A Fragment of Fear by John Bingham Page A

Elaine and Juliet?”
    I stared at him in amazement.
    “There was no danger, old boy—Elaine knew of the relationship of course, but nobody else. Wanted to go to Italy anyway. Thought it would be an interesting experiment—you know, see what happened, call of the blood and all that stuff, see if they were attracted to each other. Do you know what happened, old boy?”
    I was stuck with him for years and years. It was no good showing disapproval, no good saying that in an indefinable way I felt the whole idea repellent. He wanted me to ask, “What happened?” but I couldn’t. I couldn’t bring myself to give him the satisfaction. I took a sip of whisky and fumbled for a cigarette.
    “Do you know what happened?” he asked again. So I had to say something in the end.
    “What happened?” I said.
    “Nothing! Nothing at all, old boy! We all talked to Bardoni now and again. But they didn’t take any interest in each other at all. Fascinating, old boy.”
    “How did you know he was managing the hotel?”
    “Through this adoption society chap—indirectly. They keep in touch, you know, sometimes. Just in case. You know?”
    I sat looking into my whisky glass, wondering why Juliet hadn’t told me herself that she was an adopted child. She must have known it would make no difference. I wondered again if it accounted for her withdrawn manner, her secretiveness. I was aware of a feeling of hurt. I said:
    “At what age did you tell her that she was an adopted child?”
    “At what age? Well, at the age of twenty-two, old boy! We told her tonight—after you dropped her here in your car. While she was changing to go out. Elaine went in and told her.”
    “Just like that—a sort of ‘Welcome home’ greeting?”
    I couldn’t keep the bitterness out of my voice. I thought if anything was typical of this dull and unimaginative pair it was to spring this news on her just when she had arrived back tired and exhausted. I was angry, and he saw it.
    He went all stiff and more snuffly than ever:
    “There was no need for us to tell her—or you, old boy. I trust you realise that? In these days the birth certificate merely gives the name, date, and place of birth. But Elaine and I talked it over, old boy, and at first we were against telling her—or you—and then we said no it was not fair to you, old boy. So we told her. And very reasonable she was about the whole thing. Very reasonable.”
    He sounded aggrieved.
    I finished my whisky and got up. It is useless to be angry with stupid people, and pointless to argue with them.
    “No wonder she looked pale at dinner. I thought she was just tired.”
    “I think she really was just tired, old boy.”
    He looked at me with his protruding grey eyes, leaning droopily against the mantelpiece, stroking his thin hair, a worried expression still on his face.
    It was a hopeless situation. I gave up.
    “Maybe she was just tired. I expect that was mostly it.”
    I forced myself to smile. He brightened at once.
    “Good! So now we’re all in the clear, old boy?”
    “That’s right.”
    “Good-o!”
    “Good-o!” I repeated, and was nearly sick. “I must be off. I’ll just pop along and see if she’s asleep.”
    Her bedside light was on, but she was asleep, and did not stir when I put my head round the door. Thus I knew that she did indeed realise that the evening’s revelation would make no difference to me, and was not worried.
    It could also have meant that she did not care one way or the other.

    The news about Juliet had driven other things from my mind. Within a quarter of an hour there occurred something which shook me considerably, because it gave a warning of the violence which lay ahead.
    It has to be remembered that I was too young to have fought in the war, and that I had lived in a peaceful and well-ordered society. I was not prepared for hazards other than the normal perils of accidents or ill health.
    I had read about peasants who were observed, threatened, stalked,