The Adjacent Read online

  He went into more details of how it would work, how it could be made portable, who would operate it, and so on, and although I listened carefully I must admit my own mind was racing on all sorts of adjacent subjects. For instance, it occurred to me that the very fact HG and I were travelling together suggested that I was on a similar mission to his. But unlike him I had not the least idea what mine would be, nor why I had been summoned.

  I was dazzled by HG’s company. Intelligence and commitment radiated from him, making everything seem possible. He was at this time probably the single most famous writer in the country, perhaps even in the world. I, on the other hand, although enjoying a certain amount of celebrity in a small theatrical circle, was less a man of creative inspiration and more a careful follower of procedures. That was the difference between us.

  What I do on the stage is contrived to look like a series of miracles, but in reality the preparation of a magical illusion is a prosaic matter. Few people realize the amount of rehearsal conjurors have to put in, nor what goes on in the background. A trick often requires technical assistants, who will help design and build the apparatus. The movements a magician makes on stage are the result of long and patient rehearsal, while still having to look natural and spontaneous to the audience. It is an acquired practical skill, in other words. Only while in performance, in the glare of the limelight, can magic look like inspiration. Even at best it is never more than an illusion. Things are never what they seem.

  I felt humbled by the great man’s infectious energy. His imagination was like a torch burning brightly in that shabby old railway carriage. The war was about to be won! Germany would be defeated and Britain would be triumphant! Thousands of lives saved! Prosperity for everyone. A democracy for all men. Science would lead progress and progress would change society.

  5

  The train pulled into the town of Béthune just as daylight was a last gleam in the western sky. Lights were showing in the streets but not many of them and they were shaded so as not to shine too brightly. As we rattled slowly through the edge of town both HG and I pressed our eyes to the tiny windows to see what we could. At first there did not appear to be too much damage to the buildings, but as the train slowed to walking pace and we approached the station in the centre of the town it was clear that artillery shells had landed in many places.

  It was being borne in on me that the life I had been leading in London was based on a false understanding of this war. News of it came in regularly, perhaps every day, but it was usually portrayed as a distant affair conducted in a foreign country, not something that might threaten the daily lives of ordinary Britons. But the foreign country was France, a short sea crossing away, and battles lost in France would almost certainly lead to invasion and occupation of our country by a hostile foreign power.

  Everyone remarked on the increasing absence of our young menfolk, everyone had a son or a brother or a lover in the army, or at least knew of a close friend who did, yet the connection of that with an imminent threat never seemed to be made. Shortages in the shops were annoying but they did not indicate a crisis. There were rumours that Zeppelins, gas-borne monsters of the skies, were about to let go a thousand bombs on our homes, but they had not appeared. Music hall comedians made fun of them, while the threat remained just a threat.

  That imprecise feeling of worry was now behind me, and reality was around me. I could see in the dark countryside beyond the edge of town that the sky was lit up by a constant, endless display of flashes. The unarguable evidence of the wrecked buildings, seen in every part of Béthune, and the many large piles of uncleared rubble, underlined how immediate and close this war really was.

  When the train finally came to a halt, and the crowds of soldiers spilled out tiredly on to the platform, HG and I hesitated before joining them. We had re-packed our luggage, but half-expected the lance-corporal to turn up and tell us what was to happen next.

  The troops were being lined up on the platform in squads, helmets on their heads, packs on their backs, rifles held smartly against their shoulders. A shouted order echoed around the vaulted roof of the station and the first squad of young men marched away with impressive discipline. We had a good idea how tired they must have been after so long on the crowded train, but they gave no sign of it.

  After the third troop marched away the platform was clear. Le chef de train had left us as soon as the train halted, and HG and I were alone. There was no sign of the lance-corporal.

  ‘This is where we must go our separate ways, I believe,’ HG said to me. ‘I am being met here, or so I was told. How about you?’

  ‘I suppose someone will be here to meet me too,’ I replied, but uncertainly. I had no information about that.

  ‘Good! All will be arranged, I’m sure. Let us take leave of each other. We have been travelling a long time and I am fair done for.’

  We shook hands in a firm and friendly way, then HG went down the outer steps to the platform. My bags were still on the floor behind me, so I collected them and went to follow him. From the top of the steps I saw the back of my distinguished friend as he walked slowly towards the distant exit. I was suddenly struck by the idea that he was someone I might never see again. Extreme dangers lay ahead.

  On an impulse, I called after him.

  ‘Mr Wells!’

  He heard me somehow, glanced back, then returned at a slow step. I clambered down with my bulky luggage.

  I said, ‘I’m sorry to detain you again, Mr Wells, I mean . . . HG. I merely wanted to say what a thrill and a pleasure it has been to meet you, and to have enjoyed your company today.’

  He shrugged away the compliment, but he was smiling in a merry way.

  ‘It has been a pleasure for me too, I assure you. I shall remember everything you told me about your secret methods. I do not often meet a Lord who can swallow a lighted cigarette.’

  6

  Again, HG walked on ahead of me. I was having trouble with my luggage, hoping in vain to see a porter. A few minutes later, when I had struggled out of the exit from the station, HG had gone. I was standing beside a broad road. The rhythmic sound of the soldiers’ marching was already fading into the distance. I imagined some swift and efficient welcoming patrol had been waiting for HG, and swept him away.

  Over the dark silhouettes of the buildings the bright flashes of the artillery gave a sense of foreboding. Some of these buildings had been damaged – I saw a broken sky-line, parts of roofs and walls, wooden joists sticking up. A deep growl, like thunder, rolled across the streets.

  I was already bracing myself for a spell in the trenches. Wells’s vivid descriptions had horrified me, but it was too late to do anything about it. I had volunteered for this.

  Alone, I wondered what I should do next. In my pocket I had the only written orders I had been sent, so I took out the sheet of paper and unfolded it in the dim light spilling out from the station.

  Beneath the printed letterhead used by the Admiralty, someone had written, ‘17 Sqn, La rue des bêtes, Béthune.’

  Road of the beasts? I had no idea how to begin a search for such a street. I spoke no French, had no map of the town, and in any case the whole place was quiet. Few lights showed in the buildings I could see. I was starting to feel a little frightened by my situation.

  ‘Lieutenant-Commander Trent, sir!’

  I turned sharply. A young Royal Navy officer had appeared behind me, standing to attention, saluting.

  ‘I apologize for not being here to meet the train, sir!’

  I said, ‘Thank you. Please . . . um, stand at ease.’ I returned his salute, feeling clumsy and self-conscious. In the dim light I saw that he was wearing a uniform similar to mine.

  ‘Flight Lieutenant Simeon Bartlett, sir.’

  ‘How do you do?’

  ‘We have met before. I hope you remember me? We met in London, when you allowed me backstage. Your performance in Hammersmith.’

  ‘Yes, yes of course,’ I said. ‘Good to see you again.
’

  ‘I have brought the squadron van with me, so there’s no problem with your luggage. Did you have a good journey from England?’

  I was charmed by his easy good manners, and his casual but courteous and entirely proper way with me. Carrying the larger of my two cases he led me to a brown-painted motorized vehicle, which I had noticed standing outside the station but which I had not imagined was there to transport me.

  ‘Have you had something to eat on the train, sir?’

  ‘I’m not especially hungry at the moment,’ I said.

  ‘Good, because I have been directed to take you straight to our base, where there will be dinner available in the wardroom. It’s not quite the Café Royal, but we do receive much better food than the poor chaps in the trenches.’

  Once I was installed inside the vehicle he made a few energetic swings on the starting handle and after a moment the engine clattered into noisy life. He leapt into the driver’s seat and we were off. He chatted informatively as he drove us out of the town, the engine coughing and wheezing noisily. A cold draught blew in on me through a window that was impossible to close. He made remarks about various landmarks as we passed through the town, but depressingly several of them were of the sort that said: ‘That’s where the market used to be.’ Many buildings had been damaged by shellfire, or were simply indistinct in the darkness. We had to shout to make ourselves heard over the racket of the engine. He told me that most of the inhabitants of Béthune had fled: at first they stayed on and braved the occasional bouts of German shelling, but a few weeks ago the position of the front had moved closer to the town and now the explosions were more frequent. The town was becoming more or less impossible to live in, or at least to live normally.

  I said, ‘Whereabouts is La rue des bêtes? My orders were to report there.’

  ‘That’s where I’m taking you.’

  It seemed to me we had left most of the town behind and were now passing through countryside. It was too dark to be sure of anything. The vehicle jerked and lurched constantly on the uneven road, but whenever we slowed to pass a column of men making their way on foot I knew which method I preferred for moving around.

  At first I was confused by the young lieutenant’s casual language, which half the time seemed to be referring to ships. As HG had pointed out we were well landlocked. I said nothing about this, not wanting to appear ignorant of Navy ways and assumed that all would become clear in the end. Instead, I raised a subject that had been puzzling me.

  ‘If I might ask,’ I said, loudly over the sound of the engine, ‘you say you are a lieutenant?’

  ‘A flight lieutenant, sir. Same rank as my colleagues who are posted to ships. I am an officer in the RNAS.’

  ‘Then how many Royal Navy lieutenants have the authority to pluck middle-aged civilians from their peace-loving lives, and drag them across to the Western Front?’

  He laughed aloud.

  ‘None of us have that power, sir. I am no different from any of the others of my rank, but I do have an uncle who is a staff officer in Western Approaches HQ. Vice Admiral Sir Timothy Bartlett-Reardon, of whom you might have heard?’ I shook my head in the dark, a response he did not see. ‘The admiral and I have had many informal discussions about naval strategy, strictly unofficially of course. He is an open-minded and adventurous man, superbly equipped to manage the fighting of this war. But, like me, he sometimes feels frustrated by the lack of progress against the Boche, and likes to consider new ways of prosecuting our war. He and I have talked about several ideas, and after I saw your stage act I talked to him about one of my own. He arranged your commission.’

  I stared at the muddy road ahead, distractedly imagining HG wading along it.

  ‘So I have you to thank for this.’

  ‘I believe it will be the whole country that will be thanking you soon, sir.’

  ‘It would help immeasurably,’ I said, ‘if I knew what you want of me. I thought you merely wanted me to entertain the troops.’

  ‘Oh no. I have something more useful in mind.’

  Lieutenant Bartlett explained that we were going to the airfield where he was based, operated by the RNAS. It was a good safe distance back from the lines, out of range of the enemy’s artillery.

  ‘We keep a weather eye open for it, though,’ he said, his voice only just audible over the racket from the engine. ‘We keep hearing rumours about some ruddy great Krupp cannon that can lay waste to Paris. If they’ve got one they’ll probably practise on people like us first. They don’t like what we get up to.’

  ‘And what’s that?’ I shouted.

  He jammed on the brakes, and skewed the van towards the side of the road. A spray of mud was thrown up at the front. He allowed the engine to turn over quietly.

  ‘I don’t want you to miss what I’m saying, and no one can hear us here.’ He spoke in a normal voice. The night was dark around us, and still. ‘Our squadron serves as aerial observers,’ he went on. ‘We fly low and slow above the enemy trenches. The idea is to build up a picture of what the Boche are up to, report back while we can still remember what we’ve seen, and describe it to the people who keep the trench maps up to date. We mostly do the observing with the naked eye, but a few of our kites have been fitted with photographic cameras. If you ask me the cameras are more trouble than they’re worth. They’re heavy and bulky and they take up the rear cockpit, which is where the other crew-member normally sits. The pilot has to go it alone, which means not only does he have to fly one-handed while he’s operating the camera, he has no one sitting behind him to defend the plane with a machine-gun. And the results are always a bit unsatisfactory. It takes a couple of days to have the pictures produced, by which time everything will probably have changed down there. And there’s too much blurring caused by the engine’s vibrations, or just by the movement. We’re always trying to find ways of flying more slowly.’

  ‘Wouldn’t it be safer if you went faster?’

  ‘Of course – but then we wouldn’t see anything at all.’

  ‘I assume the Germans shoot at you.’

  ‘Yes, and they’re pretty damned good shots. Small-arms fire mostly, but bigger stuff too. We call it archie, or ack-ack. Firing from the ground. We’re losing a lot of machines that way. More importantly we’re losing men – pilots are valuable, and of course so are the other crew. That’s the problem in a nutshell, yes. If we go too fast or too high we can’t see anything, but whenever we fly at the right altitude and speed for observing they zero in on us straight away.’

  ‘So what’s the answer?’

  ‘This is where you come in. I’ve seen the way you make people disappear.’

  ‘Yes,’ I said. ‘But—’

  ‘I know, professional ethics. I understand you won’t tell me how. And I know you can’t make things disappear, actually disappear. But you do know how to make them invisible. That’s all we want. We need you to show us how to make our aircraft invisible.’

  I said, ‘But that’s just an illusion. I can’t really—’

  At that moment another vehicle came roaring along the road towards us, its bright lights illuminating the spray of mud it was throwing up. Lieutenant Bartlett immediately made our van move again, shouting to me that unless we were going at speed our lights didn’t work. This turned out to be true – we safely passed the other vehicle without a collision. I held on as we swayed along the uneven road once more.

  Soon after passing the other vehicle, our van abruptly came across a huge crater in the road and Lieutenant Bartlett had to take extreme avoiding action. I was thrown from side to side in the uncomfortable cab.

  ‘That was a new one,’ he said. ‘It wasn’t there when I drove out to meet you. Must have been a stray shell. You should be wearing a tin helmet.’

  ‘I haven’t been issued with one.’

  ‘Draw one from the stores. Once the German guns open up you never know where the next piece of sharp metal is coming from.’

  But I noticed, with
out commenting, that he was still wearing just his naval cap, set back on his head at a rakish angle.

  We drove on, no longer trying to make conversation over the noise from the engine. I was fairly relieved, as the talk had been veering too close to a subject that was difficult for me.

  The illusion I performed on the night Lieutenant Bartlett came to the Gaiety Theatre was one I frequently used to bring my act to its conclusion. My niece Clarice, whose life appears to be in great danger, is shockingly and inexplicably made to vanish into thin air. The stage is to all intents and purposes bare. The audience sees that I am nowhere near her at the moment in which it all happens. It looks like a marvel, a miracle. But it is no more than a stage illusion, and not one that is especially complex. It requires the apparatus to be set up correctly, and there is an exact lighting cue which has to be rehearsed with the technical crew at the theatre, but it uses nothing more than standard magicians’ techniques. The same methods are used every week in dozens of theatres by many other conjurors. For that reason the secret is not mine to give away.

  Was it the right moment, while I was being driven through the French night to an operational fighting squadron, to tell this pleasant and intelligent young man that he had been duped? That he had not seen my lovely niece disappear, or become invisible, but that she had simply become lost to his sight?

  I could not in reality make her disappear, and I certainly had no idea how I could make one of the Royal Navy’s observer aircraft invisible.