There was a long silence. He filled a pipe mechanically while he stared at the fire.
At last he said:
“I’m glad I’m clearing out.”
“Where are you going?”
“Antwerp.”
“When?”
“To-morrow. I couldn’t stay in London—not now. You know they’re getting flying bombs in Antwerp, so they want people with experience to go over. I believe some A.A. units have gone. Anyway, I said I’d go, and the sooner the better. I’m told the whole place reeks of brick dust, but I don’t mind that. And the only relaxation will be cinemas showing old films, but I don’t mind that either. I couldn’t stay here. That’s certain.”
“Well, I wish you luck. I’d better go, Harry. You’ve plenty to do. But before I go, tell me this: Have you seen Mrs. Norton since Carol’s death?”
“Ah, now I’ll tell you something! We were talking about courage in the park. I may have some physical courage, but I’ve no mental courage. Just none! And the proof is that I could no more face Mrs. Norton than jump over the moon. Anything to do with madness terrifies me. Mervyn is as much as I can stand in the mad way. I saw Mrs. Norton about two years ago. That was enough for me. What she must be like now, I daren’t think. Have you seen her?”
“Yes. Yesterday.”
“God! You’re the one to have the George Cross. What was she like?”
“Pretty terrifying.”
“I’ll bet she was!”
Then I saw myself leap to my feet—and heard myself shout:
“I can’t get her out of my mind! I can’t, I tell you! I—can’t.”
“Into that chair! Quick! You’re having the rest of the whisky. Don’t argue! You’re having it. God, Max! You’ll have to take a devil of a pull on yourself! You can’t explode like that.”
“It’s nothing, Harry. I’ve been ill lately—and my nerves have gone to hell.”
“They always were too taut, I was wrong when I said in the park that I think you’re all right. What I mean, was that, at times, you’re freer than any man I’ve ever known, but that’s probably because you’re only half in this world.”
After a silence, he went on:
“It’s a damned funny thing, but I read something in a book last night which—God knows why!—made me think of you.”
“What was it?”
“Wait a minute.”
He went into the bedroom, returning almost immediately with a book in his hand.
“Now, listen to this.”
He sat on the arm of my chair, then read:
“Just as there are birds which sense the coming of nature’s revolutions, such as storm or floods, so there are men who feel in advance the coming of social revolutions. Such creatures at such times are paralysed and distraught to the depths of their being.”
“God knows why, Max, but that made me think of you.”
“That’s very odd. Years after my father’s death, I found that passage—heavily marked—in one of his books.”
“I believe your real trouble is that you gamble with yourself.”
“And lose. I must go, Harry.”
“But are you all right?”
“I’m all right.”
When I’d put on my overcoat and we were standing in the hall, I felt that I’d left something, or had something to tell him, but, as I could think of nothing, I shook his hand and said:
“Look after yourself. If you want somewhere to sleep when you get back, come to me.”
“That’s good of you. And I may have to. They offered to keep this room for me, but that wouldn’t be fair—with people sleeping in shelters because they’ve nowhere to live.”
“I say, again, you’re a damned good fellow.”
“Glad you still think so. Now, you’re the one to look after yourself. By the way, I never write letters, but I’ll be back soon.”
That was the last time I saw him.
About a month later, I heard he had been in an Antwerp cinema when it was hit by a flying bomb. Harry was killed instantly. With about eight hundred others.
Chapter Five
FORTY-EIGHT HOURS
Almost immediately after leaving Harry, I discovered that I was exhausted. With many people, exhaustion seems to be the end-term of a process during which they are increasingly aware of fatigue, but, with me, it comes unheralded. And that was how it came now—suddenly, overwhelmingly—when I found myself in the Pimlico streets.
I’ve no clear recollection of returning to the flat. All I remember is that, on arrival, I flung off my clothes, fell into bed, and knew nothing till I became mistily aware that it was day—but, almost immediately, oblivion reclaimed me and, when I woke, darkness had come and all was still.
For an indefinite period I lay motionless, feeling as if I had made an arduous return from a region remote and perilous. And this feeling persisted, although I forced myself to get up, have a drink, and smoke a cigarette.
It is probable that exhaustion, by reducing physical vitality to a minimum, so enfeebles your hold on the actual world that you become as defenceless to astral assault as a drunkard, but, whatever the explanation, it is certain that although I was now fully awake, this flat and everything in it seemed unsubstantial as a nearly forgotten dream.
All sorts of disparate thoughts roamed through my mind as I sat crouched over the electric fire. . . . The daily woman did not turn up yesterday. . . . The Sunday papers had been full of the Chelsea murder. . . . I shouldn’t be able to be alone. . . . Harry had asked Carol to marry him. . . . She had looked like a child when I stood at the foot of her bed in my “dream”. . . . Mrs. Norton accepted me as an inhabitant of her world. . . . I shouldn’t be able to be alone. . . .
At last I looked at my watch. It would soon be dawn. I had no plans of any kind. What a vast void of time a day can seem! Then I discovered that, having slept for nearly thirty hours, my time-sense had become so distorted that I did not know which day it was. Eventually, I remembered that I had met Harry on Sunday—I had slept all Monday—so to-day must be Tuesday. Yes, Tuesday. . . .
I left the flat at twelve o’clock, having decided to lunch at a French restaurant in Soho. Although I did not want to be alone, I knew that if I went to the club I should be a target for endless questions about Carol—and I was not nearly certain enough of myself to endure that ordeal. Nothing demands more will than the wearing of a mask.
The air was grey with frost; a gloomy sky was heavy with snow. As I turned out of Shaftesbury Avenue, a man selling papers shouted: “Another Chelsea sensation!” I bought a paper, then read that a Chelsea student had committed suicide. Search was proceeding for a letter which might explain why he had taken his life.
I put the paper into my overcoat pocket, then a new possibility presented itself—and a shattering one.
Suppose that weeks passed and the Chelsea murder remained a mystery! Suppose that a year—two years—passed, and no arrest was made! If that happened, I should never know with final certainty whether I had killed Carol. The evidence might seem overwhelming, but it was subjective. No objective evidence proved that I had visited Carol’s flat on the night of the murder. Nothing belonging to me had been found in her rooms and, so long as objective evidence was lacking, the possibility would remain that the dream had been only a dream.
Why had I assumed that the murderer would be found? Perhaps that student had committed suicide because he had killed Carol. That was improbable but not impossible. One thing was certain: if Carol’s murderer were not discovered, I should never know whether the dream had been only a dream—or a reflection of fearful reality. . . .