by Iris Murdoch
‘Ludwig can have the white room, you know, the one with the cats.’
‘Yes, indeed, I’ll be very glad to have Ludwig here.’
‘I feel we’re imposing on you,’ said Ludwig. ‘I mean — Yes, a little whisky, thank you —’
‘Not at all, not at all.’
‘I think I must be going,’ said Mavis. She and Matthew exchanged glances.
‘All right,’ said Matthew. ‘I’ll just see you to the door. Excuse me, will you.’
Outside in the hall, with the drawing-room door safely shut, he drew Mavis up against him and murmured ‘Damn!’
In the drawing-room, Ludwig was saying in a low voice, ‘We’re being an awful nuisance, I can see that. Matthew doesn’t want me in the house. He’s never met me before. He must be cursing. And there was no need to say we’d dined. I’m ravenous, I had no lunch —’
‘Have a biscuit then!’
Matthew came back.
‘It gives me so much pleasure to see you two dear men together.’
Matthew and Ludwig smirked.
‘More whisky?’
‘No, thank you, sir.’
‘Another biscuit, darling Ludwig?’
‘Thank you, dearest Gracie.’
‘Well, I shall leave you now,’ said Gracie. ‘It’s such a weight off my mind. That house was just not a suitable place for Ludwig. Now, goodnight. No, I must go and you must get acquainted, you must have a real talk, man to man. It makes me so happy to see you together, it gives me such a happy secure feeling. Goodnight, goodnight.’
Matthew and Ludwig returned to the drawing-room.
‘Shall I show you your room?’ said Matthew.
‘Look,’ said Ludwig. ‘I really feel I’m intruding — Gracie means well, but —’
‘Not at all. Here, have some more whisky, I’m having some.’
They sat down and looked at each other.
Ludwig saw a fat bald slightly cunning-looking elderly man with a large expanse of expensive tweed waistcoat.
Matthew saw a slim cropped silver-fair haired American with a Germanic face and an awkward manner.
‘Austin won’t like this,’ said Ludwig.
‘We really must stop minding too much what Austin will like or dislike,’ said Matthew, ‘don’t you think?’
‘Well, maybe —’
‘So you are marrying Gracie.’
‘Yes.’
‘And you are not going to fight.’
‘No.’
‘And you are not going back.’
‘No.’
‘Are your parents upset?’
‘Yes.’
‘Not easy, not easy,’ said Matthew. ‘I’m sorry. No, not an easy choice. Tell me about it.’
Ludwig looked into the round cunning brown eyes. He was being charmed. He had been warned of this.
A packet of cornflakes somersaulted to disgorge its crisp innards over Rodney’s boots, golden sick he thought as he laughed crazily golden shit golden entrails fit for a bloody king, himself the king. Now something was snaking slowly into Rodney’s field, it was a trail of glittering red blood, the blood began to soak the cornflakes in the silence that went on. Outside the glass silent policemen flitted by, Rodney saw them flit. He raised up his revolver and they disappeared. I am king of the world he thought and he laughed again. I can fuck the world, worldfucker goldfucker me. He stooped and raised a handful of the sodden cornflakes gloatingly to his mouth.
Austin groaned and pushed Norman’s novel back into the heavy box file. The steel clip leapt to and pinched his fingers. He had got a makeshift pair of glasses but they made his eyes ache. Norman himself would be here in a minute. Austin had three pounds to give him. He had acquired the three pounds by selling two of Ludwig’s books at Foyles. He had purloined the books just before the removal men came to take them over to the Villa. Everything went Matthew’s way in the end.
‘Well, what did you think of it?’ said Norman, flashing his white teeth under his healthy bush of dark moustache. He was lounging on the bed. The morning sun was thick and dusty.
‘Very good,’ said Austin. ‘Very effective imagery.’
‘I’m glad you mention the imagery. You see it is a serious book. I thought of calling it Death in the Supermarket —’
‘Excellent title.’
‘But I decided not to because that just sounds like a detective story —’
‘Yes of course.’
‘While this is sort of a metaphysical novel, really.’
‘Very metaphysical.’
‘You didn’t think the characterization was weak?’
‘Not at all.’
‘The humour’s a bit sick, isn’t it?’
‘Very effective humour.’
‘Didn’t you like that bit where he’s trying to explain that the girl’s arm is caught in the escalator and they think he’s a Pakistani?’
‘Very funny. I mean very touching.’
‘You see, he got all covered in dirt falling down that lift shaft and they think he’s a Pakistani!’
‘Very amusing.’
‘And then there’s that bit —’
‘Look,’ said Austin, ‘I have actually read your bloody novel, well some of it. I’ll help you to try to get it published. I’ll help you like that in any way I can. I’m sorry for what happened —’
‘How do you mean?’
‘I mean about your little girl, what’s her name —’
‘Oh yes, Rosalind.’
‘I am sorry and I haven’t forgotten about it —’
‘I should hope not. It only happened three weeks ago. I say what have you done to your hand?’
‘I caught it in an escalator.’
‘Are you being funny?’
‘Look, as I say, I’ll help you about the book. And here’s three pounds which I got in a bloody rotten way. And that’s the lot, Mr Monkley.’
‘Please call me Norman.’
‘That’s the lot, Norman. I can see you’re not a monster. You’re an artist, a man of sensibility. You’re a talented chap. You’re not a blackmailer.’
‘Oh yes I am,’ said Norman.
‘So you admit it?’
‘I admit nothing.’
‘Well, as I say, that’s the lot, you can’t get blood from a stone, if I ever make a fortune I’ll give you some. Now let’s drop all this unpleasantness and have a drink, shall we?’
Austin brought out some of Mitzi’s whisky. There wasn’t much left.
‘Wait a minute,’ said Norman. ‘You and I just don’t understand each other. It comes of me being so nice. I’m going to get money and regular money out of either you or your brother. I don’t mind which. I’m quite easy about it. You say you can’t manage. That’s OK by me. I’ll go to him.’
‘I told you, he’d have you arrested, he’s not like me.’
‘No, no, he’ll look after little brother whom he loves. He can afford to, he spent his life fleecing Chinamen. All I want is a reasonable recompense, a small pension like. It’s not blackmail. It’s more like sort of sentiment. He’ll understand.’
‘He’ll murder you.’
‘Not he,’ said Norman calmly. ‘He’s a gent. And I’m a man of sensibility. We shall understand each other.’ Norman reached out and poured the remains of the whisky bottle into his tumbler.
‘Here, leave some for me, I haven’t had any yet!’ said Austin.
‘“I haven’t had any yet!”’ Norman mimicked. ‘The trouble with you is, you’re never grown up. You’re not mature. You’re still little brother running along behind and crying “Carry me!”’
‘Give me some of that whisky,’ said Austin. He stood up holding out his empty glass. He was trembling.
‘Sorry, adults only,’ said Norman. ‘This is man’s stuff. I’m going to do business with big brother. We’ll make arrangements about you. I’ll tell him you sent me.’
‘Give me some of that whisky, give it to me, I want it!’
‘�
�Give it to me, I want it!” Poor little boy. Ooh look out, there goes your glass, why it’s a real tantrum. My God, I think he’s going to cry! I’ll tell big bro about that too.’
‘That’s — my — drink —’ said Austin. Some ancient panic had indeed brought the tears into his eyes. Familiar impotent anger flooded his throat. He made a lunge for the whisky glass which Norman was waving tantalizingly before him.
‘Naughty temper, naughty!’
Norman twisted away from the clutching hand and deftly tapped Austin on the chest, jolting him back on to his chair. Norman was intoning ‘I’ll tell — big brother — on you —’ Austin rose again, pawing, flailing, grabbing. Norman was laughing. Norman’s foot shot out and Austin yelped with pain. He swiped blindly at the dancing glass which flew and shattered against the door. ‘Calm down, bugger you — Look out, do you want me to hit you properly?’ Norman’s fist met Austin’s shoulder, but Austin was already on top of him.
‘You — swine —’
‘Get off me —’
Austin’s left hand gripped the metal box file containing the novel. He swung it wildly, one knee on the bed, as Norman began to topple off on to the floor. The corner of the file drove into the back of Norman’s head with a violent crack.
Five minutes had passed. Norman was still lying absolutely quiet on the floor. The back of his head was bleeding a little.
Panting with emotion and fear Austin had waited for him to move, to rise. Then had shaken him, pulled him, then desisted. Norman lay there on his side, surrounded by broken glass, his face pale, his eyes closed. He looked a different person. Austin could hardly recognize that remote altered face, which was not like that of a sleeper.
Austin sat on the bed and panted. He reached down and fumbled with Norman’s wrist. There seemed to be no pulse. The hand fell back on to the floor with a thump. He tried to feel for a pulse in Norman’s neck, but the soft quiet warmth of the flesh filled him with fright and horror. He felt that he was going to be sick. He stepped carefully to the basin and leaned over it shuddering and making noises in his throat. Then he returned to the bed. The awful sound of that blow, and now the absolute silence, the silence of responsibility and doom. Norman was as still and as remote as a wax effigy dressed in a suit of clothes. The clothes looked weird on him, like clothes on an image. It had all happened so quickly, how could what had happened so quickly be so irrevocable and full of consequences?
Austin could feel in his own body the force of the blow. Already he was reluctant to touch what lay at his feet. Norman lay heavy and without motion like a huge long thing inhabiting the room, not like a presence but like a portent, a piece of incomprehensible stuff put there as a threat or as an ugly joke. What on earth was he to do with Norman? Norman was so heavy, Norman had no business here. How could he get rid of him?
Austin got up again and ran some cold water into the basin. He splashed some down on to Norman’s face. He stirred him with his foot. The thing lolled. Not a move, not a breath. If only it were somewhere else and not here in his room. Austin’s mind ran about rat-like seeking an issue. Suppose he were to call a taxi and — No, that was no good. He must ring up a hospital, get an ambulance. But suppose Norman were really dead, as dead as he looked? Austin would be — The police would come and — It would be the end of Austin —
He opened the door and listened. The house seemed to be empty. Mitzi had gone out earlier that morning to be interviewed for a job. What could he do? How could he hide what had happened, tidy Norman away and make this awful thing not to be? He had an absurd impulse to thrust Norman in under the bed. Put Norman in a cupboard. It had already begun to seem like the name of a thing. A dead Norman in the room, big, weighty, long. In a sudden frenzy he kicked the silent form, shook it, slapped its face. It sickened and appalled him. Was he vainly insulting what was indeed already a corpse? The thing rolled back into stillness, it was invincible. Austin stared at it and moaned aloud. Then he ran down the stairs to the telephone. He dialled the number of the Villa.
‘Could you get a mirror?’
It was fifteen minutes later. Matthew had driven round at once.
Austin went to Mitzi’s bedroom. There was a large hand mirror on the dressing-table. He hurried back again and gave it to Matthew.
Matthew awkwardly laid the surface of the mirror against Norman’s face.
‘It’s too big, I can’t get it —’
‘Shall I move —’
‘No, that’ll do.’
Matthew drew the mirror away. There was no haze on it.
‘Matches.’
‘What?’
‘Matches. I want to —’
Austin handed a box. Matthew struck a match and approached the flame to Norman’s strangely pale cheek, to his nose.
‘Look out, you’ll set fire to him, what the —’
There was no recoil, no movement.
‘He’s like a bloody waxwork,’ said Austin.
‘I think he may be dead,’ said Matthew.
‘Then what are we going to do?’ said Austin. ‘I’m not going to admit to having hit him.’
‘You got him just on that spot — Let’s sit down for a minute.’
Matthew was panting, as Austin had been a while ago. Austin was cold.
They sat down at opposite ends of the bed, looking down. Austin withdrew his foot from the touch of Norman’s trouser leg.
Matthew was deliberately controlling his breathing. Austin’s teeth were chattering slightly. He made them stop.
‘Of course we must get help at once,’ said Matthew. ‘But let’s give ourselves two minutes.’
‘Can’t we get him away from here in your car?’
‘No, of course not. Think.’
‘We could pretend we’d found him in the road —’
‘No!’
‘Well, what’s the two minutes for?’ said Austin.
‘To get your story clear. You hit him in self-defence. Well, you did, didn’t you? Why were you fighting, anyhow?’
‘I’m not going to admit to having hit him, I tell you,’ said Austin. ‘It was an accident, the whole thing was an accident.’
‘You’ll have to tell them —’
‘No,’ said Austin. ‘You’re not going to make me do that again. Not again. You’ll drive me mad. Can’t you see? I’d tell them you did it, I’d say anything. I’m not going to be caught by the police, they’d accuse me of murder, it would end me, it would kill me —’
‘All right,’ said Matthew. He seemed calmer. He was pursing his lips now like a scholar considering a conjecture.
‘Suppose we say —’
‘Shut up. Let me think.’
Austin rocked himself and moaned softly. Norman’s socks, Norman’s shoes, Norman’s feet, so appallingly, irrevocably there.
‘Are you sure the house is empty?’
‘Yes.’
‘Now how could he have got such a wound accidentally?’ pursued Matthew. ‘Not by falling in this room, I think, there’s nothing he could have hit his head on with that degree of force. He must have fallen down the stairs. I think that’s the only possibility. Did he drink any of that whisky?’
‘I can’t remember,’ said Austin, ‘I can’t remember.’
‘Well, he smells of whisky now all right. He fell down the stairs. What could he have hit his head on?’
‘The edge of the trunk on the landing below,’ said Austin. ‘It’s got brass corners.’
‘He fell down this flight of stairs and hit his head on the edge of the trunk. While I’m talking you can be picking up the pieces of glass.’
‘Where shall I put them?’ said Austin.
‘In the waste-paper basket for the moment. And rub over that bit of linoleum with the newspaper. Was he arriving or departing? Departing. He had been talking to us both and we had had a drink. We had the impression that he was a little tight when he arrived. Why had he come? In order to bring his novel, no, in order to pick up his novel, which you had already re
ad. Which you had already read. I have not read it but you asked me to be present to discuss possible publishers. We suggested — no, we said we’d let him know — That’s right, now could you take the novel out of the box file and put it on the window sill. Wash the edge of the file, put it under the tap, yes, now give it to me. The novel was brought here in a large envelope since destroyed, yes. We all talked on the landing. Norman was still holding his glass, got to explain why he’s covered in whisky, yes. Talking to us he stepped back and missed his footing. That’ll have to do. Now help me to move him down these stairs. You’ll have to do most of the work. Get hold of his jacket.’
‘I can’t — only with one hand —’ said Austin faintly.
‘Pull, pull, I’ll do the best I can. Don’t pull his shoe off, hold his ankle.’
‘I think I’m going to be sick.’
‘Do what I tell you. Pull.’
Norman moved. He slid along the linoleum as far as the top of the stairs. Austin noticed with a dazed horror that Matthew was actually holding one of Norman’s hands.
‘Do you think we — roll him down —’
‘Don’t be a fool,’ said Matthew. ‘Now you go first with his feet. I’ll hold his shoulders. We’ll sit him from stair to stair. Kneel down to it, kneel. Better hold on to his — No, lift his feet. Wait, wait till I put this paper behind his head. Gently, I want to keep his head up, gently —’
‘You think he isn’t dead?’
‘I don’t want any blood on my clothes, or on the stairs.’
‘Oh Christ, is he bleeding much?’
‘No. Now take a rest here.’
They rested with Norman sitting up between them, leaning back against Matthew’s knee. Matthew had his arm round Norman’s shoulder. One of Norman’s shoes was coming off. Austin pressed it back on again and felt the firm warmth of the foot. This couldn’t be happening. How long did it take a body to get cold?
‘Now again. Come on. That’s right.’
Norman’s bottom bumped smoothly from stair to stair. His head kept falling forward with a jerk.
‘Christ, his bloody head will fall off,’ said Austin.
They reached the landing. Austin took his hands away.
‘We’ve moved him a little from where he was originally lying. It would be this corner of the trunk, wouldn’t it? Might be a smear of blood on it. So.’ Austin averted his eyes. He sat down heavily on the stairs. ‘Now in a minute or two I am going to ring for an ambulance. Meanwhile we must work. I want you to do these things. Take a dustpan and brush and see there’s no glass upstairs. Bring it all down and put it in the bin, no time to dispose of it otherwise. Wash the floor and dry it. Were both the tumblers broken?’
