A Foggy Evening

by A J Alan

 

I want to make it quite clear from the very beginning that what I am going to tell you now isn’t a story in any sense of the word; and it most certainly hasn’t got a plot.

If the various happenings I have told you about from time to time had always conveniently arranged themselves into magazine story form, my reputation for telling the truth wouldn’t have lasted very long.

As it is—or, rather, as it is—that reputation is very precious to me, as you can quite imagine.

No, this is just a rambling account of a foggy evening; but it may interest one or two of you as an example of the sort of things that may happen to one, if one’ll only let ‘em, as it were.

Do you remember the ninth of December last?

Probably not, as such; but if you don’t remember the date, you won’t have forgotten the fog.

Well, that’s when it was, anyway.

It’s a little difficult to know where to begin —but there’s always the beginning. One might try that.

It must have been about a quarter to seven when I got home, and my wife met me and said :

“You’re dining out, you are!”

And I said:

“Oh, I am, am I, and what about you, and where am I dining?”

And she said:

“You’re dining with the Lees—she’s just telephoned to say they’re a man short at the last minute, so I’ve lent them you, and I shall have something on a tray”—which, of course, as you all know, means nothing on a tray. But that’s a detail.

Well, my dear wife and Mrs. Lee seemed to have disposed of me all right for the evening, so I went up and changed, and in due course arrived at the Lees—just before eight, that was. They live about seven minutes’ walk from Hampstead Tube Station.

At this time it was beginning to get distinctly foggy. I rang the bell and waited, and nothing happened, so I rang again. This time a terrified-looking parlour-maid opened the door—with her face like a sheet. So much so, that I asked her what was the matter.

It appeared that there’d been a tragedy just a few minutes before. The Lees’ small son, aged eight, had been put to bed early, because of the party. He’d evidently felt bored and had got out of his room and started sliding down the banisters. Unfortunately, he’d crashed and pitched on to his head on the hall floor.

While the maid was telling me about it, Lee came to the door himself and fetched me in.

The boy hadn’t been moved, and a doctor was overhauling him. So far, he’d found a very nasty cut on the head, and bad concussion.

Altogether, it was pretty serious.

Mrs. Lee was, naturally, frightfully upset, and any idea of a dinner-party was a clean washout—I mean it was quite out of the question.

So, after some discussion, it was arranged that I should stand outside the front door (to avoid its being constantly opened) and boom the guests off as they arrived. I did this, and explained matters to five hungry souls, and they were all very concerned, and quite understood, and they just faded away into the fog again

Doctors kept dashing up, too. I let them in. The Lees must have put out a regular district call for doctors. You know what it is when there’s an accident. You telephone wildly round to all the doctors you can think of—and, of course, they’re all out—and you leave a message and then they all roll up in a bunch.

Most of these came out again, and one of them told me that Master Billy had come round—no bones broken—cut being stitched up—in fact, outlook rather brighter. I did Cerberus on the top step for a few minutes more, until all was quiet, and then I cleared off, too.

The fog had been getting steadily worse every minute, and it was now a real, proper pea-souper.

I started off down the hill to where I thought I’d left Hampstead Tube Station, but it didn’t seem to be there. However, that didn’t worry me overmuch because, well, I don’t suppose many people will agree with me, but if you rule out danger to shipping, and flying, and trains, and things like that, fogs can be rather jolly.

I mean, when you can hardly see the ground, and you think you’ve crossed the road and haven’t, and are really back on the same side again—and all that.

Then again, you’ve always got the chance of something amusing happening any minute.

Well, to go back to the evening we are talking about. I was still casting about for Hampstead Tube Station, and not finding it, but I did find a taxi; I ran into it. It was right across the pavement with its nose sticking into the railings. There didn’t seem to be any sign of a driver. He may have got tired of being a taxi-driver and just gone home (people do!).

I opened the door and looked inside—and two voices said: “Go away!” They were evidently fog lovers, too. So I said: “Sorry,” and shut the door again, and went on my way down the hill rejoicing—and possibly even humming a sprightly air. That’s the best of a fog—you can do all sorts of things you wouldn’t do any other time. It’s like having a railway carriage to yourself.

Well, by this time, it was nearly nine o’clock, and I was getting most infernally hungry. So I gave up looking for the Hampstead Tube, and hunted for a place to get something to eat instead—no matter what it was like—coffee stall—somewhere with steam on the window—fish and chip shop—anything you like. But my luck must have been properly in that evening, because I barged into a bay-tree growing in a tub. There were two of them—standing outside a doorway. Over the door was a red lamp, and it said on it: “The Planet Restaurant”.

What do you think of that? A place with bay-trees when I should have fairly leapt at “Sausage and mash, eightpence”.

I pushed the door open—swing door it was—and found myself at the bottom of a flight of stairs. The place apparently hadn’t got a ground floor at all—probably the upper part over a shop. Red carpet, brass stair rods, white paint, all new and very swagger. I went up the stairs which finished up in a long, narrow room with tables down each side. There were a few people there finishing dinner, but not very many. The place looked as though it hadn’t been open very long.

A graceful damsel in a red overall took my hat and coat, and shoved me down at a table. She was sorry it was too late for the dinner, but gave me to understand that the grill was still going strong.

“What about a nice fillet steak?”

I said, “Rather!”—and then she produced a wine list.

Most astounding place ! The chef knew his job. The burgundy wasn’t half bad, and was properly warmed. In fact, I tell you, that place was living up to its bay-trees for all it was worth.

Well, while I was having dinner, the rest of the people trickled out by ones and twos, until there was only one other man left—besides me.

He was by himself, at the next table but one. I hadn’t noticed him before, because there had been other people between. Rum-looking bloke he was. He looked rather like a shortsighted sheep-dog. He wore glasses, which kept on slipping down his nose. They evidently got misty, too, as he was always having to polish them.

He seemed to suffer from chronic hotness and botherdom, and he’d evidently got the idea into his head that he knew me. He kept on looking my way and giving little nods. And I was equally certain that I’d never set eyes on him in my life before. Now here was a slight chance of indulging in a little game which always appeals to me very much.

You play it like this. A man—you don’t know from Adam—comes up and wrings you by the hand, and says : “Hallo, old man, how are you?”(It does happen sometimes.) Well, instead of saying : “I’m sorry, sir, but I think you must be making a mistake,” you don’t. You say: “By Jove, this is nicel What brings you here ?” or something original and brilliant like that. And he tells you, and then you lead him on to talk. It’s not a bad plan to find out fairly early in the proceedings when and where you last met. Then he may easily ask after some mutual acquaintance and say : “How’s So-and-So?” And you say: “Haven’t you heard? She’s doing very well. She’s a missionary in China.” And he says: “Good gracious! Has she chucked the stage?”—and so on.

You’ve no idea what fun it is until you’ve tried it. I once kept the game going for a whole evening with a man at the club, and at the end I owned up quite frankly and said: “Look here, I hope you won’t be frightfully sick, but I’ve been playing spoof all the time, and I’m not the bloke you’ve been taking me for.” And he said: “That’s all right, old man, neither am I. I’ve been playing spoof, too!” It was really great.

Well, here was the old boy at the next table but one sort of half-nodding, and fairly asking for it, so I nodded back as though I’d only just recognized him. He immediately came along and said: “You’ve had your hair cut.” And I said: “Quite right, my dear Watson, I have had my hair cut---yesterday, at the R.A.C., if you want to know.” And he said: -Well, do you know it’s altered you so much that I wasn’t sure it was you until you mentioned my name.” Just think of it ! His name actually was Watson. I’d only been quoting Sherlock Holmes in fun. (You know how one does.)

Of course, this was an absolute gift. No—but really, wouldn’t it have been tempting Providence to let such a chance slip? I’m sure you’ve all noticed that the most amusing and exciting things always happen to someone else. Ergo, if you can only get taken for someone else, there’s a much better chance of something amusing and exciting happening to you. Quite sound reasoning.

Very well, then. He was taking me for someone else, all right. Let the thing go on.

He said: “This is splendid, we can go on to the Eldersteins together.” And I said: “All for it,” wondering who the El—er—who the Eldersteins might be. Good old English name, of course. “Was there time for another glass of port?” He thought there just was, and this gave me time to find out that the Eldersteins gave these mysterious parties every now and then; that I sometimes went, and that to-night was a special night.

He was evidently bursting to tell me why—why it was a special night (and I wanted to know, too, of course). So I said: “Tell me exactly what you’ve heard.” (Rather neat, don’t you think?) And he said: “Well, the president really is going to be with us,” and I tried to look as though I was trying not to look surprised, and wished he’d say what president and where he was president of. But he didn’t. All he said was, what fun there’d be about my having had my hair cut; and he chuckled away—quite a nice friendly beast; but I was getting rather bored with having my hair chucked in my teeth.

Presently we paid our bills and started off for the Eldersteins—me taking great care not to let on that I hadn’t the vaguest idea where we were going to. Luckily it wasn’t far, and the fog was as thick as ever. So we blundered along, round all sorts of corners, barking our shins—and finally we fetched up at a door in some mews. Well, “My dear Watson” gave four taps at this door and a man in chauffeur’s uniform opened it.

We went in and found ourselves in a garage. There was a door at the back with a long passage leading on from it. Watson evidently knew the ropes and led the way down this passage.

By this time I really was beginning to hope that he was taking me somewhere not quite respectable. No, but it did rather look like it, didn’t it?—going in the back way—four taps on the door—and all that.

However, presently we got to a sort of lobby place, where a maid took our hats and coats and gave us tickets for them. There were evidently a good few people there, judging from the number of coats.

A little way past the lobby was a glass door, and through it we could see into a very large room. There was clearly some sort of entertainment going on—several rows of gilt chairs, with people in ‘em.

We slipped in quietly and stood by the wall—and the moment we were inside I realized that a woman was doing a recitation, so I tried to get out again, but my dear Watson rather had me by the arm, and one couldn’t exactly have a scuffle in the doorway without being a bit conspicuous, so I had to make the best of it.

He said :

“I’m glad we haven’t missed this ; she’s the best diseuse in East Finchley.”

And I said:

“Lor!” There was nothing else to say. So I devoted my attention to the best diseuse in East Finchley.

She was a shapeless female in a green velveteen frock, bobbed hair, horn-rimmed spectacles, and a slightly foreign accent, which I couldn’t for the moment quite place. She wasn’t really reciting—not what I call reciting—she was reading aloud from a limp brown book. I don’t honestly think I should have minded so much if it had been a stiff’ blue book, but somehow the limpness and brownness seemed to make it worse.

It was all about a little boy. He was being gradually murdered on the other side of an iron door in a bleak castle in Norway—or Denmark—or somewhere in Scandinavia—and his aunt, or cousin, or some female relative, who was on the wrong side of the door, seemed to be rather inclined to go in off the deep end about it.

She kept on saying:

“Oh, Tintagiles, Tintagiles, speak to me, my little Tintagiles!”

And then she did Tintagiles replying—very weak—only about strength one. And so on—for hours.

And Watson said :

“Don’t you adore Ibsen?”

And I said:

“Er—of course,” and felt frightfully ignorant —because up till then I’d thought it was Maeterlinck.

But I couldn’t take my eyes off the woman. She was standing on a little stage—funny little thing—I think it was an orange-box with red baize on it, and footlights—at least, there were two. The stage was so small that it wouldn’t hold more than two—and they were a pity. I mean, without them it wouldn’t have been so frightfully obvious that the poor lady’s stockings didn’t quite match and that one of them was coming down. Well, perhaps, not exactly ; but it looked very much as though it might, and I wondered what on earth I should do if it did. However, I managed to pull myself together, and had a look round the room.

There didn’t seem to be anyone at all like me, as far as one could see, so perhaps my long-haired alter ego had got lost in the fog, which was just as well.

Most of the people looked like foreigners. All the women were bobbed, or shingled, or shackled, or poodled, or otherwise unattractive.

If this had happened yesterday instead of three months ago, I shouldn’t have been a bit surprised to have seen a woman there with her hair “bargled”.

For the benefit of those of you who don’t yet know what bargling is, I should explain that it’s the very latest thing in hairdressing, and it originated in Bukharest, of all places.

What it means, quite simply, is shaving a large bald patch right on the top of the head, leaving only a straggling fringe of hair all round, just like a monk.

As a matter of fact, the—er—process gets its name from the Roumanian word “Barglos”, which means “monk”, or, perhaps, more literally, “Lay brother”. The fashion was started by a leader of society in Bukharest, who, presumably, found herself getting a bit thin on top. So she made a vice of necessity, so to speak, and went the whole hog.

For some reason or other this horrible idea caught on, and now it’s spreading across Europe like wildfire.

I haven’t actually seen anyone who’s been done yet, but the other day a man I know in Vienna sent me a photograph of a “Bar-glee”, and it made me feel very ill indeed. It looks so utterly repulsive that it’s sure to be all the rage when it does get here. So when you see a notice stuck up in a hairdresser’s window: “Bargling done here”, you’ll know what it means.

To—er—resume. The men at this place were a pretty average set of freaks, too. One of them had a dinner-jacket with a velvet collar, and no one seemed to mind, so you can imagine what they were like. Altogether, they were rather a moth-eaten crowd.

Talking of eating, there were refreshments. Oh, yes! They were on a long table by the wall near where we were standing. They seemed to consist chiefly of cress sandwiches, which had evidently been there for quite a long time; they were curling up and gnashing their cress at you. Fierce-looking things, they were. And water, in great glass jugs. It must have been water—it couldn’t have been gin, in such quantities. Besides, no one was having any.

I know it sounds rotten to go to a party and then run it down, especially when you haven’t been asked, but really, one couldn’t help beginning to feel that there was something rather rum about this one.

I mean, the whole entertainment was, on the face of it, a farce. The green velveteen horror on the orange-box was so bad that—well, if she’d performed at the most primitive penny reading she’d have heard herself walk off. And the fog was quite thick enough to prevent people going to a symphony concert, even if they’d paid for their seats—which is saying quite a lot—and yet, practically all the chairs were full.

I said to myself:

“Why is this preposterous female allowed to go on making the welkin ring?”—or do I mean the Wrekin? No, that’s in Shropshire. Obviously, she must be just filling up time until the real show, whatever it might be, began.

It was then that people began to keep looking towards a door on the other side of the room, and “My dear Watson” said’:

“I’m afraid the president’s a bit late.”

And I said:

“What can you expect on a night like this?”

Finally, Tintagiles faded clean out, and the “best diseuse in East Finchley” shut her book and stepped off the orange-box—and everyone got up.

Watson said:

“Let’s go and say ‘how do you do’ to the Eldersteins,” and I followed him through the giddy throng, wondering how much longer my luck was going to hold. However, it did go on holding—my luck, that is—and we shook hands with a man and woman—evidently our host and hostess—but they were both so busy watching the door that they didn’t take the slightest notice of either of us. So we drifted past, and just then the president came in.

Most distinguished-looking old boy, very tall—Elderstein looked a shrimp beside him. Head rather like a lion—you know how a lion does its hair—brushed back and lots of it—well, it was like that. He was wearing several orders. I don’t know whether they were really his, or whether he’d just found them in a drawer. Anyway, he’d got ‘em on. He rather reminded me of an English duke I once saw in an American film, except that the film bloke wore tight short trousers, and turned his toes in.

Well, everyone crowded respectfully round and some were presented, or whatever you are to a president. The Eldersteins fussed about and talked perfectly appalling French. The president spoke French, too, but he certainly wasn’t French. I don’t know what he was—at least, I didn’t then.

There was apparently going to be no more reciting, for which I was most thankful, and presently a general move was made through the door the president had come in at. We crossed a square entrance hall and went into what was evidently the dining-room.

This was set out, not for a meal, as one might reasonably expect, but for a committee meeting, or conference. There were chairs drawn up round a great long table with a green cloth on it, and sheets of paper and pencils, and so on. And I thought, hooray, this is a meeting of some secret society, and I’m going to be at it.

The president sat down in a big chair at the head of the table, and the rest of us wedged ourselves in anyhow. Then it appeared that we were one chair short. Elderstein, who was doing secretary to the meeting, counted a lot of cards he had in front of him and made them 27. Then he counted the chairs and made them 27, and one man standing up.

That seemed to tear it. Elderstein jumped up, very excited, and said some impostor must be in the room. And everyone looked very suspiciously at everyone else. Then the president got up on his hind legs, and said:

“Laties and Shentlemans”(I can’t do his accent) —“Ladies and Gentlemen. Let us be quite calm. The proceedings have not started and no harm is done, nicht wahr? Will the stranger please stand up?”

Well, I dare say one could have gone on bluffing for some time longer, but it would have meant telling a whole pack of lies, which, of course, I couldn’t do. So I stood up and made a little speech; said I’d only come for fun, and apologized for interrupting their meeting—and what did they want done about it?

While I was talking there was a whispered confab going on between the president, Elderstein, and Watson, and when I’d done the president addressed me in his best presidential manner and told me that my intrusion was most unwarrantable and all the rest of it; that it was only a strong resemblance to one of their members which had prevented my being found out long before. Now that I had been unmasked would I kindly withdraw?

Well, of course, I hadn’t got a leg to stand on. If they’d been real people I should have felt very much ashamed of myself. But I defy anyone to say they were real people, because—why, because they—they weren’t.

I offered to join their blooming society for one consecutive night, because I did so want to know what they were going to do, but they wouldn’t let me. So I had to come away—very disappointed—and there it was.

I told this story to several friends, but they were none of them very helpful. Most of them wanted to know what I’d had for dinner. Perhaps someone will kindly tell me. What is this new and intriguing game which one plays at twelve o’clock at night—with a pencil and paper?

Oh!—and I ought to add that the paper was plain—and not ruled in squares.

The Ship of Death

I sing of autumn and the falling fruit
and the long journey towards oblivion.

The apples falling like great drops of dew
to bruise themselves an exit from themselves.

Have you built your ship of death, oh, have you?
Build then your ship of death, for you will need it!

Can man his own quietus make
with a bare bodkin?

With daggers, bodkins, bullets, man can make
a bruise or break of exit for his life
but is that a quietus, oh tell me, is it quietus?

Quietus is the goal of the long journey
the longest journey towards oblivion.

Slips out the soul, invisible one, wrapped still
in the white shirt of the mind’s experiences
and folded in the dark-red, unseen
mantle of the body’s still mortal memories.

Frightened and alone, the soul slips out of the house
or is pushed out
to find himself on the crowded, arid margins of existence.

The margins, the grey beaches of shadow
strewn with dim wreckage, and crowded with crying souls
that lie outside the silvery walls of our body’s builded city.

Oh, it is not so easy, I tell you it is not so easy
to set softly forth on the longest journey, the longest journey.

It is easy to be pushed out of the silvery city of the body
through any breach in the wall,
thrust out on to the grey grey beaches of shadow
the long marginal stretches of existence crowded with lost souls
that intervene between our tower and the shaking sea of the beyond.

Oh build your ship of death, oh build it in time
and build it lovingly, and put it between the hands of your soul.

Once outside the gate of this walled silvery life of days
once outside, upon the grey marsh-beaches, where lost souls moan
in millions, unable to depart
having no boat to launch upon the shaken, soundless
deepest and longest of seas,
once outside the gate
what will you do, if you have no ship of the soul?

Oh pity the dead that are dead, but cannot take
the journey, still they moan and beat
against the silvery adamant walls of this our exclusive existence.
They moan and beat, they gnash, they rage
they fall upon the new outcoming souls with rage
and they send arrows of anger, bullets and bombs of frustration
over the adamant walls of this, our by-no-means impregnable existence.

Pity, oh pity the poor dead that are only ousted from life
and crowd there on the grey mud beaches of the margins
gaunt and horrible
waiting, waiting till at last the ancient boatman with the common barge
shall take them aboard, towards the great goal of oblivion.

Pity the poor gaunt dead that cannot die
into the distance with receding oars
but must roam like outcast dogs on the margins of life,
and think of them, and with the soul’s deep sigh
waft nearer to them the bark of delivery.

But for myself, but for my soul, dear soul
let me build a little ship with oars and food
and little dishes, and all accoutrements
dainty and ready for the departing soul.

And put it between the hands of the trembling soul.
So that when the hour comes, and the last door closes behind him
he shall slip down the shores invisible
between the half-visible hordes
to where the furthest and the longest sea
touches the margins of our life’s existence
with wincing unwilling waves.

And launching there his little ship,
wrapped in the dark-red mantle of the body’s memories
the little, slender soul sits swiftly down, and takes the oars
and draws away, away, away, towards the dark depths
fathomless deep ahead, far, far from the grey shores
that fringe with shadow all this world’s existence.

Over the sea, over the farthest sea
on the longest journey
past the jutting rocks of shadow
past the lurking, octopus arms of agonised memory
past the strange whirlpools of remembered greed
through the dead weed of a life-time’s falsity,
slow, slow my soul, in his little ship
on the most soundless of all seas
taking the longest journey.

Pulling the long oars of a life-time’s courage
drinking the confident water from the little jug
and eating the brave bread of a wholesome knowledge
row, little soul, row on
on the longest journey, towards the greatest goal

Neither straight nor crooked, neither here nor there
but shadows folded on deeper shadows
and deeper, to a core of sheer oblivion
like the convolutions of shadow-shell
or deeper, like the foldings and involvings of a womb.

Drift on, drift on, my soul, towards the most pure
most dark oblivion.

And at the penultimate porches, the dark-red mantle
of the body’s memories slips and is absorbed
into the shell-like, womb-like convoluted shadow.

And round the great final bend of unbroken dark
the skirt of the spirit’s experience has melted away
the oars have gone from the boat, and the little dishes
gone, gone, and the boat dissolves like pearl
as the soul at last slips perfect into the goal, the core
of sheer oblivion and of utter peace,
the womb of silence in the living night.

Ah peace, ah lovely peace, most lovely lapsing
of this my soul into the plasm of peace.

Oh lovely last, last lapse of death, into pure oblivion
at the end of the longest journey
peace, complete peace,—!
But can it be that also it is procreation?

Oh build your ship of death
oh build it!
Oh, nothing matters but the longest journey.

* * *

Other, later versions of this D H Lawrence poem exist. Perhaps they are better versions (Lawrence presumably thought so) but this one seems most suited to the pages of Wrong magazine.

Lucifer

by E C Tubb

[available on the InternetArchive]

It was a device of great social convenience and everyone used it. Everyone, in this case, meaning the Special People all of whom were rich, charming and socially successful. Those who had dropped in to study an amusing primitive culture and those who, for personal reasons, preferred to remain on a world where they could he very large fish in a very small sea.

The Special People, dilettantes of the Intergalactic Set, protected and cossetted by their science, playing their games with the local natives and careful always to preserve their anonymity. But accidents can happen even to the superhuman. Stupid things which, because of their low order of probability, were statistically impossible.

Like a steel cable snapping when the safe it was supporting hung twenty feet above the ground. The safe fell, smashing the sidewalk but doing no other damage. The cable, suddenly released from strain, snapped like a whip the end jerking in a random motion impossible to predict. The odds against it hitting any one particular place were astronomical. The odds against one of the Special People being in just that spot at that exact time were so high as to negate normal probability. But it happened. The frayed end of the cable hit a skull, shredding bone, brain and tissue in an ungodly mess. A surgically implanted mechanism sent out a distress call. The man’s friends received the signal. Frank Weston got the body.

Frank Weston, anachronism. In a modern age no man should have to drag a twisted foot through 28 years of his life. Especially when he has the face of a Renaissance angel. But if he looked like an angel he was a fallen one. The dead couldn’t be hurt but their relatives could. Tell a suicide’s father that his dead girl was pregnant. A doting mother that the apple of her eye was loathsomely diseased. They didn’t bother to check, why should they? And, even if they did, so what? Anyone could make a mistake and he was a morgue attendant not a doctor.

Dispassionately he examined the new delivery. The cable had done a good job of ruining the face—visual identification was impossible. Blood had ruined the suit but enough remained to show the wearer had bought pricey material. The wallet contained few bills but a lot of credit cards. There was some loose change, a cigarette case, a cigarette lighter, keys, wrist-watch, tiepin . . . They made little rustling noises as Frank fed them into an envelope. He paused when he saw the ring.

Sometimes, in his job, an unscrupulous man could make a little on the side. Frank had no scruples only defensive caution. The ring could have been lost before the stiff arrived in his care. The hand was caked with blood and maybe no one had noticed it. Even if they had it would be his word against theirs. If he could get it off, wash the hand free of blood, stash it away and act innocent the ring could be his. And he would get it off if he had to smash the hand to do it. Accidents sometimes made strange injuries.

An hour later they arrived to claim the body. Quiet men, two of them, neatly dressed and calmly determined. The dead man was their business associate. They gave his name and address, the description of the suit he was wearing, other information. There was no question of crime and no reason to hold the body.

One of them looked sharply at Frank. ‘Is this all he had on him?’

‘That’s right,’ said Frank. ‘You’ve got it all. Sign here and he’s yours.’

‘One moment.’ The two men looked at each other then the one who had spoken turned to Frank. ‘Our friend wore a ring. It was something like this.’ He extended his hand. ‘The ring had a stone and a wide band. Could we have it please.’

Frank was stubborn. ‘I haven’t got it. I haven’t even seen it. He wasn’t wearing it when he came in here.’

Again the silent conference. ‘The ring has no intrinsic value but it does have sentimental worth. I would he prepared to pay one hundred dollars for it and no questions will be asked.’

‘Why tell me?’ said Frank coldly. Inside he felt the growing warmth that stemmed from sadistic pleasure. How he didn’t know but he was hurting this man. ‘You gonna sign or what?’ He turned the knife. ‘You think I stole something you call the cops. Either way get out of here.’

In the dog hours he examined what he had stolen. Sitting hunched in his usual corner of the canteen, masked by a newspaper, to the others in the place just another part of the furniture. Slowly he turned the ring. The hand was thick and wide, raised in one part, a prominence which could be flattened hy the pressure of a finger. The stone was flat, dull, probably a poorly ground specimen of the semi-precious group. The metal could have been plated alloy. If it was a hundred dollars could buy any of a dozen like it. But—would a man dressed as the stiff had been dressed wear such a ring?

The corpse had reeked of money. The cigarette case and lighter had been of jewelled platinum—too hot to think of stealing. The credit cards would have taken him around the world and first class all the way. Would a man like that wear a lousy hundred-dollar ring?

Blankly he stared across the canteen. Facing his table three men sat over their coffee. One of them straightened, rose, stretched and headed towards the door. Scowling Frank dropped his eyes to the ring. Had he thrown away a hundred dollars for the sake of some junk? His fingernail touched the protuberance. It sank a little and, impatiently, he pressed it flush.

Nothing happened.

Nothing aside from the fact that the man who had risen from the facing table and who had walked towards the door was suddenly sitting at the table again. As Frank watched he rose, stretched and walked towards the door. Frank pressed the stud. Nothing happened.

Literally nothing.

He frowned and tried again. Abruptly the man was back at his table. He rose, stretched, headed towards the door. Frank pressed the stud and held it down, counting. Fifty-seven seconds and suddenly the man was back at his table again. He rose, stretched, headed towards the door. This time Frank let him go.

He knew now what it was he had.

He leaned back filled with the wonder of it. Of the Special People he knew nothing but his own race had bred scientists and, even though a sadist, Frank was no fool. A man would want to keep something like this to himself. He would need to have it close to hand at all times. It would need to be in a form where he could use it quickly. So what better than in a ring? Compact. Ornamental. Probably everlasting.

A one-way time machine.

Luck, the fortuitous combination of favourable circumstances, but who needs luck when they know what is going to happen fifty-seven seconds in advance? Call it a minute. Not long?

Try holding your breath that long. Try resting your hand on a red-hot stove for even half that time. In a minute you can walk a hundred yards, run a quarter of a mile, fall three. You can conceive, die, get married. Fifty-seven seconds is enough for a lot of things.

For a card to turn, a ball to settle, a pair of dice tumble to rest. Frank was a sure-fire winner and in more ways than one.

He stretched, enjoying the shower, the impact of hot water driven at high pressure. He turned a control and gasped as the water turned to ice and made goose pimples rise on his skin. A cold bath in winter is hardship when you’ve no choice, a pleasant titivation when you have. He jerked the control back to hot, waited, then cut the spray and stepped from the shower drying himself on a fluffy towel.

‘Frank, darling, are you going to be much longer?’

A female voice with the peculiar intonation of the inbred upper classes; a member of the aristocracy by marriage and birth. The Lady Jane Smyth-Connors was rich, curious, bored and impatient.

‘A moment, honey,’ he called and dropped the towel. Smiling he looked down at himself. Money had taken care of the twisted foot. Money had taken care of a lot of other things, his clothes, his accent, the education of his tastes. He was still a fallen angel but there was bright new gilt on his broken wings.

‘Frank, darling!’

‘Coming.’ His jaws tightened until the muscles ached. The high-toned, high-stepping bitch! She’d fallen for his face and reputation and was going to pay for her curiosity. But that could wait. First the spider had to get the fly well and truly in his web.

A silk robe to cover his nakedness. Brushes to tidy his hair. A spray gave insurance against halitosis. The stallion was almost ready to perform.

The bathroom had a window. He drew the curtains and looked at the night. Way down low a scatter of lights carpeted the misty ground. London was a nice city, England a nice place. Very nice, especially to gamblers—they paid no tax on winnings. And here, more than anywhere, high prizes were to be won. Not just for cash, that was for plebeians, but make the right connections and every day would be Christmas.

London. A city the Special People held in high regard.

‘Frank !’

Impatience. Irritation. Arrogance. The woman waited to be served.

She was tall with a peculiar angularity, an overgrown schoolgirl who should be wearing tweeds and carrying a hockey stick. But the appearance was deceptive. Generations of inbreeding had done more than fashion the distribution of flesh and bone. It had developed a ripe decadence and created a mass of seething frustrations. She was clinically insane but in her class people were never insane only ‘eccentric’, never stupid only ‘thoughtless’, never spiteful or cruel only ‘amusing’.

He reached out, took her in his arms, pressed the ball of each thumb against her eyes. She strained back from the sudden pain. He pressed harder and she screamed from agony and the stomach-wrenching fear of blindness. In his mind a mental clock counted seconds. Fifty-one . . . fifty-two . . .

His fingers clamped down on the ring.

‘Frank!’

He reached out and took her in his arms, heart still pounding from the pleasure of having inflicted pain. He kissed her with practised skill, nibbling her gently with his teeth. He ran his hands over her body, thin material rustling as it fell from her shoulders. He bit a little harder and felt her tense.

‘Don’t do that!’ she said abruptly. ‘I hate anyone doing that!’

One bad mark. Frank counted seconds as he reached for the light switch. With darkness she squirmed, pushed herself free of his arms.

‘I hate the dark! Must you be like all the others?’

Two bad marks. Twenty seconds to go. Time for one more quick exploration. His hands groped, made contact, moved with educated determination. She sighed with pleasure. He activated the ring.

‘Frank!’

He reached out and took her in his arms, this time making no attempt to either nibble or bite. Her clothing rustled to the floor and the skin gleamed like pearl in the light. He looked at her, boldly admiring, and his hands moved in the way which gave her pleasure.

She closed her eyes, fingernails digging into his back. ‘Talk to me,’ she demanded. ‘Talk to me!’

He began counting seconds.

Later, as she lay in satiated sleep, he rested, smoking, thinking, oddly amused. He had been the perfect lover. He had said and done the exact things she wanted in the exact order she wanted them and, more important than anything else, had said and done them without her prompting him at any time. He had been a reflection of herself. An echo of her needs—and why not? He had worked hard to map the blueprint of her desires. Exploring, investigating, erasing all false starts and mistakes. What else could he have been but perfect?

He turned, looking down at the woman, seeing her not as flesh and blood but as the rung of a ladder leading to acceptance. Frank Weston had come a long way. He intended to keep climbing.

She sighed, opened her eyes, looked at the classical beauty of his face. ‘Darling!’

He said what she wanted him to say.

She sighed again, same sound different meaning. ‘I’ll see you tonight?’

‘No.’

‘Frank!’ Jealousy reared her upright. ‘Why not? You said— ’

‘I know what I said and I meant every word of it,’ he interrupted. ‘But I have to fly to New York. Business,’ he added. ‘After all I do have to make a living.’

She caught the bait. ‘You don’t have to worry about that. I’ll speak to Daddy and—’

He closed her lips with his own. ‘I still have to go,’ he insisted. Beneath the covers his hands did what she wanted them to do. ‘And when I return—’

‘I’ll get a divorce,’ she said. ‘We’ll be married.’

Christmas, he thought, as dawn paled the sky.

Come, fly with me! said the song, me being a gleaming new Comet, two stewardesses all legs and eyes and silken hair with a ‘you may look at me because I’m beautiful but you must never, ever touch’ attitude, a flight crew and seventy-three other passengers only eighteen of which were travelling first class. Room for everyone and Frank was glad of it.

He felt tired. The night had been hectic and the morning no better. It was good to sit and relax neatly strapped in a form-fitting chair as the jets gulped air and spewed it behind in a man-made hurricane which sent the plane down the runway and up into the sky. London fell away to one side, the clouds dropped like tufts of dirty cotton and then there was only the sun, a watchful eye in an immense iris of blue.

Go West, young man, he thought smugly. Why? For no reason other than he liked to travel and a little absence could make a heart grow fonder. And there vas a kick in flying. He liked to look down and think of all the emptiness between him and the ground. Feel his stomach tighten with acrophobia, the delicious sensation of fear experienced in perfect safety. Height had no meaning in a plane. All you had to do was to look straight ahead and you could be in a Pullman.

He unstrapped, stretched his legs, glanced through a window as the captain’s voice came over the speakers telling him that they were flying at a height of 34,000 feet at a speed of 536 miles per hour.

Through the window he could see very little. The sky, the clouds below, the tip of a quivering sheet of metal which was a wing. Old stuff. The blonde stewardess was far from that. She swayed down the aisle, caught his eyes, responded with instant attention. Was he quite comfortable? Would he like a pillow? A newspaper? A magazine? Something to drink?

‘Brandy,’ he said. ‘With ice and soda.’

He sat on the inner seat close to the wall of the cabin so that she had to step from the aisle in order to lower the flap and set out his drink. He lifted his left hand and touched her knee, slid the hand up the inside of her thigh, felt her stiffen, saw the expression on her face. It was a compound of incredulity, outrage, interest and speculation. It didn’t last long. His right hand reached out and dug fingers into her throat. Congested blood purpled her cheeks, eyes popped, the discarded tray made a mess as her hands fluttered in helpless anguish.

Within his mind the automatic clock counted off the seconds. Fifty-two… fifty-three… fifty-four…

He pressed the stud on his ring.

The flap made a little thudding sound as it came to rest, the brandy a liquid gurgling as it gushed from the miniature bottle over the ice. She smiled, poising the punctured can of soda. ‘All of it, sir?’

He nodded, watching as she poured, remembering the soft warmth of her thigh, the touch of her flesh. Did she know that he had almost killed her? Could she possibly guess?

No, he decided as she moved away. How could she? To her nothing had happened. She had served him a drink and that was all. That was all, but—?

Brooding he stared at the ring. You activated it and went back fifty-seven seconds in time. All you had done during that period was erased. You could kill, rob, commit mayhem and none of it mattered because none of it had happened. But it had happened. It could be remembered. Could you remember what had never taken place?

That girl, for example. He had felt her thigh, the warm place between her legs, the yielding softness of her throat. He could have poked out her eyes, doubled her screaming, mutilated her face. He had done that and more to others, pandering to his sadism, his love of inflicting pain. And he had killed. But what was killing when you could undo the inconvenience of your crime. When you could watch the body smile and walk away?

The plane rocked a little. The voice from the speaker was calm, unhurried. ‘Will all passengers please fasten their safety belts. We are heading into an area of minor disturbance. You may see a little lightning but there is absolutely nothing to worry about. We are, of course, flying well above the area of storm.’

Frank ignored the instruction, still engrossed with the ring. The unpolished stone looked like a dead eye, suddenly malevolent, somehow threatening. Irritably he finished his drink. The ring was nothing but a machine.

The blonde passed down the aisle, tutted when she saw his unfastened belt, made to tighten it. He waved her away, fumbled with the straps, let the belt fall open. He didn’t need it and didn’t like it. Frowning he settled back, thinking.

Time. Was it a single line or one with many branches? Could it be that each time he activated the ring an alternate universe was created? That somewhere was a world in which he had attacked the stewardess and had to pay for the crime? But he had only attacked her because he’d known he could erase the incident. Without the ring he wouldn’t have touched her. With the ring he could do as he liked because he could always go back and escape the consequences. Therefore the alternate universe theory couldn’t apply. What did?

He didn’t know and it didn’t matter. He had the ring and that was enough. The ring they had offered a lousy hundred dollars for.

Something hit the roof of the cabin. There was a ripping sound, a blast of air, an irresistible force which tore him from his seat and flung him into space. Air gushed from his lungs as he began to fall. He gulped, trying to breath, to understand. Arctic cold numbed his flesh. He twisted, saw through streaming eyes the plane with one wing torn loose, the metal tearing free as he watched, the plane accompanying his fall to the sea five miles below.

An accident, he thought wildly. A fireball, a meteor, metal fatigue even. A crack in the cabin wall and internal pressure would do the rest. And now he was falling. Falling!

His fingers squeezed in frenzied reaction.

‘Please, Mr Weston.’ The blonde stewardess came forward as he reared from his seat. ‘You must remain seated and with your safety belt fastened. Unless—?’ Diplomatically she looked towards the toilets at the rear of the cabin.

‘Listen!’ He grabbed her by both arms. ‘Tell the pilot to change course. Tell him now. Hurry!’

A fireball or a meteor could be dodged that way. They could find safety if the course was changed fast enough. But it had to be fast! Fast!

‘Quick.’ He ran towards the flight deck, the girl at his heels. Damn the stupid bitch ! Couldn’t she understand? ‘This is an emergency!’ he shouted. ‘The pilot must alter course immediately!’

Something hit the roof of the cabin. The compartment popped open, metal coiling like the peeled skin of a banana. The blonde vanished. The shriek of tearing metal was lost in the explosive gusting of escaping air. Desperately Frank clung to a seat, felt his hands being torn from the fabric, his body sucked towards the opening. Once again he was ejected into space to begin the long, stomach-twisting five mile fall.

‘No!’ he screamed, frantic with terror. ‘Dear God, no!’

He activated.

‘Mr Weston, I really must insist. If you do not want to go to the toilet you must allow me to fasten your safety belt.’

He was standing by his seat and the blonde was showing signs of getting annoyed. Annoyed!

‘This is important,’ he said, fighting to remain calm. ‘In less than a minute this plane is going to fall apart. Do you understand? We are all going to die unless the pilot changes course immediately.’

Why did she have to stand there looking so dumb? He had told her all this before!

‘You stupid cow! Get out of my way!’ He pushed her to one side and lunged again towards the flight deck. He tripped, fell, came raging to his feet. ‘Change course!’ he yelled. ‘For God’s sake listen and—’

Something hit the roof. Again the roar, the blast, the irresistible force. Something struck his head and he was well below the clouds before he managed to regain full control. He activated and found himself still in space, gulping at rarefied air and shivering with savage cold. To one side the shattered plane hung as though suspended, a mass of disintegrating debris as it fell. Tiny fragments hung around it; one of them perhaps the blonde.

The clouds passed. Below the sea spread in a shimmer of light and water. His stomach constricted with overwhelming terror as he stared at the waves, his lurking acrophobia aroused and tearing at every cell. Hitting the sea would be like smashing into a floor of solid concrete and he would be conscious to the very end. Spasmodically he activated and, immediately, was high in the air again with almost a minute of grace in which to fall.

Fifty-seven seconds of undiluted hell.

Repeated.

Repeated.

Repeated over and over because the alternative was to smash into the waiting sea.