Hawksmoor

So that now, if he sat looking down upon Grape Street, the letters and images encircled him. And it was while he sat here, scarcely moving, that he was in hell and no one knew it. At such times the future became so clear that it was as if he were remembering it, remembering it in place of the past which he could no longer describe. But there was in any case no future and no past, only the unspeakable misery of his own self.

And so when he sat with Walter in the Red Gates he could scarcely talk, but looked down at his glass as Walter anxiously watched his face. Yet he drank in order to speak freely, for it seemed to him that he had lost his connection to the world and had become much like one of the cardboard figures in a puppet theatre, shaking a little as the hand which held him trembles. But if he could speak, and the voice came not from someone crouched below but from himself… 'Do you know,' he murmured and Walter craned forward to hear him. 'Do you know that when murderers kill themselves, they try and make it look like another murder? But do you know how many of them are struck by lightning? A lot. More than you think.' He glanced around furtively.

'You know what we were told years ago, it must be years ago now, that you could see the image of the murderer imprinted on the victim's eyes? If only I could get that close, you see. And I'll tell you something else. There are some people so frightened of being murdered that they die of their own fear. What about that?' Walter felt his legs trembling with the suppressed desire to run, and he got up quickly to order more drinks. When he returned Hawksmoor stared at him. 'I know it, Walter, I can feel it. Do you know, I can go into a house and feel if a murder has taken place there? I can feel it.' And he let out a loud laugh, which for a moment silenced the other conversations in the pub.

A broken glass was being swept from the floor and, as Hawksmoor noticed how each of the shattered pieces shone quite differently in the light, Walter seized his opportunity to speak. 'Do you think we need a break from this case, sir? A real break?'

Hawksmoor was visibly alarmed: 'Who told you to say that?'

Walter tried to calm him. 'No one told me, but it's been eight months now. You deserve a rest from it.'

That's a strange word, deserve, isn't it? Do you know what it means?'

'It means to need something, doesn't it?'

'No, it means to be worthy of something. And so I'm worthy of rest.'

Walter noticed how his hand trembled, and Hawksmoor gripped his glass more tightly. 'I don't know what to say to that, sir.' He gazed at Hawksmoor, not without friendliness. 'You'll start to dream about it soon,' he put it to him gently.

'What makes you think I don't dream about it now?' He had spoken too loudly, and once again there was a sudden silence in the room.

Hawksmoor looked down, abashed, and this was the occasion for which Walter had waited. 'It just seems to me, sir, that we're not getting anywhere. '

'Is that how it seems to you?'

That's how it seems to everyone, sir. ' Hawksmoor looked up at him sharply, and in that moment the relationship between the two men was subtly but permanently changed. 'We don't have the facts,'

Walter was saying, 'and that's our problem.'

'You know about facts, do you, all these facts we don't have?'

Hawksmoor was very grim. 'In your experience, Walter, do any two people see the same thing?'

'No, but '

'And so it's your job to interpret what they have seen, to interpret the facts. Am I right?'

The conversation puzzled Walter, and he decided to retire from it.

'Yes, sir.'

'And so the facts don't mean much until you have interpreted them?'

That's right.'

'And where does that interpretation come from? It comes from you and me. And who are we?' Hawksmoor raised his voice. 'Don't you think I worry when everything falls apart in my hands -but it's not the facts I worry about. It's me.' When he stopped, he passed his hands trembling across his face. 'Is it hot in here or is it just me?' He took out a handkerchief to wipe the sweat from his forehead and then, as Walter still said nothing, he added, 'I'm going to find him.'

And then, later, he heard himself saying, 'I told you about that notebook, didn't I?' But he managed to stop himself and, muttering an excuse, went once more to the bar where three women turned and laughed when he began speaking to them. Walter watched the sweating, shambling figure as he winked and said, 'I'll show you something you won't forget. Do you want to see something?' And they laughed again: 'What is it?' one of them asked 'Something you've got for us? Something small, I should think'. And they cackled. But they stopped when he took some pictures out of his jacket pocket and held them up to the light in triumph. 'Get them out of here!' the same woman cried in disgust, 'We don't want any of that filth!' Then Hawksmoor himself looked at what he held in his hands, and bowed down as if in prayer when Walter came up to him and saw that he was holding photographs of the murder victims. Tut them away now, sir, ' he murmured, 'I'll take you back.' Hawksmoor stuffed the photographs into his pocket, yawning, and Walter led him home.

The ringing of the telephone startled Hawksmoor as he sat at his desk: it was the Assistant Commissioner who wished to see him at once but, as soon as he rose from his chair, he became quite calm. He remained calm as he ascended in the lift to the thirteenth floor and, when he entered a large office, the Assistant Commissioner was staring out of the window at the grey rain: this will be the shape of your damnation, Hawksmoor thought, to look out perpetually and mournfully. But the figure turned round swiftly. 'Forgive me, Nick.'

'Forgive you? Forgive you for what?' There was turmoil in Hawksmoor's face.

'Forgive me for summoning you like this.' Then he sat down, and cleared his throat. 'How's the case going, Nick? How close are you to finding him?' The telephone rang but he ignored it and waited for Hawksmoor to speak. Then he added, in the gathering silence, T'm not sure we're getting anywhere, Nick.'

T'm sure we are. In time, sir.' Hawksmoor stood with his arms straight down by his sides, almost at attention.

'But we're not becoming any wiser. We've got nothing extra have we?' Hawksmoor averted his eyes from the man's gaze and stared out of the window behind him. 'I've got something else for you, Detective Superintendent, not quite in your usual line but '

'You mean you're taking me off the case?'

'I'm not so much taking you off this case as putting you on another one.'

Hawksmoor took a step backward. 'You're taking me off the case.'

'You've got things out of perspective, Nick. You laid the foundations, and you did a good job, but now I need someone to build the case up stone by stone.'

'But the bodies are buried in the foundations,' Hawksmoor replied, 'generally speaking, that is.'

The Assistant Commissioner lowered his voice slightly: There's been some talk about you recently. They say you've been under a lot of strain.'

'And who is they?' Whenever he heard that word, he imagined a group of shadows moving from place to place.

'Why don't you take some time off? Before you begin the new case.

Why don't you have a good rest?' And he rose, making a point of looking directly at Hawksmoor, who looked back helplessly.

When he returned to his own office Walter was waiting for him: 'How did it go?'

'So you knew.'

'Everyone knew, sir. It was only a matter of time.' And Hawksmoor heard a vast sea roaring around him: he saw quite distinctly a small creature waving its arms in panic as the water swirled around him like storm clouds. 'I tried to help -' Walter began nervously to say.