98.4 Read online

  ‘Thorne?’

  Whatever it was he imagined I knew. Stavely was forewarned, more cautious. But clearly I was striking oil with monotonous regularity. Comically, he was treating me as if I had come here, at this particular time, stuffed with secret information and a personal concern for someone I hardly knew, whereas I hadn’t the least idea what was happening.

  In plodding imitation of movies built around the same idea he acted the scene expected of him. ‘Mr Yenn,’ he began, coming to close-up, ‘I can’t discuss company matters. If you’ve decided against reading’ — he banged the bit of the desk where the drawers were — ‘against reading the publicity stuff I think you’d better leave. I’ll arrange with the P.R. people for you to have a chat with them at Group Three, if you like ...’ At last he noticed the lights and his voice trailed off. ‘What the?!’ He snatched a phone. ‘Give me Main Gate, immediately!’

  I got up. ‘You’ll get them to phone me, then?’

  ‘Get who? Oh, yes. In the morning.’

  I left Stavely barking officiously down the phone and made my own way down in the lift and outside. It was so dark that I couldn’t find my car for two or three minutes.

  When I did I started the engine for Stavely’s benefit but drove only a hundred yards or so towards the main gate. On the way I switched off the lights and managed to nose into the car park without hitting anything. By now it was pitch dark; and I sat there for a minute trying to squeeze enough photons out of the heavens to see by. Starlight never gets completely lost, even in cloud; it is diffused and spread out so as to produce that almost invisible nightglow for the sole convenience of cats. On the ground, minute secretions of phosphorescent minerals release wretchedly mean quanta of cold light, usually well below the threshold of direct human vision but amounting to a level far above total darkness. I willed my optic nerves into recognizing the fact and was rewarded by the faint awareness one gets from the corners of the eyes.

  *

  ... He left all her brains

  On the slab — which explains

  The smile on the face of the sturgeon ...

  *

  — Probably a mere piece of undergraduate irreverence, I decided — and got out of the car.

  *

  I found my way to Group Three by rather unfair means.

  Some time back, in more enthusiastic days, I had taken on the job of working out a system of guidelines for the unmanned trolleys that served the various office blocks. Dineham — or to give him his full weight: Lord Dineham of Hatfield — was a with-it lord who loved to play. Having seen some movie (I suspect it was a Tom and Jerry featuring an auto-cat which ousted Tom from power until it got out of hand and carved up the grand piano) he thought it would be magnificent to have automated trucks roaming around the compound delivering things. And although we never found much in the way of things for it to deliver, the system was a hit with the press for a while and everybody stopped work for a week in order to give it things to play with. A great time was had by all until it was thought that we should all go back to work again. But the guidelines remained. These were simply strips of metal countersunk into the concrete; and when the equipment was in use they comprised a series of small magnets.

  Like all automated oddities that are put in for the wrong reason — and in the earlier sixties nearly all of them were — half the machinery was unnecessary, even if a use could be found for what was left (and none was). For instance, it was a simple matter to feel my way along the guidelines by trailing a stick along the tarmac, noting the difference in sound between the metal of the embedded ribbon and the surrounding macadam. A reasonably intelligent machine could have done without the magnets too. I should have been ashamed; but my thoughts were not on the past as I picked my way along and switched tracks at the junctions so as to arrive at the right destination.

  Then something made me stop dead, straining my ears. Way off there was shouting and confusion and flashlights in the dark. But that wasn’t it. Deep down under my feet I could sense a rumbling; a low-pitched vibration that implied immense power. It had a regular but complicated rhythm that kept repeating itself — like one of those things they thump roads with but more percussive and penetrating. Then it stopped. Someone switched on car headlights over by the gate and I ran the remaining distance to the new building ahead. No one on guard. It must have been panic indeed.

  An emergency lamp was still in the rack by the fire door. I used this and picked my way through a concrete corridor which led to a staircase leading upward only. This was the fire exit for Group Three and I was at the bottom. I had never been beyond the limit of the notorious trolley route and didn’t know where to go for further enlightenment; so I shrugged off all six intervening floors and made my way to the top. There was a fire door here and — again — I knew the system: if the power failed the fire doors opened freely, the locks being electronically applied from the security shack. The idea, which was not without commendable logic, was that it was better to be vulnerable to master-spies than burned to death.

  I didn’t feel at all like a master-spy — and in fact the idea of breaking any law makes me sweat. I’m one of those citizens who don’t smoke cannabis resin — preferring instead the risk of legal cancer available in the conventional cigarette which I smoke quite openly. I craved for one now; and was fumbling about for it when a click from the fire door cracked the silence. At the same time some lights came on elsewhere (but not here) and I realized that someone had restored the power. Lucky break number one: and no one had seen me enter. Sweat dripped off my brow and the shaving-ad face must have needed some retouching at that point.

  I opened another door and found myself in a residential flat; and what a residential flat! In it sat one of the most arrogant young men it’s ever been my privilege to feel like hitting. From the way he examined me through a column of what was certainly marijuana smoke I could tell he didn’t think much of shaving ads — even those in need of retouching. For he very slowly altered his position, by rolling his hips over the better to present his be-jeaned body, and asked coolly and without interest: ‘Who the hell are you?’

  ‘I was looking for Philip Thorne,’ I said.

  He stared for a few languid seconds, and eased insolently into a fresh position. ‘Actually,’ he said, in the same flat tone, ‘that wasn’t the question I asked you.’ A faint look of amusement wiped left-to-right across his face. ‘Are you prejudiced against homosexuals? — or do you always look like that? ... No, I’ll be fair. It’s me you don’t like. A lot of people don’t like me. Are you surprised?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘I designed this place. I mean this flat. What do you think of it?’

  ‘It’s white,’ I said. ‘So where’s Thorne?’

  ‘In hospital. There was an accident.’ He got up. ‘Do you want a drink? — I take it you don’t smoke these?’

  ‘I don’t smoke those. And I didn’t pop in for a cocktail, either. What happened?’

  ‘You know,’ he said, taking no notice at all but pouring me a scotch which he handed me (and which I accepted), ‘there’d be one hell of a filthy row if they knew you were in here. You haven’t told me who you are but I’ve guessed. You’re the much-fired Nigel Yenn. You’re also bewildered. Is it the white carpet? Or the white furniture? Or the white curtains? Some people get quite dizzy. Their ears pop, apparently. Do you understand why their ears might pop? ...’ He went on as if I were maintaining my share of the conversation. ‘I mean, you can’t just saunter into secret establishments — especially after you’ve been fired.’

  ‘Who did you design this place for?’

  ‘That’s quite a good question. It is, in fact, the directors’ flat; and Thorne is, in fact, a director. But he likes girls. Do you like girls?’

  ‘Some of them.’

  ‘Good. That obviously must give you something in common with Thorne, whom you seek. But Thorne — alas, poor Thorne — is (a), in a poor state of health, and (b), altogether appalled that ha
ving designed this place — not, I may say, at his invitation — I am now, and erstwhile have been, in occupation thereof.’

  ‘Who with?’

  ‘My dear Yenn. I know homosexuals are supposed to be bad security bets; but I am not indiscreet over personal matters ... I can’t offer you Thorne; but as I don’t have views particularly about affairs of state, may I perhaps offer you information? It’s entirely free; and — though please don’t misunderstand me — I am entirely at your disposal.’

  — which was precisely when I spotted the reel of tape. Michael — and I never learned his other name ... nor whether in fact he had another name — Michael saw my expression and with a deft brand of intuition I wouldn’t have bargained for, looked down at the tape and up at me and said: ‘You wouldn’t take on Group Three alone. Just why are you here? — and on whose behalf?’

  ‘Someone who doesn’t much like their practices.’

  ‘Which ones?’ If you mean their business practices you should know about them!’

  With more emphasis than I intended I rapped: ‘What the hell does that mean?’

  His face came slowly round. ‘There was a time when this place had a name somewhat less cryptic. Or have you chosen to forget?’ — This was when I felt — and instantly discarded — a jolt of instinct that could well have slotted this human irritant into his proper card index. He knew about the merger and he knew I was involved. He knew that Groups Two and Three represented the butt-ends of separate companies which had joined into an uneasy partnership for a particular reason.

  And I wondered how long I could go on forgetting why.

  Michael was languidly drawing in a lungful of charge. Watching me as if amused he exhaled pot through his nostrils. ‘Who really merged with whom, Venn? You know what happened but not who to! Did you meet Stergen? — or did you meticulously avoid it?’

  ‘Cut it out. Shadow boxing won’t help me over Thorne.’

  ‘No. But are you sure you’re nor staging a contest with yourself?’ He smiled this off, as if deliberately leaving me with the uncomfortable thought. ‘Anyway ... You won’t dig much about Thorne if you fail to understand Stergen. Would it shock your Chelsea morals if I were to tell you that Stergen was, er, “emotionally unstable” as I believe the Americans call it?’

  ‘He’s queer?’ — Why was this so important?

  ‘Convertible. You should meet the people, Yenn, before you barge in here trying to work it all out so late in the day. Great things have little beginnings. I don’t know much about nuclear physics; but don’t you have to bring two lumps of something together to get the bang? ... The two lumps arc harmless in themselves; but together — oh boy!’

  I glanced out of the window. The lights were all on again and the vast complex of buildings fanned out in proof of what he was implying. Whatever was really going on here. I had been in on the connubial rite that produced the brainchild. What if it turned out a monster?

  He resumed: ‘Mark you, he’s on virgins now.’

  I said: ‘A forgetful but resolute surgeon ... Your little piece?’

  He laughed. ‘I was his little piece. Yes, the limerick is mine. It’s done the rounds, evidently.’

  ‘What does it mean?’ — my face taut as doped fabric, for I sensed this surgical idiom somehow concerned Thorne, as it did the whole sequence of events which had jelled in the joining of two companies and was now — if Chindale was employing me for any good reason — about to be dished up. ‘Just how much do you know?’

  He turned away like a cat and leaned against the plastic chair I had found him in. ‘It’s no good asking me. As Stergen would tell you, I have a brain the size of a pi-meson. Equally I won’t prod you for information. Except possibly about Ruth ... She’s quite famous around here.’

  ‘As long as you don’t mind if I hit you.’

  ‘Don’t waste your energy. It wouldn’t mean the same to me as it would to someone of simpler disposition.’

  I picked up the spool of plastic tape. ‘So what is this stuff, exactly?’

  ‘A synthetic substance capable of conducting nerve impulses. I suspect you could think of some pretty bizarre uses for lengths of tape which fail to play tunes — if you really tried.’ He lapsed into matters more personal. ‘But you never know — do you? — what people are really like? Take Stergen. A seat on the Somerset County Council and invited on the best of shoots by day (I lived on a staple diet of pheasant) and at night ... Well, apart from private ventures I once had the privilege to share, his lifework continues quite without the knowledge of the British Medical Council, who applaud his surgical expertise at a Taunton hospital and write him up in the journal, without once tracing him to his burrow near by — at Bishops Bight.’ — He dropped the name in with deliberate emphasis.

  ‘Have you been in it? — the burrow?’

  The question amused him. ‘In a way.’

  It was useless to pursue what he meant by that. ‘Who has?’

  ‘I have reason to believe that Thorne will very shortly do so.’

  ‘That’s where an ambulance has taken him?’

  ‘Correction,’ he said. ‘There were two ambulances.’

  ‘Who was in the other one?’

  He gestured extravagantly. ‘Who knows? Perhaps Thorne was in both.’

  THREE

  I decided to act at once, phoning Chindale from an AA box on the A41. He told me to see him immediately, which I did. He lived in exactly the sort of house you’d expect — right down to the sundial. This one was in Wendover, a village which is neat, sweet and expensive.

  But this was no time for sundials. The night was jet black and oppressive. Wendover smelled not of the surrounding forests, but of yesterday’s buses and diesel fumes lingering over the railway.

  Chindale greeted me in a pair of pyjamas three neons flashier than I would have given him credit for. ‘I’ve made some coffee, come in.’ I did so, as harsh words were uttered from upstairs and a door was slammed. It seemed Mrs Chindale didn’t approve of late-night conferences. Chindale grinned, unabashed. ‘So you’ve met this Michael!’

  ‘Have you?’

  ‘No. But I know what you mean!’ He clattered percolators and things. ‘Sugar? ... Take some, will you? People seem to want it to the nearest grain.’ We settled down in a rather ’thirties living room. The electric heater had artificial flames. Chindale gestured vaguely towards a cheque which lay on the table. ‘I’ll pay you by the week,’ he said.

  ‘This is a lot of money.’

  ‘Money gets results. Now. You told me the lights failed. Why did the lights fail?’

  ‘Unless they generate juice from their experimental reactor I don’t exactly know.’

  ‘But the reactor had failed before then?’

  ‘The accident to Thorne had happened before then — which isn’t quite the same thing. We only have that weirdie’s word for it that Thorne had an accident anyway.’

  ‘Still, it looks from the way Stavely talked that Thorne was the victim. It could have been that.’

  There came a pause. Inevitably, Chindale lit one of the thin cigarettes. It seemed to give him disproportionate pleasure. I said thoughtfully: ‘There were two ambulances — and nobody mentioned any other occupant. If the accident was the sort which leaves bits of you all over a control room wall —’

  ‘ — he could have been in both ambulances at once.’

  ‘And therefore dead.’

  ‘I take your point, Yenn. You’re wondering about enquiries, coroners, compensation ... things like that.’

  ‘They can hardly keep it to themselves.’

  Chindale threw me a funny look. ‘Can’t they!’ He didn’t make it sound like a question. ‘Find out how they make their electricity. If it’s done with the reactor Thorne was working on, and the lights didn’t fail till later, it’s more likely to have been some sort of contamination accident.’

  ‘A few thousand roentgens of radiation can be slightly inconvenient,’ I said mildly.

&nb
sp; ‘Good thinking. What will you do now?’

  ‘I’m leaving at once for this place in Somerset. I should get there well before dawn.’

  ‘You would! Roar down there in a fast car like they do in the films. Couldn’t we make it a little more delicate?’

  ‘It depends how delicate you think they are. You can’t have it both ways. If you’re careful enough to avoid risking your international neck you’re being too careful to find anything out.’

  ‘Still, we mustn’t go off half-cocked. It’s untidy.’

  ‘You have me intrigued.’ I said. ‘It must take quite something to get someone as British as you to delve into the activities at Elstree. Can’t our own government authorities clamp down? — it seems to have Home Office protection.’

  ‘You can’t clamp down on what you don’t know.’

  ‘Well, you obviously know something. Why can’t you say it outright — either to me or to the Whitehall penpushers?’

  ‘I’m not going to frighten the penpushers into alerting Group Three for the express purpose of covering up.’

  ‘What about me?’

  ‘I don’t yet know how rash you are.’

  ‘But these are our own people! What do they do if I fall into their hands? — Feed me to a bandsaw until I talk? — I handed in my cloak and dagger when I was demobbed.’

  ‘I can understand your scepticism.’

  ‘But you won’t talk? — Thanks for being so helpful.’

  *

  The sea was visible from the crest of the hill as I stopped and switched off. Beyond the Bristol Channel, tinting the sky faint red over an enormously wide arc, was the glow from industrial Wales. There to the north would be the huge steel refineries which are linked by the coastal railway; but you couldn’t see direct the lights of the installation themselves — only the sky-embers that suggested moribund coal beneath, as if the entire coastline had burned to a cinder. An occasional lighthouse flashed brilliantly, then dimmed again, marking time. In the foreground, this side of the sea and only a few miles off, was the extraordinary, crystalline glitter from the nuclear power station at Bishops Bight. Nothing could put that to bed; it was a tireless powerbox feeding the pylons. These converged from several directions and thickened to a conference of towers amassed near the sea.