The House Opposite

by J. Jefferson Farjeon

  They advanced a step or two closer. The short length of twisted humanity grew bigger and clearer. It was clutching the back rail, as though it had become frozen to it.

  ‘Wonder if he’s all right?’ frowned the young man.

  ‘Listen! He’s talking!’ exclaimed the girl.

  ‘By Joye, so he is!’ said the young man. ‘Off his nut! I say—p’r’aps, after all, we’d better—’

  They stood, hesitating. The huddled figure on the seat was undoubtedly talking. The girl drew nearer to her companion, and her companion wondered why on earth he did not lead her hastily away. The fellow was just an ordinary ‘drunk,’ of course…But—was he? If only he’d raise his voice a little…

  Then the fellow raised his voice.

  ‘Lock me in a room, would yer?’ he cried, with sudden and startling vehemence. ‘Nah, then—git orf me! I’m goin’ back—d’yer ’ear?’

  ‘Yes, quite balmy,’ sighed the young man. ‘We’d better be going, Ruth.’

  ‘What about that shilling?’ she urged. ‘I expect he hasn’t had our luck.’

  ‘You bet he hasn’t!’ responded the young man soberly. ‘He doesn’t look as if he’s had any luck!’

  He dived in his pocket and brought out a coin. The girl looked at him, and from him to the huddled figure on the seat. Philosophy was not her strong point, but little philosophy was needed to appreciate the contrast. The one in immaculate evening clothes and silk hat, with everything before him—the other in a torn and ragged coat and no hat, with surely nothing before him! Unaware of the theory of compensation, one might assume that Nature has no interest in equality.

  ‘Here you are, old chap,’ said the young man, holding out the shilling as though it were a bun.

  ‘Git away!’ answered the figure on the seat. ‘I tole ’er I’d stick there, and nobody ain’t goin’ ter stop me!’

  ‘Nobody ain’t trying to stop you,’ replied the young man gently, and turned to the girl. ‘You know, he seems to have had a knock or something. I don’t believe it’s a case of drowning his sorrows. Shall I stick the bob on the seat, or give him a prod?’

  ‘Give him a prod,’ answered the girl. ‘Just a tiny one. It may bring him round.’

  It did bring him round. It brought him round so suddenly that the young man jumped back. The figure’s arms were windmilling.

  ‘Hey! Steady, old sport!’ he cried.

  ‘Wot’s that?’ muttered the human windmill, and opened its eyes.

  The contrasts stared at each other.

  ‘’Oo are you?’ blinked the less presentable.

  ‘Thomas Medway,’ smiled the more presentable. ‘And who are you?’

  ‘Gawd, if anybody asks me that agin ter-night, I’ll ’it ’im!’ grunted the ragged fellow.

  ‘Sorry, old chap,’ said Thomas Medway; ‘but I was only repeating your own question, you know.’

  ‘Be careful, Tom!’ warned the girl.

  The ragged fellow transferred his eyes to the girl, seeing her for the first time. The sight banished his pugnacity.

  ‘That’s orl right, miss,’ he mumbled. ‘I ain’t ’urting nobody.’

  He rose from the seat as he spoke, then promptly sat down on it again. He didn’t look as if he could hurt anybody.

  ‘That’s funny,’ he said. ‘Knees gorn wobbly.’

  ‘Had a rough time, eh?’ asked the young man sympathetically.

  But the ragged fellow did not appear to hear the question. He was studying the seat.

  ‘’Ow did I git ’ere?’ he inquired.

  ‘I haven’t a notion,’ answered the young man. ‘Is there anything I can do?’

  ‘Yus,’ replied the ragged fellow. ‘’Ow fur am I from Jowle Street?’

  ‘Jowle Street?’ repeated the young man. ‘Never heard of it! Have you, Ruth?’

  ‘No,’ she answered. ‘It sounds horrible!’

  ‘It is ’orrible,’ agreed the ragged fellow; ‘but it’s where I gotter git ter. Nummer twenty-nine.’

  The young man and the girl exchanged glances. They had reached the stage in which they could understand each other without speaking. The young man dived into his pocket again, and this time produced a ten-shilling note.

  ‘You don’t look in much of a condition to walk,’ he said. ‘Take a taxi, will you, with our love.’

  He held the note out.

  ‘Go on!’ said the ragged fellow.

  ‘Don’t be an ass,’ replied the young man. ‘Take it. And if there’s anything over, drink our health. We’re going to be married.’

  The ragged man’s hand went forward. His fingers closed over the note. At first slowly. Then, galvanically. A moment later, he was gone.

  ‘Well, I’m blowed!’ exclaimed the young man.

  ‘His legs seemed all right that time!’ commented the girl.

  ‘Talk about lightning!’ blinked the young man.

  A soft sound behind them made them turn. Another figure stood before them, tall, lithe, and with the whites gleaming round his pupils. In the dimness he looked Oriental.

  ‘Excuse,’ said the new figure. ‘But may I ask who was the person you were talking to?’

  The young man frowned, and felt the girl’s arm pressing his again.

  ‘Why?’ he demanded.

  ‘I think I know him,’ answered the newcomer.

  ‘I’m afraid that’s your misfortune,’ replied the young man. ‘He’s my gardener, and I’ve this moment dismissed him for being drunk!’

  ‘So? Your pardon,’ said the Oriental.

  And vanished.

  ‘Why ever did you say that?’ inquired the girl.

  ‘I simply haven’t a notion,’ returned the young man; ‘but I’m damned glad I did! I say, Ruth, rather a queer business, what?’ He glanced towards the now empty seat. ‘Has it spoiled a happy memory?’

  ‘I don’t think so, Tom,’ she answered. ‘But, if you’re doubtful, shall we sit down on it for just a few seconds and win it back?’

  They sat down, and he put his arm round her.

  ‘Bit like, aren’t you?’ she commented, after a pause. ‘What are you thinking of?’

  ‘As a matter of fact, Ruth,’ he confessed, ‘I was thinking of Jowle Street.’

  CHAPTER X

  BACK AGAIN!

  BEN ran a hundred yards, with eyes closed and such teeth as he possessed clenched. He ran in his own peculiar fashion, half-human, half-crustacean, and beat the zigzag record. When he couldn’t go straight he went sideways, and he frequently had to go sideways because, when your eyes are closed, you keep on bumping into things. Normally, of course, you open your eyes when you bump into things, but Ben was not normal, and everything he bumped into seemed to be an Indian. That was an excellent reason for keeping his eyes closed.

  At the end of the hundred yards his breath and his knees gave out. He had, therefore, to depend upon some other function for a continuation of existence. Since he couldn’t move any more himself he had to find something else that would move for him, and the only way to find that something else was to look for it. So, risking all the evil of the Orient, he opened his eyes; and heaven sent him the sight of a taxi.

  ‘Oi!’ he gasped.

  ‘Oi’ is not the most effective way to stop a taxi, for taxi-drivers have their pride. It was late, however. The theatre crowds had evaporated, and the dance crowds were not quite ready to follow. Therefore, the taxi stopped. Any fare in a storm.

  Ben opened the door and lurched in. It was one of those new, comfortable taxis, and comfort purred around him like a narcotic. You couldn’t do anything for a bit, but just lie back and think of bees and clover.

  The taxi door opened. Ben straightened with a start.

  ‘Where to?’ demanded the taximan.

  ‘Eh?’ replied Ben.

  The information was not sufficient. Nor, from the expression of the taximan, did the passenger appear to be. The taxi had pulled up in the darkest portion of the road, midway between lamp-posts, and the
passenger had slipped in swiftly. This was the first time the taximan had got a proper view of the passenger, and he couldn’t quite believe it.

  ‘Bit of a toff travelling in a taxi, aren’t you?’ suggested the taximan.

  ‘King’s messenger,’ answered Ben.

  ‘Come off it!’ retorted the taximan. ‘Let’s see your fare money!’

  Ben held out the ten-shilling note. It had remained clutched in his hand ever since he had received it.

  ‘Hallo! Rockfeller!’ exclaimed the taximan. ‘Where did you pick that up?’

  Where had he picked it up? For a second Ben hardly knew. Then he recalled a young man in a glossy top hat and a girl in a bright yellow wrap. They formed part of a long string of memories, a string that was twisted. Had they been the last thing?

  ‘Or p’r’aps you’ve been doing a bit of private socialism?’ inquired the taximan suspiciously. ‘Had I better drive you to a police station!’

  ‘Shurrup!’ growled Ben. ‘You git a move on, and drive me ter—’ He paused. He had been on the point of saying ‘Jowle Street.’ But suppose the Indian was waiting in a dark doorway, listening for the address? Better still zigzag for a while. ‘Pickerdilly Circus,’ he decided, aloud.

  ‘Oh! Out for a spree, mate!’ grinned the taximan.

  ‘That’s right,’ answered Ben. ‘I’m takin’ Phyllis Dare out ter supper. So ’urry hup! She ’ates it when I’m late.’

  The taximan chuckled, and climbed back into his seat. After all, he’d seen the ten-shilling note, and the rest wasn’t his business.

  Ben sank back again. This was a bit different from his last taxi ride! The taximan was taking him this time to where he wanted, and not to where the taximan wanted. And no drugged cigarette to fuddle the brain. It is not to be assumed, however, that Ben was happy. Piccadilly Circus was merely the first stop for Jowle Street, and he was quite convinced that Jowle Street was growing more and more unhealthy every hour. Nor can we deny the accuracy of his conviction.

  For the umpteenth time he asked himself why he was going back. ‘Reg’lar boomerang, that’s wot I am!’ he thought. Had the first girl of the many he had seen that night—no, the second girl; the first was the distressed girl on the doorstep of No. 26, wasn’t it?—the girl that Australian toff had gone after?—had this second girl, then—the really wonderful one—really got hold of him like this? Why, he’d only seen her for just a few minutes, yet in that time she had wound something round him he couldn’t escape from. Something elastic, that kept pulling him back to her, or to where he had last seen her. He couldn’t make it out. No, he couldn’t!

  And there was something else too. A feeling that went even deeper than the wonderful girl—that went to something right beyond her. He couldn’t explain this deeper feeling either. Whatever the cause of it, the effect of it in his emaciated person was a sense of incompletion. Something was waiting at No. 29 Jowle Street, something he had to do. It had been waiting ever since he had entered it. And he wouldn’t be allowed to leave it finally, and to become complete again, until he had done it.

  Yes; but what was it?

  Lights grew more frequent. Shop windows, seeking night publicity, began to illuminate the way. The streets became more populated with their nocturnal inhabitants with painted women, pathetic in their callousness; elderly men, pathetic in their outlook; parties in evening dress; policemen; and beggars. Poverty and plenty, shoulder rubbing shoulder, while gulfs apart. And presently, to the reviving comprehension of the passenger in the taxi-cab, the streets assumed recognisable form. Oxford Street, Regent Street, Piccadilly…

  ‘This do?’ asked the taximan, opening the door and popping his head in with a grin.

  ‘Yus,’ answered Ben. ‘Tike it out o’ that, with a shillin’ fer a drink.’

  He thrust the note into the taximan’s hand. The taximan glanced at the clock, and gave back the exact change.

  ‘Kep’ yer drink?’ queried Ben, as he alighted.

  ‘That’s all right, mate,’ replied the taximan. ‘You have it.’

  And he sped off to gather up another fare.

  Piccadilly Circus seemed immensely friendly. People everywhere. Policemen within call. Coffee and sandwiches, too. The ideal thing would be to pitch a tent on the big, flat island, and to sleep there surrounded by security. Then, if a hand suddenly clutched you, or a dark-skinned face were abruptly thrust towards your own, all you would have to do would be to holler.

  But you mustn’t pitch tents in Piccadilly, and even if you sit on doorsteps you are moved on. So what was the use of thinking? Besides, wasn’t Jowle Street calling?

  Ben looked round for another taxi. As he did so, his roving eye suddenly paused. A familiar figure was emerging from an hotel. The Piccadilly Hotel. For a moment Ben couldn’t place her, though he was sure he had seen her somewhere recently. Then he recollected. It was the girl who had left No. 26, and who had been upset.

  A young man was with her. He had a rather weak face, and his expression was worried. He seemed to be asking her questions which she couldn’t answer. They stood on the pavement for a few moments, while a commissionaire procured their car. It was a private car. A Rolls. They got in and glided away.

  ‘No bloomin’ doubt abart ’it,’ muttered Ben. ‘I’m marked for it!’

  For surely only Fate itself could have dealt him this reminder!

  ‘Oi,’ said Ben.

  ‘Oi, yerself!’ replied the taximan addressed.

  He tried another method with the next.

  ‘’Ere! I wancher!’ he called.

  It was another blank. To get a taxi when you are in rags is an art.

  But the third time proved lucky. A cab drew up beside him, a man got out, and Ben got in. As he got in, he said, ‘Jowle Street,’ and took the matter as settled.

  The driver knew Jowle Street. He had driven a four-wheeler, and London was an open book to him. But he did want to know the number, and Ben kept in the shadow while he told him.

  ‘Now we’re really off,’ thought Ben, as the taxi began to move. ‘Next stop, ’Orror!’

  He kept in the shadow for five minutes. Then he bent forward and looked out. Already the comfort of the West End was departing, the shops were less illuminated, and the policemen thinning out. Of course, ordinarily, policemen had their disadvantages, but they were desirable folk on a night like this. As the journey proceeded and grimness replaced gaiety, Ben’s temporary happiness began to leave him, and his heart began to beat a little faster again. His respite was over.

  ‘I orter’ve ’ad a bite,’ he reflected, rubbing his forehead. ‘This bump’s makin’ me barmy!’

  Well, he was not going to stop for it now. The sooner you got there the sooner you’d get it over, and the sooner you got it over, the sooner you’d know whether you were dead or alive or not.

  Towards the end of the journey he kept a sharp lookout upon the streets. He saw no ominous signs. Three corners from Jowle Street at a bridge that ran over a sluggish canal he poked his head out of the window.

  ‘This’ll do,’ he said.

  The taxi stopped. He slipped out quickly, and quickly paid his fare. The driver stared at him in astonishment. Was this what he’d been driving? The passenger did not wait to explain or to apologise. He left the taxi as swiftly as he had entered it, and the driver gazed after him. Well, whatever the passenger’s appearance, he had paid his bill.

  ‘Nearly ’ome!’ muttered Ben.

  The canal and the bridge were now behind him, and the three corners had become two.

  ‘Wonder if anybody’s waitin’ up fer me?’ muttered Ben.

  The two corners became one.

  ‘Gawd ’elp us!’ muttered Ben.

  Now he was in Jowle Street, slinking along its lugubrious length close to the palings. He was on the correct side. The odd number side. Across the way, becoming less and less distant, was No. 26. All still and dark there. And here, on this side, also becoming less and less distant, was No. 29. All still and dar
k, there too. Just a flat, black blodge, rising up into further blackness.

  ‘’Allo!’ murmured Ben suddenly.

  All still, yes. But—all dark? No, not quite all dark. A dim light flickered half-way up. It flickered from the second floor front…his room…

  ‘I didn’t see that afore!’ he thought. ‘’Allo! Where’s it gorn?’

  Now, the second floor front was dark again.

  ‘Blimy!’ muttered Ben. ‘Ain’t life luvverly?’

  CHAPTER XI

  WHAT YOU CAN DO WHEN YOU MATTER

  THERE are times when it is best not to think. This, undoubtedly, was one of the times. Somebody was up in the second floor front who would hit Ben on the head if he entered the house. Therefore, if one thought, one wouldn’t enter the house. And one had to enter the house—didn’t one?

  There was only one way to enter the house. It was to go round to the back and slip in through the open kitchen window. Of course, when you were in the kitchen, you could stop and take a breath, if you wanted to, and say a prayer, if you knew one. But it was no good breathing and praying first. That way thought lay.

  So round to the back Ben slipped, trying hard to forget that he had just seen a dim light go out in the room that was his objective. Imaginary hands clawed at him as he passed through the narrow black alley. Imaginary knives stuck in his back. Imaginary creatures crawled around his feet, to trip him up…

  Imaginary? Ben gave a leap. So did a big black cat.

  ‘Lummy!’ gasped Ben. ‘There’s a dirty trick!’

  He glared at the two lamp-green eyes that glowed back at him. Ben’s eyes were indignant. The cat’s were reproachful. The cat made the first advances towards a better understanding. The lamp-green eyes glowed closer, and a soft body pressed against Ben’s leg.

  ‘’Allo—wanter be friends, eh?’ murmured Ben. ‘Fergive and fergit!’

  Well, any friend was better than none. He stooped and stroked the soft body. The spot he stroked was damp.

  ‘That’s funny,’ reflected Ben. ‘It ain’t rainin’.’ He raised his hand, which was now damp also. He held it close to his face. There were many dark portions of Ben’s hand, but most of them were black. This new damp one was red.