‘What’s the matter, boy.’
‘Nobody noticed I had a stick today, not the crutches.’
‘I noticed.’
‘You said nothing.’
‘You are better?’
‘No.’
‘That ordeal you were looking for, have you had it? You look rather distraught.’
‘Nothing has happened, nothing.’
‘Well, we can’t talk now. What is this thing of Lucas’s?’
‘I don’t know. It sounds gruesome.’
‘Have you seen your mother lately?’
‘No.’
‘You ought to see her.’
‘Everyone says that.’
‘Tessa keeps an eye on her.’
‘Oh – !’
‘Poor Moy, she wanted to sit next to Clement.’
‘He ignored her.’
‘He ignored us all. He is in a dream, he is overcome by some spell or potion.’
‘You perhaps.’
‘I don’t think so. Cheer up. Here is your taxi.’
Aleph was in the Aviary, but silent now. Sefton and Moy had cleared the kitchen scene as usual ‘by magic’. Sefton had folded up the table-cloth, after shaking the crumbs out of the garden door, and returned to Thucydides. Moy had run up the stairs to her room, her heavy steps followed by the click of Anax’s claws upon the upper uncarpeted flight. Clement had hoped now for a continuation of his talk with Louise, but it was not to be. They had mounted to her bedroom but only, he realised, in order to pick up his overcoat which he had left there. Louise led the way down again and they stood in the small hall where the space was taken up by the chair lately on duty in the kitchen and a much carved dark oak hall stand with a lion’s face in the centre, two mirrors, and a great many knobs. Clement absently stroked the lion’s nose, then gripped one of the knobs. To detain Louise who was reaching out towards the front door, he said, ‘How’s Moy getting on?’
‘All right.’
‘I hope she’s getting over you-know-what.’
‘If you mean her crush on you, no.’
‘Oh dear. Perhaps I shouldn’t have stayed to lunch. Of course it would be Saturday. Do you think I should have some sort of explanation with her, I remember you said something about cooling it? Not that there’s anything to cool as far as I’m concerned!’
‘No, leave it. She’s a strange girl. She’s full of supernatural fears. It will pass.’
‘Of course Sefton is no trouble, she just strides straight on regardless of other persons.’
‘Yes, she’ll be a powerful headmistress, as Joan exclaimed to me the other day.’
Clement did not like hearing about conversations between Louise and Joan. Wanting to go on, he was about to say ‘that leaves Aleph,’ but checked himself in time.
In the moment’s pause Louise opened the door and said, ‘I don’t feel at all happy with the idea of that man coming here to meet us, could you ask Lucas to explain it to me? I imagine there’s no hurry.’
Back in her bedroom Louise took off her brown tweed skirt and her light woollen jerkin and her white blouse whose collar had for some time been distinctly turned up. She put on an old warm dress which had many times narrowly escaped being given away to a charity shop. She sat down on her bed. She thought, I will not let that man enter this house. Lucas and Clement are mad. And I will not allow any more parties after this one. I hate masks, I hate dressing up, this whole house is vibrating like a taut string. It was all Teddy’s idea, he loved parties and noise and masks and fancy dress and new people. Well – it was all right then, in the big house, in the old days, when Teddy was alive –
Upstairs in her room, Moy was sitting on the floor watching Anax drinking milk. She had only lately discovered that he liked milk. She liked to watch him drinking it. But was it good for him? He lifted his long grey muzzle and looked at her. He looked sad. When she came back to him after school he wagged his tail and put his paws up. But she never saw in him the wild overflowing ecstasy of his reunions with Bellamy. She reached out her hand and he came to her with milk upon his furry mouth. She lightly brushed it away with the end of her thick plait. She stroked him. They were both of them poor fugitives. Moy had been making the masks for her birthday party. She made them out of various materials, papier mâché, cardboard, stiff furnishing fabrics, pliant tin, she fixed them together with glue, string, plasticine, sellotape, bent paper-clips. Guests who were invited to the party made, bought, or hired their own masks, but the family wore Moy’s masks which were of course secretly handed round before the event. This year, partly because of the absence of Clive and Emil and the Adwardens, and also necessarily of Bellamy, partly for other more mysterious reasons, the party was to be for family only. Moy put the masks completed so far in a cupboard. She had put them on an open shelf but did not like to see Anax looking at them. She rose and opened the cupboard door for a moment. The masks were evil. She closed the door. Why were they evil, because deception is evil? Even the happy masks were bad. She thought I won’t make them any more. She picked up one of her ugly flint stones and gazed through a tiny fissure into its glittering interior, she watched a fly alight upon her hand, probe her skin with its tongue, then wash its paws and draw them down over its bowed head. She laid down the stone, the fly flew away.
Anax now slept upon her bed at night, not in his basket. She was glad of this, but uneasy too. There was so much mysterious alien life in the room, so many radiant centres of being. Was Anax afraid of the stones as he had been afraid of the masks? At one moment she had thought he might attack the masks. Were the stones hostile too? She had picked them up, so many, in so many places. Any stone she touched she had to keep. The garden was full of stones. She had felt they must be glad, out of such an infinite number, to be chosen. But perhaps she was wrong? Now she touched cautiously a large conical stone covered with golden lichen runes which she had found near a big grey rock in the hills near Bellamy’s cottage. Later, remembering, Moy had been overcome by the notion that the rock and the stone, who had stood there alone together on the grassy hillside, for centuries, for millennia, were now pining for each other. Perhaps she ought to take the stone back? But she could not recall exactly where she had found it, and anyway Bellamy was selling his cottage and she would never go there again. Stones walked sometimes. Perhaps this poor stone would set off one day through the streets of London seeking its lost friend who was now forsaken. Once, coming back to her room, she had found the stone upon the floor.
Turning away from the afflicted stone she was aware of the calm infinitely sad gaze of the Polish Rider, travelling in the golden light of the dawn, thinking of his mission, perhaps of his home which he may never see again, emerging out of darkness into light, and looking far away at the still dark shapes of mountains invisible before, courageous, gentle, truthful, wise, alone.
As she moved away now towards the door she nursed the pain that was with her always. Destiny, solitude, grief, the sea. I am a girl upon the land, I am a silky in the sea. And she thought about Colin and the black-footed ferret. She thought about the pool of tears.
Sefton, lying on the floor in her little bedroom, was reading Thucydides’ History of the Peloponnesian War. She lay flat on her front, propped up by her elbows, her bare feet, protruding from her corduroy trousers, crossed. Of course she had read this work many times before, but there were certain parts to which she passionately returned: so cool, so elegant, so beautiful, so terrible. As she read tears began to stream down her face.
‘When the day came Nicias led his army forward, but the Syracusans and their allies kept attacking in the same fashion, hurling missiles and striking them down with javelins on all sides. The Athenians pushed on to the river Assinarus, partly because they thought, hard pressed as they were on all sides by the attack of numerous horsemen and of the miscellaneous troops, that they would be somewhat better off if they crossed the river, and partly by reason of their weariness and desire for water. And when they crossed it they rushed i
n, no longer preserving order, but everyone eager to be himself the first to cross, and at the same time the pressure of the enemy now made the crossing difficult. For since they were obliged to move in a dense mass they fell upon and trod one another down, and some perished at once, run through by their own spears, while others became entangled in their trappings and were carried away by the current. The Syracusans stood along the other bank of the river, which was steep, and hurled missiles down upon the Athenians, most of whom were drinking greedily and were all huddled in confusion in the hollow bed of the river. Moreover, the Peloponnesians went down to the water’s edge and butchered them, especially those in the river. The water at once became foul, but was drunk all the same although muddy and dyed with blood, and indeed was fought for by most of them. At length when the dead now lay in heaps one upon the other in the river and the army had perished utterly, part in the river and part – if any got safely across – at the hands of the cavalry, Nicias surrendered himself to Gylippus.’
Clement was pacing about in his sitting-room in his little shabby flat in Fulham. Why didn’t he move into a larger place, not like Emil’s of course, but a bit larger, with higher ceilings and views of trees where he would hang up pictures and put vases on mantelpieces and have room for his books? Many of his books were piled in corners and those on the shelves were disorderly, unclassified, unsorted, unarranged. He did not deserve to have books. The books seemed to reject him, gathered sulking into their own concerns like a disaffected tribe. He did not read enough. He used to be always reading. Now he watched television. He was demoralised. He ought to think, he ought to decide what he was doing with his life. So, at this age he was still ‘going to be something’. How much longer could he continue to be young? And when was he going to take the girls to the Magic Flute? He went out onto the little dark landing and looked at himself in a mirror. Even with the light on, a fuzzy darkness surrounded him as he peered at his sharp face and his dark surging hair and his fine eyes. He turned back into the room where everything was a little dusty, a little elderly, a little dark red. He touched his breast, spreading out his hand to contain the rending movement of some dark awful kind of grief.
What continually amazed him was the way in which he had ‘taken’, and now continued to ‘take’, the recent doings of his brother. The word ‘brother’ had for Clement something sacred about it. Perhaps this was because his parents had dinned into his earliest consciousness the fact that Lucas, who was in a way not his brother, was his brother. Even without this disturbing reiteration, Clement knew he would always have felt brotherhood with Lucas, as if it were somehow to be his duty to look after Lucas. This idea seemed absurd, given Lucas’s evident intellectual and physical domination over the new arrival, and the latter’s docile acceptance of his brother’s exercise of power. It may be that Lucas had from the start intuited Clement’s timid sympathy, his desire to cherish Lucas, to serve him, to ‘make things up’ to him; and Clement sometimes believed that Lucas was actually grateful for these silent attentions, although they seemed more often to incite him to greater acts of despotism. And now, had recent events profoundly altered their relations? Incredibly it seemed not. During the period of Lucas’s disappearance Clement’s anxiety had largely taken the form of fear for, not of, his brother. Clement had been blessed by a gift of self-satisfaction. He had liked himself, he had loved himself, on the whole he had approved of himself. This was fundamental, and his many doubts and fears had floated above this felicitous foundation. He became aware at an early age that not everyone resembled him in that respect. Lucas hated other people, and also hated himself, and during his absence after the ‘event’ Clement had felt it possible that his brother might be moved to suicide. When Lucas returned this speculation seemed absurd. There was Lucas again, assertive, contemptuous, full of power, innocent of remorse, in charge as he had always been. It was after this robust reappearance that Clement, relieved of his first preoccupation, began to think more deeply about what had happened. He had yearned for Lucas’s return but had also dreaded it. What he had feared, as he later realised, was that Lucas might return, changed, broken. He was not afraid that his brother, having failed once to kill him, might try again. Somehow that seemed impossible, and Clement had not required Lucas’s declaration. It was not simply that he forgave Lucas, in fact the idea of forgiveness seemed, as between them, an absurdity. He had not expected ‘what had happened’, but given the event with its curious outcome he knew that some bitter stoical pride on the part of Lucas would preclude any replay. Clement did not want to brood upon the ‘attempt upon his life’, after all it had not succeeded, as far as he was concerned nothing had happened, and nothing might have happened. But what about the victim, the man who had taken his place? Of course Clement did not believe that he had been a thief. The man had seen what looked like a murder, and in attempting to prevent it had been murdered himself. He had saved Clement’s life at the expense of his own. During Lucas’s absence Clement had kept this terrible picture, and the problems which it posed for him, Clement, at a distance. When Lucas returned the accusing image returned with him; the appearance of Peter Mir followed mercifully. But what relationship was now implied, or imposed, between Clement and Mir? What had really happened? Would Lucas have killed him, did he really intend to, would he have succeeded? That both Clement and Mir were still alive were important facts. Clement had, obeying his brother’s bidding, run away; he had also carried away the weapon – and he had brought it back. Why on earth had he done that? Why, when one has been unjustly beaten, should one bring back the rod? Was this too something to do with childhood, was it because of something owed, since Clement had, by existing, ruined Lucas’s life? And now there was another ruined life in play, and another question about justice.
Of course Clement was glad, very glad, that the man was alive, and that he was able now to see his saviour and to express his gratitude. But what next? Mir had uttered terrible threats, he had spoken of an eye for an eye, and a blow delivered with equal force. He had recalled the fantasies of revenge which had raised him from the dead. Was he capable of enacting the direst of these – and would it not also be characteristic of Lucas to let him do so? Clement knew, Clement had seen, how Lucas had been saved by his education, by the Greeks, by the Stoics, by his success as a scholar, as a historian, by the adulation of his students, by all the mysterious substances he had imbibed from his mastery of the past. His chosen mentors in that land had taught him pride, contempt for the weak, and also a cold dignified resignation to destiny. Fate was justice, justice was fate. As for the ‘something else’ which Mir had said he had ‘in view’ which was to ‘make him happier’, could that make any sense at all? Had Lucas been serious when he spoke of ‘brushing him off on the family’? What could such a weird ridiculous introduction scene be like? What would Lucas say, what should I say? Would we be required to tell the truth? No, that is impossible.
Bellamy was reading a letter, it was from Clement. It had been dropped in through the door. Bellamy had been there at the time and had heard it arrive. He went to the door but whoever had delivered it had already vanished. If it was Clement, why had he not knocked? Bellamy thought, he is beginning to avoid me, my presence embarrasses him, my problems irritate him. I am becoming an unperson. He opened the letter.
Listen, could you come over to Clifton tomorrow evening about six? There’s to be some sort of gathering, Lucas is to bring the chap, you know like I told you, the one who didn’t really die. He wanted him to meet the family and that includes you. Please come – I shall need support!
C.
P.S. Anax won’t be there, he’s spending the evening with Mrs Drake, the Adwardens’ housekeeper, I think you met her.
Bellamy was pleased to receive the invitation. Of course he would go, he even felt a beneficent twinge of curiosity about the man who didn’t really die. But the matter-of-fact P.S. about Anax pained his heart. Anax, who had once been so close, closest, was utterly banished, never to be in
his vicinity, exiled – or rather it was he, Bellamy, who was exiled – had exiled himself from warmth, friendship, love, and all the ease and comfort of the affections. He missed Anax terribly and had to console himself by thinking that after all Anax was only a dog, an ephemeral short-lived creature, from whom death would have parted him soon enough if they had stayed together. So this was his consolation! Only the pain now was different, less innocent, less pure, carrying with it the poisonous taint of regret, remorse, self-deception, treachery. He had received a letter from Tessa which said, ‘Dear Bell, so you are trying holy poverty, why not come and help me, I need all the spare help that’s around, we aren’t enemies, are we?’ He had not replied. Of course he would, he supposed, somehow, reply. Only the idea of all those battered moaning women filled him with aversion. Yet how could he feel this about these poor people who so much needed help? Had he not been searching for people to help?
He had dreamt last night that he had entered a dark hallway, not unlike the dark hall of Lucas’s house only much larger, and had become aware that at the far end a man was standing holding an axe. The man was resting the axe with its head upon the floor and his hand lightly holding the end of the long handle. Bellamy felt a thrill of terror which was like a sexual thrill. The man’s face was dark, as if veiled in thick darkness, but Bellamy seemed to perceive him as beautiful, he thought, he must be beautiful. Awkwardly shuffling he began to move towards the man, then he fell on his knees. Then he awoke. His first thought was, how heavy that axe must have been, and how lightly he held it, just touching the top of the handle with the fingers of one hand. Now remembering the dream and holding Clement’s letter in his hand he thought of Lucas. So the victim had risen wonderfully from the dead like Lazarus. Bellamy found himself feeling jealous of the risen man who was now Lucas’s friend. Lucas had been a person of authority in Bellamy’s life. Now, because Bellamy’s Commander was Someone quite other, his relationship with Lucas must belong to the past. But all this, all this shift and change, thought Bellamy, is part of the vast lie which surrounds me and wherein I move from one fantasy to another. I wanted to escape to solitude and darkness in a holy place, but the dark is just the old dark of meaninglessness and falsehood, which separates me from my friends and from the real world where people love and help each other, I even reject those who could help me to help others. (Bellamy had decided not to renew his acquaintance with the young Catholic priest.) In this blackness every way leads to evil. Of course, the man with the axe is the Archangel Michael leaning on his sword, he whom I revere most next to the soldier Christ (in Bellamy’s vision of him dressed in khaki) – only this Angel is also the one who strikes down those who are to go to Hell. At this point Bellamy suddenly remembered another dream which at the time had made him smile. He dreamt he was a little tiny frightened animal called ‘Spingle-spangle’. Later he did not smile. The little doomed creature was an image of what he most feared, insanity. He set aside Clement’s note and read again the letter which he had just received from Father Damien.