Hangover Square (21 page)

Mumble, mumble, mumble… He couldn’t stand it. He had got to do something. He sat up on the bed, and stared at the window, the mauve watery light from the lamp outside on the rain-spotted pane behind the lace curtains. He couldn’t stand this all night. He had got to do something. What? What? Go outside and knock on the door and tell them to shut up? Knock on the wall and shout? Pretend he knew all about it and was indifferent – that he just wanted to go to sleep?

That tap again, and that gurgle… They weren’t even subduing their voices now; they were drinking, giggling, and talking as though they were in a public room. There would be complaints from one of the other guests soon – that would settle it, perhaps.

He heard the tap again and another tinkle of a glass, and all at once he remembered that he had a full bottle of whisky in his own case. That was it! – the only thing. He must open up the
bottle, and drink himself – drink himself to sleep. They weren’t the only ones who could drink in the small hours.

He crept over to the switch and turned it softly. Why was
he
creeping? Why did
he
put on the light softly? Why was
he
ashamed?

Because, oddly enough, of his pride. He had been through this before, when he found out about Peter. The only thing he could do now was to save his pride, or a little of it – not let her know that she had exploited him, insulted him, trampled on him -pretended he was the complete fool she thought him. It was better that way – awful as it was. That way he saved a little pride. If she ever knew that he meekly suffered what she had chosen to dole out to him and came back for more, he could never look her in the face again.

He must be fast asleep, and a fool – a complete fool – a hog. He crept slowly over to his suitcase and got out his whisky. He opened the stopper stealthily, got his tooth-glass, poured out a huge amount without a sound, and went to the tap. Now the rain was pouring down outside – an accomplice in his crime. Gently turned, the tap poured with the rain – he could hardly hear it himself. Thus the two taps in the two rooms, gurgled and answered each other in the wicked hours of the night.

He switched off the light again, and took an enormous swill. He looked at the rain-splashed window behind the lace curtains in the watery light of the lamp. He felt better almost at once. There was nothing like drink. He groped in the darkness for the bottle and splashed some more in. This was the way – this was the way!

Mumble, mumble, mumble… Cosy, liquid, intimate… Would they never stop? He took another swill…

Hullo – what was this? Had they stopped at last? Had they stopped? He put his head to the wall and listened intently.

Oh, God, they had stopped… They were silent. What was he to do now?

If only they would talk he could stand it, but this he couldn’t stand. What was he to do now?

He listened again, but absolute silence shuddered through the wall.

The rain poured down outside. He drained off the remains of his glass, and stumbled about the room for the bottle.

He was awakened by feeling cold about three hours later. He had lain on the bed without putting anything over him. He awoke abrubtly and remembered everything with extraordinary clearness.

He sat up on the bed and looked at the lace curtains in the mauve light of the lamp outside. It had stopped raining.

They weren’t silent now: they were mumbling again, very softly. Perhaps it was this very soft mumbling, and not the cold, which had awakened him.

He listened to their mumbling for about five minutes, and then it subsided again into silence. Silence. He wondered what he ought to do. He had got to do something. He had got to get away from that silence. He had got to get away.

Get away? What was stopping him? Why hadn’t he thought of it before? Why hadn’t he walked out of the hotel? He sprang from the bed and looked at his wrist-watch in the watery light of the lamp.

A quarter past five. It was still very early, but it was summer and it would soon be dawn. He would have a walk – a walk along the front in the early morning – a constitutional!

He hadn’t got to dress – that was something. He thought of washing; but that would mean turning on the tap and they might hear it. He turned the handle of the door with infinite care, and crept on to the landing.

He crept downstairs. There was a dim light in the hall, lighting his way down. He hoped no one was about, but just as he was turning the latch of the front door, a voice said ‘Yessir? Do you want anything, sir?’ It was the night porter, whom he had never seen before.

‘That’s all right,’ he said, grinning. ‘I’m just going for a walk. I’m a guest all right. I’m not a burglar!’

And they both laughed in a subdued, sleeping-guest-respecting way, and the next moment he was out in the wet, glimmering lamp-lit street.

He walked through Castle Square to the sea. When he
reached the sea he saw that dawn was breaking over it, dimly, bluely, feebly, amidst the torn clouds of rain. He smelt the air and felt better. He was glad he had done this. He felt like a walk. He was doing the best thing.

And then he felt a curious snap in his head.

The Seventh Part

END OF SUMMER

They, only set on sport and play
,
Unweetingly importuned
Their own destruction to come speedy upon them
.
So fond are mortal men
,
Fallen into wrath divine
,
As their own ruin on themselves to invite
.

J.
MILTON
Samson Agonistes

Chapter One

Snap!
…
Click!
– just like that…

He was walking along the front at Brighton, in the sombre early dawn, in the deep blue cloudy not-quite-night, and it had happened again…

Click!
… It was as though his head were a five-shilling Kodak camera, and someone had switched over the little trigger which makes the exposure. He knew the sensation so well, yet he never failed to marvel at its oddity.

Like a camera. But instead of an exposure having been made the opposite had happened – an
inclosure
– a shutting down, a locking in. A moment before his head, his brain, were out in the world, seeing, hearing, sensing objects directly; now they were enclosed behind glass (like Crown jewels, like Victorian wax fruit), behind a film – the film of the camera, perhaps, to continue the photographic analogy – a film behind which all things and people moved eerily, without colour, vivacity or meaning, grimly, puppet-like, without motive or conscious volition of their own…

A moment before his mind had heard and answered: now he was mentally deaf and dumb: he was in on himself – his mute, numbed self.

Numbed and sensationless. But there was something to be done. That was the whole point – there was something to be done. Always, a little while after the shutter had fallen, he knew this.

It was all most odd and obscure – odder and obscurer than usual because of the darkness, the circumstances, the time, the dim, rain-washed dawn on the Brighton front… What on earth was he doing there at such a time?

Oh yes – he had just left Netta and Peter – no, not Netta and
Peter – Netta and the new young man – the young man with the pugilistic nose and brown school-bully’s eyes – he had just left Netta and this young man in the bedroom next door to him. He hadn’t been able to stand it. He had decided to take a walk, he had hated it so. But he couldn’t be bothered by Netta and the young man at the moment, because there was something to be done, and he had got to find out what it was.

It was a great relief, really, to be dead and numbed like this, not to have to bother about Netta, and just to have to concentrate on finding out what it was that had to be done – a great relief after all he had been suffering.

But what was it? He could never think of it at first. Never mind, it would come. If he didn’t nag at it, if he relaxed mentally, it would come.

While Brighton slept – North Street, West Street, East Street, Western Road, Preston Street, Hove, the hotels, the shops, the restaurants, the movies, the baths, the booths, the churches, the Market, the Post Office, the pubs, the antiques, the second-hand books – slept and gleamed and climbed up from the sea under the dark blue dawn, the enormous gloomy man walked along the front, hardly visible in the darkness, seemingly the only wayfarer, the only one awake. And he looked out at the sea and wondered what it was he had to do.

When he remembered he was about opposite the Grand. He remembered without any trouble, any strain. He had got to kill Netta Longdon. He had to kill her, and then he would go to Maidenhead. He would be happy in Maidenhead.

But what was this? Who was this Netta Longdon? Didn’t that mean Netta? – the girl he knew – the girl he had left behind in the hotel? Of course it did! How odd. It was Netta he had to kill. And she was here in Brighton with him.

He had got to kill her because things had been going on too long, and he had to get to Maidenhead and be at peace with himself. Why hadn’t he killed her before? Why did he keep putting off killing her?

Yes – he remembered now. This was his great fault – he kept on putting it off. Something kept on stopping him – in some extraordinary way he kept on forgetting about it and putting it
off. Why, he could remember as far back as Christmas, when he was at Hunstanton with his aunt… Then he was thinking about killing her, but he had put it off to the spring – the warm weather. And now the spring had gone and it was summer! If he didn’t look out it would be getting cold again and he wouldn’t be able to kill her till next year.

Yes. He must get down to it; he must do it at once, now – start thinking it out. It didn’t really need much thinking out, because it was so absurdly easy – but there had to be a certain amount of planning.

He passed the West Pier, and saw that the dawn was brightening. It was very queer, to be walking along the Brighton front at this hour. He was usually in Earl’s Court. And here was this girl – Netta Longdon, whom he had to kill–down in Brighton with him. It looked like the hand of fate. It looked as though she was chasing him, following him down just so as to be at hand to be killed.

How had they got down here? He must try and remember… Oh yes – it was coming back. He had thought he was going to have a holiday with her. He came down first, and she was coming down, and they were going to be alone together. But when he went to the station there were three of them there, and they were all drunk.

That was awfully mean. They were a mean lot, really. It was beastly of Netta – she must have known how it would hurt him; but she didn’t care. She was like that. Getting killed would serve her jolly well right, really. All her life she had had things too much her own way. He didn’t have any grudge against her, but he didn’t have much pity for her either.

Peter was mean too. He, actually, deserved to be killed more than Netta. He was a bad lot, this Peter, a criminal really. He had killed a man himself – that had come out last night. And he had assaulted another man criminally, and been in jail twice. If that wasn’t criminal, what was?

He was a sinister brute, Peter. He had always known that in his heart, but last night it had come out good and strong, for all decent, sane people to see. But Netta hadn’t seen it, nor had the little school-bully who was in Netta’s room now. They thought it was clever to have killed a man in a car while drunk, and to
have knocked another man out. They were a thoroughly nasty lot and deserved what they got.

And yet, Peter, apparently, got off scot-free, and it was only Netta who was to be killed. That didn’t seem quite right. He ought, really, to kill Peter too.

But that was impossible, wasn’t it? It was only Netta that he had to kill, so that he could stop it all and get to Maidenhead? He didn’t see how Peter came in on it.

Or
did
he? Did he? The sudden thought trickled into his brain. Had he been making another mistake, had he got the whole thing muddled? Surely it wasn’t just Netta he had to kill in order to get clear, to get to Maidenhead – surely it was Netta and Peter, surely it had been Netta and Peter all along!

Of course! He must kill Peter too! This was most interesting. He had got it all muddled. It was like him to get things muddled like that, just as it was like him to keep on putting it off. But he was going to pull himself together now.

Why, Peter and Netta were one. He knew for a fact that they were one. He had found them in the cupboard. You could no more kill Netta without killing Peter than you could kill Peter without Netta.

He was glad of this because it made things more just – he hadn’t liked the idea of Peter getting clean away with it. He had killed a man: now he would be killed too.

What about the little newcomer who was in bed with Netta now? Oughtn’t he to be killed, as he was one with Netta too? No, no. That was quite a different thing. He had only just appeared on the scene. He wasn’t in on the thing at all. He hadn’t been going on too long, like Netta and Peter. He only had to kill them for going on too long, and keeping him from Maidenhead. It didn’t make sense otherwise.

How odd, them being in Brighton like this, lying asleep back at the hotel, Netta with her boyfriend, Peter in the annexe, and never guessing they were going to be killed almost at once. They’d never have come to Brighton if they had known this was going to happen!

Was he, then, going to kill them
in
Brighton,
now
: today or tomorrow? Yes. Of course he was – no more putting off. He had
got wise to himself now. Here was half the summer gone: it would be cold soon, and he would have to wait another year. Another year in Earl’s Court!

But it had to be planned. He would have to make them stay down by the sea, pay their bill if necessary. Then the trouble was where to do it: he had always thought of it up at Earl’s Court, in Netta’s flat. And there were two of them now – that didn’t make it any more easy. Then Peter being a man – that was a slight snag – he would have to use a clever trick, hit him while he wasn’t looking and then finish him off. It wasn’t quite as absurdly easy as it was with a girl.