Appleby Plays Chicken Read Free Page B

called Ogg – a freshman from another college, who was on the party only because he was Pettifor’s nephew. Ogg hadn’t yet done his National Service, but had grown a beard instead. He ought to be at school still, David thought, and a prominent member of the Field Club. He certainly oughtn’t to be in this damned car.
    ‘Drive on, chaps – drive on!’ Ogg shouted this out so loud that there seemed a chance of his waking the whole pub. His voice was full of happiness. He was seeing life.
    They drove through the village and out into open country. Finding what they wanted didn’t prove easy. Most of the roads, narrow and winding, ran not between ditches but between high banks. An uncontrolled car trundling between these might be turned over; but more probably it would simply scrape and bump to an inglorious stop. When they caught a glimpse of anything else, it was of fields empty in the moonlight. Everything was alarmingly still. The only sound from outside the car was the chug-chug of Leon Kryder’s motorbike behind them. Leon was following, presumably, to do what he could. David, twisting round to have a look at him, was vaguely reminded of something sinister in a film. They swept round a bend and Leon vanished.
    ‘Are we really going to be complete idiots?’ Tom Overend asked this in David’s ear. His voice was carefully not suggesting anything.
    ‘It’s quite crackers, if you ask me.’ David spoke casually too. ‘And this infant should be in its cot.’
    ‘What’s that, old chap?’ Ogg’s face, flushed with excitement, was turned to him.
    David felt a sudden spurt of anger – he wasn’t certain at what. ‘I said you ought to be in your cot,’ he repeated brutally. ‘Tucked up. Not out with the big, rough boys – rot them.’
    Ogg laughed wildly in his absurd beard. He was too keyed up to be offended. ‘Turn right!’ he suddenly yelled. ‘Turn right, Timothy. There’s a clear run downhill. I remember it.’
    The three men in front had been muttering together. It sounded like a quarrel. Perhaps Timothy and Arthur were at last blasting each other openly. But now Timothy swung the wheel and they were at once on a broader road that ran downhill before them into dimness. Ogg, blast him, had been right. David turned again and saw Leon swing after them. A Death-Rider in that fantasy of Cocteau’s – that was it. Something between a speed cop and an AA patrol – and waiting to convoy you to a nether world.
    ‘You lot, behind – stand up and get so you can grab the wheel.’ Timothy continued to gaze straight ahead as he spoke, but David knew that he was now looking quite cool and placid. ‘I’m going to hold on till we get a bit of momentum, and then let go. After that, we wait for our preserver. Don’t we, Mr Drury?’
    ‘Yes, Mr Dumble. We do.’
    David didn’t know whether to laugh at them or curse them. They might have been acting in some ridiculous college play, and trying to obey the producer’s instruction to sound insolent. As for Ian, he had edged himself forward and sideways to allow the three behind to lean over the front seat, so that David caught a glimpse of his face. It was quite white and his mouth was moving oddly. And yet he wasthoroughly daredevil – a hard rider who was due, David remembered, to ride in some Point to Point or other next day. You never knew what would take whom how. It occurred to David that he had no notion how he looked himself. But how he felt was another matter. It should be possible to inform himself of that. The answer, he found with some surprise, seemed to be pretty well covered by the word exasperated – or even by the extremely modest word cross. He glanced at Ogg. Ogg was exalted. The bearded brat might have been getting ready to gallop into the valley of death and save the guns – or whatever it is that people so gallop for in phoney poems. David wished he could get round behind Ogg and restore him to reality with a boot in the bottom. But that