This Is Midnight: Stories Read online

  When I awoke an hour or so later I lay for a while looking up at the ceiling while the sounds of the Florentine afternoon drifted up on the soft, balmy air. And then, added to the familiar sounds of the motor traffic and people’s voices, came a faint noise from behind the closed shutters.

  I pulled the rug aside, got up, moved across the room and as gently and quietly as I could, eased the shutters open.

  The babies were not alone now. Their mother was there.

  I don’t know what I’d been expecting, but she wasn’t much to look at. She was quite dull-looking in fact, but what she lacked in glamour she made up for in efficiency – no question of that. When I got this first glimpse of her she was in the middle of feeding the babies. And I couldn’t help but observe that she looked completely single-minded as she went about it, obviously totally dedicated to the job. It was fascinating. Hardly daring to breathe, as they say, I watched her very brisk, efficient movements, and all the time I could see that neither she nor the two infants were in the slightest aware of my nearness.

  I watched as she finished feeding the bigger of the two babies (Buster, as I came to think of him), and then she turned and moved back to the partly open door. Another second and she was bustling out of sight.

  With Mama gone, I turned my attention back to the babes. There was Buster looking comfortable and well-fed – but what about the smaller one? I looked at him, cuddled up there next to his sibling. He looked such a pathetic, sad-looking little thing in comparison, and far less healthy-looking. Had he been fed too, I wondered? I hadn’t seen her give him anything. But maybe she’d done that before I happened to look in.

  The next morning I was up early again and off out – like the swarms of other visitors to the city, anxious not to miss a thing. Joining a bunch of other tourists, it was another morning of sightseeing, with a visit to a church, and another of the museums. When in Rome, as they say – or in this case Florence – you have to go with the flow. And all very interesting. Lots more paintings, statues and beautiful architecture. A fascinating experience – though of course, you wouldn’t want to do it more than once. I had a bit of late lunch afterwards at a little trattoria and didn’t get back to the hotel until almost three. I picked up my key from the desk, rode the antique, rickety little lift up to my room and let myself in. Then I walked directly to the east window and quietly, quietly eased open the shutters.

  And by chance I seemed to have chosen my moment well.

  Even as I bent to peer through the screen I saw the mother arrive. There was a sound from the doorway, a little scrabbling, bustling noise, and suddenly she was there; there was Mama, coming in with lunch.

  Just like before, she was so efficient, the way she got on with her job. As with the first time I’d observed her there was nothing in the way of any subtle social touches; she was just there, coming in and moving straight for the two infants, the twins. No hesitation at all; it was like: Okay, boys, here comes Mama. Get ready to eat!

  And both boys looked to be ready for it, all right. Buster in particular. The second their mother appeared he was turning to her, open-mouthed and hungry. She went straight to him, without a moment of hesitation, and began to feed him. She didn’t waste any time about it, either – just got on with the job. And there was no finesse in her actions, no warmth or tenderness at all – not that I could see. She just fed him, carefully but rather coldly.

  Silently I watched from my side of the screen, anxious not to do anything that might cause any alarm. What would she do if she became aware of me, I wondered? Would she have been that much bothered? The way she behaved, it was as if her whole concentration was on the business of the feeding. Oh, Mama, I thought, you are one dedicated mother, you really are.

  When she had finished feeding Buster, I expected her to tend to her other babe – Tiny as I called him – and give him his feed too. He was there, eyes fixed on her, clearly waiting and wanting to be fed, but to my surprise she took no notice of him. Having finished feeding Buster, she just turned and moved away, and in another moment was gone.

  I could scarcely believe what I had seen. Buster sat there looking replete and well-fed, but Tiny had got nothing. For a moment or two Tiny’s mouth opened a couple of times, as if he might be saying, Hey, I’m over here, Mama! You forgot me. What about me? – but she was no longer there. Then, as if he finally accepted that she’d gone, he kind of retreated and shrank into himself. I felt so sorry for him. Poor little thing, he just kind of sat there, looking miserable. Not so surprising, really – he hadn’t been fed; he was still hungry.

  I stayed there for a while longer, looking through, and thinking what a remarkable scene it was. As I said, it was like nothing out of my experience, like nothing I’d ever glimpsed before. And I’m not just talking about the basic nature of the creature comforts – well, there weren’t any of those – the word comfort didn’t come into it. For a start, the place was really mucky. And I don’t just mean that it was untidy. To be honest, it was truly squalid, absolutely filthy. I’d never seen anything like it. It made you wonder how any baby could be raised in such conditions. Still, it was none of my business. I was a stranger, an onlooker, someone looking in where he really had no right to be. I kept on looking, though, I had to.

  Oh, yes, I kept looking. I was hooked. Over the days, before going out and after getting back following some session of sightseeing or wandering the lovely Florence streets, at the slightest provocation I’d be at the shutters, gently, gently easing them open, looking to see if there was anything new to observe, if there had been any developments. I looked in on the family at regular intervals – never leaving them unobserved for long. For one thing I think I’d attuned my ear to the sounds of their living, so that the second that Mama appeared – always making the same bustling, busy little sounds – I became aware of it, and I was there, the shutters opened, peering through the screen, though always, of course, making sure there was no light behind me in my room, so that they’d have no idea that they were being watched.

  And the scene hardly changed at all – not in any significant way, anyway. The two of them, Buster and Tiny, seemed all the time to remain almost unmoving when their mother was out and they were alone. And they made very little noise – almost as if they knew that there was no point in carrying on and kicking up a fuss if she wasn’t there. It was only at mealtimes, when she was there with them, that they seemed to come alive. And always at those times it was Buster who got all the attention. It was always him. And in a way he made sure of it. When she appeared it was always his voice that was the louder, making sure he got the attention, while poor little Tiny wasn’t getting fed at all – at least not on any of the occasions when I was able to look in on them. I thought once or twice that maybe I’d missed something, not been attentive enough, or had been looking in at the wrong time. But I realised that that wasn’t the case – that’s the way it was developing – the way it had developed. It was Buster – Buster who was getting all his mother’s focus – and all the goodies, too. And while he was crying and getting fed, little Tiny was being ignored. Totally. He was there so close to his mother, and desperately wanting to be fed, but she simply took no notice of him. It was just Buster – Mama’s boy, her favourite. He was getting it all.

  It couldn’t go on indefinitely, I thought. While Tiny wasn’t getting fed, Buster was thriving. And it showed. Oh, how it showed! You could see the difference in them – it was becoming more apparent with every passing day. Buster was putting on weight, looking really fit and healthy, while his twin looked as if he was wasting away. He was shrinking before my eyes.

  And of course I wondered – as you would – whether there was something I could do. Well, something had to be done, I thought – but what? I mean, I was a stranger, an alien in their world, with no real means of communicating. But I couldn’t just disregard what was going on in front of my eyes. So, one afternoon when Mama had departed – once again igno
ring little Tiny’s pleas to be fed – I decided to take action.

  Take action, I say. It was perhaps the most pathetic gesture, but I was at a loss. I had no idea what to do for the best – if indeed I could do anything at all.

  A day or two earlier, from a nearby supermarket I had bought a pack of biscuits. They were sweet and delicious and at night I enjoyed one or two along with the cup of tea I made with the kettle, tea-bags and milk provided. Now, I got a couple of the biscuits and placed them in a cup. Then I added a little milk and mashed it up a bit.

  Holding the cup, I moved back to the window and, as quietly as I could, opened the shutters.

  There they were, side by side, Buster and Tiny, one looking vital and healthy, the other pale and fading by the hour.

  I looked more closely at the mesh, and its frame. I had to get access to the other side. Then I saw that it wouldn’t be any great problem. Running my fingers around the frame I found that it was just a matter of pushing it up – as simple as that. It was on hinges, and finding the opening at the bottom, I gave it a tug. There was a little crack of sound, and then I was lifting it, easing it up.

  I lifted it right up, all the time watching the faces of Buster and Tiny. Watching for some signs of some alarm on their hearing me and seeing me, I watched as they just seemed to freeze. What was thrilling, though, is that they were now so much closer. So close that I could reach in and touch them.

  There they were, the two of them.

  My attention, though, was all on Tiny.

  ‘Oh, Tiny, Tiny,’ I whispered softly, ‘ – it’s going to be all right – I’ve got some dinner here for you.’

  With a teaspoon I scooped up a little bit of the milk-soaked biscuit, and carefully, moving so, so slowly, I bent forward and reached through.

  ‘Tiny . . . Tiny, open up for me . . .’ I breathed the words, my voice a little louder, at the same time holding the tip of the spoon as close to his mouth as I could.

  Nothing.

  ‘Please – Tiny,’ I whispered. ‘Please – eat. Eat or you’ll die. Just eat. Please, eat . . .’

  Nothing. He just didn’t respond. Wouldn’t respond? It was as if he would accept nothing that didn’t come from his mother. ‘Please,’ I said. ‘Please.’ I was holding the little morsel of food so close. He could have taken it, eaten it and it would have helped him, I know, but he didn’t move – except to draw back even further. It was as if he was afraid. And why not? Why not be afraid? Of course he was afraid. He must have been terrified. I mean, who was this stranger who was suddenly invading his home, holding out to him a spoonful of some unaccustomed food?

  ‘Please, Tiny, please . . .’

  But it was no good. In the end I gave up and drew back. There was no point in persevering. The food, my little offering, my little life-saving offering, was not going to be taken.

  ‘I could have saved you,’ I murmured. But there, how often do we get the lesson that some individuals, although offered salvation, simply do not want it.

  I gave up all attempts to help after that, my failure. What did I know, I thought? As I said, it was a foreign scene for me, and I was a foreigner there. There I was, like the proverbial bull in the china shop, clueless and blundering around, not knowing what to do for the best. If, indeed, anything could be done. And if it wasn’t too late.

  Well, yes, it was. Too late. Of course it was, and I had done nothing. I felt totally helpless and ineffectual.

  Over the next few days I watched as their lives went on – as Mama came bustling in, bringing food – and Buster, only Buster got fed. And as Buster grew stronger by the day, poor Tiny continued to fade away.

  And then, one bright, sunny morning I looked in and saw that Tiny was dead.

  He lay there, almost naked in the filth that covered the floor, while beside him Buster, appearing totally unconcerned, ate and throve, while Mama, devoted Mama, came bustling in, bringing to him, her favoured boy, everything good that she could possibly bring.

  The following day I looked in and saw that Tiny was now almost disappearing down into the dirt. And as I looked I heard the sound of the mother coming home. Next second she was there, coming in in her usual vital, determined way, goodies on board for Buster, her boy.

  And I watched as, to my utter horror, she walked over the filthy floor and actually stood on the body of her dead baby. I could scarcely believe my eyes. She was standing on his corpse, walking on him. Either she simply didn’t care, or she was totally unaware of what was beneath her feet. Whatever it was, for her, Tiny had long since ceased to exist.

  How swiftly events moved on. It wasn’t long before I saw that Tiny had all but disappeared from sight. His little body was hardly visible, and I was sure that had any other stranger come to look in they would not even have known that he was there, that under all the dirt lay the corpse of an innocent, blameless babe. Oh, yes, I knew he was there – or rather his sad little remains – but only I was aware of it, I’m sure. As for his mother and his brother, he might never have been.

  And taking in the dreadful scene I cried out to her, unable to help myself: ‘How could you do this? How could you? You’re heartless. You’ve killed him.’

  And at the sudden sound of my voice she turned and looked right at me. It was only the briefest glance, but it was enough. The next moment, taking fright, she whirled and dashed away.

  I watched her go. We both did, I and Buster, her little boy, her little chick – her strong, healthy chick. Like me, he watched her departure. His feathers had grown so strongly over the past few days, and I knew it wouldn’t be long before he’d be leaving the nest. It wouldn’t be long before he’d be following his mother, the plump Florentine pigeon, across the width of the window sill, through the narrow gap between the outside shutter and the wall, and winging out into the warm, Florentine air.

  FORGET-ME-NOT

  ‘That’s the house where Christie lived . . .’

  Sandra followed the direction of the young man’s pointing finger and saw, through the window, below them, a shabby cul-de-sac.

  ‘The one just at the end,’ he said. ‘Right next to that factory wall.’

  Quickly, Sandra shifted her gaze, but there was only time to catch the briefest glimpse of the drab-looking terrace house before the Tube train – travelling over-ground for this stretch – took them past. The house vanished from sight.

  ‘Who is Christie?’ she asked in her New York accent; she was a stranger to England and curious about everything.

  ‘Who was Christie,’ he corrected her. ‘John Reginald Halli­day Christie – preferred to be called Reginald, I believe. Oh, he was just a harmless-looking little man who killed – murdered – a number of women. He was hanged for it.’

  ‘Really?’ Sandra thought of the very ordinary house she had just seen. ‘And he lived there?’

  ‘Yes. And committed all the murders there.’

  She shivered slightly, in spite of the warm September air.

  The young man went on: ‘His victims were all female. Most of them were – ’ He broke off suddenly, grinning. ‘Listen to me,’ he said, ‘ – a fine introduction to London this is for you!’

  She laughed. ‘No, no, it’s fascinating! Anyway, I want to know everything – the good and the bad.’ She paused, then added: ‘It’s funny, but somehow I never thought of associating London with any kind of gruesome violence like that.’

  ‘Oh, we have our share,’ he said, then, changing the subject, asked: ‘Have you got a place to stay?’

  ‘Yes, I’ve booked into a hotel for a while. Just till I can find a room or an apartment . . .’

  ‘That might not be so easy.’

  She smiled, undeterred. ‘I’ll find something. I’ll start looking tomorrow. I’ve got a whole week before I start school.’

  Sandra Kesselan, pretty, blonde, twenty-six years old, had come to L
ondon from the U.S.A. to teach in the London Education system – just for a year, on an exchange basis. For months she had looked forward to it, and now the actual day of her arrival was here. It was one of the most exciting days of her life.

  ‘The next stop is yours,’ the young man said. He had been scribbling on a piece of paper and now, as she stood up, he handed it to her. ‘My name and phone number,’ he explained. ‘Perhaps when you’re settled you might give me a ring . . .’

  ‘Thanks. I’ll do that.’ She stuffed the note into her pocket and picked up her two suitcases. ‘You’ve been a great help. Honestly, I don’t know how I’d have managed.’

  He was eager to be even more helpful. ‘Can you find your way to the hotel?’ he asked.

  She nodded. ‘I got me a street map. I’ll get there okay.’ The train was slowing. She moved towards the doors. ‘Bye. And thanks again.’

  He turned to wave a hand. ‘Goodbye. Nice to meet you. And don’t forget – phone me . . .’

  Outside the station she looked at the slip of paper he had given her. David Hampshire, she read. Below the name was his telephone number. ‘Yeah, maybe I will give him a call,’ she said to herself.

  With the help of her A to Z street guide it was relatively easy to locate the hotel. The room to which she was then shown looked quite cosy and inviting. Left alone, she kicked off her shoes, lit a cigarette and lay back on the bed. She was relaxed. There was no one to drag her into conversation, no one to tell her that she shouldn’t smoke; she was wonderfully comfortable and alone. ‘But don’t get too comfortable, girl,’ she told herself. ‘Don’t get too settled. You’ve got to go out and find something a little more permanent. And if David was right, that is not going to be easy.’ She was not worried, though; the hunting might be fun. And anyway, one thing was certain – she was going to adore her stay in London – absolutely adore it.