“I think my hat is hanging in the passage.”
“Damn you to kingdom come, I am not finished!”
Nolz crossed the room.
Poe got up and followed him, grabbing at his sleeve. “Wait. There is something you haven’t seen, a work of monumental significance. I’ve been working on it for five years, the best thing I have ever done.”
Nolz paused and turned halfway, his face creased in disbelief. “Unpublished?”
“You must read it,” Poe said, nodding. “It’s a work of genius.”
“A poem?”
“A tale. It will stand with ‘The Tell-Tale Heart’ and ‘The Pit and the Pendulum’.”
“One of your tales of horror? I told you how I feel about them.”
“Not merely one of my tales of horror, Ray, but the ultimate tale. If you neglect to read it, you will undervalue my reputation, whatever you write in that obituary.”
“What is the title?”
He had to think. “It Comes By Night”. He rushed to his desk in the corner of the room and started riffling through the sheets of paper spread across it, scattering anything unwanted to the floor. “Here!” He snatched up a pen and inscribed the title on the top sheet. “If I die tomorrow, this is my legacy. I beg you, Ray. If you have a shred of pity for a desperate man, give it your attention.” He thrust the manuscript into Nolz’s hands. “Take it with you. I swear it is the best I have ever done, or will do.”
Shaking his head, Nolz pocketed the handwritten sheets, retrieved his hat and left.
Two days later, the script of “It Comes By Night” was returned to Poe by special messenger. With it was a note:
Dear Sir,
I understand that you are the author and owner of these pages discovered in the rooms of Mr Raymond Nolz, deceased. I regret to inform you that he was found dead in bed yesterday morning. The physician who attended was of the opinion that Mr Nolz suffered some spasm of panic in the night which induced a fatal heart attack. He was known to have an irregular heart rhythm. In these sad circumstances it may be of some consolation to you that your story was the last thing he ever read, for it was found on his deathbed. I return it herewith.
Sincerely,
J. C. Sneddon, Coroner
Poe threw the script into the fire and wept.
Edgar Allan Poe himself died the next month in Washington College Hospital, Baltimore. The mystery surrounding his last days has baffled generations of biographers. He had been found in a drunken stupor in a gutter. Dr John Moran, who attended him in hospital, reported that even when he regained consciousness the writer was confused and incoherent. “When I returned I found him in a violent delirium, resisting the efforts of two nurses to keep him in bed. This state continued until Saturday evening (he was admitted on Wednesday) when he commenced calling for one ‘Reynolds’ which he did through the night up to three on Sunday morning. At this time a very decided change began to affect him. Having become enfeebled from exertion he became quiet and seemed to rest for a short time, then gently moving his head he said, ‘Lord help my poor Soul’ and expired.”
The identity of “Reynolds” has never been satisfactorily explained. Poe had no known friend of that name. In The Tell-Tale Heart, the Life and Works of Edgar Allan Poe, his biographer, the poet, critic and mystery writer, Julian Symons, wrote: “ … this last cry, like so much else in his life, remains a riddle unsolved”.
Just as the sudden death of Ray Nolz was never explained.
On the day of Poe’s funeral, the New York Daily Tribune published an obituary announcing the death and stating “few will be grieved by it” because “he had no friends”. Poe had been worthless as a critic, always biased, and “little better than a carping grammarian”. This savage piece was balanced with praise of the stories and the poetry, but the impression of the man was devastating. He was likened to a character in a Bulwer-Lytton novel: “Irascible, envious, but not the worst, for these salient angles were all varnished over with a cold repellent cynicism while his passions vented themselves in sneers … He had, to a morbid excess, that desire to rise which is vulgarly called ambition, but no wish for the esteem or the love of his species.”
The obituary had been prepared by Rufus Griswold.
And the damage didn’t end there. The appalling Griswold approached Poe’s mother-in-law, Maria Clemm, and by some undisclosed arrangement obtained a power of attorney to collect and edit the writings. The first two volumes were in print within three months of Poe’s death, with a preface announcing that they were published as an act of charity to benefit Mrs Clemm. She received no money, just six sets of the books. Griswold’s Memoir of the Author, published in 1850, became for many years the accepted biography. It contained all the old distortions and lies and added more.
AUTHOR’S NOTE: Rainer Nolz and “It Comes By Night” are inventions. Everything about Rufus Griswold has been checked for the truth.
THE BEST
SMALL COUNTRY
IN THE WORLD
Louise Welsh
HENRYK COULDN’T UNDERSTAND what the old man was trying to say to him.
“Are you all right, son?”
The man’s lips were pulled back into what might have been a grin, but his harsh tone matched the flint greyness of the world beneath the railway bridge.
“It’s just that you look a wee bit out of sorts, if you don’t mind me saying so.”
Henryk wanted to walk away. He hadn’t eaten since the night before and he was cold. Of course it was colder at home, but the Glasgow chill had a damp quality that had seeped through his trainers, stiffened his feet and crept into his bones.
He couldn’t go. If he left the spot now he might miss Tomasz, and there was still an outside chance that it had all been a misunderstanding and Jerzy might yet come back.
“You’ve been standing here for three hours now. It was the wife that spotted you and sent me down.”
Maybe the old man was asking for money. A dishevelled youth had approached Henryk an hour or so ago nursing a meagre hoard of coppers in a battered polystyrene cup. Henryk had scowled and the thin boy had shambled on. But now that he looked more closely this old man was too well dressed to be a beggar. Cleaner too, his white hair cut short under his tweed cap, a checked scarf tucked neatly into the neck of his padded jacket.
“You want to watch yoursel’ round here, son. There’s some would have the hide off you if you stop still for long.”
Henryk moved the old man’s hand from his arm and said the few words of English that he knew.
“No … no, thank you.”
Tomasz had been angry, more than angry – furious – but Henryk knew in his heart that he’d be back. All he had to do was wait and eventually he would see his friend striding his way through the pedestrians, still angry – Tomasz was often angry and this time the Virgin herself knew he had a right to be – but resigned to facing trouble together.
“You’ve no’ got a clue what I’m rabbiting on about, do you? DO … YOU … SPEAK … ENGLISH?”
Henryk shook his head and moved down the wall a little, but his persecutor’s attention had already shifted to an elderly lady in a red coat who was caught midway between the moving traffic. A black cab, like the ones Henryk had seen in movies, stopped to let her cross and she gave a cheery wave to the driver who shook his head resignedly then rolled on.
“Just you wait here a wee minute. That’s the wife coming. Now she’s seen you’re not a suicide bomber she’s keen to get her neb in.”
Jerzy’s face had invited trust. It was the kind of face used to advertise fresh mint chewing gum of the sort that didn’t interfere with your teeth, but whose sugar-freeness didn’t mean it wasn’t sweet. Henryk had warmed to Jerzy as soon as he had caught sight of him holding up the paper neatly printed with their names at the arrivals gate of Prestwick Airport.
“Look, Tomasz,” he’d said. “Our chauffeur awaits.”
But Tomasz had merely grunted and given Jerzy the sideways star
e he reserved for strangers. It was this look, a look which seemed to hold all their recent difficulties in its reproach, that had sent Henryk’s hand into his pocket for the envelope they had both agreed to hold on to until the last possible moment. He had handed it to Jerzy without a single question and so six months of scrimping and self-denial had slipped effortlessly into a stranger’s pocket. And with it went some of the glint in the toothpaste-slick smile.
“Okay,” Jerzy had said. “Come with me”.
And they’d had no choice but to follow.
“I don’t think he speaks any English, Jeanette.”
“Is that right?” The old lady looked at Henryk’s bag. The tag that had been attached at the airport in Wroclaw was still there. “Are you lost, son? Look, Tam, he’s just off some flight. Are you waiting on a pal?”
“Ach, maybe we shouldn’t be bothering him.”
“Of course we should be bothering him. Look at him, he’s almost greeting. How would you like it if it was Robert or Kirsty lost somewhere they didn’t speak the lingo? I am Scottish.” The old lady pointed at herself. “Where are you from?” She repeated the action. “Me Jeanette, me Scottish. You?”
And suddenly he understood what she wanted.
“Henryk. Polski.”
“Henryk, Polski.” She gave him a smile, then turned back to her husband. “He’s from Poland.”
“How d’you know?”
“You heard him. Polski.”
“That might be his second name. Plenty of folk are called after places. Clare English, Joan Sutherland, Ian Paisley.”
“Aye, and Miss Scotland. No, he’s Polish right enough. He has a look of that boy that works in Raj’s. You know the one? Cheery wee fella.”
“Aye, mibbe, except this one’s not looking very cheery.”
“No, he is not.”
Henryk had tried to keep his spirits up as Jerzy had driven them along stretches of motorway that had slowed almost to a standstill as they neared the city.
“It’s always this way,” Jerzy had said. “The first twenty miles fast, the last two slow.”
“The same at home.” Henryk had glanced at Tomasz, hoping he would join the conversation, but his friend’s eyes were closed, his head resting against the van window.
Of course it was harder for Tomasz. Henryk was leaving behind his home, his friends and his language, but he was unmarried, his mother still in good health. For him the trip held promises of adventure, the freedom to be himself. Tomasz was leaving behind a good job and years of training. Whatever the tensions at home, the move was always going to hit him harder.
The van drove up a slip road and suddenly the old city was all around them. Tomasz looked up. “Where are the hills and the heather?”
Jerzy laughed. “Not so far away. Maybe we’ll go to them at the weekend.”
Henryk had noticed Jerzy’s expression then and wondered what life here was really like. He had got an impression of cafés and restaurants, a blood-red tattoo parlour, the shining glass front of a theatre. Everything was different from home and yet, he comforted himself, the substance was the same.
“Okay.” Their driver pulled into a parking space. “Flat first. You can get washed, have a shave, something to eat and then we’ll go to the supermarket where you’ll be working.”
They’d unloaded their luggage and Jerzy had led the way. Henryk’s bag was heavy, and he was glad when Jerzy finally stopped outside one of the sandstone tenements that lined the street.
“Okay, here we are.”
Tomasz had glanced at the rows of names next to the entry buzzers.
“A lot of people live here.”
Jerzy was fumbling in his jacket pocket.
“It’s a workers’ district.”
“But no Poles?”
“Two Poles from today.” He took out a set of keys and swore softly. “Unbelievable. I took the wrong keys from the van. This is for a flat I’m taking people to this afternoon. I’ll have to go back and collect yours. Wait here, I won’t be long.”
He gave them the clean, even grin, and then jogged off in the direction of the van. It had been as quick and as casual as that.
Henryk wasn’t sure how long they’d stood there before the truth dawned, but he guessed that Tomasz had also clutched the knowledge of their betrayal wordlessly in his chest, still hoping that Jerzy would return, keys in hand, his smile shining.
“Hello, Jeanette, Tam.” An elderly woman laden with shopping bags greeted the couple.
“Oh, no, here we go.” The old man looked at Henryk. “You’ll soon be wishing we’d left you to your misery.”
“Is this your grandson? He’s a fine-looking fella, isn’t he?”
“Hello, Bella.” The first woman looked important. “No, this isn’t my grandson. Mind you met Robert? They’re the same height right enough, but Henryk doesn’t look anything like him, Robert’s much darker.”
“Oh, aye. So who’s this then?”
“We don’t know. He’s been standing here for almost three hours now. I noticed him when I went out to the shop. That was at eleven, and he was still here when I came back. Then we had a bite to eat and watched a bit of telly. When I went to do the washing up I could see him from the kitchen window. I said to Tam there’s something not quite right there and he came down to check on him.”
“And what does he say?”
“Nothing, not a peep, but you can see the way he is.”
The newcomer stared intently into Henryk’s face.
“He’s awfy glum-looking.” She reached into one of her bags, brought out a packet of biscuits, opened them and thrust them at Henryk. “Here, a Jaffa Cake can be very sustaining in a crisis.”
“Oh, for goodness sake.” The old man took a mobile phone out of his pocket and started to dial. “I should have done this at the off.”
Eventually Tomasz had pressed the door’s buzzers. His English was good and though he found the Scottish accents crackling down the entryphone hard to understand, it was clear no one was expecting them, and no one was about to welcome them in with an offer of a bed for the night.
The worst had happened. After all the exchanges of emails and promises, there were no jobs, no lodgings waiting for them in Glasgow. Jerzy had gone, taking their cash and their hopes with him, leaving the two men stranded.
Tomasz had given Henryk a look that was close to a curse.
“Why did I listen to you?”
He turned his back and walked quickly away.
Henryk followed. Men smoking outside pubs tailed them with their eyes and the stream of shoppers parted, giving the couple a wide berth.
“I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have given him our money.”
“Supermarket jobs and minimum wage! All just lies. I’m a teacher. What did you expect me to do here? Stack shelves? Collect trolleys?”
They had reached the railway bridge now. Henryk grabbed his friend by the shoulder. Some youths in football strips ooohed at them as they passed.
“Kiss and make up!” one of them shouted and his friends laughed.
Henryk ignored the taunts.
“They weren’t going to let you teach any more.”
Tomasz pushed him away.
“And whose fault was that?”
He turned and ran, leaving Henryk standing beneath the bridge.
The old people were talking amongst themselves. The woman with the biscuits said, “Are you sure he’s no’ up to something? He could be casing a joint.”
Her friend laughed. “Away with you, he’s just a wee, lost boy.”
“A wee, lost Polish boy come to take our jobs.” The woman popped a biscuit into her mouth. “My Davie says there’s too many of them. Sounds like Gdansk round here some days.”
“Your Davie says more than his prayers. They’re hard workers, the Poles. My mother said the Polish airmen were always the smartest dressed during the War. All the lassies wanted to dance with them. Them or the Yanks.”
Old Tam harrumphed.<
br />
“Aye, your father came back from North Africa to find your house bombed out and your ma with a whole new set of dance moves. Mind, they had a terrible time of it during the War, the Poles … ”
Their voices drifted into the grumble of passing traffic. Henryk forgot them. Tomasz was coming towards him, flanked by two policeman. The old man looked up. “That was quick. I only called youse a minute ago. We’re a wee bit concerned about this lad here.”
One of the policeman took out his notebook and asked Tomasz, “Is this the man who robbed you?”
“No.” Tomasz managed a smile. “We came here together. We are together.” He squeezed Henryk’s shoulder and said in their own language, “I’m sorry.”
Henryk clasped Tomasz in a brief hug. However hard things were, they would be all right now.
The policeman looked from one to the other, his eyes wary. He nodded, then turned away and said to his partner in a low voice, “Just a couple of poofs having a domestic.”
Henryk saw Tomasz flinch. He wondered what the policeman had said and how long it would take him, Henryk, to learn English properly. How long before he understood everything.
MR BO
Liza Cody
MY SON NATHAN doesn’t believe in God, Allah, Buddha, Kali, the Great Spider Mother or the Baby Jesus. But, he believes passionately in Superman, Spider-Man, Batman, Wolverine and, come December, Santa Claus. How he works this out – bearing in mind that they all have super powers – I don’t know. Maybe he thinks the second lot wears hotter costumes. Or drives cooler vehicles, or brings better presents. Can I second guess my nine-year-old? Not a snowball’s hope in Hades.
Nathan is as much a mystery to me as his father was, and as my father was before that. And who knows where they both are now? But if there’s one thing I can congratulate myself on, it’s that I didn’t saddle my son with a stepfather. No strange man’s going to teach my boy to “dance for daddy”. Not while there’s a warm breath left in my body.
The Mammoth Book Of Best British Crime Volume 8 Page 49
