The Search

THE SEARCH

IAIN CRICHTON SMITH

Contents

One

Two

Three

Four

Five

Six

Seven

Eight

Nine

Ten

Eleven

Twelve

Thirteen

Fourteen

Fifteen

Sixteen

Seventeen

Eighteen

Nineteen

Twenty

Twenty-One

Twenty-Two

Twenty-Three

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One

S
ITTING IN HIS
Spartan room in the college in Canberra Trevor heard the phone ring. He picked it up and a voice said,

“You won't know me but I was listening to your interview on local radio and I thought, ‘Your name is Grierson and you come from Scotland.' I wonder if by any chance you have a brother in Australia. Are you listening? It seemed to me that your accent was the same as his. Are you there, Mr Grierson?”

Trevor heard the voice coming to him as it were from outer space, as if some trick were being played on him, and the room was suddenly populated with images from his childhood and youth.

“Yes,” he said at last, “I have a brother in Australia. I haven't heard from him for years.”

“Well, then,” said the voice, which seemed to be far and near at the same time. “I think there is something I should tell you. May I come and see you?”

“Yes,” said Trevor, “if you have news of him come and see me. I'll make a point of staying in. Do you want to come now?”

“Well …” said the voice hesitantly.

“Order a taxi, I'll pay for it. Come right away.”

“No, that's all right. I'll take the bus,” said the voice, this time decisively.

Trevor put the phone down and sat staring into space. In that moment it was as if the college in which he was living had disappeared with all its fine rooms, its paintings, the pond in which the goldfish cruised in a leisurely manner, the wine which he drank with the lecturers, the common room in which the books and newspapers were. His brother? But he hadn't heard from him for twenty years. What had happened in the interval? What was wrong with him? Was he dead? The voice had sounded both ominous and gentle, as if it were the bearer of bad news. He pushed the phone away from him and from an obscure impulse put back into the cupboard the glass with the whisky from which he had been drinking. It was as if he found the luxury repulsive and was glad when the room became austere again with its table and two chairs, cupboard and wooden folding partition which hid the kitchenette from sight. What would this man have to tell him about his brother? Was it fated that he himself should have come to Australia at this precise time?

The picture of his brother which hung on the wall of his house back in Glasgow appeared in front of his eyes. The cap of the Scottish regiment was tilted slightly and rather rakishly over the right eye, the shirt was green and open-necked, the expression clear and unclouded.

At the age of 21, shortly after he had finished his National Service, his brother had set off to Australia and they had all, himself, his mother and Sheila, seen him off. Norman had waved cheerfully from the railing of the ship and it was as if he was setting off on some tremendous adventure, fresh and young. He had written for a while and then they had heard nothing from him. His mother had died without knowing where he was, and indeed ignorant whether he was still alive or not. And now there was only Trevor himself and his wife, Sheila, who was back in Scotland. Trevor was a lecturer in English in Glasgow University, now for a brief while in Canberra University lecturing on Scottish writers, especially Robert Louis Stevenson.

Suddenly he went over to the cupboard again and took another whisky. It seemed so odd that his caller should have sprung immediately to the conclusion that he was related to Norman. Was he some sort of crank? But if he was, he had at least been right in his conclusion. He waited for the step on the stair as if his fate were to be decided. In a strange sort of way he felt it unjust that that voice should have interrupted him at that moment in his life, as if some malevolent being in the sky were playing a trick on him. He was quite conscious of the difference between his own circumstances and those in which he feared his brother might be living. Most of the time since he had arrived in Canberra he had spent listening to lectures, or himself lecturing, drinking wine, discussing literature in a civilized manner with men who had never known insecurity or failure. His surroundings, too, could not have been more pleasant. His room, though austere, was comfortable, the campus was beautiful with trees in a fury of autumn colours, there was a library available and in general he was living in luxury and opulence under a sky of unvarying blue.

At last he heard footsteps on the stair and at first thought they might be those of the Japanese physicist who stayed opposite him on the same landing. But, no, they were coming straight for his door. There was a knock and he opened the door immediately. A dark-haired, sturdy man came into the room; he was wearing a blue jacket and a shirt which was open at the neck.

“My name's Douglas,” he said. “Malcolm Douglas. I am the person who phoned you.”

“Oh,” said Trevor, and then, almost foolishly, “Would you like a drink?”

“No, thanks,” said Douglas who was looking around the room as if trying to memorize it. For some reason known only to himself he was smiling. Almost as if he were laughing at me, thought Trevor. That's very odd.

“Well,” said Trevor, leaning urgently forward. “What have you to tell me?”

“Norman used to talk a lot about you,” said Douglas. “He said you worked in Glasgow University. Is that right?”

“Yes,” said Trevor, “that's where I work.” Through the window he could see the eucalyptus trees shedding their bark, white and ghostly, and once he saw a cockatoo with green exotic plumage flying from one branch to another.

“Did he tell you much about me?” Trevor said.

Without answering his question, Douglas said, “I'd better come straight to the point. Your brother's dead, you know.”

Again it was as if Trevor sensed a bitter laughter rippling behind the blunt statement. And the tears welled to his eyes. His brother couldn't be dead. Not Norman who had set off so hopefully and eagerly to this land of the young. Not Norman who had been so full of life. Why, when he had first arrived in Australia he had ridden on a horse throughout the country. Or so he had written in one of his occasional brief letters. His mind sheered away from the dark fact of his death as if it were an obstacle that had reared up suddenly and blankly in front of that pirouetting horse.

“I'm sorry,” said Douglas, “but it's better to tell you. You haven't heard from him for a long time, have you? Right?”

“That's true,” said Trevor, still thinking of the photograph which hung on the wall and which he had insisted that Sheila leave there.

“The last I heard of him,” said Douglas, “was that he had died in the cells in Sydney.”

“Cells?” said Trevor faintly. “I don't understand.”

“That's right. A Pole told me. Mind you, I don't know how far these Poles can be trusted. Some of them tell the most awful lies. God knows why they do it: perhaps to draw attention to themselves.” He took out some tobacco and began to roll a cigarette.

“Have one of mine,” said Trevor, throwing him a full packet. “I got them on the plane.”

“Thanks. As I was saying, one doesn't know why they say these things, but they do. This Pole told someone I know that your brother had died in the cells in Sydney.”

Oh my God, thought Trevor, they have beaten him up. I have read stories like that in the newspapers. They have beaten him to death with their batons so far from home. I can't stand it.

Douglas gazed at him from behind a wreath of cigarette smoke with an infuriating blandness.

“I got out of that life in time, myself. I'm married now. But I was like that, too. I stayed in lodging houses and homes. Norman …” He paused. “Well, one night, he was walking along the street with a brick in his hand. He was going to break in somewhere, a warehouse, I think it was. I imagine he was drunk out of his mind; and the police got him. Loitering with intent, I suppose you could call it.” He leaned forward and stubbed out the cigarette in the blue ashtray which was lying on the table.

“This can't be true,” thought Trevor. “I don't believe this nightmare. Norman was never like that.”

“Norman …” he began.

Douglas smiled as if he were talking to a child and said, “When did you see him last, as a matter of interest?”

“Eighteen years ago,” said Trevor hopelessly.

“There you are then. He's changed a lot since then. You wouldn't recognize him now. He used to talk about his mother a lot. Is she dead?”

“Yes.”

“Uh, huh. Anyway that was what the Pole told one of my mates, that he had died in a cell. I heard your voice on the radio and I recognized the accent. Norman used to talk exactly like that.”

“Are you absolutely sure he's dead?” said Trevor desperately. “Maybe I could find him and bring him …”

“Home?” Douglas sounded suddenly aggressive. “Tell me, Mr Grierson, have you thought where his home is now? And what exactly are you implying? When I came back into circulation again my sister wouldn't speak to me. She thinks of me as the black sheep of the family. Were you going to offer him money? I told you Norman has changed. Even if he's alive he won't go home, not on your terms. Are you patronizing him? Why do you want him home anyway?”

Trevor became suddenly angry in his turn.

“I know why I want him home,” he said.

“Why?”

“Because he's poor. Because he doesn't have any money. I have gathered that from what you said. That's why I would bring him home.”

“Norman drinks a lot, Mr Grierson. Did you know that if you are an alcoholic you may not adjust to another country. And in any case you can't just go to your brother and say to him, ‘Come home at once.' Think about it. Are you doing it because you want your conscience set at rest, not that I'm saying that you have anything to be sorry for. Do you understand me?”

Trevor considered for a moment and then he said, though he was still angry, “I can see what you're getting at but I'm not a fool. I can recognize my own motives and take account of them.”

“That may be your opinion, Mr Grierson.” And then, quite inconsequentially, Douglas proceeded, “What do you think I live on, myself, my wife and child. We live on seventy dollars a week. That's thirty-five pounds in your money. I'm unemployed. It's not that I can't get a job but I can't get one I like.”

His face twitched for a moment and then he said, “I'm sorry. I get these headaches. I was typing till late last night. I'm writing a book.”

“A book?”

“A book based on my experiences. Do you think someone like me can't write a book? I met this man, a homosexual, and he told me that he had killed three little girls. It was all in the papers, a big unsolved crime. I said to myself, ‘It's nothing to do with me. Why should I help the police? They've done nothing for me.' And so I didn't do anything about it. Then a week after that I saw another girl had been killed. I went to the police and they showed me a lot of photographs. I pointed to one of them and they said, ‘It can't be him. We've got another suspect in mind.' That was the first time I went.”

“And the second time?”

“They believed me but they wanted to pin something on me, too. I felt as if I was the criminal. I don't like talking to the police. Norman was in the hands of the police, you know. If you're nothing and nobody how do you think they treat you?”

In his mind's eye Trevor saw the goldfish swimming restlessly about the pond in the courtyard of the college. He saw the arid lawns on which the sprinklers rotated without cease, and he gritted his teeth.

The remorseless voice continued, “I'm writing a novel based on that and my other experiences.”

Trevor suddenly thought, “That's why he came. He hoped I would read his manuscript for him and perhaps find him a publisher.”

“No, it isn't that,” said Douglas, as if he had sensed what Trevor was thinking, “It's not because of the manuscript I came to see you. My book will do well anyway.” And he became aggressive again, a nerve twitching in his cheek. “There are a lot of authors who allow middlemen to get the money they should have, but I'll set my own price for my work. Every word in that book is authentic. I've got a man in Hollywood reading it at the moment. It's interesting the contacts you make.”

He lit another Marlborough from the pack Trevor had given him.

“I don't know whether that Pole was telling the truth or not. On the other hand, Norman is no fool. He read a lot of books, you know.”

It was as if a warning bell rang in Trevor's mind.

“Books?” he asked. “What books?”

“Oh, books about philosophy and subjects like that.”

No that couldn't be Norman, Trevor thought. Norman had never read books in his whole life: he had hated school and when he had finally left it nobody could have been happier. It was only with great difficulty that he had been forced to attend school and even then he often played truant, after his mother had left him at the gate.

“Are you sure about that?” said Trevor.

“Of course I'm sure. I loaned him some books myself. I told you Norman has changed. He's not the same boy you knew. Norman has worked out a way of surviving.”

Surviving? But surely he had told him that he was dead.

“Norman's tougher than you think. He was also in New Zealand; did you know that? I was with him and two other fellows one night in a poolroom and he told them that he could speak Maori. And he could too. He spoke it to them. He said he could speak English and Maori: these were his two languages. Norman was a smart boy. Listen, for all I know that Pole may have been lying. Some of them do that to impress you. Would you believe that? That's what they like to do. I've never yet met a Pole who wasn't a liar. They love to lie and tell stories. But this Pole said that he had been staying with Norman in the same rooming house. I used to stay there myself. It was called the Michael Tranter.”

Trevor thought for a moment and then said, “Surely I could phone that place and find out if Norman is still there?”