D. Compton - The Continuous Katherine Mortenhoe

It wasn’t as good as his, but he’d had longer to work his out. It was a line, a possible way of reaching him. And there wouldn’t be many. His mask, of course, betrayed nothing. ‘I can’t say I’ve heard of it,’ he said.

‘They’re springing up all the time.’

A car approached, slowed as it passed us, then accelerated away. The lads didn’t appear to notice it. They were sure of themselves. He allowed the car’s engine to fade. ‘A nice try, old man. But your psychology’s wrong: at a time like this we can’t both do the funnies. That represents a challenge, which of course I could never allow.’ He pulled at the cuffs of his huge black gauntlets and kicked the car door. ‘Search it,’ he ordered, and turned away.

They left me standing, of no importance, and started dragging things out into the road. Not wanting to watch, I joined their self-parodying leader. Eventually, no doubt, Vincent would let the police see my tapes. ‘That car just might stop at the next telephone,’ I said.

‘When lightning strikes the house next door, old man, you’re delighted it was his and not yours. You don’t ring up and complain. That would be tempting providence.’

‘Psychology again.’

‘No.’ He turned his ridiculous mask to face me. ‘Not psychology, old man. Cheap cynicism.’

There was a shout from one of the searchers. I turned, expecting them to have found my duffle bag, and what it contained. But they were clustered around the open driver’s door, pointing. We hurried over to see. A panel in the door had been opened, revealing a minor arsenal: tear-gas and dye aerosols, a small automatic of some sort, a weighted truncheon, a knife, handcuffs… If I ever got as rich as Coryton Rondavel no doubt I’d fit the same. Which was one more reason for not getting as rich as Coryton Rondavel.

My companion pocketed the automatic and threw the rest of the stuff away into the hedge. ‘You really should be more careful the people you steal your cars from,’ he said. ‘One day they’re going to get you into serious trouble.’

Around the other side of the car a couple of the lads were attempting to bundle Katherine out. She was quite unable to help herself, and began to make loud shapeless noises. I was on my way around the hood but the noise stopped the lads better than I could have done. They let go and backed away like frightened children. Like certain party-goers I could remember. I propped Katherine up and kissed her forehead.

‘Very touching. Will she belt up now?’ He’d followed me around.

‘I don’t know,’ I said. ‘She gets these fits.’

‘To each his own.’

She bubbled into silence, her eyes watching every movement. I was glad I couldn’t tell what she made of the grisly carnival gear. I just stayed beside her, my hand on her shoulder.

They took her handbag, of course, and rifled it. They found the food, and mauled it, but were mercifully unable to eat it on account of their masks. Other cars passed, all of them slowing to stare, none of them stopping. Inevitably the lads came eventually to the duffle bag. And, equally inevitably, to the unassuming brown envelope at the very bottom. It was opened and the ten-pound notes counted. ‘Evidently, old man, there’s more to being an indigent fringie than meets the eye. You must tell me about it some time.’

He made me empty my pockets, then added up on a bit of paper the Benefit I had left, and Katherine’s wretched seven pounds sixty, and Vincent’s five hundred pounds, and gave me a careful receipt. Signed, and initialed S.E.C.E.

‘It’s a tired joke,’ I said.

‘I know. That’s Monday morning all over.’

They drove away, leaving me to pick up Rondavel’s Margaret’s clothes off the road and stuff them back into the car. As I worked Katherine watched me, only her eyes moving, her thoughts locked in, her questions unasked, her fears unexpressed. I wondered about the pain. Her Dr Mason had promised she would have none. I wondered if he was really all that powerful.

I finished packing the car and climbed in. The silence between us needed breaking. Somehow. ‘The money doesn’t matter,’ I said. ‘We won’t starve. And we’ve still got the car.’

Why losing all our money didn’t matter, and how we wouldn’t starve, and what difference still having the car made I wouldn’t have been able to say. But neither had I a story, a lie ready that would explain Vincent’s five hundred pounds. As I felt at that moment I’d have told her the truth had she asked me. Which, since she could ask me nothing at all, was a safe enough generosity.

I drove off, leaving her handbag in the hedge where the Collectors had thrown it, pretending not to understand the noises and strangled movements she made to attract my attention and make me go back. I had a vague feeling that some time quite soon she’d be glad not to have a radio homer tucked neatly under her arm. I wasn’t yet sure how or when, but quite soon I was going to have to leave her. The ultimate intrusion into other people’s lives was the ultimate intrusion into my own. And it had to stop.

Dr Mason looked up as Vincent came into the viewing room. ‘There’s just been a holdup,’ he said. ‘Should we get on to the police?’

Vincent warmed up the other monitor and reran the tape. ‘I’d rather wait. The last thing we want is the police barging in on Roddie, demanding statements, and what he’s doing with Rondavel’s car, and so on.’

‘So the gang gets away with it?’

Vincent sighed. On this man, who was no crusader, he could clamp down, but joylessly. ‘Look, why don’t you ring the police, if you’re so worried?’

‘I’m in your hands. You know that.’

‘My dear Doctor, our consciences are our own property.’

There was a long silence. On the real-time screen the road in front of Roddie’s car slipped slowly by. Occasionally he glanced sideways at Katherine. She appeared to be perking up. The robbery sequence had been all good stuff… As soon as Vincent was sure the doctor had nothing further to offer, that he understood his situation, a compromise was possible. ‘We’ll have to tell the authorities before we transmit of course. If they complain about the delay we can always blame Dawlish. The roster says he’s on duty here till nine.’

Dr Mason made no comment. ‘That’s her second attack in six hours,’ he said. ‘I don’t know how much longer we can risk it.’

‘You really believe she will die just because you told her she would?’

‘Isn’t that why we chose her?’

‘You may be right. You know, what really worries me is that if she dies of course you’ll never get to write your paper.’

Mason hunched lower in his chair. ‘One day you’ll push me too far, Mr Ferriman.’

Vincent doubted this, but thought it not worth the test. ‘I think I’d better cut the discovery of the gun,’ he said brightly, changing the subject. ‘I know the chairman would appreciate it. He was shit scared on the telephone, so we can afford to be magnanimous. Even tycoons have a right to their little secrets.’ He punched Dr Mason’s shoulder in a friendly fashion. ‘The essence of good reporting, Doctor, is a decent respect for the truth. Both decency and respect sometimes require one to avert one’s gaze.’

But Dr Mason was unresponsive to epigrams. He was watching the road slip slowly by in front of Coryton Rondavel’s motorcar.

Winding down the window required great concentration. But it was worth it, for the wind that blew in confirmed her feeling that they were approaching the sea. It brought with it the smell of vacations, of sand shoes and boarding-house bedrooms, and rotting seaweed that popped and slithered underfoot… Perhaps the smell of decay was slightly stronger than she remembered. She hadn’t been to the seaside in many years: they said the sea was changing, and smelled of different things. She and it together.