Table talk

by Peter Ackroyd

The three of us were sitting around a table in the parlour of a small public house. The pub had an old-fashioned appearance, one of those strange survivals you find in the City. It was dusty, and it smelled of stale beer. The setting, however, is not important for this story. My companions were not mournful men, but they were not merry. They seemed preoccupied, and occasionally glanced towards the door as if they were frightened of being overheard. Perhaps it was just the time of year. The days before Christmas can make certain people uneasy.

May I describe them to you? The first of them was of uncertain age, poised perhaps somewhere in his forties but already marked by an elderly manner. He had a slightly vapid yet querulous expression, as if he had once taken offence at a humiliation long since forgotten. He seemed to frown as he spoke. Given the nature of his story, this was perhaps understandable. The second man would have passed as a moderately successful accountant, with a quick nervous smile and a habit of clearing his throat before he spoke. He had a slightly rueful expression, if he could be said to have any expression at all. He appeared to be agitated, and continually pushed the beer mat around the table when he told his own story. And as for me — well, I am only the narrator and do not need to be described.

‘I have never told anyone this before,’ the first man said. ‘I don’t like to think about it. Anyway, you wouldn’t believe me.’ ‘No reason not to believe you,’ I replied. ‘Not until you have told us.’ ‘Do you remember the bus disaster at Hammersmith? Two or three years back now. A double-decker came off the road, and smashed into the side of a small café.’ ‘There were many dead, weren’t there?’ the other man asked him.

‘Too many. I was there, you see. I was in the café. Drinking tea, I think. I like strong tea. Still do. I must have seen the bus coming towards us, through the plate-glass window. But I don’t remember that bit. Perhaps I wasn’t looking. Then all at once something — terrifying — came into the room. And then there was a moment of silence. Of intense silence as if all sound had been violently expelled. Then there was the screaming. Except that, no, it wasn’t screaming. It was the noise of glass being shattered and splintered — by objects. Then there were the flames. An explosion. And then there came the howling. I speak of it now as a sequence, but it might have happened in any order or without any order at all.

‘Something fell with a thud on the table where I was sitting. It was a severed foot. I looked at it without moving, without any reaction at all. It was an absurd thing to see. I noticed that the blood had gone to the sole and heel, and that the wound itself was blanched as if all the blood had fled from the site of severing. I noticed, too, that my tea was not spilled. One of the other customers was leaning over the table, his head sagging, his arms down by his side. Like this. I did not know if he was dead. But I guessed that he was.

“The ambulances must be coming.” I knew the voice. It was that of the old woman who ran the café. “Please be calm,” she was saying to me. “Nothing more can happen. We have to help these poor buggers.” ‘She went into the wrecked bus, and came out with a child in her arms. He seemed to be unhurt, and she kept on kissing him. He made no sound at all. He just stared up at her with great round eyes of confusion. She placed him gently by the counter. But he had no reaction at all.

‘There was a young woman squatting on the floor of the café, surrounded by a pool of blood. Her dress was way up above her knees. She was screaming. The old woman went over to her, put her arm around her shoulders, and whispered to her. She went into the kitchen, and came back with a wet towel that she bound tightly around the young woman’s head. I don’t know in what period of time all this happened. There was no time.

‘Someone called out from the top deck of the bus, sagging through the broken window of the café. Part of the roof had been torn off, and he was trying to climb through it. “Somebody help me. Please,” he was saying. “Somebody help me.” To my amazement the old woman climbed up the stairs of the bus, and made her way across the steeply declining top deck. She persuaded the man to come down. She put her arm around him, and tried to help him to his feet. But his footing gave way, and he fell heavily against her. From the way that he fell, I knew that he was dead.

‘There was such a stench of rubber and of fuel and of burning that it seemed to take the form of a colour. Red covered everything. There was red in the corners, red on the walls, red in the air. And that was the other thing. The air was sticky. It stuck to my face, if you know what I mean.’ ‘No,’ the other man said. ‘I do not.’ He ignored the interruption. He put out his hand, and pointed his finger as if he were watching the scene once again. He was painting the scene with his finger. ‘But the old lady kept moving among them all. She went back to the little boy and kissed him. She cradled the young woman. Then the ambulances arrived, and she went to work to help the crew. She helped them lift people on to the stretchers. She must have been strong. She led some of the wounded into the backs of the ambulances. Everyone seemed to take her for granted. Nobody seemed to notice her, really, in all the confusion.

‘There was one old man in the café who was in a bad way. He was slumped over the counter, moaning. “Well, Jim,” she said. “Is that the way with you now? Moaning and groaning? I’ll be back for you.” She went into the kitchen again, and came back with a bowl of water and some paper towels. She cleaned his face with them. She had this intent look upon her face. She was full of energy. I could see it shining all around her. At one point she went into the ambulance to help with a young couple who had been badly burnt. She came back a little while later, with a perplexed expression. Or perhaps it was disappointment. It seemed that one of them had died on the way to the hospital. But she kept on busily attending to the others. She never stopped for a moment. She had a word for everyone.

‘Why am I telling you all this? It is not a happy story, is it? We can agree about that. But this is the point. The next day, I read the newspapers. And there was a picture of the old lady on the front page of one of them. She had been one of the victims. She had died in the first moment of the explosion. What I had seen was something else.’ ‘That is all very interesting,’ the other man said. Then he looked at me. ‘Please reserve judgment on it until I have told my own story.’ ‘Go ahead,’ I replied. ‘Feel free.’ ‘I was on holiday in the North last year. I like that part of the world. I had spent the day in Hexham, just to take a look at the abbey. I like old stone and crypts and churchyards. I still do. On the following morning I took it into my head to visit Lindisfarne. Holy Island. So I set off in a taxi. Eventually it took me over the causeway and on to the island itself. I loved it. I visited the castle, and the priory, and walked around the village. Well, I lost track of the time. I decided to take one photo of the castle from a different vantage, so I walked on to the sand. The shore inland seemed so close that I was not worried. Of course I had misinterpreted the signs of low tide. I had walked a good way from the island when the water began to rise around me. I tried to run back, but the surging water impeded me. And I can’t swim. My feet seemed to be sinking into the sand, and pretty soon the water was around my waist. Of course I panicked. Who wouldn’t? I screamed for help, although no one was visible. I waved wildly towards the island in the hope that someone might see me. But no one did. By now the incoming tide had reached the level of my chest. It is said that death by drowning is very peaceful. But who is to know? No one has come back with this information. I certainly was not very peaceful. The water closed around me and, as I thrashed and screamed, I went under.

‘When I came up again, gasping, I saw a small boat moving towards me. There was a fisherman sitting by the stern, by the outboard motor, steering in my direction. He was soon beside me. I grasped the side of the boat, and he hauled me on board. I tried to thank him, but I was too exhausted to make much sense. I noticed him, though. He had a prominent nose, like the beak of some bird; he smiled at me, and I could see that his teeth were broken and badly discoloured. On his head he wore a battered leather cap.

“Lucky I was here,” he said. “You would have been a dead man.” “I can’t swim.” “I could see that. You were struggling.” “I was going under.” “That is not a good place to be.” “I know it. Then you rescued me.” “Don’t mention it.” ‘He took me safely across the water, and we reached the further shore. I stepped out of the boat. I made a gesture of farewell, but he had already turned the boat around and was heading back to the island or the open sea. I walked for a bit, hoping to dry my clothes in the strong wind, and then I found a small inn. The landlord and his wife could see that I had taken a ducking, and I told them all about my misadventure. Then I described the fisherman who had rescued me. I told them that he had a large nose and broken teeth. That he had a leather cap. They looked at me strangely, and then looked at one another. “That was Iain Robertson,” the landlord said.

“Does he fish in these waters?” “He did.” “Did?” “He was a fisherman. But he drowned two years ago. It was reckoned to be suicide.”’ My companion had finished his drink, and set down his glass. ‘Well, gentlemen,’ he said. ‘That is my story.’ ‘And a very remarkable story it is,’ I said. ‘You have both told remarkable stories. What a coincidence, too, that you men strangers to one another — have come together here.’ ‘What is the name of this place, by the way?’ the first man asked me.

‘I will let you in on a secret,’ I replied. ‘It has no name.’ ‘What do you mean?’ ‘I have to inform you of something else, too.’ I turned to the first man. ‘You died when the bus smashed into the café. You were sitting directly in its path.’ Then I addressed the second man. ‘You did drown off Holy Island, after all.’ ‘What are you saying to us?’ the second man asked me. ‘That we are dead men?’ ‘I’m afraid so. Don’t you see? That’s why those — others — were visible to you.’ ‘But what about the landlord of the inn? And his wife?’ ‘Oh, they’ve been dead for many years. That inn was bulldozed to make way for a housing estate.’ They looked at me with evident surprise, and I could not help but laugh at the perplexity on their faces. The second man slapped his forehead, and leant back in his chair. ‘Blow me!’ he said.

‘So we are ghosts, too, are we?’ the first man asked me. ‘I might have known something like this would happen. I have always been interested in ghosts, you see. Do you think that’s what caused it?’ I shook my head, and he seemed to look at me accusingly. ‘There is no need to gloat.’ ‘I am not gloating. It could happen to anyone.’ He kept on looking at me. ‘And what of you, sir? What are you?’ I rose from my seat and left them. I think they began playing a game of cards.