In Deep - 3: The Stranger

Outside in the lobby, the arrow on the dial above the elevator finished its descent from 6 to 1. With a tinny little ding, the doors slid open and the lift’s sole occupant tiptoed out onto the balding carpet. It took no detective skill at all to work out that this was the stranger that had got everyone so riled. I lit up a cigarette and watched him slide by.

The first thing I noticed about him was that he seemed top-heavy, like a greyhound walking on its hind legs, all chest and spindles. He moved strangely, as if he was a helium-filled balloon, counterweighted just enough to keep him hovering at floor level: his expensive shoes seemed necessary only to push him along the mouldering pile. He was wearing a heavy coat over a suit with a cravat, and his hair was the definition of bouffant: like 1980s Lionel Ritchie on overdrive. He gazed at the world through heavily-smoked lenses that made me think of Roy Orbison.

As I watched, he wafted over to the side of the foyer where a display of brochures wilted while awaiting the unlikely opportunity to inform tourists. Next to this was a faded map of the town and the stranger busied himself examining it. I noticed that he kept his fingertips nested together and his hands hovered permanently under his chin like a praying mantis: they moved out deliberately a few times to dab at the map, checking certain locales. I made a long-distance note to check those positions on the chart once he was done. Next, the fellow bustled through the leaflets, selecting and disregarding them according to some private agenda. I slid up alongside him.

‘I wouldn’t trust the information in these,’ I said, ‘they’re all pretty much out of date.’

He swivelled around to face me, like he was mounted on gimbals. His head cocked bird-like to one side taking me in.

‘What you want,’ I continued, ‘is more of a local guide, instead of a dusty piece of paper.’ I smiled encouragingly, waving away the cigarette smoke.

The head twitched again looking at the brochures then darted back at me. ‘I - was wondering if this town had a - museum?’ he said.

His voice was very strange, like it was being propelled by lungfuls of fluid; but I know how that usually sounds and this was different, more high-pitched and regular, with a weird buzzing overtone. As well, I could have sworn that his head lit up in discrete patches, like bits of it were bioluminescent inside... I blinked my eyes and put that down to the whiskey I’d been knocking back.

‘Museum? Sure,’ I said shaking my head to clear it a little, ‘but it’s closed after hours. I could pick you up first thing tomorrow and show you where it is, if you’d like? It’s a little tricky to find...’

The little guy scanned the pamphlet rack once more, then nodded his assent. I grinned around my cigarette and extended my hand to grab his and shake it.

‘Swell,’ I said, ‘it’s a date. ‘Name’s Benson Waite; I’ll see you here at 9.00am.’

He recovered his hand quickly, obviously not enjoying the sudden intimacy of a handshake. I could see why too: holding his paw was like grabbing a soft leather pouch with a couple of straight-edge rulers inside. He paddled his two-tone shoes and tip-toed back to the lift, pausing a couple of times to stare back at me. I gave him a little wave as he disappeared inside and slid away upwards to his room.

I stared at my hand. Curiouser and curiouser, I thought...

To Be Continued...