Graham Joyce - The Silent Land

Zoe shook her head.

The concierge said something to another resident and started to make his way through the throng towards her, all the time waving the envelope.

‘It’s not for me,’ Zoe said. ‘It’s not for me.’

‘But Madam!’ said the concierge as he closed in on her.

Zoe shut her eyes.

And when she opened them again, the concierge was gone, and all the other residents chattering in the lobby had gone, and the three receptionists and the English women and the bus with all its new arrivals. All had vanished.

Zoe closed her eyes once more, this time for a count of ten. When she opened them she was relieved to find the lobby still empty, still deserted. Whatever she was being shown in this repeated vision, she didn’t want it. She vented a huge sigh and, still trembling from the shock of the repeated but utterly lifelike vision, went to the window and peered outside. The mist seemed to be lifting, just a little. The snow flurries had diminished, but visibility was still low.

She returned to her place in front of the fire. Then she got up again and revisited the window. She looked out, and there she saw a slight movement.

It was difficult to see anything beyond twenty or thirty metres. The mist was drifting now, with gusts of wind opening up visibility here and there for a few brief moments. But she glimpsed a grey wolf-like shape, and again a movement that suggested something was out there.

She peered hard into the mist, wishing that Jake was back. Then there was another gust of wind, and as the mist lifted she saw the men.

There were three of them. They were assembled in a group, though one of them was in a crouched position, elbow on his knee. The wolf-like shape. He was smoking a cigarette and staring back at the hotel. They were all smoking cigarettes. As the mist billowed around them, she saw the embers of a cigarette spark as one of them inhaled; and she saw the plumes of smoke as others breathed out. They all smoked and looked back at the hotel. Not at her, exactly: they hadn’t spotted her. They were all smoking and gazing back at different aspects of the hotel.

She ducked her head. Her heart slapped like a piston inside her and her breath came short. She slithered to the floor. After a few moments she collected herself and crawled to another part of the window where there was a curtain, and from there she was able to use the crack between the curtain and the wall to observe the men.

But they barely moved, other than to lift their cigarettes to their mouths or to blow out smoke. One man threw his cigarette to the ground and stamped on it. A few moments later he produced a packet and got another cigarette, taking a light from one of the others. The third member of the group remained in a crouched position, scanning the hotel, always scanning.

She thought of Jake out there. He would be returning at any moment with the wood. They would see him. They would see him coming back with the wood.

She tried to still her heart. Think , she said to herself. Think. She had to find a way to warn him. Had to find a way that didn’t reveal to the group of men that they were there, that they were holed-up in the hotel. She had to get to Jake and warn him.

A back way out of the hotel. Though she had never used it, there had to be a back way out of the hotel. Maybe a fire exit. Or a door from the kitchen—yes, that was it. She had seen a door from the kitchen. Jake had used it to take out the garbage. She could go out of that door and make her way around the side of the hotel. From there she could get to the road. That was it; that was what she had to do.

She hunkered down and crawled beneath the windows, hugging close to the wall. When she’d cleared the windows she was able to stand upright and make her way through the restaurant with the certainty of moving unseen. From there she stepped through the swing doors of the kitchen.

It felt even colder in the kitchen. She realised she’d left her coat by the fire.

She decided to go without her coat. She crossed the tiled kitchen floor and found the rear door unlocked. Once outside, she picked her way between the rubbish bins and the garbage skips. From there it was possible to creep silently around the side of the hotel to get to the road.

But once she drew level with the road she saw that there was a vista of maybe fifteen or twenty metres, between the hotel and the building diametrically opposite the hotel, where she would be exposed. She could see the three men, immobile, still surveying the hotel,still smoking their cigarettes. It was too far to run. They would easily spot her flitting across the street.

But as she pressed her nose against the wall, trying to keep out of sight but at the same time to spy on the men, there was another flurry of mist, almost but not completely obscuring her view of them. The mist drifted before them like smoke: now they were there, now they were not. She knew that if the mist were with her, she could race across the road unseen.

She waited for her moment. It was maddening. The mist hung in the air like a prancing unicorn or a chimera, partly obscuring her view of the men, but not fully. She could see their legs, or their covered heads, as the mist broiled this way and that. Their patience was terrifying. They simply watched, waiting, smoking.

At last the mist roiled in with a new flurry of snow and Zoe put her head down and ran. She ran in the icy snow, her feet slipping; but she recovered, launching herself to the other side of the road where the men would not be able to see her.

Panting heavily she pressed her back against the wall, steam escaping from her mouth. Then she hurried towards the house where Jake had gone to fetch the wood. It took her no more than two minutes. When she reached the now depleted log pile she found the tarpaulin heaped with logs, but no sign of Jake.

She was afraid now that if the men did leave their station they might spot her, so she went inside the house, hoping to find Jake. As before, the door opened freely onto the dark kitchen. Dull light reflected from the old mirror above the mantelpiece. Her eyes were drawn to the cabinet-maker’s workshop, with its available coffin. She stepped towards the workshop and then turned suddenly to see Jake. He had his back to her and he was looking at the wall.

‘Jake! There are men.’

Jake turned to face her and put a finger to his lips, to hush her. Then he turned back to the wall.

She bustled over to him. ‘Three men.’

‘Are you sure?’ He seemed to be in a trance.

‘Of course!’

‘Look,’ he said, unimpressed by her report. ‘Look at the photographs.’

She gasped.

‘How long,’ Jake said, ‘how long ago was it that we were here in this house?’

‘It was only… yesterday. No. Wait, that’s right. It was yesterday.’

‘It feels to me like such a long time since we were here. Weeks. Months.’

‘No! It was only yesterday.’

Jake was still gazing at the photo frames. Where Zoe recalled the generations of families represented by formal, sepia portraits and modern, fading snapshots, there were now none. The photographs had all gone from the frames. All of the frames, whether mounted on the wall or resting on flat surfaces, were empty. It made her blood sting with cold. It made her skin prickle with heat.

‘The men, Jake! There are men watching the hotel.’

He seemed utterly unafraid. ‘Let’s go and talk to them.’

‘No! We have to get back inside the hotel!’

‘I don’t know about that.’ He still seemed to be in a daze. There was almost a slur to his words. ‘If there are men, I have to talk with them.’

Zoe slapped Jake’s face, hard. ‘I won’t let you. I won’t hear of it! You are not to go out there!’