The Night of the Triffids (3 page)

    I walked faster.

    The oil lamp had no reflector plate to focus its light; instead I walked in the middle of a soft-edged glow. Consequently I could see no more than a dozen feet in front of me at any one time.

    So when I came upon Mr Hartlow sitting alone on a roadside bench it was something of a surprise.

    Mr Hartlow was a well-built man in his mid-sixties with close-cropped white hair. Long ago he'd been a London solicitor specializing in copyright law.

    He looked up even though I'd stopped and the sound of my footsteps had ceased. His keen hearing must have picked up the sound of my breathing.

    'Who's there?' He sounded immensely tired.

    'It's David Masen,' I said, walking forward.

    'Ah, David… come here, please…'

    He held out his hand which I took in mine. Immediately he clasped it in a surprisingly fierce grip.

    'What's happened, David? Something's gone wrong, hasn't it?'

    'It's dark. All dark, as if the sun hasn't come up.'

    'Dark. Ah…' His voice sounded hoarse with exhaustion; as if he'd just come through the grimmest battle of his life. 'For a moment I wondered…' He shook his white-haired head. 'I wondered if the green lights had come back.' He raised his own sightless eyes to the sky. 'I heard Tom Atkinson shouting earlier… oh, you don't know Tom, do you?'

    I told him I didn't.

    'He's one of the few Sighted here in the village. He's a fisherman - and he's one of the biggest grumblers I've ever met. He's always too warm or too cold, or the fish won't bite, or the wind's blowing in the wrong direction… Ah…' He broke off. For a moment I thought he was simply going to nod off there on the bench. I raised the lantern to look at him, but his head hung down wearily.

    'Mr Hartlow?'

    He seemed to pull himself together. 'Sorry… I don't know what's come over me this morning. I tripped into the hedge back there. Must have fallen over my own two feet. Clumsy devil I'm becoming. Never done that before…' He suddenly seemed to shake himself awake. 'Yes, I was telling you about Tom Atkinson, wasn't I? He was shouting out in the street that he couldn't see. At first, as I say, I thought the shooting stars or whatever they were had come back - those damnable things that burned out our eyesight thirty years ago.' He paused, then took a deep breath. 'You know, David.' His grip on my hand tightened further and he began to speak in a low voice. 'That fear came back to me. Just like it did after I stayed out in the garden that night all those years ago. My God. We even made a party of it with the neighbours because they said it was something we'd never see again.' He gave a colourless laugh. 'Never see again. How right they were. Because in the morning we were all blind. And of course I never saw my family again, even though they were in the house with me. But I could hear them screaming. Oh, by Heaven, I could hear that all right, just… just screaming with panic as their eyesight faded away.'

    The grip on my hand, which had relaxed slightly during Mr Hartlow's sad reminiscence, tightened again. He turned his sightless eyes to me. And even though I knew he was one of the old Blind, at that moment I believed he not only looked
at
me but right
into
me, into the depths of my soul.

    'David. You know, I had a beautiful, intelligent wife
.
I had two pretty daughters - just ten and thirteen they were. And thirty years ago, suddenly blind… stone blind… I stood every day in the doorway of our house and called for help. And I listened to my wife and daughters cry themselves to sleep every day for the next three months. You see, we ran out of food. I couldn't find any more…' He shook his head. 'I hated myself, David. I was too weak to find a way of helping them. My God, I wish I could turn the clock back… I wish I had just the one chance to help them; stop them suffering… because…' His voice failed him.

    'I'll take you back to the cottage,' I said gently.

    'Maybe in a moment. You know, I haven't an ounce of strength left in my body. What on earth's happened to me, David?'

    'Don't worry, Mr Hartlow, it must be the shock of the fall, that's all.'

    'Falling over into bushes? Time they put me out to pasture, eh?'

    'You'll soon be fighting fit again, Mr Hartlow.'

    'Maybe, David. Maybe. Now, do you see any sign of that old moaner Tom Atkinson?'

    'I can hardly see a thing. This lantern doesn't cast an awful lot of light.'

    'But how in heaven's name did it get so dark? It doesn't feel like rain so there can't be so much cloud that… ah…'

    The grip on my hand suddenly loosened. His head hung forward again.

    'Mr Hartlow?'

    'Oh… uhm? Sorry, David… I'm just so light-headed. I feel as if I've put away a jug or two more of ale than I should have. Now, this darkness… what do you suppose is responsible?'

    'I don't know - cloud, maybe. But it must be incredibly dense. Without a lamp I can't see my hand in front of my face.'

    'Now that kind of darkness is a great equalizer between the two of us, isn't it?' There was no maliciousness there; the old man sounded as kindly as ever.

    'Mr Hartlow, I'll help you back to-'

    He waved my helping hand away. 'No, David. Not yet.' He took a deep breath. 'David… you know, I've always suspected something like this would happen. All these years I've sat in my cottage and thought about the terrible calamity that befell the planet, and how people like your mother and father and Ivan Simpson worked their miracles, how they saved so many people - Blind as well as Sighted - and how they embedded a tiny sliver of civilization in this island.' He sighed. 'But long ago I came to the conclusion it was all a waste of time and effort. Three decades ago Mother Nature, fate or God Himself decided that Man had ruled this planet long enough; so an attempt was made to wipe Man out; render him extinct. Very nearly succeeded, too. Still, as I said, due to the brave efforts of the Masens and people like them we cheated extinction. But I tell you this, David.' He looked at me, those sightless eyes once again seeming to pierce my soul. 'I tell you, God will not be cheated. Nothing Man can do will thwart His plan. We are all going to die. He has decided. The last twenty-five years here have been nothing more than a peaceful interlude. An intermission between two halves of a titanic catastrophe that will destroy all human life. Now He-' Mr Hartlow pointed skyward '-is going to finish the job. Remember the Bible's Book of Exodus. One of the plagues to afflict Pharaoh was darkness. The Lord said to Moses, "Stretch your hand toward heaven that there may be darkness over the land of Egypt, a darkness to be felt".' Eyes glittering strangely, the old man lifted his hand as if to touch the encircling darkness. 'In every culture darkness precedes Armageddon. The Vikings predicted the end of the world would begin when the monster wolf, Fenrir, swallowed the sun, bringing darkness. The ancient Sumerians told how nearly all the people of the Earth were killed "when daylight turned to darkness" and their god "smashed the land like a cup…" Mark my words, David. Mark them well… this is the beginning of the end.'

    'Mr Hartlow, you're tired. Let me get you back home.'

    'Thank you, perhaps… Oh…'

    'What's the matter?'

    'My face is sore. I must have grazed it when I fell.' He touched his cheek.

    'Let me take a look at that… Mr Hartlow…
Mr Hartlow
?'

    His head sagged forward and I had to grip his shoulder to stop him falling. Not that it mattered to Mr Hartlow now. As I lowered him sideways onto the bench I instinctively knew he was dead.

    I raised the lamp to look into his face.

    There, in the glow of the lamp, I could plainly see the bright red streak across the old man's cheek.

    Now I knew what had killed him.

    I stooped quickly, using the back of the bench to shield at least part of my body. Then, raising the lamp as high as I dared, I looked at the dark shapes of the bushes and trees. But the light was too weak to identify individual species. They might have been everyday alders, sycamores, immature oaks, young chestnuts - but they might have been something entirely different. Something infinitely more sinister.

    I knew there was nothing more to be done for Mr Hartlow. What mattered now was that I should warn Emergency HQ at Newport.

    Keeping as low as I could, I ran at a crouch.

    And even as I ran it started. A hollow drumming sound of wood on wood. A sound that every child on the island had been taught to recognize.

    Something rustled in the hedgerow beside me.

    Ducking my head still lower, I hurried on.

    In front of me lay the dark form of a horse. The animal was stone dead.

    A little further on, I saw a pair of waders protruding from the long grass at the side of the road. That would be Tom Atkinson; silvery fish from his basket lay scattered across the ground. He'd landed his last catch.

    The drumming grew louder. A maddening
tip-tap-tip-tap
.

    Ahead I saw a cottage from which hung a post-office sign. I raced for it, seeing from the corner of my eye a monstrous shadow moving jerkily through the gloom.

    My voice rang out into silence as I burst into the building.

    'Hello! Anyone home?'

    Silence - as oppressive as the darkness.

    Now it seemed that I was alone in the village. With the lamp casting shadows that leaped crazily up the walls, I searched the post office until I found the room that served as the radio cabin. Here I sat myself before the small set and switched it on. Seconds later valves glowed yellow through the ventilation slots.

    Something tapped at the open window above my head.

    Using the radio set's Braille instruction booklet as a makeshift shield to guard my face, I jumped up at the window, shoved it shut, then locked it. Now at last I could make that call for help.

    I pressed the transmit button. 'Hello, this is an emergency transmission on frequency nine. Emergency HQ, Newport, do you read me, over?'

    Static hissed.

    For a moment I was convinced I'd receive no reply. Already I was too late - the island had been overrun.

    I tried again, tension making my voice sound higher: 'Emergency HQ. Newport, hello, do you read me, over?'

    'Caller on frequency nine. We read you; please stay off the air.' Weariness permeated the radio operator's tones. It sounded as if he'd had a long night.

    'But I need to report an emergency. Over.'

    'The darkness? Oh, yes, thank you, caller, we know all about that.' The man had clearly written me off as a dim-wit. 'Now, I'm waiting for a number of fire reports. I have to keep this frequency clear. So, caller, please go off air. Over.'

    'Good grief! You can't be serious,' I shouted, forgetting on-air etiquette.

    'Sir, I appreciate you must be anxious about the darkness. The official line is to stay put. It's probably an unusually dense cloud layer that has obscured the sun. So, kindly switch off-'

    'No… listen to me! I have something else to report. Over.'

    'Go ahead, caller,' came the voice, reluctantly.

    'My name is David Masen, calling from Bytewater. I wish to report a triffid incursion.'

    There was a pause. Static crackled on the ether.

    At last HQ responded in a voice that came close to stunned disbelief. 'Say again, Mr Masen. It sounded as if you used the word "triffid". Over.'

    Something lashed against the window.

    'You heard correctly. And until someone can tell me anything different, I'd say we've just been invaded.'

    

    

    

    MORE than twenty years ago my father, Bill Masen, sat down at his desk and during one long, snowbound winter wrote a deeply personal account of what happened to him during the aftermath of the Great Blinding and the coming of the triffids. By now, it must be a familiar-looking book to all colonists, not only on the Isle of Wight but on the Scillies and the Channel Islands as well. That mimeographed quarto publication bound within its bright orange covers is instantly recognizable.

    Along with Elspeth Cary's
History of a Colony
and Matt and Gwynne Lloyd's documentary films that continue to chronicle the day-to-day lives of the colonists, it is an invaluable record of how we came to find ourselves on our island fortresses when the whole world fell under the dreadful sway of the triffid. This was the botanical freak once trumpeted as 'the miracle plant that walks' that in a few short years became Man's nemesis - his destroyer.

    Naturally, I read my father's account when I was a boy. How strange to rediscover my father as Bill Masen the complex individual in his own right rather than simply the cheerful, mostly optimistic - if sometimes preoccupied - 'Dad' I'd known since birth.

    I never thought I'd write anything to compare with his book. Until now my writings had been restricted to pre-flight notes to do with weather reports, wind-speeds and navigational calculations, jotted on the backs of old envelopes and sandwich wrappers, as often as not picturesquely decorated with an oily fingerprint or two.

    Now I find myself sitting here at a table, a dozen blank notepads in front of me. I tap a pencil against my lips. My brow furrows as I wonder just how on Earth I can recapture in the written word all those strange adventures - those sometimes nightmarish adventures - that have dominated my life since that fateful 28 May three decades after the fall of civilization.

    That was the day I awoke to a world of darkness. And that was the day the triffids once more invaded our hitherto safe island home.