Pascoe's Ghost

by Hill, Reginald;

  For the next few seconds I staggered around in complete agony, certain I must have broken my wrists. When the pain eased slightly and the tears cleared from my eyes, I discovered the unfortunate farmer was lying flat on his face in a tangle of whin and briar. I must have unknowingly struck some particularly susceptible point of the body. It was the kind of thing I had frequently viewed with blasé disbelief in the cinema. I still do. They never show you the hero nursing his sprained wrists.

  To my relief, he began to make groaning noises and even essayed a movement of the arms to push himself upright. It was unsuccessful but the next one might not be. His shotgun lay at my feet. I did not feel he was going to be a safe person, either physically or mentally, to bear arms for a few hours, so I picked it up and set off at a brisk trot.

  The trees thinned out after a while and I could make almost as rapid progress as I would have done in the open. Eventually the wood became a mere meadow and this ran all the way to the hedge which marked the furthest boundary of Alice’s kitchen garden.

  Flitting from tree to tree, I crossed the meadow with a mixture of speed and circumspection, my mind very much concerned with the twin necessities of getting under cover as quickly as possible and of getting into the house without being spotted. It was the monster, Lennie, I feared the most of all. Discovery by Alice would be more completely devastating, I knew, but in terms of sheer probability Lennie was the real danger. Alice was a large woman, slow moving, easily spottable, while Lennie wandered hither and thither like an infant poltergeist, perceptible only by the trail of damage he left. He could be sitting behind the hedge at this very moment watching my progress with that cold curiosity of his, wondering what profit was in it for him.

  I stopped and regarded the hedge uneasily, victim of my own imaginings. But my luck was holding. As I watched, I heard the noise of a car and out of the old lean-to garage at the far side of the house pulled Sally’s Mini. I caught a clear glimpse of two heads, one topped by Sally’s dear long blonde hair, the other by Lennie’s raven-black tangle, before the car turned into the road and set off for Millthwaite village, which fortunately lay in the opposite direction to the angry policeman, the assaulted farmer, the educated tramp and the rustled sheep.

  This left only Alice, and a glance at my watch told me that it was more than likely she, too, would be out. About this time most mornings she took a short walk over the fields to practise good works on Widow Tyler, who was too old to resist or too imbecile to resent the dreadful condescension with which Alice’s gifts of caramel custards, nourishing broths or home-made wine (all on a par with her fried eggs) were given.

  Saying a little prayer of anticipatory thanks, I dashed across the few remaining yards of the meadow, clambered over the hedge, trod with fearful care between the rows of Alice’s vegetables (how hard do our old terrors die!) and entered the kitchen.

  It was empty. The twenty tarts still lay on the table. The empty saucer still stood on the shelf by the cellar door.

  I realized I was still holding my borrowed shotgun and I put it down on the table. It took only a couple of moments to assure myself that there was no one in the living-room or upstairs. Now all I had to do was clean off the traces of my passage through the woods and change my clothing to make identification more difficult. But first I returned to the kitchen to retrieve the tell-tale shotgun. It looked quite domestic lying there on that rustic table amid a squad of jam tarts. I picked it up, turned to go, then for the second time that day temptation assailed me.

  The snowball had started rolling here. Alice’s tarts, Lennie’s blackmail, the milkman’s money; the accused tramp, the escaped sheep, the crashed constable; the assaulted farmer and the stolen gun. And all for the sake of a couple of jam tarts.

  Surely I deserved another?

  Of course I did.

  I took it and raised it to my mouth. Behind me I heard a noise. My nerves had gone beyond rapid reaction. Slowly I turned.

  Standing in the cellar doorway with a bottle of elderberry wine in her hand and an expression of self-righteous triumph on her face was Alice.

  “I knew it were you!” she cried. “I knew it!”

  This was nonsense, of course, and mere wish fulfillment. I opened my mouth to say as much, when I observed the triumph fading to be replaced by another less positive expression. For a second I was puzzled till I realized that as I had turned the shotgun had turned with me and the barrel was pointed straight at Alice’s ample bosom. Flushed with effort, gashed by briars, and grim with guilt, I must have looked quite a frightening sight.

  I savoured the moment, knowing that I could scarcely hope twice in a lifetime to have the ascendancy over Alice.

  Popping the tart in my mouth, I brought both hands to bear on the gun and curled my finger around the forward trigger. Her eyes bulged. I smiled and squeezed.

  “Boom!” I said through a mouthful of pastry.

  She shrieked and stepped backwards, then disappeared from view as though she’d dropped into a hole. I heard Widow Tyler’s bottle of elderberry smash to pieces on the cellar floor. And I heard no more.

  After a moment, I moved slowly forward and peered down the steep flight of worn stairs.

  It was a very lucky escape for Alice, I realized. If I’d squeezed the other trigger, she’d have got the loaded barrel right through her whalebone corset. As it was, I thought as I carefully closed the cellar door, her parting from this world was tragic rather than scandalous. That would have been the way she wanted it, Alice would have hated being relegated to the status of mere victim.

  When Sally and Lennie returned, I was clean, immaculate and relaxed, standing by the kitchen window eating jam tarts. Lennie looked at the tray with uncharacteristic bewilderment. There were only ten left.

  Sally made no comment but put the kettle on. Her face wore that characteristic half smile which few of the world’s upsets could remove for long. She was a dear girl, able to take everything in her stride, neither asking for, nor attending to, explanations.

  “I’ll make a pot of tea,” she said. “We’ll have it in the garden. Or would you prefer a bottle of Aunt Alice’s potato wine?”

  I considered the option.

  “No,” I said. “Tea will be fine.”

  I had another jam tart. Lennie’s eyes never left me. I thought of cause and effect; small causes, large effects; single steps and journeys of a thousand miles. I had not known what I was doing when I took the tarts that morning any more than I could have foreseen the consequences that other morning (so long ago it now seemed) when I helped myself to a couple of quid from the petty-cash box. Such a fuss Leonard had made! Poor, soft, amiable, hard-working Leonard, to make such a fuss about a few pounds when for years I had been milking every penny I could out of the business! He’d been very upset. I’d told the coroner so, though I naturally did not particularize the cause. Pressure of work was mentioned. Pressure of heel as he clung to the outer scaffolding was not. The heart has its laws which the law might misunderstand.

  Lennie was breathing heavily over the remaining tarts.

  “Help yourself,” I said magnanimously. He considered this for a moment, the deep grey eyes under the shock of black hair inward-looking as he weighed up the situation. Then he arrived at his decision, smiled broadly, and grabbed two.

  I, too, smiled, feeling almost fond of the little monster. Perhaps, I thought, preening myself slightly as I regarded my reflection in the kitchen window, perhaps he had inherited some of his father’s good qualities, too.

  My reflection nodded agreement and a lock of my jet black hair flopped down over my deep-set grey eyes. I pushed it back and thought that perhaps it was as well Leonard had not lived to see the way young Lennie developed.

  “We are all children of fate,” I mused as we went out into the garden.

  “Fête?” said Sally. “This afternoon’s, you mean?”

  Lennie, bringing up the rear with the last of the jam tarts on a plate, said nothing.

  Bu
t I felt that he understood.

  Exit Line

  There is a chair.

  There is a table.

  There is an iron bedstead.

  There is a bucket.

  There is no window.

  The walls, ceiling and floor are of the same untreated concrete. Only gravity distinguishes them. Even the door does not help much. It is flush with the wall like the door of a squash court and it is set in the centre of the wall about four feet from the ground and equidistant from the ceiling.

  The only light in the room comes from a single bulb set above the door. It is protected by a metal muzzle. There is no switch. It goes out when I get into bed and comes on when I get up.

  The door is made of some very hard wood. There is no handle or keyhole and it fits so snugly into the wall that no crack remains wide enough to admit even a sheet of paper.

  I sleep wrapped in a square grey blanket on the metal mesh of the bedstead. The temperature of the room never varies. I would put it around 65 Fahrenheit.

  Hunger, fatigue and the movement of my bowels are my only clock.

  There are a few inches of chemical solution in the bucket, but despite this the room must smell abominably. Fortunately I cannot tell.

  My bucket is emptied and my rations supplied while I sleep. My rations consist of a soft plastic jug of water, a cob loaf, a lump of cheese, two apples and a bone with a few scraps of meat on it.

  I try to stay awake as long as possible after going to bed, but always sleep comes and I have neither seen nor heard any sign of those who clean out my bucket and bring my food.

  I exercise each day, following a routine of press-ups, stretches, running on the spot and deep breathing. I think I am still fairly fit despite everything they have done to me, but I have no mirror to check my appearance.

  I cannot work out why the door is in the middle of the wall. Perhaps there was once a flight of steps leading up to it. I can find no trace of them, however.

  There is always paper on the table and newly sharpened pencils. I have to write every day. If I do not write, I get no food, only water.

  The door is made of very hard wood and has no handle or keyhole. If I am to get out of here I must find some means of opening it.

  I have to write the story of my life. Each morning I look to see if what I wrote the previous day has gone. If it is still there, then I know I must re-write it. Sometimes I have done the same episode a dozen times before it is accepted. Sometimes the alteration of a single word is enough.

  These notes are the framework of my sanity.

  My clothes consist of a pair of blue denim trousers with zipped flies and no belt, a loose shirt, or rather smock, of grey cotton, a pair of open sandals without buckles or laces. I also have a wristwatch on a canvas strap. The face is cracked and it does not work. Hunger, fatigue and the movement of my bowels are my only clock.

  Sometimes I think that the walls of the room are getting closer together. I have measured the breadth and width of the room with my feet, placing one in front of the other from corner to corner. It is fifteen foot-lengths square. I do this measurement at least once every day. I know it will not change, but I cannot sit writing for any length of time without doing the measurement.

  I have tried banging on the door with my chair but no one comes and the door shows no sign of damage. It sounds so solid that perhaps no noise is audible outside. Not that that matters. I do not doubt I am watched all the time.

  I have developed a habit of doodling and scribbling on sheets of paper. Then sometimes I tear and fold these sheets to make aeroplanes, dancing men, flowers or cockleshell boats. But always I contrive to secrete that one of the torn scraps which has my note on it. I dare not write more but I need what I write. These notes are the framework of my sanity.

  Any hope I have lies in that door. I laid a trap, putting my toilet bucket directly beneath it. It wasn’t much of a trap and absolutely worthless if I am being watched. I tried to lie awake but eventually fell asleep. The bucket was emptied and back in its usual place when I woke.

  I suspect I am being injected with drugs as I sleep. I have noticed tiny punctures appearing in my skin and I can think of no other explanation. Perhaps they are trying to make me dependent on some drug so that withdrawal will force me to talk. About what?

  I must make contact. Only through contact can there be a future for me.

  I need these notes to keep some check on the present. Without them I would not know if things change. I keep them concealed beneath my smock. My broken watch has a luminescent dial. By this tiny light I read my notes under the blanket before I fall to sleep. Without them I think I should be mad. Even with them, I have no certainty of survival. Above all I fear those punctures in my skin. I must force them to show themselves.

  Yesterday I stood on my chair and poured cold water through the protective muzzle on to the light bulb. It cracked and went out. I then stood by the door holding the chair ready to attack anyone who entered. But no one came. The room was in pitch darkness. I waited for what seemed several hours, then I grew so fatigued that I sat on the floor. Eventually I fell asleep. When I awoke the light was on again.

  I need these notes to keep some check on the present. I have scarcely any memory of the recent past. My broken watch is stopped at a quarter to four. I cannot recall how it got broken. Perhaps I do not want to. But the more autobiography I write, the more my childhood comes back to me. I write in such detail that I shall be old before I reach my youth. Yet whenever I omit anything the writing is not accepted.

  My fears that the room is contracting are with me always. I must make contact. I shall refuse to write until they contact me or I starve.

  I have written nothing for three days. On the third day I woke up very weak from lack of food and found I was lying on the ceiling of the room. Up above, or down below, I could see the chair, the table, the bucket and the bed. I tried to crawl down the walls to them but I stuck to the ceiling like a fly. Finally I either fainted or fell asleep. When I awoke I was in my bed again and there was food on the table. I ate and started writing immediately.

  The door is set in the centre of the wall. There is no crack big enough to admit even a razor blade. It is so solid that it cannot be broken down. Perhaps it will burn. I have an idea for starting a fire. But I have had ideas for so many things.

  I have been trying to write of the death of my mother for the past three? four days? Each time what I write is rejected. Why? What do they want of me? I shall write no more.

  I have to write again. More and more I think of death but it must be quick. I have no will to die of starvation. My attempt to start a fire was a fiasco. I cleared everything from my table, picked a few small splinters of wood from the surface with my fingernails, then held a pencil between both my palms and rubbed violently, trying to generate heat where the pencil point touched the wood-work. It got warm but nothing more.

  I have written that I was not wholly sorry at my mother’s death. This is a lie but they have accepted it. They have accepted a lie. How many other lies have they made me tell? I must make an end to this while I still can.

  I have decided to hang myself. There is no other way. I thought of slashing my wrists as I lay under my blanket one night, but I have nothing to use. I tried to break my water jug but it just bounces. If I had the courage I could bite through the veins but even in my despair that thought revolts me. But I shall use my teeth to cut through the bound edge of my blanket so that I can tear off a strip to make a noose.

  The only light in the room comes from a single bulb set above the door. It is protected by a metal muzzle fitted into the wall. This must be my gallows. The thought frightens me more than I can say, but I see no alternative. I write lies all the time now, descriptions of childhood hatreds and deceptions and odious lusts and imaginings, all lies, all lies. Yet they are accepted, every one of them.

  I have my noose. I wish it had not to be this way. How much better to slash my wrists as I lie on my bed an
d feel the life pour softly from me.

  I keep my noose around my waist. All is ready. I climbed on my chair today and examined the light. Let them think what they will. I had to make sure I had the right length of “rope.” No point in ending up on tiptoe slowly strangling. Oh God! but I will strangle. The drop cannot be deep enough to break my neck.

  Perhaps they will come if they see me strangling. Perhaps my piece of blanket will break or stretch and leave me flat-footed on the ground. If only I could be certain. Sometimes in the past I have had in my rations a flat brittle shoulder-bone. If I had one of these now I could break a splinter off and stab myself with it or slash my wrists. I must have certainty. I cannot face being hauled back from the brink.

  More lies today. And another knuckle-bone. I cannot go on much longer.

  Oh God! Today a shoulder! They will wonder at my appetite to see me gnawing and cracking at it. I have a long thin splinter, surprisingly strong but with a point like a needle. I feel as joyous as if someone had given me freedom.

  Was it yesterday I was so joyful? Yet I am still here. A noose round my waist, a dagger of bone at my side, yet I am still here. Is it illusion that I think I remember a time when I had will and courage and conviction? If there was a button on the table before me which I merely had to press to obliterate all this place and me with it, could I reach out my finger and press it? Perhaps I have arrived where they want me to arrive. Perhaps now all I have to do is wait.

  My dear friends, for what else should I call those who have watched over me with such unstinting care all these weeks? months? years?—my dear friends, these are the last words I shall write in this stinking cell. Yesterday you saw me sitting like a zombie staring blindly into space. Today you will be interested to observe this sudden last outburst of creative energy. And when it is finished you shall at last see me make my suicide attempt. All will be as you have doubtless forecast. Why should it not be, for you must be clever men? But you must not retain to yourself sole claim on the power of prognostication. We on our side have been trained also. And whose school is the better?