The Red and The Green

by Iris Murdoch

  ‘You’re a fine nuisance turning up now.’

  ‘I wanted to see you,’ said Andrew. ‘I wanted to tell you—’ But this was meaningless talk. Now he was only a factor in a situation, a British officer in a damnably awkward fix. He noticed a rifle leaning against the gas stove, a pair of handcuffs hung upon the back of a chair. He stared at his revolver, which was lying on the check lino tabletop where so often as a child he had sat eating bread and honey. He saw the little shut-in room and the figure of the armed man. Andrew realized that he was in action for the first time.

  He said, ‘Oh God, whatever are we going to do.’ But this was not the right way of speaking either.

  ‘I’m thinking,’ said Pat. ‘It’s unfortunate that you heard that conversation. I ought to be court-martialled for having left that door open. You appreciate that I can’t just let you go?’

  Andrew was silent. He looked down at his highly polished boots and his khaki breeches and his empty holster.

  ‘I don’t want to have to shoot you,’ Pat’s voice went on coolly, ‘and it won’t be very nice for you if I tie you up and gag you. Suppose we save ourselves trouble and damage and you give me your word as an officer and a gentleman that you will remain quietly in this house until midday and communicate with nobody.’

  Andrew looked up. ‘I know perfectly well what my duty is as an officer and a gentleman, and you know it too.’

  Pat suddenly smiled at him. ‘Well, well, and how else could you answer. Cathal, go and fetch that rope from my room, and any handkerchiefs and scarves you can lay your hands on.’

  Cathal paused, fascinated. ‘Would you really think of shooting him, Pat?’

  ‘Go on! And don’t be after touching that.’ Pat tossed Andrew’s revolver onto the gas stove with a clang.

  When Andrew said he knew what his duty was, he at last understood perfectly, and grasped what was about to occur not just as the occasion of a conflict between him and his cousin, but as a general catastrophe. When he left this place he would be going into the firing line not to shoot at Germans but to shoot at Pat and his comrades. He gave a groan of pain. ‘Why did this have to happen?’

  Pat understood him. ‘It’s necessary.’

  ‘It’s insane. You can’t hold out against the British Army. You’re forcing us to fight you when we don’t want to, and we’re the same people, we’re brothers, we can’t fight—’ Andrew felt the outrage of it. He wanted to explain that he did not want to fight the Irish, they had done him no harm, there must be some mistake. It could not be that he would have to kill his first man here in Dublin, here where his mother had just moved into a pretty house, where Frances—

  ‘Cousins, not brothers. Thank you, Cathal. Now, Andrew, I’m sorry, but I’m to be out of this place in twenty minutes and I want to leave you behind in a neat bundle. You’ll be rescued this afternoon when my mother comes home. Could you just stand up and turn round and put your hands behind your back.’

  Andrew stood up facing Pat. Then as he turned about to face the window he said, as he had used to say as a child when about to be beaten, ‘Oh no, oh no —’ He felt the cold touch of the handcuffs on his wrists.

  The square frame of the window opposite Andrew was suddenly darkened by a figure which rose up from below. The sun was shining now outside and the figure appeared bulky and startling against the dirty sunny brick wall. All three inside the room jumped and exclaimed and Andrew found himself stumbling against Pat. The handcuffs clattered to the floor. Then Andrew recognized through the window, close to his own face, the round eager face of Millie. She tapped urgently on the glass, mouthing something.

  ‘Cathal, go and let her in. You sit down again. Oh, Mother of God!’

  As Pat grimaced, Andrew knew again that he ought to act. He did not think that Pat would shoot him if he made a dash for it. Pat was physically the stronger, but should he not at least try to force his way out, lock his cousin in a wrestling hold with all the force he had? But his body was timid, submissive, defeated. He sat down where he had been told to sit.

  The next moment Millie was in the room. She was wearing trousers and a thick overcoat.

  ‘Well, what a to-do,’ said Millie, ‘and Andrew’s here too. What is Andrew doing? We three are always meeting.’ She picked up the handcuffs and put them on the table.

  ‘What do you want here, Millie?’

  ‘I know all about it and I’ve come to offer you my services and I’m certainly coming with you and you’re not going to stop me.’

  Millie’s hair was curly and shaggy, bundled against the upturned coat collar. Her whole figure looked stiffly youthful and impromptu, like a schoolgirl acting a man in a play. But she stared at Pat, not provocatively and not defiantly. She was cool and bitter with determination.

  Pat was gazing at Millie with a strange look. He put his fingers to his parted lips like one calculating. He said very slowly, ‘You can’t come with me, but there’s something very important indeed which you can do for me. Will you do it?’

  Millie looked at him, still with her face hard. ‘Pat, I want this thing. It’s more than you.’

  ‘Will you hear what it is I want?’

  ‘All right.’

  ‘Cathal, will you go outside a moment, please.’

  ‘Why?’ said Cathal.

  ‘Go outside because I tell you. I want to talk to her alone.’

  Cathal left the room.

  Pat suddenly drew Millie right up against him, jerking her half off her feet. Andrew remembered afterwards how Pat’s arm sank deep into the folds of her overcoat, how Millie gasped as her feet slithered upon the kitchen floor, and how Pat, all the time he was talking to her, kept staring over her shoulder at Andrew. He spoke in a quick whisper of which Andrew could catch only a word here and there.

  ‘No, Pat dear, I can’t. This thing is made for me. Don’t ask me to stay out of it. I can’t help you. Just let me come along.’

  Pat released, or rather dropped her, and she staggered. ‘I can’t stop you from getting yourself murdered, but you’re not coming along with any of us.’

  Millie stared at him, biting her lip. She looked at Andrew. ‘I still don’t understand about him.’

  ‘He knows. He wouldn’t give us his parole so he’s going to be tied up and left here.’

  ‘Hmmm. I see. Wait a minute, wait a minute. If I solve your little problem for you will you let me come with you today?’

  Pat hesitated, ‘I don’t see how you—’

  ‘But if I can, will you promise?’

  ‘Well, yes—’

  ‘Listen then.’

  Millie put her two hands on Pat’s shoulders and jolted him back against the frame of the window. She stood on tiptoe, hauling herself up towards his face as she hissed out an inaudible stream of words. Again Andrew saw Pat’s eyes fixed upon him, now widening a little as Millie’s whisper continued. What a nightmare, thought Andrew. And he thought, how jerky and unreal. Surely nothing connected him to this cardboard catastrophe. Should he not just get up and walk away through the door and leave these grimacing puppets? He moved, or twitched himself, like someone under a spell, trying to find if he is still sentient. But Millie and Pat had stepped apart and Pat now blocked his way.

  ‘All right,’ said Pat.

  ‘Shall I take him in there?’ Millie pointed to the scullery door. ‘There’s no way out, is there?’

  ‘No way out.’

  ‘Come in here for a moment, would you, Andrew?’

  Andrew followed Millie into the dark scullery and she shut the door. A little square window gave on to the dirty wall on which the sun was obliquely shining. There was a small table, a sink full of unwashed dishes, and a smell of decaying wood and tea leaves. Andrew thought, I have been taken to the end of the world, and at the end there is nothing but idiocy. I am in hell and hell is gibberish. He was standing close against Millie and saw her face below him looking up, not with the obscene vulnerability of the last time, but with a cruel intentness, like
a stalking cat’s face. This is insanity, he thought, this is dishonour, to be standing in this little room up against this woman.

  Millie pushed him as she had pushed Pat, her two hands hooked upon his shoulders, her chin poking into his chest, her hair, which now seemed to issue from her mouth, spread on to his khaki sleeve. She began to speak in a low voice. As he looked over her shoulder Andrew saw the sun fading in the window square. He looked at the pile of dishes. He listened to Millie and began to take in what she was saying.

  ‘I don’t believe you,’ said Andrew.

  ‘I have the evidence.’

  Andrew thrust her violently away from him. He saw her evil cat face, the eyes screwed with purpose, the lips wet, bobbing near him in the scullery which had suddenly become dark.

  ‘I don’t believe you.’

  ‘She would.’

  ‘And I couldn’t trust you.’

  ‘You’ve got to.’

  ‘Don’t touch me.’

  ‘If you will do what I want I will have everything destroyed. Otherwise—’

  ‘Oh, shut up. Let me think.’

  ‘Well, think quickly, Andrew. Believe me, dear boy, it is true. Look, I will write you a letter to take to Upper Mount Street. I swear to you I won’t cheat. And will you then do what I ask? Otherwise I shall be completely ruthless.’

  ‘What is it that you want me to do?’

  ‘Simply to promise to stay inside this house until twelve and keep your mouth shut.’

  Andrew sat down and laid his head on the table. The surface of the table was damp, soft and rotten. He said, gazing along the grain of the wood, ‘A promise given under duress is not a promise.’

  ‘You are not under duress. You are perfectly free to refuse and take the consequences. You are perfectly free to promise and to break your promise. But if I find out later that you have, I’ll tell everything, evidence or no evidence.’

  Andrew lifted his head. ‘All right. I’ll do as you ask. Write that letter and give it to me at once. And if you cheat here I’ll kill you.’

  ‘Ah—’ Millie breathed with satisfaction and flung open the scullery door. Pat and Cathal were talking on the other side of the kitchen. Millie went through and Andrew followed her. He sat down in a corner and laid his head awkwardly against the wall, turning his face away from them.

  ‘He will,’ said Millie.

  The three of them came and stood round Andrew. He did not look up at them, but fixed his eyes upon the gas stove. He saw his revolver there. It had fallen down inside the iron framework of the gas burners and hung there suspended. Andrew felt as if he had had a stroke. His eyes seemed to be askew, his limbs recalcitrant and twisted. He listened dully for his sentence.

  Pat said, ‘Andrew do you give me your promise, your most honourable promise, that you will stay inside this house and say nothing of what you know until twelve o’clock today?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘You have a watch, haven’t you. Well, you’ll hear the angelus. You do faithfully promise?’

  ‘Yes.’

  Pat seemed to hesitate. Andrew looked up at their three faces. Cathal was looking puzzled and frightened. Millie’s face was plumped with triumph, her cat eyes slanting. Pat was perspiring. The sweat trickled down past his eyes to his cheeks and his lower lip palpitated. What is it, thought Andrew, what is happening, what are they going to do to me? At that moment it seemed to him that they were intending to kill him.

  Cathal said, ‘You’re not surely—’

  ‘Could you stand up?’ said Pat.

  Andrew stood up.

  ‘Turn round.’

  He turned round and saw again the brick wall, sunny now, its crust of dirt shadowed by the slanting sun.

  ‘I’m sorry to use the handcuffs,’ said Pat’s voice. ‘I have to make sure. Cathal, could you just help me hold his wrist. There.’

  There was a click. Andrew felt the steel on one wrist. Then there was a wild outcry, an animal howl, and Andrew’s wrist was jerked and seared. He staggered, exclaimed and then for a moment everyone stood still. He was handcuffed to Cathal.

  ‘Ingenious, eh?’ said Millie.

  The moment of stillness passed. Cathal began to shout out something in a loud voice and ran towards the door dragging Andrew with him. Pat caught Cathal in his arms and smothered his shouting mouth against his chest. He called out something to Millie.

  ‘Don’t worry,’ said Millie. ‘I’ll gag him. Just hold him tight. I learnt all about that in the South African war. We used to gag troublesome patients. You’d be surprised what goes on in military hospitals. The trouble with gagging is the shape of the human head. Those scarves are no use. I need four yards of surgical bandage. In that drawer? What luck. Get him down on his knees, would you.’

  Pat forced Cathal down, and Andrew was pulled down too, slipping half under the table. The dragging handcuff bit into his wrist and his arm moved jerkily, following the convulsive movements of his fellow-prisoner, shifting so as to ease the pain. He did not look at the struggle which was going on beside him.

  ‘Open his mouth. That’s right. Keep your tongue down, boy. Ouch, he bites! There, that’s comfy and safe. Don’t worry, I know what I’m doing, he won’t choke. Now wind the bandage so, plenty of room to breathe, over the bridge of the nose is the important bit. It’s all a matter of mechanics. Just as well I was here, isn’t it. You couldn’t have managed this alone. Now he won’t be able to shout for help. Safety pins are best. That’s done it.’

  Millie and Pat stood up.

  Now Millie had placed a sheet of paper against the window and was writing on it. Andrew shifted along the floor as Pat pushed Cathal to the wall and began to bind his free hand. Pat groaned softly and rhythmically as he tied Cathal’s hand to the foot of the stove. Over Pat’s shoulder Andrew could now see Cathal’s thrown-back head. His head, entirely swathed in bandage which thickly covered his mouth, wound over his nose and round his brow, leaving only eyes and nostrils free, looked like an old picture of Lazarus, or some faceless monster glimpsed in a dream. As Andrew watched, tears filled Cathal’s eyes and streamed down on to the bandage and darkened it. Andrew turned away, saw Pat’s feet in army boots, peered up at Pat’s face which was red and quivering. Pat looked down, his mouth opening, the lips drawing back in a snarl of pain: then he turned and leaned his head against the door.

  ‘Here’s your letter.’ Andrew held it automatically. ‘I’m sorry, Andrew. I’m a desperate woman. Hadn’t we better go, Pat? You will keep your promise, won’t you?’

  Pat was on his knees beside Cathal. ‘I should have been useless if you had come with me. I had to do this.’

  ‘I must say I don’t understand why,’ said Millie. ‘You are destroying the child. If the world ends, let it end, is how I feel.’

  Pat sat back on his heels. He turned to Andrew, and his face was the face of a weeping man although his eyes were tearless. ‘Andrew, I just want you to know that I don’t know what it was that Millie told you.’

  Andrew nodded slightly.

  Pat had turned back to Cathal. He knelt awkwardly and his cheek grazed the bandaging as he bowed his head for a moment on to his brother’s shoulder. Then he rose and picked up his rifle and Andrew’s revolver.

  ‘Cheer up.’ Millie squeezed Andrew’s arm. She opened the door and moved out. Andrew saw the boots and the green leg-bands follow her. The front door banged. There was a long silence. Cathal was crying with a soft hissing sound behind the bandage.

  Andrew said, ‘Do you mind if I lie flat for a while?’ He lifted his pinioned hand, edging the wrist round inside the handcuff, and managed to adjust himself supine upon the floor. The sun, rising higher, began to shine into the kitchen. The muffled weeping continued.

  Chapter Twenty-four

  IT was twenty-five minutes to twelve, Easter Monday morning, on the clock at Findlater’s Church, as Christopher and Frances Bellman hurried through Rutland Square and on up the hill towards Blessington Street. The sun shone from a sky
of pallid, exhausted blue upon the green domes of Dublin, the majestic dome of the Customs House, the lace-cap dome of the Four Courts, the elegant little dome of the Rotunda Hospital. The two figures moved urgently onward against the slow crowd of holiday-makers who were sauntering down to enjoy the sudden sunshine in the centre of the city.

  Christopher had spent the previous day, Sunday, in a condition of frenzy. He had woken early at Rathblane to a state of consciousness which he could scarcely endure. It was not just the sense of having lost Millie, it was the sense of having lost her in such a horrible, muddled, undignified way. He recalled with misery and disgust the pathetic, defensive, frivolous tone which Millie had adopted. This hurt him more than jealousy. He could have born a firm, even a mysterious no from Millie. He could even more easily have born a tragic severance with tears. But this confused matter of having ‘found her out’ made his own position not only painful but unmanageably absurd. Neither he nor Millie knew how to behave. Christopher hated muddle, hated the plunging to and fro in confusion of half-guilty half-frantic human beings caught up together like carriage horses in an accident.