The Night of the Triffids (37 page)

    'No…
wait
!' I stopped her just before she dropped the backpack down onto the floor. 'Nice and easy does it.' I gave her a nervous smile, then nodded at the bag. 'Boom boom.' I regretted instantly my use of baby-talk English. The fire in her eyes told me that Marni was anything but simple. Just what, I wondered, had she been saying that had provoked the police to cut out her tongue?

    It was a little while before the second carbon copy of Kerris spoke. 'What is it about us that unsettles you so much?' Her voice, while resembling Kerris's, sounded very weak. Indeed, I saw that the girl looked ill. Her body appeared so fragile that it seemed a sudden movement could smash it to pieces.

    'I… er… I… well… you reminded me of someone, that's all.' My attempt at conversation bordered on the inarticulate. But the truth was that seeing what amounted to two Kerris Baedekkers (albeit altered in some way) rattled me.

    'Is it because we are General Fielding's children?'

    'General Fielding?' Again I stammered, forgetting momentarily that I now referred to Fielding by his original name: Torrence.

    The shaven-headed girl continued while Marni stared mutely at me. 'There are a lot of his offspring about.'

    'They all look like… er, I mean, you all resemble each other?'

    'Some of us do.'

    'You've heard of Kerris Baedekker?'

    'No. Should I?'

    'She looks like you,' I said, knowing that it sounded a trifle lame. 'She might be a twin.'

    'Or a triplet. Or a quad.' The girl didn't sound surprised. 'You'll find a lot of people wearing this face.' She pointed at her own. 'Especially round here.'

    'You've always lived here?'

    'No. I was moved north of the Parallel when I was twelve. I'd gone to a good school and I was marked out for a career in administration, but I went down with a bout of influenza and for some reason I never got over it.' She gave a tiny shrug. 'I was taking up valuable classroom space and too much good food. Cripples are a luxury we can't afford, so here I came.'

    I looked at her face in the meagre light. The delicacy of bone. Her translucent skin. The light in her eyes. I didn't know what caused it… but there was something ethereal about it.

    In contrast, her sister sitting beside her was fiercely robust.

    'I'm sorry,' I said. 'I haven't introduced myself. I'm David Masen. I guess you know why I'm here.'

    'Haven't introduced yourself,' she echoed with a tired smile. 'My… I haven't heard such courtesy in a long time. Good evening, David Masen. My name is Rowena. And this is Marni. But then, you've already met her.'

    'Yes, I have.'

    'Marni's a bright kid. She arranged meetings where she questioned our father's policies. The police took her downtown for questioning. When they found out the family connection they reported her to our father. He ordered them to make sure she didn't talk again. He also suggested that they should give her the ugly treatment.' She made a gesture across her own face, miming a cut with a knife. 'My father figures that if you're ugly people won't listen to you anyway.' She shrugged. 'So Marni too wound up here.'

    'Dear God. But you didn't know Marni existed until you met her here?'

    'No. Like I say, there're an awful lot of us about… as alike as peas in a pod.' She glanced at her sister. 'Unless someone messes us up.'

    'But how do-'

    'I'm sorry to be so ill-mannered, David. But my sister and I both need to sleep now.'

    Marni nodded in agreement.

    Rowena explained, 'We've both got to work tomorrow.'

    'Work?' I repeated in surprise as I looked at Rowena's sickly frame.

    She shrugged. 'If we don't work, we don't eat.' She eased herself under the blankets while Marni climbed into the bunk above her.

    I paused.

    Without raising her head from the pillow Rowena whispered, 'Be our guest, David. Take the top bunk. It's not dirty.'

    'No… no, er, I'm sure it's fine, but the man who guided me here said there'd be food later.'

    She gave a weak smile. 'He meant breakfast.'

    'Oh.'

    Feeling a bit awkward about the sleeping arrangements I pulled off my flying boots and jacket, then climbed up onto the top bunk. It was narrow, the mattress thin, but I immediately lay still so as not to disturb my companions. Rowena especially looked as if she needed more than just one good night's rest.

    Before I drifted off to sleep myself I decided to suggest to Sam Dymes - no, damn it,
demand
! - demand that arrangements be made to smuggle medicines here. Clearly they were sorely needed. But as things turned out I didn't get that chance.

    

    

    

    'I'M sorry, I don't understand,' I said, flabbergasted. 'Sam Dymes was here with ten other people last night. Where's he gone?'

    The man who had acted as guide the night before shrugged. 'Me? I don't know.'

    'He didn't say anything?'

    'He only say he was leaving.' Then the man added, with a slight touch of pique: 'He had another guide.' He pulled a sheet of paper from his pocket. 'But he tell me to give you this.'

    Angrily, I took the note to my room and read it to the accompaniment of the gurgling liquor still.

    I'd woken that morning as the two women readied themselves for work. Before leaving, both had drunk a cup full of whatever dripped from the tap of the still. Only a little while after that did I discover that Sam, along with my other travelling companions, had gone.

    I read the note.

    

    
David,

    
this seems a lousy trick, running out on you like this, but we've got to move faster than we originally planned. For your own safety I must urge you to sit tight until we get back. You'll he safe there. If you need anything ask Benji (he's the guy who brought us in).

    
Yours,

    
Sam Dymes.

    

    I glanced at where I'd left the bag of explosives. It had gone. Clearly the sappers were on their way to do whatever was required of them.

    What now?

    With no windows to see out of I sat on a chair and listened to the drip, drip, drip of the liquor filling another bottle.

    Another hour of that infernal dripping and I would have gone spectacularly mad. I decided to take a little walk. I reached the top of the stairwell. That would be the limit of this morning's adventure, I told myself; for there, sealing off the stairs, stood a padlocked gate. As it reached to the ceiling there was no question of climbing over it. I glanced to my right through an open doorway. An elderly lady squinted suspiciously back at me. She, I took it, served as the concierge. No doubt the key to the gate lay somewhere in her lair but, short of fighting her for it, it was still beyond my reach. Besides, no doubt if I tried anything, 'She'd start a-yellin', then the posse'd come a-runnin', to quote the words of a modern ditty.

    I retreated to my room. There I pondered my options. Quickly, I realized that those were fairly limited. Either stay put in this stinking DIY distillery or find some way to break out. Not that breaking out appealed. Where could I go? The obvious answer would be south into the city. But that would mean scaling the twenty-foot wall, which wouldn't be the easiest of tasks: for one thing, the armed guards would take exception to my doing so. Perhaps it would be best to sit tight until Sam Dymes returned.

    
If
he returned.

    
Tut, tut, David,
I told myself,
there goes your suspicious mind again…

    But there
was
a chance that circumstances might prevent the return of Sam and the others. In which case, I might have to take my chances, making for the flying-boat hangar and then heading for home under my own steam.

    
Drip… drip… drip…

    The still did its work. The almost overpowering smell of sweating malt and barley took possession of my nostrils. At intervals the concierge broke off from her gatekeeper duties to limp into the room, remove a full liquor bottle from beneath the ever-dripping tap, stopper it, place it with its cousins (dozens and dozens of them) in a cupboard, then place an empty bottle under the tap, turn the screw and - yes - the
drip-drip-drip
would start all over again.

    Later that morning I discovered a way of looking out onto the street. I found that if I stood on a chair I could see through a ventilation grille. Now I had a reticulated image of a road lined with four-story tenements. Sunlight revealed a busy scene. People of all ages and all races hurried to and fro. Most carried baskets or bundles of different kinds. I could see a great number of the Blind, too. They moved with confidence along the street, yet I noted, feeling sick, that they seemed to be employed as beasts of burden. They carried huge wooden boxes secured by a kind of harness to their backs. I didn't see one person dressed in anything better than the most pitiful of rags.

    I continued to watch the scene for some minutes. During that time one or two people on bicycles went past. I saw a handcart, pulled by a burly man, in which were two pigs and, bizarrely, a coffin lined with satin in a delirious shade of pink. Following him came a herd of cattle driven by boys with sticks. Then, for the first time since my arrival in this zone, I saw a powered vehicle. I craned my head to see better. Trundling noisily into view came what appeared to be a metal box on wheels. What few windows it possessed were covered with steel mesh, while on top of it a perspex bubble glinted in the sun. In this gun turret sat a man smoking a cigarette.

    As the vehicle turned into a side street I could see the words
INDUSTRIAL SECTOR POLICE (NYC)
stencilled on its flank.

    This was important. Despite this slave camp being largely run by its inmates there were police patrols. I mentally filed the information.

    The small dark man, Benji, appeared. His glance at me was rich with disinterest. 'If you come down from da chair, Marty's serving chow in da parlour.'

    'Parlour?'

    'Big room down da hallway. You got any cigarettes?'

    'No, I'm sorry, I don't-'

    'Chow's in da parlour. Make quick, or it's gone.'

    In the words of Benji, I made quick. I was hungry. What was more, I didn't know when the next meal would appear. The moment I walked into the hallway the barley-and-malt stench was replaced by powerful boiled-cabbage odours.

    My nose didn't steer me wrong. Cabbage soup steamed in a huge tureen. Already a dozen or more blind people had begun to eat. I joined them. The concierge in yet another change of roles doled out bread that was grey and gritty. There was a mood of silent despair in the room so strong that it seemed to percolate through my nostrils as pungently as the boiled-cabbage smells. I remember thinking to myself:
Something must be done. These people shouldn't have to live like this.
Yet, for the life of me, I could not think of a way to help them.

    

    

    At six o'clock Rowena and Marni returned from their work. Some sooty material had made their skin grimy. Both disappeared into the bathroom to wash. Then, as if this routine had been established for many a year, Rowena climbed onto the bottom bunk where she just sat, obviously painfully exhausted by her labours and looking more fragile than ever. Meanwhile, the robust Marni helped make her comfortable, then brought her the cabbage soup and bread that was her evening meal. Rowena balanced the bowl on her lap to eat while Marni went to collect her own ration.

    I busied myself with my remaining rucksack for a while so as to give them a degree of privacy while they ate. Afterwards, I sat on the chair opposite the bunks. 'Strictly, I'm supposed to keep this as an emergency ration,' I said. 'But would you like some chocolate?' I held out two blocks. They both looked at me, perhaps wondering what I required in return. Clumsily I said, 'Please… take it. I wish I could do more for - what I mean to say is… I hate seeing you forced to live in these conditions; to eat this food… it's-'

    'So unfair?'

    'Dammit, yes, it is!'

    Rowena gave a tired smile. 'This is our life now.' She looked round. 'This is home… we must make the best of it. But thank you for the chocolate. I don't think either Marni or I have tasted it in the last ten years.' She took the chocolate bars and, handing one to her sister, said, 'Marni. Would you bring us all a drink, please?'

    Marni moved nimbly across the room to the still. There she poured generous measures into three cups. I couldn't understand it. Rowena seemed to be completely without self-pity. With something close to serenity she simply gazed at me as I tried to disentangle myself verbally from the guilt I was feeling, telling her that Torrence was despicable and that to force people into slavery was nothing less than evil.

    Marni placed the mug of liquor beside me on the floor, then sat down by her sister. For a moment both of them seemed uncertain about how best to eat the chocolate. But as soon as they tasted the first morsel they quickly devoured the lot. I wished sincerely that I had more for them.

    Meanwhile I stammered on, feeling a scalding mixture of guilt and anger. 'But surely people in the rest of Manhattan can't condone keeping you here in these appalling conditions?'

    'They don't know. It's as simple as that.'

    'But word of what it's like here
must
get out. What about the truck drivers who move goods from the north of the island to the south?'

    'Our masters are very careful. All goods are shipped to warehouses on the boundary at night, using slave labour here. In the morning free workers from south of the Parallel load the goods onto trucks for distribution in the city. Clever practice, isn't it?'