wish not only to hear her voice, but to hope for an invitation. Helena gave none. She made no attempt to hide her disappointment at hearing his voice. Mathilda was listless and off her food. The vet had done some tests and she was expecting him to telephone.
He said: “I’ve been out of Oxford for the whole summer. Has anything been happening?”
“What do you mean, has anything been happening? What sort of things? Nothing’s been happening.”
“I suppose not. One returns after six months expecting to find things changed.”
“Things don’t change in Oxford. Why should anything change?”
“I wasn’t thinking of Oxford. The country as a whole. I didn’t get much news when I was away.”
“Well, there isn’t any. And why ask me? There’s been trouble about some dissidents, that’s all. It’s mostly rumour. Apparently they’ve been blowing up piers, trying to stop the Quietus. And there was something on the television news about a month ago. The announcer said that a group of them are planning to free all the convicts on the Isle of Man, that they might even organize an invasion from the island and try to depose the Warden.”
Theo said: “That’s ridiculous.”
“That’s what Rupert says. But they shouldn’t publicize things like that if they aren’t true. It only upsets people. Everything used to be so peaceful.”
“Do they know who these dissidents are?”
“I don’t think so. I don’t think they know. Theo, I’ve got to get off the line now. I’m expecting the vet to call.”
Without waiting for his goodbye, she put down the receiver.
In the early hours of the tenth day after his return the nightmare returned. But this time it wasn’t his father who stood at the foot of his bed pointing his bleeding stump, but Luke, and he wasn’t in bed but sitting up in his car, not outside the Lathbury Road house but actually in the nave of Binsey Church. The windows of the car were closed. He could hear a woman screaming as Helena had screamed. Rolf was there, scarlet-faced, pounding his fists against the car and shouting: “You’ve killed Julian, you’ve killed Julian!” At the front of the car stood Luke, mutely pointing his bleeding stump. He was unable to move, locked in a rigor like the rigor of death. He heard their angry voices, “Get out! Get out!,” but he couldn’t move. He sat there staring with blank eyes through the windscreen at Luke’s accusing figure, waiting for the door to be wrenched open, for hands to drag him out and confront him with the horror of what he, and he alone, had done. The nightmare left its legacy of unease, which deepened day by day. He tried to throw it off but nothing in his uneventful, solitary, routine-dominated life was powerful enough to engage more than a part of his mind. He told himself that he must act normally, appear unconcerned, that he was under some kind of surveillance. But there was no sign of it. He heard nothing from Xan, nothing from the Council, received no communications, was not aware that he was being followed. He dreaded hearing from Jasper, with a renewal of his suggestion that they should join forces. But Jasper hadn’t been in touch since the Quietus and no call came. He took his usual exercise and two weeks after his return set off for an early-morning run across Port Meadow to Binsey Church. He knew that it would be unwise to visit and question the old priest and he found it difficult to explain to himself why revisiting
Binsey was so important, or what he hoped to gain. Running with his long regular strides across Port Meadow he was for a moment worried in case he should lead the State Security Police to one of the group’s normal meeting places. But when he reached Binsey he saw that the hamlet was completely deserted and told himself that they would hardly continue to meet in any of their old haunts. Wherever they were, he knew them to be in terrible danger. He ran now, as he had every day, in a tumult of conflicting and familiar emotions: irritation that he had become involved, regret that he hadn’t handled the interview with the Council better, terror that Julian might even now be in the hands of the Security Police, frustration that there was no way in which he could get in touch with her, no person to whom he could safely talk.
The lane to St. Margaret’s Church was even more dishevelled, even more overgrown than when he had last walked it, the interlocking boughs overhead making it dark and sinister as a tunnel. When he reached the churchyard he saw that there was a mortuary van outside the house and that two men were carrying a simple pine coffin down the path.
He said: “Is the old parson dead?”
The man who replied barely gazed at him. “He’d better be. He’s in the box.” He slid the coffin expertly into the back of the van, slammed the door and the two of them drove away.
The door to the church was open and he moved into its dim secular emptiness. Already there were signs of its impending decay. Leaves had blown in through the open door and the floor of the chancel was muddy and stained with what looked like blood. The pews were thick with dust and it was apparent from the smell that animals, probably dogs, had been loose. Before the altar, curious signs had been painted on the floor, some of which were vaguely familiar. He was sorry he had come to this desecrated hovel. He left it, closing the heavy door behind him with a sense of relief. But he had learned nothing, done no good. His pointless small pilgrimage had only deepened his sense of impotence, of impending disaster.
It was at half past eight that night that he heard the knock. He was in the kitchen dressing a salad for his dinner, carefully mixing the olive oil and the wine vinegar in the right proportions. He was to eat, as he usually did at night, from a tray in his study and the tray with its clean cloth and table napkin was already set and waiting on the kitchen table. The lamb chop was in the grilling pan. The claret had been uncorked an hour earlier and he had poured the first glass to drink while he was cooking. He went through the familiar motions without enthusiasm, almost without interest. He supposed he needed to eat. It was his habit to take trouble with the salad dressing. Even as his hands were at the familiar business of preparation his mind told him that it was all supremely unimportant.
He had drawn the curtains across the french doors leading to the patio and the steps up to the garden, less to preserve privacy—that was hardly necessary—than because it was his habit to shut out the night. Apart from the small noises of his own making he was surrounded by total silence, the empty floors of the house piled above him like a physical weight. And it was at the moment when he raised the glass to his lips that he heard a knock. It was low but urgent, a single tap on the glass quickly followed by three others, as definite as a signal. He drew back the curtains and could just make out the outlines of a face almost pressed to the glass. A dark face. He knew instinctively rather than could see that it was Miriam. He drew back the two bolts and unlocked the door and immediately she slipped in.
She wasted no time on greeting but said: “You’re alone?”
“Yes. What is it? What’s happened?”
“They’ve got Gascoigne. We’re on the run. Julian needs you. It wasn’t easy for her to come herself so she sent me.”
He was surprised that he could match her excitement, the half- suppressed terror, with such calmness. But, then, this visit, although unforeseen, seemed but the natural culmination of the week’s mounting anxiety. He had known that something traumatic would happen, that some extraordinary demand would be made on him. Now the summons had come.
When he didn’t reply, she said: “You told Julian you’d come if she wanted you. She wants you now.”
“Where are they?”
She paused for a second as if even now wondering if it was safe to tell him, then said: “They’re in a chapel at Widford outside Swinbrook. We’ve got Rolf’s car but the SSP will know the number. We need your car and we need you. We’ve got to get away before Gascoigne breaks and gives them the names.”
Neither of them doubted that Gascoigne would break. Nothing as crude as physical torture would be necessary. The State Security Police would have the necessary drugs and the knowledge and ruthlessness to use them.
He asked: “How did you get here?”
