Jane said quietly, “What was, then? Would they have attacked Douglas, if he hadn’t cried out?”
Douglas said, “Perhaps they wouldn’t have. I suppose I panicked a bit.”
“Leonard,” George said. “That’s the thing I don’t get. Ruth hasn’t been normal since—since the boy collapsed. But Leonard was sane enough. A bit too sane, if anything.” This aimless slamming away at disconnected points was not, Selby felt, advancing their understanding of the situation; the reverse, if anything. There had to be a logical explanation, but it would need working out, step by step.
He said, “Let’s tackle this bit by bit. We can make assumptions as we go along, and test them by the evidence. Two, to start with—that Ruth got in by pushing Andy through the little window and having him open up to her, and that Leonard is now in the same condition that she is in—whatever that may be.”
George objected. “We don’t know much about Leonard’s state of mind. None of us has seen him—Douglas was half asleep when all this happened.”
“True,” Selby said. “And yet Leonard, along with Ruth and the boy, ran like hell when the alarm was raised. Just as Ruth ran this afternoon.”
“Your communicable hysteria?” Jane murmured.
“Or Marie’s devils, or the disease unknown to science. Let’s take things back a little. Marie finds Ruth and Andy apparently attacking Steve yesterday afternoon. They grapple with her, but Mandy comes on the scene. So they flee. They manage to hide somewhere outside—perhaps by digging holes in the snow, as the boy did before—and in the night they come back to the house. They get in, quietly. They go quietly upstairs to Leonard’s bedroom. And then …”
Jane said, “Then it becomes ridiculous. I mean, all the rest can be explained as some kind of brainstorm in Ruth —the boy would follow her automatically.”
“Would he?” Selby asked. “I don’t think so. But let that go. Leonard is by himself because Steve has been left with George and Mandy. Perhaps he wakes up, realizing they are in the room with him. Even if he does, why should he raise an alarm, against his wife and son? Or perhaps he is sleeping more soundly than Douglas. Anyway, something happens in that room. The devils claim another victim. Or the sickness infects him. Or the hysteria communicates. However you describe it, there are three of them now, instead of two.”
Elizabeth asked, “Three what?”
Selby said restlessly, “Whatever it is, it can be passed on. And there is an urge to pass it on. The attack on Steve, the—the recruiting of Leonard, the threat to Douglas. Why Douglas? Probably because apart from Peter and Marie in the attics—and Peter is a light sleeper and the attic stairs creak like hell—Douglas was the only person in a room by himself. And therefore vulnerable.”
In a shaky voice, Jane said, “If he hadn’t called for help—what do you think would have happened?”
“I can’t even make a guess about the details. But pretty obviously, whether it’s infection, or possession, or multiple hysteria, the process itself is contagious. There has to be, at the least, a laying on of hands. They might have been able to do it while he was asleep. Or, if awake, a hand over his mouth, or round his throat, to keep him quiet while it was happening. We must presume that, but for the fact that he gave an alarm which woke the house, whatever happened to Leonard would have happened to Douglas in turn.”
“And then,” Elizabeth said, “there would have been four.”
Selby admired, as he had done many times before, the calm perceptiveness in her, underlying her apparent indifference and lack of interest. He said warmly, “Exactly! Three of them adult. I wonder where they would have turned after that? To the girls? But they would still have been outnumbered, in the event of an alarm being raised. Perhaps they would have waited for the morning, for people getting’ up. Peter, and Marie, and then Mandy. And then George, and they would have the top of the house to themselves. That wouldn’t have given the rest of us much chance.”
The door opened, and Marie came in with a tray, Mandy following her. Mandy said, “I’ve made some cocoa. And there are biscuits. Only cheese biscuits, I’m afraid. We’re down to our last packet of sweet biscuits, and I thought’ I’d keep those for the children … for Steve.”
George said, “Good show. Cocoa’s very nice, for them as likes it. But I think I need something a little stronger after listening to Selby trying his hand at blood curdling.”
There was contempt in his voice, as well as flippancy. “I’ll just nip next door and get a bottle.”
Marie set the tray down and hesitated. Mandy said, “Stay with us, if you’d rather.” She looked apologetically at the others. “You don’t mind, do you?”
They all accepted cups of cocoa. George, returning from the bar with a bottle in his hand, noticed this.
“Am I the only one drinking?” he asked. “Selby? Shot of Scotch in your cocoa? Douglas?” When they showed their refusal, he said, “Anyway, I want to take you two away for a few minutes. Something I want to discuss. We can go next door into the dining room. Peter, look after the ladies.”
His voice had the ring of military authority. He would have had a good war, Selby thought. A nonentity before, and a nonentity of a different kind after, but when the keynotes of the times were urgency and violence, George must have been pretty good. Although the tone was brusque, the words a command rather than an invitation, he saw no point in arguing or refusing. George held the door to the dining room open, and Selby went through, Douglas following. George produced a box of matches, and lit the lamp that stood on the table. Looking at the box, before returning it to his pocket, he said, “Something else we’re running low on. Well, we can always make do with spills. Shut the door, Douglas.”
They sat down. George had fetched a glass from the sideboard. He poured neat Scotch into it, drank it, and refilled the glass.
“If either of you wants to chase that cocoa, go and get yourself a glass.” He paused. “I’m surprised at you, Selby.”
Selby sat back in his chair. “Are you? In what way?”
“Spreading alarm and despondency among the ladies. You were scaring little Diana out of those frilly nylon panties she probably wears.”
It was spoken lightly enough, but the iron edge—contempt, resentment?—was even more evident than before.
Selby said, “What do you suggest I should have done? Told them there were now two dangerous lunatics wandering around outside instead of one, and they should just toddle back to bed, and forget about it? There had to be some kind of explanation once they knew both the Deepings had cleared off.”
George said, “You need only have said that Ruth had got into the house with the kid, that she had woken Leonard—he’d been following her round the house, perhaps trying to persuade her to go back to bed …”
“And all three of them converging on Douglas’s bed?”
“Well, why not? Douglas spoke to him, and he said not to worry. Then Douglas let out a yell, and that scared Ruth. She skidded off downstairs with the kid, and Leonard chased after her. Down to the basement and out through the door she’d left open.”
Douglas said, “It wasn’t quite …
George cut in. “Maybe not. But you would have kept your trap shut, wouldn’t you? What’s the point in frightening people unnecessarily?”
Selby said, “In the first place, you are underrating the ladies’ intelligence. It’s a habit with a lot of professionally male males—always unwise, and in some cases dangerous.”
George flushed slightly, but he remained controlled.
“In the second place?”
“For their own safety—for the safety of all of us— they’ve got to realize that the Deepings are now a menace. Do you deny that?”
There was a silence. George said, “At four o’clock in the morning, I’m not prepared to deny anything, or agree with it. This is the second night running they’ve been dragged out of bed by some uproar.” He glanced at Douglas. “No one’s fault, but they’re bound to feel a bit ragged
. The obvious thing to do is soothe them and get them back upstairs. Not frighten the hell out of them with talk about menaces, and what might have happened if Douglas hadn’t yelled for help.”
“Back upstairs?” Selby said. “Nicely tucked in, and asleep. And if the Deepings come back, in an hour’s time, say? Even if you bolt the door and close the window downstairs … what’s to stop them breaking a window to get in?”
“Nothing,” George said flatly. “You’re not too bad at underrating intelligence yourself. I don’t know whether the Deepings are dangerous to the rest of us or not. We didn’t know them until they came here, or anything about them. Maybe they carry on this way back in Dulwich. But obviously we don’t run risks. Another reason for getting you two out here is to decide the best way of handling things.” His glance flicked sharply at Selby. “I’m not sure what being professionally male means, but I still don’t see any need to involve the ladies. What is pretty plain is that we need to have somebody on guard at night. I don’t mind taking what’s left of this one. After that … there are four of us, with Peter. Roughly two hours a head.”
Douglas said, “Do you mean you think we’ll still be— well, on the hook—tomorrow night?”
“Maybe not,” George said. “Maybe tomorrow morning there will be a ring at the doorbell, and the Deepings will be there, nice and normal and asking for hot coffee. Or maybe a party will have got through from Nidenhaut.” Selby said, “I like your first alternative better, though I can see some snags in it.”
“Do you?” George asked. “What don’t you like about the second?”
“They have changed,” Selby said slowly, “in some respects. Body temperature, pulse rate. And the ability to withstand cold seems to be much greater. But they still have most physical limitations. They break into a house by ordinary human methods, flee as a human being would flee.”
George produced a pack of cigarettes, and offered it to Douglas, who took one. He held his lighter for both of them. While Douglas was drawing on his, he said, “Just what are you trying to say, Selby—that they aren’t human? What the hell do you mean by that?”
His voice was steady. So was his hand. All the same, Selby felt he had an explanation of the resentment George had been showing to him. It was not on account of scaring the women; that had only been the excuse. It was the voicing of his own deep terror that upset him. He was a man with very little fear of anything in the natural world, but with a dread of the supernatural. Realizing this, he felt more charitable. He said mildly, “I don’t mean anything. Let’s say it’s a sickness, and contagious. The fact is, they’re different in some respects, but only in some.” Douglas said, “Aren’t you taking some things for granted, Selby? You didn’t examine Ruth for temperature and pulse rate—only the boy. She seemed cold, I agree, but she had been outside looking for him. And you don’t know anything at all about Leonard, except that he’s gone off with them—with his wife and child.”
“And temperature and pulse rate in the boy could have been connected with his collapse and coma,” Selby said. “Fair enough. I’ve been abusing the rules of evidence, or something. It doesn’t alter my point about not being particularly keen on seeing a rescue party from Nidenhaut at the moment.”
“Why?” Douglas asked.
Selby got up and went to the sideboard. He got two glasses and brought them back to the table. He looked inquiringly at Douglas, and poured drinks for both of them. Then he said, “Because as long as we are cut off from the rest of the world, so are they. If that road gets opened, then they can carry the sickness to Nidenhaut. And from Nidenhaut…”
Douglas said, “You think there could be an epidemic? Isn’t that …?”
George broke in. “You’re pretty good at making the flesh creep, Selby.” His voice was heavily sarcastic. “I thought you medical men were all strong and silent. And trained in controlling the imagination, rather than letting it run riot.”
Selby said amiably, “You’re thinking of the medical men with patients who wake up in the night with a bellyache and at once diagnose cancer. My line is helping to make day dreams come true, not stalling off the nightmares of the death wish. No point in my being strong and silent.”
George said, “Ah, hell!” He took the bottle and poured more into his glass. “This is not getting us anywhere. I suggest you two, and the ladies, clear off to bed. We can talk about it in the morning.”
Selby thought of George, alone down here with the whisky bottle, and the flickering lamplight, and the creaking and groaning of wood in an old house. He said, “You have more to do during the day. I’ll stay up.”
“No!” It was a little too emphatic. “This is my show, Selby.”
Their eyes locked. A silence was broken when Douglas said mildly, “I don’t mind staying up.” He paused. “We could toss a coin for it. Or play dice.”
George laughed suddenly. “I never say no to a round of dice. I’ll go and get the dice and the pot.”
While he was away, Douglas sipped his drink and then went to the sideboard to dilute it. He said, “You really think there is a danger, Selby? To others, as well as to those of us here?”
Selby said, “I don’t know. I’m against underrating things, though. Dangers, as well as intelligence.”
“Do you think it is a sickness of some kind?”
Selby shook his head. “I don’t know.”
George returned, rattling the dice in their leather pot. He looked more cheerful; in fact was grinning.
“The ladies think we’re round the bend now. Except Diana. She wanted to come in. Three lives?”
“One,” Selby said. “Otherwise we’ll be up all night, all of us. Aces up and kings towards.”
They each flicked the dice in front of them. Selby and Douglas both turned up knaves, George a king. He took the pot, gathered all the dice, shook them, slammed the pot down and, cupping it between his hands, examined his throw. Then he slid the pot across the table to Selby. “Three jacks.”
He was smiling, his eyes watchful. Selby nodded, and took the pot. There were two knaves underneath it, with queen, ten, nine. Unhesitatingly, he brought out the ten and nine, and threw them open.
A knave and a queen came up. Selby said, “Four and a queen.”
Douglas took the pot, looked under it, hesitated, and displayed the dice. Leaving the three knaves on the table, he threw the queens under the pot.
George looked at him. “Well?”
Douglas looked under the pot. “Four jacks and a king.” George took the top off. “Bad luck.” There were a queen and nine there. George scooped up the dice and put them in the pot again. Shaking it, he said, “You and me, Selby.” He looked, and pushed the pot across the table.
“Low straight.”
His eyes were fixed on Selby. Selby tapped the leather base of the inverted pot with his fingers. It had been a very quick glance, but that meant nothing; even with dice faded as these were, George had the eyes and the alertness to pick out a straight without hesitation. But there were other considerations. The previous call, of three jacks, had been pre-emptive, and false, but he had been able to pass that on to Douglas. With only two of them left in, things were a good deal more critical. And if a low straight were there, only one course would be possible to him: rolling the nine under the pot in the hope of an ace, and called a high straight. Odds of five to one against. And, of course, there might not be a straight there at all.
He took the top off. Ace, king, queen, ten, nine. A broken straight.
“Too bad,” he said.
George nodded. “It was a chance. I’ll leave you the bottle. Go and get another from the bar, if you kill that one. I’ve left the key in.”
The bottle was three-quarters full. “If I kill that,” Selby said, “I won’t be able to walk as far as the bar.”
When the others had gone to bed, Selby poured himself more whisky, and idly rolled the dice along the table. Three aces. A good first throw. He thought about the game they had just played,
and about George. George did occasionally make pre-emptive false calls, especially in the end game, but he had never known him to call a straight before. There was only one explanation that fitted: it had been done deliberately, knowing that Selby, unless he were playing with a lunatic recklessness, must whip it. It had been called to lose. And there was only one reason for that. Fear. He had desperately not wanted to be left down here, alone, but pride had made him claim the post. And the dice had provided a means of getting out of it without losing face.
Which was fair enough. Weaknesses in others were things one recognized, noted, but did not linger over. No harm was done as long as the recognition itself went unrecognized. He was pleased with the fact that he had not showed anything to George, that he had sent him off to bed with honor satisfied.
A distant creak of wood reminded him why he was there. He had checked the basement, and made sure that the door was bolted, all the windows firmly closed. In this quietness, the sound of a window being broken would be easily heard. At the same time, it occurred to him, he was not in the best vantage point. He really needed to keep an eye on the stairs. He could, he supposed, actually sit on the stairs, but the bar, with the hall door open, would be good enough from that point of view, and far more comfortable. He picked up his glass and, after a moment’s thought, the bottle, and headed for the bar.
Through the double-glazed window, he looked across the hillside. The moon was clouded. There was barely enough light to make out the line of the slope, no possibility of distinguishing figures unless they came very close. But would they do that? Faces outside the window, pleading to be let in? Or possibly grimacing and horrible. Something out of a horror movie. Selby sipped his drink, and smiled. It was ridiculous. The Deepings, a middle-class suburban couple with their middle-class suburban child … one could not relate horror to them.
And yet, they were out there in the snow somewhere. There was an external thermometer fixed to the side of the window here; he carried the lamp across, and peered at it through the glass. He could not be sure, but it looked like minus seven or eight. A suburban couple, and their child … And for the child, the second night in the open. There was horror enough in that, whether one thought of a normal small boy, suffering from the biting cold, or of a changeling, weirdly impervious to it. An absurd, senseless horror.