The Wanderer (16 page)

I feel I should now press on with my account of the evening in the Nightingale pub; I’ve neglected that strand of my story too long.

VI

After unfolding the grisly end to his tale, which, though I’d seen it coming, as had most round the table, still shocked deeply, William broke down, and, shoulders hunched, head in hands, began to weep. The rest of us, harrowed, stupefied, sat gawping while he weathered his distress.

When, at last, his tears spent, he lifted his head, he looked about the table, then put a cigarette in his mouth, went to light it. His hands shook badly, and he had to fight to hold the flame of his lighter still, but he got the tobacco smouldering in the end, pulled fiercely, and, leaving the cigarette dangling from the corner of his mouth, wincing as smoke drifted into his eyes, smoked it to the filter, stubbed it. Then he was racked by coughs.

‘Never touched a cigarette before that night,’ he said, grimacing, once the fit had passed. ‘Now can’t do without them.’

And he lit up another.

Duncan, refilling his pipe, glanced up, mumbled something into his beard.

Jane reached out, put her hand on William’s shoulder.

‘I’m so sorry. It must have been…’
She trailed off, frowned, smiled sadly, shrugged.

‘Just dreadful, William,’ Elliot said. He shook his head.

‘Aye, right awful what happened,’ Duncan agreed, having got back his voice.

Turning to me, William said, ‘I’m sorry about before. Nervous, not mocking laughter.’

‘I can see that now,’ I replied. ‘And I’m sorry I was so defensive.’

He nodded. Then, with sudden savagery, crushed out his cigarette.

‘I truly loved her.’

Sniffing, he wiped his eyes with the back of his hand.

Duncan then offered to buy another round. Only Jane, who’d moved to orange juice after her gin and tonic, declined. William in hollow frolic, suggested we get a drink for the empty chair, said the sixth person invited to the gathering had, in truth, turned up, was sat there, but had been turned to a wraith by what they’d gone through, was invisible, incorporeal.

‘Look,’ he said, gesturing at air. ‘They’re trying to attract our attention. Definitely thirsty!’

There was a smattering of chuckles from all but Rashmi, who, narrowing her eyes, seemed about to say something, only choking it when Jane glared sharply.

I went up to the bar with Duncan to help carry the drinks. It seemed he was, perhaps due to his accent, misheard, for he ended up with an additional lager. Weird, given William’s jest. Duncan queried it with the publican, who apologised, said we could have the extra drink, no charge, rather than he chuck it away.

After taking his change, Duncan deftly picked up three pint glasses in his one hand. I’m ashamed to own I looked at him, stunned. He saw, grinned.

‘Takes a bit of practice, but it’s not really that tricky. I won’t be useless.’

I stammered an apology.

‘Nae bother,’ he said, grinning.

Then he flinched.

‘What is it?’ I asked.

‘Oh, nothing. A twinge, that’s all. The arm I lost.’

I looked at him, scratched the stubble on my chin. Guessing what I’d been on the brink of asking, he nodded.

‘You’ll find out what happened, soon enough.’

He smiled, went back to our table. Scooping up the remaining glasses with both hands, I followed him over.

We handed out the drinks, setting the spare pint down before the empty seat. William frowned at me, and I explained the landlord’s mistake. He paled.

‘Uncanny…’

‘These things happen,’ I said, making light.

‘They do,’ he said, pointedly.

‘Dead creepy,’ Rashmi put in.

I felt bad, felt I should have left the pint, that it should have occurred to me it would upset William. So, hoping to dispel the disquiet, I attempted a witticism.

‘I’m not sure lager’s the first pick of drink for a wraith, but tough, boggarts can’t be choosers.’

There were groans, not laughs, but the mood did turn less fraught.

Rashmi then asked William about the investigation into his girlfriend’s death, how he’d avoided blame, why he wasn’t wasting in jail.

‘There was no investigation,’ he said.

‘How?’

‘There was no death,’ William replied. ‘At least, not till later.’

We all peered at him. He described how he’d returned to his flat, in a daze, after the horrors of the night on the Heath, having left the beheaded corpse where it lay, to find Catherine waiting up for him, worried. While he fought to quell the shock of seeing her living, she stared, anxious, at his, stinking, gore-and ichor-smirched shirt. He’d been set on by a gang of youths on his way home, he lied. He’d not been badly hurt, the blood wasn’t his, he’d hit one of the thugs in the face with a wildly flailing elbow, started a nosebleed, they’d thrown him to the ground, pissed on him.

‘Jesus!’

She sniffed.

‘Smells worse even than blood and piss only. Like bile and rot too. What happened? Did you antagonise them?’

William hissed.

‘Of course not! Just a random attack. Fuck! Some sympathy wouldn’t go amiss.’

‘I’m sorry! So sorry. Horrible!’

She put his clothes on to wash, sent him to bathe.

After that night, at first, if anything, they were closer than before. But things turned sour. Havoc loosed in his brain, William grew morose. Catherine had her own anxieties, it seemed, and likewise sank into despondency. At first they bickered a lot, then, after a while, aside from curt exchanges about bills, other mundanities, ceased speaking altogether.

One night, Catherine, hoping to cheer them both, mend some of the hurt, suggested they go out for a meal. They agreed to put grudges aside. While waiting to order, and eating starters, they chatted, and their talk, if small, was civil, even pleasant. Then, once they’d finished the first course and were waiting for their mains, Catherine, perhaps starting to feel the effects of the red wine, talked about the upset William’s recent callousness had caused her.

‘You’ve been pretty cold yourself,’ he came back, a touch rankled.

‘I have, I’m sorry. But, look, since the night you were attacked, you’ve been different,’ she said, gently.

‘Not really.’

‘Yes, you have. What did happen that night?’

‘I’ve told you everything.’

He spat out the words like fish bones.

‘Do you not love me anymore?’ she asked.

‘Catherine, doll, I’m sorry. I do, of course. But you’ve not been yourself, either.’

She squinted, smiled melancholic.

Just then, their waiter came over, apologised. There was a problem in the kitchen. Service would be slow. Would they like another bottle of wine, no charge? Yes, they said. That was fine, they were happy to wait.

They’d soon finished the first bottle and begun on the second. They held hands over the table, laughed together for the first
time in months. Things were going far better than William had thought they ever could; he was glad the filthy wrappings had been taken off the festering canker, felt he might even be able to salve it, unburden himself, tell Catherine the truth. Then, she leaned forward, stroked his face.

‘Will, there’s something I haven’t told you. I thought you’d find it too strange. I don’t think we should keep things from each other anymore, though.’

‘What is it?’

Catherine stared up at the dim bulb glowing in the storm-lantern hanging low over the table, a sibyl consulting a caged sprite.

‘I’ve told you before about the imaginary friend I had growing up, haven’t I? Jessie.’

‘Yes, yes of course.’

‘How she looked just like me? Longer hair, paler skin, but otherwise just like me?’

‘Yes.’

‘Spirit of my stillborn twin. That’s what I think.’

She broke off, looked up.

‘You know?’

William smiled. But beneath the table he fretted at his paper napkin.

‘I know.’

She tore a shred from a fingernail with her teeth.

‘What I’ve never told you, have never told anyone, except my parents, is that, though I stopped seeing Jessie in my early teens, I had the feeling she was there with me still, watching over me.’

Pausing, she smiled to herself.

‘Recently that feeling has left me. I think she’s abandoned me. For a few months, I’ve felt alone.’

She shook her head as if to clear it, blinked slow.

‘You probably think I’m mad. But that’s why I’ve been preoccupied…a bit down these last weeks.’

William stared at her.

‘So,’ Catherine said. ‘What’s upset you? Why have you not been yourself?’

She looked at him, waited. He took a big gulp of wine. Then the waiter brought their plates over, set them down. Catherine took up her knife and fork, but William sat, hands still in his lap, tearing at the napkin.

‘If you won’t tell me what’s wrong, at least eat,’ she said, irked.

‘Did you ever misplace your ring?’ he asked, jabbing with his finger.

‘What?’

He pressed the heels of his hands into his eyes.

‘Did you ever lose it, leave it anywhere, anything like that?’

‘I left it at my parents’ house once. Mum found it, sent it back to me, remember?’

‘No.’

He slumped in his chair. Shreds of napkin fluttered to the floor. The soft lighting and low murmuring of couples, now seemed gloom and muttering. Catherine’s hand trembled, her lips twitched, she paled, and the dark suspicion William had been gravid with since the night on the Heath slopped forth.

‘What did you do?’ Jane was eager to know.

William sniffed, winced.

‘I got up from the table, without a word, accidentally knocking my plate to the floor. It smashed on the tiles, and gravy flowed, slow and heavy as blood, along the grout lines. Leaving the restaurant, choosing a direction on a whim, I began walking. I’d not gone far when I heard Catherine calling, turned. She’d chased after me. Without looking, she stepped off a kerb.’

Trembling, William reached out, took up his drink, downed half of it at one draught.

‘There was a bus. The driver braked, but couldn’t stop in time. She was in a coma for six months, died without regaining
consciousness.’

‘Oh God,’ Jane exclaimed. ‘I’m so sorry.’

William stared at her, vacant. As though reliving the events of that night.

‘Son, are you alright?’ Duncan asked.

William shuddered, came back to us.

‘This is the first time I’ve told anyone the whole…’

He trailed off, looked down at his drink, then, after a few moments, raised his eyes again.

‘After the funeral I spent months holed up in my flat, avoiding people, going out as little as possible. Recently I’ve returned to work, started socializing again, but it’s been hard.’

Rashmi, who’d been distractedly stirring her vodka and lemonade with her straw, took a sip, then asked William what he thought the truth of all that had happened to him was.

‘I don’t know. I try not to think about it. I also can’t talk about it anymore. Perhaps someone else could tell their tale?’

A brief exchange followed; the upshot was that Jane offered to relate her story, after she’d gone to the toilet. Getting to her feet, she left the table. I looked round the pub. Though it was still quite early, the Nightingale had begun to empty out; it was a week night after all. A large party still caroused, noisily, in a corner at the far side of the saloon, though; from the cards and scraps of wrapping paper strewn over their table, I guessed it to be a birthday celebration. The other remaining patrons sat in pairs and threes, conversing quietly.

While we awaited Jane’s return, I told William of the sword tattoos I’d seen that evening. The one inked onto the businessman’s wrist he had, of course, remarked himself. He said he had, in the preceding months, noticed more and more of the markings, something that disconcerted him, reminded of his ordeal, filled him with fear one of the strange fellowship might recognize him, again enmesh him in occult horror. We began discussing the possible meaning of the tattoos; Duncan, Elliot,
and Rashmi joined in.

I’ve already described that the Nightingale was divided by a wooden partition, inset with etched glass panes, into a public bar, at the front, and a secluded saloon, at the rear, where we sat. What I haven’t explained, though, was that some of the panes, if narrow, were almost the full height of the partition and had designs only round their margins, were clear in the centre, and that through one of these I had a good view, if a little distorted, of the pub’s entrance. As we were talking, I saw a man open the door, stand on the threshold a brief instant, then stagger in a few paces, leaving the door ajar behind. Sleet had begun falling; a swirl blew in and settled on the carpet (today it’s blustery, the wind roils the waters of the estuary, thrashes up spray, and a goatskin the tribeswoman has laid out on the deck of the Ark is flecked with spindrift, glistens in the sun; the sleet on the carpet in the Nightingale that night glistered the same way). The man wore an ill-fitting rumpled pinstriped suit, an unkempt, very fake wig, had sunken dulled eyes, raw sagging skin, and a puffy nose. He hopped from foot to foot, wringing his hands. The patrons nearest him feigned unconcern, though some glared at the open door. I watched him, warped by the lumpy pane of glass, cast about, then, catching sight of our gathering, or, rather, of Duncan’s back, through that same pane, begin cackling silently, reel, stumble, fall against a table, upset a pint. After getting his footing back, he untied the length of twine he was using as a belt, dropped his trousers, kicked free of them, began to gyre, arms outstretched. His pants were threadbare, stained. The landlord opened the counter hatch, came out from behind the bar, crossed over to the drunk, seized him by his collar, and hauled him to the door, kicking, bellowing, and threw him bodily out, threw his trousers out after him. Just before the door was slammed on him, he bawled, in a cracked reedy voice, ‘You fucks! You’re cursed to a living hell!’ Though I couldn’t say quite why, I felt his outburst was aimed at my companions and me.

The shout had finally drawn the notice of the others (no one, apart from me, faced the public bar), and they turned to look over. I don’t, though, think any of them caught more than a glimpse of the crackbrain.