Stephen Jones: The Mammoth Book of Best New Horror. Vol 15

“Do you think there may be more in there? More proof, more evidence?”

“I truly don’t know, lieutenant. Truly. Now, why don’t you go and find Benjamin, have a chat to him while I peruse this again? I’d welcome the solitude. It helps me think. Right now my brain is in danger of overload, I feel, and yet I wonder if something eludes us still.”

Smith nodded, went to clasp the old writer’s hand — contact with this man would have felt good, comforting — but Machen had already turned away. Given his leave, Smith left the room.

The corridors beyond were dark and musty, lit faintly here and there by candles which Benjamin must have left burning for their navigation back to the outside door. There were many doors, huddled in shadow as if trying hard to hide, and Smith stopped outside one or two. He put his ear to the wood and listened, but there was only a thick, oppressive silence. Spider webs hung heavy with dust from the corridor ceiling. Yet he saw no spiders. It was as if this whole place was waiting for something to happen.

Smith found himself back in the vestibule where they had entered. He had no real wish to chat with the old caretaker, so he leaned against a wall, hearing nothing but the rushing of his own blood and the thump of his heart. He coughed lightly to kill the silence.

They would be walking home soon. He did not have his watch with him so he decided to look outside and see whether dawn had arrived. The glaring light was still on so he flicked the switch off, shifted the blackout curtain, and glanced through the dust-smeared window.

It was raining. It was dark. And yet for a few seconds as he glanced out, the rain was illuminated into silvery spears cast earthward, darting streaks caught in the glow from something nearby or far away. The light soon faded, however, plunging the alley back into a darkness rattled by the impacts of raindrops.

Smith pulled back from the door and let the curtain drop into place. An explosion high in the air, he guessed, or a searchlight reflected from the low cloud ceiling.

“Tea?”

Smith jumped and spun around. The old caretaker stood behind him, holding a lighted candle in one hand. “You startled me!” Smith said.

Benjamin smiled and raised his eyebrows. “Sorry. I’ve even startled myself in here a few times! Weird sound qualities, all these corridors have. I’ve coughed and heard myself coughing back on many occasions. And once…”

“Yes?”

Benjamin frowned and looked away. “No matter. Tea? I make very good tea. And perhaps you’d like to hear a little about Mr Machen?”

That decided Smith. He followed Benjamin through a couple of corridors, left turn, right turn, thinking how the old man seemed to be winding down with time. How old was he when I was fighting in the trenches? Smith wondered. Would he believe me? Or would he, a friend of the writer, display Machen’s own angry doubt}

Doubt, yes. But Machen had been shaken over the matter of the village name. That was surely no coincidence, and no man of his intelligence would claim it as such.

“I have cheap tea, I’m afraid, but I make up for it by a lengthy brew while still boiling. Makes for an interesting taste, I’m sure you’ll agree.”

They reached Benjamin’s room: small, comfortable, obviously a place where the old man spent a lot of time. “That sounds fine,” Smith said.

“Did Arthur say how long he’d be?”

Smith shook his head.

“Ah! Well, I’ll make him a cup, anyway.” Benjamin went about brewing his tea, everything he did measured and smooth from long practice. He was certainly a man of habit.

“How long have you known Mr Machen?” Smith asked.

Benjamin laughed. “Longer than I care to remember! Longer than you could.”

“I’ve read all his work,” Smith said. “Everything. The books, the stories. Everything.”

“Oh, I doubt that, sir.” Benjamin poured boiling water and stirred the tea, returning it to the boil to get the most out of the insipid tea leaves.

“Then is there more? Hidden work that perhaps I could peruse?”

The old man looked at Smith, fleetingly suspicious. “You don’t know the man, do you? I could tell that by the way he introduced you. But even though you don’t know him, you’ve got him flustered and disturbed. I could sense that, too. And I’m not sure it’s something I feel wholly comfortable with, to be honest, sir.”

Smith shook his head, but he could think of nothing to say, no defence for what he had brought into Machen this night.

Benjamin continued. “However… I’m not one to jump to conclusions. And I know Arthur would have never brought you here if he didn’t have good reason.”

“He’s a great man,” Smith said, wondering where that had come from. He had often thought of the writer as a genius, a true wordsmith and perhaps, at times, capable of magic. But ‘great’ was a heavy word, one with consequences.

“He is that,” Benjamin said, handing Smith a steaming cup. “He’s a good man, a great man. Some would say a prophet.”

Prophet! thought Smith. Yes, a prophet!

“Who would say that?”

Benjamin shrugged and took a sip of his hot tea, gasping and blowing softly to salve his burned lips. “Some,” he said. “Indeed, I heard of one American scholar who described Mr Machen as The Apostle of Wonder.”

Machen came into the room at that moment, seemingly having taken the few minutes to compose himself. “There you are, lieutenant! Oh dear, you’re not drinking Benjamin’s tea, are you? That dreadful brew is our first line of defence should Hitler invade.”

“We were just talking about you,” Benjamin said.

Machen shook his head. “Oh dear, oh dear, and I thought my night could not get any worse. Come, lieutenant! One more place to visit tonight, and then perhaps it’s time to let our brains rest for a while.” He turned back to Benjamin and shook the old man’s hand warmly. “Splendid to see you again, Benjamin. I only hope it’s not too long before the next time.”

“Me too, Arthur.”

The men smiled, and Smith saw an old friendship in their eyes.

Outside, dawn was creeping into the eastern sky. The rain dampened down the smoke rising over the city, but the air still stank of burning, and of war. Sirens sang across the capital, ferrying firemen to fires or the injured away from them, and although the danger was barely passed, there were people in the streets. Milkmen, making their deliveries; men and women going to work; policemen, bearing sad news. Smith strode after Machen, wanting to question him again but honouring the older man’s silence.

Finally, rounding corner after corner, they reached a small park. It was in a square between large houses, an overgrown refuge of plant and tree and squirrel, and upon entering Smith already felt further away from the war. The flowers were bright, the ground dark and clean from the recent downpour, and even the smells of burning seemed lessened.

“Here,” Machen said. “This will do.”

“What are we here for?” Smith said, looking around. He was tired — he had not realized how tired until now, trudging once again through the London streets — and Machen himself seemed exhausted. The old writer eased himself onto a bench with a sigh, servicing his pipe and lighting it before answering.

“We’re here to talk,” Machen said. “Only briefly, for I am truly exhausted, and Purefoy will doubtless be getting worried already. I told her I would be home at sunup, at the latest.” He puffed contentedly on his pipe and looked around at the trees. “Do you like nature, lieutenant?”

Smith looked around, nodding. “Yes. It’s very… peaceful.”

Machen scoffed. “Pah! Peaceful is one thing it is not! Basic, elemental, relaxing, wondrous, revealing and secretive. But nature is alive, Smith, an evolving thing, always on the move. Never peaceful. And it allows us. This park, here, is our own pretence at nature.”