Beyond this place

by Cronin, A. J. (Archibald Joseph), 1896-1981

  "For the last time." His voice was barely audible. He could scarcely breathe.

  "No."

  He had his hand in his pocket. All the time he was talking he had been holding the gun. It didn't feel cold now . . . the heat of his hand had made it warm ... as if it were part of him. His finger was on the trigger, he could feel the strength of the spring. He didn't even have to take the gun out of his pocket. He had it pointed towards Sprott, the actor, the hollow man. The prosecutor suspected nothing. He stood there, not looking at Paul, with that snarl of outraged dignity stamped on his face. Paul was abreast of him now, not more than two feet away. He could see the round bulge of Sprott's well-fed stomach. The gun aimed there, point blank. He was not in the least afraid. He shut his eyes, holding himself tense, his lips slightly parted in a sort of

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  ecstasy, as though all his being were suffused and elevated by a supreme physical desire.

  Then, all at once, a convulsive shudder shook his body, in a pang of re-birth, agonizingly, he came back to reason, to himself. No, oh my God, no, he thought in a stabbing flash of light. They had called his father a murderer. Would they make him a murderer too? His grip on the gun relaxed. He opened his eyes, looked at the prosecutor blindly. He was panting, as though he had been running. He could not speak. But as he met those hostile eyes, a faint smile trembled across his lips, all his face shone with a strange illumination. While Sprott stared at him lividly, he walked straight past him, out of the house.

  There, in the cool darkness under the stars, a fountain of tears gushed from his eyes. In a low triumphant voice he whispered brokenly to himself:

  "I didn't do it. Oh, thank God, I didn't do it."

  Part Two

  THREE weeks before, when Paul was dismissed by the Bonanza manager, Lena had witnessed the incident with a heavy sensation of dismay. This lessened somewhat when she called on Paul that same evening. She had talked with him, conveyed a message which seemed to cheer him, she believed that in some way she had helped him. But as the days passed and she did not see him again, life became strangely drab and empty. At the end of the week another pianist, a young woman, was engaged by Harris, and the notes of the piano drifted anew towards the cafeteria. Alas, without avail: the music was good but it wasn't the same. And the heaviness did not lift from Lena's breast. She felt herself slipping back into a state of abject depression such as she had not known since the time of the calamity which had broken up her life.

  In telling Paul that she had been happy in her position at the County Arms Hotel two years ago, she had spoken nothing but the truth. Astbury was a charming old town, noted for its ruined abbey, many black and white Elizabethan houses and some interesting Roman barrows, situated on the prettiest reach of the River Trent, something of a resort during the spring and summer months. And the hotel was of a superior class, run by a retired Army officer named Prentice and his wife, patronized mainly by anglers and tourists from the South. The place and the work suited Lena — her prospects were good, she felt that she was liked by the other members of the staff.

  Every other Saturday she had a half day off. It was pleasant to take an excursion by train to Wortley and to spend the afternoon looking through the big department stores, filled with so many things that to a country-bred girl were novel and exciting. At five o'clock she had tea, all by herself, at the Green Lantern,

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  a cheerful little cafe which she had discovered off Leonard Square. Then, flushed and bright, with her few parcels, she caught the six o'clock train to Astbury. The distance from Astbury Station to the County Arms was considerable, over two miles; the road, which bordered the river, was winding and wooded. But this did not trouble Lena who was a splendid walker, and at home, had been accustomed to tramp for miles across the moors that surrounded Sleescale.

  One Saturday evening in the late summer, Lena set out, in her usual spirits, with a cheerful "good-evening" to the ticket-collector, to walk from the station to the hotel. The moon lay behind banks of cloud, the road was in darkness. It was a hot and heavy darkness, with stirrings in the unseen woods, and the sultry hum of night insects in the air. A stagnant, jungle darkness. Even Lena seemed to feel its strange oppression, to fear she was being watched. She recollected that on the train there had been a gang of rowdies. Contrary to her usual custom she kept glancing back across her shoulder. When a dry stick snapped on the path behind her she hastened her pace, nervously, almost to a run. Suddenly, as she approached the loneliest bend of the road, out of the darkness, an arm was thrown about her neck. She let out a cry but a hand, thrust brutally against her mouth, stifled it. She struggled fiercely, with all the strength of her young body, but uselessly. There were five in the gang that had attacked her, five powerful young roughs. She was thrown heavily and in falling, struck her head against a stone. Mercifully she lost consciousness.

  Certain acts are unmentionable — they belong to the degradations of the brutes and are best left in their primaeval slime. But there is a certain fateful continuity in crime, an interdependence of chance and circumstance which links events that may be years apart. This horror that happened to Lena Andersen, because it bears upon the Mathry case, because indeed, had it not occurred, the Mathry case might never have been solved, has to be recorded here. When she came to herself, Lena groaned, tried as best she could to comprehend, rose, fell again, then, with a gashed cheek and swollen eyes, staggered to the shelter of the hotel.

  The immediate shock occasioned by the outrage shook the en-

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  tire community. Search parties were organised. But the assailants were never discovered. They were strangers, probably part of the hooligan element from Nottingham that invaded the district at the time of the Mosley Fair.

  Major and Mrs. Prentice behaved towards Lena with exemplary kindness. When the first shock had passed, and she was able to get about, they pressed her to take a long holiday at their expense before resuming her duties at the hotel. But neither course was acceptable to Lena. She could not bear the overt solicitude and covert glances, the too obvious attentions showered constantly, and with the best intentions, upon her. She knew that her career at the County Arms was finished. Besides, for another reason, she wanted to get away. Though she told no one, holding the knowledge to herself with stoic reticence, she had discovered, with a shudder, that she was to have a child.

  At this time one of the guests at the hotel was a man named Dunn, a taciturn and rather ill-favoured person, who came regularly to Astbury, bent on luring with small flies the silvery salmon which in the autumn were reputed to run up the river. Dunn, amongst other things, was a student of human nature and between his notably unsuccessful forays against the salmon, he studied Lena.

  Although he flattered himself that he could not be impressed, he observed with unspoken admiration her silent, dogged courage, her desire to make the best of a dreadful business, above all the quiet endurance with which her wounded, independent soul suffered the prevailing effusive hysteria. He thought, as he dreamed by the river and exposed the bald patch on his scalp to the sun, that he would like to write a book about Lena, but he was not a writer of books and he feared he would make sad work of it. Still, he had the perception to divine what Lena's bruised spirit was seeking after — to escape utterly, to lose her own identity, away from everyone who had ever known her. Without fuss, he arranged for her to get away to Wortley, to a woman by the name of Hanley, an old friend whom he knew to be reliable.

  Dunn was not a rich man and he had a wife and family to support. Nevertheless, the peculiar qualities of his character led him to stand by Lena in her trouble when she had been forgotten

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  by all those sweet people who had gushed with the milk of human kindness and run to put cushions behind her back on the front verandah of the hotel.

  He arranged for her confinement, which proved difficult and dangerous. The child, bor
n deaf and dumb, was not normal, lived for only a few weeks then mercifully died. But it was months before Lena, prostrated physically and mentally, was able to crawl back to her lodging with Mrs. Hanley.

  Dunn did not offer to find Lena a job. Now that the worst was over, he wanted her to get her feet on the ground again. When, finally, she was engaged at the Bonanza Cafeteria he did not tell her it was unsuitable. He merely nodded in approval. And often, on his way to work, he would stop in for a coffee, to view the progress of his protege. Beneath his habitual detachment he watched the situation with interest, the struggle for regeneration taking place in this wounded, stoic soul. It amused Dunn to find that her unfailing remedy for the moods of sadness which so often weighed upon her was hard work.

  This was the antidote which she now applied to her present melancholy. When she got home from the store she put on her overall and set to, in noiseless determination, scrubbed and polished the floor, laundered the window curtains, blackleaded the grate and burnished the brasses, worked on her two rooms until they shone.

  At the weekend she looked round helplessly: there was nothing more to do, not a speck of dust which she could attach. Restively, she went downstairs to Mrs. Hanley's domain and set to work to bake a cake. Afterwards, she sat in the landlady's parlour, listening to the latest letter from Mrs. Hanley's husband Joe who had sailed from Tampico and was to dock in Tilbury the following Monday. But her attention wandered sadly from the engineer's news.

  "What's the matter, Lena?" Mrs. Hanley asked. "You don't seem yourself. You've been overdoing it."

  "It's nothing." She forced a smile.

  "No, you're a bit off colour. I scarcely feel like leaving you. It's a shame Joe has to stand by the ship for the refit ... all his month's leave too."

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  "I'll be all right. And you'll have a nice time in London."

  "Well . . . I've always wanted to go. And the company pays our hotel for the whole four weeks. Still . . . promise me you'll take care of yourself."

  "I will . . . I'll slack off tomorrow. It's my Saturday off."

  But Saturday did not noticeably improve Lena's state. On the next afternoon, when she had seen Mrs. Hanley off at the station, a painful loneliness descended upon her and, strangely, her steps wandered from the path which normally constituted her Sunday outing. With a start of confusion and self-reproach, she found herself at the entrance to the Botanic Gardens.

  "Well," she thought, frowning at her weakness, "since I came, I may as well go in. At least it's free today."

  She passed through the wide gates and set off along the trim paths in a direction quite opposite to that which she had taken with Paul. For an hour she fought her inclination, but at the end, as she was about to leave, she entered the orangery. Inside the tall ornamental glasshouse as she drew near the slender orange tree which they had viewed together, her heart was beating heavily. Hastily, she pressed her face against a branch, heavy with waxen, perfumed flowers. A single tear, salt and bitter, splashed upon her hand as she turned away.

  That night, while she undressed she suddenly caught sight of herself, her unclothed body, in the little mirror on the dresser, the marks of her pregnancy showing clearly, bluish cicatrices, on her white skin. She grew rigid then, sick with self-disgust, without warning she struck herself a hard blow on her scarred cheek.

  "Don't be a fool," she whispered to herself. "It's no good . . . ever."

  She switched out the light, and closed her eyes tightly in the darkness.

  However, all her resolution was insufficient to beat down all of the feeling which swelled within her. It was stronger than she and at last she yielded to it with a shamed surrender. On the following night, immediately she left the store, she went to Paul's lodging in Poole Street and asked if she might see him.

  Mrs. Coppin inspected her with narrowed eyes.

  "He's gone," she answered shortly.

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  Lena's heart missed a beat. But she persevered.

  "Where did he go?"

  "I've no idea. It may interest you to know that the police came inquiring for him." "I had to keep his suitcase tor the rent," she added.

  There was a pause. A thought formed in Lena's mind.

  "If I pay you, can I take away his things?"

  Mrs. Coppin reflected. The value of the goods she had distrained was slight, she had never expected "to see the colour of her money" from them. In a case like this, one did not ask questions — the opportunity was too good to miss. She made an acid murmur of assent and leaving the door ajar, went back into the house.

  Flushed, and with a secret air, Lena took home the battered brown suitcase she had redeemed. It contained only a few worn articles of clothing. She washed and ironed the shirts, darned the socks, sponged the shapeless flannel trousers and pressed them with her hot iron to a fine edge. She even placed a few shillings in the pocket. While she did this she experienced a further alleviation of her feeling, but when everything was neatly folded and restored to the suitcase, she was no better off than before. More and more, she became convinced that some misfortune had overtaken Paul.

  Then, at the Bonanza, she had word of him. Next morning, as she went in, Nancy Wilson was relating an incident with great gusto to the others. Everyone was clustered round, even Harris stood near, listening — it was such a tid-bit of news.

  "I tell you." Nancy spoke dramatically. "You could have knocked me down with a feather. There I was, going to the pictures with my young man, when I saw him, carrying a billboard. At first I scarcely recognised him he was that changed — thin and shabby, ragged in fact, without an overcoat to his back. 'Wait George, just a minute,' I said to my young man, 'there's somebody I used to know.' And I stood and watched him while he tramped in line with the other dead beats. It was Paul all right. He suddenly caught sight of me across the street and he turned and slunk away."

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  A chorus went up from the little audience. Lena felt herself turn weak.

  "You ought to have seen him." Nancy rolled her eyes. "He's regular down and out."

  "I knew he was no good." Harris concluded the session, with an air of superior knowledge. "I got the tip from the police. Come on now . . . back to your counters."

  It was then that the last of Lena's defences broke. She knew her own folly, knew also that she was laying up a store of future misery. Yet she could not help herself. She began, frankly, to search for Paul. Every morning, as she went to work, and every evening when she returned, she chose roundabout ways, combing all the poorer streets of the city, her eyes alert for his dejected figure. In her free time she waited for hours around Leonard Street Station. She tried the other stations too. But he was not there. In all her eager efforts she knew only failure, days and nights of bitter disappointment.

  CHAPTER [ I

  WHEN Paul moved off from the prosecutor's house, blindly traversing the silent streets, the night was cold and clear, with a biting wind, and a keen touch of frost in the air. Almost overcome by the weakness of reaction, one idea was uppermost in his mind. And when, presently, he reached the canal he drew the gun from his pocket and, with a sob of relief, hurled it far into the oily water. A dull splash echoed in his ears. Numbly he watched the dark circles ebb in the moonlight. Only when the last ripple had gone did he turn away.

  At that moment the clock on the Ware steeple struck eleven.

  The heavy strokes brought him back more fully to himself and suddenly, through the turmoil of his thoughts and the overpowering lassitude which bore upon him, he realized that he was penniless. He drew up, wondering where he could spend the

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  night. Gradually it became apparent that only one course was open to him. He would have to do what Jerry and the others at the lodging house dreaded beyond all else. He had to sleep out. There was a place known as the Arches, the only corner of the city, short of the graveyard, where — by some strange unwritten law — the homeless might
"doss out" undisturbed. As Paul slowly resumed his way towards this wretched spot he felt that the last frail bulwark of his respectability was gone. Now, surely, he was beyond the pale.

  The Arches lay not far from the canal; two dark cuttings under the span of the Midland Railway Bridge. And when he arrived other unfortunates had already settled themselves for the night. Pulling up his coat collar, he sank down in the chilly shadows with his hands in his pockets and his back against a round iron pillar. It was bitterly cold. Trying to suppress his shivers, Paul drowsed in fitful snatches. Morning came in a grey and sullen haze, with the heavy thunder of an early train upon the bridge above. So cold and cramped he could scarcely rise, Paul got to his feet and stumbled off. In a sick fashion, his stomach ached for food, but he had not even the price of a farthing roll. Instinctively he moved off in the direction of the Lanes Advertising Company then, finding the gates closed, bent his steps towards Leonard Street Railway Station. Here, he hung about the outer approaches all day, roundly abused by the regular porters, and in the end earned ninepence. It was not enough for both supper and a bed. In a nearby workman's cafe he ordered sausage and mash, an ill-cooked, greasy meal which lay like lead on his stomach and gave him a griping pain as, once again, he dragged back to the Arches.

  Next morning it was raining hard. He could not face the station again and wandered off through the streets in search of shelter. Already he was filled with lassitude; vet there seemed nowhere in this great city where, without payment, he could sit down. Finally he came upon a billiard saloon and, upstairs in the smoky atmosphere, lit by green-shaded lamps, he found a refuge. But it was only temporary — when he had apathetically watched a few games and gave no sign of playing, the attendant quietly approached him and asked him to leave.