My Name is Michael Sibley (21 page)

But my feelings in regard to Prosset were very different.

I would drive down alone to Ockleton the following day. The idea and the plan whereby I would rid the world of him were growing crystal clear in my mind, and my thoughts caressed the project lovingly as I lay in bed that night.

Yet the whole thing fizzled out. It is typical of all my dealings with Prosset that even when I planned to kill him I failed. I have sometimes wondered whether I lacked the resolution, and whether I seized on his chance remark as an excuse to call the whole thing off. It may be so, but I do not think so. I think I would have gone through with it.

The next morning, Saturday, I slept late. In addition to the Whitsun holiday, I had the Saturday off.

I wrote a short letter to Kate which I slipped through the letter box and told her briefly that I would be out of town that day, but would be returning the following day. I added that she had nothing whatever to worry about and ended on an affectionate note. When I had delivered it, I had a glass of beer and a sandwich and in the early afternoon set off in the car.

I was filled with a great exultation as I contemplated my plan. I never considered the consequences of failure. Few murderers do. I saw the path from the bottom of the garden leading down the steep cliff to the beach, and the broken handrail at a bend in the path. Prosset was walking down in front of me wearing his bathing wrap, and I was following him closely—so closely that to steady myself I placed my hand on his shoulder blade. The bend in the path came nearer. So vivid was the mental picture, that I could hear above the noise of the engine the soft, padding sound of our bathing shoes on the hard ground, and smell the smoke from Prosset’s cigarette drifting back to me.

The beach was deserted and on our left we were protected from sight by the cliff face, while on the right we were hidden from the view of the nearest house by a fringe of trees. It was possible that somebody might be watching us from among the trees. Therefore as an added precaution I pretended to stumble and lurch forward at the bend in the path, for nobody can blame a man if his foot catches in something on the ground.

I heard his startled cry above the sounds of the traffic as he hurtled down to the rocks beneath and lay still, his white bathing wrap spread around him like the shattered wings of a mutilated gull. In my ears was the music of the sea at the foot of the cliffs, and through it a voice was shouting that Prosset was dead, dead and gone, and only his empty husk was left behind; and all the mockery and the sneers were wiped out and Sibley by his own action had triumphed over Prosset. Michael Sibley laughed last, and Kate was safe and had her refuge in which she could seek shelter, and the dog it was that died.

Then I thought I saw the white wrap stir and seemed to hear another cry on the sea breeze, and felt myself breaking out in perspiration. But a voice in my ear sneered: “That was only the wind which stirred the wrap, and the cry was the cry of a seabird. Don’t lose your nerve, old man. I’m dead. That’s what you wanted, isn’t it?”

I swung the car to the side of the road, braked and stopped. I lit a cigarette. When I had stopped trembling, I drove on again.

I swung off the road before arriving at the village of Ockleton and took the disused cart track which led to the cottage. When I arrived at about 4:30 p.m., Prosset was out. The weather seemed set fair, the sky blue and cloudless, the sun still warm.

I stood for a few moments enjoying the stillness of the evening after the sound of my engine had died away. I was surprised to find that I felt quite calm. It did not seem natural. I should have been keyed up, tense, apprehensive even, but certainly not calm. I did not even hate Prosset any more. Since he would so soon be lifeless, it seemed pointless to regard him any longer with emotion.

I went to the bottom of the garden, through the side gate, and walked a little way down the path to the beach until I could see clearly the bend and the broken handrail. It was as I had recalled it. I gazed at it for a few moments, then turned and made my way back to the house.

The cottage door was unlocked, and I went into the living room. Almost at once I noticed a slight but peculiar smell, neither pleasant nor unpleasant. It was so faint as to be almost unnoticeable, faintly pungent, yet at the same time sweet.

It was so remote that it made no real impression on me at the time. Indeed, I barely gave it a thought, more particularly because I had hardly gone beyond the threshold of the room before I heard the sound of an engine and guessed that Prosset had returned.

He was backing his Alvis under the trees when I turned the corner of the cottage. He had seen by the presence of my car that I had arrived, and waved to me, switched off his engine, and came towards me.

“Hello,” he said cheerfully, “I didn’t expect you. Is Kate with you?”

“Sorry to spring on you out of the blue. I changed my mind.”

“Glad to see you. Where’s Kate?”

“She couldn’t come. Her father’s not too well. She had to go down there. She doesn’t know when she’ll be back.”

Prosset frowned. “That’s damned bad luck. I was looking forward to having her down. I like her.”

“You do?”

“Yes; I do. She’s got a nice, friendly personality.”

“I’m glad you found her friendly. She’s rather shy with some people.”

Prosset slipped his arm through mine and led me towards the cottage.

“Of course, she’s no beauty, is she? But then you’re hardly an Adonis yourself, so what the hell? You know, I wish old David Trevelyan was here. It would be like old times. We really must lure him down for a weekend some time.”

“I’d like to see him again, I must say. Where’ve you been this afternoon?”

“Seeing a chap I know along the coast.” He looked at his watch and I waited with a curious feeling of detachment for the suggestion which I was convinced was coming.

“What about a dip in the sea? Or is it too late for you?”

“As a matter of fact, I’d rather like one. It was pretty warm in London.”

We went upstairs. He told me to put my things in the larger of the two bedrooms, and began to change into his swimming suit. I took rather longer, for I had to unpack one or two things first; while waiting for me, he sat on the edge of the bed talking and smoking. He seemed in good spirits. The calmness which I had felt up to now was beginning to evaporate. I was not frightened, but I was tense and rather nervous, as before a football match or an examination.

I looked at him and found it hard to imagine that that lively and enthusiastic being would in a few minutes be no more, the smooth, suntanned skin broken, the limbs mangled, the voice silent for ever. What shocked me most was that I felt no regret at the thought, nor the smallest urge to change my plans or to allow him to enjoy even for another day the recollections of the previous evening with Kate. He had made no reference to it. Neither had I. By way of making some sort of conversation, I said, “Where are you going for your holidays this year?”

“Ireland,” he replied casually, “as usual.”

“Do you always go to Ireland?”

He nodded. “Always. It’s a hell of a nuisance, really, but there it is.”

“Why go, if you don’t want to?”

He fidgeted with his bathing wrap.

“Oh, well, the guv’nor looks forward to it, you know. My young brother is out in Canada, and my sister is married to a chap in the Indian Army, so I’m the only one he sees at the moment. He’s rather immobile, you know.”

“How do you mean—immobile?”

“He had polio a few years ago. Infantile paralysis to you. There was terrific wind-up in case my young brother got it, too. He was only a kid at the time.”

I stared at him without speaking. Finally, I said, “Is he completely bedridden?”

“Oh, no. He gets around in a wheelchair a bit, in the garden and so on, like Roosevelt, only he’s not quite so active.”

“And you go home every year?”

“Yes. As a matter of fact, I’m taking my holiday in a week or two.”

“Quite early,” I said. Prosset nodded.

“I had a letter yesterday from the Mater.” Irritably, I wished Prosset wouldn’t stick to these schoolboy terms.

“The news wasn’t so hot. The old boy is in a pretty bad way. Heart, or something. He wants me to go over as soon as I can.” He hesitated. “I suppose I ought to go. It’s not very convenient. Still, one would feel a bit of a swine if anything happened.”

What a strange contradiction was his character! So much that was ruthless, so much that was heartless; and here and there, struggling for existence, like garden flowers choked by weeds, were the occasional streaks of sensitivity and the rare flashes of humanity.

I stood staring out of the window, watching the sun sink towards the sea. A gull was perched on the gate at the end of the garden: now and again it placed its beak under a wing, exploring vigorously and ruffling its feathers. Prosset was saying something about sailing, but I was not listening. Why should I worry about Prosset’s father? For all I knew, he was like Prosset. What concern was it of mine? Each man had to look to his own affairs in the modern world. I knew that while Prosset lived, wherever he might be in the world, I should not be entirely happy, and the chances were that I should be very miserable. Let Prosset’s father face his troubles as best he could. There was Kate, too. Would she agree not to see Prosset again if he were alive? Or would she leave me and hasten with Prosset to a private torment of her own making? In the balance, must the happiness of Kate be jeopardized for an old, dying man?

“Don’t stand dreaming all day or we’ll never get down,” said Prosset.

But I was visualizing an elderly man looking for the letter which should say that his son was arriving soon; and receiving instead a telegram which would drain the blood from his face.

I sighed. I knew that once again in the battle between Sibley and Prosset I had lost. A terrible feeling of depression descended on me as the tension within me relaxed. In this ultimate test I had lacked the necessary resolution, and Prosset had won. Poor old Mike. I had a feeling that I would never again be able to screw myself up to the same murderous decision.

“I think I will change my mind,” I said abruptly. “I don’t think I’ll bathe this evening. It’s getting cold.”

Prosset laughed delightedly. “I thought as much! This’ll amuse Kate. Well, anyway, come down to the beach with me.”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“Because I don’t want to.”

“The exercise will do you good. You’re getting fat as it is. Come on.”

“No. You go alone.”

“You always were a lazy swine,” said Prosset disapprovingly.

“Yes,” I said, and turned away.

In the event, of course, the telegram would still come to the house in Ireland, but at least I was not to be the willing cause of its arrival.

Yet I had my big moment. I tackled him that night just before we went to bed. I am glad I did so. I am pleased that the last time I saw him alive I fought him to a standstill, beginning in my own time and ending when I wished, and leaving him surprised and even, I hope, a little hurt. Malicious? Certainly. I am very malicious about Prosset. Even though he is dead, and thus for some obscure reason entitled with other dead men to have his virtues extolled and his vices forgotten, I still hate him. I will always hate him.

I have tried to portray some of his better points, but not even the fact that he lies in his grave will make me forget his bad points, or how he tried ruthlessly to steal Kate from me for reasons of his own.

“Prosset, I saw Kate last night, when she came home,” I said.

He was drinking some beer and reading. He lowered his pewter mug and book and glanced curiously at me. He did not look guilty, but rather amused. He seemed to be more intrigued to see the line I would take than to fear anything I might be going to say.

“Did you? What am I supposed to say?”

“You’re not supposed to say anything, if you don’t want to. You can listen.”

He took a pull at his beer. “It’s not my fault that she can’t hold her drink properly. She just got a bit pickled. It was hardly my fault.”

“Why the hell couldn’t you leave her alone?”

“You’re not married to her, are you? What’s the matter with you tonight?”

I went over and sat on the shabby window seat.

“I suppose you know I am in love with her?”

“What about it?”

“Are you?”

He laughed. He put down his mug and came over and stood in front of me. “Of course I’m not. She’s not my type.”

“Well, she’s mine. And because we were engaged you thought it would be rather fun to see if you could take her away from me.”

“You must be off your head, man. Have you been overworking?” He laughed again in his old, hectoring way. “For God’s sake pull yourself together man, and talk sense. Have a drink or something?”

“I don’t want a drink.”

“Well, go to bed and sleep it off. You’ll be better in the morning.”

“I am perfectly well.”

“Well, do you mind if I go to bed?” He moved back to his chair, shaking his head and muttering, “Poor old Mike!”