Antique Dust

by Robert Westall

  ‘Mr Watson was going to let us have it cheap. For the church.’

  Wilbraham looked at me as he’d looked at the clock. ‘I’m sure he was. You will oblige me, Mr Watson, by taking this clock away from the Deanery as soon as possible, and yourself with it.’

  Full of sinking dread, I stepped up and took hold of the clock. It seemed impossibly heavy as I tried to lift it.

  Next thing I knew, I was lying in the fireplace among the fire-irons, and Eagle was splashing water on my face so liberally I thought I was drowning.

  ‘He’s a sick man, Mike! We gotta help him!’

  ‘Sorry about this,’ I said weakly, trying to get up. ‘I was in too much of a hurry to have any breakfast, and I forgot to have lunch.’ But the world kept going dark, and I couldn’t get up. I just lay there, listening to the battle going on above my head.

  ‘Where in God’s name do you find these people, Eagle? Do you have to bring them here?’

  ‘Yes, I do.’ Eagle was suddenly defiant. ‘Like you said, in God’s name. I’m not turning away people in need. What’s the point in having a church if you do that? How can this poor fellow drive, in this condition?’

  ‘All right – one night. He can stay here tonight. See to him yourself. And see he’s gone by the morning.’

  Gently, tenderly, Eagle helped me up the worn-carpeted stairs. I sat in an armchair while he made up a huge feather-bed, whistling to himself now he’d found some good to do. He even helped me off with my shoes and trousers. I was afraid he mightn’t even leave me my shirt.

  ‘Now you lie there peaceful, while I get us something to eat.’

  I lay staring at the high, bare room; there was a dark patch of wallpaper over my head where a picture had recently hung.

  When Eagle, still whistling, brought up the laden tray of supper, there was a small picture lying between two plates of steaming bacon and beans. He hung it back in its place above my head.

  It was the photograph of the Very Reverend P. S. Mel­merby . . .

  She was there again; the warm little body snuggling in under my armpit. For some reason I was quite unable to move, except my head. I looked upwards; the Reverend P. S. Melmerby glowered down. He looked even madder upside-down.

  But what light was I seeing him by?

  I glanced across at the black marble wash-stand.

  There was a lighted candle, in an old brass candlestick.

  And by its light, the Reverend P. S. Melmerby knelt in prayer; bearded as an Assyrian, in a voluminous white nightshirt.

  He took not the slightest notice of me; gabbled into his hands, like a man in the last stages of desperation. He sweated great drops of sweat, wept, implored his God, tore at his long, greasy, slightly curling locks and beat his great beefy hands, still clenched together, against the cruel edge of the black marble wash-stand. Then he was off his knees and pacing. Then down to prayer again, without hope.

  I seemed to watch him for ever. Terrified though I was, I felt sorry for him. He became if anything increasingly desperate. He looked at a watch that hung from the pocket of his dark day-clothes, draped hugely over a chair. He looked often across to the bed; but whatever he saw, he didn’t see me.

  Then, down in the hall, the Dean’s clock began to chime. Together the kneeling figure and I counted the strokes; he with tiny nods of his great greasy head.

  Eleven, twelve, thirteen . . .

  Then, with a huge sigh drawn from the bottom of his lungs, the Reverend P. S. Melmerby arose and walked across to his bed; starting to lift his nightshirt and disclosing great tree-trunk knotted legs, he climbed on to the bed.

  The whirling whiteness of his nightshirt covered my face, and I passed out.

  ‘How are we this morning?’ asked Eagle, splitting his white grin over a fine-smelling tray of bacon and eggs. And yet . . . that grin did not have its usual brilliance. There was something a little forced, a little guilty about it. Like he was covering something up. ‘How did you sleep?’

  ‘I had nightmares.’

  He wiped the side of his face ruefully; his grin was now smaller but a lot more real. ‘It was quite a night for dreaming, wasn’t it?’

  ‘You too?’

  ‘I haven’t dreamed dreams like that since I got ordained. I was back in Barbados being a bad, bad boy. I lived a bad life, Mr Watson, before I became an altar-boy at the cathedral and gave my life to God. After last night’s dreaming, I’m wondering if the Lord hasn’t said to me, “Eagle, take your rotten old life back – I don’t want it no more.” ’ He rubbed his gleaming blue-black hair and whistled. ‘What were your dreams, Mr Watson? Or shouldn’t I ask?’

  ‘Clergymen. Clergymen getting into bed in long white nightshirts.’

  ‘You’ve been looking at our friend up there too much.’ He glanced at the photograph.

  ‘Oh, it wasn’t just him. There were several more. A little guy with a bald head and long white hair. He had rather a sweet smile; a simple soul. But there was one real nasty piece of work, with cropped ginger hair under a wig. He put it on a wig-stand by the bed.’

  Eagle leapt to his feet, the glint of scholarship again in his eye. ‘Hang on, hang on. That’s just incredible.’ He swirled out of the door, and swirled back equally abruptly.

  ‘Were they any of these?’ He had an armful of small framed pictures which he dealt out all over the bedcover, like a pack of cards.

  Some were faded photographs, some faded pencil-­drawings. I scanned them, and picked out two, like I was going through mug-shots of criminals at the police station.

  ‘The Very Reverend George Tait, 1871-1901. He was a real sweety . . . did great things for the poor children, but he never married and had children himself.’ His face lit up; then darkened as I handed him the second picture. ‘He looks mean. The Very Reverend Gregorious Halloran, 1785-1802. Started off as a curate at West Wycombe. Not a man of God. Lots of funny stories – found dead in his chair, one New Year’s Eve. They said he died of a stroke, but I have my doubts. Paah!’ He threw down the picture, as if it had suddenly turned slimy. ‘Well, isn’t that strange? You picking them out like that. I wonder if I should mention it in my book?’

  ‘Better not.’ I shook my head at him. ‘I doubt the Dean would like it. You’ve annoyed him enough about that clock.’

  ‘Been looking at that clock. It’s real evil. Feels bad. Bad as fetishes I’ve seen on Haiti. I tried to pick Mike’s brains about it over breakfast, but he isn’t saying anything, except get rid of that clock quick. I’m sorry. Eat up your breakfast.’

  He came to the car with me, swinging the car door to and fro, thoughtfully. ‘If there’s anything else I can do.’

  ‘Eagle, you’ve done plenty. You’ve been great.’

  ‘I hate to leave you like this.’ He glowered blackly at the clock. ‘Tell you what – here’s my phone number. Any time you need me . . .’

  ‘Thanks, Eagle.’ I put his beautifully engraved clergyman’s calling-card in my top pocket – along with the folded hymn list. And drove away.

  I got back to the shop, and a rush of business. Letters, slips of paper pushed under the door, asking me to phone people. Dealers rang up, demanding, it seemed, just the very things I had to sell. And not only offering to meet my price, but offering more than I would’ve asked. It was suddenly a seller’s market. They stripped my shop bare; I was down to those silent ranks of black marble, and I even had tempting offers for those.

  I didn’t have time to do anything about the Dean’s clock, which was sitting in my car. Several times I thought of having it in, to try and get rid of it quick on this seller’s market. But I swear there was never time.

  So when I closed up it was already dark, and I was feeling very much the Big Wheel of the antiques world. If things went on this way, I’d soon be very rich indeed.

  I locked up and poured myself the first drink of the evening, too tired to cook myself anything to eat. And again, I thought of the Dean’s clock. It was too vulnerable, sitting out there in
the car by the front door. Anyone could nick it; kids might steal the car for a joy-ride. I’d better get the clock in to safety.

  And then I shuddered, and thought, no way. Let it sit out there all night. If it’s stolen, I can make a good profit on the insurance . . . several thousand quid. Plenty of people could vouch it had been Georgian. And it couldn’t do me any harm, outside the house. I’d proved that.

  I walked to the Alvanley Arms for a meal, and a few drinks to celebrate. As I said, I walked to the Alvanley Arms, even though it was a mile away, and it was pouring with rain. I could no more have driven the car with that clock on the back seat than fly.

  Coming home again, I tiptoed past that darkened car like there was a person inside. That should have warned me it was later than I thought.

  In the world that clock came from, it’s always later than you think.

  I wakened to the sound of dripping water; echoing in stony places underground.

  Oh, God, I thought, not again. Please not again. It’s not fair. The clock’s in the car outside. It’s not in the house.

  The echoing and dripping did not listen to my arguments. I tried to reach over and put my bedside light on, but I couldn’t move. All the fight was drained out of me, and not just with lack of sleep and too much drink and food. I went without sleep and food for days in Burma . . .

  I could only wait.

  Female giggles, the swishing of robes against soft skin.

  Then shouting; arrogant male shouting.

  Then the bed moved; and the warm and trembling thing snuggled in, sending its terror into me. And all I could do was lie there.

  Then, I must have opened my eyes. A white cowled figure, nothing but cloth, stood astride me. With a slow gesture, he lifted up his robe and displayed . . .

  With all my strength I kicked out.

  It didn’t scream; it gurgled. It gargled and gasped for breath and fell off the bed with a thud and lay gurgling and gargling and gasping in the corner. I knew it was dying; I’ve heard men die; but it took a very long time. It kept on trying to crawl towards the door.

  Then my phone was ringing, hauling me out of the horror like a flung rope. I grabbed for it in the dark.

  ‘Mr Watson?’

  ‘Who’s that?’

  ‘Eagle. You OK? You sound rough.’

  ‘I’m OK.’

  ‘You sure? I’d come out to you, if I could. But I can’t drive – I’ve got no licence.’

  ‘What’s worrying you, Eagle?’ I looked at my watch; it was well gone midnight.

  ‘I’ve been doing some research since you left. On that clock. In our old records. I found an inventory of Gregorious Halloran’s worldly goods, made for the Church Commissioners in 1802 after he was found dead. The clock was his. He must have brought it to the house – the other Deans just inherited it. You know, the nasty guy with the cropped red hair – he must have brought it from West Wycombe.’

  ‘What’s so bloody marvellous about West Wycombe?’

  ‘Don’t you know? The Hellfire Club? Sir Francis Dashwood? Cabinet ministers they were, and so corrupt they make Aleister Crowley look like a Girl Guide. I think Dashwood had your clock made for the Hellfire Caves, where it all went on.’

  ‘Caves . . . wet, dripping caves?’

  ‘How’d you know? You been there?’

  ‘I can hear the water dripping; the house is full of it.’

  ‘Jes-as. I’m getting my clothes on. I’m coming to you, if I have to walk.’

  ‘But Eagle, it’s twenty-four miles!’

  ‘I’m on my way!’

  ‘No – wait!’

  ‘Yeah?’

  ‘Just wait there, while I put the light on and check.’

  ‘Check what?’

  ‘That there’s nothing . . . here.’

  ‘What’ll you do if there is?’

  ‘Scream blue murder.’

  We managed some sort of laugh, between us. I switched on the light. Where I had heard a man crawl and die, there was just a rather nice Edwardian towel-rail, and a stretch of grubby wall-to-wall carpet.

  ‘OK, Eagle. I’m OK.’

  ‘I’m starting now. Wish me luck.’

  It came out of the blue. I was still sitting up in bed, with the light on, and the dead phone still in my hand. I was staring at my legs under the bedclothes and thinking, rather stupidly, ‘How could I have kicked that . . . thing, when my legs were in bed all the time?’ Then I looked up, and they were in the room. Five of them, and they brought the darkness with them. One still wore a robe, with the hood thrown back, revealing a muscular neck. The others were naked and powerful and hairy. The heaviest-built one was going bald.

  ‘Here she is,’ said one, looking at me.

  ‘She’s done for Ormandby,’ said another. He had a snub nose, a round brow below his cropped hair, and womanish curling lips. I never saw any living creature I liked less.

  ‘Steady, Frank,’ said a third. ‘She may have a family.’

  ‘She has no family. Charlotte says she’s an orphan, and the girls will be paid to keep their mouths well shut. No whore kills a Franciscan and gets away with it.’

  And all the time the invisible female thing clung to me in terror; blended into me, closer than my own body.

  ‘Finish her,’ said the one called Frank. He was sweating all over; his mouth hung open, displaying gold in his lower teeth.

  And then they went to work on me. I’m not fooling you, Ashden, when I say that I went through what no living man has ever suffered, and I hope few women. I did not think it was possible to suffer so much, and continue to feel. And at last I felt death tear my body and mind apart, and it was a blessed darkness and silence. And I was changed and will never be the same man again.

  But, at the end of it all, there I was, sitting up in my own bed, with the dead telephone still in my hand. I remember feeling myself all over, moving my arms and legs one by one, wriggling my soul round inside my skull and amazed I still existed, physically untouched.

  And the dripping was gone, and the echoes were gone, and somehow all my fear was gone. The worst had happened, and I was still here. So gone was my fear that I put out the light, and lay back. Totally shattered; but relaxed. And immediately, that female thing was lying against me; relaxed, trusting, asleep. It murmured, just as any sleeping woman will murmur.

  ‘What is your name?’ I asked. I’d read that somewhere, once. That you must always ask a strange spirit its name. Like Christ asked the Devil in the Bible, and its name was Legion.

  The voice, when it came . . . it was like only one thing I’d ever known. The time I bought up the old church-clock at Addeston. It hadn’t gone for donkeys’ years – but when we started to take it apart, in the darkness of the tower, putting oil on the screws to loosen them, it chimed for the last time. A great creaking, a thin ghostly screeching, whirring, and then, faintly, the clock spoke.

  ‘My . . . name . . . is Susannah . . . sir. I . . . am . . . a . . . good girl. I . . . did . . . not . . . mean . . . to go . . . to Mistress Charlotte’s house . . . but she . . . offered a bed . . . and I had no money . . . sir. She . . . said . . . it would be nothing . . . to affright a young maid . . . sir . . . just a few . . . gentlemen . . . and singing . . . and dancing . . . and lots to eat . . . and rowing on the river in boats, sir . . . I didn’t mean . . . the . . . gentleman no harm . . . sir . . . I was afrit o’ what . . . he was agoing to do . . . to me. I didn’t intend no harm . . . when I kicked him . . . there . . . sir.’

  ‘And so they killed you?’ I said, in a creaky whisper to match her own.

  ‘Aye . . . sir . . . as the clock was chiming, sir . . . and I was afrit to go to . . . my Saviour, sir . . . because . . . I’d killed a man . . . and I was afraid of hell, sir . . . so I went an’ hid in the clock . . . sir . . . I remember thinking . . . it was like a little house . . . where time itself lived. And I’ve lived there . . . ever since . . . sir.’

  ‘And are the ones in this house . . . the other girl
s . . . the men who killed you?’

  ‘No . . . sir . . . they be . . . just my memories . . . sir . . . what I can’t help thinking of . . . sir. There’s only me . . . sir. Will you . . . protect me, sir? I will . . . be good to you . . .’

  ‘Like you were good . . . to all the old priests who came after?’

  ‘Aye, sir. I was very . . . good and faithful, sir . . . to most of them . . . ’cept that Halloran, sir . . . he were a devil, and the Devil took him . . . They were not displeased with I . . . most of them . . .’

  ‘Didn’t they ever tell you you could be forgiven . . . that you could go on . . . to heaven, without fear?’

  ‘No . . . sir . . . they never told me that . . . not in all the years . . . Could I, sir?’

  ‘I’m sure you could.’

  ‘They told I . . . I must stay in their beds, sir . . . or I’d go to hell, sir. If it be all right . . . could I stay with you, sir . . . an’ go on to heaven when you go, sir? Then it won’t . . . be lonely, sir.’ She snuggled in tight; she was very warm and loving.

  ‘You feel so real . . . how do you do that?’

  ‘I touch . . . your mind . . . sir. Nobody else could feel or hear me, sir, if they was here. Only you, sir. If you like . . . I can touch your eyes . . . so you can see me too, sir.’

  ‘As you were before they killed you . . . or after?’ I repressed a shudder.

  ‘Oh, before, sir . . . for you . . . they did tell me I was pretty . . . back home. I only showed myself . . . as I was after I was killed . . . to Halloran, sir. ’Cos of what he did to me . . . ’

  We spent a happy night, Ashden . . . the happiest in my life, till Eagle came hammering on my door at six in the morning. I’m sorry about Eagle, but I could never have made him understand. We had harsh words, and parted bad friends.

  Well, what do you say about the little present you gave me now, Ashden? You’ve made me happy, and you’ve made me prosper, so I owe you something. That’s why I’ve told the manager to give you a good discount on anything in the shop.

  ‘You’re insane,’ I shouted at him. But when I looked up, he was no longer in the room. And, not having heard him go, I began to wonder again if he’d been a ghost. But being a realistic man, I went to have a talk to Ponsonby, the manager.