3

‘Why do we have to go this way round?’ she says.

‘I thought, back there, we were being followed.’

‘You’re mad,’ she says. ‘They talk like that, you know, in there.’

‘Contagious.’

‘I think it is.’

We cross the road. It’s almost dark; the lamps have just come on: odd pools of yellowish light are strung out along the street. A pale luminosity still fills the sky.

I shift her case to my other hand.

‘I suppose we’ve come this way,’ she says, ‘to avoid my mother.’

‘We could hardly avoid her,’ I tell her, ‘if she’s waiting in the door.’

‘Where is the door, in any case?’ she says.

She looks along the darkening street, at the decaying garden, at the Georgian terrace; it has an eerie grandeur in the evening light.

‘It’s the middle one along.’

I point it out, slowing in any case and looking around.

‘Why should my mother follow us here? Honestly,’ she says, looking round herself, ‘you’re paranoic.’

We reach the steps; there’s no light on in the lower rooms. The hall, when I open the door, is empty. Perhaps the red-haired man, optimistically, is still waiting by the college.

We climb the stairs.

‘It’s very dark.’

‘I’ll put the light on,’ I tell her, ‘when we reach the landing,’ yet continue climbing in the semi-darkness to the second floor.

‘Which floor is it? Couldn’t you have found somewhere lower?’ she says.

‘I was lucky to get this place, in any case,’ I tell her. ‘Places in this town,’ I add, ‘are hard to find.’

‘I can’t see why we couldn’t have gone home,’ she says. ‘Gone home to my mother’s house, I mean.’

‘When we’ve got a place of our own?’ I tell her.

‘It’s not our own. It’s yours. How can it be our own, when I’ve never been here before?’ she says.

I insert the key; the lock clicks back. We go inside. I put on the light. I close the door.

She gazes round.

‘It’s very small.’

‘Anything larger,’ I tell her, ‘would cost a lot.’

I go through to the kitchen.

‘Would you like some tea?’

I call to her, briefly, through the open door.

‘Anything,’ she says.

‘You could light the fire.’

I fill the kettle, look out at the darkness of the yard below, decide it’s empty, put the kettle on and light the gas.

When I go back through she’s looking for the matches.

Her beret, thankfully, she’s taken off; her hair, freshly washed, hangs down in a wave around her neck.

‘Use this,’ I tell her.

She takes the lighter; she kneels to the hearth.

‘It’s not very strong.’

‘The pressure’s very low,’ I tell her.

‘There’s hardly any heat.’

‘You could lie in bed, if you like,’ I tell her.

‘That’s some home. You’ve to lie in bed to try and keep warm.’

‘Some people haven’t even a bed to lie in, I suppose,’ I tell her.

‘My mother would have a fire.’

‘Is anything the matter?’

‘No,’ she says. She shakes her head. ‘I don’t know where I am.’

She begins to cry.

I lift her up.

‘We’re together now. That’s all that counts.’

It’s like holding a saint: someone in the grip of some violent, cosmic tribulation.

‘Where am I, Colin?’

‘You’re here. With me.’

I take her head. Her eyes are closed. The mouth’s pulled down in a kind of snarl.

‘We shouldn’t have come.’

‘Just hold my arms.’

Her eyes have opened.

‘I don’t know where I am.’

‘You’re here with me.’

‘I’m dying.’

‘No, you’re not.’

I kiss her cheek.

‘I don’t know where I am.’

A car goes past in the street below.

Her sobbing quietens; at one point, it seems, she might have screamed: there’s the sudden convulsion of her body, then, in spasms, the tension dies.

‘Help me make some food,’ I say.

I take her to the kitchen; I get out the pans and set them on the stove. The food I’ve already bought and half-prepared.

‘Can you light the gas?’

She’s still got the lighter; only now, having lit the gas, does she look at it, the crown-shaped crest, then, almost absent-mindedly, she puts it down.

‘I’ve bought some wine.’

I set the bottle down on the kitchen table.

‘I haven’t to drink any alcohol if I take these pills.’

‘You could have a drop.’

She looks at the food, cooking; her eyes, once again, have filled with tears.

‘Let’s have a drop now. It’ll warm us up.’

‘Did my mother know we were coming here?’

She adds,

‘She’ll wonder where we are, if we haven’t called, and begin to worry.’

‘I told her we’d come straight home,’ I say, yet she looks across, sensing now I’ve made this up.

‘Do you cook here often?’

She raises her head: the lower half of the kitchen walls are painted green, the upper half a whitish yellow. A red line divides the two areas of colour. It’s the line she gazes at, following it round, past the door, to the window, then over to the stove.

It’s like some area of her mind she’s cordoned off.

‘Not often. No.’ I shake my head.

I pour out the wine; I give her a glass.

‘Was the crockery provided too?’ she says.

‘Yes,’ I tell her. I add, ‘Here’s to it, then.’

She rests her glass against the table.

‘A lot of the women in that place: their husbands get a divorce,’ she says.

I put some salt in the pans. The water boils.

‘They feel they can’t communicate,’ she says.

‘With what?’

‘Their wives.’

‘I thought that was the wife’s complaint,’ I tell her.

She adds nothing for a while; there’s a slowness in her movements: she looks at the vegetables once or twice. I can’t think now what induced me to cook a meal: we could, just as easily, and less dramatically, have eaten out.

I get out two plates and go through to the room and set the table. The broken filaments in the fire have begun to glow. I turn out the light. A redness fills the room.

From the kitchen, bleakly, comes a sudden crash; I find, when I go back in, she’s dropped a glass.

‘I didn’t see it.’

‘It’s all right,’ I tell her. I sweep it up.

‘I was trying to be careful. I put it out of reach. When I went to the sink I must have knocked it off.’

‘Relax,’ I tell her.

She stands at the sink.

‘I’ve cut my hand.’

There’s blood on her wrist.

She holds her hand beneath the tap.

‘I shouldn’t have come.’

‘You’ll be all right.’

I look for some cloth to wrap it up.

‘I was looking forward to coming. I really was.’

I sit her down. By the time she’s quietened the food is cooked.

I serve it out in the other room.

‘Are you ready?’ I ask her and lead her through.

‘Has the light gone out?’

‘I turned it off.’

‘I can hardly see.’

‘Do you want it on?’

‘No,’ she says. ‘If it’s what you like.’

She eats quite slowly. Her hand is bandaged. She never looks at me directly. Only once do I see her look across, her eyes wide, startled, as if she’s wondering where she is.

‘Have you got my pills?’

‘I can let you have them.’

‘They said you should have them.’

‘I’d like you to have them.’

‘I’d prefer you to have them.’

She shakes her head.

‘They told me to take one at night and one each morning. And one at lunch-time if I’m feeling worse.’

Something of that old, residual helplessness returns, a wanting to be absolved of her distress: she finishes the food but makes no move either to pass me her plate or get up and take it away herself.

‘Are you feeling tired?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘You could go to bed if you like and go to sleep.’

‘I seem to sleep so much I don’t know where I am. I’ve been sleeping afternoons, you know. And that’s on top of what I sleep at night.’

‘It’s probably the pills.’

‘It could be that.’

‘Do you feel like managing without them, then?’

‘I couldn’t. Not unless they told me to.’

Perhaps if she’d carried her old convictions into her madness she wouldn’t have been so bad: a determination to see it through without assistance of any kind, to let it run its course, untouched. Yet it had struck so swiftly, she’d been unprepared; the wars of the world had been undermined.

‘Is there anything else to eat?’

She sits with her hands before her, resting on the table.

‘Do you fancy something else?’

‘Anything,’ she says. She shakes her head.

I take the two plates through. I put on the kettle. In the kitchen I examine the food I’ve left.

There’s a tin of fruit.

When I take it through she’s still sitting at the table, gazing directly before her, her hands in her lap.

I put the plate down with the fruit. She picks up a spoon; she begins to eat.

She seems absorbed now entirely; I watch her as she eats, the smoothness of the brow: she pauses, the spoon raised to her lips.

‘Would you like some tea?’

‘I could take a pill.’ She finishes the fruit. ‘It’s not too early, I suppose,’ she says.

She looks round for a clock.

‘We can wash up the plates tomorrow morning.’

Her gaze, for the first time, has been caught by the window at the back of the flat: the dividing-door to the bedroom is standing open. Visible through the window is the cathedral clock; perhaps, for a moment, she’s been uncertain what it is. She half-rises in the chair.

‘It’s the cathedral,’ I tell her.

She begins to cry; perhaps it’s the shock, or a kind of exhaustion at the ending of the meal; almost absent-mindedly her eyes have filled with tears. She lifts her plate and mine and, with the same vagueness, takes them to the kitchen.

I follow her through. I find the tea-pot, put in the tea, mash it, find two cups and pour it out.

We sit by the fire. A vague wind now, in the stillness, is moaning round the house.

‘Have you got the pill?’

She takes it with the tea; there’s something almost religious in the way she lifts it up, places it on her tongue then flicks back her head, swallows it, then takes a sip of tea. It’s some sort of ceremony, a demonstration.

‘Have you had these kind before?’

She shakes her head.

I wonder, then, if it mightn’t be better to toss them in the fire; or, since it’s gas, failing the fire, into the yard outside. They might, after all, do the man below some good. She has a kind of fragility, a dependence; the pills, in their little plastic box, represent a kind of life, a reliance, an assertion that she’s really what she is, not only in need of help, but unreliable.

I lean my head against her knee.

A moment later her hand comes down.

‘I don’t like it in the dark.’

‘Do you want the light?’

She doesn’t answer.

‘We could go to bed.’

‘I don’t know,’ she says.

‘I’ll sleep out here, if you like.’ I indicate the chair.

‘It doesn’t matter.’

‘Let’s go to bed.’

She begins to cry. I take her hand. The window rattles suddenly, with the wind against the house.

‘Where’s the case?’

I put it on the bed.

‘Is there a bathroom here?’ she says.

‘I should put on your coat,’ I tell her. ‘It’s on the floor below.’

She goes out to the landing.

When she comes back in I’m already in bed.

She undresses slowly, standing by the bed.

‘Did you drop the latch on the door?’ I say.

‘It shut behind me.’

‘It’ll be all right.’

I turn off the light. She climbs in slowly.

We lie apart. I take her hand. After a while she falls asleep.

I lie back on the pillow; I count the cathedral clock as it begins to chime.

Hours later she gives a scream; when I turn on the light she’s still asleep.

I lie then like a sentinel: she doesn’t stir. Her mouth is open. She scarcely breathes. I watch the faint reflection on the ceiling from the lights outside.

‘Isn’t that someone banging at the door?’ she says.

‘There’s always someone banging at the door,’ I tell her.

She climbs along the bed, about to dress. Having woken some time before, I’ve gone out to the kitchen and made some tea. It stands, steaming, on the wooden chair beside her pillow, along with the Jack Daniels which, unwittingly, I’ve omitted to remove.

The banging starts again.

‘I say, is that you, old man?’ a voice has said.

‘Hadn’t you better see who it is?’ she says.

‘I know who it is. They’ll go away if we both keep quiet.’

She appears genuinely then to forget that there’s anyone there at all. She pulls off her nightdress and stands for a moment looking round. The cathedral clock booms out above our heads.

The knocking starts again.

‘I’d better answer it, I suppose,’ I tell her.

I close the door, cross the room, and open the door leading to the landing.

The man with the red moustache is standing there. He’s dressed in a raincoat and a flat, check cap.

‘I’m sorry about this, old man,’ he says. ‘I tried to catch you, you see, last night.’ He gestures behind him. ‘At the college.’

He nods his head.

He glances behind me at the room itself.

‘I’m busy at the moment, I’m afraid,’ I tell him.

‘I realize that, old man,’ he says.

He examines the interior for several seconds.

‘It’s just something you ought to know, old man.’

‘What’s that?’ I ask him.

He steps inside. He takes off his cap and glances round.

‘I tried to catch you, you see, last night.’

‘I know,’ I tell him. ‘You’ve mentioned that.’

‘And the disguise, you see: it’s become essential. For slipping out of the house,’ he says.

‘What’s the important news?’ I ask him.

‘It’s this man, old man.’

‘What man?’ I ask him.

‘The one with the trilby hat, old man.’ He narrows his eyes. ‘He called at the flat.’ He watches me then for several seconds. ‘When I asked him what he wanted he went away.’

‘Did he say what he wanted?’

‘He just asked which floor you were living on, old man. When he started up I said you were out. If I hadn’t have been there he’d have come straight up.’

He glances over, cautiously, towards the door.

‘It’s my opinion, old man, that he knew you were out. He wanted to search the flat, old man.’

‘What for?’

‘I’ve no idea, old man.’ He can smell the tea: he looks over, hopefully, towards the kitchen. ‘These people, you know, have methods of their own.’

His eyes, after glancing at the kitchen, have moved over in some alarm to the bedroom door.

Yvonne, for that moment, clearly, is uncertain where she is. Quite naked, her eyes still out of focus, she gazes at the red-haired man, glances at me, and then, confused, half-smiling, turns back towards the bed.

‘I was looking for the pill,’ she says.

‘I’ve got it here,’ I tell her. ‘I’ll bring it in.’

I close the door.

‘I say, I’m frightfully sorry, old man,’ the red-haired man has said. He goes over to the door. ‘I won’t intrude.’ He puts out his hand. ‘My name’s Ferguson, by the way,’ he says.

He shakes my hand.

‘Nice room you’ve got up here. Fresh air, and quite a view.’ He gestures round. ‘I haven’t been up, you see, before.’ He glances back to the bedroom door. ‘I’ll tip you the wink, of course, if he calls again.’

I close the door. I hear him hesitate the other side. His feet, slow and irregular, start down the stairs.

She’s sprawled on the bed, her eyes closed, when I go back in. I get out the yellow capsules and at the rattle of the plastic box she begins to stir.

‘I can’t rest up here,’ she says, dazedly. ‘I don’t like being on my own. It’s cold.’

‘Why don’t you drink your tea,’ I tell her.

‘I’m feeling better now.’ She starts to rise. She shakes her head. ‘We could go to my mother’s. She won’t know where I am.’

‘I thought we’d give her a miss today.’

‘But there’s only tomorrow left,’ she cries. ‘She’ll be terribly hurt if I don’t go down.’

‘Perhaps,’ I tell her, ‘you ought to get dressed.’

I give her the pill. She swallows it down.

‘What time do we leave?’ she says.

‘I’ll help you on with your clothes,’ I say.

She begins to dress. There’s a briskness in her movements now. She packs her case.

‘Are you taking it with you?’

‘I thought I might.’

‘Stay there for the night?’ I say.

‘She has a bed. She has it aired.’ She gestures to the one behind. ‘It’ll be warmer than this. And it’s easier, in any case, down there.’

She lifts the case.

‘Won’t you brush your hair?’

‘I’ve got my beret,’ she says. ‘I’ll cover it up.’

‘I’ll brush it for you, if you like,’ I say.

‘It’ll be all right.’

Her coat unbuttoned, she’s gone to the door.

‘Do you want me to come as well?’ I ask.

‘Of course I want you to come.’

She doesn’t look round: the case in her hand, she’s stooped to the stairs, gazing down to the hall below.

I lock the door. I follow her down. Once in the street I take her hand; I take the case. By the time we’ve reached the end of the road she’s walking briskly, her arm in mine, smiling broadly, half-intent, unaware of the crowds around – or of the man, it seems, in the trilby hat behind.

‘You should have come down straight away. The bed’s been ready, love. And I’ve baked a cake. I got food specially in, you see, last week.’

Yvonne is still sitting by the fire. Her back is straight. She looks like some retarded child, swollen, flushed with heat.

‘We would have come down,’ she says, for the third time now, while Mrs Sherman, sitting with her cup of tea, directly opposite, regards her face with an anxious smile.

‘She so pleased to be home. She could have been here weeks ago,’ Mrs Sherman adds. She gestures with her hand. ‘It’s obvious her home was what she’d want.’ She looks across. ‘Just look at her now. She’s so glad to be back, amongst people and places she’s always known.’

I sit down at the table. Since coming into the room, greeting her mother, then, like a deflated balloon, sitting in the chair, Yvonne herself has scarcely stirred. Her gaze, abstracted, is fixed on the mantelpiece above the fire. She seems scarcely aware of her mother at all. Behind her, on the sideboard, the photograph of her father regards her from its glossy frame, the incredulous, half-apprehensive look, like a man in pain.

‘I’m sure it’ll be better if you both slept here. Two hands, after all,’ she says to me, ‘are better than one.’

‘I’ve got two hands of my own,’ I say.

‘Two pairs of hands,’ she says. She smiles.

A train passes slowly overhead; there’s the thudding of the diesel, the rattle of the trucks. Windows vibrate throughout the house: there’s the rattle, somewhere, of an empty cup.

‘They’ve so many people up there I’m sure they forget, at times, who some of them are.’ She looks to the fire. ‘Are you warm enough there, then, love?’ she asks.

She gets up from her chair; she leans down for a moment, settles a cushion against her daughter’s back, then stoops quickly forward to glance at her face.

‘Would you like another cup of tea, then, love?’

Yvonne examines her mother’s face; she doesn’t stir.

‘I’ll make you a fresh one, love,’ she says. ‘And while the kettle’s on I’ll cut some bread.’

She crosses to the sink; she fills a kettle.

‘If they saw her now I’m sure they’d change their minds. She’s sat like that all afternoon. No trouble, you see, to anyone.’

She comes to the fire, carrying the kettle; she pokes the flames then sets the kettle down on a metal hob.

Yvonne, suddenly, has begun to stir.

Her head thrust back, she gives a scream.

The sound is huge, high-pitched. It lasts for several seconds. Her face has darkened; her tongue curls in her throat. Her body shudders. She begins to choke.

Mrs Sherman, stooping to the fire, has given a groan; she seems, for that moment, unable to rise. She turns to Yvonne as I lift her from the chair.

Her head’s thrust back; her body shudders.

She screams again, her body stiffened.

‘I should ring for an ambulance.’

‘What?’

‘Go to a phone and call one up.’

‘What?’ Her eyes are wide; her face is white. She holds her head between her hands.

‘Dial 999. They shouldn’t be long.’

Yvonne, her body arched, has screamed again.

I lift her up. I smack her face. I see the wild-eyed look behind her back.

‘You’d better hurry.’

‘What shall I say?’

‘Tell them who you are and where to come.’

She goes to the door; she stands for a moment, gazing in, wild-eyed. I slap her again; she gives a scream.

‘If you don’t go now,’ I tell her, ‘it might easily be too late.’

She disappears.

I hold Yvonne beneath my arm: I walk her up and down.

Every few seconds her legs collapse. I slap her face; I hit her hard. I call her name. I ask her who she is.

By the time the ambulance arrives she’s no longer aware of anything at all.

I carry her out to the street myself.

Her mother and I get in together.

The attendant sits by Yvonne, his hand around her mouth.

We say nothing on the journey up.

We drive between the gates and only two hours later, when I’m leaving, do they ask to see the pills. I hand them in. They count them out.

‘She’s only had two,’ I say.

They tick the list; I go out to the hall: Mrs Sherman, dark-eyed, upright, is sitting on a bench.

I take her arm. We set off down the drive.

A street-lamp is burning by the empty gate; lamps light up the drive and the entrance to the house.

We wait by the gates for a local bus.

‘Do you think she’ll be all right?’ she says.

‘They say she’ll be all right,’ I tell her.

‘They know what they’re doing, I suppose,’ she says.

‘I’m not sure that they do,’ I tell her. ‘Not that it matters, anymore,’ I add.

‘Oh, but it matters, love,’ she says.

The bus comes into sight.

‘I can’t make it out. The chances that she’s had: it ends like this.’

‘That’s probably her trouble, on the whole,’ I say. ‘Not that it makes much difference. To Yvonne, I mean.’