There were three sailors of Bristol City,
And they were shipwrecked on the sea—
And they were shipwrecked on the sea-ee-ee!’
28
Through the Night
Ben never knew how he got across that bridge. He never knew how he loosened the boards and sent them down into the depths. Perhaps they became loose under his frenzy. Perhaps he merely completed work commenced by Sims, who had traversed the fragile bridge before him and who may have been impressed with its possibilities. Perhaps anything. He was not in a condition to record or to remember. If you tell him that he stood on the ledge on the other side of the chasm singing ‘Three Sailors of Bristol City,’ like his own ghost, to Greene and Faggis on the opposite shore, he will blink amazedly and say, ‘Go hon!’
The simple fact was, Ben was beyond knowing. There was just his body and the instinct of self-preservation. It is a collaboration that has saved many a drunken man’s life, when sober he would have perished.
Sometimes, however, during the strange period that followed, even the instinct of self-preservation deserted him, and his body was entirely in the hands of God. Otherwise he could never have revealed himself by giving a concert on the ledge, but would have crawled away noiselessly in the hope of cheating the enemy’s eyes. Did the enemy shout at him, or try to reach him, or throw things at him? Again, he did not know. For at least half an hour after the sailors of Bristol City ceased to be, his mind was an utter blank; and then it only emerged from the blank for queer, distorted, and temporary excursions in the regions of consciousness.
During the blank spaces he moved and sang. One song was particularly illuminating. It ran:
‘Three blind mice
Three blind mice,
Three blind mice,
And three blind mice.’
The song will never be officially recognised by historians, since rocks cannot write. At other times the songs were wordless, being merely weird sounds emanating from an uninstructed voice—a voice that, like the rest of his internal mechanism, seemed to have become disconnected and to rattle or spill about every time the callous body or dulled emotion got a jolt.
But it is by Ben’s conscious, or semi-conscious, moments that we must mark his progress and judge how the angels were looking after him.
The first moment occurred, as has been implied, in half an hour. The record of time is ours, not Ben’s, for time meant nothing to him. He came out of the blackness into a space of great height and light. There were no overshadowing rocks. There were hardly any shadows at all. At the top of the sky was the moon, illuminating Ben at the top of the world.
‘That’s funny,’ said Ben.
And slipped back into the blackness again as he said it. Like a sleep-walker, he continued on his way.
The next moment was not quite so pleasant. He was lying on the ground. A large rock was near his feet, and his eyes, gazing downwards, were staring at the world through the wrong end of the telescope. He leapt backwards, bounced against a small fir-tree, fought it, won, and begged its pardon. The victory had to be paid for, as do all victories of physical force. The toll was exertion, a pain in the forehead (for the fir-tree had put up a bit of a fight), and darkness once more.
The third moment was of longer duration. It was also more significant. It was preceded by a series of confusing black lines, as though the blackness enveloping him were thinning out yet at the same time were becoming more definite. It resolved itself into these confusing black lines. The lines streaked across his path. He lifted his feet high to avoid them. Then they turned out to be shadows. The shadows of pines, cast by a moon no longer high.
He stared at the shadows, recognising them for what they were.
‘Shadders,’ he said.
Yes, he knew shadders. He clung on to the knowledge. He tried to step from it to something else that would keep him from swinging back to hovering nightmares.
‘Trees,’ he said.
Shadders and trees. But the nightmares hovered a little closer, seeking to envelop him again.
‘Me!’ he cried desperately. ‘Me!’
Shadders, trees and Ben. The concrete combination was growing. The little army of solid things! But so was the blackness!… It was his head—if only he could get rid of that. People kept on tugging at it. Sims, Faggis, and Greene. And sometimes they swept it with a broom, sweeping everything out of it …
‘Shoe!’ he muttered.
He was resisting. Shadders, trees, Ben, and a shoe. The first three seemed reasonable, but the shoe only confused him again. What was the shoe doing? Shoes didn’t grow in forests! Or did they? Small shoes like this? Girls’ shoes? Girls’ shoes … girls’ shoes …
Suddenly he stooped closer. The blackness stooped with him. He knelt down by the shoe. He picked it up. Something familiar about it stirred his dulled memory. He strove to reach the memory. He knew it was a peaceful memory—soft and warm and comforting. He began to cry. ‘I know yer, I know yer,’ he whimpered. ‘I’m comin’ ter yer—but give us a bit of ’elp!’ He raised the shoe to his cheek. He thought he heard footsteps behind him. He shouted, and fell flat. He was caught again by the Demon of Darkness.
But the one thing the Demon could not do was to prevent his progress. He got up and walked on again, through land that left no trace and hours that left no mark. And when, for the last time, he came out of the darkness, he was sitting in a long, white road, with the shoe still clasped in his hands, and a face bending over him.
To Ben’s surprise he found that it was not the face of Sims or Greene or Faggis, or of anybody he knew. The discovery was reassuring, and helped to keep him steady. As a matter of fact, it was rather a pleasant face. Old and lined and wrinkled, and not in the least forbidding.
‘Buenos dias,’ said the face.
‘’Allo,’ replied Ben feebly.
That lasted for a long time. In silence, they tried to make each other out. Each seemed a puzzle to the other. Then the face tried again.
‘Buenos dias,’ it repeated.
‘Yus, so yer sed afore,’ muttered Ben; ‘but it don’t ’elp.’ The next moment, however, he understood.
‘Oh—dias—now I git yer,’ he nodded. ‘Well, yer can see I ’aven’t dias, but it’s bin a near thing!’
The old man shook his head. He was doing his best, but he wasn’t one of the Intellectuals. He earned his living with a spade.
‘Inglés?’ he inquired.
‘In wot?’ blinked Ben.
‘Inglés.’
‘If it’s a drink, yus,’ said Ben.
The old man looked sad, and rubbed his forehead. Evidently it was not a drink. That wasn’t where you put it.
‘Look ’ere, let me ’ave a try,’ suggested Ben, after a pause. ‘’Ave yer seen a man and a couple o’ gals on a moke?’
The remark seemed to excite the old Spaniard, and also to hurt him a little.
‘Usted habla demasiado deprisa!’ he exclaimed, throwing out his arms.
‘’Ere, one at a time!’ muttered Ben, quite unconscious of the fact that the Spaniard was asking him practically the same thing. ‘Well, let’s try somethink helse. Wot’s the time? Ter-morrer, ain’t it?’
‘No hablo inglés,’ sighed the Spaniard.
‘’Oo?’ answered Ben.
‘Habla usted espanol?’
‘Oh! Spanol. No. ’Ave yer lorst one?’
The old man scratched his chin. His expression suggested that it was interesting talking to monkeys, but one had one’s work to do. Still, the old fellow tried once more, and pointed to the shoe which Ben was still clutching in his hand.
‘Zapatero?’ he asked, raising his eyebrows. ‘Si? Zapatero?’
‘Wot we want,’ replied Ben, ‘is a dickshonero. Gawd, wot’s Spanish fer a drink?’
He would have given a month’s cheese to know. His mouth was parched, and his head was throbbing. Just a glass of something, to get a trickle down his throat, and a couple of hours on something less ha
rd than a road, and he’d be all right. But this well-meaning old Spanish fossil couldn’t help him to either.
‘Adios,’ said the Spaniard, with a regretful shrug, and pointed to the sky. ‘Va á llover.’
‘Oi!’ called Ben, as he moved away.
The old man paused. He was quite a decent old chap. Acting on a sudden inspiration, and wondering why he hadn’t thought of it before, Ben remembered a valuable little piece of paper in his pocket.
‘’Ere, ’ave a look at thiseo,’ he said, ‘and put us on the rodeo.’ He thrust his hand in his pocket. The paper was not there. He racked his brain desperately. ‘Villapansies,’ he blurted. The Spaniard shook his head. ‘Villabonzo,’ Ben tried again.
‘Ah, Villabanzos!’ exclaimed the Spaniard.
‘Yus, Villabanzos,’ nodded Ben, relieved. ‘’Ow do I git there?’
‘Villabanzos,’ repeated the old man. ‘Por dónde se va a Villabanzos?’
‘’Ow many more times?’ demanded Ben.
‘Villabanzos! Aguarde un momento!’ He paused and screwed up his eyes, thinking hard. Then he opened his eyes wide and cried, ‘Villabanzos! Si, si! Tome usted la segunda á la izquierda. Si!’
‘Yer know, you ain’t ’elpin’ me at all,’ grumbled Ben.
‘Entonces pregunte usted otra vez,’ beamed the old man.
He flourished his arms as though he had done something clever, but Ben didn’t agree.
‘Well, wot abart this part, then?’ he asked. ‘Don Manuel.’ Somehow or other he remembered that.
‘Don Manuel,’ muttered the old man dubiously. His face fell. ‘Don Manuel.’ He shook his head. ‘No conozco á nadie en esta ciaudad. Lo siento mucho.’ He struck his chest. ‘Villanedo, si! Villanedo! Villabanzos?’ He shook his head again.
Then, with a gloomy ‘Adios,’ which this time had a note of regretful finality about it, he raised his weather-beaten hand internationally, and walked away.
The interview had not been fruitful in one sense, but it had in another. It had done something to beat back the nightmare and to restore Ben’s faith. If the old man had not helped him, neither had he hit him. After all, there were a few peaceful people in the world!
Ben rose to his feet. He immediately sat down again. ‘I fergot,’ he said, and remained down for ten minutes. then, rising a second time, he found that he could just manage it, and very slowly he resumed his way.
Grey clouds scudded across the sky. It was early morning, and there was a moist nip in the air. The Spaniard had told him that it looked like rain, but Ben did not know that, and was unprepared for a sudden little shower that descended on him. The shower did not last, but it spoke of others to follow.
He walked for about an hour. His pace became slower and slower. The poignant fears of the night were no longer upon him, and he had emerged from his frenzies and his black lapses; but he was fighting against a numb depression that was settling upon him, and also an intense heaviness of his legs. Likewise, his disconcertingly parched mouth. The little shoe was the only consolation he possessed, and he hung on to it as though it were an anchor.
Presently he passed another Spaniard. Naturally they were all Spaniards, but each one surprised him. This Spaniard did not respond to his ‘Oi,’ so he let him go. The next one he met, however, stopped obligingly. He was large and had a fierce black beard, but you couldn’t be particular.
‘We ain’t goin’ ter waste no time this time,’ decided Ben. ‘Am I right fer Villabanzos? Don Manuel. And I’m illeos.’
That got it all in! But the big Spaniard with the fierce beard stared at him so hard that Ben began to grow indignant.
‘Wot’s up?’ he demanded.
He had meant to make the demand boldly, but his voice faltered. The big Spaniard went on staring at him.
‘Well, I’m no funnier than you are!’ muttered Ben.
He tried to move on. The big Spaniard wouldn’t let him. He picked Ben up, and slung him across his shoulder. Then, slowly, he turned, and began to walk back in the direction from which he had come.
He walked gently and smoothly. The movement was curiously peaceful. It was more than peaceful; it was soporific. ‘Gawd, ain’t this comf’erble,’ thought Ben. And slept.
29
In a Spanish Bedroomio
Ben went to sleep on a man’s back. He woke up in a bedroom. It was the most peaceful awakening he had experienced for a long while, and he could not understand it.
His body felt refreshed and his mind felt calm. The quietude was comforting, not terrifying, and even the rain that pattered outside a small window across the room added to his sense of cosiness. Why wasn’t life always like this? Then it would be a bit of all right!
Beside him, on a little table, was a small bottle. P’r’aps that was something to do with it! He often slept with his mouth open, and someone might have poured some Spanish medicine down into it. He recalled a recent dream in which he had fallen under a waterfall. Yes, that was when they’d done it! But why had they done it? He wasn’t ill. He was only tired.
And now he wasn’t even tired! He sat up suddenly. His back stood the test. He opened and closed his mouth. No cricks. He swallowed. All nice and smooth. That Spanish physic must be some stuff! He did not realise that, quite apart from the medicine, he had just emerged from a long, natural sleep, and that nature had been working on an unfit body that refused persistently to yield to its unfitness.
Well, so much for himself. Now for others. He hoped the others would prove as satisfactory.
At first there did not seem to be any others. He imagined himself to be alone in the room. Then, however, he became conscious of a bent figure sitting in a chair a little behind the head of his bed. Just a shadow in the corner of his left eye.
As his left eye went round, the bent figure rose and came towards him. It turned out to be an old woman of about three hundred and sixty. Ben stared at her in frank amazement. He didn’t know people came so old.
The old woman paused, and stared back. If Ben had never seen anything like her before, she did not appear to have seen anything like Ben before. They were exchanging totally new experiences.
‘Eh?’ she muttered, at last.
‘Sime ter you, mum,’ answered Ben.
The answer seemed to excite her. Her eyes lit up, and she poured out a voluble question. He got a dim impression that she was inquiring about his cabeza. Not knowing what his cabeza was, or whether it should be mentioned if he had one, he continued to stare back, which excited her all the more.
‘Haga usted el favor de responder “si” ó “no!”’ she cackled, like an angry hen.
‘I wish yer’d all stop sayin’ that there ’oossted,’ grumbled Ben. ‘I’m fair sick of it.’
‘Cabeza, cabeza!’ she repeated. ‘Dolor de cabeza!’
She tapped her forehead as she spoke.
‘If yer tryin’ ter tell me yer barmy, mum,’ said Ben, ‘that ain’t no news!’
She made a gesture of annoyance, and hobbled to the door. Opening it, she called out into the passage:
‘Eh! Alcoba! Eh!’
Gaining no response, she grew more annoyed and stepped out into the passage, closing the door after her. ‘Eh! Alcoba!’ she called again.
Her voice became fainter. She seemed to be descending stairs. Answering a sudden impulse, Ben jumped out of bed and ran to the window. No harm in taking one’s bearings!
He looked out on to a moist street. It was uneven and cobbled, and the rain ran down large gutters. There were not many houses in the street, and what houses there were were low. One building towards the end of the road was a little bigger than the rest, and Ben concluded that it was supposed to be a church, but obviously the architect didn’t know how churches went and had lost his plans half-way up. While Ben was regarding it with insular disapproval, a tall figure began to materialise round the church wall, but before he could see it clearly a sound in the passage sent him scurrying back to bed.
The door opened with a loud c
reak, and the old woman returned. Behind her was the black-bearded man who had carried Ben home. ‘’E must be Alcoba,’ thought Ben.
‘Insensato, insensato!’ she muttered, pointing to him.
Alcoba waved her down, and advanced with a smile. He had very white teeth, and his smile showed them all.
‘Qué tal sigue usted?’ he inquired pleasantly.
‘Oossted agine!’ grumbled Ben. ‘If yer wanter oossted, why don’t yer?’
The black-bearded man tried another tack.
‘Cabeza?’ he asked. ‘Dolor de cabeza?’
‘She’s tried that one,’ retorted Ben, ‘and it don’t work. I ain’t got no cabeza!’
‘A mi ha dicho lo mismo,’ grunted the old woman.
‘No entiende ninguna palabra,’ answered the black-bearded man.
‘Now, listen ’ere, Alcoba,’ said Ben seriously. The black-bearded man raised his eyebrows. He had never been called ‘Bedroom’ before. ‘Orl this oossted and cabeza bizziness ain’t gettin’ us nowhere! Why doncher listen ter me fer a bit, and see if I can git a word acrost ter yer. Fust, marth. That’s ere.’ He opened his mouth and pointed to it. ‘’Ave yer got hennythink ter put in it? I’ve got a ’ole in me stummick—that’s ’ere—and I could eat orl the oossteds and cabezas yer’ve got in the lardeza.’
Alcoba stood silent before this outburst. It appeared to amaze him. The old woman, however, grew furious.
‘Quién hubiera imaginado nada tan disparatado?’ she cried.
Alcoba suddenly shook off the spell Ben’s oration had cast upon him, and walked to the little table with the medicine bottle on it.
‘Noneo of thateo!’ exclaimed Ben vigorously. ‘Wot I wants is a proper drink.’ He made a loud noise, as of a man enjoying a proper drink. ‘And, arter that, I’ll ask yer ter put me on the road ter that plice I arst yer abart. Villabonzos. Get it? Don Manuel. Lummy, ain’t there nothink we can do ter stop stoppin’ like we’re stoppin’? ’Ere. Beefinoza puddingoza beensinoza gorganzola, and if that don’t mean nothink I give it hup!’
Apparently it meant nothing to the old woman, whose only comment was ‘Medico,’ but while her black-bearded companion clearly agreed with the comment, his expression suggested that the word ‘Medico’ did not in his opinion entirely cover the position.
Murderer's Trail Page 18