17

The crowd outside had grown.

No one was doing anything. They just stood there and looked gaping at the hole in the roof, and talking quietly among themselves - not screaming, not shouting, but talking, as if they knew something else was about to happen and were passing away the time, waiting for it to happen. Sherwood kept pacing up and down the floor.

‘Gibbs should be phoning soon,’ he said. ‘I don’t know what has happened to him. He should have called by now.’

‘Maybe,’ Nancy said, ‘he got held up - maybe his plane was late. Maybe there was trouble on the road.’

I stood at the window watching the crowd. I knew almost all of them. They were friends and neighbours and there was not a thing to stop them, if they wanted to, from coming up the walk and knocking at the door and coming in to see me.

But now, instead, they stood outside and watched and waited. It was, I thought, as if the house were a cage and I was some new, strange animal from some far-off land.

Twenty-four hours ago I had been another villager, a man who had lived and grown up with those people watching in the street. But now I was a freak, an oddity - perhaps, in the minds of some of them, a sinister figure that threatened, if not their lives, their comfort and their peace of mind.

For this village could never be the same again - and perhaps the world could never be the same again. For even if the barrier now should disappear and the Flowers withdraw their attention from our Earth, we still would have been shaken from the comfortable little rut which assumed that life as we knew it was the only kind of life and that our road of knowledge was the only one that was broad and straight and paved.

There had been ogres in the past, but finally the ogres had been banished. The trolls and ghouls and imps and all the others of the tribe had been pushed out of our lives, for they could survive only on the misty shores of ignorance and in the land of superstition. Now, I thought, we’d know an ignorance again (but a different kind of ignorance) and superstition; too, for superstition fed upon the lack of knowledge. With this hint of another world - even if its denizens should decide not to flaunt themselves, even if we should find a way to stop them - the trolls and ghouls and goblins would be back with us again. There’d be chimney corner gossip of this other place and a frantic, desperate search to rationalize the implied horror of its vast and unknown reaches, and out of this very search would rise a horror greater than any true other world could hold. We’d be afraid, as we had been before, of the darkness that lay beyond the little circle of our campfire.

There were more people in the Street; they kept coming all the time. There was Pappy Andrews, cracking his cane upon the sidewalk, and Grandma Jones, with her sunbonnet socked upon her head, and Charley Hutton, who owned the Happy Hollow tavern. Bill Donovan, the garbage man, was in the front ranks of the crowd, but I didn’t see his wife, and I wondered if Myrt and Jake had come to get the kids. And just as big and mouthy as if he’d lived in Millville all his life and known these folks from babyhood, was Gabe Thomas, the trucker who, after me, had been the first man to find out about the barrier.

Someone stirred beside me and I saw that it was Nancy. I knew now that she had been standing there for some little time.

‘Look at them,’ I said. ‘It’s a holiday for them. Any minute now the parade will be along.’

‘They’re just ordinary people,’ Nancy said. ‘You can’t expect too much of them. Brad, I’m afraid you do expect too much of them. You even expected that the men who were here would take what you told them at face value, immediately and unquestioningly.’

‘Your father did,’ I said.

‘Father’s different. He’s not an ordinary man. And, besides, he had some prior knowledge, he had a little warning. He had one of those telephones. He knew a little bit about it.’

‘Some,’ I said. ‘Not much.’

‘I haven’t talked with him. There’s been no chance for us to talk. And I couldn’t ask him in front of all those people. But I know that he’s involved. Is it dangerous, Brad?’

‘I don’t think so. Not from out there or back there or wherever that other world may be. No danger from the alien world - not now, not yet. Any danger that we have to face lies in this world of ours. We have a decision we must make and it has to be the right one.’

‘How can we tell,’ she ‘asked, ‘what is the right decision? We have no precedent.’

And that was it, of course, I thought. There was no way in which a decision - any decision - could be justified.

There was a shouting from outside and I moved closer to the window to see farther up the street. Striding down the centre of it came Hiram Martin and in one hand he carried a cordless telephone.

Nancy caught sight of him and said, ‘He’s bringing back our phone. Funny, I never thought he would.’

It was Hiram shouting and he was shouting in a chant, a deliberate, mocking chant.

‘All right, come out and get your phone. Come on out and get your God damn phone.’

Nancy caught her breath and I brushed past her to the door. I jerked it open and stepped out on the porch.

Hiram reached the gate and he quit his chanting. The two of us stood there, watching one another. The crowd was getting noisy and surging closer.

Then Hiram raised his arm, with the phone held above his head.

‘All right,’ he yelled, ‘here’s your phone, you dirty…’

Whatever else he said was drowned out by the howling of the crowd.

Then Hiram threw the phone. It was an unhandy thing to throw and the throw was not too good. The receiver flew out to one side, with its trailing cord looping in the air behind it. When the cord jerked taut, the flying phone skidded out of its trajectory and came crashing to the concrete walk, falling about halfway between the gate and porch. Pieces of shattered plastic sprayed across the lawn.

Scarcely aware that I was doing it, acting not by any thought or consideration, but on pure emotion, I came down off the porch and headed for the gate. Hiram backed away to give me room and I came charging through the gate and stood facing him.

I’d had enough of Hiram Martin. I was filled up to here with him. He’d been in my hair for the last two days and I was sick to death of him. There was just one thought - to tear the man apart, to pound him to a pulp, to make certain he’d never sneer at me again, never mock me, never try again to bully me by the sole virtue of sheer size.

I was back in the days of childhood - seeing through the stubborn and red-shot veil of hatred that I had known then, hating this man I knew would lick me, as he had many times before, but ready, willing, anxious to inflict whatever hurt I could while he was licking me.

Someone bawled, ‘Give ‘em room!’ Then I was charging at him and he hit me. He didn’t have the time or room to take much of a swing at me, but his fist caught me on the side of the head and it staggered me and hurt. He hit me again almost immediately, but this one also was a glancing blow and didn’t hurt at all - and this time I connected. I got my left into his belly just above the belt and when he doubled over I caught him in the mouth and felt the smart of bruised, cut knuckles as they smashed against his teeth. I was swinging again when a fist came out of nowhere and slammed into my head and my head exploded into a pinwheel of screaming stars. I knew that I was down, for I could feel the hardness of the street against my knees, but I struggled up and my vision cleared. I couldn’t feel my legs. I seemed to be moving and bobbing in the air with nothing under me. I saw Hiram’s face just a foot or so away and his mouth was a gash of red and there was blood on his shirt. So I hit his mouth again - not very hard, perhaps, for there wasn’t much steam left behind my punches. But he grunted and he ducked away and I came boring in.

And that was when he hit me for keeps.

I felt myself going down, falling backwards and it seemed that it took a long time for me to fall. Then I hit and the street was harder than I thought it would be and hitting the street hurt me more than the punch that put me there.

I groped around, trying to get my hands in position to hoist myself erect, although I wondered vaguely why I bothered. For if I got up, Hiram would belt me another one and I’d be back down again. But I knew I had to get up, that I had to get up each time I was able. For that was the kind of game Hiram and I had always played. He knocked me down each time I got up and I kept on getting up until I couldn’t any more and I never cried for quarter and I never admitted I was licked. And if, for the rest of my life, I could keep on doing that, then I’d be the one who won, not Hiram.

But I wasn’t doing so well. I wasn’t getting up. Maybe, I thought, this is the time I don’t get up.

I still kept pawing with my hands, trying to lift myself and that’s how I got the rock. Some kid, perhaps, had thrown it, maybe days before - maybe at a bird, maybe at a dog, maybe just for the fun of throwing rocks. And it had landed in the street and stayed there and now the fingers of my right hand found it and closed around it and it fitted comfortably into my palm, for it was exactly fist size.

A hand, a great meaty paw of a hand, came down from above and grabbed my shirt front and hauled me to my feet.

‘So,’ screamed a voice, ‘assault an officer, would you!’

His face swam in front of me, a red-smeared face twisted with his hatred, heavy with its meanness, gloating at the physical power he held over me.

I could feel my legs again and the face came clearer and the clot of faces in the background - the faces of the crowd, pressing close to be in at the kill.

One did not give up, I told myself, remembering back to all those other times I had not given up. As long as one was on his feet, he fought, and even when he was down and could not get up, he did not admit defeat.

Both of his hands were clutching at my shirt front, his face pushed close toward mine, I clenched my fist and my fingers closed hard around the rock and then I swung. I swung with everything I had, putting every ounce of strength I could muster behind the swinging fist swinging from the waist in a jolting upward jab, and I caught him on the chin.

His head snapped back, pivoting on the thick, bull neck. He staggered and his fingers loosened and he crumpled, sprawling in the street.

I stepped back a pace and stood looking down at him and everything was clearer now and. I knew I had a body, a bruised and beaten body that ached, it seemed, in every joint and muscle. But that didn’t matter; it didn’t mean a thing - for the first time in my life I’d knocked Hiram Martin down. I’d used a rock to do it and I didn’t give a damn. I hadn’t meant to pick up that rock - I’d just found it and closed my fingers on it. I had not planned to use it, but now that I had it made no difference to me. If I’d had time to plan, I’d probably have planned to use it.

Someone leaped Out from the crowd toward me and I saw it was Tom Preston.

‘You going to’ let him get away with it?’ Preston was screaming at the crowd. ‘He hit an officer! He hit him with a rock! He picked up a rock!’

Another man pushed out of the crowd and grabbed Preston by the shoulder, lifting him and setting him back in the forefront of the crowd.

‘You keep out of this,’ Gabe Thomas said.

‘But he used a rock!’ screamed Preston.

‘He should have used a club,’ said Gabe. ‘He should have beat his brains out.’

Hiram was stirring, sitting up. His hand reached for his gun.

‘Touch that gun,’ I told him. ‘Just one finger on it and, so help me, I’ll kill you.’

Hiram stared at me. I must have been a sight. He’d worked me over good and he’d mussed me up a lot and still I’d knocked him down and was standing on my feet.

‘He hit you with a rock,’ yelped Preston. ‘He hit…’ Gabe reached out and his fingers fitted neatly around Preston’s skinny throat. He squeezed and Preston’s mouth flapped open and his tongue came out.

‘You keep out of it,’ said Gabe.

‘But Hiram’s an officer of the law,’ protested Chancy Hutton. ‘Brad shouldn’t have hit an officer.’

‘Friend,’ Gabe told the tavern owner, ‘he’s a damn poor officer. No officer worth his salt goes picking fights with people.’

I’d never taken my eyes off Hiram and he’d been watching me, but now he flicked his eyes to one side and his hand dropped to the ground.

And in that moment I knew that I had won - not because I was the stronger, not because I fought the better (for I wasn’t and I hadn’t) but because Hiram was a coward, because he had no guts, because, once hurt, he didn’t have the courage to chance being hurt again. And I knew, too, that I need not fear the gun he carried, for Hiram Martin didn’t have it in him to face another man and kill him.

Hiram got slowly to his feet and stood there for a moment. His hand came up and felt his jaw. Then he turned his back and walked away. The crowd, watching silently, parted to make a path for him.

I stared at his retreating back and a fierce, bloodthirsty satisfaction rose up inside of me. After more than twenty years, I’d beaten this childhood enemy. But, I told myself I had not beat him fair - I’d had to play dirty to triumph over him. But I found it made no difference. Dirty fight or fair, I had finally licked him.

The crowd moved slowly back. No one spoke to me. No one spoke to anyone.

‘I guess,’ said Gabe, ‘there are no other takers. If there were, they’d have to fight me, too.’

‘Thanks, Gabe,’ I said.

‘Thanks, hell,’ he said. ‘I didn’t do a thing.’

I opened up my fist and the rock dropped to the street. In the silence, it made a terrible clatter.

Gabe hauled a huge red handkerchief out of his rear pocket and stepped over to me. He put a hand back of my head to hold it steady and began to wipe my face.

‘In a month or so,’ he said, by way of comfort, ‘you’ll look all right again.’

‘Hey, Brad,’ yelled someone, ‘who’s your friend?’

I couldn’t see who it was who yelled. There were so many people.

‘Mister,’ yelled someone else, ‘be sure you wipe his nose.’

‘Go on!’ roared Gabe. ‘Go on! Any of you wisecrackers walk out here in plain sight and I’ll dust the street with you.’

Grandma Jones said in a loud voice, so that Pappy Andrews could hear. ‘He’s the trucker fellow that smashed Brad’s car. Appears to me if Brad has to fight someone, he should be fighting him.’

‘Big mouth,’ yelled back Pappy Andrews. ‘He’s got an awful big mouth.’

I saw Nancy standing by the gate and she had the same look on her face that she’d had when we were kids and I had fought Hiram Martin then. She was disgusted with me. She had never held with fighting; she thought that it was vulgar.

The front door burst open and Gerald Sherwood came running down the walk. He rushed over and grabbed me by the arm.

‘Come on,’ he shouted. ‘The senator called. He’s out there waiting for you, on the east end of the road.’