She sat up and pressed her knuckles to her mouth. She was remembering the other thing again.
It was night. Six months ago now. The night the terror started. She had been walking back to B Block library with an armful of books, and had taken what was for her an unusual route. It led through a little-frequented Stores Section to a Link that ran beneath the roof of one of the machine shops. She had thought at the last moment that the doors to it might be locked; but they eased open when she pushed them with her back. Beyond, the glass-sided gallery was in near darkness. One lamp, burning below, cast funny upside-down shadows across the panes; and a machine was running, with a high thin whine.
She stared down, at the group struggling beneath her. At the black leather jackets, the stocking masks that turned heads to grotesque turnips, the Technician in his white smock, blood-spattered already down the front. She heard the blows fall with faint flat thuds; then his hand was pulled forward, knuckle thrust to the edge of the grinder. A white vee opened instantly where bone had been; then it was the back of the hand, the whole hand, hard down, and her own scream mingled with the noise that came from below. She saw them cut and run, Macanulty, Osgood, Kolaszynski and the rest, she knew them easily despite the silly masks; but of them all, only the Duke looked back. She was sure she saw the glitter of his eyes.
She couldn’t look over the gallery edge any more. She crawled away from it panting, on hands and knees.
Pamela called from the kitchen. “Bunny, it’s half past eight.” She answered mechanically, reaching for sweater and jeans. She angled the dressing table mirror, started working at her hair. It was nice hair, lustrous and brown and long.
She didn’t mind her face as much
as her body. She might, she supposed, even be called pretty. Brows level and not too thick; cheekbones broad, eyes big and dark blue. Old-fashioned somehow, like a toy. David had once called her his Dutch doll; and pleasure had warred with resentment.
She rubbed her eyes, the corners of the lower lids. She decided she was looking drawn. She wondered if sleeping tabs would help; but she daren’t ask. Too much Pamela would want to know.
She told herself it was all nonsense really. He was only a Fifth Former after all, just a Fifth Former. Dave Duquemin. French name, she supposed. Only natural for him to be called the Duke. And Osgood and Kolaszynski, the strong-arm men. They weren’t too bad, they’d never bothered her. Anyway, they didn’t beat up females. They knew,
he
knew, someone had seen. But it had been dark; and she had crouched down, out of sight. They couldn’t suspect her. Why her, out of over two thousand girls?
It was no use. She knew, the School knew, that the Duke had his methods. Because he was different. He wasn’t like the rest, he never
did
anything. You never saw. But you knew. If you found a kitten dying in the yard with its claws torn out by pliers, then the Duke had been at pleasure. If a storeroom burned or a lab was smashed, the word went out like ripples; the Duke had been displeased. If a master was beaten or the windows smashed through a hundred yards of Links or a library fouled with shit, then the Duke had exacted a revenge. Because the School wasn’t run by its hundred teachers, or its twenty Block Controllers or its four headmasters. He had spies, they said, in every Group and Grade; nothing went unremarked. She had seen, and he would find out. Maybe not yet; but in time. Till now, she had been left alone; but he would be in no hurry.
Pamela called, “You’ll be late at the Properjohns’.”
She said, “I’m coming.” She parted her hair, twined it swiftly into two dark plaits. She hurried downstairs, ate cornflakes and an apple, put on a light jacket and walked round to fetch her bike from the shed.
The morning was fine and warm, the sky cloudless,
promising a day of heat. Cycling the three or four miles to the Properjohns’ spread she felt her spirits lift fractionally. After all you couldn’t worry all the time, on and on for ever; nobody could. After a certain point the mind stopped, just shut off. And she had a weekend ahead of her, a whole weekend.
The house was big, one of the biggest in the district; a farmhouse and its adjoining barns, skilfully converted a few years before when all the separate farmers in the area sold out to the State, turned their lands into one great Collective. Now, in high summer, the place was looking at its best; lush green lawns, blue of ceanothus by the porch, yellow and red of roses against the white walls. Helen had laid out a rose garden a few years before; she could see the tall trellises topping the screening hedge, each with its mass of bloom. It was a place she loved to sit in, at lunchtime and when the day’s work was through. There were sundials, neat little gravelled walks; and a statue in real lead, a fisherboy casting a net.
The horses were out; Gaylord, the palomino, watched her quizzically over the paddock fence. Helen waved from the house; she waved back, rode across the stable yard. She leaned the bike against the wall, turned the corner to the tack room and the store where the garden tools were kept; the spades and rakes, mowers and hoses and scythes.
She stopped quite still. The yard looked as it always looked, cobbles swept and shiny, neat white walls. The old cart stood under its lean-to roof; next to it, the windows of the tack room were a dark, opaque red.
She walked to the door, slowly, not feeling the sun on her back. The latch was undone; she pushed it, and stepped forward.
She supposed, later, her cry must have been heard from the house. Certainly Helen met her halfway across the yard; Helen with her swinging copper hair and strong, lean hands. She was trying to speak, but could not; the shock of what she had seen was still too immediate. The piles of harness fragments, cut and hacked; saddles scattered and slashed, the broken bottles of liniment and oil; round walls and windows the sprays of crimson paint and everywhere long stinking
smears, on which the flies were already working.
David was on the phone. She heard him distantly. He said, “Yes, Properjohn. Yes, at once. I would be obliged.” She heard the tinkle as he put the handset down.
She was sitting, in the kitchen. She couldn’t stop the shaking in her legs and hands. Helen said, “Here now. It’s all right.” She tried to push the glass away, but the firm hands were insistent. The liquid stung her throat. She choked; but she couldn’t stop the crying. She said, “It was me, it was me. Oh God, it was me.”
There were tyres on gravel. The kitchen door was ajar; she saw the big lamp on the car’s roof, the cream and pale blue sides. A door slammed; footsteps crunched, receding. A handkerchief was in her hand; she supposed it was Helen’s. She snuffled, tried to blow her nose. The footsteps came back, and voices. Helen was standing close, one hand still pressed to her shoulder.
The figures bulked at the door. Ian and another policeman, a fair-haired man she didn’t know. Both were looking grim. David Properjohn said, “I don’t know what she meant. We couldn’t get anything else out of her.”
She was sobbing again. She wanted them to go away. Ian squatted in front of her. His voice was very gentle. He said, “Liz, I want you to listen to me. Then I want you to answer, carefully. Do you understand?”
She shook her head, crammed the handkerchief against her mouth. He caught her wrists, pulled them down. He said, “Liz, you said, ‘It was me, it was me.’ What did you mean?”
She tried to pull away; but he wouldn’t let her go. He said, “Look, I want to try and make you understand. We know you didn’t do it. But if you know anything, anything at all, I want you to tell us. Nobody’s going to hurt you.”
She wrenched back.
They
knew, the Duke knew. It was her they were after. She pressed her face to Helen’s hip. It seemed the room was starting to spin.
He said, “Lizabeth, you know you can trust me. Don’t you?”
She hadn’t known what she was saying.
It was seeing … it, the shock … she hadn’t known what she was saying,
she didn’t know, she didn’t know, she didn’t know …
He said, “All right girlie, all right. It’s all right.” He stood up; and she heard both men talking to David Properjohn. The MP said, “OK, I’ll see to it. Yes, she’ll be OK.” They moved to the door. He said, “Yes, thanks indeed. I hope you can.” The tyres scrunched again. The doorway lightened.
She sat up. Helen was putting the jacket round her shoulders. She said, “I’m sorry. Can I wash my face?”
Helen said, “David’s getting the car out. He’s going to take you home.”
She said, “Please. No, please …”
The redhaired woman smiled. She said, “It’s all right. It was a terrible shock, we know that. You’ll be best at home. Honest.”
She felt her eyes stinging again. She said, “I’ll clean it up.” But Helen shook her head. She said, “Tommy will see to it. Look, the car’s here now. Come along.”
It was a big car, low and wide and sleek. Her bicycle was strapped to the luggage grid on the back. She sat inside silently, hands in her lap. The saloon smelled of leather. The door clicked shut; David Properjohn moved a lever, and the dark green bonnet slid out through the gate. He looked across at her, and smiled. He said, “Better now?”
She said, “I’ve never been in a private car before.”
He smiled again, and accelerated. When he reached the main road he didn’t turn left for the village. Instead he swung right, on to the long road that climbed the downs. Ten minutes later he slowed to a halt and set the brake. He pressed a button, and her window whispered down.
They had parked on the crest of the hills. Below, farmland stretched in great swathes of yellow and green. Beyond were more hills; beyond again, dimly visible, the silver line of the sea. The air was sweet and keen, and a lark was singing.
Her head had begun to pound. She closed her eyes, lay back listening to the bird. She heard the little scrape of a match as David lit a cigarette. He smoked quietly, not speaking
again; and she was grateful. When he had finished he said, “OK?” She nodded, felt the faint vibration as he started the engine. He turned the car quickly, headed back the way they had come.
She was lying in her bed, watching the sky. The blue was deepening now, she guessed it was quite late. The blackbird was singing again; and from downstairs came a murmur of voices.
Her head was better. The doctor had been; a nearly unheard-of thing. GP’s didn’t visit ordinary people in their homes, not any more. She remembered how strange it had seemed to see him standing there. She thought that maybe David Properjohn had sent him. Members of Parliament could do a lot of things other people couldn’t; and he was her friend. She snuggled dreamily, thinking about Ian. She wished she could have told him what he wanted to know; but it all seemed unimportant now. Remote.
She listened to the voices from the lounge. One was David’s. He sounded angry and tired. With both doors open and the house so still, she could make out most of the words.
“I don’t think it was just vandalism. Not ordinary vandalism anyway. Neither do the police.”
She couldn’t hear Pamela’s voice so well. She guessed she was sitting on the far settee. She asked some question; and David said, “No, not for me. And Helen can take care of herself. But for the time being I really think …”
She was drifting off to sleep; and that wouldn’t do. The conversation somehow concerned her, she was sure of that. She pushed herself up a little on the pillows; and Pamela’s voice came clearer. She said, “No, it’s kind, but I wouldn’t disturb her. She was sleeping a few minutes ago. The Doc gave her some real knockout drops.”
She thought, ‘He’s come to see me. Of course.’ She opened her mouth to call; but somehow it was just too much effort. She fell to dreaming; about riding, and how it would be to be married to a person like David. She nearly slipped over the edge of consciousness; but a sentence roused her.
Pamela said, “Well, I don’t. I don’t think it’s anything to do with School.”
More murmuring; then her mother said, still sharp, “We all hear tales. But it would take more than that to convince me. After all, it’s one of the best equipped in the country.”
She wished she could hear David better. He must be pacing about. She strained; but she missed his answer.
When her mother spoke again she sounded less sure. She said, “Well, there was that of course. It was the night it happened. She was dreaming, I don’t think she knew. She kept shouting, about her hands. Not to hurt her hands.”
Something from David; and the tinkle of a glass. Pamela said, “It’s impossible though. It must have been a horrible accident; a wheel or something, wasn’t it? But nobody saw it, the man himself said nobody else was there. And he admitted it was his own fault.”
She heard David quite clearly, all at once. He said, “People will admit a lot for ten thousand pounds. And maybe he wanted to keep his other hand.”
Something else from Pamela; and he laughed. He said, “Of course it’s in their interest to keep it quiet. Ours too, if you like. That’s the state we’ve got to.”
Pamela said defensively, “I still think she’d have told me. She wouldn’t keep it to herself. Not a thing like that.”
A silence. Almost she imagined David smiling, slowly shaking his head. Then he said, “You’re a good Party worker, Pam, you know that? One of the best. Once you get your teeth in, you never let go …”
Her mother snapped an answer; and he said, “I call it facing facts. And bending if you have to. That’s what politics is all about.”
Pamela said bitterly, “Bend, not break.”
The voices sank again. She heard her mother say, “No, I’m not. She’s been upset enough already.” Her eyes were slipping closed when the MP said more briskly, “That’s what next week’s going to be all about. It’s not ‘getting out of hand’, it’s out of hand already. It’s been out of hand for years.”
Something from Pamela; and David said angrily, “No, I haven’t been a plaster Saint. None of us have.
But I can see where it’s got to stop. And I’ll stop it, if I have to tear that damned place open. One fact, just one hard fact. That’s all I need.”
Pamela said, “You’ll tear a lot more open if you do that.” A pause; then he said, “So be it.”