Hangover Square (25 page)

Half past twelve… He perceived a snag. It would still be daylight. It would be daylight for hours, and of course, you couldn’t go to Maidenhead till it was dark. That was the whole point about Maidenhead – he had to arrive there in the dark. Maidenhead didn’t make sense unless he arrived in the dark, and then awoke next morning to the sun, the peace, and the river. The police could meddle, could get him, even in Maidenhead, if he arrived there before dark. He knew the rules all right, and you needn’t think he was going to slip up and forget them. Here, then, was the snag. He would have to wait hours in London before it was dark and he could get to Maidenhead. And while he was waiting in London the police might interfere.

Why hadn’t he thought of it? Was there something wrong with his plan after all? Surely he had allowed for it: he couldn’t have been such a fool as not to have done so. If he hadn’t allowed for it he must think something up – and mighty quickly too – it was half past eleven and time was getting short. This was definitely bad.

Then he remembered. Of course. The note on the door. ‘Back at 9.30.’ He hadn’t been a fool, he hadn’t tripped up, after all. He had been brilliant. He had just forgotten. He had arranged after he had done it, to pin a note on the door saying ‘Back at 9.30 Netta.’ They would think Netta had written it, and that meant that nobody would ring a bell, nobody could interfere, until
9.30, and by that time it would be dark enough, and he would be on a train to Maidenhead, which would be quite dark by the time he reached it. Actually, he believed he would be quite safe directly he was on the train – quite apart from reaching Maidenhead. He wasn’t quite sure on this point. It was interesting. It didn’t matter, though, anyway. They couldn’t find anything until 9.30.

That was all right, then. But he must write the note. He’d better do that now. He pulled out an old letter from his pocket and asked the man behind the bar if he had a pencil.

He was given a pencil and wrote, in large printed letters:

BACK AT 9.30. NETTA AND PETER

and gave the pencil back to the man.

He wasn’t quite sure about the ‘and Peter’ but thought on the whole it was best in case some busy-body was looking for Peter too.

It was now a quarter to twelve.

What about the pin – to pin it on the door with? Ask the man if he had one? No. That might create suspicion – give a clue. You couldn’t be too careful. You either did this thing properly, immaculately, or not at all.

‘Mind my beer for a moment, will you,’ he said to the man behind the bar. ‘I just want to pop over the road.’

‘Certainly, sir,’ said the man cheerfully, and he went out and walked over the Earl’s Court Road to the little draper’s immediately opposite.

‘Have you got some pins?’ he said to the girl, and the girl said, ‘Pins?’ and produced a drawer, and put it on the counter; and he chose a pink folded packet of innumerable silver pins, and paid threepence for them, and walked back to the pub, where his beer was still intact upon the counter.

He swilled off the remains of this and looked at the clock. It was six minutes to twelve.

Well, all was set now. The last snag was cleared up, and it was plain sailing. Should he have another drink, or go straight at it? One more, perhaps – a half. ‘Can I have another half in this?’ he said to the man.

He drank it off quickly – in two gulps. He reckoned it would take three minutes to get to Netta, and it was now three minutes to twelve. ‘Good morning,’ he said to the man behind the bar, and he picked up the golf club in brown paper and went out into the street.

It had stopped raining now, and he felt remarkably cheerful – the beer had gone to his head a bit – not enough to affect him – just enough to make him cheerful and cool-headed.

He was glad he was cool-headed and not nervous. The time, in some extraordinary way, had come at last: that was all. There was no fear – only a slight sense of mystification, of weirdness, that at last he was going to do what he had meant to do for so long.

He was glad he was cool and competent for their sakes, too. Being cool and competent, he would get it done with quickly, without bungling, without hurting them. He would never forgive himself if he hurt them. In fact the whole thing would be off if there was any question of doing so. That was one thing he had never done in his life, hurt anybody.

The front door was open, and he went up to the stone stairs – his dear old friends. The last time, he reflected, the last time for all three of them. He would come down them once more, just once more, on his way to Maidenhead, but they would not come down them any more. He felt oppressed by the sadness and incomprehensibility of existence generally. He was sorry for them, and made up his mind again that they should not be hurt.

He reached the top landing, and rang his old friend the bell. There was a pause, and then Peter answered the door.

Chapter Eight

‘Hullo, George,’ said Peter, and leaving George to close the door, he went into the sitting-room. George followed him in.

Netta was sitting in the armchair. She wasn’t dressed yet. She was wearing dark blue pyjama trousers, a dressing-gown to
match her red slippers and a red scarf. She had never looked lovelier. She was drinking beer.

‘Hullo, Bone,’ she said. ‘How are you?’

‘Hullo,’ he said. ‘How are you?’

It was rather odd and disconcerting, her being in her dressing-gown like this. He hadn’t pictured killing her in her dressing-gown: he had seen her properly dressed, ready to go out. It didn’t make any difference, really, but he had to adjust his mind, see the thing differently.

‘What on earth’s this you’ve brought with you?’ said Peter. ‘I thought you were going to bring some gin.’

‘This?’ he said. ‘This is a golf club.’

‘Oh, that’s a relief,’ said Netta, looking him up and down in that cynical and piercing way she had. ‘I thought it was an umbrella.’

‘Yes, so did I,’ said Peter and they both laughed, a little nervously it seemed, and looked at him…

‘No. Only a golf club,’ he said, laughing with them, and tearing the brown paper away from the club. ‘I’m taking golf up again. I got this at Brighton. I did a sixty-eight that day you came down.’

‘A sixty-eight?’ said Peter. ‘What’s a sixty-eight?’

‘A sixty-eight? It’s a score. How do you mean?’

‘It sounds like something dirty to me,’ said Netta, and ‘Yes,
most
obscene,’ said Peter, and they both laughed again. They were evidently in a flippant mood.

‘There,’ he said, throwing the last of the brown paper on to the floor, and holding up the club. ‘Isn’t that lovely? Just feel that.’ And he offered the club to Peter.

But Peter kept his hands in his pockets.

‘I don’t want a bloody golf club,’ he said. ‘I want some gin.’

And they all laughed again.

‘Oh yes,’ he said. ‘I’ve got the gin all right.’ And he hauled the bottle out of his overcoat pocket, and put it on the mantelpiece. Then he propped the club against the table and began to take off his overcoat. ‘Shall I get some glasses?’ he said. ‘They’re in the kitchen, aren’t they?’

‘That’s right,’ said Netta, and he went into the kitchen.

‘Have you got any Italian, or anything?’ he shouted from the kitchen, as he collected the glasses. ‘We can’t have it neat, can we?’

‘No,’ she shouted back. ‘But there’s some lime on top of the cupboard. Bring that in, and some water.’

‘Right!’

He put the Rose’s lime Juice on the tray with the glasses, and filled the Marks and Spencer’s glass jug with water from the tap, and put it on the tray, and carried it all in.

Peter had already opened the bottle, and he and Peter assisted each other in concocting the drinks. He gave Netta her glass, and then took his own, and then said, ‘Well – here’s how…’

After they had drunk there was a gloomy pause, in which nobody said anything, and he saw that the time, more or less, had come. He put down his glass on the table, and picked up the golf club, and swung it vigorously in the air, and scrutinized its shaft and swung again.

He was glad to have got hold of the club so naturally, and to be holding it in so highly natural a way, as now it was pretty plain sailing. He could pretend to be playing with it, fondling it, practising shots, until the right moment arrived. The right moment had not come yet. He felt they ought to have a drink, and he would like Netta, if it was possible, to be out of the room. He didn’t want her to see him hitting Peter; it might frighten her, and there would be a panic.

The moment came, soon enough. They talked for a little, and he had another sip at his gin-and-lime (while still holding on to the club) and then Netta said, ‘Well, if you’re just going to stand here playing golf, I’m going to dress. I’ve got a date at one.’

And she lit a cigarette, took up her drink, and went into her room, closing the door except for a few inches.

Peter flopped down into the other armchair and picked up his
Daily Express
and began to read.

He went on playing imaginary chip shots on the carpet, and looked at Peter out of the comer of his eye. Well, here we were. Now. To it, my boy. Now. Swing back. Slow back. Eye on his head just behind his left ear… Eye on his ear and follow
through… But he went on playing chip shots, and he heard his heart pumping, and he felt a singing noise in his ears.

He went over to the window, and looked out on the giddy, wet, weird street below.

‘It’s frightfully wet, isn’t it?’ he said.

‘Yes,’ said Peter, who was reading, and not inclined to conversation. ‘It is.’

Why this pumping and singing noise? Was he afraid? What was the matter with him? He had got a job to do. He wasn’t going to funk it now. Come now, pull yourself together. You were standing on the plank. Dive in; and it would all be over. Dive in and swim hard! Count ten and dive-in! Was he a coward? Was he going to fail at the last moment?

No – he was no coward. Now for it. He was a bit nervous, but that didn’t matter. He walked back to the carpet and began looking at his club, playing chip shots again. He heard Netta closing her cupboard in the next room. Peter went on reading.

Now then – count ten and dive in. All right… Ten shots. One, a little chip… Two, a little pitch and run… Three… Four… Oh,
stop
all this nonsense and
do
it! Now… Look at his ear…
Now
… Slow back…

All right, then, since you asked for it! NOW!

He swung the club furiously back, aiming at Peter’s ear, but something funny happened. Before he reached Peter’s ear, he himself, it seemed, was hit on the head.
Crack!
It simply knocked him out – stopped everything. Most odd. Instead of hitting Peter he must have hit himself. Or had someone else hit him? He felt utterly dazed – everything was going round, going far away and coming back again. He felt he was going to faint. He stumbled forward into the room, and supported himself on the table, upsetting his own drink with a clatter.

Chapter Nine

Crack!…

He was in a room somewhere, supporting himself at a deal table on which a drink was spilled and it had happened again.

Crack!… He knew what it was all right. It was only his wretched head, cracking back. But it was such an awful crack that it had almost knocked him out. It used not to crack like this. It used to be a funny click, a pop, a snap – rather fascinating. Now it was this frightful crack. He was getting worse.

And now, of course, everything was flooding back – noise, colour, light, the real world – roaring and rushing back. But he was so confused by the crack in his head, and by the rushing and roaring back of reality, that he couldn’t collect himself. He would be all right soon, but for the moment it was a bit too much for him. He couldn’t make out where he was.

‘Are you all right?’ he heard a voice saying, and he was aware that this voice had made the same inquiry only a moment before.

‘Yes, I am all right,’ he said. ‘I’ll be all right.’

Where was he? He had got to keep up pretences until he found out where he was.

Still leaning for support against the table, he lifted his head. A room, evidently. But what room, and how had he got there? Had he walked into a strange room? Had he got drunk? Had he been hit over the head and robbed? Had someone taken him into then-house to recover?

Now he heard the same voice speaking near, right in his ear. ‘What’s the matter with you, man? Are you doped or something?’

He turned, and saw a fair man with a moustache staring into his face. He didn’t know that he had ever seen his face before, and yet he had a sensation of hating it for some preconceived reason, an intuition of its having an evil, nightmare familiarity.

‘No, I’m all right,’ he said, ‘I’ve just had a come-over. I’ll be all right.’

He felt that if he could only put a name to this evil face it would cease to be evil, and that everything else would come back. It was bound to come back soon. All that had happened was that his head had cracked back from one of his ‘dead’ moods. In the meantime he must keep up the pretence of knowing where he was.

‘Netta,’ he heard the voice say. ‘Our friend’s had a come-over and spilt his drink. Where’ll I find a rag to mop it up?’

‘Netta’… He knew who ‘Netta’ was all right. That was the girl in Earl’s Court he was so crazy about, who gave him such hell. But how was
she
in on this? Where was
she
? Why was
her
name mentioned?

He heard a voice from the next room. ‘What’s the matter? What’s he done?’

That was Netta’s voice. No mistaking that. Netta! Here! In a flash he saw it all. This was Netta’s flat. He recognized it. The evil man was Peter. He recognized him too. It was as clear as day. But how had he
got
there? What was the time? What was the day? What were they doing? In the meantime he must pretend he knew.

‘All right,’ he said, ‘I’ll get a rag. Don’t bother. There’ll be one in the kitchen.’

He went into the kitchen, found the rag, and came back.

‘What did I do?’ he said, mopping up the mess and trying to pump Peter who was now in the armchair again. T came over all dizzy.’