‘Do you still see archangels?’
‘No – ’
‘Your friend Michael leaning on his sword and watching the damned falling into hell?’
‘Not like that.’
‘And how are the girls?’
‘Delightful, innocent, happy. Well, except that we were worrying – ’
‘Apparently you all want to make a drama of my return. There is no drama. You ask if I am all right. I am all right. You can tell that to the others which will remove the necessity of their visiting me.’
‘You wrote to me, but you didn’t write to Clement.’
‘That is true. You ask why. You are a harmless chatterbox who will rapidly inform all relevant persons.’
‘Clement will want to visit you, he has been so upset – ’
‘Don’t tell him to come.’
‘But don’t tell him not to come? Were you sitting in the dark?’
‘Yes, I have been scalded and bleached, light hurts my eyes, in the dark they glow. In a century or two this planet will have been destroyed by external cosmic forces or by the senseless activity of the human race. Human life is a freak phenomenon, soon to be blotted out. That is a consoling thought. Meanwhile we are surrounded by strange invisible entities, possibly your angels.’
‘I hope so.’
‘Ah, you think they are good, they cannot be good, there is no good, the tendency to evil is overwhelming. One has only to think of the horrors of sex, its violence, its cruelty, its filthy vulgarity, its descent into bestial degradation. You had better go and dream in your monastery.’
‘Would you come and visit me there?’
‘Of course not. I do not visit. Only, unfortunately, am sometimes visited.’
‘You don’t want to discuss – you know – what happened? My priest said – ’
‘No.’
‘I care about how you are, I love you.’
‘You still fail to realise how this sort of talk sickens me. Now please go. This will do for a welcome home scene. Tell them not to come. I desire to be left alone.’
‘I must tell you this. My priest says that you should feel pity for, you know, that man, and think about giving some help to his innocent wife and family.’
‘What?’
‘All right, I had to say it. I’ll tell the others. Goodnight.’
Lucas switched off the light. Bellamy picked up his mackintosh and umbrella and found his way out in the dark.
‘It looked terrible when they took the cast off,’ said Harvey to Bellamy, ‘it didn’t look like human flesh at all, it was all blue and spotty and rotten. I said “It’s gangrene,” and they said no, but I thought they didn’t like the look of it either. I wanted, I so much wanted, it to be left alone now to breathe the air and the light, you know like a poor plant that has been in the dark. I wanted the sun to warm it, but they tied it up again immediately, not in the cast but these very tight elastic bandages, they’re even tighter than the cast.’
It was the following morning. Harvey had arrived unannounced at Bellamy’s flatlet, having taken a taxi direct from the hospital. Bellamy was touched and pleased that Harvey had come straight to him. He had already given the boy a suitably censored account of his visit to Lucas.
The rain had stopped, but London had a drenched drowned look, the pavements darkened with water, the gutters full of pools. Even the trees looked soaked and dejected. The low undulating clouds were a blackish grey. An east wind was blowing. Bellamy’s one-room flat, now meagrely warmed by the tiny electric fire, was on the ground floor. The window looked out directly onto the street and the noises and presences of passers-by. There was a very small sick garden behind the house, scattered with dandelions which survived without actually growing. Bellamy’s room contained a narrow bed, a chest of drawers, a table, a wash-basin and a gas ring. The lavatory was outside on the stairs. In a frenzy of excitement he had given almost everything away. He had enjoyed this stripping with the joy which it is said sailors feel in hurling things into the sea. He congratulated himself on being able to hate his possessions. His flat was sold, his cottage was for sale. He had hoped to make some acquaintance with his new neighbours, first of course the people in the house, and be able to help them in some way. But except for an acquaintance with a shop lady he had had no success, and had not yet ventured to approach the local clergy. The first floor was occupied by a Pakistani family, a tall thin father, a beautiful mother with innumerable saris, and two boys of about six and eight, but except for smiles they were not very communicative. A silent shabby elderly man rarely visible was on the floor above. The third floor was an uninhabitable attic where rain poured in through the roof. Bellamy sometimes wondered, what’s the matter with me, what do people take me for, what do I look like? Passing boys banged on the window. Harvey had just told him he looked weird. There was no mirror in the room, Bellamy shaved, now less regularly, by instinct. He thought, when I’m in there I’ll give up shaving altogether and my face will become invisible.
Harvey was reclining on Bellamy’s bed, propped up by pillows, with both legs stretched out on the counterpane. His crutches were propped up against the wash-basin. Bellamy contemplated his fine head of silky blond hair and his eager unmarked face.
‘Does it hurt?’
‘Of course it hurts, it keeps me awake at night, they give me sleeping-pills, but what do I want with sleeping-pills at my age? If only it were just the bone, it’s the other things which are far worse, I’ll probably be lame for life. Anyway, let’s leave awful doomed me. How are you? You don’t look up to much. Are you fasting?’
‘Fasting? No.’
‘Have you sold the cottage?’
‘Not yet, I think somebody is going to make an offer.’
‘What a shame about the cottage, our only outlet to the sea! I wish you weren’t giving up the world, after all what else is there, all right I know you’re a mystic. I can’t really talk to anyone but you, well, that’s not quite true. I wish Emil were here, I could talk to him. Oh dear, I suppose I’d better go and see Lucas now he’s back. I’ve been thinking about him.’
‘Why “suppose”? Why not just go and see him? You speak as if it were a duty.’
‘I don’t think he likes me.’
‘Harvey, what nonsense, everyone likes you!’
‘And I’m not altogether sure that I like him – well, I don’t actually dislike him – I just feel he’s – for me – sort of – impossible.’
‘But you’ve known him all your life, he’s like an uncle, a father almost!’
‘You’re like a father almost. Clement is more like my brother now. But I feel, in some crazy sort of way, that Lucas is my enemy.’
‘This is absurd! Quite apart from anything else, why should he bother to be your enemy?’
‘You’re right. He doesn’t bother about me at all!’
‘Lucas is a difficult chap, he’s very reserved and awkward and shy, he’s anti-social, well, we’re all used to that and you should be too. He’s awfully rude to me sometimes, I don’t mind, it’s just his mode of communication! Look how close he and Clement are, and I’ve heard him being pretty rough with Clement too. He’s rather nervy and touchy, that’s all.’
‘He was very rough with me once.’
‘He told you off?’
‘He hit me.’
‘Really! What had you done?’
‘I can’t remember.’ But of course Harvey could remember.
‘How old were you?’
‘Eleven.’
‘Well, you should have forgiven him by now! But you’d like to make peace, formally, sort of?’
‘Sort of, somehow. Perhaps it’s vanity really. I can’t bear to think that there’s anyone in the world who doesn’t love me.’
‘Don’t worry, you’ll never be short of people who love you.’
‘I think I’ll have to give up sex, and I haven’t even started.’
‘Why ever?’
‘I’m crippled.’
/> ‘Harvey, I shall hit you! You’re not crippled, how can you be so spiritless and silly. Anyway Byron didn’t give up sex.’
‘Yes, my mother was on about Byron. But who wants to be like Byron? I despise him. O God, I don’t think I can do it anyway, I feel sort of paralysed about the whole business, I wish I was gay.’
Bellamy also wished that Harvey was gay, but had put away this wish together with many other worldly wishes. He replied cautiously. ‘Harvey, be patient. It will all come to you, some god will explain it to you, it will all be clarified, it will all be easy.’
‘I wish I was a lesbian.’
‘Harvey! Really!’ Bellamy could not conceive of what it could possibly be like to want to be a lesbian.
‘Well, why not, I love girls like they do, and female arrangements are so much simpler. Not that I can quite imagine – ’
Bellamy, who did not propose to think about female arrangements, hastily changed the subject. ‘I hope you’re able to work a bit, read a bit, at least it’s comfortable and peaceful at Emil’s place.’
‘No I can’t. I can’t think of anything but Florence, my head was so full of Florence, it was bursting – and now it’s empty.’
Bellamy sat silent, averting his gaze, speechless with remorse.
‘Bellamy, don’t, it wasn’t your fault, I’d have done it anyway, I’m that sort of silly fool! Look, do you mind if I ring for a taxi?’
‘I’m sorry, I haven’t a telephone.’
‘Oh damn, I’ll have to walk.’
‘No, you stay here. I’ll go and find a taxi.’
Harvey had gone. Bellamy paid for his taxi. Bellamy felt sad. He had been surprised by what Harvey had said about Lucas. He hadn’t thought enough about Harvey. Perhaps he hadn’t really thought about anyone except himself. What would it be like when he was alone with God? Had he ever really been happy, like Clement was and Harvey used to be? Perhaps in his very early days as a social worker, perhaps for an hour with Magnus. Why had he given up his work? Because he had been disturbed by religion, by the Absolute, by the Hound of Heaven. Well, now, when he was about to give in, the question of happiness didn’t really matter any more.
The boys were tapping on his window again, now banging the knocker on the door.
Clement had scarcely slept. When he did sleep he had a nightmare. He rose early and saw the soiled gloomy light reveal the wet street with its rows of sullen motorcars. At least it wasn’t raining. He felt ill and couldn’t eat. He kept looking at his watch. He dressed with care. He must go and see Lucas. Bellamy had telephoned late the previous night from a telephone box to say that Lucas was ‘perfectly all right’ and ‘didn’t want to see anyone’. Bellamy said, ‘Of course he’ll want to see you.’ Clement was not so sure. But he must go. Not going, he would go mad.
Lucas was an early riser, usually starting work about six-thirty, his head clear, his concentration at its best. An early visit would be unwelcome. Perhaps ten or eleven? Or was Lucas at this very moment waiting for Clement to come? Had he perhaps telephoned Clement’s number last night before he rang Bellamy? Of course Clement could telephone Lucas now, now. But that was unthinkable. Lucas hated the telephone, there could be some hideous misunderstanding or blunder. Lucas might simply say that he didn’t want to see Clement. The essential visit might then be treated as a vile intrusion. He decided to wait a while, then to walk to Lucas’s house arriving about ten. He set off at last, carrying a brown paper parcel under his arm.
He rang the bell. Silence. Nothing. He thought, he won’t answer, he knows it’s me. He pictured Lucas sitting hunched up, waiting for Clement to ring again, then for Clement to go away. Clement rang again. He was breathing deeply, audibly. He pictured Lucas lying dead. He thought, he’s killed himself.
Lucas opened the door upon the chain. He peered at Clement. He unchained it and disappeared. Clement moved into the hall and closed the door after him. The drawing-room door was open. Clement went on into the drawing-room. Lucas was standing in an odd attitude beside one of the long brown velvet curtains, which perhaps he had just drawn back, revealing the garden where the trees still had wet golden leaves. Clement thought, he’s hanged himself.
Lucas moved over to the large desk where the lighted lamp revealed the usual scene of open books, an open notebook, ink bottles, glass paper-weights. He sat down behind the desk facing Clement, he looked at Clement over his glasses, then took the glasses off and began to polish them.
Clement thought, I’m going to faint. He walked toward Lucas. He laid down the brown paper parcel on the desk. Then, as if propelled by a sudden force, he backed away to the end of the room and leaned against the bookshelves as if pinned there. Lucas watched him with curiosity. He did not look at the parcel. He said nothing.
Clement thought, he will remain silent. I shall talk, he will say nothing. Then I shall go away. After that I shall never see him again. And after that the world will end.
In Lucas’s absence Clement had pictured this scene innumerable times. But in the pictures Lucas had spoken, Clement had responded. Now, Clement thought, I must talk and talk, and I must say just the right things. But what are they?
Clement said, ‘Look, I know we can’t discuss what happened – or how it will affect our future relations – but something must be said and really – Isuppose – almost anything will do. I have had it all – that enormity – in my mind for so long now, and I’ve been alone with it. I want to tell you just – what I’m not thinking and feeling. I do not say or feel that this is or has to be the end, I mean our end. I mean, I don’t want it to be. I’ve thought so much about this, about this very moment, and that’s the only thing, I mean what I’ve just said is the only thing, which is at all clear. We have to say something, at least I have to say something – you may have the privilege of silence, I can’t make you talk anyway, and I don’t want – really I’m afraid of anything you might say. Whether this meeting, which had to take place, and this saying of mine turns out to be hail and farewell must depend on you. I don’t want it to be like that – though equally I see how difficult – and what is now possible may depend on things which neither of us can control – or even at this stage imagine – sorry that’s rather confused. I have no idea what you think and feel – and I had better not say anything more about what I – Ibelieve I have said what is for me most essential. It occurs to me now that it might be best if I just went away and left you with – what I think about it – then you may feel later on – that we could talk more profitably – or you may prefer to leave it there, I mean not to talk about that, or not to talk any more at all – but I’d leave it to you to let me know – and I would come if you wanted to see me – now or later.’
Clement removed himself from the books. He realised that while he was speaking he had been tearing the spines of the books with which his hands had been in contact. He did not look round. He stood still as if at attention. He would give Lucas perhaps a minute, perhaps two minutes, in which to speak, and then, for he did not now expect Lucas to speak, he would simply go quietly out of the door and out of the house. Indeed this might be best. He turned now and stood looking at the door, his hands, hanging, his head bent, his lips apart. He sighed deeply. His eyelids drooped. He felt very tired. He moved, as if falling, and took a pace towards the door.
Lucas said, in a calm slightly irritated voice, ‘Pray do not go. I want, if you don’t mind, to clarify one matter which, it seems, you assume to be already clear, but about which I would like to be certain. Please could you sit down.’
Clement took a chair and placed it against the bookshelves. He sat down facing his brother. He thought, this is like a court room – and I’m in the dock! That’s absurd, it’s weird, but – I’ll think about it later – maybe there’s sense in it – if there’s sense anywhere in this business.
Lucas, after staring at Clement for some time, said, ‘Are you sure that you thoroughly understood what happened, which of course includes what was meant to happen and might h
ave happened?’
Clement was surprised by this question. He tried to speak, closed his eyes, then tried again saying softly, ‘Yes. I thoroughly understood, it was after all absolutely evident, my memory is extremely clear.’
Lucas said, ‘Good,’ in a brisk tone, as if indicating: that is satisfactory. He placed his hands palms downward upon the desk; there was another silence during which Clement was able to look. Lucas was dressed in his usual shabby yet neat manner, with a dark blue corduroy jacket, a dark blue jersey, and an open-necked shirt appearing above it. As Clement watched him he took off his jacket and rolled up the sleeves of his jersey, the shirt sleeves showing beneath. He leaned forward slightly, peering at Clement, opening wider his slit eyes and narrowing, as it seemed, his narrow nose. His thin lips were indrawn. He waited.
Clement said in a forced cracked tone which he had intended to sound conversational, ‘I believe you saw Bellamy.’
‘I believe you know that I saw Bellamy.’
‘Of course I haven’t said – and well of course – ’
Outside it was beginning to rain, a quiet sizzling blending with the subdued sound of traffic. The sycamore tree in the garden bent under the rain, extending its heavy leaves. The rain hopped upon the paving stones outside the window where the creeping thyme showed black. The room was dark, darker, the only light illuminating Lucas’s seated form.
Clement, feeling suffocated by stale dusty air, the smell of books, felt a desire to rush out into the garden. He could not reach Lucas, and this might be his only opportunity, before the whole matter was buried forever. He must not let the silence continue. He cleared his throat and said in his theatre voice. ‘You spoke of what was meant to happen. Why was it meant to happen?’
It is necessary at this point to recount what actually occurred, as opposed to what was generally supposed to have occurred, on that terrible evening when Lucas killed a man. The story, so frequently run through, enacted, polished, probed and interrogated in Clement’s mind, ran as follows. It was partly about glow-worms. It seemed to Clement afterwards that the history and happening of that evening depended on some memory, surfacing in Lucas’s mind, a something which had been a bond between them when they were children: an interest in wild things, little wild things such as might live in city gardens, spiders, slugs, snails, insects. Glow-worms were a rarity, a treat. (Glow-worms are the larvae of a firefly which, lying on the earth, glow on summer nights with an eerie light.) Clement remembered how, when he was a child, he had been led by the hand by Lucas who had found a glow-worm, to see the creature (or creatures, indeed, there were several) one night under some bushes.