Ruins by Brian Aldiss (romantic novels to read .txt) 📗

‘We’ll have to do something about Dwyer,’ he called in to Rose, who was working in the bathroom. ‘Otherwise, we’ll always be worrying.’

He kept his real worry to himself. Dwyer had become a vast figure of evil in his mind. Not knowing what the man looked like, he was free to imagine an ogre, bent on the destruction of their happiness. Dwyer was a nightmare, linked to the nightmare from which the smashing of the glass had roused Billing. He was a spectre beyond reason, which had to be laid. The thought of him brought Billing to a state close to paralysis. But he fought against his nerves and, with Rose’s none too reluctant help, developed a plan, based on the premise that Dwyer, to have thrown a brick with any accuracy through the front door, would have had to stop his cab temporarily opposite the house.

On Saturday nights, they generally went down to the local pub for a drink and a bite to eat. On this evening, they had supper ‘at home’, as they already began to think of it. By ten o’clock, the remains of cold smoked herring, salad, and Jacob’s Club biscuits were cleared away and they sat staring at each other.

‘He may not show up, of course.’

‘Seems a bit unlikely.’

‘Yes.’

‘Still, he might.’

‘I know. Be prepared, eh?’

‘It’s always best. Teach him a lesson.’

‘A bloody good lesson.’

‘Else we’d never feel safe.’

‘I’ll go outside.’

‘It’s far too early.’

‘Better be ready, just in case.’

‘You’re right there.’

By ten-thirty, he was in position in the front garden, concealed from the road by a wispy privet bush. The nearby street-lamp lit the front of the house. Billing and Rose had planned everything carefully. They had pinned a sheet of cardboard over the unbroken pane of the door and left the door standing open. Billing had even gone to the trouble of crumpling up a few pages of the Daily Mirror, placing them where they could be seen, on the upper step and in front of the open door. In the darkness, the house thus presented a derelict air, attractive to the vandalous-minded. Rose waited inside while Billing crouched uncomfortably by his bush. He felt the gravel under his thin shoes. A twig scratched persistently at his right cheek. One buttock nudged the railings which marked the extent of his property. His right hand was cold where he clutched a poker, his offensive weapon, too tightly.

What a mass of contradictions you are, he told himself. You’re in acute fear of this Dwyer, you see him as an ultimate brute. At the same time you long to get at him, to kill him, even. Rose is to blame for all this. How did I get into such a mess?

More deeply, he thought, Father didn’t care one bit for me or he would never have allowed himself to fall off that ladder. Such things are never really accidental. If he were still alive, he’d give me some guidance and protection in life and not let me drift. Now I’m going to get beaten up, all because of him.

He clutched the poker tighter.

By eleven, he had stopped thinking.

Some people went past in the street, most of them quietly. Cars roared by, including the odd taxi. A dog came and barked tentatively before moving on. The air grew colder.

By eleven-thirty, Billing had had enough. He whistled to Rose and went inside.

‘We mustn’t give up,’ Rose told him, giving him a hug. ‘This is about George’s time. Have a snort of gin and then let’s get back on watch again.’

‘I’ve had enough.’

‘Just till quarter past twelve. We must nail the old bugger if we can.’

Back by the privet, Billing immured himself to hardship by recalling scenes from his American past. Taking over a new apartment in Riverside, hearing a phone ring as he entered and running from room to room trying to locate it. Being in a woman’s house when the mosquito door banged and in came a businesslike dog with a cigar in its mouth. The woman – her name had gone – taught rehabilitative drama at the Alabama State Penitentiary, Children’s Division. Waking in Greenwich Village and finding that someone had built a punk tree outside his window, made entirely of copies of the St Petersburg Times. A sign on a road outside Atlanta, Georgia, erected in sorrow or pride, saying ‘One driver in every ten on this road is drunk’. America was much more surreal than England. It was a pity.

His wandering thoughts were recalled by the sound of a car stopping on the far side of the street. He crouched lower, glancing at his watch. It was ten minutes past midnight. A man was getting out of the driving seat of a cab. It was Dwyer! This was it!

Everything was still. The orange London smog sulked overhead. The man walked slowly across the deserted street, hands in pockets.

Billing gripped the poker, fear gripped Billing.

The man came slowly to the iron gate. He stood there on the pavement, scrutinising the front of the house, with its half-open door, its lightless windows. He was a small, thick-set man, rather less terrifying than Billing’s imaginings. He wore a bomber jacket and cord trousers.

Suddenly he moved, looking to left and right and then, finding the street empty, running forward, covering the front path in two strides and reaching the steps that led up to the open door.

Billing jumped from concealment without thought, brandishing the poker. At almost the same time, Rose emerged from the shadows with a bucket of cold water, which she flung at Dwyer. Unfortunately, Billing, in his excitement, had given a shout of challenge as he emerged. Dwyer turned, fists ready.

Some of the water hit its target. Quite as much soaked Billing.

He struck out boldly, blindly, and the poker caught Dwyer across one shoulder, thwacking into the bomber jacket.

Cursing, Dwyer started to feel in one of his pockets, kicking out at Billing at the same time with a toecap to his right