Jack Higgins
Hell Is Too Crowded
For my Grandmother Margaret Higgins Bell with affection.
(1)
To Matthew Brady, caught between the shadow lines of sleep and waking when strange things fill the mind, the face seemed to swim out of the fog, disembodied and luminous in the yellow glow of the street lamp. Once seen it was not easily forgotten, wedge-shaped with high cheekbones and deep-set, staring eyes.
He was conscious of the wrought-iron frame of the bench hard against his neck, of the light drizzle beading his face. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath. When he opened them again he was alone.
A ship moved down the Pool of London sounding its foghorn like the last of the dinosaurs lumbering aimlessly through a primeval swamp, alone in a world that was already alien.
Somehow, it seemed to sum up his own situation. He shivered slightly and reached for a cigarette. The packet was almost empty, but he fumbled around for a while and finally managed to light one. As he drew in the first lungful of smoke, Big Ben struck two, the sounds curiously muffled by the fog, and then there was silence.
He felt utterly alone and completely cut-off from all other human beings. He leaned on the parapet under the lamp, looked down through the fog to the river, and asked himself what now? Only the foghorn of the ship on its way down to the sea answered him and it was as if it were calling good-bye.
He turned away, pulling up the collar of his jacket, and a woman ran out of the fog and cannoned into him with a gasp of dismay. She started to struggle and he held her at arm’s length and shook her gently. “You’re okay,” he said. “There’s nothing to worry about.”
She was wearing an old trench-coat tightly belted at the waist and a scarf tied peasant-fashion about her hair. She looked about thirty, with a round, intelligent face, her eyes dark and troubled in the light of the street lamp.
For a moment, she gazed up into his face and then, as if reassured, laughed shakily and sagged against the parapet. “There was a man back there. Probably harmless enough, but he appeared so unexpectedly from the fog, I panicked and ran.”
Her English was good, but with a slight foreign intonation. Brady took out his cigarettes and offered her one. “The Embankment is no place for a woman at this time in the morning. Some pretty queer birds doss down here for the night.”
The match flared up in his cupped hands and she lit her cigarette and blew out a tracer of smoke. “You don’t have to tell me. I only live across the road. I spent the evening with a girl friend in Chelsea. Couldn’t get a cab, so I decided to walk.” She laughed. “If it comes to that, you don’t seem the type for a bench on the Embankment yourself.”
“It takes all kinds,” he said.
“But not your kind,” she told him. “You’re not English, are you?”
He shook his head. “Boston, Massachusetts.”
“Oh, an American,” she said, as if that explained everything.
He managed a tired grin. “Back home I’ve got friends who’d argue with you on that one.”
“Have you far to go?” she said, “or do you intend spending the night here?”
“I’m not even sure how I got here,” he said. “I’ve a room at a hotel near Russell Square. I’ll make it all right in my own good time.”
Heavy drops of rain spattered down through the branches of the sycamore trees and he pulled the collar of his jacket tightly around his neck, feeling suddenly cold. The woman frowned. “Look, you ought to be wearing a coat at least. You’ll catch pneumonia.”
“Any suggestions?” he said.
She took his arm. “You can walk me home. I’m sure there’s an old raincoat hanging in the cupboard back at my flat. You can have it.”
He didn’t bother to argue. All the strength seemed to have drained out of him and the moment he started to walk, the fumes of the whisky seemed to rise into his brain again.
The fog pressed in on them, pushed by a finger of wind, and they crossed the road and walked along the echoing pavement. Rain dripped steadily from the branches of the trees and a car swept past, invisible in the fog, as they turned into a side street.
He noticed the name high on the wall of the corner house on an old blue-and-white enamel plate — Edgbaston Gardens — and in front of them, the fog seemed to be tinged with a weird orange glow. A nightwatchman’s hut loomed out of the darkness and at the side of it, a coke fire flared in an iron brazier.
Brady caught a brief glimpse of a dim figure sitting in the hut, face faintly illuminated by the fire. “Be careful!” the woman warned. “There’s a guard rail somewhere about here. They’re doing something to the gas main.”
He followed close behind her as she skirted iron railings and then mounted some steps to a door and fumbled for a key in her handbag. The house was the end one in the terrace and at the side of it stretched a graveyard, a church tower shadowy in the night.
It all seemed transitory and unsubstantial as if it might fly away into the fog at any moment and Brady followed her hurriedly into the hall and waited for her to switch on the light.
An old Victorian wardrobe stood against the wall at the bottom of the stairs and in its mirror, he saw a door open behind him and caught a brief glimpse of a face, old and wrinkled, long jet ear-rings hanging on either side. As he started to turn, the door closed quietly.
“Who’s your neighbour?” he said.
She frowned. “Neighbour? The downstairs flat is empty so you don’t need to worry about noise. I’m on the first floor.”
Brady followed her upstairs, clinging to the banisters and feeling curiously light-headed. No one could expect to shrug off a two-day jag just like that, but there was a strange dream-like quality to everything and his limbs seemed to move in slow motion.
The door to her flat was at the head of the stairs and she unlocked it and led the way in. It was surprisingly well furnished. Thick pile carpet covered the floor and concealed lights gently illuminated rose-tinted walls.
He stood in the centre of the room and waited. She took off her coat and scarf and ran her hands over close-cropped dark hair as she moved forward. He swayed slightly and she placed her hands on his shoulders, bracing herself to support him.
“What’s wrong?” she demanded anxiously. “Aren’t you well?”
“Nothing that a jug of coffee and a good night’s sleep won’t cure.”
She was warm and desirable and very close. Suddenly, all the anger and frustration of the past two days seemed to drop from his shoulders like an old cloak. There was, when all was said and done, only one real cure for his condition. He pulled her close and kissed her gently on the lips.
For a moment she responded, and then she pushed him firmly away, down into a large padded chair.
“I’m sorry,” he said.
“Don’t be silly.” She went to a cocktail cabinet which stood against the far wall, mixed a drink, and brought it back to him. “A hair of the dog. Drink up! It’ll do you good. I’m going to make coffee. Afterwards, I’ll get some blankets. You can have the divan.”
Before he could protest, she had crossed the room to the kitchen and he sighed and leaned back, allowing each tired muscle to relax.
Whatever she’d put in the drink, it was good — very good. He took it down in two easy swallows and reached for a cigarette. The pack was empty, but there was a silver box on a coffee-table on the other side of the room.
He got to his feet and suddenly, the room seemed to stretch into infinity and the coffee-table was at the wrong end of a telescope. He took one hesitant step forward and then the glass slipped from his nerveless fingers.
He was on his back and the woman was bending over him. She looked completely calm and unperturbed and behind her, the door opened and then closed again.