be out today and have a throw and a lunch at the Pavilion. Ain’t I going to get a finger in the Golden Bowl at least? Or at least a look at the Bumpy Girl? What the hell, I’m no matron. …”
But Larry opened the door a crack. “She wants watching, Dora.” And, bracing Sparrow, raising his head slightly: “Use the ropes if you need to. Thick.”
The door closed and Margaret remained kneeling at the empty bed. Little Dora tore off her gloves. Thick began to laugh.
There was a railing and Michael Banks took hold of it, then stared down into the darkness of five broad swinging doors. He was quite alone when he pushed through one of them. Underneath the grandstand and at the bottom of the steps he found ahead of him the empty reaches of the public lavatory—low ceiling, fifty feet wide and of concrete painted black and tiny brick cubes washed with a light-green color. There were a few bulbs in cages waist high between the urinals and toilet bowls. It was the rank darkness of the empty Tube; a man could hide even at the base of one of those toilets if he crouched low enough, made himself small.
He started to whistle softly and the sound coming from his own lips—he was not often a whistler, a smiler—made the words “barrels of fun” go round in his head. Slowly he unbuttoned his coat and listened. He was standing, he noticed, near a toilet that had no seat, one badly defaced in the row of urinals. Once he had seen a man die on a toilet—from fear—then had found a notice of the death in the papers. “Why are you always reading obituaries?” He remembered that ugly voice. “Who do you expect to find on the lists?” He couldn’t say.
Now he peered ahead at a row of pipes with great brass valves—he had never been able to turn taps beneath a sink, could not bring himself to touch the copper ball, slime-covered, gently breathing, that lay in the bottom of a toilet tank—thinking that it wouldn’t do at all to walk down there.
Then he heard the footsteps. They were none he knew, not those of Lovely, Cowles, or the jockey, who had a light and bitter tread. These were the sounds of a measured step, the left foot heavier than the right, the dragging of shoe nails against the stones. And Banks saw a movement, a mere breaking of shadow, at the end of the tunnel by which he himself had entered. He turned, starting toward the opposite end where the pipes loomed, but there too he saw the flickering of a white hand, fragments of darkness about to become the shape of a man. So he wheeled close against the nearest urinal and clutched at his clothing.
The man was beside him. A man smaller than Banks, humped over, with feet large as boxes and a slatestrapped across his chest. The name of a horse was on the slate:
Rock Castle
.
Banks kept his eyes forward, said nothing. But down the tunnel’s opposite length, climbing from behind the pipes themselves, the shape of the second man became complete. And at his side, in silent metamorphosis, appeared the third. The hanging slate of the first man banged against Banks’ hip, and that of the second—all these carried the little boards, buckles and leather, wood frames splintered, pieces of slate chalk-dusted—caught him on the opposite side under the ribs. And the second man’s nearest rubber, several sizes too large, smacked in the latrine water, moved again and lay beside his own wet shoe. Banks held tightly to his clothes, heard them shuffle, breathe, splash loudly. They were just the three to stand beside him in the Men’s—he knew it was inevitable with the first echo of the footsteps—just the sort to gang up on a lone man underground. But he also knew them for another kind: in the glare above, all along the track’s inner rail, great numbers of these were posted, swiftly chalking, communicating with the crowd. Dressed in rags, lean, fast as birds. These were the men who sat on the rails with knees drawn up and scraps of paper fastened to their lapels,
But Larry opened the door a crack. “She wants watching, Dora.” And, bracing Sparrow, raising his head slightly: “Use the ropes if you need to. Thick.”
The door closed and Margaret remained kneeling at the empty bed. Little Dora tore off her gloves. Thick began to laugh.
There was a railing and Michael Banks took hold of it, then stared down into the darkness of five broad swinging doors. He was quite alone when he pushed through one of them. Underneath the grandstand and at the bottom of the steps he found ahead of him the empty reaches of the public lavatory—low ceiling, fifty feet wide and of concrete painted black and tiny brick cubes washed with a light-green color. There were a few bulbs in cages waist high between the urinals and toilet bowls. It was the rank darkness of the empty Tube; a man could hide even at the base of one of those toilets if he crouched low enough, made himself small.
He started to whistle softly and the sound coming from his own lips—he was not often a whistler, a smiler—made the words “barrels of fun” go round in his head. Slowly he unbuttoned his coat and listened. He was standing, he noticed, near a toilet that had no seat, one badly defaced in the row of urinals. Once he had seen a man die on a toilet—from fear—then had found a notice of the death in the papers. “Why are you always reading obituaries?” He remembered that ugly voice. “Who do you expect to find on the lists?” He couldn’t say.
Now he peered ahead at a row of pipes with great brass valves—he had never been able to turn taps beneath a sink, could not bring himself to touch the copper ball, slime-covered, gently breathing, that lay in the bottom of a toilet tank—thinking that it wouldn’t do at all to walk down there.
Then he heard the footsteps. They were none he knew, not those of Lovely, Cowles, or the jockey, who had a light and bitter tread. These were the sounds of a measured step, the left foot heavier than the right, the dragging of shoe nails against the stones. And Banks saw a movement, a mere breaking of shadow, at the end of the tunnel by which he himself had entered. He turned, starting toward the opposite end where the pipes loomed, but there too he saw the flickering of a white hand, fragments of darkness about to become the shape of a man. So he wheeled close against the nearest urinal and clutched at his clothing.
The man was beside him. A man smaller than Banks, humped over, with feet large as boxes and a slatestrapped across his chest. The name of a horse was on the slate:
Rock Castle
.
Banks kept his eyes forward, said nothing. But down the tunnel’s opposite length, climbing from behind the pipes themselves, the shape of the second man became complete. And at his side, in silent metamorphosis, appeared the third. The hanging slate of the first man banged against Banks’ hip, and that of the second—all these carried the little boards, buckles and leather, wood frames splintered, pieces of slate chalk-dusted—caught him on the opposite side under the ribs. And the second man’s nearest rubber, several sizes too large, smacked in the latrine water, moved again and lay beside his own wet shoe. Banks held tightly to his clothes, heard them shuffle, breathe, splash loudly. They were just the three to stand beside him in the Men’s—he knew it was inevitable with the first echo of the footsteps—just the sort to gang up on a lone man underground. But he also knew them for another kind: in the glare above, all along the track’s inner rail, great numbers of these were posted, swiftly chalking, communicating with the crowd. Dressed in rags, lean, fast as birds. These were the men who sat on the rails with knees drawn up and scraps of paper fastened to their lapels,
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