The Collected Short Fiction

At First Sight (1973)

'To you,' someone said.

Valerie squirmed. Across the pub table they were swapping jokes, dirtier and funner. At her side Len looked embarrassed. When they'd all met from the office to celebrate Tony's twenty-first they'd paired off outside the pub; seeing Valerie unescorted, Tony had called Len, who'd been trying to merge with the mist of this last night of October. He'd sat with her for two hours, but the third time he'd rammed his finger through a beer-mat her smile of encouragement had drooped. Val was a mirror; if someone stood before her mute then her tongue would fail her too. She looked away from the dulled diamond facets of the tankards multiplied into the froth, beneath the second ceiling of smoke, to the clock above the bar: only five minutes to go, thank God. Someone knocked a table; glass shattered. She regarded the mist which breathed on the panes, and from the corner of her eye saw something rising, falling back.

'To you,' he said.

At last her eye caught his; he was seated at a table near the bar, and as she looked he rose and lifted his glass to her. Dark sleek hair straight as his comb's teeth, dark intense eyes, swarthy face ten years older than her own, black belted raincoat; the brass-buttoned leather teenagers at his table stared and laughed. Val saw the black glove which raised the glass toward her, and stood up. 'To you,' she responded.

Around her smoke puffed out and curled, mixed with laughter; she sensed Len looking up at her, looking away.

The man reached behind him, gripping the table with his other black-gloved hand. 'To us,' he called.

Val hesitated. Behind her Len said: 'Look, can anyone do this?' flipping a beer-mat high with his fingers, catching it in mid-air. 'To us,' she called, and behind the man saw the teenager lean forward, catch his glove and start to pull it free, shouting 'What's this then, mate, Marks and Spencer's?' Her heart throbbed; her skin iced. The man turned, put down his glass and gripped the boy's wrist. The boy looked up, and his face drained. The black raincoat swallowed him like fog; the barman doused the lights to move the drinkers; three men staggered to the bar for a last order. The lights blazed. The man and the boy were gone. The two remaining teenagers exchanged glances, then made for the door, which was swinging itself into place. Outside the disturbed mist swirled and closed again.

When Val returned to the flat she ripped October from the calendar. Each month was an overlapping pictured strip; from January fragments of cardboard flesh had matured into a girl, and in June fingers had begun to take shape around her. Val knew that in December great male hands would clutch her, carrying her into an unknown New Year. For a week in February she'd meant to tear up the calendar; now, still remembering whose present it had been, she treasured it to show that she'd survived. She leaned on a creaking cane chair and said goodnight to Mick Jagger on the wall, to the tambourine hanging above the tv set.

Jane was asleep. Val drew the curtains softly to admit intimations of light. As she undressed she remembered meeting Jane. A party somewhere, each room with its function, drinking in the kitchen, dancing in the lounge which led to the bedroom; she'd glanced in at the dancing silhouettes and recoiled, terrified because she would never know them. She'd retreated to the kitchen, looking for a glass, and Jane had found her one, saying: 'You must be like me—a friend of a friend of a friend.' On the pillow Jane's face lay, smoothed out like Val's sheets. Two boys had hurried into the kitchen, glasses at the ready. 'My God, she was randy,' one was saying. 'She really was. Bloody randy.' 'I think I'd better go,' Val had said. 'My parents will be wondering.'

'Mine too,' Jane had replied. 'And I'm at the University, for heaven's sake. If only I could find someone to share a flat—'Val had thought of her parents; they'd retreated behind solidified homilies, she no longer knew them—at least something between them reflected back her determination to preserve her identity, whatever that might be. 'I might,' she'd told Jane.

As Val stood at the window for a last taste of the night she looked up at the next house: one floor above, a man's silhouette moved in a bright frame. He might be reflected from the flat upstairs—but no, impossible, that flat was empty; he was beyond a door in the building opposite. Val intended to explore upstairs some day in daylight. She crept into bed, thinking momentarily of Len in the pub: a suburban home, early to bed except when he was reading books on office management and economics. He'd no doubt go far, she thought. And the dark man, where was he?Kicked by the teenagers, he might have crawled home to his flat, a whisky from the cabinet to steady him, standing perhaps on a Persian carpet. But something told her he wasn't the one who'd been hurt. He'd beckoned her to worlds of night, cars sweeping down still lanes to a golden country club, and onward to a city glimpsed from a hill at midnight, swarming with far neon fireflies. She was envious, but she slept.

Next day at the office Len caught her eye and smiled tentatively. She smiled back and looking away, hurried between the desks like territories to the Ladies'. Before the mirror she raised one eyebrow; she'd perfected that control and thought it effective. That night at the flat she repeated the performance, and Jane replied: 'Someone called for you while you were out.'

'What was he like?'

'Italian type.' Jane was turning a record cover in her hands; its overlapping three-dimensional photograph shifted slowly but never quite met the eye. 'I said I didn't know when you'd be back.'

'Bitch. Anyway I don't know who he was, I don't care.' One of these days, Val thought, they'd fight over a man.

They were behind with the rent; next night Val worked late. The top deck of the bus home was empty. She sat in front, watching Lower Brichester as it passed. A sports car swept by, its driver's hair combed by the wind, and at once had left her behind. On the edge of the pavement trees moist with mist rushed toward her; overhanging branches beat the roof like whips toward which flew the bus. At the approach of the bus the packed leaves crawled like insects; as they came close they were tiered by the reflected interior of the bus. Suddenly Val sat forward. The last reflection was printed on her eyes; a dark face, blurred into a coconut by memory, above a seat behind her.

Sheets of sodium light turned through the bus like pages; the conductor was swept forward, playing castanets of change. Val spilled her coins. She groped beneath the seat, ashamed and yet not; she willed him not to go downstairs. She paid. For a moment she struggled to engage him in conversation, but too late; he retreated. Shivering, she dared to turn. She was alone on the top deck; its poles gleamed clinically, a single curl of cigarette-smoke floated in the cold air. She was still afraid. If she followed the conductor downstairs now he'd wonder what was wrong. She stood and ran toward the stairs. As she passed the seat where she'd seemed to see the face she stretched out her hand and touched the leather. It was cold as the stones of a well.

A glass was held toward her, half-full of some dark liquid. Her eye refused to look beyond the hand which held the glass. Then she saw that it was not a glass; it was a girl, struggling among the fingers, one bare arm thrust out beneath the thumb. Nor was it a hand which held her.

Val sat up in bed. The mist which had walled up the window seemed to have seeped into the room; the furniture was grey and formless. She peered toward Jane's bed. What she could make out was not reassuring; Jane was lying oddly, twisted, shrunken. Val called to her. She didn't answer. The blankets warmed Val's legs, suggesting that she snuggle and forget. She pulled the light-cord. Jane's bed was empty.

The room withdrew from her; she felt isolated with something unknown, hostile. Beyond the tangle of Jane's bed a hairbrush with translucent insect legs. Where was Jane? How little Val knew of her—out of a sight all day at the University, brittle as crystal at parties, only displaying occasional facets at breakfast or tea, calling 'Goodnight then' before they slept; for all Val knew she might betray her to what Val sensed pursuing. It was the night and silence which mused, Val told herself, not her. She found her slippers and got up to look for Jane; they'd make coffee and talk for a while.

The hall was empty. Val tiptoed downstairs; the bathroom was on the ground floor back. As she reached the hall a passing car dragged rectangles of light across her breasts; the shadow of the hall-stand rose up and capered. She'd wait in the flat instead, she decided. Something gave a raw cry; one of the cats which the old lady in the ground floor flat collected, Val told herself, stumbling upstairs.

As she reached their floor she thought she heard movement above her. Could Jane be in the top room? If so, what was she doing? Unwillingly Val climbed and stood before the door; it was inlaid with panels of darkness. She reached for the doorknob. As she did so she thought: suppose when she grasped the knob it was turned from inside? Beneath the door lay a wedge of blackness, like negative light. It wouldn't show if someone was moving toward her. She recoiled and felt the stairwell at her back. Whirling, she ran downstairs.

Beneath their flat door showed the same wedge of darkness. She stood between the hostile room above and the wails below, afraid of what she might find. Then she plunged into the flat and turned on the light.

In bed Jane blinked. 'Where were you?' Val asked harshly.

'The bathroom,' Jane said, and turned over.

In the morning Val was jealous. Of course Jane hadn't met a man last night, but it was as if she had: she was capable of giving that impression. 'Damn,'Jane said, entering the kitchen in her housecoat. 'I've lost a stocking.'

Val poured the milk for coffee. She was determined to outdo Jane. 'I was nearly engaged last year, did I ever tell you?' she remarked. 'He was a student. He gave me that calendar.'

'What happened?'

Val wished she hadn't started. 'My parents said we couldn't afford to marry. After a while I saw they were right.'

'So? You could have gone to live with him.'

T couldn't. I wasn't ready.'

'At the University they all sleep together now and then. It doesn't mean anything,'

'I've left a cup in the front room,' Val said, and went to stand before the calendar: two months and there'd be nothing of him left.

When she returned to the kitchen Jane was leafing through a fashion magazine. 'I couldn't wear gloves,' Jane said. 'I'd feel suffocated.'

'Nobody's asking you to,' Val told her.

Val didn't go to the pub that lunchtime; she didn't feel able to support a conversation. As the others donned their coats Tony called to her and Len, who was sitting at a desk nearby with a book propped by his sandwiches: 'I've got an open invite to a party tonight if you're free.'

'All right,' Val said. 'I'll try and get my flat-mate to come.'

'Thanks anyway,' Len answered. 'I'm behind with my correspondence course.'

The door closed and laughter faded. Val watched Len as she turned the pages of her fashion magazine. Planes of air stood between them, flat as the desks. He glanced up at her. 'Good Lord, you must be hungry,' he said. 'Have a sandwich.'

"That's sweet,' Val said.

He remained on the edge of his book. 'I see you're going out with that man you met at Tony's twenty-first,' he muttered.

Val stared at him. 'No, Len, why?'

'Didn't I see him waiting for you outside here? The day after Tony's party?'

'I don't know/ Val said. 'I think he's been following me. I'm frightened, Len.'

'Good God.' Len came over to her. 'If you want me to I'll phone the police.'

'I don't know who he is. I may be completely wrong.'

'I drive near your place on my way to work, I think. If you like—what I'm trying to say, I could give you a lift.'

Val's eyebrows lifted. 'I'd like you to,' she said.

'Tony's invited us to a party tonight,' Val told Jane at tea.

Jane raked the scraps into a newspaper. 'I'm going out tonight,' she said.

'I wish you'd tell me where you're going sometimes.'

'Look, Val,'Jane remonstrated, 'we share a flat, we don't share each other. Why don't you find yourself a man?'

Furious, Val drank more heavily that night than she'd intended. Eventually, sharper than the other fragments of the party—a girl trying to support herself with a shining set of fire-irons which clattered wide and spread a silence, a group gazing up at a painted cavalier, throats taut and gulping Pimm's between slow comments—she discovered that one man had been replenishing her glass: mauve shirt, veteran-car tie-pin, horn-rimmed glasses. He was leading her toward the door; several couples were lying on the carpet.

'It's becoming disgusting,' the man said—but his hands were already cupped toward her. 'I know a country club not far from here.'

'Thanks, but it's getting late,' Val said. 'I must be leaving in a minute.'

'Never mind. I'll run you home.'

'It's kind of you to offer.' But Len wouldn't clutch her, she thought suddenly; he'd be gentle, shy enough to woo her—she'd read his expression when he'd driven her home earlier. 'My fiance is calling for me,' she said.

'You might have told me sooner.'

But she hadn't known sooner. As she waited for the last bus she could see above a football ground on the horizon blue interlocked bars of light, harsh as the razor-edged November night. The night, however, only met the alcohol which weaved within her; it didn't purge her. The bus ar-arived; she was amused when its poles slid from her hands. She sat upstairs. On the sharp glittering pavements lights peered through leaves which rippled, sometimes forming into what might have been a face. Val was warm; imagining the flat ahead, she had an idea.

Her warmth decided for her. It would be her mystery, something to withhold from Jane. Tomorrow she'd tell Len; he might admire her for it, or he might be angry, upset that she'd risked herself; that would be pleasant too. When she reached the flat, climbing past a purring shadow on the ground floor, she raced to the top door.

Before it she quietened for a moment, listening. Their flat had been dark; the building held its breath with her. The door was indistinguishable from the gap of darkness within. She caught hold of the cold doorknob; it seemed to move beneath her fingers. She laughed and opened the door.

It merged with the darkness. Ahead she saw a grey rectangle; between the houses opposite she could see cranes, their distant heads dipping like dinosaur skeletons. The sky flared pink. On the floor something caught the color and faded; next to it she made out a huddled shape. Reaching behind the door, she found the light-switch.

The room leapt like the closing walls of a toy house. The walls were bare; in the corners of the ceiling a few triangles of flowered wallpaper had resisted stripping; the bare boards stretched to the plaster. She entered, and a figure moved towards her. It was herself, projected on the window opposite.

From there her eyes found the boards beneath the window. Dust hung about her feet like ground-mist, but where she looked a rectangle of board was defined. It must have been a trunk; whoever had lived here last had taken it with him. He'd left only a crumpled grey blanket spread on newspapers, and two wine-glasses. Val felt disappointed; the room had been drained of danger. Then she saw that the glasses held dregs. She stooped to examine the crimson globule in each, and on the floor between them and the blanket saw the imprint of hand. No, it couldn't be; to lie like that it must have been boneless. Someone had dropped a glove.

For no reason that she could discover, this did for her what the night could not: the alcohol evaporated, and she chilled. She turned to leave. Then, among the folds of the blanket, she noticed something tangled as if suffocated. She didn't want to touch the blanket. But there was no need. From what she could see between the folds she had guessed what it was. It was Jane's lost stocking.

When she'd locked the door of their flat she sat upright on a chair in the front room. She moved the clock away from the window. Glancing about for something, anything, to distract her, she caught sight of the fingers closing around the girl. She leapt up and tore the calendar to shreds. Then she watched for the hands of the clock to crawl. Behind her the upstairs window was reflected, if the light was on. She thought of Len asleep; she thought of Jane's face when she'd said she had been to the bathroom, and what her face had masked. She knew she'd never see Jane again. By dawn she'd have made her choice; but now, while the night surrounded her and the alcohol swam back, she didn't know what she might do if she heard footsteps descending the stairs: barricade the door, or simply sit and wait.