gns.batsoutofhell-第22部分

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　　'What　on　earth's　the　matter　with　you？'　she　snapped。　'Are　you　ill　or　something？'
　　
　　Told　'em　I　was。'　Gerald　was　sweating；　partly　because　of　the　heat　and　partly　because　he　had　run　the　remaining　hundred　yards　as　he　succumbed　to　a　sense　of　urgency。
　　
　　'Whatever　for？'
　　
　　'Because　we're　leaving。'　He　jerked　a　thumb　towards　the　stairs。　Harry　would　still　be　sleeping。　He　was　on　nights　at　the　car　factory　this　week。　'Wake　Harry　and　get　a　few　things　packed。　Just　essentials。'
　　
　　Are　you　mad？'　she　demanded；　surveying　him；　hands　on　hips；　eyebrows　raised；　lips　pressed。
　　
　　'No；'　he　said。　'But　if　we　don't　get　out　now；　we　never　shall。　They're　going　to　do　something　shortly。　Cordon　off　Birmingham；　maybe　even　the　whole　of　the　Midlands。'
　　
　　She　stared　at　him　in　astonishment；　but　for　once　she　did　not　ridicule　him。
　　
　　They　couldn't。'　she　breathed　softly。　'They　wouldn't　dare。'
　　
　　'They　could　and　they　would。'　He　stood　poised　on　the　bottom　stair。　'I'll　go　up　and　wake　Harry。　We　need　to　be　on　the　road　in　half…an…hour　before　everybody　else　realises　what's　happening。'
　　
　　Forty　minutes　later　the　Pitkins；　Gerald　at　the　wheel　of　their　new　Fiat；　Bertha　beside　him　and　a　bleary…eyed　Harry　in　the　back　amidst　piles　of　loose　luggage；　headed　out　of　Birmingham。　Gerald　had　tried　to　telephone　Tom　before　leaving；　but　after　three　unsuccessful　attempts；　each　time　thwarted　by　a　recorded　flat　female　voice　which　stated　that　'all　lines　to　Shrewsbury　are　engaged'；　he　gave　up　and　they　set　off。
　　
　　The　traffic　was　lighter　than　it　would　have　been　under　normal　circumstances。　Gerald　Pitkin　prided　himself　that　he　was　the　only　person　in　the　whole　of　Birmingham　who　had　forecast　the　government's　intentions。
　　
　　They　were　through　West　Bromwich　and　Wolverhamton　by　six　o'clock；　and　out　on　to　the　A464。　Gerald　glanced　down　at　the　petrol…gauge。　Less　than　half　full。　He　wished　that　he　had　filled　up　before　leaving；　but　it　didn't　matter。　There　was　more　than　enough　fuel　in　the　tank　and　it　was　less　than　fifty　miles　to　Shrewsbury。
　　
　　Shifnal　was　crowded。　People　seemed　to　be　carrying　on　much　the　same　as　usual；　going　about　their　everyday　shopping；　chattering　on　the　streets。
　　
　　'Probably　haven't　even　heard　about　the　bats　out　here；　Gerald　said。　'I　guess　we're　clear　by　now。　We　can　relax。'
　　
　　'I　think　you're　making　a　damned　fool　of　yourself；　and　us　as　well；'　Bertha　snorted。　'And　when　you　get　back　to　Birmingham　you'll　find　that　you've　had　the　sack　from　the　Treasury。'
　　
　　'I've　still　got　my　army　pension；'　he　grunted。　Things　did　seem　to　be　very　normal　out　here。
　　
　　Harry　slept　soundly　on　the　back　seat。
　　
　　Then；　with　startling　suddenness；　their　returning　sense　of　security　was　shattered。　There　was　a　police　road…block　at　the　entrance　to　the　M54；　the　Wellington　by…pass　which　would　have　taken　them　to　within　a　few　miles　of　their　destination。
　　
　　Wooden　barriers　blocked　the　road。　A　red　and　white　police　patrol…car　was　parked　on　the　side；　one　uniformed　officer　seated　behind　the　wheel；　another　standing　by　it；　waving　for　them　to　continue　back　up　the　dual…carriageway　and　on　to　the　A5。　That　in　itself　was　bad　enough。　It　was　the　third　member　of　the　obstruction　team　who　caused　Gerald　Pitkin's　heart　to　miss　a　beat。　Tiny　beads　of　sweat　formed　on　his　forehead。　A　soldier；　stoic…faced；　wearing　camouflage　denims。　An　automatic　rifle　was　cradled　beneath　his　arm　and　he　watched　the　Fiat　intently　as　though　half…expecting　some　kind　of　resistance　from　its　occupants。
　　
　　Bertha　started　to　wind　the　window　down；　but　Gerald　stopped　her。　His　foot　had　eased　up　on　the　accelerator　but　now　it　pressed　down　hard　again　and　the　car　picked　up　speed。
　　
　　'We'll　get　back　on　the　A5　and　go　through　Wellington；'　he　said。
　　
　　Bertha　was　white…faced；　shaken。　Harry　stirred　and　sat　up　in　the　back。　Neither　of　them　said　anything。　There　was　nothing　to　say。
　　
　　As　they　dropped　down　into　Wellington；　through　Ketley；　they　were　aware　of　an　increased　flow　of　traffic　ing　towards　them。　Cars；　vans；　all　piled　high　with　luggage；　hastily　strapped　roof…racks；　occupants　with　resigned　expressions　on　their　faces。　Bumper　to　bumper；　they　crawled；　came　to　a　standstill；　moved　again。
　　
　　Yet　Gerald　Pitkin　had　to　see　for　himself。　He　tried　to　convince　himself　that　it　was　nothing　more　than　a　flow　of　holiday…makers　returning　from　the　Welsh　coast。　Their　expressions？　Well；　nobody　enjoyed　ing　back　off　holiday；　did　they？
　　
　　There　was　one　other　car　behind　them。　He　watched　it　in　the　mirror。　A　Reliant　three…wheeler；　grossly　overloaded。
　　
　　The　heat　was　oppressive。　The　sky　had　clouded　over；　but　Gerald　knew　it　would　not　rain。　Four　months　of　drought　now。　The　overcast　sky　increased　the　humidity；　and　Gerald　Pitkin　tried　to　tell　himself　that　that　was　why　he　was　sweating。　The　back　of　his　shirt　and　trousers　were　stuck　to　the　upholstery。
　　
　　The　oning　traffic　was　at　a　standstill　by　the　Cock　Hotel。　One　car　had　broken　down；　overheated；　and　those　following　were　having　to　overtake　it。　Impatience　was　growing。　Horns　blared。　Drivers　were　leaning　out　of　their　windows　in　an　attempt　to　determine　the　cause　of　the　delay。　And　still　the　road　ahead　of　the　Pitkins　was　free　of　obstruction。
　　
　　The　second　roadblock　was　some　way　out　of　Wellington。　It　consisted　of　another　patrol　car；　two　policemen；　a　soldier　and；　of　course；　an　automatic　rifle。
　　
　　'Damn　it！'　Gerald　Pitkin　drove　slowly　up　to　the　barriers。　Apart　from　the　following　three…wheeler　there　was　no　other　traffic　here。　It　was　as　though　the　initial　panic　was　over。　The　public　had　accepted　the　situation；　resigned　themselves　to　it。　They　had　been　told　to　go　back　to　their　homes　and　die　like　good　citizens。　And　they　were　obeying。
　　
　　Gerald　pulled　up　alongside　the　barriers；　wheels　half…turned　in　anticipation　of　the　U…turn　he　would　be　forced　to　make。
　　
　　'Sorry；　sir。'　A　policeman　stepped　forward。　'I'm　afraid　you'll　have　to　turn　around　and　go　back。'
　　
　　'We're　on　our　way　to　Shrewsbury。　To　my　brother's　place。'
　　
　　'I'm　sorry；　sir。　The　A5　and　all　roads　to　Shrewsbury　are　closed。'
　　
　　'There's　been　an　accident？'
　　
　　'I　don't　know　what's　happened；　sir。　But　the　roads　are　all　closed。　Now；　please　move　on。'
　　
　　The　soldier　had　moved　forward　as　though　in　support　of　the　constable；　the　rifle　no　longer　carried　casually；　the　muzzle　swinging　in　an　arc　until　it　pointed　at　the　Fiat。　'All　right。'　Pitkin　nodded。　'We'll　go　back。'　The　three…wheeler　was　already　following　them　as　though　the　driver　had　never　expected　to　be　allowed　through。　Like　everybody　else；　he　had　to　satisfy　himself　that　he　had　made　the　attempt。
　　
　　'Well；　so　much　for　that；'　Bertha　groaned。　'Now　for　the　long　haul　back　to　Birmingham。　You　ought　to　have　phoned　the　AA　first。'
　　
　　'We're　not　going　back；'　Gerald　stated　firmly。　'What！'
　　
　　'I　said；　we're　not　going　back。　Can't　you　see　what's　going　to　happen？　By　tomorrow　there's　going　to　be　rioting　in　the　city。　Folks　won't　take　this　lying　down。'　'What　on　earth　can　we　do；　then？'　'We'll　take　a　right　turn　back　here。'　Gerald　braked　as　they　caught　up　with　the　tail　of　the　traffic　queue。　'I　think　it's　signposted　Little　Wenlock。　You　can　get　up　on　to　the　Wrekin　that　way。'　'How　will　that　help　us？'
　　
　　'We'll　ditch　the　car　and　go　on　foot。　They　can't　patrol　the　whole　countryside；　they　won't　have　enough　men。　We'll　get　through。　We'll　wait　for　dark；　though；　and　with　luck　we'll　be　in　Shrewsbury　by　morning。'　'You're　mad；'　Bertha　Pitkin　said；　but　she　did　not　argue。　Harry　Pitkin　said　nothing。　He　never　had　been　a　conversationalist。　A　loner　from　boyhood；　he　accepted　life　as　it　was。　If　his　father　said　they　were　going　on　an　all…night　hike　then　he　would　trudge　along　with　them。
　　
　　Somewhere　over　the　Wrekin　there　was　a　rumble　of　thunder；　followed　a　few　seconds　later　by　a　flash　of　lightning。　But　there　was　no　rain。
　　
　　
　　　Chapter　Ten
　　
　　St　Philip's　Churchyard　was　crowded　shortly　after　daybreak。　The　overnight　cloud　formation　had　vanished；　and　once　again　the　new　day　was　threatened　with　scorching　heat。　There　was　to　be　no　let…up。
　　
　　People　sat　on　the　grass；　dishevelled；　weary　after　a　sleepless　night。　The