Dimension Of Horror

Chapter 6

Upon arriving back at her hotel room, Zoe found that her family was not there. She had a few minutes of anxiety before she found Reginald's note propped against the clock radio on the bed-table.

Zoe darling,

Mrs. Kelly and I have taken the children to the cinema. We should return some time between midnight and one.

Love,

Reggie.

She sighed. Reginald knew that was way past the children's bedtime. Reggie Jr. and Smitty would be fretful and unmanageable tomorrow, though Dickie would undoubtedly bear up like the little soldier he was. Reginald's revenge, she thought.

Reginald's revenges were like that; a subtle blend of pettiness and cunning. If she tried to point an accusing finger at him, he could always say, «Why, I never dreamed you'd mind,» or «I meant no harm,» or «Don't be paranoid.»

Reginald did not like her seeing Richard Blade, not even under the present circumstances, where the man's sanity hung in the balance, but he would never be so old-fashioned and overbearing as to forbid her.

She thought, I wonder what his next revenge will be? She knew from experience that more sly, petty, intangible punishments lay ahead.

She glanced at the digital dial of the clock radio. It was past one already. What was Reginald up to? She suspected something sticky, something fundamentally sticky. Would he keep the children up until dawn, then come breezing in with some remark like, «I thought that once in their lives they should see the sun come up over London.» Yes, that was his style exactly.

But no, now she heard their cheerful voices down the hall.

All was well. She heaved a mighty sigh of relief as she sat down on the edge of the wide and luxurious bed, and a moment later the key turned in the lock and Reginald, all smiles, opened the door to let in three weary but happy boys and one grim Irishwoman.

«Well, dear,» he said, bending to give her a peck on the cheek. «Did you cure him?»

«No,» she answered wistfully. «I think I made him worse.»

Mrs. Kelly was about to herd the children into the connecting suite when Zoe turned to speak to them. «Did you enjoy the film, boys?»

«Oh, yes!» answered round-eyed Dickie.

«I've seen better,» said Reggie Jr.

«Bleeding tacky, I thought,» grumbled Smitty.

«What sort of film was it?» Zoe asked brightly.

«A monster film,» said Dickie with awe.

«A tacky bleeding dinosaur went about stepping on extras,» said Reggie Jr. with disgust.

«I could tell he wasn't real,» added Smitty.

«I thought he was grand, Mama,» Dickie said, not at all discouraged by his brothers' «higher criticism.»

«All children love monsters,» Reginald said, grinning.

«Speak for yourself, Dad,» said Reggie Jr.

«He was grand, Mama,» Dickie repeated. «Bigger than a churchtower!» He came over to her and she gave him a hug.

«They found a little friend, you know,» Reginald said. «There was a girl in the cinema. She sat next to Dickie and kept whispering things to him. Very odd. She couldn't have been more than twelve years old, but there wasn't a sign of her parents.»

«What did she tell you, Dickie?» Zoe inquired.

«Oh Mama, she said all kinds of awful things. She said she was from another world, and that she was going to make slaves of everyone by getting into their minds. She said she had hundreds and hundreds of brothers and sisters back home where she came from, and that they were all coming to London to get into our minds.» She could tell Dickie was upset but hiding his feelings.

Mrs. Kelly snorted, «Sure and it's trashy films like this one put such ideas into the lassy's head, mum. You and the mister should have a care what you let the youngsters see, or one day they'll be spoutin' the same nonsense, and running around to one theater after another in the middle of the night all by theirselves.»

«Come, come,» said Reginald. «No harm done.»

But Zoe, with her arm around Dickie's shoulders, could feel the boy trembling. «Did the dinosaur scare you, Dickie?» she asked him.

«No, mama. It was the girl. The dinosaur was grand.»

«Bedtime, lads,» Mrs. Kelly said impatiently.

«Mama,» Dickie said, «The girl said she was going to kill people, lots of people.»

«So long as it isn't us,» Reginald said smugly. «Now run along to bed, the lot of you.»

Dickie had more to say, but Reginald and Mrs. Kelly hurried him along into the next room with his brothers. Reginald was undoing his tie as he returned.

«I suppose we'll be on our way back to Norwich tomorrow night,» he said.

«I should stay awhile, dear. They may need me,» Zoe answered.

«We can all stay then.»

«No, at least the children should go home.»

«And me?» He took off his suitcoat and carefully put it on a hanger.

«Do as you wish. Mrs. Kelly is quite able to care for the boys without your help.»

«I will remain in London then.» He unbuttoned his shirt.

«To keep an eye on me?»

«Nonsense. You are a lady. I have every confidence you'll behave like one. I have certain matters of business to take care of in the metropolis, and this is an excellent opportunity to see to them, that's all. Yes, Mrs. Kelly can take the children back to Norwich, and you and I will stay here. I only hope this Blade chap recovers quickly. Hotel rooms aren't cheap, you know.»

«J has assured me our room and board will be paid by the government.»

«That settles it! We'll be able to get back at least a small part of all that money we've paid in taxes. Where are my pajamas, old girl?»

«In the black suitcase,» she answered listlessly.

Once in bed, with the lights out, Reginald dozed off almost immediately. Zoe however, in spite of her weariness and the lateness of the hour, lay awake, staring at the ceiling and listening to the murmur of the city.

She thought, Will morning never come?

Then, little by little, she became aware of an unpleasant sensation, as if she were being watched, as if someone were in the room. She tried to ignore it, but the sensation grew steadily stronger until she could localize it in the space at the foot of her bed. She looked in that direction but could see nothing, at least in the dim light that filtered in through the drawn curtains at the window. There was a redness in the light that blinked on and off rhythmically, suggesting a neon sign outside somewhere.

She thought, There's no one there. I'm imagining things.

Reginald rolled onto his back and began to snore. His snoring, which ordinarily annoyed her, was now curiously reassuring. She was tempted to awaken him in order to have someone to talk to, someone to drive away the phantoms of her imagination, but she didn't have the heart. Poor Reginald needed his sleep.

She thought, I'm upset over what's happened to Richard, that's all. Thinking of Richard brought a sudden rush of tenderness and concern that surprised her. Why did she feel this way about a man she had known so briefly, had never known well, so long ago? Futile feelings! Even if Richard recovered, nothing would be changed. Richard would have his work-his secret, secret work she could never share or even know about-and she would have Reginald and the children.

She remembered a line from Fitzgerald's «Rubaiyat of Omar Khayyam.»

«The moving finger writes, and having writ moves on.»

Suddenly, from the foot of her bed, a voice whispered her name.

«Zoe?»

She sat bolt upright, peering into the gloom, startled yet not frightened. The bodiless voice had sounded friendly, familiar. She had heard that voice somewhere before.

After a long pause, the voice spoke again, softly. «The tide is full, the moon lies fair upon the straits.»

She recognized the quote from «Dover Beach.» More important, she recognized the voice.

«Richard?» she called gently.

There was no answer.

She waited a long time, but there was nothing more to hear but the ordinary drone of London's night sounds.

Being careful not to wake Reginald, she slipped out of bed and silently dressed, thinking, I'll go for a walk in the streets. Then the voice will be able to speak to me without disturbing Reginald.

Still she felt no fear. The voice had been Richard's. She was not afraid of Richard. This must have something to do with Richard's secret work. A new kind of radio, perhaps.

She took the room key and let herself out, then walked briskly down the harshly lit hallway to the elevator.

She had seen the Tower Bridge and the Thames and the rumbling lorries full of produce for London's markets. She had seen the drunken ragged derelicts shuffling somnambulistically from doorway to doorway; one had roused himself from his stupor to stare at her, amazed to see a «lady of quality» out alone at night. She had seen the sky grow brighter as dawn approached.

She had not seen Richard Blade, or heard his voice again, nor had she felt his unseen presence as before. The world, to her bitter disappointment, had returned to normal.

The only excitement in her wanderings had been a moment when police cars and fire engines had rushed past her, traveling in the opposite direction and making a dreadful din. She had paid no attention to them.

As she made her way back to her hotel by a circuitous route, she smelled smoke and heard the distant clamor of excited voices, but these things too she ignored.

Until she rounded a corner and saw, two blocks away, her own hotel besieged by firemen, great gouts of oily black smoke belching from its windows.

«My God,» she whispered, and broke into a run.

Panting, wild-haired, she collided with the crowd that had gathered, even at this early hour, to watch the disaster. «Let me through!» she shouted. «My children are in that building!» She fought her way into the mob, pushing aside people who pushed back angrily, cursing and swearing at her. She had almost reached the line of grim-faced policemen who blocked the bystanders' advance when a man appeared ahead of her and called, «Mrs. Smythe-Evans?»

«Yes! Yes! I'm Mrs. Smythe-Evans!»

«You probably don't recognize me but… «

She did recognize him. He was the tall plainclothesman who had been guarding the entrance to the secret project in the Tower of London. She shoved through to him and grabbed him by the arm. «What is it? Tell me!» she cried.

He was pale in the predawn light. «We had your room under routine surveillance, you know. J's orders. And there was a man following you on your walk, though you probably didn't notice.» He was obviously stalling, putting off telling her something. «Well, you see, the fire broke out in your rooms. It was an explosion, like an incendiary bomb. I was in the room across the hall. Barely got out in time myself.»

«What are you saying?» she demanded. «My family? Were they…?»

«I'm sorry, Mrs. Smythe-Evans,» he said miserably. «Your children, your husband, your maid… I don't see how any of them could have escaped alive.»

The wind shifted and a cloud of black smoke engulfed her, acrid, stinging, foul, choking her, blinding her, throwing her into a fit of uncontrollable coughing. She fell against the man, clutched his overcoat sleeves to keep from falling as the tears streamed down her cheeks. He was coughing too, but he managed to keep his balance and hold her up. Policemen were shouting to get back, get back.

The wind shifted again.

She still could not see, but she could speak after a fashion. «Dickie!» she croaked in a hoarse rasping whisper. «Dickie! Dickie!»