.

“I’ve programmed you to run, and run, and run!” he almost shrieked as their two shadows leaped in unison from street-lamp to street-lamp along the empty pavement.

“In a minute,” he cried, “I shall make you wrench open our garden gate, I shall make you race up our garden path, and I shall make you hammer, hammer, on the door, hoping they will let you in!”

“Whatever happened to you? Is the car all right?” Diana asked anxiously; and Bridget, having reassured her on this point, and apologising vaguely for having been so long, subsided into one of the big chairs to consider what, if anything, to reveal about her recent adventures. It seemed wiser, just for the moment, to keep quiet about it. It could only trigger off another spasm of Norah’s maternal anxieties, and might well be disastrous if Mervyn were to come back in the middle of it, as he well might do. Besides, she needed time to concoct a slightly modified version of events which would not reveal her own panic. For she was the strong one, was she not? She was the no-nonsense one who would never panic about anything, and she preferred it to stay that way.

Meanwhile Norah, re-united with her reading-glasses, was peering anxiously at the script before her, bringing it first close up to her face, and then an arm’s length away.

“It’s terribly small – the writing,” she complained. I know Christopher does write a very cramped hand … but not as small as this. I’ve always been able to read it before.”

She moved, so that the standard lamp shone straight
down on the document, and peered even closer.

“It’s … I don’t know … It’s somehow … I can only read bits of it. ‘Dear Mum,’ he starts. But he doesn’t call me ‘Mum’, not unless … That is, normally he calls me Norah. He says he ‘Hopes I won’t be worried’ – I don’t know why he should say that, because I
never
let him know that I worry, Never.”

She went on reading: “We’ll be pitching our tent in a grassy meadow near the farm buildings … Wonderful views towards the hills …”

Norah glanced up, bewildered. “Christopher doesn’t
say
things like this. He doesn’t look at views, he never has. He lives inside himself, not among views. And he’d never say “grassy meadow”, The most he’d ever say would be “field”.

She studied the document yet more closely:

“And the writing! It’s small and cramped all right, but it’s not
his
. I’m certain it isn’t …”

Had Mervyn been listening outside the door? Or had he come in by chance just in time to hear his wife’s
suspicions
? Or had he, indeed, not taken in any of it? His manner, polite and imperturbable, revealed nothing.

“Well, my dear, are you satisfied?” he enquired, walking across to his wife and holding out his hand for the paper. “Or does the fact that your son is actually
enjoying
himself, without you in attendance, throw you into one of your maternal panics? I must say you’re looking rather pale – I wonder if there is anything more I can do to reassure you? If Christopher’s own assurances that he’s happy and well and enjoying his holiday aren’t enough …”

Bridget was clenching her teeth in a turmoil of
indecision
. Indecision wasn’t her thing, any more than panic
was, but at this juncture it seemed unavoidable. Would she be making matters worse, or better, if she were to reveal to the assembled company that Christopher was right now outside in the road, nowhere near any holiday camp site?

Better for whom? Certainly not for Mervyn.
Whatever
his motives were for inventing all this rigmarole about the camping trip (and Bridget was only just beginning to speculate on what these motives might be), he certainly wasn’t going to be pleased at having his carefully-constructed fiction punctured by the
intervention
of an uninvited visitor.

Better for Norah, then? Norah had already expressed her grave doubts about the authenticity of the letter. Would it be some satisfaction to her to have her suspicions proved to be well-founded?

Satisfaction of a sort, yes. Everyone likes to be proved right (or so Bridget always supposed), but sometimes there was a heavy price to be paid.

“She was always right, and now she’s dead right” – the famous tombstone inscription floated briefly through her consciousness, and increased her uncertainty.

What would Norah gain by having her husband humiliated in front of her friends? He would feel betrayed – furious – and would inevitably take it out on her. And with good reason, too, if he had in fact heard her voicing her suspicions just as he came into the room.

No, the risks involved in telling the truth were too great. Those involved in keeping silent were unknown, and hence less weighty.

None of these thoughts, she trusted, were showing in her face, but all the same they seemed to fill the room.
She became suddenly aware of all the other unexpressed thoughts which at this very moment were claiming a share of the enclosed space between these four walls. Mervyn’s thoughts, Norah’s, even Diana’s. The air was thick with thoughts, like some atmospheric pollutant, so concentrated that you could scarcely breathe.

“I think perhaps we should be going,” she said
politely
; and relief swept across the room like a great wind, before it subsided into the normal little conventional remarks incidental to the departure of guests.

Mervyn, courteous and correct to the end, came to see them off at the front door, and for a moment Bridget was filled with trepidation lest he should notice his son lurking under the lamp, and should react by – well who knew how he might react?

But, mercifully, it didn’t happen: Christopher was gone. By the time they’d reached the garden gate, and she could peer round the privet hedge, Bridget was sure of this. But her initial feeling of relief was sharply interrupted by Mervyn’s voice, close behind them.

“Wait!” he called “Wait a moment. One of you has dropped something.” and as they turned, enquiringly, they saw him straightening up from a flower-bed, and coming towards them, holding out a plastic supermarket carrier-bag.

For a moment, all three stared, bewildered. It was Bridget who took the bag – it was surprisingly heavy – and reached inside it. Her fingers encountered metal – a cold, irregular surface. Reaching further in, she pulled the thing out.

It was a hand-gun.

They all stared, bewildered; and on Mervyn’s face was a look of actual terror. Was he facing, at last, a
long-suppressed awareness of his son’s derangement, and its awful unpredictable dangers? Frantically, he seemed to be seeking some alternative and less
agonising
explanation. While, characteristically, keeping his dignity as he did so.

“Good God!” he exclaimed, “Oh, I
do
apologise, of course it can’t be yours! Oh dear, some yobbo, I suppose, planning a break-in and suddenly thinking better of it. Realised he’d been spotted, and reckoned he’d better not be caught with the weapon on him. I’ll have to hand it in to the police, I suppose. Oh dear, I
am
sorry! What a parting shock for you!” and after a brief repetition of the conventional remarks appropriate to departing guests, he went indoors, presumably to ring the police about the gun and the attempted break-in.

The three drove home almost in silence, each
preoccupied
with her own speculations. It was Diana who spoke, just once, towards the end of the journey:

“It’s not going to be as easy as I thought,” she lamented. “That father’s going to be difficult.”

You can say that again, thought Bridget, but silently.