by Gerald Kersh
“Take it all,” said Katusha, in her most Russian voice.
Fabian said: “Oh, no. Oh, no no no! Oh, Jesus, no! What d’ya take me for?” He took seven pounds. “Take it all? Jesus Christ Almighty, you don’t know me! Don’t I realise that a girl needs shoes and stockings and panties and things? And where d’you get that take it? D’you think I want your lousy money? I don’t want your lousy money! I don’t want your god-damn money. This is for you more than for me. And that’s what I mean when I say work! Work like hell, kid, because the harder you work the sooner we’ll get the hell out of this lousy city. Jesus, what a crummy town this city turned out to be!”
Fabian added the seven pounds to a hundred and twenty pounds in a secret wallet. For the first time in his life he was saving money. Looking at the carefully arranged banknotes, he loved them. But a hundred and twenty-seven pounds was an awkward sum. He took away two pounds and made it a hundred and twenty-five; and bought a pair of extra-special silk-web braces for a guinea in Bond Street. It was true that he needed money to get out of London, and that he was very anxious to go a long way away. Still, Russian Katty, with her youth, her beauty, and her credulity, was worth her weight in gold anywhere.
*
“Don’t you look beautiful? Oh, you do know how to carry your clothes,” said Win.
Harry Fabian, having arranged his hat, tightened his tie and said: “Well, what is it? What d’you want?”
“Harry, you know where I’ve been, don’t you?”
“Well?”
“You know why I went where I went, don’t you?”
“You got a carpet, three months, for a typewriter. That’s all I know. So what do you want me to do about it?”
“I’ve been very ill, Harry. Oh Harry, Harry darling, you don’t know how ill I’ve been. As a matter of fact I nearly died. If it hadn’t been for the doctor, I should have died. He saved my live with a blood transfusion.”
“Look, I’m a busy man. What do you want?”
“I wanted to talk to you, Harry. It’s such a long time since I talked to anybody worth while. Please be nice to me. Say something nice to me. As a matter of fact, Harry, I’m terribly unhappy.”
“Is that what you wanted to talk to me about?”
“No, as a matter of fact, it isn’t. It’s about that typewriter. You know who I took it for, don’t you, Harry darling? Oh Harry, Harry, you know I took it to give it to you, don’t you?”
“I don’t know what the hell you’re talking about. Jesus Christ!” cried Fabian, looking at the ceiling, “take a dame out of the gutter and she bites the hand that … Listen. Scram, will you? You bring me bad luck.”
“I won’t scram,” said Win, crying. “I won’t. I’m hungry. I’m starving. I went to prison for you. And I won’t scram, I tell you I won’t!”
“Stop it. Shut up, for Christ’s sake. What is it you want?”
“I’m ill. I’m hungry and I’m miserable. Help me, Harry, for God’s sake help me!”
“Hungry, are you?” said Fabian.
“I haven’t eaten for two days,” said Win.
Fabian opened her bag, took out her purse and emptied it into his left hand. “All I’ve got,” he said, counting quickly, “is fourteen and sixpence. Here’s five bob for you. Go and get yourself something to eat.” He put back five shillings into the purse and dropped nine and sixpence into one of his pockets. “Now scram. Go and get yourself some spaghetti. Get the hell out of here, you dirty little double-crossing chiseller—I’m busy.”
“Give me back my money or——”
“—Or what?”
“Or I’ll call the police.”
Fabian closed his left eye, took careful aim, and slapped her face with his bony right hand. Before she recovered from the shock he slapped her with his left hand; took her by the collar, dragged her to her feet, and kicked her.
She said: “You’re hurting me.”
Pushing her towards the door Fabian said, dispassionately: “Hurt you? By Jesus, I’ll tear your god-damn legs off and tie them round your neck, you bitch! Scram!”
“Give me back my money!”
“You haven’t got any money. You just told me you didn’t have the price of a meal and I gave you five shillings. I can prove it. Get the hell out of here. I’m a busy man. You worry me. Scram!”
“Give me back my money!”
“Here’s something to go on with,” said Fabian, and slapped her again. Then he opened the door and pushed her out into the street.
Before the door closed she said: “Don’t do this to me, Harry darling—I’ll do whatever you say.”
“Will you? I’m glad to hear it. I say scram—so god-damn well scram,” said Fabian, and closed the door. He readjusted his hat and went out. Win was waiting for him.
“Harry, darling Harry, please give me back my money,” she said.
“Oh, your money. What was it I gave you just now?”
She said: “Five shillings. But you’ve got another ten shillings of mine.”
“Ah-ah! Oh yes, I see. Well, look——” said Fabian, taking some paper money out of his pocket, “—give me that five bob.”
He took the five shillings from her damp palm, put them in his pocket and said: “Now will you scram?”
“You thief! You mean little thief!”
“Go to hell.”
“I’ll call a policeman!”
“Fooey!” said Fabian, with a contemptuous wave of the hand.
Half-stunned by shock, Win went in the direction of Cambridge Circus. Her cheeks still tingled, and one of her teeth had started to ache. A heavy, warm autumnal rain began to fall and she took shelter in a doorway, just before the downpour. It rained as if the sky, having lost patience with piddling little routine drizzles and showers, wanted to empty itself of a whole winter’s rain at one go, and be done with it. Win wept without restraint and then, when she wanted to blow her nose, she discovered that she had lost her handkerchief and wept harder still. She wanted to die. But the rain stopped abruptly and she walked on. She went to Busto’s and asked for Pym. Busto said: “’Im? ’E’s a-gone.”
“Gone? Where?”
“’E leave-a dis address for letters,” said Busto, taking a filthy scrap of paper out of one of his mysterious pockets. But he kept it hidden in his hand and asked, suspiciously: “What you a-want ’im for? ’E owe you a-money?”
Win knew instinctively that if she said yes, that terrible little old man would tell her nothing. She said: “No, on the contrary, I owe him money. But it isn’t that. You see, as a matter of fact, I have a rather important message for him.”
Busto stared her out of countenance with his stony old eyes and said, grudgingly: “Okay.”
Pym was working happily. He had eaten a tin of greyish beef stew and a tin of apricots, washed down with tea, and was full of inspiration. He had already written ten thousand words of The Road to the Iron Door. He had only eighty thousand words more to write, and then the book would be written. He intended to work all night. Then he heard a knocking at the door. He was sure that it was Joanna. He hid the empty tins under the table and went to the door, smoothing his hair with his hands. But when he opened the door Win said: “Oh, Johnny, Johnny!” and fell on his neck, weeping.
“Oh Christ!” said Pym.
*
“What brings you here?” he asked.
Win said: “As a matter of fact, Johnny, I don’t know, quite. I suppose you know I’ve just come out of prison?”
“Have you?” asked Pym, uneasily.
“Well, Johnny darling, I must have, mustn’t I? I mean, I don’t suppose you imagine I don’t know what you did to put me there.”
“I didn’t put anybody anywhere,” said Pym.
“As a matter of fact, Johnny, I happen to know all about it. I happen to know, Johnny darling, that you charged me in that typewriter business. Don’t bother to lie, Johnny, I happen to know. How could you have done such a thing to me, Johnny? As a matter of fact, after al
l there’s been between us, I couldn’t have thought it was possible. Anybody else, yes. But not you, Johnny. I never thought you could be cruel and revengeful. And as a matter of fact I happen to know that my stepfather gave you money to do it. Don’t take the trouble to lie to me about it, Johnny darling. I just happen to know, as a matter of fact.”
Pym shouted: “You happen to know! You happen to know! You and your ‘matter of facts’—you happen to know nothing whatsoever. You happen to be absolutely wrong, as a matter of fact.” (Now I’m starting matter-of-facting, he said to himself.)
“As a matter of fact, one of the reasons why I wanted to see you, Johnny darling, was because I was sort of interested to know what made you do it. I’m sort of all mixed up. It doesn’t make sense to me. It kind of doesn’t sort of add up. It’s sort of like two and two making five, as a matter of fact. It was so out of keeping, so absolutely unlike you, Johnny. I couldn’t imagine what I’d done to make you hate me so much. Let’s face it, Johnny. However much you regret it, the fact remains that we were … well, sort of friends once upon a time … it feels like a thousand years ago, after all I’ve been through, Johnny. And when you’ve lived with a man—sort of slept and eaten with a man for months and months——”
“—Ten weeks to be precise,” said Pym.
“—I’m sorry, Johnny. As a matter of fact I’m all mixed up inside. I’m sort of all broken up, as a matter of fact. Ten weeks, then. They were ten lovely weeks for me, Johnny. They were the happiest weeks in my life. You were the only person who was ever kind to me, and I was very, very, very happy. As a matter of fact I loved you. And that’s why this has been kind of worrying me, because I sort of didn’t know what to … well, make of it.”
“Look here,” said Pym. “You know as well as I do, Win, that you behaved like an absolute swine. You know perfectly well that when you were supposed to be more or less faithful to me you messed about with every Tom, Dick and Harry in London. And I proved it to you, if you remember. And then when I was desperately hard up, and when all I had to live on was my typewriter—you don’t know the trouble I had getting that typewriter out of hock——” Pym stroked the keys of the machine, which seemed to chatter understandingly in response to his touch—“when I had nothing in the world but this, I gave you my room and my bed, and went to sleep myself in a doss-house, what did you do? You stole my typewriter. You behaved worse than the cheapest, dirtiest little crook. There is a little bit of honour among thieves, but you don’t seem to have even that little bit of honour. You take advantage of everyone’s good nature. It isn’t fair. If I could have got hold of you then I should probably have hit you right in the mouth, for a rotten little cheat. And when I come to think of it I feel like doing so now. You stole the typewriter and you upset tinned strawberries all over my novel. But even then I wouldn’t have done anything, if a Scotland Yard man hadn’t come along. So I charged you with stealing my typewriter while I was still angry with you. I’m not angry with you now: I only dislike you. Besides, they made it clear to me that you needed a little bit of punishment, if only for other people’s protection. You’ve been stealing practically everything you could lay your hands on—people’s watches and chains, people’s microscopes. And you stole my typewriter, knowing how much I needed it, to give it to your American Henry, whoever he may be.”
“I didn’t steal it, Johnny, I swear! I borrowed it!”
“You ‘borrowed’ it to give to American Henry, eh?”
“American Henry? Oh, him. Oh yes, Johnny, as a matter of fact I remember him. I was going to get a job as a mannequin, and he was going to get me some clothes on credit, only we had to put down a deposit. I would have paid you back all I ever owed you and given you your typewriter back in a week or two, I swear it, Johnny. I meant to, but I didn’t like to mention it as a matter of fact. Please believe me, Johnny—I’m so lonely and miserable—do please believe me.”
“Job as a mannequin? You told me you were going to have a baby.”
“That was just it,” said Win, readily. “There’s a shop near Bond Street that specialises in dresses for women who are going to have babies, and they wanted someone young and—as a matter of fact, good-looking—to show them off.”
“What shop is that?” asked Pym, with interest, thinking of a possible story.
“I forget the name of it for the moment, but it’ll come back.”
“But surely, if they were going to give you a job, you must remember?”
“Oh yes, yes, yes! But I’ve told you already I’m sort of all mixed up in my head. And the baby——”
Win wept heartbrokenly.
“Well, what about it!”
“Dead. Dead, Johnny darling, dead. And I did—oh, I did so want it! And there I was locked up with prostitutes and thieves and shoplifters in a common prison. Oh, Johnny, Johnny, darling Johnny—because I can’t help loving you in spite of everything—I know that most people around here are thieves and prostitutes, and I know that if they were all taken away there’d be nobody interesting left to talk to as a matter of fact, but to be locked up with them, and treated the way I was treated … Oh, Johnny darling, how could you have done it to me?”
“I never did anything to you.”
“I happen to know, as a matter of fact, that you didn’t do badly out of it, Johnny. Oh—don’t misunderstand me—I’m glad of it. I’m glad someone got something out of all this, Johnny. As a matter of fact I know you were well paid, and I was delighted to hear it, because in a kind of way I felt I was sort of paying you back a little of the sort of money I owed you.”
“Look here,” said Pym. “As a matter—I beg your pardon. In point of fact, I got nothing but trouble out of you. Your stepfather, Mr. Mellish, a charming old man——”
“—As a matter of fact, he is an absolute swine. But go on, Johnny.”
“Your stepfather, who is not a swine at all, but who happens to be a very charming old gentleman, begged me to withdraw the charge I made against you in a moment of anger, and I was only too pleased to withdraw that charge. And then, as a matter … and then, if you want to know, I nearly went to jail myself for compounding a felony. Your stepfather insisted on paying me what he thought you owed me—thirty-seven pounds two shillings. I didn’t want to take it, but he insisted. If you want it, you can have it. In fact I insist on your taking it. Here, let me give it to you.” Pym opened his cheque book and began to write.
“You never used to have a banking account,” said Win.
“I’ve got one now. Here. Thirty-seven pounds two shillings. It’s an open cheque, and you can cash it to-morrow.”
“You’re rich now, Johnny darling, and as a matter of fact, in spite of everything, I’m glad. I’m glad for your sake. I’m very happy for you, Johnny.”
“Rich? I’m rolling in it,” said Pym, with a harsh laugh.
“I’m penniless, Johnny.”
“No you’re not, if you’ll excuse me. You’ve got thirty-seven pounds two shillings.”
“May I use your bathroom.”
“Through there.”
“I don’t suppose I could have a bath?”
“Here’s a pound to see you through until the banks open to-morrow.”
“Thank you, Johnny darling. You can be very wicked sometimes, but I always did like you because you were so good, really, as a matter of fact. Look—I feel sort of soiled, kind of unclean. I feel like a jailbird, as a matter of fact. Can I use your bath?”
“If you like, all right. But would you mind being fairly quick? I’m working, you see.”
Having put the money in her bag, Win went to the bathroom. Pym showed her how to operate the geyser, and stood in the sitting-room, looking out of the window, angry with Win and disgusted with himself. He stood like this for ten minutes, and then someone knocked imperiously at the door. It was Joanna Bowman.
“Joanna!” cried Pym. “My heart leaps up! Look, by the purest chance——”
At this moment Win came out of the bathroo
m. She was naked. In her right hand she flourished a safety razor—one of those single-edged razors that used to be given away free of charge with a tube of shaving cream. “Johnny darling, how do you put the blade in this?” she asked. Then she saw Joanna, uttered a little scream, and ran away.
“Damn that woman!” cried Pym, “wherever she goes there’s sure to be some misunderstanding.”
“It’s all right, there’s no misunderstanding. I understand,” said Joanna Bowman. “Let’s make it another time. Don’t look so horrified. It’s quite all right. Some other time. Give me a ring, eh?”
“Joanna! I give you my word of honour!”
“Don’t be silly.”
Pym followed her downstairs. “Upon my word of honour, Joanna, she came along and asked if she could have a bath. It sounds incredible, but it was like that. That’s Win, the girl I told you about.”
“Oh, don’t be silly. How could it possibly matter?”
“She’ll go in a minute.”
“What for? Why should she? Have you got some crazy idea that I might be jealous? Me? Jealous of you? That would be the day, when I was jealous of any man on account of any woman!”
“But, Joanna——”
“I assure you, it’s quite all right. Let’s meet some other time. Give me a ring. I’ll be seeing you.”
Pym wanted to follow her, but he was wearing nothing but his trousers and a shirt; in which dress he preferred to work. He ran back to the fiat. The door had closed itself, and he had to knock several times before Win opened it. Now she wore a towel. She was still holding the safety razor.
“Oh Johnny, Johnny darling, if you only knew how wonderful it felt——” she began.
“For God’s sake get out of my way!”
“But, Johnny!”
“Wherever you go you make trouble. Wherever you go,” said Pym, putting on his shoes, “you make unhappiness and misunderstanding. I never want to see you again as long as I live. Go away—for God’s sake go away, will you? You’ve got money. Will you get out of here, please, quickly! Get out! If I find you here when I come back I’ll throw you out. Dressed or undressed, I’ll throw you out!” He remembered what had happened the last time he had left Win alone in his room, and closed his typewriter and put it under his left arm. “Get out of here,” he said, and ran towards William and Mary Square, Victoria. “This is the second time you’ve ruined my life!” he shouted over his shoulder.