The Courtesy of Death (15 page)

I hoped that he would take me for a singularly disreputable tramp and pass by. But tramps are no longer recognised as a normal and picturesque decoration of the countryside. The very few who
wander from place to place do so from choice rather than necessity and are well enough dressed to pick up a lift if they want it.

He stopped and wished me good evening.

‘You shouldn’t be walking in that condition,’ he said with severe benevolence.

‘I know I shouldn’t. Can you give me four pennies to telephone with?’

‘Haven’t got them,’ he replied, ‘but we will get change in the village. You should have that wound attended to immediately. I am afraid you have been fighting.’

There was a Fosworthian echo in that. I did not want him to disapprove of me, since he might be useful, so I said impulsively that I had been in a car accident.

‘An accident? When?’

‘About a week ago.’

As soon as the words were out of my mouth, I realised the mistake. My appearance was quite consistent with being hurled out on to a very dirty road. But what had I been doing ever since and why
had nobody patched me up?

‘Come with me, my dear chap!’ he urged. ‘This must be looked into. I am sure you have no reason to be alarmed.’

There was nothing else for it. I walked slowly towards the village with him. It was not difficult to drag my feet and play even tireder than I felt. He offered to leave me where I was and
telephone for me.

What was I to do? I was not going to give him my name and have it officiously batted about the district, and I would not drag Dunton and his family publicly into my affairs. He had too much to
lose if things went wrong.

I asked this unreliable altruist if he had a car. He replied fussily that he had never found any necessity for one. This confirmed my instinctive guess that he was a devoted pedestrian and about
to tell the nearest policeman that there was a wandering man who had been knocked senseless and had probably killed someone else into the bargain.

In my condition the complications were beyond me. I gave him an imaginary telephone number, and then sat down on the edge of the drain and let him carry on. As soon as he was safely out of sight
I waded across to the meadow, found no cover, waded another ditch into somebody’s orchard and took refuge in the branches of an apple tree. I was very wet and cold, but beyond caring. I found
some comfort in the green of the mass of leaves and the red of a clear sunset down the valley. I still could not take light for granted.

After twenty minutes my old hearty returned, beat about a little and shouted ‘Hi!’ A little later a cop arrived on a motor-cycle. Neither of them thought of looking for me on the
other side of the water. They assumed that I had gone back up the lane and could easily be overtaken. The walker continued his walk, fuming a little and waving his ash plant impatiently. The cop
shot off towards Westbury.

I proposed to let twilight deepen before I moved. Sitting in my tree, I cursed myself for a coward who preferred to be hunted by police rather than go boldly to them with my story. Yet it was
undeniable that life, as soon as it became recognisable, would be easier and pleasanter if I could manage to clear out and leave no trace of my existence. Suppose they did gang up and swear I
killed Fosworthy? Suppose the hospital, picking bits of teak and detonator out of Jedder, started asking how an explosion could peal off a neat ribbon of skin? Whoever went on trial in the end, I
was in for a packet of trouble. I had no intransigent desire to bring them all to justice. They were the least likely people in the world to repeat their crime. And any way rough justice had been
done.

For God’s sake get out of here!
was all I could say to myself, but I knew I was not capable of any prolonged physical effort. I had to steal something to eat, since I could not buy
it without attracting pity and questions. A likely spot was a large lowland farm with extensive outbuildings close to the point where I had disentangled myself from the drains of Westbury Moor.

I went back up the lane, and approached the house up wind. It was blazing with light behind curtains and there was not a soul in the yard. An old, half-boarded window opening which faced the
marshland gave access to a building in which were a couple of sows about to farrow. Their quarters, so far as I could tell by feeling about, were far too clean and scientific. No edible scraps had
been left to rot.

I let myself out into the yard and looked for the cowshed. Either there wasn’t one or I couldn’t find it. I came across two battery houses for hens, but both were locked. The farmer
did not eat battery eggs himself, however, for I disturbed a few chickens roosting on the tractors and machinery in an open Dutch barn. I searched all likely crannies and corners in the hope of
discovering where they laid—hard enough in daylight—and eventually came upon two eggs in the chaff at the bottom of an old fodder bin. To my bitter disappointment one was a china egg.
The other I gulped down.

What in the world to do next I did not know. The only solution was to keep going if I could and try to pass through Henton in the silence after midnight. While I was brushing myself down with
wisps of straw—more with the object of keeping myself awake than of making any noticeable difference to my clothes—a car drove into the yard. It was evidently the owner of the farm
coming home from his favourite pub at closing time. He put the car away in a shed, chained and locked the farm gate and entered the house.

I had a feeling that he was a confident, busy man who would have left the keys in the car, and sure enough he had. The chance was too good to be missed. In the obscurity of a car I could pass as
a scruffy individual rather than a wreck. I saw myself driving straight to my London flat where I could wash, shave and change, afterwards sending an anonymous letter to the owner telling him where
his property was parked and enclosing some money for compensation. It was a gift from heaven. To judge by what one read, the police seldom seemed able to trace stolen cars.

But first I had to get that gate open. The chain was padlocked tightly round the gatepost and upright. The only way of getting it off that I could see was to saw through the wood. Whatever I did
had to be quick. Once the house lights were out and the TV silent, there was no hope of sawing without being heard.

One is always hypnotised by the fastening of an object and forgets the other end. I had gone off to search for tools before I remembered that gates have hinges. So I returned with a brick and a
length of stout timber. With these I easily levered the gate off its hinges, and foot by foot cleared it out of the way, for my strength was not equal to dragging it aside by hand. It was the
lever, too, which persuaded the car out of its shed. The slight slope of the yard did the rest.

There was no traffic in the lane and I turned into the main road at Henton feeling that my troubles were at an end. I passed sedately through Wells and then put my foot down. Fifty was all that
my farmer’s rattletrap would do, but she sounded in good heart and able to land me at my flat within three hours.

I think I would have got away with it if not for the cop on the motor-cycle. I had forgotten him. He must have called at the farms and cottages between Henton and Westbury to ask people to keep
an eye open for me and to report at once by telephone. So it may be that the farmer took a last look round when he ought to have gone straight to bed and promptly called the number which the
patrolman had left. The police, for once, knew exactly what they were looking for within ten minutes of the theft without any of the usual delays in passing information through local stations.

On the outskirts of Shepton Mallet I passed a police car and in my mirror saw it stop abruptly and begin to turn. I shot into the first side road, which led me through some sort of housing
estate into open country, switched out my headlights—adding crime to crime—and tried to throw off the pursuit. Luck for the moment was with me, probably because they thought they knew
what my objective was, whereas I was actually twisting at random. When I was lost in a network of lanes and hamlets, I reckoned that I was safe and drove on the parking lights—not that being
temporarily safe was going to solve my problem of how to reach London.

Having no map, I only knew that I was within the triangle formed by Glastonbury, Wells and Shepton Mallet. Arriving at a wild-looking lane to the west, I followed it with some vague hope of
abandoning my stolen car where it would not be found quickly and of reaching Dunton’s house on foot. But my lane ran down a steep, little valley and came to a dead end at water with no
continuation on the opposite bank. I bogged the car trying to turn, and the effort finally exhausted both mind and body. So I waded the water and climbed up a hillock beyond it, toppling over at
last in a patch of woodland.

It was day again, with yellow shafts of sunlight occasionally piercing the rain clouds which blew up from the Bristol Channel. I was on top of Warminster Sleight—one of two rounded hills
which I had seen too often from the road to mistake. I could see Wells and Glastonbury and the straight line of the Mendips. I could also see that a police car had joined mine down in the bottom of
the steep valley. I wished to God that I had been one of the hunters looking down from my knoll upon deer drinking at the edge of the lake, instead of on too civilised meadows inhabited by nuts and
policemen and children who rushed home to mother because a poor devil had a hole in his neck.

There was little I could do. Apart from my patch of cover, the slopes were bare. I dithered and my pursuers at the bottom of the valley peacefully smoked. After half an hour there was nothing
whatever I could do. A van joined the car, and out hopped a police handler accompanied by a large and eager Alsatian. Ever since Fosworthy’s dog which didn’t exist I had been haunted by
the creatures, alive and dead. More to my taste than ever was the sunlit, empty England of the hunters where there weren’t any—or, if there were, their assistance was not considered
worth paint and a patch of rock.

In five minutes or less—to judge by the way that damned dog was pulling on his leash—I was going to be caught in the long grind of the Law. Mr Yarrow. Well known in the district. So
what the devil is he doing hiding with plenty of money and a cheque book in his pocket? Why run away? Hold him on a charge of stealing a car till he answers! Tactful enquiries might be made of
Aviston-Tresco and Jedder. What they would say the Lord only knew. It might be impossible for them to stick to the bargain; or, seeing that my case was already prejudiced, they might take the risk
of going straight into action.

And then I saw the only card I could play: to become what that benevolent ass who hadn’t got fourpence thought I was. I ran over an inventory of my clothes. The suit I was wearing had been
bought off the peg from a good, plain shop in the City which took cash and did not insist on a customer’s name and address in order to pester him thereafter with sales offers. Everything else
was straight commercial stuff sold in hundreds weekly by multiple stores. It would take months of a detective’s time to trace my identity through my clothing; and since I was
not—yet—accused of murder, it was unlikely that police would take the trouble.

All that could give away my identity were letters in my pocket and my wallet containing cards and a cheque book. I looked frantically round for a hiding-place as the cop and his dog started up
the hill. There was an ash which had been split by lightning, and in the dead half a green woodpecker had been at work. The nesting hole she had started and abandoned was shallow but deep enough
for my wallet and papers. On top of them I crammed in handfuls of rotten wood from the little pile at the foot of the tree. Then I ran round in a circle back to the place where I had slept, so that
the dog, with luck, would not stop at the tree.

There were only seconds to spare, but at least I was now nobody at all. I had never had any dealings with the police. It was unlikely that I should meet anyone who knew me once I was safely in a
cell. The only danger was the magistrate’s court where, shaved and cleaned, I risked recognition.

I broke cover out on to the hillside, assuming that I ought to make the futile gesture of running away. The cops firmly and painlessly detained me and took me down to their car where they put a
few preliminary questions. Who was I? I was very sorry, but I didn’t know. What had I done to my neck? I thought it was a car accident, but couldn’t remember. Could I account for my
movements? Well, more or less I could. I had been wandering about for some time and sleeping rough, hoping my memory would come back. I deeply regretted stealing a car, but I had been frightened
and had found myself suddenly impelled to go somewhere else.

They were of course suspicious of the disappearance of any means of identification. It was obvious that I had either destroyed all papers myself or that I had been the victim of a crime. I had
the impression that they were inclined to think I had attempted suicide, made a mess of the job and taken refuge in real or pretended loss of memory. The dog handler returned to the hilltop to see
if his officious tyke could detect a spot where I had hidden anything. I thanked God for the woodpecker and her obliging hole eight feet above ground. If I had cut out a piece of turf or hidden my
wallet under a stone, there might have been some triumphant tail-wagging.

I was driven down to the police station at Wells and charged with stealing a car, wilful damage and half a dozen driving offences. When they had taken my finger prints—which were merely
going to make work for somebody—they locked me up with a cup of tea and a sandwich, and sent for the doctor.

He was just the right chap—a busy and impatient Irishman who had more respect for suffering than I deserved and a lot less for the police than they deserved. He made a very thorough
examination of me and of course was interested by the recent scar on my backside. He wanted to know who had stitched it up for me. I pretended that I did not know what scar he was talking about,
which may have been overdoing it. When he described it in detail, I put on a show of extreme agitation and said that I believed my wife had stabbed me. I hoped that would tie up with a
domestic-trouble-attempted-suicide-lost-memory theory. At any rate it meant more complications and more time for me to play with.