More Tomorrow: And Other Stories

by Michael Marshall Smith

  Suddenly the man swept the till shut and took an unexpected step towards me, until he was right up against the bar. Taken aback, I just stared at him, and he looked me up and down as if I was a stretch of old and dusty wallpaper.

  ‘Do you have anything we could drink?’ I asked, finally. He frowned slightly, and then his face went blank again.

  ‘Is there a place round here we can buy food?’ Susan asked. She sounded halfway to angry, which meant she was very frightened indeed.

  The man stared at me for a moment more, and then raised his right arm. I flinched slightly, but all he was doing, it transpired, was pointing. Arm outstretched, still looking at me, he was pointing in the opposite direction to the door. And thus, I could only assume, in the direction of somewhere we could buy some food.

  ‘Thanks,’ I said. ‘Thank you.’ Susan slid off her stool and preceded me to the door. I felt the back of my neck tickle all of the way there, as if I was frightened that something might suddenly crash into it. Nothing did, and Susan opened the door and stepped out. I followed her, and turned to pull the door shut. The man was still standing, arm outstretched, but his face had turned to watch us go, his eyes on Susan. Something about the way the light fell, or about the strangeness of his behaviour, made me think that there might be something else about his face, something I hadn’t really noticed before. I couldn’t put my finger on what it might be.

  When I stepped out onto the pavement the first thing I saw was that it had started to rain a little harder, a narrow slant of drizzle which showed in front of the few and dingy streetlights. The second thing was Susan, who was standing awkwardly, her body turned out towards the street, head and shoulders faced to me. She was staring upwards, and her mouth was slightly open.

  ‘What?’ I said, a little sharply. I wasn’t irritated, just rather spooked. She didn’t say anything. I took a step towards her and turned to see.

  I never really notice pub signs. Most of the time I go to pubs I know, and so they’re of no interest to me. On other occasions I just, well, I just fail to notice them. They’re too high up, somehow, and not terribly interesting. So I hadn’t noticed the one hanging outside this pub either, before we went in. I did now.

  The sign was old and battered, the surrounding wood stained dark. A tattered and murky painting showed a clumsily rendered ship in the process of sinking beneath furiously slashing waves. Below there was a name. The pub was called The Aldwinkle.

  Ten o’clock found us pushing plates away, lighting cigarettes, and generally feeling a little better. With nothing to go on apart from the publican’s scarcely effusive directions, we’d wandered along the front for a while, coats wrapped tight around us and saying little. We were in danger of running out of front and considering turning back when we came upon a small house in which a light was glowing. The window had been enlarged almost the full width of the house, and inside we could see a few tables laid out. All the tables were empty.

  We stood outside for a moment, wondering whether we could face any more of Dawton’s version of hospitality, when a young man crossed the back of the room. He was tidily dressed as a waiter, and failed, at that distance, to give us any obvious reason for disquiet. His whole demeanor, even through glass, was so different to that which we had encountered so far that we elected to shoulder our misgivings and go in.

  The waiter greeted us cordially and sat us, and the tension which, I realised belatedly, had been growing within us since the afternoon abated slightly. The young man was also the proprietor and cook, it transpired, and was moreover from out of town. He told us this when we observed, quite early into the meal, that he didn’t seem like the other villagers we’d met. Soon afterwards the main course arrived and he disappeared into the kitchen to leave us to it.

  We drank quite a lot during the meal. As soon as we sat down we knew we were going to, and ordered two bottles of wine to save time. We hadn’t spoken much during the walk, not because we didn’t feel there was much to say, but almost as if there was too much. Susan hadn’t looked out over the sea, either, though there was once or twice when I thought she might be about to.

  ‘Why would they call a pub that?’

  Susan was still trembling slightly when she finally asked. Not a great deal, because it would take a lot to unseat her that much. But her hands are normally very steady, and I could see her fork wavering slightly as she waited for me to answer. I’d had time to think about it, to come up with what I hoped was a reasonable suggestion.

  ‘I guess because it’s the most interesting thing which ever happened here.’

  Susan looked at me and shook her head firmly, before putting another fork of the really quite passable lamb into her mouth. We’d looked for fish on the menu initially, assuming it would be the speciality of the house as in all small coastal towns, and were surprised to find not a single dish available. I’d asked the waiter about it, but he’d simply smiled vaguely and shaken his head.

  ‘No,’ she said, finally. ‘That’s not the reason.’

  I opened my mouth to press my claim, and then shut it again. I didn’t believe it either. Perhaps it was just because of the behaviour of the publican, or the overall atmosphere of the town. Maybe it was just the colour of the sky, or the way the rain angled as it fell, but somehow I just didn’t quite believe that there wasn’t more to the pub’s name than a simple remembrance. There’d been something about the painting, some aspect of its style or colours, which hinted at something else, some more confused or inexplicable element. To name a pub after a ship that sank in—possibly—dubious circumstances, and to put that ship’s name up on a sign with a painting that seemed almost to have some intangible air of celebration about it, hardly seemed like amiable quaintness.

  But such speculations weren’t what we were here for, and I saw my job as being that of steering Susan away from them. Although there was something a little strange about the whole thing, it didn’t mean that the villagers had tried to cause harm to the passengers of the Aldwinkle thirty-odd years ago. It simply didn’t make sense: what could possibly have been in it for them? Either way I didn’t want the weekend to compound Susan’s suspicions. Her mother’s blatherings had left her with more than enough distrust of the human race. We’d come here to try to undermine that, not provide documentary evidence to support it.

  So I steered the conversation away from the sign, and focused on the publican. There was enough material for speculation and vitriol there to keep us going to the other side of desert, by which time we were more than a little drunk and rambling. By the time the waiter came through with our coffees I thought Susan had left more disturbing thoughts behind.

  I was wrong. As he stood at the end of the table she turned on him.

  ‘What do you know about the Aldwinkle?’ she said, challengingly. The waiter’s hand paused for a moment as he laid the milk jug down. Or maybe it didn’t. Maybe I imagined it.

  ‘It’s a pub,’ he said. Susan tried again, but that was all he would say. As he’d observed, he was from out of town and only came to Dawton to work. He sat at an adjoining table as we finished our second bottle of wine, and we chatted a little. Business wasn’t going well, it would seem, and we’d made it to the restaurant just in time. Within a few weeks he suspected that he would probably have to give up. There simply wasn’t the custom, and we’d been his only patrons that evening.

  We enquired as to what the locals did of an evening. He didn’t know. As we talked I began to sense an air of unease about him, as if he would prefer to discuss something other than the town and its inhabitants. Probably simply paranoia on my part. I was starting to realise that we were going to have to leave this haven, and return to our room. The thought did not fill me with glee.

  In the end we paid, bid him goodnight, and stepped out onto the front. The first thing that struck me was the realisation that I was extremely drunk. I tend to drink just about everything as I would beer, that is in the same sort of quantity. This approach doesn’t work too well w
ith wine. I’d probably had the better part of two bottles, and suddenly, as we stood swaying in the wind that whipped down the soulless stretch of the front, it felt like it.

  Susan was a little the worse for wear too, and we stumbled in unison as we stepped off the curb to walk across the road to the front. Susan slipped her hand underneath my coat and looped her arm around my back and, not saying anything, we stepped up onto the ragged pavement on the other side of the road.

  It was late now, but a sallow moon spread enough light for us to see what lay in front of us. Beyond the low wall a ramp of decaying concrete sloped down to the shore. The shore appeared to consist of puddled mudflats, and stretched at least a hundred yards out to where still water the colour of slate took over. In the distance we could just hear the sound of small waves, like two hands slowly rubbed together.

  ‘Tide’s out,’ I observed sagely, except that it came out more like ‘tie shout’. I opened my eyes wide for a moment, blinked, and then fumbled in my pockets for a cigarette.

  ‘Mn,’ Susan replied, not really looking. She was gazing vaguely at the wall in front of us, for some reason not letting her eyes reach any higher. She shook her head when I offered her a smoke, which was unusual. I put a hand on the cold surface of the wall, for something to lean against, and looked back out at the sea.

  When I was a kid my family often used to go on holiday to St Augustine. Actually the place where we stayed was just outside, a little further down Crescent Beach in the direction of, but thankfully a good ways from, Daytona Beach. I remember standing on the unspoiled beach as a child, probably no more than five or six, and slowly turning to look out at the sea from different angles, and I remember thinking that you can’t ever really stand still when you’re looking at the sea. There’s nowhere you can stand and think ‘Yep, that’s the view’, because there’s always more of it on either side.

  In Dawton it was different. There was only one way you could see it. Perhaps it was because of the curve of the bay, or maybe it was something else. Your eye was drawn outwards, as if there was only one way you could see the view, only one thing you could see.

  Suddenly Susan’s arm was removed and she took a step forwards. Without looking at me she grabbed the wall purposefully with both hands and started to hoist herself over it.

  ‘What’re you doing?’ I demanded, stifling a hiccup.

  ‘Going to see the sea.’

  ‘But,’ I started, and then wearily reached out to follow her. Obviously the time had come for Susan to do her staring out across the water. The best I could do was tag along, and be there if she wanted to talk.

  The concrete ramp was wet and quite steep, and Susan almost lost her footing on the way down. I grabbed her shoulder and she regained her balance, but she didn’t say anything in thanks. She hadn’t really said anything to me since we’d left the restaurant. Her tone when telling me where she was going had been distant, almost irritable, as if she was annoyed at having to account for her actions. I tried not to take it personally.

  When we got to the bottom of the ramp I stopped, swaying slightly. I peered owlishly at the stinking mud in front of us. Clearly, I thought, this was where the expedition ended. Susan felt otherwise. She stepped out onto the mud and started striding with as much determination as the ground and her inebriation would allow. I stared after her, feeling suddenly adrift. She didn’t seem herself, and I was afraid of something, of being left behind. Wincing, I put a tentative foot onto the mud and then hurried after her as best I could.

  We walked a long way. The mud came in waves. For twenty yards it would be quite hard, and relatively dry, and then it would suddenly change and turn darker and wetter until, to be honest, it was like wading through shit. The first time this happened I tried to find dryer patches, to protect my shoes, but in the end I gave up. It was as much as I could do to keep up with Susan, who was striding head down towards the sea.

  I glanced back at one point, and saw how far we’d come. When we’d stood on the front I’d thought the sea was a hundred yards or so away, but it must have been much further. I couldn’t see any lights in the houses on the front, or any of the streetlights. For an awful moment I thought that something must have happened, that everyone had turned their lights off so we wouldn’t be able to find our way back. I turned to shout to Susan but she was too far ahead to hear. Either that, or she ignored me. After another quick glance back I ran to catch up with her.

  She was still walking, but her head was up and her movements were jerky and stilted. When I drew level with her I saw that she was crying.

  ‘Susan,’ I said. ‘Stop.’ She walked on for a few more yards, tailing off, and then stopped. I put my hands on her shoulders and she held herself rigid for a moment, but then allowed herself to be folded into me. Her hair was cold against my face as we stood, surrounded by mud in every direction.

  ‘What is it?’ I said eventually. She sniffed.

  ‘I want to see the sea.’

  I raised my head and looked. The sea appeared as far away as it had when we’d been standing on the front.

  ‘The tide must still be going out,’ I said. I’m not sure if I believed it. Susan certainly didn’t.

  ‘It’s not letting me,’ she said, indistinctly. ‘And I don’t know why.’

  I didn’t know what to say to that, and just stared out at the water. I wondered how much further it was before the bay deepened, how much further to the crop of rocks where the Aldwinkle presumably still lay.

  In the end we turned and walked back, Susan allowing me to keep my hand around her shoulders. She seemed worn out. I was beginning to develop a headache, while still feeling rather drunk. When we got back to the ramp we climbed halfway up it and then sat down for a cigarette. My shoes, I noticed belatedly, were ruined, caked about a centimetre thick in claggy mud. I took them off and set them to one side.

  ‘This weekend isn’t going quite as I thought it would,’ I said, eventually.

  ‘No.’ I couldn’t tell from Susan’s tone whether she thought this was a good or a bad thing.

  We looked out at the water a while in silence. Now we were back it looked little more than a hundred yards away, two hundred at the most. It couldn’t have moved. We simply can’t have walked as far as we’d thought we had, which is odd, because it had felt like we’d walked forever.

  ‘How are you feeling?’ I asked.

  ‘It’s out there somewhere,’ she said. I nodded. It wasn’t a direct reply, but in another sense I guess it was.

  ‘Was it the sea you wanted to see?’ I ventured.

  ‘I don’t know,’ she said, and her head dropped.

  A little later we stood up. I decided to leave my shoes where they were. They’re weren’t an especially nice pair, and it seemed less troublesome to leave them there than to find some way of taking them home in their current state and then cleaning them. On a different evening, in a different mood, leaving them might have felt like a gesture of some kind, something wild and devil-may-care. Instead I just felt a little confused and sad, vulnerable and exposed.

  Susan warmed up a little on the walk back along the front, enlivened slightly by a stream of weak jokes from me. After a while I felt her cold hand seek out mine, and I grasped it and did my best to warm it up. The village we passed in front of seemed to have died utterly during the course of the evening. The streets were silent and not a single light showed in any of the windows. It was like walking beside a photograph of a ghost town.

  Until we got closer to our guest house, that is. From a way off we could see that all the lights seemed to be on, though dimly, and as we approached we began to hear the sound of car doors slamming carried on the quiet air. About fifty yards away we stopped.

  The street outside the house, which had been empty when we’d arrived, was now lined both sides with cars. The lights were on, on all three floors. They looked dim because in each window a shade was pulled down. The other guests had evidently arrived.

  As we looked, someo
ne moved behind one of the upper windows. The angle of the light behind him or her cast a grotesquely shaped shadow on the blind, and I found myself shivering for no evident reason. Quietly, and to myself, I wished that we were staying somewhere else. Like London.

  I was fumbling for our key on the doorstep when suddenly the door was pulled wide. Warm yellow light spilled out of the hallway and Susan and I looked up, blinking, to see the old lady proprietor standing in front of us. My first befuddled thought was that we must have transgressed some curfew and she was about to berate us for being late.

  Far from it. The old crone’s manner was bizarrely improved, and she greeted us with strange and twittering warmth before ushering us into the hallway. Once there she steered us into the sitting room before we’d even had time to draw breath, though we had no desire to go there. Susan entered the room first and glanced back at me. I opened my eyes wide to signal my bafflement. Susan shrugged, and we seemed to mutually decide that it would be easier to go along with it. The old woman flapped us towards some chairs in the centre of the room and offered us a cup of tea. My first impulse was to refuse—I was beginning to sag rather by then—but then I remembered that our room didn’t have so much as a kettle, and accepted. The woman clapped her hands together in apparent delight, and out of the corner of my eye I saw Susan glancing at me again. There was nothing I could tell her. None of it was making any sense to me either, and as soon as the woman left the room I turned to Susan and said so. I also observed that there seemed to be something gaudy and strange about the old woman. She looked different.

  ‘She’s wearing makeup,’ she said. ‘And that dress?’

  The dress, made of some dark green material, was certainly not to my taste, and the makeup had been hastily applied, but it clearly spoke of some effort being made. Presumably it was the new guests, whoever they might be, who merited such a transformation. We looked round the room, feeling slightly ill at ease. On the table to one side of me I noticed something.