England's Lane

by Joseph Connolly

  And when Obi had come to me last evening, primarily I was most eager to stem at the outset any great rush of vocal enthusiasm—jubilation over his triumph, or even the barest detail: I wished to know nothing at all of the entire affair beyond the absolute truth, forged in iron, that Somerset now is dead. And of course I did wonder, during the really very surprisingly brief period of time that Obi has been away from London, how I could trust beyond all question the veracity of his words … and though I have no potent explanation for it, I implicitly do so. It is perhaps his literal simplemindedness in which I so ardently believe: I imagine him to be possessed of a primitive and inherently slavish commitment to not just unthinking obedience to so evident a superior, but also the dinned-in sense of duty to complete a given task before any due bounty may be expected or bestowed—or else come cowering and crouched, to stoically endure the severity of punishment administered by the master. I believe Obi to be the blank-eyed personification of doggedness in his pursuit of an end, this in order then to justify the commensurate reward. It soon transpired, however, that I need not at all have concerned myself over any surfeit of eloquence: he uttered very few words, I rather suspect because there are pitiably few at his ready disposal, and those ejaculations that do break free—from amid much quite comical facial distortion—are extraordinarily difficult to accurately decipher. A good deal of what he utters truly does sound to be no more than mutedly furious and animal grunts—although gradually, by degree, one finds that with concentration one may usefully ally and conjoin this or that stray and passing consonant with a couple of broken-backed vowels, and consequently, with considerable delicacy and painstaking dedication, reasonably deftly construct a plausible, though yet conjectural, half-phrase that would appear to be not wholly without relevance. Ultimately I found it more reliably straightforward to put to Obi a set of perfectly simple questions, each requiring from him no more than an emphatic and affirmative nod, or else a shake of his big and bull-like head. The only factor that concerned me, of course, was positive and unequivocal confirmation of Somerset’s death. I wished not to know of the agency—and neither do I mind in how subtle or warlike a manner Obi elected to fulfill his commission. Should he have been careless in his method of execution or else in its aftermath, then the consequence will be merely that a shambling and deeply suspect colored stranger—witnessed by many to be of fearsome aspect, and with hooded and malevolent eyes—will actively be sought by whatever means and authority the town of Henley can muster. Whether, in cooperation with Scotland Yard, they track him to the capital—and I should say that I deem this to be doubtful … though should they, by way of fortune or good judgment, be successful in their endeavor … well that outcome too is quite perfectly conducive: for in custody, his continued sullen insolence or else a detonation of his physical power … even quite simply the color of his skin—any of these will more than adequately measure to serve as his jailer, and walk with him subsequently the short way to the gallows.

  And so just last evening, I paid him the money, quite as contracted. I adjudged that to have retrogressively haggled with the man, as comes quite naturally to me, would have been more than unwise. His hands are both large and strong—as is this patently disfigured though innate perception of correctness within him: earlier I alluded to this—and no, I do not feel wild in ascribing it to him. At the sight of the considerable roll of cash, his eyes betrayed no hint of light: he pocketed it without comment. I think that upon parting he might have attempted to convey to me his willingness to again be of service, should ever such necessity arise—I believe that it was some sort of valediction loosely upon those lines, though in perfect honesty it is most damnably difficult to be sure, many of the more guttural noises that emerge from him being open to any manner of interpretation. Smilingly and in return, I myself offered up an alternative selection of non-commital though thoroughly agreeable-sounding utterances, which did appear to content him. But of course we never again shall encounter—well of course not. Indeed, within a very short time, I fervently aspire to be no longer compelled to encounter nor consort with any other living soul, the length of England’s Lane … for now, I have so very thoroughly outgrown it: I hear its stitching, ripping at the seams. The Lane—this ultimately tiresome though I suppose quite perfectly blameless little street, together with an amenable smattering of its more credulous inhabitants—has amply fulfilled its usefulness. And this is true too of my foray into butchery: so unlikely a diversion has well served its purpose … and all such purpose, now and at last, is come to an end. For with the long and threatening shadow of Somerset’s continued existence darkening no longer the sunlit uplands of what I hope and trust to be a far more golden future, I know that very soon, I shall quit this place: to begin anew, and somewhere fresh—finally, and in long and criminally overdue recognition of their sweet and saintly eternal forbearance, to be able to bestow upon my dear wife Fiona and my little girl Amanda … the life more suited.

  So … I have tied up the mouths of the sacks with twine, and now I manhandle the pair of them to be propped against the gates of the yard … when next there comes of a sudden, to quite mar the still and stinging cold of this perfect winter’s morning, a staccato and determined pounding from without. The dirty and angular man—he who swings up at once and with ease to his shoulders these deadweight and unspeakable burdens, those which I am straining even now to drag along the ground, and then will shrug them away so very lightly and with insouciance into the rear of his cart: the very same who confided in me the baffling truth that the contents are “all boiled down”—never before has he called this early, nor demonstrated such unmannerly insistence. But no matter: in the light of all, it is good, now—yes, it is fitting to be rid of the last of it. Ah … but no, in fact—such a conclusion is not yet to be … for as I haul wide the door, what of all things should I find to be festering upon the other side of it but a risible and shabby little ironmonger, seemingly in the midst of a losing though self-evidently strenuous struggle to contain within him all the spillage of his grievances.

  “Ah … and there was I so sincerely believing this joyous and quite sparkling morning to be replete with goodness—though I do see now that I was quite thoroughly wrong about that …”

  “Right. Let me in!”

  “ … for now we would appear to have your very good self as something by way of a supplementary benefit. What bounty. And how may I assist you, Mr. Stammer …?”

  “Don’t you try to keep me out, you …!”

  “As you may see, my dear fellow—the door is quite open.”

  “Yeh well—right. Right, you …! And don’t you start up with your bloody ‘dear fellow’ on me, you bloody …! You know what you are …? You’re a right bloody …! …”

  “You are regarding me in a highly pugnacious manner, Mr. Stammer. Excuse me—I’ll just shut the door behind you, if I may. Hardly need prying eyes, I think. Now from what little you have hitherto uttered, I am gathering that in some or other manner I have grievously displeased you. Should eventually you ever care to elaborate, then of course I should be more than delighted to, er …”

  “Stop! Pack all that in! Had just about enough. You stop all of that! You and all these bloody other people—talking like you’s the King of fucking England—and you ain’t! You ain’t! You’s nothing! Same as what I am. But I reckon—what I reckon is, I’m better! See? Better than you! Because I don’t go twisting about. And I would’ve left you to it, if that’s what Mill wanted—would’ve gone with it, you bastard! But nah! Ain’t enough for you, were it? Ay? You got to go and … beat her, the poor little gel …! She only little! I ain’t never lifted my hand to no woman! Not never once in my bloody life. Let alone another man’s wife, you …!”

  “Do not approach further, Mr. Stammer, I urge you—and please unclench your two little fists, else I fear I shall be compelled to strike you down. I have not the least idea what you are talking about. In this I am sincere. I too, Mr. Stammer, maintain an inviolate
rule where violence toward women is concerned: I never indulge in it, and have nothing but the most base contempt for any who does. With the exception, quite naturally, of the odd little harmless bit of horseplay, you know …”

  “Horseplay …? What you fucking on about …?”

  “Oh—you know. Surely you do. Erotic diversion. Titillation, yes …? Damn good spanking, sort of thing. You are English, aren’t you? Surely at least you must have heard of it …? No but then of course, I doubt whether you attended that sort of school …”

  “I don’t know what you on about! You disgusting! I ought to bloody kill you, you bastard …!”

  “Why?”

  “Ay? Ay …? Why …?!”

  “Mm. Why do you feel you should? I am receiving the impression that your dear wife Milly—please, Mr. Stammer, do I pray you allow me to finish—that your dear wife Milly has been attacked by a person unknown. Certainly not I. And I am distressed to hear it. I should never wish nor visit upon her the slightest harm. Do you believe me, Mr. Stammer? I sincerely hope that you do … you anyway appear to be modifying your behavior. You have slightly quieted, at least …”

  “You denying it …?”

  “Oh dear. I rather hoped by now that possibly we might have established that. Yes, Mr. Stammer: I am denying it.”

  “You never clock her round the eye …? Belt her in the stomach?”

  “Certainly not. Who could have perpetrated such an outrage? I cannot imagine who might be capable of such a thing.”

  “Don’t you try all that! Don’t you do all that la-di-da baloney on me! Just talk to me straight: you saying you never done it. Right?”

  “Oh dear God Almighty …”

  “All right—all right, then: leave all that out of it, for the minute. And what … you saying what …? You telling me that you and Mill … you and Mill … you never gone and done the dirty on me …?”

  “How very colorful your phraseology can be, Mr. Stammer, once eventually you manage to utter any words at all. If I understand you correctly, you are asking me now whether I deny having consorted with your wife. Well no—I do not deny it in the least degree. Certainly we have enjoyed congress, Milly and myself, though I fear I am behaving very much less than gallantly by making any such disclosure. You already do appear, however, to be apprised of the truth of it. Though I may say by way of an addendum that we have not encountered for quite some while, and never—and really I must forcibly reiterate this point, even at the risk of appearing tedious—never have I subjected her to physical abuse of any description whatever. Are you, er … feeling quite all right, Mr. Stammer …? You seem somehow pale … shaking, rather … trembling, yes. May I fetch you a glass of water? Something stronger, conceivably—despite the early hour. I have no brandy, I fear, though possibly I might be able to run to just a little soupçon of Benedictine …”

  “My Mill … my Mill … so she really been and gone and done it …”

  “Mm, I rather fear so. But brace up, old chap. It’s all quite over and done with, you know.”

  “Ay? What you saying? What you saying now? You mean … what you mean? She chuck you over? She ain’t going to go with you? That what you saying?”

  “Go with me?! Great heavens, no! What a thought. No no—there’s simply no question at all of any such thing, and of course there never was. Indeed, Mr. Stammer, you may well be encouraged when I inform you that come the new year, I shall in fact be leaving this place—leaving England’s Lane. Oh yes. Closing the shop. Selling up. Whereupon my family and myself will be very pleased finally to be moving on. New decade, new beginning. I imagine this intelligence will hardly distress you. You might yourself, you know, do rather worse than to adopt a somewhat similar approach, yes? New decade, new beginning …? Has a ring to it, don’t you think?”

  “You’s off, you say …? Leaving the Lane? What—whole bang shoot? That Amanda and all?”

  “Why naturally, Mr. Stammer. What a thing to say. I am hardly likely, I think, to abandon my daughter to fend for herself as a street urchin. She will be sorry, I daresay, to be forced to withdraw from the company of your boy—Paul, is it …? Yes, Paul. Though I am guessing that such parting will not cause either one of us to shed too many tears. Am I correct in this surmise, Mr. Stammer?”

  “Ay …? Oh yeh … yeh. Blimey … I don’t know what to think. Can’t think. Don’t know what to think. Broken man, I am … broken man …”

  “Oh nonsense, my dear fellow. You’ll rebound. People do. For they must, you see …”

  “I dunno. I dunno. I don’t got nothing straight in my mind. Can’t think proper no more. Still and all, though … just looking at you … me being here … fair turn my stomach, it do. I should … you know what I should do …? Ay? You know what I should do …? I should bloody knock your fucking block off …!”

  “Well … I suppose I feel honor bound to encourage you to try, should you believe that such extreme action will in some small way serve to release a degree of your aggravation … soothe your furrowed brow … however I feel it only fair to warn you that should you determine to resort to fisticuffs, I shall resist and retaliate with all means at my disposal. And I do fear that from such a contest as that, Mr. Stammer, you would inevitably be destined, I think, to sorrowfully emerge as considerably the more injured party. In that I could, not to put too fine a point on it, snap you in half with the fingers of one hand. As I believe you are aware. But, having said all of that, if still you feel that you must … well, Mr. Stammer, then you must, of course …”

  My mind … I telling you … my mind, I just all in a tizz. Ain’t had no kip—ain’t had a shave. Feeling right rough. Ain’t even got all of the doings out on to the pavement yet. Cyril ain’t had his seed … And all these words what he giving me, this sod of a bastard … I ain’t even sure what I got to be thinking about now. But it’s Mill, got to be—that’s all I cares about. I got my Mill, then I don’t mind nothing. But him … just look at him … ponced-up bloody bastard. Wants taking down a peg. Yeh. Blimey … he fucking big, though. It right what he say: kill me, he could—don’t even have to try. So I reckon I sling my hook. Get out of here. Can’t do no good. Can I? What’s done is done. Yeh—so that’s what I got to do: get out of here. Stands to reason. Yeh it do … so I don’t know why—don’t bleeding go and ask me why—but I just gone up to the bastard, ain’t I? Took one hell of a swing at him, and I got him right on the bloody jaw, look. His head, it jerk right back, it do—yeh, but he ain’t going over, no not him. I don’t follow it up. I don’t follow it through. I’m just stood here. My hand, it feel like I broke it. He looking at me. He looking at me something terrible. Oh Gawd—I’m for it now. Can’t run though, can I? I should cocoa. Not going to run. Can’t run. No point hitting the bastard again though. He made of bloody iron. So I just got to take it, I reckon. Just got to stay stood here—wait till he get to me. Then I gets smashed to bloody bits.

  “Mr. Stammer … I do so thank you for calling. Sharing your views. And now I do quite earnestly and solemnly urge you just to turn around, and then walk out of here, please. While still you are able so to do.”

  Because oh great heavens just look at him, won’t you? This small and quite perfectly pathetic little oik, shuddering before me. Some slight show of bravado in the set of his shoulders, though still does he visibly quiver—and within each of his eyes there is sparking and alive the bright white pinpoint of absolute fear, just as in that of a snorting pig that senses the approach of a knife to its throat. And then behind that, a milky opacity—the quite dull glaze of acceptance of the soon to be here and grim inevitability: this I have witnessed so often in the slow eyes of a heifer, when first she is scenting the tang of an abattoir. There is no sense in slaughter, however—no, nor even retribution. For I am not a brute. I have wronged the man. He has struck me. Honor would appear, then, to have been crudely satisfied.

  “Please, Mr. Stammer, I should be so very much obliged to you were you to do me the politeness of lingering
no longer. There is, I do assure you, a limit to the breadth of my forbearance.”

  In a tizz—I’m in a tizz …! Don’t know what I’m about. Can’t think, that’s the trouble—I just can’t think proper. All what’re on my mind are my Mill. Yeh. That all I know. Yeh. So that’s what I got to do, then—right? Get back to her. Yeh. See what the doctor done. See how she feel. See she all right. Get out the sight of this bloody great bastard, yeh … before he bloody well kill me … that’s what I got to do … and then get back to my Mill. On account of she my wife, ain’t she? Yeh. That’s right: she my wife.

  And how many times since I gone over it in my mind …? It’s like now I were like … I don’t know—two people, sort of style. Like my head, it never got round to telling my feet what it was I were up to. Because I’d flew at him, hadn’t I? Yeh—I’d flew at him. And I were going to get out of there—all set, honest I were: I were on my way. Turned around, didn’t I? Reaching out for the door knob, I were—think I even gone and said goodbye to the bastard. Next thing—I’d flew at him, and my hands, they’s about his neck on account of all I wants is to throttle the fucking sod. And then I were thinking Christ Al-fucking Mighty—he smell of perfume, the bleeding ponce …! Yeh and next minute I weren’t thinking nothing on account of he pick me up like I’s a bit of I don’t know what and he throw me hard, right up against the bloody wall. My back and my head, they was bleeding killing me, I can tell you—my hands is useless, and I weren’t even seeing straight no more. Then his great bloody fist—it slamming me right in the face and there blood all over, look, and I were feeling all bloated up and numb and yet I got all these terrible pains just bloody everywhere about me, and then I sees him pull back his bloody fist again and all I do is I just shuts my eyes—and when it come … yeh, when it come … it were like I were hit by a fucking train. My brain all rattling inside of me and my mouth is all gone like rubber and I hits the ground like I been heaved over and off of a mountain. Don’t know how long I were down there. Next thing is water poured on to me—and I looks up, kind of, but I can’t hardly see. And then I do … I sees him, yeh I sees him a bit—just standing there, he is, quite the thing: he straightening up his tie. He look fresh as paint. He look like he on his way to Buckingham bleeding Palace. And me … I got what I asked for, didn’t I? My face, it do feel a funny shape—it don’t even feel like my face no more. Lying here … my clothes is torn, reckon my nose is broke, and I shaking like I’s made of paper. What it is is … I smashed to bloody bits.