Others

by James Herbert

  There were few customers inside: a couple of little kids by the ice-cream treasure trove, an elderly man with a stick browsing the magazine shelves. The kids, a boy of seven or eight years old, a girl a year or so younger, regarded me with large, solemn, dark and beautiful eyes, and the boy slyly nudged the girl. She nudged him back, a little harder, so that he tottered.

  ‘Shabir! Farida! Behave yourselves or go into the back room.’

  The youth who had admonished them had the same exquisite looks, but was considerably older, somewhere in his late teens. He stood behind the counter at the far end of the shop and his eyes revealed nothing as he watched my approach.

  ‘Can I ’elp you, sir?’ His accent was a peculiar mix of Hindi and Estuary.

  ‘Uh, yes, you might be able to.’

  The boy giggled.

  ‘Shabir!’ The youth said sternly and the two kids wandered off towards the shop’s entrance.

  I showed the young shopkeeper my calling card – it meant nothing in itself, but many people assumed (mistakenly) that it carried some authority.

  ‘I’m from the Dismas Investigations agency and I’m trying to locate someone who used to work in the hospital over the road there . . .’ I indicated with a thumb ‘. . . before it burnt down.’

  ‘Oh, I’m very sorry, but I don’t think – ’

  ‘There’s a chance she used to shop here.’

  ‘I know nothing of any ’ospital.’

  ‘It was destroyed about ten years ago.’

  ‘We – ’ spoken as ‘Ve’ ‘ – were not here then. But wait – ’ ‘Vait’ ‘ – a moment. Perhaps my father . . .’

  He called through the open doorway behind him. ‘Father, I have someone here who is enquiring about an ’ospital.’

  I heard the stirring from the room beyond and a middle-aged man appeared, a copy of the Sun newspaper in his hand, a curved yellow pipe with a large foul-smelling bowl drooping from his lips. What little hair he had stretched over his brown scalp was a contrasting mixture of black and white; his whiskers and the hair at the back of his neck were more abundant, bushy even, the white amongst it more dominant. Despite the heat of the day, he wore a threadbare green cardigan over a collarless shirt, and weary-looking slippers peered from beneath the folds of his baggy trouser legs.

  He regarded me without expression before removing the pipe with his free hand and saying: ‘Yis, there used to be a hospital.’ No southern-sprawl accent here, although his English appeared to be good. ‘But that was – ’ again, the vas ‘ – long time ago, before we came here.’

  Bugger, I thought. ‘I don’t suppose anyone who used to work there still comes in?’ I ventured without much hope.

  ‘Oh no, I do not think so. Why do you want such a person?’ Vy do you vont such a person?

  ‘Just making enquiries for a client. No problems involved, but it is important that we contact this person or anyone who knew her.’ I thought quickly as father and son watched me, neither one saying a word. ‘How long have you been running this place?’ I asked.

  ‘My father has owned the shop for eight years,’ replied the youth.

  ‘Nine years,’ the older man corrected. ‘You were ten years old, Rajiv, and the little ones had not even been born yet.’

  ‘Ah,’ said the son.

  I rested a hand on the counter between us and shifted my weight to my good leg. ‘So the people you took over from would have been here at the time of the fire and presumably for some time before.’

  ‘The man and his good lady-wife owned the shop for many, many years. I am told the business was passed on from generation to generation, but the couple had no children of their own to keep it in the family.’

  My heart sank a little. ‘They were elderly?’

  ‘They were of near retirement age and the closing of the hospital affected custom considerably. I think they had had enough of life’s hard toil so they were very pleased to sell to me at a good price.’ He was watching me shrewdly, sucking on the pipe between replies. Scented smoke drifted my way.

  ‘D’you know if they’re still alive?’ I asked hopefully.

  ‘That I do not know, sir. We kept in touch for a while – they advised me on supplies and stock requirements, that sort of thing – but I have not spoken to Mr and Mrs Vilkins for many years now. So my answer is that I do not know if they are still among the living.’

  ‘But you still have their next address?’

  ‘Oh yis, I believe so. It would be in the book.’ He turned to his son. ‘Rajiv, go and fetch my big red address book to me. Hurry for the gentleman – you’ll find it in the cupboard under the television set.’

  He gave a little bow in my direction as his son disappeared into the back room. Then he took the pipe from his mouth and gave me a benevolent smile.

  ‘Thank you, Mr . . . ?’ I said gratefully.

  ‘Dahib Sahab is my name and I am most pleased to be of assistance.’ Without any embarrassment, he studied my crooked form as if wondering how it could possibly function. Then he nodded as if satisfied that he had figured it all out. ‘Very unlucky this time, no?’ he said to me.

  ‘What?’

  He pointed the stem of his pipe at me and was about to say more when his son returned carrying a battered red-covered book, many of its pages loose and threatening to spill on to the floor. The shopkeeper took the address book and opened it out on the counter.

  ‘Let us see,’ he murmured to himself as he leafed through. I noticed that the little girl had wandered back down the shop and was leaning against the counter, her wonderful dark eyes peeping up at me. I did my best to give her a friendly smile and was relieved when she smiled back, not at all afraid.

  ‘Vilkins, Vilkin . . .’ the father was muttering as his stubby finger slid down the pages. ‘Ah yis. George and Emma Vilkins.’ He turned the book around so that I could see the name and address he was pointing at.

  ‘Wilkins,’ I said.

  ‘Yis, Vilkins,’ he agreed.

  ‘May I write it down? The address and phone number?’

  ‘Please.’ Pliz.

  I took out the small notepad I always carried with me and jotted down the information I needed. ‘Ramble Avenue,’ I said as I scribbled. ‘Is that far from here?’

  ‘Not very.’ It was the son who spoke, his eyes slightly suspicious, as they had been throughout the exchange. ‘On the other side of the motorway, going towards Swanscombe.’

  ‘Great,’ I said, studying my note. ‘And you say you haven’t spoken to Mr and Mrs Vilk . . . Wilkins . . . for some time?’

  The shopkeeper shook his head mournfully, as though the lapse made him sad. ‘I did not like to bother Mr Vilkins too much in his retirement. In any case, the business is not difficult, so there was no need.’

  The girl, Farida, was touching my arm as if to feel if I were real. I gave her another smile, which she returned again, continuing to run her fingers along the sleeve of my jacket.

  ‘Uh, thank you very much,’ I said to the shopkeeper and his son. ‘You’ve been very helpful.’

  The older man accorded me another small nod of his head, but the son merely walked away and began tidying newspapers further along the counter. I turned to leave, then glanced around at the shopkeeper again.

  ‘What did you mean when you said I was unlucky this time?’ I asked him.

  For a few moments he said nothing. Then, his gaze going beyond me, focusing on something in the middle-distance, he replied: ‘If you do not know yourself, my friend, then it is not for me to say.’

  Gathering up his ragged, loose-leaved address book, he retired to the backroom.

  The sun was hard on me as I traipsed back to the car park, its harsh rays pounding my head without respite. I peeked longingly into the open doorways of pubs that I passed, but bravely resisted the urge to drop in for a cold beer and shade every time. In my line of work, it presented a bad image to make enquiries with alcohol on your breath.

  I was still puzzled by the Asian
shopkeeper’s last remark, wondering what was behind it, precisely what was he getting at? He had said it so sagely and with such inscrutability, as though he were the Keeper of Hidden Knowledge and I was the poor sap who didn’t have a clue. I remembered that the Hindu religion subscribed to reincarnation, so maybe that was what he was getting at: I’d come back this time in a less than lovely form. Shit, what nonsense! What would have been the point in that? Yes, I really was clueless.

  When I finally got to my car I collapsed on to the front seat, leaving the door open wide to get rid of the build-up of heat inside. Giving myself a minute or so to get my breath back and to rest my aching legs, I struggled out of my jacket and threw it on to the passenger seat, first taking my cellphone from a pocket. I wiped my face with my shirtsleeve before tapping out the Wilkinses’ phone number with my thumb.

  There was no reply, but at least the line was still in service. I sat and pondered awhile, enjoying the comfort of the car. Okay, I was down in this neck of the woods so I might as well drive to the Wilkinses’ last known address; even if they had moved away, or passed on in the terminal sense, the neighbours would be able to tell me either way. Stretching over to the back seat I picked up the Greater London Street Atlas I always kept in the car – it covered all the streets in the suburbs as well as the city itself and was invaluable in my line of work – and consulted the index before flicking through the pages to find the area I wanted. Ramble Avenue wasn’t far away, a couple of miles at most. I closed the car door, flicked the isolation switch (yes, even in a car park I still took precautions, out of habit, I suppose) and started the engine, turning the cooler on to full blast.

  It didn’t take long to locate the tree-lined road and I slowed the Ford as I drove along it, noting the house numbers on the gates of small, tidy front gardens. The homes were mostly bungalows, ideal for people of a certain age for whom climbing the stairs was an unnecessary grind. I drew up to the kerb when I saw the one I was looking for and, as I wound up the window, leaving a narrow gap at the top for air to circulate, a face appeared over the hedge of the garden across the pavement. The face belonged to an elderly man wearing a checked flat-cap, his creases and wrinkles deepening as he eyed me through horn-rimmed bifocals.

  ‘Mr George Wilkins?’ I called out, winding the window down again.

  ‘Who wants to know?’ came the reply.

  ‘Nick Dismas,’ I told him, satisfied that this was the person I’d come in search of. I pushed open the car door. ‘I’m with Dismas Investigations.’

  I reached back inside for my jacket and slipped it on before approaching the gate (whatever the weather, I always felt more comfortable fully clothed, something to do with concealment, I suppose). He watched me without saying a word.

  ‘May I come in?’ I asked, pausing at the entrance to his God’s little half-acre.

  ‘Depends,’ he responded noncommittally.

  The tiny lawns on either side of the stone path leading up to the bungalow’s front door were parched and brownish, despite yesterday’s showers, but the flowerbeds that edged them were well-maintained and full of begonias, petunias and geraniums, their reds and oranges slightly past their best, the recent hot weather having sapped their vibrancy.

  ‘Ain’t been usin the ’osepipe, if that’s what yer’ve come about,’ the old boy insisted gruffly.

  I rested my hand on top of the gate. ‘Didn’t know there was a hosepipe ban in force.’

  ‘There’s always one down ’ere, every bleedin summer. Always been the same, ever since water was privatized.’

  ‘Profits before services,’ I agreed amiably.

  ‘Bleedin right.’ He eyed me up and down again and moved closer to the gate on his side.

  He was a spry little guy, the paunch beneath his faded NEVER MIND THE BOLLOCKS T-shirt (I hadn’t seen one of those in many a year) belying the thinness of his arms and exposed lower legs. He wore scuffed sneakers (imitation Nikes), no socks, and long shorts (below his knees) and I was mildly disappointed that he’d chosen an old-fashioned flat-cap rather than a back-to-front baseball cap to cover his silver hair (which protruded enough to top large stick-out ears). Dirty green pads covered his knees and in his hand he held a short hoe.

  ‘So what d’you want?’ he asked suspiciously.

  I showed him my card and he squinted at it through the lower half of his bifocals. ‘You are Mr Wilkins, aren’t you? You once owned the newsagents’ and confectionery shop opposite what used to be Dartford General?’

  ‘That was a long time ago.’ He pointed at the bruised swelling above my cheek. ‘Get that bein nosy, did yer?’

  ‘Walked into a door,’ I lied.

  ‘Oh yeah?’

  I don’t think he cared one way or the other.

  ‘So what you after? I been retired years since.’

  ‘Yes, I know. But you and your wife ran the shop for quite a number of years, didn’t you?’

  ‘Too bloody long. Weren’t a bad business, though. Emma liked it, God bless her.’

  ‘Emma’s your wife?’

  ‘She was. Dead now. Passed on six years ago.’ He shook his head as though still mourning his loss. ‘Never had much of a retirement, shoulda sold up long before we did. You gotta get the most out of yer life, son, all work’s no good to no one. You want some lemonade?’

  Maybe the mention of his late wife had softened him now. He suddenly seemed pleased to have company, someone to chat to for a while, and that was fine by me.

  ‘I’d love some, Mr Wilkins. It’s a little too hot today, isn’t it?’

  ‘Never complain about that, son – it’s a bloody long cold winter.’ He lifted the latch and opened the gate. ‘Come on through. You can sit on the doorstep while I fetch us both a nice drink.’

  I followed him up the path and waited as he placed the short-handled hoe against the step.

  ‘Take a pew and get rid of your jacket – you’ll roast in this heat.’

  I did as I was told and the old boy disappeared into the house. I lowered myself awkwardly on to the scrubbed stone doorstep and draped the coat over my knees. Squinting around with my good eye, I took in this little piece of suburbia heaven, the neatly-kept dwellings, the immaculate miniature front gardens, all under a vast, clear blue sky. It held an ambience far removed from the drama and aberrations of my last couple of nights in Brighton, the eerie whisperings of only that morning, the very normalcy surrounding me, although probably boring to some, offering a pleasant kind of comfort.

  ‘There y’are, boy, get that down yer neck.’

  Wilkins was back with two still-bubbling glasses of lemonade in his gnarled old hands, one of which he gave to me. I shuffled my bottom along the step but, instead of sitting next to me, he reached back inside the door and dragged out a foldaway canvas chair. Wrestling it open with one hand and one leg, he placed it on the pathway in front of me and sank into it. His grimy kneepads stared me in the face, the thin legs beneath them bristling generously with white hair.

  ‘Your very good health,’ he said tilting his glass and taking a long, glugging swallow.

  I sipped more moderately, although I relished the cool taste as much as my companion apparently did.

  ‘Ah,’ he sighed, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. ‘Nothing better than a nice cold lemonade after a couple of hours’ gardening. Beats all the booze, or tea and coffee. Now then, Mr . . . what’s your name again, son?’

  ‘Dismas.’

  ‘Mr Dismas. The good thief, eh? Yer don’t look too dishonest.’

  At another time I’d have wondered what he thought I did look like, but at that moment I was too surprised he had caught the religious connotation to my name. Not many people did.

  ‘Now then, Mr Dismas, what’s this all about? Why d’yer want to know about the old shop? Yer not from the VAT, are yer? Finally caught up with me, eh?’ He chortled to himself, fully aware that I was from no government department.

  I grinned back at him. ‘Nothing like that. As
I said, I’m from an enquiry agency and I’m trying to trace someone who worked at the Dartford General eighteen years ago.’

  He studied me seriously, pinching his grizzled chin with thumb and index finger. ‘Eighteen years, yer say? We had a lot of them doctors and nurses comin in buyin their fags and newspapers and all that. Lot of ’ospital visitors used to pop in for sweets and chocolates for sick relatives and friends, too. No shop in the ’ospital itself, yer see, not like nowadays. Oh yeah, we had a good turnover in them days. Even had my boy workin for us full-time. Afore he went off into the music business, that is. He loved all that punk – we had him late, yer see, so regular rock ’n’ roll, which we could’ve stood, wasn’t good enough for him. No, he had to go potty with all them earrings and face studs and things.’ His eyes rolled behind the glasses. ‘The rows we had.’

  As he shook his head I caught the connection with the Sex Pistols T-shirt. Anxious to get back on track, I prompted him: ‘So would you remember any of your customers?’

  ‘Don’t see much of him any more. Lives in Newcastle. Come down for his mum’s funeral, that was the last time.’ His attention was still a long way off.

  ‘You must have got to know some of them quite well, didn’t you?’

  ‘What’s that? Oh yeah, sorry, son. Driftin, yer see? Comes to us all.’ He took another swig of lemonade and smacked his lips. ‘Yeah, we were busy, but we did make friends with a lot of ’em. Blowed if I can remember their names, though.’

  ‘The person I’m looking for was a midwife. She went by the name of Hylda Vogel. A foreign lady, German.’