Dark Companions

by Ramsey Campbell

  The pavements glittered, bejewelled with rain and snatches of sun. The clouds had almost drained, the last shafts of rain hurried away on the wind; puddles puckered vanishing mouths. To think of leaving a child alone with him! If she had ever had a child— She halted her thoughts firmly. That was long past.

  Nearing the school, she became her role: Miss Locketty the teacher. The children knew where they were with her, as they needed to. But the old man was troubling her: his stare, his sly pleasure, her recurring dream of his dry piebald flesh groping over her in bed.

  She shook off the memory, squirming. How could anyone allow him near? His housekeeper might have, if that was what she was; perhaps the child was theirs. To think of his flesh jerking spasmodically like an old machine! One man had been enough to disgust her for life. She strode furiously into the schoolyard.

  Mr Prince was on yard duty. His hair was longer than most of the girls’. It was his last day at this school, and he seemed not to care what the children did—although, in her opinion, he never had cared. Children sat on their wet raincoats. “Hang those up, please,” she said, and they did so at once. Others were kicking puddles at each other, but ceased when she said “You’re too old for that.” Already she felt calmer, more sure.

  After assembly she led her class to their room. “You may play games quietly.” They fought pen-and-paper battles, but noise came blundering through the wall from Mr Prince’s class. On the other side, the murmur of Sue Thackeray’s children was hardly audible. At least it was Prince’s last day.

  Drat it, she’d forgotten to bring the Enid Blyton book to read to her class, their end-of-term treat. At lunchtime she made for the gates. A woman was reaching through the railings as though the street were a cage. Her hand consisted of bones gloved in skin, groping for the children, beckoning. In her pocket a bottle dribbled wine around its rakish stopper. “Come away from there, please,” the teacher told the children. Poor woman; probably beyond help. As she turned away, the woman’s eyes puckered wistfully.

  The teacher strode home. More rain loomed overhead; the glum sky doled out light. The book lay on the kitchen table, where she’d left it to remind her. The old man sat at his table, reaching for and talking to the obscure gloom. His hands were playing some complicated game.

  When he turned to stare at her, his smile looked gloating. Somewhere near him the voice clamoured thinly for attention. “Yes, I can see you, you dirty old swine,” she said loudly without thinking. “Just you watch yourself.” She hurried away, for she thought he’d begun to tremble—though surely he couldn’t have heard her words. His staring face looked frail as shadow.

  She read her book to her class, and watched their faces dull. Ranks of uniformed waxworks stared at her, drooping a little. Did they think they were too old for the story, or that she was out of date? She saw the old man trembling. Noise from next door floundered about her room like a clumsy intruder. If she didn’t act she would lose control of herself. “Talk quietly until I come back,” she said.

  When Mr Prince deigned to answer his door, she said “Will you control your class, please? You’re making it impossible for me to read.”

  Sandwiched in her book, her finger pointed at him. He glanced at the cover with a motion like spitting. His mouth quirked, meaning: Jesus, that’s just what you’d expect of her. “Never mind what you think of it,” she blurted. “Just do as you’re told. I could teach you a few of the basics of teaching.”

  He stared incredulously at her. “Oh piss off and leave us alone.”

  The head listened to her tale, sucking his pipe loudly; she could tell he’d been looking forward to a quiet smoke. “I’d have smacked a child for saying it,” she said.

  “I hope you’d do nothing of the kind.” As she stared, feeling betrayed, he added more gently “Besides, it’s his last day. No point in unpleasantness. We all need a rest,” he said as though to excuse her. “It’s time we all went home.”

  From her window she watched her class crossing the schoolyard, eager for freedom. “Have a good Easter,” one had said, but had that been sarcasm? She could feel only the burning knot of anger in her guts. And she was faced with two weeks of the old man’s stare.

  But the house next to hers was silent. Only the dark uncurtained window gaped at her, vaguely framed by twilit brick. She immersed herself in peace. Her anger dulled and went out, or at least became a vague shadow in her mind.

  She served herself dinner on the Wedgwood service, which her parents had kept for best. The window opposite reminded her of an empty aquarium, grimy with neglect; it made her kitchen feel more comfortable. Tomorrow she’d put up the curtain rail. She read Georgette Heyer until exhaustion began to disintegrate the phrases.

  She was sitting at a table, gazing across it at darkness. Very gradually a shape began to accumulate twilight, scarcely more distinct than the dark: a developing foetus? It must be too dark for her eyes to function properly, for surely no foetus ever took that shape, or moved so swiftly around a table. When she woke, the silence seemed chill and very large, alive with memories. She had to urge herself to climb the stairs to bed.

  Someone was knocking, but not at her door; she turned comfortably within her own warmth and slept again. It was the sounds of the crowd, of footsteps booming muffled through the house, that woke her.

  They were next door, she realised, as she blinked herself aware of the midday sunshine. She peered between the curtains, annoyed that she felt guiltily furtive. A policeman was emerging from the old man’s house; a police car squatted outside.

  At last she let go of the curtains. She rushed herself to the bathroom and slapped her face with water, scrubbed her armpits. What she’d said had served the old man right. Surely he hadn’t— In the mirror her face deplored her faltering. She must find out what had happened.

  Her body fumbled as though to hinder her dressing. As she strode down the path, trailing grasses clung to her ankles. Her stomach clenched—but she couldn’t retreat, for the housekeeper had seen her. “What’s wrong?” the teacher called and felt forced to hold her breath.

  The woman dragged her coat tighter, shivering in the April wind that fought for the parcel in her hands. “Mr Wajda has died,” she said.

  He’d been a foreigner? Questions struggled half formed behind the teacher’s lips: How did he? Why did he? It seemed safest to ask “Who found him?”

  “The postman. He was trying to deliver this.” The woman held out the parcel; her small eyes looked careful, limited, determined not to speculate. “He saw Mr Wajda at the bottom of the stairs.”

  “He fell downstairs?” The teacher tried not to sound as hopeful as she felt.

  “They think there was a loose stair rod. Of course, he couldn’t see it.”

  She managed to keep her relief from her face. But “Of course?” she repeated, puzzled.

  “Yes, of course. He was blind.”

  “I see,” she lied, and retreated mumbling “If there’s anything I can do.” The housekeeper looked as bewildered as the teacher felt, and was staring at the opened parcel, which contained a skipping rope.

  So the old man had been staring only at her sounds. His wide eyes hadn’t meant to pretend innocence. No doubt his hearing had been acute; he must have heard her words. Still, blindness didn’t make him innocent; indeed, it explained the way he had fumbled over her in her dreams. Enough of that. His death had been nothing to do with her, he would have fallen anyway, of course he would. She could forget him.

  But she could not. He must be lying still in the dark house. His gloomy window looked ominous, as though threatening to stage an unpleasant surprise. It unnerved her from climbing up to replace her curtain rail. Instead she cleaned her house before it annoyed her further. Somewhere a child was either sobbing or laughing.

  Next day the hearse arrived. Quick work: perhaps he’d had friends in the business. Now the house next door felt simply empty. She smiled at the flat blank window. No hurry now to put up the rail.


  A child sang tunelessly: la, la, la. The teacher went shopping beneath a thick grey sky, and told children to leave the old man’s garden. The news must have spread that his house was no man’s land. Returning, she had to chase the children again. “Do you want the police?” she demanded and watched while they fled.

  La, la, la. She unpacked her purchases. La, la, la. The sound was above her. In the adjoining house. The childless black couple must have a visitor, and she wished they’d keep it quiet. Just a fortnight without children, that was all she wanted.

  In her bedroom it was closer. La, la, la. She pressed her ear to the wall; a faint blurred thudding of reggae filtered through. Jungle drums, she thought automatically, and then her thoughts froze. The child’s voice was beyond the far wall, in the old man’s house.

  It sounded alone and preoccupied. Perhaps it had been with the children she’d chased. If it had heard her threat of the police it mightn’t dare to venture out. Suppose the stair rod were still loose?

  The sky was sinking beneath its burden of unshed rain. Thick fringes of grass flopped over the old man’s path. Her own garden was untidy as the blind man’s; she must take it in hand. His windows were curtained with grime. The actual curtains, drooping within, looked like fat ropes of dust.

  About to knock, she halted. A stair rod wedged the front door, too timidly ajar to be noticeable from the pavement. Perhaps this was the lethal stair rod—but it meant the child was a meddler, dangerous to itself. She pushed the door wide.

  A dim staircase rose from the hall, which might have been a mirror’s version of her own—except that she hoped that hers was infinitely cleaner. The woman could have done nothing but his shopping. Above the stairs, festoons of dust transformed a lampshade into a chandelier.

  “Come here, please. Before you hurt yourself.” Muffled as dust, the house dulled her voice, as though she were shouting into blankets. No answer came. Perhaps the child was downstairs now. She strode towards the kitchen, unwilling to climb towards the box of secret darkness.

  The house smelled of dank wallpaper. The sky’s lid allowed scant light into the kitchen. When she switched on the bulb as grey as an old pear, the light felt thick as oil. The room was empty—perhaps too empty: there was no chair opposite the old man’s at the table. Nothing else in the long cluttered room seemed worth noting, except a spillage of cans of baby food surrounding a bin beneath the sink. Beyond the window her own kitchen looked darkly unfamiliar, hardly hers at all.

  Enough dawdling. She hurried back towards the stairs; her echoes seemed indefinably wrong. She halted. Had there been a high sound, perhaps an inadvertent snatch of song, among her last echoes? “Come down here, please. I’m not going to hurt you.”

  The dark above her swallowed her call and kept its secret. It stood blocking the top of the stairs. Good God, was she going to let her nervousness in an empty house prevent her from saving a child? She tramped upstairs. “Come here to me,” she called.

  At once there was movement in the dark. Someone came running towards her, down what sounded like an impossibly long hall. Above her the dark seemed crowded with sound, and about to hurl the source of that sound at her. The child was going to play a trick, to leap at her as she stood vulnerable on the stairs.

  Her loss of dignity angered her, but she ran. Once she reached the hall she’d give the child a piece of her mind. The noise raced towards her, sounding thin, hollow, dry, and far too large—deformed by dust and echoes, of course. It was close behind her. Her clutching hand scraped a wad of dust from the banister.

  The noise had halted. She gripped the banister tight as a weapon as she turned, for fear of an unbalancing prank. But the stairs were deserted.

  Outside, the muddy sky gave her less light than she’d hoped. Of course, all the sounds must have come from the house beyond the old man’s. The threat of rain filled her mind like fog. She had almost reached her front door when it slammed in her face. She fumbled irritably for her key. Enough tricks for today.

  La, la, la. Determined to ignore the sound, which seemed to have moved above her, she dined at the nearby Chinese restaurant. Mellowed by Riesling, she ambled home through streets polished by rain. Shops displayed beds, bright and deserted. Her house displayed darkness. As she climbed the stairs her echoes sounded more numerous than she thought they should, as though someone were imitating her. Of course, that was what had sounded wrong in the old man’s house. She smiled vaguely and went to bed.

  Pale quick movement woke her. For a moment it hovered; it had opened the ceiling to peer down at her. She was still trying to prop her eyes open when it slid away, gliding down the wall to the floor. It must have been the stray light of a car.

  Her eyelids settled shut. Then her brow tautened. She must be half engulfed in a dream, for she thought she remembered the pale oval crossing the floor and hiding beneath her bed. No car’s beam could have reached so far. Determinedly, she relaxed. Her brow was beginning to squeeze forth a headache.

  She dozed amid distractions. The tick of her clock was shouting like an ignored child; a drip in the kitchen seemed eager to remind her how largely empty the house was. Something—a fly, it must have been—kept touching her face lightly, silently. Grumbling, she withdrew beneath the blankets. Somewhere in a dream she could still feel the timid touch.

  She must have dreamed that it managed to pluck the blankets away and crawl in beside her face. Daylight showed her a deserted room. Perhaps the fly had fallen under the bed to die; she wasn’t looking. She ate breakfast and stared at the weeds on the yard wall; lingering raindrops made their leaves crystalline. The weeds wept on her fingers as she uprooted them triumphantly; She’d left them growing to avoid arguments with the old man—and of course he wouldn’t have noticed.

  She read the Heyer. The street sounded like a schoolyard; footballs beat like irregular hearts. Later, the library was quiet until children came in for a chase. She couldn’t escape them at all, it seemed. She smiled wryly at the harassed librarian.

  La ,la, la. Couldn’t they teach the child a few more notes, or at least to stay firmly on the one? She added her coat to the load on the hall stand, straining her ears to determine the location of the sound. It was above her, on the old man’s side. It moved slowly to the other side. But it couldn’t do that unless it was in her house.

  She ran upstairs. Her footsteps filled the house, but there was no need for stealth; the child was in her bedroom, trapped. It sang on, indifferent to her. She’d smack its bottom for that as well. She flung open the bedroom door.

  The bed was spread with sunlight, the room blazed. The singing persisted ahead of her, tantalisingly, as she forced her eyes not to blink; then it moved through the wall into the spare bedroom. Just an acoustic trick. She was disconcertingly unsure what she felt now she’d been robbed of the naughty child. The house walls were too thin, that was for sure. She sat downstairs, riffling through her new books. When the singing recommenced she pursed her lips. She’d been tricked once.

  She woke. She was sitting in the chair, an open book roofed her knee. For a moment she forgot that it was the next day, that she’d been to bed meanwhile. Some perversity of her metabolism always exhausted her after the end of term.

  No doubt the tapping of rain had wakened her; the panes looked cracked by water, the room was crowded with dim giant amoebae. But the movement, or the version of it that her sleep had admitted, had sounded heavier. Though she quashed the memory at once, she thought of the departed footsteps of her parents. The sound came again, rumbling in the cupboard in the corner of the room.

  Reluctantly she tiptoed closer. Dry waves of rain flooded down the cupboard door. With one hand she switched on the standard lamp, with the other she snatched open the door. The gas meter peered up at her, twitching its indicator. There was nothing else, not even a mouse hole. It must have been the black couple, being far too noisy.

  In the kitchen all the cupboards were open. Their interiors looked very dark, and more full than they shou
ld have, especially where they were darkest. Wake up! She slapped her face, none too gently. What was her mind playing, hide and seek? She slammed the doors, refusing to peer within.

  Her mind tried slyly to persuade her to dine out. Nonsense, she couldn’t afford that every night. After dinner she wrote to Sue, suggesting a restaurant, then tried to read. Didn’t they ever put that child to bed? It was such a dismal sound; it made her house seem so empty.

  Next day she lost patience. Never mind sitting about, moping. Who was going to put up the curtain rail, her father? This time she’d do it properly. She replenished the sockets in the plaster with filler. Replacing the screws was more tiring than she’d thought; halfway through she was prickly with sweat. “Shut up with your la, la, la,” she snarled. She’d complain if she only knew where. Gasping triumphantly, she tightened the last screw and stood gazing at her handiwork, ignoring the blisters on her palms.

  The singing insinuated itself among the words of her books, it began to pick apart her thoughts. What annoyed her most was its stupidity. It sounded mindless as a dripping tap.

  On Good Friday she rode a bus into unexpected sunshine, but there seemed to be an indefinable thin barrier between her and her enjoyment. Among the children who crowded the fields and the woods a tuneless song kept appearing. She returned home before she’d planned to, towards slabs of cloud.

  She lay listening furiously. La, la, la. It was hours past midnight, hours since she’d tried to sleep. Tomorrow she would track down the child’s parents—except that deep in her mind she dreaded that nobody would know what she was talking about. She knew none of her neighbours well enough for a calculated chat.

  On Easter Sunday she went to church in search of peace, though she hadn’t been for years. Above the altar Christ rose up, pure, perfected. She gazed in admiration, surprised how much she’d forgotten. There was a real man, probably the only one. She’d never met one like him.