She was driving; approaching a busy road junction, a cross-roads; aware of the blind-spot, a warning of migraine; lights flashing; then the confusion: mile after mile of Victorian tenements, newsagents, convenience stores, down-at-heel beauty salons; trying to see, looking out for that neon-lit beacon of hope, a chemist, finding none, and not much of a life hereabouts either, by the look of things.
She sought re-assurance:
“My God, John, where are we?”
As if providing an answer, the endless procession of housing gave way to a bustling parade of small shops.
Except that, once close to them, hope faded again, they were all shabby or empty. She felt like a child, fooled by a promise, a tricky façade, finding a toothless old crone on top of the tree instead of the fairy.
“The back of beyond!” she told John, sweeping her hand over this crumbling world, only half-joking.
Turning about, she noticed a woman standing behind her; extraordinarily tall and as pale as a ghost, hair white and piled up in a bouffant of sorts; she was smoking a cigarette by an old-fashioned wool-shop, its window full of old knitting-patterns, the sort she recalled from her childhood.
She smiled at the woman but got nothing back; not even a blink.
Next door to the wool-shop, a jeweller’s, established 1902, the sign said. No diamonds and rings on display now, though, just three scruffy youths, two of them girls and one a gaunt boy, lolling for shelter in the shop’s messy entrance-way, all listlessly smoking their roll-ups; all as abandoned, she thought.
“Look, what’s that?”
A brightly lit shop further up seemed promising; it could be the chemist’s. Shading her eyes despite the dull day, she went clip-clopping along after John, not seeing him properly, not keeping pace; passing the trio who seemed not to see her.
The shop was a chemist’s and, soon, she was gulping down pills with the water they gave her, feeling happier, hopeful.
“May as well take a look round”, she said, “now that we’re here.”
She wandered off aimlessly, in search of some magic, eventually enticed by an ill-lit old hall; a fluorescent twilight full of ghostly stall-holders selling all sorts. Inside the hall, though, stalls groaned with cheap shoddy; further along, three weighty women, cackling like witches over second-hand videos and cheap children’s clothes, made her wince, helping to break the brief spell.
Outside, tarantellas of litter stirred up by the breeze went whirling and wheeling over the road and into the doorways. By another drab shop-front, she felt suddenly mournful and lost.
Gazing as gloomily into the shop was an unshaven man, hair spiky and bleached. Out came a child chewing sweets, scattering sweet-papers; a wan little pixie, the same bleach-blonde thatch. She smiled at the child but it stared at her blankly and went straight to the man. The sweet-papers, tossed like confetti, swirled at her feet.
“Had enough”, she whispered, lips close to the window, no trace of a breath, touched by a sadness she could not quite place.
She turned, looking for John like a child looks for dad, wanting to get in the car and go home.
“Car’s gone.” she said dully, stopped in the road.
“Can’t be; must be further along!”
“No. it was here by the wool-shop.”
Here, by the wool-shop; out of place, out of time! Maybe the tall woman saw something, knew something. She pushed her way in through the ll-fitting door, the bell frantically ringing, as if it might fall on her head.
The woman seemed taller, if anything; palely glowing, lit by a lamp, standing erect by the shop counter, tips of long fingers placed on its glass top, staring out fixedly as if wearing a mask.
“Excuse me, my car was out in front of your shop”, she said, gesturing over her shoulder. “Now it’s gone; stolen, we think. Did you see it?”
The woman said nothing and seemed not to notice, merely pursing her lips and shaking her head, staring at nothing, out towards nowhere.
“Ok, sorry to bother you. Thanks.” she continued, retreating confusedly, ducking away from the bell as she went.
Outside, a late autumn sun low in the sky made her squint. She shaded her eyes, looking for John in the street, not seeing him, regretting the sunglasses left in the car.
She went after him briskly, high-heels resounding, reaching into her bag for her ‘phone as she walked, butterflies starting, they really should call the Police, glancing in shops as she went, just in case he was there.
Turning the corner, she clacked to a stop. There, running away from her, another long street, but with a view of the city; as wide and as vast as an ocean, rising up like some awful tsunami, making her gulp.
“My god!” she said weakly.
Speaking out loud steadied her. She tapped John’s number into her ‘phone.
Nothing, no ringing tone: she looked stupidly down at the screen: ‘no network’, it flashed, ‘no network’.
“Oh, damn and blast!”
She shivered; the sun going down behind the last of the houses, etching ginnels and snickets with the last of its light. She wished she had on more than this cardigan, her coat in the car along with the sunglasses, No car, no John and no network; no public telephones either from what she could see; what a place!
She began walking the length of the shop-fronts; knowing John would know too that their ‘phones were not working, know too that her car was not there. He would be in a shop somewhere using a land-line.
Abruptly, the shops ended. From a concrete-strewn building-site fenced in by chain-link, whistled a wind, whipping the hair into her eyes and bringing quick tears. She fled back to the shops.
She wanted John now, mouthing his name while she sheltered as if it would conjure him up.
Where the hell was he?
Might he have gone down that street knocking on doors? Why, with these shops here? She eyed the darkening houses, buttressed and shadowy, stretching away to a city now twinkling with lights, and shivered again. No, here he must be, here, somewhere.
She went hurrying back the way she had come, trotting along in the sharpening wind, anxiously peering in shop after shop, expecting to see him moment by moment, but, along with her, now, trotted terror, and, the further she went, the more monstrous the terror became.
Then, breathlessly, disbelievingly, she was back at the wool-shop! How had she missed him? Perhaps he had thought she was here! She burst in again, ducking the bell. A tailor’s dummy surprised her, fooling her briefly, the bell never-ending, but, he was not in the shop.
The woman, meanwhile, was standing as tall and as straight as before, staring, as usual, out into nowhere, as if turned to wax.
“Can’t find my husband, now”, she told her, waving her ‘phone as she spoke, “or get a signal. Can I please use your land-line?”
The woman stayed motionless, staring fixedly out, no change of expression, hearing nothing, apparently, seeing nothing, apparently, as if there was no one to hear or to see.
“Excuse me!” she said, coming much closer, “My car’s been stolen; my husband has gone!”
Slowly, as if in a lifetime, the woman lowered her gaze. Her eyes were sharp blue, her face was expressionless, her answer was certain.
“You came a-walking, my dear, all on your own.”
The words were like a box on the ears and she stood simply dazed, but, then, with a gasp that broke to a cry, she fled.
The woman stayed without moving; only shifting to wind the watch on her wrist.
The street was emptying; the shops that were open now shutting or shut; the parked cars all gone; night shadowing dusk. She shivered unstoppably, tapping and tapping into her ‘phone her number for John, but, always and always, the screen said ‘no network’, ‘no network’, over and over again.
Something was wrong, very wrong, she now knew that, and she must get away, get away now, from this back of beyond, this ghastly parade, the wool-shop and its menacing occupant, to a place with a signal or where someone would help her, help her get back, to safety, to sanity, John and her home!
Alone, then, afraid, and, by now, in the night, she began walking. Quicker and quicker she went, looking fitfully over her shoulder, not knowing what it was that she watched for, or fled from, or why, but knowing she must get away.
And, soon, she was trotting; by those same terraced houses, that same endless street; pounding along at a pace, the same set of questions pounding along with her: where was her car, where was her John and why was she left so bereft?
And, all the while that she went, re-checking her ‘phone, and, always repeated, the same old refrain; ‘no network’, ‘no network’, and, always, and always, all alone in the dark, fitfully, over her shoulder, she checked for the thing she feared most.
Yet, somehow, she thought, she still might escape it, but, always and always, it came steadily on, until she was certain she could not avoid it, and, then, dared not look, even over her shoulder, nor raise her head up, or even cry out, for the terror was here!
Step by step, then, echo for echo, she walked slowly on, strength ebbing, knowing that running was pointless, help a lifetime away. Then, as she tired, her heel dipped and she tripped.
Put down on all fours, the heel on her shoe gone, knees scraped, tights laddered, winded and sobbing, she stayed where she had fallen, too weak to get up now, more hurt than she should be, knuckles ragged and white, but still gripping her ‘phone, still wanting answers.
And, there, while she lingered, mouth gaping and drooling, some flickering shadow drew her attention; something reflected, a faint light up ahead, a beacon of hope!
She tried to cry out, managed only a croak, got to her feet, shambling forward, shoes left behind, unable to run but glimpsing the bright chaos of life; catching the roar of the traffic; the rush-hour; the sound of a siren, the sight of a traffic-light; her junction; her highway to home!
Too weary, now, draining of blood, she slumped on a bench-seat beside the main road, sitting unseeing, unworldly. She must ‘phone her John, wherever he was; he was bound to be worried.
Had she dreamed it all, then? Loosing her car, loosing her John, going that hell of a way, just for a chemist, all for a migraine? And what of the terror, had that gone too?
“Hallo, Jane.”
It was the tall woman; deadpan and waxen; towering above her, but, a new warmth in her voice, reaching out with her hand.
“Come. See.”
So, they went, hand-in-hand, out into the road, past the police and the ambulance who never did see her, apparently, for all their blue lights, no beacon of hope now, just traffic cones.
And all traffic stopped, and everything quiet: and, there, at last, was the terror, the thing that had raced her for life.
There was her car, turned up the wrong way, driver’s seat empty, door flung half off its hinges and, there, was her John, dead in his seat.
“So, is this the end, then?”
“Yes it is” said the woman, with a ghost of a smile, “the light was against you but you did not see it.”
She nodded.
“Is there pity in hell?” she asked with a laugh.
“Hell is a path or a road to be travelled, that’s all,” the woman said softly. Your journey is over.”
© R. Frank Wilson