To Indigo

by Tanith Lee

  There were a few students from the art college outside the chippy, eating. They were just closing up. But when the man saw Maureen he grinned and said, “Got a bit of rock left, darling. Will that do?”

  “What about my friend here?” she said. “He’s starved.”

  “I can see he is. What would you like, sir?”

  I said, stammering slightly, “Just chips are fine.”

  “Oh go on, have a bit of fish, Charlie,” said she, inventing a name for me. She leaned across then and kissed me on the cheek, taking my breath away, and in that second she whispered, “I’ll pay, darling. Go on. Spoil yourself.”

  If I had been sober I’d have lighted the shop with my embarrassed blush. But I wasn’t sober, although my head had cleared out on the street. I felt ready for much, of which fish was only a minor challenge.

  On my cheekbone, her kiss seemed to have been marked in hot and cold.

  She and I both had rock salmon, huss as it’s now identified, and bags of chips, all this in newspaper, as then it was, thickly dusted with salt and sloshed with vinegar.

  Outside, as we ambled along eating, she said, “Didn’t mind me calling you Charlie, did you?”

  “No. But my name’s Roy.”

  “Hello, Roy. I’m Maureen. Pleased to meet you.”

  “Thank you for the fish.”

  “Don’t mention it. Well, I expect we’d better walk. If we hadn’t missed the blasted bus, we have now. I cut down by the cemetery. Know the one?”

  “Yes.”

  “Not that that’s my place of residence. I leave that to the vampires. I’ve got a flat over the Co-op.”

  Knowing approximately where she meant I knew this overshot my own turn-off by about a mile. It didn’t trouble me.

  “I’ll see you home,” I said.

  “What a gallant feller you are.”

  It was only when we reached the cemetery, running grey, dim, silent and ominous by the road, that doubt began to creep in on me. What would she expect? Despite all the fantasies and those unencouraging books – did I know – understand – enough to be capable?

  I needn’t have worried.

  We reached the side street and the glass-fronted shops, bleak and dark, and an alley and a stone stair that led up to the flats, an L-shaped block two storeys high.

  “It’s been nice meeting you, Roy.”

  Was she putting me off?

  In terror I leant forward and went to kiss her mouth. And she, adept as a dancer, met me with a peerless grace. We leaned there quite some while, kissing in the shadow of the alley. Then she murmured, “D’you want to come up for a coffee?”

  Naturally I did want to. Up we went.

  About ten minutes later we were through the bedroom door.

  “Where shall we go?” he asked.

  It reminded me of a politely eager child, not too interested, but rather interested. There might, on this boring grown-up excursion, be inclusions of toys and other treats.

  I stood and – less confronted – then waited before him. I didn’t have any idea what I should do. This in a man of nearly fifty-one is perhaps reprehensible, or contemptible.

  Eventually I said, “I think you’ve made a mistake, Mr Traskul.”

  “Do you?” He sounded surprised, innocent.

  “I don’t have a piano,” I said.

  “No,” he replied instantly with his smile, “but you do have a new dustbin.”

  Beyond the Crescent, traffic whooshed. It would be better to get to the high street. People were more involved with each other round here, not like the milling herds of inner London. Witnesses, even help, might be forthcoming.

  I started to walk on and as I’d anticipated, he fell at once into step with me.

  “I had a fascinating journey down,” he said.

  I said nothing.

  He went on airily, striding, the bag swinging on his shoulder full of God knew what. “The train broke down near Lewisham. We sat there for about half an hour. Then crawled. Or I’d have been here much sooner.”

  I couldn’t contain it. I said, “But you were here last night.”

  “Was I?” He turned the charming smile on me again, I felt it beamed against the side of my face. “Are you sure?” I hadn’t been. Now I was. “Of course, despite the slow train, I was here quite early. Did you like the dustbin, by the way?’

  “I have a dustbin.” I thought, Shut up, don’t respond.

  “Well I reckoned you did. But I needed something to put the beer in.”

  No, I had to speak. I sounded flat and level. “How did you know where I lived?”

  He laughed. It was a spontaneous, melodious laugh. “How’d you think?”

  And how did I think?

  For a moment I considered the Web. After all I had a website, Harris had arranged it. And you can find the address of almost anyone now, seemingly, by a strategic search in hyperspace. But he didn’t know my name. Or did he?

  “I haven’t any idea.”

  “Well, try to guess. I shouldn’t make it too easy for you. I don’t think I should.”

  We passed the last house in the Crescent. Here was the wide road with its cars and bikes, and people on the pavements by the frontages of shops. The crossing twenty feet further on was making its fretful hurry-up beeping, and women with children and shopping crossed both ways at once, in an unwieldy dance.

  I halted again. “Mr Traskul…”

  Predictably: “Joseph. Not Joe, if possible. We’ll come to nicknames later, maybe.”

  “Mr Traskul, why have you followed me here? Why are you here? What do you want?”

  Making my stand in the busy street reminded me immediately of my father meeting me unexpectedly from Chaults, of suddenly extricating myself from the attentions of the bullies with a “Leave me alone!” and hurrying to the shelter of a parent. Later when I explained to him the bullying, he said, regarding me with kindly seriousness, “Now, Roy, I can’t always be there. You must learn to stand up for yourself. If they think you’re afraid, it won’t stop.” I was twelve.

  He faced me, seeming slightly puzzled.

  “I followed you because I got on the train. I’m here to see you. What do I want? Same as former answer: To see you.”

  “Why?”

  “It’s a surprise when someone wants to see you, then?”

  “A complete stranger. Yes.”

  “Haven’t you ever met a complete stranger who wanted to see you again? That’s a shame. But there’s always a first time.”

  A police car drove by. I wondered if I should hail it. I didn’t. It was gone. No doubt they’d have ignored me in any case.

  “I’m not gay,” I said. I detest this label, although not the fact of homosexuality.

  “Well nor am I, if you’re asking. At least I don’t think so. You can always get a surprise,” he said, (that word surprise again). “Mate of mine, couple of years ago, plenty of women, and then one day he finds himself going mad about a guy in the Stock Exchange. I think they’re in the South of France, now.”

  I tried to keep my bearings.

  I said quietly and firmly, “I think you should go back to town, Mr Traskul. Thank you for the dustbin and the beer. If I owe you any money for them…”

  Now he burst out laughing. “That’ll look good. You slipping me twenty pound notes.”

  “I’m not rich. This really won’t be worth your efforts to…”

  “Well I didn’t think you were rich. I’m sorry but you don’t look rich. I’m not rich either. So, right. Where are we going?”

  A woman barging past with a pushchair jarred into me. Joseph Traskul looked at her mildly.

  I said, “I can give you the contents of my wallet. And my mobile phone. But it isn’t new and probably not your kind of thing.”

  “But I like all kinds of things,” he reassuringly told me. I therefore reached into my jacket and he said, “No, I don’t want your phone. I have a phone – regardez-la!” And he flipped out of his shoulder bag a stee
l-blue mobile that might have come on the market that morning. “Tell you what, let’s go into that cafe over there. I’m bloody starving. I’ll buy you a coffee. We can discuss this. Will that do?”

  Something in me gave way. He must have seen it. I said, “If that means we get this sorted out.”

  “Course we will.”

  Together we crossed at the shrilly belligerent crossing.

  The cafe, which is situated in the bakers and serves fresh-baked bread and every type of English breakfast, welcomed me with the normal cheery “Good morning!” They seemed pleased I was with this nice young man, be he nephew, long-lost son, or rent-boy.

  We sat down at the far end beyond the coffee-maker.

  The girl came over at once.

  “Two coffees,” he said. He smiled one of his endless variety of smiles, charming her, or playing he charmed her while she, perhaps used to it all, played at being charmed. “And can I have the full English, with wholemeal toast, no butter, and extra fries.”

  I thought sullenly, I’ll be paying for that, whatever he has said.

  Through my mind, influenced by so many of my plots, flitted the idea I might poison, or at least drug him. But I had nothing suitable on me, the aspirin were at home.

  We sat in silence, his companionable, until she put the coffees before us.

  “Well,” he said then, “what do I call you? If you’re nervous just make up a name. But you do know mine.”

  Is it only that I had been in some ways so rigorously brought up? I remember Lynda once telling me she had often given invented names to unwanted men who pursued her, though how many had pursued her was debatable. But my given name is common, and anyway he might know it. How else had he located the house?

  “Roy.”

  “Roy.” He rolled it round his tongue. “That means King, doesn’t it?”

  Did it? Maybe. Roi, Roy…

  I tried the coffee. It tasted like nothing; usually the coffee was good here. Even so I hoped it could steady me. “Mr…”

  “Joseph.”

  “If you prefer. No one does anything for no reason at all.”

  “Perhaps they should.”

  “Are you saying you’ve come after me like this simply because you thought you should?”

  He smiled.

  I thought, He is mad. Possibly he’s escaped from some lunatic establishment.

  Given that premise, I could only humour him.

  But what was I to do with him?

  If he refused to leave me alone, I would have to give him the slip somehow, and then run to the nearest police station. I wracked my brains. Harris might have helped but Janette wouldn’t. There was nobody else. I heard again the voice of my helpful father, If they think you’re afraid.

  “All right, then,” I said, and smiled at him in turn. “The breakfast here is good. You’ll enjoy it.”

  “Will I?” At once, that ironic edge of danger, of challenge in his voice.

  “Well, I hope you will. Why don’t you tell me something about you?”

  “You first.”

  A knot of sheer anger was forming in my gut. I ignored it. “Very little to tell, I’m afraid. My wife and I…”

  “You’re not married,” he interjected instantly. It was not a question but a statement.

  Jovially I answered, “I’m sorry, Joseph, if you somehow didn’t discover that one important item about me. I am married.”

  “Then where is she?”

  “She’s out this morning. She’ll be back for lunch.”

  “And what’s her name?”

  “Lynda.”

  “Right. But she wasn’t there last night, was she?”

  “How can you possibly know she wasn’t, if you weren’t here yourself last night? I believe you said you arrived only this morning.”

  “Actually I don’t think I did say that. Sorry, Roy. I haven’t lied. But you have, haven’t you, saying you have a Lynda.”

  “Lynda was away last night, staying with her elderly mother. She will be back home later this morning.”

  “Well I look forward to meeting her.”

  “No, Joseph, that isn’t a good idea. Lynda’s mother hasn’t been well, and anyway…” inspiration – “my son and his girlfriend will be coming back with her.”

  Joseph Traskul widened his black glowing eyes and said, “If I didn’t know you better, I might just believe you.”

  “But, Joseph, you don’t know me better.”

  “Want a bet?”

  The girl came up then with the large oval plate piled with breakfast. She laid it all out in front of him, and with the extra chips and toast the table became crowded. I moved my coffee back to make room.

  This time he didn’t thank her. He had eyes only for the food.

  He did seem genuinely extremely hungry. I wondered if he was.

  He plunged in knife and fork and began to eat, quite couthly but fast.

  “I’ll just go and pay. Get it out of the way.”

  The rhyme now was lost on me.

  He murmured, an assent.

  I took my chance. I got up, went to the counter and paid the bill, and all the while he never once looked up that I saw.

  That done, I turned smartly and went straight out of the door.

  Outside a boiling panic filled me. I didn’t even look back to see if he was already up too and on my track. Pure luck – the crossing was already working. I ran across. I ran back along the road and into the Crescent.

  I am not especially fit, certainly not athletic, but being thin gives me some advantage. I made it all the way through into Old Church Lane and, gasping, along to my gate. Only there did I look behind me. No one now was on my track.

  Through the front door I rushed, locked and bolted it.

  I checked every window, and the back door. The day was warm again but nothing could be unsealed.

  I stood in the hall and picked up the phone. This time I did call 999.

  IX

  (‘Untitled’: Page 124)

  THE clock on the ancient tower above the Artisans’ Quarter was striking leadenly for midnight, and not a creature, asleep or waking in the great City, did not hear it. Its deadly voice entered dreams, entered reveries and fevers, and bats circling the ruined cathedral on the Hill of Kolosian, cambered in a cheeping wave away into the dark. The moon had set. The end of its light had a sombre finality.

  Vilmos had left the bed of the whore Shosa. She was quite dead, he had taken care to see to it. Despite the fact he knew she had had little choice, he permitted no woman to betray him.

  Her blood had dripped down upon the floor, but by now, an hour after the act of murder, its movement had ceased.

  Vilmos washed his hands and face in the basin. The night was very hot and now, as the clanging of the clock came to an end, its ominous weight seemed to increase, heavy as a stone lid upon the City.

  No one met him as he descended the stair. From the door the old toothless portress had gone off about some affair of her own.

  Outside in the alley no lamps were visible, only the thinnest starlight. Beyond opened the Street of the Silver Workers, and even there only occasionally the narrowest of illuminations was revealed between ill-closed shutters.

  Vilmos bent and drew up an empty bottle from the cobbles. With a sudden unpredicted motion he flung it violently against the darkened window of the tailor, Mirk, who had cheated him.

  Thereafter Vilmos did not break into a run. He sauntered on along the thoroughfare, and indeed no one appeared to detain or upbraid him.

  It was not until he had got on to the Flavel Bridge that Vilmos once again paused. Here he stayed some while, staring over at the blackness of the wide river, which poured on the northern side down to the City from the far mountains, and westerly swam away towards the port and the sea. There was little traffic on the water at this hour. A solitary boat had anchored about a quarter mile downstream, and a man’s shape could be detected standing up in it, perhaps fishing, or at some more siniste
r task. The nearer bank was thick with houses and hovels of the meaner sort. Directly across the bridge lay some open land, and there Vilmos thought he glimpsed some things moving skittishly. They reminded him of large pale hunting hounds at play.

  Then another came from the alleys and walked out on to the bridge towards him. It was Reiner, with his book under his arm.

  “What are you doing here, Vilmos? Go home, for God’s love.”

  “And why are you here, eh? To read your book?”

  “I’m wanted at the Master’s house.”

  “You are, and I am not?” Vilmos was astonished and in his arrogance slapped Reiner across the chest.

  Reiner jumped back and the book fell to the bridge with a thud. “There’s blood on your shirt, Vilmos! What have you done?”

  “Amended something.”

  “You are mad – you are mad…”

  “No, I am very sane tonight. Come, let’s go to the Master’s house, and ask him if I am not. Do you see those pale things running about over there? What are they, do you think? I believe they are the ghosts of dogs.”

  FIVE

  The policeman I spoke to was the desk sergeant, and as I had predicted he would be, he was. After a brief recital of my fear that I was being pursued for reasons beyond my knowledge, he asked what exactly the young man had done. He listened. He said, “So this stalker…” his term not mine, although at once the word gained a resonance for me, “has followed you from a pub, come to your house, bought you, you say, a dustbin,” an emphasis there, “and some beer. And you have bought him breakfast.”

  A short interval ensued.

  I was about to speak when the sergeant went on. “Has he actually threatened you in any way, sir?”

  I answered truthfully, “Not as such. But he won’t leave me alone.”

  “Is he there now, sir?”

  “No.”

  “Then perhaps he’s got bored, sir. Or he’s decided the breakfast was enough. It was a big full English, you said. Sounds very nice.”

  “But what am I to do if he comes back?”

  The policeman sighed. His voice altered and became unpleasantly convivial, demonstrating he had absolutely nothing against my sort. “Well, if I was you, sir, I’d pay him off and tell him to get lost before the wife catches him.”