She point to the serried ranks of Marxist classics, from Das Kapital to Marcuse’s Eros & Civilisation, which lined the bookcases along the wall behind us. I’d vaguely acknowledged their existence on entering the room but failed to notice the titles, assuming, in a most narrow minded way, them to be a random collection of Golden Treasuries and volumes about the Royal Family—the Christmas and birthday gifts of two long life-times.
I must have appeared a little puzzled, for Esther Constantine thought it necessary to explain their literary tastes.
‘My sister and I have been Party members since way back,’ she said, ‘we’ve still got our Party cards, though sometimes I wonder what for exactly. We used to be typists at The Daily Worker, back in the days when it was a real paper, not some milk-and-water, Social Democratic rag.’
‘That explains the ANC poster in your hall,’ I said, ‘I did wonder about that, I must admit.’
‘And now that you understand,’ prompted Mr Disvan, ‘perhaps you could suggest a rationale for what we’ve just seen. An explanation that is sufficiently in keeping with the tenets of dialectical materialism to satisfy our hosts.’
I racked my brain for something plausible to offer, but only came up with feeble theories, easily shot down in flames.
‘Intrusion from another channel?’
‘Not at that time in the early hours,’ said Esther, decisively.
‘An illegal, pirate channel?’
‘They wouldn’t get much of an audience with that standard of show, and anyway, I rang up the IBA monitoring service. There was no such unofficial broadcasts that night.’
‘A fault on the tape? A snippet of a previous recording?’
‘We’ve used it before without anything showing up.’
‘Um... how about a freak effect whereby cockpit transmissions from planes passing overhead are picked up by your aerial?’
Esther was scornful now.
‘Oh, come on, Mr Oakley; we might as well say it’s a ghost and be done with it as accept that.’
‘Sorry, I was clutching at straws there.’
‘I should think you were.’
Disvan’s face was occupied by a smug smile.
‘It’s a bit of a puzzle, isn’t it?’ he said.
‘And so it will remain if you don’t assist,’ said Esther Constantine sharply. ‘We expected more of you. Don’t forget you were a fellow traveller once, far more prominent that we ever were, so don’t act all so superior.’
His smirk vanished instantly.
‘You’re quite right, ladies,’ he replied, almost apologetic. ‘I’ve no right to mock when you’ve asked our advice and we’ve freely agreed to give it. What would you like me to do?’
‘Explain it away in some logical manner, for preference,’ said Esther, ‘but, failing that, suggest what we can do next.’
Mr Disvan licked his lips, more uncomfortable than I’d seen him for some while.
‘Well,’ he started, ‘an explanation’s not possible on present evidence, but presumably it would help if you could tell what the face on the screen is saying.’
‘It certainly would,’ agreed Esther, ‘but the voice isn’t clear, not even with the sound right up. We’ve tried that.’
‘I don’t doubt you have, but I’ve also got some facility with lip-reading. I didn’t study him that closely first time round, but the face’s mouth is fairly clear to see. So, if you’ll kindly play the tape over again, I’ll try and distinguish some words.’
‘Where did you pick up that skill?’ I asked.
‘Oh, a long time ago,’ Disvan ‘replied’, as always avoiding any direct question about his past.
There was no opportunity to pursue my query, as Esther Constantine had started the video machine once more and Mr Disvan was studying the ‘half-finished face’ with great concentration. I also observed it, and found the experience no more pleasing second time around. In itself, what we were seeing was of no great moment—merely an indistinct head and shoulders mouthing words we could neither hear or understand. However, the overall effect was chilling because the figure clearly bore no good will to those to whom it spoke. It seemed to resent the moments when its image on the screen receded or drifted out of focus, and increased its vehemence of speech upon returning into relatively clear view.
A cold and unpleasant thought came into my mind to the effect (despite an entire lack of supporting evidence) that the face was watching us just as we were watching it. I was therefore exceedingly pleased when the second screening came, soon after, to its sudden end.
‘Right then, Mr Disvan,’ said Esther, ‘what was it saying?’
Disvan ignored this direct question and looked at the sisters in what I can only describe as a suspicious manner.
‘And you say that you know nothing about this thing at all?’ he asked.
‘No, not a thing,’ Dorothy answered for them both.
‘That’s why we called you in,’ Esther added.
‘Well, I’m afraid I can’t help you.’ Disvan’s tone was very final.
‘But couldn’t you tell what it was saying?’ asked Esther, now very alarmed indeed.
‘No, I couldn’t. Not in any way that makes sense, at least.’
‘So what shall we do, then?’ Esther persisted.
‘I suggest you simply ignore it. Wipe the tape and forget this ever happened.’
‘That’s hardly a solution,’ commented Dorothy tartly.
Disvan was curt, almost angry.
‘In the absence of a ideologically acceptable answer from the volumes behind us, it’s the very best advice I can offer—and all you’re going to get. Take it or leave it. Come along, Mr Oakley, we must be going.’
With that we departed from the house, leaving a fractious and uneasy atmosphere behind us. Out once again in the mist and cold, I challenged Disvan with what had just occurred, for I was—almost—as curious about the apparition as the Constantines.
‘So what was the problem back there?’ I asked. ‘I don’t think you’re telling all you know.’
‘A very common fault of mine, according to you,’ he replied.
‘It is, and you’re doing it again.’
‘Well, if you insist on an explanation, I’ll merely say that I suspect that the Constantine’s sins have found them out, to paraphrase the Good Book. If they were to be honest with themselves, they’d admit it and would thereby have the answer they want. And that, Mr Oakley, is my final and definitive comment on the matter.’
‘Which in practical terms isn’t the least bit enlightening.’
‘Maybe so, but there again clarity isn’t always a good thing. Far better to have your peace of mind.’
This statement also begged a number of questions, but I decided to let it pass. Bitter experience had taught me that attempts to wheedle information out of Disvan, once he had made up his mind to remain obscure, were a waste of time and effort. Resolving to take more care over the timing of recordings on my own video machine, I put the Constantines’ problem out of my mind and rejoined the throng in the Argyll.
Later in the evening, I noticed Mr Disvan deep in conversation with Doctor Bani-Sadr, no unusual thing in itself but curious because of the privacy they sought and the deep seriousness of their manner. Both had grim expressions on their faces and the latter from time to time shook his head, vehemently denying something that Disvan was asserting.
Since the night was well advanced by that time, my thoughts lacked the necessary agility to connect this Binscombe summit meeting with the earlier part of the evening and I therefore paid it little heed. However, if I had known then of the horrible events which were to fill the weeks to come, I would not have thought their concern misplaced.
* * *
Prior to the video tape incident it was a rare thing for the Constantine sisters to visit the Duke of Argyll. They had, apparently, an old fashioned attitude towards being seen in a public house, and a strong disapproval of the landlord calling his dog Lenin. Follow
ing that particular evening, however, it seemed like hardly a day would pass without one or both favouring us with their company. On each occasion they would sidle up to Mr Disvan and attempt to engage him in a private conversation. He would listen to them for a brief moment and then, in an uncharacteristic gesture, dismiss both them and their tale or petition (for we were not privy to what was being said) with an impatient wave of his hand. Taking our lead from him, the other leading figures of the village similarly pretended that nothing was amiss and, aside from a friendly ‘good evening’, offered no assistance to the clearly troubled Constantines.
This went on for the best part of a fortnight, until one evening when the sisters entered the bar in such a state of distress that neither Disvan nor the rest of us could harden our hearts against them any longer.
Previously, the sisters had always maintained a facade, at least, of stern self control and forbearance, in keeping with their public image as educated and respectable pillars of local society. Now, though, it was transparently clear to all that some experience had rendered them careless of the impression they made.
Both came up to Mr Disvan and myself where we were standing at the bar. Esther Constantine grasped Disvan by the lapel and, controlling her feelings with difficulty, she said in a level voice, ‘We’ll beg, if that is what you require, we’ll drag you there if necessary, but come you must. Things cannot go on as they are. We’re in grave danger. We’re comrades of old and it’s your duty to help us.’
The fear and unhappiness on the old ladies’ faces would have melted even a solicitor’s hardness of heart, but Mr Disvan said nothing. He looked pointedly at the hand on his lapel and then at the supplicant Constantines—people whom I’d thought to be his friends. Something in his gaze caused Esther to release her grip.
‘Please... for old times’ sake?’ hazarded Dorothy.
Disvan seemed set to remain implacable against the sisters until he happened to glance up and saw that all eyes in the Argyll were upon him and that he was surrounded by reproachful faces.
‘All right, then,’ he said. ‘For old times’ sake. Let’s go and get it sorted out.’
* * *
‘It’s off now,’ said Esther Constantine, pointing to her television set, ‘but there’s no telling what it’ll do next.’
Mr Disvan and I (myself by special invitation) were once again in the ladies’ living room and they were recounting the events that had brought them to their present state of fear. Mr Disvan was trying to piece together their scattered and disjointed testimony.
‘You’re saying, then, that the television switched itself on and the “half finished face” was on the screen.’
‘That’s right,’ said Dorothy. ‘On every channel.’
‘How do you know that?’ I asked.
‘Because I used the remote control channel selector to try and get rid of it, Mr Oakley. How else?’
There was a sort of Binscombe logic to this that furrowed my brow even as I accepted it. Mr Disvan pressed on.
‘What did the face say?’
‘Gibberish for the most part,’ Esther answered. ‘Random words, inaudible phrases, hysterical laughter—that sort of thing.’
‘And some profanity too,’ added Dorothy.
‘That also, and all in a voice that was neither a man’s nor a boy’s but some sort of mixture of the two. It wasn’t even particularly human for that matter because it went up too high and down too low for a person’s voice.’
‘And how often has this happened?’ I asked.
‘To begin with, once an evening, but in the last week it’s been getting far more frequent. Yesterday the face was appearing every hour or so whether the set was on or not.’
‘Why not just take the plug out?’ I asked, making what I thought to be a reasonable suggestion. ‘There’ll be no question of the set coming on then.’
The sisters looked at me with barely concealed contempt.
‘That’s hardly what we’d call a resolution, Mr Oakley; merely abject surrender,’ said Esther.
‘We’re very fond of our television,’ added Dorothy in an aggrieved tone. ‘Why should we be made to give it up by that thing?’
I reflected that the Constantines’ fighting spirit had soon been restored to them by their faith in Mr Disvan’s assistance, and I henceforth kept my counsel to myself.
‘Well, I still think that this problem is of your own making,’ said Mr Disvan mysteriously, ‘although a “resolution” of it may be more elusive and perhaps beyond you or anyone else. However, I’ve undertaken to help you, against my better judgement may I say, and that’s what I’ll try to do. Switch the set on and we’ll wait for the face’s return.’
‘What good will that do?’ said Esther.
The tone of Mr Disvan’s reply was one of patience and long-suffering rather than anger.
‘I don’t know, but it can’t be any less use than standing here doing nothing, can it?’
The Constantines considered this for a moment and then as one, like a disciplined conspiratorial cell, nodded their agreement.
‘I’ll go and fetch some drinks and crisps,’ said Dorothy, ‘but I don’t suppose we’ll have to wait too long.’
* * *
I was in no hurry to renew my acquaintance with ‘the half finished face’, but as the evening wore on and we were obliged to watch a series of numbing, banal quiz shows and sitcoms, I began to wish Dorothy Constantine’s prediction would come true. Disvan evidently shared my feelings, and after a while fetched down a weighty tome from the Constantine’s book collection and flicked through that rather than watch the entertainment on offer.
‘Tell me if anything happens,’ he said, ‘and I’ll be right with you.’
Merciful release in the form of the epilogue came after what seemed like a geological age of waiting. Dorothy and Esther stirred in their seats and Mr Disvan closed his book.
‘There’s no point in us waiting here all night for something to happen,’ I said, draining my glass thankfully. ‘We can always return tomorrow evening.’
‘That might not be necessary,’ replied Mr Disvan, redirecting our attention to the television. ‘Our guest has at long last arrived.’
It had indeed. The ghastly figure had silently come into view and was close up to the screen, mouthing and shouting as before. Occasionally it ebbed a little further back but, for the most part, the head and shoulders stayed put and seemed close enough to surge forth out of the television and into the room. Within a few seconds we could hear as well as see it, although what we heard made little sense—words such as ‘get’ and ‘hate’ and ‘free’—all in a shrieking voice mixed with uncontrolled laughter and incoherent babble.
As soon as the figure appeared, Mr Disvan waved us to silence and began to study the face with analytical concentration. Despite their earlier distress, the Constantines seemed reasonably blasé about what was happening and looked at the screen with only mild distaste. In the present situation, since I was not permitted to speak, I could only give myself up to examining the apparition, and having seen more than enough of the figure itself, I looked closely at its surroundings instead.
At times the creature, or whatever it was, seemed to be standing in an endless landscape of high prairie grass over which a sky of disturbing shapes and colours rushed at alarming speed. For a while this would disappear to be replaced by a blackness of such intensity as to suggest that I was seeing the deepest part of the earth or a place so distant that no starlight reached it. The ‘prairie’ would then reappear.
Although I later thought myself credulous for feeling so, at the time I clearly felt that I had no business to be seeing these places. It was a distinctly uncomfortable sensation.
After two or three minutes, Mr Disvan said, ‘Right, that’s enough. Turn it off.’
Esther Constantine went to go to the television and do as she was bidden but Disvan prevented her.
‘No!’ he shouted. ‘Don’t go too near it. Turn it off a
t the mains.’
Esther hesitated, changed her tack and, crossing to the other side of the room, removed the plug from the wall. The television screen immediately went blank. It may just have been my imagination but I would have sworn that the sound of the thing’s voice continued for a second, maybe two, after the power was pulled.
Fortunately, perhaps, I did not have too long to ponder on this fact for, soon afterwards, we were caused to jump by the ring of the telephone coming from the hallway.
‘Would you see to that, Mr Oakley?’ said Esther Constantine. ‘At this time of night it must be a wrong number—or those double-glazing people.’
Glad of an excuse to leave the room, I went out and picked up the receiver. ‘Hello, it’s 12:30 at night, what do you want?’
The voice that replied seemed very distant and distorted by the line. ‘Where am I?’
‘Pardon?’
‘I want to get out.’
‘Who is this?’
‘I want to live.’
I was about to say something that would bring the conversation, such as it was, to a decisive close, when it dawned on me that, allowing for the effect of the line, I had been listening to this self-same voice only a few moments before. Acting instinctively I held the receiver away from me. The speaker seemed to be aware that I’d done so, and now shouted so that I could hear just as well as before.
‘I’ll get you! [incomprehensible] I’m nearly strong enough! I want to live!’
There was long pause. Clearly the voice had nothing new to say, and I was too shocked to be able to alert the others to what was happening. Then, with renewed vehemence he or it began to speak again.
‘Hate you! Not fair, not bloody [incomprehensible]. I’ll pay in full!’ Suddenly the tone of the voice changed dramatically from raging fury to plaintiveness. ‘Where am I?’
At that moment, Mr Disvan looked round the door into the hall, presumably to see what on earth was detaining me. Gathering from the eloquent look of horror occupying my face that something was very amiss, he beckoned to the Constantines to follow him and approached the telephone. I gratefully passed the receiver to him.
Binscombe Tales - The Complete Series Page 16
