Falls the shadow
By Tommy Dakar
Other books by Tommy Dakar
Balls. A full length comedy novel.
The Trap-Door. A dark fantasy novel
A World Apart and other stories. A collection of short stories.
Visit www.wix.com/tommydakar/tommydakar
Table of contents
Book 1 - Falls the shadow
1
2
3
4
5
6
7
Book 2 - La Feria
Between the idea
And the reality
Between the motion
And the act
Falls the Shadow
T. S. Eliot 'The Hollow Men'
BOOK 1 - FALLS THE SHADOW
1
The bus disembowelled itself, spilling its entrails onto the pavement, exuding its hot human odour. Richard looked over his shoulder as it started up again, gaining speed and colour as it nosed through the petrol-blue air. It was almost up with him even though he had given himself at least half a mile start. He lengthened his stride, but inevitably the bus sought him out, determined to win. He knew that it was useless. He had intended to race it to the traffic-lights but he had no chance of that now.
Instead he had to content himself with beating it to the bridge, which he managed to do by breaking into a quick trot. The bus passed him at speed, and despite his re-adjusted victory, he felt the cold, despairing quality of defeat. It passed quickly, however, no more than a momentary shudder. Slowing to a walking pace again, he crossed the bridge.
At what he judged to be the top of the slightly curving bridge he stopped and looked down onto the railway lines below. Four highly polished metal lines, like he imagined theoretical parallel lines would be, never meeting, shooting towards infinity on their endless, mathematically frustrated path. Did they really never meet?
Railway tracks had always seemed eerie, semi-real places to him, full of ghost stories about tunnels, derailments and suicides. There was the story of the two lunatics who lay down, one on either side, waiting for the London express, a perfectly simultaneous death. Or the line worker who stepped in front of a train and burst like a balloon.
Recently someone had even taken to hurling cats in front of express trains, off bridges like this one, a matter of sinister timing. A strange place a railway track, almost as if its unreality affected people in some way, drew them to it like a magnet. When he was a child he was terrified of playing on the level crossing. The bigger boys told him that if he touched the electric rail, even with a stick, he would be frazzled into dust in a second, like a cartoon cat.
He decided to wait for a train, realising that the only difference between living and committing suicide consisted of about fifteen seconds of action. He could climb onto the parapet, leap, and leave the unfortunates to clean up the mess. He tried to imagine what it would be like, but he failed, always seeing himself die as if he were watching a film, seeing his guts explode in slow-motion, a Hollywood association. Somehow 'committed suicide at twenty-eight by jumping in front of train' didn't seem to fit in, wouldn't allow itself to become reality.
Then it came, all metal, riding and screaming along the rails. It shot beneath him, rocking, disappearing between his legs, stirring a vague sexual response. He watched as the carriages passed, passed, passed, passed: gone.
Empty. As empty as ever, perhaps the trace of an echo, no more. He spat, watched it dodge the wind and lose itself amongst the gravel between the lines, and then, with a light shrug, almost as if waking from a temporary spell, he walked on.
It was a bright April afternoon, filled with fresh pale sunlight, seemingly clean and clear-headed, a brand-new light, unlike the heavy, intoxicating yellow sunshine of midsummer. The trees and bushes, childishly modest in half-clothed green were picked out precisely by the crystal air. After the Atlantic murk and froth of winter, these spring days appeared as the limpid bays of the Mediterranean, blue glass, full of light. Still, it was cold in the shadows, at the base of tall buildings or under thick-limbed trees, and the passers-by wore raincoats or sweaters or long woollen scarves, and as Richard turned into a side street he too was glad of his anorak. Winter, it seemed, had not quite departed, still clung defiantly in dark corners as remnants of chill, like damp rags.
The newsagent's sucked in and spat out the odd customer, old duffelcoated men after cheap, strong tobacco, schoolchildren adding colour to their drab lunch boxes with gelatine and chocolate, office workers seeking king-size cigarettes to measure out their paper hours. Richard found himself inside, and he supposed he wanted a newspaper.
The newsagent, an English protestant version of Fagin with a woollen waistcoat and crooked horn-rimmed glasses was serving an old, short, barrel-shaped woman with a quantity of magazines and boiled sweets, mumbling his usual detached courtesies.
'Woman's own, love? Certainly, here you are. Anything else? '
'Hello.'
'Hello, here you are, thanks very much. Anything else?'
'And give us a quarter of them mints.'
'Quarter of mints, certainly love.'
He tumbled the sharp edged sweets over his hand until the scales tipped a quarter ounce. Then, half-slyly, but prepared to defend his action if necessary, he picked one out and popped it back into the jar. The woman wasn't watching, she was too busy counting out her coins.
'Here you are. Anything else? No? Thanks very much. Good day to you.'
Then, to Richard,
'Afternoon, can I help you? Certainly, sir. Thank you sir, good day. Yes madam? Can I help you?'
After the warmth of the newsagent's the streets seemed even colder. He tucked the paper under his arm and walked home.
His flat was the bottom floor of a three-storied, modernised terraced house. It was comfortable and spacious and had access to a small garden beyond the kitchen which Richard enjoyed working in during his free time. He lived alone, for although the flat was quite large, it was in a poor area and Richard could easily afford it on his own. Besides, he preferred to maintain his privacy, it suited his nature better. Inside it was furnished but not clustered. He was a tidy man of simple tastes and his choice of furniture reflected this. In the front room there were a few armchairs, a table with a few books on it, a television and a stereo. A few framed pictures hung on the wall. There was very little else, no ornaments or such like, he loathed the pointless bric-a-brac he found in other people's rooms, he found them unnecessary, over-ornate. The kitchen had the same air of ordered simplicity. His eating habits were conservative, preferring the typical unadorned food of his parents, simple vegetables served with unspiced meat. He opened the fridge and poured himself a glass of milk.
Back in the front room he started reading the newspaper. He found that he was enjoying his Wednesday afternoons more and more. Before, when the store had first decided to give him an afternoon off in the week he had not welcomed it, preferring instead the quiet, friendly, slow-paced atmosphere of the shop-floor where he was salesman. But recently he had begun to look forward to these solitary afternoons, with no work, no social obligations, no rush at all. He could read in peace, listen to music or simply sit and think. And on days like this, there was always the garden, that oasis of calm reassuringly waiting for him beyond the kitchen door. Wednesday afternoon now meant for him a time of reflection, a time when all the high-speed push and pull of life could be made to seem logical, acceptable.
But today he felt a little uneasy, unrelaxed. Perhaps it was the return of those memories about trains and suicide and animal cruelty, or maybe the chill hiding in corners, or was it the impersonality of the newsagent's? He had forgotten his defeat by the bus, it didn't count, it was too childish, too f
amiliar. He stopped searching for a reason; he doubted his ability to find one.
The paper unfolded its accounts, chronicled the suffering of another day. The dark print marched across the soft paper, casting shadows of fear as it went. It seemed incredible to Richard that life could still be as vicious and unbelievably cruel as it had been five hundred years before. As if nothing changed. As if progress was a myth. Or at least, as if the road along which man progressed was more like a river of blood. The slaughters and massacres and beatings continued, escalated almost. Border wars, purges, political assassinations. Famine, disease, over-population. Luckily it remained news. Pinch yourself and your home, personalised and comfortable, remained solid, remained reality. This news came from a different world, world number two, or three. The first world isn't like that, it revolves around subtler issues such as economics or legislative procedures, it is settled and unsurprising, leaving no cause for concern. The difference between these worlds was vast, perhaps measurable in years or dollars or fertility of soil. But the difference remained, like Richard's flat, undeniably real.
However the cartoons and the sport, the crosswords and the country diary lessened the effect. By the time he put the paper down the horrors had diminished, the cries decreased, and the world returned to Wednesday afternoon. Only his uneasiness seemed a little deeper, a shade darker.
He decided to lose himself in gardening. It was a familiar remedy which almost always worked, though he couldn't begin to say why. He would come home, numbed by his regular routine of salesman's patter and mock obsequiousness, or depressed by the world events, and he would simply change, pick up a hoe or a trowel, and tend the garden.
Invariably, by the time he grew tired or cold, his mood had passed, like a nebulous blown on by fairer weather, and he felt able to continue his allotted position in society.
The garden was a small affair, surrounded by a low brick wall, exactly similar in size to all the other fingers of land which lay side by side at the back of the terrace. It was too small really, there was never enough to do. Richard was a well-built, strong-limbed man and he found that he had to keep changing the lay-out of the whole garden in order to keep himself occupied. Today, for the sheer exercise of it, he had decided to dismantle a rockery and dig it over in preparation for sowing either lettuces or radishes or something more productive. He sometimes felt a little absurd as he invented work for himself. It made him feel like an under-exercised dog begging to chase a stick. Here he was, destroying a piece of work it had taken him three weekends to complete not so long ago simply for something to do. He had considered taking up a sport but somehow they seemed frivolous to him, not worthy of his energy. Here, in the garden, he could at least produce something, be of some use. He had even toyed with the idea of changing jobs, becoming a milkman or a dustman, or preferably a gardener, but it was too late now; ten years as a salesman had soured him. He felt fit only for selling carpets or three piece suites.
He picked up the first huge rock gently, foolishly not trying to soil his hands. It always started like that, tentatively, almost with distaste. Until you felt the gritty puttyness of the loam between your fingers, until you realised you were going to get dirty and touch and return to the soil a little, then the work began and the body swung to it with natural willingness and grace.
He was sweating now, creating a mountain of rock, uncovering woodlice and snails and spiders, feeling his body live, calming his uneasiness in physical exertion. At work, dressed to lie, he never felt in contact with his flesh. He often felt as if he were standing behind a cardboard cut-out of a salesman, poking his head through a hole like at one of those antique seaside photographers. And mentally he was detached, sitting in his head, behind the two way mirror of his eyes, watching himself function, waiting for the show to end. It was all so unreal, unphysical. It made you doubt the solidity or reality of your existence. It made you feel like something in a dream. It made you feel depressed.
How different it all was when you bent your back and smelt the unique, inimitable scent of soil. As bone and muscle interacted, as flesh made contact, as other creatures, real, unadorned, naked creatures danced before your eyes. There was the sky at your back, holding the weather for your inspection, joining you with the birds as you all kept an eye on the clouds, making you share their concerns and understand their behaviour. Under nature, all fears are equal, all joys born of the same source. Fear of fire and predators, cold and barrenness. Joy in sunshine, summer and fertility. And more, much more, as complex as creation, as difficult and as simple as a spider's web. By the time he started forking the damp, dark soil he was glowing to the ends of his fingers, and his mood had passed.
Back inside he washed and began to mentally plan the remainder of his day. He was feeling relaxed and optimistic and running over the possibility of seeing Eleanor again.
Eleanor was a graphic artist he saw from time to time. There had been a time when they thought they might make something more serious of their relationship but nothing had transpired. She was a feminist, proud of her liberty and too afraid of allowing herself to lose it to ever contemplate a lasting, serious bond, especially with someone like Richard whose quiet, introverted manner contrasted so much with his large, athletic figure that he made her feel unsafe. She felt she was capable of submitting to him. For his part Richard had never felt sure enough of either himself or events to make a decision one way or the other. Did he love her? Or she him?
Nothing had ever occurred to make him feel definite about their relationship. And so it drifted on, unstated, punctuated through the years by other fleeting relationships. And now Eleanor was to him like a garden, reassuringly there, offering peace and comfort, both mentally and physically.
He hadn't seen her for over two weeks, so he decided to visit her that evening. They could talk over all the things that troubled them, sleep together, and face the rest of the week, or the month, or whatever, refreshed.
She wasn't alone when he arrived, two of her student friends, a young, fervent couple, were paying a social visit. Although Richard knew them and liked them, he was secretly annoyed at their presence. He found it difficult to talk easily in company, became muddled and only half-stated his case, and he knew that these two excitable youths would be sure to start a discussion about something controversial and intricate. He wished they would leave so that he could unburden himself with Eleanor, so that he could be personal and specific, not general and confused. Clara, the girl student, was talking about feminism, a familiar theme in Eleanor's flat. She was smoking feverishly, constantly brushing her side-parted blonde hair off her face or jabbing her cigarette accusingly towards the door, sending fine sprays of ash and smoke into the air which danced together in slow motion before departing, the ash gently snowing to the carpet or coffee table, the smoke rising to the ceiling where it gradually faded away. Richard didn't smoke and he found the room obsessively stale.
Eleanor and Andy, Clara's boyfriend, were sitting cross-legged on Eleanor's bed, and Richard was obliged to kneel on the floor, the only armchair being occupied by Clara. She had obviously been talking for some time and Richard was relieved that he had missed the beginning. Now it would be virtually impossible to join in, and he could sit out the rest of the discussion until the topic changed.
After the greetings Clara continued.
'The whole point of the thing was that it should be a woman's protest, that's the whole idea of the society. It's a feminist society and therefore must, by definition, exclude men. That doesn't mean to say we're anti-men. But if we start admitting male members it ceases to be a feminist organisation and simply becomes a political association, no different to, say, Amnesty International or the young conservatives. I know Andy agrees with my views, but I wouldn't want him to be able to join our society. He feels the same. It would defeat the cause, distort the whole meaning. It would be disastrous, wouldn't it? Do you see what I'm getting at. Feminism is female, exclusively.'
She waited for a co
unter argument.
Eleanor shifted a little, trying to soften her words, not wishing to offend, merely discuss.
'But surely you are simply see-sawing. Feminism fights for equality, surely, not inequality. It doesn't want revenge, only justice, and anybody who's on our side, male or female, should be allowed to help us. Right?'
'Yes, yes. I agree. But not 'within' the society. Look, let me give you an example. When we demonstrated outside the American base in protest of the siting of nuclear missiles, it was a feminist protest, designed to draw attention not only to the nuclear problem but to feminism as well. So only women protested. But Andy was there, making tea and things, behind the scenes. He helped, but not 'within' the society. The minute you have a mixed organisation, you fail to highlight the feminist cause.'
'But what you were campaigning about then was not a feminist cause. At least not solely. The siting of missiles is an issue which affects everybody. By having Andy in a reverse-role situation, like a caring mother - in popular conception I hasten to add, not my view but those who are feminists biggest enemies, those who see women as housewives and men who do housework as pansies or weeds or whatever - where was I? Oh yes, by having Andy appear as a woman while you do the protesting, especially over an issue which is not strictly feminist, you played into the hands of the bigots you hope to impress. You made them laugh at you. I'm sorry, I don't mean to criticise a worthy cause, but I think men not only can but must play a part in furthering the feminist cause, on an equal footing. Why not? Why not have a feminist society with both sexes? Both fighting for the same cause. It's men we have to persuade most after all. Let's infiltrate their ranks, use them for our ends if you like to see it like that.'
'I see what you mean but I think it's dangerous. Men are notorious, they would infiltrate us. No, I'm for keeping it straight. Women only. I don't trust men as a species.'
'Thank you, '
smiled Andy, a good natured man in his early twenties.
'Personally I think she's right (he meant Clara), you might run the risk of having the society undermined by cynical men or insincere men. Perhaps it's better to fight them on your own. Us sympathisers will help when asked and support in any way. You girls get on with the real business, OK?'
'Sounds like a reasonable solution,'
concluded Eleanor who was tired of the subject and desired to change the conversation,
'shall we have a tea or something?'
While she prepared the tea and coffee an uneasiness settled, like the cigarette ash, over the room. Andy and Clara muttered barely intelligible requests and reminders to each other, annoying themselves through their incoherence. Andy requested something to do with cigarettes, but Clara didn't quite catch it and replied something about going out later to buy some more. Andy left it at that, and Clara fidgeted, throwing quick, nervous glances at Richard. Richard wanted desperately to change his position, his knees were giving him pain, but his oversensitivity to social situations froze him; he couldn't move, at least not until someone spoke or Eleanor returned. He wished Andy would say something, break the ice in some way. He wished he had the power to do so himself, but he found it impossible to start. The longer the silence and awkwardness remained, the more difficult it would be to break it.
The spell was broken by Eleanor who called 'sugar?' from the kitchen. In the ensuing replies Andy found enough courage to open the conversation.
'Would you like to hear a story about one of my friends?'
'Yes, go on '
urged Richard, a little too sincerely.
'Who?'
asked Clara, on the defensive.
'Kevin Langsdon.'
She shrugged, giving him the go ahead.
'Speak up!'
shouted Eleanor,
'I can't hear you.'
'I haven't started yet! Listen. Do you know Kevin Langsdon, Richard?'
'No, I don't think so. What does he look like?'
'Tall, attractive in a Jewish way, large ears, smokes.'
Richard shook his head.
'Anyway,'
continued Andy
'he's unemployed, and the Job Centre sent him for an interview with the Civil Service. You know the type of thing, three stuffed suits, see no evil, hear no evil, speak no evil. Well, he didn't want to work for the Civil Service ...'
'Who does?'
snorted Clara.
'... Right. Anyway, he went along, there were three of them. One liked him, one hated him, one didn't care, the usual nonsense. Well they asked him various questions, I forget them exactly, but one of them was 'Would you mind working in the Tax Office, what are your views on paying tax?', and he replied 'I've no idea, I've never paid any myself. I've been unemployed since I left college'. They smarted a bit but carried on. When they asked him about his hobbies he told them he was a poet. So they asked him, I can't believe this but he swears its true, 'What's your conception of the universe?' So, sensing a good leg-pull he told them that he thinks that mankind is like a match struck in the void, momentarily flaring but doomed to destruction, devouring the very thing upon which it exists. No, no, the world was the match, the wood and that, and mankind was the flame, the fire. Yes, that's it. Not bad.'
They all laughed, although Richard couldn't help but think the image rather appropriate. Eleanor entered, smiling bearing a tray of cups. They all assumed the story was over, but there was more. Andy resumed.
'The best bit, though, was when they asked him if he had any previous convictions. He said 'Yes, I used to believe that the capitalist system was based on justice, but I was only a child then'.'
'What happened?'
asked Clara, shocked and amused.
'That's the best bit. They all laughed, didn't take offence at all. Two weeks later he started in the Department of Health and Social Security. The bastards offered him the job!'
'And he took it?'
asked Richard, amazed. How could such an intelligent, witty man accept such a post?
'He had to,'
explained Andy
'if he refused they would stop his payments. The best he can do now is find another job or get the sack.'
'Can't he just leave?'
asked Clara, genuinely concerned.
'Well, he could, but he'd be running a risk with his unemployment money, plus he wouldn't be entitled to any money for six weeks. Anyway, it's a job, he gets paid. I think he's taking it in his stride for educational purposes.'
'It makes you wonder if they gave him the job out of spite doesn't it?'
Eleanor commented.
'Wouldn't be surprised,'
said Andy, and another conversation burnt out as the ashtray filled.
At length Andy and Clara left and Richard could talk to Eleanor in peace. He had remained quiet during the rest of their stay, adding as much as he felt was socially expected of him and no more. No one had tried to urge him to speak, they accepted his muteness and respected his desire to say little or nothing. They all knew him, knew how he hated to be drawn out except on certain issues, and his behaviour had caused no surprise.
However, now that he was alone, he would not be treated so kindly, his social laziness and introversion would not be permitted in Eleanor's presence. Not that he intended to remain silent, his sole purpose in coming had been to talk, to converse. He waited until Eleanor had tidied up a little, then sat next to her on the bed.
She smiled at him, sharing his relief at their being alone.
'Good evening, Richard.'
'Good evening, Eleanor. How are you?'
'Exhausted.'
She kicked off her slippers and sat cross-legged on the bed, her familiar posture.
'What brings you here, then? Therapy? Psychoanalysis? Lust?'
'Would you believe all three?'
He sat straight, formal, as if he had never been in the room before, as if he were a stranger.
'For God's sake Richard, take your shoes off and relax, you look as if you think I'
m a Civil Service interviewer.'
He laughed quickly, suddenly aware of himself. He removed his heavy leather shoes and aped Eleanor. Together they sat, like bookends separated on a shelf, still and solitary.
'That was an amusing tale about the Civil Service, wasn't it? What's his name again, Kevin something?'
asked Richard. He found it easy to talk in her company. She seemed like a shadow, or an echo, a soft, unobtrusive presence that placed him under no stress, asked no social commitment of him. She was like a sister, or a memory, or perhaps another self. He felt no awkwardness with her; it was almost like talking to himself.
'Hmm, I could see you were quite impressed. Why?'
Her voice was quiet, even, like a hypnotist's, like the soft steady glow of the bedside lamp.
'I don't know exactly. I liked his image of Man as a flame, it sounded poetical and true. Destroying that on which it exists. Ecological I suppose. Do you think he's a poet?'
'No, he isn't. I know him. He's a cynic. He sounds impressive but he uses his intelligence for effect. I like him, but his ego irritates me. He would have made a good parliamentary critic. And I liked his comment about injustice in the capitalist society. It seemed to me he had an ability to sum things up in a phrase, like a songwriter or a poet. I envy his ability to 'say' those things, don't you? Even if you could sum things up like that, you'd never dare 'say' them, would you? You'd be too afraid of embarrassing yourself. You'd get tongue-tied and say it all wrong. That's what you envy most, his ego.'
She said all this in the same unhurried voice, not as an accusation, merely as a presentation of the facts. She knew Richard wanted to hear this, that he took no offence. Perhaps, she thought, that was the trouble with their ridiculous relationship: neither of them took offence. They didn't penetrate into each other's emotions enough. Sometimes she even wondered if they had any real emotions at all, they were always so level-headed and open-minded. She sometimes wished she could anger him or hurt him in some way, or he her, but it was impossible. It would be like trying to get a Buddhist monk to kill a dog. But she had resigned herself to the fact, there was no future in their relationship; it was infertile. Richard, staring at the wall ahead, looking at but not consciously noticing the guitar hanging there or the angry, feminist posters declaring 'equality' or 'freedom from oppression', continued talking into space, vaguely aware of another's presence, glad of its company, its soothing unlonely effect.
'You're right, as usual. Yes, it's just that. You once called me 'socially inept', or was it 'socially wet?', something like that, it amounts to the same. I suppose I am. I feel so out of place, a misplaced person. A born introvert, but should that matter? You see, that's only part of it. I know other shy, reticent, reclusive people who nonetheless feel quite at ease, relatively, in their surroundings. I don't. I feel like a sore thumb, as if I'm out of step with society or something.'
'Be more specific. Give me an example. How does it affect you from day to day?'
'Nothing concrete, only vague feelings of uneasiness or discomfort. At work I feel as if I'm at a dress rehearsal. Everything's acted out, but the audience fails to come. You know what I mean, I've told you it all before. And the newspapers carrying all that tragedy, day in day out, nonchalantly, a job of work. And nobody, least of all me, does anything. To occupy myself I dig my pocket handkerchief of land until the sweat pours off me. I don't know what else to do, it seems too futile. That's why I envy Kevin what's 'is name, he could achieve something positive. Nowadays actions are sneered at, it's words that win the day.'
Eleanor had lain back on the bed and was watching his face intently from the side. He seemed in turmoil, at least as much in turmoil as his sluggish emotions would allow. He spoke clearly and with concern, and his eyes narrowed slightly beneath his lowered eyebrows. She had a vision of him, strong, aloof, bearded, like a Scandinavian peasant, quietly but strongly coming to a decision, framed against the dark northern sky. And she knew she could never approach him in his lonely kingdom. She felt the distance between them and it was vast and cold.
'You were born at the wrong time. You should have been a cottager, you're unsuited to this consumerised society. That's all it is, you're in the wrong place.'
They lapsed into silence. What else was there to say? She tugged at his sleeve, encouraging him to lie next to her. She nestled into his body, seeking warmth and a return of affection while he stared at the ceiling, his vision full of the images she had evoked in him, images of sea and land and moody skies. He felt her body against his side, like water gently lapping a rock, and he thought she could erode him if only there was time. But there was no time, there is never time.
He stayed with her that night, leaving early in the cold, unfriendly, uncompassionate light of morning. He felt no better, and like the weather, his mood had not changed.