snake. The helicopter thrashed its way past Tower Bridge, dropping gently to explore the bulk of ships riding at anchor, derricks like robots at rigid attention in the metallic blue of lamplight. At last Craig spotted the Philippa, and pointed her out to Loomis. The helicopter drifted onwards, landing at last in a waste of sawn timber near Candlish's boatyard. Craig went to look for Candlish, leaving Loomis to cope with an outraged nightwatchman.
Candlish had everything prepared, and collected Loomis and Grierson in his elderly Daimler, leaving behind a bemused old man with a whistle in one hand and a truncheon in the other, trying to touch his cap. They drove to the river and transferred from the Daimler to a luxurious launch, and after a while Candlish left them to go aboard a barge. It was the leading one of three immense steel boxes taken in tow by an old and ailing tug. Grierson took the launch's controls, and followed the procession. As they went, Loomis outlined his plan for getting into the embassy, and Craig saw that there was a chance after all, as the dawn came up, pale and tender, and the river was suddenly, momentarily beautiful.
The Philippa had steam up when they reached her. her sleek white lines an aloof contrast to the lumpy drab-ness of the tug and barges, four peasants approaching a queen. Suddenly, the barge's towrope snapped as she swung in a wide arc past the yacht, and Craig watched the work of three master craftsmen. Candlish struggled with his tiller, but somehow, despite all his efforts, drifted straight under the Philippa's bows and crashed into the wooden dockside. Almost at once another barge scraped alongside the yacht, and slammed into her stern; the third slumped wearily on her rudder and propeller. Then all three barges began to sink.
Loomis snorted happily.
"What's in the barges?" he asked.
"Scrap iron and concrete," Craig said. "Naxos will be here for weeks."
"Well have a bite of breakfast, then well go and talk to him," Loomis said. "After that we'll see about organizing a riot."
When they did see him he was a wreck, dead beat for sleep, near crazy with the need for a drink, yet willing himself to stay sober in case anything should happen and Fhp should need him. He looked at them, half stubborn, half eager, and Loomis said at once: "We know it's Schiebel who's got her. Whatever he said about not seeing us it's too late now, and you can forget about trying to leave. I don't care what threats Schiebel made, you're not going, Naxos." "I won't sign," said Naxos.
"Not yet," said Loomis. "Wait until we get her back."
"He'll give her heroin," Naxos said. "You know what that means? If she goes back on it now she's hooked for life." He looked at Loomis, and there was defeat in his eyes.
"Please," he said. He had no hope at all.
"What on earth made you do it?" Loomis asked.
"He rang me on the radiotelephone. Told me what he'd done to Swyven, and his parents. Then he swore Philippa would get the same tomorrow. He sounded so certain—he was even enjoying it. That's why I believed him. That's why—"
"You decided to get her out tonight," said Grierson.
Naxos nodded heavily.
"You poor bloody fool," said Loomis. "Just stay here like a good lad and we'll get her back for you. I mean it. But don't waste our time trying to run away. We've got enough to do without fetching you back. And you're all in quarantine anyway. Nobody's allowed ashore." His head jerked at the door. "Come on," he said.
BOO
Mostly she dreamed of horses, great rearing, piebald beasts, with flaring red nostrils, leaping through tall golden trees. They went round her in a circle, and as long as she stayed still she was all right, but if she moved the horses would turn on her, and it might be a horse's head she would see on top of the high-arched neck, or it might be a man's. She tried very hard not to move, but the need for the drug made her restless.
Schiebel had been to see her once, had offered her the drug, and she had refused. Christ, it had been like tearing your heart out to see the stuff, white and clinically pure in his hand, and then say "No." And it was stupid too. Because he'd be back, and next time she couldn't say no—she loved Harry, he was all she had, but she couldn't refuse heroin twice. And the second time, Schiebel had warned her, there would be conditions before she got the drug. There always were. But this time it would be Harry who would be humiliated, degraded, as well as she herself. She wanted to die, but hadn't the strength to kill herself, and anyway, he would be there to stop her.
Schiebel said: "Mrs. Naxos," and she opened her eyes at once. He was bending over her and she was wide awake, but the horses were still there, rearing among the golden trees. She opened her mouth to scream and Schiebel struck her. The blow gave no pain, no meaning, but her head whirled, and when it cleared the horses became a picture of a carousel on the wall. "I've brought your medicine," Schiebel said. "Would you like it now?"
And there was the white, essential packet in his hands, and she tried to say "go away," but the words would not come. Instead, her head nodded feebly.
"I want an answer," said Schiebel.
"Yes," said Flip. 'Tlease. Yes."
"I see," Schiebel said. "Good. First you must sign a receipt."
"Don't torture me," she whispered.
Schiebel put the packet down, took a notebook and pen from his pocket.
"You are torturing yourself," he said. "All your sickness is in your mind, Mrs. Naxos. Master it and I can never hurt you again—in that way. Take these." He put pen and paper in her hands. "Now write."
"I can't," she said. "My hand is shaking too much."
"Master it," said Schiebel. "Control it. It is your hand. Make it obey you."
But her hand would not obey.
"Give me the stuff first. It'll help me."
"Afterward," said Schiebel. "You always get your medicine afterward. Don't you know that yet?"
And at last her hand began to obey, and she wrote what he dictated.
Harry, my darling,
I am with Schiebel, and everything is fine. Don't worry about me. Nothing will happen so long as you don't sign the agreement. If you do, you will destroy me.
I love you Harry. Please help me.
She wrote it all. Her handwriting was a mess, but she wrote it. Only she couldn't sign it. Whenever the pen touched the paper to write Fhp, her hand shook uncontrollably, and at last she could understand why. The knowledge was terrible to her, but she accepted it, crumpled the paper, threw it away.
Schiebel shrugged.
"Very well," he said. "Ill give you the medicine myself in a little while. You'll soon need more, once you've had the first dose."
Then he began to hurt her.
» Chapter 23 *
Further extract from "O Level Edward" 's autobiographical fragment.
Mr. Candlish sends word he wants to see us and we go—we always act respectful to Mr. Candlish—and anyway, all I miss is four hours' hard labor in the supermarket where I am gainfully employed at the time, unloading the bargains so the nits can get threepence off. And when I get there, Harry is present, and Jigger and Lonesome, and Mr. Candlish drinking rum out of a tin mug and looking pleased.
"I got two gentlemen coming to see you lot," he says. "They got a job for you and it pays good money—so no hp from you."
We agree, and if we had forelocks we would tug them, because this old bastard scares the hell out of us, and then the gentlemen come in and there will be no hp from me, because one of the gentlemen sorted out three wogs with his hands and feet the night before, and the other one held a gun on us while he did it, and almost fell asleep. The hard one says: "Those Arabs that attacked you last night—they had friends. Those friends have