Empty World by John Christopher Page B

of an odd-looking ship, with even odder animals staring in pairs across the high gunnels: giraffes, elephants, lions, a couple of woolly sheep. Sea and skywere different blues, both sharp and bright, and the sun was a disk of real gold leaf.
    â€œNoah’s Ark,” Clive said. “I like that. I really do.”
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    That evening, while they ate together, the talk was wild again. He had not only gone to dinner with the Queen, but stayed with her as a house-guest. It wasn’t easy to work out if this had been at Buckingham Palace, Windsor Castle or Balmoral—perhaps all three. He spoke of the Royal Family as though they were old friends.
    â€œI’ve been thinking about the Crown Jewels,” he said. “Maybe I ought to go to the Tower and get them. For safe keeping. Her Majesty would have wanted me to do that.”
    At least the food was good. With the pheasant he served potatoes, asparagus and peas, and afterwards produced a tin containing a rich fruit cake. They drank the wine out of silver goblets. It had a slightly sour taste which Neil did not care much for, and he refused a refill, but Clive drank a good deal. One of the best wines from his father’s cellar, he proclaimed, ignoring the fragment of label which had carried the wine merchant’s price tag. They finished off withcoffee—the Blue Mountain this time—and Clive told a rambling tale about his father taking the family to Switzerland: they had occupied the entire top floor of the biggest hotel, and he and his father had climbed the Matterhorn.
    It was dusk and Clive got up to switch on the lights. He had become so amiable that Neil was anticipating being asked to stay on, and trying to find a good reason for refusing. He did not fancy spending the night here. But Clive said:
    â€œWe’d better look you out a place to sleep. I’ll lend a hand.”
    Relieved, Neil said: “That’s all right. I’ll find somewhere.”
    Clive insisted, though, on accompanying him. They found a bedroom in a large Victorian house behind the row of shops. A comfortable bed, Clive pointed out, bouncing on it, and with a bathroom next door.
    â€œBut you can come over to the caravan and shower in the morning,” he added. “And breakfast with me. I’ve got some American bacon and I can make an omelette from powdered egg. Mushroom omelette—you like that?”
    It was a relief to see him depart; Neil decided that in the morning he would definitely go his own way. He hung up his anorak, pausing to listen to a cry he recognized as that of a fox. There was no distinction between town and country now that men had gone. He was full from the meal, and tired. It did not take him long to drop off.
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    He awoke in the night with the impression of having heard a movement close by. He remembered he was no longer alone in the world, and called out: “Clive?” There was no answer, but his nerves remained taut. Mad, he had thought, but harmless—but could he be certain of that?
    There was moonlight outside; sufficient for him to be sure there was no-one in the room. The door, though, was opened wider than it had been. A gust of wind, perhaps, but the night was still. He got out of bed, closed the door, and tugged a chest-of-drawers across to block it. As he did so he heard a sound again, outside and going away. An animal, he guessed.
    He went back to bed and after a time slept soundly: it was bright day when he awoke again. He did not bother washing—the thought of the showerwas tempting even if Clive’s company was not—but threw on his clothes and left the house.
    It was only about fifty yards to the main street, and he could see the Jaguar before he got there. The sleek shape hugged the road. It looked lower somehow. He came to the road junction and stared in disbelief. There was a reason for it looking lower: the tyres were flat.
    Neil walked,