He slept jerkily, and dreamed he was in bed with his wife, though in reality he had never even thought of marrying. Then he was betraying someone to the expressionless judges in order to save himself, and there was fire again. He spent the next day irritably pondering all this, which seemed just beyond his comprehension, and trying to draw a last piece for the Bluecoat Gallery. He had achieved nothing when it was time to leave for the private view.
It was hardly encouraging. The invited audience sipped sherry, smiled politely at his work or seemed afraid to laugh, talked of other things. He wouldn’t have thought that dogs were allowed in here—but whenever he looked around he couldn’t be sure that anybody had brought one. When people met his eye, their faces turned hurriedly blank. Again he thought of expressionless judges.
At least Giulia was there, which was a pleasant surprise; of course she would have been sent a ticket at the Lady Lever Gallery. ‘Don’t take any notice of how they looked while you were watching,’ she said afterward. ‘They liked it, from what I overheard. They were inhibited, that was all.’ Perhaps sensing that he was unconvinced, she said ‘Come to me tomorrow and we’ll read the reviews over dinner, if you like.’
If only he could discuss his problems with her! How could he, when he had no idea what they were? That night in bed he tried to catch them in the dark. Though he wasn’t aware of dreaming, he kept starting awake and wondering not only where he was, but who. Several times he restrained himself from getting up to look out of the window.
In the morning he was exhausted, but the notices revived him. They were more favourable than he would have permitted himself to hope: ‘. . . an impressively consistent exhibition . . .’ ‘. . . real wit and style . . .’ ‘. . . civilized humour of a kind one had ceased to hope for . . .’ Perhaps his elation would help him discern the rest of his problems.
He spread out the sketch before him on the desk. There was a background that would make sense of the smooth face, if only he could draw it. He still had time to include it in his exhibition—but was that why it seemed so urgent to complete the picture?
The sketched eyes outstared him, challenged him to be sure they contained any secret at all. He had not the least idea what he was struggling to draw. Outside in the wind and the rain, trees tossed like the foot of a waterfall. Was it the wind or his awareness that kept fading? His pencil and his head were nodding, starting up. Perhaps he gazed at the smooth face for hours.
When eventually he fell asleep the pencil seemed about to mark the paper, yet he was too exhausted to intervene. Again he dreamed that he was in bed with his wife. He had woken beside her in the dark. She must be having a nightmare, for she was panting, though everything was all right now: he’d betrayed the smooth-faced man to save himself, betrayed the man who had corrupted him. All this was a dream, since he had never been married, and so he could wake up; please let him wake before he lit the candle! But the flint sparked, the wick flared, and he had to turn and look.
His wife lay face up beside him, her mouth gaping. She might have been panting in her sleep, except that her chest was utterly still. No, the sound was coming from the face that quivered above hers, the jowly face with its tongue grey as slime and its tiny pink eyes like pimples sunk in the white flesh. He thought of a bulldog’s face, but it was more like a noseless old man’s, and its paws on her chest looked like a child’s hands.
Crosby woke, for the pencil had snapped in his fingers. The trees in the park were still now, and hardly distinguishable from the night. When he switched on his desk-lamp the reflection of his hand went crawling among the trees. He barely noticed, for he’d caught sight of the sketch. Before falling asleep, or while he had been dreaming, he had filled in the background at last.
Background wasn’t precisely the word. The smooth-faced man had a body now, though not to his benefit; it was chained to a stake, and was burning. As Crosby stared at this, not at all sure that he wanted to understand, he remembered his spell under anaesthetic. As he’d drifted away he had begun to count backward, not random numbers but years—centuries of them.
All at once fear choked him, yet he wasn’t sure what he feared. Once he was with Giulia he would be able to think. He switched off the desk-lamp and hurried out, contorting himself into his coat. Why did it seem that a dim reflection of his hand stayed in the park?
He strode to the railway station, and kept close to the streetlamps. The downpour had moved on, but rain continued beneath trees. Dockers were yelling inside and outside pubs. The platforms of the station were deserted, but hardly quiet enough; he wished the noises would come out and make themselves clear. The countryside, a glistening blur, dashed past the train. Fireflies of houses and streetlamps swarmed by.
He had just stepped onto the Port Sunlight platform, and was glad to leave behind the foggy light and brownish repetitive seats of the empty carriage, when something darted out of the train and vanished up the passage to the street.
At once his fear was no longer for himself. He ran along the passage, which was deserted, not even a porter. So were the half-timbered streets and avenues; the black and white buildings looked dead as bone. Shadows or rain bruised the pavements beneath trees. Far down a vista, the beam of a headlight stretched between two rows of trees, then broke up and was gone.
Giulia’s cottage was rocking like an anchored boat, for he was stumbling toward it at a run. Something pale was waiting for him in the porch: a crumpled pamphlet, wet with rain. Not even a pamphlet—just a ball of paper. But perhaps it wasn’t rain that had made it wet, for it was also chewed. It was his sketch that had hung on the wall of Giulia’s parlour. It must have strayed out through the front door, which was open.
Mightn’t she have left it open for him? Yet when he made himself enter, he couldn’t bring himself to call out to her. A tap ticked like a beetle in the bathroom to the right of the narrow hall; at the end of the hall, light angled from the kitchen and lay in wedges on the stairs. Amid the smells of cooking was a stench reminiscent both of a zoo and of decay.
He had almost reached the first door—the parlour’s—when something dodged out and past him, down the dark hall. He thought of a slavering child on all fours. He kicked out, but it eluded him. He knew instinctively that there was no longer any reason to hurry into the parlour, and it was a long time before he could.
Giulia lay on her back on the floor, in an overturned chair. Her legs dangled from the seat. Her mouth and her eyes were gaping, her lips were wet. Stooping, he felt for her heartbeat. He was touching her at last, but only to confirm that she was dead. After a while he trudged to the kitchen and switched off the cooker.
Eventually he went back to the station. There was nobody to tell, nothing to do. In the empty carriage a lolling face peered out from beneath the seat opposite, drew back whenever he kicked at it. It was venturing closer, and so at last were his memories, but he was beyond caring.
His street was deserted. Light like glaring metal discs lay beneath the streetlamps. Something like a hairless dog vanished into the short cut to the park. No doubt when Crosby looked out of his window, he would see it and its master waiting among the trees.
He was unlocking his empty house when he thought of Giulia. Both the shock and his sense of meaninglessness had faded, and he began to sob dryly. Suddenly he dragged the front door shut, sending echoes fleeing into the house, and strode toward the park.
His memories were flooding back. Perhaps they would help him. He was almost running now, toward the dark beneath the trees, where the smooth-faced man and his familiar were waiting. Once they were face to face, Crosby would remember both the man’s name and his own. He’d got the better of the smooth-faced man once before, and this time, by God—even if it killed him—he would finish the job.