The Wine-Dark Sea

by Robert Aickman

  The incessant ‘wrong number’ calls tended to convert Edmund from a passive into an active servitor of the telephone. After some weeks of it, he did write a strong letter to the Supervisor; and then, ten days later, received a courteous acknowledgement, printed in a carefully chosen type-face, and with a handwritten postscript, difficult to read but apparently conveying an assurance that this complaint was ‘under investigation’. The calls continued as before. This development in Edmund’s relationship with the telephone helped to conceal from him for some time that Nera’s calls were becoming slowly but markedly fewer than ever. One morning he noticed that there were buds on the plane trees beneath the studio window, and realised that, although the telephone bell seemed seldom to stop ringing, he had not heard from Nera for a week. Instantly his concentration upon the telephone leapt to and remained at a new intensity. As the tender tide of spring trickled round the grey rocks of London, Edmund became a man eviscerated and absorbed by the squat black monster tethered by its stubby flex.

  As soon as possible, he challenged Nera. ‘Wrong number’ calls had been coming in all that day, varied by one call which was not a wrong number but informed Edmund that he would not be wanted to translate the Italian book on the eighteenth century in England after all. Nera came through at 11:25 P.M. precisely. She was as alluring as ever; roses in Edmund’s horizonless desert. Never in retrospect could he at all determine what it was about those bare words of hers, intensified by no accessory charm beyond her attractive voice, which so moved him that he had become as one of Odysseus’s sailors. Now he remonstrated and begged.

  At first she made light of her remissness and little of Edmund’s trouble. He noticed, however, that she did not, as she had originally seemed to do, claim that she had been unable to telephone. Convinced that she was tiring of their inadequate and unsatisfying association, he found himself pleading desperately.

  ‘I can’t live without you.’ The rags and bones of his pride had hitherto prevented him from admitting so much as long as she persisted without explanation in standing so far off.

  ‘Oh,’ she said. ‘Then it’s time for me to come and see you.’ Her voice was soft as grass new sprung from the seed.

  This fulfilment of her previous vague promise was the last thing that Edmund had expected. He looked round the room for his reflection, but Teddie had managed to smash the mirror on the day she left, and Edmund had not replaced it.

  ‘Yes,’ he said in a low voice. ‘Any time. When?’

  ‘Very soon. Wait for me. Goodbye.’

  After that Nera stopped telephoning Edmund altogether; but the telephone itself began to behave more and more strangely. The calls for the Corporation came as frequently as before; but now there were other calls which were wholly inexplicable. Believing that Nera would surely ring him up to tell him when she was coming, Edmund became more frightened than ever lest he miss a single one of them. He renewed efforts, suspended as unavailing during the first week of his tenancy, to arrange for food to be delivered at his door, but with no more success than then. Now, moreover, his money was fast running out, and the reservoir was by no means being replenished. He tried to arrange credit with the shop in the next street, but was no more successful than when he tried to persuade them to deliver. Edmund had never been apt with shop assistants, and now he felt that he was being eyed with positive hatred. There was a long London heat-wave, premature, opaque, and damp; through which Edmund sat seeing almost nobody, eating almost nothing, and no longer waiting for, but increasingly ministering to the telephone.

  Sometimes now he would lift the receiver and hear only a crescendo of terrifying abuse and curses; at other times, groans and screams, as of the dying or the damned. Sometimes unknown voices would conduct hectoring or wheedling conversations with him; and when he questioned them upon the number they wanted, persist that they wanted his. If he rang off, they would often ring again; threatening, or breaking down. Sometimes there was a cat’s-cradle of confused noises, in part, it seemed to Edmund, mechanical, in part simply disembodied and without significance. Several times there was laughter on the line; and once an enormous voice which plunged through Edmund’s head, then diminished before plunging again. It was like overhearing an immense ram as it battered its way through mighty resistances and defences. It was even more frightening than the confused noises.

  One day the studio bell rang. It was the first occasion for weeks. Edmund, supposing that the shop in the next street might have changed its mind, opened the door. It was Teddie’s friend Toby.

  ‘Didn’t recognize you, St. Jude. It’s that beard …’

  He was inside the studio before Edmund could stop him.

  ‘Sorry to butt in when you’re not dressed.’

  He looked round for Edmund to offer him a cigarette.

  ‘When’s Teddie coming back? Do you hear from her?’ He barely attempted even the surface of politeness.

  ‘I see that you do.’ He picked up a heap of air mail envelopes which stood on Teddie’s Benares table.

  ‘Unopened, by God.’ Toby was staring at Edmund. He was now by the window. Edmund was at the door, willing him to go.

  The telephone rang.

  Toby lifted the receiver.

  ‘Miss Taylor-Smith’s studio.’

  Edmund was upon him, fighting like a starving animal.

  ‘What the hell –’

  Toby’s free arm wheeled round, pushed rather than struck: and Edmund was on the floor.

  ‘It’s a bloke called Sefton.’ Toby was holding out the receiver. He seemed to bear no malice, but instead of going, he seated himself in Teddie’s big armchair and found a cigarette of his own.

  Sefton was speaking. ‘I say, is everything all right?’

  ‘Of course.’ Edmund was picking himself up.

  ‘Then in that case I can only say there’s something wrong with your line. I’ve been trying to get you for days. I should report it to the Supervisor.’

  ‘I’m sorry.’

  ‘It’s all right. But I’ve got some bad news. Did you know that Queenie’s dead?’

  ‘No, I didn’t. When did it happen?’

  ‘I’ve only just heard about it. From another mutual friend, you know. But it seems she died about six months ago. Same trouble as her husband, I understand. It must have been about the time we last met. Strange how small the world is. I just thought I’d let you know, in case you hadn’t heard.’

  ‘Thank you,’ said Edmund. ‘I suppose you don’t know who’s now got her telephone number?’

  ‘I don’t,’ said Sefton. ‘If it matters, I should ask the Exchange.’

  Toby didn’t move when Edmund rang off. ‘Still having trouble with the telephone?’ he asked, filling the stuffy air with cigarette smoke and crossing his legs. ‘It was going on when I came here before. Remember?’

  ‘What makes you think –’ began Edmund.

  ‘I overheard your friend Sefton. I’m used to the telephone, you know. You’re not.’

  Edmund was now waiting for it to ring again.

  ‘Things mechanical are like the ladies,’ continued Toby. ‘You need to understand their ways. If you understand them, they’ll do what you want from the start. If you don’t, they’ve got you. And then God help you.’

  ‘Would you mind going?’ said Edmund.

  ‘I’ll go,’ said Toby. ‘But first let me get the Supervisor for you.’ He rose, returned to the telephone, and dialled o. Edmund, wrought up because the line was again being occupied, would have liked to stop him, but could not see how.

  ‘Get me the Supervisor.’

  There was a pause, but only a short one.

  Toby gave the number. ‘There’ve been a lot of complaints about delays in getting through. Look into it, will you, and report back as soon as possible?’

  Clearly the answer was deferential.

  ‘That’s all.’ He was about to ring off, but Edmund stopped him.

  ‘I’ve got something to say myself.’


  ‘Hold on.’ Toby handed over the receiver.

  ‘Would you mind leaving me?’

  ‘OK. I’ll be back. About Teddie, you know.’ His glance was on the heap of unopened letters. ‘I happen to love that girl, St. Jude.’ He went. This time he even shut the door.

  ‘Hullo,’ said Edmund.

  ‘Do you wish to make a complaint?’ enquired the voice at the other end, fretful with waiting.

  ‘No. I just want to know who’s got a certain number.’ He mentioned the number which Sefton had given him, and which he would never forget.

  ‘We’re not supposed to give information like that,’ snapped the voice. ‘But hold on.’ Plainly some part of Toby’s aura remained.

  There was a long wait.

  ‘That number’s dead.’

  ‘I rang up. And someone answered.’

  ‘Oh, you often get an answer on a dead number.’

  ‘How can that be?’

  ‘Dead person, I suppose.’ Whether or not this was meant for facetiousness was unsure because the voice then rang off. Toby would never have been so treated.

  None the less, the telephone now ceased to ring, as had happened on the previous occasion when Edmund had grappled with the Exchange. Instead the studio was filled by day and night with a silent hot airlessness into which the children on the walls stared with assertive insignificance. There were no more callers, no more money, and, Edmund realised, no more letters from Teddie. After a week of silence, Edmund brought himself to tear open the last of the heap. The contents appalled him. Alarmed by his long-continued failure to write, Teddie was on her way home. She had left the New Mexico sanatorium in defiance of a united medical commination. Edmund looked at the date. Clearly she might arrive at any moment.

  He dialled the familiar number. One or another kind of climax was inevitable. He could hear the telephone ringing, but faintly and distantly, as if at the end of a very long corridor. Then, although the bell continued dimly audible, he heard a voice.

  ‘At last, darling, at last.’

  ‘Nera! Where have you been?’

  ‘There are terrible difficulties. We have to find a channel, you know.’

  ‘We?’ Edmund could still hear the bell, far off and minute. It was as if cushioned by a very thick fog.

  ‘I’ve been trying to reach you, darling, ever since you came here. Didn’t you know?’ She laughed coquettishly. ‘But here I am! You can ring off.’

  As she spoke, the bell stopped ringing, and the line went quite silent.

  ‘The line’s gone dead.’

  ‘Already?’ She seemed unconcerned.

  ‘Where are you?’

  ‘What frightful-looking children? Put back the receiver, darling. You said the line was dead.’

  Edmund’s arm slowly dropped, lowering the receiver to his waist, as he fell back against the window. ‘Where are you?’

  ‘As the line’s already dead, I suppose it doesn’t matter whether you put back the receiver or not.’ The worst thing was that her voice still sounded exactly as it had sounded over the telephone; attractive though it was, it retained the effect of having been filtered through the Exchange. Edmund let fall the receiver. It crashed to the floor.

  ‘For God’s sake, where are you?’

  ‘I’m here, darling.’ The voice, slightly dehumanised, seemed to come from no particular point. ‘You said you couldn’t live without me.’

  ‘I can’t see you.’ The breakfast-food faces of the children smiled brightly at him through the sunshine.

  ‘Not yet, darling. You said you couldn’t live without me.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Darling, you said you couldn’t live without me.’ It was exactly like one of the telephone’s standard locutions: ‘Sorry you’ve been troubled,’ or ‘Number please’.

  Edmund placed his hands before his eyes.

  ‘Now there’s no need to live without me. Don’t you understand? Darling, just look behind you. Over your shoulder.’

  Edmund stood rigid.

  ‘Just one look, darling.’

  Edmund was trembling all over with hunger and loneliness and terror.

  ‘You must look, you know, darling.’ The puppet-like voice seemed nearer. ‘If you knew how hard it’s been to reach you –’

  Edmund was groping for his last charges of willpower.

  ‘Now turn your head, darling.’

  There was a rat-tat-tat at the door. Edmund clenched his fists and leapt towards it. He was sobbing as he flung it open.

  ‘Bread.’

  The shop in the next street had taken pity on him.

  *

  When Teddie arrived home, full of evil surmises, she duly found that Edmund was not only in hospital but on the danger-list. Immediately she put on her pinkest Transatlantic frock, and, accompanied by Toby, a note from whom, left in the studio against her arrival, had given her the news, went to visit him. She found him unbelievably thin, and his face a cadaverous dirty yellow, but immediately she approached, he clutched her hand and croaked, ‘I love you, Nera. Forgive me, Nera. Please please forgive me.’

  Teddie withdrew her hand. The nurse was looking at her penetratingly.

  Toby shrugged, as if he had known all the time. ‘Name mean anything to you?’

  ‘A little,’ said Teddie, and changed the subject. Edmund said nothing further, but lay glazed and panting.

  ‘I think you’d better go now, Miss Taylor-Smith. You have your own health to take care of.’ Toby must have told her.

  ‘He looks like a poet,’ said Teddie. ‘Will he get better?’

  ‘Naturally we shall do all we can.’

  *

  ‘No, Toby. It’s quite impossible. She can’t even paint. Not even as well as me.’ All the children smiled benignly; Toby did not care how well or badly Teddie painted.

  ‘Nothing like that’s impossible. Particularly not with a cove like St. Jude.’

  ‘Well, this is impossible.’ She thought for a moment. ‘Look, Toby. If you still doubt me, I’ll introduce you.’

  ‘OK by me. I’m only trying to save you from making a big mistake.’

  ‘She’s always at home in the evening.’

  On the way to Nera Condamine’s flat, which was in another part of London, he put his arm round her.

  ‘Of course I know she was lonely.’

  ‘There you are.’

  ‘She used to ring me up at all hours. She always wanted me to ring her back. Where she worked. Some number or other – Extension 281.’

  ‘Now that does cut out St. Jude. Never known a chap so scared of the telephone.’

  Teddie wriggled herself free for the moment. ‘I’m going to introduce you anyway. You were at the hospital, and this must be stopped.’

  *

  ‘What’s that on the floor?’

  They had been standing for several minutes in the dim passage, unavailingly manipulating Miss Condamine’s small brass knocker. The design was a jester’s head.

  ‘Telephone Directory,’ reported Toby. ‘A to D volume with her in it. Issued in July.’

  They looked at one another.

  ‘They bring it round, you know. If there’s no answer, they leave it.’

  Teddie raised the flap of the letter-box.

  ‘Toby!’ Now she clutched his arm.

  Toby squared up to the door. ‘Shall I?’

  Teddie was coughing. But she nodded emphatically.

  Both door and lock were cheap and nasty; and Toby was through in a minute. Inside the sun came mistily through the drawn magenta blinds. It was simpler to switch on the light.

  The details it revealed were most horrible. Dressed in decaying party pyjamas of cerise satin, and regarded by several academic but aphrodisiac studies of the nude, lay on a chaise-longue the elderly body of Miss Condamine, a bread knife in one mouldering, but still well-shaped hand. With the knife she appeared for some reason to have amputated the telephone from the telephone system; but none the less the unu
sually long flex was wound tightly round her again and again and again from neck to ankles.

  GROWING BOYS

  What, you deny the existence of the supernatural, when there is scarcely a man or woman alive who has not met with some evidence for it!

  LUCIEN

  It is, indeed, singular that western man, while refusing to place credence in anything he cannot see, while rejecting absolutely omens, prophecies, and visions, should at the same time, as he so often does, deny the evidence of his own eyes.

  OSBERT SITWELL

  The first time it occurred to poor Millie that something might really be wrong was, on the face of it, perfectly harmless and commonplace.

  Uncle Stephen, the boys’ great uncle, had found the words, conventional though the words were. ‘You’re much too big a boy to make messes like that, Rodney. And you too, of course, Angus.’

  ‘Angus wasn’t making a mess,’ Rodney had retorted. ‘There’s no need to bite his head off too.’

  ‘Keep quiet, boy, and clean yourself up,’ Uncle Stephen had rejoined, exactly as if he had been father to the lads, and a good and proper father also.

  In reality, however, Uncle Stephen was a bachelor.

  ‘I’ll take you up to the bathroom, Rodney,’ Millie had intervened. ‘If you’ll excuse us for a few moments, Uncle Stephen.’

  Uncle Stephen had made no effort to look pleasant and social. Rather, he had grated with irritation. When Millie took Rodney out of the room, Uncle Stephen was glaring at her other son, defying him to move, to speak, to breathe, to exist except upon sufferance.