… regretting as he does so the absence of a moustache. Close clipped. Precise upon the upper lip, giving greater definition to the lower face, which he fears may be a little weak about the chin. But a moustache, he has decided long since, would be inadvisable. Too memorable, when his overreaching ambition is to be anonymous. He needs to be the face you cannot make out in the crowd, the man who slips unnoticed from the room. A man like the Saint, taking cool note of his surroundings while standing a little aside, the unseen watcher in the wings.
He smooths his hair with just a dab of Brylcreem, flattening it across the temples and regretting the thinning visible upon the crown. Baldness could be also be disadvantageous in this game, a distinguishing mark as memorable as a moustache. He adjusts his tie. An unremarkable tie without chevron, crest or stripe. Serviceable woollen trousers, bland shirt, bland V-neck. He checks the shirt pocket for notebook and pencil stub, the tools of his trade.
He puts on his cap. A flat woollen cap, a worker’s cap, wishing just a little, as he always does, for a fedora: a fedora, like Bogart’s, worn at a casual angle, the sharp suit, the bow tie. But that would definitely be remarkable. He might get away with that in LA, but here, he’d tend to stand out. Besides, he is too short for a fedora. He had tried one once and had the uneasy suspicion from the smirk on the shopgirl’s face, that it made him look ridiculous, like a small standard lamp with a very large shade. He sets the cap straight, shrugs on a raincoat. It’s wet outside. He checked just a minute ago as he ate baked beans heated on the electric ring in his room, straight from the saucepan. Rain seeps through the shrubs that cloak his window.
He likes the rain. The slow secretive trickle of it. The way it makes the streets of the city slick, the way people walk along the streets not noticing those they pass, heads down. Rain distracts people. It makes them careless. He pulls the belt on his coat tight. Tugs the curtains across the window, debates whether to leave the lamp on but decides against it in the interests of economy.
He has never failed them, always filed his reports accurately and regularly, often supplied more detail than was strictly necessary. He has gone that extra mile. But they are sometimes careless with payment. The money — always money, never a traceable cheque, always a crisp little fan of new notes — is often slow to arrive. He is careful as a consequence. Keeps a little in reserve in the tobacco tin, ensures that he is always able to pay his rent on time, leaves no trace of debt and unpaid bills. But sometimes it’s a struggle. He deserves so much better. He should be treated with respect by his superiors, as the professional he is. It irks him.
This is one of those uncertain weeks when he must be thrifty. He switches off the light, though he leaves the wireless on, quietly enough not to annoy his neighbours but loudly enough to suggest his continued presence within, enjoying a quiet night by the heater. He takes one last quick look about the room as is his habit, then slips out, with just the faintest clicking of the latch. There are lights on in the other rooms along the hallway, the rattle of cutlery and plates. Miss Clitheroe in Room 3 is singing along to some of her usual nonsense ay round the corner ooh-hooo while rinsing out her nylons which she will peg, with her usual lack of consideration, over the bath. And from the front flat a radio audience brays inanely. The smell of other people’s dinners lingers, a sticky blend of chop fat and fried onions. He slips past it all and out the big front door and no one will be able to say later, ‘He left about … oh … half past six? Quarter to seven?’
He walks away from the house quickly, keeping to the side of the footpath where the shadows are deepest. Passing other houses with their carelessly uncurtained windows, their sashes unlatched, their doors left unlocked. He catches glimpses of others living their lives, casually seated round a dining table, standing by a mantelpiece talking to some unseen other, as if no one were watching, no one taking note. Confident in their untroubled security. Comfortable with the illusion of peace.
But he is passing by and he is taking note. And he is neither confident nor comfortable.
The rain has eased but the road gleams and there are halos round each street lamp. He likes to walk before working, taking his time to marshal his thoughts before he enters the room where they will all be assembled. The subject of his scrutiny. The members of the deceptively mild-mannered William Morris Society, gathered tonight for their spring concert.
He knows how it will go. He has been taking note for some time now. There will be branches of plum blossom arranged in tubs on either side of the stage. Ted Miller will sing, accompanying himself on the guitar, perhaps in duet with that sharp little woman who always looks at Eric warily as if she knows exactly what he is up to, but will give him the benefit of her considerable doubt. He gives her a wide berth. It’s quite possible she has penetrated his disguise. In this country it is so difficult to avoid the person who knew you before, went to school with your brother in Onehunga, worked with you before the war over on the coast. He longs for a wider world where a man like himself might slip like Simon Templar into the anonymity of a crowded street, some tree-lined boulevard or Algerian souk or Shanghai slum. Lithe as a cat, his eyes two glinting chips of steel that miss nothing …
But this is where he lives, on these narrow constricting islands, where no matter how carefully he has constructed his camouflage, at any minute there could come that matey slap on the shoulder, that snap of recognition. Tonight he must walk again into the hall, hailed as ‘comrade’ by men he must pretend to like, some of them men with whom he works on the wharves in Lyttelton. Another place where he takes note. He will stop and have a yarn, crack a joke or two with the ladies busily setting out the teacups in the kitchen behind the closed slide. He’ll buy a sixpenny raffle to help defray the expense of hiring the hall, take his seat before the stage with its dowdy red curtains. The curtains will jerk apart and there will be, inevitably, the folk songs, the people’s songs, the songs collected by the Workers’ Music Association, doleful ballads featuring coal miners and rural labourers or surprisingly chirrupy little numbers concerning cotton pickin’ or ridin’ freight cars and Good night Irene and So long it’s been good to know ya and everybody join in!
There will be the cello solo and the humorous recitation: our Albert with the stick with the ’orse’s ’ead ’andle, who got et by a lion, delivered in broad dialect by Harry from Newcastle, who seemed amiable enough when encountered on such an evening, but is just another of those Geordies who make it their business to cross the globe stirring up trouble among men previously interested only in doing a decent day’s work for reasonable pay. The Harrys of this world are set on revolution, spreading agitation with their Communistic notions of class struggle and the oppression of the workers, opening the doors to chaos, encouraging men to walk out, to strike, and it is a strike, no matter how much Harry and the comrades insist it is the bosses and the government who have locked them out. Just as they called blowing up that railway bridge at Huntly an ‘action’ when it was terrorism, as Holland said. ‘Infamous terrorism’, no question.
Eric sees himself as a soldier in a war, a just war against this contagion of subversion and foreign ideas. He is a soldier, every bit as much as the men who have volunteered to go up to Korea to help stop the Commies there. Every battle must begin somewhere and here it is beginning with Eric himself, striding along Kilmore Street in his raincoat, fiery sword in hand, intent on driving out the forces of evil at the William Morris Society’s spring concert. An evening of caterwauling followed by weak tea and gingernuts.
He will listen, without being unobtrusive. And when he returns home he will write up his observations in the quiet of his room, ready for posting in the morning. He will note every detail:
Mrs Adamson of Bangor Street is about 49 years of age, 5’2” in height, brown hair greying, sharp features and wears spectacles. Secretary of Housewives Union.
Mrs Wisniewski is about 35 years of age, thin, dark complexion, brown eyes, divorced with one son. Friendly with Mr Jones who was overheard inviting her to a party at their home during Christmas …
But first there will be the walk home, along the dark streets. And perhaps a quiet pause by the window of Miss Clitheroe, who is a silly girl, given to sleeping leaving the curtains wide open and the sash raised an inch or two for fresh air. He will peer in from the darkness, noting the body at its ease upon the bed, the eiderdown tossed aside, one bare leg exposed. He will stand unobserved, imagining the night when he lifts the sash quietly quietly and slides over the sill, the way she will stir as he bends over her, her blue eyes opening, not focused, then suddenly wide with fear as his hand clamps over the full red lips as he slides into her, holding her down, the silken cord he has concealed in his raincoat pocket unfurling at last and stretched about her neck, the thrash and fight of her but he has the power now, and she has none, she’ll not ignore him again in the hallway, she’ll know at last who he is, this unremarkable man, as the air leaves her lungs and her body goes limp beneath him and he comes in a great juddering …
But first the caterwauling. First the biscuits. Then the report, written up tonight while the details are fresh in the memory. Two copies, one for posting in the morning, the other for filing in his secret place, the small cavity he has cut in the floorboards in one corner of his room. It is covered ordinarily by the Feltex square and he has also placed his easy chair above it. It pleases him to sit there in the evening, knowing his secrets lie beneath him: his notebook, his reports, the silk cord. A single wrinkled stocking …