Hangover Square

by Patrick Hamilton

He was on the front and the rain was impossible – impassable. He turned into a pub near the Grand. He was in a saloon lounge, with bar and tables. He ordered a bitter, and noticed that the fire had been thoughtfully lit in spite of the season. The summer had crashed. He went over and warmed his wet legs, made them steam in front of the fire.

  He sipped his beer, and wondered where he was to go, what he was to do. He had got to get away, get a job – start again. But not in London, and not in Brighton.

  Of course, he would have to go back to London – he had all his things there. He would go back tomorrow. But after that, where? And where could he get a job? Who could help him, who did he know? No one. Except Johnnie. Perhaps Johnnie would help him. Yes. He would go back tomorrow and ring up Johnnie. He wouldn’t see them ever again.

  He would ring up Johnnie and perhaps Johnnie would help him get a job – a job somewhere else – away from London. Then he would get well. He ordered another beer and came back to steam his legs again.

  To get away – that was all he could think of now. But where was there, apart from London and Brighton? The ‘country’… What was the country? Somerset?… Devonshire?… Cornwall?… Hampshire?… Yorkshire? Or down the river somewhere, where he had been when he was a boy, and his sister Ellen was alive… Shepperton, Cookham, Maidenhead?…

  ‘Maidenhead’… A faint, rather funny feeling came over him as he mentioned Maidenhead to himself – a feeling as though he had been reminded of something – as though there was something he ought to remember about Maidenhead… It was like one of those sensations you had when you went into a strange room, or a strange place, and felt you had been there before… (And people said it was reincarnation or a trick of the brain.) ‘Maidenhead’… What was it?… He puzzled for a little, and then gave it up, and went on thinking and steaming his trousers.

  He had four beers altogether, and then went out on to the front. The rain had stopped now, but the wind was thundering madly all over the streaming esplanade, and he sought the shelter of the town. In a side street he passed a sports shop, and, seeing some sets of golf clubs on display, stopped to look at them.

  He could never resist looking at golf clubs in a window, and he remembered his sixty-eight of yesterday. Yes, it was only yesterday, incredible as it seemed after all he had been through… Then he had felt well, then he had planned to become a golfer again. Now he was a ruined man, drinking beer in a summer which had crashed over a seaside town.

  He had planned to become a golfer, to start again. Well, wasn’t he planning to start again now? Then why not get some clubs and start his new life with golf – the one thing at which he was any good? No – that was absurd – he couldn’t afford clubs. But why not buy a club – just one club – to remind him of golf? A number five, say, and take it back with him and perhaps play on the little approach course – what did they call it? – at Holland Park at the top of the Earl’s Court Road, opposite the Kensington Cinema?

  Golf. The one thing you could do. He went into the shop, and came out a few minutes afterwards with a number seven. He had decided that a number seven, on the whole, was the best thing for Holland Park.

  He felt astonishingly cheerful. The club was wrapped in brown paper – a sort of brown-paper bag made specially for golf clubs – but he knew how sweet and gleaming and sticky-gripped it was underneath, and he saw the shots he was going to make with it. He approached holes and made the shots as he walked along. You couldn’t be anything but cheerful with such a thing under your arm.

  He was so cheerful he decided to have lunch, instead of having any more drinks, and then to go to a cinema.

  He had lunch at the restaurant on the first floor of the Regent, and then went into the cinema below, carrying his brown-papered club.

  He was out at six and had a few more drinks and went to bed at ten. So his holiday at Brighton ended. He slept well. In the morning he packed, and tipped the cheerful porter, and took a taxi for the 9.5 to London. It was not until he was nearly halfway to London that his head clicked again.

  Chapter Four

  He was reading his newspaper…

  ‘It was only when Miss Fields herself pleaded “Please make way”, he read, ‘that she was able to enter Broadcasting House.

  LOOKED EXHAUSTED

  ‘She looked pale and exhausted when she reached the vestibule.

  ‘Miss Fields said to listeners: “My goodness, it is wonderful to be back at this old microphone again and to be able to speak to and thank you all wonderful people for the great love and affection you have shown to me during what has been the most dreadful ordeal of my 41 years.

  ‘ “Thank heaven and Mr Searle, the surgeon, and all those wonderful sisters and nurses at the Chelsea Women’s Hospital.

  ‘ “I want to say ‘Thank you’ to the Bishop of Blackburn. The day he came to see me was I think the most critical day of my illness. I felt that all the life had gone out of me and I could feel myself slipping back.

  IT WAS WONDERFUL

  ‘ “After your prayers, dear Bishop – if you are listening – a miracle seemed to happen. I felt myself slowly gaining strength again. It was wonderful.

  ‘ “Now I want to say ‘Thank you’ to all you wonderful people from all over the world, who have written me such beautiful letters, and for all the wonderful flowers, telegrams and presents.

  ‘ “I tell you that you have made me cry. I have been so overcome by your devotion.

  ‘ “Maybe you would like to hear the old voice – they haven’t been mucking about with that. I am going to sing some verses of a song that you all know. The words express all that I… ” ’

  Click!…

  Click… Here it was again. He was sitting in a damp, stuffy, third-class compartment, reading his newspaper, and it had happened again.

  He tried to read on.

  ‘She sang, “I Love the Moon…” At the end of her song she said, “Thank you, Mr B.B.C. Good night and God bless you…” Miss Fields will leave for Capri today. It is expected…’

  But he couldn’t make any sense of the words. He could only think of what had happened in his head.

  He looked slyly around, over his newspaper, at his fellow-passengers, to see if they had noticed what had happened, observed some change in his appearance, but they didn’t seem to have done so.

  He sat there, very, very still, pretending to read his newspaper. He looked like one seized in public with a sudden pain which he endeavours to hide – an earache, a toothache, colic. Like such a one his eyes strayed furtively, and then became fixed… strayed again, and again became fixed, thoughtful, dead.

  He was, he realized, in a train on his way from Brighton to London. A moment ago such a realization would have had some comprehensibility and point, now it was merely a dead grey thought in a dead grey world…

  The third-class compartment, the people in it, the sky splashing drops of rain on to the pane, the newspaper in front of him, all were grey and dead. But he had something to do. The wheels clicked and rumbled beneath him, and he waited to find out what it was…

  Lulled by the sound of the wheels, he went into a sort of doze for a few minutes, and when he came out of it he knew all about it. He had, of course, to kill Netta Longdon. Netta Long-don and Peter. He was probably on his way to do so now, he couldn’t quite remember.

  Yes – that was right. He remembered working it out as he walked that morning along the Brighton front to Portslade. He had at first thought of doing it at Brighton, but then as he had walked he had decided that that wouldn’t be safe, first of all because there wasn’t a really useful private place to kill them in in Brighton, and secondly because he would be too far from Maidenhead. He would have to journey up to London before he could get there, and the police might get him, they were so quick. Why, they might have arrested him on the train! He had been one too clever for them. You had to be careful. He kept on forgetting you had to be careful.

  And now where was he? He was on the train, very wisely having not
killed them. And where were they? Oh yes – they were back already: they had left early in the morning yesterday – turfed out of the hotel. Everything fitted in wonderfully. He had decided not to kill them in Brighton, and they had most obligingly gone back to London for him at once. And now he was following them back to Earl’s Court, where he had arranged to do it at once on his return. He had worked out his plan on the walk to Portslade. He couldn’t quite remember the details, but he knew he had arranged to do it at once on his return.

  ‘At once.’ Did that mean now – today? That was a bit stiff, wasn’t it? He ought to have some time to think about it.

  No – there he went again! Putting it off - vacillating, delaying! What was wrong with today – it was as good as any other day, wasn’t it?… And go to Maidenhead tonight?… What a funny idea. But wasn’t his bag packed? Wasn’t everything ready? It looked like fate.

  Maidenhead! Tonight! Peace! A thrill ran through him such as he had never quite felt before. Maidenhead tonight – away from everything – the whole bloody thing which had been going on too bloody long! Maidenhead, peace, the river, an inn, a quiet glass of beer, and safety, utter safety… Maidenhead, where he had been with poor Ellen, the river in the sun, in the shade of the trees, his hand in the water over the side of the boat, the sun on the ripples of the water reflected quaveringly on the side of the boat, his white flannels, tea in a basket, the gramophone, the dank smell at evening, the red sunset, sleep! Tonight!

  Curse it, it was raining… But it would be fine tomorrow. It was still summer. He would get up early and would be down in a punt at Cookham by midday. And the sun would shine, and he would get under the trees, and there would be no Netta, and no policemen, and no killing and sordidness. It was on! It was a date!

  There was just the sordid thing to be done. Well, he had never shirked a duty. ‘Yes, I’ll admit that you have a certain – er – torpid conscientiousness of sorts, Bone,’ old Thorne had once said. Which meant that he was a plodder, that he got things done, in his own dull way. Well, he would show old Thorne he was right. He would get the thing done before dark.

  What was his plan? He had worked it all out on the walk to Portslade, but now it had slipped away again. He had got to get them both together in Netta’s flat, that was the thing. And that was the difficulty, to make sure of having them both together. It had been child’s play when there was only Netta, but now he had both on his hands.

  Blast Peter, for butting in like this. Couldn’t he leave Peter out of it! No, no – that was out of the question now. There could be no Maidenhead, no peace down there, with Peter left out loose and alive – the thought was absurd – he might just as well kill Peter and leave out Netta! They were both in it together – two in one, and one in two.

  Then how had he planned to get them together? Ah, yes – it was coming back – the bottle of gin and the blunt instrument. He was to get them together with the bottle of gin, and hit them with the blunt instrument.

  The blunt instrument was for Sir Bernard Spilsbury – ‘evidently some blunt instrument’. It wouldn’t be right unless he made it a blunt instrument for Sir Bernard Spilsbury. He remembered deciding that.

  But what instrument had he decided upon? What was blunt? He looked round the compartment. An umbrella? That wasn’t blunt. A suitcase – that was blunt but too unwieldy. Then, on top of his suitcase, he saw his golf club wrapped up in brown paper.

  A golf club!… What about a golf club? Perfect? What could be more harmless-looking, what could he himself wield more skilfully or with direr effect than a golf club? Innocence itself! This was genius… Practising in Netta’s room – practising swings, and then the appalling accident. He had no idea that Peter was standing there! Peter laid out, and then settle with Netta anyhow – settle with both of them.

  This was sheer genius. The uncanny cleverness of it. He was really quite excited now – both by what lay ahead and by his own cleverness. He looked around at his fellow-passengers, to see if they noticed how clever he was, the sort of man they had amongst them.

  ‘Excuse me, sir,’ said the rather pompous man opposite, ‘if you’ve finished with that paper of yours, would you exchange it with mine? I’ve exhausted this.’

  ‘No. Certainly,’ he said, ‘good idea.’ And he handed over his News Chronicle and took the Daily Mail.

  ‘Nothing much in any of them, I’m afraid,’ he said.

  ‘No,’ said the man, ‘very little new.’

  He opened the Daily Mail and pretended to read it. There was cleverness for you. ‘Nothing much in any of them, I’m afraid.’ So completely natural. Here he was, plotting a killing in the next few hours, and he could make entirely natural conversation in a train. ‘Nothing much in any of them, I’m afraid.’ Just like that. And now he was opening the paper, and pretending to look at a column which interested him, fooling the pompous gentleman opposite. He could fool anybody. It was almost too easy.

  But he must not be vain. In that way he would cease to be clever. He was so clever that he could see even that. He had to be clever, cunning, right up to the very end, right until he got to Maidenhead. Then there would be no cunning and no sordidness any more; only peace, the bright, watery, quavering reflection of the ripples on the side of the boat…

  Chapter Five

  He walked along the platform at Victoria towards the barrier. His head bobbed amongst the other heads, and he entered the dense bottle-neck of human beings by the ticket-collector. For a moment he felt a little disquieted: he had a nasty sensation of being in a complete dream. He had to force himself, as it were, to keep awake in this dream. He couldn’t understand what all these people, none of them about to kill anybody, were up to – what they were getting at. They had no reality: nothing had any reality. There was only his plan: he had his plan and he was going through with it now. His plan was all he had to stick to, in a confused, meaningless, planless world.

  He was feeling disquieted, so he went and had a beer at the buffet. He felt it would put him right. It did.

  He came out and went straight to the telephone booths, dragging his suitcase and brown-papered golf club with him.

  Because they were all filled and electric-lit, he had to wait some time before he could get into a booth: but at last he seized his chance and dragged his suitcase in and propped his golf-club parcel against the cork wall on which people had drawn drawings and scoured chocolate-coloured circles with impatient pennies. He had his plan, and put his two pennies in without hesitation.

  He got her almost at once.

  ‘Hullo,’ she said.

  ‘Hullo, is that you, Netta?’

  ‘Yes, who’s that?’

  ‘This is George, Netta.’

  ‘Oh – yes?…’

  ‘What happened to you? You just vanished. I’ve just arrived at Victoria.’

  ‘Oh… have you?’

  ‘Yes… What happened to you, you just faded out? You didn’t even leave any message.’

  All part of the plan… He had worked it out. He had got to he natural, to pretend to he hurt. They’d think there was something phoney if he wasn’t.

  ‘Didn’t we?’ she said. ‘Well, we couldn’t as a matter of fact. We were turfed out. I’m sorry.’

  ‘How do you mean “turfed out”?’

  ‘Turfed out. They told us to go.’

  ‘Well, I still think you might have left a message.’

  ‘Do you? I don’t see why… I’m very sorry but we just didn’t think about it.’

  ‘And I had to pay the bill, didn’t I?’

  ‘You’re very quarrelsome, George. We’ll pay you back, if you’re worried about the money. What’s the matter with you?’

  ‘Oh nothing… Netta. Listen.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Can I come round and see you. I’ve just found a bottle of gin in a suitcase. I’d forgotten all about it. I thought Peter might come round and we’d open it up together.’

  She paused.

  ‘All right,’ she
said, ‘come round if you like.’

  ‘Is Peter there?’

  ‘No, I haven’t seen him.’

  ‘Oh well, I’ll phone him up. I’ll be round about twelve. Is that all right?’

  ‘All right. Yes.’

  ‘All right then. Good-bye, Netta.’

  ‘Good-bye.’

  He came out into the station. He still felt dream-like, dull, bewildered, bat he knew he had done all right.

  Now for the taxi to Paddington…

  Paddington! Things were getting close, drawing near, be coming very real! Paddington to Maidenhead – it had come to stations now! He had so many times thought of this trip in his mind, but he had never quite thought of it as it would be when it was a near reality. Victoria to Paddington, Paddington to Maidenhead. It was all very exciting.

  There were plenty of taxis drawing up in the station yard. He waited while one of them ejected its passenger, and then said to the driver, ‘Paddington Station, please,’ and got in with his suitcase and golf club.

  It was pouring with rain. They went up by the wall of Buckingham Palace, and then into the Park up to Marble Arch, and then along the Bayswater Road, and then into Hyde Park Square, and past the chemist who called himself Chymist, and up again to Paddington.

  A porter opened the door and took his suitcase and golf club. He paid the taxi-driver, and said to the porter, ‘I only just want to park that in the cloak-room,’ and the porter said, ‘Very good, sir,’ and led the way to the cloak-room.

  While they were waiting in the noisy station for the cloakroom attendant to take in the suitcase, the porter said. ‘What time’ll you be wanting this, sir?’ and he hesitated and replied, ‘Well – I don’t really know – sometime today.’

  ‘Where’s it for, sir?’ asked the porter.

  ‘Er – Maidenhead,’ he said. ‘How do the trains go in the evening – do you know?’

  ‘Well – there’s the 5.15, the 6.13…’ said the porter, and reeled off a lot of trains.

  The attendant came at last, and snatched the suitcase and golf club.