Tom Sharpe - Blott on the Landscape

“Anything,” said Blott gallantly.

“He came in through the pinetum. I’ve locked the gate there so he can’t get out but his car must be up at Wilfrid’s Castle. I want you to drive round there and remove the dis… the thing that goes round.”

“The rotor arm,” said Blott.

“Right,” said Lady Maud. “And while you are about it you might as well put extra locks on both the gates. We must make quite sure that innocent people don’t get into the park. Do you understand?”

Blott smiled in the darkness. He understood.

“I’ll take the rotor arm off the Land-Rover too,” he said.

“A wise precaution,” Lady Maud agreed. “And when you have finished come back here. I don’t think he’ll return tonight but it might be as well to take precautions.”

Blott turned to the door.

“There’s just one other thing,” said Lady Maud, “I don’t think we’ll feed the lions in the morning. They’ll just have to fend for themselves for a day or two.”

“I didn’t intend to,” said Blott and went outside.

Lady Maud sighed happily. It was so nice to have a real man about the house.

At Finch Grove Ivy Bullett-Finch’s feelings were quite the reverse. What was left of the house seemed to be about the man and in any case what was left of Mr Bullett-Finch was real only in a material sense. He had died, as he had lived, concerned for the welfare of his lawn. Dundridge arrived with the Chief Constable in time to pay his last respects. As the firemen carried her husband’s remains out of the cellar, Mrs Bullett-Finch, relieved of the burden of guilt about the oven, vented her feelings on the Controller Motorways Midlands.

“You murderer,” she screamed, “you killed him. You killed him with your awful ball.” She was led away by a policewoman. Dundridge looked balefully at the ball and crane.

“Nonsense,” he said, “I had nothing to do with it.”

“We have been led to understand by your deputy, Mr Hoskins, that you gave orders for random sorties to be made by task forces of demolition experts,” said the Chief Constable. “It would rather appear that they’ve carried out your instructions to the letter.”

“My instructions?” said Dundridge. “I gave no instructions for this house to be demolished. Why should I?”

“We were rather hoping you would be able to tell us,” said the Chief Constable.

“But it’s not even scheduled for demolition.”

“Quite. Nor to the best of my knowledge was the High Street. But since your equipment was used in both cases -”

“It’s not my equipment,” shouted Dundridge, “it belongs to the contractors. If anyone is fucking responsible -”

“I’d be glad if you didn’t use offensive language,” said the Chief Constable. “The situation is unpleasant enough as it is. Local feeling is running high. I think it would be best if you accompanied us to the station.”

“The station? Do you mean the police station?” said Dundridge.

“It’s just for your own protection,” said the Chief Constable. “We don’t want any more accidents tonight, now do we?”

“This is monstrous,” said Dundridge.

“Quite so,” said the Chief Constable. “And now if you’ll just step this way.”

As the police car wound its way slowly through the rubble that littered the High Street, Dundridge could see that Hoskins had been telling the truth when he called Guildstead Carbonell a disaster area. The transformer still smouldered in the grey dawn, the Primitive Methodist Chapel lived up to at least part of its name, while the horribly mishapen relics of a dozen cars crouched beside the glass-strewn pavement. What the iron ball hadn’t done with the aid of the telegraph pole to end Guildstead Carbonell’s reputation for old-world charm, the conflagration at Mr Dugdale’s garage had. Ignited by some unidentifiable public-spirited person who had brought out a paraffin lamp to warn passers-by to watch out for the debris, the blast from the petrol storage tanks had blown in what few windows remained unbroken after Blott’s passing and had set fire to the thatched roofs of several delightful cottages. The fire had spread to a row of almshouses. The simultaneous arrival of fire engines from Worford and Ottertown had added to the chaos. Working with high-pressure hoses in total darkness they had swept a number of inadequately clothed old-age pensioners who had escaped from the almshouses down the street before turning their attention to the Public Library which they had filled with foam. To Dundridge, staring miserably out of the window of the police car, the knowledge that he was held responsible for the catastrophe was intolerable. He wished now that he had never set eyes on South Worfordshire.

“I must have been mad to have come up here,” he thought.

The same thought had already occurred to Sir Giles though in his case the madness he had in mind was in no way metaphorical. As dawn broke over the Park, Sir Giles wrestled with the lock on the gate to the footbridge and tried to imagine how it had got there. It had not been on the gate when he arrived. He wouldn’t have been able to enter if it had. But if the existence of the lock was bad enough, that of the fence was worse and it certainly hadn’t been there when he had last been at the Hall. It was an extremely high fence with large metal brackets at the top and four strands of heavy barbed-wire overhanging the Park so that it was evidently designed to stop people getting out rather than trespassers getting in.

It was at this point that Sir Giles gave up the struggle with the lock and decided to look for some other way out. He followed the fence along to the edge of the pinetum and was about to clamber over the iron railings when the sense of unreality that had come over him with the sudden appearance of a large lock where no lock had previously been took a decided turn for the worse. Against the grey dawn sky he saw a head, a small head with a long nose and knobs on it. Below the head there was a neck, a long neck, a very long neck indeed. Sir Giles shut his eyes and hoped to hell that when he opened them he wouldn’t see what he thought he had seen. He opened them but the giraffe wais still there. “Oh my God,” he murmured and was about to move away when his eye caught sight of something even more terrifying. In the long grass fifty yards behind the giraffe there was another face, a large face with a mane and whiskers.

Sir Giles gave up all thought of looking for a way out in that direction. He turned and stumbled back into the pinetum. Either he had gone mad or he was in the middle of some fucking zoo. Giraffes? Lions? And what the hell was it that he had almost stumbled across during the night? An elephant? He got back to the gate and looked at the lock hopefully. But instead of one lock there were now two and the second was even larger than the first. He was just trying to think what this meant when he heard a noise on the path across the river. Sir Giles looked up. Blott was standing there with a shotgun, smiling down at him. It was a horrible smile, a smile of quiet satisfaction. Sir Giles turned and ran into the pinetum. He knew death when he saw it.

By the time Blott got back to the Hall Lady Maud was down and making breakfast in the kitchen.

“What took you so long?” she asked.

“I moved the Bentley,” Blott told her. “I brought it round and put it in the garage. I thought it would look more natural.”

Lady Maud nodded. “You are probably right,” she said. “People might have started asking questions if they found it left up by the church. Besides if he did get out he might have telephoned the AA for assistance.”

“He isn’t going to get out,” said Blott, “I saw him. He’s in the pinetum.”

“Well it’s his own fault. He came up here to burn the house down and whatever happens now he has only himself to blame.” She handed Blott a plate of cereal. “I’m afraid I can’t give you a cooked breakfast. The electricity has been cut off. I telephoned the electricity office in Worford but they say there has been a power failure.”