Dr McMahon did, however, prescribe a good many drugs for Clara. Many that she had never heard of and some that she had heard of, but didn’t really believe in the existence of. And time passed very slowly and Clara now plotted escape.
And although Dr McMahon stood over her and supervised the taking of her medication, she secretly regurgitated same upon his departure from the circular, windowless room in which she now considered herself to be held a prisoner. And plotted her escape.
And the means of her escape presented itself in an unexpected manner. This being the arrival of a visitor, ushered into her room by the Elvis-like Dr McMahon.
‘This,’ said the doctor, ‘is Vincent Trillby, Professor of Advanced Psychiatry at Harvard. He is most interested to study your case, in the hope that it will facilitate the early return of yourself to the bosom of your family. In particular to your husband Keith, who loves and misses you greatly.’
Clara from Croydon ground her teeth, but disguised this as a sniffly sneeze, said that she hoped she wasn’t coming down with a cold, then put out a slender hand for a shake (for she was indeed a slender lady, as are most in Croydon) and smiled into the face of Vincent Trillby.
And then withdrew her hand at considerable speed and screamed very loudly indeed. And she screamed in that high soprano voice of hers that had brought great joy to numerous Croydon congregations, but which within the limited confines of her circular cell caused considerable distress to Dr McMahon and to Vincent Trillby, both of whom collapsed to their knees, a-covering of their ears.
And when they both appeared to be in a state of incapacitation, Clara screamed some more, and repeatedly doing so made for the door and from there, by diverse routes, to the surface. Where she stood, shivering somewhat even though it was another sunny day. There in the great booming heart of the metropolis, in her foolish do-up-at-the-back patient’s smock. And had it not been for a passing stockbroker’s clerk who took pity on her plight, escorted her, via taxi, to Selfridges and had her fitted out from head to toe in all the latest groovy gear, bought her a handbag and popped a five-pound note into it, there is no telling what might have happened.
And the stockbroker’s clerk tipped his bowler to Clara, wished her all the bestest for the balance of the day and returned to his office with a story to tell. (But not of the shag he’d been hoping for.)
And so it came to pass that Clara, all spiffed-up and trendy-looking, found herself in Trafalgar Square.
And it was there that she looked all around and saw that things were not right. That something was in fact very wrong indeed, but that, it appeared, she was the only person who could see it.
Which is where those shadows come in.
So let us speak of them now.
36
Clara saw the shadows and she was afeared.
At first she thought it was some kind of optical illusion, or delusion, brought on by her sudden transition (via Selfridges) from subterranean prison to sunlit Trafalgar Square. But her head soon cleared itself of this thinking because a revelation was granted to her, through the medium of a voice, which whispered rather closely at her ear that she now had the gift to see them.
To see the extra shadows that were there.
The extra shadows of the men and women who passed by in that fine historic square, that was named for that great naval victory. Not all possessed them, but some. Few in fact were they, but Clara saw them. The folk who had an extra shadow. That is what she saw.
Certainly now many of us are aware of the phenomenon. It seems extraordinary today that anyone, particularly the cinema-goers to whom the phenomenon was ever on view in the movies of the day, failed to see it. Check out any Hollywood cowboy film of the late fifties and early sixties. Anything starring John Wayne, for instance. Check out the outside shots, those sunny-day gunfight scenes. Look at Mr Wayne, then look at his shadow. Or rather shadows! For he casts more than one. It’s there in almost every movie, captured on the celluloid. And Clara saw it there in Trafalgar Square, that certain folk had more than one shadow. And that these folk were wrong from the inside to the out.
Her mental-mesh was damaged indeed, and she could see more than others.
But Clara kept her alarm to herself. She did not cause a fuss, because such a fuss might well have landed her in a police cell, then a psychiatric unit, then back at the Ministry of Serendipity.
No, Clara kept her alarm very much in check. She took herself off to a well-known American-style eatery and ordered a hamburger, French chips and a Brown Derby Ice-Cream Sundae, and a cup of tea, and pondered deeply on her situation.
And she viewed the waiters and waitresses coming and going in their elegant and distinctive red and white livery. And she noted well that one of them cast more shadows than she felt was strictly necessary and determined on a plan. Because she had now become a most determined woman.
At three in the afternoon there was a change of shifts and the waiter with the surplus shadow clocked off and, like Elvis, left the building. And Clara followed this fellow.
To the Underground Station she followed him. And there he purchased a ticket and she a Red Rover, as she hadn’t seen which ticket he purchased. From there to a train and on this train, as fate would have it, back to Croydon.
Breathing God’s good air, Clara emerged from Croydon Station and followed the caster of the double shadow, who, oblivious to the fact that he was being shadowed, strode on with that air of confidence and self-assurance that is the almost exclusive preserve of waiters the whole world over.
And eventually this waiter reached the ornate gates of the Croydon Municipal Burial Ground, paused for but a moment and then entered there. And though Clara followed him closely, very soon he was gone. To where? And how? Clara did not know. But she was rattled.
And in that state of rattledness she returned home. And at the corner of the street that was her own she paused, because there ahead of her was a long black car with blackly mirrored windows. And it was parked right outside her house. And there were men dressed in black standing around in her front garden.
And one of these was talking to her husband Keith (who should surely have been at work) and Keith was wringing his hands and looked a little weepy overall.
And Clara flattened herself into a hedge of a privetty nature and realised that she was indeed in very big trouble. And was somewhat stuck as to just what to do about this.
And so she hid and she waited. And eventually the men in black returned to their black limousine and this drove away at some speed. And Clara crept down a side alleyway and along to the rear of her house, and from there into her back garden where she sneaked to the living-room window and peeped in.
And there was her husband, wringing his hands and pacing up and down. And Clara was overcome by his obvious emotions and she tapped upon the window. And her husband Keith saw her and broke into a smile and they were reunited there and then.
And Neil concluded the story there, as we sat in Club 27.
‘Hold on,’ I said to Neil. ‘That can’t be the end of the story. What else happened?’
But Neil was now dipping strawberries into a bowl of cocaine.
‘Come on,’ I said, reaching for a strawberry and giving it a dip. ‘That can’t be the end of the story. What has it got to do with Shadow Night at Club Twenty-Seven?’
Neil chucked a strawberry down his throat. ‘Oh, all right,’ said he. And carried on.
Clara’s husband Keith made a pot of tea for his wife, and at length he joined her in the lounge room. Clara was a bit sobby and sniffy now, what with the emotional reunion and all that had gone before it, and her husband poured her tea and asked her to tell him everything. Because, as he told her, the men in black who had visited had told him she had died.