Mark Chadbourn - Where Do You Go When The Lights Go Out

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Where Do You Go When The Lights Go Out?

a short story by Mark Chadbourn

"Don't ask me questions, Frank. It'll only end in tears." More than the

words, it's her expression I remember most; I could never tell if it

was

threatening or fearful, but that was Eve: she loved being a mystery.

It's almost thirty-five years since I heard her make that statement.

I've

got lines on my face, grey in my hair, and after the exertion of

yesterday

my muscles ache like an old, old man. But as I watched Eve through that

plexiglass door, hammering and screaming for her life, I could see she

was

still as young and beautiful as the day we met.

In the first instance, I loved her. Then, over time, my emotions

coalesced

into a cold, focused hatred hardened by a wasted life, a third of a

century frittered away with despair, endless searching and sickening

not-knowing. There, at the end, with Eve pleading silently and

impotently

for help, I don't know what I felt. And today... Today I finally

understand what it was all about.

Eve walked into the coffee bar in Old Compton Street like someone who

had

been cast adrift, moving through the hissing steam of the cappuccino

machine with an intense, searching expression. She reminded me of

Audrey

Hepburn in Roman Holiday, that odd combination of vulnerability,

confidence and aloofness, so noticeably out of place among the

competing

skiffle groups and rock 'n' rollers with dripping quiffs pretending

they

were in Memphis. When she laid eyes on me she broke into such a warm,

open

smile I shivered; it was as if she had finally found what she was

searching for.

It was the early sixties and there was a sense of optimism in the air.

Back then, before I'd been worn down by events, I was bright and

confident, filled with hopes of making a name for myself as a painter.

"Don't sit on your own in a strange place. I'll keep you company," I

said,

jumping to my feet as she neared the table. "And I'll even buy you a

coffee." I half-expected her to say no, but she slipped in opposite,

still

smiling.

"I'm Frank Morgan," I said, holding out my hand.

She nodded in a strange, slow way and there was something about it

which

seemed to be filled with an awful sadness. "Eve Kendall," she replied.

Her

hand was cool; I felt a faint tremor in her fingers when our skin

touched.

I guessed she was a little older than me - I never did manage to pin

her

down to an exact date. She was new in town, straight off the bus from

the

south coast with no money, no job, not even any luggage. That should

have

set alarm bells ringing straight away, but I was awash with hormones,

already under her spell. She wasn't like any of the girls I knew; she

seemed wise beyond her years, and she appeared to know everything that

was

happening in the world. Even now I can hear her talk about the Bay of

Pigs

and Kennedy and Kruschev after she'd heard some news report on the

radio

on the counter. Of course, I'd heard all about it - who hadn't? - but

Eve

knew all the detail, much more than the shop girl she professed to be.

was that me being chauvinist? We weren't very enlightened in those

days.

She looked up suddenly when the clock struck three and what happened

then

seemed funny at the time, almost romantic in a stupid way. Her right

hand

was just an inch away from mine and as the clock finished its chime, a

blue spark crackled from the tip of her index finger to mine; I jolted

backwards. We laughed, joked about sparks flying, but as we were about

leave I noticed a large black stain in the table top where her arm had

been; it almost looked like it had been burned into the wood.

We walked slowly up to Charing Cross Road. I chanced slipping my arm

around her waist and then asked her back to my place. When she said yes

almost stepped out in front of a bus. Yet she wasn't easy like some of

the

girls hanging out around Soho at that time. It was as if she was in

control all the time; her emotions and motivations were too complex for

to read.

We were barely through the door of my dingy old bedsit above a strip

club

in Greek Street before we were making love on the bed in broad

daylight,

with the grimy sounds of the city floating in through the open window.

She

was so intense, almost desperate, it felt like she was trying to eat me

up.

Somehow she never left. Even more amazing, for me, at that age, I never

wanted her to. I don't know why I fell for Eve - why do you fall in

love

with anyone? - but after the initial bedazzlement of her humour and

intelligence and beauty, there was always the mystery. Trying to get

inside her head was a big adventure, a complex Chinese puzzle that

occupied my mind and time. That's what set her apart from other women;

that's what made me want her; and, I suppose, that's what eventually

turned my love into obsession.

There was some stiffness in the relationship at first. I got the

feeling

she was expecting it all to fall apart, as if I'd wake up one morning

and

throw her out. Sometimes I'd look up from my sketching and catch her

watching me intently, but she'd never tell me what she was thinking.

And

there were times when I thought I'd never get to the heart of her. She

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Mark Chadbourn - Where Do You Go When The Lights Go Out

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