Excerpt from 'No Exit'

With black, physically slight headphones slung casually around his neck, a dishevelled, slightly timeworn look upon his face, and a checked cotton shirt peering out from under a dark, denim jacket, Harry Long lumbered along passively as he made his way back to the yawning hole that was the opening to the underground rail network, the beginning of his long journey home. Another day of ceaseless copying and administrative legwork at the office had left him in an agitated state, no longer possessing the energy to occupy the remaining hours of the day with rejuvenating leisure activity, nor capable of thinking much beyond a desperate desire to curl up in a ball of self-pitying angst and recrimination. A pair of sullied, unwashed boots scuffed the pavement, ruthlessly unconcerned by the flecks of swirling debris being trampled under foot, and two lackluster arms lolled about lazily in the stolid evening breeze as numberless commuters rushed in conflicting and confused directions. Bullied and cajoled from side to side, Harry’s thin, flaxen hair waved nonchalantly against the evening sky and his gentle, azure eyes squinted ever so slightly as he forged a tentative way forward.
There was only one path that appealed to him in this atmosphere of frenzied expectation. The fairground of emptied jollity that was the modern urban milieu permitted only one route: onward. Onward to the underground train and directly out of the city. There was simply no time for inertia, no time for suspended belief, anything that moved must carry on, without doubt or delay. Billowing out streams of expressionless travellers and sending off resounding notes of enigmatic entreaty, the portal to the underground beckoned Harry like a hoped-for prophet, promising redemption, transcendence, a way home. Studiously monitoring his footsteps in a surge of renewed vigilance and buoyed by a fuzzy sense of assumed optimism, Harry marched on like a born-again soldier, certain in his goal and unyielding in his efforts to get there.
But reaching the entry to the underground was more problematical than Harry had first anticipated. Gradually brushing his way past nervously dawdling commuters and forcibly manipulating perennially stricken tourists, progress was slow and at times non-existent. Car headlights that beamed at the milling crowds and buses that tore past in haughty disregard, served to stymie forward motion, and emblazoned eyes looked up questioningly as if soliciting an answer as to who was to move first. With little idea of who was coming and who was going, Harry felt as helpless and confused as those strangers he had just laid eyes on, lost in a sea of drifting souls, each of whom felt the nagging need for a leader, a kind of authority figure to release them from the melee.
Harry’s dismay at being prevented from continuing his journey fostered an insidious and rapidly escalating desire to penetrate the disorder. The headphones that clung half-heartedly to his neck had been knocked and made uneven. One of the ear pieces that jutted out from behind Harry’s head further contorted the already messy locks of hair splaying out randomly and incoherently in all directions. Indeed, the appearance of the headphones steadily assumed an almost grotesque aura, the half-protruding contraption beginning to suggest the abnormal growth of some eerie extra limb, now unquestionably a feature on Harry’s violently angled head.
The encroaching gloom of the mid-autumn evening made legible movements even trickier. Stimuli flung themselves at Harry from all directions, and an inbuilt modesty and sense of social duty made all efforts at convincingly exiting the crowd mild and unsure. The burst of purpose that had recently animated Harry’s imagination dissipated almost as quickly as it had appeared, leaving him unable to concentrate, internally congested, and woefully at the mercy of an impotent crowd.
Harry’s plight was soon to be alleviated, though. On the brink of his visual range appeared a dark and diminutive figure whose gambit was to attract Harry’s attention. Slowly accommodating himself to this newly offered opportunity, Harry had hardly enough time to achieve some perspective on the man before being violently hoarded in his general direction. Vigorously turned about, Harry met the gaze of the unflustered citizen, perceiving sharp green eyes, brisk, aquiline features, and a well-trimmed, glossy beard.
‘Sir’, ‘sir’, ‘Coming to the comedy club, sir’, said the stranger, dressed consummately in jet-black attire. ‘I saw you among the crowd and knew you were on the hunt.’
The stranger’s forced mode of expression and artificial manner of address alerted Harry to his function as some kind of events’ promoter. These types were to be found littered around the city at this time of night, shamelessly enticing punters into unheard of venues with the promise of flaky deals and dubious vouchers, willful in their brazen obstruction of passers-by. Harry knew he had no duty to listen, and no need. Yet this promoter offered a rather different impression, tottering lackadaisically from side to side in the evening half-light. Harry was unsure how to counter the proposition placed before him and stumbled incoherently over his words.
‘I…I…I’m afraid that I have somewhere to be, thank you. I must…’
‘But sir, trying to work your way through this mess is no laughing matter. Why not come to the club and enjoy something worth your while.’
Harry was forced to reevaluate his prospects upon hearing this vaguely truthful remark. Indeed, the protracted efforts to extricate himself from the crowd were beginning to unnerve him and the chance to find some release of whatever kind appeared ever more attractive. It wasn’t by any means a conscious decision to shimmy closer to the stranger, but some far flung inspiration persuaded Harry to neutralize his instinctual aggression and at least give him the time of day. For Harry had no obligation to let this stranger interfere in the proceedings any longer than was absolutely necessary. Harry surmised an opportunity to use the man for his own ends and gladly pursued his motivation.
‘Will you just let me…’, Harry fizzed, as he momentarily found some respite next to a vacated news-stand.
‘I have some news for you today stranger,’ uttered the promoter joyously, as if seamlessly metamorphosing into the role of paper vendor. ‘Tonight we are featuring not only a top range of performers and exclusive drinks vouchers, but also open access to the after-party affiliated with the venue. Your evening is catered for, sir. You needn’t worry about that.’
Harry had already planned his evening before this unlikely interruption and was instantly aggrieved by the stranger’s vain assumption that he could gratify all his needs. With an uninterrupted schedule awaiting him at home, it was unthinkable that Harry should ever countenance such a proposal. Habit dictated that he be back by 9 o’clock. Never once had Harry Long been late. The threat from this infiltrator seemed utterly repugnant to him. He felt victimized and resentful, and demanded a way past.
‘Excuse me, I have to be somewhere, I have already told you…’
‘But sir, where exactly do you have to be?’ remarked the stranger with biting emphasis. ‘You cannot possibly be telling me that you have commitments all evening? This is the time for fun. I see you are in need of it. I can tell it from your eyes.’
Offended by the stranger’s presumptuousness, Harry declared his disgust unconditionally.
‘To be plain my man, I am a little taken aback by your audacity. If you don’t mind, I’ll be on my way.’
The promoter had noticed Harry’s nervous application for a way through and saw his opportunity not yet wasted. Aware of a potential recruit when he saw one, he pressed on, flashing his eyes moodily and arching his deepened brow.
‘This way, sir, I shall find you a way. If you follow me I can help you get back to where you want to go.’
Harry’s mind had forsaken him and a clouded, murky sensation overwhelmed his thoughts. Willing to assume any help he could get to remove himself from his tiresome predicament, he unconsciously trailed the promoter to the edges of the crowd in the general direction of the underground entrance.
‘This, sir, is the ticket!’
The promoter thrust a leaflet towards his target with such artful delivery that Harry, unaware of what exactly he had to do to shift this intruder who had muddled a way into his life, was inclined to reluctantly accept.
‘Take this to the entrance to my left and you will be allowed free rein in the wonders of the club! I promise, sir, your night will not be wasted.’
Harry stood motionless for a number of seconds, for how long he could not be sure. Instead of facing the entrance to the underground, the wily stranger had somehow managed to direct his victim to a sodden looking brown door, stained and grainy, and rusting at the edges. There was no handle, only a faint, flickering light emanating from behind the gaps.
‘Where exactly is this club, then?’ blurted Harry, unceremoniously attempting to regain some control over the conversation.
‘Why, directly to my left, sir. This door here opens in a little under ten minutes. Were you to trek home at this hour, you would be a little longer than that, I fancy!’
Confused and annoyed by the promoter’s argument, Harry turned away, hoping to find the underground entrance at his feet. Yet the crowd that had up until now prevented Harry’s arrival briskly formed a congealed mass, totally barring vision of the underground network. Strangely, Harry’s recognizable and oft-trodden route back from work appeared distinctly unfamiliar. He was lost, to be sure, but it was an experience he had not known before. Out of sorts, Harry pivoted on his wearied legs and demanded an answer from the promoter.
‘I am duly concerned, my man! Never before have I been lost in this area, and you come and intrude like that and make me lose my way. Please, can you explain yourself?’
‘But, sir, it is not I who have made you lose your way. You chose to follow me of your own accord. Why, you can only have yourself to blame if you are unfamiliar with this district’.
‘This district!’, Harry Long scolded, infuriated by the looseness of the man’s reply.
‘This is where I work! How can I be unfamiliar with my own district?’
The promoter took a careful step back.
‘I believe your temper is escaping you, sir. I merely wished to offer you the opportunity to discover some new terrain in the form of this show which I have spoken about, and you are getting quite hot under the collar. I do believe you need to rest, to have a seat, perhaps, before you proceed.’
Harry could not argue with this suggestion. He did feel remarkably disconcerted and unnerved. But to trail this idiot any longer was unthinkable. Not only was he in the company of an utter fool with little on his mind save the promotion of an unknown club, but he also began to understand the depressingly belittling notion that dependence on this stranger would mean. No, Harry would find his own way; he had no need of assistance.
‘Kindly, my man, I shall go it alone. Take it from me that your duty here is done.’
No sooner had Harry made his decision to leave than he caught a glimpse of the wraithlike figure reflected in the shop-window directly before him. How this was possible he could not know. It was as if the gentleman had fragmented, for a final second, into two discreet entities immediately before his eyes. Accounting for this enigma with recourse to the wearied state he found himself in, Harry jerked about restlessly in a vain attempt to verify his premonitions.
The door to the club that Harry had recently left behind stood invitingly ajar and the prospects of reaching the underground entrance increasingly bleak. Tempted to rest just briefly on the tiled floor of the gangway, Harry noticed a new addition to the opening of the club. It consisted in a small, rectangular sign luminously adorning the frontispiece. It read: ‘Turn on the red lights’. With a faint acknowledgement of this fact, Harry spent his last ounce of energy and, perching on the cold, marble flooring, quietly and silently drifted off to sleep.