Henry and Cato

  It was now some time since Joe had paid the last of his flying visits, bringing him bread and water. Very hungry, Cato had eaten all the bread. Later on, drugged or again hungry, he had begun to feel giddy. He had still seen no member of the gang except Joe, and this in itself had become a source of dread. He felt a crazed lonely curiosity, as if even the most horrible person would have been welcome company for him. Only still, fearing for his own safety and for Joe’s, he did not dare to shout and knock. He had heard once more, but not lately, the odd distant gabble of voices, and sometimes footsteps. Now, obsessed with detaching his piece of metal pipe, he had ceased to listen. He had no plans for his tool, he just wanted to have it. Now, growling very softly, after a short rest, he shifted to the other knee and set to work again.

  The time of writing the first letter to Henry was now immensely distant. It was, he supposed, days ago, and seemed by comparison a period of ignorance or even innocence. When he had first addressed Henry he had done so, it now seemed in retrospect, with a certain sense of absurdity and without any very lively realization that he was leading his friend into serious danger. Yet of course he knew that he ought not to have written that letter, and he could not remember having been then so afraid that he could not have refused to write it. Extreme fear, it seemed, had come later, had come with physical weakness and mental confusion. Yet it was the fact that he had written the first letter that had made it that much easier to write again, to Henry, and so shamefully to Colette. He had written in fear of Joe, of Joe’s anger and his craziness and his viciously playful knife, and in fear of them, to whom he was to be delivered for punishment if he failed; whose victim also Joe would then become. It was all so incalculably complicated. Cato had felt so weak, so sick, so tired, so unable to fight, so unable to think, to resist, even to delay. And he had let himself be consoled amid the horror of his treachery by the thought that Colette would tell his father and his father would tell the police. Colette would not come, that never. Only now he was not so sure.

  There was a sudden cracking sound and a pattering shower of fine debris and Cato sat back abruptly on the floor holding the section of piping. He sat there for a moment exploring his trophy. The pipe was heavy, about nine inches long and having a jagged tongue of metal at the end projecting perhaps four inches. Cato sat touching it, playing it as if it were a silent instrument. Then he struggled up, stood giddily for a moment, and made for his bed. He lay down holding the piece of pipe against him as if it were something cherished and precious. He even felt its shape against his cheek. It was dear to him as an indubitable thing, something outside his body and his mind, a talisman, something for which he had toiled and which he now possessed as some kind of evidence or proof.

  Cato listened. There was total silence. The intermittent vibration which he interpreted as the underground railway was absent, so it must be night, perhaps two or three in the morning. Night. His father and Colette would be safely asleep at Pennwood. Silence. He tried to think about Henry and to wonder whether Henry had brought the rest of the money, but Henry and the money seemed unreal and shadowy, could not possibly be part of the story. He thought, I shall stay here and starve, stay here and die. I shall scream in the end, but there will be no one to hear. Perhaps they have all gone away and Beautiful Joe is already dead. I shall scream in the end. No one will ever know where I am or what happened. Silence. Night. Colette is asleep.

  Then, clutching the pipe, he turned over in anguish and then sat up. He had written that letter to Colette, that terrible craven fatal letter. He had not fought, he had scarcely even argued, he had tried to purchase his survival with his sister’s safety, perhaps with her life; with her honour, with his honour. He thought of other prisoners, brave men imprisoned by tyrants for speaking the truth. He was not of their company. Cato sat open-eyed, light-headed with misery and shame. He now saw that of course Colette would come, would come like an arrow to him, for him, as she thought. She would tell nobody, she would simply come.

  He sat listening to his breathing and to the beat of his heart. He sat upright, straight-backed, legs slightly apart, and the attitude suddenly brought back memories of his earliest days as an ordinand when, sitting in what had then seemed like darkness, he had passed long periods in meditation. No one had told him what to expect, scarcely even what to attempt to do. Should I see images, he had said to Father Bell. Do what you please, he was told. Kneel. Sit. Stand. Kneel. Sit. Stand. Kneel. Automatically Cato canted forward and knelt on the floor. He laid the piece of piping down carefully and noiselessly beside him and he looked into the perfect darkness. He saw Colette looking at him with a look of immense tenderness, and then with an air of sadness turning her head away. With an intense concentrated quietness of transformation, Colette’s face had become the face of the Redeemer, and the Redeemer had huge eyes luminous as a cat’s, staring at him out of the darkness, yet there was a bright light all about. And Cato could see the tendrils of hair that flowed about the beloved head, and the way the beard grew. And he had a most intense sensation of not being alone.

  Cato knew that these images were simply hallucinations. He had never so clearly felt and known the emptiness of such imagery, the falseness of that consoling sense of presence. He had betrayed his sister. He might soon die, or else live in shame. He had written a letter, he had performed an act, there was evidence against him. Some words came to him: God is the author of all actions. And he thought, but there is no God. Only those images, only actions and their consequences, and death. Lord have mercy. Christ have mercy. Lord have mercy. This is not prayer, he thought, and I have never prayed. There is only sin and nothing to alter it or to change it, only our sin which is more foul than anything which we can understand or know, because we are made of lies.

  He reeled, steadied himself with one hand on the ground, and went on kneeling. There is no God. I have nothing. I am nothing. God is the author of all actions. There is no God. Lord have mercy. I am a criminal. There is no hope. There is no one here. There is an abyss. He reeled again. Then, placing his hands on the floor, let himself fall forward until he was lying prone. There is no God, he thought, and he felt that it was the first time that he had ever really experienced the positive truth of this; and with the experience came an extraordinary breaking as if all the strings and tendons of his body had been cut, and he lay there limp as one to whom death has come unexpectedly.

  The candle was burning on the shelf, moving slightly in the draught, like an almost motionless dancer who quietly shifts one foot. Colette and Beautiful Joe were sitting on the bed.

  ‘Colette,’ Joe reached out his hand and held it open towards her. Then he let it fall gently to touch her knee. She shuddered. ‘Let me touch you. Call me “Joe” will you?’

  ‘Joe.’

  ‘Are you afraid of me?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Are you afraid of sex?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘You’ve had sex?’

  ‘Never.’

  Joe withdrew his hand. ‘I’ve never met a bird like you. You’re—you’re—precious.’

  ‘Joe,’ said Colette, ‘I want Cato to be all right. I want him to be set free. There’s no need for them to keep two of us. I came so that he should be set free. Won’t they do that? Surely whoever paid that money would pay it for me.’

  ‘Henry Marshalson. You reckon?’

  ‘Henry paid that ransom money?’

  ‘Yes, and he’s going to pay a lot more before he’s through.’

  ‘But can’t Cato please go now? I’m enough for ransom.’

  ‘You aren’t here for the money,’ said Joe.

  Colette looked away from him. She looked at the low table where Joe had once more laid down his unsheathed knife. The knife glittered amazingly as if it were made of some magical metal which was a source of light. The blade shone like a flame. The strewn bank notes were still carpeting the floor.

  ‘Colette,’ said Joe. ‘I want you to give yourself. I don’t want you to fight me.?
??

  ‘Give myself—to you?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Not to—anybody else—I mean?’

  Joe was silent for a moment. Then he took off his glasses and put them on the table beside the knife. His face now showed weariness. ‘Sex is so nice, Colette. A woman’s body, the way it moves—’

  ‘If I give myself to you, will Cato be set free?’

  ‘Maybe. Yes, it’ll help. I could get mad, I could force you, you’re frightened of me. Some men like that. Don’t make me mad. I’ll try to help your brother. But you’ve got to give. After all, you’re helpless, you’re a prisoner. I could force you, anybody could. You’re just a girl. You don’t want to get messed up, do you? You don’t want your face to get messed? I could slash you with that knife. I know how to slash people so they stay slashed, the scars never go. You know?’

  Colette made the effort to turn and look at him. Without his glasses he looked so tired, so young, a boy. He narrowed his eyes, staring back, then smiled a little, acting, tossed his neat head of hair. ‘It’s Beauty and the Beast, isn’t it! I know I’m Beautiful Joe, but compared with you I’m a beast. Do you like me, Colette?’

  ‘I am very sorry for you,’ she said.

  ‘I don’t want your bloody pity. Won’t you take my hand? Look, I’m offering it to you again.’

  Colette took his hand and then gasped with pain. He had twisted her wrist violently. Tears came into her eyes, tears of pain and helplessness and fear. She had for some time now had one idea clear in her mind. She would be raped in any case; but if there was any chance of making some sort of bargain, making of her surrender a significant action, she must find it and use it. She still had a last measure of freedom and must exercise it intelligently. Had Joe any power to help Cato? If she hastened to do what Joe wished would she buy his friendship, would she not just be passed on, a despised acquiescing slave, to one of Joe’s masters? Her body curled and shrank, but she knew that she would not resist the knife. A little pain, and she would be a blubbering idiot, unable to think, unable to bargain. She said, ‘Listen, Joe, I will give myself, if you will let me see Cato first. I want to be sure he’s all right.’

  Joe hesitated. ‘He’s not here.’

  ‘I don’t believe you. I want to see him.’

  ‘You can see him after.’

  ‘No, before.’

  ‘You can’t make conditions,’ said Joe. ‘Take your tights off.’

  ‘Please. Not yet. Joe, talk to me. I don’t know you. Let’s be friends.’

  ‘Do you mean that? I’m sorry I hurt you just now. I didn’t really hurt you, did I? I was just mad because you wouldn’t take my hand, as if you looked down on me.’

  ‘I don’t look down on you. But I wish you weren’t with these awful people. Joe, can’t you get us out, rescue us, Cato and me? I’d do anything that you want.’

  ‘You’re going to do that anyway. May I kiss you—Colette?’

  Colette sat rigid and let the boy lean over her. His hot wet lips, trembling slightly, touched her mouth, withdrew, then came back and his arm went round her shoulder. Colette closed her eyes.

  ‘You’re stirred,’ he said, withdrawing again. ‘You want me. Let me touch you here, just touch. Have you ever wanted a man?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘I won’t force you. I want this to be proper, I want it to be perfect. I’ve got to have you, Colette, now, tonight. When a man starts he can’t stop. But we won’t hurry if you don’t want. It’s better that way. I just like touching you like this. You’re lovely, lovely—I’ve never had anyone like you—Colette, you do want me, don’t you? Can’t you feel it, it’s sex, can’t you feel?’

  Colette breathed deeply. The motionless dancer was moving, the room was vibrating, soundlessly drumming. A sigh came from her out of a depth of physical being which she had never felt so poignantly before. She was repelled, disgusted, horrified, frightened, excited.

  ‘Let me touch you here.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Don’t fight me. Let me see your breasts, you don’t mind that. You’ll be as keen as I am soon.’

  ‘Joe, let’s be quiet together,’ said Colette. ‘I want to be friends with you, I won’t fight you, only don’t—just yet—Joe, will you promise to get Cato out?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘You promise?’

  ‘Oh damn Cato. Yes, yes. Oh you’re marvellous, you’re heaven. That’s nice, isn’t it?’

  She had let him open the front of her dress and wriggle one hand in onto her breast. Reaching back she undid the brassiere.

  ‘That’s better. Wait. Oh Colette—’ Joe jerked away and pulled off his shirt. He unzipped his jeans. Then very gently replaced his hand. ‘You see, I can be quiet. I’m not a wild beast, not yet, you know. That’s nice, isn’t it? Put your hand here. All right here.’ He led her hand to his front and she felt, amid the mass of golden hair which ran down his body to his waist, the hidden nipples and the violently thudding heart. ‘You can feel my heart, I can feel your heart. You’re excited.’

  ‘Joe, where is Cato? Joe, dear Joe, you will help us?’

  ‘I’ve said I would. You called me dear Joe. Do you like me?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Colette. It was true. She felt irresistibly sorry, irresistibly moved.

  ‘I’d like to tell you about my life, only not now. Afterwards. It’s nice afterwards, Colette, when you feel you’ve been in heaven and then you feel so soft and limp and yet so wonderful and you lie together and it’s so tender—’

  ‘Won’t you tell me about your life—now—I’d like to know—’

  ‘My father beat me, my brothers beat me, and my mother—God, women are muck—I don’t mean you—Colette, darling, take off your tights, just to show me that you will. I won’t hurry you, I won’t force you, I know it’s the first time. I wouldn’t believe any other girl, but I believe you. Colette, you know it hurts a bit, don’t you, the first time?’

  ‘Yes.’ Slowly, Colette kicked off her shoes, then began to wind down her tights. She was trembling violently now. She dropped them on the floor, then pulled the skirt of her dress down over her knees.

  ‘You’re like a little girl.’

  ‘Joe, the other people, the other men here—will they come? Oh Joe, I’m so frightened, I’m not frightened of you, I’m frightened of them.’

  ‘Them? Oh, them! Colette, listen, I’ll tell you a secret. Then we make love, yes. I want you to be happy. There isn’t anybody else, there’s only me.’

  ‘Only—you—?’

  ‘Yes, I made believe it was a gang. I just said it and they believed it. God, how I laughed. It was so bloody easy. There they were all shaking in their shoes. Henry Marshalson bringing all that money, and your brother scared stiff and sitting there like a petrified mouse! God, people are such bloody cowards. You just show them a knife and they’ll do anything.’

  ‘But—you mean - there’s no gang, no other people at all, you mean you’ve done it all alone, captured Cato, made him write that letter, got all that ransom money—?’

  ‘Yes. Aren’t I great?’

  ‘But the negro, you said—’

  ‘There isn’t a negro, there isn’t anyone—See that transistor set, I put it on sometimes, on the foreign programmes, so it sounded like people talking, God, I laughed!’

  ‘So it’s all a hoax, a joke?’

  ‘I didn’t say that—’

  ‘But where’s Cato? You must tell him, you must let him out at once—where are we—?’

  ‘Later, later, don’t make me angry, I can be angry, you know I can.’

  ‘You must give the money back and—’

  ‘Stop, honey, don’t yap. Of course I’m not going to give it back, and he’d better bloody not ask for it. I worked for that stuff. I’m big now, I’ve made myself big, and I done it alone. It needed some bleeding nerve, I didn’t know it would be easy. I’m dangerous, and he can spare it, can’t he? I’m free and I’m going to stay free and have things my way.’
/>
  ‘Joe, you haven’t hurt Cato? Oh do let me see him—’

  ‘No, no, just scared him green and silly. How damn stupid can people get? I had to pay him out because he stole my gun, he threw it in the river, that started it all. But I didn’t know he’d be so dead easy to push around. If he’d shown a bit of fight I’d have told him, I wouldn’t have hurt him, I like him, he’s my friend. But he was so stupid and so quiet, he was as meek as a sparrow. I made him write to Henry to say send you with the money, and then I thought I just couldn’t wait for you, so I made him write to you and you came at once, I knew you would! You see you’re more important to me than the money. Do you understand that? Colette, take those things off, dear, dear—and look at me now, look. That’s what it’s about. That’s right. Colette, you will be my girl, won’t you? I’ll be kind to you, I’ll work for you. He wanted me to go with him to the north, let’s all go and live on the money, why not, and you be my girl.’

  Colette closed her eyes and lay back on the bed. Her dress dragged, then tore.

  ‘Colette, you will be my girl, won’t you, honey, honey, say yes.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And we’ll go and live in the north, and I’ll work, I’ll learn things like he wanted, I’m smart, I’ll do anything for you—’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Relax, relax. Look at me. I want you to see it.’ Colette opened her eyes. Her body was stiff with repulsion, she felt as thin and as dense as a rod. She saw Joe’s face flushed and grimacing, his wet mouth hanging open, his eyes glaring. ‘Colette, oh Colette, darling, quick—you promise you never did this with anyone before?’ ‘Yes.’

  ‘Relax, damn you, don’t fight me, do you want to get hurt?’ Colette was suddenly whirling beneath him. Her knee came up into his stomach, her hands grasped his hair, trying to pull that hot dribbling face away. His arm came down heavily across her mouth and she bit into the flesh. She saw above her the sudden flashing arc of the knife blade, and a strange dead line was laid across her cheek like a thread, followed by burning pain. She began to scream.