Long Lankin: Stories Read Free Page A

shouted:
    —We’re getting out. Out. Away.
    He set her down again and said into her face, his voice shaking with laughter:
    —You hear me, you mad bitch? We’re getting out and we’re not coming back. Think of it.
    With her mouth open she grinned, nodding her head, yes, yes.
    —And we’ll be free, she said.
    —We’ll be free. We’re young and the world is wide. We’ll be free.
    He told her to wait then, and whistling gaily he left the flat. She listened to his steps fade down the stairs, and when the whistling too had faded she turned back to the window and put her face against the glass. The sun-drenched street was empty but for a lame dog that stood in the gutter, sniffing delicately at a soiled scrap of newspaper. From far off came the sound of faint music, beating softly through the air with slow, sad strokes. The dog lifted a leg and watered on the paper, shook himself, and trotted away. The music ceased, and there was silence. Muriel turned and stood with her arms stiff by her sides and looked at the disordered flat, the books, the dust, the blue threads of smoke he had left to hang so still on the air. Everything seemed strange, and somehow mournful, as though the things she knew were fading into the past even as she stood there. She began to weep.
    When he came back she was standing before the mirror, painting her eyelids. He stopped whistling and looked closely at her reflection in the glass.
    —You’ve been crying.
    —I have not. Where were you?
    —At the shop. Why were you crying?
    —I wasn’t. I told you I wasn’t.
    —All right. You wasn’t.
    She twisted about and fell into his arms, pulling him close. She said:
    —Everything will be all right, Peter, won’t it?
    —Of course. Now let’s go see the man.
    She went out of the flat, and on the stairs Peter kissed her again and told her that everything would be fine.
    By the canal the green bus carried them, past the hideous new buildings of glass and steel, past bored swans, the dusty trees, past the old men who walked the tow paths to watch the water in its changes. Peter said:
    —I wonder if we’ll miss all this.
    She looked at the streets riding past.
    —I will. I’ll miss it. Poor city.
    The trees were in bloom in the grounds of the hospital, their faint wood perfumes mingled with the smell of cut grass. As they walked up the drive a pair of pigeons fled before them, their wings clattering in the silence. Cars were parked before the entrance, and a withered old lady was slowly picking her way across the lawn.
    They went in through the high doors and stopped at the reception desk, where a nurse with a bored expression sat behind the glass. From the stairs above them came the sound of voices to disturb the hanging silence.
    —Mr Williams, please, Peter said.
    The nurse looked slowly from one of them to the other, then lowered her eyes and examined Muriel’s white linen dress. She ran her finger down a chart before her on the desk and said:
    —Three-forty-two. The corridor to your right. Count the doors.
    They walked down the white echoing corridor. Far off at the end there was a window of frosted glass where the sun came in and made a mist of light that glared on the polished floor. Muriel pulled down the corners of her mouth and said in a funereal voice:
    —Count the doors, all ye who enter here.
    Peter smiled vaguely at her and looked away. They came to the room and he knocked gently.
    The walls were of the same sterile white as the corridor, and the floor had pale green tiles. There was a plywood wardrobe and a small locker. Opposite the door a square window looked out over the lawn to the trees along the drive. The bed was long and narrow, with white enamelled legs and a white spread. The old man lay there propped up against the pillows, his face turned to the window.
    —Hello dad, Peter said.
    Slowly the old man turned his head and looked at them blankly. Muriel took time to close the door, then stood awkwardly with her weight on