Séance on a Wet Afternoon

by Mark McShane

  He came to the end of the street and turned right. Glancing up at the sky, he slowed and moved to the inside of the pavement, where he stopped and gave his full attention to the grey but dry-looking heavens. He held out a hand, palm up. Nodding, as though having reached a decision, he eased the plastic pack carefully past the oranges and out of his pocket, and unfolded it and shook it out. It was a raincoat, blue and dimly transparent, patterned in squares by the creases of the folds.

  As he put the coat on he glanced around, and saw that no one was taking the slightest notice of him. This, besides pleasing him, gave him a small feeling of triumph, since he had argued it would be so, and that changing in the phone booth, as Myra had suggested, would have been peculiar in dry weather, and noticed by passers-by.

  He moved on, snapping together the press-studs up the front of the coat. In a mirror inside a furniture shop window he got a quick flash of an ugly stark-white face, and was shocked and faintly hurt when he realized it was his own.

  Turning into Shaftesbury Avenue he walked swiftly, with long knee-sagging strides, to Piccadilly Circus and added himself to the throng going down the subway steps. The station was crowded with the noon rush, as he knew it would be, and he joined the shortest queue—three people—of the many in front of the ticket machines. While waiting he had a careful look around, but saw no sign of Clayton.

  He bought a threepenny ticket and walked slowly with the crowd toward the escalators. Two were on the descent, and he got on the one nearest the middle. When he curved over, down from the level, he could see the hall far below. It was thickly bordered with bustling people, moving in and out of the passages that led into it, leaving a clear space in the centre.

  In the space was Clayton, one hand pocketed, the other holding the bag, standing quite still and staring down at the ground near the foot of the stairs. His face had an unhealthy pallor. He looked lost.

  Bill felt pity welling up in him, and quickly hardened his mind against his heart. He looked away, to the right-hand side of the hall below. The wall had two tunnel-like mouths, and the closer of the two was swallowing up a thick wedge of people fed to it from the stairs and other passages; the farther one was completely free, and was marked above NO ENTRY.

  He was nearing the bottom, and could see clearly the dark shadows under Clayton’s eyes and the blank expression on his face, when out of the side of his vision he thought he saw a green hat among the many heads, and he turned and stared hard. But suddenly the escalator swooped out on to the straight, and he couldn’t see over the taller people around him. He couldn’t even see Clayton.

  He moved to the first passage, and entered it at little more than a shuffle. The pace quickened to a walk once inside, and he pushed forward, one hand touching the back of the man in front. He was hoping he might just be in time for the next train.

  The passage ended and the people fanned out on to the platform and began to spread themselves along beside the drop to the rails. Bill hurried the few yards to the empty entrance of the second passage, and stopped, and stood listening. He had spent two hours here several days before, and had learned to judge from the sound of approaching trains just how long it would be before they flashed out of the black mouth of the tunnel.

  He looked down the passage, an elongated arch of shining white tiles and gradually shrinking posters. Fifty feet in it curved gently to the left, and around the curve was, he knew, the hall, and Clayton. He fixed his eyes on the first poster, a woman’s face with the teeth blackly removed by someone’s pencil, and fought against the faint panic that was rising in him. This was the time he’d feared right from the conception of the Plan; the actual contact.

  He stared hard at the poster, and found himself wondering what the artist must think when he saw his creation disfigured this way.

  His every muscle tightened. He’d heard a distant rumbling. Of its own accord his head tilted toward the sound, reaching for it. The rumbling grew, and was joined by a whining, and then by a clanging. The noise swelled to a pitch he recognized, and he broke abruptly from his standing position and strode quickly into the passage.

  At once the noise diminished; but after he’d taken six steps it burst into double strength behind him, and he knew that the train had come out of the tunnel. He lengthened his stride.

  He turned the bend and came out into the hall. Clayton was still in the same spot, facing the other way, facing the stairs. Bill went straight to his side, jerked to a stop, held out his hand and said … nothing; he couldn’t speak.

  Clayton started and turned. His eyes, staring and haunted, were so shot with blood they were pink. His mouth worked loosely as he gasped, ‘Longfellow?’

  Bill could only nod.

  Clayton’s body shrank back slightly and his arm came forward with the bag.

  Bill took it, almost crying out as his hand touched the other man’s, and made a swift, awkward swing round and strode toward the passage he’d just left. He breathed in, suddenly and deeply, and realized he’d been holding his breath.

  Inside the passage he broke into a run, a mad run, pulling up the bag and clutching it to his chest. The tiles threw back an amplified and multiplied clattering of his footsteps; it sounded like ten men running.

  He reached the end of the passage just as the train’s disgorged horde bore down on it, and he only barely squeezed through on to the platform before the tide became too strong for him to fight against.

  Glancing behind he thought he saw, but wasn’t sure, a green trilby bobbing frantically atop the mob.

  He moved quickly to the train, to the end door of a compartment, and got aboard, pushing in close among the crowd inside. Holding the bag to his chest with one hand, he used the other hand to rip apart the press-studs of the plastic coat.

  The doors hissed to, there was a jerk, and the train moved away. Bill turned, casually removing his cap, to face the corner made by the door and the wall. Working so his movements, if possible, would not be noticed from behind, he pulled out the folded carrier bag, opened it, pushed the blue bag inside—awkwardly, the white package catching on the string handles—and dropped his cap in on top. He lowered the bundle to the floor and trapped it between his legs.

  He looked over his shoulder. The crowd had thinned, as some had moved into the compartment proper and found seats. There were two men a yard away, their backs turned, and at an arm’s length another man was reading a newspaper.

  Bill began to take off the plastic macintosh, wincing at the crackling and whistling noise it made. He’d got his left arm free and was twisting to free the right one when he saw that the man with the newspaper was watching. But as soon as the man realized his observing was known, he raised his eyebrows and turned back to his paper.

  Bill pulled the macintosh off, and hiding it before him crumpled it roughly into a ball. As he lifted the carrier bag and stuffed the coat into it the train suddenly burst into a station and began slowing.

  Quickly now, careless of whether he was seen or not, he brought the oranges from his pockets and lay them in the bag on top of the macintosh. They just nicely filled the space and were set about an inch down. He was surprised at the perfection.

  The train stopped, the doors rolled back, and he stepped out on to the platform of Leicester Square station. Running a hand through his hair to make sure it wasn’t flattened, he moved with the crowd to the exit passage. His eyes flicked around everywhere, but he saw no signs of anything that looked like a policeman; but he knew that that didn’t necessarily mean there weren’t any.

  He felt like chasing up the escalator, to keep in tune with the rapid beat of his heart, but he forced himself to stand at the side and be carried up slowly. However, when half-way to the top he couldn’t contain himself any longer, and began to walk.

  He passed through the barrier, went to a corner of the crowded station and trotted casually up a flight of steps. He came out at street level, at a corner of Charing Cross Road, and lowering the carrier bag to his side started to stro
ll at a leisurely pace, heading away from the corner, heading north.

  After a dozen steps he stopped and turned fully round. Everything seemed quite normal. He was turning again when a vacant taxi sped by, and he hailed it, and walked quickly to it as it skidded to a halt a little way ahead. He got in, telling the driver, ‘Mile End, please,’ and knelt on the seat and watched through the rear window. Then he realized that the cabbie might find his position singular, and remember him because of it, and he turned and sat correctly, contenting himself with an occasional glance back.

  His body felt sticky, and he worked his fingers under the six layers of clothing and touched his skin. It was slippery with sweat, and he didn’t even feel warm.

  He decided that it was all over, finished, completed, the pick-up of the money successfully accomplished, and that he could relax. But he still sat stiff, unyielding to the seat, holding the bag on his close-clamped knees.

  His mind turned to Clayton’s face, the haunted look and the anguished eyes. He hastily thought of something else. He thought of the whole pick-up, from the phone call to the emergence in Leicester Square; of the man in the green hat, who might have been a policeman and might have been trying to follow, forcing his way through the crowd in the exit passage; of the man with the newspaper who’d seen him take off his coat. He re-lived the event, every detail of it vivid in his mind, and finished back at Clayton’s face. He knew he’d never forget that face.

  He was startled when the cabbie asked, ‘Where ’bouts on Mile End?’ and he looked out of the window and saw that they were approaching the cross-roads where he’d left the bike. He said, ‘Through the lights and it’s the first turn left.’

  The cab put on a burst of speed to catch the green signal, and they were across the junction. Bill looked at his machine standing on the other side of the road; everything seemed in order.

  When the taxi swung into a side street Bill said, ‘This’ll do.’ He got out, kept his head tilted down while he paid the driver, and walked back on to the main road, cradling the carrier bag in one arm.

  He reached the bike and stood close beside it, his senses focused on the side-car. There was no sound, no movement. With his free hand he cautiously unsnapped a corner of the waterproof, glanced around, and peered in. He could see, among the blanket folds, part of the nose and the open mouth of Adriana. He could also see and smell that she’d been sick. As he unfastened more of the cover he sighed sympathetically.

  He lay the bag on its side behind the child, unmindful of the running of the oranges, and replaced the waterproof. The engine started on the second kick. He donned helmet, goggles and gloves and swung on to the saddle, and steered away from the kerb. As he stopped at the junction’s red light he looked at his watch; it was ten minutes to one.

  At one-thirty, having avoided the centre of the city, he was half-way home, driving at exactly the legal speed limit along a secondary road that wound through suburban residential areas. He came to a busy shopping district, and slowed slightly.

  The bike engine coughed, chugged, stopped, started again, coughed again, and stopped altogether. The machine dribbled to a halt a yard out from the kerb. Bill looked at the fuel gauge; it showed empty. He clicked his tongue with annoyance and got to the ground, thinking that the slow driving he’d done all morning was responsible for the heavy consumption of petrol.

  He grasped the handlebars, leaned over them and began to push, steering closer to the side of the road. The machine barely moved. He put his head down and pitted all his weight against the handlebars. The wheels started to turn slowly.

  Suddenly they were turning quickly. He looked up and glanced behind. A policeman was helping to push, one hand on the pillion and one on the side-car.

  Bill twisted to face the front, his mouth drying, and had to jerk the bars frantically to keep the bike from running up the kerb. He braked to a stop, and straightened slowly, composing his face. He turned, forcing his lips to draw back from his teeth.

  The policeman was brushing his hands together. He was young and gaunt-faced, and thin, his neck needing two inches more to fill his collar. He said, ‘Petrol?’

  Bill managed to give an affirmative grunt.

  ‘I thought so. Knew by the sound. I’m a B.S.A. man myself. Mine’s only two year old though.’

  Bill was standing almost at attention, his feet touching and his arms straight at his sides. His artificial smile was like the grimace one produces unconsciously while watching someone suffer.

  The policeman said, ‘This one’s an old ‘un, isn’t she?’

  Bill moistened his mouth before saying, before being able to say, ‘Yes, fourteen years.’

  ‘Got guts though, the old ’uns.’ He put his hands behind and one foot forward, and shrugged down his shoulders comfortably. ‘Nice big side-car too.’

  ‘Petrol … where can …?’

  ‘Just there. Fifty yards away. Nice and handy.’

  Bill forced himself to move. He stepped up the kerb.

  The constable said, ‘Mate of mine’s got a Norton, and you know what he reckons?’

  Before Bill’s confused brain could tell him how to answer, there was a noise from the side-car; a drawn out scraping noise. It was followed by a light thud. He shuddered violently.

  ‘Got something in there?’ the constable asked, his face showing mild curiosity.

  Bill, dominated by guilt, translated the mild curiosity as hard cold suspicion. But he had an answer ready; one prepared for just such an emergency: a vicious dog. He said, instead, he didn’t know why, ‘Two cats.’

  ‘Oh. Sick, are they?’

  Bill turned half to the side. ‘Yes.’ His legs were trembling, the thighs painful. ‘Hurry.’ He began to walk away.

  ‘Just a minute.’

  Bill stopped, suddenly and with a gasp. He started to turn slowly, his feet shuffling round.

  The policeman said, ‘You’re going the wrong way. It’s back here.’

  Bill’s legs began to tremble more than ever. He stumbled forward and moved past the constable, hearing as he did another thud from the side-car.

  ‘Just there,’ the policeman said. ‘Set back behind the end shop.’

  Bill walked on, picking up speed. It took real will power to prevent him from running. All he wanted to do was get away, far away, from the bike and the policeman. At that moment he didn’t care about the child or the money or his wife; he just wanted to get away; he couldn’t stand any more tension.

  He reached the end shop and turned the corner, and was on the forecourt of a service station. He stopped, and tried to bring coherence to his jumbled thoughts, forcing himself to be sensible and calculating. He lifted his shaking hands to his face, and touching the goggles made him realize that at least he was well covered.

  But, he thought, the policeman would certainly remember the incident of the noisy side-car, and perhaps because of it the number of the bike, and put two and two together if it came out that such a vehicle could have been involved in the affair; he might be putting two and two together at this very moment. And at any moment Adriana might shout.

  Again Bill wanted to run, and he had to fight hard against the temptation. Instead he moved quickly to the petrol pumps, to the side of the girl attendant, who, he suddenly noted, was watching him curiously. He mumbled hurriedly, galloping his words together, that he wanted some petrol in a can. He was only vaguely aware of what the girl said, and that she had fetched a can and was starting to fill it; he’d been stupefied by another chilling thought: what if the constable lifted the waterproof to peep at the cats?

  The girl handed him a one-gallon can, and he handed her a ten-shilling note—with surprise; he hadn’t known he’d taken it out of his pocket. He turned and walked back to the corner, where he stopped and eased his upper body carefully forward to see how things stood.

  The policeman was near the bike but with his back to it, talking to a white-aproned shopkeeper. Bill stepped out on to the pavement.

  He d
idn’t even glance at the constable as he approached, and moved into the road to walk diagonally to the far side of his machine so as to put more space between them. Removing the tops from the fuel tank and can, he began pouring out the petrol, the convulsive spewing of the can’s mouth and his own nervousness spilling more fluid over the tank than in it.

  Before the can was fully empty he pulled it away, replaced the tank top, and squatted down to put some petrol in the carburettor bowl. He was loosening the screw under the bowl, awkwardly with his gloved fingers, when there was another sound from the side-car; a long, low moan.

  He didn’t dare look at the policeman. He clenched his teeth and twisted the screw viciously. The bowl sagged, and he pulled it from its seat and mechanically wiped the sediment from it with his thumb before splashing it full of petrol. He replaced it, tightened it, picked up the can and cap and moved quickly away, not fully straightening his body till he’d covered several yards. The cap jumped from his hand as he tried to twist it on, and he chased it madly to the gutter and caught it.

  The girl attendant was standing at the corner, watching. He reached her, thrust her the can, took the change from her outstretched hand, swung around quickly, put the money in his pocket, walked in long strides back to the bike, switched on the ignition, pulled down the kick pedal and kicked. The engine sputtered, coughed and died.

  The policeman had turned from the shopkeeper and was standing close to the side-car. He said, ‘Cats make queer noises, don’t they? Just like babies.’

  Bill managed a smiling nod, and kicked again. The engine caught and roared. He got in the saddle, nodded again as the policeman touched his helmet, and moved off with a mighty jerk.

  He’d travelled barely fifty yards when the waterproof was banged up in the centre, and Adriana’s voice sounded clearly above the engine, shouting in a fear-tinged voice, ‘Where am I?’ He revved loudly and put on speed, and in a minute was out of the shopping district and out of sight of the policeman. Adriana went on shouting.