Séance on a Wet Afternoon

by Mark McShane

  ‘Leave me alone,’ Bill said, and shoved the boy aside and stumbled on. The interference stopped, and there was silence from behind. Then he heard the boys shout, in unison, as though at the sight of someone:

  ‘Oh, Mr. Benson. Come quick!’

  And now Bill was suddenly able to run. He ran madly, wildly, skimming dangerously close to trees and crashing through low branches, throwing his arms and legs out without rhythm, changing their strokes from short to long and back again, despairing at the way his coat pulled at his thighs and petrified by a new fear: his lungs were tightening swiftly, as though being pressed together. He knew he was about to have an attack of asthma.

  Now he could hear the thud of running feet from behind, and not too far behind. Then a deep, adult voice shouted, ‘Hey, you! Stop!’

  He ran on, careless of direction, taking the clearest way that presented itself, veering left a few yards, right a few yards and sometimes almost doubling on his tracks to avoid a closely set clump of trees.

  He came on to a narrow path that went in a clear straight line, and ran even faster. The footfalls from the rear now seemed very close. Suddenly there was a bush in front of him. He was going too fast to stop or turn or do anything but jump. He jumped, throwing up his arms and lifting his forward leg high.

  The leg wasn’t high enough. His foot caught in the bush and he shot over it head first. He landed with a crash on his stomach and elbows and knees, and his head jerked as the helmet slammed against the base of a tree.

  The asthma that had been creeping up slowly now swooped its relentless clutch on to his lungs, and he drew in a shuddering, screeching breath. He lay perfectly still for a second, then scrambled frantically but weakly to his feet.

  He tried to start running even before he was fully erect and he trod on the front of his coat and pitched forward again on to his face. The sound of rapid footsteps thudded into his ears from the ground below him.

  He got up quickly, icy with fear, and took a few half-running strides. He stopped, grabbed hold of a tree and clung to it, and began fighting madly to get air into his lungs. The asthma had reached its full strength; he was being strangled.

  He could hear nothing now other than the screech and whine from his windpipe. He pulled his mouth far back at the sides, rolled his eyes to the sky, and struggled. His trembling legs sagged under him as he turned all his energy on the fight for air, and his upper body swung slowly round the trunk of the tree till he was facing the way he had come.

  A hatless man, young and hefty and wearing the short pants of the Scout uniform, was running forward and just about to jump over the bush six feet away.

  Bill didn’t care. He didn’t care about anything. All he wanted to do was breathe. He’d just got his lungs full and was starting on the eye-bulging effort of emptying them. He clenched his fists, hunched his shoulders, squeezed the tree and forced up his diaphragm. Every muscle in his body, especially those in his stomach, threw themselves into the job. A thousand hot needles drove into his chest.

  The young man landed from his leap over the bush, staggered, recovered, and came quickly forward. He looked scared but determined, his thick-lipped mouth severely set. Reaching Bill’s side he hesitated, then suddenly grabbed an arm and pulled it toward him.

  Bill’s grip on the tree was broken. He hadn’t the strength to hold himself up with one hand. He sagged down and fell over on to his back, and lay there staring at the young man, who’d got to one knee beside him, trying to say with his eyes what it was impossible for him to spare the air to put into words; trying to say that he would do anything, confess anything, sell his soul, just so long as he was left alone to breathe.

  It was twice as hard for his lungs to function now that he was lying flat, and he clawed weakly at the hand on his arm and tried to pull himself up by it.

  The faint touch of fear had gone from the young man’s face; it was confident, almost smugly so. He put both hands on Bill’s shoulders, swung a leg across his body and kept him pressed firmly to the ground. Turning his head up and to the side he gave a loud shout.

  To Bill it was like a terrible nightmare. It was like drowning in a small glass tank that was surrounded by laughing spectators. He knew he was dying, and quickly. His only hope was to sit up. He flapped his fists uselessly and with a horrible sluggishness against his killer’s face, which he saw merely as a pink blur, obscured by tears and the partly steamed goggles. The young man didn’t even bother to dodge the poor blows.

  Bill’s mouth was wide open. The frantic screech of his windpipe and the high-pitched wail that now went with it sounded like the top notes of an accordion, but to him amplified tenfold. It was the only thing he could hear. It was as though he were listening to his own requiem.

  His heart began to strike tremendous thuds against his pain-slashed lungs. He was seized with a paroxysm; his arms stiffened and his knees shot up.

  The young man disappeared, and Bill was suddenly free. Using only his stomach muscles and the force of his will he swung into a sitting position. He put his hands behind to support himself, closed his eyes in an agony of relief, and went on with the only slightly eased struggle for air.

  He opened his eyes again, and saw the young man, both hands clasped to his crotch, rolling around and grovelling his face into the grass in a madness of pain.

  With the slight abatement of his agony, Bill turned his mind to the danger of the situation; but he wasn’t sure that he could do anything about it. He was torn between staying and breathing and being caught, and leaving. Leaving meant taking some of the effort away from the working of his lungs and using it to walk with; if he could walk; if he could move. He decided to try, but slowly, and to stop at once if his breathing became too greatly affected.

  He carefully swung forward and over, over on to his hands and knees, and crawled along a few feet in slow motion. He thought of his motor-cycle, and what it was like driving on it, with his mouth open to the rush of air. He began to crawl faster, at something like the pace of a steady stroll.

  He heard voices, calling, ‘Mr. Benson! Mr. Benson!’ and glanced back. There was no one in sight, other than the young man still rolling in silent agony on the ground.

  He began to crawl faster yet, his impetus caused as much by the thoughts of the wind on the speeding bike as by his imminent capture. He stopped by a tree, grasped it and pulled himself slowly erect. With hands out at either side and head down he started to walk, sinking low as his legs bent shakily every time they took on the full weight of his body.

  The trees became closely set again and he was able to help himself along from one to another. He heard more shouts, though only faintly above the noise of his breathing, and he couldn’t judge how far back they were. He turned his head, but saw no farther than the fourth or fifth tree.

  He went another two yards, then stopped and lifted the goggles and wearily wiped his eyes. The pain in his chest was crippling, and so were the pains across his shoulders and in his quiveringly taut abdomen and at the small of his back. He knew he could relieve all but the chest pains by sitting down, and he had nearly decided to do that when he heard the voices again.

  There was an unintelligible shout from a youngster, then a clear gruff one: ‘You try that way. You that way. I’ll go up there. And you, Reg, you go for the police. And don’t forget …’ The rest of it was lost to his ears as he turned and walked on. He went as fast as he dare; he wanted to run, but was afraid he’d strangle.

  He didn’t know for sure that he was heading in the right direction. His mind wasn’t capable of working out in reverse all the twists and turns he’d made on entering and being chased. He just pressed forward, and thought that at least he was going away from those behind; and that was something.

  Then he saw sky thinly striped between the trees on his right, and turned. After a dozen steps the trees ended, and he was standing beside the barbed wire fence. Ahead were fields and distant houses, and the forest curved back out of sight at either side. There w
as no sign of the paddock, and the bike.

  He eased slowly through the wire, hesitated, and took a gamble and turned right, keeping close to the fence, walking like an old man, each step a separate project. He heard someone crashing through the trees close by, but didn’t change his speed.

  Around the curve of the forest he saw, jutting out, a thorn hedge. It lengthened as he approached, and he realized with a thrill of relief that it was the wall of the paddock. He thought of speeding along on the bike, with the air being forced down his throat, and, even better, his atomizer waiting at home to give him immediate ease.

  As he neared the hedge he saw that it formed the back of the paddock; the opening was round the far side; there would be a fifty-yard journey to get to it. He was despairing at the thoughts of the impossible distance, wondering how he would ever cover it, when he noticed that all he had to do was get back under the wire again. He did so, slowly, and walked along the edge of the forest till he was past the hedge. His old machine was waiting for him, and he felt a sudden surge of affection for it; the emotion was so strong that his eyes moistened.

  He crawled through the wire and moved shakily to the bike. Switching on the ignition, he pulled down the starter pedal and tried to kick it. He didn’t have the strength.

  His body sagged and he gazed sadly at the engine, and listened dreamily as a long lingering shout came from among the trees. He tried the pedal again, but couldn’t get it down beyond the first loose inch. His eyes closed and for a moment he gave way to his suffering, folding his arms across his agonized chest and moaning. He felt like sobbing, but he knew it would interfere too much with his breath and he would be liable to choke.

  The thought of his atomizer forced him to take hold of himself, and think. He glared at the pedal, and immediately got an idea. He put his left foot on it, sank down on his right leg, then jerked his body up into the air. The full weight of him came down on the pedal and it shot toward the ground. The engine roared into life and Bill fell over on to his back.

  He got up slowly, on the verge of giving way again, and swung wearily into the saddle. There was a slight relief for his lungs as he leaned forward on the handlebars, and more when he revved and moved off and a breeze began to flow by.

  He went out of the paddock and put on speed and soon he was travelling rockily along the overgrown track at forty miles an hour. At the last bend before going out of sight of the forest he glanced behind; there was no one to be seen at the edge of the trees. He passed the rubbish dump, now untended, and turned on to the cinder lane.

  Just before reaching the gravel a car came towards him, and he had to slow and move close to the side. He looked warily at the driver, a woman, but she was too occupied with steering through the limited space to pay him much attention.

  He accelerated, rattled noisily over the gravel, came to the tarmac and accelerated still more. At the end of the road he swung without slowing on to the highway and began to weave quickly around the traffic, careless of the fact that he was exceeding the legal limit.

  Less than ten minutes later he turned into Josephine Avenue. He fixed his eyes on the large red and white For Sale poster in the window of the house next to his, and thought hungrily of the atomizer waiting just beyond. He bounced down the long road and drove straight into his garage, stopping with a squealing jerk that nearly pitched him over the handlebars.

  The front door opened as he was reaching for the knocker. He brushed by his wife, went into the lounge, flung his gloves aside, pulled out a drawer in the side-board, grabbed his atomizer, took the stopper from the glass spout, put the spout in his mouth and began rapidly to squeeze the rubber bulb. The bitter but joyfully welcome taste of the drug filled his mouth as the spray spread and was drawn into his windpipe. He closed his eyes and whimpered.

  Almost at once his breathing was easier and its noise reduced to half-volume. He took the pump from his mouth and cuddled it against his neck, and raised the other hand to unfasten the helmet strap. Aided by his wife he removed his things, then went to his chair and sank gratefully into it. Another session of squeezing with the atomizer, and he had enough breath to spare to speak. He looked up at his wife, who was standing watching him anxiously, and gave her a weak smile.

  She asked, ‘Feel better?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘That was a bad attack.’

  ‘Terrible … thought I’d die.’

  ‘Did it just come on now?’

  ‘No … long time ago … in Epping.’

  ‘In the woods?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘What happened? Everything is all right, is it not?’

  ‘Well …’

  She frowned and folded her arms. ‘Tell me everything.’

  He drew in a deep breath, and spoke as he let it out: ‘I’d just picked out a place to leave her when these Boy Scouts came flying through the trees and I had to …’ He paused to draw in air, then went on, ‘And I had to drop her and run.’

  Myra’s arms fell to her sides. ‘What?’

  ‘I had …’

  ‘You mean someone saw you? You mean the body has been found?’

  ‘Well, they saw me, yes, but with the helmet and …’

  ‘Never mind that,’ she cut in. ‘Has the body been found?’

  ‘Well, yes.’

  She turned away, flapping her arms despairingly and raising her face to the ceiling. ‘My God. All for nothing. All that for absolutely nothing. Already found. My God.’

  ‘It was these Scouts,’ he said lamely. ‘You know.’

  She suddenly broke from her abject attitude and quickly circled the table to the door. ‘There might be time to tell the Claytons before they are notified. There just might.’ She swung around. ‘Quick now. Describe the place.’

  ‘Oh, well, there’s a fallen tree, a long one, with big red roots.’

  ‘And where is she exactly?’

  ‘Right by the roots.’

  ‘And where is the tree exactly? What part of the forest?’

  ‘Urn, north-west corner. About twenty yards in.’

  He heard her leave the room, thud quickly upstairs, slam a door and thud down again. She appeared beside his chair, her face flushed, buttoning on her overcoat. She said, ‘North-west corner. Fallen tree with red roots. Anything else?’

  ‘No, I don’t think so.’

  ‘What kind of a tree was it?’

  ‘I don’t know. But it was longer than the others around it. Oh, and about a quarter of a … of a mile from that side of the forest there’s a big rubbish dump.’

  ‘Rubbish dump. Right. And how long ago was all this?’

  ‘About half an hour.’

  She nodded and turned away abruptly.

  He heard the front door open, then slam. He sighed and settled himself and closed his eyes. He wasn’t too perturbed by the situation; at the moment all worries and problems were relegated to second place; his mind was mainly concerned with the marvel of being able to draw breath.

  Myra hurried along the street, with head down and hands thrust angrily into her coat pockets. She seethed as she considered the mess her husband had made of everything.

  First, she thought, he allows the child to kill herself, putting them both in grave danger, then he more or less hands the body over to the authorities. It was intolerable and ruinous. The main part of the scheme, the part that would have accomplished most, had fizzled out into nothing. There was not really a great deal to be gained by telephoning the Claytons; it was just that a modicum of profit might be salvaged from the fiasco, and if nothing else it would keep the supernormal element in their minds and make the money-bag dream immediately acceptable.

  That, the money, she thought consolingly, was the only thing that saved the affair from being a total and absolute failure. But it would cause no sensation, even if it worked out perfectly; the newspapers would be concentrating on the child’s death and the hue and cry for what was assumed to be a murderer, and shove the less dramatic monetary angle
to a quiet corner. Even so, every last particle of value would have to be got out of the finding of the ransom; nothing must be neglected, no detail. And to do that it would be better to delay it for a few days; let the case simmer on the discovery of the body. Then, after leaving the bag in the builder’s hut, not only would the Claytons, the newspapers and the police be told where it could be found, but also, and perhaps preferably first, the Society for Psychical Research. The description of the hut could be made fairly vague, or at least the district it lay in could, so that there would be as long a delay as possible between the telling of the dream and the finding of the money. And perhaps a few articles of clothing could be left with the bag, apparent clues to the kidnappers; that would make the papers more interested.

  There was still a good chance, she thought, that partly ruined as it was, the Plan could yet prove successful.

  She reached the end of the street and turned right. Just ahead on the opposite side of the road was a phone kiosk. She had started to cross over to it when the idea came to her that it might be useful to have a witness to the telephone conversation. She turned back to the pavement and quickened her step. Mrs. Finch, one of her clients and an ardent admirer, lived in the next street but one.

  After a swiftly covered hundred yards she turned a corner, and turned again through a gateway in front of a house that was identical with her own. She rapped hard on one of the glass panes in the door, then frowned fretfully at the silence that followed.

  The frown went at the sound of a bang from the rear of the house, and she tapped one foot impatiently. The door opened and a woman smiled out at her. Myra said, ‘Hello, Mrs. Finch.’

  Mrs. Finch was about sixty-five, and very thin. Her sharp-edged features were thickly coated with pure white face powder, and on each cheekbone was a perfectly circular blob of bright orange rouge. Her dress was purple. She said, with a fluttering eagerness, ‘Well of all things. Mrs. Savage. Please come in.’

  Myra stepped inside. ‘I am sorry to burst in on you like this, but I have to make a telephone call of the greatest import.’ She gestured toward the phone that was perched on the gas-meter cupboard. ‘Would I be inconveniencing you …?’