Comes the Dark

by David Stuart Davies

  ‘You’re a sweetie,’ she said, after taking a gulp of her gin and tonic. ‘On leave, are you? Where you been?’

  He shook his head. ‘Can’t tell you that. Careless talk, y’know.’

  ‘Oh, yeah. Careless talk,’ she sneered, stiffening slightly. ‘I could be a German spy, right.’

  ‘You could.’ He smiled. ‘I believe the Germans are very good at disguises.’

  This amused her and she relaxed again. ‘Well, if you can’t tell me where you’ve been, what are we going to talk about?’ she asked just before stuffing a handful of crisps in her mouth.

  ‘How about you?’

  ‘Lord help us. That’s a bleedin’ boring subject, I can tell you.’

  ‘It doesn’t look boring from where I’m sitting. What’s your name?’

  ‘I’m Mary. Sweet and contrary, that’s me. I was named after that film star Mary Pickford. What’s yours then?’

  He told her.

  ‘Ooh, that’s nice. That’s a real manly name.’ She reached across the table and laid a hand on top of his, rubbing it gently. ‘Mind you, I could tell when I saw you that you were a real man.’

  He couldn’t help but chuckle at this corny routine.

  Her face clouded over again. She didn’t take kindly to being laughed at and withdrew her hand.

  ‘What’s so funny?’

  ‘Nothing, Mary. Nothing at all,’ he said with genuine warmth. ‘You’re lovely.’ He took hold of her hand. ‘Just lovely.’

  The cloud dispersed and the sun came out once more. ‘Do you really think so? Lovely? Really?’

  ‘Of course’

  ‘Well, you’re not half tasty yourself,’ she said without an ounce of shyness. She took another large gulp of gin to celebrate their mutual attraction. ‘You couldn’t put another in here, could you darling? I’m real thirsty tonight.’

  He drained his own glass and went up to the bar again. While he was waiting to be served he looked back at Mary. She had her handbag open and was checking her appearance in her make-up mirror. As she did so, a tall, dark man in a black belted raincoat came up to her and engaged her in conversation. It looked very much as though he was trying to do a little business. Why wouldn’t he? She was a prostitute after all.

  Although he couldn’t hear what they were saying, it was clear that she was telling the man to get lost. The man persisted but she shook her head and raised her voice. This seemed to anger him and he turned his gaze on the soldier at the bar. There was fierce hatred in those eyes. So much so that the soldier felt a cold shiver run down his spine.

  After a moment the tall stranger moved away through the crowded bar-room and was swallowed up amongst the other customers and the thick smoky miasma that pervaded the pub.

  ‘What did he want?’ the soldier asked as he plonked two drinks down on the table, his own beer slipping over the sides of the glass.

  Mary huffed. ‘Well, it wasn’t the time, I can tell you.’

  ‘He tried to pick you up?’

  ‘Cheek of the bastard. I told him to sling his hook. I said was with my boyfriend.’

  He raised an eyebrow. Boyfriend? That seemed like some kind of promotion from potential client.

  She eyed him seriously. ‘After this drink, why don’t we go back to my place and we can really relax there?’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘You got some money?’

  ‘Some. How much will I need?’

  She reached out and ran the back of her hand down his cheek. ‘I like you…so we’ll say two quid eh?’

  He didn’t reply but took a drink of beer instead. He wasn’t bothered about the money. It was no indignity for him, having to pay for love. It was what red-blooded single men did, or so he’d been told, especially if they didn’t know how long it would be before they copped it from a Jerry sniper. Anyway, he liked the girl and she was attractive.

  However, he did wish that it was real. That there was someone warm and loving wanting to hold him and kiss him—someone who had genuine affection for him, affection that didn’t come with a price-tag. He gave a little self-indulgent shrug. Well, that was how it had been all his life. An orphan from infancy with no experience of parental love or real caring, he had always found it difficult to connect with people, to form meaningful, loving relationships. He had even drifted away from the one person who had really meant something to him, his younger brother.

  ‘Where are you now?’ Mary prodded him gently. ‘Dancing with the fairies?’

  ‘Sorry,’ he smiled. ‘I just went off. Miles away.’

  Mary smiled sympathetically. Soldiers were often like that. They’d be having a good time and then all of a sudden for no apparent reason they would be reminded of something, the fighting, a dead comrade, a loved one lost maybe and they’d drift off for a few moments with sadness seeping into their features.

  ‘Now then,’ he said cheerily, ‘where is this place of yours?’

  ‘Not far. A five-minute walk.’

  ‘Come on then, Mary. Let’s go.’ He grinned broadly.

  As they got up to leave, at the far end of the bar the tall dark stranger in the black belted raincoat watched them with interest. After they had passed through the swing-doors he waited about thirty seconds, drained his glass and headed for the door.

  The soldier found that Mary’s place was just one dingy room in a cheap boarding-house. There was a smell of damp and a general air of staleness hanging about the place. The room contained a bed, a wardrobe, a chest of drawers and one moth-eaten armchair—nothing more.

  As they entered she clicked on a small table lamp which cast a pink glow over the depressing surroundings.

  ‘I never put the main light on,’ said Mary, hanging her coat on the hook on the back of the door. ‘Make yourself at home.’

  The soldier slipped off his coat but stood awkwardly, not quite knowing what to do next. He had never been with a woman in this way before. A woman like this—a stranger who did it with lots of men for money.

  ‘Pardon me a minute, love. I’m bursting for a pee.’ She pulled a metal basin from under the sink and without any sense of embarrassment hitched up her dress and crouched down at the far side of the bed.

  He heard the rush of urine splatter into the tin bowl and winced. He knew he was not in for a romantic evening, but this was rather too basic for his sensitivities.

  ‘That’s better,’ she said, sliding the bowl under the bed. Then she proceeded to take her dress off. ‘You got any johnnies?’

  He shook his head dumbly.

  ‘You men!’ she puffed, and pulled a packet from her handbag. She extracted a silver-foiled condom and threw it over to him.

  With an instinctive reflex he caught it.

  ‘Come on love, slip your things off, I’m freezing here.’ She stood before him in black stockings and a bra, with her hands on her hips. The gentleness and coquetry had disappeared from her demeanour now. This was business, she seemed to be saying. This is assembly-line work.

  He did as he was told and when he was down to his vest and pants she came over to him and pressed her body into his. Her smell, her touch, her smooth flesh aroused him instantly. He sensed that despite everything she liked him. He kissed her passionately as he might do with the love of his life, ran his fingers through her hair and then down her back where he unhooked her bra. They embraced for a few moments more and then, gently, he lowered her to the bed. The recalcitrant springs protested but by now his mind was on other things and he hardly noticed the noise.

  19

  He had followed the soldier and the tart from the Saracen’s Head at quite close quarters. He kept to the shadows, but they had been too engrossed in their silly banter to notice him anyway. He’d managed to catch that her name was Mary, which would be a useful piece of information for later. He watched them go into the dingy lodging-house.

  He secreted himself in a doorway across the street and waited. These things didn’t take too much time. She was a businesswoman where tim
e and motion meant money and he was a sex-starved soldier more than eager to spill his seed. He gave the whole process twenty minutes at the most. He checked his watch and made a little bet with himself.

  He lost his bet. It was over an hour before the soldier emerged from the building. The boy must be quite a stallion, he mused, either that or the lad was having trouble getting started. However, for a fellow who had just indulged in a passionate and prolonged session of love making, he didn’t look happy. His shoulders were slouched and he wore an expression of grim bleakness. Ah, well, that’s sex for you. It’s like throwing yourself off a high building. Initially you feel exhilarated, a wonderful sense of bodily freedom and then, before you know it, you see the ground hurtling towards you and it’s time to pay heavily for the experience. He should know.

  He watched the soldier walk away down the street with his hands dug deep in his pockets, no doubt in search of a compensatory drink. Clearly the experience had been an empty and dispiriting one. And then he returned his attention to the building across the street. Not long now, he thought. It was a thought that excited his senses. Not long now.

  *

  After the soldier had gone Mary lay on the bed for some time. She had a cigarette and a glass of gin from the bottle she kept hidden in the wardrobe. She was a fool. Only two quid. Just because she fancied him. Silly tart. Two quid! She could have got more. Then a smile crept over her face. Well she had, hadn’t she? Propping herself up on the pillows, she examined her new treasure: the soldier’s wallet. On impulse, she’d half-inched it from his jacket while he’d been swilling his face at the sink after they’d made love. There wasn’t much inside, just his identity card, a scrap of paper with the address of a hotel and—more important—ten pounds in cash. She grinned. Now that was a good night’s work.

  Then the grin faded. Suddenly she realised that he might discover his loss sooner than she thought and be back knocking on her door in quick sticks. She knew he had some loose change in his pocket and had hoped that might supply his needs for the rest of the night. She’d been banking on his not noticing until he got back to his hotel at least, but then he might have needed to check the address on the bit of paper. What the hell! She’d feign ignorance. London was full of pickpockets. He couldn’t prove anything. And he wasn’t the type for violence. She’d just brazen it out if she had to. She’d done it before.

  Quickly, she took some cash from the wallet, stuffed it in her own purse and then hid the wallet in a shoebox in the wardrobe. She caught sight of herself in the mirror on the back of the door. She looked rough. Not the smart young thing she had been when she’d set out that evening. That’s what this life was doing to her: slowly but surely robbing her of her youth. The features grew puffier, the lines increased and the eye-bags became more defined day by day. But what could she do? It was a road she had chosen. Easy money and better pay than working in a factory. Just lie there and think of the money, girl. That’s all you have to do. Yes, it was a road she had chosen—and so there was no turning back.

  ‘Come on, girl,’ she said to herself out loud, ‘let’s put on the war paint and get out of here. You need to cheer yourself up.’

  The thought of the garish lights and smoky atmosphere of some pub or other did brighten her spirits. It was her way of blanking out the terrible truths. Within ten minutes, with her make-up repaired and a splash of cheap cologne, she was ready to go to work again. She smiled at herself in the mirror and winked. ‘Hello, darling,’ she said.

  As she stepped out on to the pavement, someone called her name.

  ‘Mary. Hello, Mary.’

  Her first thought was that the soldier had returned already and she stiffened with anticipation of a scene.

  But then a figure stepped out of the shadows and she saw that it was too tall for the soldier.

  ‘Hello, Mary,’ he repeated. ‘I thought we might do a little business now that you’re free.’

  As he grew near to her, she recognised the man as the one who had tried to pick her up in the Saracen’s Head earlier that evening.

  Her immediate instinct was to tell him to get lost but something stopped her. He was quite good-looking in a craggy sort of way and it certainly was an easy way of earning some more cash. If they were quick she could still get to a pub before closing-time.

  ‘I don’t know,’ she said, playfully. She was certainly going to screw this eager beaver for more than two quid.

  ‘I can be very generous,’ he said, moving even closer.

  ‘How generous?’

  He pulled a note from his raincoat pocket.

  ‘A fiver.’

  Blimey, she thought, this chap is desperate. She could hardly turn down a fiver and besides he’s so keen, it’ll be all over in ten minutes.

  ‘All right,’ she said. ‘For a fiver. Come inside.’

  She led him up to her room and clicked on the pink light again.

  ‘Cosy isn’t it?’ he said. She thought there might have been a touch of sarcasm in his voice, but she ignored it.

  ‘Take your kit off,’ she said, as she slipped out of her dress.

  The sight of the young woman in her bra and panties genuinely aroused him and for a fleeting moment he wished that he could just make love to her and leave. But he couldn’t, so he wiped such thoughts from his mind.

  ‘Come on,’ she said with some impatience when she saw that he was still standing there in his raincoat. ‘We can’t do anything with your clothes on.’

  ‘Let me…let me kiss you first,’ he said, awkwardly. ‘It works better for me that way.’

  She shrugged. ‘All right.’

  He put his arms around her and hugged her closely to him. Mechanically, she closed her eyes and then, in her darkness, she felt his hands around her throat.

  20

  Frank Hall wasn’t sure whether it was the effects of the beer or the arthritis that made climbing up the stairs more of a challenge these days, but certainly it took him longer to reach the landing than it used to. He reckoned that he’d have to throw old age into the frame as well. He wasn’t getting any younger.

  With much puffing and panting he hauled himself up to the top. As he paused to catch his breath his eye was caught by the pink glow emanating from a room further along the landing. Someone had left their door open.

  ‘That’s a silly thing to do,’ he muttered to himself.

  Curious, he went along to investigate.

  He stood on the threshold of the room. There was no sound or movement within. ‘Hello,’ he said politely and tapped gently on the door.

  There was no reply.

  Instinctively, he put his head inside the room and the sight that greeted his eyes made him gasp. His old heart thudded with the shock and he felt unsteady on his feet. Grasping the door for support, he stared transfixed at the tableau before him.

  On the bed lay a young woman. She was dressed only in her bra and panties. Her mouth was agape, the tongue protruding lifelessly, while her eyes, wide with fright, were held in a rigid, fixed stare focused on some point on the ceiling. On the girl’s forehead was a red smudge; it looked like the number three.

  Frank was sure that she was dead. Dead as a doornail.

  21

  Somehow the charms of Ruritanian adventure and the dashing exploits of Rupert Rassendyll failed to weave their magic for me this time round. As I sat in the darkened auditorium watching The Prisoner of Zenda, my mind kept slipping back to the more dramatic scenes in my own recent life: Barbara’s attempt to shoot Guy Cooper at the Britannia Club; the conversation I’d had with Cooper and Sir Howard McLean inviting me to join their gang of murdering thugs; and the lovely Eunice and the problem she presented. All these things seemed far more engrossing and disturbing than Ronald Colman’s attempt to impersonate the King of Ruritania at his coronation.

  Despite my wandering attention, I did stay to the end of the show, even enduring the inane antics of The Three Stooges in a noisy and unfunny supporting short, because I really had
nothing better to do. When I came out of the cinema I grabbed a cuppa from a tea-stall in Leicester Square and then wandered the streets for some time, turning events over and over in my mind again, trying to formulate a plan of action. It wasn’t a fruitful exercise. I wasn’t good at planning. I was a spur of the moment man.

  By the time I had grown weary of my thoughtful perambulations it was dusk and I found my feet leading me to the Velvet Cage. Perhaps some jazz and a few shots of Johnnie Walker would help ease my worries. That was my usual excuse anyway.

  It was still fairly early when I padded my way down the stairs into the club, yet it was quite busy. Tommy Parker and the boys were on their first set and I saw that Beulah White was sitting by the band ready to warble. Beulah, a coloured girl, had been a fine singer with a sexy, smooth voice but unfortunately she had a fondness for a certain white substance which had played havoc with her vocal chords and had raddled her once pretty features. She was probably still only in her thirties but looked at least ten years older. She still knew how to handle a song, but listening to her I was constantly reminded of what she could have been and this added a tinge of melancholy to all her performances.

  She gave me a wave as I headed for the bar and then got up to sing ‘Every Time We Say Goodbye’. As she clung to the microphone, eyes closed, the hubbub of the club quietened. The lyrics, half-whispered, half sung, were moving and poignant. With the war pressing against the window-pane of all our lives, they meant something to everyone:

  Every time we say goodbye, I die a little

  Every time, we say goodbye, I wonder why a little...

  For a short while the audience were caught up and bonded in a common experience by the sentiment of the song. We all had our private realities and sadnesses touched by the lyrics and by the singer’s simple but telling delivery. Couples leaned in towards each other, holding hands on the table, reminded of the frailty of love and the uncertainty of relationships in the time of war.