The Wanderer

by Timothy J. Jarvis

  That night, Jane, with the PCs’ help, got the boys out without their seeing the blood, pretending they were playing a game, blindfolding them. The three of them then stayed in a local bed and breakfast while the forensic team were examining the house. When they were done, Jane went back and finished cleaning up, while the boys stayed with friends. It only took her a couple of days. Afterwards they moved back in.

  The witness statements and evidence all backing up Jane’s account, no charges were brought against her. Roderick’s body was never recovered, so she was denied the end a funeral gives. But life, a kind of life, if a blasted life, went on. Though she came close, a number of times, to telling her sons the awful truth, she never did. The lie, as with all swaddling lies, became harder, not easier, to expose as the years passed. At first, Peter and Jeremy asked often whether they might be allowed to see their father. She told them he’d moved abroad, that she didn’t know how to reach him. Whether or not they believed this, she wasn’t sure, but, eventually, they stopped asking. Jane feared, though, that Peter bore silent resentment.

  At first, Jane spent her days dozing, fuddled by booze and sleeping pills, and her nights, stark awake, cramming caffeine tablets down her gullet, in dread of dreams in which she relived every racking instant of that evening. But, finally, the raw fear lessened, and the nightmares abated, though they didn’t cease altogether.

  When she woke on the morning of the day of her tale, however, it was from a less harrowing, if weirder dream. She stood, at dusk, amid a clinkered plain, before a squat turret, a stump of dun masonry, set between two humped knolls and a craggy peak. Ranged on the hillsides, a host of riders. In her hand, a horn of some kind, brass tubing, a battered whorl. Taking a deep breath, she set it to her lips…

  Then she was sitting up in bed, shaking, sweating. It was light outside. She strove, recollected herself. It was the first day of the school holidays, and she’d resolved to spend the next few weeks in fun with Peter and Jeremy, then aged ten and eight. She’d been a bit absent the previous months, slogging away at a novel; it wasn’t quite finished, but nearly so, and she felt she could take a break from it. She thought it the best work she’d ever done. As, about two years before, her novel, The Feminine Monarchie, had been optioned for a film, she’d been able, for the first time in her life, to ditch pecuniary aims and write with a solely aesthetic rationale; she’d abandoned the shallow seam of fool’s gold, trite historical romance, she’d been mining, passing off as the real thing, bored deeper, seeking rarer ores. She’d thrown herself into the work.

  The book, in common with her other titles, had a historical setting, but was otherwise entirely distinct: strange, dark, nimble and clunking by turns. Its subject was Wenceslaus, the tenth-century Bohemian martyr.

  It was the novel’s last chapter Jane was most pleased with. She’d been inspired by an ancient legend, of a cave beneath Blaník Mountain and a knightly host sleeping, enchanted, till the Czech motherland be beset by enemies and need defending. In this exhausted coda, Wenceslaus, roused from millennial sleep in 1939 by the tumult of an advancing Panzerdivision, wakes his page and rides, with the young lad following behind on foot, to Blaník’s summit, dismounts, surveys the hostile forces. Then the page asks, of the tanks in the van, ‘Sire, what nature of beasts are those?’

  After peering at the war machines a while, Wenceslaus says, ‘Those, my son, are the dragons of yore. I reckoned the last of them slain, but it cannot be so. It seems they lived on in some wild places. Plainly a blackheart has done what only the evilest of men would, having happened on a clutch of eggs, he has dug them up, reared them from hatchlings. The brood will, then, be fiercely loyal. Dragons are devilish foe even without armour and these creatures, look, wear plate-steel barding. We cannot ride ’gainst them, ’twould go badly for us, ’twould be a slaughter. I rede we leave the knights slumbering, wash our hands of these wicked times.’

  But the page, shamed by his master’s cowardice, leaps astride the saint’s white horse, charges the enemy troops. In the novel’s melancholy final passage, he is cut down by German machine guns, and Wenceslaus walks back down to the entrance to the cavern beneath the mountain, goes inside, intones a formula to seal, once more, the stone gate behind him, returns to sleep.

  Jane had titled the novel, His Master’s Steps.

  (I’d read one of her novels some years before, and, while decidedly popular, it was artful, tangled. When she’d retired, the press had cited the pressures of raising two children as a single parent; I felt we were about to learn the real reason.

  His Master’s Steps had never, as far as I knew, been published. I asked her if this was the case.

  ‘Yes,’ she answered, regretfully. ‘My agent didn’t like it, and after what happened, I hadn’t the heart or energy to seek other representation for it.’)

  Jane got out of bed, showered. Dressing, she wondered how to spend the day ahead. She’d lots of nice trips planned for the boys’ holiday, but that day didn’t want to go too far from home. She’d been tired out by work on the book, and had been drinking more heavily the previous few weeks, around the anniversary of Roderick’s death. So she thought she’d take advantage of the fine weather, have a picnic in nearby Barrier Park. She went downstairs, proposed the idea to the boys, who’d been up for a little while watching cartoons on television.

  ‘Sounds nice,’ said Peter, briefly turning from the antics of an anthropomorphic sea urchin. ‘Glad you’ve some free time.’

  It was not said reproachfully, but still Jane felt a smart.

  Barrier Park was in Silvertown, on the north bank of the river, by the Thames Barrier, part of attempts to regenerate an area that, once a thriving industrial region, was, by then, run down. It was a spot Jane knew well, having based a novel, Tonight Nelly, Tonight, around a 1917 blast at a munitions factory there.

  When Jane, Peter, and Jeremy got there that day, they first ate a picnic sitting on the grass by the riverbank, watching yachts and tugs sail past. Peter said he thought the Barrier looked, ‘a crash-landed spaceship,’ so Jane made up a story about its alien pilot, a good-natured, if bad-smelling, gas cloud, from a far-flung star system, who, having survived the crash, freed himself from the wreckage of the craft, wafted to shore, and floated through London, recording impressions of the city and literally getting up people’s noses. The boys laughed at the idea the alien thought St Paul’s Cathedral housed a huge boiled egg, and that the tourists queuing up outside were waiting their turn to dunk a toast soldier or two.

  After lunch, Peter and Jeremy changed into swimming costumes in the toilets of the park’s coffee shop. Then they ran, excited, to the paved area near the entrance, where there was an open fountain, children scurrying about, getting drenched, squealing. Peter and Jeremy went off to join them. Jane, stood by, watching, soon soaked by spray. She grinned, filled with simple cheer, her hipflask of vodka, if not quite forgotten, fingers straying to it from time to time, at least remaining in her handbag.

  A bit later, when the boys were tired out, the three of them went to sit on the grass, in the sun. Once they’d dried off, they went back to the café, Peter and Jeremy got dressed again, and Jane bought them ice creams, and a coffee for herself, into which, for all she felt happy in that moment, she couldn’t resist dashing a slug from her flask. They walked back over to the bank, sat looking out over the water. Sunlight, frittered to motes on the chop, dazzled, joyed, hid that the river was, really, a filthy gruel.

  Then it was time to head home. At first the boys didn’t want to leave, but, when Jane promised to take them through the Woolwich Foot Tunnel on the way back, grew eager to be off.

  It was only two stops on the Docklands Light Railway from Pontoon Dock, by the park, to King George V station, not far from the north entrance to the foot tunnel. Jane took her sons’ hands, and they all climbed up to the eastbound platform. The track, elevated on a concrete viaduct, resembled something from the set of a dark science-fiction film, even in bright sunlight.
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  (I’ve seen first-hand that none of that era’s bleak futures came to pass, nor any of its utopias. In fact, till the power went out, the same cycle repeated itself, over and over. Civilizations rose, gained ascendancy, fell into decadence, decayed, were ravaged by pestilence, destroyed by war. Then, from charnel pits, ruins, corpse-manured, scorched soil new societies sprouted. Perhaps certain thinkers of the ancient world, who believed the universe was periodically destroyed by purging fire, reborn from ashes to experience the same history, were close to the truth. Indeed, on reflection, perhaps my scorn for the cosmology of the Himalayans in the early pages of this text told more of my fears than its claims; for those of finite span, time as a wheel consoles, offers a life force that persists beyond death, transcendent flight to aspire to, but for the immortal it’s intolerable, a vertiginous meaningless swarm; but maybe it is the true way of things: these harbingers of the end of days could, after all, be signs of the imminent catastrophic rebirth of the universe. I suppose, though, that doesn’t have to imply strict recurrence; the cycle of time could begin again, but take a different path, the deck could be shuffled; in fact, I feel that more likely (or is this merely a fervent hope on my part?))

  At King George V, Jane, Peter, and Jeremy got off the train, headed towards the river, and, after a short walk, arrived at the subway’s north entrance, a structure reminiscent of a mausoleum. They went inside, called the lift. When the doors opened, they stepped into the wood-panelled interior, and, after the attendant had pushed a button, a rattling descent began. Gaze fixed on a picture of a topless model in his tabloid, the attendant didn’t acknowledge Jane and her sons, or even glance up. She, to keep the boys from seeing the photograph, distracted them by offering sweets from a packet she took out of her handbag.

  The attendant seemed vaguely threatening, and, when the lift shuddered to a halt, the doors opened, and she, Peter, and Jeremy could step out into the tunnel, Jane was glad.

  The only sources of illumination down there were fluorescent tubes fixed to the ceiling at intervals; the light they gave out was harsh, grainy, and it took Jane’s eyes a moment to adjust.

  The tunnel was lined with glazed white tiles, save the floor, which was laid with tattered linoleum, dirty, a welter of shoe and bootprints. The boys ran on ahead and Jane jogged at their heels, pouncing on them from time to time. Her roars and their spooked cries dinned from the walls. The subway was almost deserted, wonted for a weekday afternoon. They could see only one other person, walking ahead of them, whistling, doleful tune eerily resounding, but he or she strode briskly away, was soon lost to sight. The mournful air could be heard a few moments longer, but then faded.

  After Jane and her sons had been dawdling along a short time, they turned, saw the lift behind had been swallowed by the tunnel’s arc, its dip to scoop under the river. That before them was still hidden. Jane pointed this out to the boys, then to scare, told them they’d fallen through some weird crack into a terrible place where the tunnel was without end, and haunted by a dread beast, with pincers, stalk-eyes, a mottled warty carapace, a toothy maw, that scuttled on spindly legs, seeking children, who’d misbehaved, to devour. The boys shuddered, yelled, ran in circles round Jane, then tore ahead.

  Then Jeremy cried out in real fear, frantically gesturing at the tunnel wall.

  Jane ran up. There was a dull-red stain on the tiles.

  ‘Mum, what’s that?’

  Jane bent down, peered at it.

  ‘It’s a patch of rust. Come on, let’s get going, otherwise we won’t be home in time for tea.’

  But Jeremy wouldn’t be consoled, screamed, ‘It’s blood! It’s blood!’

  Jane, tutting, ignored him, walked on. Peter followed, but Jeremy remained behind, staring at the stain.

  ‘Mum!’

  ‘Come on, Jeremy, stop being silly!’ Jane barked, without turning round, rattled, unsure why.

  Then her youngest ran to catch up, wailing, and, gaining them, grabbed Jane’s skirt, tugged.

  ‘Mum! It oozed!’

  She tried to pull away. He squeezed her hand tight, grinding the second knuckle of her little finger against her wedding band.

  She pulled her hand away, scolded him.

  ‘Jeremy! Stop being such a baby!’

  And his shoulders began, jerkily, to rise and fall; he blinked back tears. Jane softened then, knelt down beside him.

  ‘Sorry, didn’t mean to be angry. It’s just you hurt my hand. And I promise the mark you saw was only rust. Nothing else.’

  ‘Sorry, Mummy,’ he said, wiping his eyes. Then, brightening, ‘You’re right, it was nothing. Oh, I love you, Mummy!’

  Smiling, she got to her feet, took hold of his and Peter’s hands. They pressed on.

  They went on, hand in hand, Jane between the two boys, all happy. It, therefore, took longer for her to heed the gnawing at her guts. They’d surely walked at least the tunnel’s length; where, then, was the end? She broke into a stride, almost dragging her sons along, jarring their shoulder joints. But still there was no sign of the far end of the tunnel.

  Then, when she was sure they’d gone far enough to be somewhere out under the centre of Woolwich, Jane stopped, breathing hard, tremoring.

  ‘Mummy, you okay?’ Peter asked.

  She fought to quell her jitters.

  ‘I’m fine, really. Just worried it’s getting late.’

  She calmed. Of course, her brain was awry; content, she’d not boozed much or taken any pills that day…Yet, she couldn’t walk on, couldn’t make herself; they’d have to turn around. She told Jeremy and Peter she thought it would be fun to return to the lift they’d come down in, go back up, take the ferry across the river. They loved boats, were excited. They all headed back down the tunnel, the way they’d come.

  Jane’s heart slowed, but, then, after they’d been walking a time, she realized they should have come again on the rust stain that had so disconcerted Jeremy, but hadn’t, and she panicked once more. She wanted to hasten, suggested a race to her sons. Shrieking, blithe, they flew ahead. She careered behind.

  They’d been running along for what seemed an age, no sight of the tunnel’s end ahead, when Jane’s mettle failed her, and she stumbled to a halt, leaned against the wall, winded, took out her hipflask, gulped from it. The boys, realizing she was no longer running behind them, stopped, went back to see what was wrong.

  ‘Mummy, what’s that?’ Jeremy asked, indicating the flask, which Jane, absently, passed hand to hand.

  She started, nearly dropped it, then, feigning unconcern, returned it to her bag.

  ‘Oh, nothing, Jeremy. Something for my head.’

  Peter eyed her askance.

  ‘Don’t lie. What is it?’

  ‘I’m not lying. My head’s just started really hurting. It’s a remedy, that’s all.’

  ‘No it isn’t! Smells horrid. You’re drinking, aren’t you? You’re a drunk!’

  Jane cringed back.

  ‘Peter! How dare…’

  She trailed off. Her head did pang then. She reeled.

  ‘That’s why Daddy left for someone else, isn’t it?’

  She smacked him on the ear. He cowered back. She stared aghast at her hand, leant against the wall, slumped down, began to weep.

  Just then, a faint call echoed down the passage from somewhere ahead.

  The boys started. Jane choked her sobs, stood.

  ‘That voice,’ Jeremy said. ‘I recognize it.’

  ‘Just the wind,’ Jane said. ‘Playing tricks.’

  ‘The wind?’ Peter shook his head. He held up his hand, ‘There’s no wind.’

  The call came again, clearer this time.

  ‘Peter. Jeremy.’

  ‘Who is it?’ Jeremy asked.

  ‘It’s Dad,’ Peter replied.

  ‘No,’ Jane said. She bit her lip, hard enough that blood beaded. ‘No, it isn’t.’

  Jeremy peered up at her.

  ‘Can’t we go to him?’

  She
whimpered.

  ‘No. There’s no one there.’

  ‘What are you talking about?’ Peter said. ‘It’s Dad. Dad’s there.’

  ‘No, Peter, he’s not. He can’t be.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘He’s dead,’ she blurted.

  Jeremy started to cry. Peter sneered.

  ‘He didn’t run off,’ Jane went on. ‘He killed himself.’

  She squeezed her eyes tight shut. Moaned.

  ‘So painful, oh God, I wanted to keep it from you. But I shouldn’t have, I shouldn’t have done that. It’s going to go badly for us, I know it.’

  Peter stamped his feet. Snarled.

  ‘Liar!’

  He balled little fists, flailed at Jane.

  ‘Why can’t we ever see him? It’s not fair!’

  Jane hugged him to her. He thrashed, wailed, tried to get away, but she held him tight.

  ‘You’re hurting!’ he howled.

  As if seared, she let him go then. She looked down at her sons. Peter had cringed back, stood, wary of her, glaring. Jeremy looked confused, had also backed off, sucked his thumb. Jane approached Peter. He flinched, but didn’t shrink away. She got down on hunkers before him.

  ‘I’m sorry I hurt you,’ imploring. ‘I’m frightened. Something ghastly…’

  But she was cut off by Roderick calling again, louder this time.

  Peter made as if to run, and Jane seized his arm. He struggled, could not get loose.

  ‘I hate you!’

  Then Jeremy turned, took off. Letting go of Peter, Jane started after him, ran him down, went to grab his collar, but slipped, skidded into him, brought them both down. Then Peter tore past. Jane grasped at his leg, got hold of his trouser cuff, but it tore off in her hand. Jeremy got to his feet, fled after Peter. Groaning, Jane got up, tried to give chase, but she’d turned her ankle when falling. And she felt as if her tendons had been unhooked. She stumbled along, fell behind. She begged, but her sons ran faster. Soon they were lost to sight, hidden by the bow of the tunnel. Their footfalls were heard a short while longer, then waned away. Silence smothered her, then darkness, as, overcome, she blacked out.