John Banville - Long Lankin - Stories

The screen door was locked, and she shook it frantically.

— Helen. Helen.

The door opened, and as she stepped quickly inside Helen looked at her with mild curiosity.

— What is it, Julie?

— Nothing. I … nothing.

She went into the living-room, and Helen followed, watching her. She sat on the couch and squeezed her hands between her knees. Helen stood above her and put a gentle hand on her hair.

— What’s wrong, Julie?

— I don’t know. Something … strange. I saw someone.

— Who did you see?

— Someone. I don’t know.

She began to tremble. Helen looked up to the window and slowly smiled.

— Look, Julie. There’s who you saw. Look.

Julie turned. Beyond the glass glaring with light someone was moving, a hand was raised, signalling.

— Don’t let it in, she breathed, her fingers tearing at each other. Lock the door, Helen.

But Helen was gone. Julie looked away from the window and held her face in her hands. After what seemed a long time she lifted her head, hearing sounds about her.

— Julie. Julie. We have a visitor, Julie, look.

Helen was there before her, smiling, and beside her a stranger.

— Who are you? Julie asked in a small, dead voice.

He was young, not more than eighteen or nineteen, a tall, heavily built boy with a shock of red hair flowing up and away from his forehead. He wore a blue shirt open at the neck, and faded denims. With his hands on his hips he stood and watched her, his wide, handsome face composed and expressionless. He asked:

— Why were you frightened of me, Julie?

She looked from one of them to the other, searching their faces.

— What do you want here? she asked.

— I came to say goodbye to you, he said. You’re going away and I came to say goodbye.

She shook her head and looked appealingly at Helen.

— What does he want, Helen?

— He came to say goodbye to us.

— But I don’t know him, she wailed.

The boy laughed, and shook the flaming hair away from his forehead. He lit one of Helen’s cheroots and sat down on the couch. Julie moved away from him, and he smiled sardonically at her. Helen put her hands on her knees and leaned down to gaze silently into Julie’s face. The boy asked:

— Are you sleeping well now, Julie? Do you sleep well?

She did not answer, and he went on:

— Why can’t you sleep, Julie?

Again silence. He shrugged his shoulders, and leaving the couch he walked about the room, examining it here and there. Julie followed him with her eyes. Helen reached forward and touched her cheek lightly and then went to stand again at the window. Julie’s lips began to move, and she said:

— I’m afraid. I’m afraid of the dark.

The boy stopped in the middle of the floor.

— Well you should leave a light burning. With a light there would be no darkness and then you would not be afraid. Would you?

Julie looked down helplessly at her hands where they lay like dead things in her lap. Without turning, Helen murmured:

— Not that kind of darkness.

— I see, the boy said. Yes I see.

Julie’s hands moved, and she smiled at them.

— You see, I’m afraid that I won’t wake up and yet I’m afraid of waking too. Sometimes I think there is something in the room. Some animal sitting on its haunches in the corner watching me. And I’m afraid.

The boy ambled out the door, and from the next room he called:

— What kind of animal? In the corner, Julie, what kind of animal is it?

— I don’t know, she whispered.

— What? What did you say, Julie?

Helen left the window and sat down in an armchair in the corner. One half of her face now lay in shadow, and Julie looked away from the still, single eye watching her. The boy came back and leaned against the door frame, his arms folded.

— There are some strange things in this house. Shaving lotion. I found shaving lotion.

— I like the perfume, Helen said. I prefer it.

— Ah. You prefer it. But there are other things. In the bathroom.

Helen suddenly laughed, and the sound of her laughter seemed to shake the room. The boy sat again beside Julie. This time she did not move away. She was gazing in a trance at her knees. The boy ran a hand through his hair and said:

— Last year there was a girl here. In this house. She was alone. A very strange girl with blue eyes. I don’t think she was Irish. Maybe English. I came to see her. She used to talk too about things following her. Threatening her. I came every day to see her. I listened to her and she said it made her feel better that I listened to her. One day I found her sitting on the floor crying. I asked her what was wrong and she said she was afraid of the sea. I wanted to teach her how to swim and she said that once she could swim and was a strong swimmer but now she had forgotten. She couldn’t swim now.

There was silence but for the cries of birds out on the sound. At last Julie asked:

— What happened?

— What?

— The girl. What happened to her? Was she drowned?

— Drowned? No. She went away, I think. But I don’t think she was drowned.

Julie stood up and went toward the stairs, her head bent and her arms hanging loosely at her sides.

— Where are you going? Helen said.

— I’m going to … to lie down for a little while. Just a little while. I’m so tired. It’s strange.

In the bedroom she lay with her hands folded on her breast and listened to their voices. Once they laughed, and in a while all was silence. She watched the reflections of the water above her on the ceiling. They seemed to have but one pattern which constantly formed, dissolved, and reformed again. A small wind came in from the sea and murmured against the window, and the curtains moved with a small scraping sound. Her eyelids fell. She struggled against sleep, but the strange weariness she felt was greater than her fear. She watched in fascinated horror her mind drift into the darkness, floating away with the small sounds of the sea, the distant crying of the birds.

— Helen. Helen.

A voice was screaming, but no call came in answer. The room seemed filled with a white mist that pressed heavily against her eyes. She left the bed and opened the door. A vast, deep silence lay on the house, a silence which seemed to hold in it the inaudible hum of a tremendous machine. She moved to the top of the stairs and sat on the first step. From here she could see into the living room. They were down there, on the couch. She leaned against the banister and watched, listening in awe to the strange sounds, the terrifying sounds. There was a faint warm smell, like the smell of blood and bones. She fled into the bathroom, and there she was sick. When the nausea passed she lowered herself to the floor and leaned her face against the cool enamel of the bath. She wept.

There were footsteps on the stairs, the sound of a door opening quietly, more steps, a voice.

Julie. What are you doing here?

Crying out, she opened her eyes, then turned away her face. Helen ran her fingers through her unruly air, and looked down helplessly at the girl huddled before her in terror. She reached down, and taking her under the arms lifted her to her feet.

— Julie, what is the matter with you?

— Has he gone?

— What? Are you hurt? Take your hands away and let me look at you. You haven’t taken anything, have you?

Julie, her fingers pressing her eyes, began to moan. Helen pulled open the door of the cabinet above the handbasin and checked swiftly through the bottles there. She said in exasperation:

— This will have to stop, Julie. You’re behaving like a child. You are looking for attention. Are you listening to me?

But Julie went on moaning. She sat on the edge of the bath now, her shoulders trembling. Helen threw up her hands and groaned at the ceiling.