Prisoner's Base (20 page)

“More than an hour ago? Are you sure?”

The real-life words broke grimly, relentlessly into the last remnants of Claudia’s fantasy, smashing everything. And then—trust Mother for correct social behaviour even at a time like this—“No, no of course it wasn’t your fault, not in the least: how should you have known? … Yes. Yes. That’s what I mean to do. Yes, thank you very much. Thank you. Tell your husband it’s most kind of him, but I can’t think what he can do at the moment: we must see what the police suggest … Yes. Yes, of course, we’ll let you know at once … Thank you very much….” The telephone pinged; pinged again; and now Mother was talking to the police.

And now it was nearly one o’clock. Daphne had gone home, and Claudia and Margaret were sitting by the telephone, one
on each side of it, waiting. It seemed no time for
recriminations
, for saying ‘I told you so!’ and indeed Margaret felt now no animosity towards her daughter for the blind folly that had led to all this. She felt nothing but a leaden, overpowering fear; and beside her Claudia seemed bowed down by the same intolerable weight. They did not speak much; just now and then one of them would drearily suggest some fresh improbable circumstance, ever more bizarre as the hour grew later, by which things might yet turn out to be perfectly all right. Perhaps, Margaret would surmise, they had called on some friend on the way home? At midnight? On the spur of the moment? Well, nothing was
impossible
; and the spark of hope engendered by ringing round an improbable list of sleepy and bewildered households at least kept them going for a little. Or perhaps—Claudia’s suggestion this—the two had stopped at some
late-night
café in the town? But there was nothing—nothing
anywhere
—that would be open after midnight. A breakdown then, or a minor accident with the car, and no coins to telephone with? But not for all this time, and besides, if the car was anywhere on the expected route between here and Sandra’s, then either the police or Sandra’s father (who had joined the search) would have found it long ago.

They might have lost their way, then, gone miles in the wrong direction—Helen had only lived here all her life, after all. Well, all right, perhaps she had been sleepy, not looking, and had let Maurice miss the way … or perhaps one of them was ill … perhaps they had both fainted … perhaps a tree had fallen across the road … perhaps
all
the roads were somehow blocked … perhaps lions had escaped …

Thus driven deeper and deeper into absurdity by their mounting, intolerable fear, they became aware of a strange closeness growing up between them. They were in this together, as they had never been in anything before; enclosed together in a rocking capsule of dread, bound for some unknown
destination
in regions where the imagination dared not range. No room for jeering here, nor pride, nor recriminations; every wandering thought could be spoken, and find acceptance.

“I keep thinking,” said Margaret, “that I hear the side gate go
thump,
the way it does when she rushes through and leaves it to bang….”

“And then her footsteps … and crash-slam through the back
door …! I can’t believe I’m not just going to hear it … in just the very next minute …!”

And for the next minute, in idiotic hope, the two sat, heads on one side, ears alert for the beloved sounds; and there was nothing.

“God, if it would only ring!” cried Claudia, jerking her elbow suddenly and uselessly in the direction of the telephone. “Why can’t they ring and tell us
something
! Surely it can’t take so long to trace a car? If they’d just tell us
anything
…!”

“I know,” said Margaret. “That’s how I feel. They’re bound to find it. They’re bound to ring us soon. But then I keep
thinking
, suppose they ring us, and they say they’ve found the car, but that it’s empty. And beside a little wood …”

She could not go on, and Claudia could not listen. They leaned a little closer to the telephone, each of them bowed a little lower, and praying, now, that it should
not
ring. They had reached that far end of the road where one chooses, at last, suspense rather than knowledge; even suspense like this.

“It’s always been all right before,” said Margaret suddenly. “When I’ve sat like this before, listening—first for you, and afterwards for Helen—it’s always turned out that something
perfectly
ordinary had happened. Something you’d never have thought of …”

“I know. I’m sorry.” The apology seemed to have no precise relevance to what Margaret had been saying—and yet, in another way, it had a relevance so intense, so all-pervading, ploughing back into the years, that Margaret caught her breath.

“I never knew it was like this,” Claudia continued, haltingly. “I’m sorry. I never knew.”

And it was then that the telephone began to ring. Between them, they let it ring for several seconds before Margaret managed to force her hand to close round the receiver and lift it from its stand.

Yes, said the man’s voice, they had found the car. But it was empty. And beside a little wood.

W
HEN
H
ELEN LEARNED
that it was to be Maurice who would come for her, she was surprised, but she could not be bothered to worry about it. Her mind at the moment was occupied by something far more exciting: two things, in fact. First, the wonderful piece of news she was bringing for Granny; and second the memory of this marvellous evening they had just spent, she and Sandra.

It was hard to say, really, just
why
it had been so
marvellous
—so soon, too, after everything had seemed so dreadful, and beyond the reach of cure. Yet already that horrifying episode of a few hours earlier seemed dream-like and utterly remote, as if it belonged to some other life. Sandra had been marvellous; no, more than that; she had simply been Sandra. Just as Helen had hoped, within ten minutes of the dreadful story being told, they had been giggling; and within half an hour there had come upon them one of those miraculous moods of laughter that are almost like great music, transcending one’s ordinary mortal life. They just
couldn’t
stop laughing; and everything they said or did seemed to add a new and gorgeous dimension to the funniness of it all. By a lucky chance, Sandra’s parents were out this evening, so they had the house to themselves, with nothing to interrupt or dispel the mad, wonderful mood. For supper Sandra invented a crazy, fantastic sauce to go with the warmed-up shepherd’s pie, while Helen punched silly faces on the slices of wonderloaf before putting them in the toaster—and the toasting, of course, made the faces funnier still, and always hilariously reminiscent of someone or other whom they both knew. They could hardly eat for laughing; and afterwards they played Monopoly (which they hadn’t played for ages and ages) but they played it now according to some new, idiotic rules of Sandra’s, which somehow turned it into the most
uproariously
funny game that either of them had ever played in their lives; by the end they were almost falling about the room with laughter.

The whole evening seemed to Helen to be truly a gift from the gods, for not only was it filled with such laughter as belongs by right only to the immortals on Olympus, but towards the end of it there came down the telephone a piece of news so wonderful that at first Helen could hardly take it in.

It seemed at first the dullest telephone message imaginable; something about dates for collecting jumble for the Conservative Party fête; and then came a long stretch of conversation which consisted (from Helen’s point of view) of Sandra dutifully saying ‘Yes’; and ‘All right, I’ll tell her’—but then, suddenly
everything
changed. Sandra gave a little gasp. “Are you
sure
?” she squealed excitedly; “But the voting going against it, does that really mean that it’s not going to happen? They can really stop it?—I say, isn’t that super…!” and after a hasty reassurance to the unseen speaker that yes, she
would
remember to tell her mother about the jumble, she flung the receiver back into its place, and turned to Helen with shining eyes.

“Your field, Helen! It’s going to be all right! There’s not going to be a road built after all! It’s the town council or
something
—anyway, they’ve decided against it! So now they won’t want your field to build on, or any of the other fields—nothing! Even if your mother still
wants
to sell it, nobody’d buy it now! Oh, isn’t it super!”

Helen could not speak. She could only join Sandra in a mad dance round and round the room; and then, with joy, relief and laughter all bubbling up in her soul together, she knew that she must rush home to Granny. News like this would not keep—nor could it be conveyed adequately down the telephone. Helen rushed to collect her coat, her handbag.

And only now did she remember that the last bus would be already gone. Slowly, she made herself come down to earth enough to decide what to do. Sandra’s enthusiastic suggestion that she should stay the night was impractical—not only because of her impatience to tell Granny the good news, but because there was Monday morning to think about too. Her satchel, her books, her school clothes, were all at home.

There was nothing for it but to get Mummy to fetch her in the car. Mummy might be a bit fed up about it, but never mind; what did
anything
matter when life was being so wonderful?

She was still in a carefree, exalted mood when she climbed into the seat beside Maurice; and when he asked if she would mind if he drove round a longer way, and set her down at the corner a couple of hundred yards beyond her house, she agreed incuriously. Her mind was elsewhere. Should she rush straight up to Granny’s room and pour out the news about the field as
soon as she got in? Or should she lead up to it in some exciting, tantalising way, to make the surprise even more wonderful? She tried to picture Granny’s face as the joyful truth began to dawn on her … and only now did Helen notice that the car was beginning to gather speed, just when it should have been
slowing
down.

“Maurice!” she cried sharply “Stop! The corner—look—we’ve passed it! That’s where I’m to get out …!”

He did not answer. His eyes gleamed fixedly ahead of him along the dark road, and still their speed increased. Sixty … Seventy … and now Helen was really frightened.

“Stop!” she screamed, “Let me out!” and then, when he still made no answer, she began struggling with the handle of the door.

“Stop it, you little fool! You’ll be killed!” He pushed her roughly back into her seat, while the car swerved for a moment alarmingly.

“There! We’ll
both
get our necks broken if you carry on like that! For God’s sake sit still just till we’re clear … I’ll
explain
everything. Sit
still
!”

And Helen did; there was nothing else to be done, with the landscape rocking past at seventy miles an hour. After a long, long time, as it seemed to her, their speed began to slacken, and he spoke again.

“Stop panicking,” he said. “Nothing’s going to happen to you. God knows,
I
don’t want you with me on this jaunt, but it was the only way to get the car! I meant to put you down at the corner—really I did—but—didn’t you see?—
They
were there! Waiting for me! I daren’t stop even for a moment!”

“Who were?” Helen was more bewildered than alarmed now. “Do you mean the police—?”

“
No
! For God’s sake! Why should
they
be after me? Hadn’t you guessed by now—I’m no more a murderer than you are! The whole story was a lot of balls from beginning to end …”

“Then why on
earth
…?”

“Listen. For seven years—for seven bloody years, day in and day out, I’ve been writing poetry.
Good
poetry. Poetry that should have made me famous by now. And has it? Has it hell—Not one bloody ten-and-six have I landed—not so much as one single four-line filler in the lowest of low-brow magazines!
Not one! Not in seven years! Yet every time you open a paper you read that some unutterable tripe or other has been published for no other reason than that the chap wrote it with his toes, or while he was still at primary school, or—and here you have it—while he was in prison. International awards they were getting, chaps like that, and television interviews—the lot. Can you wonder that now and then I toyed with the thought of some such gimmick? And then, when I went to that Poetry Group place, and met the Daphne woman, and saw her room papered knee-deep in leaflets about delinquent boys and what-have-you, I thought to myself, well, why not try it on, just for once, and see how this lot react? So I went home to think about it, and at the next meeting I came back and started to drop a few hints—nothing definite, you know—just enough to make them sit up a bit, and take a bit of interest in my work.”

“And did they?”

“My God, and how! Your mother was there, you see, at that meeting—and after that, well, it was as if she’d taken the whole thing out of my hands! I couldn’t
not
be a murderer after ten minutes talk with her, I wouldn’t have had the heart! And I won’t say I didn’t enjoy it all at first—your mother can make one feel no end of a fine fellow, you know, once she’s convinced of one’s essential wickedness. How could I disillusion her? Besides, by then, there seemed no way out of it. The whole thing had been set going on its own momentum, more and more people had got drawn into it … it was like playing the lead in an important play, you
can’t
suddenly change your rôle. Also, your mother was talking about all sorts of smashing plans for getting my poems published—and I thought then, you see, that she really
did
like them … really
did
think they were good. So I thought to myself, well, good lord, perhaps it really
will
work out … and then by the time the cat’s out of the bag, they’ll be safely in print and establishing my reputation on their own merits; and then I shan’t worry about
anything …
”

“And is that what’s going to happen? Or have they found you out, or something? Why are you rushing away like this?”

“Your precious family—and the Daphne woman, too, I
daresay
—have properly buggered it all up. Between you, you’ve spread it all round town that it was some robbery around here that I was mixed up in—and now these oafs who were
really
mixed up in it, they’re after me, thinking I know where their goddam money is hidden!”

“But surely they know themselves where it is?” protested Helen reasonably. “I mean, if they were the ones who stole it?” 

“Do they hell! If you ask me, the criminal underworld seems to be as much snarled up in red tape and muddle as any
government
department! Anyway, I gather that these aren’t the chaps who actually stole the money—they’re just mixed up with it on the fringes, somehow—don’t ask
me
how it all works, I’m just the muggins. Anyway, they’ve got it into their heads that I’ve somehow sneaked out of prison before the rest of the gang, and I’m trying to steal a march on them all and corner the money for myself. Your grandma digging up the chicken run just when she did was no help at all; and then the way she flew at that chap like a tigress when he was just having a bit of a
look-see
! You can’t blame him thinking there was something funny going on. They pinned it on me, of course—they thought I’d been ganging up with the old lady to bury their blasted money underneath the hen-house! And when I told them the old dear’d just been digging worms for her chickens, they thought I was taking the Mickey, and you can’t wonder…. They nearly beat me up on the spot! And after that, it really hotted up. I could hardly go outside the house without one of them
following
me…. I saw them hanging about everywhere. They’ve searched my room twice … I’ve had to sit up half the night, sometimes, listening for them …”

Glancing sideways, Helen observed his set, white face. He was afraid; really afraid. In spite of the off-hand mocking tone of his revelations, it was real danger from which he felt himself to be fleeing.

“But why didn’t you tell Mummy the truth, then, when it got as bad as that? Why did you let everyone go on thinking …?”

“The
truth
?
Are you kidding? After all this, to tell your Ma that I’m really a clerk in an insurance office, and that I go home at weekends to my widowed mother? Tell
that
—to
Claudia
—after what she’d believed of me? Would
you
have the nerve?”

Helen saw his point. Mummy would inflict on him that most terrible of all disgraces—she would be very, very sorry for him…. And spending all his free time with his
mother,
my
dear, a young man in his
twenties
… did you ever hear of
anything
so
peculiar
…?

Helen shuddered, and could no longer blame him for sticking to the rôle of murderer. She, of all people, could understand his predicament.

“And so,” continued Maurice, “since I couldn’t face Claudia and I couldn’t face the thugs, the only thing to do was to clear out, fast. And it seemed a real gift from heaven, this business of fetching you home tonight. It meant I could make my
get-away
in the car. And I
did
fetch you!” he pointed out
defensively
. “I was all set to put you down at that corner…. If I’d been a real cad, I’d have cleared out straightaway, and not fetched you at all!”

Helen couldn’t help feeling that this would have made things very much simpler, at least for her.

“So what’s to happen to me
now
?”
she enquired. “How am I supposed to get home from all this way away? And what about the car? I think you’re
awful,
Maurice, pinching Mummy’s car like this—when she trusted you with it! Don’t you feel dreadful, treating her like that, after all she’s done trying to help you?”

“Yes, ducky. I do. But not as dreadful as I’d feel staying behind and letting those thugs beat me up. Because that’s what was going to happen to me tonight, make no mistake. You see, you have to weigh one thing against another: a guilty
conscience
against being carved up in some rather nasty way. Me, I choose the guilty conscience—I don’t pretend to be any sort of a hero. Maybe if I
was
a murderer I’d be behaving more like a gentleman now, because I’d have learned how to stand up to that sort of thing. But as it is I can’t. I’m not made that way. I shouldn’t
be
in this position!” he burst out in sudden desperation. “It’s not
me
—it’s not my sort of thing! It’s like putting a chap to fly an aeroplane when he’s never even looked inside the cockpit before…. This is what your mother does to people!”

“Oh, but that’s not
fair
!”
cried Helen loyally. “How can you blame Mummy? It’s all your own fault, all of it.
You
started it all—”

“Yes—like a fish starts it all by swallowing the bait! He must
want
to end up on the slab, you’re saying, or he’d have left the bait alone in the first place. But you see, my dear girl, the
poor fish doesn’t notice the hook buried in it; that’s the whole idea. Poor Fish Maurice, he thought at first that your mother really
did
admire his poems, really
did
think they were worth something. That’s what I can’t forgive, you know: that she never cared a damn about my poetry, only about that phoney murder….”