Literary Remains

by R. B. Russell

  ‘But you did finally escape it all, by coming up here?’

  ‘I tried, but they followed me.’

  ‘The newspapers?’

  ‘Yes, them as well, but after a while most of them gave up…’

  ‘Not all of them?’

  ‘No. Those involved in the case that wanted to, well, they managed to track me down.’

  ‘Like my father did?’

  ‘Unlike him, some never left me.’

  ‘I don’t understand.’

  She shook her head.

  ‘It took some courage for you to come up here and see me,’ she said. ‘A woman you don’t know, who was involved in an horrific murder.’

  ‘My father said you were blameless…’

  ‘Let me finish. I don’t know if I am blameless. I can’t believe I killed them. But there’s a good possibility that I was there when it happened. And if that’s so, why don’t I remember anything about it? It’s driven me mad, literally.’

  ‘How do you mean?’

  ‘I had to see a succession of psychiatrists.’

  ‘Nowadays they’d call it post-traumatic stress.’

  ‘They’ve called it that, and they’ve called it “survivor guilt”, and goodness knows how many other things. But it has apparently made me psychotic.’

  ‘Which means?’

  ‘I’m not psychopathic,’ she said, defensively. ‘Psychosis means losing touch with what is commonly accepted as reality. In my case I see things that other people deny the existence of.’

  ‘But knowing that they’re not real must be a step on the path to recovery?’

  ‘No. You see, I’ve taken anti-psychotic drugs, and tried various therapies, but nothing has ever helped. They’ve only made me feel ill. So, several years ago I told the doctors that I’d stopped seeing things and they left me alone.’

  ‘So, you’re not on any medication now?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘But you seem quite well?’

  ‘Apart from what I see, yes, I am.’

  Nervous, he asked, ‘So, what do you see?’

  ‘The children.’

  ‘Oh.’

  ‘I sometimes think I should have had the courage to move into a town, a city even. Everyone around here recognised me from the newspapers anyway. I could’ve moved into a terraced street, with neighbours either side of me, and opposite. Then maybe I wouldn’t have seen the children outside my window when it’s dark.’

  ‘What do they do?’

  ‘They are waiting.’

  She was looking towards the heavily curtained window.

  ‘What are they waiting for?’ he asked.

  ‘For me to tell them what happened. At night, when I look out of the window, it’s as though nothing else is out there; I just see them.’

  ‘And they’re always there when you look out?’

  She nodded.

  ‘Would it help if I looked out now, and was able to reassure you that they aren’t there?’

  ‘No. Don’t get me wrong, if you said you didn’t see them I’d believe that you couldn’t see them. But that wouldn’t mean that if I looked out as well that I wouldn’t be able to see them.’

  ‘But you know it’s the psychosis.’

  ‘No, I’m only told that it’s the psychosis.’

  ‘I’ll look anyway,’ he said, getting out of his chair.

  ‘No, wait.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘What if you see them as well?’

  ‘Well, then that’ll mean you’re not psychotic; that they’re really there.’

  ‘But that would be worse.’

  Samuel’s hand had been raised to pull the curtain aside, but now he let it drop. There was not a sound from outside. There were no cars passing in the road, but then the house was fairly isolated. He could not hear dogs barking in the distance. Perhaps the heavy curtains insulated the window, which could well have been double-glazed, but it seemed wrong that there was no noise at all from outside.

  He turned around and looked at Clare Macdonald who was replenishing his glass with wine.

  ‘I understand if you want to leave,’ she said quietly.

  ‘No,’ he replied, at length, thinking that he would have to step out of the door where it was unlikely he would see any children.

  ‘If they are waiting for you to be able to tell them what happened…’

  ‘I thought that one day I’d be able to.’

  ‘But if they can’t now be told?’

  ‘I don’t know. I don’t know. As I said, you’re welcome to leave.’

  ‘No,’ he said, quietly. ‘I think I’ll take you up on the offer of a room for the night.’

  ‘Good. The curtains up there are already drawn.’

  ‘Thank you,’ he said, quietly, sitting back down and taking up his glass. ‘I’ll leave in the morning,’ he decided, and they both looked into the fire and said nothing.

  ANOTHER COUNTRY

  Up until the moment I approached the door everything had been effortless. My connections from Amsterdam to Bialystok had been on time, and there, at the airport, had been my old friend David to greet me. He eased me through the process of hiring a car and had sent me on my way with a detailed set of directions that finished on the very road that Adam Krasicki gave as his address. I had to go just over the border, it was quicker than flying direct to the country I wanted, and the Customs procedures between the two countries were surprisingly uncomplicated and informal. The roads were all good, and at the end of my journey there was even a parking space outside of the very building I sought. It was a busy thoroughfare, with fast-moving traffic, but I turned the car in to the side of the road without having to make any awkward manoeuvres. When I switched off the engine it was with some satisfaction.

  The day was bright and clear. When I got out of the car I decided that, despite the fumes and noise of the traffic, it was a fine city. The buildings lining the street were late nineteenth-century and mellowed, with sooty ornamentation. There were trees at regular intervals along a wide pavement, and there were small areas in front of each building so that they stood back from the road. I had always had the idea of Eastern European cities being dour and grey, featureless and windswept, but this seemed very civilised indeed.

  The building displayed its number clearly and Krasicki’s name was on a plate by the door, with a number suggesting a flat on the third floor. There was no bell to ring, so I let myself in and I walked up the stairs with a light heart, not a little proud of myself.

  In one hand I carried a bottle of Scotch Whisky, a drink I knew Krasicki to appreciate, and under my arm a parcel containing copies of the paperback printing of his novel, Terminus. We had published the first edition a year earlier, to great critical acclaim, if not huge sales, but this reprint had better distribution and was already pre-ordered in substantial numbers by the major retailers.

  Outside the door to his flat I put the parcel on the ground and knocked. It was only now that things started to go wrong.

  The door partly opened, but before I could see what had happened I could tell by the hollow sound of my knocking, as it echoed inside, that the flat was empty. I pushed the door further and looked in, not having the courage at first to cross the threshold. There was no furniture in the hallway or in the room that I could see leading off from it. I noticed indentations in the linoleum that showed where furniture had once stood, and there were light patches on the walls where pictures had obviously been hanging. A bare flex came down from the ceiling, and even the light switch had been removed.

  ‘Hello?’ I called, a little stupidly, but by way of easing my conscience as I stepped inside.

  I have always disliked empty buildings. I don’t expect to come across ghosts, or any other potentially malevolent presences; I simply find a succession of empty rooms dispiriting and depressing. Even the cleanest-looking room appears dirty and grimy when the furniture is removed: cobwebs will have been hidden by cupboards, stains concealed by rugs, cracks los
t behind the folds of curtains. Krasicki’s accomodation was not in bad repair; there was a carpet in what I took to have been the bedroom and it didn’t look too worn; the paper was not peeling from the walls, but there was a pall of neglect that enveloped the place.

  There was nothing at all, apart from the small plate by the door outside, to suggest that Adam Krasicki had ever lived there. Well, that explained why he had not been answering letters. I was annoyed with myself; there was always a risk that he would not be at home when I tried to visit, but my worst fear was simply that my arrival would have been inconvenient.

  As I left the flat, wondering how on earth I might find a forwarding address, and assuming that I was going to have to retrace my journey all the way back home, I bumped into a woman on the landing outside. She looked somewhat angry, and addressed me in a language I knew nothing of. I said I spoke English, but she did not understand.

  Surprised at my own cleverness I put up my hand to stop her flow of words, and put down the parcel which I then unwrapped. The books were upside down and Adam Krasicki’s picture on the back cover appeared first. I showed this to her, and repeated his name slowly, but she looked just as unimpressed, and there was no hint of recognition. She made it clear that I was to leave, and I did so, hastily, but despairing that I had travelled so far, to a foreign country even, and that my quest was to have been in vain.

  The woman was shouting down the stair-well at me as I descended, but I stopped in the hall, considering what to do. Suddenly she was quiet and a few moments later a door slammed. That was all. I had been rather shaken by what had happened.

  I went back to the car and sat in the driver’s seat, wondering what to do. My mobile phone put me immediately in contact with my office, and I was assured that I had the correct address, which I already knew. I informed them that I would be returning sooner than expected.

  I put the phone back into my jacket pocket and was about to look at the map when I saw what appeared to be a policeman on the other side of the road. Without great hope of success, I grabbed one of the books and got back out of the car. A gap in the traffic did not open up immediately, and by the time that I was across both lanes and on the other side of the road he was walking away from me. I ran up to him and said:

  ‘Excuse me.’

  He turned and said something I could not understand. I asked if he knew English and he smiled helpfully but continued in his own language. I showed him the picture of Krasicki on the book, and then took out of my pocket the address I had written down.

  ‘He’s not there,’ I said, knowing that the words would communicate nothing, but hoping that my accompanying actions might.

  He nodded sagely, took the book, and considered what I might mean. He then nodded again and I worked out that he wanted me to follow him.

  It appears to be no problem for a policeman to cross a busy road. He simply steps out into the traffic with his hand up to stop the cars and they obey. I followed him across and along to the building I had already visited. I would have liked to tell him that I had been there already, but I decided that it would be fruitless. We went in and I climbed up to the third floor again. He looked surprised that the door was open and the flat was empty.

  He walked in, calling out before him, much as I had done earlier, and again the woman appeared. This time I could see that she was certainly from the flat opposite.

  I was completely unable to follow the direction of their conversation, but she appeared to be annoyed with him, and he was not happy with her attitude. Both tried to talk to me at one point but I was forced to simply shrug and look apologetic. She then went back to her own flat and me and the policeman appeared to be waiting for her to return. When she did so she was holding a map and I guessed that Krasicki may have left a forwarding address after all.

  The map was not detailed. I told them to wait for me this time, hoping they would understand that I would return. I ran back down the stairs and out to the car in the street which I had left unlocked, although nothing had come to any harm. I picked up my own, new map from off the passenger seat and locked the car. When I got back upstairs they were dutifully waiting for me.

  The policeman found the street that I presumably required, which appeared to be on the outskirts of the city, and he laboriously traced with his finger the route that I would have to take. While he did so the woman returned to her flat once more, but came back after a time with a pen and wrote a series of numbers and letters on the back of my hand. I assumed that this would relate to the address.

  I am not well-travelled, and I had been lulled into a false sense of security by the ease with which I had found my initial destination. The second address proved more problematic and it was dark by the time that I arrived at the right road. The place I had ended up at, though, did not appear to have conventional houses lining the street, but barrack-like buildings arranged irregularly along it. There was no obvious military presence, but neither did it look residential. A single track led off from the road and appeared to head towards further barracks, but I was relying on my car head-lamps and they did not seem to penetrate very far into the blackness. I parked, and was seriously considering returning to the centre of the city, to find a hotel, when I saw a man in the distance and I decided to ask him for help.

  Once again language proved to be a barrier, but I showed him the numbers and letters written on my hand and his face brightened to a smile. He was probably only thirty, very tall and with slightly protruding eyes. He beckoned me to follow him, but I first retrieved my parcels from the car. He waited patiently until I had locked it, and then surprised me somewhat by insisting on taking me by my one free hand. He led me over to a path that passed by the nearest building, and it was then that I began to have grave misgivings. We followed unlit paths between these old barrack buildings, most of which, though by no means all, had some lights on behind net curtains. I soon became completely disorientated. Even driving out to this god-forsaken spot I had not worried because I had my car, a good map, and the roads were well sign-posted. If this man’s intentions were not good then I was in trouble because, at the very least, I had no way of finding my way back to the car. Eventually, though, he stopped before a building that looked like all of the others we had passed. He bowed gravely and deeply, and said something, and I noticed with profound relief that what was written on a small sign by the door corresponded with what was written on my hand. I thanked my guide, bowed as he had done, and when I looked up he was gone.

  I took a deep breath and walked up to the door. I knocked, but there was no answer. I knocked again, and waited, but still nobody came. I stood there in growing despair, and looked at the address on the door again, which was illuminated by a thin, rosy light. When I put my hand by it I saw that it did not have the final letter that my address did; a letter ‘C’ was missing.

  Despite my fears my mind was relatively calm and I decided that perhaps these building might have a number of dwellings inside them. I tried the door and it opened.

  There was a lobby inside, and a corridor running down the spine of the building. My reasoning had been sound. There was a very dim light, but a large switch inside the door threw the place into harsh illumination. Before me were doors lettered ‘A’ and ‘B’, and the next one I came to was ‘C’.

  Adam Krasicki sat forward in his armchair and stubbed out the remains of his roll-up cigarette.

  ‘I’m here because my mother needs me,’ he said. ‘It’s not out of choice.’

  He looked considerably older than in the photograph on the paperbacks that were piled up on the table next to him. He had allowed me to put them there when I had arrived, along with the bottle of spirits, but he had not touched either.

  ‘So you went to my flat and found it empty? You did well to find me here, but it wasn’t a good idea. You should have just gone back home. You could have posted the books.’

  ‘They were an excuse. We were worried about you. We hadn’t heard from you for so long…’

&n
bsp; ‘And you want my next novel, perhaps?’

  ‘That isn’t the only reason; the welfare of our authors is important to us.’

  ‘I liked that old place,’ he said, meditatively. ‘It was a bit of a dump, but I did like it. For several years I sat in there, writing, and at the time my old possessions always seemed to mock my lack of success…’

  ‘What have you done with them?’

  ‘What I was able to fit in my bedroom are here with me,’ he pointed to a door off the main room. ‘There is not enough room here even for my mother’s stuff.’

  The living room certainly was very full. There was little floor space because of the furniture, and on the furniture were boxes and piles of shapeless material, themselves covered by ornaments and other more utilitarian items. The walls were covered in pictures; mainly glossy landscapes.

  ‘There are only two bedrooms, hers and mine. She’s bedridden, and her equipment takes up much room.’

  They were meant to be talking quietly because she was apparently asleep.

  ‘But at least that other place was my own. Now I live here, with all the…rubbish…that she has collected in a lifetime.’

  ‘It must be awkward.’

  ‘Awkward? Yes, very. She’s very demanding, the old cow.’

  There was a pause.

  ‘My place was a dump,’ he continued, ‘but at least it was mine. My furniture was old and battered, the books on my rickety shelves were cheap paperbacks. I lived in a dull, dull world, and then, one day, as if my magic, stacked on the floor in front of me were ten beautiful new copies of a novel that apparently I had written. That Ihad written! I was the king of the world!’

  ‘You’ve every right to be proud of that book.’

  ‘I should’ve been just as proud if they’d been cheap print-ondemand paperbacks from some fly-by-night small press. But no, these were substantial hardback volumes, with bright embossed dustjackets, published by a real mainstream publisher. And on each one was written praise from one of my great literary heroes, proclaiming me, me, as the most exciting writer of my generation!’