‘Let’s hope that won’t be necessary. Come on.’
He opened the door. The corridor appeared empty. After only a moment’s hesitation, he eased himself through the door. Clift followed.
Larry had bought himself a big white cowboy hat in Enterprise, after taking a few drinks in a bar. He drove in his hired car back to the Old John site.
The change in three days, since the news of the strange grave had been given to the world, was dramatic. There was no way in which the Bodenland security force could keep everyone away. As Bodenland had predicted, the world had descended on this quiet south-west corner of Utah. The media were there in force, not only from all over the States but from Europe, Japan, the Soviet Union, and elsewhere. Hustlers, hucksters, and plain sightseers rubbed shoulders. Big mobile diners had rolled in from St George and Cedar City, bars had been set up. It was like a gold rush. Chunks of plain rock were selling fast.
Temporary TV studios had been established, comfort stations, mobile chapels, all kinds of refreshment stalls and marquees. The actual digs were barricaded off and protected by state police.
Larry made his way through the thick traffic, yelling cheerfully to other drivers out of the window as he went. Once he had parked, he fought his way through to the trailer he had hired.
There Kylie was awaiting him, her fair hair capturing the sun.
She threw her arms round him. ‘I’ve been here all day. Where’ve you been?’
‘I was drowning my sorrows in Enterprise.’
‘You got a girl there?’
‘I ain’t that enterprising. Listen, Kylie, forgive me, sweet. I shouldn’t have walked out on you as I did, and I’ve felt bad ever since.’
She was happy to hear him say it.
‘We were both too hasty.’ She stuck her tongue in his mouth.
‘Come on the bed,’ he said. ‘I’ll show you how I feel about you. I’ve had three days here, kicking my heels and feeling bad.’
‘Bed later. I got in this morning with Mina. I flew to Dallas and she flew me here in her plane.’
‘That old Bandierante? It’ll fall to pieces in the air one day.’
‘Come and see her. She’s worried crazy about Joe. You’ll have to tell her – and me – exactly where he is and what happened.’
He made a face, but was in no mood to argue.
The Bandierante was the plane from which Mina Legrand liked to sky-dive. She had left it on an improvised landing field on the edge of the desert, five miles away. She had paid over the odds for a rusty old Chevvy in order to be mobile. They caught up with her in a mess of traffic on what had become Old John’s main street. Mina had climbed out of the car to argue more effectively with a cop trying to control the flow of automobiles, one of which had, perhaps inevitably, broken down.
She turned an angry face to her son.
‘And where have you been? What have you done with your father?’
He explained how Joe and Clift had disappeared in the inertial beam. There was every reason to believe that by that means they had managed to get aboard the train.
‘And where are they now?’ she snapped.
‘Look, lady,’ said the cop, ‘now it’s you holding up the traffic flow.’
‘Oh, shut up!’ she snapped.
‘I been here three days, Mom. Three days and three nights I waited in the desert by our flags,’ Larry said. ‘No sign of anything.’
‘You’re as big an idiot as your father.’
‘Gee, thanks, Mom. I’m not responsible. You’re responsible – you made the news announcement.’
‘When have you ever been responsible! What you think, Kylie?’
Ever tactful, Kylie advised her mother-in-law to take things easy, shower, and maybe do a little sky-diving, since she had her plane. Joe could surely look after himself.
‘Well, I’m just worried crazy,’ Mina said. ‘You’ll find me in the Moonlite Motel in Enterprise if you want me. I can’t face going back to Dallas.’
‘Dallas, anywhere, lady,’ said the cop. ‘Just get moving, will you, please?’
Mina jumped into the driving seat and accelerated sharply, bashing another automobile as she left.
The cop glared at Larry as if he was responsible.
‘Thanks for your help, officer,’ Larry said.
The institution stood in parkland, remote from the town. It was four storeys tall, all its windows were barred, and many whitewashed in addition. With its acres of slate roof, it presented a flinty and unyielding appearance.
If its front facade had a Piranesi-like grandeur, the rear of the building was meagre, cluttered with laundries, boiler-rooms, stores for coal and clinker, and a concrete exercise yard, like a prison. In contrast was the ruin of an old abbey standing some way behind the asylum. Only the ivy-clad tower, the greater part of a chapel, with apse and nave open to the winds, remained. The once grand structure had been destroyed by cannon-fire at the time of Cromwell. Nowadays, its crypt was occasionally used by the institution as a mortuary, particularly when – as not infrequently happened – an epidemic swept through the wards and cells.
At this time of year, in late summer, the ivy on the ruin was in flower, to be visited by bees, wasps and flies in great profusion. Inside the institution, where the prevailing colour was not green but white and grey, there was but one visitor, a ginger man stylishly dressed, with hat and cane.
This visitor followed Doctor Kindness down a long corridor, the chilly atmosphere and echoing flagstones of which had been expressly designed to emphasize the unyielding nature of the visible world. Dr Kindness smoked, and his visitor followed the smoke trail humbly.
‘It’s good of you to pay us a second visit,’ said Dr Kindness, in a way that suggested he meant the opposite of what he said. ‘Have you a special medical interest in the subject of venereal disease?’
‘Er – faith, no, sir. It’s just that I happen to be in the theatrical profession and am at present engaged in writing a novel, for which I need a little first-hand information. On the unhappy subject of … venereal disease …’
‘You’ve come to the right place.’
‘I hope so indeed.’ He shivered.
The doctor wore his habitual blood-stained coat. His visitor wore hairy green tweeds with a cloak flung over them, and tugged nervously at his beard as they proceeded.
During their progress, a lanky woman in a torn nightshirt rushed out from a door on their right hand. Her grey staring eyes were almost as wide as her open mouth, and she uttered a faint stuttering bird cry as she made what appeared to be a bid for freedom.
Freedom was as strictly forbidden as alcohol or fornication in this institution. Two husky young attendants ran after her, seized hold of her by her arms and emaciated body, and dragged her backwards, still stuttering, into the ward from which she had escaped. The door slammed.
By way of comment, Dr Kindness waved his meerschaum in the general direction of the ceiling, then thrust it back into his mouth and gripped it firmly between his teeth, as if minded to give a bite or two elsewhere.
They came to the end of the corridor. Dr Kindness halted in a military way.
‘You’re sure you want to go through with this?’