The House Opposite

by J. Jefferson Farjeon

  But, although his mind was a useless, broken thing, he hung on to it. He must at least watch over the parts to give them a chance of reassembling. Oblivion—that was what he wanted. He wanted to die. Just where he was. After the next jerk. Quiet like, and no questions asked. But he mustn’t die. He mustn’t sleep. He mustn’t even close his eyes, excepting when he felt nails coming. All the little life that remained in him must be preserved, to fling at the feet of a strange and haunting beauty.

  For somewhere within that wooden case, secreted deeply in the crumpled, ridiculous form it contained, was the spark that burns despite all logic and lights the world.

  One queer thought kept recurring during the journey. It provided the thinker with an odd imaginative comfort. ‘Nice start they’d get,’ ran the thought, ‘if I was ter suddenly pop up through the lid!’ Of course, there was no chance of his popping up through the lid. The wood was solid, and, although he did not know this, the box had now been roped. But it was a nice thing to think about, just the same. Nearly all the really nice things can only be thought about.

  Then there was another thought, not quite so soothing. ‘If that chap wot wos in ’ere fust ’adn’t come rahnd afore they thort ’e would, p’r’aps we’d both be in ’ere!’ The verdict, Ben decided, would have been: ‘Death by squashing.’

  Less soothing still was: ‘Wot’s goin’ ter ’appen when we harrive?’

  And then, all at once, they did arrive. The car stopped. It had reached its destination.

  Where was the destination? A house? A forest? A barn? Ben wondered as, after a short respite, the uncomfortable business of moving began again, and he felt himself being lifted from the car. ‘Well, there’s one thing,’ he reflected, seeking grains of comfort. ‘I’m learnin’ a bit abart me funeral!’ But he wanted to learn other things, as well, so he listened hard for sounds he could identify.

  Plod! Plod! Plod! Them was footsteps. Wishy-wishy-wishy! Whisperin’ that was. Crunch! Crunch! Crunch! Gravel. Creak-creak! What was that? Bang! Door closin’. Then the creak must have been the door openin’. Growl! ’Allo! Somebody was cross! Oi—steady! Now they were setting the box down. ’Ere—ease a bit! Wotcher think’s inside? Carpets…

  It was a nasty jolt, that! It made Ben want to cry. The darkness grew darker, and he forgot about things for a bit. For quite a considerable bit. Then he came to with a jolt, tried to sit up, and bumped his head.

  Voices sounded above him. He hung on to them. One was Mahdi’s. The other was—No! Yes! The girl’s.

  There was no mistaking the girl’s voice. It was music amid discord. Or, in Ben’s own phraseology, ‘like a bit of ’ome,’ albeit a home that figured merely in Ben’s most daring flights of fancy…

  ‘No. I’ll tell you nothing, Mahdi,’ the girl was saying, ‘until I’m face to face with the man you brought me here to see.’

  ‘So!’ responded Mahdi’s voice. ‘Still imperious, though helpless!’

  ‘Yes, Mahdi. You see, although I am helpless, you’re still afraid of me.’

  ‘That ancient trick!’

  ‘Why not call it by its right name, Mahdi? The truth?’

  ‘The truth? That I am afraid of you?’

  ‘If you are not afraid of me, why have you bound me? Why are you keeping me here? Or—is it, perhaps, your master who is afraid of me?’

  A short silence followed. Ben visualised the speakers as clearly as though he were seeing them. The girl, bound, but calm, her eyes unwavering. The Indian, inscrutable, confident, scornful, concealing the strange fires within him. Then all at once the Indian laughed softly. His voice rang cynically through the space above the box.

  ‘Listen, Nadine,’ said the voice. ‘I will tell you. Perhaps if you were free, I should be afraid of you. I should remember that you have tricked me with your smile, and one who tricks Mahdi is not to be dismissed lightly. But you can do me no harm now. Nor can others who, for a different reason, I might also have feared. The reason, in their case, is not skill, but incompetence. They are as helpless as you, and, though unbound, they too are locked in a garage—the garage adjoining this. If the walls were less thick, you might hear, still, the protests of three incompetent pawns.’

  ‘Your master has many pawns, Mahdi?’

  ‘The number of his pawns would surprise you, Nadine. And all are well paid until they cease to serve him. Then they become merely menaces who must be destroyed—together with the master’s enemies.’ The voice ceased for an instant, then continued, with quiet menace: ‘They are to be destroyed now—with his enemies. Do you understand me, Nadine?’

  There was another little silence. Ben’s mind groped fruitlessly among his newly acquired knowledge. He was in a garage with Nadine and Mahdi. The other three—the old man, the snaky woman, and Ted Flitt—were in the adjoining garage. Everybody was locked in, and everybody was going to be destroyed. With the exception, one supposed, of Mahdi…

  ‘When is this destruction to take place?’ asked Nadine.

  ‘In fifteen minutes,’ answered the Indian.

  ‘Here—in the garage?’

  ‘In fifteen minutes, there will be no garage.’

  ‘Gawd—a blinkin’ bomb!’

  He wondered whether, if he prayed like Samson, he would be granted strength to burst the lid of the box? Samson’s story was the one bit of Bible he knew. He’d seen a picture of it in a packet of cigarettes. But even if God treated him as well as he had treated Samson, would it be any use? Ben couldn’t see what use! No, better lie quiet for a bit longer…

  ‘Tell me, Mahdi,’ said the girl, and the steadiness of her voice seemed to Ben like a miracle. He himself was one complete wobble. ‘Am I to see your master in the next fifteen minutes, or is he to hide himself in fear of me until I am dead? He seems to be more like a frightened ant than a person.’

  Then Mahdi laughed, and there was a note in his laughter that Ben did not recognise, and could not place. What did this laughter mean? It was soft, almost purring. There were scorn and triumph in it, and the quiet assurance of a cosmic vanity. For several seconds the sinister sound echoed through the garage. Then, abruptly, it ceased.

  ‘I am the man,’ said Mahdi.

  Nadine did not lose her poise. She merely drew in a quick, sharp breath. She refused to placate the cosmic vanity.

  ‘So—you are the master, Mahdi,’ she replied slowly.

  ‘Yes. I am the master, Nadine.’

  ‘Do the others know?’

  ‘They will never know. The pawns live and die in ignorance. It is my rule.’

  ‘Then am I to feel honoured?’

  ‘You are honoured—in the last moments of your life. It is a recognition, Nadine. Having dined with the master, and danced with the master, and played with the master, and fooled the master, you now receive the master’s reward—the knowledge of his identity, which you sought. And now he asks why you sought it.’

  ‘That should not baffle you,’ answered the girl, after a moment’s pause. ‘Many have wished to know you.’

  ‘And many have failed.’

  ‘I have not.’

  ‘No. And you are about to pay the price of your success. At last, we understand each other, Nadine.’

  ‘Yes, Mahdi. We know each other now. I know you for the leader of one of the most contemptible organisations that have ever fattened on other people’s weaknesses, and you know me for a more humble member of an organisation more reputable. I found your weakness, Mahdi!’

  ‘True. But profit by it too late. You will have no chance now, Nadine, to tell what you have learned to your friends the police. For, I expect, the police were your friends?’

  ‘Were?’ retorted the girl. ‘I’m not dead yet!’

  ‘But I never saw you with any member of—how did you phrase it?—that reputable organisation.’

  ‘Would you have trusted me, if you had?’

  ‘So! You separated yourself from the police, to work for them? That was clever—and courageous, Yes, I should certainly
have suspected you earlier, Nadine, if you had not taken that precaution. But what a pity I cannot reward you for your work. What a pity! And what a pity, Nadine, that you meddled in my work!…And there is another here who meddled in my work. With twelve minutes to spare, there is still time to hear what he has to say—if, indeed, he is in a position to say anything.’ His voice drew nearer the box in which Ben lay. ‘I am curious about this other meddler. Very curious.’

  When concentrating on others, you may forget about yourself. Now, all at once, Ben ceased to forget. He realised he was a map, running with rivers of perspiration.

  In a few seconds he would cease to be merely a listener in the desperate drama that was being enacted outside the box. He would re-enter the drama and participate in it. As the lid opened and reality replaced imagination, he would actually see the girl, and the cords that bound her. But, nearer to him, would be the face of Mahdi. Yes, immediately above him! A few short inches over him! Staring down at him! With what expression? Ferocious surprise? Livid hate? Or—worse—no expression at all? Just two pools of white, with central points of burning black, that scorched and scorched and scorched…

  Little noises sounded around him. He tried, as once before, to identify them. A sort of scraping. Would that be a knife? A sort of snapping. That sounded like rope. A sort of slithering. Would that be a hand moving towards the fastening hook? A sort of clicking.

  A few hours previously, Ben had been stung by his impotence into killing a man. But if he had been impotent then, how much more impotent was he now! His arms could not strike, his legs could not kick, his head could not butt. He was stiff and cramped. He was fatigued and famished. Such brain as he had was numb. And against him would be pitted a free, lithe creature, strong and supple, clear-minded, quick-witted, with a ruthless will that cowed and a ruthless blade that silenced. It wasn’t fair—it wasn’t fair! The moment was coming—the moment of test, for which all other moments had been endured—and it wasn’t fair!

  And now, perhaps, without knowing it, Ben prayed to God even as Samson did; and as he prayed, the miracle occurred. His cramped fingers touched something cold.

  New perspiration swept over him. The perspiration of despairing hope. The cold thing was something he had forgotten, something he had been destined to forget for the impetus of re-discovery. It had entered the box with him in that frenzied instant at No. 26 Jowle Street. It had lain with him ever since, travelling with him, sliding with him, bumping with him. And now, here it was, touching his fingers, the answer to his voiceless prayers, the key to possible deliverance.

  His fingers closed over it, while a hinge creaked above him. He shifted his position slightly. He worked the cold thing round till it was against his side, with its thinnest extremity pointing upwards. The lid of the box began to open.

  Gradually the wooden roof disappeared. In its place grew a dark, oval silhouette, with two bright, burning points. For the fraction of an instant Ben stared upwards at the bright, burning points. They appeared to be trying to sap his feeble strength, to numb his will. But, just before they succeeded, just before he was pinned down, he managed to press the cold thing. There was a blinding crash…

  Then Ben saw a strange vision. Two figures. The first was on the ground, quivering into immobility. The second was staring down at the first. The quivering figure on the ground was the Indian, of course. But who was the other figure?

  ‘Gawd, it’s me!’ thought Ben.

  Wasn’t he in the box?

  He tottered round. In a corner of the garage was another figure. The figure of a girl, tied to a chair, and hanging limply over her cords. Of three minds in that confined space, only Ben’s functioned.

  The sudden realisation of this filled the functioning mind with a sense of terrifying responsibility. ‘Do something!’ throbbed the sense. That’s right. Do something. Just take a breath, and do something.

  Hallo! What was that? Somebody was sobbing! He started counting. It wasn’t the girl. It wasn’t the Indian.

  ‘Lummy, it’s me agine!’ he thought, amazed. ‘Wot am I blubbin’ for?’

  He tried to stop. He couldn’t. A new theory dawned upon him.

  ‘It ain’t cryin’,’ he decided. ‘It’s laughin’. Somethin’s funny!’

  What was it? A chop? Yes, that was it! He was riding on a chop and winning the Derby! He could hear the crowd shouting and banging…He wrenched himself off the chop. His legs gave way, and he found himself on the Indian. He wrenched himself off the Indian.

  That was it! The Indian! That was it! All his life he had been running away from Indians. They’d chased him and tried to kill him. They’d crept up creaking stairs, slithered from under beds, leapt out from cupboards. And now he’d killed one. There the Indian lay, still and quiet, never to move again. Never to creep, never to slither, never to leap! And he, Ben, had done it! He, Ben! He, Ben! He, Ben! Ha, ha, ha! Ha, ha, ha! Ha, ha—!

  Yes, but why had he done it? Wasn’t there a reason somewhere? If only he could stop feeling sick. And if only those people would stop shouting and banging, so that he could think! He was mounting the chop again. He was riding it through the spangled sky. ‘If I can git ter God,’ he thought, ‘’E’ll tell me wot I did it for! ’E’ll tell me wot I gotter do!’

  He was very near now. Faster, faster! These shouting people mustn’t stop him! Then a face appeared in the sky. It was not the face of God, for that is never revealed to us, but it was the nearest to it that Ben would ever know…

  It brought Ben back from limitless space with a sickening sweep. It provided him with just sufficient sense to understand that his senses were nearly done for. He staggered round. The girl still hung limp over her cords.

  And now, a queer, grotesque caution entered into him. He became like a man spending his last penny. The penny he was spending represented his final store of functioning capacity. It was just a question of economics. Could you buy a motor car with a penny?

  The only way to do it was to be very still and very slow. Otherwise you would fall over and never get up again. Over there was a girl. You had to get to her somehow. On the ground was a knife. You had to get to that too, because you had to cut the girl’s cords. And there was the shouting and the banging. That had to be attended to, also. The question was, which was the best order to do these things, in case you went wollop before you’d done them all?

  He bent down towards the knife, very slowly. ‘I’ve stopped cryin’,’ he thought. ‘Good.’ He was also pleased to find that he could think, but he must think very slowly and deliberately, just as he must act very slowly and deliberately. That penn’orth had to go a long way.

  Soon, however, another thought became necessary.

  ‘If I gits dahn too fur,’ he wondered, ‘can I git up agine?’

  He decreased his pace, and then felt about the floor with his hand. He couldn’t look at that moment. The floor was swaying.

  His hand touched something. Not the knife, surely? He brought the thing up to his nose. It was a key.

  And then, in a sense, history repeated itself. This key, which the Indian must have dropped when falling to the ground, completed the salvation which the revolver had commenced, and, like the revolver, had been delivered into his hands at the crucial moment. For the shouting, which he had deliberately attempted to ignore, now burst more coherently upon his ears, and one of the voices sounded vaguely familiar.

  ‘Say, it’s stout!’ cried the voice. ‘But we’ll have it down!’

  Thud! Thud! The banging continued.

  It was the voice of that other bloke—the bloke who had first been in the box. He must have got out of the window somehow…he must have followed the box somehow…he must have brought help somehow…

  Ben took the biggest breath he had ever taken in his life and, clutching the key, hurled himself towards the door. He must have reached it somehow. The key chattered into its hole, and turned…

  The door swung open. Ben tottered back. People poured in.

&n
bsp; ‘Gall,’ said Ben stupidly. ‘Hover there. And a bomb.’

  Then he began to cry again.

  CHAPTER XXXVI

  AND LIFE GOES ON

  THE people who poured into the garage were Jack Hobart, Douglas Randall, a taximan, and four policemen.

  The four policemen had been collected locally, after the taxi had tracked the pursued van to its lair and reinforcements had been deemed necessary—for Hobart now limped, and the taximan was seventy: but Hobart and Randall had met and formed the nucleus of the army as far back as Jowle Street. The former, recovering from the effects of a nasty descent from a second-floor window, had been leaving No. 26 by a dark side alley. The latter, himself suffering from a different kind of a shock received earlier in the day, was approaching with hush money for the murder of the very man he now saw before him. The meeting had been emotional. It required explanation. But since, at the same moment, a box was being carried from No. 26 to a waiting motor van, and Hobart suddenly recalled that he had been particularly instructed to follow this box, the explanation had had to wait until a taxi had been requisitioned for the pursuit.

  It was in the taxi that Hobart and Randall resumed their emotions, exchanged stories and, putting two and two together, made a very ugly four.

  These facts, briefly stated, may interest the reader who has stayed the course. They were, however, of no immediate interest to Ben. He, with considerably more taken out of him, had also stayed the course, and for a space he could not measure he was not interested in anything at all. Matters were now out of his hands. The girl had been saved. The gang of blackmailers had been rounded up. Above him was the great, silent night. He just lay on a patch of grass, and, stared up at it.

  He did not know how he had got on the patch of grass. Somebody, presumably, had carried him there, it didn’t matter. He did not know why there was a tiny warmth in his stomach. Somebody, presumably, had devised something for his stomach. It didn’t matter. He did not know what tomorrow was going to bring. Whether it would be a long, long sleep, or a continuation of the strange, fretful business that preceded the long, long sleep. It didn’t matter. Nothing mattered. Nothing.