Nightscapes by Vera Mont

Burgess Connor was a man of moderate passions and few pretensions. Large, soft and quiet, he minded his own business, avoided confrontation and kept a low profile. He made a comfortable living as a mid-level statistician in a government department; in his off hours, his favourite pastime was aimless wandering on city streets. Every area he walked had its own character and mood, changing with the seasons and from day to night. He took no photographs or notes; he never spoke about his observations.

The one peculiarity that his colleagues remarked upon was his retentive mind. Quotations, proverbs, song lyrics and cliches stuck to him indiscriminately, so that his conversation often seemed not to be his at all, but a patchwork of familiar phrases. Burgess himself seemed oblivious to the fact that he often said them to himself.

On his way to the water-cooler, he might chant under his breath, “Jack and Jill went up the hill to fetch a pail of water,”; entering the lunchroom, he could be heard to mumble, “Give us this day our daily bread...” While poring over a chart that failed to accord perfectly with the reported figures for that quarter, he muttered, “It is the middle ground between light and shadow, between science and superstition, and it lies between the pit of man's fears and the summit of his knowledge”.
Burgess Connor did not recall or care where he had learned those lines, nor did he realize how soon he would find himself in the Twilight Zone.

That evening, he was walking late at night in an unfamiliar neighbourhood. A poor one, by all indications: shops had dusty, resigned-looking merchandise behind caged fronts. The only ones still open were an adult video store, its windows papered over with posters of improbably proportioned women in various states of undress and a mini mart, its neon marquee advertising Bee Sp rits Smo es; a sign on its door read “No Cash on Premises”. Maybe so, Burgess reasoned, but the bee, sprits and smoes might well be enough to inspire crime. Once in a while, a car would cruise by, taking stock of the female flesh on display, both on the wall and lounging in doorways. “Temptation comes in fine gay colours”, Burgess whispered as he passed them. In contrast to the gaudy streetwalkers, shabbily dressed people hurried along the sidewalk, looking neither to right nor left, avoiding contact with other people.

While he found all of this fascinating, Burgess did not relish the atmosphere. It felt unhealthy as well as depressing. He headed for a major intersection, where he hoped to find a subway station or at least a bus stop. As he passed the dark entrance to an alley, he thought he heard sounds of distress, possibly a woman’s cracked treble, drowned out by rough male voices, cursing. He stopped, debating whether to investigate. Maybe somebody needed help. “Ask not for whom the bell tolls…” Not me, Burgess decided. He was no fighter. He’d only get beaten up or stabbed. He would call 911 as soon as he could find a phone. As he hurried away, he heard some thumps and cries which subsided to whimpers. “You got it?” a man demanded. Another responded, “Yeah, c’mon!”

When the thugs exited the alley, Burgess was half a block away, walking fast, head bent as he had seen local pedestrians do. Two men passed him at a trot and didn’t bother to look back. Ten minutes later, he was boarding a well-lit, warm subway car, his heart still hammering, his mind going round and round: “I should have done more… done more… done something….” He didn’t feel safe until he turned in at his apartment building door. He rode up the elevator as usual, opened the door to 4C, switched on the light in every room, took a quick shower and made a soothing cup of bedtime cocoa. After all, he had done a citizen’s duty in alerting the police.

Contrary to expectations, he fell asleep almost immediately. The saying that calmed him was: “He who fights and runs away lives to fight another day….” Only he had not fought and never would.


Lance Corporal Charles Edward Cunningham wished for nothing, not even a hot meal, as much as he desired dry boots. Cold water had seeped into every item of clothing he owned, into his blanket and backpack, into his very soul. Eddy Cunningham didn’t often have profound thoughts and was delighted with this one. For a moment, it distracted him from the all-pervading discomfort of the trench. Soon, a new welcome diversion arrived in the form of little Private Edgers, distributing tin cups of coffee to the men on duty. It was thin swill, like the dinner soup had been: the company was running woefully short on supplies and, what with barrage after barrage of enemy fire, none could get through. They would just have to hold on till the Maxims arrived. At least the cup he wrapped his tattered gloves around was still warm. “Ta, mate,” he called after the boy, just as another series of explosions lit up the northern horizon. A sharp whistling sound drowned his words and he ducked low behind the trench rim. “What the hell kind of guns have they got?” was his last thought before the wet boots stood empty in the mud.


Burgess Connor felt tired at work that morning and promised himself not to stay out so late. Usually, he cast a benign eye on the office high jinx of his younger colleagues, but today, everything bothered him. And that bothered him, so out of character was it. At mid-morning, on his way to fetch a cup of water for his headache pill, a balled-up sheet of paper hit him squarely on the left temple – which was throbbing already. He glared at the thrower and the intended target across the aisle, but decided to be a good sport and faked a smile. He told the boys, “You never hear the one that’s got your name on it.” The rest of his day was uneventful and he chose to forego his after-dinner ramble in favour of a G rated movie and an early night.


Peter, eldest of the three De Vries brothers, found a perfect hiding place. His almost-grown-up cousin used to tell the children scary stories about monsters that lurked in the basement. At eight and a half, Peter had outgrown those silly tales, though he still sometimes wished Saint Nicholas was real. He was pretty sure the younger boys wouldn’t dare come down here, but just in case they did, he looked about for cover. Ah, perfect! That old fridge would be cozy enough, it hadn’t been plugged in for years. To sit on, he tossed in a piece old rug he’d found at the bottom of the stairs. Pulling his knees up to his chest, he leaned against the side panel and tugged the door closed. Nobody would find him in here! After a while, he got used to the faint musty smell, he was warm and bored, and so he fell asleep. He dreamed of Saint Nicholas smiling in through the window as he placed a sack of candy on the sill, especially for Peter. Then the old saint was gone and in his place, a dark figure leered in, steaming up the pane, before it, too, disappeared and only the dark remained.


On Monday morning, the monthly reports on violent crime started to trickle in from the boroughs. They would arrive thick and fast soon enough; all “the evil than men do”, flooding across his screen. This would be a hectic week, sorting each incident into the correct category: murder, aggravated assault, sexual assault, assault with robbery, comparing them with the national average and previous years. Burgess liked a steady pace, hated being rushed. Well, he told himself sotto-voce, “no rest for the wicked.” That evening, as a consolation, he treated himself to dinner followed by chocolate ice cream at the nearest hamburger joint, then a leisurely walk through one of the city’s prosperous neighbourhoods. The scent of lilacs and mock orange filled the night. A few courting couples strolled about, enjoying the gentle spring breeze. Moths circled the lights on covered porches, where elderly people sat out, conversing in soft voices. Burgess went home in a tranquil mood and slept soundly.


Ursula Bruhl was on her way home with a bundle of faggots on her back. They would keep her warm all the night through and cook her a hot breakfast in the morning. She had taken only dead, fallen branches, nothing the baron could miss. Her hut was just ahead, on the edge of the forest. She had a little garden there in summer, a few chickens and a nanny goat. They, along with some fortune telling and the odd love potion or talisman against the evil eye, provided for her modest needs. In the dim twilight, she heard the restless pawing and huffing of horses. Then she saw. Her tabby cat Dorcas hanging like a rag doll, impaled by a spear on the massive trunk of the willow near her door. Ursula dropped the bundle to run when rough hands seized and held her.

There were five soldiers, as well as a friar. “Ursula Bruhl”, the latter intoned, “I hereby arrest thee on suspicion of witchcraft. How sayest thou?” She was unable to say anything; only sobs escaped her dry throat. She knew without a doubt that her life was over. After some days of torture, a mock trial would end in her confessing and recanting a non-existent pact with the devil. Then she would be condemned, hanged or drowned or, if they wanted a spectacle for the peasants, burned alive. No! She spat in the friar’s smug face and jabbed her elbow into the stomach the nearest guardsman. She kicked at their ankles, scratched at their eyes and tried to bite their hands. They retaliated with heavy, painful blows. Still, she was able to scream a curse at them, them and their lords, the baron and the bishop, a hideous curse on all their kind. One of the soldiers was so frightened, he drew his sword and slashed her throat before she could utter another word. Ursula fell to the ground, limp as poor old Dorcas, and relieved.


Burgess Connor woke from a dream where some shaggy, horned figure loomed over him, panting and threatening. But he opened his eyes on a bright, clear morning, the kind that dispels nightmares, foreboding and dark imaginings. Burgess stretched, got out of bed and parted the curtains. ‘Paint the devil on the wall,” he admonished himself, “he just might appear.” He repeated this several more times as he set about his morning ablutions and breakfast preparation.

That afternoon, seeking fresh air, he opted to walk home, by way of a building site he’d passed several times before. He had seen the initial huge square hole, then pylons appeared. On his most recent visit, the whole foundation had been poured. He was eager to assess the progress made since. As the days grew longer and the weather continued clement, it seemed the construction crew was working overtime on the erection of intricate scaffolding around the bare walls. The skeleton of a crane towered above the giant concrete box. It was a disappointingly ugly edifice; he hoped that windows and cladding would improve it.

Entering his silent apartment, Burgess felt a twinge of regret for the wife who was not waiting for him. He shook off the feeling, reminded of all the complaints he’d heard over the years from married co-workers. “Be careful what you wish for, you might get it.” He made a grilled cheese sandwich, heated tomato soup and took his meal into the living room in time for the evening news. A factory fire in China, a mass shooting in the USA, another drought in Spain, more saber rattling all the world over. He changed channels and learned a recipe for zucchini that he might even try some day. Nothing but murder and vapid comedies after that, so he busied himself with cleaning chores until bedtime.


Francois Juin would be forever grateful to Father Perrin for recommending him. Repairs to village churches brought in a decent enough income, but to work on a cathedral… in Limoges…! The wages were good; even with the higher cost of living in the city, his family’s welfare was assured for years, maybe decades, if his strength held out. All that, he crossed himself as he thought it, paled beside the glory of participating in such a glorious, holy undertaking. Francois was a happy man this windy morning as he climbed the scaffolding and let down the hod for the first load of stones. He beckoned Etienne over to help haul it up. Slowly and steadily, lest it fall on one of the apprentices mixing mortar to be ready for hoisting next.

As the load reached the platform, the masons leaned out to guide it over the scaffold rail. In that moment, all the weight of two men and six blocks of granite were at one end of the platform. The scaffold tipped; two of the planks slid sideways. Francois lost his balance and went under the rail. Flailing his arms in an attempt to grab anything solid, he let go of the rope. So did Etienne, trying to catch him. Both men landed hard on top of the stones. Cries of alarm did not entirely cover the sound of breaking bones. The ribs might heal, he thought; two had been fractured before. The arm – he could see a sharp end of pink bone protruding just above the elbow - would have to be amputated, putting an end to his career. Mercifully, a red haze began to obstruct his vision and grew darker. The moans and curses, including his own, sounded remote like the ocean. No glorious cathedral, he realized, no more humble parish church towers. How would Louise manage with three children and an invalid? Louise... As consciousness faded, the pain in that grotesquely twisted limb was gradually replaced by an all-pervading cold. He didn't even feel the crack in his skull.


Burgess Connor wakened reluctantly, slightly disoriented. His right arm buzzed with a million needles; he must have slept with it under his head. As he rubbed it to restore circulation, the sign he had seen at that construction site bobbed up in his mind: “Safety Is Everyone’s Business.” He said it aloud on his way to the bathroom, and again on the subway. He didn’t mind being overheard: people should take that slogan to heart. So many accidents were preventable. So much waste of life! He clutched the moving handrail on the escalator and let several people go through the turnstile ahead of him, rather than crowd them. He walked on the inner edge of the sidewalk, watching for uneven pavement to trip on and for people exiting coffee shops with hot beverages. He had a hard time choosing between the stairs and elevator; each had its own dangers. He flipped a quarter and saw a choking hazard. Even his own cubicle could be dangerous: something so trivial as a staple puncture might cause blood poisoning and agonizing death.

With all that tension, Burgess was too tired to go to lunch. He elected instead to remain at his desk. He set his phone alarm for the end of the break, just in case, and put his head down. A few minutes later, he was fast asleep.


Hua Ting reached her place just as the bell rang, a little out of breath but not late, though it was a close thing. She should not let that boy hold her up at the gate with his compliments and warm smiles. She wished she knew his name but was too shy to ask. Ting sat down at her sewing machine and threaded in the pink spool waiting there. The floor supervisor went by, inspecting all the girls for clean hands and tight sleeves. Then the cart came with plastic bins of precut fabric, placed to the left of each seamstress. Hers was a pleasing cotton print of pink and yellow flowers. This was to be a cheerful day. Another trolley passed, dropping its empty bin for finished pieces on the right side of her station.

Once all these preparations were completed, some of the girls began to chat as they worked. You could talk without taking your eyes off the seam. Match, tack down, sew the straight side as fast as possible, slow as little as possible for the curve, finish, cut off the thread. Repeat with the next piece. It wasn’t difficult, just very boring and murder on the wrists. Yeong Xiu at the next machine was prattling on about her plans for Sunday. The owners were some kind of Christians from America, no work was allowed on their holy day. Her other neighbour, the usually quiet Chin Fen, suddenly asked nobody in particular. “Do you smell smoke?” “I think so,” someone answered. Then they could all smell it, and see wisps of smoke coming through the door. In a moment, the wisps turned to billows and grew darker. Some of the girls were crying out in…


Burgess Connor’s forehead hit the desktop with a painful thud. “What…?” he jolted upright and looked around in alarm. There was no smoke, no garment factory, no Chinese women - only one of the office jokers saying, “Sorry! Sorry, buddy, I didn’t mean to hurt you, just wake you up a little.” He had kicked the base of Burgess’ wheeled chair and sent it spinning away from the desk, yanking his arm from under his head. He felt angry, angrier than these idiots had ever made him before, so angry, he wanted to punch the guy. Looking down, he saw his right hand curled in a tight fist. He forced it open and used it to rub at the incipient bump over his eye. “’S okay,” he muttered, “no harm done.”

As he watched Trevor’s back disappear around the partition, a quotation sprang into his mind. Dickens, maybe? “Cowards die a thousand times; the valiant taste of death but once.”