Authors: Frederic Lindsay

The Stranger Came (48 page)

'The
first
indication
that
something
was
wrong
came
from
you.
You
began
to
scream.’

'I
only
know
what
you
tell
me.’

'You
stood
up
and
began
to
scream.’

'If
I
realised
she
was
dead.
There
doesn't
seem
anything
strange
in
that.’

'But
you
didn't
stop.
You
were
ill.
You
came
here
the
next
morning.’

She
had
learned
from
being
with
him
that
silence
had
a
colour,
pale
and
blue
like
ice.
The
silence
in
this
room
belonged
to
him
and
spread
like
ice,
forcing
you
out
of
it.

'I
don't
remember.’

'With
your
consent,
I
should
like
to
try
another
approach.’

And
like
a
fool
her
first
thought
when
he
told
her
was,
yes,
there
was
a
couch
in
the
room.
The
first
time
she
had
come
here
she
had
noticed
it
against
the
wall.
Expecting
to
be
asked
to
lie
down
on
it,
she
had
been
struck
by
how
narrow
it
was,
an
uncomfortable looking
thing,
lumpy
in
green
leather.

'I
don't
think
so,'
she
said.
'I
wouldn't
like
that.’

'You
prefer
it
as
things
are,'
he
said,
not
even
making
it sound
like
a
question,
and
spoke
of
her
father
and
of
Maitland;
and
it
was
true
she
had
too
little
self-esteem
to
stand
out
against
what
he
wished.

She
did
not
have
to
stir
out
of
the
chair,
only
close
her eyes
at
his
suggestion.
It
seemed
to
take
a
long
time,
though, as
he
asked
her
to
relax
each
limb
in
turn.
..’.You
are
going
backward
into
the
darkness,'
he
said,
..’.
more
and
more
comfortable,
you
are
going
backward
and
backward,
backward
and
backward
into
the
darkness
and
as
you
go
backward
you
feel
more
and
more
comfortable,
more
relaxed,
very
relaxed,
and
hearing
only
my
voice
...’

She
listened
to
him
quite
detachedly,
not
involved
just
listening,
not
with
any
sense
of
surrendering,
nothing
like
that.

It
seemed
all
she
had
to
do
was
wait
and
it
would
come to
her.
In
a
moment,
not
to
make
her
afraid
but
only
so
that
she
would
understand.
What
had
made
her
afraid
enough
to
hide
from
it
in
madness.

And
then
a
small
quiet
voice
inside
suggested
perhaps after
all
there
wasn't
any
need
to
go
on.
Really,
there
wasn't
any
need
to
go
on,
except
that
it
was
too
late.
She
had
wandered
too
near
the
edge
.
To
where
it
was
easy
and
there
was
no
way
not
to
slide
over
into
the
dark.

Chapter 15

'Some
people
can't
believe
in
the
Resurrection.
That's
all
right.
There's
no
reason
why
you
should.
You're
not
even
in
the
minority –
not
in
this
country
now.
Funny
thing
is,
no
one
ever
has
any
difficulty
believing
in
the
Crucifixion.
Wouldn't
it
be
nice
if
people
refused
to
believe
in
the
possibility
of
a
man
being
crucified?'

The
tiger
pushing
a
face
of
eyes
and
teeth
out
between
leaves
the
size
of
manhole
covers
had
a
purple
flower
tucked
behind
its
ear.
Lucy
had
been
looking
at
it
for
a
long
time.
All
the
prints
around
the
walls
were
the
same,
writhing
tangles
of
primary
colours
as
if
drawn
by
a
child,
but
without
innocence.
Tiger, tiger, burning bright. A flame, pure, not muddled, not human. Then imitate the action of the tiger, men in night forests, men could turn themselves into something pure like a flame. Better to be a muddling human thing. Ash was dirty.

It
was
into
that
drift
of
half
thoughts,
sufficiently
muddled,
that
the
voice
came
and
it
surprised
her
that
it
should
be
speaking
of
resurrection
in
that
place
.
The
room
was
almost
empty.
It
must
be
dry
outside.
People
would
be
going
back
and
forward
on
the
paths.
The
woman
who
had
spoken
must
be
the
one
at
the
table
by
the
door.
She
was
in
a
dark
skirt
and
blouse
with
a
cardigan
on
top
and
was
young.
The
man
with
her
was
in
a
dressing-gown
and
slippers,
wrinkled
pyjama
legs
between,
one
of
them
caught
up
to
show
a
thick
ankle
white
as
suet.

The
woman
looked
up
and
then
away
so
quickly
it
seemed
there
must
be
a
reason.
She
felt
the
woman
had recognised
her,
and
it
was
that
rather
than
any
recognition
on
her
own
side
which
fixed
her
gaze
upon
a
pale
heavy –
featured
face,
a
woman
in
her
twenties,
wearing
unsuitable
glasses.

While
she
was
puzzling
over
it,
the
couple
were
getting
up.
The
man's
voice
was
soft
and
hasty
with
a
tune
to
it
that
made
it
hard
to
follow.
“Thank
you”,
he
was
saying,
that
was
it,
“

“
thank
you”
and
he
was
calling
her
doctor.

They
were
going.
'Please!'
Lucy
said.

The
woman
looked
round
at
once,
and then
said
something
to
the
man
who
left.
It
was
as
if
she
had
been
expecting
Lucy
to
speak.

'I
hate
this
room,'
Lucy
said.
'I'm
sorry.’

'There's
no
need
to
be.
I'm
not
responsible
for
it.’

'It's
the
smell
of
cigarettes.’
Round
the
room
on
pedestals
the
ashtrays
were
layered
with
stale
butts.
'It
upsets
my
husband
too,
I
know
it
does,
though
he
doesn't
say
anything.’

The
woman
frowned,
dark
brows
drawing
together
above
the
heavy
frames
of
her
glasses.
'Your
husband
isn't
likely
to
be
here
now.
Visiting
hour
is
almost
over.’

'Would
you
walk
with
me?'
and
as
the
woman
hesitated
Lucy
heard
herself
pleading,
'I
don't
want
to
sit
here
on
my
own.
And
I
haven't
been
outside
for
such
a
long
time.’

'Perhaps
not
outside.’

Through
the
glass
as
they
walked
to
the
end
of
the
first
floor
corridor
and
back
again,
they
could
look
down
on
patients
and
visitors
circling
the
paths.

'Did
you
feel
it
wouldn't
be
appropriate?
To
be
seen outside
with
me?'

This
wasn't
Lucy's
floor,
and
she
stared
into
a
long
ward
as
they
passed.
All
the
beds
were
empty
except
one
which
showed
a
bandaged
head
on
the
pillow.
You
couldn't
tell
if
it
belonged
to
a
man
or
woman.