No, I won’t be coming to your Christmas party. It’s nothing to do with you, of course; and you know I’m not a Scrooge person. I like Christmas. No, it’s just that you specified it was going to be fancy dress; and you see, there’s just no way I could ever go to a fancy dress party. They terrify me; especially at Christmas. If you’ve got a moment, I’ll explain why, and I hope you’ll understand.
Do you remember when I used to teach at the school in Oldbury? And then I left quite suddenly, and I didn’t tell anyone why. I expect you assumed I’d got into some kind of trouble; but I hadn’t; and it’s all connected with why I won’t come to your party this Christmas. I’ve never told anyone about this before.
You see, one of the traditions at Oldbury school was that on the last day of term in December, when we’d broken up and all the boys had gone home, we had a final staff meeting where we all wore fancy dress and the headmaster gave out various silly prizes for how good our costumes were. And of course the boys got to know about it, and so another tradition was that some boys would always try to gatecrash our little do, dressed up of course so we wouldn’t recognise them. And I believe it was a matter of great prestige if any of them got through the meeting without being discovered.
So at this particular occasion we all trickled into the staff room in a variety of costumes, mostly home-made but a few hired for the occasion, and we looked around at each other wondering if there were any of the boys present. What about the person in the gorilla suit? Or the one rather feebly got up as a ghost, with eye-holes cut in an old bed sheet? Or the one dressed for a Venetian carnival, complete with swirling cloak, tricorn hat, rapier, and one of those black and white masks with a huge nose? Then Henry came in.
Now Henry had only joined us in September: just a temporary appointment to cover an unexpected vacancy. He was a strange, secretive sort of fellow, who kept himself very much to himself and none of us really got to know him at all. He lived in cheap lodgings near the school, and never appeared at the pub or at any social events. Heaven knows what the boys made of him; probably had fantasies that he was a wanted criminal in hiding, or something like that; but he had a very unpredictable temper, so they didn’t dare tease him too much. For all we knew, they could have been right. I didn’t find out the truth till this time I’m talking about, and very disturbing it was too.
So Henry came into our meeting. He’d attempted fancy dress himself, but he hadn’t been very imaginative, and I recognised him straight away. All he’d done was to wear a kind of nightdress and stick a tea towel on his head and a Saddam Hussain moustache on his face. Nobody would really have taken him for an Arab in a million years: he simply looked ridiculous. And when he came in, he spotted the man in the Venetian mask, and I’d swear he went absolutely white, and swayed as if he was going to faint. I heard him mutter “My God!”, and he literally fled from the room. Now at the time I supposed he’d just suddenly felt ill or something, and then the meeting began and I forgot about him. And the headmaster gave out the silly prizes as usual, and I thought the Venetian man might win something, but he didn’t seem to be there any more. I presumed it must have been one of the boys, who’d skedaddled when he thought he might be unmasked.
In fact, the whole thing slipped from my mind, what with the general relief of term ending, but that evening I got a phone call from Henry’s landlady. I don’t know why she called me, or how she got my number. Would I come round quickly, please: Henry had been taken ill and was in a very bad way. So of course I went, and there he was all in a heap on the floor, though there wasn’t any blood. I only knew basic first aid, but I did what I could until the doctor turned up, and he took one look at Henry and summoned an emergency ambulance to cart him off to hospital: he’d had a heart attack, and it was touch and go whether he’d survive. Actually, the doctor told me that if I hadn’t come on the scene so quick, Henry would be dead. But survive he did; and when I thought he might be well enough to receive visitors I went to see him in hospital, since the poor chap didn’t have anyone else to turn to. The nurse wasn’t particularly keen to let me in. “He’s still very weak”, she said, “and very nervous about the lest little thing. Do take great care that you don’t disturb him”. And I could see what she meant when she opened the curtains around his bed and immediately said, “It’s all right Henry! It’s only me, and I’ve brought Bill from the school to see you. Just you lie back and don’t fret!”
He looked terrible. And when the nurse had gone, the first thing he said to me was, “Did you see him? The man in the mask? Did you see him?”
“Yes”
“Really and truly see him? Because other people don’t, you know. I’m the only one who sees him”
“Yes, I saw him all right. He had a hat, and a long black cloak and a sword”
Henry was quiet for a long time, and then he said, “Well, at least that proves I’m not mad, and I suppose that’s something”. And he told me this absolutely weird story, which normally I wouldn’t have believed for an instant.
“It happened when I was in Venice on holiday”, he said, “and one evening I was in that grand piazza outside St. Mark’s. It was pretty crowded; all sorts of people milling about, with one or two even in the traditional carnival costume, hat and cloak and mask; I assumed as some kind of tourist trap. I went up to one of these to have a close look, but there was a great mass of people swirling around, with the result that I got pushed from behind and bumped into him. And I really can’t describe how scary that was, because it was just like coming up against clothes swinging on a washing line. I mean, I bumped into his cloak and there was nothing inside it, just emptiness. I barged right into him, until my face was up against his mask, and there were no eyes looking out from it, just blackness. I can’t describe how horrible it was. But when I backed off, he moved, and he started to draw his rapier, and I knew he intended to kill me. I fled in panic, and left the city that same night.
“I thought that would be the end of it; and maybe it was only some kind of nightmare, but I found out it wasn’t. Ever since then he’s been following me. I’ve had to keep moving. I don’t know how he travels, or how he finds me; and I think he’s quite slow, because sometimes it’s weeks before he catches up with me. Sometimes I can see him, though not many other people can, and at other times I just sense his presence. It’s taken him since September to find me here, and for a while I even imagined I’d escaped him forever. Then I saw him at that party. I rushed back here to grab my stuff and run, but he somehow followed me and cornered me in my room, and then he drew his sword …….. I think it must have been as insubstantial as he is, because they tell me I had no sign of a wound, but I felt the most awful pain in my chest, and then I didn’t know anything till I woke up in hospital here.
But I can’t stay here. He’ll know I’m not dead, and he’ll come looking for me again. As soon as I can walk, I’ll have to get out or here and find somewhere else to hide - though sometimes I wonder what the point is; he’s bound to get me in the end; I might as well let him do it now”.
Henry’s voice began to rise in despair. “It’s all so unfair! What did I ever do to him? I didn’t bump into him on purpose. And he won’t even let me apologise. What can I do? What can I do?”
At this stage the nurse, overhearing Henry’s sobs, came in and told me I’d better leave. I suppose she gave him some kind of sedative. Anyway, I came home. And that was the last I ever saw of Henry, because the next day my wife and I had to go away somewhere, and by the time we got back Henry had discharged himself from hospital and disappeared. He never contacted any of us again. I often wonder what happened to him. Is he still alive? Did the masked man finally get him? Or was he actually paranoid, with the masked figure just some stupid 6th-former showing off, and the rest of the story just a product of Henry’s diseased imagination? That would be the most rational explanation, of course, and I’d like to believe it.
Now you might say; that’s all very well, but so what? What’s that got to do with refusing to come to a Christmas party? Well, I’d have to admit, I’m still scared. Henry said you’d generally sense the man rather than actually see him; and once or twice I fancy I’ve sensed him. I’m not going to describe it, but it wasn‘t a pleasant feeling at all, I can tell you. You’ll say it’s just my own imagination being too active, but there you are: I thought I could sense his presence. At such times, I wonder if he blames me for saving Henry’s life, so I’m next on his list, or whether he’s lost track of Henry and thinks I can lead him to him. Afterwards I can try to laugh it all off, because I’ve never actually seen him and nothing nasty’s happened so far. But suppose I do actually see him: what then? And if at your party someone comes in Venetian costume, I think it would be my turn for a heart attack. So I hope you’ll understand why I’m staying at home.
