She had moved in with him at a point when it had become the only natural move to make, anything else seeming ridiculous and false. Marriage was obviously the next step, and both knew that this would come about naturally and without any urging from either side.
He walked to the window and looked down into the busy Cromwell Road. They had planned to buy a small house somewhere in the country, not too far from the airport. He smiled without humour; they had even considered the area around Eton or Windsor. And that was where their dreams had been shattered; in a quiet field at Eton!
He walked away from the window and lit another cigarette, his mind again in a turmoil of thoughts. Eton! Was that why he felt this compulsion to return there, because they had planned to live nearby? Was he trying to recapture something of the past, their visits to the small town? Or was it because he felt an answer was waiting for him there?
The desire to return to the scene of the crash had been almost overwhelming. He’d fought hard to resist, wanting no physical reminder of the dreadful event that had taken place there, but he’d been drawn to the place, against his will, against his comprehension. He wanted to stay away, but some instinct, some taunting voice somewhere in his mind told him he would not find peace until he returned. It was both inexplicable and irresistible.
Perhaps, by going back, a small nerve in his memory cells would be jogged; perhaps he would remember the crash, and the events leading up to it. And remember, too, how he had escaped without a scratch when everybody else on board had either been burnt to death or their bodies mangled into oblivion. Witnesses thought he had emerged from the broken belly of the aircraft, but their statements had been confused, almost hysterical because of the immensity of the disaster. It was more likely that he’d been thrown clear on to the soft earth and lain unconscious for a few minutes before rising and walking away from the burning wreckage. He knew he had felt no emotion then, that he had accepted the fact that everybody back there was dead, even Cathy, and there was no point in going back into the flames. No, the tears and reprisals had come later, when the shock had worn off.
He remembered clearly the old man he’d found lying in the mud; perhaps he would be able to tell him more. He had been quivering with fear, sprawled flat on the churned-up earth, looking up at him with terror-filled eyes. If he could find him, he might be able to tell him what he’d seen. God knows if it would be of any use, but there wasn’t much else he could do.
At that moment, he heard a soft tapping at the door. He wasn’t sure at first, his mind had been too absorbed in its own thoughts, but the sound came again. A light tapping, which sounded as though only fingernails were being used. He glanced down at his watch; just after ten. Who the hell could be calling at this time of night? He crossed the room, suddenly aware that all the lights inside the flat were off. He paused before he turned the catch, not knowing why, but feeling sudden apprehension. The tapping came again and startled him into action. He swung the door open. In the dimly lit hallway stood the figure of a man, his features barely discernible because of the poor light. He was silent, but Keller could feel the man’s eyes boring into him. He quickly flicked on his own light switch so that light flooded into the hallway from behind.
The man was small and slightly plump. His face was round and he was balding. His hands were thrust deep into a shabby fawn raincoat and his shirt collar was slightly crumpled. In a crowd he would have gone unnoticed, except for one disturbing feature – his eyes. They were strong, penetrating, somehow betrayed by the small body they were housed in. They were of the palest grey, icy in their intensity, and yet, compassionate. Keller absorbed all this in those first few moments of silence and then he saw that puzzlement had crept into the strange and disquieting gaze. The man’s face expressed the barest frown, only the eyes showed his puzzlement – and curiosity.
Keller was forced to speak first. ‘Yes?’ was all he could say, his mouth suddenly dry, his hand clenched tightly on to the side of the door.
The man was silent for a few moments, his eyes never leaving Keller’s. Then he blinked and that small action appeared to bring the rest of his body alive. He stepped perhaps an inch closer and said: ‘It’s Keller, isn’t it? David Keller?’
The co-pilot nodded.
‘Yes, I recognize you from the photographs in the papers,’ the man said, as though Keller’s confirmation hadn’t really counted. He was silent again while he now appraised the copilot from head to foot, but just as Keller felt impatience rising in him like a bubble searching for the surface, the man seemed to snap himself together.
‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘My name is Hobbs. I’m a spiritualist.’
4
Ah, the best time of the day, this, thought George Bundsen, a smile of contentment spreading across his face. The water lapped around his small rowing boat, rocking it gently and relaxingly. He lit his pipe and peered into the damp early morning mists of the Thames. Bloody cold, but it was worth it to be alone for a change. He could hear Hilary’s shrill voice in his ear even now: ‘You make sure you’re back in time to open the shop up! I’m not doing it on my own again! You’ve got too much of it, always down by that stinking river! You’ll fall in one day, and with your weight, you’ll never get out again!’ The urge to throw the cup of milky tea all over her had been almost irresistible, but all he had said, as he held the rattling cup and saucer out towards her, was: ‘I won’t be long, dear. It’s just my little bit of pleasure.’
‘What about my bit of pleasure?’ she had retorted, sitting up and taking the pillow from his side of the bed and stuffing it behind her back, on top of her own. ‘When’s the last time you took me anywhere?’ She snatched the cup and saucer from him, the tea spilling over and a few heavy drops falling on to the white bedspread. ‘Now look what you’ve done!’ she screamed at him.
He scurried off into the bathroom and came hurrying back with a face flannel, and began to scrub vigorously at the light brown stains.
‘It’s all right, dear, it’s coming out,’ he assured her.
Hilary raised her eyes heavenwards. What would she do with this great hulk who called himself a man? He was so genial, so helpful, to all the customers of their little tobacconist’s-cum-confectionery cum-newsagent’s shop they’d owned for the past fifteen years in Windsor. It didn’t seem to worry him that the days of the small shopkeeper were numbered, that the big combines were taking over. Their sort of shop, the ones that diversified, were the last of the remaining few. The butchers, the bakers, the greengrocers – all were facing stiff competition from the big chain stores. And that great tub of lard – all he could think of was going fishing! Yes, he appeared helpful in the shop as far as the customers were concerned, but who would have to sort the newspaper deliveries out, give the boys their quota and send them packing; who would have to open up the shop, take note of stock, serve the early morning rush, the commuters on their way to the station? Muggins, that’s who.
‘Go on, get off with you!’ she told him frostily. ‘But be back sharp at seven!’
‘Yes, dear,’ he mumbled gratefully, as he struggled into a huge woollen jumper that managed loyally to cover his vast stomach and several chins. He pulled on his wellingtons, kicking the dry mud that flaked off them under the bed out of sight, and tucked in his trousers. He shrugged himself into a heavy fur-lined coat and stood at the foot of the bed as though waiting to be dismissed.
‘Well, what are you waiting for? Get off – and try and catch something today!’ She pulled a face at the lukewarm tea. Without a word, he made for the door. He turned and puckered his lips, then blew the kiss towards her. She scoffed at his idiocy.
He brought his fishing tackle from the hut at the bottom of the garden, then made his way down the long, curved hill towards the river. He crossed the small bridge and made towards the partially burnt-out boathouses. His rowing boat, the one Arnold rented cheaply to him for most mornings of the week, was moored by the jetty. Lucky old Arnold, he thought to himself. The old boathou
ses needed doing up and now he’s got that airline company paying for it as compensation for the damage the Jumbo had done. Terrible business, but there you are – out of the worst sort of disaster, there’s always someone who comes out lucky, and old Arnold’s done just that. Not to mention that co-pilot, of course. How lucky can you get?
He slowly and lazily rowed the boat upstream, round the bend, under the railway bridge and into the reeds of a small island. It was fairly quiet here, apart from the trains that occasionally passed over the bridge nearby, and they never seemed to really bother the fish. They drifted in with the current caused by the bend opposite and his bait acted like a magnet. Hilary hadn’t been quite fair when she’d derided him for not catching any. The fact was he often met friends on the way back as they opened their shops, and by the time they’d chatted and exchanged the usual jokes about the one that got away, he’d find himself several fish lighter through his own generosity. And he always stopped by the florist’s and gave Miss Parsons a couple. Nice, quiet woman, that. Couldn’t understand why she’d never married. Mind you, can’t understand why I did.
He puffed at his pipe and brooded on his favourite subject, his eyes on the small white float that bobbed up and down at the end of his line. They’d been all right for the first eight years – things couldn’t have been better – but after that one little indiscretion on his part, everything had changed. It was such a tiny indiscretion, too. Why, he hadn’t even bedded the woman – just a quick one, at the back of the shop while Hilary was supposed to be visiting her sister. God, the fright he’d had when he’d heard the key in the latch and then the shop bell ring as the door opened. It was early afternoon closing, and the woman had been his last customer, purposely hanging around till closing time. He’d chatted to her a few times when Hilary had been out, and it had soon become apparent what she was after. Of course, he was a lot slimmer in those days. And he’d always tried to be helpful to customers, especially good ones.
He could still remember his heart freezing with horror as he’d peeped over the counter and seen Hilary striding grim-faced towards him. She’d just had a row with her sister, and had become even more grim-faced when she’d seen who was laying on the floor behind the counter, trying to hoist up frilly knickers over bulging thighs. If only they’d gone upstairs, he might have had a chance to hide her and sneak her out later, but he hadn’t wanted to make a big thing of it; just a quickie, in and out in five minutes. But there was no hiding this: he on his knees, trying to pull up trousers which were pinned down under his knees by the weight of his body, and she scrambling around on the floor in a great fluster, naturally unwilling to show herself above the counter top. Both their struggles had ceased as Hilary peered over the counter, her face set in straight lines, which slowly began to waver and break as the rage built up inside her.
The next five minutes had been ingrained on his memory as though the event had occurred only yesterday: the screams, the wild fingers clutching at his hair, the sobs of the poor woman lying on the floor desperately trying to cover her nakedness. He’d bolted for the door at the back of the shop, his trousers at his knees, restricting his movements, then hobbled up the stairs and hid in their bedroom, locking the door from the inside. There had been more screams from downstairs and the occasional loud sob. He had heard the doorbell jingling, then a slam as it was closed hurriedly, the clatter of high heels down the street. He heard movements from downstairs, clomping across their parlour, the sound of the kettle being filled in the kitchen. He assumed it had been the other woman he’d heard scuttering off down the road.
He’d stayed in the room, shaking, crouched by the side of the bed, until it grew dark, then he’d crept over to the door and unlocked it. He’d listened for a while, then undressed and got into bed. There he had lain in trembling fear, the bedclothes up to his chin, until ten o’clock, when he’d heard her heavy steps clomping up the stairs. She’d marched straight in without turning on the light, undressed in the dark, climbed into the bed and lain rigidly beside him. It was three weeks before she spoke to him, and at least two before she even looked at him. The subject of his unfaithfulness had never been raised since that day, but things had changed all right. God, how they’d changed!
He sighed and shifted his massive bulk in the boat, causing it to rock unsteadily. From that day, he had grown fatter and she had grown more shrill. Oh yes – and her body had become sacred. Maybe once or twice a year – around Christmas or Easter, when she’d had a few sherries – but certainly no more. It was fortunate there were quite a number of widowed women living in Windsor who needed the occasional comforting. And that Miss Parsons was an extremely nice person, quite attractive really. Yes, things were developing nicely there. Slow, but at forty-five he had learnt to take things slowly.
He was startled from his thoughts as his float was suddenly jerked under water. Aha, got one! He grinned and clutched the pipe more firmly between his teeth. He began to play the line, but strangely it wasn’t jerking in the usual way. Instead, the line was being drawn steadily down, as though the fish was taking the bait to the river-bed. He began to resist the pull and reel the line in. The rod bent and the line stood taut and stiff out of the water. Good Lord, he thought, this is a big ’un! Suddenly, the line snapped, throwing him back heavily into the boat. He sprawled there with his knees over the seat, his elbows on either side of the small boat allowing him to raise his head and peer into the misty waters. Just as he began to help himself into a sitting position again, the float bobbed to the surface.
‘That’s bloody funny,’ he said, taking his pipe from his mouth and staring blankly at the bouncing float. ‘It must’ve been a big ’un!’
Cursing his luck, he began to reel the broken line all the way in, deciding he’d had enough for the day. It was at that moment he heard the whisper, drifting over the water towards him. Was it just one whisper, or had he heard several hushed voices speaking together? Or was it just the rustling of the reeds at the water’s edge?
He heard it again. A man’s voice? Or was it a woman’s? It was too low to tell. His spine shivered at the next sound he heard, for it sounded like a chuckle – a quiet, dry chuckle, which now seemed very near, almost at the end of the boat.
‘W-who’s there?’ His voice was unsteady. ‘Come on, stop playing games. I know there’s someone there.’ He glanced around nervously, but all he could hear now was his own sharp breathing. He decided he’d had enough, and just as he was reaching for an oar he heard another noise. It sounded as though something were being dragged through the water; not swimming, for it was a wet, slithering noise, stopping for a few seconds, then starting again, the water gurgling, but no air bubbles reaching the surface.
Frightened, he reached for the oar again and quickly placed it in the rowlock, feeling towards the bottom of the boat for its mate. Abruptly, the oar slid from his grasp as if pulled by some invisible force, and he jumped back in alarm as the oar disappeared straight down into the muddy waters. He expected to see it bob to the surface again but it didn’t. It was nowhere to be seen.
Someone having a lark, he told himself unconvincingly. Someone in one of them underwater outfits. But then, where were the air bubbles?
He stared down at his feet as he felt a bump underneath the boat, his heart pumping madly, his hands clenched tightly on to the plank seat, the knuckles white from his grip. The bump came again and he spread his feet towards the curved sides, frightened to touch the wooden planking below. Then the boat began to rock, gently at first, building up to a more violent motion. He cried out: ‘Stop it. Stop it!’ The pipe fell from his mouth, as the rocking continued, the side edges of the boat almost touching the water, threatening to topple him into the murky depths. Just as he thought the boat was bound to capsize, the tossing stopped and it settled back into the water. He began to moan with relief and tears of fright blurred his vision. He felt an icy chill around him, though, a coldness which seemed to sting his flesh.
Suddenly, the boat beg
an to shudder. A fresh cry broke from his lips as this, too, became more violent, and his hands tightened on the seat again. The shaking appeared to be reaching a crescendo, and his vision was even more blurred through his tears and the vibration. Then he thought he heard more chuckling, low, animal-like chuckling with a malicious undertone. But the trembling was running right through him, through his whole gross body, through his brain, until he wanted to scream, to cry out in order to release the terror swelling up inside him. And then, he saw the dreadful thing that nearly stopped his heart, that almost made it burst with the blood rushing through it.
Long, pointed fingers were wrapping themselves over the edge of the boat, near the stern. Through his blurred sight, they looked like long, white worms, crawling over the sides, moving independently, each with a life of its own. The boat tilted and he saw the rest of the hand appear, slithering down towards the bottom of the rowing-boat, followed by its arm, followed by – nothing. There was nothing beyond the elbow, and yet it came forward, slowly reaching towards him. Then he heard the whispering again, but this time, it was right next to him, by his left shoulder, and he felt a cold – so cold – breath on his cheek, a breath that might have been released from a frozen body. He tried to jerk his head around, afraid yet wanting to see what was there, but his neck wouldn’t turn, his head wouldn’t move.
The Survivor Page 4