GS Marlowe - I Am Your Brother

by (epub)

  Julian walks on and people look at him. . . . This man is not feeling very well, and his legs might give way any moment—any moment, if you please, he might faint.

  A day lasts twelve hours, and so does a night, but this strong daylight and the rapidly following night could drive anybody crazy—or at least make a man faint or fall flat on his face. And the streets turn round and the houses—even those old humble ones seem to grow into the clouds—and they turn round, revolve around Julian Spencer, Esq., and the pavement, just out of sheer courtesy, slips away, gives way under his feet, and . . .

  “Move on,” says the policeman. “Move on!”

  And the little man with a soft grey felt hat, who is not very well shaven, approaches the officer of civilian law. “Crooked, my name,” he remarks. “From the Daily Sentiment. What happened?”

  “Oh, I don’t know,” says the constable, “I don’t know. A man had a fit—he’s all right again now.” And to a few pedestrians: “Come on, move on!”

  Stairs, lots of stairs. One, two, three, four. . . . Who cares to count them? And they are all quite steep. Five, six, seven, eight. . . . And there’s a landing and then some more stairs. One, two, three, four. . . . Now, don’t let’s count them. There might be ten or fifteen, but it’s of no importance. And Julian tries hurriedly to go upstairs. It’s all very dark, but not exceptionally dark: just as dark as it always used to be in this house, the property of the late Mrs. Spencer. Finally, perspiration dropping from his forehead, he arrives at the door with the Yale lock, and here he stops, just for a moment—long enough to get his breath. Key pushed in the lock. “Go back!” he shouts and closes the door with a bang behind him.

  The shadow of the Brother moves slowly, and stops. And Julian sits down heavily on a little stool. Shadows: all the work of a tiny thin shaft of light.

  The voice of the Brother, not soft and good-natured as it used to be, but rather sharp and shrill.

  “Julian!” says the voice, “I really didn’t expect you. Strange that you should be here again.” And, growing slightly softer: “You made a great mistake, my Brother Julian. You thought it would be so easy to get rid of me. A box, a few little holes drilled in the wood—you thought the water—gurgle—and then a splash!” And again, with great superiority: “You know, Julian, it takes two brains to figure out a fatal trap. Poison? No. Water and weir? No. Why don’t you try a gun? Cartridges, sharp and very shiny, and even then it takes two brains to kill a humble brother. You are my enemy, you hate me, don’t you? Hideous, ugly, treacherous, greedy and smelly, aren’t I?”

  “What are you talking about?” asks Julian. “Nonsense, rubbish!”

  “You know,” continues the Brother, “you have no right to kill me. I’ve had a very poor and humble life. Stories I was told—and foolishly enough I did believe in them. Kings, queens, a little princess, strange dark forests, and huntsmen. But now I know it’s bunk! Plain, simple bunk, stories thought up by you and our mother. But what I want”—and he lowers his voice threateningly—“is more—life! Don’t get alarmed, my Brother Julian. A bit of it! A tiny slice! And afterwards I may decide to end it all.” And his voice growing still lower: “I—me—myself—might find a way, so very quick and short, to end it all. Just think of it, my Brother Julian. There are so many wires—don’t I know them all? I might crawl up and put my head into a wiry loop, and then let go!”

  “Shut up!” shouts Julian.

  “Don’t try to silence me. I never spoke—I listened—and now, once and for all, I’ll talk.”

  Pause. Silence. And there’s not a sound. Dead pause. This killing silence. And quite abruptly into this silence, the Brother’s voice. . . .

  The Brother’s voice. But now of a strange beauty, almost unearthly—unearthly and beautiful like a little village, like houses in a little village at sunset. . . . Softly. . . . A village you’ve never seen, but always hoped to find. . . . Softly, softly. . . . Gardens with blooming trees, wide lawns and shadows falling over. And grazing sheep. And young women looking down the street, waiting for something to come. Something to happen in their simple quiet little lives. . . . Softly, softly. . . . And downs lose themselves in the distance, and a lark ascends to fall back again into misty morning. And somewhere is the sea. . . . Young women look down the street and wait and wait. . . .

  And all this in the Brother’s voice . . . like music, soft music. “Only just once. You know, my Brother Julian, before I go, I only want . . . just once. . . . I feel so different and it’s all so new. . . . I want to feel . . . you know, my brother Julian, it is so strong . . . if I could only feel . . . and then . . . we’ll part . . . and I shall go my way, straight into darkness, back to the darkness and eternal night I came from. I saw the clouds, I smelt the earth, I heard so many voices, and I want to live, only for once! I swear, my brother Julian, only for once!”

  Julian jumps up and the stool falls hard on the floor. “All right. You want——”

  And the Brother, faintly, faintly sliding back into the dark: “Yes.” And still more faintly: “I do, I do.”

  A spring-like night. One of those nights in Soho when all these strange creatures creep out of their tumble-down houses and lodgings and sit on the pavement on little broken-down chairs and stools, and chat and laugh and it’s all very gay, but somehow subdued, as it is night.

  Street-lamps. A faint glare in the seductive night. Some dark streets. Closed tobacconists, and Italian grocery stores. Parmagiano. King Bomba. And fruiterers. Vermouth di Turino. Lacrimae Christi. And Chianti Rufino. But the shops are all closed and the streets are dark and dead. No, not quite dead, as a few ladies—what one calls ladies of the pavement—are walking about slowly, nonchalantly, and quite casually they turn round—it’s just business. People must live. Some with their brains and some with their haggard, worn-out, shop-soiled bodies. Old ones and young ones, and they are all very fat and greasy with fur-trimmed coats of no style or fashion. And they walk about, handbags under their arms, very efficient, and for a few bob—much less than a pound—you can have anything you want. Yes, but that’s all very well: the policeman stands at the corner watching scene and behaviour with careful, lawful eyes. . . .

  Ah, good—this might—ah—this might be business—there—look quick and stop—no doubt, this is business. . . . And they all walk slowly down the street and a short one, quite young, with broken-down squashy breasts, stops, and jerks her head invitingly. And a high-pitched voice, though subdued:

  “May I talk to you?”

  Julian stops, and the other girls stop at a respectable distance.

  And Julian, very quickly: “Will you come with me? Home? Just round the corner.”

  “Ah!” says the prostitute, and after a pause: “Won’t you come up to my flat? I’m alone—just round the corner.”

  “No, no,” says Julian nervously. “That won’t do. You come with me, see?”

  And the fat body coyly, “Yes, but I never go to a man’s flat.”

  “Listen,” says Julian, reaching in his pocket, producing, holding out, two lovely quid notes. “Look! Two pounds . . . what about it?”

  “Two pounds!” says the woman. “Ah, that’s different.” And very cheerful, “Where do you live?” And again, “Where do you live, dear?”

  And quickly they disappear down the street.

  “Aren’t you walking quickly?” says the sinful beauty, and: “Where do you live?”

  “Second house on the right,” says Julian.

  But at the corner she stops, recovers her breath. “What’s the hurry, dear?”

  “Ha!” laughs Julian. “I’m not in a hurry.”

  And the woman, babyishly: “Why are you running, then?” And quite suddenly, almost scared: “Nothing wrong?”

  “Wrong?” says Julian. “Why do you ask?”

  “Two pounds,” says the prostitute, reassuring herself.

  And Julian: “Right, two pounds.”

  But the woman gets stubborn, and she stops again. “You know
, I never go to a gentleman’s flat—you never know . . .” And still more frightened: “Now, listen, I say . . . no hanky-panky, eh?” And as there is no answer, she says, very discouraged: “I don’t know. I don’t want the money, I’d better go home. I’m tired.” And one more attempt: “What do you want?”

  Julian gets hard. “Listen, what do you want? Two pounds won’t do? All right, here is another pound.”

  “What?” says the woman, surprised. “Ah? Oh?” And quickly: “No, no, keep it. I don’t know what you want, but I’m not going in for that sort of thing. I’m not that kind.” And after a hurried “To hell with you!” she is gone.

  Now don’t get discouraged, Julian, there are plenty of others. How about . . . she watched the whole scene, she tramped slowly after . . . and she is quite old. She looks—yes, of course, she looks very much like Mrs. Spencer. Just as hideous, and she has specs, those cheap wire-framed specs the old lady used to wear. She sees that Julian is alone, that this fat fool left him for one reason or another, that she simply couldn’t cope with the boy, and that’s why she quickly powders her nose—what a nose! Like the hand of an old-fashioned alarm clock, sharp and long, and very nostrilled—and she rushes after young man Julian on weak, bony feet.

  “Hallo!” she says, peeping at him, with lustful, thin-lipped mouth, “Lonesome?” And getting familiar: “Don’t like the young ones, eh? Ha!” she giggles. “What do they know?” And she lifts one of her hideous thin feet off the pavement. It’s no doubt gout.

  “Can I come with you? I won’t rob you,” she assures Julian. “I know you young people. Always hard up.” And she adjusts her specs.

  Julian looks at her—at first horrified, then rather . . . “Two pounds, two pounds,” he says. “It’s not for myself.”

  “Doesn’t matter, doesn’t matter,” mutters the old crone. “I go with you, dear, I go with you, dear.”

  “Good,” says Julian, and the woman goes on talking; “Can we have a drink together, dear? Have you got some whisky in your home? I like a good strong drop—it makes you feel warm.” And she rubs her leathery chest. “I’m a devil, you know—just wait and see. When I feel naughty and get going—ooh! I do anything.”

  “Good,” says Julian.

  “And I can sing,” chuckles the old prostitute. “I was a singer. I’m Australian, you know. I have a voice. I sang before crowned heads.” And her toothless mouth curls into a rat-like snout: “O Sole mio! How’s that?” she asks, and chuckles again: “I’m a good girl when I get started.” And she wiggles her old carcass in a decrepit rumba.

  “Shut up,” says Julian, “here we are.”

  “Hoo,” says the grandmother, “I feel so naughty, I can’t wait.” And she lifts up her foot with a wince of pain. And “Have you got the key, dear? We’ll sing and dance, and I’ll show you . . .”

  The staircase. “You better go first . . . hoo! It’s just me eyes . . . what? Hoo! So many stairs . . . it’s just me feet. . . .”

  “Now, wait,” says Julian.

  And the prostitute: “Love under the roof . . . me feet. . .”

  “Wait,” says Julian, “and don’t make a sound.”

  “Eh?” says the woman, scared. And she looks up questioningly at Julian, very old and shrivelled up, and suddenly grabs at his arm with her bird-like claws: “But no tricks!” And two imploring eyes through a pair of specs. “Hell, dear, I’m frightened. You won’t do anything to me? No tricks?”

  “No tricks,” says Julian. “No, no tricks.”

  “You go in first,” says the woman.

  “All right,” says Julian. And the chimes outside break through the darkness—eleven, half-past eleven, twelve, and a little bit past twelve. Julian quickly pushes the key into the lock, turns it, but the key doesn’t grip, and he turns again, and the woman says, very quickly: “No, no! I’d better go! I don’t know what you’re up to. . . . I don’t want it. . . .”

  “You’ll stay,” says Julian, and his voice shows that this old woman has to stay whether she wants to or not.

  “You stay right here,” says Julian. “Don’t you be scared. Nothing will happen to you, it’s only my brother. He wants a bit of fun.”

  “No, no!” screams the woman. “Let me go—let me go!”

  “You stay right here,” says Julian, “it’s a matter of life and death. . . .”

  And the Brother’s voice: “So it is, so it is.”

  The door is unlocked and there stands the Brother, and his tongue is not just darting in and out—he’s smacking his lips, and his head sways with lust.

  “Let me go!” shouts the woman, and Julian grabs her arm, and she tears away, and he seizes her neck and he gets tangled up in coat, muffler, and specs.

  “Let me go! Let me go!” shouts the woman again, and Julian tries to push her into the attic towards the Brother. . . .

  “Good, good,” says the Brother, and the woman yells once more and turns round and runs down the stairs—runs—and Julian—the wiry specs in his hand—and they drop to the floor—and “Help! Help!” from down below. . . .

  “I tried,” says Julian, “I did what I could. It’s not my fault. . . .”

  And the Brother’s voice: “You just didn’t succeed, Brother Julian. Just too bad. But she was old, and wrinkled, and old. Not her!” And quickly: “Viva! How about her?”

  “Viva?” says Julian, and he advances towards the monster—this strange brother of his. “Did you say Viva? You——”

  “Why not, why not?” And yelling: “I must! Julian, I must! It’s the body—it’s my body—it’s curling—bursting—it’s the blood—the body——”

  And Julian’s arm swings up and down it goes—down on the Brother’s skull—that iron bar—and there’s a struggle, and Julian hits and hits, and there is a sigh. And gurgle, arm, fist, iron. And dead darkness. Battling, struggling. And chimes from outside—what chimes? Chimes extra loud, and Julian hammers on the skull of his Brother.

  Laughter—terrific laughter—laughter comes out of the snout of this hideous monster—deep, dark, gurgling and suddenly high-pitched: “You can’t, you can’t kill me! Not you!” Laughter again. “Not you, Brother Julian!”

  And there’s a shot—and bang! Off goes a gun, and bang! bang! again—how many cartridges does a revolver hold? The last shot—and you hear the click of the trigger—empty, empty! And Julian fumbles in his pocket.

  “Ha!” laughs the Brother. “Just shoot again, Julian!”

  Bang! This will finish him off—between the eyes—what’s the matter? Shoot! Shoot straight into the eye, into the mouth, shoot! Kick him down on the floor—he’ll get you—watch out!!! Shoot! Seize his throat—don’t you see? He’s up on his feet—he’ll bite—why don’t you shoot, Julian? But down he runs—down the stairs—stairs—stairs—and the door flings open and there’s the street, and the Brother is after him, and so Julian turns round and shoots, shoots, while he is running, running for his life.

  Down the street, down into the night, down the street—and this is a street in London—this is Soho—this is London, is it not? No tricks, said the prostitute. No, no tricks. No fake. This is London and the time: only yesterday, yesterday night, only yesterday. Never mind! Never mind the time. A man is running for his life . . . look out! Look out!

  Happy, happy little family—you know, this is Maurice and his little family, and the boy’s name is Eddy and the little girl—that little brat answers to the name of Minnie.

  “Wipe your nose, Eddy!” shouts father Maurice, and he ties the napkin round his neck in continental fashion, and turns to the waiter: “Where’s my lobster? I ordered it half an hour ago.”

  “Here it is,” says the waiter, and puts the split sharp-clawed beast in front of him.

  The wife turns coyly to her husband: “What a lovely dinner, Maurice. Won’t you enjoy your lobster!”

  “I shall, I shall,” says Maurice, putting his hairy paw on Mother’s hand. But again he shouts: “Minnie, eat! Eat, it’s good for you”—b
ut he suddenly stops—“did you hear? Isn’t that funny? I heard——”

  “Somebody shooting!” shouts the waiter.

  “Where?” shouts Maurice, and jumps up from his chair.

  “Right here,” shouts the waiter. “He’s running—a criminal!”

  And Maurice and the waiter rush to the exit. A few other patrons of the Firenze Restaurant, Frith Street, Soho, jump up from their seats and rush to the door, and Father Maurice comes back quickly and picks up from the plate a nice big claw—as you never know—and rushes back to the exit: “Sensational!” he shouts, “I know it’s murder.” And turning back to his daughter, that little brat: “Eat, I say! It’s good for you. . . .” And to himself: “Revolution! Revolution!”

  There is that man Spencer running down the street, and he turns round and shoots, and shoots again, and windows are opened in all these dark houses, and heads peep out, and suddenly the whole of the street is crowded with people who look on and run and scream: “He is mad!” And another voice: “He has a gun!” And a woman shouts hysterically: “Police! Police! He has a gun!”

  Gun is right—and bang! go the shots—no! he only hit—hit what? And the lobster claw from a good, four-and-six Scotch lobster is splattered all over the wall—smeared—and Maurice nearly faints with fright. There are more people and lights and Julian runs. “He’s after me!” he shouts, and another shot goes into a dark laundry shop—no damage—just French and Handwork is splintered into long running strips, and he runs past Bellometti—Bellometti’s Charcuterie, but the shop is closed, so no damage—and he runs over an old shrivelled-up woman and the contents of a shopping basket are spilt all over the street: turnips, cabbages, and a few squashed potatoes. And he runs—look out! Can’t you see—hell, don’t you see? There’s a lamp-post, and if you don’t look out you’ll hit your head. . . .