That was like…as if everything suddenly went into jerks, like one of those old pictures, where they walk funny, and I heard her say, ‘I hope you don’t mind, but I’ve brought a friend. This is Tom,’ but it came all in snatches, and I heard myself say, ‘Oh, yes, how do you do?’ as if it wasn’t me at all, because I recognised him immediately, the one from the shelter, the handsome one, and I’m thinking, is it you?
Because you don’t know what they’ll look like, do you? There’s no reason why a murderer should be an ugly man, and that’s all going round in my mind, and at the same time I’m thinking, don’t be ridiculous, it can’t be him, a man who looks like that would never… I mean, why should he? He can get a girl any time he likes, and I told myself not to be so stupid, because he seemed nice enough, but standing there with his face coming at me in flashes—eyes, hair, mouth, cheekbones—I didn’t know what to think. Normally, I can judge a man—well, with my experience, I ought to be able to—but this was like lots of little pieces, and I couldn’t make them fit together. All the time I’m remembering when I’ve had men who couldn’t satisfy themselves, and how some of them get nasty. I’ve never had one I couldn’t deal with, but this is a different thing all together, knives and pokers…you don’t expect it with a young man, or a man who looks like that—and a fighter pilot, too—but that doesn’t mean it never happens, and a nice girl like Lucy wouldn’t have a clue about that sort of thing.
My mind was whirling, and the girl was talking away but I wasn’t hearing half of it. It crossed my mind just to bring out the hanky and give it to her and say thank you, and then they’d go away and that’d be the end of it, but at the same time I was thinking of Lily and Edie and Annie and I just couldn’t do it, because I had to know. That makes it sound noble, but it wasn’t; it was all happening so fast I didn’t know what I was doing at all, really, and I heard myself say, ‘Oh, do come in,’ and there I was, taking them through to my big room, and the minute we’ve got past the curtain in the doorway I see the blue felt case where I’ve left it on the mantelpiece, in front of the clock. But they’re right behind me and it’s too late to go over and hide it, because they’d notice, and I’m thinking, what am I going to do, oh dear God, what am I going to do?
Then the girl, Lucy, sits down in front of the mantelpiece and I’m thinking, that’s all right, she can’t see it, but he’s not sitting down, he’s looking around, and I’m thinking, any minute, he’ll see it, and if it’s him… Then I think, I’ve got to distract them, and I’m talking about tea and all sorts, but when the girl says yes, that means I’ve got to go through to the kitchen. And I’m standing there waiting for the kettle to boil with my heart going like the clappers and I’m praying, praying it isn’t him. So then I’m making this tea, thinking, calm down, Rene, get hold of yourself, and trying to think about what I’m doing: now I’m getting the cups, now I’m opening a tin of milk, now I’m filling the teapot, but it’s like a nightmare, and I can hear them in the other room, whispering, and then I think, maybe it’s a trick, they’re in this together, they’re going to kill me. But at the same time I know it can’t be true, and if it’s either of them it must be him, but I can’t be sure…
I go in with the tray, and there’s the girl sitting there with the blue coat, and for a moment I think, she’s wearing my coat, but then I remember, we’ve got the same model, and she’s talking and I’m talking and he’s looking round, looking round, and then he says he’d like a glass of water so I go back to the kitchen because I’ve got a cold tap, and he follows me, and of course I have to stand with my back to him, filling the glass. I’m chattering away—God knows what I’m saying—but I can feel his eyes on me, and I’ve got my shoulders hunched up and I’m thinking, he’s going to come for me any minute now, if I can only smash this glass in time and get it in his face, I’ve got a chance, at least… Then I hear a movement behind me and I whip round and the glass crashes against the edge of the sink and breaks. There’s shards of it all over and blood trickling down my arm, and he’s there by the door still, staring at me. We look at each other and then I notice his eyes on the jagged bit of glass that’s in my hand and the blood, and that’s when I know for sure. I’m certain it’s him from his eyes, the look in his eyes…and he takes a step towards me, and I take a step back, but there’s nowhere to go because the sink is in the way and I’m pressed right up against it, and he opens his mouth to speak and a voice behind him says, ‘Oh, you’ve cut your hand! Are you all right? Can I help?’ and it’s Lucy. She sounds so normal and relaxed that I know she’s nothing to do with it and she’s a good kid, so I tell her not to worry and I’ll sort it out myself. She goes back out again, but he’s still in the doorway, watching me, so I say, ‘Yes?’
‘The water.’
‘Oh, yes. Water, of course.’ I take another glass off the shelf and fill it and hand it to him and he says, ‘Thank you,’ and follows Lucy into the other room. I run my cut hand under the tap and when I turn round for a tea-cloth to dry it, I catch sight of the table and it looks different, somehow, not the table itself but the things on it. For a moment I can’t think why, but then I realise it’s the tin-opener that I used for the milk, it’s gone, and I think, no, that’s mad, I’m going mad, I must have put it back in the drawer. But when I look it isn’t there, and my hands are shaking, going through all this cutlery, and there’s blood falling on it, from my hand, but the tin-opener’s not there, and it’s not on the floor, either, or in the sink, and I’m thinking, no, you’re imagining it, you’re dreaming, pull yourself together… I rinse my hand again and put a plaster on it, then take a deep breath and go through to the other room.
I glance at the tea tray, but the tin-opener isn’t there, either. Lucy’s still in the chair in front of the mantelpiece, but he’s standing up, and the other armchair is facing the mantelpiece, so I sit down quickly, and the girl is talking away and I’m talking back, and I hear myself telling her all about the cat called George that they thought was a he-cat and turned out a she-cat and I’m thinking, for God’s sake, Rene, these could be your last words, and you’re talking about some bloody old fleabag of a cat. She’s smiling and nodding, and I can see him out of the corner of my eye, standing there watching us, and when the siren goes I nearly jump out of my skin, but it’s a relief because it’s the perfect excuse to get them out and then I’ll go straight round to Harry. Without thinking I look over at the clock and make some silly remark about how it’s late tonight… Even as I’m saying it I realise I’ve made a terrible mistake because now he’s looking at the clock and she’s looking at the clock but I know they’re not seeing it, they’re seeing the blue felt case underneath, Lily’s case, and the siren’s going and he looks at her and sees where she’s looking, and then she looks at him and looks at me and then he looks at me and the siren stops. There’s silence and I know it’s him, I can see it from his face, and I’m trying to work out if she knows and if she knows I know, and I’m trying to think what to do, but it’s as if my brain has got stuck. Then she opens her mouth to speak and he cuts across her and says, ‘Where’s the lavatory?’
Saturday 19th October
Jim
After a week sitting in the Ops room doing sweet FA, it was a relief to get away this afternoon. I sat on the train into London, watching the faces. My brain still felt like cotton wool. These last few days, everything’s looked like it does when you fly through cloud, and all the sounds seem muffled. Must be that stuff the MO gave me. It’s an odd feeling, but probably just as well. I thought I’d enjoy looking at the WAAFs in the Ops room, but all they did was remind me of that stupid bitch Lucy, and then the anger built up inside me—the only feeling I’ve had that penetrates the cloud inside my head like a sharp point—jabbing at me, goading me until I wanted to grab hold of one of those girls and squeeze the life out of her.
I haven’t been going into the mess much. Even if the others don’t say anything, I could see it in their eyes. I knew they were thinking ‘that could be m
e’ but they’ve got no idea—it’s like a barrier, and if I could just get across it, I could be one of them again, be with them. And I will. I’ll do it. Because it’s all I’ve ever wanted, but it was that bitch, stopping me. She thought she could trap me, make me weak, but she got what was coming to her, I made sure of that. I wouldn’t let her take it away. I knew I could make it all right. Had to be done. Because the planes didn’t look the same. I’d stand on the airfield for hours, staring at them, but it wasn’t the same—as if I couldn’t see them clearly any more, see them as they really are…the most beautiful things in the world. The bitch reduced them to nothing, lumps of metal, and the thrill was gone. But I knew I could sort her out. I knew she’d be there, just so long as my letter arrived, I knew she’d be waiting for me, and she was.
And I was prepared. I’d got a knife from the kitchen, a big one, and I took the bloodstained clothes out of the cupboard and got rid of them in the wood. I’d planned it, managed to nip into the mess and pinch the coal-shovel when no one was looking. They’ll think it’s someone playing silly buggers again. It was hard work digging the hole, but I managed it. No one was about.
I’d arrived in London a couple of hours early and wandered around Piccadilly in the dusk. Eros is boarded up now, just a pyramid shape, and the failing light gave the buildings soft edges, and the bodies, rushing past, seemed fuzzy. I suddenly realised I haven’t seen London in the daytime since the bombing started. There are white marks where they’ve painted the kerbs with stripes.
The odd thing was, the haziness from the pills made it better. When Lucy arrived, I felt quite calm. The idea of what I had to do was fixed in my mind, the only thing that stood out with clarity. When I looked at her, her face seemed blurred as it had the first time, when I saw it through the stocking. We were standing on the corner of Regent Street, and the noises kept coming and going in flashes through the fog in my head: a bus, or high heels on the pavement, very loud, as if isolated from all the other noises, and then it would all merge back, and I’d hear her voice again, talking…like switching frequencies on the R/T…and she kept calling me Tom.
She thought she was clever, all right. Tried to trick me with some cock-and-bull story about having to go and see a woman in Soho to collect a handkerchief, talking about how they’d met on a bomb site and this woman wanted to see her. I didn’t believe it—I could sense that it might be a trap—but she kept insisting, saying she was afraid to go alone. I asked her who the woman was, and she got silly then, giggling and pretending she didn’t know—gave me some name she’d made up—and then she started saying Soho was dangerous, which was why she didn’t want to go there on her own. I said, ‘But you’ve been before,’ and then she started talking about how she’d never visited anyone and some woman she knew had said it might be the white slave trade. I wanted to get on with the job in hand, but she was irritating me with her yapping wearing me down, so I said I’d go just to get some peace, and we began walking towards the place. She took my arm and started giggling again, and it made my skin crawl. I wanted to shut her up there and then, get hold of her and shake her and shake her until she stopped, but there were too many people around, so I stopped listening to her and concentrated on staying ahead of the game, touching the knife inside my jacket and preparing myself for what might happen when we got there.
The front door of the place, alongside a shop, was open, and I followed the bitch into a dingy front hall and up some stairs. She made a great pretence of not knowing which floor this woman was on, which I didn’t believe. It was the second floor, I think, and a brown-haired tart came to the door and said, ‘I was hoping you’d come, dear,’ to the bitch. I was standing back, but I could see she’d got her eyes fixed on me the whole time. I couldn’t see the face too well in the hall, but once we got inside I was sure it was a trap and that the two of them were in it together, trying to confuse me, because the tart had the same hair and eyes as the bitch—older, and with heavy make-up, but apart from that, almost identical.
The bitch said, ‘I’ve brought someone with me. I hope you don’t mind.’
‘Not at all, dear, not at all. I’m Rene, how do you do?’ Then she went straight on, without waiting for me to introduce myself. ‘Now, would you like some tea, or something stronger? I’ve got some beer, if you’d like.’
I thought, you must think I’m stupid if I’m falling for that one, because she seemed very nervous, as if she was up to something, so I said, ‘No, thank you,’ but the bitch said she’d like a cup of tea. The tart held up a curtain and said, ‘Now, you two make yourselves comfortable. I’ll be right through.’
It was a room with armchairs and a bed. The bitch looked a bit uncomfortable when she saw that, and sat down quickly and stared at the floor.
I said, very quietly, ‘You know what she is, don’t you?’
‘Well, yes…but she’s still a human being, isn’t she? Though what my mother would say, I don’t know. I’m glad you’re here, Tom.’
I saw she was undoing her coat buttons and said, ‘Let’s keep it short, shall we?’
‘Yes.’ She gave a nervous giggle. ‘Don’t worry, I’ll keep my coat on. Don’t want to make ourselves too much at home, do we?’
She laughed and went on talking, but I wasn’t listening, because I’d seen how the bed was reflected in the mirror over the mantelpiece—I knew it was done on purpose, because I kept looking at it, then away, and each time I thought I saw, out of the corner of my eye, the body of a woman, one of the tarts, with her stomach and between her legs gouged and bloody. I couldn’t see which one because it changed every time I looked—it was making me feel ill and I knew this was what they’d intended, to get me all unsettled, but the bitch was pretending to be concerned. ‘What is it, Tom? What’s the matter? Are you all right?’ She was sitting with her back to the mirror and I saw she wanted me to sit opposite, but I wasn’t going to do that because of the mirror, and there wasn’t another chair, so I went to sit beside her, and just as I stepped on the rug I saw it, in front of the clock: the blue felt case I’d given to the bitch, with the cigarette card in it. The one that belonged to the brunette. She couldn’t have put it there—I’d have seen her. She must have given it to the other one…
I was trying to figure it out but my head was spinning; everything was getting out of control and I didn’t know what to do next. I thought of making a run for it but then the bitch would have won and I’d have nothing. I knew I had to see it through: it was them against me, and whatever they did, I had to see it through.
The tart came in with a tray of tea. ‘You look like you ought to sit down, dear. Are you sure I can’t get you anything?’
‘May I have a glass of water?’
‘Of course, dear.’ She turned to go into the kitchenette and I thought, I know what you’re up to, you’ll slip something in it, so I followed her to make sure. The room was untidy, how you’d imagine with a woman like that: dirty, with drawers not closed and a lot of clutter everywhere. I noticed a tin-opener on the table, half-hidden by a newspaper, and when the tart had her back to me, rinsing the glass, I slid it out from underneath and slipped it into my pocket. Something extra, as well as the knife. It made me feel better, stronger.
The tart had been chattering away: ‘Such a nice girl, Miss Armitage, and so brave. I’m sure she’s told you all about it. You must be very proud of her. I’m sure she’s proud of you, too,’ but she must have heard me moving about because she whipped round suddenly to face me and the glass she was holding smashed against the edge of the sink and cut her hand. She held it up and I could see a gash between the forefinger and thumb, blood running across her palm, and that made me want to pick up a piece of the glass and stab her with it, and I went to move towards her—she was all I could see, nothing else in the room but her face, the fear in her eyes and her hand with the blood… And then I heard the bitch’s voice and it all seemed to break up, and I didn’t want to do it any more.
I knew the tart was frightened.
When she gave me the water and I went into the other room I heard her clattering about with the cutlery, dropping things on the floor, and I thought she might be looking for the tin-opener. I wondered if she was going to say anything. The bitch was chattering away, but I wasn’t listening. I managed to swallow some of the water, but I could feel myself sweating. The stuffy little room seemed to be closing in on me until I thought I was going to choke, and when the tart came back the two of them pretended not to notice, just carried on talking, glancing at me out of the corners of their eyes like horrible birds, beady brown eyes darting at me, their heads swivelling round when they thought I wasn’t looking, talking as if I wasn’t there, and I kept catching sight of dead women in the mirror; sometimes the blonde, sometimes the brunette, lying on the bed, so vivid I couldn’t believe they weren’t actually there, but each time I turned, there was nothing. Then I realised the women had stopped talking—they were looking at me and I didn’t know what to do.
The bitch said, ‘Tom—’ but I didn’t hear the rest because it was drowned out by the siren, and the tart glanced at the mantelpiece and said, ‘One thing you can say, they’re good timekeepers,’ but I knew she wasn’t really looking at the clock, but at the thing underneath it, the little blue case, and I saw the bitch’s head turn in the same direction, and her eyes widen, and I could tell she was about to speak, so I said, ‘Where’s the lavatory?’
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