Chapter thirty

In Jim Prideaux’s world Thursday had gone along like any other, except that some time in the small hours of the morning the wound in his shoulder bone started leaking, he supposed because of the inter-house run on Wednesday afternoon. He was woken by the pain, and by the draught on the wet of his back where the discharge flowed. The other time this happened he had driven himself to Taunton General but the nurses took one look at him and slapped him into emergency to wait for doctor somebody and an X-ray, so he filched his clothes and left. He’d done with hospitals and he’d done with medicos. English hospitals, other hospitals, Jim had done with them. They called the discharge a track.

He couldn’t reach the wound to treat it, but after last time he had hacked himself triangles of lint and stitched strings to the corners.

Having put these handy on the draining board and prepared the hibitane, he cooked hot water, added half a packet of salt and gave himself an improvised shower, crouching to get his back under the jet.

He soaked the lint in the hibitane, flung it across his back, strapped it from the front and lay face down on the bunk with a vodka handy. The pain eased and a drowsiness came over him, but he knew if he gave way to it he would sleep all day, so he took the vodka bottle to the window and sat at the table correcting Five B French while Thursday’s dawn slipped into the Dip and the rooks started their clatter in the elms.

Sometimes he thought of the wound as a memory he couldn’t keep down. He tried his damnedest to patch it over and forget but even his damnedest wasn’t always enough.

He took the correcting slowly because he liked it, and because correcting kept his mind in the right places. At six-thirty, seven, he was done so he put on some old flannel bags and a sports coat and walked quietly down to the church, which was never locked. There he knelt a moment in the centre aisle of the Curtois ante-chapel, which was a family monument to the dead from two wars, and seldom visited by anyone. The cross on the little altar had been carved by sappers at Verdun. Still kneeling Jim groped cautiously under the pew until his fingertips discovered the line of several pieces of adhesive tape; and, following these, a casing of cold metal. His devotions over, he bashed up Combe Lane to the hilltop, jogging a bit to get a sweat running, because the warm did him wonders while it lasted, and rhythm soothed his vigilance. After his sleepless night and the early morning vodka, he was feeling a bit lightheaded, so when he saw the ponies down the combe, gawping at him with their fool faces, he yelled at them in bad Somerset – ‘Git ‘arn there! Damned old fools, take your silly eyes off me!’ – before pounding down the lane again for coffee, and a change of bandage.

First lesson after prayers was Five B French and there Jim all but lost his temper: he doled out a silly punishment to Clements, the draper’s son, and had to take it back at the end of class. In the common room he went through another routine, of the sort he had followed in the church: quickly, mindlessly, no fumble and out. It was a simple enough notion, the mail check, but it worked. He’d never heard of anyone who used it, among the pros, but then pros don’t talk about their game. ‘See it this way,’ he would have said. ‘If the opposition is watching you, it’s certain to be watching your mail, because mail’s the easiest watch in the game: easier still if the opposition is the home side and has the co-operation of the postal service. So what do you do? Every week, from the same postbox, at the same time, at the same rate, you post one envelope to yourself and a second to an innocent party at the same address. Shove in a bit of trash – charity Christmas card literature, come-on from local supermarket – be sure to seal envelope, stand back and compare times of arrival. If your letter turns up later than the other fellow’s you’ve just felt someone’s hot breath on you, in this case Toby’s.’

Jim called it, in his odd, chipped vocabulary, water-testing, and once again the temperature was unobjectionable. The two letters clocked in together, but Jim arrived too late to pinch back the one addressed to Marjoribanks, whose turn it was to act as unwitting running mate. So having pocketed his own, Jim snorted at the Daily Telegraph while Marjoribanks with an irritable ‘Oh, to hell’ tore up a printed invitation to join the Bible Reading Fellowship. From there, school routine carried him again till junior rugger versus St Ermin’s, which he was billed to referee. It was a fast game and when it was over his back acted up again, so he drank vodka till first bell, which he’d promised to take for young Elwes. He couldn’t remember why he’d promised, but the younger staff and specially the married ones relied on him a lot for odd jobs and he let it happen. The bell was an old ship’s tocsin, something Thursgood’s father had dug up and now part of the tradition. As Jim rang it he was aware of little Bill Roach standing right beside him, peering up at him with a white smile, wanting his attention, as he wanted it half a dozen times each day.

‘Hullo there, Jumbo, what’s your headache this time?’

‘Sir, please, sir.’

‘Come on, Jumbo, out with it.’

‘Sir, there’s someone asking where you live, sir,’ said Roach.

Jim put down the bell.

‘What sort of someone, Jumbo? Come on, I won’t bite you, come on, hey… hey! What sort of someone? Man someone? Woman? Juju man?

Hey! Come on, old feller,’ he said softly, crouching to Roach’s height.

‘No need to cry. What’s the matter then? Got a temperature?’ He pulled a handkerchief from his sleeve. ‘What sort of someone?’ he repeated in the same low voice.

‘He asked at Mrs McCullum’s. He said he was a friend. Then he got back into his car, it’s parked in the church yard, sir.’ A fresh gust of tears: ‘He’s just sitting in it.’

‘Get the hell away, damn you!’ Jim called to a bunch of seniors grinning in a doorway. ‘Get the hell!’ He went back to Roach. ‘Tall friend? Sloppy tall kind of feller, Jumbo? Eyebrows and a stoop? Thin feller? Bradbury, come here and stop gawping! Stand by to take Jumbo up to Matron! Thin feller?’ he asked again, kind but very steady.

But Roach had run out of words. He had no memory any more, no sense of size or perspective; his faculty of selection in the adult world had gone. Big men, small men, old, young, crooked, straight, they were a single army of indistinguishable dangers. To say no to Jim was more than he could bear: to say yes was to shoulder the whole awful responsibility of disappointing him.

He saw Jim’s eyes on him, he saw the smile go out and felt the merciful touch of one big hand upon his arm.

‘Attaboy, Jumbo. Nobody ever watched like you, did they?’

Laying his head hopelessly against Bradbury’s shoulder, Bill Roach closed his eyes. When he opened them he saw through his tears that Jim was already halfway up the staircase.

Jim felt calm; almost easy. For days he had known there was someone. That also was part of his routine: to watch the places where the watchers asked. The church, where the ebb and flow of the local population is a ready topic; county hall, register of electors; tradesmen, if they kept customer accounts; pubs, if the quarry didn’t use them: in England he knew these were the natural traps which watchers automatically patrolled before they closed on you. And sure enough in Taunton two days ago, chatting pleasantly with the assistant librarian, Jim had come across the footprint he was looking for. A stranger, down from London apparently, had been interested in village wards, yes, a political gentleman – well more in the line of political research, he was, professional, you could tell – and one of the things he wanted, fancy that now, was the up-to-date record of Jim’s very village, yes, the voters’ list, they were thinking of making a door-to-door survey of a really out-of-the-way community, specially new immigrants. Yes, fancy that, Jim agreed and from then on made his dispositions. He bought railway tickets to places: Taunton Exeter, Taunton London, Taunton Swindon, all valid one month; because he knew that if he were on the run again, tickets would be hard to come by. He had uncached his old identities and his gun and hid them handily above ground; he dumped a suitcase full of clothes in the boot of the Alvis, and kept the tank full. These precautions made sleep a possibility; or would have done, before his back.

‘Sir, who won, sir?’

Prebble, a new boy, in dressing gown and toothpaste, on his way to surgery. Sometimes boys spoke to Jim for no reason, his size and crookedness were a challenge.

‘Sir, the match, sir, versus St Ermin’s.’

‘St Vermins,’ another boy piped. ‘Yes, sir, who won actually?’

‘Sir, they did, sir,’ Jim barked. ‘As you’d have known sir if you’d been watching sir,’ and swinging an enormous fist at them in a slow feinted punch, he propelled both boys across the corridor to Matron’s dispensary.

‘Night, sir.’

‘Night, you toads,’ Jim sang and stepped the other way into the sick bay for a view of the church and the cemetery. The sick bay was unlit, it had a look and a stink he hated. Twelve boys lay in the gloom dozing between supper and temperatures.

‘Who’s that?’ asked a hoarse voice.

‘Rhino,’ said another. ‘Hey, Rhino, who won against St Vermins?’

To call Jim by his nickname was insubordinate but boys in sick bay feel free from discipline.

‘Rhino? Who the hell’s Rhino? Don’t know him. Not a name to me,’ Jim snorted, squeezing between two beds. ‘Put that torch away, not allowed. Damn walkover, that’s who won. Eighteen points to nothing for Vermins.’ That window went down almost to the floor. An old fireguard protected it from boys. ‘Too much damn fumble in the three-quarter line,’ he muttered, peering down.

‘I hate rugger,’ said a boy called Stephen.

The blue Ford was parked in the shadow of the church, close in under the elms. From the ground floor it would have been out of sight but it didn’t look hidden. Jim stood very still, a little back from the window, studying it for tell-tale signs. The light was fading fast but his eyesight was good and he knew what to look for: discreet aerial, second inside mirror for the legman, burn marks under the exhaust. Sensing the tension in him, the boys became facetious.

‘Sir, is it a bird, sir? Is she any good, sir?’

‘Sir, are we on fire?’

‘Sir, what are her legs like?’

‘Gosh, sir, don’t say it’s Miss Aaronson?’ At this everyone started giggling because Miss Aaronson was old and ugly.

‘Shut up,’ Jim snapped, quite angry. ‘Rude pigs, shut up.’ Downstairs in assembly Thursgood was calling senior roll before prep.

Abercrombie? Sir. Astor? Sir. Blakeney? Sick, sir.

Still watching, Jim saw the car door open and George Smiley climb cautiously out, wearing a heavy overcoat.

Matron’s footsteps sounded in the corridor. He heard the squeak of her rubber heels and the rattle of thermometers in a paste pot.

‘My good Rhino, whatever are you doing in my sick bay? And close that curtain, you bad boy, you’ll have the whole lot of them dying of pneumonia. William Merridew, sit up at once.’

Smiley was locking the car door. He was alone and he carried nothing, not even a briefcase.

‘They’re screaming for you in Grenville, Rhino.’

‘Going, gone,’ Jim retorted briskly and with a jerky ‘Night, all,’ he humped his way to Grenville dormitory where he was pledged to finish a story by John Buchan. Reading aloud, he noticed that there were certain sounds he had trouble pronouncing, they caught somewhere in his throat. He knew he was sweating, he guessed his back was seeping and by the time he had finished there was a stiffness round his jaw which was not just from reading aloud. But all these things were small symptoms beside the rage which was mounting in him as he plunged into the freezing night air. For a moment, on the overgrown terrace, he hesitated, staring up at the church. It would take him three minutes, less, to untape the gun from underneath the pew, shove it into the waistband of his trousers, left side, butt inward to the groin…

But instinct advised him ‘no’, so he set course directly for the caravan, singing ‘Hey diddle diddle’ as loud as his tuneless voice would carry.

Дата добавления: 2015-11-14