Comes the Dark Stranger

He pushed himself up slowly and sat on the edge of the bed for a few moments with his head in his hands. After a while he reached for his canvas grip and unzipped it. He took out a half-bottle of whisky, pulled the cork, and took a generous swallow.

The liquor seeped through his body, warming him with new life, and he lit a cigarette and peeled off his sweat-soaked shirt. After he had pulled on a clean one he stood in front of the wardrobe mirror and examined his face anxiously. A strong neck lifted from wide shoulders, but the skin of his face was pale and stretched too tightly over the prominent cheek bones.

The eyes were black and expressionless, deep pools set too far back in their sockets. From the right eyebrow a jagged, red scar bisected the high forehead and disappeared into black hair.

He gently traced the course of the scar with one finger, but there was no further pain and he sighed with relief and quickly finished dressing. He pulled on his trench coat, and then he got the glass from the bathroom and poured himself another shot of the whisky.

As he was drinking it he stood looking down at the canvas grip, a slight frown on his face. As if coming to a decision, he finished the whisky in one quick swallow, fumbled in the bottom of the canvas grip, and took out a Luger automatic pistol. He checked the action, then slipped it into his inside breast-pocket and left the room, locking the door behind him.

He walked quickly through the centre of the town, hat pulled down low over his eyes against the heavy rain, hands thrust deep into his pockets. It had been a long time, and it took him almost an hour to find the place he was looking for. It was a small bar in a back-street not far from the university, and when he went inside the place was deserted except for an old, white-haired barman, who was polishing a glass and listening to the radio.

Shane stood just inside the door, his eyes passing quickly over the old-fashioned Edwardian booths and the leather-covered stools that stood in front of the marble-topped bar. Nothing had changed. He ordered a beer and sat on the stool at the far end of the bar, staring at himself in the ornate gilt mirror and for a brief moment time stood still and he was back eight years. Back to the Monday after the start of the Korean war, sitting on that same stool and listening to the call for volunteers over the radio.

The door swung open behind him, and he turned in alarm as if expecting some ghost from a dead past, but it was only a small man in a wet raincoat and cloth cap, cursing the weather and ordering a drink from the barman. They started a conversation, and Shane took his beer into the telephone booth at the back of the bar and closed the door.

He lit a cigarette and took a small notebook from his pocket. Inside were several names and addresses. The first was that of a man called Henry Faulkner, and he quickly flipped through the telephone book. After a moment he gave a grunt of satisfaction, and compared the address with that in the notebook. A moment later he dialled the number.

It seemed very quiet there in the phone booth, and the ringing at the other end of the wire was from another world. He drummed softly with his fingers on the wall, and after several moments replaced the receiver and dialled the number again. There was still no reply, and after a third attempt he picked up his beer and went back into the bar.

The barman and the other customer were arguing about the probable result of a local football match on Saturday, and Shane stood quietly at the end of the bar, sipping his beer and thinking. Suddenly, he was filled with a distaste for the place. It never paid to return to anything. He had been a fool to come here. He quickly swallowed the rest of his beer and left.

Outside the rain was falling as heavily as ever, and he walked back towards the centre of the town until he came to a taxi rank. He gave the driver Faulkner’s address and climbed in.

For five or ten minutes the cab passed through a grimy, industrial neighbourhood of factories, with terraced houses sandwiched in between, and then they turned into a road that wound its way through trees in a zig-zag, climbing higher and higher with each turn, until the city became invisible in the rain below.

Once on top he found himself in another world. A world of quiet streets and gracious houses. The address was in Fairholme Avenue, and Shane told the driver to stop at the end of the street. When the cab had driven away he walked slowly along the pavement, looking for a house called Four Winds.

The houses were typical homes of the wealthy town dweller, large without being mansions, stone built, and standing in their own grounds. The street turned into a quiet cul-de-sac at the far end, and it was there that he found what he was looking for.

The house seemed somehow dead and neglected, the windows staring blindly down at him, and the garden was unkempt and overgrown. He walked along the gravel drive and mounted broad steps to the front door and tried the bell. He could hear it ringing somewhere in the depths of the house, but no one answered. He tried again, keeping his thumb pressed hard against the button for a full minute, but there was no reply.

He went back down the steps and walked across the lawn. Someone had made an attempt to cut it in front of the stone terrace, and a French window stood ajar, one end of a red velvet curtain billowing out into the rain as a sudden gust of wind lifted it.

He paused at the window, peering uncertainly into the darkness of the room beyond, and said softly, ‘Is anyone there?’

There was no reply, and he had started to turn away when a high-pitched, querulous voice called, ‘Who is it?’

Shane parted the curtains and stepped inside. The room was in half darkness, and it was several moments before his eyes were adjusted to the change of light. He walked forward cautiously, and the voice sounded again, almost at his elbow. ‘Here I am, young man.’

Shane swung round quickly. An old man was sitting in a wing-backed chair beside a small table, on which stood a bottle and a glass. There was a rug over his knees, and an old-fashioned quilted dressing-gown was buttoned high around his scrawny neck. When he spoke, his voice was high and cracked, like an old woman’s.

‘I don’t often get visitors,’ he said. ‘What can I do for you?’

Shane pulled a chair forward and sat down. ‘I’m looking for Mr Henry Faulkner.’ he said.

The old man leaned forward slightly. ‘I’m Henry Faulkner,’ he said. ‘What do you want to see me about? I don’t know you, do I?’

His right cheek twitched convulsively, and his opaque, expressionless eyes seemed to stare blindly into the ashes of life. Shane moistened his lips. ‘My name is Shane,’ he said. ‘Martin Shane. I knew your son in Korea.’

The old man’s hands tightened over the malacca cane he was holding in front of him, and a tremor seemed to move through his entire body. He leaned forward excitedly, and something glowed in his eyes. ‘You knew Simon?’ he said. ‘But that’s wonderful. Wonderful.’ He leaned back in his chair, and nodded his head several times. ‘He was a fine boy. A fine boy. A little wild perhaps, but he never did anyone any harm.’ He sighed heavily. ‘He was killed, you know. Killed in action.’

Shane lit a cigarette, frowning. ‘Is that what they told you?’

The old man nodded vigorously. ‘I’ve got his medals somewhere. I’ll get them for you. He was a hero, you know.’

Before Shane could protest, the old man had thrown back the rug and struggled to his feet. He swayed there uncertainly for a moment or so, and then hobbled to the door, leaning heavily on his cane. ‘I’ll only be a moment,’ he said.

The door closed behind him and Shane took out a handkerchief and wiped his forehead. The room was stifling and smelled as if nothing had been dusted for years. He got to his feet and walked slowly round, examining the furniture, and suddenly the old man’s voice cracked sharply from the doorway. ‘Simon? Is that you, Simon?’

Cold fingers seemed to touch Shane on the face, and he shivered and walked forward slowly. ‘Simon’s dead, Mr Faulkner,’ he said gently.

There was a moment of fragile stillness between them and then twin points of light glowed in the opaque eyes, and the old man’s right cheek twitched. ‘You’re lying,’ he said. ‘Simon isn’t dead. He can’t be.’

Shane swallowed, his throat dry. ‘He’s been dead for seven years.’

The old man’s head moved stiffly from side to side like a puppet’s, and he seemed to be choking. He backed away through the open door into the hall outside, and his voice was high-pitched and hysterical. ‘Keep away from me,’ he croaked. ‘Keep away from me.’ He half raised the cane as if to strike, and then a figure appeared behind him and a woman’s voice said calmly, ‘Father, what are you doing out of your chair?’

The old man huddled against her like a small child seeking its mother, and she slipped an arm round his shoulder and turned to Shane with a frown. ‘Who are you? What do you want?’ she demanded, and there was anger in her voice.

He moved forward out of the darkness of the room into the hall. ‘My name is Martin Shane,’ he said. ‘I was a friend of Simon’s.’

She stiffened suddenly, and her arm seemed to tighten about her father’s shoulders. ‘My brother has been dead a long time, Mr Shane,’ she said.

He nodded calmly. ‘I know. I was with him when he was killed.’

A peculiar expression appeared in her eyes, and she was about to speak when the old man said brokenly, ‘Laura!’ and sagged against her.

Shane moved forward quickly. ‘Can I help?’

She shook her head. ‘No, I can manage. I’m used to this. Please wait for me in the drawing-room. I shan’t be long.’

She walked slowly with the old man to a door on the other side of the hall and opened it. Shane caught a brief glimpse of a bed against the far wall before the door closed.

He went back into the darkness of the drawing-room and sat in a chair by the window, smoking a cigarette and frowning over what had happened. It was like a jig-saw puzzle with the pieces fitted together the wrong way. The decaying house, the crazy old man and the woman – none of it made any sense.

At that moment she came into the room. She moved over to the window and pulled the curtains to one side, flooding the room with light. ‘My father’s eyes are very weak,’ she explained. ‘Too much light is bad for him.’

She took a cigarette from a crumpled packet and Shane gave her a light. ‘I’m sorry about your father,’ he said. ‘I rang the bell and got no answer, and then I noticed the open window.’

She shook her head impatiently. ‘It doesn’t matter. He’s very easily upset these days. He’s had a progressive brain disease for the past eight years. He’s really only a frightened child.’

She leaned against the French window, staring out into the rain, and Shane examined her closely. He judged her to be about twenty-eight or nine. She was wearing tartan trews and a Spanish shirt knotted at the waist. Her dark hair hung loosely about her face, and there were dark circles under her eyes. As she took another cigarette from the packet he noticed paint stains on her slender hands, and wondered idly what she had been doing.

She spoke sharply, breaking into his reverie. ‘And now I think you’d better tell me why you’ve come here, Mr Shane.’

He shrugged. ‘I was Simon’s best friend. We joined up together, we fought together. I simply wanted to talk to your father about him.’

She frowned and there was a touch of impatience in her voice. ‘Simon was killed seven years ago, Mr Shane. You’ve certainly taken your time about calling to offer your condolences.’