0513485001343534196 christopher fowler (25 page)

Laura slumped back in her seat and closed her eyes. Dolly had ceased her chatter and was now pulling at a magazine wedged in her handbag.

The beat of wheels on metal, over wood, lulled Laura to sleep. There had been no-one running for the train. Beneath her body, the points switched. The train swayed, bearing her back to Ketchworth and home.

The door of the refreshment room flew open, spraying rain with it, as the figure strode across to the counter. 'I'm sorry, could you tell me, was that the Ketchworth train?'

Myrtle peered over the top of her glasses and set aside her fountain pen. Instead of setting down his trilby with a pinch of his hand, the enquirer pulled his hat tighter on to his head and refused to catch her eye.

'Indeed it was. You've only just missed it.'

The man tugged open his raincoat and pulled at a pocket. He moved oddly, as though he had been wounded. The war had done terrible things to the country's men.

'I'll have a tea please.'

'Cake or pastry?'

'Just a tea.' He still refused to catch her eye. Perhaps there was something wrong with his face. Myrtle slipped two cubes of sugar into the saucer. In the distance, thunder rumbled. Alec fumbled for money and placed two pennies on the counter. He felt the weight of the book dragging at him. After a brief moment of hesitation he withdrew it and took his tea to the window table, sitting in the opposite chair to where she had sat.

Myrtle glanced over once or twice and could tell he was writing something. There was a strange smell in the room, drawn from the damp wood in the fire.

When she next looked up, he was standing before her.

'I say, you didn't happen to see a lady in here earlier, small, brown hair, a coat with a fox-trim collar?'

'Why, yes. She just left. In here every Thursday, like as not. Catches the Ketchworth train.'

'The thing is, I have something of hers, and I wanted to give it to her. I can't - be here - again. I wonder if I could ask you a favour, seeing as she comes in each week...'

Myrtle studied the book on the counter and narrowed her eyes. 'I must say it's most irregular,' she began. 'This is not a lending library.'

'Could you give it to her? I really would be most grateful.'

'Well, all right. I'll keep it back here with my accounts. Just this once, mind.' She'd do him the favour. He didn't look well.

'It's awfully kind of you.'

He finished his tea back at the table, sipping slowly, like an invalid taking soup. When Myrtle next looked up, he had gone, splashing off through the underpass no doubt, and Beryl was clearing the crockery.

The book was a volume of Victorian poetry, awful sickly stuff, the pages bordered with faded roses. The letter was folded inside the flyleaf and addressed to Laura Jesson in scratchy, broken script, as though someone very ill had written it. Myrtle turned it over in her hands. A Billy Doo, and she was in charge of it! The urn steamed and bubbled. She looked over at Beryl.

'Get the broom, Beryl, and run it under table two. There's rice everywhere. Sweep it up.'

'Yes, Mrs Bagot.'

All very well for newlyweds
, thought Myrtle,
they don't have to
worry about the mess
, as she allowed the envelope to stray in front of the steam. It wasn't her fault that the flap popped open. Barely glued down, it had been. The letter virtually slid out by itself.

'And mind you don't miss any,' she said loudly, scanning the page.

Left Madeline behind - desperate to see you one more time - life
meant nothing without you - wanted to die -

'Mrs Bagot-'

Knowing we could never be together - no other choice - wrong of
me, I know - a dreadful sin to take one's own life - wanted to die
thinking of you - prayed that would be the end of it - who could have
known that love would prove stronger than death - now this awful
pain will never end - only once we are reunited -

'Mrs Bagot-'

- love stronger than death

Beryl sounded frantic. 'Mrs Bagot, it's not rice.' She slammed her broom at the floor. 'It's maggots!'

•

Each swing of the train bore Laura further away from Milford Junction.

Dolly Messiter tapped her on the shoulder and offered her a handkerchief. 'Are you all right?' she enquired. 'You looked as if you were having a bad dream.'

'No,' said Laura firmly. 'I just had a piece of grit in my eye, that's all.'

THE CAGES

'Look,' said Albert, 'they're beating up Mrs Tremayne.'

'She's not done anything wrong, has she?' asked Dr Figgis.

'No. Perhaps that's why they're beating her up.'

'Doesn't follow, does it? God, she's making a lot of noise.' He shouted through the bars. 'Hey, keep it down!'

'This thing's hard on my arse.' Albert fidgeted on the rungs. After a few hours they cut into your buttocks and forced you to change position.

At least, that was the effect they had on Albert. He noticed that many of the others never seemed to move at all.

'There's a technique to sitting.' The doctor demonstrated, bouncing up and down on the balls of his feet. 'It's all a question of balance. It took me a couple of months to really get the hang of it. You've only been up here -

how long?'

Albert counted on his fingers. 'Let me see, I was still in the bright yellow cages last Thursday.'

'Ah,' the doctor nodded, adding redundantly, 'Sunflower Section. This is Waterlily.'

'They must have come for me on the Friday morning, which would make it about a week.'

'There you are, then,' confirmed the doctor. 'You haven't found your sea-legs yet.'

'We're not at sea, are we?' asked Albert, alarmed.

'It's just an expression.'

'Because that would account for the swaying.' He pointed along the lines of cages. Each grey steel-runged box was suspended by four heavy oiled chains, and shifted slightly in and out of his vision. Each cage contained one person. Albert could count thirtyfour in front of him and perhaps sixty behind. The occupants were mostly silent, so that the only sound was a faint musical tinkling of link against link, diminishing with distance. The fetid grime-filled air prevented him from seeing clearly in any direction.

'I'm glad we're not at sea. That would mean we were going somewhere, and I'm not ready to go anywhere yet. I've still got the shits.'

He dropped to the floor of the cage and tried to find a comfortable position by lying on his stomach. 'I thought I might do a workout.

Strengthen my abs. Do you ever wonder what these cages are for? Who built them? Are there many more underneath us?'

'Oh, yes,' replied Dr Figgis, authoritatively. 'There's someone just a few yards below you, but you can't see him. He used to have a light, but it burned out. When you dropped your soup bowl last night most of it went through the bars onto his head. He didn't say anything, but you could tell he wasn't pleased. Mr Whitely is seventy-two and never complains, but then he fought in the war. Didn't even yell out when we had the rain of spiders. Everyone else did.'

'I'm quite looking forward to my dinner tonight.' Albert winced and shifted his position. 'You appreciate your food more when you only get one meal a day. We used to get two in Sunflower.'

The doctor moved closer to the bars. 'You know what it is, don't you? In the bowls?'

Albert thought for a moment. 'Some kind of beef and marrow mixture in gravy stock?'

'Oh dear, no.' Dr Figgis shook his head and chuckled. 'If only it was.

No, I'm afraid you've been eating something rather more verminous.'

'How unimaginative.' Albert sighed, nursing his knees. 'I'm not squeamish, though. You can get used to anything. Make the best of a bad job. We had nice food in Yellow, and in Blue before that.'

'Ah, Iris Section.'

Just then an anguished howl rose from one of the cages on their left.

An elderly man had slipped over, trapping his bony leg between the floor bars. As he fell it cracked with a sharp snap, and was left dangling uselessly beyond reach in its pouch of pallid skin while the old man cried and cried.

'I hope he doesn't think someone's going to come rushing along to help him,' said the doctor. 'He shouldn't be down here in the first place.

He and Mr Whitely were supposed to be put somewhere up at the front in Tulip. But I've noticed sometimes they put the wrong ones in here. Like you.' He came to the edge of the bars. 'If you don't mind my saying so, you're far too young to be in this division.'

'What about Mrs Tremayne?' asked Albert. 'She has to be fifty. I don't think there's a greater power at work, you know, deciding where we all go. You just get put wherever you get put, and there's nothing at all you can do about it.'

'Hmm, you're probably right. You have to make the best of things, don't you?'

'I used to get a bit bored, though, in Sunflower. Of course, you had solid concrete floors there, which made life a lot simpler. Keeping your balance, and that. I had a nice bowl of flowers in my cage.

Chrysanthemums. Nothing like that here. You can't help feeling a bit trapped in this thing. There's no room.' He stretched his arms out, touching either side of the cage with his fingertips. 'I'm sure this is much smaller than the last one.'

'They do get smaller,' agreed Dr Figgis. 'You should see Crocus.'

'Have you been put there, then?'

'No, but I have a friend who has. Whenever they move you, it's never to better conditions. The beatings get more frequent. And the food gets worse. They don't cook it at all in Hydrangea, which is two after this, and they don't serve it until it's turned rotten in Nasturtium. But someone told me there are fewer and fewer bars on the cages as you move down.''Oh, that's good.'

'Not really. The air is much murkier below, it's harder to see and breathe properly, and because of the bars it gets more difficult to stay inside without falling out into space.'

'Mind you,' said Albert, 'that means you can probably get out.'

'Get out? Oh, you can get out whenever you want. You probably never thought about it much before now. Anybody can get out, whenever they're ready to go. Look at this.' The doctor reached through the bars of his cage and pushed against Albert's door with the palm of his hand. 'See, it's not locked. It's never been locked. All you have to do is take a mighty leap into the dark.'

There was a shower of rust, and the iron grille swung wide with a slow painful creak. The space revealed before Albert was awesome, dark and eternal. Albert gingerly moved forward and looked down. There were men and women vertiginously suspended in cages below him as far as he could see, crushed humanity in every direction, all the way back to his childhood and infancy.

He contemplated the scene for a moment.

'It's an awfully long way down, isn't it?' he exclaimed. 'Probably bottomless. Just space forever. Fair makes you dizzy to look.' But Albert could not resist the looking. After a few minutes, though, he nervously reached forward and pulled the cage door shut until it shifted back in place with a firm, satisfying click.

'You can open it any time,' reminded Dr Figgis.

'Out there. The fall - '

'The fall would kill you.'

Albert glanced uncomfortably between his feet. 'I'm sure it would.'

'But while you fall, you'll be completely free.'

Albert considered the idea for a moment, then returned to the rear corner of the cage and rubbed against his bars appreciatively. 'I understand what you're saying,' he told the doctor, despair creeping into his voice, 'but I think on the whole I'm better off staying in here.'

'Now you know who built the cages,' said the doctor, smiling sadly.

THE GRAND FINALE HOTEL

'Good Lord In Heaven,' gasped Mr Satardoo, eyeing the great golden lounge clock as he scuttered past it, 'if he cared for us at all he would allow sixty-one minutes in an hour today, just today, and our gratitude for his temporal lassitude would be expressed in renewed endeavour.'

The under-manager's language echoed the convoluted structure of the Delhi civil service, in whose foreign office he had been trained. He had migrated from his native India just after the war and had worked here at the Grand Finale Hotel ever since, longer than most of the house staff, but not so long as the senior housekeeper Mrs Opie, or the septuagenarian manager, General Sullivan.

Mr Satardoo barely slowed his pace as he wheeled into the main hall to inspect his troops.

Before him stood a battalion of chambermaids in crisp monochrome, their caps of fluted white linen seated upon their coiffures like matching baby doves. Beside them a regiment of stiffbacked waiters stood to attention, the diagonal planes of their noses held at exactly forty-five degrees to the icy blue marble floor, their haircuts macassared in perfect geometry, their hooded eyes impossible to catch. The waitresses had their own division, their flared black dresses cut low and short, edged in white to give them the appearance of mischievous angels. Then came a squad of veteran porters as stooped as question marks, their jacket sleeves subtly altered to incorporate an added length of bone caused by lifetimes of lifting great leather cases.

An infantry of bellboys flanked the sides of the sunlit hall, their brass buttons glittering like crocodile eyes, their caps set at an angle that suggested jauntiness without jocularity, disarm without disrespect. Their emerald suits were sectioned with silver piping that ran from collar to spats, a uniform as proudly worn as those of Wellington's men, and much admired by the hotel's female guests, who always watched discreetly as the lads scurried past on their errands.

Mr Satardoo clapped his hands together, and even though the sound was muffled by the white kid gloves he habitually wore, everyone snapped to attention.

The only members of staff not represented in the hall were the cooks, who could not risk leaving the kitchens so close to the hour set aside for luncheon.

'Now,' began Mr Satardoo, 'I want you all to pay careful attention. In a few minutes the Archduke Fernandel Aracino will arrive with his entourage, and it is imperative that he receives the kind of service that a man of his reputation would expect from our hotel. Although it is the first time he has taken a suite here - and of course for every one of our guests who takes a suite it is always the first visit - I want you to make him feel that he is among old friends. Where is Mr Mack?'