The Walking Stick

  ‘I don’t think we can help you, Miss Evans. What is the number of your call box?’

  ‘Oh, it doesn’t matter.’ I hung up.

  I came out of the box, stood a minute leaning against the side. This was a half-developed, half-condemned area in which waste land, new tall blocks of flats and tiny old houses jostled each other. The small seedy pub with the green blinds looked more like a film set than a piece of London, for the house on one side had been pulled down, and on the other was a gaunt acre of dumped rusty corrugated iron with two ruined cottages in the middle. The green blinds of the pub stood separated from all other lights. I walked across and went in.

  It was early for a crowd even though Friday night. The barman was fiftyish, big and square headed, and there was something wrong with one side of his face. I ordered a large brandy.

  So deep had the knife gone in that ordinary feelings no longer registered. Lame – it didn’t matter. Venomous, assessing stares – they didn’t matter. Wrong change. A cackle directed at me from a girl in carpet slippers. I drank the brandy – no judge but it was harsh stuff.

  Prostitutes no different from West End prostitutes. One fat one had holes in her nylons through which bulged little balloons of flesh. Cheapest dresses – couldn’t they afford better than that? But maybe the dresses didn’t count. Three Scandinavian seamen; blond, bony, bad types. A Slav of some sort, unshaven for a week and drunk already. Two spider-legged English boys with long hair. A middle-aged man in a boiler suit. Two old women in carpet slippers.

  Silence while I drank. They were watching me. The barman with the plastic surgery face went on sweeping the counter round and round with a dirty yellow rag. Then he blew his nose on the rag and stuffed it in his pocket. I ordered another brandy before the first had gone down. He stared at me and took my glass and pressed it up against the upturned bottle. This time I gave him the right money.

  ‘Lost your way, dear?’ It was one of the old women.

  I stared back at her. No fear. I knew as much of evil as these people. They couldn’t harm me the way I’d already been harmed. What was violence?

  Then one of the tarts giggled to draw attention to herself and began to chat to her friend. One or two of the men still watched me, but talk began to break out again. I heard nothing of their talk. It was like the humming and crackling of a radio when the station has closed down.

  The barman had said something. ‘What?’

  ‘Bin ’avin’ a day out?’

  I put the glass down.

  ‘What’s wrong wi’ yer leg? Accident?’

  The brandy was alight in me, and grief, the uttermost grief, was turning to a terrible anger.

  ‘Mine was a car,’ he said. ‘Went through the bleedin’ screen. Six bleedin’ cars piled up one on top o’ thother. Two stiffs, and me wi’ me face pulped like minced liver. Twelve weeks in ’ospital. Nother o’ the same?’

  ‘Yes.’

  One of the men who had been sitting back was at the bar, standing beside me. It was the Slav. I paid for my third drink.

  ‘Never been able to go in a flamin’ car since,’ said the barman. ‘I git the shivers, minute I put me foot in, like I got bleedin’ flu. Shock, they say.’

  ‘’Allo,’ said the Slav, and put his hand against my thigh, stroking it. I lifted the glass and looked at him with all the grief and anger and hatred. To dash the glass into his face, to make him the next for twelve weeks in hospital . . .

  He stepped back. Something had communicated, even though I said nothing, even though he was drunk.

  ‘’Alf pint?’ said the barman.

  The man nodded. ‘You come ’ome with me, eh?’ he said, smiling, but the smile was half-hearted. I didn’t answer. He was part of the background. If he had struck me he’d still have been part of the background; just something on the periphery of hateful life.

  Every now and then since I came out, feelings had come over me as if my head and my heart could contain no more and would swell up and burst. But brandy was helping; it was a solvent, an anticoagulant, helping reason and hurt and hate and disgust and anger and misery to flow. I could consider the idea of killing myself – not as an act of insane despair but as a rational way out. I could consider the means; I had no drugs; the river, of course, was the answer. I could think of the other alternatives to suicide.

  I finished this brandy. On the wall of the pub, above the bench where two of the girls were sitting, was a row of comic cartoons: Gin and It, Black and Tan, Mild and Bitter. The women thought I was looking at them, and one of them opened her mouth, put her finger in and made an obscene noise.

  Somehow I got out of the pub. I was feeling stronger, colder, clearer, but I only remember standing in the shadow of the wall outside and watching the drunken Slav come out; I remember watching and wondering if he would see me. I didn’t hide, because it didn’t matter.

  After he had passed I walked home. It was twenty minutes to nine when I got back. No car.

  I went in. The lights burned. I had not shut the door onto the balcony properly and it had blown open. I shut it and sank into one of the leather chairs.

  Time passed. Maybe if I’d had someone to talk to then: a friend, a mother, a sister, a priest . . . It needed to be talked out in this time of clarity. To talk, to rage, to weep. This was a venom, a poison which should have been let. Suck out the bite of the snake. Otherwise I’d die. My heart was adrift.

  But out of all the sickness and the self-damnation, out of blasphemy and derision, out of hate and impurity, an intent was showing up, like a hard seaweed-covered rock as the sewer tide went down.

  I went to the desk, dragged a chair over, sat down. Think. Whom would this affect? Everybody I knew and hated. Everybody I knew and loved. Think. This is another form of suicide, slower acting, more disgraceful, with perhaps some life to be lived at the end of it. Think. This damns all, more effectively, far more effectively than a sodden corpse drifting out with the morning tide. This too is worse for me, far worse for me. Death is tidy; it shuts the door, draws a line in the ledger, shames gossip, de mortuis nil nisi bonum; poor girl, it was a frightful pity, and we never knew the reason – well, of course it was thought, but the post mortem showed she wasn’t; anyway who cares about that these days? . . . The coroner said . . . I’m sorry for her parents; and of course Leigh Hartley who, though perhaps a bit of a layabout, was devoted to her; no reason, my dear, no, no reason . . .

  Death is tidy. This solution is untidy, untidy. And disgraceful. And full of the light of pure, baleful reason. But this is the one I want; this, God helping me and giving me strength, is the one I intend to take.

  Address the envelope first and then there can be no error. A very short address. ‘Detective Inspector Malcolm. Scotland Yard. S.W.1.’

  What I write is quite brief. After all, there’s no need to elaborate in writing. Talk will do that. A statement, that’s what they call it, isn’t it, a statement will do that. ‘I, Deborah Dainton . . .’

  I am quite explicit, all the same; quite explicit as to what I say and what I do not say. Leigh Hartley, Ted Sandymount, Jack Foil – especially Jack Foil. We planned, we executed. Whatever alibis have been arranged, we executed. Yes, there was an expert safe-breaker, but I never saw his face. Why implicate John Irons? He was – so far as I know – no part of the conspiracy. I’m no judge, to assess and condemn. I’m only stating my part and mentioning those who planned it.

  Surprising how quickly it can be put down. It flows easily off the pen, for there’s no need to qualify or discriminate. Ten minutes. Barely ten minutes. The only hesitation remembering Ted Sandymount’s address. That done I signed it. Sealed it in an envelope. Gum on the tongue. Even a stamp handy in the drawer. Post it at once. Post it before.

  ‘Hello, love,’ said Leigh. ‘Did you think I was never coming?’

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  I get up. Still wearing overcoat, I put letter in left-hand pocket.

  ‘Hullo. You are a bit late.’

&nb
sp; ‘Doing a bit of duty work, you know. Can’t say I enjoy it but it’s nice when it’s done.’

  ‘Doing what?’

  ‘Oh, just something I had to attend to.’

  I went into the kitchen, and he followed me in as he had done last night, while I put on the kettle. He hadn’t noticed the splintered wood on the bottom drawer of the desk. We made casual conversation. For some reason it didn’t lag. It no longer meant anything.

  We drank coffee. He said he was more tired than last night, how about me? I said, oh, yes, more or less. Bed then soon?

  He ruffled his hair. ‘I must say you’re still looking a bit flaked-out. Was everything all right today?’

  ‘Yes . . .’

  ‘See anything of the police?’

  ‘They were still about.’

  ‘I reckon we’re on a good pitch. They haven’t a clue.’

  He sucked the half-melted sugar out of his spoon. His eyes were clear and untroubled.

  ‘They’ve asked me to go in in the morning,’ I said.

  ‘What, Whittington’s? That’s a bit thick.’

  ‘Well, it only makes up for the half day we lost.’

  ‘Ted wants me to go and watch Charlton tomorrow afternoon. I may. Should be a good match.’

  I said: ‘It was funny how we met, wasn’t it? In the first place, I mean.’

  ‘Who? Us? Why?’

  ‘I say it was funny how we met. You and I. If you hadn’t come to Sarah’s – to that party – none of this would have happened.’

  ‘I know.’ He stirred uneasily. ‘Do you regret it?’

  ‘Oh, that’s not really the point. Sometimes I think these things are designed.’

  ‘Designed? What d’you mean?’

  ‘. . . Don’t you ever read your stars? I’m sure I’ve seen you.’

  He laughed, but not absolutely happy about it. ‘Lovey, we met, and it was the best day of my life, I promise you. So why ask impossible questions? This is the moment to look ahead – not back.’

  ‘Leigh, I met someone – quite by chance. Someone who knew you as a boy.’

  ‘What? Who?’ His eyes were suddenly wary.

  ‘It doesn’t matter. But this person – this man – this man says you haven’t got two brothers, that you’re an only child. And he also says your mother is still alive.’

  A siren hooted on the river and Leigh put down his coffee cup. His face had closed up.

  ‘I’m sorry.’

  ‘It’s true?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘But why tell me this?’

  He rose. ‘I’m awfully sorry, love.’

  ‘But why? If you’ve lied to me before, there’s always been a purpose.’

  ‘These weren’t meant to be lies.’

  ‘Then what were they?’

  ‘I can’t explain. I . . . I go on. I lead myself on. I have a way of talking. Sometimes it’s easier to make a thing up than to tell the truth.’

  ‘Even when it helps nothing?’

  ‘Even then.’

  ‘How many lies have you told me about Lorne?’

  He turned. ‘None! I swear. Honest. Not one. It all happened as I said.’

  ‘But how many other lies are there between us? What else is true?’

  ‘Everything! . . . Oh, lovey, it’s just this bloody silly habit I’ve got sometimes of – of making a drama of something. Sometimes I make up a story like I make up a painting. It’s a composition. If – if the river’s green maybe I paint it blue. It looks better to me that way, that day. Well, that doesn’t matter because next day I can do another picture with another colour if I want. But when it comes to stories, once I’ve told them to somebody else, then I’m stuck with them for good. Once I’ve told you – because it sounds dramatic – that my mother died young, I’ve got to go on with that for ever. It – just comes out, and I curse myself afterward.’

  ‘Did you curse yourself afterwards for making up the story of having to wear your brother’s outgrown clothes?’

  He flushed, and for a moment I saw the likeness with his mother. ‘Well, no, it wasn’t true in detail but it was true in general. I have been put to counting my pennies and making do – all my life. That’s true. It’s just what I’ve been saying – I can’t hold my tongue sometimes because I want to make it seem more dramatic. But the real essence is still true.’

  ‘And did you ever live in Swindon?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Why Swindon? What’s wrong with Clapham?’

  ‘God knows. I keep – trying to build up a life, a separate life. I keep trying to cut away from the old.’

  ‘So one of these days you’ll be telling some nice new girl that you never knew anyone called Deborah Dainton.’

  ‘That’s not true! You know it’s not true.’ He came across and kissed me but I turned my face away. ‘Oh, look . . .’ He rubbed his nose against my ear. ‘You know different. This is basic.’

  ‘Do I?’

  ‘Debby, Debby, use your loaf.’ This very gently. ‘When I met you I wanted to leave everything behind – all my past. I still do. But I never want to go on from here. This is where I belong . . .’

  We stood for a moment, and then moved apart. He hadn’t noticed that I’d been drinking brandy; or, at least, he didn’t mention it. I began to put the coffee cups under the tap but he stopped me. ‘Leave them, love. Let’s just go to bed. Let’s curl up together quietly, like, and leave everything for the morning. If you want to, I’ll try to explain more then. But everything will seem different in the morning.’

  Without much more said we got undressed and into bed. He took me in his arms, but passively, with no intent. We lay there for a time. He seemed once or twice to doze off – his breathing got heavier, then lighter again. Over his shoulder I looked up at the packed suitcase on top of the wardrobe. The light was out but the curtains were partly drawn back, and light from the river reflected on the ceiling like crinkly leaves turning. This bed thy centre is, these walls thy sphere.

  It must have been half an hour or more before my utter silence woke him. ‘Can’t you sleep?’

  ‘Not really. You try on your own.’

  ‘You’re still mad at me for telling you those half-truths?’

  ‘I was wondering what will happen to the swans when we’re gone.’

  ‘When we’re gone?’

  ‘Well, if we take this shop.’

  ‘Oh, someone will feed them. Anyway . . .’

  ‘What?’

  ‘I suppose someone will take the place before they pull it down. They’re sure to want it soon for more warehouse space. I’ll be a bit jealous of the people who take it.’

  ‘Perhaps you’d rather stay on here. Ten thousand is a lot of money.’

  He was silent, almost listening to my thoughts. ‘What’s wrong? I suppose I’ve upset you with these silly lies, but I thought you knew me well enough . . .’

  ‘I thought I did.’

  ‘What is it, then?’

  A siren hooted again. ‘I had a terrible dream.’

  ‘When? What about?’

  ‘Oh, I can’t tell you. Other people’s dreams are so boring.’

  ‘Tell me if it’ll help to kill it.’

  ‘That I don’t know.’

  ‘Well, tell me.’

  Long silence. He nudged me.

  ‘I had a dream. About a man. Fat and middle-aged. An antique dealer.’

  Silence. ‘Any connection with Jack Foil?’

  ‘Oh . . . I don’t know. This was . . . a bad one . . . He – he went to all the sales. Sotheby’s, Christie’s, Whittington’s. He had all sorts of interests but he was always greedy for more. He saw all the beautiful things in these places. Often he’d buy things, but that wasn’t enough. He wanted the bigger things. And he wanted to steal them. He’d stolen before but not perhaps in quite this way.’

  I could feel a difference in the muscle tension of the arm that was around me. ‘So?’

  ‘So he longed to break in. But i
t was hard to do. Then one day a girl came into his antique shop looking for a present for her sister. She said it had to be good, as her sister was an expert on porcelain and held a position of responsibility at Whittington’s.’

  ‘Christ, Deborah, what are you talking about?’

  I lay quiet in his arms. ‘Want me to go on?’

  ‘Yes . . .’

  ‘This antique dealer asked some more questions then, found out that the sister wasn’t married or engaged – and wasn’t likely to be because she had a deformed leg . . . Now he – the antique dealer – had a lot of friends that he helped or patronized one way or another – and among them was a young man. He was genuinely fond of this young man – paid him enough money to live on in return for being at his beck and call. Maybe the young man helped other ways, I don’t know. So he suggested to the young man that he should contrive to meet the sister who worked at Whittington’s, and see what she was like. If it seemed a promising territory he could try and make her – as the saying is. He thought—’

  Leigh roughly shifted his arm from round me, sat up, switched on the bedside light.

  ‘He thought,’ I said, ‘that if the young man went the right way about it and the girl wasn’t too bad-looking he might be able to get her obsessed with him. He would obviously stand a better chance because she was so lame and not likely to have appealed to other men. Then of course if he could – if that happened – breaking into Whittington’s would be easy.’

  Screwing up his eyes against the light, Leigh reached for a cigarette packet, pulled one out with fumbling fingers, tapped it on his thumb nail. ‘Who in God’s name told you this?’

  ‘It was just a nasty dream.’

  ‘Cock . . .’

  ‘All right. I worked it out for myself.’

  ‘How long have you known?’

  ‘You don’t deny it?’

  He swallowed. ‘It’s hard to deny, God help me, because it’s partly true. But it’s only half the truth!’

  ‘What’s the other half?’

  He stopped tapping the cigarette but didn’t light it. ‘Oh, Deborah, what a thing for you to find out! Christ, I – I don’t know what to say. Who told you?’