The Dead of Night

by Oliver Onions

  And suddenly in his dream he was standing before the gilded glass above his mantelpiece, staring at himself. He might well look for his mask; he had it on all the time. Christ, what a picture of all-hell it was with its goggles and its swines snout, its offal-like windpipe re-entering his own entrails, its integument tucked like putrid wrinkled flesh into his collar . . .

  And all at once he gulped as if a hand had closed hard on his heart. That that he was looking at was not the mask. It was his face. He woke with a cry.

  It was small wonder he frightened the village if even in a dream he could frighten himself. Fear made visible? But he was angry now. What fear? Why, the fear they had always had, the rats! The fear that they were bold to laugh at in the daytime, but that at nightfall drew them close together in the inn, to tell one another over their cognac that it took more than a shadow to frighten them. But because they did fear the shadow they cast about to give it a substance, and in James they found one ready-made and to hand. Within a week he was no less a personage than the Devil himself And at the thought of this there smote through the dun clouds that enveloped James’s mind a piercing, dazzling ray. The Devil? He? Why, if they thought that, then it was in his power to be the Devil! Suddenly he laughed outright. Wretched little souls without imagination, who wanted all but the picturesquely wounded to take themselves out of sight so that they might be able to talk with a better conscience about the glorious past and the heritage their fathers had died for! At least the rope had told leaner, starker truth than that! He had turned and run from it before. Would he turn and run from it now?

  And that non-appearance of the night before: what had ailed James that he had looked on that as a calamity? Was it not in truth the very opposite? What had become of James’s theory of first and second times if it applied to appearances and not to non-appearances also? Suddenly he exulted. That first night of unsupported loneliness had been sent to test him. It had been sent to try whether he was yet goblin enough to stand alone. And he had stood alone. His very face was now hardly recognisable as a face, and it had been as much as the curé had been able to do to look at it without blenching. A fear made visible? He broke into a peal of laughter that startled himself and ended abruptly. Give James a second night of tranquillity and the ghost in him would be marvellously strong. No threadbare story of Jean the Smuggler, but he, James Hopley and the Devil they attrib­uted to him, would be the unsettling of the curé’s flock. Oh, let no chill or smell or breathing come tonight to mar the rich perfection of it! He was eager to begin that deep, dreamless sleep at once.

  That night he went to bed supperless and slept like the dead.

  7

  As a small child, just before they drew his nursery curtains late in the afternoon, James Hopley had sometimes stood at the window, looking at the mimic fire that had seemed to burn in mid-air outside, magically and all by itself. People in the street seemed to walk through it unscathed, and young James himself had only had to take a step this way or that and out the fire had gone altogether. It had of course been only the reflection of the fire in the room, and yet to James its reality had been such that the illusion had stuck with him through life. He had of course had different names for it at different times. At one time he had called it ambition, but he had never been equipped for that, and ambition hadn’t lasted very long. Then he had known it by the name of love, and had wondered that others didn’t stop to warm their hands at this wonderful thing of his too, till one day one of them had, and out that had gone too. And he had called it knowledge, and pleasure, and a number of other things, and now he was wondering what form it was going to take next. He had also been counting up how many pages remained in his cahier, for it was his intention to go on writing to the very last moment. There were fifteen of them, and his normal handwriting was on the small side. Fifteen should be enough, and as he looked on the blank pages he wondered what would be found on them at that time tomorrow.

  He had arrived at the château on a Wednesday, and at six o’clock on the following Tuesday afternoon he was watching the workmen depart. One or two of them glanced backwards over their shoulders, but James kept out of their sight, by a tall onyx lamp near the fireplace. Then, when the last of them had disappeared, he took a walk round Blanche’s domain. His senses were more than ordinarily sharpened, his single eye was as alert as if he had been making a final inspection of the property before taking possession of it. He noted what a great deal of work still remained to be done. The old orchard there would have to be grubbed up and replanted, the cleaning out of the choked moat would take weeks yet, summers must pass before the gardens took on orderliness, scores of sum­mers before the restored portions of the building began to assimilate with the older work. But assimilate in time they would, and it would be an odd thing now if James Hopley had no part at all in the place that was to be. There was at least one little girl in the village who, become a grandmother, would be able to tell how, in broad daylight, the château’s spectre had mopped and mowed at her through a hedge, giving such a turn to her thoughts that they had never really got over it, and an aged man by a fireside would nod gravely and say that that was quite true, for he himself had seen it too, half way up the hill behind the church there, and had pointed a gun at it, and it had fled.

  The sun was going redly down behind the scaffold-poles. It dyed the new chimney-stack rose-pink, and presently, when the empty window-holes were glazed, they would fling back the gold too. It was a short life at the best, and when the hour came it shrank to such a small handful of days as to make one wonder what it had all been about. And suddenly, like an announcement of that hour, a bell with a curiously harsh iron clang broke in on his thoughts. Now where had that bell come from? That was new. Was it something else that Blanche had picked up at the Hôtel Drouot? Probably, and Marsac, unable to find him in the house, was telling him supper was ready. He had a feeling that Marsac ought to provide a rather special supper that night. Slowly he ascended the steps to the terrace.

  As all Blanche’s friends know, she did not move into that château on the following spring. To the dismay of the men of the village, but also as a final confirmation had one been needed, the work was discontinued abruptly, and in the Paris newspapers an advertisement appeared, that a Henri Quatre château, partly furnished and needing only a little restoration, was for sale, no reasonable offer refused and possession at purchaser’s own convenience. No tenant has yet con­cluded the bargain. Several have been down to visit the property, which now has not even a caretaker, and the last applicant, a wealthy man in the motor business, was buttonholed on his way back to his car by a bald, bearded, elderly man, who said that his name was Marsac, that he lived in the little shack behind the inn, could tell monsieur such and such things about the château, and for the rest did such odd jobs as were to be had while his wife looked after the young children of the women who worked in the fields. What passed between Marsac and the motor-magnate is not known, but the car drove away and has not been seen since.

  So things draw to a close of themselves. One persists in giving his account of the affair, another his, and so on, but when it is all weighed up those cahiers of James Hopley’s are the only direct testimony that remains, a stop-watch record of what passed, set down in the moment of its passing. They are written in pencil, apparently as he sat up in bed. His first entry is timed 11.30, with all still outside and all quiet in the gilt and alabaster room. His pulse was normal, his breathing easy, and he had not drunk any wine. In these circumstances his personal narrative ends and the new legend begins.

  11.45 . . . Nothing yet, but it is still early. Am writing to kill time as I wait. Of course that was all nonsense about taking my revenge by haunting these poor people. I have other things to think about now. But I don’t think I should care to be the curé of a place like this, though I expect that about Dathan and Abiram came from Madame Marsac. She has that sort of look now I come to think of it. Poor Marsac! He’s taken
this rather badly. I could see he was in two minds about giving notice. He didn’t want to stay but he didn’t want to go either. Quite a bond between us in exactly one week. I shall remember Marsac. That is if one does remember these things afterwards.

  12.15 . . . Still nothing, but wonder what’s just brought Tommy Allinson into my head. He got his at Loos. But he got it clean and quick, not like me and this other chap. You don’t have relapses years afterwards and go into a clinic when you’ve been drilled through the head. Funny I can remember Tommy’s name and any number of other names but not this fellow’s. Always on the tip of my tongue. Some name like Hobbs. Briggs. Crabbe. A tough devil he was anyway, pinned in the darkness under that beam like that. Still breathing when they got him out; gave a shriek, I remember, and that hour before they came for me seemed longer than all the rest put together. Australian, sergeant, Fifth Division. After­wards at Horseferry Road they thought I was loopy, asking for a man and knowing no more who than that, no name, no number, no unit, nothing. But they were tough, all those Aussies. That night-raid when they blackened their faces and put cogwheels and bits of iron on pick-handles. In the trench that other time, when they found a whole section of them dead with women’s underclothes on. Didn’t he come from Brisbane now? Hell, why didn’t I think of that before? Big husky chap, scar over right eye, swore like blazes and came from Bris­bane. Why didn’t I tell them that at Horseferry Road? Higgs. Biggs. Some short name.

  12.30 . . . Keep looking up at the trapdoor Marsac says they’ve plastered up. But I know he’s not always punctual to the tick. Wait. What’s that? Thought I heard something. Whee-e-e-o-o-o-ooo – bump! It’s nothing. Only Jerry waking up. Half an hour and he’ll stop. You can set your watch by Jerry. Worth a quid to see what we’re doing to him when it’s our turn. Something pretty dirty a fellow who managed to get away told me. Wait a bit though . . . that was something upstairs . . .

  12.55 . . . [note: this entry consists of the hour only]

  1.30 . . . Can’t say I’m sorry that’s over. Hell, but it was good and solid on top of us that time! The other must have been the last lot of earth settling. Why can’t it stop where it’s put instead of shifting and rumbling to itself like a man’s belly? That get you any, digger? Don’t like his being so quiet. There’s something pushing against my right foot that wasn’t there before. First you can’t move, then it loosens up, and you’re afraid to lift a finger. Christ, that bastard’s woke up. He’s at it again. Hell, give it a rest, man. Am I on a bloody feather-bed either? Something crawling over your face? They don’t charge you anything extra for that. I haven’t got any legs that I can feel. Day or night? How in the goddamn blazes do I know? What do you think I am, a sundial? Stop it or you’ll start another bloody vibration or some­thing. Phoo, you stink, or somebody does! Any more of us here? Same old smell, boys, good for you, doesn’t make you think too much of yourself. For the love of God stop it, man! Listen, that was picks. Shovels. Voices. I heard ’em . . . damn you, I tell you I heard ’em! Oh my God, he’s stopped! Passed out this time I guess. Are you there? You . . . what’s your name . . . you from Botany Bay . . .

  2.05 . . . That thing by my right leg’s a box of some kind. Just managed to get my hand down to it. Anyway it’s wood; iron’s colder. Ammunition-box, perhaps, with the rope handle come loose. Stop. This is getting exciting. There’s too much of it for an ammunition-box. Perhaps an end of broken waggon with a trace on it. Never know what you find when a dump blows up. Yards of it! Wonder if I could work an end over to him and tell him to make it fast to the timber. Hi, cobber, are you awake? Got a hand loose? There’s a rope here. A rope, man, do you hear? Lots of it. Then get your hands free and scratch a way out. A rope end coming over . . . no hurry . . . haul in and try again . . . we’ve all the time there is . . .

  2.15 . . . This is queer. The place has got all turned round and there’s a light and I can see. Where did that candle come from? What am I doing in bed? Don’t you begin seeing things that aren’t there, my son, or you’re done. You’ve been blown up. Two beds mean you’re seeing double, and bedrooms don’t stink like this. No, making it fast to the beam’s no good. Wants a dead prise-up with a lever, shall be crushing the poor devil to pulp if I begin to haul. He’s dead off again now. Off for good if he’s lucky. You have ten minutes’ nap, digger. Do you all the good in the world, as Blanche says. I was a rotten swine to wake you up that afternoon; regular dog in the manger, didn’t want the bed myself and wouldn’t let you have it. Let a man sleep when he can. Sleep himself right off the map. Go out like a candle. Funny place this, a candle one minute and not the next. And that candle’s nearly out. Better put another one in . . .

  He didn’t need those fifteen pages after all. Indeed his closing words are in a scrawl so agitated that something dire must have happened. One conjecture is that in putting in the new candle he upset the candlestick on the other bed, scaring this companion of his away; there is in fact a small trace of wax, on the counterpane, though no scorching. The cahier was found the next morning face down­wards on the floor between the beds, the one tossed, the other as smooth as if it had been newly made. It ends almost illegibly, with the words scattered all over the page.

  Damnation quiet he stirred no he’s only turned over wait no he’s getting up the door listen I’ve found a rope the Past the Present to Come wait wait . . . ’

  * * *

  There was one point of the roof-gutter that the plank cradle did not quite reach, but Francis the mason thought that by lashing it to the nearest point of the scaffolding he could cant it sufficiently and so save himself the trouble of setting it up anew. He called to Marsac, who was passing below.

  ‘Marsac! Have you a rope handy?’

  ‘Descend by the ladder and get in at the window-piercing. You will find one in the rafters there,’ and he passed on to prepare M. Hop­ley’s coffee. Francis descended and scrambled through the aperture.

  He found the rope, or what was left of it, for it was newly broken. Francis looked up at the centre rafter, where it had jumped from the sheave of the pulley and jammed, and then down at the unboarded floor. There below he saw the rest of it, but it was attached to something. The something wore a pair of pyjamas, and its feet were bare. Francis fled.

  In his own quarters Marsac was pouring boiling water into a metal jug. He looked round as Francis the mason entered.

  ‘You found the rope?’ But the young mason could only stammer . . . ‘Yes . . . and you . . . in the night . . . you heard nothing?’

  At something in his tone Marsac’s bearded face too had turned the colour of butcher’s fat on a slab . . . ‘What? Heard what?’

  ‘The gueule cassée . . . suicidé . . . il s’est pendu . . . it is the work of Jean the Smuggler . . . he does not do it himself . . . always he makes them do it . . . go and see . . . ’

  But at that moment the door at the foot of the back stairs swung slowly, silently, emptily open. And Jean the Smuggler was apparition enough for Francis the mason, but not for Henri Marsac. Suddenly the caretaker gave a harsh cry, as his wife had done before him. The jug of M. Hopley’s morning coffee was still in his hand. All at once he hurled it across the apartment full into the vacant doorway, as before he had almost thrown a lighted lamp. Then he fell in a heap across a chair, and lay there shuddering. The metal pot crashed against the edge of the open door and fell to the floor. Slowly, what was left of the coffee spread out in an irregular pool about it. ‘I shall remember Marsac,’ James Hopley had written. He had remembered him.

  Resurrection in Bronze

  The Clay

  1

  ‘The clay is the birth, the wax is the death, but the bronze is the resurrection.’ John Brydon had forgotten where the saying came from, but as his strong fingers bent and twisted his bits of lead and wire the words repeated themselves from time to time in his head, not insistently enough to take his thoughts off what he was doing,
but like something heard from afar, too remote to disturb, a rather pleasing echo in possession. He stepped back to look at his work. ‘The clay is the birth,’ but this was still the darkness before the birth. The turntable under the powerful electric light carried no more than the reinforcement that would take the clay’s weight. That wiry scrabble had not even the outlines of a skeleton. In John Brydon’s mind it was merely so much balance, proportion, so many rigid calculations from a centre of gravity that must be determined now and held to till the end.

  But how fiercely the vision of the thing to be burned in his brain you had only to look at his face to see. A step back, a breath that was almost a hiss – hold it – a step forward – and there! By and by that would be something for the child to kick in the womb with! There was his brother taken by the heel, had there been a brother! The power before the glory. Of the monument that should tower like a king over lesser memorials, setting a capital a-flutter with flags and its air a-throb with military music, so far only that handful of lead and wire existed.

  John Brydon had made himself an eyeshade of brown paper against the strong overhead light, and its peak jutted fiercely forward, throw­ing his face into shadow. But it was only a little less prominent than his hook of a nose, that stuck out from his face as if it, like his fingers, would have been at the work. And giant of a man as he was he shook with the tenseness of his stringing up. Again came the hiss as he stepped back. For a minute he stood frowning, uncertain. And then suddenly he relaxed. It would do. Half an hour’s rest now before he started with his clay.