“Oh, darling, you don’t understand. When you’re older you’ll be quite content with nothing but happiness. And you’ll yearn for it if you haven’t got it, you’ll wish for it desperately. There’s nothing you wouldn’t give for it, if you could… oh Elizabeth, I pray you’ll be happy.”
She took Elizabeth’s arm in hers, and they walked along in silence for a while. Elizabeth was deeply stirred by this prayer of her mother’s, and she realised suddenly how close and how similar the two of them were, in spite of their differing aims and consciousnesses. Her mother’s desire for happiness was just as disembodied, just as mystical and unconscious and fluid and life-deep as her own yearning to be moved and used by something beyond herself. They were the same sex, the same flesh, and in those few moments as they walked along the silent road under the stars she realised that they were more than that: they were ripples on a vast, quiet sea, and they moved where the sea moved, rising and falling with the rhythm of the moon. What they called it mattered little; the sea was feminine, and eternal; and they were unchangingly part of it. Those half-hidden and unvoiced and deep-stirring aspirations which excited her, troubled her, cast her down and raised her up, were life growing conscious of itself, moving and waking in the depths of her and of the eternal feminine sea of which she was only one wave, of which the whole visible world, from the roots of grass and clover to the furthest flickers of light from the stars, was only the surface…
Where was her Matthew? He ought to be in her arms. But then in a few seconds the vision faded: something extraordinary happened. It was devilish.
They had come to that part of the road bordering the recreation ground, with the thick hedge on their left. The hedge surmounted a steep grassy bank about four feet in height, and shut out the light from that part of the sky.
As they came to a bend in the road, they heard a scuffling noise on the other side of the hedge, like the movement of swift small feet. Mrs. Cole started, but they said nothing: both of them had the feeling that something uncanny was happening. Elizabeth felt a shock as if a ghost had just walked through her, and strained her ears to listen. Her mother’s grip on her arm tightened.
The noise stopped, and immediately a voice began to speak, low and urgent. It was a man’s voice – or it seemed to be – it had a masculine timbre, but an odd quality of deadness; somehow it was unlifelike, as if a statue had learned to speak.
Involuntarily the two women stopped still in the road and listened. It was hard to make out the words: they were being spoken too quickly, but there was something in the tone which reminded Elizabeth of a wooing, a sexual persuasion.
Then it stopped, and there was a short laugh, and another voice began to speak. A swift dialogue began. Most of it was incoherent or inaudible, and not once did she hear anything said clearly in the first voice. That remained muffled and inexpressibly sinister; but the second voice was clearer, and Elizabeth felt the hairs on her head stir with fear as she listened to it, for it belonged, without any doubt in the world, to Matthew.
“No, I won’t… I swear it. Who are you? … Tell me then, tell me what it is! For God’s sake, what do you know? … Guilt, you say; all right, tell me this: if you do it ignorantly, you’re guilty all the same, that’s understood; but supposing you know everything including the heart of God… what if you know the whole universe so well you’re sick of it… supposing you know everything, and then do it: are you guilty then? … Tell me! Tell me, will you? … You’re a worm, you’re blind, you’re the heart of cowardice, d’you know that? … What happens in hell? Who goes to hell? Will I go there? … I defy you! … If I were alone in the universe and I found you in my heart, I’d tear it out and kill myself… But you still know more than I do, so I’m powerless… You love me, you say: answer me then! For God’s sake – ha! – yes! for God’s sake tell me what I want to know. You’re making me more evil by keeping me in the darkness, don’t you realise? Why? Why should I? I don’t owe it to you… But I’ve got nothing to give you! Not even goodness! Not even knowledge! … I’m only empty, oh God… do you want my emptiness? Is that it? … But there’s still something missing… you know something that I don’t… oh, you devil, you devil, what is it? What is it?”
Elizabeth felt as if she was having a nightmare. She clasped her mother’s hand and held it tightly. Mrs. Cole herself was no better off; she was trembling, and she whispered to Elizabeth “Who is it? What are they doing?”
The two women stood still, like ice. The moon, which was only just rising, shone full in their eyes. “Let’s get on,” whispered Elizabeth.
They heard the voices drop low and speak more swiftly, and suddenly stop altogether; and then the leaves of the hedge rustled violently. Elizabeth was reminded vividly for a moment of what Matthew had done when they saw Alan, and then overcome by a quick shuddering fear that whoever it was was climbing through the hedge to get at them.
But then they heard something more shocking than any of that. From the other end altogether of the recreation ground, right up by the council houses, there came the sound of a girl screaming, screaming in terror. She screamed three times, and then it was over and finished with.
The two women clung together in the darkness. Neither said a word. The silence was worse than the screaming; and then there was a muffled whisper from behind the hedge, and the sound of footsteps running swiftly away.
Elizabeth pulled urgently at her mother’s hand. “Come on, mummy, let’s get back to the village; come on! We can’t stand here! “
“But that scream –” said her mother. Her voice was full of fear. “Elizabeth, it’s another murder!”
“We’ll be safer up in the village, honestly,” said Elizabeth. She was far from sure that they would be, but anything was better than standing in the darkness waiting. “Come on, mummy! Come on!”
Mrs. Cole gave way; and they began to walk nervously up towards the village. It was a torture to go near the dark hedges; the darkness seemed suddenly peopled with all manner of invisible life… Mrs. Cole said:
“Oh, that was horrible, Elizabeth; who was it? What was it? Why did you stop and listen? Why did you make me stop?”
“I couldn’t move. Nor could you! But didn’t you –” she stopped abruptly. She had been on the point of saying “didn’t you recognise Matthew’s voice?” when she had the sudden feeling that it would be infinitely better, safer, if she didn’t mention him. There was danger in it; how absurd! Danger for whom? But there was.
“What? Didn’t I what? What on earth are you talking about? Oh, I don’t want to think about it – come on, let’s get home quickly.”
There was such an emotional strain in her mother’s voice that Elizabeth felt quite calm and objective by contrast. She began to wonder if Gwen had heard it in the same way. Perhaps she’d heard the other voice only, and not Matthew’s; oh, nonsense… and yet there was something uncanny about it… perhaps it hadn’t been Matthew at all, but the ghost of Matthew’s voice, and perhaps her mother’s hearing had interpreted it as the ghost of someone else’s; of the Canon’s. Perhaps she’d heard something different altogether. “I’ll see Matthew tomorrow,” she thought, “first thing in the morning, and I’ll make him tell me who it was, I’ll threaten to leave him if he doesn’t – Oh,” she burst out aloud, in vexation and despair, “we’re all in the dark, every one of us!” And she knew really that she’d never breathe a word of it to Matthew in the morning, or at any other time, unless – unless something else happened… unless it got darker still, perhaps…
But her mother now was trembling like a child; she’d better try and calm her. “Hush, hush – we must have imagined it. You can imagine things like that. Sounds carry at night; it’s easy to read things into them. Come along, look, we’re nearly in the village now. It was just a sort of dream, that’s all. We’ll probably have forgotten all about it in the morning.”
Mrs. Cole shook her head, but seemed to be willing to pretend.
“I expect so. I expect you’re ri
ght. I remember in Portmadoc when I was a girl I thought I saw a ghost; that was just like it…”
They chattered together, reassuring each other, until they were nearly at the road junction, where it was better lit. But just as they were about to come into the village they had another shock.
The Canon’s Volkswagen swerved around the corner past them, and then braked suddenly, coming to a halt a few yards further on. The gears crashed, and he put it into reverse, and backed swiftly up towards them. As he drew level he stopped and leaned across to open the door.
“Gwen – have you seen him? Elizabeth – that wretched man of yours; do you know where he’s gone?” His voice was sharp and almost hysterical.
“What? – Who? What do you mean?” said Elizabeth.
“Have you seen him? That’s what I mean. Do you know where he’s gone? Oh, what do you think I mean? He left about twenty minutes ago –”
Mrs. Cole leant down and said angrily:
“Thomas, what is going on? What are you talking about?”
“He had the confounded impudence to come and threaten me, in my own home, to threaten me – he said he’d blow up the well if –”
“Who? Who are you talking about?” Elizabeth nearly shouted.
“Alan, if that is the wretch’s name! Who do you think?
Now answer me, both of you, will you? Have you seen him? Do you know where he is?”
“Oh, how the hell should we, daddy? Where do you think we’ve been all evening?”
“Be quiet, Elizabeth. Don’t speak like that. Get in the car,” said Mrs. Cole, her voice taut with anger.
Elizabeth said nothing, but climbed in the back of the car. Her mother got in the front and slammed the door.
“Now take me straight home and put the car away. You’re mad, Thomas, you’re insane. Don’t say another word to me tonight. Don’t speak.”
“You as well,” said the Canon. “Well, I’m used to that –”
“Drive me home!” she shouted.
There was a moment’s silence, and then he pressed the starter and turned the car round. He roared the engine and drove off angrily.
As they came into the main street he swerved suddenly, and slowed down; before they realised why, they heard the agonising scream of a siren, and a police car swept past them and braked abruptly. “For us?” Elizabeth thought; “what is it now?”
But it had only slowed to take the corner by the Red Lion. It swept round, its tyres screeching, and accelerated down towards the recreation ground. The Canon picked up speed slowly, and drove on.
Her mother’s shoulders were shaking. She was sobbing. Elizabeth touched her gently; Mrs. Cole shook her hand away.
“The police as well,” Elizabeth heard her say, half to herself; “oh Duw, Duw annwyl, what is going on?”
Matthew heard a scream. He woke up, clutching a thick handful of grass. His eyes were wet with tears, but his head was mercifully free at last. He was lying right in the corner of the field, near the council houses. The field was flooded with moonlight. It was nearly as bright as day.
A hundred and fifty yards from where he lay were the swings and the slide. Someone was running towards them. He raised himself up on his knees.
There was a girl screaming, her hands to her mouth, standing by the slide. Beside her on the ground lay a shapeless, huddled figure: another girl, with a white dress on. She was absolutely still.
People were running from all corners of the field. Lights went on in the council houses; the group around the slide grew one by one. They looked around, some of them, and called out to fetch a doctor, fetch the police…
Matthew stood up wearily. He heard the siren of the police car, and the squeal of brakes as it turned the corner by the pub. The note of the siren seemed to change as it headed straight down towards the field.
Chapter 9
“Hello, Matthew,” said Alan.
They shook hands. There were a thousand different emotions in the air of the afternoon, the summer-scented fresh warm sexual air: the most powerful of them was Matthew’s nervousness.
“You don’t look like my brother,” he said.
Alan’s expression didn’t change.
“Yes you do!” Matthew went on quickly. “That was a lie.”
They stared at each other for a full minute, frankly sizing each other up. At the end of it, Matthew’s nervousness had subsided. And he did not know whether he knew more about Alan now, or less than ever.
It was four days after he’d woken up in the field to find that a murder had been committed. On the Monday he had received a letter that ran:
“8, Fortune Buildings,
Silminster.
Dear Matthew,
I heard you were staying with Harry. Elizabeth told me. Perhaps we ought to get together again.
I’d like to see you. How about Wednesday? I’ll meet the three o’clock bus, would that suit you?
Give my regards to Harry. All the best,
Your brother,
Alan.”
And so now he was standing in the bus station. How could you tell if what you thought you saw in a man’s face was really there?
Alan was in his thirties. His blond, almost yellow hair was dark at the roots. Certainly Matthew didn’t remember him as being blond.
The outlines of his face were similar to Matthew’s. They were brothers, quite obviously. The line of the jaw was the same, the nose was the same; the eyes were more hooded in Alan but they had the same curious roundness. His face was more heavily fleshed than Matthew’s, as he was bulkier and more muscular altogether. His hands were powerful and thick, the fingernails chipped and dirty.
And his voice: it was effeminate! He had a London accent, overlaid with a honeyed, caressing intimacy – but no, it was difficult to be sure of it, he’d only said two words. And in any case it was harsh too, half-mocking.
The one amazing thing, the quality which Matthew found impossible to reconcile with the rest of it, was the sheer intelligence of his expression. He had seen it in certain great portraits, but never in a living face, this vivid air of responding immediately and accurately and of moving swiftly to conclusions, of dominating (that was Elizabeth’s word! Yes, she was right) of dominating the world, matter, ideas, the substance of everything that existed: quite simply, of facing it.
What else was there? It was a sensualist’s face. There were lines around the eyes and a thickness of the lips which Matthew interpreted as being the marks of a man who knew extremities of sensual greed. And yet paradoxically the predominating impression that Matthew had was one of asceticism, a purposeful and willed refraining from, holding back, controlling. What made it so difficult to interpret was the evident fact that what he held back was not a stream, not a constant steady flow, but a flood. If for one moment he let go, thought Matthew, he would perish and decay of over-ripeness.
It was the face of a man who lived in a perilous balance between exhaustion and mania. Yes, it was perilous, it was razor-thin, but it was also – Elizabeth’s words again – absolute, still, powerful, iron.
Well, she had seen so much of him: now, what more could he see?
“All right, I’m sorry I panicked,” said Matthew. “I didn’t know what to say.”
“Nor did I,” said Alan. “It doesn’t matter. Let’s go for a walk.”
They went out of the bus station and set off slowly down the street. Matthew felt the slight breeze on his face, and smiled to himself. It felt cool and delicious.
“What did you want to see me for?” he asked.
“I thought we could have a chat. See how you’re getting on.” The banal and slightly patronising phrases sounded laden not with self-mockery so much as self-consciousness. Alan was conscious of what they meant: and he meant them, literally. That was all.
“Ye – es,” he said “…now there’s no need to beat about the bush, is there? I know what you mean, and I approve of it. So I’ll take everything you say quite literally, even the cliches. You�
�re more intelligent than I am, and I’ve never said that to anyone before; so if you say something you must mean it, and I’ll answer it honestly. Your friend Canon Cole had to tell me to take everything he said literally; perhaps he didn’t realise that I was going to anyway… I’ll tell you something else: I’m talking like this only because I’m nervous. I’d far rather hear what you’ve got to say. But as for how I’m getting on: well, I’m very near nowhere at all. But I know it, you see, that’s the point, I know that I’m nowhere. Do you understand?”
Alan nodded, smiling, and said nothing. Matthew went on:
“But what about you? That’s what I’m really curious about. You’re a complete mystery. Do you know they haven’t mentioned you at home since they threw you out? But did they throw you out? And if they did, why? Because I don’t know, you see, they never told me.”
“I’m not surprised. They were so embarrassed that they didn’t look me straight in the face once. They thought I was homosexual, because the headmaster thought I was. So did the boy I was sleeping with; so did I.”
“I guessed it was that… but you’re not homosexual, are you?”
“I don’t think so. What does the question mean?”
“Well, you’re right, it’s meaningless. So what did you do then?”
“I worked.”
“Whereabouts, though?”
“I did all sorts of things. I tried to keep moving. As soon as I began to like a place, or started accumulating things, or got offered a better job, I left, and went somewhere else. Once I was in hospital for a year.”
The Haunted Storm Page 16
