Hangover Square (33 page)

His brandy came, and he felt better still, and he sat there, listening to their noisy talk and not talking. Among other things he was so profoundly impressed by the mere fact that he was looking at Cornford Hobbs’s face a few feet away in the flesh, that he could hardly open his mouth.

He had seen the man so many times on the films, he admired him as a comedian so much, that he was almost stupefied with delight and interest to see him and talk with him in person.

‘Did you see the show tonight, Mr Bone?’ said Mr Hobbs, suddenly
breaking away from the general conversation, and speaking in a confidential tone.

‘Oh, yes,’ he said, ‘I did.’

‘What did you think of it?’

‘Oh, I thought it was wonderful,’ he said. He was lying, of course, but he knew it must have been wonderful because of all the laughter he had heard, and he was so taken aback by the honour of having his opinion asked that he could think of nothing else to say.

‘Yes,’ said Mr Hobbs. ‘I think we got away with it – if it only wasn’t for this ghastly war.’

‘Yes,’ he said, and then, because he just couldn’t help it, because even if it was the wrong and silly and dumb thing to say, it was sincere, he said, ‘I’ve seen you such a lot on the films, Mr Hobbs. It’s wonderful to meet you here like this.’

‘Well, I don’t know about that,’ said Mr Hobbs. ‘It’s extremely nice to meet you!’ And they both laughed as though they were old friends.

A fresh round of drinks was brought, and the conversation became general again, and he sat listening. Soon the talk got right above his head, but he was still fascinated to listen. But all at once he began trembling again, and Johnnie, coming and sitting next to him, said, ‘How do you feel, George? Do you want to go home? You look rather pale.’

‘Yes,’ he said. ‘I think I’d better go.’ And the trembling came on more violently.

Eddie Carstairs had observed what was going on. ‘Is he all right?’ he said.

‘Yes. He’ll be all right,’ said Johnnie. ‘I’ll see him home in a taxi.’

‘I’ll be all right,’ he said. ‘It’ll soon stop. It’s only this trembling.’

‘Well, you’d better go home,’ said Eddie Carstairs. ‘I’ve got the car outside. You can come in that.’

‘No – don’t bother, Eddie,’ said Johnnie. ‘I can easily take him in a taxi.’

‘No – the car’s outside. Come on. We’ll see him home together.’

‘What’s all this about going home?‘ said Mr Hobbs. ‘Who’s going home?’

‘We’re seeing Mr Bone home,’ said Eddie Carstairs, he’s not feeling too good.’

‘Seeing Mr Bone home. Fine! Can we come too?’

‘Yes. You can come,’ and all at once the thing to do was to see Mr Bone home. Nothing else would do. ‘I’m sorry you’ve got to go,’ said Mr Hobbs in his ear. ‘I expect you’ve got a chill or something?’

‘Yes, I think I must have,’ he said. ‘I’m all right, but it’s just this trembling.’

There were a lot of cracks as they got out their hats and coats from the cloak-room, and then decided they didn’t want them and put them back, and they all flowed out of the revolving doors into the night, where they found themselves, as people will coming out into the night, decidedly drunker than they had been previously.

There was a lot of argument as to who should sit where, but at last they had all, except him, crowded into the back, and Eddie Carstairs went to the driver’s seat, and said, ‘You come and sit here, Mr Bone – don’t bother about them.’ And George Harvey Bone – the guest of honour – climbed into the great bloody Rolls and sat beside its owner.

Chapter Six

But it wasn’t a great bloody Rolls any more, because he was inside it at its owner’s invitation: it was a warm, infinitely fascinating and voluptuous piece of mechanism which backed quietly and slid forth like a liner.

‘Where are you staying, George?’ said Johnnie from behind, and he said he didn’t know exactly; but he could find it: it was a room in a little street near the Little Castle Hotel.

There was a great deal of argument behind as to where the Little Castle Hotel lay, some saying it was in Kemp Town, others saying it was in Hove, and one jovially dissentient voice hotly
declaring it was in Edinburgh, but Johnnie said he knew it: it was just off Castle Square, and Eddie Carstairs drove ahead in silence.

His trembling had stopped again, and he felt weak and happy and dazed. He watched Eddie Carstairs using the gears, and marvelled at their quietness and precision; and he said, not seeking to please, not even conscious of himself: ‘What a wonderful car – isn’t it?’

‘Yes, it is nice, isn’t it?’ said Eddie Carstairs. ‘I’ve had it three years now and I’m still crazy about it.’

‘Yes,’ he said, ‘it’s wonderful.’

He sat there, this enormous, ill, simple-minded man who had suffered so much mentally – he sat there, in the late lights of Brighton chasing through the darkness of the car, looking now at the driver’s steering, now at the street, weak, happy, and at peace, his blue unhappy hunted eyes staring out, harmless, bewildered, hopeful, grateful. All the years and sorrow seemed to slip away from those eyes, and there was the little boy again, the little boy who had been hurt, and was being given a treat. He was unaware of his pathos, his simplicity, the fact that he had a charm – a charm which made him entirely acceptable to all who valued such things. He was only infinitely grateful to Johnnie, and to this once dreaded and hated man who had come out of a hotel to see him home, and to the friendly accepting men behind.

They were still making a great deal of noise behind, but Eddie Carstairs remained quiet. All at once, however, he broke the silence.

‘Well, George,’ he said, not looking at him, for he was taking a comer with care, ‘I suppose you’ve been having a lot of thick nights lately, haven’t you?’

He was so amazed and nattered to hear himself called ‘George’ in that off-hand yet friendly way, that he hardly knew how to answer.

‘Yes, I have,’ he said. ‘I have really.’

‘One has to stop sometimes, doesn’t one?’ said Eddie, ‘or it gets one down.’

‘Yes, one has,’ he said. ‘Though it’s not really late nights
so much with me. I just seem to have got into a state…’

‘What sort of a state?…’ said Eddie Carstairs after another pause, in his quiet voice…

‘Oh – just a state…’

‘Not a woman, I hope,’ said this remarkable man… And there was another pause…

‘Oh, well… perhaps… sort of…’

‘Because that’s not worth it. You take my word for it,’ said Eddie Carstairs, and from behind, Johnnie’s voice suddenly said, ‘Yes, he’s right there, George. He’s certainly right there, you know.’

And he saw in a flash of perception and gratitude that Johnnie had somehow told Eddie Carstairs something of the truth, and that not only Johnnie, but Eddie Carstairs himself, was trying to help him out, trying to console him and make him feel better, trying to be kind. And he couldn’t bear it, because it made him want to cry.

‘There’s only one thing that’s any good with a certain type of woman, you know,’ went on Eddie. ‘Ask her for what you want, ask her whether she means to give it to you, and if she doesn’t, throw her out of the window.’

They all three laughed at this, because, among other things, he did not use those exact words, but more vulgar, vivid and racy ones. Johnnie laughed shyly, George holding back his tears.

‘No,’ said Eddie. ‘That may sound hard, but that’s all there is to it, and all there ever will be… You remember that, and you won’t go wrong.’

There was a pause, and then Eddie said, ‘Well, here’s the Little Castle, where do we go from here?’

‘Just round there,’ he said, but he could hardly speak.

They found the house, and the car stopped. ‘Shall I see you up?’ said Johnnie, and he said, ‘No, no – no, thanks!’ And Cornford Hobbs shook hands and said, ‘Well, goodbye, Mr Bone. I’m very sorry you’re going. Hope you’ll be better in the morning.’ And all he wanted to do was to get away, so that he didn’t cry.

‘Well, good-bye Mr Carstairs,’ he said. ‘Thank you so much. Thank you
really
.’

‘Good-bye, George,’ said Mr Carstairs, smiling at him in a peculiarly amiable and knowing way.

‘Sure you wouldn’t like me to see you up?’ said Johnnie – and he said ‘Yes!… Yes!… Thank you, Johnnie… Thank you very much.’ – ‘See you soon,’ said Johnnie. ‘I’ll phone you tomorrow when I get back?’ – ‘Yes! Yes!’ he said. ‘Well, goodbye and thank you. Thank you
all very
much. Good-bye!’ ‘Goodbye!’ they all yelled, and they all waved and the car moved off.

He reached his wretched little room, by lighting matches, and found the gas and lit it. He stood there, holding on to the brass bedstead, the hot tears pouring down his cheeks. He had won at last! He had had the birthday party – not she.
He
had had the ride in the Rolls – not she. They liked
him
– not her! Johnnie was
his
friend not hers, and Eddie Carstairs, the famous Eddie Carstairs of Fitzgerald, Carstairs and Scott, had given him some advice! Oh, God – they were so
kind
– they weren’t like Netta and Peter – they were
kind
!

They were the high-ups, they were the stars (whom Netta and Peter envied and schemed to meet), and they were
kind
! Netta and Peter were not kind: they were the low-downs and harsh and cruel. But he had won after all, and he was right after all, and Johnnie had done it for him – old Bob Barton Johnnie! – and Johnnie was his friend! Oh, God – they had been kind at last to him: at last they had been kind!

He flung himself on the bed, and hid his face in his arms, incontrollably, vastly sobbing, incontrollably, vastly happy.

And then, of course, a little later, something snapped in his head.

The Last Part

MAIDENHEAD

…
what your commands imposed
I have performed, as reason was, obeying
,
Not without wonder or delight beheld
;
Now, of my own accord, such other trial
I mean to show you of my strength yet greater
As with amaze shall strike all who behold
.

J. MILTON
Samson Agonistes

Chapter One

CLICK!
…

He lay on the bed in the dull green gaslight of a little room in Brighton, and it had happened again.

It was an extraordinary sensation, but he was used to it. It was as though a shutter had rolled down on his brain, and clicked tight. It was as though the sound-track in a talkie had broken down and the still-proceeding picture on the screen of existence had an utterly different character, mysterious, silent, indescribably eerie.

It was as though he had dived into a swimming-bath and hit his head on the bottom, and was floating about, bewildered and inaudible to himself, in hushed green depths.

He had never known it click so tight. He felt as though it was locked for good this time, as though it would never click back. He was so confused by it, when it happened, lying with his head buried on his bed, that he couldn’t think where he was or what he was doing.

He was aware of being in his best suit, of feeling cold and trembly, and of his face being wet, evidently with tears. But what it was all about, he couldn’t, for the moment, make out. No doubt he was doing something, had been doing something, and he would find out soon what it was. No doubt he had something to do… Yes, that was it, he had something to do. He had come to wherever he was to do something. He had got to find out what it was. If he didn’t nag at it, if he didn’t ‘press’, as they said in golf, if he just lay peacefully and relaxed, it would come…

He lay and relaxed, wet-faced and weak, in the light of the gas, and soon enough it came quite easily. He had to kill Netta Longdon, and then get to Maidenhead…

Who was Netta Longdon? He couldn’t for the life of him remember. It was a familiar name, but he couldn’t place it… Oh, yes, of course, ‘Netta Longdon’ meant Netta, the Netta he knew and there was such a lot of fuss about… Oh, dear – hadn’t he killed her
yet
?

He sat up on the bed in the ghastly light. This was awful. He had meant to kill her weeks ago. What had he been doing in the meanwhile? What had stopped him?

Oh, yes – and he had to kill Peter too. He had been just going to kill Peter when something happened. What had happened? What had he been doing all this time?

He was in Brighton – he realized that. Had he been in Brighton all the time? Had he dreamed that he had gone to London and nearly killed Peter? No – there was more to it than that. This was a separate trip. It would all come back soon…

He was trembling, and he had been crying. She had made him tremble and cry. It had all been going on too long – it had all been going on
again
– and still he hadn’t killed her, and still he hadn’t gone to Maidenhead. What had he been thinking all this time; had he been making more excuses, or had he forgotten about it, or what? It didn’t matter. He must kill her now. He must go to London and kill her at once.

He rose from the bed and stared at the light of the dull, green, midnight, nightmare gas. He must go to London and kill her at once.

He looked at his watch. It was five and twenty past twelve. Could he get a train now? Probably not. Very well then, he would walk. He would walk to London and kill her at once.

What a good idea. He would like a walk, it would clear his head. He would walk the whole way back to London and kill her, and then walk on to Maidenhead. He couldn’t sleep again until he had killed her, and so he had to keep walking, anyway. He was a great walker. And he was able to walk, because he had no luggage. It all fitted in – it was like fate. And he could go now, because he could remember paying a deposit – he had given the woman a pound.

He could go just as he was, unencumbered. It was all arranged.

He put out the gas, and lit a match, and groped his way down
the stairs, and let himself out of the little house in the little Brighton street. The rain had stopped, and it was a fair, breezy night