‘Like his own — like Spragge’s father?’
‘No. Well, he may be. How would I know? Like Billy’s father. I mean, it’s a really striking resemblance, and he just doesn’t see it.’ Prior paused, puzzled by some quality in Rivers’s silence. ‘You see what I mean?’
‘His father?’
‘Yes.’
‘Are you really saying he’s not your father?’
‘Of course he isn’t. How could he be?’
‘How could he not be? In the end one body begets another.’
Prior’s expression hardened. ‘I was born two years ago. In a shell-hole in France. I have no father.’
Rivers felt he needed time to think. A week would have been about right. He said, ‘I met Mr Prior at Craiglockhart.’
‘Yes, I know.’
‘He mentioned hitting Billy. Was that a frequent occurrence?’
‘No. Oddly enough.’
‘How do you know?’
‘I’ve told you. I know everything he knows.’
‘So you have access to his memories?’
‘Yes.’
‘And you also have your own memories.’
‘That’s right.’
‘Why “oddly”?’
A blank look.
‘You said it was odd his father didn’t beat him.’
‘Just because when you look at the relationship you think there must have been something like that. But there wasn’t. Once his parents were having a row and he went downstairs and tried to get between them, and his father picked him up and threw him on the sofa. Only, being a bit the worse for wear, he missed the sofa and hit the wall.’ Prior laughed. ‘He never went down again.’
‘So he just used to lie in bed and listen.’
‘No, he used to get up and sit on the stairs.’
‘What was he feeling?’
‘I’m not good on feelings, Rivers. You’d better ask him.’
‘Does that mean you don’t know what he was feeling?’
‘Angry. He used to do this.’ Prior banged his clenched fist against the palm of the other hand. ‘PIG PIG PIG PIG. And then he’d get frightened, I suppose he was frightened that if he got too angry he’d go downstairs. So he fixed his eyes on the barometer and blotted everything out.’
‘Then what happened?’
‘Nothing. He wasn’t there.’
‘Who was there?’
Prior shrugged his shoulders. ‘I don’t know. Somebody who didn’t care.’
‘Not you?’
‘No, I told you —’
‘You were born in a shell-hole.’ A pause. ‘Can you tell me about it?’
An elaborate shrug. ‘There isn’t much to tell. He was wounded. Not badly, but it hurt. He knew he had to go on. And he couldn’t. So I came.’
Again that elusive impression of childishness. ‘Why were you able to go on when he couldn’t?’
‘I’m better at it.’
‘Better at…?’
‘Fighting.’
‘Why are you better?’
‘Oh, for God’s sake—’
‘No, it isn’t a stupid question. You’re not taller, you’re not stronger, you’re not faster… you’re not better trained. How could you be? So why are you better?’
‘I’m not frightened.’
‘Everybody’s frightened sometimes.’
‘I’m not. And I don’t feel pain.’
‘I see. So you didn’t feel the wound?’
‘No.’ Prior looked at Rivers, narrowing his eyes. ‘You don’t believe a bloody word of this, do you?’
Rivers couldn’t bring himself to reply.
‘Look.’ Prior drew strongly on his cigar, until the tip glowed red, then, almost casually, stubbed it out in the palm of his left hand. He leant towards Rivers, smiling. ‘This isn’t acting, Rivers. Watch the pupils,’ he said, pulling down the lid of one eye.
The room filled with the smell of burning skin.
‘And now you can have your little blue-eyed boy back.’
A withdrawn, almost drugged look, like extreme shock or the beginning of orgasm. Then, abruptly, the features convulsed with pain, and Prior, teeth chattering uncontrollably, raised his shaking hand and rocked it against his chest.
‘I haven’t got any pain-killers,’ Rivers said.’You’d better drink this.’
Prior took the brandy and held out his other hand for Rivers to complete the dressing. ‘Aren’t you going to tell me what happened?’ he said.
‘You burnt yourself.’
‘Why?’
Rivers sighed. ‘It was a dramatic gesture that went wrong.’
He’d decided not to tell Prior about the loss of normal sensation. It was a common symptom of hysterical disorders, but knowledge of it would only serve to reinforce Prior’s belief that the alternating state of consciousness was a monster with whom he could have nothing in common.
‘What was he like?’ Prior asked.
‘What were you like? Bloody-minded.’
‘Violent?’
‘Well, yes. Obviously,’ Rivers said, indicating the burn.
‘No, I meant —’
‘Did you take a swing at me? No.’ Rivers smiled. ‘Sorry.’
‘You make it sound as if it’s something I want.’
Rivers was thinking deeply. ‘I think that’s true,’ he said, knotting the ends of the bandage.
‘No. Why should I want it? It’s creating bloody havoc.’
‘You know, Billy, the really interesting thing about tonight is that you turned up in the other state. I mean that while in the other state you still wanted to keep the appointment.’
‘What did you call me?’
‘Billy. Do you mind? I — ‘
‘No, it’s just that it’s the first time. Did you know that? Sassoon was Siegfried. Anderson was Ralph. I noticed the other day you called Manning Gharles. I was always “Prior”. In moments of exasperation I was Mister Prior.’
‘I’m sorry, I —’ Oh, God, Rivers thought. Prior was incapable of interpreting that as anything other than snobbery. And perhaps it had been. Partly. Though it had been more to do with his habit of sneering suggestiveness. ‘I’d no idea you minded.’
‘No, well, you’re not very perceptive, are you? Anyway, it doesn’t matter.’ He stood up. ‘I’d better be off.’
‘You can’t go now, the trains have stopped. And, in any case, you’re in no state to be on your own. You’d better sleep here.’
Prior hesitated. ‘All right.’
Til make up the bed.’
Rivers saw Prior settled for the night, then went to his own room, telling himself it would be fatal, at this late hour, to attempt any assessment of Prior’s situation. That must wait till morning. But the effort of not thinking about Prior proved almost equally disastrous, for he drifted off into a half-dreaming state, the only condition, apart from feverish illness, in which he had normal powers of visualization. He tossed and turned, scarcely aware of his surroundings, while persistent images floated before him. France. Craters, a waste of mud, splintered trees. Once he woke and lay looking into the darkness, faintly amused that his identification with his patients should have reached the point where he dreamt their dreams rather than his own. He heard the church bell chime three, and then sank back into his half-sleep. This was a dreadful place. Nothing human could live here. Nothing human did. He was entirely alone, until, with a puckering of the surface, a belch of foul vapours, the mud began to move, to gather itself together, to rise and stand before him in the shape of a man. A man who turned and began striding towards England. He tried to call out, no, not that way, and the movement of his lips half woke him. But he sank down again, and again the mud gathered itself into the shape of a man, faster and faster until it seemed the whole night was full of such creatures, creatures composed of Flanders mud and nothing else, moving their grotesque limbs in the direction of home.