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Authors: Charles Williams
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ago—”
But I wasn’t even listening now. A prickling sort of numbness was spreading over my whole body as I stared at the window of the shack. It was old Chris. He had just got up from a chair and was looking out, a puzzled frown on his face. Then he turned toward the door.
The other watchman was still talking beside the cab window. “. . . Chris was just about to walk out and tell you. He said you was on the barge.”
I couldn’t move, or speak. Chris was standing beside him now, looking in at me. “Son of a gun, Mr. Manning. When did you go out? I didn’t see you.”
I fought to get my tongue broken loose from the roof of my mouth. “Why—I—” It was impossible to think. The whole thing was like some crazy nightmare. “Why, I came out a while ago. Remember? When my friend left. We drove out to have a couple of beers. It must have been a little before twelve—” I’d got myself started, and now I couldn’t stop. I could hear my voice going on and on. “—that’s when it was. A little before twelve. I waved at you, remember? He was an old friend of mine—get a couple of beers—”
“You was in that car when it left?” He peered at me, more puzzled than ever. “Well, I’ll be go to hell. I looked right at it, too, and didn’t even see you. I must be gettin’ absent-minded. And here I was about to walk all the way out there to the barge and tell you that woman called—”
He broke off suddenly, and then went on with quick concern. “Why, Mr. Manning. What’s wrong with your face?”
That was the absolute horror of it. There was nothing happening, really. I wasn’t being accused of anything, or tortured by a Gestapo, or given the third degree. I was just being clucked over by two gentle, lonely old men trying to be helpful. They took an interest in me. They had to sit there eight hours a day and guard the goddamned place and I was the only thing in it alive or moving or that you could talk to or from which you could get even the vicarious illusion of still being connected with a world where some day somebody might conceivably do something, so they liked me and took an interest in my comings and goings. That was all it was. And they would remember every word of it.
“Oh,” I mumbled, feeling my face as if I were surprised at the fact of having one. “I—uh—I was getting something out of the storeroom and fell.”
“Well, that’s too bad,” he answered solicitously. “But you ought to put something on them cut places. Might get infected. You never know. I think it’s the climate around here, the muggy air, sort of—”
“Yes,” I said. “Yes. Thanks.”
Somehow, we were moving again. It was over. At least, that part of it was over. The nightmare itself came right along with me. The driver went on through the shed and stopped at the end of the pier. I got out under the light. It didn’t make any difference now. Nothing made any difference.
He handed me my change. I tipped him a quarter, and he said, “Thanks, chief.”
Then he grinned at my face and swollen hand. “Hate like hell to see the other guy,” he said.
He left.
I walked over to the big stringer at the edge of the pier and put my foot on it, looking down into the shadows below me, only half conscious of the big diesel tug muscling a string of barges up the waterway ahead of me. Again, it was the simplicity of it that terrified me. It had been nothing but an old man who hated to go back to the four bleak walls of a boarding-house room.
I tried to think. How much chance did I have now? In a few days he’d float up, somewhere along the water-front, and the police would start looking. One of the first things they’d do would be to question all the guards along the piers—
Float up? That was it. He couldn’t float up. I had to stop it. I looked downward again, and shuddered. Could I go back into that place once more? Once? It would take at least a half dozen dives to do it, to make him fast with wire to the
But I wasn’t even listening now. A prickling sort of numbness was spreading over my whole body as I stared at the window of the shack. It was old Chris. He had just got up from a chair and was looking out, a puzzled frown on his face. Then he turned toward the door.
The other watchman was still talking beside the cab window. “. . . Chris was just about to walk out and tell you. He said you was on the barge.”
I couldn’t move, or speak. Chris was standing beside him now, looking in at me. “Son of a gun, Mr. Manning. When did you go out? I didn’t see you.”
I fought to get my tongue broken loose from the roof of my mouth. “Why—I—” It was impossible to think. The whole thing was like some crazy nightmare. “Why, I came out a while ago. Remember? When my friend left. We drove out to have a couple of beers. It must have been a little before twelve—” I’d got myself started, and now I couldn’t stop. I could hear my voice going on and on. “—that’s when it was. A little before twelve. I waved at you, remember? He was an old friend of mine—get a couple of beers—”
“You was in that car when it left?” He peered at me, more puzzled than ever. “Well, I’ll be go to hell. I looked right at it, too, and didn’t even see you. I must be gettin’ absent-minded. And here I was about to walk all the way out there to the barge and tell you that woman called—”
He broke off suddenly, and then went on with quick concern. “Why, Mr. Manning. What’s wrong with your face?”
That was the absolute horror of it. There was nothing happening, really. I wasn’t being accused of anything, or tortured by a Gestapo, or given the third degree. I was just being clucked over by two gentle, lonely old men trying to be helpful. They took an interest in me. They had to sit there eight hours a day and guard the goddamned place and I was the only thing in it alive or moving or that you could talk to or from which you could get even the vicarious illusion of still being connected with a world where some day somebody might conceivably do something, so they liked me and took an interest in my comings and goings. That was all it was. And they would remember every word of it.
“Oh,” I mumbled, feeling my face as if I were surprised at the fact of having one. “I—uh—I was getting something out of the storeroom and fell.”
“Well, that’s too bad,” he answered solicitously. “But you ought to put something on them cut places. Might get infected. You never know. I think it’s the climate around here, the muggy air, sort of—”
“Yes,” I said. “Yes. Thanks.”
Somehow, we were moving again. It was over. At least, that part of it was over. The nightmare itself came right along with me. The driver went on through the shed and stopped at the end of the pier. I got out under the light. It didn’t make any difference now. Nothing made any difference.
He handed me my change. I tipped him a quarter, and he said, “Thanks, chief.”
Then he grinned at my face and swollen hand. “Hate like hell to see the other guy,” he said.
He left.
I walked over to the big stringer at the edge of the pier and put my foot on it, looking down into the shadows below me, only half conscious of the big diesel tug muscling a string of barges up the waterway ahead of me. Again, it was the simplicity of it that terrified me. It had been nothing but an old man who hated to go back to the four bleak walls of a boarding-house room.
I tried to think. How much chance did I have now? In a few days he’d float up, somewhere along the water-front, and the police would start looking. One of the first things they’d do would be to question all the guards along the piers—
Float up? That was it. He couldn’t float up. I had to stop it. I looked downward again, and shuddered. Could I go back into that place once more? Once? It would take at least a half dozen dives to do it, to make him fast with wire to the
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