The Anti-Death League
Kingsley Amis
The Anti-Death League
Kingsley Amis
Kingsley Amis
The Anti-Death League
First published in 1966
Part One
The Edge of a Node
A GIRL and an older woman were walking along a metaled pathway. To their left, beyond a strip of grass, was the front of a large high building in grey stone. Reaching its corner, at which there was a pointed turret, brought them a view of a square of grass on which stood a tower-like structure supported by stone pillars. The afternoon sun was shining brightly and the space under the main part of the tower was in deep shadow.
The girl halted. "What's happening?" she asked.
"That's just the old cat," said the other. "He's spotted something under the tower there, I expect."
A small black cat, crouching quite still, faced the shadow. After a moment, a bird with tapering wings flew out, dipped towards the cat, gave two brief twitters and wheeled back to where it had come from. The girl went on watching.
"Oh, you know what that is," said the older woman. "She'll have got a nest under there, the bird, and she's trying to keep the cat away from it. Trying to give him a scare, you see."
As she spoke, three uniformed men came into sight round the corner of the block beyond the tower and walked along the path towards the women. At the same time, a large aircraft, flying low, moved into earshot.
The bird made its circuit exactly as before. "Why doesn't he move?" asked the girl. "Can't he see the bird?"
"Oh, you bet he can. He's not missing anything, that old cat. He's got his eye on her all right. But he's not going to move and give the game away. Now we'll just watch them the once more and then we'll be getting on, shall we?"
The three in uniform came up. One of them, a tall fair-complexioned young man, slowed in his walk and stopped. "Look at this," he.said. "Did you ever see anything like it?"
"Like what?" asked the older of the two with him.
"That tower."
"Just a water-tower they thought they might as well do in the same style. A bit sinister, I agree."
The sound of the aircraft grew in volume sharply. The cat ran off towards a tree growing beside the path. Just when the girl turned and looked at the tall young man it was as if the sun went out for an instant. He flinched and drew in his breath almost with a cry.
"God, did you feel that?"
"I'll say I did. I thought I'd had a stroke or something."
"It was like the passing of the shadow of death," said the third man.
"But what it really was was the passing of the shadow of a passenger aircraft. Look, it'll cross that slope in a second. There."
"Thank Christ for that," said the tall young man. "I really felt like, you know, a fly when the swatter comes down. Gave me quite a turn."
He looked again at the girl, who was not looking at him. The older woman, however, was, and unamiably.
"Come along, Mrs. Casement," she said with an abruptness she had not shown earlier. "We haven't got all night, dear. You're not the only one, you know."
The two groups diverged.
"I never took our James for a student of architecture, did you, Moti?" asked the senior of the three officers, a gaunt man wearing a major's crowns and a clergyman's collar and silk.
"Ah, there you have his well-known subtlety, padre. He was really admiring something far more worth a young man's while than cold stones, am I right, James?"
"Well, yes. I thought she was wonderful, didn't you? Extraordinary eyes. But sort of blank and frightened."
"Probably the shadow of that plane," said the clergyman. "It is scaring if you don't know what it is. It even got me until I remembered. I was quite used to it at one time."
"I should have said she was frightened already. But then who wouldn't be in a bloody place like this?"
The clergyman frowned. "It's got a pretty good reputation. I'm sure they all do what they can."
"By putting up this sort of thing, for instance?"
The pathway had broadened to a circle. In the middle was an ornamental pond, its stonework discolored and scabbed with moss, and in the center of this a plinth on which crouched a stone creature somewhat resembling a lion. Each of its claws became a thin stem ending in a flower shaped like a flattened bell, from which in turn protruded a kind of tongue with three points. The thin tail appeared to have been broken off short and the break filed smooth. From the smiling mouth there curled upwards a triple tongue with a small object, not certainly identifiable, at each point. Every inch of the surface had at one time been enameled with minute designs, but these were largely weathered away.
"A nice welcoming sort of chap to run into on your way in here," said the young man addressed as James. "I dreamt about him the other night."
"Good for you." The clergyman took him by the arm and drew him off towards a flight of stone steps that led up to the entrance of the building. "Is there anything like that in your part of the world, Moti?"
"Not that I know of? I'm thankful to say. We're a pretty morbid lot in our own fashion, but rather more direct. We leave that kind of thing to our yellow brethren. In fact I seem to remember seeing a photo of a gentleman somewhat resembling our friend, though minus the horticulture, standing in a palace at Peking or one of those places. An interesting sidelight."
They reached a paneled vestibule with notices on every hand, some pinned to the woodwork, others on small stands. Pre-Raphaelite Exhibition All This Month in Lecture-Room B, said one. Coach Excursion to St. Jerome's Priory: Names to Office by Friday Please, said another.
"What used to be at the end of his tail, do you think?"
The clergyman glared. "Come off it, James, for heaven's sake. What's the matter with you today? I could give you my theory about that, and back it up, but it wouldn't go too well with my cloth. And what do you care?"
"Oh, the respected cloth."
"Yes, the respected cloth. I know it's a bit threadbare in places, but it's all I've got. Now chin in, shoulders back, arms swung as high as the waist-belt to front and rear and get set to cheer him up. That reminds me-give me that cake."
A small parcel was passed from hand to hand as they walked down the dip of a corridor that rose again out of sight.
"Intimations of infinity," said the officer called Moti, taking in this effect. "Highly therapeutic."
"Oh, look at this," said the clergyman after a moment. "The Army's here. I detect the hand of Captain Leonard. Applied, as you might expect, a little late in the day."
They approached a recessed double door outside which a young NCO was rising to his feet from a folding chair. Before him was a card-table on which lay an open foolscap notebook and a couple of technical manuals.
"Good afternoon, gentlemen," he said, coming smartly to attention. "You wish to visit Captain Hunter, I take it?"
"Yes, if the Army Council has no objection. What the devil are you doing here? I mean it's nice to see you, Fawkes, but what are you in aid of?"
The NCO grinned. "Security, Major Ayscue."
"I thought it might be that. Captain Leonard's inspiration?"
"His orders, sir. Everybody who comes and goes has to have his or her full name written down here, plus the time he or she came and went. Very vital information, those times. Captain Leonard was most insistent about them. Oh, and it might interest you to know, sir, that all visitors have got to go down in the book whether it's Captain Hunter they've come to see or not. You never know whether a North Korean mightn't worm himself in with a tape-recorder, you see."
"There wasn't anyone here when I came last week."
"No doubt, Mr. Churchill, but that was last week. And this week we're making a special effort, because Captain Hunter might
be coming out in a few days and we're only on the second page of the book. Now let's see"-he began writing-"Fifteen forty-four hours… Major… Ayscue… Captain… Naidu…"
"Is it all right for us to go in now, Fawkes?" asked Ayscue.
"Oh, I think so, sir. Captain Leonard did tell me not to let anyone by until I'd written them down, but I think, I can hold Mr. Churchill's name in my head for a few more seconds. You'll find Captain Hunter very cheerful, by the way. Quite his old self."
"Thank you, Corporal Fawkes," said Naidu. "I take it I shan't be required to furnish a photostat of my commission to the Minister of Defence?"
"No, sir. Captain Leonard didn't say anything about that."
The three officers entered a long airy room with sunlight beating through the windows. More light was reflected from the glossy walls and from the glass of the many pictures hanging on these. Down the middle ran a trestle table that bore dozens of vases of flowers and plants in pots. Thick streamers of greenery curled down from wire baskets attached to the ceiling.
A figure sitting up in bed at the far end of the room raised an arm and the visitors approached. On either side, also in bed, were men reading, men apparently asleep, men lying down but not asleep. One man was looking carefully round the room, as if for the first time, while another man in white trousers and T shirt watched him as carefully from a nearby chair. Yet another man, with irregular patches of grey hair on a grey scalp, got up from a bench by the window and moved away, keeping track of the arrivals out of the corner of his eye.
The man who was putting the Army to so much trouble seemed very much at home. He was lying back against advantageously arranged pillows within reach of various comforts: non-glossy illustrated magazines, paperback novels on the covers of which well-developed girls cringed or sneered, a comparatively hard-back work on how to win at poker, a couple of newspapers folded so as to reveal half-completed crossword puzzles, a tin jug containing a cloudy greyish fluid, packets of French cigarettes and an open box of chocolates. Captain Hunter, a thin pale man of twenty-eight with a thin black mustache, smiled and extended his hand.
"Hullo, boys," he said, and offered cigarettes which Ayscue and Churchill accepted. "I'm afraid I can't give you a light. You're not allowed to have matches and stuff in here because you might start burning the place down. Almost certainly would, in fact. Oh, thank you, James. Is that parcel for me? What's in it?"
"A cake," said Ayscue. "But don't go cutting it now."
"My dear Willie, I couldn't if I wanted to. No knives, like no matches. But the nice nurse comes on at six and he might see his way to lending me one."
"Well, mind he isn't about when you start slicing."
"What…? I suppose there's a file and a rope-ladder in it."
"Not exactly." Naidu spoke with some disapproval. "A different mode of escape."
"You don't mean…"
"Yes," said Churchill. "Three quarter-bottles of White Horse. Corporal Beavis baked the thing up in the Mess kitchen. Sorry we couldn't get any more in."
"Quite enough for a man in my condition. Thank you all most awfully."
"How is your condition, Max?" asked Ayscue.
"Oh, splendid. Dr. Best is very pleased with me. He says he's been able to explain to me just why I got myself into the state I did and so I shouldn't have any more trouble. He's letting me out on proba-tion next Wednesday."
Churchill said diffidently, "What was the explanation he gave you? If you want to talk about it, of course."
"I haven't the remotest notion, dear boy. I'm only telling you what he says he's done. He likes doing all the talking himself. It must come from being supposed to ask so many questions. I just let him get on with it."
"It's bound to be a difficult task, giving it up," said Naidu. "But you can rely on us three to give you all the support and encouragement in the world."
"Whatever is possessing you, Moti? Nobody said anything about giving it up. Any fool can give it up. I'm going to do something much more worthwhile than that-ditching alcoholism and taking up very heavy drinking. Talking of drinking, I'll have to watch that Scotch. Too much at one go and I'll start acting sober, and that'd be suspicious. You see, these pills they give you, when they really get hold of you you start acting pissed all the time. That's how they know when you're taking a turn for the better."
"You're not acting pissed," said Churchill.
"I'd like to think I've always known how to hold my liquor."
"You weren't holding it too well the night we brought you here."
"No gentleman can or should be always a gentleman. Some get more ungentlemanly than others, though. You see that white-haired old buffer down by the door? Last Saturday he was let out on a week's probation. Very early indeed on Tuesday morning they carted him back in, pissed. The ‘they' included a small detachment of police as well as a crying wife. There was no end of a to-do, I can assure you. I haven't heard such language since that last Sergeants' Mess party. At lunchtime today he fell out of bed. What do you think of that? Just try to imagine how he must have attacked the stuff to be still pissed after four and a half days. And he only had two days and a bit to fill his tanks. You know, I can't help finding that rather disturbing? It seems to flout some basic law. Oh, if you can't manage another cake by say Monday, do you think you could send me a book about drinks, cocktail recipes or what-not? There's a lot to be said for pornography in the absence of the real thing. Ask anybody."
"You'd better be careful with those empties," said Ayscue.
"Oh, no problem. I shall just heave them out of the loo window. There's a sort of cairn of broken bottles in the bushes by that corner. I found it on one of my rambles through the extensive grounds when, disinclined to trudge all the way back indoors for the purpose, I was looking for a place to pee. That wasn't all I found, either. In a brief circuit of fifty yards or so I came across no fewer than three very amorous couples, and that was without trying to come across them. Quite the contrary. I was virtually threading my way. I get the impression everybody's at it all the time. It's no more than you'd expect in an environment like this."
Churchill ground out his cigarette. "Not everybody, surely."
"I was speaking figuratively. Not everybody, no. I question whether the catatonics do much in that way, and no doubt the senility wards have a stainless record. Dr. Best took me round them the other afternoon. Nothing personal about it-it's a standard trip, all part of the service. I was expecting him to take the opportunity to deliver a little lecture on the perils of self-abuse, but for once he let things speak for themselves."
When none of the other three said anything, Hunter went on, "I had our old buddy Brian Leonard round here a couple of days ago. He'd really come to keep Fawkes up to the mark, he told me, but having come so far he saw nothing against walking the few extra yards to my bedside. He wasn't entirely happy, he said. He seemed to think that a dipsomaniac in charge of the administration of a secret-weapons training unit represented some kind of danger to security. I did what I could to reassure him. I pointed out that if the worst threat of that sort came from the odd dipsomaniac then he hadn't much to worry about. He agreed with that, and said that anyway he was satisfied I didn't know enough to be a menace."
Naidu had thrown off the slight uneasiness he had been betraying in the previous few minutes. "If that is so," he said accusingly, "how does brother Leonard justify this quite ridiculous fandango with the unfortunate Corporal Fawkes at the door like the recording angel?"
Hunter did his silent laugh. "We went into that. He was very man-to-man about it-I've never felt so close to him before. He was sure I'd agree that one had to go through the motions in matters of this sort. He never knew when his master in Whitehall mightn't want to know what was being done to stop this dipso admin officer's mouth, in the talking sense, that is, and the Fawkes arrangement would cover him. I asked him whether in that case a sentry in radiation battle order mightn't be even more impressive, and he said he could tell I was joking and c
lapped me on the back and we had a jolly good laugh together. You know, I must introduce Brian to Dr. Best one of these days. They'd get on like a house on fire."
"Did Leonard say anything about this spy idea of his?" asked Naidu.
"Only that he was more convinced than ever that there was one, at least one, somewhere in the unit. In fact he said he now had positive proof-he wouldn't tell me what sort. But he still had very little idea of who the spy might be, except that he'd now more or less ruled out the high-security people, plus me and the Colonel and you, Willie. I put it to him that any proof of a thing like there being a spy in a place ought to throw a good deal of light on who the spy was or else it was a pretty odd sort of proof. He turned all bland and mysterious and said yes, it was."
"Very helpful indeed." Naidu stood with his hands behind his back, evidently pondering. "Did he voice any particular suspicions?"
"Not really. All these Indians and Pakistanis coming into the unit made his job frightfully tricky-I'm just telling you what he told me, Moti. He saw that they had to come, but he wasn't happy about the efficiency of their Governments' screening systems. His master in Whitehall is going to have a word with someone about it."
After more thought, Naidu said, "He seems most curiously ready to discuss the problem, even if he doesn't give much away. I ask myself why this should be. Would it not seem that a prerequisite of catching a spy would be to avoid putting him on his guard by letting it be known that his presence is suspected?"
"I asked him that very question. Apparently what's called the philosophy of phylactology-spy-catching to you-has been transformed. Keeping dead mum until the final pounce is old hat now. You go round saying how near you're getting and wait for somebody along the line to get anxious enough to show a break in their behavior-pattern. The new method works better except with very brave spies and there are figures to prove that only nine per cent or something are that. Anyway, no more about Security. It's a subject for fools and madmen, as my chat with Brian Leonard might well suggest to you. But like everything else it has its compensations. One or two of Fawkes's mates have turned up to see him when they're off duty and they tend to look in on me as well. Somebody called Signalman Pearce, who works on the camp telephone exchange, appeared this very morning and discussed jazz and popular music with me for over half an hour. A most charming lad. Which somehow reminds me to tell you the only really interesting thing Dr. Best had to say about my difficulties. According to him I'm probably a repressed homosexual."
