“Egypt. Me and Monty. He got all the credit, though.” When she once again didn’t return his normally quite winning smile, his eyes dropped to the ring on her finger. Her eyes caught his as they fell.
“My husband was in the RAF. He died.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Thank you. It’s not something I like to talk about.”
“I understand that,” Jack said. He meant it, too. One thing he was quite happy not to talk about was the war. He was good on detail, but learning something wasn’t quite the same as actually having been there, and there had always been plenty of people who were ready to catch him out. He kept his war stories to a minimum. Thankfully, the immediate aftermath was done, and unless you got trapped at last orders in a drunken round, most people were ready to put it all behind them now. Rationing was over, music was picking up the beat in a way he didn’t really understand, and the next generation were taking over.
She stopped and pushed open a door. “Here we are. It’s quite a pleasant room. You get the sun in the morning.” It was certainly brighter than the corridor behind him, and the window in the far wall was high and wide. An iron-framed bed sat centrally against one wall and a chest of drawers and wardrobe stood against the other. A large pewter basin and jug sat, as promised, on a small table under the window. It was basic, but more than adequate. On top of that, the room was cheap and until he had his next touch, he’d need to keep an eye on his wallet.
“If you have the window open in the mornings, the smell of the sea can be quite refreshing,” she added softly.
“Thank you. I’ll bear that in mind.” Jack placed his suitcase on the bed and pulled the netting back. The sea was a glimmer in the evening sky, somewhere beyond several rows of houses, a treasure belonging to the horizon.
“But make sure the windows are shut when you go out.” The clipped tone had returned to her voice. “Dinner is at six-thirty and breakfast at seven-thirty. I lock up at ten and would rather you were in before then. If you are going to be later, then please let me know in advance, and I would prefer if it weren’t a habit.”
Jack nodded his agreement. Her words were slightly sharp, but her manner wasn’t. She picked slightly nervously at her hands and he wondered how many other guests she’d recited that speech to. He wondered if by imparting all the information she had to very quickly, she could almost forget he was really here in her home. She wasn’t a natural landlady. She lacked the practical briskness that came with the role. He should know, he’d moved around enough.
“You’ll barely know I’m here,” he said.
She nodded, satisfied. “I’ll leave you to settle in, then. You’ve missed dinner but I’ll make you a sandwich and a cup of tea and bring it up.” An expression that was the ghost of a smile that might have been half-rested on her face and she turned to leave, closing the door behind her.
Jack sat on the bed and loosened his tie, happy to have a moment to relax. He wasn’t getting any younger, and the travelling was starting to take its toll on him. One day he’d have to pick a place and stay, but before that happened he was going to need to get a little nest egg together. He hadn’t been lying when he’d told Mrs Argyle that she’d barely notice he was there. It suited his purpose to maintain some kind of distance and that was why he hadn’t chosen the room in the house nearer the sea. The woman there asked too many questions. She was curious and friendly. You could come a cropper around someone like that.
As much as he stuck to the same set of lies and had told them so often that he sometimes believed them to be true, the devil, as they say, was in the detail. You couldn’t account for someone else’s knowledge, and the more you talked, the more likely some small piece of information that they knew would emerge and wouldn’t quite fit with the lie. Brows would furrow and even his easy grin – more creased now than it had been in the handsome days of his youth, but still effective – couldn’t quite dispel the sudden wariness in the eyes. That was fine, if uncomfortable, if the job was done, but could be awkward if not. Also the last thing a man in his line of work needed was to leave a suspicious landlady behind in the wake of a local robbery.
Still, here he was, in a new town to start a fresh job. He waited for the usual fizz of excitement in the pit of his gut, but there was nothing but a hesitant tremor. That would change when he met up with Arthur later. He hoped it would, at any rate. He was forty-five, not yet old enough to retire, and he needed to shake the sense of malaise that had gripped him since climbing onto the train early that morning. This was what he did, and he was bloody good at it. But there was no point in doing it at all without the thrill. Apart from the money, he reminded himself as he sat on the side of the bed. He needed the money. He lay back and closed his eyes. Everything would work out. It invariably did.
HE WASN’T THE only one who needed the money, Jack concluded, as he emerged from the bathroom later that evening, clean and fresh and ready for a good night’s sleep. The house was much too large for one woman to manage alone – he’d peered around the end of his corridor and along with another room, which he concluded must be the other guest’s – there was another staircase that led up to a second floor. She wasn’t a natural landlady, so he wondered why she’d kept the house on. Surely, it would have suited her better to have sold and moved into something smaller?
He glanced around again at the wallpaper, whose dark mauve colouring did nothing to dispel the gloom that hung heavily between the high ceilings, and the carpets, whose threadbare patches were carefully covered with rugs. Perhaps Mr Argyle, the fearless airman, had left her with too many debts to sell. It would explain the lack of photographs of the man. He’d known widows who’d hidden pictures of their dead husbands in the immediate aftermath of war – his own auntie Jean had done so when Fred had died in the Great War – but nearly ten years had passed since Hitler had been done with; Mrs Argyle’s grief must have dulled to a point where any photos would bring about a soft smile rather than a fresh bout of tears.
Back in his room, he pondered on his new landlady. She was different, this one. How old was she? Younger than himself by a year or two, he was sure, although the manner she adopted, distant and cool, combined with her prudish clothes, suggested someone older. He turned the light out and let his mind drift towards sleep. Mildly curious as he was about Mrs Argyle, she could wait for another day, and for now the smell of fresh starch in the sheets and the thick warmth of the blanket was all he wanted to focus on. There was a comfort in a well-made bed and a firm mattress, and he was glad that after a long day, the Argyle bed and breakfast wasn’t letting him down in that department. He needed to be sharp for tomorrow. Arthur would be waiting.
HE WOKE WITH a start in the darkness. He sat up, allowing the unfamiliar surroundings to settle into recognisable shadows and then reached for his watch. He squinted as, slowly, the hands formed against the white face – quarter to three. A thud came from above him and he turned his head towards the ceiling. Footsteps paced up and down over his head, floorboards creaking with each stride. He swallowed his irritation. Who the hell was up at this time? Was it the other guest, Mr Marshall-Jones? He’d have a quiet word with him at breakfast. He couldn’t afford to be losing sleep. Especially not working with Arthur. He didn’t allow for mistakes, and tiredness created mistakes.
The footsteps paused overhead, and the floorboards creaked more slowly this time, the echo of a cautious, surreptitious movement. Jack knew sounds. His ear was trained to listen to the tiniest of clicks over his own racing heart, and this sounded like someone crouching and looking at something on the floor. Eyes looking down as his were looking up. He shivered slightly at the thought, and wondered why it disturbed him so. His heart thumped. The tiniest shift from above mimicked him and then there was silence. Jack remained upright. What was the man doing up there? What was –
The sharp and sudden knocking made him gasp and he reached for the lamp. Knocking on the floor? And so loudly? Surely he couldn’t be doing that with his bare knuckle
s? The noise was too solid for that. How could it pass through the plaster and be anything other than just the hint of a rapping? This was too loud. It was as if it was inside his head.
After a furious few seconds, the knocking stopped. Jack’s heart was racing, mainly with anger, but also with a touch of apprehension. Was this Marshall-Jones trying to get him to leave the house? Were they both in the same game? They couldn’t be, surely. What were the odds of that? But still, it was the only explanation he could muster. Whoever was upstairs wanted his attention. And he wanted him out.
Jack continued to stare up at the ceiling, but after a few minutes it became clear that the game was over. No more noises assaulted him. He turned the light out and lay back down.
“GOOD TO MEET you. You’ve done well here,” Mr Marshall-Jones said, dabbing away a blob of egg yolk from his thick grey moustache. “Nice place. Always clean.” He smiled up at Mrs Argyle as she cleared away their plates. She half-smiled back, as if her body was functioning while her mind was elsewhere. She had pretty eyes, Jack thought. Blue with flecks of violet. He wondered how they looked when she laughed. When she used to laugh.
“And she’s a good woman,” Marshall-Jones added, noting Jack’s gaze. “Not a talker, and that’s rare enough, but she’ll look after you. I’ve been here a month and I’ve got no complaints.”
Jack looked at the portly middle-aged man in the suit sitting opposite and wondered at his game. He looked perfectly respectable in this three-piece and pocket watch, his stomach starting to stretch the fabric, but you never could judge a book by its cover.
“Did you sleep well?” Jack asked.
“Like a log. But then I always do,” Marshall-Jones smiled to himself. “My Marjorie doesn’t, though. Says I snore like a train.” He leaned in slightly. “She likes when I’m away during the week, I think, just so’s she can get a good night’s rest herself.” Jack watched him for any hint of implied meaning, but there was nothing that was obvious. He pressed a little harder.
“It’s just that I heard you during the night. Moving around. It woke me up.”
“Me?” Marshall-Jones frowned. “I was out like a light by ten and didn’t wake up until six-thirty this morning. Couldn’t have been me, old chap,” he smiled. “And I’m at the other end of the corridor. Hopefully, even my snoring can’t reach you from there.” He checked his watch. “Good Lord, I must be going. I’ll see you at dinner, no doubt. Nice to have another guest here. I’ll be off tomorrow, of course – home for the weekend – but good to see you, all the same.”
Jack smiled and nodded and shook his hand. If this was a game, then he couldn’t quite figure out what Marshall-Jones’s angle was. He watched the other man waddle out of the breakfast room and thought again of the footsteps. He was heavy enough to have made that noise, at any rate.
“Would you like more tea?”
He looked up to see Mrs Argyle standing beside him with the tea pot. Under forty, he decided in that instant, the sunlight coming through the front windows and cutting across her face. Too young for this kind of life.
“No, thank you,” he said. “I’ve got to be off myself in a few minutes.” She was turning away when he called her back. “Mr Marshall-Jones. Is he on the second floor?”
There were a slight reddening in her knuckles as her hand tightened around the teapot handle. “No. He’s at the other end of the corridor from you. Did his snoring wake you?”
“Yes,” Jack said. “It must have done.”
They looked at each other for a fraction longer than the situation required, and then Mrs Argyle retreated to the kitchen. He watched her go, his curiosity heightened. She was a queer fish, that was for sure. If Marshall-Jones hadn’t been moving around in the night, then it must have been her. He remembered the weight in the creaks of the floorboards and the angry power behind the knocking. Could he imagine her slim body creating those sounds? The image didn’t quite fit, but it was always possible. Unless, of course, she had a third guest who was keeping himself hidden. Still, hopefully there wouldn’t be any more strange noises waking him up. He’d need his wits about him for work, not mulling over the goings-on in his lodgings. He left her to clear the breakfast room, collected his hat from the hallway and stepped out into the crisp autumn air. He had people to meet.
“ARTHUR SENDS HIS apologies, but he’s been held up in London for a few days,” Scrubbers said. Scrubbers was a weasly man whose suit didn’t quite fit and who was too old for the baggy line of his trouser. His hat was tilted back on his head and he smoked constantly. “But it’s all right, Jacko,” he added with a wink. “The job’s still on.”
Jack felt his stomach sink. He’d heard good things about Arthur. He could put together a clean job with good planning. He didn’t rush things. He was a thinker. He’d never been caught. All these things might be true, but he wasn’t convinced by Scrubber’s presence. Why would a man like Arthur send a nobody like that to meet him? Jack wasn’t without reputation himself.
“I haven’t decided if I’m part of the job yet,” Jack said, before taking another large swallow of his half of stout. He wasn’t thirsty, but the quicker he finished, the quicker he could get away from the man sitting opposite. He lit a cigarette of his own. “And my name’s not Jacko.”
“No offence meant,” Scrubbers grinned. He had a tooth missing at the side. “It’s just the way I am. And as for the job? You’ll be part of it. No one says no to Arthur.”
Jack smiled. “We’ll wait and see then, won’t we?”
“Arthur says I’m to ask where you’re staying. So he can get in touch when he’s back.”
“Tell you what,” Jack leaned in, “why don’t we just say we’ll meet here at midday every day? When Arthur’s back then he’ll know to find me here at that time, won’t he?”
Scrubbers let out a short laugh, but there was a hint of nervousness in it. He was out of his depth and he knew it. He wasn’t one of Arthur’s boys. Jack didn’t know who he was, but the real faces wouldn’t show themselves without their boss. Scrubbers was just a lackey.
“You’re cautious, aren’t you?” Scrubbers said. “But if that’s how you want it to be…”
“It is.” Jack drained his glass and stood up from the table. “So unless you’ve got anything more for me, I’ll be on my way. Oh, and one other thing. As Arthur told me to be here today, I shall let him know my lodging costs for the days until he gets back from London. It can come off the expenses. I’m sure he’ll understand.”
Scrubbers nodded. “I’ll see you tomorrow, then.”
“No,” Jack shook his head. “I’ll come here and have a half alone. The only person I want to see here is Arthur. You and me making small talk isn’t on my agenda.” Jack knew men like Scrubbers. They attracted trouble and attention. He didn’t want either.
Still in his chair, Scrubbers shrank into himself slightly. “If that’s how you want it.”
“That’s how I want it.” Jack was pleased with Scrubbers’ change in manner. Their exchange would no doubt be reported back to Arthur later, and if he was half the brain Jack had been led to believe, then he’d read between the lines and know that Jack wasn’t to be messed with.
HE SPENT THE rest of the day wandering around the town and taking in its various attractions, namely three jewellers and two banks. The job that had brought him here would be one of those five businesses. Studying the fronts, he felt the first frisson of excitement, and was relieved. After the meeting with Scrubbers, he’d started to have a bad feeling about the trip, but now he could see that it might be very much worth his while. The jewellers all catered for the wealthy – no cheap trinkets on show in the display cases – and for many of the pieces there simply had small cards alongside them instructing interested parties to ‘enquire for the price.’ Jack didn’t. Instead, he treated himself to a fish and chip lunch in one of the few fish bars open along the front in October, read the paper, and then went for a long, refreshing walk along the beach.
It was
a prettier town than he’d imagined, but then maybe that was just because he’d been in the cities too long; Liverpool last and Birmingham before that – grainy, grey places where both the buildings and the people looked miserable and worn. Here, the air was clear and sharp and his eyes stung with the wind blasting across the salty water. The houses, even those closed up for the winter, glinted pleasantly in the afternoon sun. It was a place where people stayed, he decided. An unusual place for a job, however. Perhaps it was Arthur’s home town, but he doubted it. No one stole in their own backyard. Certainly not if you lived in a place like this. People would know you. In and out and invisible, that’s what they needed, to be doing a job like that here. Catch them quietly unawares. In the summer, when the money was rolling in from those making the most of a Saturday or Sunday on the front, then the banks and the jewellers would be on their guard, but not now in the sleepy run up to Christmas.
As the afternoon slipped into early evening, Jack wound his way through the side streets and headed back towards the house. He walked slowly to allow the wind burn on his cheeks to fade and pulled his overcoat tight. He thought about the town, and Scrubbers, and then Arthur. His money was on one of the jewellers being their target and he was long enough in the tooth to know that he’d probably be right.
HE LET MARSHALL-JONES do most of the talking over their dinner of shepherd’s pie and peas followed by a very good apple pie, prompting him with questions when the conversation looked as if it might turn his way. Marshall-Jones didn’t notice, and was quite happy to talk about his shoe manufacturing business in Northampton and how he was setting up a factory here to serve the south of England. The meal was good, too, and he found he was mildly surprised. Mrs Argyle didn’t look like the kind of woman who savoured her food. That was unusual in itself – now that rationing was finally completely over, most people were indulging a little, if they could afford it. Mrs Argyle had the look of a woman who ate to live, not lived to eat. As he finished the last of the pie, he felt a little sorry for her. Life offered so very few indulgences, and a good meal was one that was available to all.
The Future of Horror Page 22