‘Yes!’ said Peter, angrily.
‘Look here, Peter,’ he said, ‘I’m at Netta’s. She wants you to come round as soon as you can. Can you manage it?’
‘Yes, I think so. What’s the matter?’
‘I can’t tell you over the phone. It’s all rather weird. Can you come round straight away…’
Yes, I think so. What’s the matter?’
‘Can you come round in about ten minutes?’
‘All right. I’ll be round.’ And they rang off.
He came back into the sitting-room and took off his overcoat. The water had now stopped running. He hesitated as to whether he should take off his ordinary coat or not, and then decided to do so. Then he walked into the bathroom. She was sitting up in the full, already soapy bath, facing him.
‘All right,’ he said, trying to speak in a matter-of-fact tone. ‘Don’t bother – don’t bother. Don’t be frightened. Don’t bother.’
He saw her staring at him, first in surprise, then in terror: he saw that she was trying to speak, but that nothing would come from her throat: he saw that she was trying to scream, but that nothing would come out.
‘Don’t bother!’ he said. ‘It’s all right. Don’t be frightened! Don’t bother! Don’t bother!’
He seized hold of her ankles firmly and hauled them up in the air with his great strength, his great golfer’s wrists. Then he grasped both her legs in one arm, and with the other held her, unstruggling, under the water.
His shirt and waistcoat were soaking wet when he came out – he hadn’t allowed for that. He lit her gas-fire and tried to dry them off on his body. Poor Netta – he had made a good job of it and hadn’t hurt her – he was sure of that. That was the one thing he had sworn – that he wouldn’t hurt anybody.
Soon he heard Peter coming up the stairs. He put on his coat quickly and looked about the room. Peter rang the bell, and he went to the door and let him in.
The blond fascist was dressed in his high-necked grey sweater and grey trousers. ‘Well, what’s all this about,’ he said, in his pasty, moustached, nasty way.
‘It’s all right,’ he said. ‘Netta’s out for the moment. I’ll tell you in a moment. Come in.’
Peter went in, and he picked up the golf club – the number seven – which he had already put carefully in the little hall, and he got behind Peter, and with all his strength swung at his head just behind his ear where he understood it would kill instantly. Then he went in front of Peter and said, ‘Are you all right, old boy? I’m sorry. I didn’t hurt you, did I? Are you all right?’
Peter, still standing, looked at him with complete seriousness and interest, as though entertaining a rather good new idea, for four or five seconds, and then slumped down, bringing down the table and the cigarettes and the ash-tray and the lamp with him.
That was all right. It was all right now, and he hadn’t hurt either of them. Now for the thread, the thread so that nothing should be disturbed, so that there should be no intruders, and it was all over.
He got the reels out of his pocket and wondered where he should start. He chose the leg of the upset table. He tied the thread round that in a knot, and then, unwinding it from the reel, took it over to the latch of the window, and twisting it round it, came right back over the room again to the nail of the picture over the fireplace, and twisted it round that. Then to the electric-light switch, and then to another picture. Then to the table again, and then to the door-handle of her bedroom, and then round the chair and back to the electric-light switch, and then criss-cross to this and then criss-cross to that. He had to be careful not to fall over it and break it, he had to be cautious and patient and climb through…
He heard a door open in the flat below, and he thought he heard footsteps coming up. He paused. Then the door banged, and the footsteps receded down the stairs. It occurred to him that someone might hear the obscure process in which he was engaged, and he put on the wireless so that no one could hear him.
‘… prepared at once to withdraw their troops from Poland’ he heard, ‘a state of war would exist between us…’
That was old Neville: he knew that voice anywhere.
‘I have to tell you now… that no such undertaking has been received… and that consequently this country is at war with German…’
Oh, so they were at it, were they, at last! Well, let them get on with it – he was too busy.
‘You can imagine what a bitter blow this is to me…’
He had exhausted two reels and done all he could in here – now he must go into the bathroom.
‘But Hitler would not have it…’
He started on the pipe of the geyser, and over to the cold tap of the basin, and then to the window, and then round the leg of the bath.
‘We and France are today…in fulfilment of our obligations… going to the aid of Poland… who is so bravely resisting this wicked and unprovoked attack on her people…’
Round the hot tap, round the electric-light switch, back and forth, and across. A real net. Netta. Poor Netta – don’t worry – nothing should be disturbed: nothing should be disturbed until the police came. It must all be in order for her. He must see to that: he owed her that much. He got tired of climbing in and out, but he meant to be conscientious to the last.
At last the thread was exhausted. There! – he would like to see anybody interfere now, anybody disturb anything before the police came. He had done his duty to them: his duty to the police, and his duty to himself. It was all threaded together. All the threads were gathered up. The net was complete.
The net, Netta. Netta – the net – all complete and fitting in at last.
‘Now may God bless you all. May He defend the right. It is the evil things that we shall be fighting against, brute force, bad faith, injustice, oppression and persecution – and against them I am certain that the right will prevail.’
He turned off that nonsense, and put on his coat. Then he took it off again because his shirt was so wet. He got close to the fire to dry himself off. As he knelt there, drying himself, he heard the gloomy sirens rising, wailing and answering each other, rising and falling, across the sky. He heard whistles in the street…
At last he was dry and ready to go to Maidenhead. Only one thing more – the note on the door for the police. The note to keep people out. He found an envelope in Netta’s desk, and a pencil in the pocket of his overcoat, which he put on.
PRIVATE
FOR THE POLICE ONLY
DO NOT DISTURB
he wrote on the envelope.
There. He had done all he could now. He went out of the flat. He shut the door, and stuck the envelope to its outside with the weight of the knocker.
Chapter Four
He went down the stone stairs. It was all plain sailing now.
Half-way down he realized that he mustn’t go to Maidenhead till after dark because that was part of the Maidenhead thing. This was a nuisance and he wondered what he was going to do all day.
At the front door he met Mickey, who was coming up the steps. He stopped and looked at him.
‘Hullo,’ he said, ‘how are you, Mickey?’
‘Hullo,’ said Mickey, ‘how are you? Where have you been lately?’
‘Oh – nowhere much. Where are you going?’ he asked.
‘I was going up to see Netta,’ said Mickey. ‘Is she in?’
‘No,’ he said, ‘she’s not. She’s out. I’ve tried. Let’s go and have a drink?’
‘Right,’ said Mickey, and they walked along together. ‘Well, this is all very exciting, isn’t it?’ said Mickey. ‘Are you staying on in London?’
‘No,’ he said, ‘I’m not. I’m going to Maidenhead.’
‘A very good spot I should think,’ said Mickey, and went on talking about the war and his own plans.
They went into the pub, and he ordered a double whisky. He had only taken one sip at this, when he began to tremble violently and to feel everything swimming around him. He had to go to a chai
r.
‘All right, take it easy, old boy,’ said Mickey, ‘drink up, and you’ll soon be all right… What’s the matter – our old friend Hangover Square?’
‘Yes,’ he said, ‘I’m afraid it must be.’
He hadn’t known his body would do this. His mind was all right: he had done everything as it should be done: he had nothing on his conscience: he was quite safe, and he was going to Maidenhead: but his body was letting him down: his body had a feeling of disgust and it made him tremble.
Mickey plied him with drink, and he soon felt better again. Soon he saw that Mickey wanted to get drunk about the war, and he decided to join him and get a bit drunk too. He had all the day to waste and it was the last time he would get drunk, because at Maidenhead there would only be an occasional beer.
They stayed on and on and at last were turned out when the pub closed in the afternoon. He asked Mickey where he was going and Mickey said he thought he’d have another shot at Netta, and asked George to come up with him.
‘I don’t think you’ll find her there,’ he said, but Mickey said, ‘Well, I’ll have a try anyway. Come on. Come with me.’
‘No,’ he said, ‘I think I’ll get off now. I’ve got a lot of things to do. Well, so long, old boy.’ And he left Mickey looking rather surprised and funny in the street… (Mickey had already said, in the course of their drinking, ‘You’re having one of your dumb moods, aren’t you, George, old boy?’)
It was a nuisance about Mickey wanting to go up. He would find the note and tell the police. And then they would start meddling with him. He wanted to help them all he could, but they musn’t start meddling until he was in Maidenhead.
He walked up the Earl’s Court Road. This was bad. Mickey might phone the police at once, and then they would be looking for him to meddle. He couldn’t even go back to his hotel now because they might be looking for him. He had timed this very badly.
In fact, although he had thought he had worked it out, he hadn’t worked it out at all.
If he could only get to Maidenhead straight away it would be fine: but he couldn’t: he had to wait till it was dark or it didn’t work. And by the time it was time to take the train they would be guarding all the stations. They needn’t think they could be cleverer than he was, because they couldn’t.
Well, the only thing was to walk. It would fill in the time and keep them from meddling: and he was aware that they couldn’t get him while he was walking any more than they could get him while he was in Maidenhead – that was part of the thing, too.
He went out by Hammersmith and Chiswick and Gun-nersbury – into the late afternoon of the late summer’s day.
He branched off into the Great West Road, and walked on and on to the incessant roar of following cars speeding from the town, with refugee luggage and bedding and perambulators stuffing their insides and tied on to their backs. He followed the signposts and did not tire – neither did the cars with their incessant passing noise. It had been cars, cars, cars all his life…
At six o’clock he stopped at a lorry drivers’ place for some tea, and then went on again, completely bewildered; and then, at sunset, he became melancholy and filled with foreboding.
He looked back on the great deed of the day, and although it made him feel sick and repelled, it did not make much sense – not the same sense as it made in the morning. Even Maidenhead didn’t make much sense. He supposed Maidenhead was going to come up to scratch? How was Maidenhead going to solve things exactly? He couldn’t quite see. Perhaps he was tired, but he couldn’t see it now.
Of course, if Maidenhead let him down there was only one thing he could do, because that would be the end of all things.
He had a peculiar feeling of being in a dream – unable to focus his mind. He felt he had been in a dream for days now. And yet something told him now that he must not wake from this dream – that only in this dream state could he understand and see in their true perspective the now haunting and repellent events in which he had participated this morning. If he woke up now, if anything happened to change his dream state of mind, he felt that he might be faced with some inconceivable horror of the mind such as he could not bear.
As it grew dark, and he passed out of Slough, he began to hurry his pace, and his melancholy changed to fright. The indescribable misery of the idea of Maidenhead not working had seemed to break his spirit. Keep asleep, his whole being cried out, keep asleep! He didn’t believe Maidenhead was going to work, and he had to keep asleep! He entered a pub on the highway, and ordered a large whisky. They were all talking about the war and did not notice him. He had three more large whiskies and then bought a bottle. He felt better. There. That would keep you asleep – if nothing else did.
A little further along he found another pub, and had two more large ones. He noticed that he had only eleven shillings and sevenpence left. How was he going to live if Maidenhead didn’t work? Never mind – keep asleep till you get there, keep asleep till you had made sure! Maidenhead would work yet. It must work: he had worked it all out.
When he got outside it was quite dark, and there were no lights to guide him because of the bloody war, and he was drunk. Soon he took the wrong direction, and though he bumped into people who said he wasn’t far from Maidenhead, they weren’t interested, and he couldn’t find his way at all. He kept on swilling at his whisky to keep his mind asleep.
At last he found a gate near a hedge: he went through the gate, and lay down under the hedge and swilled some more whisky and fell asleep.
At dawn he arose, blue and stiff with cold, and saw he was in a field only a little way from the highway.
‘Maidenhead ¾’ he read on a signpost, and he walked into the town by Skindles over the bridge.
He had very little idea of what he was doing now, but he was utterly resigned, and he appreciated at once the fact that Maidenhead was no good at all.
It was just a town with shops, and newsagents, and pubs and cinemas. It wasn’t, and never could be, the peace, Ellen, the river, the quiet glass of beer, the white flannels, the ripples of the water reflected quaveringly on the side of the boat, the tea in the basket, the gramophone, the dank smell at evening, the red sunset, sleep…
It ought to have been, but it wasn’t. He had made a mistake. In fact he could hardly recognize it. It had let him down, like Netta.
But as there was no Maidenhead, there was no anywhere, and he had got rid of Netta and Peter, and now of course he must get rid of himself. He had worked that out last night.
As long as his brain stayed where it was, as long as he remained dead, numb, asleep, he would be all right. But he had to get through the day.
He went into the High Street and asked a policeman where he might find rooms, and the policeman directed him to a mean street where he found an ‘apartments’ sign and got a room with a gas-ring on the top floor front after giving up his last ten shillings as deposit. He had now only one and sevenpence left. He slept on the bed in his shirt till two o’clock in the afternoon, missing the cat. ‘I’d have brought you here, pussy,’ he whispered to the sheets, ‘if only I’d known it was no good.’
He went out and had coffee and a bun at ‘The Olde Tea Shoppe’ in the High Street, which cost him fivepence. He then bought a packet of writing paper and envelopes from Smith’s, a pencil and five newspapers. They were all about the sinking of the Athenia. He was sorry for everybody. Then he took a long walk along the river, returning at about six, and having a cup of tea at the same place. Then, completely penniless, he went back to his room and slept until it was dark.
Then he rose and lit the gas, and sat down in its dim light to write a note. As he wrote it, he drank, with the aid of a tooth-glass and water-bottle, the remains of his bottle of whisky, which was still three-quarters full. He wrote:
Dear Sir,
I am taking my life, as coming to Maidenhead was not of any use. I thought it would be all right if I came here, but I am wrong. No doubt you will have found my friends by now. I left
all in order with nothing disturbed. This will help you. I am so tired I cannot write clearly. I realize I am not well. I feel in a dream.
Please order that they look after my white cat which I left behind. He belongs to the hotel, but I gave him milk nightly and it was my custom to let him into the room in the morning. I do not know its name. I know that I have done wrong, but I am not well. I do not really know what I am doing. I thought I was right, but now I am wrong about Maidenhead, I may be wrong. Please remember my cat.
Yours faithfully,
GEORGE HARVEY BONE.
He put this in an envelope and addressed it to ‘THE CORONER, MAIDENHEAD’.
Then he got the newspapers and stuffed the crevices in the door and windows with them, as well as he could. Then he put out the gas and crawled down in the darkness and turned on the gas-ring.
He pulled it near to his face, and it made a dreadful roaring noise, and it smelt acrid and choking. But he was so full of whisky and tiredness he felt he could stand it – he didn’t mind.
Before his eyes, great coloured whorls of whisky and gas spread out and closed in again, and spread out and closed. Then he began to go down a dark tunnel – then he began to go up a dark shaft. He realized he was having an operation. He was under gas.
He was under chloroform. It was like that time, years and years ago, when he was a little boy before he went to school, when he had that operation for adenoids, and his sister Ellen was allowed in to hold his hand…
He put out his hand to see if Ellen’s hand was still there. Yes, he felt it there – amidst all the whorls and tunnels and shafts. ‘All right,’ she said, as she said in those old days. ‘It’s all right. Don’t be frightened, George. It’s all right.’
He died in the early morning, and because of the interest then prevailing in the war, was given very little publicity by the press. Indeed only one newspaper, a sensational picture daily, gave the matter any space or prominence – bringing out (his crude epitaph) the headlines:
SLAYS TWO
Hangover Square Page 27