Voodoo Holmes Stories

älterer Bruder selbst im volltrunkenen Zustand sein könnte wenn es denn jemals dazu käme.
    Den Grund für Voodoos Ausgelassenheit verstand ich aber erst, als er mit Mr. T. in den Zug stieg und mich von Rauchwolken umhüllt etwas ratlos am Bahnsteig zurückließ. Wir konnten nur mehr ein paar belanglose Worte wechseln – Grüße an Sherlock – dann dampfte der Zug davon. Sie hielten sich umfasst wie Kinder, während sie mir winkten. Ich schwöre, ich habe nie ein schöneres Paar gesehen.
     
     
     
     
     
     

Two Stories at the Portals of Death
     
    A Fluttering Darkness
     
    I am on the early morning train when a man sitting opposite me in the open compartment area asks: "Can you believe the cheek?" He seems annoyed, glancing over and across my head furiously. I look around and there are lots of people around us, even though it is hardly five o'clock on one of those many slowly winding trains to London. On Mondays, most passengers are laborers or office clerks, with an odd gentlemen here or there trying to fit in. Returning from the country and its pleasures, as the saying goes.
    "Over there", the man continues. "Don't tell me you haven't noticed her."
    My eyes follow the direction indicated. It is an empty seat on the other side, no more than five yards from where we are.
    "You mean the person in the unoccupied seat?"
    "The very one."
    Being agreed to (in a way) seems to relieve him greatly. He smiles; "The cheek of her. I would have never expected to see her face again after last time."
    "What happened then?"
    His face is clouding from the memory: "I ejected her."
    "You mean?"
    "Threw her off the effing train, that's what."
    "You threw her off the train. Fucking train, that is."
    "She's not real! She may look like a living and breathing creature, but she's not. She's not alive, that's for sure."
    "What makes you say that?"
    "Just a hunch."
    "A hunch. Based on what?"
    "Based on on the fact ... And you are?"
    He is glaring at me.
    "I am Holmes. Voodoo Holmes."
    He takes my hand, mumbles his name.
    "Well..." He looks around. It is hard to say whether any of the people around us actually take part in our conversation. Even hear us. Pale faces, cold fingers, immobile bodies. Their eyes are open. Or not.
    "I did push her. Dragged her to the door and pushed her out. This wasn't in the early days when I actually felt comforted having her there. In those days, the train was empty most times. It was just her and me. You know, a sense of complicity growing from that. Even though we had never talked before. Nor after. I don't think she speaks."
    "It was a vision, then?"
    "I suppose it was. Until the day when I touched her. She seemed alive enough then. Her skin was warm and there was gravity in her bones. That was a time when I felt almost choked by her presence. At first, she kept her distance. Then, she was homing in on me. Her steps were infinitesimally small. Sitting closer, then retreating, next time two seats closer, you know, until she was where you are now, Mr. Holmes. That reminds me. Are you the famous detective?"
"That's my brother. One of my brothers. If it is Sherlock you mean."
    "That's the one. Jewish name. In any case. One day I felt that there was a system in her growing presence. A strategy, perhaps. Like playing chess. Being lulled in by your opponent is part of the game until suddenly you're dead."
    "I see what you mean."
    "That was when I got rid of her. Like a moth, you know? There is a surplus of light, almost. But somewhere in it, there is a fluttering darkness and the growing knowledge of a problem. Which you are either going to solve within the limited time accorded to you. By an unknown force so that's dangerous. The kind you don't want to cross because it is like what makes you breathe."
The train entered a tunnel and the light was dimmed. The lighting had been burning low before, but for a moment was almost extinct due to the rush of compressed air entering the compartment. In a second of darkness, I could clearly distinguish a figure where the seat had appeared empty before. A woman in a black dress. The shape of a young woman, almost a girl, her hair put up in a bun. She was wearing a hat. As the light returned, the vision was gone. The train left the tunnel and the roaring abated enough to allow a continuation of our conversation.
My eyes returned to the passenger. He was watching me intently.
    "What does she look like?" I asked him.
    "You have seen her", he stated, looking pleased.
    "I