Her determination to deal with the situation in such a good-natured way was a huge relief to him: he no longer felt so bad about having his way with her. He was preparing to enjoy her body by means of a despicable ploy before vanishing from her life for ever. But although he considered the conceited young woman was only getting what she deserved, his own underhand behaviour made him feel surprisingly uneasy. He deduced from his sense of disquiet that he still had some scruples, after all. However, he felt decidedly less guilty now that the girl also seemed set on deriving unequivocal enjoyment from offering her body to Captain Shackleton, the courageous hero who had whispered her name amid the ruins of the future.
Compared to some of the places Tom was used to sleeping in, the boarding-house was clean, even cosy. The girl might think it unfit for someone of her social class, but there was nothing to make her flee in horror. While he was asking about a room, he watched her out of the corner of his eye as she casually surveyed the pictures that decorated the modest hallway. He admired the way she tried to appear blase, as though spending her afternoons in bed with men from the future in London boarding-houses was second nature to her.
They climbed the stairs leading to the first floor and went along the narrow corridor. As he watched her walking in front of him, with a mixture of boldness and submission, Tom became aware for the first time of what was about to happen. There was no turning back: he was going to make love to this girl. He was going to hold her naked, eager, even passionate body in his arms. He suddenly burned with lust that sent a shudder from his head to his toes. He tried to contain his excitement as they paused before the door.
All at once Claire tensed. ‘I know it will be wonderful,’ she said, half closing her eyes as if to bolster her courage.
‘It will,’ Tom echoed, trying to conceal his eagerness to undress her. ‘You told me so yourself.
She gave a sigh of resignation. Without further ado, Tom pushed open the door and gestured politely for her to go in, then closed it behind them.
When they had vanished inside, the narrow corridor was once more deserted. The last rays of the evening sun filtered through the grimy window at the far end. It was a fading light with coppery tones, a soft, pale, almost melancholy glow that shone on the floating dust particles turning them into tiny glittering insects. Although, given the leisurely, hypnotic way they swirled at random, a spray of pollen might be a more suitable metaphor, do you not agree?
From behind a few of the closed doors came the unmistakable sounds of amorous engagement: grunts, stifled cries, and even the occasional hearty slap of a hand on a tender buttock – noises that added to the rhythmical creaking of bed frames, suggested that the lovemaking going on there was not of a conjugal nature. Mingled with a few of the guests’ carnal exploits, other sounds of a less lustful nature, like snippets of conversation or a child crying, gave the finishing touches to the chaotic symphony of the world.
The corridor in the boarding-house was some thirty yards long and decorated with prints of misty landscapes; several oil lamps were attached to the walls. As was his custom, the landlord, Mr Pickard (I feel it would be churlish not to introduce him by name even though he will not be appearing again in this tale), was at that very moment preparing to light the lamps, in order not to leave it in darkness, which might have led to all sorts of mishaps when his guests later left the establishment.
Those were his footsteps echoing on the stairs. Each night he found them more difficult to climb, for the years had taken their toll, and recently he could not help giving a triumphant sigh when he reached the top. Mr Pickard took the box of matches out of his trouser pocket and began lighting the half-dozen lamps. He did so very slowly, slipping the match under each shade, like a skilled swordsman performing a final thrust, and holding it there until the oil-soaked wick caught light. Time had transformed this gesture into an almost mechanical ceremony. None of the guests would have been able to tell what he was thinking as he performed his daily lamp-lighting ritual, but I am not one of the guests and, as with all the other characters in this novel, his innermost thoughts are not off limits to me.
Mr Pickard was thinking about his little granddaughter Wendy, who had died of scarlet fever more than ten years earlier: he could not help comparing the lighting of the lamps with the manner in which the Creator behaved towards all His creatures, allowing them to burn, then snuffing them out when He felt like it, without any explanation or consideration for those He left plunged into darkness. When Mr Pickard had lit the last lamp, he walked back down the corridor and descended the stairs, exiting this tale as discreetly as he had entered it.
After he had gone, the corridor was once more deserted, although brightly lit. You are probably hoping I will not describe it to you again, but I am afraid I will, as I have no intention of crossing the threshold into the room Tom and Claire are in and rudely intruding on their privacy. Take pleasure in the flickering shadows on the flowery wallpaper, and play at seeing bunnies, bears and puppies in their shifting shapes as evening turns to night, as – oblivious of man’s concerns – minutes turn inexorably into hours, like a snowball rolling down a hill.
I will not ask how many little animal shapes you managed to see before the door to the room finally opened and Tom stepped out. A smile of satisfaction playing on his lips, he tucked his shirt into his trousers and pulled on his cap. Gently extricating himself from Claire’s embrace, he had told her he must go before the hole in time closed. She had kissed him with the solemnity of one who knows she is kissing the man she loves for the very last time, and with her kiss still imprinted on his lips, Tom Blunt descended the stairs, wondering how it was possible to feel like the happiest man in the world and at the same time the most despicable creature in the universe.
Chapter XXVIII
Two days had gone by since their meeting and, to his surprise, Tom was still alive. No one had shot him in the head as he sat up with a start in his bed, or followed him through the streets waiting to thrust a thirsty blade into his side, or tried to run him down in a carriage or push him in front of a train. Tom could only presume that this agonising calm, this excruciating slowness in finishing him off, was either their way of tormenting him or that no one was going to make him pay for what he had done. More than once, unable to bear the strain, he had been on the point of ending it all himself, slitting his throat or throwing himself off a bridge into the Thames, in the family tradition. Either method seemed a good way of escaping from the apprehension that had even infiltrated his dreams, transforming them into nightmares in which Solomon roamed the streets of London with his metal-insect gait, making his way through the crowds thronging the pavements, and clambering with difficulty up the stairs to his room.
Tom awoke when the automaton broke down his door and, for a few bewildered moments, believed he really was the brave Captain Shackleton, who had escaped from the year 2000 and was hiding in 1896. He was powerless to dispel those dreams, but if at night he was at the mercy of his fears, in daytime he was able to overcome them; by keeping a level head, he had managed to compose himself and was even prepared to accept his fate with calm resignation. He would not take his own life. It was far more dignified to die looking his killers straight in the eye, whether they were made of flesh and blood or of cast iron.
Convinced he had not long to live, Tom saw no point in going to the docks to look for work: he could just as well die with empty pockets. He spent his days wandering aimlessly around London, like a leaf blown by the wind. Occasionally he would stretch out in some park, like a drunk or a vagrant, while in his mind he went over every detail of his encounter with the girl, her ardent caresses, her intoxicating kisses, the passion and ease with which
