The Weird Part 61

'No,' said Bannard in a giggling whisper. 'Not Number 13, not yet Number 12 A.'

As a matter of fact Maybury had not noticed the number on the door that Bannard was now cautiously closing, and he did not feel called upon to rejoin.

'Do be quiet taking your things off, old man,' said Bannard softly. 'When once you've woken people who've been properly asleep, you can never quite tell. It's a bad thing to do.'

It was a large square room, and the two beds were in exactly opposite corners, somewhat to Maybury's relief. The light had been on when they entered. Maybury surmised that even the unnecessary clicking of switches was to be eschewed.

'That's your bed,' whispered Bannard, pointing jocularly.

So far Maybury had removed only his shoes. He could have done without Bannard staring at him and without Bannard's affable grin.

'Or perhaps you'd rather we did something before settling down?' whispered Bannard.

'No, thank you,' replied Maybury. 'It's been a long day.' He was trying to keep his voice reasonably low, but he absolutely refused to whisper.

'To be sure it has,' said Bannard, rising to much the volume that Maybury had employed. 'Night-night then. The best thing is to get to sleep quickly.' His tone was similar to that which seemed habitual with Falkner.

Bannard climbed agilely into his own bed, and lay on his back peering at Maybury over the sheets.

'Hang your suit in the cupboard,' said Bannard, who had already done likewise. 'There's room.'

'Thank you,' said Maybury. 'Where do I find the pyjamas?'

'Top drawer,' said Bannard. 'Help yourself. They're all alike.'

And, indeed, the drawer proved to be virtually filled with apparently identical suits of pyjamas.

'It's between seasons,' said Bannard. 'Neither proper summer, nor proper winter.'

'Many thanks for the loan,' said Maybury, though the pyjamas were considerably too small for him.

'The bathroom's in there,' said Bannard.

When Maybury returned, he opened the door of the cupboard. It was a big cupboard and it was almost filled by a long line of (presumably) Bannard's suits.

'There's room,' said Bannard once more. 'Find yourself an empty hanger. Make yourself at home.'

While balancing his trousers on the hanger and suspending it from the rail, Maybury again became aware of the injury to his leg. He had hustled so rapidly into Bannard's pyjamas that, for better or for worse, he had not even looked at the scar.

'What's the matter'?' asked Bannard on the instant. 'Hurt yourself, have you?'

'It was a d.a.m.ned cat scratched me,' replied Maybury, without thinking very much.

But this time he decided to look. With some difficulty and some pain, he rolled up the tight pyjama leg. It was a quite nasty gash and there was much dried blood. He realized that he had not even thought about washing the wound. In so far as he had been worrying about anything habitual, he had been worrying about Angela.

'Don't show it to me,' squeaked out Bannard, forgetting not to make a noise. All the same, he was sitting up in bed and staring as if his eyes would pop. 'It's bad for me to see things like that. I'm upset by them.'

'Don't worry,' said Maybury. 'I'm sure it's not as serious as it looks.' In fact, he was far from sure; and he was aware also that it had not been quite what Bannard was concerned about.

'I don't want to know anything about it,' said Bannard.

Maybury made no reply but simply rolled down the pyjama leg. About his injury too there was plainly nothing to be done. Even a request for Vaseline might lead to hysterics. Maybury tried to concentrate upon the reflection that if nothing worse had followed from the gash by now, then nothing worse might ever follow.

Bannard, however, was still sitting up in bed. He was looking pale. 'I come here to forget things like that,' he said. 'We all do.' His voice was shaking.

'Shall I turn the light out?' enquired Maybury. 'As I'm the one who's still up?'

'I don't usually do that,' said Bannard, reclining once more, none the less. 'It can make things unnecessarily difficult. But there's you to be considered too.'

'It's your room,' said Maybury, hesitating.

'All right,' said Bannard. 'If you wish. Turn it out. Tonight anyway.' Maybury did his injured leg no good when stumbling back to his bed. All the same, he managed to arrive there.

'I'm only here for one night,' he said more to the darkness than to Bannard. 'You'll be on your own again tomorrow.'

Bannard made no reply, and, indeed, it seemed to Maybury as if he were no longer there, that Bannard was not an organism that could function in the dark. Maybury refrained from raising any question of drawing back a curtain (the curtains were as long and heavy as elsewhere), or of letting in a little night air. Things, he felt, were better left more or less as they were.

It was completely dark. It was completely silent. It was far too hot.

Maybury wondered what the time was. He had lost all touch. Unfortunately, his watch lacked a luminous dial.

He doubted whether he would ever sleep, but the night had to be endured somehow. For Angela it must be even harder far harder. At the best, he had never seen himself as a first-cla.s.s husband, able to provide a superfluity, eager to be protective. Things would become quite impossible, if he were to lose a leg. But, with modern medicine, that might be avoidable, even at the worst: he should be able to continue struggling on for some time yet.

As stealthily as possible he insinuated himself from between the burning blankets and sheets on to the surface of the bed. He lay there like a dying fish, trying not to make another movement of any kind.

He became almost cataleptic with inner exertion. It was not a promising recipe for slumber. In the end, he thought he could detect Bannard's breathing, far, far away. So Bannard was still there. Fantasy and reality are different things. No one could tell whether Bannard slept or waked, but it had in any case become a quite important aim not to resume general conversation with Bannard. Half a lifetime pa.s.sed.

There could be no doubt, now, that Bannard was both still in the room and also awake. Perceptibly, he was on the move. Maybury's body contracted with speculation as to whether Bannard in the total blackness was making towards his corner. Maybury felt that he was only half his normal size.

Bannard edged and groped interminably. Of course Maybury had been unfair to him in extinguishing the light, and the present anxiety was doubtless no more than the price to be paid.

Bannard himself seemed certainly to be entering into the spirit of the situation: possibly he had not turned the light on because he could not reach the switch; but there seemed more to it than that. Bannard could be thought of as committed to a positive effort in the direction of silence, in order that Maybury, the guest for a night, should not be disturbed. Maybury could hardly hear him moving at all, though perhaps it was a gamble whether this was consideration or menace. Maybury would hardly have been surprised if the next event had been hands on his throat.

But, in fact, the next event was Bannard reaching the door and opening it, with vast delicacy and slowness. It was a considerable anti-climax, and not palpably outside the order of nature, but Maybury did not feel fully rea.s.sured as he rigidly watched the column of dim light from the pa.s.sage slowly widen and then slowly narrow until it vanished with the faint click of the handle. Plainly there was little to worry about, after all, but Maybury had probably reached that level of anxiety where almost any new event merely causes new stress. Soon, moreover, there would be the stress of Bannard's return. Maybury half realized that he was in a grotesque condition to be so upset, when Bannard was, in fact, showing him all possible consideration. Once more he reflected that poor Angela's plight was far worse.

Thinking about Angela's plight, and how sweet, at the bottom of everything, she really was, Maybury felt more wakeful than ever, as he awaited Bannard's return, surely imminent, surely. Sleep was impossible until Bannard had returned.

But still Bannard did not return. Maybury began to wonder whether something had gone wrong with his own time faculty, such as it was; something, that is, of medical significance. That whole evening and night, from soon after his commitment to the recommended route, he had been in doubt about his place in the universe, about what people called the state of his nerves. Here was evidence that he had good reason for anxiety.

Then, from somewhere within the house, came a shattering, earpiercing scream, and then another, and another. It was impossible to tell whether the din came from near or far; still less whether it was female or male. Maybury had not known that the human organism could make so loud a noise, even in the bitterest distress. It was shattering to listen to; especially in the enclosed, hot, total darkness. And this was nothing momentary: the screaming went on and on, a paroxysm, until Maybury had to clutch at himself not to scream in response.

He fell off the bed and floundered about for the heavy curtains. Some light on the scene there must be; if possible, some new air in the room. He found the curtains within a moment, and dragged back first one, and then the other.

There was no more light than before.

Shutters, perhaps? Maybury's arm stretched out gingerly. He could feel neither wood nor metal.

The light switch. It must be found.

While Maybury fell about in the darkness, the screaming stopped on a ghoulish gurgle: perhaps as if the sufferer had vomited immensely and then pa.s.sed out; or perhaps as if the sufferer had in mercy pa.s.sed away altogether. Maybury continued to search.

It was harder than ever to say how long it took, but in the end he found the switch, and the immediate mystery was explained. Behind the drawn-back curtains was, as the children say, just wall. The room apparently had no window. The curtains were mere decoration.

All was silent once more: once more extremely silent. Bannard's bed was turned back as neatly as if in the full light of day.

Maybury cast off Bannard's pyjamas and, as quickly as his state permitted, resumed his own clothes. Not that he had any very definite course of action. Simply it seemed better to be fully dressed. He looked vaguely inside his pocket-book to confirm that his money was still there.

He went to the door and made cautiously to open it and seek some hint into the best thing for him to do, the best way to make off.

The door was unopenable. There was no movement in it at all. It had been locked at the least; perhaps more. If Bannard had done it, he had been astonishingly quiet about it: conceivably experienced.

Maybury tried to apply himself to thinking calmly.

The upshot was that once more, and even more hurriedly, he removed his clothes, disposed of them suitably, and resumed Bannard's pyjamas.

It would be sensible once more to turn out the light; to withdraw to bed, between the sheets, if possible; to stand by, as before. But Maybury found that turning out the light, the resultant total blackness, were more than he could face, however expedient.

Ineptly, he sat on the side of his bed, still trying to think things out, to plan sensibly. Would Bannard, after all this time, ever, in fact, return? At least during the course of that night?

He became aware that the electric light bulb had begun to crackle and fizzle. Then, with no further sound, it simply failed. It was not, Maybury thought, some final authoritative lights-out all over the house. It was merely that the single bulb had given out, however unfortunately from his own point of view: an isolated industrial incident.

He lay there, half in and half out, for a long time. He concentrated on the thought that nothing had actually happened that was dangerous. Ever since his schooldays (and, indeed, during them) he had become increasingly aware that there were many things strange to him, most of which had proved in the end to be apparently quite harmless.

Then Bannard was creeping back into the dark room. Maybury's ears had picked up no faint sound of a step in the pa.s.sage, and, more remarkable, there had been no noise, either, of a turned key, let alone, perhaps, of a drawn bolt. Maybury's view of the bulb failure was confirmed by a repet.i.tion of the widening and narrowing column of light, dim, but probably no dimmer than before. Up to a point, lights were still on elsewhere. Bannard, considerate as before, did not try to turn on the light in the room. He shut the door with extraordinary skill, and Maybury could just, though only just, hear him slithering into his bed.

Still, there was one unmistakable development: at Bannard's return, the dark room had filled with perfume; the perfume favoured, long ago, as it seemed, by the lady who had been so charming to Maybury in the lounge. Smell is, in any case, notoriously the most recollective of the senses.

Almost at once, this time, Bannard not merely fell obtrusively asleep, but was soon snoring quite loudly.

Maybury had every reason to be at least irritated by everything that was happening, but instead he soon fell asleep himself. So long as Bannard was asleep, he was at least in abeyance as an active factor in the situation; and many perfumes have their own drowsiness, as Iago remarked. Angela pa.s.sed temporarily from the forefront of Maybury's mind.

Then he was awake again. The light was on once more, and Maybury supposed that he had been awakened deliberately, because Bannard was standing there by his bed. Where and how had he found a new light bulb? Perhaps he kept a supply in a drawer. This seemed so likely that Maybury thought no more of the matter.

It was very odd, however, in another way also.

When Maybury had been at school, he had sometimes found difficulty in distinguishing certain boys from certain other boys. It had been a very large school, and boys do often look alike. None the less, it was a situation that Maybury thought best to keep to himself, at the time and since. He had occasionally made responses or approaches based upon misidentifications: but had been fortunate in never being made to suffer for it bodily, even though he had suffered much in his self-regard.

And now it was the same. Was the man standing there really Bannard? One obvious thing was that Bannard had an aureole or fringe of red hair, whereas this man's fringe was quite grey. There was also a different expression and general look, but Maybury was more likely to have been mistaken about that. The pyjamas seemed to be the same, but that meant little.

'I was just wondering if you'd care to talk for a bit,' said Bannard. One had to a.s.sume that Bannard it was; at least to start off with. 'I didn't mean to wake you up. I was just making sure.'

'That's all right, I suppose,' said Maybury.

'I'm over my first beauty sleep,' said Bannard. 'It can be lonely during the night.' Under all the circ.u.mstances it was a distinctly absurd remark, but undoubtedly it was in Bannard's idiom.

'What was all that screaming?' enquired Maybury.

'I didn't hear anything,' said Bannard. 'I suppose I slept through it. But I can imagine. We soon learn to take no notice. There are sleepwalkers for that matter, from time to time.'

'I suppose that's why the bedroom doors are so hard to open?'

'Not a bit,' said Bannard, but he then added. 'Well, partly, perhaps. Yes, partly. I think so. But it's just a knack really. We're not actually locked in, you know.' He giggled. 'But what makes you ask? You don't need to leave the room in order to go to the loo. I showed you, old man.'

So it really must be Bannard, even though his eyes seemed to be a different shape, and even a different colour, as the hard light caught them when he laughed.

'I expect I was sleepwalking myself,' said Maybury warily.

'There's no need to get the wind up,' said Bannard, 'like a kid at a new school. All that goes on here is based on the simplest of natural principles: eating good food regularly, sleeping long hours, not taxing the overworked brain. The food is particularly important. You just wait for breakfast, old man, and see what you get. The most tremendous spread, I promise you.'

'How do you manage to eat it all?' asked Maybury. 'Dinner alone was too much for me.'

'We simply let Nature have its way. Or rather, perhaps, her way. We give Nature her head.'

'But it's not natural to eat so much.'

'That's all you know,' said Bannard. 'What you are, old man, is effete.' He giggled as Bannard had giggled, but he looked somehow unlike Maybury's recollection of Bannard. Maybury was almost certain there was some decisive difference.

The room still smelt of the woman's perfume; or perhaps it was largely Bannard who smelt of it, Bannard who now stood so close to Maybury. It was embarra.s.sing that Bannard, if he really had to rise from his bed and wake Maybury up, did not sit down; though preferably not on Maybury's blanket.

'I'm not saying there's no suffering here,' continued Bannard. 'But where in the world are you exempt from suffering? At least no one rots away in some attic or wretched bed-sitter, more likely. Here there are no single rooms. We all help one another. What can you and I do for one another, old man?'

He took a step nearer and bent slightly over Maybury's face. His pyjamas really reeked of perfume.

It was essential to be rid of him; but essential to do it uncontentiously. The prospect should accept the representative's point of view as far as possible unawares.

'Perhaps we could talk for just five or ten minutes more,' said Maybury, 'and then I should like to go to sleep again, if you will excuse me. I ought to explain that I slept very little last night owing to my wife's illness.'

'Is your wife pretty?' asked Bannard. 'Really pretty? With this and that?' He made a couple of gestures, quite conventional though not aforetime seen in drawing rooms.

'Of course she is,' said Maybury. 'What do you think?'

'Does she really turn you on? Make you lose control of yourself?'

'Naturally,' said Maybury. He tried to smile, to show he had a sense of humour which could help him to cope with tasteless questions.

Bannard now not merely sat on Maybury's bed, but pushed his frame against Maybury's legs, which there was not much room to withdraw, owing to the tightness of the blanket, as Bannard sat on it.

'Tell us about it,' said Bannard. 'Tell us exactly what it's like to be a married man. Has it changed your whole life? Transformed everything?'

'Not exactly. In any case, I married years ago.'

'So now there is someone else. I understand.'

'No, actually there is not.'

'Love's old sweet song still sings to you?'

'If you like to put it like that, yes. I love my wife.