part0024

F orrester hardly spoke to Abhaya when she brought his breakfast. Despite himself, he felt tired and insular. So far as he could judge, her mood was similarly reclusive, and he doubted she could have slept much better than he had. Selfishly, he found himself hoping that she’d managed to hide her restlessness from Forbes.

The food went some way toward bringing him round, but only enough so to make him wish he had some encouragement to offer her, or even a decent manner in which to express his gratitude. All he could think to say was, “I’ll see you again, when it’s over.” He’d intended the sentiment as an assurance, but it sounded disappointingly weak to his own ears.

After Abhaya left, Forrester went into the bathroom and splashed cold water on his face until his fatigue began to pass. He must be on the best of form for Forbes. One slip might be the end of everything.

Once he was satisfied the haggardness was gone from his eyes, Forrester went and sat on the bed. He was past the point of sensible thought, past the point where he could make any useful embellishments to his plan. Now he merely wanted to be on with it.

Certainly he was too restive to be relaxed by reading. Yet after a few minutes, in frustration, he snatched up the Marcus Aurelius from the bedside table and rummaged its pages at random, searching for he knew not what. He prodded irritably at a paragraph and read back the words he’d picked out.

Whatever he’d hoped for, that wasn’t it. Still, the advice was sage enough, he supposed. He had attempted forbearance and had proved ill-suited. Well, today he must try to teach.

Just then, he was relieved to hear the rap of knuckles upon his door: Campion had taken once more to knocking. “One minute,” Forrester called, and limped over, making sure to catch up his stick as he did so. He was walking capably without its support, but the exertion quickly exhausted him, and in any case, this wasn’t the time to abandon his charade.

Campion was even more subdued than on the preceding days. He wouldn’t meet Forrester’s eye, and said nothing besides a terse, “Good morning.” There was no trace of the bluster and bitterness that until recently had so defined him. He led the way in silence down to the cellars and held the door for Forrester.

Forbes was seated exactly as on the previous mornings. He’d had the bottles and casks cleared out a couple of days before, presumably on the assumption that they’d be working in the cellar for the foreseeable future. Ornate rugs had been brought down to soften the stone flags, and candelabras had been positioned to provide the muted lighting that Forbes apparently considered essential to proceedings. For all his diligence, the armchairs and coffee table were as odd and out of place as ever, like a cathedral built upon a desert island.

Forrester took the second chair as he always did, endeavouring to seem cheerful, or at least not to reveal his anxiety. “So what’s it to be today?”

“Let’s keep on with the same exercise as yesterday,” Forbes said. “In fact, I’m afraid that will be our focus henceforward. I know how unsavoury you find the whole business, but—“

“Yes, I’ve been giving that some thought.”

“Oh?” Forbes looked half annoyed by the interruption and half intrigued.

“I think I may have a solution.”

“Since the beginning,” Forrester said, “we’ve taken for granted that my ability to communicate with the Guest was exceptional. Perhaps we formed a bond on that first night in No Man’s Land, or perhaps there’s something unusual in my mental composition that predisposed it toward me.”

“That’s right.” Forbes’s tone was guarded. Regardless of what he might admit, Forrester had no doubt he’d made efforts to duplicate Forrester’s connection with the Guest. The fact that Forrester was still here was all the evidence he needed that those attempts had failed.

“The thing is,” Forrester continued, “I’m not convinced anymore that that’s the case. The more accustomed I’ve come to it, the more I’ve begun to suspect that the Guest is quite capable of communicating with any intelligent mind, human or otherwise. The reason it hasn’t done so is because it’s chosen not to—or rather, because it’s had no incentive to.”

Now Forbes was interested. He leaned forward, eyes agleam. “You’re sure of this?”

“Not altogether. But can it hurt to try?”

“I don’t see how. Not if you’d be willing.”

“Let us be honest,” Forrester said, “I’ve no wish to stay here any longer than I have to. As fascinating an experience as this has been, I’m still a prisoner, and I’d sooner take my chances back in France if those are my choices. And you’d prefer someone more compliant, someone in sympathy with your goals.”

“Unfortunately true,” Forbes conceded. “But then, I like working with you, Forrester. You’re a good sort: sharp, resourceful, conscientious. Your progress in recent days has been remarkable. We may be close to a breakthrough. Am I to believe that you could just as well be anyone? And if I should accept that, what luck would I have prevailing on my superiors?”

Forrester tensed, and fought to relax. This was it, he succeeded or he was lost. “There’s one obvious way,” he said, with casualness entirely divorced from how he felt. “What would you think about being a test subject yourself? You’re right, there’s every likelihood that it won’t work, or that it won’t work sufficiently for your purposes. I’d hate to embarrass us both.”

Forbes held his gaze. For a moment Forrester imagined that there was some link between them too, and that their endless rounds of confrontation had spilled over into the psychic realm, that even now they were wrestling in an arena of the mind.

“And what would be involved,” Forbes enquired, enunciating each word with care, “in this being a ‘test subject’?”

The moment of subliminal conflict passed. Maybe it had never occurred at all. But had some of the eagerness in Forbes’s eyes been replaced by suspicion? “Oh, nothing much,” Forrester said. “Just what you’ve been assisting me in doing. Relax. Open your thoughts. Only, whatever happens, you mustn’t resist. If the Guest senses any trepidation, it will pull away, and I might not persuade it to try a second time.”

Forbes didn’t answer immediately—and suddenly Forrester was certain that he was losing him.

“I won’t ask if this would be dangerous,” Forbes said finally. “From what you’ve described, I know the Guest wouldn’t harm me, even inadvertently. Yet I can’t help thinking, lieutenant, that you have an agenda.”

So that was it. How stupid to delude himself that he could out-bluff a man like Forbes, whose livelihood was one of lies and subterfuge. He had bungled his opportunity, and now that Forbes was tipped off, there would never be another.

Except, if he was truly done for, what did he have left to lose? “Damn it,” Forrester exclaimed, “of course I have an agenda! I’ve played nicely with you these last few days; I’ve done my best with these experiments of yours. I won’t deny that I’ve even been interested by them, to a degree. But do you really suppose that I wouldn’t do anything to be out of here? I told you, I’d rather be shot at by Germans, be shelled and gassed and slop about in bloody thigh-deep mud, than be kept prisoner for another day!”

He was trembling, actually shaking with anger. It shouldn’t have been possible, and as he noticed his fit of passion, it passed, superseded by that familiar, blanketing calm. He hardly dared look at Forbes.

When he did, however, he found that Forbes was smiling. Nor was there any hostility in that smile. On the contrary, he appeared quite paternal. “There,” he said, “I do prefer you to be honest with me. All right, let’s give this a go.”

Forrester almost had to bite his tongue to keep his relief from showing. “In that case, Forbes, I’ll warn you again, you mustn’t try to take the upper hand. The Guest has been doing this for centuries, and you’re not even a novice. You’ll only be in any jeopardy if you throw your weight around. Expose your mind without resistance. The Guest must be the one to make contact and the Guest must be the one to pull away. Can you manage that?”

“I believe I can,” Forbes agreed.

“Good. Then let’s get started. You know what to do, you taught me, after all. Relax and let the music lull you. Be aware of your mind and of your body. Take a memory, a distinct memory, and hold it. Think of it as an offering.”

As Forrester spoke, he did the same, though he needed no offering of memory and had long since learned to shut out the music. Now that the Guest had recovered from its transient distress, making contact was like opening a door in his consciousness, a door with a visitor waiting impatiently on its far side.

“Do you have a memory?” he asked Forbes. “Are you visualising it clearly?”

“I am.” Forbes sounded distant, and faintly slurred.

“Then let that memory fill your mind. Give yourself up to it, and be prepared to share it.”

Forrester wondered what recollection Forbes might have chosen, what he would deem worthy. Perhaps his wedding to Abhaya, or the day of his accident in India, when a frightened animal had put paid forever to the career he’d so treasured?

“I’m ready,” Forbes whispered.

He was, Forrester decided, as ready as he would ever be. To the Guest he thought, This is the only way , and tried to put that conviction into images: he and Abhaya free, and it once more among the stars. He could feel its fear, wrapping his own emotions like a fog. It understood enough of Forbes to distrust him, and its kind relied so utterly on trust.

This is the only way , Forrester insisted.

Forbes made a small sobbing noise. Flecks of spittle dribbled from his lip. His eyes were open where they hadn’t been an instant ago, but he was staring at nothing, or else at a point so remote that it couldn’t possibly be within the room.

Forrester spoke softly and for his own benefit rather than Forbes’s, though he doubted Forbes could have heard in any case. “It won’t hurt you. It can’t hurt you. It’s just trying to make you appreciate exactly what it’s been through ... what you put it through. But I imagine that’s a lot to take in, isn’t it? ”

Forrester got up quietly, walked to Forbes, and, breath held, dipped a hand into the right pocket of his jacket. He felt what he was after straight away: the cold brush of metal. He drew his hand back as steadily as he could, each slight jangle making his heart pound against his ribs.

Once Forbes moved his head, and Forrester almost let go. But Forbes’s eyes were following the passage of some object that he alone could see. At last, Forrester’s hand slid free, and he scarcely glanced at his prize—a bunch of keys nearly as large as his fist—before dropping it into his own pocket.

Forrester walked swiftly to the door and opened it. And there was Campion. He was leaning against the opposite wall, chewing the nails of one hand. Campion looked up at the sound of the door, at first merely surprised but then catching sight of Forbes, his muscles rigid, his arms gripping the chair, his scrutiny fixed on an impossible horizon.

Forrester, whose plan had been to claim Forbes had been taken ill and send the sergeant off to bring help, saw too late how transparent that lie would be. When Campion moved to block his path, Forrester said softly, “You can’t stop me. And Sergeant Campion, I dislike threats, but that ,” and he pointed toward where Forbes sat, “could as easily be you.”

Campion’s whole body clenched. If his old temperament should reassert itself, Forrester suspected that he might have the sheer, belligerent strength of will to overcome the Guest’s influence.

Instead, all the tension went out of him, and all of his vigour also. “Sod it,” Campion declared wearily. “It’s been an ugly business, this. Not what I signed up for.”

He made a guarded sidestep, as though anxious that Forbes might somehow be watching. “You won’t get off the grounds. Maybe I can’t stop you, but someone else will.” His voice lowered. “I won’t sound the alarm until I’ve seen to Forbes. That gives you a couple of minutes. Best make the most of them.”

Forrester couldn’t bring himself to thank him. This was a man who had beaten a woman because he was ordered to, and if his conscience had troubled him afterwards, that was absolutely as it should be, but it didn’t excuse the inexcusable. Settling for a nod of acknowledgement, Forrester hastened away before Campion could change his mind.

He had his path memorised by now. To try a different route would perhaps have been safer, but he daren’t risk becoming lost. He managed a fast walk, relying heavily on his stick. In the corridor beyond the stairs, he slowed. With the pretence of being a hospital abandoned, the house seemed all but empty. However, he might yet run into someone, and if they should fail to recognise him, he had a chance at least of bluffing his way past.

There was no evidence of an alarm, though Campion’s two minutes must be up. Forrester wasn’t even certain what to expect. Would they have rigged a siren? Could there be telephone lines to the men on the gates? Whatever the case, he was almost out of Sherston and still had heard nothing.

This time, he had no difficulty retracing his steps to the side door he’d fled through on the night of his first escape. There must have been twenty keys on the ring he’d recovered from Forbes, seven of them large and elaborate and the rest smaller. Abhaya had told him of their existence some days earlier, but she hadn’t been able to say which would fit this particular lock. Fortunately, the keyhole was sizable enough to eliminate most candidates. He got the right one on the third attempt and pushed the door open.

Doing so revealed the garage, and the young soldier who had been standing sentry and was presently in the process of turning at the door’s creak. He had a rifle slung over his shoulder, though he couldn’t have hoped to use the weapon this close to the house.

“Quickly!” Forrester shouted. “You’re needed downstairs. Major Forbes has been taken ill.”

The soldier eyed Forrester with frank mistrust. “Aren’t you—?”

“Yes! I’m Lieutenant Forrester. Yes, I’m the prisoner you’re meant to be watching out for. But right now, I need your help. It’s something to do with that creature in the mines. I think it’s hurting him.”

At that, the soldier’s face blanched. He’d encountered the Guest or had heard about it, but either way, he feared it.

“Please,” Forrester insisted, and no effort was required to let a note of desperation enter his tone. “I need to make him comfortable. His breathing doesn’t sound at all good.”

None of the suspicion was gone from the young soldier’s eyes. Nevertheless, he darted over and stepped through the door. “All right,” he said. “Only, keep your hands where I can—“

But in a flash, Forrester had slipped past him and slammed the door shut. He devoted the entirety of his weight to keeping it that way while he jabbed the key into the lock and twisted. Immediately, the soldier set to hammering upon the far side, which Forrester was happy to ignore. Better that the man waste time in futile pounding than go hunting a window to climb out by, as he should have been.

Forrester hurried to the nearer of the two lorries. He held the radiator crank as he’d been taught, hand cupped, all five fingers together—he’d once seen a private’s thumb broken when an engine backfired in starting—and put what strength he had left into the endeavour. The machine made a ghastly noise that subsided to a steady, disconsolate rumble. Forrester climbed up to the driver’s seat, listened long enough to confirm that the soldier was still absorbed with his useless hammering, and then released the brake.

Forrester had driven on maybe half a dozen occasions and had never taken to the experience. Having no time to reacquaint himself with the practice, he determined to rely on memory and intuition. Neither served him well. The corner joining the garage to the front of the house was unexpectedly severe, and despite his hesitant pace, he barely got round it.

By the turning onto the driveway proper, he’d brought the vehicle under tenuous control. Yet he was also picking up speed, as the gravelled road declined. Its slope was shallow at first, but soon began to drop off dramatically, until by the time the gates became visible, the way felt perilously steep. Forrester had no idea what a safe velocity was, but if he hadn’t surpassed it, then surely he soon must. Already the lumbering automobile seemed ready to shake apart at any moment.

Forrester strived to concentrate on the gates, and to keep the protesting lorry in line with them. They were of wrought iron and looked indomitably sturdy. The chain that held them shut, however, as he’d noticed on the night of his escape, was more flimsy. The padlock was frailer still. A quote from a lecture on infantry tactics he’d sat through floated unbidden into his mind: Any defence is only as strong as its weakest link.

Was that aphorism true? Probably he was staking his life on it.

Among other topics, Forrester had spent the last week considering the limitations of the Guest’s influence. What exactly did it prohibit? Not violence, that was too abstract a notion. Anger certainly, and similarly dangerous extremes of emotion. But mostly, he’d realised, it was aggression: the desire to cause hurt.

He had no desire to hurt the gates. He wanted solely to be free. He was no longer even steering, since in this final stretch the drive ran perfectly straight. He possessed no anger, intended no harm. The lorry was in motion, and he was in the lorry. The vehicle was about to smash itself upon those stubborn iron bars, and nothing he did would prevent that.

Only at the last did his instinct for self-preservation rear up in a burst of lucidity and perfect horror. He didn’t try to steer, for his hands were off the wheel, and anyway, all he’d have accomplished would be to concertina the cab against the unyielding stone of a gate post. Instead, he braced, jamming his knees upward and one arm into the door frame.

Perhaps that saved him. It didn’t mitigate the pain.

Forrester felt as if he’d been wrenched in multiple opposing directions. His head swam sickeningly. Nearby, someone was shouting, but he couldn’t comprehend the words. Neither could he make sense of what he was seeing. Everything was moving, apparently every way at once.

Then he understood that everything was moving. The shouting was what gave the fact away: the uproar was receding.

He’d hoped the lorry would smash through the gates, without quite believing. Yet it had, and though the impact had stalled the engine, his momentum wasn’t altogether lost. If he hadn’t been travelling downhill, they’d have had him. As it was, not only was the vehicle rolling, it was beginning again to gather speed. He was alive, he was seemingly in one piece, and he was leaving Sherston House behind.