The Secret Journey

by James Hanley

  He stood with his back to her. He seemed to be waiting for her to say something. Now she was standing beside him, her hands on his shoulders. She began to sob.

  ‘Oh hell! Chuck it,’ he growled, turning round. ‘Go off then and see your mother.’

  ‘Dick,’ she said, ‘oh, Dick!’ and rested her head on his shoulder. ‘Oh, Dick——’

  Dick, however, had had enough. Firmly he removed her hands, led her to the door, and opening it wide to the street said in a slow, drawling voice: ‘I saw the letter! Better cut right away for the General. But be here before that Sloane woman gets here. I can’t stand the bitch! I believe it’s she who split.’ And then he found himself talking into empty air, for Maureen had gone.

  The man stood leaning out, looking after her. Recognizing somebody passing he waved a hand, grinned. Then he withdrew, slammed the door. Returned to the table and growled. Yes. The position was—the position. ‘Well, that’s the bloody position!’ he shouted, and pushing away his plate, got up and went upstairs. Yes, that was the position. And now she’d gone! It would bloody well happen like that. It was just his bad luck that some people had a habit of being in hospitals at the wrong moment, and that some people couldn’t keep their mouths shut. In the bedroom he sat down on the bed to think.

  He was a short, stockily built man, with a head of thick black curly hair. He had an olive-coloured skin, was clean shaven; and above a rather finely shaped nose, a pair of eyes formed the only debit part of his make-up. They were too small, and too close set. They seemed out of place in such a face. He wore a suit of the loudest brown, as well as boots of the same colour. He was a very hairy man, one would suppose he had ripened to manhood under a Southern rather than a Northern sun, though he was in fact a native of Gelton. Maureen was certain his father must have been an Italian, or at least his grandfather. He certainly looked like one himself, though the name he bore was far from Latin. Mr. Richard Slye was just turned forty. He had had an exciting and varied career. To cite it in full would fill a volume. At the moment he was carrying on various schemes in order to live. All schemes, all methods and manners of livelihood were to Mr. Slye neither good or bad. Simply necessities. To him the immoral was moral. Everything was worth doing. Everything. And as a gentleman who had carried out everything except murder, a few sidelines like touting for abortionists, agent for muscular developers, and fine-art post cards, and the classics of Paul de Kock and Company, as well as an interest in horses and dogs, were hardly worth the mentioning. Mr. Slye liked women—he loved them passionately, devotedly; not one or two, but all women. They were all beautiful. They were vital necessities. Maureen he loved, though at the moment he wasn’t certain for how long. Neither was she.

  People who lived in Adolphus Terrace looked upon Mr. Slye as a man of means. All men of means according to them were gentlemen who didn’t work. Tramps were of course excluded, for no tramp could ever dress, or hope to dress in such a picturesque, spectacular way. Everybody addressed him as Slye Esquire. He himself rather liked it. It amused him too, as it would any man whose father had been a labourer in a jute factory, and to which Slye junior had proceeded at the early age of fourteen, and who, by the time he was eighteen, had risen to the height of foreman.

  He rose in two hemispheres simultaneously, in his employer’s and in the girls who worked there. It was here in fact that he had learned that women were all beautiful and all necessary. Girls became women. Women came and went from the factory, but Richard Slye remained. They all loved him. There was something fascinating about him. He knew it. They knew it. Maureen knew it a week after she had gone to work there. But success in her case had not been so easy. Mr. Slye had to break down many barriers beside an inherent shyness.

  Maureen Fury was a pious girl of seventeen. A year later she was like all the others. Beautiful. Necessary. He remembered her longest, loved her longest. He wanted to own Maureen. But like the others she had left the factory. Got married to a middle-aged man, and one not half so attractive as Mr. Slye. He had lost sight of her for years. But miracles still happened even in Gelton jute factories. And now here she was actually living with him, and to him she was more lovely and fragrant than all the others he had learned to know.

  He liked her pretty face, and she was a bit more intelligent than the rest. He liked her mass of golden red hair, her big honest eyes, her little mouth, and the shape of her body. Yes, it had been a miracle. She had actually come to him when he asked her. He had only one regret. That she had known another man. At first she had seemed afraid, remorseful, but he had soon reassured her.

  ‘Maury, my darling. Listen! In this world the best way to live and to get on is to look at everything and call it good. Yes. Even if it’s bad, call it good! Look at me! I’ve always followed that method and I’ve never gone wrong, and another thing, Maury, imagination. Now if you’ve got imagination, well, you can get anywhere.’

  But all this went down the drain of Maureen’s mind, a sort of drain into which unpleasant and unnecessary things could be dropped at will. She wasn’t impressed by that side of Mr. Slye at all. A man and not a thinking machine was what Maureen liked. ‘I like you as you are, darling,’ she had said. ‘Just as you are.’

  ‘But you said you left your husband because he was dull and had no imagination,’ he questioned her, liking to tease.

  ‘Love me,’ was all she said.

  By those two words had Mr. Slye plumbed the depths of Maureen Kilkey. He knew her, understood her. He could rule her. Own her. And she was pretty.

  No. 7 Adolphus Terrace consisted of cellar, kitchen, and two rooms above. In the cellar part of the house they practically lived. From this depth Mr. Slye carried on his business. Maureen looked after the house, helped him with his business, became what he called ‘a devoted wife.’ The neighbourhood was no better than that from which she had shifted. She would look at the row of iron bars across the cellar window, itself covered with a film of dust.

  Maureen’s curiosity in Mr. Slye’s business dated from the day when with housewifely thoroughness she had proceeded to clean that window. This angered Mr. Slye. Leave the window. As it was. Leave the dust. He liked the window that way. He hated people looking in. Dust couldn’t be seen through. And gradually Mrs. Kilkey had learned of all ‘the wonderful things I have done,’ from arranging for the necessary convenience for girls, to supplying factory workers with works of art, and even selling tips to people who backed horses, the majority of whom considered: ‘Slye is such a lucky man.’ Nothing was too large or too small for Mr. Slye. In the off seasons, or when there was a falling off in the clientele for the abortionist, Mr. Slye wrote poems about Grief. These he printed and decorated himself. It was an entirely new field of activity and the only one in which ‘Good little Maureen’ had not shown the interest he expected from her.

  Door-to-door canvassing she didn’t take to. She did, however, read the papers for Richard, and made the necessary notes. He was glad of her help. A man killed at the dock this morning. Well, a set of memorial cards, name and age and appropriate verses to suit the occasion brought in an amount of money that couldn’t just be laughed at. It was wonderful.

  It was one of Mr. Slye’s great ambitions to supply tombstones of magnificence to bereaved families, and from the moment it occurred to him that there was real money in it, he dreamed daily of just one ‘good corner’ in abortion, or even the horses, and then he could strike out in the grand manner. Such was the gentleman with whom Maureen Kilkey was now living.

  ‘Blast those interfering swine!’ he thought, then he got off the bed and went and looked out of the window. He was certain it was that Sloane woman who had opened her mouth too wide. Mrs. Clara Sloane was a woman who did not stand anywhere in the world where ‘all are beautiful and necessary.’ She stood quite outside it. She was sixty. She undertook for a consideration to work out a methodical plan, a sort of register of events, accidents at the docks, girls in trouble at factories, in large houses, shopgirls, etc. Well, it had
simply come to this. She had split. Wasn’t satisfied with her commission. Damn fool he’d been ever to listen to her. It still worried Mr. Slye as to how she had come to know the secrets of his business. He even thought Maureen had had something to do with it.

  Mr. Slye, even with those he loved, held the rigid balance of hate. On more than one occasion, Maureen had seen how it worked. He had often struck her. When a letter had come from her husband informing her that the child was ill, she had gone to see them.

  The husband had tried hard to get her to stay. He had only asked her to come and see the child because he asked for her all the time. But a year’s living with Mr. Slye had convinced her more and more that this man she had been fool enough to marry (she always hated her mother when she thought about it), was nothing more than a dolt. In the end she had rid Mr. Kilkey not only of her own person, but the child’s also. She returned to Adolphus Terrace.

  Mr. Slye was furious. He shouted, he swore, she thought he would strike her. She made to go, child and all. But he had calmed down. He loved her. She was pretty, and such a figure. The mere thought of another man having Maureen—no—it simply couldn’t happen. Life resumed its course, Dermod, the child, being the tributary. Then once he was assured he had got her, he changed his tactics. He began to growl. He quarrelled daily, hourly cursed her for bringing the child. He wanted his own child. This he was soon to have, and then, and it seemed another miracle to Mr. Richard Slye, he saw that there might be money in it. Yes. ‘Look at everything and call it good.’ That motto never failed. It was too good.

  He loved Maureen, but he couldn’t afford to keep the child as well. He worked on her weakness. After all if she really loved him, etc. etc., and this had the precise effect, because there was some inherent quality, or evil, or strength, or weakness in this man, something that attracted powerfully, and Maureen was always afraid, afraid she would lose him. Throw her out. Go away. ‘No,’ he had said, ‘I can’t afford it. What about this feller you left? He seems a mug. Couldn’t you get something out of him; a few bob a week?’ Maureen said Yes, and ‘the fool in Price Street,’ received first one letter, then another, written from fictitious addresses, asking for money. She was hard up, she was this and that and the other——Mr. Slye wrote these letters with consummate art, and Maureen posted them.

  Nobody was more surprised than Maureen when her husband sent five shillings, then ten, and now he had been sending five shillings every week, payable to ‘Maureen Kilkey at the General Post Office, Gelton.’ She handed this money over to Slye without a word. He didn’t even thank her. Besides, the machinery necessary even for the extraction of a farthing was so intricate that by the time the cash was reckoned up there was no effort left except for the most curt thanks.

  ‘Comes in handy,’ Mr. Slye said. ‘Trade’s bad! Might have thought of it before.’

  Trade indeed was bad. People weren’t having the accidents they used to. Nobody, at least this past two months, had shown the slightest interest in ‘fine-art models’ for students only, nor indeed was Mrs. Sloane effecting any business. In brief, business was at the ebb. The world was growing too good; either that or Slye’s methods had been superseded by better ones. The weight of responsibility upon one who used his wits for a living was indeed heavy. Joseph Kilkey was a godsend. Mr. Slye set himself to find out all about Mr. Kilkey. Stevedore. Aged fifty. Personal appearance. Didn’t matter. Regular work. As much as three pounds a week. Quiet liver. Teetotal, etc. etc. Maureen felt she had descended into the gutter at last. But it made no difference to her passionate love for Mr. Slye.

  He ran a fat finger up and down the window-pane. Now the silly crying bitch had gone out. Her mother ill. As though the world wasn’t full of mothers who were ill. A condition of humanity, a normal one and nothing to cry about. Well, if she wasn’t back by one o’clock, then he didn’t know—he didn’t. ‘I don’t know,’ he cried into the empty room. In half an hour he’d have to go out and see that fellow Phils. He wished he hadn’t to go.

  A knock at the door below sent him rushing from the room. The seedy-looking man he admitted immediately began breathing heavily, sending stale breaths into an already stale room. He sat down at once. Looked at Mr. Slye.

  ‘What’s happened?’ asked Slye, tapping his fat hands and ample knees.

  ‘They’re prosecuting all right. Denby told me! Case comes on at eleven. You’ll be dragged in. Silly bastard of a woman! They roped Levin.’

  ‘Who’s prosecuting solicitor?’

  ‘Trears.’

  ‘Who?’ and Mr. Slye put a hand behind an ear, suddenly become very deaf.

  ‘Trears. Lawrence Trears and Badgers. They’re always prosecuting some poor sod!’

  ‘Trears! By God I’ve heard that name somewhere.’ Mr. Slye scratched his head. ‘Lawrence Trears.’ Yes, he was certain he’d seen his name in the papers. In a big case. ‘Let me see. Trears! Lawrence Trears and Badgers.’

  ‘It looks bad,’ said the seedy gentleman, his hand becoming a handkerchief.

  ‘How bad?’ Mr. Slye was on his feet at once. Stamping about. ‘How bad?’

  ‘Just bad, I suppose. I’m not a prophet. How do I know how bloody bad it is?’

  ‘All right! Don’t get your shirt out. Cool, man! Cool. How’s business in the holy pictures?’ he put his hand behind his back, and rocked to and fro upon his heels. His agitation had subsided. He seemed cooled and collected.

  ‘Oh, them! Sacred Heart doesn’t sell so well as the Pope, and it’s a fact!’

  ‘How’s profits?’

  ‘So, so.’

  ‘Oh! I see! You know there’s money in this tombstone business. It’s a science. Look at Menton. Coining money. Have a drink?’ Mr. Slye was generous to-day.

  ‘I don’t mind,’ said the visitor, ‘I’ve had a bloody morning of it. Chasing those fellers round. It’s a job, I tell you. Working on people’s emotions isn’t what I’d call gilt-edged.’

  His name was Doogle. He was turned forty-five, though he looked seventy. His waxed moustaches bristled, but they were the only things about him that did bristle. He had a dry-worn look. If one blew hard he might fall to pieces. Mr. Doogle had been running a strong line in emotions for years, but he couldn’t show much for his pains. People’s emotions had had the reverse effect upon him. They wore him out. Slye had suggested his going in with him. Together they might bring off a coup. Mr. Doogle’s one dream was that he might bring off such a coup. Holy pictures at the moment were at par.

  ‘I may have to get out of here,’ remarked Mr. Slye, as he handed a glass of sherry to his commercial confrere. ‘I’m afraid of this case. Bound to be dragged into it. Certain of it. And if I am they’ll come here, and see what they’ll find. Just see.’

  Mr. Slye waved his arm about, which embraced everywhere at once. Mr. Doogle looked idly about the cellar and sipped his sherry. Aye, thought he, Look and see. Yes. What a collection! What a sight! Romance and mystery and sweetness and every kind of excitement for the asking. Photographs in hundreds. Books in bundles, queer little gummed boxes.

  Mr. Slye went to a corner of the room. At random he flung a pile of articles on to the table for Mr. Doogle’s inspection. Books and pictures. Women in hundreds, standing, sitting, lying, jumping. Alluring poses, fascinating titles. Upon all this Mr. Doogle turned a cold fish-like eye. He waved a hand in the air, as though to dismiss them. Rubbish! That was all. He smiled at Slye. Well, it was a nice collection, but nice collections weren’t like Shakespeare folios. You couldn’t auction that lot of ‘rubbish.’

  ‘Never could see anything in that side, Slye. Never! You know, I always asked myself where you got this remarkable knack of yours for this business. Mind you, as a practical business man I can give you the benefit of years of hard work and experience. I never could see anything in that sort of stuff. Too risky. Besides, people are not like they used to be in Edward’s time. Oh no, sir. They’ve improved. Yes, I’ll admit that if the police called here this minute you’d be done. But if
they came to see me they wouldn’t find anything they could seize, see! Surprised you learned your trade in a jute factory. My father travelled in toilet papers and I began my working career mending umbrellas and selling pomade for grey hairs. Queer world, isn’t it?’ and Mr. Doogle sucked rather than sipped at his sherry. ‘Work on the right sort of emotions, Slye. You’ll never go wrong. Now take that memorial card business. Best line you ever struck if I may say so. Tears pay. Always did. Always will. Well, I’d better be going. Just thought I’d let you know, Slye, how the world was moving. And you know—so help me, it’s bloody funny, Slye, but these sort of mornings always make me look up at the sky, grey dull sky you know, and I says: “By gosh! I’ll bet there’s a hell of a do on the Western Front this morning,” and if there is, well sir, the market fluctuates. Holy pictures are good. Real good. How do you work it out? You know, by the look of it, I really think this war’ll last for ages. Ages. Aye! Well, I’m off.’

  ‘Look here! I’m coming too! I can’t sit in this place this morning. And that bloody woman’s gone rushing off. There’s a chance for you, Doogle. Her mother’s a Catholic. They’re a large family—plenty of trade. All the same I’ll have to think over things. This territory is cleaned up. Gelton gets hot and cold in doses. Thought of making Blacksea. Looks all right. Plenty of soldiers. Plenty of business. Just half a minute,’ and Mr. Slye dashed up the cellar step. When he had gone Mr. Doogle took a good look at the array of females.

  ‘Um!’ he said. ‘Not much in the line really. See one and you’ve seen the lot. They’re all built the same. Even humanity has its limitations. No, sir. I wouldn’t touch that stuff if I was paid a fortune. Gets you a bad name.’

  Mr. Slye returned. He was ready for the street. He looked what Mr. Doogle called real flourishing. ‘Like your hat, Slye! Where’d you pick it up?’