Friends Come in Boxes, page 16
“Where are they now?” asked Charles as the three men left by the back door. The gunfire had ceased momentarily and the quietness seemed false and tense.
“Behind the men’s room.”
“All of them?”
“Unless there are more in the coach. Christ, I hadn’t thought of that.” The door of the end coach hung open, twenty yards away. “If only we had a grenade.” Bill poked his head out of the door, but drew no fire. Opposite the waiting-room, the caps of the engine crew could be seen as they crouched low in the cab.
“What the hell are they trying to achieve?” asked someone wonderingly.
Charles said: “They weren’t told there would be so many of us, and they weren’t told we were armed. Either someone blundered, or … figure it out for yourself.” The quietness was overpowering, seeming almost to arrest constructive thought as though time itself had slowed.
A single shot rang out, followed by a shout of pain. In the waiting-room this caused, strangely, a relaxing of tension.
Charles peered out of the side window. “We’ve got them pinned down,” he observed. “Joe’s up the water tower… I think they’ve gone into the gents’ toilet.”
“That won’t help them much,” one of the colonists said with some relish. “There’s no roof on the place. He’ll be able to pick them off as soon as they stand up from the john.” He chuckled. “I imagine they’ve organized a rota.”
The sudden lightening of the atmosphere grated on Bill. “I’m going out to see how Margery is,” he said suddenly, and left.
Nobody had appeared in the doorway of the end coach; Charles made a swift decision. He followed Bill out of the door and walked down the deserted platform, waving to Joe on the water tower to hold his fire. He stopped at the wall of the toilet; a flimsy wooden structure warped and pitted with time. “You in there!” he shouted. “We’ve got you surrounded. Throw your guns over the top and come out with your hands up.”
There was a muttered conversation from within, a pause, then a clatter as rifles hit the platform. “We’re coming!” called a voice.
Charles stepped around to the entrance, gun at the ready. The five police emerged slowly, one by one, glancing nervously around. One clasped his upper arm; blood seeped around his fingers.
“Nobody dead?” remarked Charles coldly. “I don’t know whether I’m pleased about that or not.”
They eyed him furtively, shuffling their feet.
Bill strode up, white-faced. “Just one person’s dead,” he said thickly. “Margery… You rotten bastards. You lousy, stinking, rotten bastards.” The revolver trembled in his hand.
“Steady, Bill.”
“Which of you was it? Not that it matters…” Bill’s finger was white on the trigger. “We’ll shoot the lot of you… Or maybe string you up, that may be more painful, we’re not expert at this sort of thing…”
The rest of the colonists arrived, together with the locomotive crew. The two enginemen looked scared. “I swear we knew nothing about this, Man Hunte,” said the driver earnestly. “We had no idea these men were on the train.”
Picking up the name, one of the police whined: “Man Hunte, we were only doing our job. We didn’t expect this sort of trouble… We just do what we’re told, Man Hunte…”
Stepping forward, Bill slashed at the policeman’s face with his revolver. A deep gash opened down one cheek. Blood spurted. “You swine,” Bill grated. “When you speak to me, call me Mister!”
With some difficulty Charles restored order; not the least of his problems was the fact that Bill should not lose face in front of the police. After some heated discussion the vet cooled down and Charles was able to address the prisoners.
“I understand you were not told there would be opposition,” he began. “I don’t know what you did expect, but you surely must have wondered why you were carrying guns.”
“They said to bring back anyone we found at Bovey station,” muttered one of the police.
“I see. So you really didn’t expect to have to shoot it out with us. If I’m to believe what you say, you thought you’d find us unarmed and prepared to come quietly. OK, for the time being I’ll accept that. Now, I’ll tell you what your bosses in Axminster expected.
“They knew we had guns, for a start. They’ve always known we were armed. For this reason they’ve never sent in a force before; we know the country and their losses would be heavy. Yet they sent you in today, just five of you on the train, with guns. Obviously they’ve only recently found out that the train is used for carrying supplies; but there was still no need to send in police. The supplies could have been cut off at the Newton Abbot end.”
The police stood silently watching him; a certain comprehension was beginning to dawn.
“You were lambs to the slaughter. Your bosses sent you in to get butchered, to make martyrs of you, so that there would be a public outcry. So that then, at last, they would feel justified in calling in help from other towns and sending in a large force to wipe us out.” He regarded them, smiling grimly. “How does it feel?” he asked. “How does it feel to be sacrificed in the cause of Justice?”
“What are you going to do?” asked one of the men.
“I’m going to disappoint them. I’m going to send you back alive; in due course, that is… There might be some way we can turn this to advantage.” He turned to his own men. “Tom, put them in the john again; make sure they don’t get out. You others … take Margery and put her in the waiting-room. Bill, you and I must have a talk.”
Joanna held Valerie’s hand as the pain became bad.
“I know what you’re thinking,” said Valerie faintly, wincing. “You’re thinking that I must wish I was back in Axminster, where I might be able to bribe someone to treat me. Well … it’s not so. I’ve never wanted to go back. It’s pointless now, anyway; I’m over forty. But I wouldn’t have gone back five years ago, either. I like it here. I think we’re all doing the right thing.”
“We’re doing what we’ve got to do,” said Joanna gently. “We’ve got no choice.”
“Don’t try to fool me. Did you and Bill have no choice? What was your crime … or his crime? You’ve always kept pretty quiet about that…” She broke off as the sharp agony came.
Joanna regarded her anxiously. She had lost pounds, this last few weeks alone; she hadn’t got much longer to go… And it would be a pity, one hell of a pity, because Valerie in the past had been one of the leading members of the community, always to the fore in organizing the women’s activities, teaching the children, looking after the domestic side of things generally. She would be hard to replace…
“What’s that?” asked Valerie suddenly. “Listen!”
Joanna heard it too. “It sounds like gunfire,” she said, alarmed. She stood. “Oh, my God. They’re fighting at the station. There must have been a posse on the train. We’ve been frightened this might happen sooner or later.” She looked at Valerie uncertainly.
“Go on. You go over there; I’ll be all right.” The woman made an effort to smile. “We can’t let them capture the morphia, can we? There’s a gun in this drawer, beside the bed. Take it, they might need help…”
Joanna hurried along the street; the children had stopped playing and were listening. A few of them had started to drift curiously down the hill in the direction of the station.
“Get back, you kids,” she ordered them. “Go and find your fathers and tell them there’s trouble at the station. Tell them to bring guns.” She thought with a sick feeling in her stomach, that it would be too late anyway. The rest of the male population would be scattered over the surrounding countryside, hunting, tending the crops, looking after the herds. It would take hours to round them up. And the police would certainly have sent a strong force…
The stone cottages petered out and she was in the old main square, a large area of grass and small saplings where a few goats grazed in the shadow of derelict hotels. Southward the remains of the Newton road were detectable; west, more abandoned houses flanked the road to Haytor. She took the west road, her hurrying feet sloughing through the long grass, scattering rye seeds. Twin tracks of crushed vegetation marked the passage of the handcart.
The firing had ceased; the deserted portion of the town was deadly quiet. She arrived at the level-crossing gates and turned, making her way along the track to the station, breaking into a run, her heart pounding, the gun clumsy in her hand. She could see figures on the platform, police uniforms; she could see Bill, thank God, still alive, but who were the prisoners? The colonists, or the police? Beads of sweat trailed down her face and her hair was swinging lank across her eyes; she brushed it away as she ran.
As she reached the ramp to the platform she saw Bill walk away with Charles; they were talking together. Joe held the police at gunpoint, the other colonists were grouped around. In her relief, she began to cry. Bill saw her coming, and turned to meet her.
“My God, Joanna,” he remarked in surprise. “You look a hell of a mess.”
He didn’t look too good himself, she thought. His face was deathly pale and, as he caught her in his arms, she could feel him trembling.
“I thought …” she sobbed. “I heard shooting, and I thought you’d all be …” She broke off, burying her face in his shoulder.
“It’s all right now,” he said awkwardly. “They planned a little surprise for us on the train, but it didn’t come off. We’ve captured them. Now, we’ve got to decide what to do with them…”
She raised her head and looked at him suddenly; there was an edge to his voice which she had never heard before. “What …?” Over his shoulder, she saw men carrying a limp form into the waiting-room. “Who’s that?” she asked, a new fear clutching at her chest.
“Margery. The bastards shot her.”
“Is she—?”
“Yes. They’ve got something to answer for.”
“Oh, my God…”
“Leave it to us, darling. Look, Charles and I have one or two things to discuss; everybody’s busy right now. Can you go and see to the passengers? They’re wondering what the hell is happening.”
“Of course…” She could hear the shouts from the coach, loud queries, annoyed, alarmed. “First, though, I must make sure the supplies are all right.” She looked at Charles, who was standing quietly with an assumed air of calm, waiting for her to go. “We’re out of morphia, Charles. Valerie’s in a lot of pain.”
He nodded, his expression tightly controlled.
She left them and made her way back down the platform to the boxcar; opening the heavy door, she climbed inside. She peered about in the gloom, kicked aside heaps of old straw and sacking, searched hopelessly.
There was nothing there. No case of medical supplies, no generator spares, no parcels of food, no liquor, no cleaning materials. Nothing except the depressing evidence of police occupancy; a few empty flasks, beer cans, and plastic boxes which had once held sandwiches. She stepped down to the platform again, walked a few yards, and climbed into the coach thinking maybe she might find something there.
Again she was unsuccessful; she walked along the centre aisle, bending and looking under the seats, running her gaze along the parcel racks. All the time, the Friendship Boxes yelled at her.
“I know you’re there! I can hear you breathing. What the hell’s going on? For God’s sake, tell us what’s going on!” Then someone voiced the deepest fear, the fear known too well to anyone who has undergone a Friendship period. “Is there a fire?”
Others took up the cry. “A fire!” “The train’s on fire! Get us out of here, for pity’s sake!” “I’m a police officer, and I demand to know—”
It was the box on her left. Joanna bent over it and spoke. “You’re a policeman?”
“I certainly am, Woman. What’s happening on this train? You’re not Woman Steen, are you? Where’s Woman Steen? She’s supposed to be in charge.”
“Aren’t you interested in finding out what the shooting was about?” asked Joanna coldly. “Or do you already know?”
“Shooting? Yes, I did hear shooting.” The voice became less belligerent.
“Your friends shot Margery Steen,” Joanna informed the box, her tone low and furious. There was a sudden silence from the other Friends as they listened. “All of you”—she raised her voice—”hear this. Your guide has been shot by the police. They were hiding on the train. They intended to kill the Bovey colonists. This box here is a policeman, planted among you. No doubt there are more of them back at the Centre. You might think you’re safe there, stacked in your boxes away from the police and the indicator boards and the fear of unwittingly committing some petty crime, but you’re not, you know. They’re watching you all the time, police planted among you, listening for an incautious word. I dare say you’ve all said a few things you wouldn’t say during a physical life, because you feel safe in your box. I want to tell you all, right now, that you’re never safe. Friendship periods get longer. There aren’t enough bodies to go around. Boxes disappear, never come up for Transfer.
“During the Friendship period, they weed you out.”
There was a bedlam of raised voices; beside her the policeman was screaming furious denials…
Joanna left the coach feeling mentally and physically drained, and not a little ashamed; in her rage and despair she had hit out blindly, her nearest target being the helpless boxes. The platform was deserted. She saw people moving about in the waiting-room and walked across.
Charles was standing near the door apparently deep in thought, regarding a slip of bright metal.
She thought it best to be done quickly. “Charles,” she said gently. “There were no supplies on the train.”
He looked at her dully. “I didn’t think there would be,” he said. “Didn’t you realize the whole thing was a trick? They expected us to overpower the police. They wanted to cause a public outcry. They were bound to make sure the supplies were offloaded before the train left Newton.”
“I see…” she said slowly. “What are you going to do now? Send the police back in the train?”
“I don’t know. How was Valerie when you left?”
She hesitated. “Not too good,” she said at last. Her gaze returned to the sliver of metal. “That’s a Code Card,” she observed.
“It’s Margery Steen’s… I’d almost forgotten what they look like.”
Bill had been examining Margery’s body; he joined them in the doorway. His expression was grim. “Just what are you thinking of, Charles?” he asked.
Charles took a long time to answer; when finally he did, his tone was almost pleading. “You can get about with a Code Card,” he said, his eyes flickering from Bill’s face to Joanna’s. “We’ve got this, and we’ve got five more belonging to the police … all current and valid.”
“Yes,” said Bill flatly.
Joanna looked from one man to the other, sensing an unspoken conflict.
“If Valerie was fit enough to travel,” continued Charles, “she could have gone to the Centre and used this Card to get a Premature Transfer. You see?” He indicated the Card. “Margery was Preferred. She worked in the Placement Office.”
“A bit callous, don’t you think, Charles, with Margery lying there murdered?” Bill’s voice was gently reproving.
“Valerie’s my wife. She’s dying.”
“The equipment at the Cottage Hospital here is in good shape,” remarked Joanna. “You said so yourself, Bill.”
“What are you talking about?” Her husband looked at her; his expression was defensive, hunted. Charles watched them both, desperation in his eyes.
“Valerie can’t travel. We need a Transfer Surgeon and a host body,” she said.
“For God’s sake, Joanna!” Bill exploded. “Don’t talk so damned stupid.” He turned to Charles. “What’s the point in all this?” he asked. “Whatever happened, you’d lose Valerie as you know her. Supposing, just supposing we got her Transferred somehow. Your wife would have the body of a six-month baby. She would not be an adult until eighteen years from now. You’ll be sixty physical by then. What sort of a setup is that? It’s perverted. The whole conception of Transference is perverted.”
“Bill,” said Joanna gently. “I know your principles and I think you’re mostly right. But I think we might make an exception in this case. Charles has done a lot for the community; more than anyone else, I’d say. And Valerie; well, we all know what she’s done. I don’t think we can deny her this chance. And it is only a chance, a faint one.”
Bill looked at her, astonished. “But Joanna, you know that we could have—”
“Shut up, Bill,” said Joanna quietly. “This isn’t the time.”
The train rolled across the level stretch on the approaches to Newton Abbot and the wilderness of birch saplings and undergrowth gave way to the orderly landscape of the State farms.
“This is madness,” muttered Bill for the umpteenth time, running his finger around the inside of the stiff police collar, perspiring freely. “What sort of a chance have we got?”
“There’s no harm in taking a look around,” said Joanna. “We’ll go along to the Axminster Transfer Centre and I’ll size up the situation, using Margery’s Card. We’re not committing ourselves.”
“You’re already committed,” said a voice beside them.
“It’s my friend the policeman,” remarked Joanna lightly. “Still laying down the law. Still listening to conversations that don’t concern him.”
There were angry mutterings from the other Friendship Boxes. “Damned spy!” someone shouted.
“Nice to know you’re among Friends, isn’t it?” said Joanna.
“All these boxes here are in big trouble,” snarled the voice. “My report will deal with the antagonism I’ve met on this train. We don’t like antagonism towards the police, it’s anti-social. I know quite a few people who won’t be getting Transfers anymore.”
Bill looked at Joanna for an instant; she nodded slightly.
