This Is Midnight: Stories Page 4

  David proved to be right. Finding something a little more permanent proved to be very difficult. My God, she thought, it’s as bad as New York! It seemed that no matter how swift she was to answer the ads in the papers, or those in the shop windows, she was always just one bit too late; the room or the flat was always gone. But she’d get something, she told herself; she wasn’t easily daunted. In the meantime, the hotel made a comfortable haven.

  It was during her flat-searching that she found, in a small corner bookshop, the volume on Christie. As soon as she saw the book: Christie, Mass Murderer, she remembered her conversation on the train. The book was second-hand and at a ridiculously low price. Sorting out the still strange coins from her purse she handed them, along with the book, to the assistant. ‘I’ll take it,’ she said.

  She began to read the book that same afternoon, continuing with it into the evening. And even when she went down to the little café, she took it with her to study over her steak pie and chips.

  The story was absolutely fascinating. Christie was known to have killed at least seven women – by strangulation – and then to have secreted their bodies either in the house or the adjoining garden. His wife had been one of the victims, and a young tenant of the house another. Equally horrifying to Sandra was the fact that after killing each of the women he had undressed them and – and . . . She closed her eyes tight. The image in her mind was too terrible to bear.

  Later, when she took up the book again, she came upon a photograph of the house. The sight of it caused her to catch at her breath. Ten Rillington Place, she read . . . But was that the name she had seen on the street sign . . . ? No, surely not. Quickly she flicked through the pages to the appendix. Yes, there it was: Ruston Close. That was the name she had seen. After Christie’s trial and execution the local authorities had – for obvious reasons – renamed the ugly little dead-end street. She remembered suddenly that David had pointed out the house just before she had got off the Tube. With a strange little thrill she realised that Ruston Close was very, very near.

  That night she found herself thinking more about the house where Christie had lived. And the things that had happened there. Stop it! she admonished herself; she was getting morbid! What she needed was to start work – to meet people, make a few nice friends . . . She thought of David. He had said he’d be glad to hear from her – so maybe she’d give him a ring. Yes, that was a good idea. For some minutes she searched around for the scrap of paper on which he had written his telephone number, but then, meeting with no success, she gave up the attempt. She’d find it later, there was plenty of time. She went back to her reading.

  And all at once, there was Christie, staring at her from the page.

  He had a thin, rather gaunt aspect. The hair on his domed head was thinning, and the cold, pale eyes that peered out through the steel-rimmed spectacles were merciless. He had been photographed standing in the tiny, untidy garden of his home, standing with his plump smiling wife. Sandra found herself addressing the unfortunate, unattractive victim: ‘You poor, poor thing,’ she whispered, ‘you wouldn’t be smiling if you knew . . .’

  Her first day at school the following Monday was very tiring. But that was to be expected – teaching was never an easy job, no matter what the age of your pupils. Sandra was given a class of eleven year olds – a vital, noisy group that left her, at four o’clock, feeling drained and exhausted. She departed through the school gates with aching feet, a throat sore from constant shouting, and a mouth that was dry and dusty from the chalk-laden air. Reaching Edgware Road Tube station, she got on the train and settled back with a sigh of relief – her first day was over. The feeling of relief was only temporary, though – she’d have to face another day tomorrow, and the day after, and the day after that. The days stretched before her into infinity. ‘Don’t worry,’ she told herself, ‘it’s just because you’re not used to it. It’ll be all right in time . . .’ And there was another problem, also – the need for a flat of her own. The worry nagged like a toothache. She’d try again this weekend, she decided – really make an all-out effort. There had to be something somewhere. She gazed from the window, idly noted the stations as they passed by, after Edgware Road came Paddington, then Royal Oak, then Westbourne Park, then Ladbroke Grove, then . . . And suddenly the house was there – Christie’s house – standing forlorn and dirty at the end of the cul-de-sac, shadowed by the tall, grey, ugly chimney. She turned as the train sped past, craning her neck to catch the last little glimpse.

  Every day that week she saw the house. Sitting on the train, she found herself counting the stations – almost impatient, just waiting for the street to come in sight. And always, at the end of the street, was the house. But it looked so – innocuous. It was hard to believe that that was the scene of so many hideous crimes.

  And yet . . . there was something about the place, that last tired-looking three-story dwelling. Something about the whole street. And then she realised what it was that gave it all that air of – difference: the street was uninhabited. No people walked there, no children played. The windows were dark and empty, some of them boarded up.

  In the morning, on the way to school, she couldn’t see the house – the train, running on the left tracks, was too far over, affording her no possible view. But on the way back – well, that was a different matter.

  Her days at school could be bearable when there was something to look forward to. And Sandra did look forward to the house. Each teaching day, with thumping heart and damp palms, she watched, waited for the house to come into view. Soon – she could see – the house was waiting for her.

  She needed something to look forward to at this time. Somehow, her life was becoming increasingly lonesome. It just wasn’t that easy to make friends.

  For some people it was, but not for Sandra. The warm, satisfying relationships she had envisaged somehow seemed never to materialize. Why was it? she wondered. She had tried, too. Though there was, at school, no one with whom she thought she’d really like to be friends, she had, even so, made two or three half-hearted attempts to strike up more than the passing acquaintanceship. But her attempts were not very successful, and she was forced to continue with the amusements of her own designing.

  Having no television set and no radio, she spent a great deal of her time reading, getting the books from the local library. And she read more on Christie. John Reginald Halliday Christie. What a name! she thought. The syllables just rolled off her tongue – John . . . Reginald . . . Halliday . . . Beautiful. But she thought of him now as Reginald – as he had preferred. And she almost felt as if she was beginning to know him. But that was silly, she knew.

  One afternoon, returning from school, she looked down at the street and saw workmen moving about. And there was a bulldozer and other machines of demolition! ‘My God!’ she whispered; then louder: ‘They’re knocking it down!’ A woman on the opposite seat looked up from her knitting and gave her an odd, uncomprehending glance.

  And they were knocking it down. The next day on her return, Christie’s house was just a pile of rubble, and the workmen were starting on the house next door.

  At school in the staff room, one of the young teachers came to her holding out a newspaper. ‘Here,’ he said, ‘you’re the one who’s always reading about Christie . . .’ He pointed to a short column on the back page. Concealing her eagerness, she took the paper from him and read the words. It only told her what she already knew. But why tear it down? she asked herself. The reason given here: space needed for redevelopment was just not good enough. It was Christie’s house. They shouldn’t have done it. It just wasn’t fair.

  It was that same evening that she found the flat. She had stopped at a small shop to buy cigarettes – she was smoking far too much these days – when she saw the card in the window. Flat to Let, it said. Suit young working person. £11 per week. Yes, she could afford that much, she reckoned. Quickly she made a note of the address, then
set off at once to find it.

  And now it was hers. She had paid Mr Malaczynski, the Polish landlord, a month’s rent in advance and told him that she’d be moving in the very next day. She’d take the day off school, she decided. She didn’t feel like going anyway; there was nothing to look forward to anymore.

  There were three flats available, the landlord had told her, so she could have her choice. She chose the one on the first floor. At the moment the ground floor flat was occupied by the landlord himself. ‘But only for a short time,’ he explained. ‘I’ll be moving to another house this coming weekend.’ Then, continuing in his accented English: ‘Will you mind being here on your own for a while? It won’t be long before the other flats are let.’

  ‘Oh, no,’ she had assured him. ‘It won’t bother me in the least.’ Nor would it. She had her own place – at last. Nothing would bother her now.

  The next day she paid her hotel bill and moved into the flat. Now at last, she had finally arrived. She stood in her bed-sitting room and looked around her. She had just the two rooms – this one, which was fairly large – and a smaller kitchen next door. The bathroom was on the floor above, and she’d have to share it with the incoming tenant – whoever that might turn out to be. But it didn’t matter. The flat was hers. It was small, but it was hers.

  All the walls were a sort of greyish white. Not attractive. But she’d repaint them in time, she thought. For the present they’d look all right with a bit of colour added: a few pictures, ornaments. It was going to be fun shopping for things. She could make the place really attractive. Though it was by no means perfect – particularly to a sophisticated New Yorker – it had endless possibilities.

  After she had unpacked, she spent a long time arranging her few things, trying, futilely, to add a touch of her own personality. It couldn’t be done, she discovered – not in a day. It could only come with living there.

  In the course of her sorting-out, she came across David Hampshire’s name and phone number. She put the scrap of paper carefully between the leaves of her address book. Maybe she would invite him round for supper, she thought – but not just yet; not till she was well and truly settled.

  She stayed up late that night, cleaning and scrubbing. There was so much to be done when moving into a new place. Eventually, totally exhausted, she got into bed and gazed about her. The room didn’t look quite so bare, anyway. On the wall nearest the foot of the bed she had pinned a postcard-size reproduction of Murillo’s Peasant Boy Leaning on a Sill. She had bought the small print at the National Gallery during her first days in London. She loved the soft, muted tones of the picture and the boy’s wide, happy smile. Next to it, making something of a contrast, she had displayed the photograph of Christie and his wife. She had torn the picture from her book.

  Lying there, very comfortable, she made vague plans about what she would do with the flat. She’d have to make a list of all the things that were needed – and there were so many things – still, it would come, gradually. Sighing, feeling tired but happy, she switched off the small lamp and turned over to go to sleep.

  Four hours later, she was still wide-awake. In spite of her great exhaustion from the hectic day, sleep just would not come. Shifting restlessly, she was aware of the dawn lightening the pale curtains at the windows. She gave a groan of exasperation – she had to get some rest. At last, sometime after, she drifted off.

  She awoke hours later, having slept right through the strident ringing of her alarm clock. She saw with a shock that the time was after eleven! It was no good going in to school now. She’d phone in and explain. Anyway, she remembered that next week was half-term holiday; it hardly seemed worth going in – not just for those few remaining hours.

  She made good use of the rest of the day. After her phone call to the headmistress she went out shopping. She bought china, saucepans, cutlery – those items necessary for the furnishing of a home. And that evening she cooked supper for herself – no more eating out at cafés. The meal was a pleasant – though somewhat lonely – affair, and she experienced a real sense of achievement. After this, she washed the dishes, then read for a few hours.

  She wasn’t sure when the idea came to her – or whether it had been there all the time, just waiting to be acknowledged. But it was the picture of Christie that actually set it. It had to be. For one thing, his eyes followed her all the time. And every time she looked up from her book, he was looking at her. She had to go there. She had to go to the place where he, Reginald, had lived and breathed – and killed.

  It was very late when she left the house. The last Tubes had gone, and only the occasional car disturbed the silence of the dingy street. Her footsteps echoing on the pavements, she walked in the general direction of Ruston Close. She had consulted her A to Z, and knew exactly which way to go.

  And suddenly it was there.

  She came upon it at once, and the shock of the expected discovery almost took her breath away. Her heart beating wildly, she stood at the entrance to the close, gazing before her at the familiar shape of the chimney, only slightly darker than the dark night sky.

  Everything was so quiet. On her right a cinema poster flapped against a wall – it was the only sound in the stillness. Nothing else moved. Completely deserted, the cul-de-sac stretched dark and forbidding before her, the windows of the remaining houses like dead, blind eyes.

  She found that she was holding her breath. She exhaled, slowly. The atmosphere – there was an atmosphere – poured over her. The place had its own feeling; and it reached out to her as she stood there on the street corner, clutching at her with soft, grasping fingers, drawing her in.

  She tried to walk softly, but the cold wind that swirled around the corner followed her, buffeting so that her raincoat flapped noisily against her legs. No moon or stars were visible; the old street was all dark greyness, almost at one with the sky. And then she had reached the end. Standing beneath the chimney, she peered into the gloom of the place where Christie’s house had stood.

  As she gazed, shivering, the moon appeared from behind a cloud. All at once the scene was lit up before her, and she saw in the sudden light that the house wall on the right – the one adjoining the factory wall – had not, like all the others, been torn down. It stood there still. And there, yawning in the wall-like grotesque mouths – were the fireplaces. Christie’s fireplaces. Scraps of torn, discoloured wallpaper still adhered to some of the surfaces around.

  Crossing over the rubble, she touched the wall with the tips of her fingers. Then, gaining courage, she laid her whole hand, flat, against it. Underneath her palm the wallpaper was brittle and flaking. After a moment, she took hold of a piece of the paper . . . and pulled . . . There was a loud tearing noise, and a strip about nine inches long and four inches wide came away in her grasp. She had taken the piece from an area just above her own head. It might well, she thought, be an area that Reginald had actually touched, have actually leaned his own domed, balding head against. Carefully she eased the strip – it was made from several thicknesses – into a roll, then tucked it away inside her coat.

  Arriving back at the downstairs entrance to her flat, she let herself in and climbed the stairs. The silence was as complete as that which she had just left. It would be even more silent when the landlord left tomorrow . . .

  In her room, she unrolled the paper and laid it flat on the table. She was pleased. It made a nice souvenir. Then, later, she pasted it onto the greying wall, just to the right of the gas fire, slightly above the level of her head. She studied the result judiciously for some moments, then, with a smile of satisfaction, climbed into bed.

  But once again, rest did not come easily. It was only after tossing and turning for a very long time that she eventually dropped off into a fitful, uneasy sleep – a sleep disturbed by dreams that kept her peace at bay.

  Next day she awoke very late. Still, it being Saturday, this time it didn’t matter. She l
ay in bed looking at Reginald’s wallpaper. It really stood out against the dull background of the painted wall. The paper had been so affected by dirt and age that it was difficult to determine what its original colour had been. Probably blue, she decided at last; blue with some kind of small design on it. Flowers? Yes, perhaps, but she couldn’t possibly identify what species. She gazed at the paper for a long, long time. Yes, definitely flowers, she decided, and the background most certainly blue. It had probably been quite pretty when newly bought. She felt rather smug; for one thing, she hadn’t remembered tearing off such a large piece. With a last look, she turned over and went back to sleep.

  She stayed up very late again on Saturday night, then slept well into the afternoon of the following day. She awoke about two o’clock, feeling sluggish and heavy-headed, not feeling like getting up at all. Anyway, there was nothing she had planned to do, no shopping could be done, and there was no one she had planned to see, so the day – or what was left of it – was her own. She could do exactly as she pleased. Later on, she thought, she’d get up and make herself a snack – something light – maybe a soft-boiled egg. But she wasn’t really hungry. Propping up the pillows behind her head, she sat up, lit a cigarette and reached for her book. It was a new one from the library, all about famous trials. There was a particularly interesting chapter on Reginald.

  She forgot about eating until it was quite late. Hardly worth it now, she thought. She’d just have a cup of coffee and a biscuit.

  As she waited for the water to boil, her thoughts went back to her own home in New York City – the home she had shared with her parents and her four sisters. My God! she thought, if my mother could see me now she’d have a fit! There had always been so much emphasis placed on regular habits – regular meals and regular sleeping times. But Sandra had wanted this independence, this solitude. They were all part of her reasons for coming to this strange city.

  All around her, the house was as silent as a tomb. There was no longer even the soft, considerate movements of the landlord to disturb the stillness. He had left the day before and until the new tenants moved in she would be completely alone.