The Wanderer by Timothy J. Jarvis Read Free Book Online

duppy-man tore the finger free, put it in his bag, wiped his knife on Clifton’s shirt.
    Clifton closed his eyes. He felt the duppy-man take hold of him, lug him from the corpse heap, let him fall into the mass grave. On striking the mounded carrion, he opened his eyes again, found himself lying on the dank earth in the graveyard of the church once more, the sun rising in the east, the burnt-out van a little way off. The duppy-man, corpse cart, plague pit, village, were all gone. But so was the ring-finger of his left hand, a raw and bloody stump in its place.
    He held that hand up.
    ‘See?’ he said.
    I nodded. I asked him what he did after.
    ‘I step out, mon. The Cockneys’d left keys in the ignition, so I took their car, drove back to London.’
    ‘Do you think it true? All that?’
    ‘I don’t know what I think. Most of mi friends reckon there was some obeah, some bad science, in that place. Puttin’ awaythe special sister I live with. She says to mi there was no duppy-man. She says I is pure bobo, a fool to think so. Maybe she’s right.’
    Clifton explained his ‘special sister’, by which I gathered he meant his lover, thought metal blasted from the van had loped his finger, that his dread vision had been caused by vapours from the burning narcotics. Then he shrugged.
    Clifton’s story had solaced me; I felt it true, felt he, like me, had somehow strayed over the bourn between the everyday and the eldritch – the truth of the old saw about the burden shared struck me then. Later, reflecting on the consolation his tale had afforded, I placed classifieds in several newspapers seeking folk who’d undergone similar horrors, proposing a gathering to relate dread accounts, and, in doing so, lessen their grip. I’d hoped Clifton might respond, but he did not: perhaps he never saw the advertisement, or perhaps he’d been, by that time, convinced by his lover’s rationalization.
    On finishing his tale, Clifton leant down, put a cassette into the tape-player. He grinned as the first strains of an orchestra filled the car.
    ‘What you tink?’ he asked. ‘Know it?’
    I confessed my ignorance of classical music.
    ‘Ah shame, is irie.’
    He told me it was a piece by an Estonian composer, Arvo Pärt. I found it soothing.
    When we arrived outside my flat. I took out my wallet, but Clifton shook his head.
    ‘Everyting’s good. I enjoyed to talk wit you so there’s no charge.’
    ‘No, really, thank you, but…’
    ‘No arguments. You keep yourself good.’
    With that he smiled and fell to rolling another spliff.
    ‘Thanks. That’s kind of you.’
    ‘Is nuh ting.’
    I got out of the car, rummaged in my satchel for my keys.
    Clifton leant over, wound down the passenger window.
    ‘Likkle more,’ he said, then waved, lit his spliff, drove off.
    I went inside, got straight into bed. In spite of all I’d undergone, I slept soundly till my alarm went off. On being roused, though, after a few moments oblivion, the night’s terrors crowded back. At first, I thought them residues of nightmares; once fully awake, I sat stark upright and cried out.
    I spent the following few months struggling to maintain a seeming calm, while my brain seethed. In the office, I was diligent, finding respite in my work. Outside of work, I was no longer taciturn, reclusive, but outgoing, spent many of my evenings in pubs and bars: I found succour in both companionship and drink. All those who knew me were shocked and pleased by the change; I believe I’ve never been liked as much, before or since, as I was at that time. My flirtation with Rachel grew into romance. We were well suited, similar in character, though she didn’t share my tendency to gloom, we had many interests in common and went together to art galleries, concerts, plays, and films. While with her, I found I could forget gnawing fears.
    However, despite these distractions, memories of the hellish night remained; a splinter, left unattended, begun to fester. There