‘Is your name Chick?’ said the commissergeant.
Chick stepped back and his face went pale. He went back as far as the wall where his precious books were arranged.
‘What am I supposed to have done?’ he asked.
The commissergeant fumbled in his breast pocket and read his warrant. ‘Collection of overdue taxes from Chick Esquire, following seizure of coinage. Smuggling contraband tobacco with serious indictment. Total, or at least partial, confiscation of goods, aggravated by breaking up of happy home.’
‘But … I promise you I’ll pay my income tax,’ said Chick.
‘Oh, yes,’ said the commissergeant. ‘But not until we’ve done with you … First of all we must charge you with contraband tobacco. It’s a very strong kind of smoke – we use the shortened title so that people don’t get alarmed about it.’
‘I’ll give you all my money,’ said Chick.
‘Of course,’ said the commissergeant.
Chick went to his desk and opened the drawer. He kept a very powerful heart-snatcher in there, and a rather rusty rozza-eraser. He couldn’t find the heart-snatcher, but he could feel the rozza-eraser under a pile of papers.
‘I hope it’s the money you’re looking for in there,’ said the commissergeant.
The two policemen-at-arms had spread out, each holding his equalizer. Chick sprang round with his rozza-eraser in his hand.
‘Look out, chief!’ said one of the policemen-at-arms.
‘Shall I squeeze the trigger, chief?’ asked the second.
‘You won’t get me like that,’ said Chick …
‘All right,’ said the commissergeant, ‘if that’s the way you want to play it, we’ll take your books.’
One of the policemen-at-arms grabbed the first book that he could reach. He opened it roughly and its spine cracked.
‘Nothing in it but words, chief,’ he proclaimed.
‘Pulp it!’ said the commissergeant.
The policeman-at-arms seized the book by its binding and shook it viciously. Chick screamed.
‘Don’t touch it … Leave it alone!’
‘Now, now,’ said the commissergeant. ‘Why don’t you use your rozza-eraser then? You know very well that my warrant says Breaking up of the happy home!’
‘Put it down,’ Chick roared again, raising his rozza-eraser. But it was old and worn-out, and crumbled in his hands.
‘Shall I pull my trigger, chief?’ asked the policeman-at-arms again.
The book fell from its binding and Chick rushed forward, dropping the useless rozza-eraser.
‘Shoot, Douglas!’ said the commissergeant, stepping back.
Chick’s body sank to the floor between the feet of the policemen-at-arms. They had both fired at once.
‘Shall we pass the contraband tobacco now, chief?’ asked the other policeman-at-arms.
Chick was still moving a little. He raised himself up on his hands and managed to kneel. He was clutching his stomach and his face twitched dreadfully as drops of sweat fell into his eyes. There was a great gash in his forehead.
‘Don’t touch my books …’ he burbled. His voice was thick and indistinct.
‘We’re going to pulp them with our boots,’ said the commissergeant. ‘In a few seconds you’ll be dead.’
Chick’s head fell back. He made a gigantic effort to raise it again, but his stomach hurt as if triangular blades were churning over inside it. He managed to put one foot on the ground, but the other knee refused to bend. The policemen-at-arms closed in on the books while the commissergeant took two steps nearer to Chick.
‘Leave those books alone …’ gasped Chick. The gurgling blood made a horrible noise in his throat, and his head lurched over even more grotesquely. He let go of his stomach and his scarlet hands aimlessly beat the air. He fell down again, his face hitting the floor. The commissergeant turned him over with his foot. He did not move any more and his open eyes focused on something far beyond the confines of his room. His face was completely cut in half by the streak of blood which had trickled down from his forehead.
‘Give it to him, Douglas!’ said the commissergeant. ‘I’ll smash up the din-grinder personally.’
He went to the window and saw that a fat mushroom of smoke was slowly bellowing up towards him from the ground floor of the house next door.
‘Don’t bother to be too careful,’ he added. ‘The house next door is on fire. Be quick – that’s all! There’ll be no traces left of anything – but I’ll write it all up beautifully in my report.’
Chick’s face was completely blackened. The pool of blood beneath his body was slowly coagulating into a star.
60
Nicholas walked past the last bookshop but one which Alyssum had set on fire. He had seen Colin going off to his work and heard how upset his niece was. He had heard about Heartre’s death as soon as he had rung his club, and had set off to find Alyssum. He wanted to console her and cheer her up and ask her to stay with him until she became her old happy self again. He saw Chick’s house. A long thin tongue of flame spat out of the middle of the window of the bookshop next door and split the glass like a hammer-blow. In front of the door he noticed the commissergeant’s car and saw that the driver was moving it on a little to get out of the danger-zone. He noticed the black silhouettes of the policemen-at-arms too. The Phyghre-phyghters came along almost immediately. Their engine stopped outside the bookshop with a fearful screech. Nicholas was already struggling with the Closed sign. He managed to kick down the door and rushed inside. The whole of the back of the shop was ablaze. The bookseller’s body was stretched out – his feet in the flames, his heart by his side – and he saw Chick’s heart-snatcher lying on the floor. Great balls of red fire lashed out at him and with forked tongues which pierced the thick walls of the shop with a single lick. Nicholas flung himself down on the ground so that he wouldn’t be burnt and, as he did so, he felt a violent rush of air above him caused by the extinguishing spray from the Phyghre Brigade’s equipment. The noise of the fire doubled as the horizontal fountain attacked it from the base. Books were burning and crackling, and flapping pages flew up far above Nicholas’s head, away from the spray. He could hardly breathe in all the din and the flames. He thought that Alyssum would hardly have stayed in the fire, but he couldn’t see any door she might have escaped by. The fire was struggling against the Phyghremen and seemed to be rapidly rising, breaking loose from the lower zone which was beginning to die out. In the midst of the dull grey cinders there still remained one brilliant glowing patch, more vivid than all the flames.
The smoke drifted away very quickly, sucked up towards the floors above. The books were going out, but the ceiling was burning more fiercely than ever. Nothing was left on the ground but that pure brilliant glow.
His hair blackened, covered with ashes, hardly able to breathe, Nicholas plunged ahead, fighting to reach the light. He could hear the boots of the Phyghre-phyghters trampling above. Under a girder of twisted steel he caught a glimpse of a blindingly blonde fleece. The flames had been unable to devour it, for it shone more brilliantly than they could. He put it in his inside pocket and went out.
He walked with an unsure step. The Phyghre-phyghters watched him go. The fire was still raging on the floors above and they were getting ready to isolate the block and let it burn itself out as there was no extinguishing liquid left.
61
Colin could just see the thirtieth pillar. All morning he had been walking round and round the cellar of the Gold Reserve. His job was to yell when he saw anybody coming to steal the gold. The vaults were enormous. It took a whole day, going very quickly, to go completely round them. In the centre was the strong-room where the gold was slowly maturing in a mixture of lethal gases. This job was extremely well-paid, providing you could manage to get all the way round in a day. Colin didn’t feel that he was physically fit enough, and the vaults were too dark for him. He found himself looking back from time to time and getting behind on his time-table. He cou
ld see nothing behind him but the tiny gleaming speck of the last lamp, and nothing ahead of him but the next lamp which slowly grew larger.
The gold thieves did not come every day, but the checkpoints had to be visited at the scheduled time all the same, otherwise a fine would be deducted from his wages. The time-table had to be adhered to so that he could be ready to shout when the robbers arrived. They were men with very regular habits.
Colin’s right foot hurt. The vaults, constructed of hard artificial stone, had a rough, uneven floor. He forced himself to go on. He stumbled a little when going over the eighth white line, trying to reach the thirtieth pillar on time. He started singing as he walked, but soon refrained from his refrain because the echo made menacing mincemeat of his words and put them to all the wrong tunes.
With his legs aching, he went on unrelentingly, and passed the thirtieth pillar. He looked round automatically thinking he could see something behind him. He lost another five seconds and ran a few steps in order to catch up with himself.
62
It was no longer possible to get into the dining-room. The ceiling was almost touching the floor and half-vegetable, half-mineral projections reached out to clasp each other across the dark humidity. The corridor door would not open. All that was left was a narrow space leading to Chloe’s bedroom from the entrance. Isis went in first, and Nicholas followed her. He seemed stunned. Something bulged inside his jacket and from time to time he put his hand on his chest.
Isis looked at the bed before she went into the room. Chloe was still surrounded by flowers. Her hands, stretched out on the blankets, were hardly able to hold the big white orchid that was in them. It looked grey by the side of her diaphanous skin. Her eyes were open but she hardly moved when she saw Isis come and sit down by her side. When Nicholas saw Chloe he looked away again. He wanted to smile at her, but he simply went up and touched her hand. He too sat down and Chloe gently closed her eyes, then opened them again. She seemed happy to see them.
‘Were you asleep?’ Isis whispered.
Chloe’s eyes said No. Her thin fingers reached for Isis’s hand. Under her other hand she was hiding the mouse whose sparkling black eyes gleamed out at them. It trotted across the bed to sit near Nicholas. He picked it up gently, kissing its glossy little nose, and then it went back to Chloe. The flowers round the bed trembled. They did not last very long, and Chloe could feel herself growing weaker every hour.
‘Where’s Colin?’ asked Isis.
‘Work …’ breathed Chloe.
‘Don’t try to talk,’ said Isis. ‘I’ll talk so that you won’t have to speak.’
She put her pretty dark head close to Chloe’s and kissed her tenderly.
‘Is he working at the bank?’ she said.
Chloe’s eyelids closed.
They heard a footstep in the hall. Colin appeared at the door. He was holding some fresh flowers, but he had lost his job. The robbers had gone through too quickly and he could hardly walk any more. As he had been doing his best he had earned a little money – these flowers.
Chloe seemed calmer. She almost managed a smile now, and Colin went as close to her as he could. He loved her too much for the strength she had, and he hardly touched her now for fear of breaking her to pieces. With his aching hand, still bearing the scars of work, he stroked her dark hair.
Nicholas, Colin, Isis and Chloe were there. A slow tear rolled down Nicholas’s cheek because Chick and Alyssum would never be there again, and because Chloe was so ill.
63
The management gave Colin plenty of money – but it was too late. Every day he had to go and see people. They gave him a list and he had to bring bad tidings a day before they were going to happen.
Every day he went out into the crowded streets or into society. He went up and down thousands of stairs. Nobody was pleased to see him. They threw pots and pans at his head, drove fierce harsh words through his ears, and then kicked him out of their doors. He got well paid for this and pleased the management. For once he kept his job. It was the only thing he could do well – get himself kicked out.
He was harrowed by fatigue which stiffened his knees and hollowed his cheeks. His eyes saw only the ugliness of people. He went on telling them the terrible things that were going to happen. He went on being chased away by sticks, stones, blood, tears and curses.
He went up the steps, along the corridor and knocked, taking another step back almost immediately. People knew as soon as they saw his big black helmet so they treated him badly, but Colin couldn’t complain as he was being paid to do it. The door opened. He said his piece and went away. A heavy block of wood hit him in the back of the neck.
He looked at the next name on the list and saw that it was his own. Then he threw down his helmet and he walked slowly home with his heart as heavy as lead for he knew that by tomorrow Chloe would be dead.
64
Father Phigga was deep in conversation with the Husher, and Colin waited until they had finished talking before he went up to them. He could no longer see the ground beneath his feet and he kept tripping over. His eyes saw Chloe, pale on their honeymoon bed, with her dark hair and her tiny nose, her smooth forehead, her sweet round face and her eyelids which, when they had closed, had separated the world from her.
‘Have you come about a funeral?’ said Father Phigga.
‘Chloe’s dead,’ said Colin.
He heard Colin say ‘Chloe’s dead’, but thought he must have been mistaken.
‘I know,’ said Father Phigga. ‘How much do you want to spend? You’d like one of our loveliest services, of course?’
‘Yes,’ said Colin.
‘I can do you something very nice for about two thousand doublezoons,’ said Father Phigga. ‘For a trifle more …’
‘I’ve only got twenty doublezoons,’ said Colin. ‘I might be able to get thirty or forty more, but not straight away.’
Father Phigga filled his lungs and emptied them with an air of disgust.
‘Then all you can afford is a pauper’s funeral.’
‘I am a pauper …’ said Colin. ‘And Chloe is dead …’
‘Yes, yes,’ said Father Phigga. ‘But you should always try to see to it that you die with enough money to get yourself decently buried. Haven’t you even got five hundred doublezoons?’
‘No,’ said Colin … ‘I might be able to raise a hundred if I could pay a little each week. Do you realize what it means to have to say to yourself that “Chloe is dead”? …’
‘Oh,’ said Father Phigga, ‘I’m used to it, so it doesn’t have any effect on me any more. I ought to advise you to address yourself to God, but I’m afraid that for such a small sum it isn’t worth interrupting him …’
‘Don’t worry,’ said Colin. ‘I won’t disturb him. I don’t think he’d be able to do much anyway, you see, because Chloe is dead …’
‘Let’s change the subject,’ said Father Phigga. ‘Think of … Oh, I don’t know … Think of something else … Such as …’
‘Can I have a decent service for a hundred doublezoons?’ said Colin.
‘I don’t even want to envisage that solution,’ said Father Phigga. ‘You’ll have to go to a hundred and fifty.’
‘It’ll take me some time to pay you.’
‘You’re working, aren’t you? … You just have to sign a little piece of paper …’
‘All right …’ said Colin.
‘In that case,’ said Father Phigga, ‘maybe you could go up to two hundred, and then you’ll have the Unisexton Bedull and the Husher on your side. For a hundred and fifty they’re still on the opposition.’
‘I don’t think I can manage that,’ said Colin. ‘I don’t think I’ll be able to keep my job much longer.’
‘Well, then, we’ll say a hundred and fifty,’ concluded Father Phigga. ‘It’s a pity, because it really will be lousy. You tight-fisted people make me sick, trying to cut everything down all the time …’
‘I’m sorry,’ said Colin.
> ‘Come and sign the forms,’ said Father Phigga, giving him a brutal shove.
Colin fell against a chair. Father Phigga, infuriated by the noise, pushed him once more towards the sacristicks and grousingly followed him.
65
The two porters found Colin waiting for them at the entrance to the flat. They were covered in grime because the staircase had almost completely disintegrated. But they had their oldest clothes on, and there wasn’t much room left for any more patches in them. Through the holes in their uniforms you could see the ginger hair on their thongy legs. They greeted Colin with a punch in the stomach – as is laid down in the rules for a pauper’s funeral.
The entrance was now more like the inside of a cave. They had to lower their heads to get into Chloe’s bedroom. The coffin-men had already gone. There were no signs of Chloe, but just an old battered black box, marked with the order number. They grabbed hold of it and, using it as a battering-ram, shot it through the window. Corpses were only carried down by hand from five hundred doublezoons upwards.
‘No wonder the box is so bashed about,’ thought Colin, and he wept because Chloe must have been bruised and broken inside it.
He dreamt that she could no longer feel anything – and this made him weep even more. The box landed on the cobbles with a clatter and broke the leg of a child playing in the gutter. They pushed it on to the pavement and lifted it on to the funeral cart. It was an old lorry painted red and one of the two porters drove it.
Very few people followed the lorry. Just Nicholas, Isis and Colin, and two or three people that they did not even know. The lorry went fairly fast and they had to run to keep up with it. The driver was singing out loud. He only shut up from over two hundred and fifty doublezoons.
They stopped in front of the church and the black box was left outside while they went in for the service. Father Phigga, sullen and surly, turned his back on them and began moving about meaninglessly. Colin was left standing before the altar.