by Sam Lock
Eventually, however, the time of their separateness came to an end. For the music ceased, and Captain Smythe, having finished his second nightcap, checked to see that the door of the house had been locked; then switched off the lights in the drawing-room and the hall; and then, with a sudden straightening of the back, and a quick clearing of the throat, he made his way to Lady Cynthia’s room: not thinking only of her, alas, but also of a plan he had for the following day; which was to rise early and to be off, in the hope of having lunch and possibly dinner with another lady friend of his who happened to live in Greenwich.
XIX
As Jason poured his visitor a generous glass of whisky, and then a similar one for himself, he began to feel a curious sense of excitement; one that he quickly recognised as being connected with danger of some kind; and for a moment he wondered whether he should send the young man away and so be rid of him. Perhaps by saying that his brother was coming to spend the night with him, or that his wife was in town and that she was coming to visit. But no, he said to himself, he should continue with what he was doing – pouring the whisky; add water to it if it was asked for (for which purpose, he then decided, he would use the cold-water tap in the bathroom, because it was closer than the kitchen one) and then just see how it went – this very unexpected encounter with someone he had seen just once before in his life; and who, having called at his door, had asked to come in – and, with his having said yes to that, to his finding him here – now – in his rooms, and looking perfectly respectable, he thought, with his slightly wavy, auburnish hair brushed back over his ears; and with the neat, black sweater he was wearing, that was clean, well cut, and in a fine, merino wool.
‘Water?’ asked Jason, holding up a glass.
‘A little,’ Darren replied, with yet another of his fetching smiles.
‘Oh – well. I’ll have to get it from the bathroom tap, if you don’t mind,’ said Jason. ‘I’ve no jug; and the bathroom’s nearest.’
Darren nodded, as if to say that that would be all right, and Jason went off with their two glasses. Then Darren suddenly called out after him, ‘Do you mind if I use your lavatory, Mr Callow?’
Jason came to the door of the bathroom, not having quite heard what Darren had said.
‘I beg your pardon?’ said Jason. ‘The tap … I didn’t quite hear.’
‘Can I use your lavatory, please?’
‘Oh, yes … yes, of course,’ Jason answered, ‘It’s in here.’
Darren, whose movements were of a highly controlled and graceful kind, crossed the room as Jason returned to it; then went into the bathroom and closed the door. And it was then that, in the chair in which Darren had been sitting, Jason saw a knife – indeed, saw almost a dagger, since its blade was held in a sheath, and it had a large and elaborately moulded handle.
This unexpected sight made Jason curious rather than nervous, however, because his first reaction was to see it more as some piece of stage-property, that might be used in a pantomime, than as any really serious kind of weapon.
‘Very theatrical,’ were words that came to his mind, and that rather fitted in, he thought, with Darren’s personality – or with what he had gathered of it so far.
Placing Darren’s glass on a table next to where he had been sitting, Jason then retreated to his chair to await his visitor’s return: still very curious about him, and about what might be about to occur. For he had an idea that this meeting held a great meaning for him; almost as if he had known about it beforehand; and he now admitted to himself that when Darren had come to sit opposite him in the coffee bar, some spark of energy had passed between them, making him think that they might have been in search of each other; and which made him now wonder (if he was to be really truthful about it) whether a degree of sexual attraction might not have been involved. Not that he had had many experiences of that kind, as we know. As he had said to Joseph, only one, in fact; and when he was still a youth and when, rather recklessly, as he saw it, he had indulged in a somewhat sadistic physical exchange with a fellow schoolboy after a shower. An experience that he had then blotted from his mind, and which was of a kind that he had not indulged in since.
‘Thank you,’ said Darren, coming out of the bathroom, and having now removed his sweater and wearing it slung loosely around his shoulders; and looking most striking, Jason thought, in a darkish, snakeskin-patterned shirt that had a slight sheen to it, as if it might be made of silk, or satin.
‘Have you been here long?’ Darren asked.
‘Three years,’ Jason replied.
‘On your own?’
‘Yes. My wife and I are separated.’
‘Oh. I’m sorry.’
‘Yes. Well. These things happen.’
‘I wouldn’t know about that – about marriage, I mean.’
‘No; of course, you are still very young – aren’t you?’
‘But I’ll never know about it,’ said Darren.
‘Oh’, said Jason, ‘I’m sorry.’
‘No – please. Please don’t say you are sorry. Because I’m not. I’m not the marrying kind you see,’ with which, he gave another of his smiles: then asked, ‘Is this my glass?’
Jason nodded to indicate that it was; then pointed to the knife. ‘And that, I think, is yours as well.’
‘Oh, yes – thank you,’ said Darren, affecting to be surprised, and picking up the knife as he sat down. ‘It’s rather beautiful, isn’t it?’
‘Frankly, no. I don’t think so,’ answered Jason.
‘Oh, but it is,’ said Darren, softening his voice, and slowly drawing the knife out of its sheath. ‘It’s really beautiful. I love it … Now,’ he asked, ‘shall I show you how good it is – how it works?’ – with which he suddenly turned the knife towards his chest.
‘Look!’ shouted Jason, rising swiftly to his feet. And at which moment, Darren plunged the knife between his ribs; or he gave the impression of doing it, rather; then let out a squeal of laughter.
‘Did that frighten you?’ he asked, turning the knife towards Jason and showing that its blade had retracted into its handle, and that the knife was indeed a false one, similar to a kind used for the stage.
Jason looked at the knife; then looked at Darren and found himself floundering; and he had the impression that Darren had cast some kind of spell or web, in which he had become entrapped.
‘I – er,’ was all he could say.
‘Look,’ said Darren, aggressively, ‘did it frighten you? That’s what I asked. Answer me – will you?’
Jason found himself unable to reply. All he could do was to stare at Darren’s image, and to think how strangely beautiful he was; almost unreal; seeing him as some kind of alien being, since there seemed to be lights in his hair, and his quick-moving eyes glistened with a new intensity as they looked rapidly around the room; then found Jason: then, having scanned his body in some detail, coming to rest at last upon Jason’s own dark eyes, that were so similar in colour to his own.
‘Who are you?’ asked Jason, his voice a little hoarse.
‘Who am I?’ replied Darren, who was now standing and looking down at him. ‘I don’t know,’ he said, ‘I never do. I never know who I am … I am an actor,’ he said. ‘You are forgetting that. I can be anyone – everyone – no one,’ – and with that, he laughed gently and retreated to his chair.
Jason sipped his drink and Darren sipped his, and the two of them sat in silence, allowing the atmosphere in the room to settle and to become a little more real. And after a while, Jason asked Darren quietly about his having read some of his books. ‘Two, I think you said.’
‘One, actually,’ said Darren. ‘Two was a lie. I didn’t like it.’
‘Oh – I thought you were an admirer of mine.’
‘That was a lie too,’ said Darren with a smile. ‘I’m sorry.’
‘Then perhaps you would tell me why you didn’t like them – or didn’t like it rather.’
‘It’s just not my sort of thing,’ said Darren,
nonchalantly. ‘Too cold: too cerebral.’
‘Oh, I see,’ said Jason, looking a little glum.
‘Does that disappoint you?’ asked Darren.
‘Yes and no.’
‘How do you mean? How can it be both?’
‘I don’t know,’ sighed Jason, taking a deep breath, ‘It would be difficult to explain. Perhaps because one likes to be told that one’s work is admired, even if one has grown to dislike it oneself.’
‘Why – have you?’ asked Darren, suddenly interested.
‘Yes,’ said Jason flatly. ‘I have.’
‘But that’s something serious – surely; for a writer to say that. Not that I know much about literature – but surely, to take against your own work is – well, unusual.’
‘Probably,’ said Jason.
‘So what are you going to do about it?’
‘Do about it?’ said Jason, rising to his feet. ‘I don’t know what I am going to do about it. Nothing probably – about anything!’ – with which he let out one of those disturbing animal-like moans of his, and moved across to a far corner of the room: where he hugged himself and tried to control his emotions.
Darren, however, showed no reaction to this, and appeared to be unaffected by Jason’s behaviour – almost as if he had expected it. And after taking another sip from his glass of whisky, he rose from his chair with a quick, darting movement that gave the effect of his having a part to perform in a play, and that he was about to go on stage.
‘You are in a mess – aren’t you?’ he said to Jason, whose back was turned towards him.
‘Aren’t you?’ he repeated, when Jason failed to answer. ‘Separated from your wife … Disappointed by your work … Do you have children?’
‘Yes,’ muttered Jason, still with his face towards the wall of the room.
‘How many?’
‘Two.’
‘How old?’
‘In their teens.’
‘And what do they think of all this?’
‘Of all what?’ asked Jason, showing some anger, and turning to face his questioner.
‘Of this mess you are in.’
‘I am not in a mess!’ protested Jason.
‘Rubbish,’ said Darren with a sneer. ‘It’s written all over you. A broken man, is what you are, Mr Callow.’
‘How dare you!’ Jason shouted back at him, feeling a sudden fierce surge of emotion that he found difficult to handle.
‘How dare I?’ Darren replied, ‘Oh, you don’t know me, Mr Callow. I’ll dare anything … like –’
‘Like what?’
Darren laughed. ‘Like saying that you are a coward, for instance.’
Jason stared at Darren dumbfounded, not knowing what to reply.
‘Well – aren’t you?’ repeated Darren.
Again, Jason was unable to answer; and Darren laughed at him a second time. ‘Of course you are. You are afraid of everything: of yourself especially … You are on the run, Mr Callow. That’s what I’m here for – to tell you that.’
‘Look,’ said Jason, suddenly finding his words, ‘I think you’d better go.’
‘Why? Because I’ve told you the truth? … Oh, Mr Callow: I didn’t think you’d behave like this, you know … When I saw you sitting opposite me, sipping your coffee, I said to myself, now there’s someone who has looked himself square in the face; as I have done. That, I thought, was what was drawing me towards you; and you towards me. But I was wrong it seems – wasn’t I? … Now,’ he said, as he turned swiftly towards his chair to collect his knife, ‘flick this at the side – this little lever – and the blade no longer retracts … See? Very clever – isn’t it? Natty … Now, Mr Callow,’ he said, in a strangely threatening way, ‘would you like to try it, do you think?’
‘Put the thing down,’ said Jason gruffly, and with some authority.
Darren didn’t move.
‘Put it down, I say!’ repeated Jason.
‘Really?’ said Darren. ‘You really want me to?’
‘Yes. I do. Put it down, I say!’
For a moment, Darren still didn’t respond, then, in an oddly obedient fashion, he turned and walked back to his chair, where he slipped the dagger into its sheath.
‘Then I’d better go,’ he said. ‘I thought –’
‘You thought what?’ asked Jason.
‘I thought – oh, I can’t tell you what I thought, Mr Callow. All I can say – all I can tell you is – that I’m sorry.’
‘Here is your coat,’ said Jason, collecting it from a chair at the back of the room, ‘and your scarf as well.’
‘I had no scarf.’
‘Oh, no,’ replied Jason, realising it was his own scarf he was handling, ‘it’s mine. Now – please – just go.’
‘Very well,’ answered Darren, slipping on his overcoat and pushing his knife into one of its pockets. ‘I thought I had a part to play,’ he said, looking directly into Jason’s eyes. ‘That that is what I was here for. A part in your life, I mean; that I had been called upon to perform … That is what an actor does, you see – lives for – to play his role – whatever part might be required of him.’
Jason didn’t reply to this. Instead, he simply crossed to the door of the room and drew it open. ‘I’ll see you down,’ he said.
‘Thank you,’ replied Darren politely, as he moved gracefully to join Jason at the door; and then passed him and went down the stairs; and as Jason followed him in silence to the hallway; where Darren waited for Jason to catch up with him and to open the door that led to the street.
‘Do we kiss each other goodbye?’ asked Darren, mischievously. ‘Or shall we just shake hands?’
‘Goodbye,’ said Jason, stretching out his hand, which Darren caught hold of lightly, then clasped, then stroked, then pressed.
‘You are a strong man, Mr Callow,’ he said, ‘an unusual one. Perhaps I did wrong to call you a coward. Perhaps you are tougher than I think … So,’ he asked, ‘do we meet again, I wonder?’
‘I doubt it,’ said Jason.
‘You mean, you don’t want us to?’
‘That is not what I said,’ answered Jason, surprised by his own words. ‘I said that I doubt that we shall meet, and that is what I meant.’
‘Very well then,’ said Darren with a smile, ‘we must doubt that we shall see each other again. Which means probably not, I guess … Unless,’ he added with a light laugh, ‘we meet in some other coffee bar.’
‘Unless that’, answered Jason, firmly. ‘Goodnight.’
Darren stepped out into the street, and paused to look back at the stocky figure who stood in the open doorway. Then, flipping up the collar of his overcoat and drawing it closely around his neck, he walked off into the night.
XX
As Jason re-climbed the stairs to his rooms, he felt a deep tiredness come over him, as if he had reached the end of some long sea-voyage; and that what he now needed was to fall exhausted upon some beach and there wait for his strength to return. For which reason, on entering his rooms, he went immediately into the bedroom and – without removing even his shoes – flung himself onto his bed.
At first, no thoughts came to him – no reflections upon Darren’s visit. Before him, all seemed blank, featureless, with no shape, no division. But slowly an awareness began to grow in him that, whilst coping with Darren, he had used his strength to avoid something, more than to encounter it. What, he did not know. What had been the purpose, had been the meaning, of Darren’s elusive exchange; of its suggestive threats; of its innuendoes? And why the knife? For what reason had Darren produced it; then played with it; then turned it from a toy into a weapon that could kill – if that had been what its handler required? Did Darren know something that he didn’t know – about himself? He had seen how intuitive Darren was; how he had followed his feelings carefully; testing each moment of their exchange in order to find out where it was meant to go or was meant to lead. And it had led to what? – to nothing: except Darren’s acknowledgement as he le
ft that Jason might not be the coward he had assumed him to be. But what, Jason kept asking himself, had it all meant? – that Darren thought he needed the knife? – to use it? – in order to do what? – to kill? Or – this was the question that finally came to him – perhaps to kill himself?
The darkness of these thoughts exhausted Jason even more; and, unable to persist with them further, he turned onto his side and fell asleep; dropping swiftly into his dreams; and into a sleep from which he did not wake until the morning.
XXI
‘John. Move over – will you?’
‘Mmm?’
‘Move over – please. You’re always pushing me out of bed.’
‘I am not.’
‘Yes, you are.’
‘There – is that better? … come here now … No – closer … Now, is that what you want?’
Billy and John were going through their ritual banter concerning the sharing of their bed, knowing that it would usually end with their making love, and finding it an attractive means of relating.
‘Do you think Mr Callow will like the scarf we bought him?’ asked Billy, as he snuggled up close to his partner, feeling happy and secure.
‘I expect so,’ answered John.
‘You really think so, John?’
‘Yes. Of course I do. We chose it well. It will suit him. It will suit his colouring.’
‘I suppose it will.’
‘Say, you know it will,’ said John. ‘You’re so bloody uncertain about things.’
‘I know it will,’ Billy answered, obediently.
‘I love you,’ said John.