The Night of the Triffids (22 page)

    Kerris noticed my gloomy expression. Gently, she tugged my arm. 'Time for coffee and some very gooey doughnuts,' she said firmly. 'Then bed.'

    

    

    Time passed pleasantly. However, I began to feel a twinge of guilt at my idleness during those days with Kerris. I decided that I should tackle the question of my return to the Isle of Wight. I also decided that I would invite Kerris Baedekker to come with me.

    But, as happens so many times in life, plans were overtaken by events. My lotus-eating days were drawing to an end. In that great city minds coolly devised their strategies. And, like a pawn on a chessboard, I would be moved yet again.

    On the afternoon after my first meeting with Kerris's father, General Fielding, I was busily trying to settle scores with one Gabriel Deeds. Some hope! Again his massive forearm smash sent the table-tennis ball ricocheting from the table to smash against the ceiling of the YMCA hall where we played.

    In that gentle voice of his he said, 'My point, I think, Mr Masen.'

    'Your point,' I agreed, breathless.

    I told him I planned to request a lift home at the earliest possible opportunity.

    'That would depend on sailing schedules,' Gabriel told me as he pulled a fresh ball from a carton to replace the one now lying shattered on the floor. 'Atlantic crossings aren't at all frequent yet.'

    'But I saw some big flying boats in the harbour. They'd get me home in less than twenty hours.'

    Gabriel looked round to make sure we weren't overheard. 'Those flying boats…' He dropped his voice to a whisper, as if sharing a
risque joke with me. '… They're for show.'

    'For show? They looked perfectly serviceable to me.'

    'With the right fuel, maybe.'

    'They're not converted to run on wood alcohol?'

    'They are, but the fuel isn't sufficiently refined for an airplane engine.' He served. 'You could get one of those babies into the air, then do a circuit of the island. Just.'

    I returned the ball with a deceptive spin that caught him by surprise. 'Good stroke, Mr Masen.' He gave a little shrug. 'But it would be suicide to attempt an Atlantic crossing in one of those planes. You've seen how our cars run on a wing and a prayer. That fuel's so rough it's got teeth. Plays merry hell with the cylinders. Two thousand miles and -
bang
.' He timed the word to coincide with the return stroke of the bat. 'The pistons lock up tight.'

    My only alternative now was to press for a crossing by boat. But as it was, fate dealt its coincidence card.

    Kerris breezed into the hall. 'Hello, Gabriel. Good afternoon, David. I was told I'd find you here.'

    'And good afternoon to you. You must have spies everywhere,' I added jokingly. 'How did you know I'd be here?'

    'Ah, simplicity itself. I telephoned your hotel. The desk clerk told me that she'd seen you leave with a table-tennis bat in your hand and a rather desperate look in your eye.' She shot a grin at Gabriel. 'Is he losing terribly?'

    Gabriel shrugged. 'This young man is a mere six games down now.'

    'The gap is closing,' I protested with mock hurt.

    'Slowly it is, David. Slowly.'

    'David, listen.' Kerris looked flushed, as if she'd been hurrying. 'I've some news for you. There's been a meeting at the Research Department and the director has authorized a new trip to Europe. It's also been decided to include a diplomatic mission to the Isle of Wight.' She smiled. 'You're going home, David. The ship sails the day after tomorrow.'

    Surprised, I looked at her. 'So soon?'

    Gabriel nodded at me. 'You got your trip after all, David. Congratulations.'

    This was, as New Yorkers say, a whole new ball game. Something in my expression gave me away. Kerris tilted her head to one side. 'Aren't you pleased?'

    'Yes. Of course… only I hadn't expected things to move so quickly.' I met her gaze. 'But I'll only go on one condition, Kerris.'

    'And that condition is?'

    'That you come with me.'

    

    

    It was Gabriel Deeds who suggested the farewell drink. The night before the sailing Kerris and I walked into a blues club that looked out across the water towards the Statue of Liberty. Silent lightning flickered around the metal giant. Electricity charged the humid air. Kerris commented that a storm was brewing out at sea. Her stunning dress of some shimmering red material complemented the climatic fireworks offshore.

    Finding a vacant table, I ordered drinks for Kerris and myself and had one sent to Gabriel on stage where he was busying himself, plugging cables into amplifiers and tuning his guitar. He looked across the room, acknowledging me by raising the glass.

    People thronged the club. Conversation bubbled in a lively fashion. For the first time since General Fielding had enthused to me about the process of multiple births I noticed a pair of identical twins in the club. Having noticed one pair, suddenly they seemed everywhere and I quickly counted a dozen sets. Not that it affected the merry air of the club. In the corner a pair of twin teenage girls, together with their companions, celebrated their shared birthday with champagne.

    'Aren't you going to miss all this?' I asked Kerris.

    'I'm sure I'll adjust,' she said, smiling, her green eyes gleaming at me in the gloom of the club. 'Besides, I'm looking forward to seeing how you live across there. This is going to mark a new beginning for both our peoples.'

    'I'll drink to that.' We clinked glasses.

    At that moment the band started to play. At that volume speaking became impossible. Instead, my eyes flitted from the musicians to Kerris's face, shining with a beautiful glow in the lights of the stage. And all the while that magical music soared and dipped, with Gabriel's guitar sounding by turn angelic or demonic. I allowed myself to be transported by it. As I closed my eyes, it took me on a cosmic sleigh ride. Once more I discerned the soulful yearning in the guitar notes. A sense of uttermost longing.

    I felt a hand close over mine. I opened my eyes to see Kerris's hand resting on mine on the table as she watched the band, her head nodding gently to the rhythm of the music.

    Once more I closed my eyes. As the blue notes wove their magic, I relaxed into a state of complete and utter bliss.

    

    

    After the concert Gabriel walked us out to where the taxi waited. Lightning still flickered over the sea in great airbursts of blue and silver.

    He opened the door for Kerris. 'Bon voyage, Miss Baedekker,' he told her, reverting to the formal mode of address once we were back on the street. 'Mr Masen. Take care of yourself.'

    'I will, Gabriel. You, too.'

    I shall always remember that moment. His broad friendly grin. The way he pumped my hand up and down as we stood beside the open door of the taxi.

    Because that was the moment when the man stepped out of the shadows with a gun in his hand. He pushed Gabriel back against the car, stood back, then fired at his chest.

    Gabriel slumped down, the top half of his body falling into the back of the car where Kerris sat. Desperately, I moved forward, trying to catch him as he fell.

    But before my outstretched hands reached him an arm tightened round my throat, catching me in a strangling neck-lock. A sharp, burning pain shot through the side of my neck. Far away, it seemed to me, Kerris was screaming.

    Suddenly, the harbour illuminations smeared with flashes of lightning ran into a single swirling vortex of light.

    Round and round, faster and faster. It swallowed me into darkness. Absolute, fathomless darkness.

    

    

    

    I had been swallowed into the belly of a whale. I sensed undulating movement. I heard liquids hissing through pipes. The rush of expelled air. The deep thump of a mighty heart. A spectral voice intoned, 'Ten fathoms… eight fathoms… five fathoms… four fathoms.'

    I opened my eyes. I saw metal bulkheads. A door opened, revealing a corridor studded with electric lights. At that moment a figure loomed over me. My eyes focused on liquid squirting from a syringe. Then the needle plunged into my arm. I heard a strange bellowing cry. Dimly, I realized that it came from my own mouth. Lights swirled; the vortex returned. Once more I was sucked down into darkness.

    On opening my eyes I immediately sensed a change in my environment. The air smelled different. Like herbs, it seemed to me. The dimensions of the room I lay in were greater, the bed wider. Sounds were different, too. I heard a distant rattling sound, as if someone was playing a muffled xylophone.

    I should have identified the sound straightaway, I really should. However, my head seemed to have been packed with cotton wool and my eyes streamed incessantly, while my tongue had glued itself to the roof of my mouth. Feeling as if I'd enjoyed one hell of a bender (and was now paying the head-thumping price), I pulled myself into a sitting position on the bed.

    On the floor sat a tin cup beside a jug of water. I stared at it for a long time. I knew I wanted, desperately wanted, to pour that cold, clear water into the cup, then drink to my heart's content. But somehow the link that connected this understanding to actually moving my arms and doing something about it was broken. My streaming eyes looked at the glass, then at the water. After a long time, I managed at last to exercise a modicum of motor control. In a dopey, uncoordinated kind of way I succeeded in sloshing water into the glass. I picked it up, managing to spill every last drop down my shirt-front before it reached my lips.

    
Blow this for a game of soldiers.
I picked up the jug instead and gulped down its contents. Believe me, that water was the sweetest thing I'd tasted in a long, long time. After downing a quart or so of liquid I didn't feel nearly as groggy as before. The headache eased and I began to take a little more interest in my surroundings.

    
Right,
I told myself dizzily.
Examine your environment, Masen. Walls? Timber. Windows? Count 'em. None. Beams run below an angled roof… corrugated iron. Yes, sir… corrugated iron that's rusted and patched. Floor consists of compressed earth. Light provided by one wee electric bulb, hanging from a beam. And you're sitting on a camp bed… no blankets.

    
So far, so good.
Unsteadily, I reached a door that looked as if it had once belonged to a fashionable house but had now been pressed into service in a building of far more modest aspirations.

    A locked door.
Not so good
.

    My dope-addled mind cleared sufficiently to understand that I was a prisoner. I returned shakily to sit on the bed where I dozed, sitting upright. At last the door opened. In stepped a lithe black woman of twenty-five or so, wearing a yellow headband. In her hands was a sub-machine gun that she casually pointed at my face. I did not move. I just watched with a dreamy detachment.

    A young man with dark Latin looks filled my water jug from a larger container, then placed a tray bearing fruit and bread on the bed beside me.

    My captors spoke not one word. Neither did I. With the solemn and silent ceremony over, they withdrew. My stomach feeling more than a little twitchy, I didn't trust myself to eat. Instead, I downed the jug of water in long, thirsty gulps.

    The water ceremony repeated itself at four-hourly intervals. The same couple entered: the woman with the sub-machine gun, the man carrying the large jug to replenish my small one. Again, no one spoke. Moments later I was left to conclude the ceremony by once more drinking the water in one go.

    After a while I grew a little more sensitive to my surroundings. A spider the size of a saucer prowled along one of the roof beams, no doubt regarding the interloper below through his multiple eyes. For a few moments a drumming roar rose outside. Rain, I figured, rain beating on my corrugated-iron roof. The downpour was a short one, stopping as suddenly as it had begun. Almost immediately I could smell the cloying aroma of wet earth. Above my head the spider lost interest in me, choosing instead to suck the vital juices from a large fly.

    Food…

    I looked down at the tray beside me. The bread looked a mite too dry for me, but the slice of pink watermelon looked appealing. I bit into it. Sweet juice filled my mouth along with a good many pips, but my appetite came roaring back. With my eight-legged dining companion enjoying his own meal above my head I ate everything on the tray.

    Once more I heard the rhythmic rattling sound. I cocked my head to one side, listening. Little sticks beating steadily against a larger body of wood. I frowned, trying to place the once familiar sound.

    Then my drug-soaked brain at last lurched into gear. The word I had been grubbing for reached my lips. 'Triffids.'

    With no windows and a watch stopped at half-past three I had no notion of the time. Presently, however, I saw the strip of light beneath the door growing increasingly dull until it vanished. For a while the clicking of triffids grew louder with the coming of night. Crickets, too, chirped more loudly. Also, I fancied that I could hear the croak of frogs somewhere nearby. When I pressed an ear to the door I caught voices, only they were far too muffled for me to make out individual words.

    I returned to the bed. By this time my eyes had stopped their constant streaming; they felt, however, unpleasantly gritty, so I used a little of my drinking water to rinse them. After that I examined my right forearm. Six needle pricks clustered around a vein. I touched the side of my neck. A sore patch beneath my left ear made me wince. Outside the blues club I'd clearly been held in a neck-lock while someone had driven a hypodermic into an artery. At least my kidnappers had been at pains to deliver me in one piece.