Not Safe After Dark: And Other Stories

by Peter Robinson

  “How did it happen?”

  “I told him he were no better than a murderer, buying up wool that kills people. I mean, it weren’t the first time, were it? He said it weren’t his fault, that nobody could’ve known. Then, when I told him he should take more care, he said I didn’t understand, that it were just a hazard of the job, like, and that she should’ve known she were taking a risk before she took it on.”

  If Richard really had spoken that way to Jack, then he had certainly been guilty of exhibiting a gross insensitivity I had not suspected to be part of his character. Even if that was the case, we are all capable of saying the wrong thing at the wrong time, especially if we are pushed as far as Jack probably pushed Richard. What he had done had certainly not justified his murder.

  “How did it happen, Jack?” I asked him.

  After a short pause, he said, “I waited for him on the towpath. All the way home we argued and in the end I lost my temper. There were a long bit of wood from a packing crate or summat by the bushes. He turned his back on me and started walking away. I picked it up and clouted him and down he went.”

  “But why the weir?”

  “I realized what I’d done.” He gave a harsh laugh. “It’s funny, you know, especially now it doesn’t matter. But back then, when I’d just done it, when I knew I’d killed a man, I panicked. I thought if I threw his body over the weir then people would think he’d fallen. It weren’t far, and he weren’t a heavy man.”

  “He wasn’t dead, Jack,” I said. “He had water in his lungs. That meant he was alive when he went into the water.”

  “It’s no matter,” said Jack. “One way or another, it was me who killed him.”

  The water roared in my ears. Jack turned toward me. I flinched and stepped back again, thrusting my arm out to keep him at a distance.

  He shook his head slowly, tears in his eyes, and spoke so softly I had to strain to hear him. “Nay, Doctor, you’ve nowt to fear from me. It’s me who’s got summat to fear from you.”

  I shook my head. I really didn’t know what to do, and my heart was still beating fast from the fear that he had been going to tip me over the railing.

  “Well,” he said, “all I ask is that you leave it till morning. One more night in the house me and Florence shared. Will you do that for me, at least, Doctor?”

  As I nodded numbly, he turned and began to walk away.

  * * *

  Early the following morning, after a miserable night spent tossing and turning, grappling with my conscience, I was summoned from the hospital to the works office building, attached to the west side of the mill. I hurried down Victoria Road, wondering what on earth it could be about, and soon found myself ushered into a large, well-appointed office with a thick Turkish carpet, dark wainscoting, and a number of local landscapes hanging on the walls. Sitting behind the huge mahogany desk was Sir Titus himself, still a grand, imposing figure despite his years and his declining health.

  “Dr. Oulton,” he said, without looking up from his papers. “Please sit down.”

  I wondered what had brought him the twelve miles or so from Crows Nest, where he lived. He rarely appeared at the mill in those days.

  “I understand,” he said in his deep, commanding voice, still not looking at me, “that you have been inquiring into the circumstances surrounding Richard Ellerby’s death?”

  I nodded. “Yes, Sir Titus.”

  “And what, pray, have you discovered?”

  I took a deep breath, then told him everything. As I spoke, he stood up, clasped his hands behind his back, and paced the room, head hanging so that his gray beard almost reached his waist. Though his cheeks and eyes looked sunken, as if he was ill, his presence dominated the room. When I had finished, he sat down again and treated me to a long silence before he said, “And what are we going to do about it?”

  “The police will have to be notified.”

  “As yet, then, you and I are the only ones who know the full truth?”

  “And Jack himself.”

  “Yes, of course.” Sir Titus stroked his beard. I could hear the muffled noise of the mill and feel the vibrations of the power looms shaking the office. It was a warm day, and despite the open window the room was stuffy. I felt the sweat gather on my brow and upper lip. I gazed out of the window and saw the weir, where Richard Ellerby had met his death. “This is not good,” Sir Titus said finally. “Not good at all.”

  “Sir?”

  He gestured with his arm to take in the whole of Saltaire. “What I mean, Dr. Oulton, is that this could be very bad for the village. Very bad. Do you have faith in the experiment?”

  “The experiment, sir?”

  “The moral experiment that is Saltaire.”

  “I have never doubted your motive in wanting to do good, sir.”

  Sir Titus managed a thin smile. “A very revealing answer.” Another long silence followed. He got up and started pacing again. “If a man visits a public house and becomes so intoxicated that he falls in a river and drowns, then that is an exemplary tale for all of us, wouldn’t you say?”

  “I would, sir.”

  “And if a man, after visiting a public house, is followed by a group of ruffians who attack him, rob him, and throw him in a river to drown, then again we have an exemplary—nay, a cautionary—tale, do we not?”

  “We do, sir. But Richard Ellerby wasn’t robbed.”

  He waved his hand impatiently. “Yes, yes, of course. I know that. I’m merely thinking out loud. Please forgive an old man his indulgence. This place—Saltaire—means the world to me, Dr. Oulton. Can you understand that? The world.”

  “I think I can, sir.”

  “It’s not just a matter of profits, though I’ll not deny it’s profitable enough. But I think I have created something unique. I call it my ‘experiment,’ of course, yet for others it is a home, a way of life. At least I hope it is. It was my aim to make Saltaire everything Bradford was not. It was designed to nurture self-improvement, decency, orderly behavior, and good health among my workers. I wanted to prove that making my own fortune was not incompatible with the material and spiritual well-being of the working classes. I saw it as my duty, my God-given duty. If the Lord looks so favorably upon me, then I take that as an obligation to look favorably upon my workers. Do you follow me?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “And now this. Murder. Manslaughter. Call it what you will. It disrupts the fabric of things. It could destroy any trust that might have built up in the community. No doubt you remember the troubles we had over anthrax some years ago?”

  “I do, sir.” In 1868, a man called Sutcliffe Rhodes had garnered much support from the village in his campaign against anthrax, and Sir Titus had been seriously embarrassed by the whole matter. “But surely you can’t expect me to ignore what I know, sir?” I said. “To lie.”

  Sir Titus smiled grimly. “I could never ask a man to go against his beliefs, Doctor. All I ask is that you follow the dictates of your own conscience, but that you please bear in mind the consequences. If this issue surfaces again, especially in this way, then we’re done for. Nobody will believe in the goodness of Saltaire anymore, and I meant it to be a good place, a place where there would never be any reason for murder to occur.”

  He shook his head in sadness and let the silence stretch again. Above the noise of the mill I suddenly heard men shouting. Someone hammered on the door and dashed into the office without ceremony. I couldn’t be certain, but my first impression was that it was the same shadowy figure I had seen in the “spy” tower.

  “Sir Titus,” the interloper said, after a quick bow, “my apologies for barging in like this, but you must come. There’s a man on the mill roof.”

  Sir Titus and I frowned at one another, then we followed him outside. I walked slowly, in deference to Sir Titus’s age, and it took us several minutes to get around to the allotment gardens, from where we had a clear view.

  The man stood atop the mill roof, full six stories up,
between its two decorative lanterns. I could also make out another figure inside one of the lanterns, perhaps talking to him. But the man on the roof didn’t appear to be listening. He stood right at the edge and, even as we watched, he spread out his arms as if attempting to fly, then he sprang off the roof and seemed to hover in the air for a moment before falling with a thud to the forecourt.

  It was a curious sensation. Though I knew in my heart and mind that I was witnessing the death of a fellow human being, there was a distant quality about the event. The figure was dwarfed by the mill, for a start, and just in front of us, a dog scratched at the dirt, as if digging for its bone, and it didn’t cease during the man’s entire fall to earth.

  A mill hand came running up and told us that the man who had jumped was Jack Liversedge. Again it was an eerie feeling, but I suppose, in a way, I already knew that.

  “An accident and a suicide,” muttered Sir Titus, fixing me with his deep-set eyes. “It’s bad enough, but we can weather it, wouldn’t you say, Doctor?” There was hope in his voice.

  My jaw tensed. I was tempted to tell him to go to hell, that his vision, his experiment, wasn’t worth lying for. But I saw in front of me a sick old man who had at least tried to do something for the people who made him rich. Whether it was enough or not was not for me to say. Saltaire wasn’t perfect—perfection is a state we will never find on this earth—but it was better than most mill towns.

  Swallowing my bile, I gave Sir Titus a curt nod and set off back up Victoria Road to the hospital.

  * * *

  In the days and weeks that followed, I tried to continue with my work—after all, the people of Saltaire still needed a hospital and a doctor—but after Jack Liversedge’s pointless death, my heart just didn’t seem to be in it anymore. Jack’s dramatic suicide lowered the morale of the town for a short while—there were long faces everywhere and some mutterings of dissent—but eventually it was forgotten, and the townspeople threw themselves back into their work: weaving fine cloths of alpaca and mohair for those wealthy enough to be able to afford them.

  Still, no matter how much I tried to convince myself to put the matter behind me and carry on, I felt there was something missing from the community; something more than a mere man had died the day Jack killed himself.

  One day, after I had spent a wearying few hours tending to one of the wool sorters dying of anthrax, I made my decision to leave. A month later, after sorting out my affairs and helping my replacement settle in, I left Saltaire for South Africa, where I eventually met the woman who was to become my wife. We raised our three children, and I practiced my profession in Cape Town for thirty years. After my retirement, we decided to move back to England, where we settled comfortably in a small Cornish fishing village. Now my children are grown up, married, and gone away, my wife is dead, and I am an old man who spends his days wandering the cliffs above the sea watching the birds soar and dip.

  And sometimes the sound of the waves reminds me of the roar of the Saltaire weir.

  More than forty years have now passed since that night by the weir, when Jack Liversedge told me he had killed Richard Ellerby; more than forty years have passed since Sir Titus and I stood by the allotments and saw Jack’s body fall and break on the forecourt of the mill.

  Forty years. Long enough to keep a secret.

  Besides, the world has changed so much since then that what happened that day long ago in Saltaire seems of little consequence now. Sir Titus died three years after Jack’s fall, and his dream died with him. Fashions changed, and the ladies no longer wanted the bright, radiant fabrics that Sir Titus had produced. His son, Titus Junior, struggled with the business until he, too, died in 1887, and the mill was taken over by a consortium of Bradford businessmen. Today, Saltaire is no longer a moral experiment or a mill workers’ Utopia; it is merely another business.

  And today, in July 1916, nobody believes in Utopias anymore.

  Not Safe after Dark

  He had only gone out to the convenience store for cigarettes, but the park across the intersection looked inviting. It seemed to offer a brief escape from the heat and dirt and noise of the city. Cars whooshed by, radios blasting rock and funk and rap into the hot summer night. Streetlights and colored neons looked smeared and blurry in the humid heat. A walk among the trees by the lake might cool him down a little.

  He knew he shouldn’t, knew it was dangerous. What was it the guidebooks always said about big city parks? Not safe after dark. That was it. No matter which park they talked about—Central Park, Golden Gate Park—they were always not safe after dark.

  He wondered why. Parks were quiet, peaceful places, a few acres of unspoiled nature in the heart of the city. People took their dogs for walks; children played on swings and teeter-totters. Parks provided retreats for meditation and the contemplation of nature, surely, not playgrounds for the corrupt and the delinquent.

  There was more danger, he thought, among the dregs of humanity that haunted the vast urban sex and drug supermarkets like Times Square or the Tenderloin. There you got mugged, beaten up, raped, even murdered, for no good reason at all.

  Hoodlums and thugs weren’t into nature; they were happier idling on street corners harassing passersby, starting fights in strip clubs or rock bars, and selling drugs in garbage-strewn alleys. If they wanted to mug someone, they had more chance downtown, where the crowds were thick and some fool always took a shortcut down a dark alley. If they just wanted to scare and hurt people for the fun of it, crowded places like shopping malls guaranteed them both the victims and the audience.

  Or so he found himself reasoning as he stood there by the traffic lights. Should he risk it? Over the road, the dark, tangled mass of branches tossed in the hot breeze like billowing black smoke against the starlit sky. A yellowish full moon, surrounded by a halo, gilded the treetops. The traffic lights changed to green, and after only a moment’s hesitation, he began to cross. Why not? What could possibly happen? The entrance, a long, tree-lined avenue, seemed rolled out like a tongue ready to lick him up and draw him into the park’s dark mouth. Maybe he had a death wish, though he didn’t think so.

  Muted wrought iron streetlamps flanked the broad cinder path, which led under a small imitation Arc de Triomphe gate overgrown with weeds and lichen. Beyond that, the branches swayed slowly in the muggy gusts, leaves making a wet, hissing sound. The dimly lit path, he noticed, was lined with statues. He went over to see if he could make out any of the names. Writers: Shakespeare, Sir Walter Scott, Tennyson, Wordsworth. What on earth were they doing there?

  The avenue ended at a small boating pool. In the water, a child’s yacht with a white sail turned in slow circles. The sight brought a lump to his throat. He didn’t know why, but somewhere, perhaps buried deep in his memories, was just such a feeling of loss or of drifting aimlessly in circles, never arriving. It made him feel suddenly, inexplicably sad.

  Beyond the pond the park stretched, rising and falling down to the lake. Here were no broad avenues, only tarmac paths and dirt trails. He took one of the main paths that wound deeper into the woods. He could always take a side path later if he wanted. So far he had seen no one, and the traffic from the main road sounded more and more distant behind him. It was much darker now, away from the dim antique lights of the entrance. Only the jaundiced and haze-shrouded moon shone through the trees and slicked the path with oily gold. But as he walked, he found his eyes soon adjusted. At least he could make out shapes, if not details.

  After he had been walking a few minutes, he noticed a playground to his left. There was nobody in it at this time of night, but one of the swings was rocking back and forth gently in the wind, creaking where its chains needed greasing. He felt like sitting on one of the wooden seats and shooting himself high, aiming his feet at the moon. But it would only draw unwelcome attention. Just being here was supposed to be dangerous enough, without asking for trouble. Somewhere, back on the road, he heard the whine of a police siren.

  Off to the right
, a path wound up the hillside between the trees. He took it. It was some kind of fitness trail. Every so often, he could make out wooden chin bars where the joggers were encouraged to pause and do a few pull-ups. Occasionally, he would hear a scuttling sound in the undergrowth. At first, it scared him, but he figured it was only a harmless squirrel, or a chipmunk running away.

  The path straightened out at the top of the short hill, and almost before he knew it he was in a clearing surrounded by trees. He thought he heard a different sound now, a low moan or a sigh. He pulled back quickly behind a tree. In the clearing stood a number of picnic benches, and at one of them he could just make out a couple of human figures. It took him a few seconds to focus clearly in the poor light, but when he realized what was happening, his throat constricted and his heart seemed to start thumping so loudly he was sure they could hear him.

  There were two of them. One half-sat on the table edge, hands stretched behind, supporting himself as he arched backward. The other knelt at his feet, head bowed forward. They seemed to freeze for a moment, as if they had heard him, then the one on the table said something he couldn’t quite catch and the one on his knees continued slowly moving his head forward and back.

  He felt sick and dizzy. He clutched on to the tree tightly and tried to control the swimming feeling in his head. He couldn’t afford to faint—not here, not now, with those two so close. After a few deep breaths, he turned as quietly as he could and hurried down a dirt track that forked off in another direction.

  After he had covered a good distance as fast as he dared go, he squatted in the ferns at the side of the trail, head in hands, and waited for his heart to still and his breathing to become regular. An insect crawled up his bare arm; he shuddered and brushed it off.

  He was beginning to feel really scared now. He had no idea where he was, which direction he was traveling in. Like that yacht back in the pond a million miles away, he could be going in circles. Again he fought back the panic and walked on. Now he cursed his stupidity. Why had he come here? It hadn’t been a good idea at all. He would wander round and round, then end up back where he started. He would collapse with exhaustion and those two men from the picnic table would find him and . . . Maybe he did have a death wish, after all. He should have taken notice of the guidebooks. He told himself to stop panicking and calm down.