He walked to a smaller park which was favoured by pensioners largely because it did not incorporate a children’s playground. The day was warm and pleasant, well suited for sun-bathing, and when he had established himself with his possessions at the centre of a grassy area he felt reasonably certain of attracting no undue attention from passers-by, police included. He took off his jacket and sweater, and rested for a while to ease the throbbing in the region of his stomach, then sipped some of the lemonade. His thirst quenched, he surreptitiously emptied the four bottles into the grass and filled them with petrol from the can. He replaced the stoppers and put the bottles back into the hold-all, wrapping them in the handkerchiefs which were later to serve as fuses.
That done, his modest arsenal assembled, he lay down and tried to blank out his mind—a task which proved exceptionally difficult.
The blue lens of the sky looked exactly as it had always done, but now he was acutely aware of the fact that it was a window into space, a window through which other eyes could peer downwards. His brief communion with the alien hunter had let him know it was close to the Earth, but how close was close? And was there a possibility that, even as he lay there, those ethereal blue arches could become the scene of the first interstellar battle in human history? The hunter, the thing which thought of itself as the Thrice-born, seemed to have a total disregard for life forms other than its own, and it might therefore be surprised to find orbital defences screening its quarry. Redpath doubted if laser-armed killer satellites—if such things existed—would be effective against a starship, but if the vessel came within range of nuclear warheads events might take an unexpected turn, unless it was able to make itself invisible to radar, perhaps by absorbing all incident radiation.
Too many unknown factors to evaluate—and I don’t even read Aviation Week. And I’m thinking about-things I wasn’t going to think about…
Late in the afternon he saw a jetliner climbing high into the west, sowing a thin line of ice crystals across the sky, and he wondered how Leila was faring. It occurred to him, belatedly, that he should have arranged for her to telephone him somewhere and report on her progress. As it was, he would have to go ahead on schedule with his half of the operation and trust she had been given enough time to reach Gilpinston and…
I’m doing it again! Make out a list—ten film stars whose names began with the letter A. Bud Abbott. They don’t need to be stars—John Abbott. John Agar. Brian Aherne. Woody Alien…
Soon after six o’clock the air cooled noticeably and a bright-rimmed canopy of cloud advanced from the direction of the Pennines, heralding an overdue break in the weather. Redpath donned his sweater and jacket, and delayed quitting the park for a further hour. While preparing to leave he made the cheering discovery that he had enough money in hand to buy a cup of tea. He walked slowly in the direction of the town centre, with an unseasonal leaden darkness gathering on the horizon behind him, and bought tea in an otherwise deserted cafe. The brew was too strong and too sweet, and he nostalgically savoured everything that was wrong with it.
By the time he reached the Woodstock Road the first drops of rain were dappling the pavement, filling the air with the smell of dust. The children who used the streets in the district as a playground were rapidly moving indoors, possibly grateful for the weather change which was forcing a return to neglected pursuits which would be their mainstays through the winter. When Redpath left the main road and began cutting through sidestreets he saw warm glimmers of coloured light behind many of the windows and he knew that fires were being lit, television and radio sets switched on, kettles brought to the boil. The people were doing one of the things they did best, obeying racial memories, withdrawing into the cosy fug at the back of the cave. It was a good night for closing the curtains, wheeling the armchairs round to the fire and sitting with the rest of one’s family, perhaps chatting, perhaps singing…
There’s something wrong here. I should be afraid, but I’m not. Can it be that I’m actually looking forward to being one of the family again?
There was a slithering behind Redpath’s forehead.
If its control grows stronger the closer I get, if it’s an inverse square thing, how am I going to…?
He turned the corner into Raby Street and, laden with his hold-all in one hand and the television set in the other, trudged its length to number 131 like a son of the house returning from a harrowing day at work. Large drops of rain were pipping like airgun pellets into the accumulation of paper scraps in the front garden, scoring diagonal beaded lines on the dusty windows, encrusting the green moss caterpillars with liquid jewels. The curtains were drawn across the bay window of the front room, but Redpath knew the house was alive again. There was a coiling and uncoiling in his head. He walked up the short red-tiled path to the door, but as he was about to set his bag down the door was opened by Wilbur Tennent, who was sleek and splendid in a dove-grey checked suit. Betty York was visible beyond him, standing at the entrance to the living-room, still wearing her crimson T-shirt, low-waisted denims and sandals.
“Nice to see you, John boy.” Tennent ushered Redpath into the hall amid eddies of cologne and after-shave, and turned back to Betty. “I told you he was coming home again.”
She came forward, smiling with plum-coloured lips. “I see you’ve brought your things, love. Let me give you a hand with them.”
“I can manage,” Redpath said, tightening his grip on the hold-all. “I’ll just put this stuff up in my room, if you don’t mind.”
“You do that, then come down to the parlour—I’ll be making the supper soon.”
“Nice little television,” Tennent commented. “John and me can watch the races on that.”
“Leave him alone.” Betty pushed Tennent into the front room, opening a way for Redpath to reach the stairs. As he was passing the doorway he glanced into the room and saw that all its furniture had been put back in position. Miss Connie and Albert were in their accustomed places. They were gazing at the glowing rectangular element of the gas fire, and neither showed any awareness of his arrival.
“I’ll be down in a minute,” he told Betty. “Just these things to get rid of.”
“All right, love.” She went into the room and closed the door, leaving him alone in the hall.
Redpath carried his bag and the television set up to the shadowy top of the house, past all the watchful doorways, and entered the room to which Betty York had shown him on his first visit. Everything was exactly as he remembered it, right down to the brown-ruled pink oilcloth on the floor. He put the television down on a tallboy, set his bag on a chair, opened it and stared for a moment at its contents, frowning.
Four bottles of…petrol. Dangerous stuff that. Perhaps I should warn Betty, ask her to get rid of it. Don’t want to risk a fire. Especially not here, where I’m safe. Listerine Leila deserved everything I gave her, but the police won’t see it that way. When they find her body they’ll start hunting for me, but I’ll be all right here. I’m safe here…with my family.
An unexpected giddiness touched Redpath, causing him to shuffle slightly to retain his balance. He palmed his eyes, pressing inwards on them to assuage a pain that was not quite a pain, and for an instant he glimpsed a montage of conflicting images. There was Leila’s slim, tapering back—naked and disfigured with stab wounds; there was another image—comforting and disturbing at the same tune—of Leila holding a black booklet which looked like a passport; and overlying everything was a transparent checkerwork of coloured panels in which lights flashed briefly and died, creating intricate, urgent designs which danced across his vision with the speed of wind patterns skimming a field of grain. There was a sense of imminence, of terrible danger, but the feeling passed as quickly as it had come. He lowered his hands, looked around the room, nodded in satisfaction, and walked down the dark stairway to where the others were waiting for him.