The Night of the Triffids Read online

  Every now and again I'd have to remind myself that this wasn't really my home, that home for me was a small island on the other side of the Atlantic. Truthfully, though, that island had become indistinct to me, as if the first three decades of my life had been spent asleep and I'd only woken up fully the day I set foot in New York.

  Much of that was due to Kerris. Even after this short spell of time I found it hard to accept that I'd have to leave her here when I returned to the Isle of Wight.

  And if my thoughts could have travelled through the air like radio waves and reached that cool, Machiavellian mind that I mentioned before, its owner would have nodded with satisfaction. A telephone call was made. Soon everything was arranged.

  ***

  'David?' Kerris turned a wineglass between her fingers in the cinema bar during the interval. 'Can I ask you something?'

  'Of course,' I said, smiling. 'Fire away.'

  'This sounds a bit old-fashioned, but would you like to meet my father?'

  'Of course. I'd be delighted.'

  She'd not mentioned her parents much so this was a bit of a bolt - a very small one, admittedly, - from the blue. Nevertheless, I readily accepted. 'And will I get a chance to meet your mother, too?'

  'Ah, I'm afraid not.'

  I'd clumsily stepped on toes. 'I'm sorry, Kerris, I didn't mean to-'

  'No, no.' She waved away my apologies. 'She died when I was born.'

  'I'm terribly sorry.'

  'Don't.' She tapped my knee. 'You weren't to know. Now finish your wine. The movie's about to start.'

  ***

  The poster in the subway carriage spelt out the following message in large, shouting purple inks: NEW YORK - Home to the brightest minds, the most brilliant men, the world's greatest structures!

  Gabriel Deeds noticed me reading the poster. He smiled. 'Just in case we forget.'

  'Are you hinting that some of the trumpet-blowing is a little strident?' I asked.

  Gabriel's smile broadened. 'Why, Mr Masen. I think it's just perfect.'

  'And I think I detect a hint of irony, too.'

  He simply shrugged, then looked out of the window as the train rushed into one of the brightly lit subway stations. The train wasn't particularly crowded. Only a few passengers got into our carriage. Three black women and two blind men. I could see through connecting doors into adjoining carriages where the passengers were all white and sighted. Initially, I hadn't noticed the sign on the window of our carriage: COLOUREDS & UNSIGHTED. I did notice, however, the curious glances the black women were giving me.

  'Don't worry, Mr Masen.' Gabriel spoke in his customary soft tones. 'There's no bar to you riding in this particular carriage.'

  Suddenly feeling awkward, I said, 'Gabriel, the name's David, don't forget.'

  'In some public places, it's best that I address you as Mister.'

  'Then I'll call you Mr Deeds.'

  'Then, Mr Masen, that would get you a slight scolding from the cops and me into a hell of a lot of trouble. You do understand, Mr Masen?'

  'I understand… Gabriel.'

  'Don't worry. It's just one of our local customs. You'll get used to them.'

  They weren't pleasant customs, but I didn't say anything.

  The train hurtled into Columbus Square station. Everyone in our carriage, with the exception of Gabriel and myself, disembarked. The two unsighted men walked briskly away, tapping canes against the ground.

  When the doors had slid shut again Gabriel turned to me and said under his breath, 'So what's your take on paradise?'

  'It's got a lot to offer. But I don't care for the segregation of blacks and unsighted people.'

  'I believe that's just a…'

  'Aberration' was the word I thought he'd use. Instead: 'I believe that's just a transitional custom.'

  'I call it horrible.'

  He allowed me my view, shrugging. 'When the blindness came to New York there was chaos, as you'd imagine. Out of a population of seven million probably ninety-eight per cent were blinded. They starved in their apartments or on the streets. Only the local wildlife didn't go hungry.' He gave me a significant nod. 'Triffids moved in over the bridges. Killed most of who was left, but it has to be said, they did a good job clearing the dead from the sidewalks. Then, around twenty years ago, an armada of ships sailed into the Hudson. "Miracle of the Hundred Ships", they call it. We even commemorate it with an annual holiday every April. Well, those people cleared up the place with the help of communities clinging on by their fingertips along the coast, here and on Long Island.'

  'It must have been a heck of a mess.'

  'It was. But those guys who saw Manhattan Island as a great stronghold of civilization were true visionaries. They did the impossible. The millions of corpses that the triffids couldn't get to in buildings and so on were buried at sea. They restored power, fresh-water supplies, wiped out the triffids. Rounded up people from far and wide, brought them here, put them in nice apartments, gave them jobs, and - more importantly - hope.'

  'So who does run this place?'

  'The Tetrarchs.'

  'Tetrarch - sounds Roman, if I remember rightly?'

  Gabriel nodded. 'You do remember right. It's where a province was divided into four with a governor, a Tetrarch, assigned to each part. Here the divisions aren't geographical but administrative. Each Tetrarch is responsible for a certain area of government - General Fielding looks after the military, foreign affairs and triffid control. Policy and Resources is Dr Wiseman's responsibility. Population Recovery is Valerie Zito's, and Joe Garibaldi takes care of Industrial Recovery.'

  'They're elected?'

  'Are your bosses?'

  'They will be.'

  Gabriel gave a little smile. 'Ditto.'

  'You consider them an effective government?'

  'Very.'

  'Do you like them?'

  'Like them? I respect them.'

  'But do you like them?'

  'Is that a material consideration when it comes to assessing whether they can do the job or not?

  I smiled. 'Point taken.'

  'Have you asked Kerris the same questions?'

  'Do you think I should?'

  Gabriel shrugged. 'I'd be curious to hear her answer… particularly concerning General Fielding.'

  'Why General Fielding?'

  'Didn't she tell you?'

  'Tell me what?' Now I was puzzled.

  'General Fielding is Kerris's father.' He nodded to the door as the train slid into the station. 'Our stop, Mr Masen.'

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  DISCUSSION

  'I didn't think it was that important,' Kerris answered lightly as we strolled through the evening sunlight.

  'That your father is the leader of a whole city? It's not something that most people would keep secret.' I grinned. 'Just imagine what it could do for your career prospects.'

  Kerris smiled. 'It can get complicated. Being the boss's daughter, so to speak. Your workmates tend to treat you a little gingerly. In any case-' She took my arm. 'He's one of four leaders. Not the sole leader. He's also from England originally, so you two will have something common.'

  'I know this makes me sound a bit dim but why are you a Baedekker instead of a Fielding?'

  ' "Baedekker" is the name of the nursery complex where I was raised. You have to realize that my father isn't a father in the traditional sense. He never pushed me around the park in a baby carriage or took me to the movies. He was my father in a strictly biological sort of way.'

  'Oh.'

  'But I have met him several times. In fact, just last week he telephoned me. That was when he invited us to a drinks party tonight.'

  I reflected for a moment. Kerris didn't seem unhappy about the arrangement. It was merely the natural way of things for her. I was reminded of our own Mother Houses on the Isle of Wight. In a world where getting more human beings onto the planet with as much speed as possible was all-important, I realized this society in New York had adopted a simil
ar procedure. In the Old World before the Blinding, it would have been unthinkable for many reasons - social, political and emotional. Now, no one batted an eyelid.

  'We're here,' she said, with a bright smile. 'Pop's place.'

  I looked up at the building which shone reddish gold in the evening sun. The columns flanking the base, with their suggestion of papyrus and palm fronds, had a distinctly Egyptian air, while the doors were 'guarded' by carved eagles. My eyes were drawn skyward - up, up, up - but still I couldn't see the top. Fallpipes glittered like precious metal as if the whole building were an inlaid jewel of fabulous dimensions.

  'Ready?' she asked.

  'As I'll ever be.'

  Arm in arm we entered the grand doorway beneath letters in gold that spelled out the words EMPIRE STATE BUILDING.

  Through an ornate lobby. Across a marble floor. Between statues of Greek and Roman heroes (including a magnificently brooding bronze of Alexander the Great). To an elevator plushly carpeted in purple. The lift attendant swung a brass lever. The elevator sped upward smoothly. Kerris, taking my hand, squeezed it and kissed me on the cheek. 'Relax, David.' She smiled. 'He won't eat you. Honest.'

  I smiled back. 'Meeting the father of one's girlfriend is always a little unsettling.'

  'Surely you must have lots of practice? A handsome guy like you?' I felt a flush spread up from beneath my collar at a velocity like that of the elevator.

  If I'd expected a small family gathering I'd have been wrong. For the elevator disgorged us into a vast room that was only a little smaller than a football pitch. Beneath chandeliers elegantly dressed men and women chatted over cocktails. Many recognized Kerris. They greeted her warmly with kisses on her cheek. Until now I'd seen this city as vibrantly pulsing with almost entirely young people. But there seemed to be a lot of grey heads gathered in this room. These, I surmised, were New York's ruling class, mature men and women who'd been spared The Blinding to inherit, if not the Earth, at least this small and splendid corner of it.

  Confidence pervaded the room like cigar smoke. This was where the good and the great discussed policy, formulated priorities and complex plans, issued decrees. This was the court of the King of Manhattan.

  Kerris steered me to windows overlooking the city spread out below that, with the fall of darkness, had become an ocean of lights. A waitress appeared with a tray full of drinks. I accepted a dry martini. Kerris chose champagne. In the corner a string quartet played soft music. How I wished my father could see this! A cocktail party at the top of the tallest building in the world!

  At that moment I promised myself I would bring my family to New York. As I basked in this warm glow of optimism Kerris touched my elbow.

  'My father's across there,' she told me. 'Come on, I'll introduce you.'

  I saw a tall man in profile. Aged around sixty, he stood ramrod straight, with short cropped hair that was turning gracefully from red to silver. He was speaking intently to a balding man of around the same age.

  'Father,' Kerris said politely. 'I'd like you to meet David Masen.'

  'General Fielding,' I said, holding out my hand.

  The moment he turned to me I nearly flinched with shock. The clean profile I'd first seen had been handsome in a classically heroic way. The left-hand side of his face couldn't have been more different.

  His right eye gleamed the same shade of green as Kerris's. His left eye, however, was yellow - the same bright yellow as an egg yolk. There was no iris: that shocking yellow filled the whole socket, leaving a fierce black pupil in the centre. Radiating from the eye were a series of white scars that extended to his hairline.

  I masked my surprise as, smiling, he said, 'David Masen. Believe me, I've been looking forward to meeting you. What do you make of our city?'

  As I told him I thought his city was extraordinary he extended his own hand. Despite his military title his handshake felt more like a politician's.

  He turned to the balding man. 'Allow me to introduce you to Dr Wiseman.'

  Dr Wiseman's accent clearly put his origins well south of the Mason-Dixon Line. 'Good to meet you, Mr Masen. We're delighted to have you as our guest here. And we're hoping that when you get home to England you'll have plenty of good things to say about us.'

  General Fielding looked at me, his yellow eye peering into my face with burning intensity. 'David Masen brings us an opportunity to solve one of our direst problems,' he said.

  'You don't say,' Dr Wiseman replied jovially.

  'There's something called the Masen-Coker Processor that refines triffid oil into a high-grade gasoline. Isn't that so, David?'

  I agreed. But a small voice in the back of my head told me that I'd been too generous to my American friends with information about my homeland's assets. If this community had no access to petroleum or its associated products then the Processor would be like the goose that laid the golden egg. Nevertheless, I'd already opened my trap (reticence was never my strong point): The truth was out. I sincerely hoped that I wouldn't come to regret my earlier careless talk on the ship.

  Dr Wiseman tactfully withdrew to freshen his drink. This left Kerris, her father and myself chatting over cocktails. The general waved a hand towards a pair of plush sofas that faced each other across a coffee table. The moment the men occupying them saw General Fielding moving towards them they vacated their seats quickly. Kerris and I took one sofa, General Fielding sat in the other. And so we chatted, facing each other. Meanwhile, the sweet strains of Strauss floated through the air.

  By now I had recovered from my surprise at seeing the general's ruined eye. In fact, I had seen the same condition before. Yellow Eye is caused by a splash of triffid poison, a fate that had nearly afflicted my father thirty years ago. Only prompt first-aid treatment and irrigation of his eyes with a saline solution had saved him from permanent damage. Fielding had not been so lucky, clearly. He would, I knew, be blind in his left eye.

  Meanwhile, his good eye scanned my face constantly, as if he was reading words on a page. Here was someone who would assess a man's character in seconds, then judge him according to what he thought he saw.

  'Tell me, David,' General Fielding said. 'You have a family on the Isle of Wight?'

  I told him I had a father, a mother and two sisters.

  'In good health, are they?'

  'Extremely. My father has his work, which is something of a holy quest for him.'

  The general appeared keen to know more about my father. I told him something of his background, how he had managed to survive the Blinding and the wholesale triffid takeover of thirty years ago. In a way that reminded me of the questioning I had undergone on the Atlantic crossing he asked me about the economics of the Isle of Wight and its infrastructure. Then he asked casually about its military capabilities.

  The small voice in my head spoke again. Play your cards close to your chest. Don't reveal too much.

  'Oh, we have a number of warships as well as military aircraft,' I said, smiling with a deliberate vagueness that a clergyman would have envied.

  'Yes, I heard you had to crash land your jet. A fighter, wasn't it?'

  'A fighter-bomber.'

  'And you burn triffid oil in the engine?'

  'A refined version, yes.'

  'But I dare say spare parts and ammunition must be scarce these days.'

  'We are able to manufacture spare parts,' I pointed out, 'as well as ammunition and bombs.' That voice in the back of my head, small though it was, was wise. It prompted me to implant the idea in the general's mind that the Isle of Wight was no mere helpless farming community: that we had teeth and could bite.

  The general nodded, absorbing the information before asking bluntly, 'How many jet fighters do you possess?'

  'Oh, enough for defence.' Again I gave him my deliberately vague smile.

  'Ah, I see; you want to be discreet about your weaponry. Fair enough. After all, we don't know each other's intentions yet, do we?'

  I acknowledged his point with another smile
.

  'Here, let's refresh our cocktails.' With barely a nod of his head he attracted the attention of a waitress who quickly brought more drinks. 'Can I get you anything else, David. Cigar? Something to eat?'

  'No, I'm fine with this, thanks.' I indicated my glass.

  'Now, David. I hope I can speak quite frankly with you. Kerris has, no doubt, told you that our aim here in New York is to establish contact with other communities, no matter where they are in the world?' Without waiting for my reply he pressed on. 'We shall establish trade links, exchange knowledge, personnel.'

  'But some communities aren't interested in talking.'

  'Precisely. Several of our people have been brutally murdered. Even when they approached those places under a white flag. Which is one reason why we have to maintain an effective military force.'

  'So you will compel communities who are, let's say, a little on the shy side to come to the negotiating table?'

  'No, of course not, David. But we must be able to defend our city here as well as our shipping lanes.'

  'If it doesn't sound too impertinent, General Fielding, what is your ultimate aim?'

  'To conquer the world, of course.'

  He watched for my reaction. I allowed myself none.

  A smile creased his face, tightening the scarred skin around his yellow eye.

  'Or, to be more precise,' he told me, 'I should say reconquer the world. For all of us. For the human race. And wipe out the one true enemy.'

  'The triffids?'

  He nodded.

  'That's going to be quite a tall order, isn't it?'

  'I have a weapon, David. A wonderful weapon.'