Mimi nodded. The ice cubes in her drink were beginning to freeze her fingers. Any minute now, she prayed, they would surely melt.
“I gave up dreaming almost a week ago,” said Everett, “thinking that if I did, the killing pattern might be altered; broken.” Then he said tersely; “it was not. The killings have continued…”
“How do you know the killings have continued, Everett, if you’ve given up your dreaming? Wouldn’t this mean he had no place to hide the bodies?”
In spite of the fact she had disobeyed their rule about not speaking, Everett answered her.
“I know they are being continued because I have seen the blood.”
“Ah, yes. I see.”
“No, Mimi. No. You do not see. The blood is not a figment of my imagination. The blood, in fact, is the only thing not dreamed.” He explained the stains on Kenneth Albright’s hands and arms and clothes and he said: “It happens every day. We have searched his person for signs of cuts and gashes—even for internal and rectal bleeding. Nothing. We have searched his quarters and all the other quarters in his ward. His ward is locked. His ward is isolated in the extreme. None of his fellow patients was ever found bleeding—never had cause to bleed. There were no injuries—no self-inflicted wounds. We thought of animals. Perhaps a mouse—a rat. But nothing. Nothing. Nothing…We also went so far as to strip-search all the members of the staff who entered that ward and I, too, offered myself for this experiment. Still nothing. Nothing. No one had bled.”
Everett was now beginning to perspire so heavily he removed his jacket and threw it on the floor. Thurber woke and stared at it, startled. At first, it appeared to be the beast that had just pursued him through the woods and down the road. But, then, it sighed and settled and was just a coat; a rumpled jacket lying down on the rug.
Everett said: “we had taken samples of the blood on the patient’s hands—on Kenneth Albright’s hands and on his clothing and we had these samples analysed. No. It was not his own blood. No, it was not the blood of an animal. No, it was not the blood of a fellow patient. No, it was not the blood of any members of the staff…”
Everett’s voice had risen.
“Whose blood was it?” he almost cried. “Whose the hell was it?” Mimi waited.
Everett Menlo lighted another cigarette. He took a great gulp of his drink.
“Well…” He was calmer now; calmer of necessity. He had to marshall the evidence. He had to put it all in order—bring it into line with reason. “Did this mean that—somehow—the patient had managed to leave the premises—do some bloody deed and return without our knowledge of it? That is, after all, the only possible explanation. Isn’t it?”
Mimi waited.
“Isn’t it?” he repeated.
“Yes,” she said. “It’s the only possible explanation.”
“Except there is no way out of that place. There is absolutely no way out.”
Now, there was a pause.
“But one,” he added—his voice, again, a whisper.
Mimi was silent. Fearful—watching his twisted face.
“Tell me,” Everett Menlo said—the perfect innocent, almost the perfect child in quest of forbidden knowledge. “Answer me this—be honest: is there blood in dreams?”
Mimi could not respond. She felt herself go pale. Her husband—after all, the sanest man alive—had just suggested something so completely mad he might as well have handed over his reason in a paper bag and said to her, burn this.
“The only place that Kenneth Albright goes, I tell you, is into dreams,” Everett said. “That is the only place beyond the ward into which the patient can or does escape.”
Another—briefer—pause.
“It is real blood, Mimi. Real. And he gets it all from dreams. My dreams.”
They waited for this to settle.
Everett said: “I’m tired. I’m tired. I cannot bear this any more. I’m tired…”
Mimi thought, good. No matter what else happens, he will sleep tonight.
He did. And so, at last, did she.
Mimi’s dreams were rarely of the kind that engender fear. She dreamt more gentle scenes with open spaces that did not intimidate. She would dream quite often of water and of animals. Always, she was nothing more than an observer; roles were not assigned her; often, this was sad. Somehow, she seemed at times locked out, unable to participate. These were the dreams she endured when Brian Bassett died: field trips to see him in some desert setting; underwater excursions to watch him floating amongst the seaweed. He never spoke, and, indeed, he never appeared to be aware of her presence.
That night, when Everett fell into his bed exhausted and she did likewise, Mimi’s dream of Brian Bassett was the last she would ever have of him and somehow, in the dream, she knew this. What she saw was what, in magical terms, would be called a disappearing act. Brian Bassett vanished. Gone.
Sometime after midnight on May Day morning, Mimi Menlo awoke from her dream of Brian to the sound of Thurber thumping the floor in a dream of his own.
Everett was not in his bed and Mimi cursed. She put on her wrapper and her slippers and went beyond the bedroom into the hall.
No lights were shining but the street lamps far below and the windows gave no sign of stars.
Mimi made her way past the jungle, searching for Everett in the living-room. He was not there. She would dream of this one day; it was a certainty.
“Everett?”
He did not reply.
Mimi turned and went back through the bedroom. “Everett?”
She heard him. He was in the bathroom and she went in through the door. “Oh,” she said, when she saw him. “Oh, my God.”
Everett Menlo was standing in the bathtub, removing his pyjamas. They were soaking wet, but not with perspiration. They were soaking wet with blood.
For a moment, holding his jacket, letting its arms hang down across his belly and his groin, Everett stared at Mimi, blank-eyed from his nightmare.
Mimi raised her hands to her mouth. She felt as one must feel, if helpless, watching someone burn alive.
Everett threw the jacket down and started to remove his trousers. His pyjamas, made of cotton, had been green. His eyes were blinded now with blood and his hands reached out to find the shower taps.
“Please don’t look at me,” he said. “I…Please go away.”
Mimi said: “no.” She sat on the toilet seat. “I’m waiting here,” she told him, “until we both wake up.”
THE NAME’S THE SAME
This man answered the door. When I asked for my brother he made a sort of face. I got this feeling right away that he didn’t like my brother—that my brother’s name wasn’t very honourable around there. I felt funny. But it was my name too.
That thought kept coming to me as I began up the staircase. “It’s your name too—it is your name too.”
It was a long climb to my brother’s room—second floor from the top. I’d been there before—you wanted an oxygen mask the last few flights—it’s the truth—you did. I got there all right, though.
He was out.
But Katie was there. Katie was Bud’s fiancee. “Bud’s decided to wait for the last one. How are ya, sweetie?” She kissed me.
“Fine. Tired—but O.K. I brought a surprise.”
“Show me.”
It was a bottle of cognac. I forgot to tell you we’re all practically alcoholics—except me—I’m a weekend drinker. I like it. But in my work you can’t afford to drink or people talk.
Anyway.
Katie took the bottle and said we’d save it till Bud got back. I took a look around.
I wish I could describe that room to you—I really do. This was a “good” house—you know, they had a Lady on the ground floor—a real lady, capital L. She was always making complaints, especially about Bud—but old Kitty (that was the landlady), old Kitty was as mad as a hatter and she used to come in to listen to Bud’s radio all the time—so she never paid any attention to Lady Whatsit’s com
plaints about Bud. This Lady Whatsit—god, she had a voice you could hear in Dawson City, if you know where that is. But I never saw her—Lady Whatsit I mean. She moved out later on.
But about this room of Bud’s. It was like a showroom in a museum or somewhere like that. The corners were so far away and the ceiling was so high, you practically had an echo when you talked. And all the furniture was very sort of Regency—gilt chairs and lots of brocade on the covers. And on the windows, curtains like that—brocade drapes and that white material you see through like a misty day. There was a tiny little gas fire stuck into the middle of an enormous fireplace. The mantel was ninety feet long. Rug on the floor.
The bed was like a rugby field. It even had a centre line and goal posts at either end—if you know what I mean. Katie lived in a room downstairs.
While we waited for Bud, Katie went on reading from this magazine she’d had when I came in—so I looked over Bud’s books on the mantelpiece. Here’s what he had:
The Great Gatsby by F. Scott Fitzgerald
The Case of the Moth-Eaten Mink
The Case of the Fiery Fingers
The Case of the Drowning Duck
The Case of the Grinning Gorilla
And another one—all by this Erle Stanley somebody—I don’t even know his name—I never read that.
Then there were some magazines—you know, women and stuff—and a book of poetry: Other Men’s Flowers. It’s an anthology. Lord Wavell put it together. And a copy of Voltaire’s Candide. (I gave him that.) That was all.
And in this cupboard (this cupboard was the only Victorian piece of furniture in the whole room) Bud put all his bottles. I wish you could have seen Bud’s bottles. He had them all lined up like we used to line up our lead soldiers when we were kids. All the ones that looked alike in the same row—with an officer in front. All his officers were quart bottles of gin. He even had a whole platoon of these officers. Some army. Lousy with brass.
I was in the middle of counting them (I got to thirty, no kidding) when Katie finished her magazine.
“I’m going to put on the sausages now. He shouldn’t be long—it’s past closing time.”
“O.K. Does this radio work?”
“Sure. It’s on a battery. I just bought a new one yesterday. See if you can get Luxembourg.”
She went out to cook on this little stove in the bathroom. There was only the bath and the sink in there—and this little stove and a little ice-box.
I turned on the radio. There was a man playing the trumpet. I’ll always remember that. I sat there smoking a cigarette, listening to him. He was so sad; and I kept thinking of the bars back in Toronto—(we come from Toronto, Bud and I and Katie too—Katie even lives on the same street at home). We used to go to these bars and listen to the music. It was just like the man on the radio. And there was a pianist too, in Toronto—black and fat: a genius. Here in London you don’t get that—so when I heard it on the radio from Luxembourg that night, I nearly cried. It was like hearing somebody calling “Come home.” Just like that—“Come home.” I had a drink of my cognac.
Then Bud came in. I was scared stiff. He had a broken bottle in his hand. Boy, was he drunk. I forgot to tell you—Bud is six feet five—so I had a right to be scared, not just because of the broken bottle.
I stood up and I didn’t even say hello.
Bud sort of swore. I won’t tell you what he said—but he stood there swearing the whole lousy book. It was about this bottle.
Then Katie tried to come in with the food on some plates and she had to walk under his other arm which he had up against the door-jamb. After she got in, he turned around and slammed the door.
I remember saying, right then (to myself, not aloud)—“It’s your name too.” It was funny, because I hadn’t stopped being scared yet.
Katie put down the plates with our supper on them, and looked at Bud.
“What’s the matter, darl?” She sounded very calm—but then she lived with him.
“Oh, it’s that blankety-blank man downstairs,” said Bud. “Always poking his blanking nose into whatever I do.”
“What happened?”
“Oh, I came in and dropped the blanking wine all over everything in the hall. So he had to come out, of course, and see what had happened. Even before he had on the light he said ‘Is that you, Cable?’ In that English voice of his. ‘Is that you, Cable?’—even before he’d even looked. I’m going down and kill him. I just came up with this bottle—I just brought it up—I’ll be right back.”
“No! No!”
That was me—because I was sure he would. Kill him, I mean.
“Leave me alone. I’m going down and wring his blankety neck. Lousy English voice—he called me Cable—like it was the army or something. No manners. I’ll be right back.”
He didn’t move.
“Dinner’s ready,” said Katie.
“I’ll be right back.”
“Take off your coat—come on.”
“I’m going down.”
He looked at the broken bottle. “I only bought it because Neil was coming. You’d think I wanted to break the blanking thing. I’ll be right back.”
He started to go, bottle in hand.
Katie went over.
“Now you come and sit down. Did you clear up the mess?”
“Yes. Going now—“
“No!”—she was a rock—she really was. “Going Kate—so just move off.”
Well, he hit her then. She fell down. I went over. I was flaming mad.
“Who the hell do you think you are? An animal? You’re behaving like a horse. You stop it.”
“Oh, I only hit her a little.”
“You knocked her right down. You give me that.” I grabbed for it.
“Stand back from me!”
He was really mad—and drunker than I’d thought he was.
“Now I’m going down.”
I still said “No.” So did Katie. Then she said, “Neil brought a present—some cognac,”—and I said: “I’m not giving him that anymore,” and she said: “Yes you are,” and “We’ll drink it instead of the wine. We’ll forget about the wine,” and I said: “No!” Bud said: “I don’t want it—you called me a lousy animal”; and I said: “Well you are!” and Katie began to cry, and Bud said: “Who the hell are you to call your own brother an animal? You’re just like that blanking major and that blankety Lady Chamber Pot. You’re just a—a terrible little snob.” And I said: “Blank you,” and he said: “Leave,” and I said: “All right, I will then”; and then Katie was through crying and said we had to stop yelling or everybody’d be upstairs so we stopped.
We looked at each other. I’ll tell you right now—I really hated him then. I never wanted to see him again.
And the radio still had that man playing the trumpet.
After supper we sat around and drank the cognac. I won’t tell you about all that—we kept apologizing all the time and Katie cried and I felt pretty awful about calling Bud a horse and then I started off about Bud’s books.
I haven’t told you that I read a lot. I read a lot of poetry and I’ve read nearly every good book in English—so that I really did want Bud to read something else besides Erie Stanley Whosis. I just started out to explain it all quietly—but you know what it’s like when you get excited about something. I just went on and on and on about it. About how he should read Shakespeare and Moby Dick and The Brothers Karamazov and everything, so that he finally got hurt or something. He said he’d read Candide, but he hadn’t read Candide, because the back was all right. Then he stood up and said: “Well, I’ve read that Great Gatsby book and that’s F. Scott Fitzgerald. And he can write. I’d read anything he cares to write—F. Scott Fitzgerald.”
And I had to go and say, “He’s dead.”
“I don’t care—it’s a good book and I read it.”
And I said: “Well if you’d read more of that—O.K.—but hell—look what’s on your mantelpiece. Murders and lousy dirty magazines.”
/>
“I’ve got Candide!” he shouted.
“You haven’t even touched it.”
“I have. I have too. It’s about this boy and the best of all possible worlds.”
“You just heard that from somewhere.”
“I read it—I read it! And the Fitzgerald. That’s there—look at it!”
He reached out at it and touched it.
It had a yellow cover.
“Well I know one thing,” I said. “If F. Scott Fitzgerald came in here and saw your mantelpiece—he’d just be ashamed—that’s what he’d be.”
“I’ve read it.” He was almost crying—I even think he was. God—I didn’t even know what I’d done.
“Then why don’t you read something else that’s decent?”
“You leave me! You get out—go away! I never—” I was on the stairs by now—I was all ready to leave. “I never want to see you again—you leave me—you leave me—!”
And so I left. It was funny. Both of us forgot about Other Men’s Flowers.
There’s a lot of good stuff in that, and that was there.
Then Katie left. She went back to Canada. She went home. Bud came to see me the day after.
I guess I just didn’t understand all that. He hadn’t been to sleep—and he wouldn’t eat what I gave him. He walked up and down in my room.
If I tell you about my room you’ll think I’m a louse. Comparisons are lousy I mean, it’s just that I’d have to tell you about all my books and that. I had them all laid out in neat rows on top of everything that would take them. God, I loved those books. I dusted them everyday. I used to just sit and watch them sometimes.
Now that I have—I’m glad I told you. I guess it isn’t so lousy, if you love a thing. I just wished that Bud could have loved them too. That’s all.
Anyway, then he told me.
“I need some money.”
“Why? Haven’t you got your job?”
“No.”
“Why not? Did they fire you?”