Alan Hunter - Gently in the Sun

Beneath him everything was in an uproar — the crowd were excited and partly hysterical. Leaving an ominous half-circle at the foot of the tower, they were shoving and pushing together in the churchyard and the road. They scarcely noticed Gently as he shouldered his way through them. They had eyes and thoughts for only one object.

‘Do you really think he’ll do it?’

‘If you were going to be hung!’

And from a slattern carrying a baby: ‘Why doesn’t he get on with it?’

All of Hiverton had collected there or were on the point of arriving. Some were still wearing aprons or carrying tokens of their occupation. In the forefront of the half-circle were stationed the reporters and the cameramen; the latter were studying angles and pointing to the withered turf in front of them.

‘It’s no good sir — he won’t come down.’

Dutt came struggling through the crowd, his streaming face plastered over with grime.

‘I’ve been shouting to him from the belfry. He won’t take a bit of notice. I’m sorry, sir, but he did me. I let him go in the church by himself.’

‘Can’t we get on the tower and grab him?’

‘No sir. He’s fixed the blinking trap door. There’s only a ladder goes up to it, and he’s piled something heavy on top.’

‘The stones… there were some stones left up there.’

Jack Spanton, standing near them, volunteered the information.

‘They were repairing the tower — Sam Nickerson told me. They left the stones up there… too lazy to bring them down!’

‘What about some ladders?’

‘Mears is fetching one from the vicarage.’

‘One! How high do you reckon he is?’

‘According to the vicar, a hundred and thirty…’

Gently twisted on his heel without waiting for Dutt to finish. Across the road, on the verge, he could see a reporter in a phone box. It was the man on the Echo, and he hurriedly fed in some coins: it didn’t do any good — he was yanked out with small ceremony.

‘Starmouth Fire Services — quick!’

He turned his back on the indignant reporter. Through the glass panels of the box he caught a momentary glimpse of Hawks. The fellow was standing behind the others where he thought he was unobserved; his face was a picture of gloating triumph, his eyes seemed to devour the clinging figure.

‘Chief Inspector Gently. I want an expanding ladder at Hiverton.’

The fire officer listened carefully as the situation was described to him.

‘But a hundred feet’s our limit… there’s nothing higher this side of London.’

‘Then send me out a catching net.’

‘From that height, he’d probably go straight through it.’

Outside a silence had fallen: the crowd was stilled, intent and listening. Simmonds was shouting something down to them, his girlish voice sounding thin with hysteria. Gently kicked open the phone-box door and held it ajar with a prodding sandal.

‘You can’t get at me now… I’m out of your power. Hang someone else… you’ll never hang me! Hang someone else!’

At that point they obviously thought he was going to do it. They shuffled and crowded away from the tower. The photographers, combining for maximum coverage, had trained their cameras at three different angles. One would catch him jumping, one falling, one striking: the latter had a reporter by him to give him a slap on the shoulder.

But Simmonds didn’t jump, he remained transfixed against the tower. His bloody hands, spread out each side, still fumbled and clutched at the sun-hot flint. The crowd gave a sigh and a reporter swore:

‘We’ll lose the last editions if he doesn’t make his mind up!’

Now there was a stir from another quarter — Mears and the vicar were bringing a ladder. For some reason nobody thought of its pitiful inadequacy: it was a ladder, a symbol, a token of something being done. Unhesitatingly they fell back to let the two men come through. Mears, in a fury of blind intention, set it wavering against the tower. Then he climbed it — twenty-five feet — and stood panting on the top-most rungs; for an instant, by sheer suggestion, a rescue seemed not entirely impossible.

‘Starmouth! Are you still there?’

‘Sorry. I thought you must have rung off.’

‘Send anything you like — I don’t care what! Just send it quickly or you’ll be too late.’

‘Roger — but you might as well know in advance…’

He buttonholed Dutt, who was standing by helplessly. Dyson he’d lost sight of as soon as they’d parked the car.

‘Show me the way up. I’m going to have a talk with him. And I want to see that trap door, just in case there’s a way…’

The interior of the church was cool and very gloomy, appearing quite dark after the glare without. Their feet rang echoingly on uncovered tiles, there was an odour of oil lamps and slightly-damp plaster. A door with a pointed top gave them access to the stairway. It was a narrow brick spiral, its sagging steps lit only occasionally.

‘Here you are, sir… the belfry.’

Gently came out gasping for breath. All around him hung dim shapes, leaving scarcely room to stand upright. Hiverton, apparently, had a peal, a little fortune in bell metal. Five of them hung cheek-by-jowl, but the sixth — Gently stepped back hastily.

‘My God — there’s one of them swung! Didn’t you notice it when you were up here?’

The largest bell of all was pointing its mouth towards the ceiling. A couple of tons at least, it rested poised like a juggler’s bowl: a gentle touch, a sudden vibration, and down it would sweep, crushing all in its path.

‘We’ll have to let it be — the noise might make him lose his balance. Just keep over there, that’s all… and say some prayers as I go up the ladder!’

But he knew the trap door was out, with that bell yawning there beside it. There could be no attack with a crowbar unless one was prepared to be swiped into oblivion. He climbed up gingerly and tried the door. It felt as firm as the walls round about it. Furthermore, one daren’t exert any pressure, since the rungs of the ladder were ancient and worm-eaten.

‘Where were you when you shouted to him?’

‘Up there, sir, where you are now.’

‘But this bell… didn’t it even occur to you?’

‘Bells are a little bit out of my line, sir.’

Gently shivered and made his way down again — he had nearly lost himself a sergeant! And Simmonds, though he wouldn’t appreciate it, was probably lucky still to be alive. But he had burned his boats, the artist. There was no coming at him from within or without. If that was what he’d wanted then he’d done it with a vengeance… he was out of their power: the bloody little fool!

To disseminate its chimes the belfry had four slatted windows. Gently moved across to the one above which he knew the artist was clinging. Through the slats he could see the scene below him, the patient semi-circle of up-turned faces. Another reporter had taken possession of the phone box, and Mears, giving it up, was climbing disconsolately down his ladder.

‘Simmonds… can you hear me?’

He didn’t dare to raise his voice. The thought of that bell behind him was choking back the words in his throat. ‘Simmonds, listen to me! Stop making an exhibition out there. Can’t you see you’re playing to them… can’t you see them waiting there with their cameras?’

From the crowd came a whispering murmur, rather like the stirring of leaves. Something was clearly taking place upon the ledge just over his head. He jammed his face against the slats, but at the angle it was impossible to see anything. At the best he could hear a faint sound that suggested the scraping of a shoe.

‘Get back on the roof, Simmonds — we’ll get you away, I promise you that! There’ll be no more photographers — we’ll keep you here till after dark. They won’t get another look in. We’ll drive you straight back to Norchester. Are you listening to me, Simmonds… can you hear what I say?’