He was polite to Richard and greatly amused to see him there.

  'Now—what will you have?' I asked him.

  'Oh, I don't know,' he answered. 'A ginger ale if you like. I'm a teetotaller.'

  'Don't tell me,' the Rat remarked. 'Out in the East all that time and a teetotaller?'

  'Oh, there's a lot of nonsense talked about the East. Plenty of fellows are teetotal. As a matter of fact, I hate spirits.'

  He seemed remarkably at his ease. I suddenly realized that he was afraid of me no longer and that annoyed me. I wanted him to be afraid of me.

  'How's your car going, Thorne,' Cheeseman asked. 'Nice little Morris that.'

  'Just like any other Morris,' Richard answered quickly. I could see that he detested Cheeseman. He finished his ginger ale and I had an idea.

  'Have another,' I said, and before he could answer had gone up to the bar with his glass.

  I had it filled with a strong whisky and soda. I brought it back.

  'Here you are,' I said, grinning.

  He picked it up, then put it on the table.

  'That's whisky,' he said.

  'All right, old man,' I cried jovially. 'Try it—you'll find you like it.'

  He picked it up and for a moment, an exciting, stirring moment, I thought he was going to drink it. Richard drunk would be quite an experience. But it slipped from his fingers and shivered on to the floor.

  'I'm so sorry,' he said…. Good night,' and before either of us could answer him, he was out of the door.

  'Well, I'm damned!' Cheeseman said. 'Very different from the way you behaved once, Talbot. Remember?'

  Quietly I vowed to myself that I owed Richard one for that. AND he would pay!

  We sat on there and quickly Cheeseman swathed me with the veil of his influence. It was like that. It wasn't at all that I was ever afraid of the man or trusted him. I certainly did not admire him. Once, when I was in love with a girl, oh, years ago, I remember walking up and down the streets of Glasgow, Bute Street and Sauchiehall Street, in a sort of mesmerized trance. One Sunday I especially remember. It was years ago—long before I married Eve. One of my very rare trips to Scotland. I was young and that soppy, contemptible kind of ass that I once was. It was a wet Sunday, but she and I, hands interlocked, walked regardless of all other human bodies, houses, vehicles. We said little, but I remember the strong, cool clutch of her fingers and her generous, kindly eyes. With Cheeseman there was disgust rather than love, but he spun something of the same kind of web around his fellows. Was it mesmeric?

  There was something in those evil, hot little eyes…. Mind you, I like the fellow. There is no dirty thing he hasn't done, no filthy sight he hasn't seen. I admire him for his honesty and his persistence. If he's after something or somebody he will go on quietly for years tracking it down. So tonight he caught me.

  'Whatever did you bring him in here for?'

  'I like him. He reminds me of my old, good, simple self.'

  'You don't. You hate him.'

  'Yes, I hate him. I'd like to do him an injury. I will, too. The damned cheek. He dropped that glass on purpose.'

  'Of course he did.' Cheeseman picked his protruding teeth. 'Still you never know, for all his saint–like conduct. You'd be surprised at the things that good quiet people do! I've caught them out many a time and then don't they just squirm! Your good citizen has one pet vice and no one knows of it—but if you discover it you are taking away from him the ONLY fun he has. He isn't like you or me, Talbot, who have our eggs in several baskets.' He chuckled. 'Don't you hate the holy men, Talbot? The bloody hypocrites!'

  Something made me say, 'Perhaps they are not all hypocrites.'

  'Of course they are. There's not one righteous man anywhere.'

  'I wasn't a hypocrite before I killed Tunstall.'

  There was a long pause. Cheeseman leaned forward. 'Before you did— what?'

  So I had told him. I didn't care. He would have got it out of me sooner or later.

  'I pushed Tunstall over Shining Cliff.'

  'You didn't! … My God!'

  No. I didn't care. And yet I felt as though I were bound to him from now on. And yet I didn't care.

  The room was very deserted. There was nobody near us.

  'You guessed—long ago.'

  His little eyes stared into mine. 'Well—I wondered. I didn't think you had it in you—not then. Now you might. Why did you do it?'

  'He teased and taunted me all my life. He was making love to my wife—or I thought so. I fancied a lot of things. It was mad, crazy. I wish I could have him back. I'd tell him how sorry I was. We'd get on like anything if he was here now.'

  'I believe you would. Poor old Jim! Although he never liked me. Do you remember how you knew that, although no one ever told you? And how you've changed since that night! I suppose a thing like that DOES something to you. I've known one or two murderers … ' He paused reflectively. 'I might even be called a murderer myself…. Somehow, what with the last War and this one, you can't take killing anyone very seriously. And poor old Jim was going downhill fast—'

  Yes—I was tied to Cheeseman for the rest of my days. Something inside me gave a sort of lurch of nausea.

  'Don't go telling other people,' he said.

  'What do you think?' I laughed.

  'Have another whisky; I'm going to.'

  'Thanks.'

  I could see that he was thinking hard. It was as though, in his mind, he was going over the list of his prisoners and captives. Now he had one to add.

  'How did you do it? I wouldn't have thought you had the strength— not at that time.'

  'We were on the edge of the Cliff—I pushed him over.'

  I could see the Rat's white hands clench sadistically. The knuckles stood out like a dead animal's bleached bones.

  'Yes. Did he cry out?'

  'Once.'

  Cheeseman drank his whisky:

  'Here's how.'

  VI

  I am writing with the tears drying on my cheeks. I am writing because I must—to rid myself a little of the sorrow and rage in my heart. Soon I will be quiet. To–morrow I go up to London to return tit for tat. Tit for Tat. TIT FOR TAT. The revolver that I got last spring is on the table beside me. When I wangled the licence I wondered whether I should ever use it. I don't wonder any longer. I have been crying, I who have not cried for so long. They shall be the last tears I shall ever shed—the last tears for the last friend.

  Yesterday afternoon Scandal and I had our last game together. He was a regular baby for a dog as old as he was—or at any rate he would be a baby with me. He would be anything with me if I wanted him to be. I have an old leather bedroom slipper that was his especial property. People sometimes say that dogs have no imagination. Ignorant people that don't know anything about dogs. Scandal certainly had plenty. He knew that the old shoe was an old shoe, but he also knew that, when he wanted it, that old shoe was a rat, a rabbit, a cat, and then, after that, something more—all his longing for glory and adventure and romance.

  When I brought it out from its drawer and showed it him, at once our two selves were drawn close together. We were one romantic longing and desire. I don't believe any more in romance or sentiment or any kind of weak, silly slop, but there was nothing silly in OUR alliance. And now he is gone—the only friend, except Leila, that I had in the world.

  I was proud, too, of the disregard that he had for everyone else. He never gave Eve and Archie a thought. He was polite to them, of course. He was a proper little gentleman and had beautiful manners, but they meant nothing at all to him. Nor did anyone else anywhere.

  Everyone in this damned place thinks that I'm going to perdition— or have gone there already. But Scandal didn't. He thought I was simply the most perfect creature in the world, silly little fool. If I was sharp or violent to Eve he thought it was Eve's fault and would give her a nasty look. If I had drunk a drop too much, he would grin at me as much as to say: 'Drink all you want to. We can only live once.'

  How physically beautiful he was! There was never another dog to touch him! The bright strong curls on his coat seemed to promise that he would live for ever. He was utterly fearless, but he wasn't one of those dogs that just fought any dog he saw. Many dogs were not worthy of his attentions. He had a wonderful dignity although he could play like a baby if he wanted to. I can't believe that he's left me. I can't believe that I shall never hear his quick excited bark again.

  After luncheon yesterday I took Scandal with me for a walk in Carfax Wood. The high road passes on the north of the town. I was about to cross it. Scandal ran ahead of me. A maroon–coloured Morris car turned the corner and approached us. I saw the driver and was certain that it was Richard Thorne. The car caught Scandal, drove swiftly on. When I ran up to him he was already dead. I picked him up in my arms and rushed down the road, shouting I know not what.

  This morning I went to Leila's house. The servant told me that she and her brother had left for London.

  When this afternoon I told Eve that I was going to London, she kissed my cheek and said that she would be waiting for me when I came back.

  I buried Scandal in our little garden under the rose–bush in the right–hand corner near the road.

  While I have been writing this a strange urge has been strengthening in me to take revenge on this filthy crowd of human beings who have insulted and derided and tried to murder me—who have killed the only friend I had.

  Narrative 3

  I

  I frightened him all right. I certainly frightened him. I've begun to write again because it tranquillizes me. What am I writing? Anything. What does it matter? Except that I'm telling the truth and the whole bloody lot will be astonished when they hear it; they think that there's only this phoney War on—this War in which no one does anything but creep about in the dark. They don't realize that there's another war on too and that's MY war. First to deal with Mr. Richard Thorne and then settle all the others—the nasty, mangy, creeping, crawling crew.

  I return to Facts. Facts are tranquillizing. I will report to my friendly Demon EXACTLY the Facts. Is that Demon Cheeseman? For he is with me. We arrived last evening at 5.30, just before the Black– Out; it was raining and we discovered this boarding–house standing in a puddle of water.

  The taximan asked us where he should drive us and I said: 'Bloomsbury. And go on until we stop you.' But, turning the corner by the Museum, I saw this boarding–house before it saw me. I knew at once that it was the very place for us. To begin with, it is painted a liverish colour like a piece of underdone beef and all its windows are ugly like old maids looking through keyholes. All the old women with sooty glass faces stared down at us as our taxi halted, and I could hear them whispering: 'Here comes the very man for us. If we watch him we'll see something.'

  Yes, there were two bedrooms and everyone had meals in common amity. Mrs. Foxborne her name was, and she is dressed like the British flag in red, white and blue and has the coldest, chilliest eyes I've ever welcomed. Her hands are like claws. She has a large pink–and–white brooch with the Three Graces carved upon it.

  I gave myself the best bedroom, of course. Cheeseman doesn't mind what he has. He is so deeply excited about what is going to happen that he has no thought for anything else. And he knows that it will not be for long.

  All I said to him was:

  'You know that Richard Thorne killed my dog.'

  'Oh, did he?' he said.

  'He's flown to London because he's frightened and I'm flying after him.'

  'I'll fly too.'

  That's all we said, but in my mind's eye I saw two big black birds feasting just outside the Leicester Square Tube in a dark and empty London on somebody's carcase. I showed him my revolver.

  'I'm going to chase him first,' I said.

  There's a jerry under the bed, a large tear in the carpet, a picture on the wall of Christ blessing the Children. There is a clock, too, that stopped at four–thirty years and years ago. Last night before I went to bed I painted a little. It was a fanciful picture of London like a spider–web and two eyes where the spider ought to be. There is dried blood stiffening the corner of the web, and the eight–day clock ticks although the web is strangling it.

  I tore it up and jumped into bed. I was very cold but my head was hot as hell. I didn't sleep very well. I lay there remembering how once, after leaving that girl in Glasgow whom I loved so much, when she didn't write I was hot and cold all day long and trembled when the post came. But at supper I had a good meal—roast beef and apple–tart. There were half a dozen of us at the table, one thin, one fat, one round, one straight, and one with a hare–lip. Who was the other? There was an empty chair. I ate because I was hungry, but as I looked at them sitting round the table and mincing their words I thought how pleasant it would be to tie them to their chairs with green window–blind cord and shoot them, slowly, quietly, one after the other. You would gag them first with their soiled table–napkins. How their eyes would stare as they realized that death was coming to them after all—real positive death that is never real until it is actually upon you. No escape for them as they stare frantically at 'The Fighting Téméraire' and 'Christ Leaving the Temple' and the beef congealing on the plate and two flies digging into the sugar–dish. Then I aim, with what a jolly, friendly smile I aim at first one then another. Their arms are bound backwards on to the sides of the chairs, so as they are hit their bodies bound forward. How delightful for the others to watch while their friends depart!

  I leave one to the end. I think it should be the young man with no eyebrows. It is indecent not to have eyebrows.

  And I should say to him:

  'Have you ever loved a dog?'

  He will be too sadly terrified to reply.

  'Have you ever been thrown into the sea?'

  Still no reply.

  'Have you ever been mocked and taunted by all the citizens of your filthy little town?'

  Then I shall fire.

  II

  I have bought two pairs of shoes with felt soles. I love to walk in the dark without sound. I will jump upon Richard before he can hear me coming.

  I love this darkness. I adore it. I belong to it. It is what I have always wanted.

  There are still many theatres open in London and the crowds move in Leicester Square, in Piccadilly Circus, in Regent Street, in thick moth–like throngs, laughing, loving, moving adroitly out of the way of one another. But these are not the places where I at present resort. I am only at the beginning of my pursuit, with my dark soft hat pulled over my eyes, my face pale if someone flashes a torch, my little revolver in my pocket, my soft, soundless tread.

  Once the darkness falls I find it difficult to stay indoors. But I like first to have my evening meal with the boarders. They are afraid of myself and Cheeseman. I know their names now—Miss Lucy Bates, Mr. Henry Bates, her brother (he has the hare–lip), Mrs. Constantine, Mr. Floss, and very old Mrs. Taylor.

  In the first place they dislike my silent approach. I come upon them in the passages, in the bathroom, in the sitting–room, on the stairs before they are aware of it. I am very polite and courteous, and especially so to my landlady Mrs. Foxborne. Then when they speak to me they become uneasy under my stare. Yesterday evening I walked down the stairs behind old Mrs. Taylor huddled under her shawl and looking at every step cautiously with her blind, red–rimmed eyes.

  Before she took the last step I said gently:

  'Good evening, Mrs. Taylor.'

  She gave a little shawl–muffled scream.

  'Tell me, Mrs. Taylor, why don't you have a little dog—a Pekinese, for example?'

  She held her hand on her heart. 'Oh, dear—I never heard you coming.'

  'Why don't you have a little dog, Mrs. Taylor?'

  'Oh, dear—I don't know.'

  'I had a dog that I loved very much. It was killed by a motor– car.'

  I opened, with a little bow, the door of the dining–room.

  During the meal I like very much to silence the conversation. It begins very briskly and soon they are all talking gaily about the War, the Black–Out, the theatres, and what they have done during the day. What I enjoy is to look at them one after the other. There is something about my face that they dislike. I have a strange feeling about my face. I feel it to be a mask, a mask through which my eyes burn. Behind it what thoughts and fancies burn! It would never do if they should see my real face, for passions rage in it—passions of anger and violence because I am in this world now for one purpose only—to be revenged on just such miserable cattle as these who have spoiled my peace and attempted to destroy me.

  And so I look at first one and then another. I look at them one by one and they look at me and their eyes drop. Gradually a silence falls.

  When the meal is over I put on my hat and coat and go out. If it is a dark night without moon or stars, it is as though you walked in a vast underworld where the little red lights, whether in the air or just above the ground, are like the eyes of animals. I walk, making no sound, through the streets. The darkness is doubly, trebly enfolded, layer upon layer. You can put out your hand and feel it. Suddenly you are on the edge of plunging into some abyss. You pull yourself up sharply and your heart beats at the escape of some fine danger. My gloved hand closes round the revolver in my coat pocket. I love to feel it there.

  There are not many people in these streets, but what I love is to touch them suddenly, coming up upon them before they know it. I put out my gloved hand and for an instant rub their arm, or push against their back, or even touch their neck. They flash their torch perhaps and sometimes cry out. I apologize very politely, raising my hat. But I cannot help thinking how pleasant it would be to turn a neck and twist it or throw them down and stamp upon their silly meaningless faces.

  But of course those are things that I must not do.

  When I am accustomed to it, the darkness has many colours—purple and dark green and opalescent grey. It moves like blown water and you can feel its waves upon your face. It contains also many odours: the acrid tang of smoke, the stifling thickness of petrol, the damp of wet towels, the thin clamminess of human breath.

 

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