by Iris Murdoch
‘Stephanie, shut up.’
‘You laughed because you were pleased.’
‘I laughed because it was ludicrous. Now just be quiet while I read this letter. I’ve got a hundred things to do this morning. You go and shop since that seems to be all you can do.’
Henry unfolded the third letter, which was from Cato. Cato’s letter ran as follows.
Dear Henry,
What I am going to say will seem to you almost incredible, but please please believe it and please please do exactly what I ask. I have been kidnapped. I am a prisoner in a house in London, I don’t know where. I was semi-conscious when I was brought here. Nor do I know who has kidnapped me, a gang of some sort, and I believe very bad, very determined people. I honestly think that my life is in danger. They want, quickly, a ransom of a hundred thousand pounds, in used notes. If they don’t get it soon they’ll start cutting me up. Please believe this, Henry, and please help me. And listen, don’t tell anyone about this. For God’s sake don’t involve the police or any other person if you ever want to see me alive again. These people mean business. If you inform or bungle by telling anybody they’ll kill you too. You are to come alone, next Tuesday, bringing the money in a suitcase, to the Mission house at one o’clock in the morning, and wait in the little shed in the yard behind the house. Someone will meet you there. This should allow time for you to raise the money. If you cannot come on Tuesday, for instance because of delay in receiving this letter, then come on Wednesday. Someone will be there every night at one until you come—but every day will put me in increasing danger of being maimed or killed, so please please hurry. And if you want to save my life, and your own, tell no one. And please make no mistakes. I am very sorry.
Cato
Henry’s heart was beating violently and his face had become rigid. He tried to mask his emotion but he could feel his eyes staring wildly. Stephanie, engaged with the coffee pot, was not looking at him. He coughed and got up and went again to the window.
‘What is it?’ said Stephanie.
‘I wonder if it’s going to rain again? What’s your view?’
‘Oh I don’t think so. What was in that letter?’
‘Just business, about the sale.’
‘Can I see?’
‘No. It should not be assumed that married people read each other’s letters. The principle of mutual privacy should be established early in a marriage. I am establishing it now.’
‘You’re upset. It’s about that girl.’
‘Give over, Steph. I thought you were going shopping. I thought you wanted to buy a coat.’
‘I haven’t any money. I want a bank account. I want an account at Harrods.’
‘Look. I’ll sign this blank cheque. Don’t drop it in the road. Now do buzz off, please.’
After Stephanie had gone Henry sat down and read the letter through again, blushing and trembling with fear. It was a very strange letter in tone as well as in substance. Would Cato write such a letter, could Cato bring himself to write such a letter? Was it from Cato at all? It looked like his writing, in a rather wavery version. Henry wondered if he had still got Cato’s previous letter somewhere. After a search he found not the letter but the envelope, crumpled in a jacket pocket. It was almost certainly Cato’s writing. Or could it be a forgery? A joke? A confidence trick? And, he suddenly thought, today is Tuesday! What am I to do, how can I decide what to do so urgently, so quickly? Oh God, if only I can find out that Cato is perfectly safe and well and this awful thing is just a hoax.
Breathless, with anxiety he got the Pennwood number from enquiries and dialled it.
‘Hello.’
‘Hello, Henry.’
‘Clever.’
‘I was expecting you to ring.’
‘Why?’
‘You got my letter?’
‘Oh, that.’
‘Let’s meet, Henry. When?’
‘Colette, just stop playing games, will you?’
‘I’m not, listen—’
‘Is Cato there?’
‘No, he went back to London.’
‘When?’
‘Oh several days ago. He only stayed here two days. Henry—’
‘Where is he in London, at the Mission?’
‘No, I think that’s closed down. He may be with Father Craddock, you know, he’s at the college—’
Henry rang off. He looked up the college number and in a moment was talking to Brendan Craddock.
‘My name’s Marshalson. I’m a friend of Cato’s. Is Cato staying with you by any chance?’
‘No, I wish he was. He’s disappeared into the blue, I don’t know where he is.’
As Henry put the telephone down it began to ring again.
‘Henry—’
‘Bugger off, Colette.’
‘You hung up in the middle of a sentence, that’s rude.’
‘It’s rude to pester people by telephone. How did you know the number anyway?’
‘I looked up A. Marshalson.’
‘How did you know Sandy had a flat in London?’
‘Bellamy told Daddy.’
‘Fuck Bellamy.’
‘Henry, is it really true that you’re going to sell the Hall?’
‘Yes.’
‘You mustn’t. Please, can’t we talk?’
‘No.’
‘You’re in trouble, I can feel it, never mind about marrying me, just let me help you, you wanted Cato’s help, please let me try, I’d do anything—’
‘Good-bye.’
He sat waiting for the telephone to ring again, but it did not. He thought, I’ll go round to the Mission, but that won’t prove anything. I suppose Cato wrote this letter, I suppose I must get the money—But I’ll have to see Merriman and tell him some story and sign things and I can’t possibly get it all by tonight, it’ll have to be tomorrow night, oh God, oh God! And at the thought of that awful little dark shed in the yard his heart quailed and he moaned aloud. Could he, should he, tell the police? No, he dared not risk Cato’s life, he dared not risk his own. His world was changed utterly. Bitter fear filled his throat and his mouth. He thought, I can’t bear this alone, I can’t bear it, and yet I must. If only I could tell somebody, somebody brave and strong, like John Forbes or my mother.
‘How are you feeling, Father?’
‘Terrible,’ said Cato.
‘We thought we might have given you too much.’
‘Too much of what?’
‘The drug.’
‘Brain damage,’ said Cato aloud to himself.
‘Can you sit up?’
‘Please don’t shine it in my face.’
Beautiful Joe put his hand over the torch, and his fingers made a luminous translucent pink-golden flower whose light dimly revealed a small windowless room. A cellar? It did not seem like a cellar. It was too square, too clean cut, a cubical box, more like a prison cell; except that the walls were densely covered with some sort of dark all-over design. Wallpaper?
‘Can you sit up?’
Sitting up seemed a far-off project. ‘I don’t know.’ He looked up at Beautiful Joe’s face, at the glossy hexagonal glasses which looked here like the appurtenances of some science fictional spaceman, at the sleek blond hair neatly combed and parted, at the expressive (but of what?) slightly smiling mouth. He tried to remember.
He had come back to London after two days at Pennwood because he simply had to see Beautiful Joe again. He had no purpose, no plan, except to be once again in the boy’s presence. He told himself that he had despaired too soon. He recited stories about ‘helping’ Joe, about after all taking him away, about how, somehow or other, all might yet be well. He knew that these were stories. They might actually be true stories; but even this was unimportant, almost frivolous, compared with the simple need to see Joe again: a need single and metaphysical in its awfulness. If he did not see Beautiful Joe the walls of being would collapse; to save himself, to save the world, he had to go where Joe was. He had bought candles. Tha
t he remembered clearly and how symbolic an act it had seemed at the time. He had gone to the Mission house and had set the candles in the window and lit them and waited there in the night for Beautiful Joe to come. And like a marvellous tiger moth Beautiful Joe had come to him out of the night. Cato felt, in remembrance, that when he had heard those soft padding feet upon the stairs he had experienced the happiest moment of his life, a moment of absolute joy which like a magic jewel was worth all else, could perhaps redeem all else.
After that things were less clear. They had eaten or drunk something together and Cato had begun to feel very strange and confused. He could recall staring at Joe’s face and seeing it shine with an unearthly beauty, as if Joe were a young saint revealed in glory, or perhaps a good wizard, some ageless being who wandered the world doing saving deeds, in the guise of a marvellously beautiful youth. Then they had walked together and the walking was joy, and the night sky of London was a brilliant rosy brown scattered with wispy pink clouds which gave light to the earth. And they had walked, it seemed, a long way; and then there had been a dark place with some steps, and Cato had fallen down the steps. Then he vaguely recalled a passage way, then a sudden blackness and a door which he could not open. And voices, he thought that he had heard voices, far away, talking in some foreign language only he could not hear the words. Later there was something else. A candle, two candles, with motionless flames, glowing like some sort of heavenly luminous lard. And he had been writing a letter. The letter had been difficult, but it had come out somehow in the end, with clarity and ease, like a game of patience.
Cato was looking at Joe’s hand, turned into a shining flower, the flesh transparent and bright, bright as the night clouds of holy London.
‘So, Joe,’ said Cato, ‘we have come together again after all.’
‘Yes, Father. I knew we would.’
‘Yes, I knew too.’ Cato thought for a bit. He said. ‘I fell.’
‘Yes, Father, you fell and hurt your leg. How is it now?’
Cato felt, rather far away, a pain of which he had been aware, only he had not realized what it was. ‘It hurts a bit. I didn’t break my leg, did I?’
‘No, no, Father, it’s just a bruise.’
‘People were talking, I remember, not in English. What language were they talking in?’
‘Never you mind, Father.’
‘Joe, did you threaten me with a knife?’
‘There was a knife, Father. I didn’t threaten you.’
‘There was a knife.’ That was important. There had been a revolver once, only he had thrown it into the river.
‘I wrote a letter,’ said Cato. He began to struggle up. He was lying on a low camp bed which had been placed against the wall in a corner of the room. The bed groaned and shifted. There was a pillow behind his head, a grey blanket pulled over him. He was in shirt and trousers. His feet were bare.
‘Wait, Father, I’ll fix the pillow.’
Cato sat up uncomfortably, his legs outstretched, then he began to subside again. ‘I wrote a letter to Henry Marshalson asking for a ransom.’
‘That’s right, Father.’
‘Oh, my God!’ Cato lay for a moment. Then he said, ‘I must get up. Help me.’ He pushed against the creaking bed with his elbows, then with his hands. He moved his legs and bent his knees. The pain in his leg increased and a sudden pain smote him in the head like a swinging blow. He lowered his feet towards the floor and got into a sitting position on the edge of the bed, holding his head in his hands.
Joe removed his fingers from the torch and directed the beam at the floor. ‘Keep still, I’m going to light a candle.’
Cato stared down at his bare feet. Then he pulled up his trouser leg and inspected an extensive bruise. He fingered the bone. It seemed to be sound.
A match was struck and a candle flame flickered and then rose on the other side of the room. The light danced, descended. Joe had put the candle on the floor underneath a table so that it gave a restricted light. The walls were in darkness. Cato, looking up, was aware of two closed doors. The floor was covered in thick sound-looking red linoleum.
Cato tried to stand, then sat again abruptly. He fumbled at his trousers, then realized that his belt had gone and that all the buttons had been cut off. He considered the situation.
‘Did you send off that letter?’
‘Yes, Father.’ Beautiful Joe was sitting on the table swinging his legs, casting pendulum shadows across the red floor.
‘I want to talk to one of your friends,’ said Cato. ‘I want this situation explained properly.’
‘You mean one of them?’
‘Yes, one of them. Whoever “they” may be.’
‘They won’t see you,’ said Joe, still swinging his legs. ‘You know my face already. There’s no point in your seeing another face.’
‘We could talk in the dark.’
‘No, no, Father, they wouldn’t. And very much better not. I’m to look after you, and you’re safe with me. They’re not nice people. I’ll see you don’t get hurt. But you must promise to do whatever I tell you. I can protect you if you’re sensible and quiet. If you’re not they’ll deal with you. And you could get me into trouble too. You understand?’
Cato pondered. Then he said, ‘Oh, Joe, Joe, the worst has happened, what I feared has happened, you’re in the hands of the—’
‘Sssh, Father—’
‘So you’re a sort of prisoner too—’
‘I am not. I know what I’m doing. I’m free, really free like—’
‘Free! When you—’
‘I know what I’m doing. I just told you to be quiet for your own good.’
‘You threatened me with a knife.’
‘There have to be knives, Father. There are knives in the world. Fear is a knife. Look.’ Suddenly there was a flash. Cato saw a long glittering blade. Joe moved the blade, holding it low so that it took the full light of the candle. Then there was a click and the blade vanished.
‘Have you ever stuck that into anybody?’ said Cato.
‘Yes. And I carved a man’s face. When I cut a face it stays cut. You didn’t believe me before, did you. You kept telling me to be good and all the time you thought I was a little boy and that I’d be afraid of anything that was for real. You didn’t believe the bad things, Father, you thought you did but you didn’t. You didn’t know real badness existed. You lived in a nice dream, you didn’t see the world as it really was.’
‘Have you got the money yet?’ said Cato.
‘Never you mind. We’re doing your friend a favour. He wanted to get rid of his money, didn’t he? It was practically your idea, you kept going on and on about him. O.K., we’ll bleed him whiter than white. What you said in the letter was just a first instalment.’
‘He’ll go to the police.’
‘No, he won’t. He knows who he’s dealing with. He wants to keep you alive and to stay alive himself.’
‘I suppose when you’ve got the money your friends will dispose of me.’
‘I’ll look after you.’
‘I think you’re living in a dream, Joe.’
‘You won’t tell, afterwards. You won’t tell for your own sake. And you won’t tell for my sake. They know that. It’s part of the plan.’
‘I see … Well, maybe I wouldn’t tell, for your sake, but I don’t see why your friends should take risks. Joe, is there a lavatory anywhere near here?’
‘There’s a bucket. I got it special. It’s through that door.’
Cato rose and, holding up his trousers, walked across to the door. His feet were curled and reluctant. In the confined space of what had doubtless been a lavatory Joe’s torch revealed an orange plastic bucket upon the floor. Of the original fitments nothing remained except a length of piping which had led, perhaps, to a washbasin. Cato attempted to relieve himself but found that now he could not. He hobbled back to the bed and sat down heavily, feeling giddy.
‘Are you hungry?’
‘No.’ Cato
felt he would never be hungry again. And he thought, any food that I eat will be drugged.
‘You will be. I’ll bring something later. I’ve got to leave you now. Don’t try anything, if you don’t want to get battered. There’s a negro chap who’s a bit mental. I’m going to lock this door now. There are other locked doors, always someone about. This is a big place. Just sit still and mind you keep quiet. No one except them would hear you if you yelled. And they might get vexed and come in. Just do as you’re told and I’ll look after you.’
‘I don’t see how you can,’ said Cato. He lay down again on the bed.
The candle light swayed, then went out, and the torch was shone onto Cato’s face. He closed his eyes. The light moved away and Cato opened his eyes again. Beautiful Joe was fitting a key into the other door. He saw for a moment in profile the fine intelligent girlish face, very intent. For a second Cato wondered if he should leap up and rush for the door. But physical fear had charge of his lower limbs and he knew that he could not.
‘Good-bye, Father. Quiet now. Sweet dreams.’ The door swung and closed again and he heard the key turn. Absolute blackness possessed the room. Cato sat up quickly, then held his head. He gasped, feeling suddenly faint. It was hard to breathe, as if the very darkness were stifling him, as if the room were cram full of black velvet. He thought, I mustn’t panic. Courage. That is what I must use now. Courage. I have got it. I must use it. He breathed slowly and deeply.
After a while he got up and began to move, holding his trousers with one hand. Already the darkness had confused him and he did not know where the door was. He fell over the end of the bed, then he found the wall. His trousers fell to the ground. He fumbled for the bed again, then stepped out of the heap of fallen garments and put them onto the bed. It was cold in the room. He put his hand onto the wall and moved slowly until he felt the jamb and the crack of the door. He ran his fingers along the crack, which became a little wider towards the top, but not wide enough for leverage. He edged forward, leaning against the door, his hands noiselessly exploring the wood. He found the key hole, then a metal handle. He pressed it carefully down and pulled cautiously. Locked of course. Moreover the door felt heavy and solid, no flimsy affair whose panels he could kick through, even if he had the courage to try. Then as he stood still, fronting the door, he had the weird feeling that someone was standing on the other side and listening. Listening to his movements. He stepped hastily away cannoned into the edge of the table, and stopped. A moment or two later he heard a distant sound of voices, then a sound like a shutting door, and silence.
