0513485001343534196 christopher fowler (24 page)

'Nobody's coming,' he concluded finally. 'Look at the time. It's gone half past now.'

'Perhaps the weather has set them back.' Ann put down her book.

'Pacing about isn't going to help. If someone's coming up from London, the traffic's probably bad on the motorway.'

At five o'clock he could stand it no longer. The house felt small and suffocating. He had to go outside, to look down on the town and see for himself. He pulled his old gaberdine raincoat and boots from the cupboard under the stairs. Boots, the Labrador, leapt to his feet.

'Where do you think you're going?' Ann asked wearily. 'What do I do if they turn up before you get back?'

'How do I know?' he snapped. 'I need to go out for a while. Take Boots for his walk.' He snapped a lead on to the panting dog.

'But it's raining.'

'I just need to - see for myself.' He opened the front door and looked back at her, seated calmly in the armchair with a book in her lap, a frown of concern creasing her forehead. 'It's to do with fate. It can't be helped.'

She did not answer.

'Well, goodbye, then,' he said.

'I love you very much, Gary.' She gave him a gentle smile, and watched as he went out into the night.

He had not meant to alarm her. Of course it was fate, like meeting a woman or becoming ill. The dog pulled him across the rising moor, the wild wind buffeting his back. The sky was a roaring black morass now, sparked by distant cracks of lightning. As they neared the dark woodland at the hill's brow, the sound of thrashing leaves drowned out any other.

But then there was another noise, the shrieking howls of icy air sucked through branches that sounded like a psychotic raging choir.

He reached the edge of the wood and slipped Boots from his lead, but the Labrador ran off fast and hard in the opposite direction. In moments he was lost from sight in the flailing grass.

When Gary looked over at the trees he saw something shifting back and forth, as if trying to free itself from the foliage. He stared harder. It was moving toward him, an immense black shape wavering between the oaks. It was almost as tall as the trees themselves, but hunched over, like a man searching for something beneath a table. When it raised its great head against the sky, above the treetops, he gasped. It had a face, not human at all but with small eyes set far apart, reflecting the night like an animal. It was hunting him, sensing him, unsure of its direction, and then it had his scent and was crashing through the undergrowth toward him, uprooting bushes in showers of earth and shoving aside great trunks, splintering them in its fury.

Gary turned and began to run then, back through the slippery wet grass until - as he knew he would - he stumbled and pitched over, and the great roaring darkness of the Fallen One's shadow swept across him like a cloak, and the satanic stink of his pursuer burned deep within his throat.

The wind dropped as it drew back for a moment, the better to build its strength.

Then it blasted down and roared through him, smashing his ribcage into pieces, shredding and pounding with such force that parts of him were buried deep in the hillside, and other parts, whipped dry of blood, were tumbled away across the moor so that his obliterated body looked like the remains of an air crash victim. His skull was separated so completely that it later proved impossible to identify his remains. His bones and teeth were split and ground into a pulpy dust that turned to mud and was washed away by the thundering torrent. He was there and then gone, like a bolt of summer lightning, a swatted mayfly, a sunray caught in the painted saints gracing a church window, and like all of those, it mattered not that he had been there at all.

Ann found the Labrador shivering and crying on the moor, loping in uncertain circles. She saw no sign of her lover in the turbulent fields, and knew instinctively that only her memories of him now survived. The dog cried for his master so often that she was finally forced to give him away.

Ann made a vow that she would never enter the lottery again. She saw no point in having to win at someone else's expense. Even fate, she reasoned in the terrible empty days that ensued, was expected to maintain a sense of balance. There was no joy without pain.

The following week, a ten-year-old child was found dead from malnutrition in a block of luxury flats, and a woman who ran a successful clothing company in Oldham won ten million pounds. She told the clamouring press that her good fortune would in no way change her lifestyle.

STILL LIFE

Outside, the bell clanging, the rain falling. Inside, the cat, gingerly picking its path through the clusters of chair and table legs. Black as the coal in the dented copper scuttle standing in the corner. Its tiny tongue rasping the parquet floor, collecting the few crumbs of rock cake that remained.

'Beryl, take a broom under table four. We'll be having mice in here next.'

'Yes, Mrs Bagot.'

The woman behind the counter cracked upright, tall and pale and dry as a stick, cardigan pulled tight about her flat bust, colourless hair scraped high. 'For the life of me I really don't know why people can't use their napkins properly.' A bony forefinger ran around the rim of the cake dish on the corner of the counter. The edge of an apron was applied.

'I said to Mr Sanders, you ought to put down linoleum what with people traipsing in and out of here in all weathers. I might as well have saved my breath.'

A coal popped in the grate. Beyond the tearoom, drizzly twilight faded into darkness. A brisk stamping of boots on the platform outside and Mr Godby entered, his station-issue raincoat buffeted by the wind. With him came cascades of rain and the chill of the October evening. Faced with the imminent attack of Beryl and the broom, the cat fled from beneath a table out into the night.

'Are them Bamburys fresh? If so you could do worse than let me 'ave a couple with a nice cup of tea.'

'Most certainly they're fresh.' Myrtle's height grew with indignation.

'And you can take just one. I've got my customers to think of.'

'Customers?' asked Mr Godby with a wink to Beryl, 'I don't see any customers. Wouldn't be surprised meself if your rock cakes hadn't driven them out into the rain.'

Beryl turned her giggle into a cough and concentrated hard on the floor.

'I'll thank you not to be so cheeky, Mr Godby. We had newlyweds in this afternoon, off on their 'oneymoon. Pretty as a picture, she was. No complaints from them, I noticed. Haven't you got the boat train to let through?'

'It's not due for another ten minutes, so it's a cup of tea or a kiss, which?'

'I'm sure I don't know to what you are referrin'.' Myrtle turned over a cup and stood it beneath the urn. 'You can have a cup of tea and welcome if you keep your sauce to yourself. Beryl, put some more coal on. That wood's too damp to pick up.'

All along the platform, the light shades clanged rhythmically against the girders of the station roof. Rain cascaded down the tobacco-coloured sloping glass. Laura stepped through the swinging pools of light toward the butter-glow of the refreshment room windows, coat knotted tightly around her, Boots library book tucked high under one arm.

Inside, she waited for a break in the conversation to order. The reedy, tittle-tattle voice of the woman behind the counter faltered as she acknowledged her customer. This is how I want to remember it, thought Laura, the pop and crunch of the fire in the grate, the rain outside. I shan't be coming here again.

'A cup of tea, please.'

'Certainly.' Myrtle turned a cup. 'Cake or pastry?'

'Perhaps a Bath bun. Are they fresh?'

Mr Godby shot a knowing look at Beryl.

'Made this morning.' Myrtle removed the glass dome and tonged a bun on to a thick white plate. 'That'll be fourpence.'

Laura dug into her purse, the volume of Keats sliding from beneath her arm toward the floor. Mr Godby stopped it, placing it on the counter.

'Thank you so much.' Laura awkwardly removed her purse, tea and cake to a nearby table, returning for the book.

The tea grew cold in her hand as she idly turned the pages. How many times so far this week? Six or seven at least. Soon, perhaps, it would only be once or twice. Perhaps his earnest face would only come to mind on rainy Thursday afternoons, describing a routine day at the hospital until the whistle for the boat train gave him pause. Sometimes she played a game, staring hard at the book until she was convinced that he would be standing there when she looked up. She played it now, closing the cover and wiping it dry with the back of her glove. Now she would look up and see -

'Laura! Goodness, we
do
seem to be running into each other a lot these days! My dear, you look frazzled. I'm not a bit surprised, this ghastly weather is enough to tire anyone out.'

Dolly Messiter, bustling with chat, garlanded with packages, dropped into the chair opposite. Laura forced a smile of recognition, if not welcome. Dolly failed to notice. She scraped her chair around and addressed the counter.

'I say, could I have a cup of tea, not too strong, and a bar of Nestles?'

She turned to Laura. 'It's for Tony. I'm surprised he still has a tooth in his head.'

'Sixpenny or shilling?' Myrtle was displeased at having to call from the counter. Dolly showed no sign of rising to collect her tea.

'Oh, the sixpenny, plain if you have it.' She lowered her voice and turned back. 'Laura, you really do look rather peaky. Would you like a fresh cup, buck you up?''No, really, I'm fine thanks, just a little tired.'

'Iron pills. They're the answer. Margo swears by them, not that they've done her much good, poor soul.'

Beryl brought over the tea and the chocolate.

'Thank you, dear.' Dolly handed her eightpence and plopped in the cube of sugar from her saucer. 'Who would have thought that the shops would be so crowded on such a beastly day? My dear I'm all done in, and soaked thanks to the pavement outside McFisheries.'

Laura's gaze had returned to the back of the library book.

If you have enjoyed this book, why not try these other fine -

'These stockings were a present from Tony, and now of course they're quite ruined...'

In the distance, machinery rattled. Rails pinged with the weight of a locomotive. 'Could you tell me, is that the Ketchworth train?'

Mr Godby looked up from his
Daily Sketch
, propped against the cake stand.

'No, it's the express, the boat train.' He set down his cup of tea. 'Early too!' and hurried out of the door.

'Really, Laura, you ought to see a doctor. You looked exhausted the last time I saw you. But of course, you were
with
a doctor, weren't you?

Doctor...'

She searched the air for a name, waiting for Laura to supply it.

'Doctor Harvey. Alec Harvey.'

'Harvey, that's right. What a charming man. There are so few about these days. Didn't he go to India?'

'Africa. He moved his practice there.'

'Africa, that's it. He should have prescribed you something. Have you heard from him?'

'No, nothing.' Laura drank the last of her cold tea. The express roared through, beating a tattoo on the sleepers, halting conversation.

She's going to ask how Fred is now. What can I tell her? Fred will be sitting at home listening to the wireless, doing the crossword. Fred is writing in the answer to a clue, checking his watch, waiting for his dinner.

Fred is Fred. Not Alec.

'Well, much as I hate to brave the cold, I'd really better heave these parcels on to the platform or I'll never board the train in time. What time
is
it?'

'Twenty to six. It's due in three minutes. They don't bother to close the gates between the two trains. Here, let me give you a hand with those.'

Dolly thankfully handed her one of the smaller packages.

'You go ahead,' said Laura, 'I'll bring the rest.'

Dolly staggered out of the tearoom clutching her purchases while Laura rose and folded up the fur collar of her coat. As she pulled on her gloves she gazed around the refreshment room for the last time. The door had closed on Dolly. Myrtle was attending to her accounts, squinting over the top of her spectacles as she made ticks on a list. For a moment the only sound was the shifting of fireplace coals.

Laura tilted back her head and closed her eyes. Until now she had not felt it was truly over. They had parted without saying goodbye. How could they have, with Dolly and her confounded congregation of parcels plumping down between them at the last minute? But now, in the quiet of the tearoom it felt finally over. With the closing of its door the memory would be sealed inside forever.

Across the room, Beryl set the scuttle down with a bang.

Laura's eyes snapped open, wide and brown. She pulled out a handkerchief and blew her nose in an annoyed fashion. Gathering the parcel and book, she opened the waiting room door and propped it with her foot. The bright empty room with its familiar window table now seemed like any other. In the distance the whistle of the five forty-three sounded, and Laura let the door swing shut.

Once Dolly's parcels were safely loaded on to the luggage rack, Laura smoothed the seat of her coat and took a window seat. Spread across the centre of the carriage, Dolly prattled. Tony had been ill, Derry and Toms were having a sale, she still hadn't found a replacement for Phyllis.

Laura nodded amiably and sympathised without hearing a word.

With a push of steam and a lurch the train moved forward and began to pick up speed. Laura cleared a patch of glass. Beyond the window, green enamel signs rolled past, posters and benches flashing by. Milford Junction sped away.

'Of course I was sorry to see her go, she was a treasure and heaven knows it's hard enough finding a replacement these days...'

They were pulling level with the underpass entrance at the end of the platform as someone - a lanky figure running awkwardly, fawn Dunn & Co raincoat flapping, trilby pulled down tight, missed the train. For a second, really just a second, the loping gait seemed so familiar, the bony hand raised to hold the hat, the long legs striding up the slope, something forlorn and lost - but the image was gone, replaced by the bare wet branches of the elms that lined the cutting.