Quicksand (21 page)

 

 

A couple of times he had asked to inspect the contents of the bag, but
even the atlas, which fascinated her so much she had annotated almost
every page in her curious spiky private writing, did not afford a lever
with which to pry open her defences. A request to point out her home
still produced the same response as at first: she indicated the vicinity
of Chent.

 

 

-- Could she have been raised in total isolation, Kaspar Hauser fashion,
by some lunatic genius who taught her a language he, not she, had invented
. . . ? No, it's absurd; she'd be so agoraphobic. But it makes as much
sense as the other possibilities!

 

 

Radio was relayed throughout the hospital during the patients' daytime
rest-periods, and there was a TV set in each of the sitting-rooms --
fitted with locked switches so the staff could control the choice
of programmes. Paul regarded this as overprotective, but it wasn't
a matter on which he wanted to start an argument. He had observed
Urchin's reaction to both. Music puzzled her, whether the broadcast was
of a symphony concert or the top twenty pops, but she listened to the
spoken word with avidity. Television was especially useful, it seemed;
when the commentary matched words written on the screen -- sales slogans
in commercials, sports results given both verbally and visually, and so
forth -- that supplied her with a sound-to-spelling key. Yet she always
appeared dismayed at what the screen reported, as thought the entire
world contributed to some universal, horrifying fantasy.

 

 

The last evening when he was on duty, Paul had been making a quiet tour of
the wards when he came on a group of female patients watching a current
affairs programme. The ragbag of subjects included a controversial new
play, a row over the government's defence policy, and the escape of a
notorious criminal from jail.

 

 

A little apart from the others, Urchin stood -- she was too short to
sit and watch except in the front row of chairs, and long-term patients
claimed those as of right. Unnoticed in shadow, Paul studied her,
hopeful for a clue to her condition.

 

 

The excerpt from the play, and the interview with the author which followed,
were meaningless to her, but when she recognised familiar words she repeated
them to herself. That seemed sensible.

 

 

The subject switched to defence policy, and there were newsreels from
Viet-Nam: troops burning a village of thatched huts, helicopters hunting a
fleeing man across a rice-paddy until a well-aimed shot brought him down,
refugees leading their children along a muddy road. These affected her
deeply; she bit down on her lower lip.

 

 

But there was little to enlighten him here, Paul decided. Most averagely
sensitive people might be equally upset. He was on the point of slipping
away when the final item came on.

 

 

At first Urchin appeared not to understand it, but when the meaning seeped
through -- a sketch showed the route the escaped prisoner had taken,
and pictures of spiked walls and guarded gates told their own story --
she was so overcome she had to turn away. Turning, she saw Paul staring
at her, and for a moment her eyes locked with his.

 

 

They were full of tears.

 

 

 

 

"Hullo, Paul!" Mirza exclaimed, jingling the hand-bell; although weeks had
gone by, no electrician had appeared to resite the push of the electric
one. "You're not exactly a bundle of joy today, are you? How's Iris?"

 

 

"Oh -- she's fine, thanks."

 

 

"Glad to hear it." Mirza paused while Lil brought him his tea, then
continued: "Well, whatever it is that's getting you down, it can't be the
woman who's the next closest to your heart. Urchin's making remarkable
progress, isn't she?"

 

 

"Yes and no. . . ." Paul shrugged. "Certainly she's coming along better
than I have any right to expect."

 

 

"So what's the big depression for? Holy Joe been at you again?"

 

 

"Not that either." Paul gave a wan smile. "The truth is, I suppose,
I'm fundamentally unused to things going right for me. Holinshed's got
off my back, Alsop is delighted with what I'm doing, my work is under
control for a change -- so I ought to be overjoyed. But the more things
go right, the worse it's likely to be if they go wrong, isn't it?"

 

 

"It's about the most pessimistic philosophy I've ever heard of," Mirza
murmured, stirring his tea with a gentle tinkling of his spoon.

 

 

Paid hesitated. For a moment it was on the tip of his tongue to take
Mirza into his confidence and ask his advice about Iris. He had no one
else to turn to, and he could be sure of the Pakistani's sympathy. But
in another moment this room would be full of people, and he dared not
risk them picking up even the tail-end of his oppressive secret.

 

 

He compromised. "Time for a drink before dinner, Mirza? We've got out
of the habit since Iris came home."

 

 

"I'd like to," Mirza nodded. "But not before dinner, I'm afraid. I shall
be working late. Afterwards?"

 

 

Paul tossed a mental coin. Evenings at home alone with Iris were becoming
a torment, because every time he glanced at her he found himself seeking
signs of her condition. He was convinced that her period was overdue, but
she hadn't mentioned the fact, and he still hadn't found a way to raise
it himself. On the other hand, no matter how much he wanted to talk to
Mirza, there would be a row if he announced be was going out on his own.

 

 

"Why don't you bring Iris down to the Needle about nine?" Mirza said,
while he was still debating.

 

 

"Well . . ."

 

 

"You could run into me by chance. And I don't think a little frigid
politeness would be bad for her. How about it?"

 

 

-- Better than sitting at home like last night, I guess.

 

 

"Yes, okay. About nine."

 

 

 

 

Iris welcomed the suggestion of going out for a drink, probably -- Paul
suspected -- because it distracted her from her own anxieties. Even
before Mirza "ran into them by chance," however, she had lapsed into
apathy, answering Paid in monosyllables.

 

 

Once the Pakistani had joined them, Paul studied her narrowly, expecting
a recurrence of the behaviour she had exhibited when he had invited
Mirza home. Tonight, though, she seemed to lack the energy for it, and
he realised with some surprise that it couldn't have been the automatic,
conditioned process he had assumed. It required conscious control and
a lot of effort.

 

 

-- In which case . . . A defence mechanism. Habits equal stability/security;
the existence of people who behave differently, regardless of colour which
is only an extra outward sign, is a threat to the personality. The way we
do things is the "right" way. The purpose of freezing out the alien is to
avoid being exposed on future occasions to more reminders that "right"
is an arbitrary term. In its most advanced form this is culture shock:
where the victim is so outnumbered by people following different customs
and unspoken assumptions that privacy equates to effective insanity. But
that means . . .

 

 

Paid exclaimed and snapped his fingers. Mirza broke off in the middle of
a story he was telling, to which Iris was not even pretending to listen,
and blinked in surprise.

 

 

"Sorry," Paul said. "But thanks very much, Mirza. You've just given me
a brilliant idea."

 

 

 

 

 

 

*26*

 

 

A tap came on the door of Paul's office. Without turning, he called an
invitation to enter.

 

 

The visitor was Mirza, carrying a bulky package which he dumped with a
bang on the corner of the desk. "For you," he announced.

 

 

"What?"

 

 

"I saw it in the porter's room just now and offered to bring it up for you.
Wish I hadn't. It's heavy." Mirza perched on the window-sill, both long
legs at full stretch.

 

 

"Very kind of you," Paul said. He laid down his pen, offered Mirza
a cigarette from a packet on the desk, and absently lit one himself
while scrutinising the parcel. His name was on the label all right,
but the address originally written beneath was that of the hospital
where he had worked before coming here; someone had scored it through
and substituted Chent's.

 

 

"No trouble," Mirza said. "As a matter of fact, I suddenly remembered a
few minutes ago that I wanted to ask how your brilliant idea turned out."

 

 

"Which idea?"

 

 

"The one that hit you in the Needle the other night."

 

 

"Oh!" Paul leaned back in his chair and gave a short laugh. "It didn't
work too well in practice, I'm afraid."

 

 

"Was it something to do with Urchin?"

 

 

"Tell me something, Mirza: do you read minds, or do you simply listen
at keyholes?"

 

 

"I take it that's a way of complimenting me on my omniscience. But it's
not a very clever guess. You've been thinking about practically nothing
else for weeks."

 

 

Paul tapped the first ash from his cigarette. "Yes, I'm afraid that's
true . . . Well, if you really want to hear about it . . .?"

 

 

"You said I gave you the idea. I'm naturally interested in the fate of
my offspring."

 

 

-- He could have chosen another metaphor than that.

 

 

Paul hid his desire to wince. He said, "All it amounts to is this.
Although Urchin now seems to understand and even speak English pretty
fluently, she's been refusing to talk about herself. She may be genuinely
unable to -- she may be amnesiac, in other words -- or she may be so
scared of saying the wrong thing that she's afraid to, because being
not only in a strange country but shut up among lunatics she has no
guide to what's right and acceptable. I thought I'd try and put her in
a more familiar context and get her mind running on wherever it is she
comes from."

 

 

"Sounds reasonable," Mirza opined. "How did you set about it?"

 

 

"She made a tape for me when she first came here -- just a couple of
minutes talking in her own language -- and the philology department at
the university sent it back when they gave up trying to identify it. So I
hid the recorder and switched the tape on without her noticing. It shook
her so much I thought I was getting somewhere, but she realised what I'd
done almost at once, and she was so angry at being tricked she clammed
up worse than ever. Then I've tried to get her to draw scenes from the
place she comes from, and sing me a song that she likes -- obviously
the music she hears on the radio isn't the kind she's used to -- but
I've drawn a blank so far. Still, not to worry; it's early days yet."

 

 

Mirza stretched forward to drop ash into the wastebasket. " Nil carborundum
-- that's the spirit. I wish you luck, anyhow. She seems like a nice person,
and it would be a pity to have her stuck in Chent for the rest of her life.
. . . By the way, aren't you going to open this?" he added, tapping
the parcel.

 

 

Paul gave him a suspicious glance. "It's not some sort of surprise package
you've made up, is it?"

 

 

"Cross my heart," Mirza grinned. "It's just my 'satiable curiosity,
I'm afraid."

 

 

"Oh, very well."

 

 

Shrugging, Paul slashed the string and peeled back the outer wrapping
of paper and corrugated board. Inside that was a wooden box.

 

 

"No wonder it was heavy," Mirza commented.

 

 

The lid of the box was tied, not nailed, and came away easily. Underneath,
almost buried in a welter of wood-shavings and still more corrugated board,
was a clock.

 

 

-- What in the world . . .?

 

 

He lifted it out. It stood a foot and a half high. The dial was set in
a kind of pedestal of polished brown wood with brass pillars at each corner.
That much was ordinary; the rest was a gigantic sick joke. For above
the pedestal stood a shiny brass figure of Father Time, naked skull
grinning under a draped hood, one bony hand clutching an hour-glass,
the other a scythe. Removal of the clock from its packing had triggered
off the last energy stored in its spring, and as he turned it upright
the scythe began to wag back and forth in rhythm with its ticking.

 

 

A line of fine writing was engraved across the base of the statuette:
In the midst of life we are in death.

 

 

"Why, that's fabulous!" Mirza exclaimed, darting forward to examine it
more closely. "I wish I knew people who sent me presents like this."

 

 

"You're welcome to it," Paul muttered. "I think it's hideous."

 

 

"Oh, come now!" Mirza said. The scythe had stopped its wagging and he
was touching it with a fingertip as though testing the sharpness of the
blade. "Grotesque, yes, but rather splendid nonetheless. Who's it from?"

 

 

"I have no idea."

 

 

Mirza picked up the box and rummaged among the shavings." Maybe there's
a note. Yes, here we are. And the key for it, too."

 

 

He handed Paul a single sheet of pale pink notepaper, folded once. It bore
a short message which he read with dismay.

 

 

"When I spotted this it reminded me of you, and of the fact that I never
did give you a token of my appreciation. I hope it reaches you safely.
I did phone the hospital the other day but they wouldn't tell me where
you were. Regards -- Maurice."