Seeing An Old Schoolfriend In The Street

The two had been drawing attention from passers-by outside; hence M. had insisted that Tooley follow him into here. Scarcely stopping himself from throwing the man on the floor (despite the risk of intervention from the other café customers) M. rounded on him fiercely.

"Now just you stand there and listen, you; for once in your life. It's the very first time, I'll warrant. Yes. For once in your life you stand there and take your criticism. Why, you can't go on getting away with this sort of thing all your life - of course no doubt you don't see it that way at all, do you . . ."

Tooley's mouth began to tighten into a snarl of affront; but M. saw it, firmed up his grip on Tooley's shoulder, shook him two or three times calling out "you would, would you; just you try - see what a bouncing I'm capable of giving you, my lad" (this despite the two of them being the same age) and instantly the man's resistance evaporated to nothing.

M. continued. "Collaring me like that in the street, as if you were the aggrieved one. No, that's really too much! You press yourself against me, with your fawning insinuating manner, befouling me with your slobber, all in order to see what you can get from me - yes, I'm on to you all right; you can stand there agape like that, it won't wash, I assure you. Next, behind my back, you whisper to your cronies (like I saw you do) giggling like mannerless children; then, to add to my loss of face, you ignore me until no doubt you next want me to treat you and these cronies to another drink at the bar, when you will (I'm sure of it) reach right in my pocket and help yourself, probably without even looking up at the side of my face . . ."

Here Tooley began to protest, but M. flung his arm at him, sending him scuttling to the further side of the room. "That's why, after spending just a little time thinking things over, I marched right back to sort you out my boy. No, it's really too much, I repeat. Why, what sort of a way to greet a former schoolfriend is that, I want to know? Perhaps we never actually spoke to one another in those former days, but we certainly recognised one another and thus we have a history together. Are there no politenesses due a fellow pupil, after all this time? Even a few - no matter how insincere - would have helped . . ."

Even before M. had finished his complaint, Tooley began to flatter him - M. was more sensitive than the people he's used to, and that is a good thing (no doubt about it) but he must make allowances for Tooley's familiarity; and Ok perhaps it is true to a little extent that Tooley has got into bad habits, who can tell? 

M. shrugged him away again. "All right, enough of that animal cunning of yours. You certainly know how to sweeten a man up, don't you! Still, you have managed to draw out the sting a little, and that's to your credit, I admit. Now look, I don't want us to part enemies; I could get to tolerate you I think (at this point Tooley smiled) though obviously you are not of my kind. You haven't even asked me why I'm back in this old school town of ours - and the fact is I'm in a bit of trouble . . ." Tooley came in closer. He thought as much. Why, it was written all over M.'s face . . .  .

Ten minutes later, both of them wary of the other, left the premises one after the other and ducking off in different directions.

The Death Of A Friend

Freunder heard the polite footsteps approaching his apartment and he opened the door. A stranger stood there and Freunder looked at him from head to toe. The stranger removed his hat and said: "The clock-repairer is dead." Freunder could think of no questions to ask, though he could think of some exclamations which would be appropriate, but judging these to be of no use to the stranger he kept them to himself - and the result of this reprehensible blockage was a silence which began to stretch uncomfortably. He began to close the door, gently, thinking perhaps that by this means the stranger would somehow not notice his disappearance. Then the stranger spoke again, smiling in between times so eager was he to show that he had not been offended: the clock-repairer had been run over by a train; they didn't know whether it was a suicide or an accident; happily the evidence pointed towards an accident - he was crossing at his usual place, the hood on his coat was up over his ears (there was a gale blowing) and of course he had been drinking. The stranger emphasised the matter of the crossing-point being the usual one: he seemed to think this of great importance, perhaps the conclusive evidence in favour of it being an accident and not a suicide. Had not the clock-repairer an acquaintance from the trade, a horologist who lived right by that railway-crossing? And did he not quite often visit the horologist, no doubt to talk of clocks, visit more often than might be expected of an acquaintance in many people's eyes perhaps - for was not the clock-repairer somewhat of a lonely man who fixed his attention on little save his clocks?

Freunder waved his arm expansively to indicate that though he knew nothing of this horologist, he could confirm that everything else the stranger said was true and that he was unlikely to be mistaken in any of his assumptions. Sensing intimacy, the stranger then lowered his neck to the level of Freunder's chest and turned his face which had a large grin on it, upwards - a manoeuvre which caused Freunder to step back in disgust, noticing for the first time as he did so how round the man's face was, just like an orange and how little hair it had on top. 

This stranger explained that no he had not been acquainted with the clock-repairer - had the gentleman been assuming such a thing? - that he had never seen the man in his life, and that he was the brother of a policeman assigned to the case who like all policemen, as the gentleman must surely know, was so unbearably overworked that he had to send out members of his own family on police work which was of an unimportant kind. Freunder, seeing that the man had run out of things to say, began to wonder how he could end this conversation. The newly-identified policeman's brother looked at him suddenly and as if he'd thought of it for the first time asked: "A bereavement! Do you need comfort? Should someone come? I would not be put out if you told me to run and fetch someone; I'm quite willing in fact. I am good at running, you just try me. Would you like a nurse?" He looked at Freunder and laughed quite loudly. His own suggestion struck him as ridiculous and seemed to amuse him greatly. "A relative, perhaps, whom I could summon on my way back?" Then he shrugged his shoulders in resignation. "Ah no,"  he resumed "I can see that you're not the kind to need a messenger; I've known it all along I suppose . . ." 

With that, the stranger quickly put on his hat again and was gone, not bothering to look back as he turned on to the pavement. Freunder watched him until he reached the end of the street, leaned, and disappeared around the corner. Then he closed the door. 

He would hurry to the crossing first and fix that as the place of his friend's death, after which he must get to the clock-repairer's home. 

The crossing lay behind a wicker gate set in the railings alongside the line, and pulling his collar up against the cold he crossed the road to approach it. A tram which had been travelling before him, seeming to diminish in size quite visibly the further it moved from him, slowed and in two sharp jolts, one inwards and the second to straighten up, drew near to the kerb. Three people alighted from the back platform before the tram had stopped, ran alongside the vehicle leaning back and swinging their arms stiffly, then split up, two men in long coats turning and walking towards him and one woman continuing in the opposite direction. When the tram had gone, the street was left silent and empty of people except for a couple (a young woman and an old man) who were talking to each other while standing at a tram-stop on the opposite side of the street, and next to them a fattish man on a bench who, as he watched about, transferred something (probably a sweet) in a secretive manner from his pocket to his mouth.

Freunder walked a little way past the gate-crossing and looked across the railings, craning his neck and forcing his hands deep in his pockets for he began to feel this cold quite badly. He must be sure that this was indeed the crossing he wanted. Someone would be bound to know. News of such accidents travelled fast locally didn't it. He thought of the three people behind him, then glanced at them quickly while pretending to look up at the windows on the opposite side of the street. Hadn't he seen the fattish man come out of one of the doors overlooking the line, when he was approaching? Surely he had. He decided that a word with the fattish man would probably confirm his thoughts. Looking back at the railway, he noticed on the further side of the line, a small building, a signal-box probably, where very high up, a yellow light glowed at a window. He walked opposite and stood on his toes, bobbing the top half of his body from side to side, trying to see into the window which was far too distant to allow him a view inside. He considered cupping his hand to his mouth and calling out the signal-man as loud as he could (he would surely know all about this accident) - then abandoned the idea and turned his attention back to the fattish fellow.

The couple who had been at the tram-stop were walking away now, silent, and so he studied the fattish man who was looking up the street after the couple, but who surely had him in the corner of his eye. He began to cross towards the fellow. As he opened his mouth to speak, the fattish man suddenly leaped up from the bench, startling Freunder and making him step back, ran a little way down the street, and stopped to look at him malevolently. For a moment he was confused by the fellow's behaviour. The man's gaze seemed to leave his and rest longingly on the bench. Stupid creature, he said to himself. The man thinks I want to take his seat and push him onto his feet! He began to explain: "Hey! You're mistaken, you know," and took a few steps towards the man which only caused him to turn, run a little further down the street, and stop again with an even more aggrieved expression on his face. Freunder laughed which caused the man to flee, and he set off in fast pursuit suddenly desperate lest he be misunderstood.

The pursuit ran through many small streets where their shoes rang on the flagstones, causing some irritation to the few passers-by, some of whom sidestepped in an alarmed fashion out of the way. There were moments when, thinking of the time he was wasting in this pursuit and spitting up painfully from the back of his throat, Freunder was spurred on by anger and drew close on the shoulder of this fattish man, almost breathing in his ear; but the man's fear obviously matched Freunder's anger, for despite his unathletic appearance he managed to put a distance between the two of them each time by frantically raising his legs and clawing the air with his fingers.

They burst into a wide street full of people and vehicles nosing around each other where the fattish man ducked and feinted before dipping into a confectioner's - however he had been watched carefully by Freunder who now eased himself forward pushing out his chin. Hardly pausing at the confectioner's door, which triggered a loud bell as he pushed his way through, Freunder strode inside and saw at the far and dimly-lit end of the shop, the man in frantic and earnest conversation with the confectioner whom he had grasped by the neck and pulled close to his face. At the sound of the bell the confectioner looked up quickly and shuddered. A small retailer, round shoulders, plays with his fingers (thought Freunder) - I can soon handle him. The confectioner broke free from the grip (at which the fattish man instantly dropped into a chair where he slumped sideways apparently resigned to whatever might follow) then fled behind his counter and from that safety-point tried to clear himself of any involvement in the matter. "Do you have some grievance to settle with this man?" asked the confectioner. "Perhaps you do. I don't know anything about that. I hardly know the man of course, that goes without saying. He is a regular customer, I admit; but then so are many people. There's nothing in that. It doesn't mean that I'm a friend of theirs does it? It doesn't mean that they have a claim on me. No."

A small group was gathering around the three, looking from one face to another. Ignoring the confectioner, Freunder decided that he could not rectify the fattish man's mistake in front of these people - he might become tongue-tied and even splutter, then where would he be? Anyway, what business was it of theirs? Therefore he hauled the fattish man out of the chair, making him squeal like a mouse, and pulled him by the jacket-front to a door at the back of the shop through which they disappeared, watched by the confectioner who leant over his counter.  

Freunder found himself in a high-sided yard illuminated by a powerful yellow lamp (it was already growing dark) standing in the lane on the other side of the wall. The fattish man grabbed one of his hands which had been hanging loosely by his side, and crammed into it, after first thrusting his fingers into his own pocket, a sticky mess of brightly-coloured sweets which immediately began to trickle down his arm. Freunder flicked his hand with annoyance, showering the sweets which stuck where they landed over the yard, and the man cried out in horror. 

Recalling the clocks and the urgency of his getting to the repairer's home, Freunder began to explain how the mistake had been made - that all he wanted was information; about the accident; the one involving the clock-repairer; was that the crossing where the tragedy occurred or not? That was all. And look how easily panicked the fattish man was, eh? Look how much time their little chase had cost them! Wasn't he ashamed of himself? The fattish man seemed thunderstruck. He walked to the end of the yard, his hands working in his pockets. He turned to Freunder his face grimaced as though he were about to cry: but he didn't, drawing instead a deep breath preparatory to saying something which he then thought better of, and so closed his mouth. 

After a while Freunder noticed the man shivering a little, the heat of their run having long since evaporated, and he commented "It's cold here" quite matter-of-factly. Then the fattish man rounded on him and complained, tilting his voice in a peevish manner: "I suppose you want me to return you to the crossing now! Well, don't you? I know your type, not knowing where you are once you've left your beaten track. If I don't show you, you'll wander the whole city trying to find your way back I'm sure." Freunder explained in a conciliatory way, for he had indeed succeeded in calming the stranger and he was (the man was quite right in this respect) quite lost - that he needed to get to the repairer's home instead, and should the fellow happen to know the way to that particular place then he could do Freunder a great favour indeed.

The man made a move towards the door through which they had come, but Freunder suddenly alarmed, held him back. "No!" he said, "Why go that way? We'll only be held up with explanations to your acquaintance, the confectioner, in there, and any others who might have been present that we didn't notice; let's get on; there's bound to be a back route." The lane on the other side of the wall was met by a narrow gap alongside the confectioner's along which they could only just squeeze by walking sideways. They soon set off down the thoroughfare.

Freunder fell to musing on his own - wouldn't it be better to go to the house unaccompanied instead?This fellow wouldn't mind if Freunder didn't want his company all the time. But what was this the man was doing? The fellow seemed friendly, almost familiar with him now. A strange creature. Once his fear is allayed, apparently we are to have him stick to us like those confections of his. I'll bet we are to fall in love with him (so to speak) - that'll be the design. It'll come out in these questions he's now asking; now, how do they go? Is Freunder a married man? No? Plenty of time for it . . . The man fell behind him and asked these questions with his chin resting on Freunder's shoulder, sometimes turning his head sideways and nibbling at the bottom of Freunder's ear - something which made him shrug the man off although he could see the innocence in the man's habits. 

While the man was talking, Freunder's hand brushed against something in his side pocket, and he thought of the bottle of cherry cordial which he carried there. The accident encouraged a thirst in him which he could not smother, and his attention wandered from what the man was saying, distracted by schemes to consume the liquid in a leisurely way, without the man noticing.  It was not that he was greedy, or selfish (he had thought this through before) the point was that he had brought just enough for his own use and no more, and anyway he had now anticipated just this one bottle's worth of pleasure, not something less. To have to do with something less would be extremely irritating, and he simply wouldn't do it. He didn't mind buying for the man at all (that was the point) he would have bought the fellow a whole bottle for himself if he'd wanted; though admittedly he didn't see why he should - but that would have to be in addition to his own fill.

A chance glance at the man which caught him eyeing the neck of the cherry cordial sticking out of his pocket now, told him that the game was probably already up. And, yes, more than likely this explained the man's sudden intimate intentions and ear-nibblings: he was going to pass his arm round Freunder's waist, probably, and tap the pocket with the back of his hand, grinning, nodding that head of his, and only when Freunder had stubbornly kept his mouth shut, would he be so forward as to ask when Freunder was likely to take out his cordial. Freunder suddenly took out the bottle. He unscrewed the cap, wiped the neck on his sleeve, then tipped the bottle up at his own tilted-up head, not taking any care to steady or slow his walking for that would be just the opportunity the man was waiting for. It turned out that the man's way of tackling the matter was sheepish, which gave Freunder no room to burst into a fit of fury - for he politely asked Freunder, being careful all the while not to snatch at the bottle or to make the least move towards it, whether he could possible share a little of the cordial (which he had noticed some time ago) for he had a thirst on what with all that running the two of them had been doing. Freunder thrust him the bottle petulantly after first wiping the rim on his sleeve again. 

When the bottle had been returned to the pocket, and after they had walked on in silence for a few minutes, the man spoke again. "The best thing to do is to stop every ten minutes and take a short drink, as it is a long way yet." Freunder could not ignore the man's face tilting before his own, and grunted an answer. The bold importunity of the fellow had frightened him a little.

The clock-repairer's rooms stood at the head of a long straight stairway. Freunder tried the switch and nothing came on. His disappointment over this was quickly quelled by the sound of several hundred clocks ticking in various rhythms, and he uttered a short cry despite his natural reserve. Blinking repeatedly he accustomed himself to the dark and saw that the rooms seemed to lead, one into the next, in a straight line. A faint source of light, unmistakably the night-sky from outside, the only source of light in the dwelling it seemed to him, was coming from a huge sky-light in one of the central rooms. He tried to cross the first room, stepping carefully lest he upset anything, but after a few steps he was forced to stamp his heels on the floor which set up a gentle rattling of glass and metal, and he was able to find the way round obstacles more by sound than anything else. 

He knew what was happening - the clocks themselves were running down, each at a different rate, and one by one they were falling silent. At some point the very last clock in the very last cabinet would tick out its last sound and the repairer's apartment would finally be both silent and without movement. He would sit here, in this place, even if it took more than a week, and wait for the quiet. The quiet of his dear friend.

And who, after all, was this fattish man who was intruding on something intimate to him. A fellow for whom he felt - what? A mere acquaintance obviously and not even one whom he would consider inviting into his circle. An oaf (surely) likable enough to his own kind no doubt: but not of Freunder's kind. 

The fattish man must go. Now. He turned to the oaf and told him so. This place was nothing to do with him. They barely knew one another and had been thrown together by chance not choice. Why, Freunder was going to be preoccupied now, and anyway hadn't even the inclination to watch over the fellow, checking his pocket, empty of confectionery now no doubt and perhaps filling up with someone else's property instead. No, no, listen! He was sure the fellow was honest and true - but how could he know that? And it was just this 'knowing' which it was his responsibility to settle. And anyway, what of those men and women who indeed have no intention of taking something they shouldn't - until you suspect them of it! Then they go right ahead and do it to get their own back for your lack of blind faith - and (incredibly) it becomes your fault.

He had been talking quite loudly and a banging (from a neighbouring apartment) was by now coming from one of the walls. He moved over to the wall and stood sideways-on, looking downwards, and began to apologise in a voice not trembling with the slightest bit of nervousness, nor raised in the least indignation over the rudeness of the request. His apologizing set up a banging from the adjacent wall, and a further tapping noise from the floor, and soon the remaining walls began to sound in frantic attempts to drown one another out. 

Waiting for the complaints to silence, he picked up a medium-sized carriage-clock, held it aloft and turned it around to study its beauty. Shortly after the apartment once again became calm, the device without any warning fell quite silent in his arms. 

The fattish man who had almost left the rooms, returned from the door and asked Freunder: "You're going to sit here for how long, did you say? Are you sure everything is all right?" The girl who dogged his thoughts every day at some point, chose to come to mind at this moment. One of the few loves of his life. She'd thrown him over for another years ago (though when she'd left she'd implied that she'd had no-one in mind, like they do) and he'd known right at that moment that he'd never in his life be able to see or hear of her again. It had been like a death ever since. 

The tears began to flow without pity. Was everything all right? No, everything is not all right. People go.

A Fine

The hands of the two friends were dirty with soaked mud; now they slapped them together and cleaned them up a bit while congratulating one another on the dam they'd just built in the stream. They turned to go. A man (They'd noticed him when they'd slid down the slope to the stream) now stood over their motorcycles which they'd left lying flat by the trees. He was about their age. "Who said you could do that?" he asked. In reply, M. piped up "No-one: what's it to you!" Then he giggled. "Don't be cheeky!" ordered the man. "You don't know how much trouble you're in. You'd better run and fetch me a sixpence. For silence. You better had. Else the park attendant will see this - I'll fetch him. Don't think I won't 'cos I will. You know that. No, you leave your motorcycles here, you (addressing M.) I'll need them as security."

The two friends ran off, hurriedly explaining over their shoulders that it would take them more than half-an-hour to get home and back, and that he should not think they had abandoned their machines to him. On the way home M. worried over what he'd tell his wife; then decided that he'd say nothing, and in fact he'd sneak in and try to get the money without her even noticing. His friend (who lived next door) agreed that it was a good idea. 

On the way back, despite running, M. couldn't stop himself from fingering a butter-knife he'd picked up from the kitchen and stuffed into his pocket. He paid the man first. It was while his friend was handing over his sixpence that M. produced his knife and, away from the man, began to slash at a bush. Straight away the man roared and sent M.'s hand back into his pocket, the weapon dropping on a muddy patch, quite plain for everyone to see. An elderly passer-by stopped on the top of the slope and looked at them. M. began to explain hurriedly and in his own fashion that the man was quite right to fine them for their misdemeanor; that now the two of them, vandals obviously, were aware of their wrongdoing; they could have been treated far more harshly by another. Indeed, M. said, that they were grateful for their fine, in fact they welcomed it.

Down A Forgotten Road

Two road engineers stumbled on it quite by chance. The hedge had completely grown across its opening; the markings had gone and a small verge was there where dust and earth had been thrown up by fast passing traffic; yet there it was - a lost road. Yes; they could see it clearly now by pushing apart a gap in the hedge growth. Much overgrown with scrub and saplings it was true, but a tarmac road nevertheless. They did not believe it for a time; peered into the distance to see where it went; then scratched with their boots for the evidence of worn markings. "Wait!" one of them called, and crossed to the other side of the thoroughfare to disappear into the hedge on that side. His colleague heard him gasp and reappear. "A signpost; the stump of one anyway. And I can see the sign itself lying flat - washed blank more's the pity. Vehicle damage too; come on  .  .  . "

The two ran back to their van to consult the map. After inching the van through the hedge (shallow roots lifted from the tarmac surprisingly easily) and pushing it aside with outstretched arms, they picked a slow uneven way along the overgrown road. They eased over the hill. Before them in a valley stood a small community, a hamlet. They stopped and got out. The road wound down to the small settlement, and seemed to continue beyond but in an even more faded way. Five figures, adults, stood in the road before the settlement, staring at them and fidgeting from side to side a little. They all seemed to be men but too far away to reveal their mood. One of the engineers waved his arm in greeting and thought about calling, but decided against it. "Come on  .  .  ." he said to his colleague, getting back in, "We'd better check everything."  The other got in beside him and still watching the group asked "Why?"

"Why what?"

"Why do we have to check everything .  .  . ?"

The other laughed hollowly. Later, bumping down the hill, he added: "Look what's happened to the road. We've forgotten it. Left it like this for years, I shouldn't wonder. What's happened to these people?" He paused. "Anyway look at them down there. Something's not right is it .  .  ."
"What do you mean?"

"It's not; is it. Why are they standing like that? You'd go about your business until someone drew up, wouldn't you? And they were there before we'd even come over the hill, weren't they. Waiting. Heard the sound of our engine, I guess. It's odd I say."

He eased forward yard by yard, trying not to spook these lost people any more than he had to. With the exception of one man, the group scattered until it felt safe and concealed, some in doorways some looking over walls. The nearer they got, the more faces they noticed peering at them from places of safety. The one man who remained exposed had initially started to flee, then checked himself. He'd rushed sideways across a small lawn but then stopped and deliberately fallen slowly on all fours, and now gazed at the ground like someone about to be sick. He trembled as they pulled up; but then seemed to collect himself, leapt to his feet and smiled sheepishly. They got out and walked up to him extending their hands which he shook a little weakly.  

"Who are you?" they asked.

"Mister Davis sir," he replied quickly .  .  . " The Davis family. We live here sir, all four of us in this house; I've got a son and daughter you see .  .  ."

He turned and waved somebody out of the house behind him. The engineers now noticed a boy and a girl in the window, up till now obscured by reflections on the glass. They didn't move and the man dashed towards them a little and waved more. They disappeared and half a minute later appeared at the door. 

"They're frightened," the man grinned. "It's the uniforms. They don't know what you're really like, not like I do sirs .  .  . but don't worry; I'll explain it all to them."
He glanced back at his children who had stepped behind him, quite close and half obscured by his protection.
"Here they are sirs, like you ordered - The girl's Lucy, the boy's David .  .  ."

The engineers hadn't asked him to show his children at all; but they let the matter lie. And besides, the children now preoccupied them. The girl, Lucy, was being urged by her father to walk forward and offer them a handful of the cake she was carrying. Once she'd thought she'd realised what the two men wanted, she didn't seem shy at all; quite the opposite, the engineers thought, for she was stepping up to the first of them looking deep into his eyes, almost a sexual approach, they thought. The girl wore a thin green dress, favoured and overused now, too tight at the bosom. She laid a hand on the shoulder of the leading engineer, pressed her mouth to his ear and whispered something; then releasing her hand she reached into her bag and teasingly put a piece of the cake into his mouth and removed it again, while laughing and gazing up at him. She leant forward and whispered again (he could make it out this time) - would he take her off and they could gallop the land like a knight and his maiden? At length she gently pressed the piece of cake right to the back of his mouth and let her fingers enter also. Suddenly on his guard, the engineer sensed her stiffen and he pushed her away as she tried to pinch his throat. The two of them sprang apart, and the girl's brother, a slightly freakish boy, darted in front and stood between the engineer and her, with knees bent and shoulders forward casting quick glances back, more concerned for her approval - it seemed to the engineer - than to pose any real threat to himself. The engineer wondered at the boy's hairiness. Despite his youth (the boy could surely not be more than twelve years old) already his arms and shoulders were black; and his temples were combed oddly (he thought) for straight side hair had been brushed flat and forwards obviously with care.

The girl pressed up close behind her brother now, staring at the engineer over the boy's shoulder, and continuing to make up to this engineer of hers. The engineer veered round them in disgust, stepping on the lawn in his haste to search out this householder, this Mr Davis who was no doubt concealed behind these two, pushing them forward in an attempt to defend himself, and he would upbraid the man. And sure enough there was the cowering man leaning and pushing the backs of these two children like a stupid cow nudging against a tree; and how stupid one must be, he thought, to push forward this distorted couple to represent one. He pulled the man out by the collar and began to push him back towards the house. 
"Come on you - in the house! What secrets are you hiding in there?"
He pushed the man forward making him bend and stumble - "In you go! Let's all have a good look now."
Through the house he pushed the man, snorting over debris on the floors, a sofa piled high with broken bicycles, beds left unwashed .  .  .

The man Davis would not meet his eye, seemed tired now and followed him listlessly, only looking now and again through the window at his children below whom he had told to wait. He muttered something.
"What?" snapped the engineer. "I can't hear you."
"Are you going to kill us?" Davis asked.
The engineer froze. He silently closed the cupboard he'd been looking in, and signalled the man to follow downstairs. Others had gathered at the bottom of the garden. They seemed neither curious, nor interested particularly in what was to happen to Davis. They merely seemed to be awaiting something. One of the dogs ran to and fro before them, looking up at them as he barked. The engineer put his hand on Davis' shoulder. "Sorry .  .  ." he said.
"Take us back .  .  . please?" Davis asked simply. "Take us back."
The engineer moved his arm round the man's shoulders and reassured him. "Of course. Right now. Come on, we'll go right now."

Walking next to Davis up the hill, he looked back to check on the others. The family were close behind, and the others straggled in groups all the way down to the bottom where his colleague was waving the dogs, tails wagging, into his cab. Reassured, he looked up and found they were nearly out of it.

The Belltower

The stone belltower, set apart a little from the town, housed a small room at the top where the bell hung on its beam. Havlov, on his knees, stared at the tower. He was a little out of breath yet he could still clearly focus and make out the spare decoration and weather-stains on its exterior. If he leant forward he could also see into its mouth.

Aloft, the room lay muffled in dust. A bell-rope dropped from the beam through a round hole in the floorboards. The walls were open to the sky, slats pointing sharply groundwards (to let the sound out, Havlov thought) such that even if one wished, it was quite impossible to see more than a narrow strip of green near the tower base. Would the dust tremble if the bell was rung, he wondered? And the noise? If he were to stay here he'd need some muslin to put in his ears. The room was bare except for a small wooden box nailed to the floor in one corner, which he opened. It contained one large spanner. Havlov could see the nut it was meant to turn on the beam end. He lay on his back and closed his eyes. All sounds were distant - a farmer hailing; a cart down below; a little wind in the treetops.

The room welcomed no man; it wasn't made for him. One of those few rooms - H. realised - where no man had any business. It was for a thing - a bell. Elsewhere, dwellings always had the stamp of someone: the chosen wallhangings, the photographs. Even a functional room - a signal box - that also had the stamp of man: the curved wooden chair with padded armrests and the nearby stove and coffee-pot. This room saw no purpose in his being there.  

And at last he felt comfortable. The place suited him for it was something he was familiar with. Being unwelcome tracked his life. Here was the same, but he'd not to respond nor to fight his corner. It ignored him but how could he get angry with it, like he had with people (and anyway, why shouldn't they have ignored him)? Yes he'd stay. He'd stay. More - he'd never retrace his steps down the ladder. He'd already drawn it up. The trapdoor was shut now. He'd rest. Here.