The Long Afternoon

by Mary L. Farmer

  “What is happening to me?” Veronica moaned. Her heart pounded against her ribs. Cold sweat ran down her back and seeped through her silk blouse as she hunched in front of the stained commode until she had nothing left but bile. Taking shallow breaths, she sat motionless on the floor of the stall, her tears making her mascara run in black stripes down her cheeks.

  I’m going to find that crazy hag in her dreadful coat and have her arrested, thought Veronica, even if it’s the last thing I do.

  A short while later the queasiness had subsided. Sarah, she told herself, I’ll call Sarah and have her help me up the stairs. Veronica tried to stand, but was overcome with vertigo and sank back to the floor. She leaned against the side of the stall, legs curled underneath her, too dizzy to walk over to the sink.

  “Help!” she cried feebly, though she doubted anyone outside the windowless room would hear. “Someone help me!”

  Veronica closed her eyes, but the dizziness would not dissipate. I’ll just rest here a few minutes, then I’ll have that taxi drive us straight to the hospital.

  ###

  Veronica awoke with a start. Somewhere across the room she heard a gurgling noise and blinked, but saw only black. Her heart immediately thudded in her ears. It’s only the radiator, she reasoned. At least, I hope that’s the radiator. She felt for the wall and cautiously pulled herself upright, relieved to find that she no longer felt woozy. In fact, she felt much better. Maybe all she needed was to rest.

  Her movements caused the overhead light fixture to flicker on, illuminating the kitschy pink tiles. She laughed out loud. “Perfect--motion-sensing lights and plumbing from the 1920s--the owner of this building must be one cheap bastard,” she muttered.

  Veronica moved over to the sink, suddenly feeling a little foolish. Maybe she wasn’t poisoned after all—that Spanish omelet she’d eaten at the airport bistro tasted a little off. Perhaps she could check into a hotel and lie down for a while. Yes, that sounded good. Then she and Sarah could go back to New York first thing in the morning and put this horrible day behind them.

  Veronica pulled on her jacket and slipped out of the narrow restroom door, eager to get upstairs and join Sarah in the waiting taxicab.

  She’d gone only a few feet down the corridor when she stopped. There was something different about the light. The entire passage was now bathed in an eerie, green glow. Veronica heard a creak behind her, and turned just in time to see the boiler room door swing shut.

  A pricking sensation swept across the nape of her neck.

  Someone is down here.

  Suddenly, the walls of the corridor felt as though they pressing in around her. Veronica hurried toward the stairwell, tottering unsteadily on her high heels. Don’t let me fall...please…don’t let me fall!

  The corridor seemed to go on forever but she eventually reached the end and burst out into the arcade stairwell. She stood panting for a moment, taking in the cool, bracing air.

  On her way back to the bookstore, Veronica was forced to skirt a large pile of debris. She looked up and down the indoor arcade and frowned. Strangely, the entire space was now littered with trash. One thing’s for sure--that custodian has his work cut out for him tomorrow.

  She opened the side door to Thy Neighbor’s Books and went in, looking down and straightening her skirt as she walked. “All right, Sarah, let’s go,” she said, noticing the checkerboard linoleum floor for the first time. “I’ve had more than enough of this garbage heap and—”

  Veronica halted and slowly looked up.

  Instead of a bookstore, she found herself inside a dark tavern.

  A man in a plaid flannel shirt was hunched over the bar, leaning on his elbows. He glanced up briefly before going back to his text messages.

  “Oh, excuse me,” Veronica said. “I…I must have come in the wrong door by mistake.”

  She went back into the arcade and looked up and down the corridor. The sign on the door to her left read STANLEY GORORSKI - INJURY LAW. The two storefronts across the hall were empty.

  Veronica whirled around. What the hell’s going on? Where’s the damn bookstore?

  She went over to a set of glass doors that led out to the street. She pushed and pulled on them several times, but they wouldn’t budge.

  Ugh! Why are these doors locked? I have to get out of here!

  Veronica gasped. Outside, she saw a teenaged boy walking down the sidewalk, white cords dangling from his ears. He fiddled with the music player in his hand. “HEY!” she shrieked, pounding on the doors with her fists. “You there! Hey, I need your help! Open this door!”

  The boy strode past the entrance without looking up.

  “WAIT!” Veronica kicked wildly at the doors in frustration, not caring that she scuffed her shoes. “Stop, damn it! Get me out of here!” Her voice trailed off as he continued to walk away. “Please?”

  She looked at the darkening sky and realized she had absolutely no idea what time it was. Whatever, thought Veronica, I can just check the clock on my phone.

  Her eyes widened—yes, her phone!

  She could call Sarah…or even Stuart. Yes, Stuart would sort everything out. But where was…oh damn. Damn, damn, damn. She’d left her bag in the ladies’ room. Veronica shuddered at the idea of going back down to that old basement alone.

  Then she had an idea.

  ###

  Veronica stood in front of the door she was certain had previously led to Thy Neighbor’s Books, only now she wasn’t sure about anything.

  She shut her eyes. Please, she breathed, when I go in, please let me be back in that shoddy bookstore with the awful clerk and the squeaky chair and Sarah on her phone, pacing with worry. Or better still, let me wake up in my airplane seat to find this whole ordeal was nothing more than an awful dream…

  Veronica pushed open the door, opened her eyes, and sighed.

  She was back in the tavern.

  The bartender was upending chairs and slinging them on top of the tables. A lit cigarette dangled from his lip. “You’re back.”

  “Yes,” Veronica said. “Er, I was wondering if—”

  “Just to let you know—I’m closing early tonight.”

  “That’s fine. I’m not planning to stay long.” She cleared her throat and glanced at the No Smoking sign taped to the mirror behind the bar. “I was wondering if I could I ask you for a small favor.”

  The bartender followed her look and removed the cigarette from his mouth. “Oh, uh…there wasn’t anyone in here, so…” He paused, his gaze taking in her Louboutins, her designer suit. “What was it you wanted?”

  “I need an escort to the ladies’ room.”

  The man looked baffled. “You need what?”

  “I’d like you to accompany me to the restroom.”

  The bartender took a drag from his cigarette. “Sorry, lady, but you’re not really my type.”

  “That’s very amusing, but I assure you I’m not looking for any sexual favors. I need someone to come downstairs with me in case…look, I know it sounds a bit paranoid, but I’d feel so much better if I didn’t have to go by myself, you see, because I saw—”

  “Bathroom’s right over there, past the pool table,” he offered, then went back to slinging chairs.

  “No, you don’t understand. I was in the ladies’ room earlier—the one in the basement—and I left some personal property down there. After I get it back, I’ll be on my way,” Veronica explained.

  The bartender walked behind the bar and grabbed a broom. “Lady, those restrooms don’t work. They’ve been closed for years.”

  “What are you talking about? Of course they work!”

  The bartender shook his head as he swept around the barstools. “Basement’s off limits to anyone but the building custodian. Besides, it’s crawling with roaches. Nobody goes down there if they can help it.”

  “Fine. Never mind, then,” Veronica huffed. To hell with him, I’ll go myself. She stalked over to the side door, then stopped, spun on her heel and
marched back up to the bar.

  “Listen,” she said more calmly. “I’m having a terrible day. An awful, horrific day. If you’ll go down to the basement and get my bag for me—I’ll pay you.”

  The bartender stopped sweeping.

  “That’s right, I’ll pay you…” She looked him up and down, trying to determine the lowest amount he wasn’t likely to turn down. “Fifty dollars.”

  He stared at her and took a drag from his cigarette. “Fifty dollars,” he repeated. “You left your purse downstairs, and you want me to go and get it for you for fifty dollars.”

  “Yes.”

  The bartender propped an elbow on the broom handle. “What do I look like, an errand boy?”

  “All right, seventy-five dollars.”

  “I’ll do it,” he said, looking over her Valentino suit, “for a hundred.”

  Veronica felt a flush of anger rise up her neck. She dug her nails into her palms to keep from screaming. “Fine. But I want a drink while I’m waiting.”

  The bartender put down the broom. “Fair enough.”

  “A glass of Pinot Grigio.”

  He snorted. “Trust me, lady, you don’t want the wine we got here.” Setting a glass on the bar, he poured some vodka over ice.

  “What about tonic?” Veronica asked.

  “Sure.” He grabbed the soda gun and shot some clear, fizzy liquid into her glass. “Anything else?”

  “I don’t suppose you have any limes.”

  “Limes? Yeah, lemme go pick one for you. They’re growin’ in the alley right next to the pineapples.” He shoved the drink toward her. “We don’t serve fruit. But if you’re hungry, we’ve got chili, pickled eggs and fried pork rinds.”

  Veronica grimaced. “Ugh.”

  “Yeah, I figured as much. Be right back, I gotta get the keys to the building.”

  The bartender disappeared into the back room for a moment, then came out and walked past Veronica, shaking his head and muttering.

  Wait a minute, she thought, why does he need keys? I didn’t need a key to get into the restroom.

  Veronica swiveled on her barstool to ask him about it but he was gone.

  ###

  Veronica sipped her drink and assessed the dimly-lit bar: a few tables, a dart board, neon beer signs, a large selection of whisky. A typical blue-collar watering hole. She sighed. This day was shaping up to be one of the worst of her entire career. At least she could count on the vodka to calm her frayed nerves.

  A tall man pushed open the street door, unzipped his motorcycle jacket and took off a pair of sunglasses. “Hey Randy? You ready to go, man?” he called. He lumbered toward the bar, his work boots scuffing the floor.

  To Veronica’s chagrin, the man sat on the stool next to hers. “Hi. Do you know if Randy—the, uh, bartender—know if he’s still around anywhere?”

  Veronica took in the man’s ripped jeans, his straggly goatee. “Er, yes,” she said, her voice tense. “But he went down to the basement to do something.”

  The man’s bushy eyebrows shot up. “The basement? Huh.” Veronica watched as he reached over the bar, helped himself to a beer glass and filled it from the tap. Then he leaned toward her and spoke in a covert tone. “Say, Randy usually lets me smoke in here when it’s quiet like this—you mind?”

  “Not if you’re willing to share,” Veronica said, nodding at his cigarettes.

  The man held out his pack. After lighting Veronica’s cigarette, he leaned back on his bar stool and boldly looked her over. He’s obviously not accustomed to seeing a woman of my caliber up close, she thought disdainfully. Still, she was grateful to have some company while she waited, even if that company was a scruffy roughneck.

  Straightening the lapels of her jacket, Veronica got up and walked around to the other side of the counter. For a hundred dollars, I’m damn well going to top off my drink. She poured herself another vodka and put the bottle back in the bar rail.

  “By the way, name’s Big Jim,” the man said.

  “Hello,” Veronica replied absent-mindedly. She was inspecting the spotty beer mugs stacked against the back wall when she spied a shelf that held a row of books. She tilted her head to read the titles.

  A moment later, Veronica whipped her cigarette into the sink and snatched a book from the shelf. She turned it over in her hand. It was a hardcover copy of Desire on the Beach of Destiny—her new novel.

  What’s one of my books doing in a place like this, she thought, taking a sip of vodka. She opened the front cover and turned to the first page.

  She spit out her drink.

  There, in the place she normally put inscriptions, was her signature:

  Veronica thrust the book back on the shelf, hastily wiping her hand on her skirt as if she’d touched something poisonous. She dumped her drink into the sink and began to pace behind the bar, her heart thrumming like a jackrabbit.

  “Uh, you okay?” Big Jim asked.

  “What? Yes. I mean…no, not really.” Veronica eyed the side door anxiously. “What the hell is taking that bartender so long?”

  “Randy.”

  “Who?”

  “The bartender. His name’s Randy.” Big Jim blew smoke at the ceiling and looked sideways at Veronica. “Tell you what, the basement in this place gives me the willies. They say a bunch of people died down there back in the 70’s.”

  “R-Really?”

  Veronica suddenly felt as though she were choking. She thought of the mysterious green light, the boiler room door--what if she had been attacked in that awful basement? No one would have heard her scream. With each passing moment Veronica became more desperate to escape the decaying old building and its cast of misfits.

  “Yep. Hey, did Randy tell you why he was going down there?”

  “Um…no he didn’t,” Veronica lied. She thought it best not to mention the fact she was paying his friend a hundred dollars to retrieve her phone, credit cards, smart tablet, and her $1,200 Prada double-handled tote bag. She walked over and opened the side door to look for the bartender. Where was he?

  Big Jim studied Veronica’s outfit, her shoes. “You in town for a convention or something?”

  “Convention? No, I’m here for a book reading. I’m a writer,” Veronica said, coming back to the bar. “I was signing books, this afternoon, in this building. I went downstairs to use the ladies’ room and when I came out, I must have gotten turned around, because I can’t seem to find my way back to the bookstore.”

  “What bookstore?”

  She leaned wearily against the bar. “Thy Neighbor’s Books, the store that held my book signing this afternoon. The store…” Veronica snatched a bar napkin and dabbed at her welling tears. Damned vodka—it had calmed her nerves but sapped her emotional control. “The store that is supposed to be right here!” she sniffled.

  “Hey, don’t cry. It’s…it’s gonna be alright,” Big Jim said, looking at her with something near to pity. “But I gotta tell you, I been livin’ in this neighborhood a long time, and there hasn’t been a bookstore in this building for years.”

  Veronica stared at him. “Do you know what? You’re insane! You’re ALL insane! Everyone in this entire building is completely and utterly batshit crazy! I’m telling you I was here TODAY. In a bookstore. In fact, I personally signed the novel over on that bookshelf. That’s my book—I’m Veronica Harper!”

  Big Jim threw his cigarette on the floor and stubbed it out with his boot. “I think I’d better go look for Randy.”

  “Wait!” Veronica pleaded, regretting her outburst. “Maybe you should stay here. In case he comes back.”

  Big Jim eyed her warily for a moment, then slid off his barstool without another word and loped across the bar.

  “Jim! Don’t go! I…I’m sorry!” Veronica called, hurrying after him. “Wait! Please!” Not accustomed to drinking hard liquor, she wobbled unsteadily through the arcade and down the stairs. The door to the basement stood open. Randy’s keys still hung in the lock.

  �
��Jim?” Veronica crept down the green corridor toward the boiler room. “Randy?”

  At the end of the hall she stopped and stared at the floor: a dark smear littered with broken glass lead to the restroom.

  Veronica held her breath. Her hand trembled as she pushed open the ladies’ room door.

  “Hello?” she called, leaning inside the dark restroom.

  The overhead lights blinked to life, illuminating the shiny pink tiles. Except for the smear on the floor, the space looked exactly as she’d left it. There was no sign of either of the men.

  Veronica’s body flooded with relief--there, on the counter, was her Prada bag.

  She immediately pulled out her phone and scrolled through her contacts until she came to Sarah’s number. Pressing ‘dial’, Veronica looked into the mirror, smoothing her red bangs.

  She screamed, dropping her phone into the sink.

  Behind her, in the reflection, stood Ursula in her dark sunglasses.

  “You!” Veronica whirled around. “I’m warning you—stay the hell away from me, you nutcase! I’ve…I’ve got pepper spray!”

  “Tsk, tsk. Is that any way to talk to a loyal reader?” Ursula croaked.

  Veronica snatched her phone from the sink bowl and punched 911. “Loyal reader? Loyal reader?! Thanks to you I’m in the middle of a living nightmare!” she yelled, grabbing her tote bag and backing toward the door.

  “This isn’t a nightmare, dearie. And I’m afraid you’re mistaken about the ‘living’ part, too. You see…you’re dead, Ms. Harper.”

  “Oh, this just keeps getting better and better,” Veronica said. Goddamn it, why wasn’t her call going through?

  “Don’t you want to know how you died?”

  “Shut up, you lunatic! I’m calling the police!”

  Ursula smiled sadly. “Your taxi was rear-ended by a moving van right after leaving the airport. You and your assistant were killed instantly.”

  “You’re crazy!” Veronica choked. “Where’s Sarah? What have you done to her?”