My Name is Michael Sibley

by John Bingham

  Yet that night I did not stop, for once. I went on walking and heard behind me the whining, imploring tones of the beggar. He caught me up as I stood fumbling for my latchkey, and stood at the bottom of the steps in the porch light, a man of about fifty or sixty, dressed in an evil-looking suit, dirty and tattered; he had a muffler round his throat and a dilapidated brown paper parcel under one arm.

  “Just a couple of coppers for a cup of tea, sir,” he said. I made no reply. “Just a couple of coppers for an old soldier, sir. It’s going to be a cold night, sir.”

  I had found my key and put it in the lock, and the warm hall lighting was revealed when I opened the door.

  “Just come out of hospital, sir. Give us a copper, sir. It’s the gas that got me, sir. Got me lungs, sir. I’ve got me papers, sir.”

  He began to fumble in his inside breast pocket. Oh, well, I thought, why not? I turned round and slipped a shilling into his hand.

  “God bless you, guv’nor.” He was bald-headed. A wreck, with a thin, unshaven face and dark fawning eyes. He had a long nose and deep lines on each side of a down-turned mouth.

  “When did you come out of hospital?”

  He wiped his nose with the back of his hand. “This morning, guv—North London. Been in three months.”

  He began again to fumble for his papers. These people are always anxious to show you their “papers.” They cling to their grimy, tattered documents as a drowning man clings to a lifebelt. They have an almost superstitious belief in the magic of their “papers,” pointing out things like “excellent conduct” and “discharged after treatment,” and their date of joining up and of demobilization. I have often glanced at these documents and never been able to make head or tail of them.

  I looked at him and thought how sad it was that a man should have nothing to fall back upon, to recommend him to the compassion and aid of his fellow men, except a few dirty ragged bits of paper, and even those of doubtful authenticity.

  He said he was making his way down to Sussex. He hoped to get a job on a farm. The doctor said he should work in the open air.

  “Wait a minute,” I said.

  He was about my size. I had an old suit, a brown pinstripe one which I had bought in Palesby, which had been cluttering up my wardrobe for months. I knew I should never wear it again. It was frayed round the sleeves and the trouser turn-ups, and the seat and elbows shone. I fetched it and gave it to him, together with half a slab of chocolate which was lying on my writing table.

  Maybe he didn’t want a job at all, and, so far from reaching Sussex, had no intention of going further than the Embankment. You could not tell, any more than you could guess the ultimate, inmost hopes and aspirations of Mary O’Brien, the Palesby prostitute. There is so much in life about which you can make no absolutely certain statement.

  Prosset would have classed him unhesitatingly as a good-for-nothing, and sent him about his business, and Prosset would probably have been right. But Prosset, for all his realistic outlook, was dead, and I was alive. I was often bewildered, uncertain and nervous. But I was alive.

  I thought now that it was ironic that what might pass as an act of kindness, in so far as intentions went, should end by embedding me deeper in police suspicions. It was easy to see what was in their minds. A violent murder, bloodstains on the suit, and the suit vanishes. Where was it? Had I burnt it? Destroyed it? Perhaps destroyed it that Sunday morning when I returned to London, or even on the way back? You did not need to be a Sherlock Holmes to see the line of reasoning: I had cancelled my visit to Prosset, in case he spoke about it to anybody. Then I had gone down unexpectedly. I picked a quarrel. I killed him. I returned unseen to London. I destroyed or got rid of my bloodstained suit. I did not mention my visit to the police until I had been compelled to. I imagined the Inspector talking:

  “But you forgot he kept a diary, didn’t you, Mr. Sibley?”

  “But he’s been my lifelong friend,” I’d say.

  “That’s what you say.”

  “You can’t prove the contrary.”

  “Not yet. There’s still time.”

  “Miss Marsden can say I was with her when Prosset died.”

  “Miss Marsden’s in love with you, sir.”

  I felt no inclination for breakfast. I used to eat it in bed, and read the paper and smoke for a while, for we did not have to get to the office until ten o’clock. But that morning, after Ethel had left the tray, I could only face a cup of tea. I could not force the food down. I smoked several cigarettes. I was getting scared. Moreover, the old worry about Palesby had returned. I knew for certain now that something had happened in Palesby which would encourage the police to try and build up still further the evidence against me. I had known it from the first, but what it was eluded me, despite all my attempts to recall it. I tried again, but the unsuccessful effort left me frustrated and depressed.

  As I dressed I found myself glancing out of the window when people passed. I was relieved when they were women, or men who had no official air, or children or tradesmen. At the office I felt an uncomfortable fluttering below the belt every time the telephone rang, which disappeared as soon as I learnt that the call was not for me. Another thing which added to my uneasiness, stupid as it seems, was that I had been remembering at intervals the curious dream I had had of the black cockatoos. I would not have minded so much if the central figure in it had not been Kate. I kept hearing the pathetic little cry she had given, and the look of despair she had thrown me as she had turned to pass between the rows of screeching birds. I tried to dismiss the whole thing from my mind, but it kept creeping back.

  It was my task that morning to interview Mr. Fawkes, the MP for Palesby, to get his views on a proposed alteration to a new Rent Restrictions Bill.

  Mr. Fawkes was one of the most tiresome MPs imaginable to interview. At the previous election he had narrowly slipped home to represent Palesby. He was uneasily aware of his narrow majority and also, I assume, of his Parliamentary salary. He was like one of those insects which have several eyes distributed around their heads so that they can see in all directions at once. Mr. Fawkes had an eye on the working classes; he had another eye on the middle classes; a third on the upper classes, and on all who might oppose his nomination at a future election; his fourth eye was on the Party Whips; and a fifth and final eye had a sort of roving commission to keep a sharp lookout for any unsuspected danger from any other unmapped quarter whatsoever.

  When I saw him he was in rather a quandary because the proposed amendment had been put forward, not by a Conservative or a Socialist, but by an Independent, and Mr. Fawkes was not yet sure of his Party line. Although he knew our group was sympathetic to him, when I cornered him at the House he treated me as though I were a bandit’s decoy leading him into an ambush. He at once threw out a light, protective advance guard.

  “I do not really care to be quoted in print from an impromptu interview,” he said, “but I may be able to help you.”

  Fearing he might already have said too much, he hastily organized a rearguard to keep open his line of escape: he had not, he said, too much time. Certainly not time to go into any detail. Nevertheless, could he help me? Yes, he could. What did he think of the proposed amendment?

  “The proposed amendment,” he said firmly. “Yes, the proposed amendment.”

  “Just a brief statement of your views, if you wouldn’t mind.”

  “It will naturally have to be considered entirely on its merits.”

  “Quite. I quite see that, Mr. Fawkes.”

  “Our Party, as you know, had always been conscious of its duty towards the working classes.”

  “I don’t think any reasonable person will dispute that.”

  “Therefore, in so far as it is likely to safeguard the interests of the lower-income groups, I am in favour of it. I could not be otherwise. Reasonable rents for the masses are essential, quite essential.”

  “On the whole, therefore, you are in favour?” I asked.

 
“I think it needs clarification, of course.”

  “Oh, quite.”

  “Nothing must be done which would in any way be prejudicial to property owners. God knows,” added Mr. Fawkes piously, “they have had enough to put up with as it is. But a limit has been reached. You cannot get blood out of a stone.”

  “Very true indeed.”

  “The proposed amendment must therefore be carefully scrutinized from every angle. Providing it tends neither to hamper private enterprise nor open the field to rapacious exploitation of the less well off, then I feel it is worthy of the most careful consideration. You can quote me as saying that.”

  “I can?”

  “Certainly. Yes,” added Mr. Fawkes, gaining courage, “quote me as saying that. You can polish it up a bit, of course, if you like. But keep the sense of it. Keep the strict sense of it. Well, there you are, young man. I’ve told you what I think.”

  It was then that my memory clicked.

  I was reflecting that you couldn’t tell what he thought, and that that was exactly what he intended. I was wondering what, in fact, he did think, and what opinion his constituents would have of him if they could see him humming and hawing and dithering because he did not know the Party line. I was telling myself how hard it was to know what people really thought, and then suddenly I was back in Palesby.

  I was sitting on the settee in front of the gas fire with Cynthia, and behind us were the little stuffed birds on the upright piano. We were feeling relaxed and friendly, and she was telling me about an office acquaintance who she always thought had liked her, but who had turned against her.

  “It isn’t as if I wasn’t nice to her,” Cynthia said. “I went out of my way to be nice to her when she came to the office.”

  “I’m sure you did,” I said. “You’re friendly by nature.”

  “Well, I am. I’ll say that for myself. But when old Laurie’s secretary left, she thought she ought to get the job. Mind you, she hasn’t been in the office six months, and I’ve been there years—nearly three years, in fact. But because she is older than me, and I got the job, she must have had it in for me. Yet she always acted ever so friendly to me before. I was surprised, I can tell you.”

  “It’s difficult to know what people really think of you,” I remarked. “A lot of us would get a shock if we could see into the minds of our so-called friends. I went about with a chap at school who thought I liked him. I not only deceived him, but everybody else as well. I hated him, and everybody thought I liked him. I could have murdered him. I’ve often felt like killing him. It was odd.”

  “What was his name?”

  “Prosset. John Prosset. That was his name. You are the first person I’ve ever told about it.”

  I outlined the story for her, painting Prosset in rather a worse light than he deserved. But she couldn’t understand it. It baffled her, as I should have known it would.

  “Why didn’t you tell him where he got off, and go about with somebody else.”

  “I couldn’t do. I wanted to, but I couldn’t.”

  She said nothing. She couldn’t understand it, and in a few seconds she began to talk about something else.

  Standing there in the corridor of the House, I could see it all again, hear her voice and the low hiss of the gas fire, and feel her hair against my face as we talked.

  I saw Mr. Fawkes, MP, nodding affably, well content with his skilful handling of a tricky interview. I saw him begin to drift off to the House of Commons restaurant. I heard myself thanking him, and I heard Cynthia again, saying, “What was his name?” And my reply, “Prosset. John Prosset. That was his name.”

  They wanted to telephone the interview to the Palesby Gazette, so, because it was getting late, I took a taxi in Parliament Square, but as I was carried back to the office I saw nothing of the streets or the traffic.

  I was thinking the Inspector would have a motive if he knew. A pretty vague one, but something to go on all the same. He said it wasn’t robbery, because Prosset’s money was still on him. He said he would have to look for some other motive. Once you’ve got a motive, the game’s half over. You’ve got a pointer. As it wasn’t robbery, he said, he would have to look for some other motive. A vague motive was better than nothing to a police officer. If the Inspector knew about it, he would be round again, looking at me with his light-brown, pebble eyes. I could see him opening my signed statement, and saying in his slow, unhurried way: “You say here, sir, your association with Mr. Prosset was invariably friendly. Was that quite true, sir?”

  I arrived at the office and typed out my interview. It was short enough. I heard Baines say, “Bloody hell. He didn’t commit himself much, did he?” And myself replying, “You didn’t expect him to, did you? You know what Fawkes is.”

  For the rest of the day I was busy at the office, and when evening came I wandered across to the Falstaff and had a couple of large whiskies, but the alcohol had little effect on me, except perhaps to increase my depression. I now knew why I had regarded the whole investigation into the Prosset case with uneasiness. At the back of my mind must have been lying dormant this recollection of a few words spoken to Cynthia in front of the gas fire in Palesby. If the police came to know about them, they would indicate, if not a definite motive, at least a frame of mind. They knew already that I had had some sort of disagreement with him. What if they learnt that I had always secretly hated him? I drew in a deep breath to calm myself. I must keep a cool head and not jump to conclusions. There must be no panic. There was no real cause for it yet.

  When I had finished my drink I walked down Fleet Street till I came to a telephone booth near the Law Courts. I rang up Kate. I told her I had a late job to do at the House. I did not know if she believed me or not, and I hardly cared. I only knew I felt restless.

  A woman’s intuitions, particularly if she is in love, are very acute. It is possible that she noticed some timbre in my voice which was not normal. She asked me if everything was all right, and I said it was. She asked if anything was the matter, and I denied it.

  I replaced the receiver and walked down the Strand, along Cockspur Street and up Haymarket, and so into Piccadilly Circus. I did not know where I was going, I merely wished to walk, to keep going. In Piccadilly Circus I again stopped at a public house and had another drink, and then strolled up Shaftesbury Avenue, gazing into shop windows absent-mindedly, or at the faces of passersby. I was not looking for anything and I had no objective in mind. I just knew that I wanted either to drink or keep on the move, one or the other. I could hardly believe that, without doing anything against the law, I could become such a changed person compared to the confident, carefree individual of a few days before.

  The question which was nagging at my mind, of course, was whether Cynthia remembered what I had said to her about Prosset. As far as I could recall, she had shown little or no interest. She was a girl who preferred to talk about herself, who was inclined to listen a little impatiently until I had finished saying something, preparatory to talking again herself. To Cynthia nobody was quite as interesting as Cynthia, and nothing was quite as interesting as what Cynthia had to say. But I could not be sure.

  At about nine o’clock, having wandered around Soho and down Charing Cross Road, I stopped for a sandwich in Chandos Street. It was one of those places where they have a penny-in-the-slot machine in which metal balls bounce against metal buffers and springs, and scores click merrily up in lights on a scoreboard. I had used up most of my silver on drinks and sandwiches, and apart from some banknotes I had only a few coppers left. I played at the machine idly for a while.

  After a few minutes I put my hand in my pocket for another coin, but there was none left. There was only my knuckleduster, my light aluminium knuckleduster, which I had bought so furtively that last whole holiday at school, while Crane was pottering about at the other end of the shop in Avonham.

  When my fingers came into contact with it I had a shock.

  I remembered that as far as I was aware nobo
dy knew that I carried a knuckleduster. The police did not know, even Kate did not know, for I was frankly a little ashamed of carrying it around. Yet in some way, from being a weapon with which a somewhat immature youth had thought to defend himself, against he knew not what dangers, it had assumed in the course of the years the role of a talisman, and I had never discarded it.

  But standing in that public house in Chandos Street, gazing at the electric scoreboard without really seeing it, I at once saw the interpretation which the police would place on it. Surely only a man prepared to use violence, and violence of an unsavoury nature, would carry such a thing round with him? Who would believe me, least of all a police officer, if I said that I carried the thing round largely from habit?

  I felt a wave of blood surging into my cheeks, and the palms of my hands grew moist. I had to get rid of it. That was obvious. But how? It is not the kind of thing you can leave on a table or toss on the floor or even into the gutter.

  I went to the bar and had another drink, under the impression that it would help me to think, whereas in fact it did the contrary. I found myself unable to concentrate.

  I went out into the street and stood uncertainly on the pavement. As I stood there I noticed one of those wire refuse baskets attached to a lamp standard. That was the solution. I would put it into a refuse basket. Not there, in Chandos Street, with people passing, but in some quiet street. Not in Harrington Gardens, because you could not be too careful, but perhaps in Brompton Road, near the Oratory.

  I walked along to the Strand to board a bus. On the way I bought an evening paper, for I was going to be very clever about it all.

  I got out at Knightsbridge and walked along Brompton Road to where the road forks near the Natural History Museum. I took the left fork, towards South Kensington Station, and saw a litter basket. I had folded the newspaper into four and placed the knuckleduster inside. When I was near the basket I looked behind me, but the pavement was deserted except for an elderly woman who was airing her dog, and even she turned back as I looked round. As I passed the litter basket I tossed the newspaper and knuckleduster into it, as though I was getting rid of a newspaper I had already read.