The Secret Journey (89 page)

Could you manage to come down here and see me this evening? Fanny's in hospital and her condition is worse so they say. I feel too dead beat to drag all the way up to Hatfields, and in any case I'm rather ashamed of being seen anywhere round that neighbourhood now. Do come if you can.

D
ENNIS
F
URY
.

Mr. Kilkey squeezed the note into a tiny ball, rubbed it between his fingers. Then he hurried up the yard. A few minutes later he came out, putting coat and cap on as he ran. In the entry he stopped, looked up and down, then ran again.

‘Saw it coming,' he said to himself. ‘Saw this coming.'

He turned the corner, bumped into a man making a convenience of the entry. Hey's Alley. So that was where they lived. And Fanny was in hospital. Well! Well! ‘Good Lord,' he exclaimed. ‘But I could see it coming.'

Yes, he saw it coming. ‘Hey's Alley. Never heard of the place. New one on me. So that woman's on her back at last. Knew it! Knew it! Saw it coming.'

He reached the street, slowed down until he was clear of it, and in the King's Road began to run again.

‘Five o'clock—nine o'clock. Five o'clock—nine o'clock,' he was saying to himself as he ran. ‘Might manage it. Doesn't say where, which place she's in, either. Just do it, I reckon. In hospital. Knew it. Knew it. Saw it coming.'

He caught the first tram going south. ‘Where's Hey's Alley?' he asked the conductor.

‘Don't know,' he replied.

‘Where's Hey's Alley?' asked Mr. Kilkey of a fellow-passenger.

‘I dunno,' the man said.

Mr. Kilkey looked round, caught a man's eye, asked: ‘You know, mate?'

‘Don't know, mate. Never even heard of the bloody place.'

The tram swung round the corner.

CHAPTER III

I

One passed by, glanced in, went on. One came, stopped watched a moment, wondering. Each saw through the glass door. Each went away. The annexe was newly built, one could smell the newness in the air. The room where the woman lay was oblong in shape. High ceiling, bare walls, polished floor, a rough table. Two chairs, the white-railed bed, the chart of the patient overhead. The room was soundless, the woman lay motionless in the bed. Beyond it the hours had a beat and rhythmic rising and falling, and through them as through a torrent the life of the day passed. Within the room hours stood still under the arch that silence made. Now the woman stirred uneasily in the bed. Now turned this way, then that. A hand rose, fell listless to the bed. The mouth trembled, the nose showed bone under the thin skin. The bed pulled downwards, the head sunk in the pillow. The cheeks were drawn, the forehead a map of lines, a railway junction upon the flesh. The hair was matted, the eyes closed and sunk. The woman was sixty-three. The prone position enhanced the length of her body. She was thin. Something about the face attracted. Behind it something throbbed and struck like a hammer. The hammer struck downwards upon the woman's brain. It beat like a hear. It was tireless. It struck again and again. The body, seized by frenzy, tossed and threshed upon the bed.

One came and watched, went away. The hammer struck downwards and from the burst of sparks grew a bright circle. She saw things in the circle, and as she saw them the circle moved, slow, then fast, then furious. She cried, shouted; once screwed up her mouth.

One came again down the corridor, opened the door, looked in, waiting. The woman cried again, then yelled. The hammer struck again. She saw a man standing over her.

‘Wretch,' she cried. ‘Beastly wretch.'

The one watching came in, looked at a small bright instrument in his hand. The gentle sea of outside sounds washed over the room, disturbed the air, broke silence; the arch fell. A clock struck. The sounds washed out again. The woman shouted: ‘Peter!' An arm flayed the air. The circle grew wider, more bore down upon her, more sparks, more men. She saw clearly: ‘What have you done?'

The man with the instrument approached the bed. He watched the first movements, understanding all. He bent over the woman.

She was by the window when he came in. They looked at each other. He shouted. She was afraid. She went and sat on the sofa. This was her son. He was tall, he was like her. He was his mother all over. She saw this. Behind her, looking out of the window, the other son. Fair haired. He was silent. ‘What is this?'

The one who shouted, shouted again: ‘You and your bloody money! Money! Money! Money!' Then he thumped the table with his fist. ‘Your rotten stinking, bloody money—
MONEY
—MONEY.' He laughed—said: ‘Here! There!' He talked fast. Began to slobber. He bent over her; she was so near to him that she felt his breath upon her face. She looked into his eyes.

‘What have you done! Tell me! For God's sake. You look like a drunkard. A madman.'

‘Be careful,' the other son said, soft voiced. ‘You can't come here shouting and raving about money.' He saw blood on his brother's hands. He was silent then. He watched, and like the mother was afraid of this shouting brother.

‘Money! Money! Money! It's a song. A song! I heard it since I was born. Since I grew up. Since I went away. Money! We want money! More and more——' he yelled. ‘Money! Give us money! I haven't enough money. I can't manage to-day. To-morrow! Sorry the fees were late. Oh, Mr. Priest, the fees—the fees—fees—fees—fees.'

They saw him dance on the floor.

‘God! Oh, mother of God!' she cried. This one was drunk. This wretch. This youth—this priest-to-be. He was drunk. ‘Where have you been?'

They saw him sit on the floor. He dug his hands into his pocket. ‘Money! Bloody old money! Always looking for money. Hell! Here's your money! Here's the dirty, rotten, stinking, bloody money!'

He jumped up, emptied his pockets. Money rattled, notes flew into the air. A bundle dropped. He picked it up—unloosed it, threw it into the air. ‘Your bloody, crying money. Money! Money! Money! There it is.'

He threw it into the air, again, a cloud of notes, a cloud of money. He grinned at his brother.

‘There it is.' He drew more from his pocket, whirled his arms about, flung it into the air. He moved nearer, and she was afraid and drew back and cried: ‘Peter! Are you mad?'

He touched her face with his. Then he drew more notes from his pocket. ‘Here's the stuff you cry about. Here's your money.'

He spat on a note and stuck it on her face. She began to cry.

‘Here, you devil. Have you gone mad?' the other one said. He rushed at him. ‘Coming here drunk, you ought to be ashamed of yourself.'

They fought. She watched them, through fingers that tried to hide the sudden horror on her face. She watched him fling the fair-haired one to the floor.

She cried: ‘Anthony! Quick. Get somebody. Get Joe.'

He ran out. The other still shouted. He must be stark raving mad. No! He was crying. He was laughing—he was smiling. He was bent over her shouting. He spat on another note, stuck it on her eye.

‘Here's the stuff—the bloody money, money, money!' He gathered it up, threw it over her. He plastered her face with the notes. He pushed her head back, tried to force a bundle of notes into her mouth. ‘Here! Here it is.
MONEY
! Bite it, taste it, feel it, kiss it, suck it, eat it. Go on. Eat the bloody stuff. The money! Money! Money!'

She cried to herself.

He plastered her face with notes. He stuffed it down her blouse. The room was full of money. The air was full of it. He kept picking it off the floor, flinging it into the air. He smothered her with money. Yes. There it was. Money! Piles of it. Money! Bags of it.

‘Eat the bloody lot.' He stood still then, watching her.

The brother came in, a man following behind him. They did not look at the woman but at him. The newcomer saw his hands and coat-sleeve. ‘Better send for the police,' he said.

She cried: ‘Peter! Peter!' Her body threshed the bed. It turned, heaved, stretched, rose, fell. Suddenly all was quiet again. She lay there breathing heavily. The one with the bright instrument went out. The door closed. All was quiet again. Evening drew on.

She cried: ‘No! No! Not that! Not that! Peter! Not that! Not that!'

He said: ‘Remove the woman from the court.'

She fell; they picked her up, long serge coat trailing in the dust, carried her out of sight.

‘Quite rightly the prisoner's plea has been disregarded by his counsel and by this court. Gentlemen of the jury, you have heard the evidence and much besides. Remember you are only concerned with the evidence. Counsel for the defence in his admirable exposition has laid weight upon certain factors which, however, are not relevant in law. I am not sitting here either as a scientist or a sociologist. I am here simply to administer the law. It may or may not be news to you that in our day such people as the deceased could exist, let alone thrive in any civilized city. During the course of this case I may say I have received letters—four letters, all from individuals who are pleased to instruct me that an interest of eight hundred per cent. on loaned money is no exception. They inform me they know of this or that person who, duly licensed by the corporation officials, charges one thousand per cent. I dealt with those letters in the only way one can. I had them destroyed. We are not here to determine rates of interest. Nor are we here to concern ourselves with the fact that this young man was in love with his brother's wife, or that the mother was unwise to the fact. Counsel for the defence has informed you that if these pools of vice did not exist the accused would not be where he is to-day. Again it has been laid before you that he is oversexed and they instance the effect his early life has had upon him. The effect of an early life. But the youth is only eighteen. I ask you to disregard that. The evidence for the prosecution is clear and simple. He struck this woman down. I am sure, and I have felt so all along, that the witness Corkran is an honest man. From what he has publicly declared on oath you will have learned that there was not one woman, but two. Distressing as the facts are, you must, nevertheless, cast from your minds everything not entirely relevant to the case. I know that you will consider your verdict wisely and justly.'

‘Swing for it.'

‘Ten years.'

‘Too young to swing.'

‘Hot on the women.'

‘Only a kid.'

‘Listen.'

‘Here they are.'

‘Not yet.'

‘They
ARE
.'

‘Peter! Peter! No! No! Not that! God, not that.'

‘Remove the woman from the court.'

‘Listen.'

‘Hard lines.'

‘Looks only a kid.'

‘Damn! Recommended to mercy.'

‘Remove that woman at once.'

‘And I shall see that the recommendation is forwarded to the proper quarters.'

‘Clear the court.'

‘Peter! Peter!'

‘Clear the court.'

‘This woman has fainted. Carry her outside.'

‘I never deserved this. Never!
NEVER
! NEV——'

‘Stick your hand on her mouth. Poor old bitch. Who is she, anyhow?'

‘I dunno.'

‘Coat's full of mud.'

‘That's better. Fresh air do her good.'

‘
Gelton Times
!
Gelton Times
!'

‘Verdict in Ragner case! Special.'

‘Peter! Peter!'

‘Who is she?'

‘Dunno.'

‘We don't know.'

‘I don't know.'

‘Nobody knows.'

‘Special! Special! Ragner case verdict! Special! Ragner case——'

The body lunged in the bed. Turned, twisted, the lips were framed with slobber.

‘Cry! Cry! Cry, you wretch! Oh God! I never——Peter! Cry! You devil … I——'

‘I can't cry.'

The cell was square, and by the door one watched, hands jammed through a belt.

‘Go on! You wretch, cry! Oh, Peter! I'm disgraced! Oh God! Why! Why! I tried—I tried …'

‘Mother—I—I can't—cry. I'm sick. I'm going to be sick.' He leaned on the wall.

‘You must say your good-byes now,' the one fingering his belt said. He looked away.

She looked at her son, seemed to fall on him. She slobbered into his ear.

‘I'll never forget this. Never! All my life I've believed in two things. In God and in being clean. Peter, my dear son. You can't look me in the face now. It'll kill your poor father. Oh, Sacred Heart of Christ, I never dreamed this.'

‘Must go now.'

‘Bye, bye——'

‘I——'

‘Bye, bye. God help you, you poor weak creature you. You poor weak creature.'

The door banged. Winds blew down the corridor. The stones stared.

‘Peter! Peter——'

‘Please! Please!'

‘This is the woman. Put her in a cab and have her sent home.'

‘I am her solicitor.'

‘Yes, sir. I see! Remove her now.'

‘This way.'

‘Is there nobody here who knows this woman?'

‘Dunno.'

‘Have you nobody here to take you home, Mrs. Fury? Your daughter—husband—son?'

‘My name is Joseph Kilkey, and I will take the woman home.'

‘That is very kind of you. Thank you.'

The taxi rushed through sound—‘Special! Special! Ragner case verdict! Special!' The taxi lurched. He saw the huddled heap. She saw him. She cried out: ‘I loath you! You ugly wretch, I hate you!'

Mr. Kilkey remained silent. He looked out of the window.

‘Keep away from me.'

He thought she would pitch towards him. The taxi rocked.

The bed creaked, the body swayed. She was caught. Tied. She could not run.

The clock ticked, the hours fell. If she tossed much more the heart might burst. She ran, ran from all the known things. She ran from Hatfields. She ran, crying, her mind circled by two words. Filth! Filth! They carried her back to the house.