Year's Best Weird Fiction, Volume Three

by Simon Strantzas

  Then they began to squeeze out through a door at the other end of the room, previously almost hidden from me by the piano. The man who had been seated next to me stood on both my feet in his haste to reach the provender, whatever it might be; and the three men who had been seated beyond him did exactly the same. All three had fishy eyes.

  I remained on my wooden chair, taking off my patent leather shoes, and rubbing the upper surfaces of my two feet. The undersides had already suffered when climbing the steep and stony hill at a time when everyone’s limbs were slightly swollen by the humid autumnal weather. Of course I had no inclination to struggle for undefined refreshments in any case. On that topic, I by now hardly needed Ronnie’s warning.

  I dutifully looked around for Ronnie, but the room was almost empty. It was most unlike Ronnie to forget about me at one of the occasions to which he had invited me. It seemed likely that the spell cast by Mrs Z― was responsible, and the very last thing I wished was to grudge him his success. It occurred to me, however, that Mrs Z― herself, as hostess, might have come forward to enquire how I was enjoying myself.

  As it was, I continued to massage my poor feet in their thin socks; agitating the bones and muscles, smoothing the abrased tissues. The interminable English twilight, truly the most distinctive feature of our island climate and character, was creeping forward all the time.

  While concentrating on my feet, I realised that a man in later middle age was silently standing before me, looking over the back of one of the seats in the row ahead of mine.

  “I do apologise,” I said. “I’ve been trodden on. Both feet.”

  He nodded, but offered no expression of regret or interest.

  “Do you realise?” he enquired. His tone implied that I must be very insensitive if I didn’t.

  I looked up at him. Though middle-aged to a degree, he too had the large, noticeable eyes that seemed to be general among the locals.

  “Sorry”, I said. “Do I realise what?” I thought it best to rise, though it was painful.

  “Our pianist is fully dressed tonight. In fact, he’s fully in control of himself.”

  “Is that unusual?” I paused for a second. I had struck the wrong note. “Perhaps I should explain that I’m here only as the friend of a friend.”

  “Unusual?” The old man spoke very scornfully. His hands tightened on the back of the seat, “It is a very moving tribute to his family’s love.” Then he added “I am Sir A— M— W—.”

  “I don’t really know much about the family, but I’m very pleased to meet you, sir.”

  Of course, I had never heard of him, and when, later, I looked him up in a reference book, he proved merely to have been knighted upon retirement.

  I waited politely for some further utterance from him.

  But my unresponsiveness had discouraged him and he only lurched away, murmuring “Fully clothed. Fully in control.” In a few moments, he was almost lost in the gloom.

  Naturally, I had heard the tales about Pachmann in his later years, when it was said to be unwise to leave him alone on the platform, and about some of the things that happened when people did. Pianists, I took it, had these difficulties.

  I slumped down once more. I was well aware that ahead of me lay the sister with her tricks, and it seemed at the moment almost impossible to depart. My crushed feet would scarcely have borne me; and it would have been very unfeeling to Ronnie, who was always so particularly sensitive in just such contexts. Moreover, I had an eerie feeling that Mrs Baldock, in leaving, had locked the front door on the outside. It might have seemed a useful precaution, There was no evidence; merely intuition.

  So far I had observed no-one in the room who could possibly have been designated a girl. There was a small number of crones; there was Vera Z―; there was no girl. Ronnie and I seemed to have changed places: he was provided for; I was isolated.

  The audience, which had squeezed out, slowly dripped back, though it was hard to say how long passed before every chair was once more filled. I could again have looked at my watch, but should have been merely irritated. I stood well back in the doorway while the four bony old men pushed silently past my chair. As darkness slowly fell, the draught became steadily more noticeable.

  Somehow the performer was on the platform before I could detect how she had arrived there. It seemed to be how the family did it. Of course there are certain performers who specialise in that exact effect. For some reason there had been none of the strenuous, good-neighbourly applause.

  The light was now really bad, so that conditions were far from ideal for a display of legerdemain, if that was really what lay before us. I recognised that these artists were beginners, so that very much in the way of presentation should not be expected. The poor woman might even be rather glad of a low visibility. Was she a woman? I tried to remember the details of my dialogue with Ronnie, when I had asked about a possible sister, since a brother had been promised. I was in the very back row in that very dim light but it seemed to me at first that the female on the rostrum was Mrs Z― herself, though differently dressed.

  It was absurd not to be certain whether that was or was not so; that at least. One curious difficulty was that the piano had not been shifted, so that the performer had very little space in which to achieve whatever was aimed at.

  Most of the audience seemed still to be wiping their mouths very steadily and systematically after the refreshments, as older people do. One could see their arms moving rhythmically back and forth, when precious little else could be seen.

  The aim of the entity on the platform remained unclear to me. At that date, I claimed no particular gift for instantly catching on to how a conjuring trick was done, but I did expect to be provided, even by semi-amateurs, with data sufficient to define what the trick was. In the present instance, it was becoming more and more difficult to decide even who was performing the trick. The person seemed now to be taller than the Vera Z― I had been presented to, and to be waxing steadily taller yet.

  Otherwise, the entertainment seemed to consist so far in little more than writhing and fumbling; though it was true that the tempo was becoming more hectic. The face and hair were quite lost to such sight as was still possible. Soon the appearance was not unlike a rising column of old black rags, animated like the smoke from an oily bonfire at dusk. Every now and then something shot out for an instant on one side or the other; much as the pianist had shot out his arms. Of course bonfires behave like that too. Not that on the present occasion there was any flame to cast a light and help things on. If there had been, that particular house would probably have charred right out, almost in minutes. I exaggerate, I am sure, but the house was full of very shaky timber. I already knew enough to know that at a glance. I had been aware of it from the start.

  The circumscribed and inconveniently shaped area available for the tricks seemed to me to make the whole performance even more peculiar and pointless. Of course the refreshed audience might be supposed captive for whatever, in the name of charity, might be offered up to it.

  Where on earth was Ronnie? Surely, having failed earlier, he should have had a quiet word with me after the refreshments?

  I could fairly have decided that Ronnie had forfeited all consideration from me, at least for that particular evening. In all probability he really had achieved his goal this time. I myself already attached little weight to general social convenances, when such moments came my way. Through love one becomes a social discard, whether one chooses or not, and even though one learns in the end that these are the last moments at which to lose such head as one may have for practicalities.

  It was not, however, that, having reached this conclusion about Ronnie, I simply saw no reason to remain. The show gave rise to a certain inquisitiveness, whatever else might be said about it. I deny strongly, on the other hand, that I was led by any ordinary consideration for my actual safety.

  The entire explanation for my departure was that I had a moment’s glimpse through the murk of something I f
ound extremely unpleasant: it was connected with a cer-tain action on the part of the figure on the platform, a certain gesture, and the instant response to it by almost the entire audience. It was like a sudden glimpse of a deformity. At the same moment, a draught like a knife had come in through the open door behind me. It was the moment one yells, and, with luck, wakes up, during a long nightmare; the moment that, of its nature, can never be quite examined, quite elucidated, or quite extinguished. I cannot detail even to myself what was so dreadful about the particular effect or trick I had just witnessed; though I have more to say about nightmares later.

  I simply knew that I had had enough. I was going. I was off. If possible, of course. Ronnie had taken ship on unexpectedly deep waters, and would have, just then, to take his chance also.

  Entirely self-controlled, I tiptoed out through the doorway, still bitterly cold.

  As may be imagined, it was truly dark outside in the passage, as well as freezing. It was probably an ill-lighted passage at the best of times; whenever they might have been. But I could read the words WAY OUT pasted to the wall before me. I did not think they had been there before. Affixing them had possibly been Mrs Ballcock’s final chore at that address. My premonition concerning the front door was confirmed by the fact that the crude arrow upon the notice pointed in the opposite direction.

  One could but assume the existence of a back entry or tradesmen’s wicket to the dust passage. I did not even try the front door. Perhaps that was foolish, but I was in a hurry. The noise of the traffic was surprisingly subdued in so dilapidated a house. Perhaps there was some definite explanation for this. Perhaps, my own feet certainly seemed to echo.

  Obviously a few short flights of steps were possible; and in no time at all, I half-fell down one. I was quite badly jolted.

  But then came the revelation.

  Along the passage, at that slightly lower level, was a room on the left. Architecturally, it was a room such as the one in which Charles Lamb had written and imbibed, while Mary Lamb thumped forlornly at the panels of her cupboard. From it, a faint light emerged. I had been aware of this light. I looked into the room.

  The potentially literary character of the room was confirmed by the only piece of furniture that remained in it; which was a daybed. I could see little of this object, because Ronnie was sprawling upon it, leaning against the raised end, and looking pale, while Vera Z―, with her back and her loose hair towards me, reclined on the other end, cooing at Ronnie and caressing him in a very liberal way.

  It was not that I was looking in through an open door. There was a large window, with separate panes, between the room and the passage: a “borrowed light” introduced to illuminate the passage.

  Fair’s fair, of course, and no doubt I should have hastily passed on, had there not been further features of the scene. One was that Vera Z―’s hair, earlier that same evening a damp brown, was now a musty grey.

  Another was that on the far side of the daybed, and spread out languidly against the tattered wallpaper, almost as if gummed to it, was a very tall man. He was not so old as many of the night’s audience, nothing like so old, I thought, but he too was dressed in a dust-coloured suit, with trousers as long as derelict factory chimneys; and he too had grey hair, very long and straight. His face was yellow, and, though he might have been appreciating the tender scene before him, his open eyes were singularly dead.

  The husband, I could not but assume.

  “Ronnie,” I called lightly through the glass.

  Undoubtedly he heard me because his head turned a trifle towards me; but there was no expression on his face, other than a paralysed glare.

  “Ronnie,” I called, more peremptorily.

  All that happened was that his mouth fell open. The effect was horrible.

  Vera Z― swung herself round and faced me. At least, I suppose it was Vera Z―, because the figure before me had roughly the same flattened features, and wore the same simple white blouse, now somewhat grimy. The expression seemed almost entirely different. This was like a face fashioned by a medieval craftsman who had dreamed of a demon; or sketched by a Japanese recluse who had actually seen one. I already knew enough about such things to make these comparisons with some confi-dence; and now of course I know more.

  Vera Z― gazed calmly at me for a second, but made no gesture. She had no need. I was stupefied with fear at the scene; almost as paralysed as Ronnie himself.

  Vera Z― merely made a languid plunge at Ronnie; slowly inclining her face against his. She began to stroke his pale cheek, and the hand with which she did it was at least twice the proper size. It was that huge unfemale hand that completely finished me.

  I have to admit that total blind panic overtook me, so that I turned and tore on down the dark passage, knowing quite well that I was leaving Ronnie defenceless. I do not think I had ever in my life before felt so scared, or behaved so pusillanimously. I hope not.

  There was an old fashioned back door with a bobbin-latch, but, when I touched it, the bobbin was icy cold, not just chilly like the passage, but almost like liquid air in the school’s ancient lab. The broadsheet about the charitable event and the programme for the music were still clutched in my hand. I crushed the two of them into a single ball and used the ball to raise the bobbin.

  Outside, there was still a little daylight, as in England there usually is. Over to the left, I could see the garden of the house, though I could make out nothing growing in it. There were heaps of plastic, which perhaps had enveloped the refreshments for this and for earlier gatherings; everything was commonplace, though putrid and rotten.

  One might have wondered about the neighbours, but the truth was that the Z― family had none. All the former houses were either shops and offices, or empty; all the former gardens spattered with unwanted wrapping materials.

  Soon I was in the alleyway, among the choked bins. There was still not a light to be seen in the Z― residence, of which I now had a complete rear view; and I knew for myself that there were few concealing curtains to be drawn.

  More scared than ever, I sped away, leaping over obstacles—when I could distinguish them; darting back from dead ends; cantering, ultimately, all the way down the steep hill; forgetting the state of my shoes and feet; ignoring everyone and everything; chilled to the bone however fast I ran.

  I slept little that night. The intimation of sinister intermediate states between living and dying weighed heavily on me; and I have to admit with shame that I did not expect to see Ronnie in propria persona again.

  I am sure I was kept awake also by having to decide what action on my part would be best. I had an utter repugnance to saying one word to anybody about what had happened, and it was remarkably difficult to explain, in any case; let alone, in my case, to excuse.

  Of course both my parents were still alive at that time; though on the other side of London.

  I remained cold, never once stopped shivering, all night. I can hardly believe this, but it was true.

  One part of the problem, the obvious need for practical action of some kind, seemed largely to disappear when Ronnie simply turned up in the office the next morning, and at more or less his usual hour. At first, I experienced such a feeling of relief as to make me wonder whether I had not somehow dreamed the whole story of the night. I had parted even with my two pieces of documentary evidence, and in ludicrously unconvincing circumstances.

  At the period I am writing about, “open plan offices” were not common, and I must say at once that, even if they had been, Bream & Ladywell were far too sensible ever to succumb to such things. Ronnie Cassell and I, therefore, worked in different whole rooms, each with four proper and very solid walls. Despite my immense relief at sighting Ronnie, I was not encouraged by his flitting past and away from me without a word or a glance. I thought that he still looked very white, but that the same was possibly true of me.

  I did not see Ronnie again that day. In the ordinary course of things, there was no particular reason why I should.
We were not in the habit of lunching together. Even our work lay in different sections; and he took his work more seriously than I did, because he aimed to be a lifelong chartered accountant, whereas, for me, accoun-tancy was mainly one of several avenues I was keeping open to a wider career. I had already realised that when, at different times, we had come together, the initiative had usually been his, even though I had always found him a perfectly reasonable and agreeable person, however dislocated.

  What happened now was that day followed day without Ronnie making any approach to me at all, though at times I saw him skidding past; whereas I, to put it absolutely plainly, felt too guilty to think of approaching him.

  I cannot quite bring myself to embark upon the likely upset. At first I felt that, though I had behaved badly, yet it was he who had been responsible for our visiting the Z― establishment at all. Later, I felt that I had quite possibly rushed to exaggerated conclusions. I was completely out of my depth about everything that had happened. If Ronnie had emerged intact, or even if, placed as he was in life, he had chosen not to emerge at all, what reason had I to worry so excessively?

  The upshot of it all was that the association between Ronnie and me, never really close, seemed to have come to a natural end. I was perfectly well aware that such things happened all the time.

  But something else happened, in the same general area, about which I was much less acquiescent. My pleasant and promising relationship with Clarinda Bowman was suddenly broken off by her.

  It is probably true that I had not been seeing quite as much of her in a given period of time as would have been wise, but the other girls I knew were pleasant company also. All my life I have found it difficult to bring to an end any reasonably pleasant relationship with a woman in favour of a relationship with another woman. Many men are indifferent to others’ pain. Perhaps that is best, after all.

  Clarinda Bowman was plainspoken: always one aspect of her character, though one aspect only.