Murphy (20 page)

Following Mr. Endon’s forty-third move Murphy gazed for a long time at the board before laying his Shah on his side, and again for a long time after that act of submission. But little by little his eyes were captured by the brilliant swallow-tail of Mr. Endon’s arms and legs, purple, scarlet, black and glitter, till they saw nothing else, and that in a short time only as a vivid blur, Neary’s big blooming buzzing confusion or ground,
mercifully
free of figure. Wearying soon of this he dropped his head on his arms in the midst of the chessmen, which scattered with a terrible noise. Mr. Endon’s finery persisted for a little in an after-image scarcely inferior to the original. Then this also faded 
and Murphy began to see nothing, that colourlessness which is such a rare postnatal treat, being the absence (to abuse a nice distinction) not of
percipere
but of
percipi
. His other senses also found themselves at peace, an unexpected pleasure. Not the numb peace of their own suspension, but the positive peace that comes when the somethings give way, or perhaps simply add up, to the Nothing, than which in the guffaw of the Abderite naught is more real. Time did not cease, that would be asking too much, but the wheel of rounds and pauses did, as Murphy with his head among the armies continued to suck in, through all the posterns of his withered soul, the accidentless One-
and-Only
, conveniently called Nothing. Then this also vanished, or perhaps simply came asunder, in the familiar variety of stenches, asperities, ear-splitters and eye-closers, and Murphy saw that Mr. Endon was missing.

For quite some little time Mr. Endon had been drifting about the corridors, pressing here a light-switch and there an
indicator
, in a way that seemed haphazard but was in fact determined by an amental pattern as precise as any of those that governed his chess. Murphy found him in the south transept, gracefully stationed before the hypomanic’s pad, ringing the changes on the various ways in which the indicator could be pressed and the light turned on and off. Beginning with the light turned off to begin with he had: lit, indicated, extinguished; lit, extinguished, indicated; indicated, lit, extinguished. Continuing then with the light turned on to begin with he had: extinguished, lit, indicated; extinguished, indicated, lit; indicated, extinguished and was seriously thinking of lighting when Murphy stayed his hand.

The hypomanic bounced off the walls like a bluebottle in a jar.

Bom’s switchboard the following morning informed him that the hypomanic had been visited at regular intervals of ten minutes from 8 p.m. till shortly after 4 a.m., then for nearly an hour not at all, then six times in the space of one minute, then no more. This unprecedented distribution of visits had a lasting effect on Bom and continued to baffle his ingenuity up to and 
including the day of his death. He gave it out that Murphy had gone mad, and even went so far as to say that he was not surprised. This went some way towards saving the credit of his department, but none at all towards setting his own mind at rest. And the Magdalen Mental Mercyseat remembers Murphy to this day, with pity, derision, contempt and a touch of awe, as the male nurse that went mad with his colours nailed to the mast. This affords him no consolation. He is in no need of any.

Mr. Endon went quietly, back to his cell. It was of no consequence to Mr. Endon that his hand had been stayed from restoring his Shah to his square, and the hypomanic’s light from off to on. It was a fragment of Mr. Endon’s good fortune not to be at the mercy of the hand, whether another’s or his own.

Murphy put the men back into the box, took off Mr. Endon’s gown and slippers and tucked him up in bed. Mr. Endon lay back and fixed his eyes on some object immeasurably remote, perhaps the famous ant on the sky of an airless world. Murphy kneeled beside the bed, which was a low one, took Mr. Endon’s head in his hands and brought the eyes to bear on his, or rather his on them, across a narrow gulf of air, the merest
hand’s-breadth
of air. Murphy had often inspected Mr. Endon’s eyes, but never with such close and prolonged attention as now.

In shape they were remarkable, being both deep-set and protuberant, one of Nature’s jokes involving sockets so widely splayed that Mr. Endon’s brows and cheekbones seemed to have subsided. And in colour scarcely less so, having almost none. For the whites, of which a sliver appeared below the upper lid, were very large indeed and the pupils prodigiously dilated, as though by permanent excess of light. The iris was reduced to a thin glaucous rim of spawnlike consistency, so like a ballrace between the black and white that these could have started to rotate in opposite directions, or better still the same direction, without causing Murphy the least surprise. All four lids were everted in an ectropion of great expressiveness, a mixture of cunning, depravity and rapt attention. Approaching his eyes still nearer Murphy could see the red frills of mucus, a large point of 
suppuration at the root of an upper lash, the filigree of veins like the Lord’s Prayer on a toenail and in the cornea, horribly reduced, obscured and distorted, his own image. They were all set, Murphy and Mr. Endon, for a butterfly kiss, if that is still the correct expression.

Kneeling at the bedside, the hair starting in thick black ridges between his fingers, his lips, nose and forehead almost touching Mr. Endon’s, seeing himself stigmatised in those eyes that did not see him, Murphy heard words demanding so strongly to be spoken that he spoke them, right into Mr. Endon’s face, Murphy who did not speak at all in the ordinary way unless spoken to, and not always even then.

A rest.

‘The last Mr. Murphy saw of Mr. Endon was Mr. Murphy unseen by Mr. Endon. This was also the last Murphy saw of Murphy.’

A rest.

‘The relation between Mr. Murphy and Mr. Endon could not have been better summed up than by the former’s sorrow at seeing himself in the latter’s immunity from seeing anything but himself.’

A long rest.

‘Mr. Murphy is a speck in Mr. Endon’s unseen.’

That was the whole extent of the little afflatulence. He replaced Mr. Endon’s head firmly on the pillow, rose from his knees, left the cell, and the building, without reluctance and without relief.

In contrast with the foredawn which was pitch black, cold and damp, Murphy felt incandescent. An hour previously the moon had been obliged to set, and the sun could not rise for an hour to come. He raised his face to the starless sky, abandoned, patient, the sky, not the face, which was abandoned only. He 
took off his shoes and socks and threw them away. He set off slowly, trailing his feet, through the long grass among the trees towards the male nurses’ quarters. He took off his clothes one by one as he went, quite forgetting they did not belong to him, and threw them away. When he was naked he lay down in a tuft of soaking tuffets and tried to get a picture of Celia. In vain. Of his mother. In vain. Of his father (for he was not illegitimate). In vain. It was usual for him to fail with his mother; and usual, though less usual, for him to fail with a woman. But never before had he failed with his father. He saw the clenched fists and rigid upturned face of the Child in a Giovanni Bellini Circumcision, waiting to feel the knife. He saw eyeballs being scraped, first any eyeballs, then Mr. Endon’s. He tried again with his father, his mother, Celia, Wylie, Neary, Cooper, Miss Dew, Miss Carridge, Nelly, the sheep, the chandlers, even Bom and Co., even Bim, even Ticklepenny and Miss Counihan, even Mr. Quigley. He tried with the men, women, children and animals that belong to even worse stories than this. In vain in all cases. He could not get a picture in his mind of any creature he had met, animal or human. Scraps of bodies, of landscapes, hands, eyes, lines and colours evoking nothing, rose and climbed out of sight before him, as though reeled upward off a spool level with his throat. It was his experience that this should be stopped, whenever possible, before the deeper coils were reached. He rose and hastened to the garret, running till he was out of breath, then walking, then running again, and so on. He drew up the ladder, lit the dip sconced in its own grease on the floor and tied himself up in the chair, dimly intending to have a short rock and then, if he felt any better, to dress and go, before the day staff were about, leaving Ticklepenny to face the music,
MUSIC
, MUSIC, back to Brewery Road, to Celia, serenade, nocturne, albada. Dimly, very dimly. He pushed off. A phrase from Suk joined in the rhythm. ‘The square of Moon and Solar Orb afflicts the Hyleg. Herschel in Aquarius stops the water.’ At one of the rock’s dead points he saw, for a second, far beneath, the dip and radiator, gleam and grin; at the other the skylight, open to no stars. Slowly he felt
better, astir in his mind, in the freedom of that light and dark that did not clash, nor alternate, nor fade nor lighten except to their communion. The rock got faster and faster, shorter and shorter, the gleam was gone, the grin was gone, the starlessness was gone, soon his body would be quiet. Most things under the moon got slower and slower and then stopped, a rock got faster and faster and then stopped. Soon his body would be quiet, soon he would be free.

The gas went on in the w.c., excellent gas, superfine chaos.

Soon his body was quiet.

F
ORENOON
, Wednesday, October the 23rd. Not a cloud left in the sky.

Cooper sat –
sat!
– beside the driver, Wylie between Celia and Miss Counihan, Neary on one bracket-seat with his legs on the other and his back against the door, a very perilous position for Neary. Neary considered himself better off than Wylie because he could see Celia’s face, which was turned to the window. And Wylie considered himself better off than Neary, especially when they came to a cobbled surface or turned a corner. Faces held up Neary a little longer than they did Wylie.

Miss Counihan’s face was also turned to the window, but in vain, as she read there unmistakably. This did not greatly trouble her. They would never get any more than they were getting now, which she did not do them the credit of assessing at a very large amount. Indeed, they would never again get as much as the little that would shortly be withdrawn. Then they would come ramping to her again.

Miss Counihan could think ill of her partners, past, present and prospective, without prejudice to herself. This is a faculty that no young man or woman, stepping down into the sexpit, should be without.

For all except Celia, whose affective mechanisms seemed to be arrested, it was like being in the chief mourners’ cab, so strong was the feeling of getaway. Indeed, Brewery Road had become intolerable. The old endless chain of love, tolerance, indifference, aversion and disgust.

Miss Counihan would not have minded going up to Wylie if Celia had not minded Neary coming down to her. Nor would Wylie have objected in the least to going down to Celia if Miss Counihan had not objected most strongly to going up to Neary. 
Nor would Neary have been less than delighted to go down to either, or have either come up to him, if both had not been more than averse to his attentions, whether on the first floor or the second.

Accordingly Celia and Miss Counihan continued to share the bed in the big room, the latter shedding lights on Murphy that were no credit to herself and no news to the former; and Neary and Wylie to take spells in the bed in the old boy’s room, each evoking Celia according to his disposition.

So Neary and Celia cease slowly to need Murphy. He, that he may need her; she, that she may rest from need.

To cap all Cooper was given a shakedown in the kitchen. Through the keyhole Miss Carridge watched him, settling down for the night in his socks, moleskins, shirt and hat. A dull coucher for Miss Carridge.

For two days and three nights they did not leave the house. Neary, because distrusting his associates singly and as a pair he feared lest Murphy should arrive while he was absent; Wylie and Miss Counihan, for the same reason; Cooper, because he was forbidden; Celia, because it did not occur to her; Miss Carridge, because she had no time. It seemed as though none of them would ever go out again, when relief arrived in the shape of an assurance from Dr. Angus Killiecrankie that so far as the fear of missing Murphy was concerned, they might all take the air without the least anxiety.

Nothing was said on the way down. For the little they knew of the little they felt could with no more propriety be
acknowledged
than denied. Celia leaning back with her face to the window was aware only of all the colours of light streaming back into the past and the seat thrusting her forward. Miss Counihan pressed her bosom with vague relish against the lesser of two evils that had befallen her. So long as she had not lost Murphy thus beyond recall, the risk subsisted of his setting her simply aside without more, which would have been bad, or in favour of Celia, which would have been awful, or of some other slut, which would have been pretty bad also. In a somewhat similar 
way Neary, for whom the sight of Celia had restored Murphy from being an end in himself to his initial condition of obstacle (or key), had cause to be pleased with the turn events had taken. And to Wylie, between jolts and corners, the only phrase to propose itself was: ‘Didn’t I tell you she would lead us to him?’ But politeness and candour run together, when one is not fitting neither is the other. Then the occasion calls for silence, that frail partition between the ill-concealed and the ill-revealed, the clumsily false and the unavoidably so.

They were received at the Mercyseat by Dr. Angus Killiecrankie, the Outer Hebridean R.M.S., an eminescent home county authority and devout Mottist. He was a large, bony,
stooping
, ruddy man, bluff but morose, with an antiquary’s cowl whiskers, mottled market-gardener’s hands thickly overlaid with pink lanugo, and eyes red with straining for degenerative changes. He tucked up his whiskers and said:

‘Mrs. Murrphy?’

‘I fear we were just his very dear friends,’ said Miss Counihan.

Dr. Killiecrankie drew a singed envelope from his pocket and held it up with the air of a conjuror displaying the ace. It bore the name Mrs. Murphy and the address in Brewery Road, pencilled in laborious capitals.

‘This was all we had to go on,’ he said. ‘If he had any other papers, they were consoomed.’

Neary, Wylie and Miss Counihan flung out their hands with one accord.

‘I’ll see she gets it,’ said Neary.

‘Without fail,’ said Wylie.

‘His very dear friends,’ said Miss Counihan.

Dr. Killiecrankie put up the envelope and led the way.

The mortuary was at its bungaloidest, the traveller’s joy gleamed wanly with its pale old wood, the scarlet ampelopsis quenched the brick. Bim and Ticklepenny were sitting cheek by jowl on the dazzling granite step, and out in the middle of the forecourt of lawn a short but willowy male figure, dressed wearily in black and striped, his lithe bowler laid crown downwards on 
the grass beside him, was making violent golfing movements with his umbrella. Appearances were not deceptive, it was the county coroner.

They entered the mortuary, when the little duel between R.M.S and coroner as to which would pass second had been amicably settled without dishonour, in the following order: R.M.S. and coroner, twined together; Neary; Miss Counihan; Celia; Wylie; Cooper; Ticklepenny and Bim, wreathed together. They proceeded directly along a short passage, flanked on either hand with immense double-decker refrigerators, six in all, to the post-mortem room, a sudden lancination of white and silver, to the north an unbroken bay of glass frosted to a height of five feet from the floor and reaching to the ceiling. Outside the horns of yew had the hopeless harbour-mouth look, the arms of two that can reach no further, or of one in supplication, the patient impotence of charity or prayer.

Bim and Ticklepenny paused in the passage to collect Murphy. They slid him out on his aluminium tray, they carried him into the p.m. room, they laid him out on the slab of ruin marble in the key of the bay. In the narrow space to the north of the slab Dr. Killiecrankie and the coroner took up the
demonstrative
attitude. Bim and Ticklepenny awaited the signal at the head and foot of the tray, the four corners of the sheet gathered in their hands. The rest drooped in a crescent near the door. Celia watched a brown stain on the shroud where the iron had scorched it. Wylie supported Miss Counihan, mistress of the graded swoon, who closed her eyes and murmured, ‘Tell me when to look.’ Neary remarking with a shock that Cooper had taken off his hat and that his head was apparently quite normal, except that the hair was perhaps rather more abundant than is usual in men of Cooper’s age, and horribly matted, suddenly realised that Cooper had sat all the way from Brewery Road.

‘These remains,’ said the coroner in his nancy soprano, ‘were deposited just within my county, my county, I am most heartily sorry to say. Another long putt and I would be sinking them now.’ 

He closed his eyes and struck a long putt. The ball left the club with the sweet sound of a flute, flowed across the green, struck the back of the tin, spouted a foot into the air, fell plumb into the hole, bubbled and was still. He sighed and hurried on:

‘My function perhaps it is part of my duty to inform you is to determine, one, who is dead, and, two, how. With regard to the latter matter, the latter matter, happily it need not detain us, thanks to the, how shall I say—?’

‘The irrefragable post-mortem appearance,’ said Dr. Killiecrankie. ‘Mr. Clinch, please.’

Bim and Ticklepenny lifted the sheet. Celia started forward.

‘One moment,’ said Dr. Killiecrankie. ‘Thank you, Mr. Clinch.’

Bim and Ticklepenny lowered the sheet. Celia remained standing a little in advance of the others.

‘I say shock following burns,’ said the coroner, ‘without the slightest hesitation.’

‘Not the slightest,’ said Dr. Killiecrankie.

‘Death by burns,’ said the coroner, ‘perhaps I am expected to add, is a wholly unscientific condition. Burns always shocks, I beg your pardon, my dear Angus, always shock, sometimes more, sometimes less, according to their strength, their locus and the shockability of the burner. The same is true of scalds.’

‘Sepsis does not arise,’ said Dr. Killiecrankie.

‘My physiology is rather rusty,’ said the coroner, ‘but no doubt it was not required.’

‘We arrived too late for sepsis to arise,’ said Dr. Killiecrankie. ‘The shock was ample.’

‘Then suppose we say severe shock following burns,’ said the coroner, ‘to be absolutely clear.’

‘Yes,’ said Dr. Killiecrankie, ‘or severe shock following severe burrrns. I do not think that is too strong.’

‘By all means,’ said the coroner, ‘severe burns let it be, followed by severe shock. So much for the
modus morendi
, the
modus morendi
.’

‘An accident?’ said Neary. 

The coroner stood quite still for a moment with the stupefied, almost idiot, expression of one who is not quite sure if a joke has been made, nor, if so, in what it consists. Then he said:

‘I beg your pardon.’

Neary repeated his question, on a rising note. The coroner opened and closed his mouth a number of times, threw up his arms and turned aside. But words never failed Dr. Killiecrankie, that for him would have been tantamount to loose thinking, so up went the whiskers.

‘A classical case of misadventure.’

Unromantic to the last, thought Miss Counihan. She had taken out her leaving certificate.

‘Before we get completely out of our depth,’ said the coroner, ‘perhaps there is something else the gentleman here would like to know. Whether for example it was a Brymay safety that exploded the mixture, or a wax vesta. Such poor lights as I possess are his to extinguish.’

Neary attended to his nose with studied insolence. Wylie felt proud of his acquaintance, for the first time.

‘Then perhaps I may venture to proceed,’ said the coroner, ‘to the other matter, the identity of the ac – the deceased. Here I need hardly say we find ourselves embarrassed by that very feature of the – the—’

‘Tragic occurrence,’ said Dr. Killiecrankie.

‘Very feature of the tragic occurrence that stood us in such good stead in the matter of the manner of death. The matter of the manner of death. Still we must not complain. What does the poet say, Angus, perhaps you remember?’

‘What poet?’ said Dr. Killiecrankie.

‘“Never the rose without the thorn”,’ said the coroner. ‘I quote from memory, bitter memory.’

‘Mr. Clinch, please,’ said Dr. Killiecrankie.

Bim and Ticklepenny reached forward with their corners, Bim received the shroud in folio, converted it deftly into octavo, and both stood back. The very dear friends moved up to the slab, Celia in the centre and still a little to the fore. 

‘By all accounts,’ said the coroner, ‘if I may say so without prejudice, it was a person abounding in distinctive marks, both mental and physical. But—’

‘You forget the moral,’ sneered Dr. Killiecrankie, ‘and the spiritual, or as some say, functional.’

‘But whether—’

‘Remarkable for the pertinacity,’ said Dr. Killiecrankie, ‘with which they elude the closest autopsy.’

‘But whether any of these have survived the conflagration,’ continued the coroner, ‘is a question that I for one, and I should imagine all those who were not of the inner circle, cannot presume to decide. It is here that you may help us.’

Such a silence followed these words that the faint hum of the refrigerators could be heard. The eyes of all, seventeen in all, strayed and mingled among the remains.

How various are the ways of looking away! Bim and Ticklepenny raised their heads together, their eyes met in a look both tender and ardent, they were alive and well and had each other. Dr. Killiecrankie slowly sunk his head, till he was nothing but legs, skull and whiskers. He owed not a little of his reputation to this gift of seeming to brood when in fact his mind was entirely blank. The coroner did not move his head, he simply let go the focus and ceased to see. Neary and Wylie diverted their attention calmly to other things, the appointments of the room, beyond the glass the bright green and the dark green, leaning on the blue of heaven. The disclaimer was evident. One rapid glance from his solitary eye was enough for Cooper, whom the least little thing upset. Miss Counihan looked away and back, away and back, surprised and pleased to find she was of such stern stuff, annoyed that no trace remained of what she had known, chagrined that she could not exclaim, before them all, pointing to her justification: ‘This is Murphy, whose very dear friend I was.’ Celia alone seemed capable of giving her undivided attention to the matter in hand, her eyes continued to move patiently, gravely and intently among the remains long after the others had ceased to look, long 
after Miss Counihan herself had despaired of establishing the closeness of her acquaintance.

From his dream of pins split and bunkers set at nought the coroner came to with a start and said:

‘Any luck?’

‘Could you turn him over?’ said Celia, her first words for fully sixty hours, her first request for longer than she could have remembered.

‘By all means,’ said the coroner, ‘though I fancy you have seen the best of him.’

‘Mr. Clinch,’ said Dr. Killiecrankie.

The remains having been turned over, Celia addressed
herself
with a suddenly confident air to the further of the charred buttocks and found at once what she sought. She put her finger lightly on the spot and said: