The 9th Fontana Book of Great Ghost Stories

THE LIBERATED TIGER R. Chetwynd-Hayes

Mary knew Roland was dying and accepted the fact with a sad, rather detached resignation. He was old, though not all that old – sixty-eight last birthday – but he seemed to have burnt up his life force faster than most men of his age, and he had, at the best, a few days left.

She straightened his pillows and looked down at the lined, tired face with pitying affection.

‘How do you feel, dear?’

‘Fine.’ He repeated the word he had always used when asked a similar question, and Mary tried to stifle the familiar twinge of irritation. ‘Fine. I feel fine.’

‘Anything I can get you?’

‘I would – I would like a cup of weak tea, if it’s not too much trouble.’

Again came that twinge of irritation. The light was going out, but the diminishing flame still burnt steadily; feeble now.

‘No trouble at all, dear. You have only to ask.’

He did not answer, only stared up at the ceiling with a kind of pathetic expectancy. He was looking forward to his weak tea.

In the kitchen Mary wondered how she would manage once he had gone. Money would be no problem, but there would be a void, not easy to fill at her age. No one to care for, to guide, instruct, even – she sighed – to nag. Her very frustration would die, when the reason for its existence was no more. She poured hot water over a teabag, allowed it to steep for half a minute, then removed the bag. She added a liberal dose of milk, three spoonfuls of sugar, then carried the end result up the stairs and into the bedroom. Roland’s eyes lit up like those of a sparrow that has spotted a succulent worm.

‘The cup that cheers.’

She sighed. She would even miss the maddening clichés.

She sat by his bedside and listened to the rain beating on the window panes, feeling, despite her genuine grief, extremely bored. She would have liked to have gone for a long walk and rejoiced in a sense of well being as the rain lashed her face and trickled down her nose. But that could not be, for Roland, the companion who had accompanied her along the road of time for almost fifty years, was dying. Dying. Waiting to pass over; to pass away – to kick the bucket.

‘Shouldn’t be long now,’ Roland observed suddenly.

‘What?’ Mary blinked, aware she had almost dozed off.

‘Shouldn’t be long now. I wouldn’t be surprised if I go tomorrow.’

‘Really!’ Mary sat upright, shocked, even horrified. ‘I will be very cross if you talk like that.’

‘Or,’ Roland ignored her, ‘the day after. I might last till Wednesday.’

‘I’m not going to tell you again. You’re not to talk like that. Go, indeed. You’re good for years yet. Years and years.’

‘It’s funny how we pretend.’ Roland sighed gently. ‘You know I’m dying, I know I’m dying, yet I’m not supposed to know. Why? Dying is a perfectly natural function – everyone does it once. It’s like awfully polite people who pretend they never go to the lavatory. Everyone knows they do, but they mustn’t say so. I’m rather looking forward to it. Dying, I mean.’

‘Roland, how can you? You might have some consideration for my feelings.’

‘What?’ He was instantly contrite. ‘I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to upset you. Only I thought we ought to talk about it. Sort of clear the air.’

‘Clear the air?’

‘Yes. I mean to say, it’s so silly you sitting there trying to make small talk, and me racking my brains for something cheerful to say. I rather wanted to ask your advice.’

‘Advice?’ Mary spat out the word as though it were a lump of something nasty that threatened to choke her.

‘Yes, advice. You’re much brighter than me, and being a churchgoer I thought you might give me – well – one or two tips on how to behave when I get there.’

‘Get there? Where?’

‘To wherever it is I’m going. That’s another point. Where am I going? Honestly, Mary, I can’t see myself in a flannel nightgown playing a harp. I mean to say, I’m not that sort of chap.’

‘You’re being blasphemous,’ Mary objected, her grief suddenly smothered under a blanket of shocked horror. ‘Remember, you may soon have to face your Maker.’

‘But will I?’ Roland was drawing on his meagre strength in one last effort to make himself understood. ‘There’s an awful lot of people in my predicament and He can’t meet us all. I keep thinking and thinking, and all I come up with is a long list of questions, and not a single answer. What sort of person will I be?’

‘What sort of person will you be?’ Mary did not try to fight the rising wave of irritation. ‘You’ll be yourself. The person you’ve always been.’

‘I’m not so sure.’ Roland shook his head. ‘The “me” you know is the result of glands, environment, memories, heredity, lots of things. But once out of this body, I might be another kettle of fish entirely.’

‘Nonsense!’ Mary ejaculated. ‘Utter rubbish!’

‘You remember that tiger we saw in Chessington Zoo?’ Roland inquired. ‘Looked peaceful, well fed. Just a big pussy-cat. Think what he would have been like if we had let him out of his cage. What are our bodies, but cages? Who can tell what we become once the door has been opened.’

‘I’m not going to listen to another word.’ Mary got up. ‘I’ll make a nice cup of tea.’

‘Ah, the cup that cheers.’ Roland sank down among the pillows and closed his eyes, looking like an ancient baby waiting for its feed. ‘Plenty of sugar. Lots and lots of sugar.’

Mary almost smiled.

The clock struck two and Roland slept. He looked peaceful; his narrow chest rose and fell gently, his lower lip quivered when he breathed out, and it seemed ridiculous to Mary that she was in fact looking down on a dying man. Where was he now? Was he making a reconnaissance of that unknown land, in which he must shortly take up residence. She had read somewhere that the soul travels far and wide when the body sleeps; only the memory of that surely remarkable journey was lost once physical consciousness returned. She whispered: ‘Bosh,’ then rose and walked to the window. Pushing back the curtains she looked down on the lamplit street.

Night lay across the city like a black blanket and she was isolated in a brick box with a dying man. And all around were other brick boxes, each one housing atoms of flickering consciousness that sooner or later would be extinguished, or perhaps – and this was surely the great question – transferred to another plane of existence. She allowed the curtain to fall back into place and returned to the bedside. Roland was still sleeping peacefully, and she gazed down upon the lined face for a long time.

‘Who are you?’ she asked at length. ‘Who are you?’

The sleeping face was a mask.

The gas-ring roared, the kettle sang, and Mary warmed the teapot under the hot water tap. How many gallons of tea had she made in her lifetime? It must be thousands: a great lake of steaming, amber fluid, on which floated an armada of forgotten dreams. Tea had always been the panacea for all ills, the comforter, the suburban drug.

She turned, began to walk towards the gas stove, then stopped. Slowly, a wave of horror flooded her being. Roland was standing just within the kitchen doorway.

The shock was so breathtaking it was some time before she spoke; then the words slid out from her constricted throat as a hoarse whisper.

‘Roland . . . what are you doing out of bed?’

Then she stopped. Roland could not get out of bed; he scarcely had the strength to raise his head; neither did he possess a black gown. But the Roland – or someone very like him – who stood in the doorway was clad in a long black robe that encased his body from neck to feet, and he had an unlined, horribly young face. It was linen-white – Mary reluctantly accepted the simile – corpse-like, but the eyes were alive. They glittered in the lamplight and watched the terrified woman when she moved, backing towards the stove, trying to retreat from the impossible. She made a sound that came midway between a scream and a croak, thrust her balled fist into her mouth, shook her head.

Then it was gone. It vanished like a shadow wiped out by a sudden beam of sunlight; it became as a dream blasted by the clamour of an alarm clock. At that moment the whistling kettle shrieked, and Mary, like a sleep walker, automatically performing an often-repeated action, turned off the gas, carried the kettle over to the kitchen table, and poured boiling water into the teapot. She then walked back to the stove and replaced the kettle on the gas-ring, before turning and staring with blank, uncomprehending eyes at the open doorway.

Then she screamed.

Roland was still sleeping, but the noise Mary made when she sank on to the bedside chair must have disturbed him, for he opened his eyes and smiled. A weak, tired little smile.

‘Had a nice sleep. Feel fine now. Fine.’

Mary made no comment; just sat watching him, trying to understand.

He yawned. He opened his mouth, making a little sucking sound, and really it was difficult to realise he had perhaps little more than a day of life left. He looked clean, fresh, but the eyes had a strange, faraway look.

‘You look worn out, dear.’ He spoke softly. ‘There’s no need for you to sit up all night. If you’re worried, why not get someone in?’

‘No, no.’ She shook her head. ‘I’m all right.’

‘It won’t be much longer now.’ As always, he tried to comfort her. ‘When it’s all over, you can sleep.’

‘Please don’t talk like that. Please . . .’

She began to cry: fear and grief united and crashed through the weakened walls of her self control, and the tears rolled down her cheeks, while her shoulders shook. Roland would have touched her had he the strength, but he could only murmur: ‘Forgive me . . . I never intended . . .’

‘I don’t want you to die . . .’

The words came up out of a sea of torment and she really meant them. Sad but calm resignation had been shattered beyond repair, and she desperately wanted him to live, although, as yet, she refused even to consider the monstrous reason for this change of heart. Mary clutched the bedclothes with both hands and for the last time tried to browbeat him into submission.

‘You’re not to die. Do you hear me? You are not to die.’

He managed to smile.

‘I fear on this one occasion, I must disobey. This is not just a matter of a change of career, although I suppose it does come under that heading.’

‘What do you mean?’ Mary wiped her eyes and tried to concentrate.

‘Nothing.’ The dying man seemed to have used up his meagre reserve of strength and there was a film of moisture on his forehead. Mary gave him a drink from a feeding cup, while that remark about a change of career became an irritating itch. Then she remembered.

‘I was only thinking of your own good. To throw up a steady, well-paid job, for a pie in the sky, would have been madness. Surely you realise that now.’

‘But it might have worked.’ He whispered the words, staring up at the ceiling, as though gazing into a misty past where stillborn dreams lie in unmarked graves. ‘Carstairs had faith in me, until you . . .’

‘The man was an adventurer,’ Mary protested. ‘You would have lost everything.’

‘I expect you’re right.’ Roland sighed. ‘You always were. But I would have liked to try . . . try . . .’

He was asleep again, and had Mary dared, she would have woken him. As it was, she leant over him and spoke in a low tone.

‘Have you held that against me, all these years? Have you?’

Roland did not answer, but there was a suggestion of a bitter smile parting his lips.

The doctor came at eleven o’clock.

‘He could last another day,’ he said gently, ‘or even possibly two. There again, he might go tonight. You must be prepared.’

Mary nodded and there was a great dread in her heart; a taste of fear in her mouth, and the stench of terror filled the entire house.

‘You should get someone in,’ the doctor advised. ‘Sitting up all night is too much for you. Let me send a nurse round.’

‘Not a nurse.’ Mary shook her head. ‘Roland wouldn’t like a nurse in the house. Remind him of hospitals, and he hated them. I wouldn’t mind a woman who could help around the house, and do . . . do whatever has to be done when the time comes.’

‘Good, I know the very person.’ The doctor took up his bag and prepared to depart. ‘I’ll try to get her round after lunch. Now you take things easy. We don’t want you laid up.’

Roland slept for the remainder of the morning and Mary decided to put the house to rights; no Hoovering, for the noise might have disturbed him, but a flick round with a duster, washing up, and a few other jobs that did not require too much effort. Then she crept into the bedroom, saw he was still asleep, and wondered if she dare take a bath. He looked no worse than yesterday, his breathing was normal, but the faintest suggestion of a bitter smile still parted his lips. No, she would never forgive herself if anything happened while she was in a bath, besides . . . Perhaps when the woman the doctor promised arrived she might consider it. In the meantime there would be no harm in washing her face and hands, so long as she was quick.

She bathed her face in cold water, and the icy shock cleared her head, made her feel more alive. Then, after she had done her hair and applied a thin coat of lipstick, she opened the bathroom door and stepped out on to the landing.

A blast of terror rose up and struck her heart with a fist of ice. Roland – the other Roland, stood by the bedroom door. A thought flashed across her mind while she gasped for breath, that this apparition was not real, but the manifestation of long-buried shafts of conscience, and, if she only knew how, a mere effort of will would disperse it. But the other Roland looked as solid as a brick wall. The face was more corpse-like; white, expressionless, but the eyes glittered with unmistakable – hate. He – It – began to move, gliding very slowly over the almost-new, floral-pattern carpet, and Mary whimpered like a terrified puppy. The gap narrowed: four feet, three; then it was barely eighteen inches from her. Mary could see a small scar on the chin, the result of a fall years ago, and this atom of proof that this was at least a horrible reflection of Roland put a sharp edge on her terror, which rose to a higher pitch and made her brain scream.

The thin lips parted, very, very slowly, and a hoarse whisper echoed along the empty caverns in her head.

‘I . . . would . . . have . . . liked . . . to . . . try.’

Then it turned about with the now terrible slow, floating motion and glided towards the open bedroom door. There it paused for an eternity of a second before moving into the bedroom, leaving Mary bound with chains of terror that did not permit her limbs to move, or her throat to scream, or her mind to think. Her back pressed hard against the wall and she was as a fly on gummed paper, a flower encased in a block of ice; time had ceased to move, the world was an atom of corruption lost in limitless space, and she was – nothing.

Down below, the doorbell chimed, and the sound came across the immensity of space, rippled over the stagnant pool that was her brain, and was ignored. After an interval, the sound was repeated. The house seemed to resent the disturbance. The hall clock struck one; a floorboard creaked, a window rattled in obedience to the dictates of a rising wind. Then the front door opened, and after a while, a woman’s voice called out: ‘Is there anyone there?’

A bluebottle buzzed belligerently as it flew across the landing; it settled on the sweat-filmed forehead and began to make its way down towards the nose. The voice called out again.

‘I’ve come to oblige Doctor Firkin. The front door was not locked. Is everything all right?’

Heavy footsteps were ascending the stairs; hesitant, ponderous treads; hands slithered along the banisters, and there came the sound of heavy breathing.

A fat, middle-aged woman, dressed in a rusty black coat and a grey felt hat, emerged on to the landing. She stood still for a full minute, staring at the motionless figure propped up against the bathroom wall. Then she gasped: ‘Oh, my Gawd.’

The sound of the shocked voice, plus the sight of a matter-of-fact, solid figure, broke the ice-chains, set the wheels of time in motion again, and Mary, with a loud cry, sank unconscious to the floor.

She was propped up against the wall in the spare bedroom; a wet towel was round her head, and a plump, anxious face was peering down at her.

‘Feel better, dearie? Eh? Feel better, do you? Fair gave me a turn, you did, standing there like a statue. Couldn’t lift you on to the bed. Not strong, I’m not. Only comes out on these jobs to oblige Doctor. Do you think you can get up?’

Mary climbed unsteadily to her feet and struggled to a chair. She collapsed on to the padded seat and fought to dispel the black clouds that still enveloped her brain.

‘I’m Mrs Parkins,’ the round face informed her, ‘and thank goodness I ’ad the gumption to open the front door and come upstairs.’

‘Thank goodness, indeed,’ Mary nodded. ‘I – I must have fainted.’

‘That you did.’ Mrs Parkins removed her hat and patted a mass of untidy grey hair. ‘Went down like a stone, you did. Been overdoing, you have. Getting no sleep and precious little to eat, I’ll be bound. Tell you what, you lie down on that bed, while I pop in on the poor gentleman and see ’ow he’s doing.’

‘Oh . . . him.’ Mary put a clenched fist to her mouth and began to moan softly. Mrs Parkins instantly put an arm round the heaving shoulders and propelled her towards the bed, all the while pouring out a torrent of comforting words.

‘Now, now, you mustn’t carry on so. You’ve done all you can for him, and more. Do all you can, I say, and you can let them go with an easy conscience. The poor gentleman will bless you, I knows that, and time will ’eal. Now, on the bed with you and so soon as I’ve seen ’e’s all nice and snug, I’ll cook you something nice, and you’ll feel as right as rain.’

Mary allowed herself to be helped on to the bed, then covered with an eiderdown. Mrs Parkins gathered up her hat, brushed it on her sleeve and prepared to depart.

‘Now, don’t you dare move. I’ll see to all that’s to be seen to. Have a little snooze.’

‘My husband . . .’ Mary raised her head and stared fearfully at the dividing wall. ‘Will you . . .?’

‘I’ll look in right away and let you know how he is.’

She went, leaving the door open, and Mary waited while a silent prayer shuddered across her mind.

‘Please may he be alive – and awake.’

She heard the rumble of Mrs Parkins’s voice, then, after an anxiety-racked period, heavy footsteps came tramping along the landing and the round, kindly face peered in through the doorway.

‘ ’E’s awake and chirpy as you please. He says you’re to ’ave a nice rest and not to worry.’

‘Oh, thank God.’ Mary slumped back on to the pillow. ‘Please may he keep awake. Don’t let him sleep, don’t let him die.’

‘That’s not in our ’ands, dear,’ Mrs Parkins admonished. ‘We must resign ourselves to what must be and ’ope for the best. I’ll get away down to the kitchen.’

There was a streak of iron in Mary’s soul, and this helped her to come to terms with the bizarre situation during the next quarter of an hour. Normally she had no time for women who fainted and surrendered to fear, when calm deliberation was demanded. But any soldier can be brave when he has never been under fire, and the memory of that dreadful figure on the landing still made Mary tremble. But as she became quieter, questions began to bubble in her mind. Had she seen an illusional-phantom born from Roland’s sick ramblings and her own guilt-tinted memories, or had it in fact been – a ghost? If so, could a man’s ghost walk while he still lived?

She lay still and worried the problem. Some time, somewhere, she had read, or heard, a relevant story. What was it? Something to do with the Tudors. She raked among her scanty knowledge of history, mostly gleaned from historical novels and films. Henry VIII . . . Mary I . . . Edward VI . . . Elizabeth I . . .? That was it. The death of Elizabeth. Roland had brought home a second-hand book, and she had read it – years ago . . . It must be downstairs in that bookcase in the lounge. Mary, without hesitation, flung back the eiderdown, slipped into her shoes and made for the door.

Once down in the lounge she found the book on the bottom shelf of the bookcase and, grabbing it with trembling fingers, she carried it over to the window. Agnes Strickland’s Life of Elizabeth I. She turned to the last pages. Declining strength . . . last illness . . . her eyes scanned the printed page and at last found food to feed her fear. She read.

Lady Guildford, then in waiting on the Queen, and leaving her in an almost breathless sleep, went out to take a little air, and met her Majesty, as she thought, three or four chambers off. Alarmed at the thought of being discovered in the act of leaving the royal patient alone, she hurried forward in some trepidation, in order to excuse herself, when the apparition vanished away. Lady Guildford returned terrified, to the chamber, but there lay Queen Elizabeth in the same lethargic, motionless slumber in which she had left her.

Mary closed the book and carefully replaced it in the bookcase. So, if the story was to be believed, and it rang true – my God, how true – her experience was not unique. But, and she began to tremble again, the Roland who walked, the – the thing in black, was so different to the kindly, shy, even obedient husband she knew. Or was he? She remembered Roland’s own words: ‘Once out of this body, I may be a different kettle of fish entirely.’ Perhaps all these years she had been living with a cage of flesh, in which stalked a ravenous tiger, waiting with terrible patience for its hour of release. And for almost fifty years she had fed it; made it strong on the meat of resentment, goaded it with the whip of ridicule. Now . . .

‘What are you doing down ’ere?’

Mrs Parkins was standing in the doorway, her face a mask of concern and simulated anger.

‘Didn’t I tell you to rest? Creeping down ’ere the minute me back’s turned. If you get laid up, it won’t do the poor gentleman upstairs no manner of good.’

‘There was something I had to find,’ Mary said plaintively. ‘I just had to.’

‘I’m sure it was nothing that couldn’t wait.’ Mrs Parkins assumed a grim, determined expression. ‘Now you come into the kitchen and get yourself wrapped round a nice chop and fried potatoes I’ve cooked. No nonsense, now.’

Mary allowed herself to be led into the kitchen and was soon looking down upon a plate which contained a sizzling pork chop and fried potatoes. To her surprise she found she was hungry.

‘What about yourself, Mrs Parkins?’ she inquired.

‘Don’t worry about me, dear. I’ll have something when me old man has his. I’ll sup a cup of tea and nibble a biscuit, just to keep you company.’

A few mouthfuls were sufficient to dispel Mary’s hunger, but she forced herself to eat, so as not to offend Mrs Parkins, whose watchful eye followed her every action. Then the import of the woman’s last remark flared up into fearful understanding.

‘Did you say . . .? You are going home?’

‘Not yet, dear. But there’s me old man’s dinner to get, and he’ll expect it on the table the minute ’e puts foot inside the door. You know men. All they think about is their stomachs.’

‘But I will be alone.’

Mrs Parkins narrowed her eyes and took a sip from her cup of tea, then she crumbled a biscuit and munched a tiny fragment.

‘I’ve only come to oblige, dear. I mean, I’m not a regular nurse. Can’t you get someone in? No relative? A friend?’

‘No.’ Mary shook her head. ‘There’s no one.’

‘Never ’ad no children, then?’ Mrs Parkins inquired.

‘No. My health. I couldn’t, you see. Roland – my husband understood.’

‘Ah, well.’ Mrs Parkins sighed expansively. ‘Can’t say you missed much. I ’ad seven of the little perishers. Don’t want to know me now they’ve grown up. Still, that’s the way of the world. Well, I’m real sorry, but I must be off at five sharp. Tell you what, though. I’ll be ’ere bright and early tomorrow. Rise with the lark, I do. Always ’ave. I’ll see the old man off and try to get ’ere about seven-thirty. How does that suit you?’

‘The night.’ Mary moaned, dropped her knife and fork and wrung her hands. ‘I can’t bear it. I can’t face the night alone.’

Mrs Parkins leant forward and laid a large, work-roughened hand on Mary’s slim fingers.

‘Look, dear, what can’t be avoided must be endured. It won’t be forever, and – well – ’e is your husband. ’Taint like it was a stranger. Why don’t you lie down, and I’ll rouse you just before I go.’

Pride came to Mary’s rescue and she gently withdrew her hand from Mrs Parkins’s light grasp.

‘Yes, I’ll do that. I’m sorry, Mrs Parkins, I shouldn’t have tried to impose on your kindness. I’ll be all right.’

‘That’s the ticket.’ The woman rose, large, solid, a rock of sanity in a sea of madness. ‘You go and lie down, and so soon as I’ve cleared up, I’ll go and sit with the poor gentleman. Have I to give ’im anything?’

‘Yes.’ Mary pushed back her hair with a now steady hand. ‘His medicine. It’s on the bedside table. One spoonful in a glass of water, every four hours. The next is due at two o’clock. But the doctor said he’s not to be disturbed if he’s asleep.’ She moved slowly towards the door, then stopped. ‘Oh, yes, if he’s thirsty, there’s some cordial . . .’

‘Righto, dear, leave it all to me. Now, you have a nice sleep.’

‘Yes,’ Mary nodded, ‘I’ll sleep.’

She was walking across a field with cloud-crowned hills in the far distance, and two children walked in front of her. She could not see their faces, because they would not turn their blond heads, but the youngest was a girl, for she was attired in a candy-striped dress, and her bright hair was secured by a blue ribbon; and the boy, who was a few inches taller than his sister, wore grey trousers and a green shirt. She heard their laughter; it came to her like the peal of bells across an expanse of calm water, and sometimes they called out: ‘Mother . . . mother,’ and she wanted to run, to catch up with them, but her feet were heavy with the weight of years, and the mists of unshed tears blurred her vision.

‘Mother . . . mother . . . Mam . . .’

‘. . . Mam . . . MAM . . . wake up . . .’

Mrs Parkins was shaking her gently, and the round, kindly face was puckered into an expression of deep concern.

‘I’m sorry, dear, but I must be off. I let you sleep to the very last moment.’

‘Thank you, Mrs Parkins.’ Mary sat up and shook her head in an effort to dispel the fog of sleep. ‘I’ll be all right now. You run along.’

It took great courage to say those last words, without unmasking the great fear; and she even managed to smile. Mrs Parkins seemed relieved.

‘That’s fine, dear. I expect a good sleep put you to rights. Now, I’ve made the poor gentleman nice and comfy. Washed his face and given him his medicine. And I found a vacuum flask in the kitchen, so I took the liberty of making you some nice milky cocoa and a few ’am sandwiches. You’ll find ’em on the bedside table.’

‘You are very kind.’ Mary was near tears, for this thoughtful act accentuated the prospect of the terrible night that lay before her. ‘I don’t know what I will do without you.’

‘Won’t be for long, love. A little over twelve hours and I’ll be back, and if – well – anything happens, all you have to do is ring Doctor Firkin.’

Mary shuffled into her slippers and did not reply. Mrs Parkins moved with brisk determination towards the door.

‘Right, I’ll be off then. I’ll let meself out of the front door.’

Her heavy footsteps descending the stairs was the departure of normality; the slam of the front door, the death of hope. Mary let the silence settle about her and tried to draw strength from the familiarity of her surroundings. This was her house; she knew the ways and turnings of its brick-fleshed body; it held nothing that could frighten or surprise her. In the next room was a double bed; on this lay her husband. She knew his habits, both good and bad: the number of minutes he liked his eggs boiled, the amount of sugar to put into his tea, the way to hurt him if he displeased her, and the means of pleasing him when she required a special service. She was monarch of her domain. Fear must be quelled, fought or ignored.

She came out on to the landing. It was neat, well-groomed and empty. The master bedroom door was open, the room beyond waited for her to enter; it would not welcome, neither would it repel. It would just remind her she had a duty to perform.

Roland smiled wanly when she switched on the overhead light and closed the curtains. She sat down on the bedside chair and watched him with wonderful calmness. He had changed since she had seen him last; his face had slackened, giving him a strange and terribly familiar, youthful appearance. When he spoke his voice was weaker.

‘Days . . . are drawing in.’

A typical remark. Another cliché from a well-stocked cupboard. How could super-horror grow from such an ultra-ordinary man?

‘How do you feel?’ she asked and closed her eyes.

‘Fine . . . fine . . .’

It was impossible. She had been the victim of a recurring wide-awake dream, brought on by lack of sleep and strain. Or perhaps a brainstorm. When . . . when all was over, she must see a doctor. She opened her eyes.

‘Roland, have you been happy? I mean, have I made you happy?’

He seemed to find something very interesting to watch on the ceiling; his eyes moved slowly, moving from left to right, and it seemed to the watching woman that he sighed.

‘We should have painted it pink,’ he said.

‘Roland, were you unhappy?’

He turned his head and stared at her. The words were merely articulated breathing.

‘The number of times a man is really happy can be counted on the fingers of one hand.’

It was as though she had-been slapped across the face. Such a statement could only have been made by a man who has thought long and deeply, or brooded on some real or imaginary wrong.

‘Roland, I’ve done what I thought was the best for both of us.’

‘While there is breath in my body, I will never reproach you.’

The room grew suddenly cold; she stood on the edge of a precipice, then dared to take the fatal leap.

‘And . . . when you no longer breathe?’

He turned his face away, then his lips moved and she had to bend over him to hear the whispered words.

‘Who can tell into what red hell my sightless soul will roam.’

He fell asleep.

His by now familiar drop into the pit of unconsciousness caught Mary unprepared, but when the full realisation lit up the screen of her awareness, she gasped and glanced round the room with instant apprehension. The pink striped wallpaper was a demure veil that hid cold plaster and rough brickwork; the wardrobe mirror faithfully reflected that much of the room which came within its vision. Familiar objects: dressing-table, pictures, curtains, all dared Mary to see the extraordinary in the commonplace, and she flashed a wordless prayer across the cosmos, that the unbelievable would not appear, then felt strangely disappointed when it did not.

Minutes crept out of eternity and became hours; and still the dying man slept. Motionless, save for the gentle rise and fall of his chest, he was drifting slowly into the unknown on the calm lake of sleep. Then, a little after two o’clock, he stirred, jerked his head from side to side and began to moan softly. Occasionally, the plaintive sound crumpled into a brief torrent of words. Mary bent her head to listen and it seemed she was peering through a doorway that led into the dark corridors of his brain.

‘Want to . . . want . . . want . . . children . . . no children . . . why . . . Mary . . . why . . . why . . .?’

The words disintegrated into the original low moan, then his eyes suddenly flashed open and stared straight into Mary’s own. She gasped, jerked back, then asked in a low whisper:

‘Roland, what is it?’

The moaning ceased and he continued to stare at her with unseeing eyes. For a moment she thought he was dead, but he still breathed, his chest rose and fell with unbroken rhythm, and she knew this was not the end but some terrible interlude.

Downstairs, a door opened.

The sound was unmistakable; the turning of a handle, the faint squeak of hinges, the sudden loud click when the handle was released. Then heavy footsteps crossed the hall – a man’s solid tread; another door, the lounge this time, was flung back. It crashed against the wall. Then the footsteps receded and for a while there was an awful silence. Mary’s head jerked from side to side, trying to watch both her sleeping husband, whose unblinking eyes still watched her, and the bedroom door, which was a frail barrier standing between her and the unexplainable.

A crash brought her up from her chair. This was followed almost immediately by the sound of breaking china; then the footsteps came back into the hall, moved with heavy deliberation towards the stairs – and stopped. Mary could feel the presence standing there, staring up at the bedroom door.

The first creak of a stairboard was so slight, she barely noticed it. The second was like the crack of a whip. For a while, nothing, then a slithering sound as though a hand was being drawn along the banister. Then another creak, then another; finally, a horrible little pattering run, which terminated in a light thud against the bedroom door. Mary backed towards the window as a loud whisper came from two directions. From her sleeping husband, whose staring eyes seemed to watch her terror-inspired retreat, and from behind the closed door.

‘Where . . . are . . . they . . . where . . . are . . . the . . . children?’

The door handle was turning when Mary ran forward, seized Roland’s thin shoulders and shook him.

‘Wake up . . . oh, my God, wake up!’

The eyes blinked; he turned his head away, then spluttered weakly into protesting wakefulness.

‘What . . . is . . . it?’

Mary sank down upon the bedside chair and sat crying; her shoulders shook while she clawed at the chair arms like a terrified animal and, in the midst of this terrible fear-storm, a strange thought passed across the tumultuous clouds that obscured her brain. ‘How long can I stand this?’

Presently she became aware of a small voice trying to attract her attention; a slight, wheezy whisper, that twenty-four hours ago would have stung her to instant solicitous activity.

‘Mary . . . you must not . . . grieve for me.’

She looked at the small, lined, anxious face and giggled. Roland . . . her Roland, was keeping true to form, but now his ordinariness, his apparent simplicity, seemed to have sinister undertones. The thing that walked while he slept was as much part of him as the mild, complaisant husband she had known for years.

‘Roland . . .’ She wiped her eyes and managed to conjure up a measure of self-control. ‘Roland, do you hate me very much?’

His expression suggested astonishment, but she thought there was a momentarily uneasy, even shifty, gleam in his eyes, and she repeated the question.

‘Roland, do you hate me?’

When he replied, the answer was as she should have expected.

‘Why should I?’

‘Roland . . . Roland . . .’ She leaned forward and spoke close to his ear. ‘. . . You must listen. You must try to understand. When you sleep, you walk. Your ghost haunts the house . . .’

He did not appear to have heard her. Either he was being deliberately obtuse, or his dying mind had wandered from the narrow path that borders the dark lands. The whispering voice spoke very slowly, rasping her mind.

‘I want to go away . . . away . . . out through the great star lanes, into the comforting darkness that lies beyond . . . A million suns light my path . . . but something pulls me back . . . back . . .’

There followed a jumble of words, and Mary got the impression he was back in his childhood, for there was the occasional ‘School . . . ice cream . . . prep . . .’ and a string of schoolboy slang. Then: ‘My roots are in yesterday. They are . . . deep . . . deep and they are feeding on my goodness . . . and the growth is twisted . . . bad . . . bad . . . Mary . . . why . . . why . . .’

Suddenly his head swung round and Mary was again facing that blank, open-eyed stare, and at once, like a restarted film, the stamp of heavy feet came from the landing; the door trembled, the handle turned, and he – the other Roland – came in.

The intruder was so natural, the black-clad figure so lifelike, that Mary could hardly believe it was not a flesh and blood man that faced her. He – It – walked over to the fireplace and stood there, silent, motionless, as though waiting. Only the eyes were expressive. Mary whimpered, for there was no manner of doubt, they were filled with black, undying hate.

Roland – Mary’s Roland, closed his eyes, moved his head, and instantly the figure vanished. The plaintive whisper said: ‘A cup of weak tea . . . my mouth is parched.’

She could not move, only shake her head and cling desperately to her chair, as though it were an anchor that stopped her floating away on a black stream of horror.

‘Tea,’ the whisper went on, ‘the cup . . . that cheers . . . cheers . . . plenty of . . . milk . . . lots . . . lots . . . of . . . sugar.’

The words flickered out, were lost; the eyes stared at Mary and the black figure was back in front of the fireplace, watching the woman with a glare of black hate. The lips parted and Mary saw the same chipped tooth that Roland would never have repaired; then the hoarse whisper came from two mouths.

‘Not . . . much . . . longer . . .’

‘Tea,’ said the dying man, ‘a cup . . . of . . . weak . . . tea . . .’

The figure vanished.

‘Mary . . . can’t you hear . . . a . . . cup of tea for my parched . . . tongue . . .’

Again silence – the figure was back, only this time Roland was not asleep. He was staring at his other self with dilated eyes; struggling weakly in an effort to sit up. The other Roland grinned, then nodded, before moving very slowly towards the bed. The dying man gave a strangled scream, then turned his head to face Mary. She saw the dreadful white face, the bulging eyes, the constricted throat that was vainly trying to form words. For a moment Mary saw both faces: one grinning, evil, hate-ridden, the other terrified, white, fighting for the power of speech. Then Roland shrieked.

‘I . . . I . . . I . . . I . . . I . . .’

He fell back and lay with open mouth and bulging eyes, staring up at the ceiling. The other Roland walked slowly round the bed, a look of terrible triumph in the blazing eyes. Mary did not move or even turn her head. She was beyond fear, without hope. In those fleeting minutes she knew what must happen, and did not care. It was not important. Nothing was of the slightest importance.

Mrs Parkins let herself in the front door, having taken the key the night before. She called out softly:

‘It’s only me.’

She put her bag down on the kitchen table, took off her hat and coat and hung them on the hall stand. After lighting the gas and placing a filled kettle on the ring, she ascended the stairs. She tapped on the bedroom door.

‘All right for me to come in, dear?’

There was no answer, so she gently opened the door and moved slowly into the room. The scene which greeted her brought an involuntary ‘Oh, my Gawd!’ from her gaping mouth, and only vast experience of death chambers and generally tidying-up the dead saved her from a fit of hysterics.

Roland was lying half out of the bed, his head lolling over the edge, and on his face was an expression of indescribable terror. Mary was still seated on the bedside chair and her lips were parted in a grin of malicious joy. When Mrs Parkins entered she laughed, a terrible rasping sound that made the large woman flinch and almost sent her running from the room, but a sense of duty, plus a certain fearful pity, drove her forward.

‘You poor dear. I shouldn’t ’ave left you. Oh, my Gawd, I didn’t ought to ’ave left you.’

Mary’s grin broadened; she opened and shut her hands, then laughed again, and now there was a triumphant gleam in her eyes. Her teeth parted and a hoarse, croaking whisper seeped out.

‘The selfish bitch. Wouldn’t have children . . . done me out of my big chance . . . nag . . . nag . . . nag . . .’

Mrs Parkins made a strange sound as Mary reached out to clutch her, but she shrank back in time. The hoarse whisper went on . . . and on . . .

‘She won’t nag any more . . . no, she won’t . . . I’m the boss now . . . screaming she is . . . inside the head . . . she’s screaming . . . won’t nag . . .’