Hangover Square

by Patrick Hamilton

  In regard to himself he was quite clear, too. Blinded and maddened by his love for this girl, he had just played his usual role of hysterical dupe: that was routine by now. But in regard to Johnnie – there it was not all entirely clear, and that was where his deep, aching grief lay.

  He saw a lot, though he could not see it all. He remembered the telephone call he overheard last night. That was obviously Johnnie: he had known it at the time, though in his infatuation he had dismissed the idea as fantastic. So Johnnie phoned her up and held conversations behind his back!

  ‘No, he doesn’t seem to like the idea at all…” he remembered her saying, and he remembered her laugh. ‘He’s off it, apparently!’ That was obviously a reference to himself and the Brighton project. So Johnnie was scheming with her, laughing with her, behind his back, about a trip from which he was to be excluded. Oh, Johnnie, Johnnie, how could you! He couldn’t believe it of him. He couldn’t!

  He couldn’t believe it of him, and yet now everything fitted in. He remembered how well those two had always got on together, how they had talked above his head about the theatre, left him out of it. He remembered how he had sometimes seen Johnnie looking at her, in a funny, thoughtful way. He remembered how he had seen her looking at Johnnie, shyly yet boldly, in the same way that she had looked at him when he had first met her. He remembered how shy, evasive, Johnnie had been whenever her name was mentioned. He had thought at the time it was unexpressed sympathy on his behalf, but now he could interpret it quite differently. He remembered how, when he had winked and dragged Johnnie away from her that night, Johnnie, when they had got outside in the street, had seemed embarrassed, almost displeased. He remembered how, when he had phoned Johnnie and asked him to come round to her flat during her illness, Johnnie had made no demur, had taken it wonderfully for granted, almost as though he had been in her flat before. He probably had. He had probably been in touch with her behind his back all along.

  Johnnie a traitor!… No, he couldn’t believe it! It wasn’t Johnnie’s fault! He knew his Johnnie, Johnnie was his friend, he had known him all his life. It was her fault, not his. She had twisted things somehow. She was fooling Johnnie, just as she was fooling him. Johnnie, no doubt, was crazy about her. Everybody was. He couldn’t blame him for that. Johnnie, no doubt, could not stop himself where she was concerned – nobody could if that was her desire – but Johnnie was not a traitor to his friend in his heart.

  And yet Johnnie had told him nothing of his intentions of going to Brighton, had evaded him on the phone all day, and was now in Brighton with her.

  So he was not to have her. He had built up his pride, his manhood: he had bought new shirts and socks and ties: he had looked up trains: he had swaggered all day mentally like a coxcomb: but he was not to have her. Here he was in London, in the wet cold, alone – while she and Johnnie moved in the lights, flashed among the stars at-Brighton. He was not fit for such society. They had got rid of him. He was not to have her. Instead, she was to have his friend.

  There was the grief – the aching grief he could never wipe out – she had got his only friend. He had introduced her to Johnnie: he had shown Johnnie off: he had played Johnnie proudly as a trump card: he had looked upon Johnnie as his one resource against her – his one resource in life. And now she had taken him as well. She could take no more. She had won. It was all over now.

  Annexed him without an effort! There was the last blow to his pride, his hope, his resistance, his belief in himself or anything.

  He wondered whether they were talking and laughing about him at this moment. Probably Johnnie was an absolute beast, after all. He expected so. There was, of course, no friendship in life as he understood it.

  And yet he couldn’t see it! A sudden wave of feeling came over him and he couldn’t believe that Johnnie was in on this. Johnnie could never be cruel and treacherous; it just wasn’t in his character. She had twisted things somehow: she was playing Johnnie up as she played up him and everybody. They ought to get together against her. He believed, if he appealed to Johnnie, Johnnie would be on his side. They could talk it out man to man.

  Was Johnnie madly in love with her? Yes, probably. Had she encouraged Johnnie, given promise of herself, as she had to him? Probably. But what did Johnnie know about her, about her dark ways? Ought he not to warn Johnnie? Ought he not to tell Johnnie about what he knew?

  Poor Johnnie! – poor, that was, if he was crazy about her and thought he had any chance – if he, too, was toying with the idea of getting divine happiness from her. She wasn’t after Johnnie: she was after much bigger fish: she was after Eddie Carstairs. Did Johnnie know that? And if he didn’t know it, ought he not to be warned? He could give him a lot of inside information!

  What if all this was pure imagination? What if Johnnie was at Brighton, and Netta was with her mother and aunt at Devon? What if all this was a mad, bad dream on his part, the creation of his overwrought imagination?

  Well, he could soon find out. He could go down to Brighton and find them – catch them at it. What about that, as an idea? No – that would be spying – undignified. Let him, at least, be dignified.

  But why not go? The drink was going to his head, and he had half a mind to. He ordered another large whisky, and proposed it to himself. He could easily find them, if he went to the theatre. They would be seeing the show, and then, no doubt, going out to celebrate the birthday of the famous Albert Drexel afterwards. He could hang about the stage door. He would only have to see them together once, from a distance, to see all he wanted to see. Why not go and make sure?

  What could he do if he stayed here? Drink and torture himself into a frenzy, alone in London on this wet, appalling night? Go home to bed, not knowing? Wake up in the blackness of tomorrow – not knowing? Perhaps never knowing? Sit in distraction and misery here, while they, together, the lovely girl who had been promised him tonight, the man who had been his only friend, enjoyed the warmth, the company, the high lights at the seaside? No – why should he be left out of the fun? He would go down to Brighton too. He was a free agent. They couldn’t stop him.

  He wondered whether any man, in the history of the world, had been treated as this girl, Netta, had treated him. Did other women say they would go away with men, take money from them and promise themselves, and then coolly leave notes on doors and go away with their best friends instead? Were there other men in London tonight, left stone cold, desolate, with their hope of love and friendship wiped out at one stroke?

  There might be, but he wasn’t going to be one of them. You could still get drunk; you could still enjoy drink, and nothing could stop you going to Brighton, and having a good time.

  He had another large whisky, and looked at his watch. It was a quarter to seven. If he took a taxi now he could get the 7.5 from Victoria. But he didn’t want to take a taxi. He wanted to go on drinking. He drank down his whisky, walked round to another pub (because he was ashamed to order any more at that one) and ordered another large one. They could wait.

  A sort of elation came over him – the elation of whisky, the elation of a journey to be taken, the arrogant elation, even, of the eavesdropper or spy. Did they think they could fool him? He knew he was a fool, but he wasn’t quite such a fool as that. He was going to fool them, actually.

  The time crept on to a quarter-past seven. He drank down his whisky, and went out into the street He caught a taxi at once. ‘Victoria Station, please,’ he said.

  He noticed that he stumbled as he got into the taxi. That meant that he was drunk already.

  That was bad. He saw what a fool he was making of himself: he saw how absurd this trip was, leading to nothing, doing no good. He saw how he would repent it in the morning. But what did he care?

  It was all over now. Everything was over. He had a curious feeling that this was the last night of his life. He might as well enjoy himself, get drunk and do what he wanted to do, on his last night.

  Chapter Three

  Approaching Brighton in the dar
kness the train slowed down, hesitated, seemed to be feeling its way before risking itself in a dangerous area, and then lolloped oilily and methodically forward.

  The rain-drops spat feebly on the Pullman window in which he could see himself. He realized, for the first time, that he had forgotten to bring any luggage. He had never thought of that. Never mind. It didn’t matter. Nothing mattered now.

  He gave up his ticket and smelt the sea. So here he was in Brighton again!

  Almost the first thing he saw – as though it were a reminder of what he had come for, or a portent of what he was to find – was a huge poster advertising the show. ‘Fitzgerald, Carstairs & Scott – present BY YOUR LEAVE – a new Farce by Leonard Golding – with ALBERT DREXEL AND CORNFORD HOBBS.’ And then again, a moment later, ‘ALBERT DREXEL AND CORNFORD HOBBS in “By Your Leave”, etc., presented by Fitzgerald, Carstairs and Scott’. It was as though the two famous comedians had seized the town, were in complete dominance and occupation of it under the orders and generalship of Fitzgerald, Carstairs and Scott. And they were going to celebrate Albert Drexel’s birthday, and Netta was after Carstairs. He was profoundly impressed. They were all very famous. He didn’t wonder she had wanted to get rid of him.

  He walked down Queen’s Road towards the sea, and more of these posters hit him in the face. What was he doing here? What had he come for? He didn’t know. Just to make sure, he supposed. Just to know for certain that everything was over for all time. It would be funny if she wasn’t here – if he had made a fool of himself the other way this time. But he wouldn’t mind making a fool of himself that way.

  Where was he going to stay? At the Little Castle again, he supposed. At the Clock Tower it began to rain quite hard. He didn’t want to spoil his best suit (and his best overcoat and hat which he had put on for Netta) and he managed to jump on a bus going down to Castle Square.

  Outside the Little Castle he funked it. He just couldn’t face the manageress and the porter again, after all his disgrace last time. There was a little street near by where he could remember having seen ‘Apartments’ signs, and he decided to try one of them.

  The woman who came to the door was scared out of her wits, particularly when he said he had no luggage. But when he said he would leave a deposit and produced a pound note, she became affable, indeed obsequious, and showed him her wretched little room, which he said was very nice.

  He went and had a drink in East Street at once, and then walked down to the front and had one at the old place where he had wamed his wet trousers and been so miserable about Netta after she had gone away that morning. Then he walked round to the theatre.

  The whole narrow street was ablaze and electrically twinkling with ‘ALBERT DREXEL AND CORNFORD HOBBS’, and as he approached the front of the theatre he saw notices: ‘Stalls full’, ‘Gallery full’. It was a great occasion all right.

  He went into the terrible plushed quiet of the foyer – the terrible plushed quiet of a foyer of a show upon which the curtain has gone up and is doing enormous business – and he asked, or rather murmured conspiratorially, for a seat. Yes, they had one in the circle at the side. They made stamping noises and gave him his ticket. He took his change, and was told by an awed attendant to go to another attendant, who, in low frightened tones, told him how to go upstairs.

  Another attendant opened the door for him at the top of the stairs, and a huge roar of smoke-hazed, lime-lit laughter, coming out of the door like blast from a bomb, hit him in the face. It was like the world’s laugh in his face, Netta’s laugh, the last laugh of everybody at his failure and isolation, his banishment from the world of virile people who were happy and made love and had friends.

  He was shown shamefacedly to a gangway seat at the side, and amidst another ear-splitting roar, like a breaker of the sea crashing over one’s head, given a programme, and left. The laughter went on, and he looked at the stage. There, in the brilliantly lit, almost blinding set, was the famous Albert Drexel in person – arguing irascibly and inimitably with the famous and inimitable Cornford Hobbs, whom he had seen so many times on the films. But he couldn’t make out what they were saying, or what everybody was laughing about, because he wasn’t listening to what they were saying, but just looking at them. Everybody else’s laughter shook through him, and he just stared. It was funny that, on this night of all nights, he should be watching a farce…

  The first act came to an end, and the lights went up. People began to move out to the bars and the foyer. What was he doing here? He wished he hadn’t come. He was drunk, among other things. He might be seen. He had better go home. They probably weren’t here. They probably weren’t in Brighton at all. Well, he might as well have a look, now he had come. He went down to the edge of the circle and looked down at the stalls.

  Yes, there she was… Yes, there they were… He was glad to have seen them. It was what he’d come down for. She was walking up the gangway with Eddie Carstairs (of Fitzgerald, Carstairs and Scott), who was making her laugh with something he said, and who was carrying her coat.

  Johnnie was bending over and talking to someone seated in a gangway seat. Soon Johnnie followed the others out, looking about the theatre with a cheerful, satisfied expression…

  He had better have a drink and go home. It was all over now.

  He went and sat down in his seat for a little, and looked at the programme. He was pretty sure they were coming up to the big circle bar, and he wanted to give them time to do so before he dodged out of the theatre. He looked at a picture of Albert Drexel, whose birthday they were going to celebrate.

  As he passed, he looked through the glass door of the circle bar, and saw them again. They were at the bar. Eddie Carstairs had his back to him, but he could see her full-face. Eddie Carstairs was talking, and she was looking up at him and listening, and occasionally smiling. It was funny that she should be doing this, now, tonight, instead of being in Maidenhead with him, as she had promised she would be. She was a bitch, all right.

  A man, wanting to get into the bar, said ‘Excuse me’, and he fled down the stairs through the crowd into the street, and got into a pub over the way, and ordered a large whisky.

  He felt he had seen her for the last time. He felt he no longer had anything to do with her. She was a success now – he was sure of that. She had got her Eddie Carstairs at last – her Eddie Carstairs to carry her coat. She was way up with the big people. She was going to be a film star. She would never look back now.

  He ought always to have thought of it like that. He ought always to have known he wasn’t in her class. He began to tremble violently, and he ordered another whisky. He caught sight of himself in the glass.

  He could hardly blame her for shaking him off. He wouldn’t look well with people like that. Apart from his looks, he couldn’t even talk. The Eddie Carstairs, the Nettas, the Johnnies, were in one level of life – he in another. They were ‘successful’ people, people of the smart world, of the theatre, he was a battered boozer from Earl’s Court – now a lonely eavesdropper, a spy…

  And yet Johnnie had been his friend! – had known him all his life – had known him in the old Bob Barton days, the wonderful days – had laughed and joked with him – had come to see him when he was ill – that was what he couldn’t get over. Why should Johnnie leave him out of it? Why should Johnnie join the others and go behind his back?

  And if he himself had never introduced her to Johnnie, she wouldn’t be here now, wouldn’t be in with the great Eddie Carstairs, wouldn’t be going ahead to success. And it was he who had given her the money to come down here! – paid her fare, paid for her hair being done, for Eddie Carstairs to look at!

  Oh, well – what did it matter? It was all over now, and the drink had stopped his trembling, and he was going to get a good deal drunker yet, and he didn’t care a damn.

  About an hour later he noticed the people were flowing into the pub, and gathered the show was over. He decided to go on somewhere else.

  Passing the yard in w
hich the stage door lay he saw a great bloody Rolls, and realized that this belonged to Eddie Carstairs. He had heard of Eddie Carstairs’ Rolls – Netta had talked about it with Johnnie. He had no doubt Netta would be enthroned in it on her way to the birthday party in a little while. They would go on to the Palatial. He had heard they all went there when they were down in Brighton. It was wonderful how the Eddie Carstairs of life got everything, while others got nothing at all. He could hate Eddie Carstairs if he thought about it, but he wasn’t going to think about it because it was all over now.

  He had another drink, and bought a half-bottle of Haig, and went down to the sea and walked towards Hove.

  He walked the length of the lawns and then turned back again. The sea crashed in a rising wind, and it rained slightly. He began to tremble all over again, and sat down in a shelter, and opened the bottle, and took a pull at the whisky, and then walked on. He had got to keep walking: bed was out of the question and it was early yet, not twelve o’clock. He would walk to Black Rock now.

  It was all over now. He didn’t know what he was going to do or where he was going tomorrow, but it was all over, and he knew he would never see her or Johnnie again. When he had run down the stairs of the theatre he had run out of their lives. He had run away, though there was nowhere to run to, and no one to whom he could run. Never mind, somehow it would solve itself – tomorrow – black tomorrow would look after itself. He passed the Palatial Hotel.

  He saw the great bloody Rolls again, and realized that she was inside. He wondered whether she was staving there, and what time she would get to bed. He had heard about these parties, and knew they went on till three or four. Well, good-bye, Netta. Good-bye, Johnnie. That was that.

  Oh, Johnnie, Johnnie! – and the old Bob Barton days! – that was what hurt! They had all been such friends!

  He began trembling again, and felt so cold that he thought he had better turn away from the sea, get out of the wind up a side street.