The Dwarves of Death

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I find it hard to describe what happened.

It was late in the afternoon, on a far from typical London Saturday. Winter was mild that year, I remember, and although by 4.30 it was already good and dark, it wasn’t cold. Besides, Chester had the heater on. It was broken, and you either had it on full blast or not at all. The rush of hot air was making me sleepy. I don’t know if you know that feeling, when you’re in a car — and it doesn’t have to be a particularly comfortable car or anything — but you’re drowsy, and perhaps you’re not looking forward to the moment of arrival, and you feel oddly settled and happy. You feel as though you could sit there in that passenger seat for ever. It’s a form of living for the present, I suppose. I wasn’t very good at living for the present in those days: cars and trains were about the only places I could do it.

So I was sitting there, with my eyes half closed, listening to Chester crunching the gears and giving it too much throttle. I was pleased with myself that day, I must admit. I thought I’d made some good decisions. Small ones, like getting up early, having a bath, having a proper breakfast, getting the laundry done, and then getting up to Samson’s to hear their lunchtime pianist. And then the bigger ones, as I sat alone at a table, drinking orange juice and letting ‘Stella By Starlight’ wash over me. I decided not to phone Madeline after all, to let her contact me for once. I’d sent her the tape, and made my intentions pretty clear, so now it was up to her to make some sort of response. I’d got one unit left on my phonecard, and I could use it to phone Chester instead. That was the other thing: I’d decided to take him up on his offer. I didn’t owe the other members of the band anything. I needed a change of scene, a new environment.

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