I realised now what had struck me about the publican in The Aldwinkle, the aspect of his appearance which I hadn’t been able to put my finger on. There had been something about the shape of his head, the ratio of its width to its depth, the bone structure and the positioning of the ears, which reminded me forcibly of the degraded photograph of “Miss Dawton.” I couldn’t believe that she actually looked like that, that I was seeing something other than the result of dark and badly reproduced tones blending into each other, but still the resemblance was there.
“It must be his daughter.”
When Susan spoke I turned to her, startled.
“It’s just the printing,” I said. “She can’t look like that.” Susan shook her head firmly.
“It’s his daughter.”
The door slid quietly open and I quickly slipped the leaflet to one side, trying to hide it. I don’t know why: it just seemed like a good idea. It didn’t work.
“Will you be staying for the Festival?” the old woman croaked, laying two cups of brick-red tea down on the table. She addressed her comment to Susan, who said no. Our plan, as discussed in the restaurant, was to rise early the next morning and get the hell back to London. I was loath to question her too closely on what the Festival might involve, because I was aware that I was enunciating my words very carefully to keep the drunkenness out of my voice. On the few occasions when Susan spoke I heard her doing the same thing.
As we sat there, sipping our tea and listening to her rustling voice, I began to feel a curious mixture of relaxation and unease. If the Festival was such a draw, why wouldn’t she tell us about it? And was it my imagination or did she cock her head slightly every now and then, as if listening for something?
A few moments later the second question at least seemed to be answered. We heard the sound of the front door being opened and then, after a long pause, being shut again. Still talking in her dry and uninformative voice the old crone slipped over towards the door to the sitting room and then, instead of going out, gently pushed it shut. She carried on talking for a few moments as Susan and I watched her, wondering what she was up to. Perhaps it was my tired mind, but her chatter seemed to lose cohesion for a while, as if her attention was elsewhere. After a couple of moments she came to herself again, and re-opened the door. Then, with surprising abruptness, she said goodnight and left the room.
Coming at the end of a day which felt like it had lasted forever, the whole vignette was almost laughable: not because it was funny, but because it was odd in some intangible way that made you want to cover it with sound. Neither of us felt much like actually laughing, I suspect, as we levered ourselves out of the dreadfully uncomfortable chairs and made our way unsteadily upstairs.
I was especially quiet on the stairs, because I wasn’t wearing any shoes. Strange, perhaps, that the old woman had either not noticed this or had chosen not to make any comment.
***
My memories ofthe next hour or so are confused and very fragmentary. I wish they weren’t, because somewhere in them may be some key to what happened afterwards. I don’t know. This is what I remember.
We went upstairs to our room, passing doors under which lights shone brightly, and behind which low voices seemed to be murmuring. As we wove down the corridor I thought at first that a soft smoke was beginning to percolate down from the ceiling. It wasn’t, of course. I simply wasn’t seeing very well. I felt suddenly very drunk again: more drunk, in fact, than at any point in the evening. Susan, though only a pace or two in front of me, seemed a very long way ahead, and walking that short corridor seemed to take much longer than it should.
A sudden hissing noise behind one of the doors made me veer clumsily to the other side of the corridor, where I banged into an opposite door. It seemed to me that some sound stopped then, though I couldn’t remember what it had been. As I leaned my head on the door to our room and tried to remember how you used a key I found myself panting slightly, my shoulders slumped and weak. Another wave of vagueness surged into my head and I turned laboriously to Susan, who was standing weaving by my side, and asked her if she felt all right. She answered by suddenly clapping her hands over her mouth and stumbling away towards the toilet.
I leaned in the direction she’d gone, realised or decided that I wouldn’t be much help, and fell into our room instead. The light switch didn’t seem important, either because of the weak moonlight filtering into the room or because I couldn’t be bothered to find it. I flapped my way out of my coat with sluggish brutality and sat heavily on the bed. I started unbuttoning my shirt and then suddenly gave up. I simply couldn’t do it.
As I sat there, slumped over, I realised that I was feeling even worse. I couldn’t understand why I was feeling so bad, or even what exactly the problem was. It reminded me of a time when I’d had food poisoning after a dodgy seafood pizza. A few hours after the meal I’d started feeling... well, just odd, really, in a way I found difficult to define. I didn’t feel particularly ill, just completely disconnected and altogether strange. I now felt roughly similar, though as if I’d drunk all the wine in the world and taken acid as well. The room seemed composed of dark wedges of colour which had no relation to objects or spaces, and if asked to describe it I wouldn’t have known where to start.
Suddenly remembering that Susan was throwing up in the toilet I jerked my head up, wondering again if I should go to her aid, and then I passed out.
Susan’s skin was warm and almost sweaty. We rolled and I felt myself inside her, with no idea of how I’d got there. I have images of the side of her chin, of one of her hands and of her hair falling over my face: but no memory of her eyes.
I think I felt wetness on my cheek at one point, as if she cried again, but all I really remember is the heat, the darkness, and not really being there at all.
***
The first thing I did when I woke was to moan weakly. I was lying on my side facing the window, and a weak ray of sun was shining on my head. My brain felt as if it had been rubbed with coarse sandpaper, and the last thing I needed was light. I wanted very much to turn away from it, but simply didn’t have what it took. So I moaned instead.
After a few minutes I slowly rolled over onto my back, and immediately noticed that Susan wasn’t beside me. I had a dim memory of her eventually coming to bed the night before, and so assumed that she must have woken first and be taking a shower. I rolled back over onto my side and reached pitifully out towards the little table by the bed. My cigarettes weren’t there, which was odd. I always have a cigarette last thing before going to sleep. Except last night, by the look of it.
Suddenly slightly more awake, I levered myself into a sitting position. What had I done before going to bed? I couldn’t really remember. My coat was lying in a tangle on the floor, and I experienced a sudden flashback of thrashing my way out of it. Reaching down I found my cigarettes and lighter in the pocket and distractedly lit up. As I squinted painfully around the room I noticed something out of place.
Susan’s washing bag was on the chair by the window.
Looking back, I knew from that moment something was wrong. I went through the motions in the right order and with only gradually increasing speed, but I knew right at that moment.
Susan’s washing bag was still here in the room. She hadn’t taken it with her, which didn’t make sense. Maybe she’d gone to the bathroom not to wash, but to be ill again. I clambered out of bed, head throbbing, and threaded myself into some clothes with about as much ease as pushing yarn through the eye of a needle. On the way out of the room I grabbed her washing bag, just in case.