Beyond This Place

by A. J. Cronin

  "Yes," Dale admitted. "You could call it wild."

  "And his friends? He has no one to take care of him?"

  "He has a mother . . . and a girl in Belfast, but they seem more or less to have given him up. He's been living on the streets until lately . . . quite alone."

  "Poor young man." Sprott spoke with a note of pity. "Everything points to the need for institutional care. He'll come up before the police magistrate tomorrow morning I presume?"

  "Yes," Dale answered in a hard voice. "There is no way out of that."

  This time the prosecutor's tone was not pained. The mellow unctuousness dropped from him and his answer went through the Chief Constable like a knife.

  "I am not seeking a way out. Unless it be for both of us."

  Now there was no doubt as to which was the stronger personality. In a quieter manner the prosecutor resumed.

  "I think Mr. Battersby, the magistrate, is a very sound man."

  "He is," Dale said, in that same slightly unnatural tone. "If he fixes bail high enough we're sure of a remand."

  "I do not ask you to press the matter in any venal or questionable sense," Sprott said directly. "But it might be well for you to have a word with him, explaining the psychopathic aspects of the case, indicating that a remand would give us time

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  to arrange a competent medical examination which, after all, would be in the young man's best interests."

  "Yes," Dale said.

  "Very well, then," Sprott said. Then he added with great distinctness, "Make no mistake this time."

  He rang off.

  A full minute later, and slowly, the Chief Constable hung up the receiver.

  CHAPTER IX

  THE police court opened next morning at ten o'clock. The courtroom, on the first floor, was lofty but quite small and informal, with a mahogany dais for the magistrate underneath the window, a row of chairs for the public on either side and, at the end, a wooden bench for the prisoners. It was a draughty chamber and a folding leather screen had been placed between the dais and the window, cutting off a good deal of the light. On the ceiling was a fresco of the city arms — two archers with drawn bows against an oak tree vert — which no one ever saw.

  The red-necked officer took Paul upstairs. He did not seem a bad sort this morning — his breath smelled as though he had just enjoyed an after-breakfast pipe. As they left the cell he glanced meaningly at Paul's bruised and swollen eyes.

  "Nasty fall you had yesterday, cully. Take care you don't slip up this morning. You follow me?"

  Paul did not answer. Towards the early morning he had actually slept for several hours, a pained uneasy oblivion into which as into a dark pit, he had dropped from utter exhaustion. But this rest had not revived him. He could not understand why he felt so weak; even to breathe demanded an effort; and his side hurt him so badly he had to keep his left arm pressed hard against it in an effort to control the pain. But, in contrast, his

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  mind was again keyed to that pitch of feverish sharpness which had characterized all his mental processes since memory had been restored to him. He saw everything with a bright, unnatural lucidity. And he was firmly determined that he would speak out, reveal everything. Yes, this time nothing would deter him.

  When he was escorted through the side door and shown his place on the prisoner's bench the court was already in session and the magistrate, Mr. Battersby, a thin middle-aged man with a kindly yet careworn appearance, had begun to deal expertly with the usual run of misdemeanours. Paul studied him as he rapidly disposed of three elderly drunks, a youth caught collecting betting slips, a street hawker who had traded without a license, an old musician accused of begging, a tramp apprehended for being "without visible means of support."

  The magistrate's lips were thin, moulded by his office to an apparent severity, but his eyes were wise and humane. He never smiled at the blandishments, the cajoling pleas of the old "lags" who stood before him. Yet none of his sentences were severe, several first offenders he merely bound over, and a young girl charged with petty theft he turned over, without comment, to the representative of the Salvation Army. To himself, Paul said: "This is a man who will listen to me."

  Suddenly, while he studied Mr. Battersby, he became aware that he himself was the object of a steady and compelling inspection. He looked towards the public seats and immediately saw Lena. She was not alone. Beside her sat a complete stranger to Paul, a man of about forty, very bulky and unwieldy, wearing a flannel suit, a carelessly knotted tie, and a creased tweed overcoat which had seen much service. His battered soft hat was pushed back on his head, exposing a round bald brow. All his face was round and chubby, presenting, despite the frankly unshaven jowls, a curious nakedness which the pale-lashed eyes made a great effort to conceal by assuming a look of boredom. He had apparently for some minutes been contemplating Paul with this disillusioned detachment, but now, although his expression did not alter, he raised his forefinger and laid it against his lips. It was a trivial, short-lived gesture yet somehow its sig-

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  nificance was overpowering. Paul glanced quickly at Lena, read the appeal in her eyes, then returned his gaze to the corpulent stranger, who nodded once, slightly, but again with irresistible meaning, before tilting back his chair and examining his finger nails with the air of one to whom the proceedings had no further interest.

  At that moment Paul's case was called. He had barely time to think as he stood up, dizzily, listening to the charge rattled out against him. He observed that, for the first time, the Chief Constable had entered the court and taken a seat near the dais with his back to the body of the court.

  "Well, what have you to say for yourself?"

  The magistrate looked down at Paul with an attention far less perfunctory than that bestowed by him on the earlier cases. There was a short pause. The flood of words was ready, ready to gush forth but somehow, for some reason which ran contrary to his own will, it would not come. He did not even dare to look at the public seats towards Lena, or the stranger who had given that singular, compelling signal. But suddenly, irrespective of his own volition, he hung his head and, in a tone of simulated COn-trition, copied fairly well from the old hands who had gone before him he muttered:

  "I'm sorry, your honour. Perhaps I'd had a little too much to drink."

  There was a short but complete silence. Paul could see the Chief Constable straighten himself in his chair. Mr. Battersby cleared his throat.

  "You were intoxicated? At your age that's a positive disgrace."

  "Yes, your honour."

  "Aren't you ashamed to admit it?"

  "Yes, your honour."

  There was a submissive note in Paul's voice which made the magistrate frown in perplexity. He examined some notes on the desk before him then leaned forward.

  "Why did you make this demonstration . . . chaining yourself in the most public place in the city?"

  "I've told you, your honour. I'd had one too many. I must have wanted to show off."

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  "Can you explain the . . . the monstrous poster that you displayed?"

  "No, your honour. I meant no harm. When people have had a glass . . . you know they do silly things."

  Although Paul did not see it, a faint flicker, which might have been a smile, twitched the lips of the man who, having abandoned the inspection of his finger nails, seemed now bent on trying to decipher the murky coat of arms on the roof. The Chief Constable, sitting up stiffly, had half turned in his place, exhibiting his hard profile to the court. The magistrate glanced imperceptibly in his direction before putting his next question to Paul.

  "You have never made a demonstration of this kind before?"

  "No, your honour."

  "But you have suffered at times from nervous attacks?"

  "I don't think so, your honour."

  A pause.

  "What are your political opinions?"

&
nbsp; "I have none."

  Again the magistrate hesitated, redirecting his gaze, in undecided fashion, towards the impenetrable figure of the Chief Constable. At last he seemed to make up his mind.

  "Young man, in the ordinary way I should fine you two guineas and costs and dismiss you with a caution. But from responsible representations made to me I am of the opinion that your case may be more serious than is presently indicated. I shall therefore fix bail at fifty pounds. Failing this you will be remanded in custody, to enable the police to collect further evidence."

  As this judgement was pronounced the stranger in the public seats forgot to register detachment. He seemed neither indignant nor surprised, but a peculiar interest stirred in his bilious eyes. On Lena's face there was a look of startled concern.

  "Can you find bail in the amount of fifty pounds?" The clerk of the court was asking Paul, in a sing-song voice.

  "No."

  "Can you name any person who will guarantee the amount?"

  Paul had begun to shake his head when the stranger rose.

  "I am prepared to put up bail."

  Paul stood perfectly still, his hot hands locked together.

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  Meanwhile, the Chief Constable had swung round, his expression or surprise and chagrin turning to sudden anger.

  "I protest. I want to know where this money comes from."

  "It comes from me — L. A. Dunn, of 15 Grant Street, in this noble and historic city. I have it here, in my pocket."

  "I protest."

  "Silence in court."

  "Your honour." The Chief Constable persisted. He was on his feet now, his jaw hard and grim. "I protest that the bail set is insufficient. I request that the amount be raised to a more substantial sum."

  "Silence in court."

  The magistrate waited stiffly, refusing to proceed until the Chief Constable had resumed his seat. Then, in a seriously provoked tone, he announced:

  "This court wishes to make it quite clear that it is not subject to influence or suggestions from the police or from any quarter whatsoever. It sees no reason to reverse its present decision. Bail will therefore be accepted in the amount of fifty pounds. Next case."

  As Paul quitted the court he was conscious of a scene of some confusion, of Dale arguing with the magistrate, then abruptly turning away through the private side door. Nevertheless, fifteen minutes later, having submitted to the formalities conducted by the clerk of the court in his chamber, Paul walked out, free.

  He came into the open street, where the brightness of the day struck at him like a shining spear and made him sway. Then he saw Lena and her companion, standing together on the pavement, not ten yards away. The sight of Lena brought a strange solace to his lacerated heart. She did not move. It was the big flabby man who approached, his overcoat flapping open, his hands in his pockets, hat more than ever on the back of his head.

  "Excuse me," he said. "My name's Dunn. I'm a friend of Miss Andersen's. We were waiting to take you back to Ware Place."

  "Why have you done this for me?" Paul said.

  "Why shouldn't we do it?" Dunn smiled absently. "When a man's as sick as you, he needs a little help."

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  There was a tingling silence. Paul's gaze wavered away towards Lena whose anxious eyes had never left his face.

  "I feel badly about this," he muttered, through the drumming in his ears. "Bringing you into it."

  "Don't worry, Son. We'll survive it."

  Dunn put two fingers in his mouth and whistled piercingly: the cab that was passing drew up at the curb. Dunn helped Paul in, then Lena and he followed. They drove to Ware Place.

  Half an hour later Paul was undressed and in the spare bed, washed, propped up on two pillows, with a cold vinegar compress on his bruised, burning forehead and a hot-water bottle at his icy feet. He had managed to swallow and keep down the glass of milk which Lena had brought him. That infernal pain still stabbed at his left side but this was far outweighed by the relief of being out of the cell and back in this peaceful room.

  Wedged in the narrow wicker chair, still encumbered by the eternal hat and coat — the impression grew that he slept in them — Dunn had not once taken his eyes off Paul.

  "Feel better?" he inquired.

  "Much," Paul gasped.

  Dunn made no comment — perhaps he had his own views upon the matter. Once again he studied his bitten finger nails, for which he seemed to have a profound admiration. Then he said:

  "Look here, son. I don't want to worry you when you're sick. But I understand you've something on your mind. I've heard about it from Lena, who incidentally is quite an old friend of mine. But if you care to get it off your chest, yourself . . ." He made an expressive gesture with his shoulders.

  "Are you a lawyer?"

  "Holy Church forbid."

  Lena had been downstairs, but now she came back to the room, and seated herself on a low stool behind Dunn.

  Both figures were in the direct range of Paul's vision, he could view them without the fatigue of turning his head. He began to speak, his gaze resting upon them, stopping occasionally to regain his breath, feeling, in Dunn's silent attention, in Lena's absolute immobility, an encouragement to unburden himself, of everything that lay upon his soul.

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  When he finished there was a long silence. Dunn who, during the hearing, had sunk lower and lower into the chair, slowly prized himself loose. He yawned and stretched himself, pulled the curtain aside and looked out of the window.

  "It's raining again . . . what a goddam climate." He yawned again and turned to Lena. "Look after him. We have five weeks before he surrenders to his bail."

  He leaned against the door for a few seconds, took a cigarette from his overcoat, placed it unlighted between his lips. There was a sleepy look in his eyes. Suddenly he rolled his bulky frame round and, without a word, went out.

  CHAPTER X

  THIS man, Dunn, with the bored eyes and close-bitten nails, was a product of Wortley city and of certain odd hereditary circumstances. His full name, Luther Aloysius Dunn — which he concealed like a crime, making deadly enemies of those who dared to use it — affords the first indication of his origin, for he had come to being as the result of a "mixed" marriage, which, in contrast to many such unions where mutual tolerance and understanding are achieved, had been a most unhappy one. His Cal-vinistic mother and Catholic father had warred fiercely and continually. The child's life was a misery, torn, as it were, between Chapel and Church — later he confided to his intimates that he had been baptised in both places, and he grew up with a nervous antipathy for organised religion.

  When the boy reached the age of fourteen his father was killed in a street accident — he went out after a hearty breakfast, reviling John Knox, and came back before lunch, on a stretcher, dead. A just retribution! But the widow, after a period of blank-ness, was inconsolable — discovering too late her dependence upon this stiff-necked upholder of Papal Infallibility and, incredible as it may appear, she reversed the whole current of her

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  life. Her own strivings are unimportant — but they had at least one consequence for her son — she removed him from the public school and sent him to the Jesuit college on Hassock Hill.

  Here he was treated by the fathers with the most prudent consideration — on his admission the wise old director of studies had blinkingly surveyed him, then remarked to his colleagues: "Now for God's sake leave that boy alone." Nothing could have surpassed the unobtrusive encouragement he received, but he was now fifteen and the damage had been done. He never felt himself part of the corporate life of the college. He kept to himself, went alone to football matches in remote parts of the city, stole down to the billiard saloon at the foot of Hassock Hill where he would sit for hours — his interested, serious face a pale moon in the smoky air — quietly watching the green cloth. He loved games, although he never played them, and his knowledge of the reco
rds and achievements in every branch of sport was quite encyclopaedic. Since he had a certain talent for composition, Father Marchant, his English master, encouraged him to write little pieces relating to athletics for the college magazine. And when, at eighteen, he graduated — a silent, slightly downcast youth — he obtained through the intervention of the Director of Studies, a position in the office of the Wortley Chronicle, a daily paper of limited circulation but independently owned, and of high reputation.

  For the next few years his life continued wholly uneventful. He ran errands, cut and pasted, and, on rare occasions, went out to report the most minor of local sport events. His first contribution to the Chronicle, which he cut out and carefully preserved, filled the tag end of a column.

  Later, however, they began to send him on less trivial assignments, water polo games in the Corporation Baths, boxing contests at Blakely's Arena, and it was seen, recognised at the main desk, though not of course disclosed, that he was good, vivid in his appraisals, graphic in his descriptions. On New Year's Day, when he was only twenty-five, he was given, without warning, the choicest of all sporting assignments — the local senior league football game, which draws annually a frenzied multitude and sends two thirds of Wortley raving mad. From the press-box

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  Dunn dictated two columns straight over the private wire; then, next morning, he turned in a feature article. This feature article did not describe the game at all, but dealt simply with a single incident which had occurred during its progress.

  On that same afternoon James McEvoy, the editor of the Chronicle, who was also its owner, came wandering out of his office with the article in his hand. It was characteristic of McEvoy that he never "sent" for anyone. He sat down beside Dunn's small desk.

  "What does this mean?" he inquired, tapping the article with his pince-nez. "I ask you to report a football match. You give me a story on a young half-back accidentally kicked on the head. While he's unconscious, you show me thirty thousand human beings yelling for his blood. Then you show me another thirty thousand equally ready to destroy the opposing centre. You describe the shouts, the abuse, the partisan fights, the bottles thrown at the players, the gashed cheek suffered by the referee ... in a word, you give me a picture of jungle sportsmanship, of racial and religious intolerance which would make an Esquimo . . . sitting in his igloo . . . blush."