Long Lankin: Stories Read Online Free Page B

about him again in fear. Stephen watched him with puzzled eyes. He went on:
    —There is a new brand of despair in the world. The old ways are dying, and the old religion too. When people turn their backs on God what can they expect? What can they expect, I say?
    He looked at them with his bright, troubled eyes.
    —I know, he said. I turned my back on God. I wanted to serve him. The call was there, the call to serve, but I told myself it led to death. I was proud and now I have nothing.
    They reached the car.
    —I have nothing left.
    Stephen opened the door for his wife and she got hurriedly inside.
    —Without God nothing. Do you hear me?
    He put his hand on Stephen’s arm, and Stephen tried to push it away, but the fat little fingers held him.
    —Do you know what I’m talking about, do you? Have you seen the terror and felt the angel of death brush your face with his wing? Have you?
    His eyes were wide now with a fixed stare, and there were spots of white on his mouth. Stephen said with difficulty, looking anxiously to see if the people in the other cars were watching:
    —Look, I don’t know who you are.
    —Have you seen it, I say? Have you?
    —Listen …
    —Admit it. Admit that everywhere you look is desolation. The hand of a spurned god has touched the world and still we ignore it. I tell you, that same hand will touch us with only death unless we —
    —Let go of my arm.
    —Admit it. Only admit it.
    —You’re mad.
    Abruptly the little man relaxed, and the brightness went from his eyes. It was as though he had been awaiting this accusation. Quietly he said:
    —Mad. Indeed. I saw the horror and the desolation but I would not call it by its name. I had no courage or not enough. If I’m mad it’s that failure that drove me to it. But you. You could if you chose, you could —
    —Shut up, Stephen cried. Shut your mouth you old fool and get away from me. Get away.
    He pushed the little man off, and his ill-fitting hat slipped from his head and rolled in the gravel. He came back again, his finger outstretched, his lips wet. Stephen got into the car and slammed the door. While he started the engine the little man came near and pressed his face against the window. He stared at them silently with his burning eyes. Stephen forced the gears, and the tyres screamed as the car fled away down the drive.
    They came to the road that led to the village. Stephen was shaking and he said between his teeth:
    —Madman. Jesus.
    Alice said nothing, and he turned and looked at her sharply. He asked:
    —Who was he?
    She shrugged her shoulders.
    —But you knew him, he said.
    —What makes you think that?
    —You recognized him, he insisted. You stopped on the path when you saw him coming.
    —Does that mean I knew him? she asked, regarding him calmly.
    Stephen was confused. He looked out at the road and muttered:
    —He knew us. He knew our names. Who the hell was he? This is a small place, I grew up here. I should know him.
    For a time there was silence, and then he muttered:
    —These bloody lunatics should all be locked up.
    —He was sad.
    —Sad? Sad? He was a lunatic.
    —But he was still sad. Why are you so cruel?
    —Cruel, you say? Did you hear the things he said to me? Don’t talk rot.
    —I’m not talking rot.
    —He was a complete head-case and it was obvious to everyone but you. Did you see how no one would come near us when they saw him there? Did you see that? Yes. They bloody well knew, but of course Alice with her gentility and kindness would say nothing but just stand there and let me walk right into it like a fool. Jesus.
    —O stop it, for god’s sake. I told you I didn’t know him.
    She covered her ears and began to rock back and forth in her seat. He said:
    —I’m sorry.
    —That’s all you can ever say.
    He cast agonized eyes at the roof.
    —Jesus, Alice, don’t start. It’s been a rough day and I’ve had all I can take. Please don’t start.
    She sat upright and rubbed her eyes. Lighting a