Trembling and haggard he sat waiting, assailed by a crowd of murmuring fears. One whispered that he had failed and would have to pay the penalty of failing; that he had gambled with Death and lost.
By a strong effort he fought down these fancies and, closing his eyes, tried to compose himself to rest. It was evident now that the doctor was out and that Hannah was waiting to return with him in his car. He was frightening himself for nothing. At any moment he might hear the sound of their arrival.
He heard something else, and, sitting up, suddenly, tried to think what it was and what had caused it. It was a very faint sound – stealthy. Holding his breath he waited for it to be repeated. He heard it again, the mere ghost of a sound – a whisper of a sound, but significant as most whispers are.
He wiped his brow with his sleeve and told himself firmly that it was nerves, and nothing but nerves; but, against his will, he still listened. He fancied now that the sound came from his wife’s room, the other side of the landing. It increased in loudness and became more insistent, but with his eyes fixed on the door of his room he still kept himself in hand, and tried to listen instead to the wind and the rain.
For a time he heard nothing but that. Then there came a scraping, scurrying noise from his wife’s room, and a sudden, terrific crash.
With a loud scream his nerve broke, and springing from the bed he sped downstairs and, flinging open the frontdoor, dashed into the night. The door, caught by the wind, slammed behind him.
With his hand holding the garden gate open ready for further flight, he stood sobbing for breath. His bare feet were bruised and the rain was very cold, but he took no heed. Then he ran a little way along the road and stood for some time, hoping and listening.
He came back slowly. The wind was bitter and he was soaked to the skin. The garden was black and forbidding, and unspeakable horror might be lurking in the bushes. He went up the road again, trembling with cold. Then, in desperation, he passed through the terrors of the garden to the house, only to find the door closed. The porch gave a little protection from the icy rain, but none from the wind, and, shaking in every limb, he leaned in abject misery against the door. He pulled himself together after a time and stumbled round to the back door. Locked! And all the lower windows were shuttered. He made his way back to the porch and, crouching there in hopeless misery, waited for the woman to return.
IV
He had a dim memory when he awoke of somebody questioning him, and then of being half-pushed, half-carried upstairs to bed. There was something wrong with his head and his chest and he was trembling violently, and very cold. Somebody was speaking.
‘You must have taken leave of your senses,’ said the voice of Hannah. ‘I thought you were dead.’
He forced his eyes to open. ‘Doctor,’ he muttered, ‘doctor.’
‘Out on a bad case,’ said Hannah. ‘I waited till I was tired of waiting, and then came along. Good thing for you I did. He’ll be round first thing this morning. He ought to be here now.’ She bustled about, tidying up the room, his leaden eyes following her as she collected the beef-tea and other things on a tray and carried them out.
‘Nice thing I did yesterday,’ she remarked, as she came back. ‘Left the missus’s bedroom window open. When I opened the door this morning I found that beautiful Chippendale glass of hers had blown off the table and smashed to pieces. Did you hear it?’
Goddard made no reply. In a confused fashion he was trying to think. Accident or not, the fall of the glass had served its purpose. Were there such things as accidents? Or was Life a puzzle – a puzzle into which every piece was made to fit? Fear and the wind … no: conscience and the wind … had saved the woman. He must get the powder back from her drawer … before she discovered it and denounced him. The medicine … he must remember not to take it …
He was very ill, seriously ill. He must have taken a chill owing to that panic flight into the garden. Why didn’t the doctor come? He had come … at last … he was doing something to his chest … it was cold.
Again … the doctor … there was something he wanted to tell him.… Hannah and a powder … what was it?
Later on he remembered, together with other things that he had hoped to forget. He lay watching an endless procession of memories, broken at times by a glance at the doctor, the nurse, and Hannah, who were all standing near the bed regarding him. They had been there a long time and they were all very quiet. The last time he looked at Hannah was the first time for months that he had looked at her without loathing and hatred. Then he knew that he was dying.
A Note on the Author
Anthony Masters was renowned as an adult novelist, short story writer and biographer, but was best known for his fiction for young people.
Many of his novels carry deep insights into social problems, which he experienced over four decades by helping the socially excluded. He ran soup kitchens for drug addicts and campaigned for the civic rights of gypsies and other ethnic minorities. Masters is also known for his eclectic range of non-fiction titles, ranging from the biographies of such diverse personalities as the British secret service chief immortalized by Ian Fleming in his James Bond books (The Man Who Was M: the Life of Maxwell Knight).
His children’s fiction included teenage novels and the ground breaking Weird World series of young adult horror, published by Bloomsbury. He also worked with children both in schools and at art festivals. Anthony Masters died in 2003.
Discover books by Anthony Masters published by Bloomsbury Reader at
www.bloomsbury.com/AnthonyMasters
Confessional
Hidden Gods
Murder is a Long Time Coming
The Men
Children and Young Adult Books
Cries of Terror
Dead Man at the Door
Ghost Stories to Tell in the Dark
Nightmare in New York
Scary Tales to Tell in the Dark
Vampire Stories to Tell in the Dark
For copyright reasons, any images not belonging to the original author have been
removed from this book. The text has not been changed, and may still contain
references to missing images.
This electronic edition published in 2012 by Bloomsbury Reader
Bloomsbury Reader is a division of Bloomsbury Publishing Plc, 50 Bedford Square, London WC1B 3DP
First published in Great Britain, 1976 by Arrow Books Ltd.
Copyright © 1976 Anthony Masters
All rights reserved
You may not copy, distribute, transmit, reproduce or otherwise
make available this publication (or any part of it) in any form, or by any means
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printing, recording or otherwise), without the prior written permission of the
publisher. Any person who does any unauthorised act in relation to this publication
may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages.
The moral right of the author is asserted.
eISBN: 9781448210206
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