Also by P. D. fumes
COVER HER FACE
A MIND TO MURDER
UNNATURAL CAUSES
SHROUD FOR A NIGHTINGALE
AN UNSUITABLE IOB FOR A WOMAN
THE BLACK TOWER
DEATH OF AN EXPERT WITNESS
INNOCENT BLOOD
THE SKULL BENEATH THE SKIN
A TASTE FOR DEATH
DEVICES AND DESIRES
Nonfiction
THE MAUI. AND THE PEAR TREE
(with T A. Critchley)
P. D. JAMES
The Children
of Men
1?
faberandfaber
Univ.
Bébiioihek First published in 1992 Again, to my daughters
869%;ng i by Faber and Faber Limited Clare and Jane
3 ' i 3 Queen Square London wc1N 3AU 7 Who helped
Phototypeset by Intype, London
Printed in England by Clays Ltd, St Ives Plc
All rights reserved
©P. D. Iames, 1992
P. D. James is hereby identified as author of this work in
accordance with Section 77 of the Copyright, Designs and
Patents Act 1988
A CIP record for this book is available from the British
Library
ISBN 0571 1137414
24681097531
CONTENTS
BOOK ONE
Omega
January March 2021
page 1
BOOK TWO
Alpha
October 2021
page 133
BOOK ONE
Omega
January~March 2021
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Friday I January 2021
Early this morning, 1 January2021,,three minutes after mldmghtthe» *
suburb of Bnenos Aires, aged twenty-
- veyears two monthsand
twelve days. If the first rep9rts areto be believed, joseph Ricardo
died as he had lived The distmc aonif o11e can call it that of being
the last human whose birth was of cially recorded uhrelated as it
was to any personal Virtue or talent, had always been difficult for
him to handle And now he is dead The news was given to us here
in Britain on the nine o clock programme of the State Radio Service
and I heard it fOItuitOust. I had settled down to begin this diary of
the last half of my life when I noticed the time and thought I might
as well catch the headlines to the nine o clock bulletm Ricardo 5
death was the last item mentioned, and then only brie y, a couple
ofsentences delivered WIthout emphasis1n the neWscaster s carefully
non-
-comrnittal voice. But it seemed to me, hearing it, that it was at
31112111 additional justification for beginning the diary today; the first,
day of a new year and my fiftieth birthday. As a child I had always
liked that distinction, despite the inconvenience of having it follow -
Christmas too quickly so that one present it never seemed notably
superior to the one I would in any case have received had to do for
both celebrations. .
As I begin writiggkthe three events, the New Year, my fiftieth:
birthday, Ricardo sdeath hardly justify s_uliying the first pages ofthis
new loose-Ieaf notebook. Bot I shall continue, one small additional
record the nothingness a11cI then if, and when, I reach old age as
most of us can expect to, we have become experts at prolonging life
I shall open one of my tins of hoarded matches and light my small
personal bonfire of vanities. I have no intention of leaving the diary
as a record of one man 5 last years. Even in my most egotistical moods
I am not as self déee ving as that What possible interest can there be
in the journal of Theodore Faron, Doctor of Philosophy, Fellow of
3
Merton College in the University of Oxford, historian of the Victorian
Vage, divorced, childiess, solitary, whose only claim to notice is that
he is cousin to Xan Lyppiatt, the dictator and Warden of England.
No additional personal record is, in any case, necessary. All over the
world nation states are preparing to store theirt_estig1911y for the
posterity which we can still occasionally convince ourselVes may
follow us, those creatures from another planet who may land on this
green wilderness and ask what kind of sentient lifeOnce inhabited
it. We are storing our books and manuscripts thegreat paintings, the
,L amusical scores and instruments, the artefacts The world s greatest
. braties will'1n forty years time at most be darkened and sealed The
buildings, those that are still standing, will speak for themselves.
The soft stone of Oxford is unlikely to survive more than a couple of
centuries Already the University is arguing about whether it is worth
refacing the crumbling Sheldonian But I like to think of those
mythical creatureslanding
in St Peter 5 Square and entering the great
1.. MWvvvv3m, -
Basilica,si1e11tand echoing under the centuries of dust. Will they
realize that this was once the greatest of man s temples to one of his
many gods? Will they be curious about his nature, this degwho
was Worshipped with such pomp and splendour, intriguedby the
mystery of his,,,symbol at once so simple, the twoc rbssed sticks,
ubiquitons in nature, yet ladegxwith gold, gloriously jewelled and
adorned? Or will their values and their thought processes be so alien
to ours that nothing of awe or wonder will be able to touch them?
But despite the diSCOVery in 1997 was it? of agplanet Which the
astronomers told us could supportlife few of us really believe that
they will come. They must be there. It'
15 surely unreasonable to credit
that only one small star in the immensity of the universe is capable
of developing and supporting intelligent life.I But we shall not get to
them and they Will not come to us. " ,5. s
Twenty years ago,
when the wo dwasalready half convinced that
our specieshad lost for eVer the power to reproduce, the search to
find the last-known human birth became a universal obsession
eleyatecl to a matter of national pride, an international contest as
ultimately pointless as it was fierce and acrimonious To qualify the
birth had to be of cially notified, the date and precise time recorded
This effectively excluded a high proportion of the human race where
the day but not the hour was known, and it was accepted, but not
emphasized, that the result could never be conclusive. Almost
4
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icertainly in some remote jungle, in some primitive hut, the last
human being had slipped largely unnoticed into an unregarding
world But aftermonths ofchecking and re checking, Joseph Ricardo,
of mixed race, born illegitlngatelyin a Buenos Aires hospital at twoi- 1
minutes pastthree Western time on 19 October 1995, had been
* officially recognized Once the result was proclaimed, he was left to
exploit his celebrity as best he could while the world, as if suddenly
aware of the tutahtyof the exercise, turned its attention elsewhere
And now he
15 dead and I doubt Whether any country will be eager
to drag the other candidates from oblivion
We areoutraged and demoralized less by the imggging end of
our species, less even by our inability to prevent it, than by ourfailure
to discover the cause. Western science and Western medicine haven t
prepared us for theirmagnitude and humiliation of this ultimate
failure. There have been many diseases which have been difficult to
diagnose or cure and one which almost depopulated two continents
before it spent itself. But we have always in the end been able to
explain why. We have given names to the Viruses and germs which,
even today, take possession of us, much to our chagrin since it seems
a personal affront that they should still assaii us, like old enemies
who keep up the skirmish and bring down the occasional Victim
when their Victory is assured. Western science has been our god. In
the variety ofits power it has preserved, comforted, healed, warmed,
fed and entertained us and we have felt free to criticize and occasion
ally reject it as men have always rejected their gods, but in the
knowledge that despite our apostasy, this deity, our creature and
our slave, would still provide for us; the anaesthetic for the pain, the
spare heart, the new lung, the antibiotic, the moving wheels and the
moving pictures. The light will always come on when we press the
switch and if it doesn t we can find out why. Science was never a
subject I was at home with. I understood little of it at school and I
understand little more now that I'm fifty. Yet it has been my god too,
even if its achievements are incomprehensible to me, and I share the
universal disillusionment of those whose god has died. I can clearly
remember the confident words of one bioiogist spoken when it had
finally become apparent that nowhere in the whole world was there
a pregnant woman: It may take us some time to discover the cause
of this apparent universal infertility. We have had twenty-five years
and we no longer even expect to succeed. Like a lecherous stud
5
suddenly stricken with impotence, we are humiliated at the very
heart ofour faith in ourselves. For all our knowledge, our intelligence,
ourpower, we can no longer do what the animals do withoutthought.
No wonder we both worship and resent them.
The year 1995 became known as Year Omega and the term is now
universal. The great public debate in the late 1990s was whether the
country which discovered a cure for the universal infertility would
share thislwith the world and on what terms. It was accepted that
this was a_global disaster and that it must be met by the response of
a united world; We still, in the late 19905, spoke of Omega in terms
of a disease, a malfunction which would in time be diagnosed and
then corrected, as man had found a cure for tuberculosis, diphtheria,
polio and even in the end, although too Late, for AIDS. As the years
passed and the united efforts under the aegis of the United Nations
came to nothing, this resolve of complete openness fell apart.
Research became secret, nations efforts a cause of fascinated, sus-
picious attention. The European Community acted in concert, pour-
ing in research facilities and manpower. The European Centre for
Human Fertility outside Paris was among the most prestigious in the
world. This in turn co operated, at least overtly, with the United
States whose efforts were if anything greater. But there was no inter-
race co operation; the prize was too great. The terms on which the
secret might be shared were a cause of passionate speculation and
debate. It was accepted that the cure, once found, would have to be
shared; this was scientific knowledge which no race ought to, or
could, keep to itself indefinitely. But across continents, national and
racial boundaries, we watched each other suspiciously, obsessively,
feeding on rumour and speculation. The old craft of spying returned.
Old agents crawled out of comfortable retirement in Weybridge and
Cheltenham and passed on their trade craft. Spying had, of course,
never stopped, even after the official end of the Cold War in 1991. Man
is too addicted to this intoxicating mixture of adolescentbuccaneering
and adult per dy to relinquish it entirely. In the late 1990s the
bureaucracy of espionage ourished as it hadn t since the end of the
Cold War, producing new heroes, new villains, new mythologies. In
particular we watched Japan, half fearing that this technically brilliant
people might already be on the way to finding the answer.
Ten years on we still watch, but we watch with less anxiety and
without hope. The spying still goes on butit is twenty-five years now
6
' since a human being was born and in our hearts few of us believe
that the cry of a new-born child will ever be heard again on our
planet: Our interest in sex is waning. Romantic and idealized love
has taken over from crude carnal satisfaction despite the efforts of
the Warden ofEngland, through the national porn shops, to stimulate
our agging appetites. But we have our sensual substitutes; they are
available to all on the National Health Service. Our ageing bodies are
pummelled, stretched, stroked, caressed, anointed, scented. We are
manicured and pedicured, measured and weighed. Lady Margaret
Hall has become the massage centre for Oxford and here every
Tuesday afternoon I lie on the couch and look out over the still
tended gardens, enjoying my state-provided, carefully measured
hour of sensual pampering. And how assiduously, with what obsess-
ive concern, do we intend to retain the illusion, if not of youth, of
vigorous middle age. Golf is now the national game. If there had
been no Omega, the conservationists would protest at the acres of
countryside, some of it our most beautiful, which have been distorted
and rearranged to provide ever more chalienging courses. All are
tree; this is part of the Warden s promised pleasure. Some have
become exclusive, keeping unwelcome members out, not by prohib-
ition, which is illegal, but by those subtle, discriminating signals
which in Britain even the least sensitive are trained from childhood
to interpret. We need our snobberies; equality is a political theory
not a practical policy, even in Xan s egalitarian Britain. I tried once
to play golf but found the game immediately and totally unattractive,
perhaps because of my abiiity to shift divots of earth, but never the
ball. Now I run. Almost daily I pound the soft earth of Port Meadow
or the deserted footpaths of Wytham Wood, counting the miles,
subsequently measuring heartbeat, weight-loss, stamina. I am just
asranxious to stay alive as anyone else, just as obsessed with the
fuhctioning of my bodyI
Much of this I can trace to the early 1990s: the search for alternative
medicine, the perfumed oils, the massage, the stroking and anoint-
ing, the crystal-holding, the non-penetrative sex. Pornography and
sexual Violence on film, on television, in books, in life, had increased
and became more explicit but less and less in the West we made love
and bred children. It seemed at the time a welcome development in
a world grossly polluted by over population. As a historian I see it
as the beginning of the end.
We should have been warned in the early 19905. As early as 1991
a European Community Report showed a slump in the number of
Children born in Europe 8.2 million in 1990, with particular drops
in the Roman Catholic countries. We thought that we knew the
reasons, that the fall was deliberate, a result of more liberal attitudes
to birth control and abortion, the postponement of pregnancy by
professional women pursuing their careers, the wish of families
for a higher standard of living. And the fall in population was
complicated by the spread of AIDS, particularly in Africa. Some
European countries began to pursue a Vigorous campaign to encour-
age the birth ofchildren, but most ofus thought the fall was desirable,
even necessary. We were polluting the planet with our numbers; if
we were breeding less it was to be welcomed. Most of the concern
was less about a falling population than about the wish of nations to
maintain their own people, their own culture, their own race, to
breed sufficient young to maintain their economic structures. But as
Iremember it, no one suggested that the fertility of the human race
was dramatically changing. When Omega came it came with dramatic
suddenness and was received withincredulity. Overnight, it seemed,
the human race had lost its power to breed. The discovery in July
1994 that even the frozen sperm stored for experiment and artificial
insemination had lost its potency:~ was a peculiar horror casting
over Omega the pall of superstitious awe, of witchcraft, of divine
intervention. The old gods reappeared, terrible in their power.
The world didn t give up hope until the generation born in 1995
reached sexual maturity. But when the testing was complete and not
one of them could produce fertile sperm, we knew that this was
indeed the end of Homo sapiens. it was in that year, 2008, that the
suicides increased. Not mainly among the old, but among my
generation, the middle-aged, the generation who would have to bear
the bruntofan ageing and decaying society s humiliatingbutinsistent
needs. Xan, who had by then taken over as the Warden of England,
tried to stop what was becoming an epidemic by imposing fines on
the surviving nearest relations, just as the Council now pay hand-
some pensions to the relations of the incapacitated and dependent
old who kill themselves. It had its effect; the suicide rate fell compared
With the enormous figures in other parts of the world, particularly
countries whose religion was based on ancestor worship, on the
continuance of a family. But those who lived gave way to the almost
8
m
{mass
3 V universal negativism, what the French named ennui universel. It came
upon us like an insidious disease; indeed it was a disease, with its
soon-familiar symptoms of lassitude, depression, ill-de ned malaise,
a readiness to give way to minor infections, a perpetual disabling
headache. I fought against it, as did many others. Some, Xan amOng
them, have never been af icted with it, protected perhaps by a lack
of imagination or, in his case, by an egotism so powerful that no
external catastrophe can prevail against it. I still occasionally need to
struggle but I now fear it less. The weapons I fight it with are also my
consolations: books, music, food, wine, nature.
These assuaging satisfactions are also bittersweet reminders of the
transitoriness of human joy; but when was it ever lasting? I can still
find pleasure, more intellectual than sensual, in the effulgence of an
Oxford spring, the blossoms in Belbroughton Road which seem
lovelier every year, sunlight moving on stone walls, horse-chestnut
trees in full bloom, tossing in the wind, the smell of a bean field in
ower, the first snowdrops, the fragile compactness of a tulip.
Pleasure need not be less keen because there will be centuries of
springs to come, their blossom unseen by human eyes, the walls will
crumble, the trees die and rot, the gardens revert to weeds and grass,
because all beauty will outlive the human intelligence which records,
enjoys and celebrates it. I tell myself this, but do I believe it when the
pleasure now comes so rarely and, when it does, is so indistinguish-
able from pain? I can understand how the aristocrats and great
landowners with no hope of posterity leave their estates untended.
We can experience nothing but the present moment, live in no other
second of time, and to understand this is as close as we can get to
eternal life. But our minds reach back through centuries for the
reassurance of our ancestry and, without the hope of posterity, for
our race if not for ourselves, without the assurance that we being
dead yet live, all pleasures of the mind and senses sometimes seem
to me no more than pathetic and crumbling defences shored up
against our ruins.
In our universal bereavement, like grieving parents, we have put
away all painful reminders of our loss. The Children s playgrounds
in our parks have been dismantled. For the first twelve years after
Omega the swings were looped up and secured, the slides and
Climbing frames left unpainted. Now they have finally gone and the
aSphalt playgrounds have been grassed over or sown with owers
9
like small mass graves. The toys have been burnt, except for the dolls
which have become for some haIf-demented women a substitute for
children. The schools, long closed, have been boarded up or used
as centres for adult education. The children s books have been
systematically removed from Our libraries. Only on tape and records
do we now hear the voices of children, only on film or on television
programmes do we see the bright, moving images of the young.
Some find them unbearable to watch but most feed on them as they
might a drug.
The children born in the year 1995 are called Omegas. No gener-
ation has been more studied, more examined, more agonized over,
more valued or more indulged. They were our hope, our promise of
salvation and they were they still are exceptionally beautiful. It
sometimes seems that nature in her ultimate unkindness wished to
emphasize what we have lost. The boys, men of twenty-five now,
are strong, individualistic, intelligent and handsome as young gods.
Many are also cruel, arrogant and Violent, and this has been found
to be true of Omegas all over the world. The dreaded gangs of the
Painted Faces who drive round the countryside at night-to ambush
and terrorize unwary travellers are rumoured to be Omegas. It is said
that when an Omega is caught he is offeredimmunity ifhe is prepared
to join the State Security Police, whereas the rest of the gang, no
more guilty, are sent on conviction to the Penal Colony on the Isle of
Man, to which aI} those convicted of crimes of Violence, burglary or
repeated theft are now banished. But if we are unwise to drive
unprotected on our crumbling secondary roads, our towns and cities
are safe, crime effectively dealt with at last by a return to the
deportation policy of the nineteenth century.
The female Omegas have a different beauty, classical, remote,
listless, without animation or energy. They have their distinctive
Style which other women never copy, perhaps fear to copy. They
wear their hair long and loose, their foreheads bound With braid or
ribbon, plain or plaited. It is a style which suits only the classically
beautiful face with its high forehead and large, widely spaced
eyes. Like their male counterparts, they seem incapable of human
sympathy. Men and women, the Omegas are a race apart, indulged,
propitiated, feared, regarded with a half superstitious awe. In some
countries, so we are told, they are ritually sacrificed in fertility rites
resurrected after centuries of superficial civilization. I occasionally
IO
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i deder what we in Europe will do if news reaches us that these burnt
offerings have been accepted by the ancient gods and a live child
orn.
b Perhaps we have made Our Omegas what they are by our own
folly; a regime which combines perpetual surveillance with total
indulgence is hardly conducive to healthy development. If from
infancy you treat children as gods they are liable in adulthood to act
as devils I have one vivid memory of them which remains the living
icon of how I see them, how they see themselves. It was last lune, a
hot but unsultry day of clear light with slow-moving Clouds, like
wisps of muslin, moving across a high, azure sky, the air sweet and
cool to the cheek, a day with none of the humid languor I associate
with an Oxford summer. I was Visiting a fellow academic in Christ
Church and had entered under Wolsey's wide, four-centred arch to
cross Tom Quad when I saw them, a group of four female and four
male Omegas elegantly displaying themselves on the stone plinth.
The women, with their crimped aureoles of bright hair, their high
bound brows, the contrived folds and loops of their diaphanous
dresses, looked as though they had stepped down from the Pre~
Raphaelite windows in the cathedral. The four males stood behind
them, legs firmly apart, arms folded, gazing not at them but over
their heads, seeming to assert an arrogant suzerainty over the whole
quad. As I passed, the females turned on me their blank, incurious
gaze, which nevertheless signalled an unmistakable icker of con-
tempt. The males brie y scowled, then averted their eyes as if from
an object unworthy of further notice and gazed again over the quad.
I thought then, as I do now, how glad I was that I no longer had to
teach them. Most of the Omegas took a first degree, but that was
all; they aren t interested in further education. The undergraduate
Omegas I taught were intelligent but disruptive, ilI-disciplined and
bored. Their unspoken question, What is the point of all this? was
one I was glad I wasn t required to answer. History, which interprets
the past to understand the present and confront the future, is the
least rewarding discipline for a dying species.
The university colleague who takes Omega with totalcalmness is
Daniel Hurstfield, but then, as professor of statistical palaeontology,
his mind ranges over a different dimension of time. Like the God of
the old hymn, a thousand ages in his sight are like an evening gone.
Sitting beside me at a College feast in the year when I was wine
11
secretary, he said: 'What are you giving us with the grouse, Faron?
That should do very nicely. Sometimes I fear you are a little inclined
to be too adventurous. And I hope you have established a rational
drinking-up programme. It would distress me, on my deathbed, to
contemplate the barbarian Omegas making free with the College
cellar.
I said: We re thinking about it. We re still laying down, of course,
but on a reduced scale. Some of my colleagues feel we are being too
pessimistic.
Oh, I don t think you can possibly be too pessimistic. I can t think
why you all seem so surprised at Omega. After all, of the four billion
life forms which have existed on this planet, three billion, nine
hundred and sixty million are now extinct. We don't know why.
Some by wanton extinction, some through natural catastrophe, some
destroyed by meteorites and asteroids. In the light of these mass
extinctions it really does seem unreasonable to suppose that Homo
sapiens should be exempt. Our species will have been one of the
shortest lived of all, a mere blink, you may say, in the eye of time.
Omega apart, there may well be an asteroid of sufficient size to
destroy this planet on its way to us now.
He began loudly to masticate his grouse as if the prospect afforded
him the liveliest satisfaction.
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:' During those two years when, at Xan s invitation, I was a kind of
:1 observer-adviser at the Council meetings, it was usual for journalists
' " to write that we had been brought up together, that we were as close
' as brothers. It wasn t true. From the age of twelve we spent the
l summer holidays together, but that was all. The error wasn t surpris
ing. I half believed it myself. Even now the summer term seems in
retrospect a boring concatenation of predictable days dominated
by timetables, neither painful nor feared but to be endured and
" occasionally, brie y, enjoyed, since I was both clever and reasonably
popular, until the blessed moment of release. After a couple of days
Vat home I would be sent to Woolcombe.
Even as I write I am trying to understand whatI felt for Xan then,
why the bond remained so strong and for so long. It wasn t sexual,
except that in nearly all close friendships there is a subcutaneous
pricking of sexual attraction. We never touched, not even, Eremem
ber, in boisterous play. There was no boisterous play - Xan hated to
be touched and I early recognized and respected his invisible no
man s land, as he respected mine. It wasn't, either, the usual story
of the dominant partner, the eider, if only by four months, leading
the younger, his admiring disciple. He never made me feel inferior;
that wasn t his way. He welcomed me without particular warmth
but as if he were receiving back his twin, a part of himself. He had
I - - charm, of course; he still has. Charm is often despised but I can never
. see why. No one has it who isn t capable of genuinely liking others,
,' :5 at least at the actual moment of meeting and speaking. Charm is
; always genuine; it may be superficial but it isn t false. When Xan is
With another person he gives the impression of intimacy, interest, of
-- , notwanting any other company. He could hear of that person s death
the next day with equam'mity, could probably even kill him without
scruple. Now I can watch him on television as he gives his quarterly
.- report to the nation and see the same charm.
Both our mothers are now dead. They were nursed to the end at
13
l)
Woolcombe, which is now a nursing home for the nominees of the
Council. Xan's father was killed in a car crash in France the year after
Xan became Warden of England. There was some mystery about it;
no details were ever released. I wondered about the crash at the time,
still do wonder, which tells me a lot about my relationship with Xan.
With part of my mind I still believe him capable of anything, half
needing to believe him ruthless, invincible, beyond the bounds of
ordinary behaviour, as he had seemed to be when we were boys.
The sisters lives had taken very different paths. My aunt, by a
fortunate combination of beauty, ambition and good luck, had
married a middle-aged baronet, my mother a middle-grade civil
servant. Xan was born at Woolcombe, one of the most beautiful
manor houses in Dorset. I was born in Kingston, Surrey, in the
maternity wing of the local hospital, and taken home to a semi-
detached Victorian house in a long, dull road of identical houses
leading up to Richmond Park. I was brought up in an atmosphere
redolent of resentment. I remember my mother packing for my
summer visit to Woolcombe, anxiously sorting out clean shirts,
holding up my best jacket, shaking it and scrutinizing it with what
seemed a personal animosity, as if simultaneously resenting what it
had cost and the fact that, bought too large, to allow for growth, and
now too small for comfort, there had been no intervening period in
which it had actually fitted. Her attitude to her sister's good fortune
was expressed in a series of often-repeated phrases: Just as well they
don t dress for dinner. I m not handing out for a dinner jacket, not
at your age. Ridiculous! And the inevitable question, asked with
averted eyes, for she was not without shame: They get on all right,
I suppose? Of course that class of person always sleeps in separate
rooms. And at the end: Of course, it s all right for Serena. I knew
even at twelve years of age that it wasn t all right for Serena.
I suspect that my mother thought a great deal more often of her
sister and brother-in-law than they ever thought of her. And even
my unfashionable Christian name I owe to Xan. He was called after
a grandfather and great grandfather; Xan had been a family name
with the Lyppiatts for generations. 1, too, had been named after my
paternal grandfather. My mother had seen no reason why she should
be outdone when it came to the eccentric naming of a child. But Sir
George puzzled her. I can still hear her peevish complaint: He
doesn t look like a baronet to me. He was the only baronet either of
14
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us had met and I wondered what private image she was conjuring
pale, romantic Van Dyck portrait stepping down from its
frame; sulky Byronic arrogance, a red-faced swashbuckling squire,
~ . loud of voice, hard rider to hounds. But I knew what she meant; he
didn t look like a baronet to me either. Certainly he didn t look like
" the owner of WooIcombe. He had a Spade-shaped face, mottled red,
with a small, moist mouth under the moustache which looked both
ridiculous and artificial, the ruddy hair which Xan had inherited,
faded t0 the drab colour of dried straw, and eyes which gazed over
his acres With an expression of puzzled sadness. But he was a good
shot - my mother would have approved of that. So too was Xan. He
was not permitted to handle his father's Purdeys but had his own
couple of guns with which we would pot rabbits, and there were two
pistols Which we were allowed to use with blanks. We would set up
target cards on trees and spend hours improving our scores. After a
' few days' practice I was better than Xan both with gun and pistol.
My skill surprised us both, me particularly. I hadn t expected to like
or be good at shooting; I was almost disconcerted to discover how
V much I enjoyed, with a half guilty, almost sensual pleasure, the feel
of the metal in my palm, the satisfying balance of the weapons.
Xan had no other companions during the holidays and seemed not
to need them. No friends from Sherborne came to Woolcombe. When
.I asked him about school he was elusive.
It s all right. Better than Harrow would have been.
Better than Eton?
We don t go there any more. Great grandfather had a tremendous
row, public allegations, angry letters, dust shaken off feet. I ve
forgotten what it was all about.
You never mind going back to school?
Why should I? Do you?
' -. No, I rather like it. If I can t be here, I d rather have school than
holidays.
He was silent for a moment, then said: The thing is this, school
masters want to understand you, that s what they think they re
paid for. I keep them puzzled. Hard worker, top marks, house
master s pet, safe for an Oxford scholarship one term; next term big,
, big trouble .
'What sort of trouble?
Not enough to get kicked out, and of course next term I m a good
boy again. It confuses them, gets them worried.
I didn t understand him either, but it didn t worry me. I didn t
understand myself.
I know now, of course, why he liked having me at Woolcombe. I
think I guessed almost from the beginning. He had absolutely
no commitment to me, no responsibility for me, not even the
commitment of friendship or the responsibility of personal choice.
He hadn t chosen me. I was his cousin, I was wished on him, I was
there. With me at Woolcombe he need never face the inevitable
question: Why don t you invite your friends here for the holidays?
Why should he? He had his fatherless cousin to entertain. I lifted
from him, an only child, the burden of excessive parental concern. I
was never particularly aware of that concern but, without me, his
parents might have felt constrained to show it. From boyhood
he couldn t tolerate questions, curiosity, interference in his life. I
sympathized with that; I was very much the same. If there was time
enough or purpose in it, it would be interesting to trace back
our common ancestry to discover the roots of this obsessive self-
sufficiency. I realize now that it was one of the reasons for my failed
marriage. It is probably the reason why Xan has never married. It
would take a force more powerful than sexual love to prise open the
portcullis which defends that crenellated heart and mind.
We seldom saw his parents during those long weeks of summer.
Like most adolescents, we slept late and they had breakfasted when
we got down. Our midday meal was a picnic set out for us in the
kitchen, a thermos of home-made soup, bread, cheese and pate,
slabs of rich home-made fruit-cake prepared by a lugubrious cook
who managed illogically to grumble simultaneously at the small extra
trouble we caused and at the lack of prestigious dinner-parties at
which she could display her skill. We got back in time to change into
our suits for dinner. My uncle and aunt never entertained, at least
not when I was there, and the conversation was carried on almost
entirely between them while Xan and I ate, casting at each other
occasionally the secretive, colluding glances of the judgemental
young. Their spasmodic talk was invariably about plans for us and
carried on as if we weren t there.
My aunt, delicately shipping the skin from a peach, not raising her
eyes: The boys might like to see Maiden Castle.
16
Not a lot to see at Maiden Castle. Jack Manning could take them
out in his boat when he collects the lobsters.
I don t thinkI trust Manning. There s a concert tomorrow at Poole
which they might enjoy.
What kind of concert?
1 don t remember, I gave you the programme.
They might like a day in London.
Not in this lovely weather. They're much better in the open air.
When Xan was seventeen and first had the use of his father s car
we would drive into Poole to pick up girls. I found these excursions
terrifying and went with him only twice. It was like entering an alien
world; the giggles, the girls hunting in pairs, the bold, challenging
stares, the apparently inconsequential but obligatory Chat. After the
second time I said: 'We re not pretending to feel affection. We don t
even like them; they certainly don t like us. So if both parties only
want sex why don t we just say so and cut out all these embarrassing
preliminaries?
Oh, they seem to need them. Anyway the only women you can
approach like that want cash payment in advance. We can strike
lucky in Poole with one film and a couple of hours drinking.
1 don t think I ll come.
You re probably right. I usually feel next morning that it hasn t
been worth the trouble.
It was typical of him to make it sound as if my reluctance was not,
as he must have known, a mixture of embarrassment, fear of failure
and shame. I could hardly blame Xan for the fact that I lost my
Virginity in conditions of acute discomfort in a Poole car park with a
redhead who made it plain, both during my fumbling preliminaries
and afterwards, that she had known better ways of spending a
Saturday evening. And I can hardly claim that the experience
adversely affected my sex life. After all, if our sex life were determined
by our first youthful experiments, most of the world would be
doomed to celibacy. In no area of human experience are human
beings more convinced that something better can be had if only they
persevere.
Apart from the cook, I can remember few of the servants. There
was a gardener, Hobhouse, with a pathological dislike of roses,
particularly when planted with other owers. They get in every
where, he would grumble, as if the Climbers and standard bushes
17
which he resentfully and skilfully pruned had somehow mysteriously
seeded themselves. And there was Scovell, with his pretty, pert face,
whose precise function I never understood: chauffeur, gardener s
boy, handyman? Xan either ignored him or was calculatingiy offen
sive. I had never known him to be rude to any other servant and
would have asked him why if I hadn't sensed, alert as always to
every nuance of emotion in my cousin, that the question would be
unwise.
I didn t resent it that Xan was our grandparents' favourite. The
preference seemed to me perfectly natural. I can remember one
snatch of conversation overheard at the one Christmas when, disas~
trously, we were all together at Woolcombe.
I sometimes wonder if Theo won t go further than Xan in the end.
Oh no. Theo is a good-looking, intelligentboy, but Xan is brilliant.
Xan and I colluded in that judgement. When I got my Oxford
entrance they were gratified but surprised. When Xan was accepted
at Balliol they took it as his due. When I got my First they said I was
lucky. When Xan achieved no more than an upper second they
complained, but indulgently, that he hadn t bothered to work.
He didn t make demands, never treated me like a poor cousin,
annually provided with food, drink and a free holiday in return for
companionship or subservience. If I wanted to be alone, I could be
Without complaint or comment. Usually this was in the library, a
room which delighted me With its shelves filled with leather-bound
books, its pilasters and carved capitals, the great stone replace with
its carved coat of arms, the marble busts in their niches, the huge
map table where I could spread my books and holiday tasks, the
deep leather armchairs, the view from the tall windows across the
lawn down to the river and the bridge. It was here, browsing in the
county histories, that I discovered that a skirmish had been fought
on that bridge in the Civil War when five young Cavaliers had held
the bridge against the Roundheads until all of them had fallen. Even
their names were set out, a roll-Call of romantic courage: Ormerod,
Freemantle, Cole, Bydder, Fairfax. Iwent to Xan in great excitement
and dragged him into the iibrary.
Look, the actual date of the fight is next Wednesday, August 16.
We ought to celebrate.
How? Throw owers in the water?
18
But he was not being either dismissive or contemptuous and he
H was only slightly amused at my enthusiasm.
Why not drink to them anyway? Make a ceremony of it.
We did both. We went to the bridge at sunset with a bottle of his
father s claret, the two pistols, my arms filled with owers from the
walled garden. We drank the bottle between us, then Xan balanced
on the parapet, firing both pistols into the air as I shouted Out the
names. It is one of the moments from my boyhood which has
remained with me, an evening of pure joy, unshadowed, untainted
by guilt or satiety or regret, immortalized for me in that image of Xan
balanced against the sunset, of his aming hair, of the pale petals of
roses oating downstream under the bridge until they were lost to
sight.
Monday 18 Ianuary 2021
I can remember my rst holiday at Woolcombe. I followed Xan up a
second flight of stairs at the end of the corridor to a room at the top
of the house looking out over the terrace and the lawn towards the
river and the bridge. At first, sensitive and contaminated by my
mother s resentment, I wondered if I was being put in the servants
quarters.
Then Xan said: I m next door. We have our own bathroom, it s at
the end of the corridor.
I can remember every detail of that room. It was the one I was to
have every summer holiday throughout my schooldays and until I
left Oxford. I changed, but the room never changed, and I see in
imagination a succession of schoolboys and undergraduates, each
one bearing an uncanny resemblance to myself, opening that door
summer after summer and entering by right into that inheritance. I
haven t been back to Woolcombe since my mother died eight years
ago and I shall never go back now. Sometimes I have a fantasy that I
shall return to Woolcombe as an old man and die in that room,
pushing open the door for the last time and seeing again the single
four-poster bed with its carved bedposts, the cover of faded silk
patchwork; the bentwood rocking chair with its cushion embroidered
by some long-dead female Lyppiatt; the patina 0f the Georgian desk,
at little battered but firm, steady, usable; the bookcase with the
editions of nineteenth and twentieth-century boys books: Henty,
Fenimore Cooper, Rider Haggard, Conan Doyle, Sapper, John
Buchan; the bow-fronted chest of drawers with the flyblown mirror
above it; and the old prints of battle scenes, terrified horses rearing
before the cannons, wild-eyed cavalry officers, the dying Nelson.
And I can remember best of all that day when I first entered it and,
walking over to the window, looked out over the terrace, the sloping
lawn, the oak trees, the sheen of the river and the small hump backed
bridge.
Xan stood at the door. He said: We can. go off somewhere
tomorrow, if you like, cycling. The Bart has bought you a bicycle.
Iwas to learn that he seldom spoke of his father in any other way.
I said: That s kind of him.
Not really. He had to hadn t he? if he wanted us to be together.
I Ve got a bicycle. I always cycle to school, I could have brought
it.
The Bart thought it would be less trouble to keep one here. You
don t have to use it. I like to go off for the day but you don t have to
come if you don t want to. Cycling isn t compulsory. Nothing is
compulsory at Woolcombe, except unhappiness.
I was to discover later that this was the kind of sardonic quasi
adult remark he liked to make. It was intended to impress me and it
did. But I didn tbelieve him. On that firstvisit, innocently enchanted,
it was impossible to imagine anyone suffering unhappiness in such
a house. And he couldn t surely have meant himself.
I said: 'I d like to see round the house sometime. Then I blushed,
afraid that I sounded like a prospective purchaser or a tourist.
We can do that, of course. If you can wait until Saturday, Miss
Maskell from the Vicarage will do the honours. It'll cost you a pound
but that includes the garden. It s open every other Saturday in aid of
church funds. What Molly Maskell lacks in historical and artistic
knowledge she makes up in imagination.
I d rather you showed it.
He didn t reply to that, but watched while I humped my case on
to the bed and began to unpack. My mother had bought me a new
case for this first visit. Miserably aware that it was too large, too
smart, too heavy, I wished that I had brought my old canvas grip. I
had, of course, packed too many clothes and the wrong clothes but
he didn t comment, I don t know whether out of delicacy or tact or
because he simply didn t notice. Stuffing them quickly into one of
the drawers, I asked: Isn t it strange living here?
It s inconvenient and it's sometimes boring, but it isn t strange.
My ancestors have lived here for three hundred years. He added:
It s quite a small house.
He sounded as if he was trying to put me at ease by belittling his
inheritance but when I looked at him I saw, for the first time, the look
that was to become familiar to me, of a secret inner amusement which
reached eyes and mouth but never broke into an open smile. I didn t
21
n
seen through a telescope at once so close and yet infinitely remote,
fascinating in its energy, its moral seriousness, its brilliance and
squalor.
My mother s hobby was not unlucrative. She would frame the
finished pictures with the help of Mr Greenstreet, the Vicar s warden
from the local church they both regularly, and Ireluctantly, attended,
and would sell them to antique shops. I shall never now know what
part NII Greenstreet played in her life, apart from his neat-fingered
facility with wood and glue, or might have played except for my
ubiquitous presence, any more than I can know how much my
mother was paid for the pictures and whether, as I now suspect, it
was this extra income which provided me with the school trips, the
cricket bats, the extra books which I was never grudged. I did my bit
to contribute; it was I who found the prints. I would rummage
through boxes in junk shops in Kingston and further afield on my
way home from school or on Saturdays, sometimes cycling fifteen or
twenty miles to a shop which yielded the best spoils. Most were
cheap and I bought them from my pocket money. The best I stole,
becoming adept at removing centrepieces from bound books without
damage, extracting prints from their mounts and slipping them into
my school atlas. I needed these acts of vandalism, as I suspect most
youngboys needed theirminor delinquencies. Iwas never suspected,
Ithe uniformed, respectful, grammar-school boy who took his lesser
findings to the till and paid without hurry or apparent anxiety and
who occasionally bought the cheaper second-hand books from the
boxes of miscellanea outside the shop door. I enjoyed these solitary
excursions, the risk, the thrill of discovering a treasure, the triumph
of returning with my spoils. My mother said little except to ask what
I had spent and to reimburse me. If she suspected that some of the
prints were worth more than I told her I had paid, she never
questioned, but I knew that she was pleased. I didn t love her but I
did steal for her. I learned early and at that kitchen table that there
are ways of avoiding, without guilt, the commitments of love.
I know, or think I know, When my terror of taking responsibility
for other people s lives or happiness began, although I may be
deceiving myself; I have always been clever at devising excuses for
my personal shortcomings. I like to trace its roots to 1983, the year
my father lost his fight against cancer of the stomach. That was how,
listening to the grown-ups, I heard it described. He s lost his fight,
24
they said. And I can see now that it was a fight, carried on with some
courage even if he hadn t much option. My parents tried to spare me
the worst of knowledge. We try to keep things from the boy was
another frequently overheard phrase. But keeping things from the
boy meant telling me nothing except that my father was ill, would
have to see a specialist, would go into hOSpital for an operation,
would soon be home again, would have to go back into hospital.
Sometimes I wasn t even told that; I would return from school to find
him no longer there and my mother feverishly cleaning the house,
with a face set like stone. Keeping things from the boy meant that I
lived without siblings in an atmosphere of uncomprehended menace
in Which the three of us were moving inexorably forward to some
unimagined disaster which, when it came, would be my fault.
Children are always ready to believe that adult catastrophes are their
fault. My mother never spoke the word cancer to me, never referred
to his illness except incidentally. Your father s a little tired this
morning.' Your father has to go back into hospital today. Get those
schoolbooks out of the sitting-room and go upstairs before the doctor
comes. He ll be wanting to talk to me.
She would speak with eyes averted, as if there was something
embarrassing, even indecent, about the disease, which made it an
unsuitable subject for a child. Or was this a deeper secrecy, a shared
suffering, which had become an essential part of their marriage and
from which I was as rightly excluded as I was from their marriage
bed? I wonder now whether my father s silence, which seemed at
the time a rejection, was deliberate. Were we alienated less by pain
and weariness, the slow draining away of hope, than by his wish not
to increase the anguish of separation? But he can t have been so very
fond of me. I wasn't an easy child to love. And how could we have
communicated? The world of the terminally ill is the world of neither
the living nor the dead. I have watched others since I watched my
father, and always with a sense of their strangeness. They sit and
speak, and are spoken to, and listen, and even smile, but in spirit
they have already moved away from us and there is no way we can
enter their shadowy n0 man s land.
I can t now remember the day he died except for one incident: my
mother sitting' at the kitchen table, weeping at last tears of anger and
frustration. When, clumsy and embarrassed, I tried to put my arms
round her, she walled: Why do I always have such rotten luck? It
25
seemed then to that twelve year-old, as it seems now, an inadequate
response to personal tragedy and its banality in uenced my attitude
to my mother for the rest of my childhood. That was unjust and
judgemental, but children are unjust and judgemental to their
parents.
Although I have forgotten, or perhaps deliberately put out ofmind,
all but one memory of the day my father died, I can recall every
hour of the day he was cremated: the thin drizzle that made the
crematorium gardens look like a pointilliste painting; the waiting in
the mock Cloister until an earlier Cremation was over and we COuld
file in and take our places in those stark pine pews; the smell of my
new suit, the wreaths stacked up against the chapel wall, the
smallness of the coffin - it seemed impossible tobelieve that it actually
held my father s body. My mother s anxiety that all should go well
was increased by the fear that her baronet brother~in-Iaw would
attend. He didn t, and neither did Xan, who was at his prep school.
But my aunt came, too smartly dressed, and the only woman not
predominantly in black, giving my mother a not-unwelcome cause
for complaint. It was after the baked meats of the funeral feast that
the two sisters agreed I should spend the next summer holiday at
Woolcombe and the pattern for all subsequent summer holidays was
established.
But my main memory of the day is its atmosphere of suppressed
excitement and a strong disapproval which I felt was focused on me.
It was then that I first heard the phrase reiterated by friends and
neighbours who, in their unaccustomed black, I hardly knew: 'You il
have to be the man of the family now, Theo. Your mother will look
to you. I couldn t then say what for nearly forty years I have known
to be true. I don t want anyone to look to me, not for protection, not
for happiness, not for love, not for anything.
I wish that my remembrance of my father was happier, that I had
a clear View, or at least some view, of the essential man which I could
take hold of, make part of me; I wish that I could name even three
qualities which characterized him. Thinking about him now for the
rsttime inyears, there are no adjectives which I can honestly conjure
up, not even that he was gentle, kind, intelligent, loving. He may
have been all of these things, I just don t know. A111 know about him
is that he was dying. His cancer wasn t quick or merciful -« when is
it merciful? - and he took neariy three years to die. It seems that most
26
g. of my childhOOd was subsumed in those years by the look and the
sound and the smell of his death. He was his cancer. I could see
nothing else then and I can see nothing else now. And for years my
memory of him, less memory than reincarnation, was one of horror.
A few weeks before his death he cut his left index finger opening a
tin and the wound became infected. Through the bulky lint-and-
gauze bandage applied by my mother seeped blood and pus. It
seemed not to worry him; he would eat with his right hand, leaving
his left resting on the table, gently regarding it, with an air of slight
surprise, as if it were separate from his body, nothing to do with him.
But I couldn t take my eyes from it, hunger fighting with nausea. To
me it was an obscene object of horror. Perhaps I projected on to his
bandaged finger all my unacknowledged fear of his mortal illness.
For months after his death I was Visited by a recurrent nightmare in
which Iwould see him at the foot of my bed pointing at me a bleeding
yellow stump, not of a finger but of a whole hand. He never spoke;
he stood mute in his striped pyjamas. His look was sometimes
an appeal for something I couldn t give, but more often gravely
accusatory, as was that pointing. It seems now unjust that he should
for so long have been remembered only with horror, with dripping
pus and blood. The form of the nightmare, too, puzzles me now that,
with my amateur adult knowledge of psychology, I attempt to ana-
lyse it. It would be more explicabie had I been a girl. The attempt to
analyse was, of course, an attempt at exorcism. In part it must have
Succeeded. After I killed Natalie he visited me weekly; now he never
comes. I am glad that he has finally gone, taking with him his pain,
his blood, his pus. But I wish that he had left me a different memory.
Friday 22 January 2021
Today is my daughter s birthday, would have been my daughter s
birthday if I hadn t run her over and killed her. That was in 1994,
when she was fifteen months old. Helena and I were living then in
an Edwardian semi-detached house in Lathbury Road, too large and
too expensive for us, but Helena, as soon as she knew she was preg-
nant, had insisted on a house with a garden and a south facing
nursery. Ican tremembernow the exactcircumstances ofthe accident,
whether I was supposed to be keeping an eye on Natalie or thought
that she was with her mother. All that must have come out at the
inquest; but the inquest, that official allocation of responsibility, has
been erased from memory. I do remember that I was leaving the
house to go into College and backing the car, which Helena had
clumsily parked the previous day, so that I could more easily
manoeuvre it through the narrow garden gate. There was no garage
at Lathbury Road but we had standing for two cars in front of the
house. I must have left the front door open and Natalie, who had
walked since she was thirteen months, toddled out after me. That
minor culpability must have been established at the inquest, too. But
some things I do remember: the gentle bump under my rear left
wheel like a ramp but softer, more yielding, more tender than any
ramp. The immediate knowledge, certain, absolute, terrifying, of
what it was. And the five seconds of total silence before the screaming
began, I knew that it was Helena screaming and yet part of my mind
couldn t believe that what I was hearing was a human sound. And I
remember the humiliation. I couldn t move, couldn t get out of the
car, couldn t even stretch out my hand to the door. And then George
Hawkins, our neighbour, was banging on the glass and shouting,
'Get out you bastard, get out! And I can remember the irrelevance
of my thought, seeing that gross, anger-distorted face pressing
against the glass: He never liked me. And I can t pretend that it
didn t happen. I can t pretend it was someone else. I can t pretend I
wasn t responsible.
28
ma
wa
Horror and guilt subsumed grief. Perhaps if Helena had been able
* to say, It s worse for you, darling, or It s as bad for you, darling,
we might have salvaged something from the wreckage of a marriage
which from the start hadn t been particularly seaworthy. But of
course she couldn't; that wasn t what she believed. She thought that
[cared less, and she was right. She thought that I cared less because
Iloved less, and she was right about that too. Iwas glad to be a father.
When Helena told me she was pregnant I felt what I presume are the
usual emotions of irrational pride, tenderness and amazement. I did
feel affection for my child, although I would have felt more had she
been prettier she was a miniature caricature of Helena s father
more affectionate, more responsive, less inclined to whine. I m glad
that no other eyes will read these words. She has been dead for
twenty-seven years and I still think of her with complaint. But Helena
was obsessed by her, totally enchanted, enslaved, and I know that
what spoiled Natalie for me was jealousy. I would have got over it in
time, or at least come to terms with it. But I wasn t given time. I don t
think Helena ever believed that I d run Natalie over on purpose, at
least not when she was rational; even at her most bitter she managed
to prevent herself from saying the unforgivable words, as a woman
burdened With a sick and cantankerous husband, out of superst1t10n
or a remnant of kindness, will bite back the words, I wish you were
dead. But given the chance she would rather have had Natalie alive
than me. I m not blaming her for that. It seemed perfectly reasonable
at the time and it seems so now.
I would lie distanced in the king-sized bed waiting for her to fall
asleep, knowing that it might be hours before she did, worrying
about next day s over filled diary, about how with the prospect of
endless broken nights I would be able to cope, reiterating into the
darkness my litany of justification - For Christ s sake, it was an
accident. I didn t mean to do it. I m not the only father to have run
down his child. She was supposed to be looking after Natalie, the
Child was her responsibility, she made it plain enough it wasn t mine.
The least she could have done was to look after her properly. But
angry self justification was as banal and irrelevant as a child s excuse
for breaking a vase. .
We both knew that we had to leave Lathbury Road. Helena $21le
We can t stay here. We should look for a house near the centre of
29
the city. After all, that s always what you ve wanted. You've never
really liked this place.
The allegation was there but unspoken: you re glad that we re
moving, glad that her death has made it possible.
Six months after the funeral we moved to St John Street, to a tall
Georgian house with a front door on the street where parking is
difficult. Lathbury Road was a family house; this is a house for the
unencumbered, ifagile, and the solitary. The move suited me because
Iliked being close to the city centre, and Georgian architecture, even
speculative Georgian requiring constant maintenance, has a greater
cachet than Edwardian. We hadn t made love since Natalie s death
but now Helena moved into her own room. It was never discussed
between us but I knew that she was saying that there would be no
second chance, that I had killed not only her beloved daughter but
all hope of another child, of the son she suspected I had really
wanted. But that was in October 1994 and the choice was no longer
there. We didn t stay permanently apart, of course. Sex and marriage
are more complicated than that. From time to time I would cross the
few feet of carpeted oor between her room and mine. She neither
welcomed me nor rejected me. But there was a wider, more perma-
nent gulf between us and that I made no effort to cross.
This narrow, five-storied house is too large for me, but with our
falling population I m hardly likely to be criticized for not sharing my
over-provision. There are no undergraduates clamouring for a bed-
sitting room, no young homeless families to prick the social con-
science of the more privileged. I use it all, mounting from oor to
oor through the routine of my day, as if methodically stamping my
ownership on vinyl, on carpet and rugs and polished wood. The
dining room and kitchen are in the basement, the latter with a wide
arc of stone steps leading to the garden. Above them, two smali
sitting-rooms have been converted into one Which also serves as
library, a television and music room anda convenient place in which
to see my students. On the first oor is a large L-shaped drawing
room. This too has been converted from two smaller rooms, the two
discordant fireplaces proclaiming its former use From the back
window I can look out over the small walled garden with its single
silver birch tree. At the front, two elegant windows, ceiling high,
with a balcony beyond, face St John Street.
Anyone pacing between the two windows would have little diffi-
30
culty describing the room s owner. Obviously an academic; three
walls are lined with bookshelves from ceiling to oor. A historian;
the books themselves make that plain. A man concerned primarily
with the nineteenth century; not only the books but the pictures and
ornaments proclaim this obsession; the Staffordshire commemot-
ative gures, the Victorian genre oil paintings, the William Morris
wallpaper. The room, too, of a man who likes his comfort and who
lives alone. There are no family photographs, n0 board games, no
disarray, no dust, no feminine clutter, little evidence, indeed, that
the room is ever used. And a Visitor might guess, too, that nothing
here is inherited, everything acquired. There are none ofthose unique
or eccentric artefacts, valued 0r tolerated because they are heirlooms,
no family portraits, undistinguished oils given their place to proclaim
ancestry. It is the room of a man who has risen in the world,
surrounding himself with the symbols both of his achievements and
his minor obsessions. Mrs Kavanagh, the wife of one of the college
scouts, comes in three times a week to clean for me and does it well
enough. I have no wish to employ the Sojourners to whom, as ex-
adviser to the Warden of England, I am entitled.
The room I like best is at the top of the house, a small attic room
with a charming fireplace in wrought iron and decorated tiles,
furnished only With a desk and chair and containing the necessities
for making coffee. An uncurtained window looks out over the
campanile of St Barnabas Church to the far green slope of Wytham
Wood. It is here I write my diary, prepare my lectures and seminars,
write my historical papers. The front door is four storeys down,
inconvenient for answering the doorbell; but I have ensured that
there are no unexpected visitors in my self-sufficient life.
Last year, in February, Helena left me for Rupert Clavering,
thirteen years younger than she, who combines the appearance of
an over-enthusiastic Rugby player with, one is forced to believe, the
sensitivity of an artist. He designs posters and dust jackets anti does
them very well. I recall something she said during our pre-dlvorce
discussions, which I was at pains to keep unacrimonious and
unemotional: that I had slept with her only at carefully regulated
intervalsbecause Iwanted my affairs with my students to be drivenby
more discriminating needs than the reliefofcrude sexual deprivation.
Those weren t, of course, her words, but that was her meaning. I
think she surprised both of us by her perception.
31
The task of writing his journal ~ and Theo thought of it as a task, not
a pleasure had become part of his over-organized life, a nightly
addition to a weekly routine half imposed by Circumstance, half
deliberately devised in an attempt to impose order and purpose on
the shapelessness of existence. The Council of England had decreed
that all citizens should, in addition to their ordinary jobs, undertake
two weekly training sessions in skills which would help them to
survive if and when they became part of the remnant of Civilization.
The choice was voluntary. Xan had always known the wisdom of
giving people a choice in matters where choice was unimportant.
Theo had elected to do one stint in the John Radcliffe hospital, not
because he felt at home in its antiseptic hierarchy or imagined that
his ministrations t0 the sick and aged esh which both terrified and
repelled him was any more gratifying to the recipients than it was to
him, but because he thought the knowledge gained might be the
most personally useful, and it was no bad idea to know where, should
the need arise, he could with some cunning lay his hands on drugs.
The second two hour session he Spent more agreeably on house
maintenance, finding the good humour and crude critical comments
of the artisans who taught there a welcome relief from the more
refined disparagements 0f academe. His paid job was teaching the
full- and partetime mature students who, with the few former
undergraduates doing research or taking higher degrees, were the
university s justification for its existence. On two nights a week,
Tuesday and Friday, he dined in Hall. On Wednesday he invariably
attended the three o clock service of Evensong in Magdalen Chapel.
A small number of colleges with more than usually eccentric collegers
or an obstinate determination to ignore reality still used their chapels
for worship, some even reverting to the old Book of Common Prayer.
But the choir at Magdalen was among the best regarded and Theo
went to listen to the singing, not to take part in an archaic act of
worship.
It happened on the fourth Wednesday in January. Walking to
32
Magdalen as was his custom, he had turned from St John Street into
Beaumont Stteet and was nearing the entrance to the Ashmolean
Museum When a woman approached him wheeling a pram. The thin
drizzle had stopped and as she drew alongside him she paused to
fold back the mackintosh cover and push down the pram hood. The
doll was revealed, propped upright against the cushions, the two
arms, hands mittened, resting on the quilted coveriet, a parody of
childhood, at once pathetic and sinister. Shocked and repelled,
Theo found that he couldn t keep his eyes off it. The glossy irises,
unnaturally large, bluer than those of any human eye, a gleaming
azure, seemed to fix on him their unseeing stare which yet horribly
suggested a dormant intelligence, alien and monstrous. The eye
lashes, dark brown, lay like spiders on the delicately tinted porcelain
cheeks and an adult abundance of yellow crimped hair sprung from
beneath the Close fitting lace-trimmed bonnet.
It had been years since he had last seen a doll thus paraded, but
they had been common twenty years ago, had indeed become
something of a craze. Doli-making was the only section of the toy
industry which, with the production of prams, had for a decade
ourished and had produced dolls for the whole range of frustrated
maternal desire, some cheap and tawdry but some of remarkable
craftsmanship and beauty which, but for the Omega which origin-
ated them, could have become cherished heirlooms. The more
expensive ones some he remembered costing well over £2,000 ~
could be bought in different sizes: the new-bom, the six~month-old
baby, the year old, the eighteen-month oid child able to stand and
walk, intricately powered. He remembered now that they were called
Six Monthlies. At one time it wasn t possible to walk down the High
Street without being encumbered by their prams, by groups of
admiring quasi-mothers. He seemed to remember that there had
even been pseudo births and that broken dolls were buried with
ceremony in consecrated ground. Wasn tit one ofthe minor ecclesias-
tical disputes of the early 2000s whether churches could legitimately
be used for these charades and even whether ordained priests could
take part?
Aware of his gaze, the woman smiled, an idiot smile, inviting
connivance, congratuiations. Then, as their eyes met and he dropped
his, so that she shouldn t see his small pity and his greater contempt,
she jerked the pram back, then put out a shielding arm as if to
33
ward off his masculine importunities. A more responsive passer-by
stopped and spoke to her. A middle-aged woman in well-fitting
tweeds, hair carefully groomed, came up to the pram, smiled at the
doll s owner and began a congratulatory patter. The first woman,
simpering with pleasure, leaned forward, smoothed the satin quilted
pram cover, adjusted the bonnet, tucked in a stray lock of hair. The
second tickled the doll beneath its chin as she might a cat, still
murmuring her baby tatk.
Theo, more depressed and disgusted by the Charade than surely
such harmless play-acting justified, was turning away when it hap-
pened. The second woman suddenly seized the doll, tore it from the
coverings and, without a word, swung it twice round her head by
the legs and dashed it against the stone wall with tremendous
force. The face shattered and shards of porcelain fell tinkling to the
pavement. The owner was for two seconds absolutely silent. And
then she screamed. The sound was horrible, the scream of the
tortured, the bereaved, a terrified, high-pitched squealing, inhuman
yet all too human, unstoppable. She stood there, hat askew, head
thrown back to the heavens, her mouth stretched into a gape from
which poured her agony, her grief, her anger. She seemed at first
unaware that the attacker still stood there, watching her with silent
contempt. Then the woman turned and walked briskly through the
open gates, across the courtyard and into the Ashmolean. Suddenly
aware that the attacker had escaped, the doll-owner galumphed after
her, still screaming, then, apparently realizing the hopelessness of
it, returned to the pram. She had grown quieter now and, sinking to
her knees, began gathering up the broken pieces, sobbing and
moaning gently, trying to match them as she might a jigsaw puzzle.
Two gleaming eyes, horribly real, joined by a spring, rolled towards
Theo. He had a second s impulse to pick them up, to help, to speak
at least a few words of comfort. He could have pointed out that she
could buy another child. It was a consolation he hadn t been able to
offer his wife. But his hesitation was only momentary. He walked
briskly on. No one else went near her. Middle-aged women, those
who had reached adulthood in the year of Omega, were notoriously
unstable.
He reached the chapel just as the service was abOut to begin. The
choir of eight men and eight women led in, bringing with them a
memory of earlier choirs, boy choristers entering grave-faced with
34
that almost imperceptible childish swagger, crossed arms holding
' the service sheets to their narrow chests, their smooth faces lit as it
with an internal candle, their hair brushed to gleaming caps, their
faces preternaturally solemn above the starched collars. Theo ban-
ished the image, wondering why it was so persistent when he had
never even cared for Children. Now he xed his eyes on the chaplain,
remembering the incident some months previously When he had
arrived early for Evensong. Somehow a young deer from the Magda-
len meadow had made its way into the chapel and was standing
peaceably beside the altar as if this were its natural habitat. The
chaplain, harshly shouting, had rushed at it, seizing and hurling
prayer books, thumping its silken sides. The animal, puzzled, docite,
had for a moment endured the assault and then, delicate-footed, had
pranced its way out of the chapel.
The chaplain had turned to Theo, tears streaming down his face.
Christ, why can t they wait? Bloody animals. They ti have it all soon
enough. Why can't they wait?
Looking now at his serious, self important face it seemed, in this
candle-litpeace, no more than abizarre scene from a half remembered
nightmare.
The congregation, as usual, numbered less than thirty and many
of those present, regulars like himself, were known to Theo. But
there was one newcomer, a young woman, seated in the stall
immediately opposite his own whose gaze, from time to time, it was
difficult to avoid although she gave no sign ofrecognition. The Chapei
was dimly lit and through the icker of candles her face gleamed
with a gentle, almost transparent light, at one moment seen clearly,
then as elusive and insubstantial as a wraith. But it was not unknown
to him; somehow he'd seen her before, not just with a momentary
glance, but face to face and for a stretch of time. He tn'ed to force and
then trick his memory into recall, fixing his eyes on her bent head
during the confession, appearing to stare past her with pious concen-
tration during the reading of the first lesson, but constantly aware of
her, casting over her image memory s barbed net. By the end of the
second lesson he was becoming irritated by his failure and then, as
the choir, mostly middle aged, arranged their music sheets and
gazed at the conductor, waiting for the organ to begin and his small
surpliced figure to raise his paw like hands and begin their delicate
paddling of the air, Theo remembered. She hadbeenbrie y a member
35
of Colin Seabrook s class on Victorian Life and Times, with its subtitle
Women in the Victorian Novel, which he had taken for Colin eighteen
months previously. Seabrook's wife had had a cancer operation;
there was a chance of a holiday together if Colin could find a sub-
stitute for this one four session class. He could recall their conver-
sation, his half hearted protest.
Shouldn t you get a member of the English Facuity to do it for
you?
No, old boy, I ve tried. They've all got excuses. Don t like evening
work. Too busy. Not their period don t think it s only historians
who go in for that crap. Can do one session but not four. It s only
one hour, Thursdays, six to seven. And you won t have to bother
with preparation, I ve only set four books and you probably know
them by heart: Middlemarch, Portrait of a Lady, Vanity Fair, Cranford.
Only fourteen in the class, fifty year-old women mainly. They should
be fussing round their grandchildren, so they ve time on their hands,
you know how it is. Charming ladies, if a little conventional in their
taste. You ll love them. And they ll be tickled pink to have you.
The comfort of culture, that s what they re after. Youi cousin, our
esteemed Warden, is very keen on the comfort of culture. All they
want is to escape temporarily into a more agreeable and permanent
world. We all do it, dear boy, only you and I call it scholarship.
But there had been fifteen students, not fourteen. She had come
in two minutes late and had quietly taken her seat at the back of the
group. Then as now he had seen her head outlined against carved
wood and lit by candies. When the last intake of undergraduates had
gone down, hallowed college rooms had been opened to mature,
part-time students, and the class had been held in an agreeable,
panelled lecture room at Queen s College. She had listened, appar-
ently attentiveiy, to his preliminary discourse on Henry James and
had at first taken no part in the ensuing general discussion until a
large woman in the front row began extravagantly praising Isabel
Archer s moralqualities and sentimentally lamentingher undeserved
fate.
The girl had suddenly said: I don t see why you should particuiarly
pity someone who was given so much and made such poor use of it.
She could have married Lord Warburton and done a great deal of
good to his tenants, to the poor. All right, she didn t love him, so
there was an excuse and she had higher ambitions for herself than
36
f 'marriage to Lord Warburton. But what? She had no creative talent,
no job, no training. When her cousin made her rich, What did she
do? Gad round the world With Madame Merle, of all people. And
then she marries that conceited hypocrite and goes in for Thursday
salons gorgeously dressed. What happened to a1} the idealism? I ve
got more time for Henrietta Stackpole.
The woman had protested: Oh, but she s so vuigar!
That's What Mrs Touchett thinks, so does the author. But at least
she has talent, which Isabel hasn t, and she uses it to earn her living,
and support her widowed sister. She added, lsabel Archer and
Dorothea both discard eligible suitors to marry self-important fools,
but one sympathizes more with Dorothea. Perhaps this is because
George Eliot respects her heroine and, at heart, HenryJames despises
his.
She might, Theo had suspected, have been relieving boredom
by deliberate provocation. But Whatever her motive, the ensuing
argument hadbeen noisy and lively and for once the remaining thirty
minutes had passed quickly and agreeably. He had been sorry and
a little aggrieved when the following Thursday, watched for, she had
failed to appear.
The connection made and curiosity appeased, he could sit back in
peace and listen to the second anthem. It had been the custom at
Magdalen for the last ten years to play a recorded anthem during
Evensong. Theo saw from the printed service sheet that this after-
noon there was to be the first of a series of fteenth-century English
anthems, beginning with two by William Byrd, Teach me, O Lord
and Exult Thyself, O God . There was a brief anticipatory silence as
the informator choristamm bent down to switch on the tape. The voices
of boys, sweet, clear, asexual, unheard since the last boy chorister s
voice had broken, soared and filled the chapel. He glanced across at
the girl, but she was sitting motionless, her head thrown back, her
eyes fixed on the rib vaulting of the roof so that all he could see was
the candle-lit curve of her neck. But at the end of the row was a figure
he suddenly recognized: old Mar ndaie, who had been an English
fellow on the eve of retirement when he himself was in his rst year.
Now he satperfectly still, his old face uplifted, the candlelight ghnting
on the tears which ran down his cheeks in a stream so that the
deep furrows looked as if they were hung with pearls. Old Marty,
unmarried, celibate, who all his life had loved the beauty of boys.
37
Why, Theo wondered, did he and his like come week after week to
seek this masochistic pleasure? They could listen to the recorded
voices of children perfectly well at home, so why did it have to be
here, where past and present fused in beauty and candlelight to
reinforce regret? Why did he himself come? But he knew the answer
to that question. Feel, he told himself, feel, feel, feel. Even if what
you feel is pain, only let yourself feel.
The woman left the chapel before him, moving swiftly, almost
surreptitiously. But when he stepped out into the cool air, he was
surprised to find her obviously waiting.
She came up beside him and said: Could I please speak to you?
It s important.
From the ante chapel the bright light streamed out into the late-
afternoon dusk and for the first time he saw her clearly. Her hair,
dark and luscious, a rich brown with ecks of gold, was brushed
back and disciplined into a short, thick pleat. A fringe fell over a high,
heckled forehead. She was light-skinned for someone so dark-haired,
a honey coloured woman, long-necked with high cheekbones, wide-
set eyes whose colour he couldn t determine under strong straight
brows, a long narrow nose, slightly humped, and a wide, beautifully
shaped mouth. It was a Pre-Raphaeh te face. Rossetti would have
liked to have painted her. She was dressed in the current fashion for
all but Omegas - a short, fitted jacket and, beneath it, a woollen skirt
reaching to mid-calf below which he could see the highly coloured
socks which had become this year s craze. Hers were bright yellow.
She carried a leather sling bag over her left shoulder. She was
gloveless and he could see that her left hand was deformed. The
middle and forefinger were fused into a nail-less stump and the back
of the hand grossly swollen. She held it cradled in her right as if
comforting or supporting it. There was no effort to hide it. She might
even have been proclaiming her deformity to a world which had
become increasingly intolerant of physical defects. But at least, he
thought, she had one compensation. No one who was in any way
physically deformed, or mentally or physically unhealthy, was on
the list of women from whom the new race would be bred if ever a
fertile male was discovered. She was, at least, saved from the six
monthly, time-consuming, humiliating re examinations to which all
healthy females under forty five were subjected.
38
She said again, more quietly: 'It won t take long. But please, I have
to talk to you, Dr Faron.
If you need to. He was intrigued, but he couldn t make his voice
welcoming.
Perhaps we could walk round the new cloisters.
They turned together in silence. She said: You don t know me.
No, but I remember you. You were at the second of the classes I
took for Dr Seabrook. You certainly enlivened the discussion.
I m afraid I was rather vehement. She added, as if it were
important to explain: I do very much admire The Portrait ofa Lady.
But presumably you haven t arranged this interview to reassure
me about your literary taste.
As soon as the words were spoken he regretted them. She ushed,
and he sensed an instinctive recoil, a loss of confidence in herself,
and perhaps in him. The naivety of her remark had disconcerted
him, but he need not have responded with such hurtful irony. Her
unease was infectious. He hoped that she wasn t proposing to
embarrass him with personal revelations or emotional demands. It
was difficutt to reconcile that articulate confident debater with her
present almost adolescent gaucherie. It was pointless to try to make
amends and for half a minute they walked in silence.
Then he said: '1 was sorry when you didn t reappear. The class
seemed very dull the following week.
I would have come again, but my hours were changed to the
morning shift. I had to work. She didn't explain at what or Where,
but added: My name is Julian. I know yours, of course.
Julian. That s unusual for a woman. Were you named after Julian
of Norwich?
No, I don t think my parents had ever heard of her. My father
went to register the birth and he gave the name as Julie Ann. That s
What my parents had chosen. The registrar must have misheard, or
perhaps Father didn t speak very clearly. It was three weeks before
my mother noticed the mistake and she thought it was too late to
Change it. Anyway, I think she rather liked the name, so I was
christened IuIian.
ButI suppose people call you Julie.
What people?
Your friends, your family.
I haven t any family. My parents were killed in the race riots in
2002. But why should they cal} me Julie? Julie isn t my name.
She was perfectly polite, unaggressive. He might have supposed
that she was puzzled by his comment, but puzzlement was surely
unjustified. His remark had been inept, unthinking, condescending
perhaps, but it hadn t been ridiculous. And if this encounter was the
preliminary to a request that he should give a talk about the social
history of the nineteenth century it was an unusual one.
He asked: Why do you want to speak to me?
Now that the moment had come he sensed her reluctance to begin,
not, he thought, out of embarrassment or regret that she had initiated
the encounter, but because what she had to say was important and
she needed to find the right words.
She paused and looked at him. Things are happening in England
- in Britain that are wrong. Ibelong to a small group of friends who
think we ought to try to stop them. You used to be a member of the
Council of England. You re the Warden s cousin. We thought that
before we acted you might talk to him. We're not really sure that you
can help, but two of us, Luke - he s a priest and I, thought you
might be able to. The leader of the group is my husband, Rolf. He
agreed that I should talk to you.
Why you? Why hasn t he come himself?
I suppose he thought they thought that I'm the one who might
be able to persuade you.
Persuade me to what?
Iust to meet us, so that we can explain what we have to do.
Why can't you explain now, then I can decide whether I m
prepared to meet you? What group are you talking about?
Iust a group of five. We haven t really got started yet. We may not
need to if there is a hope of persuading the Warden to act.
He said carefully: I was never a full member of the Council, only
personal adviser to the Warden of England. I haven t attended for
over three years, I don t see the Warden any longer. The relationship
means nothing to either of us. My in uence is probably no greater
than yours.
But you could see him. We can t.
You could try. He s not totally inaccessible. People are able to
telephone him, sometimes to speak to him. Naturally he has to
protect himself.
40
Against the people? But seeing him, even speaking to him, would
be to let him and the State Security Police know we exist, perhaps
even who we are. It wouldn t be safe for us to try.
Do you really believe that?
Oh yes, she said sadly. Don t you?
No, I don t think I do. But if you're right, then you re taking an
extraordinary risk. What makes you think you can trust me? You re
surely not proposing to place your safety in my hands on the evidence
of one seminar on Victorian literature? Have any of the rest of the
group even met me?
No. But two of us, Luke and I, have read some of your books.
He said drily: 'It s unwise to judge an academic s personal probity
from his written work.
It was the only way we had. We know it s a risk but it s one we
have to take. Please meet us. Please at least hear what we have to
say.
The appeal in her voice was unmistakeable, simple and direct and,
suddenly, he thought he understood why. It had been her idea to
approach him. She had come with only the reluctant acquiescence of
the rest of the group, perhaps even against the wish of its leader. The
risk she was taking was her own. If he refused her, she would return
empty~handed and humiliated. He found that he couldn't do it.
He said, knowing even as he spoke that it was a mistake, All right.
I ll talk to you. Where and when do you next meet?
On Sunday at ten o clock in St Margaret s Church at Binsey. Do
you know it?
Yes, I know Binsey.
At ten o'clock. In the church.
She had got what she had come for and she didn t linger. He could
scarcely catch her murmured, Thank you. Thank you. Then she
slipped from his side so quickly and quietly that she might have been
a shadow among the many moving shadows of the Cloister.
He loitered for a minute so that there would be no chance of
overtaking her and then in silence and solitude made his way home.
Saturday 30 January 2021
At seven o clock this morning Jasper Palmer Smith telephoned and
asked me to visit him. The matterwas urgent. He gave no explanation,
but then he seldom does. I said I could be with him immediately
after lunch. These summonses, increasingly peremptory, are also
becoming more common. He used to demand my presence about
once every quarter; now it is about once a month. He taught me
history and he was a marvellous teacher, at least of clever students.
As an undergraduate I had never admitted to liking him, but had
said with casual tolerance, Iasper s not so bad. I get on all right with
him. And I did for an understandable if not particularly creditable
reason: I was his favourite pupil of my year. He always had a
favourite. The relationship was almost entirely academic. He is
neither gay nor particularly fond of the young, indeed his dislike of
children has been legendary and they were always kept well out of
sight and sound on the rare occasions when he condescended to
accept a private dinner invitation. But each year he would select an
undergraduate, invariably male, for his approval and patronage. We
assumed that the criteria he demanded were intelligence first, looks
second and wit third. He took time over the choice but, once made,
it was irrevocable. It was a relationship without anxiety for the
favourite since, once approved, he could do no wrong. It was free,
too, of peer resentment or envy since IPS was too unpopular to be
courted and it was in fairness admitted that the favourite had no part
in his selection. Admittedly one was expected to gain a First; all the
favourites did. At the time I was chosen 1 was conceited and confident
enough to see this as a probability but one which need not worry me
for a least another two years. But I did work hard for him, wanted to
please him, to justify his choice. To be selected from the crowd is
always gratifying to self esteem; one feels the need to make some
return, a fact which accounts for a number of otherwise surprising
marriages. Perhaps that was the basis of his own marriage to a
mathematics fellow from New College five years older than he. They
42
V seemed, in company at least, to get on well enough together, but in
general women disliked him intensely. During the early 19905 when
there was an upsurge of allegations about sexual harassment, he
instituted an unsuccessful campaign to ensure that- a chaperon was
provided at all tutorials of female students on the grounds that
otherwise he and his male colleagues were at risk from unjustified
allegations. No one was more adept at demolishing a woman s
self confidence while treating her with meticulous, indeed almost
insulting, consideration and courtesy.
He was a caricature of the popular idea of an Oxford don: high
forehead, receding hairline, thin, slightly hooked nose, tight-lipped.
He walked With his chin jutting forward as if confronting a strong
gale, shoulders hunched, his faded gown billowing. One expected
to see him pictured, high collared as a Vanity Fair creation, holding
one of his own books with slender tipped, fastidious fingers.
He occasionally confided in me and treated me as if grooming me
as his successor. That, of course, was nonsense; he gave me much
but some things were not within his gift. But the impression his
current favourite had ofbeing in some sense a crown prince has made
me wonder subsequently whether this wasn t his way of confronting
age, time, the inevitable blunting of the mind s keen edge, his
personal illusion of immortality.
He had often proclaimed his view of Omega, a reassuring litany of
comfort shared by a number of his colleagues, particularly those who
had laid down a goal supply of wine or had access to their college
celiar.
It doesn t worry me particularly. I m not saying I hadn t a moment
of regret when I first knew Hilda was barren; the genes asserting
their atavistic imperatives, I suppose. On the whole I m glad; you
can t mourn for unborn grandchildren when there never was a hope
of them. This planet is doomed anyway. Eventually the sun will
explode or cool and one small insignificant particle of the universe
will disappear with only a tremble. If man is doomed to perish, then
universal infertility is as painless a way as any. And there are,
after all, personal compensations. For the last sixty years we have
sycophantically pandered to the most ignorant, the most criminal
and the most selfish section of society. Now for the rest of our lives
we re going to be spared the intrusive barbarism of the young,
their noise, their pounding, repetitive, computer produced so-Called
43
music, their Violence, their egotism disguised as idealism. My God,
we might even succeed in getting rid of Christmas, that annual
celebration of parental guilt and juvenile greed. I intend that my life
shall be comfortable, and, when it no longer is, then I shall wash
down my final pill with a bottle of claret.
His personal plan for survival in comfort until the last natural
moment was one thousands of people had adopted in those early
years before Xan took power, when the great fear was of a total
breakdown of order. Removal from the city in his case from
Clarendon Square to a small country house or cottage in wooded
country with a garden for food production, a nearby stream with
water fresh enough to be drunk after boiling, an open fireplace and
store of wood, tins of food carefully selected, enough matches to last
for years, a medicine-Chest with drugs and syringes, above all strong
doors and locks against the possibility that the less prudent might
one day turn envious eyes on their husbandry. But in recent years
Jasper has become obsessive. The wood store in the garden has been
replaced by a brick built structure with a metal door activated by
remote control. There is a high wall round the garden and the door
to the cellar is padlocked.
Usually when I visit, the wrought-iron gates are unlocked in
anticipation of my arrival and I can open them and leave the car in
the short driveway. This afternoon they were locked and I had to
ring. When Jasper came to let me in I was shocked by the difference
a month had made in his appearance. He was still upright, his step
still firm, but as he came closer I saw that the skin stretched tightly
over the strong bones of the face was greyer and there was a fiercer
anxiety in the sunken eyes, almost a gleam of paranoia, which I
hadn't noticed before. Ageing is inevitable but it is not consistent.
There are plateaux of time stretching over years when the faces of
friends and acquaintances look Virtually unchanged. Then time
accelerates and within a week the metamorphosis takes place. It
seemed to me that Jasper had aged ten years in a littIe over six weeks.
I followed him into the large sitting room at the back of the house
with its french windows looking out over the terrace and the garden.
Here, as in his study, the walls were completely covered with
bookshelves. It was, as always, obsessively tidy, furniture, books,
ornaments precisely in place. But I detected, for the first time, the
small tell-tale signs of incipient neglect, the smeared windows, a few
44
' crumbs on the carpet, a thin layer of dust on the mantelshelf. There
was an electric fire in the grate but the room was chilly. Jasper offered
me a drink and, although mid-afternoon is not my favourite time for
drinking Wine, I accepted. I saw that the side-tabie was more liberally
supplied with bottles than on my last Visit. Jasper is one of the few
people I know who uses his best claret as an all-day, all-purpose
tipple.
Hilda was sitting by the fire, a cardigan round her shoulders. She
stared ahead, without a welcome or even a look and made no sign
when I greeted her other than a brief nod 0f the head. The change in
her was even more marked than in Jasper. For years, so it seemed to
me, she had looked always the same: the angular but upright figure,
the well-cut tweed skirt with the three centre box pleats, the high-
necked silk shirt and cashmere cardigan, the thick grey hair intricateiy
and smoothly twisted into a high bun. Now the front of the cardigan,
half slipped from her shoulders, was stiff with congealed food, her
tights, hanging in loose folds above uncleaned shoes, were grubby
and her hair hung in strands about a face set rigidly in lines of
rebarbative disapproval. I wondered, as I had on previous visits,
what exactly was wrong with her. It could hardly be Alzheimer's
disease, Which has been largely controlled since the late 1990s. But
there are other kinds of senility which even our obsessive scientific
concern with the problems of ageing has still been unable to alleviate.
Perhaps she is just old, just tired, just sick to death of me. I suppose,
in oid age, there is advantage in retreating into a world of one s own,
but not if the place one finds is hell.
I wondered why I had been asked to call but didn t like to ask
directly. Finally Jasper said: There s something I wanted to discuss
with you. I m thinking of moving back into Oxford. It was that last
television broadcast by the Warden that decided me. Apparently the
eventual plan is for everyone to move into towns so that facilities and
services can be concentrated. He said that the people who wished to
remain in remote districts were free to do so but that he wouldn t be
able to guarantee supplies of power or petrol for transport. We re
rather isolated here.
I said: What does Hilda think about it?
Jasper didn t even bother to glance at her. Hilda is hardly in a
position to object. I m the one who does the caring. If it s easier for
me, it s what we ought to do. I was thinking that it might suit us
45
both I mean you and me if I joined you in St John Street. You
don t really need that large house. There s plenty of room at the top
for a separate at. I d pay for the conversion, of course.
The idea appalled me. I hope I concealed my repugnance. I paused
as if considering the idea, then said: I don t think it would really suit
you. YOu d very much miss the garden. And the stairs would be
difficult for Hilda.
There was a silence, then jasper said: You ve heard of the Quietus,
I suppose, the mass-suicide of the old?
Only what I read brie y in the newspapers, or see on television.
I remembered one picture, I think the only one ever shown on
television: white-Clad elderly being Wheeled or helped on to the low
barge-like ship, the high, reedy singingvoices, theboat slowly pulling
away into the twilight, a seductively peaceful scene, cunningly shot
and lit.
I said: I m not attracted to gregarious death. Suicide should be like
sex, a private activity. If we want to kill ourselves, the means are
always at hand, so why not do it comfortably in one s own bed? I
would prefer to make my quietus with a bare bodkin.
Jasper said: Oh I don t know, there are people who like to make
an occasion of these rites of passage. It s happening in one form or
another all over the world. I suppose there s comfort in numbers, in
ceremony. And their survivors get this pension from the State. Not
exactly a pittance either, is it? No, I think I can see the attraction.
Hilda was talking about it the other day.
I thought that unlikely. I could imagine what the Hilda I had known
would have thought of such a public exhibition of sacrifice and
emotion. She had been a formidable academic in her day, cleverer,
people said, than her husband, her sharp tongue venomous in his
defence. After her marriage she taught and published less, talent
and personality diminished by the appalling subservience of love.
Before leaving I said: It looks as if you could do with extra help.
Why not apply for a couple of Sojourners? Surely you d qualify.
He dismissed the idea. I don t think I want strangers here,
particularly not Sojourners. I don t trust those peopIe. It s asking to
get murdered under my own roof. And most of them don t know
what a day s work means. They re better used mending the roads,
cleaning the sewers and collecting the rubbish, jobs where they can
be kept under supervision.
46
I said: The domestic workers are very carefully selected.
Perhaps, but I don t want them.
I managed to get away without making any promises. On the drive
back to Oxford I pondered how to frustrate Jasper s determination.
He was, after all, used to getting his own way. It looks as if the thirty-
year old bill for benefits received, the special coaching, the expensive
dinners, the theatre and opera tickets, is belatedly being presented.
But the thought of sharing St John Street, of the violation of privacy,
of my increasing responsibility for a difficult old man, repels me. I
owe Jasper a great deal, but I don t owe him that.
Driving into the city I saw a queue about a hundred yards long
outside the Examination Schools. It was an orderly, welI-dressed
crowd, old and rniddle-aged, but with more women than men. They
stood waiting quietly and patiently with that air of complicity,
controlled anticipation and lack of anxiety which characterizes a
queue where everyone has a ticket, entry is assured and there is a
sanguine expectation that the entertainment will be worth the wait.
For a moment I was puzzled, then remembered: Rosie McClure,
the evangelist, is in town. I should have realized at once; the
advertisements have been prominent enough. Rosie is the latest and
most successfui of the television performers who sell salvation and
do very well out of a commodity which is always in demand and
which costs them nothing to supply. For the first two years after
Omega we had Roaring Roger and his sidekick, Soapy Sam, and
Roger still has a following for his weekly TV slot. He was still is a
natural andpowerful orator, ahuge man, white-bearded, consciously
moulding himself on the popular idea of an Old Testament prophet,
pouring out his comminations in a powerful voice curiously given
increased authority by its trace of a Northern Ireland accent. His
message is simple ifunoriginal: man's infertility is God s punishment
for his disobedience, his sinfulness. Only repentance can appease the
Almighty s rightful displeasure, and repentance is best demonstrated
by a generous contribution towards Roaring Roger s campaign
expenses. He himself never touts for cash; that remains the job of
Soapy Sam. They were initially an extraordinarily effective pair and
their large house on Kingston Hill is the solid manifestation of their
success. In the first five years after Omega the message had some
validity as Roger fuiminated against inner-city violence, old women
attacked and raped, children sexually abused, marriage reduced to
47
no more than a monetary contract, divorce the norm, dishonesty rife
and the sexual instinct perverted. Text after damning Old Testament
text fell from his lips as he held aioft his well-thumbed Bible. But the
product had a short shelf life. It is difficult to fulminate successfully
against sexual licence in a world overcome by ennui, to condemn
the sexual abuse of children when there are no more children,
to denounce inner-city violence when the cities are increasingiy
becoming the peaceful repositories of the docile aged. Roger has
never fulminated against the violence and sel shness of the Omegas;
he has a well»developed sense of self preservation.
Now, with his decline, we have Rosie McClure. Sweet Rosie has
come into her own. She is originaliy from Alabama but left the United
States in 2019, probably because her brand of religious hedonism is
over-supplied there. The gospel according to Rosie is simple: God is
love and everything is justified by love. She has resurrected an old
pop song of the Beatles, a group of young Liverpool boys in the
19605, All You Need is Love , and it is this repetitive jingle, not a
hymn, which precedes her rallies. The Last Coming is not in the
future but now, as the faithful are gathered in, one by one, at the end
of their natural lives and translated to glory. Rosie is remarkably
specific about the joys to come. Like all religious evangelists, she
realizes that there is little satisfaction in the contemplation of heaven '
for oneself if one cannot simultaneously contemplate the horrors of
hell for others. But hell as described by Rosie is less a place of torment
than the equivalent of an ill-conducted and uncomfortable fourth-
rate hotel where incompatible guests are forced to endure each
other s company for eternity and do their own washing up with
inadequate facilities although, presumably, with no lack of boiling
water. She is equally specific about the joys of heaven. In my Father s
house are many mansions , and Rosie assures her adherents that
there will be mansions to suit all tastes and all degrees of virtue, the
highest pinnacle of bliss being reserved for the chosen few. But
everyone who heeds Rosie s call to love will find an agreeable place,
an eternal Costa dei Sol liberally supplied with food, drink, sun and
sexual pleasure. Evil has no place in Rosie s philosophy. The worst
accusation is that people have fallen into error because they have not
understood the law of love. The answer to pain is an anaesthetic or
an aspirin, to loneliness the assurance of God's personal concern, to
bereavement the certainty of reunion. No man is called to practise
48
Univ.
V V inordinate seif-denial since God, being Love, desires only that His
children shall be happy.
Emphasis is placed on the pampering and gratification of this
temporal body, and Rosie is not above giving a few beauty hints
during her sermons. These are spectacularly arranged, the white-
clad choir of a hundred ranked under the strobe lights, the brass
band and the Gospel singers. The congregation join in the cheerful
choruses, iaugh, cry and ing their arms like demented man'onettes.
Rosie herself changes her spectacular dresses at least three times
during each rally. Love, proclaims Rosie, all you need is love. And
no one need feel deprived of a love object. It needn t be a human
being; it can be an animal a cat, a dog,- it can be a garden; it can be
a ower; it can be a tree. The whole natural world is one, linked by
love, upheld by love, redeemed by love. One would suppose that
Rosie had never seen a cat with a mouse. By the end of the rally the
happy converts are generally throwing themselves into each other s
arms and casting notes into the collection buckets with reckless
enthusiasm.
During the mid-Iggos the recognized churches, particularly the
Church of England, moved from the theology of sin and redemption
to a less uncompromising doctrine: corporate social responsibility
coupled with a sentimental humanism. Rosie has gone further and
has Virtually abolished the Second Person of the Trinity together with
His cross, substituting a golden orb of the sun in glory, like a garish
Victorian pub sign. The change was immediately popular. Even
to unbelievers like myself, the cross, stigma of the barbarism of
officialdom and of man s ineluctable cruelty, has never been a
comfortable symbol.
Bibtiothek
I Béeteteid
Just before nine-thirty on Sunday morning Theo set off to walk across
Port Meadow to Binsey. He had given his word to Julian and it was
a matter of pride not to renege. But he admitted to himself that there
was a less estimable reason for fulfilling his promise. They knew who
he was and where to find him. Better be bothered once, meet the
group and get it over, than spend the next few months in the
embarrassing expectation of meeting Julian every time he went to
chapel or shopped in the covered market. The day was bright, the
air cold but dry under a clear sky of deepening blue; the grass, still
crisp from an early morning frost, crackled under his feet. The river
was a crinkled ribbon re ecting the sky, and as he crossed the bridge
and paused to look down, a noisy gaggle of ducks and two geese
came Glamouring, wide~beal<ed, as if there could still be children to
ing them crusts and then run screaming in half-simulated fear
from their noisy importunities. The hamlet was deserted. The few
farmhouses to the right of the wide green were stiti standing but
most of their windows were boarded up. In piaces the boarding had
been smashed and through the splinters and spears 0f jagged glass
edging the window frames he could glimpse the remnants of peeling
wallpaper, owered patterns once chosen with anxious care but now
in tattered fragments, frail transitory banners of departed life. On
one of the roofs slates were beginning to slide, revealing the rotting
timbers, and the gardens were wildernesses of shoulder high grass
and weeds.
The Perch Inn, as he knew, had long been Closed as custom had
dwindled. Across Port Meadow to Binsey had been one of his
favourite Sunday morning walks, with the inn as its destination. It
seemed to him now that he passed through the hamlet like the ghost
of that former self, seeing with unfamiliar eyes the narrow half-
mile avenue of chestnuts which led north-west from Binsey to St
Margaret s Church. He tried to remember when he had last taken
this walk. Was it seven years ago, or ten? He could recall neither the
occasion nor his companion if there had been one. But the avenue
50
V had changed. The chestnuts were still standing but the lane, dark
under the intertwined boughs 0f the trees, had narrowed to a footpath
musty with fallen leaves and tangled with an untamed profusion of
elderberry and ash. The Local Council had, he knew, designated
certain footpaths for clearage but gradually the number of those
preserved had fallen. The old were too weak for the work, the middle-
aged, on whom the burden of maintaining the life of the State largely
depended, were too busy, the young cared little for the preservation
of the countryside. Why preserve what would be theirs in abun
dance? They would all too soon inherit a world of unpopuiated
uplands, unpolluted streams, encroaching woods and forests and
deserted estuaries. They were seldom seen in the country and,
indeed, seemed frightened by it. Woods, in particular, had become
places of menace which many feared to enter, as if terrified that once
lost among those dark unyielding trunks and forgotten paths, they
would never again emerge into the light. And it wasn t only the
young. More and more people were seeking the company of their
own kind, deserting the lonelier villages even before prudence or
of cial decree made it necessary, and moving to those designated
urban districts where the Warden had promised that light and power
would be provided, if possible, until the end.
The solitary house which he remembered still stood in its garden
to the right of the church and Theo saw to his surprise that it was at
least partly occupied. The windows were curtained, there was a thin
trail of smoke from the chimney and to the left of the path some
attempt had been made to clear the earth of the knee-high grasses
and to cultivate a vegetable garden. A few shriveiled runner beans
still hung from the supporting sticks and there were uneven rows of
cabbages and yellowing, half picked Brussels sprouts. During his
Visits as an undergraduate he remembered regretting that the peace
of the church and the house, which it was difficult to believe were so
close to the city, had been Spoiled by the loud, ceaseless roar from
the M40 motorway. Now that nuisance was hardly noticeabIe and
the house seemed wrapped in an ageless calm.
It was broken when the door burst open and an elderly man in a
faded cassock precipitated himself out and came squawking and
stumbling down the path, waving his arms as if to repel recalcitrant
beasts. He called out in a quavering voice: No service! No service
today. I ve got a Christening at eleven o clock.
51
Theo said: I'm not attending a service, I m just visiting.
That s all they ever do. Or so they say. But I shall want the font at
eleven. All out then. Everyone out except the christening party.
I don t expect to be here as late as that. Are you the parish priest?
He came close and glared at Theo with fierce paranoid eyes. Theo
thought that he had never seen anyone so old, the skull stretching
the paper-thin, mottled skin of his face as if death couldn't wait to
claim him.
The old man said: They had a black Mass here last Wednesday,
singing and shouting all night. That's not right. I can t stop it, but I
don t approve. And they don t clear up after themselves blood,
feathers, wine all over the floor. And black candle-grease. You can t
get it out. It won t come out, you know. And it s all left for me to do.
They don t think. It isn t fair. It isn t right.
Theo said: Why don t you keep the church locked?
The old man became conspiratorial. Because they ve taken the
key, that s why. And I know who s got it. Oh yes, I know. He turned
and stumbled muttering towards the house, wheeling round at the
door to shout a final warning. Out at eleven o clock. Unless you re
coming to the christening. All out by eleven.
Theo made his way to the church. It was a small stone building and
with its short twin belled turret it looked very like an unpretentious
stone house with a single chimney stack. The churchyard was as
overgrown as a long neglected field. The grass was tall and pale as
hay and ivy had leached over the gravestones, obliterating the
names. Somewhere in this tangled wilderness was the well of St
Frideswide, once a place of pilgrimage. A modern pilgrim would
have difficulty in finding it But the church was obviously Visited.
On either side of the porch was a terracotta pot containing a single
rose bush, the stems now denuded but still bearing a few starved
winter bh ghted buds.
Julian was waiting for him in the porch. She didn t hold out her
hand or smile, but said, Thank you for coming, we re all here, and
pushed open the door. He followed her into the dim interior and was
met by a strong wave of incense overlaying a more feral smell.
When he had first come here, twenty-five years ago, he had been
transported by the silence of its ageless peace, seeming to hear upon
the air the echo of long-forgotten plainsong, of old imperatives and
desperate prayers. All that had gone. Once it had been a place where
52
Silence was more than the absence of noise. Now it was a stone
building; nothing more.
He had expected the group to be waiting for him, standing or
Sitting together in the dim rustic emptiness. But he saw that they had
separated themselves and had been walking in different parts of the
church as if some argument or a restless need for sotitude had forced
them apart. There were four of them, three men and a tall woman
standing beside the altar. As he and Julian entered they came quietly
together and grouped themselves in the aisle facing him.
He had no doubt which one was Julian s husband and their leader
even before he came forward and, it seemed, deliberately confronted
him. They stood facing each other like two adversaries weighing
each other up. Neither smiled or put out a hand.
He was very dark, with a handsome, rather sulky face, the restless,
suspicious eyes bright and deep-set, the brows strong and straight
as brush strokes accentuating the jutting cheekbones. The heavy
eyelids were spiked with a few black hairs so that the lashes and
eyebrows looked joined. The ears were large and prominent, the
lobes pointed, pixie ears at odds with the uncompromising set of the
mouth and the strong clenched jaw. It was not the face of a man at
peace with himself or his world, but why should he be, missing by
only a few years the distinction and privileges of being an Omega?
His generation, like theirs, had been observed, studied, cosseted,
indulged, preserved for that moment when they would be male
adults and produce the hoped for fertile sperm. It was a generation
programmed for failure, the ultimate disappointment to the parents
who had bred them and the race which had invested in them so much
careful nurturing and so much hope.
When he spoke his voice was higher than Theo had expected,
harsh-toned and with a trace of an accent Which he couldn't identify.
Withoutwaiting forJulian to make any introductions he said, 'There s
no need for you to know our surnames. We ll use forenames only.
I m Rolf and I m the leader of the group. Julian is my wife. Meet
Miriam, Luke and Gascoigne. Gascoigne is his forename. His gran
Chose it for him in 1990, God knows why. Miriam used to be a midwife
and Luke is a priest. You don t need to know what any of us do now.
The woman was the only one to come forward and grasp Theo s
hand. She was black, probably Jamaican, and the oldest of the group,
older than himself, Theo guessed, perhaps in her mid- or late fifties.
53
Her high bush of short, tightly curled hair was dusted with white.
The contrast between the black and white was so stark that the head
looked powdered, giving her a look both hieratic and decorative. She
was tall and gracefully built with a long, fine-featured face, the coffee-
coloured skin hardly lined, denying the whiteness of the hair. She
was wearing slim black trousers tucked into boots, a high-necked
brown jersey and sheepskin jerkin, an elegant, almost exotic contrast
to the rough serviceable country clothes of the three men. She greeted
Theo with a firm handshake and a speculative, half humorous
colluding glance, as if they were already conspirators.
At first sight there was nothing remarkable about the boy he
looked like a boy although he couldn t be younger than thirty one -
whom they called Gascoigne. He was short, almost tubby, crop-
haired and with a round, amiable face, wide-eyed, snubmosed a
Child s face which had grown with age but not essentially altered
since he had first looked out of his pram at a world which his air of
puzzled innocence suggested he still found odd but not unfriendly.
The man called Luke, whom he remembered Julian too had
described as a priest, was older than Gascoigne, probably over forty.
He was tall, with a pale, sensitive face and an etiolated body, the
large knobbled hands drooping from delicate wrists, as if in child
hood he had outgrown his strength and had never managed to
achieve robust adulthood. His fair hair lay like a silk fringe on the
high forehead; his grey eyes were widely spaced and gentle. He
looked an unlikely conspirator, his obvious frailty in stark contrast to
Rolf s darkmasculinity. He gave Theo a briefsmile which transformed
his slightly melancholy face, but did not speak.
Rolf said: Iulian explained to you why we agreed to see you. He
made it sound as if Theo were the supplicant.
You want me to use my in uence With the Warden of England. I
have to tell you that I have no in uence. 1 gave up any such right
when I relinquished my appointment as his adviser. I ll listen to
what you have to say but I don t think there s anything I can do to
in uence either the Council or the Warden of England. There never
was. That s partly why I resigned.
Rolf said: You re his cousin, his only living relative. You were
more or less brought up together. The rumour is that you re the only
one in England he s ever listened t0.
Then the rumour is wrong. Theo added, What sort of group are
54
you? Do you always meet here in this church? Are you some kind of
religious organization?
It was Miriam who answered. No. As Rolf explained, Luke is a
priest, although he hasn t a full-time job or a parish. Julian and he
are Christians, the rest of us aren t. We meet in churches because
they're available, they re open, they re free and they re usually
empty, at least the ones we choose are. We may have to give this one
up. Other people are beginning to use it.
Rolf broke in, his voice impatient, over-emphatic. Religion and
Christianity have nothing to do with it. Nothing!
As if she hadn t heard him, Miriam went on: 'All sorts of eccentrics
meet in churches. We re just one set of odd balls among many. No
one asks any questions. If they do, we re the Cranmer Club. We meet
to read and study the old Book of Common Prayer.
Gascoigne said: That s our cover. He spoke with the satisfaction
of a child who has learned some of the grown-ups secrets.
Theo turned to him. Is it? So what do you reply when the State
Security Police ask you to recite the Collect for the rst Sunday in
Advent? Seeing Gascoigne s embarrassed incomprehension, he
added: Hardly a convincing cover.
Julian said quietly: You may not sympathize with us but you don t
have to despise us. The cover isn t meant to convince the SSP. If they
started taking an interest in us no cover would protect us. They d
break us in ten minutes. We know that. The cover gives us a reason,
an excuse for meeting regularly and in churches. We don t publicize
it. It s there if anyone asks, if we need it.
Gascoigne said: I know the prayers are called Collects. Do you
know the one you asked me? He wasn t being accusatory, merely
interested.
Theo said: I was brought up with the Old Book. The church my
mother took me to as a boy must have been one of the last to use it.
I m a historian. l have an interest in the Victorian Church, in old
liturgies, defunct forms of worship.
Rolf said impatiently: All this is irrelevant. As Julian says, if the
SSP take us they re not going to waste time examining us on the old
catechism. We re not in any danger yet; not unless you betray us.
What have we done so far? Nothing but talk. Before we do act two
of us thought it might be sensible to make an appeal to the Warden
of England, your cousin.
55
r1
Miriam said: Three of us. It was a majority. I went along with Luke
and Julian. I thought it was worth a try.
Rolf again ignored her. 'It wasn t my idea to get you here. I m
being honest with you. I ve no reason to trust you and I don t
particularly want you.
Theo replied: 'And I didn t particularly want to come, so we meet
on equal footing. You want me to speak to the Warden. Why don't
you do that yourselves?V
Because he wouldn t listen. He may listen to you.
And if I agree to see him, and if he does listen, what do you want
me to say?
Now that the question was so baldly put it seemed that they were
temporarily nonplussed. They looked at each other as if wondering
which one would begin.
It was Rolf who answered: 'The Warden was elected when he first
took power, but that was fifteen years ago. He hasn't called an
election since. He claims to rule by the people s will, but what he is
is a despot and a tyrant.
Theo said drily, It would be a brave messenger who was prepared
to tell him that.
Gascoigne said: And the Grenadiers are his private army. It s him
they take an oath to. They don t serve the State any more, they serve
him. He s got no right to use that name. My granddad was a private
in the Grenadiers. He said they were the best regiment in the British
Army.
Rolf ignored him. And there are things he could do even without
waiting for a general election. He could end the semen testing
programme. It s time-wasting and degrading and it s hopeless
anyway. And he could let the Local and Regional Councils choose
their own Chairmen. That would at least be the beginning of democ-
racy.
Luke said: It isn t only the semen testing. He should stop the ,
compulsory gynaecological examinations. They degrade women.
And we want him to put an end to the Quietus. I know that all the
old people are supposed to be volunteers. Maybe it started Out like
that. Maybe some of them still are. But would they want to die if we
gave them hope?
Theo was tempted to ask Hope of what?
Julian broke in. And we want something done about the
56
Sojourners. Do you think it s right that there s an edict prohibiting
our Omegas from emigrating? We import Omegas and the young
from less af uent countries to do our dirty work, clean the sewers,
clear away the rubbish, look after the incontinent, the aged.
Theo said: They re anxious enough to come, presumably because
they get a better quality of life.'
Julian said: They come to eat. Then, when they get old m sixty is
the age limit, isn t it? they re sent back whether they want to go or
not.
That s an evil their own countries could redress. They could begin
by managing their affairs better. Anyway, their numbers aren t great.
There s a quota, the intake is carefully controlled.
'Not only a quota, stringent requirements. They have to be strong,
healthy, without criminal convictions. We take the best and then
chuck them back when they re no longer wanted. And who gets
them? Not the people who need them most. The Council and their
friends And who looks after the foreign Omegas when they re here?
They work for a pittance, they live in camps, the women separate
from the men. We don t even give them Citizenship; it's a form of
legalized slavery.
Theo said: I don t think you'll start a revolution on the issue of the
Sojourners, or on the Quietus for that matter. People don t care
enough.
Julian said: We want to help them to care.
Why should they? They live Without hope on a dying planet. What
they want is security, comfort, pleasure. The Warden of England can
promise the first two, which is more than most foreign governments
are managing to do.
Rolf had been listening to their exchange without speaking. Then
he said suddenly: What s he like, the Warden of England? What sort
of man is he? You should know, you were brought up with him.
That doesn t give me an open entry to his mind.
All that power, more than anyone has ever had before in this
country anyway all in his hands. Does he enjoy it?
Presumably. He doesn t seem anxious to let it go. He added: If
you want democracy, you have somehow to revitalize the Local
Council. It begins there.
Rolf said: It ends there too. It s how the Warden exercises control
at thatlevel. And have you seen our local chairman, Reggie Dimsdale?
57
He s seventy, querulous, shit-scared, only doing the job because it
gets him a double petrol allowance and a couple of foreign Omegas
to look after his bloody great barn of a house and wipe his burn for
him when he gets incontinent. No Quietus for him.
He was elected to the Council. They were all elected.
By whom? Did you vote? Who cares? People are just relieved that
someone will do the job. And you know how it works. The Chairman
of the Local Council can t be appointed Without the approval of the
District Council. That needs the approval of the Regional Council.
He or she has to be approved by the Council of England. The Warden
controls the system from top to bottom, you must know that. He
controls it, too, in Scotland and Wales. Each has its own Warden,
but who appoints them? Xan Lyppiatt would call himself the Warden
of Great Britain except that, for him, it hasn t got quite the same
romantic appeal.
The remark, thought Theo, showed perception. He recalled an old
conversation with Xan. Hardly Prime Minister, I think. I don t want
to appropriate someone else's title, particularly when it carries such
a weight of tradition and obligation. I might be expected to call an
election every five years. And not Lord Protector. The last one was
hardly an unqualified success. Warden will do very well. But Warden
of Great Britain and Northern Ireland? That hardly has the romantic
ring I m aiming for.
Julian said: We'll get nowhere With the Local Council. You live in
Oxford, you re a citizen like everyone else. You must read the kind
of stuff they paste up after the meetings, the things they discuss.
The maintenance of the golf courses and bowling-greens. Are the
clubhouse facilities adequate? Decisions about job allocations, petrol
allowance complaints, applications to employ a Sojourner. Auditions
for the local amateur choir. Are there enough people wanting violin
lessons to make it worthwhile for the Council to employ a full-time
professional? Sometimes they even discuss street policing, not that
it s really necessary now that the threat of deportation to the Man
Penal Colony is hanging over prospective burglars.
Luke said gently: Protection, comfort, pleasure. There has to be
something more.
It s what people care about, what they want. What more should
the Council be offering?
Compassion, justice, love.
58
W
W
E
-
'No state has ever concerned itself with love, and no state ever
I
can.
Julian said: But it can concern itself with justice.
Rolf was impatient: Justice, compassion, love. They re all words.
Whatwe re talking aboutis power. The Warden is a dictator masquer-
ading as a democratic leader. He ought to be made to be responsible
to the will of the people.
Theo said: Ah, the will of the people. That's a fine sounding
phrase. At present, the will of the people seems to be for protection,
comfort, pleasure. He thought: I know what offends you; the fact
that Xan enjoys such power, not the way he exercises it. The little
group had no real cohesion and he suspected no common purpose.
Gascoigne was fuelled by indignation about the appropriation of the
name Grenadier, Miriam by some motive which was, as yet, unclear,
Julian and Luke by religious idealism, Rolf by jealousy and ambition.
As a historian he could have pointed out a dozen parallels.
Julian said: Tell him about your brother, Miriam. Tell him about
Henry. But let s sit down before you begin.
They settled themselves in a pew, crouching forward to listen to
Miriam s low voice, looking, thoughtTheo, like a huddled ill-assorted
bunch of half reluctant worshippers.
Henry got sent to the island eighteen months ago. Robbery with
Violence. It wasn t much violence, not real violence. He robbed an
Omega and pushed her over. It was no more than a shove but she
fell to the ground and she told the court that Henry had kicked her
in the ribs while she was lying there. That isn t true. I m not saying
Henry didn t push her. He s been grief and trouble since Childhood.
But he didn t kick that Omega, not When she was down. He snatched
her handbag and pushed her over and then he ran. It happened in
London just before midnight. He ran round the corner of Ladbroke
Grove straight into the arms of the State Security Police. He s had
bad luck all his life.
Were you in court?
My mother and I, both of us. My father died two years ago. We
got Henry a lawyer paid him too but he wasn't really interested.
Took our money and did nothing. We could see that he agreed With
the prosecution that Henry ought to be sent to the island. After all,
it was an Omega he robbed. That counted against him. And then
he s black.
59
Rolf said impatiently: Don t start all that crap about racial discrimi
nation. It was the push that did for him, not his colour. You can t be
sent to the Penal Colony except for a crime of violence against the
person or for a second conviction for burglary. Henry had no
convictions for burglary but two for theft.
Miriam said: Shoplifting. Nothing really bad. He stole a scarf for
Mum s birthday and a bar of chocolate. But that was when he was a
kid. For God s sake Rolf, he was twelve! It was over twenty years
ago.
Theo said: If he knocked the Victim down, he was guilty of a crime
of violence whether or not he kicked her.
But he didn t. He pushed her aside and she fell. It wasn t delib
erate.
The jury must have thought otherwise.
There wasn t a jury. You know how difficult it is to get people to
serve. They re not interested. Won t bother. He was tried under the
new arrangements, a judge and two magistrates. They ve got power
to send people to the island. And it s for life. There s no remission,
you never get out. A life sentence in that hell for one push which he
didn t mean. It killed my mother. Henry was her only son and she
knew she d never see him again. She just turned her face to the wall
after that. But I m glad she did die. At least she never knew the worst
that happened to him.
She looked at Theo and said simply: You see, I did know. He came
home.
You mean he escaped from the island? I thought that was imposs-
ible.
Henry did it. He found a broken dinghy, one that the security
force had overlooked when they got the island ready for the convicts.
Every boat which wasn t worth taking away they burnt, but one was
hidden or got overlooked, or perhaps they thought it was too
damaged to be useful. Henry was always good with his hands. He
repaired it in secret and he made two oars. Then, four weeks ago,
January the third it was, he waited until it was dark and pushed off.
'It was incredibly foolhardy.
No, it was sensible. He knew that he d either make it or drown,
and drowning was better than staying on that island. And he got
home, he got back. I live well never mind where I live. It s in a
cottage on the edge of a Village. He arrived after midnight. I d had a
60
heavy day at work and I meant to go to bed early. I was tired but
restless so I made myseIf a cup of tea when I got in and then I fell
asleep in my chair. I only slept for about twenty minutes but when I
awoke I found I wasn t ready for bed. You know how it is. You get
beyond tiredness. It s almost too much of an effort to undress.
It was a dark night, starless, and the wind was rising. Usually I
like the sound of the wind when I m snug at home, but that night it
was different, not comforting, wailing and hissing in the chimney,
menacing. I got the blues, the black dog on my shoulder, thinking of
Mother dead and Henry lost for ever. I thought I d better shake
myself out of it and get up to bed. And then I heard the knocking on
the door. There is a bell but he didn't use that. He just used the
knocker twice, and feebly, but I heard. I went to the peep hole but I
could see nothing, only blackness. It was after midnight now and I
couldn t think who could be calling and so late. But I put on the chain
and opened the door. There was a dark shape, collapsed against
the wall. He had only the strength to knock twice before he fell
unconscious. I managed to drag him in and to revive him. I gave him
some SOup and brandy and after an hour he could talk. He wanted
to talk so I let him, cradling him in my arms.
Theo asked: What sort of state was he in?
It was Rolf who replied: Filthy, stinking, bloody and desperately
thin. He d walked from the Cumbrian coast.
Miriam went on: I washed him and bandaged his feet and managed
to get him to bed. He was terrified to sleep alone, so] lay down beside
him fully dressed. I couldn t sleep. It was then he began talking. He
talked for over an hour. I didn t speak. Ijust held him and listened.
Then, at last, he was silent and I knew he was asleep. I lay there,
holding him, listening to his breathing, his muttering. Sometimes he
gave a groan and then he would suddenly shriek and sit up, but I
managed to soothe him as if he were a baby and he would sleep
again. I lay beside him and wept silently for the things he d told me.
Oh, but I was angry too. Iburned with anger like a hot coal in my
breast.
The island is a living hell. Those who went there human are nearly
all dead and the rest are devils. There s starvation. I know they have
seeds, grain, machinery, but these are mostly town offenders not
used to growing things, not used to working with their hands. All
the stored food has been eaten now, gardens and fields stripped.
61
Now, when people die, some get eaten too. I swear it. It has
happened. The island is run by a gang of the strongest convicts. They
enjoy cruelty and on Man they can beat and torture and torment and
there s no one to stop them and no one to see. Those who are gentle,
who care, who ought not to be there, don t last long. Some of the
women are the worst. Henry told me things I can t repeat and I shall
never forget.
And then next morning they came for him. They didn t burst in,
they didn t make very much noise. They just surrounded the cottage
quietly and knocked at the door.
Theo asked: Who were they?
Six Grenadiers and six men from the State Security Police. One
beaten exhausted man and they sent twelve to take him. The SSP
were the worst. I think they were Omegas. They didn t say anything
to me at first, they just went upstairs and dragged him down. When
he saw them he gave a shriek. I ll never forget that shriek. Never,
never . . . Then they turned on me, but an officer, he was one of the
Grenadiers, told them to leave me alone. He said, She s his sister,
naturally he came here. She had no choice but to help him.
Julian said: We thought afterwards that he must have had a sister
himself, someone he knew would never let him down, would always
be there.
Rolf said impatiently: Or else he thought he could show a little
humanity and get paid for it by Miriam one way or the other.
Miriam shook her head. No, it wasn t like that. He was trying to
be kind. I asked him what would happen to Henry. He didn t reply,
but one of the SSP said, What do you expect? But you ll get his
ashes." It was the captain of the SSP who told me that they could
have picked him up when he landed but that they followed him alt
the way from Cumina to Oxford. Partly to see where he d go, I
suppose, partly because they wanted to wait untit he felt safe before
they arrested him.
Rolf said with bitter anger: It was that refinement of cruelty which
gave them an extra kick.
A week later the package arrived. It was heavy, like two pounds
of sugar, and the same shape, done up in brown paper with a typed
label. Inside was this plastic bag filled with white grit. It looked like
garden fertilizer, nothing to do with Henry. There was just a typed
note, no signature. "Killed while attempting to escape. Nothing
62
:3:
r
I ' else. I dug a hole in the garden. I remember that it was raining and
when I poured the white grit into the hole it was as if the whole
garden was crying. But I didn t cry. Henry's sufferings were over.
Anything was better than being sent back to that island.
Rolf said: 'There d be no question of sending him back, of course.
They wouldn't want anyone to know that it s possible to get away.
And it won t be, not now. They'll start patrolling the coast.
Julian touched Theo s arm and looked him full in the face. They
Shouldn t treat human beings like that. No matter what they ve done,
what they are, they shouldn t treat people like that. We have to stop
it.
Theo said: Obviously there are social evils, but they are nothing
to what is happening in other parts of the world. It s a question of
what the country is prepared to tolerate as the price of sound
government.
Julian asked: What do you mean by sound government?
Good public order, no corruption in high places, freedom from
fear of war and crime, a reasonably equitable distribution of wealth
and resources, concern for the individual life .
Luke said: 'Then we haven't got sound government.
We may have the best that is possible in the circumstances. There
was Wide public support for setting up the Man Penal Settlement.
No government can act in advance of the moral will of the people.
Julian said: 'Then we have to change the moral will. We have to
change people.
Theo laughed. Oh, that s the kind of rebellion you have in mind?
Not the system but human hearts and minds. You re the most
dangerous revolutionaries of all, or would be if you had the slightest
idea how to begin, the slightest chance of succeeding.
Julian asked, as if seriously interested in his answer: How would
you begin?"
I wouldn't. History tells me what happens to people who do. You
have one reminder on that chain round your neck.
She put up her distorted left hand and brie y touched the cross.
Beside that swollen esh it seemed a very small and fragile talisman.
Rolf said: You can always nd excuses for doing nothing. The fact
is that the Warden runs Britain as his private fiefdom. The Grenadiers
are his private army and the State Security Police are his spies and
executioners.
63
You ve no proof of that.
Who killed Miriam s brother? Was that execution after a proper
trial or secret murder? What we want is real democracy.
With you at the head of it?
I d make a better job of it than he does.
I imagine that s exactly what he thought when he took over from
the last Prime Minister. '
Julian said: So you won t speak to the Warden?
Rolf broke in. Of course he won t. He never intended to. It was a
waste of time getting him here. Pointless, stupid and dangerous.
Theo said quietly, I haven t said I won t see him. But I ve got to
take him more than hearsay, particularly as I can t even tell him
where and how I ve got my information. Before I give you a decision
Iwant to see a Quietus. When is the next one due to be held? Does
anyone know?
It was Julian who replied. They ve stopped advertising them, but
of course the news does get round in advance. There s a female
Quietus in Southwold this Wednesday, in three days time. It s off
the pier, north of the town. D you know the town? It s about eight
miles south of Lowestoft.
That's not very convenient.
Rolf said: Not for you, maybe. But it is for them. No railway so
they won t get crowds, a long drive so people wonder if it s worth
the petrol just to see granny despatched in a white nigh e to the
sound of Abide With Me . Oh, and there s just the one access by
road. They can control how many people attend, keep an eye on
them. If there s trouble they can pick up the people responsible.
Julian asked: 'How long must we wait before you report back?
I'll decide whether to see the Warden immediately after the
Quietus. Then we d better wait for a week and arrange a meeting.
Rolf said: Leave it for a fortnight. If you do see the Warden, they
may put a watch on you.
Julian asked: 'How will you let us know whether you ve agreed to
see him?
I ll leave a message after I ve seen the Quietus. Do you know the
Cast Museum in Pusey Lane?
Rolf said, 'No.
Luke said eagerly: I do. It s part of the Ashmolean, an exhibition
of plaster casts and marble copies of Greek and Roman statues. We
64
m
e
m
w
w
z
m
I used to be taken there during art class at school. I haven t been there
for years. I didn t even know that the Ashmolean was keeping it
open.
Theo said: There s no particular reason to close it. It doesn t require
much supervision. A few elderly scholars occasionally drift in. The
opening hours are on the board outside.
Rolf was suspicious. Why there?
> Because I like to Visit it occasionally and the attendant is used to
seeing me. Because it provides a number of accessible hiding-places.
Mainly because it s convenient for me. Nothing else abOut this
enterprise is.
Luke said: Where exactly will you leave the message?
On the ground oor, the right hand wall, under the head of the
Diadoumenos. The catalogue number is C38 and you ll find that on
the bust. If you can t remember the name, you can remember the
number, presumably. If you can t, then write it down.
Julian said: It's Luke s age, that makes it easy. Will we have to lift
the statue?
It s not a statue, merely a head, and yOu needn t touch it. There s
a very narrow gap between the base and the shelf. I ll leave my
answer on a card. It won t be incriminating, a simple yes or no. You
could telephone me for it, but no doubt you believe that might be
unwise.
Rolf said: We try never to telephone. Even though we haven t got
started yet, we take normal precautions. Everyone knows that the
lines are tapped.
Julian asked: And if your answer is yes, and the Warden agrees
to see you, when will you let us know what he says, what he promises
to do?
Rolf broke in: Better leave it for at least two weeks Report on
Wednesday, fourteen days after the Quietus. I ll meet you on foot
anywhere in Oxford, an open space might be best.
Theo said: Open spaces can be watched through binoculars. Two
people, obviously meeting, in the middle of park, meadow or
university park draw attention to themselves. A public building is
safer. I ll meet Julian in the Pitt Rivers Museum.
Rolf said: You appear to like museums.
They have the advantage of being places where people can
legitimately loiter.
65
Rolf said: Then I ll meet you at twelve o clock in the Pitt Rivers.
Not you; Julian. You used Julian to make the first approach to me.
It was Julian who brought me here today. I ll be in the Pitt Rivers at
midday on the Wednesday two weeks after the Quietus and I shall
expect her to come alone.
It was just before eleven when Theo left them in the church. He
stood for a moment in the porch, glanced at his watch and looked
out over the unkept graveyard. He wished that he hadn t come,
hadn t got involved in this futile and embarrassing enterprise. He
was more affected by Miriam s story than he cared to admit. He
wished he had never heard it. But what was he expected to do, what
could anyone do? It was too late now. He didn t believe that the
group was in any danger. Some of their concern had seemed close
to paranoia. And he had hoped for a temporary reprieve from
responsibility, that there WOuld be no Quietus for months. Wed
nesday was a bad day for him. It would mean rearranging his diary
at short notice. He hadn t seen Xan for three years. If they were to
meet again, it was humiliating and disagreeable to see himself in the
role of supplicant. He was as irritated with himself as with the group.
He might despise them as a gang of amateur malcontents, but they
had outwitted him, had sent the one member whom they knew he
would find it difficult to refuse. Why he should have found it difficult
was a question he was not at present willing to explore. He would
go to the Quietus as he had promised and leave them a message in
the Cast Museum. He hoped that the message could justifiably be
the single word NO.
The christening party was coming up the path, the old man, now
wearing a stole, shepherding them with small cries of encourage-
ment. There were two middle-aged women and two older men, the
men soberly dressed in blue suits, the women wearing owered hats,
incongruous above their winter coats. Each of the women was
carrying a white bundle wrapped in a shawl beneath which fell the
lace~trimmed pleated folds of christening robes. Theo made to pass
them, eyes tactfully averted, but the two women almost barred his
way and, smiling the meaningless smile of the half demented, thrust
forward the bundles, inviting his admiration. The two kittens, ears
attened beneath the ribboned bonnets, looked both ridiculous and
endearing. Their eyes were wide-open, uncomprehending opal
pools, and they seemed unworried at their confinement. He won-
66
dered if they had been drugged, then decided that they had probably
been handled, caressed and carried like babies since birth and were
accustomed to it. He wondered, too, about the priest. Whether
validly ordained or an impostor and there were plenty about he
was hardly engaged in an orthodox rite. The Church of England,
no longer with a common doctrine or a common liturgy, was so
fragmented that there was no knowing what some sects might not
have come to believe, but he doubted whether the christening of
animals was encouraged. The new Archbishop, who described
herself as a Christian Rationalist, would, he suspected, have pro
hibited infant baptism on the grounds of superstition, had infant
baptism still been possible. But she could hardly control what was
happening in every redundant church. The kittens presumably
would not welcome a douche of cold water over their heads, but no
one else was likely to object. The Charade was a tting conclusion to
a morning of folly. He set off walking vigorously towards sanity and
that empty inviolate house he called home.
On the morning of the Quietus, Theo awoke to a weight of vague
unease, not heavy enough to be called anxiety, but a mild unfocused
depression, like the last tatters of an unremembered but disagreeable
dream. And then, even before he put out his hand to the light switch,
he knew What the day held. It had been his habit all his life to devise
small pleasures as palliatives to unpleasant duties. Normally he
would now begin planning his route with care; a good pub for an
early lunch, an interesting church to Visit, a detour to take in an
attractive Village. But there could be no compensation on this journey
whose end and purpose was death. He had better get there as quickly
as possible, see what he had promised to see, return home, tell Julian
there was nothing that he or the group could do, and attempt to put
the whole unsought and unwelcome experience out of his mind.
That meant rejecting the more interesting route, Via Bedford, Cam-
bridge and Stowmarket, in favour of the M40 to the M25 then north
east to the Suffolk coast by the A12. It would be a faster if less direct
and certainly duller route, but then he wasn t expecting to enjoy the
drive.
But he made good progress. The A12 was in much better condition
than he had expected considering that the east coast ports were now
almost derelict. He made excellent time, arriving at Blythburgh on
the estuary just before 2.00. The tide was receding but beyond the
reeds and mud ats the water stretched like a silken scarf and a fitful
early afternoon sun struck gold in the windows of Blythburgh
Church.
It had been twentyweight years since he was last here. Then he and
Helena had taken a weekend break at the Swan in Southwold when
Natalie was only six months old. They had only been able to afford
a secondhand Ford in those days. Natalie s carry-cot had been firmly
strapped to the back seat and the boot filled with the paraphernalia of
babyhood: large packets of disposable nappies, sterilizing equipment
for the bottles, tins of baby food. When they reached Blythburgh,
Natalie had begun to cry and Helena had said that she was hungry
68
and should be fed now without waiting to get to the hotel. Why
couldn t they stop at the White Hart at Blythburgh? The innkeeper
would be sure to have facilities for heating milk. They could both
have a pub lunch and she could feed Natalie. But the car park, he
saw, was crowded and he disliked the trouble and disruption which
the child and Helena s demands would cause. His insistence on
pressing on for the few extra miles to Southwold had been itl
received. Helena, attempting ineffectually to pacify the child, had
scarcely glanced at the gleaming water, at the great church, moored
like a majestic ship among the reed beds. The weekend break had
begun with the usual resentment and had continued with half~
repressed ill humour. It was, of course, his fault. He had been more
ready to hurt his wife's feelings and deprive his daughter than
inconvenience a pub bar full of strangers. He wished there could be
one memory of his dead child which wasn t tainted with guilt and
regret.
He decided almost on impulse to lunch at the pub. Today his was
the only car parked there. And inside the low-raftered room the black
hearth of blazing logs which he remembered had been repiaced with
a two-bar electric fire. He was the only customer. The publican, very
old, served him with a local beer. It was exceilent, but the only food
on offer was pre cooked pies which the man heated in the microwave
oven. It was an inadequate preparation for the ordeal ahead.
He took the remembered turn on to the Southwold road. The
Suffolk countryside, crimped and barren under the winter sky,
looked unchanged, but the road itself had deteriorated, making the
drive as bumpy and hazardous as a cross~country rally. But when he
reached the outskirts of Reydon he saw small gangs of Sojourners
with their overseers obviously preparing to make a start on repairing
the surface. The dark faces glanced at him as he slowed and drove
carefully past. Their presence surprised him. Southwold had surely
not been designated as a future approved population centre. Why
then was it important to ensure reasonable access?
And now he was driving past the wind shield of trees and the
grounds and buildings of St Felix School. A large board at the gate
proclaimed that it was now the East Suffolk Craft Centre. Presumably
it Was Open only during the summer, or at weekends, for he saw no
one on the broad, unkempt lawns. He drove over Bight Bridge and
entered the little town, its painted houses seeming to sleep in a post-
69
prandial stupor. Thirty years ago its inhabitants had been mainly
elderly; old soldiers walking their dogs, retired couples, bright-
eyed and weather-beaten, walking arm in arm along the front. An
atmosphere of ordered calm, all passion spent. Now it was almost
deserted. On the bench outside the Crown Hotel two old men sat
side by side staring into the distance, brown gnarled hands crossed
over the handles of their walking sticks.
He decided to park in the yard of the Swan and have coffee before
making his way to the north beach, but the inn was closed. As he
was getting back into his car a middle aged woman wearing a
owered apron came out of the side door and locked it behind her.
He said: I was hoping to have coffee. 15 the hotel closed perma-
nently?
She was pleasant-faced but nervous, and looked around before
replying. Iust today, sir. A mark of respect. It s the Quietus you see,
or perhaps you didn t know.
Yes, he said, I did know.
Wishing to break the profound sense of isolation which lay heavily
on buildings and streets, he said: I was last here thirty years ago. It
hasn t changed very much.
She laid one hand on the car window and said: Oh, but it has, sir,
it has Changed. But the Swan is stiii a hotel. Not so many customers, '
of course, now people are moving out of the town. You see, it s
scheduled for evacuation. The governmentwon tbe able to guarantee
us power and services at the end. People are moving to Ipswich or
Norwich! Why all the hurry, he wondered irritably. Surely Xan could
keep this place going for another twenty years.
In the end he parked the car on the small green at the end of Trinity
Street and began walking along the cliff-top path towards the pier.
The mud-grey sea heaved sluggishly under a sky the colour of thin
milk, faintly luminous at the horizon as if the fickle sun were about
once more to break through. Above this pale transparency there
hung great bunches of darker grey and black Cloud, like a half-raised
curtain. Thirty feet below him he could. see the stippled underbelly
of the waves as they rose and spent themselves with weary inevita-
bility, as if weighted with sand and pebbles. The rail of the promen-
ade, once so pristine and white, was rusted and in parts broken, and
the grassy Slope between the promenade and the beach huts looked
as if it hadn t been cropped for years. Once he would have seen
70
below him the long shining row of wooden Chalets with their
endearingly ridiculous names, ranged like brightly painted dolls
houses facing the sea. Now there were gaps like missing teeth in a
decaying jaw and those remaining were ramshackle, their paint
peeling, precariously roped by staves driven into the bank, waiting
for the next storm to sweep them away. At his feet the dry grasses,
waist high, beaded with dry seed pods, stirred fitfully in the breeze
which was never entirely absent from this easterly coast.
Apparently the embarkation was to take place not from the pier
itselfbut from a specially erected wooden jetty alongside it. He could
see in the distance the two low boats, their decks festooned with
garlands of owers and, on the end of the pier overlooking the jetty,
a small group of figures some of whom he thought were in uniform.
About eighty yards in front of him three coaches were drawn up on
the promenade. As he approached, the passengers began to get
down. First came a small group of bandsmen dressed in red jackets
and black trousers. They stood chatting in a disorderly little group,
the sun glinting on the brass of their instruments. One of them gave
his neighbour a playful cuff. For a few seconds they pretended to
spar, then, bored with the horseplay, lit cigarettes and stared out to
sea. And now came the elderlypeople, some able to descend unaided,
others leaning on nurses. The luggage hold of one of the coaches was
unlocked and a number of wheelchairs dragged out. Last of all the
most frail were helped from the coach and into the wheelchairs.
Theo kept his distance and watched as the thin line of bent figures
straggied down the sloping path which bisected the cliff, towards
the beach huts on the lower promenade. Suddenly he realized what
was happening. They were using the huts for the old women to
change into their white robes, huts which for so many decades had
echoed with the laughter of children, but whose names, not thought
of for nearly thirty years, now came unbidden to his mind, the silly,
happy celebrations of family holidays: Pete s Place, Ocean View,
Spray Cottage, Happy Hut. He stood grasping the rusty rail at the
top of the cliff, watching as, two by two, the old women were helped
up the steps and into the huts. The members of the band had watched
but made no movement. Now they conferred a little together, stubbed
out their Cigarettes, picked up their instruments and made their own
way down the cliff. They formed themselves into a line and stood
waiting. The silence was almost eerie. Behind him the row ofVictorian
71
houses, shuttered, empty, st00cl like shabby memorials of happier
days. Below him the beach was deserted; only the squawk of gulls
disturbed the calm.
And now the old women were being helped down from the huts
and arranged in line. They were all wearing lOng white robes, perhaps
nightdresses, with what looked like woollen shawls and white capes
over them, a necessary comfort in the keen wind. He was glad of the
warmth of his own tweed coat. Each woman was carrying a small
posy of owers so that they looked like a bevy of dishevelled
bridesmaids. He found himself wondering who had placed the
owers ready, who had unlocked the huts, left the nightdresses
folded for that purpose. The whole event, which seemed so haphaz
ard, so spontaneous, must have been carefully organized. And he
noticed for the first time that the huts on this part of the lower
promenade had been repaired and newly painted.
The band began playing as the procession shuf ed slowly along
the lower promenade towards the pier. As the first blare of brass
broke the silence he felt a sense of outrage, a dreadful pity. They
were playing cheerful songs, melodies from the time of his grand-
parents, the marching songs of the Second World War which he
recognized but whose names he could not at first recall. Then some
of the titles fell into his mind: 'Bye Bye, Blackbird , Somebody Stole
My Girl , Somewhere over the Rainbow . As they approached the
pier the music changed and he recognized the strains of a hymn,
Abide with Me . After the first verse had been played and the tune
began again, there rose from beneath him a querulous mewing like
the sound of sea birds and he realized that the old people were
singing. As he watched some of the wornen began swaying to the
music, holding out their white skirts and clumsily pirouetting. It
OCCurred to Theo that they could have been drugged.
Keeping pace with the last couple in the line, he followed them
towards the pier. And now the scene was plain beneath him. There
was a crowd of only about twenty, some perhaps relatives and
friends, but most members of the State Security Police. The two low
boats might once, he thought, have been small barges. Only the hulls
remained and these had been fitted with rows of benches. There
were two soldiers in each of the boats and, as the old women entered,
they bent down presumably either to shackle their ankles or to attach
weights. The motor boat, moored at the pier itself, made the plan
72
clear. Once out of sight of land the soldiers would knock away the
plugs and then board the motor boat and return to shore. The band
on shore was still playing, this time Elgar s Nimrod . The singing
had ceased and no sound reached him except the ceaseless crash of
the waves on the shingle and an occasional quiet word of command
blown to him on the thin breeze.
He told himself that he had seen enough. He would be justified
now in returning to the car. He wanted nothing more than to drive
furiously away from this little town Which spoke to him only of
hetplessness, of decay, of emptiness and death. But he had promised
Julian that he would see a Quietus and that must mean watching
until the boats were out of sight. As if to reinforce his intention, he
walked down the concrete steps from the upper promenade to the
beach. No one came forward to order him away. The little group of
officials, the nurses, the soldiers, even the bandsmen, concerned
with their part in the macabre ceremony, seemed not even to notice
that he was there.
Suddenly there was a commotion. One of the women being helped
on to the nearer boat gave a cry and began a violent thrashing of her
arms. The nurse with her was taken by surprise and, before she could
move, the woman had leapt from the jetty into the water and was
struggling ashore. Instinctively Theo cast off his heavy coat and ran
towards her, scrunching over the pebbles and shingle, feeling the icy
bite of the sea freezing his ankles. She was only about twenty yards
from him now and he C0uld see her plainly, the wild white hair, the
nightdress sticking to her body, the swinging, pendulous breasts,
the arms with their weals of crépy skin. A crashing wave tore the
nightdress from her left shOulder and he saw the breast swaying
obscenely like a giant jellyfish. She was still screaming, a high,
piercing whistle like a tortured animal. And aimost at once he
recognized her. It was Hilda Palmer-Smith. Buffeted, he struggled
towards her, holding out both hands.
And then it happened. His outstretched hands were about to grasp
her wrists when one of the soldiers leapt into the water from the jetty
and, with the butt of his pistol, struck her viciously on the side of the
head. She fell forward into the sea, arms whirling. There was a brief
stain of red before the next wave came, engulfed her, lifted her,
receded and left her Spreadeagled in the foam. She tried to rise but
again he struck. Theo had reached her by now and clutched one of
73
her hands. Almost immediately he felt his shoulders seized and he
was ung aside. He heard a voice, quiet, authoritative, almost gentle,
Let it be, sir. Let it be.
Another wave, target than the last, engulfed her and knocked him
off his feet. It receded and, struggling up, he saw her again, stretched
out, the nightdress tucked up over the thin legs, all of the lower body
exposed. He gave a groan and again staggered towards her, but this
time he, too, felt a blow on the side of his head and fell. He was
aware of the harshness of pebbles grinding into his face, of the
overwhelming smell of salt sea water, of a pounding in his ears. His
hands scrabbled at the shingle, trying to get a hold. But sand and
shingle were sucked away beneath him. And then another wave
struck and he felt himself dragged back into deeper water. Only half-
conscious, he tried to raise his head, tried to breathe, knowing that
he was close to drowning. And then came the third wave which lifted
him bodily and ung him among the stones of the beach.
But they hadn t intended him to drown. Shivering With cold,
spluttering and retching, he was aware of strong hands under his
shoulders, of being lifted out of the water as lightly as if he were a
child. Someone was dragging him facevdownward up the beach. He
could feel his toe-caps rasping the patches of wet sand and the
drag of the shingle on his soaking trouser-legs. His arms dangled
powerlessly, the knuckles bruised and grazed by the larger stones
on the upper ridges of the shore. And all the time he could smell the
strong sea smell of the beach and hear the rhythmic thudding 0f the
surf. Then the dragging stopped, and he was dumped ungentiy on
soft, dry sand. He felt the weight of his coat as it was thrown over
his body. He was dimly aware of a dark shape passing over him, and
then he was alone.
He tried to raise his head, aware for the first time of a throbbing
pain, expanding and contracting like a living thing pulsating in his
skull. Each time he managed to lift his head it swayed weakly from
side to side, then thudded again into the sand. But at the third try he
managed to raise it a few inches and opened his eyes. The lids were
weighted with caked sand, sand that covered his face and blocked
his mouth, while strands of slimy weeds webbed his fingers and
hung in his hair. He felt like a man dug from some watery grave with
all the trappings of his death still on him. But in the moment before
he lapsed into unconsciousness he was able to see that someone had
74
dragged him into the narrow space between two beach huts. They
were raised on low stilts and he could see beneath the oors the
detritus 0f long-forgotten holidays half-buried in the dirty sand: the
gleam of silver paper, an old plastic bottle, the rotting canvas and
splintered struts of a deck chair, and a child s broken spade. I-Ie
shuf ed painfully to get closer and reached out his hand, as if to lay
hold on it would be to lay hold on safety and peace. But the effort
was too great and, closing his smarting eyes, he sank with a sigh into
the darkness.
When he awoke he thought at rst that it was totally dark. Turning
on his back he looked up into a sky faintly speckled with stars and
saw before him the pale luminosity of the sea. He remembered where
he was and what had happened. His head still ached, but now only
with a dull, persistent pain. Passing his hand over his skull he felt a
lump large as a hen s egg, but it seemed to him there was no great
damage done. He had no idea of the time and it was impossible to
see the hands of his watch. He rubbed his cramped limbs into life,
shook the sand from his coat and, putting it on, stumbled down to
the edge of the sea where he knelt and bathed his face. The water
was icy cold. The sea was calmer now and there was a shimmering
path of light under a fugitive moon. The gently heaving water
stretched before him completely empty and he thought of the
drowned, still shackled in rows, ribbed by the ship's timbers, of
white hair gracefully rising and falling in the tide. Returning to the
beach huts, he rested for a few minutes on one of the steps, gathering
his strength. He checked his jacket pockets. His leather notecase was
soaking wet, but at least it was there and the contents intact.
He made his way up the steps to the promenade. There were only
a few street lights but they were sufficient for him to see the dial of
his watch. It was seven o clock. He had been unconscious, and
presumably then asleep, for less than four hours. As he came up to
Trinity Street he saw with relief that the car was still there, but there
was no other sign of life. He stood irresolute. He was beginning to
shiver and he felt a longing for hot food and drink. The thought of
driving back to Oxford in his present state appalled him, but his need
to get out of Southwold was almost as imperative as his hunger and
thirst. It was while he was standing irresolute that he heard the
closing of a door and looked round. A woman with a small dog on a
lead was emerging from one of the Victorian terraced houses fronting
75
the little green. It was the only hOuse in which he could see a light,
and he noticed that the ground- oor window displayed a large
notice, BED AND BREAKFAST.
On impulse he walked over to her and said: I m afraid I ve had an
accident. I m very wet. I don t think I'm fit to drive home tonight.
Have you a vacancy? My name is Faron, Theo Faron.
She was older than he expected, with a round, windburned face,
gently creased like a balloon from which the air has been expelled,
bright beady eyes and a small mouth, delicately shaped and once
pretty but now, as he looked down on her, restlessly munching as if
still relishing the after taste of her last meal.
She seemed unsurprised and, better still, unfrightened at his
request and when she spoke her voice was pleasant. I have a room
vacant if you would just wait until I have taken Chloe for her evening
duties. There s a special little place reserved for the dogs. We take
care not to soil the beach. Mothers used to complain if the beach
wasn t clean for the children and old habits remain. I m EMO «-
Evening Meal Optional. Would you be wanting that?
She looked up at him and for the first time he saw a trace of anxiety
in the bright eyes. He said he very much wanted it.
She returned within three minutes and he followed her down the
narrow hall then into a back sitting-room. It was small, almost
claustrophobic, crammed with old fashioned furniture. He had an
impression of fading Chintz, of a manteishelf crowded with small
china animals, of patchwork cushions on the low fireside chairs, of
photographs in silver frames and the smell of lavender. It seemed to
him that the room was a sanctum, its ower-papered walls enclosing
the comfort and security which in his anxiety-fraught childhood he
had never known.
She said: I m afraid I haven t very much in the refrigerator tonight,
but I could give you soup and an omelette.
That would be wonderful.
The soup isn t home made, I m afraid, but I mix two tins to make
it more interesting and add a little something, chopped parsley or an
onion. I think you will find it palatable. Did you want it in the dining-
room, or here in the sitting-rooxn in front of the fire? That might be
cosier for you.
I d like to have it here.
He settled himself in a low button backed chair, stretching his legs
76
"A
out in front of the electn c fire, watching the steam rise from his drying
trousers. The food came quickly, the soup first a mixture, he
detected, of mushroom and chicken sprinkled with parsley. It was
hot, and surprisingly good, and the roll and butter accompanying it
were fresh. Then she brought in a herb omelette. She asked if he
would like tea, coffee or cocoa. What he wanted was alcohol, but that
seemed not to be on offer. He settled for tea and she left him to drink
it alone, as she had left him for the whole of the meal.
When he had finished, she reappeared, as if she had been waiting
at the door, and said: I Ve put you in the back room. Sometimes it s
nice to get away from the sound of the sea. And don t worry about
the bed being aired. I m most particular about airing the beds. I've
put in two bottles. You can kick them out if you re too hot. I ve turned
on the immersion heater so there's plenty of hot water if you want a
bath.
His limbs ached from the hours lying on the damp sand and the
prospect of stretching them out in hot water was appealing. But,
hunger and thirst appeased, tiredness took over. It was too much
trouble even to run the bath.
He said: I Il bath in the morning, if I may.
The room was on the second oor and at the back as she had
promised. Standing aside as he entered, she said: I m afraid I haven t
any pyjamas large enough for you but there s a very old dressing
gown which you could use. It used to belong to my husband"
She seemed unsurprised and unworried that he had brought none
of his own. An electric fire had been plugged in close to the Victorian
grate. She bent to switch it off before leaving and he realized that
what she was charging wouldn t cover all-night heating. But he
didn't need it. Hardly had she closed the door after her than he tore
off his clothes, drew back the bed-coverings and slid into warmth
and comfort and oblivion.
Breakfast next morning was served to him in the ground oor
dining-room at the front of the house. It was set With five tables, each
with a pristine white table-cloth and a small vase of artificial owers,
but there were no other guests.
The room with its cluttered emptiness, its air of promising more
than could be provided, sparked a memory of the last holiday he had
taken with his parents. He had been eleven and they had spent a
week at Brighton staying in a bed and-breakfast boarding house on
77
the cliff top towards Kemp Town. It had rained nearly every day and
his memory of the holiday was of the smell of wet raincoats, 0f the
three of them huddled in shelters looking out at the grey heaving
sea, of walking the streets in search of affordable entertainment until
it was half past six and they could return for the evening meal. They
had eaten in just such a room as this, the family groups, unused to
being waited on, sitting in mute embarrassed patience until the
proprietress, determinedly cheerful, came in with the laden trays of
meat and two vegetables. Throughout the holiday he had been
resentful and bored. It occurred to him now, for the first time, how
little joy his parents had had in their lives and how little he, their
only Child, had contributed to that meagre store.
She waited on him eagerly, providing a full breakfast of bacon,
eggs and fried potatoes, obviously torn between her desire to watch
him enjoy it and the realization that he would prefer to eat alone. He
ate quickly, anxious to get away.
As he paid her he said: It was good of you to take me in, a solitary
man and without an overnight bag. Some people might have been
reluctant.
Oh no, I wasn t at all surprised to see you. I wasn t worried. You
were an answer to prayer.
I don t think I ve ever been called that before.
Oh, but you were. I haven t had a B and B for four months now
and one feels so useless. There s nothing worse than feeling useless
when you re old. So I prayed that God would show me what I ought
to do, whether there was any point in carrying on. And He sent you.
I always find, don t you, that when you re in real trouble, faced with
problems which seem too much for you, and just ask, He does
answer. 7
No , he said, counting out the coins, no, I can t say that s been
my experience.
She went on as if she hadn t heard him: I realize, of course, that I
shall have to give up eventually. The little town is dying. We aren t
scheduled as a population centre. 50 the newly retired don t come
here any more and the young leave. But we shall be all right. The
Warden has promised that everyone at the end will be cared for. I
expect I ll be moved to a little at in Norwich.
He thought: her God provides the occasional overnight customer,
78
but it is the Warden she relies on for the essentials. On impulse he
asked: Did you see the Quietus here yesterday?
Quietus?
'The one held here. The boats at the pier.
She said, her voice firm: 'I think you must be mistaken, Mr Faron.
There was no Quietus. We have none of that kind of thing in
Southwold.
After that he sensed that she was as anxious to see him go as he
was to leave. He thanked her again. She hadn t told him her name
and he didn t ask. He was tempted to say, I've been Very comfortable.
I must come back and spend a short holiday with you. But he knew
that he would never return and her kindness deserved better of him
than a casual lie.
79
10
Next morning he wrote the single word YES on a postcard and folded
it carefully and precisely, running his thumb along the crease. The
act of writing those three letters seemed portentous in ways he
couldn t as yet foresee, a commitment to more than his promised
Visit to Xan.
Shortly after ten o clock he made his way over the narrow cobbles
of Pusey Lane to the museum. A single custodian was on duty, seated
as usual at a wooden table opposite the door. He was very old and
he was sound asleep. His right arm, curved on the table-top, cradled
a high-domed, speckled head spiked with bristles of grey hairs. His
left hand looked mummified, a collection of bones loosely held
together by a stained glove of mottled skin. Close to it lay an open
paperback, Plato s Theaetetus. He was probably a scholar, one of the
unpaid band who volunteered to take turns and to keep the museum
open. His presence, asleep or awake, was unnecessary; no one was
going to risk deportation to the Isle of Man for the few medallions in
the display case, and who could or would want to carry out the great
Victory of Samafaya or the Wings of the Nike of Samothrace?
Theo hadbeen reading History, yetit was Xan who had introduced
him to the Cast Museum, entering it light footed, as joyously expect-
ant as a child with a new nursery of toys showing off its treasures.
Theo, too, had fallen under its spell. Even in the museum their tastes
differed. Xan liked best the rigour and the stern unemotional faces
of the early classical male statues on the ground oor. Theo preferred
the lower room with its examples of the softer, owing Helienistic
lines. Nothing, he saw, was Changed. Casts and statues stood ranked
under the light of the high windows, like the closely packed lumber
of a discarded Civilization, the armless torsos with their grave faces
and arrogant lips, the elegantly dressed curls above bound foreheads,
eyeiess gods secretly smiling, as if they were privy to a truth more
profound than the spurious message of these ice-cold limbs: that
civihzations rise and fall but man endures.
As far as he knew, once he had gone down Xan had never revisited
80
the museum, but to Theo it had become a place of refuge over the
years. In those dreadful months following Natalie's death and his
move to St John Street, it had provided a convenient escape from his
wife's grief and resentment. He could sit on one of the hard utilitarian
chairs, reading or thinking in this silent air, seldom disturbed by a
human voice. From time to time smaE groups of school children or
individual students would come into the museum and then he would
close his book and leave. The special atmosphere which the place
held for him depended on his being alone.
Before doing what he had come to do he walked round the
museum, partly from a haIf-superstitious feeling that, even in this
silence and emptiness, he should act like a casual visitor, partly from
the need to revisit old delights and see if they could still touch him;
the Attic gravestone 0f the young mother from the fourth century
BC, the servant holding the swaddled baby, the tombstone of a little
girl with doves, grief speaking across nearly 3,000 years. He looked
and thought and remembered.
When he came up again to the ground floor he saw that the
attendant was still asleep. The head of the Diadoumenos was stilt in
its place in the ground oor gallery but he looked at it with less
emotion than when he had first seen it thirty-two years ago. Now
the pleasure was detached, intellectual; then he had run his finger
over the forehead, had traced the line from nose to throat, shaken
with that mixture of awe, reverence and excitement which, in those
heady days, great art could always produce in him.
Taking the folded postcard from his pocket, he inserted it between
the base of the marble and the shelf, its edge just visible to a keen
and searching eye. Whoever Rolf sent to retrieve it should be able to
dislodge it with the tip of a fingernail, a coin, a pencil. He had no fear
of anyone else finding it and, even if they did, the message could tell
them nothing. Checking that the edge of the card could be seen, he
felt again the mixture of irritation and embarrassment which he had
first felt in the church at Binsey. But now the conviction that he was
becoming unwillingly involved in an enterprise as ridiculous as it
Was futile was less powerful. The image of Hilda s half naked body
rolling in the surf, of that thin, wailing procession, the crack of a gun
on bone; these imposed dignity and seriousness on even the most
Childish games. He had only to shut his eyes to hear again the crash
of the falling wave, its long withdrawing sigh.
81
There was some dignity and much safety in the self selected role
of spectator, but faced with some abominations a man had no option
but to step on to the stage. He would see Xan. But was he motivated
less by outrage at the horror of the Quietus than by the memory of
his own humiliation, the carefully judged blow, his body hauled up
the beach and dumped as if it were an unwanted carcase?
As he was passing the table on his way to the door the aged
custodian stirred and sat up. Perhaps the footfall had penetrated his
half sleeping mind with a warning of duty neglected. His first gaze
at Theo was one of fear almost amounting to terror. And then Theo
recognized him. He was Digby Yule, a retired Classics don from
Merton. '
Theo introduced himself. It s good to see you, sir. How are you?
The question seemed to increase Yule s nervousness. His right
hand began an apparently uncontrolled drumming of the tablevtop.
He said: Oh, very well, yes, very well, thank you, Faron. I m
managing all right. I do for myself, you know. I live in lodgings off
the If ey Road but I manage very well. I do everything for myself.
The landlady isn t an easy woman - well, she has her own problems
but I'm no trouble to her. I m no trouble to anyone.
What was he afraid of, Theo wondered. The whispered call to the
SSP that here was another citizen who had become a burden on
others? His senses seemed to have become preternaturally sharp. He
could smell the faint tang of disinfectant, see the akes of soapy foam
on stubble and chin, note that the half-inch of shirt-cuff protruding
from the shabby jacket sleeves was clean but unironed. Then it
occurred to him that it was in his power to say: If you re not
comfortable where you are there's plenty of room with me in St John
Street. I m on my own now. It would be pleasant for me to have some
company.
But he told himself firmly that it wouldn t be pleasant, that the
offer would be seen as both presumptuous and condescending, that
the old man wouldn tbe able to cope with the stairs, those convenient
stairs which excused him from the obligations of benevolence. Hilda
wouldn't have been able to cope with the stairs either. But Hilda was
dead.
Yule was saying: I just come here twice a week. Monday and
Friday you know. I m standing in for a colleague. It s good to have
82
" v something useful to do and I like the quality of the silence. It s
different from the silence in any other Oxford building.
Theo thought, perhaps he will die here quietly, sitting at this table.
What better place to go? And then he had an image of the old man
left there, still at the table, of the last custodian locking and bolting
the door, of the endless, unbroken silent years, of the frail body
mummified or rotting at last under the marble gaze of those blank
unseeing eyes.
11
Tuesday 9 February 2021
Today I saw Xan for the first time for three years. There was no
dif culty in getting an appointment, although it wasn t his face that
appeared on the televiewer, but one of his aides, a Grenadier with
sergeant s stripes. Xan is guarded, cooked for, driven, serviced by a
small company of his private army; even from the beginning no
women secretaries or personal assistants, no women housekeepers
or cooks were employed at the court of the Warden. I used to wonder
whether this was to avoid even the hint of sexual scandal or whether
the loyalty Xan demanded was essentially masculine: hierarchical,
unquestioning, unemotional.
He sent a car for me. I told the Grenadier that I would prefer to
drive to London myself, but he merely said with unemphatic finality,
The Warden will send a car and driver, sir. He will be at the door at
nine thirty.
Somehow I had expected that it would still be George, who was
my regular driver when I was Xan s adviser. I liked George. He had
a cheerful, engaging face with protruding ears, a wide mouth and a
rather broad, retrousse nose. He seldom spoke, and never unless I
began the conversation. I suspected that all drivers worked under
that prohibition. But there emanated from him or so I liked to
believe - a spirit of general goodwill, perhaps even of approval,
which made our drives together a restful and anxiety free interlude
between the frustrations of Council meetings and the unhappiness
of home. This driver was leaner, aggressively smart in his apparently
new uniform and the eyes Which met mine gave nothing away, not
even dislike.
I said: 13 George no longer driving?
George is dead, sir. An accident on the A4. My name is Hedges. I
shall be your driver on both journeys.
It was difficult to think of George, that skilled and meticulously
careful driver, being involved in a fatal accident, but I asked no more
84
questions. Something told me that curiosity would be unsatisfied
and further inquiry unwise.
There was no point in attempting to rehearse the interview to come
or in speculating how Xan would receive me after three years silence.
We hadn t parted in anger or bitterness but I knew that What I had
done had in his eyes been inexcusable. I wondered whether it was
also unforgivable. He was used to getting what he wanted. He had
wanted me at his side, and I had defected. But now he had agreed
to see me. In less than an hour I should know whether he wanted
the breach to be permanent. I wondered whether he had told any
other members of the Council that I d asked for an interview. I neither
expected nor wished to see them, that part of my life is over, but I
thought of them as the car sped smoothly, almost silently, towards
London.
There are four of them. Martin Woolvington, in charge of Industry
and Production; Harriet Marwood, responsible for Health, Science
and Recreation; Felicia Rankin, whose Home Affairs portfolio, some-
thing of a ragbag, includes Housing and Transport; and Carl Ingle-
bach, Minister forJustice and State Security. The allocation ofrespon-
sibility is more a convenient way of dividing the workload than the
conferring of absolute authority. No one, at least while I attended
the Council meetings, was inhibited from encroaching on another s
field of interest and decisions were taken by the whole Council by a
majority vote in which, as Xan s adviser, I had no part. Was it, I
wondered now, this humiliating exclusion rather than any awareness
of my ineffectiveness which had made my position intolerable?
In uence was no substitute for power.
Martin Woolvington s use to Xan and the justification for his place
on the Council is no longer in doubt and must have strengthened
since my defection. He is the member with whom Xan is most
intimate, the one he probably comes closest to calling a friend. They
Were in the same regiment serving as subalterns together and
Woolvington was one of the first men Xan appointed to serve on the
Council. Industry and Production is one of the heaviest portfolios,
incIuding, as it does, agriculture, food and power, and the direction
of labour. In a Council notabie for high intelligence, Woolvington s
appointment at rst surprised me. But he isn t stupid; the British
Army had ceased to value stupidity among its commanders long
before the 19905, and Martin more than justifies his place by a
85
l2:
practicai, non intellectual intelligence and an extraordinary capacity
for hard work. He says little in Council but his contributions are
invariably apposite and sensible. His loyalty to Xan is absolute.
During Council meetings he was the only one who doodled. Dood~
ling, I had always thought, was a sign of minor stress, a need to keep
the hands busy, a useful expedient for avoiding meeting the eyes of
others. Martin s doodling was unique. The impression he gave was
of a reluctance to waste time. He could listen with half his mind and
draw up on paper his battle lines, plan his manoeuvres, could still
draw his meticulous toy soldiers, usually in the uniform of the
Napoleonic Wars. He would leave his papers on the table when he
left and I was astounded at the detail and the skill of the drawings. I
rather liked him because he was invariably courteous and displayed
none of the covert resentment at my presence which, morbidly
sensitive to atmosphere, I thought I detected in all the others. But I
never felt that I understood him and I doubt whether it ever occurred
to him to try to understand me. If the Warden wanted me there, that
was good enough for him. He is little more than medium height,
with fair wavy hair and a sensitive, aesthetic face which reminded
me strongly of a photograph I had seen of a 19305 film star, Leslie
Howard. The resemblance, once detected, reinforced itself, imbuing
him in my eyes with a sensibility and dramatic intensity which were
foreign to his essentially pragmatic nature.
I never felt at ease with Felicia Rankin. If Xan had wanted a
colleague who was both a young woman and a distinguished lawyer,
he had less acerbic choices available to him. I have never been able
to understand why he chose Felicia. Her appearance is extraordinary.
She is invariabiy televised and photographed in profile or half-face
and, seen thus, gives the impression of calm, conventional loveliness;
the classic bone structure, the high arched eyebrows, the blonde hair
swept back into a chignon. Seen full-faced, the symmetry vanishes.
It is as if her head has been fashioned from distinct halves, each
attractive but put together in a discordance which, in certain lights,
is Close to deformity. The right eye is iarger than the left, the forehead
above it bulges slightly, the right ear is larger than its fellow. But the
eyes are remarkable, huge with clear grey irises. Looking at them
when her face was in repose I used to wonder what it felt like to be
cheated so spectacularly ofbeauty by so minute a margin, Sometimes
in Council I found it difficult to keep my eyes from her and she would
86
suddenly turn her head and catch my quickly averted eyes with her
own bold contemptuous glance. I wondered now how much my
morbid obsession with her looks had fuelled our mutual antipathy.
Harriet Marwood, at sixty-eight the oldest member, is responsible
for Science, Health and Recreation, but her main function on the
Council was obvious to me after the first meeting I attended and is
indeed obvious to the whole country. Harriet is the Wise old woman
of the tribe, the universal grandmother, reassuring, comforting,
always there, upholding her own outdated standard of manners and
taking it for granted that the grandchildren will conform. When she
appears on television screens to explain the latest instruction it s
impossible not to believe that all is for the best. She could make a law
requiring universal suicide seem eminently reasonable; half the
country, I suspect, would immediately comply. Here is the wisdom
of age, certain, uncompromising, caring. Before Omega she was
head of a girls public school and teaching was her passion. Even as
headmistress she had continued to teach the sixth form. But it was
the young she wanted to teach. She despised my compromise of
taking a job in aduit education, spooning out the pabulum of popular
history and even more popular literature to the bored middle-aged.
The energy, the enthusiasm she had given as a young woman to
teaching is now given to the Council. They are her pupils, her
children and, by a process of extension, so is the whole country. I
suspect that Xan finds her useful in ways I can t guess. I also think
her extremely dangerous.
People who bother to cogitate about the personalities of the Councii
say that Cari Inglebach is the brain, that the brilliant planning and
administration of the tightly knit organization which holds the
country together has been formulated within that high domed head,
that without his administrative genius the Warden of England would
be ineffectual. It s the kind of thing that gets said about the powerful
and he may have encouraged it, although I doubt that. He is
impervious to public Opinion. His creed is simple. There are things
about which nothing can be done and to try to change them is a waste
of time. There are things that ought to be changed and, the decision
once made, the change should be putin hand without procrastination
0r clemency. He is the most sinister member of the Council and, after
the Warden, the most powerful.
I didn t speak to my driver untii we reached the Shepherd s Bush
87
roundabout when I leaned forward, tapped the window between us
and said: I d like you to drive through Hyde Park then down
Constitution Hill and Birdcage Walk if you will.
He said, without a motion of his shoulders or any expression in
his voice, That, sir, is the route the Warden has instructed me to
take.
We drove in front of the palace, its windows shuttered, the agpole
without its standard, the sentry boxes empty, the great gates closed
and padlocked. St James s Park looked more unkempt than when I
had last seen it. This was one of the parks which the Council had
decreed should be properly maintained and there was, in fact, a
distant group oftoiling figures wearing the yellow and brown overalls
0f Sojourners, picking up rubbish and apparently clipping the edges
of the still-bare flowerbeds. A wintry sun t the surface of the lake
on which the bright plumage of two mandarin ducks stood out like
painted toys. Under the trees lay a thin powder of last week s snow
and I saw, with interest but with no lifting of the heart, that the nearer
patch of white was a drift of the first snowdrops.
There was very little traffic in Parliament Square and the iron gates
to the entrance of the Palace of Westminster were closed. Here once
a year Parliament meets, the Members elected by the Dis ict and
Regional Councils. No bills are debated, n0 legislation enacted,
Britain is governed by decree of the Council of England. The official
function of Parliament is to discuss, advise, receive information and
make recommendations. Each of the five members of the Council
reports personally in what the media describe as the annual message
to the nation. The session lasts only for a month and the agenda is
setby the Council. The subjects discussed are innocuous. Resolutions
by a two thirds majority go to the Council of England, who can reject
or accept as they will. The system has the merit of simplicity and
gives the illusion of democracy to people who no longer have the
' energy to care how or by whom they are governed as long as they
get what the Warden has promised: freedom from fear, freedom from
want, freedom from boredom.
For the first few years after Omega, the King, still uncrowned,
Opened Parliament with the old splendour, but driving through
almost empty streets. From being the potent symbol of continuity
and tradition, he has become an unemployable archaic reminder of
what we have lost. Now he still opens Parliament, but quietly,
88
wearing a lounge suit, stealing in and out of London almost
unnoticed.
I could remember a conversation I d had with Xan the week before
I resigned my post. Why don t you get the King crowned? I thought
you were anxious to maintain normality.
What would be the point of it? People aren t interested. They
would resent the huge expense of a ceremony Which has become
meaningless .
We hardly ever hear of him. Where is he, under house arrest?
Xan had given his inward laugh. Hardly house. Palace or castle
arrest if you like. He s comfortable enough. Anyway I don t think
that the Archbishop of Canterbury would agree to crown him.
And I remembered my reply. That s hardly surprising. You knew
When you appointed Margaret Shivenham t0 Canterbury that she
was a fervent republican.
lust inside the railings of the park, walking in line along the grass,
came a company of agellants. They were naked to the waist,
wearing, even in the cold of February, nothing but yellow loincloths
and sandals on their bare feet. As they walked they swung back the
heavy knotted cords to lacerate alreadybleeding backs. Even through
the car window I could hear the whistle of the leather, the thud of
the whips on naked esh. I looked at the back of the driver's head,
the half moon of meticulously cropped dark hair under the cap, the
single mole above the collar which had irritatineg held my gaze for
most of the silent journey.
Now, determined to get some response from him, I said: I thought
this kind of public display had been made illegal.
Only on the public highway or pavement, sir. I imagine they feel
they re entitled to walk through a park.
lasked. Do you find the spectacle offensive? I gather that was why
the agellants were banned. People dislike the sight of blood.
1 find it ridiculous, sir. If God exists and He s decided He s had
enough of us, He isn t going to change His mind because a rabble of
no-hopers dress up in yellow and go wailing through the park.
Do you beiieve in Him? Do you believe He exists?
We had drawn up now at the door of the old Foreign Office. Before
getting out to open the door for me he looked round and gazed into
my face. Perhaps His experiment went spectacularly wrong, sir.
Perhaps He s tust baf ed. Seeing the mess, not knowing how to put
89 I
it right. Perhaps not wanting to put it right. Perhaps He only had
enough power left for one final intervention. So He made it. Whoever
He is, whatever He is, Ihope He burns in His own Hell.
He spoke with extraordinary bitterness, and then his face aSSumed
its cold, immobile mask. He stood to attention and opened the door
of the car.
90
The Grenadier on duty inside the door was one Theo recognized. He
said: Good morning, sir, and smiled almost as if there had been no
lapse of three years and Theo was entering as of right to take his
appointed place. Another Grenadier, this time unknown to him,
came forward and saluted. Together they mounted the ornate stair
case.
Xan had rejected Number Ten Downing Street as both his office
and residence, and had chosen instead the 01d Foreign and Common-
wealth building overlooking St James s Park. Here he had his private
at on the top oor where, as Theo knew, he lived in an ordered and
comfortable simplicity which is only achievable when buttressed by
money and staff. The room at the front of the building, used twenty-
five years ago by the Foreign Secretary, had from the first been both
Xan s office and the Council chamber.
Without knocking, the Grenadier opened the door and loudly
announced his name.
He found himself facing, not Xan, but the full Council. They were
sitting at the same small oval table he remembered, but along one
side only and closer than was usual. Xan was in the middle flanked
by Felicia and Harriet With Martin on the far left, Carl on his right. A
single vacant chair had been placed immediately opposite Xan. It
was a calculated ploy obviously intended to disconcert him, and
momentarily it succeeded. He knew that the five pairs of watching
eyes hadn t missed his involuntary hesitation at the door, the flush
of annoyance and embarrassment. But the shock of surprise gave
way to a spurt of anger and the anger was helpful. They had taken
the initiative, but there was no reason why they should retain it.
Xan s hands were lying lightly on the table, the fingers curved.
Theo saw the ring With a shock of recognition and knew that he was
meant to recognize it. It could hardly have been concealed. Xan was
wearing on the third finger of his left hand the Coronation Ring,
the wedding ring of England, the great sapphire surrounded with
diamonds and surmounted with a cross of rubies. He looked down
91
at it, smiled, and said: An idea of Harriet s. It would look appallingly
vulgar if one didn t know that it was real. The people need their
baubles. Don t worry, I m not proposing to have myself anointed by
Margaret Shivenham in Westminster Abbey. I doubt whether I could
get through the ceremony with the appropriate gravity. She looks so
ridiCulous in her mitre. You re thinking that there was a time when
I WOuldn t have worn it.
Theo said: A time when you wouldn t have felt the need to wear
it. He could have added, Nor the need to tell me that it was Harriet s
idea.
Xan motioned towards the empty chair. Theo took it and said: I
asked for a personal interview with the Warden of England and I
understood that was what I was getting. I m not applying for a job,
nor am I a candidate for a Viva voce.
Xan said: It s three years since we met or spoke. We thought you
might like to meet old what would you say, Felicia? - friends,
comrades, colleagues?
Felicia said: I would say acquaintances. I never understood Dr
Faron s precise function when he was Warden s Adviser and it hasn t
become clearer with his absence and the passing of three years.
Woolvington looked up from his doodling. The Council must have
been sitting for some time. He had already massed a company of foot
soldiers. He said: It never was clear. The Warden asked for him and
that was good enough for me. He didn't contribute very much as I
remember, but neither did he hinder.
Xan smiled, but the smile didn t reach his eyes. That s in the past.
Welcome back. Say what you ve come to say. We re all friends here.
He made the banal words sound like a threat.
There was no point in circumlocution. Theo said: I was at-the
Quietus at Southwold last Wednesday. What I saw was murder. Half
of the suicides looked drugged and those who did know What was
happening didn t all go willingly. I saw women dragged on to the
boat and shaclded. One was clubbed to death on the beach. Are we
culling our old people now like unwanted animals? Is this murderous
parade what the Council mean by security, comfort, pleasure? Is this
death with dignity? I m here because I thought yOu ought to know
what s being done in the Council s name.
He told himself: I m being too vehement. I m antagonizing them
before I ve really started. Keep it calm.
92
Felicia said: That particular Quietus was mismanaged. Things got
out of control. I've asked for a report. It s possible that some of the
guards exceeded their duties.
Theo said: Someone exceeded his duties. Hasn't that always been
the excuse? And why do we need armed guards and shackles if these
people are going willingly to their death?
Felicia explained again with barely controlled impatience: That
particular Quietus was mismanaged. Appropriate action will be
taken against those responsible. The Council notes your concern,
your rational, indeed laudable, concern. Is that all?
Xan appeared not to have heard her question. He said: When my
turn comes I propose to take my lethal capsule comfortably in bed at
home and preferably on my own. I ve never quite seen the point of
the Quietus although you seemed keen on them, Felicia.
Felicia said: They began spontaneously. About twenty eighty~
year-olds in a home in Sussex decided to organize a coach party to
Eastbourne, then, hand in hand, jumped over Beachy Head. It
became something of a fashion. Then one or two Local Councils
thought they ought to meet an obvious need and organize the thing
properly. lumping off cliffs may be an easy way out for the old people
but someone has the unpleasantjob of Clearing away the bodies. One
or two of them actually survived for a short time, Ibelieve. The whole
thing was messy and unsatisfactory. Towing them out to sea was
obviously more sensible.
Harriet leaned forward, her voice persuasive, reasonable: People
need their rites of passage and they want company at the end. You
have the strength to die alone, Warden, but most people find it
comforting to feel the touch of a human hand.
Theo said: The woman I saw die didn t get the touch of a human
hand except, brie y, mine. What she got was a pistol crack on her
skull.
Woolvington did not bother to look up from his doodling. He
muttered: We all die alone. We shall endure death as once we
endured birth. You can t share either experience.
Harriet Marwood turned to Theo. 'The Quietus is, of course,
absolutely voluntary. There are all the proper safeguards. They have
to sign a form - in duplicate, is it, Felicia?
Felicia said curtly: 'In triplicate. One copy for the Local Council,
one to the nearest relation so that they can claim the blood money,
93
and one is retained by the old person and collected when they board
the boat. That goes to the Office of Census and Population.
Xan said: 'As you see, Felicia has it all under control. Is that all,
Theo?
No. The Man Penal Settlement. Do you know what s happening
there? The murders, the starvation, the complete breakdown of law
and order.
Xan said: We do. The question is, how do you know?
Theo didn t reply, but in his heightened awareness the question
sounded a clear warning bell.
Felicia said: I seem to remember that you were present at our
meeting in your somewhat ambiguous capacity when the setting up
of the Man Penal Colony was under discussion. You made no
objection except on behalf of the then resident population whom we V
proposed to resettle on the mainland. They have been resettled,
comfortably and advantageously in their Chosen parts of the country.
We get no complaints.
I assumed that the Colony would be properly run, that the basic
necessities for a reasonable life would be provided.
They are. Shelter, water and seeds to grow food.
I assumed, also, that the Colony would be policed, governed.
Even in the nineteenth century when convicts were deported to
Australia the settlements had a governor, some liberal, some dracon
ian, but all responsible for the maintenance of peace and order. The
settlements weren t left to the mercy of the strongest and most
criminal of the COnViCtS.
Felicia said: Weren t they? That s a matter of opinion. But we re
not dealing with the same situation. You know the logic of the penal
system. If people Choose to assault, rob, terrify, abuse and exploit
others, let them live with people of the same mind. If that s the kind
of society they want, then give it to them. If there is any virtue in
them, then they ll organize themselves sensibly and live at peace
with each other. If not, their society will degenerate into the chaos
they re so ready to impose on others. The choice is entirely theirs.
Harriet broke in: As for employing a governor or prison officers
to enforce order, Where will you find these people? Have you come
here to volunteer? And if you won t, who will? People have had
enough of criminals and criminality. They aren t prepared today to
live their lives in fear. You were born in 1971, weren t you? You must
94
remember the 19905, women afraid to walk the streets of their own
cities, the rise in sexual and violent crime, old people self imprisoned
in their ats some burned to death behind their bars drunken
hooligans ruining the peace of country towns, children as dangerous
as their elders, no property safe if it wasn t protected with expensive
burglar alarms and grilles. Everything has been tried to cure man s
criminality, every type of so called treatment, every regime in our
prisons. Cruelty and severity didn t work, but neither did kindness
and leniency. Now since Omega the people have said to us, Enough
is enough . The priests, the psychiatrists, the psychologists, the
criminologists - none has found the answer. What we guarantee is
freedom from fear, freedom from want, freedom from boredom. The
other freedoms are pointless without freedom from fear.
Xan said: The old system wasn t entirely without profit though,
was it? The police got well paid. And the middle classes did very well
out of it, probation officers, social workers, magistrates, judges,
court officials, quite a profitable little industry all depending on the
offender. Your profession, Felicia, did particularly well, exercising
their expensive legal skills in getting people convicted so that their
colleagues could have the satisfaction of getting the verdicts over-
turned on appeal. Today the encouragement of criminals is an
indulgence we cannot afford, even to provide comfortable living for
middle-class liberals. But I suspect the Man Penal Colony isn t the
last of your concerns.
Theo said: There s disquiet about the treatment of Sojourners. We
import them as helots and treat them as slaves. And why the quota?
If they want to come, let them in. If they want to leave, let them go.
Woolvington s first two lines of cavalry were complete, prancing
elegantly across the top of the paper. He looked up and said: You re
not suggestingwe should have unrestricted immigration? Remember
what happened in Europe in the 19905? People became tired of
invading hordes, from countries with just as many natural advan-
tages as this, who had allowed themselves to be misgoverned for
decades through their own cowardice, indolence and stupidity and
Who expected to take over and exploit the benefits which had been
won over centuries by intelligence, industry and courage, while
incidentally perverting and destroying the civilization of which they
were so anxious to become part.
Theo thought, they even speak alike now. But, whoever speaks,
95
the voice is the voice of Xan. He said: We re not talking about history.
We ve no shortage of resources, no shortage of jobs, no shortage of ,
houses. Restricting immigration in a dying and underpopulated
world isn t a particularly generous policy.
Xan said: It never was. Generosity is a virtue for individuals, not
governments. When governments are generous it is with other
people s money, other people s safety, other people s future.
It was then Carl Ingiebach spoke for the first time. He was sitting
as Theo had seen him sit dozens of times, a little forward in his seat,
his two fists clenched, lying precisely side by side downwards on the
tabie, as if concealing some treasure which it was nevertheless
important to let the Council know that he possessed, or perhaps as
if about to play a childish game, opening one palm and then the other
to display its transferred penny. He looked was probably tired of
being told so like a benign edition ofLenin, with his domed polished
head and black bright eyes. He disliked the constriction of ties and
collars and the resemblance was accentuated by the fawn linen suit
he always wore, beautifully tailored, high-necked and buttoned on
the left shoulder. But now he was dreadfully different. Theo had
seen at first glance that he was mortally ill, perhaps even ciose to
death. The head was a skull with a membrane of skin stretched taut
over the jutting bones, the scrawny neck stuck out tortoise like from
his shirt and his mottled skin was jaundiced. Theo had seen that look
before. Only the eyes were unchanged, blazing from the sockets with
small pinpoints of light. But when he spoke his voice was as strong
as ever. It was as if all the strength left to him was concentrated in
his mind and in the voice, beautiful and resonant, which gave that
mind its utterance.
You are a historian. You know what evils have been perpetrated
through the ages to ensure the survival of nations, sects, religions,
even of individual families. Whatever man has done for good or ill
has been done in the knowledge that he has been formed by history,
that his lifespan is brief, uncertain, insubstantial, but that there will
be a future, for the nation, for the race, for the tribe. That hope has
finally gone except in the minds of fools and fanatics. Man is
diminished if he lives without knowledge of his past; Without hope
of a future he becomes a beast. We see in every country in the world
the loss of that hope, the end of science and invention, except for
discoveries which may extend life or add to its comfort and pleasure,
96
the end of our care for the physical world and our planet. What does
it matter what turds we leave behind as legacies ofour brief disruptive
tenancy? The mass emigrations, the great internal tumults, the
religious and tribal wars of the 19903 have given way to a universal
anomie which leaves crops unsown and unharvested, animals neg-
lected, starvation, civil war, the grabbing from the weak by the
strong. We see reversions to old myths, old superstitions, even to
human sacrifice, sometimes on a massive scale. That this country has
been largely spared this universal catastrophe is due to the five
people round this table. In particular it is due to the Warden of
England. We have a system extending from this Council, down to
the Local Councils, which retains a vestige of democracy for those
few who still care. We have a humane direction of labour which pays
some regard to individual wishes and talents, and which ensures
that people continue to work even though they have no posterity to
inherit the rewards of their labour. Despite the inevitable desire to
spend, to acquire, to satisfy immediate wants, we have sound money
and low in ation. We have plans that will ensure that the last
generation fortunate enough to live in the multiracial boarding house
we call Britain wilt have stored food, necessary medicines, light,
water and power. Beside these achievements, does the country
greatly care that some Sojourners are discontented, that some of the
aged choose to die in company, that the Man Penal Colony isn t
pacified?
Harriet said: You distanced yourself from those decisions, didn t
you? It s hardly dignified to opt out from responsibility and then
complain When you don t like the result of other people s efforts.
You were the one who decided to resign, remember? You historians
are happier living in the past anyway, so why not stay there?
Felicia said: It s certainly where he s most at home. Even when he
killed his child he was going backward.
In the silence, short but intense, which greeted this comment,
Theo was able to say: I don t deny what you ve achieved, but would
it really prejudice good order, comfort, protection, the things you
offer people, if you made some reforms? Do away with the Quietus.
If people want to kill themselves and I ll agree it s a rational way to
end then issue them with the necessary suicide piils, but do it
without mass persuasion or coercion. Send a force to the Isle of Man
and restore some order there. Do away with the compulsory testing
97
of sperm and the routine examination of healthy women; they re
degrading and anyway they haven t worked. Close down the State
porn shops. Treat the Sojourners like human beings not slaves. You
can do any of those things easily. The Warden can do them with one
signature. That s all I m asking.
Xan said: It seems to this Council that you re asking rather a lot.
Your concern would have more weight with us if you were sitting,
as you could be sitting, on this side of the table. Your position is no
different from the rest of Britain. You desire the end but close your
eyes to the means. You want the garden to be beautiful provided the
smell of manure is kept well away from your fastidious nose.
Xan got to his feet and, one by one, the rest of the Council followed.
But he didn t hold out his hand. Theo was aware that the Grenadier
who had shown him in had moved quietly to his side as ifin obedience
to some secret signal. He almost expected a hand to clamp down on
his shoulder. He turned without speaking and followed him out of
the Council chamber. '
13
The car was waiting. On seeing him the dn ver got out and opened
the door. But suddenly Xan was at his side. He said to Hedges: Drive
to the Mall and wait for us at the Queen Victoria statue, and, turning
to Theo, he said: We ll walk in the park. Wait while I get my coat}
He was back in less than a minute wearing the familiar tweed
which he invariably wore for outdoor television shots, slightly
waisted with two capes, Regency style, which in the early zooos had
for a brief time become fashionable and expensive. The coat was old
but he had kept it.
Theo could remember when he had rst ordered it, their conver
sation: You re mad. All that for one coat.
It ll last for ever.
You won t. Nor will the fashion.
I don t care about fashions. I shall like the style better when no
one else is wearing it.
And no one was wearing it now.
They crossed the road into the park. Xan said: You were unwise
to come here today. There s a limit to how far I can protect you, you
or the people you ve been consorting with.
I didn't think I needed protection. I m a free citizen consulting the
democratically elected Warden of England. Why should I need
protection, yours or anyone s?
Xan didn t answer. On impulse Theo said: Why do you do it? Why
on earth do you want the job? It was, he thought, a question that
only he could, or dared to, ask.
Xan paused before replying, narrowing and focusing his eyes
on the lake as if something invisible to other eyes had suddenly
interested him. But surely, thought Theo, he didn t need to hesitate.
It must have been a question he d thought over often enough. Then
he turned, walked on, and said: At first because I thought I d enjoy
it. The power I suppose. But it wasn't only that. I could never bear
to watch someone doing badly what I knew I could do well. After
the rst five years I found I was enjoying it less, but by then it was
99
too late. Someone has to do it and the only people Who want to are
the four round that table. Would you prefer Felicia? Harriet? Martin?
Carl? Carl could do it, but he s dying. The other three couldn t keep
the Council together, let alone the country.
So that s why. Disinterested public duty?
Have you ever known anyone give up power, real power?
Some people do.
And have you seen them, the walking dead? But it s not the
power, not entirely. I ll tell you the real reason. I m not bored.
Whatever else I am now, I m never bored.
They walked on in silence, skirting the lake. Then Xan said: The
Christians believe that the Last Corning has arrived except that their
God is gathering them one by one instead of descending more
dramatically in the promised clouds of glory. This way Heaven can
control the intake. It makes it easier to process the white-robed
company of the redeemed. I like to think of God concerning himself
with logistics. But they d give up their illusion to hear the laughter
of one child.
Theo didn t reply, then Xan said quietly: Who are these people?
You d better tell me.
There are no people.
'All that farrago in the Council room. You didn t think that out for
yourself. I don t mean that you re incapable of thinking it out. You re
capable of a great deal more than that. But you haven t cared for V
three years, and you didn t care greatly before then. You ve been got
I
at.
Not by anyone specifically. I live in the real world even in Oxford.
I queue at cash registers, I shop, I take buses, I listen. People
sometimes talk to me. Not anyone I care about, just people. What I
have is communication With strangers.
Which strangers? Your students?
'Not students. N0 one in particular.
Odd that you've become so approachable. You used to go round
with an impervious membrane ofprivacy, your private invisible caul.
When you taik to these mysterious strangers, ask them if they can
do my job better than I. If so, tell them to come and say so to my face;
you re not a particularly persuasive emissary. It would be a pity if
we had to close down the adult education school at Oxford. There'll
be no option if the place becomes a focus for sedition.
100
You can t mean that.
It s what Felicia would say.
Since when have you taken any notice of Felicia?
Xan smiled his inward reminiscent smile. You re right, of course.
I don t take any notice of Felicia.
Crossing the bridge which spanned the lake, they paused to gaze
towards Whitehall. Here, unchanged, was one of the most exciting
views which London had to offer, English and yet exotic, the elegant
and splendid bastions of Empire seen across shimmering water and
framed in trees. Theo recalled lingering at just this spot a week after
he had joined the Council, remembered contemplating the same
view, Xan wearing the same coat. And he could recall every word
they had said as clearly as if it had just been spoken.
You should give up the compulsory testing of sperm. It's degrad-
ing and it s been done now for over twenty years without success.
Anyway, you only test healthy, selected males. What about the
others?
If they can breed, good luck to them, but while there are limited
facilities for the testing, let's keep it for the physically and morally
fit.
So you re planning for Virtue as well as health?
You could say, yes. No one with a criminal record or a family
record of offending ought to be allowed to breed, ifwe have a choice.
So the criminal law is to be the measure of virtue?
How else can it be measured? The State can t look into men s
hearts. All right, it s rough and ready and we ll disregard small
delinquencies. But why breed from the stupid, the feckless, the
violent?
So in your new world there will be no room for the penitent thief?
One can applaud his penitence without wanting to breed from
him. But 100k, Theo, it isn t going to happen. We plan for the sake
of planning, pretending that man has a future. How many people
really believe that we shall find live seed now?
And suppose you discover somehow that an aggressive psycho-
path has fertile sperm. Will you use that?
'Of course. If he s the only hope, we ll use him. We ll take what
we can get. But the mothers will be carefully chosen for health,
intelligence, no criminal record. We ll try to breed out the psycho
pathy.
101
Then there are the pornography centres. Are they really neces
sary?
You don t have to use them. There has always been pornography.
State-tolerated but not State-provided.
There s not so great a difference. And what harm do they do to
people without hope? There s nothinglike keeping the body occupied
and the mind quiescent.
Theo had said: 'But that isn t really what they re set up for, is it?
Obviously not. Man has no hope of reproducing himself if he
doesn t copulate. Once that goes totally out of fashion we are lost.
But now, slowly, they moved on. Breaking a silence which was
almost companionable, Theo asked: Do you often go back to Wool-
combe?
That living mausoleum? The place appals me. I used to make the
occasional duty Visit to my mother. lhaven t been back for five years.
No one ever dies now at Woolcombe. What the place needs is its own
Quietus by way of a bomb. Odd, isn t it? Almost the whole of modern
medical research is dedicated to improving health in old age and
extending the human lifespan and we get more senility, not less.
Extending it for what? We give them drugs to improve short-term
memory, drugs to raise mood, drugs to increase appetite. They don t
need anything to make them sleep, that s all they seem to do. What,
I wonder, goes on in those senile minds during those long periods
of half consciousness. Memories, I suppose, prayers.
Theo said: One prayer. "That I may see my children s children
and peace upon Israel. Did your mother recognize you before she
died?
Unfortunately, yes.
YOu told me once that your father hated her.
I can t think why. I suppose I was trying to shock you, 01' impress
you. You were unshockable even as aboy. And nothing I ve achieved,
university, soldiering, becoming Warden, has really impressed you,
has it? My parents got along all right. My father was gay, of course.
Didn t you realize? I used to care desperately when lwas a boy, now
it seems supremely unimportant. Why shouldn t he live his life as
he wished? I always have. That explains the marriage, of course. He
wanted respectability and he needed a son, so he chose a woman
who would be so dazzled by getting Woolcombe, a baronet and a
102
title that she wouldn't complain when she found that that was all
that she was getting.
Your father never made any approach to me.
Xan laughed. What an egotist you are, Theo. You weren t his type
and he was morbidly conventional. Never shit in your own bed.
Besides he had Scovell. Scovell was in the car with him when he
crashed. I managed to hush that up pretty effectively out of a kind
of filial piety, I suppose. I didn't care who knew it, but he would
have cared. l was a bad enough son. I owed him that.
Suddenly Xan said: We shan t be the last two men on earth. That
privilege will go to an Omega, God help him. But if we were, what
do you think we'd do?
Drink. Salute the darkness and remember the light. Shout out a
roll-call of names and then shoot ourselves.
'What names?
Michelangelo, Leonardo da Vinci, Shakespeare, Bach, Mozart,
Beethoven. Jesus Christ.
This would be a roll-call of humanity. Leave out the gods, the
prophets, the fanatics. I should like the season to be midsummer,
the wine to be claret, and the place the bridge at Woolcombe.
And since we are, after all, English, we could end with Prospero s
speech from The Tempest.
If we weren t too old to remember the words and, when the wine
was finished, too weak to hold the guns.
They were now at the end of the lake. On the Mall backed by
Queen Victoria s statue the car was waiting. The chauffeur stood
beside it, legs parted, arms folded, staring at them from under the
rim ofhis cap. It was the stance of a gaoler, perhaps of an executioner.
Theo pictured the cap replaced by a black skull-cap, the mask, the
axe at his side.
Then he heard Xan s voice, Xan s parting words: Tell your friends,
whoever they are, to be sensible. If they can t be sensible, tell them
to be prudent. I'm not a tyrant, but I can t afford to be merciful.
Whatever it is necessary to do, lshall do.
He looked at Theo, who thought for one extraordinary moment
that he saw in Xan's eyes a plea for understanding. Then he repeated:
Tell them, Theo. I shall do what needs to be done .
103
14
Theo still found it difficult to get used to crossing an empty St Giles.
The memory of his first days in Oxford, the rows of tightly parked
cars under the elms, of his increasing frustration waiting to cross
against the aimost ceaseless traffic, must have taken a firmer hold
than more auspicious or significant recollections to be so easily
triggered. He still found himself instinctively hesitating at the kerb,
still could not see this emptiness without surprise. Crossing the wide
street with a quick glance to left and right, he cut down the cobbled
lane at the side of the Lamb and Flag pub and walked to the museum.
The door was Closed and for a moment he feared that the museum
was also, and was irritated that he hadn t bothered to telephone. But
it opened as he turned the handle and he saw that the inner wooden
door was ajar. He moved into the great square room of glass and
iron.
The air was very cold, colder, it seemed, than the street outside,
and the museum was empty except for an elderly woman, so muf ed
that only her eyes were Visible between the striped woollen scarf and
her cap, who was presiding at the counter of the shop. He could see
that the same postcards were on display: pictures of dinosaurs, of
gems, of butter ies, of the crisply carved capitals of the pillars,
photographs of the founding fathers of this secular cathedrai to
Victorian confidence, John Ruskin and Sir Henry Ackland sitting
together in 1874, Benjamin Woodward with his sensitive melancholy
face. He stood silently iooking up at the massive roof supported by
its series of cast iron pillars, at the embellished spandrels between
the arches branching with such elegance into leaves, fruits, owers,
trees and shrubs. But he knew that his unfamiliar tingle of excitement,
more worrying than pleasant, had less to do with the building than
with his meeting with Julian, and he tried to control it by concen-
trating on the ingenuity and quality of the wrought-iron work, the
beauty of the carvings. It was, after all, his period. Here was Victorian
confidence, Victorian earnestness; the respect for learning, for crafts
manship, for art; the conviction that the whole of man s life could be
104
lived in harmony with the natural world. He hadn t been in the
museum for over three years, yet nothing had changed. Nothing,
indeed, had changed since he had first entered it as an undergraduate
except the notice which he remembered seeing propped against a
pillar, welcoming children but admonishing them, ineffectualiy, he
recalled, not to run about or make a noise. The dinosaur with its great
hooked thumb still had pride of place. Studying it, he was again in
his Kingston primary school. Mrs Ladbrook had pinned a drawing
of the dinosaur on the blackboard and had explained that the great
unwieldy animal with its minute head had been all body but little
brain, and had accordingly failed to adapt and had perished. Even
at ten years of age he had found the expianation unconvincing. The
dinosaur, with its small brain, had survived for a couple of milliOn
years; it had done better than Homo sapiens.
He passed through the arch at the far end of the main building into
the Pitt Rivers Museum, one of the worid s greatest ethnological
collections. The exhibits were so close together that it was difficult to
know whether she was already waiting there, standing perhaps
beside the forty foot totem pole. But when he paused he heard no
answering footfall. The silence was absolute, and he knew that he
was alone but knew, too, that she would come.
The Pitt Rivers seemed even more denseiy packed than on his last
visit. In the cluttered show cabinets, model ships, masks, ivory and
beadwork, amulets and votive offerings seemed mutely to offer
themselves for his attention. He made his path between the cases
and paused at last before an oEd favourite, stilt on display but
with its label now so brown and faded that the print was hardly
decipherable. It was a necklace of twenty«three curved and polished
teeth of the sperm whale, given by King Thakombau in 1874 to the
Reverend James Calvert and presented to the museum by his great-
grandson, a pilot officer who had died of wounds early in the
Second World War. Theo felt again the fascination he had felt as an
undergraduate with the strange concatenation of events which linked
the hands of a Fijian carver with the young doomed airman. He
pictured again the ceremony of presentation, the king on his throne
ringed by his grass-skirted warriors, the serious faced missionary
accepting the curious tribute. The 1939 45 war had been his own
grandfather's war; he, too, had been killed serving with the RAF,
shot down in a Blenheim bomber 0n the great raid over Dresden. As
105
an undergraduate, obsessed always with the mystery of time, he had
liked to think that this gave him, also, a tenuous link with that long-
dead king whose bones Iay on the other side of the world.
And then he heard the footsteps. He looked round but waited until
Julian moved beside him. Her hair was uncovered but she was
wearing a padded jacket and trousers. When she spoke, her breath
rose in small bursts of mist.
I m sorry I m late. I cycied and got a puncture. Did you see him?
There was no greeting between them and he knew that, for her,
he was just a messenger. He moved away from the showcase and
she followed, looking from side to side, hoping, he supposed, to give
the impression, even in this obvious emptiness, of two visitors who
had casually met. It wasn t convincing and he wondered why she
bothered.
He said: I saw him. I saw the whole Council. Later I saw the
Warden aione. I did no good; I may have done some harm. He knew
that someone had prompted my visit. Now if you do go ahead with
your plans, he s been warned.
'You explained to him about the Quietus, the treatment of the
Sojourners, What s happening on the Isle of Man?
That s what you asked me to do and that s what I did. I didn t
expect to be successful and I wasn't. Oh, he may make some
changes, although he gave no promises. He llprobably shut down the
remaining porn shops, but gradually, and liberalize the regulations
for compulsory semen testing. It s a waste of time, anyway and I
doubt whether he s got the lab technicians to keep it going on a
national scale much longer. Half of them have stopped caring. I
missed two appointments last year and no one bothered to check up.
I don t think he ll do anything about the Quietus except, perhaps, to
ensure that in future it s better organized.
And the Man Penal Colony?
Nothing. He won t waste men and resources on pacifying the
island. Why should he? Setting up the Penal Colony is probably the
most popular thing he s ever done .
And the treatment of the Sojourners? Giving them full civil rights,
a decent life here, the chance to stay?
That seems very unimportant to him compared to what is impor~
tant: the good order of Britain, ensuring that the race dies With some
dignity.
106
She said: Dignity? How can there be dignity if we care so little for
the dignity of others?
They were close now to the great totem pole. Theo ran his hands
over the wood. Not bothering to look at it she said: So we shall have
to do what we can.
'There s nothing you can do except in the end get yourselves killed
or sent to the island, that is if the Warden and the Council are as
ruthless as you apparently believe. As Miriam can tell you, death
would be preferable to the island.
She said, as if considering a serious plan: Perhaps if a few people,
a group of friends, got themselves exiled to the island deliberately,
they couid do something to change things. Or if we offered to go
there voluntarily, Why should the Warden forbid us, why should he
care? Even a small group could help if they arrived in love.
Theo could hear the contempt in his voice. I-Iolding up the Cross
of Christ before the savages as the missionaries did in South America.
Like them, get yourselves butchered on the beaches? Don t you read
any history? There are only two reasons for that kind of folly. One is
that you have a yearning for martyrdom. There s nothing new in that
if it s the way your religion takes you. I ve always seen it as an
unhealthy mixture of masochism and sensuality but I can see its
appeal to a certain cast of mind. What is new is that your martyrdom
won t even be commemorated, won t even be noticed. In seventy
odd years it Will have no possible value because there will be no one
left on earth to give it value, no one even to put up a small wayside
shrine to the new Oxford martyrs. The second reason is more ignoble
and Xan would understand it very well. If you did succeed, what an
intoxication of power! The Isle of Man pacified, the violent living in
peace, crops sown and harvested, the sick cared for, Sunday services
in the churches, the redeemed kissing the hands of the living saint
who made it all possible. Then you ll know what the Warden of
England feels every waking moment, what he enjoys, what he can t
do without. Absolute power in your little kingdom. I can see the
attraction of that; but it won t happen.
They stood together for a moment in silence, then he said gently:
Let it go. Don t waste the rest of your life on a cause that is as futile
as it's impossible. Things will get better. In fifteen years time - and
that s such a little space - 90 per cent of the people living in Britain
Will be over eighty. There won't be the energy for evil any more than
107
there will be the energy for good. Think what that England will be
like. The great buildings empty and silent, the roads unrepaired,
stretchingbetween the overgrown hedges, the remnants of humanity
huddling together for comfort and protection, the running down of
services of civilization and then, at the end, the failure of power and
light. The hoarded candles will be lit and soon even the last candle
will icker and die. Doesn't that make what's happening on the Isle
of Man seem unimportant?
She said: If we are dying we can die as human beings, not as
devils. Goodbye, and thank you for seeing the Warden.
But he had to make one more effort. He said: I can't think of any
group less equipped to confront the apparatus of state. You ve no
money, no resources, no in uence, no popular backingi You haven t
even a coherent philosophy of revolt. Mixiam is doing it to avenge
her brother. Cascoigne, apparently, because the Warden has appro
priated the word Grenadiers. Luke out of some vague Christian
idealism and a yearning for such abstracts as compassion, justice and
love. Rolf hasn t even the justification of moral indignation. His
motive is ambition; he resents the Warden s absolute power and
would like it for himself. You re doing it because you re married to
Rolf. He s dragging you into dreadful danger to satisfy his own
ambitions. He can t compel you. Leave him. Break free.
She said gently: I can t not be married to him. I can t leave him.
And you're wrong, that isn t the reason. I m with them because this
is something I have to do.
Yes, because Rolf wants you to.
No, because God wants me to.
He wanted tobanghis head against the totem pole inhis frustration.
'If you believe He exists, then presumably you believe that He gave
you your mind, your intelligence. Use it. I thought you would have
been too proud to make such a fool of yourself.
But she was impervious to such facile blandishments. She said:
The world is changed not by the self-regarding, but by men and
women prepared to make fools of themselves. Goodbye, Dr Faron.
And thank you for trying. She turned without touching him and he
watched her leave.
She hadn t asked him not to betray them. She didn t need to, but
he was glad all the same that the words hadn t been spoken. And he
could have given no promise. He didn t believe that Xan would
108
'1 V condone torture, but for him the threat of torture would have been
enough, and it struck him for the first time that he had, perhaps,
misjudged Xan for the most naive of reasons; he couldn't believe that
a man who was highly intelligent, who had humour and charm, a
man he had called his friend, could be evil. Perhaps it was he, not
Julian, Who needed a lesson in history.
109
15
The group didn t wait long. Two weeks after his meeting with julian
he came down to breakfast and found among the scatter of post on
the mat a sheet of folded paper. The printed words were headed by
the precisely drawn picture of a small herring-like fish. It was like a
child s drawing; trouble had been taken. Theo read the message
underneath with exasperated pity.
TO THE PEOPLE OF BRITAIN.
We cannot shut our eyes any longer to the evils in our society.
If our race is to die, let us at least die as free men and women, as
human beings, not as devils. We make the following demands
to the Warden of England.
1. Call a general election and put your policies before the people.
2. Give the Sojourners full civil rights including the right to live
in their own homes, to send for their families and to remain in
Britain at the end of their contract of service.
3. Abolish the Quietus.
4. Stop deporting convicted offenders to the Isle of Man Penal
Colony and ensure that people already there can live in peace
and decency.
5. Stop the compulsory testing of semen and the examination of
healthy young women and shut down the public porn shops.
THE FIVE FISHES
The words confronted him in their simplicity, their reasonableness,
their essential humanity. Why was he so certain, he wondered, that
they had been written by Julian? And yet they could do no good.
What were the Five Fishes proposing? That people should march in
force on their Local Council or should storm the old Foreign Office
building? The group had no organization, no basis of power, no
money, no apparent plan of campaign. The most they could hope
for would be to make people think, to provoke discontent, to
encourage men not to attend for their next semen testing and women
110
to refuse their next medical examination. And what difference would
that make? The examinations were becoming increasingly perfunc-
tory as hope died.
The paper was of cheap quality, the message amateurishly printed.
Presumably they had a press hidden in some church crypt or remote
but accessible forest shed. But how long would it remain secret if the
SSP troubled to hunt them down?
Once more he read the five demands. The first was unlikely to
worry Xan. The country would hardly welcome the expense and
disruption of a general election but, if he called one, his power would
be confirmed by an overwhelming majority whether or not anyone
had the temerity to stand against him. Theo asked himself how many
of the other reforms he might have achieved had he stayed as Xan s
adviser. But he knew the answer. He had been powerless then and
the Five Fishes were powerless now. If there had been no Omega,
these were aims which a man might be prepared to fight for, even to
suffer for. But if there had been no Omega, the evils would not exist.
It was reasonable to struggle, to suffer, perhaps even to die, for a
more just, a more compassionate society, but not in a world with no
future where, all too soon, the very words justice, compassion,
society, struggle, evil, would be unheard echoes on an empty air.
Julian would say that it was worth the struggle and the suffering to
save even one Sojourner from ill~treatment or prevent even one
offender from being deported to the Man Penal Colony. But whatever
the Five Fishes did, that wouldn t happen. It wasn t within their
power. Re reading the five demands he felt a draining away of his
initial sympathy. He told himself that most men and women, human
mules deprived of posterity, yet carried their burden of sorrow and
regret with such fortitude as they could muster, contrived their
compensating pleasures, indulged small personal vanities, behaved
with decency to each other and to such Sojourners as they met. By
What right did the Five Fishes seek to impose upon these stoical
dispossessed the futile burden of heroic virtue? He took the paper
into the lavatory and, after tearing it precisely into quarters, ushed
them down the bowl. As they were sucked, swirling, out of sight he
wished for a second, no more, that he could share the passion and
the folly which bound together that pitiably unarmoured fellowship.
111
16
Saturday 6 March 2021
Today Helena rang after breakfast and invited me to tea to see
Mathilda s kittens. She had sent me a postcard five days ago to say
that they had arrived safety but I hadn t been invited to the birthing
party. I wondered whether there had been one, or whether they had
kept the birth as a private indulgence, a shared experience which
would belatedly celebrate and consolidate their new life together.
Even so, it seemed unlikely that they would forgo what is generally
accepted to be an obligation, the opportunity to let your friends
witness the miracle of emerging life. A maximum of six people are
usually invited to watch, but from a carefully judged distance so as
not to fret or disturb the mother. And afterwards, if all goes well,
there is a celebratory meal, often with champagne. The arrival of a
litter is not untinged with sadness. The regulations regarding fecund
domestic animals are plain and rigorously enforced. Mathilda will
now be sterilized and Helena and Rupert will be allowed to keep one
female from the litter for breeding. Alternatively, Mathilda will be
permitted one more litter and all but one male kitten will be painlessly
destroyed.
After Helena s call I switched on the radio to listen to the eight
o clock news. Hearing the date broadcast, I realized for the first time
that it is exactly one year today since she left me for Rupert. It is,
perhaps, an appropriate day for my first visit to their home. I write
home instead of house because I m sure that is how Helena would
describe it, dignifying a commonplace edifice in north Oxford with
the sacramental importance of shared love and shared washing-up,
commitment to total honesty and to a well balanced diet, a new
hygienic kitchen and hygienic sex twice a week. I wonder about the
sex, half deploring my prurience, but telling myself that my curiosity
is both natural and permissible. After all Rupert is now enjoying, or
perhaps failing to enjoy, the body which I once knew almost as
intimately as I know my own. A failed marriage is the most humiliat-
ing confirmation of the transitory seduction of the esh. Lovers can
112
explore every line, every curve and hollow, of the beloved s body,
can together reach the height of inexpressible ecstasy; yet how little
it matters when love or lust at last dies and we are left with disputed
possessions, lawyers bills, the sad detritus of the lumber-room,
when the house chosen, furnished, possessed with enthusiasm and
hope has become a prison, when faces are set in lines of peevish
resentment and bodies no longer desired are observed in all their
imperfections with a dispassionate and disenchanted eye. I wonder
whether Helena talks to Rupert about what went on between us in
bed. I imagine so, not to would require greater self control and
greater delicacy than I have ever seen in her. There is a streak of
vulgarity in Helena s carefully nurtured social respectability and I
can imagine What she would tell him.
Theo thought he was a wonderful lover, but it was all technique.
You d think he d learned it from a sex manual. And he never talked
to me, not really talked. I could be any woman.
I can imagine the words because I know that they are justified. I
did her more harm than she did me, even if we take out of the
calculation my killing of her only child. Why did I marry her? I
marriedherbecause she was the Master s daughter and thatconferred
prestige; because she, too, had taken a degree in history and I thought
we had intellectual interests in common; and because I found her
physically attractive and was thusable to convince my frugal heart
that if this wasn t love, it was still as close to it as I was ever likely to
get. Being the Master s son-in-law produced more irritation than
pleasure (he really was an appallingly pompous man, no wonder
Helena couldn t wait to get away from him); her intellectual interests
were non existent (she had been accepted by Oxford because she
was the daughter of a college head and had, by hard work and good
and expensive teaching, achieved the necessary three A-levels so
that Oxford was able to justify a choice they wouldn t otherwise have
made). The sexual attraction? Well, that lasted longer, although
subject to the law of diminishing returns, until it was finally killed
when [killed Natalie. There is nothing more effective than the death
of a child for exposing, without any possibility of self deceit, the
emptiness of a failing marriage.
I wonder if Helena is having better luck with Rupert. If they are
enjoying their sex life, they are among the fortunate minority. Sex
has become among the least important of man s sensory pleasures.
113
One might have imagined that with the fear of pregnancy perma-
nently removed, and the unerotic paraphernalia of pills, rubber and
ovulation arithmetic no longer necessary, sex would be freed for new
and imaginative delights. The opposite has happened. Even those
men and women who would normally have no wish to breed
apparently need the assurance that they could have a child if they
wished. Sex totally divorced from procreation has become almost
meaningiessly acrobatic. Women complain increasingly of what they
describe as painful orgasms; the spasm achieved but not the pleasure.
Pages are devoted to this common phenomenon in the women s
magazines. Women, increasingly critical and intolerant of men
throughout the 19805 and 19905, have at last an overwhelming
justification for the pent-up resentment of centuries. We who can no
longer give them a child cannot even give them pleasure. Sex
can still be a mutual comfort; it is seldom a mutual ecstasy. The
Government-sponsored porn shops, the increasingly explicit litera-
ture, all the devices to stimulate desire none has worked. Men and
women still marry, although less frequently, with less ceremony and
often with the same sex. People still fall in iove, or say that they are
in love. There is an almost desperate searching for the one person,
preferably younger but at least of one's own age, with whom to face
the inevitable decline and decay. We need the comfort of responsive
esh, of hand on hand, lip on lip. But we read the love poems of
previous ages with a kind of wonder.
Walking down Walton Street this afternoon I felt no particular
reluctance at the prospect of meeting Helena again, and I thought of
Mathilda with anticipatory pleasure. As the registered part-owner
on the fecund domestic animal licence I could, of COurse, have
applied to the Animal Custody Court for joint custody or anraccess
order, but I had no wish to submit myself to that humiliation. Some
of the animal custody cases are fiercely, expensively and publicly
fought and I have no intention of adding to their number. I know I
have lost Mathilda and she, perfidious, comfort loving creature as
are all cats, will by now have forgotten me.
When I saw her it was difficult not to deceive myself. She lay in
her basket with two pulsating kittens like sleek white rats, pulling
gently at her teats. She gazed at me with her blue expressionless eyes
and began a loud and raucous purring which seemed to shake the
basket. Iput out my hand and touched her silken head.
114
I said: Did everything go all right?
Oh, perfectly. Of course, we ve had the vet here from the begin-
ning of labour, but he said he d seldom seen an easier birth. He took
away two of the litter. We re still deciding which of these two to
keep.
The house is small, architecturally undistinguished, a semi-
detached, brick built suburban Villa, its main advantage being the
long rear garden sloping down to the canal. Much of the furniture
and all the carpets looked new, Chosen, I suspected, by Helena, who
had thrown out the paraphernalia of her lover's old life, the friends,
the Clubs, the solitary bachelor consolations With the family furniture
and pictures bequeathed to him with the house. She had taken
pieasure in making a home for him I was sure this was the phrase
she had used and he basked in the result like a child with a new
nursery. Everywhere there was the smell of fresh paint. The sitting-
room, as is usual with this type of Oxford house, has had the rear
wall removed to make one large room with a bay window at the front
and french windows leading into a glass loggia at the rear. Down one
wall of the white-painted hall has been hung a row of Rupert s
original drawings for book jackets, each framed in white wood. There
are a dozen in all and I wondered whether this public display had
been Helena s idea or his. Either way, it justified me in a moment of
contemptuous disapproval. I wanted to pause and study the draw-
ings but that would have meant commenting on them and there was
nothing I wanted to say. But even my cursory glance in passing
showed me that they had considerable power; Rupert isn t a neglig~
ible artist; this egotistical display of talent merely confirmed what I
already knew.
We had tea in the conservatory, an over-lavish feast of pate
sandwiches, home-made scones and fruit-cake brought in on a tray
with a newly starched linen tray cloth and small matching napkins.
The word that came to mind was dainty. Looking at the cloth 1
recognized it as one Helena had been embroidering shortly before
she left me. So this careful drawn thread-work had been part of her
aduiterous household trousseau. Was this dainty feast and I
lingered on the pejorative adjective designed to impress me, to
show how good a Wife she could be to a man prepared to appreciate
her talents? It was obvious to me that Rupert appreciates them. He
almost basked in her maternal cosseting. Perhaps as an artist he takes
115
this solicitude as his due. The conservatory would, I thought, be cosy
in spring and autumn. Even now, with only one radiator, it was
comfortably warm and I could see dimly through the glass that they
had been busy working on the garden. A row of spiky rose bushes,
their root-balls shrouded in sackcloth, were propped against what
looked like a new boundary fence. Security, comfort, pleasure. Xan
and his Council would approve.
After tea Rupert briefly disappeared into the sitting room. He
returned and handed me a pamphlet. I recognized it at once. It was
identical to that which the Five Fishes had pushed through my door.
Pretending it was new to me, I read it with care. Rupert seemed to
be waiting for some response. When I made none he said: They were
taking a risk going from door to door.
I found myself saying what I knew must have happened, irritated
that I did know, that I couldn't keep my mouth shut.
They wouldn t do it like that. This is hardly a parish magazine, is
it? It would be delivered by someone on his or her own, perhaps
riding a bicycle, perhaps on foot, putting a lea et through the
occasional door when there was no one about, leaving a few of them
in bus shelters, sticking one under the Windscreen Wiper of a parked
I
car.
Helena said: lt s still a risk though, isn t it? Or will be if the SSP
decide to hunt them down.
Rupert said: I don t suppose they ll bother. No one will take this
seriously.
I asked: Did you?
He had, after all, kept it. The question, asked more sharply than I
had intended, disconcerted him. He glanced at Helena and hesitated.
I wondered whether over this they had disagreed. The first quarrel,
perhaps. But I was being optimistic. If they had quarrellecl, the lea et
would by now have been destroyed in the first exhilaration of
reconciliation.
He said: I did wonder whether we ought to mention it to the Local
Council when we called in to have the kittens registered. We decided
against it. I can t see what they can do, the Local Council I mean.
Except tell the SSP and get you arrested for possession of seditious
material.
Well, we did wonder about that. We didn t want of cials to think
we support all this.
116
Has anyone else in the street had one?
They haven t said, and we didn t like to ask.
Helena said: These aren t things the Council can do anything
about anyway. No one wants the Man Penal Colony closed down.
Rupert was still holding the pamphlet as if uncertain what to do
With it. He said: On the other hand, one does hear rumours about
what goes on in the camps for Sojourners and I suppose, since they re
here, that we ought to give them a fair deal.
Helena said sharply: They get a better deal here than they d get
back home. They re glad enough to come. Nobody forces them. And
it s ridiculous to suggest closing down the Penal Colony.
That was what was worrying her, I thought. It was crime and
Violence that threatened the little house, the embroidered tray Cloth,
the cosy sitting-room, the conservatory with its vulnerable glass
walls, its View of the dark garden in which she could now be confident
that nothing malignant lurked.
I said: They aren t suggesting that it should be closed. But you can
argue that it ought to be properly policed and the convicts given a
reasonable life.
But that s not what these Five Fishes are suggesting. The paper
says that the deportations should stop. They want it closed. And
policed by whom? I wouldn t let Rupert volunteer for the job. And
the convicts can have a reasonable life. It s up to them. The isiand is
large enough and they have food and shelter. Surely the Council
wouldn t evacuate the island. There would be an outcry all those
murderers andrapists loose again. And aren t the Broadmoorinmates
there too? They re mad, mad and bad.
Inoticed that she used the word inmate, not patient. I said: The
worst of them must be getting too old to present much danger.
She cried: But some are onlyin their late forties and they re sending
new people there every year. Over two thousand last year, wasn t
it? She turned to Rupert. Darling, I think we ought to tear it up.
There s no point in keeping it. We can t do anything. Whoever they
are they have no right to print stuff like that. It only worries people.
He said: 'I'll ush it down the lavatory.
When he d gone out she turned to me. You don t believe any of
that, do you Theo?
I can believe that life is peculiarly unpleasant on the Isle of Man.
117
She reiterated obstinately: Well, that's up to the convicts them-
selves, isn t it?
We didn t mention the lea et again and ten minutes later, after a
final visit to Mathilda which Helena obviously expected of me and
Mathilda toierated, I left them. I m not sorryI made the visit. It wasn't
only the need to see Mathilda; our brief reunion had been pain rather
than joy. Something left unfinished can now be put behind me.
Helena is happy. She even looks younger, more handsome. The fair,
willowy prettiness which I used to elevate into beauty has matured
into an assured elegance. I can t honestly say I m glad for her. It is
difficult to be generous minded to those we have greatly harmed. But
at least I'm no longer responsible for her happiness or unhappiness. I
have no particular wish to see either of them again, but I can think
of them without bitterness or guilt.
There was oniy one moment shortly before I left when I felt more
than a cynical, detached interest in their self-sufficient domesticity.
I had left them to go to the lavatory, clean embroidered hand towel,
new soap, the bowl a frothy, disinfectant blue, a small bowl of pot~
pourri; I noted and despised it all. On my quiet return I saw that,
sitting a little apart, they had stretched out their hands across the gap
to each other then, hearing my step, had quicldy, almost guiltily,
drawn apart. That moment of delicacy, tact, perhaps even of pity,
produced a second of con icting emotions, experienced so faintly
that they passed almost as soon as I recognized their nature. But I
knew that what I had felt was envy and regret, not for something
lost but for something never achieved.
118
17
Monday 15 March 2021
Today I had a visit from two members of the State Security Police.
The fact that I am able to write this shows that I wasn't arrested and
that they didn t find the diary. Admittedly they didn t search for it;
they didn t search for anything. God knows the diary is incriminating
enough to anyone interested in moral deficiencies and personal
inadequacy, but their minds were on more tangible malefactions. As
I said, there were two of them, a young man, obviously an Omega
extraordinary how one can always tell and a senior of cer, a little
younger than I, who was carrying a raincoat and a black leather
attache case. He introduced himself as Chief Inspector George
Rawlings and his companion as Sergeant Oliver Cathcart. Cathcart
was saturnine, elegant, expressionless, a typical Omega. Rawlings,
thick set, a little clumsy in his movements, had a disciplined thatch
of thick grey-white hair, which looked as if it had been expensively
cut to emphasize the crimped waves at the side and back. His face
was strong-featured with narrow eyes, so deep-set that the irises
were invisible, and a long mouth with the upper lip arrow-shaped,
sharp as a beak. Both were in civilian Clothes, their suits extremely
well cut. In other circumstances, I might have been tempted to inquire
whether they went to the same tailor.
It was eleven o clock when they arrived. I showed them into the
ground oor sitting-room and asked whether they would like coffee.
They refused. Offered seats, Rawlings settled himself comfortably in
a chair by the fireplace while Cathcart, after a moment s hesitation,
sat opposite him sitting stif y upright. I took the swivel chair at the
desk and swung round to face them.
Rawlings said: A niece of mine, my sister s youngest, she just
missed Omega by one year, attended your little talks on Victorian
Life and Times. She s not a very intelligent woman, you probably
won t remember her. But then, of course, you might. Marion Hop
croft. It was a small class, she said, and got smaller by the week.
119
People have no persistence. They take up enthusiasms but quickly
tire, particulariy if their interest isn t continually stimulated.
In a few sentences he had reduced the lectures to boring talks for
a dwindling number of the unintelligent. The ploy had not been
subtle but then I doubt whether he dealt in subtlety. I said: The name
is familiar but I can t recall her.
Victorian Life and Times. I thought the word times was redundant.
Why not just Victorian Life? Or you could have advertised "Life in
Victorian England .
I didn t choose the title of the course.
Didn t yOu? That s odd. I should have thought that you did. I
think you should insist on choosing the title for your own talks.
I made no reply. I had little doubt that he knew perfectly well that
I had taken the course for Colin Seabrook, but if he didn t I had no
intention of enlightening him.
After a moment's silence which neither he nor Cathcart seemed to
find embarrassing, he went on: I thought I might take one of these
adult courses myself. In history, not literature. But I WOuIdn t choose
Victorian England. I d go further back, the Tudors. I ve always been
fascinated by the Tudors, Elizabeth I particulariy.
I said: What attracts you about the period? The Vioience and the
splendOur, the glory of their achievements, the admixture of poetry
and cruelty, those shrewd clever faces above the ruffs, that magnifi-
cent court underpinned by the thumbscrew and the rack?
He seemed to consider the question for a moment, then said: I
wouldn t say the Tudor age was uniquely cruel, Dr Faron. They died
young in those days and I dare say most died in pain. Every age has
its cruelties. And if we consider pain, dying of cancer WithOut drugs
which has been the lot of man through most of his history was a more
horrible torment than anything the Tudors could devise, ParticuIariy
for the children, wouldn t you say? It s dif cult to see the purpose of
that, isn t it? The torment of children.
I said: 'We should not, perhaps, assume that nature has apurpose.
He went on as if I hadn t spoken. My grandfather, he was one of
those Hellfire preachers thought that everything had a purpose,-
particularly pain. Born out of time, he would have been happier in
your nineteenth century. I remember When I was nine I had a very
bad toothache, an abscess. I said nothing, fearing the dentist, but
then woke up one night in agony. My mother said we d go along to
120
I the surgery as soon as it was open, but I lay until morning writhing
with pain. My grandfather came in to see me. He said, We can do
something about the small pains of this world but not about the
everlasting pains of the world to come. Remember that, boy. He
certainly chose his moment well. Eternal toothache. It was a terrifying
thought for a nine-year-old.
I said: Or for an adult.
Well, we ve abandoned that belief except for Roaring Roger. He
still seems to have his following. He paused for a minute as if to
ruminate on the fulminations 0fRoaring Roger, then went on without
any change of tone: The Council are worried, concerned is perhaps
a more appropriate word, about the activities of certain people.
He waited, perhaps for me to ask What activities? What people?
I said: I have to leave in a little over half an hour. If your colleague
wants to search the house perhaps he could do it now, while we re
talking. There are one or two small things I value, the caddy
spoons in the Georgian display cabinet, the Staffordshire Victorian
commemorative pieces in the drawing-room, one or two of the first
editions. Normaiiy I would expect to be present during a search but
I have every confidence in the probity of the SSP.
With these last words I looked straight into Cathcart s eyes. They
didn't even icker.
Rawlings permitted in his voice a small note of reproach: There s
no question of a search, Dr Faron. Why would you suppose, now,
that we want to search? Search for what? You re not a subversive,
sir. No, this is just a talk, a consultation if you like. As I said, there
are things happening which cause some concern to the Council. I am
speaking now, of course, in confidence. These matters have not been
made public by newspapers, radio or TV.
I said: That was wise of the Council. Trouble makers, assuming
you ve got them, feed on publicity. Why give it to them?
Exactly. It s taken governments a long time to realize that you
don t need to manipulate unwelcome news. Just don t show it.
And what aren t you showing?
Smallincidents, unimportantin themselves, but possibly evidence
of a conspiracy. The last two Quietus were interrupted. The ramps
were blown up on the morning of the ceremony, just half an hour
before the sacrificial Victims - or perhaps victims is hardly the
121
appropriate word, let s say the sacrificial martyrs were due to
arrive.
He paused, then added, But martyrs is perhaps redundant. Let s
say before the potential suicides were due to arrive. It caused them
considerable distress. The terrorist, he or she, was cutting it rather
fine. Thirty minutes later and the old people would have died rather
more spectacularly than was planned. There was a telephone warn
ing ~ a young male voice but it came too late to do more than keep
the crowds away from the scene.
I said: An irritating inconvenience. I went to see a Quietus about
a month ago. The ramp from which the boat embarked could, I
shouid have thought, have been constructed fairly quickIy. I don t
suppose that particular act of criminal damage held up the Quietus
for more than a day.
As you implied, Dr Faron, a minor inconvenience but not, per-
haps, without significance. There have been too many minor incon'
veniences recently. And then there are the pamphlets. Some of them
are directed to the treatment of the Sojourners. The last batch of
Sojourners, the sixty-year-oIds and some who had fallen sick, had to
be forcibly repatriated. There were unfortunate scenes at the quay.
I don t say there s a connection between that debacle and the
dissemination of the pamphlets but it could be more than a coinci-
dence. The distribution of political material among Sojourners is
illegal but we know that the subversive pamphlets have been Circu-
lated in the camps. Other lea ets have been delivered house to house
complaining about the treatment of Sojourners generally, conditions
on the Isle ofMan, compulsory semen testing and what the dissidents
apparently see as a defect in the democratic process. A recent one
incorporated all these dissatisfactions in a list of demands. You may
perhaps have seen it?
He reached down to the black leather attache case, lifted it on to
his lap and clicked it open. He was playing the part of an avuncular
casual caller, not very confident about the purpose of his visit, and I
half expected him to pretend to rummage ineffectively among his
papers before finding the one he wanted. However, he surprised me
by laying his hand on it immediately.
He passed it to me and said: Have you seen one of these before,
sir?
I glanced at it and said: Yes, I ve seen it. One was pushed through
122
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my door a few weeks ago. There was little point in a denial. Aimost
certainly the SSP know that the lea ets have been distributed in
St John Street and why should my house have been neglected? After
re reading it I handed it back.
Has anyone else you know received one?
Not to my knowledge. But I imagine they must have been fairly
widely disseminated. I wasn t interested enough to inquire.
Rawtings studied it as if it were new to him. He said: 'The Five
Fishes. Ingenious but .not very clever. I suppose we look for a little
group of five. Five friends, five family members, five fellow workers,
five fellow-conspirators. Perhaps they got the idea from the Council
of England. It s a useful number, wouldn t you say, sir? In any
discussion it ensures that there can always be a majority. I didn t
reply. He went on: The Five Fishes. I imagine they each have a
codename probably based on forenames; that way it s easy for
everyone to remember. A would be difficult, though. I can t off hand
think of a fish with a name beginning with A. Perhaps none of them
has A as an initial. They could have bream for B, I suppose, and C
wouldn't be difficult; cod, codling. Dogfish would do for D. E might
present a difficulty. Although Imay, of course, be wrong, I reckon
they wouldn t have chosen to call themseres the Five Fishes if they
couldn t find an appropriate fish for each member of the gang. What
do you think of that, sir? As a process of reasoning, I mean.
I said: Ingenious. It s interesting to see the thought processes of
the SSP in action. Few citizens can have had that opportunity, at least
few citizens actually at liberty.
I might just as well not have spoken. He continued to study the
pamphlet. Then he said: A fish. Quite nicely drawn. Not, Ithink,
by a professional artist, but by someone with a feeling for design.
The sh is a Christian symbol. Could this be a Christian group I
wonder? He looked up at me. You admit that you had one of these
pamphlets in your possession, sir, but you did nothing about it? You
didn t feel that it was your duty to report?
I treated it as I treat all unimportant, unsolicited mail. Then,
deciding it Was time I went on the offensive, I said, Forgive me,
Chief Inspector, but I don t see what precisely is worrying the
Council. There are malcontents in any society. This particular group
have apparently done little harm apart from blowing up a couple
123
of imsy, temporary ramps and distributing some ill-thought-out
criticisms of the Government.
Some might describe the pamphlets as seditious literature, sir.
You can use what words you like, but you can hardly elevate this
into a great conspiracy. You re surely not mobilizing the battalions
of state security because a few bored malcontents prefer to amuse
themselves by playing a more dangerous game than golf. What
precisely is worrying the Council? If there is a group of dissidents
they will be fairly young, or at least middle-aged. But time will pass
for them, time is passing for all of us. Have you forgotten the
figures? The Council of England remind us of them often enough. A
population of fifty eight million in 1996, fallen to thirty six million
this year, 20 per cent of them over seventy. We re a doomed race,
Chief Inspector. With maturity, with old age, all enthusiasm fades,
even for the seductive thrill of conspiracy. There s no real opposition
to the Warden of England. There never has been since he took
power.
It is our business, sir, to see that there isn t.
You will, of course, do what you think is necessary. But I would
only take this seriously if I thought that it was, in fact, serious;
opposition, perhaps within the Council itself, to the authority of the
Warden. .
The words had been a calculated risk, perhaps even a dangerous
one, and I saw that I had worried him. I had intended to.
After a moment s pause, which was involuntary not calculated, he
said: If there were any question of that, the matter wouldn t be in
my hands, sir. It would be dealt with at an altogether higher level.
I got to my feet. I said: 'The Warden of England is my cousin and
my friend. He was kind to me in childhood, when kindness is
particularly important. I am no longer his adviser on the Council but
that doesn t mean that I am no longer his cousin and his friend. If I
have evidence of a conspiracy against him, I shall tell him. I shan t
tell you, Chief Inspector, nor shall I get in touch with the 85?. I shall
tell the person most concerned, the Warden of England.
This was play acting, of course, and we knew it. We didn't shake
hands or speak as I showed them out but this wasn t because I had
made an enemy. Rawlings didn t permit himself the indulgence of
personal antipathy any more than he would have allowed himself to
feel sympathy, liking or the stirrings of pity for the victims he
124
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yis ited and interrogated. I thought I understood his kind; the petty
bureaucrats of tyranny, men who relish the carefully measured meed
of power permitted to them, who need to walk in the aura of
manufactured fear, to know that the fear precedes them as they enter
a room and will linger like a smell after they have left, but who have
neither the sadism nor the courage for the ultimate cruelty. But they
need their part of the action. It isn t sufficient for them, as it is for
most of us, to stand a little way off to watch the crosses on the hill.
125
18
Theo closed the diary and put it in the top drawer of his desk, turning
the key and slipping it into his pocket. The desk was well made, the
drawers strong, but it would hardly resist an expert or determined
assault. But then, one was hardly likely to be made and, if it were,
he had taken care that his aCCOunt of Rawlings s visit should be
innocuous. That he felt this need to self censor was, he knew,
evidence of unease. He was irritated that the precaution was neces-
sary. He had begun the diary less as a record of his life (for whom and
why? What life?) than as a regular and a self indulgent exploration, a
means of making sense of the past years, part catharsis, part comfort-
ing affirmation. The diary, which had become a routine part of his
life, was pointless ifhe had to censor, to leave out, ifhe had to deceive
not illumine.
He thought back over the Visit of Rawlings and Cathcart. He had
been surprised at the time how unfrightening he had found them.
After they had left he had felt a certain satisfaction in this lack of fear,
in the competence with which he had handled the encounter. Now
he wondered whether his confidence was justified. He had almost
perfect recall of what had been said; verbal recall had always been
one of his talents. But the exercise of writing down their elliptical
conversation raised anxieties that he hadn t felt at the time. He told
himself that he had nothing to fear. He had only lied directly once,
when he had denied knowing anyone else who had received one of
the Five Fishes pamphlets. It was a lie he could justify if challenged.
Why, he would argue, should he name his ex wife and expose her
to the inconvenience and anxiety of a visit from the SSP? There was
no particular relevance in the fact that she or anyone else had received
a pamphlet; the sheets must have been pushed through practically
every door on the street. One lie wasn t evidence of guilt. He was
unlikely to be arrested because of one small lie. There was after all
still law in England, at least for Britons.
He moved down to the drawing room and walked restlessly about
the wide room, mysteriously aware of the unlit and empty storeys
126
above and beneath him as if each of those silent rooms held a menace.
He paused at a Window overlooking the street and looked out over
the wrought iron balcony. A thin rain was falling. He could see silver
Shafts falling against the street lights and, far below, the dark
tackiness of the pavement. The curtains opposite had been drawn
and the at stone fagade showed no sign of life, not even a Chink
where the curtains met. Depression settled on him like a familiar
heavy blanket. Weighted with guilt and memory and anxiety, he
could almost smell the accumulated rubbish 0f the dead years. His
con dence drained away and fear strengthened. He told himself that
during the encounter he had thought only of himself, his safety, his
cleverness, his self respect. But they weren t primarily interested in
him, they were seeking Julian and the Five Fishes. He had given
nothing away, he need feel no guilt about that, but still they had
come to him which meant they suspected he knew something. Of
course they did. The Council had never really believed that his Visit
was entirely of his own volition. The SSP would come again; the next
time the veneer of politeness would be thinner, the questions more
searching, the outcome possibly more painful.
How much more did they know than Rawlings had revealed?
Suddenly it seemed to him extraordinary that they hadn t already
pulled in the group for questioning. But perhaps they had. Was that
the reason for the call today? Were they already holding Julian and
the group and testing how far he was involved? And surely they
could get on to Miriam quickly enough. He remembered his question
to the Council about conditions on the Isle of Man, and the reply:
'We know; the question is how do you? They were looking for
someone who had knowledge of conditions on the island; and with
visitors forbidden and no letters to or from the island permitted, no
publicity, how could that knowledge have been gained? The escape
of Miriam s brother would be on record. It was extraordinary that
once the Five Fishes began acting they hadn t taken her in for
questioning. But perhaps they had. Perhaps even now she and Julian
were in their hands.
His thoughts had come full circle and he felt for the first time an
extraordinary loneliness. It wasn t an emotion with which he was
familiar. He both distrusted and resented it. Looking down over the
empty street, he wished for the rst time that there was someone, a
friend he could trust, in whom he could confide. Before she had left
127
him, Helena had said: We live in the same house, but we re like
lodgers or guests in the same hotel. We never really talk. Irritated
by such a banal, predictable complaint, the commonplace lament of
discontented wives, he had answered: Talk about what? Here I am.
If you want to talk now, I m listening.
It seemed to him that it would be a comfort even to talk to her, to
hear her reluctant and unhelpful response to his dilemma. And
mixed with the fear, the guilt, the loneliness, there was a renewed
irritation - with Julian, with the group, with himself that he had ever
become involved. At least he d done what they d asked. He d seen
the Warden of England and then he d warned Julian. It wasn t his
fault that the group hadn t taken the warning. No doubt they would
argue that he had an obligation to get a message to them, to let them
know they were in danger. But they must know that they were in
danger. And how could he warn them? He knew none of their
addresses, where any of them worked or at what. The only thing he
could do if Julian was taken Would be to intercede with Xan on her
behalf. But would he even know when she was arrested? It should
be possible, if he searched, to find one of the gang, but how could
he safely inquire without making the search obvious? From now on
the SSP might even be keeping him under secret surveillance. There
was nothing he could do but wait.
128
Friday 26 March 2021
I saw her today for the first time since our meeting in the Pitt Rivers
Museum. I was buying Cheese in the covered market and had turned
from the counter with my small, carefully wrapped packets of
Roquefort, Danish blue, Camembert, when I saw her only a few
yards from me. She was choosing fruit, not shopping as I was for the
increasingly finicky taste of one, but pointing out her choice without
hesitation, holding out an open canvas bag with liberality to receive
fragile brown bags almost bursting with the golden, pitted globes of
oranges, the gleaming curves of bananas, the russet 0f Cox s Orange
Pippins. I saw her in a glow of effulgent colour, skin and hair seeming
to absorb radiance from the fruit, as if she were lit not by the hard
glaring lights of the store, but by a warm southern sun. I watched
while she handed over a note, then counted out coins to give the
storekeeper the exact money, smiling as she handed it over, watched
still as she hoisted the wide strap of the canvas bag over her shoulder,
sagging a little with the weight. Shoppers shuf ed between us but I
stood rooted, unwilling, perhaps unable to move, my mind a tumult
of extraordinary and unwelcome sensations. I was seized with a
ludicrous urge to dash to the ower stall, press notes into the orist s
hands, seize from their tubs the bundles of daffodils, tulips, hot-
house roses and lilies, pile them into her arms and take the bag from
V her encumbered shoulder. It was a romantic impulse, childish and
ridiculous, which I hadn t felt since I was a boy. I had distrusted and
resented it then. Now it appalled me by its strength, its irrationality,
its destructive potential.
She turned, still not seeing me, and made her way towards the exit
into the High Street. Ifollowed, weaving my way through the Friday
morning shoppers with their baskets on wheels, impatient when my
path was momentarily blocked. I told myself that I was behaving like
a tool, that I should let her pass out of sight, that she was a woman I
had met only four times and on none of them had she shown any
interest in me except an obstinate determination that I should do
129
what she wanted, that I knew nothing about her except that she was
married, that this overwhelming need to hear her voice, to touch her,
was no more than the first symptom of the morbid emotional
instability of solitary middie age. I tried not to hurry, a demeaning
acknowledgement of need. Even so, I managed to catch her up as
she turned into the High Street.
I touched her shoulder and said: Good morning.
Any greeting would have seemed banal. This at least was innocu-
ous. She turned towards me and for a second I was able to deceive
myself that her smile was one of joyous recognition. But it was the
same smile she had given to the greengrocer.
I Iaid my hand on the bag and said: May I carry this for you? I felt
like an importunate schoolboy.
She shook her head and said: Thank you, but the van is parked
very close.
What van? I wondered. For whom was the fruit intended? Surely
not just for the two of them, Rolf and herself. Did she work in some
kind of institution? But I didn t ask, knowing that she wouIdn't have
told me.
I said: Are you all right?
Again she smiled. Yes, as you see. And you?
As you see.
She turned away. The action was gentle - she had no wish to hurt
me but it was deliberate and she meant it to be final.
I said in a low voice: I have to speak to you. It s important. It won t
take Iong. Isn t there somewhere we can go?
It s safer in the market than here.
She turned back, and I waiked at her side casually, not looking at
her, two shoppers in the crowd forced into temporary proximity by
the press of shuf ing bodies. Once in the market she paused to look
into a window where an elderly man and his assistant were sel ng
Hans and tarts fresh from the oven. I stood beside her pretending an
interest in the bubbling cheese, the seeping gravy. The smell came
to me, savoury and strong, a remembered smell. They had been
baking pies here since I was an undergraduate.
I stood watching as if considering what was on offer, then said
very quietly into her ear: The SSP have been to see me they may
be very close. They re looking for a group of five.
She turned from the window and walked on. Ikept to her side.
13o
'1 She said: 'Of course. They know there are five of us. There s no
secret about that.
Standing at her shoulder I said: I don t know what else they ve
found out or guessed. Stop now. You re doing no good. There may
not be much time. If the others won't stop then get out yourself.
It was then that she turned and looked at: me. Our eyes met for
only a second but now, away from the aming lights and the richness
of the gleaming fruit, I saw what I hadn t noticed before; that her face
looked tired, older, drained.
She said: Please go. It s better that we don t see each other again.
She held out her hand, and in defiance of risk I took it. I said: I
don t know your surname. I don t know where you live or where to
find you. But you know where to find me. If you ever need me send
for me at St John Street and I ll come.
Then I turned and walked away so that I need not watch her
walking away from me.
I am writing this after dinner, looking out from the small back
window towards the distant slope of Wytham Wood. I am fifty years
old and I have never known what it is to love. I can write those words,
know them to be true, but feel only the regret that a tone-deaf man
must feel because he can t appreciate music, a regret less keen
because it is for something never known, not for something lost. But
emotions have their own time and place. Fifty is not an age to invite
the turbulence of love, particularly not on this doomed and joyless
planet when man goes to his last rest and all desire fades. So I shall
plan my escape. It isn t easy for anyone under sixty-five to get an exit
permit; since Omega only the aged can travel as they will. ButI don t
expect any diffiCulty. There are still some advantages in being the
Warden s cousin even if I never mention the relationship. As soon
as I m in touch with of cialdom it is known. My passport is already
stamped with the necessary travel permit. I shall get someone to take
my summer course, relieved to be spared that shared boredom. I
have no new knowledge, no enthusiasm to communicate. I shall take
the ferry and drive, revisit the great cities, the cathedrals and temples
of Europe while there are still roads that are passable, hotels with
sufficient staff to provide at Ieast an acceptable standard of comfort,
Where I can be reasonably sure of buying petrol, at least in the cities.
I shall put behind me the memory of what I saw at Southwold, Xan
and the Council, and this grey city, where even the stones bear
131
witness to the transience of youth, of learning, of love. I shall tear
this page from my journal. Writing these words was an indulgence;
to let them stand would be folly. And I shall try to forget this .;
morning s promise. It was made in a moment of madness. I don t BOOK TWO
suppose she will take it up. If she does, she will find this house
empty.
Alpha
October 2021
A
20
He returned to Oxford 0n the last day of September, arriving in mid
afternoon. No one had tried to prevent him from going and no one
welcomed him home. The house smelt unclean, the basement dining
room damp and musty, the upper rooms unaired. He had instructed
Mrs Kavanagh to open the windows from time to time but the air,
with its disagreeable sourness, smelt as if they had been tightly closed
for years. The narrow hall was littered with post; some of it looked
as if the imsy envelopes were adhering to the carpet. In the drawing-
room, its long curtains drawn against the afternoon sun as if in the
house of the dead, small chunks of rubble and gents of soot had
fallen from the chimney, and were ground into the rug under his
unwary feet. He breathed in sootiness and decay. The house itself
seemed to be disintegrating before his eyes.
The small top room with its View of the campanile of St Barnabas
Church and the trees of Wytham Wood tinged with the first hues of
autumn struck him as very cold but unchanged. Here he sat and
listlessiy turned over the pages of his diary where he had recorded
each day of his travels, joylessly, meticulously, mentally ticking off
each of the cities and sights he had planned to revisit as if he were a
schoolboy fulfilling some holiday task. The Auvergne, Fontaine~
bleau, Carcassonne, Florence, Venice, Perugia, the cathedral at
Orvieto, the mosaics in San Vitale, Ravenna, the Temple of Hera at
Paestum. He had set out in no mood of excited anticipation, had
invited no adventures, sought n0 unfamiliar primitive piaces where
novelty and discovery could more than compensate for monotonous
food or hard beds. He had moved in organized and expensive comfort
from capital to capital: Paris, Madrid, Berlin, Rome. He hadn t even
been consciously saying farewell to the beauty and splendours he
had first known in youth. He could hope to come again; this needn t
be a final visit. This was a journey of escape, not a pilgrimage in
search of forgotten sensations But he knew now that the part of him
from which he most needed to escape had remained in Oxford.
By August Italy had become too hot. Fleeing from the heat, the
135
dust, the grey company of the old who seemed to shuf e through
Europe like a moving fog, he took the twisting road to Ravello, strung
like an eyrie between the deep blue of the Mediterranean and the
sky. Here he found a small famiiy run hotel, expensive and half
empty. He stayed for the rest of the month. It couldn t give him
peace, but it did give him comfort and solitude.
His keenest memory was of Rome, standing before the Michel-
angelo Pietc z in St Peter s, of the rows of spluttering candles, the
kneeling women, rich and poor, young and old, fixing their eyes on
the Virgin s face with an intensity of longing almost too painful
to witness. He remembered their outstretched arms, their palms
pressed against the glass protective shield, the low continual mutter
of their prayers as if this ceaseless anguished moan came from a
single throat and carried to that unregarding marble the hopeless
longing of all the world.
He returned to an Oxford which lay bleached and exhausted after
a hot summer, to an atmosphere which impressed itself upon him as
anxious, fretful, almost intimidating. He walked through the empty
quads, their stones gold in the mellow autumn sun, the last gauds
of high summer still aming against their walls, and met no face he
knew. It seemed to his depressed and distorted imagination that
the previous inhabitants had been mysteriously evicted and that
strangers walked the grey streets and sat like returning ghosts under
the trees of the college gardens. The talk in the Senior Common
Room was forced, desultory. His colleagues seemed unwilling to
meet his eyes. Those few who realized that he had been away
inquired about the success of the trip, but without curiosity, a mere
sop to politeness. He felt as if he had brought back with him some
foreign and disreputable contagion. He had returned to his own
city, his own familiar place, yet was revisited by that peculiar and
unfamiliar unease which he supposed could onlybe called loneliness.
After the firstweek he telephoned Helena, surprised that he should
wish not only to hear her voice, but to hope for an invitation. Helena
gave none. She made no attempt to hide her disappointment at
hearing his voice. Mathilda was listless and off her food. The vet had
done some tests and she was expecting him to telephone.
He said: I ve been out of Oxford for the whole summer. Has
anything been happening?"
136
V
i
1
I
l
' i
a!
I
.l
What do you mean, has anything been happening? What sort of
things? Nothing s been happening.
'I suppose not. One returns after six months expecting to find
things changed.
Things don t change in Oxford. Why should anything change?
I wasn t thinking of Oxford. The country as a whole. I didn t get
much news when I was away.
Well there isn t any. And why ask me? There s been trouble about
some dissidents, that s all. It s mostly rumour. Apparently they ve
been blowing up piers, trying to stop the Quietus. And there was
something on the television news about a month ago. The announcer
said that a group of them are planning to free all the convicts on the
Isle of Man, that they might even organize an invasion from the
island and try to depose the Warden.
Theo said: That s ridiculous.
That s what Rupert says. But they shouldn't pubiicize things like
that if they aren t true. It only upsets people. Everything used to be
so peaceful.
Do they know who these dissidents are?
I don t think so. I don t think they know. Theo, I ve got to get off
the line now. I m expecting the vet to call. _
Without waiting for his goodbye, she put down the receiver.
In the early hours of the tenth day after his return the nightmare
returned. But this time it wasn t his father Who stood at the foot of
his bed pointing his bleeding stump, but Luke, and he wasn t in bed
but sitting up in his car, not outside the Lathbury Road house but
actually in the nave 0f Binsey Church. The windows of the car were
closed. He could hear a woman screaming as Helena had screamed.
Rolf was there, scarlet-faced, pounding his fists against the car and
shouting You ve killed Julian, you ve killed Julian! At the front of
the car stood Luke mutely pointing his bleeding stump. He was
unable to move, locked in a rigor like the rigor of death. He heard
their angry voices, Get out! Get out! but he couldn t move. He sat
there staring with blank eyes through the windscreen at Luke s
accusing figure, waiting for the door to be wrenched open, for hands
to drag him out and confront him with the horror of what he, and he
alone, had done.
The nightmare left its legacy of unease which deepened day by
day. He tried to throw it off but nothing in his uneventful, solitary,
137
routine-dominated life was powerful enough to engage more than a
part of his mind. He told himself that he must act normally, appear
unconcerned, that he was under some kind of surveillance. But there
was no sign of it. He heard nothing from Xan, nothing from the
Council, received no communications, was not aware that he was
being followed. He dreaded hearing from Jasper, with a renewal of
his suggestion that they should join forces. But jasper hadn t been
in touch since the Quietus and no call came. He took his usual exercise
and two weeks after his return set off for an early morning run across
Port Meadow t0 Binsey Church. He knew that it would be unwise to
visit and question the old priest and he found it difficult to explain
to himself why revisiting Binsey was so important, or what he hoped
to gain. Running with his long regular strides across Port Meadow
he was for a moment worried in case he should lead the State Security
Police to one of the group s normal meeting places. But when he
reached Binsey he saw that the hamlet was completely deserted and
told himself that they would hardly continue to meet in any of their
old haunts. Wherever they were, he knew them to be in terrible
danger. He ran now, as he had every day, in a tumult of con icting
and familiar emotions; irritation that he had become involved, regret
that he hadn t handled the interview with the Council better, terror
that Julian might even now be in the hands of the Security Police,
frustration that there was no way in which he could get in touch with
her, no person to whom he could safely tatk.
The lane to St Margaret s Church was even more dishevelled, even
more overgrown than when he had last walked it, the interlocking
boughs overhead making it dark and sinister as a tunnel. When he
reached the churchyard he saw that there was a mortuary van outside
the house and that two men were carrying a simple pine coffin down
the path.
He said: 'Is the old parson dead?
The man who replied barely gazed at him. I-Ie d better be. He s in
the box. He slid the coffin expertly into the back of the van, slammed
the door and the two of them drove away.
The door to the church was open and he moved into its dim secular
emptiness. Already there were signs of its impending decay. Leaves
had blown in through the open door and the floor of the chancel was
muddy and stained with what looked like blood. The pews were
thick with dust and it was apparent from the smell that animals,
138
probably dogs, had been loose. Before the altar, curious signs had
been painted on the oor, some of which were vaguely familiar. He
was sorry he had come to this desecrated hovel. He left it, closing
the heavy door behind him with a sense of relief. But he had learned
nothing, done no good. His pointless small pilgrimage had only
deepened his sense of impotence, of impending disaster.
139
2.1
It was at half-past eight that night that he heard the knock. He was
in the kitchen dressing a salad for his dinner, carefully mixing the
olive oil and the wine vinegar in the right proportions. He was to eat,
as he usually did at night, from a tray in his study and the tray with
its clean cloth and table napkin was already set and waiting on the
kitchen table. The lamb chop was in the grilling-pan. The claret had
been uncorked an hour earlier and he had poured the first glass to
drink while he was cooking. He went through the familiar motions
without enthusiasm, almost without interest. He supposed he
needed to eat. It was his habit to take trouble with the salad dressing.
Even as his hands were at the familiar business of preparation his
mind told him that it was all supremely unimportant.
He had drawn the curtains across the french doors leading to the
patio and the steps up to the garden, less to preserve privacy that
was hardly necessary - than because it was his habit to shut out the
night. Apart from the small noises of his own making he was
surrounded by total silence, the empty oors of the house piled
above him like a physical weight. And it was at the moment when
he raised the glass to his lips that he heard a knock. It was low but
urgent, a single tap on the giass quickly followed by three others, as
definite as a signal. He drew back the curtains and could just make
out the outlines of a face almost pressed to the glass. A dark face. He
knew instinctively rather than could see that it was Miriam. He drew
back the two bolts and unlocked the door and immediately she
slipped in.
She wasted no time on greeting but said: You re alone?
Yes. What is it? What s happened?
They ve got Gascoigne. We re on the run. Julian needs you. It
wasn t easy for her to come herself so she sent me.
He was surprised that he could match her excitement, the half
suppressed terror, with such calmness. But then this Visit, although
unforeseen, seemed but the natural cuimination of the week s mount-
ing anxiety. He had known that something traumatic would happen,
14o
that some extraordinary demand would be made on him. Now the
summons had come.
When he didn t reply, she said: 'You told Julian you'd come if she
wanted you. She wants you now.
Where are they?
She paused for a second as if even now wondering if it was safe to
tell him, then said: They re in a Chapel atWidford outside Swinbrook.
We ve got Rolf s car but the SSP will know the number. We need
your car and we need you. We ve got to get away before Gascoigne
breaks and gives them the names.
Neither of them doubted that Gascoigne would break. Nothing as
crude as physical torture would be necessary. The State Security
Police would have the necessary drugs and the knowledge and
ruthlessness to use them.
He asked: How did you get here?
She said impatiently, Bicycle. I ve left it outside your back gate. It
was locked but luckily your neighbour had put out his dustbin. I
climbed over. Look, there isn t time to eat. You d better grab what
food you ve got handy. We ve got some bread, cheese, a few tinned
goods. Where s your car?
In a garage off Pusey Lane. I'll get my coat. There s a bag hanging
behind that cupboard door. The larder s through there. See what
food you can get together. And you d better re~cork and put in the
wine.
He went upstairs to fetch his heavy coat, and mounting one more
staircase to the small back room, slipped his diary into the large inner
pocket. The action was instinctive; if asked he would have had
difficulty in explaining it even to himself. The diary wasn t particu
larly incriminating; he had taken care over that. He had no premon
ition that he was leaving for more than a few hours the life which the
diary chronicled and this echoing house enclosed. And even if the
journey were the beginning of an odyssey, there were more useful,
more valued, more relevant talismans which he could have slipped
into his pocket.
Miriam s last call to him to hurry had been unnecessary. Time, he
knew, was very short. If he were to get to the group to discuss with
them how best he could use his in uence with Xan, above all if he
were to see Julian before her arrest, he must get on the road without
a second s unnecessary delay. Once the SSP knew that the group
141
had own they would turn their attention to him. His car registration
was on record. The abandoned dinner, even if he could spare the
time to throw it into the waste bin, would be evidence enough that
he had left in a hurry. In his anxiety to get to Julian he felt no more
than a slight concern for his own safety. He was still ex-adviser to
the Council. There was one man in Britain who had absolute power,
absolute authority, absolute controi, and he was that man s cousin.
Even the State Security Police couidn't in the end prevent him from
seeing Xan. But they could prevent him from getting to Julian; that
at least was within their power.
Miriam, holding a bulging tote-bag, was waiting for him beside
the front door. He opened it but she motioned him back, put her
head against the door post and glanced quickly each way. She said:
It looks clear.
It must have rained. The air was fresh but the night dark, the street
lamps cast their dim light over the grey stones, the rain-mottled roofs
of the parked cars. On each side of the street Curtains were drawn
except in one high window Where a square of light shone out and he
could see dark heads passing, hear the faint sound of music. Then
someone in the room turned up the volume and suddenly there
poured out over the grey stTeet, piercingly sweet, mingled tenor,
bass, soprano voices singing a quartet, surely Mozart, though he
couldn t recognize the opera. For one Vivid moment of nostalgia and
regret the sound took him back to the street he had first known as an
undergraduate thirty years ago, to friends who had Eodged here and
were gone, to the memory of windows open to the summer night,
young voices calling, music and laughter.
There was no sign of prying eyes, no sign of life except for that one
surge of glorious sound, but he and Miriam walked swiftly and
quietly the thirty yards down Pusey Street, heads bent and in silence
as if even a whisper or a heavy footfall could wake the street into
clamorous life. They turned into Pusey Lane and she waited, still
silently, while he unlocked the garage, started up the Rover and
opened the door for her to slide quickly in. He drove fast down
Woodstock Road but carefully and well within the speed limit. They
were on the outskirts of the city before he spoke.
When did they take Gascoigne?
About two hours ago. He was placing explosives to blow up a
142
landing stage at Shoreham. There was to be another Quietus. The
Security Police were waiting for him.
Not surprisingly. You ve been destroying the embarkation stages.
Obviously they kept watch. So they ve had him for two hours. I m
surprised they haven t picked you up yet.
'They probably waited to question him un t they got him back to
London. And I don t suppose they re in much of a hurry, we re not
that important. But they will come .
Of course. How do you know they ve got Gascoigne?
He rang to say what he was going to do. It was a private initiative,
Rolf hadn t authorized it. We always ring back when the job s
completed, he didn t Luke went round to his lodgings in Cowley.
The State Security Police had been to search at least, the landlady
said someone had been to search. Obviously it was the State Security
Police.
That wasn t sensible of Luke, to go to the house. They could have
been waiting for him.
Nothing we ve done has been sensible, only necessary.
He said: 1 don t know what you're expecting from me, but if you
want me to help you d better tell me something about yourselves. I
know nothing except your forenames. Where do you live? What do
you do? How did you meet?
1 11 tell you, but I don t see why it matters or why you need to
know. Gascoigne is was a long-distance lorry driver. That s why
Rolf recruited him. Ithink they met in a pub. He could distribute our
lea ets over the whole of England.
A longvdistance driver who s an explosives expert. I can see his
usefulness.
His grandad taught him about explosives. He was in the army and
the two of them were close. He didn t need to be an expert. There s
nothing very complicated about blowing up landing stages or any-
thing else. Rolf is an engineer. He works in the electricity supply
industry.
And what did Rolf contribute to the enterprise apart from not
particularly effective leadership?'
Miriam ignored the taunt. She went on: You know about Luke.
He used to be a priest. I suppose he still is. According to him once a
priest, always a priest. He hasn t got a parish because there aren t
many churches left that want his brand of Christianity.
143
What brand is that?
The sort the Church got rid of in the 19905. The old Bible, the old
prayer book. He takes the occasional service if people ask him.
He s employed at the botanical gardens and he s learning animal
husbandry.
And why did Rolf recruit him? Hardly to provide spiritual conso-
lation to the group?
Iulian wanted him.
And you?
You know about me. I was a midwife. That s all I ve ever wanted
to be. After Omega I took a job at a supermarket check-out in
Headington. Now I manage the store. '
And what do you do for the Five Fishes? Slip the pamphlets into
packets of breakfast cereal?
She said: Look, I said we weren t sensible. I didn't say we were
daft. If we hadn t been careful, if we were as incompetent as you
make out, we wouldn t have lasted this long. .
He said: You ve lasted this long because the Warden wanted you
to last. He could have had you picked up months ago. He didn t
because you re more useful to him at large than imprisoned. He
doesn t want martyrs. What he does want is the pretence of an
internal threat to good public order. It helps buttress his authority.
All tyrants have needed that from time to time. All he has to do is tell
the people that there s a secret society operating whose published
manifesto may be beguilingly liberal but whose real aim is to close
down the Isle of Man Settlement, let loose ten thousand criminal
psychopaths on an ageing society, send home all the Sojourners so
that the rubbish isn't collected and the streets are unsweptk and
ultimately overthrow the Council and the Warden himself.
Why should people believe that?
Why not? Between the five of you you d probably like to do all
those things. Rolf certainly would like to do the last. Under an
undemocratic government there can be no acceptable dissent any
more than there can be moderate sedition. I know you call yourselves
the Five Fishes. You may as well tell me your codenames .
Rolf is Rudd, Luke is Loach, Gascoigne is Gurdon, I m Minnow.
And Iulian?
We had difficulty there. There s only one fish we could find which
begins with j, a John Dory.
144
He had to stop himself from laughing aloud. He said: What on
earth was the point of it? You ve advertised to the whole country that
you call yourselves the Five Fishes? I suppose that when Rolf
telephones you he says this is Rudd calling Minnow, in the hope that
if the SSP are listening they ll tear their hair and bite the carpet With
frustration.
She said: All right, you ve made your point. We didn t actually
use the names, not often anyway. It was just an idea of Rolf s.
'I thought it might be.
Look, out out all this supercilious chat, will you? We know you re
clever and sarcasm is your way of showing us just how Clever, but I
can t cope with it for the moment. And don t antagonize Rolf. If you
care at all about Julian, calm it, OK?
For the next few minutes they drove in silence. Glancing at her he
saw that she was gazing at the road ahead with an almost passionate
intensity as ifexpecting to find that itwas mined. Her hands clutching
the bag were taut, the knuckles white, and it seemed to him that
there flowed from her a surge of excitement which was almost
palpable. She had answered his questions, but as if her mind were
elsewhere.
Then she spoke, and when she used his name he felt a small shock
at the unexpected intimacy. Theo, there's something I have to tell
you. Julian said not to tell you until we were on our way. It wasn t a
test of your good faith. She knew you d come if she sent for yOu. But
if you didn t, if there was something important to prevent you, if you
couldn t come, then I wasn t to tell. There dbe no point in it anyway.
Tell me what? He gave her a long glance. She was still staring
ahead, lips moving silently as if she were searching for words. Tell
me what, Miriam?
Still she didn t look at him. She said: You won t believe me. I don t
expect you to believe me. Your disbelief isn t important because in
little more than thirty minutes you ll see the truth for yourself. Only
don t argue aboutit. I don t want to cope rightnow with protestations,
arguments. I m not going to try to convince you, Julian will do that.
Iust tell me. I ll decide whether to believe you.
And now she turned her head and looked at him. She said, her
voice clear above the noise of the engine: lJulian is pregnant. That s
why she needs you. She' 5 going to have a child.
In the silence that followed he was aware firstly of a plunging
145
disappointment followed by irritation and then disgust. It was
repugnant to believe that Julian was capable of such self-deceiving
nonsense or that Miriam should be fool enough to connive in it. At
their first and only meeting at Binsey, brief though it had been, he
had liked her, had thought her sensible and intelligent. He didn t
like having his judgement of a person so confounded.
After a moment he said: I won t argue, but I don't believe you.
I m not saying you re deliberately lying, Ibelieve you think it s true.
But it isn t.
It used, after all, to be a common delusion. In the first years after
Omega women all over the world believed themselves to be preg-
nant, displayed the symptoms of pregnancy, walked proud-bellied
- he had seen them walking down the High Street in Oxford. They
had made plans for the birth, had even gone into spurious labour,
groaning and straining and bringing forth nothing but wind and
anguish.
After ve minutes he said: How long have you believed this story? _
I said I didn t want to talk about it. I said you were to wait.
You said I wasn t to argue. I m not arguing. I m only asking one
question.
Since the baby quickened. Julian didn t know until then. How
could she? Then she spoke to me and I confirmed the pregnancy. I m
a midwife, remember? We d thought it wise not to be together more
than necessary during the last four months. If I d seen her more often
I should have known earlier. Even after twenty five years, I should
have known.
He said: If you believe it - the unbelievable - then you re taking it
very calmly. _
l ve had time to get used to the glory ofit. Now I m more concerned
with the practicalities.
There was a silence. Then she said, as if reminiscing with alt the
time in the world: I was twenty~seven at Omega and working in the
maternity department of the John Radcliffe. I was doing a stint in the
ante-natal clinic at the time. I remember booking a patient for her
next appointment and suddenly noticing that the page seven months
ahead was blank. Not a single name. Women usually booked in by
the time they d missed their second period, some as soon as they d
missed one. Not a single name. I thought, what s happening to the
men in this city? Then I rang a friend who was working at Queen
146
Charlotte s. She said the same. She said she d teiephone someone
she knew at the Rosie Maternity Hospital in Cambridge. She rang
me back twenty minutes later. It was the same there. It was then I
knew, I must have been one of the first to know. I was there at the
end. Now I shall be there at the beginning.
They were coming into Swinbrook now and he drove more slowly,
dimming the headlights as if these precautions could somehow make
them invisible. But the Village was deserted. The waxy moon, half
full, swayed against a sky of blue grey trembling silk, pierced by a
few high stars. The night was less dark than he had expected, the air
still and sweet, with a grassy smell. In the pale moonlight the mellow
stones gave out a faint glow which seemed to suffuse the air and he
could clearly make out the shape of the houses, the high sloping
roofs and the ower-hung garden walls. There were no lights in any
of the windows and the village lay silent and empty as a deserted
film-set, outwardly solid and permanent but ephemeral, the painted
walls backed only by wooden supports and concealing the rotting
debris of the departed crew. He had a momentary delusion that he
would only have to lean against one of the walls and it would collapse
in a crumble of plaster and snapping batons. And it was familiar.
Even in this unreal light he could recognize the landmarks: the
small green beside the pond with its huge overhanging tree and
surrounding seat, the entrance to the narrow lane leading up to the
church.
He had been here before, with Xan, in their first year. It had been
a hot day in late June when Oxford had become a place to escape
from, her hot pavements blocked with tourists, her air stinking with
car fumes and loud with the clatter of alien tongues, her peaceful
quads invaded. They had been driving down the Woodstock Road
with no clear idea of their destination when Theo had remembered
his wish to see St Oswald s Chapel at Widford. It was as good a
destination as any. Glad that the expedition had a purpose, they had
taken the road to Swinbrook. The day, in memory, was an icon which
he could conjure up to represent the perfect English summer; an
azure almost cloudless sky, the haze of cow parsley, the smell of
mown grass, the rushing air tearing at their hair. It could conjure up
other things too, more transitory, which, unlike the summer, had
been lost for ever; yOuth, confidence, joy, the hope of love. They had
been in no hurry. Outside Swinbrook there had been a village cricket
147
match and they had parked the car and sat on the grass bank behind
the dry-stone wall to watch, criticize, appiaud. They had parked
again where he parked now, beside the pond, had taken the same
walk which he and Miriam would take, past the old post office, up
the narrow cobbled lane bordered by the high, ivy ciad wall, to the
village church. There had been a christening. A small procession of
villagers was straggling up the path towards the porch, the parents
at the head, the mother carrying the baby in its white flounced
christening robe, the women in owered hats, the men, a little
self conscious, perspiring in close-fitting blue and grey suits. He
remembered thinking that the scene was timeless and had amused
himself for a moment imagining earlier christenings, the clothes
different but the country faces, with their mixture of serious purpose
and anticipatedpleasure, unchanged. He thought then, as he thought
now, of time passing, inexorable, unforgiving, unstoppable time.
But the thought then had been an intellectual exercise devoid of pain
or nostalgia, since time still stretched ahead and for a nineteen year-
old seemed an eternity.
Now, turning to lock the car, he said: If the meeting place is St
Oswald s Chapel the Warden knows it.
Her reply was calm: But he doesn t know that we do.
He will When Gascoigne talks.
Gascoigne doesn t know either. This is a falI-back meeting place
which Rolf kept to himself in case one of us was taken.
Where has he left his car?
Concealed somewhere off the road. They planned to do the last
mile or so on foot.
Theo said: Across rough fields, and in the dark. Not exactly an
easy place for a quick getaway. '
No, but it s remote, unused, and the chapel is always open. We
don t have to worry about a quick getaway if no one knows where to
find us.
But there must be a more suitable place, thought Theo, and felt
again a doubt of Rolf s competence to plan and lead. Comforted by
disdain, he toid himself: he s got looks and a certain crude force but
not much intelligence, an ambitious barbarian. How on earth did she
come to marry him?
The lane came to an end and they turned left down a narrow path
of earth and stone between the ivy-covered walls, across a catt1e~grid
148
and into the field. Down the hill to the left was a low farmhouse
which he hadn t remembered seeing before.
Miriam said: 'It s empty. All the village is deserted now. I don t
know Why that s happened with one place more than another. I
suppose one or two key families leave and the rest panic and follow.
The field was rough and tussocky and they walked with care, their
eyes on the ground. From time to time one of them would stumble
and the other put out a quick supporting hand, while Miriam shone
her torch, searching in the pool of light for a non-existent path. It
seemed to Theo that they must look like a very old couple, the tast
inhabitants of a deserted Village making their way through the final
darkness to St Oswald s Chapel out of some perverse or atavistic
need to die on consecrated ground. To his left the fields stretched
down to a high hedge behind which, he knew, ran the Windrush.
Here, after visiting the chapel, he and Xan had lain on the grass
watching the slow owing stream for the dart and rise of the sh,
then, turning on theirbacks, had stared upwards through the silvered
leaves to the blue of the sky. They had brought wine with them and
strawberries purchased on the road. He found that he could recall
every word of their talk.
Xan, dropping a strawberry into his mouth, then twisting over to
reach for wine: How too Brideshead, dear boy. I feel the need of a
teddy bear. And then, with no change of tone, I m thinking of
joining the Army.
'Xan, whatever for?
No particular reason. At least it won t be boring.
It will be unutterably boring, except for people who like travel and
sport, and you ve never particularly cared for either, except cricket
and that s hardly an Army game. They play rough, those boys.
Anyway, they probably won t have you. Now they ve got so small
I m told they ve become very choosy.
Oh, they ll have me. And then later I might try politics.
Even more boring. You ve never shown the slightest interest in
politics. You ve no poiitical convictions.
I can acquire them. And it won't be as boring as what you ve got
planned for yourseif. You ll get your First, of course, then Jasper will
find a research job for his favourite pupil. Then there ll be the
usual provincial appointment, serving your time with red-brick
nonentities, publishing your papers, writing the occasional well
149
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researched book which will be respectfully received. Then back to
Oxford with a fellowship. All Souls if you re lucky and haven t
already got it, and a job for life teaching undergraduates who see
history as a soft option. Oh, I forgot. A suitable wife, intelligent
enough to make acceptable dinner-table talk but not so intelligent
that she ll compete with you, a mortgaged house in north Oxford
and two intelligent, boring children who will repeat the pattern.
Well, he got most of it right, all of it right except the intelligent wife
and the two children. And what he had spoken in that seemingly
casual conversation, had it even then been part of a plan? He was
right, the Army did take him. He became the youngest colonel for
150 years. He still had no political allegiance, no convictions beyond
his conviction that what he wanted he should have and that when
he set his hand to something he would succeed. After Omega, with
the country sunk in apathy, no one wanting to work, services almost
at a stop, crime uncontrollable, all hope and ambition lost for ever,
England had been a ripe plum for his picking. The simjie was trite
but none was more accurate. It had hung there, overripe, rotten; and
Xan had only to put out his hand. Theo tried to thrust the past out
of memory, but the voices of that last summer echoed in his mind,
and even on this chill autumnal night he could feel its sun on his
back.
And now the chapel was plain before them, the Chancel and nave
under one roof, the central bell turret. It looked just as it had when
he first saw it, incredibly small, a chapel built by some over-indulgent
deist as a child s plaything. As they approached the door he was
seized with a sudden reluctance which momentarily froze his foot
steps, wondering for the first time with an upsurge of curiosity and
anxiety what exactly he would find. He couldn t believe that Julian
had conceived, that Wasn t why he was here. Miriam might be 'a
midwife but she hadn t practised for twenty-five years and there
were numerous medical conditions which could simulate pregnancy.
Some of them were dangerous; was this a malignant tumour left
untreated because Miriam and Julian had been deceived by hope? It
had been a common enough tragedy in the first years after Omega,
almost as common as the phantompregnancies. He hated the thought
that Julian was a deluded fool, but hated more the fear that she might
be mortally ill. He half resented his concern, what seemed his
150
obsession with her. But what else had brought him to this rough
unencumbered place?
Miriam swept the torchlight over the door then switched it off. The
door opened easily under her hand. The chapel was dark but the
group had lit eight night lights and had set them in a line in front of
the altar. He wondered whether Rolf had secreted them here in
advance of need or whether they had been left by other, less transient
Visitors. The wicks ickered brie y in the breeze from the Open door,
throwing shadows on the stone oor and On the pale, unpolished
wood before settling into a gentle milky g10w. At first he thought
that the chapel was empty, and then he saw their three dark heads
rising from one of the box pews. They moved out into the narrow
aisle and stood regarding him. They were dressed as for a journey,
Rolf in a Breton cap and large, grubby sheepskin jacket, Luke in a
shabby black coat and muf er, Julian in a long cloak almost to the
ground. In the dim light of the candles their faces were soft blurs.
No one Spoke. Then Luke turned, picked up one of the candles and
held it high. Julian moved towards Theo and looked up into his face,
smiling.
She said: It s true, Theo, feel.
Under the cloak she was wearing a smock over baggy trousers.
She took his right hand and guided it under the cotton of the smock,
pulling the elastic 0f the trousers taut. The swollen belly felt tight
and his first thought was of wonder that this huge convexity was so
little visible beneath her clothes. At rst her skin, stretched but silken
smooth, felt cool under his resting hand, but imperceptibly the
warmth passed from his skin to hers so that he could no longer feel
any difference and it seemed to him that their esh had become one.
And then, with a sudden convulsive spasm, his hand was almost
kicked away. She laughed, and the joyous peal rang Out and fiiled
the chapel.
Listen, she said, hsten to her heartbeat.
It was easier for him to kneel, so he knelt, unselfconsciously, not
thinking of it as a gesture of homage but knowing that it was right
that he should be on his knees. He placed his right arm round her
waist and pressed his ear against her stomach. He couldn t hear the
beating heart, but he could hear and feel the movements of the child,
feel its life. He was swept by a tide of emotion which rose, buffeted
and engulfed him in a turbulent surge of awe, excitement and terror,
151
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then receded, leaving him spent and weak. For a moment he knelt
there, unable to move, half-supported by Julian s body, letting the
smell of her, the warmth of her, the very essence of her seep into
him. Then he straightened himself and got to his feet, aware of their
watching eyes. But still no one spoke. He wished that they would go
away so that he could lead Julian into the darkness and silence of the
night and With her be part of that darkness and stand together in that
greater sitence. He needed to rest his mind in peace, to feel and not
speak. But he knew that he had to speak and that he would need all
his persuasive power. And words might not be enough. He would
need to match Will with will, passion with passion. All he had on
offer was reason, argument, intelligence, and he had put his faith in
them all his life. Now he felt vulnerable and inadequate where once
he had felt most confident and sure.
He drew apart from Julian and said to Miriam: Give me the torch!-
She handed it to him without a word and he switched it on and
swept the beam over their faces. They gazed back at him; Miriam s
eyes quizzical and smiling, Rolf s resentful but triumphant, Luke s
full of a desperate appeal.
It was Luke who spoke first: You see, Theo, that we had to get
away, that we must keep Julian safe.
Theo said: You won t keep her safe by running. This changes
everything, changes it not only for you but for the whole world.
Nothing matters now except the safety of Julian and the child. She
ought to be in hospital. Telephone the Warden, or let me. Once this
is known no one is going to worry about seditious pamphlets or
dissent. There isn t anyone on the Council, anyone in the country,
anyone of importance in the world for that matter, who won't be
concerned only for one thing; the safe birth of this child. '
Julian put her deformed hand over his own. She said: Please don t
make me. I don t want him to be there When my baby is born.
He needn't actually be present. He ll do what you want. Everyone
will do what you want.
He will be there. You know he will be. He ll be there at the birth
and he ll be there always. He killed Miriam s brother; he s killing
Gaseoigne now. If I fall into his hands I ll never be free of him. My
baby will never be free.
How, Theo wondered, would she and her baby keep out of Xan's
hands? Did she propose to keep the child a secret for ever? He said:
152
'- You must think first of your baby. Suppose there are complications,
at haemorrhage?
There won t be. Miriam will look after me.
Theo turned to her. Speak to her, Miriam. You re the professional.
You know she ought to be in hospital. Or are you thinking ofyourself?
is that all any of you are thinking of, yourselves? Your own glory? It
would be quite a thing, wouldn t it? Midwife to the first of a new
race, if that is what this child is destined to be. You don't want to
share the glory; you re afraid you might not be allowed even a share.
You want to be the only one to see this miracle child into the world .
Miriam said calmly: I ve delivered two hundred and eighty babies.
They all seemed like miracles, at least at the time of birth. All I want
is for the mother and child to be safe and well. I wouldn t hand over
a pregnant bitch to the mercies 0f the Warden of England. Yes, I d
prefer to deliver the child in hospital, but Julian has a right to her
choice.
Theo turned to Rolf. What does the father think?
Rolf was impatient. If we stand here talking about it much longer
we won t have a choice. Julian's right. Once she's in the Warden s
hands he'll take over. He ll be there at the birth. He'll announce it to
the world. He'll be the one on television showing my child to the
nation. That s for me to do, not him.
Theo thought: he thinks he's supporting his wife. But all he really
cares about is getting the child safelyborn before Xan and the Council
find out about the pregnancy.
Anger and frustration made his voice harsh: This is crazy. You
aren t children with a new toy Which you can keep to yourselves,
play with by yourselves, prevent the other children from sharing.
This birth is the concern of the whole world, not just England. The
child belongs to mankind.
Luke said, The child belongs to God.
Theo turned on him. Christ! Can t we discuss this at least on the
basis of reason?
It was Miriam who spoke. She said: The child belongs to herself,
but her mother is Julian. Until she s born and for a time after the
birth, the baby and her mother are one. Julian has the right to say
Where she will give birth.
Even if it means risking the baby.
153
Julian said: If I have my baby with the Warden present we shall
both die.
That s ridiculous.
Miriam said calmly: Do you want to take the risk? He didn t
reply. She waited, then reiterated: Are you prepared to take that
responsibility?
So what are your plans?
It was Rolf who replied. To find somewhere safe, or as safe as
possible. An empty house, a cottage, any kind of shelter where we
can shack up for four weeks. It needs to be in remote country, perhaps
a forest. We need provisions and water and we need a car. The only
car we ve got is mine and they ll know the number of that!
Theo said: We can t use mine, either, not for long. The SSP are
probably at St John Street now. The whole enterprise is futile. Once
Gaseoigne talks - and he will talk, they don t need torture, they ve
got drugs once the Council know about the pregnancy they ll come
after you with all they ve got. How far do you think you ll get before
they find you?
Luke s voice sounded calm and patient. He could have been
explaining the reading of the situation to a not very intelligent child.
We know they ll come. They ve been looking for us and they want
us destroyed. But they may not come quickly, may not bother too
much at first. You see, they don t know about the baby. We never
told Gascoigne.
But he was part of you, part of the group. Didn t he guess? He
had eyes, couldn t he see?
Julian said: He was thirty~one and I doubt Whether he ever saw a
pregnant woman. No one has given birth for twenty-five years. It
wasn t a possibility his mind was open to. And the Sojourners I
worked with in the camp, their minds weren t open to it either. No
one knows but we five.
Miriam said: And Iulian is wide hipped, carrying high. It wouldn t
have been obvious to you if you hadn t felt the foetus move.
Theo thought, so they hadn t trusted Gascoigne, at least not With
the most valuable secret of all. Gascoigne hadn tbeen thought worthy
of it, that sturdy, simple, decent man who had seemed to Theo at
their first meeting the stolid, dependable anchor of the group. And
if they had trusted him, he would have obeyed orders. There would
have been no attempted sabotage, no capture.
154
As if reading his thoughts Rolf said: It was for his own protection,
and ours. The fewer people who knew the better. I had to tell Miriam,
of c0urse. We needed her skiils. Then I told Luke because Iulian
wanted him to know. It was something to do with his being a priest,
some superstition or other. He s supposed to bring us good luck It
was against my advice, but I told him.
Julian said: I was the one who told Luke.
Theo thought that it was probably also against Rolf s advice that
he had been sent for. Julian had wanted him, and what she wanted
they were trying to give. But the secret, once revealed, could never
be unlearned. He might still try to escape commitment buthe couldn't
now escape knowledge.
For the first time there was a note of urgency in Luke's voice. Let s
get away before they come. We can use your car. We can go on talking
while we travel. You ll have the time and chance to persuade Iulian
to change her mind.
Julian said: Please come with us, Theo. Please heip us.
Rolf said impatiently: He has no choice. He knows too much. We
can t let him go free now.
Theo looked at Julian. He wanted to ask, Is this the man you and
your God between you have chosen to repopulate the world?
He said coldly: For God s sake don t start threatening. You can
reduce everything, even this, to the level of a cheap feature film. If I
come with you it will be because I choose to.
155
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One by one they blew out the candles. The little chapel returned to
its ageless calm. Rolf closed the door and they began their careful
trudge across the field, Rolf leading. He had taken the torch and its
small moon of light moved like a wiH-d-the wisp over the matted
tussocks of brown grass, brie y illuminating as if with a miniature
searchlight a single trembling flower and patches of daisies, bright
as buttons. Behind Rolf the two women walked together, Iulian with
her arm in Miriam's. Luke and Theo brought up the rear. They didn t
speak but Theo was aware that Luke was glad of his company. He
was interested that he himself could be possessed by such strong
feelings, by surges of wonder, excitement and awe, and yet be able
to observe and analyse the effect of feelings on action and thought.
He was interested, too, that amid the tumult he could have room
for irritation. It seemed so petty and irreievant a response to the
overwhelming importance of his dilemma. But the whole situation
was one of paradox. Could ever aims and means have been so
mismatched? Had there ever been an enterprise of such immense
importance embarked upon by such frail and pathetically inadequate
adventurers? But he didn t need to be one of them. Unarmed they
couldn t permanently hold him by force and he had his car keys. He
could get away, telephone Xan, put an end to it. But if he did, julian
would die. At least she thought she would, and the conviction might
be powerful enough to kill both her and her Child. He had been
responsible for the death of one child. That was enough.
When they at last reached the pond and the green where he had
parked the Rover, he half expected to see it surrounded by the SSP,
black immobile figures, stony-eyed, guns at the ready. But the village
was as deserted as when they had arrived. As they came up to the
car he decided to make one more attempt.
It was to Julian he turned. He said: Whatever you feel about the
Warden, whatever you fear, let me ring him now. Let me speak to
him. He s not the devil you think.
It was Rolf s impatient voice that answered. Don t you ever
156
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give up? She doesn t want your patronage. She doesn t trust your
promises. We ll do what we ve planned, get as far from here as we
can and find shelter. We ll steal what food we need until the child s
born.
Miriam said: Theo, we've no choice. Somewhere there must be a
place for us, perhaps a deserted cottage in deep woodland.
Theo turned on her. 'Quite an idyll, isn t it? I can picture you all.
A snug ttle cottage in some remote forest glade, smoke from your
wood fire rising from the chimney, a well of clean water, rabbits and
birds sitting around ready to be caught, the rear garden stocked with
vegetables. Perhaps you'll even find a few chickens and a goat to
provide milk. And no doubt the previous owners wilt have obligingly
1eft a pram in the garden shed.
Miriam said again calmly but firmly, her eyes fixed on his: Theo,
we have no choice.
And nor had he. That moment when he had knelt at Julian s feet,
had felt her child move under his hand, had bound him to them
irrevocably. And they needed him. Rolf might resent him but he was
stiil needed. If the worst came to the worst he could intercede with
Xan. If they were to fail into the hands of the State Security Police,
his was a voice they might listen to.
He took the car keys from his pocket. Roif put out his hand for
them. Theo said: I li drive. You can choose the route. I take it you
can read a map.
The cheap jibe had been unwise. Rolf s voice was dangerously
calm: You despise us, don t you?
No, why should I?
You don t need a reason. You despise the whole world except
people of your own sort, people who have had your education, your
advantages, your choices. Gascoigne was twice the man you are.
What have you ever produced in your life? What have you ever done
except talk about the past? No wonder you chose museums as
meeting places. That s where you feel at home. Gascoigne could
destroy a landing stage and put a stop to a Quietus single handed.
Could you?
Use explosives? No, I admit that that isn t among my accomplish-
ments.
Rolf mimickeci his voice: I admit that that isn't among my
accomplishments ! You should hear yourself. You re not one of us,
157
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you never have been. You haven t got the guts. And don t think we
really want you. Don t think we like you. You re here because you're
the Warden s cousin. That might be useful.
He had used the plural, but both of them knew of whom he was
speaking. Theo said: If you admired Gascoigne so much why didn t
you confide in him? If you'd told him about the baby he wouldn t
have disobeyed orders. I might not be one of you, but he was. He
had a right to know. You re responsible for his capture and, if he s
dead, you re responsible for his death. Don t blame me if you re
feeling guilty.
He felt Miriam s hand on his arm. She said with quiet authority:
Cool it, Theo. If we quarrel, we re dead. Let s get away from here,
OK?
When they were in the car, Theo and Roif in the front seats, Theo
asked: Which way?
North-west and into Wales. We ll be safer over the border. The
Warden s diktat runs there, but he s more resented than loved. We ll
move by night, sleep by day. And we ll keep to the minor roads. It s
more important not to be detected than to cover the miles. And they ll
be looking for this car. If we get a chance we ll change it.
It was then that inspiration came to Theo. Jasper. Jasper so
conveniently close, so well provisioned. Jasper who desperately
needed to join him in St John Street.
He said: 'I have a friend who lives outside Asthall, practically the
next village. He s got a store of food and I thinkl could persuade him
to lend us his car.
Rolf asked: What makes you think he s going to agree?
There s something he wants badly which I can give him.
Rolf said: We haven t got time to waste. How long will this
persuasion take?
Theo controlled his irritation. He said: Getting a different car and
stocking it with what we need is hardly a waste of time. I d have said
it was essential. But if you ve a better suggestion, let s hear it.
Rolf said: All right, let s go.
Theo slipped in the clutch and drove carefully through the dark
ness. When they reached the outskirts of Asthall, he said: We ll
borrow his car and leave mine in his garage. With any luck it will be
a long time before they get on to him. And I think I can promise he
won t talk.
158
Julian leaned forward and said: Wouldn t that mean putting your
friend in danger? We mustn t do that.
Rolf was impatient. He ll have to take his chance.
Theo spoke to Julian: If we re caught, all they ll have to connect
him with us is the car. He can argue that it was taken in the night,
that we stole it, or that we forced him to co-operate.
Rolf said: Suppose he won t co-operate? I d better come in with
you and see that he does.
By force? Don t be a fool. How long would he remain silent after
that? He ll co-operate, but not if you start threatening him. I ll need
one person with me. I ll take Miriam.
Why Miriam?
She knows what she wants for the birth.
Rolf didn t argue further. Theo wondered ifhe d handled Rolf with
enough tact, then felt resentment at the arrogance which made
that tact necessary. But somehow he must avoid an open quarrel.
Compared with Julian s safety, the appalling importance of their
enterprise, his increasing irritation with Rolf seemed a trivial but
dangerous indulgence. He was with them by choice but there had,
in fact, been no choice. It was to Julian and her unborn child, and to
them only, that he owed allegiance.
When he lifted his hand to press the doorbell at the huge gate in
the wall he saw to his surprise that the gate was open. He beckoned
Miriam and they went in together. He closed the gate behind him.
The house was in darkness except for the sitting-room. The curtains
were drawn but with an inch of light shining through. He saw that
the garage, too, was unlocked, the door up and the dark bulk of the
Renault parked inside. He was not surprised now to find the side
door unlocked. He switched on the light of the hall, calling softly,
but there was no reply. With Miriam at his shoulder he walked down
the passage to the sitting-room.
As soon as he pushed open the door he knew what he would find.
The smell choked him, strong and evil as a contagion; blood, faeces,
the stink of death. Jasper had made himself comfortable for the final
act of his life. He was seated in the armchair before the empty fire,
hands hanging loosely over the arms. The method he had chosen
had been certain and catastrophic. He had put the muzzle of a
revolver in his mouth and blown off the top of his head. What
remained of it was slumped forward on his chest where there was a
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stiffened bib of brown blood which looked like dried vomit. He had
been left-handed and the gun lay on the oor by the chair, under a
small round table which held his house and car keys, an empty glass,
an empty claret bottle and a handwritten note, the rst part in Latin,
the last in English.
Quid te exempta iuvat spim's de pluribus una?
Vivere si recte nescis, decede peritis.
Lusisti satis, edisti satis atque bibisti:
Tempus abire tibi est.
Miriam moved up to him and touched the cold ngers in an
instinctive and futile gesture of compassion. She said: Poor man.
Oh, poor man.
Rolf would say he's done us a service. No time wasted now in
persuasion.
Why did he do it? What does the note say?
lt s a quotation from Horace. It says that there s no pleasure in
getting rid of one thorn among so many. If you can t live well, get
out. He probably found the Latin in the Oxford Book onuotations.
The English underneath was shorter and plainer. I apologize for
the mess. There is one bullet left in the gun. Was that, Theo
wondered, a warning or an invitation? And what had led Jasper to
this act? Remorse, regret, loneliness, despair, or the realization that
the thorn had been drawn but the pain and the hurt remained and
were past healing. He said: You ll probably find the linen and
blankets upstairs. I'll get the stores.
He was glad that he was wearing his long country coat. The inner
pocket in the lining would easily take the revolver. He checked that
there was one bullet in the chamber, removed it, and placed both
gun and bullet in his pocket.
The kitchen, its working surfaces bare, a row of mugs hanging
with their handles aligned, was grubby but tidy with no sign that it
had ever been used except for a tea towel, crumpled and obviously
recently washed, which had been laid across the empty draining rack
to dry. The only discordant note in the ordered neatness was two
rushmats rolled up and propped against the wall. HadJasper perhaps
intended to kill himself here and been concerned that the blood
should be easily swabbed from the stone floor? Or had he intended
16o
once more to wash the stones and then realized the futility of this
last obsessional concern for appearance?
The door of the store room was unlocked. After twenty-five years
of anxious husbandry, having no further need of his treasure store,
he had left it open, as he had left open his life, to casual despoilers.
Here too all was neatness and order. The wooden racks held large
tin boxes, the edges sealed with tape. Each was labelled in Iasper s
elegant script: Meat, Tinned Fruit, Milk Powder, Sugar, Co ee, Rice, Tea,
Flour. The sight of the labels, the letters so meticulously written,
provoked in Theo a small spasm of compassion, painful and
unwelcome, a surge of pity and regret, which the sight of Jasper's
splattered brains and bloody chest had been powerless to touch. He
let it ow brie y over him, then concentrated on the job in hand. His
immediate thought was to empty the tins over the oor and make a
selection of the things they were most likely to need, at least for the
first week, but he told himself there wasn t time. Even to strip away
the tape would hold him up. Better to take a selection unopened;
meat, milk powder, dried fruit, coffee, sugar, tinned vegetables. The
smaller tins labelled drugs and syringes, water purifying tablets and
matches were obvious choices, as was a compass. Two paraffin stoves
presented a more difficult decision. One was an old-fashioned single
burner, the other a more modern, cumbersome, triple-burner stove
which he rejected as taking up too much room. He was relieved to
find a tin of oil and a two gallon tin of petrol. He hoped that the tank
in the car wasn t empty.
He could hear Miriam moving rapidly but quietly above, and as he
came back from carrying out the second lot of tins to the car he met
her coming down the stairs, her chin resting on four pillows.
She said: May as well be comfortable.
They ll take up quite a bit of room. Have you got all you need for
the birth?
Plenty of towels and single sheets. We can sit on the pillows. And
there s a medicine chest in the bedroom. I ve cleared that out, shoved
everything in a pillowcase. The disinfectant will be useful but it s
mainly simple remedies aspirin, bicarb, cough mixture. This place
has got everything. Pity we can t stay here.
It was not, he knew, a serious suggestion, but he countered it.
Once they find I m missing, this will be one of the very rst places
they ll call. All the people I know will be visited and questioned.
161
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They worked together silently, methodically. The boot at last full,
he closed it quietly then said: We ll put my car in the garage and lock
it. I'll lock the outer gate, too. It won t keep out the SSP but it may
prevent premature discovery.
As he was locking the door of the cottage, Miriam laid a hand on
his arm and said quickly: The gun. Better not let Rolf know you ve
got it.
There was an insistence, almost an authority in her voice which
echoed his own instinctive anxiety. He said: I ve no intention of
letting Rolf know.
Better not tell Julian either. Rolf would try to take it from you and
Iulian would want you to throw it away.
He said curtly: I shan t tel} either of them. And if Julian wants
protection for herself and her child she'll have to stomach the means.
Does she aspire to be more virtuous than her God?
Carefully he edged the Renault out of the gate and parked it behind
the Rover. Rolf, pacing beside the car, was indignant.
'You ve been a hell of a time. Did you have trouble?
No. Jasper s dead. Suicide. We ve collected as much as the car will
hold. Drive the Rover into the garage and I ll lock it and the gate. I ve
already locked the house.
Therewas nothingworth transferring from the Rover to the Renault
except his road maps and a paperback edition of Emma, which he
found in the glove box. He slipped the book into his inner coat pocket
which held the revolver and his diary. Two minutes later they were
together in the Renault. Theo took the driver s seat. Rolf, after a
moment s hesitation, got in beside him, Julian sat in the back between
Miriam and Luke. Theo locked the gate and tossed the key over.
Nothing could be seen of the darkened house except the high black
slope of the roof.
162
23
In the first hour they had to stop twice so that Miriam and Julian
could disappear into the darkness. Rolf strained his eyes after them,
uneasy once they were out of his sight. In reply to his obvious
impatience, Miriam said: You ll have to get used to it. It happens in
late pregnancy. Pressure on the bladder.
At the third stop they all got out to stretch their legs and Luke too,
with a muttered excuse, made off towards the hedgerow. With the
car lights off and the engine still the silence seemed absolute. The air
was warm and sweet as if it were still summer, the stars bright but
high. Theo thought he could smell a distant bean field, but that was
surely illusory; the owers would have dropped by now, the beans
would be in full pod.
Rolf moved up to stand beside him. You and I have got to talk.
Then talk.
We can t have two leaders of this expedition.
Expedition, is that what it is? Five ill-equipped fugitives with no
clear idea where we re going or what we re going to do when we get
there. It hardly requires a hierarchy of command. But if you get any
satisfaction from calling yourself the leader, it doesn t worry me as
long as you don t expect unquestioning obedience.
You were never part of us, never part of the group. You had your
chance to join and turned it down. You re only here because I sent
for you.
l m here because Julian sent for me. We re stuck with each other.
I can put up with you since I have no choice. I suggest that you
exercise a similar tolerance.
I want to drive. Then, as if he hadn t made his meaning clear, I
want to take over the driving from now on.
Theo laughed, his mirth spontaneous and genuine. Julian s child
will be hailed as a miracle. You will be hailed as the father of that
miracle. The new Adam, begetter of the new race, the saviour of
mankind. That s enough potential power for any man, more power
163
I suspect than you ll be able to cope with. And you re worried that
yOu re not getting your share of the driving!
Rolf paused before replying. All right, we ll make a pact. I may
even be able to use you. The Warden thought you had something to
offer. I shall want an adviser too.
I seem to be the universal confidant. You ll probably find me as
unsatisfactory as he did. He was silent for a moment, then asked:
So you re thinking of taking over?
Why not? If they want my sperm they'll have to take me. They
can t have one without the other. I could do the job as well as he
does.
I thought that your group were arguing that he does it badly,
that he s a merciless tyrant. So you re proposing to replace one
dictatorship with another. Benevolent this time, I suppose. Most
tyrants begin that way.
Rolf didn t reply. Theo thought: we re alone. It may be the only
chance I have to talk to him without the others being present. He
said, Look, I still feel that we should telephone the Warden, get
Julian the care she needs. You know it s the only sensible course.
'And you know she can t cope with that. She ll be all right.
Childbirth is a natural process, isn t it? She s got a midwife.
Who hasn t delivered a baby for twenty- ve years. And there s
always the chance of complications.
There won t be any complications. Miriam isn t worried. Anyway,
she ll be in greater danger from complications, physical or mental, if
she s forced into hospital. She s terri ed of the Warden, she thinks
he s evil. He killed Miriam s brother and he s probably killing Gas-
coigne now. She s terrified that he ll harm her baby.
That s ridiculous! Neither of you can believe that. It's the last thing
he ll want to do. Once he gets possession of the child his power will
be immensely increased, not just in Britain, all over the world.
Not his power, mine. I m not worried about her safety. The
Council won t harm her, or the baby. But it will be me not Xan
Lyppiatt who presents my child to the world, and then we ll see
who s Warden of England.
80 what are your plans?
How do you mean? Rolf s voice was suspicious.
Well, you must have some idea what you plan to do ifyou manage
to wrest power away from the Warden.
164
'It won t be a question of wresting it away. The people will give it
to me. They ll have to if they want Britain repopulated.
Oh, I see. The people will give it to you. Well, you're probably
right. What then?
I shall appoint my own Council but without Xan Lyppiatt as a
member. Lyppiatt s had his share of power.
Presumably you ll do something about pacifying the Isle of Man.
That s hardly a high priority. The country won t exactly thank me
for releasing a gang of criminal psychopaths on them. I ll wait until
they reduce themselves by natural wastage. That problem will solve
itself.
Theo said: I imagine that s Lyppiatt s idea, too. It won t please
Miriam.
I don t have to please Miriam. She has her job to do and when
that s done she ll be appropriately rewarded.
And the Sojourners? Are you planning better treatment for them
or Will you put a stop to all immigration of young foreigners? After
all, their own COuntries need them.
l ll control it and see that the ones we do let in get fair and firm
treatment.
I imagine that s what the Warden thinks he s doing. What about
the Quietus?
l shan t interfere With people s liberty to kill themselves in the
way they find most convenient.
The Warden of England would agree.
Rolf said: What I can do and he can t is to father the new race.
We ve already got details of all healthy females in the thirty to fifty
age group on the computer. There ll be tremendous competition for
fertile sperm. Obviously there s a danger in interbreeding. That s
why we have got to select very carefully for superb physical health
and high intelligence.
The Warden of England would approve. That was his plan.
But he hasn t got the sperm, I have.
Theo said: There s one thing you haven t apparently considered.
It will depend on what she gives birth to, won t it? The child will
have to be normal and healthy. Suppose she's carrying a monster?
Why should he be a monster? Why shouldn t he be normal, my
child and hers?
The moment of vulnerability, of shared confidence, the secret fear
165
at last acknowledged and given voice provoked in Theo a second of
sympathy. It wasn t enough to make him like his companion; it was
enOugh to prevent him Speaking what was in his mind: it may be
luckier for you if the child is abnormal, deformed, an idiot, a monster.
If he s healthy you ll be a breeding, experimental animal for the rest
of your life. You don't imagine the Warden will give up his power,
even to the father of the new race? They may need your sperm, but
they can get possession of enough of that to populate England and
half the world, and then decide that you re expendable. Once the
Warden sees you as a threat that s probably what will happen.
But he didn t speak.
Three figures appeared out of the darkness, Luke first, behind him
Miriam and Julian, holding hands, walking carefully over the humpy
verge. Rolf got in behind the Wheel.
All right, he said, let s get moving. From now on, I m doing the
driving.
166
24
As soon as the car jolted forward Theo knew that Rolf would drive
too fast, He glanced at him, wondering if he dared risk a warning,
hoping that the surface would improve and make it unnecessary. In
the bleaching beam of the head ghts the pustuleus road looked as
eerie and alien as a moon landscape, at once close yet mysteriously
remote and perpetual. Rolf was gazing through the windscreen with
the fierce intensity of a rally driver, wrenching the wheel as each
fresh obstruction sprang up from the darkness. The road, with its
pot-holes, its ruts and ridges, would have been hazardous for a
careful driver. Now, under Rolf s brutal handling, the car jumped
and lurched, swaying the three tightly wedged back passengers from
side to side.
Miriam struggled free to lean forward, and said: Take it easy, Rolf.
Slow down. This isn t good for Julian. D you want a premature
labour?
Her voice was calm, but her authority was absolute, its effect
immediate. Rolf at once eased his foot on the accelerator. But it was
too late. The car juddered and leapt, swerved Violently and for three
seconds spun out of control. Rolf slammed his foot on the brake and
they jerked to a stop.
He said, almost under his breath, Bloody hell! A front puncture.
There was no point in recriminations. Theo undid his seat belt.
There s a spare wheel in the boot. Let s get the car off the road.
They clambered out and stood in the dark shadow of the hedge
while Rolf steered the car on to the grass verge. Theo saw that they
were in open rolling country, probably, he thought, about ten miles
from Stratford. On either side ran an unkempt hedge of high, tangled
bushes broken by tom gaps through which they could see the scarred
ridges of the ploughed field. Julian, wrapped in her cloak, stood
calmly and silently, like a docile child taken on a picnic and waiting
patiently for some minor mishap to be remedied by the adults.
Miriam's voice was calm, but she could not disguise the underlying
note of anxiety. How long will it take?
167
Rolf was looking round. He said: About twenty minutes, less if
we re lucky. But we ll be safer off the road where we can t be seen.
Without an explanation he walked briskly ahead. They waited,
their eyes staring after him. Within less than a minute he was back.
About a hundred yards to the right there s a gate and a rough track.
It looks as if it leads to a clump of trees. We ll be safer there. God
knows this road s practically impassable, but if we can drive down it
so can others. We can t risk some fool stopping and offering to help.
Miriam objected: How far is it? We don t want to go further than
we need and it will be tough on the wheel rim.
Rolf said: We ve got to get under cover. I can t be sure how long
the job will take. We have to get well out of sight of the road.
Silently Theo agreed with him. It was more important to remain
undetected than to cover the miles. The SSP would have no idea in
which direction they were travelling and, unless they had already
discovered Iasper s body, no name or number for the car. He got into
the driver s seat and Rolf made no objection.
He said: With all those supplies in the boot We d better lighten the
load. Julian can ride, the rest of us will walk.
The gate and the path were Closer than Theo had expected. The
rough track ran gently uphill along the edge of an unploughed field,
obviously long ago left to seed. The track had been rutted and
chevroned by the heavy tyres of tractors; the central ridge was
crowned with tall grasses which shook like frail antennae in the
headlights. Theo drove slowly and with great care, Julian in the seat
beside him, the three silent figures moving like dark shadows
alongside. When they came to the clump of trees he saw that the
wood offered denser cover than he had expected. But there was a
nal obstacle. Between it and the track was a deep gully over six feet
Wide.
Rolf banged on the car window. He said: Wait here a moment,
and again dashed ahead. He came back and said: There is a way
across about thirty yards on. It looks as if it leads into a kind of
clearing.
The entrance to the wood was a narrow bridge compounded of
sliced logs and earth now covered with grass and weeds. Theo saw
with relief that it was wide enough to take the car, but waited while
Rolf took the torch and inspected the logs to make sure they hadn t
rotted. He gave a wave and Theo manoeuvred the car across with
168
little difficulty. The car bumped gently forward and was enclosed by
a grove of beech trees, their high boughs arched into a canopy of
bronzed leaves, intricate as a carved roof. Getting out, Theo saw that
they had come to a stop in a mush of dead and crackling leaves and
split beech nuts.
It was Rolf and Theo Who together tackled the front wheel with
Miriam holding the torch. Luke and Julian stood together and
watched silently while Rolf lugged out the spare wheel, the jack and
the wheel brace. But removing the Wheel proved more diffiCult than
Theo had expected. The bolts had been screwed very tightly and
neither he nor Rolf could get them to move.
The torchlight moved erratically as Miriam squatted to a more
comfortable position. Rolf said impatiently: For God s sake hold it
steady. I can t see what I m doing. And it s very dim.
A second later the light went out.
Miriam didn twait for Rolf s question. She said: There isn't a spare
battery. Sorry. We ll have to stick here until morning.
Theo waited for Rolf s explosion of irritation. It didn t come.
Instead he got up and said calmly: Then we may as well have
something to eat and make ourselves comfortable for the rest of the
night.
169
25
Theo and Rolf elected to sleep on the ground, the other three chose
the car, Luke in the front seat and the two women curled up in the
back. Theo scooped up armfuls of beech leaves, spread out Iasper s
raincoat and covered himself with a blanket and his own coat.
His last consciousness was of distant voices as the women settied
themselves for sleep, of the crackle of twigs as he wriggled deeper
into the bed of leaves. Before he slept the wind began to rise, not
strong enough to agitate the low boughs of the beech above his head,
but making a far-off, distant sound as if the wood was stirring into
life.
Next morning he opened his eyes to the pattern of bronze and
russet beech leaves broken by thin shafts of pale milky light. He was
aware of the hardness of the earth, of the smell of loam and leaves,
pungent and obscurely comforting. He struggled from under the
weight of blanket and coat and stretched, aware of an ache in his
shoulders and the small of his back. He was surprised that he had
slept so soundly on a bed which, initially wonderfully soft, had
compacted under his weight and now felt like a board.
It looked as if he was the last to wake. The doors of the car were
open, the seats empty. Someone had already brewed the morning
tea. On the attened ridge of a log were five mugs, all from Iasper s
collection of coronation mugs, and a metal teapot. The coloured mugs
looked curiously festive.
Rolf said: Help yourself.
Miriam had a pillow in each hand and was shaking them Vigor-
ously. She carried them back to the car where Rolf had already started
work on the wheel. Theo drank his tea, then went over to help him
and they worked together, efficiently and companionably. Rolf s
iarge, square-fingered hands were remarkably dextrous. Perhaps
because they were both rested, less anxious, no longer dependent
on a single beam of torchlight, the previously intractable nuts yielded
to their joint effort.
17o
Gathering up a fistful of leaves to wipe his hands, Theo asked:
Where are Julian and Luke?
It was Rolf who replied. Saying their prayers. They do every day.
When they come back we ll have breakfast. I ve put Luke in charge
of the rations. It's good for him to have something more useful to do
than saying his prayers with my wife.
Couldn t they pray here? We ought to keep together.
They aren t far off. They like to be private. Anyway, I can t stop
them. Julian likes it and Miriam tells me I m to keep her calm and
happy. Apparently praying keeps her calm and happy. It s some
kind of ritual for them. It doesn t do any harm. Why don t you go
and join them if you're worried?
Theo said: I don t think they d want me.
I don t know, they might. They might try to convert you. Are you
a Christian?
No, I m not a Christian.
What do you believe, then?
Believe about what?
The things that religious people think are important. Whether
there is a God. How do you explain evil? What happens when we
die? Why are we here? How ought we to live our lives?
Theo said: The last is the most important, the only question that
really matters. You don t have to be religious to believe that. And
you don t have to be a Christian to find an answer.
Rolf turned to him and asked, as if he really wanted to know: But
what do you believe? I don t just mean religion. What are you sure
of?
That once I was not and that now I am. That one day I shall no
longer be.
Rolf gave a short laugh, harsh as a shout. That s safe enough. No
one can argue with that. What does he believe, the Warden of
England?
I don t know. We never discussed it.
Miriam came over and, sitting with her back against a trunk,
stretched out her legs Wide, closed her eyes and lifted her face, gently
smiling, to the sky, listening but not speaking.
Rolf said: I used to believe in God and the Devil and then one
morning, when I was twelve, I lost my faith. I woke up and found
that I didn t be eve in any of the things the Christian Brothers had
171
taught me. I thought if that ever happened I'd be too frightened to
go on living, but it didn t make any difference. One night I went to
bed believing and the next morning I woke up unbelieving. I couldn t
even tell God I was sorry because he wasn t there any more. And yet
it didn t really matter. It hasn t mattered ever since.
Miriam said without opening her eyes: What did you put in His
empty place?
There wasn t any empty place. That s what I m telling you.
What about the Devil?
I believe in the Warden of England. He exists. He s Devil enough
for me to be going on with.
Theo walked away from them and made his way down the narrow
path between the trees. He was still uneasy about Julian s absence,
uneasy and angry. She ought to know that they must keep together,
ought to reah ze that someone, a rambler, a woodman, an estate
worker, might come along the lane and see them. It wasn't only the
State Security Police or the Grenadiers they needed to fear. He knew
that he was feeding irritation with irrational anxieties. Who in this
deserted place and at this hour was likely to surprise them? Anger
welled up in him, disturbing in its vehemence.
And then he saw them. They were only fty yards away from the
clearing and the car, kneeling in a small green patch of moss. They
were totaiiy absorbed. Luke had set up his altar one of the tin boxes
upturned and spread with a tea-towel. On it was a single candle
stuck in a saucer. Beside it was another saucer with two crumbs of
bread and, beside that, a small mug. He was wearing a cream stole.
Theo wondered if he had been carrying it rolled in his pocket. They
were unaware ofhis presence and they reminded him of two children
totally absorbed in some primitive game; their faces grave and
dappled by the shadow of the leaves. He watched as Luke lifted the
saucer with the two crumbs in his left hand, placing his right palm
above it. Julian bent her head lower so that she seemed to crouch
into the ground.
The words, half remembered from his distant childhood, were
spoken very quietiy but came to Theo clearly. Hear us, 0 merciful
Father, we most humbly beseech thee; and grant that we receiving
these thy creatures of bread and wine, according to thy Son our
Saviour Jesus Christ s holy institution, in remembrance of his death
and passion, may be partakers of his most blessed Body and Blood:
172
who, in the same night that he was betrayed, took Bread; and, when
he had given thanks, he brake it, and gave it to his disciples, saying,
Take, eat; this is my Body which is given for you: Do this in
remembrance of me.
He stood back in the shelter of the trees and watched. In memory
he was back in that dull little church in Surrey in his Sunday dark-
blue suit, Mr Greenstreet, his self-importance carefully controlled,
ushering the congregation pew by pew to the communion rail. He
remembered his mother s bent head. He had felt excluded then and
he felt excluded now.
Slipping away from the trees he went back to the clearing. He said:
They ve nearly finished. They won t be long now.
Rolf said: They never are long. We may as well wait breakfast for
them. I suppose we should be grateful Luke doesn t feel the need to
preach her a sermon.
His voice and smile were indulgent. Theo wondered about his
relationship with Luke, whom he seemed to tolerate as he might a
well-meaning child who couldn t be expected to make a full adult
contribution but who was doing his best to be useful and was no
trouble. Was Rolf merely indulging what he saw as the whim of a
pregnant woman? If Julian wanted the services of a personal chap-
lain, then he was prepared to include Luke in the Five Fishes even
though he had no practical skills to offer. Or had Rolf in that
single and complete rejection of his chiidhood religion retained an
unacknowledged vestige of superstition? Did he with part of his
mind see Luke as the miracle~worker who could turn dry crumbs into
esh, the bringer of luck, the possessor of mystic powers and ancient
charms, Whose very presence among them could propitiate the
dangerous gods of the forest and the night?
173
26
Friday 15 October 2021
I am writing this entry sitting in the glade of a beechwood, my back
against a tree. It is late afternoon and the shadows are beginningto
lengthen but, within the grove, the warmth of day still lingers. I have
a conviction that this is the last diary entry I shall make, but even if
neither I nor these words survive, I need to record this day. It has
been one of extraordinary happiness and I have spent it with four
strangers. In the years before Omega, at the beginning of each
academic year, I used to write an assessment of the appiicants I had
selected for admission to college. This record, with a photograph
from their application form, I kept in a private file. At the end of their
three years itused tointerestme to see how often my preliminary pen-
portrait was accurate, how little they had changed, how powerless I
was to alter their essential natures. I was seidom wrong about them.
The exercise reinforced my natural confidence in my judgement;
perhaps that was its purpose. I believed that I could know them and
did know them. I can t feel that about my fellow fugitives. I still know
practically nothing about them; their parents, their families, their
education, their loves, their hopes and desires. Yet today I have
never felt so much at ease with other human beings as I have been
with these four strangers to whom I am now, still half-reluctantly,
committed and one of whom I am learning to love.
It has been a perfect autumn day, the sky a clear azure blue, the
sunlight mellow and gentle but strong as high June, the air sweet~
scented, carrying the illusion of wood smoke, mown hay, the gath
ered sweets of summer. Perhaps because the beech grove is so
remote, so enclosed, we have shared a sense of absolute safety. We
have occupied our time in dozing, talking, working, playing childish
games with stones and twigs and pages torn from my diary. Rolf has
checked and cleaned the car. Watching his meticulous attention to
every inch, his energetic rubbing and polishing, it was impossible to
believe this innocently employed natural mechanic with his simple
174
pleasure in the job was the same Rolf who yesterday had displayed
such arrogance, such naked ambition.
Luke busied himself With the stores. Rolf showed some natural
leadership in giving him this responsibility. Luke decided that we
should eat the fresh food first and then the tins in their date-stamped
order, discovering in this obviously sensible priority an unwonted
confidence in his own administrative ability. He has sorted out the
tins, made lists, devised menus. After we had eaten he would sit
quietly with his prayer book or come to join Miriam and Julian while
I read to them from Emma. Lying back on the beech leaves and gazing
up at the glimpses of the strengthening blue sky I felt as innocently
joyous as if we were having a picnic. We were having a picnic. We
didn t discuss plans for the future or the dangers to come. Now that
seems extraordinary to me, but I think it was less a conscious decision
not to plan or argue or discuss than a Wish to keep this day inviolate.
And I haven t spent time re reading the early entries in this diary. In
my present euphoria I have no wish to encounter that self regarding,
sardonic and solitary man. The diary has lasted less than ten months
and, after today, I shail no longer have need of it.
The light is failing now and I can hardly see the page. In another
hour we shall begin the journey. The car, shining under Rolf s
ministrations, is packed and ready. Just as I feel con dent that this
will be the last entry in my diary, so I know that we shall face dangers
and horrors at present unimaginable to me. I have never been
superstitious, but this belief cannot be argued or reasoned away.
Believing it, I am still at peace. And I am glad we have had this
respite, these happyinnocenthours stolen, it seems, out ofinexorable
time. During the afternoon, while rummaging in the back of the car,
Miriam found a second torch, little larger than a pencil, wedged
down the side of a seat. It would hardly have been adequate to
replace the one which failed, but I am grateful we didn t know it was
there. We needed this day.
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27
The dashboard clock showed five minutes to three, later than Theo
had expected. The road, narrow and deserted, opened palely before
them, then slid under the wheels like a strip of torn and soiled linenr
The surface was deteriorating and from time to time the car jolted
Violently as they struck a pot hole. It was impossible to drive fast on
such a road; he dared not risk a second puncture. The night was dark
but not totally black; the half moon reeled between the scudding
clouds, the stars were high pin-pricks of half-forrned constellations,
the Milky Way a smudge of light. The car, handling easily, seemed
to be a moving refuge, warmed by their breath, smelling faintly of
familiar, unfrightening things which in his bemused state he tried to
identify: petrol, human bodies, Jasper s old dog, long since dead,
even the faint aroma of peppermint. Rolf was beside him, silent but
tense, staring ahead. In the back seat Julian sat squashed between
Miriam and Luke. It was the least comfortable seat but the one she
had wanted; perhaps being buttressed by the two bodies gave her
an illusion of added safety. Her eyes were closed, her head rested on
Miriam s shoulder. Then, as he watched in the mirror, it jerked,
slipped and lolled forward. Gently Miriam raised it to a more
comfortable position. Luke, too, looked asleep, his head thrown
back, his mouth a little open.
The road curved and twisted but its surface became smoother.
Theo was lulled into confidence bythe hours oftrouble-free motoring.
Perhaps, after all, the journey need not be disastrous. Gascoigne
would have talked, but he hadn t known about the child. In Xan s
eyes the Five Fishes were surely a small and contemptible band of
amateurs. He might not even bother to have them hunted down. For
the first time since the journey began there rose in him a spring of
hope.
He saw the fallen trunk only just in time and braked Violently a
moment before the car bonnet scraped its jutting branches. Rolf
jerked awake and swore. Theo switched off the engine. There was a
moment of silence in which two thoughts, following so quickly they
176
were almost instantaneous, shook him into full consciousness. The
first was relief; the trunk didn t look heavy despite its bush of autumn
ieaves. He and the other two men could probably drag it clear without
much trouble. The second realization was horror. It couldn t have
fallen so inconveniently; there had been no recent strong winds. This
was a deliberate obstruction.
And in that second the Omegas were upon them. Horribly, they
came at firstunheard, in total silence. At each car window the painted
faces stared in, lit by the ames of torches. Miriam gave a short
involuntary scream. Rolf yelled Back! Reverse! and tried to seize the
wheel and gear stick. Their hands locked. Theo thrust him aside and
slammed the gears into reverse. The engine roared into life, the car
shot back. They crashed to a stop with a violence which threw
him forward. The Omegas must have moved quickly and silently,
imprisoning them with a second obstruction. And now the faces
were at the windows again. He stared into two expressionless eyes,
gleaming, white-rirnmed, in a mask of blue, red and yellow swirls.
Above the painted forehead the hair was dragged back into a top-
l<not. In one hand the Omega held a aming torch, in the other a
club, like a policeman s truncheon, decorated with thin pigtails of
hair. Theo remembered with horror being told that when the Painted
Faces killed they cut off the hair of the victim and braided it into a
trophy, a rumour he had only half believed, part of the folklore of
terror. Now he gazed in fascinated horror at the dangling plait and
wondered whether it had come from the head of a man or a woman.
No one in the car spoke. The silence, which had seemed to East for
minutes, could have been held for seconds only. And then the ritual
dance began. With a great whoop the figures slowly pranced round
the car, beating their truncheons on the sides and the roof, a rhythmic
drumbeat to the high chanting voices. They were wearing shorts
only but their bodies were unpainted. The naked chests looked white
as milk in the ame ofthe torches, the rib-cages de cately vulnerable.
The jerking legs, the ornate heads, the patterned faces slit by wide,
yodeiiingmouths, made itpossible to see them as a gangofovergrown
Children playing their disruptive but essentially innocent games.
Was it possible, Theo wondered, to talk to them, to reason with
them, establish at least a recognition of common humanity? He
wasted no time on the thought. He remembered once meeting one
of their Victims and a snatch of their conversation came into his mind.
177
They re said to kill the single sacrificial Victim, but on this occasion,
thank God, they were satisfied with the car. He had added: }ust
don t meddle with them. Abandon yOur vehicle and get away. For
him, escape hadn t been easy; for them, encumbered with a pregnant
woman, it seemed impossible. But there was one fact which might
divert them from murder, if they were capable of rational thought
and believed it: Julian s pregnancy. The evidence was now sufficient
even for an Omega. But he had no need to ask himself what Julian s
reaction to that would be; they hadn t ed from Xan and the Council '
to fall into the power of the Painted Faces. He looked back at Julian.
She was sitting with her head bowed. Presumably she was praying.
He wished her good luck with her god. Miriam s eyes were wide and
terrified. It was impossible to see Luke s face, but from his seat Rolf
poured out a stream of Obscenities.
The dance continued, the whirling bodies moving ever faster, the
chanting louder. It was dif cult to see how many there were but he
judged there couldn't be less than a dozen. They were making no
move to open the car doors but the locks, he knew, provided no real
safety. There were enough of them to overturn the car. There were
torches to set it alight. It was only a matter of time before they were
forced out.
Theo s thoughts were racing. What chance was there of a successful
ight, at least for julian and Rolf? Through the kaleidoscope of
prancingbodies he studied the terrain. To the left was a low crumbling
stone wall, in parts, he judged, no more than three feet high. Beyond
it he could see a dark fringe of trees. He had the gun, the single
bullet, but he knew that even to show the gun could be fatal. He
could kill only one; the rest would fall on them in a fury of retaliation.
It would be a massacre. It was useless to think of physical force,
outnumbered as they were. The darkness was their only hope. If
Julian and Rolf could reach the fringe of trees there was at least a
chance of concealment. To keep running, crashing dangerously and
noisily through the undergrowth of an unfamiliar wood would only
invite pursuit, but it might be possible to hide. Success would depend
on whether the Omegas bothered to pursue. There was a chance, if
only a small one, that they would content themselves with the car
and their remaining three victims.
He thought, they mustn t see that we re talking, mustn t know
that we re scheming to get away. There was no fear that their words
178
would be overheard; the whoops and cries which made the night
hideous almost drowned his voice. It was necessary to Speak loudly
and clearly if Luke and Julian in the back were to hear, but he was
careful not to turn his head.
He said: They ll make us get out in the end. We ll have to plan
exactly what we re going to do. It s up to you, Rolf. When they pull
us out, get Julian over that wall, then run for the trees and hide.
Choose your moment. The rest of us will try to cover for you.
Rolf said: How? How do you mean cover? How can you cover for
us?
By talking. By taking their attention. Then inspiration came to
him. By joining the dance.
Rolf s voice was high, close to hysteria. Dance with those fuckers?
What sort of a gig d you think this is? They don t talk. These fuckers
don't talk and they don t dance with their w ctims. They burn, they
kill.
Never more than one victim. We have to see that it isn't Julian or
you.
They ll come after us. Julian can t run.
I doubt whether they ll bother with three other possible victims
and the car to burn. We ve got to choose the right moment. Get Iulian
Over that wall if you have to drag her. Then make for the trees.
Understand?
'It s crazy.
If you can think of another plan, let s have it.
After a moment s thought, Rolf said: We could show Julian to
them. Tell them she s pregnant, let them see for themselves. Tell
them I m the father. We could make a pact with them. At least that
would keep us alive. We ll talk to them now, before they try to drag
us from the car.
From the back seat Julian spoke for the first time. She said Clearly:
No.
After that single word no one spoke for a moment. Then Theo said
again: They ll make us get out in the end. Either that, or they ll fire
the car. That's why we have to plan now exactly what we re going to
do. If we join the dance - if they don t kill us then - we may distract
their attention for long enough to give you and Julian a chance.
Rolf s voice was ciose to hysteria. I m not moving. They ll have to
drag me out.
179
That s what they will do.
Luke spoke for the rst time. He said: If we don t provoke them
perhaps they ll get tired and go away.
Theo said: They won t go away. They always burn the car. It s a
choice for us of being outside or in when they do.
There was a crash. The windscreen shivered into a maze of cracks
but didn t break. Then one of the Omegas swung his club at the front
window. The glass smashed, falling over Roif s lap. The night air
rushed into the car with the chill of death. Rolf gasped and jerked
back as the Omega thrust in his lighted torch and held it blazing
against his face.
The Omega laughed, then said in a voice that was ingratiating,
educated, almost enticing: Come out, come out, come out, whoever
you are.
There were two more crashes and the rear Windows went. Miriam
gave a cry as a torch scorched her face. There was a smell of singeing
hair. Theo had only time to say, Remember. The dance. Then make
for the wall, before the five of them tumbled from the car and were
seized and dragged clear.
They were at once surrounded. The Omegas, holding their torches
high in their left hands, their clubs in their right, stood for a second
regarding them, and then began again their ritual dance with their
captives in the centre. But this time their movements were at first
slower, more ceremonial, the chanting deeper, nolonger a celebration
but a dirge. At once Theo joined in, raising his arms, twisting his
body, mixing his voice with theirs. One by one the other four slipped
into place in the ring. They were separated. That was bad. He wanted
Rolf and Julian close so that he could give them the signal to move.
But the first part of the plan and the most dangerous had worked.
He had feared that, with his first move, they would have struck him
down, had braced himself for the one annihilating blow that would
have put an end to responsibility, an end to life. It hadn t come.
And now, as if in obedience to secret orders, the Omegas began to
stamp in unison, faster and faster, then broke out again into their
whirling dance. The Omega in front of him twisted, then began to
prance backwards with light delicate steps, like a cat, whirling his
club above his head. He grinned into Theo s face, their noses almost
touching. Theo could smell him, a musty smell which was not
unpleasant, could see the intricate whirls and curves of the paint,
180
blue, red and black, outlining cheekbones, sweeping above the line
of the brow, covering every inch of the face in a pattern which was
at once barbaric and sophisticated. For a second he had a memory of
the painted South Sea Islanders with their top knots in the Pitt Rivers
Museum, of Julian and himself standing together in that quiet
emptiness.
The Omega s eyes, black pools among the blaze of colour, held
his. He dared not shift his glance to look for Julian or Rolf. Round
and round they danced, faster and faster. When would Rolf and
Julian make their move? Even as he gazed into the Omega s eyes his
mind was willing them to make a dash for it, now, before their captors
tired of this spurious comradeship. And then the Omega twisted
away from him to dance forward and he was able to turn his head.
Rolf, with Julian beside him, was at the far side of the ring, Rolf
jigging in a clumsy parody of a dance, holding his arms stif y aloft,
Julian clasping her cloak with her left hand, her right hand free, her
cloaked body swaying in time to the clamour of the dancers.
And then there was a moment of horror. The Omega prancing
behind her put out his left hand and caught her plaited hair. He gave
it a tug and the plait came apart. She paused for a second then began
dancing again, the hair swirling about her face. They were coming
up now to the grass verge and to the lowest part of the wall. He could
see it clearly in the torchlight, the fallen stones on the grass, the black
shape of the trees beyond. He wanted to cry aloud, Now. Make it
now. Go! Go! And at that moment Rolf acted. He grabbed Iulian s
hand and together they dashed for the wall. Rolf jumped it first,
then half-swung, half dragged Julian across. Some of the dancers,
absorbed, ecstatic, went on with their high wailing, but the Omega
closest to them was swift. He dropped his torch and, with a wild cry,
dashed after them and seized the end of Julian s cloak as it brushed
across the wall.
And then Luke sprang forward. Seizing the Omega he tried
ineffectually to drag him back, crying out: No, no. Take me! Take
me!
The Omega let go of the cloak and, with a cry of fury, turned on
Luke. For a second Theo saw Julian hesitate, stretching out an arm,
but Rolf jerked her away and the two eeing figures were lost among
the shadows of the trees. It was over in seconds, leaving Theo with
a confused picture of Julian s outstretched arm and beseeching eyes,
181
of Rolf hauling her away, of the Omega's torch aming among the
grasses.
And now the Omegas had their self selected Victim. A terrible
silence fell as they closed around him, ignoring Theo and Miriam. At
the first crack of wood on bone, Theo heard a single scream but he
couldn t tell whether it came from Miriam or Luke. And then Luke
was down, and his murderers fell upon him like beasts round their
prey, jostling for a place, raining their blows in a frenzy. The dance
was over, the ceremony of death ended, the killing had begun. They
killed in silence, a terrible silence in which it seemed to Theo that he
could hear the crack and splinter of every single bone, could feel his
ears bursting with the gushing 0f Luke s blood. He seized Miriam
and dragged her to the wall.
She gasped: No. We can t, we can t! We can t leave him.
We must. We can t help him now. Julian needs you.
The Omegas made no move to follow. When Theo and Miriam
gained the outskirts of the wood they paused and looked back. And
now the killing looked less like a frenzy ofblood lust than a calculated
murder. Five or six of the Omegas were holding their torches aloft in
a circle within which, silently now, the dark shapes of the half naked
bodies, arms wielding their clubs, rose and feIl in a ritual ballet of
death. Even from this distance it seemed to Theo that the air was
splintered with the smashing of Luke s bones. But he knew that he
could hear nothing, nothing but the rasp of Miriam s breathing and
the thudding of his own heart. He was aware that Rolf and Julian
had come up quietly behind them. Together they watched in silence
as the Omegas, their work completed, broke again into a whoop of
triumph and rushed to the captured car. In the torchlight Theo could
make out the shape of a wide gate to the field bordering the road.
Two of the Omegas held it open and the car lurched over the grass
verge and through the gate, driven by one of the gang, the rest
pushing it from behind. They must, Theo knew, have their own
vehicle, probably a small van, although he couldn t remember seeing
it. Buthe had a moment s ridiculous hope that they might temporarily
abandon it in the excitement of firing the car, that there might be a
chance, however small, that he could get to it, might even find that
they had left the keys in the ignition. The thought, he knew, had
never been rational. Even as it entered his mind he saw that a small
182
black van was being driven up the road and through the gate into
the fieId.
They didn t go far, Theo judged no more than fifty yards. Then
the whooping and the wild dancing began again. There was an
explosion as the Renaultburst into ames. And with it went Miriam's
medical supplies, their food, their water, their blankets. With it went
all their hope.
He heard Julian s voice: We can get Luke now. Now, While they re
occupied.
Rolf said: Better leave it. If they find he s gone it will only remind
them that we re still here. We ll get him later.
Julian tugged gently at Theo s sleeve. Please get him. There may
be a chance that he s still alive.
Miriam spoke out of the darkness: He won t be alive, but I m not
leaving him there. Dead or alive, we re together.
She was aiready moving forward when Theo caught her by her
sleeve. He said quietly: 'Stay with Julian. Rolf and I will manage.
Without looking at Rolf he made for the road. At first he thought
he was alone, but in a few moments Rolf had moved alongside him.
When they reached the dark shape huddled on its side as if asleep,
Theo said: 'You re the stronger. You take the head.
Together they turned the body over. Luke s face had gone. Even
in the distant ruddy light cast by the aming car they could see that
the whole head had been battered into a mess of blood, skin and
cracked bones. The arms lay askew, the legs seemed to buckle as
Theo braced himself to lift him. It was like trying to take hold of a
broken marionette.
He was lighter than Theo had expected, although he could hear
his and Rolf s rasping breath as they crossed the shallow ditch
between the road and the wall and eased the body over. When they
joined the others Julian and Miriam turned without a word and
walked ahead, as if part of a prearranged funeral procession. Miriam
switched on the torch and they followed the tiny pool of light. The
journey seemed endless but Theo judged that they could only have
been walking for a minute when they came across a fallen tree.
He said: We'Il lay him down here.
Miriam had been careful not to shine the torch on Luke. Now she
said to Julian: Don t look at him. You don t need to took at him.
183
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Julian s voice was calm. I have to see. If I don t see it will be worse.
Give me the torch.
Without another protest Miriam handed it over. Julian shone it
slowly over Luke s body then, kneeling at his head, tried to wipe the
blood from his face with her skirt. .
Miriam said gently: It's no use. There s nothing there any more.
Julian said: He died to save me.
He died to save all of us.
Theo was suddenly aware of a great weariness. He thought, we ve
got to bury him. We have to get him underground before we move
on. But move on where and how? Somehow they must get hold of
another car, food, water, blankets. But the greatest need now was
water. He craved water, thirst driving outhunger.]u1ian was kneeling
by Luke s body, cradling his shattered head in her lap, her dark hair
falling over his face. She made no sound.
Then Rolf bent down and took the torch from Julian s hand. He
shone it full on Miriam s face. She blinked in the thin but intense
beam, instinctively putting up her hand. His voice was low and
harsh, and so distorted that it might have been forced through a
diseased larynx. He said: Whose child is she carrying?
Miriam put down her hand and looked at him steadily but didn t
speak.
He repeated: I asked you, whose child is she carrying?
His voice was clearer now, but Theo could see that his whole body
was shaking. Instinctively he moved closer to Julian.
Rolf turned on him. Keep out of this! This is nothing to do with
you. I m asking Miriam. Then he repeated more violently, Nothing
to do with you! Nothing!
Julian s voice came out of the darkness: Why not ask me?
For the first time since Luke had died he turned to her. The
torchiight moved steadily and slowly from Miriam s face to hers.
She said: Luke s. The child is Luke s. '
Rolf s voice was very quiet: Are you sure?
Yes, I m sure.
He shone the torch down on Luke s body and scrutinized it with
the cold professional interest of an executioner checking that the
condemned is dead, that there is no need for the final coup de grace.
Then, with a violent motion he turned away from them, stumbled
184
between the trees and ung himself against one of the beeches,
encircling it With his arms.
Miriam said: My God, what a time to ask! And what a time to be
told.
Theo said: Go to him, Miriam.
My skills aren t any use to him. He ll have to cope with this by
himself.
Julian still knelt by Luke s head. Theo and Miriam, standing
together, stared fixedly at that dark shadow as if afraid that unmarked
it would disappear among the darker shadows of the wood. They
could hear no sound but it seemed to Theo that Rolf was rubbing his
face against the bark like a tormented animal trying to rid itself of
stinging ies. And now he was thrusting his whole body against the
tree as if venting his anger and agony on the unyielding wood.
Watching those jerking limbs in their obscene parody of lust
reinforced for Theo the indecency of witnessing so much pain.
He turned away and said quietly to Miriam: Did you know that
Luke was the father?"
I knew.
She told you?
I guessed.
But you said nothing.
'What did you expect me to say? it was never my practice to inquire
who fathered the babies I delivered. A baby is a baby.
This one is different.
'Not to a midwife .
Did she love him?
Ah, that s what men always want to know. You d better ask her.
Theo said: Miriam, please talk to me about this.
i think she was sorry for him. I don t think she loved either of
them, neither Rolf nor Luke. She s beginning to love you, whatever
that means, but I think you know that. If you hadn t known it, or
hoped for it, you wouldn t be here.
'Wasn t Luke ever tested? Or did both he and Rolf give up going
for their sperm test?
Rolf has, at least during the last few months. He thought that the
technicians had been careless or that they re just not bothering to test
half the specimens they take. Luke was exempt from testing. He had
mild epilepsy as a chiid. Like Julian, Luke was a reject.
185
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They had moved a little apart from Julian. Now, looking back at
her dark kneeling shape, Theo said: She s so calm. Anyone would
think she s having this child under the best possible circumstances.
What are the best possible citeumstances? Women have given
birth in war, revolutions, famine, concentration camps, on the march.
She s got the essentials, you and a midwife she trusts.
She trusts in her God.
Perhaps you should try doing the same. It might give you some
of her calm. Later when the baby comes, I shall need your help. I
certainly don t need your anxiety.
Do you? he asked.
She smiled, understanding the question. Believe in God? No, it s
too late for me. Ibelieve in Julian s strength and courage and in my
own skill. But if He gets us through this maybe I ll change my mind,
see if I can't get something going with Him.
I don t think He bargains.
Oh yes He does. I may not be religious but I know my Bible. My
mother saw to that. He bargains all right. But He s supposed to be
just. If He wants belief He d better provide some evidence.
That He exists?
That He cares.
And still they stood, eyes watching that dark figure, hardly
discernible against the darker trunk of which he seemed to be part,
but quiet now, unmoving, resting against the tree as ifin an extremity
of exhaustion.
Theo said to Miriam, knowing the futility of the question even as
he asked it: Will he be all right?
I don t know. How can I know?
She moved from his side and walked towards Rolf, then stopped -
and stood quietly waiting, knowing that if he needed the comfort of
a human touch, there was no one else to whom he could turn.
Julian got up from Luke s body. Theo felt her cloak brush his arm
but he did not turn to look at her. He was aware of a mixture of
emotions, anger which he knew he had no right to feel, and relief,
so strong that it was close to joy, that Rolf wasn t the father of the
child. But the anger was for the moment the stronger. He wanted to
lash out at her, to say, '15 that what you were, then? Camp-follower
to the group? What about Gascoigne? How do you know the child
isn t his? But those words would be unforgivable and, worse,
186
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unforgettable. He knew that he had no right to question her but he
couldn t bite back the stark accusatory words nor hide the pain
behind them.
Did you love them, either of them? Do you love your husband?
She said quietly: Did you love your wife?
It was, he saw, a serious question, not a retaliation, and he gave it
a serious and truthful answer. I convinced myself I did when I
married. I willed myself into the appropriate feelings without know-
ing what the appropriate feelings were. I endowed her with qualities
she didn t have and then despised her for not having them. After-
wards I might have learned to love her if I had thought more of her
needs and less of my own.
He thought: portrait of a marriage. Perhaps most marriages, good
and bad, could be summed up in four sentences.
She looked at him steadily for a moment, then said: That s the
answer to your question.
And Luke?
No, I didn t love him, but I liked having him in love with me. I
envied him because he could love so much, could feel so much. No
one has wanted me with that intensity of emotion. So I gave him
what he wanted. If I had loved him it would have been . . . She
paused for a moment, then said, It would have been less sinful.
'Isn't that a strong word for a simple act of generosity?
But it wasn t a simple act of generosity. It was an act of self-
indulgence.
It wasn t, he knew, the time for such a conversation, but when
would there be a time? He had to know, had to understand. He said:
But it would have been all right, less sinful are the words you used,
if you d loved him. So you agree with Rosie McClure, love justifies
everything, excuses everything?
NO, but it's natural, it s human. What I did was to use Luke out
of curiosity, boredom, perhaps to get back a little at Rolf for caring
more for the group than he did for me, punishing Rolf because I'd
stopped loving him. Can you understand that, the need to hurt
someone because you can no longer love?
Yes, Iunderstand that.
She added: It was all very commonplace, predictable, ignoble.
Theo said: And tawdry.
'No. Not that. Nothing to do with Luke was tawdry. But it harmed
187
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him more than it gave him joy. But then you didn t think I was a
saint.
No, but I thought you were good.
She said quietly: Now you know that I m not.
Staring into the half darkness Theo saw that Rolf had detached ,
himself from the tree and was walking back to join them. Miriam
moved forward to meet him. The three pairs of eyes gazed at Rolf s
face, watching, waiting for his first words. When he got close, Theo
saw that the left cheek and forehead were an open wound, the skin
had been rubbed raw.
Rolf s voice was perfectly calm but oddly pitched so that for one
ridiculous moment Theo thought a stranger had crept up on them in
the darkness: Before we move we must get him buried. That means
waiting until it s light. We'd better get his coat off before he stiffens
too much. We need all the warm clothes we have.
Miriam said: 'Burying him won t be easy without some kind of
spade. The ground s soft but we need to scrape a hole somehow. We
can t just cover him with leaves.
Rolf said: It can wait till morning. We ll get the coat off now. It s
no use to him.
Having made the suggestion, he took no action to carry it out and
it was Miriam and Theo who between them rolled over the body and
eased the coat from both arms. The sleeves were heavily blood-
stained. Theo could feel them wet under his hands. They composed
the body again on its back, the arms straight at the side.
Rolf said: Tomorrow I ll get hold of another car. In the meantime
we ll get what rest we can.
They wedged themselves together in the wide fork of a fallen -
beech. A jutting branch still thickly hung with the brittle bronze
pennants of autumn provided an illusion of security, and they
huddled beneath it like children conscious of grave delinquencies,
hiding ineffectively from the searching adults. Rolf took the outside
place with Miriam next to him, then Julian between Miriam and
Theo. Their rigid bodies seemed to infect the air around them with
anxiety. The wood itself was distraught; its ceaseless small noises
hissed and whispered on the agitated air. Theo couldn t sleep, and
knew from the uneven breathing, suppressed coughs, and small
grunts and sighs that the others shared his vigil. There would be a
time for sleep. It would come with the greater warmth of the day,
188
with the burial of that dark, stiffening shape which, out of sight on
the other side of the fallen tree, was a living presence in all their
minds. He was aware of the warmth of Iulian s body pressed against
his and knew that she must feel from him a similar comfort. Miriam
had tucked Luke s coat around Julian and it seemed to Theo that he
could smell the drying blood. He felt suspended in a limbo of time,
aware of the cold, of thirst, of the innumerable small sounds of the
wood, but not of the passing hours. Like his companions he endured
and waited for the dawn.
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Daylight, tentative and bleak, stole like a chill breath into the wood,
wrapping itself round barks and broken boughs, touching the holes
of the trees and the low denuded branches, giving darkness and
mystery form and substance. Opening his eyes, Theo couldn tbelieve
that he had actually dozed, although he must have momentarily lost
consciousness since he had no recollection of Rolf getting up and
leaving them.
Now he saw him striding back through the trees. He said: I ve
been exploring. This isn t a proper wood, more a copse. It s only
about eighty yards wide. We can't hide here for long. There's a kind
of ditch between the end of the wood and the field. That should do
for him.
Again Rolf made no move to touch Luke's body. It was Miriam
and Theo who managed between them to raise it. Miriam held Luke s
legs, parted, resting against her thighs. Theo took the weight of the
head and shoulders, sensing that he could already detect the onset
of rigor. The body sagged between them as they followed Rolf
through the trees. Julian walked beside them, her cloak clutched
tightly round her, her face calm but very pale, Luke s bloodstained
coat and his cream stole folded over her arm. She carried them like
trophies of battle.
It was only about fty yards to the edge of the copse and they
fOund themselves looking out over a gently rolling countryside. The
harvest was over and bales of straw lay like pale bolsters haphazard
on the distant uplands. The sun, a ball of harsh white light, was
already beginning to dispel the thin mist which lay over fields and
far hills, absorbing the autumn colours and merging them to a soft
olive green in which the individual trees stood out like black cut~
outs. It was going to be another mellow autumn day. With a lifting
of the heart Theo saw that there was a hedge of laden blackberry
bushes edging the wood. It took all his self control not to drop Luke s
body and fall on them.
The ditch was shallow, no more than a narrow gully between the
190
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copse and the field. But it would have been difficult to find a more
convenient burial place. The field had recently been ploughed and
the ridged earth looked relatively soft. Bending, Theo and Miriam let
thebody rollfromtheir grasp and tumble into the shallow depression.
Theo wished that they could have done it more reverently, less as if
dumping an unwanted animal. Luke had come to rest face down
wards. Sensing that this wasn t what Julian wanted, he jumped into
the ditch and tried to turn the body over. The task was more difficult
than he had expected, better not attempted. In the end Miriam had
to help and they struggled together in the earth and leaves before
what remained of Luke s battered and mud-caked face was turned
upwards to the sky.
Miriam said: We can cover him rst with leaves, and then with
the earth.
Still Rolf made no move to help, but the other three went back into
the wood and came with armfuls of dried and mouldering leaves,
the brown lightened by the bright bronze of the newly fallen beech
leaves. Before they began the burial Julian rolled up Luke s stole and
dropped it into the grave. For a second Theo was tempted to protest.
They had so little; their Clothes, a small torch, the gun with the bullet.
The stole could have been useful. But for what? Why grudge Luke
what was his? The three of them covered the body with leaves, then
began with their hands shifting the soil from the edge of the field on
top of the grave. It would have been quicker and easier for Theo to
kick the sliced clots of earth over the body and stamp them down but
in Julian s presence he felt unable to act with such brutal efficiency.
Throughout the burial Julian had been silent but perfectly calm.
Suddenly she said: He should lie in consecrated ground. For the
first time she sounded distressed, uncertain, plaintive as a worried
child.
Theo felt a spurt of irritation. What, he nearly asked, did she expect
them to do? Wait until dark then dig up the body, lug it to the nearest
cemetery and re open one of the graves?
It was Miriam who replied. Looking at Iulian, she said gently:
Every place where a good man lies is consecrated ground.
Julian turned to Theo. Luke would want us to say the Burial
Service. His prayer book is in his pocket. Please do it for him.
She shook out the bloodstained coat and took from an inside breast
pocket the small black leather prayer book, then handed it to Theo.
191
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wasn't long, but even so decided to truncate it. He couldn t refuse
her, but it wasn t a task he welcomed. He began speaking the words,
Julian standing on his left and Miriam on his right. Rolf stood at the
foot of the grave, straddling it with his legs, his arms folded, gazing
ahead. His ravaged face was so white, the body so rigid that, looking '
up, Theo almost feared that he would crash forward over the soft
earth. But he felt an increased respect for him. It was impossible to
imagine the enormity of his disappointment or the bitterness of his
betrayal. But at least he was still on his feet. He wondered if he would
have been capable of such control. He kept his eyes on the prayer
book but he was aware of Rolf s dark eyes staring at him across the
grave.
At first his voice sounded strange to his own ears, but by the time
he got to the psalm the words had taken over and he spoke quietiy,
with confidence, seeming to know them by heart. Lord, thou
hast been our refuge: from one generation to another. Before the
mountains were brOught forth, or ever the earth and the world were
made: thou art God from everlasting, and wortd without end. Thou
turnest man to destruction: again thou sayest, Come again, ye
children of men. For a thousand years in thy sight are but as yester-
day: seeing that is past as a watch in the night" .
He came to the words of the committal. As he spoke the sentence
Earth to earth, ashes to ashes, dust to dust,- in sure and certain hope
of the Resurrection to eternal life, through our Lord Jesus Christ',
Julian squatted down and threw a handful of earth over the grave.
After a second s hesitation Miriam did the same. With her graceless
swollen body, it was difficult for Julian to squat, and Miriam put out
a supporting hand. There came into Theo s mind, unsought and
unwelcome, the image of a defecating animal. Despising himself, he
thrust it aside. When he spoke the words of the grace, Julian s voice
joined his. Then he Closed the prayer book. Still Rolf neither moved
nor spoke.
Suddenly, in one Violent movement, he turned on his heel and
said: Tonight we ll have to get hold of another car. Now I m going
to sleep. You d better do the same.
But first they made their way along the hedge, stuffing their
mouths with the blackberries, hands and lips purple stained. The
bushes, unplundered, were heavy with the ripe berries, small plump
192
grenades of sweetness. Theo marvelled that Rolf could resist them.
Or had he already that morning eaten his ll? The berries, breaking
against his tongue, restored hope and strength in beads of unbeliev-
ably delicious juice.
Then, with hunger and thirst partly assuaged, they returned to the
copse to the same fallen trunk which seemed to offer at teast the
psychological reassurance of a hiding-place. The two women lay
down closely together, Luke s stiffening coat wrapped round them.
Theo stretched himself at their feet. Rolf had already found his bed
on the other side of the trunk. The earth was soft with the mulch of
decades of fallen leaves but even had it been hard as iron Theo would
stiH have slept.
193
29
It was early evening when he awoke. Julian was standing over him.
She said: Rolf s gone.
He was instantly wide awake. Are you sure?
Yes, I m sure.
He believed her, yet even then he had to speak the spurious words
of hope: He could have gone for a walk, needed to be alone, wanted
to think.
'He has thought; now he s gone.
Still obstinately trying to convince her, if not himself, he said, He s
angry and confused. He no longer wants to be with you when the
child is born, but I can t believe he ll betray you.
Why not? I betrayed him. We d better wake Miriam.
But there was no need. Their voices had reached Miriam s waken-
ing consciousness. She sat up abruptly and looked across to where
Rolf had lain. Struggling to her feet, she said: So he s gone. We
ought to have known he would. Anyway we couldn t have prevented
him.
Theo said: I might have kept him with us. I ve got the gun.
It was Miriam who answered the question in Julian's eyes. We ve
got a gun. Don t worry, it could be a useful thing to have. She turned
from Julian to Theo. Kept him with us maybe, but for how long?
And how? One of us holding the gun to his head night and day,
taking it in turns to sleep, to guard him?
You think he's gone to the Council?
Not to the Council, to the Warden. He s changed his allegiance.
He s always been fascinated by power. Now he s joined forces with
the source of power. But I don t think he ll telephone London. This
news is too important to be leaked. He ll want to give it in person to
the Warden alone. That gives us a few hours, maybe more say five
if we re lucky. It depends when he left, how far he's got.
Theo thought, five hours or fifty, what difference does it make? A
weight of despair dragged at mind and limbs, leaving him physically
weakened so that the instinct to sink to the earth almost overpowered
194
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him. There was a second hardly more - in which even thought was
numbed; but it passed. Intelligence reasserted itself and with thought
came a renewal of hope. What would he do if he were Rolf? Make
his way to the road, hail the first car, find the nearest telephone? But
was it that simple? Rolf was a hunted man without money, transport
or food. Miriam was right. The secret he carried was of such impor-
tance that it must be kept inviolate until it could be told to the one
man to whom it would mean most and who would pay most for it:
Xan.
Rolf had to reach Xan, and to reach him safely. He couldn t risk
capture, the caSual bullet from some trigger happy member of the
State Security Police. Even arrest by the Grenadiers would be hardly
less disastrous; the prison cell in which he would be at their mercy,
his demands to see the Warden of England immediately meeting
with laughter and contempt. No, he would try to make his way to
London, travelling as they were under cover of night, living off the
land. Once in the capital he would show himself at the old Foreign
Office, demand to see the Warden, secure in the knowledge that he
had reached the place where that demand would be taken seriously,
where power was absolute and would be exercised. And, it per-
suasion failed and access was denied, he would have that final card
to play. I have to see him. Tell him from me that the woman is
pregnant. Xan would see him then.
But once the news was given and believed, they would come
quickly. Even if Xan thought that Rolf was lying or mad they would
still come. Even if they thought that this was the final phantom
pregnancy, the signs, the symptoms, the bulging womb, all destined
to end in farce; they would still come. This was too important to
chance a mistake. They would come by helicopter with doctors
and midwives and, once the truth was established, with television
cameras. Julian would be tenderly lifted away to that public hospital
bed, to the medical technology of childbirth which had not been used
for twenty-five years. Xan himself would preside and would give the
news to an incredulous world. There would be no simple shepherds
at this cradle.
He said: I reckon we re about fteen miles SOuth-west of Leomin-
ster. The original plan still holds. We find a refuge, a cottage or
house, as deep in woodland as possible. Obviously Wales is out. We
could strike south-east to the Forest of Dean. We need transport,
195
water and food. As soon as it s dark I ll walk into the nearest village
and steal a car. We re about ten miles from one. I saw its lights in the
distance just before the Omegas got us.
He almost expected Miriam to ask how. Instead she said: It s worth
a try. Don t take more risks than you need.
Iulian said: Piease, Theo, don t take the gun.
He turned on her, biting back anger. I shall take what I need to
take and do what I have to do. How much longer can you go on
without water? We can t live on blackberries. We need food, drink,
blankets, things for the birth. We need a car. If we can get into hiding
before Rolf gets to the Council there s still a hope. Or perhaps you ve
changed your mind. Perhaps you want to fottow his example and
give yourself up.
She shook her head but didn t speak. He saw that there were tears
in her eyes. He wanted to take her in his arms. Instead he stood
distanced, and, putting his hand in his inner pocket, felt for the cold
weight of the gun.
196
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He set off immediately darkness fell, impatient to be gone, resenting
every wasted moment. Their safety depended on the speed with
which he could get hold of a car. Iuh'an and Miriam came to the edge
of the wood and watched him out of sight. Turning to take a final
glance he had to ght down a momentary conviction that this might
be the last time he saw them. He remembered that the lights of a
Village or small town had lain to the west of the road. The most direct
way might be to cross the elds, but he had left the torch with the
women and to attempt a cross-country route with no light and in
unknown country could invite disaster. He broke into a run and
then, half walking, half running, followed the route they had trav-
elled. After half an hour he reaghed a crossroads and, after a little
thought, took the left fork.
It took him another hour s brisk waiking to get to the outskirts of
the town. The country road, unlit, was bordered on one side by tall
straggling hedges and on the other by a thin copse. He walked on
that side and, when he heard a car approaching, stepped into the
shadow of the trees, partly from an instinctive wish for concealment,
partly from the fear, not wholly irrational, that a solitary man
walking briskly through the darkness might arouse interest. But now
hedgerow and copse were giving way to isolated houses, detached,
set back from the road in large gardens. These would certainly have
a car in their garage, probably more than one. But houses and garages
would be well protected. This ostentatious prosperity was hardly
vulnerable to a casual and inexperienced thief. He was looking for
victims more easily intimidated.
And now he had reached the town. He walked more slowly. He
could feel his heartbeat quickening, the strong rhythmic thump
against the rib-cage. He didn t want to penetrate too far into the
centre. It was important to find what he needed as soon as possible
and make a getaway, And then he saw, in a small close to the right
of him, a row of semi detached, pebble-dashed villas. Each pair was
identical, with a bay window beside the door and a garage built on
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pair. The house on the left was empty, the windows boarded up and
a sale board wired to the front gate. It had obviously been empty for
some time. The grass was long and straggly and the single round
owerbed in the middle was a mass of overgrown rose bushes, spiky
stems entwined, the last overblown owers drooping and dying.
The house on the right was occupied and looked very different.
There was a light in the front room behind the drawn curtains, the
front garden had a neatly cut lawn with a bed of Chrysanthemums
and dahlias edging the path. A new fence had been nailed against
the boundary, perhaps to conceal the desolation next door, or to keep
theweeds atbay. Itseemed idealforhis purpose. With no neighbours,
there would be no one secretly to watch or hear, and with easy access
to the road he could hope to make a relatively quick getaway. But
was there a car in the garage? Walking to the gate he looked intently
at the gravel path and could make out the mark of tyres, a small stain
of oil. The stain of oil was worrying, but the little house was so well
kept, the garden so immaculate, that he couldn t believe the car,
however small and old, wouldn t be in running order. But if not?
Then he would have to start again and a second attempt would be
twice as dangerous. As he paused beside the gate, glancing left and
right to see that this loitering wasn t observed, his mind explored the
possibilities. He could prevent the people in this house giving the
alarm; it would only be necessary to cut off the telephone and tie
them up. But suppose he was equally unsuccessful in finding a car
at the next house he tried, and then the next? The prospect of tying
up a succession of victims was as risible as it was dangerous. At best
he would have only two chances. If he were unsuccessful here the
best plan might be to stop a car on the road and force the driver and
passengers out. That way he would at least be certain that he had a
vehicle that was running.
With one final quick glance round he unlatched the gate quietly
and walked swiftly, almost on tiptoe, to the front door. He breathed
a small sigh of relief. The curtains had been only partially drawn over
the side pane of the bow window and there was a gap of about three
inches between the curtain edge and the frame of the window
through which he could clearly observe what was happening in the
room.
There was no replace and the room was dominated by a very
198
large television set. In front of it were two armchairs and he could
see the grey heads of an elderly couple, probably man and Wife. The
room was sparsely furnished with a table and two chairs set in front
of a side window, and a small oak bureau. He could see no pictures,
110 books, no ornaments, no owers, but on one wall hung a large
coloured photograph of a young girl and beneath it was a child s
high chair with a teddy bear wearing an immense spotted necktie.
Even through the glass he could hear the television clearly. The
old people must be deaf. He recognized the programme: Neighbours,
a low-budget television series from the late 19805 and early 19905,
made in Australia, and preceded by a jingle of unparalleled banality.
The programme had apparently had a huge following when first
shown on the old-type television sets and now, adapted for the
modern high de nition sets, was enjoying a revival, becoming
indeed something of a cult. The reason was obvious. The stories, set
in a remote, sun-warmed suburb, evoked a nostalgic longing for a
make believe world of innocence and hope. But, above all, they were
about the young. The insubstantial but glowing images of young
faces, young limbs, the sound of young voices, created the illusion
that somewhere under an antipodean sky this comforting, youthful
world still existed and could be entered at will. In the same spirit and
from the same need people bought videos of childbirth, or nursery
rhymes and old television programmes for the young, The Plower Pot
Men, Blue Peter.
He rang the doorbell and waited. After darkhe guessed they would
answer the ring together. Through the insubstantial wood he would
hear the shuf e of feet and then the grating of the bolts. The door
opened on the chain and through the inch gap he could see that the
couple were older than he had expected. A pair of rheumy eyes,
more suspicious than anxious, looked into his.
The man s voice was unexpectedly sharp. 'What do you want?
Theo guessed that his quiet, educated voice would be reassuring.
He said: I m from the Local Council. We re doing a survey into
people s hobbies and interests. I have a form for you to fill in. It won t
take a moment. It has to be done now.
The man hesitated, then took off the chain. With one swift shove
Theo was inside, his back against the door, the revolver in his hand.
Before they could speak or scream he said: It s all right. You re in no
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you'll be safe.
The woman had started a violent trembling, clutching at her
husband s arm. She was very frail, small boned, her fawn cardigan
drooping from shoulders which looked too brittle to bear the weight.
Theo looked into her eyes, holding her gaze of bewildered terror,
and said, with all the persuasion he could command, I m not a
criminal. I need help. I need the use of your car, food and drink. You
have a car?
The man nodded.
Theo went on, What make?
A Citizen. The people s car, cheap to buy and economical to run.
They were all ten years old now, but they had been welt built, and;
were reliable. It could have been worse.
15 there petrol in the tank?
The man nodded again.
Theo said: Roadworthy?
'Oh yes, I'm particular about the car.'
Right. Now I want you upstairs.
The order terrified them. What did they suppose, that he planned
to butcher them in their own bedroom? 7
The man pleaded: Don t kill me. I m all she s got. She s ill. Heart.
If I go it will be the Quietus for her.
No one s going to harm you. There will be no Quietus. He
repeated Violently, No Quietus!
They climbed slowly, step by step, the woman still clutching her
husband.
Upstairs a quick glance showed that the plan of the house was
simple. At the front was the main bedroom and, opposite it, the
bathroom with a separate lavatory next door. To the rear were two
smaller bedrooms. With the gun he motioned them into the bigger
of the two back bedrooms. There was a single bed and, stripping
back the counterpane, he saw that it was made up.
He said to the man: "fear the sheets into strips.
The man took them in his gnarled hands and made an ineffectual
attempt to rip the cotton. But the top hem was too strong for him.
Theo said impatiently: We need scissors. Where are they?
It was the woman who spoke: In the front room. On my dressing
table. '
200
Please fetch them.
She tottered stif y out and was back in a few seconds with a pair
of nail scissors. They were small but adequate. But it would waste
precious minutes if he left the task to the old man s trembling hands.
He said harshly: Stand back both of you, side by side, against the
wall}
They obeyed, and he faced them with the bed between them, the
gun placed close to his right hand. Then he began tearing up the
sheets. The noise seemed extraordinarily loud. He seemed to be
ripping apart the air, the very fabric of the house. When he had
finished he said to the woman: Come and lie on the bed.
She glanced at her husband as if asking for his permission and he
gave a quick nod.
Do what he says, dear.
She had some difficulty in getting on to the bed and Theo had to
lift her. Her body was extraordinarily light and his hand under her
thigh swung her upwards so quickly that she was in danger of being
propelled over the bed on to the oor. Taking offher shoes, he bound
her ankles strongly together, then tied her hands behind her back.
He said: Are you all right?
She gave a little nod. The bed was narrow and he wondered if
there would be room for the man beside her, but the husband,
sensing what was in his mind, said quickly: 'Don t part us. Don t
make me go next door. Don t shoot me.
Theo said impatiently: I m not going to shoot you. The gun isn t
even Ioaded. The lie was safe enough now. The gun had served its
purpose.
He said Curtly: Lie down beside her.
There was room, but only just. He tied the man s hands behind
his back, then bound his ankles and, with a final strip of the cotton,
bound their legs together. They lay both on their right sides, fitted
Closely together. He couldn t believe that their arms were comfort-
able, wrenched as they were behind their backs, but had not dared
to tie them in front of the body in case the man used his teeth to break
free.
He said: Where are the keys to the garage and the car?
The man Whispered: 'In the bureau in the sitting-room. The top
drawer, on the right.
201
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the bedroom. I ll need a large suitcase. Have you one?
It was the woman who answered: Under the bed.
He dragged it out. It was large but light, made only of cardboard
reinforced at the corners. He wondered whether the remnants of
torn sheet were worth taking. While he was hesitating, holding them
in his hand, the man said: Please don t gag us. We won t call out, I
promise. Please don t gag us. My wife won't be able to breathe.
Theo said: I ll have to notify someone that you re tied up here. I
can t do that for at least twelve hours, but I will do it. Are you
expecting anyone?
The man, not looking at him, said: Mrs Collins, our home help, -
will be here at half-past seven tomorrow. She comes early because
she has another morning job after us.
Has she a key?
Yes, she always has a key.
No one else is expected? N0 member of the family, for example?
We have no family. We had a daughter but she died.
But you re sure Mrs Collins will be here at half-past seven?
Yes, she s very reliable. She ll be here.
He parted the curtains of light owered cotton and looked out into
the darkness. All he could see was a stretch of garden and behind it
the black outline of a hill. They could call out all night but it was
unlikely that their frail voices would be heard. All the same, he would
leave the television on as loudly as possible.
He said: I won t gag you. I ll leave the television on loudly so that
no one will hear you. Don t waste energy trying to shout. But you ll
be released when Mrs Collins comes tomorrow. Try to rest, to sleep.
I m sorry I have to do this. You ll get your car back eventually/
Even as he spoke it seemed a ridiculous and dishonest promise to
make. He said: Is there anything you want?
The woman said feebly: Water.
The single word reminded him of his own thirst. It seemed
extraordinary that, after the long hours of craving water, he could
have forgotten his need even for a moment. He went into the
bathroom, and taking a tooth mug, not even bothering to rinse it,
gulped down cold water until his stomach could hold no more. Then
he refilled the mug and went back to the bedroom. He raised the
woman s head on his arm and put the mug to her lips. She drank
202
thirstily. The water spilled down the side of her face and on to the
thin cardigan. The purple veins at the side of her forehead throbbed
as if they would burst and the sinews of the thin neck were taut as
cords. After she had finished he took a piece of linen and wiped her
mouth. Then he refilled the glass and helped the husband to drink.
He felt a strange reluctance to leave them. An unwelcome and
malignant guest, he could find no appropriate words of farewell.
At the door he turned and said: I m sorry I had to do this. Try to
get some sleep. Mrs Collins will be here in the morning.
He wondered whether he was reassuring them or himself. At least,
he thought, they are together.
He added: Are you reasonably comfortable?
The silliness of the question struck him even as he asked it.
Comfortable? How could theybe comfortable, trussed up like animals
on a bed so narrow that any movement might cause them to fall off.
The woman whispered something Which his ears couldn t catch but
which her husband seemed to understand. Stif y he raised his head
and looked straight at Theo who saw in the faded eyes a plea for
understanding, for pity.
He said: 'She wants to go to the toilet.
Theo almost laughed aloud. He was an eight year-old again hear
ing his mother's impatient voice. You should have thought of that
before we started out. What did they expect him to say? You should
have thought of that before I tied you up ? One of them should have
thought of it. It was too late now. He had wasted too much time on
them already. He thought of Julian and Miriam waiting in desperate
anxiety in the shadow of the trees, ears strained for the approach of
every car, pictured their disappointment as each one swept past.
And there was so much still to be done; the car to be checked, the
stores collected. It would take him minutes to untie these tight
multiple knots and he hadn t minutes to spare. She would have to
lie there in her own mess until Mrs Collins arrived in the morning.
But he knew he couldn t do it. Trussed and helpless as she was,
stinking with fear, lying in rigid embarrassment, unable to meet his
eyes, there was one indignity which he couldn t in ict on her. His
fingers began scrabbling at the taut cotton. It was even more difficult
than he had expected and in the end he took the nail scissors and cut
her loose, freeing her ankles and hands, trying not to notice the weals
on her wrists. Getting her off the bed wasn't easy, her brittle body
203
which had seemed as light as a bird was now set in the rigor of terror.
It was nearly a minute before she could begin her slow shuf e to the
lavatory with his arm round her waist supporting her.
He said, shame and impatience making his voice gruff: Don t lock
the door. Leave it ajar.
He waited outside resisting the temptation to pace the landing, his
heartbeats thudding out the seconds which lengthened into minutes
before he heard the flush of the cistern and slowly she emerged. She
whispered: Thank you.
Back in the bedroom he helped her on to the bed then ripped more
lengths from the remainder of the sheet and bound her again but this
time less tightly. He said to her husband: You d better go too. You
can hop there ifI give you a hand. I ve only time to free your hands.
But this was no easier. Even with his hands free and one arm
resting across Theo s shouiders the old man lacked the strength and
balance to give even the smallest jump, and Theo had almost to drag
him physically to the lavatory.
At last he got the old man back on the bed. And now he must
hurry. He had wasted too much time already. Suitcase in hand, he
made his way quickly to the back of the house. There was a small
kitchen, meticulously clean and tidy, an over large refrigerator,
and a small pantry leading from the kitchen. But the spoils were
disappointing. The refrigerator, despite its size, held only a one-pint
carton of milk, a packet containing four eggs, half a pound of butter
on a saucer covered with foil, a slab of wrapped cheddar cheese and
an opened packet of biscuits. In the freezer compartment above he
discovered nothing but one small packet of peas and a slab of cod,
frozen hard. The pantry was equally disappointing, yielding only a
small quantity of sugar, coffee and tea. It was ridiculous that a house
should be so under provisioned. He felt a rush of anger against the
old couple as if his disappointment were their deliberate fault.
Presumably they shopped once a week and he had been unlucky
with the day. He grabbed everything, stuffing the provisions into a
plastic bag. There were four mugs hanging on a stand. He took two
and found three plates from a cupboard above the sink. From a
drawer he took a sharp paring knife, a carving knife, three sets of
table knives, forks and spoons, and put a box of matches in his
pocket. Then he ran upstairs, this time to the front bedroom where
he lugged sheets, blankets and a pillow from the bed. Miriam would
204
need clean towels for the birth. He ran into the bathroom and found
half a dozen towels folded in the airing cupboard. They should be
enough. He stuffed all the linen into the suitcase. He had put the nail
scissorsin his pocketremembering that Miriam had asked for scissors.
In the bathroom cupboard he found a bottle of disinfectant and added
that to his spoils.
He could spend no further time in the house, but one problem
remained: water. He had the pint carton of milk; that was hardly
enough to satisfy even Iulian s thirst. He searched for a suitable
container. Nowhere was there an empty bottle. He found himself
almost cursing the old couple as he hunted feverishly for any kind
of receptacle that would hold water. All he could nd was a small
thermos ask. At least he could take Julian and Miriam some hot
coffee. He needn t wait for the kettle to boil. Better to make it with
hot tap water however odd the taste. They would be frantic to drink
it immediately. That done, he filled the kettle and the only two
saucepans he could find which had close- tting lids. They would
have to be carried separately to the car, wasting more time. Last of
all he again drank his fill from the tap, swilling the water over his
face.
On the wall just inside the front door was a row of coat-hooks.
They held an old jacket, a long woollen scarf and two raincoats, both
obviously new. He hesitated for only a second before taking them
down and slinging them over his shoulder. Julian would need them
if she were not to lie on damp ground. But they were the only new
things in the house and stealing them seemed the meanest act of his
petty depredations.
He unlocked the garage door. The Citizen had only a small boot
but he wedged the kettle and one of the saucepans carefully between
the suitcase and the bedclothes and raincoats. The other saucepan,
and the plastic bag containing the food and the mugs and cutlery he
placed on the back seat. When he started the engine he found to
his relief that it ran smoothly. The car had obviously been well
maintained. But he saw that the tank was less than half full and that
there were no maps in the pocket. Probably the old people only used
the car for short journeys and for shopping. As he backed carefully
into the drive, then closed the garage door behind him, he remem~
bered that he had forgotten to turn up the volume on the television
set. He told himself that the precaution was unimportant. With the
205
~91»;
n
house next door empty and the long garden stretching at the rear,
the couple s feeble cries were unlikely to be heard.
As he drove he pondered the next move. To go on or to double
back? Xan would know from Rolf that they planned to cross the
border into Wales and find wooded country. He would expect the
plan to be changed. They might be anywhere in the West Country.
The search would take time even if Xan sent out a large party of the
SSP or the Grenadiers. But he wouldn t. This quarry was unique. If
Rolf succeeded in reaching him without revealing his news until that
Vital, final encounter, then Xan too would keep it secret until its truth
was verified. He wouldn t risk Julian falling into the hands of
an ambitious or unscrupulous SSP 0r Grenadier officer. And Xan
wouldn t know how little time he had if he were to be there for the
birth. Rolf couldn t tell him what he didn t know. How far, too, did
he really trust the other members of the Council? No, Xan would
come himself, probably with a small and carefully selected band.
They would succeed in the end; that was inevitable. But it would
take time. The very importance and delicacy of the task, the need for
secrecy, the size of the search party, all would militate against speed.
80 Where and in what direction? For a moment he wondered
whether it would be an effective ploy to double back to Oxford, hide
in Wytham Wood, above the city, surely the last place Which Xan
would think of searching. Too dangerous a journey? But any road
was dangerous and would be doubly so when the old people were
discovered at 7.30 and told their story. Why did it seem more
hazardous to go back than to go on? Perhaps because Xan was in
London. And yet for an ordinary fugitive London itself was the
obvious place of concealment. London, despite its depleted popu-
lation, was still a collection of Villages, of secret alleywaysl of Vast,
half empty tower blocks. But London was full of eyes and there was
no one there to whom he could safely turn, n0 house to which he
had entry. His instinct and he guessed it would be Julian's was
to put as many miles as possible between them and London and to
keep to the original plan to hide in deep and remote country. Every
mile from London seemed a mile towards safety.
As he drove along the mercifully deserted road, carefully, getting
the feel of the car, he indulged a fantasy which he tried to convince
himself was a rational, attainable aim. He pictured a woodman s
cottage, sweet-smelling, the resinous walls still holding the warmth
206
of the summer sun, rooted as naturally as a tree in deep woodland
under the sheltering canopy of strong, leafwladen boughs, deserted
years ago and now decaying, but with linen, matches, tinned food
enough to provide for the three of them. There would be a spring of
fresh water, wood they could gather for the fires when autumn gave
way to winter. They could live there for months if necessary, perhaps
even for years. It was the idyll which, standing beside the car at
Swinbrook, he had mocked and despised, but now he took comfort
in it, even while knowing that the dream was a fantasy.
Somewhere in the world other Children would be born; he made
himself share Julian s confidence. This child would no longer be
unique, no longer in special danger. Xan and the Council would have
no need to take him from his mother even if he were known to be
the first-born of a new age. But all that was in the future and could
be faced and dealt with when the time came. For the next few weeks
the three of them could live in safety until the child was born. He
could see no further and he told himself that he need see no further.
207
31
His mind and all his physical energies had for the last two hours been
so fiercely concentrated on the task in hand that it hadn t occurred
to him that he might have difficulty in recognizing the fringes of the
wood. Turning right from the lane on to the road, he tried to
remember how far he had travelled before taking the turning to the
town. But the walk had in memory become a turbulence of fear,
anxiety and resolution, of agonizing thirst, of panting breath and an
aching side, with no clear recollection of distance or time. A small
copse came into View on the left, seeming at once familiar, raising
his spirits. But almost immediately the trees ended, giving way to a
low hedge and open ground. And then there were more trees and
the beginning of a stone wall. He drove slowly, his eyes on the road.
Then he saw what he had both feared and hoped to see; Luke s blood
spattered 0n the tarmac, no longer red, a black splurge in the
headlights, and to his left the broken stones of the wall.
When they didn t at once come forward out of the trees to meet
him, he felt a moment of appalled anxiety that they weren t there,
that they had been taken. He drove the Citizen close against the wall,
vaulted over and passed into the wood. At the sound of his footsteps
they came forward and he heard Miriam s muttered, Thank God,
we were beginning to get worried. Have you got a car?
A Citizen. That s about all I have got. There wasn t much to take
in the house. Here s a thermos of hot coffee.
Miriam almost snatched it from him. She unscrewed the top and
poured the coffee carefully, every drop precious, then handed it to
Julian.
She said, her voice deliberately calm: Things have changed, Theo.
We haven t much time now. The baby has started.
Theo said: How long?
You can t always tell With a first labour. It might be only a few
hours. It could be twenty four. Julian s in the very early stages but
we have to find somewhere quickly.
And then, suddenly, all his previous indecision was swept away
208
by a cleansing wind of certainty and hope. A single name came into
his mind, so clearly that it was as if a voice, not his own, had spoken
it aloud. Wychwood Forest. He pictured a solitary summer walk, a
shadowed path beside a broken stone wall leading deep into the
forest then opening outinto a mossy glade with a lake and, further
up the path to the right, a wood-shed. Wychwood wouldn t have
been his first or an obvious choice; too small, too easily searched, less
than twenty miles from Oxford. But now that closeness was an
advantage. Xan would expect them to press on. Instead they would
double back to a place he remembered, a place he knew, a place
where they could be certain of shelter.
He said: Get in the car. We re turning back. We're making for
Wychwood Forest. We ll eat on the way.
There was no time for discussion, for weighing up possible alterna-
tives. The women had their own immense preoccupation. It must be
for him to decide when to go and how to get there.
He had no real fear that they would again be attacked by the
Painted Faces. That horror now seemed the fulfilment of his half-
superstitious conviction at the start of the journey that they were
destined for a tragedy as inescapable as its time and nature were
unpredictable. Now it had come, had done its worst; it was over.
Like an air-traveller, terrified of ying and expecting to crash each
time his plane soared, he could rest knowing that the awaited disaster
was behind him and that there were survivors. But he knew that
neither Julian nor Miriam could so easily exorcise their terror of the
Painted Faces. Their fear possessed the little car. For the first ten
miles they sat rigid behind him, their eyes fixed on the road, as if
expecting at every turn, at every small obstruction, to hear again the
wild whoops of triumph, and to see the aming torches and the
glittering eyes.
There were other dangers, too, and the one over riding fear. They
had no way of telling at What hour Rolf had actually left them. If he
had reached Xan, the search for them might even now be under
way, the road blocks being unloaded and dragged into place, the
helicopters Wheeled out and fuelled to await the rst light of day.
The narrow side-roads twistingbetween straggling, untamed hedges
and broken dry stone walls seemed, perhaps irrationally, to offer
their best hope of safety. Like all hunted creatures, Theo s instinct
was to twist and turn, to remain hidden, to seek the darkness. But
209
. g4.
the country lanes presented their own hazards. Four times, fearing
the risk ofa second puncture, he had tobrake sharply at an impassable
stretch of creviced tarmac and reverse the car. Once, soon after two
o clock, this manoeuvre was almost disastrous. The back wheels
rolled into a ditch, and it took half an hour before his and Miriam s
joint efforts got the Citizen back on the road.
He cursed the tack of maps but, as the hours wore by, the cloud-
base cleared to reveal more clearly the pattern of the stars and he
could see the smudge of the Milky Way and take his bearings from
the Plough and the Pole Star. But this ancient lore was no more than
a crude calculation of his route and he was in constant danger of
getting lost. From time to time a sign-post, stark as an eighteenth
century gallows, would rear up out of the darkness and he would
make his careful way over the broken road towards it, half-expecting
to hear the Clank of chains and see a slowly twisting body with its
elongated neck, while the pin-point of light from the torch, like a
searching eye, traced the half-obliterated names ofunknownvillages.
The night was colder now, with a foretaste of winter chill; the air, no
longer smelling of grass and sun-warmed earth, stung his nostrils
with a faint antiseptic tang, as if they were Close to the sea. Each time
the engine was switched off the silence was absolute. Standing under
a sign post whose names might as well have been written in a foreign
language, he felt disorientated and alienated, as if the dark, desolate
fields, the earth beneath his feet, this strange, unscented air, were
no longer his natural habitat and there was no security or home for
his endangered species anywhere under the uncaring sky.
Soon after the journey began the progress of Julian s labour had
either slowed or stopped. This lessened his anxiety; delays were no
longer disastrous and safety could take precedence over speed; But
he knew that the delay dismayed the women. He guessed that they
now had as little hope as he of eluding Xan for weeks, or even days.
If the labour was a false alarm or was protracted, they might yet fall
into Xan s hands before the child was born. From time to time,
leaning forward, Miriam asked him quietly to draw into the side of
the road so that she and Julian could take exercise. He, too, would
get out and, leaning against the car, would watch the two dark figures
walking backwards and forwards along the verge, would hear their
whispered voices, and know that they were distanced from him by
more than a few yards of country road, that they shared an intense
210
preoccupation from which he was excluded. They took little interest
and showed small concern about the route, the mishaps of the
journey. All that, their very silence seemed to imply, was his concern.
But by the early morning Miriam told him that Julian s contractions
had started again and were strong. She couldn't hide the triumph in
her voice. And before dawn he knew exactly where they were. The
last signpost had pointed to Chipping Norton. It was time to leave
the twisting lanes and risk the last few miles by the main road.
At least they were now on a better Surface. He had no need to drive
in constant fear of another puncture. No other car passed them and,
after the first two miles, his taut hands relaxed on the wheel. He
drove carefully but fast, anxious now to get to the forest without
delay. The petrol level was getting dangerously low and there was
no safe way of filling up. He was surprised how little ground they
had covered since the journey first began at Swinbrook. It seemed to
him that they had been on the road for weeks; restless, unprovi
sioned, hapless travellers. He knew that there was nothing he could
do to prevent capture on this surely final journey. If they came to an
SSP roadblock there would be no hope of bluf ng 0r arguing their
way out; the SSP were not Omegas. All he could do was to drive and
to hope.
From time to time he thought he heard Julian panting and Miriam s
low murmur of reassurance, but they spoke little. After about a
quarter of an hour he heard Miriam stirring in the back and then the
rhythmic clink of a fork against china. She handed him a mug.
I've held back the food until now. Julian needs strength for her
labour. I ve beaten up the eggs in the milk and added sugar. This is
your share, I get the same. Julian has the rest.
The mug was only a quarter full and the frothy sweetness would
normally have disgusted him. Now he guiped it down avidly, longing
for more, feeling at once its strengthening power. He passed back
the mug and received a biscuit smeared with butter and topped with
a nugget of hard cheese. Never had cheese tasted so good
Miriam said: Two for each of us, four for Julian.
Julian remonstrated. We must share equally, but the last word
was caught up in a gasp of pain.
Theo asked: You aren t keeping some in reserve?
From a three-quarter packet ofbiscuits and half a pound of cheese?
We need our strength now. The cheese and the dry biscuits had
211
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33:!
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17%;???
increased their thirst and they finished the meal by drinking the
water from the smaller saucepan.
Miriam handed him the two mugs and the cutlery in the plastic
bag and he placed them on the floor. Then, as if fearing her words
might have implied a rebuke, she added: You were unlucky, Theo.
But you got us a car and it wasn t easy. Without it we wouldn t have
stood a chance.
He hoped that she was saying, We depended on you and you
didn t fail us , and smiled ruefully at the thought that he, who had
cared so little for anyone s approbation, shouid want her praise and
approval.
And at last they were on the outskirts of Charlbury. He slowed
down, watching out for the old Finstock station, the curve in the
road. It was immediately after the curve that he must look for
the right-hand track leading towards the forest. He was used to
approaching it from Oxford and even then it was easy to miss the
turning. It was with an audible sigh of relief that he drove past the
station buildings, took the curve and saw on his right the row of
stone cottages which marked the approach to the track. The cottages
were empty, boarded up, almost derelict. For a moment he wondered
whether one of them would provide a refuge; but they were too
obvious, too close to the road. He knew Julian wanted to be deep in
the forest.
He drove carefully up the track between untended fields towards
the distant curdle of the trees. It would soon be light. Looking at his
watch he saw that Mrs Collins would have arrived to release the old
couple. Even now they were probably enjoying a cup of tea, telling
of their ordeal, waiting for the police to arrive. Changing gear to
negotiate a difficult part of the rising track, he thought he heard
Julian catch her breath and give an odd little sound between a grunt
and a groan.
And now the forest received them with its dark strong arms. The
track became narrower, the trees closed in. On the right was a dry-
stone wall, half demolished, its broken stones cluttering the path.
He changed down into first gear and tried to keep the car steady.
After about a mile Miriam leaned forward and said: I think we ll
walk ahead for a little while. It ll be easier for Julian.
The two women got out and, with Julian leaning against Miriam,
made their careful way over the ruts and stones of the track. In the
212
ML
car s side lights a startled rabbit was for a moment petrified, then
scampered before them, white-tailed. Suddenly there was an
immense commotion and a white shape followed by another crashed
through the bushes, just missing the bonnet of the car. It was a deer
and her fawn. Together they lurched up the bank, tearing through
the bushes, and disappeared over the wall, their hoofs clattering on
the stones.
From time to time the two women stopped and Julian bent over
with Miriam s arm supporting her. After the third time this had
happened, Miriam signalled Theo to stop. She said: I think she might
be better in the car now. How much further?
We re still skirting open country. There should be a turning to the
right fairly soon. After that it s about a mile.
The car shuddered on. The remembered turn revealed itself as a
crossroads and for a moment he was irresolute. Then he drove to the
right, where the track, narrower still, sloped downhiil. Surely this
was the way to the lake and, beyond it, the remembered wood shed.
Miriam called out: There s a house, over to the right.
He turned his head just in time to see it, a far dark shape giimpsed
through a narrow gap in the great tangled heap of bushes and trees.
It stood alone on a wide sloping field. Miriam said: No good. Too
obvious. N0 cover in the field. Better press on.
They were now moving into the heart of the forest. The lane
seemed interminable. With every lurching yard the path narrowed
and he could hear the scratch and scrape of branches on the car.
Overhead the strengthening sun was a white diffused light hardly
visible above the tangled boughs of elder and hawthorn. It seemed
to him, desperately trying to control the steering, that they were
slithering helplessly down a tunnel of green darkness which would
end in an impenetrable hedge. He was wondering whether memory
had deceived him, whether they should have taken the left turn,
when the path suddenly widened and opened on to a grassy glade.
They saw before them the pale glimmer of the lake.
He stopped the car only yards from its edge and got out, then
turned to help Miriam half lift Julian from her seat. For a moment she
clung to him, breathing deeply, then let go, smiled, and walked to
the edge of the water, her hand on Miriam s shoulder. The surface
of the pond it was hardly a lake was so thickly strewn with the
green blades of fallen leaves and water weed that it looked like an
213
extension of the glade. Beyond this green and shivering cover the
surface was viscous as treacle, beaded with minute bubbles which
gently moved and coalesced, broke apart, burst and died. In the
patches of clear water between the weeds he could see the re ection
of the sky as the morning mist cleared to reveal the opaque first light
of clay. Beneath this surface brightness, in the ochre depths, the
sinews ofwater plants, tangled twigs and broken branches lay thickly
encrusted with mud like the ribs of long sunken ships. At the edge
of the pond clumps of sodden rushes lay attened on the water and
in the distance a small black coot scurried in busy agitation and a
solitary swan breasted her way majestically among the weeds. The
pond was surrounded by trees growing almost to the water s edge,
oak, ash and sycamore, a bright backcloth of green, yellow, gold and
russet which seemed in the first light, despite the autumnal shades,
to hold some of the freshness and brightness of spring. A sapling on
the far bank was patterned with yellow leaves, its thin boughs and
twigs invisible against the first light of the sun so that it seemed as if
the air was hung with delicate pellets of gold.
Julian had wandered along the edge of the lake. She called: The
water looks cleaner here and the bank s quite rm. It s a good place
to wash.
They joined her and, kneeling, thrust their arms into the lake and
dashed the stinging water over their faces and hair. They laughed
with the pleasure ofit. Theo saw that his hands had swilled the water
into greenish mud. This couldn t be safe to drink even if it were
boiled.
As they returned to the Citizen Theo said: The question is whether
we get rid of the car now. It may provide the best shelter we re likely
to get, but it's conspicuous and we ve nearly run out of petrol. It
would probably only take us another couple of miles.
It was Miriam who answered. Let it go.
He looked at his watch. It was just coming up to nine o clock. He
thought that they might as well listen to the news. Banal, predictable,
uninteresting as it would probably be, to hear it was a small valedic
tory gesture before they finally cut themselves off from all news but
their own. He was surprised that he hadn t thought of the radio
before, hadn t bothered to turn it on during their journey. He had
driven in such taut anxiety that the sound of an unknown voice, even
the sound of music, would have seemed intolerable. Now he reached
214
his arm through the open window and switched on the radio. They
listened impatiently to details of the weather, information on the
roads which were officially closed or which would no longer be
repaired, to the small domestic concerns of a shrinking world.
He was about to turn off the set when the announcer s voice
Changed, becoming slower and more portentous. This is a warning.
A small group of dissidents, one man and two women, are travelling
in a stolen blue Citizen car somewhere on the Welsh border. Last
night the man, who is thought to be Theodore Faron of Oxford,
forced his way into a house outside Kington, tied up the owners and
stole their car. The wife, Mrs Daisy Cox, was found early this morning
bound and dead on her bed. The man is now wanted for murder. He
is armed with a revolver. Anyone seeing their car or the three persons
is asked not to approach thembut immediately to telephone the State
Security Police. The registration of the car is MOA 694. I ll repeat that
number, MOA 694. I am asked to repeat the warning. The man is
armed and dangerous. Do not approach.
Theo wasn t aware that he had switched off. He was conscious
only of the pounding of his heart and of a sick misery which
descended and enveloped him, physical as a mortal illness, horror
and self disgust dragging him almost to his knees. He thought, if
this is guilt, I can t bear it. I won t bear it.
He heard Miriam s voice. 50 Rolf has reached the Warden. They
know about the Omegas, that there are only three of us left. But
there s one comfort, anyway. They still don t know that the birth is
imminent. Rolf couldn t tell them the expected date of delivery. He
doesn t know. He thinks Julian still has a month to go. The Warden
would never ask people to look out for the car if he thought there
was a chance they d find a new-born Child.
He said dully: There is no comfort. I killed her.
Miriam s voice was firm, unnaturally loud, almost shouting in his
ear. You didn t kill her! If she was going to die of shock it would
have happened when you first showed her the gun. You don t know
why she died. It was natural causes, it must have been. It could have
happened anyway. She was old and she had a weak heart. You told
us. It wasn t your fault, Theo, you didn t mean it.
No, he almost groaned, no, I didn t mean it. I didn t mean to be a
selfish son, an unloving father, a bad husband. When have I ever
215
meant anything? Christ, what harm couldn't I do ifI actually started
to mean it!
He said: The worst is that I enjoyed it. I actually enjoyed it!
Miriam was unloading the car, shouldering the blankets. Enjoyed
tying up that old man and his wife? Of course you didn t enjoy it.
You did what you had to do.
Not the tying up. I didn t mean that. But I enjoyed the excitement,
the power, the knowledge that I could do it. It wasn't all horrible. It
was for them, but not for me .
Julian didn t speak. She came near and took his hand. Rejecting
the gesture he turned on her viciously. How many other lives wili
your Child cost before she gets herself born? And to what purpose?
You re so calm, so unafraid, so sure of yourself. You speak of a
daughter. What sort of life will this Child have? You believe that she ll
be the first, that other births will follow, that even now there are
pregnant women not yet aware that they are carrying the new life of
the world. But suppose you re wrong. Suppose this child is the only
one. To what sort of hell are you condemning her? Can you begin to
imagine the loneliness of her last years over twenty, appalling
endless years with no hope of ever hearing another live human voice?
Never, never, never! My God, have you no imagination, either of
you?
Julian said quietly, Do you think I haven t thought of that, that
and more? Theo, I can t wish that she had never been conceived. I
can t think of her without joy.
Miriam, wasting no time, had already pulled the suitcase and the
raincoats from the boot and lifted down the kettle and the saucepan
of water.
She spoke more in irritation than in anger: For God s sake, Theo,
take hold of yourself. We needed a car; you got us a car. Maybe you
could have chosen a better one and got it at less cost. You did what
you did. If you want to wallow in guilt, that s your affair, but leave
it un t later. OK, she s dead and you feel guilty, and feeling guilt
isn t something you enjoy. Too bad. Get used to it. Why the hell
should you escape guilt? It s part of being human. Or hadn t you
noticed?
Theo wanted to say: 'In the past fortyyears there are quite a number
of things I haven t no ced. But the words With their ring of self-
indulgent remorse struck him as insincere and ignoble. Instead he
216
said: We d better get rid of the car, and quickly. That s one problem
the broadcast has settled for us.
He released the brake and put his shoulder to the back of the
Citizen, scraping a foothold in the pebbled grass, grateful that the
ground was dry and gently sloping. Miriam took the right-hand side
and together they pushed. For a few seconds, inexplicably, their
efforts were unsuccessful. Then the car began to move gently for~
ward.
He said: 'Give it a hard shove when I say the word. We don t want
it stuck in the mud nose-first.
The front wheels were almost at the edge when he called out
Now , and they both pushed with all their strength. The car shot
over the rim of the lake and hit the water with a splashthat seemed
to wake every bird in the forest. The air was clamorous With calls and
shrieks and the light branches of the high trees shook into life. The
spray ew upwards, splattering his face. The cover of oating leaves
shattered and danced. They watched, panting, as slowly, almost
peacefully, the car settied and began to sink, the water gurgling
through the open windows. Before it disappeared, on impulse, Theo
took the diary from his pocket and hurled it into the lake.
And then there came for him a moment of dreadful horror, vivid
as a nightmare, but one which he could not hope to banish by waking.
They were all there together trapped in the sinking car, water pouring
in, and he was searching desperately for the handle, trying to hold
his breath against the agony in his chest, wanting to call out to Iulian
but knowing that he dare not speak or his mouth would be clogged
with mud. She and Miriam were in the back drowning and there was
nothing he could do to help. Sweat broke out on his forehead and,
clenching his wet palms, he forced his eyes from the horror of the
lake and looked up at the sky, wrenching his mind from imagined
horror back to the horror of normality. The sun was pale and round
as a full moon but blazing with light in its aureole of mist, the high
boughs of the trees black against its dazzle. He closed his eyes and
waited. The horror passed and he was able to look down again at the
surface of the lake.
He glanced at Julian and Miriam, half expecting to see on their
faces the stark panic which must momentarily have transformed his
own. But they were looking down at the sinking car with a calm,
almost detached interest, watching the clustered leaves bobbing and
217
bunching on the spreading ripples, as if jostling for room. He
marvelled at the women's calmness, this apparent ability to shut
away all memory, all horror in the concern of the moment.
He said, his voice harsh: Luke. You never spoke of him in the car.
Neither of you has mentioned his name since we buried him. Do you
think about him? The question sounded like an accusation.
Miriam turned her gaze from the lake and gave him a steady look.
We think of him as much as we dare. What we re concerned about
now is getting his child born safely.
Julian came up to him and touched his arm. She said, as if he were
the one who most needed comforting: There wi be a time to mourn
Luke and Gascoigne. Theo, there will be a time.
The car had sunk out of sight. He had feared that the water at the
edge might be too shallow, that the roof would be visible even under
the cover of reeds, but peering down into the murky darkness he
could see nothing but swirling mud.
Miriam said: Have you got the cutlery?
No. Haven t you?
Damn, they re in the front of the car. Still, it hardly matters now.
We ve no food left to eat.
He said: 'We d better get what we have got to the wood-shed. It s
about a hundred yards up that path to the right.
Oh God, he prayed, please let it still be there, let it still be there. It
was the first time he had prayed in forty years, but the words were
less a petition than a half-superstitious hope that somehow, by the
strength of his need, he could will the shed into existence. He
shouldered one of the pillows and the raincoats then picked up the
kettle of water in one hand, and the suitcase in the other. Julian slung
a second blanket round her shoulders and bent for the saucepan of
water only to have it taken from her hand by Miriam, who said: You
carry the pillow. I ll manage the rest.
Thus encumbered, they made their slow way up the path. It was
then that they heard the metallic rattle of the helicopter. Half
imprisoned by the interlocking boughs they had little need for extra
concealment but instinctively they moved from the path into the
green tangle of the elder bushes and stood motionless, hardly
breathing, as if every intake ofbreath could reach up to that glittering
object of menace, to those watching eyes and listening ears. The
noise grew to an ear-shattering clatter. Surely it must be directly
218
overhead. Theo almost expected the sheltering bushes to shudder
into violent life. Then it began to circle, the rattle receding then
returning, bringing with it renewed fear. It was almost five minutes
before the noise of the engine finally faded into a distant hum.
Julian said softly: Perhaps they aren t looking for us. Her voice
was faint and, suddenly, she doubled up with pain and grasped at
Miriam.
Miriam s voice was grim. I don t suppose they're on a joy ride.
Anyway they haven t found us. She turned to Theo. How far is this
wood-shed?
About fifty yards if I ve remembered rightly.
Let s hope you have .
The path was wider now, making their passage easier, but Theo,
walking a littie behind the women, felt burdened by more than the
physical weight of his load. His previous assessment of Rolf s likely
progress now seemed ridiculously optimistic. Why should he make
his way slowly and by stealth to London? Why should he need to
present himself personally to the Warden? All he required was a
public teiephone. The number of the Council was known to every
citizen. This apparent accessibility was part of Xan s policy of open-
ness. You couldn t always speak to the Warden but you could always
try. Some callers even got through. This caller, once identified, once
vetted, would get priority. They would tell him to conceal himself,
to speak to no one until they d picked him up, almost certainly by
helicopter. He had probably been in their hands for over twelve
hours.
And the fugitives wouldn t be difficult to find. By early morning
Xan had known about the stolen car, the amount of petrol in its tank,
had known to a mile how far they could hope to travel. He had only
to stab a compass point in a map and describe a circle. Theo had no
doubt of the signi cance of that helicopter. They were aiready
searching by air, marking out the isolated houses, looking for the
gleam of a car roof. Xan would already have organized the search on
the ground. But one hope remained. There might still be time for the
child to be born, as her mother wanted, in peace, in privacy with no
one to watch but the two people she loved. The search couldn t be
quick; he had surely been right about that. Xan wouidn't want to
come in force or to attract public attention, not yet, not until he could
personally check the truth of Rolf s story. He would use only carefully
219
selected men for this enterprise. He couldn t even be certain that
they would hide in woodland. Rolf would have told him that that
had been the original plan; but Rolf was no longer in charge.
He was clinging to this hope, willing himself to feel the confidence
that he knew Julian would need from him, when he heard her voice.
Theo, look. Isn t this beautiful?
He turned and came up beside her. She was standing beside a tall
overgrown hawthorn heavy with red berries. From its top bough
there cascaded a white froth of travellers joy, delicate as a veil,
through which the berries shone like jewels. Looking at her rapt face,
he thought, I only know it s beautiful; she can feel its loveliness. He
looked beyond her to a bush of elderHerries and seemed to see clearly
for the first time their black glistening beads and the delicacy of the
red stems. It was as if in one moment the forest was transformed
from a place of darkness and menace, in which he was at heart
convinced that one of them would die, into a sanctuary, mysterious
and beautiful, uncaring of these three curious interlopers, but a place
in which nothing that lived could be wholly alien from him.
Then he heard Miriam s voice, happy, exultant. The wood-shed
is still here!
220
32
The shed was larger than he had expected. Memory, contrary to its
custom, had diminished not enlarged. For a moment he wondered
whether this dilapidated, three-sided building of blackened wood,
fully thirty feet across, could be the wood-shed he remembered.
Then he noticed the silver birch to the right of the entrance. When
he had last seen it the tree had been only a sapling, but now its
branches overhung the roof. He saw with relief that most of the roof
looked sound, although some of the planks had slipped. Many at the
side were missing or jagged and the whole shed, in its lopsided,
solitary decrepitude, looked unlikely to weather more than a few
more winters. A huge wood-transporter, grained with rust, had sunk
down askew in the middle of the glade, its tyres split and rotting and
one immense wheel lying free beside it. Not all the logs had been
carted away When the forestry finally ended, and one stack still
remained neatly piled beside two huge felled trees. Their denuded
trunks gleamed like polished bone and chunks and slivers of bark
littered the earth.
Slowly, almost ceremoniously, they entered the shed, heads turn-
ing, anxious eyed, like tenants taking possession of a desired but
unknown residence.
Miriam said: Well, at least it s a shelter and it looks as if there s
enough dry wood and kindling here to make a fire.
1 Despite the thick surrounding hedge of tangled bushes and sap-
lings and the rim of trees, it was less private than Theo had remem-
bered. Their safety would have to depend less on the shed being
unnoticed than on the improbability of any casual walker finding his
way through the tangle of the forest. But it was not a casual walker
he feared. If Xan decided to undertake a ground search in Wychwood
it would only be a matter of hours before they were discovered,
however secret their lair.
He said: I m not sure we ought to risk lighting a fire. How
important is it?
Miriam replied: 'The fire? Not very at the moment but it will be
221
once the baby s born and the daylight goes. The nights are getting
cold. The baby and her mother need to be kept warm.
Then we ll risk it, but not before it s necessary. They ll be watching
for smoke.
The shed looked as ifit had been abandoned in some hurry, unless,
perhaps, the workers had expected to return and had been prevented
or told that the enterprise was now shut down. There were two stacks
of shorter planks to the back of the shed, a pile of small logs and part
of a tree trunk standing level which had obviously been used as a
table since it bore a battered tin kettle and two chipped enamel mugs.
The roof here was sound and the trodden earth soft with shavings
and sawdust.
Miriam said: About here will do.
She kicked and scraped the shavings into a rough bed, spread out
the two raincoats and helped Julian to lie down, then slipped a pillow
under her head. Julian gave a grunt of pleasure, then turned on her
side and drew up her legs. Miriam shook out one of the sheets and
placed it over her, covering it with a blanket and Luke s coat. Then
she and Theo busied themselves setting out their store; the kettle
and one remaining saucepan ofwater, the folded towels, the scissors
and bottle of disinfectant. The small stock seemed to Theo pathetic
in its inadequacy.
Miriam knelt beside Julian and gently motioned her on to her back.
She said to Theo: You may as well take a short walk if you feel like
it. I ll be needing your help later, but not this minute.
He went outside, feeling for a second unreasonably rejected, and
sat on the felled tree trunk. The peace of the glade enfolded him. He
shut his eyes and listened. It seemed to him after a moment that he
could hear a myriad small sounds, normally inaudible to human ears,
the scrape of a ieaf against its bough, the crack of a drying twig;
the living world of the forest, secret, industrious, oblivious of or
unconcerned with the three intruders. But he heard nothing human,
no footfall, no distant sound of approaching cars, no returning rattle
of the helicopter. He dared to hope that Xan had rejected Wychwood
as their hiding-place, that they might be safe, at least for a few more
hours, long enough for the child to be born. And for the first time
Theo understood and accepted Julian s desire to give birth in secret.
This forest refuge, inadequate as it was, was surely better than the
alternative. He pictured again that alternative, the high sterile bed,
222
the banks of machines to meet every possible medical emergency,
the distinguished obstetricians summoned from retirement, masked
and gowned, standingtogether, because after twenty-five years there
was a better hope of safety in their united memory and expertise,
each one desperate for the honour of delivering this miraculous child,
yet half-afraid of the terrifying responsibility. He could picture the
acolytes, the gowned nurses and midwives, the anaesthetists, and
beyond them but dominant, the television cameras with their crews,
the Warden behind his screen waiting to give the momentous news
to an expectant world.
But it had been more than the destruction of privacy, the stripping
away of personal dignity, that Julian had feared. For her Xan was
evil. The word had a meaning for her. She saw with clear and
undazzled eyes through the strength, the Charm, the intelligence,
the humour into the heart, not of emptiness but of darkness. What-
ever the future might hold for her child, she wanted no one evil to
be present at the birth. He could understand now her obstinate choice
and it seemed to him, sitting in this peace and quietness, to be both
right and reasonable. But her obstinacy had already cost the lives of
two people, one the father of her child. She could argue that good
could come out of evil; it was surely more difficult to argue that evil
could come out of good. She trusted in the terrible mercy and justice
of her God, but what other option had she but to trust? She could no
more control her life than she could control or stop the physical forces
which even now were stretching and racking her body. If her God
existed, how could he be the God of Love? The question had
become banal, ubiquitous, but for him it had never been satisfactorily
answered.
He listened again to the forest, to its secret life. Now the sounds,
seeming to increase as he listened, were full of menace and terror;
the scavenger scurrying and leaping on its prey, the cruelty and
satisfaction of the hunt, the instinctive struggle for food, for survival.
The whole physical world was held together by pain, the scream in
the throat and the scream in the heart. If her God was part of this
torment, its creator and sustainer, then he was a God of the strong
not of the weak. He contemplated the gulf fixed between Julian and
himself by her belief, but without dismay. He could not diminish it
but he could stretch his hands across it. And perhaps in the end the
bridge wouldbe love. How little he knew her or she him. The emotion
223
he felt towards her was as mysterious as it was irrational. He needed
to understand it, to define its nature, to analyse what he knew was
beyond analysis. But some things now he did know, and perhaps
they were all he needed to know. He wished only her good. He
would put her good before his own. He could no longer separate
himself from her. He would die for her life.
The silence was broken by the sound of a groan followed by a sharp
cry. Once it would have aroused his embarrassment, the humiliating
fear that he would be found inadequate. Now, conscious only of his
need to be With her, he ran into the shed. She was again lying on her
side quite peacefully, and smiled at him, holding out her hand.
Miriam was kneeling at her side.
He said: What can I do? Let me stay. Do you want me to stay?
Julian said, her voice as even as if there had never been the sharp
cry: Of course you must stay. We want you to stay. But perhaps
you d better build the fire now. Then it will be ready to light when
we need it.
He saw that her face was swollen, the brow clamp with sweat. But
he was amazed at her quietness, her calm. And he had something to
do, a job at which he could feel confident. If he could find wood
shavings which were perfectly dry there was hope that he could light
a fire without too much smoke. The day was practically windless,
but even so he must be careful to build it so that any smoke didn t
blow into Julian s face or the face of the baby. A little towards the
front of- the shed would be best, where the roof was broken but close
enough to warm mother and child. And he would need to contain it
or there would be a danger of con agration. Some of the stones from
the broken wall would make a good fireplace. He went out to collect
them, carefully selecting them for size and shape. It occurred to him
that he could even use some of the atter stones to produce a kind
of funnel. Returning, he arranged the stones into a ring, filled it with
the driest wood shavings he could nd, then added a few twigs.
Finally he laid at stones across the top, directing the smoke out of
the shed. When he had finished he felt some of the satisfaction of a
small boy. And when Julian raised herself up and laughed with
pleasure his voice joined hers.
Miriam said: It would be best if you knelt at her side and held her
hand.
224
During the next spasm ofpain she gripped so hard that his knuckles
cracked.
Seeing his face, his desperate need for reassurance, Miriam said:
She s all right. She s doing wonderfully. I can t make an internal
examination. It wouldn tbe safe now. Ihaven t sterile gloves and the
waters have broken. But I d estimate that the cervix is almost fully
dilated. The second stage will be easier.
He said to Julian: Darling, what can I do? Tell me what I can do.
/]ust keep holding my hand.
Kneeling there beside them he marvelled at Miriam, at the quiet
confidence with which, even after twenty five years, she exercised
her ancient art, her brown and gentle hands resting on Julian s
stomach, her voice murmuring reassurance: Rest now, then go along
with the next wave. Don t resist it. Remember your breathing. That s
fine, Julian, that s ne.
When the second stage of labour began she told Theo to kneel at
Iulian s back and support her body, then took two of the smaller logs
and placed them againstJulian s feet. Theo knelt and took the weight
of Iulian s body, his arms clasping her to him under her breasts. She
rested against his chest, her feet clamped hard against the two logs
of wood. He looked down at her face, at one moment almost
unrecognizable, scarlet and distorted, as she grunted and heaved in
his arms, the next at peace, mysteriously wiped free of anguish and
effort while she panted softly, her eyes fixed on Miriam, waiting for
the next contraction. At these moments she looked so peaceful that
he could almost believe that she slept. Their faces were so close that
it was his sweat mingled with hers that from time to time he gently
wiped away. The primitive act, at which he was both participant and
spectator, isolated themin a limbo oftime in which nothing mattered,
nothing was real except the mother and her child's dark painful
journey from the secret life of the womb t0 the light of day. He was
aware of the ceaseless murmur of Miriam s voice, quiet but insistent,
praising, encouraging, instructing, joyfully enticing the child into
the world, and it seemed to him that midwife and patient were one
woman and that he, too, was part of the pain and the labouring, not
really needed but graciously accepted, and yet excluded from the
heart of the mystery. And he wished, with a sudden surge of anguish
and envy, that it was his child which with such an agony of effort
they were bringing into the world.
225
And then he saw with amazement that the head was emerging, a
greasy bali plastered with strands of dark hair.
He heard Miriam s voice, low but triumphant. The head is
crowned. Stop pushing, Julian. Just pant now.
Julian s voice was rasping like an athlete s after a hard race. She
gave a single cry, and with an indescribable sound the head was
propelled into Miriam s waiting hands. She took it, gently turned it
and, almost immediately, with a last push, the child slid into the
world between his mother s legs in a rush of blood, and was lifted
by Miriam and lain on his mother s stomach. Iuiian had been wrong
about the sex. The child was male. Its sex, seeming so dominant, so
disproportionate to the plump, small body, was like a proclamation.
Swiftly Miriam drew over him the sheet and blanket which covered
Julian, binding them together. She said: See, you have a son, and
laughed.
It seemed to Theo that the decrepit shed rang with her joyful and
triumphant voice. He looked down atJulian's outstretched arms and
transfigured face, then turned away. The joy was almost too much
for him to bear.
He heard Miriam s voice: I ll have to cut the cord, and later there ll
be the afterbirth. You d better light the fire now, Theo, and see if you
can heat the kettle. Julian will need a hot drink.
He went back to his makeshift fireplace. His hands were shaking
so that the first match went out. Butwith the second the thin shavings
burst into ame and the fire leapt like a celebration, filling the shed
with the smell of wood smoke. He fed it carefully with the twigs and
pieces of bark, then turned for the kettle. But that moment brought
disaster. He had placed it close to the fire and, stepping back, kicked
it over. The lid came off and he saw with sick horror the precious
water seeping into the sawdust and staining the earth. They had
already used the water in the two saucepans. Now they had none.
The sound of his shoe striking the meta} had warned Miriam. She
was still busy with the child and, without turning her head, said:
What happened? Was that the kettle?
Theo said miserably: I m sorry. It s appalling. I ve spilt the water.
And now Miriam stood up and came over to him. She said calmly:
We were going to need more water anyway, water and food. I have
to stay with Julian until I m sure it s safe to leave her but then I ll go
226
to the house we passed. With luck the water will be still laid on, or
there may be a weli.
But you ll have to cross an open field. They ll see you.
She said: I have to go, Theo. There are things we need. I have to
take that risk.
But she was being kind. It was water they needed most and their
need was his fault.
He said: . Let me go. You stay with her. -
Miriam said: She wants you with her. Now that the baby s born,
she needs you more than she needs me. I have to make sure the
fundus is well contracted and check that the afterbirth is complete.
When that s done it will be safe to leave her. Try to get the baby to
the breast. The sooner he begins sucking the better.
It seemed to Theo that she liked explaining the mysteries of her
craft, liked using the words which for so many years had been
unspoken but unforgotten.
Twenty minutes later she was ready to go. She had buried the
afterbirth and had tried to clean the blood from her hands by rubbing
them in the grass. Then she laid them, those gentle experienced
hands, for the last time on Julian s stomach.
She said: I can wash in the iake on my way. I could face your
cousin s arrival with equam'mity if I could be sure he d provide me
with a hot bath and a four-course meal before shooting me. I'd better
take the kettle. I'll be as quick as I can.
On impulse he put his arms round her and held her close for a
moment. He said, Thank you, thank you, then released her and
watched as she ran with her long, graceful strides over the glade and
passed out of sight under the overhanging boughs of the lane.
227
33
The baby had needed no encouragement to suck. He was a lively
child, opening on Theo his bright unfocused eyes, waving his starfish
hands, butting his head against his mother s breast, the small open
mouth voraciously seeking the nipple. It was extraordinary that
anything so new could be so vigorous. He sucked and slept. Theo
lay down beside Julian and placed an arm over them both. He felt
the damp softness of her hair against his cheek. They lay on the
soiled and crumpled sheet in the stench of blood, sweat and faeces
but he had never known such peace, never realized that joy could be
so sweetly compounded with pain. They layhalf dozing in a wordless
calm and it seemed to Theo that there rose from the child s warm
esh, transitorybut stronger even than the smell ofblood, the strange
agreeable aroma of the newborn, dry and pungent like hay.
Then Julian stirred and said: How long is it since Miriam left?
He lifted his left wrist close to his face. Iust over an hour.
She shouldn t take so long. Please find her, Theo.
It isn t just water we need. If the house is furnished there are other
things she ll want to collect.
Only a few to begin with. She could always go back. She knows
we ll be anxious. Please go to her. I know something s happened to
her. As he hesitated, she said: We ll be all right.
The use of the plural, what he saw in her eyes as she turned them
on her son, almost unmanned him. He said: They could be very
close now. I don t want to leave you. I want us to be together when
Xan comes.
My darling, we will be. But she could be in trouble, trapped, hurt,
waiting desperately for help. Theo, i have to know.
He made no further protest, but got up and said: I ll be as quick
as I can.
For a few seconds he stood silent outside the hut and listened. I Ie
shut his eyes to the autumn hues of the forest, to the shaft of sunlight
on bark and grass, so that he could concentrate all his senses into
listening. But he heard nothing, not even the sound of a bird. Then,
228
I
I
I
l
l
almost leaping forward like a sprinter, he began pounding, past the
lake, up the narrow tunnel of green towards the crossroads, leaping
over the ruts and pot holes, feeling the jar of the hard ridges under
his feet, ducking and weaving beneath the low clutching branches.
His mind was a tangle of fear and hope. It was madness to leave
Julian. If the SSP were close and had captured Miriam there was
nothing he could do to help her now. And if they were that close it
was only a matter of time before they found Julian and her child.
Better to have stayed together and waited, waited until the bright
morning lengthened into afternoon and they knew that there was no
hope of seeing Miriam again, waited until they heard on the grass
the thud of marching feet.
But, desperate for reassurance, he told himself that there were
other possibilities. Julian was right. Miriam could have had an
accident, fallen, be lying there, wondering how long it was before he
came. His mind busied itself with the images of disaster, the door of
a pantry slamming fast behind her, a defective well-head which she
hadn't seen, a rotting oorboard. He tried to will himself into belief,
to convince himself that an hour was a very little time, that Miriam
was busy collecting everything they might need - calculating how
much of the precious store she could carry, what could be left until
later, forgetting in her foraging how long those sixty minutes would
seem to those who waited.
Now he was at the crossroads and could see, through the narrow
gap and the thinner bushes of the wide hedge, the sloping eld and
the roof of the house. He stood for a minute catching his breath,
bending to ease the sharp pain in his side, then plunged through the
tangle of high nettles, thorns and snapping twigs into the clearer
light of the open countryside. There was no sign of Miriam. More
slowly now, aware of his vulnerability and of a deepening unease,
he made his way across the field and came to the house. It was an
old building With an uneven roof of mossy tiles and tall Elizabethan
chimneys, probably once a farmhouse. It was separated from the
field by a low dry-stone wall. The Wilderness which was once the
rear garden was bisected by a narrow stream Spurting from a culvert
higher up the bank over which a simple wooden bridge led to the
back door. The Windows were small and uncurtained. Everywhere
was silent. The house was like a mirage, the longed for symbol of
security, normality and peace which he had only to touch to see
229
vanish. In the silence the ripple of the stream sounded as loud as a
torrent.
The back door was of black oak banded with iron. It stood ajar. He
pushed it wider and the mellow autumnal sunlight Splashed gold
over the stone slabs of a passage leading to the front of the house.
Again he stood for a second and listened. He heard nothing, not
even the ticking of a clock. To his left was an oak door leading, he
presumed, into the kitchen. It was unlatched and gently he pushed
it open. After the brightness of the day the room was dim and for a
moment he could see little until his eyes accustomed themselves to
a gloom made more oppressive by the dark oak beams, the small
dirt-covered windows. He was aware of a damp coldness, 0f the
hardness of the stone oor and of a tincture on the air, at once horrible
and human, like the lingering smell of fear. He felt along the wall for
a light switch, hardly expecting, as his hand found it, that there
would still be electricity. But the light came on, and then he saw her.
She had been garrotted and the body dumped into a large wicker
Chair to the right of the fireplace. She lay there sprawled, legs askew,
arms ung over the ends of the chair, the head thrown back with the
cord bitten so deep into the skin that it was hardly Visible. Such was
his horror that after the first glance he staggered over to the stone
sink under the window and vomited Violently but ineffectively. He
wanted to go to her, to close her eyes, to touch her hand, to make
some gesture. He owed hermore than to turn away from the appalling
horror of her death and vomit his disgust. But he knew he couldn t
touch her and couldn t even look again. With his forehead hard
against the cold stone, he reached up to the tap and a gush of cold
water flowed over his head. He let it ow as if it could wipe away the
terror, the pity and the shame. He wanted to throw back his head
and howl out his anger. For a few seconds he was helpless, in the
thrall of emotions which left him powerless to move. Then he turned
off the tap, shook the water from his eyes and took hold of reality.
He had to get back to Julian as quickly as possible. He saw on the
table the meagre gleanings of Miriam s search. She had found a large
wicker basket and had filled it with three tins, a tin opener and a
bottle of water.
But he couldn t leave Miriam as she was. This musn t be the last
vision he had of her. However great the need to get back to Julian
and the child, there was a small ceremony he owed to her. Fighting
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terror and revulsion he got up and made himself look at her Then,
bending, he loosened the cord from her neck, smoothed the lines of
her face and closed her eyes. He felt the need to take her out of this
awful place. Lifting her in his arms, he cam ed her out of the house
and into the sunlight, then laid her carefully down under a rowan
tree. Its leaves, like tongues of ame, cast a glow 0n the pale brown
of her skin as if her veins still pulsed with life. Her face now looked
almost peaceful. He crossed her arms on her breast and it seemed to
him that the unresponsive esh could still communicate, was telling
him that death was not the worst thing that could happen to a human
being, that she had kept faith with her brother, that she had done
what she set Out to do. She had died but new life had been born.
Thinking of the horror and cruelty of her death, he told himself that
Julian would no doubt say that there must be forgiveness even for
this barbarity. But that was not his creed. Standing for a moment
very still and looking down at the body, he swore to himself that
Miriam would be avenged. Then he picked up the wicker basket and,
without a backward look, ran from the garden across the bridge and
plunged into the forest.
They were close of course. They were watching him. He knew
that. But now, as if the horror had galvanized his brain, he was
thinking clearly. What were they waiting for? Why had they let him
go? They hardly needed to follow him. It must be obvious that they
were very close now to the end of their search. And he had no doubt
of two things. The party would be small and Xan would be among
them. Miriam's murderers hadn t been part of an isolated forward
search party with instructions to find the fugitives, teave them
unharmed and send back word to the main party. Xan would never
risk having a pregnant woman discovered except by himself or by
someone he trusted absolutely. There would be no general search
for this valuable quarry. And Xan w0uld have learned nothing from
Miriam, he was sure of that. What he was expecting to find was not
a mother and child but a heavily pregnant woman still with some
weeks to go. He wouldn t want to frighten her, wouldn t want to
precipitate a premature labour. Was that why Miriam had been
garrotted not shot? Even at that distance he didn t want to risk the
sound of gunfire.
But that reasoning was absurd. If Xan wanted to protect Julian, to
ensure that she kept calm for the birth which he believed was close,
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why kill the midwife she trusted and kill her so horribly? He must
have known that one of them, perhaps both, would go to seek her.
It was only by chance that he, Theo, not Julian, had been faced by
that swollen, protruding tongue, those bulging, dead eyes, the full
horror of that awful kitchen. Had Xan convinced himself that with
the child ready to be born nothing, however shocking, could really
hurtit now? Or had he needed to get rid ofMiriam urgently, whatever
the risk? Why take her prisoner with all the consequent complications
when one quick twist of cord could settle the problem for ever? And
perhaps even the horror was deliberate. Was he proclaiming, This
is what I can do, what I have done. There are now only two of you
left who are part of the conspiracy of the Five Fishes, only two who
know the truth about the child s parentage. You are in my power
absolutely and for evei ?
Or was his plan even more audacious? Once the child was born he
had only to kill Theo and Julian and it would be possible to claim the
baby as his own. Had he really in his overweening egotism convinced
himself that even this was possible? And then Theo remembered
Xan s words: Whatever it is necessary to do, I shall do.
In the shed Julian lay so still that at first he thought she was
sleeping. But her eyes were open and she still had them fixed on her
child. The air was rich with the pungent sweetness of wood smoke,
but the fire had gone out. Theo put down the basket and, taking the
bottle of water, unscrewed the top. He knelt down beside her.
She looked into his eyes and said: 'Miriam s dead, isn t she? When
Theo made no reply, she said: She died getting this for me.
He held the bottle to her lips. Then drink it and be thankful.
But she turned her head away, releasing her hold on the child so
that if he hadn t caught the baby he would have rolled from her body.
She lay still as if too exhausted for paroxysms of grief, but the tears
gushed in a stream over her face and he could hear a low, almost
musical moaning, like the keening of a universal grief. She was
mourning for Miriam as she had never yet mourned the father of her
child.
He bent and held her in his arms, clumsily because of the baby
between them, trying to enfold them both. He said: Remember the
baby. The baby needs you. Remember what Miriam would have
wanted.
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6
She didn t speak but she nodded and again took the child from
him. He put the bottle of water to her lips.
He took out the three tins from the basket. From one the label had
fallen off; the tin felt heavy but there was no knowing what was
inside. The second was labelled PEACHES IN SYRUP. The third was
a tin of baked beans in tomato sauce. For these and a bottle of water
Miriam had died. But he knew that was too simple. Miriam had died
because she was one of the small band who knew the truth about the
child.
The tin-opener was an old type, partly rusted, the cutting edge
blunted. But it was adequate. He rasped open the tin then wrenched
back the lid and, cradlingJulian s head in his right arm, began feeding
her the beans on the middle nger of his left hand. She sucked at it
avidly. The process of feeding her was an act of love. Neither spoke.
After five minutes, when the can was half empty, she said: Now
it s your turn.
I m not hungry.
Of course you re hungry.
His knuckles were too large for his fingers to reach the bottom of
the tin, so it was her turn to feed him. Sitting up with the cradled
child resting in her lap she inserted her small right hand and fed him.
He said: They taste wonderful.
When the tin was empty she gave a little sigh, then lay back,
gathering the child to her breast. He stretched himself beside her.
She said: How did Miriam die?
It was a question he knew that she would ask. He couldn t lie to
her. She was strangled. It must have been very quick. Perhaps she
didn t even see them. I don t think she had time for terror or pain.
Iulian said: It could have lasted a second, two seconds, perhaps
more. We can t live those seconds for her. We can't know what she
felt, the terror, the pain. You could feel a lifetime s pain and terror in
two seconds.
He said: My darling, it s over for her now. She s beyond their
reach for ever. Miriam, Gascoigne, Luke, they re all beyond the
Council s reach. Every time a victim dies it s a small defeat for
tyranny.
She said: That s too easy a comfort. And then, after a silence:
They won t try to separate us, will they?
'Nothing and no one will separate us, not life nor death, nor
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principalities, nor powers, nor anything that is of the heavens nor
anything that is of the earth.
She laid her hand against his cheek. Oh, my darling, you can t
promise that. But I like to hear you say it. After a moment she asked:
Why don t they come? But there was no anguish in the question,
Only a gentle bewilderment.
He reached Out and took her hand, winding his ngers round the
hot, distorted esh which he had once found so repulsive. He stroked
it but he didn t answer. They lay motionless side by side. Theo was
aware of the strong smell of the sawn wood and the dead fire, of the
oblong of sunlight like a green veil, of the silence, windless, birdless,
of her heartbeats and his own. They were wrapped in an intensity of
listening which was miraculously devoid of anxiety. Was this what
the victims of torture felt when they passed through the extremity of
pain into peace? He thought: I have done what I set out to do. The
child is born as she wanted. This is our place, our moment of time,
and whatever they do to us it can never be taken away.
It was Julian who broke the silence: 'Theo, I think they're here.
They ve come.
He had heard nothing but he got up and said: Wait very quietly.
Don't move.
Turning his back so that she couldn t see, he took the revolver from
his pocket and inserted the bullet. Then he went out to meet them.
Xan was alone. He looked like a woodman with his old corduroy
trousers, open necked shirt and heavy sweater. But woodmen do
not come armed,- there was the bulge of a holster under the sweater.
And no woodman had stood blazing with such con dence, such an
arrogance of power. Glittering on his left hand was the wedding ring
of England.
He said: So it is true.
Yes, it s true.
Where is she?
Theo didn t answer. Xan said: I don t need to ask. I know where
she is. But is she well?
She s well. She s asleep. We have a few minutesbefore she wakes.
Xan threw back his shoulders and gave a gasp of relief like an
exhausted swimmer emerging to shake the water from his eyes.
For a moment he breathed hard, then he said calmly: I can wait to
see her. I don t want to frighten her. I ve come with an ambulance,
234
l V
l
I
i
l
I
l
helicopter, doctors, midwives. I ve brought everything she needs.
This child will be born in comfort and safety. The mother will be
treated like the miracle she is; she has to know that. If she trusts you,
then you can be the one to tell her. Reassure her, calm her, let her
know she has nothing to fear from me.
She has everything to fear. Where is Rolf?
Dead.
And Gascoigne?
Dead.
And I've seen Miriam s body. So no one is alive who knows the
truth about this Child. You ve disposed of them all.
Xan said calmly: Except you. When Theo didn t reply he went
on: I don t plan to kill you, I don t want to kill you. I need you. But
we have to talk now before I see her. I have to know how far I can
rely on you. You can help me with her, with what I have to do .
Theo said: Tell me what you have to do.
Isn t it obvious? If it s a boy and he s fertile, he ll be the father of
the new race. If he produces sperm, fertile sperm, at thirteen at
twelve maybe our female Omegas will only be thirty-eight. We can
breed from them, from other selected women. We may be able to
breed again from the woman herself.
The father of her Child is dead.
I know. We got the truth from Rolf. But if there was one fertile
male there can be others. We'll redouble the testing programme.
We ve been getting careless. We ll test everyone, the epileptic,
deformed - every male in the country. And the child may be a male
a fertile male. He ll be our best hope. The hope of the world.
And Iulian?
Xan laughed. I ll probably marry her. Anyway, she ll be looked
after. Go back to her now. Wake her. Tell her I m here but on my
own. Reassure her. Tell her you ll be helping me to care for her. Good
God, Theo, do you realize what power is in our hands? Come back
on the Council, be my lieutenant. You can have anything you want.
No.
There was a pause. Xan asked: Do you remember the bridge at
Wooleombe? The question wasn't a sentimental appeal to an old
loyalty or the tie of blood, nor a reminder of kindness given and
taken. Xan had in that moment simply remembered and he smiled
with the pleasure of it.
235
Theo said: I remember everything that happened at Woolcombe.
I don t want to kill you.
'You re going to have to, Xan. You may have to kill her too.
He reached for his own gun. Xan laughed as he saw it.
I know it isn t loaded. You told the old people that, remember?
You wouldn t have let Rolf get away if you d had a loaded gun.
'How did you expect me to stop him? Shoot her husband in front
of her eyes?
Her husband? I didn t realize that she cared greatly about her
husband. That isn t the picture he so obligingly gave us before he
died. You don't imagine you re in love with her, do you? Don t
romanticize her. She may be the most important woman in the world
but she isn t the Virgin Mary. The child she is carrying is still the
child of a whore.
Their eyes met. Theo thought, what is he waiting for? Does he find
that he can t shoot me in cold blood, as I find I can't shoot him? Time
passed, second after interminable second. Then Xan stretched his
arm and took aim. And it was in that split second of time that the
child cried, a high mewing wail, like a cry of protest. Theo heard
Xan s bullet hiss harmlessly through the sleeve ofhis jacket. He knew
that in that half second he couldn t have seen what afterwards he so
clearly remembered: Xan s face transfig-ured with joy and triumph;
couldn t have heard his great shout of af rmation, like the shout on
the bridge at Woolcombe. But it was with that remembered shout in
his ears that he shot Xan through the heart.
After the two shots he was aware only of a great silence. When he
and Miriam had pushed the car into the lake, the peaceful forest had
become a screaming jungle, a cacophony of wild shrieks, crashing
boughs and agitated bird calls which had faded only with the last
trembling ripple. But now there was nothing. It seemed to him that
he walked towards Xan s body like an actor in a slow motion film,
hands buffeting the air, feet high stepping, hardly seeming to touch
the ground; space stretching into infinity so that Xan s body was a
distant goal towards which he made his arduous way held in
suspended time. And then, like a kick in the brain, reality took hold
again and he was simultaneously aware of his own body s quick
motion, of every small creature moving among the trees, every leaf
of grass felt through the soles of his shoes, of the air moving against
his face, aware most keenly of all of Xan lying at his feet. He was
236
lying on his back, arms spread, as if taking his ease beside the
Windrush. His face looked peaceful, unsurprised, as if he were
feigning death but, kneeling, Theo saw that his eyes were two dull
pebbles, once sea washed but now left for ever lifeless by the last
receding tide. He took the ring from Xan s nger, then stood upright
and waited.
They came very quietly, moving out of the forest, first Carl
Inglebach, then Martin Woolvington, then the two women. Behind
them, keeping a careful distance, were six Grenadiers. They moved
to within four feet of the body, then paused. Theo held up the ring,
then deliberately placed it on his finger and held the back of his hand
towards them.
He said: The Warden of England is dead and the child is born.
Listen.
It came again, that piteous but imperative mew of the new-bom.
They began moving towards the wood shed but he barred the path
and said: Wait. I must ask his mother first.
Inside the shed Julian was sitting bolt upright, the child held tight
against her breast, his open mouth now suckling, now moving
against her skin. As Theo came up to her he saw the desperate fear
in her eyes lightening to joyous relief. She let the child rest on her
lap and held out her arms to him.
She said with a sob: There were two shots. I didn t know whether
I should see you or him.
For a moment he held her shaking body against his. He said: The
Warden of England is dead. The Council are here. Will you see them,
show them your child?
She said: For a little while. Theo, what will happen now?
Terror for him had for a moment drained her of courage and
strength and for the first time since the birth he saw her vulnerable
and afraid. He whispered to her, his lips against her hair.
We ll take you to hospital, to somewhere quiet. You ll be looked
after. I won t let you be disturbed. You won t need to be there long
and we ll be together. I shan t leave you ever. Whatever happens,
we shall be together.
He released her and went outside. They were standing in a
semicircle waiting for him, their eyes fixed on his face.
You can come in now. Not the Grenadiers, just the Council. She s
tired, she needs to rest.
237
Woolvington said: 'We have an ambulance further down the lane.
We can call up the paramedics, carry her there. The helicopter is
about a mile away, outside the village.
Theo said: We won t risk the helicopter. Call up the stretcher-
bearers. And get the Warden s body moved. I don t want her to see
it.
As two Grenadiers immediately came forward and began dragging
at the corpse, Theo said: Use some reverence. Remember what he
was only minutes ago. You wouldn t have dared lay a hand on him
then.
He turned and led the Council into the wood~shed. It seemed to '
him that they came tentatively, reluctantly, first the two women,
then Woolvington and Carl. Wooivington didn t approach Iulian but
took a stand at her head as if he were a sentry on guard. The two
women knelt, less, Theo thought, in homage than from a need to be
close to the child. They looked at Julian as if seeking consent. She
smiled and held out the baby. Murmuring, weeping, shaken with
tears and laughter, they put out their hands and touched his head,
his cheeks, his waving arms. Harriet held out a finger and the baby
grasped it in a surprising grip. She laughed and Julian, looking up,
said to Theo: Miriam totd me the newborn can grip like that. It
doesn t last Very long.
The women didn t reply. They were crying and smiling, making
their silly happy sounds of welcome and discovery. It seemed to
Theo a joyous, female camaraderie. He looked up at Carl, astonished
that the man had been able to make the journey, was still managing
to stay on his feet. Carl looked down at the child with his dying eyes
and spoke his Nunc Dimittis. So it begins again.
Theo thought: it begins again, with jealousy, with treachery, with
Violence, with murder, With this ring on my nger. He looked down
at the great sapphire in its glitter of diamonds, at the ruby cross,
twisting the ring, aware of its weight. Placing it on his hand had been
instinctive and yet deliberate, a gesture to assert authority and ensure
protection. He had known that the Grenadiers would come armed.
The sight of that shining symbol on his finger would at least make
them pause, give him time to speak. Did he need to wear it now? He
had all Xan s power Within his grasp, that and more. With Carl dying
the Council was leaderless. For a time at least he must take Xan s
place. There were evils to be remedied; but they must take their turn.
238
He couldn t do everything at once, there had to be priorities. Was
that what Xan had found? And was this sudden intoxication of power
what Xan had known every day of his life? The sense that everything
was possible to him, that what he wanted would be done, that what
he hated would be abolished, that the world could be fashioned
according to his will. He drew the ring from his finger, then paused
and pushed it back. There would be time later to decide whether,
and for how long, he needed it.
He said: Leave us now, and, bending, helped the women to their
feet. They went out as quietly as they had come in.
Julian looked up at him. For the first time she noticed the ring. She
said: That wasn t made for your finger.
For a second, no more, he felt something close to irritation. It must
be for him to decide when he would take it off. He said: It s useful
for the present. I shall take it off in time.
She seemed for the moment content, and it might have been his
imagination that there was a shadow in her eyes.
Then she smiled and said to him: Christen the baby for me. Please
do it now, while we re alone. It s what Luke would have wanted. It s
What I want.
What do you want him called?
Call him after his father and after you.
I ll make you comfortable first.
The towel between her legs was heavily stained. He removed it
without revulsion, almost Without thought and, folding another, put
it in place. There was very little water left in the bottle, but he hardly
needed it. His tears were falling now over the child s forehead. From
some far childhood memory he recalled the rite. The water had to
ow, there were words which had to be said. It was with a thumb
wet with his own tears and stained with her blood that he made on
the child s forehead the sign of the cross.
239