Kingsley Amis - Dear Illusion - Selected Stories

Not more than twenty minutes later a white car with an orange stripe round it, labelled Police, duly pulled up outside the flat. Adrian picked up the required pieces of paper and looked about for Julie to kiss her goodbye for the day, but she had already left. Outside on the pavement he was greeted by a red-faced, solid-looking man in his middle thirties and a pale, taller, younger one. Both wore smart police uniform with peaked caps.

‘Mr Hollies?’ said the older policeman. ‘Good of you to be with us so promptly, sir. I’m PC Beaumont-Snaith and this is PC Llewelyn. This business must have come as something of a shock to you, sir, but don’t you worry, it’ll all be settled very shortly.’

With some vague idea of verification, Adrian said, ‘I was rather expecting somebody called Sergeant Chatterton.’

‘Ah, he’ll be down at the station waiting for you, sir. I’m afraid poor old Chatty is a bit on the desk-bound side these days, eh, Taff?’

‘Oh, indeed,’ said Llewelyn with a chuckle.

‘If you wouldn’t mind getting in the back, Mr Hollies? Rather a squash, I’m afraid, but this week we’re having to take one of our trainees with us everywhere we go. Chris, this is Mr Hollies. DC Fotheringay.’

‘You’re a detective, then,’ said Adrian alertly to the large man in plain clothes as he settled himself next to him in the back of the car. He heard Llewelyn say something into a hand-microphone about returning to base.

‘I’ll tell you all about that, sir,’ said the large man in a deep voice, ‘if you wouldn’t mind just picking up that file for me down there on the floor. It’s a bit further than I like to bend, I’m afraid.’

‘Of course.’

Adrian’s fingers had not quite touched the grey cardboard oblong on the floor in front of him when a strong hand fastened on the back of his neck and propelled him bodily downwards. A sharp point penetrated the skin of his upper arm through jacket and shirtsleeve and, before fear could reach him, he felt himself floating into a region where there were no policemen and no car nor anything else in particular.

After a lapse of time impossible to measure, Adrian became aware that he was lying on rather than in a bed that was strange to him. By degrees he found that this bed stood in an equally unfamiliar, small, clean but barely furnished room. The light was dim but definite enough for him to be sure it came from some artificial source and not from the two windows, which were heavily curtained and, as he was to find later, blacked out with thick paint. At any rate, he had no difficulty in reading the few words typed on a sheet of paper he found on the bedside table beside an electric bell-push with wires affixed. The message ran, ‘Don’t try to get out. You won’t make it.’

Adrian found that he was still dressed as he had been, apart from his shoes, tie and jacket, which proved to be ready to hand. There were two doors out of the room, the main one strongly and invisibly fastened, the other open and leading to a proportionately small bathroom with w.c., handbasin, shower, comb, soap and towels, all in good order. No razor, in fact nothing more. Adrian peed, washed his hands and face and combed his hair. On returning to the bedroom, he investigated a previously unregarded table near the main window. Under a white cloth it bore a plate of cheese sandwiches and a flask of whisky. Without premeditation he disposed of both and found them excellent. Then he put on shoes, tie and jacket again, pressed the bell-push and sat down on a padded chair facing the main door. Within a minute it opened and in came the two men Adrian knew as Beaumont-Snaith and Fotheringay. Both had changed out of their former clothes into cotton sweaters and denims. Their manner had ceased to be respectful without becoming hostile in any way.

‘How are you feeling, Hollies?’ asked Fotheringay in his bass voice. He perched quite companionably on the end of the bed while Beaumont-Snaith leant against the wall by the door.

‘A bit heavy,’ said Adrian. ‘Sort of limp. I think perhaps I’m still dozy from that stuff you pumped into me. What was it?’

Fotheringay looked at Beaumont-Snaith, who told him not to do that and added, ‘I just took what was given me and passed it on to you as ordered.’

After nodding resignedly, Fotheringay said to Adrian, ‘Well, the next bit of orders is we take you along to talk to, er, the next one up from us, if you reckon you’re ready for it. There’s no great rush.’

‘Oh good. But I’m ready for it.’

‘Oh, yeah.’ The big man made no move. ‘Aren’t you afraid, Hollies?’

‘Naturally I am, but ever since I woke up about twenty minutes ago I’ve had a lot to think about, for instance what this place is and what I’m supposed to be doing here. Or rather what the chap you’ve mistaken me for would have been doing here.’

‘Oh, so you reckon you’ve been mistaken for somebody else.’

‘I know I must have been.’

Over by the door, Beaumont-Snaith pushed himself upright. ‘I think it’s time we fetched you along to meet the next one up from us, don’t you, er, Fotheringay?’

Their way took them along an L-shaped piece of carpeted corridor in which and from which there was nothing to be seen and, except for the burble of distant traffic, nothing to be heard. All the same, Adrian sensed he was on an upper floor of a considerable building that stood on its own. Beaumont-Snaith, in the lead, knocked at a closed door and entered, followed by the other two.

A well-groomed, well-dressed man of about forty, who had been sitting behind a large desk writing something, put down his pen and took off his spectacles with an exclamation of pleasure, rose to his feet and extended a hand. ‘Good morning, Mr Hollies,’ he said affably, in decisive tones that seemed to Adrian in some way familiar. ‘Do take a seat. So glad you could come.’

Without volition, Adrian shook the proffered hand and almost as spontaneously took the seat, a comfortable chair near and at an angle to the desk. He hardly needed to glance at the heavy furniture, the rows of books and periodicals or the Italian prints on the walls to perceive the ambience aimed at as expensive-professional. Beaumont-Snaith and Fotheringay were no longer to be seen.

‘At this stage of the proceedings,’ said the man behind the desk, smiling, ‘I should of course press a switch and tell somebody offstage that I don’t want any calls or visitors till further notice, which is acknowledged by the appallingly distorted voice of the somebody, but that would be going a little too far. Still, there is a switch I can press to cause something amusing to happen.’

No switch sounded, but after a moment sounds of ringing telephones, buzzing buzzers and the like were to be heard from a concealed loudspeaker or speakers. With another smile, this time an eager, guileless, almost childish one that might have heralded the repetition of some established old favourite, the unknown recited carefully against this background, ‘Mr Hollies? Oh, it’s Sergeant Chatterton here, sir, Metropolitan Police, Kilburn Division. I wonder if you’d mind confirming that you’re the owner of’, and vehicular details followed. In the middle of them the loudspeakers faded. ‘There, now. What do you think of that, eh?’

‘I think that whatever it is you’re trying to do here you’re doing it to the wrong man.’

‘Oh, the wrong man . I see. But I’m afraid that’s quite impossible, Mr Hollies. Well, let’s just check, shall we? Here we are

— Adrian Hugo Hollies, born younger son of Frederick Irving Hollies deceased and Diana Victoria née Barton, educated Westminster School and Trinity College, Oxford, blah blah blah , at present director of Parkes & Richards, et cetera. Oh yes. Er, current live-in girlfriend Julie Scharwenka, employed by Central Magazines plc. That is your life, isn’t it… Mr Hollies?’