The doorbell rang. A nasty long shrill ring that suggested an impatient caller or a faulty bell-button. Mr Goldsmith did not receive many visitors. He muttered angrily, removed the saucepan of baked beans from the gas ring, then trudged slowly from the tiny kitchen across the even smaller hall and opened the front door. The bell continued to ring.
A tall, lean man faced him. One rigid finger seemed glued to the bell-button. The gaunt face had an unwholesome greenish tinge. The black, strangely dull eyes stared into Mr Goldsmith's own and the mouth opened.
"Oosed o love hore…"
The shrill clatter of the doorbell mingled with the hoarse gibberish and Mr Goldsmith experienced a blend of fear and anger. He shouted at the unwelcome intruder.
"Stop ringing the bell."
"Oosed o love hore…" the stranger repeated.
"Stop ringing the bloody bell." Mr Goldsmith reached round the door frame and pulled the dirt-grimed hand away. It fell limply down to its owner's side, where it swung slowly back and forth, four fingers clenched, the fifth - the index finger - rigid, as though still seeking a bell-button to push. In the silence that followed, Mr Goldsmith cleared his throat.
"Now, what is it you want?"
"Oosed o love hore." The stranger said again unintelligibly, then pushed by Mr Goldsmith and entered the flat.
"Look here…" The little man ran after the intruder and tried to get in front of him, but the tall, lean figure advanced remorselessly towards the living room, where it flopped down in Mr Goldsmith's favourite armchair and sat looking blankly at a cheap Gauguin print that hung over the fireplace.
"I don't know what your little game is," Mr Goldsmith was trying hard not to appear afraid, "but if you're not out of here in two minutes flat, I'll have the law around. Do you hear me?"
The stranger had forgotten to close his mouth. The lower jaw hung down like a lid with a broken hinge. His threadbare, black overcoat was held in place by a solitary, chipped button. A frayed, filthy red scarf was wound tightly round his scrawny neck. He presented a horrible, loathsome appearance. He also smelt.
The head came round slowly and Mr Goldsmith saw the eyes were now watery, almost as if they were about to spill over the puffy lids and go streaming down the green-tinted cheeks.
"Oosed o love hore."
The voice was a gurgle that began somewhere deep down in the constricted throat and the words seemed to bubble like stew seething in a saucepan.
"What? What are you talking about?"
The head twisted from side to side. The loose skin round the neck concertinaed and the hands beat a tattoo on the chair arms.
"O-o-sed t-o-o 1-o-v-e h-o-r-e."
"Used to live here!" A blast of understanding lit Mr Goldsmith's brain and he felt quite pleased with his interpretative powers. "Well, you don't live here now, so you'll oblige me by getting out."
The stranger stirred. The legs, clad in a pair of decrepit corduroy trousers, moved back. The hands pressed down on the chair arms, and the tall form rose. He shuffled towards Mr Goldsmith and the stomach-heaving stench came with him. Mr Goldsmith was too petrified to move and could only stare at the approaching horror with fear glazed eyes.
"Keep away," he whispered. "Touch me and… I'll shout…"
The face was only a few inches from his own. The hands came up and gripped the lapels of his jacket and with surprising strength, he was gently rocked back and forth. He heard the gurgling rumble; it gradually emerged into speech.
"Oi… um… dud… Oi… um… dud…"
Mr Goldsmith stared into the watery eyes and had there been a third person present he might have supposed they were exchanging some mutual confidence.
"You're… what?"
The bubbling words came again.
"Oi… um… dud."
"You're bloody mad," Mr Goldsmith whispered.
"Oi… um… dud."
Mr Goldsmith yelped like a startled puppy and pulling himself free, ran for the front door. He leapt down the stairs, his legs operating by reflex, for there was no room for thought in his fear misted brain.
Shop fronts slid by; paving stones loomed up, their rectangular shapes painted yellow by lamplight; startled faces drifted into his blurred vision, then disappeared and all the while the bubbling, ill-formed words echoed along the dark corridors of his brain.
"Oi… urn… dud."
"Just a moment, sir."
A powerful hand gripped his arm and he swung round as the impetus of his flight was checked. A burly policeman stared down at him, suspicion peeping out of the small, blue eyes.
"Now, what's all this, sir. You'll do yourself an injury, running like that."
Mr Goldsmith fought to regain his breath, eager to impart the vital knowledge. To share the burden.
"He's… he's dead."
The grip on his arm tightened.
"Now, calm yourself. Start from the beginning. Who's dead?"
"He…" Mr Goldsmith gasped… "he rang the bell, wouldn't take his finger off the button… used to live there… then he sat in my chair… then got up… and told me… he was dead…"
A heavy silence followed, broken only by the purr of a passing car. The driver cast an interested glance at the spectacle of a little man being held firmly by a large policeman. The arm of the law finally gave utterance.
"He told you he was dead?"
"Yes." Mr Goldsmith nodded, relieved to have shared his terrible information with an agent of authority. "He pronounced it dud."
"A northern corpse, no doubt," the policeman remarked with heavy irony.
"I don't think so," Mr Goldsmith shook his head. "No, I think his vocal cords are decomposing. He sort of bubbles his words. They… well, ooze out."
"Ooze out," the constable repeated drily.
"Yes." Mr Goldsmith remembered another important point.
"And he smells."
"Booze?" enquired the policeman.
"No, a sort of sweet, sour smell. Rather like bad milk and dead roses."
The second silence lasted a little longer than the first, then the constable sighed deeply:
"I guess we'd better go along to your place of residence and investigate."
"Must we?" Mr Goldsmith shuddered and the officer nodded.
"Yes, we must."
The front door was still open. The hall light dared Mr Goldsmith to enter and fear lurked in dark corners.
"Would you," Mr Goldsmith hesitated, for no coward likes to bare his face, "would you go in first?"
"Right." The constable nodded, squared his shoulders, and entered the flat. Mr Goldsmith found enough courage to advance as far as the doormat.
"In the living room," he called out. "I left him in the living room. The door on the left."
The police officer walked ponderously into the room indicated and after a few minutes came out again.
"No one there," he stated simply.
"The bedroom." Mr Goldsmith pointed to another door. "He must have gone in there."
The policeman dutifully inspected the bedroom, the kitchen, then the bathroom before returning to the hall.
"I think it's quite safe for you to come in," he remarked caustically. "There's no one here - living or dead."
Mr Goldsmith reoccupied his domain, much like an exiled king remounting his shaky throne.
"Now," the policeman produced a notebook and ball-point pen, "let's have a description."
"Pardon?"
"What did the fellow look like?" the officer asked with heavy patience.
"Oh. Tall, thin - very thin, his eyes were sort of runny, looked as if they might melt at any time, his hair was black and matted and he was dressed in an overcoat with one button…"
"Hold on," the officer admonished. "You're going too fast. Button…"
"It was chipped," Mr Goldsmith added importantly. "And he wore an awful pair of corduroy trousers. And he looked dead. Now I come to think of it, I can't remember him breathing. Yes, I'm certain, he didn't breathe."
The constable put his notebook away, and took up a stance on the hearthrug.
"Now, look, Mr…"
"Goldsmith. Edward. J. Goldsmith."
"Well, Mr Goldsmith…"
"The J is for Jeremiah but I never use it."
"As I was about to say, Mr Goldsmith," the constable wore the expression of a man who was labouring under great strain, "I've seen a fair number of stiffs - I should say, dead bodies -in my time, and not one of them has ever talked. In fact, I'd say you can almost bank on it. They can burp, jerk, sit up, flop, bare their teeth, glare, even clutch when rigor mortis sets in, but never talk."
"But he said he was." Mr Goldsmith was distressed that this nice, helpful policeman seemed unable to grasp the essential fact. "He said he was dud, and he looked and smelt dead."
"Ah, well now, that's another matter entirely." The constable looked like Sherlock Holmes, about to astound a dim-witted Watson. "This character you've described sounds to me like old Charlie. A proper old lay-about, sleeps rough and cadges what he can get from hotel kitchens and suchlike. A meths drinker no doubt and long ago lost whatever wits he ever had. I think he came up here for a hand-out. Probably stewed to the gills and lumbered by you when the door was open, intending to doss down in your living room. I'll report this to the station sergeant and we'll get him picked up. No visible means of subsistence, you understand."
"Thank you." Mr Goldsmith tried to feel relieved. "But…"
"Don't you worry anymore." The constable moved towards the door. "He won't bother you again. If you are all that worried, I'd have a chain put on your front door, then you can see who's there before you let them in."
Mr Goldsmith said, "Yes", and it was with a somewhat lighter heart that he accompanied the policeman to the front-door and politely handed him his helmet.
"A talking dead man!" The constable shook his head and let out a series of explosive chuckles. "Strewth!"
Mr Goldsmith shut the door with a little bang and stood with his back leaning against its mauve panels. By a very small circle of friends he was considered to be wildly artistic.
"He was." He spoke aloud. "He was dead. I know it."
He reheated the baked beans, prepared toast under the grill and opened a tin of mushrooms, then dined in the kitchen.
The evening passed. The television glared and told him things he did not wish to know; the newspaper shocked him and the gas fire went out. There were no more five penny pieces so he had no option but to go to bed.
The bed was warm; it was safe, it was soft. If anything dreadful happened he could always hide under the sheets. His book was comforting. It told a story of a beautiful young girl who could have been a famous film star if only she would sleep with a nasty, fat producer, but instead she cut the aspiring mogul down to size, and married her childhood sweetheart who earned twenty pounds a week in the local bank. Mr Goldsmith derived much satisfaction from this happy state of affairs and, placing the book under his pillow, turned out the light and prepared to enter the land of dreams.
He almost got there.
His heart slowed down its heat. His brain flashed messages along the intricate network of nerves and contented itself all was well, although the stomach put in a formal complaint regarding the baked beans. It then began to shut off his five senses, before opening the strong-room where the fantasy treasures were stored. Then his ears detected a sound and his brain instantly ordered all senses on the alert.
Mr Goldsmith sat up and vainly fumbled for the light switch, while a series of futile denials tripped off his tongue.
"No… no… no…"
The wardrobe doors were opening. It was a nice, big wardrobe, fitted with two mirror doors and Mr Goldsmith watched the gleaming surfaces flash as they parted. A dark shape emerged from the bowels of the wardrobe; a tall, lean, slow-moving figure. Mr Goldsmith would have screamed, had such a vocal action been possible, but his throat was dry and constricted and he could only manage a few croaking sounds. The dark figure shuffled towards the bed, poised for a moment like a tree about to fall, then twisted round and sat down. Mr Goldsmith's afflicted throat permitted a whimpering sound as the long shape swung its legs up and lay down beside him. He could not see very well but he could smell and he could also hear. The strangled words bubbled up through the gloom.
"Oo… broot… cupper… Oi… hote… cuppers…"
They lay side by side for a little while, Mr Goldsmith's whimpers merging with the bubbling lament.
"Oo… broot cupper… Oi… um… dud… hote… cuppers… oll… cuppers… stunk…"
Mr Goldsmith dared to toy with the idea of movement. He longed to put distance between himself and whatever lay bubbling on the bed. His hand moved prior to pulling back the bedclothes. Instantly cold fingers gripped his wrist, then slid down to his palm to grasp his hand.
"Oi… um… dud…"
"Not again," Mr Goldsmith pleaded. "Not again."
Minutes passed. Mr Goldsmith tried to disengage his hand from the moist, cold grip, but it only tightened. Eventually, the form stirred and to Mr Goldsmith's horror, sat up and began to grope around with its free hand. The light shattered the gloom, chasing the shadows into obscure corners and Mr Goldsmith found himself looking at that which he did not wish to see.
The face had taken on a deeper tinge of green; the eyes were possibly more watery and seemed on the point of dribbling down the cheeks. The mouth was a gaping hole where the black tongue writhed like a flattened worm. The bubbling sound cascaded up the windpipe with the threatening roar of a worn out geyser.
"G-oot dr-oosed…"
The figure swung its legs off the bed and began to move towards the fireplace, still retaining its icy grip on Mr Goldsmith's hand, and forcing him to wriggle through the bedclothes and go stumbling after it. Over the mantelpiece was an old brass-handled naval cutlass, picked up for thirty shillings, back in the days when Mr Goldsmith had first read The Three Musketeers. This, the creature laboriously removed from its hooks and turning slowly, raised it high above the terrified little man's head. The bubbling sound built up and repeated the earlier order.
"G-oot dr-oosed…"
Mr Goldsmith got dressed.
They walked down the empty street, hand-in-hand, looking at times like a father dragging his reluctant son to school. Mr Goldsmith hungered for the merest glimpse of his friend the policeman, but the creature seemed to know all the back streets and alleys, pulling its victim through gaping holes in fences, taking advantage of every shadow, every dark corner. This, Mr Goldsmith told himself in the brief periods when he was capable of coherent thought, was the instinct of an alley cat, the automatic reflexes of a fox. The creature was making for its hole and taking its prey with it.
They were in the dock area. Black, soot-grimed buildings reached up to a murky sky. Cobbled alleys ran under railway arches, skirted grim-faced warehouses, and terminated in litter-ridden wastelands cleared by Hitler's bombs, thirty years before. Mr Goldsmith stumbled over uneven mounds crowned with sparse, rusty grass. He even fell down a hole, only to be promptly dragged out as the creatures advanced with the ponderous, irresistible momentum of a Sherman tank.
The ground sloped towards a passage running between the remnants of brick walls. Presently there was a ceiling to which morsels of plaster still clung. Then the smell of burning wood -and a strange new stench of corruption.
They were in what had once been the cellar of a large warehouse. The main buildings had been gutted and their skeletons removed, but the roots, too far down to be affected by flame or bomb, still remained. The walls wept rivulets of moisture, the ceiling sagged, the floor was an uneven carpet of cracked cement, but to all intents, the cellar existed. An ancient bath stood on two spaced rows of bricks. Holes had been pierced in its rusty flanks, and it now held a pile of burning wood. Flame tinted smoke made the place look like some forgotten inferno; it drifted up to the ceiling and coiled lazily round the black beams like torpid snakes looking for darkness. A number of hurricane lamps hung from beams and walls, so that once again Mr Goldsmith was forced to look at that which he would rather have not seen.
They were crouched in a large circle round the fire, dressed in an assortment of old clothes, with green tinted faces and watery eyes, gaping mouths and rigid fingers. Mr Goldsmith's companion quelled any lingering doubts he might have had with the simplicity of a sledgehammer cracking a walnut.
"Oll… dud… oll… dud…"
"What's all this then?"
Two men stood behind Mr Goldsmith and his companion. One was a tall, hulking fellow and the other a little runt of a man with the face of a crafty weasel. It was he who had spoken. He surveyed Mr Goldsmith with a look of profound astonishment, then glared at the creature.
"Where the hell did you find him?"
The bubbling voice tried to explain.
"Ooosed o love thore…"
"You bloody stupid git." The little man began to pummel the creature about the stomach and chest and it retreated, the bubbling voice rising to a scream, like a steam kettle under full pressure.
"Oosed o love thore… broot cupper…"
The little man ceased his punitive operations and turned an anxious face towards his companion.
'"Ere what's all this, then? Did 'e say copper? His Nibs won't like that. Don't get the law worked up, 'e said."
The big man spoke slowly, his sole concern to calm his friend.
"Don't carry on, Maurice. Old Charlie's about 'ad it, ain't 'e? 'E'll be dropping apart soon if they don't get 'im mended and varnished up. The old brainbox must be in an 'ell of a state."
But Maurice would not be comforted. He turned to Mr Goldsmith and gripped his coat front.
"Did you bring the law in? You call a copper?"
"I certainly summoned a police officer, when this," Mr Goldsmith hesitated, "when this… person, refused to leave my flat."
"Cor strike a light." Maurice raised his eyes ceilingward. '"E calls a copper a police officer! Respectable as Sunday dinner. Probably got a trouble and strife who'll scream to 'igh 'eavens when 'er little wandering boy don't come 'ome for his milk and bickies."
"You married?" the big man asked and Mr Goldsmith, inspired by the wish to pacify his captors, shook his head.
"Live alone, aye?" The big man chuckled. "Thought so. Recognize the type. Keep yer 'air on, Maurice, he'll be just another missing person. The DPs will handle it."
"Yeah, Harry." Maurice nodded and released Mr Goldsmith. "You're right. We'd better tie 'im up somewhere until His Nibs gets 'ere. He'll decide what to do with 'im."
Harry produced a length of rope and Mr Goldsmith meekly allowed himself to be tied up, while "Charlie", for such it appeared was the creature's name, kept nudging Maurice's arm.
"Urn… woont… meethy…"
"You don't deserve any methy." Maurice pushed the terrible figure to one side. "Making a bugger-up like this."
"Meethy…" Charlie repeated, "um… woont… meethy…"
"Bit of a waste of the blue stuff," Maurice remarked drily. '"E's coming apart at the seams. Let me bash 'is 'ead in."
"Naw." Maurice shook his head. "'Is Nibs don't like us taking liberties with units. Besides the new repairing and varnishing machine can do wonders with 'em. "E'd better have 'is ration with the rest."
Mr Goldsmith, suitably bound, was dumped into a corner where he soon witnessed a scene that surpassed all the horror that had ridden on his shoulders since Charlie had rung his doorbell.
Harry came out of a cubby hole bearing a large saucepan with no handle. Maurice followed with a chipped mug. At once there was a grotesque stirring round the nightmare circle; legs moved, arms waved, mouths opened in the familiar bubbling speech and raucous cries. Placing the saucepan on a rickety table, Maurice began to call out in a high pitched voice.
"Methy… come on then… methy, methy, methy…"
There was a scrambling and scuffling, a united, bubbling, gurgling, raucous scream, and the entire pack came lumbering forward, pushing the feeble to one side, clawing in their determination to reach the enamel saucepan and the chipped mug. One scarecrow figure, clad in the remnants of an old army overcoat, fell or was pushed and landed with a resounding crash a few yards from Mr Goldsmith. When he tried to rise, his left leg crumbled under him and the horrified spectator saw the jagged end of a thigh bone jutting out from a tear in threadbare trousers. There was no expression of pain on the green-tinted face but whatever spark of intelligence that still flickered in the brain finally prompted the creature to crawl over the uneven ground until it reached the table. Maurice looked down and kicked the writhing figure over on to its back. It lay howling in protest, like an up-turned beetle, legs and arms flailing helplessly.
The chipped mug was dipped into the saucepan, a quarter filled with some blue liquid, then presented to the nearest gaping mouth. A green-tinted, wrinkled neck convulsed, then the mug was snatched away to be filled for the next consumer. Harry pulled the "fed one" to one side, then gave it a shove that sent the bundle of skin-wrapped bones lurching across the floor. Whatever the liquid was that came out of the saucepan, its effect on the receiver was little short of miraculous. All straightened up; some danced in a revolting, flopping, jumping movement. One creature did six knee-bends before its right knee made an ominous cracking sound. Another began clapping its hands and Maurice called out, "Cut that out," but his warning came too late. One hand fell off and landed on the floor with a nasty, soft thud. Mr Goldsmith's stomach was considering violent action when Harry sauntered over and pointed to the offending item.
"Pick that up," he ordered.
The creature, still trying to clap with one hand, gazed at the big man with blank, watery eyes.
"Glop… glop," it bubbled.
"Never mind the glop-glop business. Pick the bloody thing up. I'm not 'aving you leave yer bits and pieces about. I'm telling yer for the last time - pick it up."
He raised a clenched fist and the creature bent down and took hold of its late appendage.
"Now put it in the bin," Harry instructed, pointing to an empty oil drum by the far wall. "You lot might be bone idle, but yer not going to be dead lazy."
Harry then turned to Maurice, who was completing his culinary duties.
"This lot's dead useless, Maurice. They're falling to bits. If this goes on, all we'll 'ave is a load of wriggling torsos. You've put too much EH471 in that stuff."
"Balls." Maurice cuffed a too eager consumer, who promptly retreated with one ear suspended by a strand of skin. "We can do some running repairs, can't we? A bit of tape, a few slats of wood, a few brooms. You carry on like a nun in a brothel."
"Well, so long as you explain the breakages to 'Is Nibs, it's all right with me," Harry stated, kicking a wizened little horror that was trying to turn a somersault on one hand and half an arm. "What's 'e hope to do with this lot?"
"Search me," Maurice shrugged. "Probably carve 'em up. 'E could take a leg from one, an arm from another, swop a few spare parts, and get 'imself a few working models."
Mr Goldsmith had for some time been aware that some of the more antiquated models were displaying an unhealthy interest in his person. One, who appeared to have a faulty leg, shuffled over and examined the little man's lower members with a certain air of deliberation. A rigid forefinger poked his trouser leg, then the creature whose vocal cords seemed to be in better working order than Charlie's, croaked: "Good… good."
"Go away," Mr Goldsmith ordered, wriggling his legs frantically. "Shush, push off."
The creature pulled his trouser leg up and stared at the plump white flesh, like a cannibal viewing the week-end joint. He dribbled.
"Maurice - Harry." A sharp voice rang out. "What is the meaning of this? Get the units lined up at once."
It could have been the voice of a sergeant-major admonishing two slack NCOs; or a managing-director who has walked in on an office love-in. Maurice and Harry began to shout, pulling their charges into a rough file, pushing, swearing, punching, occasionally kicking the fragile units. His own particular tormentor was seized by the scruff of the neck and sent hurling towards the ragged line, that drooped, reeled, gurgled and bubbled in turn.
"Careful, man," the voice barked, "units cost money. Repairs take time."
"Sir." Maurice froze to a momentary attitude of attention, then went on with his marshalling activity with renewed, if somewhat subdued energy.
"Get into line, you dozy lot. Chests out, chins in, those who 'ave 'ands, down to yer flipping sides. Harry, a couple of brooms for that basket, three from the end. If 'e falls down, 'is bleeding 'ead will come off."
For the first time Mr Goldsmith had the opportunity to examine the newcomer. He saw a mild looking, middle-aged man, in a black jacket and pin-striped trousers. Glossy bowler hat, horn-rimmed spectacles and a brief case, completed the cartoonist conception of a civil servant. Maurice marched up to this personage and swung up a rather ragged salute.
"Units lined up and ready for your inspection, sir."
"Very well." His Nibs, for such Mr Goldsmith assumed him to be, handed his brief case to Harry, then began to walk slowly along the file, scrutinizing each unit in turn.
"Maurice, why has this man got a hand missing?"
"Clapping, sir. The bleeder… beg pardon, the unit got carried away after methy, sir. Sort of came off in his 'and, sir."
His Nibs frowned.
"This is rank carelessness, Maurice. I have stressed time and time again, special attention must be paid to component parts at all times. Spare hands are hard to come by and it may become necessary to scrap this unit altogether. Don't let me have to mention this matter again."
"Sir."
His Nibs passed a few more units without comment, then stopped at the man whose ear still dangled by a single thread. He made a tut-tutting sound.
"Look at this, Maurice. This unit is a disgrace. For heaven's sake get him patched up. What HQ would say if they saw this sort of thing, I dare not think."
"Sir." Maurice turned his head and barked at Harry over one shoulder. "Take this unit and put his lughole back on with a strip of tape."
When His Nibs reached the unit propped up on two brooms, he fairly exploded.
"This is outrageous. Really, Maurice, words fail me. How you could allow a unit to come on parade in this condition, is beyond my comprehension."
"Beg pardon, sir, it fell over, sir."
"Look at it," His Nibs went on, ignoring the interruption. "The neck's broken." He touched the head and it wobbled most alarmingly. "The eyeballs are a disgrace, half an arm is missing, one leg is as about as useful as a woollen vest at a nudist picnic, and one foot is back to front."
Maurice glared at the unfortunate unit who was doing his best to bubble-talk. His Nibs sighed deeply.
"There is little point in berating the unit now, Maurice. The damage is done. We'll have to salvage what we can and the rest had better go into the scrap-bin."
Having completed his inspection, His Nibs turned and almost by chance his gaze alighted on Mr Goldsmith.
"Maurice, what is this unit doing tied up?"
"Beg pardon, sir, but this ain't no unit, sir. It's a consumer that Charlie Unit brought in by error, sir."
His Nibs took off his spectacles, wiped them carefully on a black edged handkerchief, then replaced them.
"Let me get this clear, Maurice. Am I to understand that this is a live consumer? An actual, Mark one, flesh and blood citizen? In fact, not to mince words - a voter?"
"Yes, sir. A proper old Sunday-dinner-eater, go-to-Churcher, and take-a-bath-every-dayer, sir."
"And how, may I ask, did this unfortunate mistake occur?"
"Sent Charlie Unit out with a resurrection party, sir. Wandered off on his own; sort of remembered a place where 'e used to live, found this geezer - beg pardon, sir - this consumer, and brought 'im back 'ere, sir."
"Amazing!" His Nibs examined Mr Goldsmith with great care. "A bit of luck, really. I mean, he'll need no repairs and with care he'll be ready for a Mark IV MB in no time at all."
"That's what I thought, sir." Maurice smirked and looked at Mr Goldsmith with great satisfaction. "Might start a new line, sir. Bring 'em back alive."
"That's the next stage." His Nibs took his brief case from Harry. "In the meanwhile you had better untie him and I'll take him down to the office."
The office was situated through the cubby hole and down twelve steps. It was surprisingly comfortable. A thick carpet covered the floor, orange wallpaper hid the walls and His Nibs seated himself behind a large, mahogany desk.
"Take a seat, my dear fellow," he invited, "I expect you'd like a cup of tea after your ordeal."
Mr Goldsmith collapsed into a chair and nodded. The power of speech would return later, of that he felt certain. His Nibs picked up a telephone receiver.
"Tea for two," he ordered, "and not too strong. Yes, and some digestive biscuits. You'll find them filed under pending."
He replaced the receiver and beamed at Mr Goldsmith.
"Now, I expect you're wondering what this is all about. Probably got ideas that something nasty is taking place, eh?"
Mr Goldsmith could only nod.
"Then I am delighted to put your mind at rest. Nothing illegal is taking place here. This, my dear chap, is a government department."
Mr Goldsmith gurgled.
"Yes," His Nibs went on, "a properly constituted government department, sired by the Ministry of Health, and complete with staff, filing cabinets and teacups. When I tell you this project sprang from the brain of a certain occupier of a certain house, situated in a certain street, not far from the gasworks at Westminster, I am certain that whatever doubts you may have entertained will be instantly dispelled."
Mr Goldsmith made a sound that resembled an expiring bicycle tyre.
"I expect," His Nibs enquired, "you are asking yourself- why?"
Mr Goldsmith groaned.
"The answer to your intelligent question, can be summed up in two words. Industrial strife. Until recently there was a dire labour shortage, and the great man to whom I referred was bedevilled by wage claims, strikes and rude men in cloth caps who would never take no for an answer. Then one night over his bedtime cup of cocoa, the idea came to him. The idea! Nay, the mental earthquake."
The door opened and a blonde vision came in, carrying a tea tray. The vision had long blonde hair and wore a neat tailored suit with brass buttons. Mr Goldsmith said: "Cor."
"Ah, Myna and the cup that cheers," announced His Nibs with heavy joviality. "Put it down on the desk, my dear. Did you warm the pot?"
"Yes, sir." Myna smiled and put her tray down.
"Have the national intake figures come through yet?" His Nibs enquired.
"Yes, sir."
"And?"
"Three thousand, nine hundred and thirty four."
"Capital, capital." His Nibs rubbed his hands together in satisfaction, then aimed a slap at Myna's bottom which happened to be conveniently to hand. The after effect was alarming.
Myna jerked, stiffened her fingers, opened her mouth and bubbled three words.
"Oi… urn… dud…"
"Excuse me," His Nibs apologized to Mr Goldsmith, "Merely a technical hitch."
Rising quickly, he hurried round to Myna's front and twisted two brass buttons. The fingers relaxed, the eyes lit up and the mouth closed.
"Anything else, sir?" she enquired.
"No thank you, my dear," His Nibs smiled genially, "not for the time being."
Myna went out and His Nibs returned to his desk.
"Latest streamlined model," he confided, "fitted with the Mark IV computer brain, but one has to be jolly careful. Slightest pat in the wrong place and puff - the damn thing goes haywire. Now where was I? Oh, yes. The great idea."
He leant forward and pointed a finger at Mr Goldsmith.
"Do you know how many living people there are in Britain today?"
"Ah - ah…" Mr Goldsmith began.
"Precisely," His Nibs sat back, "Sixty-two million, take or lose a million. Sixty-two million actual or potential voters. Sixty-two million consumers, government destroyers and trade unionists. Now, what about the others?"
"Others," echoed Mr Goldsmith.
"Ah, you've got the point. The dead. The wastage, the unused. One person in two thousand dies every twenty-four hours. That makes 30,000 bucket kickers a day, 3,000,000 a year. One man, and one man only, saw the potential. Sitting there in his terrace house, drinking his cocoa and watching television, it came to him in a flash. Why not use the dead?"
"Use the dead," Mr Goldsmith agreed.
"Taking up valuable building space." His Nibs was becoming quite heated, "Rotting away at the state's expense, using up marble and stonemason's time, and not paying a penny in taxes. He knew what had to be done. How to get down to the 'bones' of the matter."
For a while His Nibs appeared to be lost in thought. Mr Goldsmith stared at a slogan that had been painted in black letters on the opposite wall
WASTE NOT - WANT NOT
Presently the precise voice went on.
"First we imported a few voodoo experts from the West Indies. After all, they had been turning out zombies for centuries. But we had to improve on their technique of course. I mean to say, we couldn't have them dancing round a fire, dressed up in loincloths and slitting cockerels' throats. So our chaps finally came up with methy. Ministry Everlasting Topside Hardened Youth. No one knows what it means of course, but that is all to the good. If some of Them from the other side got hold of the formula, I shudder to think what might happen. The basis is methylated spirit - we found that pickled fairly well -then there's R245 and a small amount of E294 and most important, 25 per cent EH471 with 20 per cent HW741 to cancel it out. You do follow me?"
Mr Goldsmith shook his head, then fearful of giving offence, nodded violently.
"You have keen perception," His Nibs smiled. "It makes a nice change to talk to a consumer of the lower-middle class who does not confuse the issue by asking embarrassing questions. The latest stage is the Mark IV Mechanical Brain. After the unit has been repaired, decoked, and sealed with our all-purpose invisible varnish the nasty old, meddling brain is removed and Dr You-Know-Who inserts his M. IV M. B., which does what it's told and no nonsense. No trade unions, no wage claims - no wages, in fact - no holidays, no food. Give 'em a couple of cups of methy a day and they're good for years. Get the idea?"
Mr Goldsmith found his voice.
"Who employs them?"
"Who doesn't?" His Nibs chuckled, then lowered his voice to a confidential whisper.
"Keep this under your hat, but you may remember a certain very large house situated at the end of the Mall, which had rather a lot of problems over the housekeeping bills."
Mr Goldsmith turned pale.
"Not any more. All the lower servants were elevated from the churchyard, and some of the senior go out through one door and come back in through another, if you get my meaning. In fact there has been a suggestion… Well, never mind, that is still but a thought running round in a cabinet.
"Now, what are we going to do about you?"
Mr Goldsmith stared hopefully at his questioner. He dared to put forward a suggestion.
"I could go home."
His Nibs smilingly shook his head.
"I fear not. You've seen too much and thanks to my flapping tongue, heard too much. No, I think we'd better give you the treatment. A nice little street accident should fill the bill. You wouldn't fancy walking under a moving bus, I suppose?"
Mr Goldsmith displayed all the symptoms of extreme reluctance.
"You're sure? Pity. Never mind, Harry can simulate these things rather well. A broken neck, compound fracture of both legs; nothing we can't fix later on, then a tip-top funeral at government expense and the certainty of life after death. How's that sound?'
Mr Goldsmith gulped and started a passionate love affair with the door.
"I can see you are moved," His Nibs chuckled. "You've gone quite pale with joy. I envy you, you know. It's not all of us who can serve our country. Remember: 'They also serve who only lie and rotticate.' Ha… ha… ha…"
His Nibs roared with uncontrollable merriment and lifted the receiver of his desk telephone.
"Myna, be a good girl and get Harry on the intercom. What! Tea break! We'll have none of that nonsense here. Tell him to get down here in two minutes flat, or I'll have him fitted with a M. IV MB before he can put water to teabag."
He slammed the receiver down and glared at Mr Goldsmith.
"Teabreak! I promise you, in five years time there'll be no more tea breaks or dinner breaks, or three weeks holiday with pay. We'll teach 'em."
The door opened and Harry all but ran into the office.
He stamped his feet, stood rigidly to attention and swung up a salute.
"Resurrection Operator Harry Briggs reporting, sir."
His Nibs calmed down, wiped his brow on the black-edged handkerchief and reverted to his normal, precise manner of speech.
"Right, Harry, stand easy. This consumer is to be converted into a unit. I thought something in the line of a nice, tidy street accident. He won't be a missing person then, see. What are your suggestions?"
"Permission to examine the consumer, sir?"
His Nibs waved a languid hand.
"Help yourself, Harry."
Harry came over to Mr Goldsmith and tilted his head forward so that his neck was bared.
"A couple of nifty chops should break his neck, sir, and I could rough his face up a bit - bash it against the wall. Then, with your permission, sir, run a ten-ton truck over his stomach - won't do 'is guts much good but 'e won't be needing 'em."
"Methy," His Nibs explained to Mr Goldsmith, "works through the nervous system. The stomach is surplus to requirements."
"Then I thought a couple of swipes with an iron bar about 'ere." Harry pointed to Mr Goldsmith's trembling thighs. "And 'ere." He indicated a spot above the ankles. "Won't do to touch the knee caps, seeing as 'ow they're 'ard to replace."
"You'll have no trouble with repairs afterwards?" His Nibs enquired.
"Gawd bless us, no, sir. A couple of rivets in the neck, a bit of patching up here and there. We'll have to replace the eyes. They gets a bit runny after a bit. Otherwise, 'e'll make a first class unit, such as you can be proud of, sir."
"Very creditable." His Nibs beamed his approval. "You'd better fill in an LD142 and lay on transport to transfer the, eh… unit to the accident point. Let me see…" He consulted a desk diary. "Today's Wednesday - coroner's inquest on Friday - yes, we can fit the funeral in next Tuesday."
"Tuesday, sir," Harry nodded.
"Then your resurrection units can get cracking Tuesday night. No point in letting things rot, eh?"
His Nibs roared again and Harry permitted himself a respectful titter.
"Well, my dear chap," His Nibs said to Mr Goldsmith. "This time next week you should be doing something useful."
"Where were you thinking of fitting 'im in, sir?" Harry enquired.
"We'll start him off as a porter at Waterloo Station. The railway union have a wage claim in the pipeline and one more non-industrial action vote will do no harm. Right, Harry, take him away."
Fear may make cowards; it can also transform a coward into a man of action. The sight of Harry's large hand descending on to his neck triggered off a series of reflexes in Mr Goldsmith which culminated in him leaping from his chair and racing for the door. His behaviour up to that moment had been co-operative, so both His Nibs and Harry were taken by surprise and for three precious moments could only stare after him with speechless astonishment. Meanwhile, Mr Goldsmith was through the door and passing Myna, who presumably had not been programmed for such an emergency, for she sat behind her desk, typing away serenely, ignoring Harry's bellows of rage. But they spurred the little man to greater efforts and he mounted the stairs with the determination of an Olympic hurdler chasing a gold medal. He burst into the cellar, by-passing the recumbent units and was on his way to the exit before a startled Maurice had been galvanized into action.
He was like a rabbit chased by two blood-thirsty hounds, when he pounded up the ramp and came to the waste ground. A sickly moon played hide and seek from behind scudding clouds and a black cat screamed its fear and rage, as he went stumbling over mounds and potholes, discarded tins clattering before his blundering feet. They were about twenty feet behind, silent now, for the unmentionable was heading for the domain of the commonplace and their business must be done in shadows without sound or word.
Mr Goldsmith crossed a cobbled road, galloped under a railway arch and stumbled into a narrow alley. A convenient hole in a fence presented itself; he squeezed through just before running footsteps rounded the nearest corner. They came to a halt only a few paces from his hiding place. Maurice's voice was that of a weasel deprived of a supper.
"The little bleeder's got away."
"Won't get far," Harry comforted.
"Better get back," Maurice admitted reluctantly. "His Nibs will have to notify a DPC."
The footsteps shuffled, then retreated and Mr Goldsmith dared to breathe again. He emerged from his hole and began to trudge wearily down the alley. He wandered for a long time, completely lost, shying from shadows, running before a barking dog, adrift in a nightmare. He came out into a small square and there on the far side, its steeple reaching up towards the moon, was a church. The doors were tight shut, but the building evoked childhood memories, and he knelt on the steps, crying softly, like a child locked out by thoughtless parents.
Heavy footsteps made him start and he rose quickly, before casting a terrified glance along the moonlit pavement. A tall, burly figure was moving towards him with all the majesty of a frigate under full sail. His silver buttons gleamed like stars in a velvet sky. His badge shone like a beacon of hope. Mr Goldsmith gave a cry of joy and ran towards his protector. He gripped the great, coarse hands; he thrust his face against the blue tunic and sobbed with pure relief.
"Now, what's all this?" the officer enquired. "Not more dead men that talk?"
"Hundreds of them." Mr Goldsmith stammered in his effort to be believed. "They are emptying the churchyards. You've got to stop them."
"There, there. You leave it all to me, sir. Just come along to the station and we'll get it all down in a statement."
"Yes… yes." Mr Goldsmith perceived the sanity in such an arrangement. "Yes, I… I will make a statement. Then you'll lock me up, won't you? So they can't reach me?"
"Anything you say," the constable agreed. "We'll lock you up so well, no one will ever be able to reach you again. Come along now."
They moved away from the locked church with Mr Goldsmith pouring out a torrent of words. The policeman was a good listener and encouraged him with an occasional: "Beyond belief, sir… You don't say so, sir… It only goes to show… Truth is stranger than fiction."
Mr Goldsmith agreed that it was, but a disturbing factor had caused a cold shiver to mar his newly acquired sense of well-being.
"Why are we going down this alley?"
"A short cut, sir," the constable replied. "No sense in tiring ourselves with a long walk."
"Oh." Mr Goldsmith snatched at this piece of logic like a condemned man at the rope which is to hang him. "Is the station far?"
"A mere stone's throw, sir. A last, few steps, you might say."
They progressed the length of the passage, then turned a corner. The officer trod on an upturned dustbin lid and promptly swore. "Damned careless of someone. You might have broken your neck, sir."
"This is the way I came," Mr Goldsmith stated and the policeman's grip tightened.
"Is it now, sir? Sort of retracing your footsteps."
Hope was sliding down a steep ramp as Mr Goldsmith started to struggle. "You…" But the grip on his arm was a band of steel. He clawed at the blue tunic and twisted a silver button. The bubbling words came from a long way off.
"Oi… um… dud…"
The moon peeped coyly from behind a cloud and watched a burly, but dead policeman drag a struggling little man towards eternity.
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