Séance on a Wet Afternoon

by Mark McShane

  After glancing at his wrist-watch he took off his helmet, goggles and gloves, and sat them on the saddle while he unsnapped a corner of the waterproof. He slipped his things in the side-car, and secured the cover.

  Moving back to the other side of the machine he bent to the mirror and looked at his hair, the arrangement of which constituted his disguise. Normally it stood fluffily high, carelessly waved, and was soft, silky and dark brown, and rather romantic—though he was completely unaware of this. Now it was black with grease, parted down the centre and brushed flat to his skull. The change made a great difference. He looked older, his face more square, and his nose, without the counterbalance of the tall quiff, looked much longer and its flatness was more pronounced. He also looked tougher, but still not tough.

  He turned and walked away, pulling the scarf down from his mouth and settling it at his throat. He went back to the lane and down it and came out on the street, which, he was glad to see, was still deserted. He headed toward the main road, walking at a steady pace, his feet turning inward slightly. A tightness of anxiety began to develop around his heart, and he compressed his lips.

  When he was near the end of the street a tall woman appeared abruptly from a gateway and stopped directly in his path. He averted his face and detoured to the edge of the pavement. The woman glanced at him, then lowered a small Pekingese to the ground and started to make high-pitched cries at it. Bill passed her, quickening his step, and was unable to resist looking back. She was giving all her attention to the dog, but he didn’t feel happy till he’d reached the main road and turned the corner.

  He walked for ten minutes, unconcerned now by the people about; there were too many for him to be noticed. After trotting across the road, briskly among the traffic, he went into a wide street of large, bleak, Gothic-Victorian houses, and soon was moving along beside a low wall of new brick that was topped by tall and heavy railings. Behind the rails, and in places sticking through them, were young coniferous trees, planted closely at set intervals and a uniform six feet in height.

  He slowed, making a show of frowning and putting his hands in his coat pockets, as though searching for something he had just thought he might have left behind, then came to a stop level with a place where three of the rails were missing. Taking his hands from his pockets and patting his chest, he looked around. There was one man, his back turned, painting a gate farther along on the opposite side of the street, and two men were standing talking on a corner about thirty yards away. A young woman in nursemaid’s uniform was coming along briskly from the main road, and Bill stood still, patting his coat, till she’d passed.

  Moving slowly, and with his eyes flitting back and forth from the two men to the gate painter, he edged close to the low wall and placed one foot on it. He grasped a rail, paused, and jerked himself quickly through the opening and into the trees. With one hand held protectively before his face and the other stretched out leading the way he pushed through the interlocking branches, blinking rapidly at the foliage that swept by.

  The trees ended after three yards and he was standing close against a shed. The boards were widely spaced and between them he could see a clutter of bicycles. He moved to the corner of the shed and looked cautiously around it. Beyond an area of gravel was a large house, old looking and predominantly dark grey stone, but with here and there among its many roofs and angles jutting bluffs of new brick. There was the faint sound of children’s voices.

  He withdrew his head and leaned on the boards to wait. He asked himself if he was frightened, and decided at once that he was, but not greatly so; at this stage a plausible explanation would probably suffice if things went wrong. But, he thought, looking at his wrist-watch, in ten minutes it would be too late for explanations.

  His heart began to trip faster, and he quickly turned his mind to pleasanter things, to the future, the bright future after the Plan.

  To Bill, a bright future meant his wife’s future. He had no ambitions, as such, of his own; he merely thought of things being better, meaning living in a centrally heated house, one with no damp patches on the walls, and being untroubled by debts and the necessity to work. But for his wife he was very ambitious. In the six years since their marriage his admiration for her had increased greatly. When they had met, she with her fairground mind-reading act and he applying for the job as the ticket seller, he’d thought of her as a theatrical, an artiste, and hadn’t understood her explanations of what she was trying to do. He still didn’t understand, completely, but was now convinced of her greatness; convinced by her proven ability, her sincerity, intenseness and lack of interest in material things. Even though he had no awareness beyond normal intelligence himself—and this he regretted—the infectiousness of his wife’s zeal and dedication had drawn him into psychical research, and he read about it constantly, and had been allowed to make for himself a peep-hole through which he could watch the séances. He looked forward confidently to the day when his wife would be the first to prove beyond all doubt to the hard world of science that communication with the dead was an actuality; when the name of Myra Savage would be pronounced with awe; when she would be honoured everywhere as the one who had found a way across the greatest frontier of all.

  And when that day came, he thought, he’d scoff at the memory of the worries, doubts and fears he’d had about the Plan, which, after all, was what had made the whole thing possible, and be ashamed that he was ever reluctant to go through with it.

  A bell rang loudly, and he pushed himself quickly erect from the side of the shed and went back into the trees, feeling a tightness forming low down in his throat. When he judged himself to be within a yard or so of the railings he turned left and moved along parallel with them. He went swiftly but carefully, making as little noise as possible with the foliage.

  Presently he glimpsed an opening ahead, where a gravel driveway cut through the trees, and he moved to the right, looking now at the ground, searching for the marks he had made on his last reconnaissance. He came to a spot that was trampled smooth, and stood on it.

  He was now in a perfect position for observation. Through small gaps between branches he had a clear view of the gravel path three feet away, and the imposing entrance of the house at its end and the large gateway on his immediate right. On the other side of the drive was a board, set at an angle, saying Clement’s Day School For Young Ladies.

  He’d had surprisingly little trouble in arranging the first part of the Plan, choosing place and person. Clement’s, because it was far from Josephine Avenue, and because he was fairly familiar with the neighbourhood, having once been for a short time a cab driver in Barnet, was the first school he had tried. He’d dawdled around outside, watching the pupils leave, and saw many leave in cars, one a chauffeured Bentley. After four visits to the school, spread over two weeks, he’d found out that the Bentley belonged to a Charles Clayton, a wealthy industrialist; and he had seen that the pick-up of Clayton’s only child always followed the same pattern: the chauffeur drove to the gate and waited till the girl appeared, then got out and ushered her ceremoniously into the rear; and always the engine was left running.

  There was a bang, and a babble of young voices. Bill tensed, his buttocks clenching. A group of girls, ranging from small five-year-olds to hefty thirteens, had come pouring out of the house. They all wore the same dark green coats and berets and long brown stockings. Some turned and moved out of sight, going, Bill knew, to the cycle shed, and others walked past his hiding place and out of the gate. As he watched them go, the Bentley swished up quietly and stopped at the kerb. Now he began to feel scared, and hot. He licked his lips and looked back to the house.

  More girls came out, some boisterously, chasing quickly down the path and squealing, others sedately and solemn-faced, walking in twos and threes and talking. He saw the Clayton child. She came out alone, pulling a beret on to her straight black hair. She was six years old, small and pale.

  The chauffeur got out at the far side of the car, came aroun
d in front of it and swung wide the rear door. He was middle-aged and thick-set and had a hairline moustache. The girl smiled and broke into a skip.

  When she’d passed him, Bill moved quickly, nervously to the edge of the path. Another passing girl looked up at him, frowned distantly, and walked on.

  The Clayton child got inside the car and the chauffeur closed the door, carefully and bowing a little. Bill stepped out on to the gravel, walked quickly through the gate and stopped behind the chauffeur. His heart was thudding and the insides of his clenched fists were damp. He said, ‘Excuse me.’

  The chauffeur turned, the smile for the little girl still on his face. ‘Yes?’

  ‘Are you Mr. Clayton’s man?’

  ‘Yes.’

  Bill cleared his throat, and, shakily, pronounced the long-practised sentence: ‘The headmistress has a letter for you which she would like you to give to your employer.’

  The man half lifted his hand. ‘Very good.’

  ‘No. I mean, she has it. The headmistress has it. She wants to give it you in person … you know.’

  ‘Oh.’ The man frowned slightly, and lowered his hand.

  ‘She wants you to go to her office now,’ Bill said quickly, too quickly, ‘so she can give it you—er—now.’

  The chauffeur glanced at the car. Bill said, ‘It’s just through the main door, her office, and up the stairs.’ He thought the man was about to refuse to go, and suddenly, inexplicably, hoped he would.

  The chauffeur nodded. ‘Righto. Thanks.’ He skirted around Bill and walked through the gateway. Bill turned and watched. When he saw the man go inside the house he went quickly round to the other side of the car, his legs trembling and uncertain.

  He tried twice, rapidly, to open the car door, but his hand was so wet with sweat it flew down off the handle as soon as he’d lowered it. With the third, less frantic attempt, he got it open and scrambled inside.

  Putting the automatic transmission into drive he pressed down on the accelerator. The car jerked, stopped, and the engine went dead. He shuddered and closed his eyes, but opened them again at once. He saw that the hand brake was still on and pressed the button to release it.

  He didn’t know which was the starter. He searched the dashboard frantically, panic rising at speed, his fingers dithering over the bewildering array of buttons and knobs. Just when he’d made up his mind to leave the car and run, he found it.

  He pushed the button. Nothing happened. He couldn’t stop the little cry he made with the sharp jerk in of breath. Then he saw the trouble. He slipped the transmission into neutral and tried the starter again. There was a short whine, and the engine hummed.

  He banged the lever into drive and flattened the accelerator and the car shot away from the kerb. He didn’t look back.

  Doing fifty miles an hour he reached the end of the street and with only a slight reduction of speed made a right-hand turn on to the main road. A car coming from the left squealed its brakes wildly. Bill pressed his foot down and passed another car, on the wrong side of the road. He had originally planned to take a circuitous route back to the field, but now he’d forgotten that; he wanted to get to his bike, then to his home.

  He glanced up at the mirror, and was startled to see a close-up of the girl’s face. She was standing right behind him, her nose flattened whitely on the glass partition. She looked intrigued. Her eyes met his in the mirror, and he looked away.

  Ahead the traffic was slowing, lining up behind a stopped bus. When, his stomach tightening, he had almost reached the back of the queue, the bus moved on, and the traffic with it.

  He saw his street on the left, and slowed, and swung into it at a normal speed. A man and woman were walking towards him, but they were talking busily and didn’t give him so much as a glance. As he turned at the mouth of the lane he looked back at the main road. All was quiet.

  Even though it wasn’t his car, and even though his mind was a gabble of excited, frightened thoughts, he still winced as the hedges scraped and squeaked on the coachwork at either side. Out of the lane the Bentley bounced smoothly across the grass. He steered around the hut, came to a sudden stop behind his machine, switched off the ignition, and sagged back in the seat and closed his eyes. He felt surprised to find himself back where he’d started. Everything seemed a little unreal.

  There was a faint thud from behind, and he twisted round. The girl was sitting neatly in the centre of the seat, her hands in her lap. She was watching him curiously. He got out of the car and went to his bike. Turning so that he could keep an eye on the girl he unsnapped the cover of the side-car and took out his helmet, goggles and gloves, and put them on quickly, then strode back to the Bentley.

  He twisted the handle of the rear door, and pulled. The door didn’t move; it was locked. He glanced sharply at the girl. She smiled slightly, her lips together. He hurried round to the other side. That door was also locked. The girl’s smile widened, showing a row of space between her eye teeth.

  He looked around helplessly, the panic rising in him again. He hadn’t expected anything like this. An hysterical infant, yes; a grinning schemer, no. He rapped on the window, and said, ‘Open the door.’

  She shook her head.

  He forced a smile to his lips and put his head friendlily on one side. ‘Come on now, open the door.’

  Another shake.

  ‘I’ve—er—got some ice-cream.’

  She giggled, and shook her head more vigorously, her short hair whipping across her face.

  He looked down longingly at the locking catch on the inside sill, then replaced his smile with a scowl, rapped on the window again, hard, and said sternly, ‘Open up at once,’ and added, plaintively, ‘there’s a good girl.’

  He jumped. A bell had sounded, and seemed quite close. Gripping his hands together he walked nervously to his bike, passed around it, walked back to the car, circled it, went round the bike again and stopped at the driver’s side of the Bentley. He opened the front door and felt the thick glass of the partition, and suddenly twisted to face the dashboard. One of the buttons was marked P. He jabbed at it, turning back to face the rear. There was a hum, and the partition began to slide down.

  The girl’s smile vanished and she scrambled to the arm rest. The partition stopped, but it had already dropped half-way. Keeping a finger on the button Bill stretched his free arm through the opening and released the sill catch, then quickly reached outside and opened the door. His eyelids sagging with relief, he swung wide the door and said, ‘All right. Come on.’

  The child pressed herself into the far corner and stared at him sullenly. He put one foot inside the car, leaned forward and grabbed her arm. She kicked him on the elbow, but he hardly felt it. As he pulled her, squirming, out on to the grass, the bell sounded again, and this time it seemed closer.

  He ran to the bike, dragging the girl behind him, and heard her say, ‘You wait. I’ll tell.’

  He shoved her up against the side-car and gave her a little shake, and hissed, ‘Now stand still.’

  ‘Shan’t.’ She kicked him on the ankle. ‘I’ll tell.’

  Gasping at the pain he pressed his body against her and kept her held firmly while he reached in the side-car and brought out a bottle and a pad of white cloth.

  The girl suddenly began wailing, stridently and without emotion; it sounded like a jammed horn on a car.

  He said, ‘Quiet, quiet,’ and hastily uncapped the bottle and spilled a drop of the chloroform on to the pad. He hesitated, then added some more. After capping the bottle and throwing it in the side-car he stood back from the girl and bent down.

  She tried lustily to twist her face away, going from side to side and up and down, and her beret fell off, but he managed to get the pad over her nose and mouth and keep it there. There was another moment of fierce struggle, then her movements became weak and sluggish and she sagged at the knees. Her eyes opened and closed slowly.

  He withdrew the pad. She yawned, looked at him sleepily, and opened he
r mouth as though to speak. He returned the pad. In a few seconds she slumped against his arm, unconscious. He laid her carefully in the side-car, threw in the pad and beret, and roughly fastened down the cover.

  Hurrying to the Bentley he used his gloved hands to wipe every spot he’d touched or thought he’d touched. The bell rang again, but faintly. He gave the sound a trembly smile, feeling more confident now and less frightened. He thought that with everything going wrong to start with, it would be more than likely that from here on things would go right.

  He went back to the bike and swung into the saddle. The engine started at the first kick, and his morale took an upward surge; all along he’d had a fear that the engine would give him trouble. Looking at his watch as he moved off he saw that it was twelve minutes since he’d left the school.

  He headed across the centre of the field, away from the hut and the lane, going quickly at first but then slowing a little as the side-car began to bounce. In a corner of the field was a gate. He jumped down and opened it, and drove on, feeling a slight pang at not having closed it again. As he turned on to a rough track running beside deep plough ruts, he looked back, and saw that the Bentley was just as he’d left it, its doors hanging open. He thought it quite possible for several hours to pass before the car was found.

  He went through another gate, across a large meadow—stampeding a herd of bag-hanging cows—over a shaky plank bridge, through two more gates, and came out on to a cindered lane that rose toward a wood on the brow of a hill. He put on speed, reached the wood, circled it and was out of sight of the Bentley, the cricket pavilion, and Barnet.

  The lane stretched away below him, dead straight, and at the bottom of it was a tarmac road. He knew he was safe now; the road had no main connexion with Barnet, and would have no check points put on it should the police decide to throw a cordon around the town. He sped downhill, and the last vestige of fear and worry was soothed away by the barking monody of his engine. In an hour he would be home.