Other Paths to Glory (3 page)

Slowly he tested the pieces of his body. Each piece moved, although he was now aware that the freezing force with which he had been rammed against the pillar had been tremendous. In fact, he could feel nothing except a roaring, numbing cold spreading through him, beyond pain and fear. He had to get out of it, away from it, or it would kill him just as surely as the river itself had tried to do.

But it hadn’t been the river … a vague memory of events which had occurred seconds before he had been swept under the bridge asserted itself. Someone had deliberately thrown him into the weir, deliberately and unbelievably … casually.

No, not casually -

‘
It is Mr Mitchell, isn
‘
t it?

The noise all around him was so scarefying that he couldn’t hold his thoughts together.

‘
It is Mr Mitchell, isn
’
t it?

It was Mr Mitchell, and no one else but Mr Mitchell, who was meant to be drowning now, drifting at the bottom of the Conservancy basin below the weir - or tumbling round and round in the undertow in that crashing water a few feet away. The thought of it was blurred and confused for a moment, and shot with panic as he realised that they must be standing directly above him, scanning the basin in the bright light of the lamps on the bridge. And then the panic turned to anger which was like a small fierce fire inside him, a point of spontaneous combustion in the heart of a block of ice.

He twisted his position, shrugging off a new jet of water and holding his breath as he searched for something solid to hold. He wasn’t going to drown for them, and he wasn’t going to surrender to the cold for them, and above all he wasn’t going to die for any murdering bastards, not if it was the last thing left in the world to do.

One way or another, he just wasn’t going to give them that satisfaction.

IT WASN’T UNTIL
he reached over for the bolt on the inside of the back-garden door that Mitchell understood how frozen he was.

He could feel the outline of the metal, but his fingers wouldn’t grasp it: it was like trying to pick up a needle while wearing a thick woollen glove. In the end he abandoned the attempt and clambered over the door instead, no longer worried about his ruined suit and remembering too late as he dropped down on to the concrete path on the other side that he had only one shoe on.

As he limped towards the kitchen door he realised that there was no chance of unlocking it and getting upstairs without alerting his mother. If he couldn’t operate the bolt he certainly couldn’t turn that awkward little key, even supposing he could establish in the darkness where it was on his key-ring - supposing too that his keys were still in his pocket.

Which meant she would see him in all his glory - poor drowned Phlebas the Phoenician, a fortnight dead - upon which sight she would probably either fall into hysterics or drop instantly in a dead faint, preferably the latter. But in any case, the light was on behind the kitchen curtains, so there was positively no help for it. It was Mother or pneumonia.

He thumped with his numbed hand on the door and stood back a pace, praying for the gift of tongues. There would be a time and a place and a person for the truth, but here and now and Mother fulfilled none of the necessary conditions: now was the time for straight, quick and unashamed lying.

The door shivered and swung open, the brightness of the interior making him blink.

‘Now, Mother -‘

‘Paul, oh Paul - thank God!’ Her voice cracked with emotion. ‘Thank God!’

‘Now, Mother - I’m quite all right - I simply f-fell into the river -‘

His excuse lost impetus as he registered something very wrong with her reaction. She shouldn’t be thanking God … she should be going white with horror and surprise.

‘Oh, my darling, thank God!’

She wound her arms round his neck before he could stop her, ignoring his saturated clothes. It was as though she hadn’t heard a word he’d said.

‘M-mother - ‘ he gritted his teeth ‘ -I fell in the river, that’s all.’

It shouldn’t have sounded so completely unconvincing - it was the goddamn truth that was outlandish - but somehow his words carried no more conviction than if he’d tried to pass off his appearance as the result of his usual evening swim.

She half disengaged from the embrace suddenly, though without letting go of him, as if she still needed physical contact to reassure her that he was flesh and blood.

‘Of course you did, darling. You just fell in.’

He stared at her in absolute bewilderment, but she avoided his eyes. There was a damp patch now in the front of her dress.

‘You fell in the river, sir?’

Mitchell swivelled his head to his right, towards the door into the hallway.

A policeman.

‘You’re Mr Mitchell, sir? Mr Paul Mitchell?’

‘
It is Mr Mitchell, isn
’
t it?

A policeman? A policeman with the same question as the thug on the bridge? Before he could think about answering, his mother broke the moment of silence.

‘That’s right. Constable. My son fell in the river.’

Just as the policeman’s voice had been disbelievingly neutral, so his mother’s tone was too emphatic to be convincing. Which could only mean that he was going crazy, that he had hit his head and was in delayed shock - or that everyone else was crazy. It had to be one or the other.

‘What’s going on? What -‘

Mitchell winced as his mother tightened her grip on his arm. That was one bit of him that had taken a knock on the bridge, and not the only bit either. His shoulder was a raw, throbbing ache.

‘Mother, what’s happened?’

The grip didn’t slacken, but her eyes were blank.

‘Now, darling, you’re soaking wet and you’ll catch your death of cold if you don’t get these wet things off. So you just run upstairs and get into a hot bath at once.’

He stared into the obstinately expressionless face for one second to confirm the suspicion within him. She was now behaving so wildly out of character, with her emotions so completely battened down, that it was obvious she was trying to protect him from something. And being Mother, she was thereby making it a cast-iron, copper-bottomed certainty that whatever it was, it would get him for sure.

He looked at the policeman: youngish, fresh-faced, but sharp-looking … for all his apparent neutrality, with a predatory glint in his eye, as though he’d maybe got his teeth into something worth chewing.

‘Constable, can you kindly tell me what’s happened?’

‘I was hoping you’d tell me that, sir, actually.’

‘Paul, darling -‘

‘Shut up. Mother.’

Without looking back at her he loosened her fingers from his arm.

‘What do you mean - I’d tell you? Tell you what?’

‘Paul -‘

‘Tell you what?’

The young policeman considered him thoughtfully.

‘You said you’d fallen in the river, sir. You mean you fell into it by accident, I presume?’

Someone must have seen something - seen it, and maybe phoned the police. But then that was maybe twenty minutes or more since, and they’d have surely gone straight to the weir first, and when he’d finally climbed back on to the bridge there hadn’t been a soul in sight. He’d made sure of that.

It didn’t make sense, it made nonsense. But the time for lying was over - Mother would just have to take the truth on the chin. Or at least as much of the insane truth as there was.

‘What would you say, Constable, if I told you that two men tried to kill me this evening? That they grabbed me on the bridge over Godsey Weir and threw me in?’

He heard his mother’s sharp intake of breath beside him.

‘Is that what you’re saying, sir?’

‘Would you believe me?’

He was a little surprised at the young man’s reaction. From polite disbelief he should have graduated to irritation on being handed such a cock-and-bull story, but instead he now seemed remarkably understanding, almost sympathetic.

‘You were attacked on the towpath, sir? By two men?’

‘On the weir bridge.’

‘On the weir bridge - just so. They pushed you in.’

Mitchell nodded uneasily. He had expected to be disbelieved when he first told the story, not to be believed.

‘Then you’re very lucky not to have been drowned, sir. That weir’s a very dangerous place. You must be a very strong swimmer indeed.’

‘No, I - I’m not much of a swimmer at all. B-but I was lucky, you see.’

‘Lucky?’

‘I g-got caught under the bridge, on one of the pillars. They threw me in next to one of the gates that was lowered - closed -and the current pushed me to one side, where there was hardly any water coming through. It’s quite easy to climb back on to the bridge from underneath.’

He looked at the policeman pleadingly.

‘Do you know the weir?’

‘Yes, sir. I know it well. And you simply climbed back on to the bridge from underneath?’

‘Yes -‘

‘And these two men - the two men who attacked you - where were they?’

‘Where - ?’

The question caught him unprepared.

‘Ah - well, you see - I waited underneath - I waited until I thought they’d be sure I’d drowned. I m-must have waited ten minutes or quarter of an hour. I m-made sure they weren’t there before I came out.’

The policeman nodded.

‘You showed great presence of mind.’

‘Paul - you mustn’t - ‘

‘Please, Mother!’

‘I think you’d best leave this to me, Mrs Mitchell,’ the policeman said quickly - and much more sharply. ‘Now, Mr Mitchell -‘ his voice decelerated again ‘ - these men, can you describe them?’

‘Describe them?’

‘Did you see them?’

‘I only really saw one, and I didn’t see him properly. But I’m sure I don’t know him because he didn’t know me.’

‘How do you know that, sir?’

‘Because he asked me if my name was Mitchell. He asked me twice, in fact. They wanted to make sure it was me, that’s why. And when they were sure - ‘

They stared at each other, the same question in each look, Mitchell knew instinctively.

‘Do you know why anyone - that is, why two complete strangers, would want to throw you into the weir, sir?’ The policeman paused. ‘Because this is a very serious allegation you are making, you know. If we - ah - apprehend anyone for doing such a thing, then the charge could very well be attempted murder. Can you think of any reason why anybody would want to do such a thing?’

That was the incomprehensible beginning and end of it, which had started turning over and over inside his brain even while he’d crouched shivering in the darkness under the footbridge.

‘
It is Mr Mitchell, isn
’
t it?

Why?

‘No. I can’t.’

‘Neither can I, Mr Mitchell. And that’s why we must talk man-to-man now - if you would leave us for a moment, Mrs Mitchell.’

‘Man to - ?’ Mitchell frowned, looking from the policeman to his mother. ‘What the devil do you mean, man-to-man?’

‘Oh, Paul, my poor darling - he means that we know.’

‘Know what, for God’s sake?’

As he watched her he saw her face break up, her eyes brimming with tears. It was at last the face he knew, lined ready for tragedy and sorrow.

‘You must tell the truth, darling.’

‘But that’s what I’ve been doing.’

She shook her head. ‘No, Paul. You see - ‘

‘All right, Mrs Mitchell,’ the policeman cut in. ‘Your mother’s right, sir. If you tell the truth everything will be quite all right, and there won’t be any trouble. It isn’t like it used to be at all -that’s why I haven’t even taken my notebook out of my pocket.’

He patted his top pocket to match the words.

‘Not one thing goes down until you want it to, and then we’re only here to help you. Because that’s what you need, sir - help.’

‘You’re darned right I need help,’ Mitchell felt his anger reawakening as he spoke. ‘Somebody bloody well tried to murder me, I’m telling you - to murder me. You can put that in your book for a start.’

A muscle tightened on the young policeman’s cheek as though he was beginning to find it difficult to control his own impatience.

‘Is there any way you can substantiate that statement, sir?’

Mitchell gaped at him.

‘Any way? Good God - just look at me! Do I look as though I’ve been out for a stroll?’

The policeman shook his head slowly.

‘No, sir, you have obviously … been in the water.’

‘Well, that’s marvellous. And if I didn’t fall in - and I certainly didn’t jump in – can you suggest any other way of g-getting in the river?’

‘But if I remember correctly, you did say you fell in, when you first came into the house.’

‘That was just for my mother’s sake. I didn’t want to frighten her.’

‘I see. And you didn’t jump in?’

‘Why the blazes should I jump in?’

‘I wasn’t asking you why, sir.’

‘But you’re implying I did.’

‘Not at all, sir. I’m simply asking you - did you jump in the river?’

The patience was perceptibly draining out of the young policeman’s voice, to be replaced by a formality which made him at once much younger and much more hostile.

‘And I’m simply telling you I was thrown in - thrown in by -‘

‘Yes, sir.’

The policeman deftly lifted a notebook out of his breast-pocket, extracting a folded sheet of writing paper from it. Methodically he unfolded the sheet and offered it to Mitchell.

‘And in that case, perhaps you’d care to explain this, sir?’

Mitchell took the paper mechanically, recognising its feel as he did so: it was exactly like his own best-quality calligraphic paper. The signature jumped out of the page at him before he could take in the few typed lines above it. It was his own.

Dearest Mother,
Professor Emerson has told me today that it is no good my continuing with my work. There are others whose research is further advanced and very much better than mine. I think I have known this for some time, but I managed to shut my mind to it.
Now it’s no good pretending any more, and without Valeric there’s nothing left worth living for, nothing.
Forgive me.
Paul