Brand X

by Christianna Brand

  ‘I feel,’ said my husband in my ear, ‘that the moment has arrived to bring to the attention of Santa Clermana the little matter of the gattino.’

  ‘Yes,’ I said. I turned so that the pitiful face peeped over my shoulder. ‘Look at the gattino.’

  Together, with brimming eyes, they looked at the gattino. ‘E malata?’

  I made swallow dives in the air with my spare hand. ‘It fell. From a great height. E very malata, molto malata.’

  ‘To whom is the gattino?’

  ‘How is one to know? And nobody will claim it. I suppose,’ I said, not rushing my fences this time, ‘that it must be an orfano.’

  ‘Orfano!’ They broke into smiles of tenderness at this charming notion. Santa Clermana already was getting to work.

  ‘And lost. Perdu, losto, perdita, whatever the word is.’

  And lost. Poor little thing!

  ‘And this is an orphanage?’

  An orphanage, yes.

  ‘Of St. Anthony—’

  ‘Of Padua,’ they agreed.

  ‘In the Piazza di—’

  ‘San Francesco,’ they said. They put up no struggle at all. They held out their arms for the kitten.

  ‘You will take the gattino?’

  But of course, of course, cried the little nuns. What else? And the orphans would be delighted.

  ‘The other orphans,’ I said. I worked at it in Latin, French and alternative English. It got across at last; they dissolved into happy laughter. I fought my way through San Antonio and lost things, San Francesco and animals. They were confounded by the wonder of it all. Tears streamed down all our faces. My husband, sickened, had wandered away. I pulled out my pocket-book. I thought of my fat, complacent villain of a Siamese cat at home. ‘The gattino will need molto latte. And meat—meato, viando, whatever it’s called.’ I tried another joke. ‘Orfano molto mangiare.’

  Orphans eat a great deal. Yes, indeed. But the darlings, the angels, the Signora should see their orphans, more than a hundred of them, it was molto triste. The innocenti!

  The Signora understands. The Signora has a little girl of her own at home. ‘In casa mia—una figlia.’

  Their smiling faces are suddenly filled with alarm. The Signora wishes to buy—for here she stands with outstretched pocket-book—one of their orfani?

  ‘No, no, heaven forbid! I am just trying to give you something for taking mine.’

  Smiles again. Humble acceptance of anything we will give for their innocenti. The kitten is borne off in triumph to warmth and milk and the loving care of a hundred other orphans. But before the Signora goes, she must see the children’s Christmas crêche.

  A curtain is drawn back. There is the whole town of Montepulciano, walls and towers and narrow streets and all, wired for lights, peopled with busy Italians in near-modern dress; tufted with cotton-wool snow. And in a stable in Montepulciano, a Baby is being born.

  ‘At Christmas,’ says the little nun, ‘we turn on all the lights. We lay green grass here and plant tiny trees and sprinkle it all with silver. And there is music…’

  ‘I’m sure the gattino will simply love it,’ I said.

  Such a Nice Man

  WHAT A FOOL SHE had been to let him in! Why must she be always so trusting?—so stupefied by her own too ready social instinct, never giving herself time to think. ‘At thirty-five years of age,’ her husband used to say to her, ‘surely you might have some sense?’ And hadn’t there been warning enough? Suppose this was the man…

  But it couldn’t be. Such a nice man! Such a nice man, he’d seemed, standing out there on the doorstep, so quiet and solid looking; middle-aged, respectable and behind him in the semi-darkness, the middle-aged, respectable car. On an impulse… Just passing… So many happy holidays in this old house when he’d been a boy…‘I ought not to trouble you.’ He glanced round him. ‘I hope the gentleman’s in, is he? If not, I won’t bother you, it wouldn’t be right, I’ll go away.’ But he didn’t come to that until he was well into the hall and the front door closed behind him.

  ‘No, he’s not, actually. But he—he’ll be back any minute…’ Helpless in the toils of her own convent-bred good manners, she led the way into the huge old farmhouse kitchen which to them was the centre of the house; moving away from him, however, backing away to the Welsh dresser against the far wall, leaving him standing uncertainly in the doorway. ‘This room you’ll remember if you were here as a child? And the grandfather clock?’ She felt that she sounded like a house-agent, showing him round.

  ‘Not too sure about the clock,’ he said—cagily? ‘But I was only a little lad then.’

  ‘But the dresser?—you remember this old dresser? They say it’s been here since the house was built.’ In fact they had brought it with them, two years ago.

  If he knew that it was a test, that no longer disturbed him. He seemed to abandon himself to discovery. ‘Oh, well, yes—the dresser I remember,’ he said.

  So now she knew. Her heart lurched, sick terror seemed to rise in her throat, thick as a vomit, choking her. She faltered: ‘My husband can show you the rest of the house—if you want to wait for him. He’ll be back any minute; any second. He never leaves me alone here after dark.’ And she blurted out: ‘There’s a man… He rings me up…’ She felt his eyes upon her, direct, appraising. ‘He says filthy things. Obscene.’

  He stood very quiet. He said at last: ‘Yes, I thought you’d rumbled me. Well—you’re right: it’s me. And about your husband—that isn’t true, is it? He won’t be back till late. I was outside the window, I heard you talking to him on the ‘phone.’ He had gone very pale, his broad, solid, pleasant face wore suddenly a grey, dead look. He explained, almost apologetically: ‘I’ve been spying on your house, you see. Waiting for the chance.’

  ‘The chance?’ she stammered. ‘The chance?’

  He stood there with that dreadful grey look, a sort of blank look as though he spoke from another world; motionless, except when now and again his thick white hands gave a sudden little twitch. ‘I can’t help myself,’ he said. ‘This ringing up and all. It’s disgusting, I know; afterwards I feel ashamed. But I can’t help it; It’s a sort of sickness, I suppose.’ He moved in a little from the doorway, came to the end of the big, scrubbed wooden kitchen table; stood there with it between them. She protested, as though with words she might stem his advance, might fend off for a little while longer the horror to come: ‘But why me? Why me? I’m not some young, pretty girl.’

  ‘It’s not personal,’ he said; almost as though that might bring some reassurance. And he explained it. ‘I just look them up in the telephone book. Different places, different counties, even; I couldn’t do it too near home. My job takes me about a bit and that helps. It’s more the house at first, really.’

  ‘The house?’

  ‘Remote houses, hidden away places, like this. I’ve got to be careful, you see, haven’t I?—I wouldn’t want to get caught. I find a good house and who lives in it; and then I drive over and ring up from some call box, locally. After that, it depends how they react. Sometimes they’re cool, they just say, “You’re mad,” and ring off. That kind I don’t bother with any more. But if they’re upset and disgusted—well, I’m afraid it’s better then.’ He looked down at his hands, fisted, white and bulging, on the table before him. ‘Perhaps I am mad. It’s dreadful, really. But when it comes on—well, it’s like I said, like a drug or something, I can’t resist it. And that’s why I have to be careful, I mustn’t let myself be caught. I couldn’t stand prison. What would I do, locked away, if a fit came on me? I really would go mad then.’

  She grasped at a faint hope. ‘The police know about you. We told them about the calls.’

  ‘They can’t do a thing,’ he said. ‘Not unless they was to tap the line day and night. And you’re not the only one. I keep several going at a time, just for safety’s sake; well, to keep the cops confused, you see.’ He was silent for a moment, withdrawn from the present, musing. ‘They nearly did
get me once, but that was different. That time I killed the poor girl.’

  She gave a little jerked out, chopped off scream, bunching her fingers against her mouth. ‘Oh, no! Oh, no!’

  ‘I didn’t mean to,’ he said, unhappily. ‘I didn’t want to. In fact, that part I didn’t enjoy at all, I was horrified. Such a pretty young thing, she was. I’d been ringing her up: like you say, filthy, obscene, I don’t know what makes me do it, I feel bad about it afterwards…’

  ‘Couldn’t you have treatment or something? Couldn’t you get help? Nowadays, they’re understanding.’

  ‘Yes, I know, and I wish I could,’ he said. ‘I honestly do wish it. But—how can I now? It would mean giving myself up; and there’s too much against me. I mean, first they’d have me on a murder charge, over that poor girl.’ He looked at her, almost imploringly. ‘If only they wouldn’t struggle, I wouldn’t hurt them. I don’t mean to hurt them but I’m—strong. And this girl, you see—I went to see her, I pretended I’d lived in the house once, like I did with you. I talked to her, like I’m talking to you; I explained it. But… Well, she wouldn’t—and I suppose it’s dreadful but it’s the struggle I like.’ He began to move, sidling towards her round the table, slowly and quietly, thick fingers white-tipped and spatulate, pressed along the wooden edge.

  She was sick and cold, the familiar room swam round her as though she saw it through water. She started to gibber, backed up, violently trembling, against the oak dresser. ‘Don’t touch me! Don’t come near me!’ But the sad, heavy face came closer; regretful—implacable. She sobbed and stammered: ‘Please don’t hurt me, please—!’

  He stopped again; stood there, earnestly, humbly explaining. ‘I wouldn’t, you see: if you’d only be kind and easy. I’m—just an ordinary man, you must understand that; in other ways perfectly ordinary. Bachelor, yes; but a lovely old mother, looks after me like a king. Good job, solid, respectable, no one ever suspecting a thing. And don’t get me wrong, I don’t want anything—dirty. Just the usual, just to be—a man.’ He fell silent again and into the silence, ash falling in the grate, coal resettling itself, sounded harsh and loud; the grandfather clock struck a single rasping note. ‘If they wouldn’t struggle,’ he insisted, ‘they wouldn’t get hurt. I sometimes think it’s really only the struggling that—excites me: the hope of the struggling. It’s all leading up to that, the ‘phone calls, everything, it’s liking to get the better of them because no one seems to—want me. If only just once, one of them was kind—was kind and easy and—even a little bit loving—I sometimes think I’d be cured of it, I’d give the whole thing up for ever.’

  A desperate hope rose in her of temporising, of reasoning with him. ‘Can’t you get some nice girl of your own?’

  ‘But that’s it,’ he said. ‘They won’t have me. I suppose they—sort of sense this other thing. I suppose I sort of—smell of it.’

  ‘There are—well, prostitutes.’ Poor sad girls, living so dangerously, taking such terrible risks. But…‘They would be easy; and I suppose kind?’

  ‘But not loving,’ he said. ‘And I want some love with it. That’s what I go about looking for. If… If, even after all the muck, the filth, the calls and all that—if one of them was just to bring herself to understand, if one of them really understood and forgave, really accepted that I’m—just an ordinary man, only with this sickness…’ He thought it over. ‘Quite a nice man really, I suppose, as men go. Honest, dependable, decent—in all other ways, at any rate, decent. And kind, you know, considerate, good to my mother, there never was a better son, I don’t suppose.’

  ‘I think you are nice,’ she said. ‘I think you’re right. You’re just a—a nice, ordinary man; only you’re ill, you need help.’

  ‘That’s right,’ he said. ‘I need help. And what help can I look for now, except from a woman? I think if I found that, I could begin life all over again, I really do. But till then…’

  Till then! She started to move, edging her way along the dresser, her hands spread out behind her, feeling their way along the polished ledge. It brought him sharply out of his absorption. He said: ‘That’s no use. If you think you’re going to get to the door, get away from me—I’m afraid that’s no use. I wouldn’t want to kill you, not like that poor girl; or harm you, like some of the others. I mean, I like you, I like you very much, no one else has ever been so kind as you have, listening and understanding. But that won’t stop me. You could be an angel out of heaven and it wouldn’t stop me. When the fit’s on me, I can’t help myself. And it’s on me now.’

  ‘My husband—’ she faltered.

  ‘Your husband won’t be home for hours. You know that. He was ringing you from Hampshire.’ He said again, in his humble, earnest way: ‘I don’t want anything—dirty. Just what any man wants.’

  She knew now what she must do. It was terrifying, hideous, dangerous—but there was nothing else for it. She had pulled herself together, the room no longer swam about her, her hands grew steady, dropping from the ledge, hanging motionless at her sides, resistanceless. She said, ‘I understand. You can’t help it; you can’t help yourself. And neither can I help myself. Neither of us can.’ And she tore herself from the shelter of the dresser and, moving very slowly, went towards him.

  He did not stir, just stood there waiting for her. But she saw with a sort of heartbreak that his whole face had become transfigured with an incredulous, inarticulate, grateful joy.

  She’d had no idea where to strike. Simply, the sharp kitchen knife thrust itself in and to a vital spot. She found herself weeping, kneeling over him as he lay there, harmless now and pitiful in his harmlessness. So terrible a price to have exacted from him! She and all those other women—if they could but have been ‘easy and kind’. Easy and kind—understanding, forgiving, ‘even a little bit loving’. But they could not; and she found herself weeping, kneeling there beside him, sobbing it out to the upturned, trustful face. ‘I didn’t mean to kill you! I had to save myself, I had to save all those other girls to come. The knife was there on the dresser. But I didn’t mean it to kill you…’

  After all—except for that one thing, he had seemed such a nice man.

  I Will Repay

  I AM TRAPPED. I have been here for ever: trapped here for ever, alone in the noisome dark—struggling, fighting, trying to get myself free: trapped here and alone. And frightened. Frightened of the dark and the loneliness, terrified that death will come before I can be set free. If I should die here!—alone, just die here, be released at last, perhaps, but too late! With so much to hope for, so much still ahead of me, all my great mission still to be accomplished. To die here in this dank, dark trap, alone and frightened: and leave it all undone!

  The return to consciousness was long and slow and most agonising. And yet, alone in the dark with no distraction but the loneliness and the fear—the mind becomes very clear and very keen. You begin to remember things that in all the hustle of light and life, are forgotten; or are stirred only by instincts and impulsions, to a vague, blurred recognition of our origins, back into the timeless past.

  If I keep quiet, if I don’t struggle, if I force myself to forgetfulness, for a little while, of the trap and the terror—then I begin to remember, I remember far, far back. I remember innocence. I remember a time when I lived with my father and my mother and my brother; just we four, alone, no one else, no other men, no other woman. And because there was no other woman, we lay with my mother as lovers, all three of us, her husband and her two sons. Was innocence lost then?—because I lay with my mother as a lover; or when I came to hate my brother because he too loved her? At any rate, oh some made up story of his work being preferred to mine, I pretended a different kind of jealousy and I killed him. This was the first death in all the world; and the first death was also the first murder. I murdered my brother and through all the lives that have followed, through all the progression of lives that, upward striving, lead to our eventual absorption into the eternal light—I have carried the mark of
that murder. In that, my first life on this earth, my name was Cain.

  Between the lives we live on this earth, the progression of lives unremembered—there are shadowy pauses. We forget that. In our daily lives, we forget the long, long, timeless pauses, while we digest that life just lived, the test we have just passed through, on our path to the Light; and prepare ourselves for the test to come. We forget all these things, we live each life anew as if there were none behind and no more to come. Only the wise, dark men of the East withdraw into traps of their own making and so find time and quietness to think back and back and back and so to remember. But this trap is not of my own making…

  And the terror begins again and the frantic struggling to be free, the muffled crying out from the dank, dark stillness for help which I know will never come. If no help comes, I must die: and I shall die, for who will come to the rescue of a killer? And I have so much more killing still to do…

  From out of the mists of time, from long, long before history was—so many lives to be lived through. Humble lives, useless lives, lives held to be great by those who lived at the same time, lives remembered still, into the twentieth century; lives long ago forgotten by all but I who lived them—who also will forget them when I am free of this silence and this loneliness, this too-much-time-to-think… All my lives: and through every one, I carried the Mark: through them all, striving onwards and upwards along the path, sliding back always in the slither of the blood about my feet, still with the Mark like a mark of blood across my mind, the compulsion to kill. Killing. Killing for personal reasons, for revenge, for greed, for hate, even for love. Killing publicly, legitimately: the executioner. In my hand, the spear that slew off the gladiator at the sign of the down-turned thumb, in my hand the knife that spilled the guts of the human sacrifice in the forest glade; in my hand the torch that ignited the fires, the stone that marked the final end…