Текст книги "The Complete Short Stories"
Автор книги: James Graham Ballard
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Текущая страница: 35 (всего у книги 113 страниц)
Bridgman retreated from the approaching beach-car. Only thirty yards away, its spotlight filled the basin. Louise Woodward was still searching the dunes. Travis held his ground as the wardens jumped down from the car and advanced towards him with their nets, his bloodied hands raised at his sides, the steel barb flashing like a dagger. At the head of the wardens, the only one unmasked was a trim, neat-featured man with an intent, serious face. Bridgman guessed that this was Major Webster, and that the wardens had known of the impending impact and hoped to capture them, and Louise in particular, before it occurred.
Bridgman stumbled back towards the dunes at the edge of the basin. As he neared the crest he trapped his foot in a semicircular plate of metal, sat down and freed his heel. Unmistakably it was part of a control panel, the circular instrument housings still intact.
Overhead the pall of glistening vapour had moved off to the north-east, and the reflected light was directly over the rusting gantries of the former launching site at Cape Canaveral. For a few fleeting seconds the gantries seemed to be enveloped in a sheen of silver, transfigured by the vaporized body of the dead astronaut, diffusing over them in a farewell gesture, his final return to the site from which he had set off to his death a century earlier. Then the gantries sank again into their craggy shadows, and the pall moved off like an immense wraith towards the sea, barely distinguishable from the star glow.
Down below Travis was sitting on the ground surrounded by the wardens. He scuttled about on his hands like a frantic crab, scooping handfuls of the virus-laden sand at them. Holding tight to their masks, the wardens manoeuvred around him, their nets and lassos at the ready. Another group moved slowly towards Bridgman.
Bridgman picked up a handful of the dark Martian sand beside the instrument panel, felt the soft glowing crystals warm his palm. In his mind he could still see the silver-sheathed gantries of the launching site across the bay, by a curious illusion almost identical with the Martian city he had designed years earlier. He watched the pall disappear over the sea, then looked around at the other remnants of Merril’s capsule scattered over the slopes. High in the western night, between Pegasus and Cygnus, shone the distant disc of the planet Mars, which for both himself and the dead astronaut had served for so long as a symbol of unattained ambition. The wind stirred softly through the sand, cooling this replica of the planet which lay passively around him, and at last he understood why he had come to the beach and been unable to leave it.
Twenty yards away Travis was being dragged off like a wild dog, his thrashing body pinioned in the centre of a web of lassos. Louise Woodward had run away among the dunes towards the sea, following the vanished gas cloud.
In a sudden access of refound confidence, Bridgman drove his fist into the dark sand, buried his forearm like a foundation pillar. A flange of hot metal from Merril’s capsule burned his wrist, bonding him to the spirit of the dead astronaut. Scattered around him on the Martian sand, in a sense Merril had reached Mars after all.
‘Damn it!’ he cried exultantly to himself as the wardens’ lassos stung his neck and shoulders. ‘We made it!’
1962
The Watch-Towers
The next day, for some reason, there was a sudden increase of activity in the watch-towers. This began during the latter half of the morning, and by noon, when Renthall left the hotel on his way to see Mrs Osmond, seemed to have reached its peak. People were standing at their windows and balconies along both sides of the street, whispering agitatedly to each other behind the curtains and pointing up into the sky.
Renthall usually tried to ignore the watch-towers, resenting even the smallest concession to the fact of their existence, but at the bottom of the street, where he was hidden in the shadow thrown by one of the houses, he stopped and craned his head up at the nearest tower.
A hundred feet away from him, it hung over the Public Library, its tip poised no more than twenty feet above the roof. The glass-enclosed cabin in the lowest tier appeared to be full of observers, opening and shutting the windows and shifting about what Renthall assumed were huge pieces of optical equipment. He looked around at the further towers, suspended from the sky at three hundred foot intervals in every direction, noticing an occasional flash of light as a window turned and caught the sun.
An elderly man wearing a shabby black suit and wing collar, who usually loitered outside the library, came across the street to Renthall and backed into the shadows beside him.
‘They’re up to something all right.’ He cupped his hands over his eyes and peered up anxiously at the watch-towers. ‘I’ve never seen them like this as long as I can remember.’
Renthall studied his face. However alarmed, he was obviously relieved by the signs of activity. ‘I shouldn’t worry unduly,’ Renthall told him. ‘It’s a change to see something going on at all.’
Before the other could reply he turned on his heel and strode away along the pavement. It took him ten minutes to reach the street in which Mrs Osmond lived, and he fixed his eyes firmly on the ground, ignoring the few passers-by. Although dominated by the watch-towers – four of them hung in a line exactly down its centre – the street was almost deserted. Half the houses were untenanted and falling into what would soon be an irreversible state of disrepair. Usually Renthall assessed each property carefully, trying to decide whether to leave his hotel and take one of them, but the movement in the watch-towers had caused him more anxiety than he was prepared to admit, and the terrace of houses passed unnoticed.
Mrs Osmond’s house stood halfway down the street, its gate swinging loosely on its rusty hinges. Renthall hesitated under the plane tree growing by the edge of the pavement, and then crossed the narrow garden and quickly let himself through the door.
Mrs Osmond invariably spent the afternoon sitting out on the veranda in the sun, gazing at the weeds in the back garden, but today she had retreated to a corner of the sitting room. She was sorting a suitcase full of old papers when Renthall came in.
Renthall made no attempt to embrace her and wandered over to the window. Mrs Osmond had half drawn the curtains and he pulled them back. There was a watch-tower ninety feet away, almost directly ahead, hanging over the parallel terrace of empty houses. The lines of towers receded diagonally from left to right towards the horizon, partly obscured by the bright haze.
‘Do you think you should have come today?’ Mrs Osmond asked, shifting her plump hips nervously in the chair.
‘Why not?’ Renthall said, scanning the towers, hands loosely in his pockets.
‘But if they’re going to keep a closer watch on us now they’ll notice you coming here.’
‘I shouldn’t believe all the rumours you hear,’ Renthall told her calmly.
‘What do you think it means then?’
‘I’ve absolutely no idea. Their movements may be as random and meaningless as our own.’ Renthall shrugged. ‘Perhaps they are going to keep a closer watch on us. What does it matter if all they do is stare?’
‘Then you mustn’t come here any more!’ Mrs Osmond protested.
‘Why? I hardly believe they can see through walls.’
‘They’re not that stupid,’ Mrs Osmond said irritably. ‘They’ll soon put two and two together, if they haven’t already.’
Renthall took his eyes off the tower and looked down at Mrs Osmond patiently. ‘My dear, this house isn’t tapped. For all they know we may be darning our prayer rugs or discussing the endocrine system of the tapeworm.’
‘Not you, Charles,’ Mrs Osmond said with a short laugh. ‘Not if they know you.’ Evidently pleased by this sally, she relaxed and took a cigarette out of the box on the table.
‘Perhaps they don’t know me,’ Renthall said dryly. ‘In fact, I’m quite sure they don’t. If they did I can’t believe I should still be here.’
He noticed himself stooping, a reliable sign that he was worrying, and went over to the sofa.
‘Is the school going to start tomorrow?’ Mrs Osmond asked when he had disposed his long, thin legs around the table.
‘It should do,’ Renthall said. ‘Hanson went down to the Town Hall this morning, but as usual they had little idea of what was going on.
He opened his jacket and pulled out of the inner pocket an old but neatly folded copy of a woman’s magazine.
‘Charles!’ Mrs Osmond exclaimed. ‘Where did you get this?’
She took it from Renthall and started leafing through the soiled pages.
‘One of my sources,’ Renthall said. From the sofa he could still see the watch-tower over the houses opposite. ‘Georgina Simons. She has a library of them.’
He rose, went over to the window and drew the curtains across.
‘Charles, don’t. I can’t see.’
‘Read it later,’ Renthall told her. He lay back on the sofa again. ‘Are you coming to the recital this afternoon?’
‘Hasn’t it been cancelled?’ Mrs Osmond asked, putting the magazine down reluctantly.
‘No, of course not.’
‘Charles, I don’t think I want to go.’ Mrs Osmond frowned. ‘What records is Hanson going to play?’
‘Some Tchaikovsky. And Grieg.’ He tried to make it sound interesting. ‘You must come. We can’t just sit about subsiding into this state of boredom and uselessness.’
‘I know,’ Mrs Osmqnd said fractiously. ‘But I don’t feel like it. Not today. All those records bore me. I’ve heard them so often.’
‘They bore me too. But at least it’s something to do.’ He put an arm around Mrs Osmond’s shoulders and began to play with the darker unbleached hair behind her ears, tapping the large nickel ear-rings she wore and listening to them tinkle.
When he put his hand on to her knee Mrs Osmond stood up and prowled aimlessly around the room, straightening her skirt.
‘Julia, what is the matter with you?’ Renthall asked irritably. ‘Have you got a headache?’
Mrs Osmond was by the window, gazing up at the watch-towers. ‘Do you think they’re going to come down?’
‘Of course not!’ Renthall snapped. ‘Where on earth did you get that idea?’
Suddenly he felt unbearably exasperated. The confined dimensions of the dusty sitting-room seemed to suffocate reason. He stood up and buttoned his jacket. ‘I’ll see you this afternoon at the Institute, Julia. The recital starts at three.’
Mrs Osmond nodded vaguely, unfastened the french windows and ambled forwards across the veranda into full view of the watch-towers, the glassy expression on her face like a supplicant nun’s.
As Renthall had expected, the school did not open the next day. When they tired of hanging around the hotel after breakfast he and Hanson went down to the Town Hall. The building was almost empty and the only official they were able to find was unhelpful.
‘We have no instructions at present,’ he told them, ‘but as soon as the term starts you will be notified. Though from what I hear the postponement is to be indefinite.’
‘Is that the committee’s decision?’ Renthall asked. ‘Or just another of the town clerk’s brilliant extemporizings?’
‘The school committee is no longer meeting,’ the official said. ‘I’m afraid the town clerk isn’t here today.’ Before Renthall could speak he added: ‘You will, of course, continue to draw your salaries. Perhaps you would care to call in at the treasurer’s department on your way out?’
Renthall and Hanson left and looked about for a caf. Finally they found one that was open and sat under the awning, staring vacantly at the watch-towers hanging over the roof-tops around them. Their activity had lessened considerably since the previous day. The nearest tower was only fifty feet away, immediately above a disused office building on the other side of the street. The windows in the observation tier remained shut, but every few minutes Renthall noticed a shadow moving behind the panes.
Eventually a waitress came out to them, and Renthall ordered coffee.
‘I think I shall have to give a few lessons,’ Hanson remarked. ‘All this leisure is becoming too much of a good thing.’
‘It’s an idea,’ Renthall agreed. ‘If you can find anyone interested. I’m sorry the recital yesterday was such a flop.’
Hanson shrugged. ‘I’ll see if I can get hold of some new records. By the way, I thought Julia looked very handsome yesterday.’
Renthall acknowledged the compliment with a slight bow of his head. ‘I’d like to take her out more often.’
‘Do you think that’s wise?’
‘Why on earth not?’
‘Well, just at present, you know.’ Hanson inclined a finger at the watch-towers.
‘I don’t see that it matters particularly,’ Renthall said. He disliked personal confidences and was about to change the subject when Hanson leaned forward across the table.
‘Perhaps not, but I gather there was some mention of you at the last Council meeting. One or two members were rather critical of your little mnage a deux.’ He smiled thinly at Renthall, who was frowning into his coffee. ‘Sheer spite, no doubt, but your behaviour is a little idiosyncratic.’
Controlling himself, Renthall pushed away the coffee cup. ‘Do you mind telling me what damned business it is of theirs?’
Hanson laughed. ‘None, really, except that they are the executive authority, and I suppose we should take our cue from them.’ Renthall snorted at this, and Hanson went on: ‘As a matter of interest, you may receive an official directive over the next few days.’
‘A what?’ Renthall exploded. He sat back, shaking his head incredulously. ‘Are you serious?’ When Hanson nodded he began to laugh harshly.
‘Those idiots! I don’t know why we put up with them. Sometimes their stupidity positively staggers me.’
‘Steady on,’ Hanson demurred. ‘I do see their point. Bearing in mind the big commotion in the watch-towers yesterday the Council probably feel we shouldn’t do anything that might antagonize them. You never know, they may even be acting on official instructions.’
Renthall glanced contemptuously at Hanson. ‘Do you really believe that nonsense about the Council being in touch with the watch-towers? It may give a few simpletons a sense of security, but for heaven’s sake don’t try it on me. My patience is just about exhausted.’ He watched Hanson carefully, wondering which of the Council members had provided him with his information. The lack of subtlety depressed him painfully. ‘However, thanks for warning me. I suppose it means there’ll be an overpowering air of embarrassment when Julia and I go to the cinema tomorrow.’
Hanson shook his head. ‘No. Actually the performance has been cancelled. In view of yesterday’s disturbances.’
‘But why—?’ Renthall slumped back. ‘Haven’t they got the intelligence to realize that it’s just at this sort of time that we need every social get-together we can organize? People are hiding away in their back bedrooms like a lot of frightened ghosts. We’ve got to bring them out, give them something that will pull them together.’
He gazed up thoughtfully at the watch-tower across the street. Shadows circulated behind the frosted panes of the observation windows. ‘Some sort of gala, say, or a garden fte. Who could organize it, though?’
Hanson pushed back his chair. ‘Careful, Charles. I don’t know whether the Council would altogether approve.’
‘I’m sure they wouldn’t.’ After Hanson had left he remained at the table and returned to his solitary contemplation of the watch-towers.
For half an hour Renthall sat at the table, playing absently with his empty coffee cup and watching the few people who passed along the street. No one else visited the caf, and he was glad to be able to pursue his thoughts alone, in this miniature urban vacuum, with nothing to intervene between himself and the lines of watch-towers stretching into the haze beyond the roof-tops.
With the exception of Mrs Osmond, Renthall had virtually no close friends in whom to confide. With his sharp intelligence and impatience with trivialities, Renthall was one of those men with whom others find it difficult to relax. A certain innate condescension, a reserved but unmistakable attitude of superiority held them away from him, though few people regarded him as anything but a shabby pedagogue. At the hotel he kept to himself. There was little social contact between the guests; in the lounge and dining room they sat immersed in their old newspapers and magazines, occasionally murmuring quietly to each other. The only thing which could mobilize the simultaneous communion of the guests was some untoward activity in the watch-towers, and at such times Renthall always maintained an absolute silence.
Just before he stood up a square thick-set figure approached down the street. Renthall recognized the man and was about to turn his seat to avoid having to greet him, but something about his expression made him lean forward. Fleshy and dark-jowled, the man walked with an easy, rolling gait, his double-breasted check overcoat open to reveal a well-tended midriff. This was Victor Boardman, owner of the local flea-pit cinema, sometime bootlegger and procurer at large.
Renthall had never spoken to him, but he was aware that Boardman shared with him the distinction of bearing the stigma of the Council’s disapproval. Hanson claimed that the Council had successfully stamped out Boardman’s illicit activities, but the latter’s permanent expression of smug contempt for the rest of the world seemed to belie this.
As he passed they exchanged glances, and Boardman’s face broke momentarily into a knowing smirk. It was obviously directed at Renthall, and implied a pre-judgement of some event about which Renthall as yet knew nothing, presumably his coming collision with the Council. Obviously Boardman expected him to capitulate to the Council without a murmur.
Annoyed, Renthall turned his back on Boardman, then watched him over his shoulder as he padded off down the street, his easy relaxed shoulders swaying from side to side.
The following day the activity in the watch-towers had subsided entirely. The blue haze from which they extended was brighter than it had been for several months, and the air in the streets seemed to sparkle with the light reflected off the observation windows. There was no sign of movement among them, and the sky had a rigid, uniform appearance that indicated an indefinite lull.
For some reason, however, Renthall found himself more nervous than he had been for some time. The school had not yet opened, but he felt strangely reluctant to visit Mrs Osmond and remained indoors all morning, shunning the streets as if avoiding some invisible shadow of guilt.
The long lines of watch-towers stretching endlessly from one horizon to the other reminded him that he could soon expect to receive the Council’s ‘directive’ – Hanson would not have mentioned it by accident – and it was always during the lulls that the Council was most active in consolidating its position, issuing a stream of petty regulations and amendments.
Renthall would have liked to challenge the Council’s authority on some formal matter unconnected with himself the validity, for example, of one of the byelaws prohibiting public assemblies in the street – but the prospect of all the intrigue involved in canvassing the necessary support bored him utterly. Although none of them individually would challenge the Council, most people would have been glad to see it toppled, but there seemed to be no likely focus for their opposition. Apart from the fear that the Council was in touch with the watch-towers, no one would stand up for Renthall’s right to carry on his affair with Mrs Osmond.
Curiously enough, she seemed unaware of these cross-currents when he went to see her that afternoon. She had cleaned the house and was in high humour, the windows wide open to the brilliant air.
‘Charles, what’s the matter with you?’ she chided him when he slumped inertly into a chair. ‘You look like a broody hen.’
‘I felt rather tired this morning. It’s probably the hot weather.’ When she sat down on the arm of the chair he put one hand listlessly on her hip, trying to summon together his energies. ‘Recently I’ve been developing an ideefixe about the Council, I must be going through a crisis of confidence. I need some method of reasserting myself.’
Mrs Osmond stroked his hair soothingly with her cool fingers, her eyes watching him silkily. ‘What you need, Charles, is a little mother love. You’re so isolated at that hotel, among all those old people. Why don’t you rent one of the houses in this road? I’d be able to look after you then.’
Renthall glanced up at her sardonically. ‘Perhaps I could move in here?’ he asked, but she tossed her head back with a derisive snort and went over to the window.
She gazed up at thea nearest watch-tower a hundred feet away, its windows closed and silent, the great shaft disappearing into the haze. ‘What do you suppose they’re thinking about?’
Renthall snapped his fingers off-handedly. ‘They’re probably not thinking about anything. Sometimes I wonder whether there’s anyone there at all. The movements we see may be just optical illusions. Although the windows appear to open no one’s ever actually seen any of them. For all we know this place may well be nothing more than an abandoned zoo.’
Mrs Osmond regarded him with rueful amusement. ‘Charles, you do pick some extraordinary metaphors. I often doubt if you’re like the rest of us, I wouldn’t dare say the sort of things you do in case—’ She broke off, glancing up involuntarily at the watch-towers hanging from the sky.
Idly, Renthall asked: ‘In case what?’
‘Well, in case—’ Irritably, she said: ‘Don’t be absurd, Charles, doesn’t the thought of those towers hanging down over us frighten you at all?’
Renthall turned his head slowly and stared up at the watch-towers. Once he had tried to count them, but there seemed little point. ‘Yes, they frighten me,’ he said noncommittally. ‘In the same way that Hanson and the old people at the hotel and everyone else here does. But not in the sense that the boys at school are frightened of me.’
Mrs Osmond nodded, misinterpreting this last remark. ‘Children are very perceptive, Charles. They probably know you’re not interested in them. Unfortunately they’re not old enough to understand what the watch-towers mean.’
She gave a slight shiver, and pulled her cardigan around her shoulders. ‘You know, on the days when they’re busy behind their windows I can hardly move around, it’s terrible. I feel so listless, all I want to do is sit and stare at the wall. Perhaps I’m more sensitive to their, er, radiations than most people.’
Renthall smiled. ‘You must be. Don’t let them depress you. Next time why don’t you put on a paper hat and do a pirouette?’
‘What? Oh, Charles, stop being cynical.’
‘I’m not. Seriously, Julia, do you think it would make any difference?’
Mrs Osmond shook her head sadly. ‘You try, Charles, and then tell me. Where are you going?’
Renthall paused at the window. ‘Back to the hotel to rest. By the way, do you know Victor Boardman?’
‘I used to, once. Why, what are you getting up to with him?’
‘Does he own the garden next to the cinema car park?’
‘I think so.’ Mrs Osmond laughed. ‘Are you going to take up gardening?’
‘In a sense.’ With a wave, Renthall left.
He began with Dr Clifton, whose room was directly below his own. Clifton’s duties at his surgery occupied him for little more than an hour a day – there were virtually no deaths or illnesses – but he still retained sufficient initiative to cultivate a hobby. He had turned one end of his room into a small aviary, containing a dozen canaries, and spent much of his time trying to teach them tricks. His acerbic, matter-of-fact manner always tired Renthall, but he respected the doctor for not sliding into total lethargy like everyone else.
Clifton considered his suggestion carefully. ‘I agree with you, something of the sort is probably necessary. A good idea, Renthall. Properly conducted, it might well provide just the lift people need.’
‘The main question, Doctor, is one of organization. The only suitable place is the Town Hall.’
Clifton nodded. ‘Yes, there’s your problem. I’m afraid I’ve no influence with the Council, if that’s what you’re suggesting. I don’t know what you can do. You’ll have to get their permission of course, and in the past they haven’t shown themselves to be very radical or original. They prefer to maintain the status quo.’
Renthall nodded, then added casually: ‘They’re only interested in maintaining their own power. At times I become rather tired of our Council.’
Clifton glanced at him and then turned back to his cages. ‘You’re preaching revolution, Renthall,’ he said quietly, a forefinger stroking the beak of one of the canaries. Pointedly, he refrained from seeing Renthall to the door.
Writing the doctor off, Renthall rested for a few minutes in his room, pacing up and down the strip of faded carpet, then went down to the basement to see the manager, Mulvaney.
‘I’m only making some initial inquiries. As yet I haven’t applied for permission, but Dr Clifton thinks the idea is excellent, and there’s no doubt we’ll get it. Are you up to looking after the catering?’
Mulvaney’s sallow face watched Renthall sceptically. ‘Of course I’m up to it, but how serious are you?’ He leaned against his roll-top desk. ‘You think you’ll get permission? You’re wrong, Mr Renthall, the Council wouldn’t stand for the idea. They even closed the cinema, so they’re not likely to allow a public party. Before you know what you’d have people dancing.’
‘I hardly think so, but does the idea appal you so much?’
Mulvaney shook his head, already bored with Renthall. ‘You get a permit, Mr Renthall, and then we can talk seriously.’
Tightening his voice, Renthall asked: ‘Is it necessary to get the Council’s permission? Couldn’t we go ahead without?’
Without looking up, Mulvaney sat down at his desk. ‘Keep trying, Mr Renthall, it’s a great idea.’
During the next few days Renthall pursued his inquiries, in all approaching some half-dozen people. In general he met with the same negative response, but as he intended he soon noticed a subtle but nonetheless distinct quickening of interest around him. The usual fragmentary murmur of conversation would fade away abruptly as he passed the tables in the dining room, and the service was fractionally more prompt. Hanson no longer took coffee with him in the mornings, and once Renthall saw him in guarded conversation with the town clerk’s secretary, a young man called Barnes. This, he assumed, was Hanson’s contact.
In the meantime the activity in the watch-towers remained at zero. The endless lines of towers hung down from the bright, hazy sky, the observation windows closed, and the people in the streets below sank slowly into their usual mindless torpor, wandering from hotel to library to caf. Determined on his course of action, Renthall felt his confidence return.
Allowing an interval of a week to elapse, he finally called upon Victor Boardman.
The bootlegger received him in his office above the cinema, greeting him with a wry smile.
‘Well, Mr Renthall, I hear you’re going into the entertainment business. Drunken gambols and all that. I’m surprised at you.’
‘A fte,’ Renthall corrected. The seat Boardman had offered him faced towards the window – deliberately, he guessed and provided an uninterrupted view of the watch-tower over the roof of the adjacent furniture store. Only forty feet away, it blocked off half the sky. The metal plates which formed its rectangular sides were annealed together by some process Renthall was unable to identify, neither welded nor riveted, almost as if the entire tower had been cast in situ. He moved to another chair so that his back was to the window.
‘The school is still closed, so I thought I’d try to make myself useful. That’s what I’m paid for. I’ve come to you because you’ve had a good deal of experience.’
‘Yes, I’ve had a lot of experience, Mr Renthall. Very varied. As one of the Council’s employees, I take it you have its permission?’
Renthall evaded this. ‘The Council is naturally a conservative body, Mr Boardman. Obviously at this stage I’m acting on my own initiative. I shall consult the Council at the appropriate moment later, when I can offer them a practicable proposition.’
Boardman nodded sagely. ‘That’s sensible, Mr Renthall. Now what exactly do you want me to do? Organize the whole thing for you?’
‘No, but naturally I’d be very grateful if you would. For the present I merely want to ask permission to hold the fte on a piece of your property.’
‘The cinema? I’m not going to take all those seats out, if that’s what you’re after.’
‘Not the cinema. Though we could use the bar and cloakrooms,’ Renthall extemporized, hoping the scheme did not sound too grandiose. ‘Is the old beer-garden next to the car park your property?’
For a moment Boardman was silent. He watched Renthall shrewdly, picking his nails with his cigar-cutter, a faint suggestion of admiration in his eyes. ‘So you want to hold the fte in the open, Mr Renthall? Is that it?’
Renthall nodded, smiling back at Boardman. ‘I’m glad to see you living up to your reputation for getting quickly to the point. Are you prepared to lend the garden? Of course, you’ll have a big share of the profits. In fact, if it’s any inducement, you can have all the profits.’
Boardman put out his cigar. ‘Mr Renthall, you’re obviously a man of many parts. I underestimated you. I thought you merely had a grievance against the Council. I hope you know what you’re doing.’
‘Mr Boardman, will you lend the garden?’ Renthall repeated.
There was an amused but thoughtful smile on Boardman’s lips as he regarded the watch-tower framed by the window. ‘There are two watch-towers directly over the beer-garden, Mr Renthall.’
‘I’m fully aware of that. It’s obviously the chief attraction of the property. Now, can you give me an answer?’
The two men regarded each other silently, and then Boardman gave an almost imperceptible nod. Renthall realized that his scheme was being taken seriously by Boardman. He was obviously using Renthall for his own purposes, for once having flaunted the Council’s authority he would be able to resume all his other, more profitable activities. Of course, the fte would never be held, but in answer to Boardman’s questions he outlined a provisional programme. They fixed the date of the fte at a month ahead, and arranged to meet again at the beginning of the next week.
