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Authors: Stephen Jones
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to haunt him ...
~ * ~
THE CALL OF the night beckoned, but I ignored it and hailed a taxi instead.
The streets were empty tonight. Only the sound of a few motor cars, and the occasional clip-clop of a horse-drawn carriage interrupted the silence. Although I was tempted to book a room at The Grand and ignore my problems, I had to leave the city. The dank smell of the metropolis left a foul, acrid taste in my mouth, which was a further blow to what was rapidly becoming the worst week of my existence.
The previous night’s excursion had left me mentally drained. That despicable man Crowley had stared at me all evening. There was something about him that I couldn’t quite put my finger on. He spouted nonsense about magic and religion—obviously a self-deluded crackpot. It was no wonder that his last mistress had committed suicide. I should have known better than to frequent such an establishment as the Gargoyle Club. Places like that always brought out the worst dregs of society. Nowadays, nightclubs like the Kit-Cat were more to my taste.
The taxi dropped me off at the train station and I could barely see the driver speed away in the rapidly descending gloom. I hastily purchased my ticket, and found my train quickly, climbing into the comfort of the first class carriage with a sense of relief. Moments after I closed the door with a hollow thump, the train began to move forward.
I couldn’t stop thinking about him. And at the end of my journey he would be waiting. He was tangled in my thoughts like a spider in a web. Why here? Why now?
Our disagreement had been a stupid one; they always were. I hadn’t seen him in years. He said he’d contact me, but he never did. I wrote a few cards, posted a letter or two, but there was never any reply, never so much as a hastily written scribble or a wispy voice on the other end of a telephone line.
I’d tried to justify his behaviour in my mind. I kept telling myself that I moved a great deal—perhaps the mail was never forwarded? He was always busy, ruling his empire with an iron fist, manipulating the masses, commanding the multitudes. The powerful ones never had time—or so they said.
I guess you could say I gave up on him after a while. Or maybe, just maybe, he gave up on me. Perhaps I never really lived up to his expectations. Following in his footsteps had always been a nightmare. There was such a mystique surrounding him.
The adopted ones always exceeded me in their achievements. I often heard their accounts, read about their adventures in the newspapers. Following the headlines had become a daily ritual. Perhaps I hoped to catch a fleeting reference to him. I thought I did once, just after the war. The name was wrong, but then he rarely used the real one nowadays. Legends had myriad titles.
He had wealth now, and he had it in abundance. I wondered if it made him happy. The endless parade of women never did. I’d watched them too. I was good at watching. Perhaps observation was my only real talent on this earth, although I never seemed to learn from it.
My anxiety about the forthcoming appointment was interrupted by a hesitant knock on the door of my compartment. I quickly switched on the reading light. It might look suspicious if someone found me staring out into the darkness.
“I was wondering if I could come in?” a male voice asked from the other side of the doorway.
I opened the door cautiously, expecting the ticket inspector on his rounds. But it was that man Crowley again.
“Oh, excuse me,” he said, acting surprised. “I was looking for an associate of mine, and I thought she was in this compartment.”
“I’m afraid not sir. Excuse me, but I really must get back to my book,” I added, hoping he would disappear to whence he came, and quickly.
“Yes, of course. I hope you don’t mind me asking, but have we met before?” He suddenly smiled. “Yes, I remember now, you were at
~ * ~
THE CALL OF the night beckoned, but I ignored it and hailed a taxi instead.
The streets were empty tonight. Only the sound of a few motor cars, and the occasional clip-clop of a horse-drawn carriage interrupted the silence. Although I was tempted to book a room at The Grand and ignore my problems, I had to leave the city. The dank smell of the metropolis left a foul, acrid taste in my mouth, which was a further blow to what was rapidly becoming the worst week of my existence.
The previous night’s excursion had left me mentally drained. That despicable man Crowley had stared at me all evening. There was something about him that I couldn’t quite put my finger on. He spouted nonsense about magic and religion—obviously a self-deluded crackpot. It was no wonder that his last mistress had committed suicide. I should have known better than to frequent such an establishment as the Gargoyle Club. Places like that always brought out the worst dregs of society. Nowadays, nightclubs like the Kit-Cat were more to my taste.
The taxi dropped me off at the train station and I could barely see the driver speed away in the rapidly descending gloom. I hastily purchased my ticket, and found my train quickly, climbing into the comfort of the first class carriage with a sense of relief. Moments after I closed the door with a hollow thump, the train began to move forward.
I couldn’t stop thinking about him. And at the end of my journey he would be waiting. He was tangled in my thoughts like a spider in a web. Why here? Why now?
Our disagreement had been a stupid one; they always were. I hadn’t seen him in years. He said he’d contact me, but he never did. I wrote a few cards, posted a letter or two, but there was never any reply, never so much as a hastily written scribble or a wispy voice on the other end of a telephone line.
I’d tried to justify his behaviour in my mind. I kept telling myself that I moved a great deal—perhaps the mail was never forwarded? He was always busy, ruling his empire with an iron fist, manipulating the masses, commanding the multitudes. The powerful ones never had time—or so they said.
I guess you could say I gave up on him after a while. Or maybe, just maybe, he gave up on me. Perhaps I never really lived up to his expectations. Following in his footsteps had always been a nightmare. There was such a mystique surrounding him.
The adopted ones always exceeded me in their achievements. I often heard their accounts, read about their adventures in the newspapers. Following the headlines had become a daily ritual. Perhaps I hoped to catch a fleeting reference to him. I thought I did once, just after the war. The name was wrong, but then he rarely used the real one nowadays. Legends had myriad titles.
He had wealth now, and he had it in abundance. I wondered if it made him happy. The endless parade of women never did. I’d watched them too. I was good at watching. Perhaps observation was my only real talent on this earth, although I never seemed to learn from it.
My anxiety about the forthcoming appointment was interrupted by a hesitant knock on the door of my compartment. I quickly switched on the reading light. It might look suspicious if someone found me staring out into the darkness.
“I was wondering if I could come in?” a male voice asked from the other side of the doorway.
I opened the door cautiously, expecting the ticket inspector on his rounds. But it was that man Crowley again.
“Oh, excuse me,” he said, acting surprised. “I was looking for an associate of mine, and I thought she was in this compartment.”
“I’m afraid not sir. Excuse me, but I really must get back to my book,” I added, hoping he would disappear to whence he came, and quickly.
“Yes, of course. I hope you don’t mind me asking, but have we met before?” He suddenly smiled. “Yes, I remember now, you were at
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