The Wanderer

by Timothy J. Jarvis

  ‘Jesus!’

  She sniffed.

  ‘Smells worse even than blood and piss only. Like bile and rot too. What happened? Did you antagonise them?’

  William hissed.

  ‘Of course not! Just a random attack. Fuck! Some sympathy wouldn’t go amiss.’

  ‘I’m sorry! So sorry. Horrible!’

  She put his clothes on to wash, sent him to bathe.

  After that night, at first, if anything, they were closer than before. But things turned sour. Havoc loosed in his brain, William grew morose. Catherine had her own anxieties, it seemed, and likewise sank into despondency. At first they bickered a lot, then, after a while, aside from curt exchanges about bills, other mundanities, ceased speaking altogether.

  One night, Catherine, hoping to cheer them both, mend some of the hurt, suggested they go out for a meal. They agreed to put grudges aside. While waiting to order, and eating starters, they chatted, and their talk, if small, was civil, even pleasant. Then, once they’d finished the first course and were waiting for their mains, Catherine, perhaps starting to feel the effects of the red wine, talked about the upset William’s recent callousness had caused her.

  ‘You’ve been pretty cold yourself,’ he came back, a touch rankled.

  ‘I have, I’m sorry. But, look, since the night you were attacked, you’ve been different,’ she said, gently.

  ‘Not really.’

  ‘Yes, you have. What did happen that night?’

  ‘I’ve told you everything.’

  He spat out the words like fish bones.

  ‘Do you not love me anymore?’ she asked.

  ‘Catherine, doll, I’m sorry. I do, of course. But you’ve not been yourself, either.’

  She squinted, smiled melancholic.

  Just then, their waiter came over, apologised. There was a problem in the kitchen. Service would be slow. Would they like another bottle of wine, no charge? Yes, they said. That was fine, they were happy to wait.

  They’d soon finished the first bottle and begun on the second. They held hands over the table, laughed together for the first time in months. Things were going far better than William had thought they ever could; he was glad the filthy wrappings had been taken off the festering canker, felt he might even be able to salve it, unburden himself, tell Catherine the truth. Then, she leaned forward, stroked his face.

  ‘Will, there’s something I haven’t told you. I thought you’d find it too strange. I don’t think we should keep things from each other anymore, though.’

  ‘What is it?’

  Catherine stared up at the dim bulb glowing in the storm-lantern hanging low over the table, a sibyl consulting a caged sprite.

  ‘I’ve told you before about the imaginary friend I had growing up, haven’t I? Jessie.’

  ‘Yes, yes of course.’

  ‘How she looked just like me? Longer hair, paler skin, but otherwise just like me?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Spirit of my stillborn twin. That’s what I think.’

  She broke off, looked up.

  ‘You know?’

  William smiled. But beneath the table he fretted at his paper napkin.

  ‘I know.’

  She tore a shred from a fingernail with her teeth.

  ‘What I’ve never told you, have never told anyone, except my parents, is that, though I stopped seeing Jessie in my early teens, I had the feeling she was there with me still, watching over me.’

  Pausing, she smiled to herself.

  ‘Recently that feeling has left me. I think she’s abandoned me. For a few months, I’ve felt alone.’

  She shook her head as if to clear it, blinked slow.

  ‘You probably think I’m mad. But that’s why I’ve been preoccupied…a bit down these last weeks.’

  William stared at her.

  ‘So,’ Catherine said. ‘What’s upset you? Why have you not been yourself?’

  She looked at him, waited. He took a big gulp of wine. Then the waiter brought their plates over, set them down. Catherine took up her knife and fork, but William sat, hands still in his lap, tearing at the napkin.

  ‘If you won’t tell me what’s wrong, at least eat,’ she said, irked.

  ‘Did you ever misplace your ring?’ he asked, jabbing with his finger.

  ‘What?’

  He pressed the heels of his hands into his eyes.

  ‘Did you ever lose it, leave it anywhere, anything like that?’

  ‘I left it at my parents’ house once. Mum found it, sent it back to me, remember?’

  ‘No.’

  He slumped in his chair. Shreds of napkin fluttered to the floor. The soft lighting and low murmuring of couples, now seemed gloom and muttering. Catherine’s hand trembled, her lips twitched, she paled, and the dark suspicion William had been gravid with since the night on the Heath slopped forth.

  ‘What did you do?’ Jane was eager to know.

  William sniffed, winced.

  ‘I got up from the table, without a word, accidentally knocking my plate to the floor. It smashed on the tiles, and gravy flowed, slow and heavy as blood, along the grout lines. Leaving the restaurant, choosing a direction on a whim, I began walking. I’d not gone far when I heard Catherine calling, turned. She’d chased after me. Without looking, she stepped off a kerb.’

  Trembling, William reached out, took up his drink, downed half of it at one draught.

  ‘There was a bus. The driver braked, but couldn’t stop in time. She was in a coma for six months, died without regaining consciousness.’

  ‘Oh God,’ Jane exclaimed. ‘I’m so sorry.’

  William stared at her, vacant. As though reliving the events of that night.

  ‘Son, are you alright?’ Duncan asked.

  William shuddered, came back to us.

  ‘This is the first time I’ve told anyone the whole…’

  He trailed off, looked down at his drink, then, after a few moments, raised his eyes again.

  ‘After the funeral I spent months holed up in my flat, avoiding people, going out as little as possible. Recently I’ve returned to work, started socializing again, but it’s been hard.’

  Rashmi, who’d been distractedly stirring her vodka and lemonade with her straw, took a sip, then asked William what he thought the truth of all that had happened to him was.

  ‘I don’t know. I try not to think about it. I also can’t talk about it anymore. Perhaps someone else could tell their tale?’

  A brief exchange followed; the upshot was that Jane offered to relate her story, after she’d gone to the toilet. Getting to her feet, she left the table. I looked round the pub. Though it was still quite early, the Nightingale had begun to empty out; it was a week night after all. A large party still caroused, noisily, in a corner at the far side of the saloon, though; from the cards and scraps of wrapping paper strewn over their table, I guessed it to be a birthday celebration. The other remaining patrons sat in pairs and threes, conversing quietly.

  While we awaited Jane’s return, I told William of the sword tattoos I’d seen that evening. The one inked onto the businessman’s wrist he had, of course, remarked himself. He said he had, in the preceding months, noticed more and more of the markings, something that disconcerted him, reminded of his ordeal, filled him with fear one of the strange fellowship might recognize him, again enmesh him in occult horror. We began discussing the possible meaning of the tattoos; Duncan, Elliot, and Rashmi joined in.

  I’ve already described that the Nightingale was divided by a wooden partition, inset with etched glass panes, into a public bar, at the front, and a secluded saloon, at the rear, where we sat. What I haven’t explained, though, was that some of the panes, if narrow, were almost the full height of the partition and had designs only round their margins, were clear in the centre, and that through one of these I had a good view, if a little distorted, of the pub’s entrance. As we were talking, I saw a man open the door, stand on the threshold a brief instant, then stag
ger in a few paces, leaving the door ajar behind. Sleet had begun falling; a swirl blew in and settled on the carpet (today it’s blustery, the wind roils the waters of the estuary, thrashes up spray, and a goatskin the tribeswoman has laid out on the deck of the Ark is flecked with spindrift, glistens in the sun; the sleet on the carpet in the Nightingale that night glistered the same way). The man wore an ill-fitting rumpled pinstriped suit, an unkempt, very fake wig, had sunken dulled eyes, raw sagging skin, and a puffy nose. He hopped from foot to foot, wringing his hands. The patrons nearest him feigned unconcern, though some glared at the open door. I watched him, warped by the lumpy pane of glass, cast about, then, catching sight of our gathering, or, rather, of Duncan’s back, through that same pane, begin cackling silently, reel, stumble, fall against a table, upset a pint. After getting his footing back, he untied the length of twine he was using as a belt, dropped his trousers, kicked free of them, began to gyre, arms outstretched. His pants were threadbare, stained. The landlord opened the counter hatch, came out from behind the bar, crossed over to the drunk, seized him by his collar, and hauled him to the door, kicking, bellowing, and threw him bodily out, threw his trousers out after him. Just before the door was slammed on him, he bawled, in a cracked reedy voice, ‘You fucks! You’re cursed to a living hell!’ Though I couldn’t say quite why, I felt his outburst was aimed at my companions and me.

  The shout had finally drawn the notice of the others (no one, apart from me, faced the public bar), and they turned to look over. I don’t, though, think any of them caught more than a glimpse of the crackbrain.

  ‘What was that? What did that mean?’ Duncan asked, clearly rattled.

  ‘I don’t really know,’ I replied. ‘Some drunk. The landlord threw him out.’

  Duncan frowned, looked as if he were about to say something further, but, at that moment, Jane returned.

  ‘See the freak?’ she asked.

  Elliot nodded.

  ‘Lots of them about, bedlam on the streets,’ he said, winking.

  Jane sat, took a sip of her juice.

  ‘Shall I begin?’

  ‘Go ahead,’ I said.

  ‘Alright. Have any of you been through the foot tunnel under the Thames at Woolwich?’

  We all shook our heads, though I told her I’d used the one at Greenwich.

  ‘Yes. They were built at the same time to similar designs, but, while the Greenwich tunnel’s been kept up, the one at Woolwich has fallen into disrepair. One hot summer’s day, about four and a half years ago, I’d taken my two boys to have a picnic and play in the fountains in Barrier Park. As a treat I decided to take them back by way of the tunnel. We’d been through it a few times, they liked to pretend it was the secret passage to a superhero’s lair…’

  Jane paused a moment, looked down at the table, bit her lip.

  ‘First, though, I need to tell you something that happened a few years before that,’ she went on, a break in her voice. ‘It bears on my tale…’

  One Moment Knelled the Woe of Years

  Though it wasn’t till the bizarre and dread afternoon she wished to tell of, that Jane strayed from the path of the ordinary and everyday, and into weird regions (actually, less straying, than having that path wander from beneath her feet), the terrible foundations of that dark hour were laid four years before, on a muggy evening in early summer.

  That night, her husband, Roderick, was late getting back from work. She’d had to put their boys, Jeremy and Peter, then aged six and four, to bed, and she knew he’d be sorry to have missed them. But she’d not been concerned about his tardiness; he was a university lecturer, English Literature, Victorian poetry his field, and was sometimes held up at work by unscheduled meetings, panicked students, and so on. When he’d finally arrived home, though, and she’d heard his key in the door and gone to greet him, she’d felt a vague foreboding; he was by nature dark-skinned and by temperament calm, but stood on the threshold, framed in the doorway, wan, twitching, his eyes darting this way and that. Yet, when she’d asked how things were, he’d said all was well.

  During dinner he was quieter than usual, ate seemingly without relish, but otherwise seemed fine. They chatted. Then Roderick asked how the boys were, what they’d done at school that day. Jane, whose head was, just then, full of the charred ruins of London after the Great Fire, the setting of the book she was writing, had paid scant attention to their gabbling earlier, couldn’t tell him.

  He was put out.

  ‘I wish it were the other way about.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘I mean, I wish I could stay here, that it was my job could be done from home, that I could look after them.’

  Jane swigged her wine.

  ‘That’s not fair.’

  ‘It is fair. You know it is.’

  ‘Are you trying to start an argument?’

  ‘No, look, I’m sorry…’ Roderick began.

  But Jane cut him off.

  ‘You’ve met my mother. It’s hardly surprising I don’t have the keenest maternal instincts, now is it? But I try, God knows I try.’

  He reached out, took her hand in his.

  ‘You’re great with them. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it. Those boys…They really love you.’

  Jane scowled, then, shaking her head, smiled wan.

  ‘Thanks, you. But I suppose I can be a bit distant…’ She hung in thought a moment. ‘Distracted. I wish I was as good with them as you are.’

  Later after they’d finished dessert, Roderick shuddered, downed his wine at a draught. But Jane thought it was just exhaustion or the onset of a cold, sent him through to the living room.

  ‘I hope you’re not coming down with something. Go on, relax, I’ll tidy up here.’

  He slouched off, without a word. Once she’d cleared the table, put the crockery, cutlery, and pans in the dishwasher, she went through to join him. She found him sitting in an armchair, rocking back and forth, eyes glazed, mumbling. Running to him, she then went down on haunches beside the chair, threw her arms round him. For a moment he sat, unstirring, tensed, hissing, then abruptly grinned, thumped Jane to the floor, stood, and stalked out of the room. When he returned, before she could get back on her feet, he had a large kitchen knife in his fist. Raving, snarling, he lunged at her. She’d just time to snatch up the heavy iron poker which hung on a stand in the grate, then he was on her.

  Terror tempered and whetted, and, in spite of his greater heft and thew, Jane, flailing with the poker, fended off Roderick’s frantic slash and stab and struck him a blow on the temple, knocked him to his knees. Then she fled the corner he’d penned her into, fleeted up the staircase, going to her sons. He tore after. Reaching the landing, she turned, swung the poker, caught him in the throat, sent him sprawling down the stairs. At their foot, he pitched forward, landed awkwardly, falling on the knife, driving it into his sternum. He grunted, then rolled onto his back. The knife was sunk to the haft, and blood welled, soaking into the rug he lay on and flowing sluggish along the grout lines of the tiled floor. He wallowed in his gore, then lay still. Jane howled. The poker fell from her hand, thudded down the stairs, spinning, end over end, struck the tiles, clanged.

  Then she heard the door of the boy’s bedroom, along the corridor, opening, and, turning, saw Peter in the doorway.

  ‘Mummy, what’s happening?’

  ‘Peter, go back into your room, shut the door,’ she barked, wild. ‘Don’t come out till I tell you to.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Just do as I say!’

  Sensing his mother’s panic, shaken, Peter did as told.

  Jane turned back, then gasped. Roderick was gone. Bloody footprints crossed to the front door, which now stood open. She sank down on the stairs, sat with her chin on her knees, fell into a trance fit. She didn’t rouse from it till ten minutes or so later, when two police constables, a man and a woman, came into the house, called up to her.

  Then she startled. Edging round the blood, the PCs crossed the hall, beg
an climbing the stairs. The WPC said, sternly, ‘What happened here?’

  Jane gawped. The WPC told her a man, bleeding heavily, a knife handle jutting from his chest, had rattled drinkers outside a pub on the banks of the Thames, then thrown himself into the river, been swept downstream. A trail of blood had led them back.

  ‘You need to tell us everything.’

  Jane sat in a daze, shaking her head.

  ‘Look,’ the WPC went on. ‘You’re not under suspicion of murder. Some of your neighbours are outside. They saw everything. We know you were just defending yourself. But you still need to tell us everything that happened.’

  ‘Why didn’t they help me!’ Jane yowled.

  ‘Who?’

  Jane stared.

  ‘Oh, sorry,’ the WPC said. ‘Well, they were scared. They’re an elderly couple.’

  Then there was the sound of muffled sobbing. Turning, Jane flew to the boy’s bedroom, opened the door. Peter and Jeremy flung themselves at her.

  ‘Mummy, Mummy, what’s going on?’ Jeremy asked, tearful.

  Jane looked down at her sons bewildered. She turned to the PCs, shrugged. Then frowned, blinked, crumpled to the carpet, and lay there on her side, curled up, moaning low. Peter and Jeremy crouched down beside her, put their arms around her, held her as she wept. The PCs hung back, shuffled, uncomfortable.

  Then Peter asked, ‘Has Daddy gone?’

  Jane, howled, tore up fistfuls of the carpet’s thick pile.

  ‘Mummy. It’s alright. It’ll be alright.’

  ‘No, my love. No it won’t. I’m sorry.’

  ‘It will, Mummy. Who is she?’

  Jane was thrown into confusion.

  ‘Who?’

  Peter took her hand, puckered his face.

  ‘The other woman.’

  Then Jane understood. The father of one of Peter’s school-friends had recently left his wife, run off with the family nanny. Jane seized on this with relief; the ordinary sorrow of a broken home would be easier on her sons for the time being. When they were older they would be better able to cope. She choked her grief, began spinning her lie, then, remembering the PCs, turned. They’d come up behind her. She caught their eyes; they frowned, but nodded tacit agreement.