‘Of course, first I had to run the gauntlet of my jailers, my landlady and her younger sister. No matter how soft my tread upon the stair, the door to the gloomy dining room was always open, the sound of their chanting filling the hallway: “Let us beg and pray Him day by day to reveal Himself to our souls, to quicken our senses, to give us sight and hearing, taste and touch of the world to come …”
‘That afternoon, I performed my best impression of a silent cat on the tips of my paws down the stairs, paw by paw, down the hallway, paw by paw, towards the front door, but to no avail, no avail –
‘“Mr Natsume!”
‘There they sat, one stout, one slender, dressed in black, their knitting and their needles to one side, their Bibles open, poised in prayer over their tea and toast – toast, toast, it was always toast! – their police-ears ever cocked, their detective-heads now turned –
‘“Mr Natsume …”
‘I already had my hand upon the handle of the front door, but I was too late: my landlady had sprung, her hand on the sleeve of my overcoat, and I was caught once again in her missionary grip.
‘“You are going out, Mr Natsume?”
‘I am indeed, Mrs Nott.
‘“For whatever reason, may I ask? You would be most ill advised, for the weather is most inclement today.”
‘I am aware of the weather, Mrs Nott. However, I have a somewhat pressing appointment, I lied. So if you will excuse me.
‘“You are excused,” she said. “But as we pray for the health of our Queen, we will also pray for yours and you, Mr Natsume. Pray you do not catch your death out there.”
‘It was true their Queen seemed to be sinking fast, and I had often wondered if their whole island would not be dragged under with her when down she went –
‘I am most grateful to you, Mrs Nott, I replied, then I opened the door, went down the steps and heard the lock turn behind me.
‘Outside the house, nothing was visible; the fog tinted yellow, tainted green, green and brown in a muddy beige, it did not drift, it did not shift, but was just there, was always there, a muffled, shuttered world. Yes, this world which greeted me had shrunk to just four frozen, silent yards square, smaller even than the room I had just left behind. However, I knew if I turned and walked left, then I would be set on a northerly course. Thus I proceeded, groped my way, four yards by four yards, another four yards visible as the former yards disappeared into the mists of the past. Indeed, I felt myself drifting, drifting in time, drifting through space. But then I came to a crossroads, and I stopped on the kerb. The disembodied head of a horse cut through the grey air before my eyes, the people on the top of the bus it pulled presumed lost in the fog. On a better day, a clearer day, I might have been tempted to jump aboard for it was the one mode of transport I had the confidence and purse to use. Carriages were beyond my means, and the trains I detested, both steam and electric, over-ground and under-ground. Particularly the under-ground: the foulness of the air, the swaying of the carriages, from cave to cave, reducing a man to the life of a mole. But I had set myself adrift in this sea of emptiness to walk, and so walk I did. Across one street and up the next. Four yards by four yards, four yards by four yards …
‘The only measure of time in this void was the muffled tolls of Big Ben, and I counted six as I came upon the river at London Bridge. I crossed over this Styx to the other side, among a horde of shades I could only sense not see, unless a sudden shoulder rubbed or knocked against my own.
‘Hard on the other side, I stood before Wren’s Monument to the Great Fire. I felt a fresh chill here, two lines by Pope upon my lips: Where London’s column, pointing at the skies, like a tall bully, lifts the head, and lies. And I too lifted my eyes to look for the gilded urn that tops its fluted column. Of course, its golden head was lost, yet still it casts a shadow across my soul. Quickly, I veered off to the right. Suddenly, a white object flapped fleetingly past my eyes. I strained to see the remains of a gull swallowed up by the dark.
‘Yes, the grey world had now turned black on all four sides, blacker than lacquer. Yet still I pressed on, on and on, along the bottom of this pit. My coat damp and heavy, my whole body washed in liquefied peat. The black-stained air started to assail my eyes, my nose and my mouth. I felt my breathing suffocated. I felt I was choking on arrowroot gruel. And, truly, I felt I could not go on. Not another step on. But at just that moment, a yellow light the size of a pea pulsed through the gloom and, heedless of the rocks, I forced my body towards this lighthouse …
‘It was a public house, its gaslights burning. All brass and glass, all laughter and song. A veritable pantomime! I breathed a sigh of relief. I stepped out of the fog, stepped into the
