The House Opposite

by J. Jefferson Farjeon

  He counted a hundred and thirty-two, and then took a step towards the thing that was not really a coffin. Then he counted two hundred and six, and took another step. Then he counted one, dived forward, seized the black cloth, pulled it, and closed his eyes tight.

  While his eyes were closed the lid of the box flew up and a skeleton jumped out and embraced him. With a gasp he opened his eyes, and the imagined skeleton vanished back into the box. The lid was still closed. Ben himself had vanished to the farthest wall, and he was trying to get through it. The bruise was developing on his forehead.

  ‘I’ll tell yer wot it is,’ he informed himself seriously. ‘Yer frightened.’

  Now that he knew, he felt a little better. Apart, that was, from the bruise. The wall had not been kind to that.

  ‘Yus, but ’oo wouldn’t be frightened?’ he went on. ‘I don’t believe the Prince o’ Wales’d like it!’

  That made him feel a little better still. He brought himself away from the wall, and, with the Prince of, Wales, began to return to the box. Because, of course, no matter if the Prince of Wales didn’t like it, that wouldn’t stop him from doing his duty. And Ben had his duty too.

  ‘Why, yer silly idgit, yer knoo a box was ’ere,’ he rounded on himself. ‘That’s wotcher come up for, ain’t it?’

  Yes, but he hadn’t known that the door was going to be locked against him. He hadn’t known that, while he was investigating the box, the door would be liable to fly open at any moment not of his own choosing and that the enemy might come pouring in on him! He visualised a dozen people pouring in upon him. Then, with a momentary return to logic, he realised that there could only be two. Flitt was locked in the cellar. Mahdi had gone—with the cellar key. The big chap was dead. And that only left the old man and the snaky woman.

  ‘Yus, and, lummy, I got this!’ thought Ben suddenly. The revolver! Clutched all this while, though forgotten, in his hand.

  Of course, that explained why the enemy didn’t come pouring in upon him. They knew they would be received with a bullet. So they preferred to wait until reinforcements arrived…

  ‘Well, I gotter git busy!’ muttered Ben. ‘’Cos when that blinkin’ Injun does come back, ’e’ll unlock the cellar door, and then there’ll be four on ’em!’

  Therefore, while instinct kept him away from the wooden box, simple logic drew him towards it again. He must open it and deal with the contents while there was yet time.

  The lid of the box was quite easy to manipulate. It was not nailed or screwed down; it was secured at the front by a simple hook. Ben would have been better pleased if the hook had been less simple, for then the unpleasant shock he was anticipating would have been delayed, but the hook responded immediately to manipulation, and the next moment Ben discovered himself raising the lid.

  As he did so he prayed for emptiness. The prayer was not answered. A figure lay stretched out in the box. He could just see it dimly.

  Ben stared at the figure with glassy eyes. Then, as he recalled the last time he had seen the man—erect and virile, and genial despite his challenge—his eyes lost their glassiness and a new look entered into them. He forgot, for a few moments, his own troubles in the contemplation of another’s.

  ‘Gawd! Wot a crew!’ he muttered.

  He turned towards the door, his fingers tightening on his revolver, then turned back to the box and its occupant.

  ‘So this is why yer didn’t come aht of the ’ouse again, old cock!’ he murmured. ‘Wunner ’ow long yer’ve bin ’ere like this?’

  Ben hated people who didn’t move. They made him remember that one day he wouldn’t move. But he had a job on, and he’d got to go through with it, so he poked his head sideways into the box and put an ear to the occupant’s chest.

  ‘Good!’ he said, as he brought his head out again. ‘’E ain’t a deader!’

  Then what was the trouble?

  ‘Suffercashun?’

  But there were holes in the box. Both the top and the sides had been perforated. Besides, if you suffocated, you became a deader, didn’t you?

  ‘Dope! That’s wot it is! Dope!’ concluded Ben. ‘Like wot they did ter me!’

  Well, you came out of dope. That’s right! Corse you did! Hadn’t Ben? So, if Ben waited, this chap would come out of it too.

  Wherefore, Ben waited. There was nothing else to do. He waited with one eye on the box and one eye on the door. The minutes slipped by.

  ‘Ain’t anythin’ goin’ ter ’appen?’ he wondered presently.

  A good deal was going to happen, but not just yet. He went on waiting. His bruise grew. His forehead throbbed. He began to feel faint.

  ‘Corse, food don’t matter,’ he told himself.

  Then, all at once, he stiffened. He had heard a soft movement outside the door.

  The movement was not repeated. Had the person gone away, or was the person still there? Or hadn’t it been a person? Or had the person been there all the while? Ben crept to the door and listened. The silence became horrible. He raised his hand to bang on the door and break the silence, but desisted. If somebody was outside it would be satisfactory to make them jump, but if nobody was outside it would bring somebody who might make Ben jump! Better let sleeping silences lie.

  But what about the window? For the first time Ben’s mind concentrated on that. He crossed to the window, and peered out. Little balcony. Big drop. He came away from the window.

  Then followed another period of waiting. The minutes became hours. Ben fought against the forces that were weakening him. The forces of tension and terror and fatigue. Also of an injured forehead. He tried to think of something useful. He couldn’t think of anything. Yes—one thing. A juicy chop, swimming in gravy.

  ‘Wot ’appens,’ he wondered, ‘when yer git so ’ungry yer can’t any more?’

  He believed he would soon know. Perhaps, then, you couldn’t even think of chops? This one was slipping away from him. Floating off in the gravy. For now the gravy had become a river. A red river. Oi! None o’ that! Good—here was the chop back again, all rich with brown outside. Brown! Brown! Not red, d’you hear?…Why didn’t the chap wake up? Nice and brown. He ought to be out of it by now. And tender, so that when you put your teeth into it…Just dope, that’s all. Corse, he wasn’t dead. And when he came out of the dope, he’d know what to do…Yus, with some nice Brussel-sprouts and pertaters, and a chunk of cheese to end up with…cheese…something about cheese…cheese in a parcel…

  Hallo! What was happening?…It was all dark…Ben sat up with a jerk, and, as he did so, something sat up beside him. A sort of solidified shadow of himself. He tried to shriek, found he couldn’t, and clasped the solidified shadow. For an instant two weak men tried to hurt each other. Then one of them slid back into the box from which he had arisen, while the other tried hard not to sob.

  ‘’Ere—steady, lad!’ thought Ben. ‘’Old on! ’E’s comin’ to.’

  But why was it so dark? And why did he feel so terribly weak? And why was everything wobbling? Perhaps he had been doped, also—with fatigue! Perhaps this was what happened when you went on getting hungry till you couldn’t any more.

  He bent over the box. He felt that, whatever he had to do—and he had a muddled sensation that he had a lot to do—must be done quickly. Otherwise he would wobble off again. Meaning himself, Ben—not t’other chap. ‘’E’s comn’ and I’m goin’!’ he explained to himself. The urgent question was whether they could meet in transit.

  ‘Oi!’ whispered Ben, into the depths.

  ‘Who are you?’ answered the depths.

  ‘Chap yer spoke ter—’ouse acrost the road,’ said Ben. ‘I’m on yer side.’

  ‘Is that why you went for me?’ came up to him next.

  ‘That don’t matter,’ replied Ben, trying to save time. ‘Gall’s gotter be saved.’

  ‘Girl? How? Go on!’

  Ben thought hard. How did one go on? He felt he had omitted something. Something important. What was it? Oh, of course!r />
  ‘’Ow are yer?’ asked Ben.

  ‘Groggy—but game!’

  ‘Same ’ere—on’y more groggy,’ Lummy, he did feel groggy! ‘Fack is, mate, I’m done. Feel orl light like. Dunno wot I’m sayin’ much. Oi! You still there?’

  ‘Sure!’ came the reassuring response.

  ‘Comin’ to, like?’

  ‘Rather. I’ve been coming to for an hour—only I didn’t want you to know.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘How did I know who you were? But go on! About this girl?’

  ‘’Oo?’

  ‘Stick to it!’

  ‘Yus, but somethin’s bobbin’ abart. I feel queer, that’s a fack. Don’t serpose yer got a chop on yer? I got a ’ole in me the size o’ the Crystil Pallis…’Ere—quick! I’m goin’.’ A hand darted forward and steadied him. ‘Wot’s that? Well, ain’t I told yer? We gotter save the gall?’

  The occupant of the box was now sitting up again. His own mind was not clear, but it was clearing.

  ‘Yes, yes, we will save the girl, never fear!’ he whispered in Ben’s ear. ‘But you must tell me how we’ve got to set about it.’

  Ben listened hard. He nodded. He understood.

  ‘You mean the feller the boy shot,’ he mumbled. ‘Well, I killed ’im. The boy didn’t. But that don’t matter. That’s jest blackmail, that is. Fifteen thahsand. That don’t matter.’ His eyes were closed, but suddenly he opened them, and stared desperately at the man who still held his arm to steady him. ‘Gawd—they’ve took ’er away. Took ’er away! Doncher ’ear? Took ’er away! And they was goin’ ter take you away in this ’ere box. Wot yer got ter do is ter git the pleece…git the pleece, and then—’

  ‘Yes? And then?’

  The voice sounded very far off.

  ‘’Oo? Oh…foller the box…that’s it…foller the box…’

  And then it suddenly grew very dark again, and everything in the whole world vanished with the exception of a golden-brown chop dripping with rich gravy and hanging inacessibly from a star.

  CHAPTER XXXIV

  INTO THE BOX

  PRESENTLY even the chop vanished, and the darkness became absolute. Hunger, fatigue and a bruise wiped out Ben’s Universe. In other Universes the queer business of life ran on, with its strange sense of significance and eternity, but Ben was oblivious to all function and emotion. He neither loved nor hated, rejoiced nor despaired, fulfilled nor desired. Nor was he teased by the faint reflections of these things. He was at peace.

  His final peace, however, had not yet dawned. The Fates still wanted him to play with. Into the darkness, at last, came a vague disturbance. The darkness separated, then came together again, then separated again. What was carving it up and destroying its soothing nullity?

  It wasn’t light. No, the blackness remained black, despite this invasion upon it. Sound? Yes, that was it. Sound. The carving knife was sound…

  The faintly-functioning form of Ben shifted uneasily. Then, after a pause, shifted again, and cocked an unwilling, faintly functioning ear.

  The sound increased. The form of Ben began to function less faintly. Now it was almost sitting up, its two hands gripping the side of the wooden box towards which its head had drooped.

  ‘Oi!’ murmured Ben. It was his S.O.S. to his lagging brain.

  The sounds continued to increase. They became recognisable. Footsteps. Voices…Voices. Footsteps…

  ‘They’re comin’,’ he gasped. ‘’Ere—do somethin’!’

  Another exhortation to his brain. And the brain responded:

  ‘Wot?’

  Then it asked another question:

  ‘Where’s the other bloke?’

  Now Ben’s hand groped down into the box, to discover its emptiness. The other bloke had gone. Where? How? Out of the door? No, that was impossible. The door was locked on the outside. The window then? Yes, the window. The window was open, and the black smudge of the balcony gloomed beyond.

  But why had he gone? In a flash that hurt him, Ben remembered. ‘Follow the box…Follow the box!’ Ben had told him to follow the box…To go and fetch the police and follow the box…

  The box! This box! This box for which these approaching voices were coming! Yes, and suppose the other bloke had had an accident or something, and wasn’t able to follow the box? Come to that, why did he have to follow the box? Ben couldn’t remember. Something about…Something about…

  Another flash came to Ben and hurt him more. Why, the girl, of course! This box was going to the place where the girl was! It was the sign-post to her.

  The voices were now outside the door. The key was being softly turned.

  ‘Gawd!’ gasped Ben, and rolled into the box.

  The lid was down before the door opened.

  A light flashed for an instant. Ben glimpsed it through the perforations in the wood of his prison. Then came darkness again, and a voice.

  ‘Gone,’ said the voice. ‘It was expected!’

  It was the Indian’s voice. It chilled Ben, stuffy though his prison was. It seemed, also, to chill others present.

  ‘Through the window,’ went on the voice. ‘Your final folly, Mr Clitheroe. You know, of course, what this means?’

  ‘I’ll catch him!’ came the old man’s mutter.

  The Indian’s smooth drone replied to it.

  ‘You will not catch him, Mr Clitheroe. It is written that you will never catch him. But one day I will catch him—yes, that, also, is written. And, meanwhile, he is at large, and is talking to policemen.’

  ‘Yes, while we talk here!’ cried Mr Clitheroe. ‘Quick! Down to the front door, Flitt—’

  ‘Stay where you are, Mr Flitt,’ interposed Mahdi, ‘and help with this box.’

  ‘But—’

  ‘Silence, incompetent! You have had the man for hours in this room, and you let him go! Are you still under the delusion that you have a brain?’

  ‘I tell you, he had a revolver!’ snapped the old man nervily. ‘Flitt’s revolver! Was I to risk my life? Or Jessica here? There were not enough of us to rush him—Flitt has been locked in the cellar until this moment, as you know—all because you went off with the key—and who’d have guessed that tramp could have got out of that window? Why, it seems impossible!’

  ‘Still, he did get out,’ answered Mahdi sternly, ‘and at any moment now he will be back here with the police. We are fortunate to have even these few seconds. Do you insist on wasting them? Come! Act!’

  ‘Oh, yes, by all means!’ retorted the old man rebelliously. ‘We are to help you escape with this damned box—’

  ‘Do you want your damned box to be discovered here?’

  ‘No! But what happens when we are discovered here, after you have gone?’

  Very coldly came the Indian’s response.

  ‘It is because you need to ask that question—because you are not competent to find an answer yourself—that you will not be discovered here, Mr Clitheroe. When the police arrive, they will find the house empty.’

  ‘Indeed! And where shall we be?’

  ‘With me. All three of you. In the presence of one who will deal with you.’

  ‘You mean—we’re to accompany you?’

  ‘So!’

  ‘But suppose we refuse?’

  It was the woman’s voice, this time.

  ‘You will not refuse,’ answered Mahdi. ‘You know the price you would pay. You will accompany me, and at once! And, now—the box!’

  The next instant Mahdi’s voice sounded again, closer. Ben tried to think of a prayer, and failed.

  ‘Some one has opened it,’ said Mahdi. ‘The lid is unfastened.’

  ‘Then prove your brains, Mahdi,’ snapped the old man, ‘by fastening it yourself before some one else pops out.’

  ‘Without being sure first that the some one else is inside?’

  ‘Now I’m fer ’eaven!’ thought Ben.

  But Mr Clitheroe delayed the journey. He dashed to the box and adjusted the hook. A pin point of
light darted through one of the perforations and flashed for a moment on a portion of the occupant’s coat. Then the pin point of light went out, and Mr Clitheroe reported:

  ‘He’s inside all right! Feel the weight of the thing.’ He seized an end, lifted it, and dropped it with a thud. ‘Satisfied, eh? Or now do you want to waste time? Come on, Ted! Let’s get to it. We don’t want the police to catch sight of the van outside.’

  The case was lifted. Rivers of perspiration ran down the face of the huddled man inside it. He thought he had come to the end of ruthless experience. It occurred to him, now, that he had only just begun.

  The journey down the stairs and out into the van was a jolting, jostling nightmare. At one moment he appeared to be standing erect in his dark little prison, at another on his head. He struck each side, he was shot into each corner. For the first time in his life he understood the meaning of packing-paper, and would have bartered his soul for it.

  But, apart from the noise of his bumping—and that was only loud to him—no sound came from inside the case. If Ben made a sound of agony or of protest, the case might be examined, and if the case were examined he might not be allowed to remain in it. And, if he did not remain in it, he would never be able to find the girl again. ‘Yer unsensible, see—unsensible,’ he told himself. ‘Doncher fergit!’ A sharp nail did its best to induce the condition he was feigning, but merely succeeded in rendering the condition more desirable…

  And now a new sound fell upon the sufferer’s ears. The acoustics changed, and the noise of an engine dominated the world outside the wooden box. A final jerk upwards, that nearly broke Ben’s neck, a sudden medley of anxious whispers—unpleasantly close—a closing door, and then movement superseded sound. The next stage of Ben’s journey had begun.

  CHAPTER XXXV

  OUT OF THE BOX

  IN darkness, Ben travelled through darkness. In company, he travelled alone. He had no knowledge of time or of direction, and he did not know whether he were passing through silent streets or populated thoroughfares, through roads with houses or lanes with trees. He could not differentiate between bumps and hills or jerks and corners. One mile might have been twenty, or twenty one.