Transformation Scene
Part I
MURDER
Chapter One
THE DREAM
A terrible dream.
So terrible that, when I woke, I was shaking as if I had a rigor. The sheet and blankets had fallen to the floor, and I felt icy cold although I was wet with perspiration.
I sat up in bed, looked round the room, but the minutes passed and I could not believe that the dream was a dream. The familiar furniture, the customary sounds from the street, had an irrelevant quality, whereas every incident in the dream retained overwhelming reality.
Perhaps that was understandable, as I had just wakened, but, after I had dressed, after I had had toast and coffee, and smoked a cigarette in the sitting-room of this Chelsea flat where I have lived for some years, the memory of the dream still obsessed me like an incubus.
I tried every device to exorcise it. I talked aloud. I argued with myself—emphasised that I am recovering from illness; stressed that I—Max Arnold, an artist—am no stranger to odd experiences, so it was ridiculous, at the age of forty-four, to be unable to banish the memory of a dream—no matter how spectral or how terrifying. I got excited and began to argue with myself more vehemently. But it was no good. I failed. And I failed because I could not convince myself that the dream was a dream. . . .
For some unknown reason, I felt uneasy about going to bed last night. I came home at eleven and while I smoked a cigarette before undressing I had the peculiar sensation that there was something which must be done immediately, although I had no idea what it could possibly be. This sensation lasted for a long time after I was in bed and, several times, I felt that I must get up and dress in order to be ready for emergency. At last I put on a dressing-gown, went to the window, and parted the curtains. Fog deepened the gloom of the black-out. London was silent as a moor. I stood motionless for nearly ten minutes, certain that at any instant I should hear footsteps hurrying towards me.
What made this restlessness more remarkable was the fact that an incident had occurred, when I came in last night, which had irritated me intensely. I found a note in the letter-box from a girl with whom I have been intimate for over four years—a girl called Carol. She is twenty-five and lives in Mitre Street, which runs from the King’s Road to the Embankment. I can walk to her flat in a few minutes by taking a short-cut through an alley. But although I have been intimate with Carol for years I know very little about her. Practically nothing! That may sound extraordinary, but the explanation is extremely simple—I have always loathed my physical dependence on her, consequently my visits were intermittent and brief. She must have been aware of this to some extent, for she never made any demands, but always accepted the situation on my terms. I was astonished, therefore, to get a letter asking me to go to her flat—so astonished that I read only the opening sentences, then threw it aside. For the first time, Carol had asked me to do something outside our clearly defined routine and this irritated me, especially as I had begun to hope that I should soon be free of her for ever.
Nothing could indicate the nature of our relations more clearly than the facts that, till yesterday, I had not seen her handwriting—and that I do not remember her surname. I must have known it, of course, but she has been “Carol” for so long that I have forgotten it.
What increased my irritation was the discovery that she has a fine sensitive handwriting and, somehow, that seems utterly incongruous. One way and another, therefore, the whole incident exasperated me and, this being so, it is extraordinary that I soon forgot all about it—and experienced the peculiar sensation that there was something which I must do immediately.
That, roughly, was my state last night. I do not think that I slept till about three o’clock. . . .
This was the dream:
I found myself in a dark place of huge dimensions—a place of annihilating size. Deepening silence explored this limitless void. Everything was static: Time had frozen. The débris of a universe surrounded me.
Then a voice whispered:
“Put on the light, if you’ve had enough of this.”
With a supreme effort of will, I switched on the readings lamp by the side of the bed.
The familiar room leapt from darkness.
I sat up and listened.
At last I rose and began to dress slowly, but, soon, I had the astral sensation that the real Max Arnold had remained in bed and was watching the preparations of a phantom Max Arnold with ever-increasing perturbation. Eventually, however, I became wholly identified with the man who was dressing with such fastidious care.
I did not know why I had got up, or what I intended to do. I was concerned only with details—the tie I would wear, the rubber-soled shoes, the scarf, the gloves. I evidently attributed great importance to the gloves, because I scrutinised and rejected half a dozen pairs before making a final choice. But I did all this automatically and without conscious knowledge of the objective to which all these details were related.
When I had buttoned a dark overcoat and had adjusted my scarf, I pulled a soft hat firmly over my eyes, then went slowly into the hall and opened the front door. I stood still for over a minute, listening, then hurried down the short flight of stone steps leading to the main entrance.
The massive door was ajar, but this did not surprise me, as the fire-watchers often left it open. I stopped for a moment and looked round. If I had seen someone—if I had heard a sound—I should have returned to my flat. But no one—anywhere. Only silence—everywhere.
I studied my gloves critically, then went out into the double gloom of black-out and fog.
Even when I began to walk towards the alley leading to Carol’s flat, I had no particular destination in mind. Only the activity of the actual moment existed, although I did recognise that any chance incident might end this nocturnal adventure. If I heard footsteps in the alley, which I had just entered—if I heard a voice in an unseen house—I should probably turn back. My will was not involved, for it recognised no goal. I did not know whether I should reach Carol’s flat and, if I did, I had no idea whether I should try to see her. At each moment I automatically obeyed a secret prompting, in much the same way as a hypnotised person responds to orders.
Suddenly, however, as I walked slowly and silently towards the street where Carol lived, I knew that our relations had ended. If I saw her to-night, it would be the last time. I was free! Free of her—and the slavery which she represented. This I knew—and this knowledge was rapture.
When I reached the end of the alley, I again stopped and listened. Nothing to be heard; no one to be seen. I was the only man in London who could have walked confidently to Carol’s flat through black-out and fog. Not once did I hesitate. I knew the way to her too well. At last I went on, moving with the certainty of a sleep-walker, en route for a familiar destination.
Here was her street. There was the house in a cul-de-sac. I could see neither, but sensed both. I stopped opposite the shop over which Carol lived. I had only to cross the road in order to discover whether her street door was locked. She nearly always left it on the latch, which was extraordinarily stupid, but I was too uninterested to remonstrate with her. If, to-night, it were locked, I should go home. And, as I crossed the road, I was certain that it would not be locked.
The shop had had several owners since the war and was now run by a refugee woman who sold peasant embroidery and attractive odds and ends. She did not live on the premises. Carol’s was the only flat over the shop.