A Dark Assortment Page 6

  The assistant picked out a pair of mittens. “These are good. Waterproof, breathable, insulated.

  “Great.”

  “What size?” the assistant asked.

  “Large, please.”

  ***

  Sean stood outside the cafe and stared at the girl sitting on the pavement. Should he approach her? He took a step toward her and she looked up.

  “What?” she said. “What do you want?”

  “I... there was an old man here yesterday. You don’t know where he is, do you?”

  The girl rolled her eyes. “Yeah,” she said, “we’re all friends. It’s like one big happy family.”

  Sean sighed. “That’s not... Never mind. I just wanted to give him something.”

  The girl’s eyes lit up. “Yeah, I remember him now. Old guy, scruffy.” She held her hand out. “Give it to me and I’ll pass it on.”

  Sean shook his head and turned away.

  “Try Riverside Walk,” the girl said. “On the benches.”

  Sean looked at her. She was maybe seventeen, but her cheeks were sunken and her eyes ringed with dark shadows. Somebody’s daughter, he thought. He dug into his pocket and found a few coins. “Get some food,” he said, and dropped the coins into her paper cup.

  ***

  Riverside Walk was new, a country stroll in the heart of town. But already the fence was daubed with graffiti, the ground strewn with crushed cans and broken glass. Sean squared his shoulders and strode along the path, avoiding the worst of the litter. Ahead, a group of people were gathered around the benches. They turned to face him as he approached.

  Five of them, Sean thought, and all too young. But he was here now, and he might as well ask. He stood as close to them as he dared. “Hi,” he said, “I was looking for an old... a man. He was by the cafe yesterday. The new one on Fore Street.”

  The men stared at him, their expressions blank, but their eyes wary.

  “I wanted to give him something.” He reached into his bag and held up the mittens. “To keep his hands warm.”

  One of the men sniffed and looked Sean up and down. “For real?”

  “Yes,” Sean said. “I thought—”

  “You thought,” the man interrupted, “if he had money, he’d buy drink.”

  Sean shifted his feet. “Look,” he said, “do you know where he is or not?”

  “Sure,” the man said. He pointed at the pile of ragged blankets that lay on the ground at his feet. “This guy was there yesterday. Until Lucy beat him up.” He kicked out at the grimy bundle of rags and something writhed beneath it and moaned. Sean’s flesh crawled as the rags fell away, revealing the man beneath, curled into a foetal ball, his hands covering his face. I didn’t see him, Sean thought. He’s almost invisible.

  The youth kicked out again. “Wake up, granddad,” he sneered. “You’ve got a visitor.”

  The sleeping man coughed, the phlegm rattling in his throat. He wiped his nose on his sleeve then slowly pushed himself up to his feet.

  Sean stared, wide-eyed. The old man was in an even worse state than before, a fresh bruise surrounded his right eye and his face was pinched in pain. The ground seemed to shift beneath Sean’s feet. What the hell am I doing?

  The old man offered his hand and Sean shook it as briefly as possible, grimacing at the state of the old man’s filthy fingernails. They protruded from the ends of a cut-down mitten, the material frayed and threadbare.

  “Hello,” the old man said. “My name’s Sean.” He held up a half-empty bottle. “Care to join me?”

  Sean looked at the bottle, then looked into the old man’s eyes. For a moment he hesitated, then very slowly, Sean nodded.

  THE VILLAGER

  The Present

  There are only sixty houses in my village, so when he arrived, you might say we noticed him. But it was only later that I realised something was wrong.

  It was a Sunday when his old Land Rover grumbled up the steep lane. It was a warm day and I was working in my garden, but I stopped weeding and straightened my back to see if it was anyone I knew. You tend to wave to your neighbours when they’re so few.

  He drove slowly, looking from side to side, studying the names of the houses as he passed. As the Land Rover drew almost level with me, its engine roared and then stuttered. The brakes squealed as it ground to a halt. The driver-side window was down, and I heard his voice for the first time.

  “Shit. Bloody useless heap of shit!”

  I covered my smile with my hand. By now, several people were looking from their windows. Three or four more were standing in their gardens, craning their necks. A gaggle of red-faced children left their game of football and wandered into the road, openly gawping at the poor man. I took a step toward the road.

  “Hello!” I called. “Are you all right there?”

  Startled, his head snapped in my direction. And when I saw the scowl on his face, I swallowed hard. For a heartbeat, a chill washed over me, prickling the skin at the back of my neck.

  But then, the strangest thing happened. It wasn’t just that the scowl melted away, it was as if a complete change had come over him. It was like watching an actor walk onto the stage.

  “I’m sorry,” he said. “I forgot the window was open. It’s been a... difficult journey.”

  “Er, that’s all right,” I said. “No harm done.”

  He smiled. And if he’d seemed cold just a few moments earlier, the warmth of his smile made me forget it. He wasn’t young, maybe forty, but I’d guess the ladies found him handsome. “I don’t suppose you could direct me to April Cottage,” he said. “I’ve been trying to find it all afternoon. Poor old Twiggy is on her last legs.”

  “Twiggy?” I asked, peering into the back of the Land Rover.

  He laughed, a mellow chuckle like a gentle breeze on a summer evening. “Forgive me,” he said. “Twiggy is my name for this old girl.” He tapped the steering wheel.

  “Ah, ironic.” A city man, I thought.

  He broke the uncomfortable silence. “April Cottage?”

  “Oh yes. Of course.” April Cottage is just across the road from my house, although it’s a little higher up the hill. It had stood empty for some time, which had always seemed a shame to me. I pointed it out to him, wondering if he’d bought the place or if he was just renting it. “You’re almost there,” I said. “Will you be staying long?”

  But he didn’t answer my question. He just beamed and said, “Thank goodness. I think Twiggy might just make it.” He started the engine, gave me a cheery wave and then, with a grinding of gears, the Land Rover lurched toward the cottage.

  I watched as he stepped down from the driver’s seat. He had his back to me, but when he looked over toward the group of children, they scattered, running as fast as their legs could carry them.

  Two Years Earlier

  Cassie closed her laptop and smiled to herself, blushing at the memory of those last few messages. Her dad would be furious if he’d seen them. Tommy shouldn’t say those things. They’d end up in trouble if anyone ever found out. But it was so quiet in this stupid neighbourhood. And she worked so hard at school, she deserved a bit of excitement. And Tommy understood that. He was older than her. He had his own car and he was very good-looking, or at least he was in his profile picture. Soon, she’d know for sure.

  Midnight arrived, and Cassie put on her best black hoodie and slipped out of the back door. She closed the garden gate behind her. No one heard a thing.

  The Present

  I’m not sure why I did it. But on that first night after he’d arrived, I suppose I was just curious. So when I went upstairs to shut my curtains, I looked up toward April Cottage. He’d left his curtains open. And, with his light on, I could see him as clear as day. Pacing back and forth he was. Like a caged wolf. I kept my light off and stood back. And I watched him.

  The next day I went to work as usual, but that evening, I watched him again. Why did he pace like that? What was he doing here? I sighed. This wasn’t
me. I didn’t spy on people. The best thing would be to go and say hello. He’d seemed friendly enough. “I’ll go over tomorrow,” I said.

  But I worked late for the next few days, so it wasn’t until Saturday that I walked nervously toward his door. He opened it before I could ring the bell.

  He stood in the doorway, arms folded. He frowned. “Can I help you?” he said.

  “Oh, hello. I’ve just come over to see how you’ve settled in.”

  “Really?”

  “Er... yes. Really. I brought you this.” I held out the grocery bag. “Just some milk and bread. It’s five miles to the shop and your Twiggy didn’t sound too good.”

  He looked at the bag and his eyes lit up. And there was that smile. “How kind. You know, I’ve only come thirty miles from home and it’s like a different world. Everything here is so much less convenient.”

  I nodded. “It’s peaceful though,” I said. “You can’t put a price on that.”

  He looked up and down the narrow road. “Yes,” he said. “That’s what I’ve come for. A bit of peace and quiet.” And he stared into the distance as if he’d forgotten I was there.

  “Well, I’ll leave you in peace,” I said.

  He looked at me and shook his head apologetically. “Oh, I didn’t mean to imply you’d disturbed me. It’s very kind of you to help me out. Here—you must let me pay you.”

  I started to protest as he fumbled with this wallet, and that’s when he dropped the photo. “No!” he shouted. He grabbed the picture from the step. But not before I’d seen her face. She was so pretty. And so young. And I knew her straight away.

  He closed his eyes for a moment and took a shaky breath. “I’m sorry,” he said. “It’s my daughter. Cassie. We... we lost her. Some time ago. She was...” He put his hand over his eyes and bowed his head.

  I stared at him. It’s just a coincidence, I told myself. A pure coincidence. But I couldn’t stand there a moment longer. Slowly, I lowered the groceries to the ground then I turned and walked away.

  “I’m sorry,” he called after me, “I didn’t mean to... It’s just...”

  I raised a hand over my shoulder in a backward wave to let him know he needn’t say anything more.

  But he carried on, raising his voice to make sure I heard him. “Wait! I didn’t thank you properly. I don’t even know your name.”

  I half-turned as I carried on walking. “Don’t worry about it,” I said. “They call me Bill.” But my friends, I thought as I walked away, my special friends, call me Tommy.

  LISTEN

  (A retelling of “The Tell-Tale Heart” by Edgar Allan Poe.)

  I am nervous. Yes! I’m really very dreadfully nervous. But why must they insist on calling me mad? I mean, look at me. Look at me. Do I look as if I’m, as they so nicely put it, clinically insane? No. That’s right. I’m just an ordinary man. In many ways, I’m just like you.

  True, I’m sensitive. I’m a sensitive soul. But you spotted that straight away didn’t you? Well done, you. Yes, well done. I can tell that, like me, you’re a very observant person. And since you are so clearly observant, you’ll see straightaway that I shouldn’t be in this godawful place. You do see that, don’t you?

  Because it’s very important that you agree with me on this point. If you don’t... then I don’t think we can ever be friends. And you do want that don’t you? You want to be my friend.

  Yes, I see exactly what you want. I see exactly what you need. Because I notice things. Small things that other people often just ignore. But I see them. And I hear them. And I know what they mean.

  So you’ll agree—with my intelligence, my talents, my advanced intuition—I should not be in here. I shouldn’t be in here at all.

  Come closer. Closer still. Let me whisper in your ear. That’s better.

  Here’s the truth. Just between you and me. This place, this dreadful place in which you find me, is not a proper hospital. Ha! I see this shocks you. You recoil from the very idea. But I’ll tell you what gives it away. The people in here, the poor devils trapped in here like me, they never, ever get any better. If anything, they get worse by the day. And if you knew half the things that went on in here, you wouldn’t be so surprised.

  But that isn’t what you’ve come to hear. You’ve come to find out what happened between me and the old man. Ah, you’re wondering how I guessed so quickly at your true purpose! But it was obvious to me from the very first moment I laid eyes on you. You were given away, you see, by the careless rhythms of your stuttering heart. You don’t believe me? Well, let’s get through the story, and I’ll see if I can change your mind.

  It all started when the old man hired me. He engaged me to be his live-in assistant, his handyman. I needed the work, and I’ve always been a jack of all trades, so the job suited me very well. But I was more than a servant—I was his companion.

  At first, we got on famously. I’d been out of work for a long time, and the winter that year was proving long and hard. You might say that I was eager to please. He had only to reach out for his newspaper, and I’d be there to hand it to him. I made it my business to learn his habits. It didn’t take long at all, since he was as regular as the old grandfather clock that stood in the corner of the living room.

  That clock. It ticked loud enough to wake the dead. And perhaps it will one day. Perhaps it will.

  But I digress. My mind wanders since I’ve been in here. It’s the noise. The endless, discordant cacophony of noise! It drives me beyond distraction. It eats into my thoughts. But you’re growing impatient. Where were we? I know. I’ll tell you what we’ll do. I’ll take you back to that fateful day. And I’ll show you exactly how it happened.

  ***

  That morning I brought the logs in as usual, and stacked them neatly beside the fire, sorting them according to their size, in just the way he liked it done. The old man sat in his chair, twiddling with the phone that he always kept on his lap. He watched me, following my every movement with his one good eye. His other eye was defective, obscured completely by the pearl-white mask of a cloudy cornea. But his single sharp eye more than made up for the deficit. He missed nothing. He certainly saw every mistake that I ever made, every fault in my work, every flaw in my efforts.

  He looked down at me like a buzzard watching a half-starved mouse limp across a frozen field.

  So I worked hard at arranging those logs, trying not to be too clumsy, and being careful not to make too much mess. I’ve always been a cautious man.

  I did a good job, if I say so myself. It took me a good half hour. And by then, the fire was little better than a flickering mass of embers in the grate. I took a small log and threw it gently onto the dwindling flames. And the old man almost leaped from his chair.

  “I saw that!” he snapped. “I had no need of another log.”

  “I’m sorry,” I said, “but it is getting cold in here, and I thought—”

  “Pah!” he interrupted. “You thought you’d burn my good logs for own personal comfort.”

  “Hardly,” I said, “I was just about to go outside and shovel the snow from the drive.”

  “Huh.”

  The old man pulled his blanket higher over his knees and turned slightly away from me. He stared into the space just above my right shoulder, as if I wasn’t there. He had many little mannerisms that made my life a misery—tiny habits devised in the long days he spent in his chair by the fire. But this, this calculated manner of showing me that I was beneath his contempt, was new. He raised his chin so that he might look down his nose, and the crisp winter light from the window glittered in his good eye and lit the other so that it seemed coated in a milky film.

  And in that moment, he disgusted me.

  I straightened my back, and with all the dignity I could muster, I strode from the room. You see, I have self-control. I’m not like the so-called patients in this godforsaken place; they can barely control their own urges. But me... I know how to bide my time.

  And that was exactly
what I decided to do as I shovelled snow on that bitter winter’s day: bide my time. I would swallow my hurt feelings and carry on as normal. For as long as I could.

  That evening, I made the old man his dinner as usual. I’m not a natural cook, but fortunately the old man had simple tastes, and I knew enough to get by. He always made me buy the cheapest cuts from the butcher, so I threw the unpromising mutton into a casserole dish with some water, a little salt, and a few chopped vegetables. A couple of hours simmering in the oven transformed it into a good wholesome meal.

  I served the old man his dinner at the dining room table and made myself scarce until it was time to collect his empty plate. I expected no word of thanks. I simply bowed out of the room and went to the kitchen to wash the dishes. Later, he summoned me to read to him, and I did my best to put some feeling into my efforts, although the dusty historical novel he’d chosen bored me almost to tears. Afterwards, I brought him his usual glass of port and kept my tone of voice light and my manner pleasant. The old man simply licked his lips and slurped at his drink, and I gathered from his glance that I was dismissed.

  Never once, I thought, never once has he invited me to join him for a drink. A mug of hot tea was all that I ever had to cheer me as I whiled away the long winter evenings in my cold attic room. But on that evening, I hardly touched my drink, for I was concentrating. Making plans.

  It’s got to be done gradually, I decided. I’ll be so kind to him, so attentive, that I’ll make myself indispensable. I smiled to myself. My plan would surely succeed. The more that I did for the old man, the greater his reliance upon me would be. But please, understand something. My plan was not born from greed or avarice. I didn’t want his money, nor did I hope that he’d reward me in his will. I simply wanted him to acknowledge that I was a man, and his equal. Indeed, in some ways, such as my imagination and intellect, I was his superior.

  It was a long-term strategy, as all the best strategies are. A waiting game. And satisfied with my new resolutions, I turned out the light and pulled the damp woollen blankets up to my chin.

  But sleep evaded me. I lay awake, writhing with frustration. Every time I closed my eyes, I imagined his gaze was upon me. I saw the cold glare of his clouded, diseased eye, and it made my pinched flesh shrivel on my cold bones. And soon I became convinced that he was watching me, even as I slept. But how?