Compulsory Games

by Robert Aickman

  The circumscribed and inconveniently shaped area available for the tricks seemed to me to make the whole performance even more peculiar and pointless. Of course the refreshed audience might be supposed captive for whatever, in the name of charity, might be offered up to it.

  Where on earth was Ronnie? Surely, having failed earlier, he should have had a quiet word with me after the refreshments?

  I could fairly have decided that Ronnie had forfeited all consideration from me, at least for that particular evening. In all probability he really had achieved his goal this time. I myself already attached little weight to general social convenances, when such moments came my way. Through love one becomes a social discard, whether one chooses or not, and even though one learns in the end that these are the last moments at which to lose such head as one may have for practicalities.

  It was not, however, that, having reached this conclusion about Ronnie, I simply saw no reason to remain. The show gave rise to a certain inquisitiveness, whatever else might be said about it. I deny strongly, on the other hand, that I was led by any ordinary consideration for my actual safety.

  The entire explanation for my departure was that I had a moment’s glimpse through the murk of something I found extremely unpleasant: it was connected with a certain action on the part of the figure on the platform, a certain gesture, and the instant response to it by almost the entire audience. It was like a sudden glimpse of a deformity. At the same moment, a draught like a knife had come in through the open door behind me. It was the moment one yells, and, with luck, wakes up, during a long nightmare; the moment that, of its nature, can never be quite examined, quite elucidated, or quite extinguished. I cannot detail even to myself what was so dreadful about the particular effect or trick I had just witnessed; though I have more to say about nightmares later.

  I simply knew that I had had enough. I was going. I was off. If possible, of course. Ronnie had taken ship on unexpectedly deep waters, and would have, just then, to take his chance also.

  Entirely self-controlled, I tiptoed out through the doorway, still bitterly cold.

  As may be imagined, it was truly dark outside in the passage, as well as freezing. It was probably an ill-lighted passage at the best of times; whenever they might have been. But I could read the words WAY OUT pasted to the wall before me. I did not think they had been there before. Affixing them had possibly been Mrs. Baldock’s final chore at that address. My premonition concerning the front door was confirmed by the fact that the crude arrow upon the notice pointed in the opposite direction.

  One could but assume the existence of a back entry or tradesmen’s wicket to the dust passage. I did not even try the front door. Perhaps that was foolish, but I was in a hurry. The noise of the traffic was surprisingly subdued in so dilapidated a house. Perhaps there was some definite explanation for this. Perhaps, my own feet certainly seemed to echo.

  Obviously a few short flights of steps were possible; and in no time at all, I half-fell down one. I was quite badly jolted.

  But then came the revelation.

  Along the passage, at that slightly lower level, was a room on the left. Architecturally, it was a room such as the one in which Charles Lamb had written and imbibed, while Mary Lamb thumped forlornly at the panels of her cupboard. From it, a faint light emerged. I had been aware of this light. I looked into the room.

  The potentially literary character of the room was confirmed by the only piece of furniture that remained in it; which was a daybed. I could see little of this object, because Ronnie was sprawling upon it, leaning against the raised end, and looking pale, while Vera Z——, with her back and her loose hair towards me, reclined on the other end, cooing at Ronnie and caressing him in a very liberal way.

  It was not that I was looking in through an open door. There was a large window, with separate panes, between the room and the passage: a “borrowed light” introduced to illuminate the passage.

  Fair’s fair, of course, and no doubt I should have hastily passed on, had there not been further features of the scene. One was that Vera Z——’s hair, earlier that same evening a damp brown, was now a musty grey.

  Another was that on the far side of the daybed, and spread out languidly against the tattered wallpaper, almost as if gummed to it, was a very tall man. He was not so old as many of the night’s audience, nothing like so old, I thought, but he too was dressed in a dust-coloured suit, with trousers as long as derelict factory chimneys; and he too had grey hair, very long and straight. His face was yellow, and, though he might have been appreciating the tender scene before him, his open eyes were singularly dead.

  The husband, I could not but assume.

  “Ronnie,” I called lightly through the glass.

  Undoubtedly he heard me because his head turned a trifle towards me; but there was no expression on his face, other than a paralysed glare.

  “Ronnie,” I called, more peremptorily.

  All that happened was that his mouth fell open. The effect was horrible.

  Vera Z—— swung herself round and faced me. At least, I suppose it was Vera Z——, because the figure before me had roughly the same flattened features, and wore the same simple white blouse, now somewhat grimy. The expression seemed almost entirely different. This was like a face fashioned by a medieval craftsman who had dreamed of a demon; or sketched by a Japanese recluse who had actually seen one. I already knew enough about such things to make these comparisons with some confidence; and now of course I know more.

  Vera Z—— gazed calmly at me for a second, but made no gesture. She had no need. I was stupefied with fear at the scene; almost as paralysed as Ronnie himself.

  Vera Z—— merely made a languid plunge at Ronnie; slowly inclining her face against his. She began to stroke his pale cheek, and the hand with which she did it was at least twice the proper size. It was that huge unfemale hand that completely finished me.

  I have to admit that total blind panic overtook me, so that I turned and tore on down the dark passage, knowing quite well that I was leaving Ronnie defenceless. I do not think I had ever in my life before felt so scared, or behaved so pusillanimously. I hope not.

  There was an old fashioned back door with a bobbin-latch, but, when I touched it, the bobbin was icy cold, not just chilly like the passage, but almost like liquid air in the school’s ancient lab. The broadsheet about the charitable event and the programme for the music were still clutched in my hand. I crushed the two of them into a single ball and used the ball to raise the bobbin.

  Outside, there was still a little daylight, as in England there usually is. Over to the left, I could see the garden of the house, though I could make out nothing growing in it. There were heaps of plastic, which perhaps had enveloped the refreshments for this and for earlier gatherings; everything was commonplace, though putrid and rotten.

  One might have wondered about the neighbours, but the truth was that the Z—— family had none. All the former houses were either shops and offices, or empty; all the former gardens spattered with unwanted wrapping materials.

  Soon I was in the alleyway, among the choked bins. There was still not a light to be seen in the Z—— residence, of which I now had a complete rear view; and I knew for myself that there were few concealing curtains to be drawn.

  More scared than ever, I sped away, leaping over obstacles—when I could distinguish them; darting back from dead ends; cantering, ultimately, all the way down the steep hill; forgetting the state of my shoes and feet; ignoring everyone and everything; chilled to the bone however fast I ran.

  I slept little that night. The intimation of sinister intermediate states between living and dying weighed heavily on me; and I have to admit with shame that I did not expect to see Ronnie in propria persona again.

  I am sure I was kept awake also by having to decide what action on my part would be best. I had an utter repugnance to saying one word to anybody about what had happened, and it was remarkably difficult to explain, in any case; let
alone, in my case, to excuse.

  Of course both my parents were still alive at that time; though on the other side of London.

  I remained cold, never once stopped shivering, all night. I can hardly believe this, but it was true.

  One part of the problem, the obvious need for practical action of some kind, seemed largely to disappear when Ronnie simply turned up in the office the next morning, and at more or less his usual hour. At first, I experienced such a feeling of relief as to make me wonder whether I had not somehow dreamed the whole story of the night. I had parted even with my two pieces of documentary evidence, and in ludicrously unconvincing circumstances.

  At the period I am writing about, “open plan offices” were not common, and I must say at once that, even if they had been, Bream & Ladywell were far too sensible ever to succumb to such things. Ronnie Cassell and I, therefore, worked in different whole rooms, each with four proper and very solid walls. Despite my immense relief at sighting Ronnie, I was not encouraged by his flitting past and away from me without a word or a glance. I thought that he still looked very white, but that the same was possibly true of me.

  I did not see Ronnie again that day. In the ordinary course of things, there was no particular reason why I should. We were not in the habit of lunching together. Even our work lay in different sections; and he took his work more seriously than I did, because he aimed to be a lifelong chartered accountant, whereas, for me, accountancy was mainly one of several avenues I was keeping open to a wider career. I had already realised that when, at different times, we had come together, the initiative had usually been his, even though I had always found him a perfectly reasonable and agreeable person, however dislocated.

  What happened now was that day followed day without Ronnie making any approach to me at all, though at times I saw him skidding past; whereas I, to put it absolutely plainly, felt too guilty to think of approaching him.

  I cannot quite bring myself to embark upon the likely upset. At first I felt that, though I had behaved badly, yet it was he who had been responsible for our visiting the Z—— establishment at all. Later, I felt that I had quite possibly rushed to exaggerated conclusions. I was completely out of my depth about everything that had happened. If Ronnie had emerged intact, or even if, placed as he was in life, he had chosen not to emerge at all, what reason had I to worry so excessively?

  The upshot of it all was that the association between Ronnie and me, never really close, seemed to have come to a natural end. I was perfectly well aware that such things happened all the time.

  But something else happened, in the same general area, about which I was much less acquiescent. My pleasant and promising relationship with Clarinda Bowman was suddenly broken off by her.

  It is probably true that I had not been seeing quite as much of her in a given period of time as would have been wise, but the other girls I knew were pleasant company also. All my life I have found it difficult to bring to an end any reasonably pleasant relationship with a woman in favour of a relationship with another woman. Many men are indifferent to others’ pain. Perhaps that is best, after all.

  Clarinda Bowman was plainspoken: always one aspect of her character, though one aspect only.

  “I don’t think you really care about me,” she said, “and I believe I have fallen in love with someone else.”

  “I care about you far more than you know and far more than he does, whoever he may be,” I replied, and the odd thing is that it was entirely true about how much I cared. “Who is he, anyway?”

  “Why should I tell you who he is?”

  “No reason at all. Please forget about him. I love you very much.”

  “He’s kinder than you.”

  “You don’t know him as well as you know me.”

  “He’s much more understanding.” “You wouldn’t really like to be understood completely.”

  “He needs me more.”

  “That’s absurd and impossible.”

  “He’s much better in bed, Richard.”

  And so on and so forth; all the usual tags, so hurtful and yet so meaningless. Clarinda failed to make me chuckle on that occasion.

  I daresay that Clarinda was longing to tell me who the other person was, because one usually is; but there was no reason why it should have occurred to me that the person was Ronnie. One had hardly thought of Ronnie as God’s gift to women, as will have been gathered. That had been the whole point about Ronnie.

  I only realised when I came upon the two of them at a table in Romulo’s Restaurant, off Charlotte Street (very slightly off). It was a place that Ronnie would never even have heard of but for my talking about it. I was quite certain of that, and the knowledge went a considerable distance to make matters even worse.

  It was at least two or three weeks after Clarinda had decided to dispense with me. I am never inclined to press any woman beyond a certain point, and of course it is always lethal to attempt any kind of serious appeal or entreaty, especially when the woman is much richer than oneself, as in the present case.

  Now I was with a girl who had the odd name of Aster. I mean that it was her Christian name. Aster had a fringe and a very pretty shape. I was doing my best to feel fonder of Aster than I really was, but of course Clarinda was still for me the real and only thing.

  Clarinda was wearing a very thin, very high-necked sweater, which I had never seen before, I very much like women in thin, high-necked sweaters, and I wondered whether she had bought this one because of me, before deciding to take up with someone else. She seemed pale, and Ronnie still seemed pale too, though he had formerly been rather pinkish for most of the time, as nervous people so often are. Yes, I had time to remember my final perception or fancy before my bolt from the Z—— establishment.

  “What on earth’s the matter?” asked Aster. She knew neither Ronnie nor Clarinda. One likes to keep one’s girls well separated; and not least from one’s day-to-day work.

  Aster even clutched my hand. In certain ways, she was quite probably a nicer girl than Clarinda, all the time.

  “It’s just someone I know and don’t wish to meet.” I couldn’t hiss in her ear. I had almost to bawl, owing to the general din.

  “Shall we go somewhere else?” asked Aster; nice again, because she really meant it, which many girls would not, but quite the contrary.

  “It’s not as bad as that,” I replied, trying to heave myself into shape after the shock. “We’ll try for that table in the far corner.” It was most unusual at Romulo’s that there should be an empty table anywhere, let alone in the far corner.

  Of course I was bound to encounter Clarinda again and again. In my experience girls at such times usually put forward a special brand of glazed small talk. I simply had to become used to the situation; as on divers previous occasions. I took a reasonable pride in rising above at least the tactical difficulties.

  As for Ronnie Cassell, I had the idea that by seating myself in the corner, I could stare at him implacably for most of the evening. Thus might I discomfort him, haunt him, break him down, and submit him to Clarinda’s contempt. In any case, it was not natural that she, of all people, should find anything much in him, of all people.

  Properly, Aster should no doubt have been offered the corner seat for herself, but I doubt whether at that moment the idea so much as occurred to me. I ordered us a couple of Camparis, which was really beyond my then standard of living. Romulo’s, as more or less everyone knows, is not an expensive place. It had once been a haunt of bohemia, or so people said. Now there was no longer a bohemia, Romulo’s was almost always packed to the doors with a very mixed crowd indeed. I repeat that Aster and I were incredibly lucky to get that desirable corner table. I afterwards thought there might have been something peculiar about our getting it. Indeed, I believe I thought so immediately.

  The order for the Camparis was taken at once, and they appeared on the instant; both of which things at Romulo’s were extremely unusual too. Possibly the Fates had relented to the e
xtent of providing Aster and me with a stimulant; which was likely to be needed in both our cases, though for different reasons. Certainly, I remember, we had the usual difficulty in even placing any further order. I ought by then to have been known at Romulo’s, and perhaps I was; but one cannot always be certain what effect that has. Possibly I was not then taken as seriously as I took myself.

  “Which person is it?” asked Aster, who sat against the wall to my right. There was only one other chair at the table, so that there were limits to the crowding-in that could be attempted. It was easily the best table in the room.

  Ronnie and Clarinda had managed to annex one of the very few tables for two. I wondered how Ronnie of all people could possibly have achieved this. There was very little booking in advance at Romulo’s. It was generally agreed to be a waste of time. Ronnie simply did not command the muscle needed.

  The two of them were seated not facing one another, but at right angles, like Aster and me; so that both of them were in my line of sight, Ronnie’s full, strangely pale face, and Clarinda’s blanched left cheek. How in such a throng could there have been a line of sight in any case; across two thirds of the more or less square room? I do not know. One sometimes encounters such things when one is in an exalted state, as I then was.

  I replied to Aster. “It’s a chap in the office whom I don’t like. Fortunately, he doesn’t work with me.”