Voodoo Holmes Stories

may have seen something in the darkness that wasn't there, yes."
    "But it was. It is."
    I wanted to get up. He restrained me, but as I persisted, he let me go. I excused myself as I walked over people's legs and shoes, but nobody reacted. It was like treading on dead meat there. Or on sleeping limbs of drugged animals. As I neared the empty seat, I felt as if a charge of some kind were building up inside me. I hesitated, stopped and then put my hand forward to where I had seen her face. It was like touching air, but something dewy remained on the fingers. Warm moisture. I sat down on the seat and felt the warmth entering my body, lodging deep in my stomach. I felt like talking inside, and there was a sense of somebody listening, but I could not understand what that somebody was saying.
    When I returned to my seat, the man was almost guffawing. "Never thought to see the day", he laughed, "I say she is naughty."
    "What was she doing?"
    "Sat in your lap, that's what. Touched your face. Don't tell me you missed all of that."
    "I guess I did."
    He continued shaking his head and seemed relieved and almost light-headed while staring out the window, talking to himself, immersing himself in the darkness. There was nothing to be seen there as yet but snow and poles flitting by and shadows.
    We were entering the suburbian landscape of London and their occasional lights when he looked me in the eye and calmly said: "Well, I can't thank you enough, Mr. Holmes. You got her off me. From now on, she's yours. I wish you good luck and a long life, Sir." 
     
    ¥
     
    A few weeks went by and I had almost forgotten all about it when I found myself on the same train in the morning after a weekend of hunting at Lord Camden's Manor. For some reason, the train was almost empty when I entered, save for a young woman in black as if in mourning, wearing a veiled hat obscuring her face. She took no note of my presence and had chosen an empty compartment like someone intent on privacy. As I opened the door, she did not move, sitting erect and looking forward towards the opposite wall, her eyes shrouded by the veil. I placed myself directly in front of her and looked towards her. The dark patch of where I supposed her face to be. I said:"So here we are again like star-crossed lovers, aren't we?"
    She did not answer, but I had a distinct feeling that my words had registered.
    "A few weeks ago" I continued, "we shared a kind of intimacy on this very train. First, when another passanger claimed to having murdered you. I forget his name."
    "His name was Baker", she said.
    "Yes, a Mr. Baker. I wonder what became of him."
    "He got off the train after you talked and went his way."
    "I wonder where that led him."
    She was silent. Her voice was quiet and somewhat stale. Disembodied voices is what you call them.
"He was in high spirits then."
    "And where is he now?"
    "Where we all are, Mr. Holmes."
    "Which is ..."
    She lifted her right hand, circling with her index finger: "Around, Mr. Holmes."
    "So you know my name."
    "I know you are not your brother."
    "Good. I was wondering about that. Most people are confused. Sherlock being famous, Mycroft well-known and I - obscure."
    "Yes."
"And you are?"
    "You may call me Baker."
    "Mrs. Baker?"
    She was silent and I wondered if my remark stung her. Or if she was even listening to my prattle. I was trying to latch on to that person by means of communication, but I would have needed something like a face to do that. Instead, I felt the distinct possibility that if I tried lifting the veil I would find a hollow darkness there, a void instead of a face. At that moment, she took off her hat in a fluid movement and I saw right away that she looked human and was strikingly beautiful. One of the lean, dark, aquiline beauties.
    "Do you like me, Mr. Holmes?"
    "Liking is probably not the word, Ms. Baker."
    "Good. You should love life instead. Enjoy it like a drink. A really long drink."
    "To the last drop", I smiled.
    "I wonder what it is like to be breathing. Almost forever. God! It must seem interminably long."
    "What does?"
    "Life, Mr. Holmes. Does it make one tired?"
    "If it does, there's sleep."
    "Oh yes. Right." The concept seemed to be new to her.
    After a pause, she continued: "But sleeping doesn't mean that the breathing stops. It's like the heart beating. Heart and Breath, the slaves of our existence."
    "Quite true. Listen, Ms. Baker..."
    "Call me Baker", she interjected.
    "Baker. I would like to ask you something.