‘What a queer way to live.’
‘It was the way he wanted to live. It was he who cut himself off, you know, Inspector. He couldn’t bear to let his old friends see him. See what he’d become. We’d sometimes walk down into the village in the evening, and passers-by really would stop and stare at him. Sir Paul knew it. And, in spite of all his bluster, it hurt.’
‘He couldn’t have known, surely?’
‘He insisted on knowing. He’d grill me after every encounter. Did they stare? Did they gawp? Did they blanch? What did they say? He had to know. He had to drink his poison to the very last drop.’
‘Brrrr, a bit too creepy for me.’
‘If that’s how you feel, Inspector, think how he felt.’
‘True. A sad, sad case.’
*
‘So it was just you and he together in this lonely old cottage?’
‘Uh huh. Well, actually, no, when I first moved down here, there was a housekeeper who’d come in every day. A Mrs Kilbride, a local woman. But about a week after I arrived, she started having problems with her husband. I mean, he started having problems, health problems. He had a bad flu, then some kind of pneumonia, and now, I can’t be sure, but he may have come down with something very serious. Lung cancer, I believe. Anyway, we saw less and less of her as time went by and she eventually dropped out of our lives altogether.’
‘Who did the cooking – the – the dusting, the housework?’
‘I did.’
‘You’re quite the Renaissance man, Mr Ryder.’
‘I’ve always lived alone. If I don’t do it, no one else will. At home, I mean.’
‘I see … Ah, Willie, there you are. I was just about to call you. I think Mr Ryder here has told me everything he knows.’
‘Which wasn’t much, I’m afraid.’
‘Never expected it to be. So? Turn up anything of interest?’
‘Could be, sir. Or could be nothing.’
‘Well, what is it?’
‘A diary.’
‘A diary!’
*
‘Where’d you find it?’
‘In Sir Paul’s bedroom. Tucked away in a drawer beneath a pile of old newspapers. It was locked, but I, eh, I managed to open it. Fact, I found quite a few of these notepads in there. This one looks like it’s the most recent, though. And what’s interesting is –’
‘But that’s impossible!’
‘Just a moment, Mr Ryder. What were you saying was interesting, Sergeant?’
‘But, Inspector, I tell you, there can’t be a diary. Not Sir Paul’s diary. The man was blind, he didn’t have any eyes! How could he have kept a diary!’
‘Sergeant?’
‘It’s his, all right. Got his name on the cover.’
‘But he couldn’t write! What do you suppose I was here for?’
‘Well, that’s it, you see, Mr Ryder. As you’d expect, it’s all handwritten. And the writing’s really terrible. It all slants to one side just like – Oh God, what do you call it?’
‘What?’
‘When writing slants. You know, like in a book?’
*
‘Italics?’
‘Italics. That’s it, Inspector, that’s the word. It’s like it’s all written in italics. Page after page of it.’
‘Okay, Willie, but what was so interesting? What you were about to say?’
‘Just that this one, this particular notepad, seems to start with the arrival of Mr Ryder here.’
‘Really?’
‘Yeah. Listen. “The blind is flapping at the window again. I don’t care what anyone says, there really has to be a draught somewhere.” Blah blah blah blah blah. Then he continues, “Ryder will be ringing the doorbell any minute now, or so I hope. He’s late already. Slightly as yet, but late all the same. I can’t abide” – can’t quite make this next word out. Begins with a v or maybe it’s a u.’
‘Just go on.’
‘“What was it someone said? That the trouble with – with – punctuality” – punctuality, right – and, yes, now I get it, the word in the sentence before was “unpunctuality”. “I can’t abide unpunctuality. What was it someone said? That the trouble with punctuality is that there’s never anyone there to appreciate it. Well, I would have been here to appreciate it! Though, to be fair, if he has motored down from London, it’s possible the weekend – the weekend – traffic has been heavy.”’
‘That it?’
‘No, there’s more. “So, Mr Ryder. There you are and here I am. We shall see what we shall see.” “We shall see what we shall see.” Funny language for a blind man to use.’
‘Mmm. Though, in an odd way, you don’t have to have known him to get the feel of the sort of man he must have been. Is there a lot more of the same?’
‘Yup. He seems to have written in it fairly regularly. Here’s something about you, Mr Ryder. “Somewhat colourless, at least so far, but that’s all right and he’ll – he’ll – he’ll –”’
‘What’s the problem, Sergeant?’
‘Words stuck together. Oh, I get it. It’s “probably thaw” – “he’ll probably thaw”. But it’s written like it’s a single word – “probablythaw”. Here’s another – “allinall” all bunched up together. Normal, I suppose. Poor fellow couldn’t see what he was writing.’
‘Okay. Read on.’
‘“He’ll probably thaw as we get to know each other. Inevitable if he’s to live here, so – so – deference isn’t a bad point of departure. Not too stupid, either, which is convenient. No, all in all, I think I’ve made a good and suitable choice. God knows, I might have done worse.” Well, that’s a bit of a mixed notice, Mr Ryder. But on the whole good, I suppose.’
‘Any of the entries dated?’
‘Doesn’t look like it, sir. Wait a moment – no – no, it isn’t. “I know now I’ve taught myself nothing, memorized nothing. All those years and nothing to show for them. I’m helpless, helpless – and, save for John, completely alone in the world. Sightless, eyeless, faceless andalone – and alone” – don’t know what this is – “au” – “auf” – no, it looks like a “t”. Could it be “autistic”?’
‘All right, assume it’s “autistic”.’
‘“Sightless, eyeless, faceless and alone, autistic, visually autistic, exiled from the – from the – humdrum – the humdrum – the humdrum – vibrancy of the world. Oh, has anyone ever, ever been in such desperate straits? What is that world to me now but a blank sheet of paper, a blank blank sheet of paper” – no, wait, I think it’s – yeah – it’s “a blank black sheet of paper – a blank black sheet of paper from which every trace of text is fading fast. What I would give – my right arm, my left arm, my legs, my nose, my fingers, my” – well, sir, what it says is – “my cock, everything! – for one more glimpse of that world!” Oh dear, oh dear. He was in a bad way.’
‘All right, Willie. A little respect. It goes on, does it?’
‘Yes, sir. Fills the book, nearly.’
‘Good. Well, Mr Ryder, if you don’t mind, I think we’ll take this along with us.’
‘I –’
‘As I said, it might just give us an insight into the poor man’s frame of mind at the end. Who knows?’
*
‘And I’m very grateful you could give us so much of your time. Sergeant?’
*
‘Please don’t bother seeing us out. And thanks again. If we need you for anything, we know where to get in touch. Goodbye, Mr Ryder.’
*
‘Goodbye.’
About the Author
Gilbert Adair published novels, essays, translations, children’s books and poetry. He also wrote screenplays, including The Dreamers from his own novel for Bernardo Bertolucci. He died in 2011.
Copyright
First published in 1999
by Faber and Faber Limited
Bloomsbury House,
74–77 Great Russell Street,
London WC1B 3DA
&nb
sp; This ebook edition first published in 2014
All rights reserved
© Gilbert Adair, 1999
Cover design by Pentagram
Cover photograph © Millennium
The right of Gilbert Adair to be identified as author of this work has been asserted in accordance with Section 77 of the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988
A CIP record for this book is available from the British Library
This ebook is copyright material and must not be copied, reproduced, transferred, distributed, leased, licensed or publicly performed or used in any way except as specifically permitted in writing by the publishers, as allowed under the terms and conditions under which it was purchased or as strictly permitted by applicable copyright law. Any unauthorised distribution or use of this text may be a direct infringement of the author’s and publisher’s rights, and those responsible may be liable in law accordingly
ISBN 978–0–571–31976–3
A Closed Book Page 18