‘No, I’ll keep that,’ he said, referring to the golf club, and it was given back to him. He paid his threepence, received his slip, gave the porter a shilling, and went into the buffet and had another beer. Then he walked out of the station and caught a taxi in the street.
‘Earl’s Court station, please,’ he said to the driver.
Chapter Six
As the taxi sped through streets he vaguely wondered why it was he had to take another taxi, and why it was that he had to do things just in this order. When he reached Earl’s Court, he realized, he had to phone Peter from the station. Why? Why hadn’t he phoned Peter at Victoria, directly after he had phoned Netta, and got it done with? Why did he have to park his suitcase at Paddington first, and then take a taxi to Earl’s Court to phone Peter?
It was as though somebody had told him to do these things in just this order. Who had told him? Anyone? No… Of course. No one. He remembered. What a fool he was – forgetting. This was his plan. He was obeying the plan he had worked out in the train.
Obey the plan, and all would be well. Rather an expensive plan, he noticed, with all this taxi-taking. But, of course, money didn’t matter now – that was the joy of it. He would be in Maidenhead tonight, and money wouldn’t matter. That was the divine simplicity of the whole thing.
But he had to have enough money before he got there. A fine state of affairs, if he found he couldn’t get there because he hadn’t enough money! He felt in his pockets and found he had two pound notes and some silver. That wasn’t enough: there might be some hitch, and he would want a lot more than that. He would have to go to the bank. It hadn’t been on the plan, but he would have to do it all the same.
It wasn’t so easy, all this. You had to keep your brain going all the time. You couldn’t just sink into a dream and obey the plan absolutely without thinking. Well, he could do the thinking all right. He would be glad, though, when it was all over, and there was no more thinking.
He arrived at Earl’s Court station, and paid the driver. It was five to eleven. It was pouring with rain. Now for phoning Peter. He felt again curiously bewildered and curiously frightened, as he entered the phone-box. If he didn’t get Peter he would have to make a new plan, and that would be awful. He pulled himself together and put in his two pennies.
He got Peter at once. Amazing, how he got these people! It was almost as though, when he made the plan, he had the gift of prophetic insight. Perhaps he had. It was a strange world and there were more things in it than were dreamed of in your philosophy, Horatio.
‘Hullo,’ said Peter.
‘Hullo, is that you, Peter?’ he said. ‘This is George.’
‘Oh,’ said Peter. ‘Hullo.’
‘How are you?’
‘I’m all right. How are you?’
‘I’m all right. Look, Peter. I’ve just been on the phone to Netta. I discovered a bottle of gin I’d forgotten about and I thought we’d open it up. I’m going round there at twelve. Are you coming along?’
Peter hesitated. ‘Oh…’ he said. ‘All right. I’ll be along.’
‘I hear you were turfed out at Brighton?’
‘Yes. We were…’
‘I think you might have left me a message. Just barging off like that.’
‘Sorry. We didn’t think about it.’
‘Well. All right. See you at twelve.’
‘Right. Good-bye.’
‘Good-bye.’
So that was that… Very brief, very clever. Just enough complaint about Brighton to make it seem natural, and it was in the bag.
They just fell into his hands. They couldn’t resist the free gin, of course – they never could resist free drinks. You’d think they’d have some shame, really, after what they’d done to him, you’d think they’d be embarrassed and try to avoid him. But not they. He came back from Brighton, a kicked dog but with his tail still wagging and a bottle of gin to offer, and they were ready to admit him to their company again.
Rather grudgingly mind you. ‘All right, come round if you like.’ ‘All right, I’ll be along.’ Really, they had a nerve! They were awful fools. It served them right.
He had now reached the bank and he went inside and got ten pounds from the cashier who was always kind and treated him as an equal. It occurred to him that this was a farewell, that when he had got to Maidenhead there would be no more banking, and so he would never see this man again. He felt a little tinge of regret.
When he came out he looked at his watch and saw that it was ten past eleven.
There was now only the gin to get, and then he was all set.
Chapter Seven
He had to get the gin not at a pub, but at a shop – a wine-merchant’s. He didn’t know why this was, but it was in the plan, and against anything in the plan he dared not go. It had served him well enough so far.
He found a shop, bought the gin (the money he was spending!), and then walked along the Earl’s Court Road to a pub the gang had had a row with and never used. He had to be alone, as if anyone came up and spoke to him now (if he met Peter, for instance, by accident), the whole thing might fall through.
As he walked along the crowded street in the rain he was again beset by that nasty feeling of being in a dream, of only being able to keep himself active and conscious by an effort of will, by concentrating mentally on his plan, and obeying its demands. Again he couldn’t understand what all these people, none of them about to kill anybody, were up to, what they were getting at. They had no reality or motive. Nothing had any reality or meaning. There was only his plan: he had his plan, and he was going through with it now.
He ordered a pint of beer at the pub, whose saloon-bar clock pointed to twenty past eleven. As it was no doubt five minutes fast, that meant it was a quarter past. That meant he had three-quarters of an hour. Not very long, that. In an hour’s time it might well be all over.
He was absolutely cool, though surprised, slightly mystified,by the fact that he was at last going to do what he had planned to do for so very long – years it seemed. It was like planning in the summer to get up and have an early morning bathe, and putting it off and off day after day, and then getting up one morning and finding yourself on the diving plank. Here he was. He had only got to go in now and all his troubles would be over.
Yes, he was quite cool – bored almost. Nor had he any doubts as to his capacity to do the job quickly and without fuss. It would all be over in a few minutes. Slosh Peter with the club, and then do Netta in anyhow, she was only a woman. If he was quick enough, he could see she didn’t make any noise. Then he would come back here and have another drink. Then what? Lunch? It wouldn’t be later than half past twelve.
Half past twelve… He perceived a snag. It would still be daylight. It would be daylight for hours, and of course, you couldn’t go to Maidenhead till it was dark. That was the whole point about Maidenhead – he had to arrive there in the dark. Maidenhead didn’t make sense unless he arrived in the dark, and then awoke next morning to the sun, the peace, and the river. The police could meddle, could get him, even in Maidenhead, if he arrived there before dark. He knew the rules all right, and you needn’t think he was going to slip up and forget them. Here, then, was the snag. He would have to wait hours in London before it was dark and he could get to Maidenhead. And while he was waiting in London the police might interfere.
Why hadn’t he thought of it? Was there something wrong with his plan after all? Surely he had allowed for it: he couldn’t have been such a fool as not to have done so. If he hadn’t allowed for it he must think something up – and mighty quickly too – it was half past eleven and time was getting short. This was definitely bad.
Then he remembered. Of course. The note on the door. ‘Back at 9.30.’ He hadn’t been a fool, he hadn’t tripped up, after all. He had been brilliant. He had just forgotten. He had arranged after he had done it, to pin a note on the door saying ‘Back at 9.30 Netta.’ They would think Netta had written it, and that meant that nobody would rin
g a bell, nobody could interfere, until 9.30, and by that time it would be dark enough, and he would be on a train to Maidenhead, which would be quite dark by the time he reached it. Actually, he believed he would be quite safe directly he was on the train – quite apart from reaching Maidenhead. He wasn’t quite sure on this point. It was interesting. It didn’t matter, though, anyway. They couldn’t find anything until 9.30.
That was all right, then. But he must write the note. He’d better do that now. He pulled out an old letter from his pocket and asked the man behind the bar if he had a pencil.
He was given a pencil and wrote, in large printed letters:
BACK AT 9.30. NETTA AND PETER
and gave the pencil back to the man.
He wasn’t quite sure about the ‘and Peter’ but thought on the whole it was best in case some busy-body was looking for Peter too.
It was now a quarter to twelve.
What about the pin – to pin it on the door with? Ask the man if he had one? No. That might create suspicion – give a clue. You couldn’t be too careful. You either did this thing properly, immaculately, or not at all.
‘Mind my beer for a moment, will you,’ he said to the man behind the bar. ‘I just want to pop over the road.’
‘Certainly, sir,’ said the man cheerfully, and he went out and walked over the Earl’s Court Road to the little draper’s immediately opposite.
‘Have you got some pins?’ he said to the girl, and the girl said, ‘Pins?’ and produced a drawer, and put it on the counter; and he chose a pink folded packet of innumerable silver pins, and paid threepence for them, and walked back to the pub, where his beer was still intact upon the counter.
He swilled off the remains of this and looked at the clock. It was six minutes to twelve.
Well, all was set now. The last snag was cleared up, and it was plain sailing. Should he have another drink, or go straight at it? One more, perhaps – a half. ‘Can I have another half in this?’ he said to the man.
He drank it off quickly – in two gulps. He reckoned it would take three minutes to get to Netta, and it was now three minutes to twelve. ‘Good morning,’ he said to the man behind the bar, and he picked up the golf club in brown paper and went out into the street.
It had stopped raining now, and he felt remarkably cheerful – the beer had gone to his head a bit – not enough to affect him – just enough to make him cheerful and cool-headed.
He was glad he was cool-headed and not nervous. The time, in some extraordinary way, had come at last: that was all. There was no fear – only a slight sense of mystification, of weirdness, that at last he was going to do what he had meant to do for so long.
He was glad he was cool and competent for their sakes, too. Being cool and competent, he would get it done with quickly, without bungling, without hurting them. He would never forgive himself if he hurt them. In fact the whole thing would be off if there was any question of doing so. That was one thing he had never done in his life, hurt anybody.
The front door was open, and he went up to the stone stairs – his dear old friends. The last time, he reflected, the last time for all three of them. He would come down them once more, just once more, on his way to Maidenhead, but they would not come down them any more. He felt oppressed by the sadness and incomprehensibility of existence generally. He was sorry for them, and made up his mind again that they should not be hurt.
He reached the top landing, and rang his old friend the bell. There was a pause, and then Peter answered the door.
Chapter Eight
‘Hullo, George,’ said Peter, and leaving George to close the door, he went into the sitting-room. George followed him in.
Netta was sitting in the armchair. She wasn’t dressed yet. She was wearing dark blue pyjama trousers, a dressing-gown to match her red slippers and a red scarf. She had never looked lovelier. She was drinking beer.
‘Hullo, Bone,’ she said. ‘How are you?’
‘Hullo,’ he said. ‘How are you?’
It was rather odd and disconcerting, her being in her dressing-gown like this. He hadn’t pictured killing her in her dressing-gown: he had seen her properly dressed, ready to go out. It didn’t make any difference, really, but he had to adjust his mind, see the thing differently.
‘What on earth’s this you’ve brought with you?’ said Peter. ‘I thought you were going to bring some gin.’
‘This?’ he said. ‘This is a golf club.’
‘Oh, that’s a relief,’ said Netta, looking him up and down in that cynical and piercing way she had. ‘I thought it was an umbrella.’
‘Yes, so did I,’ said Peter and they both laughed, a little nervously it seemed, and looked at him…
‘No. Only a golf club,’ he said, laughing with them, and tearing the brown paper away from the club. ‘I’m taking golf up again. I got this at Brighton. I did a sixty-eight that day you came down.’
‘A sixty-eight?’ said Peter. ‘What’s a sixty-eight?’
‘A sixty-eight? It’s a score. How do you mean?’
‘It sounds like something dirty to me,’ said Netta, and ‘Yes, most obscene,’ said Peter, and they both laughed again. They were evidently in a flippant mood.
‘There,’ he said, throwing the last of the brown paper on to the floor, and holding up the club. ‘Isn’t that lovely? Just feel that.’ And he offered the club to Peter.
But Peter kept his hands in his pockets.
‘I don’t want a bloody golf club,’ he said. ‘I want some gin.’
And they all laughed again.
‘Oh yes,’ he said. ‘I’ve got the gin all right.’ And he hauled the bottle out of his overcoat pocket, and put it on the mantelpiece. Then he propped the club against the table and began to take off his overcoat. ‘Shall I get some glasses?’ he said. ‘They’re in the kitchen, aren’t they?’
‘That’s right,’ said Netta, and he went into the kitchen.
‘Have you got any Italian, or anything?’ he shouted from the kitchen, as he collected the glasses. ‘We can’t have it neat, can we?’
‘No,’ she shouted back. ‘But there’s some lime on top of the cupboard. Bring that in, and some water.’
‘Right!’
He put the Rose’s lime Juice on the tray with the glasses, and filled the Marks and Spencer’s glass jug with water from the tap, and put it on the tray, and carried it all in.
Peter had already opened the bottle, and he and Peter assisted each other in concocting the drinks. He gave Netta her glass, and then took his own, and then said, ‘Well – here’s how…’
After they had drunk there was a gloomy pause, in which nobody said anything, and he saw that the time, more or less, had come. He put down his glass on the table, and picked up the golf club, and swung it vigorously in the air, and scrutinized its shaft and swung again.
He was glad to have got hold of the club so naturally, and to be holding it in so highly natural a way, as now it was pretty plain sailing. He could pretend to be playing with it, fondling it, practising shots, until the right moment arrived. The right moment had not come yet. He felt they ought to have a drink, and he would like Netta, if it was possible, to be out of the room. He didn’t want her to see him hitting Peter; it might frighten her, and there would be a panic.
The moment came, soon enough. They talked for a little, and he had another sip at his gin-and-lime (while still holding on to the club) and then Netta said, ‘Well, if you’re just going to stand here playing golf, I’m going to dress. I’ve got a date at one.’
And she lit a cigarette, took up her drink, and went into her room, closing the door except for a few inches.
Peter flopped down into the other armchair and picked up his Daily Express and began to read.
He went on playing imaginary chip shots on the carpet, and looked at Peter out of the comer of his eye. Well, here we were. Now. To it, my boy. Now. Swing back. Slow back. Eye on his head just behind his left ear… Eye on his ear and follow through…
But he went on playing chip shots, and he heard his heart pumping, and he felt a singing noise in his ears.
He went over to the window, and looked out on the giddy, wet, weird street below.
‘It’s frightfully wet, isn’t it?’ he said.
‘Yes,’ said Peter, who was reading, and not inclined to conversation. ‘It is.’
Why this pumping and singing noise? Was he afraid? What was the matter with him? He had got a job to do. He wasn’t going to funk it now. Come now, pull yourself together. You were standing on the plank. Dive in; and it would all be over. Dive in and swim hard! Count ten and dive-in! Was he a coward? Was he going to fail at the last moment?
No – he was no coward. Now for it. He was a bit nervous, but that didn’t matter. He walked back to the carpet and began looking at his club, playing chip shots again. He heard Netta closing her cupboard in the next room. Peter went on reading.
Now then – count ten and dive in. All right… Ten shots. One, a little chip… Two, a little pitch and run… Three… Four… Oh, stop all this nonsense and do it! Now… Look at his ear… Now… Slow back…
All right, then, since you asked for it! NOW!
He swung the club furiously back, aiming at Peter’s ear, but something funny happened. Before he reached Peter’s ear, he himself, it seemed, was hit on the head. Crack! It simply knocked him out – stopped everything. Most odd. Instead of hitting Peter he must have hit himself. Or had someone else hit him? He felt utterly dazed – everything was going round, going far away and coming back again. He felt he was going to faint. He stumbled forward into the room, and supported himself on the table, upsetting his own drink with a clatter.
Chapter Nine
Crack!…
He was in a room somewhere, supporting himself at a deal table on which a drink was spilled and it had happened again.
Crack!… He knew what it was all right. It was only his wretched head, cracking back. But it was such an awful crack that it had almost knocked him out. It used not to crack like this. It used to be a funny click, a pop, a snap – rather fascinating. Now it was this frightful crack. He was getting worse.
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