Compulsory Games

by Robert Aickman

  If Crickmay had demurred, he would have lost part of his family face, which is often the very last face a man is left with in life.

  But, like most things, the project failed to work out as planned. Perhaps it was that they had underestimated the time it would take to reach the station by the slightly more circuitous and insalubrious route.

  Crickmay had been pretty silent so far on the walk, which, in its revised form, had at first been not at all to his taste. He had no wish to work out how many months it had been since he had last set eyes upon any portion of the cemetery. He had soon come to see, however, that it might be no bad thing for him to take a quick glance at his trusteeship while his cousin was there to accompany and support him.

  At about the moment when the smell of the cemetery first reached Crickmay’s nostrils, Ramage began to dither. Soon he stopped, lowered his burdens to the pavement, using a lamp post to support them, and drawing back the sleeve of his very loose over-coat, looked at his watch.

  “I don’t think I’ve got time,” he said. “I’m frightfully sorry, Oswald.”

  “So am I. By now I’m all steamed up.”

  “I must take the shortest route there is. I simply have no alternative. Just give me all the stuff and I’ll make a dash for it. I don’t know what can be done if I miss the big connection.”

  “Of course I shan’t abandon you. I shall see you on your way, whatever happens next.”

  “Quite unnecessary, Oswald. You just go on as you intended, and I’ll take my chance.”

  Suddenly the gaslight above their heads popped out and began to emit its own smell.

  “I’m coming with you, Alban,” proclaimed Crickmay, with impressive firmness. “There’s an alley here which makes a short cut, though you’ll have to watch where you put your feet.”

  None the less, when they reached the station, they had no less than fifteen clear minutes in hand. Perhaps Ramage’s watch had been fast. Those who love railways often make that a rule, and then forget the fact. Crickmay had not been able to look at his own watch owing to the things he had been carrying.

  “Let me entertain you to a double whisky, Oswald. By way of a tip for all that porterage.”

  “That’s extremely nice of you, Alban.” At Crickmay’s place, only weak tea had passed.

  They entered the Refreshment Room. The smoke that came in through the windows and crevices was adulterated with the steam from the sibilant urns.

  “You’re looking pale, Oswald. Perhaps you should go straight to bed?”

  “It’s probably an effect of the light.” The light was yellowy-green and inconstant. The place was filled with the silent crowd awaiting Ramage’s train.

  Ramage contrived to extricate one of the double whiskies. He handed it to Crickmay. As was usual between them there was only a small quantity of soda. They knew each other’s ways well enough. “Would you like a pie? There seems to be little else. I don’t imagine you’ll want an ice cream?”

  Crickmay shook his head. “I’ll have an egg when I get back.” He pushed his way through to a position near the pile of Ramage’s objects.

  In the end, Ramage joined him with his own drink. By then Crickmay’s was half finished.

  “Sorry to gulp,” he said. “I really needed it.”

  “If you want my opinion,” said Ramage, slowly, “you’re playing with fire, though you may not know it.”

  But the strong drink was beginning to take effect.

  “I expect it’ll all work out,” said Crickmay.

  Ramage was feeling in his buttoned-down overcoat pockets. He had many, in which to carry the more precious stamps. He half produced a booklet in a paper cover, dun in hue. He hesitated for a moment.

  “I forget. How well do you read Latin?”

  “Not well enough,” replied Crickmay with a sad smile. “Never could, even at school.”

  Ramage let the booklet slide back into the pocket, and once more buttoned down the flap.

  “You really must learn,” he said. “You simply must. Please make an effort, Oswald.”

  People were at first creeping, and then surging out. It was a double door, but one half had not been unbolted for years.

  “Many thanks indeed for the drink, Alban. I feel a completely new man. Let me help you get your things on the train.”

  •

  When the packed coaches were clear of the sparsely lighted platform, Crickmay decided to act on impulse. Even though his cousin had left him on his own, he would snatch a glimpse of the cemetery while he still felt himself able. After all, he had been keying himself up to that end for almost an hour, and his cousin’s hospitality was proving almost as potent as his cousin’s presence might have been. It was not that Crickmay’s doubts had disappeared; merely that for a moment he felt strong enough to submerge them.

  He walked faster and faster, lest the new man inside him perish too precipitately. There was the usual gathering mist, which had begun to empty the streets. It thickened appreciably as Crickmay neared the cemetery district of the borough. Each droplet reeked oleaginously.

  Crickmay stalked along the first length of the partly collapsed cemetery railing. Through the murk he could see from afar the round red glow from Rogerson’s window. It seemed both larger and brighter than when he had seen it before, but that might have been because there was no other light in The Lodge, and because the general visibility was so bad. Crickmay realised that for an old-age pensioner heat might be more important than light, but it was hard to believe that this contained and constant fieriness served merely to warm the room.

  With the liquor still soothing away a large part of prudence, Crickmay strode right up to the window, as some of the bolder boys had occasionally done in Mr. Yarwood’s time. Of course there were no curtains to be penetrated: only heavy grime, cracked glazing, and darkness. Crickmay had to stand on his toes. He could not have found the will uninebriated.

  He realised that the source of the glow within was not, as one would have supposed, straight ahead. As far as could be seen (which, of course, was not very far), it came neither from a stove nor from an open grate. Rather it seemed to ascend diagonally from near the floor, as if through a rent in the skirting. Crickmay wondered how the skirting boards and the floor itself were faring. After all, The Lodge was municipal property.

  By thus standing on tiptoe, Crickmay had secured for himself a better angle on the actual blaze. There were flames, right enough; and, within the flames, inexplicable dark motes or flecks, which came and went, darted up and down, performed the most volatile of dances.

  Crickmay’s feet were in torment but he could not stop looking. In the end, he appreciated that to the left of the fiery aperture a figure was sitting, or perhaps squatting. It was a very dark figure, in the nature of things and, Crickmay would have said, very large.

  Crickmay supposed that at long last he had set eyes upon the entity for whom he had responsibility.

  Rogerson was passing a quiet senior citizen’s evening before his own special fire in his own special way.

  Crickmay flopped back upon the soles of his feet. He could not prevent a small but real cry of pain. He feared that there might be some response, but he was as yet unable to move.

  In the end he managed a few short paces by way of limbering himself up. The window he had been looking through was in three parts, divided by foliated stonework, and slightly projecting or bowed. Crickmay now saw that the holes in the glass which the lads had made were still unmended. Through the apertures, warmth was emerging, together with a smell as of meat on a red-hot grid-iron; as of meat that was not cooking merely, but burning fast. Senior citizens and pensioners often have their own ways with their provender.

  It was physically impracticable for Crickmay to rise on his points a second time, and in any case he would have hesitated the more, as we all should, to peer through an actual hole than through filthy diamond panes. Moreover, the drink was withdrawing from him. After all, there had not been very much drink. One
double whisky would hardly have affected him in the days when his cousin and he had seen more of one another and talked endlessly of what they could and would do in life and had settled all kinds of mutual conventions, acknowledged and unacknowledged. That had been only twelve to fifteen years ago.

  As Crickmay, much reduced in élan, was about to stumble away, a man came slowly through the cemetery gates.

  Crickmay drew back against the dirty wall of The Lodge. He hid, as far as was possible, behind the small convexity of Rogerson’s rubicund and defective window.

  To judge by the sounds he made, the man’s feet seemed to hurt as much as Crickmay’s feet. Perhaps the man’s limbs hurt also. Perhaps all of the man hurt.

  Crickmay managed a half-step forward and a glance round the projection.

  He could see only that the man’s head was set unusually deep within his shoulders. The rest of him was as black, shapeless, and lumbering as the presumed figure of Rogerson within. Then the newcomer was caught for a moment by the angled glare of Rogerson’s furnace, and Crickmay knew who he was.

  It was then that Crickmay found himself glad to have persevered in trying to penetrate, attach, and remember the names of his colleagues on the Committee.

  “Good evening, Mr. Huddlesford,” he said.

  But Mr. Huddlesford took no notice. He merely turned his back upon Crickmay and started to limp and shamble along the decayed cemetery railings in the direction from which Crickmay had just come.

  Crickmay could only suppose that the more senior Committee members were provided with keys, or had managed to provide themselves.

  He did not bother to examine the second half of the cemetery. Away from the broken window, he was quivering with the cold. The sooner he was home the better. If one could call it home.

  •

  There could well have been criticism when, a week later, Mr. Toller introduced to the Committee the Hefferman Project with so few present.

  The Hefferman Project was nothing less than a proposal that Heffermans, in alliance with the Council, should acquire the entire cemetery area and reconstruct it, converting the cemetery itself partly into a Spanish Garden, partly into a recreation area, with tracks and pitches. The Spanish Garden would be annexed to a block of flamenco flats to be known as Alhambra Court, the nub of the whole concept. Access to the garden would be for Alhambra residents only.

  •

  Mr. Toller reported all the ensuing exchanges to the Committee quite fully and fairly. The only trouble was that so few of the Committee were now attending. Thus, Crickmay to his knowledge never again saw Mr. Huddlesford there; and by now he was fairly certain that he would have identified him.

  In the end, there was only Mr. Jonas and Mr. Jarman to be depended upon. Mr. Jarman was the one who smiled occasionally, though possibly but at his own thoughts, supposing that he had thoughts of his own.

  In advance of one meeting, Mr. Toller spoke of the absenteeism to Crickmay who had arrived early, as he normally did. Mr. Toller’s brow was furrowed as a field.

  “Good to see you, Oswald. We’re not getting the support we have a right to expect from the rest of them.”

  “I suppose they have other things to do,” suggested Crickmay vaguely.

  “Well, I don’t know about that,” said Mr. Toller.

  “You know so much more than I do, Hubert.”

  “I suspect they’re grouping against us, biding their time, waiting to pounce when the vote is taken. I’ve known that happen often.”

  “Which particular vote, Hubert?”

  “The final vote on Hefferman, of course. Whether we recommend it to the Full Council or whether we don’t.”

  “I myself find much of the detail incomprehensible.”

  “Don’t you start, Oswald. Not you too, for God’s sake.” But Mr. Toller had for the moment to abstain from further exhortation. “The two corpses have arrived. Eh, Oswald?” he muttered behind his hand, as Mr. Jonas and Mr. Jarman shuffled to their places, black-suited, white-faced, the weathered remnant of a legion.

  Both on the Council and on the Committee, Crickmay had by now come to understand that it made little difference whether members attended or not. Few ordinary people could be expected to go in for his own highly personal conscientiousness. Most folk would have other things to do in their short lives, as he himself had pointed out to Mr. Toller. On the other hand, the business of the borough had to be carried on, or so it was always said: the salaries, to be paid; the consequent requisitions made; the records kept in triplicate and so forth. There were even some departments of serious consequence, such as the police, and possibly the isolation and mental hospitals.

  The proceedings opened.

  Mr. Toller spoke for some time, and with the precision that could be expected of him; but something was gnawing at Crickmay, which made it difficult for him to concentrate as he would have wished.

  Mr. Toller became more and more agitated, and in the end was even attempting oratory. One could hardly blame him, but the audience of four (including the secretarial man) was really too small for the purpose. Only a professional revolutionary could have achieved the proper flights under such conditions. As it was, Mr. Toller, almost always so copious and lucid, became gasping, unselective, incoherent. He could have done with a glass of water, but the middle-aged porter who filled the carafes, Mr. Burnsall, had been mysteriously sick for weeks. Some were hinting that Mr. Burnsall’s malady had resulted from his living too near the cemetery. Certainly none of the normal doctors seemed keen to attend him.

  All of a sudden, Crickmay realised what was afoot. The words which Mr. Toller was spluttering out now were linked with the drift of Mr. Toller’s words before the start of the meeting. No one had seriously expected a decision on the Hefferman Project until Kingdom Come. But Mr. Toller, in the manner of Napoleon, had decided upon a decision that very day. Probably the thought and the purpose had come to him only when he had been in comparatively free flood.

  “So.” The word was thundered out, almost as if it had been in late-1930s German.

  “So,” perorated Mr. Toller. “We have done our duty. We have examined alternatives. We have gone into fullest detail. We have received the necessary inducements and considerations. We have done all that can be required or expected by reasonable men. I see no reason why the matter should not be clinched immediately, and passed on to the Full Council. Hands up, those in favour.”

  The force of the different arguments had been so compelling that Crickmay’s arm shot up at once, without even volition having to be exercised.

  In any case, a positive decision by that particular committee could not possibly settle the matter, one way or the other. It was a comforting thought, if ever there was one.

  Mr. Jonas and Mr. Jarman were sitting there stony and mum. Indeed, Crickmay had never yet noticed their hands above their heads, or even above their shoulder-blades. Perhaps they had difficulty in lifting them so high.

  Mr. Toller was not to be baffled.

  “I have a vote too,” he pointed out. “I now exercise it in favour.” He raised his arm to its fullest height.

  Mr. Jonas and Mr. Jarman sat on. Mr. Jarman’s grey lips were not even smiling.

  “As Chairman, I have a casting vote also. I cast it in favour.”

  At that, to Crickmay’s consternation, Mr. Jonas and Mr. Jarman rose foggily to their feet. He had never before known either gentleman to rise until the official end of a meeting, and often, indeed, not even then. If there was one thing that Crickmay hated (and, in fact, there were many), it was a full-scale row in public.

  Mr. Jonas seemed to speak. Such voice as he might have had was low, quavery, and very thick. “Point of order,” he was thought to say.

  Mr. Jarman spoke too, quite unsmilingly. “Ye’ll nae go thru’ with it, mon,” he croaked out. It had never so much as occurred to Crickmay that Mr. Jarman might be a Scotsman: even though a Scotsman with a most un-Scottish mumble, the dim voice of the corries when the year is dyin
g.

  Mr. Toller replied with his usual firmness and openness. “Most certainly we shall, Roderick. Always provided that the Full Council give their approval.”

  “Ye’ll be fought,” said Mr. Jarman. His tone, though faint, was granite, but, Crickmay fancied, did not exclude negotiation. “Ye’re no showing proper respect.”

  “You’ll be fought to the death,” gargled out Mr. Jonas.

  “That will be a matter for the Council to meet,” said Mr. Toller.

  “There’s the Ministry involved too,” put in the man who wrote. He often said things like that.

  “And possibly the Cabinet, if they can find the time for it.” That of course was Mr. Toller, who made particular points of knowing as much as any official, and of being as sarcastic also, when appropriate.

  “Ye’ll rue the day,” said Mr. Jarman. Actually, it was already almost evening.

  The knuckles of Mr. Jonas and Mr. Jarman were pressed down on the desk before them; both knuckles of both Committee members; helping in each case to support the total, crumbling, semi-erect frame.

  “I declare the motion carried,” proclaimed Mr. Toller.

  The man wrote accordingly. His eyebrows moved, but his expression was impenetrable, as was expected of him.

  “We proceed to the next business,” said Mr. Toller.

  But Crickmay could not remove his two eyes from the knuckles of Mr. Jonas and Mr. Jarman; indeed, from their whole hands, in so far as one could speak of their hands, when they were so green and fleshless.

  Crickmay dragged his eyes upwards and set himself to examine the only other portions of Mr. Jonas and Mr. Jarman that civilised clothing left open to inspection.

  Well, he thought: it would not be true to say that the two heads were mere skulls. That would be an inexcusable exaggeration, but, like most inexcusable exaggerations, it contained too much for convenience of the deeper truth. Crickmay had never before cared to have a good look at any person so vastly his senior. Hitherto, for example, he had missed the full and literal meaning of the locution, “dead eyes.”