The Dark Corners

by Robert J. Tilley

  The man said. “The classic paradox. If I kill my father, what happens to me?” He laughed, a wheezing ululation that almost instantly degenerated into another fit of coughing during which he leaned forward, his elbows on his knees and his head lowered until it petered into near-silence. When he looked up again his face was streaked with perspiration, and the fever in his eyes was brighter than before.

  “I’m sick, as you can see. If this experiment succeeds, in the improbable event of my surviving its outcome it can only be for a short while, but whatever happens the continuation of my life’s a matter of no real concern. I have no dependents, which in these circumstances is a blessing, and in any case the fact that it was necessary for me to bypass what would normally be essential parts of the transfer procedures that have enabled me to be here now means that there’s no possibility of returning to my own time. This leaves me with few options, but the truth is that my own death will be a merciful release from an existence that for some time now I’ve found barely tolerable and which eventually convinced me that before it was too late I had to try and right the dreadful wrong that you’ll do if left alive. If I should somehow survive, shortly afterwards I’ll follow you, although a bullet will spare me the agony that in the future you’d be prepared to inflict on my mother and myself and which you’re about to experience.” He broke off again, breathing heavily, his tongue flicking repeatedly across his lips and his eyes once more closed.

  The by-now deafening thunder of his heart had smothered much of this spelling out of intent, but enough of it had still penetrated his understanding for him to have recognised the note of finality it contained. His bowel, long in turmoil, surrendered its contents, the stench of this shame invading his nostrils as he rocked and swayed, pleading, his voice a shrill whimper. “No, no, you can’t—dear Christ, I’m begging you—” He broke down, choking on the words. His head sank onto his chest, and he wept uncontrollably for the existence that he was about to lose.

  The man’s eyes opened again, and when he spoke it was slowly and quietly.

  “Whether or not you believe what I’ve told you about our relationship, you’ve clearly decided that I’m insane. Perhaps I am a little, although not in the way that I imagine you’re thinking. I’ve lived with this hatred and desire for revenge for so long now that it may well have poisoned my mind to that extent, but it doesn’t alter the truth of what you’ve just learned. I did, of course, give you fair warning that knowing the facts wouldn’t comfort you in any way, but your insistence persuaded me that you had a right to be told them.” He took a deep, rasping breath, and raised a hand in what was clearly a gesture signalling completion.

  “Now that you have, and despite the uncertainty involved, I see no point in waiting any longer to attempt to fulfil what I consider to be my justifiable obligation.”

  He reached into his coat pocket. When his hand re-emerged, it was holding a small white tube with a rounded metal end. He depressed a button in its side, and the domed tip began to glow redly. Closing his eyes again, he said, “May God have mercy on both our souls.” He leaned down and grasped the handle of the can with his free hand, tilting it and directing its contents across the floor.

  Apart from his failed attempts to tear himself free of the tape binding his wrists, until that moment more or less accepted the futility of attempting any kind of physical response. Now, confronted with these things; the white tube and its glowing end, the tilted can and the steady release of what it contained, something snapped inside his head, abruptly wrenching him out of this paralysis.

  He shrieked a wordless emanation of terror, sheer animal instinct dictating his movements as the gasoline flooded beneath and around him. Spreading his feet beyond the width of the chair and dragging them parallel with its front legs, he threw all his weight forward, somehow achieving enough momentum to enable him to lurch upwards into crouching stance. As he did so, startlingly, muffled sounds from beyond the closed door impinged faintly on his wavering consciousness; the crash of shattering glass, shouts, the hurried thud of approaching footsteps, intrusions that provoked the grey-faced man into rising unsteadily to his feet, his head turned towards them and his jaw agape.

  Doubled over, the chair angled above him like the skeleton of some bizarre carapace, he shuffled frantically towards the door, colliding with the grey-faced man and knocking the can from his hand as he passed him. Just before reaching the door, his feet slithered from under him. As he twisted and fell, he caught a fleeting glimpse of it miraculously swinging open to reveal the uniformed figure of a patrolman staring into the room.

  Hands grasped him and dragged him through the opening, away from the creeping carpet of searing flame that licked at his feet and legs. Before retreating into blessed unconsciousness, his last sight was of the inferno of light and heat that now filled the office and the last sounds he heard the agonised screams that rose from its depths.

  * * * *

  The two doctors were standing just inside the doors when she entered the ward. As he passed them she overheard a fragment of their conversation, meaningless at the time but which she recalled later.

  “—difficult to say. He may come out of it eventually, of course, but if he does think we can anticipate a very long haul. One way and another, the best thing—”

  It was the first time that she’d been seconded to the burns unit, currently understaffed due to a virus that had laid low two of its regular staff, and the sister-in-charge talked her through procedures and practices before taking her with her on her own normal morning round.

  The curtains had been pulled around the fourth bed they visited. The sister peered inside, then closed them again.

  “He’s asleep. There’d be no point in disturbing him now. He’s been through a lot, poor boy. Somebody tied him up at the gas station where he worked and then started a fire, the police don’t know why. They found a body afterwards, or what was left of one. It might even have been the person responsible, I suppose. Hoist with his own petard if it was.” She grimaced. “Anyway, this lad’s got second-degree burns to his lower legs, but his big problem’s post-traumatic stress disorder. He remembers everything up to the afternoon of the day it happened, but nothing at all about the actual incident. Mr. Crossley says it’s possible that he’ll never remember any of it, which would be a blessing in some ways, I suppose.”

  They moved on to the next bed.

  “How are you this morning, John? You’re looking chirpy enough. This is nurse Parker.” She exchanged smiles with the man in the bed. “She’ll be changing your dressings later. She’s got the gentle touch, I’m told, so there shouldn’t be any need to fuss like you usually do.”

  It wasn’t until late morning that she saw him for the first time. The curtains were still drawn when she finished re-bandaging the man in the next bed and then checked to see if he wanted anything.

  He was still asleep, his head turned sideways on the pillow. Her pulse quickened a little, a reaction that brought a slight flush to her cheeks. Don’t be ridiculous, she scolded herself. Even so, he undeniably possessed the kind of looks that had always appealed to her; darkly attractive, with long-lashed eyes and gently wavy hair, rumpled now. It certainly would have been a crime in more ways than one to have killed him, she thought protectively. What possible reason could there have been for such a brutal act? She recalled the sister’s account of his terrifying ordeal that had earlier aroused her own deep sympathy despite his concealed anonymity at the time and which had now become magnified at the sight of him.

  She closed the curtains again and went to the foot of the bed, unhooking the chart here, the name she saw on it instantly flicking at her memory.

  David Simmons? Hadn’t that been the name of the person the sick-looking stranger who’d accosted her a few days before claimed to have been looking for? What a weird coincidence, she thought. The encounter itself had been odd enough, especially the startling reversal that had resulted from her denial of knowledge, almost as though her inab
ility to help him had relieved him of some distressing burden.

  Well, now she did know a David Simmons, or would do very shortly. Smiling at the thought, she replaced the chart and was beginning to move on when she heard moaning from behind the closed curtains. She pulled them open again, finding him stirring agitatedly in his sleep, sweat beginning to bead his brow.

  As abruptly as it had started the sound stopped and the movement stilled. A nightmare, she thought. Perhaps the doctors were wrong after all, and he was beginning to remember his ordeal. Poor boy. He clearly needed special care, the ministrations of someone who was truly concerned for his welfare in what was bound to be a difficult future for him.

  She wondered if he already had someone like that; a mother, perhaps a wife?

  She gently removed the sweat with a tissue as she studied his handsome face, again resting peacefully on the pillow.

  ABOUT ROBERT J. TILLEY

  The author was born in Cottingham, Yorkshire, 12th May, 1928. His father was a sales rep for National Cash Registers, and his mother a housewife.

  His family moved to Devon when he was four years old and three years later to Bridgwater in Somerset, where he grew up.

  Tilley recalls: “Dad occasionally wrote poetry—not bad, some of it—and late in life Mum became a pretty good Sunday painter, so I obviously owe my creative streak to both of them.

  “When I was small, my sister, who’s eighteen months older, used to read stories to me, but because she was a bit hesitant and I was impatient to know what happened next I learned to read before I started school. I’ve been a pretty voracious reader for most of my life as well as a keen cinema-goer and jazz enthusiast, my love for which is reflected in a fair bit of my writing. I bought my first instrument, a clarinet, when I was sixteen and working as an auctioneer’s clerk—a job for which I was totally unsuited—and later a tenor saxophone. I organised and played in various bands up to my mid-sixties when I had to pack it in because of health problems. Still tinkle on the piano and occasionally the vibraphone when I have the time and energy, which isn’t often.

  “I took a commercial art course at Bristol College of Art And Design in the late 1940’s and after leaving worked initially as a screen printer. Subsequently worked as a graphic designer, specialising in display and exhibitions, and spent the final decade of my working life as a lecturer at a Further Education college in London, taking early retirement and returning to Bristol in 1985.

  “My wife and I now live in the beautiful and blessedly peaceful Mendip hills, coping as well as we can with the infirmities and general drawbacks of old age.

  “I followed what seems to be the commonplace route to an appreciation of science fiction; Flash Gordon serials at the local Saturday morning matinees when I was young, and I remember being very taken with the BBC radio serialisation of War of the Worlds, which used Holt’s Mars, the god of war as its opening and closing music. Powerful stuff. I read Wells and Verne and occasional sf stories in magazines like Argosy, but the range of my early reading was quite wide—still is—and I only discovered the SF magazines when I was in my mid-twenties.

  “Once I got started, though, I couldn’t get enough of it. I bought all the current magazines and pretty quickly decided to have a go myself; Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine bought my first effort, a fantasy piece, and I broke into SF with a couple of sales to Authentic Science Fiction, just prior to its unfortunate demise.

  “My subsequent early stories appeared in other British magazines such as New Worlds, Science Fantasy and Nebula. But when the home market sagged, I tried the USA, and was gratified to sell several stories to The Magazine of Fantasy & Science Fiction, some of which were later anthologized.

  “My output has been sporadic to say the least—twenty-some stories and two novels over a sixty year period could hardly be described as prolific. I’m both astounded and impressed by the sheer volume and, generally speaking, consistency of work produced by people as diverse as Ballard and Tubb, but there’s no way that I could have followed their industrious example.

  “Writing was their vocation, but my butterfly mind has meant that I’ve only ever been able to concentrate on it in relatively short bursts. Variety is the spice of life, it’s said, but while I’ve derived a lot of pleasure from my assorted activities I have to confess that ultimately, of all my creative efforts, writing has given me the deepest satisfaction.”